Hii! I’ not entirely sure how to make req, but if its here,, id like to req a smit bucky fic— like imagine he’s js so into sneaking around with u in the tower!! size and breeding kink go brr i feel like thats so him. sneaking around w him and praying you dont get caught even when everyone else is already making smart comments ab ygs :3 🎠
. ୨୧ ݁ ꒰ 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 ⊹ . bucky x fem!reader. minors are prohibited from interacting.
𝔀arnings 18+ : explicit smut, no use of y/n, size kink, heavy breeding kink, semi-public sex/risk of getting caught, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, possessive dirty talk
𝓪uthor’s 𝓷ote : I LOOOVED THIS REQUEST!!! it was so much fun to write!!!!
The Tower was never truly quiet. Even at 2 am, faint hums from the labs, distant laughter from the common room, and the occasional clink of Steve’s shield being polished somewhere down the hall kept everything on edge. But that didn’t stop Bucky.
He had you pinned against the cool metal wall of the service stairwell on the twenty-third floor, one large hand clamped over your mouth while the other shoved your leggings down just enough. His breath was hot against your ear.
“Quiet, doll,” he growled, voice low and rough like gravel. “You know what happens if they hear us.”
You nodded frantically, heart hammering. The team had been dropping hints for weeks, Tony’s smirks, Nat’s knowing eyebrow raises, Sam’s not-so-subtle “get a room… or don’t, we all know you won’t” comments. But Bucky loved the risk. Loved dragging you into elevators between floors, fucking you stupid in supply closets, bending you over in the gym at dawn before anyone woke up. It all made him feral.
His metal fingers flexed on your hip as he freed himself from his sweatpants. God, he was huge, thick, heavy, the flushed head already leaking as it nudged against your soaked folds. Every time he pushed in, it felt like he was splitting you open in the best way.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hissed, sinking the first few inches in slow. Your eyes rolled back, a muffled whimper vibrating against his palm. “That’s it… take it. Take every fucking inch like you were made for me.”
You were dripping down your thighs already, legs shaking as he worked deeper. He bottomed out with a grunt, hips flush against your ass, stretching you so full you could barely breathe.
Bucky’s voice dropped even lower, filthy right against your ear. “Gonna fill this pretty pussy up. Breed you right here where anyone could walk in. You want that? Want me to pump you so full it leaks out for days? Want my baby growing in you while you try to act normal around the team?”
You clenched hard around him at his words, nodding desperately. The breeding talk always destroyed you. He knew it. He lived for it.
He started moving, deep punishing thrusts that made your toes curl. The wet slap of skin was obscenely loud in the stairwell, but he didn’t care. One hand stayed over your mouth, the other slid down to press on your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock moving inside you.
“Feel that? That’s me, doll. Ruining you for anyone else. Gonna breed you so deep you’ll be swollen with it. Walking around with my cum dripping down your legs while Steve asks you about mission reports.”
A door opened somewhere above you. Footsteps. Voices. Sam and Clint, arguing about pizza toppings. Bucky froze balls-deep, grinding slow and dirty, his hand tightening over your mouth as your eyes widened in panic.
“Shhh,” he breathed, lips brushing your neck. He rolled his hips in tiny circles, pressing right against that spot that made you see stars. “Don’t you dare make a sound while they’re right there.”
The footsteps faded. As soon as the door clicked shut again, Bucky lost it. He fucked you hard, fast, brutal strokes, metal arm wrapped around your waist to hold you up as your knees gave out.
“Such a good little slut for me,” he panted. “Taking my cock while the team’s wandering around. Gonna cum so deep in you. Knock you up right here.”
You came first, biting his palm to stay quiet, pussy fluttering and squeezing around his massive length. Bucky followed with a choked groan, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled. Thick, hot pulses of cum flooded you, rope after rope until you felt impossibly full, some already leaking out around where he stretched you.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, rocking gently, pushing his release deeper.
“Mine,” he whispered, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to your temple. “All fucking mine.”
You barely had time to catch your breath before he was pulling your leggings back up, smirking at the way you wobbled.
“Better fix your face before we go back out there, doll. Can’t have them knowing I just bred my girl in the stairwell… again.”
As you stepped out onto the floor together, trying to look casual, Tony’s voice drifted from the couch without even looking up.
“Stairwell this time? Bold choice, Barnes. The vents are getting jealous.”
Bucky just grinned, metal hand possessively on your lower back, already thinking about round two in the elevator.
Can you please do a story like a one-sided enemies to lovers where the reader thinks bucky hates them so they automatically just not like him but they eventually learn that..that's just how bucky looks. He always looks upset and angry all the time so it wasn't directed at them, he's just like that.
Face Value
$ log - you were convinced bucky barnes was a cold, arrogant agent who despised you — so you made it your personal mission to hate him right back. it took an assignment in riga, a broken sensor, and a remarkably good bowl of soup to realise that his intentions were far warmer than you ever imagined.
$ warn --sfw --fluff --gn!reader --awkward!cutie!bucky --enemies-to-lovers(one-sided) --miscomm(heavy)
$ wc -w 8.7k
$ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes
# authors-note = okay I went crazy-style on this, enjoy!
# note = stuck in the safehouse together with only one bed trope. he's so adorable, though.
0001 — one
The first time you met Bucky, he looked at you as though you’d keyed his car.
You’d been at the compound for all of three hours. You still had your lanyard on, alongside the new-hire packet tucked under your arm because nobody had shown you where to put it.
Upon walking into the common area kitchen to fill a water bottle, you found him already there — leaning against the counter with a mug in his left hand. The moment you stepped through the door, he turned his head and simply — stared.
It wasn't a glance, nor was it a polite scan-and-dismiss. It was a full, sustained, unblinking stare — brows drawn tight, jaw set, and his mouth pressed into a flat line. It was as if you’d interrupted something sacred, as though your mere existence in the doorway was an affront to whatever silent communion he’d been having with his coffee.
"Hi," you said. "I'm —"
"I know who you are." He took a sip, never once blinking. "Welcome."
It was the least welcoming greeting you’d ever received. The word came out as if he were legally compelled to say it — as though someone had a gun to his back, mouthing say the nice thing whilst he white-knuckled his way through the syllable.
You filled your water bottle in silence, fully aware of him watching you before you finally made your escape.
That, as far as you were concerned, was the entire thesis of Bucky: hostile on arrival, aggressive on eye contact, and thoroughly allergic to basic human warmth.
Case closed.
Nothing about the compound gave you any reason to revise that opinion.
Over the following weeks, you accumulated evidence much like a prosecutor building a trial — methodically and without the slightest interest in the defense. He glared at you across the briefing room table, just as he did in the lift. He glowered at you in the corridor while you were simply trying to reach the gym, continuing the routine once you were inside.
On one occasion, he held a door open for you. This might have passed for a kind gesture, had his expression not suggested he was actively weighing up whether to slam it shut on your hand. Passing through quickly, you muttered a thank you, subsequently spending the next ten minutes wondering what you’d done to personally offend a hundred-and-six-year-old super soldier.
To make matters worse, this treatment seemed exclusively reserved for you.
Sam gave Bucky relentless, industrial-grade grief on a daily basis, receiving nothing worse than a tired sigh in return. Natasha spoke to him in brief Russian phrases that made him almost — almost — soften around the eyes. Steve, naturally, could coax out something adjacent to a smile, provided the lighting was right and the conversation touched on baseball.
You, meanwhile, received the murder stare.
Consequently, you took the only reasonable course of action: you decided to hate him back. Nothing loud or dramatic — you were a professional, after all. Yet if Bucky insisted on looking at you like you were gum on his tactical boot, you were more than happy to match his energy. You ceased saying hello, just as you stopped making eye contact. Whenever his name arose in briefings, your gaze remained glued to the nearest screen, offering nothing beyond what was strictly required.
In your professional opinion, it was a perfectly proportional response. He had started it, after all.
Except, as it turned out, he hadn't started anything at all.
0010 — two
Steve, for all his tactical brilliance, possessed the interpersonal radar of a golden retriever at a dog park. Which is to say: he assumed everyone was having as good a time as he was, believing that if they weren't, they simply required a more intriguing chew toy.
"I want you two running point on Riga," he said, tapping something on his tablet without looking up. "Buck, your ground coverage coupled with their aerial support makes for a clean overlap. No blind spots."
You felt your left eyelid twitch.
"Seems efficient," Bucky remarked from across the table. He spoke in that low, even tone you had long since catalogued as dangerously neutral, which was, in reality, merely his natural way of speaking.
"Incredibly efficient," Steve agreed, radiating the enthusiasm of a man who genuinely loved logistics. "You'll insert here, sweep the perimeter in tandem, and report back. Forty-eight hours, tops."
You opened your mouth to suggest — diplomatically, calmly, and with exquisite professionalism — that perhaps literally anyone else on the roster might prove a better fit. Clint. Wanda. A reasonably trained Labrador. However, Steve was already moving on to exfiltration windows, whilst the moment sailed past like a ship you hadn't boarded.
Bucky glanced at you across the table. Although you didn't look back, you could feel it regardless: the stare. That ever-present, searing, what did I do to you in a past life stare, which you had fully reinterpreted as I am imagining your demise in vivid detail.
Riga was cold and grey, smelling faintly of rain-wet concrete. Bucky crouched behind a low wall, running through the sweep route as though he had memorised every sewer grate in the Eastern Bloc. Which, to be fair, he probably had.
"If we cut through the service corridor on the east side," he said, tracing a line on the projected map between you, "we avoid the camera cluster at the northwest junction. That shaves off thirty seconds and gives us a cleaner sweep."
It was a good call — objectively and tactically sound. Naturally, you hated it.
"Alternatively," you countered, "we take the northwest junction. The camera cluster has a six-second rotation gap offering more than enough cover, whilst saving us from rerouting through a corridor we haven't physically cleared."
Bucky looked at you. There was that look again: that infuriating, immovable expression. "The corridor's been cleared on satellite."
"Satellite isn't boots on the ground, a fact I'd have thought you of all people would appreciate."
A brief pause followed. He blinked once, slowly and deliberately, like a cat processing new information it had already deemed irrelevant.
"Right," he said simply. "Northwest junction. Six-second gap."
There was no argument, no pushback, and no retaliatory escalation. Desperate for him to fight you on it — to give you something concrete to push against — you were met instead with immediate agreement. He adjusted and moved on. You couldn't even determine whether his baseline glare had shifted, as it remained entirely one temperature: a perpetual overcast with no forecast of change.
Infuriating.
Taking the northwest junction proved successful; the six-second gap worked seamlessly. Bucky offered no comment afterwards, a silence you promptly interpreted as resentful, even if, by any objective measure, it was merely quiet efficiency.
By hour thirty, you had swept two-thirds of the perimeter, flagged three points of interest, and exchanged roughly forty words that weren't operationally necessary. Bucky held position whenever required, adjusted without complaint when you called an audible, and covered your flank with the mechanical precision of someone who had been doing precisely that for the better part of a century.
When you snapped at his suggestion to double back on the north quadrant — "We've already cleared that, so unless you want to walk the same block a third time, let's finish before the century's out" — he studied you for a long moment, uttered a brief "Copy," and carried on.
By every metric that mattered, you worked brilliantly together. That was easily the most annoying aspect of the entire operation.
Steve's check-in crackled through the comms at hour thirty-six. "How's it looking out there?"
"Clean sweep," Bucky reported. "On schedule."
"Good to hear. Really good. You two are a natural fit, so I'm going to keep this pairing going."
The line clicked off before you could object.
Somewhere across the rooftop, Bucky shifted his weight without making a sound, having never once felt the need to fill a silence. You, meanwhile, were mentally drafting a strongly worded letter to Steve regarding the actual definition of the word natural.
The extraction window opened at dawn. It was a simple retrieval — collecting an intel package from a secure drop followed by a confirmation sweep for surveillance, wrapping up before the city woke up properly. It was the kind of job that barely qualified as a mission, resembling more of an errand, assuming your errands typically involved fake passports and a concealed weapon in your waistband.
Bucky moved through the drop site with an efficient, practiced quiet. Covering the perimeter, you tagged two potential cameras before feeding him the all-clear. He retrieved the package, confirmed the seal, and stowed it without ceremony.
"Clean," he reported over the comms.
"Obviously," you shot back, unable to help yourself.
The walk to the vehicle spanned six blocks through early-morning foot traffic. Bucky fell into step beside you — maintaining not a companionable proximity, but rather the tactically sound distance of a partner keeping visual range. Keeping your eyes fixed forward, you occasionally caught the peripheral flicker of him looking over, despite his efforts to look straight ahead as well.
At the fourth block, he spoke. "You did good work on the north sweep."
You nearly tripped. It wasn't a physical stumble, but rather a sudden jolt behind your ribs, as the compliment arrived so entirely stripped of inflection that it took a full three seconds to confirm it wasn't an insult.
"Thanks," you replied, as though the word were costing you money.
He offered a single nod before looking ahead once more. His expression remained entirely unchanged throughout the exchange — neither when he spoke, nor when you responded, nor now. It was the same furrowed brow, the same hard-set jaw, and the same general aura of a man who held a personal grievance against the concept of sunlight.
Walking the remaining two blocks in silence, you climbed into the vehicle and pulled out of Riga without incident.
In the passenger seat, Bucky stared out of the window, thinking about absolutely nothing in particular.
In the driver's seat, you white-knuckled the steering wheel, contemplating how deeply, profoundly, and cosmically unfair it was that Steve had designated your personal nemesis as your ideal work partner.
Bucky glanced over at you once more. You caught it in the corner of your eye — the slight turn of his head and the weight of his attention settling on the side of your face like a physical presence.
He looked away a moment later. Had you been watching, you might have caught a fleeting micro-expression that, on a more animated face, could have passed for confusion: a subtle narrowing of the eyes accompanied by a barely-there tilt of the head. It was the physical equivalent of a quiet huh.
Yet you were not watching. You were driving, nursing your resentment, and dreading the next mission you would inevitably be shackled to him for.
Bucky turned his gaze back out of the window.
Feisty, he thought, though not in explicit words. It was more of a general registration of facts: Teammate. Competent. Annoyed for some reason. Right then.
He let the matter drop.
0011 — three
The second phase of Riga went sideways on account of Bucky, and he had the decency to admit it — which made the entire situation infinitely worse.
It should have been straightforward. The intel package retrieved from the drop site pointed to a secondary location: a warehouse on the industrial fringe of Vecriga, flagged for potential weapons caching. Steve wanted confirmation before committing a full team, meaning it remained just the two of you — still purely recon, still strictly a matter of looking and reporting.
Bucky took the south entrance whilst you took the north — a standard split providing clean coverage without anything overly elaborate. Having swept your half in twelve minutes and tagged two points of interest, you reported clearly, subsequently waiting for his confirmation.
It failed to arrive.
What came instead was the muffled crack of a door being forced open from the inside. This was followed by three seconds of silence that felt significantly longer, before Bucky’s voice cut through the comms, clipped and flat: "Contact. Four hostiles, south corridor. I tripped a sensor."
You were already on the move. "You tripped a sensor?"
"There was a secondary grid. It wasn't in the schematics."
"So check for a secondary grid!"
"I'm aware of the oversight." A brief pause ensued, accompanied by the sound of distant, contained gunfire. "Heading to you. Thirty seconds."
He burst through the connecting corridor like a freight train with security clearance — fast, controlled, without a single wasted movement, yet carrying four exceptionally motivated hostiles funnelling in behind him. He had dropped two already, though the remaining four had evidently summoned reinforcements.
"An oversight," you hissed, falling into position beside him behind a concrete support column. "You call six armed hostiles an oversight?"
"I call the sensor an oversight; the hostiles are merely a consequence." Checking his magazine with a mechanical click, he remained as calm as a man sorting his morning post. "I ought to have caught it. That's on me."
There it was: no excuse, no deflection, and no complaints about incomplete schematics or how it could have happened to anyone. It was simply a clean, unvarnished admission of fault, delivered with the same flat affect he applied to everything else — as though accountability were merely another line item on the operational checklist.
You wanted to strangle him.
You wanted to seize him by the front of his tactical vest and shake him until something other than that granite composure gave way, purely because he had no right to be so utterly reasonable about it.
How dare he own his mistake with quiet professionalism when you had been actively gearing up for a proper row?
You had an entire speech prepared — reckless, sloppy, typical — only for him to dismantle it in two short sentences by simply agreeing with you.
"I'm going to kill you," you said.
"After the hostiles," he replied, which might have passed for a joke, had his face offered any confirmation.
They advanced in pairs. The warehouse consisted entirely of long sightlines and sparse cover — a layout ill-suited for defence and even worse for retreat, leaving forward progression as the sole option.
Bucky moved left, drawing fire toward the heavier cover near the loading bay, whilst you veered right to utilise the elevated walkway for a tactical angle. For thirty seconds, the response was clean and coordinated — the precise sort of synchronisation Steve would have had framed and hung on a wall.
Then the third pair flanked wide, resulting in one of them getting behind you.
You heard it before you saw it: the scrape of a boot against the metal grating of the walkway — far too close and coming from the wrong direction. Spinning round, you fired and caught him in the shoulder, yet his momentum carried him forward as a burst from his automatic weapon chewed through the railing to your left.
Dropping off the walkway to avoid the spray — rolling through a two-metre fall purely on instinct — you came up in the open on the warehouse floor, stranded between two columns of cover with nothing but concrete dust and bad options.
The remaining hostile on the upper level held the high ground. You could see him repositioning, his barrel swinging round to track your movement. Meanwhile, the nearest cover stood four paces away, which was roughly two paces more than you had time for.
At that moment, Bucky hit you from the side like a wall with a pulse.
It wasn't a tackle, nor was it a shove. It was something altogether more deliberate: his arm wrapping round your waist as his body pivoted to place himself between you and the muzzle flash, dragging you both behind the nearest column in a single, brutal motion that briefly lifted your feet off the ground. Your back struck the concrete just as his chest slammed against yours. His left arm braced against the wall beside your head, his metal fingers digging shallow grooves into the surface with a sound guaranteed to haunt your next several attempts at sleep.
He fired over your shoulder without once looking away from you. Two shots rang out, followed by the heavy thud of something hitting the floor above.
Silence settled over the warehouse like dust after a demolition.
You were breathing heavily; he was not.
His heartbeat against your collarbone remained steady, measured, and offensively calm — the resting rhythm of a man whose circulatory system simply refused to acknowledge combat as a cardiovascular event. His face sat inches from yours as he scanned past you, his eyes tracking the upper walkway, the exits, and the corners, conducting a very focused threat assessment.
You, on the other hand, could register nothing else.
He was warm, which served as your first entirely unhelpful observation. Beneath the Kevlar, the grime, and the faint metallic tang of discharged rounds, he felt warm, broad, and solid in a manner resembling architecture rather than a person.
Your hands were resting on his vest again — a recurring habit you genuinely needed to address — and from this distance, you could see that his eyelashes were dark and unreasonably long. Furthermore, a small scar sat at the corner of his jaw that you had never previously noticed, owing to the fact that you had never been this close, alongside the small detail that you hated him.
You hated him — that remained vital. You were furious.
He had tripped a sensor, dragged you into a firefight, and then possessed the sheer audacity to throw himself in front of a bullet meant for you as if it were nothing. Protecting your body with his was apparently just another Tuesday to him, and now he stood there with his arm caging you in, his ridiculously muscled chest pressed against yours, leaving you absolutely, categorically, and without question hot, bothered and —
"Clear," Bucky said, looking down at you.
The stare remained identical to always — completely unreadable — except that from seven centimetres away, it felt less like I want you dead and more like I am looking at you because you are here and I am thorough. "You good?"
"Peachy," you managed.
Stepping back, he holstered his weapon. He offered you a single, efficient once-over — not lingering or appreciative, but rather a simple field check akin to inspecting a piece of kit after a drop — before turning to clear the rest of the warehouse.
"Sorry about the sensor," he called over his shoulder, already moving away.
You stood there for a moment, back pressed against the column, vest askew, with your heart executing something architecturally unsound in your chest. Your face felt hot, your hands felt foolish, and somewhere amidst the wreckage of your higher reasoning, a small, traitorous voice pointed out that pure American muscle was not a phrase you ought to be associating with a man you'd spent months despising.
You instructed the voice to shut up. Naturally, it refused.
By the time you caught up with him at the south exit, you had reassembled your composure into something functional, if not entirely convincing. Bucky crouched by the door, checking the exterior. As you approached, he looked up with that exact, unchanging, immovable expression and said, "We should report the secondary grid to Steve. My error; I'll log it."
"Damn right you will," you replied, albeit with significantly less venom than intended.
He nodded once before turning his attention back to the door, completely failing to notice that your ears were bright red — because Bucky, as a rule, simply did not notice things like 'ears'.
0100 — four
The safehouse was Steve's idea, because of course it was.
"Sit tight," he instructed over comms, speaking with the serene authority of a man issuing orders from a heated facility several countries away. "The firefight flagged local attention, so I need twenty-four hours to reroute extraction without drawing eyes. There's a safehouse logged in the system — Bucky, you know the one off Avotu iela?"
"I know it," Bucky replied.
"Great. Supplies should still be stocked from the last rotation. Hunker down, stay off the radar, and I'll have you out by tomorrow evening."
The line went dead. You stared at the comm in your hand as though it had personally betrayed you.
Twenty-four hours. In a safehouse. With Bucky Barnes.
Steve would answer for this. Not today, nor tomorrow, but one day, in a time and place of your choosing, Steven Grant Rogers would look you in the eye and reckon with the cumulative consequences of his logistical enthusiasm.
The safehouse was a third-floor walk-up in a residential block that looked like every other on the street — beige concrete, narrow windows, and a front door requiring a keycode that Bucky punched in from memory without hesitation.
Inside, it was sparse in the way all safehouses were sparse: functional furniture, blackout curtains, a bathroom with aggressive water pressure and no hot water, a kitchen stocked with tin cans and dry pasta, alongside, inexplicably, a full spice rack.
There was only one bedroom. However, you had yet to discover that detail.
Bucky executed a sweep of the flat in under two minutes — checking windows, exits, sightlines, and the building's stairwell — before returning to the main room with a nod that signified clear and absolutely nothing else.
Having taken up position at the far end of the kitchen counter with your arms crossed, you watched him move through the space with the efficiency of someone who had spent a great deal of time in rooms he didn't wish to be in.
"I'll make something," he said, already opening cupboards.
"I'm not hungry."
Your stomach growled with immaculate comedic timing. Bucky paused, hand on a cupboard door, yet he offered no comment and made no attempt to smile. He simply resumed opening the cupboard, which was somehow far worse than if he had laughed outright.
He proceeded to make soup.
You didn't know what you had expected — something perfunctory, perhaps, assembled with the same grim pragmatism he brought to everything else. A tin of broth heated in a pot, perhaps with some pasta thrown in for caloric necessity.
Instead, Bucky stood at the narrow safehouse cooker and diced an onion with a knife never intended for onions, moving with the quiet focus of someone who knew precisely what he was doing and had no intention of explaining why.
He sautéed garlic — actual garlic, peeled and minced, from a bulb he had found in the crisper drawer alongside potatoes that had no right being that fresh in a safehouse. He added tinned tomatoes, a selection of dried herbs from the inexplicable spice rack, the potatoes cut into even cubes, and a splash of something from a bottle bearing a Czech label that might have been vinegar, wine, or lighter fluid.
It smelled incredible.
You watched this unfold from your position at the counter — still with arms crossed, still glaring — feeling the mounting indignation of a person whose nemesis was failing to behave according to the established narrative.
Enemies did not make soup. Enemies did not dice onions with careful, practised hands. Enemies did not stir a pot with a wooden spoon, taste from the rim, and subsequently add more salt with the measured consideration of someone who understood that soup was a dish worth getting right.
He set a bowl in front of you without ceremony before sitting down across the narrow table with his own and picking up his spoon.
You glared at the soup. The soup failed to glare back, sitting there instead and steaming gently, smelling like something a grandmother would make if she’d happened to have a vibranium arm and the emotional range of a concrete wall.
You ate the soup.
It was — and you would take this to your grave before admitting it aloud — delicious. The potatoes were tender without being mushy. The broth possessed depth — actual depth, featuring layers of flavour that had no business existing in a meal assembled from safehouse scraps by a man who looked as though he were being forced at gunpoint to participate in civilian life.
Across the table, Bucky ate in silence, just as you ate in silence. The only sound was the scrape of spoons against ceramic alongside the distant hum of Riga's evening traffic filtering through the blackout curtains.
You were glaring at him over the rim of the bowl.
You knew you were glaring and found yourself unable to stop. Every spoonful felt like a personal offence — not owing to the soup, which was infuriatingly above reproach, but purely on principle. He had no right to be good at this. He had no right to sit there, eating soup he had made with his own two hands — one of which was made of metal and had attempted to kill multiple heads of state — looking for all the world like a man entirely at peace with his evening.
He wasn't at peace with his evening; he was simply eating soup.
Yet he did notice you were quiet — quieter than usual, which was quite a feat given that your usual baseline around him sat somewhere between terse and legally admissible silence. Glancing up once, he caught the edge of your expression, filing it away as he filed most things about you: without reaching any conclusions whatsoever.
Rough day, he thought. The warehouse was a lot. The sensor business rattled them. Fair enough.
It had not occurred to Bucky, at any point in the preceding months, that your hostility towards him was personal.
Having considered and dismissed several theories — that you were private, focused, cold towards everyone, or merely adjusting to the team — he had landed on the most generous possible interpretation every single time. The notion that you simply didn't like him, specifically as an individual, had never crossed his mind, as Bucky did not assign himself enough importance in other people's emotional landscapes for that to feel plausible.
You finished the soup, as did he. Taking both bowls to the sink without asking, he washed them by hand, thorough and unhurried, whilst you sat at the table staring at the back of his head, trying desperately to maintain the structural integrity of a grudge that was developing hairline fractures.
He dried the bowls, put them away, and wiped down the counter.
You hated him — obviously. However, the soup had been exceptionally good, and the counter was immaculate.
"I'll take the first watch," he said, settling onto the couch with a clear sightline to the front door.
"Fine."
"Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be a long extract."
"I know."
He looked at you. You looked away first — a new development, and one that neither of you chose to examine.
0101 — five
The bedroom situation revealed itself with the slow, inevitable horror of a punchline that ought to have been obvious from the start.
There was a single bed: full-sized, pushed against the far wall, and made up with military corners alongside a single wool blanket that looked as though it had been government-issued during a war — quite possibly the one Bucky had personally fought in. Accompanying it were a single pillow, one nightstand, and an overhead light with a pull chain that lent the entire space the ambience of an interrogation cell.
You stood in the doorway whilst Bucky remained directly behind you. Neither of you spoke for a long, damning moment.
"I'll take the floor," he offered.
"No."
"It's not a problem. I've slept on worse."
"I said no." Turning round — a mistake, as it turned out, given his proximity — you had to look up to meet his eyes, which were performing their usual trick of boring into you as if you owed him money. "I'll take the floor. You take the bed."
Bucky's brow furrowed. Or rather, it furrowed further — it was already permanently set that way by default, yet it deepened to a degree you hadn't previously known was architecturally possible. "That doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense."
"You're smaller than me. The bed is more efficient for —"
"I don't care about efficiency, Barnes. Take the bed."
"I'm not going to let you sleep on the floor."
"You're not letting me do anything. I'm choosing the floor. Independently. Of my own volition."
This was — a fact you were distantly aware of even in the moment — not actually about chivalry, comfort, or any rational metric of who ought to sleep where.
It was entirely about the fact that Bucky had suggested the bed, and you would rather lie on cold hardwood until your spine fused than accept a single accommodation from a man who had spent months staring at you as if you were a code he was trying to crack, only to decide you weren't worth the effort.
Bucky looked at you, and you looked back at him. The standoff held for a stretched, ridiculous beat — two highly trained operatives with a combined century of combat experience, thoroughly deadlocked over a mattress.
"We could —" He stopped, recalibrated, and started again carefully, in the manner of a person approaching a suggestion they already know will go badly. "We could share it."
"Absolutely not."
"It's a full. There's room."
"There is not room."
There was, objectively, room.
A further eleven minutes of negotiation ensued — eleven minutes that could have been spent sleeping, maintaining perimeter awareness, or doing literally anything other than arguing about a bed with a man whose face hadn't changed expression once throughout the entire exchange.
In the end, the solution was reached not through compromise, but through mutual exhaustion: you on the left side, him on the right, with a gap between you wide enough to accommodate a respectably sized third person, or possibly a coffin, which felt appropriate.
You lay on your back, rigid, arms at your sides, staring at the ceiling. The blanket covered you to mid-chest. Although your boots were off, everything else remained on; you were certainly not changing clothes in a safehouse with Bucky on the other side of a bed you were sharing against every instinct you possessed.
He lay on his back, equally rigid, with hands folded over his stomach as he too stared at the ceiling. The blanket covered him to the waist. Having removed his jacket and gloves but nothing else, the plates of his left arm caught the ambient glow of the streetlamp outside in the dim light filtering through the window.
Silence followed — a long, heavy, weighted silence.
Steve Rogers, you thought, with the focus and clarity of a prayer, I am going to find you, and I am going to make you understand what you've done. When the history books document your demise, they will note that it was thoroughly deserved.
Somewhere beyond the curtains, Riga hummed its quiet nighttime hum. A car passed, a dog barked, and the kitchen refrigerator cycled on with a low rattle that settled into white noise.
Bucky shifted. Not towards you — if anything, he pressed further into his own edge, as though attempting to grant the gap between you additional square footage through sheer force of will. The mattress dipped slightly with the movement before settling into stillness once more.
More silence followed. You could hear him breathing — a steady, measured rhythm suggesting either deep calm or trained control. Unable to tell which, it bothered you that you were listening closely enough to wonder.
"Can I ask you something?"
His voice was quiet. It wasn't soft — Bucky didn't do soft, or if he did, you had never been granted access to it — yet it was low and careful. He directed his gaze at the ceiling, speaking in the manner of someone who had determined that eye contact would prove a tactical error.
"What?" you said, flat and with your guard firmly up.
A pause followed while he chose his words with the deliberation of a man disarming a device he didn't fully understand — which, in a sense, he was.
"Why do you glare at me?"
The question landed in the dark between you like a stone dropped into still water: simple, direct, and genuinely, painfully confused. It was neither accusatory nor hurt, but merely curious — like a puzzle he had been turning over in his hands for months and had finally decided to open here, in the dark, lying on his back and addressing the ceiling, having apparently calculated that looking at you while asking would make whatever was already wrong significantly worse.
You didn't answer immediately, far too blindsided by the fact that he had noticed. This was insane in retrospect because, of course he had noticed — you had been glaring at the man with the intensity of a sustained laser for the better part of six months.
"Why do I glare at you?" you repeated, as though the question had been delivered in a language you didn't speak.
"Yeah." Still staring at the ceiling, still careful. "I've been — I don't think I've done anything to you. I've tried to run through it, and I can't find the point where I —" He paused. "I've been professional. I've followed protocol, and I've done everything by the handbook. Yet you look at me like I've murdered your cat."
"Because you glare at me!"
It came out louder than intended. You felt the bed shift as he reacted —not flinching, but merely offering a slight turn of his head, which he immediately corrected back to facing the ceiling. "You've glared at me since my first day at the compound. You looked at me like I'd committed a federal crime simply by walking into the kitchen. Every briefing, every corridor, every — you just stare at me, Barnes, as if I've personally wronged your bloodline. So yes, I glare back. What did you expect?"
Silence.
A long, heavy silence.
The sort of silence that possessed a distinct shape.
"Oh," Bucky said.
A single syllable, loaded with the slow, dawning weight of a revelation he hadn't seen coming, precisely because it had never once occurred to him as a possibility.
You heard him exhale through his nose — neither a sigh nor a laugh, but something in between that sounded like a man arriving at a destination he wished he hadn't.
"That's —" He stopped, then started again. "That's just my face."
"What?"
"That's how I look." His voice had grown careful again, though in a different register now — less disarming-a-bomb and more confessing to a crime he hadn't realised he'd committed. "Sam told me about it last year. He said I — the word he used was intense. I've been working on it."
A beat passed.
"Apparently, I have not been successful," he added, with the quiet devastation of a man confronting a failed self-improvement project. "My sincere apologies."
You lay there motionless, staring at the ceiling Bucky had been using as a conversational safe harbour, feeling the entire scaffolding of the last six months begin to buckle.
That was simply his face.
The glare, the stare, the flat, searing, unblinking hostility around which you had constructed an entire narrative of enmity — it was merely his face. It wasn't directed at you, nor was it directed at anyone else. It was simply the natural resting state of a man whose features had been frozen, thawed, wiped, reset, and reassembled enough times that they had settled on murder as their factory default.
He had been working on it. Sam had told him, and he had tried. He had been making an active, conscious effort to look less like he was plotting the downfall of everyone in his immediate vicinity, yet the gap between his attempt and his result was apparently so microscopic that you hadn't detected a single pixel of difference.
"Barnes," you said slowly.
"If it helps, I — it's not intentional. It's not — I'm not thinking hostile thoughts when I look at you. I'm usually not thinking anything specific. I'm just..."
"Looking."
"Looking. Yeah."
Another silence descended, though this one differed markedly — less loaded and more bewildered, representing the shared quiet of two people arriving at the same understanding from opposite ends of a very long, highly unnecessary misunderstanding.
"I owe you an apology," you said, the words tasting like something you ought to have uttered months ago, which made them harder to get out, not easier.
"You don't."
"Barnes, I've been horrible to you."
"You've been direct." He said it as though he meant it — not being generous or diplomatic, but simply accurate, by his measure. "I've had worse."
"That's not a particularly high bar."
"It's an honest one."
You lay there with that thought for a moment, letting the recalibration settle.
Every interaction — every terse exchange, every ignored greeting, and every pointed refusal to acknowledge his existence beyond operational necessity — replayed in fast-forward with the new context overlaid. Each one landed differently, and considerably worse. He had held doors open for you, complimented your sweep work, and made you soup. In return, you had met every gesture with the warmth of a closed fist, simply because his eyebrows didn't move the way you thought they should.
"I should also probably tell you something," Bucky said, still addressing the ceiling.
His voice had shifted once more, and had you not been lying close enough to hear the minute changes in his breathing, you might have missed the new tension within it. It wasn't discomfort or reluctance, but rather something closer to the careful steadying of a person about to step off a ledge they had been standing on for longer than planned.
"What?"
"I like you."
The words hit the dark ceiling and hung there, suspended, whilst your brain ran them through several rounds of processing, returning an error every time.
"I —" He cleared his throat. "I like working with you. Your tactical instincts are — the northwest junction call was good. It was better than my call. Furthermore, the way you handle aerial overwatch possesses a precision that — it makes my job easier, which isn't something I say about many people. I actually like that you argue with me, too. Most people don't; they either defer or avoid, whereas you just — " He made a vague gesture towards the ceiling with his right hand. "You come straight at it."
He was rambling.
Bucky — who usually communicated in sentence fragments, silences, and single-word affirmatives — was rambling. The words spilled out in a steady, almost helpless stream, as if he had uncorked something he didn't know how to reseal. The ceiling received the full force of it, given that he still hadn't looked at you and, at this point, probably couldn't.
"And the — the attitude. I know it was directed at me, and I understand that now, but even before I understood it, it didn't bother me. I thought it was simply how you were with everyone. I thought, they’re sharp, they’re focused, and they doesn't waste words, and that's —" He paused, swallowing hard. "I like that. I like all of it. And — you're not going to believe this — the glaring. Even the glaring. You commit to it. There's a — you're very —"
He stopped, breathing out as the sentence died a merciful death somewhere between his intention and his ability to articulate it.
"I don't care if you snap my ears off," he said quietly. "I never have."
On your side of the bed, behind the safety of the gap that now felt less like a demilitarised zone and more like the only barrier preventing you from doing something irreversible, you stared at the ceiling as the universe rearranged itself.
He liked you.
He liked you.
Bucky — whom you had spent six months hating with the dedicated focus of a doctoral thesis, whom you had categorised, filed, and sealed under enemy with absolute certainty — liked you.
He had liked you, quite possibly the entire time. He had appreciated your tactical calls, your aerial work, your stubbornness, and your glaring — which he had apparently found more charming than threatening.
This recontextualised every single moment you had ever shared into something so fundamentally different from what you had believed that your brain was essentially executing a factory reset in real time.
The Big Bang, as they said, originated from a single point of infinite density before expanding outwards in every direction at once. This felt remarkably similar, except the point of infinite density was Bucky saying I don't care if you snap my ears off in the dark, whilst the expansion represented every assumption you had ever made about him detonating simultaneously.
He had gone quiet. The ramble had passed itself, leaving him lying there, still aimed at the ceiling, presumably regretting every word he had spoken while steeling himself for whatever you were about to throw back at him.
The gap between you felt enormous — and suddenly, completely absurd.
0110 — six
You rolled over.
Not gradually, nor cautiously, and certainly not with the measured calculation of someone who had spent the last several hours maintaining the maximum possible distance from the man beside them.
You simply turned, crossing the gap as though it had never existed, before propping yourself up on your elbow on his side of the bed — close enough that your shadow fell across his chest.
Bucky went very still: the sort of still that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with the fact that his entire operating framework for this interaction had just been upended without warning. He had been braced for a multitude of possible responses — silence, anger, dismissal, or a scathing deconstruction of every word he had just uttered — yet certainly not this. He had not anticipated you being right there, leaning over him and looking down at him with an expression he had never before seen on your face, leaving him without a filed reference for it.
You were smiling.
It broke something in him — not loudly or dramatically, but with the quiet internal shift of a gear slipping into a position it hadn't known existed. He had seen you focused, furious, mid-combat, mid-argument, and mid-glare. He had catalogued every version of your face that you had ever shown him, yet none of them — not a single one — had included this. Open and bright, your eyes creased at the corners whilst your mouth curved in a way that made you look like an entirely different person, or perhaps the exact same person with a wall removed.
"Are you serious?" you asked.
He blinked. "About what?"
"Barnes. Are you serious? You like me?"
"I — yes. I just said — I spent a significant amount of time just saying —"
"You like me." You said it again, not because you required confirmation, but rather because the words were new and you wished to feel them in your mouth a second time. A grin spread across your face—wide, uncontrolled, and entirely without your permission — and you couldn't have stopped it had national security depended on it.
Bucky stared up at you, his lips parting, closing, and parting again. The ramble that had poured out of him minutes ago had emptied his tank entirely; confronted with the direct, beaming, up-close reality of you smiling at him, he was left with nothing.
Every word he had ever learned in two languages, alongside a handful of operationally acquired phrases in four others, had vacated the premises.
"Yes," he managed, the word sounding as though it had been dragged out of him with a hook.
You laughed.
It wasn't at him, but rather at the situation, at yourself, and at six months of wasted hostility collapsing in real time. The sound landed on Bucky like something physical, making his chest shift beneath it. You watched his throat work through a swallow, observing his eyes as they tracked across your face with the bewildered focus of a man seeing a new colour for the first time and not yet trusting that it was real.
"You absolute idiot," you said, as your hand found his jaw.
His breathing changed. You felt it — the catch, the skip, and the barely perceptible hitch of someone whose body had just been informed of a development his brain hadn't authorised. Your fingers rested against the edge of his jaw, your thumb lying along his cheekbone. His skin felt warm beneath your hand — warmer than you had expected, which was a foolish thing to have expectations about, given that thirty seconds prior you had still been on your side of the demilitarised zone pretending to hate him.
"You —" he began.
"Shut up. I'm having a moment."
Your other hand landed on his shoulder — not in a grip or a shove, but in simple contact. With your palm resting on the curve of muscle through his shirt and your fingers settling against the junction of his neck, you felt him tense beneath you. He didn't pull away, but held himself in the rigid stillness of someone who didn't trust himself to move, having not yet determined what the correct movement ought to be.
You were slightly draped across him now, with one hand on his jaw, the other on his shoulder, and your weight shifted onto his side of the bed. You were close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and the way his pupils had widened in the low light. This was uncharted territory for both of you, obviously.
Yet watching it happen to him was something else entirely: observing the composure that had survived decades of ice, combat, and reprogramming falter over the simple, devastating fact that you were touching his face and smiling about it.
"Hi," you said, foolishly.
"Hi." His voice had dropped into a register you hadn't heard before—rough at the edges and quiet in the middle. His right hand came up slowly and carefully, as though reaching for something he expected to be snatched away, hovering near your elbow without quite landing. "You're — this is — I thought you hated me."
"I did hate you."
"And now?"
"Now I'm re-evaluating my methodology."
His hand landed. Gentle and uncertain, his fingers wrapped round your forearm with a pressure so light it was barely there, as if holding something he had been told was fragile without being informed where the cracks were.
You watched his eyes search yours — back and forth, quick and unguarded, stripped of the flat intensity you had been misreading for half a year. He wasn't glaring, nor was he staring; he was simply looking at you. For the first time, you could see what was actually present beneath the granite: a banked, cautious want, held at arm's length for so long he had forgotten he was doing it.
"For the record," you said, "the soup was incredible."
A sound escaped him — not quite a laugh, nor quite a breath, but something in the middle. It was an involuntary noise that seemed to surprise him as much as it did you. The corner of his mouth moved; it wasn't a full smile, nor even half of one, but a subtle shift — a fracture in the architecture — that transformed his entire face in a way that made your stomach drop pleasantly into your shoes.
"Noted," he said.
"And the business where you threw yourself in front of a bullet for me —"
"Standard protocol."
"It wasn't, actually."
"It felt standard."
"Barnes."
"Yeah."
You leaned down and kissed him.
It wasn't graceful, as the angle was wrong. You were still propped half on your elbow and half on his chest, your hand sliding from his jaw to the side of his neck as you closed the gap, your nose bumping his because geometry refused to cooperate with the urgency of the moment. Yet his mouth was warm, and when he took a full second to respond, you almost pulled back — nearly retreating to your side of the bed to die of mortification in peace — before his hand tightened on your arm. His other hand came up to the back of your head, and he kissed you back with a quiet, focused intensity suggesting he had been considering this for significantly longer than the duration of your conversation.
He kissed in the same manner he did everything else: thoroughly, unhurriedly, and deliberately, without a single wasted movement. His fingers slid into your hair whilst his thumb traced the line behind your ear, tilting his head to fix the angle problem you had created.
Distantly, in the remaining functional portion of your brain, you thought, Ah, so this is what it's like when he isn't on the other side of a room looking as though he wants to murder me.
It was better — categorically, unreservedly, and across every imaginable metric.
You broke apart just far enough to draw breath, his hand remaining in your hair while yours stayed on his neck. The gap between you had been reduced to practically nothing, leaving the wool blanket as a lost cause somewhere around both your waists. He was looking at you with an expression that, for the first time since you had known him, you could actually read.
"Just to be clear," he said, his voice slightly hoarse, "this means you don't hate me."
"This means I don't hate you."
"Right." His thumb moved against your scalp — slowly and absent-mindedly, as though he were doing it without realising. "Good. That's — yeah. Good."
You kissed him again — because he had said good like a man who had just been told the war was over, because his hand was tangled in your hair, and because his voice was wrecked.
You had six months of hostility to make up for, and you intended to be exceptionally thorough about it.
0111 — seven
Steve opened the safehouse door at 0600 with his shield strapped to his back, a cereal bar in hand, and the calm, satisfied expression of a man who had successfully rerouted an extraction under pressure — feeling, frankly, rather pleased with himself.
"Rise and shine, I've got us a window —"
He stopped dead.
You were on the bed, and Bucky was on the bed.
More accurately, you were on top of Bucky — your fingers tangled in his hair, his arm hooked securely round your waist, and your mouths occupied in a manner that had absolutely nothing to do with a mission debrief. The wool blanket had been kicked onto the floor at some point during the night, alongside, apparently, every professional boundary either of you had ever maintained.
Steve stared.
Breaking apart, Bucky's hand remained precisely where it was. You looked at Steve, Steve looked at you, and Bucky looked at Steve with the exact same unreadable expression he always wore — which, given the context, was doing a spectacular amount of heavy lifting.
The cereal bar lowered slowly to Steve's side.
"I —" Steve began.
"Morning," Bucky said.
"You —" Steve pointed at you, then pointed at Bucky, before pointing at the non-existent space between you. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. The strategic mind that had orchestrated the fall of HYDRA and the defence of three continents was, for the first time in recorded history, attempting to process something it had failed to anticipate.
"This is —" He took a step backwards. "I'm going to — I'll be in the — you have ten minutes."
The door clicked shut, followed by footsteps retreating down the corridor at a pace that could only be described as fleeing.
You looked at Bucky, and Bucky looked back at you. His hair was a disaster, whilst your shirt was untucked. Neither of you had slept for more than two hours, both of you looked it, and somewhere on the other side of the door, Steve was having a private reckoning with the direct consequences of his own tactical genius.
"He's splitting us up," you said. "You realise that, don't you? After this, he'll never put us on the same mission again."
Bucky's mouth executed that familiar movement — the subtle shift, the fracture in the architecture, the not-quite-smile that remade his entire face and caused your chest to do something structurally inadvisable.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Probably."
He didn't sound remotely bothered by the prospect.
From the corridor, muffled and vaguely traumatised, came Steve's voice: "Ten minutes, Buck!"
You kissed him again — partly because Steve had set a deadline, and mostly because spite had always been your love language.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @elarapheonix @hisokamywaifu @froggibus @axtira @rosemint-tea @sheriff-bodecker
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you've got a no good boyfreind. lucky bucky's here, to show you what you deserve✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, cheating (not by bucky, it's deserved) fluff, big porn level smut (stripping, finger sucking, dirty talk, possessive sex, praise kink, teasing, fingering, light brat taming, softdom!bucky, pussy spanking, dumbification, making out, sensitive reader, manhandling, bucky gets nasty, blowjobs, body worship, oral f!reciving overstimulation, mean!bucky, degradation kink, big dick bucky, creampie, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 8.6k✦
✦Author's Note: request! oh to be yearned after by bucky barnes in a kinda toxic but really hot way✦
“What the fuck is his problem?”
You don’t have to look, to figure out who your boyfriend is talking about. You can feel his glare from across the room, burning over your skin like a brand, making your leg bounce and your fingers pick restlessly at the label on your drink.
Bucky Barnes.
He always stares at you. It doesn’t matter if you’re hanging out at Steve’s place—technically Bucky’s place as well, but you refuse to give him any sort of credit about that—or getting coffee, or at the movies, or here, in another bar on a Friday night, trying to wash the week down with a drink, Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to kill you. It’s the kind of stare you’d find creepy from anyone else. A knit brow and heavy breathing, like just the sight of you makes him want to rip his head off. You glare back when you can, but tonight, you’re determined to ignore it. Ignore him.
Bucky can be as pretty and charming as he wants, he’s not getting a rise out of you. Not one that he can see, at least. When you got to the bar, he drawled your name and teased you about your drink, but you just grabbed your boyfriend’s hand and dragged him across the room without a look over your shoulder.
Maybe one look.
One look that Brock didn’t have to see, because he’s always accusing you and Bucky of having something. You’ve tried to explain to him that whatever something he thinks exists between you and Barnes is just the negative space of pure fucking loathing, but he doesn’t listen. He never listens.
“Barnes wants to fuck you,” he’d muttered last week, after you got home, and you’d rolled your eyes.
“Bucky does not want to fuck me, he can barely stand to be in the same room as me-“
“Because he wants to fuck you,” Brock has snapped. “I don’t want you hanging around him alone.”
You’d scoffed. “That’s- We’re friends-“
“Thought he hated you-“
“He does. But- It’s complicated.”
And it was. Bucky was Steve’s best friend, and Steve was your work husband, and Natasha was your best friend, and Steve’s actual girlfriend, and Bucky’s work wife, and Sam was Bucky’s other best friend and work husband, and your best friend—you’d even lived together, in college, which Brock never seemed to understand the concept of—and Steve’s business partner, which made him your boss, but you Nat’s and Bucky’s boss, and it was a tangled mess of relationships and years of history that became impossible to unweave. You and Bucky were friends because if you weren’t, you were enemies, and that always hurt right under your ribs in a way you never wanted to acknowledge.
Bucky wasn’t a bad guy. He was a stubborn ass sometimes, and he stared a lot, and got kind of judgey about stupid things, but so did you. The first time you met, you’d just stared at each other for—according to Natasha—five straight minutes. Once you’d been at some stupid charity gala, and you’d spent the whole time gossiping in the corner about the old, rich assholes who needed a party to give their endless money to a good cause. You’d thought that you were friends. Really friends. Friends that could’ve been something more, if he’d asked you to be.
But he hadn’t. He never had. And you’d started to butt heads more, and he didn’t ask if you were good like he used to. He avoided you at the stupid parties and didn’t ask your opinion about small things. He didn’t wait for you to go to lunch, or sit with you when you had to stay late, and suddenly the friendship had slipped through your fingers, because it had been so fast you hadn’t been given time to realize you were supposed to hold on.
Some days you wonder what you did, and you want to strangle the answer out of his pretty, thick head. You thought you’d been good. You’d really thought you’d been good, and then he’d just gone and decided that you weren’t. That there was something about you he just couldn’t stand, and you never get to know what it was.
So if he wanted to play the hating game, you’d play it, and you’d win. You ignored him almost every day, only sneering back when you had a comment that you knew would land like a headshot.
“You look comfortable,” he’d muttered last week at Nat’s, and you’d shot him a glare.
Bucky’s mouth had twitched, as you’d just stared at him. He always seemed to enjoy making you want to kill him. You hope he also enjoyed it, when you actually killed him.
“No boyfriend tonight, huh?” He’d smirked, and you swallowed on your venom. “What, he off fucking strippers again?”
Your lip had curled. You’d just kept glaring, and Bucky had laughed.
“Don’t give me that look, doll. It’s not your fault you can’t keep him satisfied-“
“I keep him satisfied,” you’d snapped, your patience finally fraying.
And Bucky had given you a strange, tired look. It was sharp around the edges, but dull everywhere else. Almost cold. Almost exhausted.
“I bet you do,” he’d muttered, and you’d snapped.
“At least I have someone to satisfy, Barnes,” you’d hissed. “No one can even put up with you for a one night stand.”
Bucky had flinched, and the knot in your gut had been immediate. You told yourself you liked the second his armor shattered slightly. You liked the win. You told yourself over and over, that it was fine, because he struck first.
But your body hadn’t learned the lesson. And it felt wrong to be in your skin, whenever Bucky made that broken, vulnerable face. Like he’d almost forgotten how cruel you could be. Like he’d cared at all, that you’d struck back.
He didn’t. You reminded yourself that he didn’t. It was complicated, because it needed to be, for the sake of explaining to Brock. But to you, it was really, painfully simple.
You’d been in a small, blooming love with Bucky. He’d recoiled and poured hatred on you like pesticide, and your loved had curled and shriveled, but never fully died. You think there might be something wrong with you, that you can harbor feelings for a man who brings you nothing but storms. You gave up on trying to understand it a long time ago. Maybe, one day, you’ll tell your therapist. You’re really hoping the love just dies first. It’s humiliating enough to feel it, let alone say it aloud.
Brock demanded he come with you tonight. To keep an eye on Barnes. You didn’t fight him, because fights with Brock aren’t something you win. He was a relationship you started before Bucky, that had been on and off and on and off for years. In the sacred months where Bucky had liked you, Brock had been off on some work trip in Germany. He’d gotten back right when Bucky had decided to hate you, and you’d been a raw, vulnerable creature, just crawling on the beach for a new shell to call home. Brock had been there. He’d been a tight fight, and the love you’d felt for him had soured from the joy of Bucky, but you’d just needed something. And Brock had been asking you to be exclusive for years. So you’d finally just… given in.
It’s not a dream relationship. Sometimes you worry you’re going to marry him and have his babies, and he’d make such ugly babies. You don’t want them. You don’t really see another way.
You wouldn’t mind having Bucky’s babies. That’s not a very productive thought to have.
“He always stare this much?” Brock asks, and you shrug.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Yeah?” Brock snaps. “Or maybe. Can’t be both, sweetheart.”
“Yeah and maybe,” you mutter. “I don’t know.”
“Either he stares or he doesn’t-“
“He stares, I just don’t know what’s this much-“
“Then you should start paying fucking attention.”
You sigh, and give Brock a tight smile. His lip curls, and his eyes narrow, and you fight the urge to flinch away.
Bucky hates you. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to like you all that much either. He won’t let Nat sit with you, and he certainly won’t let Sam sit with you, so now you’re just fucking here. At the crowded bar, all but alone, even with half a dozen worried or hateful eyes on you. You only give yourself eyes for your drink.
At least you have your drink.
You’re smiling. Laughing. Lighting up the whole bar from your little corner, and Bucky’s stuck over here in the dark.
He wants to drink until he can’t anything but your face and a whole blur of colors, but he got stuck being one of the drivers. He wants to go over and sock your stupid boyfriend in the face, but that would lead to a bigger conversation he knows you don’t want to have. This is a grave he dug for himself, but it didn’t even work right. He was supposed to bury himself alive and forget about you, high above him, brighter than the sun and prettier than the sky.
Instead he’s just lying in the dirt, six feet down, only able to watch you orbit around him like an angel. It’s hell. It’s torture. It’s exactly what he fucking deserves.
“You’re sulking again,” Steve says casually, and Bucky grunts.
“So?”
“It’s bringing everyone down, Buck-“
“They’re fine.”
Steve sighs. He does that a lot, when it comes to you and Bucky. He sighed when Bucky told him that he’d fallen in love with you. He sighed when Bucky decided you deserved better and started to push you away. He sighed when Bucky would lock himself on the fire escape for hours after parties, smoking and staring out at the city skyline until the wind was threatening to bite his skin off, and he had to be dragged inside.
Bucky knows Steve thinks he’s an idiot. Hell, most days Bucky thinks he’s an idiot. There isn’t a moment that passes where he doesn’t want to go back and suck up the fear, take the gamble, and just tell you he’d fallen for you. Hard enough to break the sound barrier, hard enough to snap him in half before he even hit the bottom, hard enough that he was never going to be able to climb his way back up. But he’s a veteran with a missing arm and a pile of baggage he can’t even shoulder some days. You’d looked at him like he was something good. You’d looked at him like you thought it could’ve been easy, to fall right back.
And Bucky couldn’t have that.
The only thing worse than never having you would’ve been having you, and breaking you. Letting you down. Letting you love him, then letting you realize how wrong you were, to bother to try. So he’d pushed you away.
Steve said that didn’t give him the right to sulk about it all the time. Steve was probably right, but Bucky sulked anyway. It was all he had, now.
That, and hating your stupid fucking boyfriend.
Brock. Dumb name. Sounded like rock. Bucky had a better name. He’d even let you call him James, like you used to. You’re the only person that ever made Bucky sound like an insult instead of a marker of affection. He wants to go back to being James, just for you. But he can’t. Because of Brock.
“What does she even see in him,” he mutters, and Steve sighs. Again.
“I don’t know, but-“
“He’s not that good looking,” Bucky narrows his eyes at Brock. Leaning over the table. Grabbing your arm. Bucky should be the one touching you. “His dick is probably small.”
“I- Uh- Yeah, sure-“
“She deserves better-“
“Better like you?”
That makes Bucky’s head snap to the side. Steve doesn’t even blink, his brows raised in almost mocking gentleness. It pisses Bucky off sometimes, how he’s not allowed to be pissed at Steve.
“You know she’s with him because he asked her, right?” Steve says, and Bucky scowls.
“That’s not- I- He doesn’t treat her right-“
“And you do?”
Bucky tastes bile. Steve still doesn’t back down, just giving Bucky that sympathetic puppy look, and Bucky wonders if he digs himself another foot down, Steve will do him a favor and bury him alive.
“You could just- Talk to her,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky snorts.
“She doesn’t care what I gotta say, Stevie-“
“Because you made her think you don’t care at all.”
“I don’t care,” Bucky snaps, louder than he means to, and Steve gives him an unimpressed look. Bucky scowls and turns back to his drink. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t say a thing-“
“You’re thinkin’. I can hear it.”
Steve sighs. Bucky’s going to shove a fist into his mouth, to get him to stop. “I’m just saying, Buck,” Steve murmurs. “Nat thought she was finally going to get over Brock. Before you decided to be an ass to her all the time.”
Bucky scoffs, then pauses. He didn’t actually understand what that meant. It sounded like it meant something important, something he was really supposed to understand, but for the life of him, he can’t work out why. He turns back to Steve with a frown, ready to ask what the hell that meant, but the words are drowned in aloud smash from across the bar.
Bucky’s attention snaps to the side in a second, his body realizing what’s happening before his brain. He’s on his feet when Brock shouts at you, and walking when you shove Brock. He almost breaks into a sprint, when he sees Brock’s hand curl into a fist. It only gets slammed on the table, but Bucky’s heart still threatens to burst through his throat. The bar is crowded. Too crowded. It’s taking him too long to get to you, and Brock shouts something, and you scream something back, and some lady tries to grab Bucky to flirt, but he shoulders her off.
He almost loses you in the chaos. A door slams, and he’s not sure if it’s you or Brock. He looks around for Nat—wherever you went, she’ll be there too—but can’t find her. He stumbles to the table, and his mouth goes dry.
You’re not hurt, but you’re crying. You’re crouching against the wall, Nat petting your head and trying to calm you down. Brock is nowhere to be found. Smart move, Bucky thinks. He was seconds from getting his face knocked in.
“What the hell happened?” He grunts to Nat, kneeling in front of you.
She shakes her head, lips in a thin line. “I’m not sure. They started fighting, Brock smashed a glass, then just- Fucked off, I guess.”
“What’d they fight about-“
“She won’t tell me,” Nat sighs, and you glare at her under gorgeous, wet lashes.
“I’m right here,” you snap, and Nat gives you an apologetic smile.
“I know, but- You won’t tell me.”
You sniff, glancing over to Bucky, then down to the floor. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you mutter, and Nat murmurs your name.
“Was it-“
“Yeah.”
Nat scowls, and Bucky feels like he’s being left out of something.
“Nat, I-“ You grab her wrist, voice small and pleading. “I just want to go home.”
Natasha’s throat bobs, but she nods. Bucky frowns. Nat’s been drinking. Everyone’s been drinking except you and him, and he doesn’t think you should be driving when you can’t even get off the floor.
“I’ll take her,” he mutters, and you shoot him a poisoned glare.
“No.”
“Listen, kid, I’m offering to help-“
“I don’t want your help,” you sneer, and Bucky sighs. He deserves that. He knows he does. Doesn’t make it any easier or sweeter to swallow.
Natasha mutters your name, watching Bucky from the corner of her eye. “It’s either him, or an uber-“
“Uber,” you say immediately, and Nat gives you a flat look.
“That wasn’t a real option. You’re going with Bucky.”
You pout, inching away from him, and Bucky’s face burns. He stares at his hands, trying to pretend he can’t hear your whispers. Trying to pretend they don’t cut into a sensitive, raw, needy part of his heart that no amount of self-inflicted burns has ever been able to steel.
“I don’t want to go with Bucky,” you hiss at Nat, and Nat just shrugs.
“I don’t want you to be alone right now-“
“Then you get in the Uber with me.” Your voice is small. Almost pleading. It breaks Bucky’s heart.
Nat shakes her head, voice gentle, as if you’re a wounded animal. “Bucky will drop you at my place, alright? I just have to take care of something first.”
Your nose wrinkles, but you agree. Bucky doesn’t think you’re happy about it. He can almost feel the disdain emitting from your body like radiation, as Nat helps you to Bucky’s car. He decides not to tell you that Nat’s thing is probably hunting down Brock and killing him. Bucky would join her, if he didn’t have to deal with you. He doesn’t think there’s anything more noble. His worry is devotion. It’s a shame you’re blinder than a real god, to see it.
The drive is dead quiet. Bucky glances at the radio every few minutes, but loses the debate with him over and over to turn it on. He doesn’t want you to hate his taste in music.
You curl up against the window, as far away from him as you can get without jumping onto the freeway. Bucky drums his fingers on the wheel to fill the silence. Your breathing has steadied from short, shallow gasps, but he can still hear you sniffle every few seconds. It makes his vision line with red, and he knows he’s the worst kind of hypocrite, but knowing never helped anyone. He doesn’t understand, how Brock could treat you so horribly. He doesn’t understand how you—beautiful, smart, sweet but unwavering and sharp—could tolerate it.
Bucky parks the car outside of Nat’s. You don’t move, and he wishes he could build the anger to make you. But you smell like vanilla and something summery, and you look like an angel in the streetlights, and all he can feel is bubbling red and green. It spills out of his mouth like vomit, before he can garner the will and kindness to shove it down.
“What do you see in him,” Bucky mutters, and you look over with a frown.
You stare at him. Bucky stares back. He loves it when you do that. It’s a little off-putting, but he thinks he can tell you the truth with his eyes. He’s not sure, though, if you ever see it.
“He’s good to me,” you mutter finally, and Bucky snorts. “He is, don’t- Don’t fucking make that face-“
“I’m not makin’ a face-“
“You are,” you point at him, eyes narrowed, voice cold. “He is good to me, Bucky.”
Bucky raises his brows. It only seems to work you up more.
“Fuck you,” you spit. “Brock loves me, he- He’s- You just don’t see the side of him that I do-“
“I don’t think he’s got enough sides to hide anything, doll,” Bucky drawls, and you scowl.
“You’re just jealous.”
Bucky recoils, fingers tightening on the wheel. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he grunts, and you roll your eyes.
“Fuck off, it’s so obvious-“
Bucky mutters your name in warning, but you just keep going.
“You’re jealous that someone like me could have a partner that loves them, when you’re alone. But guess what, Bucky,” you lean forward, words spitting over Bucky’s slack face. “You’re going to die alone, and I’m not, so fuck you.”
You push the door open, and storm out onto the street. Bucky’s frozen in the drivers seat for a second, a faint ringing in his ears. You’re right. You’re right, and it’s his fault. Not about Brock—that piece of shit isn’t capable of love, even for someone as perfect as you—but- But-
He’s moving before he can think about why. Shoving his way out of the car and shouting your name, chasing you up the sidewalk like a madman. You ignore him. Of course you do. It’s what he’s fucking earned.
“Just- Wait-“ He catches your wrist. You yank it away.
“Leave me alone, Bucky-“
“No, I got somethin’ I wanna say-“
“Well I don’t want to hear it-“
“I know, I know, just-“
“No!” You scream, round on him with a pointed finger, and Bucky feels something split right down his chest at the tears in your eyes. “No, I don’t want to fucking- I- You don’t get to tell me anything about- About anything. This is your fault, your-“
You cut yourself off, and Bucky blinks, leaning back. “My fault?” He laughs in disbelief, when you nod, not meeting his eyes. “How the hell is it my fault?”
You wrap your arms over your stomach, gaze fixed firmly on your shoes. “Brock thinks you want to fuck me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s heart falters in his chest. “That’s what the- The stupid fight way about, alright? And he thinks I shouldn’t be around you anymore, because of it.”
Bucky gapes at you. He’s trying to think of a way to ask that isn’t selfish. He can’t come up with it. “But you’re not going to listen to him, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not like you like being around me,” you mumble, and Bucky’s hands fists.
“That’s not the fuckin’ point, doll-“
“Isn’t it?” You give him a tired look. “Don’t you want me to just- Just go away? Aren’t you fucking happy, that you’re never going to have to deal with me again?”
Bucky’s throat his too tight to speak. This is a walking nightmare, but he can’t seem to wake up. You’re right. This is the part he’s supposed to want, where you bury him and he never has to see you’re beauty and wonder what if. But he’s selfish. He’s too fucking selfish, and he doesn’t want the sun to go away. He can’t lose you. Not like this, not when you seem to have halfway lost yourself.
You give him a prompting glare, tipping up your chin when he’s been silent too long. He swallows. His fingers flex, and he works his jaw until he can speak.
“Don’t,” he rasps, watching you under hooded eyes. “Don’t go away.”
You laugh, but it doesn’t sound read. “Don’t do that, Bucky, don’t act like you care-“
“I do care-“
“No.” You point at him, face tight. “No, you don’t- You don’t-“
Bucky catches your hand, and you immediately go quiet. He takes a small step forward. You don’t take a step back.
“I care,” he croaks, squeezing your hand once. “I care, doll. I- I’ve always cared, I-“
He moves to his knees. You stare down at him, like you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. Bucky doesn’t need you to do anything. He only prays at the only alter he knows—your feet—that you’ll listen.
“I love you,” he whispers, and your mouth falls open.
“Bucky…”
“I know I’ve been a dick,” he rasps. “I know, and I- I don’t expect you to forgive me, or say anything back. If you wanna slap me, I’ll let you. I’ll let you do anything, doll, just- Please don’t listen to him.” Bucky swallows, daring to wrap a hand around the back of your thighs, silently begging you to stay. “If he’s told you no one else is gonna love you, he’s dead wrong. If you’re letting him tell you what to do ‘cause you think it’s the only way to make him stay, let him fucking leave. You deserve better. You’ve always deserved better. Than-“ His words catch, painful in his throat. “Than me. But also than him. You deserve better.”
He digs his fingers into your soft skin, and you swallow, blinking down at him with soft, glossy eyes.
“I love you,” Bucky echoes like a prayer. “I swear I love you, doll. And I really don’t expect nothing, but- Please.”
You straighten up, and Bucky tries not to flinch when you cup his cheek. Your hand is so warm, so soft. He doesn’t deserve the touch.
“Bucky,” you murmur. “Stand up.”
He blinks at you, then scrambles to his feet. Your mouth twitches. He thinks that’s a good sign.
You stand barely an inch apart, staring into each others eyes. Bucky lets every bit of himself crumble away, until the only thing left for you to see is his love. You let out a sharp breath, and glance to his parted lips.
“You mean it?” You whisper, and he nods in a heartbeat.
“With everything I got.”
You laugh, soft and nervous, and meet his gaze again. “But- You were such an asshole- I thought you hated me.”
“Never,” he whispers. “I- I mean- I was an asshole, but I never hated you doll, ever. I just- I kinda loved you too much, and I’m an idiot-“
Bucky’s voice dies easily, when you push up and press a small kiss to his lips. His hands twitch to catch you, but he holds them back. Not daring to move. Not daring to let this fall apart. Your lips are so soft, and you taste like that sugary drink you’d been nursing, and he thinks he might have just taken a hit of a drug he’s never going to kick.
He’s panting, when you pull away. You smile at him, shy and gorgeous, brows raised in challenge, and he laughs like a ruined man. He dives back down, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you hard. Kissing you the way he dreamed, your lips molding together and body arching up to his touch, your tongue darting over his lip before he squeezes your jaw, and you open for him with a moan. He chuckles and spits into your mouth, wrapping an arm around your waist. You scratch his neck and press back with twice the force, dragging a low groan from his chest.
Bucky yanks himself back, and you stare at each other, flushed and panting. You find it in you to speak first. Bucky’s not surprised.
“You love me?” You demand, and he nods.
“All the time.”
You nod, and he thinks he’s got the kind of luck they talk about in kings.
“Good,” you mutter, straightening the collar of his shirt before fixing him with that enchanting, dangerous stare. “Prove it.”
Bucky smiles, and presses a harsh but loving kiss to your lips. You really have no fucking idea.
Proving it is going to be the easy part.
You’ve had dreams about this. So many dreams that living through it takes a lot of convincing, for you to believe it’s reality. You think, through the power of Bucky’s hands and lips, you’re going to get there.
You kissed and stumbled into Nat’s house with your hands roaming and feet tripping over everything but each other. Bucky had ripped your shirt over your head and kicked the door behind him, letting his searing mouth wander over your jaw, your cheeks, your nose and back to your lips. You’d pulled the buckle of his jeans while he made quick work of your bra, using the straps to pull you right back against his chest before tossing it the same way as your shirt.
“Look at you,” he’d muttered, palming your breast with an air of awe to his every word. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.”
You’d flushed and kissed him before he could say any more nice things. They were already making your heart soft and prone to forgiveness. The kind you were trying to make him earn, even if he was probably about to get it for free.
Bucky slid his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you like it was a movie. You’d melted into him, clinging to the hooks of his jeans and letting him angle your face further back. You’d tugged him closer and he’d grunted, wrapping his full bicep around your neck and sliding his hand on your breast down your side. He’d cupped your ass and squeezed it before dipping his fingers under your waistband, pulling it back and forth as he dragged his tongue over your lower lip.
“Wanna take care of you,” he’d muttered, like he was speaking to himself. “You gonna let me take care of you?
“Ye- Yeah,” you breathe, nails digging into his wrist. You’re trying to stay steady. You’re not sure it’s working, with how the room is spinning and your skin is getting heated. “Yes, please.”
Bucky chuckles, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. Your mouth falls open with a tiny gasp, and his brows furrow tight. He slides the pad of his finger between your lips, and you flick your tongue against it. Your eyes droop, and your head tips back as you start to suck on him. Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips.
“Jesus,” he rasps. “Always knew you’d be the death of me, doll.”
You coo, and Bucky’s nostrils flare. His hand drifts further down your back, hooking on your bottoms and pulling them with him. You make another soft, humming sound, smiling at him around his thumb, and his throat bobs.
“That’s it,” he rasps. “Just like that, nice and easy.”
Your bottoms fall to the floor, leaving you in only your panties. Bucky glances down, his tongue darting over his lips, and then looks right back to you. He pulls his thumb away, cups the back of your head, and pulls your face back for him to kiss. You moan against his mouth and he groans, pressing over you until there’s no space for anything else left. It’s all just Bucky, everywhere around you and so warm you start to get dizzy. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself, yanking at his shirt and trying to meet every kiss, but it’s hard. Bucky’s demanding, and you’ve wanted this for too long. Just his hands on your bare skin are better than anyone else being inside of you. It’s really unfair.
Bucky cups your pussy when your back hits the wall, and you mewl. He leans back to watch your hips roll against his hand, his eyes going fully dark and a low, rumbling grunt falling from his lips.
“Fuck, baby,” he rubs his hand back and forth, a sweet, lewd sound filling the room. “This wet, just for me?”
You nod a little shamefully, watching him under fluttering lashes. He pulls on the fabric of your panties and snaps it against your cunt, making you buck up with a squeak. Bucky chuckles and rubs over the hurt, leaning down until your lips are brushing together.
“You want me to play nice?” He whispers. “Or fuck you like I’ve been dreamin’ about.”
You blink at him, mouth hanging open and face burning. It’s hard to think, with the drag of his rough, gentle hand against your cunt. For a little while you just stare at him helplessly, and Bucky takes a small mercy, snapping your panties back against your pussy, shocking your heartbeat enough to make you think.
Like he’s been dreaming. You’ve been dreaming too. Holding fantasies about Bucky giving it to you just how you want, walking that thin line you never trusted Brock to balance on. But you trust Bucky. Your Bucky, before the whole mess. The Bucky you can see so clearly now, features shining with affection as he watches you already start to come apart.
“That,” you say, small but certain. “Do- Do it like that.”
Bucky pauses. “Like-“
“How you want,” you whisper, and he goes still.
Bucky scans over your face for an ounce of hesitation. You don’t have any, so you hold his gaze.
He lets out a rough, broken breath. “You sure-“
You press up and kiss him hard. He gets the idea.
Bucky rips your panties off like they’re made of paper, drops one arm under your thighs, and picks you up with barely a grunt. You squeal and try to push away on instinct, but he’s strong. Stronger than you thought, and you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time ogling his muscles. He slams his mouth over yours for a brief, hungry kiss, spits down your throat, and tosses you right over his shoulder.
“Bucky-“
“Shh,” he slaps your ass and you squeak again, dropping your face right into his shoulder. He squeezes over the pleasurable sting then starts to walk, keeping you steady over him.
“Where- Where are we going?” You try to push up to see over his shoulder. Bucky lands another spank on your ass, and you fall right back down with a whine. “James- Shit-“
He’s dragging his fingers over your sopping wet cunt, smearing the mess everywhere he can, humming while he walks. Your thighs clench, but that only seems to give him easier access, and you whine.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Ah,” Bucky slaps your pussy, and you muffle your moan against his body. “That’s not what I want to hear, doll.”
