Kate’s Cozy Corner

I repost stories I like or that I want to read and come back to. Back on my Bucky Barnes BS! In love with him 💜 I work in an ER and reading is my escape and peace Cancer ♋️🦀/40f

[onyx8514]

Not my stupid ass just realizing GN reader means gender neutral and NOT good night 🤦🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️🤦🏼‍♀️ and I even tried to google good night reader so many times and just left it alone, thinking it was some weird fandom cross….

This is my 2026 blonde moment everyone!

[prizzylicious]

✧ Apples & Aftermath Masterlist 🍎

▸ PAIRING: Mechanic!James Bucky Barnes x Fem!Citygirl!Reader

▸ SUMMARY: Returning to your hometown wasn't high on your bucket list. In fact, it wasn't on any list at all. But being the dutiful daughter you are, you find yourself back home after five long years, hoping for nothing more than a quiet break from work.

Instead, you're greeted by a string of increasingly frustrating surprises—the biggest one being James Bucky Barnes.

Your childhood best friend is no longer the sweet, chubby-cheeked boy who followed you around and stole apples with you. He's grown into a stubborn, infuriatingly attractive man who seems determined to get under your skin at every opportunity. And the worst part?

You can't decide whether you want to scream at him... or kiss him.

▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, reader pov, angst, slow burn, friends to enemies to lovers, mean reader, grumpy x grumpy, no use of y/n, lot of arguments, daddy issues, financial debt, dad steve rogers, therapy

✭ Part 1

✭ Part 2

✭ Part 3

✭ Part 4

✭ Part 5 - Coming soon!

divider by @saradika-graphics

taglist is open!

[biglychee]

Patching Up

$ log - bucky barnes has been lurking in tower doorways for three weeks trying to figure out how to talk to people. you come back from a mission hurt. he stops thinking about it and helps! $ warn --sfw --gn!reader --avengers!reader --soft!bucky --awkward!bucky --steve-and-sam-are-proud-parents $ wc -w 2.6k $ cd masterlist $ echo “account's js going to be quiet during the day bc im busy interning, but posts will be scheduled still, maybs” > authors-note.txt

The debrief runs long enough that by the time you get back to your floor, the common room has thinned out. You can hear the TV distantly — someone left it on, low volume, a laugh track going off for no one. You've got your kit on the bathroom counter and your shirt off. You're already regretting not asking someone to do this before they all dispersed.

The problem with cuts on your back is geometry. Simple, stupid geometry.

You manage the lower ones fine. The upper left (the one that actually needs a stitch or two) is the problem. You can feel it pulling when you reach, and you keep having to re-angle the mirror. So annoying — the gauze keeps slipping since you're contorting your arm in a direction it wasn't designed to go.

This is fine, you think, pressing the cloth to it at the wrong angle. This is completely fine and very normal and you are a trained operative.

The gauze slips again.

You don't hear him in the doorway. You just — become aware of him. It’s similar to the way you become aware of a change in air pressure, and when you clock the reflection in the mirror your first instinct is to go for the knife on the counter before your brain catches up: 

Barnes. It's Barnes.

He's leaning in the frame, arms crossed, watching you with the particular expression he seems to wear as a default. Not unfriendly, exactly, just very still. It’s like he's turned most of himself down to a frequency you can't quite tune into.

You'd noticed him around the tower; it’s hard not to. He had this way of hovering near the edges of rooms — near enough to be present, far enough to have an exit, watching conversations like he was studying for a test on how to be a person again.

You'd clocked him lingering near the kitchen while Sam told a story, near the TV while Nat and Clint argued about something. Or near the window during debrief like a curious, brooding version of Thor.

You'd wanted to say something to him about a dozen times and each time you'd talked yourself out of it because you genuinely could not figure out what the opening line was. Hey, you seem lonely felt presumptuous. Good job not being a sleeper agent felt worse.

So you'd just decided not to..

And apparently he'd been doing the same math, which had resulted in him standing in your bathroom doorway at eleven at night watching you fail at first aid.

"Hey," you say, because something has to be said.

He nods, and you turn back to the mirror. "I've got it."

You don't have it. The gauze slips again, proof positive, and you watch his reflection push off the doorframe and cross the room and then his hand — the left one, the metal one, cool even through the cloth — covers yours and just takes it. Bucky wasn’t rough with it nor hesitant, just with the quiet certainty of someone who has decided a thing and is doing it.

You go still. "What are you doing?"

"Helping."

He says it like it's the most obvious thing — like you'd asked him what two plus two was. He's already repositioning, tilting the light, assessing. The efficiency of it catches you off guard, the way he moves through like a checklist: clean, irrigate, and assess depth. You can feel him deciding about the stitch before he says anything.

"This needs two," he says.

"I know."

"You were going to do it yourself."

"I was going to, yes."

He makes a sound, something not quite a laugh — something shorter, quieter. But it's there.

Bucky works without narrating it, which you appreciate. Some people talk through medical stuff to be reassuring and it always has the opposite effect. He just does it, and so the stitches are neat. Tighter than you'd have managed at this angle, if you'd managed at all.

You're watching his reflection without meaning to. He's focused — entirely, completely focused, the same way you'd clocked him watching the sparring sessions from the mezzanine last week. It’s like the thing in front of him is the only thing that exists.

"You had good angles tonight," he says.

You blink. "Sorry?"

"On the entry. The building." He ties off the stitch, reaches for the gauze. "Most people come in high. You came in low and right, cut off the exit before they registered you were there."

You process that for a second.

"You were watching."

"Everyone was watching. You were the interesting part."

It's delivered completely flatly; just a fact he's reporting.

"...thanks," you say.

He tapes the gauze down, smooth and precise, with no wasted movement. "The one by the stairwell. Your second engagement. You knew he was going to draw left."

"He was guarding his right side the whole time. Led with it."

Barnes nods like you've confirmed something. "He'd been hit there before, old injury. You read it in about four seconds."

"Three," you say, and then feel slightly stupid.

The corner of his mouth moves. Not a smile, exactly, but the shape of one. "Three," he allows.

He steps back, checking his work with the same assessing look. You pull your shirt back on and turn around, leaning against the counter. He's already moving to wash his hands, unhurried.

"I've been trying to figure out how to talk to you for like three weeks," you say.

He looks at you in the mirror.

"You're very — " you gesture vaguely, " — a lot to approach. You've got a whole thing going on. Very brooding-corner-of-the-room energy."

He's quiet for a moment, drying his hands. "I didn't know what to say."

"Yeah, me neither."

"So I didn't say anything."

"Same."

He turns off the tap and sets the towel down. Bucky looks at you with that low, even look, and you get the sense he's filing something away — cataloguing this. Perhaps in the  way he catalogued your entry angle and the guard's weak side and the two stitches. Just simply noting it.

"Your form on the last guy," he says. "The big one by the door."

"What about it?"

"It was reckless."

You stare at him.

"You had three cleaner options."

"I had him."

"You had him that time." He crosses his arms. "Different footing, you're on the floor."

You open your mouth, close it. "Are you critiquing me right now? You just stitched me up and now you're critiquing me?"

"The two things aren't unrelated."

You look at him, and he just stares back. Somewhere down the hall the laugh track goes off again, tinny and distant.

"Okay," you say. "Fine. What were the three cleaner options?"

And he tells you. Quiet and precise, standing in your bathroom at eleven-fifteen at night, talking about leverage and sightlines and weight distribution like he's narrating a documentary only he can see.

You find yourself arguing back. Though, not defensively, just because you have a different read. He seems like the kind of person who wants you to push back, actually, who comes alive slightly when you do, the stillness shifting into something more alert.

The laugh track goes off again and you both ignore it.

You're still leaning against the counter. He hasn't moved toward the door yet. There's something in the quality of the silence that doesn't feel like an ending, so you don't treat it like one.

"Can I ask you something?"

He looks at you.

"The — " you gesture vaguely in the direction of the rest of the tower, " — social stuff. Is it hard? Like, actually hard, or is that a stupid question?"

A pause. He seems to be deciding something.

"It's loud," he says finally.

"The tower?"

"Rooms. When everyone's — " he stops, and tries again. "When people already know how to talk to each other. There's a frequency. I can't find it."

He says it the way he said three — like a correction. It’s as if he's been carrying the precise language for it and hasn't had anywhere to put it. "I stand there and I know what a normal response would look like but by the time I've worked out how to enter it the moment's already gone."

Letting the conversation sit, you stay silent.

"Steve tries," he adds. "He's — he tries very hard. So does Sam. It's worse when people try."

"Because then you know they're watching to see if it works."

He looks at you; something shifts slightly. "Yeah."

"I noticed you," you say. "Around, for weeks. I kept almost saying something."

"Why didn't you?"

"Couldn't really figure out the opening line. You've got a very — " you make the same vague gesture from before, " — don't approach energy."

"Hm." He considers this without apparent offense. "What changed?"

"You walked into my bathroom and took the gauze out of my hand."

The shape-of-a-smile thing happens again. Brief and almost involuntary.

"I didn't think about it," he says. "I just — did it."

"Yeah." You pause. "That's usually how it works, actually. The thinking is the problem."

He's quiet for a moment. Then, like he's noting something: "You patch yourself up alone."

"I had it."

"You didn't."

"I almost had it."

He tips his head slightly, but not agreeing. "You came back from a mission with a laceration that needed two stitches and you didn't ask anyone."

"I didn't want to bother anyone."

He looks at you with an expression that is very flat and very pointed and somehow manages to make you feel slightly called out without him saying a single word.

"That's different," you say.

"Is it?"

"I'm not — " you stop and start again. "That's just not wanting to be annoying. That's not the same thing as not being able to read a room."

"You were alone in a bathroom at midnight with a needle."

"Barnes."

"I'm just noting it."

"You're critiquing me again."

"The two things," he says, deadpan, "aren't unrelated."

You stare at him, and he does the same. The laugh track plays. You both continue to ignore it.

"Okay," you say. "Fine. We're both bad at it."

He considers this for a moment, like he's checking it for accuracy. Then, quietly: "Yeah."

It's not a big admission, as he doesn't really make it one. But you get the sense it's the kind of thing he doesn't say out loud very often — the small ordinary version of the truth, without the armor around it.

He's still here, you think, and that's the thing. He walked in and he stayed and he answered. He's still here, which for Bucky at this particular point in his grand life is probably the whole sentence.

"We should spar sometime," you say. "You could show me. The three options."

He goes quiet.

Though not the closed-off quiet from before — something different. Smaller, like a door opening somewhere very far inside, in a room that hadn't been unlocked in a long time. Something that, if you knew him better, if you'd known him before — back when he had a whole laugh and an easy grin and twenty-five cents in his pocket for the Coney Island ferris wheel — you might have recognised it as the very beginning of giddy.

He doesn't let it reach his face, but it's there.

"Yeah," he says. A pause. "That sounds good."

It's four words, but it shouldn't land the way it does.

He leaves, and you're standing in your bathroom, alone again. The laugh track plays one more time.

Huh, you think. Okay then.

He finds Steve and Sam in the kitchen at half past midnight. They're doing nothing in particular.

Sam has a bowl of cereal he's clearly eating out of boredom, Steve has a book open that he hasn't looked at in a while. They both clock Bucky in the doorway and do the thing they always do, which is very carefully not make it a big deal that he's there.

"Hey," Sam says. "You eat yet?"

Bucky doesn't answer that. He comes into the kitchen and stops a few feet from the counter — hands at his sides, shoulders back, the posture of a man delivering a report to people with the appropriate clearance level — and says: "I talked to Y/N tonight."

Steve closes his book.

"Yeah?" Sam says, neutral, cereal spoon frozen.

"They came back from the mission with a laceration on their upper back. I assisted with the stitching." A pause. "Then we talked about the mission. Their tactical instincts are good. They read injury patterns. They noticed I'd been — " a very brief stop, " — around. They said I had brooding-corner-of-the-room energy."

Sam's mouth twitches. "They’re not wrong."

"We talked about the social stuff. I told them about the frequency thing." He says it plainly, no preamble, the way he'd report a weather condition. "They didn't make it weird."

Steve's expression does something complicated and tender that he is trying very hard to keep off his face and completely failing at.

"They patch themself up alone," Bucky continues, with the faint air of someone filing a complaint. "They came back with a two-stitch laceration and didn't ask anyone. Y/N said they didn't want to bother people."

"That does sound like them," Sam says carefully.

"It's the same thing. What I do. They just don't see it that way." He pauses. "I told them the two things weren't unrelated."

Sam sets his spoon down very slowly.

"We're sparring next week," Bucky says. "So I can demonstrate the three alternative approaches they should have taken in the final engagement. Their form on the last target was reckless."

Silence.

Steve is gripping his book, but his jaw is doing something. His eyes are doing something considerably worse. He has the look of a man watching a sunrise he'd been told might never come and trying very hard not to ruin it by crying about it in a kitchen at midnight.

"That's — " his voice comes out slightly higher than intended. He clears his throat. "That's really good, Buck."

"They’re good," Bucky says, with a faint defensive edge that no one asked for. "Technically. Their entry angles are efficient. And they process fast. They even asked me a question and then actually waited for the answer."

"Mmhm," Sam says, nodding. Neutral and completely fine. Absolutely not affected by any of this.

"I'm just saying. As context."

"Useful context," Sam says. "Very useful."

Bucky looks between them, and they look back. Sam with a careful, nonchalant stillance. Steve with the barely-contained energy of a man who is sitting, technically, but only just.

"What?" Bucky says.

"Nothing," Steve says immediately.

"Nothing at all," Sam agrees.

A beat.

"I'm going to bed," Bucky announces.

"Good night," Sam says smoothly.

"Night," Steve manages.

Bucky leaves; his footsteps go down the hall, then a door closes.

Steve and Sam look at each other.

"He made a friend," Steve says, at a volume that is too loud for midnight.

"Steve — "

"Sam. He made a friend."

"I know, I was there — "

"They waited for the answer — "

"Steve — "

"They just waited — "

"I will pour this milk directly onto you," Sam says. "Look at me. I mean it."

Steve presses both hands over his face. His shoulders are shaking. It takes Sam a second to clock that it isn't distress — it's laughter, the silent kind. The one that gets away from you when you've been holding something careful for a very long time and something small and good finally tips it over.

Sam looks at the ceiling, picking up his spoon and takes a bite of cereal.

"...they sound good," he says, after a moment. Quietly. "The frequency thing. That they just — let it sit."

"They’re going to be so good for him," Steve says, into his hands.

"We don't know that yet."

"Sam."

Sam takes another bite and looks at the ceiling again. "...yeah," he says. "Probably."

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

$ cd masterlist

[mylovebuckyy]

bucky barnes hcs !! ⋆.*ೃ✧

a/n: hii lovelies!!! more headcanons (no angst.. i’m feeling nice) this time for my specialest boy bc i also think about him everyday all day….. i’m working on some longer things right now so just be patient i promise i’m trying 😓😓 will maddie ever finish a oneshot we may never know…. enjoy!! (≧∇≦)/

p.s. peep the new theme for pride month 🥳🥳🥳

- does yoga and is very passionate about it; it helps him calm down after nightmares and he likes doing it in the mornings to start his day (alpine also likes to join)

- likes to collect captain america merchandise, especially vintage merchandise (agent coulson has competition)

- adores going on dates to places like antique stores, record stores, museums… etc. he likes when he can be in your company in silence and doesn’t feel like he needs to perform or be someone else, he can just exist

- he snores. loudly. and once he’s comfortable with you and is able to fall asleep holding you (and isn’t waking up in the middle of the night because of nightmares), he is impossible to wake up in the mornings and he’s also impossible to move so if you wake up before him you just have to accept your fate and go back to sleep

- he is the best and most extra cat dad on the planet. alpine is SO spoiled and is literally living like a queen. he even takes her on walks in the mornings and she has her own personalized leash and harness

- i’m thinking in the summertime the metal of his arm overheats similar to that of a seatbelt in a car so he probably takes it off and douses it in ice water

- on a similar note, when you get super hot during the night he’ll slip his metal arm under your shirt to cool you off. i’m thinking he naturally runs cold so he uses you to warm himself up and you use him to cool down

- we already know he’s fond of nicknames (i.e. bucky, buck) but i think he absolutely melts when you call him by his first name. doesn’t matter if you’re being sweet or scolding him, he swoons every time. don’t even get him started on you calling him jamie.

- purposefully uses confusing 40s slang when he’s mad at you so you have absolutely no idea what he’s saying and thinks it’s the funniest thing ever

- very very very clingy and i mean this man has to have a hand on you 24/7. if you’re not holding hands his hand is on the small of your back or around your waist or playing with your hair; this man has to be touching you or he’ll combust

bucky my sweet sweet boy i love you so dearly

likes and comments are very much appreciated !! reblog for a kiss teehee ʚ♡⃛ɞ(ू•ᴗ•ू❁)

[holylulusworld]

Period Gate (2)

Summary: Bucky is happy.

Pairing: Beefy!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: pregnant reader, possessive Bucky, fluff

Catch up here: Period Gate

Six months after your discussion about tampons, Bucky finally made it. He fulfilled his promise and couldn't be happier.

“See, my pretty girl. I promised to keep those invaders out of you, and I kept my promise.” Bucky was busy nuzzling your crotch. His face buried in your lap, he talked to your vagina again. “I got her round, and now we can have as much fun as we want to. No more invaders touching any part of my sweet girl.”

“Bucky, that’s not funny!” You slapped the back of his head. He was a man obsessed and wouldn’t stop telling everyone, you know how he got you pregnant. “I still don’t know how you got me pregnant on my period. This is impossible.”

“Perks of the serum.” Bucky looked up at you, a cocky smirk on his face. “I told you that there’s no chance for your womb to stop my seed from growing inside of you. We made it.” He said to your vagina, not you. “My pretty girl only belongs to me now.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you groaned loudly, fingers tangling in his hair. “Bucky, we didn’t talk about having a baby yet. Now I’m pregnant only because you didn’t want me to use tampons.”

“Don’t mention them ever again,” Bucky growled before pressing his ear to your belly. “You can’t talk about these monsters in front of our baby.”

“You know that the baby will pop out of my vagina too,” you replied. Bucky’s head shot upward, but he didn’t look concerned. He was grinning again. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s my baby, doll. I don’t mind sharing my pretty girls with my baby.” Bucky chuckled at your angry expression. He was a little too excited about accidentally getting you pregnant.

“I know you got me pregnant on purpose, mister!” You accused, earning a stunning smile from Bucky.

“I know we never talked about children, but I want to have it all,” Bucky said, his voice cracking. “You know, when I was brainwashed and nothing but an empty shell, I never dared dream of having a wife, a baby, or at least a normal life.”

“You just ruined the stern speech I prepared,” you sniffled. “You can have it all, Bucky. We are in this together, you know. Me and you.”

“Me, you, and my pretty girl.” He grinned and knelt to nuzzle your crotch. “She allowed me to fill her up, and now, we are going to have a beautiful baby girl.”

[thewintermuse]

the bachelorette detour

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: The bonfire was supposed to be harmless. One night, one invitation, one more reckless vacation decision before reality came calling. But Bucky’s hard to keep at a distance when he looks at you like that, asks before he touches, and makes every careful moment feel like something worth trusting. Between firelight, a first kiss, and one last proper date before he leaves, what started as a detour begins to feel dangerously close to a beginning.

Warnings/Tags: Second Chance At Love, Romantic Bucky Barnes, Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex (F Receiving), Consensual Protected Sex, Public Sex, Like 55 Consent Check-Ins, Emotional Vulnerability, Bucky Barnes Being Dangerously Respectful: The Sequel 

Word Count: 14.7k

Music: 

Dress - Taylor Swift

Work Song - Hozier

Northern Attitude - Noah Kahan

Call It What You Want - Taylor Swift

Sweet Creature - Harry Styles

Talk - Hozier

Notes: hi hello!! This is part two of a three part series, part one can be found here! As mentioned before, this idea came from a TikTok I saw and festered in my brain. I’ve seen all the reblogs and comments for part one and I cannot thank you all enough for the love and support! I hope you all love part two while I finish up part three. <3

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The bonfire came into view slowly, then all at once.

At first it was only a glow, warm and orange against the deepening blue of evening, licking up beyond the curve of the dunes. Then came the shapes: silhouettes moving in front of the firelight, people gathered in small clusters with drinks in hand, beach chairs half-sunk into the sand, a cooler near a weathered wooden post, strings of battery-powered lanterns looped between two poles like someone had cared enough to make the whole thing feel inviting instead of thrown together.

The beach stretched wide and dusky around it, the ocean rolling black and silver a little ways beyond, waves collapsing softly against the shore. The sky hadn’t gone dark yet, not fully. It held on to the last bruised colors of sunset: lavender, peach, a fading stripe of gold at the horizon, and the fire made everything below it glow like some private little world carved out of the night.

You slowed without meaning to.

Beside you, Lena noticed immediately. “Still okay?”

You looked toward the bonfire.

You saw Sam first.

You knew it had to be Sam because he was standing near the food table with the kind of confidence that suggested he’d either organized everything or was loudly taking credit for it. He had a beer in one hand and was gesturing with the other while a blond man beside him, Steve probably, watched him with the patient exhaustion of someone who had heard this exact speech before and lost the will to interrupt.

Then your eyes moved past them… and there he was.

Bucky stood near the edge of the firelight, a little apart from the loudest part of the group, like he had tried to position himself casually and failed because every line of his body was angled toward the path you’d just walked down.

He was wearing dark jeans again, boots planted in the sand, and a faded navy shirt under an open gray button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was pushed back from his face, though the breeze had already started pulling a few strands loose. Firelight flickered over the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the dark scruff along his jaw, the slight crease between his brows that vanished the second he saw you.

And then he smiled.

Not the careful half-smile from the terrace. Not the controlled, almost shy one from your texts.

This one hit him before he could hide it.

Open. Warm. Relieved.

Like he had, in fact, been staring at the entrance all night.

Your heart did something terribly inconvenient.

“Oh,” Tori whispered beside you. “He is absolutely gone.”

“Behave,” Lena murmured.

“I am observing.”

Jess leaned in on your other side. “For the record, that was a very good reaction.”

Mia hummed thoughtfully. “Supportively less suspicious.”

You tried to glare at them, but the effect was probably weakened by the fact that you could not stop smiling.

Bucky began walking toward you before anyone else seemed to fully notice your group’s arrival. He didn’t rush, exactly, but there was a purpose to it. A quiet intent that made your stomach flutter with every step he took. The firelight followed him unevenly, catching in his eyes when he came close enough to stand in front of you.

For one suspended second, neither of you said anything.

The sounds of the bonfire moved around you: laughter, music, the distant crash of waves, Sam’s voice saying something far too loudly about “optimal marshmallow technique.” Your friends had gone quiet in that very obvious way people did when they were pretending not to be listening.

Bucky’s gaze moved over your face, then dropped, just briefly, to the blue dress.

When his eyes came back to yours, he looked almost pained.

“Hi,” he said.

You smiled despite yourself. “Hi.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for longer than was reasonable. “You look…”

His mouth closed.

You arched a brow, trying to save yourself from melting into the sand. “Careful. Expectations are dangerous, remember?”

That got him. His smile tilted, a little sheepish and a little devastating.

“Beautiful,” he said anyway. “You look beautiful.”

Behind you, Tori made a tiny sound that she immediately tried to disguise as a cough.

Bucky’s eyes flicked past your shoulder and you felt him take in the group lined up behind you like a very pretty jury.

His posture shifted, not nervous, exactly, but respectful. Like he knew he was about to be assessed and had accepted his fate.

“You must be the protective friends,” he said.

Jess folded her arms. “Depends who’s asking.”

Bucky held out a hand. “Bucky Barnes.”

Jess looked at his hand for one theatrical second before shaking it. “Jess. Current stance: undecided.”

“Fair.”

Mia stepped forward next, smiling in a way that was friendly but sharp at the edges. “Mia. I hear Sam thinks I’m leadership material.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “He does. I should warn you, that’s how he recruits people into doing things he doesn’t want to do.”

Mia nodded approvingly. “Good to know.”

Tori shook his hand with far less subtlety, looking delighted. “Tori. I’m rooting for you, but quietly, because I was told to be suspicious.”

Bucky actually laughed at that, and the sound warmed something beneath your ribs.

“Appreciate the honesty.”

Lena was last. She stepped forward with her calm, steady gaze and took his hand. “Lena.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, and somehow he made it sound like he meant more than manners.

Lena studied him for a beat, then nodded. “You too.”

It was not an endorsement, but it wasn’t a warning shot either.

Progress.

Bucky turned back to you. For a moment, his attention settled so fully that the others seemed to fade around the edges.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Me too.”

His eyes dropped to the movement, then back to your face. “Can I introduce you around?”

“Sure.”

He hesitated for half a second, then held out his hand, palm open. Not grabbing. Not assuming, but asking.

You looked at it, then at him, and placed your hand in his.

His fingers closed gently around yours.

It was absurd, how immediate the warmth was. How quickly your body remembered him from the night before. Not just the shape of his hand, but the feeling of being given space and held carefully inside it.

Your friends noticed. Of course they noticed.

Jess’s eyebrows went up.

Tori silently clutched Mia’s arm.

Lena’s gaze softened again, just barely.

Bucky led all of you toward the main group, his thumb brushing once over the side of your hand.

Sam spotted you first.

“Well, well, well,” he called, grin already spreading. “Look who finally stopped pretending he wasn’t waiting by the entrance.”

Bucky closed his eyes briefly. “Here we go.”

You looked up at him. “That was very fast.”

“I warned you.”

Sam came forward with a cooler confidence than anyone had a right to possess on sand, smile bright, eyes mischievous. “Sam Wilson. Food director, fire supervisor, emotional support extrovert.”

“Self-appointed,” Steve said, joining him.

“Incorrect. Democracy chose me.”

“No one voted.”

“Because they trusted my leadership.”

Steve sighed and turned to your group with a smile that was instantly calming, all polite warmth and old-fashioned steadiness. “Steve Rogers. Sorry in advance for him.”

“Never apologize for excellence,” Sam said.

Mia stepped forward at once. “Mia. I respect a man who knows his brand.”

Sam’s grin sharpened. “Leadership material.”

“I was told.”

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” he said, looking at Bucky. “I like them.”

Bucky muttered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

The introductions unfolded easily after that, helped by Sam’s complete inability to let anything become awkward. Steve was exactly as Bucky had described: respectable in a simple white shirt, quietly amused, the kind of man who seemed to listen more than he spoke but somehow missed nothing. There were a few others there too, friends of friends, relaxed vacation acquaintances whose names you caught and then immediately half-forgot because Bucky’s hand was still around yours and your brain had priorities.

And then there was Natasha.

She sat near the far side of the fire, red hair catching every flicker of flame like copper. She had one leg crossed over the other, a drink in hand, and an expression that made it seem like she had already figured out everyone’s secrets and was politely waiting for the rest of you to catch up.

“Nat,” she said when Sam introduced her, standing to greet your group.

Her gaze moved over all of you with cool, clever interest. When Jess introduced herself with a flat, “Current stance: suspicious,” Natasha’s smile sharpened.

“Smart,” Natasha said.

Jess blinked once, caught just slightly off guard, and you tucked that away for later.

Then Bucky’s hand shifted gently around yours and your attention swung back to him like it had been pulled by gravity.

The evening opened around you after that.

Sam swept everyone toward the food table with the authority of a man who had indeed appointed himself director of hospitality. There were foil trays of grilled skewers, corn, chips, fruit, dips, a truly unnecessary number of marshmallows, and a cooler stocked with drinks. Someone had brought a portable speaker, currently playing something mellow and summery beneath the louder rhythm of conversations. The fire cracked and snapped, sending sparks upward into the darkening sky.

Bucky stayed close, but not too close.

That was the thing you kept noticing. He was attentive without hovering. Present without trapping you in his attention. He introduced you, made sure you knew where things were, asked what you wanted to drink, but never made you feel like the entire night had to orbit him.

When you chose a bottled lemonade from the cooler instead of alcohol, he didn’t comment beyond opening it for you when the cap stuck.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, handing it over.

“Yeah. I figured I’d take it easier tonight.”

“Probably smarter than whatever Sam’s mixing over there.”

You glanced over to where Sam was holding court beside a cooler while Mia inspected his drink-pouring technique with theatrical skepticism.

“What is he mixing?”

“Confidence and poor judgment.”

You laughed, and Bucky’s eyes warmed like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

The two of you drifted closer to the fire, standing just outside the circle of chairs. Around you, your friends were settling in with surprising ease. Tori was already laughing at something Steve had said, though Steve looked faintly confused by how funny she found him. Mia and Sam had entered what appeared to be a competitive banter spiral over who was more qualified to manage the roasting sticks. Lena had taken a seat near the edge of the group, relaxed but watchful, though every now and then you caught her smiling into her cup.

Across the fire, Jess had somehow ended up beside Natasha, the two of them speaking low beneath the music. Jess said something that made Natasha’s mouth curve into a slow, approving smile, and you made a mental note to interrogate her later.

A gust of wind came off the water, cool enough to raise goosebumps along your bare arms. You tried not to react, but Bucky noticed anyway.

“Cold?”

“A little.”

He glanced down at his open button-down, hand already moving toward it. “Here.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

“I know.”

He slipped it off anyway, leaving him in the navy shirt that pulled unfairly across his shoulders and chest. He held the button-down open, but paused before placing it around you.

“Can I?”

The question was soft. Almost too soft beneath the music and waves, but you heard it.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He stepped behind you.

For one second, his body was close enough that you felt the heat of him along your back. Then the shirt settled over your shoulders, warm from him, smelling faintly like cedar and soap and smoke from the fire. His hands lingered only long enough to adjust the collar so it sat comfortably, fingertips barely brushing your shoulders through the fabric.

Your breath caught despite your best effort.

Bucky stepped back around in front of you, watching your face carefully. “Okay?”

You nodded, fingers curling into the edges of the shirt. “Okay.”

His gaze softened.

From somewhere near the food table, Sam yelled, “BARNES, IS THAT YOUR SHIRT?”

Bucky’s eyes closed.

You bit your lip, smiling.

“Sure is,” Steve called before Bucky could answer, sounding far too cheerful.

Sam appeared delighted. “Look at him! Chivalry at the beach!”

“Sam,” Bucky warned.

“Man’s been here five minutes and already donated clothing.”

Mia lifted her drink. “That’s community service.”

Tori beamed. “We love community service.”

Jess called from beside Natasha, “We are observing community service.”

Bucky looked like he wanted the sand to swallow him.

You laughed so hard you had to tuck your face briefly against his sleeve, now draped over you. When you looked back up, his embarrassment had softened into something else entirely.

He was watching you laugh.

Not smiling at the joke. Not glancing toward Sam or the others.

Watching you.

As if the sound had reached into him and turned some hidden light on.

Your laughter faded slowly.

The fire popped between you.

Bucky’s voice lowered. “Worth it.”

Your cheeks warmed. “Being mocked by your friends?”

“Making you laugh like that.”

Oh.

You looked down, suddenly very interested in the sand near your feet.

He let you have the moment, not pushing, not filling the space with another line. That almost made it worse. The quiet sincerity sat there between you, glowing.

Eventually, you lifted your eyes again. “You’re doing very well for someone who promised to disappoint me a little.”

His mouth tipped. “Night’s still young.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Only if Sam offers you something called a Wilson Special.”

You glanced over to Sam, who was now dramatically demonstrating something with a marshmallow while Mia heckled him.

“Noted.”

The next hour passed like something out of a life you hadn’t thought you were allowed to step into yet.

You roasted marshmallows badly.

Bucky roasted his perfectly, which you immediately accused him of doing just to be annoying.

“You’re too good at that,” you said, watching him turn the stick with patient precision.

“It’s a marshmallow.”

“It’s suspicious.”

“Everything is suspicious to your group.”

“Correct. We’ve been through a lot.”

His expression softened just slightly, but he kept his tone light. “Then I’ll try to look less competent.”

“Too late. You’ve revealed yourself as a man with fire-adjacent skills.”

“That going in my file?”

“Jess is probably keeping one.”

Across the fire, Jess lifted her cup without turning around. “I am.”

Bucky leaned closer and murmured, “That woman hears everything.”

You laughed and his smile lingered as he turned back to his marshmallow.

The two of you ended up sitting side by side on a blanket someone had spread near the edge of the fire circle. Not alone, exactly, but apart enough that the conversation around you blurred into something softer. His shirt stayed around your shoulders. Your knees were bent, toes buried in cooling sand, and Bucky sat close enough that his arm brushed yours whenever either of you shifted.

Each accidental touch felt less accidental than the last.

He asked you questions.

Real ones.

Not the easy vacation small talk of where are you from and what do you do tossed out like filler, though those came too. He asked what you loved about your work. What kind of things made you laugh when you were having a terrible day. Whether you were the type to plan every detail of a trip or pretend you were spontaneous while secretly knowing the restaurant menu three days in advance.

You told him more than you meant to.

That you liked knowing people were safe because of you, even in small ways. That your friends teased you for being stubborn but usually meant it as a compliment. That you loved mornings in theory but not in practice. That you bought books faster than you read them. That you used to make playlists for every important era of your life, but lately you hadn’t known what to call this one.

He listened like every answer mattered.

And when you asked him things in return, he answered with that same careful honesty you were beginning to associate with him.

He told you he liked quiet mornings. Old movies. Good coffee. Long walks when his head got too loud. He told you Sam had dragged him into the trip because he’d been “getting broody again,” and when Sam overheard that, he yelled, “I said emotionally unavailable hermit, not broody!”

Bucky threw a bottle cap at him.

You laughed until your side hurt.

He told you Steve had been his best friend for so long that they’d practically grown up under each other’s skin. That Natasha was the kind of friend who knew too much and used it with surgical precision. That he wasn’t always good in crowds, but he was trying to say yes to things more often.

“To bonfires?” you asked.

“To people,” he said.

The answer quieted you.

Firelight shifted over his face, softening the strong lines, catching in the blue of his eyes when he looked at you.

“Is that hard?” you asked.

He looked down at his hands for a moment. They were clasped loosely between his knees, broad and scarred in a way you hadn’t noticed before. Not dramatically, not enough to invite questions, but enough to suggest his life had left marks.

“Sometimes,” he said. “I got used to keeping distance. It’s easier.”

You understood that more than you wanted to.

“Safer,” you said.

His gaze lifted.

You hadn’t meant to say it quite so softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Safer.”

For a moment, neither of you looked away.

Then Sam yelled, “Who wants another hot dog?” and the spell cracked just enough for you both to laugh.

But it didn’t fully break. Not really.

It lingered.

In the way Bucky’s knee touched yours and stayed there.

In the way he passed you napkins before you realized you needed them.

In the way his eyes kept finding you across little interruptions, as though checking that you were still with him.

