morgan

writer, multi-fandom midnights become my afternoons 30 | she/her

[thewintermuse]

TheWinterMuse Masterlist

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Writing Inspiration Playlist

❥❥❥ - explicit content/spicy

❥❥❥ - fluff

❥❥❥ - angst

Bucky Barnes

❥❥❥ try it on for me - ao3

part one

part two

❥❥❥ his favorite meal - ao3

❥❥❥ right where i want you - ao3

❥❥❥ hands between the sheets - ao3

❥❥❥ all i want for christmas is you - ao3

❥❥❥ between breath and want - ao3

❥❥❥ where i find you

❥❥❥ between frames

❥❥❥ his perfect mess

❥❥❥ my favorite way to wake up

a warm place to land

hush, i’ve got you

Chris Beck

❥❥❥ the gravity of you - ao3

❥❥❥ the ornament tradition

❥❥❥ tether me to you

Carter Baizen

❥❥❥ tinsel and truth

[buckytakethewheel]

loyal subject

Summary: After bombing your European History exam, you seek comfort from your secret boyfriend, Professor James B. Barnes. Pairing: Professor James Barnes x College Student!Reader Word count: 2.5k Warnings/tags: porn with absolutely no plot; secret relationship; age gap (bucky in his 40s, reader in her 20s); semi-public sex (office sex); student anxiety; student stress relief; kind of comfort sex?; oral sex (f receiving); fingering; praise kink/worship kink; one instance of pussy pronouns; use of petname (love & goddess); bucky is the gentlest lover; bucky loves being on his knees; no use of y/n; unbeta’d Notes: so. we're all crazy about the new cartier photoshoot, right? right. i feel like every time a new Seb photoshoot comes out, some new inspiration for Professor Barnes comes to the light for me. here's the new hallucination somewhere in that universe.

Dim lights of the humanities building are practically vibrating as you walk through the hallway. There’s a chance it might just be the sheer volume of caffeine and panic coursing through your veins causing you to feel that way, too.

It’s half past six in the afternoon when you open the door to office 304, the one that has Professor James B. Barnes written on a small rectangle in golden letters. You don’t knock. Simply push the door open, slip inside and click it shut behind you, the sound definitely too loud in the quiet hallway now that most students have already gone home.

Inside, Professor Barnes, who has the reputation for being the toughest grader in the department and object of half the campus’ unrequited crushes, looks up from his desk, one brow arched, red pen hovering whatever he had been grading, silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

You recognize it immediately, the slightly judgemental expression of someone who was not expecting to have his work interrupted with even as much as a knock; but the moment he notices the expression on your face, your hands still shaking with adrenaline, his own shifts from professional uptightness to something much softer. A soft look you’ve come to know, too, after the two of you began a secret relationship a little over four months ago.

“Sorry,” you say, already stumbling through words. “Sorry, I know I didn’t knock, I just—"

 “Come in. Lock the door.” His voice drops, shifting from Professor Barnes to your James in the space of a few words.

You do just that. Then you stand there, backpack still hanging off one shoulder, hands twisting the strap.

“I’m freaking out about the European History exam,” you start. Professor Barnes shows no signs of being bothered by you immediately firing information his way.

“Sit down first.”

“I can’t sit down, James. I’ve been sitting for the past four hours, trying to—" You drop your bag onto the floor and start pacing the narrow strip of space between his bookshelf and the leather couch pushed against the wall. “I completely bombed it, okay? I know I did. Question three asked about the socioeconomic impacts of the Treaty of Tordesillas. I wrote about trade routes, James. Why did I write about trade routes? That wasn’t the prompt. And then I couldn’t remember some exact years, so I guessed, and I’m pretty sure I guessed about two decades off. If I fail this exam—”

“Please, sit—”

“—my GPA drops, and if my GPA drops, I lose my seminar slot for next semester, and then my entire track is ruined, and I'll end up living in a cardboard box—”

“Love.”

You stop, the way you always stop when he calls you that, like your mind still hasn’t quite learned to process that this man, older, more experienced, with a salt and pepper beard that makes your knees weak, would want to call you love.

James is leaning back in his chair now, arms crossed with muscles straining slightly against the shirt, and watching you with a particular patient expression, despite your serpentining conversation.

“The exam is done. You're spiralling," he tells you, and the second after he is getting up from his chair and stepping into your pacing path. A hand reaches for your wrist and makes you stop in front of him. “Breathe for me?”

“I’m not breathing, I can’t breathe, I have three more finals this week and I feel like my skull is gonna fracture from the pressure,” you whine, but are already leaning into his touch, seeking the warmth of him through your most stressful moments. He lets out a sympathetic sigh, fingers curling firmer around your wrist and pulls you fully to him before he presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

“There’s nothing you can do about it now.” And he’s not wrong. You open your mouth, close it, then sigh. Because there is nothing you can do about it now, and that’s somehow better, but also considerably worse. James tips your chin up with two fingers, ocean blue eyes meeting yours from behind his glasses.

“You have barely slept or eaten properly for the past week. I don’t like it. The way you chastise yourself whenever something goes wrong.” His thumb traces your jaw, and some of the tight coil in your chest loosens very much against your will. “Take a seat.” 

“James, I don’t need to—"

“I’m not asking,” he says gently, which makes it incredibly more effective than if he had said it any other way, then nods towards the leather couch. “Sit. You’ve been white-knuckling it for days, give yourself ten minutes.”

You consider it. Not because you want to sit down, not because the exam is finally slipping away from your mind, but because James has shifted into that version of him he only ever lets out when he’s near you, with you, the one that breaks down all your defenses and leaves you bare, although not unsafe. You always feel safe with him.

Slowly, you agree and take a seat on the couch, back slumping against the cushions. Your body recognizes it as home almost immediately, letting the familiarity seep into your bones and making you relax.

James crouches down in front of you and rubs one hand over your right knee.

"Still thinking about it?" he asks.

"...A little."

You sink deeper into the worn leather of the couch, the tension in your shoulders only kind of melting under the weight of his gaze. James remains crouched between your knees for a long moment, large hands taking residence on your thighs, now, thumbs stroking soothing circles through the fabric of your jeans.

“You know I’ve always got you, right? Prettiest girl I’ve ever met. Smartest, too,” he murmurs, voice wrapped in velvet. That does it quickly, for you, and you know he knows it. He showers you in praise every time, because every time your body opens to him like a flower blooming in the sunlight.

Before you can overthink it, you simply nod. There’s a brief moment where you’re sure he whispers something like ‘let me take care of you’, and you do, you let him, the permission being the way your legs gently pry open right in front of him. A shaky exhale, head falling back against the couch. All the agreement he needs.

His long fingers travel upward and make easy work of the button of your pants before peeling them down your legs slowly. James pulls your boots off, then the pants along with them, and he leans forward, mouth pressing a kiss to your left knee. Upward, to the skin of your thigh, a bit to the side, to the inside of your leg. Three days' worth of stubble prickles against you as he moves, and you make a noise, something he sees quickly as desperation, and you know the complaint is futile. When has Professor Barnes ever given you anything quicker than the exact pace he wanted to?

“Relax,” he says against your thigh, then presses his lips to the skin again, an open-mouthed kiss before he bites down so gently you are barely even able to call it a bite. “Didn’t I just say I’ve got you?”

Large hands slide from your thighs to wrap firmly around the backs of your legs, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to tug you forward on the couch, sliding your ass closer to the edge so you’re perfectly positioned for him. That’s when you open your eyes again, just in time to watch him hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties and peel them down slowly, dragging the fabric along your thighs and off your ankles. And he does it all with his eyes on yours, two blue pits making you feel dizzy, but you still don’t look away. You couldn’t if you tried.

Cool air hits your now exposed pussy, making you shiver. James lets out a quiet hum of approval at the sight of you, already glistening with arousal.

“She’s always so beautiful,” a reverent whisper before his large hands wrap around your legs again and lift effortlessly to drape them over his broad shoulders, heels of your feet resting against his back. The new angle tilts your hips up towards his mouth, spreading you open for him completely, and before you can even catch your breath, or take a moment to push down the flush on your skin growing from the vulnerable way you are exposed to him, he leans in and drags his tongue through your folds in a filthy stripe from your entrance to your clit.

A breathy moan tears from your throat, echoing in the quiet office like a confession, and it unravels the last threads of your anxiety as pleasure rises in its place. Then James does it again, a little slower, savoring the taste of you, messy and unhurried, spit mixing with your arousal until your folds are slick and shining. On his knees in front of you, this brilliant man, esteemed professor, becomes nothing more than a servant doing worship at the altar of his Goddess. His broad shoulders carry your legs like an honor he would gladly take forever, and his eyes flutter shut as he presses closer.

He’s incredible at this; you’ve known it from the first time he fell to his knees, right here, in this office, always reading every twitch, every gasp, mouth moving with exquisite skill. Slow and indulgent at first, mostly for himself, drowning in the taste of your slick, before giving way to teasing flicks of the tip of his tongue around your swollen clit only to dip lower again, lapping messily at your entrance where your arousal flows for him.

Wetness coats his silver-streaked beard, glistening on his chin as he buries his face deeper between your thighs. The obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your fill the room, wet slurping and sucking noises, a slick glide of his tongue, an occasional hungry groan into your cunt that sends sparks flying up your spine, all of it the actions of a man who could be on his knees for hours.

Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the dark strands as your thighs tremble around his head. “James…”

No words come out of his mouth then, none you can understand, anyway; instead, the response comes in the way he sucks your clit between his lips, wet suction making your hips jerk, before he releases it with a lewd pop. One hand claws at your thigh, keeping your legs right in their place, while two thick fingers slide into your welcoming heat, curling against the spongy spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. James pumps them slowly, in time with the dance of his tongue over your clit.

Exam long forgotten, the world narrows to nothing but him, the way his blue eyes will sometimes flick up to watch you through fogged glasses, dark with lust and adoration. Only when he needs to take a moment to breathe, a quick one, enough to allow him to keep going for as long as you need him to, does he speak again.

“Goddess,” he whispers teasingly, slowing his fingers as if to get your attention. Your head tilts forward and you watch him through hooded eyes. “Will you cum for your most loyal subject?”

You huff in soft frustration, the sound breaking into another shaky moan as your body refuses to cooperate with your irritation. Because the edge is so close, molten in your belly, and here he is, being a wicked scholar and working you through comedic words.

“James, don’t… fuck, I’m so close, don’t play with me right now…” you manage, trying to reprimand him. But even as you say it, your cunt betrays you completely, clenching hard around his fingers, fluttering and squeezing with need and pulling them deeper as slick coats his hand.

Your favorite Professor gleams with amusement, lips curled into a devastating half-smirk, swollen and shiny. “You like it when I’m funny. You’ve told me before.”

You want to protest, but he curls his fingers again, strokes the perfect spot and dips his head again, sucking your swollen bud with perfect pressure, flicking the tip of his tongue rapidly in a rhythm that makes your vision spark white. For a second, he slips his fingers out and instead fucks you with his tongue, thrusting it inside you, before dragging it back up to torture your clit again while his fingers move back to their rightful place. His free hand grips your thigh harder, holding you open for him as you start to grind against his face, chasing the pleasure.

The combination is merciless. Frustration melts instantly into overwhelming pleasure, and another broken moan rips from your throat as your thighs tighten around his shoulders, heels digging into his back. Every stroke, every suck makes the coil in your belly tighten, pulling you deeper into a sea of sensation where exams and fears cannot reach. His beard scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin with every movement of his head, and arousal drips down his chin onto the leather couch, but he only presses closer, as if he would gladly drown in you.

And just like that, your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, sudden and blinding. You cry out sharply, back arching off the couch as pleasure tears through every nerve in your body. James moans against your pussy like a man receiving divine absolution, your walls pulsing and fluttering around his fingers, gushing against his mouth. And he drinks down every drop of you until your trembling begins to quiet down, slowly easing his movements before pressing a couple of tender, open-mouthed kisses to your oversensitive pussy and to your inner thighs.

Still, he keeps your legs draped over his shoulders a moment longer, gazing at you through glasses that look slightly uneven with the most loving expression you have ever seen on a man. Breathless and floating, you manage to meet his eyes, and you smile at the sight of your brilliant professor on his knees, face glistening with the evidence of your pleasure.

“You’re trouble,” you whisper, though the words carry no real heat in them. James is busy kissing down your legs, lips reaching softly to every inch of skin, but he smiles in the midst of it.

“Trouble?” he repeats, feigning offense. “My goddess calls me trouble after I’ve knelt here and offered proper tribute? How cruel.”

You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a soft gasp when he nips gently at the crease of your thigh.

“You do know I love you, right? Even when you’re being silly while going down on me.”

That makes him smile wider. “I reckon you love me especially when I’m being silly while going down on you.”

And he’s not wrong at all.

Bucky Barnes taglist

@astronautlawliet @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @mathcat345 @starspangledspanks @yexbarnes

All fics taglist

@apenny4thots @avgdestitute @barnes-babydoll @blue-eyes-in-august @buckybarnes82 @buckyb-stan @gremlin-girly @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @luuwrii @kanejfrvrrrr @metal-armed-muse @miraclediviner @nigelology @overwintering-soldier @phoenix-in-writing @ronanpakes0 @sheriff-bodecker @stanmarvelous @sunday-bug @wherewinterblooms @wint3rbarnes @zhaixiaowen

[navybrat817]

Love Stands Guard

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Pregnant!Female Reader

Summary: During a fun and relaxing afternoon, Bucky overhears someone making fun of your body. He doesn’t take too kindly to that.

