Hello! Welcome to the Dino's Little Library, feel free to scroll around. Below are the list of the Characters I write for. You can also request something about them, just message me. Thank you for stopping by, hope you enjoy it.
Masterlist
Bucky Barnes
Glide - Bucky Barnes x Reader [Friends to Potential Lovers], Comfort Fluff/Little Bit of Angst
Long Live - Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader [Grumpy x Sunshine/ Friends to Potential Lovers], Modern College AU, Comfort/Fluff
Authors’s Note: Hi everyone. This is my very first fic, please be gentle with me. English is not my first language I hope it reads okay. Just received some bad news today and really just wanted a soft fluffy Bucky to lift my spirits. Thank you so much for reading 💛
Summary: You are a messy eater, and Bucky is a soft loverboy. My entry to Flufftober 2025.
Warning: None. This is all fluff.
Note: Cross-posted on ao3: Messy
Word count: 3.2k
Credit: Divider set by @kodaswrld
Bucky had never met a messier eater than you. And it doesn’t help that you loved to snack. In the common room, in the Quinjet, in his room where you now resided.
Scattered pieces of seaweed always found their way onto his floor. Somehow, he didn’t mind it. Not entirely.
At first, Bucky thought it was just an… exaggeration from the rest of the team. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? You weren’t a child by any means. You were a very capable Avenger with a specific power of gravity manipulation. Fancy, he knew. But he also noticed that the rest of the team wouldn’t stop fussing over you.
Wanda always carries a small pouch of wet tissues for you. Natasha secretly has a small bottle of strawberry-scented hand sanitizer at your disposal. Steve? Steve carries a discreet stain remover pen everywhere. Even Sam has an extra pair of hair ties with him. The motherfucker doesn’t even have hair to tie with!
Bucky watched all of this from the sidelines, shaking his head with a small smile, amused and quietly endeared
Upon joining the team, Bucky had the pleasure of getting to know you. You were funny, charming, and got along well with everyone. It didn’t take much effort to fall into an easy friendship with you, and it didn’t take long for him to realize that he enjoyed your company more than he would like to admit.
And your love language? Food.
You’re always carrying some kind of snacks, biscuits, cookies, and sweets to offer to other people. Chewing gum, lollipops, chocolates, roasted hazelnuts, you name it. At first, Bucky tried to refuse you. He didn’t think snacking that much would benefit him. But one day you plopped down on the common room couch bearing pretzels.
Now, pretzels he knows. Pretzels he remembers. Pretzels he loves. Back in Brooklyn in the ’30s, he and Steve would scrounge up pennies to buy the soft, salted pretzels for dames at Coney Island.
“You want some?”
Bucky was absentmindedly scrolling through the TV, trying to find something to watch when you offered him the snack. The smell of warm cinnamon and sugar invaded his senses. This didn’t smell like the pretzels he was familiar with. This smelled like the fancy kind that would cost him more than two pennies. He turned toward you.
“Can I?”
Your eyes lit up. Bucky had never accepted your snack offers before. This was new.
“Of course!” You dug through your Auntie Anne’s paper bag and pulled out two warm pretzels. “I have cinnamon sugar and sweet almond. My favorite is sweet almond. You can take it, I don’t mind. It also comes with,” you rummaged through the bag again, “a caramel dip!”
Bucky blinked at your massive paper bag. “I’ll take the cinnamon sugar.”
You smiled at him. “Okay.” You passed the warm pretzel to him. “I also bought chocolate éclair sticks. You should try them.”
You fell into an easy silence, watching documentaries about the Mamluks on YouTube that you had picked, since Bucky didn’t seem to know what he wanted to watch. He stole a glance to his right, watching you balance your caramel dip on your thigh while holding the sweet almond pretzel. The almond bits fell everywhere, from your jeans, to your t-shirt, and even at the ends of your hair.
Ah. Bucky could see now why the team carried an arsenal whenever you were snacking. You didn’t seem to notice that your snacks were getting everywhere, blissfully unaware of the mess while being engrossed in the video explaining the military tactics of the Mamluks.
“How’s your pretzel? Do you like it?” you asked Bucky, who was already halfway through his pretzel.
Bucky chewed and nodded. “It’s good. It’s different from the one we had before.”
“How so?”
Bucky finished his last bite of the pretzel before rubbing his hands together. “The one I had before was just a salted pretzel. Usually cost a penny.”
“A penny?” You laughed, and Bucky’s eyes lingered on a small smudge of caramel dip on your cheek. “If these cost a penny now, I would’ve had diabetes by now. That’s so cheap.”
“Yeah, I used to buy them all the time. Although the ones you bought are a bit fancy. We didn’t have that many flavors back in the Depression.” His voice softened at the memory.
Bucky then got up to wash his hands and grabbed a box of tissues from the kitchen. You were munching on your éclair sticks by the time he sat beside you. The smell of rich chocolate and pastry permeated the common room.
“Try the chocolate éclair sticks,” you said, shoving the tiny box toward him with a grin.
“I just washed my hands,” Bucky said, waving his clean palms at you as proof.
“No!” You refused to accept his answer. There was no way Bucky was only tasting the pretzel. He had to try this one too. You took out a stick, broke it in half, and floated the pieces toward Bucky’s face, forcing him to take a bite. He narrowed his eyes at the hovering dessert but decided to entertain you anyway.
“Delicious right?” You grinned at him. Bucky suppressed a smile when he noticed another dot of chocolate on your nose. And some at the back of your hand too.
“Too sweet,” Bucky commented dryly.
You just rolled your eyes at him. “Everything is too sweet for you.”
Bucky finished his éclair stick and turned towards you. “Anybody ever tell you before that you’re a messy eater?”
You stopped chewing. “What?”
“You.” Bucky pulled out several tissues that he had brought before. “Are a messy eater.”
You squirmed, tried to dodge his attempt at dabbing the tissue on your face. “No I’m not.”
Bucky let out a chuckle. “You’re not? Why do you think Wanda is always carrying wet tissues?”
“I dunno? For her own use obviously. In case,” you tried to think of a reason, “her lipstick was smudged? Not for me, definitely.”
Bucky crumpled the tissue after he successfully wiped the chocolate and caramel off your face. “Not for you? Okay. You know Steve carries a stain remover pen for you, right?” Bucky teased. You wanted to wipe off the smirk off his face.
“No no no,” you licked the chocolate off your fingers. “He carries it because he’s a clean freak. No way he’s getting papped with some stain on his shirt. He’s Captain America!”
“But Steve is not a messy eater. I’ve never seen him use the pen on himself.”
“Just because you’ve never seen him use it on himself doesn’t mean he never used it on himself. Your argument is moot,” you pouted. “And maybe it’s just practical, you know. Him being our captain and all.”
“Uh huh,” Bucky glanced at you, before brushing off the sweet almond crumbs from the couch. “What about Sam?”
“What about him?”
“He keeps hair ties around. Saw him pass it to you before when you were eating last week.”
“So?”
“He has a low fade.”
You turned your head to Bucky. “Your point?”
“He doesn’t need hair ties.”
You scoffed. Your mind scrambled to refute Bucky’s accusation, and maybe to dish it back to him. “Well, maybe Sam has hair ties handy in case some girl wanna give him a messy blow job somewhere. Ever thought of that, grandpa?”
Bucky almost choked on his saliva, caught between horror and laughter. Okay, since when did this conversation turn in that direction?
“I’m not a messy eater,” you said in finality, before stomping off to your bedroom.
Oopsie. “Someone’s mad.”
The next morning, you were on the treadmill with Wanda. The hum of the gym gives you a sense of comfort. Familiar. Wanda was focused, trying her best to get a new PR while you were just brisk walking, too lazy for a morning cardio and opting just to hit your daily steps instead.
“Wanda, do you think I’m a messy eater?” you asked when Wanda was slowing down for her cooldown.
“What?” She yanked out her earbud and shot you a glance.
“You heard me.”
Wanda wiped her forehead and grabbed her water bottle, her eyes curious. “Who told you that?”
You pouted. “Bucky.”
“Ahh, don’t listen to him, Bubice. He’s just jealous that you’re cuter than him.” Wanda let out a small laugh.
“What? That doesn’t even make sense. So I am a messy eater?”
Wanda slowed down to a walk. “Eh. Just a tiny bit.”
“What?” Your face crumpled. “I am?” You whispered, still unable to process this new discovery about yourself. "Is that why you bring wet tissues everywhere? For me?"
Wanda snickered. “I mean, technically it’s for me. But so far I’ve used it on you more times than me.”
“Oh no, Wanda.”
“So what? We all love watching you eat.” Wanda replied with a fond smile.
You pushed stop on your treadmill. The belt slowed with a mechanical whirr. You’d met your daily steps goal. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, Bubice.” Wanda slowed her steps, considering. “You know how sometimes… sometimes the team has their own demon? And sometimes we’re not eating so well?” She glanced at you, eyes soft.
You only shrugged.
“But you love to eat. Always with your snacks.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “We couldn’t help but enjoy seeing you eat. And maybe… maybe you helped us eat something too.”
She nudged you gently. “You with your mountains of snacks.”
You scrunched your face. “You know I snack because my power demands a lot from me, right? I have to keep my blood sugar up.”
“Of course we do!” Both of you stepped off the treadmill to sit in the middle of the mat, just relaxing and chatting. “Doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy watching you eat. Crumbs and all.” She playfully bumped your shoulder with hers.
So it was confirmed. You are a messy eater. But you’ll never admit that to Bucky. Not in a million years. Next time, you’ll just use your gravitational manipulation to clean up the crumbs and let him wonder how you got so neat all of a sudden.
The next time the team’s onboard the Quinjet, you decided to pop the question to Sam.
“Sam, why do you carry extra hair ties around?”
Sam looked like a deer in headlights, not expecting that out of your mouth at all.
“In case one of you girls need it? It’s practical, no? Maybe I need to tie somethin'?”
Before you could respond, Bucky interjected. “She thinks you’re carrying hair ties for surprise blow jobs you might or might not be receiving,” Bucky said with a deadpan.
Sam let out a full belly laugh, doubling over in his seat. “Aw, hell no!” he wheezed. Nat hid her smirk while Steve just pretended not to hear that, his ears red.
“So it’s not for when I’m eating and you don’t want food to get into my hair?” you asked.
Sam is still chuckling. “Oh man. ‘Course I don’t want food gettin’ in your hair. Although…” He tilted his head, grin wide. “What Bucky says…”
“So every time I snack, you’re just there… prepared with hair ties, for me?”
“Why not?” Sam shrugged. “You the only one leavin’ crumbs like that. Nat brought hand sanitizer for you too, you know?”
Your head snapped towards Nat. “Really, Nat?”
Nat sat there, crossing her leg, expression as cool as a cucumber. “I neither confirm nor deny the allegation.”
Bucky smirked. “And don't forget, Steve’s got that fancy stain remover pen for when she spills all over herself.”
Steve’s head whipped up, face already pink. “Hey, leave me outta this,” he muttered, shifting in his seat.
Sam leaned back with a wide grin. “O Captain, my Captain. Keepin’ stain remover pens on deck, leadin’ by example.”
Bucky smirked. “Yeah, nothing says leadership like Tide-to-Go.”
Steve covered his face with one hand, clearly regretting ever packing that pen. "Why am I suddenly the punchline here?"
You groaned. It was confirmed then. Bucky was here to witness your defeat too. You even noticed some hazelnut crumbs on your tactical suit now. With a tiny flick of your fingers, the crumbs floated out from your suit into the air.
Bucky’s jaw dropped. “You’re controlling the crumbs now?”
“Yes,” you flicked the floating crumbs towards Bucky with your fingers. “Why leave a mess when I can deposit them somewhere else.”
The crumbs sprinkled harmlessly against his chest.
Bucky shook his head, exasperated, though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smile.
After that mission, there was no use denying it anymore. You were a messy eater, and nobody on the team was letting it go. You tried, though, to prove them wrong in your misguided effort. You monitored your snack crumbs whenever the team was around like it was a high-priority mission. Sadly, it only worked for the first part of your snack time. After that, everything went to hell once you got distracted and lost focus on keeping your mess at bay. Either way, someone was always there to fuss over you like a mother hen.
As for Bucky? He was more than happy to clean up after you. He’d tease you, sure, but his touch was gentle when he wiped a smudge from your face. His eyes were warm when he brushed peanut crumbs from your hair. In those moments, his gaze softened in a way that felt like a secret kept just for you. Bucky wasn’t just cleaning you up, he was memorizing you. Sam snickered whenever he caught Bucky being soft with you, but Bucky didn’t care. Not when you were right there in front of him, open and unguarded. He wanted to be the first to take care of you.
If your love language was feeding your team with snacks and desserts, Bucky’s was taking care of people. Especially you. And he’d do it again, and again, in a million small ways.
That mission—the one that outed you—was six months ago. The crumbs might’ve lessened since then, but Bucky’s fussing never did.
You’re stretched out like a lazy cat beside him on his bed. Moments like this feel so precious—no urgent threats, no Hydra bunkers to clear, no supervillains demanding your time. It’s rare downtime for the whole team. As if in agreement, the universe has blessed you with a soft autumn rain tonight, its patter against the window lulling you deeper into comfort. You scoot closer to Bucky, drawn to his steady warmth as he reads from your Kindle.
You tear off a piece of seaweed and pop it into your mouth.
“I have a theory,” you mumbled in the quiet night, crunching on spicy seaweed. Bucky plucked a fleck clinging stubbornly to your cheekbone
“Of?”
“Why I can't stop being such a messy eater.”
Bucky grinned. “My girl is a messy eater.” He tapped your nose. “And I wouldn't have it any other way.”
"Okay, sap," you rolled your eyes at him before continuing. “Remember I told you I was an only child?”
“Of course I remember, sweetheart.”
“My parents doted on me before they passed. And I…” Your cheeks flushed.
Bucky leaned in, curiosity sparking in his eyes. He set aside the Kindle that he was using. "And?"
“My parents spoon-fed me for most of my childhood,” you admitted. “I loved snacks so much they kept feeding me by hand until I was, like, six or seven.”
“Baby, you were so spoiled.” Bucky pinched your cheek, grinning. “No wonder you think rules and mealtimes don’t apply to you.”
You swatted at his vibranium arm, wincing at the clang. "What do you mean!"
“You don’t care about ruining your appetite before dinner," he teased. "You could snack the whole day and be happy. Honestly, I don’t know how you’re not malnourished with all the junk you eat." He shook his head, amused. "Now I know. It’s ‘cause your parents never told their little princess no.”
You pouted, but tore off a strip of seaweed anyway and held it up to his lips. He leaned forward without hesitation, teeth catching it from your fingers.
“Moving on. My point is, I don’t think I ever developed proper eating skills. For my formative years, I wasn’t even given the chance to be messy and figure it out on my own.”
Oh, it kind of made sense. But as Bucky watched you, crumbs and all, he knew no one else could ever get away with this and still make him smile.
Bucky thought for a while. “You might have a point.”
“Right?” You sat up, having finished your seaweed snack. You brushed your hands together, flicked your fingers, and sent the crumbs floating neatly into his bin.
“You missed a spot.” Bucky pinched one stubborn green fleck from your chin, then leaned in to press a sweet kiss to your lips.
You smiled against him before pulling back just slightly. “Also, I think my gravity manipulation power might have contributed to it as well.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Think about it.” You pulled Bucky’s arms so that he joined you cross-legged on the bed. He groaned in protest before giving in to you. “Since I couldn’t control my ability back then, mini me might’ve radiated tiny gravitational pulls. Which may or may not have made snacks drift off course toward me.”
Bucky pulled you into his lap. “Which only drove your parents to hand-feed you more since the food kept going everywhere?”
“Yes!” You gazed into his eyes. His eyelashes fluttered prettily against his cheek. “Quit distracting me.”
Bucky looked at you incredulously, offended by your accusation when he hadn’t done anything. Distracting you was the last thing on his mind, but the way you pouted when you were sitting on his lap? You had no idea how much you distracted him without even trying.
“Or! Or…” You spoke conspiratorially, “it’s because I perceive gravity differently? There could be a subtle mismatch between my perception and reality which gave me a skewed sense of the world around me.”
Bucky nodded slowly, considering your theories far more seriously than he’d expected. He pursed his lips while you looked at him with wide, pleading eyes. God help him, you’d actually made a decent case, he thought. And hell, who was he to argue when his girl had already made up her mind?
Finally, he snaked his arms around you and pulled you back onto the bed beside him.
"Alright," Bucky took a deep breath. "The council has reviewed the testimony of the defendant and examined the evidence at deliberated length. In light of mitigating circumstances, namely your gravity manipulation powers, this court hereby rules you innocent."
"Yes!" You shrieked gleefully. "See, I am not a messy eater. I can't help it if my ability affects my daily life now, do I?"
Bucky watched you glow with triumph, his lips quirking despite himself. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your face and tucked it gently behind your ear.
You snuggled closer to him as the rain outside continued. “What are we watching tonight?”
He wrapped an arm around you, drawing you into his warmth. "Whatever you want," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
Bucky was hopelessly, utterly in love with all your mess.
Note: Not sure if your Auntie Anne’s sells chocolate éclair sticks but my country does. Apologies if the details a bit off. 😋
pairing ۶ৎ childhood best friend!bucky barnes x childhood best friend!reader.
summary ۶ৎ in which, a butterfly flies liberated from its cocoon, absorbing what the world has to offer. it soars through life, but it’s wings gradually grow tiresome, and has no cocoon to safely return to.
warnings ۶ৎ angst, reader has a terminal illness, time skips ( one scene when they’re kids, the rest when they’re adults ), mentions of war, medical treatments ( not completely accurate since i wasn’t alive in the 1940s, but i did some research ), pda, fluff, pet names ( peach, baby—f!receiving, darling—m!receiving ), kissing, allusions to spiciness ( not explicit, just mentioned in a couple sentences and a small convo about it ), timings may have been altered to fit with my plot, reader has hair that can be braided/plaited, reader has a surgery scar on her chest, letters are in italics, no use of y/n.
a/n ۶ৎ there are parts i love, parts i’m unsure about, but either way i’m happy i finished this!! i proofread this really quickly so if there’s any mistakes, i apologise!
word count ۶ৎ 10.4k | divider creds ۶ৎ @/diviniyae
JULY 19TH, 1926
“You don’t have to carry me, Bucky.”
“Yes, I do. I need to show off my strength.”
At nine years old, you’ve learnt not to take life for granted. It’s why, every moment you’re blessed with, you consume everything, snapping a mental picture of the scenery, inhaling the smells, and basking in the company.
The verdant field stretches on for miles, tall grass weaving with splashes of white and yellow: daisies. The sun pulses amongst the clear, blue sky, but your frilly hat blocks it out.
The aroma of fresh floral is welcomed into your senses, a contradiction to the powerful medical scents you’re accustomed to smelling while staring at the same mundane walls. The company you acquire is favourable too. Instead of sick patients coughing away, informing you that could be your fate one day, you’re graced with the crickets of grasshoppers and your best friend who’s carrying you on his back.
You giggle, your little arms around his neck tightening slightly, “There’s no one else around, who are you showing off to?”
“I thought you were smart.”
“I am smart!”
“Then how can you not see I’m tryna show off to you?”
Shyness creeps into your bones, making them feel light and fuzzy, and you bury your face into his neck. A laugh, so childlike and blissful, escapes him. It’s contagious, encouraging a smile to spread across your mouth.
He has no obligation to flex around you. You already comprehend he’s the utmost wondrous person to walk on this earth.
Your parents are at work despite it being a weekend. Your mother a waitress and your father off mining coal. They need the money to pay for medical bills and your diagnosis’s. Your family isn’t poor. You have a nice home with nice things. Your father engraves that into you when the kids at school mock you for wearing handmade clothes your mother stitched herself.
Yet, you’re defective and it’s high-priced.
“Where are we going anyways? Your mom said not to go too far.” You ask curiously as you lift your head, scanning the surroundings. His house is in the distance, and you can faintly view the outline of little Rebecca Barnes through the window, playfully tugging on Winnifred’s hair.
You’re not worried though. You know Bucky will never take you somewhere an adult isn’t able to reach you quickly in case something bad happens.
“It’s a surprise.”
“Bucky, tell me.”
“No.”
“Bucky.”
“Don’t say it like that!” His resolve always crumbles around you, “You sound like a weepin’ puppy and I love puppies.”
“And me. You love me too.” You teasingly quip.
There’s no hesitation when Bucky answers, “More than a dog with its bone.”
“You’re strange.”
Before he can reply with something witty, something to knock the cotton socks off your feet, he reaches the top of the hill and halts.
Your eyes widen.
An oak tree stands, so vast and beautiful it appears as though it’s from a fairytale. Spirally, green leaves wave hello on the thick branches that loop and intertwine with others. Acorns form a group in every nook and cranny while its bark wears age lines. Dandelions sprout from the dirt beside the stump, swaying gently under the shade it’s protected by.
“Cool, right?” You can hear the grin his voice, eager to have shown you this, “Reminds me of the front cover of that book you’re always readin’.”
Cheeks flushing at his memory, you slide off his back and grab his hand, dragging him into the bed of grass and soil.
It’s usually been like that. Wherever your feet step, his does too.
Time passes, the dirt blemishing the hem of Bucky’s shirt that’s become untucked proof. Your fingertips are stained with pollen from linking daisies together, creating a crown.
“Here, lemme…” Bucky gently takes the completed flower chain from you and sets it upon your head, “…there,” he grins triumphantly, “You’re just missing a ring.”
“A ring?” You tilt your head in confusion.
He plucks another daisy, it’s stem tall, and ties it carefully around your finger.
"Yeah. The crown is your veil, and this is the ring. Now, we're married." He says simply, as if it's the easiest decision he's ever made.
Laughter bubbles within your chest, “That’s not how it works, Bucky.”
“Pretend then.”
“Okay, husband.”
“Okay, wife.”
Your cheeks ache from smiling incessantly. You part your lips, words on the tip of your tongue, but your eyes flit towards a low branch that quivers mildly.
A chrysalis stands out amongst the greenery, and a gasp escapes you at the sight of a wing emerging, ocean waves swirling with black accents. The faded blue of the lower wings that appear suddenly glint off the sunlight.
A beacon of new life.
Then, it flies away elegantly.
“Bucky, Bucky, look!” You excitedly exclaim, swiftly rising from the ground.
You don’t give him a chance to turn his head, you just begin chasing after it, ignoring the scuff of his shoes and his worried yell.
“Wait— you’re not supposed to run fast!”
You run through the field, your eyes set on the creature. You laugh as it swirls in the air, and it almost seems like it’s inching closer with each moment. The grass tickles your legs, the gentle breeze letting wisps of your hair dance.
You keep following it like it’ll lead you to a covert cove that’ll unveil a magical world, and, just for a moment, you wonder if this is what it’s like to experience a normal childhood.
“Bucky, come on!” You call back, “It’s… it’s…”
Your words are stolen as your lungs feel as though they’re being stretched then compressed, closing in second by second as your ankles radiate pain, an invisible rope tightening around your skin, leaving a burning ache.
You slow down.
The butterfly soars further.
The ringing in your ears is faint.
Are you coughing?
Your legs give out.
And, through the heaviness of your eyelids, the butterfly disappears.
Before you can hit the ground, arms tuck under yours and gently lowers you with him, your back against his knees. Your heart thumps swiftly. Harshly. You’re sure the organ wants to jump out of your chest and nestle in another body—a healthier, fitter one.
Bucky settles your hat aside so he can see you better, his hands hovering in the air, unsure and hesitant, “Hey, hey, you’re breathin’ funny again. Should I go fetch my Ma?” He tries his hardest to sound calm, but the slight crack in his tone reveals the inner-panic.
No!
If he gets his mother then she’s going to call yours at work and she’ll take you home. You can’t be the reason she loses pay or worse: fired.
You cause her enough trouble already, and you want more time with Bucky.
You shake your head frantically against his stomach, eyes wide and breathing stertorous. Your body is hungry for air, yet it’s not being served.
Until his hands carefully cups the back of your neck, his thumb a feathery motion soothing over your pulse point.
It jumps back into place.
“Okay, okay,” he reassures, “How does it go again? Uhm— relax your neck and shoulder.”
You focus on his touch, his voice, the way his face blocks out the rest of the world as you gaze up at him. His fingers are soft, not hardened by the working universe yet. He’s upside down in your vision, a crease in his forehead that shouldn’t be there for someone so young.
Gradually, your limbs grow slack.
“Good… good. Now, breathe in through your nose for two counts.”
The fuzziness clouding your mind is pierced while you repeat his instruction. You remember what to do, so you purse your lips and exhale slowly through them to the count of four.
Minutes pass, but the air no longer rejects you. Your chest rises and falls into a steady rhythm, your heartbeat returning to as regular as it can be, and all that remains is the fatigue.
The world comes back into motion, and a tranquil silence surrounds it. A peaceful apology for the disruption of your fun.
“That butterfly wasn’t worth it,” Bucky states, breaking the quietness, “Y’know how scared I was for you just now?”
Guilt glazes over your eyes, your bottom lip wobbling. You can bear the weight of your episodes, and you can handle the medicine you’ll no doubt be ingesting tonight instead of cookies and milk other kids receive.
But, you can’t handle him upset because of you.
“Sorry.” You whisper, voice slightly scratchy.
His shoulders lower, the crease hiding away until another moment like this occurs. You witness him soften like snow melting under the sun.
“Just… don’t do that again, okay? Please. I don’t wanna lose you,” he quielty and pleadingly says, “You’re my best friend.”
A beat passes.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
“You reminded me of that butterfly.”
“I reminded you of an insect?”
A small smile graces your face at the amusement in his tone, the atmosphere shifting back into place like nothing happened.
“Not like that,” you softly say, rubbing your eyes gently, “Butterflies represent good luck sometimes. And, when I’m with you, I’m lucky.”
“How’re you lucky?” Bucky questions, the light in his eyes shining as bright as a firefly.
“I can breathe with you.”
SEPTEMBER 21ST, 1935
The autumn air nips at your nose, the bustling noise of cars in the distance intertwining with the sound of a rake scraping against the cobblestone to rid the mahogany nature from being stepped on.
Ten minutes have been swept away, but it‘s akin to a year for you. Everything’s slowed, every little noise muffled. Your eyes are glued to the ground as you’re perched upon a ledge outside the hospital. To anybody passing by, they’d assume you’re watching the earlier morning rain residue that’s stuck between the pavement and the road.
To you, however, you’re thinking. And, right now, alone, that’s a dangerous place to be.
Your mind feels like it’s been split into two, battling against each other to infiltrate every nerve in your system.
One side is a maddening, heavy flurry. It’s concrete crumbling as the hammer swings down on it. Future plans are gone, abandoned in a pile of rubble.
The opposite side is light. A relieving sensation that the carry-on of your body working overtime has finally been identified.
Heart valve disease.
That’s what you’ve been diagnosed with.
The balance between crying and smiling rages within you, but luckily you don’t have to focus on it for too long as a voice, as warm as honey, encourages your head to rise.
“Hey, honey,” Mrs. Rogers, clad in her nurses uniform, greets kindly. Her bouncy, blonde curls frame her features, an angel in disguise that roams through the hospital halls, offering comfort to anyone in need, “Do you need a lift home?”
You choose to smile, because why dampen someone else’s day?
“That’s okay, Mrs. Rogers. I’m just waiting for a friend, thank you though.”
“How long have you known me, hm? Six years and you still call me that. Sarah will do just fine.” She says, voice tinged with a hint of playfulness.
Before becoming best friends with Steve Rogers on the playground, there was his mother. A sweet soul who sat with you when your parents conversed in a hush discussion with the doctors. She would never ask how you’re doing, but instead inquired about your interests and favourite foods, making you feel like an actual human being and not just a patient.
A knowing glint shines in her sky-blue eyes, “Say hi to Barnes for me, will you, hon? And that he owes me a batch of lemon squares.”
The mere mention of him has your heart skipping, a small laugh tumbling from your mouth. The memory of him ‘taste testing’ one lemon square at Steve’s ended up turning into accidentally eating them all, while sneaking their golden retriever some crumbs, is still fresh in your mind.
“Will do, Mrs— I mean, Sarah.”
She gifts you one of those fond, mothering gazes before walking away.
The light at every corner of the earth dims again. Flickering. Waiting.
Yet, the dullness fighting to accompany you loses at the sight of Bucky jogging over. You smile at the sight of his trousers damp at the hem due to working at the docks.
“Did you go swimming in your clothes?” You quip, swaying your legs back and forth gently.
“Hm?” His chin tips downwards at himself, then chuckles, “Oh, right. I was searching for pearls to give to you.” His flirtatious, oceanic eyes meet yours, and everything stabilises.
“Any luck?”
He shakes his head and clicks his tongue at the roof of his mouth, perching beside you, shoulder brushing against yours, “I didn’t look hard enough.”
Are you imagining the hint of disappointment in his voice?
“My mind was too preoccupied with how you’re doing.” He says, tranquil yet worried.
You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s a thick lump in your throat that’s forbidding the words to roll from your tongue.
How do you tell the boy you’ve watched grow into the purest form of a gentleman that you have a life-threatening disease?
It’ll tone down his laughter. It’ll sprout worst case scenarios into his mind until they’re suffocating every cell in his brain. It’ll puncture his amiable heart until it eventually mirrors yours.
