i wish there was a way to say "you're right, but this is really ineffective and even counterproductive messaging to anyone who doesn't already agree with you" without sounding like an asshole
a few centered around his family—he always sits or stands to the left of dick, always makes cass her plate, always brings dessert to gatherings because nobody can do it as well as he can.
a few about his work—he always starts on the south end of gotham and works toward the north, always cleans his guns an hour before patrol, always puts his right boot on before his left one.
then, he has several for you.
he always flicks your sky projector on fifteen minutes before you’re done getting ready for bed, he always lets you take a bite of food first before picking his fork up, he always lets you read the prologue of a book he’s considering purchasing.
but your personal favorite?
jason always lets you kiss him first.
he’ll lower his face to yours, keeping the space between the two of you until you lift your lips to slot against his. whenever he wants affection, he’ll draw closer, look at you with those utterly compelling eyes of his, and wait.
he waits until you respond—whether it be reciprocating his energy or not.
he doesn’t take from you. he loves whatever you give him, even if it’s merely eye contact.
even then, he’ll graciously accept it because it’s from you.
jason has a habit of waiting for you to kiss him first, not because he’s nervous or shy.
he waits because he knows what it’s like to have things taken, and he always wants you to have a choice.
You’ve always had one rule: never date your residents — and it’s been easy — until Bucky shows up with his steady hands and deep blue eyes, making you question everything you’ve built and everything you’ve sought to protect.
▸ PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x Mayor F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, oral (f!receiving), one-sided enemies to lovers, fluff, stardew world mostly for vibes, bucky uses pet names and pussy pronouns, reader passes out once, this goes out to all the eldest daughters everywhere
▸ WORD COUNT: 14.8K
▸ A/N: ok so i barely know stardew, i've only seen other people play so forgive the inaccuracies and changes <3 but thank you so much miss @pinksplace for hosting this lovely lil collab!!! be sure to check out the other fics in the ml below. shoutout to yari for giving me a screenshot to make my chicken dividers heheh. if you enjoyed this, i appreciate any reblogs / comments / likes!
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In a land far, far away from urban jungles and big city lights sits a valley. This valley is lush with an abundance of untouched forests and greenery that stretches for acres. The air here is crisp with a touch of sea breeze that blows in from the shore. In a place like this, one would never think that our dear mother Earth is struggling. This is the kind of place that hosts fairytales and magical creatures, should they exist.
The valley is, however, small in population. It is home to a handful of residents, their houses passed down through generations — cottages that look as though they were lifted straight from Van Gogh and painted onto this land. Everyone knows each other by name, and they know their parents and their grandparents, and all those who lived before them.
These residents live in a tiny town called Pelican Town.
Many may describe this place as a slice of heaven on earth. An oblivious sort of peace that can only exist in the isolation of this small town. In a place like Pelican Town, rarely does anything groundbreaking occur. The only stories that trickle through the town are which neighbors are bickering and what groceries are for sale.
Because Pelican Town is not where one goes to vacation or to chase their dreams. Pelican Town is a place where you go to settle.
This is why news tends to travel fast — particularly when it involves a stranger. A new face. In all your years, you’ve welcomed only a handful of new people to town and they usually are relatives of existing townspeople. Like any other place, Pelican Town loves its gossip.
When the whispers crescendo of a new resident in town, the place comes alive. The air vibrates with a nervous, entralled energy as the streets flutter to life. Residents flit from shop to shop, business owners peek out their windows, and nosy neighbors traipse around in the hopes of catching a glimpse of this newcomer.
As mayor, you make it your business to know everything that happens in this town. You hear about every little tiff, every little snag, and work your magic to iron out any wrinkles that appear in the community. You make everyone’s happiness your personal responsibility.
This includes any new residents who move into town, especially those who are apparently doing construction without proper permits from City Hall.
However, you do note that the atmosphere around this news has shifted; there is an anxious tint to everyone’s movements, peering over their shoulders warily as they hurry down cobblestone paths.
“He moved into that old wreck of a farmhouse.”
“I heard he’s killed people.”
“He’s got a metal arm!”
The rumor mill is not the most reliable source of information. Despite the proximity in which information travels, you know your people well enough to understand the temptation to exaggerate. When you live in a town like this, a bit of dramatic flair is needed to keep yourself entertained. So you decide it may be best to visit them yourself, give them an official welcome.
Even if the hearsay about his metal arm makes you slightly apprehensive.
The farmhouse sits on the outskirts of town, at the end of a winding dirt path that nobody ventures down. It is a dilapidated, practically unlivable piece of infrastructure that hasn’t been occupied since Arthur Barnes passed nearly a decade ago. Everyone always assumed he had no next of kin; the man was a widower and, while kind, he never had any visitors and kept to himself. Your father was the only one who spoke to him.
Since his funeral organized by your father, the farmhouse has been relatively untouched. While your father checked on it occasionally, he never shared much. The one thing he did tell you was that the land shouldn’t be handed over to anyone — no residents and certainly no developers. The farmhouse and the surrounding land belonged to the Barnes family.
You wanted to ask what Barnes family but your father’s mind seemed set in stone, so you never questioned it further.
Even after your father passed and the farmhouse continued to sit there rotting away through the changing seasons, it didn’t seem right to sell it to anyone else.
Now, as you make your way to the farmhouse, you feel the first spike of worry. You’ve never had to welcome a new resident throughout your years as mayor. The people here know you to be reliable, beloved, respected. People like you. Even if no one was gunning for the position, you were confident in your approval ratings.
It’s nerve-wracking to pitch yourself again to someone new, to see whether they will even like you.
When the farmhouse finally comes into view, you force yourself to exhale. The house looks as it has always been. Same worn wooden walls with cracks and chips, a single window facing the outside shielded by a set of curtains, copper tiles on the roof with stains from weathering storms. It appears nearly exactly the same as you saw it last, which was fifteen years ago. If it weren’t for the rustling from inside the house, you would’ve thought that it was still deserted.
You tug on your reins to pull Mac into a halt in front of the house, dismounting your horse and patting her to grant her permission to wander the patches of grass to graze. After all, you can’t really stray too far in the valley.
Wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans, you jog up the steps. The porch stairs creak beneath your weight, practically announcing your arrival. The sounds from inside abruptly stop. You bring your first to the door and knock firmly.
For a while, there is only silence. It doesn’t seem as if whoever is in there is interested in greeting you. But you’re nothing if not persistent, so you knock again. Firmer.
More silence, but only for a couple of seconds.
Then you hear footsteps and you take a single step back. The sound of the lock being unlatched before the door opens with a whoosh.
And there he is. Your new resident.
The first thing you notice is that his eyes are a stark blue, bluer than the ocean in the summertime. They sparkle in the sunlight, flickering a shade closer to the brighter sky. They are curious and wide as they appraise you. His midnight hair is cropped short, the sweat lining his skin messing up the strands, compounded with the humidity close to the hottest seasons of the year. His lips are pink where they part soundlessly, framed by his neat, trimmed beard. His strong brows are puckered into a befuddled frown.
A frown directed at you.
But all you can focus on is one truth: he’s… handsome.
Handsome enough that you feel heat creeping up your neck the more he stares — and he really does stare.
“Hi,” you chirp, politician-ready smile plastered across your face.
He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stare.
It has your skin itching with unease.
You introduce yourself by name and follow it with, “I’m the mayor of Pelican Town. It’s so nice to meet you!”
Once again, he doesn’t say anything. So you start rambling.
“Well, I heard you just moved into this farmhouse and it’s been so long since anyone’s lived here so I wanted to come by and check in and make sure everything’s okay. I assume you’ll be doing some repairs and construction, do you have big plans for it?”
“Can I help you with something?”
Oh, his voice is deep. Deep enough to make you swallow that thick lump in your throat. Deep enough to have you subtly pressing your legs together.
There are very few eligible bachelors in town. Even fewer when you really consider the good-looking ones. Zero when you think about how you would never date any of your residents to avoid any an it’s complicated situation.
Basically, you’ve doomed yourself to a life of voluntary solitude and you’ve accepted that fate. As long as you’re mayor, you don’t plan to involve yourself in any romantic entanglements with anyone in the valley — and it seems like you’ll be mayor for a very long time.
Regardless, you’re now more concentrated on his gruff voice. He doesn’t sound pleased to see you.
You hide your hands behind your back, smile wavering only slightly as you wring your fingers together. “I just wanted to welcome you to town. I do this for everyone new!”
Your justification seems to leave him more amused than anything. He stands straighter, broad shoulders spreading, before he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorjamb. Your gaze falls briefly to his biceps where they flex, stretching his red Henley.
It’s ridiculous how attractive that one little act is. You don’t think that fabric is meant to be tested for the strength of its threads against pure muscle.
“You get a lot of new people around here?” He asks, one eyebrow going up lazily. His tone is lighter now, more teasing.
Your mouth dries, cheeks warm. “No, not really.”
Then he’s quiet again, the look in his eyes almost contemplative, and the two of you are left in this odd standoff where he looks at you, you look at him, he keeps looking at you, and you finally look away.
“Was there anything else?” The man grunts, glancing back to his house as if he’s more than ready to leave this conversation.
