Slippery Slope
౨ৎ Characters: Ski Instructor!Bucky x Snow Bunny!Reader
౨ৎ Word Count: <8.8K
౨ৎ Summary: Bucky Barnes likes order on the mountain: organized lessons, predictable guests, and smooth days on the slopes. Unfortunately, one woman spends the day unintentionally getting in his way. When they finally meet at an après-ski party, he challenges her to prove she’s more than just a tourist with a camera.
౨ৎ Content Warnings: 18+ {MDNI}, smut, strangers to lovers, instructor x student dynamics, pushing professional boundaries, grumpy x sunshine (kinda), mentions of alcohol consumption (not by reader), use of pet names (bunny, sweetheart), slow burn, praise (so much of it. Probably too much. I’m so sorry.), some fluff, consent king!Bucky, oral (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), creampie, aftercare. Reader is described as being clumsy at multiple points. Bucky doesn’t have a prosthetic arm, I couldn’t get it to work :(
౨ৎ A/N: Hi, Barbie! Excited to share my part of the @stantastic-association Bucky’s Dream House collab. A huge thank you to @miraclediviner for setting everything up! I haven’t skied in probably like 15 years at least (which makes me sound so old), so please forgive me for anything that might be wrong.
Main Masterlist || AO3 || Bucky’s Dream House Masterlist
Cool mountain air kisses your skin the moment the lodge doors open. With a deep breath, you plant both boots into the snow, closing your eyes for a brief moment to fully enjoy the crisp breeze and the faint warmth from the morning sun.
A fresh blanket of snow drapes across the ski village and surrounding trees, the mountaintop looming high above the treeline. It's not the Swiss Alps, but the stunning view and relaxing atmosphere is exactly what Alpine Ski Resort is known for.
Phone in hand, you aim the camera and adjust a few settings before taking a picture…until the sound of a throat clearing gets your attention, snapping you back to reality.
Spinning around, a pair of steel blue eyes, hidden beneath dark eyebrows and a black beanie, meet your surprised gaze. He's staring down at you, something akin to annoyance etched in his features. An air of self-importance radiates from him, and without uttering a single word, gives you the impression he doesn't mess around.
It's then you realize people are moving around you like the water of a rushing river, brushing by with barely audible grumbles, while you stand planted in the middle of the doorway like a boulder that refuses to move.
"Oh!" You wince, chin dipping and offering an apologetic smile. "Am I in the way? Sorry! Let me just…" You quickly step to the side, phone clutched carefully in your hand.
He doesn't speak, simply nodding once before heading toward another building. The large INSTRUCTOR patch on the back of his jacket is impossible to miss. As someone who works with the public, he seems…pleasant.
"Grumpy…"
"Who's grumpy?"
Your friend, Lana, pops up beside you, head tilted in curiosity as she tries to follow your gaze. The man has already gone inside.
You shake your head and shrug it off, hooking your arm with hers and beaming brightly. "No one. Shall we?"
Lana returns your smile and pulls you away from the lodge, footsteps falling into sync.
When the day began, being a nuisance was not on the itinerary. You hoped the doorway would be the last time you were in anyone's way.
Yet not even an hour later, you accidentally wander into a training area, too focused on an evergreen tree that had just the right amount of snow on its branches.
"Miss," a deep voice politely sounded from not ten feet away, "Please give us some space."
You glanced up just long enough to see the same man from earlier, his arms crossed over his chest, while a student who couldn't have been more than six wobbled down the small incline.
You rushed away without a word, heat creeping up your cheeks.
By noon, you nearly lose your footing outside the rental shop, arms flailing wildly with a squeak and phone flying through the air before you manage to catch yourself. When you finally spot your phone half buried in the snow, someone is already picking it up. Only—to your utter dismay—to be met with those blue eyes that are growing painfully familiar.
The phone is open to one of the pictures Lana took where your foot was kicked up behind you like a Genovian princess. His gaze glances down at it before he places the device in your outstretched hand, and he looks like he's trying to fight back a laugh—or maybe just stop his eyes from rolling out of his head.
You try to laugh it off, thanking him quickly for the phone, before scurrying off in the opposite direction.
By the time the sun dips a bit lower in the horizon and the après-ski parties begin, you're more than ready for a change of outfit and a stiff drink.
Warmth spreads quickly across your chilled skin as you enter the lodge, the fuzzy oversized coat you slipped on doing little to protect you against the cold evening air after changing out of the snowsuit and into something cute. Though the day had been sunny and warm, the moment the mountaintops began to hide the sun, the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees.
People are scattered throughout the lodge, some lounging on couches near a large fireplace while others gather around pool tables. Music is faint behind the chatter of guests. It's one of the calmer parties you've been too, but after the embarrassing day of the universe throwing curve balls in your direction, a relaxing night sounds perfect.
"I'm gonna find us a spot," Lana says, eyes already roaming the room for an empty seat. Then she points at you, eyebrows raised, adding, "Drinks?"
"Got it. Scotch on the rocks."
She gasps, eyes going wide, and you almost don't hear her protests when you start walking to the bar, a grin playing on your lips.
Sliding into an open spot at the bar, you wave the bartender down, nearly missing the loud sigh just off to the side.
"There is a line, you know."
Something about the deep voice sounds painfully familiar. A twinge of dread twists in your gut when you finally drag your gaze in the direction of the voice.