…Right?
“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, your silence hurting his ears, “You don’t have to tell me right away, peach. I can wait.”
For the moment, all of the weight you’ve been carrying dissipates, replaced by a gooeyness.
His calloused hand lays upright in the air and you instantly intertwine your fingers with his. Gently squeezing your hand, he tucks them both away into his toasty pocket.
“Peach?” You repeat the nickname he called you, brows raised.
“Yeah,” he nods adamantly, “You’re a little bruised, but the marks on the outside don’t define the sweetness inside. Like a peach.”
A beat passes.
“Couldn’t just stick with ‘doll’?”
“Too common nowadays,” Bucky brushes it off, “‘Sides, you deserve your own nickname.”
You take a moment to just gaze at him.
Raven locks, mussed as though he ran his fingers through them endlessly. You appreciate how he didn’t brush his hair before arriving. That he just let himself be with you. You count the faint creases by his eyes—there from illuminating the world with his smile when the sun hides from the fog.
His lips, a shade of maroon under the golden rays of autumn, are a pair you won’t dare kiss, because they’re probably stained with someone else’s.
Clearing your throat quietly, you slip your hand away from his, goosebumps rising to plead with the bitter air.
“How was your date last night?”
You don’t sound jealous. You have no right to be. However, a sense of longing wraps around your words. A yearning for what you forbid yourself from having.
You force yourself to ignore the way his brows knit together when you pulled away. How his fingers left his pocket and twitched towards you, but stopped.
“It wasn’t great,” he exhales a long breath. “Terrible, really.”
Concern strikes you like a lightning bolt, pupils dilating, “Why? What happened?”
“She wasn’t you.”
She. Wasn’t. You.
Three words that can spark a generator back to life.
But you make it stall.
For years, Bucky has been confessing his feelings for you like it’s the only thing he knows. If he’s not outright saying it, then he’s slipping sweet notes into your bag as he walks you to the Library where you work, or he’s attempting to draw butterflies for you that you stow in your purse.
His love is loud, whereas yours is quiet.
It wasn’t thrusted into your palms, but it was something that brewed throughout the years. Slow, delectable, with time mastering it until your thoughts became enshrouded with him.
Yet, you’ve always shut him down. Guilt gnaws at you, the fabric of yourself growing threadbare. You know you’re letting him down. You’re aware you’re crushing him despite the unruffled demeanour and boyish grin he wears after.
You just can’t condemn him to a life of misery.
You clutch the edge of the ledge tight, “Why do you think they have cobblestone as a path to the hospital?” You ask, changing the subject, “They should really replace it with a flat walkway.”
“You can’t avoid me, this—” Bucky gestures between the two of you with his index finger, “—us forever,” his voice softens, “I won’t let you anymore.”
Frustration becomes your defence despite no attack taking place.
“I don’t understand you sometimes, Bucky.” You mutter, hopping onto the ground and dusting your hands on your coat.
“Why not, huh?” He mimics your movements and falls into step with you as you begin embarking down the path, “I make myself clear everyday how I feel about you.”
“Well, then, maybe you should stop.” You firmly say.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“…Yes.”
He laughs humourlessly, grasping your elbow gently and halting you both, “You’re a terrible liar.”
You falter by his warm touch, but you shrug yourself from his grasp, forcing yourself to put space between you, “I refuse to hold you back in life, Bucky.”
Stilling and shoulders tensing, Bucky blinks in bewilderment, “Hold me back in life? You know I could listen to you for hours, but what are you talking about? And will ya—” his chest rises and falls with a pained breath, “Will you quit pulling away from me, please?”
“You need someone fresh,” your wavering voice betrays the confidence of your tipped chin and feet firm against the pavement, “And that’s not me. I’m a wilting flower. Not enough sun or water is going to keep me alive for long.”
The pain of not merely today, but your past and future, is infused into a singular tear that trickles down your cheek.
“I’d just be a burden to you.”
The sky fades into mesmerising swirls of pink and orange, a dusk worshipping the pumpkin patch behind the nearby cafe. It’s bell hanging on the door dings faintly, muffled noises of greetings flowing into your ears.
And Bucky stands there.
Quiet. Calm.
No fisted hands, no clenched teeth, no darkening eyes.
His breaths are steady and gentle, and a part of you selfishly wishes his oxygen could hug you.
Then, he speaks, his voice a soothing wave that laps at your ankles, inviting you deeper into the ocean. His ocean, “Why don’t we get a drink, okay?”
“Now who’s avoiding talking.” You cross your arms, looking away.
“I’m not avoiding us, peach,” Bucky says, achingly soft, “I just don’t want you standing in the cold anymore.”
You close your eyes momentarily, exhaling through your nose, and nod feebly as the world is revealed to you again.
A brush paints the canvas of his face in relieved colours, and his steps fall in rhythm with yours as you embark slowly towards the cafe, granting you enough time for your head to clear.
Opening the door for you, Bucky follows you inside, warmth caressing your skin and the aroma of coffee wafting into your nose. Muted, checkered tablecloths layer over evanescing, wooden tables that waitresses weave around. A radio poses underneath crinkled parchments of posters hung upon cobweb-collected, brick walls.
Harmonies of jazz plays tenuously in the background, interlacing with Bucky’s voice, “Go sit. I’ll order for us.” He murmurs, but he doesn’t meet your gaze.
He’s lost somewhere.
As thought it’s muscle memory, you slip into the booth by the window, your ankles sighing in relief. They’ve been swelling all day, caged as a prisoner beneath the straps of your shoes.
Not much time passes until Bucky’s returned, setting your favourite drink in front of you, and a black coffee for him as he settles opposite.
His fingers interlock around the mug, pads of his skin tapping against it.
This is unbearable.
“Can you say something, please?” You softly ask.
Finally, his eyes flit to yours. A world of emotions on display, yet the strongest of all is what you’re afraid of.
“Do you honestly believe that I’ll agree with everything you said?” He rhetorically questions. “That I think of you like that?”
He’s calm as he speaks, and you’re beginning to wonder if he brought you here so you’d remain calm in front of others too. Not just for his sake, but for yours also, because arguing with him are like needles pricking under your skin until eventually the sharpness bursts through.
And he knows you’d bleed for him.
You part your mouth to converse, but close it, knowing now is Bucky’s time to talk.
“You’re grieving something—us—while we’re still breathing.”
The truth of his words makes you look down. You won’t deny it. You’ve already picked up a shovel and began digging deep into the dirt, ready to bury dreams and hopes you won’t experience. Maybe one day someone else would uncover it and have it as their own.
But Bucky won’t allow that. He’s taking the shovel from you and guiding you away from the wreckage, with your future still cradled to your chest.
Your vulnerable defences are slipping.
Sitting up straighter, his thumb and forefinger grip you chin, tilting your head up to face him. The hitch in your throat wasn’t unnoticed by him—his eyes momentarily darting down to your neck, and he soothes his thumb under the curved of your bottom lip.
“To me, you are so strong. Storms will pass by but you stay firmly planted in the ground. And that strength is admirable, peach,” he earnestly says, “I want to be by your side throughout it, even on the worser days so you can lean against me. In sickness and in health.”
James Buchanan Barnes’ loyalty is greater than the cosmos. Cowards shrivel up under in his presence, his shine burning them, and other men aspire to be a star like him.
His loyalty to you is locked tight. Nothing can break through it. Not the plans God has, not the course of turbulence expected to come, and definitely not your stubbornness.
“You’re acting as if we’re married, Bucky,” you say, “Not that we could afford that with all my medical bills.”
One last humoured try.
A mix of fondness and miff rolls around in his eyeballs, “For richer for poorer, peach,” he responds, “I’d spend my entire life’s worth of earnings if it means you’ll get better.“
He lowers his hand, grasping yours and stroking your ring finger. Your heart stutters as he traces a daisy, the same one that you wore until it wilted on your finger when you were kids. You never informed him you kept the petals in a small pouch under your pillow.
“I take vows very seriously,” he winks with a smirk, “And, when we were nine, I declared I was going to marry you. Nothing is ever going to change my mind about that.”
Alone in your bedroom, when you’d picture marrying someone, Bucky always sprung to mind. But your coughing would quickly turn your imagination to grey until it disappeared.
Now, it’s glowing bright. Staying.
Your lips turn upwards.
“You’re not proposing to me in a coffee shop.” You state, and he chuckles.
“Of course not, but I am plannin’ on kissin’ you in front of all these people.” He grins, achingly sweet your suprised his teeth haven’t rotted.
Your mug, raised to your mouth, quakes slightly at his sudden declaration.
Probably how you’ll be feeling in a minute.
“Wha—”
Before you can react properly, he sets your drink down and slides out of the booth, wrapping an arm around your waist and gently tugging you up.
Everything moves too fast until it slows down when he quietly asks, “Can I?”
You nod immediately.
His lips connect with yours. Slow and tentative. He’s giving you a chance to pull away.
You don’t.
Your arms snake around his neck while his palm sends ripples of warmth through your clothing. He presses into your lower back, inching you closer, chests brushing.
His lips feel like the finest of silks against your lips, velvety and warm. You yearn to be wrapped in him forever, keeping you safe from the coldest of evenings. The dash of bitterness you taste from his coffee grounds you from getting lost in the moment—remaining with him.
You can feel the thumping of his wild heart, the passion in his movements, the adoration he’s pouring out and into your mouth.
It’s raw and undeniable. A poet’s love confession floating down your throat and resting beneath your ribs, healing where once was an ache.
“Aww’s” from kind voices and “get a room” from grumpier one’s sound out over your mingled, soft breaths, but you and Bucky simply grin against each other’s mouth before parting for air.
Nothing else matters but this.
Your touch soothes the goosebumps that have risen on the nape of his neck, your lovesick gaze matching his, “I love you, Bucky.” You whisper, only for his ears.
He cups the back of your head, fingertips sifting through your hair, and guides your forehead to his lips, his words seeping through your skin and becoming the forefront of your mind.
“I love you too, peach.”
Butterflies dance and cheer in your stomach. They don’t just represent luck, but new beginnings too.
DECEMBER 23RD, 1941
Every night, when you drift off into the realms of sleep, you relive your wedding. It’s not a dream. You’ve done enough dreaming for it to finally come true. It’s Polaroid photos projecting off your eyelids, and you flick through every single one, studying carefully, never missing a detail.
A pathway of petals trailed to the oak tree, bushy leaves parting for golden rays to gleam upon you and Bucky standing front-centre of the trunk. The flowers and grass settled behind, amongst the guests, silently commending.
The neckline of your wedding dress was a scoop, fitting the high-back. Your collarbones were bare, for you desired them not to be marked with jewellery, but the summer air’s congratulations. A waterfall of white cascaded to your ankles—pure, ivory linen with net lace protecting it. You requested your mother to embroider florals around the upper chest and sleeves that reached your elbows.
He didn’t waste a dime on his suit, not a missing piece, needing to be complete. Trousers that fit like a glove, a collar waistcoat, and blazer, all executed in the smoothest of grey fabric, with a white shirt and navy tie. A daisy peered out from his chest pocket too.
His feet were clad in the shoes his father wore when he wed Winnifred ( which were stored away in her attic ). They were vintage and decrepit, not enough polish to make them proper, but they were meaningful, and it reminded you of the tree’s aging bark.
Slicked-back hair you were desperate to run your fingers through, his gaze fixated on you the entire time.
Enamoured, zealous, proud.
You saw him in a different glow, and it was heavenly.
His vows held buckets of emotion it began welling in his eyes. His touch was incredibly tender as he slipped the ring on your finger.
But the kiss? Oh, it was passionate. It felt like pouring every ounce of yourself onto a love letter.
The branches shook their leaves in applause while others clapped, the sunlight burned brighter, failing to out-do you two, and the coldness of his ring against your cheek was a sighing relief against the air’s humidity.
It wasn’t a grand wedding, but it was yours.
Before another moment your sleep-induced mind can spectate, it costively flickers then disappears upwards as your eyes open by a light weight against your head.
Blinking a few times to rid the bleariness of exhaustion, your husband is crouched by the bed, stroking your hair lullingly. The decorative bulbs on the Christmas tree filter through the open door and into the darkened bedroom, enlightening his features.
“You were smiling in your sleep again,” Bucky says, before a teasing lilt takes over, “Dreaming of me?”
You shift so your face isn’t half-covered by the pillow, “Our wedding day.”
“Oh, so you were dreaming of yourself?” He grins, “‘Cause you were the brightest there. No one could even look at me.”
The giggle that escapes you is frangible. If you reached out to touch the sound, it’d crack.
Bed rest. That’s what the doctors prescribed you ever since tornados of dizziness struck you. Black pixels would invade your vision, closing in, making your feet sway until you’ve hit the ground. Yet, overtime, you’ve learnt to carry yourself to the couch.
When you’d return to reality in a cold sweat, a headache would arrive, pounding like an incessant drum within the left side of your head.
You continue carrying on with life, picking up the odd few jobs since you were laid off by your work, but lying in the haven of your bed has been occurring more frequently than not recently.
“What’s the time?” You quietly ask.
“It’s six, baby.”
“Six?!” You spew out too quickly, coughs following soon after that you cover with a frail hand. Bucky rubs your back soothingly, “I’ve been asleep for six hours… I haven’t even started dinner yet.”
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay?” He soothes, “It’s fine, peach. You must’ve needed the sleep. ‘Sides, we can cook together now.”
He’s so understanding it hurts.
You hum languidly. Then, slowly, your brows knit together.
“If it’s six, you should’ve been home an hour ago.”
A smirk graces his devishly handsome face, “I was doing some last minute shopping.”
“Bucky…”
“I know, I know,” he holds his hands up in mock defence, “You said you didn’t want anything, but I’m going to give you everything you don’t ask for anyways.”
Shaking your head with a feeble smile, you muster the energy you always reserve for him and grasp his collar, pulling him onto the bed and slowly slotting your lips against his as you recline against the pillows. His body hovers over you, and you feel as though you may become one with the plushness of the mattress.
Bucky’s hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your head so he can delve deeper into the velvet walls of your mouth. Meanwhile, you grip his waist, urgent he moves closer, needing him to consume you whole. You don’t care if you lose any air, or if your heart can’t candle the exertion. If kissing him is the last thing you do, you’ll kiss him like you’re marching into battle.
You’re so lost in the precious whirlwind of him, you don’t feel your hair being brushed to the side, nor the sound of something skilfully clipping around your neck until a chilled weight rests on your chest.
Gasping when you break the kiss, you glance down as he tattoos your skin with his lips against your temple, cheek, and finally the corner of your mouth.
“Merry early Christmas, baby.” He whispers against your mouth.
A delicate chain glints off the celestials peeking through the window, and, in the centre, sits a butterfly charm.
“James.” You whisper in awe.
He props himself up with his arm by your head, “You couldn’t catch that butterfly, so I thought I’d buy you one.”
Describing love is tough, because there's not enough words in the dictionary. But you know how it feels. You know that your illness has become bearable, almost forgettable at times, all because of Bucky.
Carefully, as though it’ll crush under your touch, you trace the ridges and lines of the wings.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you,” you whisper, pressing a chaste kiss against his cheek. You lightly pat his chest, “Sit up, I have something for you too.”
Raising an inquisitive brow, he obliges, “Yes, ma’am.”
Your limbs protest as you sit up before he can help you, wanting some form of independence that keeps you sane. After turning the bedside lamp on with quivering fingers, you rummage through the bottom drawer of the nightstand and grasp an envelope, extending it to him.
“What’s that?” Bucky curiously asks, taking it, letting his fingers linger against yours.
“A pigeon,” you sarcastically murmur, “It’s a letter, darling.”
He shakes his head, smiling at your regular self making an appearance.
It’s rare nowadays.
“I know it’s a letter, but what kind? A cheesy love one?”
“No, I only send those to Steve.”
He lightly pinches a space of your calve that isn’t littered with bruises and you yelp.
Inspecting it as he turns it over, noticing it’s already been opened, he takes the paper out, and you nervously analyse how his eyes scan the inked words.
How his breath hitches.
How his fingers grip the paper tighter.
How the world shifts.
“Surgery?” He swallows thickly, eyes slowly darting to yours, a sheen of water glossing over.
“I’ve been put onto a waitlist,” you carefully admit, “They don’t know how long it’ll be, but I have a chance to get better. To be me again.”
His Brooklyn accent is prominent as his voice wavers, “You’ve always been you, peach. You just had some obstacles in the way.”
“…Bucky?”
“The survival rates are low, baby.”
He rubs at his chest like his words have physically injured him.
“Since when did you look on the bad side of things?” You inquire worriedly.
“Since this letter is saying a surgeon is going to jam their finger into my wife’s heart,” concern poisons his words as he stabs his own finger against the parchment, “What if they make a mistake, hm? What if this doesn’t help, but makes it worse?”
“Bucky, listen to me,” you cradle his face in your hands, “There are numerous what-if situations. The only one I’m thinking about right now is what if this makes me healthier? I could finally work again, I could breathe normally, I could live instead of survive.”
Bucky rests his forehead against yours, seeking solace, “You truly want this?” He asks quietly.
“I do,” you honestly, pleadingly, say, “I’m so tired. I can’t walk for more than thirty minutes without feeling like I’m going to collapse. I just want to be normal.”
It’s evident that your words strike a chord in him, coaxing a tear to trickle down his face which you wipe away.
“Okay, baby,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around your waist and gently pulling you onto his lap, “So damn proud of you.”
Relief courses throughout you. He buries his face into your neck and presses a kiss to your pulse point.
“We’re going to be okay.” You whisper, gliding your hand up and down his back, feeling him melt under your touch.
“I know we are, peach. You’ve always been strong enough for the both of us.”
You don’t comprehend how true that is until two days later and Bucky’s own future is being determined by a letter.
Drafted into the Army.
JUNE 14TH, 1943
“Bucky, I’m recovering from surgery, not incompetent.” Your laughter, a sound full of life, bounces off the walls.
Four months has passed since your surgery took place, a scar on your chest to prove the events. Within two of those months, you remained at the hospital for recovery, medication pumped into your system and therapies to coax your body into regular movements flowing.
Every day, Bucky was by your side. Holding your hand and replacing the vase of flowers with fresher ones. He voiced his contemplation of quitting his job just so he could spend more time with you, to which you gave him a firm no as a response.
You can’t be more thankful to have him in your life, to be so lucky that he stayed throughout the whole journey.
You returned home three months ago. The process of healing is long, but gradually, your limbs are no longer bruising, but clearing up. And your heart is beating normally. No more of those random skips, no more of it feeling like it was being dropped from a mountaintop.
For once in your life, you’re happy with your body.
Make-up, hair products and handed-down jewellery are spewed across the bed which you’re perched upon, the bright evening sky casting light into the bedroom.
“I know, but this is my last night until being shipped off, and if I wanna take care of you, I’m gonna take care of you.” Bucky asserts with a cheeky smile.
“There’s a difference between taking care of me and dolling me up.” You joke, smiling knowingly.
You’re aware of why he’s being like this—why he’s determined to ensure you won’t lift a finger right now. It’s not because he thinks you’re delicate, and it’s certainly not because he thinks you can’t do things for yourself.
Bravery is mustered from experiencing fear, and apart of his brave-self, there’s cracks of fear that he won’t have the chance to do anything like this with you again.
So you let him, because he’s entering a place where his life will be risked every second.
He’s done your make-up surprisingly well due to watching you apply it throughout the years. You only needed to touch it up a little, but the lipstick is faded—most likely from him kissing it off.
Next is…
“Hair,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I only know how to braid hair from Becca.”
You shrug, “You can braid my hair.”
Swivelling around, your back to him, you gaze towards the open window, allowing the slight breeze to wash over you. The air is a sweet relief to your lungs, poison ivy no longer tightening around them until its bitterness has bled through.
His fingers entangle in your hair, weaving and letting his fingertips brush the back of your neck. It’s a simple action, but every stroke of his touch feels like he’s connecting to your soul.
“You’re going to be tripping all over my feet.” Bucky teases, his breath fanning the back of your head and encouraging wisps of your tresses to dance.
“Are you doubting my dancing skills?” You ask, feigning hurt.
“Baby, you haven’t danced in nearly three years.” Bucky points out.
A beat passes.
“I have a good memory. It’ll be fine.”
“Hmm, and if my feet are bruised by tomorrow, I’m blaming you,” he lovingly tugs on your completed hairstyle, “There. Now, I’d like my payment in the form of a kiss.”
Facing him, a grin hurting your cheeks, you slowly dive in for a kiss, before swiftly turning and kissing his cheek.
“Tease.” He mumbles.
You rise and approach the tall mirror, admiring your braid and emphasised features, “You could run a salon, you know.” You compliment while beginning to undress.
“And ruin my street cred?”
“Street cred?” You raise your brows, “You mean punching people in alleyways.”
You can recall the generous amount of times he’s returned home with bruised knuckles you’ve cleaned up.
“Punching douchebags in alleys.” He corrects slyly.
Rolling your eyes jokingly, you slip on the dress that was hung on the mirror. You reach around to do the zipper, but fall short, sighing quielty.
“Bucky?”
“Already on it.”
He towers behind you, zipping the back of your dress antagonisingly slow. You watch him through the mirror, watch as he ducks his head and kisses your shoulder, feel how his hand glides across your shoulder, down to your arm, then wraps both of his around your midsection.
“Your wings are growing, peach.” He quietly praises, swaying you both side-to-side in a steady rhythm.
Your body melts into his warmth, your back against his chest, your head against his collarbone.
“We can always stay home if you’re not feeling up to tonight,” Bucky offers, “I’d still be just as happy as long as I’m with you.”
“I know, Bucky. But my body is itching to dance, okay?”
“That’s my girl.”
۶ৎ
Dancing was made for you and Bucky. You spun together like everyone else disappeared into thin air. You laughed together in harmony of the music. Where your steps went, he followed. When your hands intertwined, so did the ocean meeting the shore.
You didn’t dance in the shadows, but front and centre, under the gleaming yellow lighting. You were a whirlwind of starlight, dazzling in every movement, and Bucky was by your side, burning with merriment.
It had been so long since you let yourself be carefree, and you had never felt more beautiful.
The loud of the night fades as you enter your home, shutting the night away as Bucky closes the door and locks it. Immediately, your arms snake around his neck as he turns, crashing your lips against his. He stumbles momentarily, before pressing his hand’s against your lower back, melding you closer together.
Your heart bucks wildly, gallivanting in ways you didn’t think possible. Fingers sift through his hair in rhythm with his sliding across and caressing your waist in burning strokes.
The kind of burn inside of you that you enjoy.
You half expect him to move this forwards as your mouths reconvene the dance your bodies did earlier, but as he departs from the kiss… he doesn’t.
A loving brush of his lips against your forehead and a light, almost apologetic, squeeze of your hip is all you receive, then he trudges off into the kitchen, putting distance between you physically.
Your shoulders slump dejectedly, mirroring the downturn of your lips. You can’t recall the last time he carried you to bed and undressed you with a fervour of lust. Perhaps on your wedding day? It’s not a necessity you’re desperate for—his profound love is more than enough. Yet, as you stand alone while the faint sound of cupboards closing and pill bottles rattling reaches you, insecurities invade your mind.
‘Did I become too sick to be looked at in that sense now?’
‘Is he repulsed by me? Worried I’ll ruin it by having a coughing fit?’
The thick layer of hurt stuck to the roof of your mouth is a harsh swallow, but you do it anyways and venture to where your husband is, desperately needing to quarrel these intrusive thoughts of yours.
You don’t believe them—you’re making yourself not to believe them, but him turning away at any given opportunity is beginning to toy with your head.
Stepping into the homely kitchen and rounding the counter, you poise near the sink, where Bucky is turning off the tap. A light thud and the drip of excess water reverberates after he sets a glass beside your medication.
But those pills can’t help the mental storm brewing inside you.
He parts his mouth to speak as his head raises to meet yours, but his features instantly change at the sight of your hurt expression, “Hey, what’s wrong?” He asks, taking a concerned step closer.
Exhaling steadily, you cross your arms in attempts to appear confident when all you yearn to do is fall into his chest. But you can’t always rely on him. You need to do this for yourself.
“James,” you begin, tone forcefully even, “I’ll respect your decision if you don’t want to touch me, okay? I just need to understand why. Do…” Ignoring his perplexed, widened eyes, you continue, “…do I disgust you? Has my appearance changed—”
"Peach."
"—changed for the worse? Is this something you've been carrying for a while? Do you need my permission to go off with other—"
Before you can feel the tears stinging your eyes, his lips collide into yours, silencing you. The impact is harsh at first, knocking your breath away, but as it achingly softens, your heart restarts.
So does your head.
Your arms grow slack by your sides, and his large hands smooth up them, skating across your shoulder blades and cupping the nape of your neck. His thumbs press into either side of your jaw, tilting your head up further so there's barely any space between you.
"I'm sorry," he whispers against your mouth, nudging his nose against yours tenderly, "I just had to stop you from speaking about yourself like that."
"James." Your voice finally wavers.
Your plea must have flowed into his mouth, because he bitterly chews on it that his jaw trembles and squeezes his eyes shut briefly.
"God, baby, I'm so fucking sorry for putting those thoughts into your head," his voice is thick with guilt and regret, "I've been so busy worrying about how sex might affect you physically, I overlooked how me pulling away must've been messing with this beautiful mind of yours."
His thumb rubs circles into your temple while slowly opening his eyes. They're consumed with emotions a man wouldn't normally share in this day and age, but he does because he isn't like any other man.
He's yours, and with you, he can express himself liberatingly.
"What if it gets too much and your heart can't take it, hm?" The question leaving his mouth breaks into tiny pieces, yet you cradle each one so you can mend the outcome together.
"My heart can't take this distance, Bucky." You whisper, a tear sliding down your cheek.
Bucky catches it with the tip of his thumb instantly, and you turn your face ever-so-slightly and brush your lips against his skin.
The collapse of his shoulders is enough to inform you the guilt of potentially harming you has been haunting him for a while.
Carefully, you cradle his hand and slowly guide it down. You press the warmth of his palm where your heart lays beneath the surface of yourself and feel his fingers expanding to touch more of you.
"It's beating to its fullest potential because of you," you earnestly admit, "Yeah, I had surgery, but I couldn't have survived this long if you weren't by my side."
"Peach..." He trails off, doubt burdening his tone.
"It's true!" You exclaim, the corners of your swollen mouth upturning, "I'm alive because you, my husband, have been my biggest supporter since we were kids. You have been my lifeline, darling, and as long as you're alive and happy, then so am I."
This time, his care for you is expressed in a globule escaping the corner of his eye after blinking. You watch it slide down his cheek before you poise on your tip-toes and kiss it away.
Your lips linger against his face long enough for his breathing pattern to change. It remains steady, deliberate, but peeking between each exhale is a quivering hunger that went into hiding, now coaxed out by your deep devotion.
Pulling back your face, your small and nimble hand covers the back of his against your chest, "You told me my wings are growing, and they are, but they flourish with you.”
"I love you," Bucky confesses for the umpteenth time, though now it’s layered with his insecurities bare and open, "I love you so damn much that I don’t even think the word love is strong enough to describe how damn mad I am over you."
His thumb and index finger pinches your chin, inching your faces closer, breaths becoming one. Both of your cravings are edged further, and you lock your fingers between the gaps of his, trailing his hold on you further down until a heat strokes your lower abdomen.
"Then show me,” honey drips from your voice, sweet and addictive, “Show me how much you love me, Bucky."
Your encouragement beholds an undeniable strength, alleviating the hesitance inside of him. He carries you to your shared room, he cradles you ever-so protectively, and he unveils every pent up desire in caresses and strokes—in edges of lust that are softened with his undying love.
Every sound coaxed from the depths of your chests—breathy and low and extremely unfiltered—have become your new favourite melody. Every passionate movement between yourselves, wrapped in each other’s embraces, is the epitome of comfort and pleasure rolling around together. Every reassuring word spoken, or kiss peppered against your scar, gifts you the most safest crescendo one can possibly experience.
Throaty laughter arrives afterwards, rippling through the haze of serenity. Bucky smoothes his palm over every inch of yourself, leisurely gliding over bumps and crevices, checking for anything amiss, but all that remains is your blissed-out self and his proud grin.
And when the dreaded day of his departure reaches, he disembarks from the very docks he helped build, carry the memory of the night before closest to him.
Because it marks the night you finally started soaring.
AUGUST 2ND, 1943
Two months have slipped by without the warmth of your husband by your side. All that remains is the ghost of his presence wherever you venture, the letters stacked neatly in a wooden chest, and the sneaky, hushed telephone calls.
Closing the front door behind you, you waste no time in tearing the seal apart and unfolding the crisp parchment. His handwriting coaxes a smile on your face, the bold strokes carefully crafted despite his cursive being a tad bit sloppy.
Your eyes begin ingesting the words he’s unleashed from the depth of his soul. The last time you heard his voice, it was muffled through the terrible signal of the General’s telephone.
Now? Now, it echoes clearly in your ears, so close you can almost feel his presence.
My love,
The camp is bleak and pitiful, hope ebbing away the further we advance to the front lines. I try my hardest to maintain morel and uplifting the other soldiers, but even my struggle is becoming noticeable the more I’m away from you.