“Well, if you need anything, I’m around! But no, there was nothing spec—”
“Have a good day, ma’am.”
Then the door is slamming shut in your face before the sounds resume inside.
You stand there, speechless and shocked.
No one — and you mean no one, not even that old grouch Mr. Jenkins — in Pelican Town is this rude. Hell, none of them are rude, period. Yet, here comes this man — new to town, bad rumors floating around him like flies, and yet he still acts like he’s too good for a conversation. A simple welcome. He didn’t even tell you his name.
There’s only one word that comes to mind to describe him.
Dick.
Growing up as the mayor’s only child means that you’ve had to learn how to behave prim and proper early on. Your father emphasized the need to put on a strong front to everyone in town. After your mother passed away, he grew lonely and instead poured his entire heart into developing this town into one worth living in — one worth staying in.
You were approaching your teenage years when you began to calculate the hours he spent at City Hall, watching the clock to see what time he returned home at the end of the day — if he came home at all. You watched how he dedicated himself to every resident; mornings tilling the fields with Mr. Jenkins, afternoons resolving Mrs. Evers and Mrs. Yan’s daily debates, and evenings cooking dinner for Mr. Kirby who couldn’t be trusted near an open fire. This doesn’t include the official work he has as mayor and the countless hours he spends just listening to people.
No was not part of his vocabulary. It’s the same language he taught you growing up.
“With great power comes great responsibility,” he would say. As mayor, it’s your duty to ensure that all of your residents are happy in your town.
When age caught up to him, years of backbreaking labor finally evident beyond the calluses of his palms, he floated the idea of you taking over his responsibilities. Of you becoming mayor.
“You’ve got a good heart. That’s something this town needs. I need to know that this place will be in good hands after I’m gone.”
That conversation occurred as you were on the precipice of graduating high school, when you were slowly building the courage to tell your father that you wanted to venture outside of the valley, outside of this tiny town you’ve always called home.
However, when your father looked at you with those hopeful eyes — eyes that believed in something good for this place, you could only swallow what little conviction you had. You glanced at the dreams you had no right to have, tucked them away in a corner of your mind to gather dust, and you never looked back.
You were barely eighteen, going around town to ensure that you were front and center for everyone. Your father was well-known and well-loved; he wanted to make sure you were the same. You practiced your smiles, learned how to apply concealer to cover the shadows under your eyes, and repeated “How can I help you today?” over and over again until your tongue was trained to the shape of the syllables.
Here you are today — still here. Your father buried right next to your mother in the cemetery further north.
This morning, you’ve already had to resolve shipping disputes for the general store, and the museum was struggling with an overabundance of crickets (not sure why they decided to keep crickets as an exhibit). It’s barely ten and you already feel a yawn coming, particularly since resident comments for the new community center proposal kept you up.
“Oh dear.”
Your ears immediately perk up, your instinct to smile settling on your face, as you turn to face Mrs. Evers who’s staring woefully at the bags of fertilizer for her flower shop up front. You test your knees, having slightly hurt them just a week ago when you were fixing Mr. Lansing’s roof.
“Mrs. Evers, can I help you with that?”
You spend the remainder of your morning getting your hands dirty — lifting bags of fertilizer, adding them to her garden, yanking weeds out. She thanks you with a cup of tea. Glancing at the clock, you’re running a little too close to the summer festival planning committee meeting that’s happening in City Hall.
The summer festival is the valley’s biggest event of the year. Small businesses and residents come together for a month-long celebration at the beach. It involves family-friendly activities, food stalls, a small farmer’s market, and much more. You even have plenty of visitors from outside the valley attending. It’s quite the extravaganza and it’s your legacy, having pitched and started it from a small weekend event to this one that requires an actual team to plan it.
Speaking of the team, you have to meet them now.
So much for lunch. You quickly bid her adieu before rushing over to your office.
The meeting goes as expected — which is nowhere. No one can agree on anything, things are over budget, and the deadline is breathing down your neck.
If this keeps up, you may have to take matters into your own hands and plan the entire damn thing yourself. It isn’t ideal, but it’s the only way to get things to work around here.
By the time the committee is adjourned, it’s well into the afternoon and your stomach protests. Loudly. You haven’t had time to cook as of late, so you may have to just run down to the saloon and pick up something. Steve usually gives you discounts, which you insist on not taking, but he is much more persistent, especially when he knows you’re too pressed for time to argue.
However, before you can make your way there, you spot a familiar yet slightly unwelcome face by the bulletin board. Residents use the board to request and sell their services around town. There are announcements for town events and occasional oversharing of pet photos by Mrs. Yan.
Smile. You can do this. You shouldn’t let one bad interaction sour the opportunity to engage him.
You move towards him, approaching cautiously. The man reminds you of a cat — a little lazy, a little skittish, and a whole lot of grumpy. You’re just trying not to get scratched.
“Hey, how’s it going?”
The man jumps and whirls around to face you. His eyes are even bluer out in the open like this. His hair is neater now and he smells like clean detergent. He’s got a blue long-sleeve this time that makes his eyes pop.
“I never got your name, you know,” you coax slowly.
He blinks at you, expression cool and indifferent. “Bucky.”
He doesn’t give you a last name.
“Nice to meet you, Bucky. Are you part of the Barnes family?”
He shifts uncomfortably.
“I knew Arthur. My father was a good friend of his.”
Bucky’s eyes light up in recognition. “I see,” he murmurs, “he’s my grandfather.”
“Oh, I never realized he had kids.”
He only shrugs. A man of very few words, very different from the chatty people in this town.
“Did you need any help? The town can be difficult to navigate at times, but we have maps at City Hall if you need them. If you need a guide to introduce you to people, I’m more than happy to do that. Making friends can go a long way in Pelican Town!”
A flicker of amusement crosses his eyes. “I’ll manage.”
You clear your throat, directing your gaze to the board instead as your hands gesture wildly over the flyers. It’s easier than attempting to hold eye contact with his professional stare. “Right, uhm, we have many events going on. I know we’re a small town but we do our best to keep things lively. Is anything catching your eye? People are always looking for ways to get involved and that’s also a great way to meet the rest of the town! We’ve got the summer festival happening soon, we’re planning it right now. You should definitely come. It’ll be tons of fun and everyone will be there.”
The resounding silence is deafening. You almost feel awkward having said so much only to receive so little. You’re still smiling wide at him, glance flying back and forth between him and the board, and Bucky just regards you impassively. There’s a calculating look in his eyes that makes you squirm but you don’t give in, you keep your spirits up.
He just keeps staring, a heartbeat then two, before he opens his mouth.
“Don’t you ever get tired of smiling?”
The corners of your lips twitch, nearly dropping, but you press them upwards again. Smile. Just keep smiling. Don’t show how he’s getting to you.
Clearing your throat, you intertwine your fingers behind your back again. Your nails dig into your palms. “What do you mean?”
He is quiet again for a second, seemingly thinking about how he should respond before he decides against it. Instead, he grunts out a “never mind”, turns on his heel, and walks away.
In all your years in Pelican Town, you’ve never had a problem with any of the residents. Your proactive, helpful nature and consistent optimism are well-received. Mr. Jenkins is the most difficult person you’ve had to face and you conquered that by baking his favorite Earl Grey cookies that you’ve perfected over time.
Every resident has their ticks. You always have a way in.
You’re starting to think that nothing is going to get through to Bucky. Regardless of how much help you try to offer or even the small talk you try to initiate, Bucky always looks at you with a gaze that screams that he doesn’t care.
You see him prowling all over town, buying supplies and bringing them back home on his horse. His face becomes familiar to everyone, especially now that it’s public that he’s working on the old Barnes home.
What is jarring to you, however, is how much good people have to say about him.
“Bucky is such a sweetheart. He helped me pick up the fresh tuna from the fish shop this morning.”
“Oh, he’s so kind. Very knowledgeable. He got my tractor running again.”
“We played chess until the wee hours last night. Maybe we should start a chess tournament with him around!”
This man, regardless of your attempts to engage, has said two words to you since he moved in. But you weren’t raised a quitter, so you tried time and time again to talk to him. Each time, he deflects, shuts you down, or straight up walks away from you.
Maybe it’s just you that he hates. Maybe he simply hates authority figures and you’ve gone ahead and introduced yourself as mayor of this town, as if that says everything about who you are. You don’t know how to remedy this situation. It’s not as if you’ve been terrible to him. Maybe you’ve been too demanding with him. Too insistent.
Groaning, you let your head thunk on the wooden table.
Wanda shakes her head when she sees your miserable state. “What you need is a break.”
“What I need is answers. Why does he like everyone but me?”
“Why do you need him to like you?” Wanda throws right back, tossing in something green and alive into her cauldron.
It’s a fair question, one you have also asked yourself. It’s not as if it’s a requirement for everyone to like you, you’ve seen the state of politics in the rest of the nation. What is one man to the dozens of others you have living in this town?
But you can’t help yourself. You’ve taken it upon yourself to be helpful to everyone, sometimes biting off more than you can chew, but you always make it work. There’s probably something to work through there, but it’s not an issue you want to reckon with today. Not when your friend is brewing god knows what in her living room.
