Welcome to my Book Nook. Pull up a chair get cozy by the fire with a cup of hot chocolate and enjoy some fantastic recommended fics.
A list of Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes fanfictions that are my personal favourites and I totally recommend reading. There are so many good writers on this platform that deserve love and recognition for their words. They made me laugh, cry and love so I wanted to share them. If you're not on this list, don’t worry because you're likely going to be on it soon. This list will grow as I’ll be updating it as I go along. (When I remember)
Updated- 24 April 26
Disclaimers- Most of the fanfics are 18+ mdni. Please read each fic's warning tags as some may include sensitive themes. You have been warned, I am Not responsible for your own media consumption. Please respect each writer. Each fanfic here belongs the respective writer.
♪ Prompt | Day 30 Bonus #2 If the World Was Ending - JP Saxe feat. Julia Michaels | “You'd come over and you'd stay the night”
♪ Summary | Long distance relationships aren't for the weak.
♪ Warnings + Tags | Fluff, Reader is down so bad, but so is Bucky
♪ Phoenix Chirps | Last bonus of the month 🥹 feels really bitter sweet, but I can't believe I did all of them.
♪ Word Count | 300
| Masterlist ⏯ Event Masterlist |
Bucky Barnes had warned you when you got into a relationship with him that there were going to be long stretches in which he would be gone. You thought yourself resilient enough to handle it. After all, you'd been single for awhile, some space every now and then might be healthy.
Or…so you thought. The problem became when you realized what an actual loving relationship could and should feel like. And every day that passed where you sent messages from a secured phone and waited for a response as a confirmation he was still alive, you felt your resilience waning.
The thing about being loved by Bucky Barnes was that he didn't do it quietly. His love was loud in the confines of your apartment away from prying eyes. And while you never thought physical touch would ever be your love language, it's likely because more worshipful hands had never gently caressed your body. Under the covers, whispered words close to love were said between two people too infatuated to worry about outside of the four walls.
A few days before Bucky promised to be home, your secure phone rang. His voice fuzzy and tired on the other end as he whispered "hi sweetheart."
After pleasantries where he placated you by saying he wasn't in too much danger, he asked what you had planed for when he could see you again.
"You'd come over and you'd stay the night," you whispered, curling around the pillow that still had the ghost of his cologne on it. "And we wouldn't leave this apartment for at least a week."
Bucky chuckled, the clinking of keys barely audible in the background just as you heard the locks of your front door click. "Well I hope you have enough supplies for a week."
Summary: You get to the homestead and figure out your new life with your Mountain Man.
Content warning: Language, mountain man Bucky, flufffff.
Part 2/2
Read Part 1 here
You sat on the wooden cart that Bucky steered, pointing out many things like types of trees, mountain ranges, birds, and trail markers. You had no idea how he managed to find his way to and from his cabin, but he did on the small dirt path. You saw deer grazing in the forest along with small critters like squirrels and chipmunks, lots of birds, and an eagle was seen flying over.
"I've never seen so much wildlife." You said, looking around.
Bucky looked over and smiled.
"Just you wait." Before he guided Thunder down another path.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
You had made it to the cabin at dusk so there was just enough light to see it. It was a quaint brown two-storey cabin with a porch on it and a few stairs leading up to the front door.
"It's not much but it's home." Bucky said from behind you.
He seemed nervous and shy at showing you, his home.
"I like it."
You assured him before he escorted you to the door and opened it. You looked around the inside of the rustic cabin and smiled to yourself.
A large stone fireplace took up one side of the cabin with two large chairs and another small love seat. The kitchen was in the same room, and it had pine cupboards, a small icebox, sink with what looked to be a water pump, and a worktable. A small table and chairs were off to the side, and the pine floor had a few rugs placed on it.
"There's more." Bucky walked by, waving you down a small hallway towards a staircase which you climbed.
"Um, these are spare rooms."
He opened the two wood doors that were empty except for a crate and a few supplies.
"And here is a guest room. I figured you would want to stay here so I got a bed and some things you may be comfortable with. My sister helped me."
You smiled at the small wrought iron bed near the window. It had what looked like a red and white handmade quilt on it and a few pillows. It wasn't like your other bed in the city, but it looked comfortable enough.
"And the other room?"
"It's mine."
You walked to it and opened it, peeking in.
The bed was large; hand carved from wood posts and had a blue and white quilt on it. A large wood dresser was off to the side and there were white curtains hung in the windows. It was basic, but clean and organized.
You headed back down the stairs and stood in a hallway.
"The outhouse is through there." Bucky pointed to the end of the hall where a door was.
You peeked outside and saw a small wood shack a few steps away.
"Oh?" You had never used one before and were curious.
"In here is a bathing room. I have a tub and sink, but no indoor plumbing...yet. I hope it's going to be enough for you."
Bucky was starting to panic you were going to turn around and demand to be taken back to town due to his lack of plumbing.
"It's fine. I've never used this kind of set up before, but I'm looking forward to it." You patted his arm to reassure him.
He seemed to relax at your touch.
"Come on, let me show you the barn."
He walked you outside to a large red building and opened the wood sliding door. You carefully stepped in and looked around, noting the distinct smell of the animals, hay, and horses that prickled your nose.
You spotted the stall where two horses poked their heads out and watched you. You looked beyond the barn and saw a small pen with a few goats standing around.
Everything was neat and tidy and in its place. Bucky walked you through the building where you tip toed around the debris on the ground. You made a note you would need new shoes the next time you were in town.
"Come on and have a look at the chickens."
You followed Bucky into another small enclosure with wire around it. The chickens were walking around and pecking the ground; some were flapping their wings as you got near.
You had never been near farm animals before, so you were a little hesitant.
Bucky watched you look around the barn area and had to hide a smirk. Your eyes were wide as you took in your surroundings. You seemed to like the horses and were curious about the goats but seemed a little unsure about the chickens.
"They look scary, but they run from you if you get close. The hens are over there." He pointed to an enclosed shack where you heard clucking.
"I'll show you how to collect eggs." He said, walking you back to the cabin.
"And the cows? Where do they sleep?"
Bucky hid a chuckle and said, "They're out on a pasture."
"So, they don't come back and sleep here?" You pointed to the barn.
"Not really. I'll bring them by when I move them, but they stay out."
"In all weather?"
"Yes, but when it's cold, they stay in and near the main barn."
"I see."
You had no idea they didn't come back to the barn every night.
You walked back to the cabin and entered it.
"I'll get your trunk."
Bucky walked out leaving you alone. You inspected a few more things in the main room when you saw Bucky bring the trunk inside. He hefted it over the threshold and carried it up to the guest room.
You watched him easily maneuver the bulky trunk with ease.
He was so strong.
"There." He said, brushing his hands together.
"I'll let you get settled while I take Thunder back to the barn and rest him."
"Ok."
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
You unpacked a little, placing your things in the small dresser that was in your room.
You peeked out the window and watched Bucky in the barn, gently brush down Thunder before he handed him an apple, and guided him inside for the night.
You smiled and closed the curtains, pleased with your decision on coming out west.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
The following morning, you awoke, slightly disoriented, but it all came back to you. You were living with Bucky at his mountain cabin. You stretched and sighed, looking around the darkened room. You hadn't heard any noise from across the hall, which made you blush.
You were living with a man you wrote letters to! It was only a few months ago and you were in the city, working and now you're here. You decided to attempt to make breakfast for Bucky as a thank you to him and what he has done as well as to familiarize yourself with your new life.
You had no idea what he liked, what time he rose, and how long it took to make anything, but you were determined to try and figure things out for yourself.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
You wandered into the small kitchen and saw there was butter, flour, salt, and a little sugar. You decided to make some biscuits to go along with the eggs and ham that were in the ice box.
"Why did I do this?" You muttered, not really knowing how to make biscuits.
You have only ever tried once and it was a disaster in a regular kitchen, let alone a primitive one. You think you figured the recipe out, so you managed to form a dough ball and cut it into circles with using a glass as a cutter, placing them on a tray.
"So, what if they're lumpy and slightly lopsided."
You opened the oven and placed them in, closing the heavy door and making a note on the time. You huffed a breath which moved a stray hair off your face while you cleaned the worktable you used.
You had the biscuits baking in the oven which you were almost certain it was heated to the correct temperature when you saw Bucky walk in.
"Morning."
"Good morning."
You blushed seeing him in a shirt and brown pants and socks on his feet. You stood watching him wander the cabin and walk to the table you stood behind.
"Uh, what's that smell?"
"Oh! My biscuits!"
You quickly turned and opened the oven door, smoke wafting from it.
"Crud."
You peeked in and saw the tray of biscuits were burned. You were distracted by Bucky.
"It's ok."
Bucky quickly grabbed the poker and brought the tray out, waving the smoke from his face.
"I didn't think the oven was set properly..."
You felt bad you wasted his ingredients and burned the biscuits.
"It's ok. This is a temperamental thing anyways."
Bucky discreetly adjusted the oven dial from raging hot furnace to a more manageable temperature. You fidgeted with your hands as he looked over the burned biscuits.
"I'm impressed actually."
Bucky poked at the charred remains.
"Oh? Why's that?"
"Well, you somehow burned them so badly, they're still raw on the inside..."
He chuckled, cracking the burned dough from the. He dusted them off, and placed them on a new pan.
"See?"
He put them back into the oven to cook again.
"I'll show you a way to get the stove just so, so everything cooks properly."
Bucky showed you the right temperature, how to use the large cast iron skillets that weighed a ton, and when to time things out so they are ready at the same time.
"But I don't expect you to cook for me."
"Oh?"
What man did you know where he didn't expect a woman to cook for him.
"Really, Y/n. I mean it's nice and I appreciate the thought, I really do, but I've been survivin' here all by myself and have come to enjoy making meals. I'll show you some things, and we can make meals together."
You saw the tips of his ears turn pink which made you smile.
"I'd like that."
You were relieved he didn't expect you to cook at all hours of the day. Especially since you weren't good at it but you were determined to learn.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
"I'm heading out to check on the cattle and fence lines. I'll be back in a few hours, so if you wanted to head to the barns to pat the horses, or if you're feeling brave you can collect eggs from the coop, that would be ok."
"Oh, right, yes."
"You just reach in and get the eggs. It'll be one of the easiest things you can do here if you want to try it and if not, I'll show you after." Bucky assured you.
You had no idea how you were going to 'collect eggs', but you were going to figure it out. You didn't want Bucky disappointed with you. You wanted to show him you were cut out for this life, and you could handle it.
You saw Bucky put on his boots, grab his rifle belt, and place his hat on his head while he stood at the door.
"Now, if you are going to explore, I suggest staying close to the cabin. Please try and not hurt yourself while I'm back and watch out for animals of all kinds."
Bucky winked at you before he turned and left the house making you chuckle after him.
"I'll be fine, what kind of trouble can I get into anyways?"
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
Turns out, you can get into trouble on a homestead without someone watching you. It's that easy.
You stood in the corner of the chicken pen, holding a small bucket in front of you that you were going to use to collect the eggs. The chickens had other plans for you as they backed you into the corner, surrounding you.
"Move, shoo!" You shook your leg at them.
The chickens, feathery balls of evil that they were, clucked at you and pecked the ground, charging towards you, seeming to mock you.
"I'm serious, I'll...I'll..."
You looked around but found nothing to grab or wave at them. You saw a pitchfork leaning against the barn and scowled at it. If only you saw that before you ventured to the chicken coop, you wouldn't be in this mess.
You managed to wiggle your way from the corner and shift yourself towards the hens, finally getting away from the other chickens.
You opened the coop and saw the hens were sitting on their nests.
"Hello."
You wiped a few stray hairs from your face.
The hens watched you with their beady eyes while you made your way to them.
"Please be gentle, please be gentle." You repeated, hovering your hand over a hen but you stopped.
"So...you need to move." You said to the brown hen.
She looked at you and clucked, not doing anything.
"Ok..."
You peeked around her and saw a few eggs from the nest next to her.
"Just going to...get...these..." You reached around her and grabbed the eggs, placing them in your small bucket.
"Ha!" You said, startling the hens.
They squawked and flapped their wings, which startled you, and caused you to fall over from the flying feathers.
"Calm down!"
But they didn't, they ran around and fluttered their wings, darting in all directions.
You flailed from the ground of the straw lined coop.
"I swear to god..." You muttered.
You weren't one to cuss, but you were close to it.
You looked at your measly three eggs and winced. Two were broken with leaky yolks, and you're certain the other has a crack in the brown shell.
"Darn it."
You got up and brushed yourself off, straightening your dress and hair. More strands of it have escaped the pins you put them in, which only added to the wildness of the situation. You snatched the bucket and decided to call it a day with the chickens.
Bucky did say he was going to show you things, you were just too eager to wait for him. You wandered to the barns and saw the two horses peeking out from their stalls.
You went over and greeted them, petting their necks which made you smile and calm down from the feather demons.
They seemed content with your pats, so you left and headed to the porch.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
Bucky could hardly contain his smile as he checked over the cattle, then the fence line. You were here, living with him on his homestead and he couldn't have been happier. He had to fight the urge the night before from getting up and sneaking over to your room to make sure you were real and really sleeping there.
He chuckled to himself when he saw you in his kitchen in the morning, looking flustered and proud of yourself. He should have told you about the oven, but he didn't expect you to make him breakfast on your first morning with him.
He didn't get you here to cook and clean for him, although part of the chores, he can help you with those the same as you can help him with the animals.
He spotted a small purple wildflower near a fence, so he got off Thunder and went to pick it. He's certain it will brighten your day, as he tucked it into his saddlebag.
He rode Thunder around the pasture, making sure the cattle were ok, then he headed back to the barns to see what you were up to.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
The sun had come out and was strong for the early summer day. You sat on the porch and sighed, leaning back in the rocking chair.
"Did I make the right decision?" You said to yourself.
You looked out from the porch and watched the land, listening to the birds and critters around you. It was beautiful here, taking in the view. Bucky had positioned his cabin just so, so you had a view of the green fir trees, mountains, and small creek that ran through it. You watched the scenery and the clouds pass by, and at some point, you might have dozed off because you woke to a scratching sound.
"Oh!" You said, watching the little creature at the other end of the porch.
"A raccoon!"
He was climbing the wood pile that was neatly stacked.
"Hello."
He made some chortling noises, stopping to look at you. You ran inside and got a small biscuit from the morning, placing it in your pocket. You saw he was still sitting there when you took the biscuit from your pocket and tore a few small pieces from it, tossing it over to the creature.
He watched you, seeing where the pieces landed, scurrying over to them, and snatching them from the ground. He held them in his little black paws, and it was like he was waiting for more.
"Here you go." You smiled, pleased he took the last scraps and left.
You chuckled at his retreating back as he scurried into the woods.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
You heard hooves approach, so you stood on the porch and watched Bucky ride back from the pasture.
It was hard to contain your wide smile at seeing the handsome man on top of Thunder, racing towards you.
He was smiling and seemed happy just as you were.
"Everything ok?" He asked, getting off Thunder and taking a few steps towards you.
"Yes."
He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a purple flower.
"For you." He handed you the wildflower.
You took it and inspected it, leaning in to smell it.
"Thanks." You blushed hard.
You refrained from telling him about your raccoon friend and the fact that you broke three eggs and got cornered by some angry fowl.
"Let me get Thunder's saddle off and I'll show you around some more."
You followed him to the barn and watched as he cooled down the horse. You learned all about the saddle and the name of its parts. You had no idea there were so many bits and pieces that made up a saddle, but it made sense since they needed to fit secure and snug, but comfortable for the horses.
Bucky showed you how to brush Thunder, and what he preferred for his feed and snacks before he placed him in his stall.
"Are you hungry?" He asked.
You nodded and you both went to the cabin to have some lunch.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
"I like to leave a few buckets around just in case you forget them."
Bucky pointed to a small bucket next to the water pump.
"If you need any water for the animals, it'll come from here."
He reached down and showed you how to prime the pump, then use it so the water would come out from the spout.
"You try."
He stepped back and gestured to the metal contraption. You eyed it but copied what he did, moving the pump up and down.
"I'm doing it!"
You were happy something was going right, until it didn't.
The water quickly turned brown and squirted all over, sputtering and spraying you in the process.
You felt a large set of arms come around you and gently ease you back from the wayward spout.
"Huh, didn't see that coming."
Bucky took out a small handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to you so you could wipe your face. You were drenched from the water; your hair was ruined as was your dress and you're pretty sure you look like a drowned rat. You handed him back his handkerchief and sighed.
"I'm ok, really. It's just water so it'll dry."
You reached down and rang out your skirt, brushing some dirt from it.
I really need to invest in some pants and boots.
"I guess this is a good time as any to learn how to do the laundry."
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
Bucky felt bad you were drenched from his finnicky water pump and had to avert his eyes from your dress that clung to every inch of your body. He almost swallowed his tongue from seeing your curves on display and was glad there wasn't anyone else around he would need to shield you from.
"Are you sure you're ok?" He asked.
"I'm fine really. The sun is warm now, so let's continue the tour."
You pointed to the barn and another small shed.
"Ok."
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
You walked alongside Bucky and he pointed out all the access points to the property.
"You should watch the raccoons though. They can be tricky and if you get one, then more will follow and they can be quite destructive. I've been trying to trap them to relocate them, but it's been no use."
You went still at his words while he described all the ways they have been a nuisance to him.
"Are you ok?" He asked, looking at you.
"Uh, yes, I'm fine." You said, fidgeting with your fingers.
Bucky didn't seem to buy it though and raised his eyebrows up in question.
"Ok, well...about that...."
"Oh?"
"I kind of sort of fed one...this morning..."
His eyes went big.
"While you were away earlier. I saw it on the wood pile...I thought of a name for him and everything..."
You pointed to the porch and Bucky groaned, running a hand over his face.
"I'm sorry...I just saw it and Rocky looked hungry and..."
"Rocky?"
"The raccoon."
Bucky groaned and said, "Wait, he looked hungry?"
"Y-yeah...hungry...and he ate the last biscuit I tossed...running over that way..."
Bucky followed your outstretched arm and narrowed his eyes on the small path. He KNEW those little jerks were coming onto his land and messing with things.
"I'm sorry..." A quiet voice stopped his scowling and thoughts on destroying them.
He relaxed his face and chuckled. "It's ok, you didn't know."
"I'll try to shoo him away next time." You insisted. Bucky smiled at your determination.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
You turned around and headed out behind the barn and before Bucky could say anything, you stumbled, falling into a heap of straw.
"Oh!" You were on the ground, staring up into the bright blue sky.
"Y/n!"
Bucky came up to you and knelt, assessing you.
"Are you ok?"
"I think so. What am I lying on? It stinks."
You squirmed around a little.
"Um...it's the manure pile from the barn."
Your eyes widened in shock at learning what you were lying in.
"Oh my gosh!"
You scrambled to stand, brushing your dress frantically but it was no use, it was already ruined from your earlier tasks. From the earlier water explosion to this, you were officially covered in dirt from head to toe while Bucky helped you compose yourself.
"I think I can show you how to draw that bath now..."
You looked up at him and saw he was fighting a smile which made you smile, then start to laugh, with him finally joining you.
You had never been this clumsy in your entire life.
"Oh my gosh, you must think I'm a complete ninny."
Bucky laughed now, holding your arm.
"Not at all." He wiped his brow and sighed, looking up into the sky.
"This is all so new...I...I just want to learn..."
"I know you do, but you don't have to do it all today. Come on now, let's head inside." He walked you to the cabin where you took off your shoes at the door.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
Bucky showed you how to draw your bath and what was needed. He had some fancy soap Sam recommended him just in case you didn't bring yours and left you to relax in the tub. You looked around the small bathing room and sighed.
The tub was adequate, and the water was steamy, so you climbed in and got yourself settled, leaning back against the back of it. The water didn't come up too far, but it did the trick to get you relaxed enough where you were able to scrub the day away and wash your hair. You brought your own soap but used Bucky's seeing as how he got some for you, and you were pleasantly surprised. It smelled like fresh lavender and oatmeal, and it lathered nicely against your skin.
When you were finished, you got out and dried yourself off, wrapping a large towel around you. You opened the door, peeking out of it, then scurried up to your room.
You didn't see Bucky sitting by the fireplace and the smirk he had since he saw you wrapped in a towel.
You got to your room and froze, seeing two more purple wildflowers placed neatly on your pillow. They were tied together with a small piece of twine. You blushed hard since this was the second time you were given flowers in one day, and you liked it. None of the men in the city had given you flowers.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
"So, what else are you going to show me tomorrow?" You asked, sitting down opposite Bucky.
He cleared his throat and looked over at you.
You were wrapped in a white housecoat that seemed to cover your floor length light pink night gown.
You were a vision, freshly bathed with pink cheeks and hair that was braided into a long braid down your back. If someone told him last year a lady would be living in his cabin, he would have thought they were crazy.
"Well, I'll show you how to ride."
"Ride?"
"A horse."
"Oh, right."
You fiddled with the end of your braid and looked over at the fire.
"How has your time here been?" Bucky asked, curious to get your opinion.
You looked over at him and smiled.
"It's been good. I mean, I did kind of have an unfortunate day, but that hasn't discouraged me."
You tucked your feet under you and turned to face him.
"Are you happy? With me?" You asked.
His brows shot up at your question, then they furrowed in thought.
"Of course."
"Oh good. I was worried you didn't think I was cut out for this life and would want to send me back. I'm liking it, really I am but this is new for me." You insisted, reaching over to put your hand on his.
Surprisingly, his hand was soft and warm.
"Thank you for the flowers today, they're lovely."
"You're welcome." His ears were pink.
"But I'm happy I made the right decision of coming here, truly."
Bucky looked at your hand and smiled, taking your hand in his so he could hold it.
"Good, I'm glad."
Neither of you let go of your hands while you watched the fire.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
Over the next week and a half, Bucky has shown you everything it takes to live on the homestead. You've been exhausted every night, but it's been rewarding and challenging for you with everything you have learned and done.
You were headed into town the following day and you were excited to see how Nat was fairing in her new apartment and new job.
You've also been getting closer to Bucky during this time and it's been wonderful. He's kind, funny, caring, and genuine which makes you smile.
The other day at lunch he brought you a small bouquet of wildflowers he picked for you when he was repairing a fence. You placed them in the kitchen and had even picked some of your own to spread around the cabin. You often share stories together in the evening out on the porch of the cabin if the weather is calm.
You're certain Bucky knows you still feed Rocky, but he never says anything.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
"Oh my God, how have you been?" Nat asked, hugging you close.
"Hello to you too." You chuckled.
You stood apart assessing each other, making sure you were both ok. You looked behind her and saw the sheriff watching you while he chatted with Bucky.
You had some time with Nat in the morning, where you were going to tour her little apartment then head to the café for lunch before you did some shopping at the store, before heading back to the cabin.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
"This is so cute." You looked over Nat's apartment.
"Thanks. Steve has helped me furnish it and get it the way I want it."
"And how is the sheriff doing?" You asked.
Her face blushed and she looked down at her feet. The Nat you knew didn't blush.
"He's been great. He checks in on me a lot, comes by the café, and we even had a date the other night." She smiled wide.
"I wrote to some of the other ladies at the rooming house and a few of them are coming on the next train. I've got a few more rooms ready for them and they're eager to get here."
"Good."
"This town needs more women and I'm going to bring them here."
You chuckled at your friend's determination and new found hobby.
You filled her in on the homestead and Bucky's cabin.
"I'm proud of you for living there. Bucky seems nice and the cabin seems like it's comfortable."
"It is."
You shuffled your feet.
"But?"
You bit your lip and looked around, spying Bucky on the sidewalk of the main street. Him, the Sheriff, and another man were standing around talking with each other.
"I want to kiss him so bad." You admitted making Nat chuckle.
"Then go for it." She nudged your arm.
"Really?"
"Yup. Trust me, he'll return it and then some..." She assured you.
Your heart fluttered at the thought. You had never kissed a man before, so this will be another new experience for you to have, one you have wanted for a long time.
"Ok, let's get something to eat." Nat ushered you out of her apartment and onto the street where you met up with the guys.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
"So, this is Sam's General Store?" You asked, entering the large store.
"The one and only."
A man stood behind the counter smiling wide. He was the same man the men were talking with earlier.
"Y/n, I presume?"
"Yes."
You blushed as he hurried around the counter to shake your hand.
"Sam Wilson." He smiled wide.
"Bucky's mentioned you a few times. It's nice to meet you."
"He has? Well, feelin's mutual sweetheart. Have a look around. Here's a basket. You fill it with whatever you want, and I'll make sure it gets on this guy's tab then." Sam pointed over at Bucky who was scowling at him.
"Ok." You giggled making Bucky look over at you and smile.
"Y/n?"
Bucky called you over from looking up and down the aisles. You had a few things in your basket and Nat had told you she ordered you some pants and boots that will come in on the next train.