"I'm so sorry, I genuinely didn't even notice." You look at the man who spoke, eyes meeting his annoyed blue ones when it hits you—you've seen that hue far too many times today, and always when you're not at your best. Just behind him, there's a small line of patrons watching you; some annoyed, others too busy with wandering gazes to be angry.
Of course it happened again. Of course, despite the various bars and parties occurring all over the resort, the one you pushed Lana to go to for the quieter ambiance is the one where he would be.
"Aren't you that instructor guy I keep seeing today?"
He's changed, no longer in the standard issue red jacket and his perfectly styled hair no longer hidden under a beanie, but it's him. The crease in his brow deepens when confusion crosses his features briefly, then recognition flashes.
He sighs again. "Pink snowsuit."
You nod in silent confirmation, nose scrunching a bit. The way he said it does not bode well.
"You must absolutely hate me by now," you joke with a short laugh, leaning against the bar as casually as you can manage. "I swear I'm not doing it on purpose."
His eyes study you, and you swear curiosity appeared in them before indifference fills his voice. "Could've fooled me."
Lips pressed together and ignoring the inkling of offense tugging at you, you stand a bit straighter, forgetting about the line continuing to form behind him.
"Do you always think inconveniences are solely about you?"
"Considering you've spent all day being in the way and not even touching a pair of skis? Maybe a little."
Your lips part, brows shooting up into your hairline. "I—that's not—I was going to."
"Sure," he huffs.
He turns towards the bartender, effectively dismissing you as he orders his drink. The bartender gives him a nod, eyes flicking to you before getting to work. Chatter from the bar fills the tense silence. You don't move.
"Do you actually ski?," he finally asks, voice gruff. "Or are you just here for pictures?" His hand wraps around a glass of amber liquid as it's slid across the bar.
"I can ski! I was just…planning on doing it tomorrow. Today was recon day."
He lifts a single brow.
That's a lie.
You haven't skied since you were little, school field trips the only experience you've had. In fact, you're confident you'd land face first in the snow if you tried.
"Really?" He mutters with false intrigue, raising the glass to his lips. "I'd be surprised if you made it down the bunny hill without starting an avalanche. How many times did you nearly trip over your own boots today?" He watches you carefully over the rim of his glass, eyes twinkling. Is he amused by this?
"You don't even know me, sir," you retort, crossing your arms. "Skiing is like second nature to me."
Where the hell did that come from?
He smirks knowingly. "Prove me wrong."
You blink at him.
"What?"
"Prove me wrong. You said you're skiing tomorrow? Lucky for you, I just happen to have a free morning." He pauses, leaning forward. "Unless you'd rather stick to the camera."
Your eyes narrow, defiance growing with every second. This man doesn't know a single thing outside of your appearance and a bad day, yet something about the look in his eyes makes you want to dig in your heels.
"I don't just take pictures."
His expression doesn't change. Patience must be his biggest virtue as he takes another sip of his drink, silently waiting. Like he knows you're about to break.
A short scoff slips between your lips. "Fine. What time?"
The corner of his lips twitch, the glass in his hand finally lowering as he turns to fully face you.
"Eight. Think you can be up that early, bunny?"
Bunny. He says it like a taunt, as though you're supposed to be embarrassed that you enjoy cute outfits, snow, and the resort scene.
You force a smile, flashing your teeth and tilting your chin up.
"I have a name," you reply, offering it quickly before continuing, "I'll be there. And I'll look damn adorable, too, thank you very much."
Your feet are carrying you away from the bar before you even think about it, face warm, fists clenched with determination while the feeling of his gaze stays trained on the back of your head. The thought of drinks is long gone, and when you finally plop down on a couch next to Lana empty-handed, her expression shifts to confusion.
"Where's my cocktail?"
— — —
Morning comes far faster than you hope despite sleep evading you.
Tossing and turning didn't help. Neither did flipping the pillow to the cold side. You tried watching a bit of TV, grateful Lana has her own room so you don't bother her, but you ultimately end up pulling up instructional skiing videos on your phone—a futile attempt to reconnect with your memories of skiing as a kid. If you could do it then, you can do it now, right?
By the time your alarm goes off, the knot in your stomach that has been forming for hours is tighter than ever. Food is the last thing on your mind when you finish getting ready, but you shove a granola bar into your mouth anyway to ensure you have some sort of energy for the day ahead.
With one last glance in the mirror to ensure everything is perfect, you're out the door and tugging on your gloves before the sun has even fully risen.
You refuse to be late.
The rental shop is surprisingly busy this early. Gear is organized in perfect rows, employees are assisting guests in finding the perfect fit, and parents are doing their best to wrangle their kids into ski boots. One toddler manages to get a hold of a ski pole, swinging it around like a sword before their dad snatches it from their tiny fist. It's a brief, welcome distraction before a throat clears, pulling your attention to the employee behind the rental counter.
A few minutes later, you find yourself on a bench outside the shop, skis haphazardly laying on the ground as you fight to get the ski boots on your feet. The sun is no longer hiding below the horizon, casting bright rays that glitter across the fresh snow that must have fallen last night. Your fingers fidget with the buckles with no luck, becoming increasingly frustrated. How hard is it to put these things on?
"It's easier if you stand up."
Your heart drops. The voice is deep, a little rough from lack of use this early in the morning, but familiar enough to make you tense.