You swallow and shake your head, bunching his shirt between your trembling fingers. Bucky spanks your pussy again and it clenches around nothing. His thumb drifts, teasing over your clit in tiny brushes, back and forth and back and forth. You whimper, but he just hums, dragging two fingers through the mess between your thighs, before returning to your swollen little button.
“Come on,” he coos, encouraging and mocking all at once. “Use your words for me.”
You can’t. You muffle another moan in Bucky’s shoulder, writhing best you can in his iron grip. Bucky hums like this is casual, like he’s not already taking you apart with the lightest of touches. A door creaks open, and you barely have time to recognize the carpet of Nat’s guest room before you’re being tossed down onto the bed.
You bounce slightly, and Bucky catches your ankles, dragging you right to the edge of the mattress. You stare at him, mouth hanging open, completely unsure what to do with yourself. His lips twitch and he lowers down, pressing a gently, loving kiss to your lips. You arch up and he rubs your thighs, easing you down into his touch. You slump forward, running your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low, satisfied sound from the back of his throat.
Bucky traces his hand a little higher up your thigh, and you try not to buck into his touch. It’s not very successful, and he smiles against your lips, pinching your upper thigh. You whimper and turn your head, trying to save useless face. Bucky chuckles, sucking a small mark under your throat, then flicking his tongue against the sensitive skin.
“James…” You moan, and he goes still. You turn nervously, worried you somehow, already, ruined it. “Bucky?”
His throat bobs. He grabs your chins between two fingers, eyes boring through you, like he can see all your hazy, love-colored thoughts.
“Buck-“
“James,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lip. “Keep callin’ me James, doll.”
You nod, a faint flush burning your cheeks. It’s not even from the way he’s touching you. Not right now. James isn’t a name Bucky lets anyone use. You used to, but then he started pushing you, and you didn’t want to lose that last sacred closeness, of being allowed to use his nickname. But if James is what he wants. He’ll get it. You’ll give him almost anything, right now.
“James,” you breathe, and Bucky’s throat bobs. He leans down for another, slower kiss. You close your eyes and let him control the depth, the unmeasured but drizzle passion like honey. When he pulls away you’re breathless, and he’s on his knees.
Naked and on his knees.
You make a tiny sound, gaping shamelessly at his cock. It’s thick and heavy looking, leaking with pre-cum and probably more than you can take. But you want to try. You want to drool around it in every possible way, looking up and Bucky and getting that faint, affectionate smile.
“You seein’ something you like?” Bucky teases, and you give him a hopeless, embarrassed look. He chuckles and grabs himself, stroking slowly and holding your gaze. “You want it bad, huh,” he mutters, smearing some drool over your cheek. “He ain’t been fuckin’ your right, either. Left you so needy for so long, you get all quiet just seeing a real cock?”
Your face is on fire, but your core is throbbing and aching. You drop your brow against Bucky’s, fixated on his fist, pumping that massive dick.
“Spit on it,” Bucky grunts, and you obey thoughtless, letting some of your need fall from your lips to Bucky’s shining cock. He groans and smashes his lips over yours, his hand pumping faster until he’s groaning your name against your lips.
Then he pulls back, lets go of himself, and just stares at your slack, desperate expression. You swallow, and his lips curve into a faint, starved smile.
“You need to be treated like a whore, huh,” he mutters. “Fucked like a toy ‘till you remember how nice it is, to have my attention.”
Oh, God. Your thighs try to press together. Bucky shoves them apart, using his thumb to part your puffy, swollen pussy lips.
“Pretty little thing,” he mutters, pressing over your clit before dragging his thumb back down. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll fuck you right. Gonna open you up,” he presses his thumb hard against your entrance, smirking at your tiny sound. “Then give you exactly what you need. That sound good?”
“Ye- Yeah,” you manage to babble, remembering his thing about words. “Yes, please.”
Bucky smiles, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. “Good girl.”
You whine, and Bucky doesn’t waste time. He sinks fully down, kissing over your tummy as he shoves your legs fully apart. You watch him, breathing ragged, and weave your fingers through his hair for balance. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other. Nips at the sensitive skin, then flicks his tongue over the hurt before kissing it again. He takes his time, kissing all around your cunt, but never letting his mouth go where you really fucking need.
“James,” you whine, tugging on his hair. “Don’t- Don’t tease.”
He chuckles, his lips brushing right against your clit. You squirm, but he holds your thighs down and gives you a stern look.
“I’ll tease you all I fuckin’ want, babydoll,” he mutters, giving the quickest, lightest kiss to your clit. “You’re too pretty and reactive not to play with.”
You whimper, unable to come up with a response that isn’t a fuck you. As fun as it would be to push his buttons and find out just what punishment under Bucky’s attention is—being dragged over his lap, forced to sit on his cock until you’re drooling, brought right up to the edge over and over but never being allowed to fall—you’re too desperate right now. You might cum just from looking at him, it’s been so long, and he seems to know it.
“Needy pussy,” he mutters, tracing his thumb in circles around your clit. “Gonna take real good care of you, pretty girl.”
You mewl because god help you, you really believe him. Bucky pulls back the hood of your clit, blows on it in a way that makes your whole body seize up, then presses a long, slow kiss to the bundle of nerves.
“Fuck- James- James-“
“I know,” he coos, tongue flicking against your pulsing cunt. “Such a greedy fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for me.” He kisses your clit again, making out with it until you’re panting and struggling to sit up. “Lucky I’m feelin’ generous,” he mutters, and whatever restraint he’d been pretending to have was gone.
Bucky shoves his face into your pussy, his beard scraping your thighs and his tongue licking a long, rough stripe up your core until it hits your clit, swirls, and dives back down. Plunging in and out of your dripping hole before repeating the lick, playing with your clit more and more every time. Thick hands keep your legs spread when you start to get restless, but he lets you buck freely up into his mouth. He seems to enjoy it, how you pull on his hair and cry his name. If anything, his mouth just works harder against you, tongue flicking against your clit in rapid, tiny strokes that send you into a frenzy.
You fall back with a sob, grinding up and craning your neck to try and keep watching him. It’s a beautiful sight, Bucky drowning himself between your thighs. He winks at you, pressing his tongue flat over your entrance, and you fall back with a moan. You’re getting there fast. It would be embarrassing, with anyone but Bucky. He just kisses your thigh and bumps his nose against your clit, muttering you’re close against your skin before diving right back in.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You grab at the sheets, your pussy throbbing like a ticking bomb before an explosion. “Bucky- I- I’m gonna-“
His teeth graze your clit, and he wraps his lips tight around the nub, sucking on it hard. You scream as your vision goes white, your hips flying off the bed, but Bucky doesn’t stop. He lets wraps his arms around each thigh, shoves your legs close around his head, and keeps sucking on your clit, it starts to get all tingly and numb in the best way. It’s almost like he’s tickling it with his tongue, the pressure of his mouth perfect and unbearable, your eyes rolling back in your head as you writhe.
“Oh- Oh my god-“ You sob, pushing at his head. “Bucky- I- I can’t, please-“
He kisses your clit a little more gently, spanks your pussy, and gives you a stern look. “Yes, you can.”
It doesn’t seem to be something that’s up for argument.
Bucky keeps you pinned to his face, sucking and sucking and sucking, no real care for what else you do. You cry and pull at the sheets, trying and climb away with no avail, and end up rolling onto your stomach, your face pressed into the sheets. Bucky still stays locked against your pussy, the feeling only intensifying when he’s beneath you. You’re all but sitting on his face, grinding you cunt down onto his jaw, sobbing into the sheets as your body becomes taut and wired and ready to snap.
A second orgasm rolls over you like a thunderstorm. Wet and loud and hot. You gush against Bucky’s face, tears starting to stream down your face from the overstimulation. You haven’t even had one proper orgasm in… longer than you want to admit. Brock never really gave you anything more than a shiver, and your patience in your own body was limited to a vibrator and ten minutes before a dull, anti-climatic orgasm that didn’t feel like much, but still made you too sensitive to keep going. Bucky just pulled two out of you, with his mouth alone.
He pulls back when you’re trembling, leaving a last, gentle kiss over your clit.
“Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he mutters, giving it one more spank before he starts to crawl over your body. “Coulda died there, doll, I swear.”
He laughs to himself, and you whimper against the sheets. Bucky pauses, caging you against the mattress with massive arms, and slowly rolls you over onto your back. You stare up at him, starry-eyed and spent, and his mouth twitches down.
“You alright?” He murmurs, brushing the hair from your face. You nod, and he doesn’t look convinced. “Are you-“
“Bucky,” you whisper, and his throat bobs. “If you don’t fuck me, I’m leaving.”
He laughs, throaty and dry, and ducks back down to give you another, slower kiss. One hand slides down your body, palming at your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers between pinching gently. Bucky smiles, at the tiny whine it pulls out of you.
“Could spend forever here,” he mutters. “Givin’ every single part of you the attention it deserves. Sucking on these tits while you ride my thigh. Bending you over and opening up that cunt with just my hands, just playing with your ass until you’re drippin’ on my lap.” He groans, his cock twitching against your thigh. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, babydoll. You got no idea.”
You hum, the tears on your cheeks shiner than before. He means it. Whatever doubts you’d had before fade, because you’re sure. Bucky means it.
He settles himself fully between your legs, the more aggressive, dominant mask seeming to fracture, like light splitting through the clouds. Always there, even when he pretends. Coming out when you most need to see it.
“Gonna go right in,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Opened you up real good. Shouldn’t even hurt.”
You hum, pressing your face against his neck. Bucky rubs his cock against your cunt slowly, covering himself in your arousal before tapping his head against your clit—almost ceremoniously, like paying homage—and notching himself against your entrance.
The stretch isn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Bucky’s still big, so big you can feel it in your throat, so big you don’t think you’ve ever been this full, but he’d prepped you so well, it’s just a faint burn before it molds into pleasure. Bucky’s warm breath fans over the top of your neck as he watches your pussy mold around his cock. He moans something like your name against your skin, and you wrap your arms tight around his head.
“Feels so good,” you moan as he pushes further in. “So- So good.”
Bucky grunts, and you whimper as he bottoms out, balls pressed tight to your ass.
For a few moments, neither of you move. Bucky looks up at you with a wrecked expression you can feel in your chest, and you give him a faint, nervous smile.
“You know I love you too, right?” You say, because it’s the only thing you can think.
Bucky’s throat bobs. He doesn’t seem to have any words, and gives you a slow, romantic kiss. He rolls his hips experimentally, and you gasp against his lips. He’s curved in a way that presses right up against your g-spot, and it’s almost like a massage. You clench down, and Bucky grunts, but he repeats the motion anyway.
“James- Ooooh-“ Your eyes roll back, and Bucky sucks and kisses over your jaw, grinding his cock right against that soft, gooey spot. “Fuck- James-“
Bucky makes a deep, almost feral sound, and starts to move faster. Shallow, brutal thrusts that split you right open. You grab his bicep for dear life, and he watchers your every reaction with a sharp attention. You mewl when he does a swivel move, almost flying off the bed, and he pins you down with a hand splayed over your stomach.
“Feel that?” He grunts, pulling all the way out before slamming back in. “You fuckin’ feel that, babydoll? How good we feel together? Greedy little pussy, swallowin’ my cock up like the whore you are- Fuck-“
Bucky falls back over you, kissing you with spit and teeth and brutal force. You wrap your arms around your neck, moaning loud and shameless as he picks up his pace. Small, measured thrusts turn into the bed creaking, Bucky’s cock drilling into your pussy like he’s trying to knock every thought from your head. It’s working. You’re a drooling, wound up mess below him, and he grins against your lips.
“That’s my girl,” he mocks. “Smart head so fuckin’ empty, when I got you on my cock. No one else makes you feel like this, do they?”
You don’t answer—you can’t—and Bucky smacks your clit.
“Do they?”
You shake your head, babbling out a pathetic half-answer. “N- No-“
“Who fucks you right?” Bucky demands, words harsh but touch gentle when he grabs your jaw.
“You.” Tears start to fall down your cheeks again. “You, Bucky- Please-“
You moan as he hits that spot again, and Bucky groans, dropping down to kiss the tears away, then mold his lips back over yours.
“Damn right, me,” he grunts, skin slapping against skin, the wet, sinful sound of him bullying into your cunt almost drowning out the words. “My fuckin’ girl.”
Bucky leans up, and you almost cry for him before you realize what he’s doing. Bucky grabs your knees with one arm and presses them up to your chest, leaning down to kiss you as he fucks you deeper into the mattress. The angle is deeper like this. You can feel it everywhere, from your toes to your lips. You make a strangled, undignified sound when Bucky’s thumb returns to your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles.
“Cum with me, babydoll,” he grunts, kissing your calf and rutting into your drooling, pulsing cunt. “Come one, wanna fill you up, pump this pussy up ‘till everyone knows, just-“ He groans. “Gimme just one more.”
You don’t know where it comes from. You didn’t think you had it in you, but Bucky manages to pull it out. A third orgasm, slower and longer than the last too. Hotter, as well. Pooling in your gut before flooding out of your cunt. Down your thighs and over Bucky’s cock as you flutter and he doubles over with a roar.
You’re not sure what’s Bucky’s cum and what’s yours. There’s just wet stickiness, filling you up everywhere until your eyes are unfocused and your body is twitching. Bucky kisses you through the orgasms, fucking shallowly into your pussy like he can’t help himself. When you both ease down, you’re blinking at the ceiling with heavy eyes and a warm feeling blooming back into your chest. Free and light and easy, in a way you never expected yourself to have.
This is going to be a mess in the morning. Right now, you don’t really care.
“I guess Brock was right,” you muse. “You did want to sleep with me.”
Bucky sits up with a glare. “Don’t say that when I’m still inside of you.”
You giggle, reaching up to brush some hair from his brow. His gaze softens and he catches your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.
“Do you believe me?” He mutters, and it’s small and worried. As if, after that, you’d somehow ever let him get away again.
“Yeah,” you smile, and his shoulders slump in relief.
“Thank god-“
“But,” you squeeze his hand. “I think you should keep proving it.”
Bucky chuckles, giving you an amused look before dropping his face right back into your boobs. You beam at the ceiling and pet the top of his head, neither of you in a rush to clean up. You probably should. You really should. Bucky seems to realize why at the same moment you do.
“Nat’s gonna kill us,” he groans, and you snort.
“Yeah. You.”
Bucky props his chin on your chest. “You too-“
“No,” you shake your head. “I’m her favorite.”
“That’s-“ Bucky sighs, and drops his face back down. “Yeah.”
You laugh, and he grins against your boob.
“Worth it,” he mutters, and you smile like a fool.
Because yeah. It was.
✦End note: sometimes... cheating is okay!✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
⤷ thunderbolts*!bucky barnes x apothecary fem!reader
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, thunderbolts fluff, opposites attract, slight enemies to lovers, grumpy and sunshine, sex pollen, dom!bucky, bucky is hungryyy, rough sex, angry sex, oral (m!receiving), intense eye contact
⭐︎ word count: 8.6k
⭐︎ a/n: probably my final thunderbolts fic huzzah before bucky gets slimed in doomsday (will edit this in a few months when the movie comes out)
synopsis:
The team is in dire need of a healer. So when Alexei mentions that he knows someone who's proficient with medicinal herbs, Bucky has his hesitations. How could someone possibly heal people with stupid plants and minerals? Then, upon meeting, you accidentally give Bucky a tincture that leaves him feeling all fuzzy and warm, proving his concerns exactly right. And only you can help him get rid of his ache.
← previous fic | main masterlist
There is one thing many people know about the once Thunderbolts*, now appointed New Avengers, and no one knows it better than the team themselves: they get their asses kicked. A lot.
As a result, the team is now stuck trying to find a reliable healer who can patch up three super soldiers, a man who can turn into a void, an ex-widow, and a woman who can phase in and out of the visible spectrum.
“There’s this woman I know,” Alexei rambles for what feels like the fourth time today, despite it barely being noon. “Lovely lady. Lives in some... cottage somewhere.” He waves a hand like the gesture itself can fill in the blanks. “She crafts these strange potions that can mend pretty much anything!”
“What, like a wizard?” John asks, raising a brow from where he sits on the couch.
“Wizards don’t exist,” Bucky interjects matter of factly.
“No, not a wizard.” Alexei wags his fat finger. “Better than a wizard. She gathers all these herbs and plants and—”
“So... an apothecary?” Ava asks, one hand settling on her hip.
“What the hell is an apothecary?” Yelena squints, her gaze flicking between the group.
Alexei stands there, dumbfounded, mouth hanging slightly open at everyone else's audacity to interrupt. “If you people would actually listen to me and let me explain, then you would know.”
Bob, slouched lazily on the couch beside John, raises a finger with a guileless smile. “I’m listening.”
“Thank you, Bob—”
“I don’t need to hear any more,” Bucky interrupts, pushing himself off the seat with a groan. “We are not resorting to an apothecary.”
Alexei, dramatic as ever, throws his hands into the air in disbelief. He opens his mouth, ready to argue, but Bucky is just as ready to shut him down with a dismissive wave.
“I’m sure there are plenty of capable doctors out there with futuristic, high-quality equipment that can keep up with all of our abilities,” Bucky says gruffly, sweeping a wary gaze around the room as if daring someone to argue.
And John, of course, does.
“I don’t think that’s within our budget.”
“I can’t believe we’re the Avengers on a budget,” Bob mutters, disappointed.
“New Avengers,” Yelena corrects with a pointed look. “Don’t forget the New.”
Bucky can already feel himself aging the longer he stays in this room. “Regardless, we are not going to some old woman who plays with flowers and leaves and calls herself a healer.”
“She’s not an old woman,” Alexei mutters quietly, mostly because no one is listening to him anyway. “She’s quite beautiful, actually—”
“I don’t care,” Bucky cuts him off immediately, his face twisting into a muddled expression.
“We’re going to find another healer—an actual licensed doctor who knows what they’re doing. And that’s final.”
Before anyone else can get a word in, he storms out of the room, his boots echoing against the floor. No one dares speak until the door clicks shut behind him.
Once the brooding soldier is gone, everyone finally lets out the breath they’ve been holding.
Yelena rolls her eyes. “Since when did he become the leader?”
Ava, John, and Bob shrug.
Yelena sighs before nodding at Alexei. “Tell us more about this apothecary friend of yours.”
It’s not often that you get visitors at your little cottage, tucked away beneath towering trees and overgrown grass. On the rare occasions you do expect someone, they already know your policy: all correspondence goes through mail-in letters. From there, you prepare whatever elixirs, salves, or tinctures they need—a process that usually takes days—before they stop by to collect their order and go on their merry way.
So you can only imagine your surprise when you open the door to find Alexei of all people standing on your front porch.
“Alexei?” you frown, making no effort to hide your confusion. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you.”
You peek past him, only to find what looks like a misfit party of five lingering at the foot of your steps like its Halloween and they’re waiting for their candy.
Most of them look... reasonably okay to be there. Or, at the very least, resigned to it. But one man in particular looks like he had been dragged across the country by his metal arm and held at gunpoint just to stand still and play nice.
“And I certainly wasn’t expecting visitors,” you add.
Alexei chuckles, scratching at his beard. “Yeah... well, you know how it is. When duty calls. Or something like that.”
You raise a brow. “And what exactly is your duty calling for?”
“Our team needs a healer.”
To your surprise, Bucky is the first to speak, despite being the most reluctant to come here in the first place.
“And Alexei vouched for you,” he continues. “Though I don’t know how much I trust his judgment.” He mutters the last part under his breath, but you hear him just fine.
Ava nudges him in the arm, a silent warning to show some class.
“We’re interested in working with you,” Yelena says, deciding to take over. She steps onto your porch, subtly nudging Alexei aside. “As the team’s medic. You’d be staying at the base—”
You blink before letting out a small chuckle, lifting a hand to stop her.
“I’m sorry. You must be mistaken,” you say, offering the group an awkward smile. “I don’t know what Alexei told you, or what you’ve heard, but I don’t work with groups.”
Yelena crosses her arms with a frown. “Why not?” she asks. It is ironic, considering everyone in this group was a lone wolf before they were forcibly lumped together.
You gesture to the lush greenery surrounding the cottage—to the bright red strawberry bushes and the carefully tended patch of soil near the front.
“Because everything my soul requires is right here, rooted in this very earth,” you say, your voice taking on a dreamy, sing-songy cadence that gives them goosebumps. Not in a good way. “The soil sings to me. I cannot possibly hear the secrets of my remedies if I am near danger. All the chaos disrupts their vibrations. It simply isn’t safe for me, or for my leafy little green children.”
“Oh my god,” Bucky groans, his face twisting into a sour cringe. “I’m meeting you guys back inside the Quinjet. This is pointless—”
“Bucky,” John warns over his shoulder. “We did not travel all this way just to turn around and leave. Let’s hear her out. Don’t be rude.”
That makes Bucky stop, his brow twitching in annoyance at being lectured by John Walker of all people. He mutters something grumpy under his breath, crossing his arms and staying put.
“Okay, fine,” Yelena shrugs, “but it’s just as my teammate said—we didn’t travel all this way for nothing. Can we maybe work something out? How about we try one of your elixirs that we can take on the go? Just to keep us from getting killed on our missions until we find a real doctor.” She winces slightly at her last phrase. “No offense.”
“None taken,” you say, dismissing it with a serene smile. “Though, my precious brews are not mere trinkets to be pulled from a dusty cabinet. Each tincture must be sung to, tailored specifically to the unique essence of the soul who drinks it.”
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as you eye the team warily. You already know Alexei is a super soldier of some sort, and the man with the metal arm brings a whole host of concerns. Considering the rest of the group’s heavy gear, you assume they all have their own peculiar…. afflictions.
“I can make something for each of you, but it will take time.”
“And we’ll pay you for your time,” Ava speaks up. “How long?”
“There are six of you,” you say, gesturing across the group. “It will take about a week.”
John furrows his brows. “A week? That’s too long. We keep getting our asses kicked out there, and without proper medical care, it’s only a matter of time before we’re put into the ground for good.”
You tuck your hands behind your back, tilting your head slightly. You hate talking about money—you explicitly moved out to this isolated cottage to get away from modern society and capitalism—but everything comes with a price.
“I can get it done sooner. Maybe in about two days, max. But it will cost you extra.”
The team exchanges apprehensive glances before their eyes land on Bucky, the only one still openly against this. A silent debate seems to pass between the group until Bucky finally lets out a defeated sigh. The group nods in unison, reaching a quiet agreement.
“Fine,” Yelena says. “We’ll take it. What’s the process?”
Your smile widens. “Good. I don’t need much—just a list of each person’s specific powers and abilities. When I start brewing, I need to know exactly what I am working with.”
“Okay. Sure. That makes sense.” Yelena looks around the group, crossing her arms. “But if we want this done in two days instead of seven, she’s going to need an assistant. Someone to stay behind, write all this down, and help her keep the details straight.”
The team falls silent, everyone warily looking around to see who can get out of it.
Alexei is already shaking his head, gesturing to his massive hands. Ava looks away, unwilling to sit still in a remote cottage for forty-eight hours. Bob was out of the picture—they needed Bob. John looks like he’s about to volunteer, but Yelena cuts him off with a subtle warning look. Terrible idea.
Slowly, all eyes turn and lock onto Bucky.
It actually makes perfect sense.
Bucky Barnes was a literal U.S. Congressman. If anyone on this chaotic team knows how to organize information and keep a meticulous track record, it’s him.
Bucky realizes they are all staring at him and immediately shakes his head. “No.”
“Oh, come on, Bucky,” John says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I mean… despite the whole brainwashing thing, you’re pretty good at keeping track of details. You used to read policy packets for a living. You’re perfect for it.”
“What?” Bucky scowls. “No. I haven’t even touched a single policy packet since I was in office.”
“Either way, we need someone to stay, and you’re the best fit,” Yelena interjects.
Bucky hates this. He hates the plan, and he especially hates the whole idea of an apothecary healer thing.
“Think about it,” John adds, trying to sound enthusiastic to help his case. It doesn’t. “Being out here kind of reminds you of your time back in Wakanda, doesn’t it?”
Your eyes go wide with interest. “Wakanda? That’s wonderful! I import many of my rarest herbs and minerals from Wakanda. It’s a beautiful place.”
Alexei gives Bucky a heavy pat on the back, though it comes off more like a shove in your direction. “Perfect. Now you two have something to bond over.”
While you stand gleefully in the doorway, thrilled by the thought of having a personal assistant—especially one who lived in Wakanda—Bucky stands frozen, holding an energy so dark it feels like it might wither your nearby plants if he so much as glares at them.
“Yeah,” the grumpy soldier mumbles. “Perfect.”
Bucky has never seen anything like this before. When he spent time in Wakanda, it was the perfect blend of high technology and nature. Being here feels like he has been transported into a fairy tale book.
Except, you aren’t the princess. You are more like a witch, moving briskly around the cottage. You set down glass vials and stone mortars while Bucky stands by the wooden table, looking entirely out of place as he holds a blank notepad and a pen at your command.
“Alright, let’s begin with the blonde one—Yelena,” you say, tossing a handful of blue petals into a mortar. “Tell me of her physical trials. What are her abilities?”
Bucky is amused by the way veins pop out of your forearms as you work the stone pestle—likely from years of grinding and manual labor. He thinks the contradiction to the white dress and apron you are wearing is funny.
“She’s a Widow,” Bucky explains. “Came from the Red Room, so she has enhanced human conditioning—”
Before he can finish, you shoot him a look. He raises a brow in confusion, and your eyes point sharply down to the notepad in his hands to emphasize, why aren’t you writing this down?
With a reluctant sigh, he starts writing down everything he just said.
“Okay,” you huff. “And what of her endurance? Her cellular recovery?”
Bucky shrugs. “It’s good, I guess.”
You frown. You can’t tell if he’s purposefully being stubborn, or if he just isn’t understanding you.
“Can you please be a little bit more specific?”
“She recovers fine, alright?” Bucky grunts. “Just make a standard healing potion.”
You pause your work, blowing a stray strand of hair away from your face in mild frustration. You wipe your hands on your apron as you step closer to the table.
“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” you warn, meeting Bucky’s eyes. “It is incredibly important that I know these details. My elixirs are potent. If I balance the herbs incorrectly because you are being stubborn, the side effects will be disastrous. Do you want your teammate to drink a remedy for a flesh wound and end up vomiting neon green bile for a week? Or worse, having her lungs seize up because it clashed with her natural chemistry?”
Bucky makes a face, lifting his pen from the notepad as if preparing to say something smart back. But then he stops.
You furrow your brows. “What was that?”
“What was what?” he tries to play dumb, which only annoys you more.
“It looked like you had something to say,” you point out. “So, what is it?”
Bucky presses his lips together, his eyes looking innocent, and shakes his head. “I have nothing to say.”
You huff, pouring the freshly ground petals into a vial. Capping the lid, you give it a gentle shake before holding it out to Bucky.
“Here,” you say. “Try it.”
Bucky raises a brow, hesitantly taking the glass from your hands. “I thought this was for Yelena?”
“Based on the very vague details you’ve given me, it seems like you, Yelena, and John share similar capabilities. The tinctures I’m brewing for the three of you won’t differ by much—this is just the base.”
He hesitates, swirling the mysterious liquid and eyeing it with suspicion. “So, what, I’m your test subject?”
You give him a bright and serene smile that makes him visibly uncomfortable. “Well, we have to test them all eventually, don’t we? Don’t let a single drop go to waste.”
Bucky studies the smile on your face. Ever since he arrived, he’s felt like you’ve taken a personal delight in getting on his nerves. What started out as natural incompatibility has quickly turned into a deliberate effort to get him riled up. It is no wonder you work alone.
Knowing that arguing with you will accomplish nothing and only delay his sweet release from this cottage and your presence, he gives up. With a defeated sigh and a wary glance in your direction, he pops the cap and downs the vial in one gulp.
He sets the empty vial back down on the wooden table with a clink—just to emphasize that he did exactly as he was told.
“How do you feel?” you ask with a curious tilt of your head.
Bucky shrugs casually. “I didn’t have any injuries to begin with, so I feel fine.”
You nod with an approving hum. “Good.” Stepping back over to your station, you add, “Let me know if you experience any strange side effects. I’m going to prepare the rest of the vials using that same base, and then we’ll get down to the nitty-gritty.”
As you line up empty vials and neatly label each one with the team members’ names, Bucky nods in satisfaction. He’s pleased that things are moving much faster than he anticipated.
But as the minutes tick by, Bucky feels himself growing increasingly restless.
The air in the cottage suddenly feels thick, hot, and suffocating. It has nothing to do with the plants or the aromas—and yet he can smell every single note. He can pick up the faint, sweet scent of your sweat from across the room. Every grind of your pestle echoes in his ears, and he can hear every soft rustle of your clothes as you move.
He swallows hard, but his throat is bone-dry. He tries to focus on his own station—on anything else—but his eyes keep drifting back to you.
When you pause to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his breath hitches. His heart stutters. When you absently lick your dry lips while double-checking a label, a heavy ache coils tight in his gut.
What the hell is happening?
He grips the edge of the counter, fighting the dizziness consuming him. His clothes feel suffocating, his entire body is burning up, and his nerves are spiraling out of control. Every sense is firing on all cylinders, hypersensitive to the tiny cottage—and above all, to you.
He tries to adjust his hands, but his palm accidentally sweeps into an empty glass jar. It flies off the counter and shatters against the floor.
“Shit,” he curses, bending down to pick up the shards, only to prick his own fingers on a sharp edge.
When he swears again in pain, you turn sharply, gasping at the mess. “Bucky! Are you okay?”
You hurry over, catching his forearm to help him stand back up. You are surprised by how heavily he slumps against you, leaning his weight into yours just to keep his balance. You take his wrist, pulling his hand closer to inspect the slice dripping blood onto the floor.
“Let me see—you’re bleeding, hold still—”
With you standing so close, your fingers ghosting over his cut, he catches the faint scent of those blue petals on your skin—the very petals you made him consume just minutes ago.
The scent, the proximity, the gentleness of your touch—everything acts like gasoline poured onto the flame roaring in his gut. Every instinct in his mind screams at him to push you away, to bark at you to give him space, but his body rebels at the thought of losing your touch.
He breathes hard through his mouth, sweat beading at his temples as strands of dark hair fall over his face, partially shielding him from your sight.
“What—what the hell did you do to me?” he hisses, forcing himself to stare at the ground.
You blink at him, confused. “I didn’t do anything—”
You pause, a sudden thought striking you. “Oh. Oh, no. You must be experiencing a side effect from the base tincture.”
You lean closer, your soft, warm hand reaching up to brush the dark, damp strands of hair out of his face. As you rest your palm against his forehead to check his temperature, a growl rumbles deep in his chest. He flinches at the contact, but he doesn't pull away.
When he finally looks up, meeting your gaze head on, the intensity in his eyes sends a shiver straight down your spine. His bright blue irises are swallowed by his dark, blown out pupils.
“Your fever is spiking,” you breathe. “The properties in the blue petals... they must have reacted with the super soldier serum.”
“Properties?” Bucky rasps, sounding almost angry. “What properties?”
You swallow hard, worried about how he’ll react. “I’m talking aphrodisiac properties.”
Bucky’s hand tightens around your wrist. His fingers are molten, his grip strengthening in a way that keeps you in place, showing you just how frustrated he is with all this.
It is no wonder he feels so warm, his body coiled up so tight. His pants strain against his pelvis, trying to fight away the sudden tightness drawing up in his groin.
There is no doubt about it—he’s aroused.
A feeling a man like him thought he’d never get to feel again, after everything. But one sip of your potion and one sniff of your scent, it’s enough to make his heart pound like an animal in heat.
“Fix it,” Bucky commands roughly. “Or so help me God, because I won’t be able to restrain myself.”
Instead of making the tinctures for the rest of the team, you spend the entire day coming up with a remedy for Bucky. You’ve never had an experience quite like this, and you find yourself stumbling over your own feet trying to reach a resolution.
Bucky sits on a wooden stool in the corner of the cottage, his head rolled back against the wall as he watches your every step.
His blue eyes follow you as you frantically scramble from counter to shelf, from glass jars to leather bound herbology books. The serene composure he was met with from the beginning is nothing like the woman he’s seeing now. You’re nervous, muttering under your breath and spilling dried leaves across the wooden table, fighting against your internal panic to heal him.
In another circumstance, seeing you flustered might have brought him a twisted sense of satisfaction, but right now, every passing second feels like torture.
The aphrodisiac courses violently through his bloodstream, amplifying every throb between his thighs, every drop of sweat slipping down his neck, and every scent that radiates off your smooth skin.
His jaw clenches so tight, his gums ache. Watching you stumble over your own feet, picking up the wrong vials and second-guessing your every move makes him unreasonably angry.
“You’re taking too long,” Bucky growls from where he sits.
You freeze, glancing over your shoulder with a look of impatience. “I’m trying, Bucky! The super-soldier serum is accelerating the chemical process, so I have to adjust the proportions carefully, or—”
“God,” he cuts you off with another groan, his fists tightening against his thighs. “You’re stumbling all over yourself.”
You try your best to ignore the clear outline throbbing against his pants in your direction. He gets up abruptly, pushing the stool back until it clatters onto the floor. His boots stomp over to you, each step heavy with frustration, causing the bottles on the shelf to rattle. He stops right before you, his chest heaving.
“Do you even know what you’re doing? Or are you doing this on purpose?”
You blink at his sudden outburst. A scoff escapes you, offended by his accusation.
“Excuse me? No—of course not. Why on earth would you think that?”
While Bucky towers over you, you feel the heat coming off his body and dance with your own warmth. He steps closer, closing what little space remains between you until your lower back hits the edge of the counter.
“You’re punishing me,” he snaps, hot breath ghosting across your cheeks. “This is payback for not cooperating with you earlier, isn’t it?”
Your brows furrow with frustration. Here you are, delaying your work to find a remedy for the angry man before you, and he dares to question your intentions.
“I can’t believe you would assume I’d be setting you up,” you snap back.
You raise your palm, a placating gesture meant to create distance between you two, but you might as well be holding the shovel for your own grave. Your hand rests on his chest, giving him a slight push that only does more damage to his self-control.
“I am trying to save your life—or at least your dignity! If I mess up this ratio, the reaction could be permanent, or worse. So excuse me if I want to get it right!”
Bucky huffs a harsh and bitter laugh. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before he bites down in annoyance. He steps back to you, but his snarky comeback dies in his throat once his throbbing length makes contact with your leg.
He chokes out a gasp, eyes flying wide as his forehead dips against yours. The mere contact of another human makes his cock beg desperately for some sort of release—it begs his hips to rock back and forth for any friction.
He watches, wide-eyed and a face burning with humiliation, as his cock rests heavy against your thigh. All he has to do is hike up your skirt, unbutton his pants, and…
“Bucky?” you whisper, leaning in closer.
That soft, gentle voice is broken with concern for him—yet all he wants is to hear it broken with moans in pain and bliss.
He pulls back sudden and fast, as if you hurt him.
You inhale deeply, swallowing your pride for him just this once. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Where’s your bathroom?” he interrupts. “I’m going to take care of this myself.”
You blink, momentarily stunned before pointing to the right, not wanting to elaborate any further. “Just down the hall. Make a left.”
Without another word, he pries himself away from you completely. He stomps down your hallway, his frame far too large for the narrow corridor, but he makes do by tilting his body to the side. The bathroom door shuts behind him roughly, making your glass vials shake on the counter.
As the minutes tick by, you try your best not to think about what he could be doing behind those closed doors.
Grunts of frustration and breathless curses echo from the bathroom and throughout your tiny cottage. You pound the pestle harder, trying to drown out his moans, but it’s futile. Your mind can’t help but wander.
You picture him standing large and imposing in the center of your bathroom. Shirtless, probably. Broad shoulders hunching over as he dips his head, beads of sweat rolling down the side of his face while his large hand circles around his length, stroking himself fast for any form of relief.
You remember the way he pressed himself up against you not that long ago—you felt how big he was, and you’re certain he wouldn’t be able to satisfy himself with just one hand.
“Fuck.” “God—fuck…” “Mmph—”
Moans and grunts continue to filter from your bathroom, and each sound and thought sends a wave of heat deep into your stomach to pool between your legs. You bite your lip hard, subconsciously pressing your thighs together, rubbing them against each other as a soft gasp slips past your lips.
You’re shamelessly wet, your mind running wild with filthy thoughts of what the brooding man could be doing just a room over. Your fingers trace down your body until they find the sweet spot between your legs. Rubbing your clit through the thin fabric of your dress, you begin to stroke yourself, moaning in time with Bucky’s.
You feel your legs growing weak, gripping onto the table for support as you play with yourself, but then a loud grunt echoes down the hall, followed by a hard thump that shakes the entire wall.
It doesn’t sound like pleasure.
It sounds like he’s in pain.
Eyes flying wide, you abandon everything at your station—including your own pleasure—and run down the hall to tend to Bucky.
“Bucky?” you call out with a frantic knock. “Bucky? Are you okay?”
Silence, save for his labored panting.
Panic takes over your senses. “I’m coming in!”
You throw the door open to a room that is suffocatingly hot. You smell his sweat and masculine musk from where you stand by the doorframe. Bucky is hunched over the edge of the sink, half-undressed, his pants shoved down past his hips. His cock is thick, red, and throbbing angrily in his flesh hand, slick and agonizingly unsated.
You gulp. He looks exactly as you imagined just seconds ago, and the sight is doing no favors for your heart rate.
You expect him to startle at your entry. You wait for him to bark at you to get out, but the order never comes. Breathing heavily with one arm propped on the sink to hold himself up—tricep muscles and forearm veins popping with frustration—he slowly glances over his shoulder.
He looks like a wild, untamed beast. His hair hangs in dark strings around his face, his blue eyes lost to lust, and a thin strand of drool leaks from the corner of his mouth and down his jaw.
Bucky catches you staring at his humiliating state, but he doesn’t point it out. You clear your throat awkwardly, already stepping back toward the doorway.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were hurt—”
“Where are you going?”
You pause. “I should leave you alone. Let you finish, or go back to working on the remedy.”
Before you can escape, Bucky turns his body to face you, not even bothering to cover himself up. His chest heaves, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. The sight of his heavy, veined length standing proud and untreated between his thighs makes your breath hitch in your throat.
“It’s not working,” he rasps, hungry eyes tracing your curves shamelessly. “I’ve been going at it for ten minutes, and it’s doing nothing.”
You’re terrified, but you can’t bring yourself to run, and the dampness between your legs gives you away. “Bucky, it’s your serum. I don’t think your hand would be enough to fix it. A normal remedy will take time—”
“I don’t have time,” he growls, grabbing your wrist tightly. “Look at me! I’m losing my fucking mind.”
You wince, the warmth of his skin burning yours.
“Did you just come in here to taunt me?” Bucky leans closer, baring his teeth as he snarls in your face, forcing you to look at him and nowhere else. “You tell me my hand isn’t enough. So what do you think I need, huh?”
He backs you up against the wall, pressing his legs between yours, forcing you to part for him. His cock rests heavy against your skirt. He reaches up to find your waistband, tugging it down in a rough motion that makes you gasp.
The fabric falls and pools uselessly around your ankles, baring your legs and panties under his hungry gaze. The sight makes him groan roughly—taking in the damp patch resting right over your center. Soaked, and ripe for the taking.
“Looks like you need more than just your hand, too,” he murmurs.
Releasing your wrist, his hand settles for your waist while the other guides the length of his cock against your soaked underwear. He rubs his leaking tip up and down, hissing at the sensation.
“Bucky,” you pant so helplessly, it comes as a moan. “We shouldn’t—”
“I need you to fix me,” he interrupts, gazing at you with desperate, pleading eyes. “I can’t—I can’t continue on with this ache. Especially if I’m going to be stuck here with you for two days, smelling you, looking at you…”
His head falls into the crook of your neck pathetically, breathing you in. His eyes flutter shut in bliss as he rocks his hips forward against your core.
“Fix me,” Bucky pleads. “Just let me slip it inside—just for a little bit. I’ll finish quick. Fuck, please. It hurts so bad.”
You’re holding your breath, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest that you’re certain he can hear it. You should push him away, but with the way he’s kissing your neck, sucking at the sensitive skin, you know he’s not going to give you a choice in this matter.
With vibranium resting on your hip, his right hand tickles the waistband of your panties before dipping beneath the fabric.
His warm fingers stroke your prodding clit gently, applying enough pressure to make you toss your head back with a gasp—giving him an even better opportunity to leave love bites all over your neck. He groans against your skin as his fingers move even lower, slipping against your slick folds and stroking back and forth, teasing the entrance.
“Christ,” he mutters. “You’re so wet—could easily slide my fingers right in. Bet you could take something bigger, too.” He rasps a laugh, his stubble tickling your skin. “There’s no way you could’ve gotten this wet just from hearing me.”
His cock twitches at the realization.
“You were touching yourself, weren’t you?”
Your face burns with a humiliation you don’t want to admit.
“No,” you try to deny it, but your breathless voice gives you away. “I was trying to make the remedy—”
Your voice cracks into a moan when two of his fingers slip past your entrance. Your walls tighten as he slowly eases himself in, just until his knuckles hit your opening.
“My remedy is right here,” he grunts, savoring the way you tighten up around his fingers. “Tight, wet, and already opening up just for me.”
Bucky’s nose tickles your neck again, closing the space with his lips. His tongue dances over your skin, warm lips sucking and tugging to leave his mark. While his fingers fuck your pussy, you can’t help but moan into the sensation, encouraging him to continue.
His cock trembles against your leg, his hips subtly rocking into your thigh. Just the sight of it terrifies you. Hard, engorged, red, and begging to be taken care of. You almost feel sorry for him, considering how long he’s had to deal with this up until now.
Your body works pliantly against his fingers, your hips rocking in subtle movements to meet his digits. He groans, relishing the way you leak around his fingertips. His thumb pads over your clit, working the sensitive bundle of nerves. You mewl helplessly into the air, panting his name and clawing his back for support.
The heat of his skin burns you. He’s so hot and sweaty, like he’s breaking a fever.
With your earlier ministrations, coupled with Bucky taking over your pleasure, your body tightens up as you get ridiculously close.
“Bucky,” you pant. “Don’t stop, please.”
He groans in frustration, forcing his hand to still. “I’m dying over here, and you want me to let you come?”
Bucky moves back just slightly, heaving and angrily glaring you down in a way that makes you feel like a cornered cat. You feel dirty and exposed right in your own home.
“You’re a healer, aren’t you?” His deep voice vibrates in his chest.
His hand finds your panties once more, tearing the soaked fabric easily and letting it slip down your hips to meet the discarded skirt on the floor.
“Then prove it to me. Show me that you can take care of a man in need.”
You tremble as the cool air embraces your skin after the sudden loss of his touch. His eyes rake over your body while he lazily strokes himself, trying to decipher where he wants to start. Blue orbs hone in on the space between your legs. He grunts, as if he’s made his decision, but his gaze slowly rises to your face, stopping at your mouth.
“On your knees,” he urges.
Your breath catches in your throat. At your hesitation, he steps closer to you, giving you a sudden thrill.
“You want me to say please?” he rasps in frustration, tugging at his cock. “Get on your knees, please.” The word comes out bitter.
Without breaking eye contact, you finally submit and sink to your knees. A low groan tears from his mouth at the sight of you kneeling before him—face feverish, lips parted in shock at his size, eyes burning with lust.
He steps closer, guiding his cock toward your plump lips.
“Thank you,” he says, though the words sound almost painful. “This’ll make me feel better. I know it.” He taps the tip gently against your lips. “Come on. Open.”
You slowly open your mouth, strings of saliva already beading between your tongue and the roof of your mouth. Bucky’s breathing is heavy as he slowly guides his cock into the warm expanse.
His eyes roll and his head tosses back at the immediate pleasure he finds in your mouth.
“Oh, fuck,” he drawls, using his right hand to thread through your hair. “God, this feels—fuck. I don’t even know how to describe it—”
Slowly, he rocks his hips back and forth. His cock feels heavy against your tongue, your lips stretching obscenely around his length until your jaw aches.
“Yes, just like that. Fuck. That’s a good girl,” he groans, his hips increasing their pace. “My good little healer.”
Bucky stares down at you with heavy eyes, forcing himself to stick to a steady, medium pace so he doesn’t overwork your jaw. The dark, curly hair at the base of his shaft tickles the tip of your nose as he works his cock deeper into your mouth.
You gag and choke, drool dripping obscenely down his length and over your chin while he uses your mouth like his personal toy.
“Mmph,” you choke around him, and the vibration of your moan makes his cock twitch and his balls draw up tight.
“I don’t know how—” his voice cracks into a groan, “—but just fucking your mouth like this… is already gonna make me cum faster than when I tried to use my hand. Shit—”
Your hands rest on his strong thighs, your eyes watery as you peer up at the man who has his cock deep down your throat. His eyes flutter open, meeting yours, and he lets out a sound that comes off half growl and half choke.
“Stay like that,” he grunts. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”
The words leave his mouth breathlessly. His hips stutter against your lips, his cock twitching heavily against your tongue. His balls slap against your wet chin, drawing tight and pulsing with every stroke inside your warm mouth.
You do exactly as you’re told and keep your eyes locked on his. Tears streak down your face from the ache of your jaw being stretched open, but your pain is Bucky’s pleasure. His jaw hangs loose as his hips pick up speed, fucking your mouth deeper and making you gag.
“God, those eyes,” he moans, his grip in your hair tightening. “Fuck—gonna cum. Look at me while I cum inside this tight little mouth.”
His hand tightens in your hair, holding your head completely still while he thrusts shallowly. A deep groan fills the air, his quad muscles tensing beneath your palms as his balls draw up tight.
His tip pulses against the back of your tongue until, finally, a thick release spills from the slit, coating the back of your throat with hot seed. He holds you still while you choke and gag around the sudden rush filling your mouth. He holds you there until you can’t take it anymore, and only then does he finally release your head.
You sputter and hack, his spunk coating your throat. Some of it dribbles down your lips as you heave to catch your breath.
He stands right before you, completely bare, taking in shallow, heavy breaths. But his cock still shadows over your face—still painfully hard and throbbing, even after his climax subsides.
“Shit,” he breathes, his right hand wrapping heavy around his length, stroking it furiously. “It won’t go down—why won’t it go down?”
“Bucky, wait—” you manage to choke out, wiping the back of your hand across your lips. “Listen to me—”
He staggers back, staring down at his fully erect and still throbbing length in absolute disbelief. His chest is slick with sweat, his eyes wild with confusion and a mounting frustration that tests his patience. His hand strokes the underside of his tip, trying to feel for any decrease in sensitivity, but it remains rock solid, flushed deep red and leaking. Again.
“I just came!” he growls in anger. “I just filled your fucking mouth, and it still feels like it’s going to burst. What the fuck did you put in that drink? What did you do to me?!”
A frustrated sound escapes you. “If you would just let me go back to my station, I could finish your remedy. I’ll make something strong enough to burn through your metabolism, and you can wait it out—”
“I can’t wait it out anymore. I’ve tried,” his wild eyes snap to you. “If your mouth didn’t work—then I’ll have to use something else.”
Before the last word even clears his teeth, his patience boils over completely. Bucky reaches down, his large hands gripping your arms. He lifts you effortlessly off your knees, hauling you up like you weigh nothing.
“Bucky—!”
You gasp as he spins you around, slamming your hips roughly against the edge of the sink counter hard enough to make the bottles on the shelves shake.
Coming eye to eye with your reflection in the mirror, your face heats up at how utterly debauched you look. Your cheeks are streaked with tears, your lips puffy and swollen, and a sheen of saliva and leftover cum reflects off your chin.
“H-how do you know if this will even work?” you stammer.
Bucky’s vibranium hand settles on your hip while the other finds the small of your back, forcing you to bend until your ass tilts up to him. He grabs your knee and hitches your leg up and over the counter, spreading your thighs wide.
“It’ll work,” he grunts deeply, aligning the head of his cock against your drenched entrance. “I’ll make sure it works.”
His relentless arousal is screaming at him to take what he wants. He doesn’t bother teasing or easing in; he knows you’re soaked enough to take it. He drives his hips forward, burying half of his length—forced to pause briefly from your tightness—before pushing the rest of his length deep inside from behind.
A high, breathless scream tears from your throat, your fingers desperately clawing at the wood for purchase. Your walls aren’t used to this size, forced to stretch wildly around his girth.
“Fuck!” Bucky roars out, his head falling forward between your shoulder blades.
The scorching heat of your body suffocating his angry, unsated length makes him shudder violently.
“Fuck, yes—right there. You’re gonna help me burn it off.”
The counter shakes in time with his thrusts.
With your leg propped up on the sink, it allows Bucky to drive deeper and deeper, his balls slapping against your wet folds with every move. You watch him pound into you relentlessly from behind through the reflection of the mirror.
Bucky’s face is twisted in a mix of both pleasure and frustration. He looks almost animalistic—sweaty, hot, and desperate for release.
A litany of moans and curses drifts from his mouth to fill the air while the mirror fogs up with your collective body heat. Bucky’s eyes watch your body from behind, and the sight makes him drive into you even harder. You look like a mess beneath him, your tits bouncing with every thrust.
He watches where his cock disappears in and out of your pussy, admiring the creamy white ring that sits at the base of his shaft and dampens the dark curls on his pelvis. Every sense is heightened to the max—every whimper that leaves your lips doesn’t go unnoticed, and your sweet scent fills his nostrils, swimming in his head like a drug.
Bucky reaches around your front with his flesh hand, wrapping his fingers around your neck to crane it and force you to look at yourself in the mirror.
“Look at what you’re doing to me,” he growls, meeting your eyes in the reflection. “Look at how good you take it.”
You whimper, your head tilting back against his broad chest. Through the fog on the glass, Bucky doesn’t look like himself at all. The aphrodisiac has turned him into a monster who won’t let you go until he gets what he wants.
“Bucky—”
“That’s it,” he grunts into your shoulder, his teeth nipping at the warm skin before licking over the bite mark. “Moan for me. Let me hear how wet you are for this. God—you’re squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe.”
He hitches your leg up even higher over the edge of the sink, opening you up completely. The new angle lets him hit that deep, aching sweet spot inside you with every single stroke.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, watching the reflection as his thick length disappears into your cream coated entrance, over and over. “You’re taking every inch of it. Right where you belong. You’re gonna milk every drop out of me until this fever breaks.”
His eyes roll back as his grip on your hip tightens. Every inch of him ravages your body like it belongs to him, every move delivering a kiss to your cervix and leaving a trail of pre-cum in its wake.
You’re stuffed completely full, and as his right hand circles around your hip to pad at your clit, it’s only a matter of time before you cum all over him.
“Oh my god! Right there, don’t stop!” you instinctively roll your hips against his palm, the movement sending lightning bolts of pleasure straight to Bucky’s gut.
Bucky groans, feeling your core clench up tight around his cock. You’re already impossibly tight, and he can only imagine how tight your body will squeeze him when you finally come.
His cock works shallowly inside you while his fingers rub over your clit. The mixture of his length stretching you open and his fingers grinding against your swollen nerves is enough to make you see stars.
Finally, a broken scream tears from your throat, your fingers scrambling against the counter for purchase as you come undone all over Bucky’s cock.
Your body spasms violently, clenching and milking him for everything he’s worth, and Bucky can’t hold back any longer.
“Oh, fucking hell,” he gasps. His entire body locks up as his cool metal digits dig into your hip, forcing you to take every drop of his second release.
A scalding rush of his seed erupts deep inside you, coating your cervix and spilling past his thick shaft. It’s heavier and thicker than the first time—so much that your body can’t hold it all, and it shamelessly drips down your entrance to pool on the floor.
He holds himself buried deep, gritting his teeth and groaning through the endless, pulsing wave of his climax. His cock throbs in time with your pulsing core while you both try to catch your breath.
Pants and heavy breathing fill the hot, humid bathroom. Bucky’s cock stays warm inside you, but because of how swollen and thoroughly used you feel, you can’t even tell if this remedy helped him or not.
“Bucky?” you ask breathlessly, glancing at him in the mirror as you catch your breath.
Bucky keeps his forehead rested against the back of your head, his hot breaths tickling the nape of your sweaty neck as he steadies himself.
“I’m sorry,” he apologizes in a broken voice that catches you off guard. His big arms wrap around your bare waist, pulling you in closer.
That’s when you feel his cock throb inside you again.
“That felt so good—but dammit, I’m still hard.”
A week has passed since the Thunderbolts picked up the elixirs from your cottage. Between all the fighting, jobs, and unnecessary damage they’ve taken as a team, they went through every single one. Not a single drop remains.
John opens one cabinet, then the next, and the next, his brows furrowing with growing confusion when he realizes all the shelves are empty.
“Hey, did someone misplace that extra batch of potions we were supposed to hold onto?” he shouts to the rest of the team over his shoulder.
“You mean elixirs,” Bucky says, stepping out of the elevator with a grumpy look on his face, already mentally checked out for the day.
“Whatever,” John waves his hand dismissively. “Where are they?”
“We went through them all,” Ava answers from where she sits on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table.
Bob frowns at Ava. “I thought we agreed this would be a no-shoes indoor household.”
Ava ignores Bob, not even bothering to take her boots off. “Ask Walker. He’s the one who used three of them on a minor scrape because he panicked.”
“It was a deep laceration!” John snaps, slamming a cabinet door shut. “And it was infected! Regardless, we need more. We’re going on that operation next week, and I’m not going in without backup med supplies. Who’s making the run back to the cottage?”
Bucky remains still at the kitchen island. He slowly raises a glass of ice water to his lips to take a long gulp, hoping the cold liquid might flush out the sudden heat rising up his neck.
The second John utters the word cottage, Bucky’s mind floods with memories he had been trying desperately to suppress for the past seven days.
The scent of sweet herbs mixing with sweat. The sound of your breathless whimpers moaning his name as he pinned you to the sink counter, helpless against a fever that had nearly driven him out of his mind. Even now, just thinking about the way your body had squeezed him—over and over, completely ruined beneath him—made his jaw clench hard enough to crack a tooth.
“Okay,” Yelena huffs, looking around. “I don’t know where Alexei is, so he’s out of the picture. Who volunteers?” She asks, already opting herself out.
The room stays quiet. Bucky keeps his eyes glued to the glass in his hand, watching the ice cubes float.
“I’d go,” Bob offers gently, raising a hand. “Buuut I have that severe pollen allergy.”
“Well, Valentina is trying to arrange an interview with the press with me eventually, so..” John explains in a way that makes him sound more important than he actually is. “Gotta stay on call for that.”
Ava and Yelena glance at each other with a snort.
John turns around, leaning back against the empty pantry counter, and his eyes land on the other super soldier who hasn’t said a word.
John squints at him. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet.”
Bucky doesn’t break his stare with the water glass. “I’m drinking.”
Yelena raises a brow. “You know what? Yeah. Bucky, you should go. You two are already well acquainted, no?”
“And let’s be honest, you look like you need to get out of the tower. You’ve been moody all week.” Ava chimes in, finally releasing her feet off the coffee table, shifting on the couch to look over at him. Bob sighs in relief.
Bucky’s jaw clenches.
Going back means coming face-to-face with you for the first time after… everything.
His cheeks heat up at the sheer humiliation that’ll come with it, but his heart thumps with something he didn’t expect: anticipation. Ever since those two days he spent with you, you were the only thing playing in the back of his mind. And truthfully—a secret he would take to his grave—he’d been using more doses of the tinctures than normal just to have an excuse to see you, assuming he could build up the courage to actually do it.
You, and everything that transpired in your cottage, had been playing in his head like a movie on a loop. At night, he rolls around restless in his bed, thinking only of you. Even taking... sexual matters into his own hands isn’t enough anymore.
The room is awfully quiet as everyone stares at him. They expect him to fight back like he did the first time, maybe throw out a snarky remark.
Bucky lifts the glass to his lips with a indifferent shrug, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.
“I’ll go.”
this was kind of fun to write at first, but then i abandoned the draft for like two weeks and got back to it and was like "wtf did i write"
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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Hello hello! I’ve got this idea stuck in my brain and I was wondering if you could expand on it. I’m just curious to see how someone else would imagine this. Reader and Bucky are getting married. Reader surprises Bucky with a private 40s wedding with just their close friends. She’s dolled up in a vintage dress and has her hair done in the same fashion and everything. Just something fluffy. Much love 💕
this is so precious🥰
---------
The first sign that something is happening comes when you steal Bucky's keys.
He's sitting on the couch polishing his favorite leather boots when you casually pluck the keyring off the coffee table and slip it into your purse like you aren't committing a crime right in front of him. His head slowly lifts, blue eyes following the movement before narrowing with immediate suspicion.
"Doll."
"Hm?"
"You have my keys."
"I know."
"...Can I have them back?"
You can't help the grin that stretches across your face. "No."
He sets the boot aside and leans back against the couch, folding his arms over his chest. "You're being incredibly suspicious."
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
"Really? Because you've been whispering with Natasha all week, Sam keeps smirking every time I walk into a room, Steve suddenly finds every excuse in the world to get me out of the apartment..." He tilts his head, amusement already tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. "Even Alpine had a ribbon tied around her neck this morning."
You fail miserably at hiding your smile.
"So there is something."
"There might be."
"You gonna tell me?"
"Nope."
Instead, you step between his knees, cup his face, and kiss him until he forgets whatever argument he was trying to make. By the time you pull away, his expression has softened into that fond, hopeless smile that always appears whenever you successfully distract him.
"Just trust me," you whisper. "Be ready by four. Wear the navy suit."
"The expensive one?"
"The expensive one."
His eyebrows rise. "Now I'm even more concerned."
---
By the time four o'clock arrives, Bucky is convinced the entire team is conspiring against him.
Sam arrives to pick him up because, apparently, his fiancée is still refusing to return his car keys, and Steve somehow ends up in the passenger seat despite insisting he "just happened to be nearby." Neither of them will answer a single question.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
"I've been tortured by professionals with better poker faces than you two."
Sam snorts so hard he nearly misses a turn.
"You're both terrible liars."
"And yet," Steve says far too calmly, "you're still coming with us."
Bucky sighs dramatically and settles back into his seat, crossing his arms.
"I don't like surprises."
Steve glances at him through the rearview mirror, his smile turning gentler.
"I know."
---
Meanwhile, you're fairly certain you're going to throw up before your own wedding.
Not because you're second-guessing anything—God, no. If anything, you've never been more certain of a decision in your life.
You're nervous because you desperately want him to understand.
The ceremony isn't being held in one of the sleek venues every wedding magazine recommended. Instead, it's tucked inside a restored historic building in Brooklyn with polished hardwood floors worn smooth by decades of dancing, exposed brick walls, warm amber chandeliers, and tall windows that let the late afternoon sunlight spill across the room like liquid gold.
Everything feels timeless.
It feels like him.
Months ago, while the two of you were lazily watching an old black-and-white movie curled up on the couch, Bucky had gone unusually quiet during the wedding scene. His thumb absentmindedly traced circles against your hand before he smiled at the television with an expression that looked almost painful.
"My ma always imagined my wedding looking like this," he'd said softly. "Simple. Everybody packed together. Music. Flowers. Nothing fancy."
The conversation hadn't lasted more than a minute before he'd brushed it off, but you never forgot it.
So while he'd assumed the two of you were planning a small courthouse ceremony followed by dinner with the team, you'd quietly spent months piecing together something entirely different.
You searched antique shops until you found lace that looked like it belonged in the 1940s. A seamstress helped recreate a dress inspired by photographs from the era, complete with delicate illusion sleeves and a sweetheart neckline hidden beneath intricate embroidery. You borrowed vintage pearl earrings from an elderly shop owner who teared up when you explained why you wanted them, and your hair stylist spent nearly two hours pinning soft victory rolls and loose curls into place.
When you'd finally looked at yourself in the mirror that afternoon, it hadn't felt like you were wearing a costume.
It had felt like you were carrying a piece of his history with you.
Not because you wanted to recreate the past.
Because you wanted him to know that every part of it, the joyful parts as much as the painful ones, still deserved to be remembered.
---
Steve leads Bucky through the old building without offering a single explanation, and his confusion only grows as they approach a pair of tall wooden doors.
"It's awfully quiet."
Steve hums.
"You know what's happening."
"I might."
"You're enjoying this."
"A little."
Bucky rolls his eyes.
"I hate all of you."
"No, you don't."
"...No."
Before he can ask another question, the doors slowly swing open.
Soft music spills into the hallway, warm and crackling from an old record player tucked into the corner of the room. Fresh white roses line the aisle, candles flicker against the brick walls, and every single one of the people who matter most to him is already standing inside.
Natasha.
Sam.
Steve.
Wanda.
Bruce.
Clint and Laura.
Even Tony.
Their smiles tell him everything before his eyes finally find you.
Time simply... stops.
You're standing at the end of the aisle with your bouquet gathered carefully in your hands, sunlight catching every tiny detail of your dress. The delicate lace sleeves. The fitted bodice. The gloves. The pearls. Your lipstick is the soft rosy shade he'd only ever seen in faded family photographs, and your hair—
God.
Your hair.
He hasn't seen victory rolls outside of museums and old photographs in nearly eighty years.
For one impossible heartbeat, it feels as though every version of his life has collided into the same moment.
Brooklyn.
The war.
Everything he lost.
Everything he found.
Everything standing in front of him now.
His breathing catches so sharply that Steve instinctively reaches for his shoulder.
"You alright?"
Bucky barely hears him.
"No..."
His voice cracks.
"No."
Across the room, your smile falters.
"You don't like it?"
His head snaps toward you.
"What?"
"The dress."
He lets out the smallest, most disbelieving laugh as tears immediately begin filling his eyes.
"Honey..."
He shakes his head over and over, completely overwhelmed.
"I've spent so long trying not to miss that part of my life because it hurt too much."
His voice grows quieter.
"And somehow... somehow you found a way to give it back to me without bringing any of the pain with it."
He walks toward you before anyone can stop him, closing the distance in long, hurried strides until he's cupping your face between trembling hands.
"You look like every dream I thought I'd buried."
Your own tears finally spill over.
"I wanted you to have one day that belonged to every version of you," you whisper.
"The little boy from Brooklyn."
"The young man who danced before the war."
"The soldier."
"The Avenger."
"The man I fell in love with."
"They all deserved to make it here."
That's what finally breaks him.
Not because of the dress.
Not because of the music.
But because for the first time in nearly a century, someone looked at every chapter of his life and chose to celebrate them instead of pretending they never happened.
His forehead falls against yours as quiet tears slip freely down his cheeks, and you simply hold him, surrounded by the family he'd found in this lifetime.
Natasha eventually clears her throat from somewhere behind him.
"If the groom is finished crying, we'd actually like to witness the wedding."
Bucky laughs through his tears, wiping at his face with the heel of his hand.
"I wasn't crying."
"You absolutely were."
"It was dignified crying."
"It was snotty crying," Sam corrects.
"It was romantic."
"It was disgusting."
The room erupts into laughter, the tension dissolving instantly as Bucky reaches for your hand, intertwining your fingers with his.
He doesn't let go for the rest of the evening.
Not through the vows.
Not while exchanging rings.
Not during your first dance beneath warm string lights as old records skip softly in the background.
Hours later, with your head resting against his shoulder and his arms wrapped securely around your waist, he presses a slow kiss against your temple before looking down at the lace covering your sleeve one more time.
"You know what my favorite part of today is?" he asks quietly.
You smile. "The music?"
"You."
"The flowers?"
"You."
"The dress?"
He gently shakes his head.
"No."
His thumb brushes over your wedding band.
"My favorite part is that when I looked at you standing at the end of that aisle..." His voice softens until it's barely more than a whisper. "...for the first time in almost a hundred years, my past didn't make me sad."
His forehead rests against yours as the record spins quietly behind you.
Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.
▸ PAIRING: Farmhand!Bucky Barnes x Pop Star!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, public sex, no condom (don't try this at home), fingering, penetration, creampie, bucky is bossy in bed, brat diva!reader, sex tape leak mentions, hurt/comfort?, bucky calls her princess in a loving and lowk nasty way
▸ WORD COUNT: 23.8K
▸ A/N: i wanted to write a hannah montana: the movie au so i wrote a hannah montana: the movie au. partially inspired by the movie but with my own liberties!! im almost sorry for the length, idk why i cant shut up. thank you again to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab, excited to share my second contribution!!! check out my first one here <3
↤ main masterlist | bwat summer masterlist
Just when you think your father can’t find any new ways to torment you, he stoops to an all-time low. He’s done plenty of insane things throughout your life and your career, risks that you still question to this day whether they were worth taking, but this one takes the fucking cake.
“Turn this plane around right now,” you snap, arms crossed with a scowl stitched into your brows. Your pink heels tap impatiently before him, a new purchase as a reward for finishing one song for the new album.
He doesn’t even look up at you, simply turning another page of his copy of an entertainment magazine. He’s treating you like an insolent brat throwing a tantrum and, suddenly, you’re fifteen again, begging your dad to pack your entire life to move to the city of angels for the sake of your dream. It took months of convincing before he relented — and look where you are today.
However, he knows what he’s doing, thumbing another page and leaning back into the private plane’s cushy leather seat, raising the magazine a fraction higher to match your line of sight. The front page is one you cannot miss, considering it features you and your latest… incident.
Your lips twist. It’s not fair; this one wasn’t even your fault.
The last few headlines before that are a different story: a high-definition photograph of your underwear when you accidentally flashed some sleazy pap who snuck into a very private party while you were blackout drunk, a tell-all from a PA who had gotten a pissed-off tirade after he fucked up your coffee order — after he spilled the first one all over, not one, but two of your photoshoot outfits, and your ongoing feud with international supermodel Natasha Romanoff who had won a part in a Spielberg blockbuster despite zero acting experience and only because she’s good pals with the main sponsor, Tony Stark.
You’re not entirely, solely to blame for these clickbait stories. Your life and actions have been under a microscope twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You’d be lucky if you could take a piss without someone hiding inside your toilet. Paparazzi are constantly camped outside of your apartment building, so much so that management has had to bump maintenance fees for more extensive security measures. Some days, you think you should just move to the peace and quiet of a Hollywood gated community.
But that’s never been you — there’s a reason why you moved away from your hometown, why you wanted to chase bigger and brighter dreams. What’s the point if you end up isolating yourself again from the rest of the world?
Unfortunately, this life under scrutiny — combined with the fact that the deadline for your next album is coming up quick — is not one for the weak of heart. You think you’ve trained yourself enough to survive the criticism of strangers, but your patience and limited kindness have worn particularly thin as of late. Your record label, your stylist, and your manager are all hounding you for updates, wondering if they could start preparing for your single. Your little (big) flare-ups are no excuse, but you were hoping that your dad, of all people, as your parent and your manager, would understand.
Now he’s committed the biggest betrayal of all.
You should be on your way to New York. A monthlong schedule filled with fall Fashion Week preparations, meetings with casting directors for movies with guaranteed Oscar nominations, and lots and lots of aperol spritzes to distract you from your thoughts. Anything but write another mindless album of pop hits that the general masses enjoy.
Instead of fun-in-the-sun in the big apple, you hear the pilot announce after you’re in the air that you’re on the way to bumfuck Tennessee.
The stewardess looks anxiously between the two of you, lips quivering and hands flying like she can do anything to ease your rising temper.
“I paid for this private charter,” you growl, “I can turn it back around if I want to.”
“Booking’s under my name, darling.”
“Paid for with money that I earned. I have people I have to meet, things I have to do. You can’t just drag me away for a trip down memory lane. These are insane opportunities that won’t come twice. What kind of manager are you?”
“The kind that is your dad first,” he gives you a pointed look.
“Is this because of what happened? You know that one isn’t my fault!”
He doesn’t say anything.
“You know it isn’t.”
“Regardless of what happened, this break should do you some good. A little bit of grass, a lot more fresh air—”
You deadpan, “It smells like literal horse shit everyday.”
“Let’s not get into the technicality of things. The point is you could use a break.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m your manager, so I get to decide it for your career. You keep going down this path and who knows where you end up? Trust me, honey, rock bottom is a long, hard fall.”
“You would know,” you mutter under your breath.
The moment those words leave your lips, remorse floods your system. Your eyes flick up to meet his. It’s not hurt, it’s not disappointment. It’s sympathy. You’ve just insulted your own father and he’s pitying you.
Perhaps rock bottom isn’t a long way down after all.
“I’m sorry,” you quickly sigh, “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know you didn’t.” He gets to his feet, pulls you close to press a reassuring kiss on your forehead. “But this is how I know you need this. Trust me on this one, the weeks will fly by.”
You jerk back. “Weeks?!”
Your childhood bedroom feels like a breeding ground for anxiety.
With your bags with New York-esque clothes tucked away into a corner, you stand there with the door closed as your eyes travel around the space. Posters of pop icons that you’ve now befriended and adopted as mentors, aging floral wallpaper that’s peeling in some corners from the years of humidity, a vanity that looks like it belongs in an antique shop from the seventeenth century.
Music filters muffled through the gap underneath your door, a sound that you haven’t heard in quite some time but still echoes like a distant memory. It’s one of your grandma’s favorites, and she’s no doubt leading the charge with the rest of the family and friends who live nearby. They tried to keep your welcome party small, trusted confidantes who wouldn’t breathe a word to the press.
The only thing that’s drowning out the noise downstairs is your publicist and best friend, Yelena, who has somehow worked through every expletive in the Russian dictionary until she came up with more creative and colorful ones of her own.
“You better tell your dad to drive your ass back to New York right now. I don’t care if you have to use a beat-up pick-up truck from the barn next door but we have people waiting for you. We need to get some damage control done before it all goes to shit.”
You sigh. Yelena gives a little uh-oh. “That’s not going to happen. You know my dad; when he’s got his mind made up like this, nothing’s going to change it. He thinks I need a break.”
She says something else in her mother tongue, one that you’ve learned over time translates to something along the lines of I’ll break something else of theirs. “Do you need me to book you a new flight right now? We can literally land in the cornfields in like two hours and bring you to New York. I promise you I’ll make it happen.”
Do you want to be disowned and be shown your father’s look of utter disappointment that will stick in your people-pleasing brain for the rest of your life? No.
Sighing, you glance out the window again. Endless stretches of open fields, green on green on green. You haven’t seen this much green since you face planted during rehearsal for a summer show in Central Park.
“No, I’ll be fine. If I behave and play along, then maybe he’ll let me come back earlier. Two weeks is a long—”
“Two weeks?! Do you know how long it took me to get on Nolan’s calendar? That man is booked and busy, more so than the mayor of New York.”
Wincing, you bite down on another upset noise. “I know. I’m trying to get out of here earlier, but we’ll see how it goes.”
“I can come visit you, you know. Try and talk to him.”
It’s tempting. Yelena has a way of convincing people to do her bidding, even if it means doing a bit of arm-twisting. Literally. You’ll spare your dad from that today. She’s loyal to a fault and the last thing you want is a broken arm on his body.
“No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Silence settles on the other end. A brief pause before you can practically hear Yelena’s voice melt, the rough curl of her tongue unfurling into concern. “Will you?”
You can’t say for certain. You haven’t been back here since you packed up your entire life and moved. This place feels familiar, but it’s no longer your home. Nothing here feels like you anymore; it’s like being in the mind of a stranger. A stranger who knows exactly what bone to pick with you.
You hate to admit it but being back here feels as if you’re back in square one. The place where it all started. You can still hear the ghost of your songs, scribbled messy into a songbook that you haven’t touched in years, because that isn’t what the world wants. Your fingertips tingle with the memory of learning how to play the guitar for the first time, testing out your dad’s old songs on his very first guitar that he gifted you for your tenth birthday.
Then you started making some of your own, the kind of music you’ve always loved and ones that touched the heart. Call it bias but your family always thought you had the talent to make it out there. It’s the whole reason you had the confidence to make the move.
But the world has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. You learned how to toughen your shell, block out all the negative so that you can keep pushing through. Because when you’re at the bottom, the only way to go is up.
Now that you’re at the top, you don’t want to find out if you’ve reached the ceiling.
This is a part of your life you don’t like to dwell on, anxiety attached to the fear of failure painted onto the decor every time you look at these four walls.
“I will be,” you murmur.
“Maybe your dad is right. This is a good chance for you to get away from all the drama. The cameras. Unplug for a little bit.”