I wake up on this stiff cot, facing the roof of the tent, and being reminded of where I am. I close my eyes in the few moments I have to myself and picture us sprawled out in the field we claimed as ours. The image of the sun casting golden rays against you remains vivid in my mind. All seasons compliment you, peach, but summer bathes you in a newfound light.
How is Brooklyn’s Summer this time around? Is it warm enough for you? You know I’m not the religious type, but I pray each night you’re able to fall asleep without any trouble. I know how the steam from the scolding roads used to affect your breathing.
You were fighting a war every day, and you came out victorious. It’s your unyielding strength and bravery that encourages me to lead myself and my infantry into battle.
I will win this war, peach. I’m not winning it for my country anymore, I’m winning it for you: my beautiful, one of a kind wife who I love more than a dog with its bone.
Your darling,
James.
Exhaling shakily, you press the paper to your chest, as though the ink will bleed off the page and sink into your heart.
Bucky Barnes has been your crutch for as long as you can remember, and while you’re his too, you just wish it was under different circumstances—not the fear of death looming over him every second he’s separated from you.
Thoughts spark in your mind, each one illuminating another idea of how to make sunshine pour into your letter so his bleak whereabouts will have a bit of shine.
You take a step towards the living room when a searing pain slices through your chest, reopening what was mended.
A pained whimper rips from your throat as your nails dig into your chest instinctively. Your feet stumble. The letter drifts onto the floor as your other hand uses the coat hanger for stability.
Everything rotates fast. You squeeze your eyes shut, denying the dizziness of its foggy, enclosing effects. You’re still standing, two feet firmly planted into the floor.
“I’m okay, I’m okay.” You choke out through laboured exhales.
The technique of settling your strenuous breathing slips back into place with ease, and you familiarise it for a few moments before you’re stable enough to slowly crack your eyes open.
The ache in your chest fades, replaced by a hollow dread. You shove it down immediately. It’s just high emotions physically pulled out from Bucky’s sentimental letter, that’s all….
It’ll pass soon.
Everything will return to normal when he’s home.
OCTOBER 17th, 1943
The campsite is peculiarly quiet this evening, no alarms shrieking nor any barked orders making the weeds flinch. While his comrades have ventured to town, gulping down what could be their last drink, Bucky stayed behind.
Something off has been accumulating in the pits of his stomach all day.
It could be nothing. It could simply be the enemy inching closer each day, as that’s become the normal nowadays, but his mind wanders to you and your most recent letter.
Shoulders hunched and perched on the edge of his cot, he grips the paper firm enough so the gust of wind drifting through the tent won’t snatch it.
It’s still your enchanting words, each stroke of ink letting him in on a glimpse of warmth. However, overtime, your handwriting has grown noticeably shaky, no longer appearing neat and barely readable.
He manages too, anyways, because he’d be damned if a letter of yours isn’t deciphered like it’s full of important codes.
Determining he’s just overthinking, he sighs and shakes his head. You’re a woman made of iron that's been hammered and molded into something even stronger.
He swaps your letter on the rickety nightstand for the polaroid of you he’s kept close. The glow of the lantern illuminates your gorgeous features, but a photo can only do so much. It doesn’t capture the playful melody of your teasing, and it doesn’t play your dance movements.
Luckily, every moment spent with you was unforgettable. A picture can only do so much, but it can also evoke memories that stretches a smile across his mouth.
In a feather-light motion, his thumb traces every curve and crevice of yourself, worshipping you even when your physical self is nowhere in sight. The entrance of the tent flaps in defence of the force of nature picking up, but if he just pinpoints his focus on the image of yourself, he can almost hear the thrum of your heartbeat.
Almost.
Quickly replacing it is a rough clearing of a throat, though Bucky’s brow perks up at a second one following. Softer, perhaps sympathetic, trying to override the first one.
He lifts his head and straightens up at General Smith entering. A solemn expression is written into his face, rubbing out the typically guarded one he equips.
Bucky rises to salute him, but is stopped halfway by a slow raise of Smith’s palm, “Sit, Sergeant.” He orders calmly.
For a man who usually reeks of confidence, hesitance conflicts Bucky’s senses as he slowly sits back down.
“Sir?”
Marching the front lines seems dauntingly in front of him.
“Bucky… hell, there’s no easy way to say this,” General Smith sighs and shifts uncomfortably, “Your mother-in-law rang.”
Rocks have piled onto Bucky’s tongue, his next three words managing to slip out through the cracks, “Is everything alright?”
“No, son,” he replies in a fatherly tone, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you…”
Bucky pales.
“Your wife passed last night.”
Those five words don’t reach his ears correctly.
They’re blocked out, muffled by the pounding of his heart while yours apparently lays still.
No.
Nonononononono.
He watched you wave him off at the docks. He listened to you converse about your day through the phone. Your heart was fine then. Cracked from his departure, but thumping healthily.
Speaking suddenly feels like the most strenuous action he can do, “She— ah…” his voice breaks, “She had a successful surgery. She can’t… she can’t have…”
A life without you doesn’t make sense.
Pain shoots through his chest, but he can’t see any bullets flying around.
His vision blurs with unshed tears. His lungs are too tight to accept breath properly.
The General’s voice remains a faded cadence, fragments piercing Bucky’s soul deeper.
‘Failed surgery.’
‘Couldn’t retain enough oxygen.’
‘Wasn’t alone.’
Head hanging low, eyes reddening swiftly, a broken noise is tugged from his throat. It doesn’t reach the sound-waves just yet, trapped in the confines of his aching self.
“It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s not true.” He mumbles repetitively and brashly cards his fingers through his hair.
The hollow pit inside his stomach fills with nausea.
You were suffering and he was unaware.
Angels recruited you and left him behind in the trenches… a place fit for a guilty man like him to be buried in.
OCTOBER 26TH, 1943
Rage never correlated with Bucky Barnes. His emotional intelligence didn’t let it simmer for long, but you were the one feeding him knowledge. Without you, the fury arose to the extremity of public humiliation.
At the time, he didn’t care when he stormed into the hospital, a body functioned by grief spitting at the ones who should’ve done more to save you.
Because they failed you.
He failed you.
No one flinched at his outburst, except for your father who heartbreakingly dragged him outside. To the medical workers, it was if that’s an every day occurrence and your death’s just another percentage in the charts.
He’ll go back and apologise later, comprehending how unfairly he directed his blame onto them. It takes the remains of his willpower not to blame you either for your stubborn mouth that was sealed tight throughout the months of his departure.
A weekend off was granted to him to get his head ‘straight.’ His teeth grind at the thought of returning to a place with hollowed men and no one yelling his name during mail-calls anymore.
Being drafted stole the time he had left with you, so a weekend to himself is a generous gesture.
Except, no one writes a manual on how to grieve properly. He’s transitioned into a new part of life without his permission, leaving him utterly lost and unable to cope.
Bucky’s legs forbid him from entering the Barnes home. The closest he reached was the door, thudding his bag to the ground in sync with the collapse of his knees.
An unopened letter of his, curled at the corners and dampening from his downpour of tears, taunted him from the welcome mat.
Now, he ventures where his heart navigates.
The oak tree slouches on the faded hill, silently battling against the invisible pollution that’s accumulated due to the war. The leaves are paralysed and the acorns have sorrowfully dropped, buried beneath layered of time and dirt. Weeds surround the stump like soldiers guarding their barracks, forbidding anyone from trespassing.
His boots are heavy against the cracked soil. A thick lump shapes in his throat and he forces it down. A ghost of vows and daisies flicker before him, but the grief rips it apart.
Bloodshot eyes roam the aging tree, noticing the lines in the bark have grown profusely. Maybe if his heart were to be x-rayed, there’d be jagged strikes too.
A sudden gust of wind pushes against him, or perhaps it’s trying to envelope him in a hug he’s unconsciously rejecting. The tickle of the breeze coaxes a twitch from his reddened nose, and his eyes drop to the ground as something featherlight sways in the air.
Immediately, Bucky glances upwards to the branch you once gazed at with child-like wonder, then drops his eyes to what’s fallen before him.
An envelope.
Shaky cursive writing.
James.
His hands tremble beside him.
You knew he’d visit.
He crouches down to pick it up, but it slips from his grasp.
“Shit,” he curses, vigorously wiping the specks of dusty soil off it.
When he’s sure it’s safe in his grasp, he slowly lowers himself to the ground, the bark brushing against his back like a reassuring pat.
After rubbing his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger, clearing any tears so he can read clearly, he expels a forced, steady breath. He doesn’t wish to have a heavy conscience when your literacy can float inside his chest instead.
My darling James,
A choked sound claws from his throat already.
He looks away, the taste of salt poisoning his lips as trails of pain dampen his face. It takes every bit of strength in him to return to reading.
My darling James,
I remember when you first introduced me to the oak tree. I had never felt so special in my life. I had already felt rejected by the world, barely scraping by, but you carried me outside and showed me there’s still hope and beauty out there.
That’s a feeling I’ll never be able to repay, no matter how much you say my love is enough, and I’m so sorry for the heartache I’ll leave behind when I’m gone.
I couldn’t tell you the surgery had failed. Selfishness took over; I didn’t want our final months together to have the impending grief looming over us. I was terrified it’d affect your sanity out there, and I needed you focused so you won’t lay to rest like me.
I lived longer than I expected. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I know loving you gave me a purpose and I was clinging onto that for as long as my heart could. Being with you made the pain bearable. I even forgot it at times when you’d hold my gaze with eyes the colour of the butterfly I chased.
You never left me, but I’m afraid if you’re reading this, I have left you. Butterflies are doomed with a small lifespan. I can relate to that a bit too closely.
When I pass, I will no longer experience that crushing sensation in my lungs. I’ll be light, soaring with my fully-grown wings, only feeling the comfort and safety you gave me.
I know it’s a lot to ask—you’ve done so much for me—but please keep that bravery inside of you pumping. Please live for me as I lived for you.
I love you with my entire being.
Goodbye, James.
Your love, peach.
Everything’s quiet.
The word has stopped to mourn you with him.
Yet, something foreign flushes throughout his body, lulling his aching bones. Closure’s arrival isn’t loud; it creeps in, slow and steady, and will take time to grow, but it’s a brave start, and he promises to forever be brave in your honour.
A slow, fluttering melody drifts into the environment. Landing on the parchment, littered in tiny damp splotches, is a butterfly.
A butterfly.
For the first time in days, Bucky’s lips curve upwards.
You are not a saint. You are not a hero. You’re barely even a living person, because living people have lives that extended beyond work and their apartment. But you’re not quite nobody, either. You’re too much, and not enough, and just in the shadows with a prayer to be saved that isn't genuine and secrets that mean nothing.
They should’ve meant nothing.
Yet here you are. In more danger than usual, being threatened by Hydra without knowing why, and being assigned a security detail you don’t want by Captain America.
Bucky Barnes is good at his job. You’re not going to die.
But you might end up strangling him before Hydra gets to either of you.
There are a few things that simply aren't understandable in the universe. Things that push the boundaries of what we know, and understand.
Things like how, even through the Winter Soldier programming, Bucky was still able to find you.
Think like how, no matter how hard the world tried, they were never to keep you apart.
Blind Collision - Mini-Series 🩵💖🧡
Soulmates are the rarest thing in the world. To even know a pair is almost unheard of, let alone to meet your own.
Some people hold out hope. You know better.
Or you thought you did. Until you met Bucky, and realized the odds you never wanted were leaning in your favor.
Blue Moon - Mini-Series🩶💖🧡
In the early 1930s, your path crosses with a young, bright eyed boy who doesn't seem to know the pain of the world. You ask him to wait. He does with a smile. Through time and war, you love him with the burn of all your heart. Across oceans and between worlds, he loves you so much he swears he could never forget.
One-Shots
✦It's Been Calling Me ❤️🔥💖💙💚🧡 - You've had these… dreams. Strange, realistic, detailed dreams of the same man, almost your whole life. But they're just dreams. You've been so sure, for so long, that they're just dreams. So sure, until you're not.
✦Louder Than Fear 🩵❤️🔥🧡 - Missions involving Hydra often go very wrong. This is different. This is worse. This is a strange bioweapon, nobody telling you exactly what's wrong, and staring at the ceiling as Bucky roars you name. It's echoing in your brain. And you love him. So you have to fix this.
✦And You Were Brighter Than The Light Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 🩵💖🧡❤️🔥 - There are a lot of Avenger's at the compound. And you never leave your room. It's a good thing you did, though. Just once. Otherwise you never would've met Bucky
✦Written In Skin 🩵🧡❤️🔥 - Bucky's been gone on a mission for about a week, and you love him, so you wait. And when he returns, he has a question that might finally let you say those three words aloud.
✦Look Behind You 💚💖🧡❤️🔥 - You've made a mistake. You've been reckless and fallen in love with Bucky. There's only one way to deal with this. Make a list.
✦A Long, Long Time 💚💖🧡❤️🔥 - The truth doesn't hurt. It's not freeing, either. It just sits in your chest, until it's pried out, and you're looking it the eyes with nowhere to run, and Bucky knows you love him. But he's not running either.
✦Fly Back Here, And Keep Warm 🩵💖🧡❤️🔥 - Bucky hates you. He doesn't talk to you, or look at you, or linger in your presence for too long. But he's still saving you from the river. From the cold. And maybe, if you're not losing your mind, he doesn't really hate you at all.
✦Not A Scar I'd Want To Fade 🩵💖🧡❤️🔥 - Bucky can't remember anything, but he's not the Soldier. He simply can't remember. If you tell him something, he forgets everything again. But he always remembers you first
✦All I've Wanted Was You - Request! 🩵💖🧡❤️🔥 - You have an arrangement with Bucky. You sleep together, and nothing more. Every time is supposed to be the last time. You love him too much keep this up and pretend it's not killing you. But it might be killing him too.
✦Along the Line 💛🧡❤️🔥 - After you get hit with a chemical on a mission, Bucky has to take care of you. But he won't do the one thing that will fix it, no matter how much you want him to. And he wants it too. Maybe more. And, at some point, something has to break.
✦In Uniform - Request! ❤️🔥💖💚 - Bucky brings you a surprise, and fulfills a fantasy.
✦Feelin' Good ❤️🔥💖💛 - It's been a long, rough day, and it's easy to sink a little lower into worse feelings. Luckily, Bucky is always there to pick you back up.
✦All The Right Places 🩵💖🧡❤️🔥 - Four times you broke the friends with benefits rules, and the one time you didn't.
✦These Nights 💛💖❤️🔥 - Bucky gets home late, and you take care of each other.
✦I Must Have Missed it in the Rain 💛🧡❤️🔥💖 - You're, somehow, the best person for this undercover mission. The one where you have to pretend to be Bucky's girlfriend. You don't know why he agreed to it when he can't stand you. But you love him. So you'll get through it, if only to play pretend for one night.
✦Don't You Know (You're Something Good) - Request! 🩵💖🧡❤️🔥 - It's impossible to think that you could be worthy of him. That Bucky could ever want you back. But he's patient, and you're far more wrong than you think.
✦Lay Me Down 💛🧡❤️🔥💖 - All you wanted in a roommate was someone not insane, who didn't shift anything in your life who didn't drive you out of your mind. You didn't get either of those things. You got Bucky Barnes
✦I've Been Waiting (And So Have You) - Request 🧡❤️🔥💖 - You've been in love with Bucky Barnes since you first saw him. You've waited for him, even when you knew it was pointless. Then, when you finally decide to move on, you ask him for help. But he doesn't seem to be putting his all into helping you find a relationship. And you can't seem to give yours to getting over him, at all.
✦Don't Stop Haunting Me❤️🔥💖💛 - You and Bucky have a (sort of) quiet arrangement. He takes care of you, and you return the favor. And you've gotten pretty good at pretending you don't want more, but after the Halloween party, it's suddenly a lot harder to pretend. Good thing Bucky is feeling the exact same way.
✦How to Let Go - Request 🧡❤️🔥💖 - After you meet Bucky at a gallery, he slowly, but certainly becomes a part of your life. An important one. One that could mean something. And you don't know how to do that. How to just be loved. But Bucky doesn't just walk away. And together, you learn.
✦Can You Feel It (through you) 💛💖❤️🔥 - You fall in deep, deep love with Bucky Barnes. But you keep it far, far down. Everyone thinks he feels something back, but you don't believe them. Until something shifts. And Bucky might feel just as much as you.
✦Cold Eyes, Warm Hands 💛💖🧡❤️🔥 - You know Bucky hates you. He's not secret about it. He hates you so much, he can't seem to stand you even getting along with an agent on a mission, and can't help but rush to your side when you need him. That's what hate is, right?
✦His Favorite Gift 💖❤️🔥 - On Christmas, the only thing Bucky needs is you.
✦Tipping Point🧡❤️🔥💖 - You agree to friends with benefits, knowing Bucky already has your heart. Knowing that he's so blissfully unaware of it, that there's never any hope to be anything more. Which makes it strange, how possessive he's getting after you're flirted with at a party.
✦The Strawberries - request!💛💖 - Bucky keeps you secret from his team, but your effect on his life might not be something he can hide.
✦If You Care 💛🧡💖❤️🔥 - Affection and relationships are the ruin of many a good woman. You're very careful, not to fall into that trap. Unfortunatly, Bucky might be the only one who can make you... stumble a bit.
✦Our Ruins 💛💖❤️🔥 - you and bucky have an arragment, and Bucky breaks an unspoken rule.
✦Goddamn, Manchild 💖🧡❤️🔥 - you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?
✦choose me 💖🧡❤️🔥 - bucky isn't your boss, but he's still off limits. and even if he wasn't, there's no way he'd ever go for someone like you. weird that he matched with you on a dating app then, isn't it?
✦needed me 💖🧡❤️🔥 - you can't stand bucky barnes. despite all your attempts to get rid of him, he's always somewhere in your orbit. you say you hate it. hate him. but you're also a very good liar.
✦give me fever ❤️🔥💖🩵 - you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrong
✦what if he's mine❤️🔥💖🩵 - you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.
Mini Drabbles
✦When He Gets Back From a Mission❤️🔥💖💛
✦His Hands❤️🔥💖
✦The Caring of Bucky Barnes' Hair❤️🔥💖💛
✦Sit Down, Doll - Request❤️🔥💖
✦Bite Your Lip - Request❤️🔥💖💛
✦Temptation❤️🔥💖
✦Wreck❤️🔥💖
✦Keep Still ❤️🔥💖
✦Mine - Request❤️🔥
✦Cool❤️🔥
✦Be Quiet❤️🔥
✦peaceful mornings - request❤️🔥💖
✦tight - request❤️🔥💖
✦run around - request❤️🔥💖
✦quiet love❤️🔥💖
✦sexting❤️🔥
✦good boy❤️🔥
Life was a funny thing. Fickle. Fragile. Fucking insane sometimes. You somehow always ended up in the wrong place at the right time, getting bumped around and becoming yet another victim of life's circumstances. Life had a funny way of teaching you lessons. Always did. You had been put through trial after trial throughout your life, only to be put through the toughest ones of all now. But out of it would come the most valuable lesson of all: you can’t control your circumstances, only how you react to them. Tougher still would be teaching this lesson to Bucky Barnes, the man you found on the side of the road one fateful evening in Washington DC.
Hey, guys! This is going to serve as the installment list for my new Bucky Barnes fic!
This one's gonna be a little bit of a different take on an xReader fic, if I'm honest. This Reader has some of her own background and life circumstances, so if you feel more comfortable thinking of it as you playing this character, go for it! I won't get too into it here, but this story does deal with some heavy topics like war, mental illness, loss of limb, and violence. Proceed at your own risk. 18+, MDI!
Story warnings: 18+ MDNI! war, violence, loss of limb, mental illness, medical talk and treatment, language, drinking, tense family situations, eventual smut, pregnancy scare, explosives. there’s fluff too, i swear!
Warnings: Period expected misogyny. Mild Violence. Maybe I'll add more in the future.
Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a florist’s life and turns her world upside down.
Status: Ongoing
note: This is a silly time-travel story written purely for entertainment and to get out of my author's block. I won't be diving into complex timeline theories here. Let's not overthink the logistics and just enjoy the ride(?)
THE CASE OF A GRUMPY PEEPING TOM
older neighbor!bucky barnes x female!reader [15.3k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: bucky barnes has spent years cultivating a life of isolation. he keeps to himself, avoids attachment, and prefers the predictability of routine. then you move in next door and he tries to dismiss you as a temporary inconvenience. everything shifts the moment he notices your bedroom sits directly opposite his. or, bucky is a pervert and you aren’t really that far behind.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon; set in summer; she/her pronouns for reader; age gap I guess (he is stated to be in his late 40s; I imagined reader to be in her early 30s but it’s only mentioned that she is younger than him); kind of one-sided enemies to lovers; reader is mentioned to have hair; reader wears skirts, dresses & lingerie; mechanic!bucky; grumpy!bucky; loner!bucky; size difference (bucky is taller + beefy); they’re both perverts; possessiveness & jealousy; obsession; stalker-ish behavior; smut; voyeurism; exhibitionism; reader dates and fucks a lot in the beginning; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); sexual fantasies; dirty talk; masturbation (f & m); fingering; oral (f receiving); squirting; brief spanking; sexual acts in “public”; pussy spanking; pussy pronouns; slight degradation; a few uses of slut & he calls himself old multiple times; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; creampie.
A/N: at this point I guess grumpy lonely old man!bucky being obsessed with reader has become my trademark 😭 jokes aside, this was posted a while ago and tbh, it’s one of those stories that I had trouble finishing because... well, yk... 🥵
sorry for any typo and for the “unpolished” smut but I’m really tired and studying for my uni exams.
hope you’ll enjoy it 💋
The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet at all hours, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns. Unfortunately, this also means that it’s the type of place where people wave too much and chat for way too long.
Bucky Barnes doesn’t wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates.
He’s in his late forties and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at arm’s length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, built by labor rather than vanity, with thick arms, powerful shoulders, and rough hands scattered in scars and used to grease. There is also a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort.
This only makes him more noticeable.
He is attractive and single, the combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl working in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesn’t chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. Yet the lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper promptly end up in the first trashcan he sees—invitations and phone numbers he never glances at twice.
He had done the whole thing once already: the commitment, the shared space, the careful navigation of someone else’s expectations. It had not suited him then, and it certainly doesn’t suit him now. Whatever desire he had for that kind of life had burned out years ago.
His marriage had not even lasted that long. Too many arguments that circled the same problems, too many sharp words that lingered longer than they should have. His ex-wife cared too much about how things looked; he never cared enough. In the end, there was nothing left to fix that didn’t require one of them becoming someone else.
See, Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by himself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is just something other people have projected onto him while he built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers. Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.
As a matter of fact, the neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned to not bother him and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.
He calls the cops when the rich couple on his left throws backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because he’s trying to be petty, he simply doesn’t understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He always waits for the patrol car’s lights to flash briefly across his living room wall, jaw set and arms crossed, before going back to his book the second the noise dies down.
He files complaints when someone’s dog won’t stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to fuck off his property without even opening the door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a passive-aggressive, handwritten note to his mailbox about “participation” and “neighborly effort.”
Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street.
He has never decorated after that, out of spite. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.
His neighbors also learn to not park in front of his driveway, and to not ask him for favors unless it’s an emergency. They don’t expect pleasantries or smiles anymore, because Bucky exists like a locked door—solid, immovable, uninterested in what’s on the other side.
And it works. Until your arrival.
The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud since this morning. He stares from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long he’ll give them before complaining about the noise.
Then you step into view.
You’re carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someone—a friend, maybe—reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head and stubbornly keep going. It’s an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it already belongs there.
Bucky’s frown deepens.
You’re younger than most people who can afford a house in this part of the town, and pretty in a way that feels unfair—soft, bright, lively. You’re wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look… happy, comfortable.
The neighbors are immediately captivated by your charming presence.
Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich couple—fresh off their last noise complaint—wave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitman—the same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtains—shows up with lemonade to cool off, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesn’t sort his recycling “correctly.”
He just observes, and that’s when you notice him.
Your gaze lifts absently and finds him standing stiff on his doorstep, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.
You lift your hand and wave.
“Hi!” You call warmly.
Bucky doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.
From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself you’re just another neighbor, another disruption… another reason the street won’t be as quiet as it used to be.
Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence in this fucking town.
The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. He’s just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him. He rolls his eyes.
“Oh, hi!”
Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder briefly, enough to see you standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail and smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t completely ignore you the first time you tried to introduce yourself.
He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just… noise.
“I’m your new neighbor.” You continue anyway, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name but he just nods imperceptibly.
You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment about the neighborhood… anything.
However, you are brutally plunged into an awkward silence.
“Okay.” You draw softly, but recover quickly. “Well, nice to meet you.”
You wait another second yet his gaze doesn’t move from the pile of envelopes in his large hands. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes burning through his back, curious rather than offended.
That somehow makes it worse.
The next few times, he tells himself it’s just bad timing.
He’s leaving for work when you’re coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching prettily in your hair. Of course, you pause when you see him, smiling like it’s reflexive.
“Morning.”
He hums, adjusts his jacket, and walks to his truck without breaking stride.
Two days later, he’s unloading groceries when you’re struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.
“Shit.” You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement causes your skirt to ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching dangerously high as you balance on the balls of your feet.
Bucky looks away too late, his heart giving a series of uncomfortable, fast thuds in his chest. Swallowing thickly, his jaw tightens as he forces the fleeting image of your soft asscheeks snuggled in a pair of pastel green panties out of his mind.
He hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he unconsciously steps forward, you’ve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one anyway and hands it to you without a word.
“Thank you.” You gasp, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.
Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else, the violent blush still sitting high on his cheeks has him feeling utterly humiliated.
You don’t stop greeting him after that.
At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.
On trash day it’s like you’re waiting by the window for him to walk out, because you’re always there. Sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, commenting about how warm it is these days.
“Hey.” You greet him softly one evening.
He doesn’t answer.
“You don’t talk much.” You add eventually, not accusatory.
He stiffens, only to drag his bin to the curb harder than necessary.
“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean—”
He’s already walking away.
That interaction bothers him more than it should.
The next time you meet there, it’s early morning, the air still crisp, and Bucky’s barely awake to deal with existence. He’s dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours and struggling with a torn bag that’s almost spilling onto the pavement.
He stops without meaning to.
You look up when you hear his heavy footsteps, relief lighting up your face at once.
“Oh! Good morning—sorry, I think this thing hates me.” You chuckle quietly, embarrassed, still fighting to close it.
He observes you for a second too long, letting his eyes calmly trace the wrinkle between your furrowed eyebrows, before falling on your bottom lip trapped between your teeth.
With a tired sigh, Bucky steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.
Your eyes widen. “Thank you! I really appreciated that.”
Bucky shrugs, already turning away.
“Have a nice day!” You call after him.
He doesn’t answer, but this time, he doesn’t feel as justified about it.
By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesn’t take long before your name is pronounced with affection and pride, with the same tone people use when they feel incredibly fond of someone.
Mrs. Reeves can’t stop gushing about you often helping her carry groceries inside, and the rich couple brags—loudly—about you offering to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you bake delicious lemon bars, while Mrs. Johnson praised your kind nature after you volunteered to help clean up at the end of the last neighborhood meeting.
Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when he’s trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard... and he grits his teeth every damn time.
“She’s exactly what this neighborhood needed.”
Bucky’s nostrils flare.
How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these leeches just take, take and take? You are so open, so willing to be involved, and God—your lips are constantly twisted into this bright, welcoming smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn... real.
And worst of all, you treat him like everyone else. Still polite, still warm. You beam at him like he hasn’t ignored you a dozen times over.
Irritation bubbles sharply in his chest every time his mind lingers too much on that thought.
Bucky is used to being judged and ignored, he knows how to live with it, how to justify it. But this quiet, persistent generosity doesn’t fit anywhere he has known until now.
On one of the rare summer dusks when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. He’s been chasing the same problem for an hour, the wrinkle between his brows deepening as his frustration grows.
He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already huffing in annoyance.
“Hi.”
His hands freeze.
You’re standing at the edge of his property, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like you’re bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.
Bucky straightens slowly, wiping his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.
“What do you want?” He asks flatly.
You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.
“I just...” You hesitate, then let out a small breath. “I wanted to ask if I did something wrong.”
That gets his attention.
He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is genuinely distressed, your eyebrows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.
“You don’t like me,” you continue softly. “And that’s fine, you don’t have to. I just—” You sigh, dejected. “I’d like to know if there is a reason, since... you know, we are neighbors, and I want to apologize if I’ve ever done or said something to offend you.”
His jaw tightens.
“You didn’t do anything.” He mutters reluctantly.
You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”
The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like a boulder pressing on his chest.
“Everyone says you like to be left alone,” you go on carefully. “I respect that, I really do. But I thought maybe saying hello wasn’t crossing a line.”
“It was.” He replies sternly, too quickly to be considered a mere slip-up.
You blink, clearly taken aback. A hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away very efficiently, as if you are used to regulating your emotions in situations that require neutrality.
You nod once. “Okay.”
Your eyes drop to the ground.
“Well, I’m sorry.” Your answer is no louder than a mumble. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
That word makes his stomach churn, but before his brain can elaborate anything useful, Bucky is watching you walk away with his jaw clenched.
That night, as he lies in bed, he stares at the ceiling longer than usual.