And you were.

That was the frightening part.

You were so with him.

At some point, the fire burned lower and the sky turned fully dark. Stars began to prick through overhead, faint at first, then clearer the farther your eyes moved from the lanterns. The beach stretched shadowy beyond the circle, the ocean a constant hush in the distance. People had shifted positions, some standing near the cooler, others sprawled in chairs, the conversations looser now.

Tori and Steve were debating something about whether a hot dog counted as a sandwich. Mia and Sam had entered an alliance over music selection, which seemed dangerous for everyone. Lena was talking with one of Steve’s friends, relaxed enough that she’d stopped scanning for emergencies every few minutes.

Jess’s eyes immediately swept over you when you shifted closer to Bucky on the blanket, sharp and assessing. Beside her, Natasha hid a smile behind her cup, looking entirely too pleased by whatever she’d noticed and wisely choosing not to say a word.

Bucky glanced toward the water, then back at you. Something shifted in his expression… hesitation, maybe. Want, definitely. Carefully contained.

“Would you walk with me?” he asked.

Your heartbeat changed.

Not in alarm. Not exactly.

But awareness moved through you, bright and immediate.

Bucky seemed to sense the flicker of nerves, because he nodded toward the shore. “Just down there. Still in view. Unless you’d rather stay here.”

There it was again. The room to say no.

The space.

You glanced toward your friends automatically.

Lena was already looking at you. Of course she was. Her eyes moved from you to Bucky, then to the stretch of beach he had indicated. Still visible from the bonfire. Still public. Still safe.

She lifted her brows in a silent question.

You nodded once.

She nodded back.

Jess, still watching, gave you two fingers pointed at her eyes, then at Bucky.

Bucky saw it and lifted one hand in solemn acknowledgment.

You snorted. “She’s going to be insufferable.”

“I respect her methods.”

“That will help your file.”

“Good.”

You stood, brushing sand from the skirt of your dress. Bucky rose beside you and offered his hand.

You took it.

The two of you walked away from the fire slowly, leaving the loudest laughter behind. The sand grew cooler as you neared the water, firmer under your feet. You slipped off your sandals after a few steps, hooking them in one hand, and Bucky wordlessly adjusted his pace to match yours.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

It was not uncomfortable.

The night had deepened around you, vast and salt-scented. The bonfire glowed behind you, a warm blur of orange and gold. Ahead, the ocean rolled beneath the moon, dark and endless, white foam curling and vanishing over the shore. The wind moved through Bucky’s borrowed shirt around your shoulders, pressing it closer to your skin.

Your hand was still in his.

You were very aware of that.

“So,” you said eventually, because silence with him felt intimate enough to make you brave and nervous all at once, “do you often invite emotionally compromised women and their entire security detail to beach bonfires?”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “First time.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky me,” he said, and there was no joke in it.

You looked over.

He was watching the water, profile silvered by moonlight, jaw relaxed but eyes serious.

“You can’t just say things like that,” you murmured.

His gaze shifted to you. “Why not?”

“Because I might start believing you.”

He stopped walking.

So did you.

The bonfire was still visible in the distance, the group still close enough to be reassuring but far enough that their voices had softened into indistinct warmth. The waves moved beside you, rushing in, pulling back, leaving the sand shining around your bare feet.

Bucky turned to face you fully.

“I’d like that,” he said.

Your breath caught.

He seemed to realize how direct that sounded, because he looked down for a second, a faint, self-conscious smile tugging at his mouth. “Sorry. That came out…”

“Honest?”

His eyes came back up.

You tried to smile, but it wavered. Not because of him. Because something about his sincerity pressed gently against a bruise you were still trying to protect.

Bucky’s expression changed at once.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Too much?”

You shook your head quickly, then stopped because the truth was more complicated than that.

“I don’t know,” you admitted.

He didn’t move closer. “Okay.”

“I like it,” you said, and your voice sounded embarrassingly vulnerable in the open air. “That’s the problem.”

His face softened.

You looked out at the water because it was easier than looking at him. “I like how you talk to me. I like that you ask before you touch me. I like that you invited my friends instead of acting like they were in the way. I like that you’re funny in this dry, accidental way and that you get embarrassed when people call you out.” You swallowed. “I like that I wanted you to text me this morning.”

The confession hung there between you.

Your chest tightened immediately with the old instinct to take it back. To make it smaller. To laugh it off before he could hold it.

But Bucky did not look triumphant.

He did not look smug.

He looked almost unbearably gentle.

“I wanted to text you at seven,” he said.

You laughed under your breath, shaky. “You told me.”

“No.” He stepped one inch closer, then stopped. “I mean I had the message typed out. Sat there staring at it like an idiot because I didn’t want you waking up and thinking, ‘Great, the guy from last night is already too much.’”

You turned back to him.

His mouth pulled into a rueful half-smile. “Sam saw me deleting it for the third time and told me I was setting feminism back by overthinking a good morning text.”

Despite everything, you laughed.

Bucky’s shoulders loosened a little at the sound.

“He may have had a point,” you said.

“He usually does. It’s annoying.”

The humor softened the moment, but only enough to make room for the rest of it.

Bucky looked at you carefully. “I know this is bad timing.”

You breathed out slowly.

“Maybe.”

“I know you’re hurting.”

Your eyes stung, sudden and unwelcome.

He continued, voice low. “And I’m not trying to be the guy who shows up on vacation and makes you forget everything for a weekend just so it hurts worse after.”

The accuracy of that fear made your throat tighten.

Bucky’s gaze stayed on yours, steady despite the vulnerability in his own expression. “I don’t want to be a distraction you regret.”

You looked down at where your feet had sunk slightly into the wet sand. A thin rush of water slid over your toes and pulled away again.

“I’m afraid of that,” you said.

“I figured.”

“But I’m also afraid of… not letting myself have anything good because he ruined so much.”

Bucky was quiet.

Your fingers tightened around your sandals. “That’s the part that makes me angry. That he gets to still be in my head. That even meeting someone who’s kind to me turns into this whole internal debate about whether I’m being stupid again.”

“You’re not stupid.”

The words came fast. Firm. Almost sharp.

You looked at him.

Bucky’s jaw had tightened, something protective flashing in his eyes before he visibly tempered it.

“You’re not,” he repeated, gentler. “Trusting someone who didn’t deserve it doesn’t make you stupid.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “My friends said that this morning.”

“Smart women.”

“They keep saying you’re making it difficult to stay suspicious.”

His mouth twitched. “Good.”

“I thought you respected their methods.”

“I do. Still want to pass.”

Something about that made you smile.

Bucky took another small step, close enough now that the wind lifted the ends of your hair against his chest. His shirt still hung around your shoulders. You wondered if he noticed the way you’d wrapped yourself in it, fingers tucked into the cuffs.

He definitely noticed.

His eyes dropped briefly, softening at the sight, before finding your face again.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m scared too.”

That surprised you.

“You are?”

“Yeah.”

“Of what?”

His laugh was quiet and a little rough. “Right now? Saying the wrong thing. Moving too fast. Moving too slow. Looking at you too much.”

Your heart stumbled.

“I don’t mind that last one,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened, not in a way that felt heavy or demanding, but in a way that made the air between you feel warmer despite the ocean breeze.

“No?”

You shook your head.

The waves came in again, closer this time, washing over your feet and making you gasp at the cold. You instinctively stepped forward, away from the water.

Straight into him.

Bucky’s hands lifted automatically, catching you lightly at the waist.

You both froze.

His palms were warm through the thin fabric of your dress. Steady. Careful. He held you just enough to keep you from stumbling and no more, though your body had ended up close enough that you could see every shift in his expression.

“Sorry,” you breathed.

“Don’t be.”

His voice was low.

You should have stepped back.

You did not.

Your hands had landed against his chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. Beneath your palms, he was solid and warm, his breath moving slow but not quite even. His gaze moved over your face like he was trying to memorize the moment without taking more of it than you wanted to give.

The fire was distant now.

The ocean was loud.

Your heart was louder.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

Then back.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question was so soft it nearly came apart in the wind.

For a second, you couldn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t want it.

Because you wanted it so badly it frightened you.

And maybe he saw that too, because his hands loosened instantly at your waist.

“You can say no,” he murmured. “Or not yet. Or—”

“Yes.”

The word left you before fear could catch it.

Bucky stilled.

You swallowed, fingers tightening once against his shirt. “Yes.”

His expression shifted, something tender and stunned moving through his eyes.

Then he leaned in.

Slowly.

So slowly that it felt like a thousand tiny choices instead of one reckless one. He gave you every chance to turn away. Every chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You rose slightly onto your toes, meeting him halfway because you wanted him to know this was not something happening to you.

It was something you were choosing.

His mouth touched yours softly at first.

A question.

A warmth.

Barely more than a press of lips, gentle enough that it made your chest ache. You had expected intensity from him. Expected the pull you’d felt since the terrace to finally spark into something overwhelming. But instead, the first kiss was careful. Almost reverent. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs still, his body held in check as though he was afraid one wrong move might break the fragile trust between you.

Your eyes closed.

Something inside you went quiet.

Not healed. Not erased.

Quiet.

You kissed him back.

That was when he exhaled, the sound low and unsteady against your mouth, and the kiss deepened by degrees. Still gentle, still restrained, but warmer now. More certain. One of his hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, holding you a little closer, and you let him. Your fingers moved up from his chest to the side of his neck, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath your thumb, the way his pulse jumped under your touch.

He kissed like he had been wanting to all night and refusing himself until you gave him permission.

Like wanting you did not make him careless, like y tenderness could be its own kind of hunger.

The thought nearly undid you.

When you finally parted, it was only by an inch.

Bucky’s forehead hovered close to yours, his breath warm against your lips. His eyes stayed closed for half a second longer, like he needed it.

Then he opened them.

Blue. Soft. A little wrecked.

“Still okay?” he whispered.

Your laugh came out quiet and shaky. “Yeah,” you said, a wobbly smile playing on your lips. 

His thumb moved once at your back. “Yeah?”

You nodded, and this time your smile steadied. “Still okay.”

The relief in his face was almost enough to make you kiss him again.

Almost.

From somewhere near the bonfire, Jess called, “You good?”

You laughed against Bucky’s chest, mortified and fond all at once. “That’s my emotional support menace.”

Bucky’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter. “I respect her.”

“You should. She’s terrifying.”

“Noted.”

The moment might have broken under the teasing, but instead it only folded itself into something sweeter. Realer. Less perfect in the best possible way.

Bucky reached up and brushed a windblown strand of hair from your cheek. He moved slowly enough that you could have pulled back.

You didn’t.

His fingers lingered near your jaw for one soft second.

“I should walk you back before they organize,” he said.

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved.

His eyes dropped to your mouth again, then lifted with visible restraint.

You smiled. “You’re trying to be a gentleman again.”

“Trying real hard.”

“And?”

His mouth curved. “In trouble again.”

Warmth bloomed beneath your skin.

This time, you were the one who leaned in.

The second kiss was shorter, smiling, softer at the edges because you were both laughing a little. But it still sent something bright through you, something frighteningly close to joy.

When you pulled away, Bucky looked at you like he was trying not to say ten things at once.

You slipped your hand back into his.

“Come on,” you said, tugging lightly. “Before Jess files a missing person report.”

He looked down at your joined hands, then back at you.

The smile he gave you was quiet enough that no one else could have seen it from the fire.

But you felt it.

All the way back.

By the time you and Bucky made it back to the bonfire, something had changed.

Not loudly. Not in a way anyone could point to without sounding ridiculous. There was no announcement, no dramatic music cue, no sudden shift in the stars above the beach. The fire still cracked in the sand. Sam was still talking too loudly. Mia was still arguing with him like she had known him for years instead of hours. Steve still looked half-amused, half-concerned by everyone around him. Your friends still watched you with varying degrees of subtlety, which was to say none at all.

But something had changed anyway.

It was in Bucky’s hand around yours.

Before the walk, he had held you like he was asking.

Now, he held you like he knew you had answered.

Still careful. Still gentle. But different somehow. Warmer. More certain. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles as you neared the group, and the small movement lit through you with such ridiculous force that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too obviously.

Jess saw anyway.

Of course she did.

Her gaze dropped to your joined hands, then swept over your face with the precision of a woman collecting evidence. She didn’t say anything, at least not at first. She only lifted her cup to her mouth, eyes narrowing with that sharp, assessing affection you had come to both fear and rely on.

“You good?” she asked.

You tried for casual. “I’m good.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I am.”

“Never said you weren’t.”

Her mouth twitched.

Beside her, Natasha hid a smile behind her drink, looking far too amused by whatever she had pieced together and far too wise to say it aloud.

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours once, almost like he was trying not to laugh.

You gave him a look.

He leaned closer, voice low enough that only you could hear. “I’m starting to think I’m the one who needs protection.”

“You are.”

“From who?”

“All of them.”

His eyes moved over your friends: Lena watching calmly from her chair, Mia pretending not to grin while Sam whispered something in her ear, Tori practically vibrating with delight, Jess still wearing her best interrogator face.

“Fair,” he murmured.

You laughed softly, and his gaze dropped to your mouth.

It was brief. Barely a second.

But you felt it everywhere.

The rest of the night passed with a strange, glowing ease.

You sat beside Bucky near the fire again, close enough that your knee rested against his and neither of you pretended it was an accident anymore. His shirt stayed around your shoulders. At some point, he brought you another lemonade without asking, twisting off the cap before handing it over. Later, when Sam insisted everyone participate in what he called a “high-stakes marshmallow tournament” and what Steve called “Sam needing attention,” Bucky deliberately burned his marshmallow after your previous accusations about him of being too marshmallow competent.

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped yours.

“There,” he said, holding up the blackened, smoking disaster with quiet dignity. “Disappointing.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“You said expectations were dangerous.”

“I didn’t ask you to commit crimes against dessert.”

His mouth curved. “Can’t please you, huh?”

The words were innocent enough, but the look he gave you was most certainly not.

Heat rose in your face so fast that you turned toward the fire and took an aggressive sip of your lemonade.

Bucky’s quiet laugh landed near your ear.

“You’re terrible,” you muttered.

“I’m behaving.”

“Barely.”

“Trying real hard,” he said.

And there it was again: an echo of the beach, of his mouth close to yours, of his hands at your waist and the way he had asked before kissing you. The memory moved through you in a slow, warm wave, leaving you unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol (not that you had any anyways) and everything to do with the man beside you.

He knew it too.

You could tell by the way his smile softened when you dared a glance back at him. By the way his teasing gave way to that careful, intent look that made everything else fade at the edges.

The night ended late, though not nearly late enough.

People began leaving in small clusters, shaking sand from blankets, gathering coolers, extinguishing lanterns. Sam declared the bonfire an overwhelming success, despite Steve pointing out that Sam had dropped two hot dogs in the sand and almost set a napkin on fire. Mia immediately defended him on the grounds of “visionary leadership,” which only encouraged him.

Your friends lingered near the edge of the group, waiting without making it too obvious that they were waiting.

Bucky walked you back toward them, his hand still in yours.

“I should probably say goodnight before Jess starts timing us,” he said.

“She started timing us before we walked away.”

His gaze flicked toward Jess. “Yeah, that tracks.”

You smiled, but there was a small ache beneath it now. A tiny, premature grief. Because the night was ending. Because tomorrow was his last full day here. Because the morning after that, he would leave, and this fragile, impossible thing blooming between you had a deadline neither of you had chosen.

Bucky seemed to feel the shift.

His expression gentled.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You looked up.

“Can I see you tomorrow?”

The question landed low in your chest.

You nodded before you could overthink it. “Yeah.”

“Properly,” he added.

Your brow furrowed. “Properly?”

His thumb moved over your hand once. “A date. Not just running into each other. Not just standing around while Sam tries to burn down a beach.”

You laughed quietly, but your throat felt tight.

Bucky held your gaze. “I meant what I said. I don’t want to be some vacation distraction you regret. So let me take you out. Just us.”

Behind you, someone (Tori, probably) made the smallest possible sound of approval.

You ignored her with great effort.

“A proper date,” you repeated.

“If you want.”

That tiny caveat. That soft exit ramp.

Always there. Always given.

Your heart folded around it.

“I want,” you said.

Bucky smiled like you had given him something precious.

“Good.”

The word warmed you all the way back to the hotel.

And the next morning, when your phone buzzed at 8:03 a.m., you were already awake.

You had been awake for twenty minutes, lying on your back in the soft white bed with the curtains drawn against the early sun, staring at the ceiling while the room around you breathed with the heavy sleep of five women who had stayed out too late for the second night in a row.

Your lips still felt like they remembered him.

That was the problem.

Your body remembered too much. The weight of his shirt around your shoulders. The careful pressure of his hands at your waist. The salt air between you. The way he had kissed you like wanting you mattered less than making sure you felt safe with it.

You had spent so long being angry at yourself for missing signs, for trusting wrong, for loving someone who had made your love look foolish in hindsight. But Bucky’s gentleness had done something strange to the tender, defensive places inside you.

It hadn’t fixed them.

It had simply touched them without hurting.

Your phone buzzed again.

You grabbed it from the nightstand so quickly that Jess, half-buried in blankets in the next bed, mumbled, “Pathetic.”

You froze. “You’re awake?”

“No.”

You looked at your phone.

Bucky: Morning.

Then, a second message.

Bucky: I waited until eight this time. Personal growth.

Your smile spread before you could stop it.

You: Very respectful. Very restrained.

Bucky: Don’t give me too much credit. I’ve been awake since six.

Your stomach flipped.

You: That sounds like a you problem.

Bucky: It is. You free this afternoon?

You bit your lip.

You: Depends what you have planned.

A pause.

Then:

Bucky: Lunch somewhere quiet. A walk through that little market by the marina if you’re up for it. Maybe coffee after. No pressure. No schedule. Just a proper date.

Your chest went soft.

Not dinner. Not drinks. Not something dimly lit and easy to blur into temptation, though God knew the temptation was already there. Lunch. A market. Coffee. Daylight. Time.

Something chosen.

Something intentional.

You stared at the message until Jess rolled onto her side and cracked one eye open.

“If you don’t tell me what he said, I’m going to assume he proposed.”

“He asked me out this afternoon.”

Jess’s eye opened fully. “Properly?”

You smiled down at the phone. “Actually, yes.”

That got the room moving.

Not quickly. Everyone was too hungover-adjacent and sleep-heavy for speed. But one by one, they surfaced: Lena sitting up with her hair in a messy knot and immediate concern in her eyes, Tori emerging from the pullout with a gasp when Jess said “date,” Mia stumbling in from the adjoining room wearing sunglasses and asking if anyone had died or fallen in love.

“Neither,” you said.

Jess pointed at you. “Debatable.”

You threw a pillow at her.

The morning became another debrief, though gentler than the one before. There was teasing, of course. There were threats of interrogation. Mia wanted to know what he had planned. Tori wanted to know if you had already picked an outfit. Jess wanted his last name again “for normal, non-criminal reasons.” Lena stayed quieter, watching you over the rim of her coffee.

Eventually, when the others got distracted arguing about whether you should wear the sundress from yesterday or something more casual, Lena nudged your foot under the table.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

You looked down at your phone, at Bucky’s last message.

Bucky: I’ll pick you up at two? Lobby?

You had already said yes.

“Nervous,” you admitted.

Lena nodded. “Good nervous?”

You thought about it.

The fear was still there. It would probably be there for a while, woven through anything new, anything tender. But beneath it was something else. Anticipation. Warmth. A little flicker of trust you weren’t ready to name but could feel anyway.

“Mostly,” you said.

Lena smiled. “Then go.”

So you did.

At two o’clock exactly, Bucky was waiting in the lobby.

Not at 1:58, pacing so visibly that you would feel guilty. Not late enough to seem casual. Exactly two. Standing near one of the wide windows overlooking the front drive, hands in his pockets, wearing dark jeans and a short-sleeved linen button down in a soft blue-gray that made his eyes look unfair even from across the room.

He looked up when the elevator doors opened.

The second he saw you, his face changed.

It was beginning to become your favorite thing.

His expression didn’t break open as dramatically as it had at the bonfire, but it softened in that same helpless way, like whatever he had been thinking simply disappeared and left room only for you.

You stepped out of the elevator, suddenly aware of every inch of yourself: the simple sundress you had finally chosen, the sandals, the necklace resting at your collarbone, the way your pulse had gone quick at the sight of him.

Bucky met you halfway.

“Hi,” he said.

You smiled. “Hi.”

His gaze moved over your face, then down just briefly, respectfully, before returning to your eyes.

“You look beautiful.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

You had no defense against him when he said things like that so plainly.

You looked down, smiling. “You look pretty nice yourself.”

His mouth quirked. “Pretty nice?”

“I’m trying to keep you humble.”

“Good luck.”

There it was. That flash of dry humor, the little curl at the corner of his mouth. You laughed, and something in him eased at the sound.

He held out his hand. “Ready?”

You looked at it.

Then took it.

“Yes.”

——————

Lunch was at a small restaurant tucked away from the busiest stretch of the beach, the kind of place with shaded outdoor tables, painted blue chairs, and bougainvillea climbing the wall in bright, impossible blooms. It overlooked a narrow side street that sloped down toward the marina, where sailboat masts cut thin white lines into the sky.

Bucky had chosen well.

Quiet, but not empty. Pretty, but not showy. Public enough to feel easy. Private enough that conversation could settle between you without being drowned out.

“I asked Steve for a recommendation,” he admitted once you were seated.

“You did?”

“Sam offered, but his first suggestion had bottomless rum punch and a mechanical shark.”

You paused with your water halfway to your mouth. “A mechanical shark?”

“Apparently.”

“That sounds incredible.”

Bucky stared at you.

You bit back a smile. “What?”

“I’m trying to take you on a respectful date and you’re telling me I should’ve chosen the mechanical shark.”

“I contain multitudes.”

His laugh was soft and startled, like you had caught it from him before he could guard it. The sound settled over the table, warm as sunlight.

Lunch stretched longer than either of you seemed to notice.

You talked about everything and nothing. Favorite foods. Worst vacations. Childhood trouble. The kind of music you could never skip. The little habits that made your friends love you and mock you in equal measure. Bucky told you stories about Steve with the kind of affection that made his teasing gentle. You told him about the time Mia got you both kicked out of a karaoke bar for arguing with the DJ about song order. He asked questions and remembered the answers. Noticed when you paused. Let silence exist without trying to conquer it.

At one point, your ex’s name came up. Not his actual name, because Bucky never asked for it, and you loved him a little for that, in a terrifying, premature, impossible way.

It happened because the waiter set down your food and said something about honeymooners getting a dessert discount if you were celebrating.

The words landed awkwardly.

The waiter realized it too late, face flushing as he stumbled through an apology, but you waved it off quickly.

“It’s okay,” you said, because it was. Mostly.

Still, a shadow moved through you.

Bucky waited until the waiter left before speaking.

“You don’t have to pretend that didn’t hurt.”

Your throat tightened. You looked at him across the table, at his steady face, at the way his hands rested near his glass but did not reach for you in public without permission.

“I’m okay,” you said.

“I believe you.”

That surprised you.

He continued, softer, “And I also think it probably still hurt.”

You looked down at your plate, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.

“It’s stupid,” you whispered.

“No.”

“It is. I don’t even want him anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not grieving what he broke.”

The simple accuracy of it made your chest ache.

You took a slow breath.

“I hate that he’s still here,” you admitted. “Not here here, but… in things. In words. In stupid assumptions from strangers. In the way I have to explain why I’m on a trip that was supposed to be for a wedding that isn’t happening.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed gentle. “I hate that for you.”

You laughed a little, shaky. “Me too.”

His hand moved then, slowly across the table, palm up.

An offering.

You placed your hand in his and he closed his fingers around yours.

“You don’t have to be over it for this to matter,” he said.

Your eyes lifted to his.

“This?” you asked.

The corner of his mouth softened, but he did not look away. “This.”

There was no mistaking what he meant. Not the lunch. Not the trip. Not the flirtation alone.

This thing between you. This fragile, sudden, inconvenient spark that kept refusing to behave like something casual.

Your heart gave one hard, hopeful thud.

“Bucky,” you said softly.

“I know,” he murmured. “Poor timing.”

“Maybe.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“But not bad?”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you shook your head. “No. Not bad.”

After lunch, you walked through the market by the marina.

Colorful stalls lined the walkway, striped awnings fluttering in the breeze. There were handmade bracelets, linen shirts, jars of local honey, tiny watercolor paintings of the coastline, shells polished into jewelry, sun hats stacked in leaning towers. The air smelled like salt, sunscreen, grilled fish from a nearby stand, and sugar from a cart selling warm pastries dusted with cinnamon.

It was easy with him.

That was what kept surprising you.

The date should have felt loaded after the night before. Heavy with expectation, tangled in all the things you were both not saying about him leaving in the morning. Instead, it unfolded with a sweetness that made you ache. Bucky bought a bag of candied almonds from a vendor and held it open for you without comment. You tried on a ridiculous oversized sun hat, and he looked at you with such solemn admiration that you nearly lost it.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

“I was thinking it’s a strong look.”

“You’re lying.”

“Absolutely.”

You laughed and put the hat back.

At another stall, you paused over a display of delicate bracelets woven with tiny glass beads. One was sea-blue, nearly the color of the dress you’d worn the night before.

Bucky noticed.

Of course he did.

You moved on without buying it.

Ten minutes later, while you were distracted by a shelf of painted postcards, he disappeared for exactly long enough to be suspicious.

When he returned, his expression was too neutral.

You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Bucky.”

“Walked.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Been told that.”

He held out his closed fist.

Your stomach dipped.

Slowly, he opened his hand.

The bracelet rested in his palm, tiny blue beads catching the afternoon light.

You stared at it.

“Bucky.”

His voice softened. “I saw you looking at it.”

“You didn’t have to buy it.”

“I know.”

That phrase again. Never defensive. Never trying to turn kindness into debt.

Just: I know.

He looked almost shy when he added, “Wanted you to have something from today that wasn’t complicated.”

The words went straight through you.

For a moment, you couldn’t speak.

Then you held out your wrist.

His eyes lifted to yours, asking silently.

You nodded.

He tied the bracelet around your wrist with careful fingers, his head bent, his touch light and focused. The moment was so small. So quiet. Just a man tying a bracelet beneath the shade of a market awning while strangers moved around you and gulls cried somewhere overhead.

But it felt enormous.

When he finished, his fingers lingered for half a second against the inside of your wrist.

Your pulse jumped beneath his touch.

He noticed.

You knew he noticed because his gaze flicked there, then up to your face.

The market noise seemed to fade.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

His voice was low. “You’re welcome.”

By late afternoon, the date had blurred into coffee, then a walk along the marina, then sitting side by side on a stone wall watching boats drift in and out of the harbor while the sun began to lean westward. Neither of you seemed willing to call it.

Not yet.

The hours had become precious, though neither of you said so.

Bucky’s flight left the next morning, while your group still had another day after that. There was a clock on this, ticking beneath every laugh, every glance, every brush of his hand against yours.

And yet, somehow, the deadline made him more present, not less.

He did not rush. Did not push. Did not treat the day like something to consume before it vanished.

He simply stayed with you.

Fully.

When your phone buzzed with a message from the group chat around six, you glanced down to find a photo Mia had sent of herself, Sam, Tori, Steve, Lena, Jess, and Natasha crowded around a table somewhere, drinks raised, all wearing varying expressions of chaos.

Mia: Dinner acquired. We are alive. Suspicious levels currently moderate. Have fun, don’t be reckless. Actually be a little reckless. Lena says hydrated reckless.

Then:

Jess: Text me your location or I become a problem.

You smiled and sent back a quick update.

Bucky watched your face. “They okay?”

“They’ve adopted your friends.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Probably.”

His mouth curved. “Sam’s going to be impossible after this.”

“Mia too.”

“Good pair.”

You looked at him, amused. “Careful.”

“What?”

“You sound like a man trying to merge friend groups after one date.”

His expression shifted, like he’d been caught, maybe, then softer.

“Too much?”

You should have teased him.

Instead, you said, “No.”

The honesty startled both of you.

Bucky looked down, smiling faintly. “Good.”

Dinner happened almost accidentally.

A small place near the water. Outdoor table. Shared plates because neither of you could decide and Bucky claimed ordering half the menu was “efficient.” The sky turned gold, then rose, then a deepening blue. Lanterns came on around you. Your knees brushed beneath the table. Your bracelet caught the light every time you reached for your glass.

At some point, Bucky looked at it and smiled to himself.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

He leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking from your wrist to your face. “Just like seeing it on you.”

The warmth that moved through you then was dangerous.

Not because it was unfamiliar.

Because it felt like belonging to a moment you didn’t want to end.

After dinner, you walked again.

Neither of you made a decision about where to go. You simply followed the pull of the evening, through quieter streets, past shops closing for the night, past couples walking hand in hand and families carrying tired children back toward hotels. Eventually, inevitably, your feet found the path toward the beach.

The same beach.

The same stretch of sand.

The bonfire was gone now, the permitted fire pit cold and dark, the lantern poles bare. Without the crowd, without the music and laughter, the beach seemed larger. Softer. More intimate in its emptiness. The ocean moved under the moon just as it had the night before, steady and silver-edged, the tide whispering up the shore.

Bucky slowed when he realized where you were.

You did too.

For a moment, both of you stood at the top of the wooden path, looking down at the place where everything had shifted the night before.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

Your throat tightened.

You looked at him.

The moonlight softened his face, but not the concern in his eyes. He was already prepared to turn around. Already prepared to choose your comfort over nostalgia, over romance, over whatever he might have wanted from bringing you here.

You reached for his hand.

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s okay.”

You walked down together.

The sand was cooler tonight, the beach emptier. You slipped off your sandals and carried them in one hand, just like before. Bucky matched your pace, his hand warm around yours. No firelight this time. No friends watching from a distance. No laughter to soften the silence.

Just the two of you.

And the ocean.

You walked along the tide line until the lights from the busier part of the beach dimmed behind you. Not far enough to be hidden entirely, but far enough that the world felt hushed. Private. The waves rushed in close, foaming around your feet before sliding back into the dark.

Bucky stopped where you had kissed the night before.

Or close to it.

You knew because your body remembered.

He turned toward you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

The whole day seemed to gather there between you. The date. The bracelet. The laughter. The quiet confessions. The knowledge of morning waiting too close.

“You leave tomorrow,” you said.

Bucky’s expression dimmed at the edges.

“Yeah.”

“I keep trying not to think about it.”

“Me too.”

The wind moved between you, lifting your hair across your cheek. He reached up slowly, brushing it back with the backs of his fingers.

“I had a good day,” he said.

You smiled, though it hurt a little. “Me too.”

“No.” His thumb grazed your cheek once. “I mean… I had the kind of day I’m going to think about when I’m somewhere else and probably make myself miserable.”

Your breath caught.

“That sounds awful.”

“It will be.”

“Bucky.”

His smile was small and aching. “Worth it.”

Something in your chest cracked open.

You stepped closer.

He watched you carefully, but there was want in his eyes now. Clearer than before. Not hidden, not denied, only held back by the thread of restraint he had kept between you from the start.

You were suddenly tired of restraint.

Not because you wanted him to stop being gentle.

Because you trusted the gentleness.

Because wanting him no longer felt like betraying yourself.

Because grief had taken enough from you, and standing barefoot in moonlit sand with a man who had spent the whole day choosing you carefully, you did not want to hand it this too.

You set your sandals down.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to them, then returned to your face.

Your voice came out soft. “Kiss me.”

He did not need to be asked twice.

Bucky stepped into you, one hand sliding to your waist, the other cupping your jaw as his mouth found yours. This kiss was not the tentative question from the night before. 

It began gentle because he was Bucky, because care seemed written into the way he touched you now, but the softness deepened quickly into something warmer. Hungrier. Your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer as the ocean rushed around your ankles and the wind wrapped around you both.

He made a low sound against your mouth when you kissed him harder.

The sound moved through you like flame.

His hand tightened at your waist.

Not enough to trap. Just enough to tell you he felt it too. The pull. The ache. The day’s worth of looking and wanting and waiting compressed into this one point of contact.

You broke away only to breathe.

Bucky’s forehead dipped to yours, his breath uneven.

“We should slow down,” he murmured, though he did not move away.

“Do you want to?”

His eyes opened.

The answer was there before he spoke.

“No.”

Heat curled low in your stomach.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed. “I need you to be sure.”

You looked at him beneath the moonlight, at this man who had asked at every step, who had held back not because he didn’t want you but because he wanted you safely, honestly, without regret.

Your fingers softened at his chest.

“I’m sure.”

Bucky went still.

For a second, all you heard was the ocean.

Then he kissed you again.

The world narrowed to his mouth, his hands, the warmth of him against the cool night air. 

You whispered his name against his mouth.

He answered by kissing you deeper.

It was like the careful dam he’d built between you finally gave way. Not in a crash, but in a slow, inevitable surge. 

His tongue traced your lower lip, asking, and you opened for him with a soft sound that seemed to unravel something in his chest. He tasted like salt air and the faint sweetness of the candied almonds you’d shared and underneath it all, something warm and unmistakably him. The kiss grew hungry, tongues sliding together, breaths mingling as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

Until the ocean reminded you it was there.

The tide rushed in around your ankles, colder this time, a sharp, startling bite that stole a gasp right out of you against his lips. Your toes dug instinctively into the sand as the water swirled and tugged, and Bucky reacted before you even finished flinching with one arm tightening around your waist, anchoring you to him like instinct had already memorized your balance.

You laughed breathlessly into the kiss, half shock and half delight, and he chased the sound with his mouth, smiling against you as the water pulled back again.

His forehead hovered close. “Cold?”

“A little,” you admitted, voice unsteady from more than the water.

His thumb brushed once at your hip, a quiet check-in. “Want to move back?”

You should have said yes.

The practical answer was yes. Away from the water. Back to dry sand. Back to the blanket that had been in the bag he’d brought, because apparently Bucky Barnes prepared for comfort and contingencies and possibilities he was too honorable to assume.

But the moonlight was silver across his face, turning his eyes dark and bright at once. The ocean softened around the edges of the night like a living thing. His hands were careful on your body, his mouth still warm against yours, and something about the tide washing over your feet made the moment feel less like standing on the edge of something and more like finally stepping into it.

So instead, you shook your head.

“No.”

Bucky’s brows drew together faintly, not displeased, just questioning. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t try to steer you. He simply watched you, waiting for you to lead the next step the way he had been letting you lead from the beginning.

You stepped backward.

Not away from him. Not really.

Toward the water.

The next wave slid up around your calves, tugging at the hem of your dress and you bit back a gasp at the cold. The fabric clung instantly, heavy and damp against your legs. Bucky’s grip tightened, instinctive and protective, as if he’d already decided he’d catch you no matter what.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low but laced with wonder. 

