leonie ✨

[barnes-babydoll]

Slow Ride ⋆˚۶ৎ˚⋆

Pairing | Tow truck driver!Bucky x rich girl!reader Summary | When you step into Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair, you think all you're leaving with is a newly repaired car, simple as that. But Bucky has other plans. After one glimpse of those pink heels and your overly bright personality—too polite to be genuine—he knows you're nothing but trouble. A few choice words slip from his lips before he can stop himself, and guilt hits as soon as you're gone. Now…he can't get you out of his head, and the universe is dead set on throwing the two of you together again and again. Warnings/tags | MDNI (18+), nsfw, dual pov, slow burn, forced proximity??? age gap romance?? (I imagined reader in her mid to late 20's and Bucky is late 30's) modern au, poor guy x rich girl, grumpy x sunshine, enemies to lovers if you squint, Sam Wilson makes an appearance, reader loves pink (like a concerning amount), reader is described as smaller than Bucky and can easily carry her, reader is a bit ditzy (she's just like me fr), Bucky's an asshole for like .2 seconds (pinky promise he redeems himself), reader is the daughter of a CEO, reader's father is an actual asshole (he doesn't redeem himself...it's the daddy issues in me), John Walker makes an appearance as a NASCAR driver and is a slightly cocky asshole (y'know what, maybe everyone's an asshole in this...my hate for men came through on this one, I fear), use of alcohol, hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, fluff, car accident, minor injuries, Bucky is a sexy motherfucker with a soaked tank top, Bucky's a groveler, Alpine makes an appearance, Bucky has a happy trail, reader catches print, mentions of how Bucky lost his arm, grief, mentions of death, mentions of drunk driving, smut, kissing, dirty talk, slightly pervy Bucky, Bucky cums in his pants, masturbation (f+m), oral (f receiving), breast attention, fingering, pussy pronouns, p in v, unprotected sex, biting, marking, praise kink, save a horse; ride a Bucky, multiple orgasms, pet names (princess, baby, sweet girl, pretty boy) Word Count | 19.5k (can you believe I popped out this big ass baby?) A/N | hi barbie, please don't be perturbed by the length of this (don't you like it bigger? :smugass:) this is officially the longest fic i've written, and i like it??? i think i really just love these characters, that's why it was so difficult for me to stop writing. i know next to nothing about cars/tow truck driving/mechanics/racing/the air force, so i'm truly sorry if anything is wrong:(( This is my portion of the Barbie Dreamhouse collab brought to you by @stantastic-association!! A heartfelt thanks to @miraclediviner for putting this together and doing such a wonderful job organizing it. And also being such a big support to everyone <3 dt: to my babies @phoenix-in-writing @sheriff-bodecker @metal-armed-muse @buckytakethewheel i love you all so much:)) cloud divider credit: @/uzmacchiato

Also on A03:))

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Sam Wilson tapped the end of his pen against the counter in a steady rhythm, deep in thought, the metallic click filling the silence. Leaning over, he pressed his elbows to the cool surface and released a long, dramatic sigh. The ceaseless ting of metal hitting acrylic was beginning to irritate Bucky, but to be fair, everything about his friend seemed to irk him most days. His jaw ticked before the pen even made a sound, as if he were bracing for it now.

A barely there, unhelpful voice echoed in the back of his mind, suggesting that he reach over the table and snap the pen clean in half. Oh, it would be so satisfying. The hurt look on Sam's face, combined with the following silence after, was getting too tempting by the second. However, he thought better of making a scene, opting instead for taking a steady inhale through his nose and blowing it out through his mouth.

It really wouldn't matter if he did cause a scene. It was one of the slower days at the shop. The kind where only a couple of customers drifted in with quick replies and hurried footsteps, so they could continue on with their day. But most of today was like this—an empty room with a pressing stillness and lingering pauses. Ones that Bucky wasn't keen on filling.

"I don't know, man," Sam finally broke the silence. "The common denominator between all these relationships ending is you. Maybe you need to adjust your attitude."

"I don't need to adjust nothin'," Bucky muttered stubbornly.

Sam raised a brow. "Right. It's them. Every single one. Not the guy who's always in a mood and has a staring problem."

"'m just particular. There ain't nothin' wrong with that."

"Some might say too particular," Sam murmured under his breath. "Look, I just don't want to see your sad little face walk in here, moping around like someone punted your cat."

"Don't bring Alpine into this," Bucky's scowl deepened, his jaw twitching again. "Besides, Alpine and I are fine. Don't have time for anythin' serious anyway."

"Did you ever send a message to…what was her name?" Sam trailed off, tapping the pen against his forehead, as if that would jog his memory. "Oh, Violet."

"No. 'm not textin' your barista, just because she gives you an extra shot of espresso and happens to have a nice smile."

The man behind the counter huffed air out of his nose. "Fine, just know I'm done playing matchmaker for your sorry ass."

Bucky rolled his eyes. Never asked for your help in the first place, he thought. Then, that same instigating voice nudged him, and he gave in this time. "How's Sarah?"

Sam's posture straightened rapidly, pointing the pen at him like it was a weapon instead of a writing tool. "Don't you fucking dare, Barnes."

"What? I was just askin'," Bucky shrugged, a smirk gracing his lips.

"My sister is off limits. You know that."

"Okay, okay." Bucky held up his hands in surrender, dropping the subject completely. Still, it gave him that brief, cathartic release he had been searching for earlier, even if it was fleeting.

Glancing around, his eyes drifted out of the wide windows. The sun was a bright statement in the clear blue sky, only partially blocked by the towering 'Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair' sign outside—bold enough that it could be read by anyone speeding down the highway. The reflection of the window pane left a white cast on the tiled floor. A small black rectangle carved in the bleached reflection forced his gaze up to the flimsy paper posted by the door, its edges slightly creased. The ink fading betrayed just how long it had been hanging there.

Now hiring.

Sometimes, Bucky wondered if this place was less a job and more a coasting point for people to move through to something better. No matter who he and Sam hired, they would leave within a couple of months—the universe was never gracious enough to gift them someone for more than that. Then the cycle would start again, and he'd have to reprint the sign.

So, there it stayed—a permanent decoration on the glass until they could find someone permanent.

The rays of the sun were interrupted by a dark Rolls-Royce pulling into the lot, snagging Bucky's attention immediately. His eyes flicked over the body of the car—spotless, glistening even. Tinted windows. Freshly polished rims. Even the emblem of the tiny woman with wings appeared untouched.

He scoffed at the ridiculous sight. Obviously, this car wasn't a potential customer. This was someone who took a wrong turn along the way and needed a place to swing around, so they could head back to whatever mansion they stumbled out of.

But the car idled. Right in front of the shop. Unmoving.

The driver's door opened, revealing an older man in a pressed suit. The fabric was all clean, sharp lines—tailored perfectly for him. He even wore one of those chauffeur caps, the kind Bucky only saw in movies that Sam would force him to watch on his rare days off.

The whole get-up screamed wealth and status, as though money itself dripped off of him—none of which belonged anywhere near the likes of Bucky's shop. Yet, there he stood.

The man moved around the front of the car, adjusting his gloves and smoothing out wrinkles that weren't visible. After assessing his surroundings, he wrapped his fingers around the chrome door handle, keeping his chin high as he pulled it open.

A single pearlescent pink heel appeared first, the pointed toe hovering for a beat before carefully finding purchase on the oil‑stained pavement below. You were smart enough to avoid the puddles that could potentially ruin your expensive shoes.

You stepped out, rising to your full height. Sunlight glinted off your dark sunglasses, adding a shiny sheen to your hair. You straightened your designer coat and fixed the creases in your pale pink dress before giving your driver a practiced, polite smile.

Then, you sauntered forward, hips swaying as you adjusted the strap of your small handbag over your shoulder. Bucky could hear the loud click of your heels before you ever entered the shop.

"This oughta be good," Sam whispered behind his dark-haired friend.

As you entered, the bell above the door chimed, announcing your arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue.

You pushed your sunglasses up with two manicured fingers, resting them on your hair. Bright eyes darted around the room as you inspected it with your clear vision. You took it all in before you spoke. Walls filled with old metal signs. Counters lined with tools and little bobbles.

You breathed in the air that smelled faintly of strong coffee and even stronger motor oil, but you didn't wrinkle your nose. You looked…prepared, trained not to visibly react.

Finally, your gaze drifted to the two men who were frozen in place, as if just noticing their existence.

"Hi, I'm here to pick up my car," your voice came, velvet confidence. You introduced yourself, muttering your last name so quickly, he would've missed it if he wasn't listening. He swore he had heard that name, but immediately brushed it off like it was inconsequential.

"My father brought it in for a routine check-up, and he received a call that it was ready," you clarified.

For a moment, no one moved. Bucky didn't even blink. And even though you explained why you were here, he still thought you took a wrong turn on the way to the mall.

Eventually, Sam snapped out of it, fingers finding the computer's keyboard. "Right. The Porsche?"

Of course. He should have known that your car was the most expensive thing to ever roll through here. And if the price of the car didn't give it a way, surely the color did. Pink. The first time he saw it, he wanted it out of the garage, almost called to have it sent to another mechanic because he couldn't stand to look at the damn thing.

"That's correct," you said sweetly, causing something in Bucky's gut to sour.

It must've shown on his face because you gave him a small, courteous wave. The kind of gesture people made when they were raised to address everyone in the room, even the ones they actually didn't want to make conversation with.

Your gaze flicked briefly to his metal arm. He no longer bothered to hide it like some kind of secret. In those first few years, still adjusting to the foreign weight, he’d kept it concealed under layers of clothing—even in the heat of summer. Most days, it was less a badge from his time in the Air Force and more an inconvenience at best.

But as the years rolled by, he cared less and less about what people thought. Customers would stare at him with pity, similar to the look you were giving him now. You offered him a tight-lipped smile, and he hated the feeling it carried.

Instantly rolling his eyes, he turned away; he clearly wasn't interested in your fake-friendly facade. He knew that look all too well, and he knew that under the practiced posture and fancy clothing, you wanted to get the hell out of this place. And he wasn't going to stop you.

Noticing the slight edge of tension, Sam tapped away at the keys as he kept his eyes on the screen, feigning professionalism. He cleared his throat. "Ahh, here it is…Porsche 918 Spyder. Yeah, it looks like all you needed was an oil change and a tire rotation."

"Did you happen to take a look at the weird sound it was making? It sounded…" You paused, pursing your lips, "mechanical."

Bucky let out a dry, humorless laugh, "It's a car. Everything is mechanical."

"Right," you giggled, light and airy, and it sounded like it belonged somewhere less cramped. More open, like a rose garden, to complement the warmth of it.

Was he really comparing your laugh to fucking flowers? Maybe that perfume of yours had gone to his head and messed up his brain chemistry.

"I mean, it sounded unusual," you added after your laughter had faded.

Bucky opened his mouth to respond with something snarky, but Sam cut in immediately. "After the tire rotation, the sound went away. But if you happen to hear it again, bring it in, and we'll assess it further."

He typed out something else, then clapped his hands together as he met your eyes. "Alright, if that's all, I can bring her around."

"Thank you. I appreciate your help, Mister…?"

"Sam will do just fine," he corrected, and you offered a sharp nod in return.

Then, he disappeared into the back, heading towards the garage, leaving you and Bucky alone.

You turned to him, your expression open and approachable, as if you didn't even notice his hostility towards you. "So, you work on cars, then?"

"No, I just stand 'ere and look pretty," he grumbled sarcastically.

"Well, you're doing a great job," you teased, obviously not perturbed by his glum behavior. "Don't let me stop you from your hard work."

The tips of his ears turned red, but he recovered quickly. "'m just glad to get that pink monstrousity outta the garage," he mumbled.

"You don't like it?"

"It's…loud."

"Well, isn't it supposed to be?"

He narrowed his gaze at you, impatience flickering over his expression. "I didn't mean the engine.

"Ohh," you said with a lilt of amusement in your tone. "The color."

"It's pink," he deadpanned.

"Good observation, Sherlock," you shot back, but it lacked the bite he was expecting. Your grin stayed plastered on your face, unflinching. "Maybe you should take up detective work when you're not…y'know…standing there looking pretty."

Bucky leaned against the counter, the cool acrylic biting his heated skin. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head as his eyes flicked over your appearance. "It doesn't take a detective to know that color is hideous."

You crossed your arms, but for the most part, you were keeping your cool. "Like I'm going to take fashion advice from someone who only sees the world in greys and blacks. And is appalled by the simple sight of color."

"I like color just fine."

"Really?" you questioned, arching a brow. "Let me guess, your closet is full of the same black shirt. But when winter rolls in, you'll throw on a flannel to spice it up."

Something shifted in his expression, irritation sharpening on his features. "You think you have it all figured out, huh?"

You leaned in, not backing down from the challenge in his words. "Don't you? You seemed to have made up your mind about me as soon as I walked in the door, without knowing a single thing about me."

"Oh, I know exactly who you are," he smirked, amused. "Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do. You just get behind that wheel because Daddy bought it. He even spiffed it up for you. Ain't that right, princess?"

The words hit hard, and it showed on your face. Your expression changed in an instant. Before he could even blink, your smile twisted into a grimace, as if you’d just tasted something bitter.

This time, you didn't brush off his words. Instead, you took a step closer, not backing down. "Here's the thing, I don't expect you to like my car, or the color, or even me." Your voice never wavered, bold and composed. "But don't mistake my kindness for ignorance."

And with that, you made your rushed exit—the echo of your heels lingering long after you disappeared from view.

A moment later, your car zoomed past in a pink blur, merging onto the busy streets of Brooklyn. He wished the image of the hurt etched on your face would have faded, along with the smoke from your exhaust dissipating. But it stayed, lodged between his ribs like a thorn in his side.

Sam stepped into the room a minute too soon, and Bucky could already hear the criticism forming on his tongue. "What the fuck was that? What the hell did you say to her?"

"Nothin'."

"Bullshit. She hopped into that car like she was fatally wounded and needed emergency assistance."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I'm not." Sam shook his head, eyes to the ceiling as if he was praying for strength. "Do you know who her father is?"

"No."

"You don't want to. At least not personally. He's…intense," Sam sucked air through his teeth, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ever heard of Apex Motors?"

Bucky promptly nodded; he was very familiar with the brand. Apex Motors was everywhere. Their parts were the gold standard. Their engines were the kind mechanics whispered about—if you hadn't seen them, you wouldn't believe they truly existed. Their logo showed up at every car show, every charity race, every community event that was always over-advertised.

"Of course, I know Apex. Who doesn't?" Bucky scoffed.

"Yeah, well, her father owns it, dumbass," Sam barked. "He doesn't just own it. He is Apex Motors. The founder. He's the one who elects to sponsor all those races we're lucky enough to attend. The one whose logo is clearly plastered on all the major drivers' cars and even bigger on the fucking banners outside those events."

Bucky's stomach dropped. "Fuck."

"Yeah, fuck is right." Sam dragged a hand down his face. "That man has enough influence in Brooklyn—hell, New York—that he could get us shut down. And forget about getting a job after that. Our names would be on everyone's blacklist."

"I didn't know."

"That's the problem, Bucky. You just don't know when to stop, do you? Not everything needs your input," Sam griped, then his voice softened. "Just pray she doesn't tell her dad, before you apologize."

Bucky's eyebrows knitted together in protest, but Sam raised a hand to stop him. "It's not up for discussion. Act like the adult you are, and apologize to the poor girl."

Poor girl.

Bucky couldn't help but notice the irony in his words; her purse likely cost more than his monthly house payments. However, he decided that it probably wasn’t the best time to laugh at the joke he had thought of, let alone say it out loud.

He spent the rest of the day mulling over his stupid mistake, and the constant side-eye from his friend didn't help.

The ballroom was grand, but at the same time, it was too congested. The weight of everyone’s piercing stares made it hard to breathe. You felt less like yourself and more like an accessory on your dad’s arm at these pointless, flashy events.

The marble floors seemed to glitter under the tasteful chandeliers above. Everything accented with gold looked like embers from a fire in this light. The Champagne flutes were polished to perfection, sparkling on the silver platters that waiters carried with ramrod-straight spines. Banners were strewn around the room, reading 30 years of Apex Motors.

You should be used to this scene by now. Used to the less-than-heartfelt speeches, the handshakes, the forced smiles, the way you tilted your chin just right to make it look like you were interested when you were anything but.

Tonight, that cracked mask felt heavier, and it was slipping.

You weren't sure if it was the series of fake grins and unwanted conversations, but it was overwhelming.

Your father must be so proud.

You look so much like him in this lighting.

Are you thinking about following in his footsteps and running Apex someday?

One too-polite statement after the next, and the pain of it began to ebb at you. The sting burrowed beneath your thick skin like an incessant sliver that refused to go unnoticed.

Or maybe tonight was different because of the feeling of being profiled. Again. You really should be used to that, too. But it never got easier. Living in your dad's shadow meant you were constantly being measured against him.

To your face, they might say that you'll fill his shoes perfectly. But behind your back, they whispered that you'll never be him. You'll never be as smart as him. You'll never amount to his achievements.

Because a girl in a pink skirt could never command a whole room.

Truthfully, it always rolled right off your shoulders. You didn't want to be your father anyway, so those words never struck you.

But now, those words tangled with a deeper voice.

It had been a week. A full week since you visited the auto shop, yet his words were just as loud in your head as the day he said them to your face, without guilt.

Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do.

Princess.

The words punctured deep, but what hurt worse was his expression. The certainty in his eyes, the way he looked at you like he’d already solved you. Like you were a simple equation he’d seen a thousand times before.

The thought of your walls—the ones you had so expertly built—crumbling under his penetrating gaze was baffling. How could a stranger know you?

You told yourself he didn't. That you weren't like half the people drifting through this ballroom. You were different. You had to be. Even if it was a thinly veiled lie, you were adamant in believing it.

Click, click, click.

Three snaps of a camera sliced through your train of thought. You glanced up, focusing on the photographer and the scene he was capturing. Your father was chuckling at something one of his business friends said, booming laughter traveling across all corners of the building. It made your jaw twitch; you hadn't heard him laugh like that in years. At least not when you were around.

He spotted you, laughter dying on his tongue as quickly as it bloomed. He muttered something to the man beside him that you couldn't make out, then he excused himself.

He crossed the room like royalty—small groups parted, and guests dipped their chins in acknowledgment. When he made it to you, he paused like he didn't know what to do. He eventually settled for an awkward side hug, the kind that felt void of affection. Hollow. Forced.

When he pulled back, he scanned you as if he hadn't seen you in a while. And frankly, he hadn't. The last time he saw you was when he picked up your car for its routine check-up.

Your regular mechanic had closed up shop and moved across the state, so you asked for recommendations on a new auto shop. He said he'd handle it.

His assistant handled it.

"You came," your father trilled.

"Wouldn't miss it," you said too hastily; it sounded like a lie. It was.

His eyes narrowed, searching for the deception in your words. He always noticed the cracks in your mask before anyone else did, but he didn't comment on it. Too many investors to please and cameras to smile at to break the facade that this was a happy pair—a dad and his daughter simply catching up.

Instead of voicing the slip in your guise aloud, he adjusted the sheer pink shawl over your shoulder. It could've been viewed as a tender gesture to any onlookers, but you knew it was a silent correction to fix your mask.

"Good. I wanted you here for the big speech," he started casually. "I was hoping you could take some notes on what points you'll need to touch on when you're up there."

You opened your mouth to object, but he was waving someone over a second later. "John," he called. "Come here a minute. I'd like you to meet my daughter."

A dirty-blonde, tall man broke away from a nearby conversation. It clearly wasn't as important as your father's needs because he was eagerly striding towards the two of you. He was refined—crisp suit and a nice smile, revealing his pearly white teeth. Exactly the type of man your father wanted for you.

Great.

John gave your father a firm handshake, exchanging pleasantries, then turned to you. You offered your hand, and he took it with a gentle touch as if you were fragile and couldn't risk breaking you. Leaning down, his lips brushed your knuckles. Something in you recoiled at the contact, but you kept your composure.

"I've heard so much about you," he said by way of greeting.

The grin you gave him didn't quite reach your eyes, but he didn't notice. Guys like him didn't notice much. He was too busy gliding his thumb over the back of your hand, like he was trying to convey something unspoken. You reclaimed your hand, gingerly prying it from his grasp.

Noticing the tension in your posture, your father interjected, “This is one of the drivers competing in the NASCAR Cup Series.”

Apex Motors had been sponsoring one of the NASCAR Cup races consistently for the past ten years. You started memorizing the competitors by name around the fourth year you attended. But you were out of touch with the more recent drivers.

This year, Pocono Raceway was hosting. Your father had invited you a month in advance; you still hadn't gotten back to him about whether you'd be joining him.

John nodded, adding, “Yeah, your father hooked all the drivers up with head-to-toe Apex gear and spruced up our rides.”

You forced down the bile rising in your throat. "That’s him all right. He's always been the generous type."

But you knew it wasn't generosity that drove him. It was selfish. Strategic. Anything for the good of the company. More advertisements meant more customers, which always led to more people talking about him. If it didn't benefit him or his company, it wasn't worth his time and energy.

"Maybe you could swing by and watch him drive sometime. You know, to get a feel for the kind of things Apex invests in," your father suggested. He reached toward John, gripping his shoulder tenderly—the son he always wanted. "He's very talented on the track."

"You honor me, sir," John murmured coyly, though the confident smirk on his face betrayed exactly how highly he thought of himself.

The corner of your mouth twitched, but you kept that same easy smile on your face. You leaned towards your father, lowering your voice. "Can I speak with you in private?"

Your gaze flicked to John, who instantly took a step back with a quick nod. "Of course."

You led your father a few steps aside, far enough that no one could overhear, but not so far as to draw attention. Your tone stayed light and casual, the kind you’d practiced and perfected, ensuring nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"We talked about this," you said softly. "I don't want anything to do with Apex. At least not right now."

Something shifted in his expression, anger carving out the edges of his features. "Then, what are you going to do with your life?"

"I don't know," you muttered brokenly.

"Well, that's not an option."

You inhaled slowly through your nose, keeping your cool. "I'm just not ready to figure it out quite yet."

"You said that after your mother died," he replied, tone clipped. "I'm going to need a different excuse this time."

He rarely brought up your mother these days, so the words landed like a punch to the gut. It wasn't like he didn't include her in your conversations because her death still stung. No. Instead, it seemed like he didn't talk about her because it was better to ignore that she existed altogether.

"No daughter of mine is going to be unemployed the rest of her life," he added, voice rising. "The world doesn't wait for you just because you ask it to. At some point, you're going to have to catch up, and I can't stand here and hold your hand forever."

You didn't recall a time when he ever held your hand.

"I've given you ample time to screw around and grieve," he continued bitterly. "But you need to grow up and reevaluate your life."

You flinched, the words hitting like venom rather than offering sympathy to a daughter who was still mourning. Your breathing stuttered, and you tried to push down the tears welling in your vision.

He sighed, his voice going soft. "We can talk about this later."

Or never would be the better option, you thought.

"Go have fun. Mingle." Then, he hauled you into another uncomfortable hug, kissing the crown of your head.

This time, when he pulled away, he didn't look at you. He didn't notice the tension in your shoulders or the way your fingers curled into your palm, your nails leaving tiny crescent-moon shapes in your flesh.

He simply turned and walked back towards the guests, only to be instantly swallowed by the crowd.

You stood there, feet firmly planted on the ground. Frozen in time, while everything around you seemed to speed up. Maybe your father was right; you couldn't just will the world to slow down.

But there was also no reason for you to stick around here.

You slipped into the crowd, brushing elbows with investors and bumping shoulders with drivers who were probably begging for a sliver of your father's time. None of which made room for you to get through. A photographer said your name as you passed, but you ignored them and kept moving toward your exit.

When you finally made it to the front, you pushed open the door. You didn't even wait for the gentleman stationed there to hold it for you.

The city was calling for you to do something reckless, and that, you couldn't ignore.

The blaring music and strobbing lights inside the bar were enough to give someone a severe migraine or a trip to the emergency room. Thankfully, the former was what Bucky was dealing with as he stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk. The noisy contents of the bar spilled out of the door as soon as he opened it, and somehow it sounded exactly the same beyond the walls. He swore it even sounded louder, if that was possible.

He patted his pockets to make sure he hadn't forgotten his wallet in his rushed exit. Once he found the familiar square outline tucked safely in his leather jacket, he reached for his keys and started toward his truck.

He made it about four long strides before he stopped dead in his tracks. Loud, off-key singing. With the combination of drunken shouting and the thumping bass echoing behind him, he hadn't noticed the noise until he was face-to-face with the image of a very hammered girl.

Streetlights flickered above the woman as she threw her head back, belting out the lyrics to a song Bucky recognized. Yet, the way she was singing, made it feel as if he were hearing it for the first time. Her voice cracked on a high note, and it caused him to wince in response.

"Only the young can saaaaay," she screeched, tripping over her own heels.

His lips twitched upward before he could stop it. She was wasted, no doubt about it, but there was something…blissful about her. Completely carefree. Untouched by the world around her. Chaos incarnate.

She twirled, the night air getting caught beneath her silk dress and lifting at the hem slightly. Her legs twisted, her arms flinging out awkwardly, like a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest prematurely.

"They're free to fly away," she bellowed, a melody only she could hear.

Then, she teetered dangerously close to the curb, her heels wobbling. Snapping out of his trance, he stretched out his arms, lunging to her aid. He caught her right before she landed face-first into the asphalt.

"Careful," he rasped, firmly holding her arms as he guided her back to safety.

Her back hit his chest, and she giggled as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Craning her neck back, her head rested on his shoulder, leaning into his warmth. Soft hair brushed over his cheek as she shifted in his hold.

Too late, it hit him. He recognized that laugh. How could he not?

He gently turned her as she used him for balance. And his worst nightmare materialized in front of him.

You.

His smile instantly dropped.

"Of course," he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

You were still struggling to focus, your eyes locked on the letters of his shirt. Blinking, your gaze flicked up as your laughter faded into the wind. You tilted your head, squinting your eyes as you attempted to steady your vision.

"Hey, I know youuuu," you squealed, like he was a long-lost friend you hadn't seen in years, though it had only been a week. "I don't think I caught your name, pretty boy."

"'s Bucky," he sighed, already annoyed. "And don't call me that."

"You're the one who said you get paid to look pretty," you slurred, raising a manicured finger to poke his nose.

You broke away from his grasp, raising your arms to the sky while you stumbled backward. "You're just in time," you cheered, your voice carrying a block down the street. The thin shawl draped over your shoulders slipped during your celebration. Bucky scooped it up as he steadied you again, his metal fingers gliding across your warm skin.

"Stay still. You're gonna break your ankles and fall flat on your ass."

"Are you thinking about my ass, Bucky?" you teased, ending your question with a wink. "Is that part of your very serious itinerary? Does it usually fall in the afternoon, somewhere between your third cup of coffee and your ritual complaint about the sun being too bright?"

"I am not— I don't—" he stammered, pink creeping up his neck and blooming across his cheeks.

"Aw, you're all flustered," you cooed, sweeping a knuckle across the flush.

There was a gentleness to your touch and a sparkle in your eyes, as if you were just discovering the beauty of this world, and nothing could dim your joy. It made his expression soften faintly, and something in his chest twisted unbidden. He hated it. He hated that it took you so little to make his entire demeanor shift.

He grabbed your wrist, carefully dragging it away from his face. "Quit."

"Sorry, mister grumpy pants," you said, scrunching your nose.

"Anywayyyy," you sing-songed. "Aren't you going to ask me what you're in time for?"

"My own demise, hopefully," he whispered.

"What?"

"Nothin'. What am I just in time for, princess?"

"The," you paused, drumming two fingers on his chest. "Concert. It'll be the performance of a lifetime."

Bucky snorted, "Yeah, I caught the tail end of Journey before I saved your a—" He was not about to make the mistake of talking about your ass again. He restarted, "Before I saved you…The performance itself needs some work. You were a bit pitchy."

Feigning offense, you lightly smacked his chest, a frown finding a way onto your lips. "Asshole. If you're done mocking me, do you have a song request?"

He gazed up at the twinkling stars above thoughtfully. "How 'bout 'go home, you're drunk?'"

"Huh? I don't know that one."

His fingers lifted to his forehead, massaging in slow circles on either side of his temples. "No, 'm tellin' ya to go home."

You blinked up at him, swaying slightly. "Ohhh," you drawled, his true meaning finally clicking through the haze in your skull. "You meant that literally. How boring. The concert just started."

"This isn't a concert," he said bluntly.

"I'll have you know, this is a sold-out show. Very exclusive." You crossed your arms with a very serious expression, lifting your chin. It was…adorable. "You're lucky I haven't kicked your ass to the curb."

He leveled his gaze at you, a smirk lifting his lips. "We're literally standing on the curb."

You glanced down, as if this was your first time noticing. "And? Haven't you heard? Curbs are all the rage now. Very underrated venue. The acoustics are top tier."

A laugh slipped between Bucky's lips before he could catch it. It was a real, genuine one, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the hard lines of his face.

Momentarily surprised by the sudden sound, you dropped your theatrics. You stared at him, unblinking.

"What was that?" you asked.

He forced the grin off his mouth, biting the inside of his cheek. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do," you insisted cheekily. "You laughed. You actually laughed."

"That's not what happened."

"I just made Bucky laugh," you screamed from the top of your lungs, like you just won the lottery.

His eyes widened in panic. "Shh…" He slapped his flesh hand over your mouth, scanning his surroundings. "Are you crazy? You're gonna wake up the whole city."

You mumbled something against his palm, vibrating his hand. The expression on your face could only be described as smug, mischief glittering in your eyes.

His eyes narrowed, pointing a single finger at you. "If you bite me, I swear—"

Peeling his hand away, you furrowed your brow. "I'm not a biter," you promised. He lowered his hand once he realized it was safe to do so.

"…Not unless you want me to be," you added flirtatiously.

Bucky shook his head in disbelief. "What am I gonna do with you, princess?"

Your smile softened into something warm and inviting, and he didn't mind the feeling that stirred in his chest. Maybe he really did misjudge you that day in the shop; you were nothing as he imagined.

You shivered, an imperceptible shimmy of your shoulders, but he noticed.

"Cold?" he asked, concern laced in his tone.

"A little," you replied, wrapping your shawl tighter around you. It did less than nothing to warm you, goosebumps spreading across your skin regardless of how well it covered you.

"Here." He slipped his wallet into his back pocket and slid out of his leather jacket. He gave you a look, silently asking for permission to touch. It felt appropriate, even though he touched you only moments ago.

You offered him a subtle nod, and he stepped closer, draping the jacket over your shoulders. His touch was light as he adjusted it over your arms, sliding his hands up the zipper. As he tweaked the collar around your neck, his fingers brushed over your bare skin. You shuddered again, but this time, he knew it wasn't from the chill in the air.

Locking eyes with you, he noticed your pupils dilate. He tried to rationalize it, thinking you might be drunk, or it was darker on this part of the sidewalk.

But rationalizing it didn't change the fact that the air around him felt thicker, and he could taste electricity on the tip of his tongue, as if he had just licked a nine-volt battery. An energy seemed to be swirling around the pair of you, drawing him in.

Bucky's fingerpads grazed over your pulse point, testing. He could feel the rapid thrum of your heart beneath his touch, and it made his breath catch. Because that right there was confirmation that he wasn't the only one feeling this.

Pulling away abruptly, he put some much-needed distance between you. You were still wasted, and he…obviously wasn't thinking clearly.

He cleared his throat after a beat.

"Listen, you're gonna forget all this 'n the mornin'," he began, rubbing the back of his neck. You gazed up at him, beaming, your eyes were a little squinty, and you were still very drunk. Oh, you definitely weren't going to remember this. "I wanted to apologize…for before."

Waving him off, you shook your head. "All is forgiven."

"But," he objected. "I was a complete dick to you."

"Yeah, you were," you admitted. "But I've dealt with worse."

Bucky pulled his eyebrows together, something washing over his face—guilt, or maybe irritation. "That doesn't make it okay."

You shrugged, indifferent. "I didn't say it did."

"I shouldn't've said what I did. I didn't know anythin' 'bout you."

"No," you agreed. "You thought I was some spoiled brat who had exactly two functioning brain cells." You giggled, mostly to yourself. "Which might be true as of right now." hiccup. "But I also made assumptions about you." You pointed a wobbly finger at him.

"Oh yeah?" he questioned, intrigued. "What were your assumptions, princess?"

"Grumpy."

"Fair."

"You hate fun."

"Hey, now—" he started, but you interrupted before he could say more.

"And you were only an asshole to me because you thought I'd bite first," you whispered, almost like you were afraid of calling him out. "If you bite first, you're less likely to get hurt, right?"

Bucky gulped, a little taken aback by your boldness. Racking his brain, he wondered how you obtained that information. He hadn't ever told anyone that. Not even Sam. Was he just that easy to read?

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tilted his head, not in annoyance but interest.

"I do that, too," you confessed. "Or, at least, I used to. I've gotten better about keeping my cool."

He didn't respond; he didn't know how to. Instead, he just looked at you—really looked—like he needed a second to take in this version of you he hadn’t expected.

"Well, 'm sorry," he repeated because he felt it was necessary.

"It's okay."

"Y'know," he choked on a half-laugh. "I didn't even know who your dad was until Sam said somethin'."

You sobered at that immediately. "Oh."

"He's intense, huh?" he asked, wiggling his hands into his front pockets casually.

"Um…yeah, you could say that," you mumbled, your expression suddenly blank. Your whole disposition had changed in an instant. "Is that why you apologized?"

His eyebrows twitched, confused. "No," he blurted out too quickly.

"It's okay if you did," you assured, but he could hear the tension in your voice.

"No," he restated, firmer this time. "'m genuinely sorry."

You studied him, looking for the lie you swore was hidden somewhere. "Let me guess, Sam said something like 'my father could shut down your shop.'"

Bucky's eyes widened slightly, the color draining from his face. The silence that followed was only confirmation.

You let out a bitter laugh, forcing a smile that didn't quite fit your face. "Right. Well…don't worry. Your shop isn't in jeopardy."

The hurt engraved on your face made his heart squeeze painfully beneath his rib cage because he hadn't meant to hurt you. And he truly didn't know how to fix it. Any response that came to mind didn't seem quite right. So, he just stood there, awkward and foolish.

"You were right," your voice cracked on those three simple words. "I should go home. It's getting late."

You reached for the collar of his jacket, attempting to shrug it off, but he stopped you. "No, keep it. You're cold."

"Thanks," you said stiffly.

The quiet that settled after was agonizing. He stared at you, and you stared right back. Bucky felt exactly how you looked—numb. And for some reason, this felt final.

Two chances. That's what he was so graciously given with you, and he squandered both of them.

You eventually turned on your heels and strode away without another word. You got as far as the crosswalk before he realized where you were headed. Your car.

"You're not thinkin' of drivin', are ya?" he called out, worry evident in his words.

Glancing over your shoulder, your expression was even more pained than before. "I would never," you scoffed, then you restarted, softer. "…I'm calling my driver."

Nodding in understanding, he gave you a tight-lipped grin.

When you reached your pink monstrousity, as he once not-so-lovingly called it, you yanked the door open and vanished behind it as it slammed shut.

And he was sure that was the last time he'd see you.

It wasn't.

Bucky saw you everywhere. Not you physically, but your presence was always there. The color pink. You. Anytime he smelled vanilla. You. A laugh on the wind while he was driving. You. Even the flowers near the checkout at the grocery store. You.

You were a ghost, haunting his every move.

A couple of days after the sidewalk incident, you sent your driver to return his leather jacket, dry-cleaned. It was still in the plastic covering, and the ticket dangled off the neck of the hanger. And even though it had been cleaned to perfection, he could still smell the faint trace of vanilla and grapefruit, as if you were now woven into the fabric.

He wasn't even embarrassed by how many times he pressed the material to his nose, breathing in your scent.

He didn't know how to shake you. He tried throwing himself into work, operating on the vehicles in the shop well into the night—elbow-deep in engines. He worked until his hand ached. Until the only thing on his mind was the soreness in his muscles.

That is, until Sam threatened to leave and lock the door behind him.

It was affecting his work. The way he interacted with customers was unusual; he was short, barely listening to a single word of their monologue of problems with their car. They rattled on about noises their vehicle wasn't meant to make—clunking, or sputtering, maybe both. He nodded at the right times, professional on the surface, but his mind was constantly far off.

It got so bad that on one tow job, he installed the tow hook on the front bumper the wrong way and nearly tore the whole thing off. The one task he used to nail with practiced skill, he botched completely.

The shop lost money that day. Sam gave him shit for it.

Maybe he wasn't the best at human interaction, or he didn't fully comprehend their minds—too difficult a puzzle to put together. But he knew cars. Cars were simple, predictable. He could do a full diagnostic of any vehicle just by hearing the engine purr. He understood them as if they were a second language, and he was an expert in communicating exactly what was being said.

And that was precisely why he royally messed up with you.

You weren’t a problem to diagnose or an engine to operate on. You weren’t some equation he could solve if he just stared at it long enough. But he kept treating you like one. Kept trying to force you into a mold—a predictable one. One he could understand.

And he couldn't get that through his thick skull.

So, no matter how loud the voice in his head got—the one telling him to just call and fix whatever he broke, he didn't give in. Not when he'd pull up a customer's information on the shop's computer, and your name would appear in the system, tucked neatly beneath your father's. Those ten digits sat there, blinking at him like a glaring reminder. Or…temptation.

But he gave you your space. Distancing himself was the best option for both of you…right?

Yet, it was as if the universe kept teasing him with you, like an owner waving a treat in front of a hungry pet. And a man can only be so strong.

It was late that night, legs stretched out on the couch with the blanket half-covering him. He didn't even know why his thumb was hovering over the app, but he found himself pressing it. He barely even used the damn thing, but Sam insisted it would be good for business. It wasn't. He never actually posted anything, except for a single picture of a car mid-repair, and another of Alpine perched by the window, with the sun warming her fur.

He had accidentally clicked the discover page—the little magnifying glass at the bottom of his screen. Twelve posts came into view, blinding him. Blinking, he adjusted to the brightness. He eventually started swiping through the posts. One after the other, depicting images and videos of cars and engines, all curated specifically for him.

Then.

You.

He sat up straight.

How you appeared on his Instagram, he had no clue. Before he could think better of it, he was tapping on the image. You were smiling, green straw between your teeth, and your eyes full of amusement. The arms of a pink sweater were tied around your neck, sunglasses resting on your head as you posed for your photo op.

He couldn't help himself; he pressed on your username. Pretty.in.pink. It suited you.

And, damn, did you have followers. 597.2k hovered between the number of posts you had and who you were following.

Scrolling through your feed, he glanced over your photos. Some showed you flaunting an outfit, pink checkered skirts, and white heels. You were adjusting the strap around your ankle in one. In the next image, you were holding a bouquet of daisies, pressed tightly to your chest, as you gazed up at the sky.

And he definitely didn't zoom in on your cleavage, hidden amongst the petals of the flowers.

You captured images of New York: skyscrapers, billboards, and the Brooklyn Bridge with the sunset as the backdrop. He noted some of the cafes and restaurants you visited, and the reviews that came with them. You had a very clear aesthetic that carried through your posts.

He kept scrolling. A mirror selfie. Pink makeup products on a white marble table. Mid-step off a sidewalk.

He felt like a stalker, looking at you like this. Like he was seeing something personal he wasn't supposed to. But he had convinced himself that this was for public viewing, and it wasn't like he was doing anything nefarious.

Well, that is, until he scrolled too far and saw your series of summer shots.

Sure, some were innocent, harmless. A cute one-piece swimsuit, hugging your curves. You had your hands on your hips, giggling. Or another with your legs dangling off the pier, bare feet kissing the surface of the water.

But most were tastefully suggestive. A floral bikini, barely covering your tits. You were toying with the strings of your bottoms, as if silently conveying that if you tugged just right, you'd be half-naked.

He wished he had stopped there. Because the next one he landed on filled his mind with every impure thought. "Fuck," he whispered under his breath.

You were on your stomach, legs folded behind you, crossing at the ankle with your feet in the air. His gaze dragged down the slope of your back to the curve of your plump ass.

He let out a low growl, his hand already finding the growing erection, pushing against his shorts. A feeling of depravity entered his body, even as he kept stroking himself through the fabric.

Scanning over your body, he noted the sparkle in your eyes as you looked over your shoulder playfully. The soft tilt of your lips. Your silky skin, and how it would feel beneath his fingers. The glimpse of your side boob, spilling out of the cup of the bikini top.

He stroked faster, biting his lip as the pressure built.

He told himself to stop. That this was wrong.

He didn't.

"You see what you do to me, princess," he groaned at the picture. "Y'know what you were doin' when you posted this, huh? Such a 'lil tease, aren't ya?"

Mind drifting, he imagined those same eyes looking up at him, a pout on your lips as he tapped the head of his cock on them. And the way those lips would feel wrapped around—

Hips jerking upward, he let out another low, broken curse. He was close. He could feel it in the way the vein on his neck stuck out, and his thighs tensed. Pressing the palm of his hand harder against his bulge, his breath stuttered.

He realized too late the predicament he was in. There he was, sprawled out on the couch, one hand curled around his phone, the other rubbing his dick through his pants. He came, his release blooming in his boxers and darkening the front of his shorts as your name fell from his lips.

Immediately after, he hissed, his eyes blown wide. Because he just came in his pants. Like a horny fucking teenager. Guilt and disgust flooded his body. He dropped his phone, as if it had burned him, sprinting to the bathroom.

He passed Alpine on his way there, and he swore she looked disappointed as she sat in the middle of the hallway, licking her paw. "Don't you dare," he scolded, but he knew he deserved it.

He banned himself from ever going on that stupid app. Because that couldn't happen. Not again.

After that, things settled. He still thought about you, of course, but he didn't have any more incidents. And the urge to call you faded.

It wasn't until he saw your face in the local newspaper that he almost broke that unspoken rule he had created, and finally called you.

It was dawn, and the sun had barely risen, just peeking over the horizon. The sky was a vibrant orange, and the clouds had a wispy quality that reminded him of the cotton candy he got as a kid on trips to Coney Island.

He was on his second cup of coffee as he reached for the newspaper that was thrown on the counter. Flicking out the paper with one hand, he attempted to right it as he raised his ceramic mug to his lips. The steaming dark liquid hit the tip of his tongue just as he saw you.

Setting down his cup with a sharp click, his eyes fixed on the image just above the article. It was a feature titled, "Upcoming Race in the NASCAR Cup Series: Apex Motors 500."

Your father was clearly the main focus, but that hardly mattered to Bucky. You were positioned behind him, and even slightly blurred, he could see those bright eyes of yours clear as day.

The photo seemed to be taken at some gala—a place he wouldn't be caught dead at. Too fancy and polished for his taste. He doesn't even recall the last time he wore a suit, let alone why he would've worn one.

Flipping the page, he was met with three more photos. Mostly with your father and his team. But there you were again. Another gala shot, but this one you were standing beside a tall man who was leaning in to kiss your hand. The caption read: John Walker, Two-time Lucas Oil Late Model Dirt Series Winner and NASCAR Cup Series Competitor, Seen Getting Cozy With a Potential Girlfriend?

The coffee settling in Bucky's stomach curdled.

John honestly looked perfect for you. Someone you could bring home to Daddy, and he'd have all the correct answers and say all the right things. Someone who fit flawlessly into the world you came from. And, of course, it helped that he was a NASCAR competitor, and in a race your father sponsored.

The smile you gave John wasn't genuine, though. He'd seen a real smile from you; it lit up your entire face. This one looked forced and uncomfortable.

"Buck?"

He jerked his head up, meeting Sam's narrowed gaze, the kind that said he'd called for Bucky more than once. Sam rounded the counter, peering over Bucky's shoulder to see what had so easily captured his attention.

"Man," Sam sighed. "You gotta talk to her."

After one too many of Sam’s knowing looks, the whole story spilled out. Everything that had happened between you and him. Sam had truly listened that day, without judgment or offering any unsolicited advice.

And if Bucky didn't want to talk about it, Sam changed the subject. But now Sam was fed up with it.

"'s…complicated," Bucky replied.

"From where I'm standing, it's pretty clean cut."

"Look at her," he pointed to your picture in the paper. "We come from opposite ends of the world."

"Do you really think she's so superficial that she wouldn't give you the time of day just because you have a different status?"

Bucky's face dropped. "That's not what I meant."

"No?" Sam shot back. "Then stop treating her like that. Stop assuming things you know nothing about." He didn't even wait for a response, just vanished into the garage and got to work.

A few days passed.

Bucky threw himself back into work, a wrench firmly in his fist as he tightened a bolt on an engine. Sam burst into the garage with a wild look in his eyes, panic written all over his face.

Somehow, Bucky already knew without hearing a word. Dropping the wrench, he wiped his hands on the nearest rag. Then, sprang to his feet, snatching his keys off the hook.

“Where is she?” he demanded, already moving.

The difference between the pouring rain and the tears blurring in your vision was indistinguishable. The tears were coming down your cheeks, hot and quick, before you could stop them. It didn't matter how many times you blinked or wiped the wet from your cheeks; they kept coming.

Why did this have to happen? Why today of all days?

The accident happened before you could prevent it. You swore that the family of raccoons came out of nowhere. One minute you were driving, the next you were slamming on your brakes as you yanked your wheel in the opposite direction. Your heart leaped to your throat, gripping the wheel so hard your knuckles had gone white. Swerving on a slick road like that one was always going to be a losing battle. With the combination of braking and swerving too hastily, your wheels locked, and you lost control. That was why the front of your car was curved around a telephone pole.

Now, you sat there with your hands trembling on the steering wheel as the rain pelted your windshield. Your breath was coming out heavy and uneven, fogging up the glass.

You weren't hurt, not really anyway. Your nose hit the top of the wheel from the impact, leaving a warm trickle of blood pooling above your lip. Your ribs ached from the brief constriction of your seatbelt across your chest—a whispering promise of bruising come morning. But you were fine.

After it happened, your hand was already curled around your phone, before you could properly register what you were doing. Anxious fingers flew across your keyboard, typing in the first person that came to mind. Your eyes were locked on ten digits, Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair hovering directly above them.

It wasn't the first time you had been in this predicament. You always talked yourself out of it before. Because you were embarrassed by the display you showed Bucky after he brought up your father. Because you couldn't muster the courage to talk to him.

But this time, as you stared at the phone number, you realized you really didn't know who else to call.

Luckily, Sam picked up the phone instead, so you still had ample time to think about what you were going to say to Bucky. Yet, your mind felt blank.

Weeks had passed, and you didn't even know if that spark you'd felt that night under the stars with too much liquor in your system was still there. Or if it even existed in the first place. You were so drunk that you could've imagined it. Did the laugh that echoed in your dreams ever even happen, or was that something you hallucinated as well? All a trick of the light.

Headlights flared in your rear-view mirror, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. You squinted against the brightness until the beams dimmed. The truck eased forward, turning around before backing up toward you until there were only inches between your bumpers.

You rubbed the blood from your nose, and you swiped the tears from under your eyes. Adjusting your sweater and running a hand over your hair, you tried to look as presentable as possible.

The driver's side opened, and out stepped Bucky. All six feet of him strode towards your car, white tank top getting soaked as he got closer. You could see the definition in his abs through the thin material, and the flex of his muscles as he…knocked on the glass.

Shit. You'd been gawking as he waited for you to roll down your window.

You were so fucked.

Bucky rapped on the glass one more time as you stared up at him, blinking. Your shimmering eyes eventually met his, lashes fluttering. Fuck, he missed seeing those in person. Your fingers reached for the switch, lowering the window with a mechanical hum. The steady rush of rain began to enter your car, raindrops dotting the interior of the door.

You almost appeared frazzled now that the glass wasn't interrupting his vision. Were you still in shock?

Bucky propped his elbow on the roof, leaning into the opening. "Hey," he greeted. "You still with me, princess?"

"Y-yeah," you stammered.

Now he could see the streaks of dried tears across your cheeks and the smear of crimson right below your nose. His chest clenched, and his skin suddenly felt too tight around his rib cage.

He cleared his throat. "Sam said you assured him you didn't need medical attention…you gonna fight me on that, too?"

"I'm really okay. Just a minor nosebleed. Nothing serious." You offered him a stiff smile that didn't reach your eyes.

He didn't know how to push down the worry stirring in his chest, so he responded with humor instead. "We gotta stop meetin' like this."

"Like what?"

"You're drunk," he teased.

Straightening your spine, you knitted your brows together in offense. "I'm not."

"Just a joke. Bad joke," he admitted, grabbing the back of his neck. "How'd you get in this mess anyway?"

"It's raining," you said, shrugging, as if that alone was an answer.

"I see that, Sherlock," he deadpanned. "But I got 'ere just fine."

"There was a little family of raccoons. Just a momma and her babies crossing the street, and I didn't see them right away. And…well…this happened."

"Adorable." The word slipped before he could stop it. He stared at you, eyes wide, hoping you didn't hear him.

"What?"

"I bet the raccoons were adorable," he offered, too quickly. "And I bet they're thankin' you for sparin' their lives."

Nodding, you sighed. "I just wish I hadn't sacrificed my pink monstrosity in the process."

He softened at the nickname he gave your car. "Uh…before I pull ya out," Bucky started, tapping on the roof of your car. "I'd like to apologize…again. It was never my intention to hurt you, and 'm sorry it came across that way. Your father had nothin' to do with the apology."

You stilled, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. Then, you still didn't move, and the two of you continued to face off in a little staring contest.

But he was getting anxious waiting for a reply, so he kept going. "Listen, I could wait out in the rain all day, beggin' for forgiveness. 'm not afraid to drop to my knees 'n the mud f' you. In fact—"

Doing just as he said, he lowered himself, dropping to his knees. His knees sank into the mud, no doubt darkening his jeans with the sludge. The droplets were streaming onto his face now, hair getting soaked in the process. But he didn't care.

"'m not goin' anywhere 'til you know I mean it," he promised. "'m deeply sorry."

You peeked out of the open window, watching him with your eyes blown wide. "Are you crazy?"

"A 'lil."

"Get up before you ruin your jeans," you order, slightly flustered.

He could ruin a lot more than his jeans on his knees for you. But this was not the time, nor the place.

Realizing he looked like an idiot, he rose with an awful sucking sound as he attempted to free his knees from the mud.

"You did nothing wrong, so there's nothing to forgive," you admitted, gazing up at him as he leaned against your vehicle. "I have some issues to work through, and that's not your problem."

"It could be."

He hadn't even realized he said it out loud, but there the words hung in the air between you like a confession. Lips separating, you released a soft breath, but you appeared too stunned to say anything.

Promptly moving on, he asked, "Did you call anyone to pick you up?"

"Just you."

Bucky hummed. "I know you don't wanna hear this, but maybe you should call your dad."

You instantly looked panicked. "Are you kidding? He'll kill me."

"Okay," he drawled. "How 'bout a friend?"

Grimacing, you shook your head.

"Well, I don't want you to be alone tonight," he mumbled, then thought of the most ridiculous solution. "You can stay with me tonight. You take my bed, and I'll—"

"Yes," you interrupted.

He was taken aback by your immediate response, but nodded. "My house it is," he confirmed. "Now, how 'bout I get you outta this rain, princess?"

The car ride to Bucky's shop was mostly quiet, save for the occasional clinking of the wheel lift that was supporting the weight of your car as it dragged behind his truck. You kept glancing over your shoulder, a nervous tic, though he assured you multiple times that it was secured. It was also an excuse to catch his biceps in your periphery.

You were sitting on a bench seat, so the close proximity was something you hadn't expected. But you weren't complaining. But you didn't know what to do with yourself either. You started by fixating on two separate raindrops on the windshield to distract yourself. In your head, those two clear dots were having a race, and the one you were rooting for slowed as the other one began streaming quicker down the glass, as if it knew.

When that didn't fully shift your attention, you decided to just sit stiffly beside him. You folded your hands neatly in your lap as you tried not to let the faint scent of his cologne mess with your head…again.

You had a hard time sending his leather jacket back after he let you borrow it. Sure, it had undertones of grease and motor oil, but the most prominent scent was a mix of sandalwood and cardamom. You blamed that damn jacket for the reason why you couldn't get him out of your head.

After that night outside of the bar, you had come home and immediately flopped into bed, the jacket still wrapped snuggly around your shoulders. The next morning was torture. You'd draped it over one of your kitchen chairs as you made some coffee and swallowed down some Tylenol to help with your lingering hangover. You stared at the jacket over the rim of your mug until you couldn't take it anymore and started wearing it around the house. It was because of the draft circulating the house, you had told yourself.

And you swore the time your fingers traveled between your aching thighs as you breathed in his scent was only because the alcohol was still in your system. You weren't thinking clearly when you slipped your fingers inside yourself, and you certainly weren't thinking when you came on your palm, his jacket pressed to your nose as your mind drifted to what Bucky's head would look like between your legs.

That familiar scent was flooding your senses as you scanned his profile, following the sharp line of his jaw to the slow bob of his Adam's apple. Your gaze kept dipping to his saturated tank top and the way it clung to his chest. Your lip continued to find its way between your teeth. Because who the hell looks that good fresh from a day's work and a shower in the rain?

His human arm was casually resting over the back of the seat, his fingers kissing the nape of your neck. You hadn't figured out if he was doing it on purpose yet, but it caused a chill to travel down your spine, all the same.

When you reached his shop, it was an easy enough drop-off. He got your car into the garage without any problems, efficient and professional, everything your brain wasn't. The rain was still a wild downpour, and any time he'd had to dry off on the drive over was wasted. He was sopping-wet as he jogged back to the truck.

When he slammed the door shut, his breath was coming out in gasps, his chest heaving as he threw his head back against the seat. The water dripped steadily off his dark hair, and his tank top was plastered to his chest—practically sheer at that point. You couldn't take your eyes off of him, and with the noises he was making from the exertion, you were having a hard time not letting your mind drift to sinful things. If you just crawled over and straddled his lap…would he make the same noises?

Glancing over at you, a slow grin spread across his lips. "You'd think it'd slow down at some point, but 's only coming down harder out there. 'm soaked," he panted.

"Yeah, me too," you sighed before your brain caught up, then your eyes widened, blinking. "I mean— my clothes are still wet. From the rain."

His smile stretched, easy and knowing. You could see the spark in his eyes, but he didn't say anything about your slip-up. Dragging a hand through his hair, he let out a slow exhale. Before you knew what was happening, he was shaking his head frantically, like a dog straight out of the bath. Water went everywhere: the dashboard, the windows, and you.

You gasped, turning your face the other direction as he splashed you with water droplets. "Bucky," you screeched.

"What?" he laughed, a sound that rattled deep in his chest. "I was just helpin' you catch up."

You lightly shoved his shoulder. "You're a menace."

Before you could pull your hand back, he caught your wrist—playfully and unmistakably up to something. His eyes lit with mischief, and that alone should’ve been your warning to scramble away.

"Come 'ere," he teased.

His metal hand dropped to your waist, guiding you toward him into a soaking-wet hug. You squeaked, planting your free hand on his chest in a desperate attempt to get some distance. It was too late, though. His arm tightened on the dip of your waist as his opposite hand curled around the back of your neck, angling you exactly where he wanted you. Like an overgrown golden retriever, he rubbed his face across your cheeks.

The cold droplets smeared across your skin, making you shriek louder. "Bucky! Come on, you're—"

"Drenched?" he finished for you, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. "Hadn't noticed."

You wiggled in his hold, swatting his chest. "Okay, okay. I surrender."

He eventually released you, leaning back. His laughter faded into a gentle smirk, looking way too smug for his own good. Rolling your eyes, you wiped the water off your face with the back of your hand. You thought about scooting away, keeping that distance you so desperately wished for before. But now, as you watched him, the amusement softening his features, you remembered there were worse things than having your skin a little wet.

The ride back to Bucky's house was a stark contrast to the one to his shop. Words were easier. The conversation flowed. It simultaneously felt like no time had passed, and like you'd known him for years and were just catching up.

The pair of you shared soft stories, the kind that made you giggle and made the tension in his shoulders loosen. He shared the time that Sam dragged him to meditation in the park, and it went so poorly that the instructor kicked him out. You shared that time your dress accidentally got thrown in with your father's wash, and it turned all his white dress shirts pink; he had to wear them for a week before they were replaced.

After almost an hour of driving, he turned onto a gravel path surrounded by tall, lively trees. You hadn't seen this part of Brooklyn before. The cityscape slowly diminished, giving way to lush greenery. He passed a sign that read: Green Meadows Farm.

You briefly wondered what your life would've been like if your father had taken you somewhere like this in your youth. If he had just slowed down enough to give you the attention you deserved. Without the buffer of your mother, who was the glue that kept your family stable. But that was too much to ask.

The truck dipped over the rockier sections, but Bucky avoided any major holes. Until he ran over a bump in the road, and despite the seatbelt, you nearly flew out of your seat. But he was quicker, swinging his arm out to catch you and secure you against the bench. He whispered, "I gotcha, princess," then shifted his gaze to the road as if nothing had happened.

Though you were safely back in your seat, his arm lingered, bicep pressed firmly to your chest. When he finally moved it, his hand found purchase on your thigh, calloused fingers bending around your bare flesh. Not gripping, just holding, like he had a right to. Like it was natural.

Eventually, the trees down the path cleared, and his house came into view. The only reason you knew it was his was that it was very…him. There was no other way to describe it. A quaint cabin with a wraparound porch that overlooked the river.

The truck rolled to a stop as he shifted it into park. With the rain softening to an even patter, you could finally hear how quiet it was here. The rustle and bustle of the city felt like a distant memory. Nature was the only soundtrack here, the gentle rush of the river, and you could just make out the faint noises of an owl, high up in the branches of a nearby tree.

Bucky didn't waste any time. He leaped down from the truck, then helped you, offering you a hand. As you hopped down, the heels of your shoes vanished into the mud with a subtle squelch. He sighed dramatically beside you before leaning down and sliding his hands around your waist. With barely any effort on his part, he lifted and threw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

You let out a startled wheeze. "I do have two legs."

"Can't have your precious heels gettin' ruined," he cooed in an almost mocking tone. Trudging toward the door, he placed a protective hand over your ass as he smoothed out your skirt.

"I can walk," you ordered, but he was dead set on ignoring your protests. "I'm serious, put me down." You lightly pounded your fists into the dip of his back, but he only huffed a laugh in response. Flopping forward, you figured it best not to waste your energy arguing with a brick wall. Your arms dangled out in front of you as he carried you up the steps, the wood squeaking under the weight of his boots.

He gently set you down with a light click of your heels, reaching for the keys in his back pocket. "Better?"

You crossed your arms, tilting your head. "Thank you," you muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but failing miserably.

"Anythin' for you," he replied coolly. And even if he said the words as a joke, they made the corner of your lip lift.

Unlocking the door, he pushed in. He flicked on the light, bathing the interior in warm light, and you followed him in. You were immediately hit with the scent of cedar, and him. The inside was exactly what you expect—minimal decor, yet it had a lived-in feel. A worn leather couch in the living room with a black jacket draped over the arm. A wall of photos with unusual frames. A small fireplace. Everything was practical, but charming.

"It ain't much," he said, exhaling slowly with his hands on his hips. "But make yourself at home." He kicked off his heavy work boots, then disappeared down a dark hallway. A light flicked on as he entered a room, which you could only guess was his room. He closed it most of the way, but kept it open a crack.

You slipped off your heels, and they hit the floor with a gentle thud. You did a rough sweep of the room, then padded over to the wall of frames. You scanned the photos, some from his childhood, some of his shop, some of him and Sam.

But your eyes lingered on two, hanging beside each other. A navy blue uniform, neatly buttoned with a matching cap. Bucky and Sam stood side by side with perfect posture, saluting the camera. Metal arm. The other image was a solo shot, clad in an army green jumpsuit. No metal arm.

A set of dog tags dangled off the corner of the frame, twinkling under the light. They clinked as you twisted them in your palm. James Buchanan Barnes. You tested the name, mouthing it softly.

You peeked around the corner, ready to tell him what you uncovered. Instead, you were met with carved back muscles just as he was tugging up his sweatpants. You nearly choked on your own saliva, your cheeks warming from guilt of seeing something you weren't supposed to. He turned, pulling a dark shirt over his head, and flattened out the wrinkles in the fabric. His arm glinted, drawing your attention downward, and then your eyes drifted lower. And lower.

You caught the patch of hair above the waistband before disappearing beneath his grey sweatpants. You followed the trail. Fuck. Nothing could drag your gaze away from the subtle bulge against the material of his sweats. No matter how hard you tried to reason with yourself that this was wrong, that you were openly objectifying him, you continued to gawk.

"You can ask about it," Bucky said, walking towards you with a plush towel in his hands.

Shit.

You hadn't even noticed him step out of his room, and now you were caught with no possible way out of this one. But was he really giving you permission to ask about his dick size? Wait, maybe he wanted you to ask about the shape.

No, that's ridiculous…just…play dumb? Yeah. Some guys love that, right?

You've been staring for too long with no other excuse to use. Fuck it.

Play dumb. Play dumb. Play dumb.

You swallowed thickly. "What?"

"I keep catchin' you lookin' at my arm. If you're curious, you can ask. 'm an open book."

"Right, I've been wondering about your arm," you drawled. You mentally thanked yourself because, yes, sometimes playing dumb has gotten you out of some sticky situations. "How'd you get it?"

He motioned for you to turn around, and you scrunched your brows, but did it anyway. His hands moved to your shoulders, sliding your sweater down your arms, then hanging it on a hook by the door. Unfolding the towel, he glided it over your upper back, the nape of your neck, and anywhere else that was out of your reach.

"Sam and I were in the Air Force together. It feels like a lifetime ago," he began as he handed over the towel.

You took it, still a little stunned by how naturally he moved around you. As if he'd done it a thousand times. He guided you over to the couch, hand cupping your elbow. He nodded for you to sit as you started to pat down your hair, squeezing the dampness from the strands. Grabbing the plaid blanket from the back of the sofa, he covered your lower half, tucking the edges in. And he did it all without you ever needing to say a word.

Why did everything feel so natural with him? Why did it feel like he was reading your every thought before you even asked?

Lifting the blanket, he slipped under it, scooting closer until your legs brushed. His arm fell to the back of the couch, turning his full body toward you as he spoke. "That's how we met, actually. We served multiple tours overseas together. Got close in the process. Honestly, don't think I'd be 'ere without him."

The vulnerability in his tone cut you deeper than you expected. His gaze drifted, and he had this faraway look in his eyes that told you to let the silence breathe. So, you waited. You didn't force the conversation, just let him take his time.

He cleared his throat. "We had some aerial trainin' the day it happened. The other soldiers in the aircraft strapped on their parachutes. I was the last one to grab mine."

Bucky went quiet again, finding his words. "Y'know, everyone puts their trust in the manufacturers. You kinda have to have a 'lil blind faith that the equipment's been tested and retested. That they're suitable for jumps of high altitudes, or that 's even capable of carrying a large amount. That's why, when I jumped, I didn't even think twice. Just did it."

Your stomach dropped because you already knew the outcome of this story. You looked at him—really looked at him. It wasn't a look of pity, but understanding.

His eyebrows twitched. "I had a faulty parachute. It wouldn't deploy no matter how hard I pulled. Thankfully, I landed in a tree before I fully hit the ground, so the branches lessened the blow."

You felt your heart crack wide open, raw and exposed. Unfamiliar with this side of grief, you didn't know the procedure. You didn't know whether to reach for him or if he even wanted to be touched. You settled for a whispered apology instead. "I know this doesn't help, but I'm sorry."

Sighing, he offered you a small smile. "From you…it does."

You mirrored his smile, but he didn't dwell on the emotion for much longer. Correcting his posture, he coughed. "After that, I settled back in Brooklyn. Needed a job. Figured I've always been good at fixin' things, so I opened my own shop. Sam gave me a call not too long after, and we've been in business together ever since."

His expression softened, as if he were reminiscing. "Though some days I regret that decision," he jokingly added.

You hummed in amusement, easing into the couch as you shifted to face him. "You love him."

"I tolerate him. There's a difference," he said stubbornly.

"Right."

He rolled his eyes, but you knew there was truth to your words. "So, what's your story?" he asked, shifting the spotlight off himself.

You shrugged. "I don't have one."

Arching a brow, he bumped you with his knee. "Come on. Gimme somethin'. How 'bout why you were cryin' in the car?"

You stilled; you hadn't realized he saw that. "Just overwhelmed," you half-answered. Blinking slowly, he leveled you with a glare. Your head dropped back, puffing air through your nose.

"Fine," you murmured. "I was on the way to visit my mother's grave."

Bucky leaned in, not dramatically, but just enough to let you know he was listening.

"It's the anniversary of her death," you continued, quieter. "Which…ironically was because of a car accident." You nearly laughed, though nothing felt humorous about it. But you hadn't really reflected on the similarities until right now.

Your fingers tightened around the blanket, attempting to ground yourself. "Every year, my father and I make plans to honor her, and every year, he cancels. I guess I got sick of it. No, I am sick of it. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who feels the weight of her death."

Your voice wavered slightly, but you pushed on. "I know everyone grieves differently. But I expected…something. Glimpses of pain, maybe? But nothing. He ignores her very existence. And the one time I ask him to acknowledge her, even that's too hard."

Silence settled again, and under the blanket, his hand found your thigh—a grounding pressure you needed. As if to say, I'm here.

You exhaled slowly. "It was a drunk driver that killed her…That's why I got upset when you asked. That night, when I was singing on the sidewalk, was a rarity for me. I don't drink. And I especially don't drink and drive. It's irresponsible and stupid…and—"

Squeezing your eyes shut, you tried to keep the tears at bay. "I lost the most important person in my life because someone couldn't pick up the damn phone and call a taxi."

For a moment, the only sound was the soft patter of rain against the roof and the gentle wind whistling just beyond the windows. Just as you did for him, Bucky didn't fill the silence. He didn't try to fix it. He just offered a light squeeze to your thigh in comfort.

Releasing a shaky breath, you blinked back the threat of tears. "Sorry," you said brokenly. "I didn't mean to dump all that on you."

Reaching up with his metal hand, he tucked a stray hair behind your ear. "You never need to apologize for feelin' things, princess."

His gaze flicked over your features, as if he didn't know where to look. "I know it doesn't help, but 'm sorry," he echoed your earlier words.

You couldn't help the smile that grew on your lips. "From you, it does help," you repeated his earlier words.

The cool metal of his fingers dragged down your jaw, relaxed and measured, as his gaze drifted down to your lips. He inched a little closer, firmly taking your jaw in his hand. Lips parting, he hovered in your space. You felt that same electric energy from all those nights ago. Still present. Still charged.

Your eyes fluttered closed, certainty driving your actions.

Then.

You felt a sudden weight on your lap, causing your eyes to fly open. Backing away, you gasped. A white fluff ball with a pink nose and twitching ears sat on your knees, staring at you with its wide blue eyes. The cat tilted its head, assessing you.

Bucky rolled his eyes, huffing out a laugh. "I guess someone wanted an introduction." His flesh hand loosened on your thigh to scratch under the cat's chin. "Meet Alpine. She's…particular."

Alpine shut her eyes, purring as her owner gave her the attention she'd been missing. "She almost clawed Sam's face off the first time they met. So don't be offended if she isn't the biggest fan of you right—"

He cut himself off as Alpine moved out of the way of his hand. She crept up towards you, her front paws finding purchase on your chest as she lifted her head towards your face. Turning her head, she rubbed the side of her face against your jaw. She let out a long, low purr as she nuzzled into you. Lifting your hand tentatively, you carded your fingers through her thick fur.

"Hey there, pretty girl," you giggled. "I think he's painting you to be some kind of scary monster. You're not, are you?"

"Huh," he said, slightly baffled by the sight. "I don't know what I was worried 'bout. She doesn't usually click with anyone that quickly."

"Aw, just like her daddy," you cooed, winking at him.

Swallowing hard, his cheeks flushed faintly. The tips of his ears turned red, just like that day in the shop. He brushed it off, shaking his head as his hand found your thigh again.

Alpine blinked up at him, then you. Retreating from you, you swore she gave a subtle nod as if to say that she approved. Then she scurried off your lap just as quickly as she came, her tail flicking as she disappeared down the hallway.

A grin still plastered on your face, you let out a soft breath. "She's sweet."

"Don't let her fool you," he mumbled, gingerly rubbing your thigh. "She's opinionated."

The air shifted once more, warmth pooling in your stomach as he touched you. While his earlier grip had been innocent, this felt different. This was eagerness, as if he couldn’t wait another moment longer. The hunger in his eyes was undeniable, silently urging to resume where you’d left off before the interruption.

You forced your thighs together, your heart racing with desire.

"You're a flirty drunk. Did you know that?" he asked arrogantly, his hand still firmly pressed to your thigh, inching higher and higher in intervals so you wouldn't notice. But you noticed. Your body noticed. The space between your legs noticed, which only made you squeeze your thighs together tighter.

"G-guess that's another reason I don't drink very often," you stuttered.

"I dunno, I thought it was pretty cute. You said somethin' 'bout wantin' to bite me at one point?"

"I did not," you objected. "I said if you wanted me to, I would.

"So, hypothetically," he rasped. "If I said I wanted you to right now, you would."

"Bucky," you squealed, lightly slapping his metal arm, which probably hurt you more than him. "I was wasted."

"Yeah, but y'know what they say, drunk words are sober thoughts."

"Are you saying I thought about biting you the first day we met? Because that's as far as my sober thoughts about you went after our little conflict in your shop," you harmlessly teased.

Bucky sucked air through his teeth. "Oof, you wound me, princess." He placed his metal hand over his heart, feigning offense. "But yes, you looked like you wanted to bite my head off that day, so I wouldn't be surprised."

Then, he did something you least expected; he leaned closer. You figured this was all just teasing. That this back and forth was just innocent flirtation. But his lips brushed your ear as he whispered against the shell of it. "Bet that pretty 'lil head of yours is thinkin' real hard 'bout it now."

"Only because you won't shut up about it," you shot back breathlessly, lacking the bite you were intending.

"Ooh, she's got teeth," he chuckled, his warm breath fanning across your neck. He attempted to wedge his fingers between your thighs. A heat washed over your body, your cheeks warm with lust, and your head swimming with thoughts that were anything but pure.

The stubble of his beard grazed your jaw, and your breath caught. "So, when are we gonna stop dancin' around the fact that I've been tryin' to get between these thighs of yours?" he pressed boldly. "Are you ignorin' me? Because we know how well that worked out last time."

"I never ignored you," you said. "In fact, I couldn't get rid of you. You were like a pesky fly that was always there."

Bucky hummed in satisfaction, and you could feel his smirk against your skin. "You missed me then?"

"Yes," you blurted too quickly. "Yes, I missed you."

"I missed you, too," he muttered softly, and you could hear the truth in his words. The way his voice dipped into something gentle and earnest made your chest feel suddenly tight. Then, his tone dipped lower, deep and starving as he nudged your leg. "Lemme in, princess. Wanna show you just how much I missed you."

As if you were under his spell, your thighs parted. His fingers curled around your thigh, squeezing twice in quick succession. "There ya go. Keep 'em spread f'me."

Fingers danced up the inner part of your thigh until they disappeared beneath the hem of your skirt. They kissed the edge of your panties, his touch light as he circled your clothed clit. You sighed at the contact, your chin tipping back blissfully.

"Good girl," he praised, lips scorching the underside of your jaw. "Just relax."

Your breath stuttered at the combination of his lips trailing down your neck and the tantalizing patterns he was tracing over the dark patch on the seam of your panties. Metal-plated digits unexpectedly grazed the heated flesh of your shoulder, causing a shiver to ripple through you.

Bucky leaned back slightly, still keeping his close proximity to you, but needing to see your expression. "This still okay?" he asked, eyes flicking between yours, searching for any indication that you wanted to stop.

You nodded frantically. "Yeah. Please, keep going."

The smirk that graced his lips could only be described as downright smug. He moved your spaghetti strap over your shoulder, dragging it down your arm achingly slow. His mouth followed directly after, lips skimming over your collarbone.

All at once, he began nipping at the protruding bone as his fingers on your clit added more pressure. You moaned loudly—a long, elated noise that made him pause his ministrations.

The realization of how desperate it sounded hit like a force, and you could hear your heartbeat thudding in your ears, louder than before. "Oh gosh," you whispered, shame flooding your face. You raised your arm, concealing the embarrassment etched into your features.

"Ah-ah, don't hide from me, baby," he gently scolded as he pried your arm away. Bringing your wrist to his lips, he pressed them to your fluttering pulse. "Why're you all shy on me now?"

You didn't answer, your eyes sealed shut as the pang of humiliation echoed in your skull.

"What're you doin'?" he asked, planting another kiss on your palm.

"If I squeeze my eyes as tightly as humanly possible, I think I might disappear."

He chuckled, and even with your eyes closed, you knew he was showing off the creases beside his eyes. "No, you can't disappear on me this time. Y'know how long I've been waitin' to hear that?"

Cracking open your eye, you peeked up at him. "Why'd you stop then?"

"'Cause now 'm so hard, 's painful," he confessed, a little breathy. "I would fuck you 'til the ache went away, but 'm not done playin' with you."

You shivered, completely turned on by this bold version of him. If you were wet before, now you were soaked from his dirty mouth alone.

"You gonna lemme keep goin'?" he asked.

Nodding, you silently gave him permission. His hand traveled back between your thighs, running his fingers up the front of your underwear. Your hips jerked as his began rubbing in slow, captivating circles again.

His metal fingers grazed the side of your neck, curling around the nape as he pulled you closer. Leaning forward, his lips brushed the corner of your mouth, then the other. He pulled back a hair, studying your face. "Can I kiss you, baby?"

"Please do," you said, as if it were the most obvious answer.

His mouth was on yours in a second, your bottom lip getting caught between his. You sighed against his mouth, your hand coming up to cup his jaw and draw him even closer. The kiss was a lazy analysis of one another's mouths at first. Each slow graze of his lips elicited sparks coursing through your veins, like tiny fireworks exploding beneath your skin.

The urgency to fully taste you prompted him to force your chin up, his tongue delving into your mouth. He moaned against your mouth, eyebrows twitching as he found your tongue. Tongues swirled, teeth clashed, and your hold tightened on him. You felt light-headed from the kiss, breathing hard into his mouth.

The fingers on your clit picked up the pace as his lips began to move hastily against yours, as if he already couldn't get enough. You whined, your other hand finding his shoulder as your nails dug in. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, then pulled back.

His mouth met your neck again as you struggled to catch your breath, lips dragging lower and lower. Tongue darting out, he licked along the top of your tank top. He tugged on the material, exposing more of your skin until your tit spilled free. His non-human hand reached up, cupping the underside of your breast.

Heated lips closed around your nipple, pulling a whimper from you. You wiggled under his attention. The dual pleasure was making your head spin and your heart pound. His tongue licked around the sensitive bud, then flicked it before sucking it into his mouth. Gazing up at you, he softly rolled your nipple between his teeth. You sucked air through your teeth, hissing. He switched back to trailing kisses across your skin in deep devotion, leaving no space untouched.

"Have you thought 'bout this as much as I have?" he rasped against your flesh.

"Yes," you mewled shamelessly.

Inclining back, he retracted his hand with a cocky grin. "Show me."

"What?"

"Show me what you did when you thought 'bout it."

Momentarily shocked, you stared dumbly at him. He lightly pinched your thigh, grabbing your attention. "Come on, princess. Wanna hear all those pretty noises you made when you were all alone," he pressed. Scooting to the edge of the couch, he dropped to his knees before you. "Lemme help you."

Spreading your legs further apart, his hands—one icy and the other warm—drifted up your thighs. His thumbs hooked in the band of your underwear, yanking them towards him. The blush pink panties slid down your legs without much resistance. Tossing them aside, his hands snaked under your thighs, sliding you down the couch. He lifted the hem of your skirt, resting it across your stomach, revealing your bare pussy to the chilled air.

"Fuck." Bucky's tongue grazed his lower lip, ravenous. "She's so pretty."

Bending down, he kissed the inner part of your knee. "Put on a show f'me," he urged gently.

Your hands trembled lightly at your sides, nerves curling at the edges of your mind. You’d never had anyone witness something so personal before. But with a deep breath, you steadied yourself, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, being with him felt strangely comforting.

Your fingers met the skin of your thigh, tracing patterns before they moved closer to the place he couldn't keep his eyes off of. Two fingers pushed between your slick folds, gathering wetness as they skimmed through. They found your clit, mirroring the same pressure and pace as he did.

"Just like that. Nice 'n slow," he instructed. "You're doin' so good f'me, baby."

Exhaling roughly, your mouth opened in a soft 'o' as your fingers swirled around the swollen bud. Your eyes stayed locked on him, and the way he was gazing up at you, his chin gently propped on your knee with a longing in his eyes, nearly made you come on the spot.

"Spread her f'me," he whispered gravelly.

Doing as you were told, you straightened your fingers, delicately spreading the lips of your cunt. With your fingers already damp with your arousal, they glistened right alongside your pussy in this lighting. His eyes darkened, his lip getting caught between his teeth as he diligently watched you.

Your fingers dipped, sliding down the length of your pussy, and toying with your entrance. Two fingers slipped right in from how soaked you were. The noise your cunt made in response had you and Bucky groaning in unison. Your fingers sped up, caressing and curling against your plushy walls. Your free hand lifted, covering your breast and massaging it.

"Do you like to watch, Bucky?" You don't know where your boldness came from. Maybe it was being in control of your own body, or the way he looked at you like you hung the stars. Either way, the question hung between you.

"Yeah, fuck," he murmured pathetically. "Yeah, I like to watch."

The obscene sounds of your fingers going in and out of your already weeping pussy filled the air, along with the moans you just couldn't hold back.

"Listen to her talk to me," he growled, his eyelids drooping as he followed the sight of your disappearing fingers. "She sounds so fuckin' good."

Eventually, his hand snatched your wrist, and he brought the saturated pair to his lips. They enveloped your fingers, sucking them clean. He hummed at the contact of your juices on his tongue, eyelashes fluttering. He released them with a soft smack of his lips.

"Tastes so fuckin' good," he said, licking the tips of his fingers, like he just consumed his favorite meal. "Think I need more."

His hands closed around the back of your knees, pulling you until only a portion of your ass remained on the sofa. Scooping your legs up, he settled them over his shoulders, immediately diving in. His tongue flattened, licking a long stripe up your center. You gasped, your fingers carding through his hair and holding firm.

Tongue flicking over your clit, he leaned down and tenderly kissed it. He pressed his face flush with your cunt, sucking the bud hard before descending upon your clenching hole. The tip of his tongue traced around your entrance until it plunged deep into your cunt.

He pushed his face further into you, practically submerging himself in you. As he devoured you, fucking you with his tongue, his nose steadily nudged your clit. Your grip on his dark strands tightened, your thighs squeezing tighter around his head. His eyes flicked up—a predator feasting on its prey.

"Yeah, fuckin' drown me, baby," he hummed against you, patting your thigh.

Then, that same hand vanished beneath you as his mouth returned to your clit. Two fingers pushed into your pussy without warning as he slurped on your swollen bud. You squirmed above him, your hips wiggling this way and that. Metal-plated fingers reached around your thigh, his palm flattening over your lower stomach.

"I know, I know. You're close, aren't ya? Just stay still, sweet girl," he ordered gently, tapping his fingers over your belly button.

His flesh fingers curled as his tongue spiraled, leaving you a whimpering mess. The tension in your gut coiled. Your free hand bent around the edge of the couch as your hips canted. Vision flaring white, the coil snapped. You came with a cry of his name, gasping as your cunt fluttered around his thick fingers. With trembling thighs and your eyes flashing open, you let the climax wash over you.

Prolonging your orgasm, he guided you through it. He softened his ministrations to a stop when you went limp above him. He planted a lingering kiss on your inner thigh, then removed your legs from his shoulders. They flopped against the floor, boneless.

"You don't realize how beautiful you are, do you?" he asked, awestruck. "Did you know your eyes get even brighter when you cum? I didn't know that was even possible."

Attempting to get you to meet his eyes again, he shook your leg. "You still with me, princess."

You kept your gaze to the ceiling, tracing the wood panels with your vision as you slowed your breathing. "I think I went to heaven," you panted, dazed.

Bucky chuckled, rising to his full height. Interrupting your view, he hovered over you, stabilizing himself against the back of the couch. His biceps bulged on either side of his head, muscles locking as he gazed down at your blissed-out expression.

"Yup, I bartered with the angels to bring you back," he teased.

A small grin tugged at your lips, eyes glinting. "And? What did it take to bring me back?"

"Everythin'," he whispered. "But it was so fuckin' worth it."

Your breath caught, butterflies erupting in your stomach that had nothing to do with the aftereffects of your climax. He leaned down lower, snaking his arm under the curve of your spine, and lifted you.

"You gonna lemme fuck you now, baby?" he questioned carefully, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist.

Resting your arms on his shoulders, your lips brushed his, voice coming out in a sultry purr. "Fuck me, Bucky. I need it."

Eager lips pressed against his, prompting him to let out an animalistic growl. He moved, blindly feeling around his living room. As your lips parted, your teeth sank into his bottom lip, lightly tugging on it. His knee bumped the corner of the couch, stumbling forward. Luckily, his instincts kicked in. Metal arm locking, he caught himself against the wall before it caused you any harm.

You giggled into his mouth, "Careful, pretty boy."

"Are you tryin' to kill me and get yourself killed in the process?" he scoffed, righting himself before continuing the short journey to his bedroom.

"What?" you said, feigning innocence. "You said you wanted me to bite you."

"You're lucky you're cute."

He tossed you onto the bed, the mattress squeaking subtly. The softness of the blankets briefly swallowed you before you propped yourself up on your elbows. Reaching behind his back, Bucky tugged at the collar of his shirt until it was off.

This time, when you looked at his muscles, you didn't feel any guilt. Openly, you traced the lines of his battle-worn body. Every scar that the years in the Air Force granted him, or the cuts that he received from long shifts at the shop, was thoroughly admired by you.

"You're perfect," you praised.

As if he'd never heard such a compliment, he tilted his head in fondness. Then, his thumbs hooked into his sweats, yanking them down. As he pulled the cuffs from his feet, you watched his cock bob gently against his stomach.

"Holy fuck," you breathed, eyes wide and mouth agape.

He was thick. Huge. Your little exploration in the hallway as he changed didn't do him justice. You followed the veins along his cock that led to his angry, red tip. A bead of precum dripped from the slit of his dick.

Crawling to you, he settled over you. You were still staring as he positioned himself between your legs. Gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, he forced your gaze up.

"My eyes are up here, princess," he mocked lightly, then his tone softened. "I'll go slow, I promise. You're safe with me."

You nodded, but your mouth still felt desert-dry. "I have a confession to make."

"But 's not even Sunday," he jokingly replied.

"I wasn't looking at your arm earlier."

He hummed, amusement etching into his expression. "I also have a confession." His head dipped, mouth hovering beside your ear. "I knew."

Fingers curving around his cock, he pressed the head to your entrance, teasing it. You grasped his metal bicep, firmly planted by your head. You couldn't slow your breathing, your heartbeat galloping like a racehorse from nerves.

"Shh…" Bucky soothed. "Breathe with me. In 'n out. Yeah, that's perfect," he rambled as you matched his breathing.

The tip pushed through your folds, the thick head invading your pussy. The stretch was intense, stealing the air from your lungs. Even through his grunts of pleasure, he continued to guide you, talking you through the dull sting of his dick spreading you open.

"That's my good girl. Take it all," he groaned.

You whined brokenly as he bottomed out inside you; you'd never felt so full. Leaning back, he brushed a few damp strands out of your eyes. He pressed tender kisses to your slightly bruised nose—you were honestly so distracted by his presence that you hadn't thought about it since the accident. But he hadn't forgotten.

The attention he was giving your nose distracted you enough that by the time you had remembered the pain of him stretching you out, it had already faded. He pressed his forehead to yours, sighing in contentment.

With your pussy well-adjusted, he began rocking steadily into you. His metal hand found purchase on your hip as his other hand drifted up your arm that held the back of his neck. Securing your wrist, he drew it away, flattening your arm against the mattress. His hand glided up until he was intertwining your fingers with his. The intimacy of the gesture made it suddenly hard to swallow.

"I gotcha," he promised, squeezing your hand.

His hips picked up their pace, snapping up to meet yours. Setting a rhythmic pace, he gripped your hip with a more solid hold. Rapid breaths mingled in the space between you as the sound of skin slapping echoed around you.

The world around you fell away, and all you could see was him. He was invading your senses, leaving you completely connected to him. The worries of your personal life, everything that caused you pain, all dimmed in that moment. Because you were no longer letting those thoughts and feelings run your life.

Slamming into you, he groaned, his chin tipping back. "Baby, you feel so good. You're just perfect, aren't ya? Made just f'me."

You let out a loud, throaty moan as he hit that sweet spot deep inside you. The head of his cock bullied into your G-spot over and over until you were breathless. You arched into him, spine bowing.

Then, his hands slipped under you, lifting you. Your legs twisted as he adjusted you over top of him, straddling his thighs. Knees digging into the mattress, he thrusted up into you. Arms lifting to his shoulders, you held him. You moved with him, riding him at the pace he set. Your hips rolled, grinding against that spot that had you reeling.

A protective arm wrapped around the small of your back, fingers sprawled over your warm skin. His flesh palm rested over the back of your head as you buried your face in his shoulder. The next time he bucked up into you, your pussy clamped down hard around him. Like the force of a rising tide, you felt your climax ascend.

"'m right there," Bucky grunted. "I can feel her squeezin' me. That mean your close too, sweet girl?"

You nodded against him. "Come with me, please. I need it."

Moving in unison, the room filled with your combined sounds of pleasure. The wave came crashing down, your cunt pulsating around him. Your teeth punctured the skin of his shoulder as your second orgasm rippled through you. Hissing, his thrusts turned sloppy. Warmth spread through you, his release coating your walls as he spilled into you.

Slumping forward, your head rolling to the side. Breathing in tandem, his chest rose as yours sank. He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling your scent, and kissing the crown of your head.

You caught the teeth marks in his flesh, a flicker of concern overwhelming you. The emotion softened upon realizing you liked the sight of it. With a finger, you traced over each ridge.

"I know I said I'm not a biter," you slurred, still high on the experience. "But I have to say, it looks really good."

Bucky let out a gentle puff of air against your hair. "Oh yeah? I could get used to being marked up by you. As long as I can give you a matching one."

Lying you back on the bed, he moved over you and pressed his lips to your collarbone before sinking his teeth into the skin above it.

And though you knew there was not a soul around, you could have sworn your laugh carried for miles.

The sun appeared brighter this morning when you woke. You were drifting through Bucky's house with a pep in your step. The coffee was brewed, Alpine was fed, and you did it all while Bucky snored in the next room over.

But now with the sun sitting just above the treeline, everything felt dimmer than before. Frowning, you placed your phone on the kitchen counter. The white fluff ball, nudging at your hand, noticed your attitude change, as if she could smell it amongst the boldness of the coffee.

Your fingers carded through her fur, grounding yourself.

Warm arms enveloped you from behind, squeezing your midsection gingerly. "Mornin', princess."

"Morning," you parroted, but quieter.

Bucky stiffened behind you. "Hey, is everythin' alright?"

"I just got off the phone with my father."

"Oh," he muttered, turning you around so he could see your expression. "Judgin' by your face, 'm guessin' that didn't go well."

"No," you confirmed. "He said he was glad that I'm okay, but…" You trailed off, glancing at something over his shoulder. "He's not paying for the damages. Not unless I work for him. His wish for me to inherit his stupid company is finally coming true. I don't know why I even tried to resist it. He always wins anyway."

His brows knitted together in confusion, or maybe agitation. "Don't worry 'bout it," he said, framing your face with his massive hands. "I'll pay for it."

You scoffed, shaking him off. "No, I can't ask you to do that."

"You're not askin', 'm offerin'."

"No," you repeated more firmly. "I appreciate it, but I don't want that."

"Don't let him win," he muttered, eyes flicking between yours, searching.

"I'm trying not to," you insisted. "I guess I'll figure it out. I'll get a job, hopefully one I like, and I'll pay it off."

Bucky's lip lifted at the corner, giving you a look that could only mean trouble. "I know a place that's hirin'."

"Really?" You tilted your head, then it dawned on you what he meant. "No. Absolutely not. You were right, I don't know anything about cars. I can't work for you."

"I'll teach you," he said simply. "You don't gotta know everythin' right away. We can start slow. You can work at the front. Take calls. Schedule appointments. Take people's money…" His tone dipped into something teasing. "I know you won't have a problem with that one."

"Asshole," you chirped, slapping his chest. Then, your expression shifted into something warm. "I'll think about it."

"That's a yes," he murmured, as if he already knew.

"No, I said I'll think about it."

"Yeah, but your eyes said yes."

"You're ridiculous," you shot back, but you were grinning like an idiot.

He backed you into the counter, caging you in. "And you love it." Before you could even react, his lips were on yours, warm and inviting.

Five Months Later

The neon sign stood proudly outside Bucky's shop. It was a bright crimson that could be seen for miles, snagging just about anyone's attention. You suggested it. Because, of course, you did. You knew what customers liked, and you were right. The shop had an influx of people coming and going.

Your original suggestion was rejected. You wanted pink. He wanted blue. After bickering for half an hour, you both settled on red.

