Amazing FanFics

26,Here I will simply reblog fics, drabbles and everything between that I have read. You can send me your recommendations and I will read them☺️❤️

[sinner-as-saint]

Tempestuous - COMPLETED.

King! Bucky Barnes AU

Run-through: With his kingdom flourishing in peace, and no threats from enemies; recently crowned King - James Buchanan Barnes sets out at sea. With his finest ship, the best crew ever recruited, and a deep desire to see whether the edge of the world truly exists; the King sets sail. Hoping to find the marvels of the ocean, to find beauty and magic even; however he ends up finding a fiery soul – one he cannot get enough of. But then again, no love story is ever perfect, is it? 

Themes throughout the series: FLUFF, SMUT, king! Bucky, slight angst?

Completed.

Tempestuous - Part 1

Tempestuous - Part 2

Tempestuous - Part 3

Tempestuous - Part 4 

[girlalwaysconfused]

Till Death Do Us Part

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x FemaleAvenger!Reader x SecretRelationship

Summary: You and Bucky have been secretly dating for almost a year. Stolen glances, quick touches, hidden dates, all of it made you love him more and more as the days went by. You decided not to tell the team because, in your field, loving was dangerous; it made you vulnerable to threats. But no matter what you did to hide yourselves, it didn’t matter when Bucky saw you injured. 

Warnings: Secret relationship, angst, comfort, bleeding, injury, death, no happy ending here. She/her prounounds fo reader.

A/N: Honesty, I wanted this to be more about the secret relationship, but I got ahead of myself with hurt Bucky, and so it became like barely any of the plot  

W/C: 2.3K

You and Bucky had been together for 11 months and 6 days, but it felt like more time than that. The relationship truly started when the two of you met three years ago. You knew immediately he was special, and he knew immediately that he loved you. 

After years of tiptoeing around your feelings, he finally cracked and confessed to you. From there, your relationship took off. Dates anytime you were free, sneaking into each other's rooms every night, and quiet moments when the team had their backs turned. 

You both decided immediately not to tell anyone. To you, it didn’t matter who knew about it; you and Bucky loved each other no matter what. To Bucky, it was about safety. If people knew you could be used against each other, you could get hurt, and he would give his life for yours without second thought, but he didn’t ever want to be put in a situation where he had to. 

For the past 11 months and 6 days, your life has been bliss. You slept better, smiled more, and took better care of yourself. The team had been wondering what’s got you all giggly. As for Bucky, he snarled less, spoke more, and even smiled on occasion, and the team has been teasing him with remarks like “When are we meeting the lucky girl Barnes?” or “Whoever she is she has you whipped bud” Bucky always just rolled his eyes, but they always met your soft smile which he always returned, a little red in the cheeks. 

To you, Bucky was home. Not a place, but a person. The second he wrapped his arms around you, everything felt quieter somehow. Safer. You trusted him with your life, and trust had never come easy to you. Being with him made the bad days feel lighter. It wasn’t even big moments that made you love him so much; it was the small things. The warmth of his hand against your back, the sleepy sound of his laugh at two in the morning, the way he looked at you like he was still learning how to believe in something good. Being around him gave you a kind of peace you didn’t think you’d ever have.

To Bucky, you were the world, not just someone he loved, but the reason the world still felt worth staying in. You were the reason he got up in the morning, the reason life didn’t feel so heavy anymore. If it were just the two of you left in the world, he would still be happy, because as long as he had you, he had everything he needed. He needed you in a way that sometimes terrified him. You saved him without even realizing it. Before you, he was drowning in old memories and pain he couldn’t escape, but with you, it all became quieter. When you held him, he didn’t feel broken. He didn’t feel like the Winter Soldier or a broken thing somebody forgot to fix. With you, he felt human again. Loved again. Like maybe there was still something good left in him after all.

Everything the two of you had together was perfect, and it was even better with the feeling of sneaking around. Even when fighting, you two found moments together, which is how you ended up here, behind a wall, your back pinned to it, with Bucky's arm over your head. “Buck-”

“Doll,” he cut you off. His doe eyes looking into yours 

“We're fighting a fucking space alien right now, what are you doing!” You giggled as you tried to push him back, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he pulled his mask off. 

“You looked so good when you sliced his arm off, I couldn’t help myself. I just need one kiss,” you rolled your eyes, but so softly planted a kiss to his lips. 

“Happy?” 

“Yes,” he said simply, like there wasn’t a threat 20 feet from you, even worse, the team could see you at any moment. “Now let's kick ass.”

You giggled again, and it made Bucky debate whether to keep you pressed against the wall a little longer. The world was ending outside, alarms screaming through the streets, but all he could think about was the sound of your laugh against his mouth. Still, he forced himself to pull away. The faster he killed this thing, the faster he could get you home and hear that sound all night instead of in stolen seconds between missions.

His hand slipped from yours slowly, like neither of you really wanted to let go.

“Don’t die on me, Barnes,” you teased softly, trying to ignore the tight feeling in your chest that always came before missions.

Bucky’s expression changed instantly. Serious. Almost angry.

“Not funny,” he muttered.

Your smile faded a little at the look in his eyes. Bucky always acted like losing you could actually kill him. Maybe it could.

You leaned up quickly, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before stepping away. “I’ll be fine.”

He stared at you for a second too long before nodding once. “You better be.”

Then the two of you were running in opposite directions.

You headed left toward Nat while Bucky disappeared toward Tony, gunfire and smoke swallowing him almost instantly. The thing you’d all been fighting had torn through the city since sunrise, leaving wrecked buildings and fires behind like breadcrumbs. Nobody even fully knew what it was yet, only that it wouldn’t die.

Every hit barely slowed it down.

“Son of a bitch,” you muttered when the creature hurled a car toward you. You ducked just in time, the car smashing into the pavement behind you.

“Everyone okay?” Steve’s voice crackled through your earpiece.

“Define okay,” Tony answered breathlessly.

Nat slid beside you, reloading her weapon. “Any bright ideas?”

“Yeah,” you said, staring up at the thing tearing through another building. “I’m thinking we run.”

Nat snorted, but before either of you could move, the creature let out a deafening roar that made the ground tremble beneath your boots. The creature moved faster than before. One second, Nat was beside you, the next she was yelling your name.

You barely had time to look up before part of the building above you gave out.

“Move!” Nat screamed.

You tried, but something slammed into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.

Pain exploded through your body as concrete and metal crashed around you. Your head hit the pavement, everything ringing and blurry for a second before the weight settled over you.

Somewhere nearby, people were shouting, and you heard a loud crash. Your vision flickered.

“...shit— she’s down,” Steve said over the comms. You couldn’t speak…you couldn’t move. 

Across the battlefield, Bucky’s heart stopped at Steve's words. His body stopped with it. He felt the chaos around him, but couldn’t move to help anyone. He could only think of you as he left Tony to go find you. Tony yelled behind him something about needing to keep fighting, but he couldn’t hear him over the sound of his heartbeat; even if he could, he wouldn’t stop. 

When he found you, Nat hovered over you, trying to get you to speak. Your bloody body in her hands. Steve was beside them, looking for help. 

Although you couldn’t see, you could hear, Bucky. Horrified.

“No. No, no, no.” You had never heard him sound afraid before.

“Bucky—” Nat tried to warn softly, but Bucky was already dropping to his knees beside you.

Everything around him disappeared. The screaming. The fighting. The comms in his ear.

None of it mattered.

“Hey, hey, hey.” His hands shook as they carefully grabbed yours, almost terrified that touching you would hurt worse. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Blood covered your side. Too much of it.

Bucky felt sick.

You looked so small lying there.

“Look at me,” he begged, voice cracking badly. “C’mon, doll, look at me. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay, alright? Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

But the words sounded desperate instead of convincing, and everyone around him could hear it. Steve stared. Nat’s eyes widened slightly. Tony looked between the two of you in confusion.

Because Bucky Barnes looked terrified.

Not teammate terrified.

Not mission terrified.

Terrified like his whole world was bleeding out in front of him.

“Get her some help!” he shouted suddenly, loud enough that his voice nearly broke. “Now!”

Your fingers weakly curled around his metal hand.

“Buck…” you whispered.

His entire face crumbled at hearing your voice.

“I’m here,” he said immediately, tears burning in his eyes now. “I’m right here, baby. Stay with me, okay? Stay with me.” You tried to smile, but it came out weak.

“I love you.”

The words were barely audible. But Bucky heard them. And it destroyed him.

A broken sound left his throat as he leaned closer to you, pressing your joined hands against his chest as if he could somehow keep your heart beating with his own. “No, no, don’t talk like that,” he rambled quickly. “You’re okay. You hear me? I love you too. God, I love you so much. I love you more than anything.”

The battlefield had gone strangely quiet around him. Nobody understood what they were hearing. Bucky didn’t even notice.

“You can’t leave me,” he whispered, tears finally falling now. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t…I can’t do that again.”

“Bucky…” Steve said carefully. Bucky looked up then, eyes red and furious and terrified all at once.

“We’ve been together for a year,” he choked out. “So somebody do something. S-somebody help her! Somebody kill that fucking thing.”

He finally looked back to see that the monster was on the ground. Whatever happened in the two minutes you were on the ground stopped it, at least for the moment.

 “You’ve been together for a year?” Tony said, as he looked at Bucky, then at you, Your breathing was uneven now. Weak. 

Nat was somewhere behind him, yelling for medical, her voice sounding farther and farther away. Bucky’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He kept rubbing his thumb over your cheek as if he stopped touching you, you’d disappear.

“Yes, but we…we’ve loved each other for longer.”

Then he looked at Steve.

And suddenly, he didn’t look like the Winter Soldier anymore. He looked young. Terrified. Like the skinny kid from Brooklyn begging the world not to take another person from him.

“Please,” he said, voice cracking completely. “Help her.”

Tony dropped beside him quickly, scanning your injuries, but the second Bucky saw the look on his face, something inside him snapped.

“No,” Bucky said immediately.

Tony’s expression only fell further.

“Barnes–”

“No!” Bucky shouted, pulling you closer against him. “No, don’t fucking look at me like that.”

Your eyes fluttered weakly toward him.

“Bucky…” you breathed.

“I’m here,” he said instantly, tears falling freely now. “I’m right here, baby. I got you.”

Your hand twitched in his.

He grabbed it like it was the most important thing in the world.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he kept saying, voice trembling harder each time. “You hear me? We’re gonna go home after this. I’m gonna make you coffee tomorrow morning, and you’re gonna complain it tastes terrible even though you drink the whole thing anyway.”

A tiny smile ghosted across your lips. Bucky looked wrecked seeing it. “I love you,” you whispered.

And God, it sounded like goodbye.

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head hard enough it looked painful. “No, don’t say it like that. Don’t… please don’t say it like that.”

“I love you,” you repeated softly.

Bucky broke.

A horrible sound left his throat as he pressed his forehead against yours, clutching your hand against his chest.

“I love you too,” he sobbed. “I love you so much. More than anything, sweetheart. Please stay. Please stay with me.”

Your breathing hitched.

Then stopped.

For a second, nobody moved.

Bucky stared at you.

Waiting.

Waiting for another breath.

Another blink.

Anything.

“...Doll?” he whispered.

Silence.

Tony slowly reached forward, fingers brushing against your neck before his face fell completely.

Bucky noticed.

And the denial in his eyes shattered.

“No,” he breathed.

Steve took a step forward carefully. “Buck”

“No!”

Bucky pulled you against him harder, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other desperately held your lifeless hand.

“No, no, no, no, please.” His entire body shook violently now. “You can’t do this to me. Please don’t do this to me.”

Nobody knew what to say.

Nat had tears in her eyes.

Steve looked devastated.

Tony just looked numb.

And Bucky…

Bucky looked like the world had ended.

Because to him, it had.

What's worse is that no one knew how to comfort him. They didn’t even know the two of you were together. Steve put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“S-she wanted to get married in a barn house one day, a-and she wanted Nat to be her maid of honor.” Nat broke behind him, “A-and she was so excited to tell you guys one day.” Bucky looked up. “She was so happy…we were so happy together.”

They didn’t know what to do, so they sat with him over your body, as he spoke about things only he knew about you. “And she loved when no one was home so she and I could watch cheesy movies on the big TV, since I refused to admit to liking them.” Bucky choked on his breath, “I should have admitted I liked them… I-i should have”

No one could look at him, their hearts ached, “And she used to tell you guys she was going to go read, but really she’d come to my room and make me read her favorite books to her.” Bucky put his forehead against yours, “And she wore socks to sleep like a crazy person, but she looked so damn cute in her fuzzy socks.” Tony chuckled behind him. 

Bucky closed his eyes, remembering your smile. Even surrounded by the team, he had never felt more alone. The world around him sounded distant, muffled beneath the ringing in his ears. Without you, everything inside him went cold. Numb. Like the part of him that knew how to live had died with you in this moment.

[smorgaswhored]

— 18+ mdni - smut, mean bucky, secret hookup, excessive use of ‘slut’

“holy shi—“

“shhh,” bucky hushes you, a large hand covering your mouth.

you scramble back, your heart pounding against your chest, and claw his hand from your face. “what are you doing here?” you hiss.

bucky sits on the edge of your bed, looking absolutely unbothered over the fact that he’s in your room — uninvited — at two in the morning. or that he woke you up serial killer style. with a crooked grin, he leans in, lips pressing down on the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

“what the fuck?” you whisper-yell and shove him back, conscious of the ungodly hour to be awake and your snoring roommate on the other side of the wall. “bucky — how did you get in?!”

bucky’s hand catches your wrist. he has a glazed look in his eyes, hazy and dark, like he’s neither here nor there.

“stole sam’s copy,” he rasps, flashing the key in his free hand before dropping it off the side of the bed. the clatter makes you wince. with a growl, you push on his chest to get him off the bed, but he’s as immovable as stone. bucky takes advantage of your closeness and kisses a line down your jaw, sending sparks up your body that your half-asleep mind struggles to keep up with. you tilt toward him instinctively before the previous week catches up to you.

“no,” you say, snapping to. “don’t, bucky. i told you, this is over.” you wrench yourself away from him, from the familiar heat radiating off his body.

the man has the audacity to pout.

“you didn’t mean it,” he mutters, tightening his grip on your wrist and slowly dragging you over to him. you plant your feet into the mattress, pulling at his hand to release you. it doesn’t work.

“yes, i did,” you seethe, your irritation growing the closer you get to him. “it was way out of line, even for you. you don’t get to call me a slut in front of everyone just for talking to another guy and expect me to let you fuck me after.”

he sighs, like he’s heard this a million times over and has now found it tedious. “come on, sweetheart, it wasn’t like that. it was just a bit of foreplay,” he hums, leaning in again. the anger comes in waves now, waking up your brain and adding to your strength, and you finally succeed in prying his fingers off.

only for him to snatch up your other wrist, quick as a flash. his reflexes take you by surprise, a squeak leaving your mouth, and bucky makes his move, one knee on the bed before his body’s hovering over yours, eliminating all opportunities to escape. your head meets the wall as you move with him, a dull thunk that you pray didn’t wake your roommate.

“fuck you,” you snap, scrambling to recover. “you took it too far, now get off me before i scream.”

bucky raises your wrist to his lips, kissing the fragile skin softly. your heartbeat quickens under his mouth when that strange look in his eyes grows darker.

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs, “i didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

the apology hits you like a truck, you can only stare at him.

“i’ve missed you,” he hums, nose nudging against your wrist. “missed this.”

your mouth hangs open. “that’s not — you can’t — i don’t care,” you sputter out.

“you’re mad at me,” he says. it isn’t a question.

“extremely,” you say, but your voice has lost most of its defiance already.

“more than usual.”

you huff. “yes. it was mean, bucky.”

“thought you liked me mean.” his lips work their way up your arm, toward the thin strap of your sleep tank, leaving a trail of fire after them. you fight against his grip, but it’s weak, half-assed.

“not like that,” you mumble, cheeks flushed. bucky kisses across your chest, hips settling between your legs, other hand spanning your waist. the voice of rationality inside your head is screaming at you to put an end to this, to kick him out and tell him to never come back. you make one last effort to get him off of you, hips bucking, but all it does is grind your center directly on his, creating friction where heat is beginning to build and earning you a low groan.

he draws back, but leaves his hips pressed to yours. “i can be nice, too.”

your breath hitches, your brow furrows. “what do you…” you shake your head quickly, pushing on his shoulders. “no. i’m not in the mood — on account of how pissed i am at you.”

bucky stares down at you for a moment before his arms lock around you. your world flips upside down as he switches your positions suddenly, holding you steady on top of his growing bulge while he rests his back against the wall.

“take it out on me,” bucky says.

you blink at him. “i — huh?“

“use me. don’t hold back.”

his hands drag your hips across his. heat pools in your core as the zipper of his jeans catches your clit through your underwear. you let out a soft whimper, caught off guard yet again by this foreign version of him.

“bucky,” you start.

“be mean to me, like i was mean to you,” he breathes, kissing down your neck. “unless you actually liked being called a slut…” you can feel him smile into your throat when you make an indignant noise. you give everything you’ve got not to rise to his bait, but you can feel your temper sparking and spitting beneath the surface.

bucky pulls away, wearing a crooked grin and soft eyes, holding you with an even softer touch, and it’s absolutely unnerving, this side of him. you’re convinced he has to be either drunk or high or something—

his fingers glide over the skin of your leg and press on your bundle of nerves through your panties. your back arches, your thighs clench around his waist; he looks smug. it snaps something within you.

your hand comes down on his chest with a smack, right under his throat. your fingers hook around the neckline of his shirt while your other hand goes for his belt. bucky’s grin turns into a giddy smile. he helps you undo his pants, pushing them down with his briefs until his cock springs out, long and thick and leaking with anticipation. your body hums just from the sight of his length, like it’s been programmed to come alive when it’s near. he bites his lip, waiting.

you meet his eyes then, as the slick builds in your panties from his thumb swiping lazily up and down your folds. “never call me a slut in front of our friends again.”

there’s a pause as you size each other up. you’re a hot leaking mess and his dick twitches twice, but neither of you move yet. bucky’s gaze grows impossibly softer the longer the silence stretches on.

finally, he nods.

a small part of you preens at his obedience, however reluctant it was, but you tuck that feeling away to examine later. your body relaxes with a sigh of poorly concealed relief as you start wriggling out of your underwear, eager to feel him; bucky must feel the same because his hands come up to rip the fabric in two before it even reaches your knees. you gasp, but he’s already dragging you toward him, lining up his cock with your dripping pussy.

not wanting to relinquish your upper hand, you scratch at his skin with the hand at his neck, stopping him from pulling you down. he hisses but says nothing, fingers tightening on your hips as you slowly lower yourself onto his cock.

both of you exhale heavily when he slides in all the way, the tip of him reaching that tight notch inside of you on the first try. you moan, head thrown back, and bucky carves a sloppy path of kisses across your collarbone. you let yourself adjust as he continues to attack your skin, pulling at your top to expose a breast and immediately sucking the nipple into his mouth.

the heat spreads through you, hottest where your bodies meet. slowly, when the burning stretch of him has faded, you begin to rock your hips. bucky grips you tighter, hands following instead of guiding, letting you set the pace for once. the realization is like fire in your veins, adding to your desire but also fueling your need for control. fisting his shirt, you move faster on top of him, grinding deep before lifting up until just the head of his cock is tucked into your pussy; you come back down with a quick snap, hard and greedy and intentional in its violence, and bucky lets out a deep groan. you repeat the motions, basking in his unchecked noises, the sweet drag of him against your walls feeling like a victory.

your legs burn from the pace you’ve set, but the way he splits you in two is too addicting to give up on. short puffs of air escape his mouth each time your pussy swallows his cock, like he’s at the complete mercy of your will and has no other choice but to take it. his head falls back against the headboard, expression slack.

“you are a slut,” he breathes, fingers digging into your ass, eyes focused on your face, “but you’re my slut, aren’t you?”

your lips part—

bucky thrusts up into you suddenly, bringing your rhythm to a stop as you gasp at the feeling of his cock kissing your cervix. you see stars the same time you see red, but the aftertaste of his words is traitorously delicious. arousal spills from your pussy, soaking his cock and the coarse hairs at the base.

bucky chuckles softly, continuing to rock his hips up into you, his thumb coming back around to tease your clit. you cry out at the surge of pleasure wracking your body. you’re slowly losing your control.

“what?” he says when your tear-filled eyes narrow down at him. “you never said i couldn’t call you a slut when it’s just us.”

your nails scrape at his skin again, but bucky responds with a sharp smack to your ass. you yelp, arching into him, and bucky strips you of your shirt before you can make another sound; he licks and bites at the skin of your breasts, undoubtedly leaving marks that he’s not supposed to make, but that’s when he gives you another hard thrust, removing all protests from your head as he fucks you closer to your orgasm.

but you’re determined to win this war. you grab his hair and pull his face up, pressing a bruising kiss to his lips. he makes a small noise in the back of his throat, thrusts becoming uneven enough for you to press down into him, restarting your original pace, making him take it.

“i’m not your slut, bucky,” you whisper against his mouth, pulling at his hair so he looks at you. “you’re mine.”

bucky’s eyes widen; he opens his mouth to respond, but you nip at his lower lip, tugging on it until he hisses.

“fuck,” he cries out when you release him. his hands press into your skin, frustration evident in his hold, but you pick up speed, fucking him faster, harder, deeper, until his bruising grip is from him having to hang on to you. bucky begins to unravel before your eyes, sweat beading at his temples, jaw unhinged, chest heaving. the sight of him coming undone underneath you fills you with lustful pride, giving you a new sense of confidence. you want to push him further, the way he pushes you.

“only a slut sneaks into an apartment at two in the morning because they’re so desperate for someone,” you murmur in his ear.

bucky’s legs tense up beneath you, the telltale sign that he’s close. you smile.

“you couldn’t even go a week without being inside of me, barnes. i’d call that desperate.”

his hips follow yours, not to take over, but to get closer to his release.

“any chance you get, you’re pulling me into bed with you. it’s so painfully obvious, it’s pathetic.”

bucky actually whimpers, his lips brushing your neck. you lean back, holding his shirt like you’d hold a horse’s reins, and you hope the imagery isn’t missed by him, the degradation of it, as you continue to ride him at a brutal pace.

“i think you called me a slut because you can’t stand the fact that you’re the biggest slut for me,” you breathe, dropping your hand from his hair to caress his cheek. bucky’s head leans into your palm, spit pooling at the corner of his lips. there’s no blue left in his eyes, only dilated pupils, as he watches you fuck him.

“well guess what?” you say, smirking. “everyone could tell you only said it because you were jealous. everyone. and now they know what you really are. my slut.”

it’s the final nail in the coffin. bucky’s jaw drops, a long, low moan leaving him as his hips rock up into yours for a final time. you can feel him spill inside of you, warmth flooding your core. he’s so fucking pretty when he comes that for a moment, you forget why you’re angry with him in the first place, watching as his whole body shudders beneath you.

he somehow manages to keep his half-lidded eyes locked with yours while he rides out his orgasm, soft grunts escaping his mouth with every wave that crashes through him. the intensity of his stare is spine-tinglingly intimate and loaded with unsaid words.

it makes you rock into him quicker, your walls squeezing his twitching, still hard cock until it hits on a specific spot within you that you eagerly press down on. you come with a soft cry, limbs trembling and spine stretching as you reach your peak. for a moment, while the pleasure courses white-hot through your body, the only things tethering you to this earth are his fingers leaving indents in your ass.

the silence in the room during your comedowns is deafening. when your vision returns, you find bucky staring up at you, face impassive, eyes no longer soft.

“i wasn’t jealous.”

the corner of your lip twitches up. “sure.”

with a huff, bucky lifts you off of him, setting you aside unceremoniously so that he can stand. you can feel your combined releases dripping out of you onto your freshly-washed sheets, and something about that and the way he keeps his back to you as he tucks himself into his pants fills you with sudden and burning rage.

“seriously?” you snap. “you come over here and sweet talk me into letting you back into my bed and then end it like this? what, all because your pride’s a little hurt? because i called you out?”

“that’s what this is, right?” he mutters, broad back tense as he buckles his belt. “we use each other to get what we want. i got off, and you got your little power trip.”

you gape at him when he turns around, face set in stone.

“nothing’s changed. you made sure of that when you fucked me into the bed after telling me this is over,” he says, emotionless. “a little slutty, if you ask me.”

your mind whirls to keep up with his words, and you’re fighting a losing battle against the tears springing to your eyes. you look away from him quickly.