Your heart hammered hard enough you could feel it in your throat.

Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was childish. Maybe it was the kind of thing you’d laugh about later, with sand in your hair and salt on your skin and the memory of him looking at you like this burned permanently behind your ribs.

But tonight had already become something you would remember forever.

And you wanted to remember all of it.

The moon. The water. The way he looked at you like he was afraid to want too much and unable to stop wanting anyway.

You took another step back, the water rising around your knees, and held out your hand like a dare.

“Come here.”

Bucky stared at you for a long second.

Then a slow, disbelieving smile touched his mouth, soft and dangerous, like surrender dressed up as amusement.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured.

You didn’t even try to deny it. You only lifted your hand higher. “You coming?”

His gaze dropped to your hand.

Then to the water.

Then back to your face.

Something in him shifted, like a careful internal debate ended, like the last thread of restraint snapped in a way that wasn’t reckless, just inevitable.

“Yeah sweetheart,” he said, voice rough. “I’m coming.”

He followed you into the surf.

The ocean curled around his boots first, then his calves, darkening the denim at his legs. His shirt clung at the hem where the water splashed up, and you watched him take another step without hesitation, as if the cold didn’t matter. As if the only thing that mattered was you.

You backed farther into the shallow water, laughing softly when another wave pushed against your thighs and made your dress cling cool and heavy to your skin.

Bucky caught up to you in two strides.

His hands found your waist again

“Still okay?” he asked.

You nearly broke apart right there.

Even now. Even here. With the ocean around you, your dress soaked at the hem, and the heat between you making every breath feel fragile and bright… he still asked. Still offered you the choice. Still held himself back by the same thread of care that had undone you from the beginning.

You reached up, water dripping from your fingers as you touched his face, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw.

“Still okay.”

His eyes closed for half a second, like the words landed somewhere deep.

Then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss hit differently in the water.

Less polished. Less careful around the edges. The ocean moved around you both, pressing you together and pulling away again, making balance something you had to share. Your hands slid up his wet shirt, fingers curling at his shoulders, while his arm locked securely around your back to keep you steady. The tide surged against your thighs, and Bucky used the momentum to draw you closer, his breath breaking against your mouth when your body met his.

You kissed him harder.

He answered with a sound that disappeared into the rush of the next wave, muffled and ruined against your lips.

The water rose and fell around you, dark and silver, soaking the skirt of your dress. Bucky’s shirt stuck to his chest, outlining the hard breadth of him beneath your palms. Salt gathered on your lips. His hair came loose in the breeze, damp strands brushing his forehead, and when you pushed them back, he looked at you like the touch had ruined him.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, voice rough yet the question beneath it was gentle, careful as ever.

Everything in you trembled.

The ocean whispered around your legs. The shore waited behind him, the sand pale beneath moonlight. Somewhere far away, the rest of the world existed: hotels, flights, friends, mornings, consequences.

Here, there was only Bucky.

Only his hands holding you above the pull of the water.

Only the knowledge that wanting him did not feel like losing yourself.

Your thumb brushed over the line of his jaw. “You.”

His breath caught.

“You,” you said again, quieter, letting the word carry everything you couldn’t explain. “This. I don’t want to be afraid of wanting this.”

His expression changed. Not into triumph, not into impatience.

Into something reverent.

Something careful and starving all at once.

He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. The kind of kiss that made the cold water feel distant, the kind that warmed you from the inside out until the night felt liquid around you. His hands slid over your back, your waist, the wet fabric of your dress, never taking more than you gave, yet making it clear with every restrained touch how badly he wanted to.

You rose onto your toes, arms winding around his neck, and the movement shifted your balance.

The next wave came in stronger.

You gasped as it hit, and Bucky caught you instantly, one arm banding around your waist, the other bracing at your back, lifting you just enough that the water couldn’t pull you under. Your laughter broke into the kiss, startled and breathless, and his followed, low and disbelieving, like he couldn’t decide whether to be exasperated or completely undone by you.

“Careful,” he murmured against your mouth.

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep making it hard.”

Your smile faded slowly.

So did his.

The air between you changed again, thicker, quieter, charged in a way the ocean couldn’t wash out.

You were close enough now that every breath brushed his mouth. Water streamed from the hem of your dress. His shirt was wet beneath your hands. His eyes moved over your face, down to your lips, then back up again, and the want there made your knees feel unsteady in a way the ocean had nothing to do with.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His forehead came to rest against yours.

“I know,” he breathed. 

You closed your eyes, heart beating too loud. “I don’t want to stop.”

His hand flexed once at your back, not pushing, just holding.

“I need you to be sure.”

You opened your eyes and looked at him. Really looked.

At this man who had turned your ruined bachelorette trip into something that felt dangerously like a beginning. This man who asked, and asked, and asked again, not because he doubted you, but because he respected your answer too much to assume it.

You kissed him softly, then said against his mouth, “I’m sure.”

Bucky’s breath left him unevenly.

For a moment, he only held you there in the surf. 

The water moved around both of you in cool, insistent pulses, but Bucky’s body was warm and solid against yours, his arms locked around your back like he was afraid the tide might steal you away. He was taking the words in, your quiet, trembling confession that you wanted this, that you wanted him, and memorizing them. You could feel it in the way his chest rose and fell against yours, in the slight tremor that ran through him.

Then he bent his head and kissed your shoulder through the damp strap of your dress in a slow press of lips that made your eyes flutter shut. 

The kiss lingered, warm and salt-tinged, his beard rasping gently over wet skin and sending shivers racing straight down your spine. 

He didn’t rush. His mouth traced the curve of your shoulder, then lower, following the line where fabric met flesh. One broad hand slipped beneath the strap, easing it down with a care that made your chest ache, baring one breast to the cool night air and the occasional spray of the tide. 

Bucky pulled back just enough to look.

Moonlight caught on the droplets of water sliding over your skin, tracing the swell of your breast and the tight peak of your nipple. The raw hunger in his gaze stole what little breath you had left, but there was something else there too… wonder. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“God,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re unreal.”

Then his mouth was on you, hot and insistent against cool skin. His tongue circled your nipple in slow, devastating strokes before he sucked it into his mouth with a low groan that vibrated straight through you. 

His hand cupped and kneaded the other breast through the soaked fabric, thumb brushing back and forth over the nipple until you arched into him with a soft, broken cry. Your fingers threaded through his damp hair, holding him close as pleasure sparked sharp and bright through the chill of the water.

He lavished you with attention, switching sides, sucking and licking until your knees truly threatened to give out and the only thing keeping you upright was his arm locked around your waist.

The tide kept surging, waves lapping higher against your thighs, but the cold barely registered anymore. All you could feel was him: the solid heat of his body, the scrape of his beard, the low groans vibrating from his chest every time you gasped his name. Your hands roamed desperately over his wet shirt, tugging at the fabric, needing more of him.

As if he sensed it, Bucky lifted his head.

For a moment he simply looked at you.

Water glistened on your skin beneath the moonlight. Your dress clung to your body, soaked through from the surf. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, blue eyes dark with something that looked dangerously close to awe.

“God,” he murmured again, almost to himself.

Then he was kissing you.

Not gentle this time. Not tentative.

His mouth found yours with a hunger that had been building all night, all day, maybe from the moment he’d seen you standing on that restaurant terrace. You felt it in the way his hands tightened at your waist, in the rough exhale he swallowed from your lips, in the way he kissed you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real and needed the reassurance of touching you to make it true.

Your arms wrapped around his neck immediately, pulling him closer. The ocean swirled around your legs, the wind tugged at your hair, but everything else disappeared beneath the rush of him.

Bucky made a low sound against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, he straightened.

In one fluid motion he hoisted you up. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his hips as he lifted you clear of the deeper pull of the water, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs with firm, possessive strength. The movement pressed you flush against him, the hard line of his arousal evident even through his soaked jeans, and a fresh wave of heat flooded your core.

His mouth never left yours. 

Not as he turned, carrying you back through the surf toward the dry sand. Not as another wave crashed against his legs and sent spray up around you both. Not as he walked with steady, determined steps, boots sinking into the wet packed sand before hitting the softer dry stretch. 

The kiss stayed deep and devouring, tongues sliding, breaths shared, salt and heat and desperate want mingling between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, his dog tags pressed cool against your chest through his shirt, your soaked dress clinging to both of you like a second skin. Every step rocked your bodies together in the most delicious friction.

By the time he reached the blanket he’d laid out earlier, you were both breathing hard, lips swollen, bodies trembling with restraint that was rapidly fraying. He lowered you onto it with aching gentleness, never fully breaking the kiss until you were settled beneath him, the soft fabric warm against your back compared to the cool ocean air.

Bucky hovered over you, eyes searching your face even as his hands trembled slightly at your waist. “Still okay?” he rasped, the question threaded through with the same care that had defined every moment with him.

You cupped his face, his cheeks warm beneath your palms, and pulled him back down. “Yes. Don’t stop.”

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air, deep and consuming. His hands worked the soaked dress up and off you completely, peeling the clinging fabric away until you lay bare beneath the moonlight and his gaze. 

He drank in the sight of you, scarred hands tracing reverently over your curves, learning every dip and swell as if committing it to memory.

You reached for his shirt. He helped you tug it off, revealing the powerful lines of his chest and shoulders. His dog tags caught the silver light as they settled against his skin. Faint scars crossed his flesh, and you traced them with gentle fingers. 

He shivered under your touch, leaning down to kiss a slow path down your body: collarbones, the valley between your breasts, ribs, the soft plane of your stomach. 

When he settled between your thighs, broad shoulders holding you open, he looked up at you once more for permission.

At your nod, his mouth found your core.

The first broad stroke of his tongue, flat and slow from your entrance to your clit, drew a broken cry from your throat. He savored you like something precious, humming in pleasure at your taste, the vibration sending fresh waves of heat spiraling through you.

He explored every inch with devastating patience: circling your clit with the tip of his tongue, dipping lower to taste you deeper, then back up with firm, rhythmic strokes. 

One thick finger slid inside you, curling just right against that sensitive spot, and you clenched around it with a gasp. He added a second, pumping them steadily while his mouth focused on your clit with steady, relentless attention. 

The sensations overwhelmed you: the cool night air on your heated skin, the distant rush of waves, the warm, insistent pressure of his mouth and the stretch of his fingers. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. 

Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips rolling against his face as you chased the edge. The sounds were obscene and intimate: the wet slide of his fingers, your breathless moans, the distant crash of waves. “Bucky—oh fuck—”

He didn’t stop. He redoubled his efforts, fingers thrusting deeper, tongue relentless. The orgasm crashed over you suddenly, white-hot and life-changing. 

You shattered with a cry that the ocean swallowed whole, back arching, thighs clamping around him, inner walls pulsing rhythmically around his fingers. He worked you through it gently, slowing his tongue to soft, soothing strokes, kissing your inner thighs as the aftershocks rolled through you.

Only when you went limp did he kiss his way back up your body. Soft, soothing presses to your hip, your belly, the curve of your breast until he reached your mouth. You tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned into the kiss, hands roaming his back, pulling him closer. The hard length of him pressed against your thigh and you reached for the button of his jeans with eager fingers.

Together you worked them open, shoving the wet denim and his boxers down. He was beautiful in the moonlight, thick and heavy, flushed dark, the head glistening with arousal. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly from base to tip, and he hissed, hips jerking into your touch. “Careful,” he rasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Been thinking about you all day.”

You smiled against his neck, thumb brushing over the sensitive head. “I want you inside me. Now.”

He reached for his discarded jeans, pulling a condom from his wallet with steady hands. You watched, arousal spiking anew, as he rolled it on with careful fingers. Then he settled over you again, the blunt head of him nudging your slick entrance. One hand braced beside your head while the other cupped your cheek, thumb stroking tenderly, eyes locked on yours in the moonlight.

“Eyes on me,” he whispered.

You met his gaze, moonlight turning his blue eyes silver-dark. The intensity there made your breath catch, but it wasn’t just hunger… it was something softer, something that wrapped around your heart and held it gently. He nudged forward, the thick head of his cock parting you, and pushed in slowly, inch by careful inch.

The stretch was exquisite. Your body yielded to him with a delicious burn that melted into fullness, the thick heat of him sinking deeper until your walls fluttered around every ridge and vein. He moved with impeccable control, watching your face the entire time, pausing when your breath hitched so you could adjust. When he finally bottomed out, hips flush to yours, a low, broken sound escaped him.

“Fuck…” His forehead dropped to yours, breath warm and ragged against your lips. “You feel perfect. So warm. So tight around me. Like you were made for this.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, and rolled your hips experimentally. The movement dragged him against that sensitive spot inside you and pulled a soft moan from your throat. Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, jaw clenching.

“Move, Bucky,” you whispered. “Please—I need you.”

At that whispered plea, he began to thrust.

At first it was slow, deep rolls of his hips, pulling almost all the way out then sinking back in with a smooth, deliberate glide that made you feel every inch. The wet sound of your bodies joining mingled with the distant crash of waves and your shared, shaky breaths. His hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit and circling it in tight, perfect strokes that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.

You met him thrust for thrust, hips lifting to take him deeper. The dog tags around his neck swung gently with every movement, cool metal occasionally brushing the heated skin between your breasts. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the powerful shift of muscle beneath warm skin. Every time he sank into you, your inner walls clenched around him, and every time he groaned your name like it was the only word he knew.

Bucky’s control began to fray.

He shifted the angle slightly, rolling his hips so the head of his cock dragged against that perfect spot with every thrust. His thumb pressed a little firmer against your clit, circling faster. “That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, voice rough and low. “Let me feel you. God, you’re so beautiful like this, taking me so well.”

Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly. Your thighs trembled around his hips. Your nails dug lightly into his shoulders, and you couldn’t stop the soft, desperate sounds spilling from your lips. He kissed you through them, deep, open-mouthed kisses that swallowed your moans and gave you his in return. 

The world narrowed to the slide of him inside you, the press of his body over yours, the cool metal of his arm against your temple when you turned your head, the warm weight of his other hand between your legs, and the endless, rhythmic crash of the ocean behind you.

You felt it building, bigger and deeper than before. Your walls started to flutter around him in warning.

Bucky felt it too. His rhythm grew a little harder, a little faster, hips snapping with more urgency even as he kept his thumb moving in those tight, perfect circles. “Come for me,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours again so you couldn’t look away. “Let me feel you come, want to feel this pretty pussy squeezing me. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

The words, the eye contact, the way he filled you so completely… it all crashed over you at once.

You came with a broken cry of his name, back arching hard off the blanket as ecstasy tore through you in long, pulsing waves. Your inner walls clamped down around him rhythmically, fluttering and squeezing as pleasure rolled through your entire body. Your thighs shook around his hips. Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, at his arms, at anything you could reach. For a few endless seconds the only thing that existed was him: inside you, around you, holding you through it.

Bucky followed you seconds later.

A guttural groan tore from his chest as your orgasm triggered his. He buried himself as deep as he could go, hips stuttering, the thick length of him pulsing inside the condom as he spilled. His whole body trembled above you.

His arm locked, holding his weight off you even as the other clutched your hip like he never wanted to let go. He kept moving through it with small, shallow thrusts that prolonged both your pleasure, until the last aftershocks faded and he finally stilled, still buried inside you.

For a long moment neither of you moved.

You stayed joined, breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other. His forehead rested against yours. The cool night air kissed the sweat on your skin, but Bucky’s body heat kept you warm. Sand clung to your hair, to the damp places where your bodies met, to the inside of your thighs, small, gritty reminders that this was real.

Slowly, carefully, he eased out of you. You made a soft, reluctant sound at the loss, and he kissed it away before reaching for the condom. He disposed of it quickly and efficiently, then pulled you straight back into his arms, settling on his side so he could tuck you against his chest. 

He dragged his discarded shirt over both of you like a blanket, the fabric still faintly damp but carrying his scent. One arm curled securely around your back, hand stroking slow, soothing patterns along your spine, fingertips occasionally brushing through your hair to dislodge bits of sand.

You tucked your face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in. Your leg slid over his hip, keeping as much of you pressed to him as possible. The aftershocks still rippled through you in gentle waves, and every time your body gave a little tremor, Bucky’s arms tightened around you.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

You listened to his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Steady.

Real.

Morning waited somewhere beyond the horizon, unavoidable and cruel. In a few hours, the sky would lighten. The world would return. There would be bags to pack, friends to meet, transportation to catch, goodbye pressing sharp and necessary at the edges of everything.

You tried not to think about it.

Bucky’s hand stilled against your shoulder.

“I don’t want to leave,” he said.

Your eyes closed.

There it was, the thing both of you had been walking around all day.

“I know.”

His chest rose beneath your cheek with a slow breath.

“I keep telling myself to be reasonable,” he said. “That this is fast. That we met two nights ago. That you’re still dealing with everything he did, and I shouldn’t make it harder by acting like this is simple.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him.

His face was turned toward the stars, jaw tight, eyes bright in the moonlight.

“But?” you whispered.

His gaze found yours.

“But nothing about this feels simple,” he said. “And I don’t want to insult it by pretending it does.”

Your throat tightened.

Bucky shifted slightly, rolling toward you so he could see you fully. His hand came up to touch the bracelet at your wrist, thumb brushing over the tiny blue beads.

“I meant what I said,” he continued. “I don’t want to be a distraction.”

“You’re not.”

The answer came quickly. Clearly.

His eyes searched yours.

You swallowed hard. “You’re not.”

Something in his expression broke open, quiet and vulnerable.

“I don’t know what happens after tomorrow,” you admitted. “I don’t know how to be… whatever this is, with everything still messy. I don’t know how to not be scared.”

“You don’t have to not be scared.”

A sad little smile touched your mouth. “That easy?”

“No.” His thumb moved over your wrist. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

The words settled into you with almost painful tenderness.

You looked at him, at the man who had appeared in the wreckage of a trip that was supposed to hurt and somehow made it feel like the beginning of something instead. The man who had met your broken edges with patience instead of pressure. The man leaving in the morning, looking at you like distance was already an enemy he intended to fight.

“You barely know me,” you whispered.

Bucky’s gaze did not waver.

“I know enough to want to know the rest.”

Your breath caught. He lifted your hand, pressing his mouth softly to the inside of your wrist, right beside the bracelet.

The kiss was gentle. Devastating.

“I’ll call,” he said. “I’ll text. I’ll come see you, if you want me to. You can take all the time you need. You can tell me to slow down. You can tell me when it’s too much.” His voice roughened. “But I’m not walking away from this just because morning came too soon.”

Your eyes stung.

“Bucky.”

He moved closer, forehead resting lightly against yours.

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he whispered.

The words broke something open in you.

Not the old wound. Not the grief. Something beneath it. Something tender and terrified and alive.

You kissed him because you did not know what else to do with the feeling.

Soft and slow this time. Like a promise neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt anyway.

Above you, the stars burned quietly.

Beside you, the ocean kept moving.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, tomorrow did not feel like an ending.

It felt like a place he might meet you.

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[thewintermuse]

the bachelorette detour

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Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: What was supposed to be your bachelorette trip becomes a girls getaway after your fiancé’s betrayal leaves you single, heartbroken, and unsure how to move forward. But when the trip is non-refundable and your friends refuse to let him ruin one more thing, you find yourself along the coast, trying to laugh through the ache. Then you meet Bucky Barnes: quiet, careful, unfairly handsome, and somehow exactly where you need him to be.

Warnings/Tags: Cheating Ex-Fiancé, Cancelled Wedding, Heartbreak, Post-Breakup Grief, Self-Doubt After Betrayal, Alcohol/Hangover References, Anxiety Around New Romance, Protective Friends (Original Characters), Flirting, Romantic Tension, Bucky Barnes Being Dangerously Respectful 

Word count: 10.9k

Music: 

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart - Taylor Swift

Feather - Sabrina Carpenter

Ocean Eyes - Billie Eilish 

Begin Again - Taylor Swift

Kiss Me - Sixpence None The Richer

Delicate - Taylor Swift

Notes: hi hello!! This is going to be part one of a three part series!! Find part two here! I will link each part together once they’re all posted, I’ve been working on this for a while after being inspired by a TikTok a few months ago and well… I’ve really flushed it out for sure 😅 I hope you all love this as much as I do! 

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The hotel suite was beautiful in the kind of way that felt almost offensive.

All white linen and gauzy curtains that shifted with the ocean breeze, polished tile cool under bare feet, a wide balcony overlooking water so blue it barely looked real. There was a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket on the counter that none of them had opened. Matching gift bags still sat in a neat row by the door where they’d dropped them on the first day, each one stuffed with things that had been chosen months ago, back when this trip had meant something else. Back when the cheap satin sashes and heart-shaped sunglasses and ridiculous little ring-shaped drink stirrers had been funny instead of cruel.

Someone (Mia, probably) had turned the sash around so the glittering BRIDE TO BE faced the wall.

You stood in front of the bathroom mirror with one earring in, one hand braced against the counter, staring at your reflection like she belonged to somebody else.

There was nothing objectively wrong with the girl in the mirror. Your makeup was soft and glowy, your hair falling in careful waves over one shoulder, your dress the color of sea glass and cut just enough to make all your friends whistle when you’d stepped out earlier. You looked exactly like the kind of woman who should’ve been on a bachelorette trip in a beach town with four of her closest friends, buzzing with excitement, cheeks warm from laughing too much, texting her fiancé blurry selfies with the caption miss you already.

Instead, you looked like a woman who had learned, six weeks ago, that the man she’d nearly married had been sleeping with someone from his office for almost five months.

You still remembered the way the apartment had smelled that day. Coffee gone cold. Laundry detergent. The sharp citrus of the dish soap because you’d been standing at the sink when the messages lit up his iPad one after another, stupidly ordinary in their cruelty. You still remembered how your body had gone cold first and then violently hot, like your skin didn’t know how to hold what had just happened. You remembered him trying to explain. Trying to cry. Trying to touch your arm.

You remembered saying, very quietly, “Don’t.”

That had been the end of it.

No dramatic reconciliation. No begging worth hearing. No grand speech that fixed the unforgivable fact of it. Just the sick collapse of a life you’d already started arranging furniture in.

The venue had been canceled. The dress returned. Some deposits lost, some salvaged, some too humiliating to deal with until later. The bachelorette trip, however, had been stubbornly, stupidly non-refundable.

So your friends had done what best friends do when your life explodes in your hands. They had shown up with snacks and wine and righteous fury. They had boxed up his things while cursing creatively. They had taken your phone when you were at your weakest and blocked his number for you. And when you’d tried to tell them you didn’t want to go on the trip anymore, that it would be embarrassing, pathetic, that the whole thing would feel like one big neon sign flashing she got cheated on, they’d looked at you like you’d lost your mind.

“He ruined a relationship,” Mia had said flatly, stuffing sandals into a suitcase for you because you’d been too numb to pack. “He does not also get to ruin a beachfront villa.”

So here you were.

A former bride on what had become, through sheer force of friendship and denial, a girls’ trip in denial.

There was a knock on the bathroom door before it pushed open an inch. “You decent?”

“Depends on who’s asking.”

Lena slipped through the gap, already dressed in a red wrap dress that made her look like trouble in the best possible way. She took one look at your face in the mirror and softened. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

“Liar.”

You laughed, but it came out thin. Lena stepped behind you and rested her chin lightly on your shoulder, both of you looking at your reflections.

“You don’t have to go out tonight,” she said. “We can stay in. Order room service. Watch terrible reality TV. I’ll even let Jess pick the movie and you know what a sacrifice that is.”

From the other room, right on cue, Jess yelled, “I heard that, and for the record, my taste is immaculate.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Lena squeezed your shoulder. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” You swallowed. “I just… I don’t want this trip to become some sad little memorial service to my canceled wedding.”

“It won’t.”

“It already kind of is.”

“It was,” she corrected gently. “The first night was. Yesterday was weird because we all kept almost saying things and then not saying them. But tonight?” She lifted one brow in the mirror. “Tonight, we get drunk, dance badly, and remind you that your life didn’t end because one mediocre man had the self-control of wet cardboard.”

You barked out a real laugh at that.

“There she is,” Lena said softly.

You looked down, blinking hard. “I hate that I’m still this upset.”

“Of course you’re still upset.”

“It’s been weeks.”

“And?”

“And I should be…” You gestured helplessly at yourself, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. “Better.”

Lena’s voice went very quiet. “You were going to marry him.”

That landed in the room with all the weight you’d been trying not to feel.

Not just date him. Not just love him. Marry him. Build a life with him. Wake up next to him for years and years and years, and trust that the future you were stepping into was solid beneath your feet. He hadn’t just cheated on you. He’d made you question your own memory, your own judgment, your own ability to know when you were loved honestly and when you were being made a fool.

Lena turned you gently on the stool until you were facing her. “You do not have to be over it on anyone’s schedule,” she said. “Especially not yours.”

Your throat tightened. “I really, really hate crying with mascara on.”

“So don’t cry.” Her mouth curved. “Come let me put obnoxious lip gloss on you and tell you how hot you are.”

From the bedroom, Mia called, “We are going to miss the dinner reservation if you two keep having a feelings summit in there.”

“And I’m starving,” Tori added.

“Tragic,” Jess deadpanned. “Thoughts and prayers.”

Lena held out a hand. “C’mon.”

You stared at it for a second, then took it.

The restaurant was loud in the pleasantly expensive way only vacation places seemed to perfect.

Warm lights strung across the open-air terrace cast everyone in gold. Music drifted from somewhere near the bar, something upbeat and rhythmic that mixed with the crash of distant waves and the low murmur of a hundred overlapping conversations. The air smelled like salt, grilled meats and citrus, sunscreen, and the faintest hint of tequila.

Your table overlooked the marina, all bobbing lights on black water. Your friends had done what they did best: formed a protective wall of normal around you without making it obvious. Nobody mentioned him. Nobody made pitying faces. They just ordered too many appetizers, argued over cocktails, stole bites off one another’s plates, and dragged you into conversation until the tension in your shoulders slowly, almost reluctantly, began to loosen.

By the second drink, you were laughing more easily.

By the third, Mia had somehow gotten the whole table ranking celebrity breakups by messiness.

“Absolutely not,” Jess said, pointing with a french fry. “Public cheating scandals are bad, yes, but nothing tops a man leaving his wife for a woman he met while making a movie where they play soulmates. That is psychotic.”

“That is unfortunately a classic,” Tori agreed.

Lena tilted her head at you. “Your thoughts, wounded party?”

You swirled your drink, pretending to consider it deeply. “I think men should have to apply for licenses before speaking to women.”

“Renewed annually,” Mia said.

“With references,” Jess added.

“And an essay portion,” Tori said.

You grinned. “Minimum one thousand words.”

The table erupted, and for one soft, golden moment, it almost felt easy. Not fixed. Not fully healed. But easy enough to breathe inside.

Then a group at the bar started cheering over some birthday shot ritual, and the sound hit you wrong—too close to celebration, too adjacent to the thing this trip was originally supposed to be—and the air seemed to thin.

It was sudden, stupid, and so incredibly unfair.

You set your glass down too carefully.

Lena noticed first because of course she did. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, already halfway out of your chair. “I just need a second.”

Nobody tried to stop you. Another kindness. Mia only squeezed your wrist as you passed, and Jess said, “Text if you need me to come glare at strangers.”

You slipped away before they could see your face fully give you away.

The terrace opened into a quieter walkway that curved along the side of the restaurant toward the beach access path. The noise softened there, blunted by wind and distance. A line of palms swayed overhead, their fronds whispering against the night. Somewhere below, the tide moved in and out with steady, indifferent patience.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept walking until the music and voices behind you were little more than a blur.

This was the part no one told you about heartbreak, how it could ambush you in the middle of a good moment. That you could be laughing one second and then wrecked the next because someone popped champagne two tables over or because a song came on or because your brain remembered, without your permission, what was supposed to be happening instead.

You pressed the heel of your hand briefly to your sternum like it might steady the ache there.

“Not your night either, huh?”

The voice was low and rough-edged, threaded with something almost like humor. Not invasive. Just there.

You turned.

He was leaning against the white stucco wall a few yards away, one boot braced behind him, a beer bottle loose in one hand.

Your first ridiculous and entirely involuntary thought was that he looked unfair.

Not just handsome. Plenty of men were handsome. This was something more disruptive than that. Tall in a way that made the space around him seem smaller, broad-shouldered, dressed simply in dark jeans and a black henley with the sleeves shoved to his forearms. There was silver at one wrist from a watch, dark hair pushed back carelessly, a beard that softened the hard lines of his jaw only enough to make you wonder what he looked like clean-shaven and then immediately resent yourself for wondering that at all.

But it was his face that kept you there a second too long.

Something in his expression was watchful, steady. Not the eager opportunism of a man who’d spotted a woman alone and decided to try his luck. He looked like someone who knew what it was to need air.

His gaze flicked once to your face, then away again with deliberate politeness. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “I was just…”

“Escaping?”

A faint laugh caught in your throat. “That obvious?”

He took a small sip from the bottle. “You’ve got the same look I do.”

“And what look is that?”

“Like if one more person asks if you’re having fun, you might throw yourself into the ocean.”

You stared at him.

Then, to your own surprise, you laughed. Really laughed. Sudden and bright and helpless enough that you had to press your lips together after. The man’s mouth tipped at one corner, not smug, just pleased to have earned it.

“Okay,” you said. “That was kind of funny.”

“Kind of?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

His eyes, startlingly blue even in the low light, settled on you again. “Too late.”

There it was. Chemistry. Not a spark. Not a flicker. A live wire.

You felt it in the curious little pause after your laughter faded. In the way the air between you changed shape. In the way he seemed perfectly still and yet somehow entirely attentive.

He straightened off the wall and held out his free hand, not too close, not presumptuous. “Bucky.”

You blinked at the name, then smiled despite yourself. “Bucky?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No, I like it.” You slid your hand into his. “It just surprised me.”

His hand was warm and much larger than yours, his grip gentle in a way that made your pulse misbehave. He repeated your name quietly after you gave it to him, like he was testing the shape of it.

It should not have affected you as much as it did.

“So,” Bucky said, easing back half a step but not too far, “what are you escaping from?”

You should have lied.

You almost did. Almost said a loud table or too many margaritas or my friends are insane. Something light. Easy. The kind of answer that kept things shallow and safe.

Instead, maybe because he was a stranger and therefore safer than anyone else in the world for the span of a few minutes, you said, “This was supposed to be my bachelorette trip.”

His expression changed instantly.

Not dramatically. Not with that terrible exaggerated pity people wore when they thought they were being compassionate. It was subtler than that. A stilling. A sharpened attention.

“Supposed to be?” he asked carefully.

“I caught my fiancé cheating.” You looked out toward the dark line of the water. “The trip was non-refundable.”

For one beat, he said nothing.

Then: “He’s an idiot.”

The answer was so immediate, so certain, that your head turned back to him.

“You don’t even know him.”

“Don’t need to.”

That should not have made heat rise behind your ribs. It absolutely did.

You huffed a quiet laugh and looked down at the tile. “My friends agree with you.”

“Smart women.”

“They are.”

He tipped the beer bottle lightly toward the restaurant. “They the ones keeping an eye on you from inside?”

You glanced back through the open terrace and immediately spotted them. Four women pretending very badly not to watch from across the restaurant. The second Lena realized she’d been caught, she gave a tiny, unapologetic wave.

A smile tugged at your mouth. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Something about the way he said it made you look at him again. “Good?”

“Yeah.” His shoulders lifted in one small shrug. “You got your heart broken. Means anybody with sense oughta be cautious with you for a while.”

There was no flirtatious edge to it. No but I’m different tucked inside. Just simple, grounded truth.

That, more than anything, disarmed you.

“You always this honest?” you asked.

“Only when I’m trying to make a good impression.”

“That your plan?”

“Wasn’t, originally.”

“And now?”

His gaze met yours full on, and there was something devastatingly direct in it. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’d like to keep you talking.”

Your breath caught. Just a little. Enough to annoy you.

You folded your arms loosely. “That a line?”

“Not a very polished one.”

“No.”

“I can do worse, if it helps.”

You laughed again, and this time he smiled properly.

Lord. It changed him completely.

The seriousness in his face didn’t disappear, exactly, but it warmed, the corners of his eyes creasing, the whole effect unexpectedly boyish for someone built like he could carry furniture by himself. It made him look less like a man leaning in the shadows and more like someone you could picture grinning across a kitchen table at midnight.

Dangerous thought.

You cleared your throat. “So what are you doing out here, Bucky?”

He looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Friend’s birthday dinner. Too many people, not enough exits.”

“Ah. Fellow escape artist.”

“Seems that way.”

“Your friends keeping tabs on you too?”

He angled his head toward a table farther inside, and you followed the motion.

Three people were watching him with absolutely no shame.

The first was a broad-shouldered blond man who looked like he’d been carved out of old-fashioned decency and stubbornness, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, his expression calm except for the faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. Beside him sat a man with an easy grin and warm, assessing eyes, leaning back like he was enjoying a show he fully intended to heckle later. He caught your eye and lifted his glass in a quick, charming salute that made Bucky mutter something under his breath.

And next to them was a woman with red hair and a smile sharp enough to cut glass, watching the entire exchange with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had already figured out the ending and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.

“Yep,” Bucky said dryly. “Like a zoo exhibit.”

“You say that like you’re not talking to a woman currently being monitored by a four-person committee.”

“Fair point.”

The night wind lifted a strand of hair across your cheek. Without thinking, you tucked it back, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders, the dip of your dress, the fact that you’d come out here to have a small private breakdown and instead found yourself flirting with a stranger who looked like he’d stepped out of some absurdly specific fantasy.

You should probably go back inside.

That was the sensible thing. The smart thing. The emotionally mature thing, even.

Instead you heard yourself say, “So what happens now?”

Bucky’s brows drew together faintly. “Now?”

“You’ve made me laugh during my dramatic escape moment. That’s a high-risk move. What’s your follow-up strategy?”

His mouth twitched. “Well. Could offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve already got one.”

“Very observant.”

“Could ask you to dance.”

You blinked.

Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, the live music had shifted. Slower now. Not fully slow, but smoother. The kind of song people swayed to more than danced.

Bucky watched your face carefully, like he was making sure not to crowd you.

“Or,” he added, “I could just stand out here with you a while. Whichever you’d rather.”

There it was again. That carefulness. That unexpected, almost old-fashioned gentleness. Not pushy. Not performative. As though your comfort mattered to him on instinct.

It had been a long time since anyone’s instinct had felt like care.

You looked at him for a long second.

Then you said, “You know what? Ask me properly.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something warmer. He set the beer bottle down on the ledge beside him, took one step closer, and held out his hand.

“Would you let me have this dance?”

Oh.

That was unfair too.