Word Count: Over 2.9k

Warnings: Established relationship, pregnancy, pet name (sweetheart for you, baby nicknamed Sprout), mention of stretch marks (they are beautiful), pregnant body shaming, threat of violence (not against reader), fluff, feels, domestic life, Steve and Sam are good friends, protective vibes, putting a jerk in his place (sorry if your name is Chet), Bucky Barnes (he's down bad and a warning, okay?).

A/N: What can I say, lovelies? I love a Bucky down bad and sticking up for you. Part of Soft Echoes, Strong Roots AU. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

It was meant to be a relaxing and fun afternoon.

Nothing major. Just a small gathering with a few familiar faces, some friends and agents, and good food. Maybe a few games, some music and conversations. Bucky only agreed because you batted your eyes and promised that you wouldn’t overdo it. 

As if he could ever say “no” to you. 

“You could smile a bit more, you know,” Steve teased, handing him a beer. 

He scoffed, the bottle cool against his warm hand. “I am smiling,” he argued.

His general demeanor had improved since you came into his life. He liked to think he smiled more than he scowled most days. Well, at least he smiled more when you were around. Or when he thought of you, which was all the time.

So, yeah, his demeanor was much better. 

“You only smile like that when you look at or think about your wife,” Steve pointed out, like he knew exactly what he was on his mind.

Bucky’s gaze softened immediately when he heard you laughing, watching you from where you stood a few feet away. 

You were glowing.

A pregnancy glow, yes, combined with something warmer. The dress you picked somehow flowed while showing off the shape of your body perfectly. Your smile lit up your face and you had a hand on your belly like you’d done for weeks now without thinking. It was beautiful. 

You were beautiful. 

“Can you blame me for having a smile just for her?” Bucky asked.

“Not at all,” his best friend replied. 

You shifted your weight before you took a seat, your smile brighter when you spotted Bucky watching you. He never strayed far from you. Didn’t even sip the drink in his hand. He had his eyes on you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. 

You and Sprout. 

Pride flickered through his chest when his gaze dropped to your belly. His wife and his baby. His family. 

Everyone was waiting on you hand and foot. At least, they tried to. The moment someone tried to bring you a drink or food, he stepped in. He couldn’t help himself. Once you were taken care of, he went back to his spot. The perfect place to keep an eye on his surroundings since some old habits died hard.

And you just smiled, soft and bright. 

Steve nudged him with his shoulder. “You deserve this, you know.”

Bucky swallowed hard. It didn’t always feel like he did. The past liked to seep into his mind at unexpected moments and make the world look a little darker. Depending on the day, he’d either hug you close or take you to bed to drown out the noise. Sometimes both.

And no matter what, you made the world look brighter again.

“So, you’re saying I deserved to knock up my wife?” he joked to deflect. 

The blonde snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying,” he said, giving him a small smile. “Also saying you deserve this life.”

His chest tightened when you laughed at a joke Sam made, your head tipping back slightly and your hand going back to your belly. There was no fight to worry about. No past to haunt him. Just small precious moments like this. 

His lips twitched upward when you found his gaze again, your love for him burning bright in your eyes.

He did deserve this kind of life.

“Thanks, punk,” he mumbled, clinking their bottles together.

“Jerk.”

You turned your attention back to Sam and Bucky pushed off the wall to move closer before a voice stopped him.

Something low and careless.

“Is that chair gonna break? Jesus Christ, she’s fucking huge. How many are in there?”

The thought of domesticity and peace left Bucky’s mind, replaced by something cold and dangerous. 

You were blissfully unaware that some prick had just insulted your beautiful body, still smiling and enjoying yourself. As you should be. You only deserved good things. No one else around you seemed to notice the change in the atmosphere either.

But Steve stiffened out of the corner of his eye. He heard it. They both heard it. 

Super soldier senses really were handy at times.

Ice took over the blue of his eyes, his head slowly turning to look at the fucker stupid enough to open his mouth and even breath the same oxygen as you. A new agent with a very punchable face who wore too much cologne. There was a good chance that you kept your distance for that very reason since some smells still overwhelmed you. The snickering prick certainly wasn’t a friend of his or yours. He was only “invited” because someone else thought it would be good for him to hang out outside of work. 

That wouldn’t happen again. 

“Better snag a brownie before she stuffs her face with the whole tray.”

My wife can have all the fucking brownies she wants, you fucking piece of shit.

The bottle in his hand began to crack. It would shatter if he kept squeezing. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

Not yet.

“You know that’s Barnes’s wife, right?” The asshole’s friend shifted uncomfortably. “She’s really nice, and he’s… well, he’s pretty protective of her.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked back to you, much softer, before looking at the soon-to-be-dead fucker again.

No. Can’t kill the guy. I have a wife and kid to think about.

The prick had the nerve to laugh. “So? Does that give her a pass to look like a whale?”

…He’s fucking dead.

Steve took the cracked bottle from his hand. “Want me to handle him?” he asked, his voice low. 

He exhaled through his nose. Steve didn’t like bullies. Never had. But he knew why he was asking instead of just stepping in and taking care of it.

Because you were his wife. His to defend. His to love and care for. 

This was his fight.

“I got this,” he replied, subtly nodding to where you were sitting. “Just keep an eye out for a minute?”

Steve nodded in understanding, positioning himself to block your line of sight without looking too obvious. 

Bucky took deliberate steps toward the table, his movements controlled and measured. His jaw tightened the closer he got, his fingers itching to toss the guy out with his bare hands. He wouldn’t cause a scene out of respect for you. 

But he wasn’t going to stay silent. 

The atmosphere shifted the second he got to the table, the chatter ceasing immediately. 

The prick, of course, had the nerve to smile. 

“Hey, man! You-”

“You got something to say about my wife?” he asked, his voice as cold as his stare. 

The man’s eyes widened, maybe from shock that he was overheard or that he was being confronted. “I… What?”

Had no problem using your words seconds ago, asshole. 

“You were talking about her.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, his eyes flat and unreadable. “My wife.”

The air shifted more, something cold settling over the surroundings as the guy sputtered to come up with an excuse. 

“Say it again,” he ordered, placing his hands on the table and leaning down to his eye level. He made sure there was no warmth in his expression. “Where I can really hear you.”

The idiot swallowed and looked to his friend for help and found none; his friend was suddenly very interested in the beer in his hand. “Um… Barnes, I-”

“My wife, the love of my life, is carrying my child. Our child.” His lip raised in a small snarl and he leaned in enough that Agent Asshole had to back up. “And you think you can sit here and make fun of her? You think I won’t do something about it?”

“I-It was a bad joke,” he tried to reason.

Reasoning only worked with people when they were in a forgiving mood. 

He wasn’t. 

“Oh, now it’s a joke? You think you’re funny?” He smiled with no trace of friendliness behind it. It was likely how a wolf looked baring their teeth before sinking them into their prey. “You think I’ll laugh while you crack ‘jokes’ about my wife?”

The prick looked like he was a heartbeat away from pissing himself, which made Bucky question the hiring process for agents. This sort of “interrogation” was nothing. Child’s play. 

Then again, how many agents could say they had the former Winter Soldier in their space?

“I-I really didn’t mean-”

“Don’t.” His voice dropped even lower. “Don’t insult my intelligence.”

He glanced back and saw Sam looking his way, his eyes narrowing when he sensed the tension. Steve subtly shook his head. There was no reason to intervene. He was still in control.

Barely.

But you were still smiling, which was the important thing.

“You know what I see when I look at her?” he asked rhetorically, his chest tight. “I see the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

He smacked his hand on the table hard enough to make the bottles rattle and the guys flinch. 

Sam, thankfully, chose to tell another joke at the same time and Steve cackled so the noise at the table wouldn’t draw your attention.

I really do have good friends. 

“I’ll say it again. She’s carrying our baby. She’s uncomfortable and exhausted and guess what? She still walks into a room smiling and thinks of others first. And you sit here and act like she’s something to mock when she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” His jaw clenched even as his heart swelled with pride. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

The guy shrank lower as every word washed over him.

Good.

Bucky stared at him for another long moment before something colder settled into place behind his eyes.

“Get up, Chet,” he ordered.

“Chet’s” mouth fell open. “That’s not my-”

“I know what your name is, and I don’t care,” he cut him off, straightening up. “Because you don’t respect my wife, so I refuse to respect you.”

A bright shade of red passed through his cheeks before he paled. 

As someone who was stripped of his own agency for years, identity mattered to Bucky. Basic decency mattered. So, maybe it was a little petty to call him by the wrong name, but it was also a good way to put him in his place by letting him know he didn’t matter.

Chet, as his name was Chet to him now, got to his feet on shaky legs. “Sorry.”

“I’m sure you are sorry now, but it’s a little too late for that.” 

Bucky clamped a hand on the back of his neck. To just about anyone looking over, it would’ve looked casual. Almost friendly. But they would’ve missed the firm squeeze. 

“Move.”

The prick didn’t need to be told twice.

He guided him away from the table and made sure to smile as he did so. He shot his friend a quick glare for good measure, but at least he stuck up for you. That was the only reason he didn’t make him leave, too. 

The chatter continued behind him, but he barely noticed it over the sound of Chet’s pounding heart and his own blood roaring loudly in his ears. But then he heard your laughter and he took a deep breath, picturing your loving smile and hand on your belly. 

It kept him from snapping completely.

Once they were in the driveway, Bucky shoved him forward. Hard. He stumbled, but somehow managed to stay on his feet. He wished he could punch him for good measure, but he seemed like the type of coward who would cry and call the cops. 

Even if they let him off with a warning, he didn’t want to add any stress to your plate.

“Christ, man,” Chet muttered.

“You stay the fuck out of my house and never come back,” Bucky said, his voice low and lethal as he stepped forward. “And don’t you ever disrespect my wife again.”

Chet nodded quickly. Too quickly. “I won’t.”

Bucky looked every bit like the Winter Soldier wrapped in civilian clothing when he added, “You’ll never speak about her like that again. You’ll never look at her like that again. And you sure as hell will never come near my family again.”

“I understand,” he swore, his voice cracking.

“Good.” Bucky’s nostrils flared as he looked him over one last time, disgust curling in his stomach. “And the next time you come across someone pregnant, maybe try showing them some goddamn respect.”

He looked down at his feet, avoiding his gaze and swallowing any excuse he had left to give.

Fucking coward. 

Bucky pointed toward the street. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

The idiot practically ran to his car. 

Bucky glared as he drove down the street, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck once he disappeared. He exhaled the remainder of his anger through his mouth, his hand moving through his hair. There was nothing to be upset about anymore. Agent Asshole was gone and now he could get back to you.

Where he belonged. 

The second he walked back to the yard, his eyes found you automatically. 

Still smiling, safe, and his.

He grabbed a couple of brownies from the tray before he walked over, giving Steve and Sam two nods. One to let them know everything was fine. The other to thank them for shielding you from that display.

They nodded in return. 

You were his wife and family, but you were their family, too. 

“There’s my handsome husband. I wondered where you went off to for a minute.” You smiled up at him when he approached, his heart skipping a beat. “You okay?”

Bucky stared at you in awe. 

God, she’s so fucking beautiful it makes my chest ache.

Up close, your glow was even brighter. You looked at him like he put the sun in the sky just for you. He would if he could. And your belly moved slightly under your hands, and he wanted to feel Sprout move, too. 

“I should be asking you that,” he replied, his brows furrowing. “Are you okay? Are you thirsty? Hungry?”

He observed you carefully, looking for signs of discomfort or fatigue. The conversation with Chet and kicking him out didn’t take very long, but it felt like hours now being apart from you. Steve and Sam had been watching over you, but it wasn’t the same. 

“I’m just fine,” you assured him, and he knew you weren’t just saying that for his benefit. “But you didn’t answer my question,” you added teasingly. 

Always thinking of me. 

“Yeah,” he murmured, gentler than he had spoken all day. “Everything’s fine now.”

You studied him for a moment, sensing something underneath the surface. He didn’t falter under your gaze. There was no need to. 

“Everything’s fine now, which means it wasn’t fine before,” you guessed. 

Bucky sighed. He should’ve known you’d feel that something was off. You were too intuitive for your own good. That was one of the things he loved about you. And part of him loving you was trying to protect you from harm, physically, mentally, or verbally. 

But there was also no hiding from you, even when he did his best to shield you. 

“Just… needed to throw some trash out,” he said carefully. 

It was true. 

Chet was trash. 

“That’s one way of putting it,” Steve muttered into his drink, making Sam snort. 

Before you could question him further, he set the brownies down and crouched slightly in front of your chair so he could rest a hand gently over your belly. He didn’t chastise Sam for snapping a photo, and he didn’t care who saw him like this. The two of you were his world and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. 

“Hey, Sprout,” he murmured, his entire expression softening. “You behaving for your mama?”

The baby kicked almost immediately beneath his palm.

He smiled wide, making him temporarily forget about the dickhead he just  threw out. 

“Sprout’s just fine, too,” you promised, placing your hand on his, your gaze thoughtful. “You sure you’re okay?”

He leaned up slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He remembered sitting on the couch and comforting you after the mean voice in your head made you doubt that you’d be a good mom. And how you didn’t think your stretch marks were pretty but he thought they were so beautiful. You were so strong and inspiring. His wife. The mother of his child. 

He wasn’t about to ruin your fun and relaxing afternoon by telling you what happened. 

But as much as he wanted to protect you, he would tell you later once everyone left because he refused to keep secrets from you. There was a good chance you’d cry. Not because of the cruel words spoken or hormones, but because he stuck up for you so fiercely. He would always stick up for his family. 

And if you wanted him to punish Chet even more, he’d do it without question.

That was how much he loved you. 

And he’d take you to bed later, kissing and touching every inch of you he could. He’d make you feel beautiful and cherished if any of your insecurities began to surface. He’d silence any mean voice in your head, hopefully for good, the same way you drowned out the horrors he experienced and made him feel loved. 