"Did you want to write to your parents?"
"Oh, I should."
Sam slid a pen and paper across to you which you took. You wrote the brief letter, nervous at your parent's reaction, but you already knew what it was going to be. You're certain they won't like what you have chosen, if they even decide to reply, but you didn't care. You had too many years with living under their rules and their guidance, this was surely going to cause some issues, but it was done.
You had moved to Winter Springs for good and Bucky was yours. You weren't going anywhere and that was something they were either on board with, or not.
⛰️🧔🏻♂️
You made it back to the cabin and unpacked some of the things you had bought. You sat on the porch sipping some tea when Bucky walked out and joined you.
"Did you have a good time in town today?"
You looked over at him and smiled.
"I did, thank you."
"Did you get everything you needed?"
You shrugged.
"More or less. Nat ordered me some pants and boots, but yes, I did. I like that soap Sam sells, so I got a few more bars of it. I like his store and am surprised he carries a lot of things."
"Yeah, he's a good guy and he's always getting in new goods. How's your friend doing?"
"Nat's good. She's liking her job at the café, and I think her and Steve are getting along well."
"That's good."
Bucky knew Steve was head over heels with Nat just as he was with you.
"Oh, I almost forgot. She wrote to some of the other ladies we were friends with at the rooming house and some of them are making the journey to the town. She has a few apartments ready for their arrival and everything."
Bucky was shocked but pleased with her friend. He knows quite a few good men who were too shy to write an ad in the paper and he's hoping they get a shot at meeting the new women.
"Do you think your parents will write to you?" Bucky asked.
He was concerned they would disown you from doing what you did. You shifted slightly on the chair and looked up into the night sky.
"No? Yes? I'm not sure to be honest."
Bucky's heart froze.
If your parents didn't approve, would they show up and demand you leave? Would you leave knowing you don't have their approval?
He leaned against the railing and crossed his arms over his chest trying to show you he was terrified at the thought of you leaving him.
You were nervous at your next move, but you didn't care.
You got up and stepped towards him. He stood straight and kept his eyes on you.
You stood in front of him, looking up at his face.
"But I don't care. I'm here with you because that's what I want. My decision, not theirs."
You confidently said. He smiled at your opinion on the matter.
You stepped close making Bucky drop his arms at his sides.
You reached up and put your hands on his chest, feeling the hard muscles under his soft shirt. He inhaled sharply, placing his hands on your hips. You saw the corner of his mouth turn up slightly while his eyes watched you close.
"I like it here because you're here. I like you so I'm not going anywhere." You assured him, bringing your hands around his neck.
"I like you too." He whispered into the dark.
Your fingers played with his long hair that was tied back. You saw him smile at the same time you felt his hands squeeze your hips.
"Besides, you'll protect me at all costs, right?"
"Right." He nodded making you smile.
"Can I kiss you Mountain Man?" You asked.
You saw his eyes widen at your question then he nodded frantically making you giggle.
"I-I was gonna do that...soon...I mean...kiss you and all but I didn't want to come off as too forward..." He stammered on his words.
"I'd like to kiss you now, if that's ok with you."
"Ok." He smiled, leaned down so you were close to his level, and placed his lips on yours.
A zing shot through you as you kissed him back, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. A small thump startled you apart and when you looked over your shoulder, Rocky sat on the woodpile and chortled at you making you laugh.
"Hello Rocky." You cringed, then looked over at Bucky who was scowling at you but smiled.
"I mean raccoon that I have never seen before..."
Bucky chuckled, turned you to face him, and kissed you again making you giggle.
You made the ultimate decision in taking a chance on a random ad in the paper, but your determination and sacrifice was worth it seeing as how your family never wrote to you again.
You loved your new life with your mountain man, and you didn't want to change it.
♪ Prompt | Day 29 Bonus #1 I Touch Myself - Divinyls | “I don't want anybody else”
♪ Summary | While trying to win a bet, your boyfriend has to step in to make sure you don't cause any trouble.
♪ Warnings + Tags | Alcohol, Bucky Barnes being slightly protective, reader is a tad manipulative (not towards Bucky) and almost gets her shit rocked, fluff (?)
♪ Phoenix Chirps | We've reached the time where I now need to cram in four bonus scribbles into two days. They're written, but you're going to be sick of me today and tomorrow lol
♪ Word Count | 300
| Masterlist ⏯ Event Masterlist |
You felt the weight of Bucky's dark gaze right between your exposed shoulder blades, a silent warning for you to stop what you were doing. Which was tracing the forearm of some random man in an attempt to get a free drink after Natasha bet that you couldn't.
"I just hate drinking alone," you pouted, propping your chin on your hand.
"Let's fix that sweetie." he said, taking the bait. It took everything in you not to wrinkle your nose at the pet name.
He winked, sliding the fresh glass towards you.
"Thanks!" you chirped, hopping off the bar stool.
"Excuse me?" The man's voice boomed over the low drone of other bar goers, enough that the chatter died down as he stood up. A mix of anger and hurt flaring across his face. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Oh, back to my friends." you said with much more confidence than you felt, taking a sip of the free drink that had gotten you into this predicament.
He stood to his full height. "Don't you think that's rude?"
You shrugged impassively. "We barely spoke. Don't you think it's a bit presumptuous that it would go any further?"
The man took a step towards you, to do what, you weren't sure, as he stopped his movements when a strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. "Such a troublemaker," Bucky scolded in your ear.
"Just put it on my tab," he then spoke to the bartender.
In another universe where your boyfriend wasn't once a feared assassin, you were sure the man you conned for a drink would've pressed the issue further. But since that was not the case, you smiled and said, "I don't want anybody else, sorry." Before being whisked back to your table.
Summary: You and your friend play with a Ouija board in your new home.
Word Count: 300
Playlist Prompt: Living La Vida Loca - Ricky Martin / “I feel a premonition”
Warnings: Ouija board, soft dark vibes, creepy factor, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Day 8 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
“I feel a premonition.”
You laughed a little. “This is a Ouija board. You don’t get premonitions from that.”
You weren’t sure how your friend, Beth, convinced you to do this in your new home. It was a little older and needed some work, but it was still nice. A perfect place to make a home.
Though for the few days you had been there, the rooms felt inexplicably cold at times. It felt like someone was watching you, especially when you were in the bathroom or bedroom. And you swore someone was whispering your name before you went to sleep.
But it had to be jitters since you lived alone.
No one was there except for you.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun,” she joked, closing her eyes. “Is there someone here with us?”
“I don’t think-”
The planchette began to move, Beth’s eyes going wide when it landed on “YES.”
“That…” She swallowed hard. “That wasn’t me.”
“It wasn’t me either,” you said, your heart racing faster. “What’s your name?”
The planchette moved again, slowly stopping at five letters.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
“Who the hell is Bucky?” Beth asked.
You shrugged because you had no idea. “Are you the one watching me?”
“Watching you?” she questioned. “What the hell are you talking about?”
The planchette went back to the word “YES.”
You both froze. Beth had a terrible poker face, so you knew she wasn’t doing this. But spirits didn’t exist.
Bucky Barnes new gf!reader, is a little freak. He doesn't know that yet of course. They've been together for three months, and bucky is holding back on his freak too because he doesn't wanna scare her or smthg. He always keeps his metal arm away when they're having sex. Not like...he removes it, but he doesn't do anything with it apart from touching her. One day, she asks him to finger her. He's only happy to oblige but then she shocks his system by asking him to do it with his METAL ARM.
You’ve been dating Bucky Barnes for three months, and it still feels like a dream you’re scared to wake from.
He’s gentle in a way that makes your chest ache—calloused hands cradling your face like you’re made of spun sugar, steel-blue eyes softening every time you laugh at one of his old-man jokes. The Winter Soldier carries the weight of a century on his shoulders, but with you, he’s just Bucky. Careful. Protective. Almost painfully restrained.
You, on the other hand, are kind of insane.
And he has no idea.
It started innocently enough—soft kisses on the couch that turned into heated make-outs, clothes shed slowly, reverently. He always kept his metal arm tucked away. Resting on your waist, stroking your thigh, never more. You noticed, of course. How he’d flex the plates with a quiet metallic whir and then consciously still them, like he was afraid the cool vibranium might shock you. Like he thought you’d flinch.
You never did.
You wanted it it so bad though.
Tonight, the rain taps against the windows of his Brooklyn apartment, a steady rhythm that matches the pulse between your legs. You’re in his bed, sheets twisted around your bare thighs, his dog tags cool against your sternum. Bucky hovers over you, shirtless, the scarred junction where metal meets flesh catching the low lamplight.
His flesh hand traces lazy circles on your hip, thumb brushing the edge of your panties.
“You sure?” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough with want, breath warm across your collarbone. “We don’t have to rush anything, doll.”
You cup his face, thumb stroking the stubble along his jaw. “I want you, Bucky. All of you.” Your voice drops, laced with the hunger you’ve been swallowing for weeks. “Please.”
His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the blue. A low groan rumbles in his chest as he kisses you—deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours. His flesh hand slips beneath the lace, two thick fingers gliding through your slick folds. You arch into him with a gasp, already soaked. He works you open slowly, curling just right, thumb circling your clit until your thighs tremble.
But it’s not enough.
Not tonight.
You grab his wrist—the left one—before he can lose himself in the rhythm. His whole body stills.
“Baby?” The uncertainty in his voice nearly breaks you.
You guide his metal hand down, pressing the cool fingertips against your inner thigh. “With this one.”
Bucky’s breath catches sharp. The plates in his arm shift with a soft, mechanical click, like he’s fighting to keep them still. “You… you want my metal arm?”
You meet his gaze without flinching, letting him see the raw need burning there. “I want you to fuck me with it, Bucky. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. How cold it’ll feel at first. How strong. How careful you’ll be until I’m begging you not to stop.”
For a second, he just stares—stunned, like you’ve short-circuited every safe protocol he built around himself.
Then something primal flickers across his face.
His metal fingers flex once, the smooth vibranium catching the light.
“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” he breathes, half-laugh, half-groan. “You been hidin’ a filthy little mouth this whole time?”
You smile, wicked and sweet. “You have no idea.”
He shifts lower, settling between your spread thighs. The first touch of cool metal against your heated skin makes you jolt. Bucky pauses instantly, eyes flicking up to yours—but you nod, desperate.
“More.”
He drags two metal fingers through your wetness, coating them. The contrast—icy smooth metal against your burning core—pulls a broken moan from your throat. When he presses inside, slow and relentless, the stretch is perfect. Unyielding. The plates shift subtly as he curls them, seeking that spot that makes your vision spark white.
“Fuck,” he rasps, watching your face like it’s the only thing anchoring him. “You’re takin’ it so well. Look at you, drippin’ all over my arm.”
You rock your hips, chasing the sensation. The metal warms slightly from your heat but never loses that thrilling edge of coolness. He adds a third finger, scissoring gently, thumb—vibranium and impossibly precise—pressing firm circles on your clit. Every thrust is controlled, powerful, the faint mechanical hum vibrating through your core in the most devastating way.
You fist the sheets, head thrown back. “Bucky—harder. Please.”
He curses under his breath, something reverent in Russian, and gives you what you want. The pace turns punishing, metal fingers pumping deep while his flesh hand pins your hip, holding you open for him.
You shatter without warning.
Clenching around the unyielding vibranium as pleasure crashes through you in heavy waves. He works you through it, murmuring praise against your thigh—soft, wrecked, worshipful.
“That’s it, doll… so fuckin’ perfect. My dirty girl.”
When you finally come down, panting and boneless, he withdraws gently. The metal fingers glisten with your release. Bucky stares at them for a long moment—then brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, eyes locked on yours.
The sight alone nearly sends you over again.
He crawls up your body, caging you in, forehead pressed to yours. His cock strains against his boxers, hard and insistent, but he doesn’t rush.
“You’ve been holdin’ out on me,” he says, voice wrecked. A slow, dangerous smile curves his lips—the first real, unrestrained one you’ve seen. “Three months, and you never told me you wanted the Winter Soldier in your bed?”
You laugh breathlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. “I didn’t want to scare you.”
“Scare me?” He kisses you hard, tasting yourself on his tongue. “Sweetheart, I’ve been jerkin’ off to the thought of ruining you since week two. Thought I’d terrify my sweet girl if I let go.”
You tug his dog tags, pulling him closer. “Then don’t hold back anymore, Sergeant.”
Bucky’s eyes flash.
The metal arm slides under your back, lifting you effortlessly as he flips you onto your stomach.
“You asked for it.”
The rain keeps falling outside.
But inside, the careful distance you both built finally crumbles away.
pairing: bucky barnes x reader, eventual stucky | 8.5k words | avengers: endgame au
warnings: angst, wartime separation, grief, longing, emotional infidelity themes, canon-typical endgame sadness, bucky x reader endgame that turns into stucky, lots of yearning
summary: when bucky gets the chance to go back in time to the woman he once planned to marry, he thinks he’s finally being given back the life he lost. instead, reader helps him see that his future was never meant to stay in the past—and that the life he and steve deserve has been waiting for them all along.
authors note: bucky and steve deserve happiness in every lifetime and i will not be accepting discourse about that at this time. stucky are my og gay boys and i think it would have been so healing for them to get the validation that being together is ok. bucky barnes deserves sunshine and here he finds that in steve☀️
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Before the war, before the uniforms and the medals and the grief, before there were ghosts living inside James Buchanan Barnes’s skin, there was Brooklyn.
There was the smell of hot bread drifting out of the bakery on Dean Street just before dawn, the groan of the train under the sidewalks, the slap of summer heat against brick buildings, and the sound of Steve Rogers laughing from somewhere close by whenever Bucky said something he thought was smarter than it actually was. There were stoops and tenement windows and wash lines strung like prayer flags between buildings. There were girls in pressed skirts and boys trying too hard to look older than they were. There was music from somebody’s radio three windows down and the gold of late afternoon laid over the whole neighborhood like a blessing.
And there was you.
Bucky used to swear he saw you before he really met you, though half the time he changed the story just to hear you argue with him.
Sometimes he said the first time had been outside Delmar’s, when you’d stood on the curb with your hands on your hips, telling the butcher he’d overcharged Mrs. Carlucci by six cents and ought to be ashamed of himself. Sometimes he said it had been on the train, where you’d been reading with your brow furrowed in concentration while three boys across from you tripped over themselves trying to get your attention. Once, when he was feeling especially impossible, he said the first time he saw you had been in church, sunlight through the stained glass turning your face soft and full of color, and that he’d known right then he was done for.
“Liar,” you’d told him, laughing into your teacup.
“Sweetheart, I’ve been called worse.”
Steve, sitting at the table with a pencil smudged across the side of his hand, had snorted without looking up from his sketchpad.
“You told me the first time you saw her,” Steve had said, “you walked into a lamppost.”
Bucky had pointed a finger at him, scandalized. “Traitor.”
“You nearly broke your nose.”
“I was distracted.”
“You were showing off.”
“To a beautiful girl,” Bucky had returned, easy as breathing. “Which, if you ask me, is noble.”
You had rolled your eyes, but you’d been smiling. Bucky had always been able to make you smile, even before he had any right to it.
The truth was simpler than any of his stories and somehow more dear for it. You met because Steve introduced you.
He’d been sketching in the park, shoulders hunched, too thin coat buttoned up wrong, when a gust of spring wind had stolen his paper and sent half-finished drawings scattering across the path. You’d gone chasing after them before he could even stand, catching one under your shoe and another against the iron fence with your fingertips. By the time Bucky arrived with two coffees and a complaint already on his lips about Steve working through lunch again, he found the two of you kneeling in the grass, gathering pages and laughing like old friends.
Steve looked up first. Bucky looked where he was looking.
And that, as far as you were concerned, was that.
He liked you at once. Not just because you were pretty, though you were. Not just because you had a laugh that came from somewhere deep and honest, though that certainly didn’t hurt. He liked you because you treated Steve like he mattered before you even knew him. He liked you because you spoke quickly when you were passionate, because you never backed down from an argument, because you tipped your chin up when you were unimpressed and did not seem, in any real way, impressed by him at all.
“Barnes,” you’d said that first afternoon when Steve introduced you properly. “Steve says you’re trouble.”
“Steve,” Bucky had said, hand over his heart, “wounds me.”
Steve had only shrugged. “You are.”
And you had laughed, sunlight catching in your hair, and Bucky had been lost enough to feel it.
After that, he started appearing everywhere.
At first it was by chance, or close enough. He and Steve walked you home after the library. He found you at the grocer and carried your bag though you told him not to fuss. He waited outside the shop where you worked the register three streets over, leaning against the wall like he had nowhere else to be, just to escort you home. Then it became less accidental and more deliberate. He saved you a seat at the cinema. He showed up with flowers he definitely had not paid for. He took you dancing where the floorboards shook under too many feet and the whole room smelled like sweat and powder and cheap perfume, and afterward he bought you a soda and drank from the same glass because he said one straw was enough for two people in love.
“We are not in love,” you’d told him.
“No?” he’d said, leaning in just enough to make your pulse jump. “Could’ve fooled me.”
You did not kiss him for another three weeks.
It happened on your stoop after rain, the whole street silvered and shining, the air cool enough to raise goosebumps on your arms. Steve had gone home early with a cough he refused to call a cough, and Bucky, for once, had walked quietly beside you. No teasing. No swagger. Just the warmth of him at your shoulder and the sense that the night had narrowed down to the two of you and the sound of your footsteps.
He had stopped one step below you and looked up.
You remembered that look for the rest of your life.
Not cocky, then. Not smooth. Just earnest in a way that seemed almost to embarrass him, all his usual charm set aside. His hair was damp from the mist and his lashes were darker for it. The streetlamp painted one side of his face in amber and left the other in shadow.
“I keep trying not to,” he’d said.
“Not to what?”
“Think about you all the time.”
And because you were twenty and brave and dizzy with wanting, you bent and kissed him before he could say anything else.
For all Bucky’s confidence, for all the girls people said had come before you and would surely come after, he kissed like the world was ending and he’d been promised one last beautiful thing. His hands were gentle where they cupped your face. His mouth softened in surprise, then deepened with hunger. When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he laughed one helpless little breath like he could not believe his luck.
“See?” he murmured. “In love.”
You kissed him again just to shut him up.
He was good at loving you. Not perfect, never that, but good in all the ways that counted. He remembered things. He noticed when you were tired and walked a little slower. He stole oranges from a market stall because you said winter felt less cruel when there were bright things in the kitchen. He took you to Coney Island one hot Saturday and won you a stuffed bear that looked nothing like a bear at all, then spent the rest of the day acting offended when you told him it was ugly. He kissed your scraped knuckles when you cut your hand on a soup tin. He learned which songs made you drag him onto a dance floor and which books made you cry. He listened.
And you loved him for it.
You loved him for the way he filled space, like he had more life in him than one body ought to hold. You loved him for the steadiness under the charm, for the kindness he never announced. You loved him for the way he loved Steve with a loyalty so old and instinctive it seemed knitted into his bones.
Because Steve was always there, somehow. Always written into the shape of things.
Steve at your kitchen table, paint under his nails, accepting seconds your mother pressed on him with a muttered comment about him being all elbows and no sense. Steve on the sidewalk outside the movie house, Bucky throwing an arm around his shoulders while the two of them argued over some serial neither of them had enough money to see twice. Steve holding your coat while Bucky tied your skate laces at the winter rink, Bucky looking up at him to say something and Steve already smiling as though he knew the words before they were spoken.
You loved Steve too, in your own way. It was impossible not to.
He was gentler than Bucky and quieter, but no less fierce. The world had spent years telling him what he was not, and he had met it all with a jaw set in stubborn defiance. He saw people. Really saw them. Sometimes you’d catch him watching Bucky when Bucky wasn’t paying attention, something soft and aching in his face, and then he’d look away so quickly it was easy to pretend you’d imagined it.
The thing was, you didn’t imagine it.
You saw things. You always had.
At first, you thought it was only protectiveness, the kind that comes from growing up with someone, from years of scraped knees and shared meals and defending each other in alleys. And maybe some of it was. But there were moments that did not fit inside friendship no matter how determinedly they were both trying to force them there.
The way Bucky looked for Steve first in any crowded room.
The way Steve’s whole body eased when Bucky touched him, like relief.
The way their arguments carried a strange intimacy, all heat and certainty, because each of them knew exactly where the other one ended and began.
The way silence sat easily between them.
The way, once, at a summer dance, you found Bucky watching Steve across the hall instead of the girl Steve was attempting not to step on, and the look on Bucky’s face was so open, so tender, it stole the breath from your chest.
When he turned and found you seeing it, he’d smiled, easy and bright, and come to kiss your cheek. You’d said nothing.
What was there to say?
You were in love with him. He was in love with you. That was real.
And still.
Still, there was some small quiet part of him that seemed to tip toward Steve like flowers toward the sun.
You did not resent it. Not then. Maybe not ever. You simply tucked the knowledge away, somewhere deep and private, because the world in 1940 had no mercy for certain truths, and because whatever lived between Bucky and Steve belonged to them to understand in their own time, if time was ever kind enough to let them.
For a while, life was kind.
Bucky proposed on a rooftop in August.
There was no grand plan, not really. No orchestra, no down-on-one-knee rehearsed perfection. Just the city spread out around you in brick and steam and evening light, and a bottle of contraband wine he claimed he’d gotten honestly, and Steve downstairs pretending very hard not to give the two of you privacy while absolutely giving the two of you privacy.
You had your shoes off. Bucky had his tie loosened. The heat hadn’t broken yet, and the air felt thick and humming against your skin.
He’d been quieter than usual all night. Restless, maybe. Looking at you as though trying to memorize something.
“You’re making that face,” you said.
“What face?”
“The one that says you’re about to do something dramatic.”
He smiled at that, but it trembled at the corners. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little velvet box.
For a second the whole world went still.
“Buck,” you whispered.
“Now, before you say anything, I want you to know this was supposed to go smoother.” He cleared his throat, laughed once at himself, then seemed to decide honesty was the only thing left to him. “I had a speech. It was a good one too. Very persuasive. Real charm offensive.”
Your hands were already shaking.
“But you look like that, and I can’t remember a damn word of it.” He opened the box. The ring caught the last gold light of the day and flashed. “So I’m gonna have to tell you the truth plain.”
He stepped closer.
“I love you,” he said, and all the joking was gone now. “I love you when you’re mad and when you’re laughing and when you’re so tired you can’t keep your eyes open at dinner. I love the way you take care of people. I love the way you never let me get away with anything. I love that every good thing in my day feels better if I can tell you about it after.” His voice roughened. “I want a life with you. A real one. A home and Sunday mornings and kids if we’re lucky and old age if we’re blessed. I want to be yours for all of it. So—”
He swallowed.
“Marry me.”
You did not even let him finish asking properly before you were crying and nodding and kissing him hard enough to nearly send the ring box skidding across the roof.
Behind the stairwell door, there was an unmistakable muffled thud.
Bucky broke away, laughing against your mouth. “Stevie just hit his head on the rail trying not to eavesdrop.”
You laughed too, watery and bright, and then Bucky slid the ring onto your finger.
It fit.
Of course it fit.
Afterward, when Steve finally came up pretending innocence and failing miserably, he hugged you so tightly your ribs protested. Then he hugged Bucky even harder. Bucky made a show of complaining, but his eyes were suspiciously shiny.
You remember that night sometimes as the truest shape of happiness: the city warm around you, your ring glinting every time you moved your hand, Steve leaning against the low wall with a grin, Bucky at your side, the future opening ahead like a road lit golden and sure.
You had no way of knowing how quickly war could swallow a future whole.
At first it was just headlines, names of places too far away to feel real. Then it was ration books and tense voices on the radio and boys from the neighborhood standing straighter than they used to, as if posture alone might prepare them for the things they were about to lose.
Steve wanted to go before anyone else. Of course he did. You could see it in him every time a newsreel flickered across a theater screen, every time someone talked about duty. Bucky argued with him and worried over him and marched him out of more than one recruitment office by the elbow. You understood both of them. One trying to save the world with his bare hands. The other trying to keep the world from taking the person he loved most.
By the time Steve finally got his miracle and his uniform and the impossible body that seemed to startle even him, Bucky had already made up his mind.
He enlisted with the rest of the 107th. He kissed you in the train station under a sky the color of tin and tucked his forehead to yours like he could hold the moment there through force of will alone.
“I’ll come back,” he said.
“You’d better.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
His smile was brave and terrible. “You keep that ring on?”
You lifted your hand between you. “Try and stop me.”
He kissed you then, slow and desperate enough to make the noise of the station fall away. When he drew back, he pressed his mouth to your knuckles, right above the ring.
Steve stood a few feet off, duffel slung over one shoulder though he wasn’t shipping out with Bucky, not yet. You looked at him over Bucky’s shoulder and saw, just for a second, the same grief on his face that you felt cracking your own heart open.