Eyes widening and gloved fingers freezing in place, you slowly look up to find the familiar deep blue irises staring down at you. A mix of amusement and annoyance dances in his eyes when he notices the skis on the ground. Using the toe of his boot, he gently nudges them closer to where you're seated. He's wearing the same red jacket as yesterday, finally giving you a clear look at the front where the name Bucky is embroidered on his chest, just beneath the resort's logo.
"You actually made it," he grunts, eyes on you again, lips turning up almost imperceptibly. The slight raise of his brows beneath his beanie make him look mildly impressed. You're probably imagining it. "Are you sure you got enough beauty rest?"
"Of course I made it." Your focus returns to the matter at hand, trying to ignore his comment and the feeling of his eyes watching every little movement you make. "Maybe you should stop doubting me."
"Maybe," he responds slowly, dragging the word out, "but we haven't made it onto the slopes yet, bunny."
You fight the urge to roll your eyes at the nickname he insists on using. When the buckles still don't easily lock in, you sigh, reluctantly standing and trying again. Sure enough, the buckles click tight without a problem. Of course they do.
Bucky doesn't give you a moment before he's adjusting his skis in his arms and turning away.
"Grab your gear, we'll start on the bunny hill."
You scramble to pick up your skis, immediately fumbling when one slips out of your grip and crashes back to the ground. Heat rushes to your cheeks before you're snatching it up again, rushing now to try and catch up with his long strides.
Only it's harder than you expect.
The boots are clunky and heavy, each step far more difficult than you remember. The skis knock against each other, clacking sounds ringing through the crisp air and only adding to the embarrassment creeping up the back of your neck.
He glances back once.
A few steps later, he looks back again.
"You ski often?"
You hesitate. "Obviously."
He blinks. "Mm. Obviously."
You can practically hear the grin spreading across his face when he faces forward again, his pace finally slowing down enough for you to catch up. Bucky stays silent, but the feeling of his eyes on you is unmistakable. Watchful. A little judgemental.
The ski lift for the bunny hill finally comes into view, making the knot in your stomach twist painfully now that reality and exposure are on the precipice. There's only one way you can imagine this going; a face full of snow, dignity gone, and a certain ski instructor watching it all go down. Where's Lana when you need her?
Bucky's gaze flicks towards you again. Lingering. Waiting.
He stops just shy of the line, popping his skis on like it's nothing. Simple. Easy.
Until you try to do it, of course. Heel then toe? Toe then heel? Which way is the ski supposed to face?
Bucky stands there quietly watching as you spin in place trying to figure out how to get it on. The smirk is infuriating, but you're trying not to think of it when you finally get one ski on, the other following suit after a shuffle of your feet has you nearly losing your balance.
"Good job," he says with a nod, a hint of amusement tugging at his lips. "Looks like the bar is starting high today."
"Don't you worry your grumpy head, Bucky." You wave him off, trying desperately to hang on to what little pride is still hanging on by a thread. "I'll blow that bar out of the water in no time."
By the time the two of you make it onto the lift—a miracle in itself after nearly running into the employee operating it when you forgot how to stop—nerves have settled fully into your bones. The sun is slowly warming the air, but the cold breeze blows straight through your coat. Or maybe it's the attitude coming from the world's most people-friendly instructor.
The silence is deafening for a few moments, long enough to feel deliberate. He shifts slightly in his seat before speaking.
"Make sure to keep your weight forward when we get off."
Your gaze, which has been focused on the pink knit fabric of your gloves, lifts to see him watching you carefully. There's something in his eyes you can't quite place.
"Yeah, forward. Got it."
His eyes narrow slightly, studying you. Silence fills the space once more.
You avert your gaze to the snow covered trees below, hoping he can't see the way your hands are shaking. The thought crosses your mind to snap a picture from this vantage point, but with your luck this weekend, it'll probably slip from your grip and bury itself in the snow to never be found again.
The lift arrives at the top, and you follow every move he makes as he prepares to dismount, scooting to the edge of the seat. When your skis brush the slick snow below, panic has you sucking in a sharp breath.
Bucky pushes off the seat with practiced ease, already gliding forward and leaving you alone. You don't hear him giving instructions, you simply lean forward and let gravity do the work.
To your surprise, it works.
You glide down towards him, arms out and wobbling only a little bit, before managing a successful stop directly in his path. His eyes flash with something like surprise—vanishing almost as quickly as it appears.
Your back straightens with a bit of pride, then—
"Don't get too excited," he mutters. "You still have to go downhill."
Your heart drops. He's right.
You glance over at the slope just a few feet away. It's not that steep—it is the bunny hill, after all—but the daunting task of staying balanced and sliding downhill without falling on your face or breaking something is suddenly hitting you like a punch to the gut.
All because of pride.
"No, of course," you mumble with a nod. Your throat tightens. "Downhill is the easy part."
A cool breeze brushes against skin that's becoming warmer by the second. Kids and parents ski by, heading down the hill like it's simple. Your fingers curl into tight fists in an attempt to hide the tremble threatening to expose your bluff.
Your eyes are glued to the line of skiers at the bottom, so you don't notice Bucky move closer.
"You don't know how to ski, do you?" His voice is low, warmer than you expected it to be with a hint of amusement. "I need you to be honest with me before I let you go down that hill."
