In no particular order, this is what I’m currently cooking up! Some of these have parts of a draft already, others are just an idea I’m throwing around. Let me know which stories interest you, so I can put my energy into what you really want to see!
*Titles are all subject to change
We Keep This Love In A Photograph - Bucky Barnes (requested by @wifeofbarnes)
Time-skip continuation of “I See Grey Hair and Children that Look Like You” — Bucky reflects on the last 20 years after becoming an empty-nester.
Tolerable, Bearable, Endurable - Bucky Barnes
Congressman Barnes hates few things more than the pomp and circumstance of a stuffy fundraising gala…Less so with his secretary at his side as his plus-one.
Permafrost - Bucky Barnes
An arctic op goes catastrophically wrong and forces the Thunderbolts to battle with nature itself to save one of their own.
Somewhere in Brooklyn - Bucky Barnes
Soulmate AU — Strange things happen on the New York subway, but a wormhole to the last century? …That’s new.
Farmer Boy - Bucky Barnes
Bucky returns to Wakanda, this time as a husband. He’s never felt lighter.
Defrosting - Bucky Barnes
The unlikely relationship between HYDRA’s greatest asset and their latest acquisition.
All or Nothing - Bucky Barnes
When the dust settles across the streets of Manhattan, what is left to go home to?
Handle with Care - Bucky Barnes
James Buchanan Barnes vs. an IKEA dresser.
Give and Take - Bucky Barnes
Any good relationship is built on reciprocation. You patch Bucky up after a brutal mission, and he stitches your pieces back together after a rough day.
Would You Fall In Love With Me Again? - Bucky Barnes
HYDRA recaptures the Winter Soldier but finds a hollow shell in his place. The question is: is Bucky gone too?
Ancestry - Bucky Barnes
Bucky has spent decades alone, and it has taken its toll. With the help of the local librarian, he resolves to scour public records for any shreds that could lead him to what is left of his family.
The Way To The Heart Is Through The Stomach - Bucky Barnes
After surviving on a diet of protein slurry, vitamin pills and whatever else he can scavenge for 70 years, Bucky learns to find joy in (and stomach) food again.
Untitled (Regency AU) - Bucky Barnes
Sargent James Barnes, embittered and hardened by the war, is perfectly content to be withdrawn from society for the rest of his life to waste away at his estate. But when his dear sister becomes of age, he has no other option but to show his face in London in hopes of finding her a ladies’ companion…and perhaps a match for himself along the way.
Untitled (Merman AU) - Bucky Barnes
Research is hardly ever as exciting as when an injured, dangerously handsome merman hoists himself onto the deck of your vessel to escape from the monster on his literal tail.
If you had to drop another CE!babe into the world of bolotnik!Curtis, but they aren’t necessarily a bolotnik, who would it be and would they be a monster, too? 🤓
Offering to the Wood
Characters/Pairings: waldgeist!Steve Rogers x Reader
Word Count: 7.6k
Summary: Everything in nature has a price. Today is the day the forest comes to collect. Will it be a toll you're ready to pay?
Warnings/Content: bargaining; loss of virginity; explicit smut; manhandling; slight breeding kink; slight size kink; terrato
Author Note: This incorporates a fair few prompts from your wish list, Siri... But I'm obviously not going to spoil or give many of them away. HAPPY BIRTHDAY WEEKEND!
Additional Note: This is a standalone story set after Into the Deep. It references bolotnik!Curtis's reader, but you do not need to read their stories to understand this one.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
You had been collecting in the forest since you were old enough to walk, trailing after your mother and grandmother, learning the difference between the bluebells that gave you headaches and the white wood sorrel that soothed them, the shapes of roots that would clot blood, and the berries that would stop a heart. But as you gathered elements into the basket on your arm, the familiar paths felt different. The knife tucked in the fold of your skirt was less for harvesting and more for caution after the fear that had taken root since the maiden from your village went missing.
You yourself sensed a difference in the forest—a heaviness to the air, the moss a little gray, the birds silent in the middle of the day, a wariness that seemed to rise from the soil itself, urging you back. But you were determined. You and your mother and your mother’s mother before her supplied the village with many medicines and balms that were not commonplace, not trusted by everyone, but were integral to many.
The lake at the edge of the trees was swollen with rain and the melting snow, the water so high that it had eaten half the lower meadow. You would have to cross damp ground and pick your way over drowned logs. And you did, pressing on until you reached the stunted willow on the northernmost part of the shore, where you knew the wild violets would bloom first. You were the only moving thing in the marsh, a fact that landed with an unnerving weight. Your own breath seemed to fog the air, as if you had walked into a story from before time.
You were kneeling, fingers plucking and gathering the papery layer of new leaves from a cluster of green, when you heard a splash. Not a fish jumping, but something large breaking through the skin of the water. Your hands went still against the leaves and you stood, knife steady in your hand, and you forced yourself not to imagine the threat.
You scanned the underbrush and waited as your mother had taught you, letting your breath go thin and quiet. That was when you spotted the man, tall with broad shoulders, a deep chest, and limbs that were unquestionably strong and formidable.
As if sensing your gaze, his head turned your way, and he locked eyes with you. He didn’t move right away. You watched how his hands hung at his sides, open, the fingers stained with earth and perhaps something darker, though at this distance you could not be sure. His hair was a mix of golden chestnut and birch, and his face was clean-shaven. There was something unusual in the way he stood, something not-quite-human in the perfect symmetry of his features, the strong jawline, his shockingly blue eyes.
You did not call out. There was no one for miles and if this shape was a threat, it wasn’t the kind that would be cowed by a girl’s bluff. Instead you held your position and waited, the knife a cold certainty in your grip.
He moved toward you, nothing hesitant in his approach. The sodden earth gave under his feet, the water lapping at his calves. As he drew closer, he seemed to grow, revealing a height you hadn’t realized, solid muscle beneath the strange patchwork of clothes, brambles clinging to the rough fabric of his jacket. His eyes didn’t blink, glass-bright and inhumanly clear and blue, and they looked you over with curiosity as if measuring your resistance.
He spoke first, and the voice was all wrong: too deep, carrying a timbre like wind in a dead trunk, creaking and full of hollow space. “You’ve come further into the forest than others have in weeks,” he said. “You’re not afraid.”
There was no question in his words. You found your tongue regardless. “I have reason to be cautious, but I’m not afraid, no. I know this forest.”
The man—if he was a man—cocked his head, smiling in a way that made you think of a wolf in sunlight: beautiful, hungry, and so unbothered by your blade it might as well have been a thorn.
“What a curious thing to say,” he remarked. “You think you know the forest, but you cannot possibly know all its secrets, and the forest does not always agree with you.”
You had no answer to that, not one that would make him believe you. “I only mean that I know enough,” you said. “Enough to respect it.”
He stalked a slow circle, just beyond the reach of your knife yet always within lunging distance. An old, deep instinct in you recognized this dance, this patient assessment before a strike.
“You are the daughter of healers,” he said, “the one who finds bones and stones and wild remedies for the sick. You think you are unseen, but the forest always has eyes.” He stooped then, picking up a half-buried stone and turning it over in his palm. The hands, you noticed, were not quite right. The fingers were a shade too long, the skin thick and tight over the bones and veins. “Your presence is noticed. Even now, when you twist violets and dockweed in your clever hands.”
You recalled your grandmother’s lessons: never admit a name, never turn your back, never let a stranger dictate the space between you. “Then you know I am no threat to you or yours,” you said, and made yourself believe it, even as your heart raced. “The forest has given me its blessing,” you lied.
Something shifted in him then—not in his expression, exactly, but in the quality of his stillness, the way a predator goes motionless not from patience but from decision. “Your ancestors were blessed because of their bargains,” he said, weighted and deliberate. “They made their pacts and honored them. The land was shaped by their bargains, just as they were shaped by the land. But your generation—” he trailed off, gesturing at the bruised sky, the muddy water, the hush where birds used to cry. “No agreement has been struck. No tribute paid. The exchange must continue, or the balance will tip.”
“What exchange?” you demanded, pulse quickening.
“It has given many things to your kind,” he replied, pronouncing ‘your kind’ with a curious, almost academic detachment, “but there is always a toll, and it is different for each generation.”
“My mother still leaves honey in the hollows; it is a tradition I can continue.”
He shook his head, movement clipped, as if the neck itself was bored with the charade of human flesh. “Tokens are not tribute.” His tone was not cruel, only factual, and you realized, with a cold bloom in your belly, how many kinds of hunger there were in the world. “There is a price for the peace your village enjoys. Something must pass from you to the forest, same as it ever was.”
You tried to parse this—what your forebears had truly given, what they had perhaps hidden in their stories. “What price did the forest ask of them?”
“Your mother was clever enough to ask for nothing but safe passage between the trees. She left offerings. She did not take more than she needed. Your grandmother,” he paused, and here a ripple of amusement crossed his face, “your grandmother made a more interesting bargain.”
The wind pressed through the grasses, flattening the young reeds against the mud. A memory stirred—a story your mother told in the hush before sleep, stories half-forgotten. But his voice cut through the past, speaking the words you were beginning to recall.
“Your grandmother was greedy. She wanted safe passage and she wanted the voice of birds, the green touch, the sense for what flourished and what would die. She wished to heal but also to know when healing was hopeless, in her own marrow. Understand: the forest cannot birth a gift without first devouring the seed. When your grandmother asked, she gave up her dreams.”
You remembered the quiet unease of her sleep, the way she would doze sitting up, hands braided in her lap, or walk the lanes of her mind in silence for hours. She never dreamt or, if she did, she never remembered. You’d always assumed it was age—some feature of withered time. But even as a child you’d known there were no stories or nightmares waiting for you in her lap, only the faint comfort of her skin and the steady thrum of her heart.
You looked at the man—or the not-man—standing so tall his shadow cut the lake in two. His words hung between you, like frost in early spring, uncertain and unwilling to melt.
“What are you?” you asked.
He smiled, and it was as if a branch bent and split under its own weight. “I am not the forest, but I am of the forest. Some call me Waldgeist—the spirit of the green. I walk the trees as you walk your own paths. I am the mind that grows beneath the bark, the will curled in every root. You have seen me before, though not with these eyes.” He stated it not as a boast, but as a simple fact that had always been true.
You swallowed, tongue dry as birch. You remembered not just the old tales, but the feeling itself—a shadow in your childhood room that was too tall, a silence in the woods that felt like a held breath. You remembered the certainty, even then, that you were never truly alone among the trees.
“Why do you look like a man, then?” you asked, pulse quickening. “Why come to me at all?”
He shrugged, a gesture that sent a ripple through the nearby trees. “I take a form you can understand. “A bargain must be struck between equals; this shape makes us so. I am here to collect.”
The words buckled the hush between you. You clutched the basket closer to your chest and kept the knife steady, but you knew, in some deep, marrow-knowing way, that neither would help you if he truly intended harm.
“What will the forest take from me?”
His blue eyes shifted, and with the next blink you saw the gold in them, as though some animal watched from behind the skin of a man. “That is for you to decide. You may attempt to make a bargain, if you wish. Or you may leave now and accept what the forest will claim in time.”
“Has the forest not already laid its claim by taking one of our young women?”
He did not answer right away. Instead, his lips thinned, losing all softness, and the blue of his eyes darkened like a storm. For a moment, he became as implacable as the roots beneath the soil. When he did speak, his voice was careful, measured, as if you had stumbled onto a delicate membrane between two worlds.
“That was not my doing,” he said. “The lake has its own demands, its own bargains. It is not forest.”
The words struck you as both a warning and a promise, a declaration that the world was layered in negotiations far more ancient than the bargains of your ancestral line.
He glanced down at the bruised violets shivering at your feet. “The creatures that dwell in water are older and stranger and more varied than you can imagine.” His eyes found yours again. “Do not worry for the lost girl. Her fate is with the water. Your business is with me.”
You gathered the violets into your palm, feeling an ache in your fingers as if the mere act of picking a flower now implicated you in an ancient cycle of debt. The Waldgeist waited, patient and unobtrusive, but you felt the pressure of his presence, the sense that the moment for negotiation was finite and slipping away like dandelion seeds on the wind.
“If I try to bargain,” you finally said, forcing your voice to work, “will you truly honor it?”
“I have always honored my contracts,” he said plainly.
You squared yourself and let your breath settle. Out here, feeling small amongst a vast web of nature, you managed a plainness you hoped was strength. “If my grandmother gave up her dreams, and my mother only left honey, what do you want of me?”
“Each generation pays a new price,” he said. “The forest never takes the same thing twice. It adapts. It learns.” The Waldgeist, the not-man, walked nearer. “You come to this place for the plants that nurture your people. You heal, but healing is only one side of the balance—life and death, and the line between them. I want the possibility that both can flourish.” He let the words flower in the air between you. He continued, “The forest wants to plant its seed in your womb. It wants you to swell with its green life, to birth the next guardian from your own blood and breath.”
The air left your lungs all at once. Your body as tribute. Your womb as a clearing for the next green thing. You had imagined many prices—your sight, your voice, your years—but not this. This was so much more intimate, more invasive, than you’d ever imagined. But as you stood in the hush, with the Waldgeist’s gaze upon you, you sensed he was not mocking. Not even predatory, not in the way of men, though the need in him was elemental and absolute. It was the same law that pulled the river to the lake.
“The only thing you have to offer that’s of any interest to me,” he said, his voice lowering to the hum of sap rising in the spring, “is that sweet, warm place between your legs.”
It wasn’t even a vulgarity, the way he said it. If anything, it was a kind of reverence—a hunger for the continuity that pulsed under everything alive. But a hot flush crawled up your neck, and your hands clenched the fabric of your skirt so hard you felt stems of violets snap between your knuckles. The leaves in the trees did not shudder. The entire forest waited, patient and unashamed.
He lifted his chin, as if he had tasted the shape of your resistance, and made clear that there was no shame or cruelty in the offer—only the certainty of the seasons, the calm of a thing that had always been true. “You may refuse,” he said, “and if you do, the forest will find another way to balance what has been taken from it. But should you choose to accept, you may name your own terms. I will match them if I can. If you wish to leave this place with no bargain, as I said you could earlier, I will not hinder you. The path out is always open, though it may not lead you back the way you came.”
You swallowed, the reality of the choice settling like a stone in your gut. He would not touch you—he had offered that dignity. You could walk away, unchanged, and let the seasons turn. But a different kind of cold crept in at the thought: the forest, left to its own devices, drawing its tribute in some slow, unpredictable, and perhaps far crueler way.
You looked up at him—the way he stood entirely at ease, as if a body was just a garment to be worn when convenient. The blood-and-earth in his veins seemed almost visible, his presence an axis on which the wind and the water now turned.
“What is your name?” you asked.
He did not hesitate, but you sensed the concept of a single name was foreign to him. “I have no name your tongue could form,” he said. “But your people have need of them. There was one who called me Steve.” The word landed, dry and spare. “You may use it, if you wish.”
It was so ordinary, so unburdened with myth. You turned the name over in your mind—smooth, plain, almost laughably small. Children did this, you remembered: named the thing under the bed to make it small. But the trees did not shrink. The wind did not shrink. And neither did he.
“Steve.”
What a small name for such a vast thing.
Something moved in his face—not a smile, not quite. The corners of his mouth drew back the way bark splits open in heat. “If you ask for a name,” he said, “I gather you agree.”
Your heart twisted, then steadied, and you nodded.
Steve stepped through the reeds and the cold lake water, the space between you closing until you could smell the wildness on him, the sharp green tang of willow bark and moss. He stopped with his face a hair’s breadth from yours, searching you with those ice-blue, wild eyes. As Steve leaned in, his gaze flicked from your mouth to your eyes, measuring your anticipation and fear with the patience of a tree waiting for the wind.
He lowered his head, tendrils of his hair brushing your cheek, and the animal warmth of his skin woke every nerve, every inch of scalp and spine. He waited, poised, until your chin tipped upward, an invitation.
The tip of his nose nearly grazed yours, and you could see the sweep of gold and green in his irises.
“Your kind,” he said, the syllables vibrating just above your jaw, “often begin their coupling with a kiss. Would that please you?”
You did not know what you expected—a command, a taking, some gesture of force, but his hands hovered at your waist, not touching, not yet, as if some ancient etiquette held him back until you gave consent.
You met his gaze, the question hanging between you. This was the first step, the seal on a pact you barely understood. The instinct to flee warred with a curiosity that held you fast. “Yes,” you breathed, the word both a surrender and a choice. “I would like to be kissed.”
You felt the air shift, the certainty of the woods folding up around you. You had imagined your first kiss as a hush in the honeyed dark, a stolen moment behind a barn or beneath the hush of twilight. You had not imagined the sensation of a mouth as wild and strange as the lake wind, nor the certainty of a hand—large, warm, with fingers a shade too long—drawing you in. Steve cupped your jaw, his thumb spanning the distance from cheekbone to chin, and when he bent his head, there was no trembling or hesitation—only a gentleness so deliberate that you understood, even through your shock, how hard he worked to contain himself.
His lips were cooler than you’d expected, but they pressed to yours with a strange, melting pressure that drew the air from your lungs in one startled, high gasp. Your knees gave, not from weakness, but as if the ground itself had softened beneath you. His other hand closed around your upper arm, bracing, the grip light but immovable, like the gentle crook of a branch against a windstorm. The kiss was not the fluttery, weightless thing you’d read about in stories—it was a gravity, a falling through the earth. His touch radiated from your jaw to the soles of your boots, a hot, heady rush that left you breathless.
You let your basket fall, soft, to the mud and reeds. The knife fell from your loosening grip, but you did not care, not with his hands now cupping your face and the tangle of your hair wrapped around his knuckles.
Steve’s kiss was a demand and a question, and you felt yourself answering in the way your mouth parted for him, in the soft gasp that escaped you when his hand slid—firm, careful—down your neck to the slope of your shoulder. There was a steadiness to the way he touched you, as if he already knew you would break otherwise. When you shivered, he drew you nearer, until your body was bracketed by the length of him, the heat of him, the certainty.
Steve coaxed your mouth open further, the velvet of his tongue not so much probing as mapping. He kissed you with such unwavering patience that you began to ache, not from fear now, but from wanting the next gesture enough to hurt.
Your hand found his hair, feeling the strange, thrumming life under your palm—a rhythm denser and more vital than any human's. There was an ancient knowledge in the kiss, yet beneath it, a clumsy hunger, a desperate restraint. You felt his effort to keep from overwhelming you, and it sparked an unexpected tenderness.
His mouth relented, drawing back only enough that he could see how your face looked in the aftermath. You opened your eyes, though you found no words behind your teeth, only air and a low, helpless sound of longing. He smiled, a gentle recalibration of his features, as if observing minor marvels.
Steve’s gaze was so intent you had to look away, but his hand coaxed your jaw to center, thumb brushing over your lower lip as if to see how much of you he had changed already. “You are doing very well,” he said, his voice low and calm, the kind you’d use to soothe a frightened deer at the forest’s edge.
He cradled your wrist, and you saw the knots of lichen just under his skin, veins running wilder than any human’s. He gestured to the bare ground, and from the mud a fresh cluster of violets bloomed in an instant. He plucked one and tucked it behind your ear with a reverence that made you feel like the forest’s own altar.
Steve guided you backwards, his steps gentle and unhurried, until the soft earth gave beneath your boots and you realized the ground itself had changed. The waterlogged moss and churned mud had, in the span of a breath, thickened and risen into a plush, living mattress of green that welcomed the weight of your body as he guided you down. The rush of green scent was dizzying, a perfume of leaf-break, and violets, and deep, wet bark. You braced yourself on your elbows, startled by the way the bed molded around you.
Steve knelt in front of you, balanced and quiet, his hands braced on either side of your hips. The air around you felt altered, denser, each sound of the forest amplified, as if the world had shrunk to only the patch of earth the two of you occupied. He watched you for a long moment, letting you breathe, or maybe just savoring the fear that had turned itself, somewhere in the last dozen heartbeats, to anticipation. He leaned on his hands and bent toward you, the whole scaffold of his body arranged with an a predator’s poise that sent a shiver through your blood.
“Are you afraid?” he asked, his voice low enough that you felt it more than heard it, a vibration that moved from your jaw down through your sternum.
“Yes,” you said, and then, as if your hand had its own will, you reached up and touched the side of his face. “But not—not the way I was before.”
Steve’s answering smile was frightening in its understanding. “That is good,” he said. “Fear makes everything sharp and honest.”
His hands were impossibly strong at your hips, the pressure just shy of command. One moved up your ribcage, charting the landscape of your bones. You gasped at the intimacy, and at the strange paradox of feeling safe. You sensed he would not take what was not offered, even as you knew he could take anything he wished.
He bent his head again but this time his mouth pressed not to your lips but to the angle of your jaw, your ear, the frantic beat hidden shallow under the skin. The weight of him, looming, should have been terrifying, but instead you were frayed with a kind of anticipation that would not have been out of place on the cusp of a summer storm. You forced your hands not to tremble as you cupped the back of his neck and felt the heat of his skin. Steve’s breath was cool on your neck, the hint of it unsettlingly gentle. You tipped your head back, a motion of surrender you didn’t recognize as your own, and he followed the column of your throat to the hollow at its base, then lower, to the line of buttons fastening your blouse.
He made a sound, not quite human, almost a purr or a buzz, and pressed his face against your sternum as if he could inhale your very shape. His hands, so careful at your ribs, curved around your waist with a certainty that left you breathless. He did not tug at your clothes. Instead, he pressed his face to the thin linen and breathed you in, as if scent itself was the substance of desire.
Your mind reeled. The other girls’ whispers, your mother’s warnings—they all spoke of pain, of a force to be survived. You had braced for a claiming, but Steve’s hands seemed to know nothing of that script. The warmth that bloomed low in your belly was not fear, but a bewildering curiosity. He brought his fingers to the top button of your blouse, unfastening it with a patience that was its own kind of power, pressing a kiss to each new inch of skin. The sensation was like a lightning strike, and your spine arched involuntarily.
He paused then, waiting, gaze fixed on your face as if he required your permission at every increment. You nodded, or maybe whimpered—whatever escaped you was enough for him to continue, and the next button, and the next, his fingers working each button loose without ever scraping your skin or snagging a hair. Only when your sternum and the pale slope of your breasts were exposed to the soft, damp air did he let the backs of his knuckles brush you, not quite a caress, more a sampling. Steve’s lips and hands traveled the exposed skin, tracing the hollow of your clavicle, the soft undersides of your breasts, his mapping every new inch as if memorizing a terrain he might never traverse again.
When his mouth closed around your nipple, you jerked, startled as if pricked by a holly leaf, but the wet heat had you keening the next instant. Steve groaned low in his chest, and the sound was so animal you felt it thrumming through your bones. His mouth was soft and deliberate, his tongue flicking where the air itself had barely touched you before. His hand stayed broad and steady at your hip, anchoring you so you didn’t float away.
He took the time to explore, open-mouthed at the soft edge of your breast, then the other and the valley between, all the way up to your throat, where his teeth found your pulse. Marks: not of violence, but of tribute, the press of a thumbprint onto fruit to test its ripeness. You shivered beneath him, alive to every place his tongue mapped and every inch of you that burned in the aftermath.
As glorious as that was, you knew what surely would come next, the act described in so many whispers and warnings: the press and pain, the split-second of being claimed and broken open. That was how it always happened, in the barns and haylofts and cold, wet fields, the wedding nights, the way the boys made the girls bite down on a hand or a sleeve, their haste to have it over with. You readied yourself to be bruised, to be stretched and split and left sore.
You braced for the press of his body at the split of you, the forceful push. Instead, Steve drew your skirts up methodically, slowly, and the cool air shocked the skin beneath as he exposed it to the forest. He planted himself between your thighs, the solidness of his shoulders between your thighs coaxing your legs to fall fully open to accommodate the breadth of him. Air stalled in your throat as you felt the heat of his gaze, unflinching on your most intimate place. He made a low sound in his throat that resonated through you and the trees, something between approval and hunger. “You’re wet here,” he murmured, his voice thick with wanting that hollowed your stomach. “Like the forest gives sap in the spring—slow, and sweet, and ready.”
He bent closer, the brush of his breath raising the fine hairs of your thigh, and he let his mouth hover over your slick, exposed folds. He watched your trembling, then the way your hips bucked when his tongue finally, shockingly, flicked at the bud of you. His gaze was open and unhurried, as if he had all of time. He groaned with the first taste, a deep and honest sound that made your hands fist into the moss, tearing up strings of it beneath your nails. Each pass of his tongue was a deliberate, patient movement, spreading your wetness with reverence, savoring you, as if tasting the salt and iron of the earth itself.
You moaned, the sound ringing out over the water, and he answered it with a pulse of suction that wrung more from you. His hands anchored your shaking thighs apart. He did not stop, even when the sensation crested past bearing and you twisted against him—whether to escape or to pull him closer you could not have said—but he wouldn’t let you go. From the creases of his palms, where his lifelines ran deepest, thin green vines emerged from his skin the way shoots push through soil in early spring. They wound around your upper thighs in slow, tightening loops, textured like the underside of a leaf, faintly cool where your skin was heated. The vines didn’t pull you wider, but held you just as you were, their cool, living pressure a patient, unwavering claim on the surrender you already offered.
You keened yet again, and Steve soothed it away with a tongue so dexterous and insistent he taught you a new way to live inside your own body, a way of being you'd never conceived. Your hands found his hair, and a sudden audacity took you, pulling him closer, grinding his mouth against you, feral and greedy and no longer a healer of the village but something wild, as much earthen as blood. He laughed, low and delighted, and you felt it where his mouth was still pressed against you—a terrible, gorgeous thing. He did not slow. He did not falter. He moved as though the wanting of you was its own kind of knowing, as though desire itself had handed him a map. His tongue traced your sex with an accuracy that made you wonder, briefly and wildly, if this was what it meant to be known—not seen, not touched, but learned, the way a river learns the shape of its banks over centuries of insistence.
When the wet, velvet heat of your climax broke over you, it did not snap or spark, but rolled up from your core in a long, rising wave—a secretion of you into the moss, into the air, into his mouth, which did not lose rhythm but drank and drew you further, until the only thing left was the trembling of your thighs and the stunned, empty ache where your voice used to live. Your eyes filled with tears, not of pain—never of pain—but of astonishment, as if every nerve in your body had just flowered at once, a bloom of both petal and thorn.
You had never known this could happen. That a tongue, a mouth, a pair of hands could make you forget yourself, undo the careful braid of your dignity and leave you sobbing for a mercy that, when he finally gave it, cracked open every seam in your body.
Your thighs still trembled against his cheeks when he slowed, his tongue drawing smaller and quieter shapes, the way rain gentles after a storm has spent itself. He did not stop, but his movements gentled and slowed. Your belly clenched once without warning, a small, wet sound leaving your throat before you could catch it, your spine curling involuntarily around the spasm. He raised his head at that. Steve pressed his lips, closed and warm, to the inside of your thigh. Then he moved up the length of you until his eyes were level with yours, his hands releasing your thighs, though the vines remained, loose now, a garland rather than a grip. You found his gaze before you meant to—bright with something that was not quite pride and not quite laughter, but lived fluidly in between. He kissed your mouth, unhurried, and you tasted yourself on his tongue, dark and unfamiliar, the flavor of a thing that had always been yours but that you were only now being introduced to.
He pressed his brow to yours and let you breathe, your own chest heaving against the solid warmth of his. The moss beneath you was velvet; the sky above, the dizzying blue, the gold of late afternoon flickering through willow fronds.
Your hunger had changed, no longer a storm but a strange, quiet hum beneath your skin. In the throb between your legs was both a memory and a promise, an echo of what he’d done and a question of what he still meant to do.
For a moment, Steve said nothing, only nuzzled into the hollow of your throat, the line of your jaw, as if the hollowed-out shape of your pleasure was a thing to be tended, not merely consumed. You lay in the aftermath, skin flush against the living bed of moss, feeling the pulse of your heart reverberate through your every limb. The world seemed sharper than it had ever been, each smell and sound and taste layered and immediate: the greeny wet-earth smell of the moss, the close heat of your own body, the lake’s cold mineral current threading through the trees, and him—less a presence than a gravity, one that didn’t pull you toward him but simply held you to the earth.
You did not want to move, but you wanted more, and he read both truths in your body. His hand slid between your thighs, fingers slicked with what he had drawn out of you, and he pressed the pads of them into you—not to hurt, only to test, to see how easily you would yield.
“The forest gives,” he murmured against your collarbone, the words a vibration you felt more than heard. “But it also takes. It’s only right you should receive first. It bargains in full measure… and now it is my turn.”
He stretched you open, one finger first, then two—so patient, so careful, you only realized you were being claimed when the green heat crested in you again, this time burning languid and low, like embers tended under moss. His hands were indecently strong, but he used them as if comfort was the primary goal—pressing, stroking, coaxing your body to soften around him. The first bite of pain was a shimmer, quickly edged away by the wet insistence of his movements and the wildness in your own hips. You rocked into him, greedy and bright, and the hesitancy that might have undone you was snuffed by a need to see how far, how deep, the pleasure could run.
You did not see his cock at first. When you felt the nudge of it, hard and impossibly hot against the inside of your leg, you looked down and saw that he was already bare, as if the forest itself had shed his clothes for him. The sight of him made your breath catch—he was built the way old trees are built, with a density that seemed to belong to something older and less tame than any man you’d known or could imagine.
An absurd, animal instinct made you shrink back, but his hands caught your hips and held you with tenderness—firm, but tender. The head of it was wet, already slick, crowned by a bead of clear fluid that you watched, dazed, as he thumbed down and pressed to your folds. You’d seen men before—quick glimpses, awkward fumbles in haylofts or behind market stalls—but this was not a man’s cock. It was a thing grown for a single purpose, and each time he guided it up your seam, parting you further, it was as if a new, second pulse had been hidden in your body, one that beat only for this.
He pressed the blunt head of his cock to your entrance and held it there. His eyes had gone wolf-bright, fixed on yours, reading the tremors that ran through you. The stretch was immediate, shocking—a white-hot claim of space where there had been none. Your body arched, seeking more instinctually, and a low rumble started in his chest, the sound of stone shifting deep underground. When he pushed past the first ring of resistance you gasped, a sound somewhere between agony and relief.
A white-hot seam of pain stitched through your hips and along your spine, pure and electric, and then, impossibly quickly, it was overtaken by the burning, desperate pleasure of being filled and filled and filled until you could not imagine more, and still he pressed deeper. You made a strangled noise that was half groan, half sob, your arms thrown up to brace against his chest, nails biting into the patches of moss-and-bark that surfaced between stretches of smooth, human skin. There was no logic to the fit of him, no sense in the physics of it, but he did not force. He gave, and your body took, the slow press of him unfolding you like a new language written into your bones.
His breath came hard through parted lips, but his eyes—his eyes did not move from yours, and what was in them was not hunger, or not only hunger… it was something older and more careful, the look of a man who understood exactly what he was holding, taking. The tendons in his neck stood out like roots finding purchase in stone, and he breathed through his nose in one long, deliberate pull, as if holding himself back from splitting you entirely. Inch by inch, he worked himself deeper, and you wept out loud when your body finally yielded and he was all the way inside you—a thickness that was almost unbearable, a depth that felt impossible as every nerve lit up and you did not think, for a moment, that you could bear another inch, even as his root dragged and pressed into a place you had never known you had. Steve made a soft, shushing noise, a caress of wind in your ear, and stilled inside you with a gentleness that nearly undid your sanity.
Your pulse beat hard in your throat. You felt full—so full—and with every tiny shift of your hips, every tentative intake of air, he seemed to bloom larger inside you. You didn’t think you could breathe until he gave you leave, and then you shuddered, the air shoving out in ragged, surprised gasps. The pain faded as swiftly as it had bloomed, replaced by the eerie awareness of being shaped from within. You were aware of every inch, every subtle shift, and it was intolerable and perfect.
He tilted his hips, a fractional shift that sent the cock inside you pressing higher somehow, grinding a spot that burned and throbbed with every minute twitch. All you could do was shudder and hold on as his hands ran up your body—stroking your sides, reverently palming your breasts, the whole time never pulling back, never pulling out, as if the very idea of separation was foreign to him.
He bent his head again, kissing all the places he could reach: your throat, wet with your sweat and the lake air; your ear, where he whispered words you barely understood, half in another tongue, the syllables soft and full of promise. His hands mapped you, his body claimed you, but it was not a violence, not an invasion. Something older than memory was being pressed into you, the way a name, spoken enough times, becomes the only word a mouth knows how to form.
He moved, slow at first—less a thrust than a rolling flex of pelvis and hip, a careful rocking as if he were teaching your body how to say yes. The first withdrawal was exquisitely, almost cruelly, slow. You felt every millimeter of him slide back along the walls of your cunt, a velvet scrape that left you gaping and gasping for more. Before you could mourn the loss, he pressed forward again, filling you deeper, the new angle making you see stars. Your hands clung to his shoulders, to the strange lattice of moss and bark beneath the skin, the unreal heat of him burning into your palms.
He began to fuck you then, not with the frantic, selfish rhythm of a man, but with the slow, inexorable certainty of a season turning. His eyes never left yours, reading every flutter of your lashes, every catch in your breath, as if cataloging the ways your body learned to take him.
That rhythm was slow and considerate, but soon the tempo changed. Steve braced his hands in the moss at either side of your head and moved with deliberate, rolling thrusts that grew in force and speed. Your gasps, your shivers, the dull percussion of your bodies meeting each other—it all became the rhythm of the forest, mingling with the hush of wind, the wet shudder of leaves. You felt the moss bed beneath you shudder, the roots trembling, as Steve’s hips snapped forward with more force. The careful, reverent worship of your body became an urgency, a drive, and it overtook both of you—his hands pinning yours above your head, his mouth finding your throat and holding it there, as if he could root you to the earth by the pulse alone.
He did not ask if you were ready. He did not have to. Your body gave its own answer, arching up, knees drawing higher and wider to accommodate the relentless, beautiful force of him. With each thrust, the forest blurred into green-gold strokes, the sky itself seeming to fall away, leaving only the bright, unspeakable ache of being filled and fucked.
You came apart, succumbing to it like a riptide. You clung to the filaments of his shoulders, body locking in great, shuddering spasms around the cock that was still splitting you. The sound that tore from your throat was not yours, or not one you had made before, and he drove into you through the whole shaking length of it, unhurried, relentless, the way weather moves through a valley.
Your cunt rippled, clamping, until you felt the answering quiver in him—a hardening, a climbing tension, the way his entire body drew up. Steve bowed over you, his hair a whisper against your skin. A grimace of pure ecstasy pulled at his mouth, and a low growl built in his chest as he fought for the last vestiges of control, holding himself back from breaking you completely. Only when you sobbed his name—ridiculous, simple—did he splinter, driving into you with a force that shoved all the air from your lungs, holding you impaled as his cock pulsed inside you, hot and fevered, a flood that felt like it was remaking you from within.
You were pinned to the earth not merely by his body, but by a force that had nothing to do with choice or want, something closer to gravity than desire. Even after he stilled, the moss beneath you continued to tremble in sympathetic rhythm with the frantic ricochet of your heartbeat. Steve did not move at once—he seemed to savor the heat of you, the locked and wet hold of your cunt, the way your body shuddered around every last pulse. When he finally withdrew, you felt the loss, whimpering at the stinging ache, the slow, deliberate slide of him from your body.
Steve knelt between your legs, cock smeared with your blood and his own seed, and in a motion so gentle it nearly made you weep again, he bowed his head to you. His tongue drew shudders from your body, tracing reverent patterns over newly awakened nerves, and you basked in the deliberate, shocking care of it.
When he was satisfied with his work, Steve moved back up over you, and his lips brushed your temple. “Hush,” he murmured, the words a soft vibration against your skin. “Again and again, until there is no question. The forest wants its fruit… and I will make sure it takes root.”
You could only nod, your body still caught between tremor and euphoria, your chest rising and falling in time with the damp, living earth. The words he’d spoken echoed in your mind: the seed, the fruit, the next guardian. You had thought life a slow accrual, a distant, speculative thing. But there was no speculation now. As your blood quieted, a stillness gathered deep in your womb—a heavy, waiting calm that confirmed the change was not coming, but had already arrived.
Lake monster Curtis being a bolotnik meant that when I incorporated another creature, I wanted to draw on more European folklore and play with the elements, and that's how rooted around until I found mention of the Waldgeist. I definitely took liberties in my interpretation, but just like I did with bolotnik!Curtis, I wanted to play around with the lore the way we've so commonly played with vampire and werewolf lore.
This was its own vibe to write - it flowed from beginning to end, and felt very magical-realism, and created its own kind of creative track in my head that was very different from some of the ideas and projects I've been working on lately, and so I hope it was as immersive to read as it was to write!
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
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✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. and you find out he thinks about you too.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (fingering, dirty talk, truth serum/sex pollen?, blowjobs, use of sex toys, fantasization, praise kink, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, finger sucking, dumbification, dry humping, sensitive reader, pussy spanking, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, nipple play, manhandling, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine, squriting), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 6.9k✦
✦Author's Note: ive been peer pressured. i'm not mad about it. pt two of what if he's mine, but can be read alone! enjoy!✦
There’s a rule, to measure the success of an Avengers mission.
Did anyone die?
If the answer is any form of no, you’re not going to do much better than that.
Steve explained this to Bucky, when he joined the team. Bucky had the same opinion on it then that he does now. It’s a stupid damn rule. Doesn’t make any sense. There are countless ways to fail without death, and he can count every single one of them with the scars on his body.
And it’s easy for Steve to pretend that this mission—this stupid, stupid mission that’s going to be the end of Bucky’s sanity—ended well. Steve didn’t chase the crazy magic doctors into the catacombs. Steve didn’t fight the flying monkeys and get whacked in the face with something that was either monkey shit, or the most horrible smelling dirt anyone’s ever seen.
Steve wasn’t trapped in that thin hallway with you, your ass pressed to his crotch, his hands hovering right over your hips, his fingers twitching with the exhaustive effort to not just touch. Bucky had thought he might die right there. You’d been so warm, so perfectly molded against him, he could swear you’d always just been two pieces of the same stone, split in half and always able to fit back together.
Steve would tell Bucky that wasn’t how people worked. That everyone was their own person, and the idea of being incomplete wasn’t going to help his recovery from Hydra. Bucky would tell Steve that he didn’t get it. That he knew he didn’t deserve to drag you down with his titanium coated baggage, but that didn’t mean he could stop the twisted, selfish desire to. Bucky was a man on his own. An island or a continent or a mountain, or whatever the hell else his therapist told him to visualize as a stupid self-actualization exercise.
But the continents had been connected, all those millions of years ago. They’d been one piece, cut in half by time and nature. Asia wasn’t any less of a continent because it wasn’t connected to America’s ass anymore.
But if Bucky was Asia, he really wanted to be connected to your ass.
He’d closed his eyes, in that tight hallway. His breath had fanned over your neck and his hands had curled into fists, resting themselves right at the top of your waist. You’d shivered. He’d been able to hear your heart stumble, you breath hitch, a tiny, sweet little sound whine in the back of your throat.
He’d dropped his face against your neck, and you’d leaned back, exposing your neck to his thin-pressed lips. Bucky had kissed over your soft skin, the curve of your neck, the sweaty column of your throat, then line of your jaw, open-mouthed and hungry. His tongue had flicked against a pulse point, and you’d whimpered. His arms had wrapped fully around your body, one hand splaying on your upper stomach so his thumb could graze your breast, the other rubbing along your abdomen.
He’d teased your waistband. Sucked a dark, possessive mark on your throat and slipped his fingers into your pants. You’d spasmed against him, and he’d hummed, pressing his thumb against a thick, wet spot on your panties. Bucky had groaned and pulled them to the side, dipping his fingers into your heat, and he’d known it would feel this good. Soft and tight, a better smell than the beach, rich and earthy and perfect. Just like you.
You’d reached back, running your fingers through his hair and gasping his name. Bucky had groaned against your skin and pushed his finger into your tight entrance. You’d squeezed around him, and his thumb had found your clit, rubbing tight circles to ease you open.
“Shhh, babydoll,” he’d rasped. “Just relax. Lemme in and relax.”
You’d cooed, but given in. Bucky had covered your open mouth with a hand and kissed your neck, scissoring and pumping his fingers, and-
“Hey. Bucky.”
Sam snapped his fingers in Bucky’s face, and Bucky blinked. The fantasy drained from his head with all the blood in his face. He clenched his jaw, glowering at Wilson’s smug, amused expression, and raised his brows. Sam grinned, something gleaming in his eyes that Bucky didn’t like. It never spelled anything good, when Sam looked at him. Especially not now. When the mission had gone so horrible wrong.
“You looked a little lost in thought there, Buck,” Sam drawled, and—across the Quinjet—Steve glanced up with a curious expression.
“He’s probably just thinking about getting the detox,” Steve offered, and Bucky half-appreciated it, but the punk should know better than to even engage with Sam.
They all knew that wasn’t what he was thinking about. Sam and Steve both knew about his… sins. They’d gotten him drunk once—a feat within itself, but Steve had a supply of Thor’s super-mead stuff, and they’d both noticed that Bucky was acting weird—and he’d told them the awful, shameful truth.
So everyone in the jet knew exactly what Bucky was thinking about, almost every second of every day. So often he had to be finding new, split seconds between time, just to think about you a little more.
Everyone knew.
Everyone but you.
You sat on the far side of the jet, watching Bucky with that quiet concern that made every single inch of his body ache. His heart pounded because it wasn’t close enough to yours, his hands got sore because they weren’t pressed to yours, and his feet felt like they were made of bricks, unable to walk across the carrier to your side. But his stomach churned and twisted, reminding him why he couldn’t have you. You weren’t his. You might think you wanted to be, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could offer you that some other, safer, healthier guy couldn’t.
And he hated that guy. That faceless phantom that haunted him, that stole you away, that Bucky was going to have to pretend to like. He dreamt about wiping that invisible smirk off the man’s face, then socked himself in the gut for having the gall to be so possessive over the very thing he was trying to let go.
Bucky’s life was a cage, and he’d never be able to escape it. He owed an eternal debt to the Avengers, the government, the Starks. He was never gonna get the normal life, and he just had to wait for you to see that, and stop looking at him like he might be worth it anyway.
He caught your eyes, and you looked away, flushing furiously. Bucky could goddamn smell the pulse of your cunt, getting wet just from being under his gaze. Steve coughed loudly, and Bucky would laugh if he could find the humor, but there wasn’t much of it.
Not here.
Because the mission had gone horribly.
“What’re you thinkin’ about, Buck?” Sam asked, because he was the most annoying person Bucky had ever met.
His eyes were sparkling. Bucky glowered at the little shit, trying to pretend he couldn’t feel your gentle, curious gaze across the carrier. He clenched his jaw, locking it shut, not even daring to tell Sam to stuff it. An uneasy prickle settled over his skin, reminding him that opening his mouth could be the end of the damn world.
What was he thinking about.
You. Always just you. How you’d feel in his arms. How you’d call his name and look at him like he was worth something, when everyone else seemed to understand that he really damn wasn’t. Normally, Bucky would be able to whack Sam and hiss a warning. But he couldn’t.
He literally, simply, couldn’t.
“Could’ve been worse, Buck,” Steve had said when they got on the jet, and Bucky had given him a look so flat Steve winced.
Real damn easy for Steve to say.
Because Steve hadn’t been sprayed in the face with a truth serum. Steve wasn’t locked in a plane with the love of his life, unable to speak out of fear he’d bark out his devotion for the whole sky to hear. Steve wasn’t trapped in his head with visions of just crossing the damn carrier, caging you between his arms, and kissing your pretty, slack face until you begged him to fuck you, right there on the floor.
That was a curse for Bucky, and Bucky alone.
Bucky towers over you, his massive chest consuming the light in the room. It gives him the impression of an angel, fallen from Heaven just to stand the edge of your mattress.
And if he’s something holy, it’s only right to sink to your knees.
“You want it, baby?” He murmurs, tracing the curve of your face, and you nod. You’re almost drooling. He pulls out his belt slowly, and you press your thighs together, shifting restlessly on the bed.
Bucky’s free hand fists in your hair, and you smile up at him, easy and hopeful. His tongue flicks over his lips. He pulls out his cock—thick and uncut and angry, proud in his fist and swollen red—and strokes it slowly, watching you with a quiet, hungry affection.
“Take it,” he orders, low and smooth. “’S all yours, baby. Just gotta take it.”
You nod nervously, rolling down to your stomach. Your feet kick behind you like a schoolgirl and Bucky’s smirks, petting your head and pressing his hips forward. You take his thick cock in your hand and stroke slowly, watching him twitch and flex under your light touch.
Bucky groans your name, and it rolls through the room. You get confident, and press a kiss to his throbbing head. He grunts, hips jerking forward, and you pump the base of his cock with a firm but gentle grip.
The sounds he makes are sinful. You take him fully in your mouth, and he’s thick and heady, all salt and a thick, perfect weight in your mouth. He tugs on your hair when you start to suck, bobbing your head up and down. You take his balls with your free hand and massage them, getting drunk on the way he hits the back of your throat, the way he calls your name, the pressure building between your legs as you choke on his massive cock.
You’re humping the sheets, bunched and sticky between your thighs. You’d start writhing, if you weren’t so focused on Bucky’s dick. He moans at the sight of you, desperate for any possible friction, and starts to fuck your mouth like you’re just a toy. You’re so wet you can feel it dripping down your thighs, so wet you think you’re going to leave a stain on the mattress, and he fits in your mouth so well-
Your orgasm crashes through you, your cry muffled on the dildo you’d been fucking into your mouth. Your pussy flutters and gushes on your fingers, your hips twitching and eyes rolling back in your head. The thought of Bucky in your mouth rises like hot air, and carries you a little back over the edge. You moan, letting your eyes flutter shut, and drift down with slow, uneven breaths.
The guilt is immediate. Hot and shameful in your stomach, mixed a little too close to your arousal to be normal. Bucky isn’t feeling well—he barely even spoke on the way back from the mission—and you’re in your room, jerking off to the thought of him like some pervert. He might be in pain. He might need something. Sam told you to go check that he was actually sleeping off the drug he got hit with, and you agreed to.
An hour ago.
You were supposed to check on him an hour ago, but instead, you fell into the sheets and touched yourself, because that’s all you really seem to be good at.
You’d had a similar fantasy on the mission itself, when Bucky had been stuck behind you. A vivid dream where you’d gotten brave and spun around. You’d kissed Bucky and he’d kissed you back. He’d pushed you to your knees and pressed his cock between your lips, coaxing them opening with promises that you’d be his good girl, if you just sucked his cock. You had, you’d taken him until you were so aroused you couldn’t think straight, and Bucky had to let you hump his boot to stop you from crying around his warm, heavy dick-
You’re doing it again. You’re fucking doing it again.
You splash cold water on your face and clean yourself up. This can’t be how you spend your whole night, when you’re supposed to be checking on Bucky. It takes a little too long, though, to get yourself out into the hall and walking to his room. You just keep getting caught in fantasies about him in the bathroom, coming up behind you while you put on your shoes, grabbing your face between his hands and pinning you to the door-
A sharp, mental slap over your cheek gets you out of it. You shake yourself and glare down the dark hall, trying to steel the pound of your hopeless, burning heart. This isn’t about you. It’s about Bucky, and the truth spray, and making sure he’s okay. You march down the hall like a soldier, too lost in your determination to remember to knock. You push on the door and slip forward, trying to be quiet in case he actually is sleeping, and almost fall to your knees.
Bucky is not sleeping. You can’t remember how to move.
It’s such a lewd, beautiful thing before you, you almost think you’re fantasizing again. Bucky lying flat on his bed, one hand flat on his bare chest, the other beating into his cock. It’s just like you imagined, right down to the veins and thick, perfect girth. You’re salivating like a dog, thinking about it being shoved between your lips, guided into your hand, driven so slowly into your pussy your eyes roll back and you can’t breathe around the stretch. Bucky would press down on your stomach and make you feel it a little more, it would twitch inside of you just like it’s jerking in his hand-
Bucky moans, and you bite back a whimper. You should go. He wouldn’t want you to see this, it’s invasive and wrong and inappropriate and so fucking hot-
He moans again, thicker and deeper. A strangled sound that almost sounds like your name. Your heart stutters, and Bucky’s hips slam up to meet his fist.
This time, the cry is definitely your name, and you can’t hold it back.
You whimper, and Bucky’s eyes shoot open.
For a second, you just stare at each other. Your face burns, and you cling to the door, an unbearable ache pooling in your core. Bucky gapes, his hand still moving, faster and faster. A low, rumbling groan escapes his mouth. You glance at his cock, and your knees almost buckle. Bucky rasps your name, still pumping his cock, and you look back with panicked, desperate eyes.
Bucky chokes out your name, and his cock jumps, releasing seeming to slam through his body. Thick, unending ropes of cum spurt over his fist and thighs. He strokes himself through it, the room filling with that sticky, perfect smell, and you’re not sure you’re breathing.
He won’t stop looking at you. He won’t stop moaning your name and cumming all over the bed, and you’d think this was a dream if you didn’t feel like you had a fever.
It stops after what feels like an hour, and Bucky tosses his head back with a grunt. He rubs a hand over his face, the column of his throat working, and you slowly close the door behind you, barely keeping yourself upright. Your tongue darts over your lips. You breathe through your nose, head spinning as you take him in. Powerful, tanned body, painting white and slick with cum and sweat, right in front of you, close enough you can almost taste it.
Bucky groans, and you flush under his gaze, boring into your lust blown features. When you meet his gaze, it’s dark. His face is red, and his chest muscles flex with ragged breaths, neither of you daring to move an inch.
His cock starts to harden again. You take in a sharp breath, and his hand flexes on his thigh.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” he croaks, and you swallow.
You can’t. He’s not telling you to go, he’s not even trying to hide himself, and he was moaning your name-
“Doll, please-“
“Do you want me?”
Bucky’s whole body seizes up. He’s propped up on an elbow now, but he closes his eyes tight, his nostrils flaring and his jaw working tight enough to look painful.
He can’t lie. You can almost see the truth pushing itself up from his chest, a geyser that’s going to explode and take you both with it, because Bucky can’t lie.
“Don’t ask me that,” he rasps, and it’s almost a plea. “Don’t make me tell you no, honey-“
“So don’t tell me no,” you breathe. “Just- Tell me yes, Bucky, please.”
He shakes his head, watching you under lidded eyes. “It- It’s not that simple, okay-“
“Do you want me,” you say it firmer this time, even as you cling to the door. “Because I want you, Bucky, I- I want you so bad-“
“No- No.” Bucky gives you a stern look, and it makes your heart falter. “You don’t know what you want-“
“Yes, I do-“
“You think you do-“
“And you get to tell me I’m wrong?”
Your tone is harsh. Bucky flinches, avoiding your gaze, and your face burns. He can tell you no and you’ll leave, but he won’t. The heat makes you see, so painfully clear. Bucky isn’t going to tell you he doesn’t want you. But you’re not moving, until he tells you exactly where he wants you to go.
“It isn’t about me,” Bucky says your name, exhaustion lining his tone. “You deserve better. Better than this,” he waves a hand at his body, and you’d laugh if he didn’t sound like he was in pain. “Better than me- Just, fuckin’ better.”
You shake your head, your voice small. “You’re wrong. You- You’re so fucking wrong, Bucky.”
He laughs, dry and curt. “Oh, sweetheart, I can’t lie-“
“But you can be wrong,” you counter sharply, and he falls silent. “And I can be right. Do you-“ You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to hold his hooded gaze, the shine in his eyes sending a fresh pool of heat between your thighs. “Do you think I’m right?”
Bucky’s throat bobs. His lips twitch, his tongue darting out and the corner of his mouth pressing into a pained frown. You can see him fighting it. Fighting everything you’re trying to give him, like it’s a gift he can just return, instead of a pure given. You’re not offering him something you had to work to find. Your need for him can’t be flushed away or forgotten like an ugly ornament on the self. It’s either just going to overgrow you like an untended garden, or be Bucky’s to nourish.
And you pray he nourishes it. That if he lets himself have one good thing, it’s this. Shame is nothing, if you get to pour it at Bucky’s feet for him to drink.
So you pray. And someone out there must owe you a favor, because Bucky nods.
“Yeah,” he whispers, and you think the world falls from under your feet. “Yeah, I- I think you’re right.”
You stumble standing. Bucky reaches out his warmer hand, his voice dropping to something low. Something sacred.
“C’mere.”
It’s like floating. You move across the room without your feet feeling the ground, your fingers trembling as you reach out. Your fingers lace together, and you knees hit the mattress. Bucky tugs you over his naked body, forcing you to straddle his torso, your hands planting on either side of his head as he falls back. His cock drags on the inner edge of your thigh. He brushes hair out of your face with the most tender touch, before cupping the back of your neck. Your breath hitches. His mouth curves into a small, teasing smile.
“Too long,” he breathes, his metal hand dragging up your hips, massaging the curve of your ass. “Been waitin’ too fucking long.”
He drags his hand forward, letting his thumb trace the shape of your upper lip. You take in a sharp, nervous breath between your teeth, and his throat bobs.
“You want it?” He mutters, and you nod. “I’m not gonna be gentle, doll, you gotta be sure-“
“I’m sure,” you say without thought, and his fingers dig into the skin of your ass. “I- I’m so sure, Bucky, you have no idea-“
You cut yourself off with a squeak, as Bucky pushes his thumb into your mouth and shoves you fully down against his abs. You’d been hovering on your hands and knees, scared to add too much weight, scared that this was just another dream. Bucky forces you down to reality. To his hand gripping your jaw and the pad of his thumb, warm in your mouth. The heat and strength of him below, his cock bumping against your ass and his slick, hard stomach pressed against your core.
It’s embarrassing, how fast you let him take control. His thumb presses near the back of your throat, and you start to suck mindlessly, watching the awe and desire wash over his handsome features. You swirl your tongue the same way you’ve thought about sucking his cock, fisting the sheets under your hands and pressing over him until your breasts are almost presses against his collarbone. His throat bobs. His hand on your hip starts to guide you back and forth against his core, the pressure and friction making your eyes roll back in your head.
“You like that?” Bucky grunts, and you nod, rolling your hips faster and faster against his abs. “Can smell how wet you are, babydoll. I’ve barely fuckin’ touched you and you’re already soakin’ through your panties.”
You flush, but doesn’t stop moving. The condescending tone just rushes through you like a high and fuels the arousal coursing through your veins. You arch your back, trying to push your hips further down, to get just a little bit more.
“Look at you, sweet girl. Giving me a fucking show.” Bucky slaps your ass, and your eyes flutter. “Makin’ it so fucking easy for me. Humping me like a good little slut.”
You keen, collapsing over his chest as the heat takes over your body. Bucky’s thumb slips out from your lips, and he smears the spit over your cheek in a small, possessive gesture that makes your head spin.
“Think you can cum just like this?” He drawls in your ear, petting the top of your head. “Just fucking yourself on my body?”
“Ye- Yes-“ You breathe, turning your cheek so it’s pressed between his pecs. “Fuck, Buckyyyy- Fuuuck-“
Bucky grabs your chin mid moan, forcing your face up. His lips smash over yours in a hungry, bruising kiss, all spit and teeth and need. You cry out against his lips, kissing him back with every pent up, depraved little need you’ve ever had for him, every bit of adoration you’ve kept stuff in your chest for far, far too long. Your hips bounce against his abdomen, your shorts bunching up under his metal hand. Cold fingers graze near your pussy. You gasp against Bucky’s mouth, and he presses his tongue down your throat with a deep, hearty moan.
There’s a loud rip, and your shorts are torn off your body in one, clean movement. You mewl, pushing further back against Bucky’s hand, and his dick starts to slide between your ass cheeks, still wet from the drip of your last orgasm. Bucky’s hand slides back around to your neck, holding it hard enough to leave a print, and you moan into his mouth.
Two metal fingers dip into the heat of your pussy, and the temperature contrast makes your whole body shudder. You shove on Bucky’s shoulders, unsure what to do with your own body, and he grunts, tightening his hold around you.
You squeal, as he rolls you over.
“Bucky-“
“Shh,” he grunts, nipping at your lower lip, and you hum. It might not be good, how much control he already has over your body. Right now, you don’t really care.
It feels too good, the way his metal fingers rub the outside of your pussy lips, pressing them together while his palm grinds against your clit. You’re trapped between him and the mattress, your thin shirt the only barrier between your bodies, and Bucky seems determined to remove it. His lips wander down your neck and over your collar, sucking tiny lovebites and bruises over your skin. You wrap around his head, tugging at his hair, and he lets out a low, desperate groan against your skin.