I love you both so much. 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispered, glancing down at your stomach with so much love. “I’m better than okay.”

We all deserve to have someone in our corner. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[thewintermuse]

This had me kicking my feet oh my goddddddd BEAT HIS ASS THO BUCK

[thewintermuse]

So you dont like Annabelle and Sebastian as a couple? Im confused

Hello! This will be the only time I’ll be addressing this. Any further asks will not be answered.

I do not like Annabelle Wallis. My reasoning for this is my reasoning alone and has nothing to do with her relationship to Sebastian Stan.

My blog is for my writing and my writing only. While I may comment on other blogs often labeled as “antis”, this will be the only time I will address this here.

I apologize if this upsets you or anyone else reading this, but I do not have to like someone simply because they are the partner of an actor I like. You are welcome to unfollow me and that’s fine, I truly wish you all well.

[thewintermuse]

Hi babe!! Love ur work so much, i read this and thought about something like this with bucky, can i request for a fic with a promt like this? 🫶

He yearned so much for her love that when she woke him after a nightmare and leaned in to kiss his forehead his head so their lips would meet thinking he was still dreaming.

Whe she pulled back startled, saying only his name, he soothed her gently, "Shh, it's only a dream. I can love you in dreams"

Thk u 🩷🩷

Thank you for the love! I appreciate it! I absolutely LOVE this idea!! Give me some time and I will work on it and make sure to reference this post in the notes 🫶🏼 love you anon!

[thewintermuse]

Like they say, there are none so blind as those who will not see...

This is from May 9th, no clue what this referring to 😭

[justforbrains]

I’m Fucking Tired of Shippers Spreading Lies About What Antis Actually Are

Before You Instantly Dismiss This, Shippers:

Honestly, I do not even know if most shippers will fully read this because a lot of you seem completely unwilling to listen to perspectives outside your own circles anymore. I think many of you already decided who antis are a long time ago and stopped actually hearing anything we say after that.

But I genuinely wish you would read this anyway.

Because despite what some of you seem to believe, many of us are not trying to be hateful. We are trying to explain that there is a massive difference between criticism, discomfort, skepticism, and actual cruelty. And a lot of us are exhausted from constantly being treated like monsters simply for disagreeing with a celebrity relationship.

Why I'm writing this.

I’ve already spoken before about parasocial shipping culture, projection, and why criticism is not automatically misogyny. But after everything that happened recently with certain fan pages and the nonstop accusations being thrown around, I need to address something directly because the way “antis” are being talked about in this fandom has become completely detached from reality.

And this is part of why I have become deeply skeptical of the narratives constantly spread about antis.

Why I No Longer Blindly Trust the Narratives Spread About Antis

At one point, I received multiple anonymous asks in a row attacking Annabelle. Some of them were nasty. One of them crossed a line and mentioned wishing harm on her child. I deleted it immediately because I do NOT support that kind of behavior. (By the way, I didn't post any of them because they were disgusting and crossed a line)

But what was especially interesting was that the person behind that specific ask forgot to stay anonymous. When I checked the account, it was a shipper page.

That moment genuinely changed the way I look at a lot of these accusations because it made me realize how easy it is for people to manufacture narratives and then weaponize them against entire groups of people.

So forgive me if I no longer blindly trust every anonymous “proof” post claiming antis are secretly violent monsters.

Especially when I have personally seen evidence that some people are more interested in pushing a narrative than telling the truth.

How “Antis” Became a Caricature Instead of Real People

The term “anti” has become part of the problem at this point because people hear that word and immediately imagine some deranged hate group instead of what most of us actually are: people who simply do not support a celebrity relationship.

Half the time I genuinely think a better label would be something like “non AW&SS relationship fans” because the word anti has been so distorted by fandom stuff that some of you automatically associate it with cruelty, extremism, harassment, or obsession before even listening to what people are actually saying!

Not supporting a celebrity relationship does NOT automatically make someone hateful, abusive, misogynistic, dangerous, or obsessed. A lot of you have completely flattened the word anti into meaning “evil person,” and honestly it is getting absurd.

I do not support Sebastian and Annabelle as a couple. That is my opinion. I think the timeline surrounding his previous relationship looks questionable. I do not think he was in the healthiest headspace when this relationship started. I think there are aspects of the relationship that feel unhealthy, performative, or complicated to me personally. You do not have to agree with any of that. But disagreement is not harassment.

And that is the distinction some of you refuse to acknowledge.

A lot of antis are not sitting around wishing harm on anybody. We are not some organized hate movement. Most of us are simply people who do not buy into the romanticized fantasy version of this relationship that shipping culture constantly pushes.

Stop Accusing Antis of Wanting Harm on a Child

And honestly, one of the most disgusting things I have seen come out of this fandom lately is the repeated claim that antis want Annabelle’s child dead or harmed.

Do some of you even realize how serious of an accusation that is?

You are not just calling people “mean” at that point. You are accusing an entire group of people of being cruel, violent, monstrous human beings simply because they do not support a celebrity relationship.

I have never once seen a legitimate anti wish death on a child. Ever.

What I HAVE seen is people take isolated anonymous comments, trolls, fake asks, or screenshots with zero context and immediately weaponize them against every anti in existence because it conveniently supports the narrative that we are all hateful psychos.

And what makes this even more insane is that one of the cruelest asks I ever received supposedly “from an anti” literally traced back to a shipper account that forgot to stay anonymous. So forgive me if I am skeptical when people immediately start spreading horror stories about antis without questioning where those messages are actually coming from.

Some of you have become so emotionally invested in defending this relationship that you genuinely cannot comprehend the difference between criticism and hatred anymore. The second someone dislikes the relationship, you immediately escalate it into “they want harm,” “they are evil,” “they are dangerous,” or “they are obsessed.”

That is not rational behavior.

The Double Standard Around Toxicity in This Fandom

I also need to address something else because some of you are being intentionally dishonest about the way toxicity operates in this fandom.

Shippers constantly speak about antis as though cruelty exists exclusively on our side while completely ignoring the fact that I have personally seen shippers say vile things too. I have seen people mocked, degraded, dogpiled, dehumanized, and spoken to horrifically simply because they do not support this relationship.

So please stop acting like one side is made entirely of innocent victims while the other side is uniquely monstrous. That is not reality.

Every fandom space has people who go too far. Every side has extremists. Every side has trolls. Every side has emotionally reactive people.

The difference is that when antis say something awful, shippers immediately assign it to the entire group and use it as proof that all antis are hateful. But when shippers behave cruelly, suddenly it becomes “just one person,” “not representative,” or something people should ignore.

That double standard is exactly what many of us are frustrated by.

And yes, I have seen disgusting comments from antis before. I am not denying that. I do not support harassment, cruelty, or wishing harm on anyone. But I have ALSO seen shippers say horrific things, including toward people who are already struggling mentally or physically, and somehow that never gets turned into a statement about all shippers collectively.

That inconsistency matters.

Some of You Do Not Want Conversation. You Want Control of the Narrative.

What also continues to amaze me is the complete unwillingness some shippers have to actually TALK to antis while simultaneously obsessively monitoring everything we say. You block people while continuing to screenshot them. You vaguepost instead of engaging directly. You create entire narratives about people you refuse to actually converse with.

And honestly, I think a huge part of the problem is that many shippers fundamentally confuse criticism with hatred. If someone does not romanticize the relationship the exact same way you do, suddenly they are jealous, misogynistic, bitter, parasocial, or insane.

Do you realize how reductive that is?

People are allowed to observe public behavior and come to different conclusions than you.

I have also repeatedly seen antis get conflated with completely different fandom extremists from entirely separate spaces. We are not responsible for every psychotic anonymous troll on the internet. Maybe some of you should start being more careful about who your sources actually are before spreading serious accusations about entire groups of people.

Criticism Is Not Parasociality

And ironically, the people constantly accusing antis of being “parasocial” are often the same people publicly discussing celebrities’ sex lives, fertility, future children, emotional intimacy, body language, and romantic destiny as though these people exist for public consumption.

That is part of the reason many antis became uncomfortable with shipping culture in the first place.

None of this means every anti is automatically rational or healthy. Every side has people who take things too far. But the idea that criticism automatically equals hatred while unconditional support automatically equals kindness is intellectually lazy.

You do not have to agree with antis. You do not have to dislike the relationship. But stop flattening thousands of different people into one evil caricature simply because they disagree with you.

And stop lying about us.

Posts of disgust for reference. They have all either blocked me or refused to actually have a conversation with me, by the way.

Also, the first screenshot is literally the comment that started this entire reaction toward me. And honestly? I was not even being particularly cruel there. Frustrated? Sure. Dismissive? Maybe. But nowhere in that post was I wishing harm on anybody, threatening anybody, or saying anything remotely close to the horrific accusations some of you have decided to attach to antis collectively.

That is exactly my point.

Some of you have become so emotionally conditioned to view disagreement as hatred that even mild criticism or frustration immediately gets interpreted as malice.

Screenshots For Context Since Apparently Everything Needs Proof

Just one last example of how genuinely sick and tired I am of people spreading horrible lies about antis.

This is literally me explaining that I do NOT support harming anybody and that I do NOT know a single anti who would ever wish harm on a child. Yet somehow people still continue pushing the narrative that all antis are violent, cruel, or dangerous simply because we do not support a celebrity relationship.

This is exactly the kind of shit I mean when I say people are flattening an entire group into a cartoon villain version of “the evil anti” instead of actually listening to what most of us are saying.

Notice how I never once grouped all shippers together or claimed every shipper was a bad person. That nuance clearly did not get extended back to antis.

Maybe People Would Understand Each Other Better if They Actually Talked

At the end of the day, I do not think every shipper is toxic.

And I do not think every anti is innocent.

I think a lot of people in this fandom have spent so much time talking ABOUT each other that they stopped actually talking TO each other.

And if people were willing to have real conversations instead of immediately assuming the worst, I genuinely think both sides would realize the reality is far more complicated than the caricatures fandom culture keeps pushing.

This Is the Real Problem

At the end of the day, you do not have to agree with antis. You do not have to like us.

You do not even have to understand why we feel the way we do.

But stop turning disagreement into moral hysteria.

Stop acting like criticism automatically equals hatred. Stop treating every anti like a violent extremist because of anonymous trolls and isolated screenshots.

And stop spreading disgusting accusations about people simply because they do not romanticize a celebrity relationship the same way you do.

Some of you have become so emotionally invested in defending this relationship that you have completely lost the ability to separate discomfort from danger, criticism from abuse, and skepticism from cruelty.

That is the real problem here.

Not every anti is innocent. Not every shipper is toxic. But the way some of you have dehumanized antis while pretending your own side is incapable of cruelty is intellectually dishonest and unbelievably hypocritical.

And honestly? The fact that so many of you would rather block, vaguepost, stalk, and invent narratives about us instead of actually having a conversation says more than I ever could.

You turned disagreement into villainy. You created a caricature of us in your heads. And now you are more attached to that caricature than reality itself.

I Am Tired

And ironically, this was said to someone already dying of cancer, whose mother helped pick out her casket dress just a few weeks ago. Not only are you wrong about who we are. You are wrong about my life too.

And frankly, I am exhausted.

Not just from fandom discourse. Not just from constantly watching people twist criticism into cruelty. But from life itself.

I am already dealing with enough in my real life, including cancer, and honestly one of the last things I ever wanted to spend my energy doing was defending myself and my friends from disgusting lies and fabricated narratives online.

But I am tired of staying quiet while people flatten human beings into monsters simply because they disagree with a celebrity relationship.

I am tired of watching people weaponize morality instead of having actual conversations.

And I am especially tired of watching people spread horrific accusations about others without caring whether they are even true.

So no, I am not going to quietly sit here and let people rewrite who we are.

Not anymore.

[justforbrains]

PLEASE READ.

[thewintermuse]

This needs to be read regardless of how you feel about Sebastian Stan and Annabelle Wallis.

[superbassbuck]

you make loving fun!

pairing: farmer!bucky barnes x f!reader

warnings: 18+ NSFW, small town au, banter, neighborly enemies to lovers, pervert!bucky (stealing nude photographs), photographer!reader, fluff, sexual tension, public sex, dirty talk, degrading, breeding kink, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), size diff and kink

word count: 11.9k main masterlist || bwa stardew masterlist -'.🌾.'-

a/n: thank you to my precious and dear friend @pinksplace for hosting this incredibly fun event based on only one of the best games to exist. stardew valley. this is based on the character haley that you can romance in the game, so reader kinda has that mean, spoiled princess trope. I only ripped my hair out a million times writing this, so I hope you enjoy!

synopsis: Living in Pelican Town wasn't all that bad compared to the city life you were used to. With the big farmhouse next door unoccupied, everything was quiet, peaceful, and scenic. Then, Bucky Barnes moves in. Suddenly, you're waking up to the smell of manure, the squawking of chickens, and a farmer who's far too annoying—and far too hot—for his own good or your own comfort.

Living in a small town, far from the city bustle you once called home, was a change that required a slow and steady adjustment for most people.

You were accustomed to walking across massive city blocks with a shopping center on every corner. You were used to breezy dresses and high heels, always meticulously grooming yourself nicely before ever stepping out of your apartment.

Now, the clean, organized world you knew has been replaced by dirt, soil, and animals.

Heels have given way to cowboy boots. The apartment with the skyline view has been traded for a modest cottage, its windows looking out over the silent and empty farmhouse next door.

Surprisingly, the change in scenery didn’t take long to adjust to. Since moving here, you’ve carved out a life in a quiet corner of town, tucked away from the rest of the townsfolk. With the vast, unoccupied land stretching out beside you, you often find yourself lounging in the grass to sunbathe or wandering out with your camera to capture the blooming apricot trees in the spring. 