“get out,” you whisper. bucky stands like a statue next to your bed.

“are you…crying?”

“get out, barnes, i swear to god,” you hiss. he’s silent as he watches you for a moment longer, then bends over to pick up the keys discarded on the floor. “leave them,” you spit.

bucky steps back, hands up like he’s facing off against a wild animal. you’re sure you look like one, naked and crying and tangled in the sheets. after another beat, he’s at your door, casting one last look at you before saying, “house is empty tomorrow night…if you’re still mad.”

then he’s gone.

you collapse onto your bed, sobbing, pulling your sheets over your head and hiding yourself from the rest of the world. you feel like you’re drowning in a whirlpool of shame and hurt and anger. only this time, the anger is mostly directed at yourself. how did you let this get so twisted? how did he get so under your skin that his usual remarks started to cut deeper, leaving scars instead of brushing past you?

because bucky has always treated you like you’re nothing more than a dumping ground for his load. he holds you down a little too hard for a little too long and doesn’t care if it hurts. he doesn’t wait for you to come first, and he’s never heard of aftercare. and for reasons unknown, when this first started, that’s what you wanted. he is unapologetically a dick, and that’s who you willingly accepted into this dark, secret corner of your life.

and now it’s come back to bite you.

more smutty angsty trash

[hiding-in-my-blanket-fort]

Headcanons for Rip Wheeler with a sweet, gentle, kind SO who is a ray of pure sunshine (gender neutral, SFW):

You are the opposite of Rip in every way possible.

He's gruff and doesn't talk much.

You're bubbly, all sweetness and light.

He wears the same basic sets of clothes - black shirt, jeans, dusty boots.

You are a rainbow of color on any given day.

Rip only smiles for you.

But you have a smile ready for anyone you pass on the street.

Rip intimidates the hell out of people by his presence alone.

You are warm and friendly and people are just drawn to you like a bee to honey.

If Rip is honest, it scares the shit out of him that you are so trusting and soft-hearted. This world is not kind or gentle. He has seen first hand how kindness like yours gets put through a meat grinder.

He would never dream of changing anything about you. Ever.

But he does attempt to toughen you up a little. Just so you're a little better protected and prepared.

It doesn't stick though.

Because there you are, stopping traffic in the middle of town to rescue an abandoned kitten from the middle of the road.

He just wishes you would be a little more cautious, instead of blindly seeing the good in everyone all the time.

When he tries to explain that, you wrapped your arms around his middle and grinned up at him.

"That's why I have you, tough guy. You're my big, scary, guard dog who keeps me safe."

He likes the sound of that.

On very rare occasions, you and Rip butt heads. Because your perspectives are on total opposite ends of the spectrum.

Rip HATES arguing with you.

He's willing to take on anyone else and fight with them at the drop of a hat.

But not you. Never, ever you.

In the middle of a heated argument, he grits out with a growl, "You're being fucking naive."

A dead silence settles over the room.

The flicker of hurt in your eyes cuts him to the core.

He doesn't give a shit that he's right. He knows he could have said it better.

But your beautiful brilliant butterfly demeanor is already bruised, and you turn away, walking out to get some fresh air.

At first, Rip gives you space to cool off. Even though it kills him a little bit.

When he starts looking for you, he can't find you. Which eats him alive.

Nearly two hours later, he finds you dozing in the hay loft in a patch of sunlight with that damn kitten you rescued.

It's clear from your puffy, bloodshot eyes that you've been crying, which makes him sick with guilt.

"I'm sorry, honey," he says gently, pulling you close as he sits next to you. "Didn't mean to bite your head off like that."

You sniff and lean into him, even though you still feel a little tender.

"I know you're just worried about me," you whisper, threading your fingers with his.

You always decorate your home for every holiday.

To Rip, one day is just like any other, and he shakes his head fondly when you're tangled up in Christmas lights on the living room floor, working out the knots.

Or covering every inch of the house in paper hearts for Valentine's Day.

Or diligently concentrating as you smother cupcakes in green icing for St. Patrick's Day, and somehow, there is green icing in your hair??? and sprinkles covering every. single. surface. of the kitchen too???

Rip really doesn't give a shit about holidays or decorations, but it makes you happy. So, begrudgingly, with a long, weary sigh, he will insist that no, absolutely fucking not, you are not climbing that goddamn ladder to put up those fucking Christmas lights, honey, you'll break your fucking neck, so he'll get one of the ranch hands to do it instead.

In summer, you drag him outside to star gaze (he usually falls asleep within an hour though), rambling about constellations and supernovas and meteor showers as you're cuddled up to him in the cool night air.

He doesn't really have a clue what you're babbling about.

But you're content, warm, and safe beside him. That's all he cares about.

Masterlist

[rosemary-beach-babe]

the world's biggest house cat- b.barnes

masterlist

pairing: boyfriend!bucky x reader

summary: You accidentally turn your super-soldier boyfriend into a needy, head-scratch-addicted monster. He doesn't want to talk about it.

word count: ~990

warnings: fluff, bucky being whiny

---

You were always on the hunt for new things to tease your boyfriend about. On a Friday evening, your favorite one quite literally fell into your lap.

It was movie night- you had your ankles crossed on the coffee table, taking up one (1) respectable couch cushion. Bucky stretched across the other two, head in your lap like the world's biggest house cat. 

Somewhere on their journey toward the popcorn bowl, your fingers got lost in his hair. It wasn’t a fancy head massage- just rhythmic carding, over and over. 

You stifled a giggle at the tiny sigh that left his mouth. 

When the jumpscare hit, you flinched, and your fingers flew to your mouth. Which also meant they abruptly left (in Bucky’s opinion) their rightful spot in his hair. You decided to test him- tucking your hand behind your own head, out of reach. 

He stiffened- slightly. Blinked. Cast an expectant glance your way. Then another. 

It was too dark for him to see the smirk twisting your lips. 

Four days later, you struck again. Worse, this time. You’d ducked out of the house earlier that afternoon to “run some errands.” 

When you walked in the door, Bucky noticed immediately- your nails were done. 

They were shiny. Oval-shaped. Slightly longer than usual. 

Your fingertips brushed the back of his hand while handing him a grocery bag, and he swore he got chills right there. 

Through dinner, he watched: you brushing a hand through your hair, running a finger over the curve of your glass, readjusting your necklace. 

Your nails gleamed in the kitchen light. All he could think about was how damn good they’d feel in his hair, running line after line over his skin.

He offered to wash the dishes, which was normal- except this time, he added the one piece of rationale you needed to justify your hypothesis:

“So you don’t mess up your nails.”

Satisfied, you settled yourself on the couch to wait. 

Ten minutes passed before you heard the click of the dishwasher closing, and then he appeared in the doorway. Silent. 

Silence meant he wanted something that he didn’t want to ask for. Like you running your nails across his scalp. 

You made a point not to look at him, biting back a smile at the way he hovered. He approached the couch, half a beat too slow, then swerved- parking himself on the floor, right in front of you. 

“Buck,” you started. “Whatcha doin on the floor?”

He tilted his head back, wide blue eyes meeting yours. 

“Nothing. It’s just…comfortable.”

“Uh huh.”

His gaze flickered- just for a millisecond- to your hand, inches from his head. 

“I like your nails, by the way. They’re very…shiny.”

You bit, finally placing a hand on top of his head. His posture softened instantly.

“You do?” you mused, far too entertained.

You dragged your fingers through his hair and he practically slumped backwards into you. 

“Mhm,” he murmured. The idea that something so simple could make your super soldier of a boyfriend melt like butter drew a giggle from your chest. 

“Don’t laugh at me,” he ordered, though his words ran together like molasses. “‘S not funny.”

“You’re basically purring.”

He tried to say something defensive, but it came out as a sleepy mumble. You stayed like that for a few minutes, lazily combing through his soft hair. His eyes had slipped closed- not just that, his posture had entirely shifted towards you. Like a tree grown against the wind.

Then: “I’m gonna go get a drink.”

He let out a soft hum, clearly unaware of what you just said. You extracted your fingers from his hair and his eyes snapped open. He looked up at you like a kicked puppy.

“Where are you going?”

“To get water,” you actively tried- and failed- to keep the giggles out of your voice. “I told you, Buck.”

A comic book pout eclipsed his face. 

“Something wrong?” you asked sweetly.

He shot you a look. You know exactly what you’re doing. His gaze followed you all the way to the kitchen and back, even though it meant he had to twist his head like an owl. When you settled yourself behind him again, he reached back and caught your wrist, placing your hand directly on top of his head.

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

“Hm?”

“Are you begging?”

A tiny jolt ran through him. “No! I just- it feels nice,” he sputtered. “and you’re good at it.”

He didn’t need to turn to see the wicked grin on your face. 

“Okay,” he conceded, relaxing back into the cushions. “Maybe a little. Because you’re mean.”

You pulled your hand off his head. “Say that again.”

He turned his gaze up to you, flashing a dazed smile. “Say what again?”

You slid your fingers back into his hair and it pulled a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan from his throat.

“That’s what I thought.”

Over the next week, he developed what you’d mentally branded The Look™: forlorn, needy puppy dog eyes. It was ridiculous. Every time you sat down, he positioned himself within arm’s length- closer if possible. Then he’d flash The Look™, like an abandoned cat in an alleyway, and you’d comb your fingers through his hair. He melted instantly, every time.

Movie night again, and- no surprises here- his head was in your lap. 

“Sam would never let this go if he found out,” you offered casually. 

“Sam wishes,” came Bucky’s muffled reply. 

You raised a brow. “Sam wishes what?”

“That he got head scratches,” Bucky said, utterly unashamed.

You cackled. “You are unreal.”

He tipped his head back, just enough to meet your eyes. “Yeah? And whose fault is that?”

Before you could answer, he nudged your hand pointedly back into his hair.

You gave in with a dramatic sigh. “I’ve created a monster.”

“Mm,”  he hummed, eyes already closing. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

[pellucid-constellations]

Unexpected

Pairing: Army Vet!Bucky x Teacher!Reader

Summary: With all of his rough edges and impassive glances, Bucky Barnes looked to be the last person you’d find at an elementary school bake sale. Too bad Steve couldn’t make it, and dealing with a class hopped up on sugar wasn’t a feat you could manage alone. 

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: none! Maybe a little sad Bucky

a/n: This was supposed to be a drabble but I loved it so much so it’s a oneshot!! I hope you enjoy :))

Masterlist

~~

Another box thudding against the makeshift countertop sent your third graders into a frenzy. You had given up on trying to tame their excitement after the first batch of cookies had sold out, doing your best to simply hold down the fort until another set of hands could come to help you. The bake sale had seemed like the easiest booth to sign your class up for, but that was before you learned that the PTA had only assigned one parent to come and help you. 

And that parent was already… fifteen minutes late? You couldn’t check your phone to find out, a tug at your sleeve tearing your eyes from the parking lot in the distance. 

Keep reading

[pellucid-constellations]

Ease

Pairing: Army Vet!Bucky x Teacher!Reader

Summary: Bucky has a bad habit of causing mass hysteria in your classroom. And also making you fall in love with him. Good thing he's gone for you.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: References to past trauma, but this is sickening fluff!! I love it

a/n: Hii my Bucky people here is a part two of Unexpected which you can read here! But this can be read on its own if you wanna :) This was so much fun to get back into!! Thank you for reading ily ❤️

Link to previous part!

Main masterlist ♡

~~

“And what do we remember about penguins?” you asked, an inquisitive look put on display for the class. 

Several shouts met you, rambling out random facts that were only half true. You nodded in turn, making sounds like hmm and ahh to show that you were listening, even though you could hardly understand what was being said. 

“I love the enthusiasm, third grade, but remember—we were talking about what penguins eat, right? Can someone raise their hand and tell me what they know about a penguin’s diet?” 

Hands shot up around the room with excited murmurings, and you chose the student who looked most ready to jump out of their seat. The little boy proudly stated, “My mommy is on a diet.” 

You pressed your lips into a line to stave off the laugh. Your science unit was struggling in the last half of the day, your classroom alight with both tire and too much energy. Around 2 pm, the 8-year-olds stopped having access to their brains. 

“Thank you, Omar, that is very insightful. Emma, what do you have to add?” you posed, turning to your most on-task student. 

“Penguins eat fish,” she stated, matter-of-factly. “Like we eat fish at home sometimes. You know, like when my daddy made dinner and you came with Uncle Bucky.” 

You took in a sharp intake of air and paired it with a smile. The flush in your cheeks was surely coming on, but it didn’t have time to fully form before the class erupted with more babbling. They wanted to know why Miss. Y/l/n went to Emma’s house and why were you eating fish? That is so weird, and the most asked question: Is Mr. Bucky going to come here? 

You used every classroom management strategy in the book—clapping, a phrase, a gentle shush—but nothing would calm them. The unfortunate truth was that your class loved Bucky. And that was only unfortunate because mentioning him caused an uproar. One that you could barely tame. 

To be fair, you loved Bucky just as much. You hadn’t exactly told him that yet, but you figured it was obvious. Showing him rather than telling was just the best course of action right now. He was more traditional, asking you on dates and putting official labels on your relationship, so you didn’t want to freak him out with anything too soon. It had been about four months together, but maybe that was too soon? 

You just really didn’t want to mess anything up. 

You brought yourself back to the present hysteria of the room and raised your voice over the squeals. “Okay, okay, everyone! Thank you for settling down. Thank you for using inside voices when we are inside,” you gently reprimanded, sending out a few pointed looks. “Mr. Bucky is not going to be coming to class today—” the room deflated with a few sad sounds “—I know. It’s very sad. But maybe I could invite him when we have our Valentine’s Day party if everyone earns it.” 

“With his arm?” someone piped up from the back of the room. 

“He always has his arm, so yes. The arm would be there.” 

Yays boomed across the room. Emma was staring at you in gentle disbelief at the craze of her classmates, and you gave her a conspiratory wink. She returned it with a playful eyeroll, but then lost you when her head snapped over to the window. It didn’t take long for the rest of the class to follow suit, and suddenly, any control you’d had over the room vanished. 

The low hum of a motorcycle offered you an explanation. 

“Miss. Y/l/n, you said he wasn’t coming! He’s here! Mr. Bucky is here!” Peter shouted, bouncing on his toes by the window. Your class had a rather expansive view of the parking lot, a fate you were now cursing. 

“I… I didn’t think he was coming,” you mumbled under your breath, smoothing down your skirt with an unseen shyness. 

You watched Bucky kick off his bike and slide the helmet from his head, taking a moment to adjust to the sun before sending a smile to your classroom window. The kids vibrated with excitement, and Bucky slipped off his gloves before stepping closer and bending down to their level. He lifted his hand, pressed it to the window, and wiggled his fingers. 

All sanity was lost. Gone. Forever abandoned. You saw a laugh shake his shoulders as one of the students pressed their hand against his on the glass. His smile quirked up to you, shining in the exasperated look you sent him. He was so pretty it hurt to look at him. And you were trying to be annoyed at him for disrupting your class. 

The bell saved you. All 26 third graders scrambled around the room to gather their things as you gave fruitless instructions. Luckily, you weren’t on pick-up duty today. That would have really and truly drained you. Instead, you got to enter the hall and watch Bucky ruffle the hair of your students as they smiled up at him and raced to the exit. It was preferable. You leaned against the threshold of your door and failed to hide your own smile. 

When the space had become more sparse, Bucky honed all of his attention on you. He looked you up and down twice, as he loved to do just because it made you all antsy, and then stepped forward until the toes of his boots were inches from your sensible but professional shoes. You watched the way he pressed his tongue into his cheek, and relished in the slight color that dusted under his eyes. It wasn’t always you that got flustered. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted in a low, private tone. “Can I take you to dinner?” 

You raised your brows in playful disbelief. “Dinner? You riled up my classroom and caused a—a stampede to ask me to dinner? You could’ve texted me!” 

Bucky bit into his bottom lip and stared up at the ceiling for a moment, a slight shake to his head. “Can’t just text you. That takes all the fun out of it.” 

“We were trying to learn about penguins. Now they know nothing about penguins.” 

“Not the penguins. God, sorry, baby, I should’ve known it was penguin day. I saw you lay out that icicle skirt.” 

“They aren’t icicles, they are snowflakes and—now you’re riling me up. On purpose. I refuse to go to dinner with you.” 

Bucky clasped his hand over his heart in a wounded way and stumbled back. “You won’t? I can’t go on then. All my tours were nothing compared to this. Send me back out on the frontlines.” 

“You’re so insane. Don’t joke about that!” you chastised, tilting your head with your arms crossed over your chest. 

Bucky tutted and righted himself, unraveling your arms to hold your hands. His thumbs rubbed over your knuckles, and you shivered at the difference in temperature between them. 

He had told you about how it happened. It was about two months in, and he was having a difficult few days. The previous explanation of ‘Afghanistan’ wasn’t cutting it with the anniversary of the event that week, and so Bucky told you everything—everything, everything.  He told you about the deployments leading up to his last one, his years of service amounting to several awards and recognitions. He told you how he met Steve and everyone else in the military who meant something to him. And then he told you about the ambush where he lost his arm and a handful of people he had trusted with his life. 

So, sometimes, you got weird when he joked about it. Sad. Bucky coped that way sometimes, but he knew what he meant to you. And what you meant to him. 

Your boyfriend’s expression became earnest as the lights in the hall flickered over the elementary school art lining the walls. “Sorry. Didn’t mean it. Forgive me?” 

You didn’t need much convincing. You sighed and nodded, and Bucky took advantage of the relenting. He gently pushed you back inside your classroom and clicked the door shut, and then closed the curtains to the parking lot. 

“Don’t get any ideas in here, buddy,” you warned, leaning against your desk when he finished his tasks. Bucky hovered over you, arms on either side of your thighs and face just inches from yours. “This is a classroom. Kids are still here.” 

“I wasn’t gonna do anything,” he surrendered. “Was just gonna kiss you a little.” 

“And what if a student comes back in?” 

“School’s out.”

“Kids forget things all the time. I see a jacket on a chair right now.” 

“Good thing I locked the door.” 

“Bucky,” you went to reprimand with a laugh, but then he kissed you, lips soft with no urgency, and you let him. For a second. You didn’t even get the chance to pull away and be professional. He pulled back himself, eyes roaming over your face as you looked back in a daze. 

“There. All I wanted,” he smiled, tapping your chin with his knuckle. “Can I take you to dinner now? Maybe kiss you more off school grounds?” 

“I love you.” The words had slipped out, unexpected, but with so much ease it was hard to remember how they formed. Bucky was still leaning over you, and you watched his expression shift from a playful tease to so much more. His lips parted, his gaze froze, and then his lashes fluttered. 

Your eyes went wide. You slapped your hand over your mouth. “I—I mean, um, just that—” 

“Please get on my bike,” Bucky almost pleaded, voice just above a whisper. “Let me take you home. I’ll feed you later.” 

“What?” 

He shook his head, a disbelieving breath huffing out in a laugh. “What? Don’t ask me what. Girl of my dreams just said she loves me and I’m barely allowed to kiss her here. Gotta take you home.” 

“Does that mean you…” you trailed off, nervousness mingling with excitement. 

“That I love you too? Obviously. Yes. I love you and I’ve loved you ever since you picked glitter outta my hair after that bake sale.” 

“Right when we met?” 

Bucky was staring at your mouth as you spoke, an intensity on his face you saw sometimes. Only when you were alone. “Pretty sure I just said you were the girl of my dreams, right?” 

You clutched the edges of the desk between your fingers, elated and content and so unbelievably happy. “Is it the skirts?” 

Bucky wasn’t even trying anymore. He got close enough for you to feel his breath against your lips, one of his hands bringing your waist closer. “We need to leave now. I’m being dead serious.” 

“Okay, let me grab my coat.” 

“Screw the coat.” 

“It’s literally on the way out the door.” 

Bucky’s jaw jutted to the side for a moment. He pecked your lips in a lingering way, and then he lifted you from the desk and set you firmly on your feet, an entirely unnecessary action, but one that left you reeling. When you followed him out into the hall, your coat already hastily slung over his arm, you didn’t miss how he instantly pressed his hand to your back. Or how his smile became easy once more when he spoke to the kids in the pick-up line. 

He was settling you on his bike carefully, your skirt precariously draped over your knees, when he asked, “Do I still get to come to the Valentine’s Day party? That’s why I was being good in there. If I’m not invited, I’m kissing you in the damn classroom next time.”

[honeywithemoney]

this was such a treat!!! i’ve had the first part on rotation for so long, having a part 2 was a fantastic suprise, thank you!!!! i loved every second of this new glimpse into our teacher reader and uncle bucky!!!!

[pellucid-constellations]

Ah yay!! So happy you enjoyed a little surprise (I know I wrote the frist part sooo long ago lol) ❤️ Thank you for reading!!! :)

[pellucid-constellations]

Undisclosed - Masterlist

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Desperate to outrun a secret that could cost you your life, you seek refuge in a small mountain town. Its deep forests and small cabins make it the perfect place to hide, but the travel website hadn’t mentioned anything about the quiet, burly lumberjack that wouldn’t leave your thoughts. No one had warned Bucky about you either. 

Warnings: Beefy!bucky, angst, references to death/crime, injury, toxicity, eventual smut (minors dni, marked **), a bit of slow burn!!  

a/n: This series is now complete 🤍

Series playlist ⍋

❆ Chapter One 

❆ Chapter Two 

❆ Chapter Three 

❆ Chapter Four 

❆ Chapter Five

❆ Chapter Six**

❆ Chapter Seven

❆ Chapter Eight 

❆ Chapter Nine 

❆ Chapter Ten

❆ Epilogue

Series art!!

🤍 Bucky

🤍 Bucky and Alpine 

🤍Scenery 

🤍 Bucky at the diner

Extra content!!

Reader gets sick (drabble)

Spring in Stowe Mills (oneshot)

The bear attack (drabble)

Come Home (oneshot)

Comfort (drabble)

[kiritella]

Saving for a later binge. One of the BEST Bucky series I’ve read ☺️

[kiritella]

The Voice in the Dark

Pairings: Bucky x Reader

Words: 4.0k-ish

Warnings: Past child abuse, mentions of child death, PTSD, non-descriptive torture, Bucky being the softest human being possible.

Summary: Bucky slips into your memories in the Void. How is it he never knew his girlfriend was once a Hydra experiment?

A/N: Maybe it sucks, maybe it doesn't. Unedited. Bon Appétit.

--------------

Bucky froze, his body tensed as he scanned the darkness. It was deep, impenetrable even to him. Sweat collected on his neck as he breathed in the stagnant air. Two seconds ago he’d been with Ava and John lurking through Bob’s memories after Sentinel took care of some work. They had only just found the man of the hour when the ground beneath him turned black as tar. He’d sunk in, falling through the substance before he spilled out into this complete darkness. It was a memory, to be certain. Just…which one, he wasn’t quite sure.

Cotton cleared its way out of his ears, popping as if the air pressure had shifted. The floor was solid and seamless, similar to the concrete in his old cell. There was a dramatic lack of the leaking pipe in the corner, though. Carefully, he took a step and breathed through the tightening in his chest.

Then he heard it, a whimper. Small. Feminine.

Familiar.

Shit. This wasn’t his memory.

Bucky’s throat tightened as he surveyed the black room. There wasn’t an ounce of light, nothing to discern in the space besides the quiet whimpers and soft tapping of his feet. “Sweetheart?”

There was a rustling, a ting of metal. He inched closer. A bar pressed into his knee with the next step, and reaching down, he was met with something soft yet firm. Pliable. A mattress?

He searched around blindly, finding a pillow and some bunched up blankets, but no sign of you. “Where are you at, Sweetheart?”

There was some shuffling beneath him, another ting of metal. Confused, he dropped to one knee. What kind of memory was this? Where on earth were you? Did your parents lock you in a closet or something?

Then something unlocked, a bolt grinding against a rusted case. A hissing sound followed, and slowly a thin line of light pierced the room from beneath what he assumed was a door. With a groan, the heavy metal door opened and flooded the space with blinding light. He squinted against the harshness of it, blinking to adjust his eyes, and when they finally did, he was left with more questions. The room was empty besides the bed he knelt next to, and the space was completely devoid of normalcy. It was a concrete box from floor to ceiling. A prison. Maybe this was one of his memories?

A tall woman in a lab coat stepped inside from the door, her angular features amplified the air of business in her persona. She crouched down on the floor with a soft, graceful smile. She reached out, motioning for…something.