His mouth moves lower. He rips off your shirt with the same, fluid motion, and your back arches up to meet his lips. Bucky mouths and kisses every inch of your breasts, swirling his tongue around a nipple while his palm rolls around your clit. Your breathing comes short and desperate, a tension building in your lower stomach, hot and humid like a summer storm. Bucky slips one finger between your swollen pussy lips and groans around your nipple, sending a little jolt of electricity straight to your cunt.
“All ready3 for me,” he groans, spreading your arousal around your sensitive inner thighs. “I’m gonna slide right in there, baby, shit-“
He drops his brow against your chest, watching his hand work against your cunt. You shudder, combing your fingers through his hair, trying not to lose yourself so fast.
“Always,” you manage to say. “Always for you, Bucky.”
He glances up, the lust in his eyes giving way to something darker. It’s like watching the moon shift. Something that’s always been there, shrouded and hidden from view, finally letting itself turn to the light.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, reverence lining his every word. “I know.”
You blink at him, eyes watering with desire. You’ve never been this close from so little, but it’s Bucky. And you can’t be expected to be anything more than putty in his arms.
“You need to cum?” He asks, mockingly sweet, and you babble out an agreement. “Oh, I know it’s hard, baby, but you gotta use your words-“
“Please,” you gasp, pulling on the collar of his shirt. “Please, Bucky, need- Need to cum so bad.”
Bucky smiles, and presses the lightest kiss to the space between your eyes. “Then cum.”
It’s quick. A snap at the base of your spine and a broken scream that falls from your lips. Your toes curl and your vision goes white, your pussy clenching around nothing and your body bucking off the bed. Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, forcing your hips back down to the bed. He silences your cries with kisses, squeezing your jaw with is free hand and dragging his lips over your drooling mouth, your flushed cheeks, your fluttering eyes.
His rests his lips against your ear and gives your raw cunt one, tight slap. You squeal in surprise, the feeling almost overwhelming in your sensitive body, and Bucky chuckles.
“Oh, now it’s too much?” He spanks your pussy again, and you let out a loud, pathetic whine. “You were all pretty and beggin’ for me a second ago, doll. Where’d that needy little slut go?”
Tears burn at your eyes, that shame mixing with arousal and making you all the more sensitive. Bucky spanks your pussy again, then rubs over the hurt. You grind up into the touch and he smirks, spanking you once more. You mewl, rolling around in his arms, unsure if you’re trying to chase him or get away.
“So fuckin’ reactive,” he rasps, almost in awe. “Look at you, better than a damn dream.”
You coo, twisting your face to press against his bicep. He noses at your cheek, lips brushing over your tears and parted lips.
“Been waitin’ so long, haven’t you,” he murmurs. “Waiting for me to stuff up this sweet little cunt, waitin’ to be fucked stupid like the sweet little whore you are.”
You’re not trying to squirm anymore. You’re pressing your hips down, trying to hump his hand again, and Bucky laughs. He pushes your thighs apart with ease, exposing your oversensitive pussy to the cold air. Your eyes shoot open, and immediately trap on Bucky’s. An involuntary moan pulls itself from your chest, as his thumb circles around your clit.
“Think you deserve some dick, baby?” Bucky teases, flicking his thumb over the sensitive button. “After being so patient and good?”
You swallow, and shake your head. This is the kind of question that’s a trick. You’re going to be told to earn it, and you’re going to suck his cock until he’s had his fill, then maybe you’ll get another orgasm. In your fantasies, you’re usually limited to one overall, before you get too sensitive and the shame hits.
But Bucky smiles at you like you’re the sweetest thing in the world, and bumps your noses together, gliding his metal thumb over your fluttering entrance.
“Wrong answer, babydoll,” he murmurs, kissing you between soft words. “You deserve the damn world.”
Bucky’s mouth slots over yours, and you lose yourself in the slow, easy kiss. He’s so gentle you forget about the pleasurable sting in your cunt, letting him overtake your senses, your thoughts, the very beat of your heart. He kisses you like you’re priceless, and you try to give him every moan and touch back. You dig your nails into his back and nip on his upper lip, and he grunts, pressing you further into the mattress. His thumb keeps circling around your cunt until it’s pounding and needy, but you only whimper into the kisses, worried to ask for more than he’s willing to give.
You should’ve known better.
Bucky’s nothing, if not generous.
His hand leaves your cunt, but you don’t get a second to protest before his cock is sliding between your folds, slicking him up to push inside of you. Your head falls back with a sharp gasp, and Bucky kisses over every inch of your skin he can seem to reach. The head of him presses against your clit before dragging away, leaving you throbbing and staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes.
Bucky notches himself at your entrance, and lets out a slow, sharp breath between his teeth. You’re clenching around him, unable to help it. He’s massive, and you’re open from the two orgasms, but you’ve also never been this wound up. You think Bucky could just blow on your pussy and make you cum again. Being impaled on that massive cock might make you pass out.
“Take it easy,” he warns, and you whimper.
“C- Can’t-“
“Yeah, you can.” Bucky pushes in, barely the tip, and your breath is knocked from your chest.
“Bucky-“
“I know,” he kisses away your cries, splaying his hand on your tummy, letting his thumb drag back around your overworked clit. “I know it’s big, baby. Feels like too much, doesn’t it. Pretty little cunt, not used to takin’ it like this.”
You nod, still trying to chase his lips. “So- So big,” you babble, and Bucky grunts, pushing a little further in.
“Biggest you’ve ever had?” He growls out the question, his cock bumping against every sensitive, wired spot inside of you.
“Ye- Yes,” you gasp out, and Bucky’s hips jerk further forward. “Oh my god, Bucky- Yes-“
Bucky moans, bottoming out deeper than you knew you could take. He presses his lips against your brow, his chest heaving and his hand on your stomach pushing down. The movement forces you to feel every ridge and bump of his cock, every twitch and drag with the rise and fall of his chest. It’s almost impossible to handle. You’re dripping and soaking his cock, getting more and more sensitive with every passing moment. The pain has long ebbed into mindless, easy pleasure. Bucky’s hand shifts, and pins your g-spot against his massive dick, and the tears return to your eyes.
You know Bucky’s trying to collect himself, but he’s taking so long. You scratch his back with trembling fingers, pinned on his cock with nowhere to go, trapped beneath his massive body with nothing to do but take it.
“Bucky,” you manage to breathe. “Please- Please move.”
Bucky grunts, his lips attaching to a pulse point on his neck. He starts to suckle, grinding shallow thrusts into your cunt, and you moan loud enough to echo through the room. You didn’t know something so small could work you up so fast. The short movements work you more and more open, all while bullying into your g-spot, over and over again. Bucky’s tongue flicks against your skin and you cry out, turning your face to try and hide it in the pillows.
That pushes something in Bucky. He grabs your jaw again and turns your face, dragging you into a deep, rough kiss. You keen, your scratches becoming longer, like you’re trying to claw your way into his body. Close isn’t close enough. It can’t be. Bucky starts to drag further out, pushing back in with a harsh snap of his hips, and you throw your head back with a loud, confident moan.
“That’s it,” Bucky grunts, setting an unforgiving, bed-creaking pace. “That’s a good fuckin’ girl, taking my cock so damn well.”
You roll your hips, trying to meet his thrusts. Bucky pushes his hand down further, forcing you to stay still, and your eyes roll back in your head with the force of each thrust. Bucky speaks against your lips, unable to help himself, but also unable to look away.
“You feel that, baby?” He angles up, letting his cock drag so slowly against your g-spot before delivering another, brutal thrust that makes you scream. “Feels so good, doesn’t it? Getting fucked like the perfect little doll I know wanna be, lettin’ me give this greedy little pussy exactly what it needs.”
You make a sound that’s supposed to be Bucky’s name, and he grunts, picking up the speed until your eyes begin to cross.
“Try again,” he snaps. “Use that pretty mouth, sweetheart, tell me what I wanna hear.”
You just moan, unable to get your mouth to agree with your head. Bucky buries himself deep and presses his whole weight down, not even giving you space to move. You sob, pressing your face into his shoulder, and he clicks his tongue.
“C’mon, baby,” he coos, teasing and cruel in the best possible way. “You can’t already be that dumb.”
You swallow, the pressure of Bucky’s cock inside of you driving every thought from your head. You don’t know how you cobble the words together, let alone find your voice. Not when he starts to grind again, angling his thighs so his balls press against your ass, his thumb teasing back over your clit.
“Please, Bucky,” you choke out, grabbing his hand near your head, giving him your most desperate, doe-eyed gaze. “Please.”
Bucky’s throat bobs. Every time you’ve hit the bottom of the shame well, you find more. But Bucky only looks at you like you’re beautiful. His cock twitches inside of you, and his controlled thrusts become jagged and sharp.
“Shit,” he grunts. “Shit- You’re fuckin’- Christ-“
You’re not sure what’s happening until he moves. Bucky grabs your knees and pushes them up to your chest, folding you neatly in half. The angle pushes his cock deeper, and he drags it out for a second, smearing it on your juices and tapping it against your clit. Your pussy clenches around nothing, cold and empty without him. He smirks and eases himself back in, slow and careful. You watch with an open mouth, as your pussy swallows up his cock. It’s the most obscene, beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Wet and messy, a ring of arousal at the base of his shaft, his muscles flexing with control that you can’t even think not to submit to.
“Eyes,” Bucky orders and you immediately obey.
That’s a mistake.
His gaze is intense. Unrelenting and adoring and mocking all at once. He grabs your jaw with a lighter hand than before, tapping your cheek gently. You open up quickly, and take his thumb back in your mouth like before. It helps, with the overwhelming pressure of his cock inside you. Bucky smirks, rolling his hips once, and you moan around his finger, sucking harder than before.
“There she is,” he coos, starting to slowly, torturously fuck into your cunt. “All cock drunk and stupid, you’d let me keep you like this forever, wouldn’t you. Just a sweet little fuck toy?”
You hum, your toes curling, the pleasure washing through you white and hot. Bucky groans, mesmerized by the sight of you taking his cock and finger at the same time, his thrusts becoming deeper, rougher, more desperate.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he grunts, the sound of your skin slapping over taking the room. “My perfect girl, most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ see, y’know that? God, you’re- Fuuuck-“
Bucky moans your name, his condescending praise falling off into broken grunts and groans. You smile at him, dazed and lost in the stretch of his cock, lighting up your every nerve, making your head spin until you’re just a drooling, giggly mess. Bucky stares at you with a hanging mouth, fucking into you like an animal, and a strange, wet pressure begins to pool in your tummy. You grab his wrist, your lips moving but no sound able to come out, and Bucky understands.
He spits on your clit, spanks it once, and doubles over with a final, brutal thrust. You cum with a silent scream of his name, flying off the bed and writhing in the sheets. It’s a pleasure so blinding you can’t see anything but stars, can’t feel anything but that odd heat gushing out of your pussy, over Bucky’s cock and down your thighs and onto the bed.
Bucky roars your name and starts to fuck you in brutal, rough strokes, like he didn’t expect himself to fall over the edge with you. You’re still squirting and trembling, when he starts to full up your cunt with thick, white ropes of cum. There’s so much of it that your eyes cross. You’ve never been this full and sensitive at the same time, you don’t even know what to do with yourself. A small aftershock of an orgasm pushes through your trembling body.
You think you pass out, the heat too much, your body overstimulated and worn out from being wrung with every bit of pleasure. You come to with Bucky between your thighs, kissing around your pussy, licking the mix of your releases with his warm, thick tongue. You moan softly, threading your fingers through his hair, and he smiles at you with shining eyes, pressing a gentle kiss to your swollen clit.
Your hips jump, a whine escaping your throat, and Bucky chuckles.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, kissing the spot right over your pussy. “Couldn’t help it, baby.”
Baby.
The moment is over, and he’s still calling you baby.
Bucky cleans you up with gentle, careful hands. You watch him, propped up on your elbows and still a little dazed. He smiles and kisses your hip, then your navel. He’s massaging your thigh like this matters.
You can’t begin to say, how much you want this to matter.
Bucky brings you to the bathroom. He changes the sheets while you pee, then offers you a clean, warm shirt to replace the one he destroyed. It smells like him. Everything smells like him, and you never want it to fade.
He sits on the edge of his mattress, while you get changed. You slip out of the bathroom, hugging yourself tight and watching him stare at his hands. He drags his gaze up slowly, that adoration from before still shining in his eyes. You swallow. He licks his lips, flexing his hands on his thighs.
“I- Uh- I’m not good at talking about things,” he mutters, watching you carefully. “I’m workin’ on it, I promise. I’m even getting better. But- Doll, you- Me- That.” He nods back to the bed, his voice getting strained. You’re starting to worry about him. “Can’t lie, right?” He laughs weakly. “And that- It wasn’t- I mean- It was everything, so-“
You put him out of his misery.
You cross the room in two strides and take his face between your hands, kissing him long and slow. He grabs your hips and kisses you back immediately, craning his neck to try and deepen the angle. It’s loving, everything you never got to offer him in the heat of the moment. Every last drop of love you hadn’t gotten to show him, offered up like morning dew to the rising sun.
Bucky lets out a slow, ragged exhale, his eyes still shut when you pull away.
“You wanna take me out on a date?” You prompt softly, and Bucky immediately nods.
“Yes- Yes, please.”
You smile, and Bucky smiles back. He leans up for another kiss, and you let yourself melt over him. His fingers dig into your hips, and you know you’ll be covered in bruises come morning. Good. It’s proof that this really happened. That it wasn’t just all in your head.
Bucky’s really yours, and you’re never going to have a dream you can’t reach again.
✦End note: i hope you enjoyed the sequal !! ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
summary It's been maybe a month now. Bucky refuses to have sex with you. Not outright. But a 'not now, baby', or 'sorry doll, tired'. You're starting to doubt he just...doesn't want you anymore. Unbeknownst, he wants you just as much. So, what's the issue?
author's note finally a smut. My first-ish explicit smut. God, I hope I wrote it right. This explicit writing knowledge has come to me after reading thousands of fics. So, uh, I could only pray it's nice.
I'm also always open to criticism. love-love.
warnings mdni; smut; eventual fluff; soft!bucky; strength difference?; dirty talking; lots of dirty talking; nicknames (baby, sweet girl, doll, sweetheart); piv; oral (f!rec); very appropriate use of metal arm; misunderstandings; miscommunication; it's sorted later!
≥1.5k
masterlist ; read on AO3
It had been a month now. A month without absolutely climbing Bucky. Without telling him how much you needed him.
You'd tried once.
Your leg slowly curling around his hip under the blanket. Then your hand sliding around his chest and playing with his dogtags.
Until he'd gruffly murmured a "baby, 'm tired". And you respected that. Slowly retracting yourself from the man, you tried your best to ignore the warmth that had pooled in your lower stomach. Your thighs rubbed against one another needily, face buried in the pillow as you tried to think of anything to turn you off now.
But it still hurt because that 'groggy' voice was fooling no one.
Your relationship wasn't weak by any means. You loved Bucky more than anything in the whole world, and the man had expressed his love for you more than once, in more than one way.
His gentle touches. His soft gaze. His low tone with you.
Everything about him screamed a doting boyfriend.
Never obsessive. Never controlling.
But always there. Always present and caring.
Another Thursday evening where your socked feet rested on Bucky's lap, tickling him with the fuzzy fabric even through his pants. Your cheek was pressed against the cushion, face half disappearing in there as you watched Bucky with yearning eyes. A petulant pout was starting to make its way on your lips.
He was watching the random princess movie playing on the ridiculously big TV you'd insisted on buying, more invested in the fight between the two step-sisters than you were. Eventually, however, his senses did catch on.
"What's wrong doll?", he turned to look at you, that always-present softness in his eyes directed to you, and only you now.
You huffed. Will he ever just let you be upset? Your thighs slotted around his comfortably when you climbed over, your movement lazy and deliberately slow.
"Well, I just want my boyfriend", whining, your nose tucked itself in the crook of his neck, breathing in the clean scent—something masculine and uniquely Bucky.
"Baby—", he started again, firm, strong hands finding your waist, about to deposit you back on the side of the couch. But then your widened eyes shining with insecurity—real or dramatic, he couldn't tell—met his, and he instantly melted.
Pressing a lingering, chaste kiss on the top of your head, he gave you a little smile. Compensating. But not convincing.
"What's wrong?", you cupped his cheeks, fingers tense against the well-groomed stubble. "You know, if you just say it, I'll stop asking you."
A soft sigh. His gaze dropped to his own lap, his grip tightening around the faded, worn hoodie you'd put on. Sliding them down to your thighs, he drew small, anxious circles on the smooth skin—mostly to comfort himself than you.
"I just—it's not that. I always want it with you."
You almost snorted at that. Always?
"But baby, I just wasn't sure you'd like it."
You were cartwheeling and backflipping and somersaulting. Because what the fuck? Not sure? As if you hadn't been salivating like a hungry dog around him. You blinked at him in total disbelief for a whole of one minute.
"Fuck—", you gasped breathlessly, face flushed crimson—lack of breath. Definitely not how hot he looked shirtless.
"You asked for it, doll. Come on, wrap your pretty legs around me", a rasp. He pressed you to himself urgently as if enough willpower of his would merge you together. The closeness just wasn't enough.
You know, if you were rich and had money, you'd literally compose a song of the things he murmured in your ear when he was on top of you, hovering with that smirk. Because—
"Shh, my sweet girl only has to wait a little more. Yeah, can you do that?"
"Mm, there you go. All settled and comfortable."
"It's okay, doll. I'll never do anything you don't want."
His arm—strikingly cold and oh so confident in how it moved—lifted your back just enough to yank the clasp of your bra. The sudden, harsh movement made your breasts bounce enticingly, and God, Bucky had to be stupid to force this out of his life for a whole month.
Your teeth sunk into the plumpness of your lip, muffling any sounds that could've escaped you. Eyes squeezed tight as you struggled to register every sensation, your head thrashed against the pillow. He descended with wet kisses all over your skin as though they were trails of passion left behind.
His warm skin glided against yours painfully slow, gaze unwaveringly locked on yours. He was not going to miss a single second of the adorable, flustered expressions on your face.
"Aww, look at you. So ready for it, aren't you?", thumbs swiping against the jut of your hipdips, his teeth grazed every spot he wanted marked—he just couldn't get enough of what he'd been so obviously missing.
When his lips finally met your weeping pussy, your back almost flew off the bed. Because shit, that man had one hell of a tongue.
It swept. It lapped. It curled.
Your thighs snapped around his head, keeping him in place despite how overwhelming he was making you feel. His groan at your action vibrated against your wet flesh, saliva and slick obscenely slurped by the seemingly starving man.
Your chest tightened with how hard you were fighting yourself to control your noises, a bead of sweat travelling down the valley of your hickey-adorned breasts.
Yes. Just a little more—
"Why'd you stop?", you mewled breathlessly, eyes snapping open to reveal how glossy and needy they'd become.
"You don't have to lie about liking it", he murmured softly, eyes reluctant to meet yours, afraid to see hidden unsatisfaction as he shifted to sit back on his haunches.
"Huh?", you gaped at him, still stupid from how close you were from absolutely drenching the sheets with your release.
"You don't like it. You don't even—", he cut himself abruptly, perhaps ashamed to continue. "You don't even let me know how you feel."
You stared at him blankly. Then, in a painfully plain tone, you deadpanned, "Bucky, wow. Bucky, it felt nice. Bucky, please get back to my pussy. Like that?"
He choked at that, coughing and spluttering.
Your thighs were uncomfortably spread wide, knees hurting despite the pillows Bucky had slid under them with that cute, quiet concern. Your body was arched awkwardly till your back thudded against his bare, sweaty chest with every thrust he pistoned. One cold, unyielding forearm hugged your throat close, the difference in temperature maddening you, paired with a deep, low voice whispering dirty praises into your ears.
With every scratch of his stubble against yours, with every tighten of fingers at your right hip, you were losing control over your mouth. Jaw hanging, drool pooling, you could barely stop your moans.
"So perfect. So beautiful. Aren't you the perfect fit around my dick?"
His pace didn't falter with time. If anything, he got faster.
"Need to hear you, baby. Come on, sweetheart, please. Please, let me hear you."
There was a desperation in the way he spoke. As if your sounds were supposed to assure him of how good he was fucking the brains out of you. Your mind went blanker—if that was possible.
"Thought you didn't like—fuck, ah—like a loud partner", you scrambled for purchase, fingers digging into the strong muscle holding you upright.
Bucky frowned at that. He'd die to hear your beautiful voice break and hitch on his cock. But no time for questions right now. He had priorities. Namely, an orgasm.
"Need you to sing for me, doll. Please."
Who were you to say no to that? You let go. Cute "uh-uh"s, and "Oh, Bucky"s, slipped. The room felt heated—combined with the noises you both were making, and the lewd slap of skin on skin. The wet squelches echoing in the sex-smelling room made your cunt gush in both embarrassment and unfiltered need.
Your voice had acted a switch. He was more confident with his aim now. The tip kissing your cervix with an intensity he was setting precisely, with his hips. You could feel him in your stomach. Your throat. Your everywhere. And with every panted "So big!", you massaged his ego.
Massaging his dick was a job your clenching, hot insides were taking care of.
His warmer hand slid down from your hip to the mess between your legs, moving his digits with vigor. They pinched the sensitive, pulsing bud there, forcing you to chase your high alongside him.
"My pretty darling. You need to come with me, okay? Come on, do it for me, doll."
"Yes, just like that. No more holding back, baby. Make my dick wetter."
Finally crashing, he slumped on top of you, his mouth curling up involuntarily when you weakly whined at the heavy weight. Rolling over, he grabbed you to flip onto your back with him.
"Can't believe you assumed I wouldn't absolutely love to hear you lose it on my cock", he grumbled, voice unfairly deep and obviously dripping with smugness. You hummed mindlessly, still trying to reconnect with reality. Slowly, and on wobbly legs, you lowered yourself on the floor. With shaky steps, you approached the bathroom—no space for UTIs between you and Bucky.
"Whole relationship, thought I wasn't satisfying you enough."
You shot him a look over you shoulder in incredulity.
"Didn't assume. Sam tricked me."
"..."
"..."
"HE WHAT—"
end notes: can't believe Sam tricked y'all with fake "bucky hates that, ew" stories </3
summary Bucky loves to take care of you; not just outside but in bed too. He takes his sweet time making sure you feel comfortable and completely devoted to. It's only fair you let him feel special too.
warnings mdni; explicit content; soft!bucky; body worship; oral (m!receiving); pwp; very soft; slow romance; care; nicknames; barely rough; mentions of unprotected sex; a little fluff?; i don't know how to tag
author's note I always read such feral Bucky fics, and yet I'm unable to write anything but soft bucky. lol. anyways, I also found all Bucky worshipping reader fics, so well, here is Bucky getting what he deserves too.
I'm always open to criticism. Let me know what you think. love-love.
1.3k
masterlist ; read on AO3
Bucky had been the kind of boyfriend that always prioritized your pleasure over anything else. His hands—big and calloused—ran over your body gently despite the obvious strength they held.
He always demanded eye contact, holding your gaze with those sincere ocean blue eyes swimming with desire and something very close to devotion. One of his hands—metal or flesh, he didn't care—would always hold yours, reassuring you, or maybe himself, that you were there. With him. Happy. Satisfied.
And sometimes, fucked stupid.
He was never painfully slow. His pace was fast enough for your drooling pussy, thrusts delivered firmly to attack that soft, erogenous spot inside.
He'd come only after he was pleased with your releases, smirking silently when your overstimulated body trembled underneath him. When your thighs shook against his hips, and he unhurriedly buried his cum deep in you.
His nimble fingers would always find your puffy slit even after pulling out, making sure no drop slipped out while you cuddled post-sex.
You loved it.
The care.
The douceur.
Him.
Perhaps, it was time you made him feel just as worshipped.
"God, I missed you", he whispered against your neck, his hands finding your hips, pulling you closer like he could no longer handle any distance between you two. Your lips curled, head tilting to give him better access to the smooth skin, letting him plant kisses at the delicate slope.
"You were out for an hour."
"Mm, too much", he shot you a playful grin, turning you just enough to face you properly now. You looked gorgeous. Hair tied back to cook in peace. Skin glowing with whatever expensive moisturizer you used.
His eyes gave you that look—requesting, looking for any hint of reciprocated desire. You only responded with a smile, hands sliding up his chest as you closed the distance. The muscles felt taut and warm beneath the sweat-stained shirt, your fingers curling around the fabric to pull him further.
Grabbing your waist, essentially hoisting you, he deepened the kiss. His tongue sought yours, beard scratching the skin around almost pleasantly. The raw food lay forgotten in the back.
Without breaking apart, he gently guided you around, finding a blind way to the bedroom. His arms tightened their grip as he finally stepped you both inside, his foot kicking the door shut behind.
But before he could try to lay you comfortably on the fluffy mattress and ravish you like he intended, you pulled back. He made an almost inaudible noise, chasing your mouth instinctively.
Your palm pressed itself against his midriff and he immediately quietened. His voice faltered mid-sentence, every muscle seeming to freeze as though someone had pressed pause. His brows knit together, his expression tightening and eyes flicking downward to check you with panic.
"What's wrong, doll? Do you not—"
"I just..."
You sighed. Your cheeks tingled with the blood rushing there with embarrassing speed. So, instead of voicing your request, you pushed the hem of his shirt.
The moment he yanked the fabric off, you pressed a deep kiss at his chest. Satisfied with the hitch in his throat, you slowly descended, your lips trailing wet kisses in their wake. You ever so often licked away at his skin, your body tingling at the feel of his abs tense against your tongue.
Trusting your boyfriend's brain to understand your wordless want, you sank. Your knees hit the plush carpet with a thump, toes curling in anticipation.
Your eyes—wide with the need to study his expression and glossy with neediness—met his.
His breath stopped. His soul left his body. God knows what all happened to the poor man in a split of a second.
One moment he was simply hard. The next, he was about to come in his pants like a teenager at the very sight of you kneeling before him.
"Doll, you don't have to—"
You cut him off firmly, a hand gliding up to his thigh, "I want to, Sarge."
Your mouth hovered over the zip of his pants, lips tentatively—teasingly—brushing the hardness straining under. His head tipped back, chest heaving with uneven inhales.
Your nails dragged a slow path past his abdomen, nearing his belt but never hooking. His hips bucked over, chasing friction.
With a deliberate bat of your eyelashes, you finally unbuckled the leather from its loop, discarding it mindlessly on the floor. You unzipped the jean, the fabric sitting a little looser on his hips now.
Your teeth sunk into the waistband, dragging the easy fabric down. Eye level with his erection, it was your turn to swallow hard.
Months of dating Bucky and yet, you could never get used to the size.
Reverently, you removed the boxers along, gasping quietly at the sight. His cock sprang out, hard, throbbing, and very angry at the tip—leaking precum.
"It'll be okay."
You nod at the reassurance, leaning forward to pepper light kisses over the length. He hissed loudly, his right hand threading itself through your hair. His grip tightened with every teasing lick and swirl.
Having enough, he wrapped his metal fingers around the thick shaft, guiding it to your inviting plump lips. The salty taste greeted you first as you worked your jaw open, the stretch almost overworking.
The second your wet warmth enveloped him, he let out a groan, his head falling backward. He tried—he really did. But his hips moved out of his control, thrusting into the tight expanse mindlessly.
"Oh fuck. So—So tight. My perfect girl."
His cock sat heavy on your tongue, pushing its way to your throat despite your obscene gags. You slurped and choked around him, the vibrations of your pretty sounds only spurring him further.
He couldn't hold back.
"Just like that, doll."
Both palms—large and tepid over your head—held it in place as he sped up. With every stuttering thrust, his heavy balls slapped against your chin, saliva pooling there alongside his own precum.
He dared make the mistake of fluttering his eyes open to look at you. Because fuck—
You were brimming with tears at the strain, lashes damp as they blinked at him. Your cheeks, flushed with a beautiful shade of rose, were hollowed, struggling to take all of him in.
"Oh baby, those eyes—shit—gonna be the death of me."
His flesh hand left your hair, dropping as he instead flexed his fingers. Your gaze caught the movement, your own hand moving over to hold his. Such a sap.
You would smile if you could.
His cock had started pulsing at the back of your mouth now. Insistent. Signaling.
With a broken moan, he abruptly pulled out. Fisting himself, he finally let go. Hot liquid spurted over your face, sticky globs painting your cheeks. Your lips. Your forehead.
Your tongue darted out to lick some off the corner of your mouth, watery eyes glancing at him.
"Shh doll, you okay?", he murmured into your ear, strong, steady arms easily carrying you to the bathroom.
You made a tiny noise of discomfort, jaw evidently sore. He gave you a small pat on the head, gingerly settling you on the marble counter.
"Let's clean you up, yeah?"
He reached for the washcloth hanging neatly beside the sink, the faucet hissing softly as warm water rushed into the basin.
He worked slowly.
One careful swipe beneath your chin.
Another across your cheek.
Every few moments he'd pull back to inspect your skin with heightened concentration, scared of bruising your skin with the water temperature.
His thumb brushed your chin lightly, turning your face just enough to catch a stubborn little smear near your jaw.
"There."
He smiled faintly.
"Much better."
You tilted your head to look in the mirror. Still disheveled. Still messy.
But....taken care of.
"I love you."
Your eyes flew back to his. The startled sound that escaped you wavered, slowly dissolving into an airy, weak laugh.
Brother’s Best Friend!Bucky Barnes x Steve’s Sister!Reader
Summary: After being absent from your family’s annual summer cabin retreat for several years, you finally make an appearance after your college graduation. Bucky can’t help but notice how much you’ve changed.
Word Count: 8.2k
Content: yearning, age gap (four years), brief drug use (marijuana), alcohol consumption, smut MDNI (mentions of masturbation, oral m receiving, facefucking, swallowing, dry humping, fingering, unprotected p in v (don’t do that))
As soon as Bucky sets his duffle down on the cabin floor, he feels his shoulders loosen. The familiar smell of the wood finish fills his nostrils, and it smells like every single one of his summers since he turned thirteen.
It's good to be back.
This has been Bucky and Steve's stomping grounds for one month a year, ever since Steve picked a fight with the wrong bully in middle school and Bucky had come to the rescue. That moment sparked a lifelong friendship, one that had lasted through high school and college, those first early years of adulthood. A friendship with roots so deep that Steve's family doted on Bucky, considering him as good as blood.
This year, things are a little different. Steve's parents have stayed behind, embarking on a trip of their own to Europe in a week. While the parents are away, the young people will play — Steve and Bucky invited a handful of friends and cousins, to drink and swim and make the most of the summer sunshine.
And for the first time in years, you’ll be back in attendance at the cabin.
Bucky remembers you fondly as Steve's kid sister, a little spitfire who hung fearlessly off the back of his bike growing up, all uncoordinated limbs and wild freckles and toothy smiles. When he and Steve went off to college, you were just starting high school, and the most he’s connected with you since has been through Facebook ‘happy birthday’ posts and the occasional Instagram comment.
You were serious about your academics, about making something of yourself, which is what kept you away so long. A real smart cookie, he’d always called you. You'd graduated college in just three years, thanks to all your hard work. Internships and summer courses and work studies have stolen you away for so long that Bucky has nearly forgotten what your laugh sounds like.
Until he hears it echoing off the trees outside, like a long-forgotten favorite song.
Bucky abandons Steve while he loads up the fridge with groceries (aka beer and liquor), and jogs out onto the front porch.
Coming down the dirt path is a small group of Steve's cousins, laughing boisterously, talking plans for the three weeks ahead at the cabin. A flash of hair catches Bucky's eye. You have an arm slung over your older cousin’s shoulders, laughing along with the rest.
Your smile is exactly the same, but it fits your face better now, Bucky notices. You look… grown up. The untamed spirit of your youth still lives in your eyes, but you’ve matured considerably elsewhere.
He can’t help the way his eyes wander to your frayed jean shorts and the way they hug your hips, the expanse of thigh that lays below their ripped hemline. He tries to pulls his gaze away, but it lands on your freckled shoulders, your tank top, the neckline that slopes down to frame breasts that developed quite nicely while you’ve been away.
Bucky looks down at his feet, feeling like the world’s biggest creep.
Steve had made him promise years ago to never touch you. It was long enough ago that Bucky had never even thought he’d have to worry about keeping it. Bucky wouldn’t have dreamed of it — you were Steve's kid sister. You were never even on his radar in that way before.
Suffice to say, his radar is definitely picking you up now.
“Bucky!”
He glances up to see you running full tilt towards him, bounding up the steps with your smile overtaking your whole face. You crash into him, your arms looping around his neck in a tight embrace. Bucky stumbles back slightly from the force of it, and his hands find your waist to steady you as he huffs a laugh.
He breathes you in, sunscreen and clean sweat and something fruity that makes his mouth water. You give him a squeeze, holding on for a few beats before releasing him.
Your eyes still have that familiar, impish sparkle. “Hi.”
“Long time, no see,” he drawls, trying to keep his eyes where they won’t get him into trouble. It doesn't work.
A large hand claps him on the shoulder, startling Bucky. Steve shoves past him and sweeps you up into a hug, spinning you around in greeting while you squeal and laugh.
It only serves to remind him of his promise. Bucky sighs and rubs the back of his neck. It's gonna be a long couple of weeks.
You have been hopelessly in love with Bucky Barnes since you were nine years old. Since the time your cousin had wrestled you into the dirt and Bucky nearly put his lights out, then cleaned the scrape on your knee with great care.
He’d never noticed you that way, and you’d resigned yourself to that a long time ago. Mostly.
You threw yourself into your studies with zeal and occasionally entertained the idea of a boyfriend. They never lasted long — A, because they were a distraction, and B, because they weren’t Bucky Barnes. Not their fault, but not something you could tolerate, either.
But now, school is behind you. For now, at least. You had been toying with the idea of a masters, but right now the idea of more school makes you want to puke. You have three weeks ahead of you with no books, no plans, no demands or schedule.
Just your family and friends and Bucky.
The moment your eyes meet his on the front porch of the cabin, you can tell something has shifted.
His hands are warm on your waist even though your clothes, and the way he looks at you makes you preen a little with satisfaction. I'm a woman now, Bucky. Surprised?
He, on the other hand, hasn’t changed a bit. He still has that slightly grown in stubble and those infuriating muscles that he started sporting in high school, much to the chagrin of your raging hormones at the time. The only thing that is different about him is the glimmer of interest in his expression, interest that has never once been directed at you before.
Every time his eyes stray towards you that afternoon, it feels like glitter rushing through your veins, shimmering and hot. You feel it everywhere.
Once everyone is sufficiently unpacked, the group loads up a cooler of drinks and grabs their bikes. The plan being to head down to the pier and watch the sunset, as a reward for a long day of driving.
You hang off the back of Bucky's bike like you’ve done a thousand times before, your feet on the rear axel pegs, your hands on his shoulders. But this time, his shoulders flex lightly underneath your touch, his jaw ticks when you lean down to speak into his ear, and he keeps his eyes firmly on the road despite your attempts to distract him.
At the pier, the sun turns everything gold and red, slowly descending to kiss its reflection in the water. You glance at Bucky to find him already looking at you, and he quickly turns his head away, caught.
You grin and take a swig of your beer. This is going to be fun.
Bucky is being tested. He's sure of it.
That night, he stares at the ceiling in the top bunk until exhaustion pulls him under. He tries and fails to think of anything other than you. Those eyes. That mouth. Those thighs peeking out from those god-forsaken shorts.
In the morning, he climbs down the ladder, creeps past Steve snoring softly on the bottom bunk, and out to the kitchen to start preparing breakfast for the group. He'd gotten the short straw last night, so no rest for the wicked.
The living room is littered with sleeping bodies. There's only so many beds in the cabin, and they were first come, first serve. Which had resulted in you and two of your female cousins crashing on a large air mattress in a tangle of limbs.
In the adjoining kitchen, Bucky earnestly tries to keep his eyes to himself. But you’re splayed out on the air mattress, in nothing but an oversized t-shirt that has ridden up your stomach and flimsy pajama shorts that leave nothing to the imagination.
When Bucky starts on the bacon and pancakes, the noise stirs you. You stretch, your t-shirt riding up even higher, letting out a soft little groan that doesn’t help his morning wood in the slightest. He fixes his attention on the pan and resolves to keep it there.
It wanders anyway. When it does, he finds you looking right back at him from where you lay on the mattress, watching him with interest and a little amusement. His first instinct is to immediately look away, the way he did yesterday. But he doesn’t want you to know how much you’ve rattled him, so he holds your gaze for a beat before returning his focus to flipping pancakes.
He thinks that’ll be the end of it, but of course it isn’t. Before long, you untangle yourself from your cousins, who groan in protest and roll over as you stand. Bucky can hear the sound of your bare feet padding across the wooden floor toward the kitchen.
“Morning,” you greet him in a slightly gravelly morning voice.
“Morning,” he replies casually.
“That smells so good.” You pluck a grape from the bowl of fruit sitting on the counter and pop it into your mouth. “I’m starving.”
A muscle ticks in Bucky's jaw. He's not sure what’s worse — if you’re unaware of the effect you’re having on him, or if you are aware, and doing it on purpose.
“It’ll be ready in a few,” he declares, pouring the last of the pancake batter into the pan. “So, you enjoying your freedom from school?”
“Definitely.” You hoist yourself up to sit on the counter, placing yourself very much in the way, but Bucky doesn’t have the heart to ask you to move. especially when the position grants him another tempting view of your thighs.
“You miss me?” you purr, playfully nudging his hip with your foot.
He doesn’t take the bait. Flipping pancakes is simple, so that’s what he does. “Of course I missed you. The place isn’t the same without you.”
You smile, and Bucky gets stuck on it momentarily. A moment passes, tense and delicious at the same time. You just watch him, content to wait, to sit in the tension winding tighter between you.
Bucky reaches up by your head, opening a cabinet and fetching a plate. His hip brushes the outside of your knee, and he doesn’t move away immediately.
“You planning on helping, or are you just gonna sit there staring?”
“I’m appreciating the view,” you counter, your eyes dragging over his frame as you steal another grape from the bowl.
A chuckle slips out of him at your boldness. “You're trouble, you know that?”
Your eyebrow ticks, a silent dare.
And then Steve stumbles in, bleary eyed, and the moment shatters.
“Please tell me there’s coffee,” Steve mumbles, rubbing his eyes.
As inconspicuously as possible, Bucky shifts a respectable distance away from you to plate the bacon and quietly clears his throat. “By the microwave,” he says.
Steve doesn’t appear to have noticed the atmosphere he walked into, but Bucky still scolds himself internally. You make it way too easy for him to forget where he is, forget his promises and responsibilities to his friend. Too easy to forget that he shouldn’t be looking at you like that in the first place.
He shoves all of it down and brings plates of breakfast out to the picnic tables outside, leaving you and your dangling legs and sharp eyes behind.
“Hey.”
Bucky's voice rings out from behind you, into the open air of the night. You turn to see him descending the cabin steps, towards where you’re sitting on top of a picnic table, your feet resting on the bench.
You'd come out here to be alone, just to have a quiet moment, while the muffled sounds of laughter and celebration from the cabin underscore your solitude. But you find that you don’t mind having your solitude disrupted, if Bucky is the one to do it.
“What are you doing out here all alone?” he asks, circling the table to face you.
You glance up at the sky. “Too much light pollution at school to really see the stars. Thought I'd remind myself what they look like.”
It really is a sight to see. Swirls of stars glittering in the dark expanse, configurations and constellations you never get to see in the city. All around, crickets chirp and cicadas sing, a familiar song floating on the balmy summer air.
Bucky looks up right along with you, just as appreciatively. Even with several feet of space between you, you can feel that tension that’s been winding tighter ever since you arrived yesterday. You wonder why he came out here tonight. If he came to find you.
“I thought all you boys were playing beer pong,” you say with an arched brow.
Bucky smiles sheepishly, as if he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. From within his pockets, he produces a joint and a lighter. “I’m being selfish. Don't tell on me.”
“I can keep a secret,” you reply conspiratorially as you pat the space beside you on the picnic table. “C’mere.”
He hesitates, and you wait ever-patiently, watching him carefully as his brain wars with itself until he finally gives in. Keeping a careful distance — not too far to be cold, but not close enough to touch — he sits beside you and sparks up.
The cherry of the joint glows in the darkness as he takes a drag, and tendrils of smoke curl out from behind his lips when he exhales. Bucky looks briefly surprised when you reach for the joint, plucking it from his grasp to take a drag of your own.
Smoking isn’t new for you — you’ve indulged a handful of times at the handful of college parties you’d attended between school obligations. But seeing you smoke, smoking with you, is very new to Bucky. Hypnotized, he watches your lips as they wrap around the joint, where his mouth had just been. He only manages to break his gaze away when you breathe out and let the current of smoke escape.
He shakes his head in disbelief. “If Steve knew I was getting his little sister high, he’d beat my ass.”
Your older brother is the last subject you want to discuss right now. You pass the joint back to him, letting your hand linger just a little against his. “What Steve doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
Following up on that comment feels a little too dangerous, and so the two of you sit in silence for a moment, passing the joint back and forth underneath the canopy of smoke and stars.
Before long, you start to feel it. That slight, pleasant heaviness in your limbs, that heightening of your senses. That warm, fuzzy feeling settling over your mind. The high is better here, in this place that has known you since you were a child, shared with someone you’re completely at ease with. You shift closer to him, your knee bumping his.
“This is nice,” you sigh.
“Yeah,” he agrees, something bittersweet in his tone. “Real nice.”
“Just like old times.”
“I can think of a few things that are different,” he chuckles.
“Such as?” you ask, deftly snatching the joint back from him.
“You’ve grown up.” He looks at you pointedly as you take a long drag. “Quite a bit. It's kinda…complicating things for me.”
You hadn’t expected him to own up to it like that, this newfound attraction. You turn to him, passing back the joint, head tilted in curiosity. “Complicating things how?”
He fidgets with the joint between his fingers, as if he’s debating what to say or how to say it. When his eyes meet yours again, they’re warm and dark and full of want.
“Steve made me promise. That I wouldn't touch you. That I wouldn't even look at you that way.”
You hadn’t known about this, not really. But it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. Steve has always been protective of you, even when he didn’t have to be.
“What do you call how you’re looking at me now?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Complicated.”
His gaze drops to your mouth and stays there. The night seems to fold around the two of you, heavy and hot and close.
You shift closer to him, your thigh now pressing against his.
“I’m not a kid anymore, Buck,” you murmur as you slowly lean into him. “I don’t need a big brother to protect me. I can make my own decisions.”
For a fleeting moment, you’re close enough to breathe the same air as Bucky, lips nearly brushing his. But then he pulls away, gets to his feet, runs a hand through his hair as he looks firmly at the ground.
“I can’t. I'm sorry.”
You don’t have the chance to say anything else, because he walks with quick strides up the cabin steps, disappearing through the screen door. The joint lays on the picnic table beside you, half-smoked and smoldering.
You sigh, frustrated, head in your hands.
Bucky should have known that wouldn’t be the end of it. Maybe if he had never said anything at all to you, it would have been easier. But now it’s out in the open, and you seem to be intent on torturing him.
It’s already difficult to avoid your presence, with everyone cramped into one cabin. Even still, you’re almost always in his orbit, your laughter in the air around him, your eyes occasionally finding his across bonfires and picnic tables. Then there’s the seemingly endless parade of tiny shorts and barely-there tops and strappy little sundresses. He's sure Steve will catch him staring at some point, because he just can’t seem to keep his gaze from wandering in your direction, snagging on whatever new inch of exposed skin he finds there.
At the end of each day, Bucky forces himself under the cold stream of the shower, shamefully stroking his cock as he tries in vain to think of anything other than your hands on his skin and the way you’d looked at him that night.
On the fourth day, the group heads down to the lake for a proper swim. Bucky finds himself woefully unprepared for the toll it takes on his sanity.
The trek down to the lake isn’t long, but with the noonday sun high in the sky, everyone is sweating by the time you arrive down at the dock. Clothes are eagerly shed in favor of sinking into the cool lake water. You waste no time, pulling your tank top overhead and wiggling out of your shorts.
It's not the first time Bucky has seen you in a bathing suit. But that was a different time, a different you. Gone are the sweet little one-piece swimsuits of your youth, replaced by a very enticing little bikini. Every curve of your body that the passage of time has wrought is on full display. Of course, you catch him staring, and you smile coyly before catapulting yourself off the end of the dock and into the water.
You resurface, laughing and gasping, as Bucky sets down the cooler and removes his shirt. He doesn’t have to look to know you’re watching, but he does anyway. He sees you floating on your back, observing him with a siren’s gaze.
Behind him, Steve smacks a mutual friend in the back of the head for staring at you. “That’s my sister, man,” he warns.
Bucky's chest tightens with lingering guilt, and he hopes against hope that the water will cool the afternoon off, so to speak.
Wishful thinking.
Everyone else whiles away the hours laughing and splashing and relaxing, while Bucky is wound tight as a spring. He watches as Steve hoists you onto his shoulders, watches you squeal in delight as he tosses you into the water, and remembers the times when things could be easy and fun with you, in that way. But he can’t seem to trust himself around you anymore. It makes him feel sick to his stomach, sick of himself.
He sits on the edge of the dock, feet dangling into the water, a beer in his hands that is rapidly turning tepid from the summer heat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots you hoisting yourself out of the water and onto the dock, lake water sluicing off your body. Bucky peels the label off the bottle and stares at the horizon while you dry yourself off.
A nudge at his shoulder grabs his attention. You’re standing over him, a bottle of sunscreen in your hand and a smirk on your lips.
“Could you get my back?”
Swallowing with difficulty, he looks back out towards the water where Steve and three other cabinmates are engaged in a game of chicken. He appears otherwise distracted, and it would be weirder of Bucky to refuse than just help you. It's an innocent enough activity, after all. Or it should be.
Bucky sighs and turns towards you, taking the bottle from your hands as you sit down in front of him.
You pull your damp hair over your shoulder and out of the way, glancing back at him. Bucky squeezes a dollop of sunscreen into his palm and begins to apply it to your shoulders. He works in silence and keeps his touch perfunctory, but he can’t help but note the warmth and softness of your skin.
His hands work lower and lower, until he has to slip his fingers beneath the strap of your swimsuit. He's a gentleman about it and doesn’t linger longer than he needs to, though he can feel a flush creeping into his face.
It’s so quiet for a moment that when you speak, it almost startles him. “Are you planning on ignoring me the whole rest of the trip?”
“I'm not ignoring you,” Bucky counters.
“Bucky.” You shoot him a skeptical look over your shoulder. “I've known you for, like, two thirds of my life. I can tell when you’re lying.”
Bucky sighs again as he finishes working the sunscreen into your lower back and lets his hands fall away. “What do you want me to do?”
You turn towards him. “I think you already know,” you reply smartly, with an arch of your brow.
“Jesus, I mean…” He rubs his temple, looking everywhere but at you. “I already told you why this can’t happen,” he says quietly.
You huff in annoyance and pick up the bottle of sunscreen off the dock. “Well, I think your little bro code is stupid.”
Bucky chuckles under his breath in spite of himself at your bluntness.
Placing a hand on his shoulder, you turn him until he’s facing away from you and begin to apply sunscreen to his back now, without having been asked. Bucky grows very still underneath your touch, trying desperately not to be affected by it. It's not really working.
“You made your little promise when I was… what, fourteen?” you continue. “We're both adults now.”
Bucky frowns. “Steve is my friend.”
“Steve is a big boy. He'll get over it.”
Bucky feels your hand run along his spine, nails dragging slightly, and he hates the way his cock stirs at the feeling.
“I’m not gonna touch you,” he says firmly. “Not like that.”
“You don’t want to?” You’re closer now, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your body inches from his back, your breath at his ear.
Bucky takes a deep, steadying breath. “It's not about what I want.”
Finally, your hands leave him, and Bucky doesn’t know whether to be thankful or disappointed.
“Maybe it should be,” you muse softly, before getting to your feet and diving back into the water.
It's nearing the end of the first week. You've been so very, very patient. But you’re done waiting around for Bucky to stop torturing himself over nothing.
After dinner, everyone gathers around the bonfire to make s’mores for dessert. And you’re on a mission.
You take up the seat directly across from him instead of next to him, where you know you’ll be right in his eyeline all night. And as soon as the marshmallows come out, you put on a show.
For Steve's sake, as well as your cousins, you keep it on the subtle side. You craft a s’more in a less-than-neat fashion, so naturally it makes a bit of a mess as you eat. And naturally, it leaves a few stray smears of chocolate and melted marshmallow on your fingers. And there’s no harm in licking away the evidence, not among friends and family. You're very thorough about it, not missing a single sticky morsel.
As you drag the pad of your thumb along the corner of your mouth and close your lips around it, you glance at Bucky across the fire pit.
Admittedly, he’s doing an admirable job of keeping it together in front of Steve, but the tell is in his eyes. They're hungry, and they don’t waver when they connect with yours. It almost makes you shiver, despite the balmy temperature, and it makes you press your thighs together on instinct.
Because you know you’ve got him — hook, line, and sinker.
Phase two begins. You announce to your cousin sitting next to you that you’re heading inside to wash your hands. You make meaningful eye contact with Bucky as you stand. You turn to walk up the front steps of the cabin, screen door swinging shut behind you.
And you wait, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.
Bucky is going to hell. He's sure of it. His fate is sealed as soon as he walks up the front steps.
But he does anyway, two minutes after you left the bonfire. It's a small consolation that no one seems to notice when he slips away.
He closes the screen door quietly, aware that this is probably the point of no return, his last chance to turn around and preserve his friendship with Steve from unnecessary risk.
He doesn’t turn back.
Light glows from the crack underneath the bathroom door down the hall. Swallowing back his nerves, he raps his knuckles softly on the door.
The door swings open, revealing you, excitement and a hint of smugness glittering in your eyes. You reach for his hand and gently pull him through the doorframe, and he shuts it behind him.
His back meets the cool wood seconds after, and his lips meet yours in a tangle of heat and desperation.
You still taste sweet from your little performance with the s’more, the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your skin. Bucky expects you to at least play at innocence first, but there is nothing innocent about this. It’s immediately filthy, your tongue in his mouth and your hands in his hair and your entire body pressed against his.
His hands find your hips, partly to steady himself and partly to bring you even closer. He tells himself that he’s going to stop, that he just needs a taste of you and then he can go back out there like nothing happened. But you moan softly against his mouth, and he can already feel himself getting addicted.
Bucky had already been half-hard at the bonfire, watching you suck your fingers clean right in front of everyone without an ounce of shame. Now, as your lips wander across his jaw and down his neck, as you subtly rock your hips against his thigh, it feels like all the blood is rushing out of his brain and straight to his cock. He’s harder than he’s been this entire trip so far, which is saying something, because he’s been very hard, very often.
You reach for the button and zipper on his pants, and it snaps Bucky back to reality for a split second. He still has a chance to stop, to be the good guy, to not let this go any further.
“Baby,” he pants. “I can’t—“
“You're not touching me.” Holding his gaze, you slip your hand past the waistband of his boxers and wrap your fingers around his cock. “I'm touching you. It's okay.”
It’s more following the letter than the spirit of the law. but when you stroke him, slow and firm from base to tip and back again, Bucky’s head thuds back against the wood of the door. He knows he’s not going to stop you. He's already going to hell, so he might as well enjoy the perks.
Once you’ve successfully freed him from the confines of his shorts, you sink to your knees in front of him. Bucky's eyes widen as he looks down at you. Fuck, he really is going to hell, because he’s about to let you do this. He’s about to let you suck his cock, all while your brother sits right outside the cabin, unaware.
Your hand slowly works him as you experimentally swirl your tongue around the tip, and Bucky lets out a shuddering breath. “Jesus, you’re—“
The words die on his lips as you lick a long stripe along the underside of him, stroking a particularly sensitive vein. He lets out a startled moan, his hand finding your hair of its own accord.
“Holy shit,” he whispers.
You don’t tease him for long. Perhaps you sense that he’s too worked up for that, or perhaps you know time is limited before someone comes looking for one of you. Soon enough, you take him fully into your mouth, sinking down slowly.
Bucky watches, hypnotized. “Look at you,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your face so he can watch how his cock sinks into the wet heat of your mouth, how your perfect lips wrap around him like you were made to ruin him. “Gorgeous.”
You moan around him, the vibration traveling down his cock and settling into his bones. His abs twitch and his hand tightens in your hair, and Bucky can tell this is going to be a pathetic showing of his stamina. You've barely started, and already he’s starting to lose it.
Your head begins to bob, finding a rhythm as you work to take him further and further down your throat, applying the perfect amount of suction on the uptake. Bucky has to make a considerable effort to keep quiet, lest everyone outside hear exactly what the two of you are doing.
Eventually, you take a long breath to prepare and take him so deep, your nose brushes the hair at the base of his cock. For a brief moment, Bucky wonders where you learned this, who you’d practiced on at school, and the thought turns him a little bit feral.
You stay where you are for a moment, your throat tensing and relaxing as you struggle to accommodate him. And all of a sudden, Bucky becomes a man possessed.
His other hand tangles into your hair alongside the first. his hips twitching with the effort of keeping still, and he begs in a wrecked voice, “Sweetheart, please, I need— I need to—“
Your hands slip to the backs of his thighs, squeezing lightly as you hum your encouragement.
With your permission granted, Bucky takes control. With his hands fisted in your hair, he fucks your face with with as much control as he can muster. He’s far gone, but not quite far enough where he can bear the idea of really hurting you.
You gaze up at him with hazy, dark eyes as you let him use you, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth as he feeds his cock down your throat.
“That's it,” Bucky groans, low and filthy. “You take it so fuckin’ good.”
He starts to lose the fight for control, his thrusts becoming a little rougher, a little sloppier. Tears collect at the corners of those wide eyes, and he can feel and hear you gag around him.
“I know, honey, I’m sorry, I — I’m almost done,” he gasps, teetering on the edge, guilt and shame and arousal swirling in his gut.
You gag again, and even though Bucky is seconds away from finishing, he loosens his grip on your head to give you room to pull away. He warns you in a strangled voice, “I’m gonna come, baby, fuck—“
Your grip tightens on the back of his thighs. Stubborn and determined in spite of your need for air, you take him down your throat again, eyes locked on his. Bucky shoves his fist into his mouth to muffle his groan as he comes down your throat, shuddering as he feels you gag and swallow around him. You take every single drop, only pulling off when there’s nothing left to take. You cough and gasp for air and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.
Bucky gazes down at you in disbelief — you on your knees in front of him, hair wrecked, face flushed, lips swollen. Guilt surging hot through his veins, he gently helps you to your feet.
“Honey, I’m so sorry, I—”
“Don’t be.” Those lips curl into a satisfied smirk.
“You taste even nicer than I thought.”
Bucky stands there in shock as you stretch up onto your toes to kiss him again, and he moans softly when he tastes himself on you. He responds with just as much enthusiasm, just as much hunger as before, in spite of how thoroughly you’ve wrecked him.
You pull away first, and he chases after your lips, still starving for more of you. Gently pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth, you murmur, “People are gonna be wondering where we are.”
His arms tighten around your waist as he protests, “What about you?”
“Later.”
Bucky hisses as you gently tuck him back into his shorts, straightening out his clothes and hair with a smile.
“Meet me at the dock after everyone’s asleep.”
You turn to the mirror and fix your own face, smoothing out your hair to look slightly less debauched.
“Okay,” Bucky replies, a little bewildered.
Nudging him out of the way, you pull the door open, looking much more composed than he feels. “Wait a couple minutes before you follow me out.”
You slip out of the bathroom without another word.
When Bucky finally leaves the bathroom, he grabs another six pack of beer and tries not to look too visibly shaken as he heads back out of the cabin. You're already laughing with the group like the past five minutes didn’t even happen. Steve throws an arm around Bucky’s shoulders when he sits back down, and it seems that nobody suspects a thing.
When your eyes meet his across the fire pit, they still glimmer with mischief and desire and the promise of more to come. And Bucky can already feel his body stirring in response, his hunger for you only momentarily sated.
It's only the beginning.
The moon is a spotlight on the water as you look out from the dock.
The bonfire smoldered out about two hours ago, and you’d snuck out almost an hour ago after your cousins had collapsed onto the air mattress, exhausted. The night air is cooler than it has been, a breeze coaxing goosebumps up the back of your neck.
And you wait. It's made tolerable by the fact that you know you won’t be waiting much longer.