It is comfortable, quiet, and— much to your surprise—doesn’t feel like a downgrade from city life at all.

Until one day, you woke with a start to the sound of chickens squawking uncontrollably right outside your door.

Are Marnie’s chickens running loose again?

With a tired groan, you pushed yourself out of bed—your hair poking out in every direction and your eyes heavy with deep, dark circles. You shoved the curtains aside, letting a bright, burning ray of sunshine through the glass to hit you square in the face.

Wincing, you blinked several times to adjust, but it didn’t take long for your eyelids to fly wide open at what you saw just beyond your window.

The once empty farmhouse next door was now cluttered with boxes and crates. Animals that belonged on Marnie’s ranch were roaming freely over the fresh grass where you used to lay out a towel to sunbathe.

Now, it was likely being littered with pig shit.

And in the center of the chaos stood a man you didn’t recognize. 

Sweat dampened his dark hair, sending loose strands draping over his face. He had his back to you—his white tank top and jeans stained dark from dirt and a hard day’s work.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. 

Was someone actually moving in? 

Or had Marnie run out of space and decided to rent this spot out, ruining the peace and quiet you relished in this corner of town?

To make matters worse, he revved the engine of a lawnmower and got to work, polluting the air with noise.

Grabbing your slippers and hastily throwing on a cardigan to cover your nightgown, you stomped out of your cottage and marched over to the farmhouse fence.

“Hello!” you called out, pulling the cardigan tight across your chest. “What’s going on here—?”

The lawn mower’s engine roared even louder, drowning out your voice completely. The man continued to guide the machine in a slow, methodical line, his back still turned to you. The smell of freshly cut grass and gasoline filled the air, mingling with the… less pleasant scent of the roaming livestock.

“Excuse me!”

Nothing.

You stepped closer to the fence, cupping your hands around your mouth. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

He reached the end of a row and made a sharp turn, but he didn’t look up. His eyes stayed on the ground. From your spot by the fence, you watched the sun dance across his muscles as he maneuvered the heavy machine, sweat glistening on his forearms.

You waited until he drifted closer to the fence line before shouting again.

“Hey! Farmer boy!”

The mower sputtered and stalled, and finally, your voice pierced through the noise. 

He glanced up, pushing sweaty strands of hair out of his face. You stood just a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over your cardigan—the hem of your nightslip riding up ridiculously high on your thigh, your hair a mess of bed tangles and your face twisted grumpily. 

The breath left Bucky’s lungs—and it wasn’t because of the blistering sun burning his skin, or the morning’s hard labor.

It was because he had a beautiful woman standing right in front of him — a woman who was a total sight for sore eyes. 

Bucky let go of the mower, wiping his grimy hands on his stained jeans as he sauntered toward you. Meeting you at the fence, he flashed a charming smile, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he reached out a hand.

“Hi there, beautiful,” he greeted smoothly. “I’m Bucky.” 

You didn’t move. Your eyes followed his face, to the dirt caked between his fingers and underneath his nails, and then back at his face. 

“Beautiful?” you repeated, scrunching your face in what appears to be disgust. 

Bucky’s brows furrowed just slightly, but he didn’t let the rejection deter him. He slowly lowered his hand. 

Since he arrived early in the morning—well before the sun even rose—everyone in Pelican Town had been so kind and welcoming. Several of the folks had come by to help haul his luggage and boxes, even helping him get the chicken coop set up and the livestock moved in.

When Bucky inherited his parents’ old farm after they passed, he’d had his reservations about returning. But after those initial interactions with the townspeople, he started to think that maybe life out here wouldn’t be so bad after all.

His parents, Winnie and George, had always told him that the town they grew up in was filled with the most kindhearted people you would ever meet—a place where neighbors looked out for one another and never hesitated to lend a hand.

But now, here you were, and you wouldn’t even meet him halfway for a simple handshake.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Bucky huffed with that southern drawl he inherited from his parents. “Just callin’ it how I see it. Just as you called me ‘farmer boy.’”

You returned his petty jab with a roll of your eyes. 

“What is going on here?” you motioned to the mess surrounding him. “Is there some big renovation being done? Are you turning the farmhouse into a ranch or something? This is private land, you know.”

Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the way your voice rose in anger just from his mere presence alone.

He rested both palms on his hips. “Why do you care?” He nodded his head toward you, prompting an answer.

You hiked a thumb over your shoulder. “Because I live right there, and all the noise you’re producing is going to be a problem.”

He glanced over your shoulder, letting out a soft hum. “Oh, so you’re my neighbor? How cute.” He looked back at you, a playful gleam dancing in his blue eyes. “You’re also the woman who’s been crossing the fence—snappin’ pictures of my trees and layin’ in my grass to sunbathe on my private land. Ain’t that right?”

Your shoulders tensed.

You didn’t know a thing about this man—yet he knew exactly what you had been up to before he took over the farm. You shifted on your feet awkwardly and defensively. 

“H-how do you know that—?”

“It’s a small town, darlin’. And Marnie was tellin’ me all about it while she was helpin’ me with the chickens.” Bucky crossed his arms, his grin widening once he realized he’d won this little back and forth with you. “Wasn’t too happy when I first heard about it—but after findin’ out it was a pretty girl trespassin’, well, I don’t mind it one bit.”

Bucky watched as you purposefully avoided eye contact, your face scrunching in either embarrassment or pride—he couldn’t quite tell which.

“The people who owned this farmhouse left several years ago, even before I moved here. Their names were Winnie and George—”

“My parents,” Bucky interrupted, pointing a thumb at his chest. “I’m their son.”

Your eyes widened. 

Living in a small town, you heard plenty of stories about the people who lived here now and those who had long ago. It hadn’t taken long for you to learn about Winnie and George—the married couple who once called Pelican Town home. They had a massive arrangement of animals and livestock, always hosting parties and events on their land.

When Winnie got pregnant, they had moved across the country to give their son a “better life.”

But apparently, that country charm couldn't keep them away forever, because their son was back. And based on the looks of it, he was here to stay for good. 

You blinked, the name finally clicking. “Y-you’re James?”

“Sounds pretty comin’ off your lips.”

Agitation boiled in your blood as you stared back at his handsomely smug face. You couldn’t believe this was who you had to deal with now.

“Wow,” you drawled sarcastically, glaring him down. “Are you always this charming?”

“For you? I can be.” Bucky motioned to the rest of the farm with a sweeping gesture. “And you better get used to it—because I’m goin’ to be livin’ here from now on, right next to that cute little cottage of yours.”

Your jaw hung once his words registered in your mind.

Living here? That meant you had to deal with all the animals, the loud lawn mower, and that awful stench. 

That also meant no more sunbathing in the wide, open grass. No more pictures of the trees and flowers that grew in Winnie and George’s yard—the ones you were planning on making a scrapbook of.

“Any way you can keep the noise down to a minimum?” you huffed, trying to smooth over your agitation.

Bucky saw right through you, and his grin only grew wider because of it. “What? A little noise is already ruinin’ your beauty sleep?”

And most importantly, it meant dealing with a dirty, farm boy neighbor who didn’t seem to care at all about being neighborly, or your own well being.

You were about to snap something snarky back, but he was already revving the mower's engine, not even looking your way anymore.

“Look, princess,” he shouted over the noise. “If you want to keep takin’ your silly pictures for your social media or sunbathin’ on my lawn, by all means.”

Social media? 

What kind of woman did this man think you were? 

He finally looked up at you again, flashing another one of those charming smiles.

“Just be careful not to step in pig shit.”

Since then, you and Bucky had been stuck in a constant back and forth. 

Every morning, you woke to the sound of chickens squawking at the top of their lungs, followed immediately by the pungent scent of pig shit drifting through your window.

You complained to Bucky several times, but he always just wiped the sweat from his forehead and shrugged. “Guess I’ve gotten used to the smell. Doesn’t bother me none. Just light some incense and call it a day, would ya?”

On weekends, you would hang your damp laundry to dry in the sun, only for Bucky to decide that was the perfect time to leaf blow his gravel path. He would send a cloud of dust, dried hay, and dirt straight into your damp, clean dresses.

When you stomped out of the house in a rage, Bucky would just grin, nodding toward your laundry line and the pink lace that were strung up on it.

“Cute panties.”

Then out of sheer embarrassment, you would retreat back into your cottage without uttering a single word in defeat. 

The breaking point came one evening when you were walking home from an errand run in town. One of Bucky’s goddamn cows had drifted astray and was currently munching on the sunflowers poking through your fences. You could put up with a lot of things, sure, but your precious flowers were where you drew the line.

You dropped your grocery bags on the porch and marched to the fence, your blood pressure spiking with every petal that vanished into that cow’s mouth.

“Hey, stop that! Shoo!” You flapped your arms wildly, trying to look as intimidating as possible. “Go on! Get back to your own side!”

The cow didn’t react. She simply blinked her long lashes at you, a half eaten sunflower stem hanging out of her mouth like a cigar. When you stepped closer to give her a firm nudge, she didn’t retreat. The cow let out a hum of what sounds like appreciation, leaning her massive head into your shoulder and nearly knocking you backward.

She wasn’t scared of you at all. 

She was smitten. 

“No! No cuddles! You’re a trespasser!” you hissed, trying to shove the heavy beast back toward the fence.

The cow responded by letting out a long, wet lick that started at your wrist and ended at your elbow. You shivered at the contact—you had just showered!

A low, gravelly chuckle erupted from the farmhouse porch, a sound you hadn’t heard over your own frantic shooing. 

Bucky was leaning against the railing with a half peeled orange in his hand, a smug little smile tugging at his lips. He was enjoying this.

“Well, look at that,” he called out, his grin reaching his eyes. “Seems like my Bessie’s got a taste of my neighbor. I’m jealous.”

“Bucky, get your cow!” you shouted, trying to wipe the cow slobber off your arm. “She’s eating my sunflowers! These were for the festival!”

Rather than rushing to your rescue, Bucky took a bite of the citrus, juices spilling over his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as his dirty boots stomped down the wooden steps, until he finally met you at the fence.

“Bessie ain’t doin’ any harm. She’s a good girl, ain’t she?” He smiled mid chew, his hand coming up to pet Bessie’s head as he started talking to the cow instead of you. “You got a good lick outta’ her, right? Is she as sweet as she looks?”

Your eyes went wide at the blatant comment. You scoffed, trying to ignore the sudden, drastic spike in your heartbeat.

“You need to take better care of your damn animals, Bucky.” 

Bucky exagerrated a frown, tilting his head as he played stupid. “I take plenty of care over my sweet Bessie.” 

You crossed your arms, glaring him down. “I mean keeping your animals on your property and leaving mine alone.” 

“But Bessie didn’t even cross your fence.” 

“She’s eating my sunflowers!” you reminded him, motioning dramatically toward your mangled plants.

Bucky snickered at your little outburst. He didn’t know what it was, but seeing you riled up over something as small as sunflowers was far too entertaining. Maybe it was the constant scent of soil and manure messing with his head, but his short yet frequent interactions with you had been more interesting than anything else in town since he had moved in.

“Alright, Bessie,” Bucky cooed to the cow. 

He kept one hand on her head, gently urging her away from your garden. He gestured toward the mangled stems. “What’s this festival you’re savin’ these flowers for, anyway?”

“The Flower Dance,” you said, your brows furrowed as if he already should have known the answer.

“Explain it to me, princess.”

You ignored the pet name. “Every year in the spring, the town hosts a dance in the center of the square. The whole place is decorated with colorful banners and flowers, and Gus sets up a buffet spread of homemade food.”

Bucky rubbed his chin, looking amused. “And there’s dancin’, I presume?”

“Lots of it,” you continued. “People partner up for a waltz. The girls show up in nice dresses and flower crowns.”

“And what about the men?”

Your eyes raked over Bucky—taking in the dirt caked on his boots and the fresh scuffs on his jeans. “Still average looking, at best.”

It seemed no matter how many insults you hurled at him, he remained entirely unfazed. His smile only grew wider as he stepped closer, leaning over the fence until you were nearly nose to nose.

“So,” he drawled, voice growing deeper. “Do you have a partner?”

You blinked, thrown off guard by the question. “Excuse me?”

Bucky’s posture shifted slightly. He looked down, dragging a calloused finger along the top rail of your fence, tracing the grain of the wood as he searched for the right words. From where you stood, you could tell he was trying to maintain that ‘cool guy’ exterior, but his faint, boyish smile gave him away.

He shrugged casually, though he still didn’t meet your eyes.

“Well... I was just wonderin’...” he started. “Since I’m new in town and all, maybe you could show me the ropes of this ‘flower dance’ thing. Seems like a lot for a guy to take in on his own.”

You cocked an eyebrow at him suspiciously.

“Sounds like you already got it all figured out,” he said, finally looking up. That smug smile returned to the corners of his mouth. “And a guy like me... well, it’d be a dream to take a woman like you.”

You let out a short, scoffing laugh. 

He had been taunting and poking fun at you since the day he moved in—and now he was inviting you to be his partner for the Flower Dance?

Was he pulling your leg?

Instead of entertaining him, you just rolled your eyes and turned back toward your house. 

“Very funny.” 

As you gathered the groceries from your steps, you added without looking over your shoulder, “Control your animals, Barnes.”

It was like Bucky was trying to get back at you for rejecting his invitation to the Flower Dance—because from that day onward, he had been nothing but an aggravating pest lingering just outside your cottage.

Instead of being a slighty annoying and impractical neighbor, Bucky took your rejection with a tip of his hat and a doubled effort to be the most inconvenient man alive. 

He started a ‘fence repair’ project that involved loud hammering at six in the morning—shirtless. When you stomped out of your house in a rage, he only grinned. 