Finally, slowly, you tear your gaze from the skiers to find his eyes in you. Always watching. There's concern there, a slight crease in his brow.
"I know how—"
He gives you a look.
You take a breath, shoulders slumping.
"I haven't skied since I was a kid."
Bucky rolls his shoulders. The concern in his eyes is replaced with amusement, and his lips flatten into a tight line like he's debating between scolding and laughing at your expense.
He settles on neither.
"Let's start with your stance," he instructs, adjusting his own and bouncing lightly on his knees. "Feet shoulder-width apart, not…whatever you're doing."
You blink at him in surprise. Every bone in your body would've bet on him leaving you stranded up here after lying about your abilities, not stepping in to help.
He nods once, silently encouraging you to follow his lead. "Try it. Stay loose or you'll go down."
With a sigh, you adjust your stance, but it still feels wrong. Unbalanced. Tight.
"Like this?"
Bucky looks at you, the corners of his lips twitching.
"…No."
You huff, heat crawling up your neck at his blunt assessment. "Excellent teaching skills, very encouraging." His lips pucker slightly and a muscle in his jaw ticks.
Looking down to avoid his gaze, you attempt to fix it, widening your stance and tucking your elbows in tighter.
"Stop," he grunts. Shaking his head, Bucky moves closer, closing most of the distance. His skis bump against yours. "Knees in."
You try again, overcorrecting so far it feels like gravity caught the hood of your coat and is giving one good pull. His hands shoot out, one landing on your elbow as the other finds the small of your back, catching you before your feet can slip out from under you.
Your heart skips a beat, though you're unsure if it's from the near fall or the sudden contact.
"Not that far." His voice is quiet, a little frustrated, but it almost sounds like he's holding back a laugh. "Shoulder-width," he reminds. His hands fall away, leaving you strangely aware of the space between you.
With a short nod, you find your balance, more aware now of where your knees are. It feels better already, steadier. He gives a grunt—something that almost sounds like approval.
"You're too tight. Loosen up a little," he instructs. "Fingers, elbows, knees…relax. When you go down the hill, you want to be loose. Work with gravity, not against it."
Relax. Got it. You can do that. With a roll of your shoulders, you loosen your fingers and give a small bounce of your knees.
He nods. "Okay, now show me a wedge."
You aim the front of the skis into a triangle, the stance needed to stop.
"Good," he says quickly. "That's perfect."
Oh.
Heat floods your cheeks fast—too fast.
The breeze picks up again just in time to use as a welcome distraction. You turn your face into it, and away from him, hoping to cool down despite the sun now beating down from a cloudless sky. If he notices your reaction, he doesn't say a word. Instead, he starts talking about the hill and how to go down safely, but you're not listening. Until—
"Earth to bunny."
Your gaze snaps back to him at the nickname, though the warmth accompanying it is new. "Sorry, did you say something?"
"Are you ready to go down? Can't stay up here forever."
Your stomach drops at the reminder. Of course, downhill. How could you forget? You swallow hard and brush him off with a dismissive wave of your hand. It's just skiing. Kids do it.
Bucky's eyes are on you, studying. Like he can see the false confidence waving in the air like a white flag.
He doesn't comment on it.
Instead, his voice remains low and steady, running through everything he just covered. You try to pay attention, but as you slowly approach the slope and the point of no return, the hill suddenly looks even more daunting than before. Steeper. Taller.
With a deep breath, and mustering all the courage you have, you begin the descent without waiting for him.
Something feels off immediately.
Gravity feels stronger. The skis feel like they're fighting to pull ahead.
You lean forward—but that suddenly feels like a mistake, and now you're moving faster. Your mind goes blank in the panic, the knowledge of how to stop or slow down flying out the window. The hill's slope feels as though it's pulling you uncontrollably down it.
Suddenly, Bucky's voice cuts through the noise closer than you expect. It doesn't register at first; too focused on watching your skis and the way they're pointing at two different angles.
"Eyes on me, bunny."
When your panicked gaze snaps up to see him moving in front of you, skiing backwards like it's the easiest thing in the world, something clicks.
He was ready.
His hands are outstretched, ready to grab you at a moment's notice.
"Heels out, slow down."
With your mind finally clearing, you adjust your skis until they're wedged, the speed immediately decreasing.
"There you go," he murmurs. "Just like that. You're doing great."
A breath.
It's not like you haven't heard it before. In fact, you've always thought yourself capable…with the unfortunate habit of not always paying attention when your phone is in your hand. But the way the words slip through his lips, warm with the slightest hint of pride, hits harder than it should.
When you finally reach the end of the slope and drift to a stop, Bucky backs off, and it somehow feels a moment too soon.
Everything feels a little strange. The sun is too bright, the air suddenly warm, the crowd nearby a little loud.
With a deep breath and a shake of your head, you force a smile and turn towards the line. "Come on, Bucky. Round two." His brows raise, but he doesn't argue, following your lead.
By the time you're on the lift, you're more determined than ever. It's you that pushes off first. It's you that moves toward that same edge, stopping just before the point of no return.
It's like riding a bike; the first time is a little rusty. Shaky. Every time you get back on, you get steadier and more confident.
Only, when you lean forward and start going down the hill full of confidence you shouldn't have yet, you realize quickly that staying slow can actually be difficult. The wedge isn't working quite the same. Panic starts, but you squash it down and correct. Except the adjustment is too much, and one ski bounces on an uneven dip, making you lose balance.