“Alert the media, I think Yelena Belova might have lost her darn marbles.”
“Darn marbles? The countryside has changed you, little one.”
A giggle slips past your lips. “Alright, diva.”
“Let me get your schedule sorted and I’ll check back in with you. In the meantime, try to have fun?”
Fun and this bumfuck town are complete opposites. You know from firsthand experience.
“You’re cute when you’re being funny,” you drawl.
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
Then you’re left in the silence once more.
There are very few things in life that can faze you nowadays. Being raised in a tough, soul-sucking industry will do that to you. Your days have been one thing after another, a schedule packed to the brim that insomnia has become a welcome friend.
You’ve gotten used to drowning and choking on the sea that you can’t taste the difference between clean air and saltwater anymore. You adapt. You learned what it means to come up for air when you need to and swallow that intense, briny ocean when your head is being dunked into it.
Still, things have always happened within your control.
This situation right here is out of your control.
It’s fazing you.
You’re not talking about your dad being progressive and caring more about his baby girl’s mental health, placing it above her career that’s paid off the mortgage on this Tennessee home plus a few others scattered throughout the world.
No, you’re talking about these damn chickens.
You really should’ve just kept your mouth shut and stayed in your room for the next two weeks. If you could convince your dad that you’re sane enough to survive that, he’ll surely let you go free. But you got impatient, you figured that if you could make friends with nature once more, he would release you into the wilderness again.
Here you are now having a staredown with five chickens who have been eyeing you like feed. They know an easy target when they see one and a pop star who hasn’t touched a pail in decades, nor has seen a real-life chicken outside of television segments recently, is definitely one.
They’ve squawked. They’ve pecked. They’ve chased you around this coop, turning you into a headless chicken.
There’s about to be more than one headless chicken if these little shits don’t let you get their eggs.
You now learn that there are only three things that can stand up to you — your dad, Yelena, and these damn chickens. They let out another battle cry before rampaging towards you again, yanking a yelp from your lips as the bucket clangs in your hands.
Fifteen minutes later and you’re flat on your ass for the second time that morning, straw entwined into your hair and probably chicken shit stuck to your sequined denim shorts. Still no eggs. It isn’t the most ideal farming outfit, but you packed for a city, not for a tiny town.
It’s only when you’re this close to giving up that you hear the deep rumble from the door.
“Need some help?”
A snarky “you think?” sits on the tip of your tongue as you whirl around from your spot in the ground. That response dies fast when your eyes land on the six-foot man before you.
Your mouth dries when you first notice the cowboy hat. God, you’ve always been a sucker for a good cowboy. It’s the country girl in you that never left. Regardless of how many polished and shiny men you’ve met in Hollywood, nothing beats a rugged cowboy with dirty hands and broad shoulders and–
He tips his hat back slightly to get a better look at you. Blue eyes. Bluer than the late morning sun outside. Bluer than the sapphires you have in your safebox back in your penthouse. His pink lips are curled into an amused smile as he appraises the state of you on the floor.
Fuck, he’s hot.
He looks like your biggest mistake waiting to happen. He looks like he belongs on the front page of Vogue rather than on a farm. He’s got a coil of rope hanging from his shoulders and the filthy image that invades your mind should put you in the asylum.
High risk, high reward, your brain and the heat between your legs whisper traitorously.
But then you remember the “incident” and you remember how many times you’ve had people approach you for their fifteen seconds of fame, and an irritated glare descends on your face. He doesn’t look affected by the quick change of emotions; in fact, he looks even more delighted that he’s put that look on your face.
“If you could murder some chickens for me, that would be great.”
“We try not to eat our friends here, we usually get ours from old man Jenkins down the road.”
God, even his stupid voice is hot. This is not going to go well for your undomesticated libido. Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson with sex and men.
“Alright, then a few eggs should do the trick. Enough for breakfast for three.”
“Four.”
You cock an eyebrow.
“I’m joinin’ for breakfast so it’ll be breakfast for four. Why don’t you go on back up to the house? I can handle things here.”
I’d like you to try and handle me. Preferably naked in five different positions in bed.
What you need is a vibrator, the mental image of this man, and ten minutes alone in your room. That should do the trick.
(You’re lying to yourself because you know that wouldn’t be enough but it may be sufficient to sate some of your curiosity and this hungry little thing between your legs.)
“And who are you again?”
The corners of his lips tip up higher. “Don’t remember me?”
“I’ve met a lot of people. I don’t remember everyone.”
“I’d think you would remember the boy you tortured more than the chickens are doing to you now.”
Your brows pinch in a confused frown. “Who?”
“You pick on all boys, princess? Or am I special?”
Fuck. Warmth creeps up your cheeks at the insulting pet name, and his stupid flirty tone, and you find yourself glaring at him again. “Only the ones that clearly deserve it.”
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I’m not the only one then.”
If there’s anything worse than a man, it’s a man who knows exactly what to say to have you twirling your hair in your fingers like a schoolgirl.
“Well, he-who-must-not-be-named, I don’t really want to hear an I-told-you-so from my dad so how about you get me a few eggs and we can go our separate ways?”
The man smiles. It’s not a smile you trust. “Anyone ever teach you to say please and thank you or did the city take all your southern manners?”
“Please,” you grit out, caving far too quickly — but you prefer not to have your dad come out to check on you and realize you really have lost your roots.
His eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that makes your stomach flip. He looks like he’s about to say something else, lips parting in preparation but then he shakes his head with a low chuckle before he easily navigates towards the nesting boxes. The chickens flock around him eagerly, none of them attacking him the same way they’ve been coming at you.
With ease, he nabs a few fresh eggs. He places them into a basket, one that he then hands over to you.
“Thanks,” you mutter.
Your fingers brush over his as you take the basket from his hand, a spark crackling between your fingertips that zings straight through your core. It’s unexpected and you jump back slightly at the feeling. His eyes flick up to meet yours — there’s something unnerving about them. Too blue, too earnest. Too knowing. Like he knows something you don’t.
You ignore that feeling, kicking it to the curb before it can take root inside your vulnerable mind.
He makes a gesture towards the door. “Shall we?”
The man doesn’t try to make any more conversation as the two of you venture back towards your house — no, your grandma’s house. In fact, he seems deep in thought; mouth pressed into a firm line and brows slightly furrowed. He’s even taken off his hat, holding it to his chest as his fingers rake through his thick brunette hair.
Seriously, frustratingly hot.
You force your eyes away from him for the remainder of the walk. When you come through the kitchen doors, your dad and grandma are right where you left them. They look mildly surprised to see you, probably in one piece. “Farm-fresh eggs ready for breakfast! How would you like ‘em? Scrambled? Sunny side up?”
The two look at each other then at the man hovering close behind you.
“Oh, I see you’ve met Bucky!”
Only Buc-ee you know is down Route 40. Who the hell is Bucky?
“Ma’am. Sir. Morning.”
“What a lovely day of reunions,” she chirps.
Reunions? You don’t get a chance to ask when your father holds up the perfectly-intact eggs. “You didn’t have any trouble with the chickens, darlin’? They can be nasty. Been a while since you’ve done it.”
You can hear Bucky’s cocky grin. You ignore it and opt for a bright smile at your family. “Of course not. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
As they turn away to begin cooking, you feel a tickle in your ear.
“They teach you to lie in those acting classes, princess?” Bucky’s voice is close — too close. He’s ducked his head behind you, lips grazing the shell of your ear with his whisper.
You swiftly leap away from him with a glare. “Yeah, same place they teach me to stay the fuck away from condescending, attractive men.”
His lips twitch. “Attractive, huh?”
“Don’t act surprised. You know what you are. I know what you are and I know what not to trust.”
“You don’t know me, princess.”
Your expression goes ice cold, a hiss slipping between your teeth. “I’m not a princess.”
“Five-time Grammy winner, America’s pop princess,” he recites and you nearly get whiplash.
That was your introduction for a recent awards show you attended as a presenter. The fact that he knows it— you didn’t trust him before, you trust him even less now.
“Stalker much?”
“Your grandma was watching it, I was helping her fix the kitchen faucet.”
You didn’t even know your grandma kept up with your activities, last you heard she was struggling to even work the new television upgrade you got her. It was a gift of part love and part apology for not making it home for Christmas. She always sends quick texts whenever you release a new song or win an award. The last few months have been turbulent. You haven’t had the time to respond to her texts, let alone check in over a phone call, when you’re prioritizing work opportunity emails.
Even when you do get the chance, video calls mask most of the fine lines on her face. Only now do you see how much she’s aged.
A piece of your heart breaks with guilt. You’ve been so focused on your own life and your own work that you haven’t had the chance to pause and look back at everyone else who’s supported you. Your grandma has been your biggest cheerleader from day one, arguing against your dad to support your dreams.
After all, she’s constantly calling you her favorite granddaughter (her only one, mind you).
Bucky must sense your mood because he then tries to remedy the situation, “She’s doing fine. She misses you a lot, takes every chance she gets to talk about everything you’re doing. God forbid anyone try to badmouth you in this town; with her influence, that person is shunned within seconds.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat at the thought. She’s always been a firecracker, it’s where you inherited your temper and energy from.
“It’s been a busy few months,” is all your manage to say. Your throat tightens and you blink away the tears. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of this man who looks like he feeds on girls’ tears.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Your lips pinch as you turn to him with an annoyed look. “You didn’t have to.”
“This is gonna be a fun two weeks, princess.” He throws you one last smile over his shoulder before he joins your family.
The next few days don’t get any better. Your grandma’s been so busy with an issue in town that you’re been mostly left to your own devices.
By that, you mean you’ve been left at the beck and call of one Bucky Barnes.
Bucky Barnes who you learn is the farmhand who’s been tasked to keep all of the animals alive, including your horse that you haven’t seen in some time. She’s one of the only good things left in this place, one of the things you regret leaving behind. Winter is a little antsy when you first approach her.
“She doesn’t do well with strangers.”
Your lovely homecoming is quashed when you hear that familiar voice interject. “I know that. She’s mine.”
“I know,” Bucky echoes with a small smile. “Wanna ride her?”
For a second, you’re embarrassed that you feel a spark of fear. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a horse, trading for a different kind of horsepower that’s much safer and faster. You would hate for Bucky — your new arch nemesis — to see you fail.
“Maybe later.”
He looks at you like he knows, that ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.
You learned that the two of you were raised together, despite having no recollection of it. Apparently you had gone through all of grade school together but you’ve met enough people that you can’t seem to remember the children you spent time with — no matter how many times they try to slide into your DM’s with “Oh my god, we went to school together! Can I get some tickets?”
Somehow, you doubt Bucky is the type to slide into anyone’s messages. He probably doesn’t even have social media; the man acts like a dinosaur sometimes when you mention your popularity on certain apps as reason why you shouldn’t be getting your hands dirty and he simply blinks and congratulates you. Then he hands you a shovel to help him with the horses.
That history seems to matter as much to you as it does to him. He still calls you princess with that patronizing tone; sometimes you think there’s a soft tinge to his voice but that thought evaporates the moment he rolls his eyes when you can’t seem to do anything to help around the house.
He also seems to have a problem with the way you dress.
“Really? You’re going to town in that?”
You look down at your silk lace top complemented by the cutest denim skirt tailored to your shape, a pair of low black heels on your feet. “What’s wrong with this?”
Bucky’s gaze traces the length of you. When blue sweeps over you, warmth sinks into your bones again. He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat — and you apparently seem to like it.
“I packed for New York, this is as casual as it gets.”
He stares are you for a brief second again before he shrugs off his flannel, draping it over your shoulders. You’re too stunned to move. He takes this moment to wrangle your arms through the sleeves.
“I’m not wearing this,” you deadpan, raising your arms to find that the sleeves droop lower than your fingertips.
“It looks nice.”
It certainly does, but it smells like him and that scent — masculine, earthy, and a touch of cocky — seems to rouse that inappropriate beast inside of you from its slumber. The one that growls possessively whenever someone comes too close to Bucky or one that salivates over the sight of his exposed arms whenever he’s lifting bales of hay.
Instead of acknowledging his compliment, you roll your eyes. “Whatever.”
“I think this would help with your whole effort of going incognito in town.”
“I have some glasses and a hat to go undercover. It usually works. I’m this generation’s Clark Kent. But, hey, if I get recognized, I want to make sure I look good.”
Bucky blinks at you. “You always look good.”
And you’re not sure what to say to that.
But when you do get spotted by two teenage girls later that day and they fawn over how good you look, you can’t help but shoot him a smug smile.
The two of you disagree on most things; you can probably count on one hand how many things you do agree on, including the fact that you disagree on a lot of things. That and how your grandma is the most awesome person in this city, but that’s not news.
She worries about the two of you being at each other’s throats, biting remarks flung across the room until she has to tell the two of you to shut up and sit down for dinner — which is a whole other question because why is he always here?
While Bucky pokes fun at you all the time for your incompetence, you also take your shots at him. Harmless ones.
One time you found him asleep on the couch downstairs after you finish doing your nails, so you decided to do his. He ends up with neon pink on his toes and blood red on his fingers. You snicker to yourself thinking you’ve just done something to get on his nerves.
Except, it doesn’t. Instead, he walks around proudly. Nails gleaming in the sun whenever he’s doing work and he doesn’t break a sweat. He even gets compliments on them.
It sours your mood — partly because your ruse didn’t work, but mainly because that confidence is stupidly hot. You don’t need another reason to find him attractive when you’ve already got a list longer than the Nile.
When your grandma tells you to be nicer to him, you’re extra prickly because— “Why do I have to be nicer to him when he’s the one being annoying with me? Aren’t I supposed to be resting? Manual labor is not part of that agenda.”
“You did all this when you were younger, sweetheart. It’s like riding a bike.”
“Riding a bike didn’t have me breaking my fresh manicure,” you say pointedly. “And I didn’t have anyone bossing me around. Being told what to do by someone my age versus by my dad are two completely different things.”
Your grandma only laughs, stroking your cheek like she finds this little tantrum endearing. You lean into her touch, her fingers softened by the years. “He’s just a kid pulling on his crush’s pigtails.”
His crush. You would find it cute (you do find it cute) if you weren’t so miffed after you chipped your index finger trying to lift a bag of feed for the horses. When you told Bucky, he only quirked his eyebrow at you before returning to his own duties.
So no, he doesn’t have a crush on you. In fact, you’re convinced that he hates you. In his mind, you’re probably this diva who lost her roots and whines about every single thing in her life — which isn’t incorrect per se, but he has no right to dislike you for that. He doesn’t even know you. He doesn’t know the shit you’ve been through to make it in the industry, how many times you’ve had to grit out a smile at shitty producers, even shittier paparazzi, and everyone in between.
If he really does have a crush on you, he sure as hell has a crap way of showing it.
“Well, we’re not kids anymore,” you huff, “and I don’t like bullies.”
Your grandma gives you a look as she leafs through her farm ledger. The numbers look alright from where you’re sitting, nothing in the red, which is a good sign. Part of the reason why you’re so adamant about being and staying successful is for her; you never want her to want for anything.
“You do know you were the one who had him crying growing up. Poor boy put up a lot with you forcing bugs onto him and teasing him for falling off a horse lord knows how many times.”
Oh. Your cheeks warm at the thought. Maybe you do have some vague memory of a gangly kid who wouldn’t stop weeping no matter how many times you tried to coo him to quiet down, lest you risk the wrath of your father. Again.
“Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a crybaby then,” you shrug instead with a huff.
Your grandma’s grin stretches a little wider. “I think you even made him play house once. We thought it was adorable. You had him stay at home with the baby while you went off to work. Singing your silly heart out to the rest of us before coming back to him.”
Oh god. You’ll never live this down. So maybe Bucky does have some right to abusing his power for the sake of tormenting you. From what your grandma’s shared, it sounds like you’ve put him through the wringer.
Then again, Bucky has grown — and he’s grown a lot. His shoulders have filled out, hair darker than his horse’s mane, thighs thicker than a tree trunk—
You put the brakes on those thoughts. You really need to get yourself a fix. Or get yourself fixed at this rate.
What you need is one really good dick. A good fuck to wipe all of these thoughts from your mind. The only problem with being so famous is the need to keep your private life private. You don’t need any more scandals on the front page and you certainly don’t know Bucky well enough to trust him — no matter how good his dick looks in the imprint of his jeans.
“He’s a good one, you know,” your grandma smiles softly. “Been with the family for years. Always around to help whenever needed.”
You hate to point out the obvious but— “That’s his job, grandma.”
“He’s also one of your biggest supporters,” she says with a look. “Has all of your albums in his house. Sits right here next to me in front of the TV whenever you’re on it.”
Your jaw practically drops to the ground. “That’s ridiculous,” you sputter, “there’s no way.”
“Yes, you should ask to see his place sometime. He’s quite proud of the collection, even said that he’s going to ask you to sign them one day.”
You have a feeling he’s burned down his collection after meeting you again and realizing what a raging bitch you are. Plus, the thought of asking to come over to Bucky’s place feels a touch too desperate for your personality, even if there is nothing you want more. Imagine yourself getting bent over backwards on his kitchen island with your album covers staring right back at you.
“All I’m saying is, give him a chance. He’s not a bad fella.”
You try. You really do, but Bucky somehow always finds a way to push your buttons. Like today, he decides to reward your hard work with lunch in town at Sal’s Diner. It’s the best diner here — arguably the only diner here.
“No, I’ve been coming here since I was a baby. Pretty sure my dad fed me the French toast here to help me teeth,” you argue, cutting a fat slice of your dish.
You caved into ordering this meal that would give your nutritionist a stroke. Deep fried, juicy toast dripping with maple syrup and topped off with a dollop of house whipped cream and slices of fresh strawberries and blueberries. You’ll allow yourself this cheat meal if it means proving Bucky wrong.
That and you’ve been on a strict diet of certain vegetables and proteins for your Fashion Week fittings, so this is a welcome change. Think of it as a form of protest against your father bringing you here unwillingly.
“You’re out of your mind,” Bucky chuckles. “Everyone knows that Sal’s crown jewel is his waffles.”
Said waffles sit before him. A stack of perfectly crispy, doughy goodness. The perfect burn on the outside complemented by the soft chew on the insides. Topped off with the same maple syrup and cream and fruits, the only difference rests in the vessel for the brunch dessert.
You can’t tell what you want to eat more — your toast, his waffles, or him.
He looks even more delectable today with his hair disheveled from the sun and sweat. His beard has grown out a little more to frame those pink, kissable lips that Hollywood wishes they could naturally have.
“Alright, try yours then try mine. We’ll decide here and now.”
You’ve never once backed down from a challenge so you eat yours first. Delicious, the flavor is nostalgic and the toast is tender and sweet. You recall all the times your dad brought you here, you with snot in your nose after a kid picked on you. You vaguely remember another boy next to you, blue-eyed and a dark ring around his eye, fists with red scrapes clenched next to his stack of waffles.
Based on your grandmother’s stories, said boy must be Bucky. He doesn’t seem like a troublemaker but you wouldn’t be surprised if he was the type to pick fights with other people. That’s what he’s been doing with you all this time.
“Now mine,” he says and swaps your plates, smirking a little too wide as he watches you grudgingly slice into his waffle. You lift it into your mouth, your teeth sink in, and— fuck.
It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. The texture, the flavor, the balance. The combination of the crunch and the soft give of the waffle against your teeth. The square gaps filled with the perfect amount of cream and syrup, serving as a ship to carry the sweetness onto your tongue. The french toast soaks it in a little too much and the texture is all around too soft now that you’ve had a taste of this.
The waffles are Sal’s masterpiece.
Your eyes flick up to Bucky, he catches your gaze immediately. His lips tug up a little higher.
You quickly school your expression.
You’d never admit this. You’d never admit that Bucky’s right. Over your dead body.
“It’s fine,” you shrug nonchalantly.
“Bullshit,” he laughs, leaning back against the booth chair with arms crossed. His biceps flex and your teeth tingle with the urge to sink into them. “You like it better.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you respond, reaching over to switch your plates around again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my lunch now.”
When you take another bite of your dish, it no longer tastes the same. The magic has faded and now you can’t stop comparing how mushy it is compared to Bucky’s mindblowingly scrumptious pick. You bite back a cringe when your teeth clack together, overestimating how much effort it would take to break through the food.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, princess,” he grins, “I can see right through you. If you ask nicely, I’ll take your toast and you can have my waffles.”
“I’m fine,” you grit out again.
“You sure? Do you really want to die on this hill?”
“This is the best dish here and you can take your opinion and shove it up your—” the waitress gives you a look from behind the counter and you quickly shut your mouth.
Bucky tilts forward this time with a glint in his eye, arms propped up on the table. You don’t like where this is going. “I think I know what the problem is.” You cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you just don’t know what good food is anymore. All those fancy, tiny, overpriced tasting menus have altered your tastebuds.”
A scoff falls from your lips. “They have not! Those are incredibly refined and curated dishes that the chefs dedicate their entire lives to. It’s definitely different from a diner that serves greasy food that only you can enjoy.”
His lips twist, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well then maybe you’ve just forgotten your roots, princess. All those years in the city and suddenly you think you’re too good for everyone else here, including your family.”
The words knock the breath right out of your lungs. It grips your heart and rips it from your chest. As if your own guilt isn’t enough, having Bucky of all people dogpile on what a terrible granddaughter you’ve been isn’t exactly ideal. Between losing quality time with your grandma and the sound you’ve nurtured here that brought you your success, one feeling crawls over your skin.
Fear.
Fear that you no longer know who you are anymore, a cog in the machine so desperate to keep turning. Fear that you’ve become what you hate: fake, pretentious, disgustingly greedy for wealth that you don’t even need. Fear that, if you lose all you have now, when you’ve already lost everything you had, what would be left for you?
Because that’s the thing they don’t tell you about making it to the top — to get there, you have to make plenty of sacrifices. One you convince yourself are worth taking, until you’re looking down at what you’ve left behind and you realize that nothing will ever be enough to make up for it.
Perhaps your dad is right. The fall to rock bottom is a long and arduous journey, a path where you’re forced to reckon with everything you’ve lost and everything you have to lose.
A warm hand covers yours on the table, dragging you out of your reverie. Bucky’s no longer looking at you with disdain or arrogance. Worry is now carved into the furrow of his brows as he squeezes your hand. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
You jerk your hand away from him, lips pressed into a thin line as you swallow the lump in your throat. You know how to stop yourself from crying, you know how to not show your weakness. You’ve done it countless times before to survive; you can do it again with him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“It’s whatever,” you mutter.
“No, it’s not whatever. I crossed a line.”
You don’t appreciate the look on his face. It’s an expression akin to pity. You’ve gotten enough of those looks your entire life, you don’t need it from him. It makes you sick to your stomach. You’re a strong, successful woman who’s achieved everything you’ve ever wanted; there is no reason to pity you.
In lieu of responding, you grab a few bills from your purse and toss it onto the table. “I’m full. I’m going to head out first.”
Ignoring Bucky’s shit, wait, hold on, you’re slipping out of the booth and stomping out into the streets. The breeze outside is helpful against the heat flaming your cheeks as you bite back tears.
Deep down, you know that it isn’t Bucky you’re upset with; nothing he said was untrue. In fact, you hate that it hits a little too close to home.
You start walking — somewhere, anywhere — just away from there. You need space, you need room to breathe and digest what this means for you. It’s one thing to think about how much you’ve lost, circling the issue without calling it out directly, it’s another for someone to point it out so blatantly to you.
“Wait,” Bucky’s voice reaches you before you feel the hand around yours. “Don’t go.”
“Let me go, Bucky.”
“How are you going to head home?”
“I’ll hitchhike if I have to,” you snap.
Bucky looks conflicted again, baby blues darker than usual. “Don’t do that, that’s not safe,” he murmurs, “please. You can be mad at me, I deserve it, but let me take you back. I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He licks his lips. “I know you don’t need it. You’re perfectly fine on your own. I get it. But I want to help, so please just take the offer.”
You yank your wrist away from him. “I’m good. Seriously. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I don’t need to do anything. I can’t do anything but worry when it comes to you,” he practically spits out, “I wish I could stop worrying, but I can’t. Not when you look like you’ve lost everything good in your life. Not when you don’t smile the way you used to.”
That stops you, your movements halting.
“It’s not just your grandma who’s concerned about you. Do you think I don’t notice how distant you sound in interviews? Or all that shit in the papers?”
“Go fuck off your high horse, Barnes.”
“I’m not on my goddamn high horse,” he defends, “I’m just saying it all sounds like a cry for help, okay.”
“Oh, so you think you know me now?”
“I know you. I’ve always known you. I was there defending you from those stupid kids growing up. I was there for you to pick on whenever you wanted to destress. I was there to support you and your dreams because I believed in you.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. There’s a lump lodged there that has your lungs constricting. The next words that come out of your mouth are a feeble attempt to hold your ground. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not the person you knew.”
“Jesus, you think I don’t know that?” He whispers, “I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I’m saying that you don’t have to do it all alone. You have so many people who love you — your grandmother, your dad, m—” He stops himself, seeming to bite his tongue. “All I’m saying is that you’re not alone. You don’t have to be.”
“I—” you find yourself at a loss for words for the first time in a very long time.
Before you can find the right response, you hear your name followed by a blinding flash in your eyes. It takes you a second to register that there is a camera in your face and the grating noise in your ears is this man bombarding you with questions.
“Is this your new man? Have you moved on already? Tell us who you are, man!” More flashes. More questions.
Your blood runs cold.
You should’ve known that trouble would follow you here. You’re quick to turn around, ready to remove yourself from the situation and avoid giving him the content he wants.
The man lets out a low whistle, smirking. “Oh come on, sweetheart, give me a smile. Your fans miss you back home. Everyone thinks you got kidnapped.”
Don’t give in. Don’t respond to this fucking moron.
“Aw, you’re always so sweet in front of the press. Now that it’s just me, you won’t even give me one smile? What kind of celebrity are you? You want everyone to think you’re a fucking bitch?”
Gritting your teeth, you continue brushing past people, Bucky close on your tail, and the guy still hot on your heels. He’s still lobbing words at you, ridiculous comments like just one smile, baby and don’t be a stuckup bitch.
You don’t respond. You’ve been taught better. If you give them the time of day, they’ll keep coming back for more. Ignore them long enough and they’ll label you a cunt and move on with their lives.
However, it’s only when he brings Bucky into it that you stop dead in your tracks. “This your new man? I can give him that publicity he wants right now. How’s she in bed? Did you make a video too? Come on, give me a quote and I’ll even put your face on the paper.”
“Will you piss the fuck off?” You snap.
His lips curl into a smirk far too proud for a man of his occupation. “Pop princess has claws. You wanna curse for the camera too? Bet your kiddie fans will love that.”
“I am here on vacation. Leave us alone.”
“It comes with the territory, honey. Now that I have you, why don’t you tell me about this stud, huh? What’s your name, man? You give me a tell-all on how good she looks in bed and I’ll pay you. Triple if you’ve got a video like the last one.”
Bucky steps forward, clearly ready to be your knight in shining armor, but you move faster to put a hand on his chest. As much as you dislike Bucky, you don’t want him to be subjected to the bullshit that these tabloids publish. He doesn’t need his face splashed on the front page just because he’s doing a good thing and taking you out to lunch.
Shaking your head, you signal him to back down. He doesn’t seem to like that idea, frowning until you pin him with a glare that has him pursing his lips.
“Just ignore him. He’s not worth it.”
“Whatever she’s offering you, I’ll give you more! Name your price.”
His jaw clenches, blue eyes sparking with the kind of rage you’ve never seen with him. “Leave it alone, Buck.”
His eyes melt, if only a fraction.
You don’t try to decipher that look. Instead, you turn around and point your finger at this man. “You leave me alone or I’ll sick the cops on your ass.”
“Public space, sweetheart. I can do whatever I want.”
“And when I get you barred from every press event I attend? I’m about to file a restraining order if you keep harassing me like this — with plenty of witnesses at that. Think about what you’re doing before you keep running your mouth like that.”
With that, you shove Bucky forward and back into his truck. The two of you peel off before the man can chase you back down again.
It is only in the quiet of the vehicle that you finally hear the thundering in your chest. Your heart hammering in your veins like it’s about to jump out of your chest. With a hand over your heart, you try to take in what shaky breaths you manage. You pull your phone out of your pocket to text your dad, but your fingers are trembling too much for you to type properly.
Cursing under your breath, you type, backspace, type, backspace, until you’re frustrated and flinging the device onto the dashboard with a loud clatter.
“Shit, sorry,” you wince.
“Hey, you’re good. You’re safe,” Bucky whispers next to you, his voice calm as it slips between the crevices of your palpitating heart.
His hand reaches out to close around yours on your thigh. He squeezes, thumb brushing over the back of it in circular motions. You’re momentarily distracted by the act, eyes following the repetitive movement until your heartbeat matches its rhythm. The ringing in your ears quiets, fading into a light buzz before it eventually ceases to let you focus on the rumble of the truck over dirt roads instead.
Bucky pulls to a stop outside the house. Your house. Your grandma’s house.
His hand is still on yours.
You pull it away quickly. Habit. You’re always alert, never sure if there are any more cameras waiting to catch you slipping.
“You’re fine. He didn’t follow us. I did a few reroutes to make sure,” he murmurs.
“Thank you,” you exhale slowly. “I’m sorry. Shit, this whole thing is so stupid.”
Bucky tilts his head. “Why are you sorry?”
You open your mouth, only to realize that you don’t have an easy answer. “Um, well, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”
“His own actions are his responsibility. You do not need to apologize on his behalf.”
He’s not wrong. It’s annoying. All this guilt that you shouldn’t even be feeling.
“I guess,” you mutter.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, an eyebrow raised. “I hope you know that none of this is your fault — him showing up, the crap in the papers, all the bullshit around you.”
With a grunt, you press your lips together. “I know that. It’s just… unfortunate circumstances.”
“That’s one way to put it,” he smiles, “though, I should also apologize again. I am sorry. I crossed a line, it won’t happen again.”
You can’t even find it in you to come up with a snappy retort. Instead, you shift your gaze away. He seems to understand, letting out a low chuckle. Your lips thin. “I’m not a fan of the word princess.”
That seems to surprise him, a twinkle in his widened eyes. “That so? You used to make me call you that all the time.”
“What were you then? The prince?” You drawl sarcastically.
“Actually, you designated me court jester.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat — probably the first sincere one since you got here, maybe in years. The thought of you acting all high and mighty, making Bucky perform for your entertainment is comical, especially when you consider how massive he is now.
“Find it funny, do you?”
“A little bit.”
“I should send you the bill for my decades of mental anguish.”
Your lips curl into a smile of part amusement, part foul delight. “You could sell all of those childhood stories for a pretty penny.”
“I think your grandma has a few pictures of you in the bathtub.” A gasp falls from your lips. “I was helping her clean the attic. She’s got quite the collection.”
Your cheeks warm. “Haven’t you heard? If you wanted to see me naked, all you have to do is go online.”
You’re not entirely sure why you prompted the idea of you being naked to Bucky, it hardly seems appropriate but Bucky then appraises you with those eyes. Blue drowned out by his blown pupils. You see the indent on his cheek where he’s pushing his tongue against the walls, likely biting back an equally inappropriate comment to respond to yours.
“I’d prefer to experience the real thing for myself.”
All of a sudden, your throat feels like sandpaper and Bucky’s looking you up and down in a way that has your entire body tingling with need.
This can’t be happening. Not right now. Not when you’re supposed to have a clean slate.
Not with Bucky of all people.
However, your grandma’s in your ears, whispering, He’s not a bad fella, is he? He’s not. He’s a good one — perhaps the only one left — but he’s still a man at the end of the day and can you really bring yourself to trust another?
“Too much too soon?” He asks gently.
“No,” you choke out. “Not at all.”
Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you’re momentarily distracted by the way his bottom lip glistens. His voice drops a pitch— “Don’t tempt me, princess.”
Your heart stutters between your ribs. Heat snakes between your thighs and you’re forced to bite your tongue before you can let out a sound that would embarrass the both of you.
“I’ll check in on you later, yeah?” Bucky tips his hat with a charming smile before wandering towards the barn.
Leaving you and the timber of his voice echoing in your ears.
Something shifts between the two of you after that. It’s nothing monumental but you no longer dread the hours you have to spend with him out with Bucky. Laughter comes a little easier when you’re not viewing him as the enemy. He still teases you but you match that energy right back, with significantly less animosity.
The first time you jump back on Winter, you nearly fall flat on your face. You half-expect Bucky to make another jab about how you’ve lost your skills. However, you’re pleasantly surprised when all he says is “easy there” before he’s encouraging you back on the saddle.
The two of you start taking rides into the mountains. With the wind in your ear and the scent of wild grass, you can’t help but feel like you’re finally home.
However, even when the two of you are sharing picnic lunches that he packs at the top of your hike and he’s tugged off his t-shirt after he gets drenched under a waterfall, Bucky doesn’t do anything more or less.
He keeps a comfortable distance — close enough that you find yourself leaning in, far enough that he finds the excuse to pull away.
As someone who’s always, always gotten whoever you wanted whenever you wanted, you almost want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless just to make it a done deal. But as someone with a little bit of pride left, you want him to make the first move.
Unfortunately for you, none of your usual tricks have worked. You’ve spritzed on a little bit more perfume. You’ve worn your lowest cut tops without your tits spilling out. You’ve even given him enough sultry looks that you’re starting to get a twitch in your eye.
Your final tactic, which has never failed you, requires a third participant. A third participant that you didn’t have until today.
You and Bucky are helping your grandma at the farmer’s market. Bucky as the pack mule, hoisting crates of jam onto the vegetable stall that she runs with all of her prized produce. You’re cutting up samples of watermelon and, of course, your presence draws a big enough crowd that your grandma sells out quickly.
“If business can be this good with you around, maybe you should move home,” she beams.
“Good to know that I’m only useful for marketing,” you drawl with a teasing lilt.
“Oh, honey, what can I say? You’re not much help around the farm.”
You feign a gasp and turn to Bucky who’s chuckling to himself on the sidelines. “You’re not gonna defend my honor? After all I did for you this week?”
“Was that before or after you broke the new stepladder we got?” Bucky prompts.
With a roll of your eyes, you wave the two of them off and continue to slice up the fruits. “Two traitors, that’s what the two of you are.”
Before either could respond, a man comes up to your booth. He’s tall. He’s blonde. He’s rather handsome, if you liked the all-American sort of thing. He’s got blue eyes like Bucky but not even half as bright or kind. “That looks like a good one, sweetheart. How about cutting me up a slice?”
The sweetheart is like ice rolling down your spine. You force out a trained smile. “‘Course. I can even give you a bigger one if you promise to buy a whole watermelon from us.”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “You drive a hard bargain but you have yourself a deal.”
You flash your prettiest grin at him; you know exactly what men like him need. A little stroke of his ego and you’ve got a hook, line, and sinker. As you’re pushing the knife into the fruit, you feel a sudden warmth next to you.
Bucky. His shoulders are squared, eyes partially narrowed. “John.”
“Bucky,” the man — John — smiles easily in response to Bucky’s tight lip curl. “It’s been a while, man. How’s the farm?”
“Good.”
Curt. Terse. Very unlike Bucky who you’ve grown to understand is very talkative. “Good to hear,” John responds, voice light, “I see you’ve got yourself a pretty new helper. A famous one at that. Bet you’re the reason the stall’s doing extra well today, sweetheart.”
You open your mouth to respond but Bucky beats you to it. “She’s great. Why don’t you run along now? I’m sure there are other people you can pester today.”
“Pester? Now, am I being a bother to you, sweetheart?”
Yes, but you’re not going to give Bucky that satisfaction. Something about this man irks Bucky. Not a lot of things can get under his skin, which only piques your interest further. So you slap on a saccharine-sweet smile. “No, definitely not. He’s a customer, Bucky. Play nice. He’s buying a whole watermelon and two squashes today.”
“Am I?” A flicker of surprise crosses his eyes, fading into a humored sparkle.
“You are, sir.”
“Well, if the lady says so, then it must be true.”
You let out a giggle, one that you know will grate on Bucky’s nerves. The two of you continue to make light conversation as you offer John a sample and John seems to take his time nibbling on the slice while he looks you up and down. You don’t like his look, but you do like the color on Bucky’s face right now. The perfect shade of green that you’ve been waiting for.
Because of that, you can’t help yourself. You up the ante a little bit — giggling a little more, flicking your hair over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes at him. Throughout your entire conversation, you can practically hear Bucky’s blood rushing in his veins. Jealousy is a good look on him.
Still, he doesn’t say a thing — at least, not until John finally, finally walks away. You didn’t know how much longer you could’ve pretended to find him entertaining; stale jokes were never your foreplay of choice.
“He’s bad news, you know,” Bucky utters next to you.
You’re busy cutting up the last of the samples as you reply with a light, “Sometimes I like bad news.”
He frowns. “You can’t be serious. Him of all people?”
“If not him, then who?” You deadpan, turning to look at him.
Bucky’s mouth opens then promptly slams shut. He once again appears to want to say something but he’s holding back, biting his tongue. Coward.
“Hey, kids, I’m just going to check on Mr. Oliver over there. He’s been getting harassed by that developer I told you about, James. Start cleaning up, we should be good to head back soon.” Your grandma ducks out of the stall and disappears.
You raise an eyebrow at Bucky. “James?”
“My first name,” Bucky shrugs.
“James,” you repeat — then it clicks, “James the Jester! I remember now. Oh, you were such a crybaby.”
At that, a deep scarlet blush sprawls across his face, up to the tips of his ears. “I was not. You were just evil. Instead of princess, I used to call you the wicked witch of the west.”
You bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I bet you did. Grandma told me you’d let me do whatever I wanted.”
“You were a spoiled princess after all.”
Ignoring that comment, you choose to ask, “What’s going on with Mr. Oliver?”
“Developers have been coming around these parts to try and turn it into something more modern. They’ve been offering hefty amounts to buy out property owners in the area. Talks about luxury apartments and a shopping mall.”
“Who in the world would pay for luxury apartments around here?” You crinkle your nose.
Bucky shrugs, his hat tipping forward. “Who knows? Guess they found a market for it.”
“That kind of sucks.”
“Yeah, the town’s been trying to fundraise to help support a lot of these small businesses to make sure they can stay afloat. Otherwise, they’ll get priced out and before you know it, everyone’s going to be gone.”
While the idea of a shopping mall does appeal to you, you hate the thought of losing this place. Neighbors who know each other by name. People who come from near and far, spanning generations and building relationships for years to come. All the lush greenery, soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, the crisp fresh air. The idea of all of that replaced by a concrete jungle is a nightmare.
“How much have y’all raised so far?”
Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Not a lot. It’s tough to get funds out here when folks barely make anything for themselves. We need some outside help but it’s not easy, not many care about a small place like this.”
But you do. You care. This is your home. No matter how many times you’ve avoided coming back, or how much you try to deny the past, this is where you came from. If you lose this place, who would you be?
“Why don’t we throw a fundraiser? I could do something. I don’t need to be the main attraction but I could help bring people out. We could sell tickets, do a little open mic night.”
“You’d do that?” His eyebrows practically jump to his hairline.
You give him a look. “You think that lowly of me?”
“No, not that I don’t think you’d do it,” Bucky quickly clarifies, “It’s just— it’s obviously a lot to ask when you’re trying to stay incognito here.”
“I just have to convince my dad.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dad!” You say at the same time your grandma scolds her eldest son with his full government name.
“I didn’t come here so you could be the center of attention,” he brushes off, “again.”
“This is different.”
“This is going to attract unwanted press.”
“This is the kind of press we want.”
The two of you are locked in a stare-down with your grandma and Bucky standing on the sidelines, waiting for one of you to be the first to break.
“In all fairness, she is doing it for a good cause,” your grandma chimes in the hopes of alleviating your father’s wrath.
“Sounds to me like she’s trying to get back in the spotlight. What if the press says this is all pretense to clean up her act? What if it brings unneeded scrutiny to our small town?”
You let a heavy exhale escape. Your eyes fly to the ceiling only for the briefest of seconds before you redirect your gaze to your dad. “Honestly, they can say what they want. At this point, they’ll pick on anything I do. It doesn’t matter if I have good intentions — or even if I don’t do anything at all, they’re going to find something to be upset about. They’ll twist everything I do to fit their narrative because that’s what they do. It shouldn’t stop me from living my life — or supporting things that I care about.”
Three pairs of eyes land on you. You try not to squirm but the weight of their attention is enough to make you shift. You look at Bucky first — his eyes are soft, understanding almost. He saw firsthand what it’s like to be in the spotlight, chased after in the middle of the most menial activities. Friendship twisted into a scandal.
These people are vultures and, while there’s nothing you can ultimately do to stop them, you have control in the way you respond and behave. In this case, perhaps the only correct response is to stop caring.
Your life is yours and you need to stop listening to these assholes who think that they know you, who think that they can shape your reputation to the image of you they have in their heads.
Your father looks thoughtful, almost surprised by your words. He’s silent, mulling over it for a moment before he looks at you. He’s searching your eyes — for any doubt or uncertainty — but he finds none of it. Because you haven’t been this sure of anything in a long time.
“Alright, fine. We’ll make it a community event. We won’t use your name because we don’t need a frenzy; this may be a small town but you’re not a small name, darling. I don’t need to hire security for a fundraiser. However, we can sell tickets to a live stream that will ultimately go to supporting this town. Hopefully that helps alleviate the traffic.”
You’re throwing your arms around him before he even finishes his sentence. “Thank you! Thank you!”
He chuckles, “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. I’m expecting you to do a lot of the planning.”
“Wait, what?” You balk, jerking back.
“You proposed this so you need to see it through.”
A pout forms on your lips. “But—”
“I’ll help,” Bucky cuts in, mouth stretched into a proud grin. “You’re doing enough already. Just get yourself ready. I can help organize the live feed.”
“You can set up a livestream?” You ask, doubt creeping into your voice.
He smirks, “Such little faith. I know my way around technology. Trust me on this, princess.”
You’re not one to argue with him so you can only nod. “Okay then, let’s do this.”
Things come together relatively quickly in the next couple of days. You spend most of your time figuring out how to make your extremely pop songs acoustic with minimal support from a local band. True to his word, Bucky does eventually set up the live stream and even does a little test to make sure it works.
“Smile.”
You force out a grin before it’s quickly wiped away from your face. “Are we good?”
“You’ve got something on your face. I think it’s the whipped cream from the waffles earlier.”
Your hand immediately flies to the corner of your mouth. Clearly it doesn’t work because then Bucky’s coming up to you. His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently over the corner of your lips, swiping along the bottom. As if possessed, he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.
His eyes don’t leave you once.
Your heart slams against your ribs, core squeezing. You don’t get a chance to question him before he’s clearing his throat and pulling away with a quiet “got it.”
With all the marketing up, the event comes together fast. In a blink of an eye, you’re in this large backyard space with fairy lights strung across trees, tables for the buffet that your grandma has cooked up, and a makeshift stage where the band has set up. It’s beautiful and cozy. Perfect.
Instead of wearing one of your usual concert getups, the bedazzled bodysuits with matching rhinestoned boots, you opt for something more casual. A find from a thrift store and Bucky’s flannel layered over you; the latter isn’t by choice, he took one look at how much skin you were revealing and insisted you would be too chilly.
With your guitar propped up on your well-worn sneaker, you take a deep breath.
“Ready?” Your dad asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.
“Yeah. Of course. I do this all the time.”
The corner of his lips quirk up. “It’s alright to be nervous, you know.”
You worry your bottom lip, turning to look at him. “I’ve done this a billion times before. Why am I so worried?”
“Because it matters this time, because you care, and that’s a good thing,” he soothes, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll be right there with you.”
“What if nobody else wants to perform? I’m only singing at the end. What if nobody participates?”
“Darling, you know your grandmother. She’d get up there and start the macarena if she has to get the party going.” A giggle rises from your chest. “You’ve got good people here and everyone’s here for a good cause.”
“If it’s dead silent, maybe I can get Bucky to get up there,” you snort softly, “he apparently had been my court jester in the past.”
Your dad lets out a tiny grunt. It’s one that most people won’t blink twice at, but you know him better than that.
“What’s with that sound?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. That’s the sound you make when the spare ribs don’t fall off the bone. So what gives?”
“I don’t like that boy.”
You shoot him a look. “You don’t like any boy.”
“That’s also true.”
“Grandma says he’s one of the good ones.”
It’s your dad’s turn to give you a look. “He’s a boy. There are no good ones.”
Your lips curl into a smirk. “I haven’t seen you go all protective in a while.”
“Well, none of them were serious before. This one — this one looks like the type who can break your heart.”
Both your glances wander over to Bucky who’s helping your grandma set up the food table. It’s still early enough that nobody’s filtered in but you expect a good showing. Tickets are basically close to selling out, the space will hopefully be at capacity. You’ve raised a good amount of money already and that doesn’t even include the massive success of the live stream sales.
But Bucky — heaven-sent Bucky. He really is a good one. In your world, that usually means that he is too good to be true. Someone always wants something. Whether it’s fame or fortune — or both, you’re merely a gateway to it. You’ve lost most of your trust in humanity since you started succeeding; your industry mentors tell you that’s how you know you’ve made it.
However, you’re not in your world right now. Not fully at least. So maybe you’re allowed to hold onto that tiny piece of hope that things may just work out with him.
“I know,” you murmur. “Let’s hope he doesn’t.”
Your dad wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m going to check on your grandma. Break a leg out there. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad,” you smile softly up at him. “For trusting me this and… for bringing me back here.”
“Anytime, darling.”
Just as your dad said, the party comes into full swing in the next thiry minutes. There’s no shortage of people wanting to perform — anything from singing to dancing and even standup comedy (though this last one is a little bit questionable when you hear the awkward filtering of laughter through the crowd).
People hop onto the makeshift dance floor for the next performer. An upbeat number that has everyone twirling and shimmying all over. You glance at Bucky only to find that he’s already looking right back at you.
Ask me to dance, you idiot. You raise an eyebrow and Bucky only coughs and shifts his eyes away.
You roll your eyes. If he doesn’t do something soon, you may end up taking matters into your own hands.
“Now, what’s a pretty lady like you doing all alone here?” The familiar voice interrupts your irritation. John. He’s got that boyish smile on his face again. “Would you care to join me for a dance?”
You look to Bucky again, finding him already looking at the both of you with stone-cold eyes. Well, if he’s not going to do anything about this, then you might as well find another form of entertainment.
Sliding your hand over John’s outstretched one, you nod. “I’d be delighted.”
John’s a decent dancer. He spins you around, matches your rhythm, and still manages to make conversation throughout. He asks you about life in California, if you have anything exciting coming up soon. You give him noncommital answers about how you’re working on your next album.
“I sure hope you’d save me a backstage pass for your next tour.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” you force out a smile.
On top of that, he’s too handsy for your taste. His grip starts safe on your hips before they drift a little too low like he’s trying to reach for your ass. You have to carefully navigate away from him every time he does that.
“Anything going on between you and Barnes?” John asks.
You look at Bucky again. His gaze has been burning a hole through your skull and probably John’s. As much as the two of you try to ignore it, it’s near impossible to not feel the weight of his impressively intense stare.
“No, nothing,” you answer honestly.
“He looks like he wants to cut off my head,” he chuckles.
“That’s just his normal face,” you brush off brusquely.
“If you say so.”
However, when this song ends, you feel another pair of hands on your waist that quickly manhandles you to land with an oof against a firm chest. You look up to find Bucky who’s now holding your hand and your waist for a spin around the floor. When you glance back at John, he looks none too pleased and stomps off in another direction.
“You don’t like to share your toys, do you?” You smirk.
“I don’t share, period,” he mutters.
“Then you should’ve claimed your prize from the start.”
Bucky’s brows meet in the middle. “You’re not… a prize,” he begins, “you’re more than that. I didn’t— I didn’t know how to even begin to approach you.”
“You had no problem berating the shit out of me when I fucked up the horse and chicken feed.”
His shoulders shake with laughter. “That’s different. That’s my area of expertise.”
“And this isn’t?”
His lips thin. “I’m not… experienced with all this.” He clears his throat, “Romance. Women.”
“You’re kidding,” you blurt out before you can stop it. He shakes his head. “You look like this and you’re telling me you don’t have experience with people?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you’re hot, Barnes.” Bucky jolts back in surprise. “Come on, that is not news to you. I’ve seen at least five girls come up to you in the time John and I danced.”
His fingers tighten on your waist. “They wanted me to introduce them to you.”
“That’s an excuse to approach you. They probably wanted a dance.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Bucky huffs, “How would you know?”
“Because that’s what I would do. You’re a catch, Bucky.”
“High compliment coming from you.”
You swat his chest playfully. “Playing humility when you are anything but isn’t a good look, Mr. Barnes.”
“I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have,” Bucky mumbles, hand squeezing yours.
“Yeah? How long has that been? Since we were kids?” You tease lightly, fully expecting him to scoff and call you ludicrious.
However, the sheepish look that settles on his face has you gaping.
Before you can question it further, your dad is announcing your performance next. Bucky nudges you towards the front with a small smile. “Go get ‘em, princess.”
It’s a bit of a blur of you getting up there and preparing yourself for your first performance in a while. It’s one thing to be on a stage with hundreds of thousands silhouettes watching you, it’s another to be able to see every single face in the crowd waiting for you with bated breath.
Your fingers circle the neck of your guitar, fingertips pressed firm against the strings. The steel bites into your skin but your focus is really only on the people before you.
“Hi, everyone. I just wanted to say a very big thank you again for coming out tonight. I hope everyone’s havin’ a good time!” The crowd explodes in cheers and applause. “We’re all here because we love this town and I’m happy that I have the opportunity to contribute to saving it. There’s no other place like home. A big shoutout to all the viewers watching from the comfort of their houses as well, we couldn’t have done it without you. Without further ado, I hope you all enjoy this last segment of the evening.”
The rapid beating inside your chest is a drum against your ribs. Your eyes trawl over the crowd, over strangers’ faces and familiar ones. Your dad who shoots you a proud grin, your grandma who’s waving her fist in encouragement, and Bucky — Bucky who smiles soft and nods at you.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of motions. Once you finish your set, you’re greeted by a round of congratulations when you step off stage. Your hand hasn’t cramped from signing autographs in a bit but you relish in the attention. Whenever you look up, you catch Bucky watching from the sidelines.
I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have.
The echo of his words have your ears burning.
By the time you finally make it back to him, the crowd has thinned, with only a smattering of close friends and family still chattering over food.
“Sometimes I forget how good you are live,” Bucky says, a tinge of awe in his voice.
“Please, when was the last time you heard me live?”
His teeth catches his bottom lip for a second before he clears his throat. “Your Nashville show last year.”
You can hear your jaw land on the floor. “You went?” He shrugs. “Why didn’t you tell me? I invited grandma but she couldn’t make it out.”
“You didn’t know me, princess,” Bucky chuckles.
Well, he’s not entirely strong. But still. “Grandma could’ve told me. You shouldn’t have to pay.”
“Why not? I’m supporting a good cause, aren’t I?”
You exhale a laugh. “So I’m a charity case now?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny—” Your punch on his arm gets you a laugh, it probably felt like a tingle. “I didn’t want to be one of those people who pulled that card. We haven’t spoken in years and I would’ve gone anyway even without the free ticket.”
Bucky needs to stop giving your heart reasons to shift towards him. You haven’t been in love in a very long time, and you’re not sure you’re ready for it yet — especially not with a man as good as him, one you cannot bring into your world.
“Plus, I was talking Madeline. Her mom’s our foreman.”
“Playing chaperone, cute,” you murmur. “Next time, just shoot me a text. You have my number. My dad or someone else can arrange something.”
“Noted, appreciated.”
You wring your fingers behind your back, hiding evidence of your nerves. “So, I sound good? I’m not sure how the music would play out without the usual production, acoustic felt more fitting here—”
“It was great, seriously. I was reading the comments from the stream and everybody loved it. A lot of them seemed to have been fans for a while and they were happy to see you perform like this again.”
It reminds you of the smaller gigs you used to play — coffee shops and dive bars before you were promoted to opening for bigger artists and then going into your own sold-out world tour. Part of what you were missing in your work is that connection with the fans, doing more intimate engagement for your more loyal listeners.
“Yeah, I think it would be fun to do something like this once in a while,” you smile.
“Well, if you need a tech guy, you know where to find me.”
You roll your eyes but your lips twitch into an amused smile. “Come on, let’s go help my grandma clean up.”
“Hey,” Bucky catches your hand just as you turn, drawing your attention back to him. You cock an eyebrow in question. He scratches his cheek, looking almost… nervous? “Are you doing anything tomorrow? I thought we could go for a ride. A picnic maybe.”
“We’ve done that before,” you say slowly, puzzled, “but I’m down.”
“Okay, yeah, sounds good.”
That’s when it hits you. “Bucky Barnes, are you trying to ask me out on a date?” The laugh that slips past your lips has Bucky tinting red as he swallows and pulls away from you. You realize then that he may think you’re poking fun at him. “Wait, no, don’t do that. I wasn’t— I wasn’t teasing you, promise. I think it’s cute.”
Bucky’s mouth twists a little. If you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have known that he was sulking. It’s such a tiny reaction that you could miss it if you blinked.
“Bucky, come on. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yeah, I know.” Does he? “I know I’m probably not as… I don’t know, cool as all the guys you’ve dated before but—”
You take his hand in yours and squeeze. “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve just— I’ve been waiting for a bit for you to make your move. Even now, you’re still beating around the bush. Just ask me out, Buck.”
He chuckles, ears still red. “Alright, will you go on a date with me?”
“Yes, yes, I will,” you grin, “now, was that so hard?”
“Might be harder than getting back on a horse after a decade.”
You gasp, “That’s uncalled for.” He beams sweetly right back at you, turning your hands so that he’s holding yours now. It’s your turn to warm to the tips of your toes. “Okay, let’s go help grandma, casanova.”
The ride shouldn’t be any different. You’ve done this route a million times before. You’ve done this ride and this picnic thing with Bucky before. You shouldn’t feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest any second now. Maybe it’s time to summon your on-call doctor to make sure it’s not a seizure.
“You’re fine, you’re just nervous,” Yelena says from your laptop. “I think you should go for the lace top, it makes your tits look great.”
You pick up the flimsy piece of fabric. “I’m not nervous. I don’t get nervous for dates. I definitely do not get nervous for a man.”
As you tug the shirt over your head, Yelena laughs, “Nobody knows that I’m getting a strip tease from a five-time Grammy winner.”
Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you shrug on the top. “I’m serious, Yelena. This isn’t cool. I’m not being cool.”
“No, you’re being a girl with a crush.”
“I’m this nation’s favorite pop performer. I don’t get crushes.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve been there a little over a week and I’ve never seen you smile this much.” That explains why your cheeks are aching. “Face it, you’re head over heels for this man.”
You rub your face furiously. “God, this is so uncool. What if he’s making me uncool?”
“Then you guys can be uncool together.”
“That’s not an option,” you grumble, “what do you think?” You do a few turns in front of the floor-length mirror.
“Perfect. They grow up so fast,” Yelena mocks a tear.
“You’re a terrible friend.”
“I’m the bestest friend. Seriously though, you deserve to have a bit of fun. I think he’s good for you.”
“You’ve never met him.”
She gives you a look, one that is both chiding and soft. “But I know you and you haven’t been like this in a long time.”
Instead of acknowleding her words and potentially the gravity of your feelings, you instead choose to tease her. “Since when are you such a lovergirl?”
“Since I realized it makes you less of an asshole.”
“Rude.”
“You love me.”
“I do,” you grin.
“Have fun, kiddo.”
You’ve heard Bucky hustling and bustling outside since this morning. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time getting ready. Makeup light and pristine, nothing that would smudge even if you dunked your head underwater. Not a hair out of place. You’ve tested a few perfumes and there’s one that Bucky always leans towards so you spray a little on your neck and your wrists.
By the time you come downstairs ten minutes before the time he promised, you find him in the kitchen cooking with your grandma. Your dad is giving him dirty looks from the dining table.
“Morning, sunshine,” your grandma smiles, “don’t you look lovely today?”
“You’re saying I don’t look lovely everyday?”
“You have your days,” she jests with a pat on your cheek.
Bucky slides up next to you next, an appropriate amount of distance in front of your family. “Morning,” he murmurs, “you look beautiful.”
“I know,” you try to play it off but your heart feels just about ready to combust. “You ready?”
“Packed and ready to roll.”
You roll your eyes but can’t bite down on your smile in time. “You’re so lame.”
He only chuckles.
“I don’t need to give you the talk, do I?” Your dad chimes in next, glare darting between the two of you, before landing solidly on Bucky. “No funny business. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Curfew is at—”
“Oh my god, Dad!” You snap with your own scowl at him. “We’re not kids. We’ll be back whenever we’re back.”
“Still living under my roof, darling.”
“Technically my roof,” your grandma chirps and gives her son a scalding look. She turns to the two of you with a gentle smile. “Take your time. Have fun. Be safe.”
“But—”
Your dad’s full government name rolls off her tongue again and he immediately clamps his mouth shut. You’re pushing Bucky out of there before he can interrupt again.
“I’m so sorry,” you grouse, “he’s so overprotective sometimes.”
“He means well. I can see why he would be,” Bucky says as he leads you towards your horses.
“He’s overbearing is what he is,” you mutter as you hop on your horse. He makes sure that you’re settled safely before he climbs on his own horse.
The both of you set out on your usual route, your horses galloping deep into the woods as far as they can go. You take it all in — the fresh hair, the abundance of nature, the untouched beauty. It’s hard to imagine that you’ve been privileged enough to experience this life for the past week, let alone remember how this had been your life growing up. It’s even harder to imagine losing all of this. The nature in your gated apartment complex doesn’t feel natural. It feels necessary.
Out here, it just… exists.
Sometimes, you miss that — simply existing. If anything, this trip has become a reminder for you to come home more often and visit your grandma — and now, Bucky.
“You seem deep in thought.” Speak of the devil, he’s unpacking the lunch he’s tucked into his backpack. A selection of sandwiches in ziploc bags, fruits perfectly sliced and peeled, and pastries to top it all off. The food is simple but delicious and you can tell a lot of care has been placed into the prep — crusts off the bread, lightly toasted, fruits fresh and ripe, and pastries sweet.
Your stylist is going to tear you a new one when she realizes you no longer fit into your usual sizing. However, right here, right now, you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Thinking about how nice it is out here,” you sigh, gaze wandering to the world around you.
The two of you are perched on a rock at the base of a waterfall after a casual stride on your horses and a quick hike down to the stream. The symphony of water pouring down from the cliff mixed in with the sounds of birds singing in the distance and the rush of a coursing river — all of this brings you some semblance of peace. It reminds you of the quiet, the isolation. Things you could never have in the big, urban city you now call home.
Bucky laughs. “It’s always going to be here, you know. You just need to come back more often.”
“My schedule is crazy enough as is,” you stomp down on the urge to whinge like a child, “I’d love to pre-book my vacations but when opportunities come up, I have to prioritize that. I have to stay relevant. Things change so much in this day and age. In a blink of an eye and I could be rendered a has-been.”
“Have faith in your most loyal fans, you have plenty of those.”
Your eyes track the movement of the clouds above as they trail across the bright blue sky. “Maybe,” you sigh, “I’m just tired.”
Bucky tucks in close next to you, bumping your shoulder with his as he plucks a grape from the vine for you. You take it gratefully and pop it into your mouth, the sweetness bursting on your tongue.
“Maybe, what you need is to cool off.” You frown at him. He nods his head towards the waterfall. “There’s an old rope some kids put up a while back.” He points in the direction of the trees. “The water’s deep enough to break the fall.”
Aghast, you make your dismay very, very clear. “You want me to jump in there? Wearing this?”
“Unless you prefer to strip down, which I think only one of us would mind.”
Your fist lands a punch on his bicep. “Perv,” you mutter.
“Live a little,” he encourages as he jumps to his feet. He begins the short trek up the stairs, towards a small landing where a thick chord of rope hangs from a tree. His fingers curl around it tight, then he’s launching himself off and crashing straight into the water.
Your heart jerks in your chest as you peer over the rock into the water, waiting for him to surface. Bucky comes up for air with a huge splash, grinning as he slicks his hair back with his hand.
“The water’s fantastic.”
“You’re insane,” you deadpan. “I’m absolutely not doing that.”
“Man, here I thought you were finally free of the stick up your ass—” you gasp, he laughs, “—but I guess I was wrong.”
“I do not have a stick up my ass. Sue me for not wanting to get soaking wet in a Prada top.”
Bucky leans back, hands reaching up to wipe the water from his face again. It’s then you notice his t-shirt clinging onto his arms — like second skin that does nothing to mask the thick muscles that could probably lift you with a finger. “You can always buy more Prada. You can’t buy another day like today.”
“Think I’ll take my chances.”
“Alright, princess. I didn’t know you forgot how to have fun. You used to be the one who took me out here, would be the first one to jump in too before you dragged me in with you.”
That ticks you off. Your jaw clenches and you finally rise to your feet. Screw him for thinking you’d ruin your perfectly nice outfit for this. Your fingers catch the hem of your shirt before you’re tugging it over your head, then you shimmy out of your shorts.
“Wait, you’re really—”
“What? Never seen a girl in her underwear before?” You smirk, climbing up to where he stood only moments ago. Bucky looks even redder in contrast against the pool of blue.
You look at the rope and take a deep breath. You’ve done this before. You can do this. It’s just a swing and a jump. After that, you black out and by the time you come to, you’re already soaked from head to toe, coming up for air with a gasp as the water laps cool against your skin. You still hear the echo of your scream before you crashed into the pool.
“Shit, it’s freezing. You didn’t warn me.”
Bucky chuckles as he swims closer towards you. “Doesn’t it feel nice?”
“Feels like I’m about to catch a cold.”
The two of you splash around for a little while, Bucky even coming out only to jump back in and drench you in another wave. Your screech echoes in the quiet of the forest, muffled only by the waterfall behind you.
He looks at you when he comes up, grinning as he approaches you. His hand reaches up to drag the wet strands of your hair away from your face, fingertips brushing your cheek. His touch is cool but your entire body feels like it’s been set on fire.
You’re well aware of how little you’re wearing, even more so when the thin fabric sticks to your wet skin. Your nipples are stiff in the chill, pushing against the material, and you can feel your panties squeezing between your cheeks.
Your arms wrap around yourself, partly because of the cold, but mostly because Bucky’s watching you a little too closely. His eyes travel down your neck where strands of your hair are clinging to your skin, to your collarbones, down to the valley of your breasts that peek up from above the water.
You see his throat move as he swallows. Blue finds you. The color a shade or two darker as he assesses you, drinks the sight of you in. Instead of addressing it, he begins to move towards the surface where he manages to stand, water kissing his calves. You follow after him slowly.
He turns around then, looking at you when you come close enough. There’s a depth to his gaze that you can’t read, but you’re almost too scared to ask.
“What?” You try to play off.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Gentle. Honest.
“You’re just saying that because I’m practically naked,” you taunt, fully aware of how much you’re showing now that you’re out of the water.
“I’m saying that because you look incredibly tempting right now and I think I’ll have a hard time keeping my hands off you. For both our sakes, I recommend that you put on some clothes right now.”
Your breath catches, snagging in your lungs. The words that depart your lips are one born from days of frustration and longing. An honest, desperate question. “What makes you think you have to?”
Bucky inhales sharp, deep. “Do you know what you’re saying right now, princess?”
“I am,” you respond calmly, though your voice wavers.
He takes a step closer and suddenly you’re backing up against a large boulder, the cold surface kissing the swell of your ass.
His hand stretches out. His touch ghosts over your skin, hand trailing lightly over your hip where the hem of your panties rests, traveling up to your waist, right beneath the wiring of your bra, fingertips brushing over your exposed torso. Your breath hitches in your throat, chest rising as your lungs expand. Bucky’s blue eyes, warm where they’re focused on how his large palm moves over your stomach, flicks up to meet yours.
“This okay?” He whispers.
You only manage a nod.
“You’re gorgeous, princess.”
The pet name crawls up your spine and grips your lungs. You’re too busy looking at how Bucky’s lips look, the way they part, and his eyes, pupils blowing up to swallow the blue, to notice how his hand is slowly creeping up your bare stomach. His hand leaves a trail of fire where it crawls up to your chest, burning through your skin when he cups you gently.
He lets out a garbled sound. “Fuck, you’re so soft.”
“Generally how tits are, Barnes,” you try to tease.
A flush sprawls across his neck. “You’re such a brat. I should really shut you up.”
“Why don’t you try?”
Bucky doesn’t hesitate before he seals his lips over yours, drinking in the surprised little gasp you let out. He gulps down your whimper as you arch your back into his touch. His touch grows bolder, stronger, as he squeezes your breast over the fabric. His hand wanders to the space between the rock and your back, fingers deft as they quickly work to unbutton your bra.
“I don’t like how you did that so quickly,” you mumble against his lips. “Have you been practicing with other girls?”
“Just good with my fingers,” he chuckles.
“Good answer,” you grin.
He slides the material off your body, leaving you open for the taking. A low growl rises up his throat as he gropes your breasts harder, fingers finding your nipples, and relishes in the small moans you make. He takes his time with it, kneading your tits to the shape of his hand, kissing you warm and slow — all the while heat accumulates between your legs and you’re reduced into a quivering puddle in his hands.
But he doesn’t let you slip; he presses you back against the stone, his touch cool and warm, a chemical reaction against your skin. He distracts you from the chill, moving his mouth languidly against yours. God, kissing him feels like the first touch of summer after a long winter. He tastes like the icing on the cake he brought, sweetness that melts on your tongue. His hand — a working man’s hands — are rough where his palms are calloused, creating delicious friction with the way it rubs up against your delicate skin.
“Bucky, come on,” you whine.
“Patience,” he only says as his lips trail to the corner of your lips to imprint kisses that leave you wanting more. Much, much more.
“Move it along, Barnes, or I’m gonna have to find someone to do the job for you.”
Bucky pulls back abruptly, your stomach sinks. His eyes are dark as they look at you, lips set into a firm, irritated line. “You’ve really got such a mouth on you,” he snarls, “been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess. You keep running your mouth, just waiting for someone to tell you to behave.”
Oh. Oh, you shouldn’t like that this much. But you do. And Bucky knows you do.
His lips curl into a smirk. “Is that it? You need someone to teach you some manners again?” Bucky’s nose brushes over the pulse in your neck, feeling it stutter beneath him. “I can do that for you — all you have to do is listen.”
An expletive slips past your lips and Bucky brushes his lips over yours again, teeth nipping on your bottom lip.
“Language, princess.”
A whimper climbs out your throat. “I want you.”
“I know you do,” he says, voice gliding over your skin like silk, “but you need to be patient. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you listen to me?”
You nod, your entire vocabulary flaking into ashes as he smooths his palm back down your body. You don’t register when he slides it over your hip, you barely register his hand cupping the warmth of your pussy, your ass raising to give him access. It’s only when his index finger traces the line on your panties where the fabric sinks into you does your gasp wake you from your stupor.
“I can tell you’re so wet already,” he whispers, disbelief clinging to his syllables, “is this all for me?” Your breathing stammers an uneven staccato in your chest. “Tell me it’s for me.”
“‘S for you,” you choke out.
“Good girl,” he breathes out, “shit, you’re so wet. I can feel you through this lace.”
Your hands instinctively fly to cover yourself up as much as you can, cheeks flaming and it’s not from the heat.
“Gettin’ shy on me?”
“What if someone sees?” You hiss, but the sound melts into a whimper when Bucky starts to trail his finger up and down your slit over the mesh that barely hides you.
“Nobody comes out this way. Just you and me, princess.”
Your protest dies when Bucky tugs your panties to the side, sliding his finger along your slick folds, brushing over your clit until your voice splits into a long groan. He peppers your face with kisses, enough to sear a mark onto your skin that you’ll feel for weeks. All the while, his fingers tease you open slowly, coaxing moans from your lips as he dips his fingers in only to leave you in the cold. He repeats the movement over and over until you’re squirming, your fingers catching his wrist to keep him going.
“Come on, Buck.”
“What is it?” He feigns confusion.
“Touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
Through gritted teeth, you manage to say, “Properly. Touch me like a man, you fucking coward.”
“I need to teach this mouth of yours some manners. Need you to ask me one more time.” Your lips stubbornly sew shut. “Come on, you can do it,” he coos.
It’s patronizing. It’s demeaning. You shouldn’t let him speak to you this way. You are a five-time Grammy winner, the nation’s favorite pop star, you don’t need a man to—
“I’ll finger you open properly if you ask me nicely. I’ll make sure you’re good and ready for my cock. I promise.”
Fuck. Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up. “Please.” The plea escapes you. “Please finger me, Bucky.”
“That’s a good girl,” he beams, “that’s my girl.”
Your insides positively melt. My girl. It shouldn’t be so easy to get to you. You’ve had your fair share of men who know what sweet nothings to whisper in your ear, so you shouldn’t be fazed by such a simple phrase.
But it’s different — because this is Bucky and the thing about Bucky is that he always means it.
When he calls you his girl, that means you’re his, and that’s that.
Your thighs fall apart as his finger finally pushes in, thick and intrusive to spark the fire in your core. He curls it inside of you, brushing up against your walls and you’re curling into him. He kisses you again, taking in the gasp that bubbles up your throat.
“My pretty girl,” he murmurs sweetly, “look at you. So easy for me when you’ve got something in this pussy of yours.”
The fuck you stops cold on your tongue when Bucky adds another finger in, stretching you out with a delicious burn that has you spilling needy little noises into his mouth.
“Such a good girl when you’re filled up. Who knew I could stop you from acting like such a brat just by stretching this gorgeous cunt open? I should’ve done this that first day. Should’ve made you spread your legs for me if you wanted my help.”
His name forms on your tongue, like his fingers are forcing you to say it out loud. To beg him.
“I can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock. Bet you’d feel so tight, fit around me like a glove. I know you’ve had others before me, but I promise you none of them can make you feel as good as me. None of them will worship you the same way I will.”
“God, Bucky, please.”
“I know, I know,” he utters tenderly, “I’m here, princess. I’ll take good care of you. Tell me what you want.” His fingers spread inside of you, urging you to open up real good for him. “I need you to use your words for me.”
“You know what I want,” you whine, fingers clawing at his chest.
“I know, but we talked about this. I need you to be good for me and ask me nicely.”
Your eyes burn with embarrassment, chest blazing with the warmth of a thousand suns. “Bucky, please. I need you.”
He cocks an eyebrow as he fingers you open again, pumping his fingers in and out of you as he teases you with a third. His thumb finds your clit, finds the surprised, wanton-filled sound from your chest. He rubs you slowly, gentle as he once again asks you to pose your request.
“I want your cock. Please. Please,” you whine, “I want you to fuck me open.”
Bucky lets out a guttural moan as he covers your lips with his again, kissing you senseless, stealing every single breath from your lungs until you’re gasping for air as he finger-fucks you open. You’re soaking him, you can feel yourself leaking all over. You’d be more ashamed if you weren’t so caught up in the delirium of pleasure.
“Attagirl,” Bucky chuckles, kissing the top of your head. He moves fast — fingers ripping off your panties so you’re exposed to him. You don’t get the chance to complain about losing a very nice pair of underwear, not when he takes a second here, admiring the way your pussy glistens in the sunlight. You’re suddenly shy, hands moving to shield yourself again, but he moves faster, gripping them and pinning them down above your head. “Don’t hide from me. You look sweet like this. So vulnerable.”
He uses one hand to pin both of yours above your head, all the while he’s nudging your legs to open up further with his knee. Bucky looks bigger from your vantage point, height towering over you, blocking the sun until your line of sight is completely consumed by him. You hear hiz zipper being undone, but your focus is entirely on him.
“I’ve got a condom,” Bucky exhales, tugging at the seams of your consciousness and rational thought. “In the bag.”
“You brought a condom? Were you expecting this to happen?”
“Expect, no. Hope? Always,” he offers a wry smile.
“Fuck a lot of girls in the woods, Barnes?”
Bucky stifles a laugh. “No, just the one,” he smiles, “just you.” For a second, the two of you simply stand with each other, stewing in the tension that hangs heavy in the air between you. “I should go get it first,” he says, making his move to pull away.