“Sorry, sweets. But the world doesn’t stop movin’ just ‘cause a pretty girl wants to get some sleep.”

You retaliated by accidentally spraying your hose at his freshly painted fence before it had a chance to dry, followed by a fake giggle and a chirpy “oops!”

This relentless back and forth went on and on, until you found yourself pinned beneath your grandmother’s heirloom vanity on an unfortunate Friday afternoon—the day right before the Flower Dance festival.

This vanity was the one piece of furniture that had survived the move to Pelican Town, and the one thing you were trying to preserve. 

While you were trying to shimmy it away from a leaky pipe in the wall, the antique wood groaned. With a suspicious sounding crack that made your heart drop, the back leg snapped, and the entire heavy structure tilted, the vanity’s ornate mirror swinging dangerously toward the floor.

You caught it just in time, wincing as your shoulder braced roughly against the heavy wood, but you were pinned. 

If you moved, the mirror would shatter and the delicate wood would splinter beyond repair.

In that moment, you didn’t know what was worse—being pinned beneath a very heavy, very important vanity, or the fact that your window was propped open and the only man in sight who could help you was none other than Bucky fucking Barnes.

“Bucky!” you shouted toward the window.

He heard you—you knew it—because as he closed the mailbox, he gave a subtle glance over his shoulder before pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. He went right back to sorting through his mail.

“Bills, bills, bills,” Bucky clicked his tongue, loud enough for you to hear. He shook his head. “More bills.”

“Bucky, get over here!” you shouted louder, trying to shift your feet, but the movement only made the vanity creak ominously. “I need your help!”

Bucky finally turned around, that stupid, smug smile tugging at his lips at the sight of your struggle.

“You sure about that?” he taunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know—you look pretty strong to me. I didn’t expect that kind of muscle out of a girl like you.”

“I’m being serious, Bucky—!” you gasped, the wood sliding through your sweaty palms. You tried adjusting your feet again, but your sandals gave little to no traction against the wooden floor. “It’s going to—it’s slipping!”

As you scrambled to fix your grip, the vanity slipped straight through your fingers. You shrieked, jumping to the side just in time to avoid having your feet crushed as the heavy furniture crashed to the ground.

The impact made the entire house shake. Shards of glass exploded, skidding across the floor like ice as pieces of the wood on the vanity splintered off.

Bucky, who had been taunting you just seconds ago, was already moving toward your door before you could even notice.

“Shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath. He shoved the front door open, barging through and tossing his mail aside.

“Fuck—are you okay?” Bucky rushed to your side, crouching beside you. His warm hands found your shoulders as he gently pried you away from the broken glass.

The worried tone in his voice went in one of your ears and out the other. All you could do was stare at the wreckage before you, the glass scattered everywhere a clear testament to how shattered you felt inside.

“That… that was my grandmother’s,” you said with a shaky breath. “It’s the last thing I have of hers.”

Bucky stood beside you, sensing the tension in your shoulders as his teeth caught his bottom lip. You could feel the guilt coming off him for not helping you sooner.

Slowly, you lifted your head to look at him, your eyes wide in disbelief. Bucky looked like he was bracing himself for a round of yelling—a smart move on his part.

“I asked you for help,” you started, voice trembling as the rage began to boil in your blood. “I asked you for help, Bucky! And all you did was stand there and watch me struggle!”

You stepped closer, the soles of your sandals crunching against the glass as you shoved a finger into his chest. “You’re an asshole, Bucky. You’ve been a pest and a jerk since the second you moved in, and now the one thing that’s actually important to me is broken because you wanted to play some stupid game!”

Bucky could only stare at you completely wide eyed, as the angry shakiness in your voice softened into something more broken and small. 

Your face—once scrunched in a pissed off snarl—gave way to a slight wobble in your bottom lip that Bucky caught immediately.

Maybe he should’ve retorted. He should’ve told you it wasn’t entirely his fault. But the way the tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over any second, made his heart ache in ways he didn’t want to admit.

Before you could shove him a second time, his large, calloused hands came up, gently catching your wrist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Stop. Don’t move. You’re gonna cut your feet,” he warned, looking down at your sandals.

“What—?”

“Here.” Bucky’s hands nudged your shoulders, guiding you to the edge of your bed slowly and carefully. “Just stay here, okay?” he murmured, crouching in front of you until he was at eye level. His eyes bored into yours, a small attempt to soothe your panic. “Don’t move an inch until I get the glass up. I’m goin’ to get my kit. I have the tools to fix this.”

“You can’t fix this, Bucky,” you choked out, wiping a tear away with the back of your hand. “The wood snapped. The mirror is in a million pieces.”

Bucky reached out, his thumb catching the tear that you missed to wipe. 

“I can,” he said, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of smugness in his tone. “I’ve got some aged mahogany in the barn that’ll match this grain near perfect. And I know a guy in town who can cut a new glass plate by morning.”

He stood up, looking down at the broken glass and then back at you. “I’m sorry, princess. I really am. I’ll make it right. Just stay put.”

For the first time, princess didn’t sound like a condescending, backhanded compliment. 

So, you obeyed. 

You sat on the edge of your mattress, sandals discarded on the floor and bare feet tucked safely away from the danger zone as you watched Bucky go to work. He was meticulous, sweeping your broom across the wood to make sure not a single drop of glass was left behind on the floorboards.

Once the floor was clear, he kept his focus on the broken leg and the empty, ragged frame where the mirror used to be.

“This vanity must be important to you, huh?”

You kept your eyes down, picking at the fabric of your quilt. “I’m not really in the mood for your taunts, Barnes.”

“Hey,” he huffed, glancing up at you. “I’m not tryin’ to play at you, darlin’. I promise.” He frowned, his tone softening as he took in the saddened expression on your face. 

“I know what it’s like, tryin’ to preserve an heirloom. My parents—” he swallowed hard, keeping a brave face just for you, “a lot of the stuff they gave me didn’t make the move back to Pelican Town. Which is ironic, ‘cause this was their home from the very beginning, you know? It could’ve been just fine if they kept their stuff here.”

You blinked, sniffling as you looked at him. Aside from that slight glimpse of vulnerability when he’d asked you to the festival, this was the most he had ever shared about himself.

“I’m so sorry,” you said sympathetically, not really knowing what else to offer him in a moment like this.

Bucky offered a small, weary smile. 

“Don’t be,” he groaned slightly as he knelt back down, opening the drawers of the vanity to carefully remove your belongings so he could get started on the repairs. “What’s all this?”

He started pulling out various bottles and products—makeup brushes and perfumes that looked far too expensive and meticulous for a girl to be bothered with in a town like this.

“Well, look at that,” Bucky let out a low whistle, turning a tube of designer lipstick over in his calloused palm. “What is this? Chanel? Dior?” He glanced up at you, that same spark returning to his eyes, though it was softer now—less of a bite and more of a tease. “Always wondered how a farm girl kept lookin’ like she just stepped off a runway in Zuzu City.”

“What’s wrong with a girl wanting to look her best?” you scoffed, feeling a little embarrassed. 

Bucky grinned at the sound of you finally getting your spark back.

He reached back into the vanity, pulling out a small scrapbook. As he moved it, a handful of photographs slipped from between the pages and fluttered onto the floor.

Your eyes flew wide as the photographs hit the floor—some of them landing face up, while others landed face down.

You scrambled off the bed, trying to snatch the photos, but Bucky was already sweeping them up. He stood, holding them high and well out of your reach.

“Wait—don’t!”

“Oh?” Bucky’s brow arched, as he playfully tilted his head at you. “What do we have here?”

“Bucky, stop playing around! Give them to me—!”

Bucky’s arm stayed locked high above his head, a deep chuckle vibrating in his chest as he flipped through the pages. The first few were random blurbs—bits of a poetry phase you had gone through that had lasted all of a week.

“Roses are red, violets are blue—? You write poetry?” he questioned, making your face burn with embarrassment.

“It was a phase! Just shut up and hand it over—”

He ignored you, continuing to flip through the book until his expression suddenly softened. His thumb brushed over the edge of a Polaroid taped to one of the pages with pink, polka-dotted washi tape.

“This is…” he breathed, his voice trailing off as he took in the photo of the apricot tree on his own lawn. He stared at the way the sun peaked through the branches, highlighting the orangey-pink fruit. “The tree on my lawn—my mom’s apricot tree. She grew that from a sapling.”

He continued flipping through the pages, his blue eyes trailing over each one carefully. He took in the way you arranged the different prints—candid shots of the townsfolk, the horses at Marnie’s farm, colorful cocktails from Gus’s saloon, and flowers. Lots of them. Flowers he recognized from both your lawn and his.

“You know… when the people in town mentioned you were a photographer, I just assumed you were an influencer,” he admitted. He gave you a lopsided grin, his gaze dropping back to the book. “Some… social media vermin.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms and raising a brow. “A vermin?”

Bucky grinned. “Yeah—I mean, you’re a good lookin’ woman, with all your fancy designer clothes and stuff—” he waved his free hand while the other held the book aloft. “I figured you’d be into all the selfies and modelin’ crap.”

“Well,” you huffed, trying to mask your bashfulness. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Disappointment is the farthest thing from what I’m feelin’, little doll,” he mused. He took in the photographs and the various little doodles of flowers in the corners of the pages, tucked neatly around the polaroids. “These are beautiful.”

You boasted about plenty of things—the clothes you wore, the bags you carried, the way you styled your hair. But photography and scrapbooking were more personal. It was the hobby that had helped you during the transition from the city to the farm. Some might deem it corny, but away from the expectations of social media—where strangers were updated through sugar-coated photos on a digital screen—you had turned photography into something private. Something more you.

“I…” you started, struggling to handle the look of adoration on Bucky’s face. “Thank you, Bucky. That’s very sweet of you.”

After taking in every page, he closed the scrapbook and handed it back. His attention shifted to the glossy prints dangling from his fingers, and he began sorting through them with a boyish grin.

“And these are the photos you’re goin’ to add to the book later, I take it—?”

Bucky stopped short the second his eyes landed on the next shot. Most were the same snaps of trees and the town, but there was one that made his breath hitch and his pants suddenly tight.

“It’s a little project I’m working on,” you explained, completely clueless and still a bit bashful. “A page dedicated to the different seasons. The trees are always changing, and the town looks completely different from spring to winter.”

Bucky stayed quiet, his shoulders tensing as his eyes remained glued to the photograph. He cleared his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing.

“I… see,” he said, his voice suddenly low and raspy.

Your brows furrowed. You couldn’t understand why he was so focused on that photo specifically. Curiosity getting the best of you, you tilted your head to peek at what he was looking at—and your heart dropped into your stomach.

Staring back at you was a selfie you had taken on your instant camera. You were sprawled across your bed, hair fanned out across the pillows. Your chest was exposed bare, one arm draped over your breasts, though if someone looked close enough, they could see the shaded curve of an areola peeking just past your forearm. Your body was angled to accentuate your curves, revealing the soft skin of your thighs and hips in nothing but a pair of lace panties.

Face burning a million degrees, you snatched the photo out of Bucky’s hands. 

“Don’t look at that!” you shrieked, spinning away from him.

All Bucky could do was stand there—frozen, bewildered, and hard as fuck. 

He could hear your frantic heartbeat from where he stood. And with your back turned, it was painfully obvious you didn’t want to talk about it.

“Right. Sorry,” he cleared his throat again, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. He turned toward the door. “I’m gonna—uh, grab my tools and start workin’ on this vanity, okay? I’ll be back!”

Before you could say a word, his boots were already rushing out the door. 

He eventually returned with his tools and set to work on the vanity. While he worked, you tried to keep yourself busy, maintaining a respectful distance at all times.

From your open bedroom door, where he was crouched on the floor, Bucky still had a clear view of you in the kitchen making lemonade. You told him it was your way of saying “thank you,” but he knew the truth. 

You were just trying to put as much space between you as possible after that photo.

But right now, the last thing he wanted was for you to be far away.

That image of you was scorched into the back of his mind, taking up permanent residence. Laid completely bare, hair fanned out, wearing nothing but those lace panties and an expression that screamed, “fuck me, Bucky!” — it was enough to drive him crazy.

As he watched you move around the kitchen in the little sundress that had made his mouth water the first day he laid eyes on you, a million thoughts raced through his mind just as fast as the blood was rushing to his dick. 

Why had you taken a picture like that? 

Who was it for? 

Was there someone you were dating—someone you were sending those prints to?

Suddenly, a bitter spike of jealousy flared in his gut. The idea of you taking photos like that just to mail them off to some soft handed city boy prick made him want to burn the whole town down. His movements grew jerky and annoyed as he worked. The wood felt awkward in his grip, and his tools kept slipping.

“Shit,” he cursed, grabbing your attention. 

You glanced over your shoulder, a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in your hand. “Everything okay? Need any help?”

“Just peachy,” Bucky mumbled.

As he heard your footsteps drawing closer, he tried to adjust himself, willing away the erection that was vulgarly pressing through his pants.

“Why don’t you take a break and have some lemonade, then?” You held the glass out to him, a small smile tugging at your glossy lips—a view that didn’t help Bucky’s situation in the slightest. “Before the ice melts.”

Bucky’s gaze traveled from your lips down to your hands. They were pretty—small and soft as they curled around the tall glass. Even your fingertips were perfectly manicured.

You were being far too kind, offering him a drink while he crouched there on your floor, his mind dark and filthy as he imagined how those fingers would look slicked with his cum instead of condensation.

“Sure,” Bucky grunted, straining as he stood up. “A lemonade sounds good.” 

The two of you stepped out onto the front porch for some fresh air, taking in the way the sun poked through the branches. Next door, the chickens were squawking and the birds chirping, but the domestic sounds did nothing to help the awkward silence between you.