Sometimes he just had to stand there, leaning against his truck, taking it all in. The sign. The shop. His life…with you.

Eventually, he found his way to the front. His eyes scanned the poster hanging on the glass door, where the 'now hiring' sign had once lived. It read, 'Wrong Turn'—a foundation you were investing in. It was an organization specializing in drunk-driving awareness. Proud didn't even cover how he felt about it. About you, finding something that you were so passionate about. That you had poured your heart into.

Opening the door, the bell rang above him, announcing his arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue. He immediately heard the familiar sound of you singing. It was a little off-key, but unapologetically you.

Following the sound, he slipped into the garage, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He watched you silently, a warm smile gracing his lips. You were tightening a bolt on an engine with a pink—yes, pink—wrench. In fact, your entire toolbox and tools were pink.

You finally glanced up from your task, offering him a small wave with oil-slicked fingers. "Hi, handsome," you greeted. Grabbing the rag hanging from the vehicle, you wiped the grease from your fingers.

Closing the distance, his hands found your hips, pressing a kiss to your nose. "Hey, princess." He glanced down and frowned. "What're you wearin'?"

"A shirt."

"I see that. Why is it like that?" he asked, scanning the shirt that had his logo on the front of it…but in blush pink.

"They just came in today. Isn't it cute?"

"No. Nope. I didn't agree to this."

"Buck," you drawled, a lilt to your voice. "Sam is wearing one. I have one ready for Joaquin when he comes in for work tomorrow. I even have one set aside for Alpine."

"After the pink bow incident, 'm not lettin' you put anythin' on her."

"She loved it, and she looked adorable in it. Just admit it," you muttered, poking him in the ribs.

She really did look cute in it, but he wasn't about to tell you that.

Sam stepped in then, wearing his new pink shirt, and the moment his eyes fell on the two of you, he started backing up. "Wilson, get your ass back in 'ere," Bucky called. Sam froze mid-step, turning with a guilty look on his face.

"Were you in on this?" Bucky inquired, pointing at your shirt.

"Will you dock my pay if I say yes?" Sam asked tentatively.

Bucky rubbed his forehead, groaning. "'m gettin' run out of my own shop."

"You love it," you cooed, and he only glared in return. You tried for a different approach, offering him a full, toothy smile as your eyelashes fluttered. "You love me?"

"You're lucky I love you," he corrected. "Alright, the shirts can stay."

Sam’s jaw dropped. “Wait, that’s all it took? All she had to do was bat her lashes, and you're just fine? I’ve been trying to get you to approve new uniforms for years.”

Bucky shot him a look. “Don’t push it.”

You just beamed, triumphant. "Thanks, baby," you cheered, pushing up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, smearing some of your glittery lip gloss on his skin.

But he didn't mind. Because for the last five months, he was happy. Content. And it was all because he'd fallen for the rich girl, who strutted into his shop with pink heels and a smile. The one who turned his world upside down with one glimpse of those bright eyes. The one who caused him to prefer chaos to his normal quiet.

And he thanked the universe every day for dropping you into his lap.

me posting this because holy shit...this took a lot out of me:

💌 general taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @wherewinterblooms @wildflowersandvibranium @phoenix-in-writing @overwintering-soldier @wint3rbarnes @paankhaleyaaar @mysteriousmysticc @sergeantsebastian @canyon-moon-carly @ornateglass @sheriff-bodecker

💌 bucky taglist: @miraclediviner @stanmarvelous @metal-armed-muse @buckytakethewheel @bucksbby @wickedfun9 @galactict3a @buckyslove1917 @spo0ky-exe @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @phantom-wolf-girl @mariamorales1998 @cryinggarbagebag @spring-soldier @buckysbbydoll @erina00

[aquaticmercy]

Get a Hobby

Summary : Bucky’s bored and he needs a hobby. He never expected to find it in you, Val’s personal pilates instructor.

Pairing : New Avengers!Bucky Barnes x Pilates Instructor!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Tower fic!!! Fluff. Very suggestive. Bucky yearns in this one. Cursing. Your activities traumatized Mel. Set after Thunderbolts* (Let me know if I missed anything!)

Word count : 3.6k

Note : As you probably know by now, I love a pining Bucky. enjoy!

Keeping Bucky Barnes in the tower was expensive.

Not in the way most people assumed, definitely not because of tactical errors or catastrophic damage to equipment.

No, he was precise in the field. He didn’t even shoot a bullet if he could handle it with his fists. 

It was everything in between that cost Val, for lack of a better word, a shit ton of money. 

Because Bucky got bored easily. He simply didn’t know how to be still.

See, he could stand motionless for hours if he had to, especially on overwatch, in the shadows, waiting for a signal, but that kind of focus had a purpose and direction.

The downtime between missions didn’t. It was just tired, empty space stretching out in front of him with nothing to anchor to.

And Bucky, left alone with too much time and nowhere to put it, burned through things. The super soldier serum didn’t help, either.

At first, he’d spend hours in the shooting range, shooting into targets with mechanical precision until the air smelled like metal and heat and smoke.

He’d go down there and run drills, but it wasn’t long until it turned into repetition for the sake of filling time.

He was emptying magazine after magazine.

The sharp crack of gunfire echoing off concrete until the sound blurred into white noise with recoil.

He didn’t miss, but that wasn’t the point. He just… kept going.

Empty.

Reload.

Fire.

Again.

Again.

Again.

It got to a point where the range officers started filing reports because the ammo stock was depleting faster than any active rotation justified.

Even Mel had to increase ammunition orders so often that procurement started flagging it.

Then there was the gym.

With him, boxing gloves barely last.

He didn’t train like John did. Even Alexei was appalled by his habit. Bucky had no timed rounds, no structured sets. He just hit until the boredom in his chest loosened just enough to breathe around. Or until the stitching gave out.

Whichever came first.

It wasn’t long till the leather split under impact and the padding warped. After a couple uses, the Velcro would tear loose from repeated, careless yanks.

He’d go through three pairs a month like it was normal. Sometimes four.

There was a week where one didn’t even last five days.

The heavy bags didn’t fare much better.

They weren’t meant for someone who didn’t pace themselves, who didn’t stop when their knuckles started to ache or his shoulders burned.

Bucky didn’t have those problems. So he didn’t stop.

He hit until the chain creaked under the strain. Until the bag swung unevenly. Until seams stretched and finally gave in to a dull, ugly tear that spilled filling across the floor like a gutted animal. 

Mel had to replace it four times in a single quarter.

—

When Val noticed, it wasn’t because she had observed this with her own two eyes. She noticed when she looked at her bank account. 

She would be billed with increasing orders of ammunition with no operational justification. Then, she noticed that equipment replacement requests start stacking faster than they should.

Surprise, surprise, when she looked into it, the maintenance logs flagged with the same name, over and over again: Barnes broke this, Barnes went through that. 

Barnes, Barnes, Barnes.

“Read a book,” she told him one afternoon, not even looking up from her desk as Bucky leaned against the wall like a permanent fixture. He had gone up there to put in yet another order of dumbbells. Unfortunately, both his vibranium and human arms were getting good at accidentally bending perfectly good steel. “Get a hobby. Crochet, knit, or get a punch needle kit, I don't care. At least learn something useful.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

She sighed, pen pausing mid-signature.

“Download a dating app, for god's sake,” she added dryly. “At least make yourself someone else’s problem for a few hours.”

Bucky frowned, “No.”

Val looked up slowly. “…No?”

“You can’t tell me what to do.” There was no attitude in the way he said it. It was just a flat, immovable statement, a reminder that Val was in no position to make any demands.

From the side of the room, Mel made a small, choking sound that might’ve been a laugh.

Val ignored her.

“Then find something,” she said, annoyed now. “Because if I have to approve another ammunition order this week, I will start assigning you tasks purely out of spite.”

Bucky only shrugged.

—

Enter you: Val’s personal Pilates instructor.

You had been her private instructor for a little over three years now. You used to train at her place uptown, but you just moved to midtown. Val offered to do the classes here instead (since she was mostly at the tower anyways), so… now here you were.

Avengers gym was definitely bigger than Val’s home gym.

It felt far more polished, floor-to-ceiling windows, equipment that looked more expensive than most people’s yearly rent. It didn’t feel like a place people worked out so much as a place people trained to survive.

You stood near one of the mats, rolling your shoulders back, easing into a stretch while you waited. Val was late, which wasn’t unusual, but this was your first time coming here, and you couldn’t help the extra awareness pulling on your mind.

You bent forward, palms flat to the mat, breathing into the stretch.

“Don’t remember anyone requesting a personal trainer.”

The voice came from behind you— and… oh. 

You straightened, just a little slower than necessary.

“I’m not a personal trainer,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Pilates instructor.”

He stood a few feet away, like he’d been there longer than you realized. His hand loose at his sides, watching, but not in an uncomfortable way. He was just being observant.

As if something clicked into place, he stepped forward slightly and offered his human arm, “Bucky.”

You hugged out a small laugh as you shook his hand. “I figured.”

That earned you a sweet smile, something you didn’t really expect from an ex-brainwashed assassin “Yeah?”

“You have a… reputation,” you said lightly.

“Do you think it’s a good one?”

You tilted your head, considering him in a way that was just teasing enough. “I haven’t decided yet.”

He nodded once, like he respected the answer.

You decided the least you could do was give him your name.

He repeated it, like he was testing how it tasted on his tongue. “Pretty name.”

“Thanks,” you said, looking down.

He gestured toward the mat. “So what, you just… stretch people into shape?”

You raised a brow. “That’s a gross oversimplification of my life’s work.”

“Mm.” He folded his arms loosely. “Convince me.”

“Oh, I don’t need to,” you shot back. “Val already pays me.”

He huffed in amusement. “Fair point.”

You shifted your stance, crossing your arms without really thinking about it. 

A small beat of silence settled before…

“Could probably use it,” he added, almost offhand.

You blinked. “Pilates?”

He shrugged. “It probably helps with… what, control?”

“Control,” you confirmed, "strength, alignment…”

“Yeah,” he cut in lightly, but not rudely. “Could be useful.”

You looked at him, at the tension sitting on his shoulders, the way he held himself like he was always half-ready for threats… or pleasant surprises.

Before you could respond, the door opened.

Val walked in, eyes scanning between the two of you, “I see you’ve met.”

You stepped back just enough to reset the space, professional again. “Just introducing ourselves.”

Bucky nodded once, easy, like nothing had happened at all. “I’ll see you around.”

You nodded in response, biting your lower lip to stop anything from spilling out. 

Val clapped her hands once. “Alright, let’s not waste time.”

—

Mel had come down to the gym thirty minutes after your lesson ended with a tablet in hand, already bracing herself for her weekly inventory.

She had a system: clipboard on her left arm, gel pen on her right hand, headphones in. It was easier that way to ignore whatever chaos the enhanced individuals of the tower decided to unleash on perfectly good equipment. It kept her sane. More importantly, it kept her employed.

So when she stepped into the gym, she was already bracing herself for damage: torn seams, bent, metal. Maybe another report with Barnes stamped all over it.

Surprisingly… everything seemed suspiciously intact. 

She frowned, glancing around as she made her way past the mats you’d been using earlier. Squeaky clean. Where Bucky had been? Not even a single scratch.

“No way….”

Was today her lucky day? Did she not have to order twenty new things that would last six days?

Oh, did she celebrate too soon?

Because that was when she heard a sound, even through her headphones.

It was soft at first, almost like a muffled whine.

Mel froze.

Then, another sound followed, a bit louder this time. It was rhythmic, like a quick series of… claps?

She slowly lowered her clipboard. “What?”

But there it was again, a faint series of plap, plap, plap, echoing just enough off the tile to carry.

It was coming from the locker room.

Mel turned her head, eyes narrowing, like maybe if she looked at it differently the situation would change. It did not. In fact, it got worse.

Because now there were voices.

It was low and overlapping. It wasn’t clear, but unmistakably not gym-related.

She heard a breathy gasp slip through, and she recognised that voice as yours.

She stepped a little closer. Were you in trouble? Did you need help? 

Then, she heard another voice. That was when she stopped. She was close enough now to make out the words.

“You always fuck on the first date, dirty girl?” It was unmistakably Bucky’s voice. She had heard it too many times during briefings. 

Something, probably a motion, cut him off. Then she heard a small startled sound, half laugh, half a lewd curse.

Mel’s eyes widened. “Oh. My. God.”

She heard thud, a deeper breath. Something scraped against the tile (probably the metal arm) as the now obvious sound of skin against skin picked up in pace.  

She heard your voice again, teasing even through the uneven rhythm of your breathing. “I thought—weren’t you… raised in the forties—?”

His response was lower this time, words blending into the, "What's your point, dollface?” He said, followed by a quiet, muffled protest from you that dissolved into a stifled moan, “Takin’ me so good, can’t even form proper sentences, huh?”

“M-my point is,” you managed to gasp out, “shouldn’t you—ah… be a gentleman— hmphhh!”

It sounded as if something had been stuffed in your mouth. 

That was the breaking point. Mel didn’t wait for more. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

She turned on her heel so fast her clipboard nearly slipped, already marching back toward the door like she hadn’t heard a single thing.

Inventory could wait.

Whatever that was? Not her department.

—

Mel thought it was a one night stand.

She realised she was very wrong sometime around week three.

At first, she’d told herself it was just two adults sneaking around. She understood the appeal, it was just so unfortunate that it happened in a building that really should have invested in better soundproofing. 

Besides, from what she saw of you two, it seemed… sweet. At the very least, it was nice to see Bucky smile every time you were around, even when he was just there to patiently wait for Val’s lessons to be finished so he could rearrange your insides. 

By week eight, she had the schedule down to a tee.

If your slot ran from two to three-thirty, Mel simply did not under any circumstances step foot near the locker rooms until at least four-thirty. She valued her sanity. And her ability to make eye contact during staff briefings.

But there was a bright side to needing to bleach her ears weekly.

The ammo orders dropped almost in an instant.

Sure, he still trained, but the frantic, endless burn-through had eased into a leisurely pace. Intentional. Even range officers had stopped filing passive-aggressive reports.

The gym equipment stayed miraculously intact.

There were less split seams and even lesser warped frames. Heavy bags weren’t spilling their insides like crime scenes waiting to happen anymore. Mel hadn’t had to file a replacement request with his name on it in weeks, and that alone felt suspicious enough to warrant investigation.

She didn’t tell Val, though. The last thing she wanted was for her boss to fire you. 

Because whatever this arrangement was, it had somehow done what months of structure, orders, and discipline hadn’t: Barnes wasn’t breaking things anymore.

He wasn’t burning through resources like he was trying to outrun his own mind.

He’d inadvertently taken Val’s advice and found a hobby. A very specific one.

And Mel, for her own peace of mind, decided she would take that as a win.

Still, she noticed that you two weren’t exactly subtle. You’d leave looking composed, professional, like nothing had happened… except for the slight delay before you stepped out. She’d noticed the way your hair was sometimes not quite how it had been tied before. She watched how Bucky would follow ten minutes later, like something under his skin had finally settled.

It wasn’t Mel’s business. And yet…

“Again?” she muttered one afternoon, pausing mid-step just outside the gym doors as a very familiar muffled thump echoed faintly from down the hall.

She closed her eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Every week,” she whispered to herself. “Every single week. I deserve a raise.”

Inside, Bucky laughed, and it was followed by your voice, flirtatious in a way that made Mel immediately turn around.

You both were louder today. 

Nope.

Nope, nope, nope.

She pivoted on her heel and walked straight back the way she came.

—

But sometimes it was actually quite… sweet.

Sometimes Mel walked in expecting the same sinful noises coming from behind a blissful door, and instead found you still there, out in the open.

Mel paused in her steps.

That was weird. You rarely stayed out here after Val’s lessons. Except now, apparently, you did.

She slowed down, clipboard tucked against her side, not meaning to eavesdrop, but then she noticed that Bucky was sitting down on a mat. 

“Relax your shoulders,” you said gently.

Oh. Were you helping him stretch?

“I am relaxed,” Bucky replied stubbornly.

Mel leaned ever so slightly around the corner.

You stood behind him, guiding his human arm back to flex. Your fingers pressed lightly along his shoulder, coaxing instead of commanding.

“James,” you said, and Mel nearly choked because no one called him that, “you’re about as relaxed as a brick.”

“I was on a mission six hours ago,” he countered, but there was no bite in it. “Cut me some slack, sweetheart.”

“You’ve had six hours to stop brooding about it, old man,” you teased. 

“I don’t brood.”

“Sure.” You chuckled, unconvinced, adjusting his posture again. “You just sit in corners and stare into the distance like a tragic war relic.”

Bucky managed to shake his head with a grin. “I am a tragic war relic.”

Mel had to physically bite the inside of her cheek to stop a laugh.

He huffed, but he didn’t pull away when you guided his arm a little further, your touch careful when his expression flickered.

“Easy,” you said, almost reverent now. “I’ve got you.”

Bucky glanced back at you, just slightly. “You always this bossy with your clients?”

“Only the difficult ones.”

“Mm.” His mouth curved up, just barely. “So I’m a problem now?”

You tilted your head sweetly. “You’re my problem.”

Mel looked away for a second, staring very intently at the clipboard like she hadn’t just witnessed that adorable little exchange.

When she glanced back, you were helping him to his feet, fingers on his wrist. He didn’t let you let go right away.

“Better?” you asked.

“Yeah,” He rolled his human shoulder once, testing it. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t the word that caught Mel off guard. It was how he said it— like you painted the sky blue just for him. 

You breathed out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding, like you heard it too. “Anytime.”

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

That was when Mel cleared her throat loudly on purpose as she stepped fully into the room.

Both of you shifted apart, almost looking guilty the second you noticed someone else was there. 

“Inventory,” she announced to no one in particular, already walking past like she hadn’t just interrupted a moment.

You smiled politely. Bucky nodded once.

Mel made it halfway across the gym before shaking her head under her breath.

“I can’t believe this,” she said to herself, making sure you both were out of earshot.

Somehow, against all logic, what started as just blowing off steam had clearly turned into affection. 

As cute as it was, that was way more inconvenient for her scheduling.

Other times, though, when either you or Bucky weren’t in the mood (which was rare), Mel would catch conversations that were somehow more intimate. 

He’d talk in fragments about missions, and you’d meet him there without pushing. “You did what you had to,” you’d say gently, and the loaded silence that followed always felt… lighter.

On different days, it was the complete opposite. Your laughter would slip through the door. “I have this client,” you joked once, “who thinks being late means he can pay half the price.”

“I could take care of him,” Bucky offered dryly, without a second thought 

“No thanks,” Mel heard you laugh reassuringly, “I can handle one stubborn client.” You paused for a second, before dipping your voice into teasing territory. “I’ve already got one stubborn super soldier to deal with.”

Ugh. Romance, Mel would think. But even she had started rooting for the two of you, even if only so you could start having loud sex and heart to hearts in his bedroom instead of a common team space. 

—

The week after that, Mel had come down for inventory, expecting an uneventful day for once.

Instead, she found Bucky standing by the window like someone had just told him the world was ending.

He was just standing there, staring out with his in his pockets, shoulders a little slouched, like all the shared edges he usually carried had been sanded down.

Mel stopped to stand next to him, wondering what he saw in the skyline that was so interesting. She had concluded: nothing. He was just missing you.

“I heard Val’s not doing Pilates today,” she said, as casually as she could manage.

Bucky jumped a little like she’d pulled him out of a daydream.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but at her. “She’s, um… she’s got the day off. She’s family.”

Mel blinked at him as a slow smile started to creep up.

Oh.

Oh, this was bad.

He was down bad. 

“You know,” she said, tapping idly at her clipboard, “you could just ask her out.”

He frowned slightly, like the suggestion didn’t quite compute. “What?”

“You know, on a date,” Mel clarified. She had to remind herself that she was a very simple concept to a very stubborn man. “You ask, she says yes, you go somewhere that is not this building and you can finally see her outside of Val’s classes. Revolutionary concept.”

Bucky shifted, clearly uncomfortable now. “We… already spend time together.”

Mel looked up at him flatly. “Locker room encounters don’t count.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

And there it was… the realization.

It was as if his heart dropped. Best started creeping up his neck, flushing across his cheeks, ears going bright red as he suddenly found the floor deeply interesting.

Bucky dragged a hand over his face. “Okay, I—”

“You didn’t think I knew?” she interrupted, not even trying to hide her amusement now.

He groaned quietly, turning away like if he just faced the window hard enough he could phase through it. “I figured someone would eventually—”

“Eventually?” Mel snorted. “Barnes, I’ve been scheduling my entire inventory checks around not walking into the locker room at the wrong time.”

He made a strangled noise that might’ve been embarrassment, but it was definitely not regret.

“Right,” he whispered.

He hesitated for a second, wondering how much of this was safe with Mel.

“I’ve been wanting to take her to a cafe down the street,” he finally admitted, still not looking at her. “For a while now.”

Oh?

Mel turned fully toward him, her eyes shifting from mischief to sympathy.

“Then do it,” she said simply.

He glanced back at her, a little uncertain. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” she nodded encouragingly. “Ask her properly. I’ll help you! I know the best florist in Manhattan— We’ll even use the company card.”

That managed to pull a small, almost shy smile out of him. It was so brief she almost missed it.

“Yeah,” he said again, shyer this time. “Yeah, that’d be… that’d be great.”

Mel went back to her clipboard, giving him a second to breathe, to process, to exist in whatever strange, new emotional territory he’d found himself in.

After a moment, she added, “I’m really glad you found a hobby.”

Bucky huffed, shaking his head, but there was no edge to it. “Me too.”

But even as he said it, it was clear as day that this wasn’t just a hobby.

This wasn’t something he’d burn through or break or walk away from easily. This was something he truly, deeply wanted.

Finally, Mel admitted it to herself: you two were so ridiculously, painfully adorable it made her want to scream.

And when she found her person, she hoped they looked at her the way Bucky Barnes looked at you.

—end.

[superbassbuck]

smooth as tennessee whiskey

pairing: dad's bestfriend!cowboy!stucky x f!reader

warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, angst, fluff, arguments, violence, jealousy, alcohol, one-sided enemies to lovers (grumpy!bucky), age gap, rough and mean sex, oral m!receiving, hair pulling, stucky homoeroticism, cucking, hair pulling, breeding kink, dirty talk (trickles into taboo undertones, you've been warned.) pet names: "baby doll, sweetheart, buttercup, darlin'"

word count: 20k masterlist

a/n: reads similar to my farmer!stucky fic. and just like farmer!stucky, it kind of ends a little dark, so be warned.

synopsis: Eager to travel the world after college, your father decides to step in and choose the countryside as your reluctant first destination. He's concerned for your safety, so he arranges two very close friends to watch over you as you set out on your new journey.

Rogers and Barnes,

How are you two doing? It’s been a long time since we last saw each other. Don’t even bother asking how things are over here in the city. I’m surrounded by people younger than me, dressed in suits and ties, commanding me around. Can you imagine how insulting that is for us men nearing forty? Hell, I miss sitting in the front yard of the old house, jamming on our guitars and banjos. I miss that connection. You can’t find anything like that in the city.

Anyway, let me get to the point. You remember my daughter, right? It’s been years since you folks saw her. Since she graduated college, she’s dying to ‘travel the world’ before falling into the hands of corporate life like her old man. She’s growing up too fast, I’ll tell ya.

She came up to me one day and said, “Dad, I wanna travel the world. I wanna go to Europe!” You can imagine the smile on my face. I told her, “Well, if you wanna start traveling, how about you play it safe and start in the States? The countryside, for example. I know a place you can stay. You remember Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky?” She just scrunched her nose, shook her head, and said, “Nope!”

I know this is a little last minute, but the girl started packing her bags and hopped on a flight before I could give her the full rundown or even ask for your permission. Be careful when you have kids of your own—especially daughters.

I gave her your guys’ address, and she said she’ll be showing up at your front door this weekend. I tried to stop her, but once she starts running, it’s impossible to catch up. Especially when you’re getting older each day. I’m sure you two understand.

I worry about her, and I trust you two with my life. I ask that you folks give her the experience we had when we were younger and carefree.

Show her the life I’m missing out on by being stuck here.

Thanks, guys.

Take care of my little girl.

Bucky scoffed at the letter, gripping it tightly in his calloused, dirty hands. “Are you kiddin’ me?”

Steve entered through the front door, kicking off his heavy leather boots and pulling off his gloves. “What is it, Buck?” he huffed, nodding to the piece of paper. “What’s that in your hand?”

Bucky didn’t glance up. He took a sip of his beer and held the letter over his shoulder.

“You remember Crazy Clyde?” Bucky said with a satisfied exhale. “He sent us a letter—askin’ us to look over his daughter.”

Steve furrowed his brows. He hadn’t heard that name in a long time, much less anything recent about his daughter. “Crazy Clyde?”

The funny part was, Clyde wasn’t even your father’s real name. It was a nickname given to him back when he was growing up in the country alongside Steve and Bucky. The name spoke for itself—he was a shit talker who ran his mouth across half the damn town. It was even worse when he was drunk. “Clyde” only came after because it rang well together, and country folks loved stringing words together, especially when it came to insults.

Steve grabbed the letter, removing his cowboy hat and setting it on the table. His blue eyes raked over the words, his brows pinching together more and more until he reached the very bottom.

“Hell,” he breathed. “When did you get this?”

“Just got it in the mail today,” Bucky explained.

“Christ,” Steve shook his head, rereading the letter as if the ink might change. “Those damn mail carriers. Always takes long as shit.”

Both men wore unpleasant looks on their worn and aged faces. Their day had been tiresome, leaving their muscles aching for any form of relief. Now here they were, standing in a home that was in absolutely no position to be hospitable to a girl they hadn’t seen in over a decade—the daughter of an old friend they hadn’t spoken to in months.

“‘A little last minute,’” Bucky repeated the words on the letter with a bitter scoff, taking another sip of his cold beer. “Talk about an understatement.”

“Buck,” Steve finally set the paper down, hovering over his seated friend. “Crazy Clyde said his daughter would be droppin’ in this weekend.” He gulped, staring his friend dead in the eye as they reached a silent, mutual realization.

“Today is—”

“—Saturday,” Bucky finished.

For a minute, silence took up their space. They looked around their home, taking in the state of it; the couch barely standing on its wooden support beams, the beer and juice stains circling the dining table, and their dirty boots and gloves sprawled across the entrance. To top it all off, they had a mounted deer head hung on the wall that would likely send any city girl running home in tears.

“Hell,” Steve breathed, looking around the room in defeat. “Maybe she’ll come by tomorrow.”

“Either way,” Bucky interrupted, running a tired hand down his face. “We don’t have the time, the energy, or the livin’ space to just… let someone stay with us.”

Steve let out a heavy, frustrated sigh, the sound vibrating deep in his broad chest. He looked at the cramped quarters, then back at Bucky’s exhausted expression, and finally gave a sharp, reluctant nod in agreement.

“Alright,” Steve huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “But let’s say… she actually shows up on our doorstep. What do we even say to her?”

Bucky leaned back, his chair creaking as he folded his arms over his chest, staring up at his best friend. “Then we tell her, ‘Sorry, kid. Your daddy gave us late notice and we aren’t fit to babysit while you ‘explore’ the countryside. How about you try Italy instead?’”

“That’s cold, Buck.”

“No,” Bucky cut him off, slamming his beer down on the table and standing up. “You know what’s cold, Stevie? A man who hasn’t spoken to us in years and only sendin’ us a letter when he needs a favor. The city made him soft and spoiled. I bet he raised that daughter of his a spoiled brat, too.”

Steve rolled his eyes. If there was one thing he knew about Bucky, it was that his friend was fiercely protective—possessive, even—of the things he loved. Bucky didn’t do well with interlopers. For their entire lives, it had been just the two of them, and the whole town knew it.

When Sam Wilson first moved to town and Steve started befriending the kind fella, Bucky had been like a territorial cat—hissing and hair standing up every time Sam’s name was mentioned, or if the man was even breathing the same air as Steve.

It was only after months of knowing each other that Sam and Bucky finally became close.

But other than that, Bucky believed anyone outside their usual circle had bad intentions, like they were trying to tear the two of them apart. What they had was a rare, productive, and close partnership that always got the dirty work done—a friendship you’d never find anywhere else.

And with you coming into town—well, in Bucky’s mind, that was going to ruin everything.

Steve let out a deep sigh. “You know what? Fine,” he said with a shrug.

It was already Saturday—and the chances of you arriving ‘this weekend’ were already cutting it short. For all they knew, you’d chickened out and weren’t going to show up at all.

“If this lady shows up on our doorstep, we’ll just turn her down and send her the other way. Happy?”

The corner of Bucky’s lip twitched into the slightest smirk, though he tried to hide it. He just ran his tongue over his teeth beneath his lips and gave a sharp nod.

“Glad we can come to an agreement.”

Steve couldn’t help but grin at his friend’s reaction. He reached for his cowboy hat, settling it over his head and giving Bucky’s shoulder a firm pat. “Enough bickerin’ about ‘what-ifs.’ The horsies need feedin’.”

As Steve approached the front door, Bucky grabbed his own cowboy hat from the hanger and adjusted it over his head. Steve reached for the knob, and as he swung the door wide, ready to breathe in the cool country air, the sight on the other side made the air leave his lungs instead.

There you stood, your hand frozen mid-air, knuckles inches away from where the wood had been just a second ago.

You looked like a fever dream against the backdrop of the dusty porch and green fields. You were wearing designer clothes that probably cost more than their truck and shoes that were never meant for gravel, with a mountain of expensive luggage flanking your sides.

Steve stood there frozen, his large frame filling the doorway. His eyes raked over you with disbelief and something warm… like a sudden, simmering heat building in his groin at the sight of a beautiful woman—

“Who the hell are you?” Bucky’s gruff voice rang out from behind him.

Your face, bewildered at the sight of the two burly, older men in front of you, softened slightly as you smiled despite the rude introduction.

“Uncle Steve, Uncle Bucky,” you breathed, letting your hand fall to extend a polite greeting. “It’s nice to see you guys again!”

You forced a polite, cheerful tone, though the words leaving your lips were a lie and a half. Calling these two men ‘Uncle’—men you hadn’t seen since you could barely speak—felt entirely foreign on your lips.

When your father brought up the idea of you staying in the countryside, he spoke of Steve Rogers and James Barnes with such wonder in his eyes. You were pretty sure you’d never even seen him talk about your own mother the way he did those two.

He’d shown you photographs from their golden days, and they were ridiculously handsome. Your father told you James—who went by Bucky—was the local ladies’ man, and his looks certainly proved it. Steve had been smaller then, thinner, but still just as good looking.

That’s who you expected to see standing on this porch. Instead, you were face to face with walls of muscle hidden beneath dirty denim, heavy boots, and cowboy hats. They were older—much older than the two boys in the photos.

They both wore thick facial hair now. Steve’s was dense, with blonde hair curling at the nape of his neck and blue eyes that looked visibly tired and stern. Bucky had salt and pepper peeking through his stubble. His hair was shorter than Steve’s, and his eyes were much more guarded—agitated, almost.

Bucky’s arms were folded tightly over his chest as he glared down at you like you were some common solicitor.

You swallowed hard, averting your eyes from Bucky’s rude gaze to meet Steve’s—who looked far more approachable and kind, if only by comparison.

“You guys are my father’s friends, right? I hope you got the letter letting you know that I'm…”

Bucky nudged Steve hard in the arm, as if trying to signal him for something.

You frowned, your voice trailing off. “…staying here.”

Steve straightened up as if snapping out of a daydream, not sparing Bucky a single glance. “Uh, yes. Right,” he grunted. “We got the letter, darlin’.”

You beamed, a smile spreading across your features. “Great! Um,” you stood on your tiptoes, trying to peek over that wall of broad shoulders and into the house. “Where should I put my stuff—?”

But Bucky stepped forward, propping one arm high against the doorframe, leaning down at you as he blocked your view and path.

“Sorry, kid,” Bucky grunted, though he didn’t sound sorry at all.

“Your daddy gave us a late notice, and we aren’t fit to babysit while you ‘xplore the countryside.” He shot Steve a look, his next question coming out with a harsh bite. “How ‘bout you try Paris instead?”

Steve just grinned, glancing at Bucky before stepping aside to let you in anyway. “I thought the suggestion was Italy, Buck?”

You could’ve sworn you heard Bucky mutter a litany of curses under his breath, but Steve paid him no mind. He leaned down, grabbing two suitcases at a time as if they weighed nothing, and hauled them into the living room.

“Come on, Buck,” Steve called back. “Help the little lady out.”

Bucky stayed against the doorframe for a second longer. The height difference was dizzying. You had to tilt your head back, straining the column of your neck just to meet his eyes beneath the shadow of his cowboy hat.

He didn’t look like a family friend at all.

He looked like a stormy, grumpy, old raincloud.

Your dad was actually friends with this guy?

After a few more curses, Bucky finally pushed himself off the wall and he moved with a begrudging pace, stepping deep into your personal space to snatch up the remaining bags. He didn’t just take them—he jerked them off the porch as if they were an inconvenience.

As he straightened up, his broad chest nearly brushed your shoulder. The scent of cedar, tobacco, and old leather hit you all at once, making your nose scrunch up. He cut his eyes down at you, giving you one last glare that essentially promised your stay wouldn’t be a vacation.

“Thank you—” you started, the words small and tentative.

Bucky didn’t even let you finish. He let out a grumpy, unintelligible grunt, turned his back on you, and hauled the luggage inside.

Steve set the heavy suitcases onto the floorboards, sending dust particles dancing in the shafts of sunlight cutting through the windows.

He straightened up, but before he could even offer you a tour, Bucky’s hand clamped onto his shoulder.

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice was low and dangerous. “A word. Now.”

Steve didn’t look surprised—he just looked tired. He gave you a warm, apologetic look that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Make yourself at home, darlin’. Use the water filter if you’re thirsty. We’ll be back in a second.”

Bucky’s entire face contorted into a grimace at the ‘darlin’’ comment. It was a good thing the brim of his hat shielded most of his expression. He hooked his fingers into the back of Steve’s jacket and hauled him toward the narrow hallway. You watched as Steve practically got dragged around the corner, a startled little “Oof!” escaping his lips as Bucky pulled him out of view.

You were left standing in the middle of the living room, feeling unwelcome and entirely out of place.

When your father spoke of these two, he made them sound like friendly, caring men—which had only fueled your excitement for the beginnings of your trip.

But now, standing there and staring up at a mounted deer head in the center of the wall, you were starting to wonder if this was a massive mistake after all.

“Steve, are you shittin’ me right now?” Bucky hissed just around the corner. “Whatever happened to ‘if this lady shows up on our doorstep, we’ll just turn her down and send her the other way’?”

“Come on.” Steve rested both hands on his hips, giving his friend a scolding look. “The girl traveled all this way just to see us.”

“Not us,” Bucky corrected sharply. “She wanted to visit the town.”

Steve continued anyway, ignoring the bite in Bucky’s tone. “She’s only goin’ to be here for—what? A couple of days? We can at least manage that, Bucky.”

Bucky shook his head in disbelief, his hand coming up to grip the back of his neck. “I can't believe this. Where is she even going to sleep, Steve? On that couch? It can barely hold the two of us for a Sunday beer, let alone a princess for a week.”

“Your room,” Steve said flatly.

Bucky’s eyes practically bulged out of his head. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a vibrating growl. “My room? Are you outta’ your goddamn mind? Where the hell am I supposed to go?”

“You can sleep in mine. My bed is big enough for both of us, and far comfier than yours anyway.” Steve watched Bucky’s face carefully, a trace of a smirk playing on his lips. “Technically, I’m doin’ you a favor.”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue—to tell Steve exactly where he could shove his ‘favor’—but the words died in a frustrated, incoherent mumble.

A heavy silence fell between them. Then, they both leaned out slightly, glancing back toward the living room where you were still standing, looking small and out of place beneath that mounted deer head.

Steve’s gaze softened, his expression turning thoughtful.

“She’s a real beauty, ain’t she?” Steve murmured, his voice turning almost fond. “She’s all grown up now.”

It was a miracle you couldn’t feel the daggers Bucky was glaring into your back. His jaw clenched at Steve’s words, though he didn’t deny it entirely.

“She’s trouble, Steve. That’s what she is.”

“Buck,” Steve turned to him, his voice dropping slightly. “She’s just a girl with dreams bigger than her own head. Her father chose us, even if it’s been,” he blew raspberries, “years since he reached out properly. He was a close friend before he moved away. He did a lot for us—the least we can do is this.”

Bucky shifted his boots uncomfortably, his gaze lingering back on you for a moment longer than he intended. Through the gap in the hallway, he watched as you reached out a hesitant hand to touch the worn fabric of an old armchair, your eyes wide and glassy with wonder.

It was the same look he and Steve used to have back in the day—when the world felt big and full of promise, before the years had weathered them down.

You looked so innocent, completely untainted, and for some reason—especially knowing you were his close friend’s daughter—it was a look he wanted to protect. Though he would never admit it aloud.

He let out a long, heavy sigh, looking down at his boots before meeting Steve’s eyes again.

“Fine,” Bucky rasped, the word barely more than a growl. “But if she breaks somethin’—or if she starts actin’ like a spoiled little brat, I ain’t the one who’s gonna be gentle ‘bout it.”

“Hey,” Steve warned, though he couldn’t help the smile on his lips. “Play nice.”

“You want me to play nice?” Bucky huffed, already turning away. “I’ll show you how I play nice.”

He adjusted his hat, squared his shoulders, and stepped back into the living room. The floorboards creaked under his heavy boots, announcing his return.

“Alright, princess,” Bucky grumbled, his voice startling you as he marched toward your luggage. “Ain’t no five-star fancy hotel, and your tour guide ain’t like the young ones you see in the magazines.” He groaned, hoisting two of your suitcases. “Follow me. I’ll show you where you’re gonna be stayin’ before I change my mind.”

You blinked, not fully processing Bucky’s words until he was already halfway down the hall. He stopped, looking over his shoulder when he realized you weren’t following him.

“Well?” he huffed, his forehead wrinkling as he glared at you. “You comin’? Or do you need me to carry you, too?”

You quickly forced yourself off the couch, the floorboards creaking as your footsteps caught up to him. He let out a grunt of approval and turned back around, leading you toward the bedrooms. Your eyes couldn’t help but trace the broadness of Bucky’s shoulders from behind. He sauntered in front of you, his forearms flexed and straining with the weight of your suitcases.

Despite all his grumpiness, he was an undeniably strong, capable, and handsome man.

So, how could you not stare?

You nearly bumped into him when he came to an abrupt stop in front of a closed door. Setting one of the suitcases down, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Stepping inside, it didn’t take long to realize this was Bucky’s personal space.

The bed was covered in dark blue plaid sheets that had been left unmade. Drawers were cracked open with clothes and socks peeking out. The room carried a scent that was uniquely Bucky—heavy on the masculine notes of cedarwood and worn leather.

“Well, this is it,” Bucky announced, stepping inside and dropping your suitcases in the middle of the floor.

“Your room?” you frowned, following him and taking in the rustic surroundings. “My dad told me you guys had a big family house. I… I thought I’d be staying in a guest room or something. Not one of your own bedrooms…”

“Yeah, well—your old man’s memory’s all fucked up,” Bucky grumbled, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.

You bit your lower lip as guilt started to eat at you. You were a woman who prided herself on making good first impressions—a trait your father had drilled into you early. In the city, a good impression meant more connections, and connections meant moving up in the world. It was a survival tactic back home.

With that in mind, the way Bucky was deliberately avoiding your gaze killed you inside.

“I’m sorry—”

But before you could fully express your apology, Steve’s heavy footsteps sounded behind you. He propped an arm against the doorframe, grinning broadly.

“Don’t get too comfortable in here just yet,” Steve said, clearly trying to lighten the tense mood. “You wanted a taste of the countryside, right? Let’s go show you the rest of it.”

To say you wanted a taste of the countryside was a bit of a stretch—your father had only agreed to let you travel if you started here first. With Bucky’s gaze still digging daggers into your back, you felt hesitant, but Steve was so warm, his smile so genuine, that you were grateful for him extending a grapevine.

“You know what? Sure, that sounds nice,” you said, forcing a smile before turning back to Bucky. “Will you be coming?”

“Waste my energy walkin’ around a place I’ve seen a million times just ‘cause a pretty girl shows up on my doorstep?” Bucky looked down at his nails, deciding they were far more interesting than you. “No thanks.”

“Don’t mind him,” Steve leaned in close, offering a small, reassuring smile. “He’s all bark, no bite. He’ll come around.”

With a gentle hand hovering near your lower back, he guided you out of the bedroom and away from Bucky’s brooding presence. Steve walked you through the rest of the rustic home, pointing out the bathroom—a simple but clean space with a clawfoot tub.

“Shower’s right through there,” he noted, gesturing to the brass fixtures. “Water takes a minute to get hot, but once it does, it’ll practically peel your skin off, so be careful.”

Next was the kitchen, which felt like the heart of the house with its cast-iron pans and the scent of bitter coffee. A small, round wooden table sat in the middle with only two chairs. It was clear they weren’t used to company; the house was built for the two of them and them alone. Steve paused at the table, eyeing the two chairs before letting out a small huff of a laugh.

“We don’t have another dinin’ chair, so I hope you don’t mind sittin’ on one of our laps.”

Your face immediately flushed as the words registered. “W-what—?”

“I’m just messin’ around, buttercup,” Steve snickered, though it didn’t sound much like a joke.

Finally, he led you out onto the wide, wraparound porch. Several chairs and comfy benches were scattered about, far more accommodating than the seating inside.

“This is where we gather ‘round, bring some folks over and play some tunes,” Steve explained, gesturing to the seats.

You raised a brow. “You guys play instruments?”

“Guitar,” Steve said, adjusting his hat. “And Bucky plays the harmonica.”

The guitar was fitting for Steve, but you couldn’t help but giggle at the image of a man as grumpy as Bucky Barnes whipping out a harmonica and going to town. Steve’s grin widened at the sound of your laughter.

“You’re gigglin’ now, but just watch,” he pointed a finger at you jokingly. “He’s quite the player. We’ll have to show you sometime.”

Now that you could stand on the porch without the chaos of hauling luggage, the view was absolutely breathtaking. Vast, rolling green fields seemed to touch the sky, turning golden in the afternoon sun. Steve glanced down at you, taking in the way you stared into the distance, your eyes wide and full of wonder as a soft “Wow” escaped your lips.

“Beautiful, ain’t it?” Steve smiled, sweeping a hand toward the horizon as you stepped into the front yard. “No skyscrapers to block the view, and the only neighbors you’ll hear are the chickens, the cattle, and the horses.”

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured, letting the fresh air fill your lungs in a way city air never could. “It’s different, but it’s beautiful.”

Steve turned, his smile softening as he caught sight of you. With the afternoon sun hitting you just right—with the soft wind blowing in your hair and the sunlight and catching the gleam in your eyes—he seemed to find you much more interesting than the landscape.

To Steve, you were absolutely breathtaking. He knew that if your father were here right now, he’d slap him silly for the way he was staring, let alone for the impure thoughts running through his mind. He cleared his throat, trying to shake the filthy, mental images running through his old mind for a girl who’s more than half his age.

“I’m glad you think so.”

He began walking you toward the side of the house, leading you to a sprawling, well-tended garden and a series of larger fields beyond. “Over here is where we grow most of our own. Corn, beans, squash... and I’ve got a patch of tomatoes that’ll be the best thing you ever tasted once they’re ripe.”

You’d always thought the farmers' markets in the city square were the closest you’d get to whole foods, but this was entirely different.

Steve reached down, casually plucking a stray weed from the edge of a row with a grunt. “Bucky’s the muscle when it comes to the heavy tillin’, but I’m the one with the green thumb. I’m a damn good cook, too, if I do say so myself.”

He stood up, dusting his hands off on his dirty denim jeans as he gave you a playful, confident look. “I’ll have to whip somethin’ up for you one of these nights you’re here. Show you what real farm-to-table food actually tastes like.”

You looked at the vastness of the crops, realizing just how much work these two put in with their own very large hands. “You really do everything yourselves, don’t you?”

“That’s the only right way to do it, baby,” Steve drawled, planting his hands on his hips as his smirk deepened.

Baby.

The word rolled off his tongue—low, honeyed, and thick with a southern accent that made your heart skip a beat. You felt the heat climb into your cheeks, and you quickly looked down at your shoes, suddenly feeling too shy to maintain his gaze.

A little, raspy chuckle escaped his lips. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Let me show you the horses,” Steve said, nodding toward the stables and gesturing for you to follow. “Don’t wanna keep ‘em waitin’ now.”

He led you toward the stables, where the heavy, earthy scent of hay and horsehide hit you all at once. It was a thick, unfamiliar smell, and you couldn’t help but scrunch your nose.

Steve noticed, glancing over his shoulder with an amused chuckle. “Not exactly the perfume you’re used to, is it?” He gestured toward the wide, shadowed stalls. “This is where we keep our beauties—”

Steve stopped in his tracks as he realized you guys weren’t alone.

Bucky was deep in the shadows of the furthest stall. His hat was tipped back, and his sleeves were rolled past his elbows to reveal beefy, corded forearms as he brushed down a massive, coal-black mare. The horse huffed, leaning into his touch, and for a split second, you saw a flicker of softness in Bucky’s eyes.

It was clearly a side he didn’t want you to see, because as soon as he heard your footsteps, his head snapped to you with a cold glare.

His jaw tightened, and his movements with the brush grew sharper, almost more aggressive.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Bucky grumbled, his eyes returning to the horse.

You bit your lip, choosing your words carefully to not upset him further. “Uncle Steve just wanted to show me around—I didn’t mean to bother you, Uncle Bucky.”

“Don’t call us uncle, kid,” Bucky snapped, still refusing to look at you. “We haven’t seen you since you were in diapers. We ain’t family.”

You flinched slightly at his cold words.

“Buck,” Steve warned, his voice dropping as he rested a protective hand on your shoulder.

Bucky finally looked at you. His eyes landed on Steve’s hand before snapping back to your face. He clicked his tongue dismissively and went back to tending his horse.

A slow, tired exhale escaped Steve behind you. With his hand still on you, he gently nudged you to the next stall, where a horse with a beautiful chestnut mane and the softest brown eyes was watching you curiously.

“This right here is my horse,” Steve said. His voice was much softer now, a far difference to the tone he’d used with Bucky just seconds ago.

You finally let out the breath you’d been holding since Bucky told you off. A small, shy smile tugged at your lips as the horse huffed a warm greeting against your palm. “She’s beautiful.”

“Her name’s Peggy.”

A loud, unmistakable scoff echoed from the far end of the barn where Bucky stood. He didn’t say a word, but the sound was enough to let you know there was a history with that name you didn’t quite understand yet.

Steve ignored Bucky’s attitude entirely, his focus remaining solely on you. Peggy, sensing your gentle energy, let out a soft whuff and began nuzzling her velvet nose against your palm, rubbing her head into your hand with an affectionate push.

You let out a startled, breathless giggle. Back home, you were used to lap dogs and small cats—not a thousand pound animal demanding your attention. You weren’t used to something so large being so friendly, and you instinctively pulled your hand away, stumbling back half a step when the sensation became overwhelming.

“Be a good girl now, Peg,” Steve murmured to the horse, though his eyes never left you. “You’re scarin’ the misses.”

Before you could fully retreat, Steve’s large, rough hand moved from your shoulder to your waist. His grip was firm and steadying, pinning you right where you were between the stall and his body. He stepped closer until his chest was a solid, warm wall against your back.

He leaned down over your shoulder, his face so close you could feel his heat. You swallowed hard as his voice came out raspy and hot, vibrating right against your ear.

“Wouldya look at that? She loves you.”

The heat from Steve’s chest was seeping through your clothes, and your gaze dropped to his hands. They were huge, his tanned, calloused fingers practically wrapping halfway around your waist, holding you in place almost possessively.

You felt like you were on fire. Being pinned between a massive horse and an even more massive man had your heart running circles in your chest.

But then, your eyes drifted just past Steve’s shoulder.

At the far end of the stable, the shadows couldn’t hide Bucky, no matter how hard he tried to tuck himself away.

His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle bulged in his cheek, and his knuckles were white where he gripped the handle of the brush. He looked beyond grumpy—he looked almost livid. His dark eyes were hidden beneath the brim of his hat, but you could still feel them boring into the exact spot where Steve’s hand met your hip.

“Can I… can I meet your horse too, Bucky?” you asked, your voice coming out soft and breathy.

The silence that followed was deafening. You nearly regretted the question the moment it left your mouth. Steve went still, hovering just behind you as he, too, waited for Bucky’s response.

Eventually, Bucky huffed out a harsh, dry laugh. “My horse don’t like strangers,” he murmured. “’specially ones that smell like expensive city soap. It’ll just aggravate her.”

“I’m sure she’s not that picky,” you said, forcing a small smile in an attempt to crack his shell.

Despite the safety of Steve’s hand and chest, you took a breath as you gently ducked out of the way. You could feel Steve’s eyes on you as you took a step toward the far end of the stall.

Bucky didn’t push you away, which was a surprise in itself. Instead, he just mumbled, “If she bites, I’m not suckin’ on your finger.”

You didn’t doubt him for a second.

As you drew closer, the massive black mare—the one Bucky claimed was so ‘aggravated’ by city folk—perked her ears up. She didn’t huff or stomp. She stretched her long neck over the gate, her nostrils flared as she caught the scent of you. Before Bucky could tell you to leave, the mare let out a low, vibrating nuzzle against your shoulder.

“Oh!” a small, genuine laugh of disbelief escaped you. “She likes my soap, apparently!”

Bucky stood still, his eyes widening as he watched his beloved horse befriend a stranger in a matter of seconds. He folded his arms over his chest, watching your delicate fingers work through the mare’s dark mane.

He watched the way your small smile lit up your face, the pure joy that took over once you’d won the animal’s affection. His heart swelled, though he couldn’t tell if it was because of how soft and innocent you looked or because his horse was being such a good girl by opening up so easily.

For the sake of his blood pressure, he chose the latter.

But then, the mare got a little too excited. Eager for more attention, she tossed her heavy head and snapped her teeth toward your fingers, catching you off guard.

As you gasped, Bucky’s hand shot out. His fingers—rough and surprisingly warm—grabbed around your wrist, pulling your hand back toward his chest and out of harm’s way.

“Easy, girl,” he cooed.

If someone were to touch your face right now, they would’ve pulled back from the heat alone.

His voice wasn’t the usual grumpy mumble he used to tell you off. It was a low, almost melodic vibration. And although he wasn’t speaking to you, your heart thrummed just the same. His thumb brushed against the pulse point of your wrist, and he could surely feel how fast your heart was moving because of him.

“She’s got a bit of a temper when she’s happy,” Bucky explained, finally dropping your hand.

You frowned slightly, feeling a pang of disappointment at the loss of contact. To Bucky, however, it looked like you were just shaken from nearly losing a finger.

“What’s her name?” you asked softly.

Bucky swallowed hard, reaching out to pet the mare’s nose. “Rebecca. Named after my late sister.”

“Oh,” you breathed, your shoulders deflating slightly at the news. “I’m so sorry, Bucky. It’s a beautiful name.”

Bucky didn’t look at you. He just kept his hand on Rebecca’s nose, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her skin.

“Do you guys have family that live nearby?” you pried gently, glancing between him and Steve, who was stepping up beside you. “Or is it just the two of you out here?”

“Just us now,” Steve said, his voice gentle. “Our folks passed on a good while back, but they were the ones who started all this.”

He gestured to the sturdy beams of the barn and the fields beyond. “Our parents were best friends, just like us. Raised us side-by-side on this very dirt. Sarah and Winnie—those were our mothers.”

A small, almost shy smile touched Steve’s lips as he looked at the garden rows outside the stable door. “My ma, Sarah, she was the one with the green thumb. Always takin’ care of the crops, talkin’ to the tomatoes like they were her own kin. Pretty sure I got my patience from her.”

He then nudged his head towards Bucky.

“And Buck’s mom, Winnie?” he whistled, making Bucky shake his head with a deep chuckle. “She was a horse girl through and through. Could break a wild stallion before she even had her morning coffee. She’s the one who taught us how to ride—and how to listen to ‘em. Ain’t that right, Bucky?”

Bucky looked down at his boots, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his eyes, but you still managed to catch a glimpse of that real smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah. She was a hardass, that’s for sure,” Bucky nodded, his voice surprisingly soft. “Was hard on your dad, too.”

You smiled at the thought. The few times they had brought up your father today, it was always a petty remark.

“Were you and my dad close?” you asked gently.

Steve watched Bucky, his expression unreadable, as if waiting for his friend to take the lead on the answer. When Bucky remained quiet, his thumb still tracing circles on the mare’s nose, Steve finally spoke up.

“We were very good friends,” he explained with a kind, steady smile.

Before you could dwell on their tension or press for more, Steve clapped his hands together. The sharp sound made you jump and caused Bucky to snap his head up.

“Well, how ‘bout it?” Steve asked, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. “Sun’s gonna be setting in a bit, and there ain’t no better way to see the back acres. You wanna go for a ride?”

Your eyes widened. “I—I don’t really know how to ride,” you admitted, a bit embarrassed. “I’ve only ever seen horses in movies or… through a fence.”

Steve’s smile widened as he stepped closer, resting a hand on the small of your back and gently guiding you toward his horse. “Don’t you worry none, buttercup. We won’t let you fall.”

The sun was starting to set, and Steve and Bucky led the horses out of the dim stable and into the open air. The wide expanse of the ranch felt even more intimidating now that you were expected to traverse it on the back of a living, breathing animal.

Steve checked the cinch on Peggy’s saddle, tugging it tight to ensure it wouldn’t slip. He swung himself up and settled, looking like he’d been born in the saddle itself. He looked down at you, holding the reins loosely in one hand while offering the other.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he encouraged, his voice deep and sweet. “Left foot in the stirrup. Don’t be shy now.”

You looked at the height of the horse, then at Steve, feeling hesitant. You took a step back, shaking your head. “I… I don’t know about this, Steve. Maybe I should just walk—”

Before you could finish, Bucky appeared behind you. He didn’t give you a warning, he simply pressed up against your back and gripped his hands around your waist tightly. You gasped as he hoisted you into the air effortlessly, lifting you upward until were seatled firmly on Peggy’s back in front of Steve.

Steve’s hands found your waist as you wobbled, steadying you in place.

Bucky stepped back, adjusting the brim of his hat. “You don’t decline a ride out here,” he lectured, his voice gruff. “It’s rude.”

He turned on his heel and walked back to his own horse, leaving you slightly embarassed after being humbled by Bucky yet again.

“He’s got a point,” Steve chuckled warmly from behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his frame as he took the reins in his hands. “And besides, I’ve got a real firm hold on you. You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

With a sharp click of his tongue, Bucky urged Rebecca into a brisk trot, quickly pulling ahead and taking the lead. You watched him go, the silhouette of his broad shoulders dipped in the gold of the setting sun, making him look like he’d stepped straight out of a cinematic painting.

In contrast, your ride with Steve was gentle and slow, but you prefered it that way.

“You’re doin’ just fine,” Steve murmured behind you. He noticed the way you were white knuckling the saddle horn and reached around you. “Here. Take the reins.”

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you admitted, but Steve was already sliding his large hands over yours, guiding your fingers to grip the leather straps.

He kept his hands over yours, warm and firmly in control. “I’ve got you.”

You watched Bucky and his horse tread on, his pace never slowing. You bit your lip, the silence and the distance between you and him finally giving you the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on your mind since you arrived.

“He doesn’t like me much, does he?” you asked softly.

Steve’s hands tightened just slightly over yours, a small sigh escaping him.

“It ain’t that…” he trailed off. “Buck’s just… he’s really big on loyalty. Friendship, family—all that kind of stuff.”

Steve watched his friend ride into the distance, his eyes filled with earnestness.

“When your dad had you, Buck was so damn happy. Your dad was the first guy out of the group to do the whole marriage-and-kid thing. Buck thought, ‘A kid of yours is a kid of mine.’ He was excited to be a godfather, or an uncle. We were just excited to be in your life, you know?”

You stayed silent, prompting him to continue.

“So, when your ma wanted to pack her things and move you all somewhere ‘better’—Bucky was livid. He told your dad, ‘How are you gonna let a girl dictate how you live your life?’ and your dad just said, ‘When you fall in love with a woman, you’d do anything for her. You just don’t get it.’”

Steve swallowed hard as he went on.

“And since you all left for the city, we never heard back from him. So you can imagine how it felt for Buck to get a letter from your daddy out of nowhere, askin’ for his daughter to stay with us after all these years.”

You bit your lower lip, the broken raspiness in Steve’s voice making the guilt eat at your heart even faster. You knew Bucky’s resentment was technically unfair—a result of your father’s silence rather than anything you had done—but you couldn’t help the sympathy you felt for the years of friendship they had lost.

“I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you both wanted them to,” you whispered.

“Don’t apologize, darlin’,” Steve reassured you. He momentarily shifted his grip, one hand coming up to ruffle your hair in a playful, teasing gesture that made you lean back into him. “Sometimes you just gotta see the glass as half-full. I’m just glad your dad still chose us to take care of you after all these years. To me, that’s better than nothin’.”

He squeezed your hand where it rested on the reins, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“And my,” he rumbled, his voice vibrating through your spine, “what a fine woman you’ve grown up to be.”

Your face went hot, the heat of it rivaling the setting sun that touched your skin. The way he said it—with a dark, sultry appreciation that wasn’t at all familial—sent excitement from your heart straight to your core.

Instinctively, you shifted in the saddle, trying to find your breath, but the movement only caused you to lean back further. Your hips moved against the hard, muscular denim of his thighs, and you felt the hitch in his breathing the moment you rubbed against him.

Steve didn’t pull anyway—if anything, one hand found your waist, giving it a possessive squeeze.

“Don’t rub up against me like that, baby,” he rasped against your ear, his hat shielding the dark, hungry look in his eyes. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

Meanwhile, Bucky spurred Rebecca into a trot, circling back until he was riding parallel to Peggy. His eyes didn’t stray to you, but he was clearly aware of how closely you were tucked into Steve’s lap.

“Steve,” Bucky called out, deliberately ignoring your presence. “We hittin’ the Country Club tonight?”

The Country Club wasn’t the kind of place with golf courses and polo shirts. It was the heart of the town—a sprawling, wood planked hall where the beer was cold, the line dancing was fast and sloppy, and the mechanical bull was the only thing meaner than a hungry coyote.

It was loud, rowdy, and exactly where every cowboy in the county ended up on a Saturday night.

Steve leaned back a little away from you. “Yeah, I reckon we are.” He looked down at you, eyes twinkling. “How ‘bout it, sweetheart? You wanna tag along? We’ll show you more of the countryside your dad wanted you to see.”

You felt Bucky’s gaze then.

It was practically screaming for you to say no.

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude,” you said, forcing a polite chuckle. “I’ll just stay home and get settled in. I’m sure you guys want some time with your friends.”

Bucky let out a short, huffed breath of what might have been relief, but Steve wasn’t having it.

“There ain’t much to do at home but listen to the chickens, darlin’,” Steve insisted. “Come with us. It’ll be fun. You can watch good ol’ Buck here get thrown off the bull for the third time this month.”

“I don’t get thrown off,” Bucky mumbled, folding his arms over his chest as he glared at the horizon.

“Come on,” Steve urged. “And if you aren’t havin’ a good time, or if it gets too loud for ya, just say the word. We’ll leave right then and there. Promise.”

You stayed silent, still hesitant as your eyes flickered between the two of them. Bucky technically wasn’t saying no, yet he still avoided looking at you. Steve, on the other hand, was a presence you couldn’t ignore.

“You know, your daddy loved the place.” Steve added, coaxing you in.

You smiled softly, already picturing your father getting giddy and rowdy with these two men in their younger days. You glanced at Bucky warily, seeking some kind of confirmation. “Is that true?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Never missed a night.”

“Okay,” you breathed, a small smile finally tugging at your lips. “I’ll go.”

The tension in Steve’s shoulders dropped instantly at your agreement.

“Great. Let’s head home and freshen up, and then we’ll be right on out.” He took control of the reins, spinning Peggy around toward the house. “You’re gonna have a lot of fun, sweetheart. I promise.”

By the time you arrived back at the house, the evening air had turned crisp, and the sun had long since dipped beneath the silhouette of the mountains. You retreated to Bucky’s room—the space he had begrudgingly vacated for you—and closed the door behind you.

You began to strip out of your travel-worn clothes, shivering slightly as the cool air hit your skin. You were down to your undergarments—simple, soft white cotton that felt wholesome and modest, yet left you feeling incredibly vulnerable in the middle of this… very masculine sanctuary.

As you reached for your fresh clothes in your suitcase, your eyes caught on one of Bucky’s hats sitting atop of the dark wood dresser. It was worn at the edges, shaped perfectly to the curve of his head.

On a very curious whim, you picked it up and placed it on your own head. It was far too big, the brim dropping over your eyes, but you couldn’t help but glance at yourself in the mirror.

There was something about the rugged piece of him covering your hair that made you smile.

Here you were, in a grown man’s bedroom, wearing nothing but his cowboy hat and white cotton undergarments, grinning at your reflection. You felt like a little girl playing pretend. You practiced adjusting the brim, trying to mimic the way Steve and Bucky did it, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at how ridiculous it all felt.

Suddenly, the bedroom door swung open, the sharp creak of the hinges making your head snap to the sound.

Bucky stepped inside, his head down as he fumbled with the buttons of a half-done shirt, his mind clearly a million miles away.

“Steve, have you seen my brown jacket? I think I left it in the—”

As Bucky lifted his head, his breath got stuck in his throat. The air in the small bedroom vanished instantly, leaving a vacuum of pure, suffocating tension. You felt like you could choke.

There you were, bathed in the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamp. You were dressed only in soft white cotton, the little pink bow at the center of your underwear greeting him shamelessly. But what truly made Bucky’s throat go dry was the sight of the hat—his hat—perched on your head. The brim was tilted at that same playful angle you’d been practicing, casting a shadow over your wide, startled eyes.

“I…” you started, face flushing in embarrassment. “I didn’t—”

You braced yourself. You expected him to yell, to tell you to take his precious hat off your head and stay home for the rest of the night. You were, after all, standing in his bedroom, stripped down and wearing his most personal possession.

“I came for my jacket,” Bucky croaked instead, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over broken glass.

He took a step past the doorframe, ostensibly to find his coat, yet his eyes were traitors. They kept snapping back to your face, to the hat, to the curves of your body, and back to the hat again. He swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing sharply.

“You look…” he stopped himself, his chest rising and falling in a heavy breath as he struggled to find his composure. “You’re wearin’ my hat.”

Mortified, you felt the heat climb from your chest all the way to the tips of your ears. You ripped the hat off your head—leaving your hair a bit fuzzled and messed up—and clutched the stiff felt against your chest in a desperate attempt to shield your body.

“I just…” you stammered, small and breathless. “I saw it sitting there on the dresser and I got a bit curious, I guess. I didn’t mean to—”

You squeezed your eyes, waiting for his sharp tongue to lecture you on boundaries, but instead, you heard his boots move closer to you. His large hands reached out, gently prying the hat from your grip. You held your breath as he lifted it, but he didn’t set it back on the dresser.

With a slow, careful motion, he propped it back onto your head—his fingers lingered at the brim, adjusting it just so, tilting it until the shadow of it played across your flustered cheeks.

“No,” he murmured, his voice low and deep, making your bare toes curl against the floor. “Wear it tonight.”

Bucky stepped back, though he was still far too close for you to think straight. He licked his bottom lip, the moisture glistening, before he caught the skin between his teeth, biting down. His eyes were dark, hooded, and heavy as they trailed a slow, scorched path down to your face, then dropped to the curve of your body, before snapping back up to lock onto your gaze.

“It looks much better on you than it ever did on me, anyway,” he rasped.

You felt the words die in your throat. You could only stare back at him, wide-eyed, because that was the first genuinely kind thing he had said to you since you arrived.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you breathed.

Bucky didn’t say anything else. He pressed his lips together, giving you a curt nod before grabbing his brown jacket from the chair near the door.

“Meet us out front in ten,” he called out over his shoulder. His voice had returned to its usual gruffness as he walked out, though he shut the door much softer than he had opened it.

Ten minutes later, the cool night air hit your skin as you pushed through the screen door, but the atmosphere on the porch turned stiflingly hot the second you stepped out.

Steve and Bucky were leaning against the porch railing, deep in a quiet conversation that died the moment they saw you. Both of them straightened up immediately, their bodies rigid as if they’d been struck by lightning.

You stood there, a little self-conscious, wearing a dress that hugged your waist and flared at your hips. It was cute, feminine, and a stark contrast to the rugged, oversized cowboy hat resting on your head.

Steve’s breath left him in a sharp, audible hitch. With his blue eyes wide, he let them travel from the tips of your toes up the length of your bare legs, lingering far too long on the way the dress fit before landing on the hat. A slow, crooked grin spread across his face.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve exhaled. “You’re gonna start a riot in that town, sweetheart.”

Bucky’s reaction, however, was worse. He didn’t even give you the courtesy of a smile. He just stood there, his jaw clenched tight and his eyes dangerously dark.

Every time Bucky looked at you, he saw his old friend’s face—the man who had trusted him to watch over his daughter—but every time his gaze dropped to the swell of your breast or the curve of your shining lips, that trust felt like a fraying rope.

He looked at the hat on your head, and to Bucky, that hat meant he had already made his claim on you.

Long before Steve ever could.

“We should go,” Bucky strained, his voice sounding like he was physically fighting the urge to say something he shouldn’t.

“Before it gets any darker.”

By the time the neon sign for the Country Club flickered into view, the parking lot was already a sea of mud caked duallys and vintage pickups.

As you stepped out of the truck and Steve held the door for you, your ears rang with the muffled thrum of music. The entire building seemed to vibrate with the stomp and clacking of leather boots on hardwood, punctuated by the roar of a crowd cheering on someone at the mechanical bull.

Nervous, you tuck between the two men for comfort.

Steve noticed your hesitation. He placed a steadying hand on your lower back, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the fabric of your dress.

“Stay close, darlin’. It’s a bit rowdy tonight.”

They led you through the swinging double doors and straight to the long, scarred bar. The bartender—a man who looked like he’d seen a century’s worth of bar fights—gave Steve and Bucky a nod before sliding three coasters onto the wood.

“Andy,” Bucky greeted, his voice barely audible over the fiddle music.

“If it isn’t Cap and Winter,” the bartender, Andy, said, already turning around to grab a well-worn bottle of whiskey. He cut a sharp look toward you.

“And who’s the little lady?

“This here is Crazy Clyde’s daughter,” Steve said, pulling out a barstool and gesturing for you to take a seat. “She’s visitin’ town.”

You took a seat on the high stool, eyeing Bucky and Steve with a raised brow. “Crazy Clyde?”

“That was your dad’s nickname,” Bucky explained, already taking a slow, steady sip out of the amber whiskey Andy had poured him.

You couldn’t help it; a small chuckle bubbled up in your throat. The idea of your father—the man you knew as relatively composed—running around with a name like a low budget cartoon character was too much.

“How come he gets stuck with a corny nickname like that while you guys get to walk around with cool ones like ‘Cap’ and ‘Winter’?” you asked, tilting your head.

Steve let out a huff of a laugh, leaning his elbow on the bar so he could tilt his head closer to yours.

“Well, now, don’t go feelin' too bad for him, sweetheart,” Steve said, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “He earned that name fair and square. Your daddy had a habit of chasin’ down drinks and jumpin’ off barn roofs on a dare. He was a wild one—made us look like choir boys back in the day.”

Your smile widened, letting out a soft laugh at the thought. Steve’s eyes crinkled as he laughed along, and in the corner of your eye, you were fairly certain you saw Bucky’s lips curve into a faint smile as he watched the two of you.

“So, what can we get ya?” Steve shouted over the music. “They make a decent gin fizz if you want somethin’ light.”

You looked at the rows of whiskey bottles and the rough edged men around you. Bucky’s fingers were already nursing an amber glass, drinking it without any reaction, and although you knew you couldn’t do the same, you still wanted to try and fit in.

“I’ll just have whatever you guys are having,” you tried to sound more confident than you felt.

Steve’s eyebrows raised, amused. He looked at Bucky, who only snickered behind the rim of his glass.

“You sure about that, sweetheart?” Steve asked, his brows furrowing in concern. “That’s a lot of kick for someone who ain’t used to drinkin’.”

“Just get the damn girl what she wants, Steve,” Bucky grumbled.

He set his glass down, the heavy thud punctuating his words as he looked you up and down, his eyes lingering on the hat again.

“If she wants to bite off more than she can chew, let her.”

Steve gave Bucky a skeptical look, then turned his gaze back to you. Eventually, he sighed and signaled with his fingers for Andy to bring over another glass. Once the whiskey was nestled on your coaster, you lifted it, and the pungent, medicinal smell immediately made you scrunch your nose.

Bucky snickered, taking satisfaction in your hesitation.

Steve lifted his own glass, the rim of it hovering right against his lips. “Are you sure ‘bout this, sweetheart? You know, it’s never too late to order a fruity cocktail—”

But before he could even finish the sentence, you inhaled deeply, tilted your head back, and downed the entire glass in one go.

Steve’s jaw hung open while Bucky turned his head toward you, his eyes widening.

The drink was disgusting.

The burn hit your throat like liquid fire, making your eyes water, but the look on their faces made every bit of the sting worth it.

You slammed the glass down, the heavy thud punctuating the silence of their shock. For a second, your mind was dizzy and your eyes watered. The whiskey hit your stomach like a ball of hot lead, and you couldn’t help but gag, a hand flying to your mouth as you fought to keep your pride and the liquid down.

“Not… not too bad,” you choked out, eyes watering.

Steve blinked in disbelief before throwing his head back and slapping a hand on the bar with a laugh. “Jesus, baby!”

“Hell, if you wanted to shoot it back, you could’ve just ordered a shot,” Bucky remarked.

You shivered, your throat still feeling like you’d swallowed a hot coal.

“What do you mean?” you rasped, genuinely confused. “Isn’t that how you do it?”

Steve reached over, his fingers gently brushing your arm as he laughed. “Usually, with a pour that big, you’re supposed to sip it, sweetheart. Savor the flavor, or whatever the hell the distillers say.”

Your face felt hot from a mixture of embarrassment and the alcohol.

“… Oh.”

He shook his head, looking at the empty glass and then back at your flushed face. “But hey, looks like you got your daddy’s traits after all. Clyde never did have much patience for sippin’ either.”

Suddenly, the crowd exploded into a loud roar of hooting and hollering that made the floors shake. Across the room, a young cowboy had just been launched into the padded mats by a mechanical bull that looked… more like a prehistoric beast than a machine.

The adrenaline from the whiskey and the booming atmosphere was blooming fast in your chest, making you feel braver and a little more reckless than you had any right to be.

You looked at the bull, then back at the two men who were cheering along with the crowd.

“I want to try it,” you blurted out over the noise.

Steve’s laughter caught in his throat, and he looked down at you with wide eyes. “You want to ride on that?”

“What’s the matter, Cap?” you teased, encouraged by the alcohol. “Don’t think I've got enough of my dad’s traits in me?”

You glanced at Bucky, but he hadn’t said a word. His eyes trailed from your face down to the hem of your dress, his expression slightly judgmental. He looked as though he were a father himself, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“It’s a long way down,” Bucky warned, his voice bordering on condescending. “And your dress is hardly fit for a machine like that. You tryna’ flash the entire bar, city girl?”

You weren’t fond of the way Bucky was talking down to you, treating you like a child who didn't know any better. If gulping down a glass of whiskey neat wasn’t enough to prove you were capable, then riding that bull would have to do it.

“I’m going,” you declared, sliding off the barstool.

You felt a little lightheaded as your feet hit the floor, but you straightened your shoulders and adjusted Bucky’s hat, pulling the brim down low over your eyes exactly the way he did. In the ruckus of the club, you didn’t hear the soft, reluctant chuckle that escaped Bucky’s lips at the sight of you mimicking him.

Steve’s hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could take another step.

“Listen, it’s not going to be like how it is in the movies, sweetheart. It’s hard—you’ve gotta use your core, and if you don’t grip it right, you’re gonna go flyin’,” he warned.

You gently pried your hand away, giving him a playful, tipsy nudge in the shoulder. “I’ve got it, Steve!”

You turned to head toward the pit, though you wobbled slightly as the whiskey did a little dance in your head. You caught your balance quickly as you approached the announcer—a guy in a dark Stetson who was holding a megaphone. You leaned in, shouting over the music that you were a family friend of Steve and Bucky’s and that you wanted a turn.

“Well, alright now!” his voice boomed through the rafters. “Looks like we got a brave one tonight! This here is Steve and Bucky’s girl! Let’s see if she’s got the grit to match ‘em!”

The crowd erupted, and you felt several pairs of eyes on you. Men whistled and women cheered, and you felt like your heart could explode in your chest from the rush.

At the bar, Bucky’s face went a deep shade of crimson that he tried to hide beneath his hat.

Steve, however, didn’t look embarrassed at all. He caught your eye and gave you a little nod, his chest puffed out like he was more than happy to claim you in front of the whole county.

The operator gave you a hand up, and you swung your leg over the leather saddle. Bucky was right—the dress was an issue. It bunched up high on your thighs, but with the adrenaline and whiskey singing in your veins, you didn’t care.

The bull started with slow rolls, and you shifted your hips, digging your knees in. As the machine began to pick up speed, spinning and bucking in sharp gallops, you held on tighter and engaged your core just like Steve told you.

Steve leaned back against the table next to Bucky, letting out a low whistle.

“Wow,” he breathed. “Look at her, Buck. She looks…” Steve’s eyes trailed from the tilt of your head down to your bare legs, clenched tight around the machine, “… delicious.”

Bucky scoffed, but he wasn’t even looking at you anymore; he was looking at the crowd. His eyes kept darting around the room, noting every low whistle and hungry gaze coming from the local cowboys. He saw the way the men were eyeing the curve of your legs and the way your dress hugged your chest as you held on for dear life.

“Stevie,” Bucky muttered. “I don’t like this.”

“What?” Steve shouted over the noise, leaning in closer to his friend.

Bucky looked around, his jaw locked tight. “I don’t like the way they’re lookin’ at her, Steve.”

He looked less like a proud family friend and more like a predator protecting his territory. The more the men around them whistled or ogled your legs, the more he wanted to walk over there and pull you off that machine himself. He hated the way they looked at you because he knew exactly what they were thinking—mostly because he was thinking the exact same thing.

“She’s doin’ a great job and she’s havin’ fun,” Steve countered. “Look at her, Buck. She’s smilin’ all cute. Just let her be.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver from the crowd, his knuckles nearly turning white as he gripped the edge of the bar.

“That’s the point,” he muttered under his breath, but the ruckus was too loud, and Steve didn’t hear him.

A group of younger guys moved in right next to them, not even trying to be quiet. They leaned against the railing of the bull pit, their eyes glued to the way your dress was riding up as the machine bucked and made you bounce.

“That’s Steve and Bucky’s girl?” one of them jeered, his eyes raking over you with a slow, dirty look. “You think they’re sharin’ her?”

“Hell no,” his friend laughed behind his beer bottle. “They’re way too damn old for a girl like that. Probably just their caretaker.”

“Ain’t that Crazy Clyde’s daughter, though? We haven’t seen that old man around town in a minute.”

“Sure is,” the first guy drawled drunkenly, his voice rising over the music. “Man… the things I’d do to Crazy Clyde’s little girl the minute she gets off that machine.”

Bucky’s head immediately snapped toward them, his face darkening as he sneered in their direction. It was one thing to insult him—that, Bucky could take. But insulting the people he cared about was enough to make him see red.

As he pushed himself off the bar top and clenched his fist, Steve’s hand shot out, grabbing Bucky’s forearm in a tight grip.

“Don’t,” Steve hissed. “Not when she’s here, Buck. Not tonight. She’ll look at us differently if we start a brawl over her.”

Bucky’s breath came in harsh, jagged hitches as he fought the urge to drive his fist into the guy’s face. “Did you not hear the shit he was talkin’, Steve?” he snarled. “He needs a sock in the mouth, and I’m gonna be the one to give it to him.”

As he tried to shove Steve’s hand away, Steve’s grip only tightened.

“What’s gotten into you? Look at her!” He gestured toward you on the bull. “She’s enjoyin’ herself. Just let her have her fun tonight. We’ll deal with these kids later.”

Bucky hesitated, looking back at you. He saw your pure, genuine smile and heard that warm laugh ring out over the music. He knew he’d been treating you like hell since you arrived, and he couldn’t bring himself to ruin the one good moment you were having.

A slow, impatient breath escaped Bucky’s lungs as he finally let his shoulders drop. “Fine.”

But their exchange hadn’t gone unnoticed. One of the guys glanced over, eyeing Bucky up and down, entirely unimpressed by the glowering man in the cowboy hat.

“What’s wrong, grandpa?” the guy sneered, emboldened by his friends’ laughter. “Don’t like the way I’m talkin’ ‘bout your niece?”

Another string holding Bucky’s patience together snapped.

“She ain’t my niece,” Bucky warned. He glared at the man from beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes sharp enough to cut.

The guy just took a slow swig of his beer, a greasy smirk stretching across his face, emboldened by the audience of his friends. “Well, you’re sure as hell too old to be anything else.”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched.

He took a heavy step forward, the movement so sudden it nearly jerked his arm right out of Steve’s hold.

“The hell is that ‘sposed to mean?”

The guy shrugged, his eyes flicking back to you on the bull before returning to Bucky with a sneer. “It means a fine thing like that needs a man who can actually keep up. Not someone who’s probably lookin’ for his reading glasses and a heating pad. Why don’t you go back to the retirement home and let a real man show her a good time?”

Bucky didn’t wait for Steve’s permission, and he certainly didn’t wait for the guy to finish his laugh.

With a movement so fast, Bucky’s fist collided with the guy’s jaw. A sharp, meaty crack cut through the country music, leaving the man’s head snapping and his greasy smirk disappearing as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He didn’t even have time to put his hands up to defend himself before he was lifted off his feet, crashing backward into the railing of the bull pit.

“Jesus, Buck!” Steve barked from behind.

The moment the first guy hit the floor, the bar turned into a powder keg. The two friends who had been laughing seconds ago looked at Bucky, their expressions turning furious as they lunged for him next.

Steve didn’t think.

He didn’t have to.

The minute he saw his best friend getting jumped, he clicked his tongue and rolled up his sleeves. He intercepted the second guy mid-swing, catching him by the collar and throwing him back against a table, leaving the people around him in shock.

“I told you to let it go!” Steve yelled over his shoulder at Bucky, even as he ducked a swinging bottle and delivered a punishing blow to another guy’s ribs.

To you, perched high on the spinning bull, the noise of the fight was easily mistaken for cheering. Between the flashing lights, the shouting, and the whistles, it sounded like the whole bar was rooting for you. The buzzer finally droned, and the bull slowly came to a halt. You were flushed and panting, a proud grin plastered on your face as you slid down the side of the machine and hopped onto the mats.

You tried to push through the dense wall of people to where Steve and Bucky should have been.

“Did you see that?!” you laughed, shaking your hair out of your face as you stepped out of the pit, your legs still a little wobbly. “Steve! Bucky! I stayed on the whole—”

As the crowd parted, the sight made your eyes go wide. Steve and Bucky were standing in a cleared out circle, surrounded by the bar’s security and several local guys who looked ready for another fight. Bucky looked rough—his lip was torn and bleeding, staining the edge of his jaw while his chest heaved in anger. Steve was right beside him, his breathing heavy and his knuckles bruised and bloodied.

You couldn’t hear much over the blaring music and the crowd, but the owner of the bar was pointing a finger toward the door, his face red with rage.

They were in the middle of getting kicked out.

“W-what happened?” you stammered, stepping toward them while carefully dodging broken glass and the several men groaning on the floor.

Steve’s expression softened as soon as he saw you. He stepped forward, putting a protective hand on your shoulder.

“It’s nothin’, sweet—”

“It’s time to go,” Bucky interrupted, his voice snapping.

He didn’t even look at you. He just bent over with a groan, picking his hat from the floor, and propped it low over his eyes as he walked to the exit without looking back.

The bouncer gave Steve a final shove toward the door. Steve sighed, his shoulders dropping as he carefully led you out with him.

“Let’s… let’s just get to the truck.”

As the three of you walked outside, the gravel crunched under Steve’s boots. He eventually let go of your back, walking next to you while Bucky stayed a good few feet ahead.

“I’m sorry,” Steve started, his voice thick with guilt as he kept his eyes on his friend’s back. “You shouldn’t have seen that. There was a couple of guys talkin’ ‘bout some things they shouldn’t have. He… we shouldn’t have let it get that far. It was stupid, and we should’ve handled it better.”

Bucky’s stride was long and aggressive. He reached the truck and grabbed the door handle, but he didn’t open it. He just stood there for a second, his back shaking with each ragged breath as he listened to you and Steve.

“It’s okay,” you whispered with a frown. “I just don’t understand. What could they have possibly said for you guys to get into such a big fight like that—”

Bucky let go of the door handle and spun around so fast that gravel kicked up under his boots.

“This is all your fault,” he snapped, his blue eyes burning with a dark, concentrated anger as he looked at you—and only you.

You flinched back, eyes widening in surprise. “M-me?”

Steve’s hand was back on your shoulder instantly, tightening in a comforting way as if he had seen this outburst coming. “Buck, knock it off. She didn’t do anything.”

“The hell she didn’t!” Bucky shot back, gesturing wildly toward you—toward the dress, the bar.

He looked at you, his torn lip curling as he pointed a finger.

“You just had to go up there. You had to have everyone lookin’ at you, didn’t you? Shakin’ around on that thing like you don’t know exactly what men in a place like this are thinkin’ when they see you.”

“Bucky,” Steve tried to step in between you two. “Stop.”

But Bucky gave him a rough shove, causing Steve to stumble back as Bucky stepped even closer, nearly getting in your face. “We were just ‘sposed to have a few drinks, but you had to make a scene.”

“Make a scene?” you huffed a disbelieving laugh, your eyes flickering to Steve before landing back on Bucky. “Is this some sort of joke? All I did was ride the mechanical bull—!”

“No,” Bucky interrupted. “You want to know what a joke is? It’s your damn father sendin’ us a letter with zero communication after years, tellin’ us to take care of his little girl without even askin’ for our approval.”

He stepped closer, invading your space until you could smell the copper of the blood on his lip. But you didn’t back down. You stood your ground, feet planted in the gravel as you met his hostile gaze with your own, despite having to crane your neck just to look up at him.

“Is that what this is about?” you challenged, your voice trembling but firm. “You’re mad at a letter? So you’re taking it out on me?”

Bucky’s face scrunched into a snarl. “Your old man vanished without a proper goodbye, talkin’ ‘bout how we were gonna be the best uncles, just for him to cut us out of your life for years. And then you just... waltz in. No warning, no care in the world, taking up space in my house. Taking up my damn room and makin’ yourself our responsibility.”

His voice was shaking now, the resentment he’d been bottling up finally boiling over.

“And then I have to watch you,” he hissed, his eyes scanning every inch of your face with a dark, restless energy. “I have to watch Steve look at you like you’re the best thing that ever happened to this town. I have to sit at a bar and listen to every low life in there talkin’ ‘bout what they’d do to you, while you’re up there smilin’ and givin’ them exactly what they want to see.”

“So, a few guys talk dirty about me and you decide to get into a fight?” you scoffed, your chest nearly brushing against his jacket. “I can handle my own, Bucky. I’ve been taking care of myself long before I showed up on your doorstep. I don’t need you two defending me like I’m some helpless kid!”

Bucky’s jaw tightened so hard you heard the bone click. A dark, incredulous laugh bubbled up in his throat—a sound entirely devoid of humor.

“Handle your own?” he mocked.“You could’ve traveled anywhere else, yet you’re stuck here with us ‘cause your daddy told you to come. You need grown men tellin’ you what to do, sweetheart. You can’t handle a damn thing.”

Your anger was boiling over at this point, and you felt like you could cry. Steve stepped up next to Bucky as he clamped a hand on his shoulder, trying to pry him away from you. But Bucky didn’t even look at him—he just delivered a hard, two handed shove to Steve’s chest that sent him stumbling back.

“Bucky, enough—”

“You’ve been an asshole to me from the minute I arrived,” you said, your voice uncontrollably shaky as you fought to keep from sobbing. “And you’re upset because my dad didn’t keep in touch with you. I get that! I do! B-but none of that is my fault, Bucky! That shouldn’t be a valid reason to hate me!”

“You’re right, it’s not your fault,” he hissed. He leaned closer, and you could smell the whiskey.

“But it is your fault you’re here. If you were half as independent as you claim to be, you wouldn’t have come crawlin’ to two men you haven’t seen since you were in fuckin’ pigtails.”

He stood up straight, letting out a heavy, annoyed breath.

“We were doin’ just fine with just the two of us before you showed up and started makin’ us feel like we owed you somethin’.”

Your brows, which had been furrowed in anger, slowly softened as his words punched you right in the gut. Your shoulders deflated, and all the fight drained out of you, leaving only a cold, hollow ache.

He didn’t just want the guys at the bar to stay away.

He wanted you away.

Steve, standing just behind him, could only stare at his friend with wide, horrified eyes. There was clearly history there—some old wound Bucky was reopening—because there was no other reason to be this cruel. You realized then that you were just a nuisance to him. An immature girl with a silly dream of traveling the world who had simply chosen the wrong first stop. You were an interloper in their already established life.

Looking down and finally breaking eye contact, you reached up and lifted Bucky’s hat off your head. You shoved it hard against his chest, catching him off guard. Bucky stumbled back a step, his fingers instinctively curling around the brim, crumpling the felt beneath his hands as he caught it.

“You want me to go?” you whispered, your voice cracking painfully. “Fine. I’ll leave. I’ll get my things and I’ll be out of your house—and your life—by morning.”

Your eyes were blurry as you looked past Bucky’s shoulder, sniffling as you called out for Steve.

“Will you take me back?” you asked, the words barely a breath. “I need to… I need to repack.”

Steve swallowed hard, the guilt on his face agonizing to look at. “Of course,” he nodded, his voice softening instantly. “Come on, sweetheart. I’ll take you home.”

He walked around the truck, and you didn’t give Bucky even one last glance as you stepped around him. Steve held the passenger door open, helping you in with a steady hand. Once he made sure you were settled, he walked back around the front of the truck, stopping in front of Bucky with a look of cold disappointment.

“You need to fuckin’ calm down, man,” Steve whisper yelled. He gestured angrily toward the truck—toward you. “Find your own ride home, ‘cause this—all of this—is unacceptable.”

Bucky didn’t lift his head. He didn’t even try fighting back. He just stood there, staring down at the scuffed leather of his boots, his hat shielding his broken eyes as the realization of what he’d just done—of what he just said, finally began to settle in the cold, dusty air.

As the truck started and you and Steve drove off, you glanced at Bucky one last time through the side mirror. You saw him standing there in the red glow of the taillights, staring down at the hat in his hands—the one you’d just shoved back at him.

He looked at it longingly before shouting outloud to himself—angry and broken.

“Fuck!”

The entire ride back to their house was suffocatingly silent. It was clear that there were a lot of things Steve wanted to say to you, but the words wouldn’t find him.

When you finally made it back, you crossed the front door with Steve trailing cautiously behind you. Steve let out a long, tired sigh, shutting the door softly as you immediately started toward Bucky’s room to gather your things.

“You’re not actually goin’ to leave us, are you?”

You frowned, though Steve couldn’t see it with your back turned to him. “He hates me, Steve. I’m…” your voice shook as you stared down the hallway. “There’s no space for me here. I shouldn’t have turned up on your doorstep with no warning. He was right—I shouldn’t have come.”

You continued down the hall and into Bucky’s room while Steve followed at a respectful distance. You knelt in the middle of the room as you began shoving your clothes back into your suitcase.

Steve let out a low groan as he knelt down next to you. He reached out, running a hand up and down your back in a slow, soothing motion, trying to comfort you.

“Honey, he… he didn’t mean any of that,” he said. He swallowed hard, realizing how ridiculous that might’ve sounded to you. “Buck’s a guy that’s rough around the edges. Always has been. When he lashes out like that, it just means he cares. He doesn’t know how to handle feelin’ like this.”

“He cares?” you let out a small, incredulous laugh that felt more like a sob. “He doesn’t care about me, Steve. The only thing he cares about is me being out of his hair.”

You picked up another piece of clothing, your shoulders slumping as your eyes began to fill with hot, frustrated tears. You kept your head down, chin tucked toward your chest. You refused to let Steve see you like this before he started thinking you were just a helpless kid, too. Just like Bucky said.

You stood up and reached for a shirt left on the bed, a broken sniffle escaping you as you tried to fold the fabric with trembling hands.

Steve’s heart felt weak in his chest at the sound. He got up, stepping behind you and resting a steady hand on your back. He leaned down, trying to meet your eyes and gently pushing a stray lock of hair out of your face.

When he finally saw a tear roll down your cheek, he looked absolutely destroyed.

“Oh, baby. No, no... come here,” he murmured softly. He wrapped two strong arms around you, pulling you firmly into his chest.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Being in the comfort of something so warm after being faced with such coldness was enough to send the tears flowing freely. Your arms came up weakly to hug him back, your face buried against his shirt as you cried.