You aren’t sure what possesses you but then you find yourself grabbing him by the soaked collar of his shirt. He halts, eyes wide. “I’m clean,” you mumble, “I don’t want to wait.”
“Princess,” Bucky says slowly.
“Please, Buck.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m clean, I promise you, I got tested after—”
“That’s not my concern,” he interrupts cautiously, “I’m asking if you’re sure about this. With me.”
You give a small nod. “I trust you.”
“Shit,” he hisses, “can’t say things like that and expect me not to fuck you stupid, princess.”
“Again, what makes you think you can’t?”
Bucky lets out a low roar that fuels the heat coiling tight inside your belly. Your eyes finally drift down to his cock in his hand and, like you’ve been unknowingly trained, you begin to salivate. Your mouth waters at the sight of the thick length, tip red and leaking. It twitches with need, moving towards you like it’s drawn.
He’s big. Bigger than anyone you’ve had before.
“I—” you start only for the words to choke out. Bucky raises a questioning brow.
“Did you change your mind? We can stop right now. Say the word.”
“No, that’s not it— I’m just—” you look at it for a heartbeat then two. “You’re really big,” you blurt out. “I don’t know if I can fit you.”
His lips twitch up into a smile, a mix of cocky confidence and amusement. “I’ll ease into you, princess. Promise it won’t hurt,” he says then pauses, “it might hurt a bit but you let me know if it gets too much, yeah?”
Your own giggle fizzles out when Bucky props up one of your legs, closing in on you with your folded thigh against his chest, and notches the head in your entrance. It’s a bit of a stretch, you can feel a slight sting, but your greedy pussy has other ideas. It opens up to him with the second nudge in, caving under the pressure much too quickly. You hate to admit how good he feels.
For a man who claims to have limited experience, Bucky seems to know exactly what to do. A vein on his forehead pulses as he slowly inches himself inside you, sweat beading his skin. His neck strains as he slowly sinks himself inside you, fucking up to bury himself deep inside your aching pussy.
A desperate whimper climbs out your throat. His name on your lips.
Bucky throws his head back, breathing in harshly through his nose. “You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to cum right now,” he rasps.
And because you can’t help yourslef, you do. You say his name again in a needy little cry that has him lifting you up with a growl, your legs wrapping around his torso as he shoves himself all the way inside you.
You’ve never felt so full before, inner thighs burning with his cock inflating inside you. His length stretches you open as he presses you back against the rock, leaning you back so he can properly fuck into you with deep, intentional thrusts.
“Look at this pretty pussy spread open for me,” Bucky groans, “you’re fuckin’ perfect. I’m gonna feed her my cock, gonna make sure she’s full.” His fingers bury in the flesh of your thighs as he drives himself deep inside you.
His other hand wanders to your neck, squeezing around the outside just enough to have your mind dizzy. His eyes search yours, vision glazed over as the pleasure slips through every crevice of your brain. Once he confirms that you’re okay, he tightens his grip enough to limit the airflow into your lungs, your breath hitching in your chest as he does so.
Bucky’s name leaves your lips in a hoarse whisper and he groans when he feels your core tighten around him. “My perfect girl, squeezing my cock like you’re tryin’ to milk me. You feel like you haven’t been touched in so long, princess. Was this all you needed to stop acting like a brat? If only people knew that the only way to get you to behave was to put a cock inside this pretty little cunt.”
He reaches down between your legs and circles your clit until your moans pierce through the waterfall raining down behind you. You say his name over and over again, like a prayer. Like a plea. Your entire body shakes every time he thrusts deep inside you. Your heart stutters in your chest when you hear an unknown sound, your eyes flying to see if anyone’s witnessing the debauchery occurring out in the open.
“Shit, princess, look at you,” he hisses when he looks down where the two of you are joined, “you’re creamin’ all over my cock. Soakin’ my cock so easy.”
“Bucky, please,” you manage to rasp, chest tight as the burning between your legs intensifies.
You can feel it. It’s been a while, but it also has never been like this. A mind-numbing concoction of breathtaking pain and pleasure. Bucky’s cock opens you up, your folds swallowing him in like you’re desperate for more, like you need to fit as much of him in as possible.
The tip brushes up against the deepest parts of you and yet somehow it’s not nearly enough. Bucky mutters about how tight your pussy feels, how there’s no way anyone has been in here before.
“Not with how your cunt is choking me, princess,” he groans, fingers sinking deeper into your hip now. “She’s so sweet for me, practically sucking me in. I can’t wait to cum inside you.”
That has your panic flaring again, only for a second because then your stomach twists with the desire for exactly that — to be filled to the brim with him.
“I’ve never—” you gasp, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me.”
Bucky chuckles softly, leaning forward to kiss you again. It’s hypnotic how easily he has you putty in his hands. “Won’t you let me be the first?”
Your heart beats a little faster. You’ve never been good at saying no to him. Especially not when you want him as much as he does you.
“Yes,” you whimper, “please, cum inside me.”
Another deep groan resonates from his belly. “You’re going to be the death of me, princess. Spoilin’ me rotten like this, you’re gonna get me used to cummin’ inside this gorgeous cunt. I’m gonna have to be inside you everyday, never be able to sate myself unless my cock’s buried in this pussy.”
“Fuck, Bucky, I can’t—” oxygen is punched out of your lungs with every thrust, “I can’t hold it— I’m going to cum.”
“Cum for me, princess. Cum around my cock, need to feel you pulse around me,” Bucky groans.
Like the obedient girl that you are, you do. The orgasm wracks through your entire being, zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back lifts off the stone as you gasp, straight into Bucky’s touch. He buries his face into your neck as his body shudders, spilling liquid heat into you.
The stickiness clings to your skin but the waterfall is cooling on your skin as you come down from your high. Bucky slumps on top of you, wet t-shirt between the two of you. You giggle breathlessly against his skin and feel him shake with laughter against you too, all the while his cock is still buried deep inside you. Twitching.
“You’re a bad influence,” you mutter, smiling.
“You’re one to talk, practically jumped me first chance you got,” Bucky chuckles and you hit him with a solid smack to his arm. “Let’s get out of here before you catch a cold.”
He pulls out of you slowly and you can feel his cum trickling down your leg. It stirs warmth inside of you again and, before you could think about quashing how good it feels, you watch as he moves towards the rocks to push himself up and out.
It certainly doesn’t help your still overeager libido to see how his back muscles move, traps flexing, as he lifts himself out before he turns to extend a hand to you. You take it and he looks away as you climb out of the water. He hands you his dry button-up, once again without looking back at you.
“Figured this would be warmer,” he clarifies.
“Thanks,” you mumble and slip your goosebump-riddled arms through the sleeves. The fabric is quick to absorb the water and your fingers make quick work to scrunch up and squeeze out water from your hair. Your hard work, down the drain.
Well, down to the bottom of the pool at least.
“Are you okay? Was I too—”
“Stop,” you wave a hand to halt him, “I’m fine. I’m not made of glass.”
He murmurs an okay but still looks at you with that look in his face. For a moment, you think it’s some form of sympathy, but you quickly realize that it’s awe. He’s looking at you with the kind of adoration that has your heart doing somersaults in your chest.
As fast as that feeling came, the one that follows is from your years of experience: fear. Trust is a fickle mistress in this industry. The last time you slept with someone, you ended up on the front pages of every entertainment site on the planet. Who’s to say this isn’t the same? It’s a quick money grab. Who doesn’t want another scandal with one of the most famous celebrities on the planet? Though, the payout is probably less now that you’ve already had one of these—
“Hey, what’re you thinking about?” Bucky’s hand is warm as it takes yours. His hair is still dripping, droplets landing on the blanket and your thigh as he leans closer. You open your mouth to deny his question, but he’s already shaking his head. “I can tell something’s goin’ on, princess. Tell me so I can fix it.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes. It’s a sweet thought. “It’s a personal thing, don’t worry,” you insist, but he’s not letting you go. His hand squeezing. Your teeth catch your bottom lip before you relent. “Trust. It’s not an easy thing when you’re in the spotlight. I’m tired of constantly second guessing people’s intentions, why they do what they do with me. I’m scared of being the subject of another public issue — mostly because it creates a massive headache for my team, including my dad. I just— I hate that I’m putting those around me in an uncomfortable position of having to defend my actions, even if I’m fully aware some of them are completely defensible, but the general public always has to have a witch on the stands right? It’s just the way the world works. Regardless of whether you’re a real villain or not, you’re put at the stake and subjected to the constant judgment.”
Bucky stiffens, lips tightening. He holds your hands closer to him. “You are not responsible for these shitty people and their behavior. None of this is your fault. You’re living your life, you’re defending yourself. You should never apologize for any of that,” he adds sternly. His hand trembles and his jaw stiffens. The fury rolls off him in waves and your heart liquifies at the sight. “Need you to know that you got a lot of people here — and out there — who love you and will protect you. We don’t give a shit what they say because we know you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
“So as long as you have us around, we won’t let anything happen to you. It’s not because we have to, but because we want to.” Your throat closes and the salt in your tears prick your eyes. Bucky throws an arm around you, pulling you close to kiss the top of your head. “We got you, princess.”
You would think that your unmeasurable need and curiosity would be satisfied from that one time with Bucky Barnes. You’ve never been more wrong. If anything, your desire for him has only grown — you can’t help how distracted you are by his hands, remembering how they feel on your hips, or his eyes that are icy when he’s irritated but thaw when they turn to you, or his cock—
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, drawing you out of your own thoughts.
It is then you realize that you’ve been staring at his lap for far too long to be subtle. His question isn’t innocent. It’s a prompt. An invitation. Safe to say, when you find yourself with your back pressed against the barn walls and Bucky bullying his cock into you as he muffles his moans into your neck, fingers sinking into your ass firm enough to bruise, you accepted that invitation.
Then you stare at his fingers a little too long when the two of you are at the bar for a night out with a few of his friends (who knew that this man even had friends?) and he takes you out the back door and presses his fingers inside you until you’re gasping for air, legs clenching together as he curls them in and whispers how you’re so fuckin’ wet out here in the open where anyone can walk out and see America’s favorite princess getting finger-fucked in an alleyway.
And then again in your childhood bedroom with your creaky bed when your grandma and dad were out. And one more time by the waterfall, this time with your tits pressed against the rocks. And finally in his truck when the two of you don’t quite make it to the drive-in theater he promised.
For once, you’re not thinking too far into the future. Bucky keeps you grounded in the moment. Between the times he spends kissing you, you manage to also get some writing done. Affection bleeding into your melody and lyrics as you pluck the strings to your guitar. Once, Bucky hears you playing a new one in the morning and tells you that that one’s going to be his new favorite song. He tells you that it sounds honest, more… you.
He doesn’t know that it’s inspired by him.
In your last few days, you refuse to worry too much about what this all means once you leave. For all you know, this is an easy, temporary thing for Bucky. You’re a blip, a shooting star that’ll fizzle out the moment you leave.
The thought hurts more than you expect.
However, you at least wake up feeling rejuvenated. Maybe the world hasn’t completely destroyed every piece of you, maybe you can still find her somewhere inside of you. Your phone blares with a shrill noise and you are roused in irritation for the first time in a while.
“What?”
“Lovely way to greet your friend slash fierce protector,” Yelena snaps. You grumble about how early it is and how on earth are you awake right now. She hesitates briefly, which has you peeking an eye open from where your face is mushed against your pillow. “Have you checked your notifications?”
That’s never a good sign.
You push yourself up and lean against your headboard, thumb immediately scrolling through the barrage of messages and news alerts on your screen. Your blood runs cold. The last time this happened—
“I’m sure it’s different,” Yelena chimes in first but your eyes are scanning through every word.
Your name. Bucky’s. Evidence. Sources close to the pair. Another sex scandal. Pictures and pictures and more pictures. Every single news outlet has published grainy pictures of the two of you, photos that look like they’ve been taken from behind bushes and trees. An absolute obliteration of your privacy.
Shame settles firmly in your gut. This is exactly why your dad brought you here — and yet here you are again. Fuck.
“I need to—” your breath catches in your throat. What do you need to do? What can you even do? The damage is done. It’s more red on your ledger and you’re running out of ways to wipe your slate clean.
“Listen,” she interrupts softly, “I don’t want to add more to your plate but I talked to one of the reporters. They were apologetic but they had to report it. It seems like it came from someone who knows what you’ve been up to very well.”
“It’s a small town. Everyone knows what I’ve been doing,” you hiss, “better yet, who I’ve been doing. I just didn’t think anyone would sell me out after the shit I did.”
“You don’t think there’s a chance it could be— no, it couldn’t possibly.” She’s quiet, waiting for you to deny it, but the thickness in your throat doesn’t allow you to. “Right?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I’ve known him two weeks, Yelena. Maybe more if you count the memories I can barely remember but—”
What if this was his plan all along? All those years of tormenting him. All the shitty things you’ve said to him. You acting up—
Been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess.
You shake your head. There’s absolutely no way. He said it in the moment, a comment meant to stir heat between your legs.
But the voice inside your head, the one that insists that you doubt, is louder. It questions everything. Every interaction you’ve had with Bucky. Every touch, every kiss. It burns uncertainty into your skin until you see the creeping skepticism on the back of your hands. Because, at the end of the day, you don’t really know Bucky Barnes. Regardless of how much time you’ve spent with him the last couple of weeks, you’ve learned the hard way that anyone could put on an act, even — no, especially — ones as charming as him.
“You should talk to him first. I doubt he’s the one who spilled.”
You also doubt that you can say for certain that he isn’t. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore how your heart feels like it’s been ripped out of your chest, beating bloody in the palm of his hand. His smile, one you always picture to be soft and sincere, twists into something ugly, something sinister.
You spend the morning scrolling through the articles. Countless pictures of the two of you, all of them similar so you at least know they were captured by one invasive individual. However, the articles are where the meat sits — criticisms of your promiscuity, accusations of being a terrible role model, and even comments on Bucky’s worth as your partner.
It doesn’t sit right with you. Why would Bucky bad mouth himself to the press if he wants to get his fame? To throw the scent of him. Even so, it paints him in a negative light. Any press is good press. Why would he even need the press? Maybe, just like you, he’s trying to make it out of here.
Both the angel and devil on your shoulder are working overtime, stitching doubt and questions into what you thought was a healthy relationship with Bucky. Now the dark clouds are sewn into every memory you’ve had with him.
Coming down for breakfast, you’re sufficiently pissed off. All that hurt has simmered into a rage that you’re ready to channel towards the one person you think deserves it. Luckily for you, he’s standing in the kitchen. Cooking breakfast.
He smiles wide when he sees you, “Hey, I’m making some french— what’s wrong?” The joy wipes off his face to make room for confusion.
“You’re fucking kidding me right,” you snap, arms crossed over your chest. You don’t bother cleaning yourself up, hair in a tangled mess and pajamas rumpled from your deep sleep. You don’t bother paying attention to the way Bucky’s eyes had softened when he saw you in this state.
“Gonna have to give me more than that, princess. I’m not followin’.”
You turn your phone to face him with the article with the headline: America’s Favorite Pop Princess Caught Rolling in the Hay with Local Farmhand. It’s a disgusting piece but all the details are there — censored pictures, firsthand accounts from the source, and the scandalization of it all.
“Maybe I should’ve made you sign an NDA like everyone else. I’m an idiot.”
It takes him a second before he’s whipping his gaze up to you, disbelief scratched into his irises. “What? You think I did this? That I would tell the press about us? That I would do this to you?”
“I don’t know what to think! It doesn’t matter what I think or what I do. This is the shit that I have to deal with and—” and I would never want to put you through this. You swallow that bitter realization. No matter what you do, even if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. God knows what else the press will do to him. “And it doesn’t matter,” you say, defeated. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this.”
Bucky says your name and the sound knicks your heart.
“I should’ve known better,” you mutter, “this shit just isn’t worth dealing with. I should be focused on my next album, focused on writing those songs and getting them to chart. What’s the point of putting myself out there when all I do is end up in the news?”
“Because it’s worth it,” he insists, hands catching your arms. “Please. You gotta believe me, princess. I didn’t do this. I would never do this to you.”
You offer him a wry smile. “That’s what the last guy said too.” Tugging yourself away from him, you rub the places where his touch has burned. “I can’t do this, Buck. I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway and I can’t risk anymore of my career. Every time this shit happens, I cause trouble for the rest of my team, my family.”
“That’s not on you—”
“I know that!” You snap, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m well aware that these are circumstances outside my control. I’m aware that I cannot control people whose entire livelihood depends on me losing mine. It doesn’t change the facts. Even if we keep whatever this thing is going, you and I are going to be dragged through the mud and neither of us will recover.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches, tongue digging into his cheek. “So, what? You’re just going to give up every shot you have at happiness? Life beyond whatever the fuck they’re putting you through? You’re going to let them win?”
“No, I’m playing their game. I don’t have to like it but what choice do I have?”
“Stand up for yourself. Don’t let this shit derail you from what you can do. You have the world at your fingertips, millions who love you — including the very people in this house.”
It’s easier said than done. It’s too tempting to fall into this myth of falling in love, of being allowed to fall in love. Your life isn’t one that permits it. You’ve seen the making and breaking of one too many relationships to believe that it’s possible for someone in your life. The rare few that succeed are lucky — lucky to have found someone in the right time, the right place.
“Appreciate the vote of confidence, but this won’t work, Bucky.”
He looks like he’s about to interrupt again and, for a second, you wish that he does. However, he keeps his lips sealed — and that’s the end of it.
On your last evening, the dinner table is quiet. It’s just you, your dad, and your grandma. A small family affair. When your grandma asks if you’ve invited Bucky, you tell that that you’d rather keep it to a small, intimate dinner. She gives you a suspicious look but doesn’t press further.
As you’re doing the dishes after, your grandma makes sure that your dad is out of earshot when she finally questions you. That is when you tell her everything — the scandal, the media, the pictures. She doesn’t shame you for engaging in extramarital affairs, god knows that’s the least of your problems.
“He wouldn’t do that,” she whispers as you tuck herself into her side.
“I know,” you murmur, “I know you believe in him. I want to believe in him. It’s just hard to draw lines between those you can trust and those you can’t, and I’d rather… not trust anyone at all if those are the two choices I have.”
She flicks your forehead gently. “That’s not the way to live, honey. As hard as it may be, taking those risks are a part of life and — yes, you’ve gotten hurt, but you always bounce back. Always. The people that love you know who you are, they know who’s in the wrong, and it is not you.”
“Thanks, grandma,” you smile, “but it wouldn’t have worked anyway. We live different lives now. He probably wants nothing to do with a girl like me. This life isn’t for everyone — your every move scrutinized and published for everyone to see. It’s a lot to ask of someone.”
Her laugh tinkles through the air. “You’d be surprised.”
Then you’re heading home. The plane rumbles as you climb the stairs up. You take one last look at the land before you, at your grandma who stands at the base of the plane waving. You take a deep breath and then you take your seat.
Los Angeles is the same as you left it. The only difference now is that the paparazzi has been made aware of your arrival at this airport, your flight manifest leaked somehow. You arrive to blinding flashes and questions about your latest tryst, one too many of them asking where this guy is. You grit your teeth and let your dad push through the crowd into the car.
Life is the same. Busier than ever. Now that you’re working on your album full time, it’s hard to find time for anything else — which is ideal because, if you were left alone with your thoughts, you tend to wander to that small town and a certain not-so-small man. The last guy who you had been with already milked his fame and you worry that the media is now hounding Bucky for more details. Guilt carves itself into your bones. These are the days you’re tempted to reach for your phone, to call him and ask him how he’s doing, but you stomp down on that urge.
It’s better this way.
The paparazzi hasn’t let up. They’re at your door, they’re outside the studio, they’re camping out the restaurant that you’re at with Yelena. She gives them the stinkeye and a proper middle finger as the two of you enter.
“So, that’s it then?” She asks when you give her the full rundown of what’s transpired. “You have hot sex with a cowboy and then you go home? You’re really living the Hollywood life.” You give her a look as you take a sip of your third glass of wine. It’s that kind of night. “Your dad seems to like him, which is surprising because he doesn’t like anyone.”
That has you stopping. “What? How do you know that?”
“He told me,” she shrugs, “we were catching up on your schedule for the next couple of months and he mentioned that, despite him wishing you would stay single for the rest of your life, if he had to choose one man for you, that one isn’t a bad choice. I saw the pictures, I’m sure he’s more than enough.” Her wiggling eyebrows has you flinging a fry her way.
“I didn’t know he said that,” you mumble. “Bucky is a good guy. He just… deserves better. He doesn’t want this life.” You gesture to the flashing lights and the men still lingering around the entrance, waiting for your exit. “And I am tired of figuring out who to trust. I don’t want to play this game of roulette and being made a fool. Again.”
“Better a fool that got played once than be wise enough to never fall in love.”
You bark out a laugh. “Just made that up?” She states that it’s a Yelena original. “It’s a nice thought in theory. I don’t know. He hasn’t reached out again since our last conversation. Maybe he’s realized that I’m also not worth all this. It’s a fair assessment, I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone.”
“One day, you’ll realize that you’re worth it all, sweetheart. If anyone knew what it meant to have you love them, they would do anything for you.”
The one thing you did take away from your time in Tennessee is that you do need to stop taking everything they do on the chin. You stand up for yourself when the paparazzi become too demanding and entitled, snapping at them to be more polite at red carpets and telling them off whenever they’re absolutely crossing the line on invading your privacy. While you received backlash for the incident, you also received an outpouring of love. Fans who defend your stance, industry peers who echo your sentiment. It’s one weight off your chest.
But you go home at the end of the evening to your penthouse and the place is much too quiet. Sometimes you can hear Bucky whispering reassurances in your ear and that hallucination is the only thing that keeps you tethered to this life.
When you hear him say your name, a little too clearly this time, you think you may be losing it.
When you see him standing in the middle of your living room, you think your imagination has gone too far.
The second emotion that lands is panic. You’re immediately reaching for your phone. Your grandma can say that he’s a good guy all she wants but when you find this man standing in the middle of your apartment looking every bit as delicious as ever, you should be calling security.
It’s even worse when he takes the phone from your hand before you can ring up your ex-military doorman downstairs. He catches the flash of fear in your eyes and immediately backs up, even seeming a little hurt by that minute reaction.
“Not here to hurt you, princess. Promise. Your dad let me in.”
“My dad? Since when do you talk to my dad?”
“I figured you wouldn’t take my calls so I reached out to him,” Bucky clears his throat. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Sure, that’s what most people do anyway. It doesn’t matter what I want, they always figure out a workaround,” you snip a little too bitterly. A flicker of regret crosses his eyes and that claws at your chest. You take a deep breath. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. It’s fine. He’s met you,” you relent, “what’re you doing here?”
“To set the record straight.” He tells you about how he spent the last few days asking around, investigating on who would be sharing such intimate details about your life with the press. “Everyone there loves you, especially after what you did with the fundraiser. I knew it had to be someone who had an issue with you. That led me to John.”
John… isn’t he the—
“Yeah, that guy,” Bucky drawls out in annoyance. “Apparently he felt jilted that you flirted with him when he caught us one night. He reached out to a tabloid and realized he could get paid, so he started telling every single one of them.”
“Fucker,” you spit out venomously.
“Tell me about it.”
“You could’ve told me all this over the phone.”
He cocks an eyebrow, “Would you really have picked up?”
“An email would’ve sufficed too.”
“I wanted to make sure you couldn’t avoid me.”
Blue washes over you and you can’t help but give into the pull of the water. “I’m sorry for thinking it was you,” you murmur, “I knew — I knew that deep down it wasn’t.”
“You couldn’t have known for certain,” he shakes his head, “you’ve been burned before and you had the right to doubt me. I get that.” His teeth catches his bottom lip, his attempt to hide his sheepish smile. “Plus, if I’m being honest, I’m out here because I missed you.”
Your jaw practically drops to the floor. You manage to rasp, “What?”
He chances a step towards you, cautious. When you don’t move, he takes another. He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. “Didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you walk through those doors. How much I wanted you.”
“Wanted?” You squeak, pain bleeding into your voice.
“Want,” he emphasizes, “Present. Always.”
“You think I’m a bitch,” you choke out.
“No, I think you’ve put up walls around your heart and this picture-perfect image of yours because you know what you have to do to protect your dream,” he smiles softly, “I think you’re smart, funny, incredible. You know exactly how to push my buttons and I don’t want to imagine you doing that with anyone else.”
Your heart soars, climbing to cloud nine and — for a moment, it levitates. For a moment, you have hope. But the realization of where you are, who you are quickly sinks in. “Bucky… this could never work.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, we live in different places.”
“Planes exist.”
“For how long? I’m never— I’m never gonna leave this place and you have your house there and the animals and the town.”
The corners of his lips quirk up. “There are farms everywhere. But you do also realize I can do a lot of things. I’m a certified mechanic and a city like this could always use another one.” His name leaves your lips, but he cuts you off. “I’m laying it all out on the table. I’m ready to make this work because I want you. I want you. The question is do you?”
A whimper crawls out your throat. “It’s going to be a pain to deal with me. Everyone follows me everywhere.”
“I’m one of them. Next question.”
“Paparazzi will be hounding you.”
“I know ten different ways to say fuck off.” You’re scrambling to find more excuses, but all of them die on the tip of your tongue. You don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to scare him away. This is it. “What do you say, princess? Want to take a chance with me?”
He holds out his palm out, fingers stretched out. You look at his hand, one that you’re used to having wrapped around yours. You look at him, those honest blue eyes that never seem to stray far away from you. “Yes,” you whisper.
“Good girl,” he grins as he brushes his lips against yours. “Now, let me take my time showing you what you’ve been missing out on.”
“Better make it worth my time, Barnes,” you laugh breathlessly.
“Always will, princess.”
+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!!! longest bucky fic to date but holy heck, glad i finally finished a wip ha. shoutout to @singulartoast for being my farm x city lover too with her fic!!!
american pie. | steve and bucky (18+)
ᯓ★ chapter one. the dbf! mini-series masterlist.
⤷ dbf!steve rogers x f!reader x dbf!bucky barnes
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, dad's best friend au, sexual tension, age gap, forbidden relationships, dips into taboo territory, jealousy, possessive behavior, size difference, they both have dad bods and big dicks bc I said so, mentions of alcoholism and recovery, love marks, groping, dry humping
⭐︎ word count: 10.9k
⭐︎ a/n: i've been wanting to write some sort of dbf fic inspired by the song "im on fire" by bruce springsteen, and what better way to do it then make it fourth of july americana themed? here goes the first part, and i hope you guys like it! link to the fic playlist if you'd like to follow along :)
synopsis:
Your dad always kept his inner circle of friends small and close. Steve Rogers was one of them. He was respectful, kind, and someone you looked up to and trusted. What you didn't understand, though, was how your dad could also be best friends with a broody, grumpy man like Bucky Barnes. But when your dad leaves for a work trip over the Fourth of July, Bucky decides to remind you exactly why he’s so close with your father—except Steve keeps getting in his way to stop him.
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You and your dad always had a plan for the Fourth of July weekend.
In the morning, you both would go to the 24-hour diner just a few blocks away in your pajamas and order the classic All American Breakfast. It was a tower of buttermilk pancakes with a side of bacon and sunny side up eggs cooked to perfection.
By noon, you’d be swimming with friends and family under the bright, burning sunlight while your dad took over the backyard. He would have the grill ready, making the best burgers— the kind that were a little burnt at the edges, and hot dogs that were charred and crispy on the outside but soft and juicy on the inside.
Beers and seltzers would already be chilled in the coolers, the ice nearly melted because it couldn’t keep up with the summer heat, and you’d crack a cold one just as the sun went down and the fireworks began to light up the sky.
Fourth of July weekend was the holiday you looked forward to most—so when your dad told you he wouldn’t be home for it, you could only imagine your disappointment.
You were lying in your bedroom with every intention of sleeping in since every plan for the weekend was out window, but the sun piercing through the glass window and the sound of rustling in the living room downstairs woke you up.
Climbing out of bed tiredly, your bare feet padded softly down the wooden steps. You were still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes by the time you reached the kitchen.
“Dad?” you mumbled sleepily. “You’re home already—?”
Once the sleepy vision fog cleared, what you found in your kitchen was not your father, but rather...
“Not your daddy,” Steve said, turning to face you from the kitchen island. He set the mail he’d just picked up and his spare keys down on the counter. “But someone better.”
The spare keys.
The ones your dad had lent to Steve for ‘emergencies’—which he never actually used them for but instead used them to come over whenever he wanted, watch TV, and crash on the couch. But you didn’t mind, because you liked and respected Steve.
Plus, it had been a while since you had last seen him.
“Well, are you just gonna stand there and gawk? Or are you gonna give your good ol’ Steve a hug?”
You flashed a droopy, sleepy grin as you met him at the counter. Getting up on your tippy toes, you raised your hands to wrap them around his neck, and he returned the gesture with a tight hug around your waist.
“Mmm,” he hummed with a squeeze. “There she is.”
“What are you doing here, Stevie?” you asked as you pulled away.
“What? You don’t like seeing your dad’s favorite best friend over?” he asked with a playful grin and a matching head tilt.
You chuckled tiredly. “That’s not it, and you know it. It’s just… what brings you here? My dad isn’t even in town.”
“That’s the point, sweetie.” He leaned back against the counter, folding his large arms over his broad chest.
You swore he was too old to be wearing shirts that were always one size too small for him.
“I know how much celebrating the Fourth of July means to you—and since he’s out of town… well… I figured I’d take over the celebration.”
You crossed your arms and raised a brow, half suspicious yet half amused. “Did he make you do this?”
“What? No. I’m doing this out of the kindness of my old heart,” he chuckled lightly. “And besides, I wouldn’t want to celebrate my birthday alone this year. So… how ‘bout it? A fun weekend with just you and me?”
Hanging out with Steve on the Fourth of July weekend was far better than doing nothing all alone. And by hanging out with Steve, it meant he’d pay for everything—breakfast and all. You knew you couldn’t turn him down—not that you wanted to—but you still wanted to try and pull his leg.
“I don’t know,” you sighed dramatically, running a finger along the tile of the counter. “You should’ve asked me a lot sooner. My friends already planned something this week.”
You didn’t even need to look up to see Steve’s frown.
“But it’s also my birthday,” he said pathetically. “You wouldn’t leave me all alone on the Fourth of July now, would you?”
You had to bite back a smile. He looked like a kicked golden retriever. It was never a question of how or why your dad became friends with Steve Rogers—he was just too much of a likable guy all around.
“Well, since you’re asking so nicely—I guess I’ll spend it with you.”
His smile was so wide it was contagious.
“That’s my girl.”
Steve swiped the keys off the counter and twirled the keychain around his rough finger. “Your dad told me all about your guys’ adventures over a beer one time. Wouldn’t shut up about it. So the only right way to do this is by starting off with breakfast at a diner, right?”
Your lips quirked into a half smile as you bit your lip. “Not just any diner. It’s Mama Joann’s, just a few blocks away. And not just any breakfast, either. We get the—”
“—All American,” Steve finished with a smug grin. “I know. Your old man talks a lot.”
He pocketed his phone and wallet into his jeans and nodded towards the front door. “I’ll get the car started. Go on and get dressed now.”
When you didn’t move an inch, he paused and raised a brow at you.
“Guess my ‘old man’ forgot to mention during his ramblings that we actually go in our pajamas,” you explained, waving a finger at him. “So technically—you’re the one who isn't dressed.”
Steve’s face was unreadable as he scratched at the stubble on his chin.
“Honey, if you wanted to see me in nothing but my underwear, you should’ve just told me.”
Your face immediately warmed at his bold statement. “Y-you—! What—!”
But before you could even stammer out a coherent sentence, Steve was already walking out the front door to wait for you.
A red 1966 Ford Mustang was parked at the curb of your house. It was an old thing that made more odd sounds than it did distance.
It was Steve’s pride and joy—that typical man project he was always working on in his garage. He rarely ever took it out, occasionally driving it around the neighborhood just to keep the engine breathing. You guessed he had actually planned on spending time with you this weekend before today, because he’d gotten it all fixed up and ready just for you.
The car creaked and groaned as it made its way to Mama Joann’s, the radio connected to an aux cord playing Bob Dylan—his favorite.
He had the top down, leaving your hair to whip wildly in the wind. You caught him glancing at you through the side mirrors.
“What are you staring at, Stevie?” you asked without looking at him.
Steve held the wheel with one hand, while the other rested casually on the gear shift. “Nothin’,” he said, a grin evident in his tone. “It’s just… your pajamas.”
“And what about them?” You looked down at yourself, peering over the rim of your sunglasses. You were wearing a soft white tank top and a pair of light pink plaid sleeping shorts. “Did you take me out to breakfast just to make fun of my sleeping clothes?”
He chuckled—deep and raspy. He glanced over at you, blue eyes dancing over the rim of his own dark sunglasses as they traced the curve of your bare leg up to your tank top. You realized just then that you weren’t wearing a bra, since you never slept in one and hadn’t bothered to put one on.
“Not making fun of you, sweetie,” he said, pinning his focus back on the road. “Just think the shorts are cute and all.”
Despite the wind blowing in your face, you still felt warm.
Finally pulling into Mama Joann’s busy parking lot, Steve stepped out of the car.
When riding with Steve, he never let you open the doors yourself. He would quickly park, scramble over to your side, and hold the door open for you. Every time he did it, your dad would always say, “See what Uncle Stevie does for you? This is why I won’t let you settle for anybody less.”
“Thank you,” you said with a smile, grabbing his hand. “But you know you don’t have to do that when my dad’s not around, right?”
“When has your dad being here ever mattered?” he asked genuinely, raising an eyebrow as he shut the door behind you and locked it.
You shrugged. “You know how he is—he’ll always be like, ‘Look at Steve! When you get a boyfriend, make sure he respects you like Steve does,’ yadayada.”
A short snort left his lips as he held the diner door open for you. “Honey, I don’t think there’s any man out there who’ll be respectable enough for you anyway. It’s best you save yourself from the disappointment and stay single.”
You raised a brow at that. Sometimes, you found him acting more paternal than your actual father did with how often he lectured you.
The bell chimed with a welcoming jingle, and Steve stepped in right behind you.
As always, Joann was walking around with a black apron wrapped around her waist, refilling the coffee cups of everyone seated at the booths. The bell chiming caught her attention, and she smiled upon seeing you.
“There you are!” she greeted so loudly it caused the customers to look up at you and Steve. “You had me believin’ for a second that you’d be missin’ out on a yearly tradition.”
She set the pot down, motioning to the booth by the window that she always gave to you and your dad.
Speaking of which…
“Now, this handsome man next to you ain’t your daddy,” she said, nodding to the six foot two man standing right beside you. “Who’s this? And is he single?” she asked shamelessly.
Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m Steve—a good friend of her dad’s.”
“Hey, Joann,” you waved with a smile. “My dad is out of town for a work trip, so Steve insisted on taking me out for the Fourth of July weekend.”
You two slid into the booth as Joann laid two menus over the sticky wooden table.
“Well, ain’t he sweet,” she cooed. “I know you and your dad always get the All American, but in case your friend here wants somethin’ different, I’ll give you guys some time to look over the menu.”
Then, before leaving, she threw a wink in Steve’s direction, though she was talking to you. “And if Mr. Steve wants to hang out with someone more… age-appropriate—just know that the folks in town call me Mama for a reason—”
“—Okay, thanks, Joann!” you quickly dismissed her with a burning face and an embarrassed wave of your hand.
Steve chuckled, lifting the menu and leaning back in the booth. It looked way too small for a man his size with the way he filled the space.
“She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” he joked.
You blew a raspberry and gave him a look, glancing at your own menu despite already knowing what you were going to order. “Should I invite her back over to have breakfast with us, then?”
Steve grinned wolfishly. If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve assumed you were jealous. His eyes raked over the menu. “So, the All American, you said?”
You nodded enthusiastically, looking giddy as you smiled brightly over the top of the menu. “It’s the best thing here. Joann’s buttermilk pancakes are the best—better than anything you can get from a chain.”
You pointed to where it said ‘with a side of bacon and sausage’ on the menu, and tapped on the bacon text. “And make sure to get the bacon extra crispy.”
“Geez,” Steve huffed a laugh, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling up handsomely. “Sounds like you and your dad know what you’re doing.”
You laughed at the fond memory of your father taking you to this same diner since you were a little girl. The fact that he wasn’t here to celebrate was saddening, but you couldn’t have asked for a better man to spend it with than Steve.
You watched as he reached for his coffee mug, his large hands cradling the ceramic. It looked tiny and weightless in his grip, the tight hold emphasizing the veins and roughness of his hands. He lifted the mug to his lips, blowing on it gently before swallowing in slow gulps that made his Adam’s apple bob.
You swallowed hard and tried to avert your gaze so he wouldn’t catch you staring. But instead, your eyes trailed lower to his built chest and the way his stomach slightly pushed against his tight shirt.
He set his mug down and glanced up.
He caught you staring, and he smiled.
You quickly tried to save face.
“Yeah, um—I bet the calorie intake will probably throw off your entire game,” you stammered out with a chuckle that sounded awkward and nervous. Jesus. What were you saying?
‘Nervous’, however, wasn’t in Steve’s vocabulary.
Awkward? Probably.
“What?” he frowned.
Steve glanced down at himself, noticing his slouch and the way his belly seemed… a bit softer as of late. He had one too many steaks and far too many beers.
He looked back up at you, his grin turning slow and lazy. He rested his large forearms on the edge of the table, leaning in just enough to make himself look even more imposing.
“What’s the matter?” he murmured, his voice dropping deep and gravelly in a way that made your nerves dance. “A girl like you doesn’t like a man with a little meat on his bones?”
Your breath hitched and your eyes widened. Before you could even stammer out a response, he continued.
“Besides,” his blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he maintained eye contact, “don’t you think I need a little extra fuel if I’m gonna keep up with you all weekend? Unless you’re planning on keeping me busy enough to burn it all off, that is.”
It was way too early for Steve fucking Rogers, of all people, to be making you feel this way.
This unexpected, flustered and butterflies-in-your-stomach type of feeling caused by your own father’s best friend.
You had never seen Steve in any light other than as your father’s highly respectable, closest friend. At this point, you couldn’t tell if he was just taunting you like he normally did, or if he was actually flirting. But with the way he was looking and smiling at you—no.
Surely, he wouldn’t take that risk.
Then again, with your dad out of town, maybe there was a side to Steve he usually kept hidden—one you knew nothing about, but was now curious to unravel.
Desperate for a distraction, you grabbed your own coffee mug, which had cooled down enough for you to swallow it in big, hasty gulps.
“Easy, girl.”
“Just…” you wiped your lips, “…thirsty.”
Steve grinned. “Coffee is a diuretic, silly goose.”
And there was the taunt. You mentally groaned, wanting to kick yourself for even entertaining the possibility that Steve would ever blur the line between himself and his best friend’s daughter.
“It’s too early for you to be teasing me like this, Stevie,” you mumbled shyly, tracing your finger along the wooden table.
Steve wore a wolfish grin, resting both of his large arms on the table as they crossed over each other, taking up even more space in the tiny booth. “Sorry, I can’t help it,” he snickered. “Especially when you react the way you do.”
“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean—” you started to say, but your words died in your throat as a large presence that was hard to ignore fell over the booth.
“What do we have here?”
The voice was gruff and deep, lacking the playful warmth you and Steve had just been exchanging. You and Steve both froze, staring up at Bucky, who stood at the edge of the table holding his own coffee mug. His expression was unreadable, his sharp eyes glancing back and forth between the two of you as you sat there completely dumbfounded.
He raised a brow at your silent, wide eyed stares. “There a party going on that I don’t know about?”
While your father was best friends with Steve, you didn’t know how your father also managed to become best friends with a man like Bucky Barnes.
Growing up, Bucky had his share of good moments—he helped you learn how to drive, despite snapping at you impatiently whenever you hit the curb. He picked you up from parties whenever you were too drunk to get yourself home, and he would often spoil you with sweet treats or something he found at a store, always with a simple, “Saw this running errands, thought you might like it.”
But, in return, Bucky also had plenty of bad moments.
He was incredibly specific about how he liked things. If you ever tried to help him or your dad with something—like the grill or fixing a drink— Bucky would already be over your shoulder, nudging you away and taking the tongs right out of your hands.
“I got it. You’re just making a mess.”
There were times where you would be dressed up to go out with friends, and he would be sitting on the porch with your dad for a smoke. He would look you up and down, eyes lingering, and say something like, “You’re really going out looking like that? Go put a jacket on.”
Or sometimes, when your dad was away and you needed a hand around the house whether it be checking on the locks or fixing a leak, Bucky would show up, but he’d be short tempered the entire time. He would constantly scoff while he worked, acting like he had a million better places to be.
Your dad always told you that Bucky was part of the family—that it was just how he was, and that was how he showed his love.
But you didn’t buy it.
You felt like he had something personal against you.
And… it also felt like he might have something personal against Steve, too.
“Bucky,” Steve greeted, though it sounded more like a warning.
Or maybe, it was Steve that had something personal against him.
Bucky’s eyes flickered down to meet Steve’s, holding his gaze for a long moment. “Steve.”
While the two men stared at each other in a silent competition, you took this opportunity to take in Bucky. He wore a dark leather jacket that had seen better days with a white tank top—that strained against his thick lower belly—tucked beneath his belt and jeans.
Bucky tore his gaze away from Steve to look down at you.
“Well?” Bucky’s lips tugged into a lazy, tired smirk. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
There were times when Bucky would disappear, going M.I.A. for weeks at a time. It had gotten to the point where even your father had gotten involved, leaving late at night, scrambling out the door with nothing but a hasty, “Don’t wait up for me, okay? Uncle Bucky is… uh, going through something and he needs me right now.”
It hadn’t taken you long to piece together that your father kept having to pick him up from bars, or even the police station. Yet despite his recent wrongdoings, just like your father, you still had a soft spot for him that you could never push away, no matter how much he worried you.
“Of course I am,” you finally said.
Even with your lack of enthusiasm, Bucky seemed pleased with your answer. His leather jacket creaked as he gestured with his coffee mug to the empty spot on the bench right next to you. “Mind if I sit? Or is this seat reserved for someone else?”
“Sit down, Buck,” Steve said. All the warmth he had shared with you gone and thrown out the window now that Bucky was here. “We were just about to order.”
Bucky glanced at Steve, pursing his lips as he gave a short nod. “Good.”
He set his mug down on the wooden table and slid right next to you in the booth. His denim clad knee brushed roughly against your bare leg, making you shudder and feel even smaller. “Because I’m starving.”
Bucky rested his hands on the table, intertwining his fingers. He looked like he worked with his hands, and he smelled like Marlboro Reds.
You could see the dirt trapped underneath his fingernails, his skin calloused—the rough texture of someone who spent his life either fixing things or breaking them. He scratched the stubble on his chin.
Just like Steve, it looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks.
He caught your gaze and smiled, letting his eyes trail down to your legs. “Cute pajamas.”
Steve’s eyebrow twitched.
“Thanks,” you said shyly, looking down and playing with a stray string that had come loose from your shorts. “My dad—well, when he’s actually in town—likes to take me to this diner on the morning of the Fourth of July weekend. It’s usually our tradition.”
While Steve already knew your tradition with your father like the back of his hand, Bucky had no clue.
“Ain’t that sweet,” Bucky hummed in amusement, giving you his full attention. “What else do you and your dad do? I wanna hear all about it.”
You smiled just thinking about it. “We always host—”
“—a party in their backyard, grilling burgers, drinking beer, and swimming,” Steve cut in, taking a sip of his coffee as he glared a sharp dagger straight into Bucky’s eyes. “The one he hosted last year was fun. And the one before that too. It’s a shame you missed it, Buck.”
Steve wasn’t being sympathetic at all, and both of you knew it. He was being petty, even immature, throwing it in Bucky's face that he hadn’t been around for any of the holidays—or that he didn't even know your father was out of town, for that matter.
Bucky’s jaw clenched, but he kept his smile up, trying to save face just for you.
“Is that right?” he murmured. “Guess I had some important business to take care of last summer. But I’m here now, Stevie. So why don’t you fill me in on what else I missed?
Steve had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something offensive.
“You missed a lot, Buck,” Steve said flatly. “More than you think.”
You sat there, sandwiched between a tension that was rapidly becoming suffocating.
It was clear that whatever Steve and Bucky had going on—which you had no clue about—they never communicated or resolved. You figured it might have had something to do with Bucky and his recent downward spiral—traveling down a wrong, bumpy path with signs that led to nowhere. But you weren’t going to sit here and become their mediator.
Clearing your throat, you caught both of their attention.
“I have to use the bathroom,” you announced. “If Joann comes by, you already know what to order for me. Bucky, will you excuse me, please?”
Bucky nodded before sliding out of the seat. He offered his hand to help you out of the booth, and the two older men watched you walk off towards the restroom. As you left, Bucky wore a grin that Steve knew all too well—a smile that meant nothing but trouble.
“Look at her,” Bucky said, watching you from afar with a soft look in his eyes. “Our baby is all grown up.”
Steve scoffed in disbelief. “Our baby?”
The smile Bucky was wearing quickly dropped into an annoyed frown now that you were no longer there to witness it. He slid back into the booth, leaning across the table as he glared at Steve.
“What the hell is your problem?” Bucky hissed, ditching his good boy facade entirely.
“My problem?” Steve sneered, leaning across the table to meet Bucky halfway. “My problem is that you show up after months of silence whenever it’s convenient for you—bringing all sorts of trouble with you.”
Steve kept his voice low, trying to maintain enough control to avoid drawing attention to their booth.
“What the hell have you been doing these past few months?”
Bucky’s brows drew together so closely as he glared back at his childhood best friend. Before your father came into the picture, Steve and Bucky had been two peas in a pod. They were inseparable growing up, but as they got older, they naturally drifted into their own separate lives, with only occasional chatter here and there.
Steve had already gone through the whole marriage routine. He had tried to start a family with his ex-wife, Peggy, but after she cheated on him, he went through a heartbreaking divorce. Meanwhile, Bucky had suffered a string of devastating losses.
Bucky had always prided himself on being a family man, and when he lost it all, he felt like he had nothing left. His mother, Winnie, and his sister, Rebecca, had both passed away in the same year. From there, Bucky fell into a dark stupor, finding comfort only in solitude and alcohol.
Over time, Steve grew to despise the way Bucky coped—hating to watch his best friend drink himself silly and end up in places he shouldn’t be. Bucky, on the other hand, hated being lectured by Steve. He believed that a true friend should support him at all costs, through all the good and the bad.
Eventually, they both just kept their distance, leaving you and your dad as the middle ground.
“I’m in recovery, Steve,” Bucky protested weakly, his fingers digging into his palm as he tightened his fist.
“Yeah?” Steve scoffed with a bitter smile. “And how’s that working out for you?”
Regret washed over Bucky’s blue eyes, and for a split second, Steve nearly softened. But he couldn’t. His friend had pulled his leg for far too long. The mental reminders of Bucky taking advantage of him over the years were enough to make Steve push down his guilt.
“Look, I’m trying, okay?” Bucky muttered, staring into his half-empty mug. “I just wanted to pay a quick visit to town—see how you and her dad are doing.”
“See how he and I are doing?” Steve folded his arms across his chest, sitting back. “Or see how she’s doing?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He kept his head down but raised his eyes to glare back at him. “And if I was, is there something wrong with that?”
Steve really tried his best to keep his composure. Bucky knew exactly how to get under his skin—using a voice that could pass for innocent when it was anything but.
“You have no right showing up back in town after all the bullshit you pulled. Did you even know her father was out of town? Or did you take advantage of him being gone just so you could spend time with her?” When Steve realized how loud he was getting—catching the attention of some of the diner staff—he dropped his voice to a harsh whisper.
“If you’re still involved with whatever shit you were getting into, leave it behind. Don’t drag her into this—”
“—Jesus. Where the hell is the waitress?” Bucky muttered, throwing his arm over the back of the seat and looking behind him.
Steve snapped his fingers to yank his attention back. “And don’t think for a second I didn’t notice you checking her out. Are you fucking kidding me, Buck? She’s your best friend’s daughter!”
“Hey—all I did was call her shorts cute.” Bucky turned back to Steve. “I was just being nice.”
Steve ran out of scoffs to give. “You’re a lot of things, Bucky, but you’ve never been subtle.”
Bucky could feel his own patience frying. “Wanna know what’s funny, Stevie?”
“What?”
Now, it was Bucky’s turn to lean in so no one else could eavesdrop. “To an outsider, you look like an old, perverted man taking a young, respectable lady out on a date. Come on, Steve. How old are you again?” he tilted his head with that taunting tone that made Steve’s blood boil. “You’re drilling me so hard over something so trivial, but you’re no saint either.”
Steve slammed his hand on the table, causing the wood to shake and making the family of four at the next table gasp. So much for being discreet.
“What the hell kind of person are you trying to make me out to be?”
“Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it,” Bucky shot back. “A pretty girl like her—looking up at you the way she does, with that cute smile of hers.”
Steve opened his mouth, his face turning a furious shade of crimson. “What are you saying—!”
Bucky held his gaze, his eyes boring deeply into Steve’s. “Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t thought about fucking her, Steve.”
Neither of them had noticed Joann standing there, her pen poised over her notepad. She stared at them completely dumbfounded, her mouth slightly agape in shock.
“Uh,” she drawled, her gaze shifting slowly between the two grown men. “What’ll it be, boys?”
Both Steve and Bucky blinked up at her.
They cleared their throats rapidly and sat back, trying to put as much distance between each other as the small booth allowed. Steve forced his charming smile back onto his face, acting as if he hadn’t just slammed his hand down and yelled a second ago. Across from him, Bucky crossed his leg and turned his head, pressing a hand over his mouth to hide his frustration as he forced himself to look out the window.
“We’ll have the All American,” Steve said.
Joann jotted down their orders—along with an extra chocolate milkshake added by Bucky, which earned him a side-eye from Steve, since Steve was the one paying for it all.
On your way back from the bathroom, you bumped right into her.
“Oh, hey Joann. Did you already take our orders?”
“Sure did, but honey, you better be careful with those two,” Joann warned, pointing her pen over her shoulder toward your booth with a worried expression. “They look like they bite.”
The chance to elaborate was long gone as she was already walking off towards the kitchen. Turning your attention back to the booth, you saw Steve pressing his cheek against his palm, staring morosely out the window, while Bucky casually sipped his coffee.
You smiled to yourself, oblivious to all the tension.
From where you stood, it looked like they had gotten along just fine while you were gone.
The breakfast platters were already cleared away, leaving nothing but a pile of crumpled napkins and Bucky’s drained milkshake glass.
Up front by the old cash register, Steve stood with his back to the booth, digging into his wallet as Mama Joann rang up the bill. Even from behind, Steve’s broad shoulders were still stiff from his earlier irritation.
Breakfast had gone by smoothly enough—though it wasn’t quite as fun as it normally was with your dad, you still appreciated their company. The entire time, however, it felt like they were talking to you rather than to each other. Every time Bucky asked you a question, you would answer, only for Steve to immediately grab your attention next. Once you replied to Steve, Bucky would subtly try to fight for your focus again.
The whole dining experience felt more like a job interview than spending time with close family friends.
Now, you were left alone in the booth with Bucky. With Steve away from the table, Bucky’s shoulders eased up just slightly.
“So,” he drawled. “What are you and Stevie going to do after this?”
You thought about it for a moment, realizing you and Steve hadn’t actually planned much of anything.
“I’m… I’m actually not sure,” you replied with a shrug. “Breakfast was all we talked about today.”
“Sounds boring, and sounds just like Steve,” Bucky said, leaning back against the seat and draping his arm over the top as he looked down at you.
Under his cold stare, you always felt so small.
You knew Bucky was the kind of man who just took what he wanted—and right now, it felt like he only wanted you.
“You remember Becca’s old house? The one by the lake?” he asked.
You blinked, caught off guard. Ever since his sister’s passing, your father had strictly warned you never to bring up Bucky’s family. It was only safe to do so if Bucky brought them up first, and even then, you had to be careful to avoid any painful triggers.
“I do,” you nodded, keeping your response brief to let him control the conversation.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been over there,” Bucky explained, his blue eyes studying your face. “I think I can fix up her old boat in the shed. Maybe we can take it out for a spin on the lake.”
Your mouth parted slightly with a loss for words. Bucky was inviting you to his late sister’s house? To ride on her boat, no less? He rarely ever spoke about Rebecca, let alone extended an invitation to her place. You were pretty sure not even your dad had ever been invited over there.
“And considering it’s been some time since I last saw you, I think it’d be a great opportunity for us to catch up,” Bucky added.
“Catch up on what?”
Both you and Bucky looked up to find Steve standing at the edge of the booth. He was pocketing his wallet in the back of his jeans, taking in your wide eyes and Bucky’s slouched, unbothered posture.
Bucky kept his arm draped casually over the seat behind you. “Just telling her about Becca’s old place,” he said with that smug tone. “Thinking about going down to the lake later. Get some fresh air. You know, since you didn’t make any plans.”
Steve’s jaw clenched so hard you were sure you heard his teeth click. He crossed his arms tightly over his broad chest, glaring down at Bucky.
“Oh, is that so?” Steve huffed. He then shifted his gaze to you. “And what did she say about it?”
Being put on the spot made your stomach drop. It felt like there was no right answer.
Your eyes flickered back and forth between them. You could understand Steve’s apprehension—Bucky’s reputation hadn’t been... the best, as of late. But looking at Bucky, seeing as much hope as he could muster in those tired blue eyes and the vulnerability of him sharing a piece of his late sister’s memory with you, you already knew your answer.
“I’d love to check out Becca’s house and ride on the boat,” you finally said.
Bucky let out a quiet breath of relief, while Steve’s brows pinched together in disbelief.
“…But,” you added quickly, “I think it’d be fun if Steve tagged along, too.”
The disgruntled noise that left Bucky’s mouth would’ve made you laugh, but the way Steve’s eyes nearly bulged out of his sockets beat you to it.
Bucky pulled his arm back, throwing you an incredulous look that he didn't even bother trying to hide. “Sweetheart, I was actually hoping it would be just the two of us—”
“I would love to come,” Steve interjected, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face that Bucky wanted nothing more than to wipe off.
A smile broke across your face. You knew there was still an underlying tension between them, but the prospect of visiting Rebecca’s old house for the first time and riding in a boat was far better than sitting around doing nothing.
“Yay!” You clasped your hands together, your enthusiastic gaze flickering between the two of them. “Steve and I will stop by the house first so I can change—”
“No,” Bucky interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “You already extended an unwanted invite to Steve, and I’ll only forgive you if you don’t keep me waiting.”
He kept his eyes locked on Steve as he slid out of the booth, rising to his full height to meet him face to face.
“You remember the way to Becca’s house?” he asked.
“‘Course I do.”
“Good.” Bucky spared a quick glance down at you as you began sliding out of the booth yourself, before turning his attention back to Steve. He leaned in, voice dripping quietly so only Steve could catch it.
“Don’t have too much fun with her on the way, yeah?”
Steve only glared harder.
On the drive to Rebecca’s house, you noticed Steve’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles taut. One of his favorite songs came on the radio, and he didn’t even care to acknowledge it.
There was something deeply wrong between him and Bucky—something you had missed entirely while you were in the bathroom.
Finally mustering the courage, you decided to address it. “Steve—”
“There’s something you should know about Bucky,” Steve cut you off, deciding to it for you.
“Okay,” you murmured, prompting him to continue.
“I don’t know how much your dad has told you,” Steve said, letting out a deep breath through his nose. “But Bucky’s been through a lot. He isn’t the same guy he used to be. I know he’s… family to you, and I know your dad trusts him. But Bucky’s been running with a bad crowd lately. Getting into things he shouldn’t be, making promises he can’t keep. He’s reckless.”
You leaned back slightly in your seat, your right arm propped on the window sill as you watched Bucky’s truck ahead of you. Everything he was saying to you wasn’t exactly new.
“Where are you going with this?”
“He treats everything like a game. People, relationships,” Steve continued.
He paused for a moment, chewing his bottom lip in apprehension as he tried to find the right words.
“I recognize the way he’s looking at you, and I don’t like it one bit. He’s looking at you like a distraction from his own mess. I just... I don’t want to see you get hurt, or caught in the middle of whatever trouble he’s dragging behind him.”
You slowly let out the breath you had been holding.
For the most part, you were grateful that Steve was actually being open with you about Bucky and his bad habits. Whenever Bucky’s name came up around your father, your dad was always quick to beat around the bush, never addressing anything seriously.
“Ah, Bucky is just going through a rough patch right now.”
“He’s just in another one of his moods. Leave him be.”
“I invited Bucky to your birthday party, but he… he couldn’t make it. You know how he is.”
Even though Bucky was everything a girl like you should avoid, at the end of the day, he was like family. And the idea of him being alone this weekend while he was back in town killed you.
He had his ups and downs, and as much of a grumpy old man he could be now, you weren’t going to throw away all the good times just because of the bad.
“I’m a big girl, Steve,” you reassured him, glancing over. He kept his gaze locked on the road. “I can make my own decisions. Bucky invited me to his late sister’s boat—and despite everything, I couldn’t refuse that. You know why.”
Up ahead, Bucky’s truck slowed down, turning left onto a narrow, gravel driveway lined with overgrown pine trees. The reflection of the sun hit the lake and shone through the branches in the distance.
Steve pulled up right behind him, shifting the car into park but keeping his foot firmly on the brake. He turned fully in his seat to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours with earnesty.
“I know. It’s just… promise me you’ll stay close to me today,” Steve pleaded softly.
You unbuckled your seatbelt and gave him a reassuring smile. You nodded towards Bucky’s truck, where he was just hopping out of the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut.
“You act like he’s going to murder me.”
Despite your attempt at a joke, Steve’s expression didn’t waver.
“Your dad left you under my watch, so in a way, I feel responsible for protecting you—”
“—protecting her from what?” Bucky asked, slapping his calloused hands against Steve’s window and leaning over. “Woah—this car is still running? You know, my sister used to love this thing. Coulda’ sworn you were gonna win her over with it every time you pulled up to the house.”
Steve gave Bucky a deadpan look. With a grunt, he pushed his door open—forcing Bucky out of the way. But just as Steve started walking around to your side to open your door, Bucky beat him to it.
“Watch your step,” Bucky said, holding your hand to help you out of the seat. “Lots of rocks.”
“Since when did you get so sweet?” you teased, sandals stepping down onto the crunching gravel.
Bucky chuckled—a low, raspy sound as he shook his head. “Geez, you really think I’m an awful guy, don’t you?”
You gave him a small smile, which he returned with a gentle one of his own before letting go of your fingers.
Steve kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot. He didn’t like this interaction one bit, but he swallowed down his pride for your sake.
He looked around the property, taking in the overgrown grass and the faded paint on the siding of the old house. The place hadn’t been maintained in what looked and felt like years. The fences had once been painted a bright coral blue—Rebecca’s favorite color—but now, they were stained with dirt and weathered from years of neglect.
Steve glanced at you, knowing you were thinking the same thing. A solemn look settled into your eyes. You knew how close Bucky and his sister had been, and leaving this house to him had obviously been more than he could handle.
Bucky stood there stiffly, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. The playful twinkle his eyes had held for you just moments ago slowly faded the longer he stared at the house.
“It hasn’t changed much,” Steve said quietly, clearing his throat. He was trying to ease the tension, even though they both knew it was a lie.
Something between a snort and a self-deprecating laugh left Bucky’s lungs.
He nodded towards the path wrapping around the side of the building. “Come on. The shed’s down by the dock.”
The three of you fell into a single file line, with you taking the middle spot. As you approached the shed, Bucky fished around in his pocket for the keys. It took him a moment to find the right one, but when he finally pushed the door open, it revealed an eighteen foot wooden motorboat right in the middle.
The deep emerald green paint on the hull was flaking away in brittle scabs, exposing the gray, sun bleached wood underneath. Inside, the white oak ribs were coated in dust and cobwebs, and the stagnant rainwater pooling in the bilge smelled faintly of rot, causing you to wrinkle your nose.
Bucky took the first step inside, his hand reaching out to gently touch the worn steering wheel.
“We’ll get her fixed up today,” he murmured. “We’ll take her out on the lake.”
He spoke so softly you weren’t sure if he was talking to you, or to himself.
“I don’t know, Buck,” Steve hesitated, dragging a finger along the side. “She might leak like a sieve if you put her in the water right now. You’re gonna need a miracle to get this thing to turn over, let alone idle.”
Bucky’s shoulders dropped, his expression turning somber. He knew Steve was right, and seeing that defeated look pulled at your heart. He was already carrying so much emotionally, it ached to watch him rarely try to plan something special, only to see it fall apart.
“Chin up, you guys,” you spoke up enthusiastically, breaking the silence. “It doesn’t look that bad. Especially since there’s three of us—we can fix this in no time.”
Steve raised a skeptical brow at you. “You’ve never even touched a boat, sweetheart. There’s a lot of heavy lifting to be done here.”
“Well—it’s a good thing I’ve got two strong men by my side!” you joked, hopeful eyes flickering between the two of them. “Even if we don’t fix it completely, even if we just end up floating out there,” you shrugged, a smile tugging at your lips, “at least we got it on the lake, right?”
That, at least, managed to pull a small smile from Bucky.
And with the soft spot Steve always had for you, he knew he couldn’t deny your wishes.
With a reluctant sigh, he started moving around the shed, scanning the shelves for the tools they would need. “Well? What are we standing around for, then?”
For the rest of the afternoon, the three of you worked side by side to bring Rebecca’s old boat back to life.
Steve and Bucky took turns with the heavy lifting, hauling out the rusted battery and helping each other realign the heavy parts of the inboard motor. Bucky insisted on handling the delicate mechanical work—scraping away layers of rust, cleaning out the gummed up carburetor, and replacing the brittle fuel lines.
You did your best to help where you could, taking a wire brush to the flaking paint on the hull and wiping down the dusty wooden benches. Mostly, you acted as their mediator, passing wrenches and screwdrivers back and forth while they worked in relative silence.
By the time the sun began to slip behind the trees, painting the sky in beautiful shades of orange and pink, the boat was far from perfect, but it finally looked cared for again.
Bucky stood over the engine block, hands on his hips. He had discarded his leather jacket hours ago, and his shirt was now thoroughly drenched in sweat.
He looked over at you with a grin. “Think she’s good enough to take for a spin?”
Your lips started to tug into a smile. “Yes—!”
Steve shook his head, shutting you down. “No. The bilge pump is shot. It needs to be replaced before we put her in the water.”
Sitting on the wooden bench inside the boat, you glanced over your shoulder and met Steve’s eyes with a frown. “But we worked on it all day. Are you sure we can’t take it out? Not even for a little bit?”
“Without that pump, water is going to leak through the planks like crazy,” Steve explained.
But caught between your crestfallen look and the disappointed crease between Bucky’s brows, he sighed and gave in.
He checked his watch, tapping the glass. “It’s just past five. The auto parts store in town closes at seven on Fridays. If I leave right now, I can grab a replacement pump and be back before it gets dark.”
“Really? You’d do that, Stevie?” you beamed, your excitement returning in an instant.
Steve’s eyes softened. He hated how easily he gave in to you. “Yeah. I’ll be quick—just stay here, alright?”
Bucky shifted, rocking back on his heels with a rare and slightly sheepish look. “Thanks, Steve.”
Steve stepped away from the boat, fishing his car keys out of his pocket. Before he turned around, he pointed a stern finger at Bucky. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”
To anyone else, that saying could have passed as typical, lighthearted banter between two old friends. But you knew Steve well enough to hear the real warning underneath it.
Bucky just shrugged, unbothered. “How can I? When you’re taking all the stupid with you.”
Steve was already walking briskly up the path towards the driveway, keys jingling in his hand. He muttered something under his breath and shook his head, ignoring Bucky’s comment entirely.
The two of you watched him get into his car and drive off. The moment the sounds of Steve’s engine faded away, Bucky turned back to you.
A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face—it was a look that insinuated he was up to no good.
“How ‘bout we take her out anyway?” Bucky asked, nodding to the lake. “Just to see how long she’ll float?”
You gasped. “Bucky, no! Steve literally just said she’ll leak—”
“Steve worries too much,” Bucky scoffed, clicking his tongue. He stepped over to the stern and began pushing the boat towards the lake, ignoring the fact that you were still sitting inside. “It’ll take time for the water to really start coming in. We’ll just go out a hundred yards, turn around, and come right back.”
You knew Steve would be furious, and logically, sitting in a boat that was destined to take on water was a terrible idea. But looking at the sudden, bright spark of life in Bucky’s eyes—the first real glimpse of the carefree guy your dad used to talk about—you found yourself softening.
“A hundred yards,” you bargained, pointing a stern finger at him. “And the second my feet get wet, we turn right around.”
“Deal.”
Before you could change your mind, he shoved the boat down the wooden launch ramp. “Hold on tight!”
The cedar hull hit the once calm glassy surface of the lake with a splash, sending a hard ripple across the water. Bucky tied her off to the dock quickly, then vaulted over and immediately went to work on the flywheel.
He wrapped a pull rope around the starter, took a deep breath, and gave it a hard yank.
The engine coughed, sputtering out a cloud of blue gray smoke, but failed to catch.
“Come on,” Bucky muttered to the machine, wrapping the rope again. He gave it another tug.
This time, the engine sputtered, groaned, and then loudly chugged to life. Bucky laughed triumphantly, the sound so raspy and genuine— it made butterflies swarm in your belly.
He unhooked the mooring line from the dock and tossed it into the bow, then hopped back to the center of the boat to take the steering wheel, gliding the boat away from the dock and further into the water.
The cool lakeside breeze greeted your face, a godsend from working under the sun for hours. Surprisingly enough, the engine and boat remained stable while the sun turned the lake into a pretty pool of liquid gold.
Bucky had a gentle look on his face, the lines around his eyes creasing slightly as he wore a soft smile.
“My sister and I used to ride this boat all the time,” he explained softly, eyes boring into the sun dipping past the lake line. “We would go fishing—and she’d always hate me for catching the biggest fish.”
You smiled softly. It wasn’t often that Bucky shared a part of himself, but every time he did, it was beautiful.
“We should go fishing one day,” you said. “My dad loves fishing, and it’s been a long time since he saw you. Maybe we could do it when he gets back.” You chuckled quietly to yourself at the idea. “He’d probably be so jealous if he found out I got to ride your boat before he did.”
Bucky hummed, the corners of his lips quirking up.
The two of you stayed quiet for a moment as he steered the boat deeper into the lake. Compared to you and Steve, your conversations with Bucky weren’t as lighthearted or enthusiastic. Majority of the time, it’s just you sitting in awkward silence—well, awkward for you—while Bucky just basks in the moment.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around these days,” he suddenly murmured, back still turned to you as he kept his focus on the sunset. “I’ve been caught up with a lot of things. I’m sure your father has told you, and I’m also sure I lost all his respect for me.” He huffed a self-deprecating laugh as he added, “Not that I deserve it, anyway.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself.” Even though he wouldn’t look at you, you kept your eyes on his back. “He still respects you.”
Then, Bucky slowly looked over his shoulder, eyes half lidded and tired.
“And what about you?” he rasped. “Do you still respect me?”
You tilted your head and raised a brow, not expecting him to care about your respect for him of all things.
“Of course I do, Bucky.”
“Good,” he nodded, looking back at the lake. “That’s good…”
While on the topic of respect, you couldn’t help but wonder…
“What about you? Do you respect me?”
Bucky’s lips curved up into an even bigger impish grin. “I don’t know yet,” he teased.
Your eyes bulged. “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean—!”
But the already short teasing interaction got cut even shorter, a wet sensation seeping through your sandals and between your toes.
You glanced down, catching the way the water was bubbling up through the gaps in the floorboards like tiny miniature fountains. The dark pool in the bilge had risen past the soles of your sandals, and with every small wave that hit the hull, the water level crept higher toward your ankles.
“Bucky,” you gasped, lifting your foot. “Bucky! Look down!”
Bucky glanced down, that impish grin stripped off his features as he lifted his boot, now dampened with water. “Shit.”
Your eyes flickered in a panic around you. The dock looked tiny in the distance. The shoreline was far away—way further than the promised a hundred yards. In the middle of your conversation, Bucky had kept driving obliviously and you were now stranded right in the deep center of the lake.
“Bucky, we’re too far out!” you shrieked as you lifted your knees to your chest, trying to keep your feet out of the freezing water.
The bilge was filling fast, making the boat feel heavy and sluggish.
“Turn it around!” you urged.
“I’m trying—” Bucky grabbed the lever, but the moment he shifted it into reverse to swing the boat around, the engine made a startling noise with a sputter that choked on the rising water. And died.
“Shit. It’s not turning—can you swim?” He met you in the center of the boat, where it rocked dangerously, and he grabbed your wrist.
“Oh, God,” you felt your heart race in horror. Being stranded in the middle of a lake with no life vest was a far reach from your usual swimming capabilities that only belonged in a swimming pool.
“Bucky—I don’t know how—”
“It’s okay,” he tried to reassure you, grabbing both your wrists, which only caused you to panic even more. “Just hold still—”
He tried to widen his stance to keep his balance, but your flailing caused him to hiss impatiently, pulling you closer to his chest with a harsh and sudden tug.
He was strong—strong enough to cause you to collide into his chest, and without the engine running to keep the boat steady, the sudden movement tipped the vessel. The momentum caused you to fall over, bringing Bucky down with you.
A shriek managed to escape your lips before you were engulfed completely under the freezing lake water.
You flailed your arms, trying to figure out which way was up. Bucky found your wrists again, pulling you upward with him as your head broke the surface. You gasped for air, blinking the dirty lake water out of your eyes.
“I got you—I got you, okay? Just stay with me,” he reassured, his deep and asserting voice overriding your panic momentarily as his long, dark hair hung wet over his gruff face. “Don’t let go.”
You stood in the middle of the first floor bathroom with Bucky. He was frantically rubbing you down with a towel, ruffling your hair into an even wetter mop than it already was as he kept mumbling things about not wanting to get you sick, and how both your father and Steve would kill him if he did.
“I’ll be okay, Bucky,” you grabbed the towel from his hands, pausing him. “You need to take care of yourself too. You’re drenched.”
“Right. Well, I was only able to find one towel in here—” He started browsing through the other cabinets, his large hands shifting through expired bottles and dusty toiletries out of the way.
As he rummaged deeper, his movements started to slow.
Hidden behind a stack of old soap bars was a small, dusty bottle of vanilla perfume and a faded pink hair ribbon—things left abandoned by Rebecca years ago, who was… no longer around to use them.
His shoulders dropped as he just stood there, staring at them.
You frowned softly, watching the change in his expression. “Are you okay?”
He closed the cabinet door slowly and shrugged, trying to shake it off, but there was no use. “I couldn’t find another towel, so I’ll just air dry.” He answered instead.
Your frown deepened as the water droplets from his hair hit the cold tile floor.
He was soaked from head to toe, and he was shivering. You knew there might have been a spare towel somewhere in the house, but you knew Bucky didn’t want to look. It had been clear that there weren’t any signs of life in this house after his sister’s passing up until now, and if he got shaken up from just seeing the perfume bottle and hair tie alone, then you could only imagine what he’d go through if he walked through the rest of the house.
“Don’t be stupid,” you murmured softly, gathering the damp towel and pressing it against his hair.
Bucky went still, his breath hitching as you began to dry his wet strands. You wiped the back of his neck, then moved down to gently dab at his broad shoulders and the damp fabric of his shirt.
“You should take your shirt off,” you explained. “You’ll get sick.”
He huffed a short laugh, glancing subtly over his shoulder down at you. “I could say the same thing to you, but that’d be inappropriate.”
Pausing, you quickly glanced down at yourself and realized just how inappropriate this already was—even with your shirt still on.
Your white cotton tank top was soaked right through, your cold and perky nipples poking against the fabric obscenely. Your shorts, completely damp, clung tightly to the curves of your body, riding up as water drippled down your thighs.
The entire sight was improper, and you were sure Bucky was thinking the same thing—he just didn’t want to address it.