You kept your gaze straight ahead on the grass and flowers, but you could feel Bucky’s stare lingering on the side of your face.

“So…” he started, and you mentally braced yourself for whatever was coming next. “That photo—”

“Oh, God,” you sighed, squeezing your eyes shut out of embarrassment. “Don’t start.”

Bucky raised his glass, letting out a huff of a laugh—though it didn’t sound humorous at all. It was just filler noise to cover his nerves.

“Well—it’s, uh... it’s a good picture,” he mumbled, staring at the ice cubes melting in his glass. “You look good in it.”

You felt like you wanted to shrivel up and let the wind carry you away. You avoided his gaze, turning your head to hide your burning cheeks. “You’re such an idiot.”

“All I’m sayin’ is,” he continued, mumbling even quieter as that jealousy bled through his voice,“whoever is gettin’ those kind of photos from you is a lucky man.”

You blinked, finally glancing at him. 

“Lucky man?” You noticed the way his cheeks were flushed pink. “There is no man.”

Bucky froze with the glass halfway to his lips, his blue eyes snapping to yours. “No man?” he repeated, like he needed the reassurance.

“No,” you shrugged casually, giving him a small smile. “I just take those photos for myself. I spent years worried about how other people perceived me. When I moved here, I wanted to see myself for me. It makes me feel confident. Seeing myself like that is kind of empowering, you know? It’s for my eyes only.”

You let out a shaky breath, the embarrassment still very much there—but no longer because you were seen half naked. Now, it was because of how corny your explanation sounded out loud. 

You glanced at Bucky out of the corner of your eye, trying to gauge his reaction, but he looked so deep in thought that you couldn’t make out a single one.

“For your eyes only, huh?” Bucky hummed.

When you gave him that little nod, Bucky knew he was doomed.

The jealousy that had been sitting like a pit in his stomach was drowned out in a damned instant the minute you said ‘no man.’ That meant he was the only one who saw that photo of you—that sweet, vulnerable side where you laid bare, warm and inviting. Bucky loved the fact that there was no man, and no one else after you.

To him, that just meant you were already his.

“Go to the Flower Dance with me,” he asked suddenly.

You huffed a lighthearted laugh. “This again?”

Bucky turned to face you fully now, eyes boring into yours so intently it was like he was giving you a silent warning not to even bother looking away. 

“Let me take you to the Flower Dance. Let me be your partner. Let me dance with you.”

“Bucky, you can’t be serious—”

“I was serious the first time I asked you, and I’m even more so now,” he said, his brows furrowing as his voice deepened. “Dance with me.”

You bit your lip, hesitating.

When he noticed your silence, he stepped closer, standing over you until he was looking down at you completely.

“Consider it a thank you for fixin’ up your vanity.”

“Thank you? You made me struggle and didn’t help me the first time!” you countered, but Bucky didn’t budge. He didn’t fight back or laugh.

He was dead serious.

He wanted you to go to the Flower Dance with him as your date—and you had a very strong feeling he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.

“Fine,” you reluctantly agreed, despite a smile tugging at your lips. “But just remember—it’s a thank you for fixing my vanity.”

Bucky grinned, finding himself very, very happy with your response.

To you, agreeing to the Flower Dance was just a fair trade—a thank you for his labor and a way to settle the score over your grandmother’s vanity.

But as Bucky watched you walk back into the house, his hand drifted to his pocket, letting his fingers brush gently against the glossy edge of the photograph—your photograph— tucked deep inside. 

Having that naked, intimate piece of you hidden away against his thigh—a secret kept just for him—was a reward far better than anything else you could have given him.

He knew he was being greedy by stealing the photo and taking you to the Flower Dance, but he didn’t care. The photo was enough to drive him crazy tonight, but dancing with you tomorrow was the cherry on top.

It was Saturday morning—the day of the Flower Dance—and Bucky had been restless since dawn, and even more so the night before.

He lost track of how many times he had jerked off since he stole that photo. One time was right after he finished fixing your vanity. He had retreated to his farmhouse, slammed the door shut, and before he even kicked off his boots, he had his pants unzipped and cock in hand.

Another time was in the shower, then again right before he fell asleep, and… once or twice more as the clock ticked closer to the start of the festival.

It was shameless, almost pathetic, but when you were dealing with animals and manual labor all day, you had to relieve the stress somehow. And nothing relieved it quite like the memory of you sprawled across those pillows with those sweet tits pressed together.

As you made your way to the town square, you found yourself walking with a pep in your step. Your heels clicked against the pavement, and your sundress swayed at your hips with every stride.

You had taken lots of care to look better than usual today. You had woken up early just to have enough time for your hair and makeup, trying on three different dresses just to see which one made you look the best. You even found yourself wondering what Bucky was wearing—hoping, subconsciously, that your dress might actually match his outfit.

Fuck.

You were actually looking forward to see him and dance with him.

Your heart was beating far too fast for your chest. You could already imagine it—Bucky, finally rid of his grimy farm clothes and wearing a proper outfit, or his heavy boots stepping all over your sandals because he didn’t have a clue how to dance.

You found yourself grinning to yourself up until you made it to the bustle of the community square. Gus had his food spread out on a table beneath a canopy, potted flowers that were grown by the townsfolk were scattered about, and colorful banners were decorated across the lightpoles.

“What’s got you smilin’ to yourself for?” a familiar, deep gravelly voice interrupted you, stopping you in your tracks.

It was Bucky, wearing a nicely ironed button up tucked into his khaki pants that were held up by a nice, brown leather belt. Your smile faltered slightly—not because he looked terrible, but because he looked good.

Too fucking good.

He tilted his head, hands tucked deep into his pockets. “Hey, where did that smile go?”

“I… nothing,” you cleared your throat, hands primly behind your back as you took him in. “You look… good.”

You suddenly felt small as you watched Bucky’s eyes trace over you—taking in the way you did your hair and your makeup, down to the short hem of your dress. You watched as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth.

“That might’ve been the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he joked before nodding to you. “You look beautiful.” He glanced around before taking a step closer, leaning down so only you could hear. “Kind of makes me a bit jealous knowin’ other people can see how pretty you are.”

Your face warmed, and Bucky expected you to back away from his boldness—but you stepped closer, batting your lashes at him in a way that drove him fucking crazy.

“Yeah, but they’re not the ones dancing with me, are they?”

With all the pent up frustration building inside him, that little taunt of yours felt like an open invitation to grab you and do whatever he wanted.

But instead, his tongue ran over his teeth as he grinned, amused by your comment. He extended a hand toward you.

“The dance is ’bouta start soon. Come on.”

Despite this being his first time ever experiencing a Flower Dance, he took initiative as if he had been doing this longer than you had. The live band propped up on the stage began to play, the acoustic guitars picking the same catchy tune you knew by heart from all the years you had attended before. 

Women and men gathered hand in hand to get into position. Bucky led you to the very center of the crowd, standing tall in front of you. He guided your hand to his shoulder before resting his own large palm firmly against your hip. 

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his sudden burst of confidence. “Wow, Bucky Barnes. Don’t tell me you actually know how to dance?”

“Course I do,” he huffed. “Just ‘cause I’m covered in dirt all day doesn’t mean I don’t know how to take a lady for a dance. Don’t sound so surprised.”

He pulled you in closer, and you looked up at him, your eyes wide and soft with a sheepish smile to match.

“You wouldn’t let me fall, right?” you teased, your voice barely sounding over the guitars.

“Never,” he promised, his grip on your waist tightening to prove it to you. “Not a single speck of dirt on that pretty little head of yours. I’ve got you.”

The music started, and as you two danced, you noticed how Bucky was pulling you closer and closer with each step. 

His hand stayed tight at your waist before moving to your lower back, then back to your hips with a small, firm squeeze. The hand that held yours gripped tighter, reeling you in even more with every move.

As he spun you back into his chest, you felt the hitch in his breathing. You leaned back slightly, looking up at him. 

“You okay, Bucky?” you teased with a smile. “You’re looking a little... stiff.”

God, those eyes and those glossy fucking lips.

Bucky let out a visible shudder before forcing a nod. “Dancin’ with a very pretty girl in my arms—it’s natural for me to be a little nervous, isn’t it?”

He spun you again, your short sundress flaring out like a ballerina—and he caught a quick glimpse of your bare thigh. Just barely. He wanted more.

He drew you in until your forehead was resting against his collarbone. He leaned his head down, his nose grazing the skin of your temple as he took a deep, shaky inhale of your scent—shampoo, vanilla, and the warmth of your skin from the sunlight. You smelled so good, and each inhale was doing serious damage to his self-control.

From his height, his gaze fell directly into the neckline of your dress. He had a direct, unobstructed view of the swell of your breasts, the fabric of your sundress moving against your curves with every breath you took. 

It was the photograph come to life, only now he could actually touch you… just not in the complete ways he wanted to. 

His hand on your back slid lower, his palms suddenly clammy as he pressed your hips tight against his. You gasped softly, your step faltering for a split second as you felt him.

A thick, heavy, warm bulge was straining against his khakis, pressing right into the notch of your thighs.

Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, his eyes were somewhere over your shoulder as he tried to maintain a shred of dignity. He thought he was being subtle—that you were too caught up in the festival to notice how inappropriately turned on he was.

He was wrong.

Deciding to play a much dirtier game, you took matters into your own hands. He spun you around again, but instead of facing him, you tucked yourself right back into the curve of his body. 

Your back hit his chest, and your ass ground firmly against his cock.

Bucky let out a shuddering groan that tickled against the back of your neck as he felt the curve of your ass press harder into his bulge. 

Before he could even think about pulling away to save face, you reached over and grabbed his hands. Your fingers slid over his knuckles, guiding his large, calloused palms down until they were over your hips. You kept your hands over his, forcing him to feel the way your curves fit perfectly against his body.

“Shit,” he cursed, and you grinned.

Everyone else was too preoccupied with their own dancing to even notice Bucky’s predicament, so you continued swaying your hips against him to the music. 

Every rub of your ass against his cock was like adding oil to the flames. Bucky’s nose nuzzled the side of your head, and you could hear his breathing get more labored the more you ground against him.

“Still nervous you’re dancing with a pretty girl?” you taunted. You felt him twitch against you in response.

He groaned, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel his hot breath. “You know exactly what you’re doin’.” 

“And what exactly am I doing, Bucky?”

“You’re bein’ a goddamn tease.”

Your smile grew wider. “But you’re not exactly pushing me away, are you?”

His grip on your hips tightened enough to bunch the fabric of your dress around your waist. He hiked the skirt up higher, his hot palms gliding just beneath the hem to tickle your outer thighs — then higher, towards the sensitive skin of your inner leg.

You gasped softly when you felt his thumb graze against your clothed cunt. 

“Keep tauntin’ me,” he growled against your ear, “and I’m goin’ to flip up this tiny skirt and fuck you right here in the middle of the square—where everyone can see.”

Your eyes traced over the crowd. Everyone was all smiles, too caught up in the joy of the festival to even notice the two perverts feeling each other up in the middle of it all.

“Then do it,” you challenged.

“You goddamn slut.” Bucky huffed a laugh against the back of your neck— no humor in it at all. “No. I’m too jealous for that. I wouldn’t want anyone else seein’ my girl like that.”

Your breath hitched. His girl?

“That’s funny.” You looked up over your shoulder at him, your eyes wide as you faked your innocence. “I don’t remember ever being your girl.”

Bucky’s cock twitched hard against your ass, and you knew right then that you won.

“Not my girl?” Bucky scoffed, spinning you around so you were forced to look him in the eye.

“You’ve been my girl from the minute I stepped foot back in Pelican Town. From the moment I laid eyes on you—I’d already decided you were mine. And you agreeing to dance with me today just confirmed it all.”

He ground his hips against yours, letting you feel his heavy bulge press against your inner thigh.

“If you don’t believe you’re my girl, then I’m just gonna have to prove it to you.”

You weren’t able to get a single word in as Bucky’s hand wrapped tight around yours. 

He led you away from the crowd, pushing through with polite and gentle ‘excuse me’s that went completely against how roughly he was holding you.

He took you towards the shadows at the side of the saloon.

It was a narrow, unassuming alley, hidden from the main square by overgrown shrubbery and stacked wooden crates.

“Bucky,” you looked around breathlessly and no one was near, “what are you doing?” 

He didn’t answer.

He shoved you back against the cool brick wall. He didn’t wait, and he didn’t waste his time asking, either. 

His hands were already at the hem of your sundress, bunching the fabric in his fists and hiking it up until the cool spring air hit your hips.

Your eyes went wide, your heart fighting against your chest as you watched him fall to his knees.

You knew you should’ve stopped him.

You should’ve told him this was inappropriate—that anyone could walk in on you two right now.

But as he knelt there, his eyes boring hungrily into your thighs and his tongue darting out to lick his lips the second his fingertips found the waistband of your panties, you couldn’t find the breath to argue. 

How could you possibly deny a predator his well-earned prey?

Bucky tugged your panties down your thighs and past your legs, tossing them aside. His hand rubbed up and down your thigh before hiking your leg over his shoulder, his hot touch making you shudder and grow even wetter as he stared at you intimately.

“God, look at you,” he groaned, palming himself. “What a fucking sight. All the men you danced with before I moved back into town didn’t get to see this side of you, did they?”

You only stared at him. When you didn’t answer, he gripped your ankle, making you wince.

“Answer me.”

“No,” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “Only you.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he hummed, pleased. He leaned in, trailing soft, wet kisses along your inner thigh. “Dancin’ like a saint in front of the mayor, in front of all the townsfolk, just to be drippin’ wet for me like a goddamn whore.”