“I just want to help. I don’t understand why he’s so cold to me. Am I an asshole?”
“On your good days,” Wanda smirks in jest.
To everyone else in town, you are the good mayor who never complains, who gets shit done. You have a smile on your face and you do everything happily. Only Wanda has really seen what you truly are — exhausted, burnt out, and irritable.
When you became mayor, you did what your father never did. You explored the valley to conduct outreach to other residents in the area. Cindersap Forest was always home to plenty of resources that kept the town running but beyond the ranch, nobody really speaks to anyone there.
Especially not the witch that lives in the tower.
Wanda lives on the western edge of the forest, mostly as a recluse. People had been initially wary, avoiding her like the plague. But the more she was seen around town with you, the more they warmed up to her. Now Wanda crafts all sorts of solutions for people in town — magical skincare, enhanced farming equipment, and fun toys, some of which are questionable to parents.
She’s a good soul and people can see that in her. You’re pleased with that because Wanda’s become your closest friend in town. The only one who really knows you. It’s why you spend what little free time you have in her tower, watching her cook up all sorts of concoctions.
“Listen, I wouldn’t stress too much about him. You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re a disgustingly likable person. I’m sure he’ll come around.”
You highly doubt it.
“What you need is to relax. Take some time off. Get a drink. When was the last time you had a drink?”
That sip of wine when you turned twenty-one and celebrated your birthday in the quiet of your office because you still had to reorganize the community calendar for the year.
So, years ago.
“Come on. Let’s get something other than one of Steve’s sandwiches at the saloon.”
It’s a tempting idea, one you entertain for a hot second until dread sinks in your stomach again. “What will people think of me if I’m there? They’re going to think I don’t have enough to do, that I can’t help them tomorrow.”
“People will think that you’re living your youth and having a good time.” Wanda rolls her eyes. She grabs her cloak and drapes it over her shoulders. “Come on, I could use some of his mulled wine. There’s no magic in that, but I’m convinced Rogers made a deal with the devil to create something that good.”
The saloon is as alive as it could be — regulars you’ve seen coming in and out packing the booths, occasional visitors hanging onto the bar in the hopes of getting Steve’s attention, and— fuck, is that Bucky? You try not to stare at him too much, dragging your eyes instead to the saloon owner who has now spotted you across the bar.
He immediately leaves behind the group of now-disappointed ladies clustered on the other end of the bar to greet you and Wanda.
“Wanda. Ma’am,” he nods at you.
“Call me ma’am again and I might have to strip you off your liquor license,” you warn him lightheartedly.
“Noted, Madam Mayor,” he pokes right back with that charming grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here outside of lunch and dinner before.”
“Don’t point it out, she’s already stressed enough as it is at the idea of relaxing,” Wanda grunts as she slides onto one of the stools. “I’ll get your mulled wine and a tequila soda. She will have whatever is your top-shelf liquor that will knock her out in two seconds flat.”
You give her a look as you settle in next to her. “Funny.”
“I was being serious.”
“Mulled wine and tequila soda coming right up,” Steve nods at Wanda then turns to you, “what kind of drink do you like? Beer? Cocktails? Straight liquor?”
Considering you haven’t really had the chance to explore alcohol, the question is a daunting one. You don’t know what you like. What are people supposed to like at your age? Something that tastes good or something that tastes like jet fuel?
Steve seems to grasp your dilemma and instead prompts, “You like sweets? I could make you something fruity, sweeter.”
“I could do with something fruity and sweet,” you breathe out in relief.
He confirms your orders then goes to throw it together.
“Not so bad right?” Wanda bumps your shoulder.
“For now,” you mumble. “I still have a stack of documents to review for that community center. Town budget isn’t looking so hot.”
“Let work go for one night. Trust me. Just one.”
Work is your life. How can she ask you to let go of your life?
Steve comes back around and places the drinks in front of you. Yours is this pale blue liquid in a triangular glass. He nods at you with a smile, encouraging you to give it a try. “If you don’t like it, I can make you something else.”
Your fingers delicately hold the stem as you raise it to your lips. The cocktail is cool on your lips and saccharine on your tongue with a hint of tartness. There are citrus and floral notes, but the combination is divine. Maybe Wanda was right, he’s got to have made a deal to be this good.
“Good?”
“Terrific,” you confirm, “thank you.”
“‘Course,” he beams. “First round is on the house.”
“Steve, absolutely not,” you blanch, reaching for your wallet.
“If you take that wallet out right now, I’m going to have to make your drinks free the rest of the night.”
Wincing, you extract your hand away from your pockets and settle them on the bar.
“Good,” he nods proudly. “I’ll be here all night so let me know if you want anything else, alright?”
Wanda begins telling you about this new recipe she’s working on; you try not to focus too much on the ingredients she lists lest they become a legal liability for you. As she does so, you let your eyes roam around the bar.
Your gaze darts from corner to corner, worry creasing your forehead. Your heart is practically threatening to jump out of your chest as you take another sip of your drink. However, much to your relief and dismay, everyone’s busy nursing their own drinks. Nobody even spares you a glance. Maybe your paranoia about your image has really gotten out of hand.
When unrecognizable laughter rings across the room, you jump. You nearly get whiplash from how hard you turn around to the source.
Imagine your surprise when you see Bucky on the other end of it. He has his head thrown back, his entire body leaning into his chair as he clutches his chest. You’ve never heard him laugh before; it’s beautiful. The sort of laughter that has pleasure tingling your fingertips. He looks almost boyish, the lines on his face smoothing out with his eyes crinkling in delight.
He’s at Peter and Tony’s table, the duo that runs StarkMart on the other side of town. Tony’s a tough man to impress or please, it took you a while to get on his good side, particularly as it’s helpful to convince him to sponsor some of the town initiatives. There Bucky was, smiling and laughing with the two like they’ve always been friends.
So the man is a charmer — just not with you.
It’s incredibly disconcerting that he seems to get along with everyone except you — the one person who actually tried. You end up taking bigger and bigger swigs of your drink, licking your lips of the syrupy flavor each time.
“You might want to slow down on that,” Wanda eyes you questioningly. “It may seem innocent but it packs quite the punch. Plus, you haven’t had a drink in forever.”
“It’s just good,” you shrug.
When the last drop hits your tongue, you set the glass down and ready yourself to flag Steve for another. What’s one night to relax right? You can go back to being the good, responsible mayor tomorrow.
But, before you can do so, another drink lands in front of you. It’s pink this time. “Oh, thank you. Let me pay you now.”
“No need,” Steve waves you off.
“Steve,” you start sternly.
“No, it’s paid for. Someone sent a drink over.”
Wanda lets out a little ooh while Steve keeps standing there with a smug smirk on his face. Warmth crawls up your neck. “Who was it?”
“Can’t tell you. He asked for it to be anonymous.”
Your friend’s eyes are positively glimmering with delight. “Sugar daddy wants to stay anonymous.”
Balking at her, you chuck a napkin her way. “Gross, Wanda.”
“Give us a hint, Steve. Come on.”
“Well, I’ll say that he’s perhaps a man who’s trying to get in your good graces.”
Your good graces? You’ve never had a problem with anyone, you can’t even begin to imagine who would try to send you a peace offer— oh. Oh. But that can’t be. Why would he, of all people, send you a drink?
“You know who it is.”
You scan the room again, finding only Tony and Peter left in the corner booth. When your eyes land on the door, you catch a flash of black and gray disappearing out the door. Pursing your lips, you slide off your seat. “I’ll be right back.”
Wanda tries to protest but Steve just shushes her.
The spring air is nice and cool on your skin when you step outside. Music and chatter from the saloon are muffled the moment the front door closes. You look around to find the illuminated pathways desserted, not a soul in sight.
It is only when you hear clicking off to the side that you notice the silhouette leaning against the side of the building.
Bucky stands there, long frame stretched with his back pressed up against the wall. He’s halfway through pulling out a cigarette, his sharp blue eyes already trained on you as he does so. Your lips pinch at the sight of the vice. Bucky taps it once against the carton as his lips slowly curl up.
“Can I help you with something?”
His words are an echo of your first meeting. It sounds like a jab.
You could smile, simply thank him for the drink, and go about your day. You could ask him again how he’s finding the town, if he has any complaints or ideas for you to consider. You could do all the things you’re supposed to do, except, what leaves your mouth is—
“What did you mean that day? When you asked me if I ever got tired of smiling.”
Bucky is quiet for a moment, gaze flicking up to meet yours. “What do you think I meant?”
You bite back the urge to roll your eyes, lips pursing instead in annoyance, His focus drops to your mouth before coming back up. “I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you.”
You’re hoping that your irritation doesn’t shine through your voice, but based on the humored look on Bucky’s face, you’re not doing a very good job. “Why does it matter what I think?”
That’s always the big question. It’s the same one that Wanda asked — why do you need him to like you? You don’t know why, but you do care. You want to know what he thinks. He’s the first new face in town, sue you for wanting to know how the place you’ve built appears to outsiders.
But there’s something else. Something deeper you’re not yet sure you want to acknowledge. Maybe it’s the thoughtful look in his eyes whenever he regards you; not the automatic respect or resentment that you’re used to the moment they find out you’re mayor. Rather, it’s softer, more akin to curiosity than anything else.