You stared at his hand, then at his face, then at the hand again. Somewhere behind you, your friends were absolutely losing their minds in silent, collective suspicion. You could feel it from here.

And maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was too soon and too strange and too much for a woman still nursing a cracked-open heart.

But maybe, too, life did not wait for perfect timing to offer you something tender.

You put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours with quiet certainty.

He led you back toward the edge of the terrace where there was just enough room between tables for dancing if people were willing to be a little shameless about it. You were very aware, suddenly, of everything. The warmth of his palm, the nearness of his body as he turned to face you, the curious glances from strangers, the way your friends had all gone rigid at your table as though witnessing a wildlife event they didn’t dare interrupt.

Bucky’s hand settled at your waist with measured care, like he was asking permission even after you’d already given it. Your free hand came to rest against his shoulder, and the solid heat of him beneath the thin fabric of his shirt nearly short-circuited your brain.

“Still okay?” he asked quietly.

You looked up.

He was serious again, gaze fixed on yours, all the humor gentled into something steadier.

The question wasn’t about dancing. Or not only about dancing.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Still okay.”

He nodded once, satisfied, and drew you a fraction closer.

The music wrapped around you soft and low. Beyond him, lights blurred against the marina, gold melting into black water. A breeze moved through the terrace, carrying salt and jasmine and the faint clink of glasses. His hand at your waist was warm, anchoring without pressing. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his body was in space and was making damn sure it never overwhelmed yours.

You hadn’t expected that either.

“You’re good at this,” you murmured.

“Dancing?”

“Making a woman feel like she’s the only person in the room.”

Something in his expression shifted. Deepened.

“Maybe,” he said, “that’s because right now you are.”

Your pulse stumbled so hard it was almost embarrassing.

“Bucky.”

“Too much?”

You should’ve said yes.

Instead you smiled helplessly and shook your head.

His thumb moved once against your side. Barely there. Enough to send a tiny shiver through you anyway.

At your table, Lena looked one second away from marching over with a clipboard and a background check.

You caught sight of her over Bucky’s shoulder and snorted.

“What?”

“My friends are conducting a silent tribunal.”

He glanced discreetly, then huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I see that.”

“They mean well.”

“I know.”

“They’ll probably interrogate me later.”

“That so?”

“Oh, absolutely. They’ll want to know your full name, your social security number, whether you’ve ever hurt a woman’s feelings, your stance on emotional availability—”

“Got good answers for most of that.”

“Most?”

He looked down at you, mouth curving. “Might fail the social security one.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself.

The song shifted again, your bodies swaying almost lazily now, and there was suddenly very little space between your laughter and silence. Not awkward silence. The charged kind. The kind that gathers. That asks.

You became aware, with startling clarity, of the roughness of his hand at your waist. The clean smell of soap and cedar and maybe something darker underneath. The exact shade of blue in his eyes. The fact that if either of you leaned in even an inch, everything about this moment would change.

Your breath slowed.

His did too.

He looked at your mouth once. Quick enough that you could have pretended not to notice.

Instead, because apparently heartbreak had destroyed your self-preservation along with everything else, you said softly, “You’re very intense.”

Bucky exhaled a quiet laugh. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t say I hated it.”

That landed.

He went very still, his eyes on yours.

From somewhere far away, you could hear your friends collectively combusting.

But Bucky didn’t move closer. Didn’t presume. He just watched you with that impossible, careful attention, as though he understood exactly how fragile first steps could be when somebody else had already broken the ground beneath you once.

It made your chest ache in a whole new way.

“You know,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear, “I was gonna be a gentleman.”

“Were you?”

“Tryin’ to be.”

“And now?”

His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and back. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’m in trouble.”

For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the ache in your chest loosened around something other than grief.

Something bright. Warm. A little terrifying.

Hope, maybe.

Or at least the beginning of wanting something again.

You tilted your head. “That sounds like a you problem.”

His smile was slow and devastating. “Could be.”

The song ended. Neither of you stepped back right away.

Applause rose around the terrace. Glasses clinked. The spell should have broken.

It didn’t.

“You should probably get back to your friends,” Bucky said at last, though it sounded like the suggestion cost him something.

“I probably should.”

He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was for one beat longer, two, before he let go.

The loss of warmth was immediate and ridiculous.

You took half a step back, tucking hair behind your ear mostly so you had something to do with your hands. “This was…”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “It was.”

You searched his face. “Are you going to ask for my number?”

One dark brow lifted. “Would that be okay?”

The fact that he still asked nearly undid you.

You smiled. “Yes.”

By the time you made it back to your table, your friends looked like a panel of judges moments away from delivering a verdict.

Jess leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “Well?”

Mia shoved a glass of water into your hand. “Before anything else, hydrate.”

Tori was openly staring over your shoulder toward the bar. “He’s hot.”

“Thank you, Tori,” Lena said, not taking her eyes off you. “Can we focus?”

You sat down slowly, aware that your face felt warm. Warm enough that all four women immediately noticed.

Mia gasped. “Oh my God.”

“What?” you demanded, already defensive.

“You like him.”

“Shut up.”

“You do,” Jess said, sounding delighted and skeptical all at once.

“It was one dance.”

“One very charged dance,” Tori said.

Lena leaned forward, expression gentler than the others. “Are you okay?”

The question quieted everything.

You looked down at the condensation sliding down your water glass. At the tacky ring-shaped stirrer someone had stuck in your untouched second cocktail. At your own hand, where his warmth felt like it had somehow lingered.

And then you looked back up at your friends.

For the first time since the world had tilted sideways, the answer didn’t feel complicated.

“Actually,” you said softly, a little stunned by it yourself, “I think I am.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The first thing you became aware of was the light.

Not soft morning light. Not gentle, poetic, new day, new beginnings light.

Aggressive light.

Bright, merciless, tropical sunlight poured through the thin gap in the curtains like it had personally been sent to punish you for every tequila-based decision you’d made the night before. It sliced across the hotel room in one golden blade and landed directly over your closed eyelids, dragging you reluctantly back into consciousness one miserable degree at a time.

You made a sound that was not quite human and rolled onto your stomach.

Something crinkled beneath your cheek.

You opened one eye.

A silver sash lay half-under your face, the sequins catching the light in tiny, hateful flashes.

Not the BRIDE TO BE sash. Thank God. That one had been shoved into the back of Lena’s suitcase after the first night with a solemnity usually reserved for disposing of cursed objects.

This one said HOT GIRL DETOUR in glittery pink letters.

You stared at it for a long second, trying to piece together when exactly it had entered your life.

Then the memories began filtering in.

Dinner. The terrace. The music. The boy at the wall with the blue eyes and the unfair smile.

Bucky.

Your heart did a small, humiliating thing.

Then came the rest of it. The dance. His hand at your waist. Your friends staring like government officials observing an unidentified flying object. The way he’d asked for your number like he genuinely cared whether you wanted to give it. The brief, warm press of his fingers around yours before he’d let go.

Your hand moved before your brain fully caught up, patting blindly over the bedspread until you found your phone wedged dangerously close to the edge of the mattress.

You squinted at the screen.

9:47 a.m.

Three notifications from your group chat.

One missed photo drop from Mia.

One reminder from the airline app you had no emotional capacity to deal with.

No text from Bucky.

Your stomach sank in a way you immediately hated.

It was stupid. Completely, embarrassingly stupid. You had met the man less than twelve hours ago. He did not owe you a good morning text. He did not owe you anything. A dance, a conversation, a charming little moment on vacation… it could remain exactly that. A moment. Not every nice thing had to become something. Not every man who looked at you like he wanted to keep you talking was secretly the first chapter of a love story.

Still.

Your thumb unlocked the phone anyway, as if perhaps the text might be hiding somewhere beneath the wallpaper.

Nothing.

You dropped the phone onto the mattress and turned your face into the pillow with a groan.

From the other bed, Jess rasped, “If you’re dying, do it quietly.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at her.

Jess lay on her back in the exact position she must have fallen asleep in, one arm flung over her face, mascara faintly smudged beneath one eye, still wearing one earring and none of her dignity. Her hair had become something of a structural event overnight. Beside her on the nightstand sat three empty water bottles, a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips, and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses with one lens missing.

“You look incredible,” you croaked.

“Don’t flirt with me,” she muttered. “I’m vulnerable.”

Across the room, a mound of blankets shifted on the small pullout sofa. Tori emerged from it slowly, blinking like a newly unearthed creature seeing daylight for the first time.

“Why is the sun yelling?” she whispered.

“Because you ordered a round of shots called ‘The Bad Decision’ at midnight,” Jess said without moving.

Tori frowned, then seemed to consider this. “That does sound like me.”

The bathroom door opened, and Lena stepped out already wearing sunglasses indoors, an oversized T-shirt, and the expression of a woman held together by sheer moral superiority and electrolyte packets.

“Alive?” she asked.

“No,” Jess said.

“Emotionally?” Lena asked, looking specifically at you.

You groaned and flopped onto your back. “Why are you all like this?”

“Because last night you danced with six feet of emotionally available jawline,” Tori said, pointing weakly from the pullout. “And now we require updates.”

“There are no updates.”

That got Jess to remove her arm from her face.

Lena stopped halfway to the mini-fridge.

Tori sat upright too quickly, winced, and clutched her head. “Ow. Also—what?”

You held up your phone with a miserable little shake. “No text.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jess said, “I knew it. Men are disappointing in every climate.”

Lena shot her a look. “Jess.”

“What? I’m not saying we send him hate mail yet. I’m just saying I had one eyebrow raised from the beginning and she knows it.”

You pulled a pillow over your face. “Can everyone please stop acting like he promised me a dowry and then disappeared at sea?”

“No,” Tori said immediately. “Because he had vibes.”

“He did have vibes,” Lena admitted, though reluctantly.

“Very intense, careful, ‘I chop firewood but also ask about your feelings’ vibes,” Tori continued.

“That’s a suspicious combination,” Jess said.

You peeked out from beneath the pillow. “How is that suspicious?”

“Because men should not be allowed to be both hot and emotionally attentive. It’s how they get past security.”

Lena pointed at Jess. “That is, unfortunately, not entirely wrong.”

You sat up slowly, wincing when your head objected to the movement. “He could just be busy. Or asleep. Or also hungover.”

“Or gathering references for the essay portion of his license to speak to women,” Tori said.

Despite yourself, you smiled.

Then your smile faded as your eyes drifted back to your phone.

You hated that you cared.

That was the worst part. Not the lack of text. Not the uncertainty. Not even the tiny, uninvited sting of disappointment.

It was caring at all.

After everything with your ex, you’d promised yourself that you were done handing pieces of yourself over too quickly. Done making excuses. Done mistaking sparks for safety. Done letting a man’s attention feel like proof of your worth.

And then Bucky had smiled at you once under terrace lights, and here you were the next morning, hungover and freshly pathetic, staring at your phone like a teenager.

Lena’s expression softened when she saw your face.

“Hey,” she said, quieter now.

You shook your head before she could continue. “I know. I know it’s dumb.”

“It’s not dumb.”

“It is,” you insisted, throat tightening with irritation at yourself more than sadness. “I met him last night. I had one dance with him. I’m not—” You stopped, pressing your lips together. “I’m not spiraling over some guy not texting me by breakfast.”

Jess was quiet for once.

Tori looked down at the blanket in her lap.

Lena crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you too much. “You’re not spiraling over him,” she said gently. “You’re bracing.”

That hit too close.

You looked away.

Lena lowered her voice. “There’s a difference.”

The room softened around that. The obnoxious sunlight, the scattered shoes, the sequins, the water bottles, the stale scent of perfume and salt air and last night’s cocktails… it all seemed to go still for a second.

“I just don’t want to feel stupid again,” you said.

It came out small enough that you wished you could grab the words and shove them back into your mouth.

Jess sat up slowly, suddenly much less sarcastic. “You were never stupid.”

You gave her a look.

“No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. He was a cheating little sewer rat who made choices behind your back. You trusting the person you were going to marry does not make you stupid.”

“I missed so much.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” Lena said. “He hid things.”

Tori nodded, eyes earnest despite the disaster of her hair. “And now your nervous system is doing that cute little thing where it thinks every silence means danger.”

“That is unfortunately very accurate,” you muttered.

“Which is why,” Jess said, reaching for a water bottle and pointing it at you like a gavel, “we are maintaining cautious optimism at best.”

“Supportively suspicious,” Tori added.

“Exactly.”

You laughed weakly. “Supportively suspicious.”

“That’s our official stance,” Lena said. “We liked him. We are willing to admit he seemed sweet. We are also prepared to ruin his life if necessary.”

“Balance,” Jess said.

“Healthy,” Tori agreed.

A knock sounded at the connecting door from the room Mia had taken with Tori originally, though clearly room assignments had become more of a suggestion than a rule after midnight.

“Is everyone decent?” Mia called.

“No,” Jess yelled.

The door opened anyway.

Mia entered wearing linen pants, a bikini top, and sunglasses pushed into her hair, looking far too fresh for someone who had absolutely been the reason the group had ended up singing along to early 2000s breakup songs in a bar called The Tipsy Pelican at one in the morning.

She carried an iced coffee tray like an offering from the gods.

“I come bearing caffeine and judgment,” she announced.

Tori made a reverent sound and crawled toward her.

Mia handed out drinks, then took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes. “He hasn’t texted.”

“How did you know?”

“Because you look like you’re trying to be chill about not being chill.”

Jess snapped her fingers. “Exactly.”

You accepted your iced coffee with a glare. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Mia said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of your bed. “You hate uncertainty. Which is reasonable, because uncertainty recently kicked in your front door and stole your wedding registry.”

You took a long sip. “That metaphor got away from you.”

“It did, but I stand by the emotional truth.”

Lena reached over and squeezed your ankle through the blanket. “We’re doing brunch at eleven-thirty. You have time to shower, hydrate, and stop checking your phone every eighteen seconds.”

“I am not checking it every eighteen seconds.”

Your phone lit up.

All five heads turned toward it.

You froze.

The screen showed only a weather alert.

Jess inhaled through her nose. “The universe is tacky for that.”

You grabbed the phone and turned it face down. “Nobody is allowed to perceive me until brunch.”

Unfortunately, being perceived was the primary hobby of your friend group.

The next hour unfolded in a haze of showers, shared concealer, dry shampoo, and the particular kind of fragile laughter that came after a night out with people who knew exactly how much fun to push on you before it became too much. The suite slowly transformed from disaster zone to controlled chaos. Jess found her missing earring inside one of Tori’s shoes. Mia discovered a video of herself dramatically toasting “to women with standards and men who fear God,” which none of you remembered but all of you agreed was thematically strong. Lena made everyone drink water before she would allow a single person to leave.

You tried not to check your phone.

You failed six times.

No text.

By the time you reached the brunch place, some breezy little café with white umbrellas, blue tile, and a view of the beach, you had almost successfully convinced yourself that it was fine.

Almost.

The hostess led you to a corner table outside. The morning had softened into something kinder by then, the sun higher but less cruel, the sea flashing silver beyond the low dunes. Around you, other vacationers nursed bloody marys and iced coffees, sunglasses hiding the universal evidence of poor evening choices.

You slid into your chair, grateful for the shade.

Mia immediately opened the menu and said, “I need potatoes in a spiritual way.”

“I need eggs,” Tori said.

“I need silence,” Jess muttered.

“You need toast,” Lena told her.

“I need justice.”

You were smiling down at your menu when your phone buzzed against the table.

Once.

A real buzz this time.

Not a weather alert.

Not the group chat.

A single notification slid across the screen.

Unknown Number: Morning. This is Bucky. I was trying to wait until a respectable hour, but I’m starting to think I may have overcorrected.

Your entire body went still.

Unfortunately, your friends saw everything.

Mia gasped so loudly that the woman at the next table glanced over.

“Oh my God,” Tori whispered. “Is it him?”

You snatched the phone up, but it was too late.

Lena leaned in. “Read it.”

“No.”

Jess put her sunglasses down her nose. “Read it, or I will climb across this table and take your phone.”

“You are in no physical condition to climb anything.”

“Try me.”

You held the phone to your chest for one last second, cheeks already warm, then read the message aloud.

There was a collective pause.

Then Tori pressed both hands to her heart. “That’s cute.”

Mia looked deeply conflicted. “That is… unfortunately a good text.”

Jess narrowed her eyes. “Respectable hour, huh? Clever. Takes accountability without groveling.”

Lena pointed at Jess. “Do not sound impressed. It weakens our position.”

“I’m analyzing the enemy.”

You stared at the message, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the ridiculous smile fighting its way onto your face.

Bucky had texted.

Not at some lazy afternoon hour that said he’d remembered you as an afterthought. Not with a boring hey or a performative line. He’d apparently been overthinking the proper time to reach out, which was either wildly charming or dangerous to your fragile little heart.

Possibly both.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

You: Good morning, Bucky. Respectable hour is subjective, but I appreciate the restraint.

You stared at it.

“Too much?” you asked.

Mia leaned over. “Perfect.”

Jess nodded. “Dry, mildly flirty, not desperate.”

“Thank you for grading my trauma texts.”

“Anytime.”

You hit send before you could lose your nerve.

The reply came faster than expected.

Bucky: For the record, the restraint was difficult.

Tori made a sound like she’d been wounded.

You pressed your lips together, but your smile won.

You: That’s a bold confession before noon.

Bucky: I’ve been awake since seven trying not to make a bad impression.

You read that one silently first, and something warm unfurled in your chest before you could stop it.

Lena’s face softened when you showed them.

“Okay,” she said. “That’s… kind of sweet.”

“Kind of?” Tori demanded.

“Supportively suspicious,” Lena reminded her.

“Right. Sorry.” Tori straightened. “Suspiciously sweet.”

You huffed a laugh and typed back.

You: Seven? That’s either disciplined or alarming.

Bucky: Little of both, probably.

You: Honest answer. Dangerous strategy.

Bucky: Worked last night.

You stopped breathing for half a second.

Your friends, fully shameless now, leaned so close that the waiter arrived with water and visibly reconsidered whether he wanted to get involved in whatever ritual was occurring at your table.

“Can I start you ladies with drinks?” he asked.

“Five mimosas,” Mia said immediately.

Lena lifted one finger. “Four mimosas and one coffee.”

Jess pointed at herself. “Coffee is for me. I’m recovering from an incident.”

The waiter smiled politely and fled.

You looked back at your phone.

You: Did it?

A few seconds passed. Then:

Bucky: I got your number, didn’t I?

Your cheeks went warm.

Mia slapped the table softly. “Oh, he’s good.”

Jess grimaced. “Annoyingly.”

Lena took a deep breath. “I am trying so hard not to approve.”

“He’s making it difficult,” Tori whispered.

You typed under the table this time, not because they couldn’t still see you smiling, but because you needed at least the illusion of privacy.

You: You did. Though technically I may have prompted that.

Bucky: I was getting there.

You: Were you?

Bucky: Eventually.

You: Very smooth.

Bucky: Never claimed to be smooth. Just interested.

Oh. There went your pulse again.

You stared at the words for too long. Interested.

Not you’re hot. Not last night was fun in the kind of noncommittal way that could be said to anyone after anything. Just interested. Like he was naming a fact instead of tossing bait into the water.

Lena studied your face. “Good text?”

You handed her the phone without speaking.

She read it. Her expression betrayed her before she could stop it.

Mia snatched the phone next. “Oh, damn.”

Jess took it last, eyes moving across the screen with reluctant focus. “Hmm.”

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“Jess.”

She handed it back. “I hate that I don’t hate him.”

Tori beamed. “Progress!”

You were about to reply when another message came through.

Bucky: Also, I should probably say this before I accidentally imply otherwise: I know last night was a lot. I’m not trying to rush you into anything. I just liked talking to you.

The table went quiet.

For a moment, even Jess didn’t have anything sarcastic to say.

Your throat tightened, but not in the awful way it had the night before. This was different. Softer. More dangerous in its own right.

Because there was something excruciatingly disarming about being handled gently when you’d gotten used to flinching.

You swallowed and looked down at your lap.

Lena reached over beneath the table and squeezed your knee.

“You okay?” she murmured.

You nodded.

Then you typed carefully.

You: I liked talking to you too.

You hesitated, then added:

You: And dancing with you.

His reply came a moment later.

Bucky: Good. I was hoping you’d say that.

Then another:

Bucky: My friends are doing a beach bonfire tonight. Nothing fancy. Food, drinks, music, probably Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. You and your friends would be welcome, if you want to come.

You blinked and the words seemed to rearrange themselves twice.

Bonfire. Tonight. You and your friends.

Not come meet me alone. Not ditch your group. Not a late-night, half-vague invitation that carried all the wrong implications. He had invited all of you, directly and comfortably, as if he understood exactly who the gatekeepers were and had decided not to sneak around them.

You slowly lowered the phone.

Four faces stared back at you.

“What?” Mia asked.

“He invited us to a beach bonfire tonight.”

There was an immediate eruption.

“Us?” Tori squealed.

“All of us?” Lena asked.

Jess’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”

Mia grabbed your phone. “Let me see.”

You handed it over, half-laughing, half-terrified. They passed it around like a sacred document.

Tori looked delighted. “That’s so cute.”

Lena looked thoughtful. “Inviting the whole group is good.”

“Strategic,” Jess said.

“Respectful,” Lena countered.

“Could be both.”

Mia was already reading the message again. “Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. That’s funny.”

You took your phone back. “We don’t have to go.”

All four of them looked at you like you’d suggested spending the evening watching tax law seminars.

“Excuse me?” Tori said.

“I mean, we just met them.”

“Correct,” Jess said. “Which is why we go as a group, remain supportively suspicious, and gather data.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is.”

Lena folded her arms, still considering. “Where is it?”

You typed.

You: That sounds fun. Where would it be?

Bucky: North end of the beach, past the public pier. There’s a permitted fire pit area. Starts around seven, but people drift in after.

You showed them.

Mia nodded slowly. “Public place. Group setting. Reasonable time.”

Jess pointed a finger. “We are not getting murdered at a permitted fire pit.”

“That’s reassuring,” Tori said.

“Statistically.”

“Less reassuring.”

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, but you were smiling. “You guys, it’s okay to say no.”

Lena looked at you carefully. “Do you want to go?”

The question quieted the table again.

You looked down at the phone. At Bucky’s name, well not even his name yet, technically just an unknown number you hadn’t saved because saving it felt somehow too intimate and too hopeful at the same time.

Did you want to go?

Yes.

That was the terrifying part. You wanted to go. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to find out whether last night had been a trick of good lighting and grief and tequila, or whether that strange, warm tug in your chest meant something real enough to follow for one more evening.

You wanted to hear his laugh again.

You wanted to watch him try to be smooth and fail with charm.

You wanted to stand near him in the firelight and find out whether his hand would brush yours, whether he’d ask before touching you again, whether he’d look at you like he had on that terrace.

And because you wanted it, fear immediately rose up behind it.

“I don’t know,” you said softly.

Lena’s expression didn’t change. “That’s not what I asked.”

You exhaled, staring at the table.

Then, barely above a whisper, you admitted, “Yes.”

Tori’s whole face melted.

Jess sighed like the universe had personally inconvenienced her. “Then I guess we’re going to a bonfire.”

Mia lifted her mimosa as soon as the waiter set it down. “To questionable but potentially excellent vacation decisions.”

Lena clinked her glass against Mia’s. “To staying together as a group.”

Jess added, “To background checks conducted in real time.”

Tori raised hers last. “To hot men with manners.”

You laughed, cheeks aching with it, and lifted your water because you were still not confident your body would tolerate champagne yet.

“To supportively suspicious friends,” you said.

They all drank to that.

You typed back before you could overthink it.

You: We’re in. But fair warning, my friends are protective and nosy.

His reply came almost immediately.

Bucky: Good. Protective friends are usually right to be protective.

Your chest squeezed again.

A second message followed.

Bucky: And my friends are nosy too, so it’ll be fair.

You smiled down at your phone.

You: Should I be worried?

Bucky: About Steve? No. About Sam? Maybe.

You: That sounds like something someone says right before Sam becomes a problem.

Bucky: He’s already a problem. But he’s mostly harmless.

You: Mostly?

Bucky: Emotionally exhausting, occasionally loud, very committed to making me look stupid in front of pretty women.

You read the last two words three times.

Pretty women.

Mia saw your expression. “What did he say?”

“No.”

“Read it.”

“No.”

Jess leaned across the table. “Oh, it’s good.”

You held the phone away from them, laughing. “I’m allowed to have some private dignity.”

“Not on this trip,” Tori said.

You typed:

You: Pretty women plural? Should I warn them?

There was a longer pause this time.

Then:

Bucky: Woman. Singular.

Your stomach flipped clean over. You put the phone facedown on the table and covered your face.

The girls exploded.

“What?” Lena demanded.

“What did he say?”

“You can’t react like that and not tell us.”

“That’s illegal.”

You dragged your hands down your face, laughing helplessly as they snagged your phone to read what was said. 

Tori actually squeaked.

Mia slapped Lena’s arm repeatedly. “I’m sorry, I know we’re suspicious, but that was hot.”

Jess stared at the ocean like she was wrestling with herself. “I hate men.”

“No, you don’t,” Tori said.

“I hate that one might be doing well.”

Brunch became, from that point forward, less of a meal and more of a strategic council.

There were pancakes and omelets and potatoes that Mia described as spiritually restorative. There were iced coffees and mimosas and a second round of water under Lena’s watchful eye. There was an extremely serious discussion about what one wore to a beach bonfire when one was trying to communicate effortless vacation goddess without looking like one had spent three hours spiraling in front of a mirror.

“You need something breezy,” Tori said, stabbing a piece of fruit with unnecessary intensity. “But not too sweet.”

“Why not too sweet?” Mia asked.

“Because she already has the wounded-heart thing going on. We need hot, not tragic.”

“I am sitting right here,” you said.

“And we love you,” Tori replied without missing a beat.

Jess took a sip of coffee. “No white.”

Everyone looked at her.

“What?”

“White reads bridal adjacent. We’re not doing that.”

You grimaced. “Agreed.”

“Black?” Mia suggested.

“For a beach bonfire?” Lena made a face. “She’ll look like she’s attending a seaside funeral.”

“I could be,” you said. “For my engagement.”

“Too soon?” Tori asked.

You considered it.

Then you shrugged. “No, actually. That one was funny.”

Your friends cheered with the kind of disproportionate enthusiasm only best friends could manage over one mildly dark joke.

It felt good.

That was the strange thing. The day began to unfold around you, and it felt good. Not untouched by pain. Not miraculously healed because a handsome stranger had texted you before brunch. But there were pockets of light again. Little ones. Enough to notice.

After brunch, the five of you wandered through the streets near the beach, drifting in and out of boutiques and tourist shops with woven bags, linen dresses, handmade jewelry, oversized hats no one needed, and candles that all claimed to smell like some variation of ocean, coconut, or emotional rebirth.

Bucky texted again while you were holding up two dresses in a shop mirror, one coral and one deep blue.

Bucky: Sam wants me to ask if your group has dietary restrictions. Steve wants me to clarify that Sam is asking because he’s in charge of food, not because this is a trap.

You laughed out loud in the dressing area.

Lena, who was sorting through a rack of cover-ups, looked over. “Bucky?”

You nodded, reading the text aloud.

Mia, from somewhere behind a display of straw hats, called, “Tell Sam we appreciate the trap transparency.”

You typed:

You: No restrictions. Mia says thank you for the trap transparency.

Bucky: Sam says Mia sounds like leadership material.

You: She is. Fear her.

Bucky: Noted.

Then, after a beat:

Bucky: What are you doing today? Besides letting your friends interrogate my text etiquette.

You snorted.

You: Shopping. Possibly being bullied into buying something for tonight.

Bucky: Bullied?

You: Affectionately.

Bucky: Good. I’d hate to have to defend you from a sundress.

Your smile went soft before you could stop it.

You: You think you could?

Bucky: Against the dress? Probably.

You: Against my friends?

Bucky: Absolutely not.

That one you showed the group.

Jess nodded once. “Self-aware. Good.”

“He knows his limits,” Lena said.

“Green flag?” Tori asked.

“Don’t get greedy,” Jess replied.

In the end, you did not buy the coral dress.

You tried it on and stared at yourself in the boutique mirror, trying to decide whether it was cute or whether you were simply drawn to anything bright because your life had been so gray lately. It fit well. It made your skin look warm. It would have been perfect in another mood.

But the deep blue one made you pause.

It was simple, soft, the kind of dress that moved with you instead of clinging too tightly. Thin straps. A low back. A skirt that floated around your thighs when you turned. It wasn’t trying too hard. It didn’t feel like armor or costume or some desperate attempt to prove you were fine.

It just felt like you.

When you stepped out of the dressing room, your friends went silent.

Your stomach dipped. “Bad?”

Lena’s expression softened. “No.”

Mia pressed a hand to her chest. “Absolutely not bad.”

Tori clasped her hands together. “Beach bonfire Bucky is going to walk into the ocean.”

Jess considered you with the seriousness of a museum curator. “That’s the one.”

You looked back at the mirror.

For a second, you tried to see yourself the way Bucky had seemed to see you the night before. Not discarded. Not humiliated. Not some tragic almost-bride carrying around the wreckage of a man who couldn’t love her correctly.

Just a woman in a blue dress on vacation.

Pretty.

Interested.

Maybe even beginning again.

You bought the dress.

The afternoon slipped by in that slow, sun-soaked way vacation days did, stretching and melting until time felt less like a schedule and more like a suggestion. You went back to the hotel with shopping bags swinging from your wrists, changed into swimsuits, and spent a few hours by the pool, where Jess fell asleep under a hat, Tori befriended a retired couple from Michigan, and Mia kept ordering things with pineapple in them while claiming the fruit made them medicinal.

You alternated between reading half a page of a book you were not absorbing and texting Bucky.

He did not overwhelm you. That was what you noticed. He didn’t send message after message demanding your attention. He let conversations breathe. He answered when you answered. He flirted, yes, but carefully, with enough sincerity beneath it that you never felt like he was performing for a reaction.

At 2:13 p.m.:

Bucky: Sam has now asked twice if matching shirts would make the bonfire more festive.

You: Please tell me you said no.

Bucky: I said hell no.

You: Strong leadership.

Bucky: Steve said I should compromise.

You: Did you?

Bucky: I compromised by leaving the room.

At 3:02 p.m.:

You: Important question: is this bonfire casual casual or “everyone says casual but somehow looks beautiful” casual?

Bucky: I’m wearing jeans. Sam will probably dress like he’s hosting a lifestyle show. Steve owns three shirts and somehow looks respectable in all of them.

You: That answered nothing and yet told me so much.

Bucky: Wear whatever makes you comfortable.

Then, a moment later:

Bucky: But for what it’s worth, you looked beautiful last night.

You stared at that one so long your screen dimmed.

You tapped it awake, read it again, then let the phone rest against your chest.

The pool noise moved around you. Laughter, splashing, the hum of conversation, Mia arguing with Jess about whether SPF 30 was enough, Lena reminding Tori to reapply said sunscreen. Everything ordinary. Everything sunlit.

You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses.

A compliment should not feel like this. It should not make your ribs ache. It should not make you feel both shy and seen, both happy and terrified. Your ex had called you beautiful plenty of times. Automatically, sometimes. Lazily. As punctuation. Like saying it meant he’d done the work of loving you.

But Bucky had said it like he remembered.

Like he had thought about you after you left.

You typed back slowly.

You: Thank you.

That felt too small, so you added:

You: You didn’t look so bad yourself.

His response took thirty seconds.

Bucky: That was smooth.

You: I’m capable of growth.

Bucky: Proud of you.

The laugh that left you was soft and stupid and impossible to hide.

Jess lifted her hat with two fingers. “You’re giggling.”

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s disgusting.”

“Let her giggle,” Tori said, floating nearby with her arms draped over the edge of the pool. “She deserves vacation giggles.”

Mia pointed at you with her pineapple drink. “Vacation giggles are legally protected.”

Lena watched you from beneath the brim of her hat, her smile small but tender. She didn’t tease. She didn’t need to. Her expression said enough.

Careful, but happy for you.

By late afternoon, the sky had started to soften around the edges.

Everyone returned to the suite with that pleasantly tired, sun-warmed heaviness that made the idea of getting ready feel both exciting and impossible. For a moment, you all stood in the middle of the room surrounded by bags and damp towels and half-finished coffees, silently assessing the amount of effort required to transform yourselves into bonfire-ready women.

Then Mia clapped her hands once. “Okay. We have two and a half hours. Nobody panic.”

Jess walked past her toward the bathroom. “I call first shower because I am emotionally the oldest.”

“You are emotionally a Victorian ghost,” Lena said.

“Exactly. Respect your elders.”

The room became chaos again.

Music went on, not too loud at first, then louder after Tori found a playlist called Post-Breakup Beach Goddess Energyand declared it fate. Dresses were pulled from bags. Makeup bags exploded across the counters. 

Someone opened the champagne that had been glaring at everyone from the ice bucket since arrival, and though nobody drank more than a glass, it felt symbolic. Less like celebrating a wedding that wasn’t happening. More like reclaiming the trip from everything it had been meant to mourn.

You sat on the edge of the bed in a robe while Lena curled a piece of your hair, your phone resting facedown beside you.

“You’ve been calmer this afternoon,” she said.

You met her eyes in the mirror. “Have I?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t feel calm.”

“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But you feel less like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

You looked down at your hands.

That was true, maybe. Not fully. The fear was still there, tucked beneath your ribs like a blade you couldn’t quite put down. But it had dulled a little throughout the day. Bucky’s steady presence on the other end of your phone had not fixed you (God, you hated the idea of being fixed by anyone) but it had given your nervous system something new to consider.

Maybe interest didn’t always have to feel like a trap.

Maybe attention didn’t always come with a hook buried inside it.

Maybe a man could be eager without being careless.

Lena finished one curl and moved to the next. “You know we’re going to be annoying tonight.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Good. Because if he gives me even one weird vibe, I’m pulling you into the ocean as an emergency evacuation tactic.”

“That seems dramatic.”

“It’ll look spontaneous.”

You laughed, then your phone buzzed.

Lena’s eyebrows rose.

You picked it up.

Bucky: Do I get to tell you I’m looking forward to tonight or is that too much pressure?

Your smile came before you could stop it.

You: You can tell me.

Bucky: I’m looking forward to tonight.

A second message came right after.

Bucky: Maybe more than I should admit.

Your pulse warmed.

You: That was almost smooth again.

Bucky: Damn. I’m improving too fast.

You: Careful. Expectations are dangerous.

Bucky: I’ll try to disappoint you a little when you get here.

You laughed.

You: Please don’t.

Bucky: I won’t.

The simplicity of it landed harder than any clever line could have.

You stared at the screen until Lena gently tapped your shoulder with the curling iron, safely closed, but still enough to make you look up.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Breathe.”