“Hey, baby,” she said, voice loving. “It’s okay to come on out now.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed, but then you appeared. Or…it wasn’t you, but the memory of you. You crawled out from under the bed—or cot, really—and stood up. The blood drained from his face. You were gaunt, skin pale as a ghost. How long had it been since you’d even seen the sun?

And God, how old were you? Twelve? If even that…

“Mom?” you whispered. Your voice cracked as if it hadn’t been used in days. “What are you doing here?”

The woman sighed as if disappointed. “Will you come over here and give me a hug at least? It’s been months since I’ve seen you.”

You didn’t even hesitate, rushing across the room to wrap your arms around her neck. She held you tight as your shoulders shook. “Mom, can we go home? Please? I wanna go home.”

She pulled you back to cup your face in her hands and kissed your forehead. “Honey,” she said softly. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “This is home. I know it’s scary at times, but that’s just the way the world is sometimes, okay? But guess what?” she said, genuine excitement lifting her tone, “It took a little paperwork and some promises, but they let me transfer over to your project. We’ll be able to see each other so much more often now!”

You lit up, and Bucky’s heart seized. “You promise?”

Project? Bile ran over his tongue as you answered. What the hell was this?

“I promise on a mother’s honor.” She gave you a mock salute. Then her smile slipped. She ran her manicured fingers through your short, matted hair, then trailed them down your arms as if to reassure you. “The thing is…the doctors said it’s time for another upload.”

You flinched so hard you stumbled back, and Bucky dropped to his knees to catch you. You were painfully small, practically bones. The woman’s eyes locked onto him, glaring as if he was an intrusion. Then he remembered, this was the Void.

She cocked her head to the side. “Do you think you can save her?”

Your little head looked up at him, your eyes replaced with black, hollow pits. “There’s nothing left here to save.”

He swallowed thickly as you crawled out of his lap and the memory resumed. He wasn’t allowed to interfere. He wasn’t even supposed to be here. He’d never tried to interfere with another person’s memory. It was rare enough to even slip into one besides his own. He didn’t want to find out what would happen.

Your little frame trembled as you shook your head. “I can’t do another upload right now—”

Your mother shushed you gently, taking you by the hands. “Yes, you can. It’ll be okay. This is why you are here.”

“No—”

“I know it’s scary, but I’ll be right in the other room watching, okay? You’ll be fine.”

“It hurts,” you pleaded, but your mother sighed, nodding. “My head hurts.”

“I know…”

“Please, momma.”

Your mother sighed and kissed your head before she stood. She reached out her hand for you to take, and Bucky watched in horror as you did as you were silently commanded. She led you out of the room, and Bucky’s feet carried him without thinking.

The second he walked through the door the room shifted. Metal screeched as gravity shifted, yanking him forward. He stumbled, falling into a roll as white lights twisted in a storm around him. His head hit concrete, and with a resounding crack the room went dark once more.

—

Bucky woke to the sound of you screaming. His body jolted into motion before his vision stopped spinning, the pain in his head and the hands cradling it went unregistered. He was on his feet, ear ringing as he blinked away the film over his eyes.

His heart stopped.

His instincts took over and he was beside you before his mind caught up. He stood at your side, hands hovering over your broken, pale and bruising body strapped down in a chair. A bar clamped over your head, some sort of mechanism pressed into the base of your skull. And you were screaming.

God, you were screaming.

Something raw and wretched. Agony.

Somewhere he thought he heard you speaking, the brush of your hand on his arm, but he was too focused on trying to understand. You’d never mentioned this. You’d said you had a bad past, but not this. Not this.

Where in the hell was this? When?

You looked in your late teens, early twenties.

A one-way mirror sat within the wall.

Wires plugged into the brace around your head, behind your neck.

Computers were set up on the desk.

Information, pages upon pages, image after image flickered across the screens.

Project 374, Training 402.

Data upload. Progress: 5.7 GB. / 8 GB

Your arms pulled against the restraints, knuckles white.

“Mom!” The plea ripped from your raw throat with a voice-wrecked sob.

“It’ll be okay, honey,” the woman said, voice tight. She stood at the computer, and when he looked, really actually looked at her, that’s when he saw it. The pin on your mother’s lab coat stretched out into eight tendrils and latched onto his memories. And it clicked, the familiar cells, the way the guards stood in the corner. The scent of electricity meeting flesh hit him and suddenly he was 28 again.

Hydra.

You’d been an experiment in Hydra.

Two hands gripped his neck, forcing him to turn his head. A voice called out at him, screamed. You were still screaming. No…you were talking? His ears rang with the beat of a metal on a railway and the howling of wind. He gripped the hands restraining him, chest heaving on frozen air.

“Bucky!” you screamed, and you saw it the moment he came back to you. Recognition flickered in his eyes. It was you. The real you. “Look at me, baby.”

His death-grip on your wrists eased, but he was still sinking. A pit of black tar had cracked opened the concrete beneath him the moment he saw your mother and it was steadily pulling him down into it.

“You’re sinking, I need you to move—James,” your voice cracked, panicked.

That seemed to do it. He moved, coming back to his senses just as his waist began to disappear. “Sweetheart—”

You tugged on his arm, then you stepped forward, foot touching the black by accident. Instead of giving yourselves an anchor point, the tar gripped your leg like a pair of hands and pulled. You stumbled, falling into the substance and before you could even scream, two arms wrapped around your waist, dragging you with them.

When the tar spilled you out, it was cold. Frigid.

And you were falling.

Your stomach dropped as you became weightless. The air that was so stale and musty turned crisp, too cold to breathe in, cutting into your lungs like shards of glass. The wind howled, and metal pounded against metal above you. Ice bit your skin as snow flew past you. And somewhere in the haze, you recognized Bucky’s arms twisting you, his legs wrapping around yours just as a wall of stone clipped your shoulder. You screamed as pain ripped through your left arm. Warm words brushed by your ear, but you didn’t hear them above the sound of a train horn echoing against the barren mountains.

Falling. You just kept falling.

And the moment you thought the ground was inevitable, the plummet of your bones into the unforgiving earth, it all became dark.

———

You gasped. Your knees gave out as you flung from your chair, falling to the floor in a shivering mess. It took a moment before the room came back into focus. The glass windows behind your desk allowed the jarringly peaceful rays of evening sun into the office. The gray walls began to glow warm again, and the pendulum on the bookshelf offered a gentle clack. clack. clack. To break the silence.

It was hauntingly peaceful.

Tentatively, you sunk back against the desk. The solid wood pressed on your back, cool and smooth against your sweat-slicked neck. Real.

One. The room smelled like vanilla and cinnamon.

Two. Bucky’s dog tags hung around your neck, warm with the heat of your skin. Your trembling fingers traced each of the smooth links in the chain.

You wiped away the tears slipping down your cheeks. You gathered a bit of strength, allowing yourself to get up and sit yourself in the chair once again.

Three. A picture of you and the Thunderbolts sat on the edge of your desk.

Number four was found some time later, when you found enough strength in your limbs to move properly, and the trembling had ceased enough for you to make your way up to your apartment in the residential section of the Tower. It was tea.

The textured mug was hot in your hands as you sat on the coffee table. The wood was hard beneath you. Solid. Smooth. Real.

The tea was still steeping when the apartment door creaked open. It wasn’t long before soft, familiar footsteps rounded the corner and found you. You couldn’t find it in you to look at him, so you stared at the way bubbles formed around the rim of your cup.

“Are you okay?” you asked, quiet, barely breaking the silence. Your voice was tight from lack of use. It had taken a moment after you’d gathered your senses to realize what the last memory was in the Void. The train, the mountains, the falling. The rock clipping your left arm. You rubbed at the spot unconsciously.

Bucky huffed, almost as in disbelief. Your stomach twisted. “No injuries.”

"And Bob?”

“Back to his old self. Yelena is with him.”

You nodded. His hesitancy hung in the air.

“Are you okay?”

You nodded again. “Fine.” It came out as a croak more than words.

There was a beat. And then two. And then his footsteps rounded the coffee table. The tips of his boots breached your vision as he shuffled in front of you, lowering himself into the couch. His boots had mud on them, but were black otherwise. Black as tar. You shuddered involuntarily and yanked the tea bag string.

Vanilla and cinnamon.

Dog tags.

Bucky.

His knees brushed yours. He was in jeans now, which meant he’d changed out of his tactical gear. You flinched when his fingers caressed your temple, brushing back the strands of your hair. His breath hitched.

“They’re healed now,” you said, counting the bubbles in your cup. The old burn marks from the machine lingered in small lines along your hairline behind your ear. They were nearly unnoticeable unless you were looking for them. Courtesy of SHIELD’s victim protection program.

“When you said you had a bad past,” he clear the thickness from his throat, “I just thought…I didn’t think that you’d been—” he cut short, and you shrugged one shoulder guiltily.

“I was born in the lab. Some sort of genetic program. My mom worked in the program and volunteered to be a surrogate. I don’t know who my dad was.”

“Hey,” he said softly. “You don’t have to tell me right now.”

You shook your head. How could he say that? You’d lied your entire friendship, even into your relationship. How could he say that like it was nothing? You blinked away the haze forming in your eyes. “Yes, I do.” Your breath shook, but you continued. “I’ve had surgeries as long as I can remember. Implants, mainly. They wanted my body to grow around some of the equipment like it was a natural part of it. The next phase of the experiments came later. I was maybe eight or nine, I can’t really remember. I…have gaps in those years. Consequences of some failures in the experiment. Probably a good thing.” You chuckled humorlessly. “They wanted a living, breathing hard drive, essentially. The human mind is complex, capable of storing massive amount of information. What if you could upload anything you wanted to it? You could have an army of highly specialized scientists in a matter of weeks.”

“Too good of an opportunity for Hydra to pass up.”

You nodded, tapping your fingers against your mug. The soft brush of Bucky’s hand against your cheek made you realize you were crying. You closed your eyes and tried to swallow back the lump forming in your throat. How could he be so gentle toward you right now? “Eric had it the worst, I think. The burns from the implants were so…mutilating….I barely recognized him. He was only twelve when he died. Lana was sixteen, and Andrew made it to seventeen before his heart gave out. I guess I was supposed to be the lucky one. Or my body was just able to handle the shock. I don’t know.”

Bucky hooked his hands behind your knees, his thumbs tracing patterns. Rhythmic, enough for you to focus on. There were 72 bubbles in your cup. “They got me to the point where they could upload several gigabytes of data. Small amount for the brain, but a large amount of information nonetheless. They were having trouble with retention though.” Vanilla and Cinnamon. “They could upload it, but it-it wouldn’t stick for more than a day or two. They tried a few different things, but the dark room helped the most. Something about limiting input. I don’t pretend to know the science.” Dog Tags. “They’d—they’d upload the information, then put me—they’d put me in a highly controlled sensory environment. Pitch black, n-no sound, temp-temperature and humidity controlled, and nothing—nothing—there was nothing I could touch or f-feel that offered too much sen-sen-sensory in-input. Sometimes it was a few days, other times a week-week or so. They’d see—they’d see just-just how-how much I r-r-r-retained—” Bucky.

Bucky shushed you softly, releasing your legs to cup your cheek with one hand while the other took the mug from your trembling fingers. “Breathe for me, sweetheart.”

“And then SH-SH-SHIELD found me. Ph-Ph-Phil-Phil Coulson, actually—”

“Hey. Just breathe for a minute.” Bucky cupped your face, fingers reaching back to the nape of your neck and tilted your head to look at him. You saw him properly for the first time since he’d stepped into the room. His eyes were tinged red, lips tight, and he was looking at you so heartbreakingly soft. Your heart clenched. He looked at you like he loved you.

“I’m sorry—” Your lips trembled. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

His brow furrowed and his lips curled into a frown. He shook his head and gently took you into his arms, pulling you off the coffee table and into his lap with a whispered c’mere. He wrapped his arms around you as you both adjusted, letting you curl up against him, your head tucked in the crook of his neck.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he whispered into your hair, kissing the top of your head. “Right now I just need you to breathe with me, okay?”

You nodded, and for the first time you noticed the shallowness of your breaths, the crushing fist seizing your chest. Your fingers twisted around the hem of his shirt as his chest rose and fell in a steady, precise rhythm. Your breaths slowly evened, eventually drawing out to match his. Every now and then, you felt Bucky press a kiss on your hairline, your temple, and his hands tracing patterns along your skin.

He held you tighter, and then he released you as if reminded you were made up of skin and bone. And you weren’t sure how much time passed, but the sun steadily disappeared and the room grew dark besides the candle flickering stubbornly on the coffee table.

You whispered, your voice hoarse. “Can we turn on a light?”

“Yeah…” Bucky shifted, reaching to the side table and with a click, the room filled up with a soft yellow glow. “Better?”

You nodded. “Thank you…”

He kissed your forehead in response. And after a moment: “You don’t have to tell me everything, sweetheart. Not if you don’t want to, not if you’re not ready.”

“I do want to, I—” you weren’t sure exactly. Well, you were, but you also knew better. Or you really thought you did.

“Why didn’t you?” he asked, tense as if he regretted it as it was coming out of his mouth. “I’m not blaming you, I just—” he rushed, “Want to understand.”

“Honestly?” you blinked away the burning in your eyes. “Selfish reasons.”

And in his confused, patient silence, you let the words loose. The tangled up mess of your reasoning came out. “My ex...was a unique kind of ass about it. All of his subtle comments, arguments over my nightmares. Then after nearly two years he figured out he couldn’t be with a freak—as he had so lovingly put it—and he left.” You felt his hands tense around you, heard the slight hitch in his breath. “And then I met you, and we became friends. And for the first time, I wasn’t someone…damaged. I was normal, and I thought…I can be normal, normal enough. But then I started to fall in love, and I knew I had to say something, but every time I worked up the courage to tell you I saw my ex walking out the door and I’d freeze.”

“You thought I’d leave,” he said, breathless from the sharpness in the realization. You nodded, and he held you tighter, as if his arms could be the final resting place for your agony.

“You already had so much on your plate, already been through so much, I didn’t…I didn’t want to add to it.”

Bucky shook his head immediately. “Sweetheart—”

“I know you aren’t him, I know, but the thought of losing you—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he interjected, and he said it with such conviction you froze. “You could tell me you were a red room assassin. You could have a kill count higher than my own, or wake me up every night with your nightmares just so I can remind you of what’s real—” his voice cracked. You shifted enough to look at him properly.

His eyes were still red with unshed tears. He cupped your cheek and held you as if he could convince you with his touch alone. “It will never be too much for me, alright? I will fill every inch of this apartment with lights and candles and blankets and whatever else you need. You just say the word. You will never be too much for me.”

You let out a wet, broken laugh that broached the edge of a sob. “I really love you, you know that?”

“Yeah, I do…” he said and wiped the stray tear forming on your lashes. “And I love you,” he whispered, “More than anything. You never need to hide from me, okay?”

You nodded. “Okay...”

The whisper of a smile poked up at the corner of his mouth. “Now, if you could remind me of the name of your ex, I think I’d like to have a conversation with him—”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. “Bucky—”

“Wasn’t it like…Richard, or something?” His brow furrowed in thought. “Or was it Rollins?”

“James.”

“Hey, I just want to have a conversation with the guy!” He played innocent. “Maybe offer him some advice. And maybe a hand. Balled into a fist. Against his jaw.” You laughed again, and he softened. “There she is,” he whispered, tracing the edge of your smile.

“You always know how to do that.”

He merely smiled. “It’s my job.”

Gently, he guided you closer until his lips brushed yours, and when you leaned into his touch, he kissed you. Slowly, giving more than he ever took. You melted into him as the weight of the day—of the past—slipped off your shoulders. He took it with the grip of his arm around your waist, the pull of his lips on yours. He kissed you with promise, with assurance. I’m not going anywhere.

And yes, there was so much to tell him, and there were insecurities to work through, but as he held you in his arms and refused to let go, kissing you senseless, you knew you’d find a way. Because even when the demons of your past came to tear him apart, he stood firm and made sure you had a safe place to run to.

Bucky broke the kiss unexpectedly, his brows furrowed. His face turned serious.

“It was Robert. Robert Cline.”

You snorted a laugh. “You’re still on that?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re not allowed to punch my ex.”

“C’mon, just a little?”

You shook your head and kissed his little pout. “Not even a little.”

“Eh, I’ll convince you.” He sighed and nuzzled his face into your neck as you rolled your eyes. And you held him as much as he held you, running your fingers through his hair as you struggled to contain the warmth in your chest. And dawned on you as he joked and teased, as he found any way to take your mind from the darkness and give you light.

After all these years….

You finally found home.

[pellucid-constellations]

I Need Him Like Water

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: You think Bucky’s having an affair. He thinks… well you aren’t sure what he thinks. But he must notice the living room light is left on. Every night.

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: Angst! (w/ a happy ending!), miscommunication, mentions of infidelity

a/n: I love feedback!! Please let me know what you think, it gives me motivation to write more :)

Masterlist

~~

The living room light was dim, just a yellow glow reflecting on bare brick walls and the satin of unused couches. You had meant to turn that lamp off an hour ago—when Bucky still hadn’t come home and the clock still continued to tick past times you refused to acknowledge. 

You had meant to be in bed before his boots even clicked past the threshold of your apartment. 

He threw his jacket on the kitchen table, ignoring the coat closet where your own jacket was left hanging alone. The reprimand caught in your throat, guarded behind the firm line you had pressed your lips into. You blinked at the kitchen cabinets, the glass of water nearly slipping through your fingers. 

“Hey, sweetheart. You stay up waiting for me?” 

Keep reading

[all1e23]

How about King!Bucky x Princess Reader arranged marriage?

You got me with the arranged marriage, Anon. You know me too well! This was a short drabble the other night, and then I got carried away. I nearly made it a long one-shot, and then I reminded myself I have eight WIPs, so I stopped myself. Here’s my garbage. Enjoy. 

“Follow me, my lady. The King is in council. He apologizes for not being able to welcome you and celebrate your arrival.” 

The red-head began moving without ever turning back to see if you were following. You glanced to your lady before your feet get a mind of their own and you suddenly find yourself weaving in and out of different hallways. This was not what you were used to. Back home, there was no circumstance where your family would let a visiting prince be greeted without a member of the royal family present at their arrival and said prince wouldn’t be following a handmaiden Gods knows where.

Though, your kingdom wasn’t at war. Or, well, it was now you supposed. It wasn’t official until vows were exchanged of course, but that was a technicality this far in. It was already negotiated. The debt was paid. The deal struck. Your father sold you off like cattle all before your brother could return home. You could only imagine when Tony came back and realized what your father had done… You would hear the confrontation from several kingdoms away, no doubt. 

It was not as if you’ve heard awful things about King James and Tony would be fearful of your wellbeing. You haven’t heard much at all about your betrothed. He was something of a ghost, so it was a bit of a surprise when he wrote to your father requesting your hand. It wasn’t uncommon to do so. This was how it had been done for centuries, and who were you to turn your nose up to century-old traditions? 

You had a thought, at one time, your father wouldn’t make you marry, or you would at least get to marry someone from a nearby kingdom. Not halfway around the world where it snowed for more than half the year and to a man that has kept the gates to his kingdom locked for nearly his entire reign. It was a foolish notion of a child, and you knew that. 

The room you were brought to was quite grand. Large windows, a four-poster bed you were sure could fit four maybe five people comfortably. For a moment, you were worried this was the Kings quarters, but the kind smile on the woman’s face eased your panic. The room looked unlived in, and you doubted a King amid war would have no signs of battle in their private chambers. 

It was a nice gesture, the room. Now that you’ve had a moment to take in your surroundings, you could see the little nods to your home. Seaglass placed on the mantel, cherry blossoms sprigs (you’re not sure where they harvested those from or how they are surviving the cold), and of course, your trunks that arrived a day or two before you were already unpacked. 

He appeared to be thoughtful, kind even, but appearances could be deceiving. 

You turned your back to the woman waiting by the door and hesitantly asked what you have been worrying you from the moment his letter arrived. 

“Is he – Is he kind?” 

You didn’t want to ask that. You knew she would most likely be asked to report everything you said and did while she was in your attendance, but you had to know. You had to know if he would– who you were expected to marry. 

Wanda smiled warmly and nodded her head once. 

“Yes, my lady. He’s kind. He can be bit coarse at times, but he’s kind.” 

“Spinning tales again, Wanda?” 

The deep voice that drifted through the room sent a chill down your spine. You quickly dropped into a deep courtsey and kept your eyes on the stone floor below you. If you don’t look up, none of this is real. You will wake up back in your room, the smell from the cherry blossom tree will no longer be a distant memory, and the ice wrapping itself around your chest will have thawed. 

“No such tales, your majesty. I was making sure she knew just how gentle you really are. The big, tough brooding act is all for show.” 

You felt your heart plummet at her words, but your worry was eased by a booming laugh bouncing off the walls. “Don’t corrupt my betrothed. You’re dismissed. Go find your brother. I believe I saw him bringing his horse to the stables.” 

A soft whisper of thanks, a short shuffling of feet and a click of the door had your heart pounding steadily against your chest. Two black boots appeared in your line of vision a second later, and you screwed your eyes shut. Soft, calloused fingers reached out to grip your chin, tilting your head up slowly. You cursed internally and opened your eyes before he noticed you had them closed. 

You looked up, and all the air was punched out of your lungs when you met his grey-blue eyes. He was smiling, but he looked nervous and slightly apologetic. He was more handsome than his portrait let on, but his looks were the last thing you had to worry about. 

“You don’t have to do that.” He said as he helped stand to your full height. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t be there when you arrived. The Captain of my Kingsgaurd found something… and it needed my attention.” 

“It–” You took a deep breath to stop the tremor that was taking over. “It’s alright. I understand, my King.” 

He a smile stretched across his face. “You can call me Bucky. Things are more relaxed here than you are used to. Though I do like the way, you say ‘my King.’” 

“Oh? And why is that? You hardly know me.” 

“Isn’t that why you’re here? So I can get to know you?” He tilted his head to the side, grinning. 

“I thought I was here to marry you.” 

“Well, yes, but I’d like to get to know you some before we say I do. We have a few weeks so I thought between wedding plans and running the country we could… talk.” 

Oh. 

You had not expected that. 

“…Oh.” You winced at your lackluster response, but Bucky only chuckled. 

“Yes, oh. Only if you wish. It’s entirely in your hands, my Queen.” 

You fought to keep your smile at bay and placed your hand in the one he held out for you. “I suppose…that would be alright. Only if you tell me how you managed to get cherry blossoms here!” 

Bucky laughed and gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “I can’t tell you all my secrets now, can I?” 

[buckgasms]

PLZ DO A BREEDING KINK FOR COWBOY!BUCKY IM BEGGING AT THIS POINT (also speaking of begging, add that in too since we at it hehe) 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

Brace yourself darlings, because things are about to get 💦dirty💦 and we're all gonna need to go pray very hard for our souls when this is over.

Thank you Nonnie for this encouragement and for all of you really for being the best pals a girl could ask for 😍

Ok let's ride.....

Warnings: breeding kink, bondage, p in v, blowies, slight choking, slight spanking, dirty talking cowboy....

----------------------🪢----------------------

During the hot summer Bucky asked you to spend a few weeks with him at his Ranch to help him out. You were a little skeptical because despite his endless guidance, you weren't very good at the whole farm work thing.

As it turned out, he wanted you to help manage the extra workers, do some paperwork and some of the smaller farm jobs that you quite liked. Nights however were where his true intentions came to light. He spent many sweaty hours fucking you into the mattress, testing out different rope ties on you and generally making sure you would never walk straight again.

-------------------------🪢---------------------

One afternoon you were walking around the ranch, looking for Bucky when you headed into a big barn where you found him throwing bales of hay into a stack, his shirt off and muscles straining with the work. You totally forgot why you were looking for him and took a seat on a bale and watched him while he worked.

He smirked when he saw you take a seat and threw one more bale before moving over towards you, stopping right between your legs and tilting your head up to look at him. "Whatcha doin darlin?" You shook your head and shrugged, "I have no idea... Lost my train of thought just now..." You both chuckled as he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips and you traced your fingers over his sweaty chest. "You got much more to do in here?" You asked and he nodded towards another pile, but behind it, something caught your eye.

"What the heck is that?" You hopped up and headed over to what looked like a large metal pillory and he chuckled, joining you by the medieval looking contraption. "It's a breeding stock. You put a heifer in there and the bull comes in and breeds her. It's very old fashioned baby, I don't use that stuff but it's a little bit of history I guess..."