Underneath the cicada’s song, you hear footsteps coming down the path. Bucky approaches, clad in a hoodie and pajama pants, looking almost shy with his hands in his pockets. A thrill of excitement runs down your spine just at the sight of him.
You lean back on your hands, looking him over openly. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”
“I'm not that much of an asshole,” He chuckles sheepishly. Walking about halfway down the dock towards you, he stops for a moment, still hesitating after everything that has passed between you.
It's a little endearing and, at the same time, almost frustrating. Most of all, it makes you hungry.
“You just gonna stand there, or are you gonna come kiss me?” you ask, a smile playing at your lips.
Bucky rises to the challenge, closing the distance and sitting next to you on the wooden dock. He reaches out a careful hand, brushing your hair back from your face in a surprisingly tender gesture, considering what transpired in the bathroom earlier. Maybe because of it. Maybe he feels a little guilty about it, though you know he shouldn't. He wouldn’t feel that way if he knew how much it had turned you on.
This time, he kisses you first, slow and sweet and entirely too patient for how long you’ve been waiting for this.
Your fingers curl into his hoodie, pulling him closer. You invite him in, opening your mouth for him and letting out a soft whimper when he accepts the invitation, his tongue sliding against yours.
It doesn’t take long for the kiss to turn messy, needy, heated. You’re not sure whose idea it is for you to climb into his lap, who exactly initiated that particular move. But there you are, your hips flush against him, his cock already rising to the occasion and pressing where you’ve been aching for him all night.
“You got any idea,” he mumbles against your lips, “how crazy you’ve made me these last few days?”
You pull back with a smirk.
“Consider it payback.”
“Payback for what?”
“All those years I was following you around like a lovesick puppy,” you explain as you play with the strings of his hoodie, “and you didn’t even look in my direction.”
“Yeah?” For the first time since the two of you arrived at the cabin, he breaks out into that boyish grin you’ve always adored, the one that made you fall for him in the first place. He leans in and kisses the soft skin just below your jaw. “You had a crush on me?”
“Don't pretend you didn’t know, you dick!” You smack his chest playfully, fighting a sigh as he drags his lips along your neck. You can feel the ghost of that smile against your skin as he laughs softly.
“Okay, okay,” he concedes. “I might have had an inkling.” Another kiss, this one pressed to the hollow beneath your ear, earning another quiet whimper from you. “But I didn’t want to encourage you.”
You like how playful he’s being with you now. It's how things always should have been between you — easy, familiar, natural, without all that guilt in the way. Without your brother’s masculine pride and overprotective nature looming over your heads.
“This is pretty encouraging,” you reply breathlessly, rolling your hips against his. His hard cock grinds into your clit through the layers of clothing between you, and you both gasp nearly in unison.
“Jesus.” Bucky grasps your hips to still you, looking at you seriously for a moment. “If we do this… we can’t tell Steve."
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
You wish he’d let you move again, but his eyes grow worried. “I don't… I don't have anything with me. I wasn't exactly expecting...”
Leaning to press a brief kiss to his lips, you whisper, “I'm clean. And on the pill.”
His eyes darken with want. “You really have grown up, sweetheart,” he remarks, chasing after your lips again.
Bucky loosens his grip on you, and his breath hitches as you slowly grind in his lap again.
“I’m clean, too,” he murmurs, pulling back far enough to get a good look at your face. “But only if you’re sure.”
You nod as you reach for the zipper of his hoodie. “I’m sure.”
You’ve never been more sure of anything in your life.
Bucky generously allows you to remove his hoodie and tug off his shirt, even more generously allows you to look your fill. You’ve seen him shirtless probably dozens of times over the years, but it never fails to spark your excitement. You run your hands down his chest, his abs, your nails dragging just slightly. He groans under his breath, the sound an echo of the ones he’d made in the bathroom.
Only now, the two of you don’t have to be quiet. You're far enough away from the cabin that your moans are swallowed up by the cicadas in the trees.
Warm, calloused fingers curl beneath the hem of your t-shirt as Bucky's lips brush against your sternum. He peels the garment off of you, his eyes full of wonder and desire as he takes them over your bare chest.
“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, cupping your breasts in each hand.
His mouth descends to one, his hand idly exploring the other, and your gasp pierces the night air. You've waited years, a decade and some change, for him to touch you like this. His tongue carefully strokes your nipple, and it makes you ache and pulse and want him so badly you can barely breathe right.
You want to let him take his time, to stretch this moment as long as it can last. But his ministrations soon have you rocking rhythmically in his lap, seeking relief as the ache between your legs builds.
“Bucky,” you whimper, “please.”
Bucky reluctantly breaks away from worshipping your chest, and a small crease forms between his eyebrows. For a moment, you worry that the old hesitation is back, that things will stall.
“Just… gimme a second here,” he mumbles as he reaches for his hoodie.
He shifts you off his lap and spreads the hoodie out on the cool wood of the dock. Then he guides you backwards until you’re laid on top of it. The gesture makes you giggle affectionately.
“Such a gentleman,” you tease.
But he doesn’t laugh. He wears a hangdog expression as he leans over you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I'm sorry. You deserve nicer than this.”
You tilt your head. You're exactly where you want to be. What could be nicer than this?
Sensing your confusion, he rubs the back of his neck and addresses the trees. “Inside, in a real bed. Not a secret hookup in the middle of the woods.”
You can see the guilt, the shame resurfacing his eyes, and you’ll have none of that. So you reach up and take his face in your hands.
“Bucky. Look at me.”
He does, albeit reluctantly.
“This is perfect. I'm under the stars, in my favorite place in the world, with someone I trust.” You weave your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping that honesty will break through the guilt. Softly, you amend your statement. “Someone I love.”
It might be too much, but it’s true. You've loved him for practically your whole life. As a friend, and as more than a friend. As a fixture in your life as constant as the sun. And it feels right to tell him, even though part of you is worried that it could ruin everything.
Bucky is silent for a moment, realization filling his eyes. There's something else, too — something like discovery, like finding something.
The silence extends long enough that it starts to make you nervous.
“Too much?” you ask, so quiet it barely disturbs the night air.
“No,” Bucky replies. “Not at all.”
His mouth dips to meet yours again, and you don’t even mind that he doesn’t say it back. You know that he loves you, even if it’s not the exact same way, and you can feel how he wants you. That's more than enough.
Fingers slip past the waistband of your pajama shorts, past the fabric of your underwear, until they drag through the slick mess gathered between your legs. The sound you make in response is equal parts relief and need.
Ever the gentleman, Bucky works you open, not exactly rushing, but not exactly taking his sweet time either. You can feel how bad he wants this as his hard cock nudges at your thigh, that he wants this just as bad as you do.
Then he drags your shorts and underwear down, down, until you’re naked underneath him, under the stars and the moon, in the open night air where anyone could see you if they happened to walk by. You don’t give a damn in the slightest, because Bucky is looking at you like you invented having a body, like he can’t believe you’re real.
At last, Bucky settles between your legs, shoving his pajama pants down just far enough to free himself. A slow drag of his cock against you coats him in your wetness, both of you panting in anticipation.
Carefully as he can manage, he pushes inside, and you gasp at the sudden fullness. It's overwhelming and right and everything you knew it would be.
Bucky's forehead drops to your shoulder, clearly struggling to keep it together, breath ragged. “Jesus christ, you’re so fuckin’ tight.”
“You feel so —“ You cut yourself off with a moan when he moves, hips withdrawing and then snapping them into yours, driving himself into you. “—so good, Buck.”
“Baby,” he nearly growls, hips snapping perfectly against yours once again, “you feel like you were made for me.”
As he moves inside you, everything else disappears — the trees, the dock underneath you, the stars above you. You could be in a five star hotel, as far as you’re concerned. You're on cloud nine, because after years of dreaming of this moment, it’s finally real. Bucky on top of you, inside of you, his moans and encouragement and endless praise on your ear. Every sound, every word, every thrust driving you closer and closer to climax.
His hand slips between your bodies, finding your clit and making your body arch beneath him as he rubs tight little circles into it. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, your pleasure climbing higher and higher. His words turn to stream-of-consciousness, rambles of pleasure and praise.
Somewhere in the middle of it, something slips out that sends you reeling through space.
“So good,” he groans softly, his mouth lowering to taste the sweat on your neck. “Love you so much, honey.”
You’re not sure if he even meant to say it out loud, but the effect is immediate and all-consuming. You clutch him against you, your heart swelling, your lips crying his name as you come apart around him.
A wrecked moan spills out of him as his rhythm falters, thrusts turning sloppy and rough. “Fuck, i’m close,” he pants, his eyes finding yours. “You want me to—“
“Inside,” you beg, clutching him tighter, aftershocks of pleasure still pulsing through you. “Please, I want it.”
With a shudder and a curse, he buries himself inside you, hot pulses of his spend filling you as he thrusts shallowly to push it deeper. You feel claimed, marked, owned. What a glorious thing, to be claimed by him. You think if you could see yourself from the outside, you’d be glowing all over like a bonfire.
As the two of you come back to yourselves, Bucky brushes a tender kiss against your jaw and carefully pulls out of you. He rolls off of you, his back meeting the wood of the dock, his chest still heaving as he recovers.
For a few moments, the two of you stare up at the glittering sky, the reality of the situation settling in now that the intensity of sensation wanes.
You turn, curling into his side, and his arm drifts around you on instinct, natural as breathing.
“Did you… did you mean it?” you ask quietly.
It could have been the heat of the moment, and you wouldn’t blame him if it had been. People say all kinds of things when they’re about to come, things that look different in the afterglow and in the light of day. You know he cares about you. But you need to know how much truth lived in those words.
“Yeah.” He looks down at you, his eyes so soft and affectionate that it almost makes you want to climb on top of him again. His hand finds yours, fingers weaving together and resting against his chest. “I did.”
That's when it sinks in. This isn’t a one-time, clandestine rendezvous in the woods that you’ll both carry to the grave. It’s not something that will fade in the daylight. It will repeat itself. It will make demands. It will not keep to the shadows. It will not be easy to hide.
You sigh. “We have to tell Steve, don’t we?”
Bucky's sigh mirrors yours. “Yeah.”
“He’s gonna kill you.”
“Yeah.”
His lips brush against the crown of your head, his voice already resigned to his fate. “Still worth it.”
You wanted something different. You were tired of the life that was dictated to you. In polite society you are meant to be seen, not heard. Used but never seen. At the mercy of a man that valued you only for your ability to give him children. You found a tiny bit of freedom in James. Choosing him, falling for him, and making plans to flee with him. That is until a new monster enters your life. You almost had the freedom you craved, with the one you were obsessed with, but this isn’t freedom. Could this be worse than the hell you were bound to? Or is being bound to the most ruthless pirate the actual freedom you were looking for? In becoming Steve's will you also find yourself — and freedom? Is there only room for one person in your heart, or must you survive with the one that burned himself into your soul?
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8
A/N: This is a dark fic. It will include themes of misogyny, kidnapping and being held captive, forced voyeurism, branding, choking, teasing, spanking, manhandling, degradation, objectification, weapon play, wax play, dacryphilia, loss of innocence, conspiracy, and more. Read all warnings before each part. Minors DNI
plot: it’s been long time since you became a team member and Bucky fall’s in love with you but never add the chance to confess it, until a Stark’s party night comes in the way
warning: SMUT and fluff , the smut part can be skipped, i’ll write it in another color (purple) there’s many things going on like cunnlingus , p n v, unprotected sex (don’t do that ;) ) and so on
word count: 10k
author’s note: well, this came in my mind this morning hope you enjoy, in some part it’s even hilarious :)
MDNI 18+
There’s a way Bucky Barnes looks at you—like he’s memorizing the shape of your smile, the cadence of your voice, the secrets you carry behind your eyes. It didn’t start out this way. Your story with Bucky began in darkness, in a Hydra compound where hope was just a rumor.
You’d been Hydra’s secret project, their weapon made of silk and steel. They called you their “honeytrap,” trained to seduce, disarm, and extract secrets from powerful men. Every lesson was another layer of armor—how to turn a glance into a promise, a laugh into a lure. You learned to play the part, but inside you built walls, keeping yourself safe with every lie you told.
The cell was cold—always cold—and you’d lost track of time inside its concrete walls. You were curled on the narrow cot, wrists raw from the metal cuffs, when the alarm klaxons began to blare. Red lights flashed overhead, and you pressed yourself against the wall, uncertain if this was another Hydra test or the end of everything.
Sudden gunfire rattled down the corridor. Shouts—Hydra agents barking orders, then the low, deadly command of someone else. The door shuddered under a heavy blow, then exploded inward in a shower of sparks and metal. Smoke billowed, stinging your eyes. You coughed, heart hammering, as a figure stepped through the haze.
He moved with terrifying efficiency: dark hair pulled back, jaw set, steel arm gleaming in the emergency lights. You recognized him from whispered rumors—a ghost story Hydra agents told each other at night. The Winter Soldier. But when his eyes met yours, they were startlingly gentle.
You flinched as he knelt in front of you, scanning the bruises on your wrist.
“Easy,” he said, voice low and rough, but meant to reassure. “I’m here to help.”
You stared at him, breath trembling. “Another one of their games?” you whispered, voice hoarse. “Or are you real?”
He offered a small, crooked smile—just for you. “I’m real. Name’s Bucky. Let’s get you out of here.”
He pulled a small device from his belt and, with practiced precision, disabled your cuffs. The metal fell away, and you flexed your aching hands, staring at the grooves left in your skin.
“Can you stand?” he asked, concern flickering in his eyes. When you hesitated, he offered his flesh-and-blood hand. You took it, surprised by how warm and solid he felt.
He steadied you gently, letting you lean on him as you found your balance.
“You’re with the Avengers?” you asked, voice still uncertain.
“Yeah. Steve’s down the hall causing a distraction,” Bucky said, lips quirking. “We’re getting everyone out. Including you.”
A fresh burst of gunfire echoed from the hallway. Bucky’s body tensed, and he pressed you behind him, pulling a sidearm with his free hand.
“Stay close. Do exactly what I say.” His tone brooked no argument, but you could sense the protectiveness in every word.
You nodded.
Navigating the chaos, Bucky kept himself between you and danger, his metal arm deflecting a stray bullet, his aim swift and deadly. When Hydra reinforcements appeared, he didn’t hesitate, dispatching them with brutal efficiency—then turning back to check if you were okay.
At one point you stumbled, nerves and exhaustion making your knees buckle.
He caught you, steadying you with both hands. “You okay?”
You nodded, swallowing hard. “I haven’t walked in days.”
“We’ll go slow. I promise you’re safe.”
He led you through the labyrinth of corridors, barking into his comm, “Asset secured. Heading for extraction.”
Steve’s voice crackled back, “Copy that. North stairwell’s clear—move!”
As you neared the exit, another Hydra agent lunged at you. You froze, but Bucky reacted instantly, slamming the man into the wall with his metal arm. He looked back, making sure you were unharmed.
“Nobody’s going to hurt you again,” he said, voice fierce.
Finally, you burst out into the night air, the quinjet’s engines roaring in the distance. Bucky shielded you as you sprinted across the tarmac, his hand never leaving yours.
Once you were inside, he wrapped a blanket around your shoulders, his gaze softening.
“You’re safe now,” he said again, quieter this time, as if promising it to himself as much as to you.
For the first time in ages, you let yourself believe it.
Recovery at the Avengers Compound was a blur of medical tests, sleepless nights, and cautious introductions. The team welcomed you, but it was Bucky who made you feel seen. He was there from the start—watching over you with that quiet, steady presence, never pushing, never prying. He understood what it was to wake gasping from nightmares, to flinch at sudden sounds, to squint against the sunlight after too long in the dark.
Bucky made the transition bearable. He’d find you in the kitchen at three in the morning, both of you haunted by sleep, and wordlessly pour you a cup of tea. Sometimes you’d sit in silence, the comfort of shared solitude enough. Other nights, you’d talk in hushed voices: about Hydra, about the way the past clung to your bones, about the strange hope of starting over. He never judged—he just listened, offering his own stories when the words came easier.
In the gym, he became your sparring partner. You started with slow, careful drills, relearning how to trust your body and your instincts. Bucky was patient, always adapting his pace to yours, pushing you just enough to help you find your strength again. “You’re tougher than you think,” he’d say, a rare smile tugging at his lips when you landed a hit. Sometimes you’d find yourselves laughing, breathless, sweat-damp and smiling in a way that felt new and clean.
Your friendship deepened in the quiet, everyday moments: the way he’d bring you a blanket on movie nights, sitting beside you on the couch so your knees brushed. The way he’d wait for you after briefings, walking with you down long hallways, protective but never possessive. He learned how you took your coffee, how you hated thunderstorms, how you always hummed when you were nervous. You learned that he liked jazz, that he was hopeless at video games, that he still carried guilt heavier than his metal arm.
Bucky became the one you trusted most, the person you could go to on good days and bad. With him, you never had to pretend. He let you see his scars, and you let him see yours. And in between the jokes and late-night talks, in every brush of fingers and lingering glance, something unspoken started to bloom.
Sometimes you wondered if he felt it too—the possibility that friendship could be a beginning, not an end.
_______________________________________________
For Bucky Barnes, trust was a fragile thing. After decades of being used and discarded, he never expected to find comfort in another person, let alone someone who understood the shadows in his mind. But after your rescue from Hydra, you became that rare light in the dark—a friend who never flinched from his past or his silences. You let him in, and bit by bit, he found himself wanting to let you in too.
He would never forget the first nights at the compound: the way you’d sit together in the kitchen, sharing tea when sleep wouldn’t come. You’d talk quietly, sometimes about nothing, sometimes about everything. Bucky noticed how your voice softened when you spoke to him, how you’d nudge his arm to make him smile. He couldn’t help but memorize the way you looked in those moments—hair mussed, eyes tired but bright, your trust in him quietly evident.
It started as gratitude, then as fierce protectiveness. But soon it was something else—something that made his pulse stutter when you laughed at his jokes or when you brushed against him during sparring. He found himself lingering in doorways, just to watch you read or listen to music. Sometimes, he’d catch himself staring, heart in his throat, and force his gaze away before you noticed.
One night, after a long mission, Bucky found Steve alone in the gym, the clang of metal and the distant hum of the city their only company. He hesitated by the door, nerves prickling at his skin. “Hey, Steve, got a minute?”
Steve tossed his towel aside, instantly attentive. He studied Bucky the way only an old friend could—reading the tension in his shoulders, the uncertainty in his eyes. “Of course. You alright?”
Bucky crossed his arms, metal fingers tapping restlessly. “I… I need to talk. Not about the mission.”
Steve nodded, patient. “I’m listening.”
A long moment passed before Bucky spoke, voice low and raw. “I think I’m in love with someone.”
Steve’s expression softened, but he didn’t smile. Instead, he waited, letting Bucky find his words. “You think, or you know?”
Bucky let out a breath, almost a laugh but not quite. “I know. Been knowin’ for a while. I just… didn’t know what to do with it. Was scared, I guess.”
Steve set his water bottle aside, moving to sit on the bench beside Bucky. “Who is it?”
Bucky hesitated, eyes fixed on the floor. “Does it matter?”
Steve’s voice was gentle, steady as bedrock. “It matters if it matters to you.”
Bucky swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s Y/N.”
There was a flicker of surprise in Steve’s eyes, but it melted into something warm, almost proud. He reached out, resting a reassuring hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You’ve always cared about them. I see the way you look at Y/N. The way you talk about them, even when you try not to.”
Bucky’s defenses cracked, fear and hope mingling in his chest. “What if I mess it up, Steve? What if I say the wrong thing, or… what if they don’t feel the same?”
Steve shook his head, kind but unwavering. “Buck, you’ve survived worse than a little heartache. You owe it to yourself to be honest. Y/N deserves to know how you feel. And you deserve a shot at happiness.”
Bucky studied Steve, searching for any hint of doubt. “You really think so?”
Steve’s answer came without hesitation. “I know so. You’re not alone in this, Bucky. You never have been. Whatever happens, I’m here.”
Bucky looked away, but this time there was the faintest smile on his lips—a fragile hope taking root.
A few days later, Bucky found Sam alone in the hangar, elbow-deep in Redwing’s guts. Bucky hovered, shifting his weight like he was waiting for a bus rather than a pep talk.
Sam didn’t even look up. “Barnes, unless you’re here to confess a deep love for my drone, you gotta use your words.”
Bucky snorted. “You wish, Wilson. Nah, I, uh… got a situation. Thought you might have some advice.”
Sam finally glanced over, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Don’t tell me. Is this about the mystery heartthrob you’ve been mooning over? Steve told me you’ve been sighing at the windows like an old dog in the rain.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “I do not sigh.”
“Whatever you say, Romeo. Who’s the unlucky soul?”
Bucky hesitated, then mumbled, “It’s Y/N.”
Sam dropped his wrench, eyes wide. “You’re kidding. That took you, what, a decade to figure out? I had money on you realizing before the millennium was out.”
Bucky groaned. “You all need new hobbies.”
“Hey, at least you finally caught up with the rest of us. Next you’ll tell me you just discovered indoor plumbing.”
Bucky shot him a look, but there was a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “You done?”
“Not even close. But I’ll spare you—on one condition: you actually tell Y/N. No weird coded messages, no tragic stares across the training mat.”
Bucky scratched the back of his neck. “So I just… say it?”
Sam shrugged. “Worked for me. Well, mostly. You want a script, or you wanna keep making puppy eyes until Y/N has to propose to you?”
Bucky huffed. “You’re a menace.”
“Yeah, but I’m the menace with the best advice on the team. Tell ‘em, Barnes. Worst case, you get shot down and we all get to make fun of you for eternity. Best case? You get the happy ending. Either way, I win.”
Bucky shook his head, but the laughter in his eyes said it all. “Thanks, Wilson. Knew I could count on you for emotional support.”
Sam winked. “That’s what friends are for, Barnes. Now get outta here before I make you clean Redwing’s rotors.”
Bucky left the hangar with Sam’s laughter chasing him down the hall—and with a little more courage in his step.
_______________________________________________
Bucky didn’t think he’d ever been this nervous around anyone—not even when he was a kid, not even on missions that could end in life or death. Every time he looked at you, every time you laughed at one of his dry jokes or leaned into him on the couch, the urge to tell you how he felt grew stronger, almost painful. He saw the way you looked back at him sometimes, eyes lingering, as if you were waiting for something too.
He tried to confess one rainy Friday night. The compound was quiet, rain streaking the windows, thunder rumbling in the distance. You were both on the couch—legs tangled under a blanket, a bowl of popcorn between you, the low glow of the TV painting your faces in shifting color. Bucky could feel the warmth of your body pressed against his side, hear the soft hitch of your breath when he shifted a little closer. He took a deep breath, reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and whispered, “Y/N, I need to tell you something—”
But before he could finish, F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice sliced through the intimacy: “Avengers, debriefing in Conference Room B in five minutes.” You startled, blinking up at him, then gave a sheepish smile.
“Duty calls,” you said, giving his arm a soft squeeze before untangling yourself and heading down the hall. Bucky sat there, heart pounding, the words dying on his tongue.
A few days later, he tried again. The two of you were on the compound’s rooftop, the city glittering far below. A cool breeze ruffled your hair as you leaned against the railing, looking out over the lights. Bucky stood close, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, rehearsing what he’d say. Just tell her. Don’t be a coward. “Y/N,” he began, his voice rough with nerves, “there’s something I—”
The rooftop door banged open, making you both jump. Sam poked his head out, pizza box in hand.
“You two lovebirds gonna join us or what? Or are you planning on making me eat all this by myself?”
You laughed, cheeks pink, and shot Bucky an apologetic look before hurrying after Sam. Bucky followed, jaw clenched in frustration, the confession lost once again.
The third time, he’d been sure he wouldn’t let anything get in the way. After a brutal training session, you both collapsed on the mats, sweat cooling on your skin, breathing hard but grinning. Bucky watched you, your eyes bright with adrenaline, and felt the truth burning inside him. He sat up, reaching for your hand. “Y/N, I—”
Steve’s voice echoed from the doorway, cutting him off. “Sorry to interrupt, but Tony wants us in the lab. Something about malfunctioning tech.”
You groaned, rolling your eyes. “We can never catch a break, can we?”
Bucky forced a smile, watching you disappear down the hall, the ache in his chest growing sharper every time the moment slipped away.
Each failed attempt left Bucky more frustrated, more restless. He’d lie awake at night, turning the words over in his mind, wondering if he was cursed or just too slow to seize the chance. Sometimes, he’d catch you looking at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, a question in your gaze that made him want to run after you, take your face in his hands, and finally say everything.
Bucky’s frustration simmered for days. One evening, after a tough mission that left everyone battered and depleted, he found you in the kitchen, making late-night pancakes. The compound was quiet, the air thick with the scent of butter and sugar. You looked up, tired but smiling, hair falling in soft waves around your face.
“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, offering him a plate.
He took it, his fingers brushing yours. “Not really. Mind if I sit?”
“Always,” you said, patting the stool beside you.
He ate slowly, watching your profile in the dim light. This was it—no interruptions, no teammates barging in. Just you and him, close enough to hear each other breathe. He put his fork down, heart thumping. “Y/N, there’s something I—”
But before he could say more, the fire alarm shrieked. Smoke began to seep from the oven, and F.R.I.D.A.Y. announced, “Kitchen fire detected. Evacuate immediately.”
You cursed, scrambling to open the oven and wave away the smoke, while Bucky stomped out the small flames. By the time the alarm stopped, your pancakes were ruined, and so was the moment.
Later, as dawn was breaking, Bucky trudged down the hallway, shoulders slumped in defeat. He found Steve and Sam sitting in the lounge, mugs of coffee in hand. They glanced up as he entered, sharing a look.
Steve spoke first. “Everything okay, Buck? You look like you lost a fight with a toaster.”
Sam grinned. “Or like you haven’t slept in a week. What’s going on with you and Y/N? You two fighting?”
Bucky shook his head, rubbing his eyes. “We’re not fighting. I just… I can’t do this. I’ve tried to tell her how I feel, but every damn time something happens. It’s like the universe is against me.” His words came out sharper than he meant, exasperation clear in his voice. “I’ve never even had a chance. It’s always an alarm, a mission, someone walking in…”
Sam raised his eyebrows, then exchanged a knowing glance with Steve. “Well, lucky for you, tonight’s Tony’s party,” Sam said, a sly grin spreading across his face.
Steve nodded in agreement. “Big crowd, good music, everyone dressed up. You’ll have the perfect excuse to steal her away for a private moment.”
Sam elbowed Bucky, eyes sparkling with mischief. “But you can’t show up in your usual brooding-black getup. You gotta dress sharp, Barnes—make her look at you like you’re the only guy in the room. Hell, maybe try looking a little sexy for once.”
Bucky groaned, but Steve just chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “You can do this, Buck. Just talk to her tonight. Don’t let anything—or anyone—get in your way.”
Sam added, “And if you chicken out, I’m telling Nat to set you up with karaoke duty. Shirtless. Your choice, barnacle.”
Despite himself, Bucky cracked a reluctant smile. Their teasing eased some of the pressure in his chest. Maybe tonight, with a little luck and the right moment, he’d finally say what he’d been carrying for so long.
_______________________________________________
Bucky stood in front of his closet, heart drumming in his chest as he eyed the outfit Nat had insisted he buy for occasions like this. It wasn’t the classic navy suit he’d expected—Natasha had steered him toward something bolder, something that made him look, in her words, “like a goddamn movie star instead of a secret agent.” He reached for the hanger and drew out a sharp, charcoal three-piece suit with a subtle black-on-black floral pattern woven into the fabric. The vest hugged his torso, and the jacket’s cut was slim, accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist. A burgundy pocket square—Nat’s idea—added a daring pop of color. The shirt beneath was a deep, midnight gray, open at the throat just enough to look relaxed, not stuffy.
He set the ensemble on the bed and took a steadying breath. His palms felt clammy, which was ridiculous—he’d stared down Hydra hit squads with less anxiety. But this was different. Tonight, you’d see him not as the soldier or the weapon, but as the man who’d fallen for you, heart and soul.
He showered, letting the hot water loosen the tension in his muscles. After, he stood at the mirror, carefully combing his hair back—not too sleek, leaving a few soft waves to frame his face the way you once said you liked. He dabbed on a hint of cologne Sam had thrust into his hand with a wink—something warm and woodsy, just enough to linger if you leaned close.
He shaved, leaving just a hint of stubble along his jaw, remembering how you’d once teased him about looking “dangerously handsome” when he let it grow. Pulling on the crisp shirt, he buttoned it slowly, fingers trembling, then slid into the vest and jacket. The fabric felt luxurious and heavy, utterly unlike his tactical gear. He checked his reflection—shoulders broad, tie knotted perfectly, vest hugging his waist. He looked…almost like he belonged in this world, in this golden, glittering evening.
Natasha slipped in, heels clicking softly on the hardwood. She paused, arms crossed, eyes sweeping over him with an approving smirk. “Now that’s what I’m talking about, Barnes. You’re going to break hearts out there. Especially one in particular.”
Bucky’s cheeks went a little red, but he managed a crooked smile. “You sure it’s not too much?”
Natasha shook her head, straightening his lapels and tucking the pocket square just so. “Trust me, it’s perfect. You look like you could walk straight off a magazine cover. Y/N won’t know what hit her.”
He let out a shaky breath, flexing his metal hand before slipping on a sleek pair of black dress gloves—partly for style, partly for comfort. He grabbed his watch, a vintage piece Steve had given him, and buckled it onto his wrist. One last look in the mirror: the suit fit him like armor, but tonight he felt exposed, vulnerable, hopeful.
Sam appeared in the doorway, letting out a low whistle. “Damn, Barnes. Didn’t know you had it in you. Seriously, if Y/N doesn’t fall for you tonight, I’ll eat my own tie.”
Bucky rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a nervous grin. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Wilson.”
Sam grinned. “Just go get her, man. You look like a million bucks.”
_______________________________________________
Bucky paused at the top of the sweeping staircase, gripping the polished wooden banister, the din of Tony’s gala swelling below him. The chandeliers cast a golden glow over the crowd, scattering diamonds of light across marble floors and swirling dresses. But for Bucky, the world narrowed to a single point—the sight of you.
You stood at the marble-topped bar, golden silk clinging to your body like molten sunlight. The gown was backless, the fabric pooling at the small of your spine before skimming over your hips in a perfect, liquid drape. The low dip revealed a secret: a delicate chain pendant, glinting as it brushed the hollow just above your tailbone, and beneath it, ink curled and playful—a tramp stamp he’d never seen before. For a heartbeat, he was mesmerized by that little tattoo, wondering about the wild story behind it, the choices you’d made when you were younger and reckless, and how you’d kept that part of yourself hidden until now.
His gaze roamed upward again, drinking in the length of your bare back, the gentle shadows playing over your skin, the way the pendant traced your spine with each breath. The dress’s delicate straps rested just at your shoulders, leaving the rest of you gloriously exposed, every movement making the silk shimmer and shift. He realized, with a heated flush, that you wore nothing beneath it—no bra to interrupt the clean lines, no barrier between you and the cool caress of the fabric. When you shifted, the silk clung and slipped, hinting at curves and softness that made his pulse stutter.
Your legs were long and elegant, accentuated by open-toed gold heels that flashed with each step. The heel made you stand taller, your posture regal and impossibly graceful. Every so often, as you turned and laughed, the dress parted just enough to reveal the smooth lines of your thighs and the strength in your calves.
Your makeup was subtle, expertly done—a whisper of shimmer at your cheekbones, a touch of gold at your eyelids, lashes dark and feathery. Your lips were softly tinted, a shade that made them look impossibly kissable. It wasn’t heavy or theatrical; it was just enough to make you radiant, to draw every eye in the room, and to make Bucky’s heart twist with longing. You looked like yourself—just more luminous, more untouchable and dazzling than he’d ever seen you.
He watched as you smiled at Clint, your eyes sparkling, your laugh ringing clear as crystal. You seemed so free, so alive under the golden lights. For a moment, Bucky was struck by the contrast to the you he’d first known: wary, guarded, hiding pieces of yourself in the shadows. Now, you stood in the center of everything, unafraid and utterly yourself, your secret tattoo and bare skin on proud display.
Bucky swallowed, suddenly aware of the heat in his cheeks, the tightness in his chest. He’d seen you in every state—battle-worn, sleep-mussed, bundled in pajamas—but nothing compared to this vision. You were bold and breathtaking, and the trust it must have taken to show this part of yourself made him ache with something fierce and protective. He wanted to be the man worthy of seeing you like this. He wanted to be the man who could step into that golden circle and claim you with a touch, a word, a look.
He straightened his jacket, feeling the fine fabric slide against his shirt, grounding himself in the moment. This was it. No more waiting, no more missed chances. He took a steadying breath, eyes locked on you as he descended the stairs, his nerves fizzing, his heart pounding with hope and anticipation.
With every step, he felt the distance shrink. The crowd faded into a blur of color and sound. All he could see was you, golden and glowing, waiting—whether you knew it or not—for him.
Bucky’s world had narrowed down to a golden thread connecting the two of you. Each step down the staircase felt charged, his heartbeat thudding in his ears, the soft lighting casting fleeting shadows across his suit as he made his way through the crowd. He tried to focus on his breathing, on the smooth slide of his dress shoes over marble, but his eyes never left you.
He watched as your fingers toyed idly with the stem of your champagne flute, the gold chain pendant at your back catching the light every time you moved. You looked over your shoulder, your hair shifting like silk across your skin, and for a second your gaze met his. Your eyes widened ever so slightly—just a flicker of surprise and something warmer beneath it. The corner of your mouth curled, inviting and secret, and Bucky felt a rush of adrenaline, a jolt of courage.
He slipped through clusters of party guests, barely noticing the greetings and half-hearted toasts sent his way. He caught Tony’s approving nod from across the room, Nat’s subtle thumbs-up, and Sam’s not-so-subtle wolf whistle, but none of it touched him. His focus was a laser: you, golden and radiant, more beautiful than any dream.
As he drew closer, he let himself memorize every detail—the way your dress shimmered with every breath, the curve of your neck, the laugh lines at the corner of your eyes. He wanted to remember this moment, to burn it into memory: you, open and shining, the secret tattoo exposed for the first time, a flash of rebellion and vulnerability that made his chest ache.
He reached you at last. For a heartbeat, he simply stood there, drinking you in, feeling awkward and awestruck and utterly unworthy. You turned to face him fully, your lips parted in a soft, genuine smile, and the faintest hint of nerves flickered in your eyes.
Bucky cleared his throat, voice rougher than he meant. “You… you look incredible tonight.” His gaze drifted, unable to help himself, over the golden silk, the pendant, the tattoo he couldn’t stop glancing at. “Didn’t know you had that,” he murmured, a hint of playful awe in his tone as he nodded toward the ink at the base of your spine.
You grinned, a glimmer of mischief in your eyes. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Barnes.”
He chuckled softly, emboldened by your ease, and slid a little closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “Maybe you could show me. Tell me all your secrets.” His fingers hovered, careful and reverent, near your bare back—close enough to feel the heat of your skin, not quite daring to touch.
Bucky barely noticed the clink of glasses and the swirl of music around you as he stood at your side, heart in his throat, your perfume curling softly between you. The words hovered on his lips, the world shrinking to the soft warmth of your gaze and the pulse of hope in his chest. “Y/N, there’s something I—”
“Lady Y/N!” Thor’s voice boomed like thunder, breaking through the fragile moment. Bucky’s heart sank as the Asgardian strode over, all broad smiles and easy confidence. Thor bowed extravagantly, extending a hand toward you. “Will you honor me with this dance?”
You looked at Bucky, an apology and a question in your eyes. Is it okay? For a split second, he wanted to beg you to stay, to just give him another minute—but he managed a tight smile and nodded, jaw clenched. “Go ahead,” he said, voice rough but steady.
Thor clapped him on the back with enough force to nearly knock him off-balance. “Fear not, Barnes! I shall bring her back to you, safe and sound, after the music.” With a wink, Thor swept you away, your golden dress swirling around your ankles as you disappeared into the crush of dancers.
Bucky felt the sting of frustration as Thor swept you away, and before he could stop himself, he turned toward the bar and ordered a double whiskey. The glass was cool and heavy in his hand, the amber liquid burning a path down his throat with every slow sip. He leaned against the polished wood, eyes never leaving the dance floor.
You and Thor spun through the golden light, the Asgardian’s hand splayed wide on your bare back, your laughter bright and unguarded. Bucky’s grip tightened on his glass. Every time you twirled, the silk gold dress rippled and clung, exposing the elegant arch of your spine, the mischievous tattoo, the chain pendant that swayed and glimmered with each step. The way the dress molded to your body, the way you moved—confident, radiant, and completely free—made his mouth go dry.
A pulse of heat flared low in Bucky’s gut, a sharp, almost possessive hunger. God, you were stunning. The sight of your bare skin, the sway of your hips, the way you laughed with abandon—he felt something hungry and primal coil inside him. He wanted to touch you, to press his hand to the small of your back, to feel your warmth beneath his palm. He wanted you in a way that was no longer just emotional, but physical and raw.
He took another swallow of whiskey, letting the warmth settle his nerves, but it didn’t help. If anything, the ache grew stronger every time Thor’s hand lingered at your waist, every time you flashed that secret smile. Bucky’s mind spun with images: your golden skin beneath his hands, your breath hitching as he traced the chain down your spine, your lips parting for him alone. He muttered under his breath, eyes locked on the sight of you, “You’re trying to kill me, doll. No way you don’t know what you’re doing to me in that dress.”
Bucky set his whiskey glass down, the burn barely numbing the ache in his chest. Bucky’s pulse thundered in his ears as the song faded and the crowd on the dance floor shifted, swallowing you whole. He cut through the press of bodies, scanning for a flash of gold, a shimmer of silk, the delicate chain at your back. A swirl of perfume and champagne made the air thick; conversations buzzed, laughter and music weaving together in a bright, dizzying blur. But all Bucky could think was, Where did she go?
He slipped between couples lost in slow dances and clusters of agents trading mission stories. Someone bumped his shoulder—“Excuse me, Barnes!”—and he managed a brusque nod, not even registering who had spoken. He checked the edge of the dance floor where the light faded into shadow, but found only partygoers in deep conversation, hands tucked around crystal flutes.
He made a quick circuit of the main hall, searching for your familiar silhouette or a glint of that gold dress. For a moment, he caught sight of a woman in something similar—heart hammering, hope flaring—only to realize she was a stranger, her hair too dark, her laugh too sharp. Frustration gnawed at him.
He ducked into a side corridor, just in case you’d slipped away for air. The hallway was empty except for a couple whispering in the shadows, oblivious to his presence. He poked his head into the coatroom. Nothing. He tried the balcony, hoping you’d stepped outside for a moment’s quiet, but the night air held only the distant thrum of city traffic and the faint glow of New York’s skyline.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. He retraced his steps, eyes sweeping the far corners of the ballroom, the lounge alcoves, the tables laden with desserts and crystal. Every conversation sounded too loud, every laugh a little too sharp. He caught Pepper’s eye as she glided past, her dress shimmering silver. “Bucky! Looking for someone?”
He tried to sound casual. “Yeah. Y/N. Have you seen her?”
Pepper shook her head, sympathy in her eyes. “Not since she was dancing. Try the bar?”
He nodded, thanking her absently, and pushed through the crowd toward the marble-topped bar. The bartender polished glasses beneath the lights, but a quick scan of the stools revealed only unfamiliar faces and a pair of agents locked in a quiet debate.
A flicker of panic edged into Bucky’s chest. He doubled back, searching the lounge area—velvet armchairs crowded with partygoers, Natasha and Wanda deep in conversation over half-finished cocktails. “You seen Y/N?” he asked, voice tight.
Natasha’s eyes sparkled knowingly. “Not since you two got interrupted. You lose her already?”
He shook his head, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “She disappeared. I don’t—” He broke off, scanning the crowd again.
“Try the team table,” Wanda offered gently.
He found Steve, Clint, and Sam at a small table in the shadow of a giant floral centerpiece. Steve looked up, concern in his eyes. “Everything alright, Buck?”
Bucky exhaled, trying to quell his impatience. “I can’t find her. I checked everywhere—dance floor, balcony, bar. She’s just… gone.”
Clint, who’d been idly scanning the room, suddenly straightened. “Uh, Barnes. Over there.” He pointed discreetly with his glass.
Following his gaze, Bucky’s eyes landed on you at the far end of the lounge bar. The relief was immediate and dizzying—until he saw who was with you.
You sat perched on a high stool, golden dress gleaming beneath the low lights, your legs crossed elegantly, the chain at your back glinting with every movement. The young SHIELD agent beside you leaned in, his smile a little too bright, his body language confident and undeniably flirty. He said something that made you laugh—Bucky heard the sound even over the music, soft and genuine. The agent’s hand rested on the bar, just inches from yours, inching closer with every word.
A sharp, possessive ache shot through Bucky, mingling with relief and frustration and something hot and urgent low in his gut. He watched the agent scan your bare back, the tattoo and the chain, and that familiar spark of hunger roared back to life, sharper and more insistent than before.
Sam nudged him, voice low and teasing. “What are you waiting for, Barnes? Go get your girl.”
But Bucky barely heard him. He squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and strode toward you—every step fueled by longing, jealousy, and the certainty that he couldn’t let you slip away again, not tonight.
Bucky weaved his way through the throng, every sense sharpened, the party blurring at the edges of his vision as his focus zeroed in on you. The closer he got, the more he noticed: the way your lips curved as you listened to the SHIELD agent, the way your bare shoulders caught the golden light, the pendant swaying gently with each shift of your posture. The agent laughed at something you said, leaning in a fraction too close, his gaze slipping down your back—lingering on skin Bucky suddenly felt intensely protective of.
His pulse thudded in his ears. He could feel the heat in his cheeks, the possessive ache tightening in his chest, the lingering buzz of whiskey threading through his veins. He knew he shouldn’t be jealous, but he couldn’t help it—everything about you tonight made him want to claim you, to be the one who made you smile, who drew you close, who stood at your side for everyone to see.
The agent’s hand slid ever so slightly closer to yours on the bar, his body language bold, confident.
“So, you ever think of letting me take you out for a drink somewhere quieter, Agent Y/N?” the agent asked, his voice low and smooth.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. That’s enough.
He stepped between you and the agent, eyes flashing. “That’s enough. I need to talk to you. Now.”
The agent started to protest, but Bucky had already curled his metal hand gently but firmly around your arm. “Excuse us,” he said, not bothering to mask the possessive edge in his voice.
“Bucky—what the hell?!” you snapped, startled and indignant as he steered you away from the bar. The agent stared after you, blinking in surprise, but Bucky didn’t look back.
_______________________________________________
Bucky’s grip loosened only when you reached the quiet stretch of hallway where the team’s rooms lined the walls like sentinels: your door, his door, the familiar safety of home now humming with tension. You spun out of his grasp, fury burning in your eyes, your voice slicing the hush.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Barnes?” You barely kept your voice down, but anger made it tremble. “You can’t just storm in, drag me away like some jealous caveman, and expect me to be okay with it! You embarrassed me in front of half the party!”
Bucky’s jaw clenched, hands flexing at his sides. “I know I did. I know, okay? But you—god, Y/N, you were sitting there with that guy and he was all over you, and I—”
You cut him off, stepping closer, voice rising. “So what? I was having a drink and a conversation! You don’t get to decide who I talk to. You aren’t my keeper, Bucky—last I checked, I don’t belong to you!”
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to steady himself. “I’m not your keeper. I’ve never wanted to be. But I can’t just stand by and watch some guy put his hands all over you—look at you like you’re a prize to win for the night. You’re more than that. You’re… you’re everything.”
You shook your head, emotion tightening your throat. “Then why didn’t you ever say anything before? Why did you just let me think we were just friends, if you felt this way? You don’t get to spring this on me just because you got jealous!”
His voice softened, breaking. “You think I wanted it to go like this? I tried, Y/N. God, I tried. Every time I built up the courage, something happened—someone interrupted, we got called to a mission, you got pulled away. I’ve been carrying this around for months. Do you have any idea what it’s like to love someone and never be able to say it?”
You stared at him, anger still simmering but your eyes shining now with unshed tears. “You don’t get to make me feel guilty for talking to someone else. For moving on when you never gave me a chance to know how you felt. I’m not a mind reader, Bucky.”
He stepped closer, voice rough and urgent. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry. I just… when I saw him, when I saw his hand on you, I lost it. I couldn’t help it. The thought of someone else touching you, making you laugh, seeing that tattoo on your back, that dress—god, Y/N, you don’t know what you do to me.”
You wiped at your cheek, blinking hard. “You can’t just claim me, Bucky. You can’t drag me out here and expect me to fall into your arms because you finally decided you want me.”
He shook his head, desperate now. “It’s not about claiming you. It’s about not wanting to lose you. I never let myself hope you’d want me back. But I do want you. All of you. And I’m sorry it took me getting jealous and making a fool of myself to finally say it.”
You stared at him, breathing hard, torn between anger and longing and the painful relief of finally hearing the truth. “So what now? You finally say it. What do you want from me, Bucky?”
Bucky’s confession landed heavy in the narrow, golden-lit hallway, the words trembling in the hush: “I want you. Every day, in every way. I want all of you—the good, the bad, the stubborn, the brilliant. I want to be the reason you laugh, the person you come home to, the one who gets to love you the way you deserve. I want to be yours, Y/N.”
Your eyes searched his, wide and searching, lips parted, breath unsteady. The silence yawned between you—thick, electric, unbearable. Bucky’s heart pounded in his chest, each second your silence stretched making hope shrivel and dread bloom. He tried to read you, but you were frozen, unreadable, and suddenly every insecurity he’d ever known flooded to the surface.
His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was raw and small. “Guess I read it wrong, huh?” He let out a bitter, choked laugh, looking away, blinking hard. “Stupid,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “I’m the only one who caught feelings. Should’ve known I’d ruin it. I should just—just let you go, let you get back to… whatever the hell that agent’s name was.”
He started to turn away, shame burning in his chest, the image of you slipping through his fingers sharper than any wound he’d ever taken in battle.
But you moved with a speed and certainty that stunned him. Your hands shot out, grabbing his face—one soft hand cupping his jaw, the other tangling hard in his hair. You yanked him back, breath trembling, and for a moment your eyes blazed with everything you’d been holding back.
Then your lips crashed into his—hard, desperate, hungry. The kiss stole the air from both your lungs. You pressed him against the door, your body molded to his, pouring every ounce of longing, frustration, and love into the feverish press of your mouth. Your fingers scraped against his scalp, nails digging in as you took control, as if determined to erase every ounce of doubt he’d ever carried.
Bucky froze for a heartbeat, shock and hope colliding—then he melted into you, hands flying to your waist. One hand splayed wide at the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, the other threading into your hair, holding you in place as your mouths collided again and again—rough, searching, desperate. You tasted like champagne and adrenaline, and your whimper vibrated against his lips, making his body burn with need.
You broke away just far enough to pant, voice husky and fierce, “You’re such an idiot, Barnes. You’re the only one I want. Only you. It’s always been you.”
Relief and hunger warred in his eyes as he pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “Say it again,” he demanded, barely more than a whisper, hands trembling where they gripped your hips.
You kissed him again—slower, deeper—then murmured against his lips, “Only you, Bucky. Always.”
With a shuddering groan, he lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, the door at your back. His hands roamed the bare skin exposed by your golden dress, every inch of you sending sparks through his nerves. Your mouths crashed together, all the pent-up need and love and frustration flowing out in a kiss that left you both dizzy.
He fumbled behind you, finding your doorknob, not breaking the kiss as he pushed the door open and carried you inside
_______________________________________________
The door thudded shut behind you, the quiet of the team’s wing broken only by the frantic sound of your breathing and the rustle of silk. Bucky’s hands were everywhere—possessive and gentle, trembling with restraint and need. He pressed you against the wall just inside the door, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and pent-up longing.
You could taste whiskey and the sharp edge of his hunger. He kissed you like he was drowning, like you were the only thing that could bring him back to life. One hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, while the other—cold, inhuman, reverent—traced the bare skin at your back, following the line of the chain and the tattoo with a slow, worshipful touch.
“God, you’re… you’re unreal,” Bucky murmured, voice rough, his lips brushing along your jaw, your ear, your throat. He nipped at your pulse, soothing the sting with his tongue, and you gasped, arching into him, hands fisting in his shirt.
You tugged at his jacket, tearing it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Next came his shirt—your fingers frantic, impatient—and he shrugged it off, baring his chest, warm skin and cool metal gleaming in the low light. You ran your palms down his chest, tracing old scars and the seam where metal met flesh, marveling at the way he shivered beneath your touch.
He hooked his fingers in your dress, finding the zipper and dragging it down, slow, deliberate, his eyes locked to yours. “Let me see you,” he whispered, almost pleading. The silk pooled at your feet, leaving you bare in the golden light, save for the chain and your heels. His gaze roved over you, awe and hunger and something heartbreakingly tender in his eyes.
Bucky’s hands explored every inch of exposed skin, mapping you with a devotion that bordered on reverence. He cupped your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it peaked, then bent to take it into his mouth, drawing a gasp from your lips. His metal hand splayed over your hip, holding you steady as his mouth worshipped you—first one breast, then the other, teeth grazing, tongue swirling, lips sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
You moaned, tugging him closer, desperate to feel his weight. “Bucky,” you pleaded, “please…”
He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around him, the cold bite of metal contrasting with the heat of his skin. He carried you to the bed, laying you out like something precious, then knelt between your thighs, pressing kisses to your inner knees, your thighs, your hip bones—anywhere he could reach.
He looked up at you, blue eyes dark and wild. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “Tell me you want me, too.”
You reached for him, fingers twisting in his hair. “I want you. I need you. Please, Bucky.”
He kissed down your stomach, pausing to nuzzle your hip, then settled between your thighs. The sight of you—bare, trembling, golden—made his breath catch. He pressed a lingering kiss to your inner thigh, then looked up, voice rough but gentle. “Tonight’s about you, doll. I want to see you fall apart.”
He licked a slow line over your folds, savoring your taste, his tongue flicking and swirling until your hips bucked and your thighs trembled. His metal hand held you open, fingertips cool against your skin, while his flesh thumb traced lazy circles on your hip, grounding you. He worked you with his mouth, lips wrapped around your clit, tongue moving in slow, devastating patterns that left you gasping, moaning his name.
You writhed, clutching at his hair, urging him deeper. He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks through your nerves. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let go for me.” His voice was thick, reverent, full of awe.
Your orgasm built in waves—tight, hot, unstoppable. When you finally tumbled over the edge, your body shook, your moan echoing through the room as you clamped around his fingers, your legs quivering. Bucky watched your face, drinking in every gasp, every shudder, every breathless plea.
He crawled up your body, kissing your lips softly, letting you feel his smile as he murmured, “You’re gorgeous when you come undone for me.”
You were still trembling, your head spinning, but you reached for him, pulling him closer. “Want you inside me, Bucky. Please.”
He rose over you, shoving his pants and boxers down, his cock flushed and hard, already leaking for you. He lined himself up, pausing to kiss you, slow and deep. “If it’s too much—if you want to stop—”
You cut him off, wrapping your legs around his waist, arching into him. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He pressed inside, inch by inch, stretching you until you gasped, your nails leaving crescents in his shoulders. He rocked into you, slow at first, letting you adjust, savoring every moment. The sensation of him—thick, heavy, filling you completely—made your breath stutter, your body tighten around him.
“God, you feel perfect,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked to yours. “So fucking perfect for me.”
The rhythm built, your bodies moving together in a frantic, hungry dance. He kissed you everywhere—your mouth, your cheeks, your throat, your collarbone—murmuring your name like a prayer. His metal hand gripped your thigh, spreading you wider, pulling you impossibly close as he thrust deeper, harder, losing himself in you.
You met him thrust for thrust, your hips rolling, your heels digging into his back. You felt another orgasm building, the intensity overwhelming. Bucky’s words were a ragged whisper, “Come again for me, doll. Let me feel it.”
You shattered, your body clenching around him, your cry out his name, your pussy clenching around him in wild pulses.
Bucky’s control snapped; he gasped your name, driving into you with frantic desperation, his release crashing over him as he spilled inside you, burying his face in your neck. You held him through it, trembling, tears streaming down your cheeks—relief, joy, the overwhelming rightness of it all.
He collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, peppering your face with kisses, his hands gentle as he stroked your hair and back. “You’re mine,” he whispered, voice soft and reverent, as the afterglow settled over both of you.
The world seemed to go still in the soft aftermath. Your heart still raced, but now it was the slow, sweet rhythm of safety and belonging. Bucky held you close, his body still trembling from the force of what you’d shared. His metal arm draped protectively across your waist, the other hand stroking your hair back from your damp forehead. Each breath he exhaled was a gentle kiss against your temple.
He pressed a lingering kiss to your hairline, then to your cheek, before tipping your chin up to study you. His eyes were soft, vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. “You okay?” he murmured, voice low and rough.
You nodded, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling him melt into your touch. “I’ve never been better, Buck.”
He let out a shaky laugh, relief written in every line of his face. For a moment, he just stared at you, thumb stroking your cheekbone. Then he swallowed, gathering his courage. “Can I—can I say something stupid?”
You grinned, your fingers running through his hair. “You can say anything, Bucky.”
He took a deep breath, voice trembling with honesty. “I love you, Y/N. I think I have since that first night, after Hydra, when you looked at me like I was worth saving.” He gave a little, nervous laugh. “I want all of this, but I want more than just… this. I want to take you out. On a real date. I want to hold your hand in public, watch you laugh across a table, take you dancing where Thor can’t cut in.” He searched your face, eyes hopeful and scared all at once. “Will you let me?”
Your heart ached at the rawness in his voice. You cupped his cheeks in your hands, smiling through the sting of happy tears. “I love you too, Bucky. Yes. Take me anywhere you want—just as long as you promise to keep looking at me like this.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in, the tension finally gone from his shoulders. “I could look at you like this forever, doll.”
A shadow flickered across his face and he pulled back, sheepish and awkward. He cleared his throat, suddenly fidgeting with the sheet. “Um… I probably should’ve thought about this before, but I… didn’t use anything. I just—” He hesitated, worry creeping into his voice. “I didn’t mean to be reckless. I just couldn’t think, you made me lose my mind…”
You silenced him with a slow, deep kiss, pouring reassurance into the press of your mouth. Your hand cradled the back of his head, your body molding to his as you kissed him over and over, until his anxiety faded and he was lost in you again.
When you finally pulled away, you smiled, tracing your thumb over his lips. “I don’t care about anything else right now except you. We’ll figure everything out together. Okay?”
He nodded, a crooked grin breaking through, wonder and affection shining in his eyes. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice husky.
He brushed a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. “Should we… get dressed? Go back to the party? Or—”
You shook your head, laughter bubbling in your chest. Instead, you slid astride his lap, your bare thighs straddling him, hands braced on his broad shoulders. Your skin pressed to his, heat flaring between you once more. You leaned in, lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “Does this answer your question?”
You kissed him—slow and deep, hips rolling against his as you pressed your body closer, letting him feel just how much you wanted to stay right here, with him, for as long as he’d let you.
He groaned, hands finding your waist, holding you there as if you might vanish. “Yeah,” he managed, voice breaking into laughter, happiness and disbelief mingling in every sound. “That’s an answer I could get used to.”
_______________________________________________
You shuffled into the kitchen in Bucky’s shirt, legs bare, your hair a happy mess. Bucky was already there, looking sleep-ruffled and smug as he poured coffee. You made a beeline for him, sinking into his lap and stealing his mug right from his hands.
He wrapped his arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. “You planning to steal all my clothes and now my coffee, too?”
You grinned, taking a long sip. “You love it and you know it.”
Sam was the first to notice, brows climbing as he elbowed Steve. “Well, well, looks like someone’s living the dream this morning.”
Steve set down his paper and gave you both a pointed look. “Couldn’t find your own shirt, Y/N?”
Natasha smirked over her mug. “Or did Bucky’s room just seem cozier than yours?”
You rolled your eyes, wiggling back in Bucky’s lap. “His bed’s bigger. And he’s a great pillow.”
Bucky squeezed your waist, biting back a smile. “Guess you’re not complaining.”
Clint snorted. “Not complaining? You two were so loud last night, I thought Thor was back from Asgard and moving furniture.”
Wanda chimed in, mock-innocent. “I did wonder if we were under attack. But then I realized, nope, just Bucky and Y/N celebrating… very enthusiastically.”