You did.

In. Out.

The girl in the mirror looked different than she had that morning. Not because of the makeup, though Mia had done something glowy and unfairly effective with highlighter. Not because of the hair, though the loose waves softened around your face beautifully. Not even because of the blue dress waiting on the hanger behind you.

She looked different because she didn’t look quite so haunted.

Still bruised, yes. Still cautious. Still carrying the ache of betrayal in places no one else could see.

But not empty.

Not defeated.

By the time the sun began sinking toward the horizon, the suite was full of perfume, music, and the frantic final rituals of women getting ready together. Tori kept losing her lip gloss. Jess changed shoes three times before deciding comfort was sexier than blisters. Mia delivered a solemn speech about how everyone should eat something before drinking near open flames. Lena packed a small purse with the energy of someone preparing for both a party and a tactical extraction.

“Water bottle,” she said, dropping one in.

“Phone charger.”

“Mini sunscreen.”

“It’ll be dark,” Jess said.

“You can still burn if you’re spiritually vulnerable.”

“That is not science.”

“Band-Aids,” Lena continued.

Mia looked over. “Are you packing snacks?”

Lena paused.

Everyone stared at her.

She unzipped the purse again and added two granola bars.

“Leadership,” Tori whispered.

You stood near the mirror, smoothing your hands over the blue dress.

It really was the right one. The fabric skimmed over you lightly, catching movement every time you shifted. Your shoulders were bare, your skin still warm from the afternoon sun, your hair loose down your back. You had chosen simple earrings, a thin bracelet, sandals that wouldn’t sink too badly into the sand.

You looked like someone going to a beach bonfire because she wanted to.

Not because she was proving a point.

Not because she was running from pain.

Because she wanted to see a man with blue eyes and a careful smile again.

That was all.

That could be enough for tonight.

Mia came up behind you in the mirror and rested her chin on your shoulder, echoing Lena from that morning. “How are we feeling?”

“Nervous.”

“Good nervous or bad nervous?”

You thought about it.

“Both.”

“That’s allowed.”

Jess appeared on your other side, holding a tube of lip gloss. “For the record, if he turns out to be awful, we leave immediately and I personally throw sand at him.”

“Noted.”

Tori joined the cluster, already beaming. “But if he’s wonderful, we also support that.”

Lena stepped into view last, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “We support you. That’s the actual thing.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked at all of them reflected around you, your ridiculous, loyal, fiercely loving little army, and for a second the ache of the canceled trip shifted into something else. Because this was still not the bachelorette weekend you’d planned. It wasn’t the beginning of married life. It wasn’t the pretty, predictable future you had thought you were walking toward.

But it was yours.

The laughter. The grief. The hangovers. The group texts. The blue dress. The man waiting somewhere on the beach, probably pretending not to be nervous while his friends gave him hell.

All of it.

Yours.

Your phone buzzed one more time as you were slipping it into your purse.

Bucky: No pressure, but Sam just asked if I’m going to stare at the entrance all night until you arrive. I said no. I may have lied.

You bit your lip against a smile.

You: We’re leaving now.

His reply came almost instantly.

Bucky: Good.

Then, after a few seconds:

Bucky: I’ll be the one trying not to stare.

You looked up from your phone, cheeks warm.

“Well?” Jess asked.

You slipped the phone into your purse. “He says he’ll be the one trying not to stare.”

Tori made an ungodly noise.

Mia pointed toward the door. “Move. We are not wasting that line standing in a hotel suite.”

The five of you spilled into the hallway in a cloud of perfume and nervous laughter, the door clicking shut behind you. Downstairs, the lobby glowed gold with early evening light. Outside, the air had cooled just enough for the ocean breeze to raise goosebumps along your arms.

The walk toward the beach felt longer than it probably was.

The sky had turned peach and lavender at the edges, the last of the sun melting low behind rooftops and palms. Sandals slapped softly against pavement. Somewhere ahead, beyond the dunes, you could already hear faint music drifting on the wind. Laughter too. The distant crackle of something that might have been fire.

Your friends walked around you in loose formation, still joking, still teasing, still making it impossible for fear to swallow the whole moment.

But beneath their voices, beneath the rustle of your dress and the rush of waves beyond the dunes, your heart beat hard and bright.

You crested the wooden path toward the beach.

A warm orange glow flickered ahead, just out of full view.

And somewhere beyond it, waiting in the firelight, was Bucky.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Continue reading part two here. <3

[bucksangel]

acceptance

pairing: soft!dom!bucky x sub!reader

summary: how bucky finally gets you to accept his gifts.

word count: 1.2k

warnings: 18+, references to bucky getting an erection, bucky being a softie, lots of fluff, some minor self-deprecation, nothing else i think??

series masterlist | main masterlist | tip jar | ao3

a/n: this was suggested by @onyx8514 and an anon !!

soft!dom!bucky who knows and loves that you're an independent woman. you're proud of that; it was your determination that allowed you to save enough money and move states to start a new life. he admires your strong-willed nature, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't have an innate need to provide for you. he wants to take care of you in every sense of the word, but going about that was hard at the start of your relationship. the first time he'd given you a gift - a special edition box set of a book series you'd been dying to read - you didn't react how bucky thought you would. it's not that he expected some grand declaration of happiness or gratitude, but he wasn't prepared for the way your lips twitched as though you were trying not to frown. you'd thanked him, and then asked him why he bought it for you. did you miss an important date? some obscure holiday you hadn't remembered? what did you do to deserve this? bucky assured you that he just wanted to get it for you because he knew you loved the author and wanted to give you things that make you happy. but he stored the image of the conflict on your face as you struggled with accepting the books away for later use.

soft!dom!bucky who figured the next gift he'd give you would be something a little smaller. he doesn't want to overwhelm you, or make you think you're not capable by accepting his help. so, he figured a bouquet (that cost way more than bucky will ever tell you) and takeout from your favorite restaurant would be a good start, dropping them by your apartment after your shift from hell. actually, he thinks it's the bare minimum in a relationship, but he can tell you're not used to receiving things just for the hell of it, and he wants you to get used to it. so. starting small is necessary. you were still a little hesitant to take the flowers, but bucky could see the way your eyes lit up at the beautiful arrangement, the way you stumbled through expressing your gratitude as though you were trying not to show how touched you were at the gesture.

soft!dom!bucky who makes it a point to buy you a new bouquet every sunday. it's always a different arrangement with vibrant colors and calming scents, and always comes with a little note, each one different than the last. to my princess, just for being you, or you deserve things as beautiful as you are, or you've made me the happiest man alive. and all of the notes end with from, your daddy<3. and bucky absolutely preens when he steps into your apartment one day and finds himself in your bedroom, only to see the cork board on one of your walls with all of his notes pinned to it.

soft!dom!bucky who always pays when you go out to eat. and, this is pretty normal with all of the dates you've been on with any of your past partners, but it's the location of the dates that gets you. the restaurants get more and more expensive as time goes on, and you have to fight not to gawk at the prices of the entree's alone. the first time you went to a higher-end restaurant, you started with a single glass of wine and scoured the menu for any dish that cost less than fifty dollars, only to find none. bucky saw your deliberation, and he caught on quickly as to why you seemed stressed, causing him to place down his own menu and reach over the table to grab your hand and tell you to order whatever you want, princess. you like steak, right? let's get that. when you quietly fought him on it (the steak was fucking 65 dollars??), bucky insisted that he doesn't care about the price. he wants to treat his princess to a nice evening and this place has the best food in town.

soft!dom!bucky who refuses to call maintenance or talk to the landlord about any issues his place has. he's pretty handy and can fix most broken things on his own, so he always opts to work on a project himself. this also applies to you. the hinges on your cupboards are loose? baby, why are you calling maintenance when you know I have a toolbox? ac went out again? princess, hang up the phone and show me where it is. the first time he fixed something for you, you offered to pay him for the 'inconvenience', to which bucky looked absolutely offended, claiming that helping you isn't an inconvenience, princess, I'm your boyfriend, of course I'm going to help you.

soft!dom!bucky who always offers to drive you anywhere you need to go. he doesn't trust public transportation and he has a perfectly good vehicle, so why would he let you take the bus? especially since he knows you'll be safe, away from prying eyes and people sitting uncomfortably close to you. you tried offering him gas money a few times, but he always turns it down immediately with princess, it's only a 10 minute drive, I'm not losing that much gas, or driving you places isn't a chore, I just love spending time with you.

soft!dom!bucky who eventually starts ramping up the generosity. as time goes on, you're less hesitant to accept his smaller gifts and gestures, which bucky absolutely loves. it feels like serotonin is being pumped directly into his veins when you stop appearing guilty every time you take his gifts or let him buy your groceries for the week. it also helps that you give him a kiss afterward, a little thank you for treating me even though I don't really believe I deserve it.

soft!dom!bucky who nearly gets an instant erection the first time you ask for something. granted, it's just a blanket from your local farmer's market, but still. you're asking for something! he pauses for just a second too long, relishing in the fact that you're taking that step, but you interpret his silence as rejection, so your smile immediately falls. you start assuring him that it's okay, I'll just buy it! it's fine, I just thought - interrupted by him taking out his wallet and shoving too much money into the stall-owner's hands as he says you absolutely will not be buying it, I've got it. and he has to recite his grandma's old apple pie recipe to will away his hard on any time you look up at him with those doe eyes and timidly ask for the painting hanging in one of the stalls or a new cup of coffee after you've finished the one he bought you when you first arrived. he does, but insists you drink water to offset the jitters he knows you'll get if you don't hydrate.

soft!dom!bucky who swears nothing will ever compare to the feeling he gets when you send him a link to an apparel website with a screenshot of the new blouse you've been eyeing but have been hesitant to purchase because of the price. you offer to pay for shipping, but bucky ignores that text and simply sends you a screenshot of the confirmation email he received and lets you know that it'll be at yours in a few days. he loves that you're coming around to letting him treat you, that you've stopped apologizing for needing or wanting anything from him. he'll spoil you rotten any day of the week, and he's so happy that you're starting to love it too.

tagging: @thevillainswhore / @goldylions / @curledpagesspilledink / @abschaffer2 / @calzone-d / @gentlelimerence

[onyx8514]

This is a very pleasant, happy and welcome surprise to an otherwise shitty few days!

I’ve been up for over 30 hrs (Bucky would probably spank me for that), barely eaten much besides yogurt and a protein shake (he’d probably get me for that as well), had my car battery die and forgot garbage in my car that I was taking to the dump in 95 degree weather, my entire car smelling like trash and needing to fully detail it PLUS get the battery AND my AC fixed. Then a few other gross things happen today. Many many crash outs.

If only I had him to help me with this because I’m doing it all on my own (with a torn rotator cuff).

So THANK YOU and ALL OF THE HUGS AND KISSES AND CRAZY TACKLE SCREAMS for this babes! (After I shower again, of course 😏)

YOU’RE A QUEEN! Made my whole damn few days 💜💜💜🥰🥰🥰😘😘😘🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

[bucksangel]

omg baby !!! i'm so sorry you've been having a bad time like that sounds awful😭😭 but bucky would take such good care of you and pamper you (after scolding you for not sleeping well or eating properly) and also would make you rest your injury while doing everything for you like 👏 you 👏 deserve 👏

i'm glad i could bring you a little happiness !! now pls go to sleep !!!

[onyx8514]

Thank you! Yea, I didn’t want to mention the other gross things that come from leaving trash in the car….

I’m not someone who cries easily (unless I’m pissed) and I cried a lot. I even told my best friend on the phone that I should just burn it to the ground and rebuild 🤣 I can do very hard things (I was a firefighter/paramedic for years before going to the ER) on my own, but I just wished I had someone to crash out to and suffer with me haha! The lexapro worked extra hard these past few days 💁🏼‍♀️

That could be a prompt/request actually 🤔🤣🤣

Anyway, thank you again lovie!! I’m going to reread this again tomorrow while waiting at my ortho appt. Have the best day! 😘😘

[bucksangel]

acceptance

pairing: soft!dom!bucky x sub!reader

summary: how bucky finally gets you to accept his gifts.

word count: 1.2k

warnings: 18+, references to bucky getting an erection, bucky being a softie, lots of fluff, some minor self-deprecation, nothing else i think??

series masterlist | main masterlist | tip jar | ao3

a/n: this was suggested by @onyx8514 and an anon !!

soft!dom!bucky who knows and loves that you're an independent woman. you're proud of that; it was your determination that allowed you to save enough money and move states to start a new life. he admires your strong-willed nature, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't have an innate need to provide for you. he wants to take care of you in every sense of the word, but going about that was hard at the start of your relationship. the first time he'd given you a gift - a special edition box set of a book series you'd been dying to read - you didn't react how bucky thought you would. it's not that he expected some grand declaration of happiness or gratitude, but he wasn't prepared for the way your lips twitched as though you were trying not to frown. you'd thanked him, and then asked him why he bought it for you. did you miss an important date? some obscure holiday you hadn't remembered? what did you do to deserve this? bucky assured you that he just wanted to get it for you because he knew you loved the author and wanted to give you things that make you happy. but he stored the image of the conflict on your face as you struggled with accepting the books away for later use.

soft!dom!bucky who figured the next gift he'd give you would be something a little smaller. he doesn't want to overwhelm you, or make you think you're not capable by accepting his help. so, he figured a bouquet (that cost way more than bucky will ever tell you) and takeout from your favorite restaurant would be a good start, dropping them by your apartment after your shift from hell. actually, he thinks it's the bare minimum in a relationship, but he can tell you're not used to receiving things just for the hell of it, and he wants you to get used to it. so. starting small is necessary. you were still a little hesitant to take the flowers, but bucky could see the way your eyes lit up at the beautiful arrangement, the way you stumbled through expressing your gratitude as though you were trying not to show how touched you were at the gesture.

soft!dom!bucky who makes it a point to buy you a new bouquet every sunday. it's always a different arrangement with vibrant colors and calming scents, and always comes with a little note, each one different than the last. to my princess, just for being you, or you deserve things as beautiful as you are, or you've made me the happiest man alive. and all of the notes end with from, your daddy<3. and bucky absolutely preens when he steps into your apartment one day and finds himself in your bedroom, only to see the cork board on one of your walls with all of his notes pinned to it.

soft!dom!bucky who always pays when you go out to eat. and, this is pretty normal with all of the dates you've been on with any of your past partners, but it's the location of the dates that gets you. the restaurants get more and more expensive as time goes on, and you have to fight not to gawk at the prices of the entree's alone. the first time you went to a higher-end restaurant, you started with a single glass of wine and scoured the menu for any dish that cost less than fifty dollars, only to find none. bucky saw your deliberation, and he caught on quickly as to why you seemed stressed, causing him to place down his own menu and reach over the table to grab your hand and tell you to order whatever you want, princess. you like steak, right? let's get that. when you quietly fought him on it (the steak was fucking 65 dollars??), bucky insisted that he doesn't care about the price. he wants to treat his princess to a nice evening and this place has the best food in town.

soft!dom!bucky who refuses to call maintenance or talk to the landlord about any issues his place has. he's pretty handy and can fix most broken things on his own, so he always opts to work on a project himself. this also applies to you. the hinges on your cupboards are loose? baby, why are you calling maintenance when you know I have a toolbox? ac went out again? princess, hang up the phone and show me where it is. the first time he fixed something for you, you offered to pay him for the 'inconvenience', to which bucky looked absolutely offended, claiming that helping you isn't an inconvenience, princess, I'm your boyfriend, of course I'm going to help you.

soft!dom!bucky who always offers to drive you anywhere you need to go. he doesn't trust public transportation and he has a perfectly good vehicle, so why would he let you take the bus? especially since he knows you'll be safe, away from prying eyes and people sitting uncomfortably close to you. you tried offering him gas money a few times, but he always turns it down immediately with princess, it's only a 10 minute drive, I'm not losing that much gas, or driving you places isn't a chore, I just love spending time with you.

soft!dom!bucky who eventually starts ramping up the generosity. as time goes on, you're less hesitant to accept his smaller gifts and gestures, which bucky absolutely loves. it feels like serotonin is being pumped directly into his veins when you stop appearing guilty every time you take his gifts or let him buy your groceries for the week. it also helps that you give him a kiss afterward, a little thank you for treating me even though I don't really believe I deserve it.

soft!dom!bucky who nearly gets an instant erection the first time you ask for something. granted, it's just a blanket from your local farmer's market, but still. you're asking for something! he pauses for just a second too long, relishing in the fact that you're taking that step, but you interpret his silence as rejection, so your smile immediately falls. you start assuring him that it's okay, I'll just buy it! it's fine, I just thought - interrupted by him taking out his wallet and shoving too much money into the stall-owner's hands as he says you absolutely will not be buying it, I've got it. and he has to recite his grandma's old apple pie recipe to will away his hard on any time you look up at him with those doe eyes and timidly ask for the painting hanging in one of the stalls or a new cup of coffee after you've finished the one he bought you when you first arrived. he does, but insists you drink water to offset the jitters he knows you'll get if you don't hydrate.

soft!dom!bucky who swears nothing will ever compare to the feeling he gets when you send him a link to an apparel website with a screenshot of the new blouse you've been eyeing but have been hesitant to purchase because of the price. you offer to pay for shipping, but bucky ignores that text and simply sends you a screenshot of the confirmation email he received and lets you know that it'll be at yours in a few days. he loves that you're coming around to letting him treat you, that you've stopped apologizing for needing or wanting anything from him. he'll spoil you rotten any day of the week, and he's so happy that you're starting to love it too.

tagging: @thevillainswhore / @goldylions / @curledpagesspilledink / @abschaffer2 / @calzone-d / @gentlelimerence

[onyx8514]

This is a very pleasant, happy and welcome surprise to an otherwise shitty few days!

I’ve been up for over 30 hrs (Bucky would probably spank me for that), barely eaten much besides yogurt and a protein shake (he’d probably get me for that as well), had my car battery die and forgot garbage in my car that I was taking to the dump in 95 degree weather, my entire car smelling like trash and needing to fully detail it PLUS get the battery AND my AC fixed. Then a few other gross things happen today. Many many crash outs.

If only I had him to help me with this because I’m doing it all on my own (with a torn rotator cuff).

So THANK YOU and ALL OF THE HUGS AND KISSES AND CRAZY TACKLE SCREAMS for this babes! (After I shower again, of course 😏)

YOU’RE A QUEEN! Made my whole damn few days 💜💜💜🥰🥰🥰😘😘😘🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

[mickimoo1409]

Overdue

Pairing - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary - You and Bucky finally cross that line from friends to something more.

Warnings - Smut, kissing, dry humping, premature ejaculation? 18+ Only! My warnings are not extensive so enter at your own risk.

Word Count - <800

"Oh god baby, you're gonna have to stop." Bucky rasped as you ground yourself down on his lap.

You were still fully clothed, both of you caught up in the moment the second your lips pressed against each other's for the first time.

The pining had gone on too long, building up into something uncontrollably feral and tonight both of your resolves had snapped.

The problem with that kind of gut wrenching tension that burns in your very core like an active volcano, is that within minutes of your covered cunt making contact with his rock hard cock hidden beneath his dark jeans, he was ready to bust.

He inwardly cursed himself for having the restraint of a prepubescent teenager before finding the courage to ask you to stop, to slow down so that he didn't disappoint you after all this time. He should have known that you would never see it that way, you weren't like that.

"You okay?" You asked, with worry laced between your brows as you stopped your movements and pulled back to search his face.

"Yeah I'm fine. This is great, really." He replied with a hitch in his throat, tightening his palms against your hips in fear you would just jump off him and leave, "I just...fuck...you feel too good sweetheart...I don't think I'll last if you keep moving on me like that."

"That's so hot." You breathed as you stared back at him, watching his features change from worry to amusement in mere seconds.

"Hot? Sweetheart I'm about to bust in my jeans without getting my cock anywhere near you and you think that's hot?" He said in amusement, lip twitching at the corner as you nodded with a wide grin.

"Do I think it's hot..." You breathed, dipping back down to suck on his ear love, hearing him groan low in his chest, hips bucking up into you involuntarily, "That you're so attracted to me, that just me sitting on you can make you cum."

He inhaled a deep breath, voice catching in his throat as you began grinding your core against him once more, placing kisses along his stubbled jaw and neck before nibbling at the skin.

"Fuck baby." Bucky groaned, feeling his cock twitch under you, the pressure of your body on his pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

"It's okay Bucky," You moaned into his neck, feeling arousal pool in your panties from his desperation and the feel of his body against yours, "Let me make you feel good."

"God, you are baby. Feels so good." He groaned, tilting his hips up to meet your pelvis once more and making you let out an involuntary pleasurable gasp at the contact.

You pulled back, your own eyes flicking between his deep blue orbs as his mouth hung agape, small groans slipping from between the flesh as you moved your body over his, pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

"You're mine now, you know that right." Bucky whispered up at you, adoration filling his gaze.

"All yours bucky, I've always been yours." You whimpered.

He slipped one hand up your spine until it rested between your shoulders and he pushed your body into his, pressing his lips against yours with a satisfied hum.

His groans got louder in your mouth, hips getting more desperate as your tongue melded to his and you let out your own mewls and whimpers, clutching desperately at his shoulders to make sure this was real, this was finally happening.

Bucky gasped, hands twitching were they splayed and head pulling back to stare in your eyes as his cock juddered, spilling warm ropes of cum into his underwear.

You worked him through it, pressing soft kisses to his cheek, jaw and lips while he came down from his high, before you finally stilled and he pulled you against him, cuddling you against his chest.

You sighed against him with a soft smile, burying your face into the crook of his neck, feeling his chest move up and down as his breathing steadied.

"Fuck." He murmured, pressing his lips to your forehead, "That was..."

"Long overdue." You whispered happily.

"I owe you one now sweetheart." He promised with a smirk, "Fuck I owe you as many orgasms as you can handle."

You giggled against him, feeling his lips curve into a wide smile against your skin before they pursed and pressed a long drawn out kiss there.

His palms rubbed the length of your back, body's fitting together like they always should have.

"We've got all the time in the world." He whispered, pressing another kiss to your scalp, "Always gonna be yours sweetheart, always."

Everything tag - @late-to-the-party-81

@the-wandering-wonder @rnurse-kole @chemtrails-club @marvelgurl

SS Tag - @buckysdecaflove

Bucky - @wickedfun9

[onyx8514]

Tbr but I know I’m gonna love it

[juniebjonesin]

── LOVED IN THIRDS

summary › building a nursery, finding out the gender, and surprising bucky makes for exciting times before baby barnes makes their debut!

pairing › dad!bucky x mom!reader content warnings › fluff city, pregnancy, discussion of parenthood, emotional vulnerability, found family + made family, soft angst (healing), kissing, some implied intimacy/smut word count › 3.6k

the junieverse › solitary love - puffs cigarette... ah my first series... i always knew mama and bucky would end up here i just didnt quite know how the ride would go but im so happy were here, i truly love them and had so much fun coming back to it

The house sounds different these days.

Not bad different. Just… fuller.

There is always something humming now. The dishwasher running after dinner. Levi’s toy cars rolling across the hardwood floors. The old radio in the kitchen playing softly while you fold laundry at the dining room table.

And lately, there is the sound of Bucky building.

You stand in the doorway of what used to be the spare room with one hand resting beneath the curve of your stomach. Five months, you still catch yourself saying it quietly in your head sometimes. Five months of tiny kicks in the middle of the night. Five months of Bucky talking to your stomach when he thinks you’re asleep. Five months of Levi pressing loud, messy kisses against your belly and asking if the baby can hear him.

You lean against the doorframe and watch Bucky across the room. He is kneeling on the floor surrounded by wood planks and scattered tools, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, a faint streak of paint across his jaw.

The new crib sits half-built in the corner. You think maybe this is your favorite version of him, not the man people whisper about, not the man who survived impossible things.

Just this. Bucky in old jeans and work boots, squinting at an instruction manual with his hair falling into his eyes.

You smile.

“You’ve been staring at that same page for ten minutes.”

His head lifts immediately.

“I hate these instructions,” he says. “I’m pretty sure they were written by a guy who wanted to ruin my life specifically.”

You laugh softly.

“The crib looks fine.”

“Yeah, until the baby ends up sideways because I missed step seven.”

“You built half the house back together.”

“That’s different.”

You step into the room slowly, one hand sliding over the wall beside you. This room used to be forgotten. Peeling paint, old boxes stacked in corners, dust gathering along the windowsill. Bucky fixed the windows first. Then the floors. Then the walls. Little by little, the room became something else. Something softer. There is pale green paint drying near the trim now. Tiny gold stars sit in a cardboard box on the floor waiting to be hung on one wall.

Levi picked them because, apparently, his little sister is “gonna like stars best.” He's been dead set on having a little sister and you've since given up the arguement of that maybe not happening, but behind the scenes both you and Bucky have started talking to her. You lower yourself carefully onto the window bench and Bucky’s eyes flick instantly toward you.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“They're kicking.”

His entire face changes and he stands immediately, crossing the room in three quick steps before crouching in front of you.

“Yeah?”

You take his hand and place it against your stomach, for a second there is nothing, then the baby kicks again. Bucky goes completely still as his eyes lift to yours slowly.

“There she is,” you whisper.

You still haven’t technically found out yet, the appointment is tomorrow. But you can feel something. Maybe because every time you picture this baby, she has dark hair and serious blue eyes just like Bucky, maybe because Levi has spent weeks insisting there is a baby sister in there, maybe because Bucky already talks to your stomach like she is listening.

His thumb brushes softly across the fabric stretched over your stomach.

“You think she’s gonna look like you?” he asks.

You smile.

“I hope not for her sake. She deserves better hair.”

Bucky lets out a quiet laugh.

“She’s gonna have your eyes.”

“And your stubbornness.”

“She’s doomed then.”

You laugh again and he leans forward, pressing a kiss just above your belly through your shirt. The sight of it makes your chest ache in the softest way, because years ago you used to wonder if this kind of happiness only happened to other people. Other women. Other lives. But then somehow there was a diner and a broken-down house and a little boy with frosting on his cheeks.

And now there is this.

A nursery, a baby, and a man kneeling in front of you like you hung the moon.

“What about names?” Bucky asks.

You tilt your head.

“We already have a list.”

“Yeah, but half the names on your list sound like girls who own horses.”

You gasp.

“That is so rude.”

“You know I’m right.”

“Charlotte is not a horse girl name.”

“It absolutely is.”

“What about Violet?”

“That one sounds like she’d correct my grammar.”

“She probably will.”

He smiles and you look down at his hand resting against your stomach.

“What if we give her your mom’s middle name?” you ask quietly.

His expression softens instantly.

“Caroline?”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

For a second he just looks at you, then he leans forward and kisses your forehead.

“I like that,” he says softly.

The next afternoon, the waiting room smells faintly like coffee and hand sanitizer. Levi is sitting between you and Bucky in a plastic chair too big for him, kicking his sneakers against the leg of the seat while he colors on the back of an old appointment reminder.

You watch him draw what is supposed to be your family, one stick figure with your hair, one with dark scribbles on the head that is apparently Bucky, one tiny one in the middle and one even tinier one beside it.

“Who’s that?” you ask softly.

Levi barely looks up.

“My sister.”

Bucky smiles to himself beside you.

“You are really committed to this whole sister thing, huh?”

Levi finally looks up at him.

“Because it is a sister, Dad.”

You glance over at Bucky.

“He’s very confident.”

“He gets that from you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re both bossy.”

You nudge his knee with yours but before you can answer, the nurse opens the door and calls your name.

Levi scrambles up first.

“Can I see the baby now?”

The nurse laughs.

“In just a minute.”

The exam room is cool and dim once you settle inside. Levi climbs up beside you on the little bench beneath the window while Bucky stands near the counter with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. He has been weirdly quiet all morning, not bad quiet just thoughtful.

The kind of quiet that settles over him when he feels too much all at once. You reach for his hand when he comes over to sit beside you and his fingers lace through yours instantly.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

He looks over at you.

“Yeah.”

You lift an eyebrow.

“Liar.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh.

“I’m fine,” he says again, softer this time. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

His thumb brushes back and forth across your knuckles.

“This.”

You know what he means. Not just the appointment. All of it. The house, Levi, the nursery. The little life stretching quietly beneath your ribs. Years ago, Bucky used to talk about the future like it belonged to someone else, like he had missed his chance at it. Now he is sitting beside you in an exam room with your son pressed against his side and your baby on the screen waiting to be seen.

You squeeze his hand.

“You’re allowed to be happy, you know.”

His eyes lift to yours and for a second, they go soft in that way that still steals the breath from your lungs.

“I know,” he says quietly.

The doctor comes in a few minutes later and Levi sits up straighter immediately.

“Is the baby awake?” he asks.

The doctor smiles.

“We’re about to find out.”

You lie back against the table while Bucky moves closer beside you as the paper crinkles beneath you. Levi stands on the little step stool near your shoulder so he can see. Then the cold gel hits your stomach and you suck in a sharp breath.

“Cold?” Bucky asks.

“You act surprised every time.”

“I keep thinking maybe modern medicine will improve.”

You laugh softly and soon the room goes quiet as the wand moves across your stomach, then suddenly there it is, small and grainy and moving.

Your baby.

Levi gasps.

“Oh!”

Bucky’s entire hand tightens around yours while the doctor points out tiny things as they appear on the screen. Their head, their heartbeat, the curve of their little spine. One tiny hand opening and closing near their face. You never get used to this part, the impossible miracle of it, that there is a whole person in there. A little baby who already kicks when Bucky talks and goes quiet when Levi presses his cheek against your stomach.

You glance sideways and Bucky is staring at the screen like the rest of the room has disappeared. His eyes look glassy already.

“Everything looks perfect,” the doctor says.

You feel yourself breathe again, not realizing until that moment that you had been holding it.

Levi points suddenly.

“There’s her nose.”

The doctor laughs softly.

“You might be right.”

Bucky drags a hand over his mouth.

“It's beautiful,” he says quietly.

The words land somewhere deep inside your chest because he says it so easily, so certainly, like he already loves them without even knowing them.

The doctor smiles as she moves the wand a little lower.

“Do you want to know what you’re having?”

You and Bucky look at each other and it feels like everything slows, his hand squeezes yours and you nod.

“Yes.”

The doctor studies the screen for a second then she smiles.

“Well,” she says warmly, “looks like Levi was right.”

Levi’s mouth drops open.

“I knew it!”

Girl.

The word settles over the room soft and warm as you look at Bucky instantly. His eyes close for just a second, then he laughs under his breath and shakes his head.

“A girl,” he murmurs.

Levi is already bouncing in place.

“I have a sister! I have a sister!”

You laugh through the sudden sting of tears in your eyes and Bucky leans down and kisses your forehead. When he pulls back, his eyes are suspiciously bright.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods once, then he looks back at the screen.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, babydoll. I’m okay.”

Later, when the appointment is over and the nurse hands you a strip of ultrasound pictures, Levi clutches them proudly all the way out to the car as he insists on carrying them himself.

Bucky opens your car door for you before pulling you into a hug.

“A girl,” he says again, quieter this time.

You smile.

“A girl.”

He kisses you softly when he pulls back, then he rests his forehead against yours for a second in the middle of the parking lot. You think maybe if you stayed there forever, you would not mind at all.

Later that night, after Levi is asleep at Sami and Lon’s house for the evening, you tell Bucky you want to go out.

“Out?” he asks.

“Like a date.”

He narrows his eyes slightly.

“You’re up to something.”

“I’m always up to something.”

“You’re smiling too much.”

You only grin wider, your plan that you've had in the works for the past few months has finally come to fruition.

Dinner is small and quiet. A little place with warm lights and a patio strung with fairy lights overhead. Bucky keeps reaching across the table to touch you, your hand, your knee, the edge of your sleeve. Like he still can’t quite believe you’re real.

By the time dessert comes, you can barely keep your secret anymore.

“What?” he asks finally.

“What do you mean?”

“That look on your face.”

You slide the folded paper across the table toward him.

His brow furrows.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

Slowly, he unfolds it and you watch his eyes move across the page. Then stop. Then widen. It is a copy of the paperwork you finally got approved back that morning.

A legal name change. For one, now Levi Barnes.

For a second Bucky doesn’t say anything, he just stares at the paper then he looks up at you.

“You…”

Your throat tightens a little.

“He already calls you Dad,” you say softly. “And you already are, Buck. In every way that matters.”

His eyes go glossy instantly. You reach across the table, taking his hand.

“I just thought maybe it was time the rest of the world knew too.”

Bucky laughs once under his breath, but it sounds shaky.

“You’re trying to kill me tonight, huh?”

You smile.

“I can't believe I made the big bad wolf cry.”

“Sweetheart, I am hanging on by a thread.”

You laugh softly.

Then he stands from his chair without warning, walks around the table, and pulls you up into his arms. He kisses you right there under the patio lights, his lips slow and warm against yours. His hand cradles your face while the other rests against your waist making you melt into him immediately.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs.

You smile against his mouth.

“I think I have some idea.”

His eyes darken slightly.

“Oh, do you?”

You nod once.

“Little bit.”

He kisses you again, this time slower, long enough that when he finally pulls away, you feel warm all over.

“C’mon,” he says quietly.

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

The word settles warmly in your chest.

Home.

To the house with the creaky floors, the half-finished nursery, the little boy sleeping across town and the daughter growing quietly beneath your heart.

Bucky’s hand is laced with yours the entire drive back and by the time you make it through the front door, he is already kissing you again. You laugh softly against his mouth as he backs you carefully into the kitchen counter.

“Buck,” you whisper.

“What?” he asks, kissing the corner of your jaw.

“You are being very intense for a man who nearly cried over paperwork.”

“I can multitask.”

You laugh again. Then his hand slips gently beneath the fabric of your shirt, warm palm resting against your stomach.

His forehead touches yours.

“Levi Barnes,” he says quietly, like he still can’t believe it.

You smile.

“Levi Barnes.”

“And our little girl.”

“And our little girl.”

Bucky kisses you one more time. Then he takes your hand and leads you down the hallway toward the life waiting for you both.

The months don’t pass all at once, they settle in like layers.

Month six feels like laughter echoing through half-painted walls.

Levi insists on helping in the nursery, which mostly means handing Bucky the wrong tools and sticking gold stars in places they definitely don’t belong. You sit on the floor, back against the wall, watching the two of them argue over whether dinosaurs should also be included in the “space theme.”

“She needs to learn about T-Rexes,” Levi says seriously.

“She’s not even born yet,” Bucky replies.

“All the more reason.”

You laugh until your stomach tightens and the baby kicks like she agrees and Bucky looks at you like you hung the sky.

Month seven is slower. Bucky gets quieter, not distant but softer in a way that feels like somethign sacred. His hands are always on you. Guiding you up the stairs. Steadying you when you shift in bed. Resting over your stomach like he’s memorizing every movement.

Sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night and find him already awake, staring down at where your body curves around your daughter.

“Can’t sleep?” you whisper.

He shakes his head, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin.

“Just… making sure she’s real.”

You take his hand and press it more firmly there.

“She is.”

He exhales like that’s something he still has to convince himself of.

Month eight feels like anticipation, like standing at the edge of something you can’t quite see yet. The hospital bag sits by the door. Levi checks it every day like it might disappear.

“Is today baby day?” he asks every morning.

“Not yet,” you tell him, kissing his hair.

Bucky starts timing your contractions even when they’re just practice.

“Buck,” you laugh, “those aren’t real.”

“They could be.”

“They’re not.”

“…okay, but if they were—”

You kiss him to shut him up. It works. Mostly.

Month nine is quiet, not peaceful but full. Like everything is holding its breath.

At the end of the month the doctor says induction.

“Just to be safe,” she explains gently. “We don’t want to push it too far.”

You nod in understanding, but your hand finds Bucky’s immediately.

His grip tightens.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

And you believe him.

Levi doesn’t understand why he can’t come.

“I can help,” he insists, standing in the doorway with his backpack already on.

Sami crouches down beside him. “You’re helping by staying with me, kiddo.”

Levi frowns. You squat carefully in front of him, brushing your hands over his cheeks.

“You’ll be the first one we call,” you promise.

“And I get to meet her first?”

“First thing.”

He considers that, then nods once, serious.

“Okay. Tell her I said hi.”

“I will.”

Bucky crouches beside him, pulling him into a quick hug.

“Take care of Mom for me, alright?”

Levi nods into his shoulder.

“I always do.”

The hospital is too bright, too quiet and too loud all at once.

Time stops making sense almost immediately. There are nurses. Machines. Papers to sign. The slow, steady build of something you can’t stop once it starts. And Bucky—

Bucky is there through all of it. He never lets go of your hand, not when the IV goes in, not when the contractions start to sharpen into something real, not when your breath stutters and your grip turns bruising.

He talks you through it, low and steady and consant, just like he always is.

“Breathe with me.”

“I’m right here.”

“You’re doing so good, doll.”

You don’t remember most of it clearly.

It blurs together in a mix of pain and pressure as time folds in on itself.

But you remember him. The way he presses his forehead to yours, the way he wipes your tears like it matters, the way he looks at you like you’re doing something impossible and sacred all at once.

And you think—this is different. With Levi, you were strong because you had to be. But now, you’re strong because you’re not alone.

“Buck—” your voice breaks, gripping his shirt. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he says immediately. “You already are.”

“I’m so tired—”

“I know.” His hand cradles your face. “I know, baby. Just a little more. I’ve got you.”

You believe him. So you do it.

And then, crying, sharp bright and real crying. The room shifts instantly. Everything stops. Everything starts.

“It’s a healthy girl,” someone says.

Bucky goes completely still, then as quiet as the wind.

“Oh my God,” he breathes.

They place her in his arms for just a second before you, because he’s right there, because he won’t move, because he can’t. And something happens to him, you see it.

It’s like the world cracks open. Like everything he’s ever been through, every loss, every year, every version of himself collapses into this one moment.

His eyes go wide, like color has finally come back after years of gray. He looks at her like he’s afraid she might disappear, then he looks at you, and his entire face breaks open with it.

“This is it,” he whispers. “This is—”

He can’t even finish. He just leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your lips—soft, trembling, then to her tiny head.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs to her. “Hi, Caroline.”

Caroline.

You smile weakly, tears slipping sideways into your hair.

“Caroline,” you echo.

Levi bursts into the room later like a storm.

“Is she here?!” he demands.

Sami trails behind him, laughing softly as Bucky crouches beside him, one arm still wrapped protectively around you.

“She’s here.”

Levi steps closer slowly and you shift just enough so he can see her.

His eyes go wide.

“…she’s so little.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

He leans in carefully, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“I’m your brother,” he tells her seriously. “I’m gonna show you all my dinosaur toys when you come home.”

Bucky lets out a quiet, emotional laugh.

“That’s a pretty good deal.”

Levi nods.

“I know.”

Coming home feels like stepping into a life you already know, just fuller. Bucky doesn’t let you walk more than you have to.

“Careful,” he murmurs, one arm firm around your waist.

“I can walk, Buck.”

“You just pushed a whole human out.”

“Okay, fair.”

He helps you settle onto the couch, gently lowering you onto the donut pillow already waiting.

“Comfortable?”

“Mm.”

He disappears for a moment, then comes back with a small cart. Water, snacks blankets, burp cloths. Everything within reach. You blink at it.

“…did you plan this?”

“Maybe.”

“You definitely planned this.”

He shrugs, but there’s a small, proud smile there.

Levi tugs at his sleeve.

“'M tired Dad.”

“Alright, c’mon, bud.”

You watch them go, the quiet hum of their voices down the hall, Caroline warm against your chest. Your body is aching, and tired, but there's no other way you'd have it right now. Bucky comes back a little while later, he settles beside you carefully, one arm draping along the back of the couch behind you.

Levi curls into his other side immediately, mumbling the couch is more comfortable than the bed.

“You okay?” Bucky asks.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

You look down at her, then to your boys next to you, an involuntary smile spreading across your face.

“…we did it.”

His eyes soften.

“Yeah, we did. Did a damn good job too."

You let out a quiet hum. "Only took some coffee, melted milkshakes and one stubborn Barnes."

"Four stubborn Barnes' now." He teases quietly as he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple, then to Caroline’s head, then to Levi’s hair when his eyes inevitably shut.

[buckysgirlll]

001. the night where it all started

mob!bucky x sunshine!reader

apart of opposites attract

WC: 1.3k

bucky barnes masterlist ༻ navi

you let out a small shiver, when you step out of your work building.

tightening your jacket more around you, you start to make your long walk home.

sometimes you wish you had a car, so you don't have to do that much walking, but on the other hand, you're glad that you walk a lot since it helps your brain relax after a long day at work.

plus there's nothing better than reconnecting with nature.

just as you're a couple blocks away from your apartment you hear a whine. you stop in your tracks, wondering what that small, weak sound was.

another whine, similar to the first one has you looking down a dark alley.

you bite your lip nervously, knowing that you, a young woman shouldn’t go down an alley at this time of night but you can’t help the way your heart clenches at hearing those sounds.

you close your eyes, wondering if this will be the worst idea you’ve ever done and you might get abducted but before you can psych yourself out of it you hear another whine, louder than the last. it sounds like a… puppy.

damn it, if it's a puppy then you definitely can’t bring yourself to stand here and do nothing. especially with how it's so cold outside and it's raining. the poor puppy, is probably scared or even worse, injured.

you'll never forgive yourself if you walk past this alley, thinking that this whole thing was a trap for you or another person, but instead there was in fact a puppy sitting there, waiting for someone to come and help them.

you huff, throwing your hands in the air. you must look ridiculous to all the cars going by but you know what, what's the worse that could happen? i mean you could end up abducted or... dead but at least you died with the intention of helping a helpless animal.

you take a deep breath, wrapping your coat tighter around you, and then start walking down the alley to see if you can find whatever is sounding so hurt.

little do you know, something or someone has been watching you this whole time.

bucky sighs, running a hand down his face. today has been a long day and all he wants to do is get home, maybe call one of his regular women that will drop anything just to please him and go to sleep.

the soft sound of the rain hitting the roof of the car calms him as he looks out the window. his eyes squint when he catches a glimpse of a woman standing at the opening of an alley far up ahead.

he can’t exactly see her face until he gets closer but when he does, he sees that she’s utterly stunning.

probably the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his entire life. even with her face slightly wet by the rain.

“stop the car.”

“sir?” the driver asks, looking back and seeing that bucky near enough has his head pushed up against the window.

bucky gives his driver a glance, raising his eyebrow slowly.

“yes sir.” the driver says, practically folding without bucky even having to repeat himself.

the driver quickly parks at the other side of the street to which you’re on. giving bucky a perfect view of you.

you snuggled up in your coat, standing smack in the middle of the side walk, with your eyes closed and face titled towards the dark, cloudy sky. it’s like you’re talking to yourself in your head.

what on earth are you doing?

and why is he so entranced by you that he asked his driver to suddenly park on the side of the road, when he’s meant to be on his way home after a long night of handling business?

he narrows his eyes at you, watching the way the cold air trickles out of your mouth when you huff and throw your arms in the air, and the way your mouth moves softly like you’re trying to talk yourself into doing something.

“um sir, are we waiting for someone or—”

“shh.” bucky snaps, seeing you take a deep breath, wrap your coat tighter around your body, and walk into the random, pitch black alley.

what the fuck? bucky says in his head. what is genuinely wrong with this strange but beautiful woman. without thinking, bucky opens the car door and steps out.

“sir—”

“just wait here till i get back.” bucky grunts, fixing his cuff links before slamming the car door and following you.

he doesn’t know who you are, or why you’re deciding to walk into an alley by yourself at near enough ten in the evening. but he sure is about to find out.

bucky watches you carefully.

keeping a safe distance behind you so you don't notice that there's someone in this alley with you.

he wants to know what you're doing, but for the life of him he can't figure it out.

all he's seen you do is walk slowly, your hand pressed against the rough brick wall, to help you lead your way through the dark alley. he's seen you trip over your heels a couple times, and he's also had to stop himself from lunging out to catch you.

he doesn't know why he has this sudden urge to not only follow you but to make sure that you don't get yourself hurt.

he doesn't even know you... yet.

his thoughts are interrupted when he hears a small yap. it's so small that if he wouldn't of had enhanced hearing he probably wouldn’t of heard it.

“where are you hiding?” you coo.

bucky’s brows furrow in confusion as he keeps his slow stride behind you, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his slacks.

is this the reason why you decided to walk down here?

because you heard the noise of an animal?

do you not know how easy it is for attractive women like you to get ambushed in situations like this.

bucky shakes his head in disbelief.

because if you so easily caught his eye, imagine how many eyes you’ve caught from men that walk past you on the street daily.

too bad that that’s not going to happen anymore.

you’re his. no one else is having you.

bucky’s possessive thoughts get interrupted yet again when you let out a yelp, jumping back.

bucky can’t help himself but step a bit closer to see what scared his girl and if he needs to intervene.

his concerns cease to a stop when you suddenly kneel down and stand up cradling a small, dirty and damp puppy.

you don’t think you could’ve ever forgiven yourself if you ended up stepping onto that puppy, even though it would’ve been accidentally.

you didn’t think that it would’ve ran across your heels, and because you’re basically covered in darkness, you never even saw it coming.

you thought it was just a rat or something.

it was only when you kneeled down that you was able to catch a glimpse of its big brown eyes and its wet nose, and then you knew you found it.

and you’re so happy you did.

“oh look at you, you’re filthy.” you whisper to the small puppy in your arms.

“how can someone be so cruel to just leave you here.” tears start to cloud your vision, at the thought of someone dumping this poor, helpless animal in an alley to die.

you don’t get how some people can be so mean.

you shrug your coat off, wrapping the material around the puppy’s small frame. not even caring about the harsh chill that comes to your arms.

you stand up with it bundled in your arms and start to make your walk back through the alley.

you keep your head down, even once you’ve emerged from the narrow alley. your eyes focused on the precious bundle in your arms and not even noticing the figure that is walking straight towards you.

you gasp when you bump into someone’s chest, and you gasp again when you feel the warmth of a palm settling on your arm to stop you from toppling over.

“oh i’m so sorry.” you apologise, sidestepping the tall man and not even giving him a second glance.

your priority is getting home and calling the nearest vet immediately.

taglist: @oinswiftie @apenny4thots

you wanna be one of the first to read my bucky fanfics? why don’t you ask to join my taglist :)

[lottie-sweetheart]

𝘖𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘜𝘱!

Single Cat Mothers in Your Area

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Cat-lover fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Bucky has just moved in across the hall, accompanied by sweet little Alpine. Turns out across the hall, there's a very pretty single mother with cats of her own. Who seems to just keep wiggling her way into his heart...

Ingredients : 18+ MDNI even with no smut, no use of y/n, pet names (doll, sweetie, sweetheart), Alpine mentioned, Reader's cats names are Mango, Princess and Marigold, established platonic relationship (neighbours), Bucky falls way too hard way too fast, so slight angst, but mostly fluff, neighbours-to-lovers, so many cats, all the cats, shorter fic than my usuals (sorry), asking out scene

Calories: 1.1k

Chef's Note: Not sure I really sure if I have a note for this. Enjoy!!!! <3

The apartment was coloured a dark hue as rain pelted down outside with no signs of stopping any time soon. The great congressman Barnes however, paid absolutely no mind to the weather outside. He was busy unpacking the last tiny cardboard box of the entire living room, it was putting a plant up onto the bookshelf. One of his many precious plants, keeps his mind busy to make sure he takes care of them 24/7. Plus, he’s got to take care of his baby too. Said baby was sleeping on her brand new window cushion listening to the rain harshly hit the fire escape in front of her. 

“Well someone seems happy…” He wandered over to Alpine and gave her a gentle scratch behind the ears before going into the kitchen. It was way past lunch at this point and hell, he was hungry. His metal fingers had only just wrapped around the handle of the fridge when there was a gentle knock on the door. Alpine woke up and stretched before hopping down, coming to Bucky’s side instantly. “It’s alright Alpine. Probably… just a neighbour.”

He picked her up and held her gently in his arms as he went over to the front door and glanced through the fisheye. On the other side, a woman stood with something covered in tinfoil in hand. She seemed like a normal civilian, but she still made him slightly cautious. Alpine meowed softly, pawing at his beard gently, almost as if telling him: “Give it a chance.”

“Traitor.” He muttered softly before opening the door slowly. He was on edge still as he glanced down slightly. Alpine’s gaze followed. “Hello?”

The way your eyes lit up as soon as you saw Alpine, Bucky’s heart did a small flip. Small. It was very small.

“Hi, uh, I heard through the grapevine that you were moving in today so I wanted to do the neighbourly thing. Say hello, give a housewarming gift. It’s a plum cobbler. Hopefully you uh, like plum cobbler?” Bucky was stood in shock, really. Alpine staring at you with curiosity while the big, scary ex-assassin congressman looked… well, you weren’t sure.

“I love plums… actually. Thank you, uh?” You quietly introduced yourself with a soft smile. 

“And who is this adorable little thing here?” Bucky glanced down to Alpine, a soft smile starting to come across his lips. 

“This is Alpine. She is uh, a spoiled princess.” You only cooed quietly and just kept staring at Alpine like she was the most adorable thing in the world. 

“Alpine is an adorable name for an adorable fluffy baby. Good to see I have a cat-loving neighbour! I’ve got three cats of my own. Mango, Princess and Marigold. However, I made sure none of their fluffy cute paws touched the cobbler.” Three, cats? You made him plum cobbler, you obviously already got addicted to Alpine, why the hell? This was all way too quick. Obviously you were just being a kind and getting-to-know-him neighbour. “Speaking of my babies… I should get going before they rip up everything. Uh, here is the cobbler, if you need anything or just need a question answered, don’t hesitate to knock!”

He used his flesh hand to gently take the cobbler, he didn’t return the smile you gave him as you went back into your own apartment. As soon as your door shut, he let out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding as he shut his own door. Alpine jumped out of his arms, wandering into the kitchen and jumping onto the counter, he followed. 

“This cobbler smells damn good, hopefully it ain’t poisoned.” He opened the tinfoil, the smell hitting him instantly with a refreshing waft of the feeling of home. It smelt amazing, delicious, better than any smell he has ever smelt. 

It ended up that one very large slice of cobbler, a small glass nurturing some lemonade and a packet of chips was his lunch. And let’s just say… that the cobbler was delicious. 

It had been 5 months, 5 months of constantly bumping into each other in the hallway or at the letterboxes downstairs. A few times you’d been inside his apartment, taking care of Alpine for him while he was away on either a mission or at some terribly long hearing where he could just never leave work. Alpine had grown to love you as times went on, she’d recognise your lavender and other cat scent before you even knocked on his door. To be honest, he found it sweet. Alpine was usually hesitant with newcomers. But you obviously seemed to be some type of cat whisperer and broke through her exterior. 

But during those 5 months all Bucky would feel whenever he saw you was his heart pounding. Especially when you invited him over, you made him tea, gave him a gift for Alpine (it was a handmade sweater) and introduced him to your three darlings, as you called them. And your smile is what broke him every time. It was blinding, it was gorgeous

, it was… well everything. It was everything. 

He then started to try and inconspicuously court you. Helping you bring up your groceries, cook you dinner when he had the time, would pick things up for you if you were sick. Then it turned into gift giving. Flowers, cat toys, hell he even bought you a whole new cat tower when you told him your old one was breaking. 

When he told Sam about this, Sam practically shook him by the shoulders like a madman and told him to hurry up and ask you out. Bucky was hesitant, he still is hesitant. But soon enough, after standing in the hallway across from your door and taking massive breaths. His metal hand raised, it paused, then it knocked on the wood. Like it was a personal test of his own confidence. He was about to back out before the door opened, and there you stood. Still in your pyjamas and Marigold in your arms.

“Bucky? Something wrong?” He never visited you early in the morning like this, so you assumed the worst. 

“Uh– No. No. Nothin’ wrong I just uh, I was wondering if you were doing anything this evening. As I would like to… take you out for dinner this evening.” There was no speaking for a moment, you blinked, he blinked, then Marigold meowed. 

“You, want to take… me, out? Me?” Bucky nodded.

“Yes,I do. It’s just more now of, would you like to go out with, well, me?” Another small silent moment between the both of you occurred before you did that smile.

“I’d love too, Bucky.”

“Great! Uh, I’ll, uh, come knocking around 5:20.” 

“I’ll be waiting.”  

Tags: @hellilovedit @cruel-serpent

[metal-armed-muse]

BAD HABITS

DAD’S BEST FRIEND BUCKY X F!READER

SUMMARY. What’s so bad about Bucky Barnes? The fact that he watches you or calls you kid while he does it?

WORD COUNT. 12.2K WARNINGS. age gap, dad’s best friend, bucky calls reader ‘kid’ but she’s 25, MDNI, smut, forbidden relationship, guilt, mutual pining, first time, virginity loss, oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv, breeding kink, cum play, possessive language, bucky is obsessed with reader’s stomach, soft aftercare, porn with plot sprinkled, no use of y/n. FROM KIE. The summary makes it seem like he’s some sleazy asshole, he’s not. I tried real with the title and summary, and that’s all I could come up with. Sigh.

Kid. The word has always been there between you, too worn-in to sound accidental now. Kid at nineteen, when you came home during college break and saw him for the first time, sitting at your father's dining table, quiet and so beautiful it annoyed you for three straight days. Kid at twenty-one, when you brought home cheap wine and he took the corkscrew from you while you were mangling it, his fingers brushing yours, that you almost dropped the bottle opener entirely. Kid at twenty-four, when your dad started leaving tools here and Bucky started appearing in your kitchen with excuses thin enough to see through.

Kid, so he could look away.

Kid, so you'd stay safe.

You've been watching him for six years now. Learning the way he takes his coffee, the tells when he's had a bad night, how he'll rub at his left shoulder where metal meets flesh, like the junction still aches. You've seen all of it, studied all of it.  Sometimes you think about making a list, just to prove to yourself how pathetic you've become. Line item number one: he takes his coffee black but adds sugar when he thinks no one's looking. Line item number seventy-three: the nightmares are worse in winter. You could write a dissertation on Bucky Barnes and never run out of material.

You've watched him go from your dad's traumatized war buddy to something resembling human again. Watched him learn to laugh at your dad's shitty jokes and argue about sports teams and pretend the nightmares didn't still wake him up sometimes.

Watched him, lately, watch you back.

It's different the way he watches you. You don't think there's a name for it, or if there is, it is too scandalous to say out loud. His gaze will catch on your mouth when you're talking, or track the movement of your hands, or linger on the strip of skin between your shirt and jeans when you reach for something on a high shelf. Then he'll look away fast enough to give himself whiplash, and call you kid again like the word's a shield against whatever he's been thinking. It's one of those 'say it enough times, you'll start believing it' situation.

The first time you caught him staring at your mouth, you'd forgotten what you were saying mid-sentence. Just stood there like an idiot while he blinked and looked away. Your dad asked if you were feeling okay. You weren't. You haven't been okay since you were nineteen and saw him for the first time.

What's killing you now is that you don't know what happens next. You've played out a dozen scenarios in your head — him kissing you against the kitchen counter, you finally calling him on his bullshit, the world ending before either of you has to acknowledge this thing happening between you two. But you can't predict Bucky Barnes. He's controlled but also has triggers you don't know from stories he won't tell, and trying to guess his next move is like trying to catch smoke.

When you let yourself into your apartment on a Tuesday and hear him at your sink, you're not even surprised anymore. This has become routine. Your dad forgets his stuff more often than not, Bucky shows up to collect them, the excuse wearing thin each passing day. Both of you pretending this is normal.

"Kitchen," he calls before you've closed the door.

You don't question why he's here before you're even here. To be honest, it makes you happy, to see someone else — no, to see him. The henley he's wearing enhances his biceps, you almost want to chew through it. You've seen him in this shirt before. You know you have. But every time feels like the first time, like your brain can't quite process the reality of him. There's grease smudged on his jaw that he's completely missed while washing, all you want to do is let your fingers touch him under the guise of removing it. His hair's getting long, and you have approximately thirty seconds before you do something stupid like offer to trim it for him.

"Where's dad?"

Bucky glances at you, a fractional hesitation before he shuts off the water. "Got held up at work." He reaches for the dish towel — the one you've told him a hundred times not to use for his greasy hands — and starts drying off. "Said he'll grab the bike next week."

"Right. Next week." You drop your bag on the counter, not surprised once again. Your dad's been saying next week for three weeks now. At this point, the bike is practically furniture. Why does he leave his things over here if he never cares enough to get them back himself? 

"Well, he's busy." 

"So, he sent you?"

"He didn't send me, I offered," he says. The way he's looking at you now makes your aware of your heartbeat, the steady thunk it used to be is now replaced by this erratic energy that has nowhere else to go.

The kitchen suddenly feels too warm. Or maybe you're too warm. Maybe you've been too warm since the moment you walked in and saw him standing at your sink. You shrug out of your jacket, feel Bucky's eyes track the movement, watching the fabric slide down your arms, every inch of your skin waking up under his gaze. When you look back at him though, his eyes are fixed on the ragged towel at his hand, like they weren't on your skin this whole time. 

The grease on his face is starting to bother you. Though, bother would be a big word. You just want to rub it off. Why? You don't know. Maybe to get your hands on him. "You've got something on your face," you tell him.

His hand rises automatically, searching for the stain in the wrong place. "Where?"

"Other side. No — here, just —" You step closer, and immediately realise this is a mistake. You know it's a mistake even as you're doing it, but your hand's already there, thumb swiping at the smudge on his jaw.

Bucky goes still, that's the only way to put it. A whole-body freeze, every muscle locked down. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you absolutely do not want to. That's what you keep telling yourself. Liar, something in you whispers. You've wanted to count them since forever. You've wanted to note every detail of him and keep them somewhere safe.

There's a faint knowing of the world running in the background, but nothing else seems to matter when he's still not moving. And neither are you. "Got it," you say, but you don't step back.

"Thanks." 

Your thumb's still on his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin. You can feel the texture of it, slightly coarse. Suddenly, you're struck by the intimacy of knowing how his face feels under your hand. This is the kind of knowledge that belongs to girlfriends and wives, not to the daughter of his best friend who's been harbouring increasingly inappropriate thoughts for years. You can feel his pulse jumping in his throat, like he's been running. Neither of you is moving. Neither of you is even breathing if you're entirely honest. There's a slow dance of his eyes, from your own to your mouth, then back to your own. Yours do the same, mirroring him in the most minute way possible. There's about three inches of space between your mouth and his.

"This is a terrible idea," Bucky says as he leans in, which in turn makes you lean in. The distance closes in itself by excruciating degrees. 

"The worst." The two words from your mouth are swallowed by his own, the space between you both narrowed to a negative as his lips touch yours. The first graze of it is gentle, testing. Like he's afraid you'll shatter or bolt or realize what a stupid thing this is. But you've been waiting for this. There's months — no, years — of watching, wanting and pretending you weren't doing either, years of lying to yourself that you could be satisfied with just existing in his orbit, and gentle just isn't going to cut it. You fist your hand in his shirt and pull him closer, breaking whatever thread of control he's been clinging to.

Bucky makes a low sound in his throat and kisses you harder, hand coming up to cup the back of your head, metal arm sliding around your waist. The metal is cool even through your shirt, a shock of temperature that makes you gasp into his mouth. He tastes like coffee and mint gum, the taste so unique because it's him. When his tongue sweeps into your mouth, you forget how to think in complete sentences. Language becomes optional, unnecessary. Who needs words when you have this, have him finally, finally touching you the way you've dreamed about. Your free hand finds his shoulder, gripping hard enough to feel the shift of muscle under skin, as he backs you up until your hips hit the counter.

The kiss turns messier and desperate. His beard scrapes your chin, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling small sounds from you. You'd be totally embarrassed if you had any capacity to think. But, you're drowning in it, in him, in six years of wanting finally combusting into this.

The limbo of the kiss, the existence narrowed down to the dance of your lips is mercilessly interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket.

Bucky tears his mouth away from yours with a curse that would make your father blush, his forehead finding residence at your temple, both of you panting. You can feel his breath on your skin, uneven, matching your own. His hand shakes slightly as he fumbles for his phone.

"It's your dad."

The words are a bucket of ice water, waking up fear and shame, squashing any leftover desire. Guilt crashes over you in waves. This is your dad's best friend. Your dad's traumatized war buddy who he trusts completely, who he invited into his life, into your life. And here you are with swollen lips and shaking hands, having just had his tongue in your mouth. 

Bucky steps back, puts physical distance between you before he answers the phone. The loss of his warmth feels physical, like something's been ripped away. "Yeah?" His eyes are still on you, pupils still blown, gaze oscillating between your parted lips and your pleading eyes. "No, just wrapped up. Heading out now." A pause where he could take a deep breath, but doesn't. "Yeah, she's good. I'll tell her."

When he hangs up, the silence that follows is excruciating.

Expectant eyes search his face, his mouth, guilt threading through your own features as you take in his. Whatever you'd expected him to say, it wasn't this, "I should go," Bucky says

"That's it?" The words tear through you, frustrated and angered by his choice, his decision. "That's all you're gonna say?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Maybe any sentence that doesn't make me feel like I imagined the last five minutes."

His jaw clenches and unclenches. You can see him thinking, the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing what he should say versus what he wants to say. He looks like he's choosing his next sentence carefully. But when it does come out, it doesn't seem all that careful. "You didn't imagine it."

"No? Great. Very comforting." You cross your arms, looking like the very kid he claims that you are. "So what, you kiss me like that and then just leave?"

Bucky doesn't quite meet your gaze as he grabs his jacket and starts his way away from you, stillnot looking at you. 

"Why?" You prod. 

"You know why." Finally, he looks at you, whatever you see on his face makes you want to hit him or kiss him again. Pain, maybe. Regret. Want that he's trying desperately to bury and failing. Not trusting your body to keep its distance, you put some between you, stepping back. Bucky sighs, and runs his metal fingers through his hair. "Your dad's my best friend. I'm too old for you. This is — we can't —"

"I'm twenty-five, Bucky."

"I know how old you are. You think I don't know exactly how old you are? You think I — Fuck!" The frustration in his voice borders on anguish, like the knowing is what's killing him.

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is that your dad would kill me. The problem is that I've got no business touching you. The problem is that I can't —" He runs his hand through his hair again, and you think he might pull it off if he's not careful. "I need to go."

Bucky walks out, leaving you standing in your kitchen with kiss-swollen lips, racing heart, and anger. You're furious. At him for kissing you and leaving. At your dad for existing. At the whole goddamn universe for making this so complicated. At yourself most of all, for still wanting him even as he walks away.

A week. Seven days of you jumping every time someone knocks on your door, checking your phone obsessively like he's going to text you, half-expecting Bucky to show up with another tissue-thin excuse about tools or motorcycles or whatever.

He doesn't.

Day two, you convinced yourself you hallucinated the whole thing. Day three, you stared at your kitchen counter trying to remember the exact spot where he'd backed you up against it, like if you stand there long enough you'll be able to conjure the feeling of his hands on your waist.

Your dad picks up the bike himself. Mentions Bucky's been busy with some job for Sam, says it casually, disinterested. That means he has no idea anything's changed. You smile, nod and try not to think about the way Bucky's mouth felt on yours.

It doesn't work.

You replay the kiss in your mind so many times it starts to feel like fiction. But, you can still feel the ghost of his metal arm around your waist, still taste coffee and mint when you close your eyes.

On day seven, you've nearly convinced yourself to show up at his apartment and demand answers.

But he shows up at yours.

It's Tuesday night, exactly one week later. You're in old sweats and a tank top, halfway through a pint of ice cream you're eating straight from the container. 

The knock is an inconvenience at this time, perfectly ruining your plans of rewatching Brooklyn 99, turn your mind off and eat the damn ice cream. You almost don't open, 9 PM is hardly any time for visitors, hoping that person takes the hint and fucks off.

The second knock comes up more insistent, a hurry in the air, forcing you to pad towards the door, ice cream in hand. 

And there's Bucky. 

Bucky, who looks terrible, dark circles under his eyes, wearing an expression like he hasn't slept in days. He looks how you feel, which is both gratifying and heartbreaking. His hair is damp. It takes you a moment to understand it's drizzling. Drizzle would be a stretch, for the raindrops are the size of a pomegranate pearl, dropping down with vigour. 

"Hey," he says.

"No." You start to close the door, even though all you want to do is haul him inside, towel off his hair, dry those strands that are matted together. 

His boot hits the doorframe, an obstacle in your plans, a test on your self-preservation. "Wait —"

"I don't want to hear it, Bucky. I really don't." You try to push the door close anyway, mustering up the courage. But he's stronger than you physically, stronger than your thinning anger, which is dissipating by the second. "Move your foot," you try somehow. 

"Not until you let me talk."

"Why should I?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're a nicer person than I deserve."

A smile starts to break into your features, but you quickly tone it down. He's not playing fair, showing up here looking lost and using that voice. "Flattery's not gonna work."

"I'm not trying to flatter you. I'm trying to apologize."

You stop pushing on the door, the bare minimum you could do without showing all your cards. "Then apologize."

"Can I come in?"

Now, that would be a tremendously bad idea. If he comes in, you're not sure where else he'll be coming in. 

"You can apologize from right there." 

Bucky's quiet for a moment, studying your face. You try not to show your true feelings,keep your expression neutral, unaffected, like your heart isn't actively trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I'm sorry. For leaving like that. For not calling. For —" He looks like he's frustrated with himself, abruptly stopping the sentence. He takes a deep breath before continuing, "for all of it."

"Okay." You still don't open the door wider. "Apology received. Have a good night."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Shut me out. I know I fucked up, but —" He runs his hand through his hair, the water droplets cascading down his skin. You hate that you find it endearing, that even now, even angry and hurt, you're memorising the way the water runs down his temple, the exact shade of misery in his eyes. "Can we talk? Please?"

The 'please' is what does you in. You've never heard Bucky Barnes say please about anything, the sheer novelty of it makes you hesitate just long enough for him to see the weakness in your armor. "Five minutes," you tell him, stepping back.

You close the door behind him as he enters. When you turn around, he's closer than you expected, your back hitting the door with the need to put distance between you both. "You said you wanted to talk," you remind him, voice breathier than you'd like.

"I can't stop thinking about it." His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips. "About kissing you. About how you tasted. About the sound you made when —"

Feigning indifference seems like the only way out of this. "Okay." You try to sound unaffected, like your pulse isn't racing, like you haven't been thinking about it too. Obsessively, unhealthily, to the point where you can't focus on anything else. "So you've been thinking about it."

"That's not okay."

"No?" You raise an eyebrow, daring him. "Sounds like a you problem."

Bucky takes a step closer, trapping you between him and the door, the distance feeling anything but threatening, not having felt this alive in seven days. "I've been trying to do the right thing. I know that sounds like garbage from where you're standing."

"It does have that smell."

His lips curve into a smile. You wish you were immune to that, to his smile, to him. His hand comes up, hovering near your waist but not quite touching. "Your dad trusts me. He's trusted me for years. And here I am, showing up at his daughter's apartment, thinking things I've got no business thinking."

"What kind of things?" 

"Don't ask me that."

"Why not?" You're goading him, and you both know it. "Afraid you'll tell me the truth?"

His hand finally makes contact, just a light touch on your hip, just over the fabric of your top. "I've thought about you in every room of this apartment. I've thought about you when I shouldn't, in ways I definitely shouldn't. I've tried to stop, and I can't, and it's driving me out of my mind."

"You should suffer a little. You left me standing in my kitchen like what happened meant nothing."

"It meant everything." His other hand finds your waist, both of them spanning your hips, and you wish you weren't wearing anything, just so you could feel his hands on your skin. "That's the problem. If it meant nothing, I could've walked away and stayed away. But it meant everything. I still tried to stay away — tried to do the right thing, but here I am."

His breath comes out hard, he's so close you can clearly see the flecks of gray in his blue iries, which are turning black by the moment. You can smell the rain on him, soaked strands falling in front of his face, begging to be brushed away from his eyes.

"Stop calling me kid," you tell him.

Bucky's hands tighten on your hips. "I didn't call you that tonight."

"Not tonight. In general."

Bucky doesn't respond, but his hands move a fraction, the metal in his arm grazing your skin, cool even through your thin tank top.

"Say my name."

He hesitates like the word might burn him. You watch him struggle with it, something like pain or hurt flickering across his face before he utters, "sweetheart."

"That's not my name."

"Please." His voice is rough, pleading. 

"Say it, Bucky."

"Please don't make me."

The vulnerability in it catches you off-guard. "Why not?"

"Once I say it, that's it. I can't take it back. Can't pretend this is something I can walk away from."

"So you do want to walk away still?"

So soft, so fragile, your name leaves his mouth. It sounds different in his voice, shaped by his accent, rough with want. You've heard your name a thousand times but never like this.

"Was that so hard?" Your own voice is softer now, your hands somehow having found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

"Yes." All that want he's been trying to bury, is written across his face in sharp relief. His eyes are almost black, pupils blown wide, grip on your hips tight enough to bruise. "You have no idea how hard it is."

"Saying my name is hard?"

"Saying your name while I've been watching you, wanting you, knowing I shouldn't touch you. That's hard."

"You want me?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.

"Don't ask me that." It sounds like it's being dragged out of him. "Please."

"Why not?"

"You know why."

"No, I don't."