Slowly, he turned around to face you, his hands finding your wrists and gently catching them to stop you.
“Thank you for riding the boat with me,” he murmured, gently guiding your hand with the towel over his damp and stubbled cheek.
Your breath shuddered. Bucky—your dad’s friend, who was usually always walking around with grumpy frown lines and his arms crossed—looked so utterly small and vulnerable in the small space of this cold bathroom.
“Of course,” you whispered.
Bucky’s grip on your wrists loosened, his large hands sliding slowly up your forearms, past your elbows, until they found comfort on your waist.
Even though he was drenched, his hands felt warm against your skin. Pulling you closer, his thumb brushed against the bare skin of your hip bones where your tank top had rose up.
“Every time I leave town, my mind always screams at me—telling me to come back to one thing,” he spoke quietly, his eyes tracing the vulnerable column of your neck. “Not even to your dad, or to Steve, or even… this house.”
He stepped closer, one strong leg finding its way between yours as he pushed you gently back against the sink’s counter.
“But to you. Isn’t that so wrong of me?”
You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until you found out he was actually waiting for an answer.
“I don’t see how that can be wrong,” you spoke, more timidly than you’d like. “We’re like family, aren’t we?”
Bucky’s brows furrowed so deep it should’ve scared you.
“That’s what makes it so wrong,” he murmured, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, letting his thumb glide over the curve. “Because I have these thoughts—thoughts a man like me shouldn’t have for a girl like you. Like how badly I want to kiss you.” Bucky rasped, his voice conflicted as he pulled you closer against him, until no space was left. “I know I shouldn’t. But hell, everything in my body is telling me to.”
The look in his eyes matched the conflict he poured into every single word.
His hands held you tight, keeping you trapped between the counter and his body, but the look in his eyes was begging himself to let you go.
You knew you shouldn’t encourage this. You knew this wasn’t right.
And yet…
You reached up, your fingers tangling into the wet strands of his hair, and pulled him down and met his lips with yours.
The gasp that caught in his throat was overcome by the warm sensation of your mouth. Shock paralyzed him, but the longer he felt your lips press against his, he lost all the resolve that was screaming at him to stop.
Bucky took the control he wanted to have over you for a long time. His hands gripped your waist, meeting your first gentle kiss with a rough, demanding one. He slipped his tongue in as he lifted your body up until you were sitting right on the edge of the sink counter. He stepped closer, forcing your legs to open and let him in.
He didn’t want this moment to slip away, or even grace you with the opportunity to change your mind. His hands explored all over your body, large palms sliding to cup the curve of your ass, rocking the erection that grew in his pants within seconds just from being close to you.
“Fuck—we shouldn’t do this,” he rasped against your lips before pulling away to catch his breath. “We shouldn’t—shit—”
“I don’t care,” you whimpered, your pleading eyes meeting his hungry ones. “I want this.”
A dark, raspy chuckle left his lips. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”
His mouth trailed down your jawline to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He bit and suckled at your sensitive skin, making you arch your back as his hot breath and wet tongue sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands slid up, fingers hooking under the hem of your soaked white tank top and pushing the fabric up until it was bunched beneath your chin.
You shuddered as the cold air hit your skin. Bucky’s eyes were dark and hungry, staring at the water dripping down between your breasts like a taunt.
“Christ, look at you. Looking like every man’s dream,” he groaned, greedy hands coming up to cup your tits before pressing both of them together. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
He leaned down to capture one cold, perky nipple between his lips. He swirled his tongue around the peak, sucking it deep into his mouth with a tug that had your fingers gripping his shoulders in pleasure, your hips rolling up against the bulge of his lower stomach as you filled the bathroom with the slutty sounds of your breath.
You arched your back, tugging at his hair while his tongue feverishly licked and sucked at the sensitive bud. While his mouth gave its attention to one nipple, his rough fingers would play with the other. Then he would switch between the two, giving your body all the love he knew it was lacking.
Bucky pulled his face away with a wet pop of his mouth, a string of saliva connecting to your chest as he licked his lips clean.
“This… this is so wrong,” his words drifted uselessly in the air as he broke the space again, his nose to your neck as his tongue found something new to play with.
His warm mouth danced around the skin of your neck, sucking, biting, and groaning with every nibble.
He was sure to leave marks, but you didn’t have the strength to tell him to stop—you didn’t want him to.
“Keep going,” you said breathlessly, your head rolling to the side while he made love to your neck and memorized your body with his hands. “Don’t stop, Bucky—”
Suddenly, all the tension in the room shifted into something far more wicked than what was transpiring between you and Bucky.
The door slammed open, hard enough that the knob left an indent on the wall, and right there, standing in the doorframe, was Steve—who had once been holding the brand new bilge pump that had fallen and hit the floor.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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⭐︎ warnings: smut, rough sex, reader talks him through it, bucky doesn't dirty talk, he snarls instead, size difference, dumbification (bucky talks like a caveman? idk), talks about consent, period typical misogyny, creampie, praise, breeding kink, spitting in mouth, mating press, overstimulation, bucky loves eye contact
⭐︎ word count: 6k
⭐︎ a/n: what started out as a 'hahahehe' food for thought turned into a smutty porn without plot fic. ty to @epiphanyrogers for giving me the motivation to write this by feeding me with her own gladiator steve !! reader literally teaches what consent is to bucky, but ultimately the sex is consensual. either way, please tread carefully.
synopsis:
Bucky becomes the reigning champion and naturally, he seeks a prize—a pretty maiden to bed. You fall victim to his rough hands—to a brute who doesn't even know the meaning of the word "no." Yet to your surprise, despite being a man who takes whatever he wants, he is willing to let you teach him what consent really means.
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The Colosseum is a home for bloodbaths.
There is a symphony of cheers and screams that rings throughout the entire dome. Swords clash against swords, sweat and blood dance together, dirt kicks into the air, and alcohol and spit shoot out of patrons’ mouths.
It is meaningless—all of it just a cruel form of entertainment for the emperor and his family.
You are thankful that you hadn’t been born a male to be pushed into these silly games, but instead, you are a woman—and that might be worse. But for now, despite all the screaming happening outdoors, you find solitude and a somewhat sense of peace near the barracks, sweeping debris and scrubbing the blood and grime off the floors from the defeated champions who walked away, already on the verge of death.
“Look at them,” you breathe. You pause your sweeping, wiping a strand of sweaty hair out of your face as your eyes peer through the wide holes of the wooden gates. “Animals. The whole lot of them.”
Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the world—and that is men.
“Do not stare,” she warns you quietly. “If they catch you looking, they’ll punish you.”
“Please,” you scoff. “Their heads are too far up their own egos to notice us.”
“Big egos, yes.” Livia’s golden eyes glance over her shoulder from where she kneels on the floor, scrubbing grime. “And bodies. They are also quite handsome.”
Your eyes snap to her in revulsion. “Handsome? How can you say such a thing!” You glance back at the two men battling in the center of the dome. “Look at them. They are monsters.”
In the center is a man that you recognize—Bucky Barnes, the reigning champion for years. The White Wolf, is what the Emperor likes to call him. He is fighting another man, not much bigger than him, and certainly a man you do not recognize, meaning a man who will soon be falling to his doom beneath Bucky’s swords.
You have to admit, however, the man was giving The White Wolf a run for his money.
Finally, the man kneels before Bucky in defeat. Bucky raises his sword and delivers the final blow that sends the man to his grave.
Cheers erupt inside the dome. People jump out of their seats to shout and stomp. More debris and dust fall from above, landing on your and Livia’s faces—making you both cough.
The gates of the dome rattle as the herald’s voice shouts over the roaring crowd.
“Victory belongs to the undefeated! Behold your champion—The White Wolf!”
Thousands of voices chant his name as the dome thumps in a cadence that shakes the stone foundations around you. Through the wooden slats of the gate, you watch Bucky raise his blood-slicked sword to the sky. Unlike the other victors, he doesn’t smile. He never smiles.
Livia wipes the dust off her brow. “Another one to his name. He truly is unstoppable.”
You pull your gaze away. “He is a butcher,” you mutter.
Livia pushes herself off the floor with a light groan. She lifts the empty wooden basin to her chest. “I am going to refill this,” she says. “We’re going to need a lot of water to wash the victor up. I will be back.”
The wooden gate in front of you begins to groan as it slowly lifts. You grip your broom tight, moving to the side to make space for the blood-soaked victor to return back inside.
When Bucky steps in, the cool shade of the barracks is pure bliss against his hot body. Behind him steps the herald, adjusting his fine robes and wiping a pristine handkerchief over his sweaty brow, while the champion in front of him bleeds everywhere.
Bucky drops onto a wooden bench, and it creaks beneath his large body. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. With eyes still fueled by the adrenaline of battle, he watches as you approach him with a damp cloth and drop to your knees, wiping the splattered blood from his shins and boots.
“A magnificent display, White Wolf,” the herald boasts, pacing the floor and waving a hand dismissively in your direction as if you were just another piece of furniture. “The Emperor was thoroughly pleased. The coin will be transferred to your keeper, of course, but the Emperor insists on a personal reward for his favorite fighter tonight. A token of appreciation. Wine? A feast? Or perhaps a woman from the upper courts?”
Bucky does not answer the herald.
You try to keep your eyes down, working on scrubbing the crimson off his leather armor, but you can feel his cold stare watching your every movement, tracing the line of your shoulders and the curve of your vulnerable and exposed neck.
“We have the finest women prepared,” the herald continues, oblivious. “You have earned the right to take whatever, or whomever, you please.”
A massive and calloused hand suddenly shoots out. His fingers lock around your fragile wrist, making you wince and drop the rag.
“This one.”
You meet the champion’s eyes, and the spirit behind them terrifies you.
Bucky looks at you, not the way he stares at his opponents, but with something far more lethal. He looks at you as if you are roasted meat served on a silver platter by the Emperor himself. It sends shivers down your spine, and you avert your gaze.
The herald stands confused beside him.
“Her?” the herald sputters, looking down at you in disbelief. “White Wolf, she is a mere servant. A floor scrubber. The Emperor offered you a lady of the court. Someone fit for a powerful champion, such as yourself!”
The way the herald utters the word lady sounds like an insult to you—as if insinuating you’re not woman enough for a man like Barnes.
Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightens again as he gives your arm a rough shake, forcing your attention back to him with a gasp.
“Want her,” Bucky grunts, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The herald blinks, his eyes flickering down to you where you kneel before the champion. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You must be mistaken, champion. She is nothing but a dirty servant—”
Bucky’s leather gloves creak as he tightens his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the herald falls silent, taking that slight movement from the gladiator as a threat to shut up.
“Fine, fine,” the herald mutters with a defeated sigh. “If that is what pleases you, then she is at your disposal.”
Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You hadn’t expected the herald to give you up so easily. You had hoped he would insist Bucky find a better woman—someone of higher value, and nowhere near your station.
“Wait, sir—you can’t possibly—!”
“I will let the Emperor know of your decision.” The herald turns on his heel, continuing to talk as if you aren’t even present. “He will be very amused. Though… it does make my job easier, finding another prize… I shall consider this a win for the both of us!”
The herald scratches his beard and shrugs as he continues to walk away. You feel like your life is already flashing before your eyes. There are horror stories of men like Bucky—men who just take and take without remorse. You are no exception. You don’t even want to imagine the kind of things he would do to a woman like you once the herald leaves you two alone. Ignoring Bucky entirely, you try to pry your weak arm away from the fighter’s grip and get to your feet.
“Sir, wait! Don’t leave me here with him!”
But Bucky’s grip remains tight. He hauls you against his broad, bare chest as he stands up. You collide into him with a yelp as he pins you still.
“Mine now,” he rumbles deeply.
You try to pull back, your heels digging into the grime stained floor, but it’s like trying to move a stone pillar. “Let me go! I have to finish cleaning, I have to—”
Without a word, he crouches before you and wraps both strong arms over your legs, hauling you like nothing and propping you over his shoulder like a prize he rightfully deserves.
“Come,” Bucky barks without a single opportunity for defiance. “Take you home.”
Your voice is dry from all the shouting and begging for him to release you. Your fists are weak from pounding his back in an attempt to make him let you go. Now, as you sit at the edge of his worn bed in his small home—which feels like it’s being held up by nothing but sticks and tapestry—you realize all of it was futile.
Tears streak your dirty cheeks as you wipe at them pathetically. You couldn’t even say goodbye to your dear friend, Livia. She must be worrying herself sick about you.
Bucky stands large and imposing in the center of the already tiny home. He wastes no time as he strips himself of his clothes, eyes locked onto your trembling frame. This man in front of you has no sense of shame as he leaves himself completely bare, his cock already hard and springing to his muscular lower belly.
You glance up, your breath catching in your throat at his size.
He is huge, his tip already gorging into an angry red while pre-cum dribbles out from the slit. Your eyes follow the veins that decorate his shaft up until you reach the base of his cock, where dark curls sit unruly and trail thinner up to his belly button.
“Good,” he grunts in approval. “Look at me. Only me.”
Bucky’s strong legs stalk forward to meet you at the edge of the bed. All you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. The campfire flickering behind him casts a warm light, highlighting his muscles and the sharpness of his features.
As he gets closer, you scramble backward. His knees dip and creak the bed as he crawls after you. To him, this is a game of cat and mouse—and he doesn’t mind one bit. You’re terrified, but he sees this as foreplay. The two of you continue this until your back hits the stone wall, leaving you nowhere else to run.
“Please,” you whimper. “Don’t do this.”
Then, without warning, his hand shoots out to grab the neckline of your dress. With a simple tug, his mere strength tears right through it.
“No!” you shriek, your hands coming up to cover your breasts before he even catches a glimpse. “Stop!”
Bucky furrows his brows. Your cries and actions only confuse him. His hands grab your arms, trying to pry them away from your chest. He is so much stronger than you; he could easily break you if he wanted to.
“No! Stop! I’m not ready!” you cry again, shaking your head as you gather all your strength to fight back. “I said, I’m not ready—!”
With your hand acting on a mind of its own, it reaches out and delivers a hard slap across the gladiator’s face.
Bucky’s head whips to the side, his dark, matted hair covering the features of his face—you can’t make out his expression at all.
Your eyes go wide, and your hand weakly retreats back to your chest. If you hadn’t thought Bucky was going to kill you before, you are certain he is going to skip the sexual act and kill you right now instead.
But, being as stubborn as you are, you hold onto the shovel that digs your very grave.
“I told you to stop,” your voice is shaky, but you try to find your footing. “I said no. Countless times. I did not give you my consent. Don’t you know what that word means?”
This is foolish, you think to yourself. Talking to a gladiator like Bucky is like talking to a brick wall. Your words will just go in one ear and out the other.
Bucky slowly turns his head back to you, his gaze locking onto yours with eyes so sharp you could swallow the blade. This is it. You’re certain this is where you die.
He makes an expression—not a pained one, but confused. His jaw is tight where your hand just struck him. He doesn’t move to strike back like you think he will, and he doesn’t wrap his hands around your throat to kill you.
He tilts his head, his face scrunched now in a way that makes him look almost like a kicked puppy.
“No?” he repeats, treating it like a question.
The syllable sounds clunky, foreign, and deeply awkward rolling off his tongue.
He looks down at your hands, still clamped tightly over your torn dress, and then back up to your glassy eyes.
“Consent?” he tries the next word, his brows furrowing from how unusual it sounds.
You nod, holding your breath. “Yes. Consent. I did not give it to you.”
Bucky blinks as the cogs work—or try to—in his head.
The reigning champion of the Colosseum, the brute of a man who knows exactly how to sever someone’s limb or take a prize by force, looks completely lost. For his entire life, the rules were simple: fight, win, take. No one had ever told him ‘no.’ No one had ever given him a choice, and he had never given anyone else one either.
“Consent,” he tastes the word again, as if trying to see if he likes it or not. Then, he shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
Now, you are just as confused as he is.
You stare at the gladiator who kneels before you on the bed. He is probably the most feared man in the empire, yet he sits there naked and baffled by such a basic concept.
“You don’t know?” you whisper. “You don’t know what the word consent means?”
Bucky shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a fraction. He looks down at his own massive hands, then back at you, looking almost defeated and unsure of what to do from here.
You let out a trembling breath, slowly adjusting your grip on your torn dress to keep yourself covered as you try to find the words to explain it to a man raised only for slaughter.
“It means... permission,” you explain softly. “It means that my body belongs to me, just like yours belongs to you. To take a woman to bed, she has to want it too. She has to say yes.” You gesture weakly between the two of you. “If I say no, or if I say stop, you have to stop. Otherwise, you are just hurting me. You are just forcing me.”
Bucky listens intently, his dark eyes watching your lips as you speak.
“Don’t want to hurt you,” he answers, his voice rough and strained.
That catches you by surprise. You didn’t expect that kind of softness out of him. Then, he meets your eyes again and continues. “Not yet, at least.”
You pull the torn dress tighter against your chest with a slight frown, and Bucky notices. He shifts awkwardly on the back of his heels—his cock still hard but his mind just as confused.
“How do I get you to want it?” He rests his hand on your bare ankle, tugging you gently. “Like how I want you?”
You swallow hard as you stare at his large hand wrapped around your ankle. He could grab you and break you—mold you and bend you so easily to his will—but he doesn’t.
“You have to… court me,” you try to explain. “You have to make me feel safe, and you have to make me want it.”
Bucky tilts his head. Everything you have just said—even the word safe—feels alien to him.
Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you continue. “It means you don’t just take what you want. You touch softly. You talk to me, and you kiss me.” You point a trembling finger to your mouth, then to his. “With your lips. To show me that you care about how I feel, not just what you want.”
“Touch softly,” Bucky repeats, drilling the instruction into his mind.
You shudder as his hand, once wrapped around your ankle, turns into a gentle caress with his fingertips.
Up and down, his calloused fingertips trace your foot up to your bare calf. He leans over your body, forcing you to lie down beneath him as he hikes up the hem of your skirt. He flattens his palm so it rests heavy against your bare thigh.
“Kiss,” he murmurs, his blue eyes tracing the curve of your lip. “Make you safe.”
He lowers his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against your cheeks as he brings his face inches from yours.
He hesitates for a second, his nostrils flaring like an animal as he breathes you in. Then, with an awkward, slow movement that he isn’t at all used to, Bucky presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is clumsy and far too hard at first, but as much as he wants to, he doesn’t force his way inside. He doesn’t push his tongue into your mouth, demanding dominance. He keeps his mouth pressed against yours, his lips slightly parted, mimicking the action as best as his instincts allow. It is gentle, surprisingly soft, and very wet—he might’ve even been drooling, aching to kiss you.
He pulls away just a fraction and searches your face for any sign of fear.
“Like this?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth. “Safe?”
Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, except this time it has nothing to do with fear. You stare up at the man before you with wide eyes and wet lips. Bucky studies your face, trying to make out if what he did was right or wrong.
“Y—yes,” you breathe out. “That was good.”
Satisfied with your answer, he leans back down and kisses you again. One hand rises up—slowly, to avoid startling you—and cups your cheek gently. His thumb grazes over the curve of your cheek while his lips explore yours.
A soft, needy sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, and Bucky answers with a deep groan. While one hand cradles your cheek, his other hand slowly rises beneath your dress to grip your smooth hip.
You find yourself unexpectedly leaning into the kiss, matching him until his tongue pokes past your lips and swirls around yours. The two of you breathe heavily, moaning softly against each other as Bucky positions himself between your legs. His cock grows even harder, poking against your warm inner thigh.
He can’t take it anymore. Each moan that leaves your lips sounds like yes, yes, yes to his ears. His desperate hands find the waistband of your panties, threatening to tear them.
You suddenly pull away from the kiss with a gasp, catching your breath. Your hand presses against his bare chest, stopping him.
“No,” you pant as you stare up at him. “Stop. Not yet. You have to be patient.”
At the word stop, Bucky freezes. A snarl rips from the back of his throat, and his face twists in frustration. His jaw clenches so hard, his muscles twitch. You wince back into the pillows in fear, thinking you are in over your head and have pushed him too far.
You brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly.
“I’m trying,” he growls, the words tearing past his teeth. “What do I have to do? Tell me.”
You open your eyes and see him hovering over you. His large body acts as a blanket of warmth while one strong arm props him up, the muscles straining under his own weight and restraint.
“You have to touch me,” you explain gently, pulling his hand away from your underwear and bringing it up to your chest. “Like this.”
Bucky’s eyes follow your movement. Your smaller hand rests over his as you guide him to squeeze your breasts. His breathing grows heavier as his fingers tug and start to play with your budded nipple, relishing the way you moan and arch your back into his touch.
“Like that,” you moan softly. “Good—good boy.”
He groans loudly at your praise. His dark, unruly hair brushes your skin before his mouth closes over your budded nipple. He begins to lick and suck hungrily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his teeth graze the edge.
“Mm…” Your eyes flutter shut at the pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow while he makes love to your tits.
Encouraged by your sounds, he grinds his thick hard cock firmly against the smooth skin of your bare thigh, seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between his legs.
One hand leaves your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers into your skin to hold you still while he ruts against you like an animal. He whimpers against your chest, drunk on your scent and the high of your soft moans.
“Please,” he begs, his stubble tickling your bare chest. “Say yes. Let me have you. Now.”
The way he pleads sends a warm rush through your lower belly, a feeling that leaves you craving him just as badly. The man who is used to taking whatever he wants without remorse is reduced to being entirely at your mercy between your legs. A sensation settles inside you that you never thought you would harbor.
Control.
Just one word—one breathless little “yes”—would send Bucky over the edge. His pleasure and his craving are both held in your hands.
“Okay,” you say, giving him a small nod, satisfied with how well he has done. “You can have me.”
A growl rips from his chest. Driven by instinct, his large hands grip the waistband of your panties once more, his knuckles pulling taut as he prepares to shred the flimsy fabric to pieces.
“No,” you interject quickly, slapping his hands away. “Don’t rip them! That’s rude!”
He scowls as he draws his hand back, a whine of frustration catching in his throat like a disappointed hound. It’s clear he is unhappy about facing another rule when he is so close to the edge, yet he listens.
“Pull them down slowly,” you instruct.
Using every ounce of restraint in his veins, he resists the urge to tear the cloth. He hooks his thick fingers into the sides and slowly pulls the fabric down past your hips and thighs until you are completely bare beneath him.
“There you go,” you sigh softly, pleased with his gentle movements. “Good boy.”
Bucky’s eyes drop to the slick heat waiting for him. He hovers over your body, his heavy breathing filling the space between you as he positions the thick head of his cock right at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down against you, soaking his length in your arousal and sucking in a breath at the heat of your touch.
He is too big—impossibly so—and you aren’t sure if he will fit.
“Need to fuck you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Hard.”
Holding himself at the base, he works at your entrance. His tip slowly slides in, stretching the opening and pushing deep enough to make you arch your back off the bed with a painful hiss.
He pauses at the sound.
“No,” you whimper, blinking tears away as you peer down at him. “If you’re going to have sex with me, you have to be gentle.”
His face twists into a strained expression, but he reluctantly abides.
One hand steadies your hip while the other holds his heavy cock, sliding into your warm, tight walls. Your body is so tight, not used to accommodating such a size, but he relents and continues pushing in.
You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your arms rest on his shoulders for support.
“Look at me,” Bucky commands in a rough, deep voice. When you don’t listen, he tilts his head down so he is in your line of sight and tries again. “I said look at me.”
You finally do, and his eyes search yours intently. The ring of blue demands that you look at him, and him only.
“Keep them open,” he instructs. “Look at me. It will feel better.”
So, you do.
You both stare into each other’s eyes while he slides himself even deeper. As his cock stretches you wide, his brows furrow and his face twists into a snarl, baring his teeth at the tightness of your body until he finally sheathes himself fully inside with a groan.
“Gentle,” he rasps brokenly. “Gentle. Gotta be gentle.” He repeats the words as if he’s trying to remind himself.
Your legs shake around him, your body trying to get used to his size.
He hasn’t moved yet, but you already feel impossibly full. Your walls embrace him, and you feel your body slowly opening up to let him in. As his cock settles deep inside you, pleasure slowly overwhelms your senses.
For Bucky, it feels like pure torture. Your body is snug and warm—like a wet, tight fist wrapped around his cock, so much better than what he’s used to with his own calloused hands.
“Need to move,” he curses. “Need to fuck. Say yes.”
His voice comes out rough and crude, but he refuses to move without your consent.
“Hold on,” you whimper, still adjusting to his size. You shift your hips slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only makes him groan in pleasure.
“Fine,” he grunts, squeezing your hip.
After what feels like forever, you finally nod your head.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”
And just like that, you open the pearly white gates to heaven for him.
With a hungry growl, he draws his hips back until only half of him remains, and then he slides himself back in. Your lips part in a gasp as he fills you again—his cock sinking even deeper, kissing your cervix.
“Tight,” Bucky clicks his tongue, growing frustrated. “Too tight.”
He pulls out halfway before slamming into you again, and again, and again. Each thrust grows harder and more unrelenting, forcing your body to yield to his cock.
“A—ah! It’s… s’too much—”
“Want me to stop?” he groans out painfully and reluctantly, like he doesn’t want you to answer with a ‘yes’.
“No,” you manage to breathe out. “Don’t stop.”
Moans and gasps spill from your lips every time he fills you. His girth splits you open with every savage thrust, his strong thighs forcing your legs wider for him.
His eyes never tear away from yours. Every time you try to squeeze your eyes shut from the force of his thrusts, he grabs your chin roughly and shakes you, forcing you to look back at him.
“Eyes. On. Me,” he hisses angrily.
Squeezing your cheeks to force your lips apart, he drags his thumb down your lower lip to pry them wider. He leans down, his hot breath tickling your skin while his damp strands of dark hair dance over your face.
He spits into your mouth, the traces of it dripping from his lips down to his chin, slicking your open mouth. It’s wild and savage, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. Without giving you the opportunity to pull away, his lips cover yours as he forces his saliva to swallow down your throat.
His tongue dances around yours again while he fucks you deeply, each move threatening to break both you and the bed.
Your eyes roll back so far in your skull while your legs dangle helplessly around his hips. Every thrust feels like a punishment for making him wait. Your nerves are crying out for release—and eventually, you give in. Your cunt spasms violently around Bucky’s length as bliss overwhelms every single sense.
“Oh my god,” you cry. “I’m gonna cum—!”
Your cries fill the small house as your back arches off the damp bed. Bucky insists on making eye contact with you, holding your jaw and forcing you to look at him while he fucks you through your climax.
You clench him tightly, your pussy pulsing in loving beats and squeezing him for every last drop.
“Fuck. Yes. Good, feels so good,” he rasps angrily, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.
His balls slap vulgarly against your wet pussy, traces of your slick clinging to him every time he bottoms out. His balls churn with pent-up seed, aching to fill you deep. Your cries grow louder, your hips shifting around to accommodate the overstimulation—but it’s no use.
Bucky’s close, so close. While his eyes bore into yours, his pupils dilate with desire. He just needs to get deeper, to fuck you at an impossible angle to pump you full…
“Wait,” you dig your nails deep into his back, making him gasp in pain. “Slow down—it’s too much…”
He snarls angrily, his hips slowing down just a fraction, but not entirely.
The sound that leaves your lips is a cocktail of pain and bliss. It’s a sultry sound that encourages him to continue, to take what he wants, but the words leaving your mouth say otherwise.
“No,” you shake your head. “Stop, please. It’s too much for me. You’re going to break me—”
His hands release your cheeks roughly as his head drops to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Another animalistic sound tears through him as he forces his hips to come to a stop. His cock stills inside you—pulsing for any form of friction. Just a few more thrusts, and he’ll cum. He’ll cum hard. But he stops, because you asked him to.
“Need to cum,” he pants against your face, taking in the way your eyes have gone teary. “So close.”
“I know,” you say with a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “I know. I just… just need a minute.”
You let your fingers trail up and down his back, and he shudders at the feeling.
The two of you lie there, tangled in each other’s limbs while you catch your breath. Bucky waits impatiently—his heart beating so fast in his chest as he uses every ounce of restraint in his blood to refrain from fucking you right through the bed.
Your pussy is already swollen and puffy from his size, and the longer he remains stuffed inside you, the tighter your body squeezes around him.
With his forehead pressed against yours, he shifts his knees and hips slightly to get comfortable, but even those tiny, forced movements are agonizing. Breathy moans and grunts escape both your lips, shared in the tight space between you. It’s sex without the vulgar movements, and it feels far too intimate for a ruthless man like Bucky.
Finally, you grant him permission.
Staring into his eyes, you give him a small nod to let him continue. And the moment you do, the last thread holding Bucky’s control snaps.
He grabs your legs and shoves them high over your shoulders, splitting you wide and pinning you down into a deep mating press. “Need to go deeper. Hold still.”
You had just gotten used to his size, and the sudden change in position makes your eyes fly open. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as he draws his hips back before bottoming out completely inside you.
His heavy, sweaty body crushes down on yours as he begins to fuck you hard and fast. Every draw of his hips fills you impossibly deep, your stretched cunt molding helplessly around his thick length. He works his hips in a wild, frantic rhythm, chasing his release at full speed before you can say another word to stop him.
“Mine,” he rasps through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as his sweat drips onto your skin. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine—”
The force of his hips slamming against yours knocks the breath right out of you, your moans coming out as breathless gasps while he pounds into you. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to finally give in.
“Tell me you’re mine. Say it.”
You blink through tears of bliss. “I—I’m yours—” you manage to stammer out.
His face twists in pleasure, baring his teeth as he pins your legs against your chest while the tip of his cock works deep against your cervix. “Good. A perfect sleeve for my cock. Look at me while I cum inside you.”
The sight of your face scrunched in pleasure and vulnerability sends a wave of heat coursing from his lower gut to the very tips of his toes. His cock pulses and throbs inside, slicking your walls with his pre-cum—a warning before giving you the real thing.
“Pump my cum,” his large palm settles over your lower belly. “All in here.”
The thought of you walking around the house barefoot and round with his children—growing up to be champions just like their father—makes his head spin and his balls grow heavy.
“Close. So close,” he curses and groans over and over, speaking more than he ever has. “Hold still. Take it all for me, wife.”
Bucky buries himself as deep as his length will go, pinning you down as his entire body locks tight. His cock pulses, pumping wave after thick wave of his hot seed deep inside your womb.
His head drops into the crook of your neck, his large, sweaty chest heaving against yours as he rides out his pleasure.
He releases your legs for a moment until both your rapid hearts finally slow to a steady beat. Slowly, agonizingly so, he draws his thick length back, pulling out of your slick, overstimulated cunt with a wet suction sound.
You let out a soft, breathless gasp at the sudden empty feeling. A ring of creamy white circles the base of his cock, and his seed dribbles between your folds—physical proof of what he just did to you.
Without a word, he grips both your ankles with one large hand, pinning your thighs together and pressing your legs straight up into the air to hold them suspended above you.
You blink at him—dazed, exhausted, and thoroughly used. His cock rests half-limp between his strong legs, so he clearly isn’t going for another round.
“What are you doing…?” you whisper softly, confused.
He holds your legs firmly in place as his dark eyes scan your bare, trembling body.
“Make sure it takes,” he grunts out, his voice rough from satisfaction. He uses his free hand to trace a warm, possessive line down to your lower belly, pressing down gently right over your womb. “Keep your belly round with my sons.”
You stare up at him in disbelief while your legs are held helplessly aloft by his massive hand. You’re too exhausted to argue, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. Still, you manage an incredulous laugh.
Does he seriously think propping your legs up like a pair of stilts is going to magically guarantee a pregnancy?
He looks so proud of himself that you don’t even have the heart to argue. He squeezes your ankles slightly, letting out a satisfied hum from his chest once he’s convinced his little trick did the job. The smile on his face is almost boyish in a way that does not belong to a rough man like him.
“Good wife,” he praises you. “Birth me healthy champions.”
You let out a soft sigh, fluttering your eyelids shut as fatigue finally crawls its way into your bones.
As you drift into slumber, you make a mental note to teach this brute a lesson on how gravity works. And right after that, you’ll teach him what aftercare is—especially if he plans on keeping you forever and making you his wife.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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pairing: bucky barnes x reader
summary: after his daughter, winnie, ripped the arm off her beloved stuffed doggy, bucky takes the day off to take care him, subsequently figuring some things out while doing so -
or, bucky sews up a new arm for his daughters favourite teddy . . .
warnings: fluff, dad!bucky, mom!reader, domestic fluff, some angst, written with congressman!bucky in mind, bucky wears glasses while working, bucky's daughter is called Winnie (win, pea, sweetheart, baby, babygirl...), Nat, Tony, Sam and Steve mentioned, aunt!nat and uncle!sam lol . . .
word count: 4k
a/n: wow a fluff thats crazy. im aware im not the best at these but i got this idea a week or so ago while going to work and it hasn't let me alone since so, i tried !
bucky m.list || masterlist || navigation
The plastic laundry basket rattles and creaks against your hip. Tapping your finger on the handle without a real rhythm, humming inquisitively and melodically, floorboards groaning under your feet as you pass down the hallway, and into the sun-warmed bedroom where stickers plastered yay high on the door, just below the painted calligraphy of dusty green you had tasked yourself on, even though you'd started waddling and huffing at every sprig of movement at the time. Winnie.
It's oddly quiet, not too unusual for a school day, but even so the padding of socked feet thumping around, excited squeals and giggles and tight little arms latched around your calf fill your days up so full and bright, the few hours of emptiness never fail to have you staring at the unmade bed and sigh with a smile.
Placing the basket down to your feet, you lean down to straighten the linens. Uncurling the stripes of red, tucking them in at the corners, folding at the pillows before starting on those next. Fluffing and placing them carefully to the wall, gathering her favourite blanket she'd pulled to the centre of the room for a late night reading session by the bonfire (her bedside lamp she had also moved) to drape across the foot of the bed.
Once done, straightening up only to stretch out the achy kinks in your muscles, you turn for the finishing touch. Dusty, Winnie's companion. The kind of teddy you must pry out of a child's hand — or at least try and swap it out with a similar weight like a Mission Impossible movie — but your little Win had a sixth sense for her darling dog. Matted fur from bone crushing (or pellet crushing, in Dusty's case) hugs, colour dulled from the years, and eyes wobbled from the thread. He may have been living up to his name, but he carries her love like no other.
But in recent days, you've noticed a difference in Dusty's appearance. His front left leg was simply… missing.
It wasn't hard to put two and two together. Your husband, brooding eyes and tired sighs, Bucky Barnes, had spent the good part of Winnie's first years acclimatising both Win, and himself, to his arm.
Holding her comfortably against his chest, in the crook of his right arm, as so his left — all shiny vibranium and gold veins — could pat and caress. Holding it up, wiggling his fingers while cooing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star just to see her chubby cheeks round out and gargle a laugh through a gummy smile. Bucky had even found himself soothing her by gently wiping the bridge of her nose with the smooth tip of his index finger, shushing down her cries, murmuring praises into the air, smiling softly as her eyes droop shut and soft croons from the back of her throat quieted into yawns, dribble on ironed work shirts and sweet, even breaths.
But Dusty and his three limbs were nowhere to be seen.
Not on the bedside table, or made as a suspicious lump underneath your neat origami of bed sheets. Not using the bunting hung from the corners as a makeshift swing set, or gathered around the lamp-made bonfire.
The laundry sat forgotten as your feet darted down the hall and down the flight of stairs, all to have been halted once you found yourself in the dining room. Your hair flew back as you caught yourself, hand holding the doorway.
Bucky sat at the table, button up shirt open at the collar, sleeves shoved to his elbow, hair the same colour as his daughters mussed back from fingers, and glasses slipping to the tip of his nose. Before you could fully appreciate the sight before you, you realised the scene. A sewing needle poked out the corner of his lip, held in place by his teeth, a large enough sheet of fabric, black with soft gold accents, laid out on the surface next to the project, cut in meticulous patterns, chalk lines fading off. And the main event was Dusty himself, and the appendage of dark cloth, sewn haphazardly with the kind of skill a boy on a mission would have, into a similar shape to the dog's right leg.
"Jesus," you exhale, holding your chest. "I thought you had work today?"
"I—Uh," He glances up at you over the top of his glasses where they perch low on the tip of his nose. Muffled by the needle in his mouth, he takes it out, leaning both elbows to the table, inhaling as if finding the correct answer. "I did. Have work."
You lean against the frame now. Arms crossed over your chest, smiling in amusement.
"But?"
"But," he imitates, looking back down at the work he's doing, holding the needle between two fingers and waving it slightly. "I have more pressing matters to attend to."
"Oh yeah?" You push off and walk your way over, sliding into the chair adjacent to his, leaning your chin on the palm of your hand. "More pressing than paperwork and board meetings? Pressing matters meaning Dusty?"
He laughs once, an exhales huff paired with an easy smile, but he keeps working. His phone was still open, propped up on a vase of cosmos and baby's breath, a paused video tutorial on sewing. You pretend not to have noticed, pretend like your heart didn't swell ten times the size in that one millisecond your eyes flittered.
"I—ah… I may have hold Win, while tucking her in last night, that I'd take Dusty to the 'hospital' today while she was at school," he shrugged, momentarily pausing to run a hand through his hair to keep it back, only for the strands to fall back over his face. "Was tired of finding stuffing on the floor."
"Tired of stuffing on the floor?"
"Mhm," he drags out, tight lipped, looping the needle through the two meeting points of the inside out fabric, pulling until slight resistance, before going again. "I also wanted to surprise her. Got up early to go out lookin' for some stuff, just to close up the hole, but I… saw the fabric, and… I mean, I understand why she—she'd take the arm off," he sighed again, looking back up at you over his glasses. When he sees you already smiling, he loosens up, smiling too, cheeks pinkening under the dusting from his beard.
"I think she'd like it."
"She'll love it, Buck," you reassure, reaching out to draw a knuckle over the back of his hand. "Didn't know you could sew, though."
The chair groans under his weight, stretching out, leaning back. "It's been a long, long time, sweetheart. Used to watch my momma when I had nothing better to do, sometimes she'd make me help her out until my fingers were all sore and poked raw, and, uh, you pick up some shit out in the field. Clothes get ripped, you know the gist," you do. He waves a dismissive hand. "Did have to remind myself though, but don't tell Winnie, I wanna look smart."
You giggle, easing up from the seat to make your way over. "You are smart, and Win already thinks the world of you,"
Leaning over, you drape your arms over his shoulders and rest your chin to his head, pausing the dismissive shake to your statement.
"It looks good. You're really good at this." You murmur into his hair with a kiss.
Bucky hums, pushing his glasses back up with a knuckle. "M'not."
"Hm, you are. And Winnie loves you, and I love you, and she's gonna love you more after this," you peck his head again.
"You know, everyday I think that theres no way I could love you more? You do all of these amazing things, you've done amazing things — things I can't even fathom — and yet you keep going above and beyond," before you could finish your words, Bucky tucks a piece of hair behind his ear, and you move. Legs walking, mind filing through memories, to the comfortable, organised mess of the living room.
When you come back, standing behind your husband, you clip the strands of hair that have been bothering him back with two tiny butterfly clips, one pink, the other green. He makes no protest, only smiling down at his work, already understanding and thankful when he heard the little snap.
You kiss his head again, in the space between the clips and stay there a little longer. Arms wrapping around his shoulders, massaging your thumbs into the muscle and to the base of his neck.
"You're amazing. I dunno how I could keep up."
He makes a noise, humorous, slightly dismissive. "You don't need to keep up. Don't need to do anything," leaning his head back to your chest, he sighs again. "I fell for you the way you are. Beautiful, talented, funny, witty in a way I have always been kinda jealous of, and so terrifying sometimes, even I get nervous at parent teacher conferences."
You scoff, running your hands down to drape across his chest.
"I'm not that scary—"
"Oh, you are," he leans to the side and kisses your forearm, lingering his lips for a few seconds, rubbing the soft skin and the coarse hairs of his beard across the inside of your arm, before pressing another kiss and mumbling into you. "I remember years ago when you ripped Tony a new one. Dunno what, somethin' about a mission being sent out too early bein' dangerous. God, I remember walkin' in and I don't think I blinked,"
A laugh rumbled through your chest, pushing at the back of Bucky's head. He pauses for a moment, holding up the black and gold cushioned paw in his left hand. The plates whir as if smiling at his work.
"That was when I knew I wanted to marry you."
"Sap," You press another kiss to his scalp, and another, then another. "If I'm remembering correctly, cause Tony just loves to piss me off, we weren't even together at that time."
Shaking his head, you can feel the apples of his cheeks fill with a smile. "Nope. Had it all planned out from there on out. Even Steve could tell I was whipped after we left the room."
You tut, straightening up. "And it took you like, what, three years to actually ask me out?"
Before he could retort, already stuttering on an answer, pushing his glasses atop his head, hands curled on the edge of the table. You walk with a bounce in your step back towards the doorway.
"Okay, you've got about an hour or so til pick up so, it might be best to get that leg on. Meanwhile, I've got laundry to do and dinner to start."
As your footsteps thump up the stairs, Bucky calls up to you.
"It was a year!"
"If you say so!" You shout back, already passing back into the colourful, warm mess of your daughter's bedroom to stifle through the little clothes on the floor.
After tossing a pink pyjama set, two pairs of dirt stained socks and a pair of cherry red jeans stained green at the knees, his voice calls out again.
"I love you!"
You giggle. Big and bright, staring down at the messy clothes of your child's, stained with inquisitive wonder and whimsy. Pens thrown on the ground next to an opened colouring book, handmade crochet blankets in a box by the bed, pre-loved books on the shelf, fairy lights and garlands draped across corners.
"I know!"
-
Amongst the crowd of parents waiting on their kids — hulking them up and on their hips, taking their little book bags out their tiny hands to help straighten their clothes — Bucky stayed leaning against the far wall.
The sun still dripped down through the clouds, leaving a cool enough breeze to ease off uncomfortable warmth. It nipped up his bare arms, still clad in his 'work' clothes, white shirt still slightly unbuttoned and sleeves still rolled up, and Dusty stayed tucked inside of the pocket in his pants, covered by his hands.
Kids laughed, squealed at times whenever their parent would pick them up or bounce them, maybe even swing them from between the two. He stayed indifferent, watching the double doors swing open to a new wave of tiny heads, watching the teachers he's come to trust (reluctantly) wave enthusiastically or high-five if the kid asked for such. He stifled a growing smile as one child missed twice.
It wasn't until the sound of quick footsteps pitter-pattered against the asphalt his attention turned and was completely swallowed by the small shooting star about to plummet straight into him.
Brown hair tied into two low braids waved behind her as her little body came running the wavering crowd. Adorned in patchwork dungarees, a stripy shirt and little red boots Nat had gotten her for her last birthday because 'kids can be badasses too'.
"Daddy!" She giggled as she ran, smile so wide it looked like it hurt.
Dropping down to one knee, he just about caught the little cannonball of energy as she leapt into his arms. Little hands around his neck, feet barely touching the ground. The force of her impact made Bucky topple back into the wall with a groan, laughing into her hair as they both squeezed.
"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted, muffled into the the crook of her shoulder, easing and patting the back of her head. "Geez, you've got a lot of energy, you had a good day?"
"Uh-huh! I found some caterpillars during recess, they were all fuzzy and climbing up a tree and I was their protector! Other kids kept tryin' to poke at them but me and some friends guarded them!"
"That's nice, Win." Bucky groaned as he pushed himself, and an energetic five year old, and her backpack up from the wall. Easing her to sit on his hip, she dangled her legs excitedly, grasping into the front of his shirt.
"And we got to play heads up seven up, but don't tell but I looked at their shoes whenever they got me so I won extra reading time, but i didn't do it all of the time! I only did it once in a while so I didn't look sus… suspi—shuss."
"It's 'suspicious', sweetpea, 'sus-pi-shush', and did Auntie Nat teach you that?"
Winnie shakes her head, still smiling, braids whipping to and fro. "Uncle Sam!"
His brows lower in defeat. "Of course he did."
Pebbles crunch beneath the soles of his dress shoes, bumping Winnie up higher on his side, she hums.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Is Dusty okay at the hospital?" She fiddles at the collar of his shirt, voice low as she asks.
"Oh, yeah. Hey, you just reminded me, I gotta… got a little surprise for you." he places her back to the ground, following her down to squat in front of her. Rummaging through his pocket, he kept one hand on her bicep to keep her close.
"A surprise?"
Once out, bucky holds out the old dog in his hands, elbows to his knees, cupping around his floppy torso carefully. At this angle, both Dusty and Bucky adorn the arms, and little Winnie watches bright-eyed as Bucky moved his fingers with a whir under Dusty's to greet with a little wave.
"You match!" She gasps before her dad could explain. "Daddy, you and Dusty match!"
He chuckles, "yeah, we do, don't we?" Holding the teddy up, he points out the new leg, nodding and playing along. "Took a little while, but he's good as new. Missed you terribly while you were out here — conning your way into more reading time," he murmurs under his breath as Winnie takes her companion from his hand to smother him in the tightest hug. "Wouldn't stop askin' for you after the procedure, he wanted to show you ASAP."
"He looks exactly just like you, daddy!"
He straightens up, taking her hand in his, making a slight face. "Well, I wouldn't say exactly just like me—"
"You both look so cool!" She exclaims, jumping in his hold excitedly, "Dusty has a cool arm like daddy now!"
His head knocks back in a soft flinch. Despite the slight tingle in his sinuses, the soft smile on his lips and the adoring look he glances down at his daughter, he doesn't cry — not yet, at least, he wont allow it. And while he wants to ask if she really means it, if his arm really is cool, if she did rip it off Dusty to be like him, if she really did love him, adore him, like you said she does; instead he keeps smiling and guiding her back to the car with his chest full of something akin to the cloudy, cotton feeling he got when he held her for the first time.
And he really did match Dusty.
"C'mon, Pea," he clears his throat, trying to hide the bundles of emotion, golden and honey thick in his chest. "Momma's probably wondering where we are."
With one last skip, she giggles, holding the dog up to her face. "Thank you for making him better, daddy."
Comically, his eyes twitch and his bottom lip just about juts out into a pout. Inhaling, exhaling, grounding himself — trying to, at least — he squeezes the little hand in his own once.
"Of course, baby."
And she squeezes back. Once around his hand, small yet mighty, and another around his heart.
-
"Momma!"
The door's barely open before the loud rapt of Winnie comes bounding over.
"In here!" You reply, voice echoing from the kitchen, stirring the pot one last time and easing the flame low on the stove.
"Ah-ah," Bucky tuts, clicking his fingers, whistling once, catching her just in the nick of time. "Shoes off and bag at the door, you know what momma's like."
With a dramatic groan — wonder where she gets that from — she copies Bucky. Toeing off her boots clumsily, before plopping her butt down on the floor to impatiently untangle the knots you had tied that morning, ultimately letting her dad pull them off her feet and place them neatly on the shoe rack.
As Bucky slipped off the last shoe, Winnie made a run for it.
"Momma!" She calls again. Bounding down the hallway, socked feet thumping off the floor. As he follows behind, Bucky wonders how such a small being can make so much noise.
"Hey, babygirl!" you beam, listening to the excited racket thud closer and closer, propping a lid on top of the pan.
A blow hits your legs, catching your breath as you laugh at her dramatics. Stroking the frizzy hairs down from her plaits.
"C'mere," you beckon, pulling her up for a hug, air constricting and tight as it might be, you reciprocate with wiggling from side to side and groaning with playful aggression. You believe you could photosynthesise on her giggles alone. "What did you get up to today, anything fun? Make friends? Change the world?"
"Look, look, look!"
Plastic beading rattles as she holds Dusty up in front of her for you to behold, pressing her little mouth to his head, copying the wave Dusty had greeted her with.
With a gasp, you wobble her happily. "Oh my goodness, Dusty's back!"
"His arm, momma, look at his arm!" She exclaims, kicking her legs happily.
"He had the best surgeon looking out for him, baby," glancing up at your husband's simper, you kiss her forehead. "Doesn't it look great?"
"It's amazing!"
Jumping her up a couple times on your hip, you hum. "Yeah? Did you thank daddy?"
Nodding her head with a beam, a smile bucky can only compare to yours with the way rooms seem to brighten when shown, she pulls her hands up for him to hold her next. "Thank you, daddy!"
"Yeah, yeah," he grunts, holding her without a complaint, "you said that fifteen times in the car already, Pea."
The room settles easily, with the quiet simmer of food bubbling and stove searing, birds whistling in the garden and traffic humming, it's familiar and easy, and it's home.
It isn't long until Winnie's restless little body squirms in Bucky's arms, and he sets her free with a quiet 'go on', sprinting back up to her room with a chorus of high pitched giggles.
Propping himself against the worksurface, arms crossed over his chest, head on the cabinets, Bucky sighs. It's a sigh of ease, contentment. The kind he would let out once the streets filled with the orange of lampposts, and he got home to find you, warm and sleepy, tucked in bed as he stripped himself of button ups and tailored suits, and swapped it out with a bare chest and sweatpants — the sigh would only come once his arms wrapped around you and his nose buried into your hair.
A smile creeps on your lips, moving to take a place next to him.
"You know, apparently she cheated at heads up seven up today. For extra reading time. But only did it enough times not to look 'suspicious'." He squints his eyes, following the word with quotation marks.
Sucking in a breath, you click your tongue against the backs of your teeth. "Ooh, don't tell me," you whisper, patting a finger on your chin in thought. "Nat?"
He shakes his head, tight lipped, "Sam."
"So we're crossing him off the babysitting list."
"Hm, I think he's doin' it on purpose," he hums, tipping his chin up, moving his hands down to find the small of your back. "Keep him on, he's doing the next gig."
Pulling you closer until you stand between his open legs. He holds your hips, rubbing small circles through your pants, holding eye contact.
"I meant what I said today." You murmur, keeping your eyes on his, holding authority. To which Bucky loses with great pleasure, sneaking glances to your lips.
"I know."
"You're amazing," you mumble again, basking in the tiny looks he holds to your mouth, how he licks his own lips and the soft, humming feeling of his thumbs making patterns, and his fingers changing position to subtly bring you closer.
"I mean it. Truly," You rest your hands on his shoulders, squeezing, careful around the soft tissue that bumps around his left. "I love you. We both do. So, so much."
Your eyes hold his, and this time he doesn't sneak away, and he doesn't try to hide with a bashful look or a glimpse at your lips, right there. Though his eyes redden at the edges, the whites of his eyes glisten off the stovetop light, and you can just about see your reflection pool inside of his pupils.
"I know." He replies, quieter than the last, and he finally leans the rest of the way and kisses you. Because it hits, not like a blow but a final blossom. He does know, and he thinks he has known this whole time. From the moment the nurse placed a whaling, sticky, tiny thing in his arms and his body tightened and loosened all at once, his lungs stuttering, and mouth instinctively formed the awkward whispers of 'you're alright, I got you, I know, it must be so cold'.
It's just only now, in the soft warmth of a kitchen, being used and not feeling like mere decoration with takeout in the fridge, the love of his life in front of him, pecking at his lips until laughter gets in the way and dinner sizzles from next to them. With a daughter, who loves to guard critters and create extravagant blanket forts, who reads to her bears and kisses them goodnight, one by one. Who ripped off her favourite teddy's left arm so he can be 'just exactly like daddy' — he's finally let himself realise just how adored he really is.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, pwp, straight porn, missionary, d/s dynamics, softdom!bucky, sub!reader, slight brat!reader, slight dumbification, oral fixation, sweat/spit/teeth kink (idk maybe lol), the aftercare is fucking again, creampie, bucky has a bush . . .
word count: 1.8k
a/n: this is me trying to get some requests finished :") i have a whole bunch, some of which i accidentally turned into long fics, some i hate the things i wrote and am trying to start again and some im figuring out, but this one came to me when i woke up horny for bucky barnes lol
thank you anon for the request !! <3
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The mattress creaks and the frame knocks into the wall, chipping the paint, denting the wood where the two meet.
Forehead to forehead, sweat accumulating with torrid breaths and aching muscles, Bucky's hips caught to yours. Pressing, slamming, holding down as he clenches his glutes and humps, elongating the pleasure, taunting.
But the light chime of his tags kept ringing. They keep batting across your chest, cold and moist, patting your chin and dragging across your skin when you were right there.
It was just as your legs fell open, knees laying up as his dick dragged in and out, and he willed his noises to stay at a minimum, when the tags flittered to the dip of your neck. Your lips parted, sighing, rolling your eyes as it tap tap tap's and sings against your hot skin. You move, careful not to ruin the precision, pressing the chain against his peck, holding them firm to his chest.
At first, Bucky almost sat up, almost paused to ask if you were okay — pushing at his sternum, brows taut and eyes glassy, whining with every breath. Instead he pushed deeper, metal fingers drawing up your body until they held your jaw, squeezing your cheeks, making you look into his eyes.
"What's the matter?" His breath sticks to your face, bumping his nose to yours. "Pushin' me away? C'mon, speak to me."
You can't. That's the problem. It feels like with each pull and push, each pulse around his cock, and every kiss his tip grants your cervix, he drives all linguistic knowledge out of your brain, spilling it from your lips in garbled nonsense and breathy moans.
A whiney hum spills out as you tighten your lips into a line, keeping your jaw firm. You lean back into the pillow, shutting your eyes trying to find any semblance of words, but his hips keep moving. Slower now, yet still as effective, still holding you rigid and perfectly, and tauntingly precise. Rutting the length of himself inside of you while the fuzz of hair that littered the base kept grazing your clit. It isn't until one hand claws at the meat of his shoulder, and the other, the hand that pushed at the chain, leaving tiny dents in it's wake, fisted at the metal.
It clinks as the tags stay dangling from your palm, bumping to and fro.
"Oh, sweetheart," Bucky soothes, the warm metal of his thumb strokes against your bottom lip, slicked with spit and salty with sweat. "We're they botherin' you?"
You nod quickly, leaving a sharp smile on his face, dipping down to leave gentle kisses against your jaw.
"My smart girl," you keen into the praise, leaning deeper into his hand, letting his voice rasp and vibrate into your skin, leaving more room for him to lick and kiss. "Thought you wanted me to stop."
Ardently, you shake your head, ruffling your hair into the pillow behind you.
"No, no stopping. 'M not gonna stop." And he doesn't. His flesh hand replaces your own around the tags and he slots them between his teeth.
Salt and iron cover his tongue, sweat that had dripped from his down body, and your own that had mixed in as it had laid against your own skin, or tapped annoyingly your neck. It makes a dull sound as they sat firmly between his teeth, braced to the side, just where his molars start and his canines dig into the printed letters of his name.
It shouldn't be hot.
The sight of his mouth full, his teeth bared, carrying something precious with an iron grip of his jaw, made your walls pulse. You almost wanted to swap it out, to reach up and take the tags in your own mouth, enveloped in the debauched taste of century old metal, skin and spit.
But its hedonic. You love how he looks. Skin slick, chest heaving, drool already pooling at the edges of the tags, at the corner of his mouth right where his lips met. Animalistic in a way.
"There we go, there we go," his speech muffled, yet still affirmative and firm as he brings back the pace. Making your head drop back and mouth hang open on a gasp, arching your back. The warmth of his palm glides up your torso, leaving goosebumps as he drags up and down, before pulling your leg up by the thigh to latch onto his waist and holding you firmly at the hip. All while holding himself up on his forearm, vibranium fingers holding the top of your head reassuringly, grazing his thumb on your hairline.
He hums, unable to speak with his mouth full, unable to gather the spit about to fall. Your hands claw at the contorting muscles of his shoulder blades, moving to capture his hair between your fingers.
The tug you force has him stuttering, hips pressing to your own, the hair surrounding his base tickles again, right against your nub.
"Oh—fuck," you breathe out, jaw slack and tight all at once, the light feeling of release easing up your back as your thighs begin to tingle and tremble around his torso. "Bucky… Bucky, please."
The rivulets of spit drop, coating your neck and chin, and he follows them down until his hot, wet breath finds your temple. His chest caves with each inhale, keeping his hips up, holding down the pace that has you throbbing up his shaft, your nails digging into his shoulder and thighs shaking. He can feel the ring around the root of him, creamy and white, mixed in with the dark patch of hair.
The tags tinkle dully, let go from the cell of his teeth to lay wet next to your neck. You pay no mind to the slurping sound of him gathering spit from his lips; only staying in the blissed out haze of Bucky's body atop of yours and his pretty cock slapping in and out of you.
"C'mon, c'mon…" he repeats like a mantra, whispering under his breath, heated on the shell of your ear. "You got it, fuck, you feel so good. Wanna cum—cum inside of you, wanna push it in deep, n'keep fuckin' it in… Please, please, please…"
As your nails print crescents into his skin, your mouth holds a jumble of 'yes's to his shoulder. Balm and torrid to the meat of his shoulder, your body locks and a sweet ache begins to release around the stretch of him. Your lips press to his collarbone, muffling the shudders and whines and gasps that release as he fucks you through it, wet slaps and mumbled grunts chorusing together while you jolt and pulse.
It isn't long until he follows through, finishing deep inside, pressing and holding himself as his cock twitches with each spurt of cum. As if awoken from his daze, he keeps his hips moving.
Splatterings of white coat both of your pelvises and thighs, shuddering with overstimulation, muscles limp from overexertion, eyes half lidded and lips parted and red.
Bucky slowed himself as your jerking lessened and your teeth bared to hiss at the mild pain, and his dick softened. He watched, holding himself up with his knuckles to the pillow, guiding the softer limb to stay inside of your full warmth, uncaring about the mess that now coats his fingers — absentmindedly licking them off like candy residue.
Sighs and soft groans alike leave you both as he slips out. Your nails caress his torso, gliding gently up the red marks you printed on his back, down to the sensitive muscles of his ass, making him twitch and press his hips to yours again with a stifled laugh to your jaw.
"Careful, might get hard again before I can clean you up." He kisses and breathes you in, holding you into his body as your fingers hold their gentle rhythm.
You huff a lazy version of a laugh, nosing against the sweet smell of sweat where his neck meets his shoulder.
"Oh no, how awful," You croak sarcastically. The weakness in your voice makes you both laugh fully, rumbling chests pressed against one another, cheeks tight with smiles, and eyes watching with warm fragments. After a short moment of silence, of lungs catching up, you follow down the column of his neck to where his dog tags laid lopsided on your chest, and hummed. "I liked that thing you did."
"'That thing'?" He pressed, smirking, lowering his voice. "I've got many things goin' for me, sweetheart, be specific."
Another laugh breaks, crinkling your eyes at the corners, playfully pushing at his chest.
"That dog tag thing, you know, putting them in your mouth."
"You liked that?"
You nodded, fervently. "Uh-huh. Very much."
His lips move into a soft smile, catching the slick metal cards between his fingers to bring them up.
"That so?" He teases quietly, dragging them across your bottom lip, leaving the dewy residue to sit, sliding them just between the seam of your lips only to jut it out with a pop. "Maybe next time you can hold them for me?"
With your tongue poking out, you get a taste of the flavour that pooled alongside Bucky's own tongue. Musky and sour, tangy with body heat. And with a soft press on your thigh, you know that you're under a limit.
"Next time meaning five minutes?" You prod, tilting your head innocently. "Haven't even gotten cleaned up and it seems like little Sergeant Barnes is reporting for duty."
With a tut, he holds your chin, shaking his head. "Nuh-uh, fuck that and your smart mouth. Open wide, hold tight."
You obey and bite down as he slots the tags between your teeth, tugging at the chain twice to test out your grip. You scrunch your nose and furrow your brows, playfully pulling back at the chain. The grotesque brackishness of the tester you got grips you fully and drips down your throat.
"'Little Sergeant Barnes'," he repeats, sitting up as far as he could to grab ahold on himself. Sticky, wet and just as hard as before. He strokes himself, groaning as he fists tighter at his ruddy tip, coaxing a pearl of precum. Defiantly, he taps his heaviness on your clit. "Keep that up and making sure every inch of you aches with me the next day, understood?"
A giggle bubbles up before you could force it down. He slaps his cock against your clit again, holding and coating it down and between your lips, still creamy and dripping his own release, bullying your button with his tip. Your whine is muffled between your teeth as you bear them down.
"Understood?" He pushes, voice firmer, harsher, and you nod, heart racing, ribs already quivering. The sounds of your joint bodies squelch louder and louder, as your head lays dizzier and dizzier, but his voice whispers so soft and the way he terrorises and hounds your insides brings stars to the corners of your eyes.
pairing: grumpy!trailer park!Bucky x fem!trailer park!reader
warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (soft dom!Bucky, breeding kink, unprotected p-in-v, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, ass play, multiple positions, dirty talk, squint for daddy kink), age gap (r mid 20s, B late 30s), use of nicknames (ex: “kid”), mechanic!Bucky, semi-slow burn, so much angst, arguing, mentions of troubled pasts (ex: bad parents) mentions of prison, mentions of alcoholism, smoking, drinking, no use of y/n
words: 30.2k (WTF!!!!!!!)
summary: When your neighbor saves you from a tight spot, you go out of your way to thank him. You quickly find out that he doesn’t want your thanks — actually, he doesn’t want anything to do with you. The hurt stings while the curiosity burns, but the cracks begin to show when tensions rise. Is it a classic neighborhood dispute, or is there something bigger hiding beneath the surface?
sammy speaks: celebrating 1k+ followers by taking a trip to angst town. thank you for reading and following my blog, I love all you dearly!🤍 also rip to all the letter g’s that did not make it into this fic, you’ll see what I mean
“That doesn’t sound too good, hun.”
Through the windshield, you spot your neighbor standing in front of the hood with a full laundry basket against her hip. Donna’s eyes sweep suspiciously across your car, as if she thinks the ticking of your engine could double for a time bomb.
You groan, your forehead meeting the steering wheel with a dull thud. “I know.”
“What’s wrong with it? Battery dead?” she asks, coming over to your rolled down window. You crack an eye open at her.
“When I know, I’ll tell ya.”
Her answering look is sympathetic.
“Was never too good with cars myself. Harold did all the fixin’ when he was still around. You got somewhere to be?”
“Job interview,” you mumble, the leather digging into your brow; you’re trying not to focus on the sweat soaking through your best shirt, or your growing anxiety over your fast-approaching interview time. Donna shifts the basket to her other hip.
“Could try callin’ on Bucky. He works at Rogers’ garage down on Miner Street. It’s Sunday, so he should be home.”
Your forehead peels away from the sticky wheel. “Who’s Bucky?”
Donna nods toward the other side of the park. “Bucky Barnes. White trailer with the boots lined up all neat outside the door.”
“Have I met him?”
“Doubt it,” she replies. “He works mean hours, leaves before sun up, comes back when it’s dark. But he’s always ready to help a neighbor out when he’s here. Real sweet guy.”
You blow a stray hair out of your eyes. “You think he can fix whatever’s wrong with my car?” you ask, your doubt as strong as your hope.
Donna smiles like she knows something you don’t. “Bucky can fix anythin’ he gets his hands on.”
You turn in your seat, spotting the white trailer with the boots out front. It looks devoid of life, like it was plopped onto that spot of land by a strong gust of wind rather than by human design. The curtains are drawn, vines creep up the paneling, the gate on the far side of the yard swings in the breeze, but there’s a rusting brown pickup parked in front of it. Promising enough.
“Okay,” you say. “Bucky Barnes. Mechanic. Got it.”
“Good luck,” Donna says with a grin, tapping your arm before walking away.
You step out into the scorching heat of the late July afternoon and make your way across the park, stepping over discarded children’s toys and overgrown flower beds. As you near the trailer, you see the pairs of boots your neighbor spoke about lined up with military precision, all well worn but still taken care of, not a speck of dust or dirt on them, which is rare in a place like this.
You knock three times on the plain brown door before taking a step back, holding your breath. Grasshoppers hum, the wind whips; you don’t hear anything inside the home for an agonizing amount of time, enough time to double the sweat pooling on your lower back. You’re about to try knocking again when the door finally creaks open.
Out steps a mountain of a man.
Big arms and bigger shoulders, broad chest and long, thick legs. He wears boots identical to the ones outside, blue jeans that are in desperate need of a wash, and a black henley that offers an intimidating glimpse into what those arms are capable of. His dark hair is a mess on top of his head, sticking up in all different directions, and underneath it is a face so unexpectedly handsome, you’re not sure how it ended up in a rundown park like this instead of somewhere on a billboard advertising cologne. Sun-kissed, weathered, and deadly serious, but striking in a way you could never forget, triggering a blush on your already flushed cheeks. And then you meet his eyes: electric blue and narrowed at you under furrowed brows, raising the hairs on the back of your sweaty neck.
“Can I help you?” he grunts, voice low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine.
“Hey,” you say quickly with a 1000-watt smile, showing off your nerves. “Hi. Uh, Bucky, right? I’m your neighbor. I live—“ You hook your thumb over your shoulder. “—back that way. The one with the pink door. Um…I was hopin’ you could help me out. My car, it’s — well, it won’t start. Makes a clickin’ noise every time I try turnin’ it over. Donna said you’re a mechanic and might be able to help.”
His expression doesn’t change. He stares unblinkingly at you.
“I, um—,” you can feel yourself faltering, your heart rate rising as the seconds tick by, “I don’t mean to barge in on your Sunday, but I’m pretty desperate. I have an interview in, like, twenty minutes, and I really need this job. Do you think you could take a quick look?”
He eyes you up and down, assessing. You try not to smile wider in case it leans too close to deranged. “You live here?” he demands. You nod.
“Moved in about a month ago. Sorry we’re only meetin’ now, I should’ve introduced myself sooner.”
You offer your name and stick out a hand. Bucky ignores this, staring past you in the direction of your trailer. You watch as his eyes narrow, like he’s weighing the honesty of your words.
“Look, I can pay you, if that hel—“
“Is it the little silver thing?” he cuts you off.
Your lips part. “Uh, yes. Yeah.”
Bucky grunts and turns back inside, shutting the door behind him. The shock of it leaves you frozen in place, reeling, until he reemerges as fast as he left, carrying a toolbox half the size of you; he holds it easily in one hand like it weighs nothing, but you can hear the stock of heavy tools clanking around inside.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, stepping past you. You struggle to keep up with him as he stalks toward your car, like a man on a mission that he’s already running late for. You sneak glances at him while trying not to trip on the cracked walking path, noting the faded scars on the back of his hands, the ticking jaw underneath his beard, and the very tip of a dark tattoo peaking out from beneath his collar. A feeling churns in your gut.
Everything about him screams rough. Rude. Even potentially dangerous — from his imposing figure, to his curt words, he seems like the furthest thing from what you would call ‘sweet.’
But regardless of Donna overselling his altruism, beggars can’t be choosers, and you’ll call him sweet all day long if it gets you to your interview on time.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when he sets the toolbox down next to your car. He nods at you.
“Try it again,” an order, not a request.
Your limbs twitch into action like a bee flew under your skirt. Sliding into the hot leather seat, you turn the key in the ignition and are met with the same low ticking noise from before. The lights flicker on your dashboard in protest.
“Terminal clamp.”
You jump, finding Bucky almost cheek-to-cheek with you while he leans through the open door. He’s close enough for you to smell dirt, sweat and something heavier on him.
“Shit,” you hiss in surprise, but he’s already pulling away and moving toward the front of the car.
“Pop it,” he calls out.
You exhale slowly and do as you’re told. Sweet, your ass. Bucky lifts the hood and locks it in place before bending over the hot engine, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.
You step out of the car, hovering near the door but craning your neck to watch. “Terminal clamp?” you repeat.
Bucky takes a moment to respond, long fingers moving deftly through the cables and wires and plugs and bolts. He unscrews something, and steam leaks out.
“On your battery,” he grunts. “The part that connects it to the wires. It’s rusted down. Look.”
He beckons with two oily fingers crooked in your direction. It’s borderline crass, and you find yourself hurrying over without argument. Bucky’s mouth is set into a hard line as he watches you gaze down at the engine, looking without really seeing.
“There,” he points impatiently to a black box near the front. Your eyes catch on the rust growing over the top of it.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he imitates you, high-pitched and sharp; your eyes snap back to him. He’s clearly not amused by your answer. “When was the last time you had your battery checked?”
“Haven’t had the time lately,” you answer, crossing your arms indignantly over your chest.
“Your daddy don’t check it for ya?” he prods, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans before opening his tool box. Irritation rears up inside fo you. Something about his tone, bitter and mocking, makes you think about hitting him over the head with one of his wrenches.
“My daddy hasn’t been sober enough to tell a battery from a brick since 2009,” you snap.
Bucky pauses while rifling through his tools, but only for a moment. “Batteries need replacin’ every four years. How old’s this one?”
You chew your lip, still thinking about the wrench. Bucky pulls out a small metal plate and a brand new cord, along with a screwdriver that looks like it’s seen better days. When he turns to you, his eyebrows lift expectantly.
“It’s…old,” you relent. Bucky snorts and leans over the car again.
“Define ‘old’ to me, princess.”
A zip of electricity runs down your spine at the pet name, angry and hot. “I don’t know,” you grumble. “It came with the car and I bought it five years ago. And don’t call me princess.”
A ghost of a smirk crosses his face. “Whatever you say, kid.”
You glare at him while he unscrews the rusted plate from the battery. Despite your growing frustration, and the nearing interview time, and the heat pressing down on you from all sides, you quickly become entranced with the way his hands move expertly with the replacement parts. It’s obvious he’s well-versed with the inside of a car.
“This will hold for a few days,” Bucky says, attaching the new cord to the engine. “But you need a new battery. Forget it, and you’ll be needin’ a new car. Am I makin’ myself clear?”
Something about the sternness in his voice creates a pressure on your chest that feels foreign and strange. “Yeah, new battery, got it,” you mumble.
He glances at you but says nothing, screwing in the clean plate. As he finishes up his work, you look back at your trailer, the paint on the front door peeling, the screens torn in most of the windows. You clear your throat. “Donna says you fix a lot of stuff for the folks around here,” you begin. Bucky makes a noise of acknowledgement. “You ever, uh…fix any showers?”
He pauses to look back at you, blue eyes sharp. “That a line?”
“What? No!” you sputter, cheeks on fire. “No, it’s — my shower pressure. It’s shit, it’s…not a pick up line. I’m askin’ if you can fix that, too.”
He grunts, satisfied with his finished product, and closes the hood with a snap. You step back, watching as he tosses the screw driver back into the box and wipes his hands on his jeans again. When he turns to you, his face is closed off, stoic.
“I’m busy,” he says, blunt and to the point. The rejection stings like a child daring to touch the point of a needle for the first time — sharp and surprising and oddly shameful. The embarrassment pulls your eyes away.
“But if I find some time, I’ll let you know.”
His gaze is steady and unreadable when you meet it again. You nod quickly.
“That’d be amazing,” you gush, hands clasped together, “thank you—“
“I haven’t even fixed it yet, save your thanks,” he cuts you off.
“Still,” you reply, taking a step toward him, “I’d owe ya big time. Oh, you’d be doin’ me a huge favor ‘cause I need all the help I can get on this place—“
“What’d I just say, kid?” He glares are you, hands on his hips. “Now go on before you start wastin’ any more of my time,” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the car. You hesitate with your hand on the door, the smile on your face flickering doubtfully.
“Is it…safe?” you ask slowly.
Bucky scowls, mean and dark. “Don’t insult me.”
That gets you scampering into the seat. You twist the key, and after a breathless moment, the engine roars to life, the vents blasting you with hot air, but air nonetheless. You let out a whoop and pat the steering wheel proudly, the hope creeping back in. When you look out the windshield, you see Bucky’s already packed up his tool box and is making his way back to his trailer.
“Hey!” You scramble out of the car. “Hey, wait!”
He doesn’t turn around, just lifts his free hand over his head.
“Thank you!” you call out. He doesn’t respond. You watch him as he rounds his truck and disappears into his home. Then your phone buzzes.
“Shit—“
You’re peeling out of the park in seconds, leaving behind a cloud of dust and two blue eyes that watch you go from the safety of his trailer.
You take the keys out of the ignition and lean back in your seat, the smile on your face still as big as it was when the owner announced you got the job. In that moment, it was like the sun had broken through the clouds after years of rain.