Bucky hugged him next, rough and fast, like if he made a joke out of it maybe it wouldn’t hurt.
“Don’t start any fights without me.”
Steve huffed a laugh that failed halfway through. “You don’t leave me with much choice.”
“You write to her if I can’t,” Bucky said quietly.
Something flickered over Steve’s face. “I will.”
Then the conductor called final boarding. Bucky kissed you once more, touched Steve’s shoulder, and climbed onto the train.
You stood with Steve until the last car vanished.
For a long time after, loving Bucky meant living by letters.
His came when they could, sometimes in clusters, sometimes not at all for weeks. You learned the shape of his handwriting the way some women learned prayer. He wrote about mud and lousy coffee and men snoring loud enough to shake tents. He wrote about missing Brooklyn, missing your terrible coffee, missing the way you frowned when you were reading. Sometimes there were jokes, and sometimes there were lines so simple they hurt worse than anything elaborate could have.
Had peaches today. Tasted like the summer we went to Coney.
Saw a dog with one ear and thought of the mutt you keep trying to adopt from Mrs. Levin.
Dreamed of you last night. Woke up smiling like an idiot.
You wrote back and filled pages with ordinary things on purpose. The butcher. The weather. Mrs. Carlucci’s grandson losing a tooth. The new tear in the coat Bucky swore he could mend and absolutely could not. You told him about Steve’s work with the USO, though you didn’t say how the neighborhood pointed at him with wonder now, how strange it was to see the boy from the alley turned into a symbol. You told him you missed him. You told him you loved him. You never ended a letter without that.
Steve visited when he could. Sometimes he read Bucky’s latest letter with you at your kitchen table, smiling at one line and going quiet at the next. Sometimes he didn’t have a letter, only worry, and he’d sit with you on the stoop in a silence that needed no apology. The two of you grieved in advance together, though neither of you would have admitted that was what you were doing.
When news came that Bucky’s unit had been captured, Steve went white as the paper in his hand.
You thought, for one impossible sick second, that he might stop breathing.
Then he looked at you.
“I’m going to get him,” he said.
Not I’ll try.
Not if I can.
Just I’m going to get him.
And because you knew him, because you knew what lived in him where other people kept self-preservation, you believed him.
He left. He came back. Bucky had been saved.
For one shining terrible minute, it seemed like maybe the world might still bend toward mercy.
Then the mission in the Alps happened, and mercy ran out.
There was no body. No grave. No certainty. Just words like fell and missing and presumed, none of them strong enough to carry the weight of what they meant.
You sat on your bed with the telegram clenched in your fist until your mother pried it free because your nails had cut your palms open and you had not even noticed.
After that, everything became measured by absence.
The ring stayed on your finger for months. Then, when wearing it felt like ripping the wound open every hour, you put it on a chain beneath your blouse and carried it there, warm against your skin. Steve came home changed too, grief sitting under his skin like a fever. Then he was gone again, swallowed by ice and legend.
And just like that, the boys who had been the center of every room they entered were gone from Brooklyn, and the neighborhood kept going anyway.
That, you learned, was the cruelest part. Not that the world ended. That it didn’t.
Years passed. Then more.
You did what people do when their hearts break and no one comes to stitch them back together: you kept living.
You worked. You moved apartments. You laughed again, which felt at first like betrayal and then, eventually, like survival. You married once, years later, a kind man with patient hands who knew from the way you sometimes looked at old photographs that your heart had not started with him, and loved you anyway. You had a daughter. Then a son. You lost your husband too early and buried him with one hand clenched around the memory that love could come in different shapes and still be holy.
You grew older.
The ring Bucky gave you stayed in a box with your keepsakes. Sometimes you touched it. Mostly, you let it rest.
Far away, in ways you could never know, James Buchanan Barnes did not die on that mountain after all.
He was stolen instead.
By the time he got himself back—by the time the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes had become two names for one bruised, fractured man—the world had become something neither of you would have recognized.
He fought alien invasions. He slept in cryo. He woke to loss after loss after loss. He learned how to live inside the wreckage. He learned Steve had been alive all along. He learned that surviving is not the same thing as being saved.
And then came the end of everything.
Then came the battle.
Then came the impossible, ragged miracle of winning.
After Tony Stark’s funeral, the world felt hushed in the way it only ever does after catastrophe, like even the birds ought to speak softly out of respect for the dead. The lake behind the cabin held the morning light flat and pale. The quantum platform stood waiting like a question no one quite wanted to answer.
Bruce fussed over the controls. Sam paced and tried not to. Bucky stood a little apart with his hands in the pockets of a jacket that wasn’t really warm enough, looking at the machine, then away from it, then back again.
Originally, Steve had been the one meant to go.
Return the Stones. Put Mjolnir back. Close the loops they had torn open. Simple, in theory, which meant not at all.
But sometime before sunrise, with the grass still damp and the ache of too much history hanging between them, Steve had found Bucky sitting on the porch steps staring at the water.
“You don’t have to do that,” Steve had said.
Bucky had looked up. “Somebody does.”
“I mean you.”
A pause.
“I know.”
Steve lowered himself beside him. Age had not caught up to either of them the same way it caught up to ordinary men, but weariness had. It lived in the set of Steve’s shoulders, in the lines at the corners of his eyes, in the quiet that had settled where youth used to be.
“She’d still be there,” Steve said after a while.
Bucky’s breath left him slowly. “Maybe.”
“You think about it?”
Every day, Bucky almost said. Instead he shrugged.
The truth was he had thought about you in all the strangest moments. Not always with sharpness. Sometimes as a flash of laughter in the middle of a mission, the remembered feel of your fingers fitting between his, the image of a yellow dress on a fire escape. Sometimes as grief so sudden it nearly brought him to his knees. You belonged to the life Hydra had taken from him before he’d even understood it was being taken. You belonged to everything soft and human and ordinary. Sometimes he had believed that if he let himself want you too much, the wanting alone would split him apart.
Steve had always known when Bucky was lying to himself.
“You could go back,” Steve said. “Stay, if you wanted.”
Bucky turned to look at him then. “You’re tellin’ me that?”
“I’m telling you if there’s something good waiting for you, you should have it.”
There was no jealousy in him. No bitterness. Only that fierce, impossible generosity Steve carried like it had been built into his bones. It made Bucky’s chest ache.
“And what about you?”
Steve’s mouth tipped, sad and small. “I’ll be okay.”
Bucky looked out at the water again.
He thought of seventy years stolen. Of cold rooms and commands and blood he could never wash from his hands. He thought of you with your ring and your stubborn chin and the way you had said his name like it was a promise instead of a wound. He thought of how simple it would be, maybe, to step backward into a life that had once been laid out for him. To choose the road war had ripped away. To let himself be loved by someone who knew him before the breaking.
He thought of Steve, beside him in the dawn.
And something painful and old shifted under his ribs.
By the time Bruce called them over, the decision had settled in him heavy as stone.
“I’ll go,” Bucky said.
Sam blinked. “You?”
Steve said nothing.
Bruce looked between them, then nodded slowly. “We can make that work.”
No one asked any of the questions that mattered. Was this about the Stones or about regret? Was this duty or escape? Was he returning to the past or running from the present? Sometimes those questions are the same.
When Steve clasped his forearm before he stepped onto the platform, Bucky held on a second too long.
“You come back if you want to come back,” Steve said quietly.
Bucky forced a smile. “That your way of sayin’ you’d miss me?”
Steve’s answering look was warm and wrecked all at once. “Pal, you have no idea.”
The machine hummed alive around him. The world went white.
When it settled again, he was standing in Brooklyn.
Not the Brooklyn of memory, softened by distance and grief, but the real one. Brisk air. Wet pavement. Laundry snapping between buildings. A truck rattling by with milk bottles clinking in the back. The street looked smaller than he remembered and somehow more vivid, every detail sharpened by the shock of being able to see it again.
For a long moment Bucky could not move.
Then he did what wounded men always do when offered one impossible chance to return to the site of the wound.
He went to you.
You were not in the apartment he remembered. Life had shifted you one building over by then, to a second-floor walk-up with cracked green paint on the door and geraniums trying valiantly to survive in a rusted window box. He knew that because he remembered the date Bruce had fixed for him, remembered when you still wore his ring openly and still thought the war might end in anything resembling fairness.
He climbed the stairs like a ghost.
When he knocked, his hand shook.
You opened the door with a dish towel over one shoulder and your hair pinned up badly, like you’d twisted it in a hurry. For one impossible heartbeat you looked exactly the same. Then his mind caught up to what his eyes were seeing: younger, yes, but not a memory. Warm. Alive. Startled.
The dish towel slid from your shoulder and landed on the floor.
You stared at him.
He had not prepared for this part. Had not prepared for your face going slack with shock, for your mouth opening with no sound behind it, for the way his whole body seemed to remember how to ache only when looking at you.
“Buck?” you whispered.
He took one step forward and stopped because he was suddenly terrified that if he touched you, this would all dissolve.
You made the decision for him.
You crossed the threshold like the space between you was an insult and threw your arms around him so hard he nearly stumbled. The sound you made into his neck was half laugh, half sob. Bucky’s hands came up on instinct, crushing you close, and for a second the years vanished. For a second he was only a man returned to the woman he loved.
“You’re alive,” you breathed. “Oh my God, you’re alive.”
He closed his eyes. “I’m here.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him again, your hands on his face like you had to confirm the shape of him. “How?”
The simplest answer—I fell off a train and into hell and then into the future and now I’ve stepped out of time to stand on your landing—would have sounded like madness. You must have seen something impossible in his face, because your own expression shifted from joy to confusion to a strange, searching stillness.
“Buck,” you said softly. “What happened to you?”
A person can only carry so much truth at once. Bucky looked over your shoulder into the little apartment. Familiar curtains. Familiar chipped table. The ordinary details of a life he had once been meant to enter. It struck him then with almost physical force: if he stepped inside and closed the door, he could stay. He could become the man he had once expected to be. He could lay his head down in the past and let it keep him.
You were still looking at him.
“Can I come in?”
“Of course.”
You led him inside with your hand wrapped around his wrist, as if letting go might tempt fate into cruelty again. The apartment smelled like onions and clean soap and the lavender sachets your mother used to tuck into drawers. On the table sat two teacups. One was yours. The other, he guessed, belonged to Steve.
“Steve was just here?” he asked.
You froze almost imperceptibly, then nodded. “He left maybe half an hour ago.”
Something in your voice made Bucky look at you more closely.
You knew.
Not everything. Not the whole shape of it, maybe. But enough.
You set the kettle back on the stove though it did not need setting. “Sit.”
He sat because his knees felt unreliable.
You turned to face him, hands folded together too tightly. “Now tell me the truth.”
He opened his mouth with several lies lined up ready and watched every one of them fall apart under your gaze.
So he told you.
Not all of it. Not Hydra’s every horror or the roll call of names he could never forgive himself for. But enough. He told you about the future in broad, impossible strokes. About surviving the fall and losing himself and finding Steve again decades later. About a war beyond anything your generation could imagine. About a machine that could fold time in on itself like paper.
You listened without interrupting, which was somehow worse than disbelief would have been.
When he finished, the room had gone utterly quiet except for the soft whistle of the kettle beginning to boil over. You reached back automatically to pull it off the flame and set it aside. Your hands were steady now.
“So,” you said at last, “you came back.”
He looked at your face and saw grief there already, grief not for the past but for the decision forming in the room between you.
“I had the chance,” he said. “I thought—”
“You thought you’d come home.”
“Yes.”
You sat across from him. The old ring gleamed on your hand. He stared at it like a starving man.
“Do you still love me?” he asked, and hated how young the question made him sound.
Your expression gentled immediately, painfully. “Oh, Buck.”
“Because if you do, if there’s even a chance—”
“I do love you.”
He stopped breathing.
You smiled then, small and sad. “I think some part of me always will.”
Hope rose so fast it was almost dizzying. “Then—”
“But not like this.”
The word struck clean through him.
You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, still watching him with unbearable tenderness. “I loved the boy I knew. I loved the man he was becoming. I would have married you. I would have built a life with you and been happy in it.” Your voice shook once and steadied. “That’s all true.”
Bucky swallowed around the sudden ache in his throat.
“But that isn’t why you’re here,” you said.
“Yes it is.”
You tilted your head. “Is it?”
“I came back for you.”
“No,” you said softly. “You came back because you think this is the last unopened door. Because you think if you can have what was taken, maybe all the years in between will hurt less.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I know.” Your eyes shone. “But it’s still true.”
He stood up too quickly, chair scraping. “You don’t get to tell me what I feel.”
“No,” you said again, and there was steel in it this time. “But I do get to tell you what I’ve seen.”
You rose too, facing him across the small kitchen table. He had forgotten that part of you, how impossible it was to move you once you had decided to be honest.
“I have watched you and Steve look at each other for years,” you said quietly. “Long before either of you had words for it. Long before the world would have let you use them if you did.”
Bucky’s whole body went still.
“That’s not—”
“Don’t,” you interrupted, not unkindly. “Don’t lie now. Not to me.”
He laughed once, harsh and broken. “He’s my best friend.”
“I know.”
“That’s all.”
You gave him such a patient, heartbreaking look that he nearly turned away from it.
“Buck,” you said. “You love me. But when the room shifts, when something frightens you, when something delights you, when your heart goes running ahead of you before your brain can catch up, where do you turn?”
He did not answer.
You stepped closer.
“Who do you look for first?”
Still he said nothing.
“You asked Steve to write me if you couldn’t,” you whispered. “Do you know what that meant to me? It meant you trusted him with the tenderest parts of your life. It meant somewhere in you, beneath all the things you were supposed to want, you knew he was home too.”
Bucky’s throat worked.
“You think I didn’t see it?” you went on. “The way he watched you walk away from the train like losing you was tearing him apart from the inside out. The way you spoke his name like it belonged under your tongue. The way neither of you ever fit quite right beside anyone else because some part of you was always turned toward the other.”
He took a step back. “Stop.”
“Why? Because it’s easier to say you came back for me than admit you’re afraid to let yourself have him?”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
He opened his mouth and found, to his horror, nothing there.
Because beneath the grief and exhaustion, beneath the desperate wanting to reclaim something untouched by Hydra’s hands, there was a fear so old it felt prehistoric. Not just of loving Steve. Of being seen loving him. Of naming the thing that had lived in the spaces between them for so long it had become air.
You saw the moment he understood that you knew, and your face went soft.
“Oh, Buck.”
The fury went out of him all at once.
He sat down hard in the chair behind him and covered his eyes with one hand. “I was gonna marry you.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to.”
“I know that too.”
He dropped his hand. “Then how can you stand there and tell me to leave?”
Your own tears spilled then, though you smiled through them. “Loving someone isn’t always the same thing as being the place they’re meant to stay.”
The room blurred.
You came around the table and knelt in front of him, taking his hands in yours. He looked at them—your smaller fingers around his, the ring on your hand catching light. Once, he had imagined those hands growing older with his. In some broken branch of the world, maybe they did.
“You gave me beautiful things,” you said. “You gave me youth and laughter and a love that mattered. Don’t make it smaller than it was by turning it into a refuge from the rest of your life.”
His voice came out shredded. “What if I don’t know how to do that?”
“Then learn.”
“With Steve?”
“With Steve.”
He stared at you.
You gave a watery laugh. “Did you think I was blind?”
He almost smiled despite himself, because of course you weren’t.
“He loves you,” you said. “Maybe not in neat little ways. Maybe not in ways either of you know what to do with yet. But he does. He always has.”
Bucky shook his head like he could dislodge the truth. “You can’t know that.”
“I know the look of a person trying to survive their own heart.”
He thought of the porch at dawn. Of Steve saying I’ll be okay in a voice that plainly meant the opposite. Of every time Steve had come for him, every time he had chosen him, every time Bucky’s chest had gone too tight when Steve smiled at someone else and he’d told himself it was because he was overprotective, because they were family, because there had to be another explanation for the way devotion sometimes tipped toward longing when he wasn’t watching it closely enough.
You squeezed his hands.
“You’ve spent enough of your life in the dark,” you whispered. “You deserve sunshine, Buck. Go get it.”
For a long moment neither of you moved.
Then Bucky bowed his head.
He wept.
Not loudly. Not neatly. Just the ugly, exhausted grief of a man who had spent decades being torn away from himself and had been handed, in one cruel kind stroke, the truth of what he actually wanted. You held his hands and let him cry. When he finally lifted his head, your own cheeks were wet.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“For all of it.”
You smiled through your tears. “Me too.”
He leaned forward and rested his forehead against yours, just once. A goodbye and a benediction and an ending. Then he kissed you.
It was gentle. Brief. Full of gratitude and mourning and the strange, shining peace that comes when two people tell each other the truth at last.
When he pulled away, you touched his face the way you had at the door.
“Tell him,” you said.
He gave a broken laugh. “You make it sound easy.”
“I didn’t say easy.” Your thumb traced the line of his cheekbone. “I said worthwhile.”
He stood because if he didn’t, he never would.
At the door, he looked back once. You were still in the middle of the kitchen, hands clasped to keep from reaching for him again, sunlight from the window catching in your hair. He wanted to fix the image in himself forever.
“I loved you,” he said.
You nodded. “I know.”
Then, after a beat, with all the warmth in the world tucked into your grief: “Now go.”
The platform yanked him out of the past before cowardice could do what time had not.
He reappeared on the lakeshore with a violent gasp, knees nearly buckling. Bruce jerked toward the controls. Sam exclaimed something he didn’t catch. But Bucky only saw Steve.
He was standing just beyond the rail, fear written plain across his face because for one awful second he must have thought Bucky had made his choice and that choice had not included coming back.
Then Bucky took one step off the platform.
Steve’s whole body loosened.
It was such a small thing. Anyone else might have missed it. But Bucky had known him since before either of them had enough meat on their bones to cast a proper shadow. He saw the exact instant relief struck Steve hard enough to be almost visible.
And suddenly there was no room left to hide.
Later, after Bruce was satisfied the timelines had not collapsed and Sam had given Bucky a look equal parts curious and fond before tactfully disappearing inside with the others, Bucky found Steve down by the lake.
The sun was lowering, laying copper over the water.
Steve turned at the sound of his steps. “You came back.”
Bucky huffed a laugh. “Observant.”
Steve smiled, but it was careful around the edges. “You okay?”
No. Yes. Maybe for the first time in a long time, maybe almost.
“I saw her,” Bucky said.
Steve’s face changed. “Oh.”
“She was beautiful.”
A silence. Then, “I bet she was.”
Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets. “She told me not to stay.”
Steve’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
Because she saw me more clearly than I’ve ever managed to see myself.
Because she loved me enough to tell the truth.
Because she knew before I did.
Bucky looked out over the water and said, “She told me I was being an idiot.”
That startled a laugh out of Steve. “Sounds like her.”
Bucky smiled. Then the smile faded.
“She said I should live here. In the present.”
Steve nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“She said I should be with you.”
The silence that followed seemed to alter the shape of the whole world.
When Bucky finally looked at him, Steve had gone completely still.
“Buck,” he said very carefully.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Bucky laughed once under his breath, all nerves now, all tenderness and terror. “Not until today, maybe.”
Steve’s gaze searched his face like he was trying to decide whether hope would be too dangerous. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“I know that too.”
“Then don’t do this because somebody else told you to.”
Bucky stepped closer. “I’m doing it because she said out loud the thing I’ve been too scared to name.”
Steve’s breath caught.
“All those years,” Bucky said, voice low and rough, “I thought maybe what I felt was just habit. Loyalty. You were my best friend, and that was supposed to be enough. Then everything happened, and wanting anything at all felt selfish.” He swallowed. “But every time I came back to myself, even in pieces, it was you. Every time.”
Steve looked wrecked.
“Buck,” he whispered again, and this time it sounded like a plea.
Bucky gave him the truth plain, the way he should have given it years ago, the way maybe some part of him always had in every action if not in words.
“I think I’ve been in love with you longer than I knew what the word meant.”
Steve closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, they were shining.
“You think?” he managed.
Bucky barked a laugh, relieved and terrified all at once. “Shut up.”
Steve stepped close enough that their shoulders almost touched. “I was in love with you when we were sixteen and stupid,” he said softly. “I was in love with you before you shipped out. I was in love with you every day I thought you were dead.” His voice broke. “I never stopped. I just got very good at pretending that was survivable.”
Something inside Bucky, knotted for decades, finally loosened.
He lifted a hand, hesitated only a second, and cupped Steve’s jaw. Steve leaned into it on instinct, eyes going dark and unbearably tender.
“You really are an idiot,” Steve murmured.
“Took you long enough to say yes.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
Bucky leaned closer. “Stevie.”
The old nickname undid them both.
Steve kissed him like he had been waiting across several lifetimes for permission.
There was nothing polished about it. It was all the years between them, all the grief and relief and hunger and homecoming, poured into one long, shaking exhale. Bucky made a broken sound into Steve’s mouth and pulled him closer. Steve’s hands found his coat, his waist, his face, as if touching him everywhere at once might make up for time.
When they parted, foreheads pressed together, the sun had dropped lower behind the trees.
“I think,” Steve said, smiling in that dazed, disbelieving way Bucky had only ever dreamed of being the cause of, “we might have wasted a lot of time.”
Bucky traced a thumb over his cheek. “Maybe.”
Steve huffed. “Lot of confidence for a guy who only just figured it out.”
“I had help.”
Steve’s expression softened. “From her?”
Bucky nodded.
“Then I guess,” Steve said quietly, “I owe her more than I can ever repay.”
“So do I.”
---
Their life after that did not become easy. The world did not stop being cruel simply because two men who had suffered enough finally chose each other. Healing was still slow. Nightmares still came. There were days Bucky withdrew into himself so completely Steve had to sit beside him in silence for hours until the dark passed. There were days Steve’s guilt climbed his spine and made him restless, unable to believe he was allowed peace when so many better people had been denied it.
But there was also coffee shared in the morning light. There were walks where Bucky’s hand found Steve’s without thinking and stayed there. There was laughter in the kitchen and bickering over music and the quiet miracle of building routine after a lifetime of chaos. There was the astonishment of tenderness returned freely, without fear. There was waking in the night and finding Steve warm beside him, real and breathing, and feeling something like gratitude so fierce it almost hurt.
There was sunshine, in the end.
A year later, on a cool afternoon edged with early autumn, Bucky found your name in a directory for a nursing home in Brooklyn.
He sat with the paper in his lap for a long time before Steve came in and looked at his face once and understood.
“You want me to come with you?” Steve asked.
Bucky thought about it, then nodded.
The nursing home smelled like lemon polish and old books and the faint medicinal tang of too many years gathered in one place. A volunteer at the desk smiled and led them down a corridor lined with framed watercolor flowers. Bucky’s pulse beat hard in his throat. Beside him, Steve moved with that calm steadiness that had anchored him since childhood.
Outside your room, Bucky stopped.
Steve touched the small of his back. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes,” Bucky said softly. “I do.”
You were sitting by the window in a cardigan the color of buttercream, a blanket over your knees, reading glasses low on your nose. Age had changed you, of course. Softened you. Lined you. Silvered your hair. But not even time had touched the core of you, the particular intelligence in your eyes when you looked up at the sound of the door opening.
For one breathless second, you only stared.
Then your mouth parted.
“Well,” you said, voice thin with age and still unmistakably yours, “I’ll be damned.”
Bucky laughed, sudden and helpless. “Hi, doll.”
Your eyes flicked from him to Steve and back again. Something knowing and bright bloomed in your face.
“Oh,” you breathed. “You listened.”
He crossed the room in three strides and took your hand carefully, as if it were made of light. It felt papery and warm and real. Emotion rose so quickly it nearly closed his throat.
“I wanted to thank you,” he said.
You squeezed his fingers. “For what?”
“For not letting me make the wrong choice.”
A gentleness passed over your face.
Behind him, Steve hung back respectfully until you crooked a finger at him with surprising authority.
“Don’t loom, Steven. Come here.”
Steve obeyed, smiling despite himself, and you took his hand too, linking the three of you together for one brief, perfect moment.
You looked between them and laughed softly. “There you are.”
It undid Bucky more than he expected. He dropped to the chair beside your bed, still holding your hand.
“I used to think,” he admitted, “that if I went back and lost you again, it’d break me twice.”
“And?”
“And it didn’t feel like losing.”
Your thumb stroked once over his knuckles. “Because it wasn’t.”
You asked about their life then, with a delighted nosiness that had not diminished in the slightest. Where did they live? Who cooked? Was Steve still terrible at lying? Was Bucky sleeping enough? They answered everything. Steve showed you a photograph from his wallet—both of them on a quiet beach, wind in their hair, smiling so openly it almost looked like another universe. You touched the picture with reverence.
“Good,” you murmured. “Good.”