You’ve never had anyone curious about you. It has always been the other way around, your job to know and learn more about other people so you can serve them better.
The way Bucky stares is unnerving, like he’s picking apart pieces of you so he can learn how to put you back together. His very own jigsaw puzzle.
Still, you can’t admit all this to him.
“You’re a resident in my town. Of course, I care.”
His lips tug up. “That’s a lot of caring to do.”
“It’s part of the job.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
Your skin prickles. “I have a lot of responsibilities, is that so bad?”
“Maybe what you need is a man to fuck that responsibility out of you.”
Your heart smashes against your ribcage, jolting every nerve inside you to life. Your lungs constrict and suddenly you’re stark sober as you look at him. The world before you begins to spin and you can’t tell why it’s even happening, how you’re feeling.
So you settle for outrage. “Excuse me?”
Bucky’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, the cogs in his mind turning as he debates his response. His eyes glaze over, eyelids drooping as he squints. “What I mean is that you need to relax. This town isn’t going anywhere and it seems like neither are you, so why don’t you slow it down a little?”
“That’s still incredibly inappropriate to say,” you scowl, jaw clenched.
He doesn’t seem affected by your change in attitude. It seems to only… please him. A smile stretches across his lips. “That’s the face I was looking for. Doesn’t that feel better?”
“You’re a condescending prick,” you let slip before you can stop yourself. Dread drops hard and fast in the pit of your stomach.
Oh god, what have you done? You’ve just called one of your residents a prick. If this gets out, and apparently Bucky is loved enough as is, people will hate you. They won’t trust you. What happens then?
However, Bucky only laughs — the sound ringing clear in the quiet night. He flips open his cigarette box instead, slipping the single stick back in. “So I’ve been told before,” he drawls casually.
You grit your teeth to stop yourself from opening your big mouth again. Perhaps you do need to consider picking up meditation, especially if Bucky plans on sticking around.
“Anything else, Madam Mayor?”
Heat flushes your skin again. “No,” you almost spit out, “just… be safe getting home.”
“Should say the same to you.” He nods then waves his hand over his shoulder as he ambles away from you.
That’s when you remember why you even came out here in the first place. “And thank you,” you call out, slightly embarrassed, “for the drink.”
Bucky turns around with a smile, and you swear it looks genuine. “Anytime. If you need my help, you know where to find me.”
Somehow, you have a feeling he isn’t talking about the town.
This summer festival is never going to be planned, not with the way these people are handling the meetings. You end up taking it upon yourself to lead these meetings, structuring an agenda and making sure that at least one decision gets made today — even if it takes a full day of the team being either distracted or arguing amongst themselves.
The only time you step outside today is to get lunch for everyone since no progress had been made and they’ve already started moaning about being hungry. When the sun finally kisses your skin for the first time that day, you take a deep breath.
This is going to be a very long day.
You look across the street and find Bucky there, bags of his purchases dangling from those thick hands. When his eyes snag on your figure, he moves all of them to one hand and waves. You give him a small wave back in return before scurrying inside.
That feels like progress.
You don’t need to think about his words from last night. You’ve lost enough sleep because of them as it is.
Thankfully, the rest of the meeting proceeds seamlessly. A few more hours and you’ve got owners for all the action items on your list. Now, you just have to make sure they actually do it. After they leave, you spend a few more hours going through your actual work — reviewing permit requests, resident proposals, and the occasional note that Wanda sneaks in for you to take a break.
By the time you look up, the letters are blurring together before your eyes and moonlight streaks across your wooden floors. It’s pitch black outside and you don’t even want to check the time; god forbid you’ve turned into your father. As good as a man he was, he had no semblance of work-life balance — and it seems you’re well on your way to proving the phrase like father, like daughter.
You quickly pack your things and lock up the office. You’re mentally running through your to-do list for tomorrow when you slam into something solid. Something extremely solid. Your eyes fly up to meet familiar, bright baby blues. Bucky’s hands are gripping you by your arms, careful enough not to hurt you but firm enough so that you don’t hurt him.
“Jesus, Bucky, what’re you doing out here?”
“I was heading home.”
“At this hour?”
He coughs, “Well, I was going to walk you home first then go back, but I didn’t realize how late you worked.”
“Time got away from me,” you say sheepishly, “you don’t have to walk me home. I don’t live too far from here.”
“Even more of a reason,” Bucky shrugs, “shall we?”
You would think that walking with Bucky would be awkward, particularly given your history or lack thereof, but he’s a decent conversationalist. You can see why the townspeople adore him; he’s good at listening, making you feel like whatever you’re saying is important. Despite the gruffness of his voice, Bucky’s presence puts you at ease. He makes you comfortable enough to let your guard down.
It’s a terrifying revelation.
Still, you doubt that he wanted to walk you home to make small talk.
“Alright, do you want to tell me what this is about? I doubt you waited for me for hours just to ask me about my favorite pie in town.”
“Hey, that’s a critical piece of information. I love pies,” Bucky teases. You give him a look. “Okay, okay. I wanted to actually apologize—” you cock an eyebrow in question, “—for yesterday.”
Oh. His words ricochet in your eardrums again.
Maybe what you need is a man to fuck that responsibility out of you.
Your face heats up at the memory.
“That was incredibly rude of me. I may have had a little too much to drink but that is no excuse. Sometimes, I have no filter and god knows that mouth’s gotten me into more trouble before. But that’s no way to speak to you and I am sorry.”
You’re not.
Not entirely. You went home thinking about that last night. You don’t really think about your dearth of a sex life. While you don’t feel shame about having zero sexual experiences at your age, you do sometimes wonder if you’re missing out on the greater pleasures of life.
Or so Wanda has claimed. You don’t even know who she’s been seeing when you hear all the gossip in this town.
And the thought of Bucky being the first to— no, you should not go there. You slam on the brakes of that thought and instead rasp out your response.
“It’s fine.”
Bucky cocks an eyebrow. “Surprisingly tame response. Is it really fine?”
“Yeah,” you nod, wondering why the hell it’s feeling this warm when it’s this late.
His footsteps cease and you look back to where he’s stopped. His brows furrowed. “You really shouldn’t let anyone talk to you like that, including me.” He pauses, “At least, not outside of bed.”
Your heart stutters, you nearly slip.
The implication is there — Bucky can be and is willing to be mean in bed, should you desire it. That’s food for thought.
Clearing your throat, you throw your gaze into the distance. “I know. It’s not as if I don’t have a backbone. I just— I sort of understand your intentions, even if you are terrible with your words. I appreciate your concern, but I can handle myself just fine.”
When the two of you finally come to a stop in front of your home, you smile at him then at his horse who’s been walking alongside him. “What’s her name?”
“Her name’s Winter.”
“Winter,” you murmur, your hand reaching up to stroke her gently on the neck. Winter gives a little neigh and a little kick as she nuzzles into your touch. “Such a good girl. Make sure you get Bucky home carefully, okay?”
You turn back to face him, his expression molten as he looks at you.
You don’t know what to make of that. “Have a good night, Bucky. Thank you for walking me.”
“Anytime. Like I said, you ever need anything, you let me know.”
It’s the week leading up to the festival. You can’t believe that this group has managed to set aside their differences and put together an extravagant event with detailed plans.
“You really need to have more faith in us,” Mr. Lansing says with a teasing grin. You laugh and agree.
However, with the event just around the corner, coordination requirements are at an all-time high — which means your workload has simply doubled. The others have offered their assistance but you want them to focus on the fun aspects of this bonanza, leave it to you to deal with the boring logistical things.
This means you barely have even a minute to sneak in a small bite or sleep long enough that your body manages to rest without conjuring up images of World War III striking the beach on d-day. Through it all, you keep your confident smile tattooed on your face. You’re not going to let them see you panic, regardless of how much anxiety this event gives you every year.
Not to mention, if you’re stressed, it’ll only agitate the others, which means more arguments, which means more work for you.
You’re piecing together the layout with the construction team on the beach, giving a full rundown to the vendors on how to set up and run their booths, and finding answers to every single additional question that comes up.
“Where do I put this massive sign?”
“Who’s going to be running the fireworks?”
“What are we going to do if it rains?”
All legitimate questions. All exhausting questions.
You don’t think much about your work or how drained you are or how the world is spinning— the world is spinning?
Then it all goes to black.
You’re on a bed, the mattress firm underneath you, sheets tangled around your legs. Sweat beads your forehead from an unconscious force pressing against your brain. Your fingers tighten on the duvet.
The clinic. This is Banner’s Clinic. Good god.
Speak of the angel, Bruce peeks around the curtain cautiously. “You’re safe. You’re fine.”
“What happened?”
“You passed out at the beach.”
Your stomach sinks. Oh god. You still had so much to go over with everyone, especially the construction crew that’s supposed to be building all the booths. The material is coming very last minute so they need to know exactly what needs to be done so it gets completed.
“I have to go—” you start, swinging your legs over the bed.
The room turns on its axis. You nearly go cross-eyed when Bruce jumps to your rescue, pressing you back into the pillow. “You need to rest,” he emphasizes with a stern look that feels like a parent scolding a child.