He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive folds, making you hitch a breath. 

He looked up at you from between your legs, and you swore you could’ve melted right there at the sight of him. His eyes were completely blown out, staring at you in ways that should’ve made you afraid.

“I'm gonna taste every fuckin’ drop you made for me while you were rubbin’ that pretty ass against my cock. I’m gonna eat you until you’re beggin’ me to stop, and even then, I ain’t stoppin’.”

“Bucky… —ah!” your hand flew over your mouth once Bucky buried his face between your legs.

With your short dress bunched messily around your waist, Bucky’s tongue—hot and wet—swiped upward against your cunt, making you moan against your palm. He kept flicking his tongue up and down against the sensitive skin, and your fingers tangled into his hair, giving it a firm tug that made him groan against you.

“S-someone might... walk in on us—” a whimper broke from your lips as Bucky tilted his head, his tongue moving against your weeping cunt.

His hands slid up past your thighs to grab your ass, kneading and squeezing as he ate you out behind the saloon.

The mention of someone catching you only made his cock harder in his pants. He moaned against your slit, his tongue lapping at your juices as he licked and suckled on your sensitive pussy. The tip of his tongue found your clit again, flicking at it and leaving vulgar suckling noises in the quiet alley. 

His finger poked at your wet and vulnerable entrance, sliding in easily as he fucked your clit with his tongue.

“Oh my god, Bucky—!” you cried out.

You were shaking, your back scraping against the brick as Bucky ate you out shamelessly.

As his tongue danced on your most sensitive spots and his finger fucked you in rhythm with his mouth, your hips began to buck uncontrollably against his face, and Bucky let out a muffled growl.

“S-slow down—fuck, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered behind your hand.

He hummed in satisfaction, the vibration making your pussy tingle as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass to hold you steady while he licked every last drop of you. Your back arched off the wall and you tried to squirm away to save face, but Bucky wouldn’t let you.

One hand stayed tight on your thigh and the other squeezed your ass, all while his face was tucked deep against your pussy, soaking in everything you had to give him.

“Fu—fuck, Bucky…” you whimpered as he slowly released your leg from his shoulder.

He leaned back on his heels, looking up at you, and the sight made your breath hitch. Bucky gave you a devilish little grin, his chin and lips gleaming with the wet sheen of your juices. 

Between his legs, his bulge was straining against his khakis—a damp spot darkening his lap where his pre-cum had soaked right through.

You looked around frantically—coast still clear—before tugging your skirt down and adjusting the straps on your shoulders. “We… we should go. The rest of the town’ll be looking for us—”

Bucky pushed himself up from the ground, his large body blocking your path as his hands went to his waist. He began to tug at the fastenings of his belt.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” he rasped in a low growl. “I’m not even close to done with you.”

You swallowed hard, staring up at him as you caught your breath from your release. “Bucky, we can’t. Someone will catch us—”

“No,” Bucky hissed, unzipping his pants and tugging them down. “Not until I get to cum—you’re not goin’ anywhere.”

He stepped closer, nudging his leg between your thighs as his hands found the hem of your skirt again. His hand trailed up, dragging the fabric up around your waist as he pinned you back against the wall. 

Bucky’s hand wrapped around his shaft, and as your eyes trailed down—you let out a soft gasp.

He was big, thick, and pulsing in his hand. His tip caressed your clit, and he began jerking himself off against your warmth. He let out jagged breaths, his hand trailing down your thigh before hiking it up and over his hip.

“Ah—Bucky!” you cried out, holding onto his shoulders for support.

“Stay right here,” he commanded, his hands gripping your ass to hoist you higher against the wall. “Wrap those legs tighter.”

His cock dragged across your slit, his tip catching your entrance and making you gasp. He nudged his tip against your opening, testing the tension, and let out a shaky, ragged breath.

“So tight...” he rasped, the words sounding almost painful. “But you’re so wet for me, sweetheart. I could just slip right in.”

“Bucky, wait—you’re too big,” you whispered, your hands bracing against his shoulders.

You could already feel him stretching you, even just at the entrance. “I don’t think it’s gonna fit—and we can’t do this in public, someone is going to—”

Before you could finish, Bucky’s palm clamped firmly over your mouth to silence you. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on where your pussy hugged his tip.

“Shut up,” he hissed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I can’t wait. The sooner I fuck you, the sooner we can get outta here.”

With a slow tilt of his hips, he began sinking himself inside you. 

You let out a muffled, pitchy moan against his palm, your eyes rolling back as the sensation of him filling you made you see stars.

He was stretching you apart, claiming every inch of your body as he pushed deeper and deeper, until his hips finally pressed against yours.

He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead dropping to rest against the crook of your neck as he let out a groan. “Fuuck, shit—”

He was so deep, his cock stretching your walls as his body pinned you so firmly to the brick that you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

“There,” he growled against your skin, his hand still tight over your mouth as he watched the pleasure wash over your face. “Fits perfectly.”

Despite his words, his face was twisted and his jaw was clenched from how tightly your body was squeezing him.

As he started rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of your wet cunt, it took everything in him not to fuck you hard against the wall right then and there.

He knew you were still trying to adjust to his size, watching the way your face twisted as you tried to be a good girl for him.

He couldn’t believe it—the girl of his dreams, the girl from the very photograph he’d jerked off to from the night before until now—you were actually right here, taking his big cock inside your tight little pussy.

“A-are you okay?” he managed to muster, his voice rough as he stared at you with lustful, hazy eyes.

You whimpered before giving him a small, frantic nod. 

He took that as his invitation to fuck you harder.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight—can barely move.”

He started to move faster, his cock sinking deep into your pussy and pulling out before slamming back in. His grip on your thigh was tight as he held you up.

“So goddamn wet too, sweetheart.”

“B-bucky… ahh—we can’t.”

“Can’t?”

He kept folding your leg over, trying to adjust you so he could sink even deeper, but the tension in your body wouldn’t let him. The angle was awkward. The wall was too cold, and he couldn’t get deep enough to satisfy the ache in his balls.

He wanted more. 

He wanted to break you.

With a frustrated snarl, he pulled out of you roughly—the sudden loss of him making you cry out.

Before you could even catch your breath, Bucky grabbed your hips and spun you around, slamming your chest and face back against the cool brick.

“Hands on the wall,” he commanded cruely.

He bunched your sundress up around your waist, baring your ass to the cool air of the alley. He stepped back into you, his cock heavy and sprung, and grabbed your hair, tugging your head back so he could whisper against your skin.

“Since you’re so worried about someone walkin’ in,” he hissed, his hands gripping your hips so hard his fingers left marks, “I’m gonna make sure they get a real good view if they do.”

He lined himself up with your entrance again—his hot tip making you gasp.

Your cunt was still gaping from his fucking earlier, allowing him to slide in easily without much resistance this time.

As he sheathed himself inside you in one thrust, you let out a muffled cry, your fingers scraping against the wall to hold yourself up while he began to fuck you hard from behind.

“Fuck—love it when you’re screamin’ for me,” he groaned in pleasure.

Every wet slap of his balls against your ass echoed in the narrow alley. 

He reached around, one hand squeezing your breast through your dress while the other stayed buried in your hair, keeping you pinned in place.

His eyes took in the way your ass bounced against his cock, the soft flesh jiggling with every move. He lifted the hem of your skirt higher to get a better view of your smooth skin rocking against his hips.

“You know, maybe you should just come live with me,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he slammed into you again.

The thought seemed to fuel him, his thrusts getting deeper and harder. “It’d be so damn cute seein’ you walk around the house all barefoot and bred.”

What was he saying?

His filthy words felt more intense than the rough movements of his cock. He groaned, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

“That old farmhouse is big and lonely, sweetheart. Way too quiet,” he whispered. “It was my parents’ dream for me to start a family there. To have a house full of kids runnin’ around the farm, tendin’ to the animals.”

He pulled back nearly all the way out before thrusting back all the way in, making your knees buckle. 

“I think you’d look real good carryin’ the Barnes name. Real good with a belly full of my babies while I work the fields. What do you think? Think you could handle being a farm wife?”

“B-Bucky,” you huffed a nervous laugh as his cock filled you completely. “What are you saying? Don’t be—hmpf—ridiculous...”

“Oh, come on, don’t be shy now,” he teased. “You can sunbathe on my lawn and take all the pretty pictures of the trees and animals for your scrapbook.”

His tongue darted out to lick the shell of your ear, his heavy balls continuing to slap against you as his cock hit your sweet spot over and over.

“And I’ll buy you all the lingerie so you can pose all cute in front of your little camera again,” he delivered a hard thrust that made you whimper and cry. “Take those sexy photographs that I can keep—maybe you can make a scrapbook out of those, too. Just for me.”

Your face burned with humiliation.

Here you were, being treated like a total slut by Bucky Barnes out in the open, and yet the thing that made you too flustered to even form a sentence was him bringing up your photograph.

“G-god...” you stammered. “Don’t bring that up!” you hissed, overcome with embarrassment.

Bucky just chuckled. “I have that picture, you know?”

Your pussy fluttered and clenched around his cock at his words—the tightness making him groan. You snapped your head around, face flustered. 

“W-what!” you choked out. “You stole it?”

He could feel how much the idea turned you on, your body betraying your embarrassment by becoming even wetter and tighter as you realized he’d liked that photo enough to steal it for himself.

“Don’t exaggerate, doll,” he rasped, his hand tightening in your hair to pull your head back so he could see the shame written on your face. “I’ve spent all night staring at it. Staring at the way you were lookin’ at the camera, imaginin’ you were looking at me instead.”

His hips pushed against yours, forcing you to take another deep inch of his cock.

“I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve sat on the edge of my bed, jerkin’ myself off until I was shaking, just thinkin’ about what it would feel like to have the real thing under me.” 

He groaned, his pace becoming more uneven and frantic as the dirty confessions spilled from his lips.

“Every time I closed my eyes, I was picturin’ you—my own fucking neighbor—just like this. Bent over, taking every inch of me while you cried my name.”

The way you were whimpering and fluttering around his cock meant that you were enjoying every sinful confession he was blurting out.

You had already came, your body sensitive and weak, but Bucky was fucking you right through it. 

“B-Buck… I can’t—I’m sensitive—” you whined, knees wobbly. 

He tossed his head back, feeling his balls drawing tight as your pussy milked him.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, kneading your hips. “I want to cum inside. Wanna make my ma and pa proud—”

Bucky leaned down until his breath was tickling your ear again. “Please? Will you let me cum inside, sweetheart?” He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I promise you—I’ll give you the good life, I’ll give it to you reaally good.”

You felt your breath get stuck in your throat. 

He was asking for permission?

Your body tightened beneath him.

You were so close from cumming beneath him a second time, and the way his hips stuttered against yours was a sign that he was just mere seconds away from filling you up.

“Been dreamin’ of fillin’ you up with my seed since I saw that dirty little picture of you. Please, sweetheart. Just give me what I want.” 

Footsteps crunching the grass sounded near you—too close—and the thrill of getting caught despite yourself made you finally let go. 

“Bucky, fuck—I’m cumming—!” you cried out, but Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth, stifling your moans as you rocked your hips back against his cock.

You rode the orgasm out while Bucky’s face twisted in a pleasure so intense—it was damn near painful.

“Fuck. Fuck. Please, baby, I can’t—” he gasped, stilling his hips to keep from breeding you. “Please—let me cum inside—”

You couldn’t believe that for all the filthy words he was spouting earlier, how in control and dominant he was, he was still asking for permission.

“Please, fuck—can’t hold it in. You feel too good—”

“Just cum inside, Bucky!”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Bucky cried out a broken moan against the side of your neck, his hips twitching as he buried himself so deep it made your eyes roll back.

The first hot jet of his seed hit your womb, filling you so deep it made your toes curl in your heels. He gripped you tight, his whole body turning stiff as he pumped himself empty inside you.

He groaned, a long, broken sound that tickled your spine as he fought for his breath.

“God… like that—just like that… every last drop ‘til I’m empty, sweetheart.”

The footsteps outside the alley grew louder, then faded as the stranger passed by, oblivious to the vulgar scene unfolding just a few feet away.

Bucky stayed exactly where he was for a moment, his chest rising and falling against your back as he breathed your scent in. He was still twitching inside you, his cock heavy and pulsing as it leaked into your womb.

“There we go” he soothed, pushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your temples to look at you. “Lookin’ every bit of my girl.”

He kissed the temple of your forehead before slowly pulling out, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving you feeling cold and empty.

“Keep your legs together,” he murmured possessively, bringing the hem of your skirt back down to cover your slick thighs. “Not a single drop goes to waste. Keep it there ‘til it takes.”

He reached out gently, smoothing your hair and straightening the strap of your sundress until you looked at least somewhat presentable again. 

He brushed the dust from the brick off your shoulders, his eyes softening at the sight of your debaunched face. The makeup you spent so much time working on this morning was now a smeared mess of his doing. 

And somehow, to him, you looked even prettier. 

“There,” he said, wiping the stray lipstick on your chin. “Let’s get back and enjoy the rest of the festival.”

He turned to fix himself, tucking himself back in as he adjusted his jeans and buckled his belt. 

You watched him, still a little dazed and shaky legged, until he bent down to pick up your lace panties from the dirty floor of the alley. You reached out, expecting him to hand them back to you, but he didn’t.

“Lace?” he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You were askin’ for it.” 

He folded them neatly and tucked them into his back pocket. He caught your confused look and flashed a boyish, almost innocent looking grin that looked far different from how he looked at you earlier. 

“Bucky?” 

“Right next to that precious photo I ‘stole,’” he intertwined your fingers with his, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as he led you out of the alleyway. 

“For my growing collection.”