Eventually Bucky asked about your life too, because the years had belonged to you whether he had been there for them or not. You told him about your children, about grandchildren who visited on Sundays and cheated at cards, about the husband who had loved gardening and terrible radio comedies. You spoke of him with fondness, and Bucky felt something in his chest settle gently into place.
You had your sunshine too.
When visiting hours thinned and the light outside the window turned honey-soft, Bucky stood reluctantly.
“I should let you rest.”
You waved that off. “I’m old, not dead.”
Steve laughed.
You looked at Bucky one last long moment, and the room seemed to hold its breath around the tenderness in your face.
“You look happier,” you said.
He glanced toward Steve without thinking. That alone made you smile wider.
“I am.”
“Good.” Your eyes shone. “That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
He bent and kissed your forehead.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
You patted his cheek. “Go on now. Take your sunshine home.”
Out in the corridor, Bucky had to stop and press the heel of his hand to his eyes. Steve waited beside him, close enough to touch and wise enough not to speak until Bucky was ready.
When Bucky lowered his hand, Steve was looking at him with that same expression from the lakeshore a year ago: full of wonder, full of love, still a little unbelieving.
“You okay?” Steve asked.
Bucky let out a breath that felt like the last of a very old grief leaving him.
“Yeah,” he said, and meant it.
Steve took his hand.
They walked out together into the late afternoon. The sun was low, pouring gold over the sidewalk, over the parked cars, over the city that had once held three young hearts and all the futures they could not yet imagine. Bucky tipped his face into the warmth for a second, then turned toward Steve, who was smiling at him like he still couldn’t quite believe this was allowed.
Maybe it had taken them too long.
Maybe the road to this kind of happiness had been bloodier and crueler than anyone deserved.
But they were here now.
And after everything, after war and ice and time and all the ways the world had tried to deny them, James Buchanan Barnes finally understood what you had known all along.
could you do buckys wife who has just given birth a couple of months ago and they’ve left the baby with her grandparents for the night so they can have a night in and reader is panicking because shehasnt had a night to herself since the baby was born and bucky reassuring her and just super fluffy with them taking a bath together and bucky washing her hair and relieving her swollen breasts and just full on pampering her and praising her for being the best mom ever
The silence feels wrong and unfamiliar.
You stand in the middle of the living room, arms folded tight across your chest, listening to it. No soft baby noises drifting from the monitor. No tiny hiccups or sleepy little sighs. No sudden panic that you forgot something—diaper, bottle, blanket—because for the first time in months, there’s nothing you’re responsible for in this exact moment.
And that’s the problem.
“I don’t like it,” you say, voice small.
From the couch, Bucky looks up immediately. He’s been watching you for the last five minutes, tracking the way you’ve paced from the kitchen to the hallway and back again like you’re trying to solve a problem you can’t name.
“Don’t like what, doll?”
“This,” you gesture vaguely. “The quiet. The… not doing anything. I feel like I forgot something. Or like I should be doing something.”
His expression softens, something deep and warm settling into his eyes as he stands and crosses the room toward you.
“You didn’t forget anything,” he says gently. “She’s with your parents. She’s safe. Fed. Probably being spoiled outta her mind right now.”
You huff out a weak laugh, but it doesn’t quite stick. Your fingers twist together. “I know. I just—what if she needs me? What if she cries and I’m not there?”
Bucky stops right in front of you, hands coming up to cradle your face before you can spiral any further. His thumbs brush softly under your eyes, grounding.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”
You do, even though your chest feels tight.
“She’s okay,” he says, steady and certain. “And you’re allowed to be okay, too. You’re allowed to take a night. Doesn’t make you any less of a mom.”
Your throat burns a little. “It feels like it does.”
His expression breaks just slightly at that, something tender and aching flickering across his face.
“C’mere,” he says softly, pulling you into him.
You go easily, pressing your face into his chest, breathing in that familiar scent of him—clean soap, something warm and woodsy, something safe. His arms wrap around you, strong and solid, his chin resting on top of your head.
“You’ve been everything for her,” he murmurs into your hair. “Every second of every day. Feeding her, holding her, getting up in the middle of the night, soothing her when she cries. You don’t get to turn around now and act like you’re slacking for taking one night to breathe.”
You sniff, your grip on his shirt tightening. “I just… don’t know what to do with myself.”
A quiet huff of amusement rumbles through his chest.
“Well,” he says, “lucky for you, I’ve got a plan.”
You pull back just enough to squint up at him. “A plan?”
His mouth curves, soft and a little smug. “Yeah. And step one is you letting me take care of you for once.”
---
The bathroom fills slowly with steam.
You sit perched on the closed toilet lid, wrapped in one of Bucky’s t-shirts, watching as he tests the water with careful precision like it’s some kind of mission. The lights are dimmed, a soft lamp casting a golden glow across the tile, and there’s a candle flickering on the counter that you don’t even remember him lighting.
“You don’t have to do all this,” you mumble.
He glances back at you over his shoulder. “Yeah, I do.”
“You really don’t.”
“I really do,” he counters easily, then softens. “Because you deserve it.”
Your chest tightens again, but this time it’s something warmer.
He straightens once the tub is full, rolling his sleeves up his forearms before turning back to you.
“C’mere.”
You hesitate for half a second, but then you stand and let him guide you closer. His hands are gentle as he helps you out of the oversized shirt, his touch lingering just slightly like he’s reminding you that this body is still yours, still something to be cared for.
“Easy,” he murmurs as you step into the water.
It’s perfect. Warm without being too hot, wrapping around you like a quiet hug. You let out a small sigh as you sink down, your shoulders finally dropping from somewhere up near your ears.
“There you go,” he says softly.
A moment later, he joins you, settling in behind you so your back rests against his chest. His legs bracket yours, his arms slipping around your middle, grounding you there.
For a while, neither of you says anything as he holds you.
His fingers trace lazy patterns over your skin, up and down your arms, across your stomach, over your hips. Not demanding. Not rushed. Just there.
“You did so good,” he murmurs eventually, voice low against your ear.
Your eyes close. “Buck—”
“No,” he interrupts gently. “Let me say it.”
His nose brushes your temple, his lips pressing a soft kiss there.
“You carried her for nine months. You brought her into this world. You’ve been taking care of her every second since.” His hand spreads over your stomach, thumb brushing lightly. “You’re the best mom she could’ve gotten. No question.”
Your breath catches.
“I don’t feel like it,” you admit quietly.
His arms tighten around you just a little.
“Doesn’t matter what it feels like right now,” he says. “I see it. She feels it. Everyone does. You’re it for her.”
Your throat goes tight again, but you don’t fight it this time. You lean back into him fully, letting yourself be held.
“Just let me take care of you tonight,” he murmurs. “That’s all you gotta do. Nothing else.”
You nod faintly, your hand coming up to rest over his where it’s still splayed across your stomach.
“Okay,” you whisper.
His lips brush your shoulder, soft and lingering.
“That’s my girl.”
And for the first time since she was born, you let yourself stop.
Not because you don’t love her.
Not because you don’t miss her.
But because, wrapped up in Bucky’s arms, with the water warm around you and his voice soft in your ear, you remember something you hadn’t realized you were losing.
✶ ― SYNOPSIS. fleeing from a messy situationship, you embark on a journey to travel across the globe and discover the hidden beauties earth has to offer. you find the rarest beauty of all in him, bucky barnes. honey eyed, smooth-talking, and capable of working just about every job under the sun. as you continue to crash into him with every country you travel through, a chilling thought starts to take hold of your heart: is fate pushing you together, or is something darker chasing you? this fic is part of the bwat summer collab !
warnings .ᐟ mdni! no use of y/n, vacation/backpacking au, romcom au but make it a thriller too, stalker!bucky, strangers to unethically sourced lovers, smut (dubcon, sex via coercion/manipulation, piv, dacryphilia, blowjob, cum eating, spit swallowing, mirror sex, pussy slapping, tummy bulge, recording sexual acts, implied panty stealing, creampie), stalking, creepy behaviour masked as romantic, bucky is a major loser he just hides it well, harassment (from a character that isn't bucky), descriptions of scars and an anxiety attack. the reader in this fic is pretty much dense and trusts a man too blindly. if you don't enjoy reading that, no worries, this fic just isn't for you. see you in the next one <3
ᯓ★ hyde's input. this entire fic is a joke that went too far. thank you to the amazing @barnesonly & @iamthatonefangirl for organising this collab, ily both so dearly <3
disclaimer. instead of possessing a bionic arm in this au, bucky is a survivor of a burn injury along his left arm. i have tried to handle the subject as respectfully as possible, sincerest apologies if i did not succeed at that.
follow @houseofjekyll + turn on notifications to know when i post a new fic!
TRAVEL&co kiosk, between gates 31/32 & gates 33/34.
An overwhelm of options can paralyse choice.
Bursting from the metal confines of the display stand, a rainbow of pamphlets cry out for your attention, each more desperate than the last to be picked off the shelf and purchased. Titles in bold, italics, underlined; every old trick in the book, intended to capture the eye, stands before you.
Top 20 Tourist Stops in East Asia.
DOs & DONTs of Hostel Living.
HIDDEN GEMS: a Guide to Rural Sight-Seeing.
Trust your gut, you can practically hear your mother’s voice in your head, guiding you to put your faith in something arbitrary. While her motherly advice is typically welcome, this time the thought leaves an acidic taste in your mouth that lingers, souring your expression and becoming the root of your furrowing brows.
Your gut has unfortunately been a source of misery as of late, leading you down the regretful path of trusting a man, putting all your patience and hope in his ability to change, eventually, for you. What a selfishly naive belief, to think you could change fate, scrub the mould off a man’s heart and bring him back to the land of the feeling. No affection that requires you to humiliate yourself is ever worth it, and god have you learn it the ugly way: tears dripping onto the carpet beneath your knees, chest heaving for breaths, and his lame-ass excuses, I’m just not ready for commitment, baby.
More the fool you for believing a man pushing thirty, incapable of holding down a job, and still riding the high of his days as the high school quarterback could ever face something as challenging as putting a label on the months of ‘messing around’ you both had been partaking in. Now here you stand, suitcase checked in and a one-way boarding pass in hand, frozen before the overwhelming display of travel books one of the airport’s many kiosks has to offer, and hellbent on placing as much distance as possible between you and that man.
A last minute decision, filling the neglected well of spontaneity in your life. Your parents had thought you mad, your friends had insisted on keeping you company. With both groups of protesting figures in your life, you put your foot down and demanded the solitude you craved. After all, you can’t exactly embark on a solo-trip around the planet with someone by your side — even if that someone is your mother or closest friend.
But maybe loneliness is not all it’s cut-out to be. You’d give up everything just about now to have someone to help pluck out the right pamphlet, something sure to serve you not just your first stop but for the entirety of your travels.
“You’re looking at stand like it owes you a debt.”
At first, you think you’re hearing things, brain so desperate for validation it’s taken to imagining company. Then something moves in your peripheral and you’re struck with a sight that feels like something the universe has sent directly to mock your battered and bruised heart: a man.
Not just any run-of-the-mill man, but a man made of blue eyes, sharp cheeks, and a smile so pearly-white you feel you’re staring into the mouth of a predator, inches away from sinking it’s canines into your delicate skin and devouring you whole… But no beast looks like this, enchanting and handsome in a manner that has you questioning where this stranger has been hiding from you all along — until, of course, you remember you’re in an airport and it’s likely this man is merely passing through your city, a temporary stop on his journey to who-knows-where.
Is it too late to change your flight?
“And now it seems the debt is mine,” the stranger lets out a chuckle at his words, wolfish smile stretching wider along his cheeks and making you painfully aware of the creases that mark the skin around his eyes — evidence of a life well-lived, the wrinkles of happiness. They only serve to make him all the more enticing to stare at, a deer caught in the glow of a very beautiful headlight. “Any chance I can pay it off with a little advice?”
Why has it taken you so long to realise the man is talking to you?
A scramble for breath, for words, for something that won’t deepen the embarrassment already scorching your cheeks, you muster a sophisticated, “Huh?”
… and instantly wish the linoleum flooring would spontaneously drop to reveal a sinkhole big enough to swallow you.
“Here, let’s go with,” the man drags out his word, bending at the waist as he leans forward, arm reaching down to pluck something from the stand. You barely have time to admire the way he fills out his trousers, jeans clad skin tight against the swell of his ass, before his spine has straightened and he’s waving a booklet in your face. “This sounds pretty useful, don’cha agree?”
The tiniest twang of an accent kisses your eardrum, scratching an itch you hadn’t even been aware of until now. You almost feign mishearing, just for a chance to hear the stranger repeat himself. But your eyes are drawn downwards, towards the title in his palm, and all hope of feigning ignorance flies out the door.
The Wise Traveller: navigating safety as a solo-travelling woman.
Hackles rise, an old reflex from the days you payed your gut any mind. Your mouth dries, and your eyes widen slightly, and you’re suddenly reminded of the fact this stranger is a man, mankind’s greatest predator.
“How do you know I’m travelling alone?” The question is a bite, one you deliver before sense can tell you better.
By the way the man’s smile falters, a minuscule tremble in the corners of his mouth, your hostility was unexpected. Nevertheless, the man makes no attempt to impose his presence on you, shoulders slouching in on themselves and dampening the height he holds over you.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” his words are sheepish, almost, a twinge of embarrassment painting a rosy streak over his cheeks. A hand winds its way up to the back of his neck, a self-soothing method you know far too well, fingers rubbing over skin. “You just… have the look. I’m really sorry miss, I didn’t mean to make you uncomforta-”
“It’s fine,” a mixture of shame and guilt has you cutting him off, eyes shooting back to the display and making a hasty decision to pick up the first guide they land on. “Thanks for the advice, but I’m all caught up on safety. This is what I was looking for.”
An Idiot’s Guide to Germany. It sits pretty in your hold, thin enough to read before the plane descends back onto solid ground, and completely useless to you.
But the man in front of you doesn’t need to know Germany is far from your destination.
So you scurry off, ready to put the embarrassing interaction in your rear-view mirror and re-vowing to yourself to put an end to interactions with men that make you want to claw out your skin — whether the fault be theirs or your own — and shoot off in search of the till. But something halts you on your way, turning on your ankle to face the beautiful stranger once more. He’s watching you with an endearment in his eye that makes your guts tangle in knots, sickly butterflies flying the nest and spreading through your body.
Men can be so unfairly pretty sometimes, especially when built like the model-esque figure before your eyes.
“Have a safe flight!” And with this final and only attempt at politeness, a last-ditch effort to salvage a conversation your own paranoia has already butchered, you shoot off to pay for a travel guide that will soon make a home for itself at the bottom of your bag, never to be kissed by the light of day again.
Paying for your unwanted good and stuffing it into your purse, your pursuit of escaping as swiftly as possible is hindered by the sudden tap of a finger on your shoulder, coaxing you to glance over your shoulder and find the same beautiful stranger, smile still plastered across his million-dollar face and sporting a plastic bag in his grasp, extended out to you and awaiting your acceptance.
“Please,” the blue-eyed man presses, plastic rustling in his grasp. “I’m sure you’re a smart girl, and that you’re more than capable of keeping yourself safe. But I have a little sister and- Well, it just wouldn’t sit right on my conscience to not do my part in keeping a woman safe.”
You accept his offering, fingers looping through the holes of the bag, because it feels cruel to deny him, to send him off with his tail tucked between his legs and his well intentions stomped all over the floor.
The man excuses himself, rushing off who knows where as you begin your own journey towards your assigned departure gate. Only as you settle in to the exhausted queue of antsy passengers, desperate to start their holidays or return to their families at last, do you take a peak into the plastic bag.
There it sits, just as you expect, The Wise Traveller.
Before you can think better of accidentally advertising to your fellow travellers your vulnerable state of solitude, the booklets is in your grasp and you’re flicking through the opening pages. Blue ink, smudged by the press of pages, catches your eye; an inscription from your handsome stranger.
There’s no such thing as being too careful.
Stay safe, be wise, & enjoy your trip.
- Bucky
Dragon Crest Mountain, Thailand.
The view from the top of the world is beautifully depressing.
Beautiful because the horizon stretches below you, curves and edges of green treetops and mountainous terrain. An infinite expanse of mother nature’s art painted shamelessly over the canvas of the Earth, unmarred by the hands of man nor the wheels of machines.
Depressing because, despite the view, your mind is elsewhere; enthralled by visions of tangled sheets, and bruising touches, and tear-filled tissues.
With the fellow hikers that surround you moved to silence by the ethereal view, no chattering mouths can muffle your ears from the buzz coming from your bag. A familiar pattern of three, buzz buzz buzz, you can easily picture the screen lighting up with his name, treacherously innocent for a man who masks the Devil behind his shy smile and his careful caresses.
You groan, louder than intended, and surrender with an apologetic smile towards the group of elderly women shooting daggers in your direction. Your frustration cannot be helped, really. It is utterly and entirely justifiable, given the texts staring back at you from the screen in your hand, freshly fished out your bag and clasped within your sweat-dampened grip.
DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:48 you'll never guess who i ran into today, honey.
DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:48your mother, she said your flight landed safely!
DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:49 i'm glad but i can’t help wishing you were here. my bed isn’t the same without you.
Psychological warfare.
That is what this is, the manipulative moves of a man who knows all the right words to say at the worst of times. How can he speak of missing you, when he couldn’t even appreciate you when you were right in front of him, nothing short of begging him to need you as much as you needed him?
Still, your ex-situationship’s messages worm themselves into your mind, planting seeds of doubt into your dignity and sanity. Your thumb swipes up on the screen before you can think better of it, the lingering muscle memory of a lovesick fool who at last has felt the exhilarating rush of hearing from the man who makes your usually rock solid heart feel like it is made out of glass.
It wouldn’t hurt to reply, surely. It would be the polite thing to do. After all, you and him are friends. Good friends, with years of history outside of the sultry looks exchanged atop mattresses. And he just wants to know you’re okay, right? A perfectly human reaction to having the person you spend nearly every day beside suddenly up and leave, bags packed with a one-way ticket and a declaration that you are going to see what else the world has to offer, both the good and bad.
Just as you type the opening letters to a calculatedly casual reply, another message enters the chat, lighting a fire in your chest and flooding your mouth with the bitter taste of anger.
DONT REPLY!! (tony) — 10:53 but it’s okay. take your time. i’d rather you work through your little hissy fit first.
Scoffing before you can help it, you hastily switch off the phone and shove it back into your bag, eyes rolling and mouth curling with a snarl as you mutter, “Rich coming from a man who cries every time his shitty team loses.”
The remedy to the ugly feelings swirling up a storm in your chest lays ahead, dragging your eyes back out to the view of the world at your feet, a vastness that manages to make yourself, and consequently your troubles, feel minuscule and unimportant. You can cry a thousand times about a man who will never change his ways nor mature beyond the mindset of a frat-boy, and the Sun will still do her job regardless of your pain: rising, falling, and blessing the lands with her warmth.
And so, ultimately, no matter the heartbreak locked behind your phone screen, you are truly a girl who is going to be okay. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or in any recent days that follow. But at some point, as you jet from country to country, checking off box after box on your bucket list, and nourishing your well of experience, you will feel your phone buzz with a notification and the last thing on your mind will be the hopeful dread of it being from Tony.
Something flashes in the corner of your eye.
Startled, your shoulders jump as you turn, just in time to be blinded by the obnoxious flash of a camera, shutter snapping shut as the camera’s owner takes a picture. Sight still blurred by the blinding white light, you faintly make out the shape of a dark haired man, camera still raised at shoulder height.
“Oh, sorry,” you stumble over the apology, too busy trying to shuffle out of the lens’ way. “Let me just- I can move, so you can get the full-”
The cameraman chuckles and the sound runs right through you, a visceral reaction stirring within as you feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise and your palms grow sweaty. It’s like you know that laugh, the deep chortle that has an uptick in pitch at the end, itching at a particular spot in your ear.
“No, no, it’s fine- Don’t move!” The man, amidst his laughing, exclaims with a panic that manages to freeze your fleeing feet. Camera back to his face, he points it unmistakably at you and clicks capture, flash firing in your eyes again. “Sorry, sorry! It’s just- Wow.”
Doing your best to not show your confusion — though a part of you is painfully aware of the awe in the stranger’s tone, and the Tour Guide name tag dangling from his lanyard, and the curious American twang voice — you settle on a tightlipped smile, polite enough to gift a stranger yet not void of the utter confusion coursing through your veins.
“Sorry, gosh… You must think I’m some kind of creep,” the man continues his spew of apologies, shaking his head as he lowers the camera and let’s it drop, strap tightening around his neck and halting the device from crashing to the floor. “I normally ask before I, you know, take pictures of the tour guests. But the sunset was hitting you perfectly, and you looked so candidly peaceful, and I didn’t want to ruin the picture by making you… Aware. People get awkward when they know a camera is watching them.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s-” whatever words awaited at the end of your sentence are lost to space and time, as the cloudiness finally drifts, no longer obstructing your line of sight, and you find yourself face to face with eyes so blue, you would have to be an idiot to forget them. “Bucky!?”
Taking on the role of confused bystander, the blue-eyed man is now the one shooting you a tightlipped smile, a questioning gaze skimming over the length of you. You swear you can almost see the cogs turning in his brain, like he is actively trying to replay any memory that features your face.
When it hits him, it is a visible recollection, one that sends his mouth stretching into a full-blown smile and has you embarrassingly aware of how white his teeth are, canines glinting under the shine of a lowering sun.
“Hey, I remember you!” Connection established, he takes a step closer to you, lowering his voice in an attempt to not interfere with the quiet solace the rest of the hikers are seeking. The dampening of volume is not enough to deafen the excited recollection in his voice. “Kiosk Girl! Wow, this is- How was Germany?”
“What?” Mouth moving quicker than mind, you let your confusion rule over your sense before you are struck over the head with the rest of the scene that unfolded at the kiosk stand. The staring at pamphlets, the interruption of a handsome stranger, the offer of a survival guide. Your defensive denial, the awkward reach for a booklet all about a country you weren’t even travelling to, the gift of the survival guide, inscribed with the handsome stranger’s name. “Germany, right. Yeah, uh, it was great. Bit cold but-”
“Cold, in June? Strange,” Bucky, now even closer than moments before, is staring down at the camera, back in his hands and flicking through a series of photos. Photos of you, bated in hues of orange and purple, staring out to a blanket of greenery, sundress trapped in motion by the rustling of a warm breeze. “I always heard the weather was good there this time of year.”
Like a glass of cold water splashing over your face, the man’s words are enough to leave you shaken, the ice-cold embarrassment that soon melts into the shame of lying — and lying badly, of all things — to someone with a smile as earnest as his.
Too deep now to back out, you nod and commit to your deceit, praying you live long enough to someday forget this interaction ever happened, “Yeah, they- Well, the locals said it was a fluke. Global-warming, you know, changing the natural order of the world.”
If there is a higher being watching over your interactions, it is made of cruelty and spite, for only a creature made of all things not-nice would thrust you into a position where you embarrass yourself in front of a beautiful stranger not once, but twice — the same stranger, too. Incidents weeks apart, yet the burning sensation of bile biting at the back of your throat is just the same as the one you felt in the airport, rushing away to pay for the neglected German guide you had shamefully abandoned on the plane.
Bucky, the stranger who has unknowingly become the agent behind your most embarrassing moments in recent times, is none-the-wiser to your internal panic, nodding in acceptance of your explanation and shifting focus over to the camera in his hand.
“I’m sorry, again, for taking this without asking. I didn’t mean to scare you,” is it fair for a man to look so effortlessly good, one hand reaching up to push a set of overgrown brown curls from his forehead, hooking one particular long strand behind his ear? Rarely a fan of long locks on a man, there is something about the way he wears his head of hair, dishevelled yet, strangely, not a hair seems out of place, falling perfectly in a way that frames his sharp features. His voice fills your ears again, pulling focus down to his rosebud lips. “But, uh… If you don’t hate the pictures, I can pass them along to you.”
“If I don’t like them? Are you kidding?” Overcompensating for your frazzled nerves, your enthusiastic display as you glance down at the photograph burnt into the camera’s screen is hopefully enough to atone for your earlier sin of lying. “These are- Wow! I mean, are you a professional photographer? You should be photographing models, not working here as a tour guide-”
And now you are just overdoing it.
Because, truth be told, the picture is not even that good. You are barely in focus, the background is more pixelated than one would hope, and there is an intruding figure in the corner, the sandal-clad foot of a man who had been standing off to the side.
“You really think so?” Bucky drinks in your praise, cheeks glowing a rosy hue as he basks in your eager praise. Men really are so simple at their core, happy to believe they are overqualified in a skill they barely have at the slightest of celebration. “I was just messing with the lens, didn’t think I’d even do that good… Oh, but, actually-”
He pauses, hesitation on his face as he mulls over a thought.
You encourage him to speak his mind, eyebrows furrowing as you question him with your gaze.