“There’s so much to be done.”
“And they will get done but not in this state.”
You deflate with a sigh. “How’d I even get here?”
“Barnes. Bucky carried you here.”
Bucky had— oh no. You’re quick to feel the flames of humiliation lick your face. After last night’s conversation, you’re even more embarrassed at looking so helpless now. “I really need to go,” you insist weakly.
Bruce sighs, “He said you were going to be stubborn about this. Alright, eat the sandwich first, rest for another hour, then I’ll get him to come pick you up.”
“No!” You interrupt loudly enough that Bruce jumps. “I mean, I can get there fine. Sandwich would be great.”
“I don’t think I need to remind you of this but you need sleep and sustenance. I know there’s a lot to do around the festival but we also have enough hands to go around. You need to take better care of yourself, Mayor.”
“Yes, sir,” you mumble quietly.
He leaves you then to indulge in your first proper meal in days. You see the packaging from Steve’s saloon. It’s one of your favorite sandwiches from there and that first bite feels like heaven. The textures and delicate balance of flavors on your tongue. Incredibly nice of him to drop this off, terribly embarrassing for him to know what happened.
You feel much, much better already.
By the time you make your way back to the beach, your contentment has melted away into sheer shame. How are you supposed to face everyone now? You had passed out! You were supposed to be the person everyone could rely on and now you’ve disappointed them. There’s much to catch up on, so you’re hoping the venue is not too much of a mess.
However, what greets you at the beach is… organization. A steady rhythm of work and conversations to map out how this festival will happen. Everyone from the planning committee are actively engaging vendors, animatedly sharing all the great things they have planned.
At the center of it all — Bucky.
He’s listening and nodding attentively to the construction lead, responding thoughtfully. He’s dressed more casually today with the warmer weather now settling in the valley. A white tank and a pair of shorts. His arms are visible in the near-evening sun, the metal winking at you. Your belly flips.
When his eyes spot you, his face pinches with worry first. He excuses himself from the conversation and hurries over to you. “What are you doing here?”
“I have to wrap things up,” you say.
“No, what you have to do is rest. Bruce let you out?”
You playfully scowl at him. “I don’t need Bruce to let me do anything.” He gives you a stern look. “I insisted that an additional hour after I woke up would be enough. I’ll catch up on sleep tonight.”
Bucky still looks far from convinced.
“I’ll be fine. I promise. If I feel ill again, I will let you know.” That softens him a little bit. “Now, tell me what’s been happening.”
He begins giving you a detailed rundown of everything that’s happened. The construction team is briefed. All the vendors are fully aware of the rules. A temporary weather plan has been set in place with the committee. All you have to do is clean up the finer details and make some of the more critical calls.
“That’s— wow. You guys did a lot.”
Bucky smirks. “There’s a lot you can do when you’ve got plenty of hands to help.” He inhales deeply. “How are you feeling really?”
Your smile picks up an inch slightly. “Good, great!” He glares at you. “Okay, I’m tired, but I really am fine now. The sandwich helped. First meal in days.”
“That’s terrible,” he spits out with a vexed frown, “but I’m glad Steve ended up bringing it over. He mentioned that was one of your go-to orders.”
“Oh, did you order that for me? How much do I owe you?”
He gives you a stern look that says that’s not fucking happening.
“Bucky.”
“It’s a sandwich, doll. Let it go.”
“Doll? Really?”
A humored expression forms on his face. “You don’t like it?”
“Feels a bit objectifying.”
“Sometimes I wish you could turn into a doll so you would sit still and not move for two seconds.”
“I—” you stop, “I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“Wasn’t meant to get a response,” he mutters.
Then you finally ask the question you’ve been dying to know. “Did everyone see it happen?”
Bucky is silent. You groan.
“Shit. Did I fall face down or up?”
He looks away for a second. “Which one is worse?”
“Bucky!”
“It was fine. People were more worried that you had a seizure or something. They were both relieved and upset to know that you’ve just been terrible at taking care of yourself. That’s why we’re all here, chipping in.”
“That’s still so embarrassing,” you moan, rubbing your face. “They must think I’m so stupid.”
Bucky tugs your hand away from your face, drawing it towards his chest. “Nobody thinks you’re stupid and it’s not embarrassing. People here love you and they are more concerned with you being kind to yourself, which you clearly have not been. Stop worrying so much about everyone else, start thinking about yourself.”
“Sounds awfully selfish,” you huff as you look towards the crowds still milling around in preparation.
“Well, sometimes you need to be selfish,” he grins easily.
Your heart thrums beneath your veins. He really has such a handsome smile. Even more so when it’s directed at you.
Before you can formulate another response, some of the residents are whisking you away to check on you. They’ve got their hands on your elbow to drive you away from where all the action is happening, insisting that you go home. You protest this notion and they protest against your protest.
All that time, Bucky watches you with a small smile from afar.
Later that week, you swing by Bucky’s farmhouse.
He opens the door. Shirtless. Abs in full display, every line deepened by the afternoon shadows. His body is practically shining, like he’s put oil all over himself with the sweat. His left arm, a steely midnight with gold lines, gleams quietly. You never thought that the prosthetic was terrifying; instead, it gives him character. A part of his history made permanent on his body.
It makes him beautiful.
Your brain nearly fizzles out when he straightens his shoulders, lips stretching into a salacious grin with his teeth peeking out. God, he’s unfairly good-looking.
“What brings you around, Madam Mayor?”
You hold up the box in your hand. Blueberry pie. You’ve asked around and the fruit stall owner claims that Bucky’s always buying a fresh box of blueberries every week. It seemed like a safe bet.
“And what is this?” He accepts the box, curiously looking through the transparent lid.
“Blueberry pie. You said you like pies.”
Bucky looks thrilled. “I love pies, but what’s the occasion?”
“To thank you. For this week. For everything.”
You don’t expect the conflicted look on his face.
“What is it?”
“You know I can do something nice without expecting anything back.”
You squirm, “Yeah.”
“But you got me pie?”
Fidgeting again, you look away. “Yeah.”
“Is this because you think you owe me for the other day?”
“No.” Absolutely yes.
Bucky sighs, “I’m not taking this pie if this is what it’s about. This whole thing isn’t meant to be transactional. The town needed help so I stepped up, but so did everyone else. I don’t want you twisting it in your head into an act that you have to feel indebted to me for. You get me?”
“I get you,” you mumble. “Let’s just say this is a pie to officially welcome you to town and for being a great participant in the community.”
Bucky leans against his door again, looking every bit as delicious as ever. He chuckles low and shakes his head. “Fucking unbelievable.”
“What is?”
“You.”
You frown. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” he grins, “now, if there’s nothing else, I’m going to finish up on the bathroom upstairs, then heat up a slice of pie and wash it down with some warm milk.”
“That… sounds like a plan.”
“Thanks for the pie, doll.”
You whisper, “Anytime,” just as Bucky closes the door.
Of all the things that could go wrong, somehow the world decided that one thing wouldn’t be enough, so it hits you with all of them. A landslide hits the valley two days before the festival is meant to kickoff. This means that the major and main route to get into town is blocked off by a pile of dirt and boulders. This also means that delivery of stall materials cannot make it in. There is no way around it. That is strike number one.
Secondly, vendors are now wary about the turnout and whether it’s even worth it to stand up a booth to sell their goods. The committee member in charge of vendors forgot to collect deposits and you might be in the red preparing for this event that may not happen if everyone backs out.
Third, you see that storm cloud rolling across the horizon. A frosty gust of wind whips through the beach, tearing down the decorations that have been put into place. There are rips on the garlands, the big sign is hanging halfway down the poles, and wooden signs have flipped over into the sea. The hurricane is inevitable.
Now, everyone’s coming to you with questions. What do we do? How should we handle this? What if we don’t make the money back? Who’s going to be held responsible? Once again, all very good, legitimate questions. They are simply questions you do not have answers to.
Your mind is rattling with the endless number of things you have to do — that you have to fix. You can’t be here. Your heart is racing at a million beats per minute and people keep piling on inquiry after inquiry.
“I—” you start, trying your best not to wheeze, and everyone goes silent, “I need to think about this. Please put together your list of questions and email them to me. Thank you.”
Then you’re gone. You’re hopping on Mac and she’s off.
The wind in your ears keeps your brain from completely destroying itself. The kiss of mist on your skin, the rustling of leaves as you rush past. You don’t know where you’re going — or, you thought you didn’t — until Mac comes to a stop.
The sun is just barely starting to set, illuminating the farmhouse in an orange hue. Bucky’s put some work into it. You still see the cracks but they feel more intentional now, like an artistic choice. But the house hums with life you haven’t seen in quite some time. Through the window, you get a glimpse of Bucky moving around his kitchen, a dishrag over his shoulder.
You shouldn’t do this. You’ve been doing so well so far. You didn’t need anyone. However, the temptation is too much to resist so you lift your hand and rap on the door.
Your heart hammers in your chest, a loud staccato in your ears.
You hear the latch and lock click before Bucky opens the door and greets you with a quiet raise of his brow. He must see the look on your face because he is then wordlessly opening the door wider. With a hand hovering on the low of your back, he guides you towards his kitchen and pulls out one of his counter stools for you.