The sound of your voice replays in his head without his consent. The way you didn’t push, didn’t accuse, didn’t demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.
Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his peace intact. But why, for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesn’t feel as satisfying as it used to?
It’s later than Bucky’s usual bedtime, the house dark except for the warm lamp on his nightstand. He’s standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy after indulging too much at the bar with his friends. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze this summer decided to grant them this year.
That’s when a light flicks on across the street.
He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.
At first, it doesn’t register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. His face falls the moment he realizes that’s your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop: same height, same alignment. It allows him a clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.
Straight into your world.
You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop on your lap, the lamp beside you casting a golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in.
Bucky definitely believes his optometrist was just trying to squeeze more money out of him when he told him he needed glasses, because from here, he can clearly see your nipples poke through the thin fabric of your camisole.
An old, unfamiliar heat stirs low in his belly. He doesn’t remember ever seeing shorts that minuscule.
He shouldn’t be watching.
The thought makes Bucky turn away at once, like he’s been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.
Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.
When he risks another glance, just to make sure the angle isn’t worse than he thought, you’re holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. Your houses are too distant for the sound to reach him, but it’s not hard to pretend. He’s heard it before anyway—that soft, high melody that never fails to carry a note of genuineness.
Forcing himself to step back, Bucky pulls his own curtains shut with more force than necessary. The room feels suddenly too small, too warm.
He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.
The following night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he won’t look.
He looks anyway.
Your window is lit once again and you’re stretched out on the bed, laptop open by your side this time. You look utterly absorbed in whatever it’s playing on the screen, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.
His body leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.
It’s almost… fascinating, being able to witness the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.
And you are even more beautiful lying there, unguarded and completely relaxed.
The thought comes uninvited and unwelcome.
Bucky swallows as his eyes narrow like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. There is no need to make a big deal out of this, he just happens to be here and without much urgency to sleep, that’s all.
He doesn’t move until your movie ends and your light goes out.
Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats. Disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. Those are the same nights he spends wondering if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the sleeves of your camisole delicately slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast upon.
When he does catch you, you’re on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. Each time, you also check your phone with a small grin, too often to be a coincidence.
Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?
Days go by with Bucky sticking to the same nightly routine, until he eventually comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small habits without meaning to, like the way you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if you’ve forgotten something; or the way you stretch your arms over your head when you stand up, slow and uncaring of who might see you from the window that you always leave open.
When you’re thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze drifting into nothingness. Sometimes you sit on the edge of your bed for a moment in the morning, shoulders slumping as if the day is slowly assembling itself around you.
When you laugh, you always tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you don’t want to miss the feeling.
Background noise is your best companion: a TV show you’ve already seen, music playing low from your phone, a YouTube video from your favorite gossip channels that help you empty your mind... anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You never wander barefoot, nudging things back into place with your slippers. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. It’s a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no one’s watching.
It’s summer, and that means you dress for it, much to his poor heart.
You are constantly wearing clothes that cling dangerously tight to your luscious body: lewd shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show how your beautiful curves leisurely bounce whenever you move. The way you’re always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.
You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, or lying on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air, you keep scrolling on your phone almost absently. When you’re tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstand—something to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.
Bucky hates how much he notices, how these seemingly stupid details carve themselves into his mind against his will. They feel earned, even though they aren’t.
Tonight, you are definitely not home.
Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It’s past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him, because you are a grown woman with a career and it’s a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.
This doesn’t stop him from perking up like a dog at his owner’s arrival the moment he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately deepening as a pair of headlights promptly follows close behind.
You’re not alone.
Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. It’s almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesn’t know. It’s only when he reaches his bedroom after spending ten long minutes behind the curtains in his kitchen in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you, that Bucky finally registers the mysterious companion’s face.
It’s a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re half-naked on your bed, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs bare and parted. Your hand is curled in the man’s hair as his head works under your eager guidance.
Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in bliss.
He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him. Because there is no way his lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open.
The faint moans from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes hungrily devour the sight.
Still, an itch burns deep in his chest—an ugly, vengeful beast trying to claw its way out.
Your whimpers and breathy giggles haunt him long after your room has gone dark.
The worst part is that Bucky doesn’t stop there. Maybe he has become a masochist in his old age? Because he truly doesn’t know how to explain how he finds himself so enraptured by you, yet he can’t stop watching as each weekend a new man finds his way into your bed. At this rate, he’d need to make a dentist appointment just to make sure his jaw is still working. It feels permanently clenched these days, every muscle locked tight from the effort of keeping himself under control.
In theory, there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing, right? You leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you moan loud enough to attract his attention. And that makes him eventually cave, stroking his cock and coming all over his sweatpants when you’re riding your date of the week, your beautiful breasts bouncing with you as you chase your coveted orgasm.
The worst is that Bucky likes to pretend—in some deeply disturbed part of his mind—that you know he’s there, that you want him to hear. It’s not rare for him to wish your eyes would lock on his cock while you kneel on your bed to allow stranger after stranger to take you from behind.
What a miserable, old man. It’s so pathetic that at his age he’s been reduced to a lonely pervert spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks other men. It’s humiliating enough that he yearns to be in their place.
As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, though, the fact that you keep going on dates with random assholes is unbearable. He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just hard enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.
That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue. It’s unreasonable, he knows that. You’ve been living in this town for almost two months now and you’ve never exchanged a single word since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little hello’s and good mornings’.
But these boys don’t know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, squirming in the chair with a cute little frown until you’re balanced just right. They don’t see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the trinkets on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second too long on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.
They don’t know that when you get home from work you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those fifteen quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.
Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That realization sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness.
And yet here he is, three months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesn’t recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently than usual—shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he can’t smell but somehow knows is there. Of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.
The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He starts resenting how these assholes get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.
The first time he talks to you after his fiasco it’s late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.
Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because he’s already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending to not see you wrestle with the big device. You’re wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and gleaming with what he assumes it’s coconut sunscreen.
Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.
“C’mon.” You mutter, releasing a sharp exhale.
Bucky sighs, sharp and annoyed—at the mower, at himself, at the way his eyes have been fixed on your ass for too long.
He cuts his own engine and gets closer.
“That mower’s flooded.” He comments offhandedly.
You startle, turning abruptly to face him. You didn’t hear him approach, that’s obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.
“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know you were—”
“Pulling it like that won’t help.” He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how harsh he had sounded the first time.
You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked.
You sigh. “I don’t really know much about engines.”
He crouches beside the device. “Most people don’t.”
There’s a pause in which you frown at his back, your lips pressed in a thin line.
“You don’t have to—” You start.
“I can fix it,” he interrupts, then winces slightly, clearing his throat. “If you want.”
You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like you’re trying to understand if he’s either onto some cruel joke, or if he’s going to make you pay real money for it.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.” Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.
“It’s fine.” He mutters.
Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely across your chest, your weight shifting from one foot to the other. He’s acutely aware of your uncertainty, of the way the last sun rays gently caress the naked curve of your shoulders, and your teeth worry over your glossy bottom lip.
When he’s done, he stands and nods toward the handle. “Try it now.”
You pull once, and the engine starts immediately, without stuttering.
Your face lights up. “Thank you so much.”
He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close.
Or maybe not close enough.
“Um,” you say, then smile sheepishly. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… I don’t actually know your name.”
His body stills completely.
“I mean,” you fret. “Everyone just calls you Barnes, and I didn’t want to assume—”
“James.” The word comes out before he can stop himself.
You blink, both your eyebrows raised in surprise. “James.”
He nods once, sharply. His ears burn at the way his name rolls softly on your tongue.
“Most people call me Bucky, though. My friends.”
Your smile turns into something less polite and more personal.
“Alright. Well, it’s nice to finally know.”
There’s another pause, a brief moment in which you simply look up at him with the same pretty eyes he has imagined full of tears as his cock sits heavy in your throat.
“You can call me whatever you want,” he adds quickly. “James or Bucky. Doesn’t matter.”
Your smile grows and the unfamiliar warmth of a blush starts spreading across his cheeks. His eyes jump away first.
“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.
After that, it becomes a pattern: you need help? Bucky pops out of nowhere ready to resolve your current predicament.
Like the day your car won’t start. Your hood is popped open as you pace your driveway while on the phone with a mechanic, the guy from the night before leaning against the car door looking useless as he waits for his uber, because the bastard doesn’t own a car.
And neither a wallet since you had to pay the entire check by yourself at a rooftop restaurant that he chose because he apparently knew the owner.
Bucky observes from his kitchen window, jaw tight and arms crossed against his chest. He doesn’t like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.
Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.
“Move.” He grunts.
The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.
“Bucky, hi. What—”
“I’ll take care of it.” He mutters simply.
He fixes it in less than ten minutes, and the guy claps him on the shoulder like they’re longtime buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down like a rabid dog until the other man clears his throat, awkwardly kissing your cheek before stuttering about his uber waiting for him at the end of the street.
Your eyes don’t stray away from your neighbor.
“I really appreciated it.” You quip. “You keep saving me.”
He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “I’m just good at fixing things.”
Sometimes it’s a loose nail on your porch steps. Sometimes a shelf that won’t stay level. Then it becomes a heavy package you can’t lift on your own, and too many shopping bags that you shouldn’t carry by yourself. Bucky always shows up like it’s coincidence, as if he wasn’t stalking you from his window five minutes earlier.
He never talks much, just grunts, nods, and mumbled greetings. But you don’t complain; not when you get to have a free front-row seat for his bulging arms as the fabric of his t-shirts fights for its life.
There are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during your girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that carry an unusual amount of intensity. Well, it shouldn’t come as shocking since your neighbor is indeed intense.
Whenever your eyes meet, however, he promptly looks away, cheeks turning a light pink shade and shoulders tense like he’s been caught doing something illegal.
You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You don’t hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when he’s done. You don’t invite him to stay longer, nor do you push conversation. And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it from the very beginning.
Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features. Even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen.
He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha for a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of the local crowded bar wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. He listened more than talked, like always, nodded at the right moments and let the conversation wash over him.
Still, his knee didn’t stop bouncing under the booth.
Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm on Bucky’s thigh to stop the frantic movement, his eyebrows lifting in a silent question.
He stilled for exactly ten seconds.
Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, amused. “You got somewhere to be, Barnes?”
He grunted. “No.”
It’s a blatant lie, and they all knew it.
The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though there’s nothing on it—no messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.
Because if he stayed out too long, he might not see you before going to bed.
Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Sam’s pointed remark, “You sure you’re okay, Barnes?” and Natasha’s knowing smirk.
The drive home was fast, his knuckles turning white at the tight hold he kept on the steering wheel.
It’s been a week. Seven days since he’s seen you with anyone. And the fear—that sharp, ugly thing moving in his chest—hasn’t still gone away. It’s just been waiting.
The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.
Empty, except for your car.
Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.
Still, he didn’t trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadn’t even had a car and had the nerve to force you to drive him home the morning after, like he had any right to ask such a thing. The memory made Bucky’s hands close into two fists, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldn’t have to play chauffeur for idiots who don’t know how to behave in front of a goddess like you.
He parked, cut the engine, and didn’t linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the couch, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.
Your light is on, and there you are.
No one else in your room, just you—alone, safe, winding down.
Bucky exhales, the sound slow and heavy, as if it waited all day trapped in his lungs. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his ribcage eases just a little. He can tell that you are probably going to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he decides to look for the sweats and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas in the meantime.
He’s in his boxers with his broad, hairy torso fully on display, when he commits the grave mistake of glancing out his window, a meaningless check that ends up punching the air out of his lungs.
The covers have been thrown back and your phone now lies forgotten on the mattress by your side because your hands are too busy fondling your breast through that stupidly thin camisole. Your panties are snuggled between the folds of your pussy, the fabric tight and wet. Your eyes soon squeeze close as your index fingers quickly flick over your nipples, making you flinch at every electrifying jolt of pleasure.
He’s seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself.
You pull your nipples harshly, your back arching up to follow your cruel fingers, before you start playing with them through the fabric of your top. As his boxers grow tighter and his breath labored, he wonders if you are pretending it’s someone else’s toying with your turgid peaks.
Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, his hands limp at his sides clenching into two perfect fists that turn his knuckles white. He could take care of your breasts: kiss the soft flesh until you are begging him to make the ache go away, and then spend the rest of the night worshipping your nipples with his mouth and the light scrape of his teeth. He could suckle on those pretty nubs and then flick them with his warm tongue until you gush in your panties, your tits numb and your pussy clenching around nothing.
What prompted this? Were you watching something on your phone and craved the same release you looked for after every date? Or were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?
Your chest heaves as both your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the hem of your panties and throwing the fabric somewhere on the floor.
He wishes he could be there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work your curves. He wishes he could take the same panties you just discarded and bring them home with him, your unique scent still clinging onto the delicate fabric. Bucky would risk it all and bring them to the garage just to lock himself into the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock. He would suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him throughout his shift, just to keep his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo of pain and bliss until he can come home and finally slide back into your wet warmth.
“Fucking hell.” He mutters, gasping as he palms his painful erection.
A low groan claws out of his throat as his hand meets wet fabric, precum steadily leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling.
Bucky watches in awe as you lift the hem of your camisole up until your collarbones, your eyelids fluttering shut in relief as your hands can finally feel your tits without barriers. He must look so pathetic as he strains his ears in hope to catch one of your sweet mewls.
Your fingers glisten after you touch your aching pussy. Your mouth forms a perfect circle when you play with your folds, biting your bottom lip as you inevitably end up stroking your throbbing clit.
Bucky can’t help it anymore as he shoves his boxers mid-thigh, allowing his fingers to wrap around his imposing length. His teeth draw blood from his bottom lip as he tries to muffle a loud groan when he falls into the rhythm of lazily strokes.
When your digits finally plunge inside, Bucky shivers with you. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable as he imagines splitting you open himself and watching you swallow up his long fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin under his calloused hands.
When his eyelids flutter open again, you are sitting up. His teeth grind as his dark eyes follow the length of your gorgeous body. Then, you turn around, back to the window... and kneel.
His eyes trail the curve of your ass in awe, before a strangled moan almost makes him choke when you bend over, finally giving a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.
His breath hitches, lips parting when your knees spread until there is nothing else to hide. Bucky is one thread of self-control away from running to your door and begging you to let him kiss and lick your pretty pussy the way it deserves. He would nurse on your clit and guide your hips to grind on his face until you suffocate him with your thighs. His cock twitches at the sole thought of playing with you so good you end up squirting all over his face.
He would pay to live between your thighs and for you to use his body whenever, wherever and however you want.
His eyes eagerly follow the movement of your fingers as they are lightly dragged through your wet folds, his tongue lazily licking his lips as he notices your slick lewdly clinging to your skin. From this position, he can clearly see your thighs tensing as you dip your fingers back inside, your other hand snapping back up to grab one of your tits. Your fingers cruelly tug and flick your hard nipple, causing you to squirm at the double stimulation.
Bucky wonders if you would trash around just as much with his cock stretching you out. If your hips would fidget so cutely from how restless and cock-drunk you are; if you would like for his rough hands to press you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it.
His hand instantly matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically finger yourself, precum sticking to his palm as he uses it to make the glide smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he can’t, not when you alternate strong thrusts with harsh slap to your clit, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up.
Bucky licks his lips again, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you everywhere. You’d be so fucking wet for him as he pounds into you, deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he roughly throws your legs over his shoulders, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making.
They would burn every time water hits them, a living reminder of your tight pussy.
Suddenly, you are squirming harder, and Bucky imagines your features go slack. Or maybe your eyes are rolling back as your lips part around a filthy moan muffled by those fucking sheets. He senses the pressure in his abdomen threatening to burst at the thought of how good you must feel right now, utterly lost in the throbbing of your pussy and the cruel thrusts of your own fingers. So engrossed that you couldn’t care less about exposing your bare, wet core to your open window, disregarding the fact that anyone walking by could accidentally look up and see your little debauched show.
Did you do that on purpose? Are you so desperate that you hope someone might see you and touch themself to you playing with your sweet pussy?
Bucky growls out a curse.
He can tell you are close by the way your hips keep jerking helplessly to meet your ruthless fingers.
When you finally come, it’s completely different from the previous times with your dates: your torso heaves dangerously fast and your body shudders and shakes as the electrifying climax claims you entirely. You end up gushing all over the sheets, crying out as your squirt sprays all over your hand, the inner skin of your thighs, the bed... It’s a complete mess and Bucky wants to punch a hole through the wall.
With a trembling breath, the pressure snaps for him as well. He comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking as hot spurts of cum coat his hand—some even land on the wall by the window. He doesn’t stop stroking yet, not when you are still kneeling on your bed, face pressed against the mattress as your fingers lazily tease your wet folds, your poor hole helplessly clenching around nothing.
When he can think clearly again, Bucky notices his sight is a little foggy. The intense release leaves his head spinning, and one of his hands has to shoot forward to balance himself against the windowsill. Yet he refuses to move from his favorite place until you sluggishly straighten up on your shaky arms. His breath hitches again at the weak, content smile on your face as you suck your fingers clean.
Tonight, he reflects with his eyes still hungrily staring at your naked breasts, his need for you has been sated. But Bucky knows this will never be enough.
That Sunday morning you hear on the news that it’s going to rain all day. The sun is out when you check on your flowers by the porch, still, you choose to not water them for now, glancing every few minutes toward the horizon where dark clouds have been slowly swallowing the bright blue sky.
By lunch, the air feels thick and humid against your skin, the familiar chirps of the birds going strangely quiet.
You are rinsing a plate in the sink when the first crack of thunder rolls across the neighborhood. It’s not close enough to be alarming, but you pause anyway.
A second rumble follows several minutes later.
Then a third.
And rain starts shortly after.
At first the sound of the fat drops tapping against the windows is kind of relaxing. You expected it to pass within twenty minutes, just like any other summer storm. Except the wind starts picking up, causing the trees behind your house to sway dangerously strong. Thunders grow louder and closer, and by the time you wander into the living room to look outside, rain is battering sideways against the glass violently enough to blur the entire street.
The power goes out merely five minutes after. One second the living room is faintly illuminated by the warm glow of your rose gold lamp and the flickering light of the television, the next everything vanishes beneath a blanket of darkness.
You have just finished lighting a candle when a deafening crack echoes somewhere outside, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. The noise is so sudden and so loud that it tears a startled gasp from your throat before you can stop it, leaving you motionless in the middle of your living room with your pulse racing.
It’s the sharp sound of a knock that makes you flinch all over again.
For a brief, embarrassing moment you simply stare at the entryway, your imagination unhelpfully supplying every possible horror movie scenario before common sense finally reasserts itself. Nobody is wandering around suburban neighborhoods during a thunderstorm unless they have a very good reason.
The second knock comes almost immediately afterward, so you finally cross the room to open the door.
The sight of your grumpy neighbor is unexpectedly reassuring, even if he is the last person you expected to find standing on your porch.
Even if Bucky Barnes has slowly become a more regular presence in your life than either of you would probably admit, there is an abysmal difference between him helping when a problem presents itself, and him showing up at your front door in the middle of a downpour.
Rain has dampened the shoulders of his dark t-shirt and left small droplets clinging to his long hair, but he looks otherwise unaffected by the weather. His gaze lands on your face and remains there for a second longer than necessary, his expression carefully neutral despite the obvious scrutiny.
“Are you alright?”
You blink, caught off guard by the question. “Hi, Bucky.”
His mouth tightens slightly, and instead of returning the greeting, he asks again. “Are you alright?”
There is a note of urgency in his voice that immediately makes you straighten.
“Yeah,” you reply, clearing your throat to get rid of that hint of surprise. “Yes, I’m alright.”
His eyes briefly scan your face as though he’s verifying the answer for himself.
“Did the branch hit the house?” The question comes so quickly it almost overlaps your response.
“What?”
“The one that fell in your backyard.”
Your eyes widen. “What the hell?”
A small frown appears between his brows. “Didn’t you hear the noise? A tree branch came down a few seconds after the power went out.”
“Oh.”
That’s what that noise was.
“Did it hit anything?”
Your eyes land back on his solemn expression. “I don’t think so...?”
One of his eyebrows lifts. “You don’t think so?”
Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips. “Well, I haven’t exactly gone outside to conduct a thorough inspection. The weather’s been making that a tad difficult.”
For a moment he simply observes you in silence, before giving a short nod. The movement is subtle, but it carries an unmistakable sense of relief, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, that realization warms your chest.
Before you can ask if he needs anything else, a particularly violent crack of thunder splits the air. The sound is so loud it seems to shake the entire street, rattling the windows hard enough to make you flinch.
Bucky’s blue eyes instinctively drop to your shoulders, registering your reaction.
“My electricity’s still on.” He blurts out, the words almost sound as though they’ve escaped by accident.
You blink. “Okay?”
His gaze flicks briefly on your lips before returning to your eyes.
“If you want,” he starts, oddly careful. “You could come over until they fix it.”
Behind him, lightning illuminates the grey sky in a flash of white. You watch him shift awkwardly where he stands, and it occurs to you that he looks strangely tense, though not in the irritated way you’ve grown accustomed to over the past months.
If anything, he seems uncomfortable.
It’s such an unfamiliar look on the mean, old Scrooge of the neighborhood that it takes your brain a moment to fully accept it. In all the months you’ve known Bucky, you’ve seen him annoyed, impatient, guarded, even awkward on occasion... but you’ve never seen him hesitant.
The uncertainty beneath all that careful composure is unexpectedly endearing.
For the first time since you’ve moved in this small town, Bucky doesn’t look like a man trying to keep everyone at arm’s length.
He looks like a man hoping you won’t say no.
Bucky disappears into the kitchen with a muttered comment about making coffee, some of the tension that had accompanied the walk through the storm finally beginning to ease from your shoulders. The sound of running water drifts from the other room as you wander farther into the living room.
You have spent weeks wondering what his house looked like on the inside.
The answer, it turns out, is exactly what you should have expected.
Nothing about the room feels designed to impress anyone. There are no decorative pieces chosen because they match a color palette, no trendy furniture purchased from a catalog, no signs that he has ever stood in a home goods store and wondered whether a particular lamp would tie the room together. Everything appears to have been selected because it serves a purpose.
The couch is large and comfortable, upholstered in a dark fabric that would probably survive a natural disaster. The coffee table is solid wood, bearing enough small imperfections to suggest it was built by hand rather than purchased. A folded blanket rests neatly over one arm of the couch, and even from several feet away you can tell it has been folded the exact same way a hundred times before.
The room is clean but there are signs of life everywhere you look, none of them accidental, though. A mug sits on a side table beside an armchair. A motorcycle magazine has been left on the corner of the coffee table. A set of keys rests inside a ceramic bowl near the front door.
Every object appears to have a place, and every place appears to have been carefully chosen.
Your attention eventually settles on the bookshelf occupying most of the wall where the TV is located.
“Well,” you murmur to yourself, moving closer. “This feels promising.”
The shelves are packed tightly enough that some books have been stacked horizontally on top of others. Most of the collection is exactly what you would expect from someone like Bucky: history books dominate the upper shelves, many of them thick enough to qualify as blunt-force weapons; there are biographies, military histories, books about espionage, intelligence operations, and wars that lasted years. Lower shelves contain books about engineering, restoration projects, woodworking, mechanics, and enough technical manuals to make you wonder whether he has ever encountered a machine he wasn’t determined to dismantle.
The psychology section catches you by surprise.
At first you notice one or two titles.
Then five turn to ten.
Soon you’re standing in front of an entire shelf dedicated to trauma, memory, relationships, attachment theory, behavioral science, and enough books about human interaction to make you laugh quietly under your breath.
Your eyes continue scanning titles with a subtle admiration for the older man, until a pink cover makes you stop.
“No.” A grin immediately spreads across your face, because wedged between two thick books about obsessions sits a romance novel.
You pull it from the shelf and examine the cover, where a broad-shouldered man glares possessively while holding a woman against his chest.
“Oh, Bucky.”
You cover your giggle with your hand, sliding the book back into place only to discover other romance novels not too far away.
The revelation is so unexpected and so delightfully embarrassing that your hopes for this rainy afternoon have been restored.
You reach for one of them, intending to inspect the cover more closely, and that’s when something slips free from behind it.
The object hits the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.
Your smile falters, prompting you to briefly glance over your shoulder, but Bucky seems to be too busy to notice the noise.
Crouching down, you quickly reach for what seems to be a black journal that has inevitably fallen open.
You only glance at the page because you’re trying to close it, until your limbs freeze, because that’s your name written inside.
The handwriting is unmistakably Bucky’s—or well, it must be. Unless there is some roommate hidden somewhere who only comes out at night.
The page begins with a date, followed by a paragraph... about you.
You read the first few lines without fully understanding what you’re looking at, shaking your head in astonishment as your eyes go back to the beginning.
She spent most of the afternoon in her backyard in a red bikini pretending to read. I don’t think she made it through more than ten pages before she fell asleep. The book slid off her lap eventually and startled her awake. She looked around immediately afterward to make sure nobody had seen it happen. Looks adorable when her eyes widen in surprise.
As you turn the pages, confusion gives way to a sharp realization.
Every entry is about you.
Every. Single. Day.
Some are short, others span several pages, yet each one is carefully dated, documenting something from your life.
She came home later than usual tonight and sat in her car for eleven minutes before going inside. I don’t like to see her exhausted. Whatever happened at work must have been bad because she didn’t even stop to check the mail as usual.
As usual?
How many times has your neighbor watched you to take on your little unconscious habit?
Your eyes move lower.
I almost walked over and punched that asshole in his teeth. Didn’t. She probably wouldn’t appreciate that.
The entries continue. Page after page after page.
The yellow sweater again. I still think it’s her favorite. Is yellow her favorite color?
She talks to her flowers when she thinks nobody is listening.
Murray spent twenty minutes talking to her today. I couldn’t hear the conversation and I hated that more than I should have.
You swallow thickly, your breath hitching at what comes next.
Another date tonight. He arrived late and she apologized to him for being too early. I still don’t understand why she lets people walk all over her.
Your eyes momentarily look away with a sigh.
It’s been weeks from your last date, and though it’s not that long, it still feels strange, noticeable in a way you don’t quite know how to explain.
You haven’t heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even shown as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.
You know dating is messy, and chemistry isn’t guaranteed. Honestly, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missing—an ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.
Still, it stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something more than a couple of pleasantries the day after, at best. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. You still had fun, sure, but it left you wondering if you’d imagined the connection at all. Until you’d started to wonder if the problem was you.
You swallow, shaking your head lightly as you go back to the next page.
She came home smiling, but it wasn’t real. I know the difference.
You gasp at the next paragraphs.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. I did it. I went over to that asshole and told him to not come back. He ran away. Filthy coward.
I threatened two other guys. I know she would probably hate me for this, but they never wait for her to wake up, and my girl deserves better.
His girl?
The farther you read, the more obvious it becomes that these aren’t mere records of an unstable, bored neighbor.
She bought a new sundress. Nothing too different from the others, but this one is a shade lighter of blue. Like the one covered in small daisies (the same one who hugs her prefect cleavage tightly). Nobody else would notice the difference. I did.
I heard the sound of her laugh from my room yesterday night. I never slept so well.
This morning I caught a whiff of her hair as she greeted me before going to work. Did she change shampoo?
There is something painfully intimate about the way Bucky writes about you, as though every insignificant moment has been carefully preserved and revisited later. He notices things your friends probably don’t register until you are the one telling them. Things you don’t notice about yourself but that completely make sense.
This notebook is not a simple log. It reads like devotion twisted into something unhealthy.
Your fingers tighten around the cover as you turn another page.
I should stop looking for her every night.
The handwriting grows slightly messier beneath that sentence.
I should stop wondering who she’s with when she doesn’t come home until late. I should stop thinking about her when I’m trying to work. I should stop imagining conversations that never will happen. I should stop watching her when she comes out of the shower.
I should stop. But I don’t want to.
By the time you hear footsteps approaching from the kitchen, your pulse is hammering hard enough to echo in your throat.
When you lift your head, you find Bucky standing in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee.
The moment his eyes land on the notebook, every trace of color drains from his face.
“James.”
This mountain of a man actually flinches, his eyes wide on the object in your hands. His jaw tightens when he notices your expression—furious, eyes blazing.
“What is this?” Your voice comes out far quieter than you intended. Still, your hands snap the journal close with a sharp thud.
That seems to unsettle him more than if you had shouted.
Bucky carefully sets the mugs down on the nearest surface before dragging a hand over his jaw.
“You weren’t supposed to see that.” He replies tiredly.
You let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s what you have to say right now? Seriously?”
His expression tightens. “No.”
“You’ve been literally documenting my entire life like I’m some kind of lab project.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s not—”
“Don’t,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t start minimizing it.”
He swallows thickly.
“You…” Your voice shakes. “You’ve been watching me like this the entire time? Every day?”
“I didn’t—” Bucky starts, then stops again, as if he can’t find a version of that sentence that could help him. “I wasn’t—”
“You weren’t what?” You laugh, caustic and humorless. “Do you have any idea of how I feel right now? It’s fucking insane to find out that the same man who ignored me for months and barely acknowledged I existed, has written pages upon pages describing my fucking perfume and confessing to threaten the people I bring home.”
His gaze drops again as he steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.