Sam grinned wickedly. “I’m just glad I had headphones. Next time, give a guy a warning, huh?”
Tony strolled in, hair wild, sunglasses on, looking extra dramatic. “I don’t know what’s worse—my playlist getting blown out or hearing what I heard through the vents. If you two broke anything in your room, it’s coming out of Barnes’s paycheck.”
Bucky groaned, hiding his face in your neck. “Remind me to ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. for soundproofing next time.”
You nodded solemnly and addressed the ceiling, “F.R.I.D.A.Y., can we get the deluxe ‘can’t-hear-a-thing’ package, please?”
F.R.I.D.A.Y. replied, “Of course, Miss Y/N. I have already prepared a queue for soundproofing requests, considering last night’s… decibel levels.”
Clint grinned. “That’s efficiency. Maybe we should all chip in for a ‘do not disturb’ light.”
Sam piped up, “Yeah, or just get a playlist of ocean waves to drown out the moaning.”
You and Bucky burst out laughing, cheeks pink but not a hint of shame between you. He squeezed you tighter, whispering, “Maybe we should just never leave the room.”
You shot him a sly smile. “Not if you keep making breakfast this good.” You took another sip of his coffee, earning a mock-offended gasp.
Natasha winked. “Well, congrats, lovebirds. Try to keep it down tonight—or at least invite us to the wedding if this keeps up.”
You grinned, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s jaw, and he just looked at you like you’d hung the moon.
Sam raised his mug, smirking. “To Bucky and Y/N: the reason F.R.I.D.A.Y. is traumatized and the rest of us are sleep-deprived.”
Everyone toasted, laughter echoing around the table, and you settled further into Bucky’s lap, happier than you’d ever been.
You and Bucky exchanged a laughing look—no shame, only warmth and joy. Then, in the middle of all the teasing, Bucky slides his hand up to your cheek and pulls you into a long, deep kiss—one of those slow, melting ones that makes the whole room fade away.
The table erupts in groans, whistles, and mock outrage.
Clint covers his eyes. “Breakfast, guys! I’m trying to eat!”
Natasha laughs, “At least get a room. Or you know, stay in the one you broke last night.”
Steve sighs, but he’s smiling. “You two are unbelievable.”
You finally break apart, both breathless and grinning.
Sam shakes his head, standing and stretching with a dramatic yawn. “You know what? If you two end up having a kid, I’m telling that child I was right here during their conception. Front row seats, traumatized for life!”
Royal Decree: Prince Nick Fowler x Princess Reader
Summary: You're the eldest daughter of the kingdom and not yet married, given up as a spinster. But you catch the interest of Prince Nick, soon to be King of his realm, and he is smitten.
Royal Family: Prince Hal Carter x Royal Spy Reader
Summary: Your cousin's death leads to you marrying her brother-in-law for the good of your kingdoms and so you can find answers.
New Beginning;
Slow Down (Snippet); Watching (Snippet); Jefferson (Snippet);
Royal Mess: Butler Jonathan Pine x Maid Reader
Jonathan takes great pride in his work. There is no palace better maintained than the one he runs. The only hiccup is a klutzy maid, you.
Almost Perfect; Rude Awakenings; Something Missing;
Royal Pain: Duke Ransom Drysdale x Gentlewoman Reader
After a verbal spat between you and Duke Drysdale, you're both surprised to find yourselves engaged to each other.
First Date; Announcements; Mistaken; Confessions; Choices; Honeymoon;
Noble Enough (Snippet); Pouting (Snippet)
Royal Portrait: Duke Andy Barber x Marquise Reader
Andy has worked hard to clean up his family's name and reputation from the damage inflicted by his father. He's currently at the stage where he needs a wife if he's to maintain his image of perfection.
Royal Treatment: Prince Ari Levinson x Commoner Reader
Ari is grateful to no longer be heir to the throne as it means he's free to go wherever he pleases in the guise of diplomacy. He never wants to be tied down to anyone or anything. But after a weekend with you, he finds himself missing you.
Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.
▸ PAIRING: Farmhand!Bucky Barnes x Pop Star!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, public sex, no condom (don't try this at home), fingering, penetration, creampie, bucky is bossy in bed, brat diva!reader, sex tape leak mentions, hurt/comfort?, bucky calls her princess in a loving and lowk nasty way
▸ WORD COUNT: 23.8K
▸ A/N: i wanted to write a hannah montana: the movie au so i wrote a hannah montana: the movie au. partially inspired by the movie but with my own liberties!! im almost sorry for the length, idk why i cant shut up. thank you again to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab, excited to share my second contribution!!! check out my first one here <3
↤ main masterlist | bwat summer masterlist
Just when you think your father can’t find any new ways to torment you, he stoops to an all-time low. He’s done plenty of insane things throughout your life and your career, risks that you still question to this day whether they were worth taking, but this one takes the fucking cake.
“Turn this plane around right now,” you snap, arms crossed with a scowl stitched into your brows. Your pink heels tap impatiently before him, a new purchase as a reward for finishing one song for the new album.
He doesn’t even look up at you, simply turning another page of his copy of an entertainment magazine. He’s treating you like an insolent brat throwing a tantrum and, suddenly, you’re fifteen again, begging your dad to pack your entire life to move to the city of angels for the sake of your dream. It took months of convincing before he relented — and look where you are today.
However, he knows what he’s doing, thumbing another page and leaning back into the private plane’s cushy leather seat, raising the magazine a fraction higher to match your line of sight. The front page is one you cannot miss, considering it features you and your latest… incident.
Your lips twist. It’s not fair; this one wasn’t even your fault.
The last few headlines before that are a different story: a high-definition photograph of your underwear when you accidentally flashed some sleazy pap who snuck into a very private party while you were blackout drunk, a tell-all from a PA who had gotten a pissed-off tirade after he fucked up your coffee order — after he spilled the first one all over, not one, but two of your photoshoot outfits, and your ongoing feud with international supermodel Natasha Romanoff who had won a part in a Spielberg blockbuster despite zero acting experience and only because she’s good pals with the main sponsor, Tony Stark.
You’re not entirely, solely to blame for these clickbait stories. Your life and actions have been under a microscope twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You’d be lucky if you could take a piss without someone hiding inside your toilet. Paparazzi are constantly camped outside of your apartment building, so much so that management has had to bump maintenance fees for more extensive security measures. Some days, you think you should just move to the peace and quiet of a Hollywood gated community.
But that’s never been you — there’s a reason why you moved away from your hometown, why you wanted to chase bigger and brighter dreams. What’s the point if you end up isolating yourself again from the rest of the world?
Unfortunately, this life under scrutiny — combined with the fact that the deadline for your next album is coming up quick — is not one for the weak of heart. You think you’ve trained yourself enough to survive the criticism of strangers, but your patience and limited kindness have worn particularly thin as of late. Your record label, your stylist, and your manager are all hounding you for updates, wondering if they could start preparing for your single. Your little (big) flare-ups are no excuse, but you were hoping that your dad, of all people, as your parent and your manager, would understand.
Now he’s committed the biggest betrayal of all.
You should be on your way to New York. A monthlong schedule filled with fall Fashion Week preparations, meetings with casting directors for movies with guaranteed Oscar nominations, and lots and lots of aperol spritzes to distract you from your thoughts. Anything but write another mindless album of pop hits that the general masses enjoy.
Instead of fun-in-the-sun in the big apple, you hear the pilot announce after you’re in the air that you’re on the way to bumfuck Tennessee.
The stewardess looks anxiously between the two of you, lips quivering and hands flying like she can do anything to ease your rising temper.
“I paid for this private charter,” you growl, “I can turn it back around if I want to.”
“Booking’s under my name, darling.”
“Paid for with money that I earned. I have people I have to meet, things I have to do. You can’t just drag me away for a trip down memory lane. These are insane opportunities that won’t come twice. What kind of manager are you?”
“The kind that is your dad first,” he gives you a pointed look.
“Is this because of what happened? You know that one isn’t my fault!”
He doesn’t say anything.
“You know it isn’t.”
“Regardless of what happened, this break should do you some good. A little bit of grass, a lot more fresh air—”
You deadpan, “It smells like literal horse shit everyday.”
“Let’s not get into the technicality of things. The point is you could use a break.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m your manager, so I get to decide it for your career. You keep going down this path and who knows where you end up? Trust me, honey, rock bottom is a long, hard fall.”
“You would know,” you mutter under your breath.
The moment those words leave your lips, remorse floods your system. Your eyes flick up to meet his. It’s not hurt, it’s not disappointment. It’s sympathy. You’ve just insulted your own father and he’s pitying you.
Perhaps rock bottom isn’t a long way down after all.
“I’m sorry,” you quickly sigh, “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know you didn’t.” He gets to his feet, pulls you close to press a reassuring kiss on your forehead. “But this is how I know you need this. Trust me on this one, the weeks will fly by.”
You jerk back. “Weeks?!”
Your childhood bedroom feels like a breeding ground for anxiety.
With your bags with New York-esque clothes tucked away into a corner, you stand there with the door closed as your eyes travel around the space. Posters of pop icons that you’ve now befriended and adopted as mentors, aging floral wallpaper that’s peeling in some corners from the years of humidity, a vanity that looks like it belongs in an antique shop from the seventeenth century.
Music filters muffled through the gap underneath your door, a sound that you haven’t heard in quite some time but still echoes like a distant memory. It’s one of your grandma’s favorites, and she’s no doubt leading the charge with the rest of the family and friends who live nearby. They tried to keep your welcome party small, trusted confidantes who wouldn’t breathe a word to the press.
The only thing that’s drowning out the noise downstairs is your publicist and best friend, Yelena, who has somehow worked through every expletive in the Russian dictionary until she came up with more creative and colorful ones of her own.
“You better tell your dad to drive your ass back to New York right now. I don’t care if you have to use a beat-up pick-up truck from the barn next door but we have people waiting for you. We need to get some damage control done before it all goes to shit.”
You sigh. Yelena gives a little uh-oh. “That’s not going to happen. You know my dad; when he’s got his mind made up like this, nothing’s going to change it. He thinks I need a break.”
She says something else in her mother tongue, one that you’ve learned over time translates to something along the lines of I’ll break something else of theirs. “Do you need me to book you a new flight right now? We can literally land in the cornfields in like two hours and bring you to New York. I promise you I’ll make it happen.”
Do you want to be disowned and be shown your father’s look of utter disappointment that will stick in your people-pleasing brain for the rest of your life? No.
Sighing, you glance out the window again. Endless stretches of open fields, green on green on green. You haven’t seen this much green since you face planted during rehearsal for a summer show in Central Park.
“No, I’ll be fine. If I behave and play along, then maybe he’ll let me come back earlier. Two weeks is a long—”
“Two weeks?! Do you know how long it took me to get on Nolan’s calendar? That man is booked and busy, more so than the mayor of New York.”
Wincing, you bite down on another upset noise. “I know. I’m trying to get out of here earlier, but we’ll see how it goes.”
“I can come visit you, you know. Try and talk to him.”
It’s tempting. Yelena has a way of convincing people to do her bidding, even if it means doing a bit of arm-twisting. Literally. You’ll spare your dad from that today. She’s loyal to a fault and the last thing you want is a broken arm on his body.
“No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Silence settles on the other end. A brief pause before you can practically hear Yelena’s voice melt, the rough curl of her tongue unfurling into concern. “Will you?”
You can’t say for certain. You haven’t been back here since you packed up your entire life and moved. This place feels familiar, but it’s no longer your home. Nothing here feels like you anymore; it’s like being in the mind of a stranger. A stranger who knows exactly what bone to pick with you.
You hate to admit it but being back here feels as if you’re back in square one. The place where it all started. You can still hear the ghost of your songs, scribbled messy into a songbook that you haven’t touched in years, because that isn’t what the world wants. Your fingertips tingle with the memory of learning how to play the guitar for the first time, testing out your dad’s old songs on his very first guitar that he gifted you for your tenth birthday.
Then you started making some of your own, the kind of music you’ve always loved and ones that touched the heart. Call it bias but your family always thought you had the talent to make it out there. It’s the whole reason you had the confidence to make the move.
But the world has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. You learned how to toughen your shell, block out all the negative so that you can keep pushing through. Because when you’re at the bottom, the only way to go is up.
Now that you’re at the top, you don’t want to find out if you’ve reached the ceiling.
This is a part of your life you don’t like to dwell on, anxiety attached to the fear of failure painted onto the decor every time you look at these four walls.
“I will be,” you murmur.
“Maybe your dad is right. This is a good chance for you to get away from all the drama. The cameras. Unplug for a little bit.”
“Alert the media, I think Yelena Belova might have lost her darn marbles.”
“Darn marbles? The countryside has changed you, little one.”
A giggle slips past your lips. “Alright, diva.”
“Let me get your schedule sorted and I’ll check back in with you. In the meantime, try to have fun?”
Fun and this bumfuck town are complete opposites. You know from firsthand experience.
“You’re cute when you’re being funny,” you drawl.
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
Then you’re left in the silence once more.
There are very few things in life that can faze you nowadays. Being raised in a tough, soul-sucking industry will do that to you. Your days have been one thing after another, a schedule packed to the brim that insomnia has become a welcome friend.
You’ve gotten used to drowning and choking on the sea that you can’t taste the difference between clean air and saltwater anymore. You adapt. You learned what it means to come up for air when you need to and swallow that intense, briny ocean when your head is being dunked into it.
Still, things have always happened within your control.
This situation right here is out of your control.
It’s fazing you.
You’re not talking about your dad being progressive and caring more about his baby girl’s mental health, placing it above her career that’s paid off the mortgage on this Tennessee home plus a few others scattered throughout the world.
No, you’re talking about these damn chickens.
You really should’ve just kept your mouth shut and stayed in your room for the next two weeks. If you could convince your dad that you’re sane enough to survive that, he’ll surely let you go free. But you got impatient, you figured that if you could make friends with nature once more, he would release you into the wilderness again.
Here you are now having a staredown with five chickens who have been eyeing you like feed. They know an easy target when they see one and a pop star who hasn’t touched a pail in decades, nor has seen a real-life chicken outside of television segments recently, is definitely one.
They’ve squawked. They’ve pecked. They’ve chased you around this coop, turning you into a headless chicken.
There’s about to be more than one headless chicken if these little shits don’t let you get their eggs.
You now learn that there are only three things that can stand up to you — your dad, Yelena, and these damn chickens. They let out another battle cry before rampaging towards you again, yanking a yelp from your lips as the bucket clangs in your hands.
Fifteen minutes later and you’re flat on your ass for the second time that morning, straw entwined into your hair and probably chicken shit stuck to your sequined denim shorts. Still no eggs. It isn’t the most ideal farming outfit, but you packed for a city, not for a tiny town.
It’s only when you’re this close to giving up that you hear the deep rumble from the door.
“Need some help?”
A snarky “you think?” sits on the tip of your tongue as you whirl around from your spot in the ground. That response dies fast when your eyes land on the six-foot man before you.
Your mouth dries when you first notice the cowboy hat. God, you’ve always been a sucker for a good cowboy. It’s the country girl in you that never left. Regardless of how many polished and shiny men you’ve met in Hollywood, nothing beats a rugged cowboy with dirty hands and broad shoulders and–
He tips his hat back slightly to get a better look at you. Blue eyes. Bluer than the late morning sun outside. Bluer than the sapphires you have in your safebox back in your penthouse. His pink lips are curled into an amused smile as he appraises the state of you on the floor.
Fuck, he’s hot.
He looks like your biggest mistake waiting to happen. He looks like he belongs on the front page of Vogue rather than on a farm. He’s got a coil of rope hanging from his shoulders and the filthy image that invades your mind should put you in the asylum.
High risk, high reward, your brain and the heat between your legs whisper traitorously.
But then you remember the “incident” and you remember how many times you’ve had people approach you for their fifteen seconds of fame, and an irritated glare descends on your face. He doesn’t look affected by the quick change of emotions; in fact, he looks even more delighted that he’s put that look on your face.
“If you could murder some chickens for me, that would be great.”
“We try not to eat our friends here, we usually get ours from old man Jenkins down the road.”
God, even his stupid voice is hot. This is not going to go well for your undomesticated libido. Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson with sex and men.
“Alright, then a few eggs should do the trick. Enough for breakfast for three.”
“Four.”
You cock an eyebrow.
“I’m joinin’ for breakfast so it’ll be breakfast for four. Why don’t you go on back up to the house? I can handle things here.”
I’d like you to try and handle me. Preferably naked in five different positions in bed.
What you need is a vibrator, the mental image of this man, and ten minutes alone in your room. That should do the trick.
(You’re lying to yourself because you know that wouldn’t be enough but it may be sufficient to sate some of your curiosity and this hungry little thing between your legs.)
“And who are you again?”
The corners of his lips tip up higher. “Don’t remember me?”
“I’ve met a lot of people. I don’t remember everyone.”
“I’d think you would remember the boy you tortured more than the chickens are doing to you now.”
Your brows pinch in a confused frown. “Who?”
“You pick on all boys, princess? Or am I special?”
Fuck. Warmth creeps up your cheeks at the insulting pet name, and his stupid flirty tone, and you find yourself glaring at him again. “Only the ones that clearly deserve it.”
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I’m not the only one then.”
If there’s anything worse than a man, it’s a man who knows exactly what to say to have you twirling your hair in your fingers like a schoolgirl.
“Well, he-who-must-not-be-named, I don’t really want to hear an I-told-you-so from my dad so how about you get me a few eggs and we can go our separate ways?”
The man smiles. It’s not a smile you trust. “Anyone ever teach you to say please and thank you or did the city take all your southern manners?”
“Please,” you grit out, caving far too quickly — but you prefer not to have your dad come out to check on you and realize you really have lost your roots.
His eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that makes your stomach flip. He looks like he’s about to say something else, lips parting in preparation but then he shakes his head with a low chuckle before he easily navigates towards the nesting boxes. The chickens flock around him eagerly, none of them attacking him the same way they’ve been coming at you.
With ease, he nabs a few fresh eggs. He places them into a basket, one that he then hands over to you.
“Thanks,” you mutter.
Your fingers brush over his as you take the basket from his hand, a spark crackling between your fingertips that zings straight through your core. It’s unexpected and you jump back slightly at the feeling. His eyes flick up to meet yours — there’s something unnerving about them. Too blue, too earnest. Too knowing. Like he knows something you don’t.
You ignore that feeling, kicking it to the curb before it can take root inside your vulnerable mind.
He makes a gesture towards the door. “Shall we?”
The man doesn’t try to make any more conversation as the two of you venture back towards your house — no, your grandma’s house. In fact, he seems deep in thought; mouth pressed into a firm line and brows slightly furrowed. He’s even taken off his hat, holding it to his chest as his fingers rake through his thick brunette hair.
Seriously, frustratingly hot.
You force your eyes away from him for the remainder of the walk. When you come through the kitchen doors, your dad and grandma are right where you left them. They look mildly surprised to see you, probably in one piece. “Farm-fresh eggs ready for breakfast! How would you like ‘em? Scrambled? Sunny side up?”
The two look at each other then at the man hovering close behind you.
“Oh, I see you’ve met Bucky!”
Only Buc-ee you know is down Route 40. Who the hell is Bucky?
“Ma’am. Sir. Morning.”
“What a lovely day of reunions,” she chirps.
Reunions? You don’t get a chance to ask when your father holds up the perfectly-intact eggs. “You didn’t have any trouble with the chickens, darlin’? They can be nasty. Been a while since you’ve done it.”
You can hear Bucky’s cocky grin. You ignore it and opt for a bright smile at your family. “Of course not. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
As they turn away to begin cooking, you feel a tickle in your ear.
“They teach you to lie in those acting classes, princess?” Bucky’s voice is close — too close. He’s ducked his head behind you, lips grazing the shell of your ear with his whisper.
You swiftly leap away from him with a glare. “Yeah, same place they teach me to stay the fuck away from condescending, attractive men.”
His lips twitch. “Attractive, huh?”
“Don’t act surprised. You know what you are. I know what you are and I know what not to trust.”
“You don’t know me, princess.”
Your expression goes ice cold, a hiss slipping between your teeth. “I’m not a princess.”
“Five-time Grammy winner, America’s pop princess,” he recites and you nearly get whiplash.
That was your introduction for a recent awards show you attended as a presenter. The fact that he knows it— you didn’t trust him before, you trust him even less now.
“Stalker much?”
“Your grandma was watching it, I was helping her fix the kitchen faucet.”
You didn’t even know your grandma kept up with your activities, last you heard she was struggling to even work the new television upgrade you got her. It was a gift of part love and part apology for not making it home for Christmas. She always sends quick texts whenever you release a new song or win an award. The last few months have been turbulent. You haven’t had the time to respond to her texts, let alone check in over a phone call, when you’re prioritizing work opportunity emails.
Even when you do get the chance, video calls mask most of the fine lines on her face. Only now do you see how much she’s aged.
A piece of your heart breaks with guilt. You’ve been so focused on your own life and your own work that you haven’t had the chance to pause and look back at everyone else who’s supported you. Your grandma has been your biggest cheerleader from day one, arguing against your dad to support your dreams.
After all, she’s constantly calling you her favorite granddaughter (her only one, mind you).
Bucky must sense your mood because he then tries to remedy the situation, “She’s doing fine. She misses you a lot, takes every chance she gets to talk about everything you’re doing. God forbid anyone try to badmouth you in this town; with her influence, that person is shunned within seconds.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat at the thought. She’s always been a firecracker, it’s where you inherited your temper and energy from.
“It’s been a busy few months,” is all your manage to say. Your throat tightens and you blink away the tears. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of this man who looks like he feeds on girls’ tears.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Your lips pinch as you turn to him with an annoyed look. “You didn’t have to.”
“This is gonna be a fun two weeks, princess.” He throws you one last smile over his shoulder before he joins your family.
The next few days don’t get any better. Your grandma’s been so busy with an issue in town that you’re been mostly left to your own devices.
By that, you mean you’ve been left at the beck and call of one Bucky Barnes.
Bucky Barnes who you learn is the farmhand who’s been tasked to keep all of the animals alive, including your horse that you haven’t seen in some time. She’s one of the only good things left in this place, one of the things you regret leaving behind. Winter is a little antsy when you first approach her.
“She doesn’t do well with strangers.”
Your lovely homecoming is quashed when you hear that familiar voice interject. “I know that. She’s mine.”
“I know,” Bucky echoes with a small smile. “Wanna ride her?”
For a second, you’re embarrassed that you feel a spark of fear. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a horse, trading for a different kind of horsepower that’s much safer and faster. You would hate for Bucky — your new arch nemesis — to see you fail.
“Maybe later.”
He looks at you like he knows, that ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.
You learned that the two of you were raised together, despite having no recollection of it. Apparently you had gone through all of grade school together but you’ve met enough people that you can’t seem to remember the children you spent time with — no matter how many times they try to slide into your DM’s with “Oh my god, we went to school together! Can I get some tickets?”
Somehow, you doubt Bucky is the type to slide into anyone’s messages. He probably doesn’t even have social media; the man acts like a dinosaur sometimes when you mention your popularity on certain apps as reason why you shouldn’t be getting your hands dirty and he simply blinks and congratulates you. Then he hands you a shovel to help him with the horses.
That history seems to matter as much to you as it does to him. He still calls you princess with that patronizing tone; sometimes you think there’s a soft tinge to his voice but that thought evaporates the moment he rolls his eyes when you can’t seem to do anything to help around the house.
He also seems to have a problem with the way you dress.
“Really? You’re going to town in that?”
You look down at your silk lace top complemented by the cutest denim skirt tailored to your shape, a pair of low black heels on your feet. “What’s wrong with this?”
Bucky’s gaze traces the length of you. When blue sweeps over you, warmth sinks into your bones again. He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat — and you apparently seem to like it.
“I packed for New York, this is as casual as it gets.”
He stares are you for a brief second again before he shrugs off his flannel, draping it over your shoulders. You’re too stunned to move. He takes this moment to wrangle your arms through the sleeves.
“I’m not wearing this,” you deadpan, raising your arms to find that the sleeves droop lower than your fingertips.
“It looks nice.”
It certainly does, but it smells like him and that scent — masculine, earthy, and a touch of cocky — seems to rouse that inappropriate beast inside of you from its slumber. The one that growls possessively whenever someone comes too close to Bucky or one that salivates over the sight of his exposed arms whenever he’s lifting bales of hay.
Instead of acknowledging his compliment, you roll your eyes. “Whatever.”
“I think this would help with your whole effort of going incognito in town.”
“I have some glasses and a hat to go undercover. It usually works. I’m this generation’s Clark Kent. But, hey, if I get recognized, I want to make sure I look good.”
Bucky blinks at you. “You always look good.”
And you’re not sure what to say to that.
But when you do get spotted by two teenage girls later that day and they fawn over how good you look, you can’t help but shoot him a smug smile.
The two of you disagree on most things; you can probably count on one hand how many things you do agree on, including the fact that you disagree on a lot of things. That and how your grandma is the most awesome person in this city, but that’s not news.
She worries about the two of you being at each other’s throats, biting remarks flung across the room until she has to tell the two of you to shut up and sit down for dinner — which is a whole other question because why is he always here?
While Bucky pokes fun at you all the time for your incompetence, you also take your shots at him. Harmless ones.
One time you found him asleep on the couch downstairs after you finish doing your nails, so you decided to do his. He ends up with neon pink on his toes and blood red on his fingers. You snicker to yourself thinking you’ve just done something to get on his nerves.
Except, it doesn’t. Instead, he walks around proudly. Nails gleaming in the sun whenever he’s doing work and he doesn’t break a sweat. He even gets compliments on them.
It sours your mood — partly because your ruse didn’t work, but mainly because that confidence is stupidly hot. You don’t need another reason to find him attractive when you’ve already got a list longer than the Nile.
When your grandma tells you to be nicer to him, you’re extra prickly because— “Why do I have to be nicer to him when he’s the one being annoying with me? Aren’t I supposed to be resting? Manual labor is not part of that agenda.”
“You did all this when you were younger, sweetheart. It’s like riding a bike.”
“Riding a bike didn’t have me breaking my fresh manicure,” you say pointedly. “And I didn’t have anyone bossing me around. Being told what to do by someone my age versus by my dad are two completely different things.”
Your grandma only laughs, stroking your cheek like she finds this little tantrum endearing. You lean into her touch, her fingers softened by the years. “He’s just a kid pulling on his crush’s pigtails.”
His crush. You would find it cute (you do find it cute) if you weren’t so miffed after you chipped your index finger trying to lift a bag of feed for the horses. When you told Bucky, he only quirked his eyebrow at you before returning to his own duties.
So no, he doesn’t have a crush on you. In fact, you’re convinced that he hates you. In his mind, you’re probably this diva who lost her roots and whines about every single thing in her life — which isn’t incorrect per se, but he has no right to dislike you for that. He doesn’t even know you. He doesn’t know the shit you’ve been through to make it in the industry, how many times you’ve had to grit out a smile at shitty producers, even shittier paparazzi, and everyone in between.
If he really does have a crush on you, he sure as hell has a crap way of showing it.
“Well, we’re not kids anymore,” you huff, “and I don’t like bullies.”
Your grandma gives you a look as she leafs through her farm ledger. The numbers look alright from where you’re sitting, nothing in the red, which is a good sign. Part of the reason why you’re so adamant about being and staying successful is for her; you never want her to want for anything.
“You do know you were the one who had him crying growing up. Poor boy put up a lot with you forcing bugs onto him and teasing him for falling off a horse lord knows how many times.”
Oh. Your cheeks warm at the thought. Maybe you do have some vague memory of a gangly kid who wouldn’t stop weeping no matter how many times you tried to coo him to quiet down, lest you risk the wrath of your father. Again.
“Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a crybaby then,” you shrug instead with a huff.
Your grandma’s grin stretches a little wider. “I think you even made him play house once. We thought it was adorable. You had him stay at home with the baby while you went off to work. Singing your silly heart out to the rest of us before coming back to him.”
Oh god. You’ll never live this down. So maybe Bucky does have some right to abusing his power for the sake of tormenting you. From what your grandma’s shared, it sounds like you’ve put him through the wringer.
Then again, Bucky has grown — and he’s grown a lot. His shoulders have filled out, hair darker than his horse’s mane, thighs thicker than a tree trunk—
You put the brakes on those thoughts. You really need to get yourself a fix. Or get yourself fixed at this rate.
What you need is one really good dick. A good fuck to wipe all of these thoughts from your mind. The only problem with being so famous is the need to keep your private life private. You don’t need any more scandals on the front page and you certainly don’t know Bucky well enough to trust him — no matter how good his dick looks in the imprint of his jeans.
“He’s a good one, you know,” your grandma smiles softly. “Been with the family for years. Always around to help whenever needed.”
You hate to point out the obvious but— “That’s his job, grandma.”
“He’s also one of your biggest supporters,” she says with a look. “Has all of your albums in his house. Sits right here next to me in front of the TV whenever you’re on it.”
Your jaw practically drops to the ground. “That’s ridiculous,” you sputter, “there’s no way.”
“Yes, you should ask to see his place sometime. He’s quite proud of the collection, even said that he’s going to ask you to sign them one day.”
You have a feeling he’s burned down his collection after meeting you again and realizing what a raging bitch you are. Plus, the thought of asking to come over to Bucky’s place feels a touch too desperate for your personality, even if there is nothing you want more. Imagine yourself getting bent over backwards on his kitchen island with your album covers staring right back at you.
“All I’m saying is, give him a chance. He’s not a bad fella.”
You try. You really do, but Bucky somehow always finds a way to push your buttons. Like today, he decides to reward your hard work with lunch in town at Sal’s Diner. It’s the best diner here — arguably the only diner here.
“No, I’ve been coming here since I was a baby. Pretty sure my dad fed me the French toast here to help me teeth,” you argue, cutting a fat slice of your dish.
You caved into ordering this meal that would give your nutritionist a stroke. Deep fried, juicy toast dripping with maple syrup and topped off with a dollop of house whipped cream and slices of fresh strawberries and blueberries. You’ll allow yourself this cheat meal if it means proving Bucky wrong.
That and you’ve been on a strict diet of certain vegetables and proteins for your Fashion Week fittings, so this is a welcome change. Think of it as a form of protest against your father bringing you here unwillingly.
“You’re out of your mind,” Bucky chuckles. “Everyone knows that Sal’s crown jewel is his waffles.”
Said waffles sit before him. A stack of perfectly crispy, doughy goodness. The perfect burn on the outside complemented by the soft chew on the insides. Topped off with the same maple syrup and cream and fruits, the only difference rests in the vessel for the brunch dessert.
You can’t tell what you want to eat more — your toast, his waffles, or him.
He looks even more delectable today with his hair disheveled from the sun and sweat. His beard has grown out a little more to frame those pink, kissable lips that Hollywood wishes they could naturally have.
“Alright, try yours then try mine. We’ll decide here and now.”
You’ve never once backed down from a challenge so you eat yours first. Delicious, the flavor is nostalgic and the toast is tender and sweet. You recall all the times your dad brought you here, you with snot in your nose after a kid picked on you. You vaguely remember another boy next to you, blue-eyed and a dark ring around his eye, fists with red scrapes clenched next to his stack of waffles.
Based on your grandmother’s stories, said boy must be Bucky. He doesn’t seem like a troublemaker but you wouldn’t be surprised if he was the type to pick fights with other people. That’s what he’s been doing with you all this time.
“Now mine,” he says and swaps your plates, smirking a little too wide as he watches you grudgingly slice into his waffle. You lift it into your mouth, your teeth sink in, and— fuck.
It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. The texture, the flavor, the balance. The combination of the crunch and the soft give of the waffle against your teeth. The square gaps filled with the perfect amount of cream and syrup, serving as a ship to carry the sweetness onto your tongue. The french toast soaks it in a little too much and the texture is all around too soft now that you’ve had a taste of this.
The waffles are Sal’s masterpiece.
Your eyes flick up to Bucky, he catches your gaze immediately. His lips tug up a little higher.
You quickly school your expression.
You’d never admit this. You’d never admit that Bucky’s right. Over your dead body.
“It’s fine,” you shrug nonchalantly.
“Bullshit,” he laughs, leaning back against the booth chair with arms crossed. His biceps flex and your teeth tingle with the urge to sink into them. “You like it better.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you respond, reaching over to switch your plates around again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my lunch now.”
When you take another bite of your dish, it no longer tastes the same. The magic has faded and now you can’t stop comparing how mushy it is compared to Bucky’s mindblowingly scrumptious pick. You bite back a cringe when your teeth clack together, overestimating how much effort it would take to break through the food.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, princess,” he grins, “I can see right through you. If you ask nicely, I’ll take your toast and you can have my waffles.”
“I’m fine,” you grit out again.
“You sure? Do you really want to die on this hill?”
“This is the best dish here and you can take your opinion and shove it up your—” the waitress gives you a look from behind the counter and you quickly shut your mouth.
Bucky tilts forward this time with a glint in his eye, arms propped up on the table. You don’t like where this is going. “I think I know what the problem is.” You cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you just don’t know what good food is anymore. All those fancy, tiny, overpriced tasting menus have altered your tastebuds.”
A scoff falls from your lips. “They have not! Those are incredibly refined and curated dishes that the chefs dedicate their entire lives to. It’s definitely different from a diner that serves greasy food that only you can enjoy.”
His lips twist, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well then maybe you’ve just forgotten your roots, princess. All those years in the city and suddenly you think you’re too good for everyone else here, including your family.”
The words knock the breath right out of your lungs. It grips your heart and rips it from your chest. As if your own guilt isn’t enough, having Bucky of all people dogpile on what a terrible granddaughter you’ve been isn’t exactly ideal. Between losing quality time with your grandma and the sound you’ve nurtured here that brought you your success, one feeling crawls over your skin.
Fear.
Fear that you no longer know who you are anymore, a cog in the machine so desperate to keep turning. Fear that you’ve become what you hate: fake, pretentious, disgustingly greedy for wealth that you don’t even need. Fear that, if you lose all you have now, when you’ve already lost everything you had, what would be left for you?
Because that’s the thing they don’t tell you about making it to the top — to get there, you have to make plenty of sacrifices. One you convince yourself are worth taking, until you’re looking down at what you’ve left behind and you realize that nothing will ever be enough to make up for it.
Perhaps your dad is right. The fall to rock bottom is a long and arduous journey, a path where you’re forced to reckon with everything you’ve lost and everything you have to lose.
A warm hand covers yours on the table, dragging you out of your reverie. Bucky’s no longer looking at you with disdain or arrogance. Worry is now carved into the furrow of his brows as he squeezes your hand. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
You jerk your hand away from him, lips pressed into a thin line as you swallow the lump in your throat. You know how to stop yourself from crying, you know how to not show your weakness. You’ve done it countless times before to survive; you can do it again with him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“It’s whatever,” you mutter.
“No, it’s not whatever. I crossed a line.”
You don’t appreciate the look on his face. It’s an expression akin to pity. You’ve gotten enough of those looks your entire life, you don’t need it from him. It makes you sick to your stomach. You’re a strong, successful woman who’s achieved everything you’ve ever wanted; there is no reason to pity you.
In lieu of responding, you grab a few bills from your purse and toss it onto the table. “I’m full. I’m going to head out first.”
Ignoring Bucky’s shit, wait, hold on, you’re slipping out of the booth and stomping out into the streets. The breeze outside is helpful against the heat flaming your cheeks as you bite back tears.
Deep down, you know that it isn’t Bucky you’re upset with; nothing he said was untrue. In fact, you hate that it hits a little too close to home.
You start walking — somewhere, anywhere — just away from there. You need space, you need room to breathe and digest what this means for you. It’s one thing to think about how much you’ve lost, circling the issue without calling it out directly, it’s another for someone to point it out so blatantly to you.
“Wait,” Bucky’s voice reaches you before you feel the hand around yours. “Don’t go.”
“Let me go, Bucky.”
“How are you going to head home?”
“I’ll hitchhike if I have to,” you snap.
Bucky looks conflicted again, baby blues darker than usual. “Don’t do that, that’s not safe,” he murmurs, “please. You can be mad at me, I deserve it, but let me take you back. I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He licks his lips. “I know you don’t need it. You’re perfectly fine on your own. I get it. But I want to help, so please just take the offer.”
You yank your wrist away from him. “I’m good. Seriously. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I don’t need to do anything. I can’t do anything but worry when it comes to you,” he practically spits out, “I wish I could stop worrying, but I can’t. Not when you look like you’ve lost everything good in your life. Not when you don’t smile the way you used to.”
That stops you, your movements halting.
“It’s not just your grandma who’s concerned about you. Do you think I don’t notice how distant you sound in interviews? Or all that shit in the papers?”
“Go fuck off your high horse, Barnes.”
“I’m not on my goddamn high horse,” he defends, “I’m just saying it all sounds like a cry for help, okay.”
“Oh, so you think you know me now?”
“I know you. I’ve always known you. I was there defending you from those stupid kids growing up. I was there for you to pick on whenever you wanted to destress. I was there to support you and your dreams because I believed in you.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. There’s a lump lodged there that has your lungs constricting. The next words that come out of your mouth are a feeble attempt to hold your ground. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not the person you knew.”
“Jesus, you think I don’t know that?” He whispers, “I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I’m saying that you don’t have to do it all alone. You have so many people who love you — your grandmother, your dad, m—” He stops himself, seeming to bite his tongue. “All I’m saying is that you’re not alone. You don’t have to be.”
“I—” you find yourself at a loss for words for the first time in a very long time.
Before you can find the right response, you hear your name followed by a blinding flash in your eyes. It takes you a second to register that there is a camera in your face and the grating noise in your ears is this man bombarding you with questions.
“Is this your new man? Have you moved on already? Tell us who you are, man!” More flashes. More questions.
Your blood runs cold.
You should’ve known that trouble would follow you here. You’re quick to turn around, ready to remove yourself from the situation and avoid giving him the content he wants.
The man lets out a low whistle, smirking. “Oh come on, sweetheart, give me a smile. Your fans miss you back home. Everyone thinks you got kidnapped.”
Don’t give in. Don’t respond to this fucking moron.
“Aw, you’re always so sweet in front of the press. Now that it’s just me, you won’t even give me one smile? What kind of celebrity are you? You want everyone to think you’re a fucking bitch?”
Gritting your teeth, you continue brushing past people, Bucky close on your tail, and the guy still hot on your heels. He’s still lobbing words at you, ridiculous comments like just one smile, baby and don’t be a stuckup bitch.
You don’t respond. You’ve been taught better. If you give them the time of day, they’ll keep coming back for more. Ignore them long enough and they’ll label you a cunt and move on with their lives.
However, it’s only when he brings Bucky into it that you stop dead in your tracks. “This your new man? I can give him that publicity he wants right now. How’s she in bed? Did you make a video too? Come on, give me a quote and I’ll even put your face on the paper.”
“Will you piss the fuck off?” You snap.
His lips curl into a smirk far too proud for a man of his occupation. “Pop princess has claws. You wanna curse for the camera too? Bet your kiddie fans will love that.”
“I am here on vacation. Leave us alone.”
“It comes with the territory, honey. Now that I have you, why don’t you tell me about this stud, huh? What’s your name, man? You give me a tell-all on how good she looks in bed and I’ll pay you. Triple if you’ve got a video like the last one.”
Bucky steps forward, clearly ready to be your knight in shining armor, but you move faster to put a hand on his chest. As much as you dislike Bucky, you don’t want him to be subjected to the bullshit that these tabloids publish. He doesn’t need his face splashed on the front page just because he’s doing a good thing and taking you out to lunch.
Shaking your head, you signal him to back down. He doesn’t seem to like that idea, frowning until you pin him with a glare that has him pursing his lips.
“Just ignore him. He’s not worth it.”
“Whatever she’s offering you, I’ll give you more! Name your price.”
His jaw clenches, blue eyes sparking with the kind of rage you’ve never seen with him. “Leave it alone, Buck.”
His eyes melt, if only a fraction.
You don’t try to decipher that look. Instead, you turn around and point your finger at this man. “You leave me alone or I’ll sick the cops on your ass.”
“Public space, sweetheart. I can do whatever I want.”
“And when I get you barred from every press event I attend? I’m about to file a restraining order if you keep harassing me like this — with plenty of witnesses at that. Think about what you’re doing before you keep running your mouth like that.”
With that, you shove Bucky forward and back into his truck. The two of you peel off before the man can chase you back down again.
It is only in the quiet of the vehicle that you finally hear the thundering in your chest. Your heart hammering in your veins like it’s about to jump out of your chest. With a hand over your heart, you try to take in what shaky breaths you manage. You pull your phone out of your pocket to text your dad, but your fingers are trembling too much for you to type properly.
Cursing under your breath, you type, backspace, type, backspace, until you’re frustrated and flinging the device onto the dashboard with a loud clatter.
“Shit, sorry,” you wince.
“Hey, you’re good. You’re safe,” Bucky whispers next to you, his voice calm as it slips between the crevices of your palpitating heart.
His hand reaches out to close around yours on your thigh. He squeezes, thumb brushing over the back of it in circular motions. You’re momentarily distracted by the act, eyes following the repetitive movement until your heartbeat matches its rhythm. The ringing in your ears quiets, fading into a light buzz before it eventually ceases to let you focus on the rumble of the truck over dirt roads instead.
Bucky pulls to a stop outside the house. Your house. Your grandma’s house.
His hand is still on yours.
You pull it away quickly. Habit. You’re always alert, never sure if there are any more cameras waiting to catch you slipping.
“You’re fine. He didn’t follow us. I did a few reroutes to make sure,” he murmurs.
“Thank you,” you exhale slowly. “I’m sorry. Shit, this whole thing is so stupid.”
Bucky tilts his head. “Why are you sorry?”
You open your mouth, only to realize that you don’t have an easy answer. “Um, well, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”
“His own actions are his responsibility. You do not need to apologize on his behalf.”
He’s not wrong. It’s annoying. All this guilt that you shouldn’t even be feeling.
“I guess,” you mutter.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, an eyebrow raised. “I hope you know that none of this is your fault — him showing up, the crap in the papers, all the bullshit around you.”
With a grunt, you press your lips together. “I know that. It’s just… unfortunate circumstances.”
“That’s one way to put it,” he smiles, “though, I should also apologize again. I am sorry. I crossed a line, it won’t happen again.”
You can’t even find it in you to come up with a snappy retort. Instead, you shift your gaze away. He seems to understand, letting out a low chuckle. Your lips thin. “I’m not a fan of the word princess.”
That seems to surprise him, a twinkle in his widened eyes. “That so? You used to make me call you that all the time.”
“What were you then? The prince?” You drawl sarcastically.
“Actually, you designated me court jester.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat — probably the first sincere one since you got here, maybe in years. The thought of you acting all high and mighty, making Bucky perform for your entertainment is comical, especially when you consider how massive he is now.
“Find it funny, do you?”
“A little bit.”
“I should send you the bill for my decades of mental anguish.”
Your lips curl into a smile of part amusement, part foul delight. “You could sell all of those childhood stories for a pretty penny.”
“I think your grandma has a few pictures of you in the bathtub.” A gasp falls from your lips. “I was helping her clean the attic. She’s got quite the collection.”
Your cheeks warm. “Haven’t you heard? If you wanted to see me naked, all you have to do is go online.”
You’re not entirely sure why you prompted the idea of you being naked to Bucky, it hardly seems appropriate but Bucky then appraises you with those eyes. Blue drowned out by his blown pupils. You see the indent on his cheek where he’s pushing his tongue against the walls, likely biting back an equally inappropriate comment to respond to yours.
“I’d prefer to experience the real thing for myself.”
All of a sudden, your throat feels like sandpaper and Bucky’s looking you up and down in a way that has your entire body tingling with need.
This can’t be happening. Not right now. Not when you’re supposed to have a clean slate.
Not with Bucky of all people.
However, your grandma’s in your ears, whispering, He’s not a bad fella, is he? He’s not. He’s a good one — perhaps the only one left — but he’s still a man at the end of the day and can you really bring yourself to trust another?
“Too much too soon?” He asks gently.
“No,” you choke out. “Not at all.”
Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you’re momentarily distracted by the way his bottom lip glistens. His voice drops a pitch— “Don’t tempt me, princess.”
Your heart stutters between your ribs. Heat snakes between your thighs and you’re forced to bite your tongue before you can let out a sound that would embarrass the both of you.
“I’ll check in on you later, yeah?” Bucky tips his hat with a charming smile before wandering towards the barn.
Leaving you and the timber of his voice echoing in your ears.
Something shifts between the two of you after that. It’s nothing monumental but you no longer dread the hours you have to spend with him out with Bucky. Laughter comes a little easier when you’re not viewing him as the enemy. He still teases you but you match that energy right back, with significantly less animosity.
The first time you jump back on Winter, you nearly fall flat on your face. You half-expect Bucky to make another jab about how you’ve lost your skills. However, you’re pleasantly surprised when all he says is “easy there” before he’s encouraging you back on the saddle.
The two of you start taking rides into the mountains. With the wind in your ear and the scent of wild grass, you can’t help but feel like you’re finally home.
However, even when the two of you are sharing picnic lunches that he packs at the top of your hike and he’s tugged off his t-shirt after he gets drenched under a waterfall, Bucky doesn’t do anything more or less.
He keeps a comfortable distance — close enough that you find yourself leaning in, far enough that he finds the excuse to pull away.
As someone who’s always, always gotten whoever you wanted whenever you wanted, you almost want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless just to make it a done deal. But as someone with a little bit of pride left, you want him to make the first move.
Unfortunately for you, none of your usual tricks have worked. You’ve spritzed on a little bit more perfume. You’ve worn your lowest cut tops without your tits spilling out. You’ve even given him enough sultry looks that you’re starting to get a twitch in your eye.
Your final tactic, which has never failed you, requires a third participant. A third participant that you didn’t have until today.
You and Bucky are helping your grandma at the farmer’s market. Bucky as the pack mule, hoisting crates of jam onto the vegetable stall that she runs with all of her prized produce. You’re cutting up samples of watermelon and, of course, your presence draws a big enough crowd that your grandma sells out quickly.
“If business can be this good with you around, maybe you should move home,” she beams.
“Good to know that I’m only useful for marketing,” you drawl with a teasing lilt.
“Oh, honey, what can I say? You’re not much help around the farm.”
You feign a gasp and turn to Bucky who’s chuckling to himself on the sidelines. “You’re not gonna defend my honor? After all I did for you this week?”
“Was that before or after you broke the new stepladder we got?” Bucky prompts.
With a roll of your eyes, you wave the two of them off and continue to slice up the fruits. “Two traitors, that’s what the two of you are.”
Before either could respond, a man comes up to your booth. He’s tall. He’s blonde. He’s rather handsome, if you liked the all-American sort of thing. He’s got blue eyes like Bucky but not even half as bright or kind. “That looks like a good one, sweetheart. How about cutting me up a slice?”
The sweetheart is like ice rolling down your spine. You force out a trained smile. “‘Course. I can even give you a bigger one if you promise to buy a whole watermelon from us.”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “You drive a hard bargain but you have yourself a deal.”
You flash your prettiest grin at him; you know exactly what men like him need. A little stroke of his ego and you’ve got a hook, line, and sinker. As you’re pushing the knife into the fruit, you feel a sudden warmth next to you.
Bucky. His shoulders are squared, eyes partially narrowed. “John.”
“Bucky,” the man — John — smiles easily in response to Bucky’s tight lip curl. “It’s been a while, man. How’s the farm?”
“Good.”
Curt. Terse. Very unlike Bucky who you’ve grown to understand is very talkative. “Good to hear,” John responds, voice light, “I see you’ve got yourself a pretty new helper. A famous one at that. Bet you’re the reason the stall’s doing extra well today, sweetheart.”
You open your mouth to respond but Bucky beats you to it. “She’s great. Why don’t you run along now? I’m sure there are other people you can pester today.”
“Pester? Now, am I being a bother to you, sweetheart?”
Yes, but you’re not going to give Bucky that satisfaction. Something about this man irks Bucky. Not a lot of things can get under his skin, which only piques your interest further. So you slap on a saccharine-sweet smile. “No, definitely not. He’s a customer, Bucky. Play nice. He’s buying a whole watermelon and two squashes today.”
“Am I?” A flicker of surprise crosses his eyes, fading into a humored sparkle.
“You are, sir.”
“Well, if the lady says so, then it must be true.”
You let out a giggle, one that you know will grate on Bucky’s nerves. The two of you continue to make light conversation as you offer John a sample and John seems to take his time nibbling on the slice while he looks you up and down. You don’t like his look, but you do like the color on Bucky’s face right now. The perfect shade of green that you’ve been waiting for.
Because of that, you can’t help yourself. You up the ante a little bit — giggling a little more, flicking your hair over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes at him. Throughout your entire conversation, you can practically hear Bucky’s blood rushing in his veins. Jealousy is a good look on him.
Still, he doesn’t say a thing — at least, not until John finally, finally walks away. You didn’t know how much longer you could’ve pretended to find him entertaining; stale jokes were never your foreplay of choice.
“He’s bad news, you know,” Bucky utters next to you.
You’re busy cutting up the last of the samples as you reply with a light, “Sometimes I like bad news.”
He frowns. “You can’t be serious. Him of all people?”
“If not him, then who?” You deadpan, turning to look at him.
Bucky’s mouth opens then promptly slams shut. He once again appears to want to say something but he’s holding back, biting his tongue. Coward.
“Hey, kids, I’m just going to check on Mr. Oliver over there. He’s been getting harassed by that developer I told you about, James. Start cleaning up, we should be good to head back soon.” Your grandma ducks out of the stall and disappears.
You raise an eyebrow at Bucky. “James?”
“My first name,” Bucky shrugs.
“James,” you repeat — then it clicks, “James the Jester! I remember now. Oh, you were such a crybaby.”
At that, a deep scarlet blush sprawls across his face, up to the tips of his ears. “I was not. You were just evil. Instead of princess, I used to call you the wicked witch of the west.”
You bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I bet you did. Grandma told me you’d let me do whatever I wanted.”
“You were a spoiled princess after all.”
Ignoring that comment, you choose to ask, “What’s going on with Mr. Oliver?”
“Developers have been coming around these parts to try and turn it into something more modern. They’ve been offering hefty amounts to buy out property owners in the area. Talks about luxury apartments and a shopping mall.”
“Who in the world would pay for luxury apartments around here?” You crinkle your nose.
Bucky shrugs, his hat tipping forward. “Who knows? Guess they found a market for it.”
“That kind of sucks.”
“Yeah, the town’s been trying to fundraise to help support a lot of these small businesses to make sure they can stay afloat. Otherwise, they’ll get priced out and before you know it, everyone’s going to be gone.”
While the idea of a shopping mall does appeal to you, you hate the thought of losing this place. Neighbors who know each other by name. People who come from near and far, spanning generations and building relationships for years to come. All the lush greenery, soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, the crisp fresh air. The idea of all of that replaced by a concrete jungle is a nightmare.
“How much have y’all raised so far?”
Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Not a lot. It’s tough to get funds out here when folks barely make anything for themselves. We need some outside help but it’s not easy, not many care about a small place like this.”
But you do. You care. This is your home. No matter how many times you’ve avoided coming back, or how much you try to deny the past, this is where you came from. If you lose this place, who would you be?
“Why don’t we throw a fundraiser? I could do something. I don’t need to be the main attraction but I could help bring people out. We could sell tickets, do a little open mic night.”
“You’d do that?” His eyebrows practically jump to his hairline.
You give him a look. “You think that lowly of me?”
“No, not that I don’t think you’d do it,” Bucky quickly clarifies, “It’s just— it’s obviously a lot to ask when you’re trying to stay incognito here.”
“I just have to convince my dad.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dad!” You say at the same time your grandma scolds her eldest son with his full government name.
“I didn’t come here so you could be the center of attention,” he brushes off, “again.”
“This is different.”
“This is going to attract unwanted press.”
“This is the kind of press we want.”
The two of you are locked in a stare-down with your grandma and Bucky standing on the sidelines, waiting for one of you to be the first to break.
“In all fairness, she is doing it for a good cause,” your grandma chimes in the hopes of alleviating your father’s wrath.
“Sounds to me like she’s trying to get back in the spotlight. What if the press says this is all pretense to clean up her act? What if it brings unneeded scrutiny to our small town?”
You let a heavy exhale escape. Your eyes fly to the ceiling only for the briefest of seconds before you redirect your gaze to your dad. “Honestly, they can say what they want. At this point, they’ll pick on anything I do. It doesn’t matter if I have good intentions — or even if I don’t do anything at all, they’re going to find something to be upset about. They’ll twist everything I do to fit their narrative because that’s what they do. It shouldn’t stop me from living my life — or supporting things that I care about.”
Three pairs of eyes land on you. You try not to squirm but the weight of their attention is enough to make you shift. You look at Bucky first — his eyes are soft, understanding almost. He saw firsthand what it’s like to be in the spotlight, chased after in the middle of the most menial activities. Friendship twisted into a scandal.
These people are vultures and, while there’s nothing you can ultimately do to stop them, you have control in the way you respond and behave. In this case, perhaps the only correct response is to stop caring.
Your life is yours and you need to stop listening to these assholes who think that they know you, who think that they can shape your reputation to the image of you they have in their heads.
Your father looks thoughtful, almost surprised by your words. He’s silent, mulling over it for a moment before he looks at you. He’s searching your eyes — for any doubt or uncertainty — but he finds none of it. Because you haven’t been this sure of anything in a long time.
“Alright, fine. We’ll make it a community event. We won’t use your name because we don’t need a frenzy; this may be a small town but you’re not a small name, darling. I don’t need to hire security for a fundraiser. However, we can sell tickets to a live stream that will ultimately go to supporting this town. Hopefully that helps alleviate the traffic.”
You’re throwing your arms around him before he even finishes his sentence. “Thank you! Thank you!”
He chuckles, “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. I’m expecting you to do a lot of the planning.”
“Wait, what?” You balk, jerking back.
“You proposed this so you need to see it through.”
A pout forms on your lips. “But—”
“I’ll help,” Bucky cuts in, mouth stretched into a proud grin. “You’re doing enough already. Just get yourself ready. I can help organize the live feed.”
“You can set up a livestream?” You ask, doubt creeping into your voice.
He smirks, “Such little faith. I know my way around technology. Trust me on this, princess.”
You’re not one to argue with him so you can only nod. “Okay then, let’s do this.”
Things come together relatively quickly in the next couple of days. You spend most of your time figuring out how to make your extremely pop songs acoustic with minimal support from a local band. True to his word, Bucky does eventually set up the live stream and even does a little test to make sure it works.
“Smile.”
You force out a grin before it’s quickly wiped away from your face. “Are we good?”
“You’ve got something on your face. I think it’s the whipped cream from the waffles earlier.”
Your hand immediately flies to the corner of your mouth. Clearly it doesn’t work because then Bucky’s coming up to you. His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently over the corner of your lips, swiping along the bottom. As if possessed, he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.
His eyes don’t leave you once.
Your heart slams against your ribs, core squeezing. You don’t get a chance to question him before he’s clearing his throat and pulling away with a quiet “got it.”
With all the marketing up, the event comes together fast. In a blink of an eye, you’re in this large backyard space with fairy lights strung across trees, tables for the buffet that your grandma has cooked up, and a makeshift stage where the band has set up. It’s beautiful and cozy. Perfect.
Instead of wearing one of your usual concert getups, the bedazzled bodysuits with matching rhinestoned boots, you opt for something more casual. A find from a thrift store and Bucky’s flannel layered over you; the latter isn’t by choice, he took one look at how much skin you were revealing and insisted you would be too chilly.
With your guitar propped up on your well-worn sneaker, you take a deep breath.
“Ready?” Your dad asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.
“Yeah. Of course. I do this all the time.”
The corner of his lips quirk up. “It’s alright to be nervous, you know.”
You worry your bottom lip, turning to look at him. “I’ve done this a billion times before. Why am I so worried?”
“Because it matters this time, because you care, and that’s a good thing,” he soothes, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll be right there with you.”
“What if nobody else wants to perform? I’m only singing at the end. What if nobody participates?”
“Darling, you know your grandmother. She’d get up there and start the macarena if she has to get the party going.” A giggle rises from your chest. “You’ve got good people here and everyone’s here for a good cause.”
“If it’s dead silent, maybe I can get Bucky to get up there,” you snort softly, “he apparently had been my court jester in the past.”
Your dad lets out a tiny grunt. It’s one that most people won’t blink twice at, but you know him better than that.
“What’s with that sound?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. That’s the sound you make when the spare ribs don’t fall off the bone. So what gives?”