“He’s got a heart like a bruised fist,” Steve whispered into your hair, his chest rumbling against your ear. “And he doesn’t know how to open it without hurting someone. But you aren’t a nuisance, and you sure as hell aren’t helpless. I’m gonna have a talk with him, and you’re gonna stay here and enjoy the rest of your trip—with us.”

You sniffled, clutching the front of his shirt. “I can’t stay where I’m not wanted, Steve.”

Steve slowly guided you down onto the edge of the bed without letting go.

“Sit with me, sweetheart. Just for a minute,” he urged gently, his voice low and steady.

You sank onto the quilt, the fabric bunching under you as Steve sat right beside you. He pulled you back into the crook of his arm, tucking you in so your head rested on his shoulder. He took one of your hands in his, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles in a soothing motion to stop your shaking.

“I need you to listen to me for a second. Can you do that?”

You nodded against his chest as his fingers began to trace your back tenderly.

“I want you here, and believe me, Bucky does too. Hell, does he want you here.” He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest as he tried to lighten the mood. “Earlier today, when he caught you wearin’ his hat... he would not stop talkin’ ‘bout it. Said you looked better in it than he ever did.”

You lifted your head slightly, wiping your nose with the back of your hand as you looked up at him. “Really?”

“Really,” Steve promised, a small smile playing on his lips. “Called you pretty and all that, but don’t tell him I said it.”

Steve’s expression softened even further, his gaze turning intense as he looked down at you. He reached up, his large hand cupping your cheek as he used his thumb to brush the last of the dampness from your skin. He pushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch warm against your skin as his finger trailed down, tracing over the curve of your bottom lip.

“And he’s right,” Steve murmured deeply, making your body shiver. “Who wouldn’t go a little insane over a girl as beautiful as you?”

Your face felt warm, and you couldn’t tell if it was the remnant of your tears or from the intense way Steve was staring at you.

“Steve…” you whispered, your breath hitching as you felt his thumb graze your lips again.

Steve sucked in a sharp breath, relishing the way his name sounded on your tongue. “You know, your dad told us to take good care of you when you arrived. And now, here you are, cryin’ in Bucky’s bed and packin’ your bags.” He muttered, leaning in until his hot breath ghosted over your face. “We’re not doin’ a very good job now, are we?”

Steve applied pressure to your bottom lip, dragging it down to reveal the wet flesh. “I think I’d like to do a much better job,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to your mouth and staying there. “Starting now.”

You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, your tears shimmering like glass against the warm glow of the lamp. Steve let out a low, pained groan at the sight of you—so vulnerable, and yet so devastatingly inviting.

“God… you really are so beautiful,” he rasped.

With his gaze fixed on your mouth, he pushed his thumb past the seal of your lips, his finger pressing firmly against your tongue. It was unexpected—it was wrong for a ‘family friend’ to be doing this—but you couldn’t help your eyes fluttering shut instinctively. Without thinking, you sucked on his thumb, the heat of your mouth swirling around his skin.

Steve’s entire body went rigid. You were so accepting of him, so eager for the comfort he was offering, and he should’ve expected it—because you were a good girl, after all.

“Christ, baby,” he breathed, his voice slightly cracking.

Steve watched with hooded eyes as your lips moved against him, the way your tongue flicked around his digit. If it felt this good with just a finger, he could only imagine the wreck you’d make of him with his cock buried in your mouth instead.

With your eyes still shut, you heard him let out a deep, jagged groan as he shifted his weight on the bed. Your eyes fluttered open, and your gaze fell directly onto the obvious bulge straining against his denim. It was heavy and prominent, twitching as it jumped for your attention.

You blinked up at him, your breath hitching as your eyes met his again.

The idea of arousing a man so much older than you—someone so wise and experienced in his years—gave you a thrill that should’ve sparked guilt. This was your father’s friend, a man meant to be your protector, but for some reason, the wrongness of it only made the heat in your stomach burn hotter.

Clenching your legs, your mouth continued to explore his thumb. Your hand came up against his thick forearm, holding him steady as you swirled your tongue, tasting the salt on his skin as you watched him watch you with hungry eyes.

Steve was trembling under your touch, his breath coming in shallow pants.

Then, his eyes lifted past yours, landing on something—someone at the doorframe.

“Bucky,” Steve panted.

Your eyes went wide. You immediately popped Steve’s thumb out of your mouth, a thread of saliva breaking from his finger as you whipped your head toward the door.

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice was deep, almost broken, as his eyes flickered from his best friend to you. “Sam gave me a ride home,” he explained, his voice low as he took a slow, predatory step toward the two of you on the bed.

In that moment, you wished you’d just packed and begged Steve to drive you straight to the airport. Bucky’s expression was dark and unreadable, his eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat—you couldn’t tell if he was about to explode or crumble.

You were expecting him to yell. You expected him to drag you by the arm, kick you out the front door, and hurl your luggage after you.

But he didn’t.

He just stood over you, the hat you’d borrowed gripped so tight in his hand that the felt was beginning to crush. You swallowed hard as you met his gaze. You should’ve been terrified, but you couldn’t deny the lingering arousal Steve had sparked in you.

Because right now, with the way Bucky was looking at you... it was almost like you wanted to be hurt by him.

“Bucky… I—”

Slowly, Bucky reached out. You flinched, expecting a rough shove, but his hand was surprisingly gentle as he hooked two fingers under your chin, forcing you to tilt your head back. He stared at your mouth, his eyes tracking the wet shine of saliva on your bottom lip.

“You tell me you’re packin’ your bags, and just when I think you’ll finally leave me alone, I come home and find you suckin’ on my best friend’s thumb like a baby?”

You glanced at Steve out of the corner of your eye, desperate for some sort of backup. But instead, you found Steve staring intensely at Bucky’s lap. Your eyes followed his, and a small gasp escaped at what you saw.

You didn’t know how long Bucky had been standing in that doorway watching you two, but the undeniable erection straining against his jeans told you he’d seen more than enough.

“Answer me,” Bucky hissed. He gave your cheeks a firm squeeze, the pressure forcing your lips to pout and making you look back up at him. “You want to stay so bad?” he whispered, leaning down until his nose brushed against yours. “You want to be taken care of by us, don’t you?”

After seeing the physical reaction Bucky had from watching you and Steve, and despite being pinned beneath him, you felt emboldened.

“… Do you want me to stay?” you whispered, refusing to break eye contact. “Do you want to take care of me, Bucky?”

Bucky’s expression went completely flat. He released your face and set your hat down on the quilt.

“Steve’s a gentleman,” Bucky said, gravelly and raspy. “He’ll give you a shoulder to cry on and tell you everythin’ is gonna be alright. But if you’re gonna stay in this house, under my roof, you’re gonna have to deal with me, too. And I don’t play as nice as he does.”

Steve’s hand slowly crept over your thigh, giving the soft skin a firm, possessive squeeze as he leaned in. His eyes cut up toward Bucky, challenging him.

“She thinks you don’t care ‘bout her, Buck,” Steve murmured, his voice low and raspy against your ear. “I think our girl here wants to see firsthand how much you do.”

Ours.

Bucky’s pupils flared at the word, his gaze dropping to where Steve’s fingers were digging into your skin and trailing up the hem of your skirt. He scoffed—a hard, bitter laugh that sounded more like a growl.

“Is that right?”

Steve’s hand bunched the fabric upward, his rough knuckles grazing your skin until the material pooled around your hips. He nudged your shoulders, urging you to lean back against the pillows until you were splayed open before them, revealing the thin cotton panties Bucky had caught a glimpse of earlier when he’d walked in on you changing.

Bucky’s breath hitched, his eyes locking onto the pale fabric. It was just as he remembered—except now, a dark, damp patch was blooming in the center, hinting your arousal.

“You know…” Steve began, his voice teasing as he looked up at Bucky’s tortured expression. “Bucky here was talkin’ reeaal dirty about you earlier, darlin’. You just didn’t know it.”

You shuddered, your eyes—half-lidded—glanced up at Bucky. You expected him to deny it, but all you saw was his slack jaw and the way his hand was mindlessly rubbing at the ache in his jeans.

“He told me how he wanted to pin those wrists of yours above your head,” Steve whispered, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. “Said he wanted to see if you’d make those same sweet little sounds if he was buried deep inside you instead of just yellin’ at you and bein’ mean to you...”

You gasped softly, your face flaming.

It was as if Bucky couldn't even hear him— the blood was thumping so loud in his ears he could only focus on the sight of you. His knee hit the mattress, the bed dipping as he crawled between your legs, looming over the damp cotton of your panties.

“And that’s not even the best part,” Steve continued, his hand moving to the waistband of your panties, his thumb hooking just inside the elastic. “He told me he wanted to mark you so bad your daddy wouldn’t even recognize you. Wanted to leave his teeth marks all over these pretty thighs just so everyone knew exactly who you belonged to.”

Steve’s gaze shifted back to you, his eyes heavy and half-lidded. He leaned in closer, his thumb tugging slightly at the elastic of your panties, revealing your mound to Bucky’s gaze.

“But then you had to go on and get on that bull,” he muttered, his breath hot against your cheek. “Showin’ yourself off to everyone. That’s not a good girl now, is it?”

A little mewl left your lips, and Steve chuckled—amused by your lack of response.

Bucky let out a low groan. He couldn’t take the talking anymore. His hands went to his waist, fumbling the buckle of his belt as he undid it with trembling fingers. His eyes were glued at to the damp center of your cotton panties, just begging to be licked and touched by him.

“Remove her panties, Stevie,” Bucky ordered desperately.

Steve’s eyes darkened instantly. His thumb stilled at your panties, and he looked up at Bucky, his expression shifting from teasing to territorial.

“You’ve been on thin ice all night, Buck,” Steve countered, the raspy warning of his voice making you shiver. His thumb slowly trailed down against the cotton, rubbing at the damp spot against your clit. “You better ask me real nice if you want me to share.”

You held your breath, bracing yourself as you expected him to snap—to lunge at Steve or roar in frustration at being told what to do in his own house.

But instead, Bucky’s shoulders slumped, his lips curving into a pained, desperate frown. He ducked his head, finally pulling off his hat and dropping it blindly to the floor. His dark, messy hair fell over his eyes as he stared at your lap, his chest heaving.

It was a jarring sight—the man who had been yelling at you in the parking lot was now physically shaking with the need for Steve’s approval.

“Please,” Bucky choked out in pain.

Steve kept his thumb pressing firmly against the damp cotton over your clit, circling it slowly, making you gasp and arch your hips up into his hand.

“Please what, Buck?” Steve prompted calmly.

Bucky’s breath hitched, a broken sound leaving his throat as he finally looked up. His blue eyes, usually so gruff and distant, were glassy and pleading. He looked like a man starving, and you were the only meal in sight.

“Please, Stevie… let me see her,” Bucky begged in a desperate whimper. “Let me have her. I’m sorry. Just… please take ‘em off. I’ll be good.”

Steve hummed, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He looked down at you, his thumb never ceasing that slow rub against your slit, making the damp cotton cling to your skin with every pass.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” Steve asked. “You want Bucky to make it up to you?”

You looked from Steve’s calm, commanding face to Bucky, who was still kneeling between your legs, trembling. His eyes were wide, glued on the movement of Steve’s thumb, his tongue darting out to lick his dry lips as he waited for your verdict.

The difference in how he’s acting was dizzying—Bucky, the man who had spent the day pushing you away with cold glares was now hanging on your every word.

But after how he’d treated you, you weren't ready to let him off the hook.

You almost felt bad for what you were going to say next.

“I don’t know, Stevie,” you taunted, using Bucky’s nickname for Steve against him. “I don’t think he deserves it.”

Bucky’s face went from pleading to almost murderous in a heartbeat. A low growl ripped from his throat as he lunged forward, his hand snapping out to grab the hem of your panties.

“What did you just say—”

Before he could even tug the fabric down, Steve’s hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around Bucky’s forearm, forcing him to halt.

“You heard the lady, Buck,” Steve warned, his voice turning cold and authoritative. “You don’t deserve it. Not yet.”

Bucky looked up, his chest heaving as he stared at Steve with wide, disbelieving eyes. “W-what?”

“I’m gonna have my turn with her,” Steve declared. He released Bucky's arm, his hand sliding instead to your waist to pull you flush against his chest, claiming you in front of him. “And you’re going to be good and watch.”

You didn't even have time to process Bucky’s shock before Steve’s rough hands were threading through your hair. He fisted the strands to tilt your head back, pulling you flush against his chest as his lips crashed onto yours. His tongue pushed past your teeth, deep and demanding, intertwining with yours as he drank you in like a man dying of thirst.

Your mind spun, caught in a dizzying haze of desire.

You had never been kissed with such need, much less by a man twice your age, whose experience and strength made you feel so small and claimed.

“Fuck,” you heard Bucky groan, the curse followed by the rattle of a belt being yanked through loops and the friction of denim being pushed down.

Steve ground his hips against your leg, the hardness making you ache for more. Your only coherent thought was the desperate wish that he’d follow suit—that he’d also strip out of those jeans and let you feel him properly.

Moaning softly against Steve’s lips, you couldn’t help but peek your eyes opening, flickering over to Bucky.

He was kneeling at the edge of the bed, his face grimaced into tortured longing. One hand was fisted tightly around his cock, stroking in a frantic, uneven rhythm, while his other fingers were clutching the bedsheets as he watched you being devoured by his best friend.

Bucky was being good—doing exactly as Steve had instructed. But the second Steve spread your legs wider, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and peeling them down to reveal your wet cunt, Bucky felt the last of his restraint snap.

He squeezed his dick hard, a mewl—or a whimper—escaped his throat.

“Steve, please,” he begged, the words ragged with pain as he stroked himself faster, his breath coming in short, shallow hitches. “I’m… I’m so hard. I can’t take it anymore.”

Steve ignored him. His lips never left yours as his own hands found his belt, the metallic of the buckle and the slide of the zipper echoing through the room, only making Bucky more agitated.

Desperate to hear more of Bucky crumbling apart for you, you trailed your hand up your side, cupping your own breast through the fabric of your dress and squeezing. You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know his reaction—you could hear the air being punched out of his lungs.

“Fuck, look at her—look at that little slut,” Bucky groaned, the mattress dipping and groaning as he scooted closer, unable to keep his distance a second longer. “She’s askin’ for it now. Steve, tell me she's askin’ for it.”

Steve sat up, the bed creaking under his weight as he freed himself from his jeans. He wrapped a thick hand around his cock, giving it a few heavy strokes that had your eyes widening.

He was big. And you weren’t sure how it was going to fit.

He leaned forward, the head of his cock probing against your entrance, smearing your own slickness back and forth over your sensitive folds. He was teasing you, pushing just a fraction of an inch inside before pulling back, over and over, until you were arching off the back in a desperate attempt for friction.

“Are you seein’ this, Buck?” Steve murmured, his eyes watching Bucky’s face, watching his best friend’s eyes trace over every wet, sliding movement of his cock against your skin. “Look at how she’s openin’ up for me.”

It was pure torture for Bucky, but it was agonizing for you, too. Your hands fisted the sheets as you tried to tilt your pelvis up to catch him, but Steve held you firmly in place with his free hand on your hip.

“Steve, please,” you whimpered, your voice breaking.

Steve let out a dark, amused chuckle, his gaze still locked on Bucky—whose hand was moving in a blurred frenzy against his own cock. “You hear that, Buck? She wants it so bad. She wants me to take care of her.”

Bucky let out a strangled sound. “I hear her, Stevie. God, I hear her. Let me… let me help. Please let me hold her while you fuck her.”

You tilted your head back, your hair spilling across the pillows as you looked up at Bucky. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign that you would finally let him in after the way he’d treated you.

“Hold me, Bucky.”

Bucky sucked in a breath, his hand pausing at his cock as he glanced at Steve, waiting for the final word.

Steve gave him a sharp, single nod. “Come here, Buck,” Steve commanded, his voice thick and low. “Hold her while I fuck her.”

The mattress dipped violently as Bucky scrambled forward, crawling up the bed urgently. He didn’t just touch you—he cradled you, gently lifting your head onto his lap. His hands came up to frame your face, and you could feel his slick fingers from his pre-cum trail your face.

You stared up at him, breathless and upside down, as he loomed over you, breathing heavy at the sight of you desperate for them.

“Jesus,” Bucky breathed, his pupils so blown they’d nearly swallowed the blue of his irises. “So fuckin’ beautiful up close, too.”

Steve leaned forward, his large hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he finally guided himself in. Your mouth dropped into an o-shape as he pushed in slowly, his thick cock stretching you inch by inch. You let out a sharp wince, your back arching off Bucky’s lap as he forced your walls to accommodate him.

Bucky’s face scrunched into a pained expression—as if he were feeling every bit of the stretch you were.

“I know, baby doll—I know,” he whispered, his voice broken. “He’s so big, ain’t he?”

You nodded, eyes watering as you looked up at him. “So big…”

Bucky’s cock was twitching beneath you, his pre-cum leaking and trailing along your skin as he watched his best friend’s length disappear in and out of your wet cunt.

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned. “Need… need to feel somethin’ too, baby doll.”

Shifting his hips, he laid you flat on the bed and shuffled to the side of your head, his cock springing free as he knelt beside you. His fist returned to his length, his thumb swiping over the tip to smear his pre-cum over the swollen head.

“Bucky…” you breathed, your body jolting as Steve buried his full length into you. “W-what are you—”

Your words were cut off as Bucky’s salt slicked tip rubbed against the curve of your lips—still puffy and sensitized from Steve. A low, ragged groan escaped him at the contact with your mouth.

“Need… need somethin’ warm and tight,” Bucky hissed through clenched teeth, his control evaporated. “Can’t take it anymore.”

Bucky glanced at Steve, who watched him with heavy, half-lidded eyes. “I ain’t waitin’ anymore,” Bucky snapped defiantly. “Punish me later for all I fuckin’ care. I need to fuck her mouth.”

Inside you, you felt Steve’s cock twitch at the mention of his friend’s own punishment.

“Careful,” Steve warned, his breath hitching. “Go easy on her, Buck. She’s so—fuck, she’s so tight down here… I don’t know if she can take you all the way in her mouth either.”

Despite the warning, Steve was very much losing the battle for his own control. His grip on your hips were tight, forcing himself to maintain that slow, agonizingly deep movement even as his own body screamed to pick up the pace and fuck you ruthlessly.

“I don’t give a damn,” Bucky grunted.

He fisted his hand in your hair, giving it a harsh, possessive tug to tilt your head back toward his lap. He slapped his cock against your lips, the wet, heavy sound of it making you wince as his masculine scent filled your lungs.

“Open up,” he ordered, his pupils so blown with lust that his eyes looked like bottomless black pits.

Your cunt clenched tighter around Steve as Bucky’s tip parted your lips to let himself in. His thick length dragged past your teeth and along your tongue, sliding deep until he hit the back of your throat. You let out a muffled, helpless choke around him—a sound that only made Bucky groan, his head tossing back in visceral pleasure.

“Thaaat’s it,” he cooed with a rasp. He drew his hips back slowly, letting you catch your breath for a split second before rocking hard against your face again. “Breathe through your nose, baby doll. Just take it.”

Bucky began to move, his movements were frantic and messy compared to Steve’s slow and easy rhythm inside you.

“Look at him, sweetheart,” Steve rumbled, his voice dropping condescending. “Look at how pathetic he is. After all that growlin’ and actin’ like a big man earlier, here he is now…”

You blinked through a haze of tears, watching as Bucky’s face scrunched in pure, agonizing pleasure. His forehead wrinkles were deeply lined, his eyes rolling back as his thrusts against your mouth became sloppier, driven by pure needy instinct.

Strings of saliva and drool slicked your chin, dripping down to the base of his cock with every frantic thrust. Every time your lips made wet, heavy contact with his heavy slicked balls, Bucky let out a deep, raspy groan that vibrated through your tongue—a sound so primal it made you clench even harder around Steve.

“Christ,” Steve moaned, his head dropping as his pace finally fractured faster and more desperate. “She’s squeezin’ me, Buck.”

Bucky huffed a shaky, dark laugh, his fingers tightening in your hair to hold you steady. “You like this, don’t you?” he grunted, looking down at your tear streaked face. “Bein’ used by your daddy’s two best friends. Shit... we’re supposed to be watchin’ over you. Keepin’ you safe. But instead, we’re just ruinin’ you.”

“Old enough to be her father,” Steve agreed with a rough, mocking laugh. He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, tilting your hips up to plunge even deeper, his thick length stretching you to your absolute limit.

“Now look at her. She’s ‘sposed to call us uncle, and now she’s got your cock in her mouth and mine stuffed deep in her cunt. She’s a filthy little thing, ain’t she?”

Bucky’s cock pulsed deep in your mouth after Steve’s filthy words registered. Your face was hot with shame, but you didn't care. The room reeled with the scent of sex and Bucky’s masculine musk, and all you wanted was to be filled by these two older men.

“Fuck—her daddy’s gonna kill us,” Bucky gasped as your tongue flicked against the sensitive underside of his head. “But I don’t fuckin’ care. It feels too good to stop.”

Steve’s thumb pressed against your sensitive clit, making you arch your back and muffle useless moans around Bucky’s cock. You felt like you were getting close—with the filthy words that they were both spurring, mixed with moans and grunts filling the air—it was becoming too much.

Your walls fluttered around Steve, and he barked out a rough laugh. “Fuck, she’s cummin’ all over my cock!”

“You know what that means, Stevie.” Bucky groaned, his dark eyes meeting his. “Means she’s beggin’ you to breed her. Beggin’ you to put your cum where it doesn't belong.”

You let out a broken whine, your vision blurring as your orgasm ripped through you. You came hard, sobbing around Bucky’s cock as Steve continued to piston into you like a rabid animal, uncaring of your sensitive state.

“Yeah?” Steve moaned, his thrusts turning sloppy and heavy as his own release caught up. “Shit—I think you’re right, Buck. I'm gonna fill her up.”

Your father had practically sent you into a den of wolves, leaving you to fend for yourself against men who had been starving. Steve and Bucky pawed at your body with a desperate hunger, the sounds leaving their throats sounding less like men and more like animals scenting prey.

Steve’s hips began to rut against yours uncontrollably, his breathing turning into a series of uneven, jagged hitches. He buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock throbbing violently against your cervix before he finally snapped. You let out a muffled cry as he came, a heavy, searing stream of cum flooding your overstimulated flesh, filling you until you felt like you were overflowing.

You saw Bucky’s balls draw up tight against your lips, , and as his fist tightened in your hair, you knew he was about to cum, too.

“That’s right,” Bucky encouraged, his voice dry. “Fill her up, Stevie. Make sure she’s spillin’ over with your cum, and then I’m gonna finish inside her, too.”

Bucky’s cock popped out of your mouth with a wet, sloppy sound, leaving a string of saliva trailing down your chin. Before you could even draw a full breath, Steve was pulling out of you, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you feeling cold and hollow for a split second.

But you didn’t stay empty for long.

“S-Steve?” you whimpered.

Bucky shuffled around the mattress as Steve moved to the side to make room. Bucky scrambled into the space between your thighs where Steve once was, his face dark and distorted with hunger. He wrapped his hand around his cock—now red, angry, and pulsing—and rubbed the head up and down your slit, slicking himself through the mess Steve had left behind.

A thick, pearly blend of his best friend’s seed and your own wetness coated the entire length of him. Bucky groaned at the sight, the friction of Steve’s fluids making him growl.

Using your arms to weakly prop yourself up, your stared at Bucky wide-eyed.

“Bucky… I—”

“You’re gonna be a good girl for him now,” Steve interrupted. He wasn’t asking. He was demanding.

With a heavy breath, Bucky guided himself against your entrance and pushed past the tightness, your walls enveloping him just as it did with Steve, except it was more intense this time.

“Oh my god—!” your eyes bulged wide, your breath leaving your lungs.

Bucky was thicker—and with your pussy already so raw and overstimulated, the feeling of him claiming that space was overwhelming. You were stretched deliciously, every nerve ending burned as he buried himself to the hilt.

“Look at you,” Bucky rasped, a shameful, shaky laugh bubbling in his chest as his lungs burned.

“God—when I found out…” he rocked his hips into you, Steve’s leftover seed making a wet, squelching sound. “…your daddy was gonna have a baby girl—shit, I was so ready to take care of you. I promised I’d be there for you, for Christ’s sake.”

He grabbed both of your legs, lifting them high and urging you to lock them around his waist so he could get even deeper.

“I never thought I’d be balls deep inside his precious girl.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Steve lectured, his voice mocking. He gave himself slow, lazy strokes over his half-hard cock, his eyes stuck on the way your entrance was struggling to accommodate Bucky’s thickness.

“You should be beggin’ her father for forgiveness right now. But she feels too good, doesn’t she?”

Bucky growled, his eyes glassing over as he watched his thick length disappear in and out of your wet, stretched out heat.

“Hell yeah, she does.” He met your eyes now. “You’re so much tighter than a girl your age ‘ought to be for dirty, old men like us. You were made to be ruined, weren’t you, baby doll?”

You looked up at Bucky, and the sight of him between your legs—his composure fraying and completely undone, made your head spin with a dizzying rush of power.

“Bucky,” you panted, eyes half-lidded as you held his hungry gaze. “I want you to forget who my father is. I want to be the reason you can never look him in the eye again.” You swallowed hard, your fingers digging into the mattress. “Fill me up just like Stevie did… show me how much you really want to take care of me.”

Bucky’s eyes went wide, his pupils swallowing the blue as he processed the absolute, unadulterated filth coming from the girl he was sworn to protect.

Steve huffed a laugh, already feeling his cock twitch at your words. “Jesus—this girl…”

He had been close to bursting when he was in your mouth, but now, being swallowed by your tight pussy while those dirty words rang in his ears, it was too fucking much. His cock trembled and pulsed in a final, violent act of betrayal against his conscience.

He was close. Too fucking close.

“You little…” Bucky choked out, his voice failing him.

He grabbed your hips together, pulling you impossibly closer until the tip of his cock kissed your cervix.

“Fine,” he hissed, face scrunching in pleasure. “You want me to fill you up? I’ll fuckin’ knock you up, doll. You’re gonna carry my mess and Stevie’s all the way back home, and you’re gonna smile at your daddy while our cum is leakin’ out of you.”

The words were like a match to a fuse.

Between the wet slap of his thighs against yours and the rough sounds of his heavy breathing, you hit another breaking point. Your walls began to spasm, tightening down on him so hard that it made Bucky’s head roll back.

“Bucky… I—ah!”

Your pussy clenched almost painfully around Bucky’s cock. Even after the fucking Steve gave you, you were still so tight—and cumming again while Bucky was still buried deep made him grind his teeth together, his jaw clenching as he fucked you right through your second climax.

“Steve,” Bucky gasped as he fought to hold back his own release for just a second longer. “Steve, she’s—fuck, she’s goin’ again.”

Steve grinned, leaning over Bucky’s trembling shoulder. His large hand reached around your waist, overlapping Bucky’s grip, while his other palm rested on Bucky’s lower back—pushing him even deeper.

“That’s it, Buck,” Steve rumbled against Bucky’s ear. “Don’t you dare pull out. You put it right where I put mine. Got it?”

Bucky hissed, his hips moving in a frantic, uneven stutter as he felt himself unwinding. “Fu-fuck, okay—I’ll cum inside, just like you told me to—shit!”

He bottomed out completely, his entire body locking into a rigid arch. “Fuck!”

His length pulsed violently inside you—his cock streaming thick, hot ropes of heat into your overstimulated cunt. He was absolutely flooding you, his seed mixing with Steve’s and filling you until you felt heavy and stretched to the brim.

“Oh my god,” Bucky breathed, his chest heaving as he gave your hip a final, possessive squeeze. He looked down, taking in the sight of how completely debauched you looked. “I… shit. That felt too damn good.”

“Good boy,” Steve praised softly, his hand moving to stroke Bucky’s damp hair before his eyes dropped to the messy, wet junction of your thighs. “Look at that. She’s so full of us.”

Steve leaned down, gently pushing a stray hair out of your sweaty face. He gave you a soft, boyish smile—one that looked entirely too innocent given his age and the brutal way they had just had their way with you.

“Now, you’re not still thinkin’ about leavin’ us, are you?”

Bucky’s jaw remained slack, his chest heaving in heavy breaths as he stared down at you.

“No,” he rasped. “She ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You could barely process their words. Your head felt light, and your limbs turning to jelly against the damp, sweaty sheets. The air in the room was stifling—heavy with the scent of sex and musk. Every time you tried to draw a full breath, your lungs felt weighted, and your eyelids began to flutter, growing heavy.

Steve and Bucky stayed right where they were, hovering over you like two twin peaks of heat and muscle.

“Aww, look at her,” Steve cooed, his voice dropping tenderly yet still mocking. He reached out, his calloused thumb gently brushing a tear off your cheek. “The little baby’s fallin’ asleep on us, Buck.”

“I know,” Bucky breathed, his body finally beginning to soften inside you, yet he still refused to pull out—anchored in place as your body began to shut down. “We put her through a lot today. When she wakes up, we should…—”

Bucky’s voice trailed off into a low, indistinct murmur as your eyelids finally failed you. The room faded into a hazy blur.

With your body overstimulated, heavy, and utterly spent, the only thing you could think of—the only thought that managed to pierce through the fog of exhaustion—was how the hell you were ever going to explain this to your dad.

thank you so much for taking the time to read my work! this is my longest fic ever, and i tried my best to proofread as much as i can so apologize for any mistakes. and in case you haven't noticed, yes, the fic title is inspired by the song tennessee whiskey!

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[smorgaswhored]

null & void (part three)

pairing: sugar daddy!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (p-in-v & unprotected, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, lots of dirty talk, edging, p-pronouns, light p-inspection, mentions of somno and free use), dom!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, no mentions of y/n

word count: 10.7k

part one - part two - masterlist

summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…

sammy speaks: wow I’m at a loss for words again. thank you so much for the love on this series! it’s been so fun going on this ride with all of you, and I really hope you enjoy this final part!!! don’t worry, sugar daddy Bucky will be back soon (;

Things are…different when you return home.

Bucky is as charming and attentive as ever, but his touches have grown fleeting, infrequent, passive. Somehow he orchestrates a healthy amount of distance between the two of you whenever you’re next to him that reminds you of your early days together.

And what he lacks for in physical contact he tries to make up for with gifts. You’ve never had such an onslaught of surprises from him before: dresses, jewelry, shoes, handbags, a new laptop, a new phone; you’re forced to draw the line at a car, a beautiful red convertible that looks like one button could turn it into a space ship.

“Bucky, I don’t even have my license.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t look at it, doll.”

It sits untouched in his parking garage for weeks.

He still dedicates most of his time to you, he still texts you every minute of the day when you’re not together, he still deposits money into your account and makes you promise him that you’ll treat yourself.

But he doesn’t stare into your eyes while holding you close anymore. His lips don’t linger against your skin when he places a kiss on your forehead.

It’s still him, still Bucky — just at an arm’s length away. And it’s maddening. You miss him — even when he’s standing right in front of you, you miss him.

But you don’t push it. You’ve done enough. Keeping him happy is the goal, and if an added six inches of space makes him happy, then that’s what you’ll do.

Unfortunately this means sleepovers have been very rare since returning from the Maldives. Your toothbrush sits untouched next to his in the bathroom for days, your side of the bed tucked in immaculately for weeks. Your heart throbs painfully each time you look at his bedroom door, so you start avoiding looking at it altogether.

Neither of you say anything — it’s the obvious elephant in the room, but you keep it in the corner and ignore it as if you both explicitly agreed on it, even though you didn’t.

Instead, you end your nights by giving him a small smile and flashing your phone, declaring Bob’s arrived to pick you up, and he gives you a small smile back before riding down the elevator with you and walking you to the car. Before he shuts the door, a voice in your head screams at him to stop you, to ask you to come back up and spend the night cuddled up to his chest where you belong.

But he doesn’t.

It hurts every time.

You know tonight will be no different. You’ll cook dinner, you’ll sit a foot apart on the couch while you half-heartedly watch Below Deck, you’ll make small talk about his work, and then you’ll leave. Rinse and repeat.

Your night is off to a very bad start.

Bucky calls you when you’re five minutes from his place, slouched in your seat in the back of Bob’s car.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and tired. “I’m gonna be late — I’m held up at the office. The CFO quit today and our lawyers got a tip off that he’s been funneling deal information to Hydra Investment Partners for the last month. Fucking Rumlow—“ He cuts himself off with a growl. “So I gotta meet with them to go over the non-compete and start building a case.”

“Shit,” you breathe. “I’m sorry, Bucky, that’s awful.“

“Yeah. It’s a goddamn mess, and it’s only gonna get bigger.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“We can reschedule if you want—“

“No, I want to see you. I think it’s the only thing that could make this day better.”

You bite your lip. “Okay, if you’re sure…”

“Positive. I’ll see you at home in a couple hours.”

The line goes dead. You catch Bob’s questioning look in the rear view mirror and summon a smile. “All good, Bob.” He gives you a salute and drives on.

Bucky’s penthouse is dead silent when you step into it. A light is on over the stove, but the rest of the apartment is dark. A half-drunk mug of coffee sits in the sink, an unchosen tie is draped across the kitchen island, and a protein bar wrapper is discarded on the floor near the trash.

Bucky oozes out of every displaced item and unobtrusive mess around the place. You can picture him clear as day in your head creating these nuances: tossing papers to the other end of the couch when his eyes grow too tired, kicking his dress shoes off haphazardly as soon as he gets through the elevator doors. It makes you want to laugh as much as it makes you want to cry, being able to see him living his life so clearly just from an out-of-place wrapper.

Or maybe you want to cry because there’s a part of his life that exists without you around.

You shake your head. There you go again with the dramatics. You’ve been seesawing between rational and irrational since finals — you’d think you’d be leveled out by now. But you suppose unrequited love might make a person a little imbalanced.

You start on dinner before the silence of the apartment can press too hard against your heart. You turn on the TV for some background noise and hum a nameless tune to keep you company. Thankfully, you fall into the motions of preparing the dish with ease, and time slips by unnoticed.

You’re turning down the heat on the risotto when the elevator doors open and Bucky spills out of them.

He looks just shy of defeated, the color drained from his face and chosen tie askew. He shrugs off his suit jacket with a groan and it crumples to the floor. Your lip wobbles between a pout and a smile seeing it lying there.

“Hey, doll,” he mutters, sliding in beside you to place a chaste kiss against your hair.

“Hi,” you say softly. “How did it go?”

“About as good as it could go, but that doesn’t make it any easier. He’s clearly violating the non-compete, but now we have to get the evidence that he’s been passing information along, and that could take months.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s gonna be a long fucking spring,” he replies, slumping into a seat at the counter. He undoes the tie around his neck, tossing it next to the forgotten one from this morning. “Smells amazing,” he adds, voice warmer.

“You’re just saying that, I told you I’m not a great cook.”

He rolls his eyes, popping open the top three buttons of his shirt. You turn quickly back to the stove to avoid the sight of his chest hair. The fucking chest hair that started this mess.

“I don’t think you’ve ever cooked for me before.”

“You never let me.”

“I find that hard to believe when it’s my job to give you what you want.” Your stomach does a filthy little flip.

“Every time I offered, you told me to go study instead.”

“Hmm. Well I’d say that’s a pretty valid reason to say no to you, then.”

“Always taking care of me, aren’t ya?” you tease.

“I try,” he says, and his tone is more serious than before. You gulp.

Bucky asks about your day because he always does, no matter his mood or circumstances, and you fill him in on the stream of trivial events that made up your schedule: breakfast at the cafe around the corner from your apartment, vet appointment for Lucky, lunch with a girl from your class who shows promise as a new friend, you started a book you’d been meaning to read, manicure and pedicure, and also…

“I got an email from my Digital Marketing Analytics professor,” you say, stirring the risotto. “He sent me some details on this position opening up at a marketing firm next month — he knows a few of the higher ups there and thought I’d be a good fit for it. Asked if I wanted him to write me a letter of recommendation.”

Behind you, Bucky stays silent. You glance over your shoulder to find him on his phone, but his eyes aren’t moving.

“…So I took a look at it, and it seems like a great opportunity. The company’s well respected, Glassdoor ranks it high for employee satisfaction…401K, hybrid, four weeks paid time off…”

Bucky’s still staring blankly at his phone.

“And the role seems fair. Challenging, but the good kind. I’d be putting my degree to work, but that’s why I got it, right?” you say lightly.

“Hm,” Bucky grunts, barely audible.

You cut off the heat on the stove and turn to face him. “What do you think?”

He looks up at you finally, eyes distant, face neutral. “It sounds great.”

You wait for him to say more — he doesn’t. Your jaw falls open slightly. “Oh. Well…good.”

He’s back to his phone. The lines of his shoulders are rigidly straight, a muscle in his jaw ticks. You play back every word you just said, trying to figure out where you went wrong with the conversation.

“I think I’ll tell him to write me the recommendation, then.”

“Hm.”

You tilt your head. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, but his fingers grip his phone tighter. “I’m fine. Just…thinking about Rumlow.”

You pause before speaking, letting his words sit. “Okay…”

You begin serving up the food, your mind still analyzing Bucky’s sudden change in behavior. He was perfectly fine when you mentioned the lunch with your classmate, and he seemed smug when you admitted you treated yourself to the nail appointment.

You watch him closely when you slide his plate in front of him; he barely looks up when you set down the fork, muttering a quiet “thanks” that’s nowhere near his usual praise.

“Are you sure you’re good?” you ask as you dish up for yourself.

His phone clatters to the counter. “I said I’m fine,” he says quietly, picking up the fork and jabbing at his food. “Just stressed from work.”

You say nothing, your eyes falling to your plate. Slowly, you set it down on the counter, still empty.

“I can go,” you start, “if you need some space to…”

His head snaps up, his eyes wide. He looks like you hit him across the face. “What? Why?”

Small embers of anger begin to kindle inside of you, patience wearing thin. “You’re obviously in a mood about work,” you answer, irritation leaking into your tone. “You seemed fine earlier but it’s clearly getting to you again. I’d rather not force conversation out of you when you’re like this.”

He gapes at you, food falling from his hovering fork. He sets it down with a soft clink and closes his eyes.

“No, that’s not—“ He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. It is work, but it’s also— it’s not—“

“What is it, Bucky?” you push.

“I can’t just— it’s hard to say, you wouldn’t get it—“

You see red for a second. “Try me.”

His mouth shuts with a snap. He’s got a hundred different emotions passing through his eyes, all of them unrecognizable to you. He says nothing.

“Okay, well.” You wipe your hands on the back of your jeans with crisp resignation and reach for your purse. “Sounds like you need some time to yourself to process the Rumlow situation, so I’ll just call Bob and get out of your hair—“

“Come on,” he mutters, reaching out a hand that you ignore in favor of grabbing your phone.

“It’s fine, Bucky,” you answer airily, “you’re dealing with shit, it happens to all of us. We can just resched—“

“It’s not—“ He cuts himself off with a groan and tries again. “It’s not Rumlow, it’s you.”

You whip around. Bucky’s got his head in his heads now, staring down at his plate, shoulders slumped forward like he’s facing a losing battle. Your body stills as you take him in, this deflated version of the confident man you’ve grown to know intimately over the last eight months — you’ve never seen him like this before.

“What do you mean?” you ask slowly.

He exhales deeply, and even that shakes.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, finding your eyes. “I shouldn’t have treated you like that. You were talking about something important to you, and I blew it off. Please forgive me.”

Your anger is caught between growing into a roaring inferno, or dissipating into smoke.

“Tell me what you meant,” you demand, standing firm on the other side of the island. “How is it me?”

Bucky runs a hand down his face. He looks exhausted, conflicted, desperate…but also resolute.

“I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not you, it’s…” He takes another breath. “When you started talking about the job, I think it just…hit me. That you got what you wanted. And I panicked.”

Your lips part in question, but he continues on.

“The night we met,” he murmurs, “you told me that all you wanted to do was make it through school so that you could get a job, a job exactly like this one, and then you’d get things under control again, get your life back on track. And I said I’d help you do it. That’s how this started.” The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “Now you’re here. You’ve done it.”

“I don’t have the job yet—“

“Don’t kid yourself,” he interrupts softly. “You’ll get any job you apply for — you’re brilliant, you’re headstrong, you’re hardworking. It’s not a matter of if, it’s when.”

Bucky’s head tilts, a sad smile stretching across his face.

“I think I’ve been secretly dreading the day that ‘when’ comes. The day you don’t really need me anymore,” he says quietly.

Your breath stutters out of your lungs.

It’s written plain as day across his face that it took a lot for him to admit that, and you understand; it’s a reveal of weakness, something you didn’t think Bucky possessed, which you’re almost certain was by his design. And why should he have weaknesses? With his money, success and looks, there’s nothing for him to fear.

Except, apparently, losing you.

The irony of it all doesn’t escape you. But if he can be brave, so can you. Moving on unsteady legs, you come around to his side of the island.

“Bucky,” you tell him. “I’ll always need you. More than you know.”

His eyes flick across your face, his breathing deep.

“Yes, we only found each other because of my…financial situation,” you admit softly, “but it’s grown to be so much more than that. It — it’s crazy, how much I’ve come to depend on you. And I’ll be honest, I didn’t think it would get this far, but…but somewhere along the way, you became my best friend.”

Bucky’s shoulders sag imperceptibly. For a moment, relief crosses his face, and his eyes are the warmest you’ve seen them all night. You keep going before he can say anything, though, before you can lose your nerve.

“So I couldn’t just leave you, even if I tried,” you tell him, meeting his gaze. “Even if the parties and the vacations and the gifts stopped. Even if all your money dried up. I still wouldn’t dream of leaving you.”

Bucky releases a shaky sigh that slips into a shaky laugh. Wordlessly, he reaches out his hand, beckoning you closer; you take it, allowing him to pull you toward his chair slowly but surely.

“You don’t know what that means to me to hear that,” he murmurs, other hand folding over the one holding yours. “I’m not…I never felt like this…with my other friends,” he starts delicately. “When our time together was done, it made sense. I could wish them well and move on without looking back.”

He takes a deep breath that syncs up with your own, looking up at you through his dark eyelashes.

“But with you…I can’t even picture my life without you in it. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here for as long as I can.”

His words hit you like a battering ram. Your heart cracks from the effort of holding back every feeling you’ve pushed down, every urge you’ve suppressed. A voice floats through your head, soft but clear.

Tell him.

And for the first time since the floodgates opened, it feels right.

You take a deep, steadying breath before moving closer to him, slipping into the space between his knees. He quickly releases your hand in favor of holding onto your waist, like it’s instinct. His brow furrows in confusion, but he gives no sign of you crossing a line, so you find the courage to slip your hands into his hair, slowly, intentionally, threading your fingers through it on the back of his neck.

“Give me all of you,” your voice is barely a whisper, “that’s how you keep me.”

You watch him process your words, and it’s like seeing the sun rise for the first time; realization dawns across his face and settles with a look of searing intensity. Your heart thunders in your chest. He tugs you closer before his hands carefully cup your jaw, eyes flitting down to your lips and back up.

“All of me?” he whispers back, searching your face.

You nod, holding your breath. Bucky whispers your name reverently, and your eyes slide shut, waiting for the other shoe to drop. One excruciatingly long heartbeat later, his lips are on yours.

You melt instantly, meeting his mouth with a soft groan, your fingers tightening in his hair. He kisses you carefully, purposefully, like he’s writing the story of you and him in real time with his lips. It’s greater than anything you thought it would be, and you vow to yourself to hold onto this moment forever.

With reluctance, he pulls back enough to allow a breath, lips tenderly brushing yours, pupils blown wide.

“Are you sure?”

You let out a shaky exhale, brain scrambling to process if the kiss was a dream or reality. “Yes, I want this, Bucky. I want the last part of you that you haven’t given me yet.”

His eyes flutter shut.

“How long?”

“Since New Years,” you answer, a flush creeping up your neck. A dry smirk crosses his face.

“You mean I’ve been holding myself back for nothing?”

You pull away further, forcing his eyes open to meet yours. “What?”

He chuckles, the sound somewhere between bitter and amused. His thumb pulls down your bottom lip, sweeping across the delicate skin.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ve been in love with you since the night you walked across the city in the rain just to make sure you weren’t losing me.”

There’s a pressure growing between your ears, like the feeling that comes before you pass out; if your knees weren’t weak before, they are now. Your hand slides down to his chest, over his heart, and you fist the fabric tightly.

“You love me?” you breathe.

“Yes,” he answers, strong and certain. His blue eyes honest and open.

So you kiss him, throwing all that you have into it. He gives it all back to you, mouth dancing with yours till you can taste every emotion on his lips. “I love you,” you whisper against them. “I love you I love you I love you…” He groans, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss; his tongue brushes yours, and you let him in.

The room fades around you — it’s just you and him in the world.

He tugs you onto his lap, hands moving from your face to the small of your back. His body is warm and soft in all the right places, and you sigh into the kiss from the contact. A heat is starting to spread through you, starting in your heart but growing strongest in your core. It builds slowly, like a balloon filling up with air, and the more you get familiar with how Bucky Barnes kisses, you know it’s only a matter of time before it pops.

You pull at the collar of his shirt, he slides his hands under yours. Your skin is feverish beneath his touch, and soon enough you’re in desperate need of less clothing, less barriers between you and him. His lips chase after yours when you come up for air. “Bucky…” you whisper, fingers dancing down the buttons of his shirt.

Simultaneously, you feel him harden beneath you, the mere outline of it sending a thrill down your spine while a flicker of nervousness darts across his face.

“Doll, I…” he begins softly, “you should know, I can get…carried away in these moments. I don’t — don’t usually let my friends see this side for a reason.” He swallows roughly, brushing a hair from your eyes. “I say things, I—I do things...They can be—“ He swears softly against your jaw. “They can be a lot…”

You draw closer, your nose bumping his. “I told you I want all of you. I meant it.”

There’s a quick pause as he stills. “Promise you’ll tell me if it’s too much.”

Your core ignites, as well as your curiosity. “I promise,” you say.

Bucky seals your promise with a searing kiss, tongue pushing its way into your mouth; your surprised gasp is cut off and swallowed by him when he lifts you effortlessly from his lap, depositing you on the edge of the counter. His mouth parts from yours as he pushes you back gently, until your spine kisses the cool marble, his plate shoved out of the way and landing with a crash on the floor that you both fail to acknowledge.

Your brain spins as you watch him pant above you — you swear you’ve seen him like this before in dreams — struggling to catch up to reality. But your body is already there. You can feel the effects of his kisses dripping into your panties, soaking them through. You’d be embarrassed if Bucky didn’t look like he was ready to devour you.

His hands run down your body appreciatively, gentle and tender. As he cups your breasts through your shirt, he releases a soft noise from the back of his throat. You arch into him, nipples visible through the fabric, and he circles them with expert precision with his thumbs.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “If you knew how many times I’ve thought about this…”

He trails off, but the message is clear. You move your hands on top of his, meeting his eyes. “I’ve thought about this, too.”

He licks his lips, eyes dark with want, then moves his hands lower, reluctantly parting with your chest. His fingertips tickle your sides as they make their way to your jeans, hooking into the waistband and circling the edge until they meet in the middle. He pops the fly and drags the zipper down slowly, either to prolong the moment or to tease you brutally as his knuckle drags against the front of your underwear.

Your hands seize his again, “Bucky,” you whimper. He shushes you with another rough kiss, his stubble rubbing the skin of your chin raw in a way that you’ll never forget, even when it heals. You’d like to drag that stubble over every inch of your body.

With ease and grace that you know you don’t have, he peels your jeans down your legs; you kick them off your feet and they land on the floor behind him. Instantly, his big palms are pushing your legs apart; goosebumps erupt all over you when the cool air finds your slick panties.

Bucky stares.

But not in a way that makes you want to close your legs — in a way that makes you open them wider, any insecurities flying out the window just from the intention of his gaze. His breathing is heavy as he watches that adjustment.

“This for me?” he whispers, dragging a finger along the edge of the dark patch, outlining your entrance through the fabric.

You bite your lip and nod. His eyes flash to your face.

“I need to hear it. Please.”

“Yes, all for you, Bucky,” you sigh as he runs his other hand down your leg and to your ankle. He grips it for a moment before pulling your leg up against his chest, foot just angled off his shoulder; he steps closer, the bulge in his pants irrefutable, borderline painful-looking, aligned with your center. You moan softly when he palms it through his pants, obscene and without an ounce of shame.

“My girl,” he says, “fucking perfect.” He curls his finger into your underwear. The tip of it slips down your folds, cataloguing how wet you are with his hands-on approach; he withdraws it and quickly sucks the finger into his mouth, holding your gaze. Your body sings for him in response.

“Sweetest thing I’ve tasted,” he mutters, spit-soaked finger yanking your panties down your legs with a blind recklessness that you find incredibly attractive. He doesn’t release your eyes yet. “Tell me you’re mine. Before I eat you out on my kitchen counter. Wanna hear that you’re mine.”

Your exposed pussy clenches around nothing. “I’m yours,” you choke out, “fuck, I’m yours forever. Wanted you for so long—“

He grabs your jaw and pulls you up for a bruising kiss, bending your leg back to your chest with a stretch that burns too good. You meet his passion with your own, tongues clashing and teeth knocking. When he pulls back, your head is floating from the increasing levels of desire, levels you’ve never reached before with anyone else. God, if he just looked at you a certain way, you swear you could come on the spot—

“No going back,” he says against your lips, voice low. “Not now that I have you.”

He makes his descent back down your body, placing chaste kisses over your covered nipples. You whimper and writhe when he sinks to his knees, eagerly throwing your other leg over his shoulder so that he’s trapped between them. You prop yourself up by your elbows to better see the dirtiest, most breathtaking view in front of you.

Bucky’s chest heaves, his eyes drinking in your glistening, aching core. You move your hips in the hopes of enticing him closer, but his hands put a stop to your motions.

“Let me see her,” he mutters. Your heart beats in time with your throbbing pussy. He observes his newest possession like a collector observes his prized item. With awe and greed and devotion.

Slowly, so slowly, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, shaky breath warming the skin. You sigh again, head tipping back. “Bucky,” you whisper to the heavens.

God doesn’t answer, but Bucky does.

His lips trail up to the juncture between your thighs, mouthing at your folds with light touches. You let out a soft wail at the sudden contact. Your hips buck in his hold, but he pins you down firmly and begins to eat.

His tongue finds your clit and attaches to it, flicking back and forth in tiny circles that awaken feelings you’ve never felt before from your own hand or with others. Instantly, the sounds start falling from your lips, whimpers and half-curses and incoherent words; they seem to encourage him, because he doubles-down against your clit, pressing harder with his tongue as he continues to bring your body to life.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this for a long time,” he exhales on your core before diving back in. Your hips try to escape his hold when he does something special with the top of his tongue, but he forces them back down firmly, reinforcing the controlled way he explores your pleasure.

And when he sucks your clit into his mouth—

“Yes, yes — oh, right there—“ You bite down on your hand to cut off the whining; Bucky takes one glance at you and pulls away immediately, brow furrowed.

“Don’t do that,” he says roughly, his breath warm against your folds, “I want to hear you.”

You obey without arguement. Your hand slumps down to the counter, nails sliding along the smooth surface.

He works you slowly, torturously, following the lead from your hitches in breath and involuntary noises until he’s found an enthusiastic pattern that sends pleasure to every nerve ending. You’re impossibly close already, you can feel your arousal dripping down your ass and onto his chest, that cord in you threatening to snap.

But he draws back like he read your mind, meeting your eyes to create an image that will be burned into your retinas for all of eternity. The cord loosens from lack of attention, finding slack, and you whimper.

Bucky says nothing, opting to lick around the outside of your folds like he’s cleaning you up. It’s cruelty in a new form, and you hate it and love it at the same time. For once, Bucky’s refusing to give you what you very clearly want, and it sends a rush of heated desire through you.

You’re about ready to beg when his tongue slips across your folds and lands directly on your entrance with a gravely hum. You cry out, your spine defying all anatomical physics, but Bucky pays it no mind. His rhythm starts with languid strokes, getting acquainted with the tight hole that cries for him; he laps at it with care and concentration, allowing no corner unattended.

Bucky’s good at this — way too good. His hands press harder against your hips, leaving you at the mercy of his mouth, and it’s quickly becoming too much for you to handle.

Bucky notices it like a sixth sense once again, but decides to indulge it with a long, thick finger taking the place of his tongue. The air leaves your lungs with a choked cry. He grunts and nips at your leg.

“Jesus, sweetheart, she wants it so bad…”

Your fingers find his hair and pull, just to keep yourself grounded when he moves his mouth back to your clit, sucking and swirling it around while his finger slides in and out of you at a deviously slow pace. He very quickly adds another finger, stretching you out as he curls them and strokes your walls.

They take their time exploring you until they come across the spongey spot that opens your stairway to heaven. Your jaw goes slack and a moan slips out, stars blooming across your vision.

“Right here, honey?”

You blink until you can see clearly, finding him watching you from between your legs with his mouth still pressed to your clit. “Yes,” you breathe, “like that, I’m close…”

That’s when he releases you with a *pop*, fingers stopping inside of you. “Not yet,” he rumbles. “Gonna make this last. You taste too good.”

He keeps you on the brink like this for ages — hours could have passed and you would have never known. Just as the cord begins to splinter, he slows his hand and releases your clit, breathing heavily over it like he’s catching his breath, like he’s the one being brought to the edge. Every time he does this, you whine his name through your teeth, tears blurring your vision, until he decides you’ve been patient enough and resumes his assault.

“Talk to me,” he mutters, free hand pulling you closer to his face, then laps at the little button just above your entrance. You arch off the counter, skin on fire.

“Fuck, I’m so close, Bucky, so close — just wanna come, please — wanna come on your face—“

He buries himself into your center with a fierce determination, fingers gliding in and out with brutal dedication and curling at the right places.

“Bucky…B-Bucky, I—“

“Give it to me,” he growls, flicking his tongue rapidly against you.

You fall apart in seconds, your body tightening and releasing with a snap as the cord breaks. Slick leaks around his hand in a sudden gush that stains his sleeve. You curl into yourself as the orgasm wracks your body, legs closing around his head, keeping him in place, threatening to suffocate him.

Bucky works you through it, making soft noises against your flesh, pressing his fingers to the special spot inside of you while frenching your clit. He eases up when your legs tremble around him, your fingers twitching against his roots from oversensitivity, and pulls away to watch you come back down to earth.

When you finally get reacquainted with reality, you only see him.

Kneeling before you, he looks the part of a sinner at an altar, seeking absolution in the divine. From the look in his eyes, you think he’s found it.

He stands, holding your legs steady against his chest; the lower half of his face is soaked, glistening in the soft light of the kitchen. He licks his lips before leaning over you, dragging his mouth across yours with a featherlight brush. Your tongue eagerly reaches out to taste yourself on him, a surge of possessive pride running through your blissed out body.

He moans into your mouth at your boldness, giving you what you’re searching for. His tongue strokes yours from back to front, sharing the taste of your arousal. It’s sweet and sour at the same time, new and surprisingly addicting; you understand why Bucky wanted to stay rooted at the source.

Just as your body begins to hum at the thought, you feel the length of him behind his slacks press into your center. It makes you jump, letting out a small squeak, but Bucky shushes you, sliding his arms around your back, setting you upright on the counter.

He finds your eyes, cups your jaw in his hand. “I’m gonna fuck you now.”

He says it so simply, like it’s a known fact the universe has held on to for a millennia. You frantically reach for him, arms winding around his neck as your lips meet.

In a blur of moving walls and flashing lights, he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom, laying you gently down on top of his bed. His hands find the hem of your shirt and tug it over your head efficiently, leaving you completely bare to him now. He leans back to stand at the foot of the bed, taking in your naked body splayed out for him and only him.

You imagine how you must look in his eyes, bottom lip bitten raw, nipples stiff, pussy swollen and wet with his spit and your arousal. You hope he likes what he sees.

Based on the hungry look on his face, you think he does.

Bucky places trembling hands on both of your ankles, rubbing at the bone before they slide delicately up your calves, the ghost of a touch that turns your core molten. When he gets to your knees he squeezes, pushing on a pressure point that makes your legs jump apart.

He lets go, restraint written all across his face as he begins to slowly take off his shirt.

“God, look at you,” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded. “She’s so pretty like that.”

The fact that he’s talking about your pussy makes your eyes roll back. Never has dirty talk sounded like music to your ears, until now.

“I’ve been thinking about you like this for weeks — fucked my hand in the shower to you before you’d come over. I felt horrible for it every time…turns out you were thinking about me like this, too.”

He meets your stare as he pulls his under shirt over his head, leaving you to ogle at the sharp angles of his chest, the hard cut of his abs. The dark chest hair expands across his skin, leading down to a trail that disappears into his pants. You want your mouth on it immediately.

You reach for him, one hand lifting in the air, but Bucky smacks it away with a light tap. Your eyes go wide.

“Whole time I could’ve had you like this, I was just imagining you instead. I’ll never forgive myself for all that time lost, spent picturing you spread out for me, or on your knees for me, or handcuffed to my bed…”

Bucky trails off, watching you squirm from his words. He undoes his belt, the clink of metal interrupting the heavy silence; he lets his pants slide down his legs before he reaches into his briefs and pulls out his cock.

Your lips part, drool pooling at the corners.

He’s thick and long with a flushed, leaking tip. His thumb runs over it to smear it down his shaft, hand moving slowly along the skin, just enough to keep him rock hard.

“Are you gonna let me know what the real thing is like?”

“Yes,” you gasp, your fingers creeping toward your center. “Yes, Bucky. I want it all, please—”

He spots your fingers beginning to tease at your clit. In a flash, he has your wrists in one hand, the other picking up the pace on his cock. One look from him is the only warning you need.

“Next time I’ll hold you down any way I want,” he says, voice dangerously low. “I’ll take my time. Make sure you never forget how I feel inside of you. I’ll make you come until your body gives out on me.”

You shudder underneath him, a sticky warmth dripping out of you.

“And in the morning, when you’re cooking me breakfast to thank me for the best fuck of your life, I’ll take you again on the counter because I can. The food’ll burn, but you won’t say anything, you’ll just let me like you should.”

His hand tightens around your wrists.

“And when I get home late from work, and you’re passed out in my bed, I’ll wake you up with my cock inside you, because I haven’t thought about anything else all day, and I won’t waste a second of finally being able to fuck you again.”

Your whimper is positively shameful, the mess between your legs growing worse by the minute. Bucky releases you. Your hands fall onto the bed with a hollow smack — you don’t dare move them. Not when he’s watching you with those sharp eyes.

He loses the briefs, leaving him utterly naked before you. How many times have you dreamt of this? Too many to count. Slowly, he crawls onto the bed and over your body. You feel his cock glide up your thigh, rigid and hot to the touch.

“But tonight I just wanna feel you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “Don’t want to wait any longer.”

The hand around his cock moves to your core, expertly gathering your arousal and dragging it up your folds. You follow his hand with your hips, moaning, your fingers twitching to touch him but unsure of the consequences.

He plays your body like he’s known it his whole life. Fingertips rolling your clit back and forth before teasing your entrance. Your breath catches when he eases a finger in, making his lips curve up in a smile, open mouth hovering over yours; he watches your face with unwavering focus, learning your tells and tics as you come apart for him once again.

When he’s knuckle-deep in you, your spine locks up. You moan his name, hands flying up to grasp at his neck. He exhales heavily as he fucks you with his finger, warm breath fanning across your lips.

“That’s it, baby, show me how it feels…I wanna see what I do to you…”

Your nails dig into his skin, bound to leave marks. You huff when he suddenly skips a second finger, going straight for three. “Oh!”

“Come on, sweetheart, you can take it. Be my good girl.”

Bucky’s fingers are much bigger than yours, and reach greater depths; you feel full of him already, and it’s not even close to what his cock will do to you. The stretch burns around his fingers, the muscles protesting yet welcoming them at the same time.

“B-Bucky, it’s…too…too—“

“Gotta open you up, doll, you’re not ready for me yet,” he murmurs against your cheek. “Relax and let me take care of you…”

His words are your command; you sink into the mattress and tilt your hips up until he hits a spot that releases the tension from your body. Your pussy flutters around him, pulling him deeper.

“There she is,” he whispers. “God, you feel unreal like this. So warm and tight.”

You let out a high-pitched whine when the heel of his hand comes down forcibly on your clit. The stimulation rocks through you with an hedonistic effect, pleasure building quickly to the point of no return.

“Fuck,” you cry out, biting at his ear. His answering groan is lewd.

“You gonna come for me again?” he grits through his teeth, grinding his palm over your bundle of nerves.

“Oh, God,” you sob, arching into him. You can feel the wave of pleasure building, building, growing in intensity. He leans back to spit directly onto your clit, then smears it with his hand, moving faster, fingers plunging in and out at a delicious tempo.

“Let’s see it,” Bucky says, “show me you want my cock. You said you wanted it, show me you can take it.”

His fingers curl against your walls and you shatter as the wave crashes into you. Your whole body is a sea of live wires and nerve endings as you come for him, muscles tensing and relaxing and tensing again like your body’s hooked up to an electroshock machine. He breathes heavily over you as you convulse, thumb gently circling your clit to ease the comedown, until you’re panting and gasping and twisting out of his grip.

He releases you, nose nudging at your temple as your breaths even out.

“Gonna take my cock so well, sweetheart,” he whispers. A whimper escapes you, a spent tear sliding down your cheek. He brushes it away with his lips.

His knee nudges your legs further apart, making room for his broad body to settle firmly between them. He lines himself up with your center, the tip of him just grazing your needy entrance. Bucky looks down at you then.

“You want this?” he murmurs, voice low and soft and…vulnerable, the bravado from earlier stripped away now. His eyes ask for one last confirmation that this is real.

It sparks a set of real tears from you, and you have to blink quickly to keep them where they are. You silently grieve for the Bucky who thought he’d never get this with you, who thought it’d only ever stay a dream, just as you grieved the same thing for yourself, knowing how much pain lived within you each day just from carrying a silent love for someone.

But you’re here now, fitted underneath him like missing puzzle pieces reuniting, and it’s very, very real.

Your chin tilts up to brush a kiss on his mouth. “I love you, Bucky,” you breathe.

A shudder runs through him, a sharp exhale falling from his lips. He rolls his hips forward automatically and the first inch of him slides home. He splits you open on his cock with a finality that soothes as much as it burns. You gasp with him, open mouths sharing a breath and eyes locked together as he feels your pussy pull at him, adjusting to the size while asking for more.

“Love you,” he mumbles, pushing forward, his cock slowly dragging down your walls. “Love you so much.”

“Oh!” you moan when the size of him makes its presence known by knocking against your sweet spot already.

A breathless laugh leaves him as he hovers above you. “Of course you’re this fucking tight. Like you’re fucking made for me.” He hisses as he slides fully in, you answer with a low whine. “Feel so fucking perfect.”

Bucky’s panting by the time his hips rest against yours, swearing under his breath. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other holds your leg open, seeking out a final nonexistent inch of space to get closer to you. You’re clenching hard around his cock, testing his resolve, accommodating to the feeling of being stuffed full of him. It’s all-consuming and disorienting and feels much bigger than just two people becoming one. Your face nuzzles into his shoulder, whimpers escaping your throat.

“Oh, God, you’re…” you whisper.

Bucky shushes you. ”I know, baby. Doing so good.”

He draws back at a glacial pace, revering the feel of your tight walls against his cock, until just the tip is left and you’re already aching for him to fill you again. He pushes back in easily, fitting into place with a slow, deep thrust.

“Fuck,” he mutters, kissing your forehead. You whine. He responds by starting a brutal pace, sliding a big hand down your thigh to hitch it higher around his waist. He pushes your other leg against your chest, opening you up to the steady, rhythmic motion of his hips. You feel the warmth sparking in your core again, growing hotter and hotter with each thrust, building in intensity every time he mouths at your throat or forces you to meet his eyes with a firm grip around your jaw.

He’s commanding in the softest way possible, anchoring you to this moment with touches and kisses that sear your skin, some featherlight, some heavier, shocking your system each time with their contrast, until all of existence has been consumed by him.

Bucky’s cock hits every delicious point within your walls like he’s already memorized your body. He draws out whimpers and soft cries from you repeatedly, to the point that you think he’s become addicted to them, finding the right spot and honing in on it like a man obsessed. The noises you make layer over the muffled, wet sounds of your bodies joining, of heated skin moving against heated skin, and it sounds like a goddamn symphony of love.

He doesn’t leave you guessing how good you’re making him feel either.

He groans his approval every time you arch up into him, meeting his hips with your own.

“That’s it, sweetheart…taking me so well…”

You let out a moan when his tip drags along your cervix, pussy fluttering around his cock. Bucky makes a choked noise, pace stuttering.

“Fuck, she’s—she’s milking me, honey,” he gasps, pupils dilating till there’s no more blue. “God, you feel incredible. So perfect. My girl…” His mouth reaches for yours, drawing you in for an earth-shattering kiss; the heat in your belly swells as your tongues dance, his words seeping deep into your soul.

“Bucky—“ you whine against his lips, feeling the start of your orgasm begin to crest. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, his back, tethering yourself to him.

Bucky can feel you’re close. He speeds up, licking down your chest to pull a nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting to multiply the sparks dancing up and down your body. One hand locks itself into your hair again, the other slips down to your clit, thumb brushing back and forth just slow enough to draw the pleasure out.

“Oh! Oh shit — fuck, Bucky—“

“Let me hear it,” he growls against your skin, his arm shaking beside your head where his forearm holds himself up on the mattress. You turn to bite into his bicep as the buildup inside of you finally explodes.

You shudder through a low groan, equal parts pained and relieved. Your orgasm crashes through you like waves on a beach, sending your brain tumbling to the brink of a dark abyss. Your eyes flutter closed.

Bucky takes every pulse and throb you have to offer him, riding it out with frantic thrusts that are borderline manic. His eyes are wild but eternally locked on you as he extends this moment for as long as possible, continuing his assault on your clit while you jerk and shake underneath him.

“F-fuck— Jesus, baby—“

Through the heavy haze of your world-bending pleasure, you can feel Bucky’s cock twitch inside of you. He pulls at your hair to tilt your chin back.

“Look at me,” he begs lowly. You open your eyes to find him hovering above you again, eyes wide as they drink you in, pink lips shiny from his work on your nipple. “Good girl,” he breathes, thrusts faltering when he meets your gaze. “Good fucking girl. Keep your eyes on me while I fill you up.”

You arch into him again, a powerful aftershock of your orgasm ripping through you. Bucky groans, forehead falling to yours.

“You like that, sweetheart? You want me to fill you up?”

His hips smack into yours, finally giving your clit a break as his arm pushes back both of your legs as far as they can go. You think you see another planet when his cocks finds a new place inside of you that you didn’t know existed.

“Oh, God,” you sob, feeling like you’re floating out of your body from the change in angle. “I want all of it, Bucky—”

“Yeah?” he grits out between his teeth, slowing down to hard thrusts that push your body up the bed. “Greedy little thing. I’ll give you all of it, baby, you can take it.”

You nod because your words have turned into babbling cries — Bucky’s removed all coherent thoughts from your head. You’re reduced to the five senses now, and all of them are overwhelmed with him.

“Gonna give it all to you just like this,” he says, and brings you in for a desperate kiss.

Your body hums and vibrates through the final waves of your orgasm while Bucky nears his, pounding into you with a deep intensity that you feel in your bones. When he comes, he moans unashamedly into your mouth, broad body locking up as his hips still with a loud snap against yours.

“Fuck, never letting you go,” he stutters out, words slurred, “never giving up this pussy. All mine—“

You can feel the heat of his cum pool into your core, filling you up as it was meant to, leaving you satisfied in ways you’d like to explore deeper another time. Bucky breathes heavily into your mouth, a groan slipping out every now and then as he lets the pleasure wash over him.

When both of your breaths have evened out, he pulls back, far enough for those dark eyes — slowly changing back to the bright blue — to search your face.

“You okay?” he asks softly, shyly. Your hands slide down his back, gentle over the nail marks you’ve left on it.

“More than okay,” you whisper. “That was…amazing…you’re amazing.”

He shakes his head.

“That was all you, my love.”

You smile, your fingers brushing the damp strands of hair on the back of his neck. “I think I like that nickname the best.”

A tender smile curls his lips, and he leans down to press a kiss to the space between your eyebrows, then the tip of your nose, then your lips. You keep him there, moving your mouth languidly against him until Bucky’s cock has softened enough inside of you for him to pull out.

You both hiss at the loss of contact, and there’s a cool edge to the air as it brushes against your well-abused pussy. With a light groan, Bucky pushes himself back on his knees, your legs falling bonelessly to the bed on either side of him. You watch with love-drunk eyes as he ducks down to observe the slow trickle of his cum from your hole, and your cheeks flare up with heat when he bends over to place a kiss on your clit.

“Bucky,” you mumble, legs closing on instinct, but he holds them open as he begins lapping at both of your releases spilling from you, cleaning you up while also stuffing it back into you with his tongue.

You cry out from the new sensations on your oversensitive pussy, a hand darting down to his hair to push him away or tug him closer, you’re unsure. Either way, you’re a panting mess again by the time he’s had his fill — literally.

He crawls up your body slowly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before settling over you. You can feel yourself relax once the skin of his chest meets yours again.

“Had to taste you again,” he murmurs, “somehow y‘taste even better with me in you.”

A delicate shiver rolls down your spine. He’s fucking filthy and you love it.

He kisses you deeply, the remnants of your combined releases waking up your tastebuds, then pulls away, leaving you alone on the bed. Your heart flutters as you watch Bucky’s naked figure disappear into his closet, returning half a moment later clad in briefs and holding another pair along with his comfiest, biggest sweatshirt and a wet cloth from the bathroom.

“Come here, sweet girl,” he whispers, kneeling on the edge of the bed.

You comply as best as you can, rolling yourself toward him with whatever strength’s left in your body, which isn’t a lot. He meets you halfway, hauling you close with his big, strong arms, and runs the warm cloth along your center, gentle strokes that only pull out the softest of sighs from you; he tosses it into the hamper once you’re clean before sliding the briefs up your legs gently, rubbing your skin along the way, and pulling the sweatshirt over your head, helping your arms through as well.

When you’re bundled up in his clothes, he climbs onto the bed and lays you across his chest like you weigh nothing, like you’re made of rubber, like there’s not a thought in your head capable of doing it for yourself.

There’s a good chance there isn’t.

Bucky tugs the covers up to your waists, entwining his legs with yours and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your hand finds his chest and strokes the skin there, feeling his heartbeat with every pass.

“Can’t believe we could’ve been doing this for weeks,” you mumble.

You hear a low rumble of laughter in Bucky’s chest. “Lots to make up for.” He pulls you tighter against him as your eyes begin to droop, the feeling of a long, hard fuck rendering you exhausted. His sigh into your hair tells you he feels the same, and his cheek drops to the top of your head.

After a quiet moment, he says, “You didn’t eat.”

You giggle sleepily. “It wasn’t that good anyway.”

“Not true, it was just…a different take on Italian.”

“Nice save.”

“Seriously. Do you want something?”

You hum into his chest. “Maybe pizza, from Luigi’s? Later, though. Right now I just want this.”

His heart skips a beat beneath your hand and he wraps impossibly closer around you. You’re grinning like a deranged lunatic into his skin, the giddiness of your current predicament keeping you awake for a few moments longer.

“My love,” he breathes. Not a question, nor the start of a statement. Just the name, new and bold and absolutely perfect.

Your brain recalls that first gala together, when he introduced you as his friend all night, and it made sense until it didn’t, until your heart moved to a place your brain couldn’t get to yet and decided that “friend” wasn’t enough. Listening to him now, you know your heart’s been patiently waiting for this the whole time.

Then your mind conjures up another memory, more startling than the last: of the days leading up to the agreement, when you moved around your apartment like a ghost as you considered his offer, ignoring your bills and worrying a path into your hardwood floors. You had all but decided to say yes to Bucky, but the thing that gave you pause was your mom. Your brain couldn’t help but wonder what she’d think of you for agreeing to something like this, what’d she say if she knew her daughter signed a contract with a billionaire for companionship.

As you listen to Bucky’s steady heart beat in his chest, as you feel his hands stroke tenderly down your skin, you’re struck with the answer you couldn’t find then: she’d be so fucking happy for you.

Smiling, you melt against him, basking in the dawn of something new, something beautiful that awaits you on the horizon with Bucky by your side.

His hand traces circles on your arm, his lips brush your hair, he whispers your name over and over and over until you fall asleep surrounded in his love.

Luigi’s comes much later than you planned. The two of you don’t stir for a long time, until the early morning hours when the sky is still gray and traffic is just a trickle. Bucky shifts beneath you as your eyes flutter open, arms tightening around your waist.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming.”

You sigh, tilting your face up to his, a soft smile stretching across your face.

“Want me to pinch you?”

He’s watching you with a sleepy, adoring gaze, hands creeping under your sweatshirt to press against your warm skin.

“How ‘bout a kiss instead?”

Bucky’s drawing you closer before he finishes his sentence, gently capturing your lips with his in a slow, lazy kiss.

“Still think you’re dreaming?” you whisper against his mouth.

“Mmm. Need a little more to make sure…”

His hands slide up your back as he kisses you again, deeper this time, with intention, until you’re breathless putty in his arms. Bucky’s mouth moves down your jaw when you pull back for air. “Bucky…” you breathe, feeling his leg slide between yours, and a certain hardness pressing into your stomach. But as his thigh reaches the juncture between your legs, you twitch, wincing, biting down on a moan. You’re sore — very, very sore.

Bucky notices right away, leaning back to search your face. “You’re hurt.”

You quickly shake your head. “Not hurt, just sore. The good kind,” you add when you see the beginnings of guilt cross his face. You take his jaw in your hands, keeping him close. “You made me feel things I’ve never felt before last night, Buck. Worth it.”

Bucky stares at you for a moment, face blank, until his forehead drops to yours. He groans softly, thumbs smoothing the skin of your shoulders.

“Now I know I’m dreaming. You’re too perfect to be real.”

“You know, you’re real corny after you get some. Should I expect breakfast in bed next?” you tease.

He buries his face into your neck, hiding the pink flush to his cheeks. He mumbles something, but you can’t make it out.

“What was that? Something about rose petals in the bath?”

Bucky nips at your collarbone in retribution as you laugh. Eventually he shows his face to you again, still flushed, but his expression is somber.

“I’m sorry if I was rough with you. I can learn to be softer, if—

“Don’t. I love you just the way you are,” you hush him, pulling him in for another kiss. He responds softly, lovingly, easing his leg between you gently until you’re crisscrossed together beneath the sheets, waiting for the first rays of light to shine on the first day of the rest of your lives.

“Don’t forget to call me if you need me!” you shout to your assistant as she all but shoves you out the door. Her sarcastic salute tells you that she will not be calling you during your time off, even if the office burned down.

You slide your sunglasses on as you walk out into the September sunshine. It’s a beautiful day, the first chill of fall in the air reminding you of why it’s your favorite time of year. Well, that and a certain anniversary.

Bucky’s leaning against the sleek red sports car at the curb (your gift is finally having its moment). He’s devastating in a light blue suit with the button down open to give you a generous view of his chest hair. The smile breaks across your face automatically, instinctively, and you all but skip down the steps to him.

He wears his own smug grin as you approach, arms opening to catch you when you launch yourself into them; his mouth is on yours instantly, bringing you close for a searing reunion kiss.

“How was your day, my love?” he murmurs against your lips. You smile, fingers sliding into the hair at the back of his neck.

“Busy. Long. Lonely without you,” you tease.

“Mmm, same here. Feels like it’s been years since I last saw you.”

“You saw me at lunch, babe.”

“Too long.”

You kiss him hard again, feeling the familiar planes of his body press into yours. He pulls back reluctantly with a groan when you’re good and dizzy.

“As much as I’d love to continue this, we have a plane to catch.”

You tilt your head. “If it’s your plane, don’t they have to wait for you?”

“Doesn’t work like that, sweetheart.”

“I thought it works whatever way I want it to.”

He gives you a look as he opens the door for you, raising an eyebrow. “Eager, are we?”

You slide into the seat. “Can’t a girl celebrate a little?”

“Well, I’ve never had road head before, but I’ll try anything once.” He swings your door shut with a wink before coming around to the driver’s side; you’re still laughing when he joins you.

“Nice try,” you say, “but your driving would put an end to that real quick.”

“I’m a good driver.”

“Honey. No.”

“Says the girl without a license. Talk to me when you can drive.”

The words hold no real bite as he puts the car into drive and pulls into traffic. His free hand takes its place on your knee, squeezing gently; you cover it with your own, fingers threading together, in search of the soothing feel of skin-to-skin.

“What’s the first thing you want to do when we get to Paris?” you ask. He smirks, eyes on the road.

“Practice my French on your pussy. Ma magnifique amante.”

Your other hand reaches for his ear, giving it a quick pinch that earns you a tighter squeeze to your thigh.

“Stop distracting the driver.”

You laugh. “I’m serious! What do you want to do?”

He glances at you, a twinkle in his eye. “I thought you had everything planned. You paid for this trip with your hard-earned, Senior Marketing Analyst money, after all.”

“I know,” you say, smiling giddily, “but I thought we could decide together. Make it our trip. You only celebrate your one year anniversary of meeting each other once.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, taking a sharp right turn that has you careening into him; he takes advantage of the physics and presses a kiss to your cheek, making you blush. A year after knowing him, and four months of being ravished by him day and night, he still gives you butterflies from the simplest gestures.

“Is that what we’re calling it? Sounds like a mouthful. I could give you—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, James. Even the French can censor themselves,” you warn, wagging a finger in his face. He snaps at it, baring his teeth, and your heart explodes with warmth at his playfulness.

“Alright,” Bucky concedes, “we’ll decide together. But this is still your trip.”

You reach over to caress his cheek softly, drinking in his profile as if you haven’t already memorized it. “Deal. Only because I like taking care of you — when you let me.”

Bucky smiles, leaning into your touch. “I’ll start thinking up some ways to thank you,” he replies.

“Please don’t. It’ll probably be something amazing that one-ups my trip to Paris,” you joke lightly, scratching at the gray in his beard. Bucky huffs a laugh, eyes finding yours and shining with something bright and mysterious.

“We’ll see,” he says, placing a kiss to your palm before he turns back to the road. You lean back in your seat, smiling gently, mind already in Paris, picturing the silk sheets you’ll be tangled up in with your boyfriend in a matter of hours.

Bucky shifts in his seat with a small grin, feeling the weight of the ring box tucked safely in his pocket, bringing you closer and closer to your next adventure.

sammy speaks again: yeah I’m emotional. sorry it took so long, I was on vacation!!! can’t believe it’s over, but thanks for coming along with me on this ride. seriously it has been SO fun!!! can’t wait to give you more soon (very soon lol)

[stanmarvelous]

Slippery Slope

౨ৎ Characters: Ski Instructor!Bucky x Snow Bunny!Reader

౨ৎ Word Count: <8.8K

౨ৎ Summary: Bucky Barnes likes order on the mountain: organized lessons, predictable guests, and smooth days on the slopes. Unfortunately, one woman spends the day unintentionally getting in his way. When they finally meet at an après-ski party, he challenges her to prove she’s more than just a tourist with a camera.

౨ৎ Content Warnings: 18+ {MDNI}, smut, strangers to lovers, instructor x student dynamics, pushing professional boundaries, grumpy x sunshine (kinda), mentions of alcohol consumption (not by reader), use of pet names (bunny, sweetheart), slow burn, praise (so much of it. Probably too much. I’m so sorry.), some fluff, consent king!Bucky, oral (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), creampie, aftercare. Reader is described as being clumsy at multiple points. Bucky doesn’t have a prosthetic arm, I couldn’t get it to work :(

౨ৎ A/N: Hi, Barbie! Excited to share my part of the @stantastic-association Bucky’s Dream House collab. A huge thank you to @miraclediviner for setting everything up! I haven’t skied in probably like 15 years at least (which makes me sound so old), so please forgive me for anything that might be wrong.

Main Masterlist || AO3 || Bucky’s Dream House Masterlist

Cool mountain air kisses your skin the moment the lodge doors open. With a deep breath, you plant both boots into the snow, closing your eyes for a brief moment to fully enjoy the crisp breeze and the faint warmth from the morning sun.

A fresh blanket of snow drapes across the ski village and surrounding trees, the mountaintop looming high above the treeline. It's not the Swiss Alps, but the stunning view and relaxing atmosphere is exactly what Alpine Ski Resort is known for.

Phone in hand, you aim the camera and adjust a few settings before taking a picture…until the sound of a throat clearing gets your attention, snapping you back to reality.

Spinning around, a pair of steel blue eyes, hidden beneath dark eyebrows and a black beanie, meet your surprised gaze. He's staring down at you, something akin to annoyance etched in his features. An air of self-importance radiates from him, and without uttering a single word, gives you the impression he doesn't mess around.

It's then you realize people are moving around you like the water of a rushing river, brushing by with barely audible grumbles, while you stand planted in the middle of the doorway like a boulder that refuses to move.

"Oh!" You wince, chin dipping and offering an apologetic smile. "Am I in the way? Sorry! Let me just…" You quickly step to the side, phone clutched carefully in your hand.

He doesn't speak, simply nodding once before heading toward another building. The large INSTRUCTOR patch on the back of his jacket is impossible to miss. As someone who works with the public, he seems…pleasant.

"Grumpy…"

"Who's grumpy?"

Your friend, Lana, pops up beside you, head tilted in curiosity as she tries to follow your gaze. The man has already gone inside.

You shake your head and shrug it off, hooking your arm with hers and beaming brightly. "No one. Shall we?"

Lana returns your smile and pulls you away from the lodge, footsteps falling into sync.

When the day began, being a nuisance was not on the itinerary. You hoped the doorway would be the last time you were in anyone's way.

Yet not even an hour later, you accidentally wander into a training area, too focused on an evergreen tree that had just the right amount of snow on its branches.

"Miss," a deep voice politely sounded from not ten feet away, "Please give us some space."

You glanced up just long enough to see the same man from earlier, his arms crossed over his chest, while a student who couldn't have been more than six wobbled down the small incline.

You rushed away without a word, heat creeping up your cheeks.

By noon, you nearly lose your footing outside the rental shop, arms flailing wildly with a squeak and phone flying through the air before you manage to catch yourself. When you finally spot your phone half buried in the snow, someone is already picking it up. Only—to your utter dismay—to be met with those blue eyes that are growing painfully familiar.

The phone is open to one of the pictures Lana took where your foot was kicked up behind you like a Genovian princess. His gaze glances down at it before he places the device in your outstretched hand, and he looks like he's trying to fight back a laugh—or maybe just stop his eyes from rolling out of his head.

You try to laugh it off, thanking him quickly for the phone, before scurrying off in the opposite direction.

By the time the sun dips a bit lower in the horizon and the après-ski parties begin, you're more than ready for a change of outfit and a stiff drink.

Warmth spreads quickly across your chilled skin as you enter the lodge, the fuzzy oversized coat you slipped on doing little to protect you against the cold evening air after changing out of the snowsuit and into something cute. Though the day had been sunny and warm, the moment the mountaintops began to hide the sun, the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees.

People are scattered throughout the lodge, some lounging on couches near a large fireplace while others gather around pool tables. Music is faint behind the chatter of guests. It's one of the calmer parties you've been too, but after the embarrassing day of the universe throwing curve balls in your direction, a relaxing night sounds perfect.

"I'm gonna find us a spot," Lana says, eyes already roaming the room for an empty seat. Then she points at you, eyebrows raised, adding, "Drinks?"

"Got it. Scotch on the rocks."

She gasps, eyes going wide, and you almost don't hear her protests when you start walking to the bar, a grin playing on your lips.

Sliding into an open spot at the bar, you wave the bartender down, nearly missing the loud sigh just off to the side.

"There is a line, you know."

Something about the deep voice sounds painfully familiar. A twinge of dread twists in your gut when you finally drag your gaze in the direction of the voice.

"I'm so sorry, I genuinely didn't even notice." You look at the man who spoke, eyes meeting his annoyed blue ones when it hits you—you've seen that hue far too many times today, and always when you're not at your best. Just behind him, there's a small line of patrons watching you; some annoyed, others too busy with wandering gazes to be angry.

Of course it happened again. Of course, despite the various bars and parties occurring all over the resort, the one you pushed Lana to go to for the quieter ambiance is the one where he would be.

"Aren't you that instructor guy I keep seeing today?"

He's changed, no longer in the standard issue red jacket and his perfectly styled hair no longer hidden under a beanie, but it's him. The crease in his brow deepens when confusion crosses his features briefly, then recognition flashes.

He sighs again. "Pink snowsuit."

You nod in silent confirmation, nose scrunching a bit. The way he said it does not bode well.

"You must absolutely hate me by now," you joke with a short laugh, leaning against the bar as casually as you can manage. "I swear I'm not doing it on purpose."

His eyes study you, and you swear curiosity appeared in them before indifference fills his voice. "Could've fooled me."

Lips pressed together and ignoring the inkling of offense tugging at you, you stand a bit straighter, forgetting about the line continuing to form behind him.

"Do you always think inconveniences are solely about you?"

"Considering you've spent all day being in the way and not even touching a pair of skis? Maybe a little."

Your lips part, brows shooting up into your hairline. "I—that's not—I was going to."

"Sure," he huffs.

He turns towards the bartender, effectively dismissing you as he orders his drink. The bartender gives him a nod, eyes flicking to you before getting to work. Chatter from the bar fills the tense silence. You don't move.

"Do you actually ski?," he finally asks, voice gruff. "Or are you just here for pictures?" His hand wraps around a glass of amber liquid as it's slid across the bar.

"I can ski! I was just…planning on doing it tomorrow. Today was recon day."

He lifts a single brow.

That's a lie.

You haven't skied since you were little, school field trips the only experience you've had. In fact, you're confident you'd land face first in the snow if you tried.

"Really?" He mutters with false intrigue, raising the glass to his lips. "I'd be surprised if you made it down the bunny hill without starting an avalanche. How many times did you nearly trip over your own boots today?" He watches you carefully over the rim of his glass, eyes twinkling. Is he amused by this?

"You don't even know me, sir," you retort, crossing your arms. "Skiing is like second nature to me."

Where the hell did that come from?

He smirks knowingly. "Prove me wrong."

You blink at him.

"What?"

"Prove me wrong. You said you're skiing tomorrow? Lucky for you, I just happen to have a free morning." He pauses, leaning forward. "Unless you'd rather stick to the camera."

Your eyes narrow, defiance growing with every second. This man doesn't know a single thing outside of your appearance and a bad day, yet something about the look in his eyes makes you want to dig in your heels.

"I don't just take pictures."

His expression doesn't change. Patience must be his biggest virtue as he takes another sip of his drink, silently waiting. Like he knows you're about to break.

A short scoff slips between your lips. "Fine. What time?"

The corner of his lips twitch, the glass in his hand finally lowering as he turns to fully face you.

"Eight. Think you can be up that early, bunny?"

Bunny. He says it like a taunt, as though you're supposed to be embarrassed that you enjoy cute outfits, snow, and the resort scene.

You force a smile, flashing your teeth and tilting your chin up.

"I have a name," you reply, offering it quickly before continuing, "I'll be there. And I'll look damn adorable, too, thank you very much."

Your feet are carrying you away from the bar before you even think about it, face warm, fists clenched with determination while the feeling of his gaze stays trained on the back of your head. The thought of drinks is long gone, and when you finally plop down on a couch next to Lana empty-handed, her expression shifts to confusion.

"Where's my cocktail?"

— — —

Morning comes far faster than you hope despite sleep evading you.

Tossing and turning didn't help. Neither did flipping the pillow to the cold side. You tried watching a bit of TV, grateful Lana has her own room so you don't bother her, but you ultimately end up pulling up instructional skiing videos on your phone—a futile attempt to reconnect with your memories of skiing as a kid. If you could do it then, you can do it now, right?

By the time your alarm goes off, the knot in your stomach that has been forming for hours is tighter than ever. Food is the last thing on your mind when you finish getting ready, but you shove a granola bar into your mouth anyway to ensure you have some sort of energy for the day ahead.

With one last glance in the mirror to ensure everything is perfect, you're out the door and tugging on your gloves before the sun has even fully risen.

You refuse to be late.

The rental shop is surprisingly busy this early. Gear is organized in perfect rows, employees are assisting guests in finding the perfect fit, and parents are doing their best to wrangle their kids into ski boots. One toddler manages to get a hold of a ski pole, swinging it around like a sword before their dad snatches it from their tiny fist. It's a brief, welcome distraction before a throat clears, pulling your attention to the employee behind the rental counter.

A few minutes later, you find yourself on a bench outside the shop, skis haphazardly laying on the ground as you fight to get the ski boots on your feet. The sun is no longer hiding below the horizon, casting bright rays that glitter across the fresh snow that must have fallen last night. Your fingers fidget with the buckles with no luck, becoming increasingly frustrated. How hard is it to put these things on?

"It's easier if you stand up."

Your heart drops. The voice is deep, a little rough from lack of use this early in the morning, but familiar enough to make you tense.

Eyes widening and gloved fingers freezing in place, you slowly look up to find the familiar deep blue irises staring down at you. A mix of amusement and annoyance dances in his eyes when he notices the skis on the ground. Using the toe of his boot, he gently nudges them closer to where you're seated. He's wearing the same red jacket as yesterday, finally giving you a clear look at the front where the name Bucky is embroidered on his chest, just beneath the resort's logo.