Bucky makes a sound that just might be the frustration in him seeping through, but his eyes are full of want. "Yes. Fuck, yes, I want you. I want you so much it feels like it's killing me. Happy now?"

"Not yet," you tell him befote smashing your lips into his. Anything but gentle, absolutely no testing the waters thing he did the first time. This is want distilled into action, six years of waiting and pretending all combusting at once, every fantasy you've ever had, every late-night thought you've tried to suppress, finally made real. Your hands fist in his damp hair, tightening his grip on your hips, bruising. When you bite his lower lip, he groans into your mouth like you've wounded him.

"We shouldn't," he speaks against your lips, but he's doesn't pull away, not even close. "Your dad —"

"Is not here." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Do you want to stop?"

Bucky looks at you like you're asking him to cut off his other arm. "No."

"Then stop talking about my dad while you're kissing me."

That startles a brief laugh out of him. Without wasting another second, he's kissing you again, walking you backward through your apartment. You're vaguely aware of furniture and doorways, of his jacket hitting the floor somewhere, of your ice cream forgotten on the counter. None of it matters as much as the slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of him, the way his hands are mapping your waist like he's memorizing you.

When the backs of your knees hit the couch, you try to pull him down with you, but Bucky resists. His hands find your hips, steering you around until you're standing and he's sitting, thighs spread wide to make room for you between them. The position puts you above him, taller for once. On his face, theres a crack in the armor where you can see straight through to the want underneath.

He looks up at you, and you've never seen him like this. Vulnerable doesn't seem like the right word for Bucky Barnes, but it's close. It's in the way his hands rest on your hips, loose enough that you could step away if you wanted. In the tilt of his head, exposing his throat, how he's letting you see him want you without the usual defenses. It makes you feel invincible and terrified both.

"Still time," he says.

"For what?"

"For you to tell me to leave."

You reach down, fingers sliding into his hair. The strands are cool and wet against your palm. When you drag your nails lightly against his scalp, his eyes flutter close. "I don't want you to leave."

Bucky leans forward, resting his forehead against your stomach. The intimacy of it steals whatever breath you have left. His hands tighten on your hips, thumbs stroking small circles through your tank top, the warmth of his breath you can feel through the thin fabric.

"Should've done this right," he mutters into your stomach. "Should've taken you to dinner. Somewhere nice. Not just shown up at your door like some —" he stops, breathing into you, the warm breath wet against your skin even through the flimsy cloth. 

"Like some what?" You prod. 

"I don't know. Obsessed asshole with no self-control."

That makes you laugh, earning a smile from him that you feel against your stomach. "I don't want dinner," you say. 

"You should want dinner. You should want the whole thing — flowers, romance, somebody who isn't —" He sighs, not able to finish what he was going to say. If he says it, it will be real. 

"Who isn't what?"

"Too old for you. Too —"

"Bucky." You tug his hair until he looks up at you, mouth parted, so gorgeous. "I don't care about any of that."

"You should."

His hair is soft under your touch, your fingers playing with them as you speak. "Well, I don't. And for the record, I hate fancy restaurants. They never give you enough food, and everyone whispers."

His mouth quirks into the fondest of smiles. "That's your objection? Portion sizes and volume?"

"I'm serious. I went to this place once where they served a single scallop on a plate the size of my head. One scallop. I'm supposed to eat one scallop and pretend I'm satisfied?"

"Sounds terrible."

"It was. I stopped at McDonald's on the way home." It had been a date, actually. Some guy from your office who'd taken you where the menu didn't have prices and the portions were insulting. You'd been hungry, bored and wishing the entire time that you were with Bucky instead.

Bucky's hands slide under the hem of your tank top, fingers finding bare skin. "No famcy restaurants where they serve a single scallop. Noted."

His touch almost derails your thoughts, you have to work to keep your voice steady. The rough calluses on his fingers drag against your skin, leaving trails of fire. "Anyway, you're here now. That's worth more than some overpriced shit."

"Is it?" There's doubt clouding his eyes, you can see clearly. 

"Yeah. It is." You just hope he understands how much you mean this. 

His hands move higher, taking your shirt with them, bunching the fabric above your waist. The metal hand is cool against your overheated skin, cold enough to make you gasp. Bucky stops his touch on its tracks. "Is it cold?"

"A little."

He starts to pull back, his touch leaving you becoming a physical thing you feel the loss of. Catching his wrist, you hold the metal hand flat against your stomach. "Don't."

"You sure?"

"I like it." The contrast, the warm flesh on one side, cool metal on the other, makes your skin feel alive. You've thought about his arm before, late at night when you shouldn't. Wondered what the metal would feel like against your skin, wondered if he'd let you touch it, trace the plates. "Feels good."

His grip tightens, both hands spanning your waist now, the slight tremor in his fingers you feel more and more each passing second. Like he's overwhelmed by being allowed to touch you like this. Like he can't quite believe you're real. The next thing you know, Bucky is leaning in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just above your navel.

The wet heat of his mouth against your skin makes your knees weak, almost wobbling. He does it again, lower this time, tongue tracing a path across your stomach that has you gripping his shoulders for balance. His stubble scrapes your skin, adding another layer of sensation you've never felt. When he bites down gently on your hipbone, a soft gasp leaves you, like there's not enough oxygen in this room for the both of you, especially not with the way he's pressing these kisses. 

The silence while he's kissing your stomach is too much. You need to fill it with something before you combust entirely. "Been thinking about this?" Your voice comes out breathy.

"Yes." Bucky doesn't even attempt to lift his head, continuing his way across your stomach, hands holding you steady.

"How long?"

Bucky's mouth stills against your skin. For a second you think maybe he won't answer, maybe he'll pull back, and this is it. But almost soft as a whisper, his words come. "Long enough to feel ashamed about it."

"How long is that?"

"Remember that barbecue last summer?" His lips brush your navel as he talks. "You were wearing that black top, and you bent over to grab a beer from the cooler? Yeah, I spent the next twenty minutes trying not to stare at your ass."

"That was July."

"I know when it was." His hands slide higher, taking your shirt with them. He pushes the fabric up and over your head, dropping it somewhere behind you, leaving you in just your bra from the waist up. The air feels cold against your exposed skin, but Bucky's gaze is hot enough to burn. "Been drivin' me crazy for months."

You remember that day. Remember catching him staring and thinking you'd imagined it. Apparently, you hadn't. Bucky looks at your bra, but decides against it, pushing it up too, just shoving it out of the way, pulling you down into his lap. The position puts you straddling his thigh, friction of his jeans against your sweats making you acutely aware of how wet you already are. Embarrassingly wet. He's barely touched you and you're already soaked through, probably leaving a damp spot on his jeans. 

Bucky's mouth finds your breast, and whatever coherent thought you had left scatters like startled birds. He sucks your nipple into his mouth, tongue working the sensitive peak. Your hips roll forward involuntarily, the pressure against your clit perfect but not nearly enough, chasing more friction, grinding down on his thigh.

"That's it," he murmurs against your breast, switching to the other side. "Take what you need."

His metal hand cups your neglected breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, the cool touch making you gasp. He seems to like that reaction, doing it again with more pressure. Having him like this, puts all your fantasies to shame, your fingers threading through his hair to hold him close.

You didn't know it could feel like this. This consuming. Every nerve ending in your body is focused on the wet heat of his mouth, the cool press of metal, the friction building between your legs. You're making these small desperate sounds you can't control, hips moving faster now. Bucky groans against your breast like watching you get off on his thigh is the best thing he's ever seen.

"Bucky —" You're close already, wound too tight, and it's almost embarrassing how fast he's gotten you here.

"I know." He bites down gently on your nipple, soothing it with his tongue. "Can feel how wet you are through your sweats. Gonna cum just from this, aren't you?"

The words almost send you over, but before you can, he lifts you off his lap, laying you down on the couch. You barely have time to process the change before he's hooking his fingers into your waistband, dragging both your sweats and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. Your bra which was previously pushed atop your breasts, is discarded too, and you're naked. Completely naked while he's still fully dressed, and somehow that makes this hotter. There's this moment where neither of you moves, stuck in a limbo, where he just looks at you, sprawled across your couch. You watch him take in every inch of exposed skin. You watch him watch you. 

"Jesus," he breathes.

"Are you just gonna stare, or —"

Bucky kisses you, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark you were about to make, mouth insistent, tongue tasting yours. When he pulls back, you try to follow, chasing him, but he's moving down your body.

He kisses your jaw, your throat, the hollow at the base of your neck where your pulse is racing. You wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating, if he knows what he does to you. He takes his time with your breasts again, like he can't quite believe he gets to touch them. His mouth blazes a trail down your sternum, mapping the soft plane of your stomach with lips, teeth and tongue.

When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips inside, circling, your back bows of the couch in response. "Bucky, please —"

"Patience. Wanna look at you first." His hands are on your thighs, pushing them apart. The first brush of cool air against your wet core makes you shudder. You should be self-conscious about this, spread open for him, the position in itself making you vulnerable, but the way he's looking at you makes you feel like a goddamn masterpiece, killing any embarrassment before it takes root. 

His finger traces your slit, so light it's almost not there, and you try to cant your hips up for more pressure. Bucky's metal hand presses down on your lower stomach, holding you still.

"Stay," he says, like you're a misbehaving dog and not someone who's writhing for breath beneath him. It's not quite a command but close enough to make you clench around nothing. 

Bucky explores you with devastating thoroughness, tracing the shape of you with one finger, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you whimper. He spreads you open with two fingers, just looking. "She's so pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So fucking pretty."

He leans down to lick a stripe up your center, tongue flat and broad, and you forget how to breathe. Even the first touch of his mouth is too much, when you're already so worked up, so close from grinding on his thigh. The wet heat of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, not even embarrassed about how loud you are. Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole building know. He seems encouraged by the sound, doing it again with more pressure. He eats you out like it's the only thing he wants to be doing. Like he could spend hours between your legs and die happy. His tongue works your clit in slow circles, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has you squirming. When he closes his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks, you nearly come off the couch entirely. "Oh god — Bucky —"

He slides one finger inside you while his mouth stays focused on your clit. Your fingers on his hair tug them harder with each pass of his tongue, almost scaring you with how tight you're pulling and whether you're hurting him. You might actually rip his hair out, but you can't bring yourself to care because it feels too good. None of that even seems to cross his mind as his finger curls, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body tense. He works it mercilessly while his tongue keeps that same steady rhythm.

You're pretty sure you're babbling now, saying his name and god and please in an endless stream, nails of your one hand — the one not currently buried in his hair — grasping his flesh shoulder, hard enough that it has to hurt. Again, Bucky doesn't seem to care. If anything, he doubles down, adding a second finger and increasing the pressure of his tongue. He's going to ruin you for anyone else. Not that there's ever been anyone else to compare with, but after this, you're done for.

You can feel the release gathering in the clench of your thighs, in the way every muscle in your body goes tight. Bucky seems to sense how close you are, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady as he keeps that relentless pace. "C'mon," he says against your clit, the vibration of his voice sending shockwaves through you. "Let me taste it."

The orgasm crashes over you, your whole body seizing as pleasure tears through you. With your hands, it's never been like this. Never this intense, never this all-consuming. This feels like you're coming apart and Bucky's the only thing holding you together. You're dimly aware of crying out his name, your thighs trying to close around his head, the way your inner walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers. Bucky works you through it, tongue gentling but never stopping, drawing out every last aftershock until you're pushing at his head from oversensitivity.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening. He looks obscene, debauched, like something out of your dirtiest fantasy. The satisfied look on his face would be smug on anyone else. On him it's just honest satisfaction, like getting you off was the highlight of his month. "You good?" His voice is rough.

Words seem far away right now, you can barely remember your own name. You just nod, boneless, wondering if it's possible to die from pleasure.

Bucky crawls up your body, settling his weight on top of you carefully. Even wrecked with want, he's careful not to crush you. When he kisses you slowly, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It feels filthy and intimate at the same time, sending a fresh wave of arousal through you despite having just come. "That was —" You still can't form complete sentences. "You're really good at that."

He grins against your mouth. "Yeah?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." Bucky is smiling, you realize this might be the most relaxed you've ever seen him. Happy. He looks happy. When was the last time you saw him look happy? "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

"Since July, apparently."

His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing spit. "July's when I stopped being able to pretend."

"What changed?"

"You looked at me." He says it simply, like it explains everything. "Just me. After that, I couldn't pretend anymore that I didn't want you looking at me like that all the time."

You've been looking at him since the day you knew him. You don't tell him that, those demons can stay where they lay. You pull him down into another kiss, slower this time, trading breath and heat. When you finally break apart, you can feel how hard he is against your hip, still fully clothed and probably painfully uncomfortable.

"Your turn," you tell him, reaching for his belt. Bucky catches your wrist, slowing you down, thumb stroking across your radial pulse, eyes pleading, saying everything his mouth can't. The gentle touch is at odds with the hunger in his gaze. You feel your pulse jumping under his fingers, giving away how badly you want this.

"I want to," your voice is barely a whisper. You need him to know, to understand that this isn't one-sided, that you've been wanting this just as long. That seems to be all the permission he needs. He releases your wrist and lets you work his belt open, the metal buckle clinking as you pull it free. Your fingers are shaking slightly, adrenaline and want making them clumsy. His jeans follow, while he watches with those hooded eyes, like this is some kind of religious experience.

When you get his shirt off, you take a moment to just look. God, he's a masterpiece. You've seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never laid out for you, never yours to touch. There are scars you knew about, the ones you've seen at pool parties and barbecues, the ones your dad mentioned in passing when he thought you weren't listening. But there are others you didn't know, smaller ones scattered across his ribs and chest, a puckered bullet wound near his collarbone. Each one tells a story he's never shared, pain he's survived, and you want to learn every single one. The place where metal meets flesh is a work of terrible artistry, plates and skin fused in ways that probably hurt more than he'll ever admit.

You lean in and press your lips to his shoulder, right where metal becomes man. Bucky goes very still. Like he's holding his breath, waiting for you to recoil, to change your mind. "You don't have to do that."

You don't respond him with words, just another kiss to the seam, the metal cool under your lips, then lower, across his chest, the skin warm, the contrast intoxicating.You work your way down his body, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his boxers, wanting to map every inch of him with your mouth, memorize the way he tastes. Bucky's hand leaps to tangle in your hair, gentle but insistent nonetheless, pulling you back up. 

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. But if you put your mouth on me right now, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast," he answers. The admission goes to your heart and cunt at the same time, the idea that you affect him that much doing things to you. 

That makes you pause, a laugh threatening to bubble out of you, but you keep it contained. "How fast we talking?"

"Thirty seconds, maybe." He doesn't look embarrassed about the admission, though there's a slight red tinge to the tip of his ears. That blush, that tiny hint of vulnerability, makes you want him even more. "I've been half-hard since I kissed you in the doorway, and I've been thinking about this for months. So unless you want me coming down your throat before we even get to the good part, you're gonna have to wait."

The bluntness of it sends heat racing through you, right between your legs, warmth spreading over the apples of your cheeks. Glancing down to not meet his eyes, you're met with the unevenness of this situation, suddenly very aware that you're naked while he's still got his boxer briefs on. "That's not fair."

Bucky manoeuvres you, hands on your hips, guiding you back down to the couch with a gentleness that contradicts his size. "Life ain't fair, sweetheart." 

Bucky's body looms above you as he settles between your thighs. The breadth of his shoulders blocks out the light from the lamp, casting shadows across his face that make him look almost dangerous, but he's soft to you. You watch him shove his boxers down, cock springing free, curved slightly towards his stomach, thick and flushed, bead of precum spilling over the tip. It's bigger than you expected, thicker, and for a moment anxiety spikes through your arousal. His flesh hand wraps around himself, working his cock, while the metal one is braced against the couch, framing your head. And you realise this is quite possibly the hottest thing you've ever seen.

"Like what you see?" You'd assume it was asked out of cockiness if you didn't know him better. You know him better, and there's genuine curiosity in his question, mixed with almost boyish shyness. 

"You already know the answer to that."

"Maybe I wanna hear you say it."

"You're fishing for compliments now?"

"Is it working?"

"Yes," you admit, earning a bright eyed and genuine smile from him,transforming his whole face, making him look younger, happier, and you want to be the reason he smiles like that forever. "You're gorgeous, okay? You're so hot it's actually annoying."

"Annoying?"

"Yeah. You walk around being all broody and hot, and I'm supposed to just — what? Pretend I don't notice?"

"You can notice me all you want, sweet girl."

Sweet girl. You like the sound of it, somehow much more intimate that anything he's ever called you. It's not really an accomplishment because all he's called you before is 'kid'. 

Bucky laughs, a sound you want to bottle up and listen when your days get dark. His fingers are between your legs again, two of them sliding inside easily, thanks to your orgasm from earlier, still wet, still open. But the stretch makes you gasp anyway, an open-mouthed silent cry, that he swallows for himself with a kiss. He works them slowly, watching your face, conflict playing across his features. Want versus restraint. Need versus caution.

"You're so tight," he mutters, almost to himself, fingers pumping in and out. Each slick sound makes your face burn, embarrassingly loud evidence of how much you want this. "Gonna have to take my time with you."

"I can take it," you tell him, voice fracturing with need, the ache to be filled by him. His cock stands proud against his abdomen, jerking with every motion of his fingers, taunting you. You want to feel the weight of him inside you, splitting you open, claiming you completely.

"I know you can." He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your back arch, and does it again just to watch you squirm. "But I'm not gonna hurt you. Not if I can help it."

He leans down to kiss you, slower this time, thorough, his tongue plunging into your mouth, remnants of your own juices lingering, while his fingers keep that steady rhythm. You're climbing toward another orgasm already, your body wound tight and responsive. Bucky breaks the kiss, only to pepper a few more on your jaw, the corner of your mouth, breath coming in hot. 

"Have you taken cock before?"

The question catches you off-guard, the blatant crudeness of it. Stilling beneath him, you will your breath to come, his fingers slowing on your cunt not being of much help. 

"Baby." His free hand comes up to cup your face. The tenderness in the gesture makes your eyes sting. "I need to know. Need to know how careful I gotta be."

The truth sits in your throat, heavy as a stone. You could lie, tell him you've done this a dozen times, that you're experienced and worldly and this is no big deal. But lying to Bucky feels wrong, feels like starting this thing between you on a foundation of sand.The way he's looking at you, open and honest, worry lines framing his face, also makes it impossible. "No," you finally whisper.

His fingers stop moving, just frozen inside you while he stares at you with an expression you can't quite read. Shock. Concern. Fear? "What?"

"No. I haven't."

Bucky starts to pull his fingers out, a pained expression on his face, like the knowledge of it physically hurts him. "Jesus Christ. You should've — I wouldn't have—"

No, no. He can't do that. You catch his wrist, holding his hand in place. "Don't."

"We can't —"

"Yes, we can." You roll your hips, taking his fingers deeper, and watch his eyes go dark, control slipping. "I want this. I want you."

"Your first time shouldn't be — It should be special. Someone who —"

"Someone who what? Takes me to a fancy restaurant and serves me one scallop?" You're babbling now, words tumbling out, desperate to keep him in. "I don't want that. I want you. This is special."

"I'm too old for you. Too fucked up. Your dad's gonna —"

"I don't care about my dad right now." You tighten your grip on his wrist, needing him to see that this isn't some impulsive decision. "I care about you. And I'm not some delicate flower you're gonna break. I can take you."

Bucky looks at you like you've wounded him, like the trust you're placing in him is almost too much to bear. You can see the war happening behind his eyes, and you hope he loses, you hope the walls he'd erected within the past twenty seconds crumble and he comes back to you. "You're all I want, Buck," you press. 

A long sigh leaves him, but finally he says, "you tell me if it's too much." The words sound torn from him, reluctant but resolute. "The second it's too much, you tell me and we stop. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"If it's too much, I'll tell you." You pull him down into a kiss, teeth claiming his lips. You bite down, tasting copper, needing him to feel something, anything. "Now stop treating me like I'm made of glass and fuck me already."

That startles a laugh out of him. You wrap your fingers around his length, almost pulling him by his dick, he doesn't seem to care though. The skin is hot and silky under your palm, cock twitching in your grip, precum leaking from the tip. Bucky pulls his fingers free, positioning himself at your entrance. The blunt head of his cock presses against you, even that initial pressure making you tense. "Breathe," he instructs. "Just breathe for me, sweetheart."

You force your muscles to relax, and he pushes in. Just the tip at first, just enough to make you gasp at the stretch of it. It's immediately more than his fingers, wider and so overwhelming you forget how to think in complete sentences.

Bucky freezes, his hard length stuffing you halfway. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just — a lot."

"I know, sweet girl." His metal hand comes up to cup your face with a gentleness, it in itself bringing you to tears, cool metal against your overheated cheek grounding, keeping you anchored. "We go slow. As slow as you need."

He works himself in gradually, stopping every time you tense, giving you time to ease yourself. It's torturous, this slow invasion, your body struggling to accommodate his size. But his words keep you company, praise, reassurance, sometimes filthy little things he'd want to do once you get used to this. Things about how he'll fuck you in every room of this apartment, how he'll bend you over the kitchen counter, how he'll wake you up with his cock inside you. About how good you're doing, how tight you are, how perfect you feel. When he's about halfway in, tears fully start leaking from the corners of your eyes. You don't think it's from the pain, just from the overwhelming fullness of it, the sensation of being split open, claimed and filled so completely there's no room for anything else. 

Bucky immediately senses the tears and stops, jaw clenching with the restraint of holding himself still above you, trembling with the effort of not moving. "Too much?"

"No." Back of your hand rushes to wipe your eyes impatiently, frustrated that your body's betraying you like this, showing weakness when you want to be strong for him. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

"You're crying."

"I know I'm crying. It doesn't mean —" You roll your hips, to show him that you can take him deeper, that these are good tears, from pleasure alone and nothing else. At another roll of your hips, Bucky groans. "See? I can take it."

Bucky stays still, his hand finding your lower stomach, pressing down gently. The added pressure makes everything more intense, even fuller. "Can feel myself inside you," he mutters, almost wonderstruck. "Right here. Can you feel it?"

"What?" You're barely coherent, too overwhelmed to process what he's saying. You think he's trying to distract you, the palm on your abdomen pulls you enough from whatever discomfort you might feel from your first time. You welcome it. 

Bucky takes your hand and presses it against your lower stomach, right where his hand was. You can feel it, feel the solid presence of him inside you, the way your body's stretched around him. "Oh my god." The realization is visceral and overwhelming. "That's — you're —"

"Yeah. That's me, fillin' you up, sweetheart." Sounding wrecked, Bucky pushes the rest of the way in. The slide of it, the final inch that seats him fully inside you, makes you both freeze. You just lie there connected, trying to adjust to the reality of this. Through hooded eyes, you look at him. He's focused, jaw tightening as his gaze is fixed on the way your cunt swallows him whole. 

"You okay?" His eyes tear from your place of union reluctantly to look into yours. 

"Ask me that one more time and I'm gonna hit you."

That makes him laugh, the movement jostling where you're joined, making you clench around him involuntarily.

"Can you —" You shift your hips experimentally. "Can you move? Please?"

"Yeah." He pulls out slowly, so slowly that you can feel every ridge and vein, before he pushes back in just as carefully. The slide is easier now, your body adjusting, learning to take him. "This okay?"

"More." You're chasing the friction, hips canting up to meet him. "I need more."

Bucky is so careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But when you urge him on with hands, hips and broken pleas, his control starts to slip gradually. The thrusts get deeper, the couch creaking beneath you, until you're making sounds you didn't know you were capable of.

It's never this good when you're alone. Bucky seems to have woken up your body from a slumber you didn't know it was in. Every sensation is not only new but also heightened. 

"So fucking tight," he groans, his hand pressed to your belly again. "Can feel my cock moving inside you. You're takin' me so well, sweetheart. Look at you."

You can't look at anything except him, his jaw is clenched with effort, pupils blown so wide there's no blue remaining, just black, the flush spreading across his chest. The still slightly damp hair falling in front of his face, but he makes no effort in moving it off, the salt and pepper stubble that scratches your cheek everytime he pushes forward, everytime his pelvis meets yours. He's gorgeous like this, desperate and wanting. 

"Bucky —" You're climbing again already, wound too tight to last much longer. "I'm gonna —"

"I know, baby." His thumb finds your clit, circling with devastating precision. "Can feel you getting tighter. Squeezin' me — fuck —"

The added stimulation is almost too much. You're right on the edge, balanced on that knife-point between pleasure and too much. Already at the verge of losing, made worse by Bucky leaning down to suck a mark into your neck while his hips keep that relentless rhythm. "Wanna fill you up," he mutters against your throat. "Wanna fuck you full of my cum. Wanna fuck a baby into you."

"Yes — Please —" You are completely disconnected from your mouth, it being a separate thing only remembering words that are his name, yes and please. 

"Gonna make sure it takes." His thrusts get erratic, control fraying. "Gonna keep you full of me until your belly swells. Until everyone can see what we've been doing."

The image he's painting is filthy and visceral. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight, verge of telling him yes to everything when he keeps going. This is not just distraction anymore, the farthest part of your brain whispers.

"Think about it," he groans, hand spanning your stomach again. "You round and full with my kid. These perfect tits getting bigger." His thumb presses harder on your clit, while he bends to take one nipple into his lips, neck straining. "So full of milk you'd need me to help you, need my mouth on you. They'd be so heavy, baby."

That's what sends you over. The orgasm tears through you, whole body seizing as pleasure obliterates thought, ears ringing, not even hearing the way you scream his name. Your inner walls clamp down on him so hard, he curses, loses his rhythm, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

Bucky fucks you through it, chasing his own release. "That's it. Milk my cock. Show me how much you want it. Want me to breed you properly —"

He comes with your name on his lips, hips grinding against yours as he spills inside you. The warmth of it, the sheer volume is startling, pulling soft noises from your wrung out body. You can feel it coating your walls, filling you up exactly like he promised, marking you from the inside out. 

Boneless like you, Bucky balances himself on top of you, forearms braced against the couch, not pulling out. You feel his cock twitching inside you, spurting the remnants of his release, and feel the wet slide of cum down your inner thighs. Through the haze of your orgasm, something clicks into place. The way he'd been fixated on your stomach from the beginning, how his hands always found their way there, pressing, holding and claiming. The breeding talk that seemed to come so naturally to him. He'd been obsessed with it, with your stomach, with the idea of filling you up, you'd just been too overwhelmed to notice.

"You're obsessed with my stomach," you say, still trying to catch your breath.

Bucky lifts his head to look at you, and there's no embarrassment in his expression. If anything, there's pride there, satisfaction. "Yeah. Have been since you wore crop tops all summer."

"All summer?"

"I'm not proud of it." But he's smiling slightly, thumb stroking across your stomach where he's softening inside you. "Couldn't stop thinking about marking you here. Putting my hands on you. Making you mine in every way that matters."

The possessiveness in his tone, the raw need, stirs something primal in you, that wants to be his. The fact that this is your first time ever doesn't concern you, just makes you feel wanted and claimed in the best possible way.

He finally pulls out, and you both wince at the sensitivity. The slide of him leaving you feels like a loss, an ache of emptiness. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you. Those worry lines are back, you want to smooth them away. "That was perfect. You were perfect." You kiss him softly. "I'm fine. Better than fine."

He still looks unconvinced, but before he can spiral into guilt, you pull him down on top of you. His weight is comforting rather than crushing, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close. His arms band around you, face buried in your neck. 

For a while, he stays where you put him, his body heavy over yours, warm and shaking in small, leftover ways he would probably deny if you mentioned them. His face remains tucked in your neck like he can hide there from every terrible, responsible thought trying to crawl back into his head. You can feel the guilt gathering anyway. It keeps making itself known in the careful way he holds his weight off you, the tiny pauses before his mouth touches your skin, the way his arms tighten whenever you shift. The guilt doesn't get to settle in though, because you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently, pulling him back to look at you. "Stop thinking so loud."

"I'm not —"

"You are." Your thumb traces the crease between his brows. "I can hear it from here."

Bucky huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before starting a slow path downward. His lips drag across your sternum, then lower, mapping ribs and soft flesh. Each kiss is soft and slow, like he's got all the time in the world to learn what makes you sigh. When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips in the same way it did earlier, circling, and your hips twitch involuntarily.

"Stay still," he murmurs against your skin, quiet want in his tone. His mouth continues lower, across the plane of your stomach, and this is where he lingers. Open-mouthed kisses pressed to skin that's still flushed and overheated, his stubble scraping in ways that make you squirm. Both hands splay across your belly, spanning the width of it, metal and flesh holding you like something precious. He's almost worshipful about it, pressing his lips just below your navel and staying there, breathing you in.

"What are you doing?" Your voice comes out soft.

"Thinkin' about how good you'd look." His thumb strokes back and forth across your stomach. "Round and full. Wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you."

Bucky's orgasm doesn't seem slow him down, he's only edging you towards the start of another one, the words sending signals straight to your core. "You already can't keep your hands off me."

Bucky laughs as he presses another kiss lower, then another, working his way down until he's kneeling between your spread thighs. 

You're about to pull him up, tell him you're still not recovered, but Bucky's not looking at your face anymore. His gaze is fixed between your legs, watching as his cum starts to leak out of you, painting your inner thighs white. "Fuck," he breathes, his fingers gathering the mess and pushing it back inside you. "Can't waste it," he mutters, almost to himself, two fingers pressing deep, pushing his release back where it belongs. "Gotta make sure it takes. Gotta keep you full."

You're boneless, can't do anything but lie there and let him have this strange, filthy little ritual, watching through dazed eyes. The room smells like rain and sex. Your couch is absolutely never recovering, and maybe neither are you. He keeps his fingers inside you with that focused, almost frightening devotion, pushing the mess back where he thinks it belongs, one open-mouthed kiss landing on your lower stomach as he does it.

You reach down and catch his wrist, stilling his hand. "Bucky. I'm not going anywhere. It's not going to leak out in the next five seconds."

He looks up at you, a bashfulness in his face you've never seen on him before, caught doing exactly what he wants with zero shame left to hide behind. "I know. I just —" He trails off, fingers still buried inside you.

"You just what?"

"Like seeing it," he admits. "Like knowing I put it there."

The honesty of it makes you want the next round desperately, and before that thought could take root, you tug on his wrist, pulling him towards you. He withdraws his fingers reluctantly, wiping them on his discarded shirt before crawling up your body. When he settles next to you on the couch, you turn into him, tucking yourself against his chest. His arm comes around you, metal hand cool against your overheated skin.

"So that happened."

"Yeah. That happened." His lips and hands keep mapping your body in small increments, like he's making up for lost time, like he doesn't want to let you go. 

The silence stretches. You count his heartbeats — twelve, fifteen, twenty — before he eventually says, "your dad's gonna kill me."

"Probably." You trace patterns on his chest with one finger, following old scars, the raised tissue telling stories he won't. "But at least you'll die happy."

"Small comfort."

"I could tell him it was my idea," you supply. 

"That'll make it worse. Then he'll kill me for not having more self-control." He catches your hand, stilling your wandering fingers mid-trace. "He trusts me. Trusted me with you. And I just —"

"Fell in love with me?"

The words shatter between you. You've never said them out loud before, never put a name to this thing that's been building since you were nineteen. Bucky goes very still at that, body stopping everything, even breathing. "What?"

"That's what this is, right?" You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him. "Because if this is just some — I don't know, some itch you needed to scratch, you should probably tell me now before I —"

"It's not." He cuts you off urgently. "It's not that. It's —" The struggle plays out on his face, words getting stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.

"It's what?"

"It's me being stupid in love with you for the past six months and trying real hard not to be," he finally says. The confession comes out rough, like it's been dragged from deep inside him. "It's me seeing you and forgetting how to be a person. It's me lying awake at 3 AM thinking about your laugh. It's — fuck, I don't know. I'm not good at this."

"Doin' fine so far," you tell him softly.

"I'm old. You just graduated college a few years ago. Your dad's my best friend. I got no business —"

"Bucky." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, meet your eyes, the intensity in them hopefully squashing any lingering doubts. His eyes do that thing where they won't hold yours for more than two seconds, darting away like he's afraid of what you'll see if he stays. "I'm twenty five. I have a job, an apartment, a 401k that I don't understand but I have one. I'm not some kid you're taking advantage of."

"I know that. I do. But —"

"But what?"

"But I've been to war. I've killed people. I got nightmares that wake me up screaming and a metal arm because I got fucked up and — You should want someone normal. Someone who doesn't have to check the exits in every room and who doesn't flinch at loud noises."

You think about all the times you've watched him scan a room, cataloging threats that aren't there. How he never sits with his back to a door. How he jumped that time your neighbor dropped a toolbox in the hallway. "Should I? Is that what I should want?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I don't." You lean in and kiss him before he can argue, or state reasons why this shouldn't happen. You continueto speak against his mouth, "I want you. Nightmares, metal arm, all of it. I want you at 3 AM when you can't sleep. I want you checking exits. I want all the parts you think are too broken to love."

A frustrated sound leaves him, sounds like a laugh but could easily be anything else. "You're gonna regret this."

"Let me worry about that."

"When your dad finds out —"

"When my dad finds out, we'll deal with it. Together." You settle back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, its jumping out of his ribs. "Besides, he likes you better than me anyway. I'm pretty sure if it came down to it, he'd keep you and disown me."

That actually makes him laugh. "That's not true."

"It absolutely is. You fixed his transmission. I can't even check my own oil."

"I'll teach you."

"See? This is why he likes you better." You press a kiss to his sternum. "Useful."

"That's me. Useful." You can hear the smile in his voice now, the tension finally bleeding out of him.

"Among other things." Your hand drifts lower, fingers trailing down his stomach.

He catches your wrist, halting its path. "Again? Already?"

"What? You get to be obsessed with my stomach but I can't appreciate yours?"

"I don't —" He stops when you look up at him. Your expression must give away exactly what you're thinking, Bucky's jaw tightens, Adam's apple bobbing on a hard swallow. "Okay, yeah. I'm obsessed with your stomach. Happy?"

"Very." You kiss his jaw. It's hard to keep your hands to yourself when he's laid out beside you like a Greek statue taunting you. "For the record, I'm obsessed with your arms. Both of them. And your shoulders. And this thing you do where you bite your lip when you're concentrating."

"I don't do that."

"You absolutely do. You did it like three times while you were trying to get my bra off."

"I was nervous," he admits. There's a pink tinge creeping up his neck, faint but visible. "Kept thinking you'd realize this was a mistake and change your mind."

"Not a mistake." You tilt your head up to look at him properly. "Best decision I ever made, actually. Well, second best. First best was wearing that black crop top to the barbecue."

He groans. "Don't remind me. I had to hide in the garage for twenty minutes."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" He shifts, and you feel the evidence of why pressing against your hip. "You bent over to grab a beer and I thought I was gonna die right there."