“I don’t like that boy.”
You shoot him a look. “You don’t like any boy.”
“That’s also true.”
“Grandma says he’s one of the good ones.”
It’s your dad’s turn to give you a look. “He’s a boy. There are no good ones.”
Your lips curl into a smirk. “I haven’t seen you go all protective in a while.”
“Well, none of them were serious before. This one — this one looks like the type who can break your heart.”
Both your glances wander over to Bucky who’s helping your grandma set up the food table. It’s still early enough that nobody’s filtered in but you expect a good showing. Tickets are basically close to selling out, the space will hopefully be at capacity. You’ve raised a good amount of money already and that doesn’t even include the massive success of the live stream sales.
But Bucky — heaven-sent Bucky. He really is a good one. In your world, that usually means that he is too good to be true. Someone always wants something. Whether it’s fame or fortune — or both, you’re merely a gateway to it. You’ve lost most of your trust in humanity since you started succeeding; your industry mentors tell you that’s how you know you’ve made it.
However, you’re not in your world right now. Not fully at least. So maybe you’re allowed to hold onto that tiny piece of hope that things may just work out with him.
“I know,” you murmur. “Let’s hope he doesn’t.”
Your dad wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m going to check on your grandma. Break a leg out there. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad,” you smile softly up at him. “For trusting me this and… for bringing me back here.”
“Anytime, darling.”
Just as your dad said, the party comes into full swing in the next thiry minutes. There’s no shortage of people wanting to perform — anything from singing to dancing and even standup comedy (though this last one is a little bit questionable when you hear the awkward filtering of laughter through the crowd).
People hop onto the makeshift dance floor for the next performer. An upbeat number that has everyone twirling and shimmying all over. You glance at Bucky only to find that he’s already looking right back at you.
Ask me to dance, you idiot. You raise an eyebrow and Bucky only coughs and shifts his eyes away.
You roll your eyes. If he doesn’t do something soon, you may end up taking matters into your own hands.
“Now, what’s a pretty lady like you doing all alone here?” The familiar voice interrupts your irritation. John. He’s got that boyish smile on his face again. “Would you care to join me for a dance?”
You look to Bucky again, finding him already looking at the both of you with stone-cold eyes. Well, if he’s not going to do anything about this, then you might as well find another form of entertainment.
Sliding your hand over John’s outstretched one, you nod. “I’d be delighted.”
John’s a decent dancer. He spins you around, matches your rhythm, and still manages to make conversation throughout. He asks you about life in California, if you have anything exciting coming up soon. You give him noncommital answers about how you’re working on your next album.
“I sure hope you’d save me a backstage pass for your next tour.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” you force out a smile.
On top of that, he’s too handsy for your taste. His grip starts safe on your hips before they drift a little too low like he’s trying to reach for your ass. You have to carefully navigate away from him every time he does that.
“Anything going on between you and Barnes?” John asks.
You look at Bucky again. His gaze has been burning a hole through your skull and probably John’s. As much as the two of you try to ignore it, it’s near impossible to not feel the weight of his impressively intense stare.
“No, nothing,” you answer honestly.
“He looks like he wants to cut off my head,” he chuckles.
“That’s just his normal face,” you brush off brusquely.
“If you say so.”
However, when this song ends, you feel another pair of hands on your waist that quickly manhandles you to land with an oof against a firm chest. You look up to find Bucky who’s now holding your hand and your waist for a spin around the floor. When you glance back at John, he looks none too pleased and stomps off in another direction.
“You don’t like to share your toys, do you?” You smirk.
“I don’t share, period,” he mutters.
“Then you should’ve claimed your prize from the start.”
Bucky’s brows meet in the middle. “You’re not… a prize,” he begins, “you’re more than that. I didn’t— I didn’t know how to even begin to approach you.”
“You had no problem berating the shit out of me when I fucked up the horse and chicken feed.”
His shoulders shake with laughter. “That’s different. That’s my area of expertise.”
“And this isn’t?”
His lips thin. “I’m not… experienced with all this.” He clears his throat, “Romance. Women.”
“You’re kidding,” you blurt out before you can stop it. He shakes his head. “You look like this and you’re telling me you don’t have experience with people?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you’re hot, Barnes.” Bucky jolts back in surprise. “Come on, that is not news to you. I’ve seen at least five girls come up to you in the time John and I danced.”
His fingers tighten on your waist. “They wanted me to introduce them to you.”
“That’s an excuse to approach you. They probably wanted a dance.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Bucky huffs, “How would you know?”
“Because that’s what I would do. You’re a catch, Bucky.”
“High compliment coming from you.”
You swat his chest playfully. “Playing humility when you are anything but isn’t a good look, Mr. Barnes.”
“I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have,” Bucky mumbles, hand squeezing yours.
“Yeah? How long has that been? Since we were kids?” You tease lightly, fully expecting him to scoff and call you ludicrious.
However, the sheepish look that settles on his face has you gaping.
Before you can question it further, your dad is announcing your performance next. Bucky nudges you towards the front with a small smile. “Go get ‘em, princess.”
It’s a bit of a blur of you getting up there and preparing yourself for your first performance in a while. It’s one thing to be on a stage with hundreds of thousands silhouettes watching you, it’s another to be able to see every single face in the crowd waiting for you with bated breath.
Your fingers circle the neck of your guitar, fingertips pressed firm against the strings. The steel bites into your skin but your focus is really only on the people before you.
“Hi, everyone. I just wanted to say a very big thank you again for coming out tonight. I hope everyone’s havin’ a good time!” The crowd explodes in cheers and applause. “We’re all here because we love this town and I’m happy that I have the opportunity to contribute to saving it. There’s no other place like home. A big shoutout to all the viewers watching from the comfort of their houses as well, we couldn’t have done it without you. Without further ado, I hope you all enjoy this last segment of the evening.”
The rapid beating inside your chest is a drum against your ribs. Your eyes trawl over the crowd, over strangers’ faces and familiar ones. Your dad who shoots you a proud grin, your grandma who’s waving her fist in encouragement, and Bucky — Bucky who smiles soft and nods at you.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of motions. Once you finish your set, you’re greeted by a round of congratulations when you step off stage. Your hand hasn’t cramped from signing autographs in a bit but you relish in the attention. Whenever you look up, you catch Bucky watching from the sidelines.
I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have.
The echo of his words have your ears burning.
By the time you finally make it back to him, the crowd has thinned, with only a smattering of close friends and family still chattering over food.
“Sometimes I forget how good you are live,” Bucky says, a tinge of awe in his voice.
“Please, when was the last time you heard me live?”
His teeth catches his bottom lip for a second before he clears his throat. “Your Nashville show last year.”
You can hear your jaw land on the floor. “You went?” He shrugs. “Why didn’t you tell me? I invited grandma but she couldn’t make it out.”
“You didn’t know me, princess,” Bucky chuckles.
Well, he’s not entirely strong. But still. “Grandma could’ve told me. You shouldn’t have to pay.”
“Why not? I’m supporting a good cause, aren’t I?”
You exhale a laugh. “So I’m a charity case now?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny—” Your punch on his arm gets you a laugh, it probably felt like a tingle. “I didn’t want to be one of those people who pulled that card. We haven’t spoken in years and I would’ve gone anyway even without the free ticket.”
Bucky needs to stop giving your heart reasons to shift towards him. You haven’t been in love in a very long time, and you’re not sure you’re ready for it yet — especially not with a man as good as him, one you cannot bring into your world.
“Plus, I was talking Madeline. Her mom’s our foreman.”
“Playing chaperone, cute,” you murmur. “Next time, just shoot me a text. You have my number. My dad or someone else can arrange something.”
“Noted, appreciated.”
You wring your fingers behind your back, hiding evidence of your nerves. “So, I sound good? I’m not sure how the music would play out without the usual production, acoustic felt more fitting here—”
“It was great, seriously. I was reading the comments from the stream and everybody loved it. A lot of them seemed to have been fans for a while and they were happy to see you perform like this again.”
It reminds you of the smaller gigs you used to play — coffee shops and dive bars before you were promoted to opening for bigger artists and then going into your own sold-out world tour. Part of what you were missing in your work is that connection with the fans, doing more intimate engagement for your more loyal listeners.
“Yeah, I think it would be fun to do something like this once in a while,” you smile.
“Well, if you need a tech guy, you know where to find me.”
You roll your eyes but your lips twitch into an amused smile. “Come on, let’s go help my grandma clean up.”
“Hey,” Bucky catches your hand just as you turn, drawing your attention back to him. You cock an eyebrow in question. He scratches his cheek, looking almost… nervous? “Are you doing anything tomorrow? I thought we could go for a ride. A picnic maybe.”
“We’ve done that before,” you say slowly, puzzled, “but I’m down.”
“Okay, yeah, sounds good.”
That’s when it hits you. “Bucky Barnes, are you trying to ask me out on a date?” The laugh that slips past your lips has Bucky tinting red as he swallows and pulls away from you. You realize then that he may think you’re poking fun at him. “Wait, no, don’t do that. I wasn’t— I wasn’t teasing you, promise. I think it’s cute.”
Bucky’s mouth twists a little. If you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have known that he was sulking. It’s such a tiny reaction that you could miss it if you blinked.
“Bucky, come on. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yeah, I know.” Does he? “I know I’m probably not as… I don’t know, cool as all the guys you’ve dated before but—”
You take his hand in yours and squeeze. “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve just— I’ve been waiting for a bit for you to make your move. Even now, you’re still beating around the bush. Just ask me out, Buck.”
He chuckles, ears still red. “Alright, will you go on a date with me?”
“Yes, yes, I will,” you grin, “now, was that so hard?”
“Might be harder than getting back on a horse after a decade.”
You gasp, “That’s uncalled for.” He beams sweetly right back at you, turning your hands so that he’s holding yours now. It’s your turn to warm to the tips of your toes. “Okay, let’s go help grandma, casanova.”
The ride shouldn’t be any different. You’ve done this route a million times before. You’ve done this ride and this picnic thing with Bucky before. You shouldn’t feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest any second now. Maybe it’s time to summon your on-call doctor to make sure it’s not a seizure.
“You’re fine, you’re just nervous,” Yelena says from your laptop. “I think you should go for the lace top, it makes your tits look great.”
You pick up the flimsy piece of fabric. “I’m not nervous. I don’t get nervous for dates. I definitely do not get nervous for a man.”
As you tug the shirt over your head, Yelena laughs, “Nobody knows that I’m getting a strip tease from a five-time Grammy winner.”
Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you shrug on the top. “I’m serious, Yelena. This isn’t cool. I’m not being cool.”
“No, you’re being a girl with a crush.”
“I’m this nation’s favorite pop performer. I don’t get crushes.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve been there a little over a week and I’ve never seen you smile this much.” That explains why your cheeks are aching. “Face it, you’re head over heels for this man.”
You rub your face furiously. “God, this is so uncool. What if he’s making me uncool?”
“Then you guys can be uncool together.”
“That’s not an option,” you grumble, “what do you think?” You do a few turns in front of the floor-length mirror.
“Perfect. They grow up so fast,” Yelena mocks a tear.
“You’re a terrible friend.”
“I’m the bestest friend. Seriously though, you deserve to have a bit of fun. I think he’s good for you.”
“You’ve never met him.”
She gives you a look, one that is both chiding and soft. “But I know you and you haven’t been like this in a long time.”
Instead of acknowleding her words and potentially the gravity of your feelings, you instead choose to tease her. “Since when are you such a lovergirl?”
“Since I realized it makes you less of an asshole.”
“Rude.”
“You love me.”
“I do,” you grin.
“Have fun, kiddo.”
You’ve heard Bucky hustling and bustling outside since this morning. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time getting ready. Makeup light and pristine, nothing that would smudge even if you dunked your head underwater. Not a hair out of place. You’ve tested a few perfumes and there’s one that Bucky always leans towards so you spray a little on your neck and your wrists.
By the time you come downstairs ten minutes before the time he promised, you find him in the kitchen cooking with your grandma. Your dad is giving him dirty looks from the dining table.
“Morning, sunshine,” your grandma smiles, “don’t you look lovely today?”
“You’re saying I don’t look lovely everyday?”
“You have your days,” she jests with a pat on your cheek.
Bucky slides up next to you next, an appropriate amount of distance in front of your family. “Morning,” he murmurs, “you look beautiful.”
“I know,” you try to play it off but your heart feels just about ready to combust. “You ready?”
“Packed and ready to roll.”
You roll your eyes but can’t bite down on your smile in time. “You’re so lame.”
He only chuckles.
“I don’t need to give you the talk, do I?” Your dad chimes in next, glare darting between the two of you, before landing solidly on Bucky. “No funny business. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Curfew is at—”
“Oh my god, Dad!” You snap with your own scowl at him. “We’re not kids. We’ll be back whenever we’re back.”
“Still living under my roof, darling.”
“Technically my roof,” your grandma chirps and gives her son a scalding look. She turns to the two of you with a gentle smile. “Take your time. Have fun. Be safe.”
“But—”
Your dad’s full government name rolls off her tongue again and he immediately clamps his mouth shut. You’re pushing Bucky out of there before he can interrupt again.
“I’m so sorry,” you grouse, “he’s so overprotective sometimes.”
“He means well. I can see why he would be,” Bucky says as he leads you towards your horses.
“He’s overbearing is what he is,” you mutter as you hop on your horse. He makes sure that you’re settled safely before he climbs on his own horse.
The both of you set out on your usual route, your horses galloping deep into the woods as far as they can go. You take it all in — the fresh hair, the abundance of nature, the untouched beauty. It’s hard to imagine that you’ve been privileged enough to experience this life for the past week, let alone remember how this had been your life growing up. It’s even harder to imagine losing all of this. The nature in your gated apartment complex doesn’t feel natural. It feels necessary.
Out here, it just… exists.
Sometimes, you miss that — simply existing. If anything, this trip has become a reminder for you to come home more often and visit your grandma — and now, Bucky.
“You seem deep in thought.” Speak of the devil, he’s unpacking the lunch he’s tucked into his backpack. A selection of sandwiches in ziploc bags, fruits perfectly sliced and peeled, and pastries to top it all off. The food is simple but delicious and you can tell a lot of care has been placed into the prep — crusts off the bread, lightly toasted, fruits fresh and ripe, and pastries sweet.
Your stylist is going to tear you a new one when she realizes you no longer fit into your usual sizing. However, right here, right now, you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Thinking about how nice it is out here,” you sigh, gaze wandering to the world around you.
The two of you are perched on a rock at the base of a waterfall after a casual stride on your horses and a quick hike down to the stream. The symphony of water pouring down from the cliff mixed in with the sounds of birds singing in the distance and the rush of a coursing river — all of this brings you some semblance of peace. It reminds you of the quiet, the isolation. Things you could never have in the big, urban city you now call home.
Bucky laughs. “It’s always going to be here, you know. You just need to come back more often.”
“My schedule is crazy enough as is,” you stomp down on the urge to whinge like a child, “I’d love to pre-book my vacations but when opportunities come up, I have to prioritize that. I have to stay relevant. Things change so much in this day and age. In a blink of an eye and I could be rendered a has-been.”
“Have faith in your most loyal fans, you have plenty of those.”
Your eyes track the movement of the clouds above as they trail across the bright blue sky. “Maybe,” you sigh, “I’m just tired.”
Bucky tucks in close next to you, bumping your shoulder with his as he plucks a grape from the vine for you. You take it gratefully and pop it into your mouth, the sweetness bursting on your tongue.
“Maybe, what you need is to cool off.” You frown at him. He nods his head towards the waterfall. “There’s an old rope some kids put up a while back.” He points in the direction of the trees. “The water’s deep enough to break the fall.”
Aghast, you make your dismay very, very clear. “You want me to jump in there? Wearing this?”
“Unless you prefer to strip down, which I think only one of us would mind.”
Your fist lands a punch on his bicep. “Perv,” you mutter.
“Live a little,” he encourages as he jumps to his feet. He begins the short trek up the stairs, towards a small landing where a thick chord of rope hangs from a tree. His fingers curl around it tight, then he’s launching himself off and crashing straight into the water.
Your heart jerks in your chest as you peer over the rock into the water, waiting for him to surface. Bucky comes up for air with a huge splash, grinning as he slicks his hair back with his hand.
“The water’s fantastic.”
“You’re insane,” you deadpan. “I’m absolutely not doing that.”
“Man, here I thought you were finally free of the stick up your ass—” you gasp, he laughs, “—but I guess I was wrong.”
“I do not have a stick up my ass. Sue me for not wanting to get soaking wet in a Prada top.”
Bucky leans back, hands reaching up to wipe the water from his face again. It’s then you notice his t-shirt clinging onto his arms — like second skin that does nothing to mask the thick muscles that could probably lift you with a finger. “You can always buy more Prada. You can’t buy another day like today.”
“Think I’ll take my chances.”
“Alright, princess. I didn’t know you forgot how to have fun. You used to be the one who took me out here, would be the first one to jump in too before you dragged me in with you.”
That ticks you off. Your jaw clenches and you finally rise to your feet. Screw him for thinking you’d ruin your perfectly nice outfit for this. Your fingers catch the hem of your shirt before you’re tugging it over your head, then you shimmy out of your shorts.
“Wait, you’re really—”
“What? Never seen a girl in her underwear before?” You smirk, climbing up to where he stood only moments ago. Bucky looks even redder in contrast against the pool of blue.
You look at the rope and take a deep breath. You’ve done this before. You can do this. It’s just a swing and a jump. After that, you black out and by the time you come to, you’re already soaked from head to toe, coming up for air with a gasp as the water laps cool against your skin. You still hear the echo of your scream before you crashed into the pool.
“Shit, it’s freezing. You didn’t warn me.”
Bucky chuckles as he swims closer towards you. “Doesn’t it feel nice?”
“Feels like I’m about to catch a cold.”
The two of you splash around for a little while, Bucky even coming out only to jump back in and drench you in another wave. Your screech echoes in the quiet of the forest, muffled only by the waterfall behind you.
He looks at you when he comes up, grinning as he approaches you. His hand reaches up to drag the wet strands of your hair away from your face, fingertips brushing your cheek. His touch is cool but your entire body feels like it’s been set on fire.
You’re well aware of how little you’re wearing, even more so when the thin fabric sticks to your wet skin. Your nipples are stiff in the chill, pushing against the material, and you can feel your panties squeezing between your cheeks.
Your arms wrap around yourself, partly because of the cold, but mostly because Bucky’s watching you a little too closely. His eyes travel down your neck where strands of your hair are clinging to your skin, to your collarbones, down to the valley of your breasts that peek up from above the water.
You see his throat move as he swallows. Blue finds you. The color a shade or two darker as he assesses you, drinks the sight of you in. Instead of addressing it, he begins to move towards the surface where he manages to stand, water kissing his calves. You follow after him slowly.
He turns around then, looking at you when you come close enough. There’s a depth to his gaze that you can’t read, but you’re almost too scared to ask.
“What?” You try to play off.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Gentle. Honest.
“You’re just saying that because I’m practically naked,” you taunt, fully aware of how much you’re showing now that you’re out of the water.
“I’m saying that because you look incredibly tempting right now and I think I’ll have a hard time keeping my hands off you. For both our sakes, I recommend that you put on some clothes right now.”
Your breath catches, snagging in your lungs. The words that depart your lips are one born from days of frustration and longing. An honest, desperate question. “What makes you think you have to?”
Bucky inhales sharp, deep. “Do you know what you’re saying right now, princess?”
“I am,” you respond calmly, though your voice wavers.
He takes a step closer and suddenly you’re backing up against a large boulder, the cold surface kissing the swell of your ass.
His hand stretches out. His touch ghosts over your skin, hand trailing lightly over your hip where the hem of your panties rests, traveling up to your waist, right beneath the wiring of your bra, fingertips brushing over your exposed torso. Your breath hitches in your throat, chest rising as your lungs expand. Bucky’s blue eyes, warm where they’re focused on how his large palm moves over your stomach, flicks up to meet yours.
“This okay?” He whispers.
You only manage a nod.
“You’re gorgeous, princess.”
The pet name crawls up your spine and grips your lungs. You’re too busy looking at how Bucky’s lips look, the way they part, and his eyes, pupils blowing up to swallow the blue, to notice how his hand is slowly creeping up your bare stomach. His hand leaves a trail of fire where it crawls up to your chest, burning through your skin when he cups you gently.
He lets out a garbled sound. “Fuck, you’re so soft.”
“Generally how tits are, Barnes,” you try to tease.
A flush sprawls across his neck. “You’re such a brat. I should really shut you up.”
“Why don’t you try?”
Bucky doesn’t hesitate before he seals his lips over yours, drinking in the surprised little gasp you let out. He gulps down your whimper as you arch your back into his touch. His touch grows bolder, stronger, as he squeezes your breast over the fabric. His hand wanders to the space between the rock and your back, fingers deft as they quickly work to unbutton your bra.
“I don’t like how you did that so quickly,” you mumble against his lips. “Have you been practicing with other girls?”
“Just good with my fingers,” he chuckles.
“Good answer,” you grin.
He slides the material off your body, leaving you open for the taking. A low growl rises up his throat as he gropes your breasts harder, fingers finding your nipples, and relishes in the small moans you make. He takes his time with it, kneading your tits to the shape of his hand, kissing you warm and slow — all the while heat accumulates between your legs and you’re reduced into a quivering puddle in his hands.
But he doesn’t let you slip; he presses you back against the stone, his touch cool and warm, a chemical reaction against your skin. He distracts you from the chill, moving his mouth languidly against yours. God, kissing him feels like the first touch of summer after a long winter. He tastes like the icing on the cake he brought, sweetness that melts on your tongue. His hand — a working man’s hands — are rough where his palms are calloused, creating delicious friction with the way it rubs up against your delicate skin.
“Bucky, come on,” you whine.
“Patience,” he only says as his lips trail to the corner of your lips to imprint kisses that leave you wanting more. Much, much more.
“Move it along, Barnes, or I’m gonna have to find someone to do the job for you.”
Bucky pulls back abruptly, your stomach sinks. His eyes are dark as they look at you, lips set into a firm, irritated line. “You’ve really got such a mouth on you,” he snarls, “been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess. You keep running your mouth, just waiting for someone to tell you to behave.”
Oh. Oh, you shouldn’t like that this much. But you do. And Bucky knows you do.
His lips curl into a smirk. “Is that it? You need someone to teach you some manners again?” Bucky’s nose brushes over the pulse in your neck, feeling it stutter beneath him. “I can do that for you — all you have to do is listen.”
An expletive slips past your lips and Bucky brushes his lips over yours again, teeth nipping on your bottom lip.
“Language, princess.”
A whimper climbs out your throat. “I want you.”
“I know you do,” he says, voice gliding over your skin like silk, “but you need to be patient. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you listen to me?”
You nod, your entire vocabulary flaking into ashes as he smooths his palm back down your body. You don’t register when he slides it over your hip, you barely register his hand cupping the warmth of your pussy, your ass raising to give him access. It’s only when his index finger traces the line on your panties where the fabric sinks into you does your gasp wake you from your stupor.
“I can tell you’re so wet already,” he whispers, disbelief clinging to his syllables, “is this all for me?” Your breathing stammers an uneven staccato in your chest. “Tell me it’s for me.”
“‘S for you,” you choke out.
“Good girl,” he breathes out, “shit, you’re so wet. I can feel you through this lace.”
Your hands instinctively fly to cover yourself up as much as you can, cheeks flaming and it’s not from the heat.
“Gettin’ shy on me?”
“What if someone sees?” You hiss, but the sound melts into a whimper when Bucky starts to trail his finger up and down your slit over the mesh that barely hides you.
“Nobody comes out this way. Just you and me, princess.”
Your protest dies when Bucky tugs your panties to the side, sliding his finger along your slick folds, brushing over your clit until your voice splits into a long groan. He peppers your face with kisses, enough to sear a mark onto your skin that you’ll feel for weeks. All the while, his fingers tease you open slowly, coaxing moans from your lips as he dips his fingers in only to leave you in the cold. He repeats the movement over and over until you’re squirming, your fingers catching his wrist to keep him going.
“Come on, Buck.”
“What is it?” He feigns confusion.
“Touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
Through gritted teeth, you manage to say, “Properly. Touch me like a man, you fucking coward.”
“I need to teach this mouth of yours some manners. Need you to ask me one more time.” Your lips stubbornly sew shut. “Come on, you can do it,” he coos.
It’s patronizing. It’s demeaning. You shouldn’t let him speak to you this way. You are a five-time Grammy winner, the nation’s favorite pop star, you don’t need a man to—
“I’ll finger you open properly if you ask me nicely. I’ll make sure you’re good and ready for my cock. I promise.”
Fuck. Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up. “Please.” The plea escapes you. “Please finger me, Bucky.”
“That’s a good girl,” he beams, “that’s my girl.”
Your insides positively melt. My girl. It shouldn’t be so easy to get to you. You’ve had your fair share of men who know what sweet nothings to whisper in your ear, so you shouldn’t be fazed by such a simple phrase.
But it’s different — because this is Bucky and the thing about Bucky is that he always means it.
When he calls you his girl, that means you’re his, and that’s that.
Your thighs fall apart as his finger finally pushes in, thick and intrusive to spark the fire in your core. He curls it inside of you, brushing up against your walls and you’re curling into him. He kisses you again, taking in the gasp that bubbles up your throat.
“My pretty girl,” he murmurs sweetly, “look at you. So easy for me when you’ve got something in this pussy of yours.”
The fuck you stops cold on your tongue when Bucky adds another finger in, stretching you out with a delicious burn that has you spilling needy little noises into his mouth.
“Such a good girl when you’re filled up. Who knew I could stop you from acting like such a brat just by stretching this gorgeous cunt open? I should’ve done this that first day. Should’ve made you spread your legs for me if you wanted my help.”
His name forms on your tongue, like his fingers are forcing you to say it out loud. To beg him.
“I can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock. Bet you’d feel so tight, fit around me like a glove. I know you’ve had others before me, but I promise you none of them can make you feel as good as me. None of them will worship you the same way I will.”
“God, Bucky, please.”
“I know, I know,” he utters tenderly, “I’m here, princess. I’ll take good care of you. Tell me what you want.” His fingers spread inside of you, urging you to open up real good for him. “I need you to use your words for me.”
“You know what I want,” you whine, fingers clawing at his chest.
“I know, but we talked about this. I need you to be good for me and ask me nicely.”
Your eyes burn with embarrassment, chest blazing with the warmth of a thousand suns. “Bucky, please. I need you.”
He cocks an eyebrow as he fingers you open again, pumping his fingers in and out of you as he teases you with a third. His thumb finds your clit, finds the surprised, wanton-filled sound from your chest. He rubs you slowly, gentle as he once again asks you to pose your request.
“I want your cock. Please. Please,” you whine, “I want you to fuck me open.”
Bucky lets out a guttural moan as he covers your lips with his again, kissing you senseless, stealing every single breath from your lungs until you’re gasping for air as he finger-fucks you open. You’re soaking him, you can feel yourself leaking all over. You’d be more ashamed if you weren’t so caught up in the delirium of pleasure.
“Attagirl,” Bucky chuckles, kissing the top of your head. He moves fast — fingers ripping off your panties so you’re exposed to him. You don’t get the chance to complain about losing a very nice pair of underwear, not when he takes a second here, admiring the way your pussy glistens in the sunlight. You’re suddenly shy, hands moving to shield yourself again, but he moves faster, gripping them and pinning them down above your head. “Don’t hide from me. You look sweet like this. So vulnerable.”
He uses one hand to pin both of yours above your head, all the while he’s nudging your legs to open up further with his knee. Bucky looks bigger from your vantage point, height towering over you, blocking the sun until your line of sight is completely consumed by him. You hear hiz zipper being undone, but your focus is entirely on him.
“I’ve got a condom,” Bucky exhales, tugging at the seams of your consciousness and rational thought. “In the bag.”
“You brought a condom? Were you expecting this to happen?”
“Expect, no. Hope? Always,” he offers a wry smile.
“Fuck a lot of girls in the woods, Barnes?”
Bucky stifles a laugh. “No, just the one,” he smiles, “just you.” For a second, the two of you simply stand with each other, stewing in the tension that hangs heavy in the air between you. “I should go get it first,” he says, making his move to pull away.
You aren’t sure what possesses you but then you find yourself grabbing him by the soaked collar of his shirt. He halts, eyes wide. “I’m clean,” you mumble, “I don’t want to wait.”
“Princess,” Bucky says slowly.
“Please, Buck.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m clean, I promise you, I got tested after—”
“That’s not my concern,” he interrupts cautiously, “I’m asking if you’re sure about this. With me.”
You give a small nod. “I trust you.”
“Shit,” he hisses, “can’t say things like that and expect me not to fuck you stupid, princess.”
“Again, what makes you think you can’t?”
Bucky lets out a low roar that fuels the heat coiling tight inside your belly. Your eyes finally drift down to his cock in his hand and, like you’ve been unknowingly trained, you begin to salivate. Your mouth waters at the sight of the thick length, tip red and leaking. It twitches with need, moving towards you like it’s drawn.
He’s big. Bigger than anyone you’ve had before.
“I—” you start only for the words to choke out. Bucky raises a questioning brow.
“Did you change your mind? We can stop right now. Say the word.”
“No, that’s not it— I’m just—” you look at it for a heartbeat then two. “You’re really big,” you blurt out. “I don’t know if I can fit you.”
His lips twitch up into a smile, a mix of cocky confidence and amusement. “I’ll ease into you, princess. Promise it won’t hurt,” he says then pauses, “it might hurt a bit but you let me know if it gets too much, yeah?”
Your own giggle fizzles out when Bucky props up one of your legs, closing in on you with your folded thigh against his chest, and notches the head in your entrance. It’s a bit of a stretch, you can feel a slight sting, but your greedy pussy has other ideas. It opens up to him with the second nudge in, caving under the pressure much too quickly. You hate to admit how good he feels.
For a man who claims to have limited experience, Bucky seems to know exactly what to do. A vein on his forehead pulses as he slowly inches himself inside you, sweat beading his skin. His neck strains as he slowly sinks himself inside you, fucking up to bury himself deep inside your aching pussy.
A desperate whimper climbs out your throat. His name on your lips.
Bucky throws his head back, breathing in harshly through his nose. “You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to cum right now,” he rasps.
And because you can’t help yourslef, you do. You say his name again in a needy little cry that has him lifting you up with a growl, your legs wrapping around his torso as he shoves himself all the way inside you.
You’ve never felt so full before, inner thighs burning with his cock inflating inside you. His length stretches you open as he presses you back against the rock, leaning you back so he can properly fuck into you with deep, intentional thrusts.
“Look at this pretty pussy spread open for me,” Bucky groans, “you’re fuckin’ perfect. I’m gonna feed her my cock, gonna make sure she’s full.” His fingers bury in the flesh of your thighs as he drives himself deep inside you.
His other hand wanders to your neck, squeezing around the outside just enough to have your mind dizzy. His eyes search yours, vision glazed over as the pleasure slips through every crevice of your brain. Once he confirms that you’re okay, he tightens his grip enough to limit the airflow into your lungs, your breath hitching in your chest as he does so.
Bucky’s name leaves your lips in a hoarse whisper and he groans when he feels your core tighten around him. “My perfect girl, squeezing my cock like you’re tryin’ to milk me. You feel like you haven’t been touched in so long, princess. Was this all you needed to stop acting like a brat? If only people knew that the only way to get you to behave was to put a cock inside this pretty little cunt.”
He reaches down between your legs and circles your clit until your moans pierce through the waterfall raining down behind you. You say his name over and over again, like a prayer. Like a plea. Your entire body shakes every time he thrusts deep inside you. Your heart stutters in your chest when you hear an unknown sound, your eyes flying to see if anyone’s witnessing the debauchery occurring out in the open.
“Shit, princess, look at you,” he hisses when he looks down where the two of you are joined, “you’re creamin’ all over my cock. Soakin’ my cock so easy.”
“Bucky, please,” you manage to rasp, chest tight as the burning between your legs intensifies.
You can feel it. It’s been a while, but it also has never been like this. A mind-numbing concoction of breathtaking pain and pleasure. Bucky’s cock opens you up, your folds swallowing him in like you’re desperate for more, like you need to fit as much of him in as possible.
The tip brushes up against the deepest parts of you and yet somehow it’s not nearly enough. Bucky mutters about how tight your pussy feels, how there’s no way anyone has been in here before.
“Not with how your cunt is choking me, princess,” he groans, fingers sinking deeper into your hip now. “She’s so sweet for me, practically sucking me in. I can’t wait to cum inside you.”
That has your panic flaring again, only for a second because then your stomach twists with the desire for exactly that — to be filled to the brim with him.
“I’ve never—” you gasp, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me.”
Bucky chuckles softly, leaning forward to kiss you again. It’s hypnotic how easily he has you putty in his hands. “Won’t you let me be the first?”
Your heart beats a little faster. You’ve never been good at saying no to him. Especially not when you want him as much as he does you.
“Yes,” you whimper, “please, cum inside me.”
Another deep groan resonates from his belly. “You’re going to be the death of me, princess. Spoilin’ me rotten like this, you’re gonna get me used to cummin’ inside this gorgeous cunt. I’m gonna have to be inside you everyday, never be able to sate myself unless my cock’s buried in this pussy.”
“Fuck, Bucky, I can’t—” oxygen is punched out of your lungs with every thrust, “I can’t hold it— I’m going to cum.”
“Cum for me, princess. Cum around my cock, need to feel you pulse around me,” Bucky groans.
Like the obedient girl that you are, you do. The orgasm wracks through your entire being, zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back lifts off the stone as you gasp, straight into Bucky’s touch. He buries his face into your neck as his body shudders, spilling liquid heat into you.
The stickiness clings to your skin but the waterfall is cooling on your skin as you come down from your high. Bucky slumps on top of you, wet t-shirt between the two of you. You giggle breathlessly against his skin and feel him shake with laughter against you too, all the while his cock is still buried deep inside you. Twitching.
“You’re a bad influence,” you mutter, smiling.
“You’re one to talk, practically jumped me first chance you got,” Bucky chuckles and you hit him with a solid smack to his arm. “Let’s get out of here before you catch a cold.”
He pulls out of you slowly and you can feel his cum trickling down your leg. It stirs warmth inside of you again and, before you could think about quashing how good it feels, you watch as he moves towards the rocks to push himself up and out.
It certainly doesn’t help your still overeager libido to see how his back muscles move, traps flexing, as he lifts himself out before he turns to extend a hand to you. You take it and he looks away as you climb out of the water. He hands you his dry button-up, once again without looking back at you.
“Figured this would be warmer,” he clarifies.
“Thanks,” you mumble and slip your goosebump-riddled arms through the sleeves. The fabric is quick to absorb the water and your fingers make quick work to scrunch up and squeeze out water from your hair. Your hard work, down the drain.
Well, down to the bottom of the pool at least.
“Are you okay? Was I too—”
“Stop,” you wave a hand to halt him, “I’m fine. I’m not made of glass.”
He murmurs an okay but still looks at you with that look in his face. For a moment, you think it’s some form of sympathy, but you quickly realize that it’s awe. He’s looking at you with the kind of adoration that has your heart doing somersaults in your chest.
As fast as that feeling came, the one that follows is from your years of experience: fear. Trust is a fickle mistress in this industry. The last time you slept with someone, you ended up on the front pages of every entertainment site on the planet. Who’s to say this isn’t the same? It’s a quick money grab. Who doesn’t want another scandal with one of the most famous celebrities on the planet? Though, the payout is probably less now that you’ve already had one of these—
“Hey, what’re you thinking about?” Bucky’s hand is warm as it takes yours. His hair is still dripping, droplets landing on the blanket and your thigh as he leans closer. You open your mouth to deny his question, but he’s already shaking his head. “I can tell something’s goin’ on, princess. Tell me so I can fix it.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes. It’s a sweet thought. “It’s a personal thing, don’t worry,” you insist, but he’s not letting you go. His hand squeezing. Your teeth catch your bottom lip before you relent. “Trust. It’s not an easy thing when you’re in the spotlight. I’m tired of constantly second guessing people’s intentions, why they do what they do with me. I’m scared of being the subject of another public issue — mostly because it creates a massive headache for my team, including my dad. I just— I hate that I’m putting those around me in an uncomfortable position of having to defend my actions, even if I’m fully aware some of them are completely defensible, but the general public always has to have a witch on the stands right? It’s just the way the world works. Regardless of whether you’re a real villain or not, you’re put at the stake and subjected to the constant judgment.”
Bucky stiffens, lips tightening. He holds your hands closer to him. “You are not responsible for these shitty people and their behavior. None of this is your fault. You’re living your life, you’re defending yourself. You should never apologize for any of that,” he adds sternly. His hand trembles and his jaw stiffens. The fury rolls off him in waves and your heart liquifies at the sight. “Need you to know that you got a lot of people here — and out there — who love you and will protect you. We don’t give a shit what they say because we know you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
“So as long as you have us around, we won’t let anything happen to you. It’s not because we have to, but because we want to.” Your throat closes and the salt in your tears prick your eyes. Bucky throws an arm around you, pulling you close to kiss the top of your head. “We got you, princess.”
You would think that your unmeasurable need and curiosity would be satisfied from that one time with Bucky Barnes. You’ve never been more wrong. If anything, your desire for him has only grown — you can’t help how distracted you are by his hands, remembering how they feel on your hips, or his eyes that are icy when he’s irritated but thaw when they turn to you, or his cock—
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, drawing you out of your own thoughts.
It is then you realize that you’ve been staring at his lap for far too long to be subtle. His question isn’t innocent. It’s a prompt. An invitation. Safe to say, when you find yourself with your back pressed against the barn walls and Bucky bullying his cock into you as he muffles his moans into your neck, fingers sinking into your ass firm enough to bruise, you accepted that invitation.
Then you stare at his fingers a little too long when the two of you are at the bar for a night out with a few of his friends (who knew that this man even had friends?) and he takes you out the back door and presses his fingers inside you until you’re gasping for air, legs clenching together as he curls them in and whispers how you’re so fuckin’ wet out here in the open where anyone can walk out and see America’s favorite princess getting finger-fucked in an alleyway.
And then again in your childhood bedroom with your creaky bed when your grandma and dad were out. And one more time by the waterfall, this time with your tits pressed against the rocks. And finally in his truck when the two of you don’t quite make it to the drive-in theater he promised.
For once, you’re not thinking too far into the future. Bucky keeps you grounded in the moment. Between the times he spends kissing you, you manage to also get some writing done. Affection bleeding into your melody and lyrics as you pluck the strings to your guitar. Once, Bucky hears you playing a new one in the morning and tells you that that one’s going to be his new favorite song. He tells you that it sounds honest, more… you.
He doesn’t know that it’s inspired by him.
In your last few days, you refuse to worry too much about what this all means once you leave. For all you know, this is an easy, temporary thing for Bucky. You’re a blip, a shooting star that’ll fizzle out the moment you leave.
The thought hurts more than you expect.
However, you at least wake up feeling rejuvenated. Maybe the world hasn’t completely destroyed every piece of you, maybe you can still find her somewhere inside of you. Your phone blares with a shrill noise and you are roused in irritation for the first time in a while.
“What?”
“Lovely way to greet your friend slash fierce protector,” Yelena snaps. You grumble about how early it is and how on earth are you awake right now. She hesitates briefly, which has you peeking an eye open from where your face is mushed against your pillow. “Have you checked your notifications?”
That’s never a good sign.
You push yourself up and lean against your headboard, thumb immediately scrolling through the barrage of messages and news alerts on your screen. Your blood runs cold. The last time this happened—
“I’m sure it’s different,” Yelena chimes in first but your eyes are scanning through every word.
Your name. Bucky’s. Evidence. Sources close to the pair. Another sex scandal. Pictures and pictures and more pictures. Every single news outlet has published grainy pictures of the two of you, photos that look like they’ve been taken from behind bushes and trees. An absolute obliteration of your privacy.
Shame settles firmly in your gut. This is exactly why your dad brought you here — and yet here you are again. Fuck.
“I need to—” your breath catches in your throat. What do you need to do? What can you even do? The damage is done. It’s more red on your ledger and you’re running out of ways to wipe your slate clean.
“Listen,” she interrupts softly, “I don’t want to add more to your plate but I talked to one of the reporters. They were apologetic but they had to report it. It seems like it came from someone who knows what you’ve been up to very well.”
“It’s a small town. Everyone knows what I’ve been doing,” you hiss, “better yet, who I’ve been doing. I just didn’t think anyone would sell me out after the shit I did.”
“You don’t think there’s a chance it could be— no, it couldn’t possibly.” She’s quiet, waiting for you to deny it, but the thickness in your throat doesn’t allow you to. “Right?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I’ve known him two weeks, Yelena. Maybe more if you count the memories I can barely remember but—”
What if this was his plan all along? All those years of tormenting him. All the shitty things you’ve said to him. You acting up—
Been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess.
You shake your head. There’s absolutely no way. He said it in the moment, a comment meant to stir heat between your legs.
But the voice inside your head, the one that insists that you doubt, is louder. It questions everything. Every interaction you’ve had with Bucky. Every touch, every kiss. It burns uncertainty into your skin until you see the creeping skepticism on the back of your hands. Because, at the end of the day, you don’t really know Bucky Barnes. Regardless of how much time you’ve spent with him the last couple of weeks, you’ve learned the hard way that anyone could put on an act, even — no, especially — ones as charming as him.
“You should talk to him first. I doubt he’s the one who spilled.”
You also doubt that you can say for certain that he isn’t. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore how your heart feels like it’s been ripped out of your chest, beating bloody in the palm of his hand. His smile, one you always picture to be soft and sincere, twists into something ugly, something sinister.
You spend the morning scrolling through the articles. Countless pictures of the two of you, all of them similar so you at least know they were captured by one invasive individual. However, the articles are where the meat sits — criticisms of your promiscuity, accusations of being a terrible role model, and even comments on Bucky’s worth as your partner.
It doesn’t sit right with you. Why would Bucky bad mouth himself to the press if he wants to get his fame? To throw the scent of him. Even so, it paints him in a negative light. Any press is good press. Why would he even need the press? Maybe, just like you, he’s trying to make it out of here.
Both the angel and devil on your shoulder are working overtime, stitching doubt and questions into what you thought was a healthy relationship with Bucky. Now the dark clouds are sewn into every memory you’ve had with him.
Coming down for breakfast, you’re sufficiently pissed off. All that hurt has simmered into a rage that you’re ready to channel towards the one person you think deserves it. Luckily for you, he’s standing in the kitchen. Cooking breakfast.
He smiles wide when he sees you, “Hey, I’m making some french— what’s wrong?” The joy wipes off his face to make room for confusion.
“You’re fucking kidding me right,” you snap, arms crossed over your chest. You don’t bother cleaning yourself up, hair in a tangled mess and pajamas rumpled from your deep sleep. You don’t bother paying attention to the way Bucky’s eyes had softened when he saw you in this state.
“Gonna have to give me more than that, princess. I’m not followin’.”
You turn your phone to face him with the article with the headline: America’s Favorite Pop Princess Caught Rolling in the Hay with Local Farmhand. It’s a disgusting piece but all the details are there — censored pictures, firsthand accounts from the source, and the scandalization of it all.
“Maybe I should’ve made you sign an NDA like everyone else. I’m an idiot.”
It takes him a second before he’s whipping his gaze up to you, disbelief scratched into his irises. “What? You think I did this? That I would tell the press about us? That I would do this to you?”
“I don’t know what to think! It doesn’t matter what I think or what I do. This is the shit that I have to deal with and—” and I would never want to put you through this. You swallow that bitter realization. No matter what you do, even if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. God knows what else the press will do to him. “And it doesn’t matter,” you say, defeated. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this.”
Bucky says your name and the sound knicks your heart.
“I should’ve known better,” you mutter, “this shit just isn’t worth dealing with. I should be focused on my next album, focused on writing those songs and getting them to chart. What’s the point of putting myself out there when all I do is end up in the news?”
“Because it’s worth it,” he insists, hands catching your arms. “Please. You gotta believe me, princess. I didn’t do this. I would never do this to you.”
You offer him a wry smile. “That’s what the last guy said too.” Tugging yourself away from him, you rub the places where his touch has burned. “I can’t do this, Buck. I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway and I can’t risk anymore of my career. Every time this shit happens, I cause trouble for the rest of my team, my family.”
“That’s not on you—”
“I know that!” You snap, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m well aware that these are circumstances outside my control. I’m aware that I cannot control people whose entire livelihood depends on me losing mine. It doesn’t change the facts. Even if we keep whatever this thing is going, you and I are going to be dragged through the mud and neither of us will recover.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches, tongue digging into his cheek. “So, what? You’re just going to give up every shot you have at happiness? Life beyond whatever the fuck they’re putting you through? You’re going to let them win?”
“No, I’m playing their game. I don’t have to like it but what choice do I have?”
“Stand up for yourself. Don’t let this shit derail you from what you can do. You have the world at your fingertips, millions who love you — including the very people in this house.”
It’s easier said than done. It’s too tempting to fall into this myth of falling in love, of being allowed to fall in love. Your life isn’t one that permits it. You’ve seen the making and breaking of one too many relationships to believe that it’s possible for someone in your life. The rare few that succeed are lucky — lucky to have found someone in the right time, the right place.
“Appreciate the vote of confidence, but this won’t work, Bucky.”
He looks like he’s about to interrupt again and, for a second, you wish that he does. However, he keeps his lips sealed — and that’s the end of it.
On your last evening, the dinner table is quiet. It’s just you, your dad, and your grandma. A small family affair. When your grandma asks if you’ve invited Bucky, you tell that that you’d rather keep it to a small, intimate dinner. She gives you a suspicious look but doesn’t press further.
As you’re doing the dishes after, your grandma makes sure that your dad is out of earshot when she finally questions you. That is when you tell her everything — the scandal, the media, the pictures. She doesn’t shame you for engaging in extramarital affairs, god knows that’s the least of your problems.
“He wouldn’t do that,” she whispers as you tuck herself into her side.
“I know,” you murmur, “I know you believe in him. I want to believe in him. It’s just hard to draw lines between those you can trust and those you can’t, and I’d rather… not trust anyone at all if those are the two choices I have.”
She flicks your forehead gently. “That’s not the way to live, honey. As hard as it may be, taking those risks are a part of life and — yes, you’ve gotten hurt, but you always bounce back. Always. The people that love you know who you are, they know who’s in the wrong, and it is not you.”
“Thanks, grandma,” you smile, “but it wouldn’t have worked anyway. We live different lives now. He probably wants nothing to do with a girl like me. This life isn’t for everyone — your every move scrutinized and published for everyone to see. It’s a lot to ask of someone.”
Her laugh tinkles through the air. “You’d be surprised.”
Then you’re heading home. The plane rumbles as you climb the stairs up. You take one last look at the land before you, at your grandma who stands at the base of the plane waving. You take a deep breath and then you take your seat.
Los Angeles is the same as you left it. The only difference now is that the paparazzi has been made aware of your arrival at this airport, your flight manifest leaked somehow. You arrive to blinding flashes and questions about your latest tryst, one too many of them asking where this guy is. You grit your teeth and let your dad push through the crowd into the car.
Life is the same. Busier than ever. Now that you’re working on your album full time, it’s hard to find time for anything else — which is ideal because, if you were left alone with your thoughts, you tend to wander to that small town and a certain not-so-small man. The last guy who you had been with already milked his fame and you worry that the media is now hounding Bucky for more details. Guilt carves itself into your bones. These are the days you’re tempted to reach for your phone, to call him and ask him how he’s doing, but you stomp down on that urge.
It’s better this way.
The paparazzi hasn’t let up. They’re at your door, they’re outside the studio, they’re camping out the restaurant that you’re at with Yelena. She gives them the stinkeye and a proper middle finger as the two of you enter.
“So, that’s it then?” She asks when you give her the full rundown of what’s transpired. “You have hot sex with a cowboy and then you go home? You’re really living the Hollywood life.” You give her a look as you take a sip of your third glass of wine. It’s that kind of night. “Your dad seems to like him, which is surprising because he doesn’t like anyone.”
That has you stopping. “What? How do you know that?”
“He told me,” she shrugs, “we were catching up on your schedule for the next couple of months and he mentioned that, despite him wishing you would stay single for the rest of your life, if he had to choose one man for you, that one isn’t a bad choice. I saw the pictures, I’m sure he’s more than enough.” Her wiggling eyebrows has you flinging a fry her way.
“I didn’t know he said that,” you mumble. “Bucky is a good guy. He just… deserves better. He doesn’t want this life.” You gesture to the flashing lights and the men still lingering around the entrance, waiting for your exit. “And I am tired of figuring out who to trust. I don’t want to play this game of roulette and being made a fool. Again.”
“Better a fool that got played once than be wise enough to never fall in love.”
You bark out a laugh. “Just made that up?” She states that it’s a Yelena original. “It’s a nice thought in theory. I don’t know. He hasn’t reached out again since our last conversation. Maybe he’s realized that I’m also not worth all this. It’s a fair assessment, I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone.”
“One day, you’ll realize that you’re worth it all, sweetheart. If anyone knew what it meant to have you love them, they would do anything for you.”
The one thing you did take away from your time in Tennessee is that you do need to stop taking everything they do on the chin. You stand up for yourself when the paparazzi become too demanding and entitled, snapping at them to be more polite at red carpets and telling them off whenever they’re absolutely crossing the line on invading your privacy. While you received backlash for the incident, you also received an outpouring of love. Fans who defend your stance, industry peers who echo your sentiment. It’s one weight off your chest.
But you go home at the end of the evening to your penthouse and the place is much too quiet. Sometimes you can hear Bucky whispering reassurances in your ear and that hallucination is the only thing that keeps you tethered to this life.
When you hear him say your name, a little too clearly this time, you think you may be losing it.
When you see him standing in the middle of your living room, you think your imagination has gone too far.
The second emotion that lands is panic. You’re immediately reaching for your phone. Your grandma can say that he’s a good guy all she wants but when you find this man standing in the middle of your apartment looking every bit as delicious as ever, you should be calling security.
It’s even worse when he takes the phone from your hand before you can ring up your ex-military doorman downstairs. He catches the flash of fear in your eyes and immediately backs up, even seeming a little hurt by that minute reaction.
“Not here to hurt you, princess. Promise. Your dad let me in.”
“My dad? Since when do you talk to my dad?”
“I figured you wouldn’t take my calls so I reached out to him,” Bucky clears his throat. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Sure, that’s what most people do anyway. It doesn’t matter what I want, they always figure out a workaround,” you snip a little too bitterly. A flicker of regret crosses his eyes and that claws at your chest. You take a deep breath. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. It’s fine. He’s met you,” you relent, “what’re you doing here?”
“To set the record straight.” He tells you about how he spent the last few days asking around, investigating on who would be sharing such intimate details about your life with the press. “Everyone there loves you, especially after what you did with the fundraiser. I knew it had to be someone who had an issue with you. That led me to John.”
John… isn’t he the—
“Yeah, that guy,” Bucky drawls out in annoyance. “Apparently he felt jilted that you flirted with him when he caught us one night. He reached out to a tabloid and realized he could get paid, so he started telling every single one of them.”
“Fucker,” you spit out venomously.
“Tell me about it.”
“You could’ve told me all this over the phone.”
He cocks an eyebrow, “Would you really have picked up?”
“An email would’ve sufficed too.”
“I wanted to make sure you couldn’t avoid me.”
Blue washes over you and you can’t help but give into the pull of the water. “I’m sorry for thinking it was you,” you murmur, “I knew — I knew that deep down it wasn’t.”
“You couldn’t have known for certain,” he shakes his head, “you’ve been burned before and you had the right to doubt me. I get that.” His teeth catches his bottom lip, his attempt to hide his sheepish smile. “Plus, if I’m being honest, I’m out here because I missed you.”
Your jaw practically drops to the floor. You manage to rasp, “What?”
He chances a step towards you, cautious. When you don’t move, he takes another. He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. “Didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you walk through those doors. How much I wanted you.”
“Wanted?” You squeak, pain bleeding into your voice.
“Want,” he emphasizes, “Present. Always.”
“You think I’m a bitch,” you choke out.
“No, I think you’ve put up walls around your heart and this picture-perfect image of yours because you know what you have to do to protect your dream,” he smiles softly, “I think you’re smart, funny, incredible. You know exactly how to push my buttons and I don’t want to imagine you doing that with anyone else.”
Your heart soars, climbing to cloud nine and — for a moment, it levitates. For a moment, you have hope. But the realization of where you are, who you are quickly sinks in. “Bucky… this could never work.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, we live in different places.”
“Planes exist.”
“For how long? I’m never— I’m never gonna leave this place and you have your house there and the animals and the town.”
The corners of his lips quirk up. “There are farms everywhere. But you do also realize I can do a lot of things. I’m a certified mechanic and a city like this could always use another one.” His name leaves your lips, but he cuts you off. “I’m laying it all out on the table. I’m ready to make this work because I want you. I want you. The question is do you?”
A whimper crawls out your throat. “It’s going to be a pain to deal with me. Everyone follows me everywhere.”
“I’m one of them. Next question.”
“Paparazzi will be hounding you.”
“I know ten different ways to say fuck off.” You’re scrambling to find more excuses, but all of them die on the tip of your tongue. You don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to scare him away. This is it. “What do you say, princess? Want to take a chance with me?”
He holds out his palm out, fingers stretched out. You look at his hand, one that you’re used to having wrapped around yours. You look at him, those honest blue eyes that never seem to stray far away from you. “Yes,” you whisper.
“Good girl,” he grins as he brushes his lips against yours. “Now, let me take my time showing you what you’ve been missing out on.”
“Better make it worth my time, Barnes,” you laugh breathlessly.
“Always will, princess.”
+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!!! longest bucky fic to date but holy heck, glad i finally finished a wip ha. shoutout to @singulartoast for being my farm x city lover too with her fic!!!
a collection of Royal AU stories centered around a King Steve Rogers and Queen!Reader
You came into this betrothal to Steve Rogers, King of York, with no illusions to the situation – yours was a marriage to ensure the continuation of many generations of alliance and peace between your respective kingdoms. It was your duty as the second-born. Very early, however, you learn what your royal union truly means to you both, and it's more than either of you expect.
Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings] politically arranged marriage, reluctant pining, SMUT (rough fucking and fluffy and intimate sexual situations)
AUTHOR NOTE: The setting for this is a semi-Georgian era in a loose version of a North America based in no reality, only aesthetic and general royal protocols of the time.
Fire Burning From a Cedar Tree [3.4k]
The Thrill of Knowing How Alone We Are [1.2k]
Winter Solstice (response to an ask)
Cold Hands, Warm Hearts [1.3k]
A Shift in the Morning Routine [1.1k]
Love That's Laid Beside Me [5k]
The Silence of the Hushed Sublime [4.8k]
How Long You Would Wait For Me [7.2k]
Extras:
what if Cedar Trees was also an omegaverse?
ask re: kinks and physical intimacy
ask re: their hobbies and leisure time
Resources:
Collection Cover by me
Divider by @firefly-graphics / #evansyhelp
Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.
▸ PAIRING: Farmhand!Bucky Barnes x Pop Star!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, public sex, no condom (don't try this at home), fingering, penetration, creampie, bucky is bossy in bed, brat diva!reader, sex tape leak mentions, hurt/comfort?, bucky calls her princess in a loving and lowk nasty way
▸ WORD COUNT: 23.8K
▸ A/N: i wanted to write a hannah montana: the movie au so i wrote a hannah montana: the movie au. partially inspired by the movie but with my own liberties!! im almost sorry for the length, idk why i cant shut up. thank you again to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab, excited to share my second contribution!!! check out my first one here <3
↤ main masterlist | bwat summer masterlist
Just when you think your father can’t find any new ways to torment you, he stoops to an all-time low. He’s done plenty of insane things throughout your life and your career, risks that you still question to this day whether they were worth taking, but this one takes the fucking cake.
“Turn this plane around right now,” you snap, arms crossed with a scowl stitched into your brows. Your pink heels tap impatiently before him, a new purchase as a reward for finishing one song for the new album.
He doesn’t even look up at you, simply turning another page of his copy of an entertainment magazine. He’s treating you like an insolent brat throwing a tantrum and, suddenly, you’re fifteen again, begging your dad to pack your entire life to move to the city of angels for the sake of your dream. It took months of convincing before he relented — and look where you are today.
However, he knows what he’s doing, thumbing another page and leaning back into the private plane’s cushy leather seat, raising the magazine a fraction higher to match your line of sight. The front page is one you cannot miss, considering it features you and your latest… incident.