“It’s just, I completely forgot, we’d have to exchange phone numbers if you’re wanting me to pass the photos on. Which I totally understand if you’re not comfortable with! I mean, I’m a man, and I’m a stranger, and-” Like he is aware of his own mouth racing off ahead of him, Bucky draws his tongue back in and tries to settle a little composure into himself, straightening his shoulder and clearing his throat. “Or we could meet somewhere in a few days, if you want a printed copy of it. Would Wednesday work for you?”
The shake of your head comes swiftly, shooting his offer down, “Sorry, I leave for Tokyo on Tuesday. But I don’t mind! Exchanging numbers, I mean.”
To the outside, you must sound like a pair of mumbling, stumbling fools. Sentences barely cohesive and rarely uninterrupted by a hum or a haw, thoughts actively unravelling as you both speak them into existence.
But a part of you can’t help feeling a certain wave of charm roll over you, an endearment that clutches at your heart and has you wondering how a man with a face like that could ever sound unsure of himself.
“Oh, in that case…” and Bucky has already taken to digging through his back-pocket, slipping a black phone into his grasp. You watch him press the power button, only to be met with the familiar sign of a dead battery: black screen, white charger symbol. “Shit, sorry. Do you mind if I type my number into your phone? Mine’s dead as a dodo right now.”
It would be rude to say no. And, really, what other choice do you have? Other than, of course, to suddenly change your mind and decide you don’t want the mediocre picture, but then that would require you to be rude. Besides, it’s not like you weren’t going to end up having his number anyway, what difference does it make if he types it in?
Your hands are scouring through your bag, searching for the familiar green of phone case well-past its sell-by date — with more bumps and scratches along its surface than a reckless teen’s first car — when you feel the violation of his stare wandering into the contents of your bag.
It doesn’t take long for you to both zero in on a familiar booklet, tucked neatly into an inner-pocket and seemingly sporting a few dog-ears.
“You kept it,” he notes, gaze still glued to The Wise Traveller, and the comment almost makes you hurl — because it’s like he knows you abandoned the other guide you purchased that day.
“Uh, yeah,” your reply comes a little more breathless than you would like, as you try not to think too hard about the engraving along the inside of the pages, the very place you had first learnt his name. “Figured you were right, back in the airport. Can’t be too careful these days.”
Then it hits you.
You’ve not even told this stranger- Bucky your name.
Here you are, a fool fumbling over words at the sight of his pretty face, freely handing over your phone for him to pluck into his own grasp and begin swiping over the screen, and you’ve yet to once offer him the appropriate politeness of sharing your name.
Only, as you finally give it up and introduce yourself, you’re met with a reply that from any man less attractive would have had you running for the hills: “Oh, I know!”
As though he can feel your wide eyes, watching him with a measured caution, Bucky is quick to fire into a chuckle and shake your phone in your direction, screen opened on your contacts and brandishing your name along the top.
“It says it right here. Cute name, by the way. Makes sense for a pretty girl like you,” thumbs swipe across your phone, numbers punched into a new contact. Meanwhile, Bucky continues to make small talk, with a smile on his face you have quickly decided comes far too easily to him — surely no one is that happy, all the time? You’re almost certain if you peel back the complex layers of reasoning behind his grin, you’d find customer service at the root of it all. “Is it any good?”
Too focused on studying his more-than-good looks, it takes you a moment and one too many slow blinks to realise he’s back on the topic of the safety guide, “Oh, uh, Yeah. It’s great. Very… safe, you know?”
Here you go again, lying for the sake avoiding the awkward conversation where you tell the very stranger — very kind stranger, mind you, who has extended you nothing but a show of good faith, a man so used to playing the role of big brother that he could not stop himself from instilling some level of safety into a lonesome woman — that you had not opened the book he had gifted you beyond that pages of his footnote. All those apparent dog-ears? Wrinkles in the book’s corners, a result of shoving the poor thing and crushing it amongst the other contents of your bag.
“Can’t be that good, surely,” guilt coats the back of your throat. You swallow it down and keep your focus on Bucky, who has finished inserting his contact details and now balances your phone between two fingers, awaiting your eventual acceptance of it back into your grasp. “Pretty sure you just broke rule number one.”
“I- What rule?”
Like a wind-up toy, Bucky clears his throat and recites with practised ease, “Never tell a stranger your travel plans.”
Your whole world goes still.
A heart that no longer beats. Lungs that no longer inflate. Hands that run cold with a nervous sweat.
Birds chirp in the distance, the noise louder than ever before. Voices, muffled as though you are submerged in water, swirl around you in an unidentifiable cluster — men, women, children; every one more monotone than the last.
It’s his laugh that pierces through the threatening haze of quiet, throaty and inviting, tickling at your own humour despite the fact you can’t seem to pinpoint what exactly is so funny about this situation.
Maybe this Bucky guy is just a little awkward, the type to fall back on laughter when he feels stifled by silence.
You don’t get the chance to investigate your sudden theory any further, for the duties of a tour guide seem to catch up to him at last. The flock of older women have swarmed him like vultures, each trying to get him to help them focus the binoculars that dangle from their necks. Before they can fully sweep him away, the handsome stranger offers you one last grin and some parting words.
“Have fun in Tokyo!”
Bondi Beach, Australia.
Like any true, modern day feminist, the last thing you enjoy doing is agreeing with a man… But Anakin Skywalker certainly made some good points against sand.
It is coarse, it is rough, it is irritating, and it does get everywhere.
Right now, it’s wedged between your hallux and index toe, irritating the skin with each step you take, grinding against the toe post of a sandal and driving the bothersome granules deeper into you. So, it’s safe to say you dive at the first sight of respite, just about throwing yourself into an empty bar stool.
Pearl Waves Beach Club is certainly a sight to behold.
A beacon of white, with floor to ceiling length windows that look out towards golden sun and aqua waters, and an overwhelming aura of wealth and excess that makes you feel less than adequate, wandering through the air-conned space clad in a burgundy two-piece bathing suit, a hastily tied shawl around your waist, and shoes that announce your every move with a harsh slap against marble flooring that echoes out into the tranquility of the beach club.
None of that matters now that you’re nestled in a seat, the lingering dampness from the ocean that still clings to your bikini bottoms now wetting the dark leather beneath it. The sticky residue of suncream has mixed with your sweat, creating an uncomfortable film atop your body, and salt has embedded itself into your scalp, doing its best into coercing you to scratch at and relieve the pinch in your skin. Despite all that, you feel nothing short of blessed, covered in the tell-tale stains of someone who has spent the better half of their day strewn upon a sandy beach and basking in the sun’s radiance, like if you lay there long enough, you will eventually evolve and gain the skill of photosynthesis.
“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Barely believing the vision unravelling before your very eyes, you blink twice before making a show out of rubbing your knuckles against closed eyelids. Sight readjusting to the brightness of the beach club, you find your eyes have far from deceived you: there, making his way up the length of the bar, with a dishtowel tossed over one shoulder and a pearly-white grin plastered along a clean-shaven face, is none other than your handsome stranger.
“Oh my-” Cutting yourself off before you can fully form the words, you gape at him in shock, pointer finger aimed at his direction as though you are accusing him of something — like the crime of running into you for a third time on your trip around the globe, or the more unforgivable sin of daring to look better with each run-in. Even now, the luscious locks you had admired back in Thailand chopped and traded in for a far shorter, more polished slick of dark hair, held in place by a lick of hair gel, he looks better than ever. There’s only one issue- “James?”
That is what sits engraved into his golden name tag, clipped to a black button up that sits stretched a little too tightly around his forearms.
Following your line of sight, chin near pressed to his sternum as he looks down at his chest, Bucky — or James, or whatever his name is — is flooded with a wave of red, embarrassment burning at the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
“Afraid my name’s not actually as cool as something like Bucky,” his hands plant themselves on the bar, as the man positions himself directly across from you over the counter top.
Try as you might, you can’t resist the invisible magnet that draws your attention down to his arms, bare in a way they never have been before. While you want to follow the trail of veins that dance up the length of each forearm, you instead find yourself staring where politeness says you shouldn’t.
Because where you expect to find skin as golden as the one along his right arm, you find a story of pain instead. Splotches of pink paint the otherwise white skin with colour, with a shine that does not match the typical look of flesh. Where some spots appear unnaturally smooth, other flecks of tissue appear sunken in, visual marks of trauma along his left arm.
Catching yourself as you blatantly stare, regret making impact with your chest, you force yourself to meet those aqua eyes of his, watching you with the patience of someone who is beyond used to the rude — even if well intentioned— stares.
“I don’t know if cool is the right word for Bucky,” opting for diffusing with humour, you tease your handsome stranger. Though, really, maybe he is no longer a stranger. With how often fate seems to be driving you together, maybe it’s time you consider him an acquaintance. “Sounds like the stage name for one of those horses, you know? Make some noise, folks, for Bucky the Bucking Bronco!”
Mouth contradicts hand, as James struggles to contain his amusement, pouring out of him in melodies of laughter. All the while he grasps at something dramatic with his palm, colliding over where his heart sits beneath layers of cotton and flesh and bone, clutching as though you have freshly driven a dagger into him.
“Harsh! Call me a loser next time, why don’cha?” There it is again, that lilt of an accent, curving over the man’s words as he feigns offence. Palms up in defeat, Bucky shakes a chuckle out himself before pinning you under his intense stare, “Go on, tell old Loser McGee over here wha’cha want, before they kick you out for harassing an innocent bartender.”
A familiar overwhelm befalls you, leaving your stomach feeling like a led balloon as you fix your attention on the boards behind Bucky, where options upon options, upon options lay scribbled in chalk. Brands of liquor, strains of beer, every cocktail under the sun; they all sit compiled in a list so overflowing with choice, it paralyses you once again.
“I,” you drag out the sound, mouth paused and agape while you try to pick something, anything to drink… Before ultimately confessing, “Have no idea. There’s too much to choose from.”
“You’ve got a real problem making decisions, you know that?” You are almost taken aback by Bucky’s brash declaration. No matter how true it may be, you never expected the man made up of bashful smiles and shaky words to just come right out and say it like that, no tact in his choice of words that could soften the blow of reality. “Between here and that kiosk, I’m starting to worry about how you’ve been getting by without me on the rest of your trip.”
While you might have tuned your gut out nearly two months ago, she has a nasty habit of screaming her way back into the forefront of your mind. And right now, she’s screaming a tale of seduction, one where she is trying her best to convince your sharper senses that there is a flirtatious undertone behind the way Bucky cocks his head and tilts one side of his mouth up into a smirk, just waiting on your response to his teasing.
A bad habit that doesn’t die at all, apparently, you give in to the noise of your gut and try reach a place of equal footing, arms crossing over your chest and subtly squeezing your nylon clad breasts closer together, deepening the line of your cleavage.
“You don’t have to worry, James,” elbows kiss the cold of the bar counter as you shuffle closer and lean against it, ignoring the bolt of electric heat that shoots down your spine as you notice blue eyes lower from your face and fall right into your cross-armed trap. “The world’s full of handsome strangers eager to help a girl like me decide.”
“Is that so?” There’s a tick in his jaw, which you swear you witness him clench, only for him to distract you with the sight of his back muscles, straining as he turns and begins reaching for various colourful bottles you barely recognise. “Then let me be the one to decide for you today, hmm?”
An unmeasured amount of time pases with his back turned on you and your eyes attempting to peak over his shoulders, catching glimpses of how he chops at fruits, and measures liquids, and grabs at ice. Everything culminates in a grand finale of his hands grasping at two metal cups, one jammed into the other as he begins to shake, and shake, and shake.
Bucky is nothing short of peacocking, dazzling you with easy flips and twirls of the shaker, each toss more riskier than the last. Braced for breath, you half expect him to fail any moment now, make a fool of himself and send the contents of the cups spilling all down the front of him.
Surprisingly, this does not end up being the case.
Instead, you watch him turn with a smug, satisfied grin and lay a colourful concoction in front of you, decorated with a handful of fruit and a sprinkle of mint leaves.
“What’s this?”
“Don’t ask, just drink,” Bucky encourages you, two fingers pinched around the neck of the straw and guiding it to your waiting mouth. Just as you wrap your lips around the plastic, an angry yell breaks out from the opposite end of the bar, where you spot a red-faced, uniform-clad man glaring daggers at your handsome stranger- No, acquaintance's* direction. “Oh, shoot… I’ve gotta go, that’s my manager. Enjoy!”
Before disappointment at the sight of him racing off down the bar can solidify itself in your chest, you feel a rush of relief as you witness him come face-to-face with his manager — who you almost swear you witness rip Bucky’s name tag clean off his shirt — for the moment you take a sip of his cocktail, something in your stomach turns…
It might just be the most disgusting thing you’ve ever tasted.
Therme București, Romania.
“I have a new nickname for you,” your declaration is half-slurred, on account of your face being nose deep in the headrest of a massage table. “Buck-Of-All-Trades.”
A laugh you’ve grown too familiar with echoes over the zen playlist that has been filtering out of a speaker for the past thirty minutes. Incense burns in one corner, while a glass door that has long ago steamed up with the heat of the room sits on the opposite side. Melting into PVC leather, you are naked with nothing but a thin, pristine white towel to cover your most delicate areas. And, with knees that squeeze into your waist with every smooth roll of his hands along your oil-slicked back, is your handsome acquaintance.
Weeks and miles away from the events upon the Australian beach, you had walked into your much anticipated massage with one thing in mind, an apology given by a staff member after a forty minute wait: “The original masseuse you booked with has fallen sick, so we have matched you up with one of our newer experts. Thank you for your patience!”
Had you admittedly been a little frustrated? Well, yes!
Had that very same frustration evaporated the moment you watched Bucky step into the room, hair a little fluffier than before and sporting a five o’clock shadow? Well… Yes!
“Hmm, how so?” Like he is trying to torture you, there is a certain strain of exertion in James’ voice, a sound that pairs with the relaxing roll of his palms up the length of your back as perfectly as red wine goes with steak.
“Because,” half the word collapses into a breathy sigh as you feel the tips of his fingers press into a knot. One third of the way down your spine, burrowed beneath the point of your right shoulder blade, he sniffs it out like a police dog sent to find drugs. “Every time I see you, you have a new job.”
You leave out the part where this is the first one you’ve witnessed him be good at.
In a way, you’ve grown fond of that less-than-perfect photograph he captured of you on Dragon Crest. With a view so ethereal, it would be selfish to think anything as cheap and measly as a camera could dare capture it in all it’s glory.
And his cocktail, though far from drinkable, had certainly looked beautiful, brandished all over your Instagram story and paired with the perfect caption: Custom cocktail from a handsome bartender <3
Tony definitely had not reacted well.
You happily left his messages on read, his demands for your return abandoned to the void of your chat.
“That’s not a very nice nicknames though, doll,” a tut comes from behind you, and it takes just about every inch of will you own inside your body to not raise your head and glance back. The fear of not surviving the sight of Bucky, thick thighs spread and arm muscles rippling under his repeated touching along your naked back, is what really holds you in place. “Ain’t the rest of that sayin’ meant to imply I have no real skills? Master of none?”
With a dismissive wave of your hand and a relaxed shh, you sink deeper — if that is even possible — into the massage table, swallowing back a pleasured moan as his thumbs begin working at the knot.
“You men are all the same,” you mumble before you can think better of it, sighing as you close your eyes and visualise a montage of Tony and all his nagging words. “Can’t just take a damn compliment, always gotta turn it into an argument.”
“‘S that so?”
“Yes, that is so.”
Like he feels your breath hitch at a particular pressure, he reinforces it, thumb pressing right where you need him to, “You’re speaking from experience, I take it.”
A groan fires out of you, half because you are frustrated under the reminders of Tony that swirl around in your mind and half because there is an embarrassing rush of blood shooting straight for your core with every roll of his fingers, a slow pulse making itself known between your legs that practically begs you to grind down into the hardened leather. But you don’t, because you can’t.
Because that would be wrong.
Because that would violate Bucky’s trust and safety as a professional.
Because he would feel it the moment you even dare try, his own groin all but resting against your lower half.
“Too much experience,” you manage a response, finally. “My ex-boyfriend… Actually, I can’t even call him that. But anyway, he was the worst.”
“Oh yeah?” He passively replies with the very words you want to chant as his fingers skim and find another knot to undo, unknowingly undoing other parts of you too.
“Y-yeah,” you sigh, shoulders rolling back as you squirm and try to get comfortable, despite the slick forming between your thighs. “He used to argue with me, all the time. And he wasn’t afraid to get mean with it.”
“What a jerk.”
“Yeah, he is a jerk,” much like your body needed the physical therapy of steady hands loosening all your muscles, your mind is basking in the healing nature of finally trashing a man who had made you feel so inadequate, you had to run halfway across the earth just to escape your scorned heart. “Do you know-” a rhetorical question, for poor Bucky has absolutely no idea who you are talking about, “He couldn’t even drive 10 minutes to come pick me up once? My clutch broke and I had no way to get to work, and he complained when I asked him for a favour. He literally works down the street from me!”
“Jesus, darling,” he follows it up with a low whistle, just in time to cover up the faintest huff of a moan pushed from your mouth. “No wonder you’re so tense, dealin’ with boys like that.”
As good as the validation feels, to have a voice outside of your head paying testament to your woes and sympathising with your troubles, you are still plighted by the cruel torture of thinking too much about Tony at once. And, so, you cut the conversation short, drag it someplace else.
“What’s your story, then?”
Hands pause along your back, mapping over the skin like Bucky is searching for the next tweak to undo in your spine. Finding one quicker than you expect, he sinks his touch back into you and matches your question with his own, “Who says I have a story?”
“Oh, come on,” the effect the massage is having on you grows harder to suppress with each passing moment. “You don’t travel the world, working every job under the sun, and not have a story!”
Mask slipping a little too far, a moan crawls its way from out your chest. It is nothing dramatic, a simple hum of affirmation, a noise that says yes, keep going without you needing to part your lips.
“Okay, okay, I’ll give you my story,” Bucky is likely paying you some kindness, refusing to acknowledge the noise that just left you.
Never have you been more relieved to be in his presence. Then again, the more you think about it, his presence tends to be accompanied by relief: saving you from choosing at the kiosk, sparing you from the silence of the mountain, rescuing you from the threat of dehydration at the bar.
You catch the next hum before it can make too much noise, a subtle squeeze of your thighs relieving the burn between your thighs if only for a moment.
“I was a smart kid but I never really had any direction in life. No big burning passion, you know?” You nod into the headrest, then nearly laugh as you imagine what you must look like from his point of view right now. “So when my friend Steve showed up one day and told me he was enlisting in the military, it was like the universe handed me a task. I mean, when I say this kid was scrawny, I mean he looked one gust of wind away from being swept away to the land of Oz.”
Laughing is a mistake that only leads to a broken moan, his thumbs once again pressing just right.
“Stop that,” Bucky scolds softly, reinforcing the pressure behind his touch like he is trying to coax you into letting the noise fully form, let your pleasure perforate the calm room. “‘S just you, me, and the incense in here. I promise no one’s gonna judge you, so sing your little heart out. Let’s me know I’m doing a good job.”
Latch unlocked, permission granted; it’s embarrassing how quick you are to obey. Hypnotised by his words, you find your lips parting with permanence, throat relenting and becoming a vehicle for your pleasure, the zen playlist quickly becoming a backing track to your gentle moans.
“There we go. Isn’t that nice? Lettin’ loose, letting yourself feel good?” When had his hands reached so low, fingertips dancing along the hem of the white towel strewn along your lower back? “I quickly learned I liked the military. I was good at it. The routine, the demanding physicality, the yes, sir, yes and all the other stupid things they make you chant.”
It damn near gives you whiplash how easily James slips back into relaying his story to you, voice void of a previous layer of sultriness and now coated by something more careful, something practised. The monotony of a story told one too many times and perfected to hit all the right story beats to keep his listener engaged.
“But then there was an accident,” for the first time since he planted himself atop your back, the hitch in your breath is caused by something other than his tender touch. Memories of his left arm, scar tissues wrapped around him like vine, suddenly hits you. “I pissed some guys off, got one too many push ups handed to them by pointing out their misdemeanours to our superiors. I don’t remember how the prank was actually meant to play out but, next thing I know, I’m waking up to my bed sheets on fire and the feeling of death clawing up my arm. And that was that. A month in hospital, many more months in physical therapy. I quit the military, so did Steve.”
It feels selfish to moan right then, but Bucky only seems to light up at the sound, massaging deeper into the tissue of your back, relishing in your vocal praises.
“Then,” his pause is for dramatic effect. “I just sat and felt sorry for myself. For months. It was more excruciating than the pain, that boredom. It felt like I lost my life, even though I was still alive and fully intact, save for the scars left behind by the fire. And… I don’t know. There’s really only so long you can do that before you have to get up and go. Do something again. I just decided to do everything. Everywhere I want to go, I go. Every job I want to try, I apply. What’s the worst thing that can happen? I get rejected? I guarantee that’s less pain that what’s going on in my arm.”
Though your reasons are far smaller, far less visible, the scarring along your heart feels seen by Bucky’s words.
The massage finishes far sooner than you would like.
Bucky at last gets a chance to dismiss himself from you without some outside source dragging him away, giving you just enough time to suspect there’s hesitation in his voice, as he draws out his goodbye before exiting the massage room and leaving you to re-dress.
Bones turned to jelly, heart a little lighter too, you’re too blissed out to care that your underwear has gone missing, no longer stuffed neatly into the pocket of your trousers.
Nonno Gio’s Cooking Class, Italy.
You realise too little too late that you’ve fallen for a tourist trap.
Because Nonno Gio, who you expect to embody the essence of Italy, turns out to be a middle-aged American man who seemingly has watched one too many episodes of The Sopranos. A golden chunk of chain sits clasped around his bright red neck, and his accent is plucked right out of New Jersey.
It’s a little too hard to lament the loss of a few hundred euros, however, while watching your cooking partner whisk away at a selection of dry and wet ingredients… Particularly because the cooking partner in question is your handsome friend — yes, he has received an upgrade in titles — Bucky.
“We seriously need to stop meeting like this,” had been his version of a greeting, shoulders shaking and mouth laughing with disbelief as he watched you saunter up to the very cooking station he had been assigned. “It’s starting to get creepy.”
“Creepy?” You echoed, throwing an apron over your head, at last standing by his side. “If me stalking you all across the globe is creepy then, sure James, I’m creepy!”
Taking charge, Bucky leaves you to laugh at your own silly joke while his hands grasp at the strings of your apron. Pulling the fabric flush against your front, guarding the pretty pale yellow of your sundress from any dusting of flour or splashes of liquid, he threads the strings into a tight bow and punctuates the action by smoothing his hands over your hips, undoing a ruffle that has formed along your waist.
The entire class is a practice in patience, a way to prove to yourself just how good your ability to endure has become.
Because Bucky is an example of visual torture.
Floppy hair that falls over his eyes as he concentrates on chopping onions, a single tear slipping down his cheek. You take a deep breath and force your hands to focus on your own task, instead of brushing the locks from his face.
Muscles that ripple beneath the confines of a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and light cotton sitting loose around his bicep, just see-through enough to grant you the view how toned they are. He kneads at the pizza dough, meanwhile you need three stabilising breaths to calm your less than kitchen-friendly thoughts.
Sharp cheekbones, one side sporting the delicate swipe of flour staining his tanned skin, right where he foolishly wiped away an invisible bit of lint without fully washing his hands. You want to laugh at the sight, or to lick the pad of your thumb and swipe the powder away, but you are too busy reeling from those same flour-covered fingers grasping at your chin, tilting your eyes up to meet his blue ones, and smudging your own cheek with flour.
“There,” he mutters, cool as a cucumber and nowhere near as affected as you. “We’re matching, Now we look like a real team.”
It’s after you both ship off your pizza into the specialised oven, with Bucky insisting you both grasp at the peel and feed your wonky masterpiece, possessing a shape closer to a square than a circle, in together, that you finally feel yourself lose the ability to trap your tongue, mouth flying off to speak your thoughts before you can swallow the words back down.
“This might sound insane, so feel free to call me crazy,” is always a promising, stable way of starting a sentence. It is truly a miracle the handsome man entertains your wording with an endeared smile. “But I feel like there is a reason behind why we keep running into each other. Like… Like the universe is pushing me in your direction, you know? I mean, what are the chances?”
Silence.
The other members of the cooking class chatter around you both, but you don’t hear them, too focused on the fragile bubble that surrounds you and Bucky.
“You’re crazy,” straight to the point, monotone voice and deadpanned stare. It’s safe to say James does not give you the answer you were expecting… At least not immediately. But then the tension on the surface of his face cracks and he breaks out into an easy smile, something similar to relief swimming in the pools of his eyes. “But I’m glad you said it, ‘cause I’ve been thinking the same thing. For a while now.”