He watched as your fingers trialed over the metal work and you bent over prodding your head through the hole. It was possible Bucky blacked out for a moment, seeing you in such a position and a very filthy thought filled his head. "Hmmm interesting stuff? Ok well if I remember I'll come back, otherwise I'll see you later" and with that you pressed a kiss to his cheek and left the barn.

------------------------🪢---------------------

That evening you were sitting in Bucky's lap on a rocking chair on the porch. The air was cool and refreshing after a hot day and his lips pressed absent-mindedly on your smooth shoulder as you watched fireflies in the distance.

"You wanna go upstairs?" You muttered, reaching your hand back to stroke his hair, head turning to kiss him sweetly. He hummed and rocked the chair a little more. "I got something else in mind... If you want it?" Your eyebrows raised and your thighs squeezed together, "I think I could be persuaded, cowboy" you whispered and he pressed a few more kisses to your skin before nudging you to stand.

He took your hand and walked you towards the barn you sat in earlier that day and he led you inside where you were met with the stock contraption you'd thought about all day long. He pulled the straps of your sundress down your arms and pulled until your dress pooled around your feet on the floor. He waited for you for a moment, wrapping his arms around your tummy, sucking marks on your neck as you contemplated the game before you.

You shimmed out of your panties and walked forward, bringing him with you and he couldn't help the growl that escaped his lips. "You gonna breed me Bucky?" You whispered, your voice shaking with excitement as you gripped the metal in front of you. "You want that baby?" He asked you pressing his denim clad cock against your bare ass and you nodded, making him tut, "out loud darling, you know the rules..." You leaned back against him with a whine. "Please Bucky, breed me."

He helped you settle into the metal bars, your stomach supported, legs and arms spread apart, your whole body on display for him, you aching heat the sole focus of his vision. For good measure, he secured your ankles with his favourite rope, kissing your limbs as he did so. "So beautiful baby, gonna fill that pretty cunt up to the brim" as he spoke his hands glided over your skin and he sunk a thumb into your dripping hole, making you whine.

"Beg me baby...beg me to fill you up" was all his said and he walked around to look at you, your face flushed from his minimal attention and eyes locked on his cock, which he had freed from his jeans. "Please Bucky, please.... Fill me up... Wanna be full of your come... Please? I'm good... Been good for you... Please?" He ran his fingers through your pretty locks and pressed his crotch into your face, where you instinctively started licking and sucking at his balls and cock making him groan. "Ooooh you are a good girl. My dirty little girl." He let you carry on for a while, knowing this would only make you wetter and more desperate for him when the time came for him to fuck you senseless. He pulled you off him with a pop and let your head fall forward, as he walked back around to take his place. "I promise you one thing baby, I ain't gonna stop until that pussy is puffy and full ok?" His fingers spread your pussy lips apart and then he sunk into you, the sound of your arousal filling the air, followed closely by the sound of him pounding away at you. He kept one hand possessively on your back while he gripped the metal bar for more purchase. His groans mixed with your cries and you could only lie there and take all he was giving you.

You babbled his name, for God, for more, over and over until you lost track of how long you'd been there. He fucked through your own orgasm, chasing his own and filling you with his first load. He landed some slaps on your ass making you gasp and he soothed it quickly after. He came back around to the front and wiped away tears and drool from your face before kissing you hard, taking any breath you might have had away.

"Buckkyyy" you whined and he kissed you again. "I know darling, doing so well for me. God you're gonna look so pretty when I getcha knocked up huh? But we gotta put the work in now right?" You could only nod as he reached through the bars and squeezed at your breasts as they hung low and unsupported. They were extra sensitive, so when he tweaked and flicked at your nipples you writhed and squealed as the feeling shot straight to your core.

"Such a little whore ain't ya? I bet I could leave you here until tomorrow night for all the boys to have a go and you'd love it wouldn't ya? Wouldn't know who fucked ya, but you wouldn't care, long as you got some cock in those perfect holes?"

You whined and he sank two fingers into your mouth and gagged you on them, you choked and shook your head. "No? Only want me huh?" You nodded as he kept choking you until he pulled his fingers out and rubbed his wet hand over your face. "Well good, cos no one is fucking that pussy 'cept me"

He stood up again, pride and lust coursing through his veins. "Let's put that mouth to better use baby...."

----------------------🪢------------------------

True to his word, your pussy was full to the brim and puffy when he was finished. No part of your body had escaped his handiwork. Your skin was littered with hickeys and bruises from kisses. Your muscles twitched and your joints ached from pulling on ropes. But you were floating like a cloud, every touch was like a kiss and his voice rumbled through you like distant thunder.

You felt the ropes drop from your ankles and his strong arms wrap around your tummy before you were lifted off the device and into his arms. He sat on a hay bale and wrapped you up in his arms. You lulled on his shoulder for a moment before you locked eyes with him and smiled at each other. "There's my good girl, Jesus baby you did so well, a prize heifer if I ever saw one." You giggled and swatted your hand at his arm, but missed in your wobbly state. He took it in his own hand and pulled it to his lips, kissing each finger in turn before turning to press more kisses to your cheeks and finally your lips.

"I'm not a heifer" you pouted and he laughed before apologising with a perfect kiss. "Oh and I want the day off tomorrow" you sighed closing your eyes and leaning your head on his shoulder. "Fine by me darling. You're gonna have to get used to taking it easy now, besides we have to do this allll again tomorrow!"

This time you did manage to land a swat on his arm and be chuckled as he carried you back to the house, filling your mind with what the future might hold for you both as well as promises of kisses, cuddles and a nice breakfast in the morning.

[heldbybarnes]

cowboys always find a way to leave

pairing: bull rider!bucky barnes x barrel racer!reader | 7.7k words

warnings: past unprotected sex, pregnancy, single mom!reader, secret baby (now secret nine-year-old oops), mentions of childbirth, rodeo injuries, guilt, miscommunication, co-parenting feelings, big emotions, second chance romance, soft dad!bucky losing his mind over a tiny barrel racer

summary: at twenty-three, bucky blows into your small-town rodeo with big-league dreams and a bull rope, leaving you with a broken heart and a baby he never knew about. ten years later, retired and back on the circuit, he’s blindsided to find you, and your daughter, waiting in the same arena where it all began.

authors note: little bit of cowboy bucky hurt/comfort to grace your feed this fine saturday afternoon! if you know anything about me, cowboy!bucky has my soul and this concept sunk its claws in me and refused to let go.

---------

Bucky Barnes shows up with a busted duffel bag and a bull rope slung over his shoulder like he already owns the place.

He doesn’t. Not yet.

He’s twenty-three, road-weary, dust on his jeans and sun in his eyes, and he pulls into the county fairgrounds in a beat-up blue truck that rattles to a stop beside your trailer. The late June heat shimmers over the red clay, the air thick with the smell of horses, fried food, and diesel.

You’re bent over tightening your mare’s cinch when you hear boots scuff on gravel and a low whistle.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” a warm voice says behind you. “That’s the prettiest view I’ve seen all summer.”

You straighten slowly, pushing your hat back with the back of your wrist, ready to tear into some cocky idiot who thinks he can comment on your ass before noon. You turn around, mouth already open—

—and forget what you were gonna say.

He’s tall, broad shouldered, dusty blue plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, worn ball cap pulled low over shaggy brown hair. There’s a little smudge of oil on his cheek, a crooked smile at the corner of his mouth, and eyes so blue you feel like you’ve been dropped into cold water.

You swallow. “If you’re talkin’ about my mare, you’re right,” you say, crisp. “If not, you got about three seconds to adjust your attitude, cowboy.”

His grin widens like you just fed him dessert. “Y’know, I meant the horse,” he lies easily. “But now that you mention it…”

You arch a brow. “Name?”

“Bucky.” He shifts the bull rope higher on his shoulder and sticks out a hand. His palm is rough and warm. “Bucky Barnes. Figured I’d roll through your little circuit here, win all your money, then head south for the big leagues.”

You ignore how his hand swallows yours and how your pulse kicks under your skin. “You’re awful sure of yourself for someone I’ve never heard of.”

“Guess you haven’t been listenin’ hard enough, darlin’.”

“Don’t call me darlin’,” you snap on instinct.

He smirks. “What should I call you then?”

You tell him your name and watch the way he rolls it slowly on his tongue like he’s tasting it. His gaze flicks down to your belt buckle—last year’s barrel racing champion, your county fair logo etched in silver—and something in his face sharpens.

“So you’re the barrel racer I gotta beat, huh?” he asks.

“You’re a bull rider,” you point out. “Different events.”

“Still the same all-around pot.” He kicks a boot at the dirt. “And I heard there was this girl out here, runs barrels like it’s a blood sport. Figured she’d be my competition.”

You shrug, pretending your cheeks aren’t burning. “Guess we’ll see if you can stay on longer than eight seconds before you go talkin’ big.”

He laughs, low and delighted. “Oh, I like you.”

You hate how it makes you want to smile back.

Bucky Barnes spends the rest of the summer proving you right and wrong, all at once.

He is cocky. He does talk too much. And he can ride like the devil.

You watch from the fence the first night he nods his head in the chute, hand wrapped in the rope, mouth set in a grim line. The bull explodes into the arena, twisting and leaping, hooves carving gouges in the dirt. Bucky moves with him—hips loose, shoulders squared, heels dug in. Every time the bull tries to whip him off, he’s there, like he’s welded to leather and muscle and fury.

Eight seconds hit and the buzzer screams. Bucky lets go, throws himself off, hits the ground and springs up again, sprinting for the fence. The crowd roars, dust swirling around him.

He tips his hat up toward the bleachers, searching until he finds you.

You’re already clapping, heart pounding in your throat.

He winks.

Show-off, you think savagely—and can’t stop your grin.

He finds you afterward by the trailers, where you’re walking your mare to cool her out. He’s got his hat pushed back on his head, hair damp with sweat, shirt sticking to his chest. There’s mud on his jeans, a scrape on his jaw, and adrenaline still in his eyes.

“Well?” he asks. “Did I pass your little test?”

“You loosened up your free arm this time,” you admit, because you know he’ll just bug you until you say it. “Didn’t let the bull control your shoulders. Looked good.”

He beams like you just handed him a first-place check. “Looked good, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Barnes,” you warn. “It’s already too big.”

He spends the next week proving exactly how big it is, pestering you at every rodeo on the circuit. He shows up at your trailer with greasy fair food and a lopsided grin. He leans on the fence at morning warm-ups, calling out teasing critiques about your turns around the barrels.

“You’re droppin’ that inside shoulder,” he calls one day, boots hooked on the bottom rail. “Quit lookin’ at the barrel. Look past it.”

“Yeah?” you shoot back, cheeks flushed. “Maybe if you quit thinkin’ with your dick you’d make your dismounts a little cleaner.”

The guys beside him howl. Bucky just laughs, slow and delighted, like every barb you throw is a gift.

Some nights, when the stars are clear and the air soft and warm, you find him sitting on the top rail of the arena fence after everyone else has gone. He’s quiet in those moments, jaw working, hands folded loosely over the front of his thighs.

“Thinkin’ about leavin’ already?” you ask one night, swinging yourself up beside him.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Thinkin’ about winnin’ enough to matter,” he says lightly. “This circuit’s… good. Real good. But there’s bigger money down in Texas. Vegas. Sponsors.” He glances at you. “Can’t ride small forever.”

You roll the dust between your fingers. “Nothing wrong with small,” you murmur. “Some of us like the life we got.”

He’s silent for a beat. “You ever wanna get out?” he wonders.

You consider the dark outline of the arena, the distant glow of the ferris wheel on the fairgrounds, your mare chewing on hay somewhere behind you. “Sometimes,” you admit. “There’s bigger rodeos I’d like to run. Different patterns, different arenas. Maybe Denver, Cheyenne. But my family needs me. And this place…”

This place is your roots. Your daddy’s ranch. Your mama’s kitchen. The graveyard where your grandparents rest and the kitchen table where you learned your first barrel pattern with cans of beans.

“It’s home,” you finish.

He studies your profile. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you say. “You won’t shut up about it.”

His shoulder brushes yours. The contact is warm, solid, grounding. You stare straight ahead, heart thudding loud in your ears.

You don’t kiss him then. You could. You picture turning your head just enough, catching his mouth with yours, tasting dust and sugar and danger.

You don’t.

Not that night.

You make it to the second-to-last rodeo of the circuit before you break.

It happens in the cramped space between your trailer and the stock pens, the air humming with generators and laughter and the metallic clang of gates. You’re leaning against the trailer wall, tugging off your boots, when Bucky corners you.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “They just posted the draw for next week. You see it?”

You shrug, tugging at your sock. “I was a little busy tryin’ not to die in that second barrel turn.”

He grins briefly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were smokin’ it. Don’t start.”

“Tell that to the second barrel I kissed,” you mutter. “What’s the draw say?”

“They added a bull.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Somebody backed out, so they slotted me in. It’s—” He swallows. “It’s a rank one. From a big stock contractor down south. They only brought him up ’cause there’s a scout comin’ through. And—”

“And this is your shot,” you finish dully.

“Maybe,” he says. “If I cover him with a good score, there’s a sponsor at the next rodeo who might pick me up. Truck, travel money, maybe a spot on their string. It’d… it’d change things.”

For him. For you.

A lump settles in your throat. “That’s what you wanted,” you say carefully. “Right? Big leagues.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is.”

Your fingers curl against the trailer siding. “So why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”

He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “’Cause someone might,” he says quietly. “I just… I gotta figure some things out.”

“Like what?”

He steps closer. The diesel generator hum and country music from someone’s radio fade to a low blur. It’s just him and you and the smell of leather and sweat and the faint sweetness of cotton candy drifting on the breeze.

“Like how to ask you if you’d ever wanna come with me,” he says roughly. “And how to do it without soundin’ selfish as hell.”

Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”

“I know you got your folks,” he rushes on. “The ranch. Your mare. I know this place is yours. But I…” He trails off, jaw working. “I didn’t plan on you,” he admits. “Didn’t plan on spendin’ all summer thinkin’ about the way you laugh when you beat me out of the trailer park ’cause you drive like a damn bat outta hell. Or how you tap your hat brim three times before every run, like it’s some secret ritual.”

Heat prickles at the back of your eyes. You’d never told anyone about that. You didn’t think he’d noticed.

“Didn’t plan on wantin’ you in my corner when I ride,” he says. “Now I can’t not think about it.”

You inhale shaky. “You think you can just drag me all over the country to watch you get your brains scrambled?” you demand, voice trembling more than you’d like. “That’s your big plan?”

He flinches. “It’d be more than that,” he says. “We—”

“We what, Bucky?” you snap, nerves fraying. “We live out of your busted truck? I find a way to barrel race in between your events, if we can afford it? My parents are down a hand on the ranch and I’m off chasin’ some dream that isn’t mine?”

“It could be yours,” he protests. “We could hit different rodeos, bigger ones. You’re good enough. You know you are.”

“That’s not the point.” You shake your head hard. “My life is here.”

“And mine’s out there,” he says hoarsely.

Silence stretches between you, hot and taut.

There it is.

“Seems like you already decided,” you say finally, swallowing the ache. “So what are you askin’ me for?”

His face twists. “Because I’m an idiot,” he mutters. “’Cause I keep hopin’ there’s a way to have both.”

“There isn’t,” you whisper. “Not really. You know that.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. “So that’s it? I go. You stay. We pretend this summer never happened?”

“Didn’t say that,” you manage. “Just… don’t ask me to choose between you and my family when you’ve already chosen.”

He stares at you like he wants to argue. Like he wants to promise things he can’t guarantee.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he nods once, sharp and pained. “Guess I’ll just have to give you somethin’ to remember me by then,” he murmurs.

You don’t have a chance to ask what he means before he’s crowding you gently back against the trailer, one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just shy of your waist like he’s asking a question.

You answer by fisting his shirt and dragging him down.

The kiss is a collision—teeth, breath, the scrape of stubble against your chin. Heat flares low in your belly, bright and desperate. His hand finds your hip, fingers digging in like he’s scared you’ll vanish. He tastes like dust and adrenaline and a hint of the lemonade he stole from you earlier.

“Tell me to stop,” he roughs against your mouth.

“Don’t you dare,” you breathe.

Later, you’ll remember flashes more than anything: his hands shaking as they push your shirt up, the reverent way his fingers trace the curve of your waist; your back arching off the old quilt in the bed of his truck under a sky full of stars; the way he keeps asking if you’re sure even after you’ve pulled him down with a curse and a kiss. The heat of his body, the stretch, the overwhelming rightness of having him so close it feels like he’s under your skin.

You’ll remember his voice, low and wrecked, murmuring I got you, I got you, as he holds you afterwards, your fingers tangled with his, his breath uneven against your hair.

You’ll remember the shape of his promise.

“I’ll call,” he tells you roughly, forehead pressed to yours. “Soon as I know what’s what. I swear, honey. This isn’t… I’m not just leavin’ you behind.”

You want to believe him so badly that it hurts.

Instead, you kiss him one more time, slow and aching, and memorize the taste of goodbye.

He rides the rank bull.

He covers the eight seconds.

The scout notices.

The sponsor calls.

He leaves.

You don’t chase him. You watch his truck taillights shrink down the highway from the edge of your family’s property, arms wrapped tight around yourself until the night swallows the last glimmer of red.

You throw up in the barn two months later.

You blame bad fair food and stress and the ache of your heart. But the weeks pass, and your jeans start to feel different, and your mama gives you a look across the breakfast table that makes your fork freeze halfway to your mouth.

“Baby,” she says gently. “We need to talk.”

When the truth comes spilling out, you brace yourself for anger. For disappointment.

Your mama just squeezes your hand until your fingers hurt. Your daddy goes quiet, lips set, and then gets up from the table and goes out to the barn. He spends an hour there with the horses, shoulders bowed.

He comes back in and kisses the top of your head without a word.

You text Bucky that night. Fingers trembling, you type out I missed my period and I think—

Then you stop.

You stare at the blinking cursor. At the old messages—his dumb memes, his good-luck texts before your runs, his I miss you more than I miss my hat, and that’s sayin’ something.

You stare at the single unread message from him, sent two weeks ago, the last thing you got.

Sorry, honey. Things are crazy. Promise I’ll call soon. Big sponsor meeting. Think about you every time I tie my glove.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I bet you do.”

You select his number.

You hover over the call button.

You think about his dreams, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about Vegas, about the NFR, about buckles the size of dinner plates and checks that would pay off his daddy’s debts and then some.

You think about forcing a choice on him that he already once couldn’t make.

You think about your daddy out in the barn, cleaning stalls with his jaw clenched, giving you space to fall apart.

You delete the message.

You turn your phone off.

You throw yourself into the ranch instead. Into morning feeds and evening checks and training younger horses for other barrel racers. You sell your mare’s spot at the next big rodeo and instead buy baby clothes you keep hidden in the back of your closet until your belly makes it impossible to deny.

Your daughter is born on a cold March night, ten fingers, ten toes, lungs strong enough to shake the rafters. You name her Willa—soft and stubborn and rooted—mine, you think fiercely, as she curls her tiny fist around your finger.

You don’t write his name on the birth certificate.

You whisper it into her hair when you rock her at night, though. When she fusses and you pace the creaky floorboards, you murmur stories about a blue-eyed bull rider who once made you feel like the whole world was spinning under your boots.

You tell yourself you’ll tell her properly one day.

First, you have to figure out how to breathe again.

Ten years later, you walk into the same fairgrounds with calluses on your palms, a few more lines around your eyes, and a nine-year-old barrel racer at your side.

“Loosen your reins a little comin’ into the pocket,” you tell Willa as you walk alongside her pony. “You’re pullin’ too much and it’s costin’ you your momentum.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she chirps, adjusting her grip. Her dark hair—your texture, his color—is braided down her back. There’s dust already on her boots, glitter on her cheeks, and a determined set to her jaw that makes your heart both ache and swell.

She is too much like both of you.

You try not to think about that.

You swing her saddle onto the pony’s back, showing her again how to smooth the pad, check the cinch. She chatters about school and how her friend Lacey says she’s gonna beat her time today and how that just means Willa’ll have to run even faster.

“Competition keeps us sharp,” you tell her, tying off the latigo.

“Like you and Nana in the kitchen,” she says, eyes dancing. “Arguin’ over whose biscuits are better.”

“Nana’s biscuits are better,” you admit. “But don’t you dare tell her I said that.”

Willa’s laughter rings out bright and clear, a sound you’d bottle if you could. You reach over and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, your chest tight.

You almost don’t see the banner at first.

WELCOME BACK TO THE CIRCUIT, BUCKY BARNES! it proclaims in bold red letters over the main arena entrance. SPECIAL GUEST CLINIC AND EXHIBITION RIDE.

The world tilts on its axis.

“Mama?” Willa asks, frowning up at you. “You okay? You look funny.”

You swallow hard, drag your gaze away from the banner. “I’m fine, baby,” you lie. “Just remembered somethin’ I forgot to do.”

Bring the past back where it belongs, you think. Leave it buried.

But it’s too late. His name is everywhere. On posters by the concession stand. On a cardboard cutout by the registration table. On kids’ T-shirts that say BUCKY BARNES FAN CLUB with a cartoon bull underneath.

Willa’s eyes go wide as she spots one. “Mama! Look! That’s the bull rider Nana watches on TV sometimes. The one in Vegas who almost got stomped but then didn’t.”

“Mm,” you manage, throat dry. “That’s him.”

“You know him?” she demands eagerly. “Have you ever met him?”

You force a laugh. “Somethin’ like that,” you say.

You spend the next hour in a fog, checking and re-checking Willa’s tack, braiding her pony’s mane, signing her in at the registration table. People you’ve known your whole life greet you, compliment Willa’s progress, ask after your parents. You smile and nod and say the right words in the right order.

All the while, your stomach is in knots.

You could leave.

You could pull her out, feign sickness, toss her pony back in the trailer and go home. If you’re quick, you could be halfway down the highway before his clinic even starts.

But Willa has worked all year for this. She’s been up at dawn, running patterns on frosted ground. She’s earned this run.

You won’t take that from her just because your heart remembered how to break.

“Riders for the peewee barrels, please start makin’ your way to the warm-up pen,” the announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeaker, crackling slightly.

Willa bounces on her toes. “That’s me!” she squeals.

“That’s you,” you echo. Your hands shake as you boost her up into the saddle, checking her stirrups, double-checking her helmet chin strap. She’s got your old lucky charm clipped to her saddle—your first little silver horseshoe, tarnished and dented.

“Tap your hat brim three times,” you remind her, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “Look past the barrel, not at it. Let him run. You know what you’re doin’.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she says again, solemn this time. She leans down and hugs your neck hard. “Love you, Mama.”

You close your eyes for a second. “Love you more.”

You lead her toward the alleyway, heart lodged somewhere in your throat. The stands are fuller than you’ve seen them in years, buzz of excitement humming through the air. Word travels fast when a living legend comes home.

As you guide Willa’s pony into the holding area, a wave of whistles and cheers rolls across the arena. A voice you haven’t heard in a decade booms through the speakers, lower now, rougher, but so achingly familiar you almost stumble.

“Afternoon, folks,” Bucky Barnes drawls over the mic. “Hell of a turnout today, huh?”

Don’t look, you tell yourself. You focus on adjusting Willa’s stirrup leather, on smoothing a hand down the pony’s neck.

You look.

He’s at the center of the arena, mic in hand, hat shading his face. He’s older—not old, just… lived-in. Crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, jaw a little sharper, hair shorter on the sides, longer on top. The easy grin is the same, though. The way he moves, comfortable in his skin in the middle of all that dirt and noise.

He’s in a crisp button-down with a sponsor’s logo on the sleeve and a buckle big enough to serve breakfast on. His limp is slight but there when he walks, a hitch you wouldn’t notice unless you knew his stride like the back of your hand.

You do.

“So before we get to the big bulls later,” he says, “we got the most important event out here—the peewee barrels. Y’all make some noise for these kids, yeah? They’re the future of this sport.”

The stands erupt. Willa’s eyes shine.

“Mama, he’s so cool,” she whispers down to you, awestruck.

You swallow. “He thinks he is,” you mutter, before you can stop yourself.

She giggles. “You sound like Nana.”

“Yeah, well,” you say. “Nana’s smart.”

The first little rider tears through the pattern, the crowd cheering like it’s the NFR. You watch Willa’s face as she follows every move, little hands tight on her reins. She taps her hat brim three times—one, two, three—the way she’s seen you do in old photos.

Your heart squeezes.