It isn’t anything special, just a serving job at one of the many roadside diners in this small town, but what it stands for is more than you’ve had most of your life. Independence, stability, roots — everything you’ve been chasing after for the last few years now finally within your reach. No longer are you relying on the kindness of so-called friends that kick you out when it becomes inconvenient for them, or the generosity of low-life boyfriends that expect indentured servitude for a bed to sleep in; no longer are you couch surfing your way down highway 70, wondering what your next meal is going to cost you, or if your mother will pick up the phone when you’re too low on cash for gas. Just by getting the job, by finding your own little place to call home, you’ve broken free of the chains that have held your pitiful family lineage captive for years.
That’s worth celebrating.
You grab the six pack off the passenger seat before climbing out of the car. Thankfully, the evening air is much cooler now, and settles gently on your skin. Crickets chirp their congratulations, the breeze pats your back, and the light left on inside your trailer welcomes you home.
You sigh as you take it in, a soft smile on your face. Just this morning, you found the peeling front door, weedy garden and crooked paneling daunting; now it looks like a project you want to dive headfirst into, an opportunity to create something beautiful out of nothing, much like your own life.
You’ve got one foot on the steps when the wind grabs your attention. The large oak tree in the middle of the trailer park groans as it shifts, and you glance back to watch the leaves sway in the dusk, shadowed and haunting in a strangely beautiful way, until your gaze catches on a patch of light just beyond it. The white trailer with the boots out front has its curtains open now, and you watch as a shadow passes across a window.
Bucky.
The pressure returns to your chest tenfold, the same as before. Because of him, you get to cheers to a new life with a cold beer on your ratty little couch, and he walked away without so much as a thank you…
You adjust your grip on the six pack when you make your decision, sudden but resolute, and you’re crossing the park before you can think twice about it. A reward is reaped better with others.
As you approach, the shadows in the windows become clearer; wide shoulders, strong arms, big hands that set a mug on a shelf. Your breath goes a little shallow remembering how he towered over you. Stepping up the path, you watch as he pauses in front of the window, as still as a deer in headlights. Your knuckles just meet the door when the light inside flicks off.
You blink, eyes darting back to the window. The trailer is now dark. You can’t see inside, can’t spot movement — it’s pitch black where his figure was, where he stopped in front of the window right as you walked up…
You knock anyway. The beer bottles are cold against the skin of your leg as you wait, condensation dripping down your ankle. But the light doesn’t turn back on and you don’t hear weight shifting over cheap flooring. The crickets that sounded so nice before start to mock you the longer you stand there. You count to ten before trying again, a light rap on the wood.
Nothing.
Your heart sinks before you can stop it, the feeling painful and confusing. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, cheeks blazing in the soft light of the moon, then set the six pack in front of his door.
Bucky’s lights do not turn on when you make it back to your trailer, and they’re still not on when you spare one last glance out the window. The beers sit untouched on his front step.
Embarrassment courses through you like a summer fever, hot and alive and consuming. It eats away at all of the previous joy from your new job, and that bothers you more than you care to admit.
With a shake of your head, as if to clear the feeling out, you toss the keys on the counter and move to your tiny bathroom to turn on the shower. The nozzle sputters twice before the bare minimum drizzles out. You’re reminded of how you asked Bucky to fix it, the cryptic response he gave you, and how you nearly melted in response — the heat floods back to your face.
You really wish you kept those beers.
When the dried sweat has been scrubbed from your skin, and you’ve pulled on the softest sleep clothes you own, your mind has officially moved from denial to bargaining.
Donna said Bucky works brutal hours — maybe he has a strict sleep schedule. Like he can’t function unless he gets a full eight hours. Maybe it’s a ‘no visitors, lights off by nine on weeknights’ kind of thing. That makes sense for a fully grown man to have…right?
The reasonings filter through your head long after you’ve crawled into bed, some more believable than others. Eventually you decide that you just caught him at a bad time, and that it had nothing to do with him possibly seeing you through the window.
You’ll run into Bucky and explain the beers left on his door step; he’ll explain that he was tired, or he was busy, or something else completely normal and valid, and whatever lingering feelings you have over the whole thing will dissolve into nothing. Maybe you’ll crack a joke, maybe he’ll actually smile. Maybe the ice breaks and you’ll have another neighbor to call a friend in this new home.
You tell yourself this over and over until your restless mind finally fades to black.
You rise with the sun the next morning for your first shift. Your head is pleasantly empty of last night’s internal discourse, and you take it as a good sign.
Breakfast is pitiful — coffee and toast — but you’re too nervous to fill your uneasy stomach with more. When you pull on your uniform and spin every which way in the cracked bathroom mirror, though, the nervousness begins to fade. The dress is threadbare and half a size too big, but the color compliments your skin and emphasizes how bright and giddy your eyes are, bringing a light to your face that you haven’t seen in years. That tattered hand-me-down is a beautiful gateway opening up to a better future, a real future. You already love it.
When it’s time to go, you step out into a quiet, windless morning that promises to be a scorcher later. As you toss your purse into the passenger seat, you hear the rumbling of an old engine approaching, growing louder by the second. A familiar brown truck with the windows rolled down pulls up to the exit, just a few yards from where you stand.
Bucky sits in the driver’s seat, sporting an off-white t-shirt and dark sunglasses. He adjusts the radio, touches the rearview mirror, and pushes his shades up his nose before glancing up. Even behind the tinted lenses, you know that he sees you, and your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. But you still manage a smile, lifting your hand in a small wave.
He stares at you, an immovable statue except for his fingers white-knuckling over the wheel. A moment passes that feels like both a millisecond and a lifetime. You wonder if you should say something. But before you can, he looks away, the truck roaring once more as he eases out of the lot and into the street like he never saw you.
You watch his taillights drop beyond the horizon, your stomach dropping with them. The blatant dismissal sinks in, heavy and cutting, and it brings back all of the embarrassment from the night before. You fight desperately against a few angry tears stinging your eyes, but the hum of your fully-functioning engine does nothing to drown out the ringing in your ears.
You’re not sure which is worse: him ignoring you, or your reaction to him ignoring you.
You’ve dealt with disregard your entire life. Your childhood is a treasure trove of disappointment and neglect, carelessness and chaos, all of it later contributing to your steel-thick skin and low expectations of others. So you’re not sure why a stranger is affecting you like this — and a surly, intimidating stranger at that.
But something about him actively choosing to pretend you don’t exist presses on a bruise you’ve had covered for years. It rattles you more than anything.
Hands shaking, you put the car into drive.
The journey to the diner passes in a blur as you kick yourself mentally for the weakness. Your biggest mistake is that you went to him when you were too vulnerable — you were practically cracked wide open with need, and all it took was a helping hand for him to slip past your usual defenses. Were the sharp edges and sharper tongue not obvious red flags? What is it about Bucky that made you assume so quickly that he would be your friend? You taught yourself much better than that.
Despite the evidence, at the root of you, you refuse to accept it. Bucky’s lack of reaction was completely out of sorts; you know he’s far from friendly, but to completely ignore you is crazy work. So crazy that it just doesn’t make sense. There has to be some explanation for it, other than the obvious.
But unlike last night, your brain draws a blank on reasons for his behavior.
By the time you make it to the diner, you’re determined to figure this out. You need to see him again, to create an opportunity for an olive branch, and to learn if he’ll take it.
You get your first chance less than a week later, when you’re headed toward the mailboxes before the sun’s fully risen. You see a hulking figure already in front of them that you recognize right away. Bucky’s distracted while rifling through his mail, looking disheveled but still undeniably handsome in the pink light; he even looks relaxed, for once, instead of his usual guarded attitude.
“Good morning,” you say, smiling as you open your mailbox.
He tenses as he turns your way, shoulders taut and face creased. His jaw works as he stares you down, like he’s considering words and biting back the harsher ones. But instead of saying what’s on his mind, he grunts, short and crude, before turning on his heel and walking away. Your eyes follow him as he returns to his trailer and slams the door shut. It scares a flock of birds out of a nearby tree.
You stand there with a hand on the mailbox, jaw agape. The message couldn’t be any clearer. But for some reason, you shut your mouth with a snap and stand straighter, determined. His petulant, teenage antics are not enough to get you to throw in the towel yet.
So you try harder. You learn that you both leave the park around the same time, and when his truck rumbles past you, you wave, even if he isn’t looking at you (in a very obvious way.) You don’t care. You still try. He never waves back or throws you any acknowledgment, although you would bet your life on him seeing you each time, and eventually he starts leaving earlier, truck already missing from its spot when you’re headed to your car.
On the few days you’re both not working, you often see him mowing his lawn, mending his fence or washing his truck, domestic things that may trick passerby into thinking he’s a normal, pleasant guy. You fall victim to it as well, even knowing what you know, and head over with the intention of trapping him in a conversation. But as soon as you get remotely close to Bucky’s property, he mysteriously disappears, leaving you to feel like you just saw a ghost rather than your very alive neighbor.
You still don’t give in, but he continues to make it harder. When your car pulls up next to his at a red light, he’s theoretically interested in the SUV in front of him. When you’re passing out day-old pies from the diner to the neighbors, he doesn’t answer the door even though you can hear the TV on inside. When you’re taking a stroll around the park and he’s headed your way, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.
Frustrating is the politest way you can describe him, but your mind can’t seem to take the hint.
Until the delusion crumbles when you least expect it. You’re bone-tired after your shift, and even your purse full of tips can’t ease the pain from your back. Pulled up to your trailer, you notice a group of three people slowly making their way across the park. One quick look tells you it’s the Markhams, stooped and gray-haired, shuffling down the pathway, and in between them is none other than Bucky, carrying a dozen grocery bags on each arm that you know aren’t his.
You watch as he leans down toward Mrs. Markham, listening to something she says, and your eyes go wide when he throws his head back in a laugh, pure joy lighting up his face. The sound creeps into your car, oozing warmth and light that is at odds with the Bucky you know. Mr. Markham adds a comment that gets him laughing harder, lines crinkling around his eyes, nose scrunching up in delight. You greedily take in this new side of him while your stomach roils with something bitter and nauseating.
So the sweet side of Bucky does exist. You’re watching it in real time as he helps his elderly neighbors with their groceries, chuckling in amusement as they banter back and forth. He holds the door open for them, too, even with his arms full, making sure they cross the threshold safely before letting the door fall shut behind him.
This must be the Bucky that Donna spoke about. The Bucky that everyone but you, apparently, gets to see.
The realization settles inside of you like an anvil dropping from the sky. So it’s just you that he doesn’t like. It’s just you that he can’t bear to be a neighbor to.
Occam’s Razor strikes again.
You move mechanically out of your car and into your home, your body carrying you through the motions while your brain twists itself up into a painful knot. You comb through everything you did and said that Sunday afternoon when he fixed your car; did you offend him? Did you push an unknown boundary? Did you ask for too much? Did you say too little? Were you too loud or too quiet? Too slow to thank him for his help?
Yes, you snapped a few times, but you only ever matched his energy, and everything about him implied that he can take as good as he gives. So what happened? What did you do? Why is your neighbor so unconcerned with whether you live or die?
Whatever the reason, it’s done its damage. Bucky wants nothing to do with you, and that seems to be the way it is.
Later that night, when sleep evades you, and you’ve tossed and turned for hours on end, a terrible loneliness creeps in for the first time since you arrived at the trailer park. It’s familiar in the worst way, reminding you of all the horrible people you met and all the shitty pit stops you made on your journey here. You thought you left that feeling behind — you thought wrong.
It follows you around for the next few days, leaving you hollow and numb. You’re on autopilot most of the time: you smile at customers and make conversation with the neighbors, you gossip with your coworkers and play with the children next door. But it’s constantly there in the back of your mind, like a memory you can’t erase, and when you’re alone in your little home, you feel it wrap around you like a straight jacket.
You’re lonely. And Bucky’s indifference toward you brought it front and center. For you, companionship had always been fleeting and one-sided, transactional at best. You’d had enough of it to the point that companionship was something you began to avoid, even when it promised a warm bed and a free meal. You thought a place to call your own and a means to support yourself were enough to keep the grass greener on your side. Now a stranger who sees nothing to gain by being your friend has reminded you that you’ve never had anyone in your life that wanted to be there just because.
The grass slowly withers away to a dry, lifeless brown.
You think you’re hiding it well, but Donna asks about it when July has rolled into a rainy August.
“How’ve you been, hun?” she says around her cigarette, pushing back one of the many hairs falling out of her clip. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been pickin’ up more shifts,” you reply automatically, pulling roughly on the broken piece of siding. Donna watches as you struggle with it, leaning against the far side of the trailer.
“You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave if you keep that up. You leave at dawn and don’t come back ‘til dusk seven days a week. Young thing like you needs time to herself.”
“I’m tryin’ to save up,” you grunt, snapping the siding in half. The part connected to your trailer swings down dejectedly. You look her way. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is fallin’ apart, and it takes money to put it back together.”
She hums, tapping the ashes from her cigarette. “Why don’t you just ask Bucky for help?”
You pause from picking up the broken pieces of siding in the grass. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t wanna bother him,” you grumble, avoiding her eyes.
“Oh, please — Bucky would be happy to help.”
“Are you sure about that?” A sudden hint of irritation in your tone. Donna stands up straighter.
“Whaddya mean?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “Something happen?”
You shake your head quickly. “No, there’s not — no. He just seems really busy, that’s all. No use askin’ for his time when he doesn’t have any.”
There’s a brief silence as Donna considers your words. “Something happened,” she repeats. You toss your head, eyes narrowing in her direction, but she keeps going. “Did he say no to fixin’ your car? Or was he mean? Like he’d rather be talkin’ to anybody but you?”
You let out an exhale, long and ragged, and debate answering truthfully.
“Well, yeah,” you admit, “but that ain’t nothin’ I’m not used to. He was actually—“ Your jaw clenches. “He was helpful. Ruder than hell — and bossy, but he got it fixed and told me to get a new battery and stuff. But ever since then…” You trail off, Donna waits. “It’s like he regrets doin’ it. I’ll see him walk by and his eyes pass over me like I’m not even there. I try startin’ a conversation and suddenly he’s got somewhere to be. He’s avoidin’ me, and I don’t know why. I’d be fine with it if I knew what it was, but I got no clue.” Knees in the grass, you watch as a caterpillar crawls over a leaf and onto a piece of siding; you pick it up carefully, watching as the insect runs circles over the plastic, nowhere to go, just as confused as you. “Why’s he like that?”
“Oh, hun,” Donna soothes quietly, stepping closer to your crouched position. “Is that what’s been botherin’ ya? Bucky not bein’ welcomin’?”
“Yes — I mean, no. That’s not what’s botherin’ me, it’s just — it’s hard to explain.” You set the caterpillar down and stand, brushing the dirt and grass from your knees. “And it’s a lot more than just not bein’ welcomin’. I could get hit by a semi right here on Pueblo Street and I don’t think he’d even blink.”
“Now I know that’s not true. What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, sugar?” Donna asks patiently, putting her cigarette out on the broken siding.
You watch the ashes drop to the ground, fragile, crumbling, and still smoking. Your eyes scan the park, naturally pausing over the white trailer with the curtains drawn and boots out front; there’s no truck outside, so he must be working. Yet the empty house still stings a little to look at.
“I thought that the job and movin’ here meant I figured everything out,” you mutter. “Instead an old man decidin’ he doesn’t like me for no reason reminded me that I’m still on my own. I’ve dealt with it my whole life, so I get along just fine by myself, but I’m only human. I still want someone to — to care about me.” You fight through the sudden lump in your throat.
“And Bucky doin’ you a favor brought that up,” Donna confirms. You nod reluctantly.
“Guess so. It was just nice to have someone care, even if he was grumpy as hell about it. Now he pretends I don’t exist and I keep rememberin’ all the times I thought I found someone who cared, only for them to just—“ You flick your hand like you’re waving off a bug, inconsequential yet inconvenient.
“Honey, we care.” Donna wraps an arm around your shoulders, warm and tight, holding you to her. “You got all of us now, and we watch out for each other.”
You open your mouth to point out that one of them does not, but she beats you to it.
“Bucky is a special case,” she sighs. You watch as she gazes at the white trailer, too. “It took him a while to come around to us. He was quiet, kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours…but eventually we wore him down. Kept inviting him in even when we knew he wouldn’t come. Kept offering our help even when we knew he wouldn’t take it. But then he did. I think Bucky was gone for a few days when a big storm came through — a tree fell and knocked out the left side of his trailer, crushed the roof. We got together and started patching it up just as he pulled in. Told us he could handle it but we wouldn’t take no for answer and did it with him anyway. He was real grateful, awfully sweet and apologetic, extra kind to everyone that helped out, but we told him it’s what we do for each other. After that, it was like living next door to a whole new person. I think he just needed to see that we cared for him no matter what, and that we’d be there for him even when things were tough.”
You huff, kicking the dirt at your feet. “Doesn’t explain why he’s got a problem with me. What’s his deal?”
Donna’s hesitant to answer, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it thoughtfully. When there’s a cloud of smoke in the air between you, she says slowly, “He did some time at the state pen.”
Your eyes snap to her, but she shakes her head a little.
“He hasn’t said much, but from what I gathered, Bucky lost more than just his freedom when they handed him his sentence. Family don’t bother with him anymore, told him as much when he was paroled, and he had no choice but to make do alone somewhere else. That can mess a person up, make them suspicious of others, make them think bein’ alone’s the only way to go about this life.” She looks at you then, a soft smile on her lips. “Sounds like someone else I know.” Her words feel like a sucker punch to your gut, but she waves a hand at you. “That’s all I’ve got, though, so if you’re curious about it, you’ll need to ask him.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, replaying the story, picturing Bucky in an orange jumpsuit behind bars. For some reason, the image seems wrong, but your curiosity begins to burn.
“I doubt I’ll get the chance,” you mumble.
“Give it some time,” Donna chirps. “He’ll come around. But you—“ She wraps a thin hand around your wrist, squeezing with intention. “—next time you’re feelin’ a little too sorry for yourself, you come find me. By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna be beggin’ for some alone time.”
A smile reluctantly breaks across your face, the first genuine one in weeks. “Sure, Donna. Thanks.”
You’d think your talk with Donna would help ease Bucky Barnes from your head, but it seems to have the opposite affect.
While your cocktail of emotions towards him has been watered down by Donna’s story, the urge to understand him is stronger than ever.
You still see him occasionally, driving past in his truck, stalking toward the mailbox, trudging around his yard; you pick up where you left off with your routine, waving and smiling and wishing him a good morning even when he’s already halfway across the park. Nothing changes in his attitude toward you, but it only makes you more curious.
Between grueling ten-hour shifts at the diner, you capitalize on a specific tidbit you learned from Donna, how the neighbors’ generosity got Bucky to crack. You know you have better things to do than trying to win over someone who doesn’t want to be won over, but your stubbornness has always gotten the best of you in your weaker moments.
You choose to act when he isn’t home, aiming to lessen the pressure instead of amping it up. You spend an entire day baking ten dozen cookies for the neighbors and make sure to leave a few at his door with a note to come by if he wants more (he doesn’t). You suffer through sunburn and dehydration while sweeping the entire walking path around the park, paying special attention to Bucky’s portion so that the dust doesn’t settle over his boots. You sprint through a downpour to pull his clothes off the line, covering your trailer in his shirts and jeans and — gulp — underwear to air dry before folding them up carefully and delivering them to his front step in your laundry basket once the sky’s cleared up.
It’s waiting for you outside your door the next morning as you’re leaving for work. No note, no sign of a thanks. You blink when you see it, wondering how he knew it was your laundry basket in the first place.
Still, nothing changes. You try really hard not to obsess over it. And life moves on as usual.
One Friday afternoon, you find yourself sitting in a cheap folding chair next to a handful of your neighbors; they caught you after a slow shift when your social battery hadn’t dropped below empty yet, calling you over with wide smiles like they’ve been waiting hours for you to show. The group is converged in a circle next to the oak tree, passing around beer and flasks of whiskey and shooting the shit. You’ve made quick friends with the girl two trailers down, Wanda, who isn’t much older than you but has a lightness to her that feels like a breath of fresh air. Her husband, who she calls Viz, sits with his arm draped around her shoulders and a look on his face like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. They ask you how you’re liking the park, how the repairs to your trailer are coming along, how your job is going. You feel a deep sense of gratitude forming the more you speak with them.
Neighbors filter in and out of the group like clockwork as the afternoon sun fades into the evening sunset. If they can’t stop for a drink, they still join in on the conversation, gossiping and commenting on the goings-on in town, or stirring up good-natured trouble before resuming their chores — Donna comes by to threaten you all with the hose if you don’t pick up after yourselves. You’re convinced you’ve met everyone in the park by this point, and you’ll need to make a list to get their names straight, but they all have one thing in common: they’re all pleased that you’re here.
The beer eventually begins to dwindle, but spirits are still high in the circle. Wanda’s in the middle of telling a story about a squirrel that got into the Markhams’ trailer when you hear the deep rumbling of an engine in the distance. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice it, but you know that sound anywhere. Sure enough, Bucky’s brown truck comes up the hill and pulls into the park as Wanda’s imitating Mrs. Markham’s screams from her standoff with the intruder. While the rest of the group roars with laughter, you watch as Bucky parks the truck in front of his trailer and steps out. That’s when Wanda spots him, too.
“Hey, Buck!” she calls out, hands cupped around her mouth.
Bucky turns toward the group, his eyes sweeping across the faces. You swear they pause on you for a half a heartbeat.
“Come join us! We’ve got beer!” Wanda shouts, waving a hand over her head. A few others in the circle add their agreement, ushering him over and shaking their flasks. Bucky stares for another moment, as still as the trees behind him, before turning around without a word and heading for his trailer. The door shuts with a slam. A few grumbles go up around you, but Wanda just shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “Eh, if I got off work early, I’d probably want some peace and quiet, too.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, a sense of unease tainting the picturesque scene around you. “Does he…do that often?” you ask as casually as you can.
“Get off work early? Never. He works more than anyone I know—“
“No, I mean…” your finger points vaguely in the direction of the white trailer, “does he usually just ignore you when you ask him to hang out?”
She tilts her head, lips curving. “No, he’s usually at these things when he isn’t workin’. But if he’s home already, it probably means he threw out his back or somethin’. I know Steve threatens to fire him if he doesn’t go home and rest when that happens. Leave it to Bucky to take an order that seriously.” She laughs. “I swear those two were soldiers in a past life.”
You nod, your mind already dissecting the new information. He didn’t look like he was hurt…but you remember his eyes resting on you for a beat too long. The beer and whiskey combo in your stomach churns.
You fidget with your drink for the next half hour, barely hearing the conversations around you. An uncomfortable feeling has settled in your chest, tight and anxious, and your racing thoughts do nothing to help it. Finally, you can’t take it anymore, feeling restless and in pursuit of answers. You excuse yourself and head for your trailer, but when you’re far enough from the group, you take the long way around the park to Bucky’s, your heartbeat growing louder with each step.
You knock on the door before you can convince yourself otherwise, listening to the laughter of the circle as you wait. There’s a shuffling on the other side, then a soft grunt, and the door swings open.
Your lips part.
Bucky stands before you in nothing but his blue jeans. Your eyes jump to the wide expanse of his chest, the hard muscles of his abs. A smattering of dark chest hair tapers off down his stomach and disappears into his pants, right below his belt buckle. You forget how to breathe.
He stares down at you while bringing a beer bottle to his mouth and taking a hard swig. A drop of condensation lands on the dip between his collarbones, and your tongue subconsciously darts out to wet your lips. He shifts his weight to lean against the door frame, expression neutral. “What do you want?”
You realize you look like a fish out of water and shut your mouth with a snap, swallowing thickly as you feel an unwarranted heat bloom in your gut.
“Um,” you start, silently cursing the way your voice shakes. “Not sure if you heard Wanda, but we — uh, we were wonderin’ if you wanted to join us. Patrick’s doin’ a run to the liquor store so there’ll be plenty of beer soon. Or we still have some whiskey. Unless you’ve got plans…” you trail off, eyes flicking to his shirtless chest.
Bucky’s face doesn’t change. “Don’t have plans.”
“Then you should drink with us.”
“Not interested.” You blink.
“…why not?”
He shrugs.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company.” He takes another quick sip from his bottle. Your eyes catch on the label and recognize it immediately from your own preferences; when you look back at Bucky, you find him watching you closely, blue eyes hard and unapologetic. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a strange feeling buzzing beneath your skin. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the undeniable thrill of seeing him shirtless, but you feel close to exploding.
“Don’t feel like drinkin’ with company, or don’t feel like drinkin’ with me?” you say quietly, eyes ghosting over his frame.
A look crosses his face, something close to bewildered, before he hides it behind his usual expressionless mask. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
You flash him a tight-lipped smile though far from amused. “Sure, like you don’t know.”
“Kid, I don’t have a clue,” he grumbles, though the hand holding the beer bottle twitches.
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” you snap before you can stop yourself, a dangerous flush running through your body, “you know exactly what you’re doin’. What you’ve been doin’ for the last month. Avoidin’ me like I’m the tax man and you’ve got a debt to pay. You don’t like me? Fine. No problem. I don’t need you to be my friend. But I won’t put up with you actin’ like I don’t exist in front of everyone else anymore, and if you keep doin’ it, I’ll make your sad, lonely, little life hell. So just stay away from me and I’ll stay away from you. Got it?”
Your words hang between you for a sour moment, and not even the cheerful sounds of the group can cut through the tension. Your chest heaves as you scowl at Bucky; he scowls right back, though you notice that the tips of his ears have gone a rosy shade of red and his grip on the beer bottle looks close to destructive. Your eyes scan his hardened face one last time before you turn on your heel and kick up a cloud of dust behind you as you march back to your trailer. This time, you slam the door.
Inside the trailer, the urge to throw something, anything, is too strong to ignore. Your vision zeroes in on the laundry basket Bucky returned a few days ago, and you lunge. Taking the cheap plastic in your hands, you hurl it against the floor with all of your strength, gritting your teeth while biting back a scream, watching as it breaks into a hundred different pieces with concerning ease on your linoleum floors. What follows is a silence so bitter, you can taste it in your mouth.
Your temper slowly fizzles out as you absorb the mess you made. You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have let him get to you again. Now you’ve got a room full of shame and no laundry basket.
Exhaling heavily, you run a hand through your hair while peeking out the window to see if the circle of neighbors heard your crash out. Nobody’s looking your way, thankfully — instead, they’re cheering on Patrick as he emerges from his car with two new cases of beer. A pang of longing hits your chest, but you know you can’t go back out there now, not after this. So you resign yourself to picking up the remains of your laundry basket, piece by piece on your hands and knees until they ache from the pressure and you’ve cut your fingers on the jagged edges.
Later, when you’re nursing a small hangover with a cup of tea and an ice pack on your head, you wait for the regret to sink in over the heated words you threw at Bucky. But, strangely, it doesn’t. Now that the buzz from the alcohol and the leftover anger have vacated your body, you’re left with an odd sense of calm about it.
Sure, you got something off your chest that’s been weighing you down for weeks, but you had truly convinced yourself that you were optimistic over the Bucky situation. You had been foolishly hopeful that you could get through to him. Your outburst said differently. You should feel embarrassed, defeated, tired, but instead you feel…good. You handled it, just like you’ve handled every other hurdle in your life. Maybe not gracefully, but grace has never been your forte, and you don’t really mind.
You only wish that Bucky had shown some sort of reaction to being called out, a protest, a sigh, anything — but the man is as expressive as a bucket of cement. Knowing him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t listen to half the things you said. He probably thought the whole thing was a waste of time, something to forget about as soon as he shut the door…
Doesn’t matter. You’re not going to lose sleep over your emotionally repressed neighbor anymore. You’re not going to spend another second thinking about him.
This turns out to be easier said than done.
You get to enjoy a peaceful week without seeing or thinking about Bucky, until Sunday rolls around. You’re doing laundry, which proves to be harder than usual without a laundry basket, leaving you to juggle armfuls of clothes while trekking back and forth between the park’s shared washing machines and your trailer. While the last of your wardrobe dries on the line outside, you’re moving around your little home in a faded pink tank top and an old pair of some ex’s boxers. The radio plays rock classics while you prep dinner, and you hum along as you man the stove and chop vegetables.
Then a knock interrupts.
You set down the knife and glance out the window, but whoever’s outside is hovering next to the door out of sight. You think it’s Donna, coming by with eggs after she borrowed some from you the other day, but when you open the door, you’re downright shocked to find who’s on the other side.
Bucky stands with one hand against your door frame, the other holding his toolbox, dressed in dirty jeans and a plain black t-shirt that hugs his body in an ungodly attractive way. You take a step back in surprise when his eyes find yours. They’re bright, but guarded. He nods at you.
“You said your shower’s broken,” he says in greeting, voice low like he doesn’t want to be overheard.
Your mouth falls open. “Huh?”
His lips press together in an impatient line. “Your shower. You asked me to take a look at it the other day.”
Your mind feels like an old computer you had to reboot to get working again. You blink at him as it comes back to you.
“Yeah,” you answer slowly, “but that was before.”
He huffs, looking over his shoulder at the park behind him. “You want your shower fixed or not? I got things to do today.”
“Then go do ‘em.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying your best to look down your nose at him while being completely submerged in his shadow.
“Don’t be stupid,” is his retort, “I’m offerin’ you help.”
“Don’t need it. And don’t call me stupid,” you snap.
“You gonna fix the shower yourself?” Bucky challenges, tilting his head at you. You feel heat rush to your cheeks as his eyes sweep up and down your figure, taking in your thin tank top and rolled up boxers.
“Maybe,” you throw at him, though it lacks the previous bite. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up.
“Then at least let me watch.”
Your spine locks as a jolt of something new and strange spreads through your body. Your brain decides now is a good time to remember just how attractive he is beneath the oil and dirt and rough demeanor — especially when shirtless.
“That’s — I don’t — you—“ stammers out of your mouth. Bucky responds by pushing past you into your trailer. You stumble into your couch, still struggling for words as he fills your little kitchen with his wide shoulders and long legs, his hair nearly brushing the ceiling. He sets the toolbox down on your table, briefly glancing at your half-made dinner.
“Smells good.”
His gruff tone is a sharp contrast to his casual words. You shake your head, though you feel like you could use a solid smack to the face. “Do you normally go around bargin’ into your neighbors homes?” you ask, slightly breathless. He looks at you, amused.
“When the neighbors are bein’ dumb, yeah. This the bathroom?” He points to the pocket door on his left.
“I told you not to call me—“
“Stupid, I know. I didn’t call you stupid, though.”
Your jaw clenches hard enough to hurt, watching as Bucky pulls open the bathroom door and squeezes into the tiny room like it’s his house. The sound of the shower turning on comes a second later.
“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” you grit through your teeth. “You got a hearing problem, old man?”
From the bathroom, Bucky chuckles, soft and deep. “Old man,” he mutters to himself before shutting the water off and reappearing, eyes pinning you in place. “I can hear just fine. Heard all of your cute little temper tantrum the other day.“
Your entire body flushes against its will. ”Then why are you here?” you demand. Bucky begins rifling through his toolbox.
“You asked me to fix your shower.”
“Yeah, a month ago,” you scoff. “And before I knew how big of an ass you are.” Bucky’s mouth does that half-smile again as he picks up a wrench. It might be the same one you imagined hitting him over the head with.
“That ain’t very nice,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to you. “You hardly know me.”
Your lip curls. “And you don’t know me, but you already decided I wasn’t worth your time.”
He exhales heavily, swapping the wrench for another one and weighing it in his hands. “This again?” But before you can let out the blood-curdling scream that’s been building up inside of you, he sets down the tool and turns your way, shoulders set and face stony. “Look, if I hurt your feelins by not takin’ your invite, then that’s on you. It ain’t personal, neighborhood bondin’s not really my thing as you could probably tell—“
“Unbelievable,” you mutter bitterly, shaking your head. “First of all, I know you’re lyin’ — Wanda said you’re always around when somethin’ is goin’ on. Second, you’re completely missin’ my point.”
“I was gettin’ to it,” he says louder, pointing a sharp finger at you. “But it seems you have a habit of jumpin’ to conclusions before hearin’ a person out.”
“Hearin’ a person out!” you cry, throwing your hands up; the sarcasm drips thick into your tone. “When would I ever be able to hear you out when you walk the other way when you see me comin’?”
He levels you with a hard look, blue eyes burning into yours. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, unwelcome and distracting, but you hold your ground.
“I don’t do friends,” he grunts, “I’m not good at bein’ one and I’m too busy for ‘em anyway. Fixin’ your car that day, I could tell that’s what you were lookin’ for, and I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea in your head.”
You laugh, dry and harsh. “Well, you certainly got your point across, Bucky.” His hand twitches, a quick clench and unclench of fingers; you observe it coolly, eyebrow cocked. “You know, for a guy who “doesn’t do friends,” there are a lot of people in this park who think you do.”
“That’s different,” he’s quick to say, brushing it off, “I’ve known ‘em for years. Thin line between familiar and friends, not my fault if they pick one and I pick the other.”
You scoff.
“Sure, okay. So what happens in, say, five years — when I’m still livin’ across the park from ya?” you ask, taking a bold step forward. “Will I get grandfathered in to your half-assed friendship, or will we still be goin’ at it like this? ‘cause I’m startin’ to think it’s less about you bein’ anti-friends, and more about you not likin’ me.”
“You won’t be here in five years,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “This place ain’t anythin’ more than a pit stop on your way to somethin’ else. You’re young — real young — still got most of your life ahead of you, some great, big future out there somewhere, but it ain’t here. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends.”
With an inaudible crack, something shifts inside your chest, something heavy and painful as memories of your past flood your thoughts, ruthless and relentless in their intention to hurt. You pull your arms in close to your body, feeling goosebumps on your skin.
“You don’t know anythin’ about me and my future,” you tell him quietly. He shrugs.
“Maybe not, but I know restless when I see it. And I know grit. You’ll want something better eventually, and you’ll go after it.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You look everywhere but him, unwilling to show him just how much his words got to you, but he keeps his eyes steadily on you, unblinking, unwavering, like he’s finally noticed you for the first time and needs to learn everything he can about you in this very moment. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his thick hair and frowning at the floor.
“But…I think maybe I was…doin’ too much. I didn’t see it that way before, but I do now,” he says, still gruff, but softer now. “Lemme fix your shower. To say sorry for bein’…for bein’ an ass. I know what it’s like to be ignored…and I should’ve realized how things might’ve come across to ya.”
You exhale shakily. So, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be friends. You look away, struggling to separate the sting of his words from the peace offering in front of you.
“Alright,” you relent, packing up the pain and setting it aside. He nods before picking through his toolbox again. You shift your weight, feeling awkward and out of place in your own home. Clearing your throat, you bravely add, “Does this mean I can expect a wave in the mornings?”
Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat that could pass for a laugh. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself now. Just because I’m sayin’ sorry doesn’t mean I take back what I said about bein’ friends.”
“Yeah. You’re a grumpy old man who likes to be alone. Got it.”
He tosses you a look over his shoulder, equal parts irritated and amused, while you bite your lip to stop yourself from acting on the hurt simmering inside of you. As the fight in you deflates, you take a few careful steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bucky sorts through a handful of knuts and screws. “So…” you start, searching for a stop to the thoughts inside your head, “what’d you end up doin’ that night?”
“What night?” Bucky grunts.
“The night we were drinkin’.”
He hums, pocketing the screws and picking up a screwdriver. “Finished up a couple projects,” he says slowly. “Got some chores done.”
“Really,” you state, brows furrowed. “Didn’t look like you were up to anythin’.”
He looks at you then and his eyes are unreadable. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you answered the door without a shirt. And you were drinkin’ a beer. The beer I left at your door when you were too scared to answer it, by the way.”
Bucky snorts. “You askin’ for a thanks? I had my head under car hoods all day. I think I deserved a cold drink.”
He turns for the bathroom again; this time, you follow, hovering in the doorway as he starts loosening the shower head from the pipe. “Do you always answer your door halfway to nude, or did I just get lucky that day?”
Bucky laughs, really, truly laughs. Whatever burdened expression you were wearing is wiped clean off your face as you bask in the sound of it.
“It’s called laundry, sweetheart. I smelled like a wet dog on an oil rig after workin’ twelve hours in the heat, and I didn’t care to sit in it any longer.”
“Still,” you mutter, watching as he catches the unattached shower head before it drops to the ground, “you could’ve put on a shirt before greetin’ me like that.”
“Like you’re much better,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at you; again, his eyes rake up and down shamelessly, but this time it feels more concentrated, observant. The blue looks a shade darker than before. You gape at him.
“It’s — well, I’m just—“
“Doin’ laundry?” Bucky supplies quietly. You snap out of it when he turns back to the shower, pulling out his screwdriver.
“Whatever,” you grumble, feeling hot, “just let me know when you’re done.”
You leave him in the bathroom to pick up where you left off chopping vegetables. You should probably have a clearer head when handling a knife, but you’re too riled up to sit still and wait for him to finish. What was that look about? He says he doesn’t want to be your friend, then he stares at you like you’ve got something he wants. Is he waiting for you to snap at him again, or is it something else?
You’re silent while you work, just the radio and the sounds of Bucky working on your shower filling the trailer. Every now and then you’ll hear the water run, or a hushed curse under his breath. You’re just turning off the heat on the stove when he steps out of your bathroom and puts his tools away.
“Pressure’s fine now,” he tells you, snapping the toolbox shut. You turn to him, hands on your hips.
“Mind if I check?” Another half-smile from him as he gestures for you to go ahead. You shuffle past him, brushing his shoulder as you go. You’re shocked to feel how warm he runs, almost hot to the touch; your cool skin begs you to step closer. In the bathroom, you turn the handle and are pleasantly surprised to see water shoot out at a mostly normal rate.
“Nice work,” you call out before turning it off. Bucky’s waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the table with his arms crossed and a curious look on his face. “What?” you can’t help but ask, stopping in your tracks.
For the first time since meeting him, Bucky looks slightly put off, like a thought’s crossed his mind that he’s wondering if he should voice aloud. “Are you—“ He clears his throat. “Where were you before this?”
You blink. You haven’t heard that question in a while. “La Junta. But I grew up in Dodge City.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Got family there?”
“Maybe,” you shrug. “Couldn’t tell you where my daddy is. Mom’s got a new boyfriend, don’t know if they moved.”
“What about you? You got a boyfriend?” he murmurs, examining his dirty hands.
“I wouldn’t be askin’ you for help if I did,” you answer, blinking, and you turn back to your food to hide the heat crawling up your face. Bucky hums. Then, to your immense surprise, you hear him ease himself into the tiny chair at your table.
“So you’re on your own,” he comments, as if what he did wasn’t completely at odds with your earlier conversation.
Your shoulders tense instinctively. Well, isn’t this just ironic? The man who made you feel lonely wants to know how lonely you are.
“Could say that,” you respond slowly, “but Donna and the others have been real welcoming. They say the door’s always open.”
You hope he catches the barb in your words, the subtle call out, but Bucky just sighs. “Yeah, they’re like that. Would give you the clothes off their back in the middle of a snowstorm if you needed it. Good people — too good, sometimes.”
“Nobody can be too good,” you say, eyeing him over your shoulder. “I think the world could use a few more people like them.” He meets your gaze before dragging it down your figure again, but it’s softer this time, less analytical and not necessarily uncomfortable. You quickly turn back to the stove. “Didn’t take you as the type to chit chat,” you quip.
“Oh, am I bein’ too friendly now?”
“I thought you got things to do today.”
“I do,” he grunts. “I’ll get to them.”
It hits you suddenly that you’re not sure if you want Bucky to leave yet. When you chance another glance at him, you’re struck with how comfortable he looks sitting there. His broad frame takes up a whole side of the table, and he’s slouched down just enough in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he owns the place, like he knows the inside of your trailer well, like he’s familiar with the way you move around the kitchen.
A teasing smile makes its way onto your face. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re lookin’ for a friend to pass time with—“
“Don’t be difficult,” he mutters, head tilted as he crosses his arms; his biceps bulge, the golden skin stretching like an invitation for you to touch, taste, bite—
“You sure like givin’ orders, huh?” you remark, matching his stance. Those blue eyes find yours and don’t let go.
“Only when it’s needed,” he says, voice lowering to a pitch that could rumble the floors beneath your bare feet. To your chagrin, it goes straight to your gut, settling there with a deep heat that awakens something inside of you. You scramble to push it down, afraid of the truth showing plainly on your face.
“Bossy,” you mutter under your breath, looking away. Bucky chuckles, somehow making it worse.
“Somethin’ tells me you don’t do well listenin’ to others.”
Your hand tightens over the plate you’re pulling from the cupboard. “Yeah, well. Most people tell you to do things ‘cause it’s better for them, not for you.”
He hums. “You listened pretty well to me.”
Your cheeks flush. “Judgment error,” you mumble.
“Did you get the new battery like I told you to?”
“Uh…” You have the grace to look sheepish because, truthfully, you forgot. You close your mouth before telling him that if he hadn’t completely derailed all of your rational thinking with his avoidant behavior, you’d have remembered.
“I stand corrected,” he mutters, pushing out his chair. Bucky only needs to take two steps until he’s looming over you, pulling out a card from his back pocket. He takes your hand in his and places the card there before his fingers slide to your wrist, gripping tight. “Rogers’ garage on Miner Street. I want you in there this week for a battery change. Unless you’re tryin’ to blow that hunk of junk up.”
You gulp, looking down at where he’s holding you. “I have work,” you whisper.
“After work, then. I’ll be there.” He searches your face, waiting for your confirmation. You nod, but he doesn’t let go. A moment passes where it’s just the two of you breathing along to the soft melody of the radio.
“You’re helping me again,” you blurt. His fingers dig a little deeper into your flesh.
“And?”
You take a steadying breath, your brain picking through your words carefully. “Awfully friend-like, if you ask me—“
Bucky groans, pulling away and leaving sparks along your skin. He picks up his toolbox, giving you a quick glance. He looks like he’s about to say something, and you find yourself desperately wanting to know what it is. But he seems to think better of it and makes for the door, opening it up to the heat of the August evening. His eyes meet yours one last time. “Enjoy your dinner.”
He’s a step out of your trailer when you call his name. He stops immediately, looking over his shoulder. “Thank you,” you say in a rush. “For fixin’ the shower.”
A pause, then, “No problem, kid.” The door swings shut. Through the window you see him traipse across the park and to his truck where he tosses the toolbox into the back, then he disappears into his home. Whatever things he had to do seem to be forgotten. Or nonexistent. A smile curls across your face before you can stop it.
The following weeks feel like a fever dream compared to the last month. You find yourself face-to-face with Bucky a number of times, some by coincidence, some by design.
A quick nod as he drives past you in the morning turns into a quick conversation at the mailbox the next day. It’s mostly you talking, but he stands there nonetheless, listening quietly to your unprovoked story of a difficult customer from the other week. Following that, you bump into him on a walk around the park with Wanda, where he manages to crack a smile when you recount how the little kid next door ran you over with his bike earlier that morning. He makes you promise to treat the patch of road rash on your thigh with rubbing alcohol, warning against infection and causing you to blush like a school girl being told off.
A storm rips through the town later that week, ripping off shingles and felling trees, making the lights flicker uncertainly from time to time as the wind batters the side of your trailer. After the worst of it’s passed, you step outside to assess the damage; you think it’s superficial, nothing that threatens the structural integrity of the outbuilding, but you don’t know the first thing about evaluating storm damage.
Luckily, Bucky materializes out of nowhere like he could read your mind from across the park, offering to check for leaks and punctures that could lead to greater troubles down the road. He claims he does it for all of the neighbors, waving off your word vomit of gratitude with a huff and a scowl, but once again, he either forgets about the others, or those intentions never existed, because when he’s finished fortifying your trailer, he sends you a small salute before crossing the park and disappearing back into his home.
A few days later, you find yourself at the mailboxes with Bucky after he came up behind you with a muttered, “mornin’”, and now he’s listening to you talk about your boss’ erratic revamp of the menu. You manage to pull from him that he’s partial to the danish pastries your diner sells, so you knock on his door later that night with a bag full of them and a smile on your face, watching as the tips of his ears glow bright red when you hand them over. He thanks you in that gruff way of his that doesn’t sound grateful at all, but it’s enough for you.
But to your shock, he repays the favor the next evening.
You’re curled up on the couch with a book, listening to the weak clicks of the AC unit in your window, when you feel your trailer give a sudden lurch. Your glass of water topples off the side table, your basil plant spills into the sink. You’re questioning the probability of earthquakes when it happens again — this time more powerful than the last.
When you open your door, the last thing you’re expecting is Bucky — shirtless again — using a hammer to extract the rotting pieces from the walls of your trailer. You call him crazy — it’s ten o’clock at night and he’s just finished a fourteen-hour shift, after all — but he just grunts and tells you that they were an eyesore, that he was getting too impatient not to do something about them. You’d be offended if your body wasn’t humming with a pleased rush of adrenaline from his attention, however workaround it may be.
You spend the remainder of the evening watching from your open door as he fixes up your little home. Despite the cooler night air, he still gleams with sweat from the effort, and you learn to appreciate this quickly; he looks like trouble and heaven wrapped up in the likeness of God’s surliest angel. By no means are you religious, but all other explanations for how a man that looks like that winds up in your yard seem to defy natural laws. Watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he tears the siding off its hinges, you’re convinced a higher power had to have intervened for this moment to happen.
You’re all too eager to offer him a beer when he finally finishes. He takes it before sitting down wordlessly next to you on your stoop. Then it’s silent except for the crickets and the bullfrogs, but you find it peaceful rather than charged like it usually is between you.
Up close, the tattoo that once teased you that fateful day that you met is on full display. It’s an intricate piece that extends across his back from shoulder to shoulder; black ink curls around three names written in elegant calligraphy: James, Winnifred, and Rebecca. The longer you stare at it, the more your fingers itch with the need to touch it, to trace the whorls from point to point.
You take a large sip of beer for courage.
“What’s this?” you murmur, the tip of your pinky barely grazing the ‘a’ at the end of Rebecca. You feel Bucky tense up beneath your touch, and you know right away that you’ve crossed a line, possibly tearing down what little you’ve built since he fixed your shower. You wait for the blow to come, for the other shoe to drop, for him to stand and leave you all alone in the dark.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Bucky slowly relaxes, muscle by muscle. “My family. I don’t…see them much anymore.”
You let that sink in for a moment. “So you’re on your own,” you comment, using his words.
Bucky hears this and turns, unleashing the full force of those big blue eyes on you. Something flashes across them, and it could be anything: pain, recognition, anger, validation. All real emotions for a situation you’re only too familiar with.
“Yeah,” he finally mutters, looking down. Your gut twists.
Just from that one little word, you could glean all of the history behind him, the past that’s riddled with regret and hurt, and you push against the sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. Too much too soon for begrudging acquaintances. You settle instead for soft words in the form of a distraction.
“Well, except for Donna. She doesn’t know how to leave anyone alone.”
Bucky gives a half shrug, sipping on his beer. “You’re not wrong.”
“Y’know, everyone here kind of adores you.”
“I doubt that.”
“You should hear Donna talk about ya.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up as he glances at you. “That bad, huh?”
“She says you’re the sweetest guy,” you share with him conspiratorially. “That you help out a lot, actually. And that you’re quiet, but you’re really kind when you wanna be—“
“Alright, I get it,” he mutters, eyes scanning the park. “Easy to believe the lie when she says it like that.”
There isn’t any venom to his words, just a simple statement around a beer bottle. You tear your eyes away from watching his neck extend on a swallow, dazedly finding the oak tree. “I know it’s not a lie,” you say, picking at the peeling label of your drink. “I saw you the other day, helpin’ out the Markhams. All of you were laughin’, too. It was…sweet.”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment. He leans back until his forearms rest against the step behind him, stretching out his long torso like he’s asking you to count all six abdominals. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters darkly, and it sounds like a threat more than anything, but the little pout on his face negates whatever abrasiveness he was hoping for. It makes you giggle.
“Uh-huh, sure. I know a big softie when I see one.”
He rolls his eyes before taking a sip of his drink. “Believe what you want, kid, but I’m not the type to give flowers or sweet nothins.”
Your attention sharpens at his words, a spike of curiosity jetting through your bloodstream. “How else do you woo your woman then?” you tease, just enough to hide the neediness in your voice, the urge to know the answer.
Bucky turns to you, brows furrowed. Then — so quick, you almost miss it — his eyes dart to your mouth and back. The wind shifts, your fingers tingle, Bucky pushes up so that he’s brushing shoulders with you again; you feel like they’re fused together by some invisible, magical weld. He stares straight ahead, elbows on his knees, thumb running circles around the rim of the beer bottle. “Don’t have one,” he mutters.
You blink.
“Really?” His face twists into a scowl. “Huh. Guess it’s hard to believe a good lookin’ guy like you doesn’t have a few crawlin’ all over him. Unless it’s by choice.”
Bucky frowns impossibly deeper, it’s almost laughable. “Why would it be by choice?”
“Because apparently you can barely handle havin’ a friend, or so you say,” you point out.
“Doesn’t mean I’m a fuckin’ loner,” he grumbles. “I just don’t…get out that much.”
“I bet you’d do pretty well for yourself if you did, sittin’ all alone on a barstool with the sad guy look you got goin’ on.”
“I got what?”
“Y’know,” you start with a grin, “the sad guy look. When you’re all mysterious and unavailable. Add in broody, quiet and stares a lot, women will think it’s hot.”
Bucky goes so still, even his thumb pauses.
“Oh, yeah?” he asks quietly, looking very thoughtfully at the oak tree. “Is it doin’ somethin’ for you, kid?”
The smile flickers off your face. Oh. Oh no.
“Uh…”
He eyes you sideways, and you know you’re as red as a stop sign. You gave yourself away before you could even go on the defense. You take a big sip to buy you time, but he’s there and leaning into the spot where you skin touches, and all the sudden your thoughts explode in a hundred different directions, because why is he still staring at you, and why is he actively getting closer, and why, for the love of all that’s good and holy, does he still not have a shirt on?
You think he’s never paid closer attention to you before now, and he’s destined to see through your lie when your face is there to direct him to the truth. So you gamble on a half truth.
“I think it’s a pretty universal thing to be attracted to,” you say with a shrug, giving a mediocre performance on playing it cool. He hums.
“But do you like it?” Bucky presses softly, and your stomach drops into a flip. The wind shifts again, and this time, you can feel something mysteriously close to electricity buzzing back and forth between your skin and his. Why does he care? you ask yourself, as if you know the answer.
“I…” your voice wobbles traitorously, but you know there’s no way out of it now, so you’ll go down swinging. You turn to him, and your eyes connect like a head on car crash: dangerous, devastating, impossible to look away from. “Yes,” you whisper.
He smiles faintly. “Thought so.”
“Please don’t,” you groan.
He chuckles but doesn’t look away, and you’ve already developed Stockholm Syndrome from being held hostage by his gaze. His reaches out to brush a hair from your face, natural, instinctive, and you’re holding your breath without even realizing, feeling the zip of chemistry from the tips of his fingers as they touch your cheek. You’re so close, you could lean in and brush noses with him if you had the nerve to. Or more, which you’re starting to think about—
“You might be the prettiest thing this town’s ever seen,” he murmurs, low and rough, and oh, does your heart try to leap out of your chest and drop into his hands.
You feel your cheeks flush, your sense of reality growing hazy, because is this really Bucky Barnes sitting in front of you saying that?
But he pulls back before you can even think of a response, chancing one last glance at your mouth before silently falling back into position next to you.
For a while, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t push him to. And when your finger brushes the ‘a’ again, he leans your way. Your mind is oddly free of thought as you trace the names gently — you’ve probably gone into shock over him letting you touch him like this. You’re not sure what compelled you to do it, nor what convinced Bucky to allow it, but for a few quiet moments, you feel yourself breaking through one of the walls he had up between you. You wonder if he feels it too.
Later, after he calls it a night and you’re lying in bed, watching as the patch of moonlight crawls across your ceiling, you feel like maybe he was right — maybe you weren’t going to be friends. Because maybe you were always meant to be something more.
Saturday arrives with a bang as thunderstorms roll through the county and soak everything in its reach, but by the time your shift ends, the sky has opened up to an endless portrait of oranges and pinks and purples. You take the scenic route home, windows down to let in the smell of earth and rain, and a smile on your face that hurts your cheeks and feels dangerously close to permanent. A stack of pastries sits in your passenger seat, boxed carefully and tied with a string to keep them from sliding.
When you pull up to your little trailer, Donna’s waiting for you outside your door. She descends on you immediately, taking the pastries from your hands and whisking them away to the middle of the park where the neighbors are setting up for a barbecue.
“Thanks, hun!” she calls out. “Now get outta that rag and put on somethin’ cute — we’re dancin’ later!”
By the time you emerge from your trailer, uniform swapped for something lighter that sways in the wind, the park party is in full swing. Donna’s taken up the mantle as the Chief of Staff of the buffet line, Viz is unloading cases of sodas and waters from the back of his truck, little Mrs. Markham tenderly sets up a s’mores station for the children, and Wanda’s tossing strings of lights through the limbs of the oak tree.
You rush forward when she gets tangled up in a line, stopping the threat of a hard tumble by unwinding it from her ankles. Wanda grimaces. “Thanks. Guess I can forget that career in the rodeo.”
Viz perks up from filling a cooler with drinks. “I wouldn’t say that, honey. You’re a hell of a cowgirl to me.”
Wanda blushes as red as her hair while you fight back a laugh. “Viz,” she mumbles, but her husband just sends her a wink before turning back to the cooler. “Sorry,” she says to you, the color slowly fading from her cheeks. “He can be…pretty affectionate when he’s home.”
You shake your head, smiling. “No, don’t be sorry. I think it’s sweet.” Your fingers work with hers to straighten out a knot in the lights. “Is he gone pretty often?”
She nods. “Three weeks of the month, usually. Long-haul truckin’ definitely wasn’t our first choice. It’s dangerous, and the time apart can feel painful. But the pay’s decent and…well…” She looks around cautiously before leaning in. “We’re tryin’ to start a family.”
“Wanda,” you breathe, eyes wide. She hushes you gently, but she’s smiling now.
“I know. But you can’t tell anyone — especially Donna. She’ll make it a whole thing.” She scrunches her nose adorably.
“My lips are sealed,” you vow, miming a zipper closing across your mouth.
“Thank you,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Now let’s get the rest of these figured out.“
After several more attempts at lassoing lights onto branches, the two of you end up abandoning that plan and decide to treat the trunk like a maypole; each of you take hold of a string and run circles around the tree until not an inch of bark is visible. Your side splits from laughter as you try not to trip over the exposed roots, chasing after your newfound friend. You collapse onto the grass after, knocking shoulders and gulping down air as the rest of the neighbors start to mingle around you. The smell of grilled meat and oil lanterns fills the air. Conversation is a constant hum that provides a comforting white noise. Children race across the grass, dragging bubble wands behind them and leaving a whimsical trail for the lightning bugs to follow. You take a look around the park, at your friends and neighbors sending you easy smiles and carefree waves. They don’t know the quiet impact it has on you, what it means to be on the receiving end of their kindness. It’s like they’re standing at the open door, waving you in and welcoming you home.
Viz comes over and hands you both a water. You take it with a muttered thanks, grateful to have something to distract you from the swell of emotions rearing up inside of you.
That’s when you hear it: the sound of an old engine revving up the hill. Your breath hitches as you watch the brown truck pull into the lot, Bucky’s figure shadowed by the setting sun behind him. Your lips part when you notice he isn’t alone.
The truck comes to a stop next to Viz’s. “Ah,” he says, pushing himself up from the ground. “Finally. Bucky’s here with the good stuff.”
Bucky jumps out of the truck with the ease of a seasoned cowboy dismounting from his horse. Dark shades cover his eyes, but he flips them up as Viz approaches; they shake hands, Bucky clapping Viz on the back. “Good to have you back,” you hear him say, a crooked grin on his face. In the back of your mind you know you’re blatantly staring, but this is new material that your curious brain is desperate to consume. His passenger comes around the other side of the truck, a tall, broad man with sandy blonde hair and oily jeans that give Bucky’s a run for their money. His face is weathered and chiseled like the driver’s, but there’s a softness to it that begs you to trust him, like all of your problems could be solved with just a look.
“Steve,” Viz greets, extending a hand. The newcomer shakes it, grinning.
“Good to see you again, Viz.”
You’re drawn back to Bucky as the other two catch up. His blue eyes sweep across the park, intentional and analyzing. When they fall on you and Wanda, he goes still for a moment. A part of you shrinks in fear, your heart racing in your chest when you remember the last time he picked you out of the crowd.
But Bucky’s hand comes up in a simple two-fingered wave. Wanda waves back. “Hey, Buck!”
“Wanda,” he says in that low tone of his, but his eyes never leave you. “Hey, kid.”
“Hi,” you answer, the faintest trace of a squeak in your voice. Bucky nods, an indefinable look on his face, before turning back to the truck and opening the back. Viz gives a whoop of delight when he sees the kegs waiting to be tapped.
“Right on time, Barnes. You did good.” Bucky shakes his head.
“This was all Steve. That red-headed bartender at Bruce’s is sweet on him.” Bucky’s companion chuckles, bashfully ducking his head.
“Nat’s just a friend.”
“Yeah, pal. Be sure to thank her extra nice for us when you’re at her place tonight.”
The party really takes off once the three men drop the kegs near the coolers. The rest of the group crowds around it like bees on honey. Wanda recruits you to set up a table of solo cups and sharpie markers, but you’re not much help for the urgency she needs. You’re finding Bucky lifting 160 pounds of beer like it’s a sack of feathers to be very distracting while trying to un-stack cups.
Viz christens the first keg with a spray of foam that everyone groans at, but his effacing smile tells you there’s very little that could dampen his spirits, including a botched keg. He quickly fills two cups (of mostly foam) for you and Wanda, and you laugh when she cheers you to “the rodeo life.”
You toss it back like medicine, hoping the alcohol clears your mind of the mysterious haze of self-awareness and poor attention span that Bucky brought with his arrival. The beer dribbles down your chin, and as you move to wipe it off, you glance up.
As predicted, your eyes find Bucky standing a few feet away; by all accounts, he’s locked into a conversation with Steve and Patrick that requires all of their heads to be pulled close together. But while Steve and Patrick exchange enthusiastic words, Bucky’s tight-lipped while staring at you.
You blush, an embarrassed smile flashing across your face while you use the back of your hand like a napkin. You expect him to look away, like a normal person does when they accidentally catch eyes with someone, but he doesn’t. He coolly takes a sip of his own drink, a muscle ticking in his jaw while he watches you. A ripple of heat runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather; it’s reminiscent of the feeling you had when his hand held tight to your wrist in your trailer, but it’s like it’s been cranked up to level 1000. When he swallows, you can see the tip of his tattoo curling at the base of his neck, and your fingers give an involuntary twitch as they remember the feel of it beneath them. Bucky shifts a half-step in your direction, and for one delusional second, you think he’s going to come over. But Donna wanders into your line of sight before the heat of his gaze can fully brand itself into your skin.
“Can I get your help with the salad? Mary went to get more plates.”
You’re dragged away before you can say a word.
Throughout the rest of the night, Bucky always seems to be on your periphery. Wherever you turn, he’s there, just a few feet away. Not close enough to warrant a conversation, but not far enough to be coincidence. You know the park isn’t big, but the proximity seems constructed, considered, careful, especially when you can feel his eyes on you at all times. When you refill your drink, he’s finishing his. When the line for the food forms, he’s three people behind you. When you pass by with a tray of desserts, he steps out of the way wordlessly, pulling Steve with him before you can excuse yourself. And he watches you go.
As the sunset melts into twilight, and Wanda’s lights begin to steal the show, you find a chair next to the speaker softly playing Fleetwood Mac. Across from you, Viz is coaxing Wanda into being the first ones to dance; she shakes her head, adamantly against it, but allows him to pull her from the chair anyway. Donna has a content look on her face as she oversees cleanup, which she shooed you away from almost immediately. Bucky’s coworker is doubled-over with laughter listening to Mr. Gonzalez’s tale of a fishing trip gone wrong. But Bucky is missing.
Your eyes scan the park instinctively, even delving into the dark corners between trailers or the full parking lot on the other side. You’re halfway out of your chair — to do what, you’re not sure — when you hear something drag across the dirt.
Bucky pulls up a chair and takes a seat beside you before you can blink. He has a fresh beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other, which he tucks into the front pocket of his red flannel.
“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he murmurs in greeting, observing the party in front of him. You can smell traces of smoke on him, layered beneath the scent of oil and something that reminds you of the woods behind his trailer.
Your gaze drops to the drink in your hand. “Yeah, this is great. Never been to something like this before.” Bucky settles into the chair, his knees spreading wide until one just barely grazes yours. “Did you guys close up the shop for this?” you ask, nodding toward Steve.
“Have to. Otherwise Donna would have our asses.”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, I got the impression this is pretty important to her when she made me RSVP.”
A ghost of a smirk flits across his face. “Her and Harold used to host this every year. After he died, she dug her heels into keepin’ it a tradition since it meant so much to him. Hard to say no to her when she’s got her mind set on somethin’.”
“I didn’t know that,” you admit. “I just thought she really likes barbecues.” Bucky laughs into his drink, and you nearly preen at the sound. “That’s really sweet, though. I wish I could’ve met him.”
“He was a good man,” Bucky agrees. “Had a lot of strong opinions about things I had no idea about. Most of it sounded crazy to me, but I ended up learnin’ my fair share from him.” He looks sideways at you. “Taught me how to use a lawnmower.”
“Really?” you laugh in disbelief. “When was this?”
“Maybe four years ago,” he says.
“Oh, shut up, you’re just lyin’ now. You build cars from scrap metal for a livin’ — there’s no way you didn’t know how to run a lawnmower.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t have a reason to until I moved here,” he says simply, like that explains the issue.
“Whaddya mean?”
He shifts in his seat before taking a sip of beer, looking past the party at the woods beyond. “There’s no grass where I come from.“
Your head tilts, eyes assessing his profile. The lined planes of his face remain as impassive as ever, but his shoulders don’t meet his ears like you expect. He seems relaxed — or at the very least, prepared — for your inevitable follow up question about his past.
“Where you from, Bucky?” you ask. He opens his mouth, but you quickly point a finger at him with a sudden burst of inspiration. “No, wait. Lemme guess…El Paso.”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “No.”
“Hmm,” you take a sip of your drink, pretending to take your time considering his accent like you don’t already have it memorized and catalogued neatly into a quiet corner of your brain. “Amarillo?”
“Nope — not Texas.”
You pout. “Gimme a hint.”
“East coast.”
You stare.
“Give up already?” he teases, but you wave him off.
“East coast, no grass, bad manners—“ Bucky snorts. “You from Jersey or somethin’?”
“Worse. Brooklyn.”
Your jaw drops. You weren’t expecting that answer. “You’re kidding, right? You’re not from Brooklyn.”
“Born and raised,” he mutters with a grin, amused by your response.
“But how do — where did you — you don’t sound like — what?”
“A story for another time.”
He’s still smiling, but there’s a shuttered look in his eye that doesn’t come from sitting next to you; it comes from revisiting ghosts in your mind while the world moves forward without you. You sit back, occupying yourself with another sip of beer while he comes back to the present.
“For what it’s worth, you can push a lawnmower like a sonofabitch now,” you venture.
He laughs, and your heart swells as you listen to it. It’s surprisingly high-pitched and breathless for a man as big as he is, but it contains something childlike that sounds tragically beautiful to someone who never laughed much as a kid. You count the lines around his eyes, you commit the scrunch of his nose to memory, you hold your breath as his knee knocks into yours and stays there.
“You watchin’ me mow my lawn, kid?” he hums into his drink, eyes flashing.
You balk. “I never said that—“
“You’re implyin’ it.” His husky voice encourages the color in your cheeks to saturate.
“It’s just somethin’ I noticed in passin’,” you plead. He takes mercy on you, for once.
Shaking his head, he mutters, “How’s the diner? It’s Tony’s place, right?”
“Yeah — do you know him?”
He purses his lips in thought, watching as the Markhams begin a slow sway on the makeshift dance floor while Wanda and Viz twirl around them. Several other pairings have joined in on the fun, spinning and dipping and waltzing along to Dire Straits.
“I know him…not very well, though. Friend of a friend, more like,” he adds, nodding at Steve. Then he clears his throat, offering you his drink when he sees that yours is now empty. “He a — he a good boss? He’s not doin’ anything he shouldn’t, right?”
“He’s fine,” you share, accepting his cup with a blink. You’re hyper aware of your lips hugging the rim exactly where his did as you take a sip. “Likes hearin’ the sound of his own voice, but that’s the worst of it.”
Bucky nods. “Good…good.”
Donna marches past then with a firm hand on the shoulder of a young teenage boy. The face beneath the crew cut is fifty shades of red, and his hands are covered in — what you hope is — melted marshmallows. Bucky snickers as Donna hauls the boy up to a group of middle-aged women chatting by the tree; one of them, who you can only assume is his mother, erupts into angry chastising as soon as she spots the teenager.
“Uh oh,” you mumble, watching the scene unfold. You can see how the boy takes after his mother as her face transitions to cherry red the longer she berates him. Bucky‘s still chuckling.
“Nate’s always been a trouble-maker, but he don’t mean much harm by it,” he murmurs in your ear. Donna watches with a sharp eye as the mother points a shaky hand in the direction of their trailer, and Nate slinks away, head bowed. “Oh, he’s gettin’ off easy,” Bucky says. “That’s a lot better than facin’ Donna’s justice.”
You grin. “No kiddin’. She runs this thing like the Navy Seals. I almost dropped the potatoes earlier, thought she was gonna spank me,” you giggle.
Bucky’s head whips around faster than humanly possible, the movement so quick it stops the laughter right in your throat.
“Can’t say stuff like that to me, kid,” he says, voice like silk over gravel.
You stare at him. In the low light of the lanterns, you can just see that the blue irises have changed shades into something darker, heavier; they’re locked on you with an intensity that doesn’t match the lightheartedness of the party. You gulp, he notices.
“Why not?” you whisper. And then his eyes drop to your lips, indisputable and poignant. Your breath hitches as the shape of him changes in front of you, as the delicate foundation of a relationship based on tolerance gets crushed to pieces by just one quick look.
“A man could get ideas,” he rumbles softly.
Your heart begins to pound in your chest, echoing faintly inside of your head. The noise of the barbecue fades. “What kind of ideas?” you push recklessly, and your eyes sink to his own mouth. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as if in answer.
“Ideas he shouldn’t be havin’ about his neighbor…who thinks he’s an ass.”
“I don’t think you’re an ass,” you breathe. He smiles faintly.
“No? All it took was a few weeks of bein’ your friend to change your mind?”
“Thought you didn’t wanna be friends,” you reply quietly. Something makes him pause, taking the time for a slow inhale and exhale to ground him. But underneath it is pure and unadulterated restraint — you can see it clear as day in the lines of his face, a sailor fighting valiantly against the storm.
“No, I don’t wanna be your friend,” he murmurs. But the words are not a rejection, they’re an invitation.
“Then what do you wanna be, Bucky?”
You bite your lip, and his eyes zero in on the tug of your teeth against the flesh. He leans in ever so slightly, like a magnet’s suddenly activated between your mouth and his, and your body hums with a desperate need to know what he tastes like—
“There you are!” Donna’s voice cuts in. She steps in front of you with her hands on her hips, and you jump in your seat like you touched an open wire. “Well, what are you doin’ sittin’? I told ya we’d be dancin’ later, and that dress looks too good on ya not to swing it around.” She looks at Bucky. “And whaddya know, you’ve got a partner right here!”
Your heart stutters in your chest as she points at him, anticipation already squeezing your lungs at the thought of Bucky’s hands holding you close while you sway gently to the music—
“Come on, Donna, you know I can’t dance. I’m not gonna make the poor girl suffer through me steppin’ on her feet,” Bucky answers gruffly.
The dismissal snuffs out the growing heat in your veins like a bucket of ice water on a candle. Your face drops, your eyes finding the dirt beneath your feet.
“That excuse is gettin’ real old, Bucky,” Donna counters, looking suspicious.
“Because it’s true,” he grumbles. “Not my fault you insist on there bein’ dancin’ every time you put somethin’ together.”
Exhaling shakily, you plaster an apologetic smile on your face as you meet Donna’s eye. “Yeah, actually Donna, I think I might turn in. I picked up a shift tomorrow mornin’ and I should at least try to show up sober.”
You see Bucky turn to you out of the corner of your eye. Donna frowns. “The party’s just gettin’ started, sugar, this ain’t the time for sleepin’.”
Chuckling dryly, you push yourself to your feet, the beer catching up to you momentarily as you take an extra step to steady yourself. You feel Bucky’s hand hover near your waist before you see it. You do your best to ignore it.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner. But you know how it is. I got bills to pay and supplies to buy.” You roll your eyes like it’s not physically hurting you to be pulling away from her and the rest of the group, but you can’t be near Bucky right now. Not until you’ve reconciled all of the feelings you’ve felt tonight with the reality of your situation with him. You’ve learned the hard way how logic wins out over emotions, and you’re just sober enough to recognize you need a moment to align yourself with this self-inflicted mentality. You place a quick peck to Donna’s cheek, squeezing her arm. “The party’s beautiful, Donna. Truly, I’m honored to be a part of it. Thank you for hosting.”
She gives you a sad look, one meant to keep you in place, but your feet are carrying you away before you can let it pull you back in. You throw a wave over your shoulder at Wanda, but she’s too busy wrapped up in Viz’s arms to notice. You think some distance between you and Bucky will help to elevate your heart rate, but footsteps behind you put an end to your theory before it can be tested.
“Can I help you?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice light. Bucky’s stride matches yours easily, and he takes a glance at you.
“Thought I’d walk you back.”
You make a face. “It’s thirty feet away, Bucky.”
“Yeah, well, it’s dark out.”
“You can see my door from here.”
“Don’t be difficult,” he rasps like the back and forth is exhausting him. He takes half a step closer to you.
Your jaw clenches, but you say nothing as he walks you to your trailer, just out of reach of the lanterns and music and chatter. You step up to the door but turn sharply toward him when you feel his foot on the little stoop. “Alright, I’m home.”
“What happened back there?” he asks, eyes scrutinizing your face, probably reading right through you. “You were fine and then you weren’t.”
You gulp before bravely sticking your chin in the air. “Nothin’ happened. Just remembered I got work, that’s all.”
“You don’t work Sundays,” he says, shaking his head. Your back meets the door when he leans in. “Why’d you lie to Donna?”
“I didn’t lie, I picked up a shift to help a friend out. And how do you know I don’t work Sundays?” you ask, voice sharper than you intended for it to come out. At least it’s better than cracking on the tsunami of emotions you’re barely holding back.
Bucky blinks at you, going still. You’re not a mind reader, but you can hear the gears turning as his expression evens out into something you can only describe as inescapable resolution. Slowly, so slow you’re wondering if he even knows what he’s doing, he places his hand on the door next to your head; with his arm so close, you can smell how the sun’s baked into his skin, how metal seems to be an undertone all over him. And now his nose is an inch from yours.
“‘cause I watch you,” he murmurs, as soft as the evening breeze. His eyes fall to your mouth, and you can physically feel it, the pressure there, the charge of the unknown next step. Your hands flatten on the door behind you in an effort to hold yourself back.
Your mind plays over the different paths laid before you. Should you lean in? Change the course of this poor excuse of a friendship forever? Should you wait for him to make the move? Let him deal with the consequences of potential bad decisions in the morning? Should you pull away? Give yourself the time to cool off and clean up this mess of emotions following you like a shadow all night?
“You’re thinkin’ too much,” Bucky says. Your eyes refocus on his — his pupils are so wide, you’re afraid you’ll fall into them.
“I’m just tryin’ to figure you out,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.
“Probably better if you don’t,” he answers, a hint of sadness in his tone. You search his face, but it reveals nothing; only his eyes offer any indication that he’s in control of what’s happening.
“You think that’s enough to stop me?”
Bucky’s mouth curves, but it quickly fades away. “You’re somethin’ else, kid.”
Then, as quick as it was cast, the spell is broken. Bucky leans back, his fingers lingering on the door. “Have a good shift tomorrow,” he says, voice solemn as he steps down from your stoop. And then he’s walking away.