“Do you do this with everyone?” You press, words coming faster now, sharper. “Is this some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor until you decide to start… what, cataloguing people?”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“You are so fucking confusing.” You continue, voice rising. “One minute you won’t even look at me, and the next you’re mowing my lawn, carrying my groceries like it’s your job—”
“I just wanted to help you.”
“—and for fuck’s sake, you were threatening my dates!” You shriek. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”
The room is plunged into an uncomfortable silence, the only noise being the gentle pitter-patter of the rain from the opened window in the kitchen.
Bucky takes that moment to let his eyes wander over you. Your chest is heaving with distress, your eyes shining slightly… and still, you look fucking gorgeous, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.
“I just want you safe.” He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.
You scoff. “From what? Dating?”
“From them.” He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. “From men who don’t deserve you.”
You blink astonished. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“They take what you give them and then run away,” he shoots back. “They leave before morning like you’re something they’re ashamed of. Like you’re disposable.” His voice lowers, growling with conviction.
You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt change in his behavior, yet you refuse to back down.
“That still doesn’t make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.”
“I know,” he stresses, stepping closer despite himself. “But watching you give your time so easily to guys who don’t even have the decency to say goodbye before disappearing like fucking criminals—who can’t see how lucky they are for you to spare them even one second of your attention… sweetheart, it drives me fucking insane.”
You can feel a certain wetness spread across your panties at his growl, but your brows furrow in irritation. “You don’t even know them.”
“I know enough.” Bucky answers fiercely. “I know none of them are good enough for you.”
Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.
“I didn’t ask for... whatever you are doing.” You whisper eventually.
“I know.”
“Then stop deciding things for me!” You bark. “Stop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to introduce yourself in the first place!”
Bucky steps closer again. Now you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, hot and bright, but there’s something far too dangerous curling underneath it.
His eyes drop to your mouth, and his nostrils flare.
“Every time you bring home someone,” he starts quietly. “I tell myself it’s none of my business. Every damn time.”
“And yet.” You mock ironically.
“And yet,” he admits through gritted teeth. “I lose my fucking mind.”
Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous.” Swallowing, you try to steady yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end.
“You don’t get to act like this when you’ve never given me anything back.”
His hand lifts, hesitating before your wrist, then drops again at his side like it’s taking all his restraint to not touch you.
“I’m trying,” he hisses. “I swear to God, I am.”
“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.
“To stay away from you.”
You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. “Then why are you still standing here making excuses?” You provoke, slightly tilting your head.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.
Bucky’s brain is screaming at him to step back, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad idea—your anger, his obsession, the line he’s already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.
But all he can think about is the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. He’s spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous, and now you’re right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.
His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last thread of distance between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails leaving behind crescent shapes like that would be enough to hold himself back. His ears are ringing, completely drowning out reason, his heart pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everything—or change it beyond repair.
God, he wants you so bad.
He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isn’t just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That it’s been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.
He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth, his hands reaching for you like it’s instinct, like gravity has finally won. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, his thumb lovingly stroking your cheek.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, and that’s when you really notice how close he is to losing control.
His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desire—it’s so intense that you can feel him everywhere without him completely touching you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creeping up your neck, his blue eyes flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake he’s about to make.
Bucky’s been fighting this longer than you have, and every step he’s taken toward you these last months has cost him something precious.
His sanity.
And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.
Because you need this.
You want the man who’s been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.
Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere and see what happens when he finally understands that you’ve been craving him just as much. Yet you stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out he’s begging for.
The journal is long forgotten on the ground by the time hunger flashes across his eyes, and Bucky finally makes you his.
The kiss is exactly what you imagined before falling asleep every night: pent-up and desperate and full of everything he’s been swallowing down for months. His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, more teeth and tongue than lips. You moan quietly at the feeling of his hands moving frantically and certain—one still gripping your jaw while the other fists the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself.
It’s rough, urgent... too much and still not enough.
You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed at once when he deepens the kiss. Delicately tilting your head back, he looms over you as his arm tightens around your torso with a low groan.
Your hands come up without thinking, clutching his shirt as you kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until there’s nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frenzied pull of your clothes.
Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing heavily while his hand cups your cheek like he needs to make sure you’re real.
“Shit.” He mutters, wrecked. His lips are on yours again, slower this time but no less intense, as though he’s trying to memorize the shape with bruising urgency.
His hands wander everywhere they shouldn’t like he can’t decide what to hold onto first, a low sound out tearing out of his chest when he squeezes the flesh of your ass.
“You know how hard it was watching that?” He speaks against your lips.
You blink dumbly and he laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurt him. His grip tightens.
“You have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...” His jaw flexes. “Do things I could only live in my wildest dreams.”
You press a hand to his chest, firmly. “Bucky.”
For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours when that rare pink blush appears high on his cheeks.
“I started that journal because I thought it could keep me sane.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to watch you at first. It just… happened one night. And then I couldn’t stop.” His voice drops, raw and shaky. “Every night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... when you weren’t.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. “I know.” You admit softly.
“I apologize for how you had to find out but not for doing it—” He stills, eyes widening slightly. “What did you just say?”
“I hoped you would.” Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. “Every time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.”
Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly as his arms squeeze your waist, pressing you firmly against his chest. Beneath your hands, he feels warm and strong in the most reassuring way. His body carries the strength of someone who has spent a lifetime working with his arms, thick muscle hidden beneath a layer of softness that only makes him feel impossibly solid.
“What was that little act you put up here just now, huh sweetheart?” He pants against your mouth. “All this time I’ve been beating myself up over it.” His lips move on your neck, making you gasp.
“An old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty younger neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving my cock into her sweet pussy.” You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek again, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind.
“But you are just as filthy as me, baby.”
Your heart is desperately trying to get out of your chest, excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your belly at his rougher treatment.
His other hand grips your jaw sternly to force you to meet his eyes. “Am I right?”
Your fury is now reduced to a distant, fading hum. You don’t stop him when his hand ends up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little.
“Bucky.” You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. “S—Someone might see.” You protest weakly.
He briefly glances around, noticing the sun is finally out again and you are both standing in the middle of his living room, right before the window overlooking the main street and the sliding ones leading to his backyard, directly attached to the rich couple’s house.
“Better stay quiet then.”
And his fingers slide in your panties to play with your folds, his other hand still fondling your ass.
Your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure.
“There we go, sweetheart.”
You tilt your hips into his hand in a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low snicker.
“How were they?” He mumbles against your collarbone, surprisingly put together as he lowers your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. “Did they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?”
You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. His other palm comes down on your ass, heavy and unforgiving, making you whimper.
“Answer me.”
“Not—not like you.” You admit, head falling forward with a gasp as his thumb works over your throbbing nub, rubbing it with a steady rhythm. “Oh my God.”
“Good girl, right answer.” He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. “That’s why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those bastards weren’t satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy ol’ neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.”
Your fingers dig into his forearms as you feel your climax approaching, raw and electric.
“Don’t be so full of yourself.” You manage, voice shaking and face still hidden against his shoulder.
“Hm, I’ve indeed a thing full just for you, doll.” He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing insistently against your palm. Your eyes go wide at the imposing shape.
Your fingers twitch, squeezing his bulge as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you.
“What? Cat got your tongue now?” His hot whisper tickles your ear. “That’s right, feel it sweetheart. That’s all for you, look what you do to me.” He grits out.
His fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips.
“Quiet. The kitchen window is open, and that asshole Murray could come out any minute.” He murmurs against your mouth. “Unless you want him to see you like this.”
You can’t elaborate a logical answer, even if you want to scream that no, you only want Bucky’s attention, though the possibility of being caught with him fingering you right in the middle of his living room only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction of his thumb on your clit.
“C’mon, doll.” He pushes, panting as your fingers keep toying with his erection. “Come prettily around my fingers and I’ll let you touch it.”
Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. “I—fuck!” You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his firm pec.
“This is what you wanted?” Bucky murmurs on the top of your head, voice cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling.
He barely puts effort into hiding his smug smile, leisurely looking out of the window for any nosy pair of eyes while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didn’t just make you come on a random Sunday afternoon.
You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Bucky’s breath hitches at the sight of your bitten-raw lips and hazy eyes.
“Need more.”
He makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. A whimper escapes your throat at the depraved action before Bucky pulls back to study your features, a string of saliva connecting your shiny lips.
“Stay put.” He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bending over the windowsill.
His muscled arm comes over you and opens the window, leaving your torso exposed to the driveway.
“Such a messy girl.” He mutters to himself. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs.
He promised he would let you touch it.
“Don’t whine. I have to make sure she’s ready for it, sweetheart. How else is my fat cock gonna fit in this tight little pussy?”
You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip when the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You can’t believe you’re really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. It’d be pretty obvious to anyone walking by what’s going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnes’ house—the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human being—and your lips keep parting around shameless moans.
It could take anything to make your neighbors across the street look out of their window and see you.
“Bet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you crying for a grumpy, old man’s dick.” He taunts, spreading your legs apart as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. “Such an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Barnes for everyone to hear.”
His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the humid air to take a tentative lick. “I knew you’d taste fucking delicious.”
“Careful, old man.” You pant shakily, eager to see him lose control. “At your age you can’t go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... anything can—Bucky!”
Two of his fingers slide inside your hole at once, leaving you gasping and holding onto the windowsill for dear life as your legs tremble embarrassingly hard.
“Ah.” He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. “You just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?”
You nod whimpering, resting your cheek on your crossed arms. It’s incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.
His hands are relentless on your poor body, kneading the flesh of your thighs as your hips literally hump his face.
“She’s so pretty.” Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches your slick soil your inner thigh. “Look at your puffy clit, babygirl, throbbing for my attention.”
You squirm a little at his quiet, filthy words, heat already rising violently on your cheeks.
“Perfect pussy,” he breathes out, giving your nub another little lick. “Perfect ass. Perfect tits.” He squeezes your butt. “You’re perfect everywhere, doll.”
A quiet moan falls from your lips as Bucky leaves soft kisses along your core, his salt-and-pepper stubble scratching slightly at your sensitive folds, but the sensation only makes your hole clench desperately around his motionless fingers.
Finally, his mouth closes around your nub, suckling on it gently.
“She’s all sticky and messy because she loves when I play with her, right baby?”
You nod even if he can’t see you, sniffling but still trying to hide your face against your arms resting on the windowsill. It’s only then that your eyes snap open at the sudden loss, hearing Bucky standing up with a little, pained groan.
He fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers hanging mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip flushed and leaking. Relief washes over him as he strokes it a few times, while his other hand parts one of your asscheeks to expose your core. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.
“Did they fuck you raw?” He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.
“Good girl.” Your eyes roll back at the praise, shivering when the fat head glides through your swollen folds. “‘M gonna ruin you for anyone else, pretty girl.”
The tip catches on your hole, and your body instantly goes rigid.
“Big.” You gasp out with your eyes squeezed shut.
Bucky simply chortles, cooing at your shaky breathing.
His hands soothe your hips, trailing up and down your sides absently as his eyes stay locked on your entrance perfectly stretching around his girth.
“You can take it.”
Bucky’s breath hitches as he forces himself to nudge his length gradually in, letting you savor every vein dragging along your sensitive walls, and allowing your body to adjust to the burning stretch. Your toes curl in bliss when you decide to focus on the sensation of being stuffed full, quietly taking a deep breath as his cock twitches softly inside you.
“Look how well you accepted me.” He grunts, a layer of presumption in his words as he draws back gently, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your waist to push back inside, his tip now bullying directly your sweet spot.
You clench around him with a little whimper, relieved that Bucky uses his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill as he gradually builds a steady rhythm with his hips. He fills you so wonderfully, burying his cock deep enough to make your vision blur.
However, the sharp sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to stop the squeaks and moans from spilling out is a severe reminder of the unusual silent afternoon.
“It’d be enough for our neighbors to take a peek outside of their window, and they’d catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut that you are.”
You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly but not too fast—just how you like it.
“Some of them could be watching right now.” He taunts you in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your breast, before yanking the front of your dress down as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family.
Your pussy makes a squelching, humiliating sound as more slick gushes out at his teases, promptly met by his mocking laugh. “Yeah? You like that? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.”
You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded fingers tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from your smooth hands. Bucky’s palms are weathered and callused from his job—he’s always been a little gruff, so there’s nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while thrusting into your pussy.
It’s primal and fast, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.
“Feeling good, hm?” His voice drops to a low rasp, chest heaving as fast as yours, even if he keeps up his arrogant facade. “My pretty dirty slut who likes to show everyone how good I make her feel. Jus’ need a thick cock inside her and she’s gushing like a little fountain.” He snickers.
Your entire body locks in at his dirty words, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. You’re pretty sure the mix of soppy sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonates loud and clear across his front lawn.
“Yes yes yes!” You mumble deliriously into your arms. “Right there, Bucky.”
He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.
“Gonna come, oh God, please please don’t stop.” You whimper.
“Fucking hell.” He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you tighten. “Sweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I’ll make you leak for days—”
“Please!” You blabber louder, completely forgetting about the fact that you’re getting fucked raw for anyone to see.
Your eyes roll into oblivion as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips desperately twitch in his hold.
“That’s it,” he draws out. “That’s it, she’s tightening so good around me. Now it’s my turn, gonna fill you up so good you’re gonna feel me for days.” His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.
“You’ve been so fucking good for me. Keeping your curtains open so I could empty my balls to the sight of these pretty tits…” He keeps rambling, panting against your cheek.
“She’s all full now, hm?” He grits through clenched teeth as you nod eagerly. “But I wanna see her drool, my dumb baby too full of me to keep it inside.”
“Bucky…” You mumble lightheaded. “Gonna come again.”
“Yeah?” His smile is depraved. “Creaming my cock once wasn’t enough? Need to mark what’s yours, babygirl?”
“Yes!” You wail out, falling over the edge for a third time. Your eyes cross as you sob out a string of breathy whines, still clenching, still gushing around him.
This particular orgasm is so powerful that your head starts spinning.
“I’m coming too, baby. Shit—” He groans, loud and broken. His cock throbs, spurting rope after rope of warm cum, his fingers digging into the skin of your waist painfully as he keeps thrusting into your warmth until he is flinching out of sensitivity.
You are grateful for his possessive hold on your body since your legs seem to be too weak to fully support you. Meanwhile, Bucky is still trying to catch his breath against your nape, careful to not put all his weight on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.
Maybe you were right…. maybe he really did get a cramp.
When Bucky slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, pulling a chuckle full of mirth out of him as he carefully helps you in an upright position. Who knows how long you’ve been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge your sore joints.
A sharp sting prickles, indeed, your lower back, yet you couldn’t be more satisfied—another reminder of how thoroughly you just got fucked.
“Took me so well, sweetheart.” He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own exhaustion.
He hums into the soft kiss on your forehead, before his fingers gently cup your chin to press a peck on your lips. Sighing content, his eyes close, allowing his lips to gently ghost over your temple.
“Finally mine.”
The months of stolen glances and burning, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now it’s just you, Bucky, and no stupid dating app in between.
Still... sometimes you sit right in front of your window, legs spread and eyes fixed on him while your boyfriend sits in his own chair as he strokes his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy. Occasionally, it’s some hefty dildo, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.
And although this little game of yours never fails to end with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, his pants shamelessly unbuttoned as he crosses his driveway... Well, it’s not nearly as satisfying as doing it together.
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🩶
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
going on a date with bucky barnes and it all goes so nicely, so sweetly, so smoothly. you both had so much fun, chemistry and a good time. he's charming, witty and he keeps flirting and complimenting you at every chance he gets. he held your hand all night long, neither of you even noticed it, it just happened naturally, your cheeks hurt from how much you're smiling and both of your hearts are at ease.. that's until the date comes to an end, it's time to pay and you ask him if he wants to go 50/50.
that would be the first time he lets go of your hand that night, it's unintentional just happened out of pure shock. "50... what.." the confusion on his face, you'd think he's an alien seeing earth the first time.
"you know.. 50/50.. we'll split the bill between us"
"split the bill?" he asks and you just nod, he'd blink at you, "50/50.. splitting the bill.. what is this about, i asked you on a date"
now it's your turn to be the alien seeing earth for the first time, "we are on a date, bucky. this is a date"
"no, it's not a date."
"it is a date"
"you're asking me to split the bill, this is not a date"
"oh my god sam was right, you can be such a drama queen." you laugh, he just stares at you, blankly. "it might've been a while since the last time you went on a date so let me break it down for you.. these days, people who go on dates split the bill, they go 50/50" you shrug, "it's normal"
"it's normal? you've done it before?"
you nod, "every date i've been on has been 50/50 yeah"
bucky nearly flips the table. bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on, bucky who used to save up most of his income in an old shoe box underneath his bed so he can take his girl to a nice diner, bucky who went to the florist to get you a bouquet of roses and didn't even ask for the price just handed his credit card because to him your smile is priceless, bucky is about to have a stroke.
"you've never been on a date" he says, face still blank.
"yes i have"
"no you haven't. this is your first date." he says, "i'm your first time." he smirks and you blush at the possible implication. "50/50.." he scoffs under his breath, "what else are you gonna tell me next? i should walk on the inside of the sidewalk? keep my jacket on when you're cold? sleep further from the door? not open doors for you? jesus sweetheart what has the world come to?"
you hide your smile, you love it when he rambles like that, he's so calm yet so offended all at once somehow, it's funny and endearing. "what's wrong with walking on the inside of the sidewalk?" you joke and he rolls his eyes making you laugh, "so.. no 50/50? are you sure?" you ask one last time, hands on your purse on your lap.
he keeps his eyes on you as he pays the bill, glaring playfully, gets up and pulls out your chair before putting his black leather jacket on your shoulders, "no doll," he offers you his hand which you quickly hold, intertwining your fingers with his, and opens the door with his metal hand, "no 50/50."
summary › two years in, you and bucky are still learning that love isn’t about grand moments—it’s about pizza at midnight, bridge confessions, and a cat named alpine who somehow makes everything feel like home
pairing › bf!bucky x female reader
content warnings › college/university au (post gradutation), established relationship, soft bucky barnes, domestic fluff, slice of life, life after college, emotional angst/comfort, mild anxiety, quarter life crisis (reader and bucky are guessed/mentioned to be in mid-late twenties), alpine the cat, not beta read we die like men.
word count › 2.2k
the junieverse › you all along - this fic was too sweet i couldnt not come back to it. fun fact the poem that i wrote for the first one has three other versions that didnt make the cut, it had been so long since i had written any that i (like bucky) was sitting for hours wondering how the hell to make anything rhyme with 'things'
There are evenings where your life feels so small it scares you.
Not bad, it's never been bad. Just small in the way routines become invisible after a while, like you’ve repeated the same motions so many times they stop feeling like choices and start feeling like gravity.
Wake up.
Coffee.
Work.
Dinner.
Sleep.
Repeat until the days blur soft around the edges.
The apartment carries those routines now. They’ve soaked into the walls alongside the smell of old books and takeout containers and the lavender detergent Bucky insists smells “like rich people trying to relax.”
You can tell what kind of day it’s been by the position of his shoes near the door. Tonight they’re kicked halfway across the floor, messy and careless, which means he came home distracted. Probably stuck on a line he couldn’t finish.
You glance toward the couch where Bucky is sprawled out beneath the yellow glow of the standing lamp, notebook balanced against his knee, pen tapping absently against his mouth. His hair’s longer now than when you first met him. Softer too. It curls slightly at the ends after showers and falls into his eyes when he reads.
You love him so much sometimes it feels inconvenient.
The realization still catches you off guard even after two years.
You used to count your life in semesters. In deadlines. In surviving until the next thing. Now you count it in quieter ways. How many poems Bucky leaves on the fridge before work, how often he reaches for your hand without looking, how every version of home somehow became him.
You finish wiping down the kitchen counter and glance toward him again.
“You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re brooding.”
He gasps softly, offended. “Wow.”
You snort.
The local paper started publishing his poetry six months ago. Every Thursday there’s a tiny column tucked near the back pages beneath community events and weather forecasts.
Byline:
James Buchanan Barnes.
Poet.
You still keep the first clipping folded in your wallet. He acted embarrassed when you cried over it. But you think some part of him needed proof that his words deserved to take up space in the world.
The same way you still need proof sometimes too.
Your customer service job pays rent. Barely. Your dream job still sits just out of reach somewhere beyond applications and interviews and “we’ve decided to move forward with other candidates.”
Some days you feel okay about it, other days it feels like standing still while everyone else keeps moving.
Tonight is one of those nights.
You settle onto the opposite end of the couch with a sigh, curling your legs beneath yourself. Bucky glances over immediately, reading you too easily.
“What’s that face?”
“What face?”
“That one.”
You roll your eyes. “Helpful.”
He studies you for another second before setting the notebook aside completely, and that gets your attention.
“You abandoned the poem?”
“Yeah.”
“That serious?”
“Very.”
You narrow your eyes immediately when he suddenly pushes himself off the couch.
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Bucky—”
“Get your shoes on.”
You stare at him. “It’s eight o’clock.”
“Exactly.”
“That means pajamas.”
“That means adventure.”
“You sound like a children’s television host.”
He points toward the bedroom. “Shoes.”
You squint harder. “This feels illegal somehow.”
His mouth twitches.
“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says softly. “You’ve had that look all week.”
“What look?”
“The one where you disappear into your own head.”
Your chest tightens a little at that.
Being known is still terrifying sometimes, even now. Especially now, because Bucky notices everything. The way your voice changes when rejection emails hit harder than you let on, the way you start apologizing more when you’re feeling uncertain about yourself, the way silence gets heavier around you when you think you’re failing at becoming who you wanted to be.
He notices and worse—or better, he stays. No matter what, no matter how quiet or cold you get. He stays.
You groan dramatically and shove yourself upright. “If I end up murdered, I want it on record that I knew this was a bad idea.”
Bucky grins instantly, bright and boyish.
“That’s the spirit.”
The city at night feels softer than it does during the day. Less demanding.
Streetlights smear gold across wet pavement while music hums low through Bucky’s truck speakers. The windows are cracked just enough for cool air to slip through. You rest your elbow against the door and watch people pass in blurred fragments. A couple arguing outside a laundromat, someone smoking beneath a flickering neon sign, a teenager skateboarding recklessly down the sidewalk.
Entire lives brushing past yours for half a second at a time.
“You gonna tell me where we’re going?” you ask.
“Nope.”
“That’s suspicious.”
“You already agreed.”
“You manipulated me emotionally.”
“I used my charm.”
You glance at him flatly. “Those are not the same thing.”
“They can be.”
You laugh despite yourself, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe he knew the sound had been missing lately.
He pulls into the parking lot of your favorite pizza place twenty minutes later and you blink at the glowing sign.
“Oh.”
“Told you I had a plan.”
“You brought me here because I looked sad?”
“You looked existential.”
“That’s worse.”
The tiny restaurant is almost empty this late. Same red booths, same sticky tables, same old jukebox in the corner that hasn’t worked properly in years. You and Bucky have been coming here since college back when splitting one pizza felt financially reckless, when loving each other still felt fragile enough to hold carefully.
Now the owner barely asks what you want before shouting your usual order toward the kitchen.
“Y’know,” Bucky says as you slide into the booth, “I think Tony thinks we’re married.”
You nearly choke on your drink. “What?”
“He called you my wife last week.”
“And did you correct him?”
Bucky shrugs, suddenly very interested in the menu he already knows by heart making warmth bloom low in your chest. Dangerous warmth, the kind that makes your brain start building futures out of tiny moments.
You watch him for a second too long.
God.
You still remember what it felt like before this, before certainty. Before waking up beside him became normal. There are nights you still think about those letters, about lonely summer afternoons and folded paper softened by rereading. How strange it is that your whole life can change because someone once wrote, I’m glad there’s someone to do it with.
The pizza arrives steaming and you steal pepperonis off Bucky’s slice while he pretends not to notice.Outside afterward, he buys two cheap beers from the corner store despite your very serious reminder that technically neither of you should be drinking them on a public bridge.
“Live a little,” he says solemnly.
“You sound eighty years old.”
“I’m a poet now. It’s part of the job.”
The bridge overlooks the river cutting through the city. You sit side by side on the railing platform with your feet dangling over the edge, shoulders pressed together beneath the cold night air as cars hum below. The water moves black and silver beneath the lights and for a while neither of you speaks.
You sip your beer slowly as Bucky watches the skyline and somewhere in the quiet, your heartbeat settles back into itself.
“I thought graduating would fix everything,” you admit eventually.
He turns his head slightly.
“I know that sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t.”
You pull your sleeves over your hands.
“I just thought… once we got here, things would feel bigger somehow. More important.” You laugh softly at yourself. “Instead I answer customer complaints about expired coupons.”
“You know what I did today?”
“What?”
“I spent forty minutes trying to rhyme something with ‘mercy.’”
Your mouth twitches.
“Did you figure it out?”
“Nope.”
You lean against him more fully.
“I just feel stuck,” you whisper finally.
The words leave your chest with surprising heaviness.
Bucky’s quiet for a moment, then he reaches over and laces your fingers together.
“You remember that first summer?”
You smile faintly. “Obviously.”
“You used to write me these huge paragraphs apologizing for not knowing what you wanted yet.”
Heat creeps into your cheeks. “I was dramatic.”
“You were scared.”
That lands softly in your heart, Bucky rubs his thumb slowly over your knuckles.
“You always think your life has to become something huge immediately or it doesn’t count.” He glances over at you. “But baby… we’re in our twenties”
You groan. “Don’t say the number out loud. It's cursed.”
He laughs quietly.
“You’re allowed to still be figuring things out.”
“I know.”
“No,” he says gently. “I don’t think you do.”
The wind shifts colder around you.
You think about your younger self sometimes. That girl measuring her worth through grades and achievements and survival and how she would not recognize this version of you.
Not because you changed into someone extraordinary but because you finally became someone soft enough to rest.
Your head drops onto Bucky’s shoulder.
“You always know exactly what to say, huh.”
“That’s why they pay me the medium bucks.”
You snort so loudly a couple walking past glances over and Bucky looks deeply pleased with himself.
The drive home feels lighter.
You’re halfway through telling him about an especially ridiculous customer interaction when he suddenly reaches over.
“Cover your eyes.”
You stare at him. “Absolutely not.”
“C’mon.”
“You’re driving.”
“I know where we are.”
“That’s statistically how most accidents happen.”
“Baby.”
You narrow your eyes suspiciously then sigh dramatically and cover them anyway.
“If I die, Rebecca gets my books.”
“She already steals your books.”
“Exactly. She’ll know what to do.”
Bucky laughs under his breath.
You hear the truck turn twice, then stop.
The engine cuts.
“Okay,” he says carefully. “Don’t open them yet.”
“This is how horror movies start.”
He opens your door before you can complain further and takes your hand. The night air smells different here, cleaner somehow.
You let him guide you carefully forward.
“One sec,” he murmurs.
There’s a door opening, voices, a warm air wrapping around you then Bucky's voice.
“Okay. Open.”
You uncover your eyes and blink.
Animal shelter.
Your brain takes a full second to catch up.
“…Bucky.”
He suddenly looks nervous, actually nervous. Hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets while fluorescent light spills across his face kind of nervous.
“You said the apartment felt too quiet sometimes,” he says quickly. “And I know we talked about maybe getting one eventually and I just thought maybe eventually could be now and—”
“Bucky.”
He stops rambling instantly and your eyes drift past him toward the room behind the front desk.
Cats.
Sleeping in curled shapes beneath blankets, tiny paws pressed against glass while one orange kitten attacks absolutely nothing.
Your chest physically aches.
“You brought me to adopt a cat?”
His shoulders lift slightly. “Maybe.”
Emotion hits you strangely, warm and a little achey. Because suddenly you understand.
This whole night. The pizza place, the bridge, the drive. None of it was really about cheering you up. It was Bucky reminding you that your life is happening right now, not someday when everything finally becomes impressive enough.
Now.
In pizza booths and shared beers and tiny apartments and in shelter cats and late-night drives and poems tucked into newspaper corners.
You look back at him.
“You’re ridiculous.”
His expression softens carefully. “Yeah?”
You step forward and kiss him before he can say anything else, he melts into it instantly. When you pull away, his forehead drops against yours.
“Is that a yes?”
“You knew it was a yes.”
Inside, the shelter is warm and sleepy. A volunteer leads you through rows of cats while Bucky listens with impossible seriousness to every backstory.
Then—
You see her.
A fluffy white cat sprawled dramatically across the top perch of a cat tree.
One green eye cracked open lazily as you approach.
The tag reads:
ALPINE — 2 YEARS OLD.
“She looks judgmental,” you whisper.
Bucky immediately falls in love.
“I think she’s perfect.”
Alpine stretches slowly before stepping directly into Bucky’s waiting arms like she’s already decided.
You stare.
“Oh, so she chose immediately.”
Bucky looks unbearably smug as Alpine presses her face into his chest.
“You jealous?”
“Yes.”
“Fair.”
The adoption paperwork takes almost an hour. By the time you finally carry Alpine into the apartment wrapped in a borrowed shelter blanket, it’s nearly midnight. She immediately jumps onto the couch like he owns the place.
“You fit in disturbingly fast,” you tell her.
Bucky kneels beside the coffee table setting out food bowls with ridiculous concentration and your chest aches again. That same warm ache. You watch him for a long moment in the soft lamp light, his rolled sleeves, the tenderness built into every movement.