“And up next we got Willa,” the announcer calls. “Willa —, ridin’ Ponyboy. Y’all give her a hand!”

You walk them into the alleyway, give the pony’s rump a pat. “You know what to do,” you murmur. “Trust yourself. Trust him. Just breathe and ride, baby.”

“Breathe and ride,” she repeats.

You step back.

Bucky is at the other end of the arena, by the announcer’s stand, but as Willa bursts out of the alley, he turns.

His hand goes still on the rail.

For a split second, your eyes meet across the churned-up dirt, across a decade. The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. His mouth parts. The mic hangs forgotten at his side.

Then Willa is flying.

She sits deep, hands forward, little boots pressing gently at the pony’s sides. She leans just right into the first barrel, Pony’s hindquarters dropping and digging, dirt spraying. They explode out of the turn and head for the second, Willa’s braid snapping behind her like a banner.

The pattern is tight and smooth and fearless. She is joy and speed and pure, bright determination.

You’ve never been more terrified or more proud.

Bucky is watching her like the rest of the world ceased to exist. There’s something almost haunted in his expression—recognition, wonder and a dawning horror that makes your stomach twist.

She looks like him when she grits her teeth coming out of the third barrel. Like you when she throws her hands up crossing the timer line and lets out a wild, delighted yell.

When the time flashes on the board, fastest so far, the crowd goes insane.

Willa whoops, circling her pony and heading back toward you, face flushed, eyes shining.

“Did you see?” she gasps as she reaches you. “Mama, did you see?”

You catch her leg, laughing through the tears you refuse to let fall. “I saw, baby. You were incredible. That was textbook. I’m so proud of you I could explode.”

She preens, glowing.

“Hey,” a voice says behind you, breathless and rough. “That was one hell of a run.”

You freeze.

Willa’s eyes widen as she looks past you. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” she breathes. “The bull rider.”

You turn slowly.

He’s closer than you thought—hat off now, held in one hand, the other on his belt buckle like he’s trying to anchor himself. His gaze flicks from Willa’s face to yours and back, taking in every detail.

Up close, the years are sharper: the faint scar at his temple, the deeper lines around his mouth, the way his shoulders carry tension like a second skin.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours. “That’s me.”

“Can you sign my hat?” Willa blurts, then clamps a hand over her mouth, mortified.

Bucky’s mouth quirks, but his eyes are wet. “Be honored to,” he says. “If your mama’s okay with it.”

Willa swivels to you, pleading. You could say no. You could throw up walls and boundaries and a decade’s worth of carefully constructed distance.

You exhale. “It’s fine,” you manage. “If you want, Willa.”

She thrusts her hat at him, practically vibrating. “Please.”

He takes it carefully, like it’s made of glass, and pulls a Sharpie from his shirt pocket. His hand shakes as he writes. When he hands the hat back, his fingers brush hers. Something flares across his face when she smiles at him—something vulnerable and broken and so, so hopeful.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” she says politely. “Did you see my run? Mama says I gotta look past the barrel and not at it, and I remembered this time.”

“I did see,” he says. His voice is rough. “And your mama’s right. She usually is.”

“You know my mama?” Willa asks, curious.

He chokes on a sound that might be a laugh. His gaze slides to you, question written all over his face.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know your mama.”

You send Willa off with your parents to get a snow cone and check the posted times. Your mom gives you a sharp, assessing look as she takes your daughter’s hand, but doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes your arm in passing, silent support.

When they’re gone, you’re suddenly very aware of how close Bucky is. How many eyes are around you. How many years sit between your heart and his.

“Could we…?” he starts, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the barns.

You hesitate.

You need this. Even if it hurts. Maybe especially if it hurts.

You nod.

He falls into step beside you, both of you silent as you weave through the crowd. Kids dart past with cotton candy and plastic guns. Old timers nod in greeting. Someone calls his name; he lifts a hand automatically, but his attention never leaves you.

You end up behind the practice pens, where the noise dims and the late afternoon sun slants gold through the dust motes. A horse snorts in a nearby stall. Somewhere, a generator hums.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

“You look good,” he says finally, voice low. “Stronger. Not that you weren’t—hell, you were a force back then. It’s just… different now.”

You cross your arms, suddenly self-conscious of the way your jeans fit, the faint scar on your forearm from a colt that kicked when you were twenty-seven, the laugh lines your kid jokes about when she squishes your cheeks.

“You’re still full of shit, I see,” you say lightly.

He huffs out a laugh, then sobers. “I’m sorry,” he says.

You close your eyes. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“I’m sorry I left the way I did,” he says, words tumbling. “I’m sorry I promised I’d call and then I… didn’t, not like I should have. I’m sorry I thought I could somehow juggle my career and us without actually puttin’ in the work. I was a coward. An asshole. Both.”

Your throat burns. “You were young,” you say quietly. “So was I.”

“That ain’t an excuse,” he says hoarsely. “It’s just a fact. I got down to Texas, got picked up, started winnin’ some money. There was always a new bull, a new town, a new sponsor dinner. I kept meanin’ to come back, to call and say hey, I figured it out, here’s how we do this. But every time I thought I had somethin’ to offer, the bar moved. It never felt like enough.”

“You could’ve just—” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “You could’ve called to say that,” you whisper. “Even if you didn’t have an answer.”

“I know,” he says. His jaw clenches. “Believe me, I know. I thought about you every damn day. Had your number pulled up more times than I can count. I’d get as far as your name and my hands’d start shakin’ like I was gettin’ on a rank bull. And then I’d… punk out.”

You stare at the dust between your boots. “So you’re sorry you didn’t call,” you say. “That’s… somethin’.”

“I’m sorry for more than that,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Your heart stutters. “Wasn’t… where?”

He looks at you, blue eyes raw. “You expect me to believe that little girl ain’t mine?” he asks, voice rough and soft all at once.

You flinch.

He laughs weakly. “She taps her hat brim three times,” he says. “Same way you did. She’s got your seat in the saddle, your balance. And when she crossed that timer line, she did that little thing with her mouth? That smirk? That’s mine. God help us all.”

You wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “You don’t know that,” you lie, voice thin.

“I do,” he says. “Down to my bones, I do. But I won’t—” He takes a breath, fists clenching and unclenching. “I won’t push. I don’t got any right to barging into your lives if you don’t want me there. I just… I gotta know. Please. If she’s mine, I need to hear you say it.”

Silence hangs heavy between you. The choice you made all those years ago presses down on your shoulders, suddenly sharp and fragile.

You remember nights pacing with Willa, alone and exhausted, whispering stories about a bull rider you’d loved so hard it nearly broke you. You remember watching him on TV at the NFR, his name flashing on the screen while your daughter slept on your chest, his last ride ending in a wreck that left you sobbing into your mama’s apron when they carted him out of the arena.

You remember telling yourself you did the right thing. That he didn’t need a kid tied to him while he chased his career. That you didn’t need to spend your life waiting by the phone.

You remember the look on his face when Willa smiled at him.

“She’s yours,” you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s… she’s your daughter.”

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Then he exhales like someone cut his strings, stumbling back a step to brace a hand on the pen railing. He bows his head, hat clutched in the other hand so tight the brim bends.

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath too until it leaves you in a rush. Your chest aches.

“Her name’s Willa,” you say quietly. “She was born the March after you left. I told my parents the truth. They… we decided not to tell you. You were headin’ for the big time. I didn’t want to be the reason you resented your career. Or her.”

His head snaps up, eyes blazing. “Resent her?” he demands. “Or you? Is that what you think of me?”

“I think you chose bull riding over me,” you snap back, old wounds splitting open. “I think you barely managed to call or text, and that was when it was convenient for you. What was I supposed to think you’d do with a baby, Bucky? Set her in the chute with you?”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to be another obligation you resented,” you press on, voice cracking. “You had your shot at the big leagues. You took it. I stayed. I made my peace with that. If I’d told you, maybe you’d have come home. Maybe you’d have come for a while and then left again. Maybe you’d have stayed and resented every second. I didn’t… I couldn’t do that to her. Or to me.”

Tears burn your eyes. You swipe at them angrily.

“For what it’s worth,” you add, quieter, “I watched every one of your rides on TV I could find. I prayed you’d stay in one piece. I’m not a monster.”

He’s across the distance between you in two strides. “Hey,” he says roughly. “Hey. I never thought you were.”

His hand hovers near your arm, not touching until you nod minutely. Then his fingers close gentle and firm around your bicep, grounding.

“You did what you thought was right,” he says. “I get that. I hate it, and I wish like hell you’d given me a say, but I get it. I made it real easy to believe I’d fuck it up.”

A ragged laugh bubbles out of you. “That’s the understatement of the decade.”

He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh too. Then his face softens, something like awe creeping in around the edges of the hurt. “I got a daughter,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t quite believe it. “We got a daughter.”

The we hits you like a physical blow.

“She loves this life,” you say, staring at the dirt so you don’t have to look at him. “Horses, barrels, muckin’ stalls. She’s stubborn as hell and talks more than anyone I’ve ever met. She knows you from TV, but she doesn’t know… you. I wasn’t gonna lie to her, but I wasn’t ready to explain all of this yet either.”

He nods slowly. “Then we take it slow,” he says. “If you’ll let me. I don’t—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or to want me back. I’d love to try, but I know I burned that bridge once. I’m just askin’ for a chance to be… somethin’. For her. For Willa.”

You look up, finally.

There’s a fragility in his gaze that you’ve never seen before. A man who’s ridden the baddest bulls in the world and come out the other side, staring down the scariest thing he’s ever faced: his own choices.

“You’d stay?” you ask, voice small. “Really stay? This isn’t just another summer you’re blowin’ through?”

“I retired last year,” he says. “Took one wreck too many. Doctor said I could keep goin’ if I wanted to end up walkin’ with a cane by forty. Figured I’d quit while I can still feel my toes.”

You swallow. You remember that wreck. Remember holding Willa so tight she squirmed when they replayed it on the big screen.

“I’ve been doin’ commentary and clinics since,” he continues. “Travel’s lighter, money’s decent. My folks moved back up this way a while ago. I… I was thinkin’ about buyin’ a little place near here. Maybe help out with the youth rodeo program. Seemed like… I dunno. Time to come home.”

Home.

The word hangs between you, tender and dangerous.

“I didn’t come back ’cause I knew you were here,” he says firmly. “I didn’t know. When I saw your name on the registration spreadsheet this morning, I damn near threw up. And then I saw her, and…” He shakes his head helplessly. “It’s like God reached down and slapped me upside the head.”

Despite everything, you snort. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone wanted to.”

“And probably not the last,” he agrees softly. “I ain’t askin’ for much right now. Just… let me be around. Let me show up. If she wants to know me, I’ll be there. If she doesn’t, I’ll take that too. But I am not runnin’ again. Not from her. Not from you.”

You study his face, searching for the boy you loved under the man he’s become. The boy is still there—in the crooked half-smile, in the stubborn tilt of his chin. The man carries more lines, more weight.

You carry your own.

“You hurt me,” you say finally. “More than you probably know.”

His eyes close briefly. “I know,” he says hoarsely. “And I’ll spend the rest of my damn life tryin’ to make that right, if you let me.”

You could say no.

You could send him back to his clinics and commentary and let your life keep going the way it has. You and Willa and your parents and the ranch. Safe. Predictable.

You think about Willa’s face when she laughed at his joke. The way her hands trembled with excitement when he signed her hat. How she watched him in the arena with the same rapt, hungry focus she has when a new pattern clicks.

You think about a little girl who asks sometimes why she doesn’t have a daddy like some of the other kids. How you tell her families come in all shapes and sizes and that she has more love than some kids with two parents.

You think about the way Bucky looked at her like she hung the moon.

You sigh.

“I’m not promisin’ anything,” you say slowly. “But… I won’t stand in the way of her knowin’ you. We go at her pace. You show up when you say you will. You don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

He nods, relief crashing over his features. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Whatever you say.”

“And don’t call me ma’am,” you add, the old reflex kicking in.

He smiles, small and stunned. “There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my girl.”

Your heart lurches. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Barnes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, even as his eyes say otherwise.

Introducing the concept of “your dad is Bucky Barnes, rodeo legend” to a nine-year-old turns out to be… a lot.

You sit Willa down in the camper that evening, her hat—now emblazoned with his signature—resting in her lap. Your parents hover just outside, giving you space but close enough that you can feel their support like a wall at your back.

“So,” you start, hands twisting. “You know how families come in all kinds of different shapes, right?”

Willa narrows her eyes. “Is this about when Lacey said it was weird I only have you and Nana and Papa and no dad?” she demands. “Because I told her that’s rude and you said she probably doesn’t know better yet.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah, it’s… kind of about that.”

She stares at you for a long moment, sharp in a way that always reminds you of her grandmother. “Do I have a dad?” she asks softly.

You inhale shakily. “You do,” you say. “He and I knew each other a long time ago, when we were younger than I am now. We cared about each other a lot, but… life took us in different directions. I should’ve told him about you sooner. I didn’t. That’s on me.”

She chews her lip. “Is it someone I know?”

“Not yet,” you say. “But you met him today.”

Her eyes widen. “Bucky Barnes?” she whispers.

You nod.

She is silent for a long heartbeat. Two.

“Cool,” she says finally.

You blink. “Cool,” you echo weakly.

“Can he teach me how to not fall off when Pony does that funny hop sometimes?” she asks, eyes earnest. “’Cause he always sticks to the bull even when it’s bein’ real mean.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, half hysterical, half relieved. “We can… ask him,” you say. “If you want to get to know him, we can try that. If you don’t, that’s okay too. This is your call, Willa. Okay? You’re not in trouble, you don’t gotta pick sides. You just… tell me how you feel. I’ll listen. Always.”

Her face crumples a little, lip wobbling. “I’m kinda mad,” she admits in a rush. “That you didn’t tell me I had a dad. Or tell him about me. But I’m also… happy? ’Cause he seems nice. And he likes barrels. And he looked at me like… like Papa does sometimes. Like he’s proud.”

Tears sting your eyes. You pull her into your arms, burying your face in her hair. “You have every right to be mad,” you whisper. “At me. At him. At the whole stupid world. And you have every right to be happy too. We’ll figure it out together. I promise.”

She nods against your chest. “Okay,” she murmurs. Then, muffled: “Can we get ice cream now?”

You laugh, wet and shaky. “Yeah, baby,” you say. “We can get ice cream.”

Over the next few days, Bucky makes good on his vow. He’s at the warm-up pen every morning, hat in hand, asking Willa if she wants a few tips. He never pushes, never assumes. When she wants space, he gives it. When she wants to show him her drawings of horses with wings and bulls with superhero capes, he listens like she’s reciting scripture.

He asks about her favorite subject in school (science), her least favorite (math), her best friend (Lacey, who apologizes for being rude about dads after Willa sets her straight). He tells her about the first time he got bucked off and landed on his ass in front of half the town. He shows her how to sit a little looser in the saddle, how to trust her pony’s stride.

He calls her “Willa-girl” once, and you see the way her face lights up like someone flipped a switch.

At night, after Willa is asleep and your parents have retreated to their own trailer, you and Bucky sit on the tailgate of his truck, the same one he drove off in all those years ago. It’s been repainted, the dents mostly hammered out. The bed still creaks when you shift your weight.

“Feels like we’re kids again,” he says one evening, looking up at the stars.

You snort. “Speak for yourself. My knees hurt.”

“Mine too,” he admits. “Rodeo ain’t exactly gentle.”

Silence stretches between you, easier now, threaded with shared glances and half-smiles.

“Do you ever miss it?” he asks quietly. “The big rodeos?”

You think about it. “Sometimes,” you say honestly. “Would’ve been fun to see how far I could’ve gone. But then I watch Willa run, and I think… maybe this is better. I get to see her find her own path. I get to sleep in my own bed most nights. I get to be there when Mama needs help with the garden or Daddy needs a new fence line built.”

You glance at him. “What about you? You miss the bulls?”

He takes a long breath. “Sometimes,” he says. “There’s nothin’ like it. The rush, the adrenaline, the crowd. But my body doesn’t. And when I watch these kids learn to ride, when I see Willa figure out how to shave a tenth off her time? That feels… big too. Different kind of big.”

You study his profile—the steady line of his jaw, the faint scar you don’t remember from before. The shadows under his eyes that have nothing to do with dust.

“You could help out more with the youth program,” you hear yourself say. “The circuit board’s been talkin’ about expandin’ it. Gettin’ more kids involved, keepin’ ’em busy and outta trouble. They’d fall over themselves for your name on the brochure.”

He smiles, slow and surprised. “You vouchin’ for me, sweetheart?”

“Don’t push it, Barnes,” you warn, though there’s no heat behind it.

“Didn’t think you wanted me stickin’ around this much,” he admits.

You look down at your hands, fingers threaded together. “I want Willa to have you,” you say finally. “And… I’ve spent ten years learnin’ how to live without you. I can do it. But I don’t… want to. Not if there’s a better way this time.”

His breath hitches. “What are you sayin’?”

“I’m sayin’ I’m willing to see how this goes,” you say, heart hammering. “Slow. For her. For us. No grand gestures, no drivin’ off into the sunset without a plan. You want in our lives, you do it the hard way. Day in, day out. Teachin’ peewees how not to fall off their ponies, fixin’ fences, sittin’ through school plays. You think you can handle that, Mr. Big-Time Bull Rider?”

His eyes shine in the dim light. “Darlin’,” he says, voice rough, “I’d ride the rankest bull on the planet bareback before I’d walk away from that again.”

“Don’t you dare,” you mutter.

He chuckles, then sobers. “I don’t deserve this,” he says. “You. Her. A second chance.”

“Probably not,” you agree easily. “But life’s not about what we deserve. It’s about what we do with what we get. You got us for now. Don’t screw it up.”

He swallows hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

You elbow him. “What’d I say about that?”

He grins, and for a moment you see the boy on the fence rail again, cocky and full of dreams. “Yes, sweetheart,” he amends.

Your heart does a stupid little flip.

He reaches for your hand, slow and deliberate, like he’s asking permission. You let him take it.

His palm is still rough and warm. It still feels like home.

You sit like that for a long time, fingers tangled, watching the stars over the rodeo grounds where it all started. The sounds of laughter and music drift on the night air. In the trailer behind you, your daughter sleeps with her hat on the hook and her boots by the door, her future wide open.

Ten years ago, Bucky Barnes drove away chasing his big-league dreams.

Tonight, he stays.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—home is big enough for all of it.

tags: @firingstars @iamthatonefangirl @its-in-the-woods @houseofhyde @superbassbuck @chateaubarnes @earthsmightiestbenders @barnesonly @54nboo @winterdecember18 @unificsation @wildflowersandvibranium @juniebjonesin @blowingbarnes @grumpysunnybarnes @missvelvetsstuff @daisynotquake @colettebarnes @lokirogersgirl @sapphire882 @buckyfmd @justadaydreamingfangirl @quantumbarnes @overwintering-soldier @buckyboudoir @domitaylorsversion @multiversefanfics @avgdestitute @meowrz1a @barnes-babydoll @globetrotter28 @mariamorales1998 @okaytrashpanda @icantfindanamenottakenn @happygooberpastel @pinksplace @cautiouscas17 @infinitewithenvy @herejustforbuckybarnes @yexbarnes @sassandscribbles @ozwriterchick @spdrveil @r1ssa + add yourself here

[heldbybarnes]

cowboys always find a way to leave

pairing: bull rider!bucky barnes x barrel racer!reader | 7.7k words

warnings: past unprotected sex, pregnancy, single mom!reader, secret baby (now secret nine-year-old oops), mentions of childbirth, rodeo injuries, guilt, miscommunication, co-parenting feelings, big emotions, second chance romance, soft dad!bucky losing his mind over a tiny barrel racer

summary: at twenty-three, bucky blows into your small-town rodeo with big-league dreams and a bull rope, leaving you with a broken heart and a baby he never knew about. ten years later, retired and back on the circuit, he’s blindsided to find you, and your daughter, waiting in the same arena where it all began.

authors note: little bit of cowboy bucky hurt/comfort to grace your feed this fine saturday afternoon! if you know anything about me, cowboy!bucky has my soul and this concept sunk its claws in me and refused to let go.

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Bucky Barnes shows up with a busted duffel bag and a bull rope slung over his shoulder like he already owns the place.

He doesn’t. Not yet.

He’s twenty-three, road-weary, dust on his jeans and sun in his eyes, and he pulls into the county fairgrounds in a beat-up blue truck that rattles to a stop beside your trailer. The late June heat shimmers over the red clay, the air thick with the smell of horses, fried food, and diesel.

You’re bent over tightening your mare’s cinch when you hear boots scuff on gravel and a low whistle.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” a warm voice says behind you. “That’s the prettiest view I’ve seen all summer.”

You straighten slowly, pushing your hat back with the back of your wrist, ready to tear into some cocky idiot who thinks he can comment on your ass before noon. You turn around, mouth already open—

—and forget what you were gonna say.

He’s tall, broad shouldered, dusty blue plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, worn ball cap pulled low over shaggy brown hair. There’s a little smudge of oil on his cheek, a crooked smile at the corner of his mouth, and eyes so blue you feel like you’ve been dropped into cold water.

You swallow. “If you’re talkin’ about my mare, you’re right,” you say, crisp. “If not, you got about three seconds to adjust your attitude, cowboy.”

His grin widens like you just fed him dessert. “Y’know, I meant the horse,” he lies easily. “But now that you mention it…”

You arch a brow. “Name?”

“Bucky.” He shifts the bull rope higher on his shoulder and sticks out a hand. His palm is rough and warm. “Bucky Barnes. Figured I’d roll through your little circuit here, win all your money, then head south for the big leagues.”

You ignore how his hand swallows yours and how your pulse kicks under your skin. “You’re awful sure of yourself for someone I’ve never heard of.”

“Guess you haven’t been listenin’ hard enough, darlin’.”

“Don’t call me darlin’,” you snap on instinct.

He smirks. “What should I call you then?”

You tell him your name and watch the way he rolls it slowly on his tongue like he’s tasting it. His gaze flicks down to your belt buckle—last year’s barrel racing champion, your county fair logo etched in silver—and something in his face sharpens.

“So you’re the barrel racer I gotta beat, huh?” he asks.

“You’re a bull rider,” you point out. “Different events.”

“Still the same all-around pot.” He kicks a boot at the dirt. “And I heard there was this girl out here, runs barrels like it’s a blood sport. Figured she’d be my competition.”

You shrug, pretending your cheeks aren’t burning. “Guess we’ll see if you can stay on longer than eight seconds before you go talkin’ big.”

He laughs, low and delighted. “Oh, I like you.”

You hate how it makes you want to smile back.

Bucky Barnes spends the rest of the summer proving you right and wrong, all at once.

He is cocky. He does talk too much. And he can ride like the devil.

You watch from the fence the first night he nods his head in the chute, hand wrapped in the rope, mouth set in a grim line. The bull explodes into the arena, twisting and leaping, hooves carving gouges in the dirt. Bucky moves with him—hips loose, shoulders squared, heels dug in. Every time the bull tries to whip him off, he’s there, like he’s welded to leather and muscle and fury.

Eight seconds hit and the buzzer screams. Bucky lets go, throws himself off, hits the ground and springs up again, sprinting for the fence. The crowd roars, dust swirling around him.

He tips his hat up toward the bleachers, searching until he finds you.

You’re already clapping, heart pounding in your throat.

He winks.

Show-off, you think savagely—and can’t stop your grin.

He finds you afterward by the trailers, where you’re walking your mare to cool her out. He’s got his hat pushed back on his head, hair damp with sweat, shirt sticking to his chest. There’s mud on his jeans, a scrape on his jaw, and adrenaline still in his eyes.

“Well?” he asks. “Did I pass your little test?”

“You loosened up your free arm this time,” you admit, because you know he’ll just bug you until you say it. “Didn’t let the bull control your shoulders. Looked good.”

He beams like you just handed him a first-place check. “Looked good, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Barnes,” you warn. “It’s already too big.”

He spends the next week proving exactly how big it is, pestering you at every rodeo on the circuit. He shows up at your trailer with greasy fair food and a lopsided grin. He leans on the fence at morning warm-ups, calling out teasing critiques about your turns around the barrels.

“You’re droppin’ that inside shoulder,” he calls one day, boots hooked on the bottom rail. “Quit lookin’ at the barrel. Look past it.”

“Yeah?” you shoot back, cheeks flushed. “Maybe if you quit thinkin’ with your dick you’d make your dismounts a little cleaner.”

The guys beside him howl. Bucky just laughs, slow and delighted, like every barb you throw is a gift.