The world tips as your arms fly out instinctively to catch yourself, and you land in the snow with a soft whump, sending a puff of powder flying into the air.
Your heart is pounding, blood rushing in your ears and making the world fall silent for a moment as you catch your breath.
Then there's laughter. Deep but short, like it came out before he could stop it.
"Please let this be a stupid dream," you mutter, squeezing your eyes shut.
Bucky comes to a stop next to you, still chuckling. "Round two, huh?"
"Please don't."
There's a pause, and you open an eye to peer up at him. The corner of his mouth is still twitching. Then he's crouching down, voice lowering as the crease in his brow deepens.
"Are you okay?" There's a shift in his tone, a softness that definitely wasn't there before.
You don't answer at first, too embarrassed. But then his hand finds your arm, touching it with a gentleness you didn't think he possessed. And it makes your gut do something funny.
"Seriously, are you hurt?"
The genuine concern laced in the deep timbre of his voice is a welcome surprise. It's warm. And professional, you remind yourself.
"I'm fine. I just decided to check the quality of the snow," you say, patting some of the fresh powder. "It's nice and…powdery."
A moment of silence passes where his incredibly blue eyes are narrowed and staring at you, holding eye contact a little too well. Finally, he hums, seemingly satisfied before standing and offering his hand.
You hesitate for a second before taking it and letting him pull you to your feet. Your pride is well and fully bruised at this point, confidence dipping low. Part of you hopes this will just end here. That he'll decide you're not worth the effort when he's not officially your instructor, that his challenge proved him right—
"Let's try again," he says simply, cutting your pity party short. No hint of teasing, no smirk. Encouragement.
It takes only a heartbeat before you're brushing off the snow and nodding. This time, when he starts offering instructions in a low, calm voice, you listen.
"Slow, control your speed."
"Heels out, bunny, you can do it."
When the wedge finally works, not perfect but enough to come to a full stop, a small smile tugs at his lips. "Good. That's better."
The next run comes easier.
So does the next.
It quickly becomes a pattern. He follows closely at your side, eyes analyzing everything you do. Every wrong move is followed by a gentle correction. Every adjustment is followed with some form of praise.
"That's it."
"Yes, there you go."
"Perfect, bunny, great form. Keep that."
And every time you get it right, you can feel it. Your chest tightens. Your breath catches. Your cheeks feel permanently warm, but maybe it's just the sun.
Several runs down the bunny hill in, mistakes are becoming minimal and you find yourself watching him instead of the run. Waiting. Listening. Until nothing comes at all, and disappointment unexpectedly tugs at your gut.
When the sun finally reaches the highest point in the sky, the two of you stop at the bottom of the hill for what feels like the millionth time. Your legs are tired, a little shaky from the exertion.
"You're getting it," he finally says. Bucky looks at his watch before squinting at the sun, a bead of sweat glistening on his hairline. He turns to meet your gaze. "That's it for today."
"Wait, what?"
He nods towards your legs before speaking. "Your legs are about to give out," he says matter-of-factly, "and I don't want to have to carry you down the mountain." The warmth is almost gone, replaced with the same teasing tone he had earlier this morning, but now there's a glint of something in his eye you can't quite name. Lingering. "Besides, I'm sure you'll need your strength for après-ski tonight."
You blink.
"Who says I'm going to après-ski after that?" you ask incredulously, placing your hands on your hips. His gaze drops to the way your knees wobble beneath you, the corners of his lips curling almost imperceptibly before his blue eyes meet yours once more.
His head tilts slightly. "Get a drink, bunny," he replies, voice lowering, "you earned it." He smirks before turning and leaving you standing at the end of the run alone.
— — —
The White Wolf Lodge is crawling with people when you and Lana finally step inside later that night, busier than it had been yesterday. Despite her protests to "find something with more oomph", you insisted on returning…just in case. Lana grins with delight, bouncing in her heeled boots as she takes it in.
"I'm getting drinks this time," she says pointedly. You open your mouth to protest, but she shuts you up with a look before turning and winding her way through the crowd in a blur of hair and perfume.
It's busy. Too busy. And despite the insistence to your brain that you weren't hoping to see a certain someone, a wave of disappointment hits you all the same. Because there's no way he'll be here with this many people around.
By some miracle, two chairs open up just as you push through a small opening of people. You sit quickly and take in your surroundings. A DJ booth is set up in the corner this time, the music loud enough to rattle the seat, and the pool tables are completely surrounded by people either dancing or ignoring the game altogether.
When your gaze finally drags over to the bar where Lana is currently leaning over it and pointing at something to the bartender, your heart nearly stops.
Those incredibly blue eyes, the ones who have seen you hit too many lows for comfort this weekend, catch your attention like a beacon. The eye contact is brief. Too brief…yet simultaneously too long. He turns away, but not before you catch the way his lips curl up at the corners.
Damn it.
"One cocktail for you, madame," Lana announces out of nowhere and hands you a glass. "Drink up."
"Actually," you say slowly, already setting the glass down, "I think I'm going to get some air." Lana doesn't say a word, watching as you leave for the door that leads towards a balcony overlooking the resort.
The sun is beginning to set behind the mountains, casting a pink and orange glow over everything. Lights flicker on across the resort and slopes as the night skiers begin their evenings. It's quieter out here, only the faint thumping of music filling the air.