He doesn’t question you. He simply lets you be.
Your eyes trail him around the kitchen as he chops vegetables and herbs. Your ears tune in to the rhythmic tapping of his knife against the board, the sizzle of them on his stove. Your nose follows the changing aromas as the spices cook down, filling the air with a fragrant combination of garlic and pepper and butter. Your mouth salivates as you can practically taste the dripping steak on your tongue mixed in with the sauce. Your hands — you’re itching to reach for him. To find his steady presence.
It’s an unnerving thought, so you ball your hands together and settle them on your lap.
Then he’s plating the steak sliced in front of you with an assortment of vegetables and roasted potatoes. He drizzles the herby dressing on top before handing you a knife and fork.
Through it all, he doesn’t say a word. Through it all, you don’t have to think.
It’s a pleasant feeling, one you haven’t experienced in a while. Your mind has been running in full force ever since your father raised the idea of you taking over his mayoral duties. It’s one thing after another, back to back. Even in slumber, you are restless, your brain constantly working to solve puzzles in your state of unconsicousness.
However, right here, with only the sounds of the world around you, and the slice of peace that you have been offered, you can breathe — and damn if that doesn’t feel good.
Bucky chews on his own plate but he keeps his eyes on you, as if he’s waiting to see if you’re about to fall apart any second now. It is only when you’re on your last bite of steak does he finally cut through the silence.
“Good?” He murmurs.
You swallow, savoring the tender texture of the meat with the refreshing herbs. “Good.”
He hesitates for a second before chancing another question. “Do you want to tell me what you’re thinking?”
You shake your head.
Bucky doesn’t push, only nods.
Once dinner is completed and you’ve devoured a bowl of Bucky’s delicious, and apparently homemade, caramel ice cream, you stack the dishes and turn on the kitchen sink. Bucky stops you then and there, grabbing everything from your hands before he manhandles you into the living room, easing you onto the couch with a steaming cup of tea and the fireplace running.
You throw him a quizzical look which he chooses not to respond to before he returns to the kitchen, and you hear the sink start to run again with the clinking of plates. You should be relaxing, but you can’t get your shoulders to untense, the tea feels like it’s boiling on your fingertips, and your knee won’t stop bouncing.
“Fuck it,” you mutter to yourself before setting it down and going to find him.
You bump him with your hip to make room for you. Bucky frowns, “I told you—”
“Let me help. Please.”
He assesses you for a second, searching your eyes for a sign that this perhaps is the final straw for you. When he finds nothing but weariness, he finally caves. “I’ll wash. You rinse and rack.”
The two of you work in tandem, silent and in sync. You watch as the muscles on his arm ripple as he’s scrubbing down the pan, jaw clenched in focus. The veins rise and fall like waves as he makes sure every inch of it is spotless before he carefully hands it to you. You don’t realize how warm you’ve gotten until you brush fingers and his touch is much too cool on your skin.
Once that’s all done, Bucky does lead you back to the living room and tuck you in nice and cozy with the softest blanket over your legs. He leans back next to you, watching you from his periphery as you watch the flames flicker with ash and light.
“Why do you have your fireplace on when it’s summer?” You ask quietly.
Bucky chuckles low, “Figured it would help with the mood. I like things warm. Are you too hot?”
You shake your head, “No, just curious.”
“Do you wanna talk now or do you wanna sleep first?”
Enticing offer for the latter. You have zero inclination to do the former. However, what you really want is an unsaid third option. One you don’t know if Bucky even wants.
You turn to face him, lips parting. His gaze falls to it, leaps back to meet yours. Your heart skips a beat. Gently, he slides his large flesh palm around the back of your neck, lifting to grab at the hairs and tug your head back. A gasp falls from your lips.
Suddenly, he’s right in front of you, his breath is ghosting yours, lips barely grazing. You can smell that earthy scent on him, like fresh grass on a spring morning. But you can feel the warmth of his sighs against your mouth.
“Tell me to stop,” Bucky growls low.
You don’t.
You don’t want him to.
So you shake your head.
Bucky lets out a final groan before he drags his lips over yours, deep and hungry. This is a man who has been waiting, a predator waiting on the sidelines for you to give your green light to ambush. He kisses like he’s seeking to devour you, every press of his lips intentional, an attempt to pull out the whines from your throat as you lean into him. Bucky pushes you back onto the couch, your chest rising and falling with your nervous breaths.
“This okay?” He rumbles, an index finger landing between your collarbones before drifting down towards your tantalizing cleavage peeking out from your tank top. Your breath hitches in your throat, sternum lifting, and you nod. “So fucking beautiful.”
A jittery laugh escapes your throat. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”
“No, saw you on day one, couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Your face pinches in confusion. “You hated me on day one.”
It’s his turn to frown at you. “Never hated you. What makes you say that?”
“You closed the door on my face. Barely said two words to me. Every time I tried to talk to you, you’d shut me down.”
His fingertip traces the curve of your breast. He hums, “I didn’t know how to talk to a pretty lady.”
“Barnes, don’t lie to me.”
“‘M not lying,” he chuckles, “I came home from war to my grandfather’s letter about this farm. Thought he was crazy, sending me to the middle of nowhere for a second chance. Didn’t know that second chance would land on my doorstep day one with a gorgeous smile.”
You lick your lips, “You asked me if I ever got tired of smiling.”
“Because you were forcing yourself. You were always doing too much for other people. I saw you push yourself to the brink every single day. I didn’t want you to feel like you needed to put up a front with me.”
“Terrible way of communicating,” you mutter.
His lips tug up. “I’m working on it.”
Bucky dips his head as he props himself up above you, an arm sliding underneath your neck to tilt your face up to look at him. He slants his lips over yours again, licking into your mouth when you gasp. Groaning, he runs his other hand down your sides, over the planes of your waist, your hips, and your legs.
“When was the last time you let anyone do this to you?”
Embarrassment claws at your skin. You try not to let your humiliation show but Bucky catches your chin to look at him again.
“When? Anyone touch you since I’ve been here?”
“Nobody,” you rasp.
“When was the last time, doll?”
You shake your head, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “Never.”
Bucky freezes and you feel his disappointment bite into your chest. Your first instinct is to draw away from him, attempt to wriggle out from underneath him, but he tightens his grip, keeping you in place. “You’re telling me you never had anyone touch you?”
“Stop, this is embarrassing.”
“It’s not embarrassing,” he emphasizes. “You’re telling me I’m first man who gets to have you like this? Who gets to see what you look like when you cum?”
Oh my. Your jaw practically falls open with his words. Crude, unexpectedly sexy.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” you squeak, “I just— I never wanted to date anyone here. It would complicate things.”
“Never said anything about dating. Not even a one-night stand? Not even with Stevie?”
“Stevie—” you pause, “oh. Steve? No. He’s a really good friend.”
“He’s attracted to you.”
“He is not!” You gasp, swatting his chest.
Bucky chuckles, “He is. So is Tony and even that kid Peter has a crush on you.”
“Now you’re just making things up to make me feel better,” you groan, “can we drop this?”
“I can promise you, I’m not making anything up. You don’t realize how beautiful you are. How goddamn sexy you are. Every time you walk into a room, all eyes follow you. I feel as if I need to start a fight for your attention.”
The revelation is surprising. Sure, you noticed when you were younger when people had a crush on you – but those were your teenage years when boys were pulling on your metaphorical pigtails. As an adult, you knew you were too stubborn, too strong-minded for your own good. Too independent. You didn’t think anyone would find that attractive.
“Hope you know that after tonight, I’m not letting anyone else touch you. Not even gonna let anyone look at you.”
You swallow thickly, your gaze finding his blue eyes dark as he drinks you in. “Awfully possessive of you.”
“I protect what’s mine, doll,” he begins, lips curling into a Cheshire grin, “plus, you like it that way, don’t you?”
You blink in question.
“You do so much already. All that thinking, all that work. Don’t you want to just come home and relax? Have me take care of you? Could cook you dinner every night, give you massages when that knot in your neck comes back, kiss you as much as you want, fuck you until you can’t stand.”
His last words have your heart shoving against the seams of your chest.
“I could do all that for you,” he murmurs, breath tickling your neck as he leans down and begins to pepper sweet, wet kisses along the column of your neck. “My sweet girl. You don’t have to worry about a thing when you’re here with me. I won’t let anything touch you.”
That sounds nice. Your eyes slide shut as you let his soft lips wander along the expanse of your neck, down to your chest where he tugs your top up and above your head, leaving you completely bare. You can’t tell if you should curse or thank built-in bras. Your arms begin to wind around you on instinct but Bucky clicks his tongue disapprovingly.
“You’re stunning, I want to see all of you.”
He pushes himself down along your body, hand sliding to cup your breast as the other one whispers kisses around your nipple. The air is cool on your heated skin, you feel yourself arch into his touch, seeking more contact.
“So needy,” Bucky murmurs against your breast as he draws closer and closer to your actual peak. His tongue darts out for a taste, coarse against your skin, and you gasp. “So responsive. I always knew you’d be like this — soft, pliant, so… obedient in bed.”