"Poor baby. Must've been so hard for you." You're not even a little bit sorry. 

"Not funny."

"It's hilarious." You kiss him again, deeper this time. His tongue slides against yours lazily, like you have all the time in the world. When you pull back, his eyes are dark again. "Also, we should probably move to the bedroom. This couch isn't big enough for both of us."

"Can you walk?"

Good question. Your legs feel like overcooked pasta, your body wrung out and remade into someone new. "I — Maybe?"

Bucky sits up, taking you with him, and before you can protest he's scooping you up. "I got you."

"I can walk," you insist, even as you're wrapping your arms around his neck. The automatic way your body curls into him feels like muscle memory you haven't earned yet.

"Sure you can." He's heading down the hallway. "But let me do this."

"Such a hardship, carrying me around naked."

"The worst." He's grinning, and when he lays you down on your bed, carefully, like you're precious cargo. He stands there for a second, just looking at you sprawled across your sheets. You should feel exposed — you are exposed, completely bare under his gaze — but the way he's looking at you kills the urge to cover up.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing. Just —" He shakes his head. "Can't believe this is real."

"Want me to pinch you?"

"Smart ass." He crawls onto the bed, settling beside you and pulling the blanket over both of you. You curl into him automatically, throwing one leg over his hip, and he makes this satisfied sound in his throat. Out of content, maybe. Or possession. Hard to tell the difference.

"Gonna stay?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

"Yeah." His arm tightens around you. "If that's okay."

"More than okay." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. He smells like yours. "Bucky?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you too. Just so you know."

For three full seconds, he doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe if you're being honest, his ribs don't move. You're about to take it back, pretend you were joking, anything to break the awful stillness — "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Have for a while now. Since before the barbecue, even. Maybe since I was nineteen and saw you sitting at my dad's table looking all broody and tragic."

"I wasn't broody."

"You were absolutely broody. You still are. It's annoyingly attractive."

He huffs a laugh against your hair, the warmth spreading to your neck, raising goosebumps. "Attractive, huh?"

You bite his shoulder lightly, teeth scraping enough skin to make him hiss slightly. "Everything about you is attractive."

"Everything else like what?"

"You don't cut your hair unless it bothers you, until it falls over your face and blocks your vision, like now. You like it when I ask you things, when I need help… I think it makes you feel wanted, you don't know that I always want you." Your mind goes to your windowsill. "You always fill the bird feeder, even if I forget." 

"You noticed all that?"

"I've been studying you for six years, Barnes. I could talk about you in my sleep."

"That's — That's a little creepy, actually."

"Says the man who just spent ten minutes trying to plug me up with his cum."

A soft laugh vibrates from him as his fingers trace idle patterns on your hip. "Go to sleep, sweetheart."

There are a hundred things you could say. Practical things about what happens now, how this changes everything, whether he'll still come over for coffee on Saturday mornings with your dad or if this makes it weird. But your eyes are heavy, body sated and wrung out, not enough energy to keep the conversation going, even if you so badly want to.

"Buck?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't leave before I wake up."

"Not going anywhere. Not anymore, sweet girl." A soft lingering kiss to your forehead is all you remember, the ghost of its touch following you to dreamland. 

MY MASTERLIST!

EXTRAS. what can i say i love the concept of dbf bucky, i have like 15 more dbf pwp in mind lmao… also no taglist bc this is queued.

[buckyalpine]

18+ AF Minors dni. Just a lil smutty thought with a scene I imagined. Bucky finds out Tony updated the security system for the compound and upgraded all the cameras to HD quality.

"So what you're saying is that footage would've recorded everything in the kitchen from morning to evening and the middle of the night...everything?" Bucky shuffled by Tony's desk after everyone had left the briefing about the latest Stark tech. Everyone's phones w

"Yes grandpa, that's how a security system works" Tony snorted while Bucky hummed, his mind still wandering.

"Yeah but....everything..in full detail? Including sound?"

"Yes, why, what are you doing in the kitchen" He cocked his head in confusion while the super soldier gave him a blank stare, only blinking twice in response, his cheeks growing redder with each passing second.

"Oh"

"OH"

Bucky scrambled out of the room, leaving behind a cackling Tony, his fingers desperately tapping his phone to unlock and check the security archives. He locked himself in his room, his stomach already churning when he saw the date of the video still very much accessible, dragging his finger to find the exact time-

"FUCK Sergeant!!" Bucky nearly flung the phone, quickly lowering the volume of the video, your loud, slutty moans and fucked out face clear as day. "P-please Sergeant, harder!"

"That's it baby, tell your soldier how you want to get fucked, beg for it"

What had started off as wholesome date night had turned into something else by the time Bucky had you alone in the compound. He'd struggled to keep his hand to himself all night with the dress you were wearing and it didn't help that the waiter at dinner shamelessly flirted with you the entire time. You didn't entertain it but it didn't stop the former assassin from growing jealous, itching to remind you who you belonged to by the end of the night.

You'd gone by the kitchen to grab a glass of water and the sight of you leaning over the counter to fill your cup was enough to break Bucky's resolve. His bedroom could wait.

"Princess" Bucky swallowed thickly hearing his voice dripping with possessiveness, watching himself cage you against the counter, purring in your ear. He could see you shiver as his lips trail up the column of your neck, preening as he licked your skin, pressing his achingly hard erection against your ass.

"B-Bucky" You whimpered, squeaking at the spank he gave you, clicking his tongue.

"Try again, baby"

"Sergeant Barnes" Your voice melted into a moan as he hummed, taking his time slipping your dress up over your hips to give himself a perfect view of your lacy covered cunt.

Bucky fully intended on deleting the video. He was going to highlight the section and get rid of it for good. He desperately tried to ignore the way his cock stirred the longer he watched, unable to tear his eyes off the way you were bent over the kitchen counter like such a good girl, waiting for him to do something.

"That's right. Your Sergeant" The clink of his belt hitting the floor made you whine. He wasn't interested in prepping you, no foreplay, this was pure possessiveness, every vein in his body itching to own you. "You're a little slut for your Sergeant, aren't you princess?"

"M'your slut" you nodded, gasping at the tear of your panties, the lacy material tossed to the side.

"Let me show I fuck my slut" Bucky didn't give you a second to adjust, immediately setting a brutal pace, your hips bumping against the marble countertop.

"S-SERGEANT BAR-NES!-" Bucky slapped his hand over your mouth, your broken screams muffled against his palm.

"Take it" He growled, his other hand pressing against your shoulder blades, purely using you for his pleasure, "You love how your Sergeant fucks you, my perfect little slut, mine"

"Fuck Sergeant!!" You wailed while Bucky snaked his hand to circle your clit, his cock starting to leak at the way you tightened around him. You'd never looked prettier. Your makeup was ruined. Sweat covered your body. Your eyes rolled back. Bucky replayed that part of the video over and over again, finally giving into his heavy cock begging for attention. He gave himself a squeeze hoping it would calm him down but before he knew it, he'd pulled it out and started to tug, precum glistening at the head.

"That's it baby, tell your soldier how you want to get fucked, beg for it"

"Pleasepleaseplease-fill-me" you slurred, unable to form sentences while Bucky's grunts grw louder, his pace faltering.

"Gonna fill you up with so much cum, you'll feel me in your pussy for days princess" Bucky fucked you like an animal, eyes feral as he kept you caged under him, his heavy balls and hard cock ready to blow, "We'll go back to that restaurant. Have that same waiter try and talk to you while I drip out between your legs. Won't even let you wear panties baby, want you to make a mess on their chair, let them see where I marked you, fuck m'cumming!!"

Bucky tightly held the base of his cock to keep from cumming as he watched himself pump you full, hips stuttering. He couldn't cum yet. Not when he knew what was coming up next. He watched himself pull out of you, cooing at your soft little whimper before decidedly acting like a deranged feral fuck again.

"Shhh, let your Sergeant clean you up again" He smirked, picking you up with 0 effort and setting you down on the counter, spreading your legs apart so he could lick up every bit of cum that dripped out of you, the most salacious sounds filling the room. He greedily lapped and sucked at your clit, groaning at the tasted of his spend mixed with yours, loving that no other man would get to taste something so good. No other man would get to watch their cum drip out of you after filling you past the brim. No other man would get to have you at your most sensitive, cleaning every bit of their cum off you with their face buried between their legs-

"F-fuck" Bucky whimpered, quickly biting his lip to shut himself up but it was no use. His chest heaved, breathy moans growing louder as he jerked himself faster. "Yes, yeah, shit-" Bucky was nearly whining at this point, his hand working at his sensitive cockhead, giving himself quick, hard strokes, "OH FUCKK" Thick ropes of cum spilled from his cock, a steady stream making a mess all over his sheets as he continued to touch himself, rewinding the video to the beginning. His hard cock wasn't going to go away anytime soon.

Maybe he wouldn't delete the video just yet.

Later in the groupchat:

Tony: Everyone, please don't check the kitchen footage from two days ago at exactly 1:04 to 1:38

Sam: Why would I check that in the first place

Nat: Wasn't planning on it

Steve: I don't know how to access the footage.

Tony: Trust me. None of you should check that exact time stamp.

Tony: 🙂

*a few minutes later after everyone obviously checked the footage*

Nat: Holy shit.

Sam: BARNES YOU DIRTY DOG

Nat: That's hot

Steve: Tony, I still can't access the footage.

Sam: YALL ARE NASTY

Steve: Who is nasty?

Sam: I love it though

Y/n: 😏He's the best sergeant

Sam: HAHAHA

Nat: You guys are so cute 🥺️🥺️

Bucky: I hate you all

Sam: What you gonna do about it Sergeant

-Bucky has left the chat-

Steve: Why did Bucky leave

[stanmarvelous]

Oh this is so hot 😩

Steve: Tony, I still can't access the footage.

And this cracked me tf up 🤣

[belleeebelleee]

Bucky Barnes (Marvel) x fem!reader

Bucky figures out you're touch-starved. It ruins both of your lives.

The first time Bucky Barnes notices it, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

Not because it’s bad.

Because once he sees it, he can’t stop seeing it.

It starts small.

Tiny things.

The way you linger when people hug you goodbye, like you’re trying not to let go too quickly because you’re worried they’ll notice.

The way you sit too close to Alpine when the cat climbs into your lap at the Tower, burying your face in her fur with your eyes closed like the warmth means something vital.

The way you always seem surprised when someone touches you first.

A hand on your shoulder.

A quick squeeze of your wrist.

Natasha bumping her knee against yours during movie night.

Steve pulling you into a side hug after a mission well done.

You react every single time.

Not dramatically.

Just—

stillness.

Like your body pauses to absorb it.

Like you’re starving and trying not to look hungry.

And once Bucky notices, he starts paying attention in ways he probably shouldn’t.

Because Bucky Barnes understands hunger.

He understands deprivation.

He understands what it does to a person when they go too long without softness.

Too long without gentleness.

Too long without being held like they matter.

You come to the Tower after a HYDRA clean-up operation in Bucharest.

Former intelligence analyst.

Temporary consultant, Fury says.

“Temporary” becomes six months faster than anyone expects.

You’re clever enough to keep up with Tony, sarcastic enough to survive Sam, patient enough to tolerate Bruce’s nervous rambling, and somehow stubborn enough to call Natasha out on her bullshit without fear.

The team likes you immediately.

Bucky doesn’t.

At first.

Mostly because you’re too observant.

You look at him carefully.

Not fearfully.

Not pityingly.

Just carefully.

Like you’re trying to understand him without taking him apart.

He hates that.

Then he starts noticing things.

You don’t flinch around him.

You don’t stare at the metal arm.

You don’t ask questions about the Winter Soldier.

But sometimes he catches you watching him when you think he isn’t looking.

Not because he’s dangerous.

Because he’s alone.

That’s worse somehow.

The touch thing becomes impossible to ignore after a mission in Prague.

It’s ugly from the start.

Explosives.

Gunfire.

A narrow hallway collapsing before Clint can get civilians out.

You get trapped beneath part of a shattered support beam.

Nothing life-threatening.

Just enough to pin you awkwardly until Bucky and Sam can move it.

You laugh afterward.

Brush dust off your jeans.

Tell everyone you’re fine.

But your hands shake for almost an hour.

Bucky notices because he notices everything about you now.

Which is already a problem.

Then Natasha walks by and squeezes the back of your neck absentmindedly.

And you nearly melt.

It’s subtle.

Most people wouldn’t catch it.

But Bucky does.

Your eyes close for one second.

Your shoulders loosen.

Your breathing evens out instantly.

Relief.

Immediate and devastating.

Like your nervous system has been waiting for permission to settle.

Bucky stares.

You realize he saw.

Embarrassment flashes across your face so fast it hurts to witness.

You pull away immediately.

“I’m okay,” you say too quickly.

Bucky says nothing.

But something ugly twists in his chest afterward.

Not disgust.

Not judgment.

Something worse.

Recognition.

He starts testing theories after that.

Not intentionally.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

You’re sitting on the couch during one of Tony’s terrible movie marathons, half asleep beneath a blanket while everyone argues over which “Die Hard” movie counts as the best one.

Your feet are tucked under you.

Your head keeps drooping.

Without thinking, Bucky reaches over and brushes your hair away from your face.

Just once.

A small movement.

Barely anything.

You freeze.

Not frightened.

Just stunned.

Then slowly—carefully—you lean into his hand.

Like it’s instinct.

Like your body chose before your brain could stop it.

Jesus Christ.

Bucky pulls his hand back immediately.

You blink yourself awake, suddenly aware of what happened.

“Sorry,” you mumble automatically.

Sorry.

Like you did something wrong.

The word slices straight through him.

“For what?” he asks quietly.

You stare at the television instead of him.

“Nothing.”

Bucky doesn’t sleep that night.

After that, it gets worse.

For both of you.

Because now Bucky knows.

And now you know he knows.

The tension changes shape.

It becomes something alive.

Something breathing between you.

Bucky starts finding excuses to touch you.

Tiny things.

A hand at your lower back guiding you through crowded rooms.

Brushing shoulders in the kitchen.

His fingers tapping against your knee during briefings.

He tells himself it’s harmless.

Friendly.

Normal.

But he notices the way your entire body softens every single time.

And you notice that he notices.

One night you fall asleep in the common room while reading.

Bucky finds you there around two in the morning.

Curled sideways on the couch.

Blanket slipping off your shoulder.

Exhaustion written all over your face.

The Tower is quiet.

Everyone asleep.

He should leave.

Instead he kneels beside the couch and carefully pulls the blanket back over you.

Your eyes flutter open immediately.

Panic first.

Then recognition.

Then something softer.

“Sorry,” you whisper groggily.

Again.

Always apologizing for existing.

Bucky’s jaw tightens.

“You gotta stop saying that.”

Your brow furrows.

“For what?”

“For wanting things.”

The room goes completely still.

You look at him like he just reached into your chest and pulled something out barehanded.

Bucky realizes too late how honest that sounded.

You swallow hard.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He almost lets you get away with it.

Almost.

Instead he says quietly, “Nobody touches you enough.”

Your face crumples.

Not dramatically.

Not crying.

Just—

wrecked.

Like no one was ever supposed to notice that.

Bucky feels suddenly, horribly protective.

You look away first.

“I’m fine.”

“No,” he says softly. “You’re not.”

The silence afterward feels intimate in a way that terrifies both of you.

Then, carefully—slow enough for you to pull away—Bucky rests his flesh hand over yours.

Warm.

Steady.

Gentle.

You stop breathing.

And then—

you turn your hand beneath his and hold on.

It ruins everything.

Because after that, neither of you can pretend anymore.

Touch becomes dangerous.

Addictive.

You start gravitating toward him unconsciously.

Sitting beside him.

Leaning against him during briefings.

Falling asleep against his shoulder during quinjet rides.

And Bucky—

God.

Bucky becomes obsessed with taking care of you.

Not in a controlling way.

In a reverent one.

Like he’s trying to make up for every year nobody held you gently enough.

He tucks blankets around you.

Rubs your back when anxiety hits.

Lets you thread your fingers through his metal hand because you like the coolness of it against your skin.

One night after a nightmare, you end up outside his room at three in the morning.

You look mortified to be there.

“I can go,” you say immediately.

Bucky opens the door wider.

“You can stay.”

You hesitate.

“Only if you’re sure.”

He almost laughs at that.

Like you still don’t understand he’d hand you every broken piece of himself if you asked.

That night you sleep beside him for the first time.

No sex.

No kissing.

Just sleep.

Your head against his chest.

His arm around your waist.

You fall asleep in less than five minutes.

Bucky stays awake almost all night.

Because nobody has ever trusted him with softness like this before.

And because he realizes somewhere around four in the morning that he’s completely fucked.

The team notices eventually.

Sam notices first, obviously.

“You got heart eyes,” he tells Bucky over coffee.

“I’ll kill you.”

“You brush her hair behind her ear like she’s in a Jane Austen movie.”

Bucky glares at him.

Sam grins wider.

“She looks at you like you hung the moon, man.”

That shuts Bucky up.

Because that part scares him too.

You do look at him differently now.

Like he’s safe.

Like he’s home.

And Bucky has spent almost a century being neither of those things.

The first kiss happens accidentally.

Which is a lie.

Nothing between you has been accidental for months.

It happens in the kitchen.

Late.

Rain against the windows.

You’re wearing one of his henleys because you left your clothes in the wash downstairs.

Bucky is trying very hard not to think about that.

You’re standing close enough that your socked feet brush his.

Talking softly about nothing important.

Then your hand lands absently on his chest.

Just resting there.

Warm.

Trusting.

Bucky looks down at it.

Then at you.

And something in his expression must change because your breathing catches.

“Buck,” you whisper.

He gives you every chance to walk away.

You don’t.

You step closer instead.

His metal hand settles carefully against your waist like he’s afraid too much pressure will break you.

You tilt your face up.

And Bucky kisses you like a man dying of thirst.

Slow at first.

Disbelieving.

Then deeper when you make that tiny sound against his mouth.

The kind of sound that tells him this means something.

Your fingers clutch his shirt.

His heartbeat goes completely feral.

When he finally pulls back, your forehead rests against his.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t need to.

The devastation is already complete.

Loving Bucky Barnes is not easy.

Loving you isn’t easy either.

You’re both too damaged in complementary ways.

Bucky gives touch like it’s survival.

You receive it like oxygen.

Sometimes that becomes dangerous.

There are nights he holds you so tightly it borders on desperation.

Nights you cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the universe.

You become each other’s comfort too quickly.

Too deeply.

But somehow—

somehow—it works.

Because neither of you asks the other to be healed first.

Months later, after a mission gone sideways in Madripoor, Bucky comes back bloodied and furious and shaking with leftover violence.

You find him alone in the Tower gym at two in the morning.

His metal fist has cracked one of the punching bags clean open.

“Buck.”

“Don’t,” he says immediately.

Like he can’t bear for you to see him like this.

You walk toward him anyway.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

You stop directly in front of him.

His breathing is ragged.

Eyes wild around the edges.

Still halfway in combat mode.

Everyone else in the world might fear him like this.

You don’t.

Very gently, you take his flesh hand first.

Then the metal one.

“You came back,” you say softly.

The anger breaks instantly.

Just—

gone.

Bucky folds around the grief of it with a broken sound in his throat.

And suddenly he’s holding you so hard it almost hurts.

His face buried against your neck.

You stroke your fingers through his hair.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

No one has ever held the Winter Soldier through his terror before.

No one except you.

Bucky thinks, not for the first time, that this is probably what love actually is.

Not grand gestures.

Not fireworks.

This.

Being known completely.

And held anyway.

The proposal happens almost a year later.

Quiet.

Private.

Perfect.

You’re half asleep in bed, tangled together beneath soft sheets while rain taps against the windows.

Bucky’s tracing lazy patterns along your spine.

Your fingers are linked with his metal hand.

Comfortable silence.

Home.

Then suddenly he says, very seriously, “Marry me.”

You blink up at him.

“What?”

His expression turns nervous immediately, which is honestly absurd considering this is James Buchanan Barnes.

“I’m serious.”

“You’re asking me while I look like this?”

“You look beautiful.”

“I’m wearing an old Stark Industries shirt and one sock.”

“You still look beautiful.”

You laugh softly.

Then realize he isn’t joking.

Your chest aches instantly.

“Bucky…”

He brings your joined hands to his mouth.

Kisses your knuckles carefully.

“I spent a real long time thinking I was too broken for this,” he says quietly. “Then you walked in and started looking at me like I was worth something.”

Tears sting your eyes immediately.

“You are worth something.”

His thumb brushes beneath your eye.

“And you deserve to be loved out loud. Deserve to be held whenever you need it. Deserve somebody who notices.”

Your breath shakes.

“Buck—”

“I notice everything about you.”

That does it.

That destroys you completely.

Because he does.

He notices when you’re overwhelmed before you say anything.

Notices when you need quiet.

Notices when you’re touch-starved and crawling out of your own skin from loneliness.

Notices when you need his hand on the back of your neck to ground you again.

He notices.

And he never makes you feel ashamed for needing.

“Yes,” you whisper, crying now. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

Bucky exhales like he’s been holding that breath for decades.

Then he kisses you.

Slow.

Tender.

Certain.

The kind of kiss that feels like being chosen.

And afterward you curl into him instinctively, your face tucked against his chest while his arms close around you immediately.

Automatic now.

Natural as breathing.

Bucky presses his mouth against your hair and thinks, with something dangerously close to peace, that maybe ruin isn’t always a bad thing.

Because figuring out you were touch-starved ruined both of your lives.

It just ruined them together.

[ilovemesomebucky]

Need a Ride? | pt. 2

Pairing: Biker!Bucky Barnes x afabCurvy!Reader

Tags/Warning: MDNI 18+, biker Bucky, curvy reader, insecure reader, beefy Bucky because we all need him, coworkers are shitheads, drinking, angst if you squint, smut in part 2 (oral!fem receiving, missionary, hair pulling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, Buckys got a filthy mouth, fingering, he literally eats you out on the bike alright)

Summary: After a shit night out with coworkers, you catch the eye of a mysterious biker who looks every part of a dirty fantasy.

Note: full disclosure- I blacked out. I’m not sure how the hell I wrote almost 3k words of filth but I do know I hunted my husband down after. Thank you for the love on part 1. You all fueled my praise kink. Do it again, please? Like, reblog, and comment! All the love to you!

Dividers by @uzmacchiato

You’ve never held on to something so tight before.

Not even when you were younger and held your mamas hand.

Not when you tripped and reach out to grab the nearest person.

Not even your phone when the wind almost blew it away.

But Bucky, your fingers are cramping from the force of your grip on his jacket.

The bike bobs and weaves between cars, his chest rumbling from laughter when you squeak and lock your arms harder. His left hand moves to rest on your thigh, fingers drumming softly along the curve of your knee.

Your mouth is dry from panting, and your insides feel like goo. Vibrations from the bike are making it really hard for you not to moan into Bucky’s helmet and press yourself harder against his back.

This is checking off every box on your dirty biker fantasy, and dear Gods above – if he doesn’t bend you over the second the bike stops, you might fall to your knees and beg for every sin available for purchase. Dignity doesn’t exist in your vocabulary when a wall of a man like Bucky has you draped along his back. Let alone on his damn bike.

So, when he leans the bike to follow out of downtown and to the suburbs, you can only hope he’s not a murderer. Honestly, he could choke you out and you’d say thank you.

The other two had given him a thumbs up and stayed on the path in the city. Red Bike had leaned over and fist bumped Bucky, and wiggled his fingers at you before speeding to catch up to Star Spangle Banner Biker.

You take in your surroundings as the bike start to slow.

It’s a relatively quiet sub, most homes are dark – porch lights on, but all windows dark. Save for a few with soft lights in the living room from a TV playing.

The home Bucky pulls into is modest, a sweet brownstone with an already open garage awaiting your arrival.

You slowly flex your fingers, releasing your hold on him when he kicks the stand down.

Bucky gracefully stands, running a hand through his hair, “Hope you don’t mind, but I brought you to mine. I kind of forgot to ask where you wanted to go.” A sheepish grin blooms on his face.

Taking a deep breath, you slide the helmet off, “It’s okay. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with my roommate anyways.” You hand him his gear.

He places it on a shelf besides the bike, taking a moment to remove his protective gloves.

And you take that moment to very openly ogle at him.

His shoulders are wide – you literally had your face between the blades – but theres something comforting about the size of him. Wide. Tall. Arms that look they could crush watermelons. Thighs that look solid enough to hold you there for hours.

A back so muscular the muscles are seen through the thick leather jacket. His hair is on the longer side. Long enough to grab fistfuls of and curl at the nap of his neck.

You’re practically drooling when Bucky looks over his shoulder at you.

“You like what you see, sweetheart?” The fucker smirks.

Licking your bottom lip, “I’m not complaining about the view.”

He faces you fully, one hand going to rest on bike behind your seat, the other on your cheek. “You know, I’m trying very hard to be a gentleman –“

“And how’s that working out for you?” You lean into his touch.

You watch in real time as his pupils dilate, “You’re making it rather hard.”

You let your eyes wander over him. Down his torso to his jeans, “You talking about your restraint or that?”

There, as clear as the moon in the sky, is a bulged in his pants. Your thighs twitch, your fingers raising to find purchase on his waist. When he doesn’t answer, you meet his gaze.

Blue eyes nearly swallowed by black. The hand on your face slowly slides to the back of your head, fingers slightly twisting to grab your hair. Your breath hitches at a soft tug, “Both.”

His eyes track your tongue when it flicks out to lick your lower lip again, “I had a shit night, Bucky. I don’t want restraint.”

Famous last words before his mouth is on yours.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s not sweet. And it sure has hell is not slow.

Bucky kisses like a man starved. Parched. Lost in the desert and you are the first lick of water he’s tasted in days.

It’s complete of teeth grazing lips, tongues fighting for dominance, and fingers gripping for dear life.

Bucky’s hand from the bike moves to your thigh, finger tips digging into the meaty flesh of you. A groan leaves his mouth and into yours. Your own hands unzip his jacket and shove it off him while still keeping your lips locked. Jacket makes a soft thud when it hits the floor.

His hands go back to you after shaking the gear off, turning your body to sit sideways on the bike. For a moment, you think about jumping off the bike, but then he’s shoving your thighs apart and stepping between them.

He towers over you like this, and your neck starts to hurt from how far back your head is leaning to keep kissing him. You break apart to breathe, but his lips just descend to your neck. You grip the bike for support with one hand — the other finding his hair.

You yank when his teeth find that spot below your ear. And the sound that leaves his throat is enough to send slick drooling out of you.

It’s like you unlocked Bucky because then he drops to his knee, fingers curling into your leggings and pulling them down so fast, you almost fly off the bike. You gasp, “Bucky—”

The look on his face will forever be etched into your frontal lobe. Eyes blown wide, mouth pretty pink and wet, and hair falling on his forehead. He just stares at your bare pussy for a moment before looking up at you with a lopsided grin, “Oh sweetheart. Louder for the neighbors to hear.”

The words barely reach your ears when his mouth meets your wetness. Your hand dashes to his hair as a breathy moan leaves you. And Bucky eats pussy like he’s tasty the sweet nectar of a plum.

It’s loud— his tongue against your clit, flicking and lick quick swipes. His right fingers tracing the opening of you, his left hand holding open your trembling thigh.

You watch him watch you. Your mouth hangs open, brows drawn together, and filth falling from your lips. “Bu-Bucky!” You gasp loudly when a finger sinks in, “The garage is— “, another loud moan, thighs twitching, “Open!”

Bucky has the audacity to roll his eyes and then press another finger in just to curl them.

Your back arches, head thrown back, moaning to the ceiling and praying to God someone doesn’t hear—let alone fucking see—what Bucky is doing to you.

You clench when he curls his fingers harder, pressing that soft spot he seems to have found ungodly fast. His chooses that second to also suck on your clit, harshly.

Stars burst in your eyes, the sound between you legs is sloppy, and all you can do is cry out his name as you come. On his bike.

Your biker fantasy list is headed to being completely filled if he keeps this up.

Bucky doesn’t slow his fingers, only moves his mouth to give kisses to your thighs, “Good girl. Such a good girl for me.”

Heat blooms on your face, you pussy crying around his digits, “Please.”

He licks his lips, “Please what, sweetheart?”

Your eyes start to cross as another orgasm builds embarrassingly fast. You’re not even sure what you’re begging for. Mercy? More? His cock? His mouth again?

His free hand grips yours still holding onto the bike, “Come one, sweet girl. Give me one more and I’ll give you my cock. Think you can do that for me? For yourself?” And then he slips a third in, all the way down and twists them.

For a brief moment, you think you break his hand holding yours and maybe yank a couple strands out of his head. You come again. A high cry echoes in the garage. Clenching so tight around him, he just leaves his fingers buried deep within you. Wiggling the tips to draw out your orgasm.

Tears fall form your eyes when you realize he’s lowering his mouth back down to you. “Bucky, please.” You hiccup, “You – you said – “, and his lips are making out with your clit again.

You sob loudly. Fat tears spill from your face, sweat dripping down your back, and you can’t seem to catch your breath. His mouth feels like sin and heaven and his fingers just keep playing that spot deep inside you. You pussy cries with you. Two orgasms in, a third approaching, and your poor thighs cant close around his big body.

Bucky’s shoulders keep you spread, and his eyes stay locked on your wet face. The evil bastard looks smug. Looks like he could die there and be so thankful.

“I know, sweetheart.” He pulls away, lips wet and smirking, “I promise. One more. Give me one more and I’ll fuck you right.” He licks your shaking thigh, “You look so fucking beautiful on my bike. Letting me eat your pussy.” Bites the juggle of your inner thigh, “I could do this all fucking night. You taste so good. One more, there you go.” And he wraps his lips back around your clit.

You might pass out, you’re not sure, when your third hits. It’s so wet and loud and Bucky just drinks you up. You push on his head, your feet kick at his sides, too overstimulated. Your poor pussy weeps when he pulls away and withdrawals his fingers. Not without keeping them curled the whole way out.

Your lungs aren’t filling with enough air, but your chest feels light and heart feels full. And pussy feels fucking recked and its just from his mouth and hands.

Bucky lifts you off the bike, holding you open and carrying you as if you weigh a sack of potatoes. You cant even find your brain to care, to fight him to put your down. That you’re heavy.

You just get wetter at the idea of him holding you against a wall and fucking you until the wall gives way.

When your mind catches up, he’s dropping you on his bed and his clothes are shedding. Bucky’s mouth finds yours as he climbs over you, hooking your thighs over his.

You cant help put looks down and nearly pass the fuck out because what do you mean he’s hung like a goddamn horse?

You must make a choked sound because Bucky laughs softly, hands moving to remove your shirt and snap your bra off. “It’ll fit, sweet girl. Youre a good girl, right? You can take it.”

You nod along, wide eyes watching the way his cock glides between your wet folds. You whine as the shaft slides over your clit. “I can take it.”

Bucky moans, “Fuck – “, and sinks his cock halfway in you.

You both gasp out, your hands gripping his biceps as his grip the sheets beside your shoulders. “Oh – Bucky – fuck me!” Back arches off the bed as he thrust the rest in.

“Shit, I knew you’d be perfect. Taking me so fucking good. Look at how pretty you’re taking me.” Bucky shoves a hand into your hair and angles your head down.

Your lower lip wobbles at the sight.

Your pussy stretched wide to take his girth, thighs wet from your three orgasms, and your legs spread so fucking wide you can feel a mild pinch in your hips.

Wet eyes meet piercing blue, and you clench around him “Please.” You beg again. And this time, you know what you’re begging for, “Fuck me, Bucky. I can take it.”

Bucky slowly leans back; gaze still locked with yours. He takes one hand and presses it to your thigh, lifting it up to spread you wider. You gasp when he somehow slides in deeper. His other hand moves from your hair to your right breast. “Hold on, sweetheart.”

Your hands grip his arm above your chest just as he drawls out, and slams back in.

The pace he sets is punishing. Headboard shakes against the wall, the bed creaking with each thrust of his hips. His heavy balls smack against you and the squelching between your legs is almost as loud as your sobs.

“Oh my god!” His cock drags along spots inside you never even knew where there. The head hits deep, your walls keep quivering, “Please, Bucky – don’t stop – I can – “, you blabber.

Bucky groans, hips snapping fast and harder, “Jesus Christ,” his eyes watch your breast bounce, the softness of your body jiggling with each pound, “Ima keep you tied here. Keep you all to myself and fuck you whenever you want. That sound good, sweet girl, huh?” He tilts his hips, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.

You nod because there’s no way you’ll say no to that, “Whenever you want.” You’re crying again.

He licks his lips before lowering himself nose to nose with you. His hips not once faltering, “Yeah, sweetheart? Whenever I want?” You just nod. “Good girl, such a good. Fucking. Girl.”

Each word punctuated with a thrust harder than the last. And that’s what sends you over the edge.

You clench down, hard, and come harder than you’ve ever before. You fly off the bed, wrapping your arms around his neck as you sob his name over and over.  

Bucky lets out a deep growl, drilling one last deep thrust in before releasing inside and painting your fluttering walls.

It takes a long moment of gasping, twitching, and sharp sobs before either one of you lets the other go. Bucky slowly lowers your legs onto the bed as he pulls out.

Your eyes slip shut, his cum dribbling out, “Bucky – “, you start.

“Im right here, sweets.” A warm hand finds your cheek, “Ill be right back. Don’t worry.”

You lay there, feeling boneless and thoroughly stretched out. In all parts of your body and soul.

A deep feeling washes over you as you hear him down the hall running water. Is this when he calls you an uber to send you home? Is he just going to come back to clean you up and then go take the couch?

Your spiral pauses when he walks back in, “I hope it’s not too hot.” Bucky’s voice washes over you and he’s gently wiping you clean.

You sigh, keeping your eyes closed. Its stupid. Just met like a few hours ago and he fucked you so good now you’re going to compare everyone after him to him. But you don’t want to go. His bed is warm, his hands are gentle and soft, and he smells like comfort and desire.

Bucky must notice. Of course he does.

“You’re staying.”

Two simple words that cause your eyes to open and widen. Had you said those things out loud? Did he fuck the filter right out of you? Is your brain still on the bike?

“I’d like to take you for breakfast. Maybe get your number and see you again, if you’ll have me.” Bucky looks so open and kind and your eyes start to swell.

“I’d like to stay. And breakfast. And you can have my address and social too if you ask nice enough.”

Bucky laughs, wrapping his big arms around you and pulling you to him. A blanket joins his arms, locking in all warmth.

“Rest, my beautiful girl. I’m nowhere near finished with you yet.”

-fin-

Tags: @moonwalker0504 @lowbudgetdoll @myheartbelongstobucky @bravelydauntlesssecret