Some nights, when the stars are clear and the air soft and warm, you find him sitting on the top rail of the arena fence after everyone else has gone. He’s quiet in those moments, jaw working, hands folded loosely over the front of his thighs.

“Thinkin’ about leavin’ already?” you ask one night, swinging yourself up beside him.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Thinkin’ about winnin’ enough to matter,” he says lightly. “This circuit’s… good. Real good. But there’s bigger money down in Texas. Vegas. Sponsors.” He glances at you. “Can’t ride small forever.”

You roll the dust between your fingers. “Nothing wrong with small,” you murmur. “Some of us like the life we got.”

He’s silent for a beat. “You ever wanna get out?” he wonders.

You consider the dark outline of the arena, the distant glow of the ferris wheel on the fairgrounds, your mare chewing on hay somewhere behind you. “Sometimes,” you admit. “There’s bigger rodeos I’d like to run. Different patterns, different arenas. Maybe Denver, Cheyenne. But my family needs me. And this place…”

This place is your roots. Your daddy’s ranch. Your mama’s kitchen. The graveyard where your grandparents rest and the kitchen table where you learned your first barrel pattern with cans of beans.

“It’s home,” you finish.

He studies your profile. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you say. “You won’t shut up about it.”

His shoulder brushes yours. The contact is warm, solid, grounding. You stare straight ahead, heart thudding loud in your ears.

You don’t kiss him then. You could. You picture turning your head just enough, catching his mouth with yours, tasting dust and sugar and danger.

You don’t.

Not that night.

You make it to the second-to-last rodeo of the circuit before you break.

It happens in the cramped space between your trailer and the stock pens, the air humming with generators and laughter and the metallic clang of gates. You’re leaning against the trailer wall, tugging off your boots, when Bucky corners you.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “They just posted the draw for next week. You see it?”

You shrug, tugging at your sock. “I was a little busy tryin’ not to die in that second barrel turn.”

He grins briefly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were smokin’ it. Don’t start.”

“Tell that to the second barrel I kissed,” you mutter. “What’s the draw say?”

“They added a bull.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Somebody backed out, so they slotted me in. It’s—” He swallows. “It’s a rank one. From a big stock contractor down south. They only brought him up ’cause there’s a scout comin’ through. And—”

“And this is your shot,” you finish dully.

“Maybe,” he says. “If I cover him with a good score, there’s a sponsor at the next rodeo who might pick me up. Truck, travel money, maybe a spot on their string. It’d… it’d change things.”

For him. For you.

A lump settles in your throat. “That’s what you wanted,” you say carefully. “Right? Big leagues.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is.”

Your fingers curl against the trailer siding. “So why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”

He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “’Cause someone might,” he says quietly. “I just… I gotta figure some things out.”

“Like what?”

He steps closer. The diesel generator hum and country music from someone’s radio fade to a low blur. It’s just him and you and the smell of leather and sweat and the faint sweetness of cotton candy drifting on the breeze.

“Like how to ask you if you’d ever wanna come with me,” he says roughly. “And how to do it without soundin’ selfish as hell.”

Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”

“I know you got your folks,” he rushes on. “The ranch. Your mare. I know this place is yours. But I…” He trails off, jaw working. “I didn’t plan on you,” he admits. “Didn’t plan on spendin’ all summer thinkin’ about the way you laugh when you beat me out of the trailer park ’cause you drive like a damn bat outta hell. Or how you tap your hat brim three times before every run, like it’s some secret ritual.”

Heat prickles at the back of your eyes. You’d never told anyone about that. You didn’t think he’d noticed.

“Didn’t plan on wantin’ you in my corner when I ride,” he says. “Now I can’t not think about it.”

You inhale shaky. “You think you can just drag me all over the country to watch you get your brains scrambled?” you demand, voice trembling more than you’d like. “That’s your big plan?”

He flinches. “It’d be more than that,” he says. “We—”

“We what, Bucky?” you snap, nerves fraying. “We live out of your busted truck? I find a way to barrel race in between your events, if we can afford it? My parents are down a hand on the ranch and I’m off chasin’ some dream that isn’t mine?”

“It could be yours,” he protests. “We could hit different rodeos, bigger ones. You’re good enough. You know you are.”

“That’s not the point.” You shake your head hard. “My life is here.”

“And mine’s out there,” he says hoarsely.

Silence stretches between you, hot and taut.

There it is.

“Seems like you already decided,” you say finally, swallowing the ache. “So what are you askin’ me for?”

His face twists. “Because I’m an idiot,” he mutters. “’Cause I keep hopin’ there’s a way to have both.”

“There isn’t,” you whisper. “Not really. You know that.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated. “So that’s it? I go. You stay. We pretend this summer never happened?”

“Didn’t say that,” you manage. “Just… don’t ask me to choose between you and my family when you’ve already chosen.”

He stares at you like he wants to argue. Like he wants to promise things he can’t guarantee.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he nods once, sharp and pained. “Guess I’ll just have to give you somethin’ to remember me by then,” he murmurs.

You don’t have a chance to ask what he means before he’s crowding you gently back against the trailer, one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just shy of your waist like he’s asking a question.

You answer by fisting his shirt and dragging him down.

The kiss is a collision—teeth, breath, the scrape of stubble against your chin. Heat flares low in your belly, bright and desperate. His hand finds your hip, fingers digging in like he’s scared you’ll vanish. He tastes like dust and adrenaline and a hint of the lemonade he stole from you earlier.

“Tell me to stop,” he roughs against your mouth.

“Don’t you dare,” you breathe.

Later, you’ll remember flashes more than anything: his hands shaking as they push your shirt up, the reverent way his fingers trace the curve of your waist; your back arching off the old quilt in the bed of his truck under a sky full of stars; the way he keeps asking if you’re sure even after you’ve pulled him down with a curse and a kiss. The heat of his body, the stretch, the overwhelming rightness of having him so close it feels like he’s under your skin.

You’ll remember his voice, low and wrecked, murmuring I got you, I got you, as he holds you afterwards, your fingers tangled with his, his breath uneven against your hair.

You’ll remember the shape of his promise.

“I’ll call,” he tells you roughly, forehead pressed to yours. “Soon as I know what’s what. I swear, honey. This isn’t… I’m not just leavin’ you behind.”

You want to believe him so badly that it hurts.

Instead, you kiss him one more time, slow and aching, and memorize the taste of goodbye.

He rides the rank bull.

He covers the eight seconds.

The scout notices.

The sponsor calls.

He leaves.

You don’t chase him. You watch his truck taillights shrink down the highway from the edge of your family’s property, arms wrapped tight around yourself until the night swallows the last glimmer of red.

You throw up in the barn two months later.

You blame bad fair food and stress and the ache of your heart. But the weeks pass, and your jeans start to feel different, and your mama gives you a look across the breakfast table that makes your fork freeze halfway to your mouth.

“Baby,” she says gently. “We need to talk.”

When the truth comes spilling out, you brace yourself for anger. For disappointment.

Your mama just squeezes your hand until your fingers hurt. Your daddy goes quiet, lips set, and then gets up from the table and goes out to the barn. He spends an hour there with the horses, shoulders bowed.

He comes back in and kisses the top of your head without a word.

You text Bucky that night. Fingers trembling, you type out I missed my period and I think—

Then you stop.

You stare at the blinking cursor. At the old messages—his dumb memes, his good-luck texts before your runs, his I miss you more than I miss my hat, and that’s sayin’ something.

You stare at the single unread message from him, sent two weeks ago, the last thing you got.

Sorry, honey. Things are crazy. Promise I’ll call soon. Big sponsor meeting. Think about you every time I tie my glove.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I bet you do.”

You select his number.

You hover over the call button.

You think about his dreams, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about Vegas, about the NFR, about buckles the size of dinner plates and checks that would pay off his daddy’s debts and then some.

You think about forcing a choice on him that he already once couldn’t make.

You think about your daddy out in the barn, cleaning stalls with his jaw clenched, giving you space to fall apart.

You delete the message.

You turn your phone off.

You throw yourself into the ranch instead. Into morning feeds and evening checks and training younger horses for other barrel racers. You sell your mare’s spot at the next big rodeo and instead buy baby clothes you keep hidden in the back of your closet until your belly makes it impossible to deny.

Your daughter is born on a cold March night, ten fingers, ten toes, lungs strong enough to shake the rafters. You name her Willa—soft and stubborn and rooted—mine, you think fiercely, as she curls her tiny fist around your finger.

You don’t write his name on the birth certificate.

You whisper it into her hair when you rock her at night, though. When she fusses and you pace the creaky floorboards, you murmur stories about a blue-eyed bull rider who once made you feel like the whole world was spinning under your boots.

You tell yourself you’ll tell her properly one day.

First, you have to figure out how to breathe again.

Ten years later, you walk into the same fairgrounds with calluses on your palms, a few more lines around your eyes, and a nine-year-old barrel racer at your side.

“Loosen your reins a little comin’ into the pocket,” you tell Willa as you walk alongside her pony. “You’re pullin’ too much and it’s costin’ you your momentum.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she chirps, adjusting her grip. Her dark hair—your texture, his color—is braided down her back. There’s dust already on her boots, glitter on her cheeks, and a determined set to her jaw that makes your heart both ache and swell.

She is too much like both of you.

You try not to think about that.

You swing her saddle onto the pony’s back, showing her again how to smooth the pad, check the cinch. She chatters about school and how her friend Lacey says she’s gonna beat her time today and how that just means Willa’ll have to run even faster.

“Competition keeps us sharp,” you tell her, tying off the latigo.

“Like you and Nana in the kitchen,” she says, eyes dancing. “Arguin’ over whose biscuits are better.”

“Nana’s biscuits are better,” you admit. “But don’t you dare tell her I said that.”

Willa’s laughter rings out bright and clear, a sound you’d bottle if you could. You reach over and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, your chest tight.

You almost don’t see the banner at first.

WELCOME BACK TO THE CIRCUIT, BUCKY BARNES! it proclaims in bold red letters over the main arena entrance. SPECIAL GUEST CLINIC AND EXHIBITION RIDE.

The world tilts on its axis.

“Mama?” Willa asks, frowning up at you. “You okay? You look funny.”

You swallow hard, drag your gaze away from the banner. “I’m fine, baby,” you lie. “Just remembered somethin’ I forgot to do.”

Bring the past back where it belongs, you think. Leave it buried.

But it’s too late. His name is everywhere. On posters by the concession stand. On a cardboard cutout by the registration table. On kids’ T-shirts that say BUCKY BARNES FAN CLUB with a cartoon bull underneath.

Willa’s eyes go wide as she spots one. “Mama! Look! That’s the bull rider Nana watches on TV sometimes. The one in Vegas who almost got stomped but then didn’t.”

“Mm,” you manage, throat dry. “That’s him.”

“You know him?” she demands eagerly. “Have you ever met him?”

You force a laugh. “Somethin’ like that,” you say.

You spend the next hour in a fog, checking and re-checking Willa’s tack, braiding her pony’s mane, signing her in at the registration table. People you’ve known your whole life greet you, compliment Willa’s progress, ask after your parents. You smile and nod and say the right words in the right order.

All the while, your stomach is in knots.

You could leave.

You could pull her out, feign sickness, toss her pony back in the trailer and go home. If you’re quick, you could be halfway down the highway before his clinic even starts.

But Willa has worked all year for this. She’s been up at dawn, running patterns on frosted ground. She’s earned this run.

You won’t take that from her just because your heart remembered how to break.

“Riders for the peewee barrels, please start makin’ your way to the warm-up pen,” the announcer’s voice booms over the loudspeaker, crackling slightly.

Willa bounces on her toes. “That’s me!” she squeals.

“That’s you,” you echo. Your hands shake as you boost her up into the saddle, checking her stirrups, double-checking her helmet chin strap. She’s got your old lucky charm clipped to her saddle—your first little silver horseshoe, tarnished and dented.

“Tap your hat brim three times,” you remind her, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “Look past the barrel, not at it. Let him run. You know what you’re doin’.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she says again, solemn this time. She leans down and hugs your neck hard. “Love you, Mama.”

You close your eyes for a second. “Love you more.”

You lead her toward the alleyway, heart lodged somewhere in your throat. The stands are fuller than you’ve seen them in years, buzz of excitement humming through the air. Word travels fast when a living legend comes home.

As you guide Willa’s pony into the holding area, a wave of whistles and cheers rolls across the arena. A voice you haven’t heard in a decade booms through the speakers, lower now, rougher, but so achingly familiar you almost stumble.

“Afternoon, folks,” Bucky Barnes drawls over the mic. “Hell of a turnout today, huh?”

Don’t look, you tell yourself. You focus on adjusting Willa’s stirrup leather, on smoothing a hand down the pony’s neck.

You look.

He’s at the center of the arena, mic in hand, hat shading his face. He’s older—not old, just… lived-in. Crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, jaw a little sharper, hair shorter on the sides, longer on top. The easy grin is the same, though. The way he moves, comfortable in his skin in the middle of all that dirt and noise.

He’s in a crisp button-down with a sponsor’s logo on the sleeve and a buckle big enough to serve breakfast on. His limp is slight but there when he walks, a hitch you wouldn’t notice unless you knew his stride like the back of your hand.

You do.

“So before we get to the big bulls later,” he says, “we got the most important event out here—the peewee barrels. Y’all make some noise for these kids, yeah? They’re the future of this sport.”

The stands erupt. Willa’s eyes shine.

“Mama, he’s so cool,” she whispers down to you, awestruck.

You swallow. “He thinks he is,” you mutter, before you can stop yourself.

She giggles. “You sound like Nana.”

“Yeah, well,” you say. “Nana’s smart.”

The first little rider tears through the pattern, the crowd cheering like it’s the NFR. You watch Willa’s face as she follows every move, little hands tight on her reins. She taps her hat brim three times—one, two, three—the way she’s seen you do in old photos.

Your heart squeezes.

“And up next we got Willa,” the announcer calls. “Willa —, ridin’ Ponyboy. Y’all give her a hand!”

You walk them into the alleyway, give the pony’s rump a pat. “You know what to do,” you murmur. “Trust yourself. Trust him. Just breathe and ride, baby.”

“Breathe and ride,” she repeats.

You step back.

Bucky is at the other end of the arena, by the announcer’s stand, but as Willa bursts out of the alley, he turns.

His hand goes still on the rail.

For a split second, your eyes meet across the churned-up dirt, across a decade. The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. His mouth parts. The mic hangs forgotten at his side.

Then Willa is flying.

She sits deep, hands forward, little boots pressing gently at the pony’s sides. She leans just right into the first barrel, Pony’s hindquarters dropping and digging, dirt spraying. They explode out of the turn and head for the second, Willa’s braid snapping behind her like a banner.

The pattern is tight and smooth and fearless. She is joy and speed and pure, bright determination.

You’ve never been more terrified or more proud.

Bucky is watching her like the rest of the world ceased to exist. There’s something almost haunted in his expression—recognition, wonder and a dawning horror that makes your stomach twist.

She looks like him when she grits her teeth coming out of the third barrel. Like you when she throws her hands up crossing the timer line and lets out a wild, delighted yell.

When the time flashes on the board, fastest so far, the crowd goes insane.

Willa whoops, circling her pony and heading back toward you, face flushed, eyes shining.

“Did you see?” she gasps as she reaches you. “Mama, did you see?”

You catch her leg, laughing through the tears you refuse to let fall. “I saw, baby. You were incredible. That was textbook. I’m so proud of you I could explode.”

She preens, glowing.

“Hey,” a voice says behind you, breathless and rough. “That was one hell of a run.”

You freeze.

Willa’s eyes widen as she looks past you. “You’re Bucky Barnes,” she breathes. “The bull rider.”

You turn slowly.

He’s closer than you thought—hat off now, held in one hand, the other on his belt buckle like he’s trying to anchor himself. His gaze flicks from Willa’s face to yours and back, taking in every detail.

Up close, the years are sharper: the faint scar at his temple, the deeper lines around his mouth, the way his shoulders carry tension like a second skin.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours. “That’s me.”

“Can you sign my hat?” Willa blurts, then clamps a hand over her mouth, mortified.

Bucky’s mouth quirks, but his eyes are wet. “Be honored to,” he says. “If your mama’s okay with it.”

Willa swivels to you, pleading. You could say no. You could throw up walls and boundaries and a decade’s worth of carefully constructed distance.

You exhale. “It’s fine,” you manage. “If you want, Willa.”

She thrusts her hat at him, practically vibrating. “Please.”

He takes it carefully, like it’s made of glass, and pulls a Sharpie from his shirt pocket. His hand shakes as he writes. When he hands the hat back, his fingers brush hers. Something flares across his face when she smiles at him—something vulnerable and broken and so, so hopeful.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes,” she says politely. “Did you see my run? Mama says I gotta look past the barrel and not at it, and I remembered this time.”

“I did see,” he says. His voice is rough. “And your mama’s right. She usually is.”

“You know my mama?” Willa asks, curious.

He chokes on a sound that might be a laugh. His gaze slides to you, question written all over his face.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know your mama.”

You send Willa off with your parents to get a snow cone and check the posted times. Your mom gives you a sharp, assessing look as she takes your daughter’s hand, but doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes your arm in passing, silent support.

When they’re gone, you’re suddenly very aware of how close Bucky is. How many eyes are around you. How many years sit between your heart and his.

“Could we…?” he starts, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the barns.

You hesitate.

You need this. Even if it hurts. Maybe especially if it hurts.

You nod.

He falls into step beside you, both of you silent as you weave through the crowd. Kids dart past with cotton candy and plastic guns. Old timers nod in greeting. Someone calls his name; he lifts a hand automatically, but his attention never leaves you.

You end up behind the practice pens, where the noise dims and the late afternoon sun slants gold through the dust motes. A horse snorts in a nearby stall. Somewhere, a generator hums.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

“You look good,” he says finally, voice low. “Stronger. Not that you weren’t—hell, you were a force back then. It’s just… different now.”

You cross your arms, suddenly self-conscious of the way your jeans fit, the faint scar on your forearm from a colt that kicked when you were twenty-seven, the laugh lines your kid jokes about when she squishes your cheeks.

“You’re still full of shit, I see,” you say lightly.

He huffs out a laugh, then sobers. “I’m sorry,” he says.

You close your eyes. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“I’m sorry I left the way I did,” he says, words tumbling. “I’m sorry I promised I’d call and then I… didn’t, not like I should have. I’m sorry I thought I could somehow juggle my career and us without actually puttin’ in the work. I was a coward. An asshole. Both.”

Your throat burns. “You were young,” you say quietly. “So was I.”

“That ain’t an excuse,” he says hoarsely. “It’s just a fact. I got down to Texas, got picked up, started winnin’ some money. There was always a new bull, a new town, a new sponsor dinner. I kept meanin’ to come back, to call and say hey, I figured it out, here’s how we do this. But every time I thought I had somethin’ to offer, the bar moved. It never felt like enough.”

“You could’ve just—” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “You could’ve called to say that,” you whisper. “Even if you didn’t have an answer.”

“I know,” he says. His jaw clenches. “Believe me, I know. I thought about you every damn day. Had your number pulled up more times than I can count. I’d get as far as your name and my hands’d start shakin’ like I was gettin’ on a rank bull. And then I’d… punk out.”

You stare at the dust between your boots. “So you’re sorry you didn’t call,” you say. “That’s… somethin’.”

“I’m sorry for more than that,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Your heart stutters. “Wasn’t… where?”

He looks at you, blue eyes raw. “You expect me to believe that little girl ain’t mine?” he asks, voice rough and soft all at once.

You flinch.

He laughs weakly. “She taps her hat brim three times,” he says. “Same way you did. She’s got your seat in the saddle, your balance. And when she crossed that timer line, she did that little thing with her mouth? That smirk? That’s mine. God help us all.”

You wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “You don’t know that,” you lie, voice thin.

“I do,” he says. “Down to my bones, I do. But I won’t—” He takes a breath, fists clenching and unclenching. “I won’t push. I don’t got any right to barging into your lives if you don’t want me there. I just… I gotta know. Please. If she’s mine, I need to hear you say it.”

Silence hangs heavy between you. The choice you made all those years ago presses down on your shoulders, suddenly sharp and fragile.

You remember nights pacing with Willa, alone and exhausted, whispering stories about a bull rider you’d loved so hard it nearly broke you. You remember watching him on TV at the NFR, his name flashing on the screen while your daughter slept on your chest, his last ride ending in a wreck that left you sobbing into your mama’s apron when they carted him out of the arena.

You remember telling yourself you did the right thing. That he didn’t need a kid tied to him while he chased his career. That you didn’t need to spend your life waiting by the phone.

You remember the look on his face when Willa smiled at him.

“She’s yours,” you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. “She’s… she’s your daughter.”

For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Then he exhales like someone cut his strings, stumbling back a step to brace a hand on the pen railing. He bows his head, hat clutched in the other hand so tight the brim bends.

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath too until it leaves you in a rush. Your chest aches.

“Her name’s Willa,” you say quietly. “She was born the March after you left. I told my parents the truth. They… we decided not to tell you. You were headin’ for the big time. I didn’t want to be the reason you resented your career. Or her.”

His head snaps up, eyes blazing. “Resent her?” he demands. “Or you? Is that what you think of me?”

“I think you chose bull riding over me,” you snap back, old wounds splitting open. “I think you barely managed to call or text, and that was when it was convenient for you. What was I supposed to think you’d do with a baby, Bucky? Set her in the chute with you?”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to be another obligation you resented,” you press on, voice cracking. “You had your shot at the big leagues. You took it. I stayed. I made my peace with that. If I’d told you, maybe you’d have come home. Maybe you’d have come for a while and then left again. Maybe you’d have stayed and resented every second. I didn’t… I couldn’t do that to her. Or to me.”

Tears burn your eyes. You swipe at them angrily.

“For what it’s worth,” you add, quieter, “I watched every one of your rides on TV I could find. I prayed you’d stay in one piece. I’m not a monster.”

He’s across the distance between you in two strides. “Hey,” he says roughly. “Hey. I never thought you were.”

His hand hovers near your arm, not touching until you nod minutely. Then his fingers close gentle and firm around your bicep, grounding.

“You did what you thought was right,” he says. “I get that. I hate it, and I wish like hell you’d given me a say, but I get it. I made it real easy to believe I’d fuck it up.”

A ragged laugh bubbles out of you. “That’s the understatement of the decade.”

He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh too. Then his face softens, something like awe creeping in around the edges of the hurt. “I got a daughter,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t quite believe it. “We got a daughter.”

The we hits you like a physical blow.

“She loves this life,” you say, staring at the dirt so you don’t have to look at him. “Horses, barrels, muckin’ stalls. She’s stubborn as hell and talks more than anyone I’ve ever met. She knows you from TV, but she doesn’t know… you. I wasn’t gonna lie to her, but I wasn’t ready to explain all of this yet either.”

He nods slowly. “Then we take it slow,” he says. “If you’ll let me. I don’t—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or to want me back. I’d love to try, but I know I burned that bridge once. I’m just askin’ for a chance to be… somethin’. For her. For Willa.”

You look up, finally.

There’s a fragility in his gaze that you’ve never seen before. A man who’s ridden the baddest bulls in the world and come out the other side, staring down the scariest thing he’s ever faced: his own choices.

“You’d stay?” you ask, voice small. “Really stay? This isn’t just another summer you’re blowin’ through?”

“I retired last year,” he says. “Took one wreck too many. Doctor said I could keep goin’ if I wanted to end up walkin’ with a cane by forty. Figured I’d quit while I can still feel my toes.”

You swallow. You remember that wreck. Remember holding Willa so tight she squirmed when they replayed it on the big screen.

“I’ve been doin’ commentary and clinics since,” he continues. “Travel’s lighter, money’s decent. My folks moved back up this way a while ago. I… I was thinkin’ about buyin’ a little place near here. Maybe help out with the youth rodeo program. Seemed like… I dunno. Time to come home.”

Home.

The word hangs between you, tender and dangerous.

“I didn’t come back ’cause I knew you were here,” he says firmly. “I didn’t know. When I saw your name on the registration spreadsheet this morning, I damn near threw up. And then I saw her, and…” He shakes his head helplessly. “It’s like God reached down and slapped me upside the head.”

Despite everything, you snort. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone wanted to.”

“And probably not the last,” he agrees softly. “I ain’t askin’ for much right now. Just… let me be around. Let me show up. If she wants to know me, I’ll be there. If she doesn’t, I’ll take that too. But I am not runnin’ again. Not from her. Not from you.”