This ordinary beautiful life.
You think maybe happiness was never supposed to arrive loudly. Maybe it was always meant to collect slowly in small places until one day you look around and realize you’re surrounded by it.
Bucky glances up and catches you staring.
“What?”
You shake your head softly.
“Nothing.”
But he knows you too well for that as he stands and walks toward you slowly.
“What is it?”
You look past him briefly. At Alpine already asleep upside down on the couch, your cramped apartment, the poems taped to the fridge. At the man who once loved you through ink before he ever touched your hand.
Then back at him.
“I think,” you say quietly, “this might actually be the life I wanted.”
Something shifts in his face and softens, like those words reached somewhere sacred.
He cups your jaw gently.
“Yeah, baby?”
You nod.
And when he kisses you this time, it feels like the best love letter.
Helloo, I am hoping that someone can help me find this fic because I desperately want to re-read it. The premise was that reader was gifted a boudoir photoshoot by Nat. The reader went with Nat and Wanda to a Lingerie Store. After the photoshoot, reader wait for the photo album to arrived but they didn't receive the photo album, it turns out Bucky have it. It's such a feel good story. I hope someone can point me to the right direction. I can't remember if I read it here on tumblr or in ao3.
pairing: single dad, farmer!bucky x florist!reader
word count: 72.9k
warnings: 18+, enemies to lovers, domestic fluff, sexual tension, no y/n, f!reader, angst/comfort, slow burn, smut, sex, divorced parents, daddy kink, found family, mutual pining, grumpy bucky || ao3 || playlist
synopsis:
After your grandmother's passing, you inherit not only an empty house but also a failing floral shop teetering on the edge of closure. as you settle back in town, your bad day only gets worse after a horrible run-in with none other than the grumpy local farmer and single dad, Bucky Barnes.
Immediately off the get-go, you despise eac other. You oth made a silent vow to never cross paths again.
But this town is too small for the both of you. Especially after you reluctantly hire a moody teenager named Jamie to help around the shop... not realizing he's Bucky's son.
one || two || three || four || five || six || seven || eight || nine || ten || eleven || twelve || thirteen || fourteen || fifteen
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, mean and dark!bucky, hairy bucky, size difference, rough animalistic sex behavior, blood and wounds, animal hunting, manipulation, touch starved, breeding kink, baby trapping, pet names: “sweets, sugar, little doll”
word count: 11.4k
main masterlist || 🎨 art's moodboard event
a/n: thank you @artficlly for taking the time to host such a fun, creative event for writers to enjoy! be sure to check out the other works in the masterlist!
synopsis:
After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.
Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.
Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.
You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ‘natural adventurers.’ In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns against—and that was splitting up.
From there, the trip spiraled.
You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.
Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.
There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.
Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You weren’t alone out here after all.
The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.
Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for help—or better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.
That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.
As you got closer, you took in the land.
Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on top—presumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.
Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.
“Hey! Who the hell are you?”
You spun around.
A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.
His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.
“U-um,” you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. “I mean no harm, sir. I’m just here to—”
“Get the fuck off my property,” he growled.
He dropped the logs—but kept a firm grip on the axe—as he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.
Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?
Just when you thought you’d finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.
You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.
“Sir, please!” you winced, trying to stand your ground. “I’m lost. I… I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and I—”
“I don’t believe you,” he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of arm’s reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. “Take it off.”
“… Excuse me?”
“Remove your backpack,” the man clarified harshly. “If you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goin’ through your stuff.”
With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldn’t help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.
He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency supplies—a flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuff— a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.
“See?” you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. “I told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lost—”
“Hands up,” he instructed, stepping toward you. “I’m goin’ to pat you down.”
You blinked. “Pat me down?” you repeated in disbelief. “For what—!”
Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didn’t stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.
To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.
“…What’s yours?” you then asked.
He ignored you.
Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further down—to your hips, and then between your legs.
Once the man was satisfied that you weren’t a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.
“Bucky.”
“Bucky,” you repeated softly. “Great. Well, now that we’ve got all this…” you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, “sorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?”
He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.
“W-wait, okay—no phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?”
“No ride,” was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.
What?
No ride?
You couldn’t tell if this man was telling the truth—or if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didn’t have time nor energy to play around.
That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.
“I’m sorry, you don’t have a functioning phone and you don’t own a vehicle?” you questioned in disbelief. “Then how do you get around?”
You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.
“Everythin’ I need is right here,” he grumbled. “Catch my own food. Build my own house. Don’t need to rely on anybody else.”
Your heart started to race as panic settled in.
“Do you know where the nearest town is?” you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. “Maybe I can get there before sundown—”
Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.
“Not a good idea,” he mumbled. “Looks like a storm is comin’.”
The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny day—but with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasn’t low.
Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.
“Can you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster I’ll get out of your hair.” You pressed.
He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.
“To the south,” he pointed behind you. “Go straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, you’ll get caught up in the storm ‘fore you even make it to the street.”
You looked in the direction he was pointing—all you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.
“Thank you, sir,” you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.
As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.
“I’m tellin’ you, lady, s’not a good idea to leave now,” he warned. “There are some dangerous animals out there—and the storm ain’t goin’ to do you any favors.”
You didn’t listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.
For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.
The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.
Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.
A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The ‘light trickle’ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.
The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction.
You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.
Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.
Then, a low snarl crept up behind you—and that sure as hell didn’t come from the wind.
Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasn’t a coyote—no, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.
“Oh… my god,” you breathed to yourself.
Your heart was beating so fast you couldn’t hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.
And that’s exactly what you did.
The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.
Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.
Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.
A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.
In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.
You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.
A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolf’s head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.
You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.
“You idiot!” he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. “What did I tell you!?”
Bucky.
Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Bucky’s leg.
He let out a pained yell. “Ah, fuck!”
It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Bucky’s grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolf’s neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.
With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolf’s neck, right behind the jaw.
The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.
The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.
He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolf’s—angry and grim.
“I told you, stupid girl,” he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. “I fuckin’ told you.”
All of it happened in a blur.
One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Bucky’s cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Bucky’s hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.
When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.
“Hey!” you gasped, your voice cracking. “What are you doing—?”
“I don’t need you to remove my jacket for me,” you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.
Bucky’s brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabin—water dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.
He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.
“Listen, girl,” he hissed impatiently. “I just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettin’ you into my home, about to offer you my damn shower—and this is what you say to me?”
You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.
Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. “You’re bleeding,” you pointed out. “You need to take care of that wound, or it’ll get infected.”
Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.
“Bathroom’s down the hall, make a left,” he gruffed, already turning his back on you. “And don’t take too long—I need to use it after you.”
Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.
The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personal—no photos, no decor—aside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.
As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.
Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small room—certainly big enough to fit another person.
“You found it?” Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.
“Yeah—I did. Thanks!” you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.
After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.
You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.
“Jesus!” you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. “Knock much?”
Bucky didn’t enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.
In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabric— a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.
“Not used to company,” he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. “‘Sides, I’m not interestin’ in lookin’.”
He didn’t wait for a ‘thank you’ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.
Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.
With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didn’t smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabin— pine, and woodsmoke.
Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.
“Thanks for letting me use your shower,” you spoke up, catching his attention.
Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.
“Do you need help?” you offered again. “I can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.”
Bucky didn’t look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.
“No need,” he said roughly, his voice strained.
It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.
You frowned. “Are you sure—”
“I told you and I’ll keep tellin’ you,” he grunted through the pain, “I don’t need your help, girl.”
Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.
You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jump—an involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Bucky’s throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.
“Bucky?” you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. “Are you okay?”
There was no answer.
You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admit—and standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.
“Bucky, I’m coming in,” you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.
You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.
So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.
Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tub—naked, of course.
His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didn’t wander—you didn’t care to look.
Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.
Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolf’s claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.
“Jesus,” you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. “Bucky, this looks like it’s already getting infected.”
Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning up—the heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolf’s claws.
“You’re overheating!”
Bucky’s eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.
“...Tired,” he croaked.
Your frown deepened. “Stay right there. Don’t move,” you commanded, though it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere.
Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Bucky’s vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.
Just my luck, huh?
He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm broke—and he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.
Damn. He was a fucking idiot.
You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.
You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. “This is going to sting. Just try to breathe.”
As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Bucky’s body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.
Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.
He wasn’t used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.
That was the whole point of being out here.
But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.
It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadn’t felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.
Bucky’s breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.
“There,” you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.
You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didn’t come.
He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like this—but as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didn’t really care.
Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. “I’ll let you be. When the storm clears up, I’ll be out of your hair—for real this time.”
Just as you turned for the door, Bucky’s hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.
“Take the bed tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?
“Sorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,” you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. “Besides, you need proper rest to heal up. I’ll take the couch.”
Bucky’s hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.
With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.
By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.
He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.
To his surprise, the skin wasn’t burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.
There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.
He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind… that maybe he should’ve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.
When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.
His jaw tightened.
A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years and didn’t care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.
All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.
He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.
He froze.
Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the water’s edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.
As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basket— likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berries—and he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.
By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.
Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.
“Thought you said you were leavin’,” he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.
You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were bright—clear of the panic from the night before.
“Oh!” you smiled at the sight of him. “You’re still alive!” You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. “I caught you some fish—you eat fish, right?”
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “More of a red meat kind of guy.”
“Well... fish is good for you,” you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. “And I’m going to fix you up some breakfast.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed as you reached him. “Don’t waste your effort,” he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. “I like my breakfast done a certain way.”
You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. “You should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.”
“I don’t need you playing house,” Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. “I’ve been feedin’ myself since before you were born. Put those down, I’ll do it.”
You didn’t even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. “Sit. Down. Bucky.”
He opened his mouth to snap back—to tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in charge—but the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldn’t survive a night without his intervention.
He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsing— a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldn’t have been standing anyway.
From his seat, he watched you move.
“Not only can I catch fish,” you said, getting to work, “but I can also cook it well.”
The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more… domestic.
You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.
He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his space—wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fed—hit him harder than he expected.
“Christ,” he cursed under his breath.
For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.
He liked seeing this—a beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.
He liked the idea of having someone to protect.
Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasn’t just for the fish.
“You’re gonna burn ‘em,” he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. “Pan needs more grease.”
“I’ve got it, Bucky,” you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. “Stop worrying that old head of yours.”
“Old?” Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.
You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.
“You know,” you began, tone light and teasing, “in my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.”
You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.
The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.
“Crap—!”
Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.
In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.
“Careful, sweets,” he rumbled into a protective growl.
You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but careful—the touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.
“Bucky…” you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. “Are… are you okay?”
You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.
“I… just don’t want you hurtin’ yourself,” he said slowly, his voice thick and low. “That’s all.”
Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thick—and you weren’t entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.
By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.
“Where’s the cutlery?” you asked, turning to him.
He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.
“Your hands are the cutlery,” he said flatly.
You didn’t think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.
You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didn’t even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.
You swore he didn’t look away from you once.
Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.
All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.
You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.
Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But it’ll do.
“I suppose I should take my leave after this,” you announced mid chew. “Thank you for everything—”
“You shouldn’t,” Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. “There might be another storm tonight.”
Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.
Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.
Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.
“Well, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the better—”
“Good luck with that,” he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. “The mud and the terrain from yesterday’s mess will only slow you down. You’ll be lucky to make it a mile before you’re stuck again.”
He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. “Best you wait ‘til tomorrow.”
You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.
But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.
The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrain—if you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldn’t be anyone to save you a second time.
You were completely oblivious to the way Bucky’s eyes traced your body. You didn’t notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roof—permanently in his sights.
“I… I guess you’re right,” you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. “I don’t think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, I’d just be a liability.”
Bucky didn’t smile—that would have been too obvious—but the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.
“Smart girl,” he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. “No sense in chancing it. The woods don’t give second chances twice in a row.”
“I’ll just… stay out of your way, then,” you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. “I can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?”
Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.
“I’ll take care of the heavy liftin’,” he explained. “You can help me clean the place a bit—or catch some more fish for dinner.”
“You liked my fish?” you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. “Guess you were right,” he gruffed. “You can cook, sugar.”
Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.
“Okay,” you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. “Anything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really don’t know how to repay you.”
A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.
He liked this.
No—he loved this.
“Look at you, doin’ the dishes,” he noted with a nod toward the sink. “That’s already doin’ more than enough.”
He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something more—to press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.
“I’ll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Just stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or lost again, little doll.”
The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you weren’t going anywhere.
For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.
Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.
Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the labor— but his eyes never left you.
When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.
“Careful, sweets.”
“Mind your step. Can’t concentrate on my own work if you’re stumblin’ all over the place, little doll.”
“I saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit down—let me check your leg.”
You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.
You didn’t want to call him suffocating—he was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterday—but the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.
As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.
You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.
There was no storm.
And it was too late to start the trek to town now.
You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.
“Hey, Bucky?” you called out.
He didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didn’t answer, you tried again, firmer this time.
“Bucky. There’s no storm like you said there would be.”
Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. “I guess not.”
A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.
“It’s good that you stayed,” he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. “It’s better bein’ safe than sorry. You should know that by now—’specially after yesterday, sugar.”
Your frown only deepened, and Bucky’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t pleased by how eager you were to leave him.
“I know,” you sighed, looking toward the dark window. “It’s just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.”
“If you had left earlier, you wouldn’t have made me that delicious breakfast for savin’ your life,” Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. “You should sleep in the bed tonight.”
“What?” You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. “No. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for you—”
“No one takes the couch,” he cut you off like a command. “We both share the bed tonight. There’s plenty of space.”
You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.
The thought of sharing a bed with him—this hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you pointed out softly. “I’m perfectly fine on the couch, really.”
“If you’re gonna trek tomorrow morning, you’ll need all the sleep you can get.”
He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.
“Come on,” he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. “I’ve got a set of clothes you can change into.”
With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.
“Here.”
“And the pants?” you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.
“All I’ve got are sweatpants that’d be way too damn big for you,” he said, shoving the drawer shut. “Unless you want to sleep in jeans?”
You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all day—stained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.
“I’ll just wear these again,” you decided.
Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.
“No. Those are dirty,” he gruffed. “The shirt’s big enough to be a night dress. You’ll be fine.”
His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasn’t a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.
After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.
The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasn’t sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.
He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.
You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.
You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.
To him, this was exactly where you belonged.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t leave today,” he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. “I was just lookin’ out for you.”
You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Bucky’s heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.
He could get used to waking up to this every morning.
“It’s okay,” you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. “Better safe than sorry, right?”
“Exactly right, sugar.”
From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadn’t taken long to notice just how… blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.
Unreadable and unwavering.
You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. “How’s your leg?”
“Still hurts,” he mumbled lowly. “But I’m feelin’ a lot better lyin’ next to a pretty girl.”
So much for breaking the tension.
His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.
You hadn’t pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldn’t tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.
Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.
“Y-you’re ridiculous,” you stammered, breathless.
Bucky’s large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.
“For tellin’ the truth?” he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.
You couldn’t move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.
You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.
“Pretty,” he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.
His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.
When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than before—pupils blown wide.
“So goddamn pretty.”
“I…” you started, not quite sure what to say, “t-thank you.”
There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Bucky’s hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.
“You know, bein’ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,” Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. “Things a man like me thought he’d never have.”
“Like what?” you breathed.
“A family,” he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. “I’ve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectin’ their cubs, birds tendin’ to their nests. It’s the most natural, beautiful thing there is—that kind of connection. I just know havin’ somethin’ special like that... it’d finally bring me peace.”
You weren’t entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.
“I hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.”
Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.
“Feels like I already have, little doll.”
Bucky didn’t give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.
He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like him—starved and isolated for decades—could possess.
It wasn’t gentle at all. It was more like a claim.
His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadn’t shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetime—like a man who was dying for the touch of another person.
You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.
Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.
“Bucky,” you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. “We... we shouldn’t. This is... I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow.”
Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.
“Tomorrow’s a long way off, sugar,” he buzzed against your skin.
“Bucky, please—”
You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.
Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.
A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. “M’so hard. It hurts.”
Bucky began to rock himself—slow and shallow—against the soft heat of your leg. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.
“Just... we can fuck tonight—and you can forget all ‘bout me tomorrow,” he pleaded, his voice wrecked. “You can leave as early as you want—but please, darlin’. I need this.” He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. “It’s been so long.”
He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.
“… No panties?”
Your face burned with embarrassment. “I… didn’t want to re-wear the ones I had on,” you explained, your voice small. “They’re dirty.”
You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of him—ripe and ready for the taking.
You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Bucky’s eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.
Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull back—mostly out of shyness—but his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.
“Bucky, wait—!”
But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.
He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your ears—vulgar and completely shameless.
You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a man’s mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.
“Oh god,” you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.
Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.
He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.
He was devouring you.
He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.
Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.
“Taste s’fucking good,” he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. “Only makin’ it harder for me to let you go.”
He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest moved— every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.
He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his hand—which you already thought was massive—could barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.
Bucky’s jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.
Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell him—the salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.
“You’re drippin’ all over my sheets, sugar,” Bucky grunted. “Makin’ a reaaal mess.”
“Bucky,” you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “I don’t think you… I don’t think it’ll fit—”
“No?” he cut you off.
He didn’t let you finish—he didn’t need to—but he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.
“I don’t care,” he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. “M’gonna make it fit.”
Your body tensed as you felt the head of Bucky’s cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldn’t be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.
Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.
He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.
“Open ‘em up, sugar,” he rumbled the command. “I want you lookin’ at me for this.”
As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.
“Oh—fuck, Bucky!” you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.
A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.
You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.
You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Bucky’s balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.
When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.
“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. “You aren’t goin’ anywhere. I told you, darlin’—I’m makin’ it fit.”
With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.
Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.
“Haaah—!” you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. “B-Buck—”
Bucky’s entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadn’t felt in years.
He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cock—the one you claimed was too large to fit—was sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.
He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.
“Christ,” he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. “You’re takin’ me so well, little doll…”
When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.
He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.
“God… feels s’much better than my hand,” he grumbled to himself.
“Bucky…” you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Feels good, don’t stop.”
Bucky was hypnotized.
He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.
And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.
His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harder—right through the bedframe and against the floorboards.
Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.
He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.
“Bucky—it’s too much, ah!” you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.
That didn’t help him at all.
“Oh—fuck, sweets!” he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. “Fuck—you’re askin’ for it now.”
The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearly—you, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.
Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.
“Mine,” he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.
Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.
To breed.
Breed. Breed…
“You’re stayin’ right here, sugar. M’gonna fill you up so full, you won’t even remember how to walk out that door.”
His words were purely possessive. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was just dirty talk—and god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.
“Fuuck, Bucky,” you whined, “d-don’t stop…! I’m gonna cum—”
Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didn’t just want tonight; he wanted years.
He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woods—he wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.
Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Bucky’s cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulse—and at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.
“I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.
His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. “Gonna give you everythin’ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.”
Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.
“H-huh…?” you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. “W-what was that—?”
One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeper—making the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.
“Oh my god—!”
“Don’t you worry your pretty head ‘bout it,” he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. “M’just tellin’ you how it’s gonna be. I’m gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you won’t ever remember what it’s like to be without it.”
He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.
“You’re gonna stay right here,” he reminded you darkly. “Nothin’ but my shirts on your back so I don’t have to waste time undressin’ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, I’m gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and I’m gonna remind you who you belong to.”
The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.
“I’m gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,” he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. “Until you’re waddlin’ around this cabin carryin’ my name... carryin’ my blood. You’re never leavin’, understand? You’re mine to breed.”
When you didn’t answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.
“Understand, sweets?”
“Y-yes,” was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. “Never leaving… fill me…”
You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.
“Yeah?” he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right here—right beneath him. “You gonna make me a daddy?”
His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfect—a pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.
Bucky’s entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinch—it sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.
A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.
His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.
“Fuck—baby—!” he choked out, voice strained and cracking.
He didn’t pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.
He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.
“There… fuck,” he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Puttin’ a baby in there right now—you feel it, don’t you? You feel how much I'm givin’ you?”
You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.
All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.
Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.
“There’s the storm, baby,” he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.
“I told you. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.”
sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me 🥀 once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!
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ROUGH HANDS, STRAWBERRY KISSES & OTHER SOFT THINGS [masterlist]
farmer!bucky barnes x teacher!reader
SUMMARY: navigating your first relationship feels overwhelming at times; every touch, every question, every new feeling makes you wonder if you’re doing things right. thankfully, bucky loves you with enough patience and gentleness to turn every new experience into a reason to hold you a little closer. or, a collection of moments in which your boyfriend teaches you that love was never supposed to feel frightening—not when it’s held in careful hands like his.
GENERAL WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI. each part has its own specific warnings.
A/N: what started as a single one-shot somehow turned into a whole universe I can’t quite let go of. I decided to create a masterlist post where you can find the main one-shot along with all the extra moments and deleted scenes I had to remove because of tumblr’s 1000 blocks limit 😩 honestly, I’ve even been considering permanently opening requests for this universe to see what little moments and ideas other people would want to explore with them too, but I’m still a little unsure about it. if that’s something you’d be interested in, I’d really love to hear your thoughts 🤍
⤷ PARTS
♡ rough hands, strawberry kisses & other soft things (main)
♡ deleted scenes
she made space for them, they filled with it something like love.
in which you become an assistant for the avengers, and they realize you were the missing piece.
for bucky barnes, you were the missing piece of his whole life.
PAIRING: best friend!bucky barnes x female!reader
SUMMARY: your best friend has been in love with you since you were kids. he makes sure you don't skip meals, shows up at your dorm during late-night study sessions, scowls at campus idiots trying to get your attention... and apparently now he even offers to fuck you to give your brain a break.
WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; set in college; best friends to lovers; best friend!bucky; whipped!bucky; protective!bucky; reader has hair; size difference (I just love beefy men so much ❤️🩹); light angst; unrequited love (according to bucky); mutual pining; jealousy & slight possessiveness; swearing; fluff; he uses A LOT of pet names & basically behaves like a boyfriend?; smut; (soft)dom!bucky & sub!reader; praise kink; sex toys; kind of guided masturbation; slight degradation; brief use of pussy pronouns; crying (bc reader feels too good 👅); pussy slapping; orgasm delay/control; edging; spitting; oral (f receiving); fingering; nipple play; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; messy & rough sex; squirting; creampie.
WORD COUNT: 14k
A/N: this one-shot is extremely self-indulgent, sorry 🥲 I'm so happy it's finally up again, it's just so important to me. I think this is porn without plot? well, there’s a bit of plot I guess, lmao. the smut part might be a little all over the place because l wrote it while studying for an exam and getting ready for a little trip. hope you’ll enjoy 💛 ps: I apologize to all the interstellar fans for eventual mistakes, I've never seen it but I needed something to match bucky's love for physics and space.
Bucky is halfway through a problem set in the library, equations spread out in messy sheets all over the desk and coffee going cold at his elbow, when he checks the time on his phone and feels that familiar tug in his chest. He’s not even close to being tired, could easily grind through another two chapters, but his focus has thinned to a thread. So he closes his notebook a little too decisively and mutters something about calling it a night, about being exhausted.
Steve looks up slowly, deeply unimpressed. His eyes are screaming do you think I was born yesterday? but Bucky refuses to meet them. He shrugs, trying to appear casual, and shoves his laptop into his backpack like he’s annoyed at the implication.
Steve’s mouth twitches knowingly. His friend’s body has been betraying him for a while: knee bouncing incessantly, jaw tight, eyes landing back to his phone every few minutes.
Bucky has been pulling this move for years and usually Steve would drag it out by raising a brow, asking if he should send flowers already. Sometimes he’d start humming a wedding march under his breath until Bucky’s ears burn red and he threatens to blacklist him from future study sessions. But tonight, his friend just watches him for a second longer than necessary, taking in the barely concealed anticipation in the way Bucky adjusts his puffer jacket, then checks his phone twice in the span of two minutes, clearly hoping for a text.
Steve just nods once and Bucky perceives the mercy like a gift.
The walk back to the dorm is automatic at this point; his feet know the path too well, from the shortcut through the nearby park—technically closed at night but still accessible thanks to the worn patch in the bushes—to the way the lights flicker near the humanities building every fifteen seconds. And the exact amount of steps it takes to reach your floor.
The rhythm of his footsteps carries just enough weight that they draw a satisfying echo from the tile. Although Bucky thought about surprising you after not seeing each other for almost a week, he wants you to notice the noise. You hate unexpected knocks, always have. He remembers you mentioning it to him once, shrugging like it was no big deal, but he is too observant when it comes to you. Something simple like a knock rattling the silence never fails to make your shoulders tense up and your heartbeat accelerate, eyes widening just slightly. That’s why he ensures each footfall is deliberate, loud enough for you to acknowledge a presence in the hallway but soft enough not to hurl your brain into panic.
When he finally reaches your door, Bucky lets his hand linger on the frame. He knows you’re inside from the quiet tapping of a keyboard and the occasional muttered curse over some paper you’re clearly taking too seriously.
The knock is gentle, barely there. “Open up, doll. Campus security’s doing a wellness check.”
“Bucky?” Your voice comes soft, but cautious. Once the door is opened, he takes a step forward and tugs you into a hug, your arms wrapping around him without thought.
“Hi, sweetheart. Hi, angel. Hi, my little overachiever.” He murmurs into your hair, pressing a kiss there, then another to your temple.
Your surprised laugh is half-muffled by his chest. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescue mission.” He promptly exclaims, pulling back just enough to study your tired features. With his hands cupping your cheeks, he looks into your eyes with a feigned frown. “I could feel you stressing from the library, baby. It was like a disturbance in the stratosphere."
You roll your eyes. “I’m not—”
He narrows his eyes, and you hesitate just for a second.
“... That stressed.” Your voice fades into a whisper.
“Mh-mh.” He leans down and presses a long kiss on your forehead. “Keep telling yourself that, doll.”
Bucky nudges the door shut behind him with his foot while guiding you backward into the room, as if he’s lived here with you his whole life. His backpack drops to the floor, forgotten, only for him to engulf you back in his arms.
“You’re freezing, sweetheart.” He murmurs. “Why is your dorm always a sauna in the summer and an arctic tundra in winter?”
You giggle quietly, pulling back just enough to brush a little bit of snow off his shoulders. “It’s just particularly cold these days.”
“Just these days?” He scoffs. “It’s inhumane. I’m having a very serious conversation with your RA about this.”
You grab his sleeve reflexively. “Please don’t.”
He blinks down at you, an eyebrow suspiciously raised. “Why not?”
“Because she already scowls at me every time we pass in the hallway after you cornered her about the radiator in the bathroom.” You mumble. “I told you it wasn’t that big of a deal.”
“It clanked in the middle of the night, and then you would jolt awake and never fall back asleep.” Bucky defends instantly.
“Still... she looks at me like I personally filed a lawsuit against her.” You argue weakly.
“Good. Maybe she’ll think twice before ignoring the pipe orchestra in your bathroom at three in the morning.”
“Bucky.” You reprimand him jokingly, squeezing his torso once.
“Shh.” He whispers, his gaze alert as it scans the room. He immediately spots your laptop and a pile of books and binders stacked like some kind of intellectual barricade on your bed. “You’re really going to bury yourself in all this tonight?”
“I have a paper due next week.” You admit, sitting on the edge of the mattress. Bucky doesn’t miss the way your shoulders suddenly slump, as if resigned. “I… just wanted to get a head start.”
He crouches in front of you after carelessly throwing his jacket on your desk chair, his hands blanketing yours perfectly. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
You peer at him through your eyelashes, noticing the exact moment his expression melts into something softer, something only you are allowed to witness. Cupping your face gently, his thumbs brush your cheeks with such tenderness you almost tear up. “When was the last time you took a break?”
You sigh. “Buck—”
“Not a ‘I-scrolled-on-my-phone-for-five-minutes’ break. I’m talking about a real one.”
You look away, suddenly feeling a scorching heat taking over your neck. You know how much he hates when you overwork yourself to the bone, and the thought of disappointing him of all people makes your stomach churn with shame.
Bucky exhales dramatically, pulling you back into his chest with a swift move that makes you yelp. “You’re working too hard, baby. Way too hard. You’re gonna burn yourself out if I don’t intervene.”
You are always three steps ahead, always prepared for some invisible emergency no one else has even considered yet. And not just on an academic level. He’s watched you fix things for others for years. You dig through your bag without looking and somehow produce exactly what is needed. Band-aids in three different sizes—yes, three. A little pouch of medicine: painkillers, allergy tablets, something for stomach aches because “campus food is unpredictable”. Extra pads tucked into the side pocket; two packs of tissues; hand sanitizer clipped to the zipper. A tiny sewing kit because one time someone’s button popped off and you decided that would never happen again in your presence. Mints. Lip gloss. Hair ties. Bobby pins. A small comb. A portable charger that’s always somehow fully charged. A granola bar “in case someone forgets to eat”. Bucky literally recoiled when some tomato sauce fell on Kate’s jeans last month and you were handing her a stain remover pen before she could even acknowledge the stain.
He’s seen you pull each of those things out at least once, along the relief on people’s faces when you quietly fix their problem before it becomes embarrassing. You never make a big deal out of it, always ready to reassure them with a smile.
You also remember everything, from birthdays to when your friends have their exams.
Natasha gets migraines when she’s stressed, so you make sure to always carry that specific brand of painkillers that works for her. You keep peppermint gum too, because you once read online it helps, and you don’t even like peppermint.