Your lips twist. It’s not fair; this one wasn’t even your fault.
The last few headlines before that are a different story: a high-definition photograph of your underwear when you accidentally flashed some sleazy pap who snuck into a very private party while you were blackout drunk, a tell-all from a PA who had gotten a pissed-off tirade after he fucked up your coffee order — after he spilled the first one all over, not one, but two of your photoshoot outfits, and your ongoing feud with international supermodel Natasha Romanoff who had won a part in a Spielberg blockbuster despite zero acting experience and only because she’s good pals with the main sponsor, Tony Stark.
You’re not entirely, solely to blame for these clickbait stories. Your life and actions have been under a microscope twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You’d be lucky if you could take a piss without someone hiding inside your toilet. Paparazzi are constantly camped outside of your apartment building, so much so that management has had to bump maintenance fees for more extensive security measures. Some days, you think you should just move to the peace and quiet of a Hollywood gated community.
But that’s never been you — there’s a reason why you moved away from your hometown, why you wanted to chase bigger and brighter dreams. What’s the point if you end up isolating yourself again from the rest of the world?
Unfortunately, this life under scrutiny — combined with the fact that the deadline for your next album is coming up quick — is not one for the weak of heart. You think you’ve trained yourself enough to survive the criticism of strangers, but your patience and limited kindness have worn particularly thin as of late. Your record label, your stylist, and your manager are all hounding you for updates, wondering if they could start preparing for your single. Your little (big) flare-ups are no excuse, but you were hoping that your dad, of all people, as your parent and your manager, would understand.
Now he’s committed the biggest betrayal of all.
You should be on your way to New York. A monthlong schedule filled with fall Fashion Week preparations, meetings with casting directors for movies with guaranteed Oscar nominations, and lots and lots of aperol spritzes to distract you from your thoughts. Anything but write another mindless album of pop hits that the general masses enjoy.
Instead of fun-in-the-sun in the big apple, you hear the pilot announce after you’re in the air that you’re on the way to bumfuck Tennessee.
The stewardess looks anxiously between the two of you, lips quivering and hands flying like she can do anything to ease your rising temper.
“I paid for this private charter,” you growl, “I can turn it back around if I want to.”
“Booking’s under my name, darling.”
“Paid for with money that I earned. I have people I have to meet, things I have to do. You can’t just drag me away for a trip down memory lane. These are insane opportunities that won’t come twice. What kind of manager are you?”
“The kind that is your dad first,” he gives you a pointed look.
“Is this because of what happened? You know that one isn’t my fault!”
He doesn’t say anything.
“You know it isn’t.”
“Regardless of what happened, this break should do you some good. A little bit of grass, a lot more fresh air—”
You deadpan, “It smells like literal horse shit everyday.”
“Let’s not get into the technicality of things. The point is you could use a break.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m your manager, so I get to decide it for your career. You keep going down this path and who knows where you end up? Trust me, honey, rock bottom is a long, hard fall.”
“You would know,” you mutter under your breath.
The moment those words leave your lips, remorse floods your system. Your eyes flick up to meet his. It’s not hurt, it’s not disappointment. It’s sympathy. You’ve just insulted your own father and he’s pitying you.
Perhaps rock bottom isn’t a long way down after all.
“I’m sorry,” you quickly sigh, “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know you didn’t.” He gets to his feet, pulls you close to press a reassuring kiss on your forehead. “But this is how I know you need this. Trust me on this one, the weeks will fly by.”
You jerk back. “Weeks?!”
Your childhood bedroom feels like a breeding ground for anxiety.
With your bags with New York-esque clothes tucked away into a corner, you stand there with the door closed as your eyes travel around the space. Posters of pop icons that you’ve now befriended and adopted as mentors, aging floral wallpaper that’s peeling in some corners from the years of humidity, a vanity that looks like it belongs in an antique shop from the seventeenth century.
Music filters muffled through the gap underneath your door, a sound that you haven’t heard in quite some time but still echoes like a distant memory. It’s one of your grandma’s favorites, and she’s no doubt leading the charge with the rest of the family and friends who live nearby. They tried to keep your welcome party small, trusted confidantes who wouldn’t breathe a word to the press.
The only thing that’s drowning out the noise downstairs is your publicist and best friend, Yelena, who has somehow worked through every expletive in the Russian dictionary until she came up with more creative and colorful ones of her own.
“You better tell your dad to drive your ass back to New York right now. I don’t care if you have to use a beat-up pick-up truck from the barn next door but we have people waiting for you. We need to get some damage control done before it all goes to shit.”
You sigh. Yelena gives a little uh-oh. “That’s not going to happen. You know my dad; when he’s got his mind made up like this, nothing’s going to change it. He thinks I need a break.”
She says something else in her mother tongue, one that you’ve learned over time translates to something along the lines of I’ll break something else of theirs. “Do you need me to book you a new flight right now? We can literally land in the cornfields in like two hours and bring you to New York. I promise you I’ll make it happen.”
Do you want to be disowned and be shown your father’s look of utter disappointment that will stick in your people-pleasing brain for the rest of your life? No.
Sighing, you glance out the window again. Endless stretches of open fields, green on green on green. You haven’t seen this much green since you face planted during rehearsal for a summer show in Central Park.
“No, I’ll be fine. If I behave and play along, then maybe he’ll let me come back earlier. Two weeks is a long—”
“Two weeks?! Do you know how long it took me to get on Nolan’s calendar? That man is booked and busy, more so than the mayor of New York.”
Wincing, you bite down on another upset noise. “I know. I’m trying to get out of here earlier, but we’ll see how it goes.”
“I can come visit you, you know. Try and talk to him.”
It’s tempting. Yelena has a way of convincing people to do her bidding, even if it means doing a bit of arm-twisting. Literally. You’ll spare your dad from that today. She’s loyal to a fault and the last thing you want is a broken arm on his body.
“No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Silence settles on the other end. A brief pause before you can practically hear Yelena’s voice melt, the rough curl of her tongue unfurling into concern. “Will you?”
You can’t say for certain. You haven’t been back here since you packed up your entire life and moved. This place feels familiar, but it’s no longer your home. Nothing here feels like you anymore; it’s like being in the mind of a stranger. A stranger who knows exactly what bone to pick with you.
You hate to admit it but being back here feels as if you’re back in square one. The place where it all started. You can still hear the ghost of your songs, scribbled messy into a songbook that you haven’t touched in years, because that isn’t what the world wants. Your fingertips tingle with the memory of learning how to play the guitar for the first time, testing out your dad’s old songs on his very first guitar that he gifted you for your tenth birthday.
Then you started making some of your own, the kind of music you’ve always loved and ones that touched the heart. Call it bias but your family always thought you had the talent to make it out there. It’s the whole reason you had the confidence to make the move.
But the world has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. You learned how to toughen your shell, block out all the negative so that you can keep pushing through. Because when you’re at the bottom, the only way to go is up.
Now that you’re at the top, you don’t want to find out if you’ve reached the ceiling.
This is a part of your life you don’t like to dwell on, anxiety attached to the fear of failure painted onto the decor every time you look at these four walls.
“I will be,” you murmur.
“Maybe your dad is right. This is a good chance for you to get away from all the drama. The cameras. Unplug for a little bit.”
“Alert the media, I think Yelena Belova might have lost her darn marbles.”
“Darn marbles? The countryside has changed you, little one.”
A giggle slips past your lips. “Alright, diva.”
“Let me get your schedule sorted and I’ll check back in with you. In the meantime, try to have fun?”
Fun and this bumfuck town are complete opposites. You know from firsthand experience.
“You’re cute when you’re being funny,” you drawl.
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
Then you’re left in the silence once more.
There are very few things in life that can faze you nowadays. Being raised in a tough, soul-sucking industry will do that to you. Your days have been one thing after another, a schedule packed to the brim that insomnia has become a welcome friend.
You’ve gotten used to drowning and choking on the sea that you can’t taste the difference between clean air and saltwater anymore. You adapt. You learned what it means to come up for air when you need to and swallow that intense, briny ocean when your head is being dunked into it.
Still, things have always happened within your control.
This situation right here is out of your control.
It’s fazing you.
You’re not talking about your dad being progressive and caring more about his baby girl’s mental health, placing it above her career that’s paid off the mortgage on this Tennessee home plus a few others scattered throughout the world.
No, you’re talking about these damn chickens.
You really should’ve just kept your mouth shut and stayed in your room for the next two weeks. If you could convince your dad that you’re sane enough to survive that, he’ll surely let you go free. But you got impatient, you figured that if you could make friends with nature once more, he would release you into the wilderness again.
Here you are now having a staredown with five chickens who have been eyeing you like feed. They know an easy target when they see one and a pop star who hasn’t touched a pail in decades, nor has seen a real-life chicken outside of television segments recently, is definitely one.
They’ve squawked. They’ve pecked. They’ve chased you around this coop, turning you into a headless chicken.
There’s about to be more than one headless chicken if these little shits don’t let you get their eggs.
You now learn that there are only three things that can stand up to you — your dad, Yelena, and these damn chickens. They let out another battle cry before rampaging towards you again, yanking a yelp from your lips as the bucket clangs in your hands.
Fifteen minutes later and you’re flat on your ass for the second time that morning, straw entwined into your hair and probably chicken shit stuck to your sequined denim shorts. Still no eggs. It isn’t the most ideal farming outfit, but you packed for a city, not for a tiny town.
It’s only when you’re this close to giving up that you hear the deep rumble from the door.
“Need some help?”
A snarky “you think?” sits on the tip of your tongue as you whirl around from your spot in the ground. That response dies fast when your eyes land on the six-foot man before you.
Your mouth dries when you first notice the cowboy hat. God, you’ve always been a sucker for a good cowboy. It’s the country girl in you that never left. Regardless of how many polished and shiny men you’ve met in Hollywood, nothing beats a rugged cowboy with dirty hands and broad shoulders and–
He tips his hat back slightly to get a better look at you. Blue eyes. Bluer than the late morning sun outside. Bluer than the sapphires you have in your safebox back in your penthouse. His pink lips are curled into an amused smile as he appraises the state of you on the floor.
Fuck, he’s hot.
He looks like your biggest mistake waiting to happen. He looks like he belongs on the front page of Vogue rather than on a farm. He’s got a coil of rope hanging from his shoulders and the filthy image that invades your mind should put you in the asylum.
High risk, high reward, your brain and the heat between your legs whisper traitorously.
But then you remember the “incident” and you remember how many times you’ve had people approach you for their fifteen seconds of fame, and an irritated glare descends on your face. He doesn’t look affected by the quick change of emotions; in fact, he looks even more delighted that he’s put that look on your face.
“If you could murder some chickens for me, that would be great.”
“We try not to eat our friends here, we usually get ours from old man Jenkins down the road.”
God, even his stupid voice is hot. This is not going to go well for your undomesticated libido. Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson with sex and men.
“Alright, then a few eggs should do the trick. Enough for breakfast for three.”
“Four.”
You cock an eyebrow.
“I’m joinin’ for breakfast so it’ll be breakfast for four. Why don’t you go on back up to the house? I can handle things here.”
I’d like you to try and handle me. Preferably naked in five different positions in bed.
What you need is a vibrator, the mental image of this man, and ten minutes alone in your room. That should do the trick.
(You’re lying to yourself because you know that wouldn’t be enough but it may be sufficient to sate some of your curiosity and this hungry little thing between your legs.)
“And who are you again?”
The corners of his lips tip up higher. “Don’t remember me?”
“I’ve met a lot of people. I don’t remember everyone.”
“I’d think you would remember the boy you tortured more than the chickens are doing to you now.”
Your brows pinch in a confused frown. “Who?”
“You pick on all boys, princess? Or am I special?”
Fuck. Warmth creeps up your cheeks at the insulting pet name, and his stupid flirty tone, and you find yourself glaring at him again. “Only the ones that clearly deserve it.”
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I’m not the only one then.”
If there’s anything worse than a man, it’s a man who knows exactly what to say to have you twirling your hair in your fingers like a schoolgirl.
“Well, he-who-must-not-be-named, I don’t really want to hear an I-told-you-so from my dad so how about you get me a few eggs and we can go our separate ways?”
The man smiles. It’s not a smile you trust. “Anyone ever teach you to say please and thank you or did the city take all your southern manners?”
“Please,” you grit out, caving far too quickly — but you prefer not to have your dad come out to check on you and realize you really have lost your roots.
His eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that makes your stomach flip. He looks like he’s about to say something else, lips parting in preparation but then he shakes his head with a low chuckle before he easily navigates towards the nesting boxes. The chickens flock around him eagerly, none of them attacking him the same way they’ve been coming at you.
With ease, he nabs a few fresh eggs. He places them into a basket, one that he then hands over to you.
“Thanks,” you mutter.
Your fingers brush over his as you take the basket from his hand, a spark crackling between your fingertips that zings straight through your core. It’s unexpected and you jump back slightly at the feeling. His eyes flick up to meet yours — there’s something unnerving about them. Too blue, too earnest. Too knowing. Like he knows something you don’t.
You ignore that feeling, kicking it to the curb before it can take root inside your vulnerable mind.
He makes a gesture towards the door. “Shall we?”
The man doesn’t try to make any more conversation as the two of you venture back towards your house — no, your grandma’s house. In fact, he seems deep in thought; mouth pressed into a firm line and brows slightly furrowed. He’s even taken off his hat, holding it to his chest as his fingers rake through his thick brunette hair.
Seriously, frustratingly hot.
You force your eyes away from him for the remainder of the walk. When you come through the kitchen doors, your dad and grandma are right where you left them. They look mildly surprised to see you, probably in one piece. “Farm-fresh eggs ready for breakfast! How would you like ‘em? Scrambled? Sunny side up?”
The two look at each other then at the man hovering close behind you.
“Oh, I see you’ve met Bucky!”
Only Buc-ee you know is down Route 40. Who the hell is Bucky?
“Ma’am. Sir. Morning.”
“What a lovely day of reunions,” she chirps.
Reunions? You don’t get a chance to ask when your father holds up the perfectly-intact eggs. “You didn’t have any trouble with the chickens, darlin’? They can be nasty. Been a while since you’ve done it.”
You can hear Bucky’s cocky grin. You ignore it and opt for a bright smile at your family. “Of course not. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
As they turn away to begin cooking, you feel a tickle in your ear.
“They teach you to lie in those acting classes, princess?” Bucky’s voice is close — too close. He’s ducked his head behind you, lips grazing the shell of your ear with his whisper.
You swiftly leap away from him with a glare. “Yeah, same place they teach me to stay the fuck away from condescending, attractive men.”
His lips twitch. “Attractive, huh?”
“Don’t act surprised. You know what you are. I know what you are and I know what not to trust.”
“You don’t know me, princess.”
Your expression goes ice cold, a hiss slipping between your teeth. “I’m not a princess.”
“Five-time Grammy winner, America’s pop princess,” he recites and you nearly get whiplash.
That was your introduction for a recent awards show you attended as a presenter. The fact that he knows it— you didn’t trust him before, you trust him even less now.
“Stalker much?”
“Your grandma was watching it, I was helping her fix the kitchen faucet.”
You didn’t even know your grandma kept up with your activities, last you heard she was struggling to even work the new television upgrade you got her. It was a gift of part love and part apology for not making it home for Christmas. She always sends quick texts whenever you release a new song or win an award. The last few months have been turbulent. You haven’t had the time to respond to her texts, let alone check in over a phone call, when you’re prioritizing work opportunity emails.
Even when you do get the chance, video calls mask most of the fine lines on her face. Only now do you see how much she’s aged.
A piece of your heart breaks with guilt. You’ve been so focused on your own life and your own work that you haven’t had the chance to pause and look back at everyone else who’s supported you. Your grandma has been your biggest cheerleader from day one, arguing against your dad to support your dreams.
After all, she’s constantly calling you her favorite granddaughter (her only one, mind you).
Bucky must sense your mood because he then tries to remedy the situation, “She’s doing fine. She misses you a lot, takes every chance she gets to talk about everything you’re doing. God forbid anyone try to badmouth you in this town; with her influence, that person is shunned within seconds.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat at the thought. She’s always been a firecracker, it’s where you inherited your temper and energy from.
“It’s been a busy few months,” is all your manage to say. Your throat tightens and you blink away the tears. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of this man who looks like he feeds on girls’ tears.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Your lips pinch as you turn to him with an annoyed look. “You didn’t have to.”
“This is gonna be a fun two weeks, princess.” He throws you one last smile over his shoulder before he joins your family.
The next few days don’t get any better. Your grandma’s been so busy with an issue in town that you’re been mostly left to your own devices.
By that, you mean you’ve been left at the beck and call of one Bucky Barnes.
Bucky Barnes who you learn is the farmhand who’s been tasked to keep all of the animals alive, including your horse that you haven’t seen in some time. She’s one of the only good things left in this place, one of the things you regret leaving behind. Winter is a little antsy when you first approach her.
“She doesn’t do well with strangers.”
Your lovely homecoming is quashed when you hear that familiar voice interject. “I know that. She’s mine.”
“I know,” Bucky echoes with a small smile. “Wanna ride her?”
For a second, you’re embarrassed that you feel a spark of fear. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a horse, trading for a different kind of horsepower that’s much safer and faster. You would hate for Bucky — your new arch nemesis — to see you fail.
“Maybe later.”
He looks at you like he knows, that ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.
You learned that the two of you were raised together, despite having no recollection of it. Apparently you had gone through all of grade school together but you’ve met enough people that you can’t seem to remember the children you spent time with — no matter how many times they try to slide into your DM’s with “Oh my god, we went to school together! Can I get some tickets?”
Somehow, you doubt Bucky is the type to slide into anyone’s messages. He probably doesn’t even have social media; the man acts like a dinosaur sometimes when you mention your popularity on certain apps as reason why you shouldn’t be getting your hands dirty and he simply blinks and congratulates you. Then he hands you a shovel to help him with the horses.
That history seems to matter as much to you as it does to him. He still calls you princess with that patronizing tone; sometimes you think there’s a soft tinge to his voice but that thought evaporates the moment he rolls his eyes when you can’t seem to do anything to help around the house.
He also seems to have a problem with the way you dress.
“Really? You’re going to town in that?”
You look down at your silk lace top complemented by the cutest denim skirt tailored to your shape, a pair of low black heels on your feet. “What’s wrong with this?”
Bucky’s gaze traces the length of you. When blue sweeps over you, warmth sinks into your bones again. He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat — and you apparently seem to like it.
“I packed for New York, this is as casual as it gets.”
He stares are you for a brief second again before he shrugs off his flannel, draping it over your shoulders. You’re too stunned to move. He takes this moment to wrangle your arms through the sleeves.
“I’m not wearing this,” you deadpan, raising your arms to find that the sleeves droop lower than your fingertips.
“It looks nice.”
It certainly does, but it smells like him and that scent — masculine, earthy, and a touch of cocky — seems to rouse that inappropriate beast inside of you from its slumber. The one that growls possessively whenever someone comes too close to Bucky or one that salivates over the sight of his exposed arms whenever he’s lifting bales of hay.
Instead of acknowledging his compliment, you roll your eyes. “Whatever.”
“I think this would help with your whole effort of going incognito in town.”
“I have some glasses and a hat to go undercover. It usually works. I’m this generation’s Clark Kent. But, hey, if I get recognized, I want to make sure I look good.”
Bucky blinks at you. “You always look good.”
And you’re not sure what to say to that.
But when you do get spotted by two teenage girls later that day and they fawn over how good you look, you can’t help but shoot him a smug smile.
The two of you disagree on most things; you can probably count on one hand how many things you do agree on, including the fact that you disagree on a lot of things. That and how your grandma is the most awesome person in this city, but that’s not news.
She worries about the two of you being at each other’s throats, biting remarks flung across the room until she has to tell the two of you to shut up and sit down for dinner — which is a whole other question because why is he always here?
While Bucky pokes fun at you all the time for your incompetence, you also take your shots at him. Harmless ones.
One time you found him asleep on the couch downstairs after you finish doing your nails, so you decided to do his. He ends up with neon pink on his toes and blood red on his fingers. You snicker to yourself thinking you’ve just done something to get on his nerves.
Except, it doesn’t. Instead, he walks around proudly. Nails gleaming in the sun whenever he’s doing work and he doesn’t break a sweat. He even gets compliments on them.
It sours your mood — partly because your ruse didn’t work, but mainly because that confidence is stupidly hot. You don’t need another reason to find him attractive when you’ve already got a list longer than the Nile.
When your grandma tells you to be nicer to him, you’re extra prickly because— “Why do I have to be nicer to him when he’s the one being annoying with me? Aren’t I supposed to be resting? Manual labor is not part of that agenda.”
“You did all this when you were younger, sweetheart. It’s like riding a bike.”
“Riding a bike didn’t have me breaking my fresh manicure,” you say pointedly. “And I didn’t have anyone bossing me around. Being told what to do by someone my age versus by my dad are two completely different things.”
Your grandma only laughs, stroking your cheek like she finds this little tantrum endearing. You lean into her touch, her fingers softened by the years. “He’s just a kid pulling on his crush’s pigtails.”
His crush. You would find it cute (you do find it cute) if you weren’t so miffed after you chipped your index finger trying to lift a bag of feed for the horses. When you told Bucky, he only quirked his eyebrow at you before returning to his own duties.
So no, he doesn’t have a crush on you. In fact, you’re convinced that he hates you. In his mind, you’re probably this diva who lost her roots and whines about every single thing in her life — which isn’t incorrect per se, but he has no right to dislike you for that. He doesn’t even know you. He doesn’t know the shit you’ve been through to make it in the industry, how many times you’ve had to grit out a smile at shitty producers, even shittier paparazzi, and everyone in between.
If he really does have a crush on you, he sure as hell has a crap way of showing it.
“Well, we’re not kids anymore,” you huff, “and I don’t like bullies.”
Your grandma gives you a look as she leafs through her farm ledger. The numbers look alright from where you’re sitting, nothing in the red, which is a good sign. Part of the reason why you’re so adamant about being and staying successful is for her; you never want her to want for anything.
“You do know you were the one who had him crying growing up. Poor boy put up a lot with you forcing bugs onto him and teasing him for falling off a horse lord knows how many times.”
Oh. Your cheeks warm at the thought. Maybe you do have some vague memory of a gangly kid who wouldn’t stop weeping no matter how many times you tried to coo him to quiet down, lest you risk the wrath of your father. Again.
“Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a crybaby then,” you shrug instead with a huff.
Your grandma’s grin stretches a little wider. “I think you even made him play house once. We thought it was adorable. You had him stay at home with the baby while you went off to work. Singing your silly heart out to the rest of us before coming back to him.”
Oh god. You’ll never live this down. So maybe Bucky does have some right to abusing his power for the sake of tormenting you. From what your grandma’s shared, it sounds like you’ve put him through the wringer.
Then again, Bucky has grown — and he’s grown a lot. His shoulders have filled out, hair darker than his horse’s mane, thighs thicker than a tree trunk—
You put the brakes on those thoughts. You really need to get yourself a fix. Or get yourself fixed at this rate.
What you need is one really good dick. A good fuck to wipe all of these thoughts from your mind. The only problem with being so famous is the need to keep your private life private. You don’t need any more scandals on the front page and you certainly don’t know Bucky well enough to trust him — no matter how good his dick looks in the imprint of his jeans.
“He’s a good one, you know,” your grandma smiles softly. “Been with the family for years. Always around to help whenever needed.”
You hate to point out the obvious but— “That’s his job, grandma.”
“He’s also one of your biggest supporters,” she says with a look. “Has all of your albums in his house. Sits right here next to me in front of the TV whenever you’re on it.”
Your jaw practically drops to the ground. “That’s ridiculous,” you sputter, “there’s no way.”
“Yes, you should ask to see his place sometime. He’s quite proud of the collection, even said that he’s going to ask you to sign them one day.”
You have a feeling he’s burned down his collection after meeting you again and realizing what a raging bitch you are. Plus, the thought of asking to come over to Bucky’s place feels a touch too desperate for your personality, even if there is nothing you want more. Imagine yourself getting bent over backwards on his kitchen island with your album covers staring right back at you.
“All I’m saying is, give him a chance. He’s not a bad fella.”
You try. You really do, but Bucky somehow always finds a way to push your buttons. Like today, he decides to reward your hard work with lunch in town at Sal’s Diner. It’s the best diner here — arguably the only diner here.
“No, I’ve been coming here since I was a baby. Pretty sure my dad fed me the French toast here to help me teeth,” you argue, cutting a fat slice of your dish.
You caved into ordering this meal that would give your nutritionist a stroke. Deep fried, juicy toast dripping with maple syrup and topped off with a dollop of house whipped cream and slices of fresh strawberries and blueberries. You’ll allow yourself this cheat meal if it means proving Bucky wrong.
That and you’ve been on a strict diet of certain vegetables and proteins for your Fashion Week fittings, so this is a welcome change. Think of it as a form of protest against your father bringing you here unwillingly.
“You’re out of your mind,” Bucky chuckles. “Everyone knows that Sal’s crown jewel is his waffles.”
Said waffles sit before him. A stack of perfectly crispy, doughy goodness. The perfect burn on the outside complemented by the soft chew on the insides. Topped off with the same maple syrup and cream and fruits, the only difference rests in the vessel for the brunch dessert.
You can’t tell what you want to eat more — your toast, his waffles, or him.
He looks even more delectable today with his hair disheveled from the sun and sweat. His beard has grown out a little more to frame those pink, kissable lips that Hollywood wishes they could naturally have.
“Alright, try yours then try mine. We’ll decide here and now.”
You’ve never once backed down from a challenge so you eat yours first. Delicious, the flavor is nostalgic and the toast is tender and sweet. You recall all the times your dad brought you here, you with snot in your nose after a kid picked on you. You vaguely remember another boy next to you, blue-eyed and a dark ring around his eye, fists with red scrapes clenched next to his stack of waffles.
Based on your grandmother’s stories, said boy must be Bucky. He doesn’t seem like a troublemaker but you wouldn’t be surprised if he was the type to pick fights with other people. That’s what he’s been doing with you all this time.
“Now mine,” he says and swaps your plates, smirking a little too wide as he watches you grudgingly slice into his waffle. You lift it into your mouth, your teeth sink in, and— fuck.
It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. The texture, the flavor, the balance. The combination of the crunch and the soft give of the waffle against your teeth. The square gaps filled with the perfect amount of cream and syrup, serving as a ship to carry the sweetness onto your tongue. The french toast soaks it in a little too much and the texture is all around too soft now that you’ve had a taste of this.
The waffles are Sal’s masterpiece.
Your eyes flick up to Bucky, he catches your gaze immediately. His lips tug up a little higher.
You quickly school your expression.
You’d never admit this. You’d never admit that Bucky’s right. Over your dead body.
“It’s fine,” you shrug nonchalantly.
“Bullshit,” he laughs, leaning back against the booth chair with arms crossed. His biceps flex and your teeth tingle with the urge to sink into them. “You like it better.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you respond, reaching over to switch your plates around again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my lunch now.”
When you take another bite of your dish, it no longer tastes the same. The magic has faded and now you can’t stop comparing how mushy it is compared to Bucky’s mindblowingly scrumptious pick. You bite back a cringe when your teeth clack together, overestimating how much effort it would take to break through the food.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, princess,” he grins, “I can see right through you. If you ask nicely, I’ll take your toast and you can have my waffles.”
“I’m fine,” you grit out again.
“You sure? Do you really want to die on this hill?”
“This is the best dish here and you can take your opinion and shove it up your—” the waitress gives you a look from behind the counter and you quickly shut your mouth.
Bucky tilts forward this time with a glint in his eye, arms propped up on the table. You don’t like where this is going. “I think I know what the problem is.” You cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you just don’t know what good food is anymore. All those fancy, tiny, overpriced tasting menus have altered your tastebuds.”
A scoff falls from your lips. “They have not! Those are incredibly refined and curated dishes that the chefs dedicate their entire lives to. It’s definitely different from a diner that serves greasy food that only you can enjoy.”
His lips twist, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well then maybe you’ve just forgotten your roots, princess. All those years in the city and suddenly you think you’re too good for everyone else here, including your family.”
The words knock the breath right out of your lungs. It grips your heart and rips it from your chest. As if your own guilt isn’t enough, having Bucky of all people dogpile on what a terrible granddaughter you’ve been isn’t exactly ideal. Between losing quality time with your grandma and the sound you’ve nurtured here that brought you your success, one feeling crawls over your skin.
Fear.
Fear that you no longer know who you are anymore, a cog in the machine so desperate to keep turning. Fear that you’ve become what you hate: fake, pretentious, disgustingly greedy for wealth that you don’t even need. Fear that, if you lose all you have now, when you’ve already lost everything you had, what would be left for you?
Because that’s the thing they don’t tell you about making it to the top — to get there, you have to make plenty of sacrifices. One you convince yourself are worth taking, until you’re looking down at what you’ve left behind and you realize that nothing will ever be enough to make up for it.
Perhaps your dad is right. The fall to rock bottom is a long and arduous journey, a path where you’re forced to reckon with everything you’ve lost and everything you have to lose.
A warm hand covers yours on the table, dragging you out of your reverie. Bucky’s no longer looking at you with disdain or arrogance. Worry is now carved into the furrow of his brows as he squeezes your hand. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
You jerk your hand away from him, lips pressed into a thin line as you swallow the lump in your throat. You know how to stop yourself from crying, you know how to not show your weakness. You’ve done it countless times before to survive; you can do it again with him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“It’s whatever,” you mutter.
“No, it’s not whatever. I crossed a line.”
You don’t appreciate the look on his face. It’s an expression akin to pity. You’ve gotten enough of those looks your entire life, you don’t need it from him. It makes you sick to your stomach. You’re a strong, successful woman who’s achieved everything you’ve ever wanted; there is no reason to pity you.
In lieu of responding, you grab a few bills from your purse and toss it onto the table. “I’m full. I’m going to head out first.”
Ignoring Bucky’s shit, wait, hold on, you’re slipping out of the booth and stomping out into the streets. The breeze outside is helpful against the heat flaming your cheeks as you bite back tears.
Deep down, you know that it isn’t Bucky you’re upset with; nothing he said was untrue. In fact, you hate that it hits a little too close to home.
You start walking — somewhere, anywhere — just away from there. You need space, you need room to breathe and digest what this means for you. It’s one thing to think about how much you’ve lost, circling the issue without calling it out directly, it’s another for someone to point it out so blatantly to you.
“Wait,” Bucky’s voice reaches you before you feel the hand around yours. “Don’t go.”
“Let me go, Bucky.”
“How are you going to head home?”
“I’ll hitchhike if I have to,” you snap.
Bucky looks conflicted again, baby blues darker than usual. “Don’t do that, that’s not safe,” he murmurs, “please. You can be mad at me, I deserve it, but let me take you back. I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He licks his lips. “I know you don’t need it. You’re perfectly fine on your own. I get it. But I want to help, so please just take the offer.”
You yank your wrist away from him. “I’m good. Seriously. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I don’t need to do anything. I can’t do anything but worry when it comes to you,” he practically spits out, “I wish I could stop worrying, but I can’t. Not when you look like you’ve lost everything good in your life. Not when you don’t smile the way you used to.”
That stops you, your movements halting.
“It’s not just your grandma who’s concerned about you. Do you think I don’t notice how distant you sound in interviews? Or all that shit in the papers?”
“Go fuck off your high horse, Barnes.”
“I’m not on my goddamn high horse,” he defends, “I’m just saying it all sounds like a cry for help, okay.”
“Oh, so you think you know me now?”
“I know you. I’ve always known you. I was there defending you from those stupid kids growing up. I was there for you to pick on whenever you wanted to destress. I was there to support you and your dreams because I believed in you.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. There’s a lump lodged there that has your lungs constricting. The next words that come out of your mouth are a feeble attempt to hold your ground. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not the person you knew.”
“Jesus, you think I don’t know that?” He whispers, “I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I’m saying that you don’t have to do it all alone. You have so many people who love you — your grandmother, your dad, m—” He stops himself, seeming to bite his tongue. “All I’m saying is that you’re not alone. You don’t have to be.”
“I—” you find yourself at a loss for words for the first time in a very long time.
Before you can find the right response, you hear your name followed by a blinding flash in your eyes. It takes you a second to register that there is a camera in your face and the grating noise in your ears is this man bombarding you with questions.
“Is this your new man? Have you moved on already? Tell us who you are, man!” More flashes. More questions.
Your blood runs cold.
You should’ve known that trouble would follow you here. You’re quick to turn around, ready to remove yourself from the situation and avoid giving him the content he wants.
The man lets out a low whistle, smirking. “Oh come on, sweetheart, give me a smile. Your fans miss you back home. Everyone thinks you got kidnapped.”
Don’t give in. Don’t respond to this fucking moron.
“Aw, you’re always so sweet in front of the press. Now that it’s just me, you won’t even give me one smile? What kind of celebrity are you? You want everyone to think you’re a fucking bitch?”
Gritting your teeth, you continue brushing past people, Bucky close on your tail, and the guy still hot on your heels. He’s still lobbing words at you, ridiculous comments like just one smile, baby and don’t be a stuckup bitch.
You don’t respond. You’ve been taught better. If you give them the time of day, they’ll keep coming back for more. Ignore them long enough and they’ll label you a cunt and move on with their lives.
However, it’s only when he brings Bucky into it that you stop dead in your tracks. “This your new man? I can give him that publicity he wants right now. How’s she in bed? Did you make a video too? Come on, give me a quote and I’ll even put your face on the paper.”
“Will you piss the fuck off?” You snap.
His lips curl into a smirk far too proud for a man of his occupation. “Pop princess has claws. You wanna curse for the camera too? Bet your kiddie fans will love that.”
“I am here on vacation. Leave us alone.”
“It comes with the territory, honey. Now that I have you, why don’t you tell me about this stud, huh? What’s your name, man? You give me a tell-all on how good she looks in bed and I’ll pay you. Triple if you’ve got a video like the last one.”
Bucky steps forward, clearly ready to be your knight in shining armor, but you move faster to put a hand on his chest. As much as you dislike Bucky, you don’t want him to be subjected to the bullshit that these tabloids publish. He doesn’t need his face splashed on the front page just because he’s doing a good thing and taking you out to lunch.
Shaking your head, you signal him to back down. He doesn’t seem to like that idea, frowning until you pin him with a glare that has him pursing his lips.
“Just ignore him. He’s not worth it.”
“Whatever she’s offering you, I’ll give you more! Name your price.”
His jaw clenches, blue eyes sparking with the kind of rage you’ve never seen with him. “Leave it alone, Buck.”
His eyes melt, if only a fraction.
You don’t try to decipher that look. Instead, you turn around and point your finger at this man. “You leave me alone or I’ll sick the cops on your ass.”
“Public space, sweetheart. I can do whatever I want.”
“And when I get you barred from every press event I attend? I’m about to file a restraining order if you keep harassing me like this — with plenty of witnesses at that. Think about what you’re doing before you keep running your mouth like that.”
With that, you shove Bucky forward and back into his truck. The two of you peel off before the man can chase you back down again.
It is only in the quiet of the vehicle that you finally hear the thundering in your chest. Your heart hammering in your veins like it’s about to jump out of your chest. With a hand over your heart, you try to take in what shaky breaths you manage. You pull your phone out of your pocket to text your dad, but your fingers are trembling too much for you to type properly.
Cursing under your breath, you type, backspace, type, backspace, until you’re frustrated and flinging the device onto the dashboard with a loud clatter.
“Shit, sorry,” you wince.
“Hey, you’re good. You’re safe,” Bucky whispers next to you, his voice calm as it slips between the crevices of your palpitating heart.
His hand reaches out to close around yours on your thigh. He squeezes, thumb brushing over the back of it in circular motions. You’re momentarily distracted by the act, eyes following the repetitive movement until your heartbeat matches its rhythm. The ringing in your ears quiets, fading into a light buzz before it eventually ceases to let you focus on the rumble of the truck over dirt roads instead.
Bucky pulls to a stop outside the house. Your house. Your grandma’s house.
His hand is still on yours.
You pull it away quickly. Habit. You’re always alert, never sure if there are any more cameras waiting to catch you slipping.
“You’re fine. He didn’t follow us. I did a few reroutes to make sure,” he murmurs.
“Thank you,” you exhale slowly. “I’m sorry. Shit, this whole thing is so stupid.”
Bucky tilts his head. “Why are you sorry?”
You open your mouth, only to realize that you don’t have an easy answer. “Um, well, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”
“His own actions are his responsibility. You do not need to apologize on his behalf.”
He’s not wrong. It’s annoying. All this guilt that you shouldn’t even be feeling.
“I guess,” you mutter.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, an eyebrow raised. “I hope you know that none of this is your fault — him showing up, the crap in the papers, all the bullshit around you.”
With a grunt, you press your lips together. “I know that. It’s just… unfortunate circumstances.”
“That’s one way to put it,” he smiles, “though, I should also apologize again. I am sorry. I crossed a line, it won’t happen again.”
You can’t even find it in you to come up with a snappy retort. Instead, you shift your gaze away. He seems to understand, letting out a low chuckle. Your lips thin. “I’m not a fan of the word princess.”
That seems to surprise him, a twinkle in his widened eyes. “That so? You used to make me call you that all the time.”
“What were you then? The prince?” You drawl sarcastically.
“Actually, you designated me court jester.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat — probably the first sincere one since you got here, maybe in years. The thought of you acting all high and mighty, making Bucky perform for your entertainment is comical, especially when you consider how massive he is now.
“Find it funny, do you?”
“A little bit.”
“I should send you the bill for my decades of mental anguish.”
Your lips curl into a smile of part amusement, part foul delight. “You could sell all of those childhood stories for a pretty penny.”
“I think your grandma has a few pictures of you in the bathtub.” A gasp falls from your lips. “I was helping her clean the attic. She’s got quite the collection.”
Your cheeks warm. “Haven’t you heard? If you wanted to see me naked, all you have to do is go online.”
You’re not entirely sure why you prompted the idea of you being naked to Bucky, it hardly seems appropriate but Bucky then appraises you with those eyes. Blue drowned out by his blown pupils. You see the indent on his cheek where he’s pushing his tongue against the walls, likely biting back an equally inappropriate comment to respond to yours.
“I’d prefer to experience the real thing for myself.”
All of a sudden, your throat feels like sandpaper and Bucky’s looking you up and down in a way that has your entire body tingling with need.
This can’t be happening. Not right now. Not when you’re supposed to have a clean slate.
Not with Bucky of all people.
However, your grandma’s in your ears, whispering, He’s not a bad fella, is he? He’s not. He’s a good one — perhaps the only one left — but he’s still a man at the end of the day and can you really bring yourself to trust another?
“Too much too soon?” He asks gently.
“No,” you choke out. “Not at all.”
Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you’re momentarily distracted by the way his bottom lip glistens. His voice drops a pitch— “Don’t tempt me, princess.”
Your heart stutters between your ribs. Heat snakes between your thighs and you’re forced to bite your tongue before you can let out a sound that would embarrass the both of you.
“I’ll check in on you later, yeah?” Bucky tips his hat with a charming smile before wandering towards the barn.
Leaving you and the timber of his voice echoing in your ears.
Something shifts between the two of you after that. It’s nothing monumental but you no longer dread the hours you have to spend with him out with Bucky. Laughter comes a little easier when you’re not viewing him as the enemy. He still teases you but you match that energy right back, with significantly less animosity.
The first time you jump back on Winter, you nearly fall flat on your face. You half-expect Bucky to make another jab about how you’ve lost your skills. However, you’re pleasantly surprised when all he says is “easy there” before he’s encouraging you back on the saddle.
The two of you start taking rides into the mountains. With the wind in your ear and the scent of wild grass, you can’t help but feel like you’re finally home.
However, even when the two of you are sharing picnic lunches that he packs at the top of your hike and he’s tugged off his t-shirt after he gets drenched under a waterfall, Bucky doesn’t do anything more or less.
He keeps a comfortable distance — close enough that you find yourself leaning in, far enough that he finds the excuse to pull away.
As someone who’s always, always gotten whoever you wanted whenever you wanted, you almost want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless just to make it a done deal. But as someone with a little bit of pride left, you want him to make the first move.
Unfortunately for you, none of your usual tricks have worked. You’ve spritzed on a little bit more perfume. You’ve worn your lowest cut tops without your tits spilling out. You’ve even given him enough sultry looks that you’re starting to get a twitch in your eye.
Your final tactic, which has never failed you, requires a third participant. A third participant that you didn’t have until today.
You and Bucky are helping your grandma at the farmer’s market. Bucky as the pack mule, hoisting crates of jam onto the vegetable stall that she runs with all of her prized produce. You’re cutting up samples of watermelon and, of course, your presence draws a big enough crowd that your grandma sells out quickly.
“If business can be this good with you around, maybe you should move home,” she beams.
“Good to know that I’m only useful for marketing,” you drawl with a teasing lilt.
“Oh, honey, what can I say? You’re not much help around the farm.”
You feign a gasp and turn to Bucky who’s chuckling to himself on the sidelines. “You’re not gonna defend my honor? After all I did for you this week?”
“Was that before or after you broke the new stepladder we got?” Bucky prompts.
With a roll of your eyes, you wave the two of them off and continue to slice up the fruits. “Two traitors, that’s what the two of you are.”
Before either could respond, a man comes up to your booth. He’s tall. He’s blonde. He’s rather handsome, if you liked the all-American sort of thing. He’s got blue eyes like Bucky but not even half as bright or kind. “That looks like a good one, sweetheart. How about cutting me up a slice?”
The sweetheart is like ice rolling down your spine. You force out a trained smile. “‘Course. I can even give you a bigger one if you promise to buy a whole watermelon from us.”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “You drive a hard bargain but you have yourself a deal.”
You flash your prettiest grin at him; you know exactly what men like him need. A little stroke of his ego and you’ve got a hook, line, and sinker. As you’re pushing the knife into the fruit, you feel a sudden warmth next to you.
Bucky. His shoulders are squared, eyes partially narrowed. “John.”
“Bucky,” the man — John — smiles easily in response to Bucky’s tight lip curl. “It’s been a while, man. How’s the farm?”
“Good.”
Curt. Terse. Very unlike Bucky who you’ve grown to understand is very talkative. “Good to hear,” John responds, voice light, “I see you’ve got yourself a pretty new helper. A famous one at that. Bet you’re the reason the stall’s doing extra well today, sweetheart.”
You open your mouth to respond but Bucky beats you to it. “She’s great. Why don’t you run along now? I’m sure there are other people you can pester today.”
“Pester? Now, am I being a bother to you, sweetheart?”
Yes, but you’re not going to give Bucky that satisfaction. Something about this man irks Bucky. Not a lot of things can get under his skin, which only piques your interest further. So you slap on a saccharine-sweet smile. “No, definitely not. He’s a customer, Bucky. Play nice. He’s buying a whole watermelon and two squashes today.”
“Am I?” A flicker of surprise crosses his eyes, fading into a humored sparkle.
“You are, sir.”
“Well, if the lady says so, then it must be true.”
You let out a giggle, one that you know will grate on Bucky’s nerves. The two of you continue to make light conversation as you offer John a sample and John seems to take his time nibbling on the slice while he looks you up and down. You don’t like his look, but you do like the color on Bucky’s face right now. The perfect shade of green that you’ve been waiting for.
Because of that, you can’t help yourself. You up the ante a little bit — giggling a little more, flicking your hair over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes at him. Throughout your entire conversation, you can practically hear Bucky’s blood rushing in his veins. Jealousy is a good look on him.
Still, he doesn’t say a thing — at least, not until John finally, finally walks away. You didn’t know how much longer you could’ve pretended to find him entertaining; stale jokes were never your foreplay of choice.
“He’s bad news, you know,” Bucky utters next to you.
You’re busy cutting up the last of the samples as you reply with a light, “Sometimes I like bad news.”
He frowns. “You can’t be serious. Him of all people?”
“If not him, then who?” You deadpan, turning to look at him.
Bucky’s mouth opens then promptly slams shut. He once again appears to want to say something but he’s holding back, biting his tongue. Coward.
“Hey, kids, I’m just going to check on Mr. Oliver over there. He’s been getting harassed by that developer I told you about, James. Start cleaning up, we should be good to head back soon.” Your grandma ducks out of the stall and disappears.
You raise an eyebrow at Bucky. “James?”
“My first name,” Bucky shrugs.
“James,” you repeat — then it clicks, “James the Jester! I remember now. Oh, you were such a crybaby.”
At that, a deep scarlet blush sprawls across his face, up to the tips of his ears. “I was not. You were just evil. Instead of princess, I used to call you the wicked witch of the west.”
You bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I bet you did. Grandma told me you’d let me do whatever I wanted.”
“You were a spoiled princess after all.”
Ignoring that comment, you choose to ask, “What’s going on with Mr. Oliver?”
“Developers have been coming around these parts to try and turn it into something more modern. They’ve been offering hefty amounts to buy out property owners in the area. Talks about luxury apartments and a shopping mall.”
“Who in the world would pay for luxury apartments around here?” You crinkle your nose.
Bucky shrugs, his hat tipping forward. “Who knows? Guess they found a market for it.”
“That kind of sucks.”
“Yeah, the town’s been trying to fundraise to help support a lot of these small businesses to make sure they can stay afloat. Otherwise, they’ll get priced out and before you know it, everyone’s going to be gone.”
While the idea of a shopping mall does appeal to you, you hate the thought of losing this place. Neighbors who know each other by name. People who come from near and far, spanning generations and building relationships for years to come. All the lush greenery, soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, the crisp fresh air. The idea of all of that replaced by a concrete jungle is a nightmare.
“How much have y’all raised so far?”
Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Not a lot. It’s tough to get funds out here when folks barely make anything for themselves. We need some outside help but it’s not easy, not many care about a small place like this.”
But you do. You care. This is your home. No matter how many times you’ve avoided coming back, or how much you try to deny the past, this is where you came from. If you lose this place, who would you be?
“Why don’t we throw a fundraiser? I could do something. I don’t need to be the main attraction but I could help bring people out. We could sell tickets, do a little open mic night.”
“You’d do that?” His eyebrows practically jump to his hairline.
You give him a look. “You think that lowly of me?”
“No, not that I don’t think you’d do it,” Bucky quickly clarifies, “It’s just— it’s obviously a lot to ask when you’re trying to stay incognito here.”
“I just have to convince my dad.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dad!” You say at the same time your grandma scolds her eldest son with his full government name.
“I didn’t come here so you could be the center of attention,” he brushes off, “again.”
“This is different.”
“This is going to attract unwanted press.”
“This is the kind of press we want.”
The two of you are locked in a stare-down with your grandma and Bucky standing on the sidelines, waiting for one of you to be the first to break.
“In all fairness, she is doing it for a good cause,” your grandma chimes in the hopes of alleviating your father’s wrath.
“Sounds to me like she’s trying to get back in the spotlight. What if the press says this is all pretense to clean up her act? What if it brings unneeded scrutiny to our small town?”
You let a heavy exhale escape. Your eyes fly to the ceiling only for the briefest of seconds before you redirect your gaze to your dad. “Honestly, they can say what they want. At this point, they’ll pick on anything I do. It doesn’t matter if I have good intentions — or even if I don’t do anything at all, they’re going to find something to be upset about. They’ll twist everything I do to fit their narrative because that’s what they do. It shouldn’t stop me from living my life — or supporting things that I care about.”
Three pairs of eyes land on you. You try not to squirm but the weight of their attention is enough to make you shift. You look at Bucky first — his eyes are soft, understanding almost. He saw firsthand what it’s like to be in the spotlight, chased after in the middle of the most menial activities. Friendship twisted into a scandal.
These people are vultures and, while there’s nothing you can ultimately do to stop them, you have control in the way you respond and behave. In this case, perhaps the only correct response is to stop caring.
Your life is yours and you need to stop listening to these assholes who think that they know you, who think that they can shape your reputation to the image of you they have in their heads.
Your father looks thoughtful, almost surprised by your words. He’s silent, mulling over it for a moment before he looks at you. He’s searching your eyes — for any doubt or uncertainty — but he finds none of it. Because you haven’t been this sure of anything in a long time.
“Alright, fine. We’ll make it a community event. We won’t use your name because we don’t need a frenzy; this may be a small town but you’re not a small name, darling. I don’t need to hire security for a fundraiser. However, we can sell tickets to a live stream that will ultimately go to supporting this town. Hopefully that helps alleviate the traffic.”
You’re throwing your arms around him before he even finishes his sentence. “Thank you! Thank you!”
He chuckles, “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. I’m expecting you to do a lot of the planning.”
“Wait, what?” You balk, jerking back.
“You proposed this so you need to see it through.”
A pout forms on your lips. “But—”
“I’ll help,” Bucky cuts in, mouth stretched into a proud grin. “You’re doing enough already. Just get yourself ready. I can help organize the live feed.”
“You can set up a livestream?” You ask, doubt creeping into your voice.
He smirks, “Such little faith. I know my way around technology. Trust me on this, princess.”
You’re not one to argue with him so you can only nod. “Okay then, let’s do this.”
Things come together relatively quickly in the next couple of days. You spend most of your time figuring out how to make your extremely pop songs acoustic with minimal support from a local band. True to his word, Bucky does eventually set up the live stream and even does a little test to make sure it works.
“Smile.”
You force out a grin before it’s quickly wiped away from your face. “Are we good?”
“You’ve got something on your face. I think it’s the whipped cream from the waffles earlier.”
Your hand immediately flies to the corner of your mouth. Clearly it doesn’t work because then Bucky’s coming up to you. His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently over the corner of your lips, swiping along the bottom. As if possessed, he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.
His eyes don’t leave you once.
Your heart slams against your ribs, core squeezing. You don’t get a chance to question him before he’s clearing his throat and pulling away with a quiet “got it.”
With all the marketing up, the event comes together fast. In a blink of an eye, you’re in this large backyard space with fairy lights strung across trees, tables for the buffet that your grandma has cooked up, and a makeshift stage where the band has set up. It’s beautiful and cozy. Perfect.
Instead of wearing one of your usual concert getups, the bedazzled bodysuits with matching rhinestoned boots, you opt for something more casual. A find from a thrift store and Bucky’s flannel layered over you; the latter isn’t by choice, he took one look at how much skin you were revealing and insisted you would be too chilly.
With your guitar propped up on your well-worn sneaker, you take a deep breath.
“Ready?” Your dad asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.
“Yeah. Of course. I do this all the time.”
The corner of his lips quirk up. “It’s alright to be nervous, you know.”
You worry your bottom lip, turning to look at him. “I’ve done this a billion times before. Why am I so worried?”
“Because it matters this time, because you care, and that’s a good thing,” he soothes, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll be right there with you.”
“What if nobody else wants to perform? I’m only singing at the end. What if nobody participates?”
“Darling, you know your grandmother. She’d get up there and start the macarena if she has to get the party going.” A giggle rises from your chest. “You’ve got good people here and everyone’s here for a good cause.”
“If it’s dead silent, maybe I can get Bucky to get up there,” you snort softly, “he apparently had been my court jester in the past.”
Your dad lets out a tiny grunt. It’s one that most people won’t blink twice at, but you know him better than that.
“What’s with that sound?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. That’s the sound you make when the spare ribs don’t fall off the bone. So what gives?”
“I don’t like that boy.”
You shoot him a look. “You don’t like any boy.”
“That’s also true.”
“Grandma says he’s one of the good ones.”
It’s your dad’s turn to give you a look. “He’s a boy. There are no good ones.”
Your lips curl into a smirk. “I haven’t seen you go all protective in a while.”
“Well, none of them were serious before. This one — this one looks like the type who can break your heart.”
Both your glances wander over to Bucky who’s helping your grandma set up the food table. It’s still early enough that nobody’s filtered in but you expect a good showing. Tickets are basically close to selling out, the space will hopefully be at capacity. You’ve raised a good amount of money already and that doesn’t even include the massive success of the live stream sales.
But Bucky — heaven-sent Bucky. He really is a good one. In your world, that usually means that he is too good to be true. Someone always wants something. Whether it’s fame or fortune — or both, you’re merely a gateway to it. You’ve lost most of your trust in humanity since you started succeeding; your industry mentors tell you that’s how you know you’ve made it.
However, you’re not in your world right now. Not fully at least. So maybe you’re allowed to hold onto that tiny piece of hope that things may just work out with him.
“I know,” you murmur. “Let’s hope he doesn’t.”
Your dad wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m going to check on your grandma. Break a leg out there. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad,” you smile softly up at him. “For trusting me this and… for bringing me back here.”
“Anytime, darling.”
Just as your dad said, the party comes into full swing in the next thiry minutes. There’s no shortage of people wanting to perform — anything from singing to dancing and even standup comedy (though this last one is a little bit questionable when you hear the awkward filtering of laughter through the crowd).
People hop onto the makeshift dance floor for the next performer. An upbeat number that has everyone twirling and shimmying all over. You glance at Bucky only to find that he’s already looking right back at you.
Ask me to dance, you idiot. You raise an eyebrow and Bucky only coughs and shifts his eyes away.
You roll your eyes. If he doesn’t do something soon, you may end up taking matters into your own hands.
“Now, what’s a pretty lady like you doing all alone here?” The familiar voice interrupts your irritation. John. He’s got that boyish smile on his face again. “Would you care to join me for a dance?”
You look to Bucky again, finding him already looking at the both of you with stone-cold eyes. Well, if he’s not going to do anything about this, then you might as well find another form of entertainment.
Sliding your hand over John’s outstretched one, you nod. “I’d be delighted.”
John’s a decent dancer. He spins you around, matches your rhythm, and still manages to make conversation throughout. He asks you about life in California, if you have anything exciting coming up soon. You give him noncommital answers about how you’re working on your next album.
“I sure hope you’d save me a backstage pass for your next tour.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” you force out a smile.
On top of that, he’s too handsy for your taste. His grip starts safe on your hips before they drift a little too low like he’s trying to reach for your ass. You have to carefully navigate away from him every time he does that.
“Anything going on between you and Barnes?” John asks.
You look at Bucky again. His gaze has been burning a hole through your skull and probably John’s. As much as the two of you try to ignore it, it’s near impossible to not feel the weight of his impressively intense stare.
“No, nothing,” you answer honestly.
“He looks like he wants to cut off my head,” he chuckles.
“That’s just his normal face,” you brush off brusquely.
“If you say so.”
However, when this song ends, you feel another pair of hands on your waist that quickly manhandles you to land with an oof against a firm chest. You look up to find Bucky who’s now holding your hand and your waist for a spin around the floor. When you glance back at John, he looks none too pleased and stomps off in another direction.
“You don’t like to share your toys, do you?” You smirk.
“I don’t share, period,” he mutters.
“Then you should’ve claimed your prize from the start.”
Bucky’s brows meet in the middle. “You’re not… a prize,” he begins, “you’re more than that. I didn’t— I didn’t know how to even begin to approach you.”
“You had no problem berating the shit out of me when I fucked up the horse and chicken feed.”
His shoulders shake with laughter. “That’s different. That’s my area of expertise.”
“And this isn’t?”
His lips thin. “I’m not… experienced with all this.” He clears his throat, “Romance. Women.”
“You’re kidding,” you blurt out before you can stop it. He shakes his head. “You look like this and you’re telling me you don’t have experience with people?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you’re hot, Barnes.” Bucky jolts back in surprise. “Come on, that is not news to you. I’ve seen at least five girls come up to you in the time John and I danced.”
His fingers tighten on your waist. “They wanted me to introduce them to you.”
“That’s an excuse to approach you. They probably wanted a dance.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Bucky huffs, “How would you know?”
“Because that’s what I would do. You’re a catch, Bucky.”
“High compliment coming from you.”
You swat his chest playfully. “Playing humility when you are anything but isn’t a good look, Mr. Barnes.”
“I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have,” Bucky mumbles, hand squeezing yours.
“Yeah? How long has that been? Since we were kids?” You tease lightly, fully expecting him to scoff and call you ludicrious.
However, the sheepish look that settles on his face has you gaping.
Before you can question it further, your dad is announcing your performance next. Bucky nudges you towards the front with a small smile. “Go get ‘em, princess.”
It’s a bit of a blur of you getting up there and preparing yourself for your first performance in a while. It’s one thing to be on a stage with hundreds of thousands silhouettes watching you, it’s another to be able to see every single face in the crowd waiting for you with bated breath.
Your fingers circle the neck of your guitar, fingertips pressed firm against the strings. The steel bites into your skin but your focus is really only on the people before you.