It takes you a minute to gather yourself. The night presses in around you, cool air replacing the heat of Bucky’s closeness from moments before. With a shuddering breath, you slip into your trailer, closing the door on the party, on your friends, on Bucky behind you.
Endless rain floods the countryside the following week. Roads close, streams overflow, leaks and cracks in the trailers are exposed. You unwillingly enter into a war with a certain corner of your roof, and an empty ice cream bucket takes up permanent residence underneath it as your counterattack.
But every time you have the urge to knock on Bucky’s door to ask for help, something stops you. Flashes of the night of the barbecue, of the suggestive pitch of his voice, of his face a breath away from yours, consume your thoughts until you’re frozen in place with indecision paralysis. The ‘almost’ of it all has you twisted up in ways far more complex than when he tormented you with his indifference.
You go over every interaction in your head like a DVD menu on repeat at three in the morning. You think your signals to Bucky couldn’t have been clearer, yet he pulled away, even after giving you every indication that he wanted it, too. Confusion is too simple of a word to sum up how you feel, and you’re still too riled up from Saturday night to dissect it all head on.
Work offers a necessary distraction — at first. The weather brings in a rush of people seeking shelter from the downpour, which means less time for you to think about where you left things with Bucky, and the hours leave you exhausted to the point of collapsing onto your bed and tumbling into sleep as soon as you make it home. Then you wake up and do it all over again.
Eventually your coworkers begin to notice the toll it’s taking on you. You’re still a novice while they’re veterans, fully acclimated to the ebbs and flows of roadside diner foot traffic, so they urge you to take the first cut of the day after already battling through four grueling shifts that week. You don’t have the energy to fight them. You’re ushered out the door with orders to take a hot shower and a nap as soon as you get home. The rain soaks your uniform instantly as you rush to your car, but it’s still warm enough outside to keep your lips from turning blue as you start the journey home.
While the diner had been bustling with activity, the roads are eerily devoid of other people and vehicles. Most likely due to the flood warnings, but unlike them, you don’t have much of a choice.
You haven’t seen another car in ten minutes when the lights on your dashboard flicker. Your eyes snap to it immediately, recognizing the warning signs that nearly derailed you almost two months ago. A soft whine escapes from your chest as you feel the car begin to shake.
“Come on,” you breathe, pressing on the accelerator. The engine whines back. The radio cuts out, your lights turn off, and the car slows to a crawl. It’s with tears in your eyes that you step on the brakes and put the car into park. “No. No, no, no, no, no.”
Your forehead meets the steering wheel. You get a sick sense of dejavú.
Sniffling, you turn off the car and wait before trying it again. You hear a familiar ticking sound over the patter of rain on your roof.
“Fuck,” you whisper as the first tear falls.
Your mind is too sleep-deprived to come up with solutions. Your cell phone died hours ago because you forgot to charge it overnight. Your body aches everywhere from being on your feet all day, and you think if you tried to walk home, you’d pass out in a ditch after fifty yards. You’re stranded — literally stranded on the side of the road.
So you let yourself cry, great heaving sobs that sound warped and hollow in your little car. While the release feels compulsory, it offers no relief, and that makes you cry even more. Outside, the rain persists its assault on the empty county road.
When your cries have turned into hiccups, you’re left shivering in your wet uniform. A chill has crept through the vents as darker clouds roll in. You hug your arms to your chest, breathing deeply to calm yourself down, but your body continues to vibrate past normal human function. You glance at the back seat, where an old sweatshirt lays crumpled and wedged next to the door. You crawl into the back, extracting the fabric with shaking hands and curling up underneath it. It provides some warmth, but not much.
You don’t know how long you lay there, fighting off exhaustion and self-loathing. You have no sense of time since the clock on your dash powered off with the car. The only things you register are the rhythm of raindrops and your slowed breathing.
And then you hear it.
It’s faint, almost like you’re imagining it. But it grows louder and louder the longer your ears strain to catch it. Your head lifts off the seat, and through the side mirror you spot headlights.
A brown truck with an old, rumbling engine drives past your car before slamming on the brakes. The red tail lights blind you momentarily. It quickly backs up a few meters until it’s parked right in front of yours. The driver’s door opens, and out steps Bucky.
You let out a whimper, your eyes squeezing shut. This isn’t real. It can’t be.
But he’s there pounding on your window, calling your name. You shoot up, shaking again, and lock eyes with him through the glass. Bucky’s dark hair is plastered to his forehead, beads of water dripping down his nose and off his beard. You watch as he takes in your wet uniform, your flimsy blanket, your trembling chin.
“Sweetheart,” he says softly, voice muffled through the window. Slowly, you crawl across the seat to open the door. He swoops in before you can say a word; large hands grasp your arms and pull you out of the car. He practically carries you to his, a hand shielding your face from the rain, before setting you down gently on the bench seat of his truck. His touch moves to your shoulders, your throat, then your face, thumbs brushing wet strands of hair from your eyes. “Are you okay?” he demands to know. “Are you hurt?”
You shake your head. “N-no, just c-c-cold. My c-car, it — it d-d-died.”
Bucky’s lips press into a dangerously thin line before he reaches across you to crank up the heat in the truck. “Stay here,” he mutters, then closes the door on you. You whimper again, your eyes following him as he runs to the back of the truck and grabs his toolbox. He reaches inside your car to pop the hood, and then he rolls up the soaked sleeves of his red henley before getting to work.
Burning hot shame floods your body. You don’t need to be a mechanic to know what’s wrong with your car.
Your gaze slides to the empty road past the windshield. The headlights reflect off the puddles of water accumulating on the gravel, creating distorted spots of light in your vision further warped by the sheets of rain. The heat from the vents touches your skin, but does little to permeate the cold that’s seeped into your bones. You slide into the center of the bench, sticking your numb fingers into the slats to warm them up faster. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows Bucky’s already closed the hood of your car; he stands in the downpour rubbing his face with both hands. You scurry over to the far end of the bench when the door opens a moment later, and he drops into the seat, drenched and silent.
You don’t look at him, he doesn’t look at you. The rain continues to fall.
Bucky inhales. “It won’t start.”
You clench your jaw to keep your teeth from chattering, inching closer to the heat. Your mind is a mess of fragmented responses.
His hand flexes on his thigh, the scars turning white against his skin. He exhales. “I told you to get the damn thing replaced,” he says, voice so low you can barely hear him. He turns to you, burning a hole into the side of your face with his stare. “I told you to come in to the garage.”
Your eyes sting with fresh tears, but whatever resilience is left within you refuses to let them fall. Not in front of him. “I kn-know.”
“But you didn’t.”
The barely suppressed anger in his voice triggers something in you like a fight or flight response. You meet his eyes and see the storm inside of them that rivals the one outside. Passion not so different from the kind you saw Saturday night.
“I didn’t have t-time,” you say, as calmly as you can. Bucky’s hand flexes again.
“Bullshit,” he counters.
“It’s the truth—“
“No, it’s not. I said to come in after your shift. I said I’d be there. And you still didn’t come.”
You shake your head. “I just — I forgot, okay? I was g-grateful for the help, I still am—”
“Kid, you got an odd way of showin’ your appreciation. Do you actually want the help, or did your deadbeat daddy fuck you up so bad that you don’t know how to accept it?”
There’s never been a louder silence than the one that follows his words. He recoils from it before you can, shoulders slumping like the weight of the world’s been dropped on them, a pained look slashing across his face. Your chin wobbles harder than before as the remark echoes in your head.
“Fuck, kid, I didn’t…” Bucky huffs. His hand crosses the distance of the bench, fingers grazing the skin of your thigh. You smack it away on instinct, but it doesn’t go far, dropping to the leather bench inches from you. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I went too far.”
A single tear rolls down your cheek. You brush it away quickly like it’s an open wound you need to cover.
“Please look at me,” he whispers. The fight in you balances on a razor-thin wire, one side begging you to explode on him, the other offering peace. You find your car in the side mirror, a lone figure of used and abused metal, struggling desperately to just stay alive.
Bucky lets out a heavy breath when your eyes meet his.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. You see the relief on his face mixed with the regret; it radiates off of him in waves. Slowly, you nod, your body trembling from the cold and something deeper. Bucky notices and draws back, his gaze tracing your figure.
“Come here,” he says gently, opening his palm to you.
You hesitate, the fire still burning in your eyes, and he waits.
But not for long. You slide into his arms with a soft grunt, too willingly, too easily. He catches you and holds you tight against him, hands rubbing along your arms to bring heat back to them while yours land on his chest. Your head fits perfectly into the crook of his neck, your nose skimming the wet skin. He smells like he always does, of oil and metal and pine. You inhale greedily, and it’s like a tonic to your frayed mind, clearing it of the scattered memories of a broken home.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers into your hair. Your eyes close.
“I know,” you whisper back.
This silence is softer, easier. You fall into it gratefully as your body slowly begins to relax against him. Bucky’s pure muscle beneath you, but it’s not uncomfortable; you mold to him like you were made to.
He shares his warmth by leaning into you, his nose dragging along your hair; the rhythm of his breaths is stable, even, and yours falls into sync with it naturally. He shifts closer, a hand curling around your waist. Because your history of push and pull dictates an eventual separation, you take the time to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scratch of his beard on your temple, the wet fabric of his jeans brushing against your legs, and you memorize it all, something to hold you over late at night when the loneliness howls at your window and begs to come in like a stray cat. You sigh as your fingers curl into his shirt with every intention of never letting go. Bucky responds with a deep, measured inhale, stabilizing, grounding, human. You soak in every ticking second of this temporary peace. And then his lips, impossibly warm, find the shell of your ear, and your eyes shoot open.
You wait for him to move, to pull away, to gruffly say he’ll handle your car and take you home. He’s done his job, you’re practically burning up by now, and you know he can feel it, too. But he doesn’t let go of you. If anything, he holds you closer. Your heart begins to race — not from his actions, but from what you’re about to do.
You pull back slowly, just far enough for him to see the silent permission in your eyes, the wordless request for him to close the minimal distance between your lips and his. Bucky’s breath hitches in his chest, that steady rhythm halted.
And then he kisses you.
Softly, tenderly, delicately. Words that have never been tied to Bucky before. This hardened, uncompromising man moves his mouth over yours like it’s a gift from the heavens that could be ripped away from him at any moment. A low sound escapes from deep inside his chest, a strained variation of a sigh of relief.
You echo your relief back to him, a barely there whimper against his lips that reverberates down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, dragging you closer, while his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. You open for him, physically, mentally, emotionally. He tastes faintly of metal, of smoke, of coffee, of days spent eagerly waiting for him to return home, of long nights tangled up in old sheets, of oversized sweatshirts and stolen bites of food and messy toothpaste kisses. Of a gentleness you’ve craved your whole life. You’re instantly addicted to the brief taste of this improbable future.
His tongue caresses yours and he groans, his hands and lips quickly turning rougher, needier; you welcome it eagerly. A fire’s been lit inside of you, and grows with every stroke of his mouth. You pull at his shirt, he tugs at your waist. You follow his hands as they move you across his lap, your legs bending to straddle him in the tight space of the bench seat, your chest pressed to his. Bucky breaks away from your lips to gulp down air, but one look at you hanging breathless over him eradicates his need to breathe. He wraps a large hand around your neck and pulls you back down. Your hips roll on top of his instinctively as he ravages your mouth, earning you a soft grunt when your center meets the stiff bulge beneath his zipper. He greedily presses down on the small of your back, encouraging you to do it again. And again. And again.
The hand around your throat tightens imperceptibly when you drag your heat across his erection, whining as the jeans provide a delicious friction to your core. He thrusts up into it, as if he can feel it through the layers of fabric. He groans like a starving beast that’s just found the only thing that can satiate him.
“Bucky,” you pant against his lips, an implied request for more.
His eyes flutter open. He looks at you. You think he’s about to completely make you his.
And then he gently pushes you off his lap.
Your body goes cold immediately. From the loss of his warmth and from the sudden change in tension. He unhooks your fingers from his shirt and presses himself carefully against the car door, running a hand down his face. “Fuck,” he breathes.
“W-what did I do?” you whisper. He shakes his head, unable to meet your eyes.
“You didn’t—“ He swallows. “You didn’t do anythin’.”
“Then why did you stop?”
He exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a tight white line. He’s mad. Or disappointed. Or something between the two. “Kid, I…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
You swear you can hear the sound of your heart cracking in two. “But I wanted you to,” you tell him, a tremble in your voice.
“I know. You shouldn’t.”
Your throat tightens. “What do you mean?”
He finally looks at you then, and you see his blue eyes are filled with agony, his face lined with regret.
“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs. Your mouth opens, but he cuts you off before you can say a word. “I’m old, and I’m poor, and I’m goin’ nowhere in this life. I can’t — I can’t be what you need.”
“You don’t know what I need—“ you start, but he shakes his head.
“Yes, I do. You need a man that can give you the kind of future you deserve for pullin’ yourself out of the shit. Gettin’ tangled up with someone like me will only hold you back.”
You have to bite down on the sob threatening to burst from your chest. Through gritted teeth, you say, “That’s not your decision, though. You don’t know the kind of future I want for myself.”
“Kid, I’m an ex-con with one too many skeletons in the closet. I live on the fringes because that’s the only place that’ll take me, and I’ve got no way out of it. There is no future with me.”
“Bucky, you’re not—“ your voice shatters and splits. “I don’t care about any of that, ‘cause that’s not how I see you. You’re more than your past. What you’ve done doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to want more—“
He barks out a humorless laugh.
“Fuck, I know a lot about wantin’ more. It’s all I do these days, and it’ll all your fuckin’ fault.” His eyes flash as they find yours, vicious with pain. “I’ve wanted you ever since you stood at my door yellin’ ‘bout makin’ my sad, lonely, little life hell. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how I wanted you to do it, ‘cause hearin’ you throw a fit at me was the first time I felt excited about somethin’ in years. And when I’m not thinkin’ about it, I’m dreamin’ about it. About comin’ home to your sweet smile waitin’ for me, and I wake up emptier than I ever felt sittin’ in a jail cell because I know it ain’t real. You got your claws in me so deep that I can’t go a minute without thinkin’ ‘bout you. And I can’t do nothin’ about it.”
All the air has left your lungs, and Bucky’s chest heaves like he stole it from you. He looks like he’s on the brink of imploding, or breaking apart, or jumping out of the car and sprinting into the woods. You reach for him, the only thing you can think of to do—
He flinches back, turning to the window. “Don’t,” he mutters. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“But it doesn’t have to be hard, Bucky!” you cry. “I want to be waitin’ for you, I want—“
“You don’t know what you want, but I promise it ain’t me.”
Tears prick your eyes, hot and painful. “Stop,” you whimper. “Stop tellin’ me what I want and don’t want. You’re not bein’ fair — you’re not even givin’ this a chance—“ He shakes his head quickly, meeting your gaze to deliver the death blow.
“You can argue all you want, but I won’t see it any different. I won’t trap you here with me. This can’t…this can’t happen.”
His words sting like a slap to the face; you reel back, pushing distance between you and him. Bucky lowers his eyes, as if he can’t bear to watch the fallout he caused. Another silence settles in the cab of the truck, this one heavier than the others, and thick enough to strangle you. You lean back in your seat, one hand on the door handle, the other pressing down on your chest, keeping you held together.
“I wanna go home now,” you whisper, blindly staring out the windshield.
He obeys instantly. Bucky’s silent as he shifts the car into drive, From the corner of your eye, you see his face is set in stone, a familiar look from the days he wasn’t speaking to you. You know what it means — he’s already shutting down, already pushing you out of his life again.
The drive to the trailer park seems to stretch endlessly; seconds feel like hours, minutes feel like months, ruthlessly challenging your inherent idea of time. When you crest the hill and pull up to your trailer, your body has gone numb from willing time to move faster.
Bucky avoids your eyes once the truck’s in park. “I’ll have your car brought into the shop,” he mutters, voice monotone and clipped. “I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”
Your lips press together to steady the tremble in your chin.
He fidgets in his seat, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
Your jaw clenches, your heart aches, rejection is a slow-moving poison in your veins. And you’re angry.
“Maybe it’s best if you actually stay away from me this time,” you say, ice embedded in every word. He flinches, but you don’t care. You’re sliding out of the truck and shutting the door on him before he can respond, not daring to look back as you trek through the downpour to your home. When you’re safely inside, you stand very, very still, listening to his car idle listlessly before he slowly drives away, taking your heart with you.
The worst part of it all is that Bucky is right.
Never mind the confusion over how a man that shunned you for your kindness could look at you like you were his last hope. Never mind the embarrassment of making the neediest sounds for someone that refuses to hear them again. Never mind the terrible grief you feel for something that almost existed.
What hurts the most is that he’s right. You’ve felt it in your bones since the day you signed the lease to the trailer — your future wouldn’t stop here. The miles you’ve put behind you don’t exist because you were meant to settle.
Make no mistake, you love the trailer, you love the diner, you love everything they’ve given you and everything they stand for. They bought you freedom from a life condemned to shitty boyfriends and stacked pennies and a lingering taste of resentment at the bottom of every numbing bottle.
But there’s more out there that you ache for; still undefined, still obscure, yet it calls to you in the quiet moments between work and sleep.
And Bucky…
You’ve had enough time to reflect on his words that you can read between the lines of them. His life outside of prison started and ends where he is now, whether he wants it to or not. His future has concrete guardrails that won’t budge for a whim or an opportunity, and most certainly not for a girl lacking direction with a history of going where the wind takes her.
You understand what he saw when you hovered over him in the cab of his truck, that look in your eyes that dared him to follow you into the unknown.
His life is figured out. Your very presence urges him to challenge it.
He’s the rock to your balloon. Better to cut the string now than let you wear yourself thin trying to take him with you.
Your realization makes it easier to avoid Bucky, not that you see much of him anyway. Your car appears in front of your home before your shift the next day. No note, no knock on the door, no indication that it was even Bucky who brought it back. You don’t consider tracking him down to thank him, and you’re not sure how you would: he starts leaving for work before you wake up, returning home only when you’re tucked into bed, like he knows your schedule intimately enough to avoid you completely. Remembering what he once said about watching you, maybe he does.
On Sundays, he’s tucked inside his trailer with the curtains drawn tight, his once-pristine yard slowly becoming overgrown with weeds and disrepair that is so unlike him, it would cause you worry if you didn’t know better. When the probability gods smite you both and you’re walking towards the mailbox at the same time, you stop in your tracks, eyes meeting across the park like magnets drawn together. You turn around and walk the other way before you can do anything stupid — like beg him to reconsider. You’d think it would feel good to turn the tables on him, but it feels like ripping out the stitches on a wound that’s far from healed.
Following the mailbox incident, you both become hermits, which is a hard role to take on in a community as active as this one. Donna’s already forced her way into your home multiple times, demanding your participation in some neighborhood event or another. You think if she asks one more time, it might just kill you to see the look on her face when you tell her no.
You escape to work when you can, picking up enough doubles that Tony pulls you aside and asks in his signature beat-around way if you need a loan. For a moment, you consider taking it and getting the hell out of dodge, setting off in pursuit of whatever it is that you’re chasing. But you wouldn’t know the first place to go — it’s hard to find treasure without a map — and abandoning your boss after taking his money seems like a quick way to put the journey to an end before it even starts.
So you tell him about the repairs to the trailer, and he shrugs to hide his relief before approving your fifth double of the week.
The days roll into nights roll into days. Your brain works through a constant stream of food orders and the future and instant coffee and Bucky. Only in the silence of your room in between wake and sleep do you let yourself remember his charged admission to wanting you, or the fantasized future he dangled in front of your face before snatching it away. Sometimes you can barely breathe for the weight of it all pressing down on you, curling in on yourself like he took a tire iron to your gut instead of telling you it isn’t meant to be.
But you’re a resilient girl. So you carry on, always aware of the option of a next step but never knowing what it is.
You’re coming off a seven day bender of double shifts when the next step becomes clear.
The drive home from the diner is silent — you don’t bother turning on the radio these days, and the views of the mountains and forests that once made you feel alive hardly catch your attention anymore. You’re too tired, too preoccupied, caught between your car and an imagined life where you go home to a trailer that isn’t empty.
But an empty trailer is what you’re expecting when you pull into the trailer park. You tumble out of your car, exhaustion sitting heavy on your eyes.
“Where’ve you been?”
You jump a foot in the air, a tight breath tumbling from your lips as you look around for the source of the voice. Bucky’s sitting on your stoop with his knees bent and a half-empty beer bottle hanging from his hand; illuminated by the moonlight, you can see that his hair is a mess, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night, and his face is severe with apprehension. You breathe deeply to settle your racing heart, but the sight of him has skyrocketed the beat all over again.
“Bucky,” you sigh — you’re surprised you could find your voice so quickly. “What are you doin’ here?”
His gaze rakes over you, from your beat up shoes to your hair falling out of its clip, before he takes a large gulp of his drink. “You’ve been comin’ home late. Later than me.”
You stare back at him, wondering where this is going, and not oblivious to the fact that you’d have to crawl over him to get into your trailer. Casual intention at its finest — he’s making sure you talk to him.
“I’ve been workin’ doubles,” you tell him, glancing at the door.
“What for?”
“Because truck drivers make great conversationalists.”
He rolls his eyes and sets the beer down, unfinished. “Don’t be difficult. Just tell me.”
A rush of anger surges through you at the familiar words. “I think I earned the right to be as difficult as I want.”
Bucky stands, taking a step toward you that feels like more than just him closing the physical distance between you. Your breath gets caught in your chest when you see the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he murmurs. “I get it. You can be as mad as you want. But I’m just tryin’ to make sure you’re okay.”
Your chin lifts. “I’m fine.”
He scans your face, searching for the lie under the surface. “You in some kind of trouble?”
A breathless scoff escapes you. “No, I’m not in trou—”
“You need money?”
“What?” Your expression goes sour. “Bucky, no, what the fuck? I don’t need money, I’m just workin’ more, that’s all—“
“Why?” he presses. You growl at him.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“It’s none of your business, Barnes.”
“Kid, just tell me why and I’ll leave you be—“
“Because it helps me to not think about you!”
The outburst catches him off guard; he leans back like he’s avoiding the blast radius, a frown creasing his face. He runs a hand through his already-mussed hair, and it sticks up at odd angles that a part of you desperately wants to smooth down.
“I didn’t…” He sighs, hands on his hips. “Okay.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly finding interest in the dried coffee stain on your shoes. Bucky shifts his feet in the dirt next to them. Neither of you move, but you can feel his gaze on you again. “You look tired,” he says.
“Gee, thanks.”
“I just meant…maybe a break from the doubles wouldn’t hurt. You look dead on your feet. You gotta take care of yourself.”
“Right, because no one else is gonna,” you shoot at him. “I think I got it handled.”
“Kid…”
“I can take care of myself, Bucky, you don’t need to check on me just ‘cause you feel bad.”
“That’s not why I’m here—“
“Oh, yeah?” you cut him off with a surge of venom in your voice, watching as he fails to meet your eyes. “Why are you here then? ‘cause I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you to stay away this time.”
Bucky stares past you at the oak tree, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with his breaths. “Yeah,” he mutters quietly, “you did.”
“Obviously not, since you’re here.” You finally have the courage to step around him, taking care not to brush his shoulder as you pass him on your way to the door. “Maybe third time’s the charm—“
Bucky says your name, painful yet reverent, and it cuts through the calm of the evening like a knife.
You turn slowly to face him, the keys forgotten in your hand. You didn’t hear him come up behind you, but suddenly, he’s right there, a foot away and looking like the remaining distance is torturing him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “You could tell me a million times over and it still won’t work.”
You inhale sharply. “What are you sayin’?”
He shakes his head, testing a cautious step forward, and the little gap between you shrinks. “I’m sayin’ I can’t stay away from you.”
Your heart jumps to your throat. “Bucky…”
“I can’t stay away from you,” he repeats, firmer, more certain now. “I hate myself for it, for not bein’ able to do the one thing you asked of me, but I feel like I’m dyin’ every day I don’t see you. And that makes me hate myself even more ‘cause I know I don’t deserve you — and you deserve more than anythin’ I could give you — but I lose all my fuckin’ willpower when it comes to you.”
His words land like a blow to your chest and a kiss to your cheek. Sharp yet sweet, violent yet comforting. You stare at him, lips parted with a hundred questions and a million emotions.
Bucky’s eyes meet yours as he closes the last few inches between you, calloused hands reaching for your face hesitantly, afraid to overstep, afraid to spook you, afraid to worsen the devastation he’s done. You think about the last time he held you, what it cost you to be haunted with that feeling of forever thinking you’d never get it again, and for a moment, every cell within you screams to push him away. Danger, danger, danger, your instincts tell you, reducing him to nothing better than the boys that have come before him, the ones that let your heart go carelessly only to yank it back when it was beneficial for them.
But this is Bucky. Not the pathetic excuses for men that potholed your journey here. Even when he broke your heart, he did it for you.
His fingers are gentle as you let him cradle your face, a passing look of relief turning his eyes a softer blue.
“I know I told you this can’t happen, and you told me to stay away, but I don’t have it in me to see either of those through,” he whispers, thumbs sweeping across your cheeks. “I’ve had enough of my own restraint holdin’ me back. I spent the last seven years convincin’ myself that I don’t deserve a good life because I threw half of it away for people that don’t give a shit about me anymore.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter shut at whatever memories haunt him. When he opens them again, his gaze is clearer, steadier, like he quietly made a deal with his demons to leave him be for the night. His eyes drop to your lips, just a brief glance that could easily be missed, but it isn’t, because you can’t take your eyes off him. Not when you can practically hear his heart beat in his chest, can feel the heat of him beneath his top, the rough skin of his hands reminding you that this is very, very real and not some imagined scenario you’re still stuck in on your drive home. His fingers tighten around your jaw and Bucky leans in to press his forehead gently to yours.
“When you said you wanted me,” he begins, voice rough and hushed, “it was like comin’ up for air after bein’ under for too long. You’re a livin’, breathin’ example of going through shit and still comin’ out the other side of it, and for the first time in years I thought maybe that could be me, too. But I panicked — I pushed you away like I already knew you were gonna leave because everyone else did. I’m more sorry than you’ll ever know for hurtin’ you like that. I’m a fuckin’ idiot. I’m a stupid old man.” He holds you closer, his grip on the verge of leaving marks. “But kid, I’ll give you everything I got, all the time I have left on this earth, whatever you want…if you’ll have me.”
The world tilts a little. You might have stumbled if Bucky wasn’t holding you like you’re the last light left before the armageddon. He’s so close that you can taste the beer on his breath, and you inhale deeply, drinking it in like it’s straight from the bottle. But a small voice is there in your head, providing clarity on the point of contention that drove him away in the first place…
“Bucky,” you whisper, pulling back. His eyes frantically dance over your face, brows furrowed. Your heart pounds painfully against your chest. “I think…I think you were right. What you said in your truck.” Your eyes fall shut. “About me wantin’ more than what I have now. There’s something else out there that’s meant for me and I…I realized I can’t leave it be. That I’ll do whatever it takes to have it.”
He inhales sharply, his large frame stilling against yours. You look at him then, and he’s stricken, balancing on a fragile fence between panic and hope. Your heart aches more for him now than it ever did while you kept your distance, for this rough, immovable, larger-than-life man. Despite the tears, despite the wicked words, despite it all, he calls to you. He calls…
You blink. “But it isn’t what you think.”
As you say the words, something aligns inside of you, a shifting of your soul. It settles comfortably, like it was waiting patiently for you to figure it out. What you’ve been chasing after all this time is no longer abstract or vague. It’s clear as day, as bright as a beacon, and it’s right in front of you.
Reaching up to cover his hands with yours, you thread your fingers through Bucky’s, appreciating the warmth and sturdiness of his grasp. He’s still looking at you frantically, like you might pull away at any second and tell him to get lost. You squeeze gently.
“This whole time I thought a better life meant gettin’ out of the cycle of hell back home. Leavin’ it all behind so I wouldn’t have the chance to become another sad statistic in that shit town, and makin’ my own way so I’d never have to rely on others who only saw me for what I could give ‘em.”
You shift closer to him, until your noses brush, until your lips are ghosting each other.
“And then I met you,” you breathe. “And I realized how lonely it is. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved or taken care of or given kindness just because. I wasn’t searchin’ for it when I ran, because I didn’t think it mattered — as long as I could dig myself out of where they tried to bury me. But somewhere along the way with you, it all changed.”
Your hands slide up his arms, slowly, carefully, leaving goosebumps on his skin in their wake. The tension leaks from Bucky as your arms wrap around his neck, a soft sigh escaping from his parted lips.
“The trailer and the job — you’re right, they’re not enough. They aren’t gonna give me the future I want. Because the future I want is a place to call home with someone who can give me what’s been missin’ from my life. And I want it to be you.”
A pause. Heartbeats racing in sync. Your eyes meet.
Bucky’s mouth is on yours before you can register him leaning in, and there’s an urgency to his kiss that you sends a thrill down your spine. One hand tangles in your hair, the other maps your body until it finds your waist and drags you closer as he pushes your lips open with his tongue. He moves differently than before, fueled by an emotion that doesn’t fall under a single name, but his determination is as tangible as ever. He’s taking what he wants now.
You pull away with a gasp, forehead resting against his. “Baby,” he murmurs, soft and husky, “it’s already yours.”
Your fingers find his lips and press lightly into wet skin. “You mean it?” you ask with wide eyes.
“I meant every word,” he promises. His hand tugs lightly at your hair, tilting your chin up just how he wants it. “No more stayin’ away. Couldn’t get me to if you tried.”
He seals it with a kiss, demanding and brutal, yet burning with his adoration. Your body’s pulled flush against his and it feels like coming home. Those hard planes fit against your soft curves like puzzle pieces that pledge a lifetime of coming together like this again and again.
You’re panting by the time you pull apart. Bucky’s eyes are half-lidded and full of dark intentions, but you can feel him holding back, testing his restraint, handing you the controls now.
It’s the easiest decision to make.
You pull at his shirt while slowly backing up the stoop. He follows, scooping up the keys you dropped before placing a gentle kiss to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, and unlocking your door. He pulls you into his arms once you’ve crossed the threshold, mouthing at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your breath hitches on little gasps and moans as his hands find your ass and massage it with interest.
Bucky walks you deeper into your little trailer like he owns the place, feasting on your skin and stopping only at the bedroom door. He pulls away to meet your gaze, and you see his pupils are blown.
“Kid, I’m not here just for this,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need you to know that.”
“I do,” you whisper while your heart swells from his words. “But I want this. I want you.”
He groans, backing you against the wall as his brow meets your temple, sighing against your ear as his thigh slides between yours. “I’ll be so good to you, baby, I promise. Lemme take care of you…”
Hands guide your hips down onto the rough fabric of his jeans, easing you across his thigh with a drag that sets off fireworks in your stomach. You breathe heavily as each pass of your clit over his muscled leg fuels the building heat within you. Bucky kisses the hinge of your jaw, the shell of your ear, whispering, “Fuck, I can feel you. Soaked already…drivin’ me crazy.”
“B-Buck— more,” you whimper as you roll your hips, searching for more friction. He grabs your jaw, something just short of gentle, and makes you meet his eyes as he presses you further into the wall. The arousal slides hot and sticky out of you, soaking your panties and sure to leave a mark on his jeans, making you glide faster on top of him. He groans when your mouth falls open in a choked gasp.
“You look too good like this, baby, gettin’ yourself off on me,” he breathes. “So goddamn pretty.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. You reach for him as you hit a new angle that makes your body sing, fingers curling in his hair to bring him in for a savage kiss, a lustful mark of new territory in your relationship; his thumbs dig into the crease where your legs meet your hips, and you can just feel the hard outline of his length straining against his jeans as it presses into your stomach, making your head spin. Bucky’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling a whine from you that he swallows whole.
It’s almost too much. Like jumping off the deep end and not knowing how far down it goes. It’s terrifying, it’s disorienting, it’s perilous. But you still want to touch the bottom. You still want to know where this goes. You want more.
“Bucky,” you exhale against his lips. He holds you tighter. “Make me yours.”
His eyes flash with possession, with desire, with an enduring need that is rooted in something deeper than the lust you share for each other. It’s trust in its purest form. An exchange of souls, an agreement of devotion. Bucky gathers you up in his arms until you’re pressed against him.
“All mine,” he swears, rough and low, and carries you into the bedroom.
Bucky tosses you on the bed quickly before kicking the door closed and leaving the moonlight as the only witness to what comes next. When he looks at you, something’s shifted — something that makes the heat in your core rise to dangerous temperatures.
“Off,” he demands, dark eyes falling to your uniform. You push up to a sitting position, fingers trembling in anticipation as you slide the dress down your body until it crumples on the floor in front of him. Bucky kicks it aside, unable to look away from the sight of you in nothing but your thin bra and panties.
“Jesus,” he breathes, voice rough, licking his lips while he gets his uninhibited fill of your body. “Look at you.”
Your self-consciousness is short-lived when he leans over to press a tender kiss to your mouth, cradling your jaw like it’s a priceless treasure.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers.
Your skin is set on fire when a large hand skims your bare thigh, pushing your legs apart until you can feel a cool breeze against the mark your arousal left on your panties. The vulnerability makes you gasp, but his touch is there to keep your legs where he wants them.
Bucky pulls back to watch as his knuckle drags across your center, teasing the ache just on the other side of the fabric that grows more insistent by the second. You’re throbbing for him, failing to hide your wanton moans as your pussy clenches around nothing but air. He moves his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it expertly.
“This mine now?” he asks you, lips hovering over yours. You nod desperately. You’ve never been so turned on it your entire life. “Say it.”
You gulp. “It’s yours, Bucky. All yours.”
“All mine,” he echoes, “been wantin’ her for too long.” He traces your folds until he finds your clit. You cry out, legs spreading wider for him like he pressed the magic button. He swears under his breath before capturing your lips in another bruising kiss.
“Perfect girl,” he rasps into your mouth. You melt beneath him as he plays with your clit through your panties, a pattern of soft circles and hard presses that makes your toes curl.
But just as the pleasure begins to crest, his hand is gone. A sound rips from your chest, half-growl, half-whine, as you’re edged for a second time with no relief. Bucky just smirks and slowly pulls his shirt over his head, muscles rippling as he reveals his broad chest and tight abdominals, like a curtain being dropped for the grand finale. Immediately, your hands reach out to touch him, the sharp edges of his body, your lips pressing to the center of his stomach before you can help it, and you look at him as your mouth moves lower.
But Bucky cuts the trail off by sinking to his knees in front of you. “You can suck my cock like a good girl another time. Let your man eat first.”
His thumb sweeps across your jaw gently, then pulls at your bottom lip until you suck it into your mouth. He groans as you bite down lightly, tongue swirling its promises for another night. Bucky’s other hand finds the clasp of your bra, popping it open with practiced ease that should frustrate you but instead elevates your heart rate. Your bare chest is eye level with him, and he wastes no time admiring the way your body is illuminated by the moonlight.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and his thumb is tugged from your mouth so that he can cradle both breasts in his hands, the pads of his fingers stroking the delicate skin until goosebumps erupt under his touch and you’re arching into his hold. “Been hidin’ these from me,” he grumbles, thumb flicking your nipple. You whine when his teeth graze the other, soft and gentle, the bark before the bite.
“Bucky,” you whine, “touch me.”
“I am touchin’ you,” he says around your nipple, a smile in his voice as he sucks heavily at the skin. Your hips jerk up, seeking out some sort of friction that he’s not giving yet.
“More, Bucky, please.”
He mouths at your breast, confident, intentional, and mind-blowingly skilled, while his other hand squeezes tightly around the unkissed one.
“You beg so sweet, baby, but be patient f’me,” he mutters, switching sides. You’re inching closer to the edge of the bed, to grind against what, you’re not sure, but your core is dripping with arousal that snakes a heady trail down your thigh while your pussy throbs from the lack of attention. As he laves at your chest, you bury your hands in his hair, and he makes a small noise of satisfaction before moving his kisses lower, down your naval. He pushes you back slowly until your spine brushes the bed, a thin squeak leaving your lips as his hands find the juncture of your thighs and pulls them open wider to settle between them.
His teeth catch on the waistband of your panties. He looks up at you, and you’re outrageously close to coming just from the sight of it alone.
You realize he’s waiting for your permission, so you offer a frantic nod.
“Good girl,” he says through his teeth, pulling the fabric down your legs with swift efficiency until you’re completely naked before him. He sits back on his heels to stare.
“Don’t,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as his thumbs rub tiny circles that get closer and closer to your leaking center with each swipe.
“What?” he answers. “Just lookin’ at what’s mine.”
You can feel his gaze like a physical caress on your folds. It makes your back arch, your hips jerk, and he hasn’t even fucking touched you yet. A man who wouldn’t even meet your eye two months ago can’t look away from the most intimate part of you, and it’s making you come apart in ways that should require psychic evaluation.
“Hold still, sugar,” he orders, voice stern and hold unforgiving as he pins you in place.
“But—“
“No.”
You bite your lip, daring to lift your head and meet his eyes. They’re still focused on your aching cunt, watching as it drools so easily for him. And then he leans in.
Bucky presses a kiss to your clit, just a whisper of a touch that has you twitching yet again. But before the first noise of frustration can slip out, his mouth moves an inch lower, then another inch lower, a line of gentle pecks until he reaches your entrance and curls his tongue into you.
Your mind blanks out while your body reacts, thighs clenching around his shoulders, fingers twisting into his hair, every muscle in your body locking up. Oh.
He eats like it’s his livelihood, tongue circling your entrance before digging inside with a precision so intense, it’s like he already knows exactly what you need. His mouth dances there before his tongue revisits your clit, small flicks before heavy strokes of his tongue to get you writhing until the cycle repeats itself. The tell-tale coil in your gut tightens, your orgasm on the horizon.
“Taste so sweet,” Bucky rumbles, his eyes shooting up to find you already watching him. A dark look crosses his face, something you’ll remember for the rest of your life, before he buries himself back into your center. You whine, head falling back against the bed.
“How does it feel, baby?” His beard tickles the skin of your thighs. You pant and grip his hair tighter.
“S-so— so good—“
“Yeah? Can my girl take more?”
“…m-more?”
Bucky’s mouth is teasing your clit when you feel the blunt ends of two fingers circle your entrance. Your eyes pop open, and you manage to pull yourself onto your elbows in time to watch as his long fingers sink inside you, making your jaw fall open on a whimper. The feeling of them sliding against your walls immediately unlocks a new level of pleasure that is different from anything you’ve felt before, a level that you know only Bucky could have reached.
He curls his fingers, moving them in and out at a deviously slow pace while his tongue flicks faster and faster against your clit. A cry rips from your throat. The coil in your stomach grows tighter, hotter.
“Bucky,” you warn.
“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles between licks, meeting your eyes again. “Give it to me.”
A soft moan tumbles out of you. Pressure that is as cruel as it is generous snaps like a thread, and you come apart on his mouth like it’s the first time your body’s allowed you to feel alive.
“That’s it,” Bucky mutters into your core, easing you through it, “just like that, sweet girl.”
The pleasure strips you raw until you’re nothing but a live wire, twitching and moaning at every swipe of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. He sighs deeply into your cunt, contentedly, like your release was his release, too.
“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he rumbles, forehead dropping to your thigh as his fingers slowly pull out of you. “Those sounds...Could make a man addicted.”
He pushes up from the floor while you struggle to catch your breath, watching you like a bird of prey that just found its next meal.
The golden skin of Bucky’s torso draws the gaze of your sluggish, post-orgasm brain. It grows closer and closer as he crawls over you, and your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Or to lick every inch of him. Either could apply here.
He settles between your legs easily, naturally, and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of you.
“Be a doll and get my belt, yeah?” he murmurs against your ear, brushing a kiss to the shell of it. You shiver, your hazy brain finally registering the feel of his jeans on your thighs, and reach down with trembling fingers to unclasp it slowly, the zipper following with a sound that splits through the tension of the hot night air.
He kisses you deeply then, a strong hand around your jaw, your name whispered against your lips.
Your hands drift up to his shoulders, fingers curling into the ends of his hair as he pushes his jeans down, his boxers with them. Your eyes gravitate toward the hardness now tucked against your leg, and all it takes is a quick glance to realize that Bucky is truly a big man in every way. A whimper slips from you as you catch the shiny red tip twitch with need.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. There’s a light in them that suggests he already knows the answer to his own question.
You swallow thickly. “What if it doesn’t…”
He chuckles softly, brushing his lips to your cheek. “It will. You wanna be a good girl for you old man, don’t you?”
“Bucky,” you mumble shyly, cheeks tinted pink as something warm spreads through your stomach.
“I said I’d be good to you, and that’s what I plan on doin’.”
His hands move you effortlessly until you’re flush with him, just enough space for Bucky’s hips to rock with slow, shallow movements, his cock sliding through your folds and coating himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit, and his eyes snap to your face, watching intensely as the mounting pleasure begins to show.
You let out a shaky exhale when he notches his cock at your entrance, lashes fluttering.
“Eyes on me, baby.”
And in an inevitable moment of tenderness, Bucky’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he brings it up over your head. Then he pushes in.
You gasp, Bucky curses softly, a tension leaking from both of your bodies as he finds his sweet relief in your warmth. You’re stretched out right away, and he’s only halfway in, but it’s a fullness that that makes you feel complete, rather than feeling intrusive. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer until he eases through your tightness and slides in to the hilt. Your consequential moan harmonizes with his.
With all the restraint left in him, Bucky holds still, feeling the walls of your pussy spasm around his cock. The pattern of pressure could make him blow his load right now if he eased up even an inch on his self-control, so he grits his teeth and focuses instead on the look on your face as you adjust to him. You’re so beautiful, even with tiny tears slipping down your cheeks, that little crease between your brow. And you’re such a good girl for keeping your eyes on him.
His good girl.
“You okay?” he whispers, kissing away the tear streak on your jaw.
“Yes,” you breathe, blinking. “It feels…you feel so good, Bucky. I didn’t…”
A sound rumbles in his chest as he tests out a soft grind. You squirm instantly, hips rolling to meet his for double the pressure. His cock touches something deep within you that makes the room blur, makes you cry out.
Bucky’s free hand pushes down on your hip. “Sweet girl, if you do that one more time, this is gonna be over before it even starts.”
The pout comes automatically. Bucky kisses it off your face with the eagerness of a teenage boy, sucking your lip and folding your tongue with his as he begins a snail’s pace of little thrusts. Your cunt still pulses around him like it did when he first slid in; it makes him shake as he tries pulling out, only to be sucked back in at the first chance. His hand tightens around yours.
“Oh, God,” you whimper when he gives you a harder thrust.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he sighs, “so fuckin’ tight, tryin’ to kill me.”
“Keep goin’, Bucky. Harder.”
“Fuuuuuck…” He picks up speed, cock dragging heavily against your walls, hips snapping. You can hear it, the wet slick of your bodies meeting, and it makes your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.
“Perfect pussy,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for me. Can feel it.”
Bucky’s cock throbs while he pounds into your cunt, and the rhythm transitions into something deep and desperate and almost out of control. All the while, you can’t look away from him; even as your body jolts and moves with every thrust, your eyes are glued to the broken expression on his face, the raw vulnerability of him seeking out his pleasure in you while on a mission to give you yours.
“Fuck, Bucky,” you moan, back arching as he hits your sweet spot suddenly. His mouth descends on your throat, beard scratching at your skin.
The weight on your hip disappears when Bucky grabs your other hand, pulling it up beside the first. His thrusts get impossibly faster as he holds you down, determined to find the sweet spot again, and again, and again, until stars burst in front of your eyes and you’re clawing at his back, drool spilling from your lips while you mouth half-formed words that don’t exist.
Bucky pulls back enough to take it in, eyes roving from your face to where your bodies connect and back. “You look so pretty like this, baby,” he pants between thrusts. “All dumbed out on my cock, like you should be. Takin’ me so well.”
You whimper when you feel your stomach tighten, your muscles beginning to lock up in that way only an earth-shattering amount of pleasure can create.
“Gonna cum,” you whisper, the first coherent sentence you can think of. Bucky groans, pulling you in for a bruising kiss as his hips pummel into yours.
“Do it,” he growls into your mouth. “Wanna feel you.”
Your body trembles as it explodes and puts itself back together just to explode again. The corners of your vision go blurry. Your orgasm crashes into you with a ferocity stronger than the last, your pussy fluttering around Bucky’s cock.
His pace slows as you come back down to earth, but you’re barely given enough time to catch your breath before he’s slipping out of you and turning you over onto your stomach. You whine softly when he pulls your hips up, settling behind you on his knees.
“Goddamn, you’re a dream,” he mutters huskily, and you feel his warm breath fan over your lower back. A soft kiss is pressed to the swell of your ass before he palms roughly at it with a strong hand. “Should’ve taken you sooner.”
His hand slides lower until it cups your folds, fingers exploring and rubbing and circling freely, making you bury your face into the sheets when he brushes your sensitive clit. He learns what touch triggers the neediest sounds from you and capitalizes on it until you’re all but wriggling away from him. He catches your waist and pulls you back.
“No no no,” he soothes. “Lemme take care of you.”
Bucky slides a finger into your hole, then a second, just because he can, curling them up as if to hook you in closer. You cry out and he hums in response before his thumb brushes over your other hole, the one that’s tight and quivering from the pressure of his fingers working your cunt.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, pushing on the muscle enough to get you careening back into him. “You’d let me take you here, too, wouldn’t you? You’d be so sweet to me, so fuckin’ tight around me where no one else has been…ain’t that right, sweet girl?”
All you can do is jerk your head in a nod. He plays with both holes like he owns them, and at this point, he does. The pleasure that hadn’t really died down from your last orgasm is already on the rise again, spiking and cresting in ways you’ve never experienced before the more he circles that second hole.
“Bucky,” you gasp as he presses down on it; not going in, but just enough to break through the rim.
“Next time,” he says wistfully, pulling his fingers out of you. His cock is there to replace them in a heartbeat, and then he’s pushing back into your pussy like he never left.
“Shit—“ you exhale.
Bucky’s length feels different in this position. Longer, bigger, heavier. You don’t have to look to know he’s making your stomach bulge. He lets you adjust for a moment before taking on a pace that’s steady yet intentional. He finds his grip on you, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your hip, pushing you when he pulls back, pulling you when he pushes in. Smack-smack-smack.
“J-J-Jesus, Bucky, it f-f-feels— t-t-too much—“
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs, grabbing your neck tighter. “Such a good girl.”
He grinds into you, reaching a new depth that has you sputtering on a dry sob, pussy clenching down on him. Bucky groans.
“I know, baby, she’s been waitin’ so long for it. Gonna fill her up…make sure you’re mine for good…keep doin’ it ‘til everyone knows whose bed you’re in…”
His hips jerk suddenly, sporadically, a powerful thrust that bullies the deepest part of you and pushes you up the mattress. A breath expels out of him that could almost be categorized as a whine.
“Fuck,” he pants, “I’ll keep goin’ ‘til it takes. ‘Til you’re mine in every way. Never lettin’ go of ya—“
Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, in your veins, in your ears. You barely hear his words, let alone process them, but they still send a jolt of pleasure straight to your gut. You can’t think of anything but the drag of his cock on your walls, the stretch of your entrance at this new angle, the hold of his hand on your neck that suggests he doesn’t plan no letting you go anytime soon. And why would you want him to?
“Fill me, Buck…please. I want it…” you whisper into the pillows.
Bucky comes almost as soon as the words leave your lips, with a couple of quick, stuttered thrusts before burying himself so deep inside you, you feel him in your chest. His groan is long and ragged as the sticky release leaves his body and enters yours, settling with a finality that leaves more than just a mark on your insides. You sigh deeply as you feel him slowly relax behind you, the last of the shockwaves making his cock twitch as he pulls out. His spend leaks from your entrance and down your thigh, but a quick swipe of Bucky’s thumb returns it to where it belongs.
“Ahh—“ you hiss, but Bucky moves with purpose, gently hauling you up by the neck until you’re cradled against his chest, arms wrapped around your middle. His breathing is heavy in your ear.
“You good?” he mumbles. You only have the capacity to nod, sinking into the sweaty warmth of his skin while he places chaste kisses on your neck. “C’mon, then.”
He picks you up off the bed and carries you to the bathroom, letting you be for a moment to clean yourself up, and you know the image of his bare ass walking away is burned into your retinas for good. He returns with a set of panties and the wifebeater he was wearing before, now dressed in his boxers. He helps the shirt over your head, holds the panties for you to step into, and the act is considerate and intensely intimate, something you weren’t expecting even after the endless devotion you just received from him. His blue eyes watch you closely, softly, still dark from the throes of passion, but free from any haziness and uncertainty. He is where he wants to be, doing what he wants to be doing; there’s no room for doubt, not when you see him look at you like that.
A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder once you’re dressed. He tugs you back into the bedroom, a possessive hand on the small of your back that guides you beneath the sheets. Bucky slips in behind you, enveloping you in his familiar scent of sweat and metal and evergreen, pulling you to him after so many days of pushing you away.
“Bucky?”
“Yeah?”
You bite your lip. “Was it really me yellin’ at you that did it for ya?”
There’s a small pause before you hear a soft chuckle, just a puff of breath on your skin.
“I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t. But…it was also the before, and the after, too. Still bein’ able to have a smile that big and pretty after all the hell life’s put you through. After all the hell I put you through…it’s hard not to fall for that. You’re a…good person to be around.”
Your stomach erupts with butterflies, your skin zings with electricity wherever he touches you. His words are exactly what your soul craves, so much so that it hurts.
“Careful,” you whisper, “this is startin’ to sound like the sweet nothins you say you don’t give.”
You can feel his smile against your spine. He tugs you closer. “Don’t be difficult.”
“Me? Never.”
A few beats of silence pass, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to lie next to him without saying a word.
“I meant what I said,” he eventually murmurs, absentmindedly stroking your collarbone.
“What part?” you whisper, lips brushing his hand.
His voice is gruff in your ear, low and tentative. “‘bout not lettin’ you go.”
A smile cracks across your face. “Oh, yeah?…what about the other parts?”
He makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Y’heard that?”
You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s focused on a spot on your shoulder, smoldering intensity written across his face dulled only by a touch of sheepishness.
“I heard all of it,” you tell him softly. His eyes meet yours, dark blue storms drowning you in their path.
“Couldn’t help myself,” he says, licking his lips before placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the back of your neck. You bend toward him like a flower to the sun. “I want you waitin’ for me when I get home. I want you givin’ me hell for being late for dinner. I want you doin’ laundry in my underwear.” His lips brush your skin again, hands wandering beneath his shirt. “I want you keepin’ me up all night, lovin’ on me ‘til I know nothin’ but you. I wanna show you in every way I know how that I can be what you need.”
Your hand curls in his hair, forcing him to look at you. “You already are,” you whisper.
Bucky slots his mouth over yours with a groan, promising tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with his kiss.
sammy speaks again: if I told you this took me two months to write would you believe me? 30k words too like I could have shortened it sammy let’s be real, but I think my body physically rejects the idea of not providing an encyclopedia of a build up. which this seriously is, holy introspection and emotions like can I write normally for once? anyway idk what happened to me but I’m just grateful I’ve finally broken through the funk!
good news is I feel way more open and inspired to write my other wips after signing the dotted line on this one. let me get through a couple shorties and then I’ll be back with one of those!
as always I appreciate all the love and feedback, and thank you again for following this blog❣️
I recently saw this one post saying something about how Bucky would slot his dog tags between his teeth during sex to keep them from clanking or bothering during the moment y’know and I immediately thought of you. 😌
Would you mind writing something soul crushingly horny based on this?-
Much love. Mwah ❤️
. ୨୧ ݁ ꒰ 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍, 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 ⊹ . bucky x fem!reader. minors are prohibited from interacting.
𝔀arnings 18+ : explicit sexual content, no use of y/n, rough sex, unprotected sex, dog tag kink, biting, metal arm kink, possessiveness, dirty talk and general filth
𝓪uthor’s 𝓷ote : ughhhhh this was so yummy!!!! love me some dog tags on buckyyy
Bucky’s on top of you, all heat and coiled power, his broad frame pinning you down as he drives into you with deep, relentless thrusts. His dog tags dangle between his bare chest and yours, cool metal kissing your flushed skin with every roll of his hips, like a silent vow, a reminder of the soldier who’s finally letting himself take what he wants. They’ve been brushing against you the whole time but now they’re clinking softly, rhythmically, against the smooth vibranium of his left arm, the sound mixing with your shared breaths and the wet slap of skin on skin.
He growls low in his throat, a sound that vibrates through you.
“Fuckin’ tags,” he mutters, voice rough like gravel and smoke. His hips don’t stop though, deep deliberate rolls that drag his cock along every sensitive inch inside you, stretching you open so perfectly it makes your toes curl. You’re soaked, thighs slick with it, trembling around his waist as he pins you down with that effortless super-soldier strength.
You reach up, fingers brushing the chain at his neck. “Leave them,” you breathe, because the sound is filthy in its own way, the soft metallic music of him claiming you.
But Bucky’s eyes, stormy blue, pupils blown wide with lust darken further. He leans down, mouth brushing your ear, breath hot. “They’re distracting you from what I want you feeling.”
In one smooth motion, he catches the tags between his teeth. The chain pulls taut against the back of his neck, the metal plates disappearing into his mouth. His jaw flexes, lips parting just enough for you to see the silver edge glinting against his tongue. The sight alone rips a fresh wave of heat through you, Bucky, the Winter Soldier, reduced to biting down on his own history just so he can fuck you without anything getting in the way.
He groans around the tags, the sound muffled and raw. Then he drives into you harder.
No more clinking. Just the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedframe, and the obscene sounds of your body taking him. His metal fingers dig into your hip, cool and unyielding, while his flesh hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing at the corner of your mouth like he wants to feel how wrecked you are.
“Look at me,” he demands around the metal. His voice is distorted, rougher, sex-drenched. Sweat beads at his temple, dark hair falling into his eyes as he fucks you with punishing precision, long strokes that bottom out and grind against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. Every time he bottoms out, his abs flex against your clit, and the tags shift between his teeth with the motion, a constant, visible reminder of how much control he’s exerting just for you.
You moan his name and he bites down harder, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours like he’s memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your cunt around his cock. The chain trembles against his throat with each thrust. You can see the way his tongue moves against the tags inside his mouth, the way his lips are shiny with spit, and it’s so fucking filthy you clench around him involuntarily.
“That’s it,” he growls through clenched teeth, the words barely intelligible but vibrating straight down to your core. “Milk me, doll. Let me feel how much you love this.”
Your hands scramble up his back, nails digging into scarred skin and metal plating alike. He’s relentless, hips snapping faster now, the wet sounds louder, your slick coating his balls as they slap against you. The dog tags stay right where he put them, trapped between those perfect teeth, catching the light every time he pulls back to look at where you’re stretched around him.
You’re close. So fucking close. And Bucky knows it, he always does. He drops his forehead to yours, tags still clenched tight, breath coming in hot pants around the metal. His voice is a broken rasp:
“Come on my cock while I’ve got these between my teeth, baby. Want to feel you fall apart knowing I’d do anything- anything- to keep fucking you right.”
The orgasm slams into you like lightning under your skin, sudden, devastating, unstoppable. Your back arches sharply off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your throat as your pussy clamps down hard around his thick cock, fluttering and pulsing in relentless waves. Pleasure rips through every nerve ending, white-hot and overwhelming, leaving you shaking uncontrollably beneath him.
Bucky doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even falter. He keeps fucking you through it with those deep, grinding thrusts, hips rolling relentlessly as he chases his own release, dragging out your climax until you’re a whimpering, sobbing mess beneath him.
Only then does he let the tags fall from his mouth, spit-slick and gleaming, dropping heavy and cool against your heaving chest. He buries his face in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer as he spills deep inside you, hips stuttering, metal arm braced beside your head so he doesn’t crush you.
For a long moment, there’s just the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint, final clink of the dog tags settling between your sweat-slick bodies.
Bucky kisses the side of your throat, soft and reverent now, his lips brushing tenderly over the spot where his teeth had been clenched moments before.
“Next time,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “I’m putting them between your teeth. See how quiet you can stay while I ruin you.”
✧･ﾟ:bucky doesn’t waste time after sex with cuddling. You’re spent and tired, he’s got the serum pumping through his body, and he’ll do everything that needs to be done. Water and some food, using the bathroom, cleaning up, he puts it all on himself with methodical precision, until you catch his elbow and ask him to rest. He tells you that he is resting, but folds under your stern glare, kissing the back of your hand before trailing after you into the shower. You wash his hair, if he lets you. You lead him back to bed and make him rest as well, because you know he won’t if you don’t make him.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
✧･ﾟ:it takes Bucky a while to see any part of his body as good, but he could list everything about yours for a million years without stopping. Soft lips and pretty eyes and gentle hands that feel right in his. Every single curve and dip is perfect, because it’s yours, and you’re the best thing he has. If you make him chose one thing about himself, he’ll dodge around the question for as long as he can manage, before muttering he doesn’t hate his mouth. It’s useful on your body, and that’s all he needs.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
✧･ﾟ:the serum had some… side effects. At first he’s embarrassed by them, worried that he might hurt you, or you’ll find it disgusting. It’s a lovely surprise, the way your eyes get blown out and glossy with desire the first time he cums in front of you. It’s endless, shooting out of his cock until it’s raw and sore, almost drowning you when it’s on your face and stuffing you up when you convince it to keep it in. He’ll moan in your ear and double over, giving shallow micro thrusts as you milk him dry, and your eyes roll back in your head with the sheer, thick, beautiful volume of him.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
He doesn’t like to ask for things, but that doesn’t stop his head from running wild with lewd, obscene images that almost make him blush. He’s got a vivid imagination, and he’s spent more showers and nights than he’ll admit indulging in it. The images of you on your knees, ass up and cunt exposed—or folded in half beneath him, or riding his cock and crying his name—seep into his dreams, until he can’t close his eyes without being haunted by the idea of how gorgeous you’d be, coming apart for him. Even after you get together the dreams won’t relent. You’ve woken up many nights to Bucky almost humping you in his sleep, his eyes fluttering and your name falling from his lips. You indulge him, and pretend you don’t notice the dark stain on the front of his sweats in the morning. It’s hotter than he needs to know, anyway.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Back in the 40s he might’ve been called a womanizer, but the standards were different. Fooling around wasn’t too kinky, and often didn’t really even go past second base. And after Hydra, intimacy was mostly forgotten. Bucky knows what he’s doing, but with your body more than his own. He’s good at the hand and mouth stuff—so good you sometimes still can’t believe it—but penetration takes a while for you both to build up to. Sometimes he still blows it a little early when you put your mouth on him, not used to that kind of warmth and care. He’s a quick learner, though, and it doesn’t take long for you both to find a nice, shared rhythm in how you fuck.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
At first, when you’re still learning each other, he says there’s nothing better than some good, old fashioned missionary. It’s the good, Christian boy in him coming back out, taught well by his Ma that rough is no way to treat a lady. But then you talk him into doggy, and he’s a goner. The way he gets to hold you up with a single arm and play with your clit with the other, the way your arms give out from how well he’s giving it to you, the vision of your ass in the air, it’s enough to drive a man mad. Combine that with how you moan when he forces your back to arch—giving him an even deeper angle, making your walls clench down around him like a sin—and he never stood a goddamn chance.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
He might’ve been playful before, and after a while he starts to find it again, but sex is mostly something serious. It’s close, vulnerable, impossibly intimate. He doesn’t do casual, and it shows. A single smile might not be cracked some days, but the worship of your body more than makes up for it. His brow gets furrowed in concentration, his mouth hangs open with awe, and if you’re lucky, his lips twitch slightly when you shiver under his touch. He calls you perfect, and you’ve never believed anyone more.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
The military training doesn’t fade away. Bucky keeps himself clean and neat, more for himself than anyone else. He lets a little hair grow out as he settles into an easier life, but it’s well-groomed and clean. When his chest hair comes back he thinks about keeping that shaven as well, but you just manage to talk him out of it. He lets you have that. It’s another thing he learns to love about himself, just because of you.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
While reserved at first, Bucky quickly becomes the most romantic man you’ve ever known. Random gifts are frequent, too the point that you’re so spoiled as to expect them. It translates smoothly into sex, where he gives and gives and gives until you almost can’t take it anymore. Praise is showered down like flower petals, affection whispered into your skin and kissed onto your lips. You can almost feel his love in every single touch, and even if you couldn’t, it falls from his lips like a prayer when he’s buried inside of you. He kisses you almost every second, everywhere he can reach, every inch of you that he wants you feel.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Before he met you, it was something he did quick and fast in the shower when he needed some release. An itch he needed to scratch, a way to quickly relieve stress before moving on with his day. But then you’re there, and it becomes another part of his devotion. It starts with shame—his head bowed, his hand braced on the wall, his cum slipping down the drain while he pretends it’s on your face—but quickly evolves into something more. He whispers your name into countless pillows and sheets before he has you, then discovers his favorite part of this century. Calling you while he’s away, and moaning your name into the phone while you gasp his, and he hears your pussy, wet and ready for him in the background.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Bucky loves your voice. How it gets breathy and high for him when he’s got you on the edge, how it whimpers and calls out his name like a song, even how it scolds him when he gets on your bad side. You could say anything to him, and he’d find his pants getting tight and his hands flexing to touch you. You notice, and whisper sweet nothings in his ears when you want to work him up. He grunts and forms a fist on his thigh, trying to stop himself from tossing you onto the table and giving you something to really moan about.
He’ll never admit it, but there’s nothing he loves more than wrapping around you like a shield. Than—even if he’s not—feeling bigger than you, like a protector rather than a weapon. When you’re cradled in his arms he feels almost worthy of it, when your little pussy tightens around him, he’s sure this is exactly where he needs to be, and when your hands tangle together and his envelopes yours, he’s sure he’s never going to let go.
There’s nothing more he loves more than a mouthy girl who can tell him off and boss him around, half because you’re never sexier than when you’re confident, and half because that’s a confidence and sass he gets to fuck right out of you. The one place he wants you dumb and babbling is below him, trusting that he’s taking good care of you, blinking up at him with doe eyes and a blown out, cockdrunk expression. You get the attitude right back when he’s done, but he just chuckles and rolls his hips just right, making you stutter and whine. His girl is nice and stupid for him, and just him, and that’s exactly what he wanted.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Bucky doesn’t know how good it can feel to take you against the wall or in the kitchen until he does, and suddenly he wants to fuck you in every corner of the apartment. There shouldn’t be a place that you haven’t felt good in, a spot in this home that doesn’t know how perfect you are. And after testing every single surface and edge, he finds that he might be in love with taking you on the floor. There’s something desperate and dirty about it, that you can’t wait for the bed to crawl all over him and bed. He gets to cradle you in his arms and keep you safe from the low windows of your apartment, or hold you above him and protect you from the ground. You’re even more of a mess after, when he takes you like that, and that’s just how he likes it.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
At first it’s small things. Touches and flashes of bare skin that make him feel like a teenager again, a kiss on his cheek that makes his cock twitch or a squeeze of his shoulder that forces him to squeeze his eyes shut for control. Then you get more comfortable together, and you start sassing him, and he’s never realized he could be this fucking horny. It doesn’t matter what you’re saying or how you’re saying it, if you’re talking at him—rolling your eyes or bossing him around or huffing about something silly—he wants to crawl over you like a tiger and kiss you until you’re giggling and starry eyed. There’s nothing better in the world than his smart girl, and there’s no one better to deal with it than him.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
The lines are harsh and clear, grooved into the bedrock of your relationship, along with Bucky’s trust. Nothing with binds, nothing where he can’t see you, nothing in public and nothing that might really hurt you. His metal hand doesn’t go around your throat, you tap out immediately if anything is too much, and you tell him exactly what you want so he can give it, and nothing more. And he gives it. Over and over with ease, but only as you ask. And you ask. He’s too good not to.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Bucky likes eating you out, a little more than he thinks he should. It’s easy to him, a simple way to get on his knees and show you just how good he can make you feel. You get whiny, when he’s got his head between your thighs, and that’s just how he likes you. Writhing and squirting on his face, pulling at his hair until he groans your name against your cunt, and you let out a strangled gasp of his name. It makes him feel more human, more grounded, and so impossibly real. You’re softer than anything else he’s ever known, and tasting you is the closest he can get to being drunk. When you get on your knees for him, though, he sometimes tries to pull you back up. He never wants you to feel like you have some kind of obligation, and it can take a while to convince him you’re there because you want to be. He always comes apart embarrassingly fast, when your warm lips wrap around his cock. It’s hard to blame him. You just have that effect.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
He can go fast and rough, but you have to beg him for it. He never wants to go harder than he has to, and there’s a low fear under every movement that he’s going to snap you in half. He prefers to kiss every inch of your body and draw out the time he’s buried inside of you, losing himself in your heat and dazed, adoring expression. He can be mean like that, if you want him to be. The pace has nothing to do with teasing you like you deserve, with slow, lazy thrusts that bully against your g-spot, giving so much and not enough, all at once. Making you cry for him, perfectly safe and wound tight enough to burst beneath him, just how he likes you.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Sex is important enough that Bucky doesn’t like rushing it, but sometimes you get to him—bending over in a little dress, sitting on his lap and rolling your hips in the way you know drives him mad—and his cock gets so hard he can’t help himself. If there’s no one around he’ll hitch up your skirt or shove his hand into your pants, playing with your little pussy until you’re dripping for him and begging. When he decides you’re ready he thrusts in brutally, rutting up into your cunt with his face pressed into your neck and his moans low and desperate. You both cum with gasps, and Bucky slaps your sensitive clit. He’ll nip at your neck and warn you not to tease him again. You never listen. You know he likes it too much.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Maybe when he was younger, Bucky might’ve let a pretty girl talk him into something crazy, but now he’s old. Tired half the time, itching to get out of his skin the other half, sure what he likes in bed and—more importantly—sure of what he doesn’t. You’re the only one who can get him to take the small step outside his comfort, because he knows you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t really want it. And there isn’t much he wouldn’t do for you. A small experiment that makes you cum all over him is a small sacrifice to make .
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
The super solider serum has it’s benefits, and this might be the only one that Bucky never regrets. Before he was batting a strong two or three with proper recouperation time, but now he can go up to ten without flinching. He’s more than grateful for it. He’s worried he wouldn’t be able to keep up with you, if he didn’t have that extra leg up. Your appetite for him is so great that you push him to his limits, and he didn’t know that was possible, but he still lets you every time. You seem determined to find out exactly how long he can go for. He’d be worried about it, if he wasn’t having the time of his life.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
A lot of things have changed in the past century, and toys are a one of the things Bucky hasn’t really gotten yet. He doesn’t need one for himself, and he’s of the mind that—with how expensive vibrations are—there’s no need for you to have one either. He’s got a mouth and cock that can go all night, and a metal arm that can work like a toy if you’re that needy and desperate. You’d never thought to throw out your vibration until you had a massive super soldier next to you in bed. Metal fingers can fuck you until tears are springing to your eyes, and he can move his thumb so fast across your clit it basically feels like you’re at the mercy of a toy. A toy with soft lips, that drawl low praise and look at you like you’re an angel. Who could need anything else?
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Bucky doesn’t like to be too public or obvious—another roll over of 40s sensibilities—but if you’re begging for it, he won’t stop himself from landing a sharp, teasing slap on your ass or tracing his fingers up your inner thighs. Never enough to make you do anything rash, but that’s not his goal. He wants to see you squirm and flush, to smell that sweet arousal pooling between your legs. He’s making sure that, when he finally does get his hands on you, you’ll be more than ready for him. Just how he likes it.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
He’s not too loud unless you really get him going. Most praise and dirty talk is whispered in your ear or against your skin, and his own grunts and moans are low and controlled. But then you get your mouth on him, or clench down on his cock just right, and a deep, loud moan rumbles through his chest. You toy with his balls in a trembling hand, and he doubles over with lidded eyes, almost shouting your name for the whole of New York to hear. You smile at him, kissing every roar off his lips, and his control starts to slip, only for you.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Phone sex is something he never wants to give up. He has to leave frequently, for missions and meetings and work, and the knowledge that you’re still thinking of him like he’s thinking of you almost gets him there all on its own. A lewd part of him likes the idea that someone might hear him calling your name through the thin hotel walls, so everyone knows how well you’re worshipped, how thoroughly he adores you. He likes just the sound of your voice calling his name. He thinks he could make it off of phone sex only, for at least a month. He’d need you back eventually, but this is almost enough.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Bucky was packing before the serum, but it didn’t neglect his cock when it made everything bigger. The first time you see him, you’re worried you’ll barely even be able to get the head in. He’s got a cock so big it makes your mouth water and your eyes prick with tears from just sliding between the lips of your pussy. Once you tried to talk him into a dildo because it would’ve been smaller and easier. He always kisses your brows and coos that you can take it, and you can, but barely. The stretch hits places inside of you that you didn’t know you had, and Bucky has the nerve to be sweet and humble about it. It just makes it easier, though. So, so much easier, when that monster cock is attached to that perfect man.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Before you, it was more of an itch that he really couldn’t ignore, no matter how he tried. He had a drive, but it was more mechanical. Then you strolled into his life, and suddenly he’s something akin to an animal. You can walk around the apartment in pajamas and slippers, and Bucky feels his dick twitch to attention. He wants to be as close to you as he can, all the time, and if that means bending you over the closest surface and showing you just how much he loves you, than so be it.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
He might not need it like most people, but Bucky loves his sleep. He’d keep you both in bed all day, just cuddling and napping and having mindblowing sex if he was allowed to. Once you’re both settled and cleaned up, you’re not allowed out of bed for at least a few hours so Bucky can get some rest. He sleeps better after sex, and better with you in his arms, and the two combined can even work to keep the nightmares at bay. He tells you that it’s all you, but you think it’s him. Working to get past it, to stay with you, to find slices of peace and hold onto them, with you laying right where you belong, at his side.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦
✦Author's Note: he's such a soft lil guy i need him✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦
Summary: After months of perfect obedience in Steve's basement, you are finally rewarded with a new life upstairs as his pampered, collared princess.
Pairing: Steve Kemp x Female Reader
Word count: 6.6k
Warnings/notes: dead dove type shit!; kidnapping/captivity (the act of kidnapping the reader is not described); Stockholm Syndrome (heavy on this one!!); extreme power imbalance; psychological manipulation (heavily implied); “upstairs wife”; the other girls do NOT get the upstairs treatment!!; obsessive behavior; master/pet dynamics; reader crawls around in a collar and leash; smut; praise kink; oral sex (f! & m! receiving); anal play (tongue and fingers); orgasm denial/edging; overstimulation; breeding kink/lactation kink (brief); p in v; unprotected sex; aftercare (Steve is a cannibal, not an animal); Steve Kemp (that entire man is a warning, please); very light mentions of cannibalism (no actual cannibalism actions in the fic); pet names (mostly princess); no use of Y/N; unbeta'd
The air in this basement has always been the same from day one: cold, damp. Thick with the smell of fear. Not your fear, no; you learned quickly to breathe in and out slowly, to be patient for him. No screaming, no fighting, no wasting energy. You couldn’t say the same for the others. You still hear the rattling of their chains, sometimes, hissed curses when they think he’s not listening (or when they think he is). Not you. Never you. You kept your eyes down, voice soft when spoken to, your body ready to please the second his footsteps sounded on the stairs.
You don’t want to believe you’re Steve’s favorite, not yet. But you notice he lingers at your cell more often. That his fingers brush your cheek instead of gripping your throat, that he smiles at you instead of scolding you. Your food tray always has a little something extra: a square of chocolate still in its gold foil, some blueberries. And sometimes, he even murmurs a gentle “good girl” in your ear like a secret only the two of you know.
And still. Still, you don’t think you’re his favorite. You’re just nice enough that he doesn’t see reason to punish you.
After learning just about everything to survive in this basement, down to the exact rhythm of Steve’s footsteps, it’s not strange that you notice immediately that he sounds different today. You know the difference in his movements when he comes for reward or for punishment, but today he’s slower, even more deliberate than usual.