Despite the hazard lights flashing from within your gut, screaming warnings at you to not repeat previous mistakes, to not hand a man the ability to make a fool out of you, you take a leap of faith and pray this time you don’t wind up weeping with your knees pressed into the floor — there’s not even a carpet to soften the blow this time.
“I leave for France tomorrow,” this time, you share your plans knowing full well it is the number one rule in The Wise Traveller not to. You justify this violation of safety with the fact Bucky is no longer a stranger. He is your friend, right? “I’ll be in Bordeaux. You know, in case you’re struggling to pick where you’re going next. I wouldn’t mind the company.”
Thankfully, Bucky is better at cooking than he is at mixology, and when the pair of you tuck into your less-than-authentic Italian pizza, you’re suddenly thankful you fell for Nonno Gio’s tourist trap.
How else would you have (possibly, maybe) scored a friendly date in Bordeaux?
The nightclub’s name is far from an exaggeration: you can feel the bass infiltrating your heartbeat.
Or maybe it’s not the bass, but adrenaline; kicking in and raising your heart rate.
The straps of your heels dig painfully into the skin around your ankles, rubbing them raw and no doubt drawing blood to the blistered surface. Every hurried step forces you to tug down the hem of your dress, riding up under the force of your strides. Sweat stings at your eyes and bodies swarm all around you, swaying out of tune to a DJ who loves his job a little too much, despite the fact he can barely succeed at a simple cross-fade into the next track.
At the very least, you suppose, the DJ is playing the club classics, the records that never fail to get a crowd screaming out the lyrics at the top of their lungs. It’s his only saving grace.
Safety lays ahead, a beacon of light shinning from where the exit to the club sits, new bodies spilling into the venue while all you want to do is escape.
A hand around your wrist halts you, drags you back with a squeal before you can dive out the doors.
You don’t have to turn to know it’s him, the very same stranger who has been harassing you for the past half hour, unwilling to take the hint of your side-eyes and disapproving glares as he attempted, time and time again, to grind up against you on the dance floor. While at first you had tried to flee subtly, it quickly became obvious that rejection was not something the bull-headed man took well.
The moment your footsteps had sped up across the floor, he began pursuing after you.
And now he’s caught you, a wriggling fish trapped in the painful hook of his hand. He wastes no time, another set of fingers reaching to roughly grab at your face, tilt your face up to his, and-
A scuffle ensues, one that you seem to be trapped in the middle of; a tug of war where one hand is dragging you towards your pursuer and another two, more careful, are prying you backwards.
Two trumps one, without a doubt, but not without the aid of a third set of hands, this time clamping down around the assailant’s wrist in a painful grip and ripping the unwanted hand off of you, arm twisting unnaturally as your third defender pins the stranger’s hand behind his back. Through the shock of it all, you barely register the other four hands dropping their grasp from you, nor the pair of security that grapple with the man responsible for your shaky hands and jackhammer heart.
You manage to concentrate enough to notice him, however, relinquishing his hold of the stranger to his fellow bouncers and approaching you with the caution of a scared lamb, blue eyes wider than ever before as they frantically search over your body for signs of injury.
“Are you okay? Does anywhere hurt?” Bucky — like every time before — looks better than the last time you saw him. Beard fuller, hair softer, worried face a reflection for the swirling neon lights around you both. Dressed from head to toe in black, a splash of white sits across his chest in the bold shape of SECURITY. “See, doll? This is why you need to be more careful, hmm. Where’s that guide I bought you?”
Tuning out the condescension, filtering it through a part of your brain that registers his words as only the worried rambling of someone concerned about their friend, you take to answering his first questions instead.
“I’m fine,” your voice sounds miles away to you, lost in the crowd along with the rest of the drunken fools. The buzz of alcohol has long simmered away within you, nothing but a static flatline remaining that leaves you tasting bile and wanting your bed — not the bed in your hostel, your bed, back home, where the sheets still smell like Tony. “Just my wrist hurts.”
That is enough to kick Bucky into gear, and the next thing you know, you’re sat outside the club atop a plastic chair, ice pack pressed to your skin, a jacket wrapped around your shoulders, and Bucky crouching by your feet.
A soft crack rings out into the Grecian night as he twists the lid off a bottle of water, offering it up to your lips and gifting an approving nod as he watches your throat bob, swallowing down a few sips.
“Your taxi should be here in ten minutes,” Bucky keeps his voice to barely a whisper, afraid to startle you. If you weren’t still so shaken, or stewing in a frustration towards him you thought you had got over weeks ago, you would laugh and point out the still very audible thump of Greece’s shittiest DJ entertaining the masses back inside the club. “I’m sorry… About that man. He’s been- Dealt with. Banned for life, no doubt, that’s what usually happens with-”
“Why didn’t you come?” Your question seems to hurt him more than the pain in your wrist, eyebrows furrowing and gentle smile slipping into an almost pout. “I waited. I thought I would hear from you. But you never came, and I explored Bordeaux alone.”
Knees kissing the dirtied ground, Bucky leans closer and perches his hands on your naked thighs, inches from where your dress rests around your legs, “Did you want me to come?”
“I told you I would be there.”
“That’s not the same as asking me to go,” he kisses those pearly teeth with a hiss, adjusting his grip on your legs and glancing over his shoulder, like he’s waiting for a taxi to finally pull up to the club’s entrance. Is he that desperate to see you leave? “I know you’re used to snapping your fingers and getting what you want, but I’m not that easy. Gotta use your words, baby. I can’t read minds, can only do as much as you ask of me.”
Intoxicated by his cologne, by the alcohol in your veins, by the sudden waft of cigarette smoke blown your way from bystanders to the left, there is suddenly only one question on your mind for Bucky… What a shame you speak it out loud.
“Would you kiss me?”
No further questioning is needed.
Bucky moves lazily, hand reaching up to grasp at your cheek. A thumb swipes over the swell of it, before steady fingers press your head to tilt it down to give him easier access to your mouth, pushing up from the ground to take possession of you.
His lips are soft, pressing carefully against your own. Bucky lets you take the lead, moving at whatever pace you set. At first slow, tentative, memorising the shape of his mouth against yours. And then desperate, lips widening with each smack and tongues reaching to taste each other.
Car horns blare, strangers chatter, and the bass continues to thump obnoxiously under the command of the DJ, but none of that matters right now. All that matters is Bucky, kissing you with equal fervour, groaning into your mouth as you sigh against him. The taste of mint hits your tongue, remnants of gum he had long ago chewed.
Your own wandering hands ruin the fun, gliding down the stretch of his black top and hooking two fingers beneath his belt, dragging him closer as you mutter, “There’s a spare bed back at my hostel.”
Disappointed does not even begin to cover what you are feeling when Bucky pulls back, head shaking and hands grasping at your wrists, prying your touch from off of him. Before you can feel the shame of rejection, though, he’s pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek and offering you an apology.
“I’m not the kind of guy who sleeps with a girl in your state, doll,” his hands take to tightening his jacket around your shoulders, a sudden gust of wind filling the night with a chill that runs right through you. You shiver for a whole other reason, however, when Bucky’s breath hits the shell of your ear as he mumbles into it, “Besides, I want you remembering every second of our first night together, not some drunken blur.”
Your taxi arrives quicker than you would like.
Bucky walks you over to it, holding the door open for you all the while he spills out directions in Greek to the driver. Only as he goes to slam the door shut do you remember the weight of his jacket around your shoulders, hand shooting out to pause the door.
“Wait! Here, your jacket,” you drunkenly exclaim, trying to unwind yourself from the warmth of him around you.
But Bucky is already shaking his head, hands insisting on tightening the fabric back around you, “Where are you going next, after Greece?”
You answer without hesitation, because Bucky is not a stranger.
He’s not even a friend.
He’s a man you almost just dragged to bed.
“Portugal.”
“Okay then. Give it back to me in Portugal,” with a slap of his hand atop the roof of the car, Bucky throws you one last grin before shutting the door on you, a single promise kissing your eardrums and setting your heart aflame the rest of the drive back to your hostel: “I’ll call you!”
Prisioneiro do Mar Hotel, Portugal
Bucky keeps his promise.
Calls you the next morning, arranges to meet with you in Portugal, wishes you a safe flight and even tells you that you looked beautiful the night before, even if deep-down you know you looked a mess after your run-in with the handsy stranger.
It is you who messes up this time.
“Bucky, I’m so, so sorry,” your apologies are almost as frantic as your hands, riffling through another suitcase and dumping piles upon piles of your clothing onto the hotel room floor.
The entire room is a mess, clothes strewn across just about every surface imaginable and every cupboard has been pried apart — even the safe lays with it’s door wide open, showing off your collection of jewellery to any wandering eyes.
How fortunate that the only other eyes in the room are Bucky’s, who stands by the foot of the bed and is trying his best to soothe your panic.
He’s not doing a very good job.
“I swear to you, I packed it. I remember packing it!” You, admittedly, are not the most sound of mind in this moment. A weight sits on your chest, heavy heart making every breath feel harder. Sweat gathers at the base of your neck, dampening the licks of hair at the back of your head. And, no matter how hard you try not to think about, memories of Tony are running on repeat in your mind. “God! I’m such a fucking idiot- I… How do you even lose a jacket?!”
Tearing through another bag, you’re none the wiser to Bucky as he inches closer to you, weaving his boot clad feet through empty spaces in the floor that don’t possess your clothing, unwilling to stain your pretty dresses with his footprint.
Your cheeks are overrun by tears in the blink of an eye. Angry, rotten little things that track rivers down your skin and drip all over the open bag you are kneeling over. Soft hands meet your shoulders, cradling them just as they begin to shake under the violent sobs that rack through your chest.
More than anything, you are embarrassed to be causing such a scene, especially when Bucky seems so unaffected by the loss of his jacket.
“Hey, hey,” his voice is practically a gentle coo, while his hands are dragging your body upright off the floor and forcing you to face him. “No need to cry, doll.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” this apology comes with a fresh wave of tears. At the very least you’re able to laugh, even if only a little, at your mess of a state, painfully aware that your understanding of his words does not pair well with the tears tracking down your cheeks. “I just- I can’t help it- Can’t stop them from falling. Think it’s some- Trauma response, or something.”
Breathing becomes a struggle as your chest pulls tight, lungs squeezing out every drop of air you attempt to feed them with. All the while, Bucky watches you with caring eyes, a pout nearly overcoming his pretty lips while he tries help you syncopate your breathing with his, hand pressing your own to his chest and forcing you to feel every strong inhale and easy exhale he makes.
“It’s just Tony. I remember it, this one time,” you speak in fragments, stretches of sentences huffed out with each breath, a little less shaky than the last under Bucky’s guidance. “I lost one of his shirts… Or he left it at someone else’s apartment, one of his other fuck buddies. Anyway, he didn’t react well. He was screaming at me, for hours, calling me useless, and stupid, and- God. Sorry, this just-”
“Stop apologising,” Bucky wipes away a tear before it can even fall, lets it stain his finger while he continues to soothe it over your cheek, big blue eyes commanding you to relax under their stare. Far away from Tony, he wants you to remember where you are: in a hotel room, in Portugal, with him. “Don’t have to worry, doll. ‘M not gonna yell at you.”
You thank him softly, let yourself lean forward and collapse into his arms, emotional exhaustion taking grip of your soul as your forehead meets his shoulder.
Bucky holds you like you are made of porcelain, hands barely daring to fully cup at your body as you press yourself against him.
When he hums, you feel it run right through you.
“‘Cause I know you’ll make it up to me, won’t you? I can trust you to make it right, can’t I?”
Nodding a little too frantically, nervous energy still coursing through your veins, you pull back just enough to look him in his darkening eyes, “Of course! There’s a mall not far from here, we can go and find a replacement for the jacket.”
But you’re not even finished talking when Bucky starts to shake his head, one hand flattening itself atop your shoulder and applying pressure. You’re already halfway to the floor when you realise the man is guiding you onto your knees, heartbeat beginning to pick up for a whole other reason than some stupid, misplaced jacket.
“That jacket was one of a kind, baby,” his statement confuses you. You could have sworn it carried a label from H&M on the inside. Or had you misread it, mistaken a luxury brand for something a little more familiar to you? “You don’t seriously think some small town mall’s gonna have anything worth apologising with, do you?” You shake your head without even realising, too busy watching the way his spare hand has fallen over his belt. “No, exactly. ‘S better you put your money where your mouth is instead, give me a proper apology.”
The entire act of his fingers undoing his belt, while the others slip from your shoulder and travel up to flatten themselves atop your scalp, bitten fingernails scrapping over the roots of your hair, it feels like the antithesis to everything you’ve ever enjoyed before.
With Tony, things were fast-paced yet fairly vanilla. He never wanted to draw out the experience, make his movements linger until you find yourself on the very precipice of needy, mouth watering at just the sight of a happy trail.
Which is exactly the state you’re in now, watching with anticipation as the man towering over you unthreads his belt and loosens the button of his jeans. The sound of a zip being undone fills the hotel room, reverberating off the walls of your skull and having a Pavlovian effect over you, thighs involuntarily squeezing in search of friction at the thought of what Bucky hides beneath his quickly-disappearing layers.
As it turns out, he’s hiding a lot. More than you expect.
You’re no expert in size, guesstimating that he’s definitely an inch or two over what most men possess. The tip of his cock is an angry red, crowned by a bead of pre-cum dripping from the slit and slipping over the curve of a mushroomed head. While you’ve never been a great aficionado of the male genitalia, something in you feels entranced, suddenly more than willing to sit here all day and just study the shape of Bucky.
Unfortunately, you are barely granted a few seconds to admire before the hand on your head is pulling you forward, closer, until you have no choice but to part your lips and make space for him.
“There we go,” Bucky, eyes more overblown by pupil than the pretty blue you have grown accustomed to, sighs out with guttural relief, head falling back as his hips give the smallest of juts forward into your mouth, feeding himself deeper. “God, don’t you just look gorgeous, huh? Pretty lips stretched round my cock, shit. Gonna need to relax your jaw.”
Caught under his spell, you’re left with no autonomy to stop yourself from obeying his every command, jaw falling lax and tongue flattening itself beneath the weight of his dick as he gives another roll of his hips, this one a little deeper and teasing at your gag reflex. This seems to delight the man, eyes lighting up momentarily as you choke on the beginning of a gag.
“Now, you want to make it up to me, don’t you?” Your attempt to nod just makes him laugh, biting back a groan as he feels your tongue drag over the underside of his length. “Then what I need you to for me is just sit there, keep your mouth open, and let me use your throat. Can you do that for me, doll?”
This time, you don’t try to nod. Instead, you hum affirmatively around his tip, relishing in the slight wave of power you feel as his eyes roll back and he instinctively thrusts into your mouth.
He starts with careful movements, barely-there rolls and ruts that press his cock a little heavier against your tongue with every one he makes. Tears still drying into your skin, it’s hard to tell if the slight salty tang invading your tongue is from you or him, precum mixing in with your excess of saliva.
The wetter your mouth grows under the invasion of him, your cunt rushes to match, slick turning your panties sticky and uncomfortable as you shift weight from one thigh to the other. A friction that Bucky cruelly cuts off, a disapproving tut coming moments before he nudges one foot between your legs and forces them apart, leaving nothing but the cool air of the hotel room to kiss your soaked underwear, a feeling so uncomfortable, it has you wishing you could peel them off.
“Uh-uh, no,” Bucky protests at the way your eyes squeeze shut, a pleasured pain shooting through your throat as he slowly begins to fuck deeper into your mouth. With deeper, faster is always soon to follow, until barely a moment or two seems to pass between the gargled sounds of his head hitting the back of your throat, forcing spit to slip past the corners of your lips and to drip down your chin, spilling all over the pretty colours of your blouse. “Want you watching me, doll. Want those pretty eyes on me when I fill this-ngh. This fucking tight throat.”
Bucky does as Bucky says, hot ropes of salty, thick cum spurting out to coat the back of your throat, tainting your mouth in a pearly whiteness that mixes with your spit, a messy string of fluids connecting your lips to his cock even as he pulls it free from your lips.
Before you can think too long, notice how he’s not even softened after spilling his seed all over your tongue, you’re busy being pulled back onto your feet and forced to welcome Bucky back into your mouth, this time his own tongue meeting yours. He hums in approval, swallowing back the flavour of himself all over your mouth, physical evidence of how easily he has claimed you as his.
So easily, you’ve barely even realised.
“Keep your mouth open,” Bucky mutters, thumb swiping over your lower lip and invading your mouth, pressing down on your tongue as you watch Bucky feed a string of his own spit onto your taste buds. Thumb retreating and pushing up against your chin, forcing your teeth to knock together, his instruction is simple, “Swallow.”
How you get from the messy floor to the messy bed, you’re not sure.
You’re even less sure how you wind up naked in the blink of an eye, panties tugged off by Bucky with an almost disapproving look, like the sight of them offended him.
Planted directly across from the bed stands a full length mirror, angled perfectly for you to watch as Bucky, his large frame engulfing you from behind, guides your thighs to part and puts your soaked cunt on display both of you to watch in the reflective glass, chest heaving so hard your breasts bounce with each breath.
Never have you felt so desperate, so warm, so in need of someone to put you out of your misery and give you the satisfaction of their touch. And Bucky seems to be aware of this, for he is torturing you, dragging lazy fingers down the stretch of your thighs and laughing in a way that is nothing short of mocking as a shiver runs through you and you squirm.
“Knew you’d be like this,” he’s talking more to himself than you, thumb ghosting over your clit and quickly evading as you attempt to grind down on the feeling. “Such a needy, desperate little thing. Perfect for me, aren’t you?”
You’re mid-nod when you’re forced into a pathetic yelp of, “Yes!” as Bucky’s palm slaps down against your cunt, nerve-tingling pain than soon melts into pleasure.
“When I ask, you answer, okay?” Three fingers rub at the raw skin of your cunt, two more slaps having preceded his warning. “Verbally, properly. You understand?”
You almost nod, until you think better of it, “Yes, Bucky.”
“Good girl,” his simple praise should not send your heart into arrest. But then maybe there is a lot about this situation that should not be playing out the way it is. “Now, eyes on the mirror, doll. Want you watch as I spread you open on my cock.”
Eyesight trained forward, you see the brief flash of his fingers lining his dick up against your wet hole, before he thrusts right in to the hilt and steals the air right out your lungs. One hand by your hips, the other wraps around the front to grasp at one of your tits, large hand staking claim over the entire swell of it and giving a teasing squeeze. It is hardly comfortable, pressing against the breast tissue, yet you find yourself enjoying it all the same, back arching into his touch.
Between your legs, visual sin is on display, a repeated back-and-forth motion of Bucky dragging his cock out of you a little further each time, light catching on the way your arousal clings to him in a wet sheen, before he buries himself back inside. At the base of your abdomen, right where your untrustworthy gut should sit, a shadow lingers beneath your skin, the faintest shape of him pushing up against your flesh.
“Look at us, doll,” ditching your breast, his hand grasps at your chin, stabilising your attention back on the mirror after you let yourself tilt your head back against his shoulder. “Do you like what you see? I’m everywhere, taking over you. Aww that’s it, cry all pretty for me again.”
Tears are slipping down your cheeks, overwhelm overcoming you at his words, his touch, his stare. Bucky really is everywhere, consuming you and grounding you all at once, a steady figure at your back that the universe sent you, no doubt an apology for whatever the hell Tony was.
“Bucky,” his name has never sounded so pathetic, falling from your lips in the shape of a whine, toes curling against his calves as he deepens the angle of his thrusts. Once again, the deeper it goes, the faster it grows, the soft echo of skin slapping against skin beginning to play out in the room.
“I know, baby, I know. We look so pretty, don’t we? Here,” you almost whine when one of his hands abandons you, but he silences you with the other diving between your legs, thumb effortlessly finding your clit and gifting it some much needed attention. “Take some pictures, doll. Told you I want our first time to be memorable, so go on and give us something to look back on.”
Your first thought isn’t that his phone is no longer black like you remember, this one red and sporting scratches along the back.
People change phones all the time, right?
Besides, who has time to notice silly details, when Bucky is back to touching you all over, both hands claiming parts of your skin?
Screen already unlocked, you try your best to steady your shaky thumb, guiding it up to the Recent Apps tab and attempting to press the camera icon… But Bucky just so happens to deliver a particularly spine-arching thrust, tip budging right against the spongy spot inside you that has you seeing stars, and your thumb presses on a familiar purple square before you can stop it.
And then your heart stops.
Bucky stops too, physically coming to a halt as he registers what exactly you’re staring at on his phone screen, “Well, shit.”
There, on his screen, sit two profile icons hovering over the same spot on a Life360 map: your picture, and Bucky’s.
And, try as you might to convince yourself, you know you never granted him permission to your location, never even got a notification of him attempting to befriend you on the app.
Bile stings at your throat. Your stomach drops to your knees. And, much to your own disappointment, your cunt pulses around his stilled member, buried inside you.
“There, that’s the solo-traveller look you asked me about,” Bucky somehow seems unshaken by your discovery, chuckling with near satisfaction as he watches your eyes focus back on the mirror ahead of you, stare wide and mouth paralysed with… “Fear, like you don’t know what to do with yourself.”
“James, what the hell is-”
“Shh,” he hushes you with both his mouth and his hips, grinding the head of his cock against you. Despite the situation at hand, you cannot deny the way your body physically reacts to him, walls squeezing around his cock and a moan slipping through the cracks of your frowning lips. “Thought we weren’t going to yell at each other, doll.”
“That was before I found out you’ve been stalking me!”
“Stalking is a little harsh. Watching over you sounds nicer, don’t you think?” He asks, like the wording drastically changes the result of his actions. Both hands are on your hips now, tilting them as he continues earlier ministrations, a slow roll of his own that are meant to distract you from the gut-wrenching revelation. “You were so eager to hand over your phone in Thailand, remember? You were practically begging me to add you on Life360. Bet you just wanted that comfort of knowing someone responsible was watching over you, huh?”
Did you beg? Had you mentioned the app to him at any point?
Months past, so many things happening between then and now, you are struggling to remember. Maybe Bucky is telling a version of the truth you’ve simply forgotten.
“We both know how bad you are at asking for what you want, baby. Was it so wrong of me to help you?” Warmth pooling in your spine, you barely even register the way you begin to wind back against him, bodies moving in perfect, effortless harmony as he begins fucking you properly again. “Could see it, how badly you wanted me but you just wouldn’t dare ask. Was it so wrong of me to give us a little man-made fate?”
That word almost pulls you out his trance, memories of how vulnerable you had felt confessing it back to him Italy flooding back in. And all along it had just been him, not the universe, following in your footsteps and manipulating your encounters.
Like he can feel the shadow of doubt creeping back over you, Bucky reinforces his sweet talking, mouth momentarily latching onto your earlobe and delivering a gentle scrape of teeth that forces you to listen.
“I mean, think of everything I’ve done just to have you, doll. Think of how far I was willing to travel, just for the chance to see you,” the worst thing is, it’s working. You can feel your resolve slipping, will giving into him the closer you’re moved towards the crescendo of your orgasm. “Meanwhile, Tony couldn’t even drive 10 minutes down the street for you. Is that what you think you deserve, baby? Someone who puts no effort into being yours?”
You give a nod, or a shake, or a something of your head, teeth clamping down on your lower lip as finally the first waves of your orgasm roll over you. Thighs shaking, yet he holds you steady against him.
Could you be steady, with him? Is that something Bucky can bring you?
No more crying on carpeted flooring, no more questioning where you stand in someone’s life, no more waking up to find your late night companion already gone.
“When I ask, I expect answers.”
You swallow back the ball in your throat, force away the doubt and the fear and the panic, and give into the warmth of his hands.
The same hands that orchestrated your fate, placed you in one another’s path. Isn’t that what you had been waiting for all along, to be chosen by someone?
“No,” the moment the two letter word leaves you, you feel him spill into your womb, groaning loud and proud into your ear. “I think I deserve you, Bucky.”
Bodies move languidly, collapsing into one another atop the bed, clothing strewn all around you from your earlier worries.
Your head meets Bucky’s chest, where a heart beats rapidly beneath the confines of flesh and bone.
His left arm curls around your naked body, dragging you impossibly closer. You cringe ever so slightly as you feel his cum spill out onto your inner thigh, all the while Bucky’s hand soothes the top of your head, lulling you to let yourself relax into him and let your eyes slip shut, accepting the way he cages you in.
“You do, baby. Deserve all of me. And you can have that, if you let me have all of you.”
+ extra hyde!
· guys i'm being so fr, do not do anything the reader did in this fic. y'all are too precious to wind up being the subject of a netflix documentary.
· and before anyone comments that the reader has no self respect... well, yes! that is the plot. subject is very much aware <3
· no but why did any of my friends encourage me to write this silly fic??
What about Buck coming home one day to you randomly doing something special for him? There is no reason behind it, and he's blown away by it!