You study his face, searching for the boy you loved under the man he’s become. The boy is still there—in the crooked half-smile, in the stubborn tilt of his chin. The man carries more lines, more weight.

You carry your own.

“You hurt me,” you say finally. “More than you probably know.”

His eyes close briefly. “I know,” he says hoarsely. “And I’ll spend the rest of my damn life tryin’ to make that right, if you let me.”

You could say no.

You could send him back to his clinics and commentary and let your life keep going the way it has. You and Willa and your parents and the ranch. Safe. Predictable.

You think about Willa’s face when she laughed at his joke. The way her hands trembled with excitement when he signed her hat. How she watched him in the arena with the same rapt, hungry focus she has when a new pattern clicks.

You think about a little girl who asks sometimes why she doesn’t have a daddy like some of the other kids. How you tell her families come in all shapes and sizes and that she has more love than some kids with two parents.

You think about the way Bucky looked at her like she hung the moon.

You sigh.

“I’m not promisin’ anything,” you say slowly. “But… I won’t stand in the way of her knowin’ you. We go at her pace. You show up when you say you will. You don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

He nods, relief crashing over his features. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Whatever you say.”

“And don’t call me ma’am,” you add, the old reflex kicking in.

He smiles, small and stunned. “There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my girl.”

Your heart lurches. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Barnes.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, even as his eyes say otherwise.

Introducing the concept of “your dad is Bucky Barnes, rodeo legend” to a nine-year-old turns out to be… a lot.

You sit Willa down in the camper that evening, her hat—now emblazoned with his signature—resting in her lap. Your parents hover just outside, giving you space but close enough that you can feel their support like a wall at your back.

“So,” you start, hands twisting. “You know how families come in all kinds of different shapes, right?”

Willa narrows her eyes. “Is this about when Lacey said it was weird I only have you and Nana and Papa and no dad?” she demands. “Because I told her that’s rude and you said she probably doesn’t know better yet.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah, it’s… kind of about that.”

She stares at you for a long moment, sharp in a way that always reminds you of her grandmother. “Do I have a dad?” she asks softly.

You inhale shakily. “You do,” you say. “He and I knew each other a long time ago, when we were younger than I am now. We cared about each other a lot, but… life took us in different directions. I should’ve told him about you sooner. I didn’t. That’s on me.”

She chews her lip. “Is it someone I know?”

“Not yet,” you say. “But you met him today.”

Her eyes widen. “Bucky Barnes?” she whispers.

You nod.

She is silent for a long heartbeat. Two.

“Cool,” she says finally.

You blink. “Cool,” you echo weakly.

“Can he teach me how to not fall off when Pony does that funny hop sometimes?” she asks, eyes earnest. “’Cause he always sticks to the bull even when it’s bein’ real mean.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, half hysterical, half relieved. “We can… ask him,” you say. “If you want to get to know him, we can try that. If you don’t, that’s okay too. This is your call, Willa. Okay? You’re not in trouble, you don’t gotta pick sides. You just… tell me how you feel. I’ll listen. Always.”

Her face crumples a little, lip wobbling. “I’m kinda mad,” she admits in a rush. “That you didn’t tell me I had a dad. Or tell him about me. But I’m also… happy? ’Cause he seems nice. And he likes barrels. And he looked at me like… like Papa does sometimes. Like he’s proud.”

Tears sting your eyes. You pull her into your arms, burying your face in her hair. “You have every right to be mad,” you whisper. “At me. At him. At the whole stupid world. And you have every right to be happy too. We’ll figure it out together. I promise.”

She nods against your chest. “Okay,” she murmurs. Then, muffled: “Can we get ice cream now?”

You laugh, wet and shaky. “Yeah, baby,” you say. “We can get ice cream.”

Over the next few days, Bucky makes good on his vow. He’s at the warm-up pen every morning, hat in hand, asking Willa if she wants a few tips. He never pushes, never assumes. When she wants space, he gives it. When she wants to show him her drawings of horses with wings and bulls with superhero capes, he listens like she’s reciting scripture.

He asks about her favorite subject in school (science), her least favorite (math), her best friend (Lacey, who apologizes for being rude about dads after Willa sets her straight). He tells her about the first time he got bucked off and landed on his ass in front of half the town. He shows her how to sit a little looser in the saddle, how to trust her pony’s stride.

He calls her “Willa-girl” once, and you see the way her face lights up like someone flipped a switch.

At night, after Willa is asleep and your parents have retreated to their own trailer, you and Bucky sit on the tailgate of his truck, the same one he drove off in all those years ago. It’s been repainted, the dents mostly hammered out. The bed still creaks when you shift your weight.

“Feels like we’re kids again,” he says one evening, looking up at the stars.

You snort. “Speak for yourself. My knees hurt.”

“Mine too,” he admits. “Rodeo ain’t exactly gentle.”

Silence stretches between you, easier now, threaded with shared glances and half-smiles.

“Do you ever miss it?” he asks quietly. “The big rodeos?”

You think about it. “Sometimes,” you say honestly. “Would’ve been fun to see how far I could’ve gone. But then I watch Willa run, and I think… maybe this is better. I get to see her find her own path. I get to sleep in my own bed most nights. I get to be there when Mama needs help with the garden or Daddy needs a new fence line built.”

You glance at him. “What about you? You miss the bulls?”

He takes a long breath. “Sometimes,” he says. “There’s nothin’ like it. The rush, the adrenaline, the crowd. But my body doesn’t. And when I watch these kids learn to ride, when I see Willa figure out how to shave a tenth off her time? That feels… big too. Different kind of big.”

You study his profile—the steady line of his jaw, the faint scar you don’t remember from before. The shadows under his eyes that have nothing to do with dust.

“You could help out more with the youth program,” you hear yourself say. “The circuit board’s been talkin’ about expandin’ it. Gettin’ more kids involved, keepin’ ’em busy and outta trouble. They’d fall over themselves for your name on the brochure.”

He smiles, slow and surprised. “You vouchin’ for me, sweetheart?”

“Don’t push it, Barnes,” you warn, though there’s no heat behind it.

“Didn’t think you wanted me stickin’ around this much,” he admits.

You look down at your hands, fingers threaded together. “I want Willa to have you,” you say finally. “And… I’ve spent ten years learnin’ how to live without you. I can do it. But I don’t… want to. Not if there’s a better way this time.”

His breath hitches. “What are you sayin’?”

“I’m sayin’ I’m willing to see how this goes,” you say, heart hammering. “Slow. For her. For us. No grand gestures, no drivin’ off into the sunset without a plan. You want in our lives, you do it the hard way. Day in, day out. Teachin’ peewees how not to fall off their ponies, fixin’ fences, sittin’ through school plays. You think you can handle that, Mr. Big-Time Bull Rider?”

His eyes shine in the dim light. “Darlin’,” he says, voice rough, “I’d ride the rankest bull on the planet bareback before I’d walk away from that again.”

“Don’t you dare,” you mutter.

He chuckles, then sobers. “I don’t deserve this,” he says. “You. Her. A second chance.”

“Probably not,” you agree easily. “But life’s not about what we deserve. It’s about what we do with what we get. You got us for now. Don’t screw it up.”

He swallows hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

You elbow him. “What’d I say about that?”

He grins, and for a moment you see the boy on the fence rail again, cocky and full of dreams. “Yes, sweetheart,” he amends.

Your heart does a stupid little flip.

He reaches for your hand, slow and deliberate, like he’s asking permission. You let him take it.

His palm is still rough and warm. It still feels like home.

You sit like that for a long time, fingers tangled, watching the stars over the rodeo grounds where it all started. The sounds of laughter and music drift on the night air. In the trailer behind you, your daughter sleeps with her hat on the hook and her boots by the door, her future wide open.

Ten years ago, Bucky Barnes drove away chasing his big-league dreams.

Tonight, he stays.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—home is big enough for all of it.

tags: @firingstars @iamthatonefangirl @its-in-the-woods @houseofhyde @superbassbuck @chateaubarnes @earthsmightiestbenders @barnesonly @54nboo @winterdecember18 @unificsation @wildflowersandvibranium @juniebjonesin @blowingbarnes @grumpysunnybarnes @missvelvetsstuff @daisynotquake @colettebarnes @lokirogersgirl @sapphire882 @buckyfmd @justadaydreamingfangirl @quantumbarnes @overwintering-soldier @buckyboudoir @domitaylorsversion @multiversefanfics @avgdestitute @meowrz1a @barnes-babydoll @globetrotter28 @mariamorales1998 @okaytrashpanda @icantfindanamenottakenn @happygooberpastel @pinksplace @cautiouscas17 @infinitewithenvy @herejustforbuckybarnes @yexbarnes @sassandscribbles @ozwriterchick @spdrveil @r1ssa + add yourself here

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the cowboy rule - bucky barnes

warning - contains 18+ content

You’d been in Texas for three weeks, and every second of it felt like culture shock with a splash of sunburn.

The heat clung to your skin like a second layer, thick and humid, and the wide, dusty roads felt like they led to nowhere. People were kind, too kind.

Strangers tipped their hats and called you "ma'am," which still made you blink like they were speaking another language.

But the best part of moving here?

James Buchanan Barnes. Or, as everyone called him, Bucky.

You met him on your second day, when your rental car got stuck on a back road and he pulled up in a beat-up Chevy truck, boots dusty and smile easy.

“Looks like you took a wrong turn, doll.” he’d smiled.

He helped you out, then made it his personal mission to show you around the small town. Introduced you to the good barbecue joint, took you horseback riding, showed you where to get the best iced tea.

You weren’t sure if it was his jawline, the Southern charm, or the way he always touched the small of your back, but James Bucky Barnes had burrowed deep under your skin.

That weekend, there was a little throwdown at the local tavern. Live music, whiskey, and dancing. Bucky told you to come, that he’d be there. You weren’t sure if he meant it as a date, but you wanted to go anyway.

So you did. You wore denim shorts and a tied-up flannel shirt, not quite blending in but looking just enough the part to be welcomed. The music was loud, feet stomping against the wooden floors as couples twirled in time to the fiddle.

You didn’t see Bucky at first, so you ordered a drink and swayed to the beat near the corner of the room. Dancing alone. Not caring. You could feel eyes on you, this town was small, after all but you were having fun.

And then he appeared.

Strolling through the crowd like he owned it, hat tilted just right, jeans hugging his thighs, that ever-present glint in his eye.

He didn’t say a word as he approached. Just smiled that cocky, slow grin and plucked the hat off his own head.

Then placed it right on yours.

You blinked, not sure of the hat on your head, “James?”

Bucky leaned close, breath brushing your ear. “You’re wearing my hat, doll. You know what that means?”

You shook your head slowly, already breathless at the close proximity.

He smirked. “You wear a man’s hat, you take him for a ride.”

Your heart stuttered. The bar faded around you. His fingers dipped under the edge of the hat, adjusting it just so, then trailing down your neck with a featherlight touch that left goosebumps in their wake.

“You gonna follow the rule?” he murmured.

You swallowed. “Yeah. I think I will.”

His house sat on the outskirts of town, secluded enough that when he backed you up against the door and kissed you like he’d been starving for it, there was no one around to hear your gasp.

Bucky was all rough hands and controlled strength, lifting you like you weighed nothing and pinning you against the wall, grinding his hips into yours as your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.

“You been teasing me since the day I met you,” he growled, lips dragging along your throat, teeth grazing the skin just hard enough to make your breath hitch.

“Swaying those hips, looking at me with those eyes. Know what you do to a man?”

“James-”

He silenced you with another kiss, this one deeper, filthier, tongue pushing into your mouth with purpose.

His hands roamed, cupping your ass, then spanking it hard enough to make you whimper and cling tighter.

“That’s sir tonight, doll.” he corrected, voice thick with heat. “You wearing my hat. Means you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you whispered, voice trembling.

He carried you to the bedroom, tossing you onto the bed like a rag doll. The hat stayed on. Bucky made sure of it.

“Don’t you dare take it off,” he said, stripping his shirt and revealing that sculpted chest you’d imagined too many times.

He undid his belt with slow, deliberate movements, letting the anticipation curl hot and tight in your stomach. “Looks too good on you.”

Then he was on you. Mouth at your collarbone, hands everywhere, peeling your clothes away like wrapping from a present. His palms skated over your bare skin, thumbs brushing your nipples until they peaked. You arched into him with a gasp.

He kissed a line down your stomach, dragging his stubble along the sensitive flesh and making you squirm.

Then his mouth was between your thighs, tongue flat against your clit, slow and torturous.

“Fuck.” you breathed, threading your fingers into his hair, holding him between your things.

“You taste like heaven,” he groaned, lips slick and hungry. His fingers worked in tandem, curling inside you just right, thumb circling your clit with maddening precision. “You gonna come for me, doll? Come on your sir’s tongue like a good girl?”

You broke with a cry, legs trembling as your orgasm hit hard and fast. “Sir!”

He didn’t stop. Licked you through it, over and over, until you were shivering from overstimulation and begging for more.

When he finally pulled away, his mouth and chin were wet, and his pupils were blown wide with lust.

“Still with me?” he rasped.

You nodded, dazed, only for him to flip you onto your stomach and pull your hips up.

You felt the blunt head of his cock press against your entrance, and then he was inside. Slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Taking my cock like you were made for it. So fucking pretty in my hat.”

He set a punishing rhythm, hips slapping against yours with every thrust, the sounds obscene and raw.

You were half-wild beneath him, cheek pressed to the mattress, hands gripping the sheets.

“Let me hear you, baby,” he said, grabbing the brim of the hat still perched on your head and tugging it back, forcing your face to tilt toward him. “Tell me who owns you.”

“You, sir. It’s you. Yours!” you gasped through each thrust.

“Damn right.”

He pulled out suddenly, flipping you onto your back again and plunging in even deeper, one hand around your throat, thumb stroking gently as contrast to the brutal snap of his hips.

“I want to watch you fall apart,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face as he fucked you harder. “Want to see you come with my name on your lips and my hat on your head.”

You did. You shattered beneath him, second orgasm wracking through you like a wave. He followed with a groan, spilling inside you and collapsing onto your body, the sweat-slicked heat of him wrapping around you like a blanket.

Even then, he didn’t pull out right away just stayed there, buried deep, mouth at your ear.

“Don’t think you’re getting away from me now.” he murmured.

You smiled sleepily against him, the brim of his hat brushing your forehead.

“Didn’t plan to.”

The next morning you woke to the smell of bacon and fresh coffee.

For a second, you didn’t know where you were. The sunlight was warm, the sheets soft, and your body was very sore in all the right places.

Then you shifted.

And the cowboy hat fell off your head, landing on your face.

You snorted a sleepy laugh, brushing it away and blinking at the bright morning light filtering through the window. The hat still smelled like him, leather, cedarwood, and just a hint of smoke.

And last night. God, last night.

You were never going to look at that hat the same again.

Padding out of the bedroom with the sheet wrapped around you, you followed the sound of sizzling into the kitchen. And there he was.

James Bucky Barnes. Your cowboy.

Still shirtless, wearing those same jeans from the night before, hung low on his hips now and whistling as he flipped a piece of bacon in the pan.

He looked up when he saw you and gave you the softest damn smile you’d ever seen.

“Well, morning, doll.” he said, voice all low and husky.

You leaned against the doorway, biting back a grin. “You cook too? What don’t you do?”

He chuckled. “Plenty. But breakfast ain’t one of ‘em. You hungry?”

You nodded, stepping into the kitchen, sheet trailing behind you like some ridiculous lacy robe.

He handed you a mug of coffee without even asking how you liked it. One sip told you he already knew.

“James,” you said between sips, eyeing him playfully, “you’re being very sweet this morning.”

His brow quirked. “That a bad thing?”

You laughed and leaned against the counter. “No, it’s just funny. You were so…” You paused, pretending to search for the right word. “Interesting last night.”

Bucky’s ears turned pink.

“Doll,” he drawled, turning off the stove, “a man’s got layers.”

You grinned. “Oh, you’ve got layers, alright. One minute it’s ‘yes, sir’ and a whole lot of- ” you gestured to his shirtless self.

He groaned and ran a hand over his face. “and the next, you’re frying bacon and makin’ me coffee like a perfect southern gentleman.”

He turned and gently caged you against the counter, one hand braced beside your hip.

“I can be both,” he murmured, eyes twinkling as he leaned down. “Real rough when I wanna be,real sweet when you need it.”

Your breath hitched. Even now, he could melt you with a few words.

“But you’re not sore, are you?” he added softly, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

Your face flushed. “I am, actually. A little.”

He gave you a slow, satisfied smile. “Then I did it right.”

You let out an embarrassed laugh and smacked his chest lightly, but he just kissed your forehead and handed you a plate.

“Eat up. You’re gonna need your strength,” he teased.

You arched a brow. “Oh?”

“Mhmm,” he said, sitting beside you at the table. “After breakfast, I’m takin’ you out to see the horses. Show you around proper. Maybe get you up on a saddle again.”

You blinked. “Is this a second date or are you just trying to get me sore again?”

He smirked. “Can’t it be both?”

You couldn’t help it you burst out laughing, resting your forehead against the table as he sat there, sipping coffee like he hadn’t just said the most casually filthy thing imaginable in the most charming tone.

Bucky reached over and gently adjusted the hat on your head, which you hadn’t even realized you were still wearing.

“You’re keeping that, by the way,” he said.

“Your hat?” you asked, looking up.

“Mmhm. It looks better on you anyway.”

You shook your head, smiling. “What if I wear it in public?”

He leaned closer, voice soft and honeyed.

“Then everyone’ll know you’re mine.”

And with the way he was looking at you, soft and warm and possessive in the sweetest damn way, you didn’t mind one bit.

[witchywithwhiskey]

a long damn day

pairing: cowboy!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: it's been a long damn day sitting in bucky barnes' truck, and you need some attention from your cowboy.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, pwp, piv sex, rough sex, unprotected sex, outdoor sex, semi-public sex, dry humping, creampie, oral sex (m receiving), referenced marathon sex, brief cockwarming, multiple orgasms, bratting/brat taming, pussy spanking, bdsm dynamics, punishments, orgasm control/denial, tit play/nipple play, roughness, choking, breath play, hickeys/marking, teasing, begging, dirty talk, daddy kink, dumbification, objectification, degradation kink (Bucky is mean y'all—but not too mean, y'know?), praise kink, pet names (peaches), aftercare, established relationship—let me know if i missed one!

word count: 5.5k

a/n: for week 8 of @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event, y'all voted for cowboy Bucky Barnes!! truthfully, i had the barebones of this fic written before the poll, so i knew Bucky was going to be particularly mean, but it was fun to lean into some of the cowboy stuff—like his hat (which stays on during sex, because of course it does). i had a lot of fun writing these two, maybe i'll do more with them in the future, but no promises!! hope y'all enjoy ♡

prompt: "Have it your way, then." | [Brat | Punishment | Sub/Dom Relationship]

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

You’d been stuck in Bucky Barnes’ pickup truck all damn day—and the worst part was that there was no one to blame but yourself. However, that wasn’t going to stop you from blaming your cowboy.

After all, did he really think you would just stay home while he went on a day trip to pick up some special supplies for the ranch? Did he really think you’d pass up the opportunity to spend all day with your cowboy in his truck? 

He should’ve known better.

The biggest problem with being stuck in Bucky’s truck all damn day was that he’d had to focus on driving. He hadn’t been able to give you the attention you wanted and deserved. 

Sure, he’d listened attentively while you complained about work and that one irritating colleague who got on your nerves. He’d even listened and asked questions while you told him all about the latest mafia romance you were reading. 

But it had been at least 12 hours since he’d been inside you and, frankly, you deserved better. 

You were craving your cowboy’s attention, and though you knew it would lead to no good (or, rather, a lot of fun), you found yourself unbuckling your seat belt and sliding across the bench seat to get closer to Bucky. 

The two of you still had a couple hours till home, but you couldn’t wait any longer.

At first, it was enough to just curl into Bucky’s side, bury your face in the tanned, sun-weathered skin of his neck and inhale the familiar scent of him. It was mixed with the worn leather smell of the truck and the grassy hay of the ranch supply store you’d traveled to.

Bucky rumbled a pleased sound, low in his chest, and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, tugging you deeper into his side. You threw your legs over one of his thighs and settled in, enjoying the bright summer sunshine highlighting the flat plains and distant mountains surrounding the road.

But before long, you grew restless again, shifting against Bucky so your mouth found his skin. 

You kissed the sun-bleached salt from the side of Bucky’s throat, enjoying the warmth of him against your lips and the roughness of his scruff against your cheek. You nuzzled lazily into his bristly jaw, the slow, delicious rasp sending tingles down your spine.

“Peaches.” 

Your nickname was a growled warning from your cowboy, but you only huffed a soft laugh into his skin and pressed a wet, suckling kiss to the throbbing pulse point at the base of Bucky’s neck. He groaned, low and rough. 

“We only got a few more hours, peaches.”  

His tone was almost pleading, but his hand was rough, the callouses on his palm scraping against the back of your neck has he grabbed you and reeled you away from his neck. He shot you a quick glare before his eyes returned to the road.

He must not have liked the way you were grinning at him, completely unrepentant, because he rumbled another unhappy sound low in his throat.

“Don’t you dare be a fucking brat when we’re so close to home,” he growled in warning, the weathered lines of his face drawn in a scowl. But when he looked at you, you could’ve sworn his blue eyes were sparkling as bright as spring water in the summer sun. “Be good.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” you murmured. 

The smirk on your lips was Bucky’s only warning—which he didn’t see, because he was watching the road like a good cowboy—before you ducked forward and pressed the flat of your tongue to the base of his throat. 

You licked a long, warm strip up the side of Bucky’s neck, delighting in the salty taste of his skin and the rough stubble abrading your tongue when you got close to his jaw. 

He let out a hoarse, strangled groan, and you knew the harsh way he squeezed the back of your neck was your final warning. You elected to ignore it.

One of your hands slipped down Bucky’s chest, your fingertips skating over his plain white cotton T-shirt until your palm landed on the bulge in his lap. He was so hard already that it looked uncomfortable, which only made you smirk into the underside of Bucky’s jaw as you stroked him through the coarse fabric of his jeans. 

“You little fucking brat,” Bucky growled, turning the wheel suddenly and whipping the truck into the parking lot of an abandoned gas station. He pulled around the back, where no one could see his pickup from the road, and threw the gearshift into park. 

In a matter of seconds, Bucky had hauled you into his lap, your legs spread across his thick thighs and his bulge pressing against the seam of your jean shorts. Your cowboy dragged your mouth to his, kissing you fiercely as you rocked on his lap. 

Bucky’s tongue plunged past your lips, taking merciless possession of your mouth as he kissed you hard, his hand bracing the back of your neck so you couldn’t escape. But you gave him as good as you got, stroking your tongue against his until he was groaning deep in his throat.

The uncontrolled passion of your kiss knocked Bucky’s black cowboy hat askew, and without breaking away from his mouth, you grabbed it off his head and settled it on yours. You felt his cock twitch between your thighs and you ground down harder on his thick length, a grin stealing across your lips. 

“Do you like it when I wear your cowboy hat, daddy?” you purred sweetly in his ear when you pulled back to gasp for breath. You shot him an unrepentant grin, that had his blue eyes sparkling even brighter.

“Fuck, you know I do, peaches,” he groaned, lifting his hips up off the seat to grind harder into your body. His calloused hands were gripping your ass hard, trying to hold you still so he could control your movements, but you weren’t going to just sit still in his lap while he rutted against you.

“You like it because it shows everyone I’m yours, right, daddy?” you murmured teasingly, leaning forward and nuzzling Bucky’s jaw before biting playfully at his scruff. “You like everyone knowing you’re the only one allowed to fuck my tight pussy, isn’t that right, daddy?’

Bucky grunted his assent, then he was growling and pulling you back in for another ferocious kiss. 

His mouth was hot and unyielding against yours, and his cock was thick and hard between your thighs. He felt so fucking good, his body so perfect beneath yours, his scent invading your senses and making you unable to think about anything but him.

You couldn’t stop yourself from humping faster against him, chasing your pleasure as he kissed you until you were breathless and panting against his mouth. Your hands sank into Bucky’s thick brown hair, fingers twisting in the strands as you clung more fiercely to your cowboy. 

“Daddy,” you whined, feeling the coil of pleasure tightening low in your belly. You knew you were getting close, and you rocked your hips even more furiously against Bucky’s lap. “Oh god, ‘m so close—can I…?”