“Hi, everyone. I just wanted to say a very big thank you again for coming out tonight. I hope everyone’s havin’ a good time!” The crowd explodes in cheers and applause. “We’re all here because we love this town and I’m happy that I have the opportunity to contribute to saving it. There’s no other place like home. A big shoutout to all the viewers watching from the comfort of their houses as well, we couldn’t have done it without you. Without further ado, I hope you all enjoy this last segment of the evening.”
The rapid beating inside your chest is a drum against your ribs. Your eyes trawl over the crowd, over strangers’ faces and familiar ones. Your dad who shoots you a proud grin, your grandma who’s waving her fist in encouragement, and Bucky — Bucky who smiles soft and nods at you.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of motions. Once you finish your set, you’re greeted by a round of congratulations when you step off stage. Your hand hasn’t cramped from signing autographs in a bit but you relish in the attention. Whenever you look up, you catch Bucky watching from the sidelines.
I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have.
The echo of his words have your ears burning.
By the time you finally make it back to him, the crowd has thinned, with only a smattering of close friends and family still chattering over food.
“Sometimes I forget how good you are live,” Bucky says, a tinge of awe in his voice.
“Please, when was the last time you heard me live?”
His teeth catches his bottom lip for a second before he clears his throat. “Your Nashville show last year.”
You can hear your jaw land on the floor. “You went?” He shrugs. “Why didn’t you tell me? I invited grandma but she couldn’t make it out.”
“You didn’t know me, princess,” Bucky chuckles.
Well, he’s not entirely strong. But still. “Grandma could’ve told me. You shouldn’t have to pay.”
“Why not? I’m supporting a good cause, aren’t I?”
You exhale a laugh. “So I’m a charity case now?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny—” Your punch on his arm gets you a laugh, it probably felt like a tingle. “I didn’t want to be one of those people who pulled that card. We haven’t spoken in years and I would’ve gone anyway even without the free ticket.”
Bucky needs to stop giving your heart reasons to shift towards him. You haven’t been in love in a very long time, and you’re not sure you’re ready for it yet — especially not with a man as good as him, one you cannot bring into your world.
“Plus, I was talking Madeline. Her mom’s our foreman.”
“Playing chaperone, cute,” you murmur. “Next time, just shoot me a text. You have my number. My dad or someone else can arrange something.”
“Noted, appreciated.”
You wring your fingers behind your back, hiding evidence of your nerves. “So, I sound good? I’m not sure how the music would play out without the usual production, acoustic felt more fitting here—”
“It was great, seriously. I was reading the comments from the stream and everybody loved it. A lot of them seemed to have been fans for a while and they were happy to see you perform like this again.”
It reminds you of the smaller gigs you used to play — coffee shops and dive bars before you were promoted to opening for bigger artists and then going into your own sold-out world tour. Part of what you were missing in your work is that connection with the fans, doing more intimate engagement for your more loyal listeners.
“Yeah, I think it would be fun to do something like this once in a while,” you smile.
“Well, if you need a tech guy, you know where to find me.”
You roll your eyes but your lips twitch into an amused smile. “Come on, let’s go help my grandma clean up.”
“Hey,” Bucky catches your hand just as you turn, drawing your attention back to him. You cock an eyebrow in question. He scratches his cheek, looking almost… nervous? “Are you doing anything tomorrow? I thought we could go for a ride. A picnic maybe.”
“We’ve done that before,” you say slowly, puzzled, “but I’m down.”
“Okay, yeah, sounds good.”
That’s when it hits you. “Bucky Barnes, are you trying to ask me out on a date?” The laugh that slips past your lips has Bucky tinting red as he swallows and pulls away from you. You realize then that he may think you’re poking fun at him. “Wait, no, don’t do that. I wasn’t— I wasn’t teasing you, promise. I think it’s cute.”
Bucky’s mouth twists a little. If you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have known that he was sulking. It’s such a tiny reaction that you could miss it if you blinked.
“Bucky, come on. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yeah, I know.” Does he? “I know I’m probably not as… I don’t know, cool as all the guys you’ve dated before but—”
You take his hand in yours and squeeze. “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve just— I’ve been waiting for a bit for you to make your move. Even now, you’re still beating around the bush. Just ask me out, Buck.”
He chuckles, ears still red. “Alright, will you go on a date with me?”
“Yes, yes, I will,” you grin, “now, was that so hard?”
“Might be harder than getting back on a horse after a decade.”
You gasp, “That’s uncalled for.” He beams sweetly right back at you, turning your hands so that he’s holding yours now. It’s your turn to warm to the tips of your toes. “Okay, let’s go help grandma, casanova.”
The ride shouldn’t be any different. You’ve done this route a million times before. You’ve done this ride and this picnic thing with Bucky before. You shouldn’t feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest any second now. Maybe it’s time to summon your on-call doctor to make sure it’s not a seizure.
“You’re fine, you’re just nervous,” Yelena says from your laptop. “I think you should go for the lace top, it makes your tits look great.”
You pick up the flimsy piece of fabric. “I’m not nervous. I don’t get nervous for dates. I definitely do not get nervous for a man.”
As you tug the shirt over your head, Yelena laughs, “Nobody knows that I’m getting a strip tease from a five-time Grammy winner.”
Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you shrug on the top. “I’m serious, Yelena. This isn’t cool. I’m not being cool.”
“No, you’re being a girl with a crush.”
“I’m this nation’s favorite pop performer. I don’t get crushes.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve been there a little over a week and I’ve never seen you smile this much.” That explains why your cheeks are aching. “Face it, you’re head over heels for this man.”
You rub your face furiously. “God, this is so uncool. What if he’s making me uncool?”
“Then you guys can be uncool together.”
“That’s not an option,” you grumble, “what do you think?” You do a few turns in front of the floor-length mirror.
“Perfect. They grow up so fast,” Yelena mocks a tear.
“You’re a terrible friend.”
“I’m the bestest friend. Seriously though, you deserve to have a bit of fun. I think he’s good for you.”
“You’ve never met him.”
She gives you a look, one that is both chiding and soft. “But I know you and you haven’t been like this in a long time.”
Instead of acknowleding her words and potentially the gravity of your feelings, you instead choose to tease her. “Since when are you such a lovergirl?”
“Since I realized it makes you less of an asshole.”
“Rude.”
“You love me.”
“I do,” you grin.
“Have fun, kiddo.”
You’ve heard Bucky hustling and bustling outside since this morning. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time getting ready. Makeup light and pristine, nothing that would smudge even if you dunked your head underwater. Not a hair out of place. You’ve tested a few perfumes and there’s one that Bucky always leans towards so you spray a little on your neck and your wrists.
By the time you come downstairs ten minutes before the time he promised, you find him in the kitchen cooking with your grandma. Your dad is giving him dirty looks from the dining table.
“Morning, sunshine,” your grandma smiles, “don’t you look lovely today?”
“You’re saying I don’t look lovely everyday?”
“You have your days,” she jests with a pat on your cheek.
Bucky slides up next to you next, an appropriate amount of distance in front of your family. “Morning,” he murmurs, “you look beautiful.”
“I know,” you try to play it off but your heart feels just about ready to combust. “You ready?”
“Packed and ready to roll.”
You roll your eyes but can’t bite down on your smile in time. “You’re so lame.”
He only chuckles.
“I don’t need to give you the talk, do I?” Your dad chimes in next, glare darting between the two of you, before landing solidly on Bucky. “No funny business. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Curfew is at—”
“Oh my god, Dad!” You snap with your own scowl at him. “We’re not kids. We’ll be back whenever we’re back.”
“Still living under my roof, darling.”
“Technically my roof,” your grandma chirps and gives her son a scalding look. She turns to the two of you with a gentle smile. “Take your time. Have fun. Be safe.”
“But—”
Your dad’s full government name rolls off her tongue again and he immediately clamps his mouth shut. You’re pushing Bucky out of there before he can interrupt again.
“I’m so sorry,” you grouse, “he’s so overprotective sometimes.”
“He means well. I can see why he would be,” Bucky says as he leads you towards your horses.
“He’s overbearing is what he is,” you mutter as you hop on your horse. He makes sure that you’re settled safely before he climbs on his own horse.
The both of you set out on your usual route, your horses galloping deep into the woods as far as they can go. You take it all in — the fresh hair, the abundance of nature, the untouched beauty. It’s hard to imagine that you’ve been privileged enough to experience this life for the past week, let alone remember how this had been your life growing up. It’s even harder to imagine losing all of this. The nature in your gated apartment complex doesn’t feel natural. It feels necessary.
Out here, it just… exists.
Sometimes, you miss that — simply existing. If anything, this trip has become a reminder for you to come home more often and visit your grandma — and now, Bucky.
“You seem deep in thought.” Speak of the devil, he’s unpacking the lunch he’s tucked into his backpack. A selection of sandwiches in ziploc bags, fruits perfectly sliced and peeled, and pastries to top it all off. The food is simple but delicious and you can tell a lot of care has been placed into the prep — crusts off the bread, lightly toasted, fruits fresh and ripe, and pastries sweet.
Your stylist is going to tear you a new one when she realizes you no longer fit into your usual sizing. However, right here, right now, you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Thinking about how nice it is out here,” you sigh, gaze wandering to the world around you.
The two of you are perched on a rock at the base of a waterfall after a casual stride on your horses and a quick hike down to the stream. The symphony of water pouring down from the cliff mixed in with the sounds of birds singing in the distance and the rush of a coursing river — all of this brings you some semblance of peace. It reminds you of the quiet, the isolation. Things you could never have in the big, urban city you now call home.
Bucky laughs. “It’s always going to be here, you know. You just need to come back more often.”
“My schedule is crazy enough as is,” you stomp down on the urge to whinge like a child, “I’d love to pre-book my vacations but when opportunities come up, I have to prioritize that. I have to stay relevant. Things change so much in this day and age. In a blink of an eye and I could be rendered a has-been.”
“Have faith in your most loyal fans, you have plenty of those.”
Your eyes track the movement of the clouds above as they trail across the bright blue sky. “Maybe,” you sigh, “I’m just tired.”
Bucky tucks in close next to you, bumping your shoulder with his as he plucks a grape from the vine for you. You take it gratefully and pop it into your mouth, the sweetness bursting on your tongue.
“Maybe, what you need is to cool off.” You frown at him. He nods his head towards the waterfall. “There’s an old rope some kids put up a while back.” He points in the direction of the trees. “The water’s deep enough to break the fall.”
Aghast, you make your dismay very, very clear. “You want me to jump in there? Wearing this?”
“Unless you prefer to strip down, which I think only one of us would mind.”
Your fist lands a punch on his bicep. “Perv,” you mutter.
“Live a little,” he encourages as he jumps to his feet. He begins the short trek up the stairs, towards a small landing where a thick chord of rope hangs from a tree. His fingers curl around it tight, then he’s launching himself off and crashing straight into the water.
Your heart jerks in your chest as you peer over the rock into the water, waiting for him to surface. Bucky comes up for air with a huge splash, grinning as he slicks his hair back with his hand.
“The water’s fantastic.”
“You’re insane,” you deadpan. “I’m absolutely not doing that.”
“Man, here I thought you were finally free of the stick up your ass—” you gasp, he laughs, “—but I guess I was wrong.”
“I do not have a stick up my ass. Sue me for not wanting to get soaking wet in a Prada top.”
Bucky leans back, hands reaching up to wipe the water from his face again. It’s then you notice his t-shirt clinging onto his arms — like second skin that does nothing to mask the thick muscles that could probably lift you with a finger. “You can always buy more Prada. You can’t buy another day like today.”
“Think I’ll take my chances.”
“Alright, princess. I didn’t know you forgot how to have fun. You used to be the one who took me out here, would be the first one to jump in too before you dragged me in with you.”
That ticks you off. Your jaw clenches and you finally rise to your feet. Screw him for thinking you’d ruin your perfectly nice outfit for this. Your fingers catch the hem of your shirt before you’re tugging it over your head, then you shimmy out of your shorts.
“Wait, you’re really—”
“What? Never seen a girl in her underwear before?” You smirk, climbing up to where he stood only moments ago. Bucky looks even redder in contrast against the pool of blue.
You look at the rope and take a deep breath. You’ve done this before. You can do this. It’s just a swing and a jump. After that, you black out and by the time you come to, you’re already soaked from head to toe, coming up for air with a gasp as the water laps cool against your skin. You still hear the echo of your scream before you crashed into the pool.
“Shit, it’s freezing. You didn’t warn me.”
Bucky chuckles as he swims closer towards you. “Doesn’t it feel nice?”
“Feels like I’m about to catch a cold.”
The two of you splash around for a little while, Bucky even coming out only to jump back in and drench you in another wave. Your screech echoes in the quiet of the forest, muffled only by the waterfall behind you.
He looks at you when he comes up, grinning as he approaches you. His hand reaches up to drag the wet strands of your hair away from your face, fingertips brushing your cheek. His touch is cool but your entire body feels like it’s been set on fire.
You’re well aware of how little you’re wearing, even more so when the thin fabric sticks to your wet skin. Your nipples are stiff in the chill, pushing against the material, and you can feel your panties squeezing between your cheeks.
Your arms wrap around yourself, partly because of the cold, but mostly because Bucky’s watching you a little too closely. His eyes travel down your neck where strands of your hair are clinging to your skin, to your collarbones, down to the valley of your breasts that peek up from above the water.
You see his throat move as he swallows. Blue finds you. The color a shade or two darker as he assesses you, drinks the sight of you in. Instead of addressing it, he begins to move towards the surface where he manages to stand, water kissing his calves. You follow after him slowly.
He turns around then, looking at you when you come close enough. There’s a depth to his gaze that you can’t read, but you’re almost too scared to ask.
“What?” You try to play off.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Gentle. Honest.
“You’re just saying that because I’m practically naked,” you taunt, fully aware of how much you’re showing now that you’re out of the water.
“I’m saying that because you look incredibly tempting right now and I think I’ll have a hard time keeping my hands off you. For both our sakes, I recommend that you put on some clothes right now.”
Your breath catches, snagging in your lungs. The words that depart your lips are one born from days of frustration and longing. An honest, desperate question. “What makes you think you have to?”
Bucky inhales sharp, deep. “Do you know what you’re saying right now, princess?”
“I am,” you respond calmly, though your voice wavers.
He takes a step closer and suddenly you’re backing up against a large boulder, the cold surface kissing the swell of your ass.
His hand stretches out. His touch ghosts over your skin, hand trailing lightly over your hip where the hem of your panties rests, traveling up to your waist, right beneath the wiring of your bra, fingertips brushing over your exposed torso. Your breath hitches in your throat, chest rising as your lungs expand. Bucky’s blue eyes, warm where they’re focused on how his large palm moves over your stomach, flicks up to meet yours.
“This okay?” He whispers.
You only manage a nod.
“You’re gorgeous, princess.”
The pet name crawls up your spine and grips your lungs. You’re too busy looking at how Bucky’s lips look, the way they part, and his eyes, pupils blowing up to swallow the blue, to notice how his hand is slowly creeping up your bare stomach. His hand leaves a trail of fire where it crawls up to your chest, burning through your skin when he cups you gently.
He lets out a garbled sound. “Fuck, you’re so soft.”
“Generally how tits are, Barnes,” you try to tease.
A flush sprawls across his neck. “You’re such a brat. I should really shut you up.”
“Why don’t you try?”
Bucky doesn’t hesitate before he seals his lips over yours, drinking in the surprised little gasp you let out. He gulps down your whimper as you arch your back into his touch. His touch grows bolder, stronger, as he squeezes your breast over the fabric. His hand wanders to the space between the rock and your back, fingers deft as they quickly work to unbutton your bra.
“I don’t like how you did that so quickly,” you mumble against his lips. “Have you been practicing with other girls?”
“Just good with my fingers,” he chuckles.
“Good answer,” you grin.
He slides the material off your body, leaving you open for the taking. A low growl rises up his throat as he gropes your breasts harder, fingers finding your nipples, and relishes in the small moans you make. He takes his time with it, kneading your tits to the shape of his hand, kissing you warm and slow — all the while heat accumulates between your legs and you’re reduced into a quivering puddle in his hands.
But he doesn’t let you slip; he presses you back against the stone, his touch cool and warm, a chemical reaction against your skin. He distracts you from the chill, moving his mouth languidly against yours. God, kissing him feels like the first touch of summer after a long winter. He tastes like the icing on the cake he brought, sweetness that melts on your tongue. His hand — a working man’s hands — are rough where his palms are calloused, creating delicious friction with the way it rubs up against your delicate skin.
“Bucky, come on,” you whine.
“Patience,” he only says as his lips trail to the corner of your lips to imprint kisses that leave you wanting more. Much, much more.
“Move it along, Barnes, or I’m gonna have to find someone to do the job for you.”
Bucky pulls back abruptly, your stomach sinks. His eyes are dark as they look at you, lips set into a firm, irritated line. “You’ve really got such a mouth on you,” he snarls, “been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess. You keep running your mouth, just waiting for someone to tell you to behave.”
Oh. Oh, you shouldn’t like that this much. But you do. And Bucky knows you do.
His lips curl into a smirk. “Is that it? You need someone to teach you some manners again?” Bucky’s nose brushes over the pulse in your neck, feeling it stutter beneath him. “I can do that for you — all you have to do is listen.”
An expletive slips past your lips and Bucky brushes his lips over yours again, teeth nipping on your bottom lip.
“Language, princess.”
A whimper climbs out your throat. “I want you.”
“I know you do,” he says, voice gliding over your skin like silk, “but you need to be patient. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you listen to me?”
You nod, your entire vocabulary flaking into ashes as he smooths his palm back down your body. You don’t register when he slides it over your hip, you barely register his hand cupping the warmth of your pussy, your ass raising to give him access. It’s only when his index finger traces the line on your panties where the fabric sinks into you does your gasp wake you from your stupor.
“I can tell you’re so wet already,” he whispers, disbelief clinging to his syllables, “is this all for me?” Your breathing stammers an uneven staccato in your chest. “Tell me it’s for me.”
“‘S for you,” you choke out.
“Good girl,” he breathes out, “shit, you’re so wet. I can feel you through this lace.”
Your hands instinctively fly to cover yourself up as much as you can, cheeks flaming and it’s not from the heat.
“Gettin’ shy on me?”
“What if someone sees?” You hiss, but the sound melts into a whimper when Bucky starts to trail his finger up and down your slit over the mesh that barely hides you.
“Nobody comes out this way. Just you and me, princess.”
Your protest dies when Bucky tugs your panties to the side, sliding his finger along your slick folds, brushing over your clit until your voice splits into a long groan. He peppers your face with kisses, enough to sear a mark onto your skin that you’ll feel for weeks. All the while, his fingers tease you open slowly, coaxing moans from your lips as he dips his fingers in only to leave you in the cold. He repeats the movement over and over until you’re squirming, your fingers catching his wrist to keep him going.
“Come on, Buck.”
“What is it?” He feigns confusion.
“Touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
Through gritted teeth, you manage to say, “Properly. Touch me like a man, you fucking coward.”
“I need to teach this mouth of yours some manners. Need you to ask me one more time.” Your lips stubbornly sew shut. “Come on, you can do it,” he coos.
It’s patronizing. It’s demeaning. You shouldn’t let him speak to you this way. You are a five-time Grammy winner, the nation’s favorite pop star, you don’t need a man to—
“I’ll finger you open properly if you ask me nicely. I’ll make sure you’re good and ready for my cock. I promise.”
Fuck. Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up. “Please.” The plea escapes you. “Please finger me, Bucky.”
“That’s a good girl,” he beams, “that’s my girl.”
Your insides positively melt. My girl. It shouldn’t be so easy to get to you. You’ve had your fair share of men who know what sweet nothings to whisper in your ear, so you shouldn’t be fazed by such a simple phrase.
But it’s different — because this is Bucky and the thing about Bucky is that he always means it.
When he calls you his girl, that means you’re his, and that’s that.
Your thighs fall apart as his finger finally pushes in, thick and intrusive to spark the fire in your core. He curls it inside of you, brushing up against your walls and you’re curling into him. He kisses you again, taking in the gasp that bubbles up your throat.
“My pretty girl,” he murmurs sweetly, “look at you. So easy for me when you’ve got something in this pussy of yours.”
The fuck you stops cold on your tongue when Bucky adds another finger in, stretching you out with a delicious burn that has you spilling needy little noises into his mouth.
“Such a good girl when you’re filled up. Who knew I could stop you from acting like such a brat just by stretching this gorgeous cunt open? I should’ve done this that first day. Should’ve made you spread your legs for me if you wanted my help.”
His name forms on your tongue, like his fingers are forcing you to say it out loud. To beg him.
“I can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock. Bet you’d feel so tight, fit around me like a glove. I know you’ve had others before me, but I promise you none of them can make you feel as good as me. None of them will worship you the same way I will.”
“God, Bucky, please.”
“I know, I know,” he utters tenderly, “I’m here, princess. I’ll take good care of you. Tell me what you want.” His fingers spread inside of you, urging you to open up real good for him. “I need you to use your words for me.”
“You know what I want,” you whine, fingers clawing at his chest.
“I know, but we talked about this. I need you to be good for me and ask me nicely.”
Your eyes burn with embarrassment, chest blazing with the warmth of a thousand suns. “Bucky, please. I need you.”
He cocks an eyebrow as he fingers you open again, pumping his fingers in and out of you as he teases you with a third. His thumb finds your clit, finds the surprised, wanton-filled sound from your chest. He rubs you slowly, gentle as he once again asks you to pose your request.
“I want your cock. Please. Please,” you whine, “I want you to fuck me open.”
Bucky lets out a guttural moan as he covers your lips with his again, kissing you senseless, stealing every single breath from your lungs until you’re gasping for air as he finger-fucks you open. You’re soaking him, you can feel yourself leaking all over. You’d be more ashamed if you weren’t so caught up in the delirium of pleasure.
“Attagirl,” Bucky chuckles, kissing the top of your head. He moves fast — fingers ripping off your panties so you’re exposed to him. You don’t get the chance to complain about losing a very nice pair of underwear, not when he takes a second here, admiring the way your pussy glistens in the sunlight. You’re suddenly shy, hands moving to shield yourself again, but he moves faster, gripping them and pinning them down above your head. “Don’t hide from me. You look sweet like this. So vulnerable.”
He uses one hand to pin both of yours above your head, all the while he’s nudging your legs to open up further with his knee. Bucky looks bigger from your vantage point, height towering over you, blocking the sun until your line of sight is completely consumed by him. You hear hiz zipper being undone, but your focus is entirely on him.
“I’ve got a condom,” Bucky exhales, tugging at the seams of your consciousness and rational thought. “In the bag.”
“You brought a condom? Were you expecting this to happen?”
“Expect, no. Hope? Always,” he offers a wry smile.
“Fuck a lot of girls in the woods, Barnes?”
Bucky stifles a laugh. “No, just the one,” he smiles, “just you.” For a second, the two of you simply stand with each other, stewing in the tension that hangs heavy in the air between you. “I should go get it first,” he says, making his move to pull away.
You aren’t sure what possesses you but then you find yourself grabbing him by the soaked collar of his shirt. He halts, eyes wide. “I’m clean,” you mumble, “I don’t want to wait.”
“Princess,” Bucky says slowly.
“Please, Buck.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m clean, I promise you, I got tested after—”
“That’s not my concern,” he interrupts cautiously, “I’m asking if you’re sure about this. With me.”
You give a small nod. “I trust you.”
“Shit,” he hisses, “can’t say things like that and expect me not to fuck you stupid, princess.”
“Again, what makes you think you can’t?”
Bucky lets out a low roar that fuels the heat coiling tight inside your belly. Your eyes finally drift down to his cock in his hand and, like you’ve been unknowingly trained, you begin to salivate. Your mouth waters at the sight of the thick length, tip red and leaking. It twitches with need, moving towards you like it’s drawn.
He’s big. Bigger than anyone you’ve had before.
“I—” you start only for the words to choke out. Bucky raises a questioning brow.
“Did you change your mind? We can stop right now. Say the word.”
“No, that’s not it— I’m just—” you look at it for a heartbeat then two. “You’re really big,” you blurt out. “I don’t know if I can fit you.”
His lips twitch up into a smile, a mix of cocky confidence and amusement. “I’ll ease into you, princess. Promise it won’t hurt,” he says then pauses, “it might hurt a bit but you let me know if it gets too much, yeah?”
Your own giggle fizzles out when Bucky props up one of your legs, closing in on you with your folded thigh against his chest, and notches the head in your entrance. It’s a bit of a stretch, you can feel a slight sting, but your greedy pussy has other ideas. It opens up to him with the second nudge in, caving under the pressure much too quickly. You hate to admit how good he feels.
For a man who claims to have limited experience, Bucky seems to know exactly what to do. A vein on his forehead pulses as he slowly inches himself inside you, sweat beading his skin. His neck strains as he slowly sinks himself inside you, fucking up to bury himself deep inside your aching pussy.
A desperate whimper climbs out your throat. His name on your lips.
Bucky throws his head back, breathing in harshly through his nose. “You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to cum right now,” he rasps.
And because you can’t help yourslef, you do. You say his name again in a needy little cry that has him lifting you up with a growl, your legs wrapping around his torso as he shoves himself all the way inside you.
You’ve never felt so full before, inner thighs burning with his cock inflating inside you. His length stretches you open as he presses you back against the rock, leaning you back so he can properly fuck into you with deep, intentional thrusts.
“Look at this pretty pussy spread open for me,” Bucky groans, “you’re fuckin’ perfect. I’m gonna feed her my cock, gonna make sure she’s full.” His fingers bury in the flesh of your thighs as he drives himself deep inside you.
His other hand wanders to your neck, squeezing around the outside just enough to have your mind dizzy. His eyes search yours, vision glazed over as the pleasure slips through every crevice of your brain. Once he confirms that you’re okay, he tightens his grip enough to limit the airflow into your lungs, your breath hitching in your chest as he does so.
Bucky’s name leaves your lips in a hoarse whisper and he groans when he feels your core tighten around him. “My perfect girl, squeezing my cock like you’re tryin’ to milk me. You feel like you haven’t been touched in so long, princess. Was this all you needed to stop acting like a brat? If only people knew that the only way to get you to behave was to put a cock inside this pretty little cunt.”
He reaches down between your legs and circles your clit until your moans pierce through the waterfall raining down behind you. You say his name over and over again, like a prayer. Like a plea. Your entire body shakes every time he thrusts deep inside you. Your heart stutters in your chest when you hear an unknown sound, your eyes flying to see if anyone’s witnessing the debauchery occurring out in the open.
“Shit, princess, look at you,” he hisses when he looks down where the two of you are joined, “you’re creamin’ all over my cock. Soakin’ my cock so easy.”
“Bucky, please,” you manage to rasp, chest tight as the burning between your legs intensifies.
You can feel it. It’s been a while, but it also has never been like this. A mind-numbing concoction of breathtaking pain and pleasure. Bucky’s cock opens you up, your folds swallowing him in like you’re desperate for more, like you need to fit as much of him in as possible.
The tip brushes up against the deepest parts of you and yet somehow it’s not nearly enough. Bucky mutters about how tight your pussy feels, how there’s no way anyone has been in here before.
“Not with how your cunt is choking me, princess,” he groans, fingers sinking deeper into your hip now. “She’s so sweet for me, practically sucking me in. I can’t wait to cum inside you.”
That has your panic flaring again, only for a second because then your stomach twists with the desire for exactly that — to be filled to the brim with him.
“I’ve never—” you gasp, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me.”
Bucky chuckles softly, leaning forward to kiss you again. It’s hypnotic how easily he has you putty in his hands. “Won’t you let me be the first?”
Your heart beats a little faster. You’ve never been good at saying no to him. Especially not when you want him as much as he does you.
“Yes,” you whimper, “please, cum inside me.”
Another deep groan resonates from his belly. “You’re going to be the death of me, princess. Spoilin’ me rotten like this, you’re gonna get me used to cummin’ inside this gorgeous cunt. I’m gonna have to be inside you everyday, never be able to sate myself unless my cock’s buried in this pussy.”
“Fuck, Bucky, I can’t—” oxygen is punched out of your lungs with every thrust, “I can’t hold it— I’m going to cum.”
“Cum for me, princess. Cum around my cock, need to feel you pulse around me,” Bucky groans.
Like the obedient girl that you are, you do. The orgasm wracks through your entire being, zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back lifts off the stone as you gasp, straight into Bucky’s touch. He buries his face into your neck as his body shudders, spilling liquid heat into you.
The stickiness clings to your skin but the waterfall is cooling on your skin as you come down from your high. Bucky slumps on top of you, wet t-shirt between the two of you. You giggle breathlessly against his skin and feel him shake with laughter against you too, all the while his cock is still buried deep inside you. Twitching.
“You’re a bad influence,” you mutter, smiling.
“You’re one to talk, practically jumped me first chance you got,” Bucky chuckles and you hit him with a solid smack to his arm. “Let’s get out of here before you catch a cold.”
He pulls out of you slowly and you can feel his cum trickling down your leg. It stirs warmth inside of you again and, before you could think about quashing how good it feels, you watch as he moves towards the rocks to push himself up and out.
It certainly doesn’t help your still overeager libido to see how his back muscles move, traps flexing, as he lifts himself out before he turns to extend a hand to you. You take it and he looks away as you climb out of the water. He hands you his dry button-up, once again without looking back at you.
“Figured this would be warmer,” he clarifies.
“Thanks,” you mumble and slip your goosebump-riddled arms through the sleeves. The fabric is quick to absorb the water and your fingers make quick work to scrunch up and squeeze out water from your hair. Your hard work, down the drain.
Well, down to the bottom of the pool at least.
“Are you okay? Was I too—”
“Stop,” you wave a hand to halt him, “I’m fine. I’m not made of glass.”
He murmurs an okay but still looks at you with that look in his face. For a moment, you think it’s some form of sympathy, but you quickly realize that it’s awe. He’s looking at you with the kind of adoration that has your heart doing somersaults in your chest.
As fast as that feeling came, the one that follows is from your years of experience: fear. Trust is a fickle mistress in this industry. The last time you slept with someone, you ended up on the front pages of every entertainment site on the planet. Who’s to say this isn’t the same? It’s a quick money grab. Who doesn’t want another scandal with one of the most famous celebrities on the planet? Though, the payout is probably less now that you’ve already had one of these—
“Hey, what’re you thinking about?” Bucky’s hand is warm as it takes yours. His hair is still dripping, droplets landing on the blanket and your thigh as he leans closer. You open your mouth to deny his question, but he’s already shaking his head. “I can tell something’s goin’ on, princess. Tell me so I can fix it.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes. It’s a sweet thought. “It’s a personal thing, don’t worry,” you insist, but he’s not letting you go. His hand squeezing. Your teeth catch your bottom lip before you relent. “Trust. It’s not an easy thing when you’re in the spotlight. I’m tired of constantly second guessing people’s intentions, why they do what they do with me. I’m scared of being the subject of another public issue — mostly because it creates a massive headache for my team, including my dad. I just— I hate that I’m putting those around me in an uncomfortable position of having to defend my actions, even if I’m fully aware some of them are completely defensible, but the general public always has to have a witch on the stands right? It’s just the way the world works. Regardless of whether you’re a real villain or not, you’re put at the stake and subjected to the constant judgment.”
Bucky stiffens, lips tightening. He holds your hands closer to him. “You are not responsible for these shitty people and their behavior. None of this is your fault. You’re living your life, you’re defending yourself. You should never apologize for any of that,” he adds sternly. His hand trembles and his jaw stiffens. The fury rolls off him in waves and your heart liquifies at the sight. “Need you to know that you got a lot of people here — and out there — who love you and will protect you. We don’t give a shit what they say because we know you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
“So as long as you have us around, we won’t let anything happen to you. It’s not because we have to, but because we want to.” Your throat closes and the salt in your tears prick your eyes. Bucky throws an arm around you, pulling you close to kiss the top of your head. “We got you, princess.”
You would think that your unmeasurable need and curiosity would be satisfied from that one time with Bucky Barnes. You’ve never been more wrong. If anything, your desire for him has only grown — you can’t help how distracted you are by his hands, remembering how they feel on your hips, or his eyes that are icy when he’s irritated but thaw when they turn to you, or his cock—
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, drawing you out of your own thoughts.
It is then you realize that you’ve been staring at his lap for far too long to be subtle. His question isn’t innocent. It’s a prompt. An invitation. Safe to say, when you find yourself with your back pressed against the barn walls and Bucky bullying his cock into you as he muffles his moans into your neck, fingers sinking into your ass firm enough to bruise, you accepted that invitation.
Then you stare at his fingers a little too long when the two of you are at the bar for a night out with a few of his friends (who knew that this man even had friends?) and he takes you out the back door and presses his fingers inside you until you’re gasping for air, legs clenching together as he curls them in and whispers how you’re so fuckin’ wet out here in the open where anyone can walk out and see America’s favorite princess getting finger-fucked in an alleyway.
And then again in your childhood bedroom with your creaky bed when your grandma and dad were out. And one more time by the waterfall, this time with your tits pressed against the rocks. And finally in his truck when the two of you don’t quite make it to the drive-in theater he promised.
For once, you’re not thinking too far into the future. Bucky keeps you grounded in the moment. Between the times he spends kissing you, you manage to also get some writing done. Affection bleeding into your melody and lyrics as you pluck the strings to your guitar. Once, Bucky hears you playing a new one in the morning and tells you that that one’s going to be his new favorite song. He tells you that it sounds honest, more… you.
He doesn’t know that it’s inspired by him.
In your last few days, you refuse to worry too much about what this all means once you leave. For all you know, this is an easy, temporary thing for Bucky. You’re a blip, a shooting star that’ll fizzle out the moment you leave.
The thought hurts more than you expect.
However, you at least wake up feeling rejuvenated. Maybe the world hasn’t completely destroyed every piece of you, maybe you can still find her somewhere inside of you. Your phone blares with a shrill noise and you are roused in irritation for the first time in a while.
“What?”
“Lovely way to greet your friend slash fierce protector,” Yelena snaps. You grumble about how early it is and how on earth are you awake right now. She hesitates briefly, which has you peeking an eye open from where your face is mushed against your pillow. “Have you checked your notifications?”
That’s never a good sign.
You push yourself up and lean against your headboard, thumb immediately scrolling through the barrage of messages and news alerts on your screen. Your blood runs cold. The last time this happened—
“I’m sure it’s different,” Yelena chimes in first but your eyes are scanning through every word.
Your name. Bucky’s. Evidence. Sources close to the pair. Another sex scandal. Pictures and pictures and more pictures. Every single news outlet has published grainy pictures of the two of you, photos that look like they’ve been taken from behind bushes and trees. An absolute obliteration of your privacy.
Shame settles firmly in your gut. This is exactly why your dad brought you here — and yet here you are again. Fuck.
“I need to—” your breath catches in your throat. What do you need to do? What can you even do? The damage is done. It’s more red on your ledger and you’re running out of ways to wipe your slate clean.
“Listen,” she interrupts softly, “I don’t want to add more to your plate but I talked to one of the reporters. They were apologetic but they had to report it. It seems like it came from someone who knows what you’ve been up to very well.”
“It’s a small town. Everyone knows what I’ve been doing,” you hiss, “better yet, who I’ve been doing. I just didn’t think anyone would sell me out after the shit I did.”
“You don’t think there’s a chance it could be— no, it couldn’t possibly.” She’s quiet, waiting for you to deny it, but the thickness in your throat doesn’t allow you to. “Right?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I’ve known him two weeks, Yelena. Maybe more if you count the memories I can barely remember but—”
What if this was his plan all along? All those years of tormenting him. All the shitty things you’ve said to him. You acting up—
Been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess.
You shake your head. There’s absolutely no way. He said it in the moment, a comment meant to stir heat between your legs.
But the voice inside your head, the one that insists that you doubt, is louder. It questions everything. Every interaction you’ve had with Bucky. Every touch, every kiss. It burns uncertainty into your skin until you see the creeping skepticism on the back of your hands. Because, at the end of the day, you don’t really know Bucky Barnes. Regardless of how much time you’ve spent with him the last couple of weeks, you’ve learned the hard way that anyone could put on an act, even — no, especially — ones as charming as him.
“You should talk to him first. I doubt he’s the one who spilled.”
You also doubt that you can say for certain that he isn’t. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore how your heart feels like it’s been ripped out of your chest, beating bloody in the palm of his hand. His smile, one you always picture to be soft and sincere, twists into something ugly, something sinister.
You spend the morning scrolling through the articles. Countless pictures of the two of you, all of them similar so you at least know they were captured by one invasive individual. However, the articles are where the meat sits — criticisms of your promiscuity, accusations of being a terrible role model, and even comments on Bucky’s worth as your partner.
It doesn’t sit right with you. Why would Bucky bad mouth himself to the press if he wants to get his fame? To throw the scent of him. Even so, it paints him in a negative light. Any press is good press. Why would he even need the press? Maybe, just like you, he’s trying to make it out of here.
Both the angel and devil on your shoulder are working overtime, stitching doubt and questions into what you thought was a healthy relationship with Bucky. Now the dark clouds are sewn into every memory you’ve had with him.
Coming down for breakfast, you’re sufficiently pissed off. All that hurt has simmered into a rage that you’re ready to channel towards the one person you think deserves it. Luckily for you, he’s standing in the kitchen. Cooking breakfast.
He smiles wide when he sees you, “Hey, I’m making some french— what’s wrong?” The joy wipes off his face to make room for confusion.
“You’re fucking kidding me right,” you snap, arms crossed over your chest. You don’t bother cleaning yourself up, hair in a tangled mess and pajamas rumpled from your deep sleep. You don’t bother paying attention to the way Bucky’s eyes had softened when he saw you in this state.
“Gonna have to give me more than that, princess. I’m not followin’.”
You turn your phone to face him with the article with the headline: America’s Favorite Pop Princess Caught Rolling in the Hay with Local Farmhand. It’s a disgusting piece but all the details are there — censored pictures, firsthand accounts from the source, and the scandalization of it all.
“Maybe I should’ve made you sign an NDA like everyone else. I’m an idiot.”
It takes him a second before he’s whipping his gaze up to you, disbelief scratched into his irises. “What? You think I did this? That I would tell the press about us? That I would do this to you?”
“I don’t know what to think! It doesn’t matter what I think or what I do. This is the shit that I have to deal with and—” and I would never want to put you through this. You swallow that bitter realization. No matter what you do, even if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. God knows what else the press will do to him. “And it doesn’t matter,” you say, defeated. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this.”
Bucky says your name and the sound knicks your heart.
“I should’ve known better,” you mutter, “this shit just isn’t worth dealing with. I should be focused on my next album, focused on writing those songs and getting them to chart. What’s the point of putting myself out there when all I do is end up in the news?”
“Because it’s worth it,” he insists, hands catching your arms. “Please. You gotta believe me, princess. I didn’t do this. I would never do this to you.”
You offer him a wry smile. “That’s what the last guy said too.” Tugging yourself away from him, you rub the places where his touch has burned. “I can’t do this, Buck. I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway and I can’t risk anymore of my career. Every time this shit happens, I cause trouble for the rest of my team, my family.”
“That’s not on you—”
“I know that!” You snap, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m well aware that these are circumstances outside my control. I’m aware that I cannot control people whose entire livelihood depends on me losing mine. It doesn’t change the facts. Even if we keep whatever this thing is going, you and I are going to be dragged through the mud and neither of us will recover.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches, tongue digging into his cheek. “So, what? You’re just going to give up every shot you have at happiness? Life beyond whatever the fuck they’re putting you through? You’re going to let them win?”
“No, I’m playing their game. I don’t have to like it but what choice do I have?”
“Stand up for yourself. Don’t let this shit derail you from what you can do. You have the world at your fingertips, millions who love you — including the very people in this house.”
It’s easier said than done. It’s too tempting to fall into this myth of falling in love, of being allowed to fall in love. Your life isn’t one that permits it. You’ve seen the making and breaking of one too many relationships to believe that it’s possible for someone in your life. The rare few that succeed are lucky — lucky to have found someone in the right time, the right place.
“Appreciate the vote of confidence, but this won’t work, Bucky.”
He looks like he’s about to interrupt again and, for a second, you wish that he does. However, he keeps his lips sealed — and that’s the end of it.
On your last evening, the dinner table is quiet. It’s just you, your dad, and your grandma. A small family affair. When your grandma asks if you’ve invited Bucky, you tell that that you’d rather keep it to a small, intimate dinner. She gives you a suspicious look but doesn’t press further.
As you’re doing the dishes after, your grandma makes sure that your dad is out of earshot when she finally questions you. That is when you tell her everything — the scandal, the media, the pictures. She doesn’t shame you for engaging in extramarital affairs, god knows that’s the least of your problems.
“He wouldn’t do that,” she whispers as you tuck herself into her side.
“I know,” you murmur, “I know you believe in him. I want to believe in him. It’s just hard to draw lines between those you can trust and those you can’t, and I’d rather… not trust anyone at all if those are the two choices I have.”
She flicks your forehead gently. “That’s not the way to live, honey. As hard as it may be, taking those risks are a part of life and — yes, you’ve gotten hurt, but you always bounce back. Always. The people that love you know who you are, they know who’s in the wrong, and it is not you.”
“Thanks, grandma,” you smile, “but it wouldn’t have worked anyway. We live different lives now. He probably wants nothing to do with a girl like me. This life isn’t for everyone — your every move scrutinized and published for everyone to see. It’s a lot to ask of someone.”
Her laugh tinkles through the air. “You’d be surprised.”
Then you’re heading home. The plane rumbles as you climb the stairs up. You take one last look at the land before you, at your grandma who stands at the base of the plane waving. You take a deep breath and then you take your seat.
Los Angeles is the same as you left it. The only difference now is that the paparazzi has been made aware of your arrival at this airport, your flight manifest leaked somehow. You arrive to blinding flashes and questions about your latest tryst, one too many of them asking where this guy is. You grit your teeth and let your dad push through the crowd into the car.
Life is the same. Busier than ever. Now that you’re working on your album full time, it’s hard to find time for anything else — which is ideal because, if you were left alone with your thoughts, you tend to wander to that small town and a certain not-so-small man. The last guy who you had been with already milked his fame and you worry that the media is now hounding Bucky for more details. Guilt carves itself into your bones. These are the days you’re tempted to reach for your phone, to call him and ask him how he’s doing, but you stomp down on that urge.
It’s better this way.
The paparazzi hasn’t let up. They’re at your door, they’re outside the studio, they’re camping out the restaurant that you’re at with Yelena. She gives them the stinkeye and a proper middle finger as the two of you enter.
“So, that’s it then?” She asks when you give her the full rundown of what’s transpired. “You have hot sex with a cowboy and then you go home? You’re really living the Hollywood life.” You give her a look as you take a sip of your third glass of wine. It’s that kind of night. “Your dad seems to like him, which is surprising because he doesn’t like anyone.”
That has you stopping. “What? How do you know that?”
“He told me,” she shrugs, “we were catching up on your schedule for the next couple of months and he mentioned that, despite him wishing you would stay single for the rest of your life, if he had to choose one man for you, that one isn’t a bad choice. I saw the pictures, I’m sure he’s more than enough.” Her wiggling eyebrows has you flinging a fry her way.
“I didn’t know he said that,” you mumble. “Bucky is a good guy. He just… deserves better. He doesn’t want this life.” You gesture to the flashing lights and the men still lingering around the entrance, waiting for your exit. “And I am tired of figuring out who to trust. I don’t want to play this game of roulette and being made a fool. Again.”
“Better a fool that got played once than be wise enough to never fall in love.”
You bark out a laugh. “Just made that up?” She states that it’s a Yelena original. “It’s a nice thought in theory. I don’t know. He hasn’t reached out again since our last conversation. Maybe he’s realized that I’m also not worth all this. It’s a fair assessment, I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone.”
“One day, you’ll realize that you’re worth it all, sweetheart. If anyone knew what it meant to have you love them, they would do anything for you.”
The one thing you did take away from your time in Tennessee is that you do need to stop taking everything they do on the chin. You stand up for yourself when the paparazzi become too demanding and entitled, snapping at them to be more polite at red carpets and telling them off whenever they’re absolutely crossing the line on invading your privacy. While you received backlash for the incident, you also received an outpouring of love. Fans who defend your stance, industry peers who echo your sentiment. It’s one weight off your chest.
But you go home at the end of the evening to your penthouse and the place is much too quiet. Sometimes you can hear Bucky whispering reassurances in your ear and that hallucination is the only thing that keeps you tethered to this life.
When you hear him say your name, a little too clearly this time, you think you may be losing it.
When you see him standing in the middle of your living room, you think your imagination has gone too far.
The second emotion that lands is panic. You’re immediately reaching for your phone. Your grandma can say that he’s a good guy all she wants but when you find this man standing in the middle of your apartment looking every bit as delicious as ever, you should be calling security.
It’s even worse when he takes the phone from your hand before you can ring up your ex-military doorman downstairs. He catches the flash of fear in your eyes and immediately backs up, even seeming a little hurt by that minute reaction.
“Not here to hurt you, princess. Promise. Your dad let me in.”
“My dad? Since when do you talk to my dad?”
“I figured you wouldn’t take my calls so I reached out to him,” Bucky clears his throat. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Sure, that’s what most people do anyway. It doesn’t matter what I want, they always figure out a workaround,” you snip a little too bitterly. A flicker of regret crosses his eyes and that claws at your chest. You take a deep breath. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. It’s fine. He’s met you,” you relent, “what’re you doing here?”
“To set the record straight.” He tells you about how he spent the last few days asking around, investigating on who would be sharing such intimate details about your life with the press. “Everyone there loves you, especially after what you did with the fundraiser. I knew it had to be someone who had an issue with you. That led me to John.”
John… isn’t he the—
“Yeah, that guy,” Bucky drawls out in annoyance. “Apparently he felt jilted that you flirted with him when he caught us one night. He reached out to a tabloid and realized he could get paid, so he started telling every single one of them.”
“Fucker,” you spit out venomously.
“Tell me about it.”
“You could’ve told me all this over the phone.”
He cocks an eyebrow, “Would you really have picked up?”
“An email would’ve sufficed too.”
“I wanted to make sure you couldn’t avoid me.”
Blue washes over you and you can’t help but give into the pull of the water. “I’m sorry for thinking it was you,” you murmur, “I knew — I knew that deep down it wasn’t.”
“You couldn’t have known for certain,” he shakes his head, “you’ve been burned before and you had the right to doubt me. I get that.” His teeth catches his bottom lip, his attempt to hide his sheepish smile. “Plus, if I’m being honest, I’m out here because I missed you.”
Your jaw practically drops to the floor. You manage to rasp, “What?”
He chances a step towards you, cautious. When you don’t move, he takes another. He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. “Didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you walk through those doors. How much I wanted you.”
“Wanted?” You squeak, pain bleeding into your voice.
“Want,” he emphasizes, “Present. Always.”
“You think I’m a bitch,” you choke out.
“No, I think you’ve put up walls around your heart and this picture-perfect image of yours because you know what you have to do to protect your dream,” he smiles softly, “I think you’re smart, funny, incredible. You know exactly how to push my buttons and I don’t want to imagine you doing that with anyone else.”
Your heart soars, climbing to cloud nine and — for a moment, it levitates. For a moment, you have hope. But the realization of where you are, who you are quickly sinks in. “Bucky… this could never work.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, we live in different places.”
“Planes exist.”
“For how long? I’m never— I’m never gonna leave this place and you have your house there and the animals and the town.”
The corners of his lips quirk up. “There are farms everywhere. But you do also realize I can do a lot of things. I’m a certified mechanic and a city like this could always use another one.” His name leaves your lips, but he cuts you off. “I’m laying it all out on the table. I’m ready to make this work because I want you. I want you. The question is do you?”
A whimper crawls out your throat. “It’s going to be a pain to deal with me. Everyone follows me everywhere.”
“I’m one of them. Next question.”
“Paparazzi will be hounding you.”
“I know ten different ways to say fuck off.” You’re scrambling to find more excuses, but all of them die on the tip of your tongue. You don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to scare him away. This is it. “What do you say, princess? Want to take a chance with me?”
He holds out his palm out, fingers stretched out. You look at his hand, one that you’re used to having wrapped around yours. You look at him, those honest blue eyes that never seem to stray far away from you. “Yes,” you whisper.
“Good girl,” he grins as he brushes his lips against yours. “Now, let me take my time showing you what you’ve been missing out on.”
“Better make it worth my time, Barnes,” you laugh breathlessly.
“Always will, princess.”
+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!!! longest bucky fic to date but holy heck, glad i finally finished a wip ha. shoutout to @singulartoast for being my farm x city lover too with her fic!!!
warnings: None. Established relationship. Ransom is grumpy and thinks his glares have any power. Reader is a sunshine, but also a troll.
Ransom Drysdale Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Ransom glares.
He glares at his phone. Then at you.
Your sunshine beaming smile doesn’t falter for a second. Quite the opposite, you actually fucking giggle when he stares at you with that lethal stare.
When you bounced over to where he was seated on the couch and going through the prints of potential covers for his newest book, Ransom felt the usual warm shiver down his spine that melted most of the tension that accumulated in his body through the day. Your bubbly presence always had that annoyingly soothing effect on him.
You told him about your day. Unlike with most people, Ransom really listened to you. He liked listening to you. Perhaps because you were rarely complaining. Instead, you tended to tell him about happy things, or funny things.
Which is also the reason why he is glaring right now.
Because one of the funny things of the day was a meme you saw. A fucking meme that apparently made you think of him.
“I’ll send it to you. That meme is so you!” You giggled.
A ping later his phone screen brightened with a message from you. He opened the picture. And fucking glared.
It was a picture of a tiny, fuzzy bat. Petted by someone. And the words on it said “No! Stop touching me! I am the night!”
“It’s not me,” Ransom grumbled.
You laughed, snuggling closer to his side.
“It’s so you,” you whispered back, reaching your hand to play with his hair.
Hahahahahahaha he loves it. I bet he saves each and every dumb meme you send him 🤭 I love him finding a sunshine personality so soothing. I can totally see that given his toxic, soul sucking family.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Congressman!Bucky x Personal Assistant!f!reader
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 6.8k
ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You know your boss likes you. His gestures go well beyond the normal professional relationship, but he’ll deny it all the way to the damn bank. That is, until you play a little game and see just how far you can push him…
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ / ᴛᴀɢꜱ: 18+, MDNI, kinda angst, smut, pretty much PWP, there’s some plot but it’s negligible, NSFW (literally), politics but it’s brief, age gap (reader in her 20s, Bucky is ancient), age-related references (Bucky calls you ‘kid’ once and you internally refer to him as ‘old man’), nicknames (‘doll’, mostly), taboo relationship, mirror-play, fingering & oral (f!receiving), inappropriate use of a desk, high heel kink if you squint, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it, folks), creampie (why not), Bucky is sorta mean but also a gentleman, makeshift gag, decryphilia for like a second, semi-public sex, big dick!Bucky, rough sex, reader’s clothes are described, slight objectification of reader, and maybe this counts as coercion???
ɴᴏʙʟᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: A delayed thank you for 400 followers!! This is kind of a rewrite of a prior fic of mine, or at least it started that way. Really just needed to scratch that Congressman Barnes itch. I spent so much time on this and scrapped it like three times. Beta credit to @laufeydottirs-writings . Uhh…And if this flops I’ll just never post again. :) Cheers!
Divider credit goes to @/cursed-carmine!
It wasn’t like you really tried to fall head over heels for your boss, who also just so happened to be one of the hottest politicians in D.C. Seriously, who would do that? Okay, maybe a few people came to mind - but, you swore that you weren’t one of them!
You were fresh out of college and in need of a job - really any job - and he was…Well…Lifetimes ahead of you comparatively. But, lately, he was becoming increasingly less subtle about his preference for you - and, it was kind of hard to ignore. Of course, he wouldn’t come out and say it to your face because Congressman Barnes wasn’t a man of very many words, but it was the little gestures that did all that sweet-talking for him.
It was the way he smiled at you so warmly when you brought his coffee straight to his desk each morning - just a splash or two of cream and a dash of sweetener was how he liked it. It was the way his sparkling baby-blues would flit across your silhouette like a lion sizing up prey - especially when he particularly enjoyed your outfit that day. And, if you were lucky enough, he’d give you a short, “Lookin’ sharp, kid. How are those surveys coming?” And the intense glint in his eyes as he spoke with that low Brooklyn drawl is what gave away the true infatuation hidden beneath his words.
That’s how it all started. Small gestures that were just barely noticeable, unless you were around him as often as someone in your position was - you were, after all, his personal assistant. His one, true tether to the Earth. And, given adequate time, these small gestures appeared to escalate.
A year into your humble employment, it developed into a subtle brush of his warm, calloused hand against yours while you were trying to explain something important. It became the way that same large palm would find the small of your back with such ease and his fingers began to splay across the fabric of your blouse possessively as he started walking you to your car each evening. You quickly realized he wasn’t doing any of it for you - he was doing it for himself. To make sure you were safe because if he didn’t try hard enough, then he wouldn’t be able to sleep.
If you’d been having a particularly hard day, he’d excuse himself a little early for lunch and then return an hour afterwards with a small bouquet of your favorite flowers from the florist just down the street, and your latte made exactly how you liked it. He often referred to it as a ‘morale boost’, but you saw through that excuse after it became less of an occasional treat and more of a frequent one.
You were slowly coming to the realization that this grumpy old man didn’t go out of his way for very much, but he certainly went above and beyond if it involved you.
“Late night, huh?” His gruff voice startled you, even though the only thing you could think about was how the words on your laptop screen were beginning to blur into a mess. Cohesive thoughts and bright ideas had left your brain a few hours before.
You blinked, glancing to your left where he’d entered his office in that scarily quiet way he had a habit of doing.
He’d noticed when you flinched, and he laughed softly. “Sorry, doll. I know. Need to get better ‘bout announcing myself.”
You smiled, tight but polite. “By now I think I should know you have a habit of materializing out of thin air, Houdini,” you teased.
You let out a heavy breath, one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, and closed your laptop with a soft ‘click’ - having a short break from the screen would surely do you some good. “Also, it’s not a late night until it’s past midnight, remember? It’s only eleven.”
Bucky’s gaze darted up to the standard-issue clock ticking away just above his desk. “And so it is,” he confirmed, shooting you a half-smile before he walked over to inspect the numerous files you’d left atop his desk. “You still shouldn’t be here so late, you know. You never know who’s roaming these halls.”
You rolled your eyes. “Well, your speeches aren’t going to write themselves, and I certainly don’t think anyone nefarious is sneaking about a heavily-secured government office. Unless you’re talking about yourself.”
That squeezed yet another dry laugh out of him. “The only thing nefarious about me right now is my appetite,” he admitted, picking up one of the various navy blue folders you’d set atop the polished mahogany throughout the evening. His eyebrows furrowed and his tongue jutted out just past his blushed lips as he fanned through the top document.
His look of absolute concentration was so amusing to you, especially since most of the time you still needed to explain all of the political jargon to him. But, you appreciated his efforts to learn, in the very least. “There’s something you should take note of on page five,” you piped up.
The stiff papers rustled as Bucky flipped back through the pages, and he appeared even more confused. “Am I blind or…?”
“Oh!” You quickly shifted your laptop onto the coffee table across from you as you jumped to your plush-socked feet. You grabbed a sticky note and pen from the table before flitting over to his side. “My bad, it’s been a crazy day…”
You were wearing plaid pajama pants and an oversized tourist shirt you’d picked up from a girls trip to Vegas. You were casual on these late-night stints - and, as long as you got your job done, Bucky didn’t really seem to mind.
You gently plucked the file from his hands and hunched down over his desk as you skimmed through the bill to find the clause you wanted to highlight. As your finger danced over the black ink, your hand was visibly shaking from the sheer amount of caffeine you needed to drink in order to stay awake as long as you had.
You immediately froze when you felt his hand slide up against your lower back - steady, warm, heavy - and then heard his voice, something low and soft that you had maybe only ever heard once before. “You’re shaking, doll. I think it’s time to call it a night.”
You swallowed thickly - your tongue suddenly felt too big for your mouth and your heart was skipping beat after beat…And it certainly wasn’t from the caffeine this time. “I’m fine,” you assured him curtly, trying to keep some level of professionalism alive between you two - but, that was becoming increasingly difficult under the weight of his piercing blue stare.
He hummed, like he was thinking it over but not really. “I’m sure whatever it is can wait another seven hours for you to come back in the morning.”