Steve forgets to eat when he’s buried in his art projects, so you text him reminders and shove protein bars into his hands without ceremony. You’ve memorized his deadlines better than he has, and you once stayed up proofreading his paper even though you had your own due the next morning.
Sam swears he never gets sick, yet you still bring extra throat lozenges when he starts losing his voice—the consequence of him being president of several clubs and giving one motivational speech after another.
Kate is very confident in herself, but she panics before every presentation. You sit in the front row each time, smiling and nodding at her like a proud mom. You never dwell on the mistakes or the stumbles; instead, you point out the strongest parts of her speech: the clever phrasing, the insights she came up with on the spot when the professor started asking questions, the arguments that actually landed. You always highlight the good things, the moments that matter, and she leaves the room feeling lighter, even when she doubts the quality of her work.
Wanda pretends she doesn’t get cold, but you pack an extra scarf in your bag anyway. You also walk slower when she’s overwhelmed, never pushing, just hovering gently in case she needs you.
Yelena acts all fearless, but you always suggest ordering something sweet at the end of a meal, because you know she won’t unless someone tags along.
Every preference. Every weakness. Every tiny crack people try to hide… you smooth them over without them even noticing. And you do it without expecting anything in return, like it’s nothing.
Your brain is constantly scanning, ready to cushion the fall before it happens. You’ve somehow made yourself responsible for the comfort of everyone around you, and Bucky loves how capable you are, how steady your presence is to the point everyone gravitates toward you without even realizing. You’re the calm center, the one people trust, the one who fixes things.
But sometimes… sometimes it makes his chest hurt, because he sees the cost. You don’t sit down until everyone else has, nor you relax unless someone forces you to. You’re always the one refilling glasses before your own, the one staying behind to stack chairs or wipe down tables even when it isn’t your responsibility. In study groups, you’re the last to pack up, double-checking that everyone understands the material before you even glance at your own notes. You answer texts at two in the morning because someone’s panicking about something, and somehow their anxiety becomes yours, sitting heavy in your chest until you’re sure they’re okay. If a friend is upset, you carry it with you for the rest of the day, replaying their words, wondering what else you could’ve said, what more you could’ve done.
You have this way of absorbing other people’s burdens and slipping them into your own pockets as if they belong there.
And Bucky wants—selfishly, desperately—to be the one place where you don’t have to take care of anything.
With him, you don’t need your emergency kit.
With him, you don’t need to think ahead.
He carries the snacks; he argues with the professor; he deals with the guys who don’t stop staring. He drives, fixes, calls, confronts, handles. You are free to flop dramatically across his lap, and steal his fries. You can let your eyes squeeze in frustration and complain about your professors without trying to solve anything, or fall asleep mid-movie, because you know he’ll carry you to bed.
You trust him to handle the world so you don’t have to.
He wants to take the weight off your shoulders so permanently that you forget it was ever there, because his affection does not sit politely in his chest. It calls for you. It rattles through him like something alive that needs to breath.
Bucky has loved you for so long that he can’t remember what it felt like before. He tries, sometimes, to pinpoint the exact moment it shifted from childhood attachment to a blade pressed under his ribs, not deep enough to kill him, but the wound pulses every time he breathes, as a reminder.
Maybe it was the day you grabbed his hand on the playground and refused to let go when another kid tried to tease him for the scar on his left arm, the one he got trying to prove he wasn’t scared of the ramp behind the old basketball court. Maybe it was during your first ever movie night in middle school, when he sat completely still for three hours after you fell asleep on his shoulder to not wake you up.
Or maybe it was gradual. Like erosion. Like water carving into stone until there’s no version of the rock that ever existed without the river running through it.
He only knows there’s never been an end.
Bucky often reflects on the fact that he’s the safest place you’ve ever known. You trust him in a way that is almost sacred. You curl into him without hesitation. You change in front of him without thinking twice. You press your cold hands under his shirt because you know he’ll yelp and then immediately tug you into his chest to warm you. Bucky finds himself more often than not lying in his own bed and thinking about this, about the way you trust him with your entire body, with your happiness, your quiet and your sadness. But not with your heart. At least, not in the way he wants.
You look at him like he’s home, like he’s already yours. Like there’s no risk of losing him—and he would never give you a reason to think otherwise. That’s the cruelest part. Bucky would stay even if you never loved him back. He’s been staying since he was fourteen and realized that the reason he wanted to punch that boy at the school dance wasn’t because the kid stepped on your shoes, but because he made you laugh too hard. He’s been staying since you cried over your first breakup and let him hold you as he tried to ignore the way his jaw clenched every time you said your ex’s name.
Taking care of you comes so easy to him, maybe too easy. Sam once told him it borders on ridiculousness. But you have no idea what it costs him. You sit in his lap and kiss the corner of his mouth by accident, giggling, looking away too fast to notice how he freezes for a second too long.
You have never kissed him on the lips, though.
Bucky thinks about that more than he should.
He’s prepared for everything: skipped meals that make you dizzy in the middle of a lecture; all-nighters where your eyes get glassy and you insist you’re “fine” as your fingers tremble around a pen; the way you grind yourself down for grades like your worth depends on them. He’s prepared to sit at the kitchen table while you bake and pretend not to want to smooth the wrinkle between your brows when you frown in concentration; or to kiss your lips after you feed him a dollop of custard, because you trust him enough to tell you if it sucks.
He’s also prepared for every guy who thinks your softness means easy access. For every hand that lingers too long and every flirtatious grin thrown your way.
He is not prepared for the possibility that one day, you might actually want one of them.
Bucky watched it happen more often than not. Smiling politely while some guy leans a little too close, and pretending he’s not tracking every movement, cataloging whether the guy’s hand drifts lower than it should.
He never interrupts. He simply waits. Because if you step back even half an inch, he’s already beside you. If your smile falters, he’s glaring at the idiot. If you look even slightly uncomfortable, he’s casually sliding an arm around your waist.
Possessive enough to send a message, but not enough to claim you.
And sometimes... it’s just unbearable.
You call him dramatic when he scowls, laughing as you remind him that you can handle yourself just fine. And he knows you can. He was the one who taught you self-defense in high school, for fuck’s sake. It’s just that Bucky wants to be the only one who gets to see that soft little grin of yours when you’re on the brink of sleep, to hear your muttered curses when your fingers fumble through a tangle of yarn. Or watch you get genuinely angry over a dumb misunderstanding while reading one of those romance novels of yours that leave you sighing dreamily at the end.
The territorial edge of these thoughts leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but the shame dissipates as soon as one of those guys smiles at you, making room for something ugly and hot that crawls through his chest and makes his jaw ache.
Bucky has imagined telling you.
It never gets far.
In his head, the words sound steady, confident.
But you’d blink, go quiet… look guilty. And he would rather cut his own heart out than see you blame yourself for his own feelings.
So he keeps quiet, and pours his love into other things, like gently drying your hair after you shower, and giving you little forehead kisses—Bucky knows you adore those because you unconsciously shiver each time. But also calling you sweetheart and angel and doll, and all those other pet names Natasha deems ‘corny’ with a grimace. Like they don’t mean anything deeper. He touches you, constantly. Not because he’s careless, but because he’s greedy. The contact reassures him that you’re still here, that you’re still choosing to be by his side, even if it’s not in the way he yearns for.
From time to time, when you fall asleep in the crook of his neck, Bucky presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in like it’s something he could survive on, his arms tightening around you just how you like. It’s become his favorite thing to do ever since you told him how safe and cocooned you feel in his embrace.
Because when you’re awake, you might see the way his breathing changes when your fingers trace absentminded patterns on his chest, or the way he shivers when you call him Jamie—you are the only one allowed to do that.
You might finally understand that every innocent kiss is just him restraining himself.
So Bucky lets himself slip only in the dark, when no one can see the awe twinkling in his eyes whenever you are around. He’s balancing on a thin line as it is; one wrong move and the entire “best friends” foundation cracks. And he swallows it all. The jealousy, the hunger, those three treacherous words that rise too close to the surface every time you look up at him with those pretty eyes.
But loving you is perpetual. It hums under his skin when you let yourself melt into his hugs. It sits heavy in his stomach when your lips brush his forehead with a quick kiss before you run to class. It blooms sharp and hot every time someone asks for your number.
He wonders if he ruined himself by loving you that young, because no one else has ever fit right by his side. Yet, he would rather have you like this than risk losing you by asking for more. Even if sometimes it feels like his heart is stretched too tight in his chest. Even if when you look at him, tired and soft and wrapped in his comforter, he has to glance away and breathe through the urge to kiss you until you’re both left wheezing.
With him, you just get to exist. And if this is the only role he ever gets to play in your life, he’ll take it. Because Bucky has always thought of himself as the equivalent of an oversized hoodie that’s been worn too long.
Comfortable, warm, easy to grab when you’re cold.
But not the thing you pick when you want to feel special.
Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. When he reaches the side of your neck, his lips linger just enough to receive a squirm in return and a giggle that softens his smile into the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.
“Bucky.” You whisper, half-scolding, half-laughing.
“What?” He asks innocently. “I’m just appreciating my favorite person.”
“You’re distracting me.”
“Good.” He hums, preening inside. “That’s the point, baby.”
Moving onto your bed, his hands tug you gently until you stumble back. “C’mere. Sit with me.”
Lying down, he looks at you expectantly, blue eyes prettily begging you to follow him.
“James seriously, I have to finish—”
“Nope.” He grabs your wrists and pulls you forward so you’re kneeling right between his thighs. His hands settle on your hips like they’ve always belonged there, and you shiver, hoping he’ll blame it on the heating not working properly in the middle of winter.
“You need to breathe, angel. And you breathe better when you’re not spiraling over footnotes. Look at you, you chewed on that pen like a stressed little squirrel.” He teases, guiding you until you’re reluctantly lying on your front. “You’re too precious to suffer like this. Not on my watch.”
You huff softly, but you don’t dare move away. The knowledge that you trust him to this extent, that you allow yourself to bend your strict study routines for him, floods him with a quiet, overwhelming happiness that makes his heart ache in the best way.
“You know,” Bucky starts softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “You don’t have to be in charge with me.”
Your shoulders drop just a fraction, and he takes that in with a hint of a satisfied smile.
“I’ve got it, okay? I’ve got you.” He continues with a lower voice. You finally go completely slack in his hold, the curve of your body molding against his chest as your ear presses on his left pec.
And God, he would stay like this forever if you’d let him.
Bucky kisses the top of your head again, tracing a path with his lips that ends on the apple of your cheek. “See? There’s my girl.” He murmurs. “You’re adorable, angel. Did you know that? Ridiculously, impossibly adorable.”
“And you’re impossible.” You mumble, eyelids threatening to close under his tender attention.
“I know. I know, sweetheart.” He murmurs, pretending to pout. “I can’t help it. It’s a curse, really. You’re just… irresistible when you let yourself go.”
“But you adore me.” He quickly adds.
You don’t answer that, yet he pretends to ignore the way his heart skips when you squeeze your arms once around his torso. A hand comes up to run up and down your back slowly. Protective. Possessive in the quietest way.
“If anyone bothered you today,” he mentions casually, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’d like names.”
You burst out laughing and Bucky tightens his hold just a little at that, a fuzzy feeling tingling in the back of his head as his ears are blessed with his favorite melody. “Calm down, stud. No one bothered me today.”
“Good.” His thumb brushes absent circles on your lower back. “Because I don’t feel like scowling at freshmen tonight.”
“You always scowl at freshmen.” You peek up at him, impossibly cute with your cheek smushed against his chest. The urge to kiss you is so strong he almost shortens the distance between you.
“They look at you.”
“They look at everyone.”
“Not like they look at you, baby.”
There’s a small silence after that, but Bucky fills it quickly.
“Anyway,” He glides over the topic, his voice suddenly too high to sound nonchalant, so he clears his throat. “You’re done for the night. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I’m a concerned citizen.”
You lift your head just enough to squint at him.
“Chronic overworking, severe lack of cuddling, and acute stubbornness are very serious conditions.” His fingers walk up your spine as he lists your “symptoms”.
You snort, letting your head fall back to its previous resting place. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mh. Tragic, really.” Bucky shifts, scooting back against the headboard to settle against the myriad of pillows you accumulated throughout the years, tugging you with him. “Prescription says: cuddles, a movie, and you,” he pats his chest, wiggling his eyebrows. “Right here.”
You laugh again, softer now that you have given up. “Alright, alright, Dr. Barnes.” You know he hates when you roll your eyes, but you do it anyway.
“Ha! Victory!” He whispers triumphantly.
You shake your head, the corners of your mouth betraying you as they lift just slightly when you reach for your laptop. Once you settle back down, you automatically curl into his side, like it’s muscle memory. It’s always been that simple between the two of you.
He shifts immediately to accommodate you, one arm sliding around your waist as the other tucks behind his head.
“You know I’m proud of you, right?” Bucky mentions casually, low like a secret you are only meant to know. “You always work so hard. You’re so good—too good.”
Your fingers tighten in his shirt, but you only nod, pressing closer.
You’ve never known what to do with praise. It slides off you most of the time, makes you fidget, causes your eyes to drop to the floor like you’re being accused of something you don’t quite believe. And it’s not as if Bucky’s new at this—he’s been telling you how brilliant you are, how capable, how kind, and pretty since you were small enough to swing your legs off a playground bench. He’s never once missed a chance to compliment you.
Still, every time he does that, your shoulders go tight for a second before you remember it’s just him. Just Bucky. Not judging, not measuring, not expecting you to live up to the compliment. You never thank him with words, just burrow closer, like you’re doing now, hiding your face against his chest as if you can tuck the warmth of his words somewhere safe. They feel so fragile, so precious, and you are still learning how to hold them properly.
“What are we in the mood for, sweetheart, mh?” His words are gentle near your ear. “Something brainless? Something with explosions so I can complain about the physics and you can pretend to be impressed?”
You shift slightly, tucking your leg over his thigh. He adjusts immediately, never failing to make space for you, hand tightening just a little at your waist to keep you steady.
“Blanket?” A small shiver and a nod are enough for Bucky to lean sideways awkwardly, reaching for the fluffy lilac fabric lying on your second desk chair, nearly falling over in the process.
“Careful.” You snicker.
“I’m graceful.” Bucky insists, dragging the blanket back triumphantly. “Military precision.”
“You almost tripped over the air.”
“Well, the air started it.”
He drapes it over the both of you, smoothing it at your hip, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head like it’s part of the ritual.
“There,” he hums. “Contained.”
His chin settles then on the top of your head. “So? If you don’t choose in the next minute, I’m putting on Interstellar again.”
You go rigid at that. “James.”
“What?” He quips, entirely unapologetic.
“You made me watch that at two in the morning.”
“It’s a masterpiece.”
“It’s almost three hours long.”
“It’s cinema.”
“You paused it every five minutes,” you accuse, lifting your head to glare back at him. “You had diagrams, Bucky.”
He grins, completely unashamed. “You said you wanted something educational.”
“I did not say I wanted a physics lecture in my pajamas.”
“You loved it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “I fell asleep during the wormhole explanation.”
He gasps softly. “How dare you!”
You burst out in an incredulous laugh. “You started calculating stuff on the back of a takeout receipt!”
At that point Bucky chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your cheek when you drop your head back on his chest.
“You’re impossible.” You mutter, going back to scroll through movies you’ve already watched, and rated, with your best friend. “I need something easy. My brain’s fried.”
“Easy,” he repeats thoughtfully. “So no space, no time paradoxes—”
“No academic lectures.” You add firmly.
“Fine, baby.” He sighs. “But one day you’re going to sit through the docking scene without complaining.”
“You cried during the docking scene.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
With a clear of his throat, he squirms awkwardly under you. “It’s just... well done.”
After finally picking a mindless sitcom you’ve both seen a hundred times, he sets the laptop on his thigh, adjusting the angle so you can see as well, then shifts again so your body is draped more comfortably over him, leaving his free hand to lie on his chest. You reach forward absently and lace your fingers with his, causing Bucky to go still for half a second, before his fingers squeeze yours back. He presses another kiss into your hair, hoping you won’t hear his heart do something embarrassing in his ribcage.
“Comfy, pretty girl?” He asks softly.
“Mh.” You sigh. “You’re warm.”
“Good. Means I’m doing my job.”
Huffing a quiet laugh at that, you just curl closer.
Bucky pretends to focus on the show, but really he’s more aware of the slow sound of your breathing. His thumb keeps stroking your side, tracing slow, absent circles that leave goosebumps behind, even with the soft fabric of your sweater separating him from your skin. Every so often he presses a kiss into your hairline, or your temple... just wherever he can reach without jostling you too much.
When you shiver again, Bucky perks up.
“Still cold?”
“No.”
He narrows his eyes playfully. “Liar.”
“I’m not cold.”
“You shivered.”
“I just—” You stop, realizing you have no explanation that you can give him.
You can feel his grin into his next words. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
You smack his chest lightly, and he laughs—soft and low—then catches your hand to press a quick peck on your knuckles.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “This is violence against your concerned citizen.”
Though the small crease in your eyebrows has finally smoothed out, your fingers keep twitching in his shirt, and your jaw ticks every few seconds like you’re biting back thoughts. The tightness in your shoulders is very much alive and burning under your skin, your breathing shaky at the edge each time you exhale. Bucky can’t help but glance down at your leg shifting under the blanket every few seconds.
He lets it go on longer than he should.
His thumb traces the same slow path over your side, patient, grounding. Pressing his lips briefly to your forehead, he waits for you to melt into him the way you usually do. But instead, you sigh. It’s a little, quiet sound, but it carries too much weight.
“What is it?”
“Oh? Nothing, sorry.” Your reply is quick and rehearsed, and Bucky doesn’t like that one bit.
“Hey,” his arm squeezes your torso once. “None of that, sweetheart. You know you can tell me anything.”
At that point you shift onto your back with a slow exhale, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s just…” You hesitate for what seems like an endless amount of time to Bucky, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth saying out loud.
“I keep thinking about that paper. I should finish it by tomorrow, because we haven’t made any progress with that group project I told you about last week. I’ve sent four messages on the group chat to ask when we should meet and no one has read them.” A small, frustrated laugh bursts out of your chest. “I feel so dumb for chasing them, but at this point I’ll have to finish it by myself.”
His jaw tightens.
“You know that’s what they want you to do, right? They’re gonna take all the credits while you try to finish the entire presentation by yourself on top of your own assignments. You’re not supposed to carry all of that, baby. It’s not fair.” He frowns. “You’ve already got enough on your plate and you need to rest.”
“I know.” You groan, momentarily closing your eyes. “But I hate not having any control over it.” Words pick up speed as your eyes flit over the surface of your white ceiling turned orange by the warm lamp on your nightstand. “Everything’s half-finished and sitting there waiting for me, and I can’t stop thinking about it long enough to breathe.”
Bucky lets you vent at your own pace, because he knows better than to rush you. You try to sound calm, reasonable, like this is just another thing to manage, but he can feel the pressure running through your veins, the strain that causes your voice to shake at the end.
“I can help you.”
The words leave him before he can fully consider them.
You immediately turn your head to give him a reproachful look. “James.”
“What?”
“No.”
“Why—”
“You have your own stuff to do—”
Bucky shakes his head, pushing himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It sounded like it.”
“You know I’d write all your papers if you’d let me, but you’re such a little spitfire, angel. You’ve got this ridiculous way of holding yourself to every rule, every detail... I love it, but damn, you’re stubborn as hell about doing things your own way.” A faint exhale of a laugh slips out the both of you despite the tension. “But I meant, I can help you not think about it.”
You study him carefully, brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Aren’t we already taking a break?”
That question sits between you, innocent, and Bucky swears the room is starting to spin.
His mind betrays him with an image so vivid it nearly steals the air from his lungs: you beneath him, pliant and warm, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and your mouth soft against his, muffling your sweet pants and moans. Just that morning Bucky woke up from the cruelest of dreams. Your mouth on his, your skin bare. His shirt was drenched in sweat and his underwear embarrassingly sticky when the sun split through the curtains and hit him with a brutal dose of reality. He quietly jerked off in the shower, ears red and stomach flipping with shame as he only saw you behind his closed eyelids, but the ache is always there. It never goes away.
His eyes close briefly.
This is not the time.
But the words sit at the back of his tongue, heavy and impatient.
“Maybe,” he starts slowly, choosing each word like the world might explode. “You just need something stimulating enough that forces your brain to focus on one thing.”
“Like what?”
His heart is pounding so loudly he’s certain you can hear it. He can’t believe he’s really going to say it.
He swallows. “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know… sex?”
It feels as if someone snatched the word from his throat and tossed it between the two of you, like a sturdy stone being violently thrown into a still lake.
You don’t react immediately, but you recoil a little, taken aback.
“I didn’t mean it like—” Bucky winces, suddenly aware of the very small distance between your bodies. So he stands up, cheeks flushed as your eyes follow him. “I mean, I did mean it, but not in a...” He exhales sharply. “God. That sounded worse.”
You blink at him, and Bucky runs a hand through his hair, pacing at the edge of the bed like he’s trying to outrun his own suggestion.
“I just meant,” he tries again, cautious now. “Sometimes when your brain won’t shut up, you need something… physical. Something that makes you focus on anything but your thoughts.” He gestures vaguely between you, not quite daring to point. “We’re—We’ve always been—I mean, there’s nothing we haven’t shared, so it doesn’t have to be weird. It could just be...”
You tilt your head. “What?”
“I…” His mouth opens and closes pathetically, the words dying in his throat as you adjust yourself, now sitting upright with your legs crossed. “It’d just be… us.”
The room is plunged into a religious silence, broken solely by the low hum of the old fridge near the kitchenette and the faint sound of your labored breaths. It makes Bucky want to bury himself alive.
Your fingers keep fidgeting with the blanket.
“It’s been a long time.” You quietly admit.
He stops abruptly in his quest of digging his own grave by walking up and down your room.
“What?”
You stubbornly stare at your hands, chin tucked down.
“Since... the last time I had sex.”
His stomach drops.
“How long?” Bucky croaks out, trying to sound nonchalant but he fails miserably as he almost chokes on his own saliva.
You hesitate for half a second, then mumble. “Since Chris.”
The name lands awkwardly between you, like a relic from another lifetime. Those five letters drag up memories Bucky thought he’d pushed down beneath the careful armor he’d worn around you for all these years. You wailing against his chest in his bedroom, the smug grin on Chris’ face every time he crossed you in the school hallways, and Bucky pretending he didn’t want to hunt that asshole down.
His throat suddenly goes very dry. “High school Chris?”
You nod, still too embarrassed to look him in the eye.
Bucky lets out a disbelieving breath. “That was... years ago.”
You swallow. “I know.”
“You haven’t—” He can’t finish the sentence, but you understand.
You shake your head, biting your bottom lip.
His brain struggles to process that. Bucky had convinced himself there had to be someone. Some random fling at one of the frat parties he couldn’t attend because of some last-minute visit to his family, or an assignment started too late. He spent so many nights lying awake waiting for your text reassuring him that you were home, safe and sound, telling himself he was being ridiculous, that of course you had allowed someone to touch you the way he wanted to.
But now this revelation feels like being shoved off a cliff, blindfolded in darkness.
“So,” you start softly, like you’re testing the word. “You believe… sex would help.”
He swallows, nodding sharply. “It might.”
You glance at your best friend, then away again. “You’ve thought about it.”
It’s not a question.
Bucky huffs nervously. “I mean, I’m not blind.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
His right hand reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”
There’s a moment of silence that makes Bucky wonder if being completely honest was the right choice.
“Recently?” You perk up.
He almost laughs at that. “Define recently.”
You try not to smile, and Bucky steps closer again, slower this time, like approaching a skittish wild animal.
“I’m not trying to make this weird.” He clarifies quickly. “I can go away, or—or we can pretend I never said anything and I’ll go back to being your emotional support distraction machine.”
Your head snaps up at that, a spark of hurt flashing in your eyes. “It’s not weird, and you’re not my emotional support distraction machine.” A frown settles on your features, and Bucky’s heart thuds at the adorable sight.
“I was joking, sweetheart.” He reassures you gently.
“I know, but I don’t like you calling yourself that. You know you are everything to me.”
“Yeah?” He strangles out, and you nod, chewing on your bottom lip.
“You are everything to me too.”
The air feels different now. Thicker. You glance at his mouth, just for a fleeting moment, yet his blue eyes—too bright, too earnest, like they’d strip you bare if you let yourself crack the slightest bit—catch that instantly.
“Should we do it?” You ask, almost daring.
Bucky hesitates—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants it so much he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you were to accept his absurd offer just for one night.
“Only if you want to.” His voice cracks. “I don’t—I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of you, or something. We’re just...” He gestures between you helplessly. “We’re us.”
Your silence stretches just long enough for his chest to start caving in. Bucky examines your face carefully, searching for any sign of discomfort, annoyance… anything he can work with. But you give him nothing.
Just a clean slate of neutrality.
The shift inside himself is dreadful, hope morphing into humiliation. Of course he pushed too far. You’re stressed, allowing yourself to be vulnerable around him and what does he decide to do? He suggests to have fucking sex with you.
Bucky takes a step back without meaning to, already bracing for the fallout. What would you do if he confessed right now? Telling you he’s loved you since scraped knees and shared headphones and walking you home because “it’s on my way anyway”. That every girl who approached him felt like a placeholder. That he’s swallowed the ache years ago, and locked the longing somewhere unreachable, so it would never hurt you.
“Forget I said anything,” he mutters, already stepping back from your bed. “That was out of line. You’re overwhelmed and I just made it worse. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
Even the name that has been lightning your eyes up since high school tastes bitter now.
She’s trying to figure out how to let you down gently.
She’s contemplating if this will change things between you two.
She’s wondering if she’s been leading you on without realizing it.
She’s suspecting you’ve been trying to get in her pants all along.
Bucky moves another step back, running a hand over his face. “I’m—”
“James.”
He looks up immediately, and you’re suddenly watching him like you’re going to cry.
“I haven’t done this in years.” You repeat softly. “So if I’m bad at it—”
His stomach drops. “You won’t be.” He rushes out.
You observe him with a rueful smile, shoulders dropping as if suddenly freed from an unbearable weight. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He frowns, blushing violently at how certain he sounds.
Your sigh sounds like it’s been living in your chest for years, and after you clear your throat, attempting to pull yourself together. “What happens now?”
His heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the show still playing in the background.
“Now,” he says carefully, stepping closer. “I ask if I can kiss you.”
You hold his gaze. “And then?”
“And then, if you say yes,” he continues, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m going to do it. Just once. And if you hate it, we pretend it never happened.”
You don’t hesitate, your body unconsciously leaning forward as he kneels in front of you.
“I won’t hate it.”
That confidence nearly unravels him.
“So… can I?” Bucky’s voice is barely above a whisper, rough around the edges, his hunger leaking out after holding it back for years.
At your tiny, shy nod, that carries more weight than anything he’s ever felt, his chest tightens, almost forgetting how to breathe. His hand lifts slowly, almost reverently, and cups the side of your face, his gaze focusing on the action. The feeling of his thumb gently brushing along your jaw makes you shiver, before his eyes flutter close for a fraction of a second, enough to carve this moment into his soul. When he opens them, his breath hitches at what he sees: your pretty, trusting eyes fixed on him, openly giving him permission.
You don’t pull back. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into the touch, and that simple motion nearly stops his heart.
Bucky exhales softly and bravely leans in, lips brushing yours in a featherlike, tentative contact—a question posed in motion. It’s the most tender of kisses, meant to taste the waters, to ask if you want this as much as he does. You respond immediately, pressing against him, and in that moment, a spark ignites in his chest.
Every sensation is magnified. The softness of your lips against his, your eyelashes fluttering against his cheek as you close your eyes, your quiet, pleased sigh… Each one sends shockwaves through him.
His other hand hesitantly reaches your waist, just enough to anchor you against him. He doesn’t pull, allowing your body to find his to its own volition. The pressure is grounding, careful, and each subtle shift of your weight beneath his palm leaves him more certain, more addicted to the feeling of you.
Your hands slide to his chest, light at first, then press more firmly as if to claim the space that’s always been yours to take. His fingers twitch instinctively, tracing lines along your sides, feeling the curve of your ribcage, memorizing the rhythm of you in his arms. That’s when he deepens the kiss, still careful not to overwhelm. Your lips part just a bit, yielding, allowing him to savor the sweetness, the trust. And your hair is caught through his fingers as he tilts your head slightly, to explore without breaking the fragile balance. The clean, floral scent of the body lotion you recently bought mixes with something inherently yours, filling his senses, grounding him while simultaneously setting his nerves ablaze. You make a high, almost imperceptible mewl that sends heat straight to his crotch, prompting Buck to lean into you just a little more, confirming that this—this closeness, this softness—is real.
Time stretches, the show hums unnoticed, the bed creaks faintly beneath the weight of you both, and your breathing mingles with his, shallow and intoxicating. Every tremor of yours is loaded with anticipation, your heart racing in tandem with his.
Finally, Bucky pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses brushing.
“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers, voice raw and breathy, as if saying it louder would shatter this dream he never wants to wake up from. “Can I... Can I kiss you again, angel?”