“Don’t cum,” Bucky growled against your mouth, his hand slipping around to the front of your neck. He didn’t choke you, but held you firmly, a warning in the press of his fingers. “Don’t you dare fucking cum on my bulge like a brainless slut.”

If you’d really wanted to, you could’ve stopped yourself then. You could’ve lifted up off Bucky’s cock and let the pleasure tightening in your belly loosen so you didn’t tip over the edge. 

But it had been a long damn day and you’d spent too many hours in your cowboy’s truck with his attention on the road rather than on you. So you did what you wanted—you disobeyed his order.

Instead of slowing down, you humped against Bucky’s bulge harder, faster, your clit rubbing brutally against the seam in your shorts as you chased your release. The thrill of disobeying your cowboy only added to your pleasure, and in a matter of seconds, you were coming apart.

Tremors wracked your body and you convulsed in Bucky’s lap, your face tipping back as you cried your pleasure into the cab of his truck, his hat just barely staying on the crown of your head. Pleasure washed through you in weak waves, your slick pussy clenching pathetically around nothing.

It wasn’t a particularly satisfying release. It barely took the edge off the aching need in your core that had built up while you’d been making out with your cowboy, but that wasn’t the point.

“Fucking brat,” Bucky seethed, his teeth clenched and his handsome face twisted into a ruthless glower. “I told you not to cum, but you just had to make things difficult, didn’t you.” Despite his furious expression and angry words, his blue eyes were sparkling with a feral hunger. “Have it your way, then.”

Before you had even a hope of recovering from your release, Bucky was dragging you out of the truck. Your feet dropped onto dusty concrete and your legs promptly collapsed beneath you. 

Bucky’s arm quickly wrapped around your waist, propping you against his side as he tugged you around to the back of the pickup.

“Hope it was worth it, peaches,” he growled, yanking the tailgate down and tossing you down on your back so your ass was hanging over the edge. Without preamble, Bucky deftly undid the button and fly on your jean shorts, then jerked them and your panties down your legs.

Your head was finally catching up with everything Bucky was doing and you had the presence of mind to kick off your boots, letting them drop to the pavement below. Then Bucky was ripping your shorts and panties off and tossing them into the bed of his truck. 

Your cowboy was still scowling at you as his hands fell to the belt of his jeans, and you heard the slight clinking of metal as he worked it open. You watched him, biting your lip against a grin, and sat up, the hard plastic of the truck bed hot against your bare ass.

The roar of the desert highway seemed so far away in that moment, and you were riding high on finally having your cowboy’s attention—and you felt even more bold and brazen than usual with the way your cowboy was staring at you like he was ready to devour you whole. 

So you gave in fully to the moment, yanking your shirt and bra over your head. The movement knocked the hat off of your head, but you grabbed it and put it back on, leaving you wearing nothing but your man’s hat.

A grin stretched across your face as you thought of the image you presented. You were completely bare, save for Bucky’s black cowboy hat, and perched on the tailgate of his truck, ready to be fucked.

The summer sun shone down on your body, highlighting every inch of your nude form and warming your skin—but it was no match for the burning need thrumming between your thighs. Your pussy pulsed with need, your blood humming with desire as you stared at your rugged cowboy.

For his part, Bucky had gone completely still, his fingers hooked on his belt, his eyes raking over your body like he’d never get enough of seeing you bared in all your naked glory for him. 

You could feel everywhere he looked, goose bumps scattering across your skin at the reverence in his gaze, and your blood warmed even further. A smile tugged on your lips because you were happy to finally—finally—have Bucky’s complete, undivided attention.

You tried to sit still and wait calmly for Bucky to look his fill, to gather himself, to pull his cock out and fuck you already, but you never were very good at being patient. 

Spreading your legs wide, you exposed your wet, naked pussy to Bucky while you lifted your hands to your tits. You groped your soft flesh and pinched your sensitive nipples, putting on a show for your cowboy, your lips falling open as you let out whiny, breathy moans. 

Bucky’s expression darkened into a hungry glower at your antics, but they had the intended effect and he started moving again. With a growl rumbling deep in his chest, he finished undoing his jeans and shoved them down to his thighs before stepping between your parted legs. 

One of his hands grabbed your hip, holding you pinned to the truck tailgate while the other pumped his cock roughly. 

“Such a pathetic, needy fuckpet,” he snarled, his voice low and mean as he stared deep into your eyes. He used his grip on his cock to smack the heavy tip against your clit, making your body jerk and little whimpers to spill from your lips. “You gonna take your man’s cock like a good fucktoy, peaches?”

A whine worked its way up your throat, your hips squirming on the hard plastic beneath your ass. You wanted Bucky inside you already—you wanted him to be as rough and mean as he sounded, so you didn’t hold back when you answered him.

“You gonna make me, daddy?” you shot back, raising an eyebrow at him, the curl of your lip a direct challenge. “You gonna make me go dumb on your big cock and make me your brain-dead fuckdoll?”

A wolfish grin slashed across Bucky’s face even as his eyes blazed with hunger. Then he was lining up the tip of his cock with your tight hole and slamming home. 

Your spine arched, your hand flying up to hold Bucky’s hat in place when your head flew backward and a scream ripped from your lips. Pleasure, hot and sharp, sliced through your body, and you nearly came again, your face tipped up toward the shining sun, basking in its scorching light.

“That’s it, cumwhore, scream as daddy’s fat dick splits your tight cunt open.” 

Bucky’s words were a savage snarl as he reeled his hips back and drove forward again, setting a blisteringly brutal pace. He pounded into you relentlessly, taking out all of his anger and frustration at your brattiness on your soft, warm pussy.

“This is all you’re good for, peaches,” he seethed through gritted teeth, his blue eyes dark and dangerous even in the bright summer daylight. 

You knew you were in for it then, and you couldn’t have been more excited or eager. Your body curled around Bucky’s, clinging to him while he fucked you. But it seemed your cowboy had other ideas. 

One of Bucky’s hands snaked around the front of your throat and he pried you away from his body, roughly shoving you down on the hard plastic truck bed. His finger and thumb dug into the sides of your neck as he glared down at you, unaffected by the adoring look on your face.

“You’re a filthy, leaking mess of a brat, with a cunt made for taking cock—so be a good girl for once and take my fucking cock without making any trouble.”

You were too fucked out to rise to the bait in Bucky’s words. Your legs were spread open obscenely wide, your pussy making lewd, wet squelching noises as Bucky’s cock drove into you over and over again. You were too blissed out to do anything but take him.

All you could do was dig your nails into the tanned, weathered skin of Bucky’s forearms and hold on while he pounded into your body. Your eyes were unfocused and glassy, staring unseeingly up at the big, blue sky, and your mouth was open to let out a mindless litany of pornographic sounds. 

Bucky chuckled, the sound filthy and mean, when he realized he’d finally conquered your brattiness. 

“There’s my girl—there’s my sweet, brainless slut,” he cooed condescendingly, leaning down over you so he could see the spaced out look on your face. “You gone dumb on daddy’s cock, huh? And now you’re nothing more than a good fuckhole for me?”

He slammed his hips harder against your body, his cock hitting a spot so deep inside you that your eyes rolled back in your head and an unintelligible cry wrenched free from your lips. The sight only made Bucky laugh and do it again, grunting with pleasure when your cunt clamped down on his hard length each time.

Already, you were hurtling toward another release, and Bucky must’ve felt it in the way your pussy fluttered around his shaft, because he eased off. He back until only the tip of his cock remained inside your pussy, ignoring the way you whined and squirmed, wordlessly begging him to fuck you again.

“Stick out your tongue, fuckpet,” he growled, catching your eye when you lifted your head to look up at him pitifully. “Lemme see what a good slut you can be, and maybe I’ll let you cum again.”   

Another whine worked its way up your throat, but you were too far gone to put up much of a fight. So you stuck out your tongue for your cowboy, letting drool gather in your mouth and trickle from the corners. It dripped obscenely down your chin, some falling onto the weathered hand still wrapped around your throat.

“Good fucktoy, ya look so fucking slutty like that,” Bucky rumbled, some warmth leeching into his tone as he praised you. His hips began moving again, fucking you with shallow, unfulfilling thrusts that had your eyes rolling in your head. “Grope your tits, gimme a good show, brat, and I’ll make you cum.”

You made a happy sound in the back of your throat, your hips bouncing on the tailgate with eager excitement, and lifted your hands to your tits. You kneaded them roughly, pinching and pulling on your nipples until you were whimpering beneath Bucky in the bed of his truck. 

All the while, you kept your tongue stuck out over your bottom lip and your eyes crossed, making yourself look just as mindless and stupid as you felt with his thick cock fucking you. 

For all your hard work, you were rewarded with Bucky picking up the pace of his thrusts again, his cock slamming deep into your cunt with every hard drive. The skin of his hips slapped loudly against your ass and thighs, nearly drowning out the near-distant roar of the highway.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his fingers squeezing tight around your throat, cutting off some of your air but not enough that you couldn’t whimper and whine pathetically. “You look so much prettier like this, peaches, all dumb and cock-drunk for me.”

A pleased sound slipped from your lips and you drooled more, a smile curving at the edges of your mouth. You were getting close to your release again, driven to the edge by Bucky’s pounding cock and your hands working your tits. He was praising you so much, you thought he might actually let you cum.

You were wrong.

Just before you could tip over the edge, Bucky pulled his cock free from your cunt, and his hand flew from your throat. You had the barest second to prepare yourself before Bucky’s big, rough hand came down with a sharp smack on your cunt.

You wailed loudly, the sound high-pitched and ear-splitting. Delicious pleasure and stinging pain scorched through your body like wildfire, starting from where Bucky had smacked your pussy and radiating out through the rest of your body. 

Bucky’s brutal spank left devastation in its wake, your mind going entirely blank as you squirmed mindlessly on the hard plastic under your back, your mouth open and gasping for breath.

With a vicious growl, Bucky shoved your thighs wide open and spanked your cunt again. It was only then that you realized you’d tried to close them to protect your slick, swollen pussy, but it had been no use, because your cowboy would not be deterred.

“You came without permission, so take your punishment like a good girl, peaches,” Bucky snarled, slapping your thighs harshly when you instinctively tried to close them again. Then he smacked your pussy once more, the wet, cracking sound resonating in your ears and making your entire body throb.

Tears streamed freely from your eyes, but you didn’t try to stop Bucky. This was what you’d wanted—the stubborn dig of Bucky’s fingers in your soft thigh as he pinned you to the truck, the ruthless way he spanked your pussy, the feral look in his bright, sparkling eyes as he watched you writhe beneath him.

“Bucky,” you sobbed, the pain and pleasure overwhelming your mind and body. You were completely unraveled by your cowboy, completely at his mercy, and it was only then that words of contrition slipped from your lips. “I’m sorry.”

But Bucky wasn’t swayed. He simply chuckled, and stroked a big, calloused hand along your inner thigh.

“You think you’re sorry now, fuckdoll?” he asked mockingly. You managed to pry your eyes open, blinking tears from them so you could stare up at him. He was grinning ruthlessly, his eyes shining meanly in the summer sun. “Just wait until I’m done with you, peaches.”

Then he spanked your cut again, harder, his middle finger catching your clit so perfectly, it wrenched a scream from your lips and, impossibly, sent you rocketing toward your release. 

Tension coiled tight in your belly, and your pussy throbbed, and you didn’t know if you could stave it off.

“Oh god, daddy,” you gasped, reaching for Bucky, your fingers fisting in the hem of his white cotton shirt. Your thighs were trembling uncontrollably, your hips writhing on the tailgate, and you tugged on Bucky’s shirt until you got his attention. “Can I cum? Please, please, please, can I cum?” 

Surprise flitted across your cowboy’s face before he broke out into a filthy grin, a deep chuckle rumbling in his chest. 

“You really are made for this, aren’t you?” he asked, wonder seeping into his tone and giving you a brief respite from his rough treatment for a moment. 

You bit your lip, feeling almost shy at the awed way your cowboy was looking at you, and nodded your head. 

Bucky wrapped his other hand around the back of your neck and lifted you up, pulling you in for a bruising kiss. You could feel how much he adored you in the hot slide of his tongue and the subtle grunts in his throat. 

A small smile curved at the corners of your mouth and your fingers curled around his shoulders. You held on tightly to Bucky as you kissed him back, telling him without words how much you adored him as well. 

When the kiss ended, you lay back down on the hard plastic of the truck bed and Bucky rubbed his hand through your messy folds, spreading your slick all over your pussy. 

As if to remind you he wasn’t about to let up on you yet, he slapped your pussy again, hitting your clit and making your spine arch up off the tailgate, a cry slipping from your lips.

Bucky laughed, and said, “If you can cum from getting your cunt spanked, then do it, fucktoy.”

With that, Bucky rained down a series of quick, sharp spanks to your pussy, until it was fat and puffy and throbbing between your thighs. Every so often he’d catch your clit with his finger or the heel of his palm, and you’d hurtle toward your release, but you never quite managed to tip over the edge. 

“Aw, do you need daddy’s cock to cum, fuckpet?” Bucky cooed patronizingly when he realized you weren’t going to cum from pussy spanking alone. 

He leaned down over your body, fingers brushing soothingly over your damp brow before his hand wrapped around your throat and he tilted your face up to look at him. 

“Do you need me to stuff you full and fuck you brainless like the filthy, pathetic fuckdoll you are?” His voice was mean, but his eyes were bright and eager as they raked over your face.

You were limp and nearly boneless in the bed of Bucky’s truck, exhausted by the pain and pleasure he’d given you, and you just wanted to cum. So you nodded, opening your eyes as wide as you could manage and giving your cowboy your most pitiful, pleading expression.

“Yes—please, daddy,” you begged, the words spilling from your lips unbidden. Your voice was breathy and so needy it was almost embarrassing. “I need you so bad, Bucky—I’ll be good, I promise, just fuck me dumb, make me your fucktoy, please!” 

Bucky’s hand tightened harshly around your throat, choking you hard enough to cut off the litany of pleading words. Then, without warning, he shoved his thick cock back into your drenched, swollen pussy with a merciless drive. 

He slammed deep with that one thrust, burying himself to the hilt and pressing the base of his shaft to your achy, puffy clit. At the same time, the tip of his dick hit that spot inside you that drove you absolutely wild.

The sudden, overwhelming sensations set you off like a bomb, and your release exploded through you, your mouth dropping open on a soundless scream, the sound choked off by Bucky’s tight grip on your throat. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over your body, so all-consuming, your eyes rolled back in your head. 

Distantly, you were aware of your cunt squeezing viciously tight around Bucky’s cock, and him grunting as he followed you over the edge. You felt his thick length twitching deep in your cunt as he spilled himself inside you, biting off furious curses. 

“Fuck, fuck, you’re such a good, perfect fuckhole, making daddy cum so hard,” he seethed through clenched teeth, his hips rutting between your thighs as he fucked his cum deep into your pussy. 

A dreamy smile drifted across your face as you lay beneath your cowboy, taking his cock and his cum like the good, obedient girl you so rarely were. All the while, you enjoyed the ebbing waves of your own release, spurred on by the pleasure of feeling Bucky unravel for you.

After long moments pumping his cock into your weakly fluttering pussy, and when your cowboy was finally spent, Bucky collapsed on top of you. His scruffy cheek was pressed to the valley between your breasts as he tried to catch his breath.

You hummed happily, savoring his weight on top of you for a moment. Then you snagged Bucky’s black cowboy hat from where it had fallen off your head and lay it over your face to shield your eyes from the sun that was dipping low toward the horizon. 

For a long, lazy moment, you basked in the afterglow of Bucky’s rough fucking, raking your nails through your cowboy’s thick, dark hair, smiling each time you spotted strands of silver that shone brightly in the daylight. 

It was a pleasant respite, and you waited as long as you could before breaking the silence.

“Thanks Bucky, I really needed that,” you said sweetly once you’d caught your breath. 

Your cowboy grumbled wordlessly against your skin, shifting his head to suck sharply on one of your nipples, making you squirm beneath him. He chuckled when you whined and let it fall from his mouth, raising his bright blue eyes to your face.

A soft smile played at the corner of his mouth when he saw you wearing his cowboy hat again, and he rose up to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. 

“You’re a good brat, peaches,” he mumbled against your lips in between deep, drugging kisses. “Y’always know how to bring out the worst in me.”

“Mm, I think you mean the best,” you hummed cheerily before dragging him back in for another kiss. These were lazy and patient, a far cry from the needy making out you’d done in the cab of his truck. 

As you kissed, Bucky’s softening cock slipped from your well-used pussy and you whimpered pitifully into his mouth. Your cowboy pulled away with an unrepentant grin.

“You’re gonna be feeling me all the way home, aren’t ya, peaches?” he teased, pressing kisses along your jaw and down your neck. His thick scruff rasped deliciously against your sensitive skin, making you keen happily. “Was it worth it?”

“So worth it,” you moaned, tipping your head to the side and giving Bucky better access to your throat. He didn’t seem in a rush to get back on the road, so you held him tight, not wanting the moment to end just yet.

As he sucked a hickey into your neck, your fingers traced the muscles of his back before your hands slipped under his shirt, reveling in the feeling of his warm skin. Your knees climbed his sides, and you groaned thickly when you felt Bucky’s cock throb against your pussy, a little more cum trickling from the tip.

“Y’know, I think I saw a motel a few miles back,” you said, the words falling from your lips impulsively. You pressed a kiss to Bucky’s sweaty temple as you let the suggestion linger in the air. “And a diner.” 

Bucky pushed himself up onto his forearms so he could see your face. “You want to stay the night in the middle of nowhere instead of going home?” he asked skeptically, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. 

Excitement had your heart fluttering in your chest. The two of you didn’t need to be back that night—the ranch hands would make sure the animals were taken care of and everything else could wait—and you were beginning to want the time with your cowboy more than you wanted your own bed.

“What I want,” you began, your fingers stroking teasingly through the hair at the nape of Bucky’s neck. “Is to have your cock buried deep in my holes for the rest of the night.” 

Bucky’s eyes darkened at your dirty words, and your mouth curled into a grin, knowing you had him already. But you couldn’t help yourself from telling him the full truth of how you felt and what you wanted.  

“I don’t care where we are,” you said, your voice softening with affection as you stared deep into your cowboy’s eyes. “It’s been a long damn day, and I want to spend the rest of it with my man, with his attention entirely on me, and not the road.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Bucky’s mouth even as he grumbled good-naturedly about how demanding you were, but you knew he didn’t mean it. You knew he liked that you craved his attention enough to push him until he gave it to you. 

Bucky caught your lips in a brief, searing kiss, and then he was moving to give you exactly what you wanted. He gently guided you up from the back of the truck and helped you back into your clothes, stealing kisses every chance he got.

Within an hour, you’d checked into a room in the motel—which was blessedly cleaner than you’d expected from a side-of-the-road establishment in the middle of nowhere—and had put in a to-go order from the diner across the street.

While you waited for your food to be ready, you sucked Bucky’s cock, his hand resting on top of the cowboy hat still sitting on your head. He let you worship him for a few minutes before he skull-fucked your mouth and spilled his cum down your throat.

You wore Bucky’s hat to the diner, which was busy and bustling for the dinner rush. You laced your fingers through Bucky’s, proudly holding his hand and basking in the knowledge that everyone would know you belonged to him. He dropped a kiss to your lips as you waited for your food to be brought out.

Once Bucky paid, he tugged you out of the diner and back across the street to your motel. You kept his hat on for the rest of the night, enjoying the slight weight of it on your head as you ate dinner and chatted about the goings on of the ranch.  

You even kept it on while Bucky fucked you six ways from Sunday on the bed. It seemed to drive Bucky wild, seeing you in his cowboy hat and nothing else, and he drove his cock into your cunt harder, claiming your body with a possessiveness that had you seeing stars. 

The cowboy hat finally tumbled to the floor when you collapsed on top of Bucky, fully sated, much later that night. 

It wasn’t long after that when you fell into a deep, restful sleep sprawled across your cowboy’s broad chest. His cock was still wedged in your thoroughly fucked pussy, your body keeping him warm while his cum spilled from your hole and dried on your skin. 

You couldn’t have been any happier about how the day had turned out.

After so many long hours spent in Bucky Barnes’ truck, it was a delight to end the day with some good quality time with your man—and plenty of fucking. 

It may have been a long damn day, but it was a blissfully long night spent in the arms of your cowboy.

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

[heldbybarnes]

let me set a scene for you....

cowboy bucky

save a horse, ride a cowboy😏🥵

Shut the fuck up. YESSSSSSSSSSS.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, outdoor sex. unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), rough sex, dirty talk, praise kink, dom!bucky, hat stays on (obvi)

“You gonna ride that horse or just stand there lookin’ pretty?”

You turn slowly, boots crunching in the dirt, eyes narrowing at the infuriatingly smug cowboy leaning against the barn post. Bucky’s got one arm hooked over the fence rail, the other adjusting the brim of his hat. His gaze drags down your body in slow, deliberate strokes, and your thighs clench under his stare.

“You always this mouthy,” you ask, “or is it just when you’re trying to get me to ride something?”

A grin stretches across his face. “Honey,” he drawls, “I’m tryin’ to get you to ride someone.”

You roll your eyes. “Original.”

“You ever tried it? Real cowboy under you, rough hands on your hips, dirt on your back, stars overhead?”

Your breath hitches. He takes a step closer. And another. Until your back brushes the warm flank of the mare behind you and his chest presses flush to yours. One hand slips to your waist. The other brushes up your spine, slow and deliberate.

“No saddle,” he murmurs. “No reins. Just you, bouncin’ on me, takin’ what you need like a good girl.”

Your knees threaten to give out. “You talk too much.”

“Then shut me up.”

You do.

You surge forward, grabbing the collar of his shirt, pulling him into a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and frustrated lust. His hat tilts but doesn’t fall, and his hands go greedy—palming your ass, gripping your thighs, spinning you so your back hits the stable wall.

His mouth is on your neck before you can gasp, teeth grazing your pulse. “Been thinkin’ about this,” he growls. “Every time you walked around in those tight little jeans, actin’ like you didn’t know what you were doin’ to me.”

“I knew,” you breathe.

“Course you did.”

He drops to his knees. Right there in the dirt. You don’t even get the chance to be surprised before he’s got your jeans undone and tugged halfway down your thighs. His breath ghosts over your bare heat.

“You wet for me already?”

“You gonna stare or—”

He doesn’t wait.

His mouth latches onto your clit, licking slow and lazy like he’s got all damn night. You grip the wooden beam behind you with one hand, the other buried in his hair as you gasp, grind, whimper. He groans into you, messy and greedy, tongue fucking you until your thighs tremble.

“Bucky—”

He pulls back just enough to growl, “I’m not done.”

He dives back in like a man starving, fingers slipping inside, curling perfectly. The barn smells like hay and leather and sex and him, and you’re right on the edge when he suddenly pulls away, standing fast and gripping your hips like you weigh nothing.

He turns you, bends you over the stable gate, and hikes your leg up on the lowest rung. Cool air hits your slick skin and then—

Rip.

“What the hell was that?”

He tosses your ruined panties aside. “They were in my way.”

You barely manage a reply before he unzips his jeans, spits in his hand, and guides himself to your entrance. He pauses—just a second—and mutters, “Fuckin’ dream about this.”

Then he thrusts in.

Hard. Deep.

You cry out, both from the stretch and the sheer filthy thrill of it. Bucky groans low and filthy, gripping your waist, pulling you back onto him with each brutal snap of his hips.

“You feel that, baby?” he pants. “That’s what ridin’ a cowboy really means.”

You moan his name, nails digging into the wood, ass slapping against his thighs with every thrust. He’s relentless—dirty talk pouring from his mouth like syrup.

“Look at you, takin’ me so good. So fuckin’ tight for me. Knew you’d be.”

“Bucky, please—”

“Tell me what you need, sugar. You wanna come on my cock?”

You nod frantically, incoherent, and he reaches around, rubbing tight circles over your clit until you shatter—moaning, shaking, coming so hard your vision whites out.

He fucks you through it, pace stuttering, growl ripping from his throat as he finishes with a broken grunt, spilling deep inside you.

You both stay like that, panting, sweat-slicked and flushed, your legs shaking under you.

Finally, Bucky leans forward, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“You okay?” he murmurs, softer now.

You nod, still breathless. “Think I pulled something.”

He chuckles. “Told you ridin’ lessons were rough.”

You glance over your shoulder. “So what’s next?”

He grins, adjusting his hat.

“Next time?” he says. “We try it in the saddle.”