"You actually made it," he grunts, eyes on you again, lips turning up almost imperceptibly. The slight raise of his brows beneath his beanie make him look mildly impressed. You're probably imagining it. "Are you sure you got enough beauty rest?"

"Of course I made it." Your focus returns to the matter at hand, trying to ignore his comment and the feeling of his eyes watching every little movement you make. "Maybe you should stop doubting me."

"Maybe," he responds slowly, dragging the word out, "but we haven't made it onto the slopes yet, bunny."

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at the nickname he insists on using. When the buckles still don't easily lock in, you sigh, reluctantly standing and trying again. Sure enough, the buckles click tight without a problem. Of course they do.

Bucky doesn't give you a moment before he's adjusting his skis in his arms and turning away.

"Grab your gear, we'll start on the bunny hill."

You scramble to pick up your skis, immediately fumbling when one slips out of your grip and crashes back to the ground. Heat rushes to your cheeks before you're snatching it up again, rushing now to try and catch up with his long strides.

Only it's harder than you expect.

The boots are clunky and heavy, each step far more difficult than you remember. The skis knock against each other, clacking sounds ringing through the crisp air and only adding to the embarrassment creeping up the back of your neck.

He glances back once.

A few steps later, he looks back again.

"You ski often?"

You hesitate. "Obviously."

He blinks. "Mm. Obviously."

You can practically hear the grin spreading across his face when he faces forward again, his pace finally slowing down enough for you to catch up. Bucky stays silent, but the feeling of his eyes on you is unmistakable. Watchful. A little judgemental.

The ski lift for the bunny hill finally comes into view, making the knot in your stomach twist painfully now that reality and exposure are on the precipice. There's only one way you can imagine this going; a face full of snow, dignity gone, and a certain ski instructor watching it all go down. Where's Lana when you need her?

Bucky's gaze flicks towards you again. Lingering. Waiting.

He stops just shy of the line, popping his skis on like it's nothing. Simple. Easy.

Until you try to do it, of course. Heel then toe? Toe then heel? Which way is the ski supposed to face?

Bucky stands there quietly watching as you spin in place trying to figure out how to get it on. The smirk is infuriating, but you're trying not to think of it when you finally get one ski on, the other following suit after a shuffle of your feet has you nearly losing your balance.

"Good job," he says with a nod, a hint of amusement tugging at his lips. "Looks like the bar is starting high today."

"Don't you worry your grumpy head, Bucky." You wave him off, trying desperately to hang on to what little pride is still hanging on by a thread. "I'll blow that bar out of the water in no time."

By the time the two of you make it onto the lift—a miracle in itself after nearly running into the employee operating it when you forgot how to stop—nerves have settled fully into your bones. The sun is slowly warming the air, but the cold breeze blows straight through your coat. Or maybe it's the attitude coming from the world's most people-friendly instructor.

The silence is deafening for a few moments, long enough to feel deliberate. He shifts slightly in his seat before speaking.

"Make sure to keep your weight forward when we get off."

Your gaze, which has been focused on the pink knit fabric of your gloves, lifts to see him watching you carefully. There's something in his eyes you can't quite place.

"Yeah, forward. Got it."

His eyes narrow slightly, studying you. Silence fills the space once more.

You avert your gaze to the snow covered trees below, hoping he can't see the way your hands are shaking. The thought crosses your mind to snap a picture from this vantage point, but with your luck this weekend, it'll probably slip from your grip and bury itself in the snow to never be found again.

The lift arrives at the top, and you follow every move he makes as he prepares to dismount, scooting to the edge of the seat. When your skis brush the slick snow below, panic has you sucking in a sharp breath.

Bucky pushes off the seat with practiced ease, already gliding forward and leaving you alone. You don't hear him giving instructions, you simply lean forward and let gravity do the work.

To your surprise, it works.

You glide down towards him, arms out and wobbling only a little bit, before managing a successful stop directly in his path. His eyes flash with something like surprise—vanishing almost as quickly as it appears.

Your back straightens with a bit of pride, then—

"Don't get too excited," he mutters. "You still have to go downhill."

Your heart drops. He's right.

You glance over at the slope just a few feet away. It's not that steep—it is the bunny hill, after all—but the daunting task of staying balanced and sliding downhill without falling on your face or breaking something is suddenly hitting you like a punch to the gut.

All because of pride.

"No, of course," you mumble with a nod. Your throat tightens. "Downhill is the easy part."

A cool breeze brushes against skin that's becoming warmer by the second. Kids and parents ski by, heading down the hill like it's simple. Your fingers curl into tight fists in an attempt to hide the tremble threatening to expose your bluff.

Your eyes are glued to the line of skiers at the bottom, so you don't notice Bucky move closer.

"You don't know how to ski, do you?" His voice is low, warmer than you expected it to be with a hint of amusement. "I need you to be honest with me before I let you go down that hill."

Finally, slowly, you tear your gaze from the skiers to find his eyes in you. Always watching. There's concern there, a slight crease in his brow.

"I know how—"

He gives you a look.

You take a breath, shoulders slumping.

"I haven't skied since I was a kid."

Bucky rolls his shoulders. The concern in his eyes is replaced with amusement, and his lips flatten into a tight line like he's debating between scolding and laughing at your expense.

He settles on neither.

"Let's start with your stance," he instructs, adjusting his own and bouncing lightly on his knees. "Feet shoulder-width apart, not…whatever you're doing."

You blink at him in surprise. Every bone in your body would've bet on him leaving you stranded up here after lying about your abilities, not stepping in to help.

He nods once, silently encouraging you to follow his lead. "Try it. Stay loose or you'll go down."

With a sigh, you adjust your stance, but it still feels wrong. Unbalanced. Tight.

"Like this?"

Bucky looks at you, the corners of his lips twitching.

"…No."

You huff, heat crawling up your neck at his blunt assessment. "Excellent teaching skills, very encouraging." His lips pucker slightly and a muscle in his jaw ticks.

Looking down to avoid his gaze, you attempt to fix it, widening your stance and tucking your elbows in tighter.

"Stop," he grunts. Shaking his head, Bucky moves closer, closing most of the distance. His skis bump against yours. "Knees in."

You try again, overcorrecting so far it feels like gravity caught the hood of your coat and is giving one good pull. His hands shoot out, one landing on your elbow as the other finds the small of your back, catching you before your feet can slip out from under you.

Your heart skips a beat, though you're unsure if it's from the near fall or the sudden contact.

"Not that far." His voice is quiet, a little frustrated, but it almost sounds like he's holding back a laugh. "Shoulder-width," he reminds. His hands fall away, leaving you strangely aware of the space between you.

With a short nod, you find your balance, more aware now of where your knees are. It feels better already, steadier. He gives a grunt—something that almost sounds like approval.

"You're too tight. Loosen up a little," he instructs. "Fingers, elbows, knees…relax. When you go down the hill, you want to be loose. Work with gravity, not against it."

Relax. Got it. You can do that. With a roll of your shoulders, you loosen your fingers and give a small bounce of your knees.

He nods. "Okay, now show me a wedge."

You aim the front of the skis into a triangle, the stance needed to stop.

"Good," he says quickly. "That's perfect."

Oh.

Heat floods your cheeks fast—too fast.

The breeze picks up again just in time to use as a welcome distraction. You turn your face into it, and away from him, hoping to cool down despite the sun now beating down from a cloudless sky. If he notices your reaction, he doesn't say a word. Instead, he starts talking about the hill and how to go down safely, but you're not listening. Until—

"Earth to bunny."

Your gaze snaps back to him at the nickname, though the warmth accompanying it is new. "Sorry, did you say something?"

"Are you ready to go down? Can't stay up here forever."

Your stomach drops at the reminder. Of course, downhill. How could you forget? You swallow hard and brush him off with a dismissive wave of your hand. It's just skiing. Kids do it.

Bucky's eyes are on you, studying. Like he can see the false confidence waving in the air like a white flag.

He doesn't comment on it.

Instead, his voice remains low and steady, running through everything he just covered. You try to pay attention, but as you slowly approach the slope and the point of no return, the hill suddenly looks even more daunting than before. Steeper. Taller.

With a deep breath, and mustering all the courage you have, you begin the descent without waiting for him.

Something feels off immediately.

Gravity feels stronger. The skis feel like they're fighting to pull ahead.

You lean forward—but that suddenly feels like a mistake, and now you're moving faster. Your mind goes blank in the panic, the knowledge of how to stop or slow down flying out the window. The hill's slope feels as though it's pulling you uncontrollably down it.

Suddenly, Bucky's voice cuts through the noise closer than you expect. It doesn't register at first; too focused on watching your skis and the way they're pointing at two different angles.

"Eyes on me, bunny."

When your panicked gaze snaps up to see him moving in front of you, skiing backwards like it's the easiest thing in the world, something clicks.

He was ready.

His hands are outstretched, ready to grab you at a moment's notice.

"Heels out, slow down."

With your mind finally clearing, you adjust your skis until they're wedged, the speed immediately decreasing.

"There you go," he murmurs. "Just like that. You're doing great."

A breath.

It's not like you haven't heard it before. In fact, you've always thought yourself capable…with the unfortunate habit of not always paying attention when your phone is in your hand. But the way the words slip through his lips, warm with the slightest hint of pride, hits harder than it should.

When you finally reach the end of the slope and drift to a stop, Bucky backs off, and it somehow feels a moment too soon.

Everything feels a little strange. The sun is too bright, the air suddenly warm, the crowd nearby a little loud.

With a deep breath and a shake of your head, you force a smile and turn towards the line. "Come on, Bucky. Round two." His brows raise, but he doesn't argue, following your lead.

By the time you're on the lift, you're more determined than ever. It's you that pushes off first. It's you that moves toward that same edge, stopping just before the point of no return.

It's like riding a bike; the first time is a little rusty. Shaky. Every time you get back on, you get steadier and more confident.

Only, when you lean forward and start going down the hill full of confidence you shouldn't have yet, you realize quickly that staying slow can actually be difficult. The wedge isn't working quite the same. Panic starts, but you squash it down and correct. Except the adjustment is too much, and one ski bounces on an uneven dip, making you lose balance.

The world tips as your arms fly out instinctively to catch yourself, and you land in the snow with a soft whump, sending a puff of powder flying into the air.

Your heart is pounding, blood rushing in your ears and making the world fall silent for a moment as you catch your breath.

Then there's laughter. Deep but short, like it came out before he could stop it.

"Please let this be a stupid dream," you mutter, squeezing your eyes shut.

Bucky comes to a stop next to you, still chuckling. "Round two, huh?"

"Please don't."

There's a pause, and you open an eye to peer up at him. The corner of his mouth is still twitching. Then he's crouching down, voice lowering as the crease in his brow deepens.

"Are you okay?" There's a shift in his tone, a softness that definitely wasn't there before.

You don't answer at first, too embarrassed. But then his hand finds your arm, touching it with a gentleness you didn't think he possessed. And it makes your gut do something funny.

"Seriously, are you hurt?"

The genuine concern laced in the deep timbre of his voice is a welcome surprise. It's warm. And professional, you remind yourself.

"I'm fine. I just decided to check the quality of the snow," you say, patting some of the fresh powder. "It's nice and…powdery."

A moment of silence passes where his incredibly blue eyes are narrowed and staring at you, holding eye contact a little too well. Finally, he hums, seemingly satisfied before standing and offering his hand.

You hesitate for a second before taking it and letting him pull you to your feet. Your pride is well and fully bruised at this point, confidence dipping low. Part of you hopes this will just end here. That he'll decide you're not worth the effort when he's not officially your instructor, that his challenge proved him right—

"Let's try again," he says simply, cutting your pity party short. No hint of teasing, no smirk. Encouragement.

It takes only a heartbeat before you're brushing off the snow and nodding. This time, when he starts offering instructions in a low, calm voice, you listen.

"Slow, control your speed."

"Heels out, bunny, you can do it."

When the wedge finally works, not perfect but enough to come to a full stop, a small smile tugs at his lips. "Good. That's better."

The next run comes easier.

So does the next.

It quickly becomes a pattern. He follows closely at your side, eyes analyzing everything you do. Every wrong move is followed by a gentle correction. Every adjustment is followed with some form of praise.

"That's it."

"Yes, there you go."

"Perfect, bunny, great form. Keep that."

And every time you get it right, you can feel it. Your chest tightens. Your breath catches. Your cheeks feel permanently warm, but maybe it's just the sun.

Several runs down the bunny hill in, mistakes are becoming minimal and you find yourself watching him instead of the run. Waiting. Listening. Until nothing comes at all, and disappointment unexpectedly tugs at your gut.

When the sun finally reaches the highest point in the sky, the two of you stop at the bottom of the hill for what feels like the millionth time. Your legs are tired, a little shaky from the exertion.

"You're getting it," he finally says. Bucky looks at his watch before squinting at the sun, a bead of sweat glistening on his hairline. He turns to meet your gaze. "That's it for today."

"Wait, what?"

He nods towards your legs before speaking. "Your legs are about to give out," he says matter-of-factly, "and I don't want to have to carry you down the mountain." The warmth is almost gone, replaced with the same teasing tone he had earlier this morning, but now there's a glint of something in his eye you can't quite name. Lingering. "Besides, I'm sure you'll need your strength for après-ski tonight."

You blink.

"Who says I'm going to après-ski after that?" you ask incredulously, placing your hands on your hips. His gaze drops to the way your knees wobble beneath you, the corners of his lips curling almost imperceptibly before his blue eyes meet yours once more.

His head tilts slightly. "Get a drink, bunny," he replies, voice lowering, "you earned it." He smirks before turning and leaving you standing at the end of the run alone.

— — —

The White Wolf Lodge is crawling with people when you and Lana finally step inside later that night, busier than it had been yesterday. Despite her protests to "find something with more oomph", you insisted on returning…just in case. Lana grins with delight, bouncing in her heeled boots as she takes it in.

"I'm getting drinks this time," she says pointedly. You open your mouth to protest, but she shuts you up with a look before turning and winding her way through the crowd in a blur of hair and perfume.

It's busy. Too busy. And despite the insistence to your brain that you weren't hoping to see a certain someone, a wave of disappointment hits you all the same. Because there's no way he'll be here with this many people around.

By some miracle, two chairs open up just as you push through a small opening of people. You sit quickly and take in your surroundings. A DJ booth is set up in the corner this time, the music loud enough to rattle the seat, and the pool tables are completely surrounded by people either dancing or ignoring the game altogether.

When your gaze finally drags over to the bar where Lana is currently leaning over it and pointing at something to the bartender, your heart nearly stops.

Those incredibly blue eyes, the ones who have seen you hit too many lows for comfort this weekend, catch your attention like a beacon. The eye contact is brief. Too brief…yet simultaneously too long. He turns away, but not before you catch the way his lips curl up at the corners.

Damn it.

"One cocktail for you, madame," Lana announces out of nowhere and hands you a glass. "Drink up."

"Actually," you say slowly, already setting the glass down, "I think I'm going to get some air." Lana doesn't say a word, watching as you leave for the door that leads towards a balcony overlooking the resort.

The sun is beginning to set behind the mountains, casting a pink and orange glow over everything. Lights flicker on across the resort and slopes as the night skiers begin their evenings. It's quieter out here, only the faint thumping of music filling the air.

You take a deep breath and enjoy the serenity for a moment before the sound of heavy boots approaches slowly, stopping just off to your side.

"Still standing, I see."

There's a lightness in his tone—impressed and teasing. Your eyes roll.

"I told you, you don't know me." You glance over at him. "I'm adorable, but I'm not helpless."

Bucky meets your gaze for a moment before looking out at the view. He nods thoughtfully before he shakes his head with a laugh, a real one that catches both of you off guard. He steps forward and rests his arms on the railing, close enough you can feel the heat radiating from him.

"For the record, I never said you were helpless. You just seemed a little too attached to your phone for your own safety."

You scoff, annoyed for a second, before conceding. "Yeah, sure. I'll give you that."

He smirks. "I guess this means I was wrong about you. You proved me wrong, bunny. You successfully made it down the mountain multiple times. Well done."

There it is again. Two incredibly simple words that shouldn't have the affect they do, yet the heat rising in your cheeks is unstoppable. What is it about this man that his approval so addicting?

You release a breath you hadn't realized you were holding and turn to watch the ski lifts sway gently in the wind.

"Thanks," you mumble, trying to keep your voice steady. The world suddenly feels smaller than it should. His gaze doesn't leave your profile, like he's studying you again. Reassessing.

There's a pause in the conversation, allowing the hum of muffled music and the squeal of children throwing snowballs down below to fill the silence.

Several moments pass before he leans a bit closer and breaks the silence. "You're awfully quiet right now. It doesn't suit you."

You raise an eye brow and glance at him. "Maybe I'm just enjoying the peace and quiet."

Something flashes in his eyes too quick to catch.

"Mm. I'm not sure that's it." He turns to fully face you now, elbow resting on the railing. "I watched you today."

Your heart stops, but you try and brush it off. "You were instructing me, of course you watched."

Bucky laughs, a rumble that vibrates deep in his chest. "No, I mean when you thought I wasn't paying attention. You know what I learned about you?"

You don't answer, choosing to focus on the way butterflies are threatening to erupt in your gut.

"You get flustered pretty easily."

His gaze holds yours, searching for any reaction, any hint that his words mean something. When you still don't respond, his voice lowers almost dangerously.

"I think you like the attention."

Your heart skips a beat.

"Maybe I do." Your voice comes out quieter than you intend. "But you're still giving it to me."

The way Bucky is looking at you makes your stomach do a somersault. With a twinkle in his eye and a grin he's fighting to keep hidden, he takes a half-step closer, making your breath catch.

"Probably because I like giving it to you, bunny."

Smooth as silk, and it hits exactly how he wants it to—a sharp breath and the flick of your eyes to the door leading back to the party inside before finding that unwavering gaze again. The sun has slipped completely behind the mountains now, leaving the warm lighting of the lodge's balcony to soften his sharp features.

"You're ridiculous," you whisper weakly, but you both know the tension in the air is thickening fast.

He chuckles softly. "Yet you're still here."

"I was here first."

He hums, looking out at the darkened view for a minute like he's considering something. And then his focus is on you again.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?"

He lifts his hand palm up between you, a silent invitation.

Your gaze drops to it. It's large and unfairly steady compared to the way he just made your pulse flutter. But you don't take it. Not yet.

"My room isn't far," you say without thinking, looking back up.

His expression shifts with a blink—eyebrows raising a fraction as a small smile, warm and satisfied, forms on his lips.

You take that as agreement, and suddenly your feet are carrying you back inside.

Every step is unhurried as you move through the noise and chaos of the lodge. You don't even have to glance back to know he's right behind you, a steady presence.

Each hallway gets quieter than the last, the tension slowly increasing with every corner you turn until finally stopping at your door.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Your fingers are wrapped around the keycard already, and the silence is almost deafening. When you second guess yourself and turn to ask if he's sure, you find him leaning against the wall.

Too casual. Too calm. Too—

Bucky smiles. Slow. Devastating.

Your breath catches.

His eyes flick to your lips, parted with a question that won't come out, then back to your eyes.

That's all it takes before you step towards him. Not the whole way, but enough. He closes the distance.

His hands cradle your face before his mouth finds yours, lips moving at a languid pace like we have all the time in the world. Your hands find the soft fabric of his shirt as he tilts your face just a little.

A soft hum slips from your throat, which only seems to encourage him into picking up the pace.

You don't break apart until the sound of footsteps and laughter sounds from somewhere nearby, and you find yourself gently pushing him away to try and get the door open. He barely moves, watching as you struggle to get the card in the reader twice before it finally unlocks.

Bucky holds the door open for you to go through first, and when it finally closes with a click, he immediately backs you into the nearest wall.

His body is a solid mass against yours, pressing firmly against you. One hand finds your waist, tugging you closer, as the other cups your face with a slow brush of his thumb.

"Tell me to stop," he says, voice strained. "Tell me you don't want this."

His breath fans across your lips in ragged puffs, like he's desperately trying to stay composed. But when your arms encircle his neck and pull him in for another kiss, his restraint snaps.

It starts slow. Tasting. Exploring.

Then the kiss deepens—your hands in his hair, his holding the nape of your neck like he's afraid to let you go. When his knee slots between your legs, pressing right where heat has been pooling far longer than you realized, a small whimper pulls from your throat before you can stop it.

He freezes. A slow curve of his lips accompany a low chuckle, and suddenly his lips are trailing to your jaw and down to your neck, his hands beginning to explore.

"God," he mumbles against your skin, "you sound good. Wonder what other noises you make."

You huff a laugh, half flustered half amused, your own hands beginning to tug at his coat, but your mind is stuck on the hard length pressing into your lower belly.

Bucky doesn't waste another second. He shrugs off his coat before cupping both sides of your face and pulling you in for a searing kiss. Your hands tug at his shirt, more insistent now. He lifts his arms, only breaking the kiss long enough to pull it over his head before it's tossed aside and his mouth finds yours again.

The sudden movement has your head spinning, knocking you off balance when he begins to tug you by the waist one, two steps away from the wall.

You barely register each step as clothes begin to peel away, leaving a trail of fabric to the bed. When the back of your knees press into the edge of the mattress, he follows you down instantly, bracing himself above you with one hand as the other trails slowly down your side.

His eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide as he looks down at you, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Still wanting my attention?" he murmurs.

A soft laugh. "More than anything."

Bucky kisses you again with a low groan before starting a slow trail down your body, leaving kisses in his wake. He lingers too briefly at your breasts, kneading, sucking, and groaning softly before continuing down, ultimately settling between your legs with a gentle push of his hand.

You watch as his fingers play with the waistband of your panties, torturing you with a glance back up to your pleading eyes.

His lips part like he's going to say something, but then he glances back down at the fabric clinging to your wet heat and he groans instead. Slipping a finger into the gusset, he slowly peels it down and off your legs.

"Look at you," he whispers. "So pretty."

He starts slow, his thumb brushing carefully up your slit, gathering slick as he goes. Your fingers curls into the plush duvet when he licks his lips, looking like a starving man at a buffet.

And then his tongue is on you.

Hot, flat, and tasting you slowly from entrance to clit.

You gasp, your head falling back to the mattress. He squeezes his eyes closed, an "oh, fuck," slipping from his lips before he's spreading you open with both thumbs and licking again. The sensation has you tingling, fingers gripping tighter, and when his lips attach to your clit without warning, a strangled whimper fills the soft silence of the room.

He hums, seemingly pleased at your reaction. And then his tongue is moving again. Slow. Flat. Flicking your clit before circling it with expert precision.

"Bucky," you whine. Your hips buck up in a silent plea for more.

He chuckles, a deep rumble that sends vibrations through your core. "Oh, bunny, you taste incredible," he murmurs. Your chest heaves as he exchanges his tongue for a single finger, pulling back just enough to look back up at you, lips already glistening with your juices.

He's watching you carefully for every reaction, every hitch in your breath has he rubs tantalizingly slow circles on your clit with too-soft pressure. Seemingly satisfied, he licks his lips again and dips his finger into your entrance, curling it just right and pulling a soft moan from your throat.

Bucky grins like he just won the lottery.

He leans back in, continuing where he left off with unhurried movements as his mouth and finger work in tandem. Pressure is coiling low in your gut, tighter with every brush of his thick fingers against the soft spot deep inside. A second finger joins quickly, stretching you open. One of your hands abandons the duvet altogether, burying into his hair to ground you.

He grunts in approval, picking up the pace. His mouth is relentless, sucking and licking your dripping folds.

"Fuck," he murmurs, "you're squeezing my fingers. You close, bunny?"

You nod quickly, brows drawn together in pleasure as your fingers grip his hair a little tighter. He growls when he feels your back begin to arch off the bed.

"There you go—fuck, you're doing great. Just relax and let go."

You moan loudly when your orgasm crashes over you, a white hot pleasure coursing through your veins in waves. Your legs shake and squeeze around his head, earning a deep groan from him. Bucky keeps up his movements, prolonging the pleasure as he groans against you.

His tongue laps up the juices as you come down from your high.

"Good fucking girl," he mutters, pulling his fingers out. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh before moving back up and kissing you deeply, allowing you to taste yourself on him.

"You've got quite the mouth on you," you laugh breathlessly when he pulls away, lowering himself and pressing his still-clothed bulge against your sensitive folds.

Bucky chuckles.

"I've got more than that." He grins and does one grind against you to punctuate his point. Wrapping your arms and legs around him, your hips roll once with his, not caring you're soaking into his briefs.

"Do you have a condom?" he huffs, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your flesh. "I…wasn't planning for this or I would've stolen one from my roommate."

You shake your head. "I'm clean and on the pill."

He groans, kissing you again and silently thanking any god that will listen for the snow bunny beneath him.

Bucky slips the now soaked material off, his cock slapping against his stomach as he looks at you with a newfound hunger, precum already beading on the flushed tip. Your eyes widen when his hands wrap around the length, giving one slow pump. He's thick and you're already salivating.

He moves to bracing himself above you. His knee pushes your legs further apart before he's rubbing the length through your wet folds, gathering your arousal before lining himself with your entrance.

He stops for a moment, chest rising and falling. Then his eyes are on you. And before you can say a word, he's pushing in.

Slow.

The stretch is delicious, each inch splitting you open. His eyes don't leave yours.

When he bottoms out, your eyes flutter shut, feeling more full than you ever have in your life. You can feel him shift, his body warm and solid as he settles above you, one hand bracing himself as the other gently grips your waist and waits for you to adjust.

When your eyes open again, his blue ones are watching for any signs of discomfort or hesitation.

"You okay?"

You nod, your throat not quite working. He nods in response, doing one test roll of his hips and making you gasp.

He smirks.

"Don't fucking look at me like that." Your laugh comes out strained, your hands somehow find themselves in his hair again.

He chuckles and does another roll. Slower. Just to see if you'll make the same sound. He grins when you do.

"You're so tight," he grunts. "Fucking perfect."

Your cunt clenches around him, and he groans.

His hips begin moving more deliberately, pulling his cock almost all the way out before sliding back in. He moves like he's back on the mountain—controlled, unhurried. Every thrust feels like heaven, dragging against your sensitive walls with increasing ease.

"There we go, that's it," he mutters. His gaze flicks down to where you're connected and licks his lips. He slowly picks up his pace. His hand moves from your thigh to slip beneath you, lifting your hips for a better angle. You mewl helplessly at the feeling.

Bucky's eyes snap back up to your mouth where your lips are parted and panting, each thrust now pulling sounds out like a beautiful symphony.

"Fuck, bunny, you sound—" his hips snap once, harder, and you whimper. He grins. "I'm not gonna last if you keep—" He snaps his hips again and the same sound comes out.

His jaw tightens, like he's trying to hold himself back, but when he does it again, hitting that spongy spot perfectly and pulling a full moan from your lips, he loses control.

The pace picks up faster and harder until you're crying out his name with every thrust.

"You're doing so good, look at you. You're taking me so well, sweetheart, keep going."

The praise hits you hard this time, your cunt clenching around him like it's desperately trying to hang on. Bucky moans, a deep guttural sound as his hips stutter and slow to a near stop. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath.

"You—you like that, don't you?" he growls. His eyes snap open. "You like the praise. No wonder you wanted it on the mountain."

You roll your hips up in his in an attempt for more friction. His cock twitches deep inside you. And then he's grinning wickedly.

"Bucky, please," you whimper.

"Please what, sweetheart? You look so pretty like this, underneath me while I split you open."

His words have the exact affect he wants and he chuckles when your body uselessly tries to cling on.

"Don't worry, bunny, I've got you. You're so good for me, huh? Already came on my mouth, think you can come on my cock like a good girl?"

"Oh, fuck…" you whine. "Yes, Bucky. Please."

He leans down, and gently presses a kiss to your lips. It's soft and lingering as he finally begins to move his hips again.

When you moan softly against him, he pulls back just enough to watch your face. "That's it. Let's get you there again, yeah?"

You nod, brows furrowed in pleasure, the edge slowly creeping closer as he slowly picks up the pace again. His calloused hand finds your thigh again, moving it to wrap around his waist. The change makes him feel even deeper when he bottoms out.

Bucky is pounding into you now, the sound of skin slapping skin mingling with heavy breaths.

"Bucky, I'm—I'm close."

He's panting, hips stuttering with his own impending orgasm, his eyes still not leaving your face. He reaches down between your sweat-slicked bodies and finds your clit, rubbing circles with his thumb.

"Give it to me, sweetheart. Come with me."

Three deep thrusts and your back arches as you reach your peak for a second time. You fingers tighten in his hair, tugging the strands. Moans fill the room as Bucky fucks you through your orgasm until his own release has him spilling hot ropes of cum deep inside you.

Hips roll in-sync, each of you pulling every last drop of pleasure possible out of the other before Bucky slowly pulls out with a groan.

"Good girl," he murmurs before climbing off the bed and heading to the bathroom. He comes back with a damp washcloth, cleaning you up carefully before tossing it on a side table. The two of you move to slip under the duvet, a calm weight draping over your bodies. Bucky pulls you into his side before pressing his lips to your temple.

A comfortable silence falls in the room and settles into the sheets, only the sounds of synchronized breaths filling the space between tangled limbs. Bucky's chest rises and falls in an increasingly slower rhythm under your head. His hands, the same ones that spent half the day correcting every mistake, now rub soothing circles on your back. Combined with the day's activities, your body is relaxing faster than you can stop it.

Bucky must sense it because his arms tighten around you a fraction before he murmurs, "Get some sleep, bunny. You had a long day."

— — —

You awake the next morning in darkness—or, you think it's morning—to the sounds of rustling fabric and a zipper being pulled in the door's vicinity.

"Bucky?" you mumble sleepily.

"Hey," he whispers. His voice sounds distant and a little rough from sleep. Soft footsteps on the carpet tell you he's moving closer before the dimmed light of his phone flickers on, illuminating his face as he crouches near the bed. His hair is mussed from sleep, eyes tired. "I don't mean to leave you like this, but I have to get ready for work. Can I see you later?"

Something inside flutters at the thought.

"Of course. I'll be around." You offer a smile before blinking slowly. He chuckles softly.

"I'll find you," he says, pausing for a moment. "Just…don't cause any trouble today, okay?"

You wave a dismissive hand at him before your head plops back down to the pillow with a small "mm".

He laughs softly before leaving and plunging you back into darkness.

The room is quiet again, but it doesn't feel the same. Cooler. Emptier. Which should feel embarrassing, having only known the man for a day. But sleep overtakes you before you can think too much about it, pulling you back into a warm slumber with the promise of later.

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[winteryn]

MY WIFE

18+ | MDNI

PAIRING: ceo!bucky barnes x wife!reader SUMMARY: three times in which the new intern tries to impress her hot, grumpy boss, mr. barnes. or, three times in which bucky can’t stop talking about his lovely wife.  WARNINGS: use of third person & second person & pov changes (she/her pronouns for reader); pictures don't reflect reader's appearance; reader wears a dress; original character (I’m so sorry if your name is madison 🥲); ceo!bucky (who is a little mean, tbh); whipped!bucky (he’s pathetically obsessed); pregnancy stuff (trying for a baby); fluff; smut; daddy & mommy kink; one (1) use of ‘slut’; mention of cockwarming; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); breeding kink; office sex (so... kind of public sex?). WORD COUNT: 6k A/N: I had so much fun writing this one-shot at the time and re-reading it put me in such a good mood, ngl. hope you’ll enjoy!

The little ding from an elevator has never felt so ominous. Wanda, Darcy and Carol scurry away like thieves from a crime scene, abandoning their morning gossip by the copier. Scott almost drops his freshly brewed coffee, fatigue instantly melting off his features and shoulders tensing up, while Monica throws her phone in her bag, pretending she’s been working all along on an already strategically open Excel sheet.

Once the elevator doors part, the whole floor falls into a silent distress. Mr. Barnes steps out with the same expression he wears every single morning: lips pressed in a thin line, jaw clenched, and a faint, permanent scowl, as if the world had already disappointed him the moment he woke up. 

His suit is always impeccably ironed, not a single crease on his white, crisp shirt. His cologne—Tom Ford’s Beau de Jour—is never too strong, but it lingers in the air like a constant reminder of his authority. As far as his employees can remember, his left wrist has never been bare: a prized watch, very simple yet tasteful, that can’t strangely be associated with any expensive brand, rests there. He’s very protective of it, and nobody has ever dared to comment on its simplicity, especially after an unpleasant episode involving one of the company's previous clients, Mr. Pierce.

The older man attempted to touch it with a grimace, as a joke, he kept insisting after. Nobody ever believed Mr. Barnes’ blue eyes could turn even icier. His voice was tinted with a subtle growl as he intimated the man to get his filthy hands off his watch. Scott almost fainted when he noticed Mr. Wilson tightly press his lips together to avoid bursting out laughing.

Needless to say, Mr. Pierce’s company lost all its deals with Barnes Investments.

Mr. Barnes walks with purpose, the same black coat gently swaying with every clipped step and tie mathematically aligned. He doesn’t even glance at his visibly fidgety employees, his blue eyes hidden behind a pair of Ami Paris black sunglasses that he only removes once he enters his office, strategically located at the very end of the open space. 

He also doesn’t greet anyone. His presence alone is a daily roll call.

The CEO doesn’t talk much in general—not unless he absolutely has to. But when he does, one either ends up walking away with a quiet pride burning in their chest, or crying and shaking in the restroom. His words are sharp and efficient. A simple “fix this” could ruin an entire afternoon. A “this is unacceptable”, a week.

The worst thing is that he doesn’t even need to raise his voice, because his perpetual glacial calm is enough to make a grown man in his fifties tremble like a fawn taking its first steps. His disappointed silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the sleek desk, could send any adult into an existential crisis.

He doesn’t even need to walk past the desks to know what happens inside his company. Every attempt to impress him is ignored without mercy and humor is met with a slow blink, as if it were a personal insult to his entire bloodline.

Somewhere along the way, the office collectively settled on calling him Mr. Tightass behind his back. Despite that, the CEO puts equal attention in rewarding and commending his employees when credit is due. It still feels like talking with someone who has been constipated for a month, but coming from the strict boss himself, the praise is always very welcomed.

Every morning, he follows the same meticulous routine: he checks his schedule with his trusted assistant, Natasha; retreats into his office to scan the reports left on his desk, flagging all the things he disapproves of, and then closes the door behind him with a resounding bang that feels like an order to not be disturbed.

He is habit wrapped in a suit and polished shoes; an ongoing source of heart palpitations for the entire staff.

This is the environment Madison Carrell, freshly graduated from NYU, walks into two days later, with a smug smile and pink high heels, blissfully unaware of what lies ahead.

Wanda is the one designated to show her the ropes, and Madison’s first day unfolds in a tour of the office—from the rows of desks lining the wooden floor to the large glass-walled meeting room. They pause briefly in the break room, where the analyst takes her time explaining how the kitchenette works. That’s when a dull knock on the open door interrupts their conversation. There, Mr. Barnes slightly leans forward, eyeing Wanda with his usual blank expression.

“I need the volatility report yesterday, Miss Maximoff.” 

“Yes, sir. I apologize. I’ll bring it to your office right now—” He raises a palm, stopping her nervous rambling.

“No need, leave it to Natasha and she’ll bring it to me.” Mr. Barnes has already turned away when she remembers the girl beside her.

“Um s—sir, this is one of the new interns, Madison Carrell.” His head turns enough to marginally eye the girl, giving her a curt nod before he’s returning to his cavern.

“Was that… James Barnes?” Wanda’s eyes flit on the intern, grimacing at her wide, sparkling eyes.

“Yeah, that’s him. A real gentleman, as you can see.” She rolls her eyes, stealing a handful of cereal from the glass jar.

Madison quietly gasps, patting her skirt as if to ensure she looks presentable. “I didn’t think I would meet him today. I’ve been a fan ever since he was invited to speak at a conference at my university two years ago.”

Wanda blinks once, one eyebrow raising skeptically. “A fan?”

“Of course!” The blonde wheezes. “He’s a brilliant, successful man who has built this company with his own blood, sweat and tears from the ground up. You should be grateful he even glances your way.” She stares at the vacant spot previously occupied by the CEO, trying to fruitlessly contain a grin. “And he's very handsome.” 

“You know he’s married, right?” Madison’s head snaps toward the analyst, her smile suddenly replaced by a scowl.

“What?”

It’s impossible. She knows his Wikipedia page by heart and there isn't a single mention of a marriage, nor of his personal life in general.

“Yeah, and also very much in love with his wife.” The older woman nods, quite amused. Now she almost regrets telling her, nothing exciting ever happens in this office, after all.

Madison’s mouth curves up, looking almost sympathetic. “Oh Wanda,” the analyst's eyes narrow on the intern patting her forearm condescendingly. “Everything ends. Even marriages.”

The analyst simply smirks knowingly, already walking to the door. “Mh, if you say so.” She then eyes the blonde, nodding towards the open space. “C’mon, I’ll show you your desk. It’s right next to mine and Darcy’s.”

The break room is unusually quiet for a mid-morning. Madison stands by the kitchenette, pretending to tidy up a stack of colorful mugs while her ear is tuned to the hallway. 

“Move Stark’s call to Wednesday, and if he complains, remind him we received an equally convincing offer from Williams Enterprise.” The moment Mr. Barnes’ deep, commanding voice thunders in the hallway, she straightens, a toothy smile brightening her face as his measured footsteps get louder and louder, until he crosses the threshold of the break room.

He steps inside, heading straight for the coffee machine with his red ceramic cup in hand—it’s his third refill already. He presses the button, then crosses his arms with a rigid posture, his left foot tapping rhythmically. Impatiently.

Madison takes a second to adjust her locks, before she turns toward the man. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes!”  

He gives her a brief glance, nothing more than a flicker of acknowledgement, and a curt nod, before returning his frown to the humming appliance.

She clears her throat, refusing to let his disregard deter her. “I, um… I baked something. Thought I’d bring some in for the team.”

Mr. Barnes looks bored at this point, still not moving his icy eyes from the cup. 

She swallows. “They’re chocolate chip cookies, fresh from this morning. I figured you might like to try one.” As the CEO turns with his steaming coffee in hand, he almost bumps into the extended tray of sweets. He grunts, clearly annoyed at this intern’s insistence, and in that exact moment, his wife’s words echo sweetly through his mind.

“They’re your employees, Jamie. Just… Try to be a little nicer?”

With a sigh, Mr. Barnes places the cup back on the counter, before taking a cookie under Madison’s hopeful eyes. But her enthusiasm is abruptly torn to shreds as she watches him break the tiniest piece off, almost a crumb, then taste it with the air of someone challenged to eat concrete for money.

A low hum escapes him, thoughtful. He eyes the rest of the cookie distracted as he starts mumbling. 

“I wonder if my wife will bake cookies, she already made a pie two days ago.” 

Madison blinks. Why does he need his wife’s cookies? She's literally in front of him right now, with a tray full of them that she specifically baked just for him! Does he know how hard it was to keep the team away from them, then look for a good hiding place in the break room so they would go unnoticed? She had to wait here for hours, pretending to clean and look for random stuff every time a passing co-worker eyed her with suspicion.

Madison forces a chuckle, an idea quickly forming in her mind to not let the conversation die. “What kind of pie?”

His fingers lightly scratch the stubble on his chin, still pensive. “Apple. It’s my favorite.”

Her eyes lit up. “I make a mean apple pie! Next time I can—” 

“It was excellent. The crust was neither too flaky nor too hard. And the flavors were perfectly balanced.” He shakes his head, still impressed. Madison winces as he literally cuts her off, but by the hazy look in his eyes, she doubts he even noticed her talking at all. “She’s a baker, so she knows her deal. Always testing new recipes on me.”

Is he pouting? 

“I finished the whole thing in two days.” 

Madison stands there frozen, the paper tray cradled awkwardly in her hands as she watches Mr. Barnes swiftly set the cookie down on the counter. 

“I need to text her.” He murmurs, not even glancing at his cup as he moves hastily toward the door. “Tell her to make another one for tonight.”

And just like that, he disappears, leaving the untouched tray and Madison’s crushed expectations behind.

It’s not until Scott pokes his head in that her vacant stare finally moves. “Can we eat them now?”

Alright, so the first attempt to impress her boss didn’t go as well as she predicted. That’s okay! Madison wasn’t elected student body president by throwing the towel at the first obstacle.

The next occasion presents itself the following week. Wanda was tasked with drafting a counter proposal to Mr. Stark’s new project, which meant Madison could not only be present during the presentation, but also outline a section of the submission and prove to Mr. Barnes she deserves her place there—someone who belongs in his professional world, beside him, not a lowly baker.

Right now, they are on a small break after four boring hours spent discussing the billionaire’s proposal. From her peripheral vision, Madison catches Mr. Barnes coming back in the room, along with Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Stark. Her chest slightly puffs out, finally ready to spring into action.

“So I told him I didn’t give a fuck about fishing, and then he spent all night crying over his ex-wife—”

“Ask me about my lunch.” Monica balks at Madison, tilting her head.

“Excuse me?”

“Ask me about my lunch. Ask me where I bought those nice tomatoes!” She whispers, leaning sideways against the long table. Monica stares at her appalled, until their boss’ booming voice reaches her ears and her eyes roll to the sky. Of course it’s one of the new intern’s weird plans to catch Mr. Barnes’ attention. She can't believe Madison is still at it after ‘The Cookie Failure’, as Scott named it. 

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” She mutters reluctantly.

“Louder.”

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” Her yell attracts the attention of the four men and other nearby employees minding their own business.

Madison gives her a little coquettish giggle. “You mean the ones in the salad I had for lunch? Of course I grow them in my garden!”

Last week, Mr. Wilson teased Mr. Barnes about his prettily packed lunch—no, she was not eavesdropping... She just happened to be walking past his office at the exact moment highly confidential conversations have the bad habit of being perfectly audible. At some point, he mentioned that the lettuce came straight from his garden, so she concluded he must have a green thumb. 

Of course she didn't have the time, nor the patience, to grow fucking vegetables. No one would ever be able to tell the difference between store-bought tomatoes and homegrown ones, anyway.

Tomatoes were tomatoes. The internet agreed.

“My wife has a beautiful garden.” 

Madison goes still.

“Does she now?” Mr. Stark amusedly teases him.

She doesn’t blink for a moment, like her brain has briefly stopped accepting information.

“Last year she grew tomatoes so perfect the neighbors thought they were made of wax.” He pats the pocket of his black pants. “Hold on, I have pictures.” And everyone gathers around him. Like bees around a flower. Even Monica! 

“Look at the color! It’s incredible.” A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the room, no doubt praising her and her damn tomatoes.

“And these are her cucumbers. And her lettuce. And—oh, here she is mulching. She didn’t know I was there.” Madison almost has an aneurysm as a faint, unguarded smile appears on his lips. “She’s so lovely.”

Coughing, Madison raises her voice in a pathetic last attempt. “I, uh… planted some basil.”

And without missing a beat, Mr. Barnes destroys her while still swiping through the pictures. 

“My wife grows five varieties of basil.”

Then, he stops short, his finger hovering over the screen as his lips press together to hide a grin. That's when Mr. Rogers clears his throat, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. His head jerks up, blinking as if he just woke up from a dream. 

“Alright.” His frown returns. “Break’s over. Miss Maximoff, it’s your turn.”

“Shit.” Madison whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. She was so focused on looking up gardening tips these past few days that she completely forgot she also had to help Wanda present her counter proposal. Which entails talking in front of an entire board of stakeholders about things she only read in her university books. 

Suddenly, those stupid tomatoes feel like they’re crawling back up her esophagus, and a cold sweat breaks across her skin. She makes it to the massive presentation screen on unsteady legs, her hands shaking so badly she can barely grip the clicker. Behind her, Mr. Barnes stands and starts walking toward them, while the rest of the table settles back into their seats.

“Maximoff, I read the counter proposal last night. Good job. The section about forecasted performance—”

Madison perks up. “I drafted that section—”

“My wife caught five mistakes there. Be careful.” He concludes, not sparing her a single glance as he turns to make his way back to the head of the table. Still, she catches his breathy comment.

“Such a brilliant woman.”

Her fiasco at Mr. Stark’s deal sets Madison back a few steps. Well, did she even move forward at all? After a week of reflection—mostly spent on TikTok tutorials about “what men like in a woman”, a suspicious amount of “CEO mindset” content and questionable productivity hacks she saved at 2 a.m.—the intern decides to take a new approach.

It’s Friday when Madison plans to stay back at the office, knowing Mr. Barnes always finishes late on Fridays. He doesn’t like being bothered over the weekend, so he ensures everything is done before he leaves.

Silence settles heavily over the building once the team leaves, making it easy to catch the rustle of papers and the faint creak of his chair around nine, signaling he’s finally done. Her coat is already on as she stands near her desk, deliberately checking her bag as if making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything. When he finally opens the door, she lets out an exaggerated sigh, lifting her eyes and putting on her best expression of surprise.

“Mr. Barnes! I didn’t think there was anyone left at this hour.” The man stops abruptly in his quick advance toward the elevator, turning to face her. “I had to finish a few things for Wanda and I didn’t notice the time. I’m just so happy to be here time kind of disappears when you get into it. You surely get that, right?”

He stares at her, deadpan. “Who are you, again?”

Her eyes bulge out. “I—” She gapes. “Madison Carrell! The new intern!” She rushes out, bordering on a shriek.

“Right.” He mutters, resuming his steps as she quickly jogs to reach him. “No, I actually don't get that. If it were for me, I would stay at home, or help my wife run her bakery.” After pressing the button to call the elevator, he stares ahead, still looking so put together after twelve hours of work.  

James Buchanan Barnes—one of the richest, most hard-working people in the whole continent, two-time #1 on Forbes’ Top 100 CEO, and major partner at Stark Industries—longs to be a househusband just so he can stay with his wife? And run a fucking bakery?

“She’s always telling me I need to come home earlier.” He sighs, and to her shock, his mouth twists into something akin to a fond smile. “She worries so much about me. She sent me a selfie an hour ago and now I can’t wait to see her.”

Madison simply nods along, face frozen in polite agony while her bag takes the worst of it, her knuckles turning white as she crumples the poor handle. She just wasted four hours of her Friday night doing nothing only to hear the man of her dreams sing praises about a woman she’s never met, yet knows entirely too much about.

The ride in the elevator is excruciating. Mr. Barnes is too busy grinning down at his phone to entertain her, and Madison’s slumped shoulders are a testament of her crushed hopes. Once they’re outside, she notices a couple of people gathered in front of the window of a clothing store right across the street. They look like they are decorating for Christmas, strings of lights already up and various boxes blocking half of the sidewalk. Mr. Barnes shakes his head at the sight, and Madison catches it from her peripheral vision.

Of course a cranky and curt man like Mr. Barnes would be a grinch!

Such a shame she completely missed his soft smile.

“I can’t believe some people are already decorating for Christmas.” She scoffs. “C’mon, it’s still November! Who is the idiot that does that?” Turning her head toward him, her chuckle dies in her throat at his gelid expression. 

“My wife.”

Madison’s heart drops to her stomach. “W–What–”

“My wife is the idiot who decorates for Christmas in November.” His caustic reply sends shivers down her back. Madison's jaw falls to the ground, and for a moment she just stands there, toes curling in shame and cheeks flaming red. Her mouth opens and closes twice, not really knowing what to say or do in front of the man eyeing her with so much vitriol.

Maybe the ground should open right this instant and swallow her whole. It would hurt less.

“I—” 

“Goodnight, Miss Carroll.” 

“What—” She whispers, completely caught off guard. “It’s Carrell!” She shouts, but he’s already halfway to his black Jaguar.

“FUCK!”

Wanda is so engrossed in her conversation with Darcy about the umpteenth date with a loser she met on Tinder that the loud thump on her right makes both women jolt in surprise. 

It's Madison and she is... a mess. 

Her ponytail is barely hanging on, a few blonde hair sticking in the air as if she was just electrocuted. Her makeup only consists of some smudged gloss—a rough contrast to the full face she has been displaying every single morning since she set foot here at Barnes Investments. Darcy and Wanda exchange a look of worry as they spot the big brown stain on her light blue shirt, probably coffee. 

They’ve never seen Madison look so distraught in the two months she’s been here. 

“Honey, are you okay?” Wanda tentatively asks. 

“Okay? Why yeah sure! Why shouldn’t I be okay?” She grits out with a fake, entirely too big smile, while literally throwing her things on her desk. 

“You sure?” Darcy raises an eyebrow.

“Of course! I mean, my crush is happily married to a woman who apparently has a pussy made of gold, because he can’t stop talking about her for one damn second.” Her pencil case almost flies to the ground. The desk shakes under the heavy laptop mindlessly tossed on its surface. 

Her little outburst makes a few heads turn, prompting the two analysts to shoot on their feet.

“Hey, lower your voice!” Wanda whisper shouts. “I understand you’re disappointed, but did you forget said crush is also your boss?”

“No, Wanda. You don’t understand.” She growls out, looking like a feral dog. “Two days ago I had to bribe his assistant with a fucking thirty-five-dollar chocolate bar just to find out his coffee order! Do you know where Mr. Barnes buys his coffee from every. Single. Morning?” Wanda shakes her head, mildly scared as Madison leans forward, her right eye twitching. “From a fucking coffee shop on the other side of New York. It took me fifty minutes just to get there, only for him to tell me he doesn’t drink that shit anymore because that stupid wife of his says it makes him too jittery.” She mocks with a pout and a whiny voice.

“He switched to herbal tea, or something. Last week!”

“Stand back, she’s gonna blow.” Darcy whispers horrified. 

“It’s been two months and I know more about this alleged wife of his than about the fucking company! He describes her as she is some sort of goddess who knows everything! And who the fuck keeps two hundred pictures of vegetables in their phone?” 

At this point, Madison is having a genuine outburst, screaming and slamming her bag on the desk under her co-workers’ bewildered gaze.

“For God’s sake, is she even real?”

As if by magic, the ding of the elevator suspends the room in silence. Everything seems to freeze as the doors slide open, revealing a woman Madison has never seen before, cautiously stepping forward. Her A-line mini dress has a soft plaid pattern, the sleeves sheer and flowy. The skirt flares out with a gentle silhouette, half hidden under a long black coat.

The entire floor gapes, taken aback by the romantic, almost ethereal vision. There’s only one person who doesn’t seem fazed at all, and that’s Mr. Barnes, who abruptly opens the door of his office as soon as the elevator door shuts. 

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes immediately find Bucky's as he quickly makes his way to you at the end of the room. 

“Jamie.” His own lips twist into a grin when he finally reaches you, circling your waist with his muscular arms. 

“What are you doing here, doll? It’s your day off.” He mumbles, leaving a small kiss on your forehead. His blue eyes carefully take you in, poorly concealing his appreciation for your cute outfit, until they land on your bare legs. 

“Where are your tights?” He frowns, gently tugging you forward. “C'mere, let's sit in my office so you can warm up.”

“I wanted to see you.” You hum, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground as your fingers pull at his suit jacket, so you can drag his face closer to yours. Once your lips are brushing against his ear, you whisper as quietly as you can, hoping only your husband will catch your words. 

“They're not the only thing I’m not wearing right now.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen, before his saliva goes down the wrong pipe, sending him into a coughing fit under your amused gaze. His employees try to not stare at the scene, but it’s so endearingly rare witnessing their stern boss turn into this blushing, pliant mess in front of a pretty girl. 

“Shit.” He swallows, awkwardly clearing his throat as he quickly recomposes himself. “Let’s go, sweetheart.” 

Everyone knows that at his core, Mr. Barnes is just a man pathetically in love with his wife, still, curious eyes follow you as he hastily guides you to his office with a hand on your back, his gaze not steering away once from your face as giggles unusually fill the open space.

“Thank God she came by.” Scott leans in, addressing the three women. “He’s always more lenient after her visits.” He elaborates, mainly for a flustered Madison, who releases her expensive bag, letting it fall on the floor with a dull thud, before storming off to the restroom. Wanda sighs, slightly shaking her head in exhaustion.

The man just stares at the two analysts with knitted eyebrows, completely confused. “What?”

“My pretty little slut, coming to Daddy’s office without wearing any panties.” Bucky grunts against the skin of your bare chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to keep you nice and still on his desk.

It’s been six months since you and Bucky have agreed to try for a baby. Six months of pure, unhinged, hot sex in his office. It just so happens that your husband has been at work during your fertile window for the past few months, meaning that he could use that as an excuse to have you bare and whimpering in his office for a few days a month. 

Never in his career has Bucky dreamt of actually having sex here, of all places. Sure, he fantasized about your warmth by his side during those hard nights spent here amongst mountains of documents—he, Steve and Sam worked overtime almost every day at the beginning; his company was too small and new to afford the luxury of going home at a decent time. 

And you supported him through it all, his perfect darling. 

So imagine his face when you showed up at his workplace one day, locking the door behind you before literally throwing yourself at him, your breath warm against his ear as you gasped out how badly you needed him to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name.

Honestly, it wasn’t his proudest moment. He ended up coming before you after only a minute top, too aroused as he stared at you eagerly riding him on his chair, a hand on your mouth to prevent any loud noise from spilling out as his employees kept working, not having the faintest idea about what was happening inside their boss’ office.

From that moment on, your little visits meant only one thing. 

“Fuck, Daddy you’re so big.” You whine, clinging onto his shoulders. 

He lets out an animalistic groan as he squeezes your hips bruisingly. “Say it again.” He growls, grinding his hips harder against you. “You know I love it when you call me that, baby.” 

“Daddy please.” He slams his lips against yours, moaning as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, he goes straight for your chest, sucking on your nipple. Bucky loves to play with your breasts, you always get so responsive when his fingers tug and flicker your pretty nipples. Sometimes he just palms them for comfort during particularly frustrating calls he gets on the weekends from bratty assholes who refuse to go through his assistant first. Or out of boredom, while watching a movie. Until you get all worked up and end up cockwarming him throughout the rest of the movie.

“Can’t wait for these to swell up, gonna take such good care of you when they get too heavy and sensitive.” His head moves, the tip of his tongue already out to give some attention to the other nipple. “Wanna taste your milk so bad, baby. Will you let me? Bet it's just as sweet as your pussy.”

“Bucky!” Your head falls back as his teeth gently graze your erect nub, pulling a little pathetic whimper out of you that echoes loudly in the room.

“Shh-shh.” Your husband soothes, his voice back at your ear, his breath tickling your damp skin. “Been thinking about your pretty pussy all day.”

Bucky sounds a little dazed, his voice hoarse with something primal as one of his hands travels from your hip to your abdomen. “You’ll look so beautiful with your belly all big and round and full. All because of me.” 

“Please.” You cry out, trembling as tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes. It’s too much. Everything is too much. Your hot skin rubbing against his soft clothes, his filthy words, the way his blue eyes look at you with barely concealed hunger... His big cock stretching you open for him to move as he pleases. 

“You’re so fucking wet, baby.” Bucky marvels, staring in awe as his length disappears inside you, the loud, squelching sounds heating your cheeks up in embarrassment. You’ve done this so many times, yet that sense of danger, of possibly being caught doing something so debauched in such a professional environment, never fails to make your stomach flip and your core throb.

“Everyone will know how good I fuck you, how good I am for my beautiful wife.” He growls out against your lips. “My gorgeous Mommy.”

Your whole body shudder as your tongues dance, your pussy clenching at the sensation of his thick cock plunging deep inside you. It makes your head spin, leaving you completely speechless as Bucky's hips speed up. 

“Fuck, Daddy!” A whimper involuntarily falls from your parted lips, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, too big—” You gasp out the last word, his hips giving a particular brutal thrust that allows him to reach impossibly deeper.

“Yeah? I know, baby. I know. So big you can’t even talk properly.” He smirks. “Still, you take it so good, such a good girl.”

He covers your cheeks with sweet kisses, tracing a slow path down to the slope of your neck, where he makes sure to bite hard enough to elicit a surprised squeal from you.

“‘M gonna make you a mommy.” He pants harshly into your skin, his orgasm gradually approaching when you clench again. “The prettiest.” Thrust. “Sweetest.” Thrust. “Mommy.”

“Yes yes yes Daddy please!”  

Bucky’s low grunts and moans get louder as his fingers gently rub your clit, making your eyes roll back at the blinding pleasure. Your nails almost tear through the fabric of his half-open shirt.

“You’re so tight. Shit, I can feel you coming baby.” He moans, watching you nod quickly, and his voice drops a little. “Yeah? You finally gonna milk Daddy’s cock, pretty girl?” 

Your palm slaps on your parted mouth to stifle your lewd sounds. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips, and as he keeps thrusting faster and faster, your vision goes blurry and the knot in your belly finally snaps. 

“Daddy.” You whimper behind your hand, toes curling at the overwhelming bliss quickly hitting you. “Oh my God, I'm coming!” Your body wraps around him tightly as your hole clenches down, squeezing him so hard he almost chokes on his own spit. His fingers are cruel on your throbbing nub, toying with it until your hips jerk in overstimulation. You feel that hot pleasure everywhere—the base of your spine, deep in your gut, in your walls keeping him nice and warm. It’s always this intense with your husband: he knows what to say and where to put his hands so your orgasm hits you like a freight train, leaving your body exhausted yet quivering for more. 

“Fuck fuck—Daddy’s coming too.” He grits out, his thrusts messy and frantic, before his cock twitches, spilling deep inside you. “Shit—that’s it. Take it all, beautiful.”

Your chest is still heaving when you flop against him, forehead falling on his shoulder as your trembling fingers stay anchored to his shirt. His hands move to your asscheeks, thumbs leisurely stroking small circles into your skin as he tries to regain his breath as well. Yet, smugness drip off his voice. 

“Gave it to you so good you can’t even sit up straight, mh?”

You don’t have the energy to clap back, mewling with oversensitivity as he continues to gently thrust his softening dick lightly in and out of you, the mix of your juices trickling down and soiling the inner part of your thighs. Your lips part anyway to say something, but everything dissolves into an incoherent squeak when he gives your ass a light spank.

Bucky chuckles, proud of himself, his arms moving around your waist, hugging your body closer to his. “So gorgeous.” He coos, his eyelids fluttering close as the tip of his nose nuzzles your neck, breathing in your perfume, by now impeccably mixed with the scent of your favorite body cream. 

“So good for me. Fuck baby, I love you. I love you so much.” His hands gently cradle your cheeks, tenderly coaxing you out of your hiding spot as the strong urge to kiss you takes over his whole body. “Gonna have my baby and be the best mommy in the world.” He utters between sweet kisses. 

“Love you too, Jamie.” Bucky's lips curve softly at the way your eyelids barely stay open, letting you cuddle against his chest. His heartbeat never fails to speed up when those three magic words fall from your lips. 

“Think we did it this time?” You yawn tiredly, trying to keep your voice neutral. Still, your husband knows you too well after all these years by your side, instantly recognizing that hint of fragile hope in your question, and the faint change in your body, gone a little rigid.

His arms squeeze your waist once, before he drops a kiss on the top of your head, hoping it conveyed all his tenderness for your small family. That gesture, although little, instantly warms your heart, melting the tension off of your limbs as you squeeze his torso once.

“I have a hunch we did, my love.”

She just wanted to gather more information about your marriage from Natasha in a last, desperate attempt to convince herself she still had a chance. She is Mr. Barnes’ personal assistant, the only one who gets more than a single austere sentence out of him; the only one he calls by her first name. She must know something about his personal life. 

But Natasha was not at her desk. As a matter of fact, the small hallway was completely deserted, she noticed with a frown. 

And unfortunately, she had to find out the reason the hard way.

It's impossible to not notice the intern's pale face as she makes her way back to her cubicle, slow and stiff as her eyes stay fixed on nothing in particular. 

With a gentle voice, Wanda tries to strike up a conversation. “Hey, are you okay?”

Madison simply retrieves her bag, then turns away, Wanda barely catching her mumbled words as she starts walking toward the elevator. 

“I’m resigning.”

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💛

[phoenix-in-writing]

Earned It

pairing | Massage Therapist!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader summary | While on vacation, your best friend books a spa day for you to loosen up. A luxury spa, the hottest masseuse you've ever laid eyes on, and the slip of a sound lead to a very not normal massage. But in your defense...he had very good hands and a flexible definition of tension relief. warnings | MDNI 18+ Barbies only, please | female reader, no use of y/n, vacation fling, porn with a sprinkle of plot, open ended, inappropriate use of towels + massage oils (literally don't...don't do this at home), fingering, dry humping, unprotected p in v, pussy pronouns, exactly one (1) clit smack, soft dom Bucky if you squint, slight Romanogers if you squint even further and hold the phone at the right angle, reader is briefly described as being smaller than Bucky (if I missed anything please let me know) word count | 5.6k phoenix chirps | Hi Barbies! It's time for my first installment for the Barbie collab put on by the @stantastic-association. It's been so fun watching this come together that I can almost hardly believe it's my turn to post. I don't have much to say about this one, except that I feel the need to remind you that this is fiction. Please don't engage with massage therapists in this manner out in the real world. Even if they do suspiciously look like Bucky Barnes. dt | Literally everyone who had to listen to me bitch about needing to lock in since...January? Y'all know who you are, and I'm giving you all a big forehead kiss through the screen. I hope you can feel it. Though a very special dt to @miraclediviner who made sure the collab ran as smooth as butter and didn't let me slack off. You're a real one Mecca ❤️

"We should do a girls trip!"

A dreaded six word sentence among friend groups. It always felt like something elusive that would always get talked about, but never actually get planned. In the history of your particular circle, those words were carelessly thrown around during Pinterest searches or doom scrolls after too much wine more times than you could count, but never once made it out of the group chat.

That was until the self appointed leader of the group, Natasha Romanoff, decided that enough was enough. In her own words, she was tired of the drab concrete buildings in which you worked soul sucking desk jobs and wanted to explore. But she didn't want to go alone. So, she planned. She made itineraries that the group was excited about. A few helped narrow down the field to a destination of the Amalfi Coast. But somewhere between the planning stage and the plane taking off for a two week trip to Positano, only you and Natasha had actually managed to buy the airfare and split the cost of an ocean front hotel room in the picturesque town.

Arriving in a landscape dotted with colorful cliffhanging houses on the bluest waters you had ever laid eyes on should have been enough to decompress. Yet the first thing out of Nat's mouth when you had barely unpacked a bag in the small hotel room you would be sharing was: "You look like you need to relax." Evidently the charm of being in another country without having to think of emails and spreadsheets for two weeks was not enough to bring your shoulders down from where they had permanently bunched at your ears.

And that is how you found yourself herded to the five star spa attached to your hotel. The air was tinged more prominently with orange blossom and citrus oils here, mixing with the salt air of the sea that seeped in through the windows. There was a soft melody of instrumental music along with water bubbling from a few rock fountains that dotted the reception area, granting a relaxing atmosphere from the bustling of the hotel lobby just beyond the entrance.

You had been directed to a pair of plush armchairs by the receptionist and offered a glass of cucumber water along with a list of services that were outrageously priced, even for a tourist town. You supposed that the main focus of stepping into a place like this should have been the ease of which it was to relax. But what really wasn't relaxing were the prices on the laminated sheet.

"Nat I - " you began in a hushed tone, but were cut off by the wave of her hand.

"We're on vacation," she sighed taking a small sip of water. "Just charge everything to my card, and you can pay me back when you can. I need the miles anyway." It wasn't so much of an offer as it was a request to just treat yourself. Like innately, she knew that you would argue over spending an exorbitant amount of money on a ninety minute massage.

Slumping back in your chair, you knew it was futile to argue when Natasha put her mind to something. The receptionist approached shortly after, getting you both on the schedule. Her voice had a distinct charming Italian lilt that you supposed was meant to be calming, though it felt performative in a way; like everything in this over priced spa. Maybe that's how they were able to charge such high prices. If clients were lulled into a false sense of comfort at every turn, it hurt less when money changed hands.

Natasha's name was called first by a tall, muscular blonde man wearing dark blue scrubs. Before she disappeared behind the frosted glass doors flanked by two lemon trees, she gave a sly wink, her nose scrunching slightly. A secret girl code that loosely translated to her likely coming back out with her masseur's personal phone number.

Good for her, you thought. Though you dreaded if she actually did get it that you'd be spending the rest of the vacation playing tourist alone.

That left just you and the incessant dripping sound of water in the reception area, which truthfully wasn't all that relaxing when it had you debating if you had time for a bathroom break. In the middle of your deliberation, you heard your name called.

When your eyes lifted to see who your appointment was with, you now had a concrete reason as to why services here were so expensive. A six foot, broad shouldered muscular man with chestnut hair, and blue eyes that could rival that of the ocean waters of the coast was looking at you expectantly. Your gaze drifted down to the clipboard that held your assessment form you had filled out while waiting. And you were sure it was a normal sized clipboard, but it looked dwarfed being held in his hands. Hands that would soon be on your skin.

His smile was warm, and looked to be the most genuine form of soothing in the spa as you walked up to him on unsteady legs. "I'm Bucky, looks like I've got you for the next hour and a half," he introduced himself, and you immediately noticed he did not carry the same Italian accent of anyone you had encountered at the hotel.

He held the door open for you into a warmly lit hallway, with more greenery and a stronger scent of lemons. "Do you have any problem areas you'd like me to address?"

The only problem that came to the forefront of your mind - aside from your sore back muscles - was that your mind was now…blank.

And yet he patiently waited for an answer as he directed you to a small dim room. Likely having rendered so many women speechless, that this was just part of his routine when he introduced himself to someone new.

The room he showed you to only held a massage table, a small cart with various oils and towels, and the same plinking music that had been playing in reception could also be heard in here, albeit much softer. "Uh, my back kind of? It was a long plane ride," you said, finally finding your voice.

Bucky nodded, jotting something down on the clipboard he still held. "Taking care of yourself on vacation? Good girl, sitting that long can cause unneeded stress on your muscles."

The praise coming from his mouth seemed to slip out so naturally, your brain almost didn't register it. But the rest of your body sure did.

He's probably like this with everyone, he's just trying to get a bigger tip from you. You reminded yourself.

"If you'll just undress to your comfort level," he pulled the drape of the massage table back, "I'll be back in five minutes."

And with that, he was out of the room with the door closing behind him with a soft click. Truthfully your comfort level with a strange man in a foreign country should've been to add more clothes and walk out of here. Especially with the way your thoughts were racing as you pictured his hands on your body.

Perhaps you should go request a different masseuse. One that you didn't want to do things with he probably wasn't allowed to charge for. But with the way your back ached and the crick in your neck from an eight hour flight, you didn't want to wait for a different masseuse. Nor did you want to explain to Natasha why it was necessary and get teased relentlessly.

Deciding you'd like the full experience, you stripped bare and folded your clothes in a neat pile on the chair in the corner. Sliding into the cocoon of soft sheets on your stomach, you shifted the drape over your backside and as soon as you made yourself comfortable with your head on the rest, a knock sounded at the door.

"Alright sweet girl," Bucky's smooth voice reached your ears once more as he stepped into the room. "Let's see if we can't get you to relax."

This was already a bad idea, you surmised. Your body was reacting to the baritone of his voice in ways you hadn't even considered when Nat suggested a massage. Like it was reminding you of the dry spell you had currently been in with your dating life and that something or someone needed to rectify that soon.

He peeled the sheet away from your back to begin, the sudden rush of air hitting your nerves and sending a shiver down your spine,

"Cold?" He asked from somewhere above you, concern lacing his words.

"A little?" Your voice squeaked the lie piling on to your mortification. You weren't really cold, more like your nerve endings you long thought dormant were reacting to any form of provocations.

You heard the click of a button somewhere and a sudden wave of gentle heat flowed from a vent on the wall next to you. "There we go," he murmured. "I want you to be as comfortable as possible."

Some more shuffling occurred while you watched his shadow cast by the dim amber lights dance around the dark floor. A click of a cap being flicked open almost had you peaking over your shoulder to see what was going on, but eye contact would likely only heighten this one sided awkwardness you felt for the next ninety minutes.

A warm sensation dripped over your skin, and you felt goosebumps rise in its wake. Bucky's palms were on you next with a firm pressure that already had the tension floating from your body and into his palms. Deft fingers kneaded the muscles along your spine first, pausing to roll among your shoulders.

Sinking further into the table, it was almost easy to forget who was on the opposite end of the hands that you could describe as harbingers of magic. Your eyes slipped shut, finally letting out a deep breath you didn't remember inhaling.

"Good girl, keep letting go," Bucky whispered, knuckles digging into your shoulder blades and working your muscles loose. There was that praise again, made all the more intimate by the fact that you were now naked and his hands seemed to be working overtime to pull every bit of tension out of your body.

He made it so easy to relax. More so than anything out in the reception area. The aura around his person inviting and safe in a way that made it easy to let go. From the warmth of the room, the slide of his fingers, the gentle praise, a floaty kind of feeling rushed to your head. It was then he found a knot just to the right of your spine that was worked out with enough pressure for an involuntary moan to slip past the barricade you'd been carefully crafting.

And it really wasn't even something you could pass off as a momentary lapse of judgment, especially if he kept skillfully working your muscles out like he was.

But Bucky, professional as he was, never wavered even when he felt the tension rising back to your body like you had done something wrong. "Happens more often than you think," he reassured. "Make all the noise you need to, sweetheart. You don't need to hold back on my account," he said evenly, and you could hear the ghost of a satisfied smile in his tone.

With permission granted unlocking something in your brain, you sighed, letting whatever slightly pornographic sounds come out. It wasn't like you would see him again anyway to be embarrassed about it. And as you fully let go, both of Bucky's hands continued working lower now to where the drape covered the last bit of your decency.

"Your lower back is really tense…" he muttered, hands wrapping around your waist, your attention flaring to the point of contact. "Desk job?"

Your mind momentarily stuttered as you tried to get your mouth to form words that weren't 'you can bend me over a desk'. "Uhm, yeah, unfortunately. I try to stretch but…"

"I can put a towel under your hips if you'd like?" he interrupted whatever your thinly veiled excuse was going to be for not getting up and stretching for ten minutes every hour. "May help me work out some of this discomfort."

You spied him already rolling up a piece of fabric into a tight cylinder. His hands and fingers glistening in the low light looking like a sin you'd love to commit.

You nod in agreement, and shift so he can wedge the towel under your hips. In doing so, the drape covering your ass narrowed, now just barely keeping you concealed.

More oil was added to your skin and Bucky's hands returned to your lower back. You had to give it to him, the added cushion under your hips did help your spine stretch, and the oil was already seeping into your muscles, aiding in the relaxation. But now you had a different problem entirely. The towel had been placed in such a way it pressed right against your clit, the texture of terrycloth mixed with the oil dripping down providing a delicious friction you hadn't been expecting.

And just why had you decided it would be a fabulous idea to get naked? As if the heat pooling between your thighs the second you laid eyes on your masseuse wasn't bad enough, you now had to deal with the fact that every time his thumbs pushed from the swell of your ass to the middle of your spine he unknowingly rocked you just right to send sparks shooting through your limbs.

If you thought keeping your noises to a minimum before was a challenge, it was certainly about to be an even bigger struggle. Screwing your eyebrows together, your fingers gripped the face cradle harder, you dared to let out a much more breathy exhale than before. Slightly worried that if you held any further noises in, Bucky would catch on to the lewd activities happening under the drape.

It would be so embarrassing to come like this, you thought for a brief second, another airy moan traitorously leaving your lips.

That time, Bucky's hands did pause, ever so briefly, on their upward trajectory. Enough that it was obvious he noticed your sounds had changed. But he didn't draw attention to it verbally. Instead, he moved…slower.

His hands trailed down, past your hips to your thighs. Thumb digging just a touch more into your muscles as he moved with leisure.

You barely noticed the drape that had still been covering your ass was being pushed up, too focused on the way he seemed to know when to press on your lower back to get another inappropriate sound out of your mouth. On the next pass, Bucky's fingers grew bolder, dipping between your thighs and nudging your legs apart.

It eluded you that his thumbs were getting closer and closer to where you were now dripping on every pass. Rational thought had long since flown out the window with the way he was slowly rocking you against the towel.

At least…until he drifted experimentally. Two fingers slowly and precisely slipped directly between your thighs ever so slightly relieving the ache that had been building since you had put your body in his very capable hands. It was too deliberate, yet slightly timid to be considered an accident. Much like the soft moans he had elicited from you moments earlier.

Your eyes flew open, breath catching as he did it again. Two fingers mindfully stroking your clit like he was testing your reaction. "I can stop," he said easily once you met his piercing blue eyes over your shoulder, pausing his ministrations but not taking his fingers away. "But I am very good at my job."

You were aware that you could say no. Surely such a posh and highly rated establishment would not survive if such acts were being performed under duress.

You were also aware that while you could…you had absolutely no intention of asking him to stop. Much like when you gave yourself grace by letting your mouth fall open, moans flowing freely, you rationalized that you were on vacation. You were never going to see this man again, and your body was wordlessly begging your mouth to just say yes. Shifting to tilt your hips in a silent dare for him to keep going, you both performed a staring contest in the soft light. But you realized quite quickly that he wasn't going to move again until you said something verbally.

Letting out a shuddering breath, and throwing all caution to the wind along with the last of any rational thought, you imperceptibly shook your head and gave a shaky whisper of "don't stop."

A slow grin spread across his face, a spark of delight as he gingerly tossed the drape to the side. There was no use for it now, considering it had turned into a small sliver that covered nothing.

"Turn over for me, sweet girl, if we're doing this, let's do this right," he murmured, giving a slight tap to your clit before withdrawing, a gentle hand coming to your hip to help maneuver you to your back.

With shaky arms and his guidance, you adjusted. The towel you had been grinding against was also discarded quickly, all the better so you didn't see the mess you had likely caused. Bucky's hands were on you again, steady, but sure, working their way slowly back up your thighs like he was still giving you the chance to back out.

"Beautiful," you swore you heard him whisper above the low music that was still faintly playing in the background. Heat spread from your chest to your ears as you chanced a glance at him while his fingertips made their journey back between your thighs. But his eyes, dark and hooded, were fixated on the dance of his hand moving closer to your center.

You let out a small 'oh' the second he circled your clit, thighs parting further — an invitation to keep going while your fingertips dug into the table. Eyes falling closed, your body arched into the movement, rocking without abandon now that it wasn't something you were trying to hide.

He had not been over exaggerating, he was very good at his job. Executing just the right amount of pressure on the bundle of nerves, every so often dipping to gather the slick now freely dripping from your cunt and tease your entrance. Like he was a lover made just for you, and had learned every single way to provide the highest amount of pleasure to make your head spin.

"When's the last time she was taken care of, hmm?" his voice was closer than it had ever been, your eyes flew open again to see he had moved so his torso was hovering over yours, hand that wasn't performing magic between your thighs braced next to your head.

Fuck, his eyes were more disarming up close. Two shimmering pools of bright blue reflected what could only be described as starlight from the ambient lamps.

Did you really want to admit to a stranger how long it'd been since the last time anyone touched you like this?

"Uh…" you stammered, "haven't really…been awhile."

Real smooth. But what were you meant to say when words were drowning before they had a chance to form?

A gentle, compassionate look crossed his features. "Tsk, you can't neglect something as precious as this sweetheart."

With that, he finally pushed a long finger past your entrance, the stretch sudden causing a needy whine to travel up your throat.

"There you go. Just relax for me…" he whispered the command right against the skin of your cheek, and to your credit, you really did try. But the coil in your lower belly was tightening further and further.

Another unabashed moan slipped past your lips as he added a second finger, your jaw going slack from the sudden stretch while your fingertips dug further into the table to the point your knuckles ached. "I'm trying," you protested, though several parts of your body were continuously clenching.

Above you, a deep rumble vibrated from Bucky's chest. His hand that had been planted next to your head reached for yours, working your grip free of the table. Your fingers interwove with his creating a far more intimate connection than you had been braced for.

"Keep trying sweetheart, you can do it," he coaxed, leaning further in until his lips were right next to yours. While his hands and words were confident, there was a hesitation in the movement of his lips. Like he was a man who was afraid of pushing too many boundaries.

Your fingers squeezed his once his thumb pressed deliberately onto your clit, back bowing off the table while your thighs spread further, one ankle falling carelessly over the edge. "You're so close," he whispered, lips finally meeting the corner of yours. "Can feel it in the way she's squeezing me."

"Mhm," you managed to whine, lips chasing his automatically when he went to pull away.

There was barely a second of hesitation and his mouth was on yours, greedily drinking in the sounds of pleasure as he pushed you closer and closer to release. He tasted of bergamot, lemon and sea salt, like the personification of the small town itself.

It was like something snapped between you the second your lips collided. Something untamed finally being set free after being unfairly caged. Your hand flew to the nape of his neck, drawing him in closer, enough that with the angle, he had to withdraw his fingers from your cunt so he could steady himself above you.

You wanted to grumble at being denied, body clenching desperately around nothing. Until Bucky adjusted, knee finding the bare space of table between your legs. With a slight bounce, his large form soon eclipsed yours as he settled into a comfortable position. All the while, his lips never really ceased contact with yours. Exploring parts of you that you hoped he never dared venture with other clientele.

But any unfounded jealousy you may have stumbled upon exited your mind the second he pressed his hips to yours. The hard, throbbing ridge of his erection had your mind reeling. It hadn't really even occurred to you that he could be as affected as you were, needing his own form of tension relief. Perhaps the soft dark blue scrubs he wore were intentionally chosen to hide such things.

Your legs bent at the knees, drifting to either side of his torso until you cradled his lower body with yours. A sound came muffled from his throat, his teeth sinking into the plush flesh of your lower lip when your hips twitched upwards, bare pussy dragging across the outline of his cock that sent fire rushing through your belly.

Your free hand fisted into the hem of his top, thoughts running rampant of how you planned on daydreaming about ripping this very top off when you got back to your hotel room to now being able to experience the real thing. His hips moved in needy, urgent circles, the head of his cock catching your clit every so often causing your thighs to clench around his frame harder. His movements were so delicate, so restrained, you wondered if he was reconsidering.

Testing the already flimsy boundaries, your hand released his top, moving to rest on the warm skin of his abdomen. A shudder radiated from where your palm was placed as the weight of him sunk deeper onto you. Your hand explored further, your own hips canting up to meet his; soaking the front of his pants with your slick. Fingernails scratched into the hard wall of muscle, contracting like claws with each slow grind.

When you reached his shoulder, Bucky released his grip on your hand, yanking the fabric off and discarding it. It had been one thing to imagine what he looked like underneath the navy blue top. It was another thing in itself to see it in the ambient lighting of the massage room. The flickering candles on the shelves reflected shadows on every crevice that had to have been honed by hours in the gym. Both hands now moved of their own volition, traipsing up the dips until they smoothed over the light dusting of hair along his chest.

"Seems only fair I suppose," he chuckled softly, watching your hands explore. "That you get to feel me up now instead of the other way around."

You felt your cheeks heat once more, moving to withdraw your touch. But, Bucky moved quicker, gripping your wrist and placing a soft kiss to the delicate inside with a smirk.

"Knew you were going to be special the minute I laid eyes on you," he whispered, tugging your wrist until your hand landed at the nape of his neck again, your fingers carding into the soft hair.

"Bet you say that to every girl who walks in here," you mumbled, gaze darting to where his other hand was palming his erection through his pants that were slick from where you had been grinding against him.

A short laugh flitted from his lips, pulling the waist of his pants down further until his thick cock was freed. "I do, but none of them have ever gotten to do this though," he admitted gently, running the tip of his cock already leaking with precum through your folds.

The meaning behind his words barely registered when your eyes were still glued between your bodies. His large hand was wrapped around the thick shaft as he fucked into it, tip gliding through your aching pussy until it kissed your clit and withdrew again.

The motion continued, teasing away what little self restraint you had left with each dip that barely caught at your entrance. A frustrated exhale escaped your lips, looking back up to meet Bucky's eyes. "Can you just - " you huffed as he slid through even slower, like he had all the time in the world yet you knew the ninety minute session would have to end sooner or later.

The corner of his mouth pulled up again, head dipping so his nose brushed yours. "Patience sweet girl," he murmured against your lips. "Don't wanna rush this."

Your leg wrapped higher on his hips wondering if your strength could out match his. But his grip found your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh to keep you from using your muscles in an attempt to get what you want. His hand released his cock, letting it fall heavily onto your hip so he could cup your jaw.

"Breathe with me, okay? In," he inhaled, your lungs expanded on command, chest rising to meet his.

"And out," he exhaled, lips brushing yours intimately while your breaths mingled, his hips adjusting so you felt the nudge of his tip at your entrance.

You really should have expected him to press in the next time he coaxed you to inhale, yet the stretch of him finally filling you completely and slowly was something no amount of breathing exercises could've ever prepared you for.

A loud whimper tore through from your throat while you adjusted to his size, the hand at the base of his neck gripping a bit tighter to steady yourself. Bucky hiked your leg up further, hooking it around his hip — freeing up his other hand to completely cradle your face, elbows tucking under your shoulders while he settled his weight onto you. An intimate gesture you least expected, from someone who was a stranger a little more than an hour ago.

He hadn't even really moved yet, letting your bodies get acquainted; muscles clenching around his throbbing cock while his thumbs slowly brushed over your cheekbones. Every breath leaving your mouth was shallow, attempting to get air to your lungs while every other nerve ending was just concerned with pleasure.

Your fingernails found solace digging into the taut muscle of his bare back, clinging to reality as he finally buried every inch in. Eyes watered as you held his stare of concern marred behind feral need. "Breathe sweetheart," he reminded you once again, thumbs never ceasing the calming movement against your skin.

The table swayed gently with the start of his hips rocking. The ridges and veins of his cock massaging the most intimate and sacred parts of your body.

Needy deep grunts and soft breathless moans soon filled the room, articulated by the whisper of your skin connecting and the nature sounds that were once meant to be relaxing. They now only fueled a delirious fantasy, mixing with the heat rising. Where the room melted into something far more primal and less composed than anything the upscale spa had offered in their list of services.

His strong hands continued to keep your head tilted up. Every desperate thrust into your already fluttering pussy, still aching for the release he denied you earlier had your eyelids dropping. But his hypnotizing eyes that watched every flicker of pleasure on your features were hard to stay away from for long.

"Come on now, darling, let go of that last bit of tension," he breathed softly, head dipping to your collarbone so his lips were right next to your ear with another deep thrust that had stars bursting in your vision.

Words seemed fleeting, as much as you wanted to say for the umpteenth time that you really were trying, but the bliss washing over your body in waves was hard to release. Nothing would have made you more content than to stay in this haze of citrus scented oils.

"So stubborn." You swore you heard him huff, trailing a hand between your bodies where his thumb found your clit, massaging gently.

Entire body locking from the jolt caused a gasp to punch out from your lungs. Thighs and arms wrapped tighter around him, nails digging further into his skin until you were sure the half moons would become a permanent feature to his otherwise flawless body.

"There you are, now let it all go." Bucky's teeth grazed the column of your neck, thumb picking up speed in time with his pace that was becoming erratic. Pleasure finally crested through your nerve endings, flowing to every limb and ligament as you fell over the edge. Saliva pooled on your tongue, eyes finally falling closed to surrender to the sensations. His lips found yours again, an intimate gesture designed to bring you back to the present. He groaned deeply, a tremor rumbling through his entire body as you felt the throb of his own release flare into yours.

Bucky pulled back from the crook of your neck, hair that had been perfectly styled now fell in front of his wild eyes while realization crashed down on both of you. A sudden dawning of what just happened probably…should not have happened. Your limbs were still limp, muscles melting into the table in a sensation you had missed for too long.

"Am I - uh - going to have to pay extra for that?" you asked in an attempt to diffuse the situation, breath still ragged.

He laughed, low and genuine, brushing a piece of your hair back from your forehead. "Nah, we'll keep that off the books."

You giggled in response as he carefully maneuvered off of the table. You propped up on your elbows, accepting a clean sheet he handed in your direction, like he knew your body was already growing colder without his to keep you warm.

"When do you leave?" he asked sincerely, donning a fresh scrub top. Eyebrows drawn together in earnest.

You really hadn't been expecting him to all of a sudden seem so vulnerable, for someone who got you to the position you were currently in with such quiet confidence. "Oh, we're here for two weeks."

He nodded, looking now at a planner that was splayed open on the small counter. "Do you…want to come back tomorrow? I can take you to dinner first and then I can get you another…more appropriate session."

He tripped over his words as he asked, endearing in a truly charming way. "Yeah," you agreed easily, swinging your legs off the side of the table. "I'd like that."

Bucky's shoulders dropped, relief flooding over his features. "Great," he smiled, handing you a business card. "I've, unfortunately, got another appointment I need to get ready for, but I'm looking forward to it."

"Hope it's not one just like this?" you asked, turning the card around in your fingers to see what you assumed was his personal cell phone number scribbled in a margin.

"No," he chuckled again. "This was a…uh…first for me."

Natasha was already in the reception area when you drifted through the frosted glass doors. Everything that had first annoyed about the corporately saccharine decor was muted, the only thought on your mind was when you would get to see it again.

"So?" Natasha asked, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised as she scrutinized your sudden glow. "How was it?"

You accepted another small glass of cucumber water, settling beside her. "Amazing. I'm coming back tomorrow."

The redhead's eyes narrowed at that, her tongue swiping over her bottom lip. "Is that so? And here I thought this was meant to be a girls trip?" she teased, nudging your foot with hers.

"Weren't you the one who said I needed to relax?" you shot back, briefly flashing the business card before tucking it back into your pocket with a playful smile. "Not my fault the relaxation method doesn't fit your definition of a girls trip."

After Chirps: Okay, maybe I did have more to say??? I hope you liked this one! But I'd be remiss if I didn't link the masterlist post for the collab, and let y'all know that along with all of the other scrumpdillyumptious fics coming, my veterinarian Bucky fic comes out in less than a week! As proud as I am of this one, that one is my baby and I can't wait to share it ❤️

Everything Taglist: @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @wint3rbarnes @barnes-babydoll @defn0tonyourleft @herejustforbuckybarnes @stesha02 @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @miraclediviner @tw1sters @bucksbby @daddysbitchybaby @metal-armed-muse @avgdestitute @imtoooldforthis82 @daydreamgoddess14 @hailmary-yramliah @nachtigall127 @heavenchana @ornateglass @steelandvibranium @stkmaprang @yourmomoclockit @misswhiddless @mariamorales1998 @mistressmkay @ladymiseryy @my-drvidess @alli0-0 @buckyscaptain

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Stan Characters Only: @iamthatonefangirl @cassity357 @erina00 @buckytakethewheel

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[wildflowersandvibranium]

the dragon

Pairing: dad!bucky barnes x mom!reader (she/her)

Summary: Bucky tucks your children into bed as they beg him for a made up bedtime story, he goes on to tell them about a fallen knight turned into a monster, a kind princess, and a stubborn commoner boy. The story ends up hitting a little more close to home than you first realized.

Content: fluff, angsty, hurt/comfort (Buckys backstory) domestic fluff, parenting themes, kissing, fantasy storytelling, hints of abuse, trauma, hydra themes, no graphic content.

Word Count: 2.7k

Author’s Note: I’ve been working on this, off and on for two months you guys :_) she’s so much better than I thought it would be. Now my favorite thing I’ve ever written, it’s shorter but I love her sm. dt: @superbassbuck my dad!bucky twin :) I’m really seeing how slowing down and writing for me has affected this fic for the better

ty to everyone who’s checked in on me and your sweet, sweet messages, I see them all and feeling the love <3

The scent of pine needles and damp earth clung to the exterior of your small cabin, a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from the stone fireplace inside. 

Outside, the Pennsylvania woods were settling into a deep, winter hush, the kind of silence that only comes when the world is tucked under a blanket of frost. Inside, however, the air was filled with the chaotic, beautiful sounds of your family.

You sat at the large oak dining table, watching your husband finish the last of the dishes. His vibranium arm caught the firelight, the dark metal and golden grooves gleaming with a soft, dull luster as he dried a plate with a domestic grace that still, after all these years, made your heart ache with a quiet sort of pride.

He had come so far. From the frozen hell of Siberia and the jagged memories of the Winter Soldier to this: a dimly lit kitchen, deep in the silent woods, a wife who loved him, and two children who thought he hung the moon and stars.

“Stop looking at me like that,” He didn't turn around, but you knew he was smiling. He always knew when your eyes were on him.

“Like what?” you teased, leaning back in your chair with a yawn.

“Y’know whach’your doin’”

He placed the last dish on the drying rack and walked over to you, boots thudding softly on the hardwood floor. He placed his warm, flesh-and-blood hand on your shoulder and leaned down to press a chaste kiss to the top of your head. “The kids are riled up because of the snow forecast. I’ve got bedtime duty tonight. You,” he pointed a finger at you, “are going upstairs. I went ahead and started the bath when you were putting up leftovers. There’s some of that lavender oil and salts you like. No worrying about the pantry, no thinking about the laundry. Just a bath. A long one.”

“Bucky, I can help,” you protested weakly, even as the idea of a hot soak sounded like pure heaven. “Ethan was talking about building a fort in his room, and Rebecca is in one of her ‘I won’t wear pajamas’ moods.”

Bucky chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated in his chest. “I survived the 107th, Hydra, and the end of the world. I think I can handle a six-year-old and a four-year-old. Go. That’s an order, Agent.”

You laughed, standing up and stealing a quick, lingering kiss from his lips. He tasted like the peppermint tea he’d had after dinner. “Fine. But if the house is standing by the time I’m out, I’ll be very impressed.”