The apartment smells like sugar and butter and something deeper—rich, almost jammy, the kind of scent that clings to the air and settles into the walls like it’s always belonged there.
You’re standing at the counter in one of Bucky’s old shirts, sleeves rolled up past your elbows, a dusting of flour across your cheek you don’t even know is there. The late afternoon light spills in through the windows, warm and golden, catching in the loose strands of your hair as you lean over the pie dish, carefully weaving strips of dough into a lattice.
You’ve never made a plum pie before.
But you’ve seen the way he looks at plums.
Two weekends in a row at the farmer’s market, you’ve watched him pause at the stand. He never says anything, never reaches out, just slows down enough to glance. His fingers twitch once, like he might pick one up, then he keeps walking.
Both times, you’d asked, “You like plums?”
And both times, he’d shrugged, all casual like it didn’t matter. “They’re okay.”
But Bucky Barnes is a terrible liar when it comes to the small things.
So today, when he’d left for a quick mission debrief and told you he’d be back before dinner, you’d gone straight to the market and bought a whole basket.
Now the pie sits finished on the counter, golden and bubbling slightly at the edges where the filling has peeked through. You’ve been hovering around it for the last ten minutes, checking it, turning it, pretending you’re not a little nervous.
It’s just a pie.
It’s not even for anything.
No anniversary, no birthday, no reason at all.
You just… couldn’t stand watching him walk past something he clearly wanted.
The sound of the front door unlocking makes your head snap up.
“Doll?” Bucky’s voice carries through the apartment, low and familiar, a little rough around the edges from the day.
“In the kitchen!” you call back, wiping your hands on a towel and tryingnnot to hover.
His footsteps are heavy, grounded, moving closer. There’s the soft clink of his gear being set down, the quiet exhale he always lets out when he finally steps inside, like he can breathe properly again.
Then he rounds the corner.
And stops.
You watch it happen in real time—the way his brows pull together first, confusion flickering across his face as his gaze lands on you, then shifts past you, catching on the pie.
He blinks.
“What… is that?”
You huff a small laugh, suddenly shy under his stare. “It’s a pie, Buck.”
“I can see that,” he says slowly, stepping further into the kitchen like he’s approaching something fragile. “I mean, why is there a pie?”
You lean back against the counter, shrugging like it’s no big deal even though your heart is doing something a little too loud in your chest. “I made it.”
He looks at you like that explains absolutely nothing.
“Yeah,” he says, dragging the word out. “I got that part.”
You bite your lip, then gesture toward it. “It’s plum.”
That’s what does it.
It’s subtle, so subtle most people wouldn’t catch it, but you see the way his entire expression shifts. The confusion is still there, but it softens, something else slipping in underneath it. Something quieter.
“…plum?” he repeats.
You nod, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “You kept looking at them. At the market.”
His eyes flick up to yours, sharp now. “You noticed that?”
“Of course I noticed,” you say, like it’s obvious. Because it is. Because you notice everything about him, even the things he tries not to show. “You didn’t buy any. Twice. It was starting to bother me.”
A faint, disbelieving huff of breath leaves him, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that.
“So,” you add, softer now, gesturing again to the pie, “I got some. And I figured… I don’t know. Maybe you wanted them but weren’t gonna get them for yourself.”
There’s a pause.
A long one.
Bucky just stands there, staring at the pie like it’s something he’s not entirely sure is real. His metal hand flexes once at his side, the faint whir of it loud in the quiet kitchen.
“You made this,” he says finally.
“Yeah.”
“For me.”
It’s not a question, but you answer anyway.
“Yeah, Buck.”
“Why?”
You blink at him, thrown off by the genuine confusion in his voice. “What do you mean, why?”
His jaw shifts, like he’s trying to find the words and coming up short. “There’s no—” he gestures vaguely, “—thing. It’s not a special day or—”
You let out a soft laugh, pushing off the counter to step closer to him. “Do I need a reason?”
He looks at you like maybe you do. Like that’s the only way this makes sense in his head.
“You’ve been… lookin’ at plums,” you say, gentler now, reaching out to take his hand, threading your fingers through his. “That’s it. That’s the reason.”
Something in his expression cracks.
It’s quiet, the way it happens. His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing out of him like he’s setting something down he didn’t realize he was carrying.
“You made me a whole pie,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “because I looked at some fruit.”
You smile, soft and a little teasing. “When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. Just awe. “Nobody does that.”
You tilt your head, studying him. “I do.”
That lands somewhere deep.
You can see it in the way his throat bobs, the way his grip on your hand tightens just a little.
For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you, like he’s trying to memorize the moment, or maybe understand it.
Then, before you can say anything else, he pulls you in.
His arms wrap around you, solid and warm, tucking you against his chest like he needs you close. Like this is the thing he’s been missing.
“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he mutters into your hair.
You laugh softly against him, your hands sliding up his back. “It’s just a pie.”
“No,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes bright in a way that makes your chest ache. “It’s not.”
His gaze flicks back to the counter, to the golden crust, then back to you.
“It’s you seein’ me,” he says quietly. “Even when I don’t say nothin’.”
Your expression softens.
“I always see you, Buck.”
You don’t even get another word out before he’s kissing you, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t quite say into it. His hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek where the flour still sits, and he huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth when he notices it.
“Got flour on your face,” he murmurs.
“Yeah?” you smile, breathless. “Worth it?”
He glances at the pie, then back at you, something warm and certain settling into his features.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Worth it.”
And later, when you finally cut into it and he takes his first bite, the way his eyes close—like he’s tasting something familiar, something he didn’t realize he missed—tells you everything you need to know.
reader is pregnant — it’s still early and the bumps just started to show — and Bucky comes to watching reader in a silk robe. She shows off some new sweet lingerie but paired with the baby bump, he’s swept off his feet , the man is down BAD. he can’t get over how stunning she looks
The soft glow of the bedside lamp spills across the room, warm and quiet, the kind of light that makes everything feel softer, safer. You stand in front of the mirror, fingers tracing the gentle swell of your belly. It’s still early—barely past the first trimester—but it’s there now. A subtle curve. Something new. Something yours.
Your hands smooth over the silk robe Bucky bought you last month, deep emerald catching the light as it slips against your skin. It feels different. Everything does. Your body isn’t what it was a few months ago—but it’s not worse. Just changed. Fuller. Softer. Real.
You heard the front door click open, then the familiar heavy tread of his boots. Bucky was home. A flutter of excitement mixed with the pregnancy hormones already making everything feel heightened. You adjusted the robe, letting it hang loosely open just enough to tease, and waited.
"Baby?" His voice carried down the hall, low and rough from the long day. "You still up?"
"In here," you called softly, turning toward the doorway.
He appeared moments later, still in his dark tactical gear, the straps and holsters making him look every bit the Winter Soldier—except for the way his storm-blue eyes softened the instant they landed on you.
His hand braces against the doorframe, gaze dragging over you slow. Messy bun. Bare feet. The robe, barely hanging on your shoulders. The lace underneath. The curve of your stomach.
You shift a little, suddenly shy under the weight of it. “Hi.”
You turn slightly, letting the robe fall open just a bit more. “What do you think? I, uh… wanted to surprise you.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
You can see it in his face—how it hits him. The way his throat works, the way his chest rises a little too fast. Like he’s trying to catch up with something.
“Doll…” it comes out rough. Quiet.
He steps inside, kicks the door shut behind him without looking, shrugging off his jacket and letting it hit the floor. His eyes never leave you.
“Look at you.”
You turn back toward the mirror, giving him the full view. The lace hugs your hips, sheer and soft, the robe framing everything like it was meant to. Your bump sits right there between it all—small, but impossible to ignore now.
“It’s probably silly,” you mumble, smoothing your hands over it. “It’s still early, but… I saw it and thought maybe you’d like how it looks. With the bump and everything.”
“Like it?” his voice breaks a little.
He’s behind you before you even realize, hands settling on your hips, pulling you back against his chest. His heart is racing—you can feel it through his shirt.
“Sweetheart, I’m… fuck. I'm speechless.”
You laugh softly, leaning into him.
His metal hand hovers for a second before resting gently over your stomach, like he’s still in awe that he’s allowed to touch you like this. His other hand brushes the edge of the robe, fingertips barely there.
His head dips, lips grazing your ear while he stares at your reflection.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs. “Seeing you like this… carrying our baby. Wearing something like this just for me?” His thumb moves slow over the curve of your belly. “That little bump… Jesus. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Good ruined?” you tease, tilting your head back against his shoulder.
He hums, pressing a slow kiss to your neck. “The best kind.”
His hands slide, pushing the robe off your shoulders. It slips down your arms and pools at your feet in a quiet shimmer of green.
“Turn around for me,” he says, gentler than his words usually are. “Let me see you.”
You do, slow.
The lace feels more revealing now, your skin more sensitive under his stare. Your chest rises unevenly, your stomach on full display, no hiding it anymore.
He drops to his knees.
Right there.
Hands framing your hips like it’s instinct.
His face presses against your belly, soft, careful, like he’s afraid to be anything else. His stubble brushes your skin, lips following after in slow, reverent kisses.
“Can’t get over it,” he murmurs against you. “My girl… our baby…”
Your fingers slip into his hair, holding him there.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, kissing the curve again. “Hurts a little, how much.”
His hand slides up, cupping your breast through the lace, thumb brushing your nipple until your breath stutters.
“Everything about you right now…” another kiss to your stomach. “I’m obsessed.”
You barely get a second to recover before he’s standing again, arms wrapping around you, lifting you like it’s nothing. You let out a soft laugh, clinging to him as he carries you to the bed.
He lays you down carefully. Always careful.
His shirt is gone a second later, scars and muscle and warmth as he climbs over you, settling between your thighs without putting any weight on your middle.
His dog tags fall cool against your skin as he kisses you, slow at first, then deeper, like he’s been holding it in since the second he saw you.
“Every day I think you can’t get more beautiful,” he murmurs between kisses, trailing down your jaw, your throat. “Then you go and do something like this.”
His lips brush the top of your belly again, softer now.
“Show up in silk and lace with my baby growing inside you…”
His hand stays there, protective, grounding.
“I’m never recovering from this, sweetheart.”
You arch into him, overwhelmed by what he's doing. The way he looks at you. Like you’re everything.
Like this version of you is his favorite.
“I love you,” he breathes, pressing one more kiss to your stomach before moving lower. “Both of you. So damn much.”
And he means it.
You can feel it in every touch after that—every kiss, every whispered praise, every careful, reverent moment. Like he’s memorizing you this way. Like he’s never going to get enough.
I beg of you please write us Bucky reader and our son in a heatwave🙏🙏🙏🙏
Bucky’s Beach Day
WC 1.5k
TW established relationship, Husband!Bucky x Wife!reader, you and Bucky have a son called Jamie, fluff!!
Could be read as a one-shot, but you can read more stories in this universe here!
The cooling function in Bucky’s arm had been designed for missions. That was what Shuri had said to him when she installed the upgrade.
It was intended for harsh desert operations, or long exposures to tropical heat. It could save someone’s life in a life or death heat stroke situation. The section she had it in was called Tactical Temperature Regulation. It was brilliant and sleek, and Bucky nodded very seriously while pretending he understood half of the science she was explaining to him.
It was not, technically, made so his wife could cling to it on a beach towel because she was “literally going to perish without it.”
But Bucky knew better than to argue with you. Especially when you were sprawled under the umbrella in your swimsuit, sunglasses slipping down your nose, one hand thrown over your forehead like a woman in a tragic period drama.
“Buckyyy,” you said weakly.
He looked over from where he was helping Jamie dig a sandcastle with the yellow shovel. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
“I’m dying.”
Jamie gasped. “Mommy?”
“She’s not dying,” Bucky said calmly.
“I am,” you insisted with a sigh, beads of sweat rolling down your skin that Bucky was really trying not to pay attention to, not while he was building sandcastles with your son. “The sun has chosen me as tribute.”
“Mmm,” Bucky’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” you frowned, “I need your arm.”
He glanced down at the vibranium arm, then back at you.
Jamie looked between the two of you, very interested. “Daddy’s cold arm?”
“Daddy’s cold arm,” you confirmed. Jamie knew because when he sprained his ankle last month, Bucky used his arm to “ice” the bruise.
Bucky huffed a laugh.
Then, without making a big deal out of it, he reached up and detached the arm.
Your eyes widened behind your sunglasses. “Wait. I was joking.”
“No, you weren’t.”
You considered you answer for a second. “I was joking a little.”
“No, you weren’t,” he repeated, because apparently being the love of your life meant that he knew you better than you knew yourself.
He walked over and gently set the vibranium arm beside you on the towel, cooling function already humming faintly through the vibranium.
You immediately wrapped your arm around it.
“Oh my God,” you sighed, pressing your cheek against the cool surface. “I love you.”
Bucky arched an eyebrow and chuckled. “Me or the arm?”
“At this exact moment,” You tilted your head, “I need you to be emotionally secure enough not to ask that.”
Jamie toddled over and patted the arm with both little hands. His eyes went huge. “Cold!”
“Very cold,” you said reverently at his adorable little face, blue eyes not unlike Bucky’s own.
Jamie turned to Bucky, delighted. “Daddy, mommy has your arm.”
“I know, buddy.”
“You only have one hand now.”
Bucky looked down at himself, then at Jamie. “Yeah. Looks like I’m gonna need help with the castle.”
Oh. Daddy needs me! He seemed to think.
Jamie straightened like he had just been promoted to general.
You watched the exact second your six-year-old became the most important construction worker on the beach.
“I can help,” Jamie said, very solemnly.
“I was hoping you would.”
Bucky went back to the sandcastle one-handed. To be fair, he could still do most things better than most people with one hand.
He packed sand with his right palm, dragged the shovel toward him, smoothed down walls with his fingers. But every time one of Jamie’s little structures needed steadying, every time a bucket had to be tipped or a shell had to be placed or the moat needed “more water but not too much water,” he looked to Jamie.
“Can you hold this side for me?”
Jamie rushed in. “I got it, daddy!”
“Good job,” he smiled, “Don’t let it fall.”
Jamie’s little face went slightly pink with concentration. “I won’t.”
You hugged the cold arm closer, your heart melting for an entirely different reason.
Bucky could have done it faster on his own. You knew that. He knew that. But Jamie absolutely did not know that.
To Jamie, his father needed him.
To Jamie, he was not just watching the castle happen. He was making it happen.
He held the bucket while Bucky packed wet sand inside. He pressed both hands against one crooked wall while Bucky reinforced the other side. He selected shells with the concentration of a professional jeweller. He added one piece of seaweed to the top and declared it a flag.
Bucky squinted at it. “Looks like kelp.”
Jamie gave him a look.
“I mean,” Bucky corrected himself immediately. “Strong flag, buddy.”
Jamie nodded. “It means no bad guys.”
“Good rule.”
“And no stepping on mommy.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, curled shamelessly around his detached arm like a sun-drunk cat. “Definitely no stepping on your mom.”
You lifted one hand lazily. “This kingdom has great laws, baby.”
Jamie beamed.
The castle got bigger. As it got bigger, it got stranger. Then, Jamie insisted it had a garage, because Jamie insisted all castles needed garages, and Bucky, being a better father than anyone had any right to be, didn’t argue with the logic.
“For what kind of car?” Bucky asked.
Jamie frowned like the answer was obvious. “A fast one.”
“Right. Of course.”
“A blue one.”
“Blue fast car. Got it.”
“And it flies.”
Bucky paused. “A flying car?”
Jamie nodded.
So Bucky built the garage one handed.
The left side collapsed twice, and Jamie gasped both times like there had been casualties.
“I need you,” Bucky said seriously. “This wall’s no good without you.”
Jamie dropped to his knees beside him. “I fix it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You hold it, Daddy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bucky held the wall while Jamie patted wet sand onto the side with tiny, clumsy, determined hands. Half of it stuck, and half of it slid down. But none of it mattered, because Bucky looked at your son like he had just watched him solve cold fusion.
“There,” Jamie said, sitting back on his heels. “I did it!”
Bucky smiled proudly. “You did.”
Jamie looked down at the castle, then back at him. “You needed me.”
Bucky went very still.
It was brief, but you saw that little pause he got sometimes when love hit a wound he forgot he still had.
Then he reached out and brushed sand from Jamie’s cheek with his thumb.
“Yeah,” Bucky said quietly. “I did.”
Jamie accepted that like it was simple. Because to him, it was.
His daddy needed help. He helped. Because of both their efforts, the castle stood.
The world was very easy at six years old.
By the time the tide started creeping closer, the castle had three towers, a moat, one flying-car garage, sixteen shells, a kelp flag, and Jamie’s full emotional investment.
When the first little wave reached the edge of the moat, Jamie gasped. “No!”
Bucky turned immediately. “You want me to move it?”
You lifted your head. “Bucky, you cannot move a sandcastle.”
He looked at you. You looked at him.
He looked back at the castle like he was genuinely considering whether he could get a big enough shovel to move a sandcastle.
“Don’t,” you warned.
Jamie, thankfully, solved the crisis by flinging himself into Bucky’s side.
“It’s okay,” he said, though he sounded heartbroken. “Ocean can have it.”
Bucky wrapped his one arm around him and pulled him close. “That’s generous.”
Jamie sniffed. “But not the garage.”
“No,” Bucky agreed. “That part’s between us and the ocean.”
You laughed into the vibranium arm.
Bucky glanced back at you, sun-flushed, hair messy from the wind, one arm missing and the other full of your son.
He looked perfect.
Eventually Jamie wore himself out completely. He crawled into Bucky’s lap, sandy and buzzing with sleep, mumbling something about blue flying cars against his father’s chest.
Bucky sat under the umbrella with him, broad shoulder curved protectively around Jamie’s small one.
You scooted closer, still holding the detached arm. “Do you want this back?” you asked.
Bucky looked at you, then at Jamie asleep against him, then at the arm tucked against your cheek.
“Keep it,” he said softly.
You chuckled and kissed his cheek, “It was made for dangerous missions.”
“It’s on one.”
You smiled. “Taking care of me is a dangerous mission?”
“Keeping you comfortable is my life’s work.”
You laughed, and he only smiled wider. Jamie shifted in his sleep, one small hand fisting in Bucky’s sleeveless shirt.
Bucky looked down at him, and there it was again. That disbelief and gratitude all the same.
He had been made into a weapon once.
Now his metal arm was keeping his wife cool, his only hand was holding his sleeping son, and a crooked sandcastle with a flying-car garage was being swallowed by the sea in front of him.
Shuri’s desert-grade cooling system had probably not been built for this.
But it was hard to imagine a better use.
—
Note: please send me more blurb/short story ideas of this little family! I adore writing for them sm 😭
♪ Prompt | Northern Attitude - Noah Kahan (with Hozier) | "You build a boat, you build a life"
♪ Summary | Attending a Wilson family cookout always brought along surprises. You just hadn't expected a certain metal armed man to be the biggest one.
♪ Warnings + Tags | Fluff, Sam Wilson being jealous (?), Bucky Barnes being charming
♪ Phoenix Chirps | I'm such a sucker for the singular moment in TFATWS where Bucky asks if Sam's sister asked about him. Like you can't tell me he's not a flirt after he becomes comfortable with himself again. Also feel like this one is a bit lackluster, I had to cute quite a bit to hit that 300 word count :')
♪ Word Count | 300
⏮ Prev | Masterlist ⏯ Event Masterlist | Next ⏭
The scent of salty ocean air and barbecue smoke greeted you as you stepped onto the dock in the warm Louisiana afternoon. Spotting the Wilsons and their neighbors gathered at the end of the dock, you made your way towards them. Sam greeted you with a hug and the standard pleasantries.
"I see you've been busy. Built a boat, you built a life…" shrugging you took a sip of a beer he handed you. "And became Captain America. Kinda crazy."
Sam just chuckled, shaking his head. "Not even here five minutes and you're already giving me shit, I see how it is."
Before you could give a retort, laughter, and the shout of 'Hey, Sam!' caught both of your attention.
Bucky Barnes, a man you had only heard about from Sam and seen on TV briefly following the Flagsmashers assault on New York City. "That's him, huh?" you whispered, tapping a finger against the bottle.
"Oh here we go," you swore you heard Sam sigh, but Bucky had finally reached where you were standing at the end of the dock after dodging Sam's nephews.
Whatever he had planned to say was clearly forgotten as he laid eyes on you. "Hey, this must be her," he said, giving you a charming smile you knew brought everyone to their knees, and extending a hand. "I'm Bucky."
You really couldn't help the way your heart fluttered as he gently gripped your fingers. Giving him your name, he repeated it in a hushed tone. "Sam's told me so much about you," you finally managed.
"Oh, did he? Only good things I hope," Bucky winked.
"And I guess I'm in invisible?" Sam interjected, clearly not doing well by being ignored by his two closest friends.
"Sorry man, didn't know you were bringing such attractive friends."
hey it’s 🐸. can you write one where bucky and reader are arguing and he’s all broody and mad—then reader kisses him mid-rant just to shut him up and he’s like 🧍🏻♂️ ‘…okay.’
The argument starts small. It always does.
Something about a mission report. Or maybe the way he brushed you off earlier in the common room. Or the fact that he’s been pacing for the last ten minutes like a caged animal instead of actually talking to you.
You don’t even remember what kicked it off anymore—just the heat of it. The way his voice has dropped into that low, tight tone that means he’s frustrated, that he’s trying to keep control and failing just a little.
“I’m not saying you can’t handle yourself,” Bucky snaps, running a hand through his hair. It sticks up at the ends, soft and messy in a way that completely contradicts the sharpness in his eyes. “I’m saying you don’t have to do everything alone.”
You huff out a breath, arms crossed tight over your chest. “And I’m saying I didn’t ask you to swoop in like I’m incapable.”
“That’s not—” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “That’s not what I did.”
“It is, though,” you push, stepping closer. “You overrode my call. In front of the team.”
His shoulders tense. “Because it was the safer option.”
“For who?” you shoot back immediately. “You? Or me?”
His mouth opens, then shuts again. You can practically see the argument reshuffling in his head, trying to find the right angle, the right words. He exhales sharply through his nose, metal fingers flexing at his side.
“Why do you always twist it like that?” he mutters, quieter now but somehow more intense. “Like I’m the bad guy for wanting you safe.”
“And why do you always assume I need saving?” you fire back.
Silence cracks between you for half a second before he starts again, voice rising.
“Because I’ve seen what happens when things go wrong—”
“And I haven’t?” you interrupt, incredulous.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Then what did you mean, Bucky?”
Your voice echoes a little in the room. Too loud. Too sharp. But neither of you backs down.
He takes a step toward you now, closing the distance, eyes locked on yours. “I mean that I can’t—” He breaks off again, frustrated, dragging a hand down his face. “I can’t just stand there and watch you—”
“What? Get hurt?” you challenge. “Make my own decisions? Be my own person?”
“That’s not fair,” he snaps.
“Oh, but overriding me is?”
“It wasn’t about control—”
“It always feels like it is.”
That lands. You see it in the way his expression falters, just for a second. Something softer flickers underneath all that frustration—something almost wounded.
But he pushes past it, stubborn as ever.
“You think this is about control?” he says, stepping even closer, voice dropping again. “You really think I give a damn about being in charge?”
“Then what is it about?” you demand.
“It’s about you not ending up dead!” he bursts out, the words rough, ripped straight from his chest.
You blink at him, thrown by the rawness of it. His breathing is uneven now, chest rising and falling like he’s just run a mile. His eyes—god, his eyes—are burning, but not with anger anymore. Something else. Something heavier.
“I’ve lost enough,” he continues, quieter but no less intense. “I’m not— I can’t just—” He shakes his head, clearly struggling to get it out. “You don’t get it.”
“I do get it,” you say, softer now. “But you don’t get me.”
His jaw tightens again. “I do.”
“No, you don’t,” you insist, stepping into his space now, close enough that your toes nearly touch his boots. “Because if you did, you’d trust me.”
“I do trust you.”
“Then act like it.”
“I am—”
“You’re not!”
“I—”
You don’t let him finish.
You surge forward, grab the front of his shirt, and kiss him.
It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s abrupt and messy and a little bit desperate—more about stopping him than anything else.
For a split second, he goes completely still.
Like—completely.
Mid-rant. Mid-breath. Just… frozen.
You feel it. The way his body locks up under your hands. The way his lips stay parted in surprise instead of kissing you back.
It’s so sudden, so absurdly effective, that you almost laugh against his mouth.
When you pull back, just barely, you’re still close enough to feel his breath hitch.
Bucky blinks at you for a few seconds like his brain is playing catch up.
“…okay,” he says finally, voice flat with shock.
You stare at him.
“…okay?” you repeat.
He nods slowly, still looking a little stunned. “Yeah. Uh.” Another blink. “Yeah, that— that worked.”
A beat passes.
Then another.