You should argue against this. You should absolutely tell him off for being so patronizing, but you can’t seem to find your voice, particularly when he wraps his lips around your nipple and sucks. His mouth is hot on your skin, tongue wet as it draws circles to trace the shape of it. Even in the warmth before the fireplace, you feel your skin getting hotter.
You’re burning like the summer sun as you cave into his touch, body shifting against his in complementary motions. Every ripple of your muscle feels involuntary, like you’re a boat drifting at sea with the waves pushing you in whatever direction they please.
Bucky moans against your tit and you see his tongue stick out of his mouth as he continues to lave at you, his blue eyes finding yours. The erotic sight has you clenching your stomach tight, your legs pressing together in the hopes of finding some sort of reprieve.
Your hands slide up his firm chest and bury in his hair to push him down deeper against your chest. “God, Bucky, that feels so good.”
“Mhmm, let all those worries melt away, sweet thing. I’m here, I’ll take care of all of it for you.”
There’s not a single ounce of energy left in your brain to process any of your problems, not when you’re too focused on the lights dancing behind your eyes every time Bucky squeezes, every time he nips and licks. He worships your breasts like they’re a god-given gift.
Bucky’s other hand slips away from behind your neck and snakes between your legs, pressing against the denim that stands between him and the heat in your core. You let out a little whine at the friction, thick fabric digging against your pussy.
“She wants me, doesn’t she?” Bucky coos.
You should really tell him to piss off. Tell him that it’s completely inappropriate to use pronouns like that. But again, you can’t. Not when it has you absentmindedly nodding, desperate for his approval and attention.
“Bet she’s so wet, doll. You haven’t been taking care of her, have you? You don’t have the time or energy.”
He’s not wrong. You haven’t touched yourself in so long; even now, you only do it out of necessity when the urges overwhelm you. It’s never quite satisfying when you have too many worries plaguing your mind. However, right here, right now with Bucky, all you can focus on is the stimulation he’s providing all over your body.
His thick hair tickling your chin, his mouth on your tits, breath hot on your skin, and his fingers insistent between your legs. You barely register him popping your pants button open, his hand sliding underneath the first layer to find the flimsy fabric of your panties. His touch is light, delicate, as he drags a fingertip on your clothed slit.
“So wet,” he groans, hips rutting down against your legs. “God, you’re soaked. Bet I could slide right in there. Even if you’ve never had anyone, I could stretch you out so easy. Your pussy will swallow me right up, you’re gonna be dripping all over my cock.”
Your hips lift again as you cry out.
“I wanna taste her, doll. Will you let me?”
Oh. Your cheeks flood with an uncomfortable fever. “I don’t know, I haven’t— I don’t know how people prepare.”
“All you gotta do is spread your legs and let me eat.”
Jesus. Where did he learn to talk like this? WIth your bottom lip still clamped between your teeth, you nod slowly.
“Good girl,” he murmurs then shimmies further down so he can drag your pants off and let them pool on his floor. He looks up again when he pinches the hem of your panties, eyes seeking permission. When you give him another nod, he eases it down your legs. But, instead of dropping it, he smiles quietly at it before tucking it in his back pocket.
Your stomach turns with desire.
“Souvenir,” he teases.
Your foot swings at his chest, he grabs it and flattens it there. Your lips press together in a thin, shy line. “You’re mean.”
“Doesn’t sound like a complaint to me,” he grins boyishly. “Now, let me see her.”
“Wait,” you interrupt. You hesitate for a second, gaze darting away as you debate your next request. If you’ve already gone this far— “can you, uhm, can you take your shirt off?”
Bucky looks momentarily stunned before a pleased smirk curves on his lips. “I could do that.”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t look so smug. Just doesn’t seem fair that I’m fully nude when you’re fully dressed.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t want to make a mess on my shirt.” Make a mess on his— oh. You didn’t think your face could get any warmer and he proves you wrong as he tugs it over his head. “You could squirt on my couch though, soak it, I’ll sit right here smelling you while I wrap my hand around my dick, thinking about how good this pussy tastes.”
“Bucky,” you whine, hands flying up to cover your face.
He laughs and settles in, kissing the inside of your thigh. “So fucking cute.” He’s gentle with you, slow. You see his eyes flicking up to check on you every once in a while, make sure you’re still okay. “If you ever want me to stop, you tell me to stop, okay? I don’t need you to use any other words other than that. At any point. You get me?”
“I get you,” you murmur.
“Good girl,” he mumbles against your skin.
You lean back, forcing yourself to relax, but even with your eyes wide open, you can practically hear your heart threatening to burst out of your chest. Your nerves are running haywire the closer the gets to your core. Bucky’s arms push underneath your legs to prop you up and you feel his warm breath ghost your core, the cool slick absorbing the breeze.
“She’s so pretty, wish you could see her,” Bucky whispers, thumbs spreading out your cunt by the lips. “I can see her moving, squeezing. She’s excited, isn’t she?”
His name rolls off your tongue again in protest. It’s a sound that morphs into a choke when he drags a tentatively lick along your slit. Your legs try to close on instinct but Bucky keeps you open. With his arms wrapped around your thighs, fingers digging into the flesh, he mouths ravenously at your spread pussy. His fingers slide over your pussy lips, prying them open further so he could lick further inside your dripping cunt.
Bucky groans against your core, the vibrations rattling every atom inside your body. He sounds so… hungry. The lewd noises rising from his throat as he continues to lick at your lips, sucking on your skin, has you squeezing around him. You can see his eyes slide shut for a second as he relishes in the bliss of being trapped between your legs, your honey drizzling on his tongue.
You can’t help yourself, your elbows prop you up so you can get a good look at him. He seems to be taking far too much pleasure in pleasing you, hearing the little whimpers that fall from your lips as your cunt squeezes around his tongue. He licks at every last drop, mouthing at you, sucking on your clit until you see stars on his ceiling.
Then blue flashes bright, directed right at you. He’s watching you, watching every little reaction on your face, as he continues to bury his face in your pussy. Your lips part in a sharp inhale. His thumb presses down on your clit as his mouth continues its magic.
“Bucky, please,” you whine quietly.
“She’s so sweet, doll. I could eat you for days. I could suck on this pussy for weeks. Gonna have to keep you right here so I can have my dessert every single day.”
Your pussy tightens again with his words.
“You’d want that too, wouldn’t you? Don’t need to worry yourself with this town anymore. You can just stay right here, be my sweet, pretty little pussy. I’ll take good care of you. You don’t need to even think anymore. I’ll do all of that for you.”
Oh, oh, that does sound nice. Stay here forever, blissful with Bucky’s lips on you, between your legs. Pleasing you.
Bucky kisses your inner thighs again and when you look down on him, you see the way his mouth glistens with your slick. His fingers spread open your folds again and, for a moment, he just stares at it in awe. The way it pulses with his attention.
“It’s like seeing your heartbeat down here. Like she’s begging me to put my mouth on her again.”
“Please,” you gulp, “please.”
With another guttural groan, he dives back in and licks you all over, sucking on every sensitive part of your skin until you’re squirming in his hold. The pleasure moves all around you, from the sound buzzing in your ears to the way your toes tingle as he continues to touch you. Then your stomach twists, grabbing a hold of you as you sink your fingers into the cushions. A gasp wrenches out of your chest as Bucky presses in deeper, licks faster and harder, and then you’re coming apart, shuddering in his hands as he tries to keep your legs wide open for him.
He slows down only when you start weeping, the overstimulation clenching at your heart. He murmurs comforting words, kissing the soft flesh of your thighs as you melt back into the couch. You twitch with the last jolts of your orgasm and eventually let your legs collapse against his head. He nuzzles into your thigh, beard scratching your skin, as he smiles up at you.
“Good?”
As if he didn’t just deliver the most mind-numbing orgasm you’ve ever experienced.
“Good,” you exhale slowly.
“Let me get you cleaned up.”
You frown, lurching up as he comes to a stand. “Wait, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“You haven’t, uhm,” you clear your throat, “you haven’t finished.”
Bucky chuckles as he leans forward to kiss you on the lips, taste of you on his tongue. “Doll, I’m going to ease you into this. Don’t need you to finish me.” Oh. “Not in that way,” he quickly adds, “I’d love to finish with you, but I’m taking my time with you. No need to rush. I’m not going anywhere.”
You lick your lips, tasting that slight tang. “I know, but I kind of… want to.”
His throat moves as he swallows. You see the war in his eyes, that self-control flickering, before a wall slams up and he shakes his head. “Next time, I promise.”
That finicky little feeling comes crawling back. That little voice inside your head that can’t seem to grasp why he wouldn’t want you here and now. “Okay,” you say quietly as you come to a stand on your wobbly legs. You reach for your shirt and slide it on.
Bucky sighs, then his hand is on your chin, tipping your face up to look at him. “I don’t think I like what’s going on in that head of yours. I really like you, doll. Think you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Right,” you cough, “you just… won’t fuck me.”
“That’s not—” Bucky breathes in through his nose, “I want to. I do. I need to be patient with you.”
“Didn’t ask you to be.”
“It’s for me, trust me.”
You frown. “Is it because you’re not turned on?”