“Have a little faith, Princess,” he whispered, the nickname a relic of your early dating days that he still used when he wanted to make your knees weak.

You made your way upstairs, stopping by the kids’ rooms first. Ethan was already in his pajamas—mostly, though his shirt was inside out—and Rebecca was currently wrestling with a pair of fuzzy slippers.

“Goodnight, my brave explorers,” you called, leaning in to kiss their little foreheads.

“Mama, Dad says he’s gonna tell us a story!” Ethan exclaimed, his blue eyes—so much like Bucky’s—wide with excitement.

“A good one!” Rebecca added, finally winning the battle with her shoes.

“Well, you’d better listen close then,” you whispered. “Sleep tight my bed bugs.”

You retreated to the bathroom, the steam already thick and fragrant. As you shed your clothes and sank into the scalding water, the tension of the week began to bleed out of your muscles. But despite your husband’s orders, you didn’t completely tune out. The cabin was small, and the acoustics were such that the sounds of the children’s room drifted up through the vents and the hallway.

You leaned your head back against the rim of the tub, closing your eyes, and listened as the man you loved with your entire being, began the nightly ritual.

-

In the bedroom, Bucky sat on the edge of Rebecca’s bed, which was currently being shared by her brother. Both children were tucked under a heavy quilt, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of a star-shaped nightlight spinning alight.

“Alright,” Bucky clapped, his voice dropping into that storytelling register—smooth, steady, and captivating. “Pick a book. We got the one about the fuzzy rabbit, or the one about the—?”

Rebecca pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. “No, Daddy. No books. We know those ones.”

“We want a new one,” Ethan insisted. “A brand new story from your head.” He jabbed a finger into his own temple.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. He glanced at the bookshelf, then back at his children’s expectant faces. He wasn’t a writer. He was a man of action, a man of silence. But looking at them, he felt a pull in his chest—a need to give them something real, even if it was wrapped in a shroud of make-believe.

“A new one, huh?” Bucky murmured. He took a breath, settling into the rocking chair beside the bed. “Alright. But you have to stay under the covers. No jumping, no interrupting... well, maybe a little interrupting.”

The kids giggled and burrowed deeper into the blankets, linking arms.

“Once upon a time,” Bucky began, clearing his throat as his eyes drifted toward the window where the snow had begun to fall in earnest, “in a land very far away and a time very, very long ago... there was a Knight.”

“Was he a shiny knight?” Rebecca asked, her eyes wide. “Did he have a horse?”

“He was very shiny,” Bucky smiled. “He was young and brave, and he had a dark green cape that caught the wind. People in the village used to cheer when he rode by because he was handsome and fast with a sword. All the girls in the kingdom thought he was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. But the Knight... he didn't care much about the cheering. He mostly cared about his best friend.”

“Who was his friend?” 

“Was he a knight too?”

“Not yet,” Bucky answered. “His friend was a peasant boy. He was scrawny, and he was sick a lot, and he was much smaller than the Knight. People used to pick on the peasant boy, but the Knight never let them get away with it. He’d stand in front of him and say, ‘If you want to get to him, you gotta go through me.’ They were brothers, even if they didn't share the same blood.”

Bucky’s voice hitched slightly, but he kept going. “One day, a great shadow fell over their world. A war was coming. The Knight and the peasant boy, they wanted to help. So they joined the Royal Army. They went far away to the cold, dark mountains to fight the darkness.”

“Did they win, daddy?” Rebecca whispered.

“They fought hard,” Bucky continued. “But in one of the biggest battles, on a bridge high above a frozen river, the Knight made a mistake. He was protecting his friend, and he fell. He fell from the tall mountain, down, down into the white mist. Everyone thought he was gone.”

Ethan gasped, clutching the blanket to his chin. “But he survived, right? Because he’s a brave Knight?”

“He survived,” Bucky said, his voice growing lower, more somber. “But he wasn’t found by his friends. He was found by an Evil Witch who lived in a deep, jagged cave. The Witch was very cruel. He didn't want a Knight; he wanted a weapon. Someone to control. He took the Knight and he hurt him. He used a dark, icy spell to wipe away his name, his memory, and his heart.”

“That’s mean,” Rebecca whispered, her lip trembling.

“It was very mean,” Bucky agreed. “And then, the Witch did the worst thing of all. He performed a ritual that turned the Knight into a Dragon.”

“A DRAGON?” Ethan’s eyes lit up. “Like, with wings and fire?”

“A Dragon made of winter and steel,” Bucky described, his hand unconsciously clenching into a fist. “His scales were cold, and his breath wasn't fire—it was ice. The Witch put a collar on the Dragon and told him who to hurt. For a long, long time, the Knight was gone. There was only the Dragon. The Dragon did bad, bad things, Ethan. He burned villages. He took people away from their families. He forgot that he had ever been a man who loved a peasant boy or a kingdom.”

The room was silent, save for the crackle of the wood in the fireplace downstairs.

“Did the Dragon stay bad…forever?” Ethan asked quietly, now sucking his thumb.

“He thought he would,” Bucky whispered. “He was tired and he was sad, deep inside where the Witch couldn't reach he hurt. But one day, the peasant boy—who was now a Great Captain and a Brave Soldier—found the Dragon. They fought. It was a terrible fight. The Dragon tried to freeze the Soldier, but the Soldier wouldn't give up on him. He looked into the Dragon’s eyes and said, ‘I know you’re in there. I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.’”

Upstairs, in the bath, your breath hitched. You recognized the words. You recognized the pain in Bucky’s voice as he wove his trauma into a tapestry his children could understand. You listened closer…

“After the great battle. The Soldier took the Dragon back to his castle,” Bucky continued. “Not to put him in a cage, or to hurt him, but to help him. But the Dragon was so scared. He still had his scales. He still had his sharp teeth. He thought he was a monster. He hid in the highest tower, growling at anyone who came near.”

“Did the Captain have a family in the castle? Did he meet a princess?” Rebecca asked, her voice hopeful.

Bucky cleared his throat, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He did, doll. In that castle, there was a Princess. But she wasn't like the ones in the other stories, she wasn't waiting to be rescued or finding true loves kiss. She was a warrior princess. She had worked for the King’s secret service. She was very smart, and she was so kind, and she wasn't afraid of dragons.”

“Did she have a sword?” Ethan asked.

“She had something better, son. She had patience. Every day, she would go to the tower. She didn't bring a weapon or a shield. She brought food. She brought books. She’d sit by the door and just talk to the Dragon, read to him. She’d tell him about the flowers growing in the garden, or how the sun felt on her skin by the harbor. The Dragon would growl and try to scare her away, each time she came, but she just…stayed.”

“Why?” Rebecca asked.

“Because she saw something nobody else did,” Bucky whispered. “The Dragon thought he was just a beast. He looked at his scales and his talons and he saw a repulsive monster. But the Princess... she looked past the scales. She saw the Knight who had fallen. She saw the man who was hurting.”

Bucky leaned forward, his eyes misty. “One day, the Princess did something very brave. She walked right up to the Dragon. The Dragon roared, baring all his teeth and fangs, trying to tell her to run before he hurt her. But she didn't run…She reached out her hand... and she touched his scales.”

“Did he bite her?” Ethan whispered, leaning into his sister.

“No,” Bucky cooed softly. “He froze. He was so surprised that someone would want to touch something so cold and ugly. And when she touched him, something happened. The spell the Witch had put on him... it started to crack. The warmth of the Princess’s hand was stronger than the Witch’s ice.”

Bucky’s voice was thick with emotion now, the story becoming less of a fairy tale and more of a confession. “Slowly, day by day, as the Princess stayed with him, the scales began to fall away. The Dragon didn't turn back into that shiny, perfect Knight he used to be. He was different now. He had scars. He had a metal arm where the Dragon’s wing used to be. He was quiet, and he still had bad dreams about the fire and the ice.”

“But the Princess still loved him?” Rebecca asked.

“She loved him more than the Knight, loved himself” Bucky said, a tear finally escaping and rolling down his cheek.

“She told him that the scars didn't make him a monster. They just showed how much he had survived. She helped him find his heart again. And the Soldier—his best friend—he stayed by his side too. Together, they protected the kingdom. But the Knight... he decided he didn't want to live in a castle anymore. He wanted a quiet place. A place with trees and a soft bed, far away from the witches and the wars.”

“Like here?” Ethan asked, yawning as the sleepiness finally began to win.

“Just like here,” Bucky said, tucking the quilt tighter around them. “The Knight and the Princess found a little cabin in the woods. And they had two little... little squires. A strong, handsome boy and a beautiful, brave little girl. And the Knight... he realized that he wasn't a monster at all. He was the luckiest man in the whole world. Because the Princess saw him for who he really was... and she decided to stay.”

The room fell into a heavy, peaceful silence. Bucky sat there for a long time, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his children’s chests. Rebecca had fallen asleep with her thumb near her mouth, and Ethan’s head was lolled to the side, his breathing deep and steady.

Bucky let out a long, shaky breath. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, the metal of his thumb cold against his skin, but his heart felt warmer than it had in decades. He leaned down, kissing both of their heads one last time.

“Sleep well,” he whispered. “The Drag— Knight is on guard. Nothing’s gonna get you.”

He stood up, his joints popping slightly with protest, and moved toward the door. He clicked off the light, leaving only the soft glow of the hallway lamp to guide him.

As he stepped out and quietly pulled the door shut, he stopped.

You were standing there in the hallway. You were wrapped in your thick robe, your hair still damp and smelling of lavender. Your eyes were red-rimmed, and a single tear was wet on your cheek. You had heard everything.

Bucky froze, his breath hitching in his throat. He felt exposed, stripped bare by the story he’d just told. He rubbed the back of his neck again, looking down at his feet like a boy caught in a lie.

“H-hey, Princess,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I thought you’d be sleeping’ by now.”

You didn't say a word. You just stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your face in his chest. You could hear the steady, strong thrum of his heart—the heart of the Knight, the heart that had survived the ice.

Bucky’s breath left him in a heavy sigh as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tight. His vibranium hand rested on the small of your back, and his human one cradled the back of your head. He buried his nose in your hair, breathing you in.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him. You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, moving over the grey stubble he’d grown since retiring. You leaned up on your tiptoes and kissed him—a kiss that held all the years of healing, all the battles won, and all the quiet nights in the woods yet to come.

“The Princess didn't just stay because she was brave, Bucky,” your voice steady and full of love. “She stayed because the Knight was the kindest man she’d ever known.”

Bucky closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours. The weight he’d carried for seventy years—the guilt, the shame, the fear—seemed to lighten just a little bit more in the quiet of that hallway.

“You’re a really good storyteller, James Buchanan Barnes,” you whispered into his shirt.

Bucky let out a soft, wet chuckle, squeezing you closer. “I don't know about that. I think I just have a really good ending to work with.”

Reblogs, Comments and Likes are so very loved, encouraged and appreciated! Happy Reading! -isles

[tw1sters]

Control Alt Desire

He knows it's wrong, but he can't help it. He's in love with you. Alternatively, your IT guy watches you, then gets you to fall in love with him.

▸ PAIRING: Stalker IT Guy!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, cyberstalking, daddy kink, bucky and reader are both freaky, some emotional manipulation, reader gaslights herself a little, fingering, riding, light choking, light spanking, wild imagination!bucky (descriptions of cnc, public groping, noncon voyeurism), dirty talk, toxic romance? ▸ WORD COUNT: 6.4K ▸ A/N: this has been living in my head rent-free for a while so im glad i finally put it on paper. hope you enjoy! i love stalker obsessed bucky. please note that this is maybe not the healthiest relationship so proceed with caution!!!

↤ Seb-O-Ween (Kinktober) Masterlist

If you told yourself a few months ago that you would fall in love with the IT guy in your company and that you’d decide to move in with him after dating him for three months, you would’ve laughed and checked yourself in for psychological evaluation.

You’re a romantic, sure, but you’re also incredibly rational. You had debated it for a while but ultimately decided that — financially speaking (rent, utilities, internet) and practically speaking (you spend more time together than not) — it was a no-brainer. 

Your love story isn’t an interesting one. You had computer problems at work, and you’ve always known you aren’t particularly technologically savvy, so the constant trips to the IT desk are understandable. There, you are introduced to the only guy who keeps this company running. 

Bucky Barnes is quiet, almost sullen if you don’t know him. He’s got hair that curls around his ears, a permanent frown on his chiseled face, and a constant more-than-a-week-old scruff on his face. He’s tall but doesn’t present himself as such. He’s relatively good-looking but keeps too much to himself to attract attention.

But the Bucky that you got to know is softer and kinder. He has the same taste in chocolates as you, the ones you are constantly getting delivered. He watches the same television shows and never spoils the next episode. When he asks you out, he makes a reservation at a place you’ve been eyeing for months but could never get seats for — and you didn’t even have to tell him, he apparently has great taste. 

Don’t get you started on the sex. He seems to know exactly how to touch you to hurl you over the edge, staring at you with those gorgeous, sharp, icy eyes. He worships every inch of you, ensuring no fewer than two orgasms every time he takes you to bed. He’s open to experimenting with kinks you’ve been interested in trying, sometimes even prompting it before you can. And he’s good — fuck is he good. 

Falling in love with Bucky and his reserved nature and gentle humor — and his fat cock — was easy. Living together is even better. 

He seems to understand your apartment habits, picking up the slack on chores you loathe and easily abiding by the rules that you set. Despite moving into his space, Bucky allows you to run it like it’s yours.

This is your favorite kind of man. 

The only place he recommends you to stay out of is his office where he sometimes works from home. He tells you, with pink dusting his cheeks, that it’s a bit of a geeky mess in there so he doesn’t want you seeing it quite yet. You’ve caught glimpses of it from time to time and, despite presenting himself as extremely responsible, Bucky likes to have a lot of things. You’ve seen it in the numerous coffee mugs he collects on his work desk. 

On one of the rare days your project is slow, you opt to “work” from home and get a bunch of chores done. Bucky leaves for the office with a kiss to your forehead while you’re still in that liminal space between sleep and consciousness. 

“See you tonight, sweetheart. I’ll pick up dinner on the way home.”

You only hum before slumber pulls you under again.

The deep clean of the apartment comes in a productive frenzy. Something comes over you as you work through every inch of the place, not a single corner untouched. Well, except for one.

You stare at Bucky’s office door, vacuum in hand. He had only suggested that you don’t go in, not that you’re not allowed in. You’re itching to complete the entire apartment and this is the only section left. So you take the plunge by swinging the door open and taking in the room.

It’s cluttered but not entirely unsalvagable. His computer setup is relatively elaborate, cables tangled together underneath the table. While Bucky is a tech genius, he isn’t the most pristine person. You find it somewhat amusing that he has multiple large monitors and an advanced-looking system, but not a single cable organizer is in sight. You make a mental note to look up YouTube tutorials for that, perhaps for his birthday.

Then there are the figurines on the shelves, all sorts of superheroes standing tall and proud. Each one more detailed than the next. Your lips twitch into a smile. He really is a nerd. He’s your nerd. 

The vacuum whirrs loudly as you move around the room, picking up dust and hair. When you’re done with that, you feel the urge to also clean his setup. You’re not going to move anything (maybe), but just a wipe-down of the particles that have settled as a thin layer on his screens and desk — and that coffee ring stain on the table. 

Once you start justifying it to yourself, you can’t help but do the rest of the room. You make his favorite heroes shine, their pedestals spotless. Loose papers with all sorts of tech jargon are tucked properly to the side of his desk. You even wipe down his desk chair because god knows when he did that last. 

That’s when you spot the closet door. It’s probably just extra storage, but it can’t hurt to also make sure it’s clean. When you open it, you find a few of his hoodies hung in there, a couple of boxes on the shelf above your head. A singular, stuffed box on the floor. You look up to find the perfect empty slot on that shelf. 

So you pick it up, finding it surprisingly heavy. As you’re lifting it above your head, your fingers slip and your heart drops to the floor along with the box, contents spilling across the floor.

Now Bucky’s patient but you don’t know how particular he is about you touching his things. Documents and photos tip out from the box that now sits sideways. You move quickly to shuffle them together, knowing that he should be home from work soon. You don’t want him to think you’re that kind of girlfriend, the kind that snoops around when her boyfriend is out. 

However, as you do so, you catch a proper glimpse of one of the photos. It’s you. Your lips are stretched into a wide grin as you look directly into the camera in this grainy capture. You feel present-you smiling at the fact that he keeps a photo of you on print. 

This is probably when you should’ve stopped, shouldn’t have invaded his privacy, but you’re a little nosy and you always appreciate the validation of how much Bucky loves you. So you start flipping through some of the photos. 

In most of them, you’re looking at the camera. There are a few of you in your old apartment kitchen as you’re cooking. You wonder if he screenshotted some of your video calls, which would be cute that he found you endearing enough to do that so early on in the relationship. There are a few of you working in your room, of your face when you’re propped up in bed, a palm tucked under your cheek. 

However, the more you flip through them, the faster the realization sinks in. It’s like quicksand — the moment one understanding dawns, the rest drags you in and the air is punched out of your lungs. You’re breathless. 

The smile is wiped from your face as you start to piece together the timing for the photos. There are a few from when you had a different haircut, a time before Bucky was properly in your life. Private moments of you looking up recipes to prepare in your tiny kitchen, or how you watch movies alone on your laptop in the dark.

Alone. You were alone in all these photographs. Alone with your laptop. 

But you were on your personal laptop, how could he have— 

Oh. Oh. You’re an idiot. A completely naive fool. 

You remember the second time you met Bucky when you told him how sometimes you wish you could just travel with one laptop instead of bringing both your personal and work laptops around. So he was kind enough to figure out how to access your work documents on your personal. And he told you it was a secret. It was a favor he was doing for you and only you.

And you handed him over that hunk of metal that you lived and breathed — where you did everything — easily. You had been thrilled at the time that he was willing to break a few rules for you. 

Little did you know, it was never for you. 

Unease churns in your stomach but you brave the rest of the materials. With your legs crossed on the floor, you start flipping through the organized mess. There are dozens of pages with screenshots and highlighted text. Your online orders, your Netflix history, books you’ve read, and — oh god. 

Heat furiously sprawls across your entire body, goosebumps pebbling your skin. Your search history when your curiosity goes a little too far, when you consume content that lights a fire between your legs, when you dip your fingers into the wetness that pools. 

Suddenly, it all makes sense. Everything you thought you coincidentally had in common with Bucky, how easy it was to talk to him about your interests. How open he had been to exploring some taboo things that you could never say aloud to your friends.

He knew. He knew. All of it. 

Nothing was sacred. All your secrets are written and printed in this box, tucked away in this closet that you never thought to open because you trusted him. You trusted that he’s a good man. A good man who just happened to luckily land on your lap. 

The perfect boyfriend.

“Interesting read?” 

You nearly give yourself whiplash with how fast you jerk your head up to the voice. Bucky leans against his doorway, cool eyes trained on you on the floor surrounded by the mess. The mess that defined you.

His expression surrenders none of his actual emotions. You can’t decipher the neutral set of his brows, the relaxed pout of his lips. He only searches your eyes, appearing curious more than anything.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, only to find that your mouth has dried since the discovery. Your throat feels like sandpaper as you ask the big question. “Bucky, what’s all this?”

Bucky assesses you quietly, his head tilting ever so slightly. “What do you think it is?”

His name rolls off your tongue in a whisper. It’s a question that you’re not sure you want answered. 

Undeterred, Bucky still appraises you with that same calm expression. “Are you scared?”

A little. A lot. Yes? Not really. You’re not entirely sure. You didn’t exactly have enough time to process. Your heart is hammering too loudly in your chest for you to hear your own thoughts. A part of you still loves Bucky dearly. The last few months have been magical to say the least. You fell hard and fast. But now, knowing what you know — why you fell so quickly for him — makes you question whether these feelings are real. He practically manufactured these feelings for you. 

A pair of fingers catches your chin, tips your head up to look at Bucky who has crouched down to look at you at eye-level. “Honey, I asked you a question. Are you scared?”

Chills snake up your spine at his tone. So casually cruel, tinted with the gentleness that is so familiar. “No,” you whisper. “I don’t know. I should be. Right? This is—” you suck in a breath, “—this isn’t normal.”

The corner of his lips curls into a satisfied smile. “It’s me, sweetheart. You know me. You don’t need to be scared.”

“I don’t?” You squeak, voice small. 

“No, you don’t. I would never hurt you. I love you,” Bucky smiles, leaning forward to kiss you softly. His touch is so kind, like a prayer of appreciation to a god he doesn’t believe in. But it’s only you — you are the higher power, the enchantress that has bewitched him heart and soul. 

“This isn’t right, Bucky,” you swallow thickly, eyes closed as he barely brushes his lips against yours, “we need to talk about this.”

“What is there to talk about? I loved you from the first day I met you. I wanted to know you.”

“You could’ve just asked,” you mutter.

You can feel him smile again. “Would you have loved me the way you do now if I did? We wouldn’t have had anything in common. You would’ve assumed that I was only mimicking your interests, and that’s not what you want. You want a man who would take matters into his own hands, right?”

Do you? Maybe. Bucky probably knows you better than you know yourself. He knows what you like and don’t like, but he has the advantage of looking at you from the inside out, understanding what really makes you tick, why you like the things that you do. 

“Right, sweetheart? Answer me.”

“Right,” you echo numbly.

“You love me?”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, but you gaze into his eyes and slowly nod.

“Good girl. Now, I brought dinner. Shall we eat?”

Dinner is a relatively quiet affair. Your mind is still a jumbled, sticky mess. After what you discovered, you’re running over the last few months with Bucky, the pieces falling into place. He had coincidentally brought your favorite chocolates to work, and watched your eyes light up when he offered to share pieces of them with you. He had casually mentioned that he was up late binging a medical drama you also happened to be watching until the wee hours of dawn the night before, which sparked thrilling conversations about character development and weekly catch-ups on new happenings. 

He had asked you out almost shyly, wondering if you wanted to grab dinner with him after work one of these days. Given how many things you connected over, the “yes” came out easily and quickly. 

In your dazed state, you barely process Bucky leading you to your shared living room. Photos of the two of you together pepper the walls, bits and bobs like movie tickets and tiny DIY paintings frame your television. Coming home to all of this had been warm. It felt like home. Now, the sight has you questioning everything you’ve ever known. 

By the time you register your surroundings, Bucky has pulled you over to straddle his lap. You in your tiny, thin pajama shorts and oversized tee, and Bucky in his college t-shirt and sweats which you note does nothing to hide the growing erection in his pants. 

You wonder how he could be turned on when your brain is struggling to catch up to the situation. Then again, this is what gets him off, isn’t it? Your naivete. Your confusion. Months of playing stupid as he played puppeteer with your feelings. 

Your confusion boils into irritation as you look down at his blue eyes, soft and searching. 

Bucky’s voice is gentle when he slices through the silence. “You know all I want is to take care of you.”

Do you? Was that his intention from the start?

“And the only way to really take care of you is to know everything about you, even the things you’re too scared to tell me. Because I’ll love you with all of it.”

He has always had a way with words, a siren drawing you out to sea. He opened up this vast expanse of a world to you, showed you what it’s like to be loved and understood. However, you’re quickly realizing that maybe he’s been luring you out to drown you. 

Bucky leans closer tentatively, careful not to make any sudden movements as he brushes his lips against yours. Your body still responds so instinctively to him. You bend towards him like a flower to the sun, chasing after the warmth that you so desperately crave. 

Encouraged by your shift, he kisses you deeper and harder. His mouth moves against yours the way the moon pulls the ocean, demanding, unrelenting. You don’t have a choice but to comply with his magnetic pull. His tongue tastes yours with more confidence, slipping past your lips and stroking with intention. 

Bucky’s fingers trail up your sides, eliciting delicious sparks of electricity with every inch of you he touches. He goes up and up until they curl around your throat. He drinks in your gasp, lips still attached to yours. 

“Buck—” 

His lips tug into a smile. “Remember the first time I choked you and how much you liked it. You came so hard that night, honey.” 

The memory is burned into the back of your eyes, your legs tensing at the recollection of your core pulsing with need. Of course, you remember. It was the first time Bucky had done anything like that, it’s something you’ve fantasized about for a long time but never had the courage to ask for. So when Bucky did it with a silent request for permission, you didn’t say no. 

It was the right decision. 

Even now, with his hand on your neck, all you can feel is that familiar thrill of pleasure sparking fires inside of you. “Think about how I didn’t even need to ask you what you wanted. It’s all because I saw what you were watching, what you were reading. My curious, pretty girl.”

His words stoke the flames that burn bright in your belly. It’s nice to be noticed, to be understood. It’s nice that Bucky knows you. You don’t have to say a word and he knows. It’s the kind of understanding that you cannot create with words, only a mutual perception of the things you observe in each other. 

You’ve never had a relationship like that. It’s always been you telling, you asking. It’s nice not to have to ask. 

Your core tightens with that familiar heat coiling and twisting inside of you. The small whimper that rises from your squeezed throat has Bucky tilting his head with a grin. 

“Are you wet, honey?” The question leaves your mouth dry, but your pussy leaking. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you avoid answering the question. He knows. He doesn’t need to ask. Bucky has the same pleased expression on his face, knowing that he has you right where he wants you. “Bet your panties are soaked.”

With one hand on your throat, he slides his other one around your body and dips into your underwear. A finger tentatively stroking up your slick lips. The effect is immediate, your body arching ever so slightly as he slides his finger deeper every time he strokes up. You can feel the moisture collecting on his fingertips, dripping. When he pulls out his hand, his finger glistens under the living room lights. 

“Fuck, you’re drenched. Look at you. Always knew you’d like me like this,” Bucky says, almost in awe. “Thought you’d be scared of me but I know you. I knew you’d appreciate me. I knew you would understand me.”

“Bucky,” you whisper. Your brain seems to have lost all means of comprehension, words thrown into the abyss as the pleasure rewires your mind to only think of him. How much you love him. How much you appreciate him. How much you crave him. 

It’s only his name seared into the folds of your thoughts, every single nook and cranny. 

“You’re perfect, honey. My perfect girl. No one else can ever compare to you,” Bucky murmurs as he captures your lips once more. Softer this time, but with a persistence that has your hips scooching closer for more. 

More friction, more heat. Your clothed pussy presses against the growing bulge. His cock is thick even underneath the heavy fabric. You can practically taste it, your mouth salivating like a trained dog at the thought of it. A reward you’ve been anticipating all day. 

“Do you want to tell me what you want?” Bucky asks, pauses then continues, “Or do you want me to simply know?”

The answer is easy. While the fear had paralyzed you earlier, it’s clear to you now that you don’t mind it in the least. He can’t help it, can he? He’s so obsessed with you, so desperate to be with you, that he did all those things. 

He’s not a bad man, is he? He is merely a mortal man in love. A man in love with his curious girl who has a search history that could make a priest blush. A man in love who only wants to satisfy his girl. 

“You know the answer to that,” you whisper against his lips. 

A curse hisses past Bucky’s teeth as he pulls away slightly to look at you. His eyes dart across your face, the way your pupils are blown in desire, how your lips part for gasps of air. Your chest rises with every breath, every quickened heartbeat that leaves you squirming in anticipation. 

“I know,” he confirms. “I know you better than you know yourself, honey. All your secrets. Thought I’d go slow with you, introduce you to the things you think you’ll like, but you’re ready. You’re a big girl, right?”

You hum, nodding. “I can take it.”

“Fuck, yes, you can. Of course you can. So capable. So smart. Always knew I chose right.”

“Tell me,” you urge, insistence lacing your syllables. “Tell me what you were thinking. How you did it. What you thought of me.”

Bucky’s lips twitch again with amusement, clearly delighted that you want to hear his thought process. He knows how desperate you are for praise, how you want to hear how he can adore you to the point of going to extreme, likely (most certainly) illicit lengths to get you. 

His fingers slip again beneath your underwear and seek the heat between your legs. You can feel yourself leaking onto his fingers, coating them with slick as they sink into you. There is a wicked gleam in his eyes, one that matches yours as you wait for his response with bated breath. 

“So many stories, sweetheart. Where do I even begin?” Bucky hums, curling his fingers as your hands find purchase on his shoulders. Your fingers dig into his flesh, which barely budges with the toned muscle underneath. 

When he twists his fingers inside you just right, your eyes roll to the back of your head as a moan slips past your lips. He knows exactly what does the trick — the speed, the angle, even how deep to go inside of you. It’s a science he has perfected. 

Then he begins. “There were those videos that you watched, of women getting touched in public. Used to watch you switch between one clip to another, your fingers moving faster until you’re creamin’ all over them. All I could think about was one day following you home. You would never know it’s me. I would trap you against the subway doors. I’d put a hand over your mouth, let my free one grab you all over. Your gorgeous breasts, your curves, before sliding down to cup your cunt. 

“You’ll try so hard to act like you don’t want it, you’ll try to resist it, but I’ll know that you’re secretly enjoying the thrill of it. Because I know what you like, what you watch, what has you whining when you’re alone in your room. You’ll enjoy the thought of some stranger who just couldn’t resist you, who had to have a taste of you. I’d finger you until your knees buckle, until you don’t have a choice but to hold onto me.”

Fuck, you remember those nights. At first, they started with faceless strangers touching you, groping you. Taking what’s yours and claiming it as theirs. But the more you got to know Bucky, the more that face looks like his. What if it were him? What if it were his hands that treasured you? What if it were his voice that whispered seductive assurances in your ear? 

And all that time, he was imagining the same thing. The thought makes you whine needily, pressing up more against him until there is not a single inch of space left between you.

“I’d make you cum on my fingers first and, since you live oh-so-far away, maybe I’ll even push up those skirts you like to wear. The ones you know are my favorite. You wear ‘em for me, don’t you? I’ll make sure to reward your good behavior and take my time fucking you in front of everyone. Not even the evening rush hour will be able to mask your moans and screams as you take my cock.”

Desperate little sounds spill from your lips as you lean back, palms on his thighs as you grind down into his fingers. With his hand pressed against your ass and his fingers buried deep inside you, all you can do is fuck yourself stupid on them. You bounce on them, ride them until you can feel the temperature in the room rising. 

“Would you like that, honey?” 

“Mmm, Buck, please. Yes. I want that. W-want your cock.”

“Such a desperate little thing,” he hisses, his clean hand sliding up your back to sink into the tresses of your hair. He tugs lightly to expose the length of your neck to his warm breath. His lips graze the skin, teeth catching onto parts of your flesh to mark you as his. 

“W-what else did you see?” 

A low laugh rises from his throat. “Fuck, you love hearing this. You love knowing how gone I was for you, how obsessed. You were my nighttime entertainment, honey, before you even knew what that meant. My sweet girl. Never had a clue. But I always knew we were cut from the same cloth. I knew we would be perfect for each other.”

Bucky’s sharp blue eyes hone in on you, drinking in the pleas that fall from your pretty, pouty lips. 

“I saw you watch those girls who whine daddy, daddy with their legs spread, their asses aching after daddy spanks them for misbehaving. Their pussies dripping with juices. They’ll be begging for daddy to fuck them — and I never cared once to watch them. I only watched you, how quickly you shoved your hand down your panties. Pictured you on your knees asking me for my cock. I’ll inspect your skirt and pussy every morning before I let you go off to work. When you’re talking to your manager, you’ll see me over his shoulder and you’ll remember who you belong to when my cum drips down your legs.”

His words leave a trail of fire on your skin. Your stomach burns with a need you never knew you could feel, a desperation that claws at you like an itch you can’t scratch. You know those videos, have touched yourself countless times to them. The more you got to know Bucky, the closer you are to letting the name slip in moments of intimacy.

But you didn’t know how he felt about it, didn’t want to scare him off. 

As you’re struggling to process his words, Bucky continues, “Bet he would notice it too, bet he would be wondering what you’re hiding underneath that skirt. Whose cum is sliding down your pretty legs. I can think of five other men who wouldn’t hesitate to spread you open on a desk and fuck you silly. But you won’t ever let that happen. Because you belong to me. All of you belongs to daddy, doesn’t it?” 

And you’re still so delirious in his words, in the way his fingers move so deliciously inside you, that you barely, truly hear him. You’re too caught up in chasing your own pleasure, sinking lower and lower onto his fingers until you can feel his fingertips brushing the deepest parts of you. 

It is only when his hand cracks down on your behind, the sound more shocking than the sting of the hit itself, that you look down at him. A whine escapes you, an involuntary reaction to an unexpected blow. “Tell me.”

“Yes, it all belongs to you!” You cry out, writhing even harder when Bucky’s fingers stop moving inside you. 

He cocks an eyebrow, a firm hand on your hip to still you. “Belongs to who?”

Your heart stutters in your chest as you really gaze into his eyes. The sharp blue keen on you, waiting for your response. 

“You, daddy.”

A smile slowly rolls across his handsome features. “That’s my good girl.”

The praise has your toes curling. You are a good girl. His good girl. All you want to do is be good for him, to please him. Perhaps you were an ambitious woman once upon a time. But right here in his arms, your pussy stuffed with his fingers, your purpose is to make him happy. To make him proud to call you his. 

Bucky lifts you onto your shaky knees, keeping a hand on your elbow to steady you. He grins at how you tremble, nearly toppling over in the lustful haze your mind is in. Instead, when your eyes meet his, he brings his fingers to his lips and licks them clean. His tongue rolls between the digits, stroking up the length until you picture him doing the same between your legs. His fingers no longer shine with your juices but with his spit. 

Any other day, you’d beg for him to eat your pussy — and you wouldn’t even have to try too hard because he would never let you finish the sentence. It’s as if he had been waiting for you to ask all day. 

However, when all you can think about is cock, cock, cock, you can only whine for it. “B-Buck, please, your cock. I want to be filled with your cock.”

“I know, sweetheart. Let me put on a condom first, hm?”

You almost beg for him to forgo it. You want to feel him. All of him. Only him. 

Of course, Bucky has an idea of what you’re thinking when you look pitifully disappointed. “As much as I’d enjoy feeling you wrapped around my bare cock, I don’t want to risk you getting knocked up yet, honey. I want you to myself for a few more years. Maybe even forever.” 

The idea of Bucky knocking you up, of you growing a piece of him inside you, festers in your mind. You almost hate yourself for how much you like the thought of it. How you can only think about him breeding you, pressing you down into the bed, legs up as he fucks his cum into you to make sure it sticks.

Bucky seems to notice this, sliding his hand along your jaw to turn you to look at him. To keep you in place. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. If you want kids, I’ll give them to you whenever you want. However many you want. Keep you filled with my cum until you can’t think of anything else except how full you are of me.”

Your boyfriend moves swiftly, ripping open a new packet with his teeth before deftly rolling it down his exposed length. His pants are abandoned somewhere in the room, that’s a problem for post-sex you. For now, you strip yourself down to nothing before quickly tackling him back down to the couch and crawling on top of him. 

“Sweet girl,” Bucky grins, “if I had known how much you’d enjoy the fact that I watched you, that I stalked you for months, I would’ve introduced you to my collection sooner.”

You whimper pathetically, attempting to fuck yourself on his cock but Bucky doesn’t let you drop. He keeps his hands on your hips, hovering above his thick dick standing upright, twitching as if begging to find a hole to fill.

Yours. Only yours. 

When Bucky finally allows you to ease his length in, it’s like you’ve finally taught yourself how to breathe again. Your lungs expand to take in deep breaths as you bite back a wince in adjusting to his size. The two of you have been relatively busy lately, finding pockets of time for a quickie, but nothing so gratifying, so electrifying like this moment. 

His wide girth stretches out your pussy lips as they swallow him whole. You don’t think about the stickiness of sweat on your skin, or the fact that your legs are starting to burn from how desperately you’re riding him. All you know is how he fills you up so good, how he has shaped your cunt to the shape and size of him. 

“Does it get you off knowing I’ve watched you cum by yourself? Do you know how many videos I’ve saved of you in the dark, your fingers between your legs, the way your face would crumble with every orgasm that strikes you? I know what you look like when you’re coming. How stunning these pretty lips look as you’re gasping for air,” he narrates with his fingers pinching your chin, releasing your bottom lip from the confines of your teeth. His other hand reaches up to grope your breast. His fingers tug and twist, squeezing the mound with such intention that you arch into his touch. 

His name slides off your tongue like honey, a prayer to some unknown deity that had once fulfilled your wishes of finding someone like Bucky. He is now the only higher power that you plead to. 

“I’ve heard you call my name in the dark, heard you beg me to take you. All I want to do is make sure my pretty girl is taken care of.” 

Bucky smiles, hands combing through your hair as you grind yourself down on his lap. 

“My pretty, sweet girl. Those stories that you read — you look all prim and proper, but I know that all you want is for daddy to take care of you, honey. All you wanted was to tell daddy all your little fantasies so he could make them come true. Isn’t that right?”

“Mhmm, jus’ want daddy to take care of me. To love me. To fuck me.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, steely gaze trained on your cute babbles and gasps. He memorizes each one — the intonation, the length, the little hitches of breath — and tucks them away for a rainy day. 

“We can watch some of the videos in my collection. You could sit all pretty on my lap, my cock in your pretty cunt while you remember how you touch yourself at home. And you can think about how lucky you are to have a real cock between your legs, inside of you, rather than just your fingers. How daddy is so much better at pleasing you than you are yourself.”

Clearly impatient with how your hips keep faltering with his words, Bucky begins bucking up into you. His cock punches the air out of your chest with every thrust, every filthy promise that fills the room. With his nose tucked into your neck and his tongue dragging up your skin, Bucky makes you promises that you tattoo into the back of your mind.

“I’ll keep you chained to my bed, fuck you into oblivion until you don’t even know your own name. Nobody will be able to find you. You’ll be mine and only mine forever.”

“Daddy will eat this pretty little cunt out after he fills it with his cum. You’ll be my dessert after you cockwarm me. All you gotta do is sit on my dick all day.”

“If you behave, maybe daddy will take you on a trip outside where daddy will touch you the entire day. Everyone will see what a proud little slut you are for me.”

Each line sounds rehearsed, like he’s thought through every single promise — or threat — he makes to you. But his voice is laced with sincerity. These are not words said on a whim, but a vow of everything he will be doing to you — for you.

While you exist for his pleasure, he exists for yours. 

Bucky’s grunts are a delightful melody in your ear as he chases after both your highs. His thrusts get sloppy, but in a way that makes your heart soar with how desperate he is for you. 

“You have no secrets with me, honey. I’ll make sure to use every single one to please you.” 

And giving up that control, perhaps that’s all you’ve ever wanted with Bucky. So you give it to him when a final cry echoes from your chest and you jolt in his arms. Your cunt spasms around his cock, barely moving with how fat and thick he is inside of you. 

When Bucky finally finishes, you almost wish you could feel the warmth of his cum paint your insides, but that’s something you’ll coax out of him another day. After all, Bucky has promised to fulfill every single one of your fantasies. 

Whether it’s his cum plugged inside you or if you leak his cum all day, you know he will make it come true. 

As you slump forward, bare chest against his, you let out a sated, exhausted sigh. It’s been a whirlwind of a day and, even if your pussy is still milking him, squeezing around him, you can feel the telltale signs of fatigue taking over your limbs. 

Bucky’s hand reaches up to stroke your head as his lips press comforting kisses onto your temple. “My sweet girl. You did so well for me.”

You giggle, nuzzling into his touch. “I always want to do well for daddy.”

His cock jerks awake inside you, slowly inflating once more to fill you up. “Keep that up and I’ll take you again.”

“Is that a promise?”

Bucky grins up at you, hand shifting to the back of your neck to yank you down for a crushing kiss. “That’s a promise.” He takes a deep breath and searches your eyes. He’s quiet for a moment, seeming to hesitate for the first time that evening. “I love you, sweetheart.”

You offer a small, shy smile. “Love you too, Buck.” You wet your lips as you continue, “I don’t know why I was so scared seeing what you’ve done, considering what you’ve seen of me. But I’m not scared of you. I love you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of letting you go without a chase, honey.”

[superbassbuck]

keep the lambs away.

pairing: lumberjack!bucky barnes x fisher!reader

warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, mean and dark!bucky, hairy bucky, size difference, rough animalistic sex behavior, blood and wounds, animal hunting, manipulation, touch starved, breeding kink, baby trapping, pet names: “sweets, sugar, little doll”

a/n: thank you @artficlly for taking the time to host such a fun, creative event for writers to enjoy! be sure to check out the other works in the masterlist!

word count: 11.4k main masterlist || 🎨 art's moodboard event

synopsis: After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.

Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.

Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.

You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ‘natural adventurers.’ In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns against—and that was splitting up.

From there, the trip spiraled.

You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.

Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.

There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.

Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You weren’t alone out here after all.

The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.

Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for help—or better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.

That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.

As you got closer, you took in the land.

Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on top—presumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.

Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.

“Hey! Who the hell are you?”

You spun around.

A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.

His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.

“U-um,” you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. “I mean no harm, sir. I’m just here to—”

“Get the fuck off my property,” he growled.

He dropped the logs—but kept a firm grip on the axe—as he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.

Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?

Just when you thought you’d finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.

You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.

“Sir, please!” you winced, trying to stand your ground. “I’m lost. I… I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and I—”

“I don’t believe you,” he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of arm’s reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. “Take it off.”

“… Excuse me?”

“Remove your backpack,” the man clarified harshly. “If you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goin’ through your stuff.”

With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldn’t help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.

He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency supplies—a flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuff— a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.

“See?” you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. “I told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lost—”

“Hands up,” he instructed, stepping toward you. “I’m goin’ to pat you down.”

You blinked. “Pat me down?” you repeated in disbelief. “For what—!”

Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didn’t stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.

To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.

“…What’s yours?” you then asked.

He ignored you.

Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further down—to your hips, and then between your legs.

Once the man was satisfied that you weren’t a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.

“Bucky.”

“Bucky,” you repeated softly. “Great. Well, now that we’ve got all this…” you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, “sorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?”

Bucky’s dull expression didn’t change. “No phone.”

He didn’t bother to elaborate, either.

He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.

“W-wait, okay—no phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?”

“No ride,” was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.

What?

No ride?

You couldn’t tell if this man was telling the truth—or if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didn’t have time nor energy to play around.

That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have a functioning phone and you don’t own a vehicle?” you questioned in disbelief. “Then how do you get around?”

You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.

“Everythin’ I need is right here,” he grumbled. “Catch my own food. Build my own house. Don’t need to rely on anybody else.”

Your heart started to race as panic settled in.

“Do you know where the nearest town is?” you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. “Maybe I can get there before sundown—”

Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.

“Not a good idea,” he mumbled. “Looks like a storm is comin’.”

The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny day—but with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasn’t low.

Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.

“Can you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster I’ll get out of your hair.” You pressed.

He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.

“To the south,” he pointed behind you. “Go straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, you’ll get caught up in the storm ‘fore you even make it to the street.”

You looked in the direction he was pointing—all you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.

“Thank you, sir,” you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.

As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.

“I’m tellin’ you, lady, s’not a good idea to leave now,” he warned. “There are some dangerous animals out there—and the storm ain’t goin’ to do you any favors.”

You didn’t listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.

For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.

The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.

Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.

A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The ‘light trickle’ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.

The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction.

You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.

Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.

Then, a low snarl crept up behind you—and that sure as hell didn’t come from the wind.

Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasn’t a coyote—no, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.

“Oh… my god,” you breathed to yourself.

Your heart was beating so fast you couldn’t hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.

And that’s exactly what you did.

The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.

Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.

Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.

A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.

In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.

You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.

A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolf’s head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.

You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.

“You idiot!” he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. “What did I tell you!?”

Bucky.

Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Bucky’s leg.

He let out a pained yell. “Ah, fuck!”

It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Bucky’s grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolf’s neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.

With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolf’s neck, right behind the jaw.

The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.

The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.

He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolf’s—angry and grim.

“I told you, stupid girl,” he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. “I fuckin’ told you.”

All of it happened in a blur.

One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Bucky’s cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Bucky’s hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.

When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.

“Hey!” you gasped, your voice cracking. “What are you doing—?”

“I’m helpin’ you,” Bucky grunted, sounding offended.

“I don’t need you to remove my jacket for me,” you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.

Bucky’s brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabin—water dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.

He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.

“Listen, girl,” he hissed impatiently. “I just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettin’ you into my home, about to offer you my damn shower—and this is what you say to me?”

You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.

Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. “You’re bleeding,” you pointed out. “You need to take care of that wound, or it’ll get infected.”

Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, make a left,” he gruffed, already turning his back on you. “And don’t take too long—I need to use it after you.”

Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.

The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personal—no photos, no decor—aside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.

As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.

Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small room—certainly big enough to fit another person.

“You found it?” Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.

“Yeah—I did. Thanks!” you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.

After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.

You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.

“Jesus!” you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. “Knock much?”

Bucky didn’t enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.

In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabric— a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.

“Not used to company,” he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. “‘Sides, I’m not interestin’ in lookin’.”

He didn’t wait for a ‘thank you’ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.

Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.

With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didn’t smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabin— pine, and woodsmoke.

Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.

“Thanks for letting me use your shower,” you spoke up, catching his attention.

Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.

“Do you need help?” you offered again. “I can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.”

Bucky didn’t look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.

“No need,” he said roughly, his voice strained.

It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.

You frowned. “Are you sure—”

“I told you and I’ll keep tellin’ you,” he grunted through the pain, “I don’t need your help, girl.”

Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.

You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jump—an involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Bucky’s throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.

“Bucky?” you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. “Are you okay?”

There was no answer.

You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admit—and standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.

“Bucky, I’m coming in,” you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.

You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.

So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.

Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tub—naked, of course.

His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didn’t wander—you didn’t care to look.

Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.

Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolf’s claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.

“Jesus,” you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. “Bucky, this looks like it’s already getting infected.”

Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning up—the heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolf’s claws.

“You’re overheating!”

Bucky’s eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.

“...Tired,” he croaked.

Your frown deepened. “Stay right there. Don’t move,” you commanded, though it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere.

Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Bucky’s vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.

Just my luck, huh?

He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm broke—and he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.

Damn. He was a fucking idiot.

You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.

You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. “This is going to sting. Just try to breathe.”

As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Bucky’s body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.

Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.

He wasn’t used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.

That was the whole point of being out here.

But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.

It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadn’t felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.

Bucky’s breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.

“There,” you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.

You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didn’t come.

He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like this—but as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didn’t really care.

Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. “I’ll let you be. When the storm clears up, I’ll be out of your hair—for real this time.”

Just as you turned for the door, Bucky’s hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.

“Take the bed tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?

“Sorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,” you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. “Besides, you need proper rest to heal up. I’ll take the couch.”

Bucky’s hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.

With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.

By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.

He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.

To his surprise, the skin wasn’t burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.

There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.

He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind… that maybe he should’ve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.

When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.

His jaw tightened.

A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years and didn’t care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.

All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.

He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.

He froze.

Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the water’s edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.

As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basket— likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berries—and he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.

By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.

Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.

“Thought you said you were leavin’,” he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.

You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were bright—clear of the panic from the night before.

“Oh!” you smiled at the sight of him. “You’re still alive!” You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. “I caught you some fish—you eat fish, right?”

Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “More of a red meat kind of guy.”

“Well... fish is good for you,” you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. “And I’m going to fix you up some breakfast.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed as you reached him. “Don’t waste your effort,” he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. “I like my breakfast done a certain way.”

You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. “You should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.”

“I don’t need you playing house,” Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. “I’ve been feedin’ myself since before you were born. Put those down, I’ll do it.”

You didn’t even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. “Sit. Down. Bucky.”

He opened his mouth to snap back—to tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in charge—but the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldn’t survive a night without his intervention.

He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsing— a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldn’t have been standing anyway.

From his seat, he watched you move.

“Not only can I catch fish,” you said, getting to work, “but I can also cook it well.”

The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more… domestic.

You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.

He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his space—wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fed—hit him harder than he expected.

“Christ,” he cursed under his breath.

For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.

He liked seeing this—a beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.

He liked the idea of having someone to protect.

Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasn’t just for the fish.

“You’re gonna burn ‘em,” he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. “Pan needs more grease.”

“I’ve got it, Bucky,” you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. “Stop worrying that old head of yours.”

“Old?” Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.

You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.

“You know,” you began, tone light and teasing, “in my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.”

You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.

The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.

“Crap—!”

Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.

In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.

“Careful, sweets,” he rumbled into a protective growl.

You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but careful—the touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.

“Bucky…” you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. “Are… are you okay?”

You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.

“I… just don’t want you hurtin’ yourself,” he said slowly, his voice thick and low. “That’s all.”

Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thick—and you weren’t entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.

By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.

“Where’s the cutlery?” you asked, turning to him.

He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.

“Your hands are the cutlery,” he said flatly.

You didn’t think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.

You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didn’t even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.

You swore he didn’t look away from you once.

Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.

All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.

You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.

Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But it’ll do.

“I suppose I should take my leave after this,” you announced mid chew. “Thank you for everything—”

“You shouldn’t,” Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. “There might be another storm tonight.”

Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.

Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.

Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.

“Well, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the better—”

“Good luck with that,” he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. “The mud and the terrain from yesterday’s mess will only slow you down. You’ll be lucky to make it a mile before you’re stuck again.”

He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. “Best you wait ‘til tomorrow.”

You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.

But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.

The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrain—if you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldn’t be anyone to save you a second time.

You were completely oblivious to the way Bucky’s eyes traced your body. You didn’t notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roof—permanently in his sights.

“I… I guess you’re right,” you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. “I don’t think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, I’d just be a liability.”

Bucky didn’t smile—that would have been too obvious—but the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.

“Smart girl,” he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. “No sense in chancing it. The woods don’t give second chances twice in a row.”

“I’ll just… stay out of your way, then,” you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. “I can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?”

Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.

“I’ll take care of the heavy liftin’,” he explained. “You can help me clean the place a bit—or catch some more fish for dinner.”

“You liked my fish?” you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. “Guess you were right,” he gruffed. “You can cook, sugar.”

Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.

“Okay,” you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. “Anything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really don’t know how to repay you.”

A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.

He liked this.

No—he loved this.

“Look at you, doin’ the dishes,” he noted with a nod toward the sink. “That’s already doin’ more than enough.”

He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something more—to press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.

“I’ll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Just stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or lost again, little doll.”

The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you weren’t going anywhere.

For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.

Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.

Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the labor— but his eyes never left you.

When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.

“Careful, sweets.”

“Mind your step. Can’t concentrate on my own work if you’re stumblin’ all over the place, little doll.”

“I saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit down—let me check your leg.”

You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.

You didn’t want to call him suffocating—he was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterday—but the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.

As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.

You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.

There was no storm.

And it was too late to start the trek to town now.

You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called out.

He didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didn’t answer, you tried again, firmer this time.

“Bucky. There’s no storm like you said there would be.”

Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. “I guess not.”

A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.

“It’s good that you stayed,” he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. “It’s better bein’ safe than sorry. You should know that by now—’specially after yesterday, sugar.”

Your frown only deepened, and Bucky’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t pleased by how eager you were to leave him.

“I know,” you sighed, looking toward the dark window. “It’s just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.”

“If you had left earlier, you wouldn’t have made me that delicious breakfast for savin’ your life,” Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. “You should sleep in the bed tonight.”

“What?” You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. “No. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for you—”

“No one takes the couch,” he cut you off like a command. “We both share the bed tonight. There’s plenty of space.”

You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.

The thought of sharing a bed with him—this hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you pointed out softly. “I’m perfectly fine on the couch, really.”

“If you’re gonna trek tomorrow morning, you’ll need all the sleep you can get.”

He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.

“Come on,” he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. “I’ve got a set of clothes you can change into.”

With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.

“Here.”

“And the pants?” you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.

“All I’ve got are sweatpants that’d be way too damn big for you,” he said, shoving the drawer shut. “Unless you want to sleep in jeans?”

You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all day—stained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.

“I’ll just wear these again,” you decided.

Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.

“No. Those are dirty,” he gruffed. “The shirt’s big enough to be a night dress. You’ll be fine.”

His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasn’t a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.

After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.

The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasn’t sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.

He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.

You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.

You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.

To him, this was exactly where you belonged.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t leave today,” he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. “I was just lookin’ out for you.”

You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Bucky’s heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.

He could get used to waking up to this every morning.

“It’s okay,” you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. “Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Exactly right, sugar.”

From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadn’t taken long to notice just how… blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.

Unreadable and unwavering.

You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. “How’s your leg?”

“Still hurts,” he mumbled lowly. “But I’m feelin’ a lot better lyin’ next to a pretty girl.”

So much for breaking the tension.

His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.

You hadn’t pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldn’t tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.

Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.

“Y-you’re ridiculous,” you stammered, breathless.

Bucky’s large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.

“For tellin’ the truth?” he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.

You couldn’t move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.

You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.

“Pretty,” he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.

His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.

When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than before—pupils blown wide.

“So goddamn pretty.”

“I…” you started, not quite sure what to say, “t-thank you.”

There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Bucky’s hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.

“You know, bein’ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,” Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. “Things a man like me thought he’d never have.”

“Like what?” you breathed.

“A family,” he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. “I’ve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectin’ their cubs, birds tendin’ to their nests. It’s the most natural, beautiful thing there is—that kind of connection. I just know havin’ somethin’ special like that... it’d finally bring me peace.”

You weren’t entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.

“I hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.”

Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.

“Feels like I already have, little doll.”

Bucky didn’t give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.

He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like him—starved and isolated for decades—could possess.

It wasn’t gentle at all. It was more like a claim.

His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadn’t shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetime—like a man who was dying for the touch of another person.

You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.

Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.

“Bucky,” you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. “We... we shouldn’t. This is... I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow.”

Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.

“Tomorrow’s a long way off, sugar,” he buzzed against your skin.

“Bucky, please—”

You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.

Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.

A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. “M’so hard. It hurts.”

Bucky began to rock himself—slow and shallow—against the soft heat of your leg. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.

“Just... we can fuck tonight—and you can forget all ‘bout me tomorrow,” he pleaded, his voice wrecked. “You can leave as early as you want—but please, darlin’. I need this.” He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. “It’s been so long.”

He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.

“… No panties?”

Your face burned with embarrassment. “I… didn’t want to re-wear the ones I had on,” you explained, your voice small. “They’re dirty.”

You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of him—ripe and ready for the taking.

You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Bucky’s eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.

Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull back—mostly out of shyness—but his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.

“Bucky, wait—!”

But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.

He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your ears—vulgar and completely shameless.

You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a man’s mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.

“Oh god,” you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.

Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.

He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.

He was devouring you.

He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.

Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.

“Taste s’fucking good,” he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. “Only makin’ it harder for me to let you go.”

He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest moved— every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.

He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his hand—which you already thought was massive—could barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.

Bucky’s jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.

Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell him—the salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.

“You’re drippin’ all over my sheets, sugar,” Bucky grunted. “Makin’ a reaaal mess.”

“Bucky,” you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “I don’t think you… I don’t think it’ll fit—”

“No?” he cut you off.

He didn’t let you finish—he didn’t need to—but he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.

“I don’t care,” he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. “M’gonna make it fit.”

Your body tensed as you felt the head of Bucky’s cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldn’t be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.

Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.

He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.

“Open ‘em up, sugar,” he rumbled the command. “I want you lookin’ at me for this.”

As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.

“Oh—fuck, Bucky!” you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.

A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.

You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.

You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Bucky’s balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.

When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.

“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. “You aren’t goin’ anywhere. I told you, darlin’—I’m makin’ it fit.”

With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.

Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.

“Haaah—!” you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. “B-Buck—”

Bucky’s entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadn’t felt in years.

He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cock—the one you claimed was too large to fit—was sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.

He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.

“Christ,” he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. “You’re takin’ me so well, little doll…”

When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.

He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.

“God… feels s’much better than my hand,” he grumbled to himself.

“Bucky…” you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Feels good, don’t stop.”

Bucky was hypnotized.

He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.

And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.

“Fuck. Fuckin’ hell—you… fuckin’… goddammit—fuck!”

His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harder—right through the bedframe and against the floorboards.

Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.

He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.

“Bucky—it’s too much, ah!” you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.

That didn’t help him at all.

“Oh—fuck, sweets!” he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. “Fuck—you’re askin’ for it now.”

The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearly—you, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.

Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.

“Mine,” he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.

Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.

To breed.

Breed. Breed…

“You’re stayin’ right here, sugar. M’gonna fill you up so full, you won’t even remember how to walk out that door.”

His words were purely possessive. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was just dirty talk—and god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.

“Fuuck, Bucky,” you whined, “d-don’t stop…! I’m gonna cum—”

Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didn’t just want tonight; he wanted years.

He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woods—he wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.

Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Bucky’s cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulse—and at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.

“I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.

His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. “Gonna give you everythin’ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.”

Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.

“H-huh…?” you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. “W-what was that—?”

One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeper—making the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.

“Oh my god—!”

“Don’t you worry your pretty head ‘bout it,” he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. “M’just tellin’ you how it’s gonna be. I’m gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you won’t ever remember what it’s like to be without it.”

He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.

“You’re gonna stay right here,” he reminded you darkly. “Nothin’ but my shirts on your back so I don’t have to waste time undressin’ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, I’m gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and I’m gonna remind you who you belong to.”

The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.

“I’m gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,” he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. “Until you’re waddlin’ around this cabin carryin’ my name... carryin’ my blood. You’re never leavin’, understand? You’re mine to breed.”

When you didn’t answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.

“Understand, sweets?”

“Y-yes,” was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. “Never leaving… fill me…”

You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.

“Yeah?” he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right here—right beneath him. “You gonna make me a daddy?”

His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfect—a pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.

Bucky’s entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinch—it sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.

A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.

His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.

“Fuck—baby—!” he choked out, voice strained and cracking.

He didn’t pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.

He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.

“There… fuck,” he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Puttin’ a baby in there right now—you feel it, don’t you? You feel how much I'm givin’ you?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.

All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.

Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.

“There’s the storm, baby,” he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.

“I told you. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.”

sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me 🥀 once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!

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[juniebjonesin]

ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʟ ᴀʟᴏɴɢ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › being best friends since childhood with rebecca barnes meant a life full of adventure with only one hard rule: don’t ever flirt with her brother. but that rule doesnt make room for an anonymous pen pal or a love that happens anyway.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x female reader ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › 【18+ MDNI】 semi forbidden lovers - best friends brother, friends to lovers, alternate universe - college/university, penpal letters, kinda strangers to lovers too?, fluff, shy bucky, light angst, feelings realization/confession, eventual happy ending, mutual pining, summer romance, secret relationship, first love, semi slow burn, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, fingering, crying during sex, soft bucky barnes, dirty talking bucky barnes, semi public sex, not beta read we die like men. ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 6.4k

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › this is apart of the amazing event hosted by @elixirfromthestars, thank you for putting it together! it was super cool i ended up just playing with the wheels for fun so many times lol. this was a fun little world i liked diving into, i envision bucky by the lake so clearly hes such a cutieball. i played elixirs hold 'em and these were my results. i hope you enjoy & thank you for reading.

elixirs hold 'em - royal flush » wheel au: penpal au » wheel trope: siblings best friend » dialouge: "Say it again." — "What?" — "That you love me." — "I can't." » scenario: right in front of you all along

There is no one on earth Rebecca Barnes trusts more than you.

You grew up together, matching scraped knees, shared bedrooms, years of knowing what the other one is thinking before it’s ever said. You’re not just her best friend; you’re family by choice, by time, by sheer inevitability. When people ask Rebecca how she knows she can trust someone, she shrugs and says, I just do. What she means is you.

That’s why there aren’t rules between you.

Just guidelines.

Don’t take my charger without bringing the box back, after the eighth time she swore she had no idea where the box went while handing you only the cord.

If you use all the shampoo, leave a note on the mirror, after one too many mornings of her standing in the shower, bottle upside down, shaking it like it might magically produce another drop.

And lastly, said once, firmly, never joking:

Don’t ever, ever flirt with my brother.

Not because Rebecca doesn’t trust you. Because she trusts you more than anyone else.

Bucky Barnes is one thousand percent off-limits. Not hypothetically. Not dramatically. Just… absolutely. You’ve watched too many girls orbit Rebecca only to angle closer to him, smiling too brightly, lingering too long, treating her like a means to an end. You’ve been there for every crash-and-burn aftermath, every quiet heartbreak, every moment Rebecca wondered why people never wanted just her.

You would never be that person.

The guideline barely registers as something you’d ever need to worry about anyway. You and Bucky hardly cross paths. Sometimes you’ll see him at her house—standing in the kitchen when you grab a glass of water, offering a polite nod, disappearing again like smoke. He’s more absence than presence. A name. A shadow. A ghost story people talk about more than they actually know.

You never understood what all the other girls saw in him. You never cared to find out.

Right before summer starts, you’re bored out of your mind.

You’re hanging upside down off your bed, hair brushing the carpet, complaining to Rebecca about how three months suddenly feels like an eternity when you don’t have a plan. No trips, no job lined up yet just too much time and a buzzing restlessness you don’t know what to do with.

“I don’t want to waste it,” you groan. “I need something.”

Rebecca leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with an amused smile. “School’s doing a pen-pal thing over the summer.”

You blink. “Like… stamps? Letters?”

“Yeah. You can even be anonymous,” she adds. “They match you up with someone from a different class year. It’s supposed to be about connection or whatever.”

You think about it. About quiet afternoons. About having someone to talk to without expectations.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll sign up.”

You do.

A week later, your first letter arrives at the school mail station. No name. Just a neat, careful handwriting and a simple opening line: Hi. I’m not really sure how to do this, but I’m glad there's someone to do it with.

Something about it makes you smile. You write back. And then you don’t stop.

You stay anonymous, both of you. No names, no identifying details. Just words passed back and forth like offerings. You talk about music first, songs you play on repeat, albums that feel like home. Then movies. Then books. You tell him what you’re reading, what you love about certain characters, how stories make things feel survivable.

He sends you poems.

Ones he wrote, ones he loves. Dog-eared favorites copied carefully into the margins of his letters. Lines about longing, about time, about wanting to be more than what the world expects of you. You read them over and over.

You tell him about school. About how many extra classes you’re taking, how you’re stacking credits and stress because your dream job feels impossible unless you make yourself undeniable. You admit, quietly, how much pressure you feel, how your dad’s trying but money is always tight. You tell him about your mom, the necklace she left behind. How much you miss her, how some days the ache sneaks up on you when you least expect it and refuses to let go.

His next letter takes longer to arrive. When it does, the handwriting is shakier.

He tells you he doesn't have a job lined up, that he was undeclared until last year. Says he’s not smart enough. That school’s always felt like something happening to him instead of for him. That he’s tired of feeling like he’s already fallen behind.

Your chest aches reading it. You write back immediately.

You tell him intelligence isn’t one thing. You tell him about different ways of learning and you even offer half-joking, half-serious, to tutor him through letters. You start including lesson plans in the margins, little quizzes at the end. Practice problems handwritten with encouraging notes at the top.

He does them. All of them. And he gets better.

His letters change, more confident, more excited. He tells you about raising his grades, about understanding things that used to feel impossible. He thanks you in a way that feels too big for ink and paper.

Somewhere along the way, you realize you wait for his letters more than anything else. You don’t know what he looks like, you don’t know his name. But you know him.

It doesn't register as a crush at first.

You tell yourself it’s just anticipation. Just the small thrill of routine, checking the school mailbox earlier than you need to, flipping envelopes over to see if the handwriting looks familiar. You tell yourself everyone likes being understood, that the warmth spreading through your chest when you read his letters is normal.

Except you don’t write like you used to anymore.

You write longer. Softer. You start crossing things out, rewriting sentences so they sound right. You tell him about the things you don’t say out loud, about how your dad only ever looks relieved when you bring home perfect grades, how failure feels like erasure. How sometimes you’re terrified that if you stop being impressive, you’ll stop being lovable.

You expect platitudes. Reassurance that feels generic.

Instead, his reply is careful. Thoughtful. He tells you that you are not a report card. That worth doesn’t disappear when numbers dip. That being loved shouldn’t be conditional, and that even if it has been in the past, it doesn’t mean it always has to be.

You cry a little when you read it.

In his next letter, he admits something too.

He says his parents already seem disappointed, like they’ve decided who he’ll be before he ever gets there. That trying feels pointless when failure is expected anyway. That it’s easier to accept the role they’ve written for him than fight it and still lose.

You don’t let him.

You tell him that being underestimated doesn’t mean being incapable. You tell him about every small victory you’ve watched him earn through those stupid little quizzes you mailed him. You tell him you’re proud of him, even if no one else says it out loud.

After that, the letters change.

They still talk about music and books and poems, but now there are confessions folded between the lines. Longing disguised as curiosity. Questions that linger longer than they need to. They start signing off differently, thinking of you, write soon, don’t disappear.

By the end of summer, it feels like you’re in love with someone you’ve never seen.

The realization doesn’t arrive all at once. It settles. And when you finally suggest meeting, heart hammering as you write it, hands shaking, you half-expect him to pull away.

Instead, his response comes fast.

County fair. End of summer as the carousel. I’ll be there.

The day arrives far too soon. The fair is loud and bright and overwhelming, music blaring, kids laughing, the air thick with sugar and heat. You stand near the carousel, scanning faces, trying to imagine him. Taller? Shorter? Nervous like you?

You don’t notice him right away.

Bucky does.

He’s already there, leaning against the railing, pretending he’s just waiting for someone else. When he sees you approach, something in his chest tightens—not fear, just awareness. You look… familiar, somehow. Not because he knows you, you feel like a thought he’s had before but never finished.

He steps closer, offering a polite smile. "Hey."

You smile politely, not expecting him to be here but not surprised, you vaguley remember him being in the kitchen when Rebecca mentioned the fair to you. "Hi."

“You waiting for someone?”

You nod, nerves buzzing under your skin. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Guess we’re both early.”

You make awkward small talk. The weather. The crowd. The carousel lights spinning gold as dusk settles in. It’s easy. Too easy.

Your hands fidget without you realizing it, fingers brushing the chain around your neck. You twist the golden locket gently, a nervous habit you’ve written about once, mentioned how it was your mom’s, how you rub it when you’re scared.

Bucky’s breath catches.

“That’s… a nice necklace,” he says carefully.

You smile, instinctive. “Thanks. It was my mom’s. I do this when I’m nervous—” You stop short, laughing softly. “Sorry. Oversharing.”

He doesn’t laugh. He stares. The world seems to narrow, the music dulling, the carousel lights flaring brighter, gilding you in warm gold. His heart starts pounding, too fast, too loud.

You’ve told him this before. In ink. In confidence. In trust.

He sees it all at once. Every time he passed you in the kitchen. Every quiet laugh from Rebecca’s room. Every moment he never let himself linger on because you were off-limits.

It’s you. It’s always been you.

He’s in love with you.

He doesn’t say anything. Not then. Bucky swallows the truth down so hard it almost hurts, and instead he smiles, soft and careful, like he’s handling something fragile.

“While we’re waiting,” he says, nodding toward the games lined up in bright rows, “you wanna try some of those?”

You look to the games and back to the carousel, wondering if it's a good idea to leave or not, if your mystery writer was on his way. Bucky offers a slanted smile as you look back at him and think you might as well do something to pass the time.

So you do. You toss rings and laugh when they bounce wrong while he knocks bottles down like he’s done it a hundred times before. When the attendant hands him a small stuffed turtle, green and lopsided, clearly overstuffed, he looks almost embarrassed by it.

“For you,” he says, holding it out.

You blink. “You won that.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Thought you should have it.”

You don't take it but smile when he lets you pet the fuzzy shell.

You win stickers, sparkly ones, silly ones, and you’re way more excited than makes sense. You show him all of them, sticking one to your wrist, another to the turtle’s shell. He laughs, quiet and warm, and something in your chest loosens without you realizing it.

He buys you food while you wait. Insists on it. Fries and lemonade, the kind that tastes like summer and sugar. When the night air cools, he drapes his jacket over your shoulders without asking.

You glance up at him, confused. “You don’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” he says. “I want to.”

You wonder, briefly, why he’s being so nice. Then you decide not to overthink it. Some people are just kind.

Eventually, the carousel empties. The lights dim a little. Time stretches thin. You check the spot again. And again. Your shoulders sink.

“I guess… maybe they’re not coming,” you say quietly, trying to sound casual and failing. “It’s fine. I probably read it wrong.”

Bucky’s chest aches.

“I can walk you home,” he offers quickly. “If you want.”

You nod, grateful. The walk is easy. Familiar streets. Comfortable silence. When you reach your house, you linger on the porch, fingers twisting together.

He holds out the turtle again. “For real this time.”

You take it, smiling sadly. “Thank you. And… I’m sorry if tonight was boring.”

“What?” His brow furrows. “No. You didn’t ruin anything.”

You look up at him, sincere. “You didn’t either. If anything, you made it better.”

The words hit him harder than anything else has all night. He nods once, afraid if he speaks, he’ll say too much. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

He walks away with his heart in pieces and doesn’t look back until he’s sure you’re inside.

That night, you write a letter. You ask why he didn’t show. You try not to sound hurt, but it slips through anyway. You tuck the stickers inside the envelope, a little silly but honest.

I was thinking about you the whole time, you write. I hope you’re okay.

Days pass.

Then weeks.

No reply.

Still, you keep writing. You send him songs you think he’d like, books you’re reading for class, movies you swear he’d love. You tell him school started and you hope you can still write, even if things are busy. Even if it’s just as friends.

You don’t know that Bucky keeps every letter in a box under his bed, unopened at first, then opened, reread until the paper softens at the creases. You don’t know how many times he starts to respond and stops, terrified that saying anything will shatter everything.

You only know the silence.

So you fill it.

Each letter becomes more honest than the last, written like confessions dropped into the dark. You tell him your secrets because you think he’ll never see them anyway. You tell him you’re still scared you’ll never be anything outside of school, that once the grades are gone there’ll be nothing left of you. That you don’t know how to live a life that isn’t measured.

That you don’t think you’ll ever really fall in love.

In one letter, you admit casually, like it doesn’t matter, that you had a crush on him at first. That it went away (It didn’t.), that Rebecca told you it was stupid to fall for someone you only know through paper and ink.

But you write that it felt real anyway. That you felt known. At the end of the last letter, your handwriting wavers.

I think I’m going to stop writing, you say. I don’t want to bother you anymore. But I’m glad I knew you. Even if it was just like this.

You seal it with shaking hands. Across town, Bucky reads it and finally breaks and knows he can’t stay silent anymore.

That night, he casually asks Rebecca if you’re coming over. When she says no, he gathers the letters, every single one, and drives to your house.

You’re in the backyard, curled up with a book, when you hear the gate creak open.

“Bucky?” you ask, startled. “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer. He just pulls out the first letter and starts to read. "I don't know how to do this either, I don't know how to talk about myself without actually—"

Your stomach drops. “What—stop. Bucky, what are you doing?”

You snatch it from his hands, heat flooding your face, embarrassment turning sharp. “How did you get this?”

He finally meets your eyes. “It’s me,” he says quietly. “It’s always been me.”

You stare at him, uncomprehending.

“I’ve kept every letter,” he continues. “I listened to every song. Read every book. Watched every movie.”

Your head shakes automatically. “No. That doesn’t—what about the fair? You didn’t show. You just—left me in the silence.”

“I was scared,” he says, voice breaking. “I was standing right in front of you, realizing it was you all along and I was terrified.”

“Of what?” you demand, hurt bleeding through.

“Of hoping,” he admits. “Of letting myself believe I could have something, someone, like you.”

The anger drains out of you, replaced by something softer, heavier. You look at him for a long moment. Then, quietly a thought slips into you head, a memory from one of his early letters he once sent you, the one you memorized without realizing why.

“I trace the shape of ‘almost us,’ keep hope tucked safely out of sight. I crave the warmth, I fear the loss, so I hold longing through the night.”

His breath catches. He blushes, stunned and faintly nods. You step closer, eyes flicking to the stack of letters clutched to his chest. “You really kept them all?”

“Every single one,” he says.

You smile, teasing despite the ache. “That’s a lot of commitment for someone who didn’t think he was smart enough.”

He laughs softly, relief threading through it. “Guess I was wrong.”

The space between you closes naturally, like it always should have. When he kisses you, it’s gentle and sure and everything the letters promised, ink finally turning into something real.

You start seeing each other in stolen spaces. Your house, when your dad works late. The lake, when the sun dips low and the air turns cool enough to raise goosebumps on your skin. Quiet afternoons stretched thin, fingers laced together, Bucky’s shoulder always warm and steady against yours.

It's everything and not enough. Summer is running out, and you feel it in everything.

Rebecca notices first.

“You’ve been… distant,” she says one night, sitting cross-legged on your bed while you pretend to read. “Did I do something?”

Guilt hits hard and fast.

“No,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I’m just—studying. Stressed about exams.”

She watches you for a long moment, unconvinced but trusting anyway. That almost hurts worse.

You hate lying to her. Hate the knot in your chest every time Bucky brushes his thumb over your hand in public and you have to pretend it means nothing. You start worrying less about getting caught and more about what this secrecy is doing to the most important friendship in your life.

Bucky wants to tell her.

“We can’t keep sneaking around,” he says one afternoon by the lake, voice low. “She deserves to know.”

“I can’t,” you whisper. “If this goes wrong, I lose everything. I lose you. I lose her.”

He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing away the worry he hates seeing there. “You’re allowed to want things too.”

You almost get caught a few days later.

You’re coming up the steps of Bucky’s house, laughter still clinging to you from the walk home. He kisses you softly, unguarded, right as the front door opens behind him.

“Bucky?”

Rebecca’s voice. You spring apart so fast your heart nearly stops. You duck your head, pretending to retie your shoe while Bucky clears his throat.

“Just—walking her home,” he says.

Rebecca squints but doesn’t push. The door shuts. You don’t breathe again until you’re halfway down the sidewalk. That night, you ask Bucky to meet you at the lake.

The decision tastes like grief.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you say, voice breaking. “We’re going to hurt her.”

He steps closer. “You’re hurting yourself trying to protect everyone else.”

Tears spill before you can stop them. “I’m sorry. I love you—but I can’t.”

He stills. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“That you love me.”

“I can’t,” you whisper, even as your hands clutch his shirt like they already know the truth.

He kisses you anyway, slow, aching, full of everything you’re afraid to lose. You cry into it, happiness and sadness tangling together in salt until you can’t tell which is which.

“I’ll tell her,” you say against his lips. “Tomorrow. Just—please. One more day.”

He nods. Always nods. Always chooses you. You go to the lake to swim that evening, laughing and splashing like kids again. The water glows orange under thes setting sun. Bucky lifts you out easily, sets you on the grass, his hands warm and worshipful, like he’s memorizing you.

The kiss that follows is deeper, unhurried, filled with promises neither of you says out loud. Bucky moves on top of you, holding his weight above you on one forearm as he moves his lips down your jaw and neck. Goosebumps prickle across your skin and a soft gasp slips past your lips when you feel his knee gently nudge your thighs apart, he pulls back to look at you and the sun hits his eyes, reflecting a blue so clear your heart nearly stops in your chest.

"Is this okay?"

You nod because words don't feel like enough, like they can't convey the ever churning tidal wave of love crashing over you again and again. He kisses you again and you let your hands wander, his skin still damp from the lake, letting your fingers glide over his chest and down to his abs with ease.

He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, as if the moment itself might be too bright to look at directly. This feeling that passes between you doesn’t need language. It lives in the way his shoulders finally drop, in the way you whisper his name like a secret kept safely.

You tilt into him, drawn by gravity neither of you fight anymore. His hand settles at your waist, firm now, certain, anchoring himself as much as you. Like if he lets go, he might lose the proof that this is real, that he’s here, and wanted, and allowed to want back.

"Bucky," you breathe out, hips twisting and arching up into him. "Please."

His fingers drift from your waist to your thighs, tracing the damp string of your bathing suit bottoms. A shuddering breath leaving his lips when you push into his touch. He stops for a moment, pulling back to look at you one more time.

Your face is still flushed from the lake, the tears and the heat blooming in your chest.

"Please," you say, reaching up to pull his lips down to yours.

You kiss again and he melts into you like ice cream under the sun, sweetness spilling onto your lips as heat and want rush through your veins, it feels like a sugar high times a thousand. While you want to ride its bliss out until then end, your heart cracks at the thought that there is an end to this.

"What's wrong baby?" Bucky murmurs against your cheek, feeling your body tighten under his. "Listen we don't have to—"

"No," you interuppt, shaking your head. "No it's not that I just… what if Rebecca doesn't want us to be together? What if…"

Bucky kisses you quiet, muttering your name across your lips. "Don't think like that, no matter what happens I'll always be yours, you'll always be my best girl."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your voice a hoarse whisper. "But what—"

"Relax." He kisses the tear streaks off your face. "You're mine." Another kiss. "I'm yours. It's going to be okay."

Your mouth curves to argue but he kisses it shut again. "Relax, baby."

Your heart, mind and body are on three seperate tracks. Heart breaking for the fear that this is it, mind racing with a thousand possible outcomes for tomorrow, all while your body aches and pushes into his touch.

"Bucky," you whisper.

"Shh, just relax pretty girl, my pretty girl." Bucky kisses you like you're the only air his lungs need, his hands drifting back down your body, finding your drawstrings and pulling one side undone.

Your mouth falls open with a whisper of his name, legs trembling as he pushes his hand between them. He pulls the rest of your bathing suit bottoms aside, just enough to expose the heat that's been aching between your thighs.

His thumb brushes the seam of your cunt so gently its a wonder why you jump at the touch. His lips move down your neck and chest and kiss his mark into the skin. His broad fingers slowly stroking you, coaxing a new whimper and whine from your lips with each touch.

"That's it baby," he cooes, kissing down the valley of your breasts before moving to mark his teeth in the soft flesh of each one. "There she is."

With his thumb pressing tight little circles onto your clit you squirm and open for him all at once, hands digging into the towel shielded grass under you. A breathy and strangled whimper slips past your lips, body ignited into flames and quickly burning bright.

"Bucky-"

"I know, pretty girl." He drawls, kissing the pebbled skin of your nipple before dropping his middle finger down your slit, so slick with arousal he hardly meets any resistance as he slides it in. "My pretty baby, it's okay, let go for me."

"Oh god, Buck—y," your hands shoot from the grass and dig into his shoulders, nails leaving behind crescent marks in his skin as white bleeds across your vision. Your thighs close and clench around his hand, hips rolling and bucking into him as you ride up and over the high of your orgasm.

When you finally catch your breath and blink the tears away, Bucky is looking at you like you've donned a halo, eyes glittering with something undescribable as he looks down at you.

"Just when I thought you couldn't get any prettier." He mutters under his breath, leaning down to kiss you before you can even think of a rebuttal.

Desire and need now course through your veins, quieting any figment of doubt in your mind as you kiss him back with fervent want. Your hands pull him flush against you, not bothering with the space needed to pull the rest of your swimsuits off, just rutting into him as he pulls himself from his shorts, the thick length poking into your thigh.

You shudder and his cock hasn't even come close to you, the weight of it brushing your skin making you whimper shamelessly.

"You keep relaxing for me baby," he hums, releasing himself from your needy hold to sit back on his haunches and take off the rest off your suits. "Gonna take real good care of my girl."

Bucky unties the other side of your suit and lets the fabric give way to you cunt, all the lake water has since dried on your skin save for the aching wet mess between your thighs. Your own cum coated across your lips and onto your inner thighs, shining in the growing moonlight. He teases you, sliding his cock between your dripping cunt, the tip bumping and rubbing your clit making you thrash and beg for more.

"Please Bucky, please god stop teasing me-" you whine, hips uselessly jutting up as he holds you down, watching your pussy flutter and clench on nothing.

"Breathe," he mutters, leaning over you until your noses brush, his forehead resting against yours like a promise. You folloe his words, taking in a breath unitl every sense is overrun with Bucky. The smell of his colonge not quite washed out by the lake, the sound of his stuttering breath, the stretch of him pushing deep inside, the look of his eyes locking with yours—looking at you like he's in heaven.

He's everywhere, tears sting at your eyes as you bask in it. In everything, in him, in the perfect summer you had, the love that now holds your heart for him.

Slow, deep thrusts roll into faster and deeper ones, sweat beading on your skin where lake water once sat, heat thrumming through your veins as pleasure rather than fear. Bucky's hands cover every inch of you, brushing your hair back, squeezing your thighs and holding them open under him.

"Feels so good pretty girl," he grunts, his lips at your neck. "So wet 'n tight for me, taking me so good."

Your body hangs on the edge of nirvana, each snap of his hips into yours accompained by a messy open mouthed kiss, teeth and spit smearing its way across your skin. He groans your name, feeling your thighs quiver and shake like before.

It sneaks up on your faster than before, a coil quickly winding itself low and deep within you only to be undone by his increasingly erractic thrusts, the only coherent words you can manage being the one thing that undoes Bucky himself.

"James,"

The wanton whipser of his name brushing his ears sends him over the edge right behind you, grunting a feral, mangled noise of your name, fucking you through both your highs until he loses control of his hips and comes to a low and slow stop.

For a while, you two are suspended in air, floating through the nigh without a course in mind. A soft exhale against your neck sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with growing cold and brings you back down to earth. Being this close makes the rest of the world feel distant and unimportant.

You feel his lips brush your temple, soft and unrushed. Time seems to stretch, every second soft and silver under the moonlight. Bucky cleans you up the best he can, even tying your swimsuit back together before pulling you back into his arms.

When you finally lie together on the grass, foreheads touching, hearts still racing in sync, it feels like crossing a threshold—like something precious has finally been allowed to exist.

You tell Rebecca together.

You sit on the couch with your hands twisted in your lap, Bucky beside you, close enough that his knee presses into yours like an anchor. Rebecca stands at first, pacing, arms folded tight across her chest like she’s bracing for impact.

You tell her everything.

About the pen-pal program. About the letters. About not knowing it was each other at first—and how it didn’t matter once feelings crept in anyway. About the fair. About the lake. About how hard you tried to do the right thing and how badly you failed at it.

Your voice shakes. You don’t cry. You’re too scared of what crying might do.

Rebecca is quiet for a long time. When she finally speaks, her voice is tight. “So you just… lied to me.”

Before you can answer, Bucky moves.

“Don’t,” he says gently but firmly. “Don’t be mad at her.”

Rebecca snaps her head toward him. “You don’t get to—”

“I do,” he interrupts, not raising his voice, but grounding it. “Because this was on me.”

You turn to him, startled. “Bucky—”

“I knew first,” he admits. “I put it together before she ever did. The locket. The letters. Her handwriting.” He swallows. “And I didn’t say anything.”

Rebecca’s anger falters, confusion cutting through it. “Why?”

“Because I knew,” he says quietly, “that if you knew, she’d choose you. Every time. No hesitation.”

Your breath catches.

“I was selfish,” he continues. “I wanted her to myself. Even if it was just for a little while. She was—” His voice softens, eyes flicking to you. “She is the best girl. My best girl. And I wasn’t ready to give that up.”

The room goes still. Rebecca looks between you, really looks this time. The way Bucky’s shoulders curve slightly toward you. The way your hand has found his without you realizing it. The way neither of you looks guilty so much as terrified of losing her.

Her shoulders sag.

“This isn’t like before,” she says slowly. “You know that, right?”

You nod immediately. “I know. I never wanted—”

“I know,” Rebecca cuts in, rubbing her face. “Those girls wanted him. You just… found each other.”

She exhales, long and tired. “I’m still upset. I won’t pretend I’m not. You hurt me. Both of you did.”

Your chest tightens, but you don’t look away.

“But,” she adds, quieter now, “I can see it. I can see that you love each other, that this isn’t a phase or a secret little thrill.”

Bucky nods once. “I love her. I won’t mess this up.”

Rebecca studies him, then you. Finally, she shakes her head with a small, reluctant huff. “God. I can’t believe this is how my life turned out.”

Then, pointing a finger between the two of you, she adds, “It’s okay. I mean it. But if I catch you sucking each other’s face off in my kitchen, I will reconsider.”

You let out a shaky laugh, relief crashing over you so hard it almost knocks you sideways.

Bucky grins, unabashed. “Fair.”

Rebecca rolls her eyes, but there’s a ghost of a smile there too. “You’re both idiots,” she mutters. “But… you’re my idiots.”

And for the first time since summer began, nothing feels like it’s about to fall apart.

Fall comes in quietly. Not all at once, not with some dramatic announcement, just cooler mornings and leaves turning the color of old gold, the air sharpening around the edges. Summer slips away without a fight, and for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re being left behind by it.

You and Bucky don’t hide anymore.

He walks you home with his hand openly wrapped around yours. He waits for you after class, leaning against his car like he belongs there. At Rebecca’s house, he kisses your temple without checking the doorway first, and when she groans dramatically from the kitchen, you both just laugh.

“Take it to literally anywhere else,” she calls. “I’m eating.”

Bucky grins and steals you away anyway.

School starts in earnest, and with it comes the familiar weight on your shoulders, but it’s lighter now, shared. You help Bucky with his classes in the evenings, notebooks spread across your bed or the kitchen table, your handwriting filling the margins with explanations and encouragement.

“Okay,” you say one night, tapping the paper. “Read the question out loud.”

He does, slow and deliberate.

“You already know this,” you add gently. “You just don’t trust yourself.”

He looks up at you, searching your face. “You really think that?”

“I know it.”

And he starts to believe you.

His grades improve again steadily, honestly. Not perfect, but real. When he brings home a test with a mark higher than he ever thought possible, he hands it to you like it might disappear if he holds it too long.

“You did that,” he says.

You shake your head. “You did.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, reverent. “Couldn’t have without you.”

Some evenings, when the work is done and the world feels too loud, you escape to the lake. Fall paints everything softer there. The water reflects the trees like a secret it’s keeping. You sit with your feet in the grass, leaning into Bucky’s side as he pulls a folded page from his jacket pocket.

“I wrote something,” he says, suddenly shy.

“You always do,” you tease softly.

He reads anyway.

His voice is low and steady, words shaped by longing and growth and quiet hope. Poems about choosing to stay. About learning to believe in good things. About a girl who taught him that being seen doesn’t have to hurt.

You listen like it’s a gift, because it is.

"So he stayed when instinct said run, stayed when his hands began to shake. He learned that hope is not a weakness— it’s a risk you bravely take.

Now he believes in the quiet good things: morning laughter, a hand held tight. He believes that staying can be gentle, that being known can feel like light.

Because a girl once taught his heart a truth it never knew how to say— that sometimes the bravest thing of all is choosing, every day, to stay."

When he finishes, you don’t clap or joke. You just rest your head on his shoulder and say, “That’s my favorite one.”

He smiles, small and real.

As fall deepens, the pressure you once felt, that if you weren’t excelling, you were nothing, starts to loosen its grip. You still work hard. You still care. But now, when you stumble, there’s someone there to catch you before the fear takes hold.

One night, wrapped in blankets on the porch, Bucky murmurs, “You know… I don’t think I’d have made it through this without you.”

You turn to him, serious. “You would’ve. You just didn’t know it yet.”

He studies you, eyes warm in the glow of the porch light. “I’m really glad I found you anyway.”

You kiss him, slow and sure, leaves skittering across the ground around you.

The ending doesn’t come all at once. It arrives gently, the way good things do.

Rebecca gets the job on a Tuesday.

She bursts into the apartment breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way you haven’t seen in a while. “I got it,” she says, like she doesn’t quite trust the words yet. “In the city. Full time. Benefits. Everything.”

You scream. Actually scream.

You’re on her before she can brace, arms around her neck, jumping in place. Bucky laughs from the doorway, shaking his head as he steps in to join the chaos.

“I knew they’d be stupid not to hire you,” he says.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too hard to hide it. “You’re both biased.”

Moving happens fast after that.

Boxes stack up. Clothes get sorted. Your childhood slowly folds itself into cardboard and tape. Rebecca packs her life into neat, labeled squares, ready for something bigger. You help where you can, sitting on the floor beside her, handing her things you forgot existed.

On her last night, the three of you sit cross-legged in the empty living room, takeout spread between you, walls echoing a little too much.

“You’re really doing this,” you say softly.

“So are you,” she replies, nudging your knee. “Tiny apartment. Domestic bliss.”

Bucky pretends to wince. “Hey. It’s a nice tiny apartment.”

You laugh, then grow serious, turning to Rebecca. “Promise me something.”

She tilts her head. “What?”

“Write to me,” you say. “Like—really write. Letters. Not just texts.”

Her eyes soften. “You’re joking, right?”

“I’m not. Letters are important.”

She exhales a laugh, shaking her head. “Of course I will. You started a whole relationship with pen pals. I’d be stupid not to.”

Bucky smirks. “She’s not wrong.”

Rebecca stands, brushing imaginary dust off her jeans, and pulls you into a hug—tight, familiar, grounding. “We’re not losing each other,” she murmurs. “We’re just… expanding.”

You hold her a little longer than necessary.

The apartment you and Bucky move into is small. One bedroom. A couch that’s seen better days. A kitchen where you bump into each other constantly.

It’s perfect.

You unpack slowly, music playing, windows open to let the city noise in. You hang his poems on the fridge. He lines your books along the windowsill. At night, you fall asleep tangled together, listening to a life you’re building hum quietly around you.

On the first evening, boxes still half-open, you sit on the floor eating pizza straight from the box.

“Hey,” Bucky says, watching you with that soft look that still surprises you. “You happy?”

You look around. At the mess. At the future. At him.

“Yeah,” you say, sure. “I really am.”

Somewhere in the city, Rebecca is unpacking too. And soon enough, a letter will come. But for now, this is enough.