You sighed, slapping the sticky note down onto the paper and then scribbling out a small notation for him. “There,” you said, like he hadn’t just given you his explicit blessing to stop. You glanced up towards him - his eyes were still boring into yours.
“I’m being serious,” he murmured, his gaze momentarily flicking down to the file and then back up to yours again. “That’s an order. Go home.”
Coming from literally anyone else, you likely would have been offended at how strongly he was coming off. But, this was Bucky. This was…Kind of normal.
You chewed on your bottom lip, pulse hammering loud in your ears. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, he was pressed so damn close to you - and the direct touch of his palm was hot enough to melt away the icy chill of the office on that autumn’s night. Finally, you gave up - you nodded and closed the file. “Alright.”
You turned to gather your laptop and your bag, but he was already doing it for you. You felt your cheeks flush hot. “Sir, really. You don’t have to-“
“Sir?” he interrupted with another laugh - wow, three in one evening. You were on a roll. “Aren’t we way past the formalities?” He cocked an eyebrow as he held your coat out to you.
Neck, cheeks, and ears dusted pink and on fire, you took the coat and shrugged it on before you reached for your bag. “Uh-uh,” he tutted with a small smile. “Let me carry this for you and I’ll walk you out to your car.”
Right. Once again, anyone else and this would have been plain creepy. But no, this was just good, old-fashioned Bucky Barnes who couldn’t stand to let chivalry die.
“Fine. But just so you know, I’m coming in early in the morning just to spite you,” you muttered, giving him a quick once-over.
If you had to be honest, he looked as if he’d just wrestled with a bear and lost. Your lips gravitated into a frown as you took a quick step towards him. You reached up, not hesitating to take the delicate, blue silk of his tie between your fingers. “Did you try to redo this yourself?” Your eyes flicked up to meet his. This pitiful knot certainly wasn’t your workmanship.
Right then, you swore that in the dim, golden light of the ancient desk lamp, you saw dark pink bloom across the apples of his cheeks. “Perhaps…” he mumbled, jaw ticking as he glanced off to the side.
You worked the tie off with ease, and you could feel your heartbeat racing under the influence of his constant stare. He definitely had a problem with that, the whole staring thing. But, you’d learned to not mind it so much. “Next time, come to me first,” you said quietly, making quick work of fixing the knot and then taking a step back to admire your work.
Bucky, who was trying very hard not to be visibly flustered by the gesture, just nodded. “Noted.”
The next morning, your heels were clicking against the polished marble as you marched your way back towards Bucky’s office. The gray light of the dawn was beginning to seep through the dusty window panes, painting the halls in a pale glow.
You weren’t much of a high heel girl yourself, but today was a rather important press conference and you knew that the Congressman always gave you a few more glances than usual when you wore them. Just for the satisfaction of making him hot and bothered, you were willing to set aside your personal qualms with one of the most heinous footwear designs ever invented.
You paused at his door, knocking exactly three times so he knew it was you - this was something you’d agreed upon within your first week once you learned he had a habit of ignoring just about anyone who bothered to knock. “Come in!” You heard faintly through the aged, wooden entrance.
You turned the tarnished, brass knob and shouldered the creaky door open all while balancing his coffee and yours, along with several binders and your purse and laptop bag. You weren’t afraid of multitasking - no, multitasking was afraid of you.
You tossed him a polite, cheery little smile. “G‘Mornin’, Congressman,” you chirped, tossing your purse and laptop bag down on an ornate armchair before you piled the binders high on his desk and promptly held his coffee out to him. “You can take the girl out of work, but not the work out of the girl,” you said as he huffed in annoyance at the binders.
“I take it that you didn’t sleep?” He took the coffee from you as his eyes searched your face for signs of adequate rest - or, the lack thereof.
You shook your head. “Not until a few hours ago. I was really engrossed in those speeches…” You pouted and perched yourself up on the edge of the solid mahogany desk. You crossed your legs over one another out of politeness only, since you were wearing a short, black pencil skirt.
You couldn’t miss the way his eyes tracked the satiny flow of your midnight blouse, or the way they followed the gentle curve of your body downwards to how the skirt hugged your ass so nicely and the lace of your stockings peeked out from just underneath the skin-tight fabric. They settled on your heels, a sharp exhale coming from his nose before his eyes flicked back up to your face.
You tilted your head. “Yes?”
His jaw ticked because he knew he couldn’t say anything. Well, he could but he was risking an HR complaint if he did. “Nothing. You look ready for the press.”
You beamed. “Oh! Do I?” You giggled. “I tried my best. You know I always do.” Your voice was honey and velvet and everything so sweet and tempting to him…
He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he did. “Right,” he said, clearing his throat and then pushing the new pile of binders aside. “I was reading over the press conference address this morning…”
You cocked an eyebrow in silent question.
“Am I…It doesn’t feel right to be taking this harsh of an opposing stance to something that feels…” He trailed off, trying to find the right words. Once again, political jargon was not his forte.
“Mostly bipartisan?” You interrupted with that sickly-sweet smile.
He nodded. “Yes, that.”
You took a rather pensive sip of your coffee. “Bipartisan doesn’t always translate to ‘good’, Congressman,” you quipped, and then reached across to flip through the speech pages yourself.
“Mmm, you see here?” You quickly pointed to a clause on the bill he’d be opposing. “This right here is some pretty…Sneaky business.”
He hummed, his gaze flicking between your delicate finger, the words on the paper, and your glossy lips. The tension that settled in the air between you two felt thick enough to cut with a knife…And that’s when you were rudely interrupted by your first phone call of the day.
“Congressman Barnes’ office, how may I direct your call?” you answered, sliding off the desk. Teasing him would have to wait, although as you glanced back over your shoulder to check, you could see his eyes were still making a meal out of you and your little skirt.
The press conference was a whirlwind as you’d expected it to be.
Before all the lights and the cameras, you’d stood behind him in the mirror, smoothing down the sleeves of his suit jacket with careful attention. You could tell from his stiff expression that he was uncomfortable with the level of professionalism he needed to maintain as your hands just so casually ran along his biceps. “I think navy is more your color than black,” you muttered, stepping around in front of him as you moved to fasten his cuff links in place.
He was trying to look anywhere but directly at you, but it was so hard when you looked so pretty and the aroma of your perfume was dancing dreamily about the air. “Are you saying I wear too much black?” he asked, still staring straight ahead.
You shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m not your stylist. I’m just the one who buffs out the rough edges before it’s showtime.”
You straightened his tie and then took a step back. “Go on and get ‘em, Bucky.” With a satisfied grin, you gave him a little wink and the most chaste, polite peck on the cheek you could give. Then, you left him standing there as you made your way to the media room.
In his office, Bucky stood in a silence that felt too heavy to breathe in. He was…Stunned. Every nerve in his body felt alive and buzzing with electricity - and it wasn’t because of the televised address. No, it was because he could still feel the softness of your lips lingering against his stubbled cheek; and, he could kick himself for just letting you leave after that.
During the conference, you tried to ignore the way he was staring at you more than the cameras, but he was making that awfully hard. You crossed your legs, one atop the other, and squeezed your thighs together as you desperately wished you could disappear. And, before you could even think about making a clean escape from the media room, a gloved vibranium hand was wrapped around your wrist and tugging you back from the double doors. “Prep room. Now.”
He didn’t leave room for protest as he nearly dragged you along to the back briefing room. Once the door clicked shut, he let go of your wrist, mumbling a quiet ‘sorry’ like he’d realized he was being a bit too rough. “What was that?” he questioned.
You blinked. “What was what?”
He sighed. “Before the conference?”
“I…Adjusted your tie?”
“No. You kissed my cheek.”
You couldn’t help the way your cheeks turned crimson and sold you out before you even had a chance to defend yourself. He took that as enough of an answer, beginning to pace the length of the room.
“I should fire you for that,” he said, hands clasped behind his back and his eyebrows furrowed in thought as his gaze stayed glued to the government-issued blue carpeting.
You leaned back against the conference table and crossed your arms over your chest. “But you won’t.”
That stopped him in his tracks, mid-stride. His eyes snapped over to you, piercing and icy. But the threat fell flat. “How do you know?” he huffed.
“Because if you were really pissed enough, I wouldn’t be standing here alone with you. You have a team that handles anything and everything you could need, myself being one of them. I’d have been sent home from the audience if you so wished.”
Bucky’s jaw ticked. He knew you were right. He didn’t really tolerate nonsense, in fact there wasn’t much he did tolerate. A few people. Select members of the press. Last you’d heard he was still struggling to accept therapy. He didn’t deal with things that he didn’t want to deal with, not since being freed from the mental prison of being the Winter Soldier - which, you knew very little about but just enough.
“You’re not one for a power-trip, but you also don’t put up with bullshit,” you continued, eyes meeting his as you cocked an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same question about the flowers. The lattes. Walking me to my car-“
“That’s just called bein’ nice, doll,” he said, tongue darting out across his bottom lip.
“Not when your hand is on my back. Not when I can feel you practically eye-fucking me every time I wear something nice. Which, news flash, is almost every day in this industry,” you argued back.
You watched as big, bad super soldier Bucky Barnes’ cheeks turned pink. Bright pink. And there was that tick of his jaw again.
You pushed yourself off the conference table and grabbed him by his tie, tugging him down so close you could smell the coffee and wintergreen mint on his breath. His eyes widened. “You could tell me to stop,” you whispered. “But I know damn well you won’t.”
You released the hold on his tie and walked back towards the briefing room door. “You have thirty minutes before the vote. I suggest you get going,” you called over your shoulder, smile in your voice as you flung the door open and - once again - left Bucky Barnes too stunned to speak.
The days that followed were…Long and dull and irritating. The old man was somehow grumpy all the time, seemingly moping about how you’d called him out on his little stunts. No flowers, no coffees, no offers to walk you out.
The routine was simple - you’d hand him his coffee and he’d grunt out a very half-hearted ‘thanks’. His eyes - the same ones that used to shamelessly stare - would avoid you at all costs, even if it meant gazing into blank space. He spoke only when absolutely necessary, and you continued to do your work on your laptop while quietly nestled in the armchair across from him. The tension was heavy.
Finally, you’d had enough. You turned up to work on a gloriously sunny Friday morning in your very best dress, tights, and godforsaken high heels. You appeared to be dressed for the most important press conference of your life, except not even a low-level briefing was scheduled for that day. In fact, nothing was scheduled for that day and that was exactly the point.
You set the paper coffee cup down on his desk, fingers lingering around the cardboard sleeve before retreating. “G’Mornin’, Congressman,” you greeted in your usual cheery tone, not like it mattered that much recently.
“Thanks,” he grumbled, reaching for the cup. And as he did, his eyes caught sight of your dress. For the first time in nearly a week, he gave you a quick once-over that ended in an expression of confusion. “Did I miss something on my itinerary?”
You smiled sweetly and shook your head. “Oh, no,” you assured with a little shrug, batting your eyelashes.
His brows furrowed. “Then…What is all of this?” he questioned, gesturing to your outfit.
You looked down at yourself, playing stupid even though you knew exactly what you were doing. “This?” you asked with a small laugh. “Oh, I have a lunch date. Figured I’d get a little dressed up.”
You watched with satisfaction as his jaw ticked. You’d struck a nerve. His eyes narrowed. “Didn’t even know you had a boyfriend,” he remarked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
“First date.”
“Lunch for a first date?”
“Why not?”
“That’s not a very good impression.”
“And what is?”
Bucky’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, annoyance flickering behind his eyes. “I think a nice dinner would be suitable,” he muttered, and then hunched back over his desk as he pretended to shuffle some papers around. “What’s he like?”
You were a little taken aback that he was so invested in your lie, but you supposed it helped to sell the point. “He’s older. Stubborn. A little hard to talk to, but he’s hot so…”
He huffed. “Good luck with that. You’ll need it.”
Oh, yeah. You’d definitely need it…
Your lunch date ended up being between yourself and a disgustingly healthy salad from the cafe across the street, eaten quietly in the comfort of your car as you watched an episode of a sitcom.
Once the hour had gone and passed, you returned to Bucky’s office. And the second you sat back in the armchair and reached for your laptop, he was questioning you. Prying.
“How was the date?”
“It was…Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Eh…Men. You know how it goes, I’m sure.”
His piercing blue gaze was boring into you, you could practically feel it. But you paid him no direct attention as you navigated to a spreadsheet. “Oh, I’m sure. Just like I’m sure you didn’t actually go on a date.”
You felt your mouth run dry and your heart skip a beat. Your eyes flicked up from your laptop. You cocked an eyebrow. “And how are you so sure about that, Barnes? Don’t think I’ve got a line of suitors a mile long?” You really didn’t, but he definitely didn’t know that.
He chuckled, something dark and low and gravelly - honey flowing over jagged stone. “Doll,” he drawled. If you hadn’t been seated, you were sure your knees would have buckled beneath you. “I’m sure you do. But we need to start being honest with ourselves.”
You tried incredibly hard to play it cool, but you were losing it - especially over the fact he was turning this into a ‘we’ situation instead of a ‘me’ situation. You’d long since accepted that you were in love with him - it was he who needed to be honest with himself.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” you snapped back, arms folding across your chest defensively. “I’m not the one wallowing in denial.”
Bucky’s jaw did that little tick-and-set that you knew damn too well and had become awfully acquainted with over the last week in particular. Except, this wasn’t a tick of defiance. You could see it in his eyes - his resolve was crumbling, slowly but surely.
“It’s not right.”
His words sat in the air for a moment, heavy and hard to ignore. Of course he’d be obsessed over thinking through whether something was right or wrong…You knew him. He wanted to do whatever was right.
“Just because it’s not right, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” you replied. “Plenty of wrong things exist that we can’t just ignore and push away.”
He sighed, closing the folder he had opened before tossing it aside on his desk and scrubbing a hand down his face. He looked…Exhausted. Clearly you meant something to him in a way he couldn’t control, and the lack of control was eating him alive.
You closed your laptop, slowly unfolded your legs like you were giving yourself an extra second to back out, and then you made your way over to his desk. You propped yourself up against the corner, a finger hooking just beneath the Congressman’s chin and gently bringing his gaze to yours.
“What do you want?” you murmured, searching his face for answers. “Tell me…”
You didn’t expect it. Not in the very least - not with how conflicted he seemed. But he stood up from his chair, towering over you and leaving your hand hanging in the negative space. Then, his palms were on your cheeks - large, warm, calloused…Comforting. And he stooped down, lips colliding with yours.
He didn’t even need to use words - the kiss expressed it all. It was firm, confident. Reverent and gentle like you were a precious treasure for the taking. He pulled back just briefly, just long enough to whisper, “You.”
His lips were back on yours before you even had a chance to react - rough, claiming, and messy. It was like he was trying to make up for lost time, devouring every bit of you that he could. The kiss suffocated you and gave you life in the very same breath, and everything that followed was uncoordinated chaos.
Without breaking the kiss, his hands reached behind you and shoved everything off the desk - he sent papers, pens, binders, folders, paper clips…Everything tumbling to the floor. Luckily, the carpet muffled most of the sound.
His tongue was slipping into your mouth now, entangling itself with your own as you both moaned into the kiss. His hands grabbed roughly at your waist, picking you up and setting you down on the dead center of his desk - cold mahogany bit at the backs of your thighs through your stockings as he impatiently nudged his chair out of the way with his hip.
Although reluctant, he finally broke the kiss and knelt between your legs - he wasted no time rucking your tight dress up over your thighs. He couldn’t help himself - Lord knows he tried. He audibly groaned just at the sight of the silver garter clips biting into the delicate, black lace frill of your stockings, and how they squeezed at the plump flesh of your upper thighs just slightly. “Smart girl,” he murmured, tongue darting across his bottom lip as his eyes traced gradually upwards to where you were already soaking through your matching lacy panties. “You know what I like, don’t you?”
Your cheeks flushed dark crimson - guilty as charged! And you figured you didn’t need to actually answer that question seeing as you were already wearing the bastard child of all the clothing items that had ever gotten his attention.
Looking up for just a moment, breath hitching in your throat, you noticed the full-length mirror set just behind Bucky’s desk - the exact one you’d convinced him to get so he could keep better tabs on his appearance. And, right now, reflected back at you was a most scandalous image of yourself with Congressman Barnes nestled between your legs and your red-bottom heels dangling over his broad, muscled shoulders.
He noticed the way your breath caught and how you tensed beneath his touch, and his gaze followed your awe-struck stare to the reflective surface. A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Mmm…I see,” he said, plotting. “Wanna watch while I make a mess of you?” His voice was low, quiet.
You nodded, coming off more eager than you’d intended. “Y-Yes…” you managed to stammer out, brain still stuck two minutes ago on the kiss and the confession.
He hummed in approval, and then you felt his fingers hooking into the lace of your panties - you began to feel the soft, slow drag of the thin fabric as he guided them down your legs and left them hanging off the pointy toe of your left heel - it was like he was displaying a trophy, soaking wet and glistening in the dim light.
You watched as he shifted himself barely off to the side and tugged you closer to the edge of the desk. Now, displayed proudly in the mirror, was your dripping heat. You swallowed hard, throat running dry as Bucky watched your reaction through reflection. “She’s pretty, huh?” he cooed, bringing his flesh hand up and gently spreading your folds apart with two fingers - he was touching you like glass, something fragile.
You saw how you clenched around nothing at just his words - needy and involuntary like your body knew exactly what and who it wanted - no, needed. “She’s cryin’ f’me already,” he drawled, voice slurred in lustful wonder. “Beggin’ for somethin’…Don’t ya think?” He tilted his head, stormy blues flicking up towards you. “Look at me and answer me, doll.” He was almost pleading.
You managed to peel your gaze away from the mirror and gaze directly down at him, seeing those once icy orbs turning dark as blown pupils swallowed nearly all signs of brilliant color. “Y-Yes,” you whispered. “N-Need it…”
“Need what?”
You could feel a shameful heat blooming up your neck and across your cheeks to the tips of your ears. “Y-You…Y-Your fingers…”
“Mouth too?”
You whined and nodded, so eager yet again.
“Greedy…” he muttered, but he didn’t protest any further as he leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe up your exposed cunt.
You shuddered at his delicate touch, his breath fanning warm against your skin as he circled the tip of his tongue teasingly along your clit and then trailed back down to your entrance. You gasped, hands flying up and finding purchase in that perfect raven hair.
You hung your head back and then felt him pull away, drawing a whimper of protest from you. “Want you lookin’ over there f’me,” he said, nodding towards the mirror. “Don’t you be closing those pretty little eyes on me now.”
He leaned up and kissed you, soft and chaste but just long enough to get a good taste of yourself on his lips. And, as he sat back, you felt him slowly push a finger inside you. You moaned - soft and breathy - while glancing into the reflection across from you and watching as his digit slowly disappeared inside you. Your legs trembled a little as you felt him crook that finger up, burying even deeper against your fluttering walls. “Fuck…” you sighed out.
“That’s it, doll. Beautiful. Think you can handle one more?” he murmured, kissing at the side of your neck - wet and sloppy - as he slowly moved his finger in and out in a rocking motion that was borderline hypnotic.
“Mmm…Mmhm,” you whined, gasping as you felt him immediately slip a second finger in right beside the first. You continued to watch the obscenities play out in the mirror as his fingers stretched you open, pumping in and out of your weeping cunt - slow and deep.
“Got a tight little pussy…She’s greedy, not wantin’ to let me go…” he teased, and you swore you saw stars as he shoved them in even deeper and curled them up right against that soft, spongy spot that had your back arching towards him. He seemed pleased with that reaction. “Is that it? That where ya need me, doll?”
You nodded almost frantically, crying out as he started to bully his fingers into that spot over and over and over. “Yes! Yes! Buck-“ He quickly clapped his metal hand down over your mouth.
“Quiet, doll,” he warned, shaking his head, “Don’t wanna get caught…”
You swallowed hard, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes from the blinding hot pleasure building inside you. “B-Bucky…” you mumbled against his hand, watching as his fingers fucked in and out of you, curling deep and scissoring apart to stretch you open for him.
“Atta girl…C’mon…Just let go f’me…” he encouraged, pupils blown as he glanced between you and the mirror. “Let me see how gorgeous you are when you cum f’me…”
And so you did, screaming out against the cold vibranium vice across your mouth as you felt yourself clench down tight around his fingers. The rolling tide of your orgasm washed over you - a warm, electric wave that left you breathless and panting and pulsing around his digits.
After coaxing you through your high, Bucky slipped his fingers out and held them up in front of him as he watched your glistening slick drip down the length of them. He licked his lips. “Look at that,” he breathed, not breaking eye contact as he popped the soaked digits in his mouth and moaned as he sucked them clean.
You whimpered. God, he was so fucking hot. The salt and pepper of his beard was also coated in you, shining golden in the lamplight. Watching how his eyes fluttered shut as he savored the taste of you on his skin…
He pulled his fingers out, wiping them dry on your dress before diving in head-first and beginning to lap up all the sweet release that coated your cunt.
“A-Ah~! B-Bucky…” you gasped out, chewing down hard on your bottom lip as he made the most obscene sounds while he licked and sucked you clean - devouring you like it was his last meal.
“Sweetest little pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he mumbled against you, voice sending vibrations straight through your ruined core.
As he stood back up, you couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the way he was absolutely towering over you. You were entirely in his shadow and at his mercy.
He shrugged his suit jacket off, tossing it onto the nearby chair and then he slipped off his tie, balling it up in his fist. He looked at you with dark eyes, but there was a softness peeking through that contrasted so heavily with the words he spoke. “Open up, doll,” he drawled, low and slow. “Gotta make sure the whole of Congress doesn’t hear ya now.”
You obediently parted your lips, mouth almost being shoved open as he stuffed the balled-up silk into your mouth. You tried to moan, just to see how you’d sound. It was muffled, but just loud enough that he could still get the satisfaction of hearing it.
Then, metal clinked softly against metal as he slowly undid his belt and threw it over the chair where his jacket lay discarded. He popped open the button on his dress slacks, pulled down the fly, and then unfurled himself from inside his boxers. He wasn’t trying to put on a show, but that didn’t stop you from staring the entire time.
You weren’t sure you’d ever seen such a delicious sight in your life, let alone the glaring fact that he was huge. His cock stood, curved slightly at attention and flushed red - aching and already leaking incessantly at the thought of being buried inside your tight cunt.
Bucky took a step towards you, almost completely closing the gap between his pelvis and yours, save the length of his throbbing dick. Flesh hand wrapping around the base, he teasingly guided the fat tip of his cock up and down your folds, lubing himself up before just notching himself at your entrance.
You whined through the gag, the corners of your eyes already damp with tears.
“Hmm? I didn’t quite catch that, doll,” he murmured as he began to push himself inside inch by agonizing inch.
And it wasn’t agonizing in the sense that it hurt. No, it was agonizing because all you wanted was his entire cock sheathed between your walls, but all he was doing was feeding it to you little by little. The stretch burned, but in a way that once again had your back arching off the damn desk and your toes curling in your heels as you locked your ankles around his waist.
Once he bottomed out, hips pressed flushed to yours, his hands roughly gripped at the flesh of your thighs as he carefully pulled out and then slammed his hips back against yours. You moaned out, voice muffled by the tie. Your eyes screwed shut, tears of pleasure tracking black trails of mascara down your cheeks.
“Uh-Uh,” he grunted. “C’mon, sweet thing. Open those pretty eyes f’me again. Don’t close ‘em now…”
You whimpered at his words, but obeyed like your life depended on it - like you were tethered to him and existing there just to grant his every lustful plea. Your eyelids, although heavy, fluttered back open and you gazed up at him through wet lashes.
The pace he set was brutal and breathtaking, and it had you moaning and sputtering around the makeshift gag as he dragged out to his tip and then slammed back in so your body was flush to his. You could feel the way his cock so perfectly nudged against that soft spot inside of you, leaving your thighs trembling in his grasp.
“Perfect little pussy is takin’ me so well,” he breathed out, head dropping down by your shoulder and soft grunts falling from his lips as he continued to pound into you. “Want me to fill ya up? Hmm?” he growled. “C-Cum f’me, doll. I can feel it…Know ya want to…”
Every merciless intrusion of his cock sent sharp, white-hot sparks of pleasure straight to your core. And it didn’t take very long before you were trying - and failing - to scream his name through the spit-dampened tie. Drool was running down the corners of your mouth and dribbling onto your tits from your chin - and, your cunt clenched down around his cock as your body shook and your fingers white-knuckled the edges of the desk.
Bucky followed shortly afterwards, your name rolling off his tongue so effortlessly and entangled in sweet praises. “That’s it, doll…Mmph~ Give it all to me…” He buried himself in as deep as he could, his cock throbbing and filling you up completely with his thick, warm release.
After a moment where the two of you were catching your breaths in the electrified silence, he suddenly slipped out and tucked himself back into his slacks. You squeaked a little in shock when you felt your combined releases leaking all over the dark mahogany of the desk in pearlescent, white streaks.
Bucky looped his belt back on and then reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket to retrieve a large, embroidered handkerchief - of course he had one of those. “You made such a mess, doll,” he scolded softly, taking a corner of the soft, cotton square and dabbing up your hot, inky tears and pathetic drool before folding the hanky over itself and wiping up the cum that was still lazily dripping from your entrance.
Once you were clean enough, he retrieved your panties from the toe of your heels and helped you slip them back on. Only then did he take the tie back from your mouth.
“I expect you to have that speech done by six,” he said, like he hadn’t just fucked you right there in his office. “And then I want you to go home. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”
You were shaking as you wobbled on your heels and tried your best to fix your mussed dress and hair.
As you turned to walk back to the armchair, head still floaty and fuzzy and warm in the afterglow, his hand caught your shoulder and you turned around.
“But don’t forget to let me walk you out tonight, okay?”
You could almost laugh. Bucky Barnes, always a goddamn gentleman.
a short series featuring Andy Barber as a soft dark mafia boss who set his sights on you and never plans to let you go
While Andy Barber was well-known in Boston, there are whispers of a darker side, but few know the depths of his darker side. He's successful, he's charming, he's generous, and you're about to find out just how dangerous he can be.
Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings]
DUBIOUS CONSENT, extortion, explicit smut (see individual parts for detailed warnings), power plays, manipulation, financial spoiling, forced marriage
COLLECTION:
I'm Your Man [3k]
Morning Radiance [750]
Prepare for Takeoff [1.5k]
Don't Look Too Far [6.4k]
Burned Off the Haze [4.5k]
Cracking Locks [5k]
Dangerous Desires [6.3k]
Only Your Actions Talk [5.9k]
By the End of the Night [6.2k]
ANDY'S POV You Should Know [800]
Currents Sweeping Through [3.8k]
Different Things [3.9k]
Last Vows Before the Altar [7.5k]
parts that jump ahead of the timeline and may or may not remain cannon to this AU:
ask: a moment on your honeymoon [350]
Make Her Glow [1k]
EXTRAS:
↠ will Andy let the reader work?
↠ what if Andy were forced into marriage with the reader?
↠ what if sweetheart tried to get rid of her engagement ring?
↠ does Andy have ulterior motives?
↠ did Andy pick you to be the mother of his children/did he watch you before?
Summary: What if the hottest thing Bucky Barnes has ever heard is a language he can’t understand? While everyone else is trying to translate your words, Bucky is far more interested in the way they sound rolling off your tongue. The more time he spends with you, the less he believes he needs to understand you at all. Besides, there are plenty of ways to talk.
PSA (Pink Service Announcement): brining back Bucky Barnes the flirt. he never died because i said so. set around TFATWS. I couldn't find any canoncial evidence of Bucky speaking French but I didn’t look that hard. you don't need to translate anything to understand what's happening, but if you want to please feel free!
Word Count: 6.3k
Warnings: google translate French, gratuitous use of italics. Bucky Barnes goes to the club, cursing, grinding on the dance floor, hot and heavy make out, oral (fem receiving)
DT: the bestest betas a girl could ever ask for, my sweet @artficlly, @heldbybarnes, and addy (I still can’t believe you know French), thank you guys so much for reading I truly would not have made it through this last stretch of writing without you. I owe you all a billion kisses or Jell-O shots, please let me know what you prefer!
also dividers by the extraordinarily talented @barnesonly
Bucky's first mistake was taking his eyes off the target.
Eyes straying from his mark across the room, first exit, second exit, and the large window. His eyes sweep the entire room, mentally checking every off every possible escape route. Calculating every possible entrance where someone could sneak in. Call it an old habit, call it paranoia, call it boredom. Bucky doesn't fucking care, it's just what he does. Working or not.
Whatever it is, it leads to his eyes sweeping right over you.
Bald suit, bald suit, gaudy heiress, bald suit, you, bald suit, billionaire-
You.
That's Bucky's second mistake, letting himself do a double take.
It's less conscious than that though, like catching his reflection in a mirror. His eyes move on their own accord, sliding away from his careful profiling and locking solely onto you.
Draped in silk and sin, poised and perfectly posed. You're perched on a bar stool, entertaining a small group of bald suits with wild hand gestures and well timed grazes of your hand.
He watches one of your manicured fingers reach out and adjust the lapels of one of their jackets. It's the only time Bucky's ever wished he had his father's hairline.
The movement is practiced, too perfect to be anything but well-rehearsed. You move like mercury, gentle and smooth. Like you could kill him if he dared to touch you.
Bucky's third mistake is abandoning his position. It's bad enough he's lost sight of the target, that bald suit went to bathroom three minutes ago. Oblivious, Bucky abandons his spot in the shadows. Losing any vantage point he may have had and walking straight through the heart of the crowd.
He can't be bothered with politeness, shouldering his way between conversations without even sparing them even an apologetic glance. It's only ten strides, maybe twelve before he has you back within view.
It's even worse up close, the curve of your chin, the tilt of your smile and the way your tongue peeks out between your lips to grab a wandering drop of champagne off the rim of your glass.
His fourth mistake is looking at your lips.
Pretty, plush, painted with perfect precision. They only serve to tighten your already iron clad grip on him. He doesn't hear a word you say, he already knows your voice will match the rest of you.
It's enchanting, the way they curve around each word. He's never taken much stock of how people look when they talk. A mouth moves and he takes no thrill in the way it shapes sound. Until yours. Until he saw them part to allow a laugh passage. Suddenly he's quite sure there's nothing sexier.
Like Venus has pulled him into her orbit, another moon for her collection.
Bucky doesn't stop until he's close enough to hear the men around you, chuckles, music and the clinking of dishes all falling to distant static.
Bucky's fifth mistake is not realizing that there is no static, at least not in the bubble surrounding you. In fact your circle of jesters has gone quiet, beady eyes staring into him as he obliviously stares at you.
A hand passes back and forth in front of his face, finally freeing him from his reverie.
When Bucky comes to there's laughter again, at his expense.
He doesn't even care, too busy processes that he can actually hear it this time. Ringing out an octave above the rest is your giggle, distinctly feminine. It sounds rehearsed, borderline unnatural, as if you've had to force it up your throat and then pitched it be heard above the rest.
It's fake, obviously so. At least to anyone willing to actually listen.
You're talking then, face turned toward him with a smirk on your lips. Your voice is smooth, velveteen. It pulls him in, as if you're giving him all of your attention with every word.
Bucky leans closer, all of his focus swimming around the sound of your speech.
It hits him all at once.
He's listening, hard. His ear turned toward your face to make sure he doesn't miss a syllable and-
He can't understand a word you say.
What is that? Russian? German? No, he knows those. He only speaks of a little bit of Slovakian, but it doesn't sound like that's it either.
It's melodic, although Bucky can't be sure if that's the language or just you.
You stare at him expectantly when you're done, voice lilting up as if you've asked him a question. Head cocked slightly to the side to match.
Like you've told him something he should have already known. Alpine gives him the same look when she wake him up at three a.m. to let him know her bowl is empty.
You're not a cat though, even if your eye gleam with mischief like one.
Is it French? Maybe you're speaking French?
"I'm sorry I don't-" he fumbles for a moment, heat rushing his cheeks with a vengeance. "I don't speak-"
Your bottom lip juts out in a pout, corners turning down into a soft frown. You say something to the rest of the men, layering it with silk and buttercream.
He catches a few more syllables that time, the fluidity as they string together some collection of words. Whatever they are has the men disappearing, a slow retreat. Like how ink dilutes in water. Gone before he can even pretend to sound out the first half of what you said.
Your shoulders lower for just a moment, visibly relaxing as you take a step closer to Bucky.
"Agent Barnes, oui?" You ask. Your smile is smaller this time, more friendly than enchanting. His name is different on your tongue, thick and accented. It's slower than before, as if you took extra care crafting it properly on your tongue.
His name has never sounded like that before. Like someone was paying attention, cared about getting it right.
He wants to know yours. Badly.
Wants to trace each of your teeth with his tongue, lick each syllable off it and taste your voice.
He feels like a kid in a school gym, sweaty palmed with a flipping stomach.
That kid never used to falter though. Bucky prays he’s still in him somewhere.
Sam’s voice cackles in his ear, his tone something between amusement and frustration.
“I see you’ve met Sirène.”
Bucky’s eyes snap to yours, Sirène?
“I thought we were solo on this one Sam?” Bucky does his best to keep his voice level, offering you a small nod as he speaks.
“Our guy is wanted in several countries Buck, including hers. We went over all of this in the briefing? They sent her over for backup, y’know another set of eyes and someone who could sweet talk his foreign associates.”
The bald suits, presumably.
“Oh.”
“Yeah oh.” Sam’s voice trails on, Bucky hears something about plans and paperwork. Bucky’s also pretty sure there’s a jab about listening ears in there too.
While yeah, he probably should pay more attention during briefings, he’s also pretty sure no file could have adequately prepared him for you.
You’re still in front of him, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you bite back a laugh.
“Siren?” Bucky repeats, directing the question toward you. Eliciting another giggle.
“See-ren.” Sam corrects in his ear. “It’s French.”
Bucky feels his confidence build ever so slightly, at least he was right about that.
He tries again, taking the same care that you did with his. It's a code name, of course it is. But it's something.
Your grin is enough to turn Sam's voice in his to static.
"Makes sense." Bucky muses, "Pretty sure you could lure any man, anywhere."
Your reply drips like honey, the deepening in your tone unmistakable. "Vous aussi?" You murmur.
Bucky feels his knees start to melt with the way they hit him. Molten and sultry. "I'd fall right in line with them." He continues, unable to directly respond the way he wishes he could.
Thirty languages programmed deep in his psyche and somehow French isn't one of them.
"Quel genre d'espion ne parle pas français?" You tease, or at least he thinks you tease.
"I should'a listened when my Ma told me to take French in school."
"C'est pas grave, je les aime mignons et bêtes." You lean in closer on that one, taking the collar of his shirt between your fingers and smoothing it over.
"I don't know what that means but it turns me-"
"Oooh-kay." Sam sing-songs, cutting Bucky off. "If you two are done with whatever this is, we need to find our target."
Shit. Bucky curses. Of course Sam is right, he really should focus.
He turns to look at you, something apologetic already half off his tongue when you start to lean in.
With a hand on his chest, you toe up and whisper in his ear. Or more accurately, into his ear piece.
"Il Dans le coin le plus à droits, assis fauteuil en cuir." You murmur, close enough for your lips to brush the skin oh his ear lobe. "Nous-I'm observe depuis trois minutes."
You pull back, the hand on his chest snaking up to his neck and curling around the back of it. Just enough for the tips of your fingers to dance along the hair at the base of his head.
"J'ai entendu sa femme dans la salle de bains. Elle disait qu'il ne fait pas confiance à ceux qui viennent seuls à ce genre d'événement." You continue, all but purring as you rake your nails over his skin. You let out a laugh then, one of the fake ones from earlier. This time you keep it low, soft enough that it won't travel further than the two of you. "Heureusement, je suis venu accompagné d'une belle cavalière."
Bucky's mind in swimming, swirling with the ecstacy of your touch and the vibration of your voice. How is a man supposed to even pretend to listen?
"Little help on the translation Sam?" Bucky asks. Doing his best to follow your lead, he slides an arm around your waist, his hand resting heavy over the slope of your hip.
He can feel his pulse in his palm, thrumming hard under the skin with nerves. You don't seem to notice, or perhaps care, not bothering to move an inch as Bucky waits for Sam's response.
"Our guy is across the room at eight o'clock. He likes couples so she's doing her best to sell it." Sam explains, "So maybe loosen up a bit, give her a hand yeah?"
Bucky feels his throat bob as he swallows, his tongue suddenly gone thick. His nod is short, hardly visible and too stiff for the kind of level head this situation calls for.
"Yeah." Bucky exhales, "I can do that."
He forces himself to ignore Sam's chuckled Can you? in his ear.
"Respirer profondement." You whisper, taking the hand Bucky had placed (respectfully) on your hip and moving it around to your back, letting it rest at the base of your spine, just where your ass begins to curve.
One long exhale later, and Bucky finds his nerve.
His hand splays out over your skin, daring to take up the space there. With one quick pull he brings your chest flush to his, nearly throwing your balance as he does so.
You beam, smile widening with approval.
"Nice." Sam chides in his ear, equal parts proud and disgusted.
You squeeze Bucky's shoulder. "Il vient par ici."
"He's headed toward you." Sam translates.
You bring your hand around from the back of Bucky's neck, sliding it down over his collarbone until your palm rests flat on his sternum. "Laissez- parler."
"Let her do the talking." Sam tells him. Through a window a light catches Bucky's eye, a red scope trained in his direction. Sam's careful aim sitting on his shoulders like armor.
"My pleasure." Bucky agrees.
With his hand still on your back, the skin below his ear buzzing from where your lips had brushed, Bucky thinks he means it more than either you are Sam truly understand.
Bucky's began to wonder if S.H.I.E.L.D. asked you to stay on to test him.
Or more specifically, test his sanity.
With the arrest made, a power vacuum big enough to swallow Wilson Fisk opened up. Wannabe kingpins popping up every three blocks with the potential to wreak more havoc than they have any right to.
And with the dissemination of your Target's organization, most of them happen to be French.
They need you, S.H.I.E.L.D. of course. Not Bucky, no Bucky just likes your company.
If he can even call it that.
What do you call it when you spend all day with someone and then also spend all of your free time with them and spend all the time you're not together replaying their words in your head?
Sam calls it a crush, Bucky staunchly disagrees.
What do you call it when you can't understand a word the other person says?
Sam calls it a Love Actually. Bucky doesn't know what the fuck that means.
You laughed when he told you about it though, loud and obnoxious. Hard enough for your head to tilt back and expose the thin skin of your neck. The line where muscle meets collarbone and the kissable swell of your clavicle.
Bucky doesn't look up it, afraid of what he'll find.
Instead he asks you to teach some more French.
Je m'appelle Bucky. My name is Bucky.
Explained to him with a smile as you finally slipped him your own.
Pour qui travaillez-vous? Who do you work for?
Your voice guiding him through the pronunciation as you and Sam prepared him for a few simple phrases he might hear.
Qu'est-ce que tu fous? What the fuck are you doing?
Rasped though the static of a com as you watch him through a security cam in a van about two hundred feet away. A huff of frustration and Bucky is sure a matching furrow in your brow.
That one is probably his favorite.
Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When you catch him eating from one of those shitty breakfast trucks parked outside.
Qu'est-ce que tu fous? When he takes you out for sushi (a nice place Sam recommended, emphasizing its romantic atmosphere despite Bucky's protests), this time gasped in mock horror as he picked up a fork.
He'd stared back confused, already half-offended before he realized what you were talking about.
You waved the chopsticks sitting between your fingers at him, clicking their ends together once as if to punctuate the sentence.
Bucky had fumbled, ripping open the paper that held his pair and holding them uselessly in either hand.
"I'm not exactly sure how to-"
You'd already reached across the table before he could finish, grasping his hand and articulating it with your fingers. You pulled and flexed until satisfied and then slid the chopsticks into place.
"Mieux." You'd said with a satisfied nod
Bucky had to ignore the way he stirred in his boxers under the drip of your praise.
At least he's pretty sure that's what it was.
Qu'est-ce que tu fous? Shouted over a loud bass and shitty DJ. Bucky learns that in the heart of Brooklyn, people do still dance. It just looks little different now.
And it hurts his ears.
Stiff as board, he watches you from just a few feet away. A tight dress, strappy heels, the lace of your bra just beginning to tease itself over the neckline-
What the fuck are you doing? He curses to himself, blinking hard as if it could change the way his body is already reacting.
You're dancing, hips swaying in time with the music while your face sits in a scowl. Lips pressed into a line as you stare him down with what he thinks is French for contempt.
"She wants to go to an American Club," Sam had told him. "A bunch of us are gonna go, y'know make a night of it."
Bucky hadn't been easily convinced.
He'd laughed, full chested and slightly terrified. "Hard pass."
Sam knocked his shoulder, hard enough to yank Bucky straight out of his cowardice.
"Don't be an idiot." He'd chided.
"I'm not it's just not my scene." Bucky tried to reason. "You honestly think she'd want me there? What so I can stand there awkwardly all night and pretend to get buzzed?"
Sam's groan bounced off the walls around them, "You're shitting me right?"
Bucky shrugged.
"You've been making fuck-me eyes at each other for the past month." Sam deadpanned.
The denial was second nature, the only thing that made sense. "She doesn't feel that way-"
"Do you speak French?" Sam interrupted.
"No."
"Okay then shut up and listen to someone who does." Sam said.
Bucky's protest died on his tongue.
"Just fucking go tonight okay? I'll play translator and then if you don't believe me after that you really are fucking hopeless."
So Bucky Barnes, despite being just about seventy years too old, went to the club.
He wore those cargoes that make the lady at his Chinese place stare at his thighs. A black t-shirt that is probably a little too small but his other one was dirty and he didn't have time to wash it. Topping it off with a leather jacket and a scoff at himself in the mirror.
"Qu'est-ce que tu fous?" He whispered to himself, already picturing ten different versions of your disgust.
Sam had already been knee deep in conversation with you when Bucky finally got there.
Vowels flying left and right, wild gesticulations that made Bucky fear for the safety of your drinks next to you.
He had to ignore the way his heart jumped when you spotted him. Forced himself to brush off the way you immediately stopped talking to Sam.
"Bucky! Tu es venu!" You crooned in his ear, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you took a hug. A month later and the way you say his name is still enough to send a shiver up Bucky's spine.
You'd already had a drink, probably two if the looseness of your shoulders is anything to go by.
When you pulled back it was to give him an appeasing look, eyes traveling over him with slow deliberation. When you finally met his eyes again, your finished with a slight cock of your head. Then you nodded, as if he'd answered a question you silently asked.
"Vous êtes à croquer, Sergeant." You finally spoke, ending the sentence with one last hum and a pat on his shoulder.
Then you were gone, pulled away by another agent and into the dance floor, leaving him alone with Sam at the bar.
Minutes passed, long stretches of silence with nothing but the chaos of the music and the crowd around them. The shouts of drunk partiers ordering more drinks, the clamor of girls at the DJ booth.
"You look good enough to eat."
Sam finally broke the silence, taking a long swill of his drink before looking at Bucky for his reaction.
"That's what she said." He explained, nodding in your direction. "She also spent our entire conversation staring at the door waiting for you."
Bucky's pulse stuttered, then began pounding a new rhythm. Something between surprised and utterly terrified.
His face burned, like when you sit too close to a campfire. Bright hot and impossible to ignore. Across the club you glowed with your own light. A flame burning so bright you hurt his eyes, flickering with motions so fluid he has no choice but to keep staring anyway.
You caught his stare, lips setting into a frown as his favorite words rolled off your tongue one more time. "Qu'est-ce que tu fous?"
Finally, Bucky thinks he knows how you want him to answer.
The look, the contempt. It's something else entirely. It's half-lidded and frustrated and utterly sick of waiting. You're not disgusted, you're wanting.
Shit, Bucky realizes, What the fuck have I been doing?
His jacket is shrugged off before he can think better of it, too busy holding eye contact to make sure he actually passed it Sam's direction.
"Hold this." He says, reaching over to steal the last few sips from his friend's drink.
Your frown turns back up, lips quirking with mischief. The same hint of trouble he saw that very first night.
As if you know, you lift on hand, using it to crawl your finger in a slow 'come hither' movement. Then you turned, breaking the spell and leaving Bucky to stare at your back as you fell back into the music.
"Don't think I need to translate that one." Sam cracks, letting out a low whistle as your hips began to sway even harder than before.
"No." Bucky grunts, "You don't."
By the time Bucky makes it to you, he already knows he won't last long.
He comes up from behind, and the smile you throw him over your shoulder nails his coffin.
It's three songs, maybe four.
Three songs of your body pressed so tight to his Bucky's not sure where you end and he begins.
Three songs of the curve of your ass rolling against his cargoes until he's fighting at his zipper.
Three songs of your arm stretched above your head, hand curled around the back of Bucky's neck.
Three songs of your lips brushing over his skin. The seam of his jaw, the hollow of his collar bone, just over the thump of his jugular.
Three songs of Bucky realizing he's been paying too much attention to talk.
You say plenty without ever even opening your mouth.
His hand closes over your hip and your body answers with a sway, your weight leaning back into his chest.
He finds the courage to bring his other hand to your front, splaying it protectively over your stomach. You return it in ten fold, pushing onto your toes and leaning your head onto his shoulder.
He can't hear the noise you make but he feels it vibrate through your chest, a low rumble echoing through every part of you he can feel.
For the first time Bucky's able to hear what you've been trying to tell him. Finally, it's a language he can speak.
Mercifully, he's fluent.
His hands spin you around slow, pulling until you're face to face. The lean down is just as tortuous, bending until you're all but nose to nose.
The noise of the club around you acts like a curtain, drawing closed around your bodies until he forgets anyone is there at all.
Your eyes dance from his own down to his lips, lashes fluttering with the movement and dusting your cheeks. There's glitter on your nose, Bucky's torn between wanting to know where you got it, and licking it off.
He definitely wants to find out if there's more.
"Vas-tu enfin m'embrasser?" It can't be louder than a whisper, Bucky's ears so finely attuned to your voice he's sure he could pick it out of any room.
He feels his cock throb, responding to your words despite not even knowing what they mean. You could have been reciting the the Itsy Bitsy Spider and Bucky wouldn't have cared.
It was never about what you said, or what language you spoke it in, it was always about how you said it. Bucky answers with the only thing he can make sense of.
"I don't know what that means but it turns me on."
Your hand snakes a path down Bucky's chest, sliding between the space where your bodies are pressed together so you can palm his bulge.
"Ça se voit." You purr, thumb pressing into his zipper.
Bucky's dick jumps under your touch, all his want pooling under your hand.
"That's not fair." He groans, his grip tightening on your hips, enough to make the fabric of your dress bunch between his fingers. "All my cards are on the table."
You pull back, pushing up onto your toes again as you stretch towards him. "Je vous dirai tout ce que vous voulez savoir. Il suffit de demander."
"Okay it's even less fair when you do that." He crumbles, meeting you halfway and pressing his forehead into yours. "I'm already caught you can stop with the siren song."
You laugh, low and soft and mercifully real. "Demande , Bucky."
He doesn't find the words he was looking for, no grand speech or sweeping music. Just the weight of his better judgment finally giving out on itself.
His lips find yours with a sigh of relief, the tension between you finally releasing with a palpable burst.
Your soft against him, nose turning ever so slightly to slot against his.
It's gentle at first, soft, exploratory. A test of pressure, the shock of feeling you so close against him.
Then it turns, pressure grows, each of you pushing harder into the other. Hands take on lives of their own, grabbing at any inch of exposed skin they can find. Yours are everywhere, his neck, his arms, his jaw and at the sliver of skin at his waist. You leave fire burning in your wake, mouth slanted against him as you swallow every sound that escapes.
Maybe you weren't joking about eating him.
The tension that existed before comes back tenfold, growing into something malicious and untenable. It burns even brighter now, like the first puff a cigarette. His body is already craving more and you're still on his lips.
When the need for air finally wins out, your bodies are so entangled Bucky is sure half of the dance floor is giving you a dirty look.
Bucky can't hear your breathing but he can feel it, the rapid rise and fall of your chest against his. The way your lips are parted, the skin around them irritated from his scruff. It strike a white hot pulse of possession.
You look wrecked and Bucky can't get enough of the fact that he's the one who did it.
When you speak it's at the same time, two gravely voices begging the same question.
"Ramène- à ta maison?"
"Can I take you home?"
Both of you are answered with another kiss.
Bucky - woefully unprepared Bucky, takes you back to his apartment. He guides the most ethereal woman he's ever met up two flights of stairs and into his shoebox.
Okay, it's little bigger than a shoebox but not by much.
He does his best to steer you through the living room, kissing you earnest as he walks you back toward his bedroom. In part just to kiss you, but also to keep you from seeing the makeshift bed on the floor by the couch.
You either don't notice his tactics or don't care. By the time you make it to his room you've stopped walking altogether. No, instead your legs are wrapped around his waist, having jumped up somewhere between the kitchen and bathroom. Just threw your weight at him between kisses and trusted him to catch you.
It makes his head feel warm to think about.
The bed is softer than he remembers, his hands sinking into the plush mattress as he lays you down on it.
He waits until your back is flat, then leans onto his haunches. His chest pulls tight at the distance, like an invisible is string gone taut between you. His jacket comes off in rushes drags of sleeves down his arms, one side even catching on his wrist in the hurry. He doesn't even remember putting it back on, doesn't remember much about leaving the club except the way you were tucked into his side with a hand in his back pocket.
The jacket lands somewhere behind him with a thud, the sound marrying beautifully with your giggle.
Bucky has to take a moment just to look at you.
You perched on your elbows and staring up at him with nothing but excitement. Youwith your dress bunched up around the tops of your thighs, bare skin catching in the dim light of his lamp. You with a pretty smile on your lips, any lipstick that you had started the night with long gone.
He wonders if it's rouge on your cheeks or if you just glow like that all by yourself.
For a second, he's out of his body. Who is he to have this? The soft bed beneath his knees is unfamiliar, the trust you offer yourself up with even more so.
It must show on his face.
"Bucky?" You whisper, humming as you bring his attention back to you. "Ça va?"
He nods, only half sure he understood the question. "I'm okay." He promises, "Just making sure you're real."
You melt, slight enough that only someone as well attuned as him would notice. Shoulders curling inward, lips twitching at the corners, the brief break in your eye contact.
Slowly, you lower yourself flat once more, this time grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him with you.
Your hands grab the hem of shirt, reclaiming the skin you had teased on the dance floor. This time you don't stop at a sliver, pulling it up over his head until it lands somewhere by his jacket.
A low breath blows from between your teeth, borderline a whistle. "Es tu?" You ask, cocking an eyebrow as you flatten your palm over his abdomen.
Bucky can't be bothered to decipher that one, instead he decides he's much more bothered by the fact that you are still wearing so much clothes.
Okay the dress really isn't much in the way of fabric but his point stands. It's between him and your skin and that's crime enough.
Your zipper slips between his fingers twice, the delicate metal pull taunting him as he tries to grasp it. That's when he gives up.
The zipper pulls apart with just a little pressure, coming undone in a cascade of popping teeth. From the top of the dress to the end of the zipper at the base of your spine, it's rendered useless in seconds.
Bucky waits to be scolded, a hand slap or sharp glare.
When he finally looks back up at you all he sees is want, pupils blown wide with your bottom lip pulled between your teeth.
Bucky's hands freeze where they had been pulling the dress down, fabric bunched in his hands like a brute.
Then you nod.
It rips like paper, tearing along the seam that had run up your hip and all the way to the base of the zipper.
He throws it so hard it hits the wall.
You're even worse bare, the sight of you in nothing but a bra and panties enough to turn what's left of Bucky's mind to mush.
It's his turn to be greedy. He copies the path you took, from sternum to ribs to belly button. Only he paints it with his mouth instead.
A kiss over your collarbone, then just over your heart. Then one is pressed in the valley between your breasts, another further down at the base of your ribs. Until finally he laves one more just above the waist band of your underwear, low enough for the elastic to tickle his chin.
Your breath catches, a sharp gasp that catches just as he makes contact. Like he's caught you off guard, something he didn't even know was possible.
It would make even the worst cowards brave.
Bucky tucks a finger into the elastic on either of your hips, pausing just long enough for you to know his intentions.
Without missing a beat you raise them, lifting off the bed by just as inch and giving Bucky the only signal he needed.
They don't even get pulled all the way off, abandoned somewhere around your ankles and left for you to kick away as Bucky gives all his attention to the sight in front of him.
The low lights cast a shadow across your body, draping you in gentle curves and sharp contrasts. It settles over your skin until you look like a painting, and your cunt is no exception.
There at the apex of your thighs, Bucky's is pretty sure sits the holy grail.
He moves slow, like a predator stalking its prey. He makes a home for himself between your thighs, pushing your knees apart to make room as he lays down between them.
Your words from earlier play back in his mind, the translation Sam had fed him.
"Vous êtes à croquer" He whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. He probably butchered the pronunciation, dragged the vowel too hard or exaggerate a letter that doesn't belong but you don't seem to care. "Means you look good enough to eat."
As if forgetting him, your legs immediately try to close, a little whimper bubbling from the back of your throat as you're blocked by his hands.
Bucky clicks his tongue, using the movement to shift your position. The legs that had been on either side of him are lifted onto his shoulders, rendering you completely vulnerable to hid intentions.
"Sil te plaît." You whine, hips jerking up toward him. Your breathing turned erratic, sharp inhales and cut-off exhales as you wait for him to finally do something.
Bucky doesn't pretend to hide just how much he likes it.
His fingers find you first, wet heat that catches on his skin. You feel like fire, tantalizing and hypnotic. His index and pointed drag through your folds, parting them to give him a better view of your ruin.
He repeats the motion a few times, gathering slick around his digits and watching your reaction with every pass.
The tensing of your thighs when he just misses your entrance, the way your chest stills when he passes over the hood of your clit.
Your body is a language he's desperate to be fluent in.
The taste of you melts on his tongue, potent and sweet. Better than anything he's had the privilege to swallow in years.
One lick, then a second slower one. The full width of his tongue pressing flat against your clit. Then he can't bear another second, closing his lips around the bud in a sloppy wet kiss.
Your hands fly to his hair, followed by a jagged moan that sounds more like it was torn from your body than given willingly.
"Bucky-" you gasp, fingers pulling on brown locks, "Fuck!"
Your slip up is missed completely, half covered by your thighs over his ears and half drowned out by the his own satisfied groan.
His mind is blissfully blank, for the first time in a long time he's not thinking about anything other than the task at hand.
Your pleasure isn't even a direct motivator, well it is, but Bucky's driven by his own just as much. The way you feel in his mouth, the vibrations of your moans and the how your entire body jolts when he finally slides two fingers inside of you.
It's relief, finally understanding that as much as he wants you, you want him. It only fuels him further, his nose pushing against your clit, fingers working along side his tongue inside you. Curling at different angles until he hears that scream again-
"Bucky!"
You're wet everywhere, the insides of your thighs and down his chin. Some sick part of him wishes he could bottle it, where the most natural part of you as a cologne.
His own hips grind into the mattress, more instinct than intention. He's harder than he's been in seventy fucking years and you don't even speak the same language.
Your legs go rigid around his head, tightening as your orgasm starts to build.
Bucky's making sure you get there, pressing his fingers into that spot inside you until he's all but giving it a massage. Your walls pulling tight around him, pulsing in time with your rapid heart.
His lips close around your clit one more time, tonguing it with gentle pressure. He can't help but hum, he's damn near choking on you and would die happily if it was between your legs.
Then it all bursts.
His nightmare, his French muse, his siren, his Venus cums hard on his tongue.
Bucky swears he can taste a whole language, the sweetest elixir God could have ever made and he's drinking it from the source.
You're one fire above him, broken curses and whimpered babbles of his name.
As it retreats, your grip finally loosening, Bucky crawls back over you. Not stopping until he's above your face, watching it contort in the come down.
You're still speaking, the sound of it finally coming back into focus.
"So good," you gasp, "So fucking good Bucky don't stop-"
Everything goes still. An entire orbit freezing in place.
He can see it in your eyes, something hazy and romantic as you finally lock in on him. Your hands cup his face, oblivious to the fact that you've given it away.
"You speak fucking English?" It comes out harsher than Bucky means for it to. "This whole time you spoke-"
You groan, pulling his lips back to yours.
Despite it all, Bucky goes willingly. He kisses you and instead of betrayal he tastes something sweeter.
"Was gonna tell you." You whisper, "But wasn't this more fun?"
When he pulls back that look is there again, the mischief he saw that first night.
He kisses you again, even harder this time.
Yeah, he thinks, it was.
Collab Masterlist (If you're interested in Bumpin' that)