And then something shifts.
Because now he’s looking at you differently. Not angry. Not frustrated.
Focused.
His hands, which had been hovering uselessly at his sides, suddenly come up—one settling at your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Do that again,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches. “I thought you were mad at me.”
“I was,” he admits, eyes flicking down to your mouth. “Still kind of am.”
“That didn’t fix anything,” you point out, even as your grip tightens on his shirt.
“No,” he agrees easily. “Not even a little.”
“Then why—”
He cuts you off this time—by kissing you back.
Where yours was impulsive, his is deliberate. Grounding. He leans into you, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies, his grip firm but not controlling—just there, steady and sure.
It knocks the rest of the fight right out of you.
Your hands slide up into his hair, tugging slightly, and he exhales against your lips like he’s been holding that breath the entire argument.
When he pulls back this time, it’s slower. Reluctant.
His forehead rests against yours.
“You drive me insane,” he mutters.
You huff out a soft laugh. “You started it.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
He huffs, but there’s no real heat behind it now. Just leftover tension, slowly unwinding.
“I hate fighting with you,” he admits after a second, quieter.
“Then stop being so bossy,” you shoot back, but it’s softer now. Teasing.
His thumb brushes absentmindedly along your jaw. “Stop making me worry about you.”
“Can’t promise that.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Figured.”
There’s a pause.
“…you really just kissed me to shut me up?” he asks, like he’s only just processing that part.
You shrug, a little smug. “Worked, didn’t it?”
He stares at you for a second. It takes a second, but despite everything he lets out a chuckle.
WHITE NIGHTS
husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader [3.4k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: your husband is hungry.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; bucky is down bad; pregnancy and postpartum stuff (they just had a baby); baby’s nickname is bean; fluff; smut; lactation kink; nipple play; coming untouched; pussy pronouns; breeding kink; fingering; mention of squirting.
A/N: this is not the breeding kink one-shot I was talking about in the poll, but this was already finished and unfortunately yesterday something happened and I’m not in a good place rn mentally. hope you’ll enjoy🥛sorry but it’s not really edited.
Bucky shivers as the usual warm weight pressed against his side is missing. He lethargically extends his arm to bring your plush body back to his, yet his fingers only meet wrinkly, tepid sheets. His eyes fly open, only to find your side empty.
It’s the middle of the night and your baby boy is sleeping soundly in the crib he assembled months ago, tucked close beside your bed. This allows Bucky to reach him the moment the faintest whimper slips from his lips—one of the many advantages of having enhanced senses. He can see the exhaustion pressing down on you, and still, you try to cram as many chores as possible into your schedule, nowadays reduced to feedings and diaper changes. But Bucky would do anything to make you feel like you’re keeping up.
These days your husband is always repeating the same thing: that he’ll handle the house, that you don’t need to push yourself like this. But you do anyway, unable to shake the guilt of leaving everything to him when he’s already the one waking in the night to take care of your son.
“I’m a super soldier, you pretty mama,” he promptly reminds you, his voice gentle against the bare skin of your shoulder. “Why would I leave this stuff to my beautiful wife when I don’t need that much rest in the first place?”
The ensuite is empty, which means you’re either in the kitchen pumping or the living room wide awake.
Bucky pushes himself up slowly, leaving the bedroom door open behind him—just in case. He could hear his son cry from miles away, but even the former Winter Soldier can’t quite shake the instinct to run to his son in case of potential danger.
The kitchen light catches his attention the moment he steps into the hallway, spilling across the floor in a warm glow. He follows it without thinking, but the sight that greets him makes him freeze on the doorway.
Bucky has always reserved particular attention to your chest since the first time you started fooling around while dating.
But this is different.
He never could have imagined that one day the mere sight of your nipples leaking milk would leave him stiff in his pants and drooling. That something as natural as your body providing for your child could feel so intimate. During your pregnancy, your breasts had grown fuller and heavier, often sore enough to make you whine in pain against his shoulder. More than once, you’d sighed in frustration at the milk that soaked through your bras, inconvenient and relentless.
And each time, Bucky had to suppress the instinct to clean you up. With his tongue.
He might be over a hundred years old, but he knows his way around the internet since the first time he grumpily announced he was going to look up what a creampie was, while you were in stitches on the couch. You still tried to warn him through your amusement, explaining that the internet is a treacherous place, one where everything should be taken with a healthy dose of skepticism.
The shame curling hot in his stomach is inevitable when he looks at your chest with his pants uncomfortably tight, but this fantasy only intensified with time, to the point where he feels like imploding at the slightest mention of you pumping.
Bucky gulps thickly, frowning in animosity at the two devices attached to your tits that peak out from your sports bra. He really wants to suckle on your nipples and feel your sweet milk bless his senses, however, despite all the years of dating and marriage, asking would probably feel like walking straight in front of a freight train running at full speed.
His tongue unconsciously licks his lips as you pour some of the freshly pumped milk in a baby bottle, before going through the motions of setting the devices back in place. The wearable breast pumps had been his idea, actually, after months spent buried in books, articles, and a concerning amount of online forums for new moms. He read everything he could get his hands on, determined to make things easier for you. Multiple people praised these over traditional ones for their gentler suction and better angles, so one day Bucky’d shown up with his laptop open to the website of a famous online store specialized in hands-free pumps, already halfway through his research and entirely ready to start measuring your breasts.
Your chest aches more often than not nowadays. You hadn’t expected to produce this much milk, or how constant it would feel. Not just during the day, but at night too, when you find yourself half-asleep at the kitchen counter, filling bottle after bottle while your body begs you to lie down.
Bucky knows everything got more sensitive and swollen for you since you got pregnant, so he often finds himself wondering if he could make you come just by stimulating your tits alone.
Shaking his head to calm himself down before entering the kitchen with a full hard-on, Bucky slowly approaches you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. He doesn’t miss the way your body automatically relaxes under his touch.
“Was wondering where my beautiful wife went.” He whispers, resting his chin on your shoulder to eye the battlefield of spilled milk and paper towels. “How are you feeling, lovely?”
“Tired.” You murmur around a yawn as your head falls back against his chest. “And aching.”
In this new position, his blue eyes can comfortably admire your cleavage. His stare on the plump skin of your chest spilling out from the tight sports bra is intense, though he clears his throat before his cock takes over his common sense and his teeth end up sinking in your tender flesh.
“Mmh… I can help, you know?” You glance back at him, eyebrows furrowed.
“No baby, you already do so much. Besides, these things are amazing! They do everything by themselves, I just have to empty them.” Bucky swallows, before gently turning you to face him.
“No, I meant—I want to help help you.” Your eyebrows raise, still not understanding.
“I want to taste it, doll.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your eyebrows shoot up stunned, before a small grin threatens to take over your lips.
“James Buchanan Barnes, you want to nurse on my breasts?” A pretty blush takes over the apples of his cheeks at your bluntness. Your husband has never looked so boyishly pretty before.
“Don’t say it like that.” His affronted voice wavers, pulling a chuckle out of you that makes your tits jiggle alluringly. His eyes promptly fall on them, before he flushes violently upon noticing you have caught him drooling red-handed.
“But that’s what you want, right Jamie?” You tilt your head teasingly, cradling his cheeks in your soft hands.
He nods expectantly, eyes sparkling despite the scorching embarrassment pooling into his belly.
“Okay, but let me remove these first.” His breath hitches at your nonchalant reaction.
Your husband’s chest heaves in anticipation as he waits for the electric pumps to finish, unable to stay put behind you like an overhyped puppy waiting for his treat. Bucky knows you are taking your time in storing the milk away on purpose—it’s not your fault he gets so adorable whenever he loses grip on the composure he is so proud of.
When you are done, you barely have time to turn around before his strong arms pick you up to place your butt on the counter, so he can be closer to your chest. He kisses you desperately, kneading your waist and thighs until you are left warm and moaning.
Eventually his lips end up tracing a trail of wet kisses down your throat, finally allowing his nose to gently graze the skin of your breasts. He helps you remove your bra with shaky hands, gasping when your torso is finally bare for him to toy with.
“Look at you.” His large hands encompass the swell of your tits, gently kneading the flesh to not hurt you. Your quiet whimper stops him instantly, looking up at you to catch any sign of discomfort. But he only receives a weak nod, your hands desperately gripping his biceps as his fingers reprise their exploring.
“They are so full, my love. I bet they hurt, right?” His eyes glass over, spellbound as the pads of his thumbs delicately circle both of your turgid nipples, drawing a few stray drops of milk. Bucky instantly brings the digits to his mouth, eyelids fluttering shut at the flavor blessing his taste buds.
“Fuck, you really are sweet everywhere, doll.” You shudder at his growled praise, your tired body extremely sensitive as his fingers keep stroking your nubs.
Your loud gasp is swallowed in the nick of time in fear of waking your son up, yet you stop yourself from flinching when Bucky’s lips finally engulf your right nipple. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface; you’ve always enjoyed the care and time he puts in worshipping your chest, but this time it feels completely different with the way his palms caress your tits, and his tongue patiently grazes your nipples with serenity written all over his features.
“Bucky—” You interrupt him as he starts sucking. It’s too soft, just like him, you think fondly. And it’s not that you don’t love it, but your milk will barely come out if he doesn’t get a little rougher.
“C’mon, honey, you can suck harder.” You encourage quietly, the only answer you get is him dazedly blinking up at you through his long, dark lashes.
His hand fondles the breast his lips aren’t occupying, while his vibranium arm wraps around your back to bring you impossibly closer. Fingertips dig into your supple skin as he obeys, his eyes rolling back at milk finally filling his mouth. The gentle licks soon transform into harsher suckles, and one of your hands goes straight to your mouth with a resounding smack to stop a loud whine from potentially reaching your neighbors.
Yes, it happened before. Too many times.
Bucky can smell your arousal, but his mind is clouded with his own pleasure to understand what’s happening around him.
He’s finally doing it, he’s drinking your milk directly from the source. This might potentially be the hottest thing you’ve ever done.
Well, apart from that time you fucked in one of the empty meeting rooms in his office.
Now that Bucky thinks about it, you probably conceived your baby boy that time. He remembers too clearly how aroused the both of you were. His body was on fire that day, he felt like a fucking animal in heat trapped in a cage after he was urgently called by his secretary as he was slowly thrusting his cock into your half-asleep body that morning. And you… well, it was actually your idea to have sex there.
You showed up at his workplace, calling him Congressman with that whiny voice of yours, and claimed you needed to have his cock inside you so bad as you both stood in front of his two secretaries hurriedly fixing his schedule around you, since it was a well-known fact that Bucky would abandon anything if his wife needed him.
Then you dragged him in one of the empty rooms by his tie, and God, he still shivers at the memory of how you rode him on that damn chair, only wearing that stupid little sundress he bought you on his last work trip, just because it looked cute. And fuck, now it was hanging loosely from your waist as you moaned loud enough for his whole staff to hear when he finally came inside you, stuffing you with his cum as you cried and trembled around him, his cock refusing to soften so Bucky picked you up and brought you to the conference table to roughly thrust inside you, making you squirt all over his pants—
Yeah... that’s a story for another time.
One of your hands cups the back of his head, slightly pulling at his hair as you lean forward with a whimper.
“Jesus Christ.” Your man groans through a mouthful of you.
“Yeah? Is it good?” You tease, giggling at the eager nod he gives you.
“So good, pretty girl.” He whines, pulling away from your nipple only to move onto the other.
His tongue plays with the hard peak, moaning when a quiet whine falls from your lips. The lewd, wet sounds of his licking and sucking prompt you to wrap your thighs around his hips and push against him, your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders to try and find a crumb of stimulation against his belly for your pussy. It’s so messy your arousal soaks through your thin shorts, now sticking uncomfortably to your damp skin.
Despite Bucky being completely lost into his own bliss, he still finds the mental strength to tighten his hold around your waist to keep you still against the counter and enjoy his midnight snack peacefully.
Your nipples are tender by now, abused and wet by one very hungry super soldier. Your head falls back unconsciously, a little embarrassed at the fact that you are probably ready to come and your pussy has been touched a total of zero times.
His large palm languidly slides down your thigh, until it cups your pussy, the vibrations of his low moan further stimulating your nub as your slick coats his fingers through the fabric. You urge him on, grinding onto the heel of his hand.
Two fingers finally travel under the waistband, the rough pads working over your clit, firm but not too fast, just how you like it.
Pleasure burns hotter and hotter with each press of his fingers against your nub, until they find your entrance, delicately rubbing over your folds and collecting your wetness before he nudges them in. Your jaw slackens around a silent moan as they stretch you out so deliciously, curling and rubbing that sweet spot that always makes you gush so prettily around him.
Bucky exhales sharply through his nose, still suckling on your nipples as your hole hungrily swallows his fingers. He is borderline dizzy from how good he feels with his fingers in your pussy and your milk down his throat.
“Feels good, doll?” The words are nothing short of a murmur against your skin. “She’s so needy for me, hm? Doesn’t wanna let go.”
Your cheeks are on fire, and he receives only a quick nod as an answer. The touch his lips leave across your chest burn, causing your lips to prettily open around a silent moan.
“Jamie, just like that, fuck—” You sigh blissed out, flinching when his thumb slowly goes back to toying with your puffy clit. Bucky didn’t realize how much he missed the way your core would turn all swollen with arousal.
“Missed this so much, missed you, honey.” A needy whimper claws out of his throat. “Talk to me, tell me what you wanna do to me.”
“Fucking hell,” he takes a deep breath, pressing soft pecks over your breasts. “Wanna fill you up, sweetheart. Can’t stop thinking about it, how gorgeous you looked all full with my baby.” His eyes briefly close in a futile attempt to ward off the painful throbbing of his cock pushing against his sweatpants.
You clamp around him, shivering when his other hand squeezes your hips.
“‘S all I can think about. Day and night.” He rambles brokenly. “So perfect, my perfect wife with her perfect pussy and her perfect tits—” His words dissolve into a low groan, still softly massaging your walls, the stretch so good it makes your legs tremble around his hips.
“Jamie, more.” You mewl, your hips twitching up helplessly. “Wanna feel you inside, need you to come over and over until it takes again. Jamie, pretty please?”
Bucky grits his teeth.
You can’t stay stuff like that, not when it’s only been two months. Not when he’s been desperate to see you round with his baby once more. Not when you are leaking milk from your breasts while begging for his cock.
“Can’t, babygirl.” He pants. You make your displeasure known loudly with a little wail, clinging tightly onto his shoulders.
“Please, Jamie.” Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your orgasm builds steadily in your belly.
“I know doll, I know. ‘M sorry, ‘m so sorry.”
Your body goes rigid for a second before turning pliant under his calloused hand abandoning your hips to properly take care of your swollen clit. Your pussy clenches, little squeaky moans slipping from your lips and muffled into his hair as you hug Bucky closer to your chest, sagging against him.
“Gonna make it up to you, baby, I swear.” He slurs out dizzily. “Wanna keep this pussy full and give my pretty wife all the babies she wants.”
“Jamie! Close—‘m so close, don’ stop.” He desperately focuses on matching the rhythm of his fingers thrusting inside with the ones rubbing your clit, savoring the eager twitches his cock gives at your pussy tightening.
Bucky then parts his lips, blindly mouthing at your skin until they finally latch onto your nipple once more, and start sucking like a wounded man seeing water after days spent under the scorching sun.
At the intense pressure around your sensitive nubs, the knot in your belly gets tighter and tighter. Your toes curl, and your orgasm finally hits you violently. You come with a gasp, the tension in your belly shattering all at once as your head falls back. Your chest pushes against his greedy mouth, flinching and panting as you find yourself stuck in a limbo of maddening pleasure with Bucky’s fingers still relentless on your pussy, even when small tears run down your cheeks.
And then, your husband grunts loudly, harshly exhaling against the fat of your chest.
“Fucking—shit.” His mouth leaves your nipple with a wet pop, and his head slowly lifts up, leaving your wet nubs exposed to the cold air of the kitchen. You shiver at the change of temperature, slumping against his shoulders as you feel your tits tingle with overstimulation.
He is gentle in removing his fingers from your puffy core, finally embracing you as you mourn the loss. His chin lazily rests on the top of your head for a bit, small kisses swarming your glistening forehead in hopes of easing the trembling of your limbs.
That’s when you see it. Opening your eyes with effort, you are directly met with the sight of a huge stain right on Bucky’s crotch, the grey fabric of his sweatpants darker in that exact place.
“Did you just come in your pants, baby?” You raise your head to look at him with a little grin.
Bucky’s already flushed cheeks flame up, and his eyes refuse to meet yours. Instead, he buries his face in the valley between your tits, hugging you tight.
“Sorry.” He mumbles. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt? Was it good?”
“No need to be sorry.” You hum. “It was so hot, Jamie.” Sighing satisfied, your arms wrap around his neck to caress his hair.
“I’ll help you from now on.” He adds solemnly, looking straight into your eyes. “After you pump out the milk for Bean, I get the last bits.” You can’t help but burst out laughing before pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“Alright, alright. But baby, you are at work until late in the afternoon.”
“Don’t care.” He grunts, nuzzling your neck like a cat in need of cuddles. “I’ll do it at night.” Your eyes widen, immediately protesting.
“Bucky, no. You already take care of Bean when he wakes up throughout the night, then wake up early to go to work… I won’t wake you up just to—to drink my milk.” Your cheeks heat up at the absurdity of your statement.
Bucky huffs, coming out of his hiding place with an offended wrinkle between his brows.
“Doll,” he whines just like a kid trying to convince his mom to stay up later on a school day. His head falls back tiredly. “I’m a super soldier. The super soldier. I don’t need to rest.”
With a sigh you shake your head at his apparently innocent eyes, vaguely reminding you of Alpine when she’s trying to soften you up after pushing something off the table that probably ended up shattering on the floor.
“Please, please, please!” He attacks you with kisses, delicately holding your pliant body in his arms as his lips travel from your face to the slope of your neck, and then back up again.
Your attempts at keeping your laugh down are awful, but you can’t help it when your husband is being this adorable.
“Alright alright! Hey—okay stop, please stop! Stop!” Your lips press together to avoid releasing any loud noise that could potentially interrupt this rare, peaceful night.
Finally, Bucky relents, one hand cradling your cheek while the other massages your lower back with purpose.
“Promise?” His eyebrows raise expectantly and you just have to kiss him.
“Yeah yeah, promise, you hungry super soldier.”
“Good.” He mumbles against your mouth, following your lips for another kiss. “Now, let me properly take care of my wife.”
“What—Bucky!” You gasp as he picks you up, making his way towards the couch.
A devious grin blooms on his handsome face when you whimper at the way he deliberately moves your hips so your puffy folds brush against his imposing bulge with every step he takes.
“Tell me sweet girl, since I can’t fill you up yet, where do you want it? Face or tits?”
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading!
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
tags: fluff, boyfriend!bucky, established relationship, it’s your birthday, #needthat
word count: 261
A/N: it’s my bday so i wrote a short bucky blurb… 🥹🎂🎁 very self-indulgent of me today!
You wake to the smell of coffee and something suspiciously sweet—like pancakes, but with too much cinnamon. You stretch, only to be interrupted by a crash from the kitchen.
A curse. Muffled.
“Bucky?” you call, sitting up.
“Stay in bed!” he shouts back instantly—way too quickly.
Your eyes narrow. “Are you—burning something?”
“No! It’s caramelizing!” he says, defensive.
You pad out into the kitchen anyway and find Bucky standing in front of the stove, shirtless, hair messy, and a proud little smudge of flour across his jaw. On the table is a stack of slightly lopsided pancakes, a bouquet of your favorite flowers in a mismatched jar, and next to it… a tiny velvet box.
“Bucky,” you whisper.
He looks sheepish. “Okay, so the pancakes may be a little tragic. But I figured… you deserve a soft start today. For the softest person I know.”
You blink down at the box, heart thudding.
“It’s not that kind of box,” he says quickly, lifting his hands. “Not yet. I mean. Unless you want it to be one day. It’s just a little birthday thing.”
You open it—and nestled inside is a dainty necklace with a charm shaped like a little crescent moon. You touch it gently.
“Thought it looked like you,” he mutters. “Soft and glowy and… you know. You’re kind of my moon.”
You look up at him, and the tenderness in his eyes just melts you.
You launch into his arms. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs into your hair. “But you love me.”
May I pretty please request a short blurb of Bucky with a reader who has an abnormally high sex drive?
Bucky With a Girlfriend Who Has a High Sex Drive
WC 919 (yay I’m getting better at writing shorter fics!)
TW established relationship, super-soldier stamina, very very suggestive
Bucky thought he had a high sex drive.
He had enhanced stamina, enhanced recovery, enhanced everything, and for a while he assumed that meant he was a problem. He wanted you too much. There would be too many mornings where he woke up hard against your thigh, too many nights where kissing you once turned into him pinning you beneath him until the headboard creaked.
He had even warned you when you first started officially dating.
He did it like he was admitting to a terrible flaw instead of looking at you with those beautiful blue eyes and telling you he wanted you all the fucking time.
“I’m not exactly normal about… sex,” he’d said, thumb dragging over your wrist. “The serum changed things. Stamina. Appetite. Um… drive.”
Your mouth had twitched into a smile. “Appetite?”
His ears had gone pink, but he held your stare. “Yeah.”
You had looked him up and down, shameless enough to make his teeth clench.
“Hm,” you’d said. “We’ll see about that.”
Bucky had been so sure. He really thought the serum meant that he’d have to tone it down.
Then, after months of being friends with benefits, he learned what you were like when you were in a relationship.
You might have an even higher sex drive.
You’re not exactly louder about it. Sometimes you were sweet. Domestic and barefoot in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, humming into your coffee like you hadn’t dragged him in bed three times yesterday.
But then you’d look at him over the rim of your mug.
That look.
Bucky would recognise the mischief in your eyes low in his stomach before you even opened your mouth.
“Buck,” you’d say, soft and sweet.
And he’d groan like a man already defeated.
“Again?” he asked once, voice rough, half laughing into the crook of your neck while you climbed into his lap like the answer was obvious.
You blinked at him, looking at him with innocent eyes and bare thighs bracketing his hips. “Is that a no?”
His hands tightened on your waist so fast it gave him away.
“No,” he said immediately. “No, of course it’s not a no.”
You smiled, smug and pretty, and rocked down against him until his head tipped back against the couch.
Bucky had been tortured, frozen, shot at, thrown through walls.
Nothing humbled him like you wanting him.
You got him messy. Everyone thought Bucky Barnes was disciplined, but you got him undone.
You got his mouth open. You got his hair ruined. You got his metal hand gripping the couch hard enough to make the frame creak while his flesh hand slid between your legs and found you already soaked for him.
“Jesus,” he breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You hummed, pleased, rolling your hips against him. “I thought you had enhanced stamina.”
His laugh came out broken. “I do.”
“Then keep up.”
His eyes went dark.
“Yeah?” he murmured, and the next second he had you under him, your back pressed into the cushions, his body heavy between your thighs. “That what you want?”
You reached down, wrapped your hand around him and watched his eyes nearly roll back.
Every time, that was your favourite part.
That ruined, hungry look when he pushed inside you and had to pause like he was praying for control he didn’t have. Not that you even wanted it.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
You smiled against his mouth, moving around him just to feel the shudder move through his whole body.
“Still think the serum makes you special?”
Bucky groaned, dropping his forehead to yours.
Then he started moving.
Slow at first, because he was still your Bucky, because your pleasure was a mission he intended to complete with military precision. But then you hooked your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, and the sound he made was almost inhuman.
“You’re greedy,” he said, kissing your jaw, your throat, and the corner of your mouth.
“You love it.”
His hips snapped forward harder, and you gasped.
His mouth brushed your ear.
“Fuck,” he admitted, voice low. “I do.”
Boy did he love being wrong about your sex drive.
He loved that you wanted him past the point of reason. He loved that you could make a super soldier sweat, make his thighs shake, make him press his face into your neck and laugh breathlessly.
He loved dragging you into bed after dinner because he had looked at you too long. Loved waking up to your mouth on his throat and your hand sliding beneath the waistband of his sweats. Loved the mornings where he ended up late because you had tugged him back by the chain of his dog tags and whispered, “One more.”
One more was never one more. Bucky learned that quickly. Not that he would have it any other way.
And every single time, he pretended to complain. He’d groan your name, call you trouble, tell you that you were going to get him fired from the new avengers, as if they could ever afford to fire him.
Still, his hands would already be on your waist, his mouth already open against your skin.
He would already be hard again, heavy and flushed between your thighs, because the truth was embarrassingly simple:
Bucky thought he had a high sex drive. Then he met yours.
He realised, very quickly, that he had been outmatched.
—
Note : I’m supposed to post a John Walker kofi request today, but I'm still unhappy with it so I’m gonna look at it with fresh eyes. Probably going to post that Sunday/Monday now!