[aquaticmercy]

Your Divorce is My Birthday Present

Summary : Bucky’s birthday just happens to be the same day your divorce becomes official.

Pairing : Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman! reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Cursing, angst and fluff, your (ex)husband is a cheating douchebag. Food. Set Before Thunderbolts* (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word count : 6.5k

Note : Just wanted to put something out for Bucky’s Birthday. Enjoy!

The bathroom cubicle door clicked shut behind you. 

For a long moment, you simply stood there, staring at the metal locks like they might offer some kind of explanation, blinking away the tears threatening to spill in your eyes.

Your phone buzzed again in your hand.

And again.

And again.

You had just stepped away from a committee briefing, phone buzzing endlessly in your hand as you slipped down the hallway toward the women’s restroom, intending to glance at whatever staff update your assistant, Amanda, had clearly been trying to send you for the last five minutes.

When you looked down, you saw twenty-three notifications.

Twelve texts.

Three missed calls. One from your mom, and one from your sister-in-law.

And one link at the very top from Amanda.

Amanda: Please call me when you see this.

For a moment nothing made sense. Then you tapped the link.

The headline loaded. It was bold and cruel in the way political headlines often are when they know exactly what kind of blood they’ve drawn.

SENATOR DANIEL REEVES SPOTTED IN LATE-NIGHT OUTING WITH ASSISTANT 

Your brain stalled somewhere between recognition and denial.

You clicked the photo and the floor dropped out from under you.

Daniel stood outside a restaurant you knew intimately. He took you there for your first date, back when you were still both interns and fresh graduates. Back then, you had saved for a couple of weeks just to have dinner there. It felt… special.

But in this picture, he leaned close to a woman who was laughing at something he’d said, her hand resting lightly against his chest like it had been there a hundred times before. She… was his assistant. 

And Daniel was your husband.

Your very married husband.

Your husband, who acknowledged a month ago that your marriage was “going through a rough patch.” 

Your husband, who had, just two weeks ago, sat across from you at the kitchen table and said “we’ll fix this” when the topic of couples therapy finally came up.

You zoomed in.

Not because you doubted it was him. Because some irrational part of your mind wanted to confirm it again.

Ugh. That fucker was wearing the navy coat you bought him last Christmas.

You felt a hollow void open inside your chest.

Your hands started shaking.

You didn’t realize you had stopped breathing until you were gasping for air, pressing your forehead to the heels of your palm.

Another notification slid across the top of your screen.

Breaking News Alert.

Then another.

Then another.

It hit you all at once. That if it was on your phone, it was on everyone’s phone.

Every aide. Every journalist. Every colleague in the building.

News spreads fast in The Capitol, faster than wildfire.

“Oh my God,” you whispered to no one.

Your voice sounded thin against the polished marble walls.

You swiped through the article quickly, your pulse racing quicker with every line.

Multiple sightings.

Witnesses confirm the pair appeared affectionate.

Sources say the assistant has been working closely with Reeves for months.

Months. Months?!

Your stomach twisted violently.

Four months ago was exactly when things had started going wrong between you and Daniel. He started coming home late, neglecting anniversaries, and stopped asking you about your day. 

You had thought the solution was communication, therapy, maybe working harder.

God, you had been trying so hard.

Meanwhile he had apparently been working somewhere else entirely.

Your phone buzzed again.

Amanda: Please tell me you’re not seeing this for the first time right now.

You locked the screen and shoved it in your blazer pocket. You couldn’t look at it anymore.

You braced both hands against the sink and leaned forward, breathing slowly through the tight ache pressing against your ribs.

It would've been better if he had come to you and said “hey, by the way babe, I have a mistress.” It would have been better, however painful, if this was a conversation happening behind closed doors.

But no, this was public. He couldn’t even spare you the humiliation.

He had turned your marriage into a spectacle.

And now, your colleagues and acquaintances were probably looking at the article, looking at those photos, thinking poor thing about you.

Your throat tightened.

For several long minutes you didn’t move.

You just stared at the marble veins in the floor and tried to will your body to stop shaking.

You could stay here. Skip the rest of the day. Let Amanda handle the meetings.

Disappear before you had to see the looks. Before you had to see him. Because Daniel was in the building today. After all, the Senate was in session.

Your chest tightened at the thought of running into him in the hallway like nothing had happened while the internet dissected your marriage.

Another buzz vibrated faintly through the fabric of your blazer.

Amanda again, probably.

You closed your eyes. You didn’t want sympathy. You especially didn’t want pity.

Slowly, you straightened your posture and unlocked the cubicle. You walked out toward the sinks, wiping under your eyes carefully, checking your makeup in the mirror.

Your hair was still perfectly pinned, your clothes were spotless.

If someone walked in right now they would see exactly what they expected to see: just another congresswoman. Not a woman whose marriage had just detonated across the political news cycle.

You inhaled slowly, then you reached for the door.

—

The hallway outside was alive with movement, staffers moving between offices, aides carrying stacks of folders, conversations unfolding in murmurs that seemed to falter the second you stepped into view.

Two interns standing near the far wall abruptly turned toward their phones as if something fascinating had appeared on the screen.

News spreads fast.

Your heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as you walked.

“Congresswoman?” Amanda appeared from around the corner almost instantly, clearly having been searching for you. Her eyes softened the moment she saw your face.

“Oh— oh my God,” she breathed, lowering her voice. “I probably startled you, and I think you know, so I’m so, so sorry.”

You forced a small smile that felt painfully stiff around the edges. “I’m fine,” you said automatically.

Amanda’s eyes said she didn’t believe you for a second.

“You don’t have to be,” she replied gently. “If you want, I can cancel the committee hearing and move your meetings to tomorrow.”

You appreciated the kindness in her voice, but the idea of being pitied by your own staff felt unbearable.

“I’ll go to the hearing,” you said, straightening the stack of papers in your hands even though they were already perfectly aligned. “We still have votes this afternoon.”

Amanda hesitated like she wanted to argue, but she nodded.

“Okay,” she said with a nod. “If you need anything, I’m right outside.”

You walked toward the chamber doors feeling every pair of eyes in the hallway flicker toward you.

The doors opened.

And almost instantly, eyes were on you.

Some colleagues offered careful smiles of solidarity. Others avoided your gaze completely. A few simply stared.

Your chest tightened as your eyes scanned the room automatically.

And there he was. Daniel, sitting across the chamber. He was laughing with another senator as if this were just another ordinary legislative afternoon. The sight of him there, composing himself so casually, so completely unbothered, sent a surge of anger through the fog of humiliation.

For one terrible second you thought your composure might shatter right there in front of everyone.

Then someone stepped into stride beside you.

You turned your head slightly.

Bucky Barnes was there. You had known him from day one of campaigning. After all, he was running for New York’s 8th congressional district when you were running for 9th. It was no secret that you both admired each other’s policies and were rooting for each other to win. It was certainly no secret either, that you both became good friends after collaborating on a couple of bills yet to be passed. 

Today, though, he was the only one who didn’t look like he pitied you. He simply noticed the tension in the room and chose, very intentionally, to insert himself into it.

He didn’t look at you immediately.

He simply matched your pace as you walked across the chamber floor. Then, quietly enough that only you could hear him, he said, “Hold your head up.”

You glanced sideways.

His eyes were fixed forward, adding to his statement. “You did nothing wrong.”

Oh.

Bucky finally turned his head slightly, blue eyes meeting yours with confidence that cut clean through the shame crawling under your skin. 

And somehow, impossibly, your spine straightened just a little as you stepped forward onto the chamber floor with Bucky walking beside you.

—

The divorce did not happen overnight. 

It happened slowly, in a hundred little fractures that spread through your life like cracks in glass.

The first few days after the article broke were chaos. You had lawyers calling, statements drafted, reporters circling the Capitol like vultures, but eventually the frenzy settled into the process itself.

You filed for divorce three days after the photos surfaced.

Daniel didn’t fight the filing itself, which almost made it worse, because the lack of resistance felt less like regret and more like indifference.

What he did fight was everything else: Assets, the house, statements.

The two of you moved through the legal process like hostile diplomats forced to sit at the same table while pretending civility still existed. Meanwhile, life inside the Capitol kept moving whether your marriage had imploded or not.

Bills still needed votes. Committees still met. Legislation still moved forward.

And you showed up to every single one of them, chin high, voice steady, refusing to let anyone say your personal life had weakened your work.

Still, there were days when the weight of separation pressed down so hard it became difficult to breathe.

Those were usually the nights.

Because nights meant going home, and home was no longer a place of comfort.

The house in Georgetown was large enough that you rarely saw Daniel if you didn’t want to, but the knowledge that he was there was enough to break you. 

His shoes still sat by the door. His books still filled half the study. And he had moved into the guest bedroom with a kind of passive-aggressive politeness that somehow made the whole situation worse. You had gone from starry-eyed lovers to strangers sharing square footage.

So you started staying late at the Capitol.

Your office lights became one of the last ones on most nights, the glow spilling into the corridor while the rest of the building emptied out.

Amanda noticed first. Your assistant had an uncanny ability to read your moods without you ever saying a word, and one evening she gently set a mug of tea beside your laptop and said, “You know you’re allowed to go home before midnight.”

You huffed a tired laugh. “Home is… complicated right now.”

Amanda didn’t push.

She just gave you that sympathetic smile of hers and started reorganizing the stack of briefing folders on your desk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Even when you told her to go home, she refused to leave you alone.

Then, one day, around seven or eight in the evening, you heard  a knock on your office door.

It was Bucky, standing there with a paper bag of takeout in one hand and that crooked half-smile he wore whenever he caught you buried under paperwork.

“You still working?” he’d ask, like the answer wasn’t painfully obvious.

You blinked at him in confusion.

“The cafeteria closed,” he explained, lifting the bag slightly. “I figured you hadn’t eaten.”

Inside were four  containers.

One for you. One for him. And two for Amanda, and his assistant, Heather. 

Those dinners became a routine, and they were strangely comforting.

The four of you would eat around your desk while legislative drafts sat half-finished beside containers of noodles or pasta or whatever Bucky had picked up on the way over.

Sometimes Amanda and Heather would stay for a while, laughing at one of your dry remarks or telling some ridiculous story about another office’s interns.

But eventually you’d glance at the clock and gently nudge her toward the door. “It’s late,” you’d say. “Go home to your family. Both of you.”

She’d hesitate. “You sure?”

You’d nod toward the man leaning back in the chair across from your desk.

Bucky smiled at both your assistants and smiled, “I’ll keep the congresswoman company.”

You would raise an eyebrow at that. But you never complained. 

Amanda and Heather started giving each other lifts home. And over the past couple of weeks, you’ve heard that they’ve become good friends.

When Bucky stayed, the two of you would talk about policy. Sometimes about nothing at all. Sometimes you’d just sit there in silence while he read through something on his tablet and you worked through another stack of documents, his presence grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

One day, Bucky leaned back in his chair, arms folded loosely across his chest. “So,” he said. “How bad was today?”

You hesitated, but you told him anyway. About the lawyers, about Daniel refusing to compromise on the house, about the exhausting, endless back-and-forth that made every conversation feel like a chess match.

Bucky listened without interrupting.

His expression darkened slightly whenever Daniel’s name came up.

“That guy’s an idiot,” he muttered at one point, “I never liked him and he never deserved you.”

You huffed a small laugh. “That’s the official congressional assessment?”

“That’s the polite version.”

And somehow, without ever formally arranging it, Bucky kept appearing at your office with dinner more often than not.

Sometimes it was takeout. Sometimes it was food he’d cooked himself.

“You know you don’t have to keep doing this,” you told him one night as he handed you a container of pasta, Heather and Amanda already home at this point.

“Sure I do.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. 

And just like that, when you finally did go home, the house felt less suffocating because the evening hadn’t been spent alone.

—

The morning of the move started earlier than you expected.

You were already awake before the alarm went off, lying stiffly in the bedroom while pale morning light crept through the curtains and painted long gray lines across the ceiling.

For a few seconds you forgot where you were in the process of everything. But then you remembered that you had boxes stacked downstairs. The realtor’s sign was still planted in the front yard. Your married life was being divided into labeled cardboard.

And Daniel, still technically your husband, still occupying the guest bedroom at the end of the hall like an unwelcome ghost that refused to leave. And it was even worse today: he was working from home. 

You rolled out of bed.

Today was supposed to be simple. You were just packing the last of your things, moving small items to the new apartment you got on the other side of town before movers came to take the big stuff next week. You had even requested leave to do this. 

At least, that had been the plan until someone knocked on your front door at eight in the morning.

You frowned as you walked downstairs, still tying the belt of your robe.

When you opened the door, Bucky was walking casually against the porch railing like this was just another ordinary morning, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a paper bag of coffee cups in one hand.

Behind him sat an empty pickup truck.

You blinked. “…What are you doing here?”

He lifted the bag slightly. “Breakfast.”

Your eyes flicked behind him, “And the truck?”

Bucky pushed the sunglasses up into his hair and grinned. “Moving day.”

You stared at him. “I told you the movers weren’t coming until next week.”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping past you into the house like he’d been invited hours ago. “But you told me you wanted some stuff out before then. You said you were gonna do it today.” He glanced around the living room, already full of half-packed boxes. “Figured you shouldn’t do it alone.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“You have a job,” you said weakly. “Like… a whole congressional office.”

“Relax,” he replied, setting the coffee cups on the kitchen counter. “Told my staff I’d be late. Besides, it’s a slow day today”

“I… thank you.”

He handed you one of the cups. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

You accepted the cup automatically. “I didn’t expect a congressman to show up as free labor.”

Bucky smirked. “Maybe I should start charging consulting fees.”

You chuckled, only to be interrupted by a faint creaking sound from upstairs.

Both of you froze. Your stomach sank immediately.

Bucky noticed the shift in your expression. “That prick living here?” he asked quietly.

You nodded once, jaw tight. “Guest room.”

For a moment Bucky said nothing, then he took a slow sip of his coffee. “…Huh.”

You cleared your throat.

“Anyway,” you said briskly. “There are boxes in my study and the closet upstairs.”

Bucky rolled up the sleeves of his Henley without another word. “Lead the way.”

The next hour passed in an almost domestic rhythm.

Bucky carried boxes like they weighed nothing, his metal arm making quick work of small bits of furniture you had been dreading trying to move. Thank god for the super-soldier serum, I guess. 

At one point he lifted an entire filing cabinet with his metal arm.

You paused halfway through packing a box and stared. “Show-off.”

He shot you a lazy grin. “See something you like?”

You snorted and went back to wrapping glassware in newspaper.

For a little while you almost forgot Daniel was in the house. Well, that is until Bucky walked into the front yard carrying another box and suddenly slowed to a stop near the truck.

You were right behind him. “What—”

Then you saw what he saw: Daniel, staring out the window from the guest bedroom upstairs. His arms were crossed, glowering at the former winter soldier. You could feel the icy hostility radiating from him through the glass.

Your stomach twisted. Of course he’d noticed. Of course he’d chosen to stand there like a bitter marble statue of disapproval.

Bucky, on the other hand, looked amused. 

“Oh,” he muttered under his breath.

You groaned softly. “Bucky—”

Too late.

The absolute menace raised his metal hand and waved. The kind someone might give a grumpy neighbor across the street.

Daniel’s expression darkened instantly. The stare he shot downward could have frozen lava. Was he… jealous?

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

Bucky lowered his hand, entirely unbothered. “What?”

“You are unbelievable.”

“He was staring,” Bucky replied defensively. “I figured I should say hi.” 

“He’s my husband.”

“Only technically,” Bucky corrected, glancing up at the window again with another faint smirk.

Daniel was still staring daggers at him.

If looks could kill, Bucky would have been vaporized on the spot.Instead, the man beside you simply adjusted the box in his arms and started walking toward the truck.

“You know,” he added casually over his shoulder, “for a guy who screwed things up that badly, he’s got a lot of nerve glaring.”

You hesitated in the driveway. Then despite everything—the tension, the awkwardness, the looming divorce—you started laughing.

A real laugh. The first one you’d had in weeks.

Bucky paused beside the truck and glanced back at you. The corner of his mouth lifted.

“See?” he said.

“What?”

“Moving day’s already an improvement.”

Behind you, the guest room curtain snapped closed with a sharp flick. And Bucky looked entirely too pleased with himself.

—

Two weeks later, the hearing room buzzed with the restless murmur that always came before things officially began.

Senators and representatives filtered in through the side doors, coffee cups in hand, their conversations signifying business as usual.

Bucky sat back in his chair at the long polished table, flipping lazily through the briefing packet his staff had handed him that morning.

He wasn’t really reading it.

He’d already gone over the important parts earlier.

Truthfully, his mind kept drifting somewhere else entirely.

Two days ago, he helped you finally move away from your old house, to a top-floor apartment across the river. He had sat there with you, surrounded with half-unpacked boxes and the faint smell of fresh paint where you’d decided to redo the living room wall over the weekend.

He could still picture you standing in the middle of the place with your hands on your hips, trying to decide where the couch should go while he held a bookshelf in one arm like it weighed nothing.

You’d laughed more that day than he’d heard in months.

That memory alone was enough to keep a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Today, though, you weren’t here. You were asked to speak at a conference halfway across the country, and all Bucky could do was count the seconds until he could see you in person again. 

His thoughts were interrupted when the chair beside him scraped against the floor.

Bucky didn’t look immediately.

“Morning, Representative Barnes.”

Bucky’s eyes lifted, and there he was. Senator Daniel Reeves.

Bucky held his gaze for a second before leaning back slightly in his chair. “Morning, Senator Reeves.”

Technically, it was respectful. It was exactly the kind of exchange expected between two elected officials in a room full of witnesses and microphones. Still, there was a tension sitting in the space between them that had nothing to do with legislation.

Daniel’s jaw was shut tight. His fingers drummed once against the table before he leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice so it didn’t carry. “Some nerve you’ve got.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

Daniel’s eyes flicked around the room briefly before landing back on him. “Coming into my house like that.”

There it was.

Bucky had been expecting this conversation eventually. He just hadn’t expected it to happen in a hearing room.

He closed the folder slowly and rested it on the table. “You mean the house that’s currently for sale?”

Daniel ignored the comment. Instead, he turned his head slightly.

“Let me guess,” he continued bitterly. “You’re sleeping with my wife too, huh?”

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle, he almost said ‘you mean the wife that filed for divorce?’ cheekily, but he didn’t need to say that to get to his nerves. “I’m not,” he said calmly. “Though I’d be an upgrade.”

Daniel huffed, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. Clearly, he was getting angry.

Bucky tilted his head a little. “I know, former assassin and all. Hard to believe, right?”

Daniel’s expression darkened.

Bucky leaned forward, resting his forearms casually on his knees as if they were discussing committee scheduling instead of personal insults.

“And even if we were sleeping together,” he continued, voice light but cutting underneath, “at least it wouldn’t be with a subordinate.”

He paused just long enough for the implication to settle.

“And I wouldn’t have to get the ethics committee involved.”

Daniel’s face went rigid. For a moment, the senator looked like he might actually say something explosive. His hands curled slightly against the armrests of the chair.

Bucky could practically hear the anger grinding behind his teeth.

But what exactly was Daniel going to do? Start a shouting match in the middle of a hearing? Swing at a super soldier? The idea was almost funny.

“Anyway,” Bucky added casually. “You might want to focus on the hearing. Wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself twice in one year.”

Daniel exhaled through his nose and looked away first.

Bucky leaned back again, flipping open his briefing packet like the conversation had never happened.

But there was a faint, satisfied smile on his mouth.

Because if Daniel Reeves thought intimidation was going to work on him, he had severely underestimated who he’d chosen to sit next to.

—

By the time you returned to your Capitol office a few days later, everything felt better.

Nothing in your life had technically resolved yet—the divorce was supposed to be finalized today, but you haven’t heard any notification from the court, so that was going to be keeping you uptight for a while— but at least you weren’t waking up in the same house as Daniel anymore.

And apparently, removing one toxic husband from your daily living situation did wonders for your mental health.

Your new apartment still smelled faintly like fresh paint and cardboard, half the kitchen was still in boxes, and you had spent twenty minutes that morning looking for a coffee mug before remembering you’d packed them in the wrong container.

But it was peaceful.

Amanda noticed immediately.

Your assistant had an uncanny radar for your moods, and by the time you finished skimming through the morning briefings she had already placed a cup of tea beside your elbow and given you a curious little smile.

“You seem… less tense today,” she observed carefully.

You leaned back in your chair, considering that. “I think not living with my soon-to-be ex-husband has improved my outlook on life.”

Amanda snorted. “Valid.”

By the time the hallway outside your office had softened into the late-afternoon lull, you glanced at the clock on your desk.

Thirty minutes before Amanda’s shift would end.

Normally she’d still be out there organizing tomorrow’s schedule with laser-like efficiency. Instead, she tapped against your door before it opened slightly.

Amanda poked her head in. “Hey, um…”

You looked up. And she was holding her bag already. Interesting.

“I finished everything early,” she said, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. “If it’s okay… could I maybe leave a little early tonight?”

You blinked in mild surprise. Amanda leaving early was practically a historical event.

“Oh,” you said immediately. “Yes, of course.” Then you tilted your head. “Is everything okay, Amanda?”

Her expression brightened. “Oh yeah! Totally fine.” She shifted her weight, a little shy suddenly. “I’m actually… going on a date.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

Amanda nodded quickly. “With Heather.”

There was a beat of silence before your entire face lit up. “Oh my god.”

Amanda laughed nervously.

You leaned forward in your chair like you’d just been handed the most delightful piece of gossip in the building.

“Oh my god!” you repeated with full-blown enthusiasm. “Amanda!”

She covered her face with one hand. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird,” you insisted, already grinning. “I’m being supportive.”

Amanda shook her head, laughing.

“So what’s the plan?” you pressed. “Dinner? Drinks? Something fancy?”

“Just dinner,” she admitted. “There’s this little Italian place near Dupont.”

“That’s cute,” you said immediately, pointing toward the door. “What are you still doing here? Go!”

She blinked. “Go?”

“Yes, go!”

“I still technically have fifteen minutes before I really have to—”

“I can survive without you for fifteen minutes,” you said firmly. “You deserve a life outside this office.”

Amanda hesitated. “You’re sure?”

You waved a hand toward the hallway. “Get out of here and have fun. Text me tomorrow if she’s terrible.”

Amanda grinned. “Deal.”

She turned toward the door, then paused. “Oh! I ran into Representative Barnes earlier.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

“He just said he’d swing by after work and asked if you’d still be here,” she said, failing to hide the grin creeping across her face.

You could physically feel your cheeks warming. 

Amanda leaned forward slightly. “…Sooooooo.”

You hesitated before admitting, “It is his birthday today.”

Amanda’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait… really?”

You nodded once, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “I didn’t actually think I’d see him,” you admitted. “He mentioned something about having a busy schedule.”

You hesitated, then added, “But now that he’s coming by… maybe I should grab a cake or something?”

Amanda immediately nodded. “Oh, that’s a great idea! I can run across the street and pick one up for you. I still have time.”

You looked up at her, already shaking your head. “No, no,” you said. “I want it to be… personal.”

Amanda’s grin returned instantly.

“Oh,” she said, dragging the word out knowingly. “Personal.”

“Amanda.”

“Leaving!” she laughed, slipping out the door. “Good luck with the birthday boy, congresswoman.”

The door shut before you could playfully throw a paperclip at her.

—

A knock came at your office door about fifteen minutes after you picked up his cake.

You didn’t even have to look up.“Come in.”

The door opened, and Bucky stepped inside.

He filled the doorway the way he always did, with broad shoulders, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, tie already loosened like the day had irritated him just enough to stop pretending to be perfectly put together.

In one hand, he held a white bakery box.

Your eyes immediately dropped to it.

“What’s that?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly.

Bucky kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot and walked further into the office.

“Well,” he said casually, setting the box on the corner of your desk, “I figured it’d be rude to show up empty-handed.”

You stared at him for a moment.

Then, slowly, you reached down beside your desk.

Bucky watched with growing suspicion as you lifted another bakery box and placed it next to his.

He blinked. “No way.”

“It’s your birthday,” you chuckled sweetly. "Don't act so surprised.”

Bucky only shrugged, sitting on the chair across from you. “I stopped counting after ninety-nine.”

“Super soldier problems,” you rolled your eyes as you tilted your chin at the box you got him. “C’mon then. The birthday boy should go first.”

Bucky laughed under his breath and shook his head, flipping open the lid of your box before you could protest.

Inside sat a small round cake, white frosting neatly piped along the edges. Across the center, written in careful blue icing:

Happy Birthday!

For a second, he just looked at it, before his eyes lifted up to yours. 

“Well,” he said, nudging his own box forward, “now I feel like mine might be… slightly less classy.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see this,” you shook your head with a smile.

You flipped open his box and immediately burst out laughing.

Written across the frosting in large, somewhat chaotic letters was:

CONGRATS ON THE DIVORCE. YOUR EX WAS A DICKHEAD.

You covered your mouth, laughing harder. “Bucky!”

“What?” he said, spreading his hands defensively, though the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him completely. “It felt appropriate.”

You shook your head, still laughing.

“This might be the most ridiculous cake I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, in my defense,” he said, nodding toward the other box. “I didn’t know I had competition.”

You grabbed the plastic knife from the side of the box and started cutting into both cakes.

“There,” you said, sliding a plastic plate toward him with a slice of each. “Balanced.”

Bucky picked up the fork and examined the plate thoughtfully.

“I can’t believe,” he said, “we’re celebrating my birthday and your divorce at the same time.”

You lifted your fork.

“Technically,” you said, “not divorced yet. Still waiting.”

Bucky waved his hand dismissively and took a bite of cake.

“Whatever,” he said through the mouthful, clearly unimpressed with legal technicalities. “We’re still celebrating my birthday and your divorce at the same time.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

For a moment the two of you just sat there on opposite sides of the desk, sharing cake and laughter while the late afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows.

Bucky glanced down at the birthday cake again, that crooked smile returning.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

You leaned back slightly in your chair.

“I could say the same for you,” you said. 

Still, neither of you sounded like you regretted it.

—

The office was quiet now. The Capitol hallways had emptied hours ago, leaving only the hum of the ventilation and the occasional shuffle in the halls. The chaos of the day was a distant memory.

Bucky had set a bottle of non-alcoholic wine on the side table, and you appreciated it, considering you had a busy day tomorrow and couldn’t afford a hangover. “To be fair,” he had said with a smile, “I couldn’t get drunk even if I tried.” Super soldier metabolism, he reminded you with a shrug, and you laughed, shaking your head.

By some unspoken momentum, you ended up on the couch in your office. You sat with your back against the cushions, Bucky lounging with his head resting lightly in your lap. His hair tickled your fingers as you brushed it back absent-mindedly, and you noticed, not for the first time, how easy it felt to just be near him.

You talked about work, as one does when they can finally breathe. Bills, committees, schedules. This type of talk has always been mundane with Daniel, but with Bucky, somehow, even spreadsheets sounded playful.

“And Amanda’s on a date with Heather tonight,” you said casually, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

Bucky lifted his head slightly, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Wait… my assistant Heather and your assistant Amanda?” His tone was teasing, incredulous.

You leaned down a little, brushing your fingers lightly across his temple. “Yep. Your takeout nights probably helped,” you said with a mischievous glint in your eye. “They’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

He chuckled that warm sound that made your chest feel too full. “Is that why you suggested they hitch a ride with each other all those times? You secretly an office matchmaker?”

You laughed, leaning a little closer. “Wasn’t my intention. I just thought we should let them have fun while I had better things to do.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows, and he smirked. “Better things, huh?” His tone was light, but there was heat in it too, like he was daring you to elaborate.

“Yeah,” you said, letting your fingers linger in his hair a second longer than necessary. “Much better things.”

He hummed, clearly pleased with that answer, and shifted slightly so his head nestled more comfortably in your lap. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of your skirt. Your fingers traced idle circles across his temple, the motion intimate without a word being spoken.

For a few minutes, the two of you just stayed there, accompanied by laughter, playful nudges, and endless banter that made the rest of the world fade away.

And when your phone buzzed, you reached for it casually, expecting maybe another work email, another minor update.

Instead, the subject line made your heart skip: Court Notification.

You tapped it open.

The words on the screen seemed to float for a moment:

The judge has signed the final order. Your divorce has been finalized.

You blinked, letting the relief wash over you like a warm tide. Months of tension, uncertainty, and dread suddenly seemed… lighter. You could finally breathe again.

Bucky, still lying with his head in your lap, must have sensed the shift. His eyes lifted, scanning your face. “Everything okay?” he asked.

You nodded slowly, unable to stop the small, relieved smile from tugging at your lips. “It’s… done,” you said.

He let out a low whistle. “Wow… I—“ in all fairness, he hadn’t expected to be here for this part. “Are you okay?”

You swallowed, and your reply was final. “I feel… nothing.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Nothing?”

You shrugged, almost imperceptibly, but your voice was firm. “I thought I’d be sad. I thought I’d scream. Cry. Throw up. I… absolutely feel nothing for the bastard.”

Bucky let out a laugh, almost nervous, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. “Wow,” he said. “You’re braver than I thought. Or maybe just more vindicated.”

You sighed. “Probably both.”

Bucky got up and leaned forward slightly, reaching for the other cake plate. “In that case…” He took a bite of cake, chewing thoughtfully. “This calls for more cake.”

You rolled your eyes, though a grin tugged at your lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugged, mock-offended. “Hey, your divorce is my birthday present. Let me celebrate it.”

What? What was that supposed to mean?

You watched him take another bite of cake, perfectly calm, like what he said had no implications on your life. 

Your divorce is my birthday present.

Your stomach flipped slightly.

That… was a weird thing to say. Except it hadn’t sounded weird when he said it. It sounded almost relieved.

You looked at him again.

Bucky was leaning back against the couch cushion now, one arm draped along the backrest, fork loosely balanced between his fingers. 

Your divorce is my birthday present.

The sentence replayed again in your head, slower this time.

Not your divorce is unfortunate. Not your divorce sucks. Not sorry about the divorce.

No. Instead, it was his present.

Your chest tightened.

Why would that be a gift?

Unless…

You barely had time to think before the words slipped out. “Kiss me.”

He froze, lips parting slightly, clearly amused.

“What?” he said.

You leaned in closer, heat rising between you, voice firmer this time. “I’m a single woman again. Fucking kiss me, Barnes.”

That was all it took.

The relaxed, amused look he’d been wearing all evening disappeared instantly. 

One second he was leaning against the couch. The next he was sitting up and reaching for you.

His human hand came up to your face as his metal fingers slid along your waist.

The movement wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t careful.

It was decisive, like he had already imagined doing it a hundred times.

He kissed you. 

Not rough, but heated, immediate. His hand tightened slightly against your cheek as he pulled you closer, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss. The world outside your office seemed to disappear completely, months of stress and divorce and humiliation fading into nothing.

There was only the warmth of his hand, the pressure of his mouth against yours, and the dizzying realization that this had been lingering  between you far longer than either of you had said out loud.

You kissed him back without thinking.

Your hand slid instinctively to the collar of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as the kiss deepened. It wasn’t delicate or tentative. It was pent-up.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.

His hand was still cupping your face, thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone. His forehead nearly touched yours, his breathing just a little uneven now.

“You,” he said, shaking his head a little in disbelief, “have absolutely no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“How long?” you asked, breathless.

Bucky let out a chuckle, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to compose himself and failing spectacularly.

His blue eyes met yours again, warm and completely unapologetic. “Long enough that I was starting to think it might never happen.”

“Well,” You laughed and kissed him again, playfully pecking the corner of his lips this time. “Hope this means you had a happy birthday, Bucky.”

Through an affectionate smile and lust-lidded eyes, he pulled you in closer as his metal finger traced the skin showing above your shirt. He was making his intentions very clear, and you weren't complaining at all. “You still have no idea.”

— end.

[vunblr]

Crumb by Crumb Masterlist

Pairing: Chubby!Baker! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut.

Summary: A fresh start in a small town brings her to a quiet bakery and a man who's built his life around routine and distance. Bucky Barnes doesn't do charm, and certainly doesn't do people, but small towns have a way of pulling strangers into orbit, and something neither of them planned for begins to bloom.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[aquaticmercy]

My Girl

Summary : Bucky Barnes doesn’t quite understand what you mean when you said you were a “streamer.”

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x streamer! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Fluff!!! Meet cute(?) Bucky Tries to navigate Modern Dating. Reader is a barista, but streams games as a side hustle, Steamy, and sex is heavily implied, cursing. Pornography is mentioned but not described. Yelena is Ace, Ava is a lesbian, and John has a nephew for plot purposes. Food, mention of sex toys. Set after Thunderbolts*  (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 6.8k

Notes : Hi all! I’m hosting people in my place all of next week, so next week will probably be a short story week for me. Send in your thoughts for me to turn into a 300-ish word drabble! Enjoy!

You met Bucky Barnes because Bob was bad at running.

Fortunately for you, Bucky had been assigned Bob’s cardio training. Unfortunately for Bob, training with the Winter Soldier means his morning runs were now the equivalent of military drills. 

“We're doing this every other day?” Bob wheezed on the very first jog. “That’s… excessive.”

“Cardio builds stamina,” Bucky said evenly, barely breathing hard. “You’ll thank me.”

Bob did not thank him. But he did survive.

And at the end of that first miserable run, right when Bob was convinced he might actually pass out, Bucky slowed down, and said, "Don’t forget to hydrate.”

“I’m…” he wheezed, “out of water.” Bob looked up around him. It was familiar, he could’ve sworn he’s been there before…

Ah, there it was!

His favorite cafe. 

It was filled with slightly foggy windows and the smell of roasted beans that hit you before the door even opened.  

“Let’s go in,” Bob had said, already jogging towards it with a grin. “Best coffee in Brooklyn. I finished the route, so I get a reward.”

Bucky sighed, stopwatch in hand. “You’re not supposed to reward yourself for cardio.”

Bob only laughed and took off, forcing Bucky to follow.

That’s where you met him.

You were behind the counter, your back half-turned toward a coworker, laughing with your head tipped back, hand on your chest like whatever had been said caught you off guard.

You were… bright. 

Bucky hadn’t seen much of that lately.

His chest went tight, like the world had narrowed to the sound of the steam wand and the way you smiled at the next customer in line.

“Hi there,” you said when it was Bob’s turn. “What can I get you?”

Your voice was warm; you had time for people.

Bucky stood just behind Bob, pretending very hard not to stare.

They came back two days later.

Bob started to… notice.

Bucky always chose that route, even when other paths would’ve been flatter.

Bucky always slowed down a little as they got closer, like he needed time to prepare.

Bucky always took his gloves off before going inside, ran a hand through his hair, and adjusted his jacket.

Before long, you started to recognize them, too.

“Morning,” you said, smiling when they came in, already reaching for a cup. “Long run?”

“Unfortunately,” Bob replied, wincing a bit. 

You laughed, and Bucky’s mouth curved up like he was trying not to smile too big.

Every other day, for the next month or so, they ended their run there. 

One morning, you looked at him and said, “The usual?”

“You remember?” he asked, almost disbelieving.

You tilted your head, confused in the gentlest way. “Of course I do.”

Bob watched Bucky’s ears turn pink.

That was when it hit him.

Oh.

Oh, that’s new.

Later, outside with their cups, Bob nudged him. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Bucky stared down at his coffee like it might hold the answers to the universe. “She’s just… nice.”

“She’s your kind of nice,” Bob said. “You jog us here every time.”

“That’s a coincidence.”

“You practiced your order in the elevator,” Bob deadpanned.

“You…” Bucky stopped walking, looking down in embarrassment. “…weren’t supposed to hear that.”

The next jog, Bucky was quieter than usual, more in his head. When they reached the cafe, he shuffled by the door, hands shoved into his pockets, heart beating way harder than the run had earned.

You looked up when he stepped forward alone.

“Hey,” you said, smiling like you were genuinely happy to see him. “Did Bob ditch you?”

“He—uh—had a thing,” Bucky said, lying terribly. Really, Bob had just sent him in with one mission and one mission only: ASK. YOU. OUT. 

You laughed sweetly. “Well. What can I get you, Bucky? The usual?”

The way you said his name so comfortably gave him courage.

“I was wondering,” he said, taking a deep breath in between, “if you’d want to maybe… get dinner sometime. With me.”

You tilted your head.

“Oh,” you said, surprisingly delighted. You were expecting him to try something new today, maybe even a cinnamon coffee. “I… right. I mean— yes, I was kinda hoping you’d ask.”

Bucky exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

Outside, Bob fist-pumped so hard he nearly spilled his water.

—

Bucky showed up early for the first date. 

Of course he did. He stood outside the restaurant for ten minutes pretending he wasn’t checking the door every time it opened, hands tucked into his jacket, posture straight like he was bracing for impact. When you arrived, his face lit up.

“Oh,” he said gently. “Hi.”

He tried so hard to make it look like he hadn’t practiced your name in his head the entire walk there.

Dinner was lovely, and conversation flowed without any awkward silences, only pauses where you both smiled at each other contently. 

When he walked you home, neither of you could stop smiling.

One date turned to two, turned to three, turned to four. 

By then, you’ve had your first kiss in a dive bar. You were wearing a graphic t-shirt and jeans, he was wearing one of his sinfully tight Henleys, just as you liked it. The music was loud and thumping, but you didn’t care.

Not when his hand hovered at your waist like he was asking permission even as you leaned into him. He kissed you then, and when you kissed him back, when your fingers curled into his jacket, he let out a shaky breath, like relief, like gratitude.

From then on, kissing you had become a non-negotiable.

—

Since then, pretending this was casual felt laughable.

The next time he took you out, you ended up at his place in Brooklyn. He kept the place for some “peace and quiet” even as he moved in part time into the Avengers tower. 

The movie you’d put on played to an empty room, light flickering uselessly across the walls. You sat close on the couch, legs tangled, stealing each other’s breaths away. One kiss turned into a cascade of fluttering laughter and touches, his hands firm but careful like he was learning the shape of you by heart.

It was gentle and fun up until he’d finally decided to stop holding back. His hand slid to your waist, thumb pressing in as if he needed to feel you there. You kissed him back again, just as hard, and he let out a low sound he didn’t mean to make. You chuckled. 

“C’mere,” he murmured, pulling you into him. 

You barely made it off the couch.

The walk to his bedroom felt like moving through fog. His hands were in your skin, lips finding your neck, whimpering eagerly eager. Bucky touched you like he was afraid to rush and desperate not to stop, learning you inch by inch.

When he laid you down, he hovered over for half a second. 

“You okay?” he asked, trailing the bare skin on your chest now that all the clothes have been discarded.

“Yeah.” You nodded, pulling him closer by wrapping your arms around his neck, letting the dog tag that was floating in between finally rest on your chest. “I just want you.”

That was all he needed to hear. 

The night unfolded as kisses grew deeper, bodies pressing together until there was no space left to pretend this was anything but intimate. Bucky was so intoxicatingly close the entire time, forehead against yours, breath mixing like he needed the connection as much as the touch.

It was sweet in the way first times are sweet.

Afterward, you lay tangled together, limbs heavy, heart still racing. Both Bucky’s metal and human arm wrapped around you, pulling you close. He traced slow, absent patterns along your back, lungs finally resetting after a night of gasping.

That’s when his nerves showed.

“So,” he said, staring at the ceiling like it might help him think. “I was wondering if you’d want to… go steady.”

You snorted, laughter bubbling up before you could stop it.

He turned his head, brow furrowing. “Is that— what, is that bad?”

“Bucky,” you said, smiling up at him. “Is that how you did it in the forties?”

He groaned and covered his face. It was clear he couldn't help the chuckle that came out of his mouth. “Okay, yeah. Maybe. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this now.”

You shifted closer, hand settling over his chest, feeling his heart still beating fast as yorks. “Just say you want to be together. Exclusive. In a closed relationship.”

He looked at you then, and nodded.

“I want that,” he said quietly. “With you.”

You pressed your nose to his, then gave him a sweet, short kiss on the edge of his mouth. “Me too.”

—

The next couple of weeks proved that Bucky Barnes took to modern-day dating like a moth to a flame, even still equipped with that old school charm. 

His hand would find the small of your back without looking, he angled his body so you were always tucked slightly behind him in crowded places. The first time he called you my girl, it wasn’t planned.

You’d been standing in line for takeout when someone bumped into you too hard. Bucky’s arm was around you before his brain caught up. “Hey.” He said, squeezing your waist, “Watch it. That’s my girl.”

You looked up at him, eyes bright, mouth curved into a soft smile. You didn’t tease him or question it. You just leaned into his side, fingers lacing through his.

After that, it stuck. He called you my girl when he introduced you. My girl when he talked about you to Sam on the phone. My girl when he greeted you after a long day.

Bringing you to meet the team was a bigger deal than he let on.

He told himself it was just dinner. But he’d spent more time than he’d admit choosing a shirt, running a hand through his hair, rehearsing how he’d say it. He stood a little straighter when you walked in with him, metal hand flexing once before he settled it at your waist.

“This is—” he cleared his throat, then tried again. “This is my girl.”

Yelena’s eyes lit up immediately, delighted. She circled you like she was inspecting a priceless artifact. “Ohhh,” she said. “So this is her. Bob has told me about you.”

Ava chuckled, already knowing she would be your friend. “I understand why he smiles at his phone now.”

John gave Bucky a look that said don’t screw this up. Alexei clapped Bucky on the shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him over and declared you “strong of spirit,” which Bucky decided was probably a compliment.

Bucky watched you the whole time, not because he didn’t trust them, but because he couldn’t quite believe how easily you fit into this group of ex assassins and antiheroes. You laughed, you listened. You didn’t flinch at their history or sharper edges.

When you leaned over and whispered something dry and funny into his ear, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling like an idiot.

—

Later that week, after a date that stretched long after what was planned, he went back to your place for the first time ever. It's not like you had kept your home a secret or anything, you just haven’t had the chance. 

Still, your little apartment felt so undeniably you. It smelled of caramel and sandalwood, filled with all the nerdy little trinkets he adored you for. 

You both ended up on the couch together after some time in the bedroom, limbs heavy in that loose, contented way. You curled into his side without asking, fitting yourself against him. He pulled a throw blanket over you both, tucking it around your shoulders, his human arm solid around your back.

You put on a movie, though neither of you paid much attention.

That’s when he noticed it.

In the corner of the living room, half-shadowed but intentional, sat a setup that was unfamiliar. There were multiple monitors on a desk. A mounted camera. Cables were neatly organized, so definitely no clutter. And a fluffy pink computer chair that looked like it felt wonderfully comfortable. He frowned slightly, eyes tracking it again.

“What’s that?” he asked, voice neutral, curious more than anything.

You shrugged, shifting closer, your cheek settling against his chest, fingers idly tracing the seam of his shirt.

“I stream in my spare time,” you said easily. “Just a side hustle.”

“Stream,” he repeated, tasting the word like it belonged to another language.

“Yeah. Nothing wild. It’s fun.”

He looked back at the equipment, then down at you. He hummed quietly, processing.

“Huh,” he said.

That was the extent of it.

He didn’t really get it. Cameras still made him uncomfortable. But you were here, trusting and unguarded, and whatever streaming was, it clearly mattered to you. He figured it was harmless enough, right?

—

A couple weeks later, your birthday was on the horizon.

It was the first “big” event of the relationship. It mattered to Bucky, and he wanted— no, needed— everything to fall perfectly into place. 

It made him restless.

So he stopped by your café one morning, leaning against the counter like he belonged there now which, apparently, he did. You were mid-shift, hair pulled back, apron dusted with coffee grounds, cheeks warm from steam. He liked seeing you like this, in your element. 

He waited until there was a lull, until you finally glanced up and smiled like seeing him was a small relief.

“Hey,” you said with a chuckle. “You stalking me again?”

“Just checkin’ in, doll,” he replied as he watched your hands as you wiped the counter, then hesitated, like he was stepping onto uncertain ground. “So… Your birthday’s coming up.”

You nodded, “Mhmm.”

“I was wondering,” he said carefully, lowering his voice even though the café noise swallowed most of it, “if you wanted anything specific.”

You paused, not in a dramatic way, but just enough that he could tell you were really thinking about it.

Honestly? You didn’t want to make it complicated.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, shrugging one shoulder. “Anything.”

He frowned slightly. “Anything’s not helpful.”

You smiled fondly at that, then leaned closer over the counter, elbows resting near his forearms. Your voice dipped, conspiratorial.

“Well,” you said, tilting your head, “maybe something I can wear on my streams.”

His expression turned into confusion first, then curiosity, then the very beginnings of concern as his brain tried to connect dots it didn’t fully understand.

“Wear how?” he started, instinctively, not wanting to admit that he didn’t quite know what streaming even is. 

You didn’t let him get any further.

You leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheeks. 

“Something that lets people know I’m taken,” you added, eyes bright with amusement. 

You could see it happen in real time, the pink creeping up his cheekbones, the way his mouth parted like he was about to ask six follow-up questions at once.

And then…

“Next in line!” a voice called out.

You were already pulling back, apron strings swaying as you turned, professionalism snapping back into place like muscle memory.

“Gotta go,” you said over your shoulder, almost apologetic. “Customer.”

Yeah.

He was absolutely going to overthink this.

—

That night at the new Avengers Tower was supposed to be a chill night. There was no mission, no briefing, or even briefing. Everyone kinda just had a rest day, lounging around and actually participating in activities outside of work.

Bucky had every intention of grabbing a bottle of water, maybe a protein bar, and retreating back to his room before anyone could rope him into a long conversation about borscht. He was halfway down the corridor when he heard voices drifting out of the common area. 

John’s voice, specifically. He sounded tired. Frustrated.

“…I didn’t want to do it,” John was saying, pacing by the sound of it. “But my nephew’s only eighteen. Eighteen. And he’s hemorrhaging money out of his parents’ account, and turns out he’s been giving it to camgirl streams.”

Yelena laughed. “Ah. Youth.”

Ava’s voice followed. “How much money?”

John winced. “Enough that his mom called me crying.”

Bucky stopped walking.

He turned slowly, leaning into the doorway without fully entering the room.

“My girl streams, too,” he said, though it was unlike him to butt in unprompted.

The conversation halted to an abrupt, uncomfortable stop. 

John froze. Yelena turned, eyes lighting up with immediate interest. Ava blinked, recalibrating her ear to make sure she didn’t hear him wrong. 

“The barista?” Ava asked carefully.

Bucky frowned. Who else would he be talking about? The fact that they had to question it was honestly baffling. “Yeah.”

“…She’s a camgirl,” Yelena said, almost a question.

Inside Bucky’s head, things clicked together in the simplest possible way. Cam… girl. Camera. Girl. Monitors. Camera. That’s what he saw in your apartment right? 

“Yeah,” he said slowly. 

They all stared at him.

“She said she does it in her spare time,” Bucky added, like that clarified everything. “Said it was a side hustle.”

John’s mouth opened. Ava leaned back against the table, arms crossing. “She is very pretty,” she said after a moment, nodding to herself. “That makes sense.”

Bucky latched onto that like a lifeline. “Right? Thank you.”

Yelena only stared.

“And,” he added, because this was the part that actually mattered to him, “her birthday’s coming up. She said she wants something she can wear on stream. Something to let people know she’s taken.”

Yelena broke her silence by letting out a long, suggestive  whistle.

“What?” he asked immediately, shoulders tightening.

She squinted at him, expression suddenly sharp with realization. “Barnes,” she said gently, “you don’t actually know what a camgirl is, do you?”

“I mean,” he said cautiously, “I know it involves a camera.”

John rubbed his face with both hands.

Ava straightened. “Okay,” she said, already moving toward the tablet on the table. “We need to tell you something.”

“I don’t need—” Bucky started.

“You do,” John insisted.

To their credit, they didn’t draw it out longer than they needed to. They showed quick examples, from thumbnails to all five seconds into an actual stream. 

“Whoa… hey—” He turned away immediately, heat flooding his face. Yes, he knew about modern, digital pornograpy, but this… was this really…? Fuck. This tower really needed better HR than just gossiping with Mel. “That’s… that’s what my girl does in her spare time??” He managed to choke out. 

Yelena shrugged. “Apparetly.”

His thoughts spiraled.

It was shock first, then confusion. Then a flare of complicated emotions he didn’t have a name for. Not anger. Not jealousy. exactly. Just the sudden, visceral awareness that other people were seeing parts of you he associated with intimacy, even if it wasn’t the same thing.

He swallowed hard.

“Does that change anything?” John asked, lifting an eyebrow up.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor as he sorted through it in real time. “I… yes? No? I don’t—” He huffed out a breath. “Maybe? It doesn’t—” He stopped, then said it clearly, firmly, like he needed to hear it out loud. “It doesn’t matter. She’s a modern woman. She can do whatever she wants with her body.”

Ava laughed, catching him off-guard. “Very progressive for a 200-year-old man.”

He shot her a look. “I’m not two hundred.”

“Not yet,” Yelena said sweetly, “but you are catching up beautifully.”

He slumped back into the chair, tension bleeding out of him all at once. “I just…” He hesitated, then admitted the truth. “I just want to get her something nice.” Bucky looked up at them, tired but determined. “So,” he said, squaring his shoulders, “because you guys know better, please help me pick a gift.”

—

That’s how he ended up in a discreet adult toy store with John Walker. On a Tuesday. He was the only one free on a Tuesday.

John suggested it, and to be fair, he wasn’t… completely out of his depth on the concept of sex toys. Not after you.

You’d been gentle about it. You’d laughed the first time he’d admitted he didn’t know what half the stuff in your box meant. You’d shown him the basics— handcuffs, blindfolds, the concept of accessories that weren’t weapons. He’d survived that education with minimal damage to his pride. In fact, he quite enjoyed using it with you. 

But today was a mistake precisely because he wasn’t with you. 

John stood a full six feet away from him, hands on his hips, staring at a wall of products like it was an unsolvable riddle. The fluorescent lighting made everything worse. 

John cleared his throat. “So, uh. Options.”

Bucky made a noise that might’ve meant agreement.

John gestured vaguely at a shelf. “These are… small.”

Bucky squinted. “I see that.”

John shifted, uncomfortable. “And these are… not.”

Bucky swallowed, looking away from a tentacle-shaped one. “Mm.”

They moved down the aisle in silence. John stopped in front of a display and gestured again, even more awkwardly. “What about… these?”

Bucky followed his hand.

Butt plugs. Some of them have initials. John pointed specifically at the pink one, with a crystal at the end engraved with the letter “B.”

“These,” John coughed, looking away, “would be personal.”

His brain short-circuited.

“I—” Bucky stopped himself, then tried again, more honest than he meant to be. “I kinda… wanna be the only one who—”

He stopped, wincing.

“…plugs her butt,” he finished miserably.

The words hung in the air like a crime was just committed on the scene.

John stared at him. Bucky stared at the floor.

“I hate that I said that,” Bucky muttered.

John nodded slowly. “Me too.”

They moved on immediately.

Two aisles later, John picked something up and turned it over, squinting at the box. His eyebrows shot up.

“Oh wow,” he said. “There’s a ‘make your own’ option.”

Bucky frowned. “Make your own what?”

John turned the box so he could see it.

Custom Dildo Cast Kit – Create a Perfect Replica

Bucky recoiled. “No.”

John blinked. “You didn’t even read the fine print.”

“I don’t need to,” Bucky said firmly. “I am not— that’s— no.”

John shrugged. “It’s a personal touch.”

Bucky looked mildly horrified. “I’m okay with her doing whatever she wants. I am not letting people see my… anatomy.”

“That’s fair.”

They stood there for another fifteen minutes, surrounded by things neither of them wanted to acknowledge existed.

Finally, Bucky exhaled. “I think… maybe this wasn’t the right approach.”

John nodded immediately. “Yeah. No. This is.. this is bad.”

They left empty-handed.

—

Bucky was slumped forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it had personally betrayed him. John had wisely escaped. Yelena was upside-down on the couch. Ava was scrolling on her phone, both of them just finished a training session. 

“You’re overcomplicating this,” Ava said.

“I’m not,” Bucky muttered. “I went to one store. One. I saw things no man should see next to John Walker.”

Yelena snorted.

“What about high-end lingerie?” Ava suggested. “It’s classy. Something she can wear for herself and for her streams without it being… whatever you were doing with John.”

Bucky blinked. “I wasn’t doing anything—.”

“Also,” Ava added, already standing, “you clearly cannot be trusted to do this alone.”

“I’m fine alone.”

“So we go,” Yelena concluded.

“We?” Bucky asked, dread pooling in his stomach.

Yelena rolled off the couch and landed on her feet. “Yes. Field trip. Do not tell Papa, though. I will not hear the end of this.”

And that was how he ended up in the passenger seat of Ava’s car twenty minutes later, feeling like he was being transported to his execution.

—

The store felt like a jewelry boutique.

It had the whole nine yards: soft lights from chandelier fixtures, plush carpets, and elegant displace.

Bucky took one step inside and immediately felt like his combat boots were illegal.

Yelena was already touching everything. “If I steal this robe, no one stops me, yes?” She was clearly feeling the fabric, liking it for comfort and not how it would look on her. 

“Try if you wish,” Ava rolled her eyes.

The first part went faster than he expected.

Ava handled sizes, and Yelena offered unhelpful running commentary like a sports announcer. Bucky nodded stiffly and tried not to make eye contact with mannequins.

“No, too complicated.”

“No, that’s basically cosplay.”

“Yes, that’s good.”

“Barnes, stop holding them like they’re grenades.”

Thirty minutes later, he had seen more lace than existed in the entire 1940s.

Black. Red. Emerald. Things with straps that made no architectural sense.

He was overheating.

“Is this too much?” he asked, holding up something that looked like it required an engineering degree.

“Yes,” Ava said.

“Very much yes,” Yelena agreed. “Unless she moonlights as a love interest from Austin Powers.”

He put it back immediately.

Eventually, he narrowed it down to a pair of lacy  panties. It was pretty in a way that made his chest feel tight because he could actually picture you wearing them, walking around your apartment, humming to yourself, stealing one of his shirts to throw over them.

He swallowed hard.

“These,” he decided. 

“Get multiple,” Ava advised. “No one wants one single pair. That’s serial killer behavior.”

So he did. Five pairs, in different deep colors that complimented the hue of your skin. 

His heart pounded like he was making a life-or-death decision.

Then Ava pointed across the rooms  “There, the custom embroidery station.”

Oh fuck. He had to, right?  

You wanted people to know you were taken, right? 

—

The woman behind the counter smiled. “Hi! Personalization?”

Bucky placed the neatly folded stack down like he was surrendering evidence. “Yes ma’am.”

“What are we adding today?” She asked, a bit too cheerfully, “Name? Date? Something cute?”

“Initials, please” he said, voice rough.

“Whose?”

“My—” His throat closed. He tried again. “Mine.”

Her smile widened. “And what are they?”

He hesitated, for a second. “JBB.”

The woman typed it in. “Placement?”

He blinked. “Uh…Placement?”

“Front? Back? Waistband? Hip? Big? Tiny? Hidden?”

His soul left his body, thinking of you, your figure, and where exactly he would want to mark you as his to your viewers. He hadn’t even thought about that. 

Ava stepped in. “Medium, on the waistband please.”

“Good choice!” the woman said brightly, then glanced between the three of them with a teasing smile. “Are these for both of you?”

Bucky’s brain exploded. “What?! no- I—”

Before he could form complete sentences, Yelena gasped dramatically. To be fair, how would she know that Yelena was ace, let alone would ever ever think of any of her teammates that way?

“For me?” she cried, clutching her chest. “I do not even want to see this man’s underwear drawer. Why would I share?”

The poor employee froze. “Oh, I didn’t mean…”

Ava crossed her arms. “I exclusively date women, so if he buys lingerie for me, I think we have bigger problems.”

“Exactly,” Yelena continued. “Very bold assumption.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“They’re for my girlfriend,” Bucky blurted, voice cracking. His face was so red it hurt. “Just her,” he added quickly. “Only her. Nobody else. Ever.”

“…Possessive,” Yelena snorted.

The associate recovered. “Got it. Very sweet. Five pairs with JBB on the waistband.”

Twenty minutes later, they walked out of the store with a pretty little bag, and a comfy plush robe Yelena had managed to buy (not steal, they were reformed, after all) for herself. She said it feels like “being wrapped in a cloud.” 

Ava patted his shoulder. “She’ll love it.”

He nodded. You probably would.

And that alone made the humiliation worth it.

—

By the time your shift ended, your feet hurt, your hair smelled like espresso, and a (secretly annoying) usual customer had very aggressively sung “happy birthday” at you while shaking a tip jar like a maraca.

You loved your work at times, but you can’t wait for peace and quiet. 

So when you finally climbed the stairs to your apartment, you were already mentally picturing yourself in sweatpants with a bowl of popcorn, and absolutely nothing productive.

You unlocked the door.

When you stepped inside, you immediately stopped.

Your place didn’t look different exactly. It still looked like it was yours— blanket half-folded on the couch, game controller on the coffee table, a mug you forgot to rinse in the sink.

But it smelled different. Like soy sauce, garlic, and broth. 

“Buck?” you called. He wasn’t supposed to be here for another ten minutes.

Your shoes weren’t even off yet when he appeared from the kitchen. He had his sleeves pushed up, Henley clinging to him, his hair a little messy. “Oh,” he said, “Hey, birthday girl.”

You smiled immediately. You couldn’t help it. “Hi.”

Then you noticed the bags, and takeout containers spread across the counter, neatly arranged. 

“Did you rob Mrs. Chu’s buffet?” you asked, wandering closer.

“I didn’t know what you were in the mood for,” he said defensively. “So I got options.”

“Bucky,” you laughed, “this is enough food for a small army.”

He shrugged. “You deserve choices.”

That did something unfair to your heart.

You set your bag down, bumping your shoulder into his. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to,” he said simply, handing you one of the containers like it was very important business. “Go sit. I’ll grab the rest.”

“You’re bossy today.”

“It’s your birthday. You’re not allowed to lift things.”

“I lift coffee bags for a living.”

“Not tonight.”

You rolled your eyes but obeyed, flopping onto the floor by the coffee table.

He followed with the rest, settling across from you, long legs stretching out until his toes nudged your sock.

It felt so stupidly domestic it almost made you feel warm inside.

Plastic containers popped open, and steam filled the room.

He passed you the good chopsticks (the wooden reusable ones you liked) and kept the cheap takeout pair for himself.

“So,” you said, already stealing one of his dumplings, “how long were you waiting here?”

“Not long.”

You squinted. “Define not long.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Bucky.”

“I didn’t wanna be late.”

You reached across the table and squeezed his metal hand. “You’re so sweet.”

You ate like that for a while, trading bites and arguing over which sauce was better.

He even playfully pretended he didn’t want any spring rolls and then stealing one when you looked away.

At one point you caught him just… watching you.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor in fuzzy socks, complaining about your day and inhaling noodles, and he was just there, looking at you like you were the most interesting person in the world.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothin’,” he said, but he didn’t look away.

After a while, when you were full and warm and pleasantly sleepy, he cleared his throat.

“Hang on,” he said, standing.

“Did you forget something?”

He didn’t answer as he ran off for a second. Then, you heard rustling in the kitchen. A drawer being opened, then a match strike.

Then he came back holding the tiniest, most adorable little cupcake you’d ever seen.

One single candle stuck crooked in the middle, but he held it like it was priceless.

The flame flickered against his metal fingers.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I tried baking a cake but I nearly burned my apartment down. So I got this. ”

You laughed, chest tight. “Baby,” you said. “It’s perfect.”

He knelt down in front of you, awkward and gentle all at once, and held it out.

“Happy birthday,” he said, quieter this time. “Make a wish,” he added.

Honestly, you didn’t even need one.

But you blew out the candle anyway.

—

At one point, he moved to sit next to you, his metal hand resting heavy on your thigh, thumb absently rubbing back and forth like he needed to make sure you were still there.

You caught him sealing glances at you more than once. He looked a little nervous, like he was on your first date. Which was weird.

“Okay,” you said finally, gulping a bite of frosting. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thinking thing. The spiraling thing.”

He sighed. “I got you something.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Buck, you’ve already done so much today…”

“I know,” he said quickly, almost stubbornly. “This is different.”

Then, he reached behind the couch and grabbed a small, very fancy-looking bag. It had matte paper and tissue on the inside. It was too classy for your apartment.

You blinked, chuckling a little. “Did you rob a jewelry store?”

“No.”

“Did you murder someone?” you joked.

“Not today,” he smiled thoughtfully.

“Good enough,” you chuckled, “Hand it over.”

He passed it to you like it was fragile. Which, okay, now you were curious.

He hovered like a nervous cat while you sat back down and pulled out the tissue paper.

You asked for something to wear on camera, right? So you expected maybe a necklace with his birthstone on it, or maybe a cheesy hoodie that says “my boyfriend is a super soldier,” or something sweet and practical, like a personalized mouse pad.

Instead—

“…Oh.”

Inside were five pairs of very pretty, very lacy, very definitely sexy panties. Like… nice nice. Way fancier than anything you owned. The kind of underwear you’d feel criminal wearing under these stained sweatpants.

You picked one up.

There, stitched delicately along the waistband in tiny elegant letters: JBB.

“…Oh,” you repeated, higher this time. Then, you slowly looked up at him.

He was sitting ramrod straight like he was waiting for a verdict. 

“You got me… embroidered panties?”

“Yeah,” he said cautiously. “For your streams.”

You blinked. “My what.”

“Your streams,” he repeated, already talking faster than he could think. “You said you wanted something you could wear on stream so people know you’re taken and I figured something subtle but- but still personal and Ava said high-end was better and then Yelena came and then there was embroidery and…”

“Buck.”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you,” you said carefully. “They’re really pretty. Like. Really pretty.”

His shoulders relaxed a little.

“But I don’t think I’m gonna wear them on stream.”

The panic settled immediately.“Oh— is it not lewd enough?” he asked quickly. “I can… we can go back. I didn’t know how, I don’t know what camgirls wear, I just—”

“Lewd?” you squeaked out. “Bucky, what are you talking about?”

He winced. “I don’t know! I don’t know what camgirls wear on stream!”

You stared at him, tilting your head, before repeating, “Camgirls.”

“Yeah.”

“Bucky.”

“I mean it’s fine, you can do whatever you want, obviously, your body, your job, I just thought maybe the gift should match the… you know, level of… presentation—”

“Bucky Barnes.”

He shut up instantly.

You set the panties down very carefully. “What exactly do you think I stream?”

He frowned. “Cam stuff?”

“Define cam stuff.”

“…Sexy stuff?”

You stared at him for three full seconds before bursting out laughing so hard you had to grab the couch for balance.

He blinked. “Why are you laughing?”

“Oh my god,” you wheezed. “Oh my god, you did not—”

“Did not what?”

“Bucky,” You cooed, chuckling, “I never said I did adult content.”

He blinked. “What?”

“When I said I’m a streamer,” you clarified, “I mean I stream games. I was literally streaming Dispatch yesterday. I play hero shooters and stuff, sometimes even farming sims and cozy stuff.”

He just stared. “I mean... the camera, the monitors, the side hustle—”

“It’s Twitch, babe.”

That word meant nothing to centurion James Buchanan Barnes. “Twitch.”

You scrambled for your phone, “No, no, no, look.”

You pulled up your channel and shoved it in his face. You showed him clips of you ragebaiting your teammates weaved in with you decorating pixel houses. Chat was spamming emotes, and you laughed along with them.

He watched a little longer, scrolling through your VODs. Absolutely nothing lewd at all, save for a couple of interactions on single player games. Even they were the censored version, so you wouldn’t be banned off the platform. Most of them were just you in a hoodie with a headset, talking about game mechanics like a nerd.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“That’s it.”

“No… stripping?”

“No.”

“No… lingerie?”

“No!”

“No sex toys—”

“No, James!” You were giggling now, cheeks hurting.

You stood abruptly, nearly knocking over an empty takeout container, and grabbed his hand. “Come here.”

He barely had time to react before you were tugging him across the living room toward your streaming corner, the faint glow of LEDs already washing over your skin. “If all I was doing was streaming, I wouldn’t need all this.”

Your setup was immaculate in a way that only true dedication could achieve. It was a wide, solid desk, carefully cable-managed so not a single wire dared to peek out of place. Dual curved monitors mounted on adjustable arms, one for gameplay, the other for chat, alerts, and stream controls. An RGB mechanical keyboard glowed as you turned it on proudly, colors shifting in calming waves instead of obnoxious flashes, paired with a mouse that looked like it belonged in a spacecraft, Your headset hung neatly on a stand, cushioned and well-worn, and your mic sat suspended on a boom arm, shock mount perfectly positioned.

“This,” you said, tapping the tempered glass side of your PC case, “is my baby.”

Inside, everything was pristine, custom-built, custom-cooled, meticulously upgraded. LED lighting illuminated the components like a museum display. You crouched slightly, pointing things out faster than he could process them. “Custom GPU, because the stock one throttled under load and I hate frame drops. I swapped out the cooling system because the old fans sounded like a dying jet engine, and I stream for hours at a time, so thermal stability matters. This capture card lets me stream console and PC gameplay without lag. And that external drive?” You pointed. “Raw VOD backups, because I edit my own highlight reels.”

You shot him a look, eyebrows raised. “If I were just sitting here looking pretty on camera, I could do that with a laptop, a blue yeti, and a ring light.”

He blinked.

“And don’t even get me started on internet speeds,” you continued, fully in your element now. “Hardwired ethernet, upgraded router, custom DNS, because dropped frames drives me nuts. I run OBS with a custom scene setup, layered audio filters,—” You stopped, realizing you were rambling, then shrugged. “Anyway. Point is: this is a gaming setup.”

Only then did you notice he wasn’t really looking at the hardware.

He was looking at you.

Not in confusion, but rather fondly. He looked a little stunned, like he’d just discovered a new favorite thing about his girl and didn’t quite know what to do with it yet.

“What?” you said, quieter now, suddenly self-conscious. For a second, you wondered if you overwhelmed him. See, this is why you didn't want to talk about it with him. Because once you started, it was hard for you to stop. And perhaps, in your subconscious mind, you have dated one too many “gamers” who backed out of insecurity once they realised you were more passionate about it then they were.

He shook his head slightly, lips curving into a smile. “Nothin’,” he murmured. “It’s nice to hear you talk about it.”

He’d known you loved games. He’d seen you curled up on the couch with a controller, muttering threats at NPCs, cheering when you beat a boss, sulking dramatically when you lost. He just had no idea this was what you meant by streaming when he wasn’t around.

You chuckled sheepishly, nudging his shoulder. “I do not half-ass my hobbies.”

Bucky laughed, wrapping his arms around you. “It’s just… I’m just now realising,” he said, kissing your temple, “that I went to an adult store with Walker…”

You nodded.

“…got shown pornography by my teammates…”

“Did they, now?”

“…and bought five pairs of embroidered lace panties…”

“Mhm.”

He exhaled, shoulders slumping. “…for nothing?”

You laughed, turning to face him before nudging him back. With a gentle push, he dropped into your gaming chair, blinking in surprise. Then, without giving him time to process that either, you climbed right into his lap.

He sucked in a deep breath, hands gripping your waist at your waist. You curled comfortably against him, knees bracketing his hips, “It doesn’t have to be for nothing, baby,” you chuckled, kissing his jaw before fluttering your lips to his. “I can model them, just for you.”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him the stars.

A shy smile tugging at his lips. “I’d love that.”

“Hmm,” You chuckled against his skin, looking at the wonderful man who managed to fall in love with you. “Happy birthday to me, right?”

–end.

[aquaticmercy]

Weather Girl

Summary : Bucky Barnes has a harmless crush on the local weather broadcaster. He watches her every morning, and even admits it to his friends. Its not like he’ll ever meet her, right?

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x weather girl! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Fluff!!! Meet cute(?), Reader is weather girl and meteorologist, Steamy, and sex is heavily implied, cursing. mention of past trauma, but not a lot. Nervous Bucky! Set after FATWS but before Thunderbolts* (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 10.6k

Notes : Hi all! This was meant to be a shorter fic, but I got carried away. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes had really tried to like the twenty-first century.

Trying counted for something, right?

Post-war, post-everything— life was supposed to feel better. No Hydra handlers in his head, no missions, no one telling him who to be. After everything, he thought it would just be him with a notebook full of names crossed out, and a century that had sprinted ahead while he’d been frozen in place.

There were days when he didn’t feel so out of time. Sometimes, he could walk down the street without flinching at car horns. And then there were days when everything reminded him that he didn’t belong here. 

He tried the things that friends suggested.

Baseball games, for one. Sam had suggested it like it was a cure-all: You like baseball. Go to a game. So Bucky went.  

Baseball had always made sense to him, but the stadiums were different now. It was too big, too loud, too… commercial. Even worse, the Yankees felt wrong to support, and the Dodgers being in Los Angeles still tripped him up every single time he thought about it. He sat through a few innings, hands folded tight in his lap, before leaving with the same hollow feeling he’d arrived with.

Coffee was worse.

He liked it black, bitter, no nonsense. Now it came with foam and syrups and names he couldn’t pronounce without feeling ridiculous. He ordered the wrong thing more than once and drank it anyway, grimacing through sweetness that stuck to his tongue long after the cup was empty.

Everything felt overcomplicated.

There were too many choices to make, too much noise. Too much pressure to be something to someone. 

So he built small routines, the kind his old therapist said were good for him.

One of them was the weather.

Back in the 30s and 40s, his ma used to turn on the radio every morning. The weather report would crackle through the kitchen while she moved around, apron on, humming a song. It didn’t matter if it was rain or sun. “Listen close,” she’d say, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Weather tells you how to dress for the day.”

It was… comforting.

One morning, after a whole night of being unable to sleep, he turned on the TV. 

That’s when he saw you.

You were the weather newscaster, standing in front of a green-screened map with blues, greens, and yellows curling across the screen. You smiled as you spoke, not forced nor overly bright. Your voice was comforting, like the weather mattered because people mattered.

Bucky sat down on the edge of the couch without realizing.

You talked about cloud cover and chances of rain, gesturing, explaining things like storms and sunshine were just part of a bigger, understandable pattern. 

When the segment ended, Bucky didn’t turn the TV off right away.

The next morning, he turned it on again.

That was all it was at first…. a routine. It was a familiar pattern to anchor himself to. 

He’d wake up, make coffee, and watch the weather. He told himself it wasn’t about you, specifically. You just happened to be there.

Except… he started noticing things.

He noticed the way your brow furrowed when you talked about incoming storms, like you took it personally. He noticed how you leaned into the screen slightly when you were excited about clear skies and sunshine. He noticed your smile when you signed off, wishing everyone a good day like you genuinely hoped they’d have one.

He learned your schedule without meaning to, but not in a bad way. He just knew which mornings you’d be on, which afternoons you covered, though rare. If he missed you because he woke up too late, there was a flicker of disappointment as he pretended not to care about it.

And yeah, okay— he thought you were really pretty. 

And it certainly didn’t help that Bucky caught himself wondering if you liked rainy days or just tolerated them. If you drank your coffee black or sweet. If your smile looked the same off-camera.

Still, he never lingered on those thoughts, never let them spiral. He wasn’t building some fantasy version of you in his head. He knew better than that.

It was just a crush.

A small one, harmless one.

But some mornings, he realized he’d woken up a little earlier than usual, just to be sure he wouldn’t miss you.

—

Letting Sam and Joaquin stay in his apartment after a boy's night out had felt like the decent thing to do.

Bucky had even told himself that as they stumbled through the door sometime after midnight. Sam had been riding the high of a good night out. Joaquin had been buzzing in that restless way, fueled by sugar-heavy cocktails and the thrill of getting Bucky out of his apartment for once.

The mistake became clear the moment the door shut behind them.

They stood in the living room, taking stock of the space like they hadn’t been there a dozen times before. 

See, Bucky only had one spare bedroom. The other would have to stay on the couch. 

“I’m taking the spare room,” Sam said immediately, toeing off his shoes.

Joaquin laughed. “What– that’s not fair!”

Bucky didn’t bother looking up as he shrugged out of his jacket. “Figure it out yourselves. I’m going to bed.”

“You hear that?” Joaquin said. “Man’s clocked out.”

“Rock, paper, scissors,” Sam announced. “Like adults.”

They tied. Once. Then twice. On the third round, Joaquin won and celebrated far more loudly than the victory warranted. Sam accused him of cheating. Joaquin accused Sam of being a sore loser. Bucky disappeared into his bedroom before it could escalate.

—

The next morning, Bucky woke before sunrise. 

He laid still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, orienting himself. He moved through the apartment without thinking as the kitchen light stayed off. He measured coffee grounds, the bitter scent blooming in the air as he brewed. Sam was still sprawled across the couch, throw blanket tangled around his legs, one arm flung over his face like he’d lost a fight with gravity.

Bucky hesitated before turning on the TV.

He told himself it was a habit. Surely, Sam wouldn’t mind. 

So the screen flickered to life as he turned the volume low enough not to wake anyone… at least, that had been the intention.

You appeared on-screen, framed perfectly against a colorful map. You smiled as you greeted the viewers, getting on with your job. Bucky leaned back against the counter, mug warming his hands, shoulders loosening without him noticing.

Sam stirred from his sleep, shifting beneath the blanket. He let out a quiet groan, waking too early against his will.

“Why,” he mumbled, “does it sound like a civic duty in here?”

Bucky didn’t look over. “Go back to sleep.”

Sam cracked one eye open, squinting blearily at the TV. “Why is the news on?”

“It’s just the weather,” Bucky said, casual to the point of rehearsed. “You don’t need to be awake for it.”

Sam hummed, unconvinced. Before he could say anything else, the spare bedroom door creaked open.

Joaquin shuffled out, rubbing his face, hair sticking up in defiance of any law of nature. He paused, eyes landing on the TV.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s her.”

Sam lifted his head now, more alert. “Her?”

Joaquin nodded toward the screen. “The weather girl, she used to cast in Miami. My mom loved her,  even cried when she moved to New York. She used to be on all the time.”

“Well, sometimes,” Bucky corrected, maybe a little too quickly.

You were explaining a shift in pressure systems, gesturing at the metrics. Joaquin watched for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded to himself.

“…Okay,” he said, squinting at Bucky’s response. “Whatever. My cousin thinks she’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded fondly. The moment his reply landed in the room, he knew he’d screwed up.

Sam’s head snapped around. “Hold on.”

Bucky took a long sip of coffee, buying himself half a second that did absolutely nothing.

Joaquin’s eyes lit with sudden clarity. “Do you think she’s cute?” 

Bucky felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “I meant—yeah, she’s objectively—”

“Ohhh,” Sam interrupted, sitting up now, blanket sliding off his shoulders. “Oh, no, no. That was not an objective ‘yeah.’”

Joaquin grinned, instantly energized. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me—”

“No,” Bucky said firmly.

Joaquin leaned forward. “—that the Bucky Barnes—”

“Nope.”

He pointed at the TV. “—has a crush on the weather girl?”

“Fuck,” Bucky let breath out through his nose. “…Maybe?”

Big mistake. The room exploded.

“Oh my God,” Sam laughed, dragging a hand down his face. “This is incredible.”

Joaquin clutched his chest. “The Winter Soldier, reduced to heart eyes over the Weather Channel.”

“It’s not the Weather Channel,” Bucky snapped. “It’s local news.”

“Oh, even worse,” Sam teased. “He likes her accessible.”

Bucky shot him a glare. “You’re both idiots.”

Joaquin wasn’t letting it go. “How long has this been a thing?”

“It’s not a thing,” Bucky said, defensive now. “She’s just… she happens to be on in the morning. It’s routine.”

“Mmhmm,” Sam said, nodding exaggeratedly. “And you just happen to know her schedule?”

Bucky’s metal fist tightened. “…Look.”

They both leaned in.

“She’s just my type, okay?” he said finally, words tumbling out in a rush. 

Joaquin’s eyebrows softened, just a bit, as Sam grinned anyway. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s just a harmless crush,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “I don’t think I know her. I don’t pretend she knows me.”

On-screen, you smiled as you wrapped up the forecast. “Looks like clear skies for most of the week. Whatever the weather, have a great morning, folks!”

Bucky’s eyes were glued to your sign off before realizing Sam and Joaquin were staring at him.

Sam nudged Joaquin. “Look at his face.”

Joaquin softened just a bit. “Aw, man.”

Bucky muttered, “I hate you both.”

Sam slapped him on the shoulder. 

“I think it’s good,” Joaquin said. “Means you’re still capable of liking someone who isn’t actively shooting at you.”

Bucky huffed, though a smile creeped on his face. “Real comforting.”

—

A couple of months later, Sam was yet again stuck in Bucky’s apartment after an overnight blizzard.

After it passed, snowbanks still lined the streets like barricades, gray and uneven from plows that had done their best and moved on. The city felt wrong, quiet in places it was usually loud, crowded in the buildings that still had power and heat. People were digging themselves out, checking on neighbors, trying to piece everything back together.

Bucky watched it all from the window, mug warming his hands.

“The shelter’s doing post-storm relief,” Sam said, scrolling on his phone. “They’re short on volunteers.”

Bucky didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go.”

Sam glanced up, eyebrows lifting. “Sure”

To both of them, helping made sense, it always had. They saw a need, they filled it. 

They bundled up and headed out, boots crunching through packed snow, wind biting but manageable now that the worst had passed. The shelter sat on a corner still half-buried in slush, lights blazing inside.

The moment they stepped through the doors, the noise hit them all at once.

People crowded the space, some shaking snow from their coats, others already clutching steaming cups of soup. Volunteers moved quickly, voices raised just enough to be heard. Tables were set up along the walls, one stacked high with donated coats in every size and color.

Sam was immediately flagged down by a coordinator. To be fair, she probably recognised them both.

“Here to help out?” she asked, eyeing both of them.

Sam grinned. “Born ready.”

As Bucky turned to sign in… he stopped in his tracks. His brain just stopped working.

Because you stood near the front door, hair pulled back messily, bundled in a thick sweater and scarf that looked nothing like your formal on-screen wardrobe. Your cheeks were flustered from the cold, sleeves pushed up as you were getting ready to help with the soup stall. You were laughing at something one of the coordinators said..

Sam noticed immediately.

“Oh,” he said, far too casually. “Would’cha look at that.”

Bucky’s heart slammed into his ribs.

“No,” he said quietly.

Sam leaned closer, grin already forming. “Is that—”

“No.”

“That’s the weather girl.”

“Sam.”

“That’s your weather girl.”

Bucky swallowed hard. “She’s not my anything—.”

Sam nudged him with his elbow. “Man, she’s even cuter in person!”

Bucky shot him a glare. “Do not make this weird.”

Sam’s grin only widened. “I’m not making it weird. You are making it weird by staring.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky muttered, pulling his beanie down lower. “We’re here to help.”

They were directed to different stations, mercifully, but not mercifully enough.

Sam was assigned to give away donated coats, and somehow, Bucky was assigned to the soup stall— the very same soup stall you were assigned to.

You approached with a box of cups, setting them down gently. “Hey,are you good to ladle, or do you want me to—”

You looked up. Your eyes flicked to his face, then squinted just a fraction. “You’re new around here,” you mentioned with a smile, before telling him your name in introduction.

Bucky’s mouth went dry. What was he supposed to say? I already know who you are? I watch you every morning? No fucking way.

“Uh…” he said intelligently.

Sam, passing behind them with a crate of gloves, slowed to a stop and watched.

Bucky didn’t look at him. 

“I… nice to meet you. And I-I can—uh, ladle,” Bucky said, clearing his throat. “I’m… yeah. I’m good.”

You smiled at him, making his knees feel vaguely unreliable. “Great. Team soup, then.”

He nodded way too fast.

You both worked in silence at first. The line was steady, from families to elderly couples to people stamping snow from their boots, hands shaking as they wrapped them around warm cups. Bucky focused on the repeated motion: scoop, pour, slide the cup forward.

He kept his gaze down, keeping his hands hidden under the gloves as he continued to pretend not to know exactly who you were.

You, on the other hand, watched him with curiosity.

After a few minutes, you spoke again.

“You do this often?” you said lightly, handing a cup to a woman with a grateful smile. 

Bucky shrugged. “Just… doing what needs doing.”

You glanced at his gloves and the way his shoulders stayed slightly hunched, like he was trying to fold inward.

Then you looked back at his face.

“You did a good job,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “With… soup?”

Your lips twitched into a sweet smile, head tilting.

“With the GRC,” you said quietly. “Things were… a mess. Still are, feels like”

The ladle froze mid-air.

Fuck. You… recognised him? 

His heart skipped a beat as his mouth took off at a sprint.

“Oh,” he managed. “I—uh—”

You smiled again, gentler this time. You weren’t starstruck, nor invasive. You were just…  sincere.

“You handled it with a lot of compassion,” you continued. “I remember watching the live coverage in the office.”

Bucky’s ears burned.

Sam, across the room, caught his eye and mouthed SHE KNOWS YOU.

Bucky did not look back.

“I was just… following Cap’s lead,” he said, because that was safer.

You studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Still. It mattered.”

Snow whipped past the windows outside. The line kept moving. The world kept going.

Inside, Bucky Barnes was quietly, internally losing his mind.

You handed him another stack of cups as he tried to focus very hard on the soup.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low.

“Anytime,” you replied with a chuckle.

Over the next few hours, he realised you were chatty in the most charming way.

It started small.

You commented on the soup temperature. Joked that the ladle was deceptively heavy. Mentioned that snowstorms always made communities unite, like shared misery unlocked manners. Bucky responded with short answers at first, and you didn’t seem to mind. You just adjusted, met him where he was, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Conversation was… easy. He didn’t feel like he was calculating every word, didn’t feel like he was performing Normal Guy Behavior™. You filled gaps naturally, let silences exist without making them awkward. When he spoke, you listened like what he said mattered.

Internally, Bucky was losing a war.

Because in a deeply fucked-up, self-preserving corner of his brain, he’d been hoping, praying really, thats you’d secretly be awful. That you’d be rude, or fake, or condescending. 

Because if you sucked, he could move on. He could chalk this whole thing up to a stupid crush and go back to watching you from a safe, distant screen. Maybe even deflate this stupid crush instantly.

But no.

Nooooo.

Instead, you just had to be a sweetheart who laughed with volunteers, remembered regulars’ names, and casually mentioning—

“I’ve been helping out here for years,” you said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “Since college, on and off. Storms just make it busier.”

Years.

Of course.

Of course you had. Of course you’d been doing good long before he ever noticed you through a screen. Of course you weren’t just someone who cared on-camera. Of course you were and inconveniently wonderful.

Bucky stared at the soup again, and thought, Fantastic. She’s kind AND committed. Kill me.

You glanced at him sideways, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Just… uh—concentrating.”

You chuckled, perhaps sensing his nerves, and something in his chest gave way.

Then the coordinator’s voice cut through the room. “Alright, new volunteers just arrived! Time to rotate stations!”

You peeled your gloves off slowly, like you weren’t in any hurry to leave the moment. “Guess we’re done.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, immediately hating how disappointed he sounded.

You hesitated, then tilted your head at him, studying his face. “You know,” you said lightly, “you’re a lot easier to talk to than I thought a super-soldier would be.”

His heart did a stupid little backflip. “I… uh, thanks?”

You smiled, warmer now. Flirty in that way that didn’t demand anything but absolutely invited him in. “I mean it,” you said. “I’m glad we worked together.”

He nodded, hands curling slightly at his sides. Say something. Say anything.

“Hey, do you maybe want to…”

Oh God.

You looked back up at him as he swallowed hard. Do it. Don’t be a coward.

“...get coffee sometime?” He finished quickly. “If you want. Just, coffee, no foam. I mean—foam’s fine if you like it… sorry.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

For half a second, you just stared at him, then you smiled.

You didn’t look surprised. If anything, you looked pleased.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” you said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Bucky froze. “You were?”

“Mmhmm.” You reached into your coat pocket and pulled out your phone. “But I’m gonna make this easy on you.”

You scribbled your number on a scrap of paper from the counter and pressed it into his human palm.

“Text me,” you said, eyes meeting his. “And we’ll figure out when that date is.”

Date.

His brain short-circuited completely.

“I… okay,” he managed, nodding a little too fast. “Yeah. I can do that.”

You smiled, clearly endeared at how overwhelmed he looked. “I look forward to it, Bucky.”

—

Bucky stared at the scrap of paper like it might detonate.

Your number. It was real. Handwritten, and slightly smudged because his hands had been sweating like he was about to defuse a bomb instead of… text a woman.

He’d folded it once, unfolded it before folding again, tucking it carefully into his jacket pocket like it was fragile glass.

Sam, who just finished his part, noticed immediately.

He didn’t say anything at first. He asked if he wanted to go to a diner— which Bucky agreed to. 

And during dinner, Sam just watched his best friend tap the table restlessly with his metal fingers as he held his phone in his human hand, unlocking and relocking the screen like that might summon courage through muscle memory alone.

Finally, Sam leaned back on the booth cushions, arms crossed. “You gonna tell me why you look like you’re about to jump out of a plane without a parachute?”

Bucky stopped tapping. “I’m fine.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’ve opened your phone twelve times and haven’t done anything.”

Bucky scowled and lied. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, my bad. Thirteen.”

Bucky let a deep breath out through his nose, before admitting quietly, “I got her number.”

Sam froze. “You what?”

“I got her number,” Bucky repeated, like saying it again might make it less terrifying. “She… she gave it to me.”

Sam’s face looked like it was stuck between joy, disbelief, and chaos. “Whoa, Buck—”

“Don’t,” Bucky snapped, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t yell.”

Sam chuckled, eyes wide. “Sorry.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “She told me to text her.”

Sam’s grin was immediate and unstoppable. 

“You will not tell anyone,” Bucky said firmly.

Sam blinked. “Anyone?”

“Anyone,” Bucky repeated. “Not Joaquin. Not even your sister. Not anyone.”

Sam tilted his head. “C’mon man.”

Bucky hesitated, eyes dropping back to his phone. “I don’t wanna jinx it.”

Sam held up two fingers like an oath. “Secret’s safe. On my life.”

“Thank you.”

“Now,” Sam added immediately, leaning forward, “are you gonna text her, or are you gonna die staring at your lock screen?”

Bucky scowled. “I’m working up to it.”

Sam watched as Bucky finally opened the messages app, typed a few words… deleted them. Tried again. Deleted again.

“What the hell are you writing?” Sam asked.

“Something normal,” Bucky said. “Not weird.”

“Define weird.”

“Anything that sounds like I’ve been thinking about her for months.”

Sam snorted. “Good call.”

Bucky tried again.

Bucky: Hey, it’s Bucky from the soup kitchen today.

He stared at it. Read it. Overthought it. Finally, he showed Sam. 

“Too boring?” he asked.

Sam shrugged. “It’s fine, man. Hit send.”

Bucky’s thumb hovered.

His chest felt tight. This was worse than jumping out of planes. Worse than fighting aliens. At least their rejection wouldn't hurt.

He hit send.

The phone was silent for exactly seven seconds before it buzzed.

Bucky’s heart nearly stopped as he opened it immediately.

You: Hey, Souper Soldier :) I was hoping you’d text!

His breath left him in a rush he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Sam watched his face and grinned. “She replied, didn’t she?”

Bucky didn’t even try to hide it. “Yeah.”

—

The texting started… cautiously.

At least on his end.

You: Made it home without slipping on ice 👍

Bucky stared at the screen for a full minute before replying.

Bucky: Yeah. Same. Still thawing out though. I packed some extra soup and it helped.

Three dots appeared. 

You: Soup is powerful like that

You: So is coffee, apparently. You seemed very serious about yours.

He huffed, a smile tugging at his lips.

Bucky: I prefer just black coffee. 

Bucky: It gets the job done.

Bucky: You?

You: Oh I’m a menace

You: milk, sugar, sometimes cinnamon if I’m feeling interesting

He shook his head, fond despite himself.

From there, it got… easy.

You sent him pictures of the ridiculous snowbanks still clogging the sidewalks. He sent back a blurry photo of his coffee mugs. You teased him for being dry over text; he admitted (after some coaxing) that he was better in person.

Then, two days in…

You: So what do you actually do when you’re not saving soup kitchens?

He stared at it, metal plates rippling on his vibranium arm.

Bucky: Bit of this, bit of that.

Bucky: Helping where I can.

You: Mysterious. I like it 😌

You: I’m a little less exciting. I work in broadcasting

He blinked. What am I supposed to say?

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Bucky: Oh.

Bucky: Really?

He could feel the universe judging him.

You: Yeah! Local news

You: Mostly mornings

His soul tried to leave his body.

Bucky: That’s cool.

Cool???

He knew. He knew. He should’ve just said something like Hey, funny story, I already know this.

But instead, like a coward, he kept digging.

You: Weather, specifically. Nothing glamorous

Bucky stared at the word weather like he was solving an impossible equation.

Bucky: That’s great. People need to know about weather.

Smooth. Incredible. Nailed it.

You didn’t seem to notice his nerves through the screen. Or if you did, you found it charming.

You: You’re sweet

You: want to get that coffee this weekend?

He said yes immediately. 

—

The date was simple.

It was at a small café of his choosing. It had warm lighting, and it was quiet enough that he didn’t feel like the walls were closing in. You waved when you saw him, bundled in a coat and scarf, smiling like this wasn’t the most terrifying thing he’d done in years.

Conversation flowed like it had at the shelter, maybe even better.