Your smile is just short of shy as you press once more into him. The way he tilts his head is automatic, capturing the soft warmth of your lips again. Your sternums touch, and one of your hands grasps the hair on his nape, eliciting a low groan out of him. This time, Bucky kisses you as if he wants it to bruise, his mouth heavy against yours, trying so desperately to burn himself into you. You’re trembling in his tight hold, yes, but Bucky is barely holding himself together at the thought of a lifetime spent loving you in secret. His teeth graze your bottom lip in the middle of it all, leaving behind a surprisingly nice sting that makes you shiver. He wants to kiss you forever, even against the merciless ache in his lungs.
His hands finally gather the courage to move, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, slipping under the cotton of your oversized sweater to graze your bare skin, a moan shamelessly falling into your mouth.
“Bucky.” You whimper as his lips trace an unmapped path along your jaw.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” He gently nibbles a sensitive spot just under your ear that you didn’t even know existed. You shiver again, feeling the curve of his grin against your bare throat. “What is it, doll? Talk to me.” He presses an open-mouthed, heated kiss on the crook of your collarbone, suckling until you squeak.
“I’m—” You gasp. “It’s hard.” You blurt out. “To... to come these days.” Your voice fades into a whisper. “Too much stress. I can’t focus.”
Bucky stills at your timid confession. He presses your foreheads together to quietly stare at you, all blown pupils and this dazed, adoring expression that makes your stomach flutter. “That’s okay, angel.” He stops your anxious blabbering. “What do you usually do?”
“What?” You gape at him, not expecting that question.
“What do you do when you’re alone, baby?”
“I have… toys.” Your cheeks feel so hot you start sweating.
“Show me.”
“You—You want to watch me while I…?” You squeak, eyebrows shooting up.
His jaw clenches at the thought, cock already half-hard since your lips touched for the first time, before he nods. “Will you let me, darling?”
“But—”
Bucky calls your name, steady and serious. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course!” The way those words fall from your lips, offended that he would even hint you don’t, elicits a boyish laugh out of him.
“Then let me help you.”
There’s a beat. A long, awful, charged beat.
“Okay.” You whisper.
“Yeah?” He perks up a little too enthusiastically.
“Yes, yes Bucky.” You bite your bottom lip, trying to hide your amusement.
“Where are they?”
“Um, second drawer of the nightstand.”
Once the box is opened, Bucky’s mouth goes completely dry, so much that it almost hurts to swallow.
His brain stops. Just… fully refuses to work.
It’s ridiculous how fast heat climbs up his neck, spreads across his chest and then drops straight into his stomach.
A shockingly realistic dildo, a bullet vibrator, a suction vibrator connected to the curled end of a dildo, another dildo, and it vibrates too...
Pull yourself together, it’s just silicone for fuck’s sake.
But it’s yours.
And suddenly his mind, traitorous and vivid, supplies images he has spent years trying not to picture too clearly. You, laughing. You, stretching in one of his large hoodies. You, soft and sleepy in his arms. You, riding one of these fucking toys. You, spread on his bed with that thing stretching your pussy just enough to burn deliciously. You, moaning and whining and calling his name, begging to make it better with his—
And under the mortification, something else coils low in his crotch. Crude, shameful… disrespectful.
“They’re just toys.” You mumble, promptly looking away. “Right?”
“Yes!” Bucky rushes out, hating the way you seem to make yourself a little smaller, as if embarrassed. “Yes, sweetheart. I’m sorry. It’s just… I never knew you…” He trails off absentmindedly, exhaling harshly as his blue eyes trace your curves. His hands slide slowly to your waist, thumbs brushing small strokes over your hipbones as if he’s reacquainting himself with something he’s known forever but is allowed to touch differently now.
“Let me make you feel good. Can I?” Bucky murmurs, momentarily forgetting about the protagonists of his future dreams. He guides you back until he has you propped against your plush pillows by the headboard, their fuzziness and the soft plaid comforter under you easing your nerves just slightly.
You nod, certain but coyly.
Bucky then leans in carefully, planting a sweet kiss on the corner of your mouth first.
“Does this feel good? Here?” Half-lidded eyes burn into yours, your breath catching in your throat at the tenderness, and you nod again, quickly.
He smiles against your skin and shifts slightly, lips brushing along your jaw. Slower, lingering.
“What about here, mh?”
You bite down on your lower lip, the smallest sound trying to escape your throat before you swallow it back. Another nod.
His hand slides up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb warm beneath your ear as he presses a kiss just under it. He feels the way your pulse jumps, feels the way your shoulders tense before melting again.
“Oh,” Bucky hums quietly. “Definitely here.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt as a reflex, grounding yourself and him both.
Moving lower, his lips set over the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, charting your skin like an astronomer tracing a constellation he’s spent a lifetime hoping to find.
“Here?”
You nod too fast this time, and Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you, all twinkling eyes and clenched jaw.
“You don’t have to be so quiet,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your lip to free it from your teeth. “I wanna hear you.”
That only makes it worse.
You shake your head slightly, and he chuckles under his breath, so terribly fond.
“No?” He whispers, leaning back in. “You don’t want me to hear your sweet sounds?”
He kisses your mouth this time, taking your chin between his fingers and making sure your tongues touch in a slow dance. And you don’t disappoint, rewarding him with the most precious of moans.
“Good job, sweetheart.” Your next breath is shaky, gaze avoiding his as Bucky reaches lower to brush his mouth on the sliver of belly exposed by the raised hem of your sweater.
Another nod, and Bucky smiles against your skin, teasing.
“Mh, still nodding at me?” There’s no bite to it. “Cute, but I know you can give me more.” Your hand slides then into his hair as a response, tugging lightly, and Bucky almost breaks his composure. He exhales sharply, forehead dropping briefly to your stomach like he is the one being unraveled.
“You like that, huh?” He sighs, voice low. “Making me lose my mind over you?” The corners of your mouth lift mischievously, and Bucky has to grit his teeth to not smile at the adorable sight.
“Careful, doll.” His thumbs slide along your hips, adjusting himself so he can go even lower. “I might just return the favor… in a way you won’t forget.”
Your breath hitches, and his lips return patient, learning you like a sacred treasure.
“Here?” His mouth lands on your hipbone, and you nod, pressing your lips together.
“And here?”
A kiss on your thigh that again gives him a nod in return.
“And what about here, angel?”
Your breath stutters, and this time you can’t stop the high whimper that slips free.
His lips... kissing your clothed pussy.
Bucky stills for half a second to make sure he heard right, before a smug grin brightens his features.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought so.”
Once he’s climbed back up, hands back at the curve of your waist, he squeezes the flesh, relishing in your startled squeak. “How often do you use them?” He glances between your cloudy eyes and your tantalizing lips as you cling to his broad shoulders.
“What?” You mumble dizzily, blinking as if waking up from a soft dream.
“The toys.”
“It—It depends if—” A gasp interrupts you as he starts mouthing down your jaw and neck. “If I’m in the mood—Bucky.” You sigh, tossing your head back when his fingers dig into your sides.
“Mh?” He barely acknowledges you.
“Tickles.” Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt. His grip eases a little, stroking the skin as if to apologize. He goes back to your lips just in time to swallow your wanton whine. Meanwhile, his right hand grabs the box.
“What’s your favorite, sweetheart?” He asks, planting a kiss on your cheek that feels too pure compared to what you are about to do. Gulping, you sit more upright to examine your secret stash as he holds it between you two, his left hand gently splaying over your thigh to comfort you.
Your hand snatches the purple dildo that vibrates, your cheeks instantly heating up as Bucky leans back over you with a satisfied smile, kissing you with more love than hunger. His tongue runs along your lower lip, and when granted permission, he meets your tongue in an eager dance.
“This okay?” He pants in your mouth, his fingers having traveled to the waistband of your sweats without you even noticing it. His lips have you so dizzy your brain has been turned to complete mush, so you can only nod, already tugging him back to you as he lowers your bottoms, tossing them somewhere on the floor. You whimper in protest when Bucky doesn’t move, taking a moment to examine your panties, something that you were entirely unprepared for.
“You’ve been this wet the whole time, baby?”
Oh.
You feel your eyes widen, jaw going slack as you notice exactly what he was referring to. Glancing away in embarrassment, your hands shoot up to cover your face. You knew you were aroused, but hearing your best friend declaring it so crudely just makes you want to hide under your sheets and never come out. Your core throbs just a little, hot and aching under the uncomfortable fabric and his intense attention. Your fingers part shyly just in time to see Bucky reach for your centre, flinching as two fingers start a slow rubbing motion with just enough pressure, and an occasional pinch of your nub. Your slick seeps through, turning the cotton to a darker color, and Bucky groans as his digits get sticky with your arousal, his other hand undoing the belt and then unbuttoning his jeans for some room for his erection.
Your stomach churns as you bravely tuck your palms under your chin, finding him still staring at that stain. It’s really happening, you realize at once, particularly vulnerable now that your best friend looms between your spread thighs.
“Your shirt, can you…?” You croak out softly, and that’s when Bucky’s head shoots up, hands clumsily going for the hem of his sweater. You then wrap one hand around his neck to bring him back into a kiss as you let the other wrap around the dildo. Still devouring your lips, his fingers focus now on your panties, holding them from both sides until an abrupt rip echoes in the silent room.
You gasp, eyes snapping wide open just in time to see his hand carelessly toss your ruined underwear over his shoulders. Unbothered by the fact that he literally just tore the fabric in two, his whole body tenses at the faint click, followed by a low buzzing noise. The toy comes to life in your hand, tingling your palm, and you consider the sensation for a short moment, before pressing the button again.
“Fuck.” He exhales harshly, his forehead falling on your shoulder to brace himself as he feels your body tense beneath his, a soft whimper getting caught in your throat when you press the tip of the toy firmly against your clit.
“Can I—” He clears his throat, voice so rough you can hear restrain bleed through. “Can I look, princess?” He could come right now, completely untouched, but your comfort comes first. Always.
“Ah—yes, yes please!” Your eyes fall shut.
“So fucking pretty.” Swallowing back a growl, his hips shift unconsciously. His palms land on your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin at a calming pace. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, darkened eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features.
“Open your eyes, baby. Let me look at you, c’mon.”
The command is soft but you obey instantly, eager to show Bucky just how good you can be for him.
“Good girl.” The proud praise elicits a whimper out of you before you can swallow it. Your urge to please him definitely goes beyond eating reminders and proper breaks between your study sessions.
Your hips jolt up unconsciously when you start grinding the toy against your clit after pressing the small button once to let it vibrate faster. Your free hand scrambles to grasp Bucky’s wrist in attempt to find some sort of comfort while you let yourself fall blindly into the pleasure.
“Feels so good, right?”
Your eyes drift over his face, half-lidded, drinking in the stubble darkening his jaw, the perfect line of his nose, the smug curve of his smile, each contour and shadow marking him as impossibly beautiful. Scorching heat hums between you, and you feel it not just in your skin but deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like it could tear you open. Every brush of his lips, every press of his palm, every quiet sigh that slips from him drives you closer to breaking open, like stepping through your front door after the world has worn you down, when the pull in your chest finally bursts and you can only surrender to its force.
“Bucky.” You call out to him absently, panting.
“Say it again. My name.” His voice is suddenly deeper, you can see his throat bobbing.
“Bucky.” You moan, raw and louder this time, even if your face feels like it just bursted in flames.
“Good girl.” He notices the exact moment you register the words, a shiver shaking your body as your eyes close again in pure bliss.
Yes, a good girl. His.
“Wanna hear you say my name like that all the time.” He groans. “Why don’t you show me how good she can take this little toy of yours?”
You twitch, aching with the desperate need to put the dildo back, to indulge in the cruel vibrations until you fall over the edge. Yet your body complies without hesitation, sliding it inside your soaking core.
“Shit.”
You draw the dildo back out again, relishing the drag, setting a slow and steady pace with your wrist as a wanton moan falls from your parted lips. “Oh Bucky.”
“I’m right here, okay?” He grits out, exhaling harshly as his gaze traces your body. “C’mon baby, put on a show for me.”
Thrusting harder, your eyes roll back as your pussy clenches tightly around the toy in its desperation.
“Good girl.”
All of a sudden, Bucky’s hands, warm and so familiar yet new as they explore your bare sides, glide under your sweater, until your chest is exposed to the chilly air of your bedroom.
“That’s it, baby. Keep that pretty hole stretched for me.” He encourages, his tongue licking his bottom lip as he looks in your hazy eyes, before slowly leaning down.
His breath is hot on your skin, that’s the first thing your brain registers. You close your eyes in anticipation as he tenderly kisses you, then moving down to leave soft pecks on the swell of your breasts that send shivers down your spine. His thumbs brush your nipples so gently, indulging in every little gasp, but it’s not long before his lips close around a hard peak, both nipples receiving sweet suckles that gradually turn meaner.
“Why were you hiding these pretty tits from me, doll mh?” His eyes glance up, slyly grinning when his teeth bite down a little harder and your back jerks up.
“You’re drooling, baby. Can’t imagine what’ll happen when I split you on my fat cock.” The needy, desperate whine is out of your mouth the second the thought enters your mind. He licks his way up, from the side of your breast to your damp cheek, before firmly grabbing your jaw. His fingers keep your mouth open, only for a globe of his spit to land your tongue.
“Swallow.”
Gasping, you quickly follow his order, a hint of humiliation swirling chaotically in your belly. It only makes your core throb painfully.
“Beautiful.”
“Bucky please.”
“Please what? Need words, angel.”
Your mouth opens and closes pathetically a few times, before you can string a proper sentence together. “I want—fuck—I need you.” You eventually whimper out.
The deep groan rumbling in his ribcage goes straight to your stomach. “Good girl. Wanna see you come once around it, watch you moan and gush as you beg for me to touch you. And then I’ll make you leak for days.” His lips attach to your neck and collarbone, his rough words muffled by your soft skin.
You nod eagerly, whimpering as you pick up the pace, pushing the dildo as deep as you can, and it’s not long before you’re floating again, light like a fuzzy cloud of pink cotton candy. This is the best torture you’ve ever experienced, docile to his orders and exposed to his adoring eyes, but you really need more. You need him to fuck you like an animal, to have his strong hands that until now have only handled you with care to ruin you to tears and hold you down as his cock carves its shape inside you.
Bucky coos, observing your reaction meticulously, your legs twitching impossibly wider as you let your head hit the headboard. “That’s it. It’s been so long since anyone has fucked you like you deserve, and now my princess needs me to take care of her, isn’t that right sweet girl?”
“Only you, Bucky. Only you can do it.” You whisper.
His shaky exhale gives his anticipation away. “I will, baby. I will.” His eyes lock on your trembling form. “Fucking hell, doll, you’re perfect.” His lips are again all over your face, your lust-glazed eyes unable to do anything but flutter shut with desire. “My pretty girl, all mine.”
It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
“You ready to come for me, sweetheart?”
Nodding enthusiastically, the sound clawing out of your throat is pitiful. You love being stuffed and pounded, but having an orgasm just from it? It’s not something that comes easy to you. All at once, this feels like a cruel punishment. You need more, but pleasing Bucky is necessary, something stronger than the urge to rub your clit.
“Bucky.” You wail, squeezing his wrist.
He gently soothes his palms along your thighs and the effect is immediate. You melt into the mattress at the warmth of his skin, yet your chin wobbles pathetically. “What is it? I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re doing so good for me.”
“I need—can I touch it, please?”
Bucky sits back on his heels with a playful smirk, the urgent worry disappearing at once. “You can’t come if you don’t touch your pretty little clit?”
“No.” You shake your head, a thrill of excitement racing under your hot skin. “I—I hit it sometimes too.” You reveal quietly, the words spilling out before you can stop them.
His eyes widen, Adam’s apple bobbing. His whole body goes still, stripped of every shred of cockiness. “What?”
You quickly slap your hand against your pussy, glancing up at him to find him licking his lips like a wolf ready to sink his fangs into its coveted prey.
“Sweet girl, you like being rough with your pretty pussy?”
At your eager nod, your best friend swears every ounce of oxygen has vanished from the room.
“Then slap it for me.”
You swiftly pull the toy out just enough to bring your hand down with a sharp smack. The shock of the impact makes your body jolt, the sensation recoiling through your core as the wet sound resounds lewdly in his ears.
“Fuck!” Your pussy is so tender, yet the slap only spurs you closer to the edge.
“Again.”
You smack your flesh harder, gasping at the delicious sting. Alternating a few thrusts of the dildo to the little spanks, you are not sure you’ll be able to wait for his permission to come if Bucky keeps ordering you around.
“Just like that, don’t stop.” Humming thoughtfully—his cock hot and painfully hard, still trapped in the confines of his underwear—Bucky takes a deep breath, trying to regain at least a fraction of self-control before coming untouched just by witnessing the girl he yearned so long for losing herself to this debauchery.
“You’re doing so well for me. One day I’ll make you come just by slapping your pussy, I promise.” Your reaction is immediate, hips twitching up and mouth forming a lovely circle around a loud whine. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? My dirty, little girl.” His fingers smush your cheeks together with a cocky smirk. “You want another one, doll?”
“Please.”
“So fucking sweet.” He growls. “Go on.”
Tears start running down your cheeks unprompted. “’M so close.”
Nuzzling your jaw, he cups your face with such tenderness, appealing directly to that part of you that would do anything for him. “Beautiful… so, so beautiful. Wanna come for me, baby?”
You nod enthusiastically.
“Yeah, I know you do.” He coos. “C’mon then, put that stupid toy to use.”
“Oh my God.” Your eyes roll in the back of your head as you bring the toy back on your clit, the knot in your belly ready to snap violently. At this point you’re far too close to what you’ve been craving to care about your neighbors hearing you.
“Fuck! I’m coming—Bucky!”
“Let go, doll. You have been such a good girl for me. Make me proud, and I’ll reward you by licking your pussy clean after, okay?”
The tight knot in your lower belly finally snaps. You are at your pleasure’s mercy, your thighs trembling and your aching pussy clenching helplessly around nothing.
“There you go. You’re so fucking perfect, so good for me. Love you so damn much, angel.”
The toy ends up dumped somewhere on the bed as your entire focus shifts on your breathing, your head flopping back to look at the ceiling, utterly exhausted and still quivering from the leftover pleasure.
Without wasting a minute, Bucky is already kissing his way down your body, gently and attentively, until he stops between your legs, resting his head against your inner thigh, two fingers leisurely running from your clit down to your entrance.
Your reaction is immediate as your body lurches. “Bucky.”
He softly parts your glistening folds with his thumbs. “Look at this pretty mess.” He whispers directly into your core, his breath sending shivers down your spine.
As Bucky lazily flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, your body suddenly feels like it is going to implode. A strangled gasp falls from your lips when he slips a finger in, his mouth moving to thoroughly savor every drop of arousal from your previous release on your inner things.
Bucky decides then to busy himself with your clit again, and your body stiffens.
“Bucky! Sensitive!” You choke out, a hand shooting down to grasp his wrist while the other fists a handful of your bed sheets.
“‘S okay, I’ve got you, sweet girl.” With a mumble, he slips another finger in, making you cry out.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.
Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare, your scent making him dizzy as he literally buries his face in your core. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving him wild. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine.
Your mind and body are both spiraling out of control, thoroughly consumed by the exquisite sensation of his fingers stretching you so deliciously.
His eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features, his hand imprinting its shape on the soft flesh of your thigh to stop himself from humping your bed like a beast, so close to his own release that he could come right there with a single brush of the mattress against his cock.
He pulls away with a wet squelch, groaning in delight at the intoxicating taste. “Make a mess on my face” He rumbles, chest heaving. “Wanna taste you every day on my tongue.” His mouth latches back onto your clit, sucking on it with a steady rhythm, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds.
His fingers strategically curl up, massaging that sweet spot of yours, leaving you teetering on the edge of sublime release. His arms shake with pent-up desire, still, Bucky makes sure to take his time with your trembling body.
“I’m gonna—fuck, please please don’t stop!” You cry out, fisting his hair and he grunts.
“Give it to me, doll. Use me.”
You obey, literally humping his face. “‘M gonna come.” You sob, hips frantically driving into his face. “Jamie!” His tongue abuses the poor nub while quickly pumping his fingers even as your walls clamp, your slick pouring into his eager mouth, soaking his stubble.
“Breathe, angel.” Slowly retracting his fingers, his eyes study your face, your inner thighs burning raw from the way he rubbed his facial hair all over your core. He brings his fingers to his mouth, making a show of licking them clean as he crawls forward to hover over you again, his bulge now impatiently pressing against the fabric for your attention.
“Holy shit.” You huff, on the brink of passing out.
“One more.” Bucky kisses you.
“What?” You squeak out, still dazed yet blinking at him more awake than ever.
“One more, baby.” He implores, his hand soothing along the curve of your hip as you faintly catch the rustling of fabric. “You were crying so prettily for my cock before, don’t you want it anymore?”
Before your lips can part around an incredulous laugh, a weight settles between your folds. Your eyes shoot down as his length is gradually coated in your slick.
Thick, long, with veins running along the flushed skin.
“Shit.” He grits out, mouth watering at the sight of the mess you are making on his cock.
“I’m gonna come inside you, sweetheart. Ask me for it, ask me for my cum.”
“Please, Bucky.” You swallow back a whine, nails digging into his skin. “Make me yours.”
He shushes your blabbering gently, cupping your cheek. “Look at me.” He orders, your vision blurry from all the unshed tears. “I’m here, pretty girl. Just a little more patience and we’ll watch it leak out of you because it’s too much for you to keep inside.” The reverence in his blue eyes makes you shiver as he takes in your pleading gaze. The way his thumb traces your lower lip, so tenderly and hypnotizing, has him unconsciously leaning forward, until your mouths join in a slow dance.
Your name comes out of his mouth in a low murmur against your lips. “Thank you for letting me have you like this.”
You’ve been yearning for his touch for what seemed like a never-ending lifetime. Every fiber of your being has ached for him, and now that you have him like this, warm and gentle and staring down at you as if you are the missing piece of himself he was searching for all along, you can’t ignore it anymore.
“I love you, Bucky.” You blurt out, tremblingly grabbing his face with both of your hands, bringing him down for another kiss—hard and desperate and filthy, your heart beating so fast you’re convinced it’s going to escape your chest anytime now.
With flushed cheeks, Bucky pants, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “Sweetheart,” he soothes dotingly, an ache to his voice that creeps through the tenderness as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in, brought to his knees by three simple words.
“You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamed of this. Of you. I can’t pretend anymore now that I know what it feels like to have you in my arms, knowing that you’re mine...” Bucky swallows, eyes falling down on your chest before tentatively lifting up to meet yours.
You have never seen him like this. Hesitant. Never around you.
“You are mine, right?”
“Always have.” You breathe out, and with a broken groan, he takes your face in his hands, kissing any part he can reach: from your neck to your collarbones and then your breasts, latching onto a nipple. Moaning, you indulge in his warm tongue taking care of both nubs as his length slowly humps your wet folds.
“You feel it, angel? This is what you do to me.” He murmurs, humming at your nod. “Such a good girl.”
“Your good girl.”
That earns you a feral kiss. “I have to be inside you.” Bucky pants as your lips messily meet once again. “Now. I can’t take it anymore, need to feel you—Christ.” You break with a sharp cry when his tip encounters some resistance as it finally breeches your hole.
“Slowly sweetheart, look at her opening up so beautifully for me, you—” Bucky abruptly grunts as you clench incredibly tight. Maintaining a clear head becomes tricky, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a choked groan leaves his throat. “You need to relax for me, or else I’m gonna finish embarrassingly fast, angel.” A strained chuckle bleeds through his gritted teeth.
“Can’t. You’re so big.” You squeal mindlessly, thighs trembling around his hips as his base finally meets your core.
“I know.” His lips briefly press to your cheek, shuddering. “I know, but you’re taking it so well. God, look at you.” He swallows as his hips ease back slowly, until you can feel only the tip inside. You squeak out a pathetic whimper, hands clinging onto his shoulders. Then he bottoms out again, quicker this time. You gasp, back arching.
“Fuck!” You almost scream, your insides feeling so sensitive you feel like you are going to burst into flames.
Bucky finds a temporary steady pace, letting you melt beneath him, then bends your legs back, until they almost touch your chest, satisfied as soon as you respond with a sob of pleasure, the new angle making your eyes cross.
“Oh shit! Bucky!” Your nails leave crescent marks into his skin, toes curling.
He can’t take his eyes off you, drinking carefully in the way your eyes squeeze shut, or how your hole snuggles his cock deeper when his tip brushes just right against your walls. At some point, his wet mouth is on your breasts again, flicking your nipple some more just to listen to your pathetic whimpers and feel you arch back into him. His hips are picking up their pace, slamming against that deep spot at an almost desperate speed. When his fingers momentarily leave your hip to flick and rub your puffy clit, your lips open in a silent scream as you clench again.
“There she is.” He growls. “Fuck, it feels so good.” His thrusts turn animalistic.
“I’m gonna make a mess on your pussy.”
The shameless sound of your flesh slapping against his is so loud but you can’t hear it, too dizzy and lost in the feeling of his dick hitting your sweet spot with a new kind of precision. His muscled arms keep you safe and still for him to play with, his chest pressed against your bouncing breasts so your sensitive nipples are rubbed raw.
“Fuck, wish you could see yourself right now.” His voice breaks when your pussy tightens.
It’s too much—his fierce, insistent thrusts, his pubic hair stimulating your clit, the way he talks to you as if he’s losing his mind, just blabbering about whatever pops into his head.
And you? You can just take it. You scream his name, eyes rolling back and mouth unable to close, legs shaky and hips trying to rock back into his, unsuccessfully. Until your climax unravels violently and you ascend to heaven. Your body freezes, before pleasure ripples through you like pure electricity. Bucky marvels with gritted teeth at the clear liquid squirting out of you and making a mess of his lower abdomen and cock, fucking you through it to prolong your pleasure as much as he can.
You squirm uncontrollably in his hold, but he keeps you firmly locked on his cock.
“Jesus Christ, fucking beautiful, sweetheart. Wish I could keep you here and make you squirt on my cock every day for the rest of my life. You’re gonna make me come so hard.” He pants, voice bordering on a snarl and features scrunched up. “’S coming, take it all, doll—fuck!”
His cum spurts on your walls to claim you fully, cock throbbing, making him groan in utter relief. At some point, some spills out and down his thick length, mixing with your creamy mess on the bed and on your ass. You decide to not acknowledge it, too embarrassed by what you have done.
Bucky ends up collapsing over you, forearms firmly planted on the mattress to keep himself from completely crushing you, mindful of your well-being even as he feels like he is going to pass out after this powerful release, fueled by having restrained himself for so long.
You’re still shaking in his hold, exhausted and sated, but definitely more alert now that you have both freed yourselves of years of longing and pent-up sexual frustration. He’s reluctant to let you go just yet—and you couldn’t be more grateful for that, your body feeling like it’s going to crumble after your last climax—so he opts to pepper the slope of your neck in lazy kisses, indulging in your soft mewls when he finally reaches your mouth.
Bucky shifts just enough to brush a thumb over your cheek, watching your eyes flutter close and then back open, as though checking if he’s still there.
“Hey.” He clears his throat, voice hoarse.
Your lips part, words sticking somewhere between your throat and the tips of your tongue. You try to answer, but only a breathless hum escapes, and it’s enough. He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours, inhaling, grounding himself in the reality of you.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says more to himself, worry threading through his awe. “I just… I just want to know if you’re okay.”
You manage a weak nod, letting your fingers curl around his wrists. His eyes, wide and unguarded, observe you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to understand.
“You’re perfect,” he says finally, the words spilling urgently, reverently. “Every bit of you. You’re—” He swallows, shaking his head slightly, as if even language feels too clumsy for this. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed.”
A small, exhausted laugh catches in your throat, and you bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting him feel you trembling with the last threads of adrenaline leaving you. He holds you tighter, hums a random, almost inaudible melody against your hair, and for a long while, neither of you speaks.
It feels like an eternity passes before Bucky finally cradles your face in his hands, looking a little more lucid.
“We can talk after. But you need to know, doll, you are my whole world.” His forehead presses to yours, like he needs the contact to stay upright, as if pulling away means the gravity of the moment would swallow him whole.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. “How long I tried to hold this in. But I can’t anymore, not after tonight, not after having a taste of what it feels like to be completely and utterly yours.” His thumb traces the curve of your jaw.
“I think I’ve loved you,” his breath hitches, because he can’t believe he’s finally saying it out loud for you to hear. No moans, no bed creaking to drown the words. Just the quiet stillness of the night, as if the moon itself is holding its breath with him. “Since I was too young to even understand what that meant.”
Your hand flattens against the rapid drum of his chest, perceiving every irregular skip, every fierce, insistent beat that has somehow always belonged to you. For a moment, it feels as if the rest of the world has fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, trembling bubble.
Your eyes glisten with tears you haven’t let fall—tiny, fragile sparks that catch the dim light like stars at night, and your chest tightens with the ache of everything you’ve held in silence for so long. All the unspoken words between you, the years of stolen glances, small touches, and secrets suddenly all converge in this single moment.
His shoulders shift, leaning ever so slightly toward you, and your fingers press more firmly, almost desperate, into the heat of his chest.
“Jamie,” your voice quivers. “It’s always been you.”
And when you glance up at him, so radiant and so inevitably his, Bucky finally looks at you without any restraint, staying like he always has, and always will.