You take a deep breath and enjoy the serenity for a moment before the sound of heavy boots approaches slowly, stopping just off to your side.
"Still standing, I see."
There's a lightness in his tone—impressed and teasing. Your eyes roll.
"I told you, you don't know me." You glance over at him. "I'm adorable, but I'm not helpless."
Bucky meets your gaze for a moment before looking out at the view. He nods thoughtfully before he shakes his head with a laugh, a real one that catches both of you off guard. He steps forward and rests his arms on the railing, close enough you can feel the heat radiating from him.
"For the record, I never said you were helpless. You just seemed a little too attached to your phone for your own safety."
You scoff, annoyed for a second, before conceding. "Yeah, sure. I'll give you that."
He smirks. "I guess this means I was wrong about you. You proved me wrong, bunny. You successfully made it down the mountain multiple times. Well done."
There it is again. Two incredibly simple words that shouldn't have the affect they do, yet the heat rising in your cheeks is unstoppable. What is it about this man that his approval so addicting?
You release a breath you hadn't realized you were holding and turn to watch the ski lifts sway gently in the wind.
"Thanks," you mumble, trying to keep your voice steady. The world suddenly feels smaller than it should. His gaze doesn't leave your profile, like he's studying you again. Reassessing.
There's a pause in the conversation, allowing the hum of muffled music and the squeal of children throwing snowballs down below to fill the silence.
Several moments pass before he leans a bit closer and breaks the silence. "You're awfully quiet right now. It doesn't suit you."
You raise an eye brow and glance at him. "Maybe I'm just enjoying the peace and quiet."
Something flashes in his eyes too quick to catch.
"Mm. I'm not sure that's it." He turns to fully face you now, elbow resting on the railing. "I watched you today."
Your heart stops, but you try and brush it off. "You were instructing me, of course you watched."
Bucky laughs, a rumble that vibrates deep in his chest. "No, I mean when you thought I wasn't paying attention. You know what I learned about you?"
You don't answer, choosing to focus on the way butterflies are threatening to erupt in your gut.
"You get flustered pretty easily."
His gaze holds yours, searching for any reaction, any hint that his words mean something. When you still don't respond, his voice lowers almost dangerously.
"I think you like the attention."
Your heart skips a beat.
"Maybe I do." Your voice comes out quieter than you intend. "But you're still giving it to me."
The way Bucky is looking at you makes your stomach do a somersault. With a twinkle in his eye and a grin he's fighting to keep hidden, he takes a half-step closer, making your breath catch.
"Probably because I like giving it to you, bunny."
Smooth as silk, and it hits exactly how he wants it to—a sharp breath and the flick of your eyes to the door leading back to the party inside before finding that unwavering gaze again. The sun has slipped completely behind the mountains now, leaving the warm lighting of the lodge's balcony to soften his sharp features.
"You're ridiculous," you whisper weakly, but you both know the tension in the air is thickening fast.
He chuckles softly. "Yet you're still here."
"I was here first."
He hums, looking out at the darkened view for a minute like he's considering something. And then his focus is on you again.
"Do you want to go somewhere else?"
He lifts his hand palm up between you, a silent invitation.
Your gaze drops to it. It's large and unfairly steady compared to the way he just made your pulse flutter. But you don't take it. Not yet.
"My room isn't far," you say without thinking, looking back up.
His expression shifts with a blink—eyebrows raising a fraction as a small smile, warm and satisfied, forms on his lips.
You take that as agreement, and suddenly your feet are carrying you back inside.
Every step is unhurried as you move through the noise and chaos of the lodge. You don't even have to glance back to know he's right behind you, a steady presence.
Each hallway gets quieter than the last, the tension slowly increasing with every corner you turn until finally stopping at your door.
For a moment, neither of you move.
Your fingers are wrapped around the keycard already, and the silence is almost deafening. When you second guess yourself and turn to ask if he's sure, you find him leaning against the wall.
Too casual. Too calm. Too—
Bucky smiles. Slow. Devastating.
Your breath catches.
His eyes flick to your lips, parted with a question that won't come out, then back to your eyes.
That's all it takes before you step towards him. Not the whole way, but enough. He closes the distance.
His hands cradle your face before his mouth finds yours, lips moving at a languid pace like we have all the time in the world. Your hands find the soft fabric of his shirt as he tilts your face just a little.
A soft hum slips from your throat, which only seems to encourage him into picking up the pace.
You don't break apart until the sound of footsteps and laughter sounds from somewhere nearby, and you find yourself gently pushing him away to try and get the door open. He barely moves, watching as you struggle to get the card in the reader twice before it finally unlocks.
Bucky holds the door open for you to go through first, and when it finally closes with a click, he immediately backs you into the nearest wall.
His body is a solid mass against yours, pressing firmly against you. One hand finds your waist, tugging you closer, as the other cups your face with a slow brush of his thumb.
"Tell me to stop," he says, voice strained. "Tell me you don't want this."
His breath fans across your lips in ragged puffs, like he's desperately trying to stay composed. But when your arms encircle his neck and pull him in for another kiss, his restraint snaps.
It starts slow. Tasting. Exploring.
Then the kiss deepens—your hands in his hair, his holding the nape of your neck like he's afraid to let you go. When his knee slots between your legs, pressing right where heat has been pooling far longer than you realized, a small whimper pulls from your throat before you can stop it.