You talked about early mornings, about learning to smile on camera even when you were exhausted, about how weather felt personal because it affected everyone. He listened, genuinely fascinated, occasionally tripping over the fact and deflecting over the fact that he’d watched you tell him it was gonna be chilly over the weekend yesterday morning.  

Fuck, when he developed his silly little crush on you, he had never imagined you’d be sitting across from him, laughing into your coffee.

That was a lie. Maybe he’d imagined it once or twice, but he never actually thought he’d get to do it. 

At one point, you caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, amused.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “You’re just… easy to look at.”

You chuckled, cheeks warming. “You are too, you know.”

By the time you stood to leave, his nerves were back in full force. He walked you outside, cold air biting at his cheeks.

“Well,” you said, “I had a really good time.”

“Me too,” he said, earnest. “I’d… like to do this again. If you want.”

Instead of answering right away, you stepped closer. And before his brain could reboot, you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

His entire system shut down.

“I’d love to go on a second date,” you said warmly.

Bucky nodded, stunned. “Okay. Yeah. Definitely.”

You smiled at him one last time before heading off down the sidewalk, leaving him frozen in place, hand hovering near his cheek like he needed proof it had actually happened.

Somewhere deep down, he knew he really, really needed to tell you the truth.

But right now, all he could think was… 

Holy shit. She kissed me.

—

​​The second date was easier.

You met him at a bookstore-themed cocktail bar tucked between a laundromat and a bodega that smelled permanently like oranges. Bucky arrived ten minutes early and spent seven of them pretending to browse a shelf labeled Modern Memoirs while actually rehearsing how not to say something unhinged. When you walked in, he forgot every plan he’d made and just… smiled.

You talked for hours.

Not the careful, surface-level kind of talking either, but real conversation. You told him about growing up watching storms roll in from your bedroom window, how weather made you feel small in a good way. He told you about Brooklyn in the forties, about baseball games, about the war. You didn’t flinch when he mentioned nightmares. You didn’t pry. You just listened, nodding like it all made sense.

At some point, you reached across the table and nudged his metal fingers with yours.

“Can I?” you asked gently.

He swallowed. “Yeah. Please.”

You traced the vibranium seams like you were learning a part of him. Bucky’s heart skipped a beat, then settled. When you left, you hugged him, and he stood there afterward thinking, oh no. This is becoming a thing.

—

The third date was dinner.

Nothing fancy. It was a small place you liked near your apartment, all brick walls and low lights. You laughed more this time. He loosened up enough to tease you about your corny ‘souper soldier’ pun, and you teased back about him being emotionally attached to black coffee. Somewhere between dessert and the check, he realized he felt… normal. Like this was just his life now.

Walking you home was not something he planned on.

The night was cold but clear, streetlights glowing against leftover snow. You talked about weekend plans, a storm system moving in next week, until you stopped outside your building.

“Well,” you said, putting your weight slightly back on your heels. “I had a really good time.”

“Me too,” he said, too quickly. Then, because he’d promised himself he would be better than his fears, he added, “I was wondering if I could—” He stopped to take a grounding breath, “—kiss you?”

You smiled, eyes warm. “Yeah,” you said. “Of course.”

He leaned in carefully, like he was approaching a goddess. The kiss was gentle at first, then sure, your hand curling into his jacket as if you’d always known where it belonged. When you pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours, like he needed the contact to stay upright.

You laughed quietly. “You okay?”

He nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m… yeah.”

You unlocked your door and turned back to him. “Text me when you get home?”

“Absolutely,” he said, already planning to text you the second he was out of sight.

You waved and slipped inside.

Bucky stood there for a full five seconds. Then his brain caught up as he realized three things in rapid succession:

You tasted faintly like coffee and cinnamon.

His heart was trying to escape his chest.

I know where she lives now????

He blinked, looking at the door, then at the building. He felt his soul try to exit his body in a spiral of delight and terror.

He walked home in a fog, lips still burning, heart doing laps in his chest. Somewhere between your block and his, he laughed out loud, startling a passerby.

This was good. This was really good.

It didn’t, however, change the fact that he was absolutely, completely screwed.

—

The fourth date started with him standing across the street from the local broadcasting studio at four-thirty in the afternoon, hands shoved into his coat pockets, teeth clenched like he was bracing for impact.

This was nothing. This was normal. People picked each other up from work all the time. Except, he kinda knew where you worked, like, eight months before you actually told him in a text. After all, he didn’t live too far from the Channel 7 Office. To his defense, before you actually met him, he never ever, even once, thought about trying to run into you there. That would be weird.

Still, it probably explained why his heart was pounding like he was about to jump out of a quinjet.

Then the doors opened, and you stepped out.

You were dressed down compared to your on-camera look, coat slung over your arm, hair loose, face relaxed in a way he’d never seen through a screen. When your eyes found him, your smile bloomed instantly.

“Hey,” you said.

His brain went blank.

“Hey,” he managed, voice rougher than intended.

You fell into step beside him easily, like this was already a habit. On the subway ride to the Guggenheim (your idea for a date), you talked about your day. You talked about early meetings, producers arguing over graphics, and how exhausting it could be to smile before the sun was even fully up. Bucky listened like it mattered. Like you mattered. Every once in a while, you glanced at him as you spoke, checking that he was really there. He was. 

Inside the museum, the space opened up around you. Bucky stood beside you under the spiraling white curves, hands tucked into his coat pockets, head tilted back as he took it in. “Feels like I’m standing inside a thought,” he chuckled.

You laughed as you moved slowly through the exhibits. Sometimes your shoulder brushed his. Sometimes your fingers found his sleeve and stayed there. He didn’t flinch when crowds pressed in, but you noticed him leaning subtly toward you as art curved upward with the building, color and shape unfolding slowly. You walked close, shoulders brushing now and then, never pulling away.

“This one always makes me feel small,” you said, staring at a massive abstract piece. “But not in a bad way.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Like… perspective.”

You glanced at him. “You get it.”

Your fingers slipped around his metal finger without thinking, resting there like it belonged. He froze for half a second before relaxing into it, metal plates humming faintly beneath your touch. 

By the time you stepped back outside, dusk had crept in.

“Do you…” He hesitated, heart racing. “Do you want to come back to my place?”

You didn’t even have to think about it. “Sure.”

—

His apartment felt different the moment you crossed the threshold. You kicked off your shoes, shrugged out of your coat, looked around like you were mapping him through his space. He watched you like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

It didn't matter, anyway. You both barely made it past the hallway.

The second it felt private enough, you pulled Bucky’s lips to yours. This kiss was deeper, more urgent than ever before. His hands found your waist on instinct, pulling you closer as if distance had suddenly become unbearable. There was no hiding behind paper-thin pretenses anymore, not that Bucky ever tried to hide his intentions of why he was bringing you home.

“I just—” He pulled back a fraction, forehead resting against yours, breath uneven. “This is okay, right?”

Your smile was unmistakably sure. “Bucky… yes.”

That was it.

The kiss resumed, heavier now. Your back hit the wall as he pressed into you, then your hands reversed it without thinking, guiding him back until his shoulders met the cool surface instead. Your mouth traced along his chin, down your neck, making him inhale sharply.

You laughed breathlessly when he fumbled with your skirt zipper and the buttons of your blouse. “Hey,” you teased gently. “Still with me?”

“Barely,” he admitted hoarsely.

You helped him, and when his shirt came off, your hands explored him like you were curious, like you wanted to learn. You swallowed, cheeks already tinged with how much you were staring. “I… I have to admit something,” you started, biting your lip like it was the only thing keeping your words from spilling over.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, “Oh yeah?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be too nervous. “At the museum earlier… I kind of wanted to push you up against the wall.”

He froze for a second. Eyes flicked to yours, just the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Really?”

You nodded, heat creeping up your neck. “Yeah. Nothing says art quite like… Bucky Barnes, displayed right next to a Kandinsky. But I didn’t, because… well, public space.”

Bucky’s smile became a shy grin. He pulled you closer, if it was even possible, peppering kisses on your lips. “I think I could’ve handled it,” he said confidently, surprising himself. “Even appreciated it.”

Your stomach flipped. “Bucky—” you whispered, half warning, half pleading.

“Or,” he added, tilting his head, thumb brushing along your side, “we could make tonight a private showing.”

You laughed, breathless and flustered, trying to play it cool but failing spectacularly. “I—uh… I might need a moment to… appreciate the view first,” you said, voice wobbling, teasing, but utterly incapable of hiding the heat in your chest.

Bucky’s grin widened, the kind that promised he knew exactly what he was doing. He was nervous, of course. But now he was motivated, and a motivated Bucky wasn’t something anyone should evertake for granted. He leaned in, forehead resting against yours, lips just brushing your ear. “I think I could make you forget all about appreciating the art.”

And that was it. You were undone.

After that, the bed was a blur. One moment you were pressing him up against the wall, thinking you were in control, the next he was guiding you down with reverent hands. When he landed on the mattress and helped line your waists together as you back to straddle him, the sound he made was wrecked enough to make you gain a bit of your poise back.

“Oh,” you said, almost teasing. “You okay?”

He laughed weakly. “I’m… yeah.”

You leaned down and kissed him again, and it was thorough and devastating. His hands settled at your hips, thumbs digging in like anchors. The world narrowed to the heat pooling down your core and his breath and the way your bodies fit together like they’d been working toward this for weeks.

Later, after riding each other’s high, you lay tangled together beneath the covers, skin warm and limbs heavy.

Bucky stared at the ceiling for a moment, then turned his head toward you.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” you answered, tracing idle patterns along his human arm.

His throat tightened, looking down. You were not just a person on a screen anymore. You were real. And perhaps, you never needed to know otherwise. “I’m really glad I met you.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Me too.”

—

The next morning crept in too early.

Gray-blue light filtered through the curtains, city sounds still half-asleep, the clock on Bucky’s nightstand glowing 6:02 a.m. You stirred awake first, carefully, like you were navigating a minefield instead of a bed.

You slipped one leg out from under the covers, then the other, wincing when the floor felt colder than expected. You reached for your clothes as quietly as possible, gathering them up against your chest, already rehearsing how to disappear without waking him.

It didn’t work. He had super-soldier senses, after all.

“Hey,” Bucky muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

You turned slowly. He was on his side, hair a mess, eyes barely open but already focused on you like you were the most important thing in the room.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He pushed himself up on one elbow. “It’s okay. What time is it?”

“Early,” you said apologetically. You pulled on your blouse, smoothing it down. “I gotta run to work. I texted my coworker to see if I can borrow a blazer and shirt so I don’t have to go back to my place, but I… yeah. I need to go.” You hesitated, then smiled sheepishly. “I was gonna leave you a note.”

You leaned down and kissed him.

When you pulled back, he looked… happy, and awake now. 

“I—” he cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter. “I can drive you? If you want.”

You laughed, warm and fond. “Buck, it’s like three subway stops.”

“Oh,” he said. “Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”

You slipped your bag over your shoulder, then paused at the bedroom door. “Besides,” you added, teasing just a little, “I want you to tune in and watch.”

His heart tried to punch its way out of his chest. He absolutely could not say I do, every morning.

So instead he said, way too casual, “Uh. Okay. It’s… MetroView NY, right? Channel 7?”

You smiled, assuming he knew from picking you up yesterday. “Yeah. That one.”

Nailed it.Totally normal. Definitely not suspicious.

You reached for the door, then stopped when he spoke again.

“Hey… um,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “A couple of my friends are visiting the city tonight. They wanna check out this new dive bar. You… wanna join us?”

You turned back to him, nodding. “Yeah. Of course. Just text me the address and when.”

Relief washed over his face so visibly it made you smile. After what he did to you last night, you found it adorable that he was still kinda flustered.

As he sat straight up, you kissed him once more, quick but affectionate, and whispered, “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

—

Bucky was standing in the kitchen an hour later, coffee gone cold in his hand, shirt tugged on hastily after you left, brain replaying the exact sound of your laugh from the night before like it was on a loop he couldn’t shut off. The apartment smelled faintly like you, and it was doing absolutely nothing to help.

Right on cue, he turned the TV on.

And there you were.

You had bright studio lights on you, a polished smile, hair styled in a way that made it painfully clear you hadn’t been up all night… appreciating art. You greeted the audience like your legs weren’t still wobbly.

“Good morning,” you said cheerfully, standing in front of the weather map. “If you’re heading out early, you’ll want to bundle up, looks like the city’s still riding the weather out today.”

He choked on his coffee.

Riding the weather out. Jesus Christ, in all of his months of watching you on TV, he had never ever heard you say something like that. Especially not after you were on top him like a cowgirl last night. 

But still, it could be a coincidence, right?

You clicked to the next graphic. “Yesterday’s storm cleared beautifully, though. Sometimes all it takes is a little pressure shift to make things fall into place.”

Bucky closed his eyes for half a second.

Pressure shift. It could be totally normal phrase. He was absolutely not thinking about you trailed your hands on his shoulders or the way you’d smiled at him afterward like you knew exactly what you’d done.

“And if you were out enjoying the arts last night, maybe wandering a museum,” you continued smoothly, “you might’ve noticed how the city feels a little less windy. That trend will continue over the weekend.”

He shifted his weight, heat creeping up his neck. 

You gestured toward the screen again. “Today’s actually perfect for something low-key. A walk through the park, maybe. Or checking out a new dive bar while the roads stay clear.”

Bucky stared.

“And for those staying in,” you added, lips twitching just slightly, “it’s a good night for… private showings.”

He let out a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh.

There was no way. No way that was accidental. The camera didn’t catch it, but he did, confirmed now by the quick little glint in your eye before you smiled wide again.

“Whatever you choose,” you finished, “it’s a good day to go out, or stay warm inside. Please plan accordingly, folks!”

Bucky actually laughed this time. 

You signed off like nothing had happened, like you hadn’t just flirted with one specific super-soldier through an FCC-compliant forecast.

He stood there for a long moment, heartbeat loud in his ears, replaying flashes of last night, thinking about the way you’d climbed into his lap like you already knew exactly where you belonged.

His phone buzzed.

You: I kept it professional, but I figured you’d understand the subtext 😇

He huffed out a chuckle.

Bucky: I understood, sweetheart. Loud and clear.

The reply came almost instantly.

You: Good :) 

You: Tonight’s forecast is still open 😉

He stared at the message, warmth spreading through his chest.

—

Later that night, you were at the dive bar a full half hour early, for no reason except for the fact that you had nothing else to do. 

Your apartment had felt too still after you got home, so you’d just changed clothes, stared at yourself in the mirror longer than necessary, and eventually decided that sitting alone with your thoughts was a bad idea.

So here you were.

The bar was comfortably dim, the kind of place that smelled faintly like citrus cleaner and old wood, neon signs humming over shelves of bottles. It wasn’t crowded yet, just a couple of people nursing drinks like they had nowhere else to be.

You slid onto a stool at the bar and ordered a soda. It felt normal. No cameras, just producers in your ear. Just a denim jacket and jeans, a Tool t-shirt, and your hair down the way it never was on air.

You didn’t mind being early. It gave you time to settle.

You’d just unlocked your phone when someone sat on the stool beside you with an audible little gasp. “Oh my god.”

You glanced over, already smiling because… yeah. You knew that tone.

“You’re the weather girl.”

You laughed, and it sounded light. “I am, yeah.”

His face lit up immediately, like he’d just stumbled into a celebrity sighting he hadn’t expected to happen in a dive bar of all places. You never considered yourself a celebrity by any means, well… maybe a local one. “That’s wild. I mean, sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you said, lifting your soda in a small toast. “Happens more than you’d think.”

He laughed, then tilted his head, squinting slightly. “You look… different.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Different how?”

“More real?” He waved a hand vaguely. “Less… map.”

You snorted. “Yeah, the green screen really does a lot of heavy lifting.”

That got a proper laugh out of him. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Joaquin. Nice to meet you.”

You shook it. “Nice to meet you too, Joaquin.”

He seemed genuinely sweet. He was friendly, a little excitable in a way that felt harmless. You chatted idly for a few minutes. About how weird it was being recognized in random places. About how this bar apparently had surprisingly good fries.

Then Joaquin shifted on his stool, suddenly looking like he was working up the nerve to say something.

“So,” he said, lowering his voice just a bit. “This is gonna sound kind of weird.”

You shrugged. “That’s usually how the best conversations start.”

He chuckled, then took a breath. “I have a friend coming in tonight who has… like. A huge crush on you.”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “Oh?”

“Massive,” he said, nodding seriously. “He watches you every morning. Has for… I don’t know. Almost a year, I think.”

You were used to people who knew you, sure, used to people finding comfort in routine, in familiar faces on their screens. There was something sweet about that kind of consistency, but your “fans” usually consist of little kids who wanted to work in broadcasting when they grew up.

“Is he… weird about it?” you asked with an eyebrow raised.

“No,” Joaquin said quickly. “Not at all, I promise. He just has a harmless crush on you. Any chance you’d maybe talk to him? He’d probably die before asking for a photo, but he’d definitely appreciate it.”

You considered it for about half a second.

“Sure,” you said easily. “I can say hi.”

Joaquin’s relief was immediate. “You’re a saint, man.”

He glanced toward the door just as it opened, letting in a rush of cold air and the crowd murmur of the street outside.

“Oh,” he said, pointing. “There he is.”

You followed his gesture.

Oh. 

Bucky Barnes stepped into the bar; shoulders squared, leather  acket pulled close, eyes scanning the room. 

His gaze found Joaquin first.

Then it slid to you, sitting next to him.

The moment recognition hit, it was like watching a system crash in real time.

He froze, just for a beat, but it was enough for his shoulders to go rigid. His steps slowed, face going utterly blank in that way that screamed oh no even if he didn’t say a word.

Joaquin, completely oblivious to the internal apocalypse happening, grinned like he’d just pulled off the greatest surprise of his life.

“That’s him,” he said cheerfully.

You set your side down slowly, eyes never leaving Bucky as he stood there looking like the universe had personally betrayed him.

You smiled fondly, just a little bit confused. “Well,” you whispered, mostly to yourself, “this just got interesting.”

Joaquin didn’t seem to hear. He lifted his arm high, waving enthusiastically over the low din of the bar. “BUCKY!”

Bucky flinched.

Not subtly, either. It was a full-body, caught-off-guard flinch. His eyes darted once more to you before snapping back to Joaquin, as if maybe, maybe, if he didn’t look directly at you again, this would all turn out to be a misunderstanding.

It didn’t.

Joaquin waved again, bigger this time, and patted the empty stool on his other side. “C’mon, man!”

Bucky swallowed and forced his legs to move.

You watched him approach, taking in the way his shoulders were stiff. God, he looked handsome, and for a while you were distracted from the matter at hand. 

You schooled your expression into polite curiosity as he reached the bar.

Joaquin beamed between the two of you. “Okay, Bucky, this is—” He gestured to you dramatically as he nudged his ribs “—well. You know who she is.”

You laughed lightly and turned toward Bucky, offering your hand like you hadn’t already memorized the exact shape of his body.

“Hi,” you said warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

Bucky short-circuited.

His brain screamed. His heart tried to exit his body. His internal monologue dissolved into white noise and regret.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh absolutely not.

His stomach dropped so hard he was pretty sure it hit the floor.

You were acting perfectly casual, perfectly unbothered, like you’d never pressed him against the wall. Like he didn’t know exactly what you sounded like when he reached that sweet spot on your neck. 

Then, you met his gaze and gave the smallest smile, mouthing: Just play along.

Bucky caught it.

And immediately started spiraling worse.

Play along.

Play along with what?

Pretending he didn’t already know how you took your coffee?

Pretending he hadnt gone on four fucking dates with you already?

He stared at your outstretched hand for half a second too long before taking it, his grip careful, respectful, like he was terrified of doing anything wrong.

“Hi,” he said, voice a little too rough. “I’m… uh. Bucky. Nice to meet you too.”

You smiled at him like this was the first time you’d ever seen him, like you hadn’t woken up in his bed that morning.

Perfect.

Joaquin glanced between you, clearly delighted. “See? I told you he was cool.”

You nodded. “He told me you’re a regular viewer.”

Bucky felt his soul leave his body. Fuck.

“I—I mean,” he rushed out, already spiraling, “yeah, but not like—” He stopped himself, swallowed hard. “I just… uh. Mornings. Routine. You’re very… informative.”

Informative.

Jesus Christ.

You tilted your head, amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Joaquin snorted. “Dude watches every morning,” he stage-whispered. “Once, he stayed at Sam’s for work, in Louisiana? He downloaded a VPN to get to a New York server to watch your daily weekday forecast on his phone.”

Bucky shot him a look of pure betrayal. “Joaquin—”

“What?” Joaquin said innocently. “It’s true.”

You laughed again, kind and easy, while Bucky was very very close to jst bolting out of the room.

Then Joaquin checked his phone. “Oh, by the way. Sam texted me. He’s gonna be a bit late.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” Joaquin said. “Some kinda thing came up.” He leaned back on his stool, completely at ease. “So! Guess it’s just us for a bit.”

You smiled at him again, and the weight in his chest eased just a fraction.

He shifted his weight, hands curling into his jacket sleeves.

But as he sat there, pretending this was the first time you’d ever met, Bucky couldn’t shake the thought looping endlessly through his head:

Please don’t think I’m a creep. Please don’t think I’m a creep. Please don’t—

Oh no.

She is definitely gonna think I’m a creep.

She’s gonna think I lied.

She’s gonna think I stalked her.

She’s gonna think I’m one of those guys who shows up to volunteer hoping to “run into” someone from TV.

He nodded anyway. “Y… yeah,” he said, forcing himself to breathe. “Cool. That’s… cool.”

You turned fully toward him now, resting your elbow lightly on the bar. “So,” you said conversationally, “Joaquin tells me you’re a big weather guy.”

Bucky’s ears burned.

“I—uh,” He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just like… knowing what’s coming.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “That makes sense.”

Did it?

Did it really?

Or did you secretly think he was a freak who built his mornings around a woman on a screen and then go looking for her in real life to pretend to to—

Joaquin, entirely unaware of the existential crisis unfolding inches away from him, grinned. “See? He’s harmless.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, heart still racing.

You took a sip of your drink, then glanced at Bucky again, eyes dancing just a little. “So. You a regular here?”

Bucky blinked. She’s flirting. Or pretending to.Or both.

“Uh. No,” he said. “This… opened last week.”

“Mmm,” you hummed thoughtfully, as your knee brushed his under the bar.

Bucky stiffened, heartbeat skyrocketing, every memory of the past few weeks crashing into him all at once: coffee dates, stolen kisses, the way you’d laughed when he got flustered, the fact that you’d already seen him naked and were now acting like this was a meet-cute.

You leaned in slightly, just enough that only he could hear. “You’re doing great,” you whispered. “Relax.”

He nodded immediately. 

You smiled, warm this time, and turned back to Joaquin like nothing had happened.

Bucky let out a shaky breath.

God help him.

If this was him playing along, he didn’t know how much longer his nervous system could survive it.

—

For the next thirty minutes, Joaquin, unfortunately, was having the time of his life.

He leaned back on his barstool like a man who believed that he was orchestrating and wingman-ing his good friend.

“So yeah,” Joaquin said casually, taking a sip of his drink, “Bucky doesn’t watch any other news channel.”

Bucky made a noise somewhere between a cough and a plea for mercy.

You tilted your head, resting your chin on your hand, eyes bright with interest. “Oh?”

Bucky tried to shoot him a warning look, but Joaquin missed it entirely.

“He knows which days you’re on,” Joaquin added. “If you’re off, he gets all grumpy. Pretends he doesn’t care, but—”

“That is not true,” Bucky cut in, face heating fast.

You smiled sweetly. “Really?”

Joaquin nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yeah. He’ll be like, ‘Huh. Must be a guest forecaster today.’ Meanwhile he’s chugging two cups of coffee.”

Bucky pressed his lips together and stared very hard at his glass.

You leaned in just a fraction, curiosity sharpening. “Two, huh?”

“Sometimes more,” Joaquin said, delighted. “Depends.”

Bucky groaned quietly. “Joaquin.”

“What?” Joaquin shrugged. “It’s endearing.”

You hummed, eyes flicking back to Bucky. “Is it?”

Bucky refused to meet your gaze. “I like… knowing what’s coming,” he said again. Weakly. Uselessly.

Joaquin snapped his fingers. “Oh! And the show. He calls it by the full name.”

Your brows lifted. “The full name?”

“Yeah,” Joaquin said. “Morning MetroView Weather Update.”

Bucky winced. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“But that’s what it’s called,” Joaquin insisted. “You correct people when they get it wrong.”

You laughed softly. “Does he, now?”

Joaquin nodded. “One time Sam called it ‘the Channel Seven weather thing’ and Bucky was like—” He straightened, dropping his voice into a hilarious impression, “‘It’s Morning MetroView. It’s different.’”

Bucky buried his face in his hand.

You watched him with open fascination now. “Wow.”

“It’s not—” Bucky tried, then gave up, shoulders slumping. “I just… appreciate accuracy.”

Joaquin pointed at him. “See? Weather guy.”

You smiled, slow and curious. “Anything else he appreciates?”

“Oh!” Joaquin perked up. “The theme song.”

Bucky froze.

“…The theme song?” you echoed.

Joaquin nodded. “He hums it all the time.”

Bucky looked like he might actually pass away.

You stared at Joaquin, then back at Bucky. “You hum the theme song.”

“I do not,” Bucky said weakly.

Joaquin grinned. “You do. It drives me insane on missions sometimes. No offense.”

Your eyes lit up mischievously. “None taken.”

Bucky muttered, “Please stop talking,” as he pressed his forehead to the bar.

You stared at him for a beat, then chuckled. You didn’t laugh loudly or mockingly. Instead, it was a gentle, surprised laugh, like you’d stumbled onto a plot twist you hadn’t expected but appreciated.

“I just…,” you said. “Feel… professionally observed.”

Bucky peeked up at you, horrified. “I swear I wasn’t…  I didn’t— I never. I mean, I wasn’t looking for you. I didn’t even think I’d ever meet you. I just—”

Joaquin checked his phone mid-rant. “Oh, hey. Sam just texted.”

Bucky looked up sharply. “What did he say?”

Joaquin stood, sliding off the stool. “He’s around the block. I’m gonna go meet him outside.”

Relief flooded Bucky’s face, right up until Joaquin pat him on the shoulder.

“You two keep talking,” Joaquin said brightly, then leaned in and winked at Bucky. “I’ll give you space.”

Bucky stared at his retreating back in horror.

You turned back toward him, smile still in place. You said nothing, but your eyes were very, very curious.

Bucky’s silence lasted approximately forty seconds after Joaquin disappeared before absolutely losing the plot.

“I just wanna say,” he started, too fast, hands already coming up like he was surrendering, “I’m not a creep. I swear to God. I didn’t… this wasn’t like a thing I planned or anything. I wasn’t tracking you or showing up places on purpose or—”

You blinked, startled, “Bucky…”

“I know how it sounds,” he rushed on, words tumbling over each other until it blended together now. “Guy watches someone on TV, knows the schedule, hums the theme song…. okay, that part sounds bad when you say it out loud! But it was just routine. It helped me feel normal. And I didn’t know you. I didn’t think I knew you. I never thought you owed me anything, or that you even knew I existed…”

He dragged a hand through his hair, looking up at the bar heavens as though any kind of divine force could save him. 

“I swear I didn’t go to that soup kitchen because of you,” he added, panic in his voice. “That was real. You were just… there. And then you were nice, and kind, and… fuck, I just—please don’t think I’m some creep who built a fantasy in his head.”

You watched him unravel for a few seconds longer before closing the distance before he could spiral any further.

You… kissed him.

It was intentional. You were enough that he could feel the warmth of you, smell your perfume, register the way your hand slid lightly on the front of his chest like you were anchoring yourself there.

He froze for half a second. Then he melted.

When you pulled back, his breathing was uneven, eyes blown wide like he’d just been rebooted.

“I don’t think you’re a creep,” you said, lips still close enough that your words brushed his mouth.

He swallowed hard. “…You don’t?” he asked quietly, almost afraid to hear the answer.

You laughed, thumb tracing the seam of his jacket. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He nodded immediately. Anything to take the pressure off him. “Yeah. Please.”

Your smile turned a little sheepish. “I might’ve had a teeny tiny crush on you, too, way before I first met you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “No way.”

“Way,” you said. “I watched your press conferences all the time.” You rolled your eyes at yourself. “I used to get jealous of my on-field coworkers who got to interview you. I’d be in the studio like, ‘Cool, I’m pointing at a screen while you’re standing five feet away from Bucky Barnes.’”

He let out a stunned laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” you said, amused. “Guess that’s what I get for pursuing meteorology.” You hesitated, before adding, “My parents still have Howling Commandos trading cards in the attic. I found them one summer when I was home from college and absolutely lost my mind.”

He stared at you. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious,” you said. “I thought I had a harmless crush, too. You are… a super soldier, y’know? Avengers-adjacent. No way you’d ever look my way.”

You met his eyes, smile turning shy.

“Well,” you continued, “until… you did.”

Bucky let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s… that’s— wow.”

You smiled. “So.” You nudged his knee lightly with yours. “We’re even.”

Bucky laughed, nose crinkling adorably, “I guess so.”

You leaned in, voice low and teasing now. “We’re really just different sides of the same coin.”

He chuckled, tension finally breaking, shoulders relaxing as his hand slid to your waist like it had always meant to be there.

“You really don’t mind?” he asked, just to be sure.

You smiled, fingers curling into his jacket. “Bucky, you weren’t a creep about it. It’s not like you stalked or harassed me,” you reassured, “and I think… I would very much mind if you stop.”

You kissed him again.

This one was slower, your fingers sliding up into his hair, his human hand firm at your waist like an anchor. Bucky sighed into it helplessly as the bar noise faded into a dull hum. If anyone was watching, neither of you noticed. You were too distracted with each other, loving feeling the smile on his face when you tugged him closer, loving the way he followed your lead.

—

“Dude,” Joaquin said excitedly as he and Sam rounded the corner back toward the bar. “I’m telling you, you are not prepared for this.”

Sam raised a brow. “You say that a lot.”

“No, this is different,” Joaquin insisted. “We saw the weather girl. Y’know, the one Bucky watches.”

Sam stopped short, a grin spread across his face. “Oh. That weather girl.”

“Yes!” Joaquin said. “And Bucky’s talking to her right now.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, that tracks.”

They pushed the door open.

And there you were.

Bucky had your side leaning gently against the bar now, one hand braced beside you, the other warm and familiar at your hip. You were smiling into the kiss like you already knew something the rest of the room didn’t. Bucky looked… relaxed. He looked in a way Joaquin had literally never seen before.

“Oh damn,” Joaquin froze mid-step. “That was quick.”

Sam burst out laughing, slapping Joaquin on the shoulder. “Quick? Man, no.”

He nodded toward the two of you, still very much wrapped up in each other, completely unbothered by your audience.

“They met a couple months ago,” Sam added casually.

Joaquin turned around. “What.”

“There was a blizzard,” Sam said. “Power outages everywhere. Bucky and I volunteered at one of the shelters. She showed up to help, too.”

Joaquin stared at him, almost betrayed. “You knew this?”

Sam shrugged, still smiling. “Didn’t know it’d turn into that, but yeah.”

Joaquin looked back at the bar. He studied the way Bucky’s forehead rested against yours now, kissing your nose adorably.

“Oh,” Joaquin’s eyes widened. “That’s why he was shitting himself.”

Sam snorted. “Yep.”

“He didn’t tell her,” Joaquin whispered, horrified and delighted all at once.

Sam shook his head. “Not a chance.”

Joaquin looked back at the bar, where Bucky had leaned in to murmur something in your ear that made you laugh before pulling him right back in.

“…Wow,” Joaquin said. “They’re just—”

“Yep,” Sam cut in. “Bet they’re gonna be sucking each other’s face off by the end of the night.”

Joaquin laughed, a little awed now. “Good for him.”

“So…” Sam shrugged casually. “Drinks?”

—end.

[superbassbuck]

so, this is love?

pairing: king!bucky barnes x commoner!reader, cinderella au

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, dilf bucky, age gap, burn marks (from fireplace), a man who yearns is a man who earns, smoking, alcohol, misogynistic comments, miscommunication, kinda angsty, jealousy, possessive behavior, virginity loss, sexual tension, banter, semi-public sex, power dynamic, breeding kink, size difference, pet names: "my dear" "sweetheart" "my love"

word count: 19.6k masterlist

a/n: this is my contribution to the bwa fairytale collaboration! i know it's been a while, but i hope the word count for this fic makes up for it! this was the playlist i had on repeat while writing.

synopsis: The Prince of Brooklynne is hosting a grand ball to find a future princess. But when you secretly slip away from your chores to attend, it isn't the Prince’s heart you capture—it’s his father’s, King Barnes.

You retracted your hands the instant the embers made burning contact with your fingertips. You swore quietly to yourself, pulling your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.

You had been burned countless times in this house. Burned while tending the fireplace, burned while cooking, and pricked by splinters from the worn wooden broom. Your life was a cycle of being on your hands and knees, scrubbing every inch of the floor until it was spotless for your step-monsters.

While you nursed your finger to ease the burning pain, your stepmother’s voice, Beatrice, rang from the room just over. She was shouting at the top of her lungs about another party invitation.

“An invitation sent from the palace!” she announced, waving the paper around. “Girls, come here!”

You stayed where you were. You knew better than to approach; when she said “girls,” she meant everyone in the house but you.

The sharp, obnoxious clack of your stepsisters’ heels echoed from the top of the staircase down to the marble floor of the foyer. Their voices were already rising obnoxiously, high enough, you thought, to shatter every piece of glassware in the house. 

“An invitation from the palace?” one of your stepsisters, Agnes, squealed. “Prince Jamie is hosting a ball?”

Your other stepsister, Margaret, gasped so sharply she nearly choked on her own breath. 

“Has the time finally come? Is Prince Jamie finally looking to wed?” Her eyes were wide with excitement as she looked between your stepmother and Agnes. “Is it true, Mother?”

You tilted your head, catching a glimpse of them huddled in a tight circle. Beatrice’s red lips tilted into a wide grin. “It is true, ladies. Your moment has finally arrived. The Prince is looking for a bride—”

“I want to read it!” Margaret exclaimed, lunging for the parchment that Beatrice held just out of reach.

“No, I want to read it! I’m the eldest, it’s only fair!” Agnes argued, reaching over her sister.

“Now, settle down, ladies,” Beatrice cooed, pulling the paper back to her chest and holding it primly. “Why exclude your sister from the fun?”

Beatrice’s gaze drifted past the living room archway, where the fireplace glowed and the furniture sat in pristine order. The warmth she had held for her own daughters vanished the moment her eyes landed on you.

“Stop sucking on your finger like a common infant and come here,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp and cold. “Read the letter to us.” She added, waving the parchment at you.

You stiffened, slowly lowering your hand. You had seen this coming. Every time an invitation arrived, you were forced to read it outloud. It wasn’t that they couldn't read; it was about rubbing salt into the wound. 

These letters always went into agonizing detail about beauty, grace, and royal splendor—things meant to make any girl’s heart soar, and things you were never meant to have.

You were bound to this house, their maid for as long as they allowed you to live.

“Your father taught you well before he passed, didn’t he?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. It wasn't a sincere question; it was a reminder of what you had lost. “Read it clearly. I want to hear every single detail of the King’s requirements.”

You stood quickly, your legs wobbly from kneeling on the hard floor for so long. Wiping your hands on your soot-stained apron, you crossed the room. As you reached for the parchment, the coarse paper grazed your injury and agitated the burn on your fingertips, making you flinch slightly.

“Well?” Agnes prodded, leaning in so close you could smell her cloying floral perfume. “Don’t just stare at it!” 

You cleared your throat, your voice sounding small and raspy against the high-ceiling room.

“By Royal Decree of His Majesty,” you began, trying to focus on the elegant calligraphy instead of the throbbing pain in your finger. “To the noble families and citizens of the kingdom, you are cordially invited to a Grand Masquerade Ball at the Palace, to be held on the final Saturday of the Harvest Moon.” 

Margaret let out a squeal, but a look from Beatrice silenced her immediately. 

“The festivities shall begin at sundown,” you continued, “It is the King’s wish that every eligible young woman in the province attend, for on this night, Prince Jamie shall choose the one who will stand by his side as the future Princess of Brooklynne.” 

The room went deathly silent for a heartbeat before the sisters erupted. They squealed and hollered, clutching each other's hands and jumping in circles. But your eyes remained fixed on the final line, written in a large, aggressive script at the bottom. 

You read it under your breath, quietly to yourself.

“… attendance is mandatory for all households…” 

Agnes and Margaret were too busy celebrating to heed your words. “That means the entire province! Mother, we’ll have to stand out. We’ll need the finest silk and the most intricate masks!”

Beatrice ignored her daughters, her gaze fixed solely on you. She reached out and snatched the letter back, her sharp nails grazing your burned skin. You hissed a breath through your teeth, clutching your hand to your chest.

“Mandatory for noble households,” Beatrice corrected cruelly. “I’m sure the palace wouldn’t want the ballroom floor stained by the soot of a kitchen maid.”

“Mother, may we please go dress shopping now?” Margaret begged, clutching her mother’s arm and bouncing impatiently. “We must get the finest gowns before anyone else does! We have to absolutely stand out.” She turned to Agnes, her eyes gleaming. “Isn’t that right, sister?”

Agnes nodded quickly, her hair whipping. “Absolutely! We can’t risk looking like commoners. We need to be the center of attention the moment we step into that ballroom!”

“Very well,” Beatrice sighed. “We shall leave today. There is no time to waste if we are to secure the best seamstress in Brooklynne.” 

The sisters shrieked happily, already rushing towards the door to grab their cloaks. But before Beatrice followed them, she paused. She turned back to look at you, her gaze cold and belittling, as if you were nothing more than a speck of dirt on her rug.

Her eyes grazed over the room, landing on a stray speck of ash near the baseboards. 

“While we are gone, I expect the house to be spotless by the time we get home,” she demanded. “That means the floors waxed, the silver polished, and the laundry pressed. If I find so much as a single ember out of place in that fireplace when I return, you will find yourself sleeping in the stable tonight.”

When the doors finally slammed shut, leaving you alone in the silence of the massive house, that is exactly what you did. 

While your step-family was out hunting for the finest silks, you spent the day bent over a scrub brush. You deep-cleaned their bedrooms, waxed the floors until your knees were bruised and aching, and scoured the silverware until it shined like a mirror.

As you swept the house from top to bottom, your mind kept wandering back to that final sentence in the invitation.

Attendance is mandatory for all households.

You had read countless invitations in your life, yet none of them had ever included those specific words—much less a direct command from the King himself. If the decree was absolute, what would happen if you, a member of this household, failed to attend?

Beatrice had married your father before he passed, and despite her cruelty, the law saw you as family. You were a member of the household, not a servant. You weren’t just a maid; you were a daughter of the house. 

And if the King demanded every eligible woman be there… perhaps Beatrice’s ‘rules’ were no match for the King’s law?

No. 

It was silly to indulge in such foolishness. 

Beatrice would never let you leave this house unless you were hanging laundry, tending the gardens, hauling bags after their shopping sprees, or feeding the chickens.

But after spending the day scouring the house until it was immaculate, and considering the King’s explicit command, surely… she would let you attend. Even if it were just for one night. Right? You had been a good girl. You had done everything they asked of you.

With hesitant footsteps, you retreated to your basement chambers and dug deep into the shadows of your closet. Pushing past the clothes stained with soot and grime, you reached into the very back and pulled out a neatly wrapped box.

The moment you lifted the lid, the familiar aroma of dried lavender drifted up to meet you. 

Nestled neatly inside was your mother’s gown, a dress she had tucked away and passed on to you for a momentous occasion that had yet to arrive.

You pulled it out, the fabric shimmering even in the dim light of the basement. It was beautiful and uniquely your mother’s. You remembered how your father had lavished her with the finest gowns when you were young, and you had always dreamed of finding someone who loved you enough to do the same.

Stripping away your rags, you stepped into the dress.

You expected it to be too loose or too tight, but as you pulled up the bodice and fumbled with the fastenings, you gasped. It fit almost perfectly like a glove, though you struggled to lace the back properly by yourself. Still, the silk hugged your waist and flowed over your hips as if the gown had been designed for your body alone.

Standing before the small, cracked mirror, you didn’t see a housemaid. 

You saw a girl who rightfully belonged in this house—or even a palace, if only you knew how to do your hair.

You smiled softly at your reflection, your cheeks warming at the sight. For once in your life, you finally felt beautiful. And if the King insisted that every member of the household attend, then you were going. 

You were actually going to the ball. 

Suddenly, the front door swung open. Beatrice, Agnes, and Margaret burst inside, their heels clicking against the floor. Their obnoxious laughter echoed all the way down to the basement where you stood. 

“Where is she?” Beatrice barked impatiently, already expecting you to greet them at the door—likely to bring their bags to their room. 

You scrambled up the basement stairs, the long silk hem bunching in your hands as you moved. You rounded the corner into the foyer, nearly bumping into the wall, just as Beatrice was peeling off her leather gloves. Agnes and Margaret were already surrounded by a sea of colorful shopping bags, tossing aside the tissue paper like spoiled children.

“I’m here!” you called out, catching your breath. 

The three of them froze. 

The rustling of their shopping bags ceased instantly at the sight of you. Beatrice turned slowly, her eyes traveling from your face down to the shimmering hem of your mother’s gown, her expression cold and unreadable. 

“What,” Beatrice hissed, her voice unsettlingly low, “are you wearing?”

You looked down at yourself. “It was my mother’s,” you said softly, stepping into the light of the chandelier. “I’ve finished every chore you set for me. The house is spotless. And since the King’s invitation said attendance is mandatory for every member of the household…” you stood as tall as you could, despite the way your hands trembled, “I’ve decided I’m coming with you.”

The house went silent as they stared back at you, wide-eyed.

For a moment, you half-expected them to agree—to accept your declaration and welcome you with open arms. But the moment the sisters erupted into laughter, you realized just how naive you had been.

“You? In that relic?” Agnes laughed. “You look like a ghost that’s been trapped in an attic for twenty years!” 

Margaret scrunched up her nose. “And that smell—it smells like rotten fruit. Do you honestly think the Prince would want to dance with someone who reeks like that?”

“You’re right, sister. It’s unbearable,” Agnes agreed, nodding.

You bit your lip. You would think that for girls who lathered themselves in expensive floral perfumes, they’d at least recognize the scent of dried lavender.

“Now, settle down, girls,” Beatrice intervened. “There is no need to insult your sister when she’s spent all this time trying to make herself look... pretty.”

She began to walk towards you, the slow clicking of her heels sounding like a death knell against the marble. A taunting smile played on her thin lips as she circled you. 

“Turn around,” she commanded. “Let me get a good look at the bodice.”

You obeyed, your heart beating faster as you felt her cold presence behind you. 

Because you had scrambled to get ready in such a rush, the delicate lace in the back was a tangled mess of knots and uneven loops. You had tried your best to tie the bodice alone, but it was clear you had failed.

“Poor thing,” Beatrice cooed, her breath cold against the nape of your neck. “You can’t even get the dress on right. You look quite pathetic, actually.” She looked over her shoulder at her daughters, her eyes glinting. “Girls, be saints and help your poor sister, would you?”

Agnes and Margaret shared a look, their lips curling into identical, malicious smirks. “Okay, Mother,” they sang in unison.

They stepped forward, and your naivety got the best of you once again. You actually thought they might reach for the laces to tighten them. But as their hands clamped onto your shoulders, you realized for the second time just how wrong you were—and how low they were willing to stoop to make your life miserable.

A sickening tear echoed through the foyer as Agnes’s fist tightened around your silk sleeve, yanking until the seam burst.

“This lace is far too old!” Margaret hissed. She grabbed the delicate ruffle at your neckline, tearing it away with a sharp, violent tug. “It’s doing you no favors!”

“Stop! Please!” you cried, spinning around to protect the last piece of your mother you had left, but they were like a pack of wolves, their hands biting at you to shred the silk.

Both sisters refused to stop until the shimmering silk was reduced to hanging ribbons. They pulled and yanked frantically, their faces flushed with the thrill of destroying the only beautiful thing you owned. The delicate lace your mother had saved for years was now scattered across the marble floor like dead leaves.

Only when there was nothing left to tear did the sisters finally grow bored. They stepped back, wearing smug grins as you collapsed onto your knees.

You didn’t bother trying to get back up, because you knew they’d only kick you back down. 

You just stayed there on the cold floor, fingers trembling as you clutched the tattered scraps of the skirt to your chest, trying to shield the small bits of fabric that still smelled of lavender. The tears finally broke, blurring your vision as you sobbed into the ruins of your only treasure.

Beatrice stood over you, adjusting her pristine shawl. She looked down at your heaving shoulders with cold, clinical detachment. She wouldn’t even give you the pleasure looking a bit guilty; there was only the grim pleasure of a lesson well taught.

“I hope this will make you think twice before asking to attend the ball,” she said. “Or any ball, for that matter. We did you a favor by taking you in after your father passed. Do not mistake a few yards of silk for a change in your station.”

She turned to her daughters, her voice light as if she hadn't just destroyed a young girl’s heart. 

“Come, girls. Let’s go try on your new accessories.”

As the three of them began trekking up the stairs, their laughter echoing in the foyer, Beatrice looked back down at you one last time. 

“And don’t forget to clean up this mess.”

It was the day before the Grand Masquerade Ball, and Bucky found himself strolling through a narrow cobblestone alley, far from the gilded gates and suffocating comfort of the palace. He didn’t look like a King today. He had traded his heavy ceremonial robes for simple cotton clothes and a cloak to shield his face. 

Through a small window, he watched as an elderly woman— his late mother’s dearest friend—threaded a needle with trembling hands.

As he pushed the front door open, a bell jingled overhead. The seamstress didn’t even need to look up to know it was him.

“You shouldn’t be here, Bucky,” Martha sighed, pushing up her circular glasses. “The Royal Guard will have a collective heart attack if they find you’ve slipped away from your duties again.”

“They worry too much,” Bucky replied, his voice a low, tired rasp as he lowered his cloak.

He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her worktable. 

“The palace is suffocating, Martha. Everyone there is wearing a mask long before the ball even begins. I needed to see someone who would give me a breath of fresh air.”

“Ah, Bucky. Always the charmer,” Martha chuckled. “You and Rogers haven’t changed one bit. I bet Prince Jamie is starting to grow up just as you have.”

“My son,” Bucky groaned, dragging a tired hand over his face. He looked every bit the weary father and not the formidable King of Brooklynne. 

“He is moving far too fast to find a wife,” he complained. “My father always pushed me to wed as soon as I could—it was all about the line of succession and political alliances. Jamie should be lucky I’m giving him some slack, but instead, he’s rushing headfirst into it as if he owes the kingdom a debt.”

Martha smiled softly, her needle never stopping through the fine silk. “He’s just trying to make you proud, Bucky. He sees the way you carry the responsibilities of this kingdom alone, and he thinks having a Princess by his side is how he proves he’s ready to help you.”

Bucky scoffed. “The kid has no idea that the wrong partner is only going to be a burden. Half the women coming tomorrow wouldn’t know a plow from a pincushion. They want the crown, not the duty.”

He rubbed the tense lines between his brows, already agitated by the thought. 

“I made sure to state in the decree that attendance is mandatory for all households. I’m hoping to find someone who hasn’t spent her whole life rehearsing to wed my son. But I fear Lady Beatrice and her ilk have already decided the outcome. They’ve been flooding the palace with letters.”

Martha opened her mouth to speak, your father’s name on the tip of her tongue, but she was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.

You stepped inside, your silhouette framed by the sun poking through the open windows and doors. You looked utterly spent, your shoulders tense as your arm tiredly held up a heavy wicker basket filled with various produce. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Martha,” you said, breathless. “The mistress had extra chores for me today. I’m here for the gowns for Lady Beatrice and her daughters.”

Bucky quickly turned away, his shoulders stiffening at the dreadful and familiar name. He forced his fingers busy, brushing through the fabric swatches pinned to the wall to keep himself discreet. 

“It’s no problem at all, dear,” Martha smiled warmly. “They’re in the back. Let me get them wrapped up for you.”

She gave Bucky a small wary glance before turning away, pulling the heavy curtains aside to retreat into the back of the shop.

With Martha gone, an awkward silence took over the shop, aside for the bustle of the street outside. Your eyes subtly drifted towards the only man in the store. 

It wasn’t often you saw a man at a seamstress shop. He was a bit older, perhaps he was a butler picking up clothes for a household, or a father stopping by to commission a dress for his daughter?

Bucky’s gaze caught yours as he peeked from the corner of his eye, and you immediately looked away, your face flushing with embarrassment. 

Not wanting to be caught staring again at the stranger, you began to roam the small space, your fingers hovering just over the vibrant dresses on display.

You admired them quietly, your eyes lingering on a soft, almost sky blue fabric that reminded you of your mother’s dress—the one you had lost only nights before. A small, wistful sigh escaped your lips. 

To anyone else, these were just clothes. But to you, they represented a world you were no longer allowed to inhabit.

Bucky watched you, his heart tugging with sympathy at the way you looked at the dress. He cleared his throat, the sound feeling loud in the cramped room.

“Are you picking up a dress for yourself?” he asked carefully, his gaze still fixed on the fabrics in front of him. “For the ball tomorrow night, I presume?”

You jumped slightly, nearly knocking over a mannequin as you whipped around to face him. 

“Oh—no, sir. I’m just picking up the dresses for my step-sisters,” you said, forcing an awkward smile. “They’ll be the ones attending the ball. Not I.”

Bucky raised a brow, turning his body slightly to look at you. “But the decree said attendance is mandatory for all households,” he explained. “Does that not apply to you?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh that held no joy. 

“The Royal Barnes family is a busy lot, sir. I doubt the King or the Prince will notice if one woman from one house is missing. Besides, he likely meant the families... not the help.”

Bucky lifted his head slightly, amused. He paused, waiting to see if you would recognize the face on the coins in your pocket, or the man from the portraits in the village square. But your expression didn’t change; you simply looked tired.

“The help?” he repeated, his brow furrowing as he leaned back against the table. “But you said they were your stepsisters, did you not? That makes you family, regardless of the chores they set for you.”

You adjusted the heavy wicker basket to your other hip, raising a brow. You didn’t know who this man was, but his insistence on “family” was a luxury you couldn’t afford—and his assumptions about you only made him come across as hopelessly ignorant.

“I’m not sure how things are handled in your home, sir,” you said, a bit sassier than you’d like. “But not every household in Brooklynne can afford a fleet of servants. Sometimes, it is up to one of us to make sure the fires are lit and the floors are scrubbed. And that person just happens to be me.”

Bucky blinked, genuinely taken back. 

Usually, people spoke to him in hushed, respectful tones or with forced flattery. He wasn’t used to being corrected, let alone by a girl with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and rags for clothes. A low, rich laugh resonated in his chest—a sound that felt far too sophisticated for a simple stranger in a cramped tailor shop.

“Fair point,” he conceded, his lips curving into a genuine smile. “I suppose I deserved that. It was a foolish question. I apologize.”

As he tilted his head back to let out a soft chuckle, you caught a glimpse of his strikingly handsome features.

There was something hauntingly familiar about him—but with his slightly messy hair, tired eyes, and simple clothes, you couldn't quite place where you had seen him before. All you knew was that he was undeniably attractive, and that was more than enough to make your heart skip a beat.

You relaxed your shoulders and smiled back at him. 

“Kind of,” you teased, which only made his smile grow wider. “But you’re forgiven.”

The shop fell quiet again. You expected him to return back to his fabrics or even leave the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, his gaze still on you. 

Feeling a bit self-conscious under his stare, you turned back to the display, trying to keep your hands busy. You ran your fingers down the skirt of the sky blue gown, tracing the fine embroidery.

“That’s a beautiful dress,” Bucky said suddenly. “You should try it on.”

You glanced at him, brows raised in surprise. You couldn’t tell if he was poking fun at you or if he was being serious. You let out a short, airy laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re very funny, sir,” you chuckled respectfully, taking a step away from the mannequin and back to the counter, setting your basket down. “I don’t think a girl like me would do a gown like that any justice. Besides, I have a schedule to keep.”

You expected him to join in on the joke, but when your eyes found his again, his expression was completely serious. His eyes were blue, quiet, and intense, and it only making the tense air in the shop thicken.

Just then, the heavy curtains parted and Martha finally stepped out, balancing the three voluminous garment bags for your sisters. Before you could even reach for them, Bucky spoke up, his voice suddenly carrying an authority that hadn’t been there before.

“Martha,” Bucky said, gesturing toward the sky blue gown you had been admiring. “She would like to try this dress on.”

You blinked, stunned. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh. Let me correct myself,” Bucky cleared his throat. “I want her to try this dress on.” 

Martha paused, looking between Bucky’s stern expression and your panicked one. Then, a slow smile spread across her weathered features. She set the garment bags down on the counter and began to round the desk.

“Is that so?” Martha hummed, her eyes twinkling as she looked at you. “Well, who am I to argue with a gentleman’s request? Especially one with such good taste.” 

“Martha, please,” you whispered, catching her arm as your face heated up. “The mistress will be expecting me. I have to get back!”

“The mistress can wait ten minutes for her vanity,” Martha countered, already reaching for the dress and lifting it from the display. She turned to you, her expression softening almost motherly-like. “Let’s see you in the light for once, dear. No more rags and dull dresses that are too big for you. Just for one moment.”

“Martha, I couldn’t possibly—”

Before you could even finish the sentence, she seized your wrist. The elderly woman’s grip was surprisingly strong as she began dragging you towards the changing rooms in the back. She even hoisted the heavy silk gown over one arm as if it weighed nothing at all.

You found yourself stumbling along behind her, barely able to steady your footing as she steered you away from the shop floor and towards the back of the shop to the changing rooms. 

As you were being hauled away, you managed to look back over your shoulder, shooting a sharp glare at the stranger who had started this whole ordeal.

Bucky didn’t look even remotely guilty. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his ankles and folding his arms over his chest. As Martha dragged you toward the back, he simply let out a soft snicker, his eyes filled with mischief as he gave you a small, teasing wave until you disappeared behind the heavy velvet curtains.

Once inside, Martha wasted no time. She stripped you of your potato sack of a dress and began guiding you into the silk. 

“Stop wiggling, child,” she commanded softly. “You’ll look so beautiful in this, darling. I assure you.”

“That’s not my worry,” you muttered, your shoulders stiff. “The dress is gorgeous, and I know I’ll fall in love with it the second it’s on. It just hurts knowing I have no money to buy it—and no occasion to wear it to. This is all pointless, Martha.”

Martha didn’t answer; she simply helped your arms through the puffy, delicate sleeves. 

She didn’t even need to finish tying the laces for you to get the full picture—the gown was absolutely breathtaking. You shuddered as she laced the back carefully, the bodice molding to your frame as if the dress was woven specifically for your body.

That heart clenching realization, that you had neither the coin nor the freedom to ever truly own this, only returned tenfold.

“Seriously,” you sighed, a sad, bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you looked at your reflection. “What was that man thinking?”

Martha chuckled softly as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. She leaned in close, studying your eyes through the mirror’s reflection.

“I think,” Martha whispered, “that man was thinking that a beautiful dress is just fabric until it’s worn by the most beautiful girl in the kingdom.”

The compliment made your heart flutter, though you quickly tried to brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “He’s a stranger, Martha. He’s probably just bored and looking for a way to pass the time while his own clothes are being mended.”

Martha just smiled, shaking her head as she bent down to adjust the hem of the gown. As you stared at yourself in the mirror, your mind wandered back to the familiarity of the man in the other room. You recognized him—surely—though you couldn’t quite pin down where from, and the mystery was eating at you.

“Speaking of that man… how do you know him?” you asked suddenly.

Martha lifted her head to give you a knowing, secretive smile, and your face immediately flushed. You realized how hopeless you had sounded asking that. 

“I-I mean,” you stammered, “I’ve just never seen him walking the streets before, is all. I was curious.”

Martha gave the hem of the dress one last fluff and stood up with a small groan.

“How I know him?” Martha repeated, letting out a soft hum as if trying to buy herself time to come up with an explanation. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. A very long standing connection, you could say. He’s a good man—extraordinarily hardworking. A father, too. He carries the burdens of his entire household on those broad shoulders of his.”

A father?

Your shoulders deflated just a little, the magic of the blue silk losing a bit of its luster. Of course he was a father. A man that handsome, that observant, and that commanding was bound to have a wife and a brood of children waiting for him in some cozy cottage. It explained the tired eyes and tense shoulders you had noticed earlier.

You looked down at the faint burn marks on your hands, suddenly feeling foolish for the way your heart had been racing. 

“Oh. Well... his children and wife are lucky to have such a dedicated provider.”

Martha noticed the sudden change in your posture immediately. A small, reassuring smile spread across her face as she leaned in closer.

“He is quite dedicated. Though, he’s doing it all on his own these days. He’s a widower, you see. Quite single. And I imagine he’s been very lonely in that very big, and very empty house of his.”

Your head snapped towards her, breaking eye contact with the reflection to look at her face-on. Your cheeks burned hot in a matter of seconds.

“Martha!” you hissed, embarrassed by how easily she had read you.

There was a soft knock against a wall, and you went silent the instant you realized Bucky was standing just outside the curtains.

“Martha, I’ll be leaving soon,” his voice came in, closer than you expected. “But I’d like to see that dress on the maiden before I—”

Before you even had time to react, Martha reached for the velvet and swept it aside swiftly. She stepped out of the way, leaving you completely exposed to Bucky’s view. 

You immediately straightened your spine, your heart beating faster in your chest as you were barely mentally prepared to face yourself in the mirror, let alone reveal yourself to him.

Bucky felt like the air had been physically knocked out of his lungs once he saw you. He didn’t move an inch, nor even blink. And for a long moment, he didn’t even breathe. 

He was the King of Brooklynne—a man who gave speeches to thousands and commanded armies—yet, staring at you, his words failed him. You stood there with a faint smudge of charcoal on your nose and messy strands of hair framing your face, and he was defenseless. 

He had seen a thousand women in fine gowns, but he had never truly seen a fine woman in a gown.

Your hands came up to bunch the shimmering blue fabric of the skirt, lifting it just an inch off the floorboards. You looked everywhere but at him—the spools of thread, Martha’s shoes—before finally forcing your eyes back to his.

“Well?” you whispered, the word barely catching in your throat. “Is it as you expected, sir?”

Bucky finally blinked, snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, his face flushing a deep, sudden red.

“It’s, uh...” he started, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it deeper. “It’s very... blue.”

You tilted your head, a little confused. You had gone through the effort of putting this dress on at his demand, and all he had was to point out the color? 

“Blue?” you frowned.

“Yes. Blue,” he repeated, nodding far too many times. He seemed to realize how pathetic that sounded and tried again, gesturing vaguely with his hands.

“And it’s... it fits. The parts of the dress,” he motioned toward the bodice, “they fit your... body well. I mean—you look... not like a maid at all. Which is... good. Very good.”

You and Martha just blinked at him.

Bucky looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him whole right up until a soft giggle bubbled up in your chest, escaping before you could stop it.

The sight of this large, commanding man, who looked so tired and overworked, being reduced to a stammering mess over the color of a dress was almost ridiculous. Yet, seeing him like this only made you fonder. 

“I’m glad you approve of the color, sir,” you teased with a bright smile. “I can only imagine the insults you’d say if the dress had been green.”

Bucky’s ears turned an even more embarrassing shade of crimson. He looked at Martha, who was shamelessly enjoying his suffering with a snicker, and then back at you. He looked completely out of his depth, his usual stoic composure deserted him entirely.

“Right. Yes. Well,” he muttered, taking a step back until he nearly hit the wall. “I must get going. I have... uh, matters to attend to.”

He turned to Martha, his voice suddenly regaining that same authority he had used when he insisted you try the gown on. “Martha, wrap this up for her. Make sure it’s packed carefully.”

“I’m sorry—what?” your eyes went wide, and you let out a disbelieving laugh. “Sir, you can’t possibly—”

The words—the protests that you couldn’t afford it, that your stepmother would never allow it—were immediately cut off the moment Bucky stepped closer. He caught your hand in his and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your breath shuddered in your chest. It had been a long time since a gentleman had greeted you with such grace, not since your father had passed.

“I…” you tried to break the tense silence, but your voice failed you as Bucky’s face pulled away from your hand and something else caught his attention.

Carefully, he turned your palm upward, his thumb tracing the old burn marks that tainted your skin with a gentle touch that made your heart beat even faster. 

With his head still bowed, his eyes slowly drifted up to meet yours. You felt goosebumps trail over your skin as he stared at you so intently. He parted his lips as if to speak, but he hesitated, and no words came out. 

What happened? 

How’d you get these burn marks? 

You figured he’d ask, but he didn’t. 

Instead, his grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of a pain he seemed to recognize all too well. He finally broke his gaze, turning his head to Martha without letting go of your hand just yet.

“On my dime, Martha,” he stated. His tone was final, leaving no room for argument. “Everything. The gown, the alterations, the shoes. All of it.”

“Sir, please, I can’t accept—”

Bucky stepped back, his eyes searching yours one last time. This time, there was no more stuttering, no more awkward talk about the color of the fabric. There was only the confidence of a man who was used to being obeyed.

“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night,” he said. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a vow.

Before you could find the words to tell him you couldn’t even go, he turned on his heel. He moved quickly, pulling his cloak over his head as he pushed through the shop door and into the busy street. 

The bell rang out, leaving you standing in the center of the shop in a gown worth more than your life, blinking as you watched him disappear around the corner through the shop windows.

Martha let out a long, theatrical sigh behind you. “Well,” she spoke, her voice gleeful. “What a charming man, isn’t he?”

She walked over, her boots thumping softly on the hardwood as she began to inspect the stitching of your bodice one last time.

“I take it he’s rather fond of you,” she teased, her voice a little playful. “A man doesn’t pay for royal silk and French lace on a whim, dear.”

“Enough with your foolishness, Martha,” you shook your head, trying to keep calm despite your frantic heart beating. 

You looked down at your hands—at the skin he had just graced with his lips and the scars he had traced with such tenderness you’ve never felt before. 

“He’s only doing it because he pities me. He saw a girl in rags and felt a momentary lapse of charity.”

You smoothed the silk over your hips, the fabric cool and.. almost mocking beneath your scarred fingers. “Besides... a man like that? A man with that kind of presence, that kind of look? He belongs in the stories you tell children. A woman like me can only dream of someone like him.”

Martha stopped her work and stood tall, placing her hands on your shoulders. She looked at you through the mirror, her eyes bright with wisdom that felt older than the shop itself.

“A dream is a wish your heart makes, my girl,” she whispered, her voice warm and melodic. “And if you wish hard enough, the universe has a funny way of making sure your heart gets exactly what it wants.”

You looked at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in blue silk, and let out a tired sigh. 

“I’ve been dreaming for a long time now, Martha.” You forced yourself to look away from the mirror. “They don’t come true.”

It was the night of the ball, and the house was unnervingly silent only after the whirlwind of your sisters’ screaming and your stepmother’s frantic demands had finally vanished behind the rattle of a carriage.

They were currently dancing on polished marble floors, while you were on your knees, the scent of lye and old wood filling your lungs. When you had arrived home from the shop yesterday, it was a miracle you managed to sneak the dress into your closet without Beatrice and her gremlins noticing. They had been so preoccupied with their own vanity that they mistook your large garment bag for a pile of clean, pressed laundry.

With the dress hidden away and quietly taunting you in its small corner of the house, the memory of the man’s voice kept echoing in your mind, drowning out the scraping of your scrubbing brush.

“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”

You thought about his hands—how large they were compared to yours, yet how carefully he had handled you. 

He hadn’t looked at your burns with disgust. 

He had looked at them with pain and deep sympathy. 

It was a look you didn’t get often—not from your family, and certainly not from strangers.

You tried to imagine him in that crowded ballroom; a widowed father standing awkwardly by the refreshments, looking out of place in a room full of preened lords. You imagined him fumbling over his words while trying to flatter the high born ladies, just as he had fumbled with you. 

You couldn’t help but let out a soft snicker at the thought.

You looked down at your current state—dull dress, a darkly stained apron, hair tied back with a piece of frayed twine. 

The beautiful gown was sitting just a few feet away, a masterpiece bought on his coin, haunting you. 

If you went, you risked everything. 

If you stayed, you would spend the rest of your life wondering if he had actually waited for you near the entrance, looking for a girl who never showed up. You would spend the rest of your life wondering if you would ever see him again.

As the clock on the mantle ticked, it was like something clicked inside of you as well. 

You dropped the brush into the bucket with a splash. You knew you couldn’t stay. Even if it was only for an hour—even if you had to run back before the clock struck twelve and return to this life of ash and dirt—you had to know why a man like that looked at you as if you were something special.

You scrambled to the basement, your breath hitching as you hauled the dress from its hiding place.

You removed your dress with urgency, but the second you stepped into the blue silk, realization hit you hard. 

You didn’t know why you had expected the gown to fit as perfectly as it had in the shop. And without help, the luxury felt like a mockery. 

This wasn’t a fairy tale—it was a logistical nightmare. You couldn’t reach the laces in the back, and the more you tugged, the more the bodice sat lopsided and gaping against your skin. You tried to pin your hair up, but the strands were limp and dull, escaping the pins and falling into your eyes.

“No, no, no!” you whispered, hot tears of frustration pricking your eyes. 

You looked like exactly what you were. A servant girl playing dress-up.

Grabbing a heavy, hooded travel cloak, you threw it over your half fastened gown, cinching the hood tight to hide your disastrous hair and face. You burst out the back door and ran. You ran until your lungs burned and your feet ached, through the dark alleys and over the cobblestones until you reached Martha’s shop.

The ‘open’ sign was being flipped just as you reached the glass. Martha was reaching for the lamp, her coat already draped over her shoulders as she was preparing to leave. 

“Martha!” you cried in a panic, slamming your palm against the door. “Martha, please!”

The older woman froze, her eyes widening as she recognized you through the glass. She fumbled with the locks and pulled you inside, the bells on the door jangling frantically.

“Child, what in heaven’s name—”

You threw back your cloak, revealing the tangled laces and the disheveled dress underneath. “I can’t do it! I… I can’t get the laces right. My hair is a mess, and I look like a fool. Please, Martha. You said the heart gets what it wants, but my hands can’t even help make it happen!”

“Hush now,” Martha reassured. “We have no time for tears. Stand on the pedestal. Feet apart, shoulders back.”

The minute you stood on the pedestal, her hands wasted no time as her fingers flew over the laces, tightening the bodice until it sat perfectly against your waist. She did you hair into a neat, sophisticated style that was a far difference from how it was before. Then, with a damp cloth, she wiped away the tears from your cheeks and applied subtle touches of makeup that highlighted your best features, making your eyes shimmer in the warm overhead light.

She knelt before you, taking your tired, aching feet and slipping them into heels so clear and pristine that it looks like it could be made out of glass. 

Finally, Martha reached into a velvet-lined drawer and pulled out a pair of pristine, elbow-length white gloves. She took your hands gently, smoothing the cool fabric over your fingers and up your arms. She paused for a moment as she tucked the silk over your palms, ensuring the scars were completely hidden from view.

“There,” she breathed, patting your hands. “Can’t have these burn marks showing off at the royal palace now, can we?”

You stared at your reflection, breathless. The girl in the mirror didn’t look like she had spent the morning scrubbing a hearth or weeping in a basement. 

She looked like she belonged in a palace.

“Martha, I… thank you—”

“Oh! Before I forget…” Martha took a step back and hurried to the rear of the shop, rummaging through a hidden chest. You waited until she finally stepped back out holding a mask.

She had several masks displayed throughout the store, but you had never seen this one. It was ethereal, made with such delicate detail that it looked like it was made to go hand-in-hand with your dress.

Martha held the mask up to the light, its delicate silver filigree shimmering like frost against the dim shop interior.

“It’s a masquerade ball, isn’t it?” Martha asked knowingly, stepping forward to carefully tie the silk ribbons behind your head. 

When the knot was secure, she stepped back to look at you, her eyes softening. “My darling,” she sighed wistfully. “You look beautiful.” 

A lump formed in your throat, and you parted your lips to speak, ready to drown her in a sea of gratitude. But before a single word could escape, the clock above the dresser ticked—a sharp, metallic strike that made Martha’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.

“The late-arrival carriages are passing through the square right now,” she informed you, already ushering you toward the door with a sudden burst of energy. “If you miss them, you’ll be walking three miles in glass slippers, and I didn’t spend my after hours getting you dressed up just for you to ruin the hem in the mud.”

“Martha, I truly don’t know how to—”

“Don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Martha interrupted, her voice softening as she gave your gloved hand a final, affectionate squeeze.

She looked at you not as a seamstress looking at a client, but with the pride of someone watching a long held wish finally take flight. 

“Just go. Enjoy yourself—that’s the best way you can thank me,” she smiled with a wink. “And don’t you dare come back until you’ve danced at least once.”

Bucky stood on the dais, his back straight and his expression stern, though his mind was miles away from the gilded splendor of the ballroom.

He felt more restless than he usually did at these gala affairs. With one hand tightened around a wine glass, his eyes tracked his son, Prince Jamie, who was doing his best to look interested while cornered by a pair of sisters in the center of the dance floor.

Jamie was a good kid, and it usually wasn’t difficult for the average woman to capture his attention, yet Bucky could see the way his son’s jaw clenched as the two women flitted their fans and chirped in high, piercing voices.

Agnes and Margaret. Bucky remembered them from previous balls and the overwhelming mountain of letters they had mailed to the palace—all of which hadn’t bothered reading.

He knew it was his duty, not only as the King but as Jamie’s father, to see his son settled with a rightful match—especially one that offered political advantages. But tonight, his focus was fractured. His eyes began to wander, scanning the sea of masks and trying to look past the peacock feathers and velvet. Every time a flash of sky-blue caught his eye, his heart thudded in anticipation, only to sink when he realized the shade was wrong or the stature wasn’t quite right.

As the night wore on, Bucky’s impatience grew thinner and thinner.

“I’ll see you at the ball tomorrow night.”

Had he not been clear enough?

Now, he felt like a fool.

Why would you come? He had seen your hands—hands that clearly told the story of the life you lived and the hardships you endured. He knew the barriers that stood between a girl like you and a palace gate.

And beyond that, there was the gap in your years.

You were younger.

Much younger.

Bucky swallowed hard, before bringing the cup to his lips. He drained his glass in multiple long gulps. The wine was cold, yet it did nothing to douse the heat building in his skin.

He was a King, a widower who had long ago accepted that his heart—and his body—had gone cold. He was old, or… at least he felt it in the marrow of his bones. He had assumed the days of blood rushing desire were behind him.

But tonight, his body was making a liar out of him.

His mind kept looping back to the age gap. He shouldn’t be feeling this restless, yearning ache for a girl who was likely half his age. It was improper, and it was dangerous.

But as he watched the dancers, he wasn’t thinking about trade levies or Jamie’s future. He was thinking about the way your small hand had disappeared inside his. He was thinking about the way he caught a glimpse of you through the velvet curtain in the changing room, his eyes lingering on your bare shoulders and the curve down your lower back as you got fitted into the gown.

He shifted, the heavy fabric of his royal trousers suddenly feeling restrictive.

A self-deprecating laugh rumbled in his chest. He was a king, a father—and here he was, standing on a dais with a goddamn hard on because of a girl who smelled like smoke and looked like a dream.

“King Barnes?”

Bucky turned to the attendant.

“Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson are in the back gardens, Your Majesty,” he stammered, bowing low. “They sent word that they are... well, they’re waiting for a smoke with you. They said the night air might do you some good.”

Bucky let out a slow, heavy breath. His friends knew him all too well—they had probably caught the way he was gripping his glass and the way he was staring at the door like a starving man.

“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” Bucky rasped, a little frustrated.

He took one last look at the grand staircase for good measure, several people walking in with fancy gowns and suits—yet none of them were you.

“She isn’t coming”, he told himself. “She has more sense than you do, James.”

He stepped off the platform, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble as he turned his back on the ballroom. Several guests attempted to intercept him, their mouths opening to offer empty flatteries, but he gave them nothing more than a dismissive nod as he pushed past.

He needed that smoke. He needed Steve and Sam to humble him—to laugh at him for being an old fool pining after a girl who likely saw him as nothing more than a kindly stranger who had bought her an expensive dress.

He made his way through the arched side exit, the orchestra fading into the background as he stepped into the cool, floral scented air of the royal gardens. He spotted them near the center—two broad and tall silhouettes casting long shadows over the stone water fountain.

“About time,” Sam called out, sensing Bucky’s approach without even turning around. “We thought we were going to have to come up there and drag you off that throne ourselves.”

“Find your lucky girl yet, Buck?” Steve asked, finally turning to face his old friend. He held out a cherry-wood smoking pipe, the embers already glowing.

He gave Steve a sharp, side-eye look that would intimidate most people, but it just made Steve laugh.

“No,” Bucky grunted roughly, his voice dropping into a low gravel. “I haven’t found the ‘lucky girl.’” He took a slow, deep inhale from the pipe, letting a thick gust of smoke roll from his lips into the cool night air. “I just need Jamie to hurry up and pick a girl out of the crowd so we can get this ball over with.”

“The boy turns eighteen and the first thing he does is look for a woman to settle his crown,” Sam barked a laugh, leaning back against the stone fountain. “He’s a player—just like his father was at that age.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, the embers in his pipe glowing bright as he took another breath. “I was not. I wasn’t that restless—”

“You’re right,” Steve laughed. “You were worse. You just had the benefit of not being a King yet.”

While the three men shared a rare moment of peace, obscured by the shadows and the scent of pipe tobacco, the last carriage of the night finally pulled up to the palace gates.

It was silent and unassuming, no one would’ve cared for whoever was inside, yet it held the only person Bucky had truly been waiting for.

You stepped out of the carriage and approached the looming marble staircase. The palace was huge, making your heart beating anxiously in your chest like a trapped bird. You almost wanted to retreat back into the carriage and hurl all over your pristine heels, but you just sucked in a deep breath and kept pushing forward.

You gathered the shimmering hem of your sky blue gown, lifting the silk to keep from tripping on staircase.

The moment you crossed the entrance, the cavernous ballroom seemed to expand, the soaring ceilings and gold leafed pillars making the space feel even more bigger than it had from the outside. You stood at the very precipice of the grand staircase, your gloved hand tightening on the silk of your skirts.

As you stood there, the frantic gossip and the laughter of the debutantes slowly died into a collective whisper. One pair of eyes landed on you, then two, then several, until the entire sea of masks was turned upward, captivated by the girl in sky blue.

At the center of the dance floor, Prince Jamie froze.

You were beautiful.

Your gown looked rich, the fabric shimmering with the kind of quality that suggested a woman of high standing and ancient lineage.

You looked exactly like the kind of woman his father would expect him to marry—and exactly like the woman Jamie had been waiting for all night.

He had been trapped between Agnes and Margaret, half-listening to their desperate chirping, but the moment you appeared, it was like a new sense of determination flooded through him. He didn’t wait for a polite opening; he didn’t even offer the sisters a parting nod—a dismissive streak he had clearly inherited from his father.

“Excuse me,” Jamie murmured, his voice clipped as he stepped back, cutting them off mid-sentence.

The further you descended, the more the air suffocated you with the scent of expensive cologne and heavy perfume. Before your foot could even touch the ballroom floor, the path was blocked.

A flock of men swarmed the base of the staircase like vultures circling a prize. They were a blur of colorful sashes and different colored masks, their voices rising over the orchestra as they tried to catch your attention.

“A dance, my lady? I am the Earl of Hydra—”

“Pray, allow me the honor of the first waltz!”

“Ignore them, fair vision, look this way—”

You clutched the railings. You felt like an imposter, a trapped bird in borrowed feathers, as the crowd pressed in and closed off your exits.

You scanned the room frantically through the narrow slits of your mask, searching for a single familiar face—the kind man from the shop who had bought you this dress and insisted you come. But all you saw was a sea of strangers draped in silk and greed.

“Gentlemen,” a sharp, authoritative voice interrupted. “I believe you are crowding the lady.”

Your ears immediately perked at the sound of the voice. It was familiar, a resonance of the man from the shop—yet it wasn't quite the same as it was more youthful.

The men stiffened and turned, their expressions falling behind their masks as they realized the Prince of Brooklynne had arrived. They dipped their heads in respectful bows, scrambling to step aside to clear a path for him.

Jamie stepped into the center of the circle, the only man in the entire party not wearing a mask.

Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him. There was something hauntingly familiar about his face—the same jaw, the same carved chin, and those stern cold blue eyes. But he lacked the weary, aged shadows beneath them.

“I believe the vultures have had enough of your time,” Jamie extended his gloved hand with a charming smile. “I am Prince Jamie. And while the tradition of this ball is for me to find a match, I find myself suddenly uninterested in anyone else in this room. May I have the honor of this dance?”

Every noble, every servant, and every debutante held their breath.

But you already felt as though you were suffocating.

You looked down at his hand, then out at the sea of faces. “A dance… with me?”

As you spoke, your eyes drifted to the edge of the ballroom.

There, standing near a marble pillar, were Agnes and Margaret. Their faces were twisted into masks of pure, venomous hatred, their glares so sharp they felt like they could pierce right through your silver mask and uncover the truth themselves.

Behind them, your stepmother stood like a looming shadow, her eyes narrowed like she could kill you alone with her glare.

The candles, the orchestra getting louder, the different wafting smells of perfume and cologne, hundreds of eyes watching your every breath—it all became too much.

You weren’t a princess.

You were an interloper in a silver mask who didn’t even know how to dance.

One wrong move, one misplaced step, and the dream of finding the man from the shop would be crushed like a bug beneath a royal boot.

“I… I cannot,” you whispered.

Jamie’s brow furrowed in genuine shock, his hand still suspended in the air. “My lady?”

“I am sorry, Your Highness. I need air,” you gasped out, barely audible.

Without waiting for the Prince’s word, you immediately turned on your heel and bolted to the first exit that wasn’t already blocked by people. Behind you, the silence of the room snapped into already gossiping whispers.

Jamie stood frozen, his pride wounded. He watched the shimmer of your skirt disappear into the darkness of the garden, but before he could take a step to follow you, the lady vultures were already making their move.

“Your Highness, she was clearly unwell!” a woman cried as she fluttered her fan. “Perhaps a dance with someone more... stable would clear your mind?”

You hurried deep into the greenery, the hem of your gown whispering against the gravel until you reached a thicket of towering hedges and blooming jasmine. As you leaned against a cold stone pillar to catch your breath, you heard deep, masculine laughter drifting through the leaves from a distance.

Your heart leaped. You knew that laugh.

It was the same sound of the man you had met in the shop.

Quietly, you crept through the shadows, peering through the dense leaves of a large plant.

Three men were standing by a stone fountain, the glowing cherries of their pipes lighting the darkness. Two were tall and broad, but it was the man with his back to you who caught your attention. When he turned to laugh at something the blonde man said, the moonlight hit his face, and your heart nearly melted.

It was him.

The man you had risked everything to see just once more.

Who also happened to be the King of Brooklynne.

He looked far different than he had in the shop; his hair was slicked back neatly and he was draped in heavy royal regalia that shimmered under the moon. But the face was the same one you had memorized. You took a small, hesitant step forward, your hand reaching out to part the branches, ready to call to him—to tell him that you were here, that you had come for him.

But as the conversation continued, the words that left their lips made you freeze.

“You’re brooding over nothing, Buck,” Steve said with a smirk. “You’re the King. You could bed any woman you’d want in that room, or ten of them. You’re rich enough to cover the tracks and powerful enough that no one would dare whisper a word.”

Sam barked a laugh, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s right. One snap of your fingers and you’ve got a new ‘favorite’ for the week. Why settle for pining?”

You waited for Bucky to rebuke them. You waited for the ‘good man’ and ‘hardworking father’ to say he wasn’t looking for that.

Instead, a slow, dark grin spread across his face—a look of cold, royal entitlement you hadn’t seen at all in the shop.

“It would certainly break the boredom of this godforsaken castle,” Bucky—no, the King—replied. “There’s a certain thrill in taking what you want, isn’t there? The perks of the crown are the only thing keeping me sane these days.”

Steve let out a low whistle, pointing his pipe toward Bucky. “Ah. There he is. I was worried for a moment that fatherhood made you soft, but I see the old wolf is still in there.”

Bucky chuckled, a sound that lacked any of the warmth you had felt in the small tailor shop.

“Soft? Hardly,” Bucky scoffed so exaggerated, it seemed forced. “I’ve spent half my life fighting for this kingdom. If I decide to take a girl as a ‘prize’ for a night or two to pass the time, I think I’ve earned that much. Besides,” he added, a little lower, “most of the women in there would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used by their King, regardless of how quickly I forget their names the next morning.”

You felt like you were going to collapse.

The man you had met—the one who stuttered over his words trying to compliment you and kissed your hand with such gentleness—felt like a ghost. This man in front of you was a stranger, a cold-hearted ruler who likely saw you as a nameless ‘prize’ to be discarded at the shop.

Was that why he wanted to buy you this dress?

Was that why he insisted you come tonight?

The realization made your head hurt. You knew it was too good to be true. You felt the bile rise in your throat, and you instinctively moved to flee.

You took a frantic step backwards, but in your haste, you didn’t see the heavy iron watering can sitting at the base of the hedge. Your heel caught the edge of it with a loud, metallic clang that echoed through the quiet garden.

The laughter died, and Sam perked his head up.

“Who’s there?”

Bucky straightened up slowly, his gaze narrowing to the exact spot to the greenery you were hiding behind. The orange glow of his pipe illuminated the sharp, dangerous lines of his face.

There was no point in hiding. They already knew you were there. You forced your legs to move, stepping out from behind the heavy jasmine vines.

“I apologize,” you said, your voice brittle and trembling. “I… I must have gotten lost. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”

You bowed your head, refusing to meet his eyes, and hiked up the heavy silk of your skirts—the very fabric he had paid for, which now felt like a brand of humiliation against your skin. You turned to retreat towards the palace, desperate to vanish into the overwhelming crowd—so long as you get away from him.

Bucky stood frozen, the pipe nearly slipping from his fingers. The moonlight caught the shimmer of that familiar sky blue fabric, and the realization punched the air out of his lungs.

It was you.

You were the girl he had been waiting for all night, the one who had occupied his every thought since the moment he laid eyes on you in the shop. Even behind the silver mask, you were the most beautiful woman he had seen this evening. He saw the way your shoulders shook and the way you wouldn’t even glance at him, and a sickening dread made his heart cold.

You had heard it all.

Every arrogant, cold-hearted word he had spat out just to impress his friends.

Steve, completely oblivious to the internal collapse Bucky was experiencing, let out a dry chuckle and nudged Bucky’s shoulder.

“See? What’d I say, Buck? You’re the King. You’re powerful enough to cover the tracks of any little wanderer. She won’t say a word.”

Bucky didn’t laugh this time. He couldn’t even look at Steve. His face dropped from a mask of royal arrogance to one of unadulterated panic as he realized he had just destroyed the only real thing he felt in years.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Bucky rasped, his voice tight.

He broke into a stride, his heavy boots thundering against the gravel as he chased after you before you could reach the safety of the ballroom.

“Wait!” he called out, his voice no longer commanding, but a desperate plea. “Please—wait!”

You didn’t look back. The blood rushing in your ears drowned out his voice. As you passed the archway back into the ballroom, the sudden blast of orchestral music and chatter filled your ears immediately.

Behind you, Bucky skidded to a halt right before the doors. He watched as you re-entered the lion’s den, and for a split second, he nearly followed you in like a madman. But then he saw dozens of eyes—the eyes of his court and his people—turning toward the doors.

As much as he wanted to chase after you, he was the King.

He couldn’t chase a woman through his own ballroom without causing a massive scene.

“Dammit,” Bucky gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight and compose his features.

His eyes never left yours. He forced himself to remain calm, but the minute he saw a familiar figure weave through the crowd toward you, he felt his face burn with a sudden, hot anger.

His own son approached you before the other lords could, his youthful face lighting up in visible relief.

Bucky stood near the entrance, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe it. He felt betrayed by his own flesh and blood as he watched Jamie close the distance between you.

“I fear the night air had stolen you away forever,” Jamie said softly, bowing low before you.

Jamie—who you know now was Bucky’s son—seemed far kinder than the version of the man you had just overheard in the dark. The resemblance was striking and understandable now, but the warmth in Jamie’s voice made your heart ache for what you thought you had found in the shop.

“Please,” Jamie continued. “One dance? Titles aside, I’m the most competent when it comes to dancing in this room,” he joked, flashing a charming smile that highlighted his blue eyes.

You hesitated, the silver mask hiding your weary expression as you fought to keep your composure. You looked over your shoulder, and you could feel the King’s gaze glaring daggers down your back, almost making you second guess.

But as the nasty words he had exclaimed in the yard just a few seconds ago echoed in your mind, your heartache turned into a cold, sharp resolve.

You decided right then to spite him.

To him, you were just a ‘prize,’ but you wouldn’t be his.

Following Martha’s wish for you to have at least one good dance of this night, you turned your back on the King. With a steady breath to settle your racing heart, you finally placed your hand in the Prince’s.

Jamie’s gloved fingers curled yours gently as a triumphant smile spread across his young face. As he led you to the center of the gilded floor, you didn’t dare to look back—especially because you didn’t need to. You could feel Bucky’s eyes following you. It was heavy, but you were determined to ignore it as you used his son as your shield.

“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted softly to the Prince.

“Don’t know how to dance?” Jamie blinked at you, slightly taken aback, before letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “A Lady who doesn’t know how to dance?”

You expected him to mock you, but instead, he gave you an encouraging smile and adjusted his stance, placing a steady hand on your waist and lifting your other to proper height.

“Then it’s a good thing you’re with me,” he reassured kindly. “Just follow my lead and keep your eyes on mine.”

As the violins grew louder, Jamie moved gracefully, his hand firm on your waist as he began the first slow rotation of the waltz. You stumbled almost immediately, your heel landing right on top of his polished leather boot.

“I—I’m so sorry,” you gasped, your face flushing in embarrassment beneath the silver mask.

“Don’t be. My boots have survived worse than a lady’s dance. Besides,” he leaned in, voice playful, “it gives me a reason to hold you a little tighter so you don’t fall.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at how romantically corny he was. His words were smooth and charming—a miracle, considering he was the heir to the man you had just witnessed in the garden. As you finally caught the rhythm, a small, genuine smile spread across your lips. After the disaster in the garden, you had expected your night to be ruined, but this dance was almost enough to make up for it.

Then suddenly, the crowd near the edge of the floor parted like a wound opening up.

Bucky didn’t wait for the song to end. He marched onto the floor, his heavy royal mantle trailing behind him like a dark cloud. His presence alone was so suffocatingly dominant that the couples dancing around you slowed to a halt, watching him cautiously.

Bucky stepped directly into your path, forcing Jamie to stop mid-turn.

“Son,” Bucky greeted coldly. Then his eyes turned to you, cold and sharp. “My Lady.”

He extended a hand towards you—not as an invitation, but a demand. “The music is just beginning to peak. Shall I take over?”

Jamie’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “Father? We are in the middle of a waltz. It’s highly irregular to cut in on the first dance.”

Bucky looked back at his son, his jaw clenched hard. The ‘good man’ from the shop deserted him entirely, he was acting like a man who knew exactly how to use his power to get what he wanted.

“Tradition is a suggestion, Jamie,” Bucky said, stepping closer until he crowded your space. “But a command from your King is not. Step aside.”

Jamie swallowed hard, and you felt yourself go stiff between the two most powerful men in the kingdom.

“I suppose I cannot argue with the King,” Jamie murmured, a little defiant sass seeping through his polite tone.

Reluctantly, he took your hand one last time and bowed his head low, his eyes never leaving yours as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your gloved hand. It was the same hand Bucky had kissed at the shop just yesterday—and a gesture Bucky knew all too well.

It was the kind of goodbye a man gives a woman he fully intends to find again.

Bucky’s brow twitched violently. It took everything in his power to keep from snarling while the entire court watched. The sight of his own son’s lips touching your glove—the very silk he had held in his hands and bought with his own coin—was almost more than his composure could bear.

“That will be all, Jamie,” Bucky snapped.

Jamie ignored his father as he took a step back from you, eyes still never leaving yours. “My Lady,” he bid goodbye with a final, pained smile, before turning to disappear into the sea of masks.

The space Jamie left was immediately filled by Bucky’s suffocating presence. He didn’t wait for your permission as he stepped into the gap, his large hand slid firmly onto your waist—exactly where his son’s had been—except he pulled you so tight against his chest that the surrounding guests began to murmur.

He didn’t just want to dance.

He wanted to reclaim what he felt was his.

As Bucky slowly began moving you along to the music, your eyes trailed over his shoulder, where Jamie retreated into the crowd.

Bucky sensed it. His grip on your waist tightened, his body tensing as he realized your mind was still with his son.

“You look at me when I’m holding you,” he commanded, low and possessive. “Not him.”

You stayed quiet as you looked up at him through the slits of your mask. His gaze on you was almost cold and authoritative—the kind of look most people would be scared to meet, let alone break. But you looked down anyway, your eyes finding his chest as you forced yourself to follow his lead.

Bucky’s grip on you didn’t waver, but his voice softened just slightly.

“You look beautiful in this gown,” he murmured, his eyes still on your face despite you not looking at him.

You said nothing, and he continued on anyway.