He groans, hand coming up to furiously rub his face. “What in the ever-loving fuck gave you that idea?” You purse your lips. “Sweetheart, if I even thought about fucking you right now, I might cum on the spot. I’m being patient because I’m so goddamn hard and the last thing I want to be is a two-pump chump.”
“Two-pump—” Your lips form an o in understanding as your eyes fall to the bulge in his pants. It’s noticeable, enough to make your mouth salivate. You almost want to reach out and touch it, feel how big it is, how it would fit in your palm.
Bucky grabs your chin again to drag your focus back to his eyes. “So, to answer your unsaid, ridiculous question, I want to fuck you. I will fuck you. But not today. Today, I want to run you a bath so you can relax, then you can tell me your problems so I can fix them. Then, I’m going to get you to sleep in my bed, right next to me. You get me?”
Your cheeks are aching from biting down on your grin. “I get you.”
“Good, now come on.” Bucky swoops low and throws you over his shoulder, your squeal bouncing off the walls. He swats your naked behind. “Now, do you want lavender or coconut?”
You don’t think you’ve ever struggled waking up a day in your life, not when you have so many things to do. That has always been your priority. But when your eyelids flutter open this morning and you hear the birds chirping and sunlight soaking the silky sheets beneath you, all you want to do is bury yourself back under the covers.
All you want to do is forget about all the problems you have to deal with outside, especially with the festival starting tomorrow.
Alas, reality does not work that way and you must rise to the challenge.
First, you have to find Bucky.
The sheets are cool next to you, which means that he’s been gone for quite some time. That man functions like a human heater and you were practically sweltering wrapped up in his arms last night.
The two of you had spoken for a bit right before sleep pulled you under.
You’re tucked into his chest, fingertips tracing circles on his bare chest. Sighing, you murmured, “I’m tired.”
“Let’s get you to sleep then. I’ll turn off the lights.”
“Not like that,” you chuckled, “I didn’t realize how tired I was until… you mentioned it. There’s always something to do and I feel like, if I don’t do it, it’ll never get done. Then today, when everything happened, something inside me just… snapped.”
“I’m sorry,” Bucky mumbled against your forehead, “I wasn’t trying to make your life harder.”
“It’s not your fault. I feel as though that comeuppance was a long time coming. It was either that or I spontaneously combust and apparently I was halfway there when I finally passed out that one time.”
Bucky’s grip tightened around your shoulders.
Once you started talking, you couldn’t seem to stop. “I was always taught that the people in this town were my responsibility. They trusted me to lead them, so I should be there for them. I need them to know that I’m reliable, that they can depend on me at any time. Because if I’m not, then who am I really?”
His lips pressed another gentle kiss to your temple, then to your cheek. “Doll, your worth is not defined by how much you give people. If you give and you give, what’s going to be left of you?”
“My father gave his life to this town. Who am I to do any differently?”
“You are not your father. Didn’t you have dreams? Things that you wanted to do beyond this life. This is your job, it shouldn’t be the entirety of who you are. You can have a life outside of this, find love, find adventure.”
“Shelved those dreams a long time ago,” you sighed.
“Tell me about them.” Heat creeps up the back of your neck again. “Come on, it’s me.”
So you told him, about how you wished you could travel beyond this valley. You’ve never ventured beyond this region, only once or twice when you sought after resources unavailable in town. However, there are cities — countries — that you only read about in textbooks. Ones that you wished you could explore in person, touch the ground, touch the buildings.
“You can still do all that, you know.”
“I can’t just up and leave this town.”
“There are good people here, doll. People who care about this place.”
You doubted that, Bucky could tell. It’s not as if you didn’t believe they were good but it took a lot to run a town and that’s not a responsibility you could place on someone else’s shoulders.
“For now, let’s sleep. Tomorrow’s a new day.”
And here you are today, Bucky nowhere in sight. The idea of facing the townspeople today after you promised them that you would think of solutions, but instead you spent your night with Bucky’s face between your legs, has your cheeks warm — both from the memory but also the embarrassment of coming in empty-handed.
On the bedside table sits a note:
I’m at the beach. Eat your breakfast and then come down to meet me. Not before. — B
Smiling, you make your way downstairs and find a covered plate with an omelette. Ketchup on top in the shape of a heart. How cute.
You do as you’re told before you hop on Mac, who has been thoroughly fed and groomed, and gallop down to the beach. The trek is short but you hear them before you see them — the sound of life and none of them sound like complaints.
People are hustling and bustling about, carrying tables and chairs and signs, and getting them all ready. The sun is shining bright overhead with not a single cloud in the sky. The seabreeze is cool on your skin as you approach. Your residents chirp good morning as they pass before they go on their way.
No questions asked.
When you finally spot Bucky, he’s talking to the committee before they all disperse. He catches your eye and smiles as he walks over to you. He still looks as good as he did last night. Same shirt too.
“Good morning,” he murmurs, pecking you on the cheek.
Your eyes dart around to find no one paying attention to the two of you.
“Morning,” you say slowly. “What’s going on?”
“Met with the committee this morning. We figured out temporary solutions until things get cleared out. Getting tables from the community for now, we got kids working on the new banners too, and materials for the booths should be coming in next couple of days so we can get them set up for next weekend.”
“Oh.”
Bucky grins, “Nothing to worry about. You’ve been doing this for so long, I knew you’d be able to do handle it, but figured I’ll take one thing off your plate. You can confirm the final plans with them. Speaking of plates, you finish breakfast?”
“Yes, thank you, it was delicious,” you murmur, still a little stunned.
“Like I said, doll, good people.”
You soften against his side as he holds you close. “Now, when all of this is over, we’re going to start making plans. We’re gonna hire a vice mayor who can take things over when you’re gone. We’re gonna set some mandatory vacation policies. Most importantly, we’re going to plan where we’re going first.”
You whip up to look at him, “We?”
He stiffens, smile fading. “Well, of course, only if you want me there. Happy to show you around if I’ve been there, but I also understand if you want to do some exploring on your own.”
“The company would be nice,” you whisper.
“Then I’ll be there. Whenever, wherever you want me.”
“That would be terribly selfish of me, wouldn’t it?”
Bucky laughs, “Doll, I really hope you build up the appetite to be selfish with me. Because I promise you, I’m not going anywhere.”
You smile.
“So, where should we go first?”
+ sam: sorry to stardew fans if i butchered it too much :') but hope you still enjoy the story itself!! be sure to give the other fics in the collab so so much love!!!!! <3
Cooks for you the yummiest and more comforting dinner in your entire life and when you ask him for the recipe, he tells you:
"Ah, I just did it on the fly."
You stare at Jason across the tiny kitchen table, fork halfway to your mouth, the last bite of the most ridiculously perfect beef still melting on your tongue. The kind of dish that tastes like someone wrapped you in a warm blanket, kissed your forehead and told you the world was going to be okay. Rich, savory, stupidly tender meat that falls apart with the slightest pressure, carrots that somehow taste like caramel without being sweet, and that red-wine gravy you’re pretty sure you could happily drown in.
And he’s just… sitting there. One elbow on the table, chin in his hand, watching you eat like it’s his new favorite hobby. Smug little half-smirk, hair still damp from the shower he took after he spent three hours in the kitchen like it was nothing.
You set the fork down very carefully.
“Jay.”
“Hm?”
“Baby. Sweetheart. Love of my actual life.” You lean forward, eyes wide. “You cannot look me in the eye and tell me you did it on the fly.”
He shrugs. Actually shrugs. Like he didn’t just casually recreate a dish people usually spend two days prepping for.
“I mean… I did.”
“You reduced wine for like twenty minutes. You browned the beef in batches. You tied actual herbs into a bouquet garni with kitchen twine. I saw you do it. I watched you taste the sauce four separate times and adjust the seasoning like some kind of Michelin-starred mad scientist.”
“Yeah?” He tilts his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. “And?”
“And that is not on the fly! That’s witchcraft. That’s years of culinary school and a blood sacrifice. That’s not something you just… improvise because you felt like it!”
He laughs and reaches across the table to brush his thumb over your cheek, catching a tiny smear of gravy you didn’t even know was there.
“I’ve been cooking since I was a kid,” he says softly. “Alfred made sure of it. And then the League had… weird survival shit. And then I just… kept doing it in quiet nights. Eventually I started thinking about what I’d make if someone I loved was sitting across from me looking tired and hungry.”
He pauses, gaze dropping to your empty plate, then back up to your face. Something tender and a little raw flickers in his eyes.
“So yeah. I threw it together. But I threw it together for you.”
Your throat gets tight. You blink fast.
“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper.
“Mm. Still made you dinner though.”
You push your chair back, round the table in three steps, and climb straight into his lap without asking. His arms come around you instantly, automatic, like they’ve been waiting for you to get there all night. You bury your face in the warm crook of his neck, breathing in his body wash and cream.
“I love you,” you mumble into his skin. “I love you so stupid much. You’re not allowed to be this good at everything. It’s unfair.”
He huffs a quiet laugh against your hair, one big hand sliding up your back to cradle the nape of your neck.
“Too late.”
He laughs against your mouth when you take his head between your hands to kiss him stupid.
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