He freezes. A slow curve of his lips accompany a low chuckle, and suddenly his lips are trailing to your jaw and down to your neck, his hands beginning to explore.
"God," he mumbles against your skin, "you sound good. Wonder what other noises you make."
You huff a laugh, half flustered half amused, your own hands beginning to tug at his coat, but your mind is stuck on the hard length pressing into your lower belly.
Bucky doesn't waste another second. He shrugs off his coat before cupping both sides of your face and pulling you in for a searing kiss. Your hands tug at his shirt, more insistent now. He lifts his arms, only breaking the kiss long enough to pull it over his head before it's tossed aside and his mouth finds yours again.
The sudden movement has your head spinning, knocking you off balance when he begins to tug you by the waist one, two steps away from the wall.
You barely register each step as clothes begin to peel away, leaving a trail of fabric to the bed. When the back of your knees press into the edge of the mattress, he follows you down instantly, bracing himself above you with one hand as the other trails slowly down your side.
His eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide as he looks down at you, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Still wanting my attention?" he murmurs.
A soft laugh. "More than anything."
Bucky kisses you again with a low groan before starting a slow trail down your body, leaving kisses in his wake. He lingers too briefly at your breasts, kneading, sucking, and groaning softly before continuing down, ultimately settling between your legs with a gentle push of his hand.
You watch as his fingers play with the waistband of your panties, torturing you with a glance back up to your pleading eyes.
His lips part like he's going to say something, but then he glances back down at the fabric clinging to your wet heat and he groans instead. Slipping a finger into the gusset, he slowly peels it down and off your legs.
"Look at you," he whispers. "So pretty."
He starts slow, his thumb brushing carefully up your slit, gathering slick as he goes. Your fingers curls into the plush duvet when he licks his lips, looking like a starving man at a buffet.
And then his tongue is on you.
Hot, flat, and tasting you slowly from entrance to clit.
You gasp, your head falling back to the mattress. He squeezes his eyes closed, an "oh, fuck," slipping from his lips before he's spreading you open with both thumbs and licking again. The sensation has you tingling, fingers gripping tighter, and when his lips attach to your clit without warning, a strangled whimper fills the soft silence of the room.
He hums, seemingly pleased at your reaction. And then his tongue is moving again. Slow. Flat. Flicking your clit before circling it with expert precision.
"Bucky," you whine. Your hips buck up in a silent plea for more.
He chuckles, a deep rumble that sends vibrations through your core. "Oh, bunny, you taste incredible," he murmurs. Your chest heaves as he exchanges his tongue for a single finger, pulling back just enough to look back up at you, lips already glistening with your juices.
He's watching you carefully for every reaction, every hitch in your breath has he rubs tantalizingly slow circles on your clit with too-soft pressure. Seemingly satisfied, he licks his lips again and dips his finger into your entrance, curling it just right and pulling a soft moan from your throat.
Bucky grins like he just won the lottery.
He leans back in, continuing where he left off with unhurried movements as his mouth and finger work in tandem. Pressure is coiling low in your gut, tighter with every brush of his thick fingers against the soft spot deep inside. A second finger joins quickly, stretching you open. One of your hands abandons the duvet altogether, burying into his hair to ground you.
He grunts in approval, picking up the pace. His mouth is relentless, sucking and licking your dripping folds.
"Fuck," he murmurs, "you're squeezing my fingers. You close, bunny?"
You nod quickly, brows drawn together in pleasure as your fingers grip his hair a little tighter. He growls when he feels your back begin to arch off the bed.
"There you go—fuck, you're doing great. Just relax and let go."
You moan loudly when your orgasm crashes over you, a white hot pleasure coursing through your veins in waves. Your legs shake and squeeze around his head, earning a deep groan from him. Bucky keeps up his movements, prolonging the pleasure as he groans against you.
His tongue laps up the juices as you come down from your high.
"Good fucking girl," he mutters, pulling his fingers out. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh before moving back up and kissing you deeply, allowing you to taste yourself on him.
"You've got quite the mouth on you," you laugh breathlessly when he pulls away, lowering himself and pressing his still-clothed bulge against your sensitive folds.
Bucky chuckles.
"I've got more than that." He grins and does one grind against you to punctuate his point. Wrapping your arms and legs around him, your hips roll once with his, not caring you're soaking into his briefs.
"Do you have a condom?" he huffs, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your flesh. "I…wasn't planning for this or I would've stolen one from my roommate."
You shake your head. "I'm clean and on the pill."
He groans, kissing you again and silently thanking any god that will listen for the snow bunny beneath him.
Bucky slips the now soaked material off, his cock slapping against his stomach as he looks at you with a newfound hunger, precum already beading on the flushed tip. Your eyes widen when his hands wrap around the length, giving one slow pump. He's thick and you're already salivating.
He moves to bracing himself above you. His knee pushes your legs further apart before he's rubbing the length through your wet folds, gathering your arousal before lining himself with your entrance.
He stops for a moment, chest rising and falling. Then his eyes are on you. And before you can say a word, he's pushing in.
Slow.
The stretch is delicious, each inch splitting you open. His eyes don't leave yours.
When he bottoms out, your eyes flutter shut, feeling more full than you ever have in your life. You can feel him shift, his body warm and solid as he settles above you, one hand bracing himself as the other gently grips your waist and waits for you to adjust.