“In the shop… you looked beautiful,” he admitted, his thumb gently grazing the back of your bodice, subtly playing with the laces. “But now you’re even more stunning. Absolutely breathtaking.”

He waited for a blush or a shy smile like the one you had given him just yesterday. Instead, he was met with a wall of silence. You kept your chin tucked, your eyes anchored firmly to the silver crest on his chest, as if you were constantly reminding yourself of his rank.

Bucky let out a deep sigh. He tilted his head down, trying to force his way into your line of sight, an act of vulnerability a King would never normally show.

“About what I said in the garden…” he started, guilty. “I was… my friends, they—”

“I heard nothing, Your Majesty.” You interrupted.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He knew that as the King, he held the power to silence anyone in the entire kingdom of Brooklynne… yet, the one person he was desperate to hear from was treating him like a brick wall.

“I was playing a part,” he whispered with a desperation he’d never shown a soul in this palace. “Sir Rogers and Sir Wilson... they’ve known me since I was a boy. They expect a cold-hearted King. I said those things because—”

He choked on the words, his pride warring with his heart.

“Because I didn’t want them to know how much a girl from a tailor shop had actually shaken me.” He looked around warily, his eyes darting to the side to ensure the surrounding couples were caught up in their own movements and not eavesdropping on the King’s unraveling.

“Please, Your Majesty,” you said, and you couldn’t help but let out a sharp laugh that passed for a scoff. “I’m sure a maid you happened to come across in a dusty tailor shop is hardly a ‘prize’, as you call it.”

“You aren’t a prize,” he rasped, his hand tightening almost painfully around yours. “I shouldn’t have said it. I was a fool, trying to play the part of the man they think I am.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest, Your Majesty,” you countered sarcastically. You tilted your head, catching his pained gaze with a cold, mocking look of your own.

“I’m sure there are many other, more eligible, ‘prized’ women in this room who would consider it the greatest honor of their lives to be used and then forgotten by their King.”

The final note of the waltz hung in the air before fading into the polite applause of the court. You didn’t wait for the silence to settle or for Bucky to utter another word. You retracted your hand and gathered your skirts to drop into a shallow, perfectly stiff curtsy.

“Thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” you said, though your voice held no warmth and even less appreciation.

You turned on your heel and began to weave through the crowd. You had gotten exactly what Martha wanted—one good memory, or at least a story to tell. You had danced with a Prince, and you had danced with a King.

That should be more than enough.

But as you neared the exit, all you felt was a deep, aching stupidity. You had risked everything and snuck out in a dress that felt like a lie, all for a man who had treated your heart like a parlor trick for his friends.

You were over the music, over the masks, and most of all, you were over him.

The grand staircase you had entered from was now a wall of people. Nobles stood in clusters, laughing and sipping wine, completely blocking your path to the main doors.

Panic flared in your chest. You couldn’t stand to be in this room for another second.

Searching for a way out, you spotted a narrow side corridor draped in heavy velvet curtains. It was dim and seemingly abandoned. You slipped through the fabric, your silk skirts rustling against the stone floor as you hurried away from the noise.

The air here was cooler, smelling of old paper and beeswax. You didn’t hear the click of boots on the marble behind you. You didn’t see the shadow that detached itself from the ballroom doorway, moving with a predatory grace of a hunter.

You only focused on the door at the end of the hall, desperate for the night air and escape.

Just as your hand reached for the brass handle, a heavy weight hit the door beside your head, pinning it shut. A gloved hand clamped hard around your wrist, jerking you backwards until you hit a broad chest.

“Did your King say you were dismissed?” Bucky growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration against your ear.

“Y-your Majesty—?”

With a swift, forceful movement, he kicked open the door to a private study, hauled you inside, and slammed it shut. The click of the lock turning felt like the final snap of a mousetrap. Bucky leaned his back against the heavy oak door, his chest heaving as he watched you through the dim light.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Please move,” you snapped, no longer caring about pleasantries or protocol.

You tried to shove past him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t budge, simply adjusting his weight to block the handle.

“I am not letting you walk out of here thinking those things.”

“Oh, so now the King is concerned with my thoughts?” you let out a harsh, mocking laugh and spun away, pacing the small room like a caged animal.

You tried for the window, but he was there in three long strides, his arm extending to block your path before you could even touch the latch.

“Stop trying to run away.”

You turned on him, your eyes blazing behind your mask.

“Was this just another one of your cruel royal games, Your Majesty? You buy a poor maid a gown, make her beautiful for a night, and then...” you choked on the words, your gloved hands balling into fists at your sides. “And then what? You get to boast to your friends about how easily you can sweep any woman off her feet? How lucky a commoner should feel to be bedded by the King?”

“It wasn’t a game,” Bucky rasped, reaching out to catch your shoulders, but you slapped his hand away.

“Your Majesty, if I were you, I’d quit wasting my time with a common peasant,” you spat, “and go find someone in the ballroom more suitable to bed—”

“I said those things because I was terrified!” he finally roared, the sound echoing off the wood paneled walls.

His chest heaved in frustration. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until they fell messily over his forehead, obscuring the cold gaze of a King.

“I am the King. I am supposed to be calculated. I am supposed to be cold,” he confessed, his voice growing agitated. “And then I met you. Suddenly, I’m stumbling over a simple compliment. I’m staring at the doors, waiting for you to arrive, hoping—praying—that you’d actually show up.”

Bucky took a heavy step forward, the floorboards creaking under his shoes.

“You’ve been on my mind from the moment I laid eyes on you at the shop,” he murmured, humming so low that it made your skin prickle. “Every hour since then… until now.”

His hand reached out, slow and careful as he hooked his fingers under the edge of your silver mask, lifting it gently. As the silk and lace came away, he set it down on the mahogany table without ever breaking eye contact.

“I wanted you to try this dress on because I knew it would look beautiful on you,” he whispered, his eyes dark, hungry, and appreciating as they traveled from your face down to the curve of your throat.

Bucky let his hand trail down to your sleeve, his knuckles grazing the tender skin of your inner arm. The contact was light, yet possessive. His gaze followed the path of his hand, appreciating you from head to toe, admiring the way the silk hugged your body.

“And now,” he stepped even closer, his shadow completely swallowing you as he leaned down until his lips were inches from yours. “The only thing I can think of is how you would look with this dress off.”

Bucky pulled his gloves off, tossing them aside as his hands slid from your arm to your face. His large, warm palms cupped your jaw.

His thumb traced the line of your lower lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the plump, wet flesh beneath. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed, his lips hovering a mere breath away from yours.

“Did you have fun dancing with my son?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” your brows furrowed in confusion. “But I don’t see how this has anything to do—”

“Enough,” he interrupted. He gave your jaw a light, commanding squeeze. “You know this has to do with everything.”

You swallowed hard, nodding instinctively before you could even find your voice.

“Did you like the way he held you?” he pressed, his breath ghosting over your lips as he tilted your head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his hungry gaze.

“Did you enjoy the way he looked at you? Because I hated every second of it. I hated that his hands were where mine should have been. I hated that you smiled for him when all you’ve given me tonight is the cold shoulder.”

His gaze dropped from your eyes to your shoulders. His hands left your jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the sensitive skin of your throat until his fingers hooked into the delicate elastic of your puffy sleeves.

With a slow tug, he slipped them off your shoulders. The silk bunched at your elbows, leaving your shoulders bare and vulnerable under the warm glow of the candlelight.

“Tell me you’ve been thinking of me too, my dear,” he rasped, almost pleaful.

He stepped even closer, his body pressing nearly pressing against yours, pinning you between the heavy desk and his own body. One of his hands slid around your lower back, pulling you upward until your chest brushed against his.

“That’s why you came here tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “You wanted to find me. You wanted to show off the dress I bought you... isn’t that right?”

You looked up at him, your breath hitching as the heat from his body seemed to seep through the silk of your bodice. Being this close to him—without the mask, without the safety of the ballroom crowd—was overwhelming.

“I…” you sucked in a breath, “I came because I wanted to see the kind man I met at the shop yesterday. Not a heartless King.”

“How can you call me heartless,” he frowned, almost taunting, “when my heart only beats for you, my dear? It hasn’t known a moment of peace since I walked into that shop.”

Bucky’s hands began to wander more boldly. One hand stayed firm at your lower back, while the other slid up from your waist, his thumb grazing the undersides of your breasts through the thin silk of your gown. You let out a soft, broken whimper, your knees feeling weak as the friction of his thumb sent jolts of heat through your entire body.

“You’re so reactive, sweetheart. So innocent in the way you look at me,” he murmured, his hips tight against yours until you could feel the hard, undeniable bulge that pressed against his pants. “It makes me wonder.”

His thumb returning to your chin to tilt your face up, forcing you to meet his burning stare.

“Tell your King the truth,” he warned. “Has anyone ever laid a hand on you? Has a man ever touched you so… intimately in your life?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone as you struggled to find your voice.

“I’ve never been touched, Your Majesty,” you admitted softly. You lowered your gaze, unable to maintain the intensity of his stare. “Still pure.”

Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into the silk of your dress as if he were already marking his territory.

“Like a flower,” he breathed, his voice sounding both awestruck and dangerous.

He leaned down, his nose dragging slowly along the curve of your jawline until he reached the sensitive skin just below your ear. He inhaled deeply, taking in your scent as if it were the only thing keeping him alive.

“A perfect, white lily,” he murmured against you, lips grazing your skin.

“And to think,” he rasped, his hand sliding up from your back to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to force you to look at him. “That I am the first man to see you like this. The first to hold you so… closely like this.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip again, more forcefully this time.

“It makes me want to keep you locked away in this room,” he confessed. “So that no other man, not even my own son, ever gets the chance to breathe the same air as you again.”

Before you could take another breath, Bucky leaned down and captured your lips with a hunger that was long overdue. For a King usually so poised, the kiss was a collision—hot, messy, and desperate.

Caught off guard, you met him with everything you had, but your movements were frantic and uncoordinated. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to keep up with his relentless pace, your kisses coming out sloppy and breathless.

Bucky let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your lips and gently pulled back. He didn’t go far, as his forehead was still resting against yours.

“So young and inexperienced,” he grinned, his thumb swiping a stray drop saliva from the corner of your mouth. He didn't sound disappointed; he sounded enthralled.

“But it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you. I always take care of my people.”

Your body felt so hot, the dress suddenly felt suffocating. The way he said my people made it clear—you weren’t just any person anymore; you were his.

He took a slow step back, creating a sliver of space that felt freezing after exchanging body heat. His hands went to his waist, his fingers eager as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt. The entire time, his eyes were glued to you—his jaw slightly hung as he was breathing heavy in anticipation for whats to come.

He tossed the belt onto the nearby chair, his expression darkening.

“Now,” he rasped. “I want you to step out of that gown. Slowly. Let me see what I missed out on by being stuck on the other side of that dressing room.”

You reached slowly for the fastenings at your side, but you didn’t pull them just yet. You tilted your head, playing into the innocent maiden he thought you were.

“And tell me,” you whispered, voice low and sultry, “is this a request... or an order from my King?”

Bucky’s eyes flickered darkly with amusement. He liked the bite in your tone; he liked that even now, even after the cold shoulders and witty responses, there was still a part of you that wanted him. His hand moving down to firmly palm the heavy length of himself through his pants, his knuckles teasing his own fabric as he began to stroke himself with a slow pressure.

“Everything I say from this moment on,” he groaned, his gaze dropping to the curve of your chest, “is an official order from your King. And I suggest you obey it with haste.”

You swallowed hard, holding his burning stare as you reached for the hidden laces. With a soft tug, the structure of the bodice gave way. Despite his command, you moved slowly, letting the heavy, expensive silk slide down your body inch by agonizing inch.

The gown pooled around your ankles in a cloud of white and silver, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer chemise and stockings.

Bucky could see everything just shy under the white sheer slip. He let out a groan, hand moving faster now as his thumb traced the ridge of his length through his pants as his eyes raked over every newly exposed inch of you.

“All of it, my dear,” he commanded gently. “But keep the stockings on.”

Your fingers trembled against your thighs as you reached for the hem. Slowly, you gathered the sheer fabric and pulled it up over your head, the cloth grazing your skin one last time before you tossed it onto the growing pile of discarded clothes.

You stood there, flushed and completely exposed, save for the white lace topped stockings that clung to your legs.

“Like this, Your Majesty?” you whispered, small and breathless.

Bucky couldn’t wait another second. He let out another low groan, stepping into your space quickly as his hands made desperate contact with your waist. He tilted his head down and slammed his lips against yours once more, sliding his tongue that tasted of wine and pure need against your own.

You muffled and moaned against his lips, head spinning with equal desire. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark and blown out with lust. He reached down and grabbed your hand, his large palm covering yours as he guided it towards the center of his heat.

He pressed your palm firmly over the hard, throbbing length of him, trapping your hand against the rough fabric of his pants. With a shudder, he began to move your hand in a slow, rhythmic motion, palming himself using your smaller hand as a buffer.

“Yes,” he gasped, letting out a sharp hiss of pleasure as his head fell back. “Just like that. Feel what you’ve done to me. Feel how much your King wants you.”

Every twitch and pulse of him that you felt underneath your palm only made your heart beat faster.

“You…” you breathed, your eyes wide as you looked from his face down to where your hands were joined. “You’re… big.”

Tentatively, you gave him a small and light squeeze against his trousers, making him gasp.

It was true that as King, he could have had any woman in the kingdom at his beck and call, but the truth was much bleaker; he had been starved of a genuine touch for years. Despite his body’s natural withdrawals, he hadn’t bothered to seek out a woman just to ease his pleasure.

He didn’t want a body; he wanted a soul.

He wanted you.

Bucky’s hands were under your arms immediately. Using little strength, he hoisted you up, making you let out a sharp, startled squeal. He turned and pressed you onto the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room. He swept aside a stack of royal documents and a heavy inkwell with one forceful arm, the items clattering to the floor haphazardly.

You let out a sharp gasp as he laid you flat, the cool wood a shock against your bare back. Your legs dangled over the edge, and your hair spilled messily across the dark surface.

Bucky didn’t spare you a second to adjust. He stepped between your thighs, looming over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that needed to be sated.

His hands left your body and reached to zip down his pants, finally freeing himself.

Your breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as you saw him fully for the first time. The sight of him—thick, pulsing, and bobbing with his need for you—made your head spin.

“Your Majesty…” you stammered, your eyes wide as you instinctively tried to press further back into the wood of the desk. “I never… I don’t know how— I’ve never done this.”

Bucky kept his eyes glued on you. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself agonizingly slow as he took you in. His gaze drifted down to where your thighs were parted, landing on the glistening, bare slit.

“It’s okay, my dear. Just relax,” he reassured deeply. He leaned over you, his free hand reaching down to find your wet folds. “I told you, didn’t I? A King takes care of his people…”

He began to rub the tip against your entrance, the slick friction making you cry out softly. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, circling it with an experienced pressure that sent tingling waves through your lower belly.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your eyes flutter shut. “I’ll take goood care of you. Just let me in, sweetheart.”

Bucky retracted his thumb, his hand finding your waist to hold you tight while his other hand guided himself against your entrance, testing you with a slow push past your walls.

The sensation was already overwhelming—a relentless invasion of just the head of him that felt like it was already claiming every part of you. You were so incredibly tight, your body unaccustomed to such a feeling, and you let out a sharp, choked cry, your back arching off the cool mahogany of the desk.

“Your Majesty... it's... too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he pushed in further, forcing your body to accommodate him. “You’re stretching me already—! Please—”

Bucky gritted through clenched teeth, his body trembling.

It was taking everything in him not to lose his restraint and slam into you, breaking you open right then and there.

“I know it hurts,” he groaned, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. “But don’t worry... we’ll make it fit. Just breathe for me, my dear. Just breathe.”

You mewled, your hands frantically finding his broad shoulders for support, your fingers clutching his royal jacket. There was something deeply arousing about the contrast—the King, fully dressed in his regalia from head-to-toe, looking down at you while you were reduced to nothing but a pair of flimsy lace stockings and your own skin as he deflowered you.

He was much older, and the social chasm between you was so deep you could drown in it—a King and a commoner, a master and a maid.

But that’s what made this feel even dirtier, even better.

The fact that he was staining his royal reputation just to claim your innocence on the very desk where he signed his laws.

Bucky rocked his hips even deeper, feeling your walls clench and flutter, trying to accommodate him. You whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders as a dark, prideful smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his hot breath could coat your skin.

“You’re losing your virginity to a King, my dear,” he murmured, sheer arrogance in his voice. “Isn’t that such an honor?”

Bracing his weight on his forearms, he groaned lonely and gave you one final thrust.

“Oh my god—!” you whined.

He sheathed himself fully inside you, his heavy cock pressing against your womb. You let out a long, broken moan that could shake the high ceilings of the study, your toes curling in your stockings as the world seemed to tilt around you.

The stretch was absolute. It was unfamiliar. It was a heavy, throbbing fullness that made your head fall back against the wood of the desk.

Bucky froze, buried to the hilt, his eyes squeezed shut as his cock savored the tight, clenching heat of your innocence. His chest heaved against your breasts, the medals on his jacket feeling cold against your hot chest.

“You’re a maid…” he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip possessively as he watched your chest heave. “So you know how to take care of a home. You understand the responsibilities of keeping a house and a family afloat.”

You blinked up at him, your vision slightly blurred. Your brows furrowed slightly in confusion, your body still shaking as his heavy, thick length kept you completely plugged.

As you looked at him, his eyes told you everything. It wasn’t just lust, but the deep, yearning of a man who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted. The one thing he actually needed.

“Y-your Majesty?”

“I’m a King who has spent too long without a Queen to steady him,” he gritted out. His gaze drifted over your flushed face and the way your hair was fanned out across the table, a beautiful mess on his orderly desk.

“A man who needs someone soft to come home to,” he rasped, his hand sliding from your lip to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek. “Someone who understands the value of service... and the sacred duty of taking care of her husband.”

You swallowed hard, heart beating anxiously fast. “… Husband?”

Bucky rocked his hips forward in a painfully slow, agonizingly deep roll. He was buried to the very root, the girth of him making you wince and whimper. He pumped out deep thrusts, his breathing growing heavier as he fucked you slow against the desk.

“My son’s been lonely in this castle, you know?” he grunted, the suggestion sending a shiver down your spine. “The halls are too quiet. Maybe you can give him a sister… or a brother to protect.”

As those dark, possessive thoughts took over him, the slow rolls of his hips turned urgent and frantic. He reached down and caught your leg, his large hand firm behind your knee as he hiked it high over his broad shoulder. The new angle allowed him to sink to his very limit, his heavy cock bottoming out against your cervix so deeply it made your head toss back, your fingers scrambling desperately to grip the edge of the desk for balance.

Your entire body shook the moment he pressed his face against your inner thigh. The roughness of his salt and pepper beard tickled your sensitive skin as he trailed wet, worshipful kisses along your leg.

“That’d be so wonderful, my dear,” he rumbled against your skin. “Seeing you bred with royalty… carrying the Barnes bloodline.”

Every word was punctuated by a heavy, wet thrust of his hips as he drove into you.

Your mind was spinning with these depraved ideas. You couldn’t form a single coherent sentence as your body was being ruined by the King of Brooklynne.

“I can see it already,” he panted, his eyes snapping back to yours, dark and unfocused with desire. “You, heavy with my child, walking through these gardens… knowing that you’re the most precious thing in this entire kingdom. That you belong to me, and me alone.”

Bucky’s hand tightened on your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he used his thumb to circle your clit in a fast, circular motion. He was thrusting deeper and harder now, his rough movements making the heavy desk creak and groan beneath you.

The sound of his moans mingling with your breathless mewls, and the echoes of his scandalous promises still ringing in your head, finally broke the last of you.

Your vision blurred as your body reached its limit, your sensitive, well-fucked walls fluttering and clenching tightly around his shaft, already milking him.

“Your Majesty… I—” you gasped, turning your head away as embarrassment and shame washed through you. “I… it’s too overwhelming. I’m going to—”

“No,” he grunted roughly in disapproval.

He moved forward, his weight pinning you more firmly as he hiked your leg even higher, folding you back until you felt completely open to him. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers catching your chin and forcing your face back toward his.

“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he commanded, practically snarling. “Look at me. Look at your King while you take this. I want to see you come apart for me.”

As you completely lost control of your own, you let out a shattered, high-pitched cry. And in return, he let out a low, gravelly chuckle that was more a growl of satisfaction than a laugh. “Christ. You’re wet, my dear.”

Bucky watched as your face flushed with warmth and your eyes rolled back. Your body arched so sharply off the table that your spine barely touched the wood, your entire being coming undone all over him.

You were so incredibly tight, your walls fluttering and pulsing in a desperate grip that milked him, demanding his own release.

The feeling was the final blow to his crumbling restraint. Bucky’s smirk vanished, replaced a grimace of pained ecstasy as he reached his limit.

“Yesss,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands moving eagerly at your thighs. “That’s it. I’m close, sweetheart. You’re going to take every drop, do you hear me? I expect—hah—nothing less from my girl.”

With a final, deep thrust that made the desk groan one last time, he buried his cock completely inside and stayed there.

“God—take it,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I’m going to pump you full.”

His body went rigid, his head snapping back as a roar of ecstacy tore straight from his throat. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of him filling you—the throbbing of his release pumping deep inside your womb. You let out a breathless gasp, feeling him claim you from the inside out, marking you with the Barnes bloodline just as he had promised.

Bucky remained draped over you for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours as you both fought to bring air back into your lungs. The study that once smelt like wood, paper, and ink was now heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.

Slowly, he shifted his weight to his forearms, looking down at you with a gaze that had softened from hunger into gentleness. His thumb reached out, gently caressing your warm cheek, tracing the line of your jaw before moving up to brush sweat dampened strands of hair away from your eyes.

“Beautiful,” he graveled with appreciation. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Slowly and carefully, he finally pulled out.

You let out a small, shaky exhale at the sudden absence of him. He stood between your thighs for a moment, his eyes lingering on the sight of you absolutely ruined on his desk before he turned to compose himself, zipping his trousers back up that seemed to signal the return of the King.

You mentally prepared yourself for a curt dismissal, expecting him to revert to the cold, distant man you had encountered in the garden.

But instead, he reached for your discarded dress, lifting the fine fabric from the floor gently.

He stepped close, sliding his large hands under your arms to help you sit up on the edge of the desk. The scene felt like a distorted, intimate mirror of the dressing room at the shop yesterday; only now, there was no Martha, no sooted clothes, and no rush.

Bucky dressed you slowly, as if he were handling a piece of priceless porcelain. He guided your arms through the puffy sleeves, his fingers grazing your skin with feather light touches that made you shiver for entirely different reasons.

When he turned you around to begin the long row of tiny buttons down your back, he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your shoulder before pressing a series of soft, delicate kisses against your skin.

“My God,” he said quietly, turning you around slowly as his hands rested firmly on your waist. “Stunning.”

His eyes bored into yours deeply, soft and vulnerable. “I want you here. I want you in this palace, by my side. I think... I think I’ve fallen for you, my love.”

Your eyes softened, your breath hitching in your chest.

A King falling for you was the very thing a little girl’s dreams were made of. After the way he had just made love to you—marking you with vows and promises to keep you safe—there was nothing you wanted more than to say yes.

But just as your lips parted to speak, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the heavy oak doors.

“Your Majesty?” a muffled voice called from the hallway. “The delegates are requesting your presence. The midnight toast is approaching.”

You gasped, your heart leaping into your throat as you instinctively tried to pull away, looking for a place to hide. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He kept his grip on your waist, his expression remarkably calm.

“Relax,” he soothed, sensing your panic. “They know better than to enter without my word. They are my people. They are loyal to me, not the gossip of the court.”

He leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “Stay here. Compose yourself. I’ll be right back to come get you, I promise.”

With one last possessive squeeze of your hand, he straightened his jacket, his face masking back to royal indifference, and retreated into the hallway.

You sat on the edge of the desk, the silence of the study feeling unnervingly tense now that his warmth was gone. You waited and waited, replaying the way he had looked at you—not as a maid, but as his future.

As the seconds ticked by, the grandeur of the room began to feel like a cage. When the ornate grandfather clock in the corner began its slow, sonorous chime for midnight, you were suddenly hit with restless anxiety.

You couldn’t just sit here and wait any longer.

Trembling, you picked up your mask from the desk and slid it back over your face, the silk cold against your flushed, warm skin. You stepped out of the study, your footsteps ghosting over the marble floors as you followed the distant, echoing sound of orchestral music and hundreds voices.

You peeked your head past the curtains to look at the ballroom, where Bucky had disappeared to, and it was like the King was a sun at the center of a glittering solar system.

Bucky was surrounded—generals in stiff uniforms, foreign princesses in diamonds that were nearly blinding, and advisors whispering in his ear. He looked untouchable. He looked like a man who commanded armies and decided the fates of nations.

You looked down at your hands—hands that spent every day red and raw from lye and scrubbing—and then back at the women dancing below in silks that cost a year of your life.

It wasn’t just a distance of wealth.

It was an impossibility of worlds.

He belonged to history.

You belonged in a basement.

As you stood there, watching him at a distance, a soft cough sounded just behind your shoulder. You jumped, spinning around to find one of the high ranking attendants—the one who had knocked on the study door earlier—watching you with a face as unreadable as stone.

“Miss,” he said, low and professional. “The toast ceremony is beginning. Would you care to join?”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering one last time to the ballroom floor. You looked for Bucky, but he was almost entirely obscured now, buried under a sea of medals, silk sashes, and the rich laughter of noblewomen.

The attendant followed your gaze, then looked back at you. His expression changed subtly, like hollow kindness in his eyes—the kind of look one gave to a guest who had overstayed their welcome.

“Or,” he added, a little quieter, “shall I fetch you a carriage in discretion? The side gate is clear this time of night.”

Discretion?

You looked over your shoulder at the attendant, your eyes widening as the realization of his offer sank below the depths of your already fragile heart.

He offered you a quiet exit as if he had done this a dozen times before for a dozen other girls who had been found in that study, breathless and glowing with the false hope of a King’s favor.

To him, you weren’t the future Queen Bucky had just promised you would be.

You were a mess to be tidied up before the morning sun hit the marble. You were a secret that needed to be swept away.

You realized then that while Bucky might have meant those words while his pulse was racing against yours, the world outside that study had no room for a maid with red, raw hands and a borrowed dress. You were just another body to fill his bed, another face to distract him from the crushing responsibilities of the crown until the next pretty thing caught his eye.

How could you have been so foolish?

“A carriage,” you whispered, your voice sounding small and fragile in the vast, echoing hallway. “Please. In discretion.”

“Of course, Miss. Follow me.”

Down in the ballroom, Bucky stood at the very center of the dais, raising his glass.

“To my son, Jamie,” he announced, voice forcefully bright with a smile that was sore. “May you find a woman who doesn’t just wear a crown, but one who truly understands the importance of a family.”

He held his glass steady, but his eyes kept flicking to the velvet curtains that hid the hallway to his study.

“May you find someone who knows the grace of a Princess, yet possesses the heart to steady you as a Prince when the world grows too loud. Look for the soul who has the strength to turn a cold, stone castle into a home, and a man into a husband.”

A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd, the guests raising their glasses in unison.

The moment the toast was finished, he didn’t linger for the pleasantries. He turned on his heel, his heart already racing back to the quiet sanctuary of his study where you were—or should’ve—been waiting for him.

He was stopped three times. First, by a General demanding orders for the spring campaign; Bucky dismissed him with a curt, icy nod. Then, by a Duchess who tried to lace her arm through his; he stepped away so sharply it was an insult to the poor woman. Finally, by his own prime minister, whom he practically pushed aside.

“Not now,” Bucky growled, his long strides eating up the hallway.

He had only one thing in mind—and that was to get to you.

Bucky reached the heavy oak doors of his study, his breath hitching in anticipation. He had a vision of you still flushed and waiting, perhaps curled up in his chair trying on his royal cloak.

A soft smile already formed on his lips by the time he pushed open the doors.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m—”

The word died in his throat and his smile faded.

The room was silent.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, lonely shadows across the desk where you once laid. Papers were still scattered about, and the scent of you still lingered in the air like a taunt, but the space between the chairs was empty.

Bucky’s heart didn’t just sink. It felt as though it had been physically torn from his chest.

He rushed to the window, searching the dark courtyard, but he saw nothing.

“No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no!”

He spun away from the window, his movements jagged and violent. “Goddamnit!” He roared.

His boot connected with a cluster of ink bottles that already fell on the floor during your lovemaking, shattering and staining the expensive rug in deep, mocking blacks. He didn’t care. He began to pace like a feral caged animal, stomping over the very papers he had been working on earlier, his heavy footfalls ground the royal decrees into the floorboards.

He shoved his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands until his scalp stung.

“How?” he hissed to the empty room, his chest heaving. “How could she just go?”

He thought of the way you had looked at him on that desk just a moment ago—the vulnerability, the way you had clenched around him as if you never wanted to let go.

Did you not believe a word he said?

The thought was like poison. No. You couldn’t have not believe him. He remembered the look of shame that had crossed your face when you tried to turn away from him. He remembered the way you had trembled when he called you his girl.

Did you still think he was that kind of man?

Did you still think that he was that cold-hearted rake you overheard in the garden? That it was all just a game to him?

Bucky’s gaze fell to the floor, his eyes catching a white shape near the leg of the desk. He reached down, his fingers trembling as he retrieved the familiar glove.

He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes fluttered shut as your scent—that intoxicating mix of rosewater, soap, and the warmth of your skin— filled his senses.

It was the glove for your right hand. The very glove that hid the burn marks on your palm, the marks he had kissed with such gentleness at the shop just yesterday. The marks that proved you were a woman of hard work and sacrifice, everything he admired and everything he wanted to protect.

By the time he opened his eyes, the vulnerability and sadness had been completely replaced by a cold resolve. His fingers curled tightly around the delicate glove, crushing it against his palm as if he were already reclaiming the skin it once covered.

He was going to find you.

He would tear the city apart stone by stone, he would burn down every basement and scour every shop until he found you. He didn’t care for your hesitation or your social standing.

Bucky had marked you as his on that desk.

And the King was going to do whatever it took to bring his property home.

Bucky pushed out of the study, his heavy royal cloak back on and billowing behind him. He didn’t get far before he spotted the same attendant from earlier. The man stopped, bowing low, but Bucky didn’t offer him the grace of a greeting. He stepped directly into the man’s personal space, his towering frame looming over him.

He held the glove up between them, snarling.

“Find her,” Bucky seethed. "I don’t care who you have to threaten or what doors you have to break down. Find what is mine and bring her back to me. Now."

19.6K WORDS I AM SO SORRY SHE'S SO LONG but if you've gotten this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my work and i hope you enjoyed it 😭♥️

again, i've made a playlist for this fic that i listened to nonstop while writing. if you'd like to listen, here's the link!

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[aquaticmercy]

Remember Me

Summary : Stuck in an abusive relationship with a Hydra general, you started a decade-long love affair with The Winter Soldier

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : SLOW BURN. Whump. Angst with a happy ending!!!. Reader met The Winter Soldier in her mid-20s, but the story started when you were 19. Violence, isolation, implied SA, cursing, implied sex, drugging. Cheating on an abusive husband, abusive family members, arranged marriage, death. Reader is mentioned to have slowed aging. Reader’s family is Red Room. Set between 1961 and CA:TWS. (Let me know if I miss anything.)

Word count : 12.8k

Note : This took a while to write, but enjoy!

On your wedding day, the dress weighed more than you did.

It was ivory, heavy satin, imported, and tailored to fit you perfectly. Because even this, even you, must be perfect. The fabric pressed against your ribs like a held breath. The seamstress had told you to stand straighter. 

You did. But even then, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Your father stood beside you, adjusting his cufflinks. He smelled like cold metal and expensive cologne. He did not even not look at your face, and when he did, he only did it to check that you are presentable, that nothing about you might embarrass him in front of the men who have come to watch you be handed over.

You were not stupid. You knew exactly what this was.

It was 1961. They had just ordered the closing of the border and the construction of a wall surrounding West Berlin. Your father was a high-ranking Red Room officer. Your new husband was a Hydra general. This marriage was political.

You were a bargaining chip to buy an alliance in troubling times.

But you were just nineteen. Not that they cared.

The chapel was cold, all marble and iron and banners instead of flowers. Red and black draped the walls like warnings. There was no real aisle, just a straight walk forward, like a march. Everything about it felt militarized, precise, stripped of everything that should’ve made a wedding a celebration. Even the music was wrong. Too sharp. Too loud. It echoed in your chest until your heart felt like it might splinter apart.

You stood at the entrance, your breath coming too fast. 

Your mother stood beside you.

She was trembling.

Her whole body shook like she was holding herself together by sheer willpower alone. Her hands were cold when they gripped yours, her fingers digging in too tight. You could feel her heartbeat racing. You had felt it before, late at night, when she thought you were asleep and cried into the foot of your bed.

Her marriage to your father had been political too.

She had been nineteen, too, once. Maybe younger. She had stood where you stood now, bartered between men who spoke about loyalty and power and alliances like they weren’t talking about living, breathing girls.

You realized then, as you were standing there, that she wasn’t shaking because she was giving you away. She was shaking because she saw herself in you. She was watching herself disappear all over again.

“Don’t cry,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Please don’t cry. They don’t like it when we cry.”

You swallowed hard as your throat burned.

You hadn’t cried yet. You were too numb for tears. Instead, fear sat heavy in your stomach. It felt like standing at the edge of a bottomless pit, knowing you were about to be pushed.

Across the room, waiting, was your betrothed.

General Viktor Dragunov.

He was thirty years your senior, hair already threaded with gray. His posture was rigid, decorated in medals earned through blood you didn’t want to think about. He looked at you like you were an acquisition. You were a property that had been negotiated, approved, and now delivered.

You were a treaty.

This wedding was about consolidation of power. Hydra and the Red Room were using you as the proof that they were now family.

Your father stepped forward to escort you. His face was carved from stone, eyes unreadable. He did not look at you like a daughter. He looked at you like a completed assignment.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to run.

You wanted to say no.

But that had never been an option.

After all, you had been given two options:

Become a Red Room widow or marry Dragunov.

You had chosen blindly. You had reached for the option that didn’t end immediately in a grave. You knew yourself, and you knew the girls in the red room. You knew that most of the girls don’t even make it past the second year.

So you had told yourself surviving was enough. You had told yourself you could endure anything if it meant living.

Now, standing here, you weren’t so sure.

Your father took your arm with a firm, impersonal grip. You felt like a package being handed over.

Each step forward felt wrong. The room blurred at the edges. Faces watched you with scrutiny— Hydra officials, Red Room handlers, men and women who understood exactly what was happening and approved of it.

You were barely an adult.

Your hands were sweating inside your gloves. Your heart hammered so hard it hurt. You felt unbearably small, trapped inside a body that was about to be claimed by a man who had lived a whole life before you had even finished becoming a person.

When your father placed your hand into Dragunov’s, it felt like handcuffs closing around your wrist.

His fingers were possessive. 

The officiant spoke about unity. About strength. About legacy. Words like honor and loyalty were thrown around until they lost meaning. No one asked if you wanted this. No one asked if you were afraid.

You stared straight ahead, nails digging into your palm. 

When Dragunov kissed you, it was brief and public and wrong. His lips pressed against yours like a stamp of ownership. 

You did not close your eyes. You did not kiss back.

Applause followed.

And then, celebration.

As they led you away, his hand firm at the small of your back, you understood with terrible clarity that your life had ended. 

You had not walked into a marriage.

You had been absorbed into a machine.

—

You learned quickly that marriage did not make your husband a better man.

If anything, it excused his cruelty, gave him a sense of entitlement, a justification. The first years passed the way bruises do: faint at first, almost ignorable, then blooming dark beneath the skin. 

General Dragunov was impeccable in public. He dressed you like a trophy, gave you jewels that were heavy on your neck, dressed you in gowns chosen to emphasize elegance over comfort. His hand rested on your back whenever there were eyes on you, a reminder of ownership disguised as affection. He spoke of my wife with visible pride, like you were proof of his power, a medal pinned neatly to his chest for the world to admire.

People smiled at you. They congratulated you. They told you how fortunate you were.

They did not see what happened when the doors closed.

In private, he took far more than he ever gave. Your presence was expected. Your silence was required. Your body was not something he asked for, but rather, he viewed it as an object he took, over and over, with the cruelty of a man who had never been denied anything in his life.

Love, to him, was not tenderness or care.

Love was obedience.

You learned to survive by becoming observant. You learned to read his moods by the way he removed his gloves at night: too carefully meant anger he was containing, carelessly meant anger he intended to spend. You learned when to keep your eyes down, when to speak only when spoken to, when to make yourself small enough to survive the hours until morning.

He was not always violent, and that was the most disorienting part. Some days he was distant, cold, dismissive. Other days he was almost kind, as if he believed restraint was a gift. Those days were worse in their own way, because they made you doubt yourself. They made you wonder if you were imagining the worst of it, if he was truly a good man. 

He was not a good man. Because every bout of kindness was almost always followed by the days when he reminded you that your body was not yours.

So you started learning which words were safe and which ones provoked him. You learned when to keep your eyes low, when to answer only in short, neutral phrases, when to make yourself small enough to endure the hours until morning.

Some nights you laid very still and counted your breaths, waiting for it to be over.

It wasn’t long until he began to talk about children.

At first it was casual, almost conversational. He made very uncomfortable comments over dinner about legacy, about bloodlines. He made suggestive comments in conversations with colleagues while you sat beside him, smiling, your spine rigid, as he said things like, “any day now.”

You played your part. You smiled when required. You nodded when necessary. 

Little did he know, you had bribed a Hydra physician to give you experimental birth control pills— one that wouldn’t show up in your blood tests. 

You swallowed one every morning with ruthless discipline, your stash hidden under the fake bottom of your jewelry box.

It was the only control you had left.

You would not bring a child into this house.

You would not offer another life to this machine.

You would not let your body create something that could be used against you.

Months passed without a pregnancy. Then years.

Dragunov noticed.

At first, his irritation was subtle. The doctors were blamed. Tests were ordered. Examinations were conducted. You lay still while men spoke about your body in clinical tones, as if you were not there, as if you were a malfunctioning instrument rather than a person.

“Perfectly healthy,” they said. “No complications.”

That was when his patience ran out.

He became…. angry. He accused your body of withholding, of deliberate humiliation, even though he never had proof. 

His voice started rising higher and higher. His hand slammed into walls, into furniture, into the table beside your head hard enough to make you flinch. He stopped touching you in public altogether— to your relief.

“You exist for legacy,” he told you one night, standing over you like a judge delivering a sentence. His shadow swallowed you whole. “Do not forget why you are here.”

You remembered every day you woke up beside him. Every day you swallowed those pills. Every day you stayed alive out of spite, out of fear, out of a stubborn refusal to disappear entirely.

Taking the possibility of a child away from him was the only semblance of individuality you had left.

—

You were in your mid-twenties by the time the war in Vietnam was escalating.

The Red Room told Hydra that agents working for the opposing forces were moving closer. Their assets were going dark, handlers found dead in alleys with no witnesses left alive. Power was shifting, and men like your husband felt it like an itch under the skin.

That was when your husband decided you would be moved.

He brought you to a private stretch of land surrounded by violent blue water, reachable only by Hydra aircraft. A mansion of stone and glass rose from the greenery like a fortress of thorns pretending to be a home.

“I’m keeping you here for your safety,” he said, his tone reasonable, as if he were explaining the weather. He was more… gentle today. “I will be very busy. The world is becoming… unpredictable.”

You stared at him, disbelief curdling into rage.

“No,” you whispered. Then louder, “No. You can’t leave me here alone!”

He barely reacted as you screamed, words tearing out of you after years of silence. You told him you couldn’t breathe here, that you were not a thing to be stored away, that you were already isolated enough, already buried alive inside his house, his rules, his body. How dare he isolate you on an island with no human contact?

And then… you slapped him.

For a moment, you thought he might hit you back.

Instead, he laughed. It came out as an amused chuckle, like you were a child throwing a tantrum. He caught your wrist before you could pull away.

“I will make sure no harm comes to you,” he said, but you knew what he meant: no one touches what is mine.

“Besides,” He continued, gesturing toward the mansion door. “You won’t be alone.”

The door opened, and The Winter Soldier stepped inside.

You had seen him once before, at a gala the previous year. He had stood behind Colonel Vasily Karpov, like a shadow given shape, his metal arm hidden beneath a glove. Even then, the room had seemed colder around him.

Up close, he was… unsettling. Taller than you expected. Broad-shouldered, rigid, as if his body had been trained to exist only in the battlefield. His expression was blank, eyes flat and distant, not resting on anything in particular. The metal arm was uncovered this time, catching the light.

He did not look at you.

He did not bow.

He simply stood, waiting.

“He is assigned to you,” your husband said, with unmistakable pride. “He will keep you safe.”

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh before you could stop yourself.

“What?” You gestured vaguely toward the man like he was an absurd decoration. “So he’s my bodyguard now?” You scoffed. “Does he bite?”

Your husband laughed with you, like you’d made a charming joke. He stepped closer, hand lifting as if to pull you into him, to try and kiss you.

You shoved him away.

The Winter Soldier didn’t react. 

Your husband’s smile thinned, but it did not disappear.

“He does not bite,” he said lightly, as if discussing a hobby. His hand settled possessively at your waist anyway, fingers digging in just enough to make the point. “He kills. So behave.”

The Winter Soldier finally looked at you then. There was no hunger in his gaze. No judgment. No interest.

And yet, standing there on that island, trapped between a husband who owned you and a weapon wearing a man’s face, you felt curiosity spark for the first time in years.

Because, for the first time since your wedding day, someone had been placed between you and him.

Even if that someone was The Winter Soldier.

—

The mansion was built to feel untouchable.

Stone terraces stepped down toward the sea like a throne carved into the island itself. Glass walls reflected the sky so perfectly that sometimes you felt as though you were walking through air, suspended between water and nothing at all. It was beautiful in the way merciful prisons often are, designed to distract you from the fact that escape was impossible.

The silence was the worst part.

It wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that rang in your ears, that made you too aware of your own breathing, your own thoughts looping endlessly with nowhere to go. There were no radios, no music, no laughter. 

Just the constant awareness of being watched by the Winter Soldier. At first, you only noticed him the way one notices a shadow. He stood at a respectful distance, eyes constantly moving. He never leaned or rested. Never turned his back to the jungle or the water or the house.

He was always between you and danger.

Or maybe between you and freedom.

You took to walking the beach because it was the only place that felt safe. The sand was coarse, the sun was harsh. The ocean stretched endlessly, a vast, open wound of blue that made your chest ache. You stood at the water’s edge and imagined walking straight into it, imagining how far you could swim before your body gave up.

You wondered if he’d follow.

He always stopped several paces behind you.

Day one, you said nothing.

Day two, you tried pretending he wasn’t there. You kicked sand into the surf, let salt spray sting your eyes, breathed deeply just to remind yourself you still could.

By day three, the emptiness started clawing at you.

“You don’t need to hover,” you said one afternoon, staring out at the horizon. Your voice sounded too loud in the open air. “I’m not exactly fast.”

He gave you no response.

You turned your head slightly. He hadn’t moved.

Day four, irritation started to creep in.

“Do they wind you up every morning,” you asked, drawing a slow circle in the sand, “or do you just… stand like that naturally?”

Nothing.

You laughed then. It was short and humorless. “Right.”

That night, you dreamed of screaming and no sound coming out.

By day five, you were tired of being the only human presence in your own life.

You sat down hard at the edge of the beach, dress hitched up to your knees, toes digging into the cold, wet sand as the tide crept closer. The sun was low, red bleeding into the water, turning the ocean copper. It looked like a wounded animal.

“You know,” you said quietly, “this place would be beautiful if it wasn’t a cage.”

You didn’t expect an answer. You hugged your arms around yourself. The wind pulled at your hair, tangling it around your face.

“I don’t even know why I’m talking,” you muttered, cursing at yourself. “You’re not here for conversation. You’re here to make sure I don’t disappear into the ocean and embarrass him.”

Then, out of nowhere, he… answered.

“I know.”

His voice was rough, and stripped bare. You hadn’t expected him to sound like that.

Slowly, carefully, you turned your head.

He was still standing where he always did, but his head was tilted slightly now, gaze fixed on you. Despite looking closer in age to you than your husband, he felt old in a way that didn’t make sense.

“You… talk,” you said.

He said nothing else.

But after that, you refused to let the silence reclaim him.

You talked about everything, but small things at first. The way the salt dried your skin. How the wind sounded different at night. How the water scared you and soothed you at the same time.

Sometimes he didn’t respond at all.

Sometimes, he surprised you.

“Don’t go in past your knees,” he said one morning, voice flat, almost mechanical.

You glanced back as you dipped your toes in the water. “Why?”

“Undertow.”

You blinked, then smiled. “So you’re not just decoration.”

His mouth curved upward, just barely.

You learned him in fragments. You noticed the way he scanned the tree line every few minutes. The way his metal fingers flexed when helicopters passed overhead. The way he always positioned himself between you and the mansion when your husband called.

You never asked his name. You never asked where he came from.You knew better than to dig where blood still hadn’t dried.

One evening, when the sky was filled with clouds, you said, “Do you hate it here?”

His answer was immediate. “Yes.”

You laughed. “Me too.”

Another day, you asked, “Do you ever get tired?”

“No.”

The closest you came to crying was one night when the waves were loud and the darkness was inescapable.

“You’re the first man in my life,” you said, eyes fixed on the black water, “who hasn’t treated me like he owns me.”

He turned toward you so fast it startled you.

“I… won’t,” he said, and this time, he had to carefully consider his words.

By the end of the month, he walked beside you instead of behind you.

—

One night, a familiar nightmare dragged you under like a riptide.

You were back in the chapel again. It was always the chapel. 

The marble was too white, banners too red, the air thick with condensed breaths. Your dress was crushing your ribs, heavier than your body, heavier than your voice. You tried to move and couldn’t. You tried to scream and your throat locked 

Then his hand closed around your wrist.

Dragunov. Then, your father. Every man who had ever owned you. Their fingers were tightening, pulling you in two different directions while everyone watched.

You gasped….

And shook awake with a scream that ripped itself out of you before you could stop it.

Your body jerked upright, heart slamming so violently it made you dizzy. The room swam, shadows stretching along the stone walls, moonlight cutting across the floor. Your lungs burned and your hands clawed at the sheets as if you were still being dragged.

Before your mind could catch up, the door swung open.

He was there.

The Winter Soldier had his metal arm raised, eyes blazing as he swept the room for threats that didn’t exist. 

You could hear his breathing, and you suddenly realised he was one second from killing something.

From killing someone.

Then his eyes finally landed on you, curled in the bed. 

You were shaking, wide-eyed and gasping like a wounded animal.

He lowered his arm slowly, as if it took effort. “Are you okay?” he asked.

You should have said yes.

You should have nodded, told him it was nothing, and watched him disappear back into the hallway where he belonged.

But… you couldn’t bring yourself to.

“No,” you whispered, your throat hurting. “Nightmare.”

Oh. 

He understood.

He nodded once, already turning away, defaulting back into distance, into safety-through-separation.

No.

No no no….

“Wait,” you said, louder than you meant to.

He stopped in his tracks..

You were suddenly aware of everything; how cold the room was, how the thin silk slip clung to your skin, how exposed you felt without the armor of dresses and jewels. Your body wouldn’t stop trembling, as if the nightmare had soaked into your bones.

“I don’t want to be alone,” you said, as if it was terrifying to admit.

Right. 

Then, softly, he said… “Okay.”

He stepped back inside, positioning himself by the door like a sentinel.

It should have been comforting.

It wasn’t enough.

You hugged your knees to your chest, teeth chattering, your breaths still coming too fast. The bed felt too big. The shadows were too close. 

Your skin felt like it didn’t belong to you.

He noticed.

You saw it in the way his posture shifted, how his eyes tracked the way you folded inward on yourself. 

Then, he made… a decision. 

Carefully, he moved closer until he stood beside the bed.

“Can I…?” he asked, glancing at the mattress, then back at you.

No one had ever asked you for permission before they touched you. 

Not your father. Not your husband. 

You nodded.

He sat down, the bed dipping under his weight as heat radiated from him. He hesitated again, always waiting, always giving you the choice, and when you leaned into him, he hesitated for half a second before his arm came around you.

His human arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest. He kept the metal arm carefully away, as if afraid it might hurt you. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, a solid rhythm that your own body instinctively tried to match.

Before you could stop it, something inside you gave way.

You cried, and it was not pretty, it was not quiet. Your face twisted into his shoulder as years of fear finally found a place to go. Your hands fisted into his shirt like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go.

He just held you tighter, one hand coming up to rest at the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair like he was memorizing you.

“I’m sorry,” you choked. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” he said softly. 

It was? 

This was okay to him?

“Can you stay?” you asked, voice breaking. “Just… just for tonight.”

“Okay,” he said again.

You shifted carefully, easing you both back against the pillows, adjusting the blankets around you. You pulled him down, curling down into him instinctively, your body fitting against his like it had always meant to, like your nervous system recognized the safety in his touch before your mind could.

His arm stayed around you, protective but not possessive. His chin rested lightly against your hair. You could feel his breath, slowing yours down by sheer proximity.

For the first time in years, your body relaxed.

You fell asleep with your cheek pressed to his chest. And when morning came, he was still there.

—

After that night, something changed between you.

He still stood guard, still scanned the tree line, still followed orders. 

But he also stayed closer. He sat with you longer. At night, when you couldn’t sleep, he would sit at the edge of the bed when you asked.

You stopped dreaming of the chapel.

Instead, you caught yourself watching him when he thought you weren’t.

You noticed how his brow furrowed when he was thinking, how his eyes narrowed when helicopters passed, and how impossibly gentle he was with small things. 

With you. 

Fuck.

You had spent your life being taken from, claimed, decided for. Desire had always been something done to you, never something that you had.

Until now.

You felt it when his shoulder brushed yours, when his voice softened just for you; when his fingers lingered on you a second longer than necessary as you walked too close to the sharp rocks by the beach. You felt it in the way your chest tightened when he left the room.

You found, to your surprise, that the soldier had a personality.

He chuckled at your corny jokes, but never at your self-deprecating ones. He tapped his foot more when you played 30s music on the vinyl, and loved beef stew when you cooked them in the kitchen with the overstocked pantry.

He was human underneath all that. Just like you. 

So you talked to him. You poured your heart into your conversations. Your troubles with your husband, your father. How you barely saw your mother anymore. Once you even told him that despite growing up in the Red Room, you were always interested in international relations. “In another life, I would be a diplomat,” you said, “If not, I think I’d teach international law in a city like DC.”

He nodded encouragingly.

One night, you both sat by a fire by the ocean. The water was restless, waves breaking hard against the rocks below the terrace. Your knees were pulled to your chest, a blanket draped loosely around your shoulders.

He was cleaning his knives, and you were watching his hands instead of the sea.

“Do you ever,” you said quietly, “wish you were someone else?”

He didn’t look up. “Every day.”

Your throat tightened.

As a bout of silence stretched, you could feel his breathing. Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

“I have a question,” you said.

He turned toward you immediately. He was always attentive, always ready. “Okay.”

You stared at your hands, and at the faint tremor in your fingers.

“If I asked you to do something,” you said cautiously, “Can you please tell me no if you didn’t want to?”

He hesitated, as if it was the first time he was allowed to refuse something. “Yes.”

You swallowed.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. 

This was dangerous. 

This was reckless. 

This was the most honest thing you had ever considered doing.

“Can I,” you whispered, finally looking up at him and meeting his eyes, “kiss you?”

The world seemed to stop.

He froze, not like a soldier, but like a man who had never been asked that question before. He stopped breathing for a second and searched your face, like he was making sure this was real. 

That you were real.

“Your husband sent me here to protect you,” he said quietly. “You’re my mission.”

“You know I don’t love him,” you said, a sad smile playing on your lips.

Oh. Right.

All he did was… nod.

So you leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips. He didn’t move until you did, until you closed the distance the rest of the way, your lips brushing his in a kiss so soft it felt unreal.

He sighed against your mouth.

Then, carefully, so carefully, he kissed you back.

It was hesitant and reverent and achingly tender, like he was afraid of hurting you, like he understood exactly how much this meant. His hand came up to cradle your cheeks, thumb resting lightly against your cheek, but never pressing and never demanding.

You melted into him.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, your breaths tangled.

“I…,” he started, then stopped before trying again. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you said, voice tone despite the tears burning behind your eyes. 

—

Over the next couple of months, he slept in your bed every night.

It just… happened, and neither of you ever suggested anything else. His presence had become a constant, steady as the tide. You learned the shape of him in the dark: the breadth of his shoulders, how he held you, how he always waited for you to settle before letting himself relax.

One night, neither of you could sleep.

You laid half on top of him, one leg draped over his thigh,cheek pressed to his chest. His arm rested around your waist, rubbing slow circles on your skin.

You shifted and…. you felt it then. 

You could feel him clearly under his trousers, his pants getting tight. It was the unmistakable evidence of how tightly he held himself in check, how long it had been since anyone had touched him like that. 

His body went rigid, as if he were bracing for rejection.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, already starting to move away.

You pushed up onto your hands, stopping him without force. “Don’t be.”

He looked up at you, eyes dark in the light, waiting to be told what to do.

“Can I… help you?” you suggested. “Only if you want me to.”

It should feel wrong. You were a married woman, for fuck’s sake. 

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked away, then back to you, like he was recalibrating everything he thought he knew about touch.

He shouldn’t.

He knew he shouldn’t.

“Yes,” he said finally.

It sounded like permission and need and disbelief all at once.

You moved carefully, shifting until you were straddling him, the warmth of him unmistakable beneath you. He froze again, not because he didn’t want this, but because no one had ever let him want anything before.

“Is this okay?” you whispered.

His hands hovered at your hips, unsure, waiting.

“Yes,” he said again, rougher now.

You settled fully, the contact drawing a sharp breath from him. His hands finally found you then, tentative at first, like he was afraid you might disappear if he touched you too firmly. When you leaned down and kissed him, it was slow and deep and unhurried. Nothing was being taken from him, nothing was being rushed.

When you peeled off his clothes and he took yours off, you could feel the want radiating off him. You felt it in the way his body responded to you, in the way his breath hitched when you moved, the way his grip tightened just enough to say don’t stop.

You realized, distantly, that this was the first time your body wasn’t being used as currency or obligation or proof of obedience.

You were choosing this.

He was choosing you.

“This feels…” he started, then stopped, voice breaking. “Is it supposed to feel like this?”

You smiled through the tightness in your chest. “I think so.”

Afterward, as you collapsed against his chest, boneless and breathless. He wrapped both his metal and human arm around you immediately. 

You lay there listening to his heart slow beneath your ear, both of you stunned by the same thought:

So this is what it’s meant to be.

—

Morning greeted you softly, filtered through pale light and the hush of the sea.

You woke up first.

For a moment, you didn’t move, afraid that the Winter Soldier might vanish if you acknowledged him. His arm was still around you, breathing deep against the back of your neck. In sleep, he looked younger, like less of a weapon. He was just a man, his pretty lashes resting against his cheek.

You turned carefully, easing yourself so you were half draped over him, your fingers brushing his jawline.

He stirred awake anyway.

His eyes opened, panicking for half a second… until they focused on you.

You leaned down and kissed him.

It was gentle, impossibly intimate after everything that had passed between you. He exhaled into it, hand tightening at your back.

Then, as if reality started keeping in, he pulled back just enough to look at you. 

“There’s something you need to know,” he said, swallowing hard.

Ah. Of course. Too many truths in your life had come with consequences.

You lifted your head to look at him. “Hm?”

His grip tightened, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment, like he was bracing himself, then finally turned his eyes to you. 

“They wipe me.” he continued, holding on to whatever sentience he had left from that chair. He knew he was missing most of his life, and he knew why, but he didn't know what. “If anyone finds out...” He swallowed, eyes darting to your face. “They’ll wipe you from my memory.”

Your chest constricted painfully.

What kind of sick fucks could do this to a man?

“I can survive a lot of things,” he said, more urgently now. “But I don’t want to forget you.”

You had lived your life under secrecy already, hidden pills and bruises folded neatly into obedience. 

This was different, but it wasn’t unfamiliar.

“No one will ever find out,” you promised, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth. 

Besides, you both knew the other half of it without saying it.

No one could know because your husband could never know.

If Dragunov found out, he wouldn’t hesitate for a second. You would be dead, and the Winter Soldier would be blamed, broken down, stripped of whatever fragile autonomy he had left.

—

When your husband finally decided the crisis was over, he didn’t ask if you wanted to leave the island.

He informed you.

Six months had been long enough, he said. Long enough for the world to calm down. Long enough for him to remember that you existed, and that you belonged on his arm, in his home, as proof that nothing had been lost during the chaos.

You watched the island recede through the helicopter window, the water swallowing the place where you had learned what safety felt like for the first time in your life.

—

The townhouse welcomed you back with open doors. You and your husband’s bedroom was untouched, preserved like a shrine. Jewels waited in velvet-lined drawers. You wondered if your husband even slept in there at all. 

Your husband kissed your cheek that first night, already distracted.

“I am glad you are back,” he said, loosening his tie. “But things will be… busy.”

Busy was an understatement.

He was gone most of the time. Days turned into weeks where he barely slept in the house at all. He had flights, meetings, and emergencies that pulled him away. And when he was home, he was distant, tired, already halfway gone.

Not that you cared. If anything, it became easier for you to pretend he didn’t exist. 

And one day… you asked for a bodyguard, since he was always gone for so long. 

You didn’t specifically ask for the Winter Soldier out right, but you suggested it to your husband, made it seem like his idea.

“He’s familiar with my schedule,” you’d say offhandedly during dinner, “besides, it’s inefficient to retrain someone new.”

Your husband waved a hand, barely listening. “Fine. If it makes you feel secure.”

Secure.

That almost made you laugh.

Still, his request to assign him to you was approved. Besides, why would he object? The Winter Soldier was a weapon, not a temptation. What threat could a mindless asset pose to this marriage?

You were a sensible girl, right? There was no way you could desire a monster. 

So he was assigned to you again. And again. And again.

The Winter Soldier would stand outside your bedroom door while you and your husband slept inside it.

He followed you through townhouse gardens. 

He watched you play the perfect wife.

But when your husband was gone, you’d take him by the hand and lead him into places he never meant to be.

Once, you recklessly pulled him into your husband’s own bed while the man was halfway across the continent. 

“You can come in,” you said, tugging him in and closing the door behind you. 

He hesitated, always hesitant with you, always waiting for permission before feeling even remotely comfortable inside.

You sat on the edge of your bed, silk robe slipping off one shoulder, heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

“He’s not here,” you reassured. “You can stay.”

He laid with you that night like it was the most natural thing in the world, though it took him a long time to touch you again, for the first time since the island. His restraint was its own kind of intimacy— it was intoxicating.

That night, you laughed softly into the Winter Soldier’s shoulder, the sound equal parts triumph and disbelief.

You were… happy.

Here, of all places.

—

As your husband left for work more often, these nights happened more frequently.

“My love,” you whispered into his skin. “You are so good to me.”

And every time, he froze as if the nickname anchored him to the world.

Your husband slept in that bed less and less. The Winter Soldier slept in it more.

Sometimes fully dressed, sitting back against the headboard while you drifted off with your hand curled into his sleeve.

Sometimes, he was close enough that you could feel every slow breath he took, every restrained movement when you shifted against him.

You learned each other in whispers and glances and lingering touches that said everything without saying anything at all.

You took him places that had once terrified you.

The study.

The hallway outside your husband’s office.

The kitchen.

The underground bunker.

What little power you felt doing this made your head spin.

—

This affair continued for the better part of another ten years. 

And in that time, you perfected a careful choreography of obedience that kept your husband pleased and uncurious. You learned how you should stand beside him at events, silent and composed, his hand possessive at the small of your back while other men admired what they thought was devotion.

They called you the perfect wife.

They had no idea it was an act.

Your husband stopped speaking of children somewhere around five years ago, because he’d decided he didn’t need them to prove anything anymore. Instead, he took pride in you. In how calm you were now, how compliant, how docile, how you never argued, never embarrassed him.

“You’ve learned your place,” he once said in bed, satisfied.

You nodded. You let him believe it.

Because submission bought you something precious: freedom in the margins.

And in those margins lived the Winter Soldier.

You saw him when you were lucky. Sometimes, you got your bodyguard request approved every other week, when he was between missions. More often. It was every other month. Sometimes longer. Sometimes just long enough to remind you he was real before he was taken away again.

Still, they wiped him.

Over and over.

They took pieces of him each time, most memories, sometimes entire years. Sometimes he came back distant, his eyes emptier. Sometimes he returned with fragments of kindness intact, like bruises that never quite faded.

But no matter what they did to his mind, they could never erase you.

Not really.

He didn’t always remember your name. Sometimes he didn’t remember how he knew you. But his body always did. His eyes always lowered when they landed on you. His steps always slowed when he approached. 

In the end, his hand always found yours like it belonged there.

Once, after a particularly brutal reset, he stood in your doorway, brow furrowed like he was fighting an invisible force.

“I don’t understand,” he said, almost to himself. “They said you’re just… a mission.”

You reached for him. “And do I feel like one?”

He shook his head. “No.”

You realized early on that love alone wasn’t enough. So you started keeping notes.

You hid them where no one would ever look; between the false backs of drawers, inside the spines of books your husband had never touched.

You wrote down everything.

His favorite food (beef stew, eaten slowly). The way he preferred his coffee when you made it in what little mornings you had (black, untouched until it went cold). The songs that he hummed because something about them felt familiar.

Then, you started writing about yourself.

Who you were. How you laughed. What he did that made you feel safe.

You wrote down how he loved you. How keeping this a secret was his idea. 

You wrote about the way he always positioned himself between you and doors, how he watched your hands when you were nervous, how he slept lighter when you were beside him.

After a wipe, you would bring the notes out slowly.

Never all at once.

You’d sit with him somewhere no one would see you, hand resting near his but not touching unless he reached out first.

“You like this,” you’d say gently, sliding a page toward him. “You always did.”

You’d watch his brow furrow as he read.

“This sounds like me,” he’d murmur.

“It is,” you’d say. “And this—” you’d tap another line, softer now, “—is us.”

And it always worked, even if not perfectly, not immediately.

But enough.

Enough for him to look at you and feel his heartstrings tug where memory should have been. 

When you were really lucky, and he was out of cryofreeze for months, he would start remembering his past. 

This would happen maybe once every couple of years.

He told you he remembered Coney Island. 

He told you the number 107 was familiar, though he didn’t know why. 

He told you he remembered going to a baseball game.

And you wrote those down, too.

You loved him in stolen moments and half-lives. You loved him, even knowing he might forget you tomorrow.

Your husband never noticed the notebooks, never questioned the time you spent alone. He never wondered why the Soldier, an asset, was assigned to his household so often. He never noticed how the house felt alive only when the guard was home. He never suspected that the most dangerous affair of his life was happening right under his roof.

He thought you were broken into obedience.

He never realized you were waiting.

At night, you lay beside him or alone and counted years like a promise.

One day, you thought, he will die before me.

He was much older than you, after all. And unlike your lover, he had no serum to help with age. Perhaps, that was your only ticket to freedom. 

One day, I would outlive him.

—

On the sixteen-year anniversary of your wedding, you stood in front of the mirror out of habit, adjusting an earring your husband had chosen for you, silk cool against your skin.

You looked… good. 

You looked youthful. 

Wait.

Wait. 

The woman staring back at you just looked… wrong.

You did not look tired or worn. Your skin was not etched with time the way sixteen years of survival should have been.

Your face was smooth. Your eyes were clear. Your skin was unmarked by age. You looked exactly as you had in your mid-twenties… 

You were unchanged, untouched by time.

Your breath caught painfully in your throat.

How come you’ve never realised this before? 

Have you been too preoccupied with your sad, pathetic, little life that you hadn’t noticed? 

Have you just been that fucking stupid? 

“No,” you whispered.

You leaned closer, fingers shaking as you touched your cheek, your throat, the faint line at the corner of your eye that should have deepened by now.

Behind you, your husband’s voice carried through the room. “You finally noticed.”

You turned slowly, dread pooling heavy in your stomach.

“What?” Your voice sounded thin. “What did you do to me?”

He regarded you with satisfaction, like a man watching a successful experiment reach its conclusion.

“A couple of years ago,” he said casually, adjusting his cufflinks, “I had you given an injection while you slept. It was… an experimental formula.”

Your heart began to race.

“What kind of formula?”

“One that slows cellular degradation,” he replied. “Aging, effectively. You won’t stop entirely—but you’ll take much, much longer.”

Your vision blurred.

“You drugged me,” you said, the realization hitting like ice water. 

“I protected my investment,” he corrected smoothly. “Once I realised it was working on you, I did it to myself, too.”

What?

You were a fucking human experiment to him now? 

And now he just won’t fucking die until you’re both like, what— four hundred years old?

You… you simply couldn’t suffer that long. 

“No,” you said, backing away from him. “No, you didn’t have the right. You didn’t—” Your voice broke, rage and terror flooding in all at once. 

He frowned slightly, irritated now.

“I ensured continuity,” he said. “You’ll remain… presentable.”

You laughed, barking out a broken, hysterical sound, and it turned into sobbing before you could stop it.

“I thought,” you cried, hands fisting in your hair. You couldn’t quite believe you were admitting this to your abuser, that you were just telling him the truth. “I really thought one day you’d die before me. I thought I’d outlive you. I thought I’d finally be free.”

Your body shook as years of endurance collapsed into one raw moment.

“You don’t get to choose this for me,” you screamed. “You don’t get to decide how long I belong to you—how long I suffer—”

Before you could finish, he… hit you. 

Your head snapped to the side as pain exploded across your face, the world tilting violently. You staggered, barely staying on your feet, the taste of blood blooming metallic on your tongue.

Your husband stood where he was, cold as always. 

“That,” he said quietly, “was unbecoming.”

Your cheek burned. Your heart pounded so hard it felt like it might tear itself apart.

For the first time in years, he didn’t even bother pretending to love you.

“You forget,” he continued, voice low and dangerous, “that everything you are… your body, your time, your life— was negotiated long ago.”

You lifted your head slowly, tears streaking down your face, fury blazing through the pain.

And in that moment, standing frozen in a body that refused to age, trapped in a life you refused to end, you understood…

He had stolen even time from you.

—

He left the next morning for work in a different continent like nothing had happened.

He gave you a perfunctory kiss to your cheek before he got on a car to the airport. 

You didn’t realize how tightly you’d been wounding yourself up until he was gone.

You didn’t even realize you’d slid down to the edge of the bed until your hands were clutching the sheets and your chest hurt from breathing too hard. The mirror across the room still reflected a woman who hadn’t aged, who hadn’t been allowed to. 

Then, you heard footsteps in the hall.

You didn’t look up at first. You didn’t have it in you to perform.

Then he spoke. “Hi.”

You lifted your head… and there he was.

You almost forgot that your husband had requested him to guard you while he was away for his work trip. 

The Winter Soldier stood in the doorway exactly as you remembered him from a month ago. He had the same posture. Same eyes that turned gentle the moment they landed on you.

And you knew just by looking at him… he remembered.

They hadn’t wiped him yet.

Between the last time he saw you and today, they must’ve not had the time. 

“Hey,” he repeated again, as he saw you in shambles on the floor, like he was approaching a wounded animal. He knelt next to you, wrapping his human arm around you. “Hey. I’m here.”

That was it. That was all it took.

You collapsed into him, fingers fisting in his jacket, breath hitching violently as everything you’d been holding back tore loose. He caught you without hesitation. His metal hand cradled the back of your head, pressing you into his chest like he could shield you from the world by sheer force of will.

You told him everything.

The mirror.

The injection. 

You told him about the slap. About the words. About how your body wasn’t yours, and not even time was yours anymore.

When you finally ran out of words, he lifted your face gently, thumbs brushing under your eyes.

He kissed your tears away.

Each kiss landed like he was undoing the damage one breath at a time. Your lashes fluttered as he pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in like he needed the proof that you were here, alive.

You kissed him first.

Your mouth crashed into his like you were afraid he might vanish if you didn’t glue him to you. He made a low groan against your lips, surprise melting instantly into hunger, and then he was kissing you back, unrestrained, his hands sliding to your waist like they’d been waiting all month to remember the shape of you.

You pulled him up and toward the bed.

“Stay, my love,” you whispered, selfishly and trembling. “I need this.”

He followed you willingly, easing you down onto the mattress, his body hovering above yours like a shield. He paused there, eyes searching your face for any sign of hesitation.

You didn’t give him any.

Instead, you told him the thing you’d been afraid to want.

“Leave marks,” you breathed, fingers tightening in his shirt, clawing the off his body. “Please. I want to see them. I want to feel them.”

His eyes darkened. “He’ll see—”

“He won’t,” you said urgently. “He’ll be gone for two weeks. They’ll fade by then.” Then, you breathed out, closing your eyes just for a second, admitting a pathetic little feeling you had in your chest. “I just… I want proof. That I’m yours. Even for a little while.”

Oh.

He swallowed, and then he nodded.

When he kissed you again, it was deeper. His hands explored you like a vow, not taking but claiming space with permission. He pressed you back onto the mattress, his body bracketing yours, heat and weight and presence making your breath stutter.

His mouth traced your jaw, your throat, and he lingered. His lips pressed harder there, teeth just barely grazing skin before soothing it with a kiss. You gasped, arching without meaning to, fingers clawing into his shoulders.

“That okay?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes,” you breathed. “God, yes.”

He listened to every sound you made like it mattered. Like it guided him. When his mouth returned to your neck, he didn’t rush. He marked. A kiss bloomed into heat. Then, he left another, lower. His hands at your waist held you steady while his mouth left evidence you could feel spreading under your skin.

You clung to him, dizzy with the sensation of being wanted without demand, touched without fear. 

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breathing heavy.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

His eyes were full of you. 

And you were not a mission. You were a choice.

“You’re not his,” he said quietly. “Not in any way that matters."

You kissed him again, slower now, and pulled him down with you. 

—

The next morning felt impossibly… normal.

It felt domestic in a way your life had never allowed before.

Sunlight poured through the tall kitchen windows, warming the stone floors and going through glass jars your husband never touched. 

You stood at the stove in your sleep shirt. Your husband would never have even allowed you to go out of your room in something so… messy.

The fabric hung loose on you, sleeves rolled twice, collar open enough to reveal the faint shadows at your throat. You hadn’t bothered to cover them. You didn’t want to. 

The pan was warm beneath your hand, butter hissing softly as you poured batter and watched it spread into imperfect circles.

Pancakes.

You laughed at the absurdity of it.

You had never once cooked like this for your husband. Not because you couldn’t, but because it had never occurred to you to want to. Meals with him were formal, they were supervised. Food was just another presentation.

But for the soldier? It felt different.

You flipped one, the edges golden, the smell filling the kitchen triggering a memory you didn’t have.

The Soldier leaned in the doorway at first, arms crossed loosely. For once… there was no tension in his posture.

Eventually, he drifted closer.

You felt him at your back. His chin hovered near your shoulder. You turned slightly, and he bent without thinking, meeting you halfway.

You kissed him.

He kissed you back the same way.

Even now, you found it hard to believe he was the same cold, distant weapon you met on your husband’s island more than a decade ago. Perhaps, you had helped him recall part of his humanity, no matter how small. 

When he pulled away, his gaze dropped to your neck. Your collarbone. He studied the unmistakable marks he had left last night and frowned. 

He reached up as if to touch them, then stopped himself.

Instead, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to one. Then another. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly against your skin.

You turned, catching his face between your hands, thumbs brushing his cheeks until he had to look at you.

“Don’t be,” you said firmly. 

His eyes searched yours, like he was recalibrating what want was allowed to mean.

You turned back to the stove, and he stayed right there, arms slipping around your waist from behind, careful not to crowd you too much. His forehead rested against the side of your head.

Was this what mornings were supposed to feel like?

You started wondering, in another life, would this man have been your husband? Would he be  allowed to love you openly? Would you have woken up like this every day, cooking for each other, touching just because you could, because it was safe?

After breakfast, you sat together at the small table, knees brushing, plates between you. He ate slowly, like he always did.

After a long stretch of silence, he spoke.

“I think…” He hesitated, brow furrowing suddenly, like the thought hit him like a freight train. “I think I had a name.”

Oh.

He had never said that before.

This was… progress. He had stayed up late speculating with you before. He struggled to place an identity outside of The Soldier— and until now, he didn’t know for sure whether or not he had a life before this, or if he had always been The Soldier.

But if he had a name? 

It meant he had a past. It meant he wasn’t born and bred in Hydra— it meant he had his life stolen from him.

You didn’t rush him. You didn’t reach for him. You just waited, patient as you’d learned to be.

“Do you remember what it is?” you asked gently.

He shook his head.

“I don’t.”

There was no anger in it, just sadness. It was as if he’d touched heaven and lost it again.

You nodded, swallowing the ache in your throat. “That’s okay.”

And later, you took your notebook out.

You opened it carefully and wrote:

The soldier has a name.

You considered, then added:

He doesn’t remember it yet.

You sat with that for a moment before writing one last line:

But one day, I think he will.

—

The next couple of days were heaven.

It always was with the Soldier. It was always quiet, ordinary bliss. His presence was a gentle constant. He always moved through the house like a shadow trained to protect, checking doors twice, windows three times, memorizing the way you took your tea. He had left you half an hour ago.

“I’ll do a perimeter check around the neighborhood,” he’d said, brushing his knuckles along your chin. “Protocol.”

Right.

Because even when he was yours, he was still theirs.

He still had a job to do. 

You had taken a bath when he left, letting the heat melt the tension from your bones. For once, you felt safe enough to close your eyes.

You traced the bruises absently with your fingers. Remembering the way he’d listened, the way he’d stopped when you asked. These bruises were given, not taken. Perhaps it was the last semblance of control you had in your life. 

As your thoughts drifted, you wondered again about his name.

What it might’ve sounded like before it was taken from him. Whether it fit the man he was now or the boy he must’ve been once. You tried a few possibilities in your head, smiling faintly when none of them felt right.

One day, you thought.

Twenty minutes slipped by unnoticed.

When your fingers began to wrinkle and the water cooled, you finally pushed yourself up, reaching for a towel. You dried off slowly, wrapping a towel around your body as damp hair dripped down your spine. And because you didn’t even think you needed to close the bathroom door, you heard the bedroom door open.

Oh, you thought, the Soldier was back.

Weird— the neighborhood was quite big, it usually took him a little longer than this. 

But hey, you weren’t complaining.

“My love,” you called lightly, distracted as you patted water from your arms. “Can you get me some water?”

Movement ceased for a second, before you heard a bone-chilling chuckle. “You have never called me that before.”

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like the floor vanished beneath you.

No.

No no no.

You turned to see your husband standing just inside the room.

He wasn’t angry yet. Instead, he looked observant, as if he was walking in on something interesting rather than catastrophic. His coat was gone, tie loosened, as if he’d been home long enough to settle in.

“You weren’t expecting me,” he said mildly.

You couldn’t breathe.

“You were supposed to be gone ten more days,” you whispered.

“I came back early.” He gave you a shrug. “The meetings wrapped up.”

He took another step closer, and then he finally saw you properly.

Your bare skin.

The faint bruises blooming at your throat, your collarbone, and it was too intimate to be explained away.

He stopped in his tracks to stare.

It took a few seconds for the realization to fully reach his eyes. 

“…Who,” he asked slowly, “were you actually talking to?”

Your back hit the wall as you retreated instinctively, towel slipping, your body suddenly feeling unbearably exposed, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with nudity and everything to do with being seen.

You shook your head, already knowing there was no answer that would save you. “Please—”

It didn’t matter.

It didn't take long for his mind to catch up.

Only one man was in his house in the last couple of days, a man you had requested over and over again.

How could he be so stupid?

“The soldier,” he said flatly. Then he laughed, almost in disbelief. “You let that touch you?”

Before you could respond, he moved fast.

His hand closed in your hair, yanking your head back hard enough to make stars burst behind your eyes. You cried out, hands coming up instinctively, heart hammering.

“You filthy whore,” he hissed. “You think you get to choose who you belong to?”

He dragged you away from the bathroom and threw you onto the bed. The mattress dipped violently beneath you as you scrambled back, panic flooding your brain.

“You embarrassed me,” he snapped. “With a machine. A thing.”

Your breath came in sobbing gasps as he loomed over you, fury spilling out unchecked now.

“How long,” he asked, stepping closer, “have you been spoiled goods?”

Your breath stuttered. “I— I—”

His hand slammed into the wall by the bed, and it left a dent. 

“How. Fucking. Long,” he snarled. “Answer me, slut!”

You shook your head wildly, tears spilling before you could stop them. “Please—”

He grabbed your throat.

Not crushing, yet, but firm enough to steal your breath away, to remind you exactly how small you were. Your hands clutched uselessly, clawing at his wrist.

“How long,” he demanded again, face inches from yours, “have you been letting the asset touch what’s mine?”

Your vision blurred. Your lungs burned.

“T—ten years!” you shrieked, the words tearing out of you in a broken sob.

His grip tightened in shock as he lifted you up the bed by the neck.

“Ten,” he repeated, stunned, then furious. “You’re telling me you’ve been ruined for ten years?”

He shoved you back down, disgust etched into every line of his face.

“Everywhere I go,” he spat, “people look at me and don’t know I married trash.”

You coughed out, certain he left marks.

“With him?” he went on, voice rising now. “That brainless machine? You spread yourself for that thing?”

He laughed, and it was an ugly sound.

“I gave you everything,” he said. “And this is how you repay me?”

You shook your head violently. “I— he—”

Then, he struck you. Punched you. 

It was not enough to knock you out, but enough to mar the inside of your cheeks bleed.

You cried out, collapsing back onto the mattress as he loomed over you, breathing hard, eyes blazing.

“I should’ve known,” he said coldly. “You were always filthy.”

His hand dropped to the side of his belt. 

“No,” you whispered. “Please—”

He drew the knife from its holster slowly, savoring the way you recoiled.

“I’ll clean up my mistake,” he said. “I always do.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Was he gonna carve you up with his initials? Was he gonna take something away from you? Was he going to kill you?

A blood curdling scream left your mouth as he took one step forward…

Bang.

His body jerked, expression frozen in disbelief.

Then he collapsed, lifeless, to the floor.

The Winter Soldier stood there, chest heaving.

He hadn’t hesitated.

There had been too much anger in him, built up by years of commands, violence, punishment, being used as a weapon for men like your husband. When he’d heard you scream, he had barged in and acted.

Because your husband was hurting you.

He lowered the gun slowly, like his hands had suddenly remembered how to be human again. His eyes flicked to the body once then immediately to you.

All that fury drained out of his face once he realised you were safe.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

How were you supposed to even answer that question? 

One thing was for sure, though: you were happy.

He can never hurt me again.

Your breath broke into something that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been a sob. You pressed a hand to your mouth, eyes burning, staring at the stillness of him, cruel even in death. 

Then… the dread crept in.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, finally catching up to the situation at hand. 

You scrambled off the bed, your legs barely holding you up. “Oh my god—they’re going to kill me. They’re going to kill us, he was important, they’re going to—”

You started shaking violently, breath coming too fast, hands clawing uselessly at your arms like you could hold yourself together by force alone.

The Soldier shut the door behind him, draping his jacket over your bare body, he helped you stand before gripping your shoulders, forcing you to look at him.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You’re not dying today.”

Your breath hitched violently. “You killed him.”

“I know.”

“They’ll hunt you,” you whispered. “They’ll hunt me—”

“Yes,” he said bluntly. “Which is why you’re leaving. Now.”

Your head shook helplessly. “What—?”

“You need to run,” he said without a doubt. “We don’t have much time.”

He stood, already moving, already thinking three steps ahead. “Pack a bag. Only what you can carry. Take money, jewelry. Anything small you can sell fast.”

“What about you?” you cried.

“I’ll handle the body.”

That snapped you out of it.

“No,” you said hoarsely, back to him. “No—don’t—you can’t—”

“I can,” he cut in, already pulling gloves from his pocket. “And I will.”

You grabbed his arm desperately. “Come with me.”

“If I run with you,” he said carefully, urgently, “you’ll have an even bigger target on your back.”

“I don’t care,” you said fiercely. “I’m not leaving you.”

He closed his eyes for half a second, just long enough to imagine what that life would be— running with you, living with you. 

He opened them, when he realised that you would never rest with him by your side. 

“Listen to me,” he said, gripping your arms harder, not hurting, just grounding. “You need to disappear. Alone.”

You shook your head again, tears spilling freely. “I won’t—”

“Pack,” he cut in, voice breaking through your panic. 

“I’m not leaving you!” you repeated, voice cracking.

“Please,” he said.

The word didn’t belong to the Winter Soldier. It wasn’t command or protocol or programming. It was him. And right now he was desperate and human and afraid in a way Hydra rarely allowed himself to be.

“Please,” he repeated. “If you stay, they will use you against me.”

You shook your head, chest heaving. “I don’t want to do this without you.”

His forehead rested against yours, just for a second. 

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your, ever so slightly, like he was memorising the way you tasted. 

“I need to know you’re safe,” he said, almost begging. “Please. Please do this for me.”

Oh.

It was a want. The Winter Soldier wanted. 

You swallowed hard, nodding even as it felt like your heart was splitting in two.

—

You packed in a haze.

Your hands shook as you pulled cash from the hollowed-out boxes in closets, from behind loose bricks, from the lining of coats you’d never loved. You took jewelry next, glittering things stripped of sentiment and reduced to weight and resale value. Lastly, you packed all your notebooks, because you could not risk Hydra or the Red Room finding out. You didn’t look at them for long. 

You dressed quickly, mismatched and careless, fingers numb. The mirror caught you once, and you saw a bare face with wild eyes, a woman finally unadorned.

When you came back into the bedroom, The Soldier was waiting.

The body was already covered, wrapped in white sheets that almost felt merciful. Nothing of his remained but absence, a void where terror had been. 

You didn’t look. 

The Soldier stood near the door, alert. When he saw you, he sighed in relief, as if the twenty minutes where he couldn’t see you were the longest twenty minutes in his life.

You stepped into him without asking, arms wrapping around his waist, face pressed to his chest. He held you immediately, like instinct had overridden programming. 

“I love you,” you whispered into the fabric of his tactical shirt, the words torn loose from your throat.

“I know,” he said finally, barely holding it together. “I… I love you, too.”

You pulled back just long enough to kiss him.

It wasn’t frantic.

It was devastating, a goodbye pressed into skin. It was a kind of kiss meant to survive distance, time, and wars. The kind you could live on when everything else was taken.

When you parted, he rested his forehead against yours, hands still braced at your waist like he couldn’t trust the ground beneath you.

“Don’t look back,” he said gently. It wasn’t an order. It was a plea.

You nodded, even though your throat burned, even though every part of you wanted to stay. 

But you loved him too much to destroy him.

So you turned away… because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t leave at all.

—

Thirty-eight years later….

You had lived entire lives in that time, but your body had betrayed almost none of it. 

You had barely aged a handful of years since the night you ran, leaving the Winter Soldier behind in a house soaked with blood.

At first, you thought you were imagining it. Trauma does strange things to time. But then mirrors started telling on you. Photographs lingered too long in their resemblance. Friends joked about your “good genes,” laughed about how unfair it was that you never seemed to change.

Eventually, they always noticed.

And when they did, you learned to disappear before they asked too many questions.

Roughly once every decade (sometimes twelve years if you were lucky, sometimes eight if someone looked too closely) you would fake a death and build a new life. You would get a new name, a new passport, a new accent practiced until it felt natural on your tongue. You’d make up a new birthplace, a new birthday, new parents who existed only on paper.

The first time you did it, you cried for weeks. It felt silly, mourning your own fake death.

The second time, you drank yourself to sleep, getting ready to start from the bottom again,

By the third time, you were used to it.

By then, Hydra had stopped looking.

Dragunov’s wife had become an urban legend. Eventually, files were closed when leads went cold. The world moved on, as it always did. 

Some said she drowned herself after her husband’s brutal murder but a mysterious intruder. Others claimed she fell from the cliffs near the townhouse—a tragic and poetic accident. A few speculated that she was taken by the intruder, that both were spirited away.

You never bothered to correct them.

After all, you weren’t her anymore.

And his life, your current identity, was your favorite.

For the first time, you stopped running long enough to build a lasting career. You spent the early years of the twenty-first century earning degrees, burying yourself in theory and methodical language of law. You learned how borders were drawn, how power justified itself, how violence hid behind bureaucracy and signatures.

It made sense to you.

You became a professor of international law.

You taught students who believed, desperately, that rules could restrain empires. You didn’t laugh at them. You remembered what it was like to hope. You taught them about war crimes and treaties, about accountability that came too late, if it even came at all. 

You never told them how personal it was.

Your colleagues assumed you were in your early late twenties, maybe early thirties. You let them. You smiled when they joked about your “ageless look” and changed the subject when you could.

You were safe.

But you were lonely.

Then one evening, you came home late, arms full of papers, mind still half caught on a student’s argument about sovereignty and intervention. The television was already on, background noise you’d forgotten to turn off that morning.

You dropped your bag, and the screen showed chaos.

You saw creaming reporters struggling to keep their footing as three helicarriers burned behind them. The Triskelion, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s headquarters, was collapsing in on itself. 

You scoffed. About time, you thought. 

You’ve been a critique of S.H.I.E.L.D. in your papers. You argued that a government-backed organisation that had basically zero transparency had no place in the world. 

You stepped closer, studying the chaos. Perhaps, you could talk about it in your next class.

The footage cut wildly as angles shifted and cameras shook.

And then, for just a second, between debris and fire, you saw a man aboard the ship.

He… had a metal arm.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

The camera swung away. The shot was gone.

But your hands were shaking, papers sliding from your fingers to the floor as an impossible thought rooted itself in your mind: 

You could have sworn…

You could have sworn it was him.

—

That night, you didn’t sleep at all.

You laid in bed staring at the ceiling, the room washed in shadows that shifted with every passing car. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw fire and steel, a flash of metal catching the light where it shouldn’t exist. 

You told yourself it must’ve been a coincidence. Perhaps a trick of the camera. A relic of a past you never let yourself mourn properly.

At some point, during the hollow hour just before dawn you heard a knock.

It wasn’t loud. Just three firm, measured taps against your front door.

You looked at the clock. 5.02 AM.

No one ever came to your apartment that early. No colleagues, or students, or friends close enough or foolish enough to show up before sunrise. For a while, you didn’t move.

Then the knocks came again.

You swung your legs out of bed, bare feet silent against the floor. Your hand hovered near the doorframe as you leaned forward, peering through the peephole—

And your breath left you entirely.

The Winter Soldier stood in the hallway like he didn’t belong to time anymore.

He was just as tall as you remembered him, the same broad shoulders. His hair was longer now, falling into his eyes… but it was him. 

Unmistakably. Miraculously.

The metal arm rested at his side. He looked… nervous. 

Your hand shook as you unlocked the door.

It opened on a gentle click.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

The hallway smelled faintly of cleaning chemicals. He looked at you like he was bracing for rejection, for disbelief, for the door to be slammed in his face.

“Hi,” he said finally, voice rough but gentle, like it had been worn down by years of disuse. He swallowed once. “My name is Bucky.”

His name.

He finally knew his name.

Your breath hitched painfully in your chest.

There had never been anyone else but him. No other man, no other love, no other name that had ever mattered the way he did. You had carried it with you for nearly forty years, tucked between identities, folded into the pages of notebooks, written and rewritten like a prayer.

He remembered.

He remembered his name.

You barely registered the blood on his face, barely registered the impossible logistics that must’ve led him here.

How did he find you? What did he use? Public records and libraries, perhaps? But that didn't explain how easily he had done it, considering how thorough you had been with your identity changes. 

How had he managed to track you down in less than half a day when Hydra couldn’t do it for the better part of three decades? 

And then it hit you.

You had told him once.

On that island, barefoot in the sand, dreaming of a dream you didn’t think you’d ever touch.

In another life, I would be a diplomat, you’d said, not thinking much of it. If not, I think I’d teach international law in a city like DC.

He remembered, and your faculty page would have been easy to find. You had a profile photo that hadn’t aged the way it should have. Maybe he’d recognized your eyes, and that was enough to bring the lost memories back to life.

It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered.

You stepped forward and pulled him into you before either of you could think better of it. Your hands came up to his face, your fingers trembling as they traced the lines that time had carved into him.

And you kissed him. He tasted like blood and oil and sweat, but you did not give a fuck.

It didn’t take long for him to melt into your touch.

“Hi, Bucky,” you breathed against his mouth, loving how his name felt in your mouth. 

That was all it took.

His breath shuddered violently as his forehead dropped to yours, his hands clutching at you. A heartbreaking sound tore from his chest, and he laughed and cried at the same time, shoulders shaking as decades of being lost finally caught up to him.

“You remember me,” he said, voice cracking so tightly it hurt to hear. “You remember me the way I….”

He couldn't finish his sentence, but you knew what he meant to say. 

You remember me the way I remember you.

You swallowed past the ache in your throat, tears blurring your vision as you held his face between your hands.

“Of course,” you whispered, a sad laugh making it past your lips. “Of course I do, Bucky.”

You guided him inside, away from the open door, away from the world that had spent so long tearing you both apart. You shut the door behind you, locking it with a final click.

For the first time in a long, long time…

He was home.

–end.