The key slides home in your lock first, as it always does every day—he feeds you first, clothes you, touches you until he’s sated. When he visits the other girls, he barely spends any time with them. All of it is dedicated to you only.
Steve pauses on the threshold, letting the silence settle between you until your pulse is fluttering against your throat like a hummingbird in a cage.
He leans against the frame for a moment, enough for you to notice the way his sleeves are rolled to the elbow, showing off his forearms, and how he’s holding something in his hands.
A collar. Leather painted in the palest blush-pink—the exact shade he once told you was your color when you wore it in your lingerie—lined in cream suede that looks like it will feel like a kiss against warm skin. A small heart-shaped tag swings from the silver D-ring, catching the weak glow from the overhead bulb. The words GOOD GIRL are engraved in delicate letters, glinting like a promise.
“Princess,” he says, voice warm. He sounds proud. “You’ve been my best girl.”
Steve doesn’t ask for anything. Never needs to, because you always provide, always ready. You sink to your knees without being told, thighs parting slightly and concrete unforgiving against your skin. You welcome the pain; it has become just another language you speak fluently, one you can translate perfectly into obedience. You think the way you’ve mastered that art is perhaps one of the many reasons why he favors you so much.
He crouches in front of you, close enough that the heat of his body chases away the basement cold from your skin. The scent of cedarwood wraps around you as one hand lifts your chin and the other draws the pink leather along the line of your jaw, down the column of your throat as if mapping every inch he owns.
“Pretty. Prettier when you’re mine.” His words send a chill down your spine, but not an unwelcome one. You feel yourself grow slick, helpless, a response he has trained into your nervous system.
Then Steve smiles, a type of smile someone who doesn’t know him as well as you do would mistake for plain sweetness.
“I have something for you, princess.” His hands move slowly around your neck, slipping the collar around it, soft like silk, so supple it molds perfectly to your throat like it has always belonged right there. He buckles it slowly, letting you feel every tiny shift, every fraction of pressure until the fit is perfect: snug enough that you are constantly aware of it, loose enough that you can still swallow perfectly well. The little silver heart settles just above your collarbone, the branded words on the tag now a part of yourself, too. Almost as if Steve had branded them right into your skin.
A few seconds later, his fingers reach towards the D-ring and clip a shiny silver leash with a soft click.
“Do you know what this means?” He asks.
You don’t. By now, you truly believe you know every variable of this place. Every shift in the air, Steve’s schedule, how his moods shift and change like the tides. But this is new. Uncharted territory. You shake your head just barely, not yet daring to use words unless he asks you to. Words have always been a privilege—one you know he lets you have because you won't abuse it.
“It means you don't belong down here anymore,” he tells you, fingers trailing the pink collar as if he is measuring something about it.
In a swift movement, Steve rises, and the leash tightens as he gives it the smallest tug. Just once, as if testing how it feels. Is this the first time he's doing this? It can't be.
As he moves towards the door, you follow. On your hands and knees, breasts swaying softly under your shirt, the heart tag dangling with every movement. You notice, as you crawl behind Steve, truly looking like a puppy following its owner, that he's left all other cells open tonight.
All the girls you see are handcuffed, unable to move—and you realize he's making them watch you.
The girls stare as you crawl. One of them whimpers. Another spits a word you don't catch. But Steve—Steve doesn't look anywhere but behind his back, staring straight at you with something in his eyes that looks too kind on a man like him.
“Ladies, pay attention,” he announces, voice ringing off the cinder block walls. “No one else is getting favorite treatment. But I still hope you all will behave.”
Another slow pull of the silver leash, and you follow obediently, knees scraping against the hard floor, slick heat gathering between your legs. Submission feels like power today. Like every day you spent perfecting yourself for him offered you this: a chance to crawl upstairs. To a new world. A home with him. A place where good girls are kept on silk instead of concrete.
Steve doesn’t rush you as he waits for you to move up the stairs. Each step is measured, the leash loose in his fist, giving you just enough slack to feel the pull without ever stumbling. Behind you, the basement begins to feel like a different world. You think you hear someone sob, but the sound begins to fade with each step you climb. When you reach the door, and Steve opens it for you, the air changes. It starts to smell like coffee and cherry candles, a contrast to the always too heavy and damp scent in the basement. Your knees ache, skin scraped, but the pain means you’re moving forward, away.
Steve tugs once on your leash, making you stop in place.
“Look at me, princess.” And you do. You lift your head, eyes meeting his. The light is softer up here, and it turns his eyes the color of a summer sky you haven’t seen in months. Steve studies you for a moment before he leans down and brushes his thumb across your lips.
“You’re trembling. Not from fear, I hope,” he says, much too softly.
You shake your head. The truth feels too big for words yet, so you let your body answer instead: you lean into his palm, like a kitten purring for scratches. Steve smiles approvingly.
“Good girl.”
Then he straightens back up, giving the leash the gentlest tug to lead you down the hallway.
Sunlight pours through tall windows you didn’t know existed, painting stripes across the floor. You crawl through them, warmth soaking into your shoulders and seeping into your bones, welcoming you, until you reach a white door at the end of the hall.
Steve opens it, revealing to you a bedroom. Not a cell, not four cinderblock walls meant to hold you prisoner. A real bed with pillows piled high and a duvet the color of heavy cream. Soft rugs under your sensitive knees. A full-length mirror on one wall.
Then a click. Steve unhooks the leash but leaves the collar in place. For a moment, the absence of tension at your throat feels strange, then perfect. He nudges your shoulder once.
“You can get up, princess,” he says with quiet confidence. “This is yours now. All of it.”
In one slow movement, you get off your knees to finally stand, making your way to the mirror. Your hair is longer than it was the first time you got here, a little tangled but still shining in the sunlight; eyes wide, lips parted, nipples taut beneath the thin shirt you were given a few days ago. You don’t look cherished, but you look like you’re about to be.
In the reflection, you see Steve stepping behind you, hands settling on your shoulders and then sliding down your arms until his fingers lace with yours.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your ear. “You’ve earned the right to ask.”
The answer is immediate, voice cracked from disuse but as certain as ever.
“You,” you whisper. “Only you. Always.”
His arms come around you fully then, pulling you back against his chest. One hand splays over the collar on your neck, thumb stroking the engraved heart.
“My favorite girl,” he says, voice rough with satisfaction.
He turns you then, gently moving you until you’re pressing to the edge of the bed and sitting down. And then, he kneels.
Steve, your Steve, kneeling for you, lifting one bare foot into his lap, kissing the raw skin of your knee like it’s something sacred, like his lips can cure the pain.
“First,” he begins speaking between slow presses of his mouth. “a bath. Then we get you proper clothes. Then dinner—I made something delicious for you.” His eyes flick up, a mix of wicked and tender, as his fingers slowly massage the muscle of your leg. “And then, we’ll come back here. And I’ll show you exactly how you’ll get spoiled up here.”
You reach for him, fingers threading through his hair before they freeze. Would he even let you touch him like this?
Steve doesn’t back away. He leans further into your touch, like he craves it, too, and he kisses up your leg until he reaches the end of your shorts. And just as your breath hitches, he leans back.
When he rises again, he lifts you like you weigh nothing, arms under your thighs and back, cradling you against his chest. As Steve carries you to the bathroom, you feel it instantly—the scent of roses filling your senses, overwhelming you in the best possible way.
The bathroom is all white marble and gold fixtures, steam curling from a tub the size of a small bed. Rose petals float on the surface, real ones, deep crimson against the water like drops of blood. Whether it’s a reminder or just a coincidence, the sight ignites something in you. Still not fear. Just an awareness that bleeds out slowly.
Steve sets you down on the marble edge of the tub before he kneels in front of you again, fingers reaching for your shirt and rolling it up your torso with deliberate care, knuckles dragging over your ribs.
“Arms up, princess.”
The thin shirt peels away like a bad memory, tossed aside like it never belonged to you in the first place. He doesn’t rush. His palms glide over your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, pausing to circle each nipple until they tighten painfully and you have to bite your bottom lip to remain quiet.
Then his head dips, forehead pressed just below where your tag rests, and his lips press a kiss to your sternum, down, down, until he moves again and wraps his mouth around one nipple. Warm, filthy, his tongue curls around the tight bud before he ever so lightly suckles on it.
You almost slip off the edge of the tub if it weren’t for his tight grip on your body keeping you upright.
“Steve—”
His hands move to your waist and dig into the skin as you moan his name.
“One day, I’m gonna put a baby in you,” he says after releasing your nipple with a pop. “And then sucking on these pretty tits will taste even better.”
Your shorts come next. Steve hooks his fingers in the waistband and drags them down, mouth following along: the hollow of your hip, the soft skin just above your mound, the inside of each thigh. When you’re left bare, except for the pink collar still resting against your neck, Steve lifts one of your feet to the edge of the tub, spreading you open and exposing you to his gaze.
“My sweet girl,” he whispers reverently. “Already dripping like honey. Just for me.”
One thick finger slides through your folds, gathering the wetness, tracing up to circle your clit with devastating patience. Your hips jerk; he steadies you with a hand on your thigh.
“Later,” he promises, voice rough. “You’ll come when I'm inside you. Be patient.”
He lifts you again with no effort and lowers you into the water. It closes over your skin, almost too hot, before you allow yourself to relax against the tub. Rose petals cling to your breasts, your throat.
It's been a while since you've taken a bath. Steve would allow you a quick shower every couple of days, whenever he deemed you were unclean—but it was practical. Wash, soap, rinse, leave. Methodical.
This is different. This is caring.
Steve takes the cloth, wets it, and starts with your throat. He circles the pink leather of your collar reverently, letting warm water trickle over the buckle and down between your breasts. His thumb traces the engraved words on the tag while his mouth finds the spot just beneath your ear.
“From now on, this stays on,” he murmurs against your skin. “Always.”
He washes you like he’s memorizing you. Shoulders. Arms. The curve of each breast lifted in his palm, nipple rolling between wet fingers until you’re whimpering. Down your belly, cloth abandoned, just his bare hands now, slick with soap that smells like vanilla. When he reaches between your legs, he doesn’t tease; he cups you fully, heel of his hand grinding slow circles while two fingers slip inside, curling and stroking that spot that makes your thighs tremble.
Your head falls back against the tub’s edge. Water sloshes; petals cling and fall away.
“Steve—”
“Shh. Let me feel how soft you are for me.”
He keeps you there, on the glittering edge, until your breath is nothing but broken pleas. Only then does he ease his fingers free, and bring them to his mouth to lick them clean while watching you with half-lidded eyes.
He washes your hair next. Nails scraping your scalp, warm water pouring over you again and again until you’re boneless. Days and hours have become meaningless since Steve brought you to his place and you became someone far away from who you once were. But one thing you remember from your other life?
No one ever treated you like you’re holy.
And Steve does.
When he’s finished, he leans over the tub, sleeves soaked, and kisses you slowly, his tongue stroking yours like he’s taming a wild animal. One hand cradles the back of your neck, the other strokes your cheek, awfully tender for a man like him.
Only when you’re trembling again, when your hands are clutching at his wet shirt like a lifeline, does he finally move you to wrap your body in a soft, fuzzy towel.
He carries you then, back into the bedroom, and sets you down on the edge of the bed like something too fragile to be handled any differently. The towel falls the moment his hands leave you, pooling at your waist. You make no effort to cover yourself; he has seen every part of you more times than you can count.
Steve kneels again (he really seems to love kneeling for you tonight), opening a drawer at the end of the dresser. You’ve never looked inside of it before—but you realize now, as he lifts the first pieces, that it is filled with clothes chosen for you.
First, panties: blush-pink lace so delicate it’s nearly transparent, with a tiny satin bow at the center. He smiles and holds them open at your feet.
“Step,” he murmurs.
You do, rising from the bed and moving one foot, then the other, before Steve slides the panties up your legs with deliberate slowness. When the fabric settles between your barely parted thighs, it takes only a few seconds to become soaked; Steve notices, of course, and presses a soft kiss just above the waistband.
“Lovely,” he purrs against your skin.
Then, the stockings: sheer ivory silk with a wide band of lace at the top. He rolls them up your calves, over your knees, smoothing every inch with his palms until the lace kisses mid-thigh. His mouth follows the path of his hands, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive backs of your knees until they’re buckling and he has to hold you so your legs don’t give out. The hem brushes the tops of your stockings, barely covering the lace panties.
Steve steps back to look, his throat working as he admires you like a painting in a gallery.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Turn for me.”
You do, slowly. And when you face him again, his eyes are almost black with want.
One more thing.
He produces a matching robe from behind the door and slips it over your shoulders. The belt ties in a loose bow at your waist, and his hands settle on your hips, thumbs stroking the silk.
“My honey princess,” he whispers into your ear. “Looking good enough to eat.”
Another time, maybe before you grew used to the way Steve is, those words would have set you on a path of panic. Tonight, they sound only like soft teasing, and you barely even flinch. And as he pulls you gently to the full-length mirror so you can see what he sees, your heart thuds in your chest.
You look adored.
His.
Steve stands behind you, one arm around your waist, the other moving up your arm, pushing some hair away from your shoulder before he kisses it gently.
“My favorite girl. Always have been my favorite girl. From the moment I laid eyes on you in that supermarket.”
His hand slips beneath the robe, under the slip, fingers sliding easily into the soaked lace of your panties. Immediately, you sag against him, a broken sound escaping your throat.
“Still dripping,” he says with praise, circling your clit once. “Good. I want you ready for me all night.”
Slowly, he withdraws his hand and brings his fingers to your lips. Your mouth parts obediently, and you lick them clean, tasting yourself on his digits.
But Steve has plans to feed you properly, now that you’re truly his girl.
The dining room glows soft gold, candles trembling as the air shifts around them. One place is set at the polished table: heavy silver, a single chair pulled out for you. Steve settles beside you, so close that the silk robe brushes against his trousers every time you move.
You will never say it out loud, not unless he demands you to; but this moment, right here, at his dinner table, is the only one you had actually feared. To see what he had prepared for you to eat. Your fingers tremble, throat dry—but Steve doesn’t let you reach and lifts the silver dome himself.
A beat-
No meat. No blood.
Instead, there is a small cast-iron pot of mushroom risotto, creamy and fragrant with thyme and white wine; grilled asparagus glistening with lemon butter; a bowl of the fattest strawberries you’ve ever seen, some of them already dipped in dark chocolate and dusted with sea salt.
Steve spoons risotto onto your plate, steam curling between you.
“I know what you’re afraid to ask,” he says quietly, eyes on your face rather than the food. “You think one day I’ll put something on this plate that used to scream.”
He sets the spoon down, reaches for your hand, and presses it flat over his heart.
“Not for you. Never for you.”
His voice is low, almost tender, the same tone he used when he buckled the collar around your throat.
“I remember the first week,” he continues, thumb stroking your knuckles. “You couldn’t even keep broth down if you thought too hard about where the bones came from. My sweet girl is gentle. Fragile in ways the others never were.” A faint, crooked smile. “I like you gentle. I’m keeping you that way.”
He lifts a forkful of risotto and brings it to your lips.
“Open.”
You do. The rice is like velvet on your tongue. There’s no taste of anything metallic, nothing that reminds you of pain. Just warmth and butter and the faint taste of wine.
He watches you swallow, watches relief loosen your shoulders, and his smile widens.
“See? Only plants died for this meal, sweet princess.” He feeds you another bite, then an asparagus spear he’s dipped in the lemon butter, letting you lick the last drops from his thumb. He doesn’t react to the way your lips wrap around his finger, but you think you notice his eyes darken just a fraction.
When you reach for a chocolate-dipped strawberry yourself, he gently pushes your hand back to the table.
“Let me. Tonight is about you.”
He chooses the ripest one, brushes the chocolate end across your lower lip until you part for him, then slides the berry in slowly. Juice bursts between your teeth; he catches the drop that escapes with his tongue, lingering at the corner of your mouth.
“Good girl,” he whispers against your lips. “Best fucking girl.”
Between bites he kisses you, soft, slow, tasting of strawberries, until your head is spinning and the only thing left in the world is candlelight, silk against your thighs, and the warm weight of the collar reminding you whose gentle girl you are tonight.
When the plates are empty and your lips are swollen, he leans close, breath warm against the shell of your ear.
“Night isn’t over. Come.”
He rises first, the chair scraping softly against the floor. Candlelight slides over his shoulders as he circles behind you, fingers trailing across the nape of your neck, brushing the warm leather collar like he’s checking it’s still perfect. It is.
From his pocket he draws the silver leash.
“Up, princess.”
You stand on shaky legs, silk robe fluttering open. He fastens the leash to the D-ring with a soft, decisive click that echoes straight between your thighs.
Steve doesn’t pull yet. He simply holds the loop of the leash in one loose fist and walks. You follow, barefoot, the hardwood cool under your soles, the leash swaying gently between you like a promise.
Back in the bedroom the lamps are low, moonlight spilling across the bed. He stops at the foot of the bed and turns.
“Kneel.”
The single word is quiet, velvet-wrapped steel. You sink instantly, knees spreading on the thick rug, silk robe pooling around your thighs. The leash tightens just enough to tip your head back, to make the collar press deliciously against your throat.
Steve looks down at you for a long moment, eyes dark, chest rising slow and deep. Then he unbuckles his belt with deliberate calm, the leather whispering free.
He frees himself, cock already hard and flushed, a bead of wetness at the tip. One hand threads into your hair, thumb stroking your cheekbone.
“Suck,” he says, voice rough with arousal. “Put that pretty mouth to work.”
You lean forward eagerly, lips parting, tongue already out to taste him. The leash keeps you exactly where he wants you, close and obedient—but you wouldn’t need it to be his perfect girl. Anytime, any place, your body would melt for his no matter what.
The first slide of him across your tongue drags a low groan from his chest. Steve lets you set the rhythm at first, watching through half-lidded eyes as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, humming around him because you know he loves the vibration. When your nose finally brushes his abdomen, face buried into the soft hair at the base of his cock, he exhales your name like a prayer and tightens the leash just enough to remind you who owns every breath you take.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, hips rolling slow and controlled. “My good girl. Take all of it.”
You do. You always do.
You take him deeper, inch by inch, until your lips meet the base of his length, and your throat flutters around him. Saliva pools, spills, drips from the corners of your mouth, cooling on your chin before it lands on the silk robe spread beneath your knees.
Steve’s fingers tighten in your hair, not guiding yet, just holding, feeling the rhythm you set. His hips stay still, thighs trembling with the effort. It makes you greedy to feel how close he is, and you hollow your cheeks, swirling your tongue along the underside. His hips jerk, and he lets out a broken whimper that you never thought you could hear from a man like Steve.
“Fuck, sweet princess, just like that,” he rasps, voice shredded.
Only then does he take control.
He winds the leash another turn around his fist, shortening it until the collar bites gently and your head is held exactly where he wants it. Then he takes over: slow, deliberate thrusts that fill your mouth, slide over your tongue, nudge the back of your throat until tears prick at the corners of your eyes and your lashes are wet. Each time he pulls back the heart tag on your throat chimes softly, a tiny silver bell marking every stroke.
You’re dripping onto the rug now, thighs slick beneath the silk, clit throbbing in time with your pulse. He watches you the entire time, eyes black in the low light, lips parted.
“Look at me,” he orders on a ragged breath.
You force your eyes up. The sight of him, head tipped back slightly, jaw clenched with pleasure, nearly undoes you. When your gazes lock, he loses the last of his restraint.
The thrusts turn deeper, faster, the leash keeping you perfectly still for him. Your hands clutch his thighs, nails digging into muscle, and you moan around him. The vibration rips a curse from his lips.
“Swallow,” he growls, voice cracking. “Every drop, princess. Don’t waste.”
He buries himself to the hilt and comes with a low sound that feels like it reverberates inside your bones. You swallow again and again, your throat working around him, milking him until he’s shaking and the leash finally loosens.
When he pulls free, a thin strand of saliva and release still connects your lip to the tip of him. He brushes it away with his thumb, then cups your jaw, tilting your tear-streaked face up.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, hoarse and reverent. “Always perfect for me.”
Steve tugs gently at the leash, a silent request for you to rise again, before he lays you back on the bed, against the mountain of pillows. The silk slip has ridden up to your waist; the lace panties are soaked through, clinging to every fold. He peels them down your legs, letting the wet fabric drag over your clit once, twice, until you whimper.
“Spread for me, princess.”
You do, knees falling open, stockings whispering against the sheets. Cool air kisses the slick heat between your thighs, and you shiver.
Steve settles between your legs, eyes dark and hungry. He unhooks the leash from the collar and sets it aside, but the collar stays, pink leather perfect against your throat.
Then he starts with his mouth.
The first slow lick is flat and broad, dragging from your entrance to your clit in one stroke. You cry out, hips bucking, like a woman denied for too long; he pins them down with one forearm across your lower belly, the other hand spreading you wider. Then, he feasts: tongue circling, flicking, dipping inside you, lapping up every drop like he’s starving. The wet sounds are obscene, filling the room, but they click perfectly inside of you, a missing piece of your puzzle finally back into place. Every time you get close, he pulls back just enough to let the edge recede, then dives in again.
Two fingers slide into you without warning, stroking the spot that makes your back arch off the bed. You’re so wet they sink into the knuckles on the first thrust, and he crooks them, scissoring gently, before adding a third. The stretch is exquisite, the closest you’ve ever felt to Heaven.
His thumb finds your clit while his tongue traces lower, lower, until it circles the tight ring of muscle no one has ever touched before. You freeze, breath catching.
“Steve, what are you—”
“Easy,” he murmurs against you, voice vibrating through your core. “Just a taste. Relax for me.”
You force yourself to breathe, to soften. His tongue presses, warm and wet, in tiny, teasing circles while his fingers keep fucking you slow and deep. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pleasure so sharp it almost hurts, the forbidden thrill of his mouth there making you shake.
Still, Steve never lets you tip over. Every time your thighs start to tremble, he eases off until you’re sobbing with need, fully begging for release.
“Please… Steve, please—”
He lifts his head, lips shiny, eyes blazing.
“You can speak freely now, sweet princess. Beg all you want. But I told you. You’ll come tonight only when I’m inside of you.”
The words tumble out, raw and desperate. “Please let me come, please. I’ll be so good, I need it, I need you—”
He smiles, slow and wicked, and slides his fingers free. You whine at the loss.
“Not yet.” He brings his slick fingers to your mouth. “Clean these first.”
You suck them eagerly, tasting yourself, hips rolling against nothing. When they’re clean, he leans over you, kisses you deep and filthy, then whispers against your lips.
“Turn over for me, princess. On your knees, chest down.”
The command is soft, but your body obeys before your mind catches up. You roll, silk slip rucked up to your waist, cheek pressed to the cool sheets, back arched, ass in the air. The collar presses into your throat when you turn your head; the heart tag slides across the linen.
Steve’s palms smooth over your cheeks, spreading you open. Cool air kisses the most secret parts of you, and you shudder.
“Such a pretty little hole,” he murmurs, voice rough with reverence. “And all mine.”
You feel the slick drag of his tongue first, gentle but relentless. The sensation is filthy, perfect. You moan into the pillow, fingers clawing at the sheets. He licks again, firmer this time, the tip of his tongue pressing just inside, breaching you by slow degrees until you’re pushing back against his face, desperate for more.
One finger joins his tongue, still soaked from your cunt and the saliva from your mouth, circling, easing in to the first knuckle. You clench instinctively; he stills, waits, then crooks the finger and strokes from the inside in a way that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch on a broken sob.
“Princess, relax,” he soothes, kissing the curve of your ass. “Let me in.”
The finger sinks deeper, slow and steady, until it’s buried to the hilt. He twists gently, scissoring, stretching, while his tongue keeps lapping at the rim. The burn melts into a pleasure that coils low in your belly and throbs in your clit.
A second finger joins the first, followed by more lube, more patience, more of that impossible stretch that only Steve provides. You’re panting now, rocking back onto his hand, the collar pulling tight every time you drop your chest lower.
He finds a rhythm: slow thrusts of his fingers, curling just right, while his other hand slips beneath you to circle your clit. There’s never enough pressure, never enough speed to get you off—but more than enough to set your skin ablaze, to make you feel on the edge every time. You’re dripping down your thighs, the sheets soaked beneath you, every nerve screaming for release.
“Steve, please, I need you—”
He leans over your back, lips at your ear, fingers still buried deep.
“Not yet, princess. I want this pretty ass ready for me one day. But tonight you stay right here on the edge, aching, open. Mine.”
He spreads his fingers wider, a gentle scissoring stretch that makes you cry out, then slowly withdraws them. You feel empty, trembling on the brink.
He flips you onto your back again, spreads your thighs wide, and looks at the mess he’s made of you: flushed, cunt swollen and dripping, the faint sheen of lube still glistening between your cheeks.
And he looks proud of it, too. Proud of the way he’s ruined you endless times, only to drag you to this bed—your bed now—and make it so you have no power to run anymore. All you want is him, his hands on you, his mouth on yours.
Steve, Steve, Steve.
And he rises over you like a storm.
The head of his cock nudges your entrance once, twice, already hard again and sliding through your soaked folds, teasing your clit until you’re writhing. Then he pushes in, stretching you open inch by thick inch, until he’s buried to the hilt and you can feel every throb of his pulse inside you.
A low, filthy groan tears out of him.
“Fuck… look at you. I know this pretty cunt was made for me, wasn’t it?”
He pulls back almost all the way, then sinks in again, deeper, harder. Your back arches off the bed; the heart tag chimes against your collarbone with every thrust.
“My good girl,” he growls, voice ragged, hips rolling slow and devastating. “With the sweetest cunt I’ve ever had.”
You sob, legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his back as the pleasure overwhelms you.
“You make the prettiest sounds, too.” He snaps his hips forward, filling you so completely your vision whites out for a second. “My perfect little princess. Wearing my collar while I fuck your sweet pussy.”
He sets a brutal, perfect rhythm, grinding strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside you. The bed creaks beneath you; the leash lies forgotten on the sheets, but the collar stays snug, leather warming with every frantic beat of your heart.
He leans down, mouth at your ear, breath hot.
“Feel that?” Another punishing thrust. “Your innocence makes me so hard. Don’t ever want to ruin you.”
Except he already has. His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, circling hard and fast. The pleasure is blinding, unbearable.
“Please—Steve—I can’t—”
“You can,” he snarls, teeth scraping the shell of your ear. “You will. You’ll take everything I give you, and you’ll fucking thank me for it.”
He drives into you harder, faster, the headboard knocking against the wall in time with his hips. Your whole body is coiled wire, trembling, stretched to breaking.
“Come for me, princess,” he finally commands, voice cracking with his own need. “Soak my cock. Be my good girl.”
You scream his name, back bowing off the bed, walls clamping down around him in endless, pulsing waves. Pleasure crashes over you so hard your vision tunnels, every muscle locking, then melting. He keeps fucking you through it, drawing it out until you’re sobbing, oversensitive, and still clenching around him.
Only when you’re limp and gasping does he let himself go; three more deep, grinding thrusts, and then he’s coming with a guttural groan, spilling hot inside you, hips jerking as he empties himself completely.
He collapses over you, forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling. After a long moment he lifts his head, kisses you slow and deep, tasting salt and sex and surrender.
“Welcome home,” he whispers against your swollen lips.
He stays inside you for a long while, softening slowly, letting you feel every aftershock that ripples through your body. When he finally slips free, a warm rush follows; he hums, low and satisfied, and presses a kiss to your temple.
“Stay right there, honey princess. Don’t move.”
The bed dips as he leaves it. You hear the soft pad of his feet, water running in the bathroom, the clink of glass. Your limbs feel liquid, heavy with pleasure and exhaustion.
He comes back with a warm cloth on his hands. Kneeling between your thighs again, he cleans you with devastating gentleness: slow strokes over your swollen folds, the tender skin of your ass, the insides of your thighs where everything is sticky and sensitive. Every pass of the cloth makes you shiver, and he soothes each one with a kiss pressed to your knee, your hip, the curve of your waist.
When you’re clean, he tosses the cloth aside and stretches out beside you. The sheets are cool against your back, his body furnace-hot against your front. He gathers you close, one arm under your shoulders, the other sliding down to cup the back of your thigh and hook your leg over his hip. The heart tag nestles in the hollow of his throat now, caught between your bodies.
His fingers find your hair, combing through the damp strands, massaging your scalp until your eyes flutter.
“Are you comfortable?” he asks softly.
You make a small, sleepy sound and nuzzle into his neck. He smells like sex and home—you’ve never been more comfortable in your life, you don’t think.
His hand slips between your breasts, fingers settling over the warm leather collar, thumb stroking the engraved heart.
“Did you like the gift?”
You nod against his chest. “Never want it off.”
A pleased rumble comes out of him. “Good. It’s staying.”
He keeps touching you, lazy, reverent strokes along your spine, over the curve of your ass, the lace tops of your stockings he never took off. Every caress is worshipful, reminding you that the same hands that held the leash now hold you safe.
Minutes (or hours) slip by.
Your breathing slows, matches his.
Just before sleep pulls you under, he presses his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers, “You’re upstairs now, princess. You’re home. And tomorrow I’m going to spoil you all over again.”
You fall asleep smiling, the little silver heart resting directly over his heartbeat.
WHITE NIGHTS
husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader [3.4k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: your husband is hungry.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; bucky is down bad; pregnancy and postpartum stuff (they just had a baby); baby’s nickname is bean; fluff; smut; lactation kink; nipple play; coming untouched; pussy pronouns; breeding kink; fingering; mention of squirting.
A/N: this is not the breeding kink one-shot I was talking about in the poll, but this was already finished and unfortunately yesterday something happened and I’m not in a good place rn mentally. hope you’ll enjoy🥛sorry but it’s not really edited.
Bucky shivers as the usual warm weight pressed against his side is missing. He lethargically extends his arm to bring your plush body back to his, yet his fingers only meet wrinkly, tepid sheets. His eyes fly open, only to find your side empty.
It’s the middle of the night and your baby boy is sleeping soundly in the crib he assembled months ago, tucked close beside your bed. This allows Bucky to reach him the moment the faintest whimper slips from his lips—one of the many advantages of having enhanced senses. He can see the exhaustion pressing down on you, and still, you try to cram as many chores as possible into your schedule, nowadays reduced to feedings and diaper changes. But Bucky would do anything to make you feel like you’re keeping up.
These days your husband is always repeating the same thing: that he’ll handle the house, that you don’t need to push yourself like this. But you do anyway, unable to shake the guilt of leaving everything to him when he’s already the one waking in the night to take care of your son.
“I’m a super soldier, you pretty mama,” he promptly reminds you, his voice gentle against the bare skin of your shoulder. “Why would I leave this stuff to my beautiful wife when I don’t need that much rest in the first place?”
The ensuite is empty, which means you’re either in the kitchen pumping or the living room wide awake.
Bucky pushes himself up slowly, leaving the bedroom door open behind him—just in case. He could hear his son cry from miles away, but even the former Winter Soldier can’t quite shake the instinct to run to his son in case of potential danger.
The kitchen light catches his attention the moment he steps into the hallway, spilling across the floor in a warm glow. He follows it without thinking, but the sight that greets him makes him freeze on the doorway.
Bucky has always reserved particular attention to your chest since the first time you started fooling around while dating.
But this is different.
He never could have imagined that one day the mere sight of your nipples leaking milk would leave him stiff in his pants and drooling. That something as natural as your body providing for your child could feel so intimate. During your pregnancy, your breasts had grown fuller and heavier, often sore enough to make you whine in pain against his shoulder. More than once, you’d sighed in frustration at the milk that soaked through your bras, inconvenient and relentless.
And each time, Bucky had to suppress the instinct to clean you up. With his tongue.
He might be over a hundred years old, but he knows his way around the internet since the first time he grumpily announced he was going to look up what a creampie was, while you were in stitches on the couch. You still tried to warn him through your amusement, explaining that the internet is a treacherous place, one where everything should be taken with a healthy dose of skepticism.
The shame curling hot in his stomach is inevitable when he looks at your chest with his pants uncomfortably tight, but this fantasy only intensified with time, to the point where he feels like imploding at the slightest mention of you pumping.
Bucky gulps thickly, frowning in animosity at the two devices attached to your tits that peak out from your sports bra. He really wants to suckle on your nipples and feel your sweet milk bless his senses, however, despite all the years of dating and marriage, asking would probably feel like walking straight in front of a freight train running at full speed.
His tongue unconsciously licks his lips as you pour some of the freshly pumped milk in a baby bottle, before going through the motions of setting the devices back in place. The wearable breast pumps had been his idea, actually, after months spent buried in books, articles, and a concerning amount of online forums for new moms. He read everything he could get his hands on, determined to make things easier for you. Multiple people praised these over traditional ones for their gentler suction and better angles, so one day Bucky’d shown up with his laptop open to the website of a famous online store specialized in hands-free pumps, already halfway through his research and entirely ready to start measuring your breasts.
Your chest aches more often than not nowadays. You hadn’t expected to produce this much milk, or how constant it would feel. Not just during the day, but at night too, when you find yourself half-asleep at the kitchen counter, filling bottle after bottle while your body begs you to lie down.
Bucky knows everything got more sensitive and swollen for you since you got pregnant, so he often finds himself wondering if he could make you come just by stimulating your tits alone.
Shaking his head to calm himself down before entering the kitchen with a full hard-on, Bucky slowly approaches you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. He doesn’t miss the way your body automatically relaxes under his touch.
“Was wondering where my beautiful wife went.” He whispers, resting his chin on your shoulder to eye the battlefield of spilled milk and paper towels. “How are you feeling, lovely?”
“Tired.” You murmur around a yawn as your head falls back against his chest. “And aching.”
In this new position, his blue eyes can comfortably admire your cleavage. His stare on the plump skin of your chest spilling out from the tight sports bra is intense, though he clears his throat before his cock takes over his common sense and his teeth end up sinking in your tender flesh.
“Mmh… I can help, you know?” You glance back at him, eyebrows furrowed.
“No baby, you already do so much. Besides, these things are amazing! They do everything by themselves, I just have to empty them.” Bucky swallows, before gently turning you to face him.
“No, I meant—I want to help help you.” Your eyebrows raise, still not understanding.
“I want to taste it, doll.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your eyebrows shoot up stunned, before a small grin threatens to take over your lips.
“James Buchanan Barnes, you want to nurse on my breasts?” A pretty blush takes over the apples of his cheeks at your bluntness. Your husband has never looked so boyishly pretty before.
“Don’t say it like that.” His affronted voice wavers, pulling a chuckle out of you that makes your tits jiggle alluringly. His eyes promptly fall on them, before he flushes violently upon noticing you have caught him drooling red-handed.
“But that’s what you want, right Jamie?” You tilt your head teasingly, cradling his cheeks in your soft hands.
He nods expectantly, eyes sparkling despite the scorching embarrassment pooling into his belly.
“Okay, but let me remove these first.” His breath hitches at your nonchalant reaction.
Your husband’s chest heaves in anticipation as he waits for the electric pumps to finish, unable to stay put behind you like an overhyped puppy waiting for his treat. Bucky knows you are taking your time in storing the milk away on purpose—it’s not your fault he gets so adorable whenever he loses grip on the composure he is so proud of.
When you are done, you barely have time to turn around before his strong arms pick you up to place your butt on the counter, so he can be closer to your chest. He kisses you desperately, kneading your waist and thighs until you are left warm and moaning.
Eventually his lips end up tracing a trail of wet kisses down your throat, finally allowing his nose to gently graze the skin of your breasts. He helps you remove your bra with shaky hands, gasping when your torso is finally bare for him to toy with.
“Look at you.” His large hands encompass the swell of your tits, gently kneading the flesh to not hurt you. Your quiet whimper stops him instantly, looking up at you to catch any sign of discomfort. But he only receives a weak nod, your hands desperately gripping his biceps as his fingers reprise their exploring.
“They are so full, my love. I bet they hurt, right?” His eyes glass over, spellbound as the pads of his thumbs delicately circle both of your turgid nipples, drawing a few stray drops of milk. Bucky instantly brings the digits to his mouth, eyelids fluttering shut at the flavor blessing his taste buds.
“Fuck, you really are sweet everywhere, doll.” You shudder at his growled praise, your tired body extremely sensitive as his fingers keep stroking your nubs.
Your loud gasp is swallowed in the nick of time in fear of waking your son up, yet you stop yourself from flinching when Bucky’s lips finally engulf your right nipple. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface; you’ve always enjoyed the care and time he puts in worshipping your chest, but this time it feels completely different with the way his palms caress your tits, and his tongue patiently grazes your nipples with serenity written all over his features.
“Bucky—” You interrupt him as he starts sucking. It’s too soft, just like him, you think fondly. And it’s not that you don’t love it, but your milk will barely come out if he doesn’t get a little rougher.
“C’mon, honey, you can suck harder.” You encourage quietly, the only answer you get is him dazedly blinking up at you through his long, dark lashes.
His hand fondles the breast his lips aren’t occupying, while his vibranium arm wraps around your back to bring you impossibly closer. Fingertips dig into your supple skin as he obeys, his eyes rolling back at milk finally filling his mouth. The gentle licks soon transform into harsher suckles, and one of your hands goes straight to your mouth with a resounding smack to stop a loud whine from potentially reaching your neighbors.
Yes, it happened before. Too many times.
Bucky can smell your arousal, but his mind is clouded with his own pleasure to understand what’s happening around him.
He’s finally doing it, he’s drinking your milk directly from the source. This might potentially be the hottest thing you’ve ever done.
Well, apart from that time you fucked in one of the empty meeting rooms in his office.
Now that Bucky thinks about it, you probably conceived your baby boy that time. He remembers too clearly how aroused the both of you were. His body was on fire that day, he felt like a fucking animal in heat trapped in a cage after he was urgently called by his secretary as he was slowly thrusting his cock into your half-asleep body that morning. And you… well, it was actually your idea to have sex there.
You showed up at his workplace, calling him Congressman with that whiny voice of yours, and claimed you needed to have his cock inside you so bad as you both stood in front of his two secretaries hurriedly fixing his schedule around you, since it was a well-known fact that Bucky would abandon anything if his wife needed him.
Then you dragged him in one of the empty rooms by his tie, and God, he still shivers at the memory of how you rode him on that damn chair, only wearing that stupid little sundress he bought you on his last work trip, just because it looked cute. And fuck, now it was hanging loosely from your waist as you moaned loud enough for his whole staff to hear when he finally came inside you, stuffing you with his cum as you cried and trembled around him, his cock refusing to soften so Bucky picked you up and brought you to the conference table to roughly thrust inside you, making you squirt all over his pants—
Yeah... that’s a story for another time.
One of your hands cups the back of his head, slightly pulling at his hair as you lean forward with a whimper.
“Jesus Christ.” Your man groans through a mouthful of you.
“Yeah? Is it good?” You tease, giggling at the eager nod he gives you.
“So good, pretty girl.” He whines, pulling away from your nipple only to move onto the other.
His tongue plays with the hard peak, moaning when a quiet whine falls from your lips. The lewd, wet sounds of his licking and sucking prompt you to wrap your thighs around his hips and push against him, your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders to try and find a crumb of stimulation against his belly for your pussy. It’s so messy your arousal soaks through your thin shorts, now sticking uncomfortably to your damp skin.
Despite Bucky being completely lost into his own bliss, he still finds the mental strength to tighten his hold around your waist to keep you still against the counter and enjoy his midnight snack peacefully.
Your nipples are tender by now, abused and wet by one very hungry super soldier. Your head falls back unconsciously, a little embarrassed at the fact that you are probably ready to come and your pussy has been touched a total of zero times.
His large palm languidly slides down your thigh, until it cups your pussy, the vibrations of his low moan further stimulating your nub as your slick coats his fingers through the fabric. You urge him on, grinding onto the heel of his hand.
Two fingers finally travel under the waistband, the rough pads working over your clit, firm but not too fast, just how you like it.
Pleasure burns hotter and hotter with each press of his fingers against your nub, until they find your entrance, delicately rubbing over your folds and collecting your wetness before he nudges them in. Your jaw slackens around a silent moan as they stretch you out so deliciously, curling and rubbing that sweet spot that always makes you gush so prettily around him.
Bucky exhales sharply through his nose, still suckling on your nipples as your hole hungrily swallows his fingers. He is borderline dizzy from how good he feels with his fingers in your pussy and your milk down his throat.
“Feels good, doll?” The words are nothing short of a murmur against your skin. “She’s so needy for me, hm? Doesn’t wanna let go.”
Your cheeks are on fire, and he receives only a quick nod as an answer. The touch his lips leave across your chest burn, causing your lips to prettily open around a silent moan.
“Jamie, just like that, fuck—” You sigh blissed out, flinching when his thumb slowly goes back to toying with your puffy clit. Bucky didn’t realize how much he missed the way your core would turn all swollen with arousal.
“Missed this so much, missed you, honey.” A needy whimper claws out of his throat. “Talk to me, tell me what you wanna do to me.”
“Fucking hell,” he takes a deep breath, pressing soft pecks over your breasts. “Wanna fill you up, sweetheart. Can’t stop thinking about it, how gorgeous you looked all full with my baby.” His eyes briefly close in a futile attempt to ward off the painful throbbing of his cock pushing against his sweatpants.
You clamp around him, shivering when his other hand squeezes your hips.
“‘S all I can think about. Day and night.” He rambles brokenly. “So perfect, my perfect wife with her perfect pussy and her perfect tits—” His words dissolve into a low groan, still softly massaging your walls, the stretch so good it makes your legs tremble around his hips.
“Jamie, more.” You mewl, your hips twitching up helplessly. “Wanna feel you inside, need you to come over and over until it takes again. Jamie, pretty please?”
Bucky grits his teeth.
You can’t stay stuff like that, not when it’s only been two months. Not when he’s been desperate to see you round with his baby once more. Not when you are leaking milk from your breasts while begging for his cock.
“Can’t, babygirl.” He pants. You make your displeasure known loudly with a little wail, clinging tightly onto his shoulders.
“Please, Jamie.” Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your orgasm builds steadily in your belly.
“I know doll, I know. ‘M sorry, ‘m so sorry.”
Your body goes rigid for a second before turning pliant under his calloused hand abandoning your hips to properly take care of your swollen clit. Your pussy clenches, little squeaky moans slipping from your lips and muffled into his hair as you hug Bucky closer to your chest, sagging against him.
“Gonna make it up to you, baby, I swear.” He slurs out dizzily. “Wanna keep this pussy full and give my pretty wife all the babies she wants.”
“Jamie! Close—‘m so close, don’ stop.” He desperately focuses on matching the rhythm of his fingers thrusting inside with the ones rubbing your clit, savoring the eager twitches his cock gives at your pussy tightening.
Bucky then parts his lips, blindly mouthing at your skin until they finally latch onto your nipple once more, and start sucking like a wounded man seeing water after days spent under the scorching sun.
At the intense pressure around your sensitive nubs, the knot in your belly gets tighter and tighter. Your toes curl, and your orgasm finally hits you violently. You come with a gasp, the tension in your belly shattering all at once as your head falls back. Your chest pushes against his greedy mouth, flinching and panting as you find yourself stuck in a limbo of maddening pleasure with Bucky’s fingers still relentless on your pussy, even when small tears run down your cheeks.
And then, your husband grunts loudly, harshly exhaling against the fat of your chest.
“Fucking—shit.” His mouth leaves your nipple with a wet pop, and his head slowly lifts up, leaving your wet nubs exposed to the cold air of the kitchen. You shiver at the change of temperature, slumping against his shoulders as you feel your tits tingle with overstimulation.
He is gentle in removing his fingers from your puffy core, finally embracing you as you mourn the loss. His chin lazily rests on the top of your head for a bit, small kisses swarming your glistening forehead in hopes of easing the trembling of your limbs.
That’s when you see it. Opening your eyes with effort, you are directly met with the sight of a huge stain right on Bucky’s crotch, the grey fabric of his sweatpants darker in that exact place.
“Did you just come in your pants, baby?” You raise your head to look at him with a little grin.
Bucky’s already flushed cheeks flame up, and his eyes refuse to meet yours. Instead, he buries his face in the valley between your tits, hugging you tight.
“Sorry.” He mumbles. “Are you okay? Does anything hurt? Was it good?”
“No need to be sorry.” You hum. “It was so hot, Jamie.” Sighing satisfied, your arms wrap around his neck to caress his hair.
“I’ll help you from now on.” He adds solemnly, looking straight into your eyes. “After you pump out the milk for Bean, I get the last bits.” You can’t help but burst out laughing before pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“Alright, alright. But baby, you are at work until late in the afternoon.”
“Don’t care.” He grunts, nuzzling your neck like a cat in need of cuddles. “I’ll do it at night.” Your eyes widen, immediately protesting.
“Bucky, no. You already take care of Bean when he wakes up throughout the night, then wake up early to go to work… I won’t wake you up just to—to drink my milk.” Your cheeks heat up at the absurdity of your statement.
Bucky huffs, coming out of his hiding place with an offended wrinkle between his brows.
“Doll,” he whines just like a kid trying to convince his mom to stay up later on a school day. His head falls back tiredly. “I’m a super soldier. The super soldier. I don’t need to rest.”
With a sigh you shake your head at his apparently innocent eyes, vaguely reminding you of Alpine when she’s trying to soften you up after pushing something off the table that probably ended up shattering on the floor.
“Please, please, please!” He attacks you with kisses, delicately holding your pliant body in his arms as his lips travel from your face to the slope of your neck, and then back up again.
Your attempts at keeping your laugh down are awful, but you can’t help it when your husband is being this adorable.
“Alright alright! Hey—okay stop, please stop! Stop!” Your lips press together to avoid releasing any loud noise that could potentially interrupt this rare, peaceful night.
Finally, Bucky relents, one hand cradling your cheek while the other massages your lower back with purpose.
“Promise?” His eyebrows raise expectantly and you just have to kiss him.
“Yeah yeah, promise, you hungry super soldier.”
“Good.” He mumbles against your mouth, following your lips for another kiss. “Now, let me properly take care of my wife.”
“What—Bucky!” You gasp as he picks you up, making his way towards the couch.
A devious grin blooms on his handsome face when you whimper at the way he deliberately moves your hips so your puffy folds brush against his imposing bulge with every step he takes.
“Tell me sweet girl, since I can’t fill you up yet, where do you want it? Face or tits?”
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading!
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
Buckynat is such a good ship because what if you were both victims and also unwilling perpetrators (which is also part of your victimhood, but a lot of people, including yourself, don't see it that way), and then comes this one person who does know intimately all the ways you've been violated and all that you've done, and this person is the one good thing in all of it, and maybe you can't forgive yourself for all the things that happened, but you can love this one person who is so much like you, that maybe it almost feels like absolution.
summary : After an intense night of being thoroughly shared and wrecked by Steve and Bucky in your tiny dorm bed, you shyly admit your fantasy of watching your two boyfriends together. What starts as an awkward, hilarious first kiss between the lifelong best friends quickly turns hungry and passionate.
word count : 4,4k
warnings 18+ : no use of y/n, MMF threesome, bisexual exploration and male/male kissing, heavy dirty talk, cum play, creampie, fingering, possessiveness, multiple orgasms, graphic descriptions of sex, bodily fluids, consensual boundary pushing, teasing, sexual experimentation, unprotected sex
author’s note : after a month long break and even more months of talking about it… OUR BOYS ARE BACKKKKKK 🎉🎉🎉🎉 extra credit is genuinely my baby and I will NEVER get tired of talking about it or writing it!! I’m so sorry this took so long, thank you all for being so patient with me <33 ANDDDD before I forget… you can expect nat to join the chaos very soon 👀
The room smelled like sex, sweat and the faint mix of Steve’s cedarwood body wash and Bucky’s spiced cologne. Your cramped dorm bed, barely big enough for one person let alone three, was completely wrecked.
The cheap university-issued sheets were twisted into a damp knot beneath you, clinging to every sticky inch of skin. The air was thick, humid, and heavy with the unmistakable musk of multiple rounds of rough, desperate fucking. A single string of fairy lights you’d strung up earlier in the semester cast a soft golden glow over the mess: discarded clothes scattered across the floor, Steve’s oversized hoodie tangled with Bucky’s leather jacket, your soaked panties dangling from the desk chair.
You lay sprawled on your back in the middle, chest still heaving as you came down from the high of your last orgasm. Your thighs trembled faintly, muscles sore in the best way and you could feel the warm, slow trickle of their combined release leaking out of you onto the ruined sheets.
Steve was glued to your left side, his massive, muscular frame taking up more than half the tiny mattress. His broad chest pressed against your arm, one thick arm draped heavily across your waist, fingers lazily tracing little hearts on the curve of your hip. His blond hair was a sweaty mess, sticking to his forehead and his baby-blue eyes were half-lidded with satisfaction.
Bucky claimed your right side like he owned it, one thick, powerful thigh thrown possessively over both of your legs, pinning you in place. His fingers rested just below your navel, right above where you were still tender, swollen and leaking their mess.
“Fuck, baby,” Bucky murmured, his voice gravel-rough and low against your ear, lips brushing the sensitive shell. “You took us so goddamn well tonight. Like you were made for it. That tight little pussy squeezed us both so perfect… swallowing every inch, every drop. Greedy girl.”
You hummed happily, too blissed out for full sentences. Your body felt deliciously used, thighs sticky with drying cum, lips swollen from kissing and sucking, neck and breasts covered in little love bites and fingerprints. Steve nuzzled into your hair, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, his breath warm and steady.
“You still with us, sweetheart?” Steve asked, voice warm and gentle, the same tone he used when he watched you study for exams during the late nights in the dorm. He nuzzled into your hair and pressed a soft kiss to your temple.
“Mhm.” You smiled lazily, tilting your head to kiss the sharp line of his jaw. Then you turned the other way, catching Bucky’s mouth in a slow, lazy kiss. His tongue slid against yours, unhurried now, tasting like sin and the faint hint of the cheap whiskey the three of you had shared earlier. They both smelled like sex and you. The realization made something warm and possessive bloom deep in your chest.
For a while, only the sound of your combined breathing and the occasional wet shift of sweaty skin filled the small dorm room. The ceiling fan spun uselessly overhead, doing nothing to cut through the thick, filthy atmosphere. Outside, the distant sounds of a Friday night party echoed from another floor, laughter, bass-heavy music but in here, the world had narrowed to just the three of you.
That’s when the thought bubbled up, unbidden but insistent after weeks of watching them together, playful wrestling in the quad, shared glances, the easy intimacy of two men who had known each other since forever.
You trailed your fingers down Steve’s broad, sculpted chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart, then over to Bucky’s side, tracing the raised lines of old scars from a motorcycle accident he’d told you about once. Your voice came out soft, a little shy but curious. “You two… Have you ever… done anything together? Just the two of you?”
The silence was immediate and heavy.
Steve’s hand froze on your hip. Bucky lifted his head, arm shifting as his sharp blue eyes narrowed slightly, studying your face.
“Together?” Bucky echoed carefully, voice still husky from earlier moans.
“Yeah. Like… sexually,” you admitted, cheeks warming even after everything you’d just done. “I was just curious. You’re so close. It’s hot to think about sometimes.”
Steve let out a low, surprised chuckle that vibrated through his chest. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with a mix of amusement and something darker flickering in his gaze. “Baby, no. Never. We’ve been best friends since we were awkward freshmen sharing a shoebox room in the dorms. Not like that. Though I gotta admit… the way you’re looking at us right now is making me wonder what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”
“Fuck no,” Bucky agreed, but his thigh tightened possessively over yours, pressing you deeper into the mattress. His fingers drifted lower, teasing through the mess between your legs, spreading it lazily. “Steve’s basically my brother. We’ve never crossed that line. We’ve shared a lot- food, clothes, even girls back in sophomore year- but never each other. Why, tutor girl? You got a dirty little fantasy brewing?”
You bit your lip, squirming under their combined attention. The casual way Bucky’s fingers kept playing with their cum, pushing some of it back inside you, made heat pool low in your belly again. “I don’t know… you’re both so you. Big, strong, protective. And you’re both mine now. It just popped into my head. Watching you two wrestle on the couch last weekend… the way you pin each other down. It made me think about what it would look like if you pinned each other for… other reasons.”
Steve’s hand slid up to cup your breast, thumb brushing lazily over your sensitive nipple. “You want to watch us together… or do you want us to try it right here, with you between us?” His voice had dropped, low and rough. “Be honest, sweetheart. No judgment. Not after what we just did to you in this tiny bed.”
Bucky smirked against your neck, nipping at a fresh hickey he’d left earlier. “You imagining me on my knees for golden boy here? Or Stevie bending me over your desk while you watch and touch yourself?” His fingers pressed deeper, two of them sliding into your slick, used cunt with obscene ease, curling just right. “Because I gotta say… the idea of making you lose your mind while we figure it out is kinda doing it for me.”
You gasped, hips twitching. “Maybe… all of it. I just think it would be so fucking hot. You two are already so in sync when you’re inside me. The way you coordinate, like you can read each other’s minds. Imagine if that extended to… touching. Kissing. More.”
Steve groaned softly, his cock twitching against your thigh where it was already starting to harden again. “Jesus, baby. You really are filthy under all those good-girl study sessions.” He leaned in, kissing you deep and slow, tongue claiming your mouth while Bucky’s fingers continued their lazy thrusting. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. “We’ve never done it. But for you? I’d consider it. Only if Buck’s on board.”
Bucky’s smirk widened into something predatory. He withdrew his fingers and brought them to your lips, letting you taste the three of you mixed together. “You want a show, doll? Want to see your boys cross that line for the first time while you’re still dripping our cum?” He glanced over at Steve, the look between them charged now, testing. “What do you say, punk? Think you could handle my mouth on that big dick of yours while our girl watches?”
Steve’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand tightened on your waist. “Only if you can take it as good as she does, jerk.” He looked back down at you, voice rough with fresh arousal. “This what you wanted, sweetheart? To turn your innocent curiosity into us ruining each other while we ruin you all over again?”
You nodded eagerly, heart racing as the energy in the room shifted from satisfied afterglow into something even filthier. “Yes. Please. I want to see it. I want to be part of it.”
Bucky chuckled darkly, already moving, his metal hand guiding your thigh wider. “Then spread those legs wider, baby. We’re just getting started. College is for experimenting, right?”
The three of you tangled together again, laughter mixing with moans as hands began to wander between all three bodies, boundaries blurring under the glow of the fairy lights. The wrecked dorm bed creaked beneath you, and the night was far from over.
You reached up cupping both their jaws, Steve’s smooth, strong jaw on one side, Bucky’s stubbled one on the other. Your voice came out breathy and sweet, eyes wide with lust and affection.
“I want to see you kiss.”
The air in the tiny dorm room went electric, thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and the faint laundry detergent from the sheets they’d wrecked hours ago.
Steve’s eyebrows shot up for half a second, but then that golden-boy smirk spread across his face, slow and cocky as hell. He leaned down, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip. “Oh yeah? You wanna see us kiss, sweetheart? Thought you’d never ask.” His baby blues sparkled with confidence, the same one that made half the campus swoon during his games.
Bucky let out a low, filthy chuckle right beside him, fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. “Fuck, doll. Been waiting for you to say that. You think we’re just gonna be all shy about it? Nah. We’ll give you a show. Make it real pretty for our greedy little tutor.” He winked, voice dripping with that Brooklyn swagger, like he’d been planning this for weeks instead of hearing it for the first time.
You bit your lip, thighs pressing together at their sudden bravado. “Yeah? You’re both so sure?”
“Baby,” Steve drawled, already shifting higher on his knees, chest puffed out, “we’ve been through worse than a kiss. This is gonna be hot. You’re about to see why they call us the dream team.” He shot Bucky a look, all challenge and heat.
Bucky grinned, sharp and predatory, crawling closer until their shoulders bumped. “Damn right. C’mere, punk. Let’s give our girl what she wants.”
They leaned in like they owned the moment, cocky, sure, mouths hovering with that practiced ease they used on you. You held your breath, pussy still fluttering from the way they’d tag-teamed you earlier, bodies buzzing with anticipation.
But the second their lips actually met…
Steve pulled back first, blinking hard. “Wait- shit. That felt… weird.”
Bucky jerked away too, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wide. “Jesus, what did you put on your lips?”
Steve blinked with a confused little laugh, still half-leaning over you. “Wha- I used one of her lip balms earlier. My lips were chappy after that long practice in the wind, alright? It’s just strawberry-”
“Dude,” Bucky groaned, making a face like he’d bitten into a lemon. He wiped his mouth again, dramatically. “Strawberries and regret, Rogers. What the hell? Tastes like you made out with a fruit salad and then rolled around in her vanilla body spray. This is weird as shit.”
Steve’s cheeks flushed bright pink under his messy blond hair. He rubbed the back of his neck, that cocky grin completely gone. “Oh come on, it’s not that bad. You’ve eaten worse things off my plate in the dining hall. Remember that tuna melt incident sophomore year?”
You giggled beneath them, the sound bubbling up despite the ache between your legs. They looked so big and ridiculous up there- two massive, naked guys suddenly awkward as teenagers.
Bucky groaned, dramatic as ever, dropping his forehead to Steve’s shoulder for a second. “This is your fault, doll. We were cocky two seconds ago and now I feel like I’m kissing my damn brother. Or worse.”
Steve shoved him lightly, but he was laughing too, the sound warm and boyish. “You’re one to talk, Buck. Your stubble’s like sandpaper. And you still taste like that cheap whiskey from the party earlier. We’re really doing this?”
You stroked their thighs, heart melting and core throbbing at the same time. “You two are the cutest idiots alive. Please? Try again? For me?”
Bucky sighed, long and theatrical, but his cock was already twitching back to life against your thigh. “Fine. But only because you look at us like that. And you’re buying us breakfast tomorrow. The good diner, not the crappy campus one.”
Steve nodded, still pink-cheeked but determined. “Yeah. For her.”
The second attempt was pure comedy. Noses bumped. Bucky tilted left when Steve went right. Their lips barely brushed before both men pulled away again, muttering curses.
“Fuck, that was worse than the time we tried double-teaming that chem lab project,” Bucky complained, wiping his mouth.
“You kiss like you’re afraid of commitment, Barnes,” Steve shot back, but his ears were red. “All teeth and no game.”
You were laughing so hard tears pricked your eyes, but your hand had slipped between your legs without thinking, rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit at the sight of them, flustered, naked, bickering like an old married couple while their bodies stayed hard and ready for you.
“Third time’s the charm?” you whispered, voice husky. “I’ll make it so worth it. That tiny black skirt you both like… no panties… all weekend.”
That got their attention. Bucky’s eyes darkened. “You drive a hard bargain, minx.”
This time they committed. Steve cupped the back of Bucky’s neck, firm and steady, and pulled him in. Their mouths met properly, soft at first, testing. Then Steve tilted his head, deepening it with a surprised, low groan that went straight to your pussy. Bucky made a wrecked noise in his throat and pushed forward, fingers digging into Steve’s broad shoulder.
It turned hungry fast. Tongues slid together, wet and exploratory, the obscene sound of lips smacking and heavy breathing filling the cramped dorm room. Steve’s hand landed on your stomach, warm and possessive, thumb stroking your skin as he kissed his best friend like he was starving. Bucky’s free hand found your breast, pinching your nipple just right while his mouth stayed locked with Steve’s.
You whimpered loudly, fingers speeding up on your clit.
That flipped the switch completely.
The awkwardness burned away in the heat. They kissed harder above you, chests brushing, muscles flexing and gleaming with sweat. Bucky’s hand trailed lower, thick fingers sliding through the cum still leaking from your well-fucked pussy, pushing two inside you easily alongside Steve’s. Steve broke the kiss just long enough to growl against Bucky’s lips, “She’s clenching so fucking hard already. Our dirty girl loves this.”
Bucky laughed breathlessly into Steve’s mouth, nipping his bottom lip hard enough to make Steve hiss. “Told you she was filthy. Look at her- rubbing that pretty clit while we make out like horny idiots.” He stroked deeper, curling his fingers just right while Steve’s thumb found your clit, taking over with slow, perfect pressure.
You moaned, arching up, free hand reaching to wrap around Steve’s thick cock. It was fully hard again, heavy and hot in your palm. Bucky noticed and grinned wickedly against Steve’s lips. “She wants more, punk. Touch me while you kiss me. Give her the full show.”
Steve didn’t hesitate this time. His big hand wrapped around Bucky’s cock, stroking him in time with the fingers fucking you. The three of you moved together, messy, filthy, perfect. Their kisses grew sloppy, tongues visibly tangling, spit-slick lips shining under the cheap dorm lamp. Every moan they shared vibrated through their bodies and into yours.
“Fuck, your hand feels different,” Bucky muttered, hips rocking forward into Steve’s grip. “Bigger. Rougher.”
“Don’t sound so surprised, jerk,” Steve replied, voice wrecked as he kissed him deeper, tongue fucking into Bucky’s mouth while his fingers scissored inside you. “You’re leaking all over my fist. She’s got us both so worked up.”
You came the first time like that, shaking, crying out their names as their combined fingers and the sight of them devouring each other sent you flying. They didn’t stop kissing through it, only slowing their hands to work you through the aftershocks, trading soft, lingering pecks mixed with filthy whispers.
When you came down, they were both staring at you with matching expressions: soft affection mixed with raw hunger.
“Best fucking girlfriend in the world,” Steve murmured, leaning down to kiss your forehead, then your lips, tasting like Bucky.
Bucky kissed you next, deeper, then pulled Steve back in for another slow, exploratory kiss right above your face. “She’s still dripping. Think she wants round two of the show while we fuck her again?”
You nodded frantically, glowing. “Kiss each other the whole time. I want to feel it when you do.”
They obliged. Steve slid back inside your pussy first, thick and perfect, stretching you open with a shared groan. Bucky positioned himself behind Steve, one hand on Steve’s hip, the other reaching around to stroke you where you were joined. But they kept kissing, messy, open-mouthed, tongues sliding as Steve started thrusting slow and deep.
The dorm bed creaked under all three of you. Bucky’s cock rubbed against Steve’s ass and your thigh with every movement, leaving wet streaks. Their moans mixed, Steve’s deep and rumbling, Bucky’s rough and edged with that Brooklyn accent. Every time their tongues met, Steve’s hips snapped harder, driving you closer to the edge again.
“God, she’s so tight when we do this,” Steve panted against Bucky’s mouth. “Feel her, Buck- put your fingers in with me.”
Bucky did, stretching you even fuller while they made out sloppily above you. You came a second time, vision whiting out, clenching around both of them as their kisses turned almost violent with need.
They kept going like that for what felt like hours, switching positions, trading who was inside you, but never stopping the kisses for long. Bucky fucked you from behind while Steve knelt in front, feeding you his cock and kissing Bucky over your shoulder. Then Steve took you missionary again, Bucky straddling your chest so you could suck him while they leaned in and kissed each other right above your face, spit and moans raining down.
Filthy comments kept spilling out between kisses:
“His mouth is actually fucking addictive,” Bucky admitted, laughing breathlessly as Steve sucked on his tongue.
“Told you I was good at everything, asshole,” Steve shot back, then bit Bucky’s lip and made him moan loud enough to probably wake the neighbors.
You lost count of your orgasms. By the end, all three of you were a sweaty, cum-covered mess tangled in the sheets. Steve and Bucky finally collapsed on either side of you, still trading lazy, soft kisses across your body, your breasts, your neck, your lips before meeting in the middle again just because you asked.
“Love you idiots so much,” you whispered, voice hoarse and happy.
Bucky nuzzled into your neck, then kissed Steve once more, slow and sweet this time. “Love you more, doll. Even if kissing this punk still feels kinda weird in the best way.”
Steve smiled, soft and sated, pulling both of you closer. “Worth every awkward second. Round three?”
You grinned. “Only if you keep kissing.”
The three of you eventually collapsed again in a sweaty, sticky pile, still buzzing with endorphins and laughter. The tiny dorm bed creaked under your combined weight as Steve reluctantly untangled himself to grab water bottles from your mini-fridge. Bucky stayed behind, lazily stroking his fingers up and down your thigh, tracing little patterns through the mess still leaking out of you.
When Steve came back, balancing three bottles, he bumped clumsily into the edge of the bed and knocked over a small cardboard box you’d stashed underneath weeks ago. A couple of worn, well-loved magazines spilled out across the floor.
You sat up on your elbows, eyes widening. “Wait… you still have those?”
Bucky glanced over and barked out a loud laugh, throwing his head back. “Shit. Our old Playboy collection. I thought we lost those during the move. Looks like they found a new home under our girl’s bed.”
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, equal parts embarrassed and amused, his cheeks flushing that adorable pink again. “We were like nineteen and horny as hell, okay? Don’t judge us, sweetheart. It was before you tamed us.”
You reached down and picked one up, flipping it open with shaky fingers. The glossy pages showed beautiful, barely-dressed women in seductive poses, lacy lingerie barely covering full breasts, long legs spread teasingly, sultry eyes staring back at the camera. You bit your lip hard, flipping slowly. Your thighs pressed together as fresh heat pooled low in your belly, your sore, used pussy giving a needy little throb.
Bucky noticed immediately, his sharp eyes narrowing with delight. “Ohhh, look at that face. You getting wet again already, baby? Just from looking at pretty girls?”
Steve leaned in closer from your other side, voice low and teasing as he handed you a water bottle. “You like looking at pretty girls, sweetheart? Didn’t know our innocent little tutor had a secret thing for soft curves and lace. That’s cute as hell.”
“I- I just…” You turned another page, cheeks burning hot. The model on this spread was gorgeous, voluptuous hips, perfect tits barely contained by sheer fabric, lips parted like she was mid-moan. Your nipples tightened and you shifted restlessly. “They’re really pretty. Like… really pretty.”
Bucky grinned, propping his chin on your shoulder so he could look at the magazine with you, his breath hot against your ear. “You ever think about doing anything with a girl? Like… Nat, maybe? She’s always in those tight little tank tops when you two study. Bet she’d look real good between your thighs.”
Your head snapped up. “Bucky!”
Steve chuckled warmly, sliding back onto the bed and caging you in from the other side, one massive arm wrapping around your waist. “Come on, don’t get shy now, baby. You just made us kiss like horny teenagers. Fair’s fair. You ever thought about Nat like that? She’s hot as hell. We’ve seen the way you two giggle and whisper during those late-night study sessions.”
You hid your face in your hands, but you were smiling, thighs rubbing together as slick heat continued to build. “You two are the worst. I can’t believe you’re teasing me about this after what I just watched you do. You were literally making out while fingering me.”
Bucky gently pulled your hands away, kissing your knuckles with surprising sweetness before nipping at one. “Hey, we’re not complaining at all. You look so fucking cute all flustered and turned on. Your nipples are so hard right now. Keep looking if you want, doll. We’ll watch. Hell, we’ll help.”
Steve’s big, warm hand slid up your inner thigh, spreading your legs a little wider as he kissed your temple. “Or tell us what you’re thinking about while you flip through those pages, sweetheart. We can make it part of the lesson. Tell us which girl is making that pretty pussy clench.”
You peeked at them through your fingers, still sticky and sore but undeniably, shamefully aroused again. The sight of your two naked, flushed, muscular boyfriends, cocks half-hard against their thighs, looking at you like you were the center of their universe, combined with the glossy, filthy magazines in your lap made your head spin.
“Maybe… I’ve thought about it a little,” you admitted quietly, voice trembling as you flipped to the next page. This model was on her knees, ass up, looking back over her shoulder. You whimpered softly. “Not Nat specifically, but… girls are so pretty. Their bodies are so soft and curvy. I wonder what it would feel like to… touch.”
Bucky’s grin turned wicked and hungry. He reached over and turned the page for you, revealing a stunning redhead with her legs spread wide. “That’s our girl. Always full of filthy little surprises. Look at you getting worked up. Your thighs are shaking, baby.”
Steve’s fingers teased higher, brushing lightly over your swollen, leaking folds. “You’re soaked again just from looking at tits and pussy. That’s so fucking hot, sweetheart. You want to touch a girl’s soft tits while we watch? Or maybe you want one to sit on your face while we fuck you?”
You moaned quietly, hips twitching toward Steve’s hand as you kept flipping pages, eyes glued to the images. Bucky leaned in and sucked a mark onto your neck while his metal hand cupped one of your breasts, rolling your nipple.
“Tell us more,” Bucky murmured against your skin, voice dripping with teasing amusement. “Which one’s your favorite? The blonde with the big tits? Or the brunette who looks like she’d eat you out real slow and sweet?”
“I… I like the way they look so confident,” you breathed, voice getting higher and needier. Another page. Another gorgeous woman touching herself. Your clit was throbbing. “They’re so sexy. I feel all warm and tingly just looking…”
Steve chuckled darkly, sliding two thick fingers back inside your messy cunt, curling them perfectly. “Listen to you. Our innocent tutor is dripping down my hand because of some magazine tits. You ever watch girl-on-girl porn, baby? Bet that would really get you going.”
You whimpered loudly, clenching hard around his fingers as you turned another page with shaky hands. The images were blurring together now, lips, curves, fingers disappearing between thighs. You were so worked up you could barely think straight.
“I… I don’t even watch normal porn,” you confessed in a tiny, embarrassed voice, cheeks flaming.
The room went quiet for half a second.
Bucky pulled back, eyes wide with genuine surprise before a massive, predatory grin split his face. “Oh shit… yeah, I forgot. Our sweet little good-girl doesn’t even watch porn. Fuck, that’s adorable and so goddamn hot.”
Steve’s fingers stilled inside you for a moment, then started moving again, slower and deeper, his voice dropping into a rough growl. “You serious, sweetheart? You get this worked up just from looking at magazines and making us kiss? No porn at all?”
You nodded frantically, biting your lip hard as another wave of heat crashed through you. Your hips rocked shamelessly against Steve’s hand, chasing the pleasure while your eyes stayed glued to the magazine in your lap. The latest page showed two women tangled together, lips locked, hands exploring soft curves. A broken whimper slipped out of you.
“I’ve never… needed it,” you admitted breathlessly, voice high and shaky. “I just… get like this with you two. And now… with them. They’re so soft and pretty and- ah!”
Bucky laughed low and filthy, nipping at your earlobe while his fingers joined Steve’s between your legs. Circling your swollen clit with perfect pressure. “Listen to her, Steve. Our innocent little tutor’s never watched porn but she’s soaked just imagining girl-on-girl. Bet you’ve had some real dirty thoughts during those late-night study sessions, haven’t you, baby?”
Steve leaned in and kissed your neck sweetly before sucking a fresh mark right below your ear. “Tell us, sweetheart. Be honest. When you’re alone in this dorm bed, do you ever touch this needy little cunt and think about pretty girls kissing? About soft tits in your hands? About a girl going down on you while we watch?”
“Yes- fuck- maybe,” you gasped, flipping to another page with trembling fingers. This one had a gorgeous dark-haired woman touching herself, head thrown back in pleasure. Your thighs started shaking. “I… I think about how their skin would feel. How they’d taste. It makes me so wet but I never… I never finish to it. I just get all worked up and then you two come over and-”
“And we fuck the thoughts right out of you?” Bucky finished, voice dripping with teasing delight. He pressed his metal fingers harder against your clit, rubbing tight circles while Steve fucked you deeper with three thick fingers now. “Poor baby. So pent-up and curious. Never even seen girls eating each other out on video. That’s criminal. We should fix that.”
You moaned loudly, the sound downright pornographic in the small dorm room. The combination of their filthy words, their hands working you open, and the glossy images of beautiful, naked women had you right on the edge. Your free hand grabbed Bucky’s thigh, nails digging in as your back arched.
Steve kissed your temple, sweet and loving even as his fingers curled relentlessly. “You’re clenching so hard, baby. You really like this, don’t you? Looking at pretty girls while your boys play with you. So cute and filthy at the same time.”
Bucky grinned against your neck, voice low and taunting. “Bet if we put on some girl-on-girl porn right now you’d come in seconds, huh? Our pure little tutor losing her mind over lesbian shit while we finger-fuck her. Say it, doll. Tell us how bad you want it.”
“I- I want-” Your words cut off into a desperate whine as they sped up, perfectly in sync like always. The magazine slipped from your fingers onto the bed as your head fell back against Steve’s shoulder.
Bucky leaned in close, lips brushing your ear, voice dark and promising. “Well, damn. Then we’re definitely going to have to do something about that…”