When your eyes open again, his blue ones are watching for any signs of discomfort or hesitation.
"You okay?"
You nod, your throat not quite working. He nods in response, doing one test roll of his hips and making you gasp.
He smirks.
"Don't fucking look at me like that." Your laugh comes out strained, your hands somehow find themselves in his hair again.
He chuckles and does another roll. Slower. Just to see if you'll make the same sound. He grins when you do.
"You're so tight," he grunts. "Fucking perfect."
Your cunt clenches around him, and he groans.
His hips begin moving more deliberately, pulling his cock almost all the way out before sliding back in. He moves like he's back on the mountain—controlled, unhurried. Every thrust feels like heaven, dragging against your sensitive walls with increasing ease.
"There we go, that's it," he mutters. His gaze flicks down to where you're connected and licks his lips. He slowly picks up his pace. His hand moves from your thigh to slip beneath you, lifting your hips for a better angle. You mewl helplessly at the feeling.
Bucky's eyes snap back up to your mouth where your lips are parted and panting, each thrust now pulling sounds out like a beautiful symphony.
"Fuck, bunny, you sound—" his hips snap once, harder, and you whimper. He grins. "I'm not gonna last if you keep—" He snaps his hips again and the same sound comes out.
His jaw tightens, like he's trying to hold himself back, but when he does it again, hitting that spongy spot perfectly and pulling a full moan from your lips, he loses control.
The pace picks up faster and harder until you're crying out his name with every thrust.
"You're doing so good, look at you. You're taking me so well, sweetheart, keep going."
The praise hits you hard this time, your cunt clenching around him like it's desperately trying to hang on. Bucky moans, a deep guttural sound as his hips stutter and slow to a near stop. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath.
"You—you like that, don't you?" he growls. His eyes snap open. "You like the praise. No wonder you wanted it on the mountain."
You roll your hips up in his in an attempt for more friction. His cock twitches deep inside you. And then he's grinning wickedly.
"Bucky, please," you whimper.
"Please what, sweetheart? You look so pretty like this, underneath me while I split you open."
His words have the exact affect he wants and he chuckles when your body uselessly tries to cling on.
"Don't worry, bunny, I've got you. You're so good for me, huh? Already came on my mouth, think you can come on my cock like a good girl?"
"Oh, fuck…" you whine. "Yes, Bucky. Please."
He leans down, and gently presses a kiss to your lips. It's soft and lingering as he finally begins to move his hips again.
When you moan softly against him, he pulls back just enough to watch your face. "That's it. Let's get you there again, yeah?"
You nod, brows furrowed in pleasure, the edge slowly creeping closer as he slowly picks up the pace again. His calloused hand finds your thigh again, moving it to wrap around his waist. The change makes him feel even deeper when he bottoms out.
Bucky is pounding into you now, the sound of skin slapping skin mingling with heavy breaths.
"Bucky, I'm—I'm close."
He's panting, hips stuttering with his own impending orgasm, his eyes still not leaving your face. He reaches down between your sweat-slicked bodies and finds your clit, rubbing circles with his thumb.
"Give it to me, sweetheart. Come with me."
Three deep thrusts and your back arches as you reach your peak for a second time. You fingers tighten in his hair, tugging the strands. Moans fill the room as Bucky fucks you through your orgasm until his own release has him spilling hot ropes of cum deep inside you.
Hips roll in-sync, each of you pulling every last drop of pleasure possible out of the other before Bucky slowly pulls out with a groan.
"Good girl," he murmurs before climbing off the bed and heading to the bathroom. He comes back with a damp washcloth, cleaning you up carefully before tossing it on a side table. The two of you move to slip under the duvet, a calm weight draping over your bodies. Bucky pulls you into his side before pressing his lips to your temple.
A comfortable silence falls in the room and settles into the sheets, only the sounds of synchronized breaths filling the space between tangled limbs. Bucky's chest rises and falls in an increasingly slower rhythm under your head. His hands, the same ones that spent half the day correcting every mistake, now rub soothing circles on your back. Combined with the day's activities, your body is relaxing faster than you can stop it.
Bucky must sense it because his arms tighten around you a fraction before he murmurs, "Get some sleep, bunny. You had a long day."
— — —
You awake the next morning in darkness—or, you think it's morning—to the sounds of rustling fabric and a zipper being pulled in the door's vicinity.
"Bucky?" you mumble sleepily.
"Hey," he whispers. His voice sounds distant and a little rough from sleep. Soft footsteps on the carpet tell you he's moving closer before the dimmed light of his phone flickers on, illuminating his face as he crouches near the bed. His hair is mussed from sleep, eyes tired. "I don't mean to leave you like this, but I have to get ready for work. Can I see you later?"
Something inside flutters at the thought.
"Of course. I'll be around." You offer a smile before blinking slowly. He chuckles softly.
"I'll find you," he says, pausing for a moment. "Just…don't cause any trouble today, okay?"
You wave a dismissive hand at him before your head plops back down to the pillow with a small "mm".
He laughs softly before leaving and plunging you back into darkness.
The room is quiet again, but it doesn't feel the same. Cooler. Emptier. Which should feel embarrassing, having only known the man for a day. But sleep overtakes you before you can think too much about it, pulling you back into a warm slumber with the promise of later.
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