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[brunchable]

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘗𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘜𝘱 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘊𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴

 ݈݇— pairings: Ex-BF!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader  ݈݇— themes: Porn with plot and feelings, Exes-to-Lovers, mild angst with happy ending. no use of y/n. soft!dom, pet names: baby, dirty girl. couch sex, make-up sex, emotional sex, gentle to rough, foreplay, dry humping, nipple play, oral (m receiving), ball play, swallowing, bodyworship, dick slaps, multiple orgasms, breeding talks, unprotected p i v, mating press, creampie, dirty talk, size difference, aftercare, accidental exhibitionsism.  ݈݇— summary: Bucky texted you and he needs you to come pick up your clothes from his house. You haven't seen or talked to him in a month, so why are you nervous? A/N: Based on the song, Folded By Kehlani. Listen to it on repeat while reading, up to you. BUT GOD I AM OBSESSED WITH THIS SONG. DO NOT READ IF YOU"RE UNDER 18.

Your knock sounded sharp, insistent, echoing in the quiet Brooklyn brownstone on this frigid New Year’s morning. Exactly one month since you walked out of this very door, telling yourself it was for good.

There’s a pause. Footsteps. The soft thud of movement inside. And then—his voice, muffled through the door.

“Yeah—hang on.”

Your stomach flips. Stupid. It’s been a month. You should be over this.

The door swings open, and there he is.

He looks… different. The scruff along his jaw is trimmed now, like he finally bothered to care for it. His hair’s a little longer, tucked behind his ears, a few strands escaping around his face. 

The black compression shirt he’s wearing stretches tight across his chest and shoulders, the kind of bulk that says he’s spent the last thirty days punishing himself in the gym instead of texting you. 

You hate how your brain immediately supplies: He’s been working out to forget me. Or getting ready for someone else. The thought stings more than the January air.

And now you have to force your eyes back to his face while his blue eyes flick over you once, quick, then linger.

“Hey,” he says, voice softer than you remember.

“Hey.” You manage a smile that feels brittle. “Happy New Year.”

“Yeah. You too.” He steps back, holding the door wider. “Come in. It’s freezing out there.”

You stay planted on the threshold.

“It’s fine,” you say with your best casual voice. “I’ll wait here.”

Bucky’s brows pull together for half a second. He wets his lips and tilts his head—and lets out a quiet, almost sheepish breath.

“Oh. Uh…” He glances over his shoulder at the box, then back at you. “I was thinking… maybe you’d wanna come in and look around? Just in case I missed something.”

His tone is careful, like he’s testing thin ice.

“Sure, whatever. I can do that.” 

You take off your scarf, and hang it on the coathanger as he closes the door behind you with a quiet click.

He clears his throat, hands shoving into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I, uh… got everything together. Put it in a box. Figured that’d be easier.”

You stand there in the living room, the familiar scent of his cologne in the air. Your fingers linger on the edge of the box as you peer inside—everything folded with that precise, military neatness he always had. Your favorite mug is wrapped carefully in newspaper. Your toothbrush in its little travel case. The books you’d left on the nightstand, spines aligned perfectly.

Behind you, his voice is low, careful. “I put the stuff I bought for you in there too. Intimates, jewelry—all of it. It’s yours. Do whatever you want with it… throw it out, sell it, burn it, your choice.”

The words hit like a slap you didn’t see coming. You swallow hard, throat raw. “I thought you already did.”

A long, heavy silence. Then the scrape of his hand over his face, a sound so tired it makes your chest ache.

“You know I didn’t mean that,” he says, voice cracking on the last word.

You shrug, gripping the box flap until the cardboard bites into your fingers. “Didn’t sound like it at the time.”

Another beat of silence—thick, suffocating.

“You said you were leaving,” he says, quieter now, closer. “You said you were done with me. And then you were gone. I sat in this apartment for weeks staring at your side of the bed like a fucking idiot, waiting for a text that never came. I was angry. I was hurt. So yeah—I said shit to hurt you back. And I’ve hated myself for it every single day since.”

Your eyes burn. You’ve pictured him moving on a thousand times—new girl, new life, your stuff in the trash without a second thought. Hearing he didn’t… hearing he’s been suffering too… it doesn’t fix anything. It just makes the ache sharper.

He keeps going, voice barely above a whisper. “I saw your posts. You looked… happy. Smiling in every photo. And I kept thinking—good. Good, she’s better off. She’s free of me. Because I know what I am. I know I’m difficult. I know I shut down when the work gets bad. I know I’m not easy to love.” A ragged breath. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to walk on eggshells. I’m sorry I ever made you feel small. I just… I miss you so much it’s hard to breathe sometimes. And it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Your vision blurs. You turn to face him slowly.

He’s standing a few feet away, shoulders curled inward like he’s bracing for a blow, eyes red-rimmed, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. His hand is still half-raised from scrubbing over his face, like he forgot what to do with it.

The words hang between you, ugly and honest. You want to scream at him. You want to hit him. You want to disappear.

Instead you whisper, “It doesn’t matter now.”

You bend, haul the box up—heavier than your heart—and head for the door.

“Oh come on.” His voice cracks fully this time. Footsteps quick and panicked. “I’m trying here. I’m sorry. I mean it.”

Heavy footsteps follow you to the door.

“I didn’t ask you to come get your clothes today because I wanted you gone,” he says, raw. “I asked because it was an excuse to see you again. One more time. Even if it hurt.”

You’re almost at the entryway when he steps in front of you, blocking the narrow hall. 

Gently, firmly, he lifts the box from your arms and sets it down.

His hands settle on your shoulders, trembling.

His eyes are glassy and pleading. “If you’re really done… if you don’t love me anymore… say it. Say it to my face, and I’ll let you walk out that door and I’ll never bother you again. I swear.”

You stare up at him. Those blue eyes—stormy, wrecked, more open than you’ve ever seen them. A month of distance collapses into this single moment, and it hurts so much you can barely breathe.

A broken laugh escapes you. “You’re cruel,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You know I can’t.”

Tears spill hot down your cheeks. You try to turn away, but his hand cups your face, thumb brushing the tears like he’s afraid you’ll shatter.

“Look at me,” he whispers again, closer now, forehead almost touching yours. “Tell me you’re done. Tell me you don’t love me. And I’ll let you go. Even if it fucking kills me.”

You crumble.

“How can I—” The words rip out of you, raw and ragged. “I love you. God, Bucky, I love you, you’re so—”

His lips crash onto yours like he’s been starving for this—for you—in the last thirty days. His tongue sliding against yours, claiming every inch of your mouth like he’s trying to erase the distance, the fight, the silence. 

His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tears tracking down your cheeks, but he doesn’t gentle the kiss—if anything, he deepens it, stealing the air from your lungs until your head spins harder and black spots dance at the edges of your vision.

You melt into him, helpless. Your hands fist in the front of his compression shirt, pulling him closer even as your knees threaten to buckle. 

A soft, desperate sound escapes your throat and he swallows it, pressing you back until your shoulders meet the nearby wall.

A low sound rumbles in his throat as the contact ignites—chest to chest, hips to hips—and you feel the shudder that rolls through him.

One of his thighs slides between yours, pinning you there, and the solid weight of him is overwhelming—broad chest, corded arms, the new muscle he’s built like armor against the world without you. 

His hands leave your face, skating down your neck, over your coat, until he’s gripping your waist and lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his hips on instinct, the box forgotten on the floor.

He murmurs something wordless against your lips before he nips gently at your bottom one, teasing, testing. The bite is soft, then sharper, a sweet sting that he immediately soothes with a slow, languid kiss. Again and again—bite, kiss, savor—until your lips are swollen and tingling and you’re arching into him without meaning to.

You open for him without hesitation, and his tongue slips inside again, tangling with yours in a slow, sensual dance until you’re breathless.

It emboldens him; you feel it in the way his grip tightens.

He tenses, every muscle coiling as he presses forward, the kiss turning firmer, more insistent. His mouth moves over yours—angling, retreating, claiming, wringing pleasure from you in gasps you can’t hold back.

His body hardens against yours, arousal throbbing hot and demanding between your legs. Another low moan escapes him as he rocks subtly into you, the friction sending white-hot sparks racing up your spine.

The need builds too fast, too fierce, until you both rip apart at the same moment—lips parting with a suction that echoes in the charged silence. You're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked in a haze of raw want.

"Can we..." you gasp, voice husky, barely recognizable, "do this somewhere more comfortable?"

A rough chuckle rumbles from his chest, vibrating against you. "God, yes."

He doesn't let go. His mouth crashes back to yours in a searing kiss, hungry and laughing all at once, as his hands start working. 

Fingers tug at your coat, shoving it off your shoulders; it hits the floor with a soft thud. You stumble backward together, lips barely separating, toward the couch, his hands peeling away layers like he's unwrapping a late christmas present. Your jeans go next—his vibranium fingers cool and precise on the button, flesh hand dragging the denim down your thighs until you kick them free.

By the time you tumble onto the couch, you're straddling him, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. Your shirt clings to you, the only barrier left, and his sweatpants do nothing to hide the thick, rigid length of him pressing up against your core.

His tongue tangles with yours again, deep and possessive, as the fingers of his right hand trail up the side of your body—mapping every curve. He stops at the swell of your breast, palm cupping it gently, feeling the weight in his hand. A low, guttural groan vibrates against your mouth, and you feel him swell even harder beneath you, his cock straining against the fabric separating you.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice wrecked, before slipping his hand under your shirt and bra. 

Warm flesh meets bare skin as he cups you fully, squeezing with just the right pressure—caressing, kneading—until another groan tears from him, deeper this time, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

His thumb circles your nipple, slow and teasing, and the spark of pleasure shoots straight through you. You gasp into his mouth, arching hard against him, the sudden sting of it making your thighs clench around his.

With a rough tug, he pushes your shirt and bra up, exposing your breast to the cool air—your nipple tight and aching, begging. His eyes darken, devouring the sight.

“Fuck. You are so beautiful—you missed me didn’t you?” he whispers, before lowering his head. His lips brush the sensitive peak in a soft kiss, tongue flicking out to taste you, savoring like you're the sweetest thing he's ever had.

The wet heat of his mouth closes over you fully then—tongue swirling languidly around your nipple, sucking softly, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out. Pleasure floods you in waves, intense and overwhelming, pooling hot and liquid between your legs. 

Every brush of his lips, every pull of his mouth, every gentle scrape of teeth—it's torture, exquisite and unrelenting, building that tight coil inside you until you're trembling, on the edge already from this alone.

His free hand—the vibranium one—slides to your ass, gripping firmly, urging you to move. You grind down on him instinctively, rolling your hips against the hard ridge of his trapped cock. The friction is maddening, and his fingers slip lower behind, stroking you through the thin, soaked fabric of your underwear—teasing your clit in firm circles that match the rhythm of his mouth on your breast.

You moan louder, head falling on the crook of his neck, as he tilts his head to take you deeper—sucking harder, tongue lashing your nipple until it's swollen and throbbing. The dual assault—his mouth devouring your breast, his fingers working you relentlessly while you grind on his thick length—has you shattering toward release, every nerve alight, body slick and desperate for more of him.

Your hips buck harder, desperate and shameless, chasing the pressure of his thigh and of his cock straining against the soft fabric of his sweatpants. Every roll drags the seam over your aching clit, amplified by the circles of his vibranium fingers—cool metal warmed by your heat, slick with how drenched you are.

Bucky pulls off your breast with a wet pop, lips shiny, eyes dark and feral as he watches you unravel. His breath fans hot over the sensitive, swollen peak he just abandoned.

“You gonna come?” he rasps, voice low and wrecked, thumb pressing firmer against your clit in a ruthless rhythm that matches the grind of your hips. “Come on me, baby. Let me feel you soak through everything. I want it fucking dripping down my thigh.”

The words hit like a spark to gasoline. Your body locks up—back arching, nails digging into his shoulders—as the orgasm slams into you, sharp and blinding. A broken cry tears from your throat, hips jerking helplessly against him while you pulse and clench around nothing. 

He doesn’t let up, fingers working you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling, oversensitive, gasping his name.

“Yeah, baby—say my name just like that,” Bucky groans, voice thick and ragged as your cries echo his name again and again through the aftershocks. His vibranium hand slides up your thigh, fingers tracing the slick mess you’ve made. He glances down, eyes darkening at the dark wet patch spreading across his gray sweatpants. “Fuck, look at my pants. Jesus Christ, you soaked right through ‘em.”

He lets out a low, wrecked laugh, forehead pressed to yours for a beat before he pulls back just enough to growl, “Let me just—”

He reaches behind his head and yanks the compression shirt off, tossing it aimlessly. His hair falls messier across his forehead, chest rising and falling hard, every new ridge of muscle on display from the last month of brutal workouts. You’re already helping him, hands greedy at the waistband of his sweatpants, shoving them down caught in the frenzy until they pool at his ankles. He steps out of them, kicking them aside.

You drop lower, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down his neck, across the broad plane of his chest, tongue flicking over a nipple just to hear him hiss. Then lower, over the cut lines of his abs, tasting salt and warm skin. Your tongue darts out again, tracing the between the V that disappears below, and he drags a hand over his face with a muffled, “God, you’re so fucking sexy doing it like that.”

He looks back down, blue eyes blown wide and hungry.

You chuckle low, the sound vibrating against his skin as your hand slips under the last scrap of fabric—his boxers—palming the heavy length of him. He tenses, abs flexing under your lips, a sharp inhale whistling through his teeth. You tug the waistband down slow enough to tease, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, curving up toward his stomach with a bead of precum already glistening at the tip.

You lean in, lips parting, and take just the head into your mouth—slow, luxuriant, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge. 

He twitches hard against your tongue, a guttural “Ohh baby—” ripping out of him as his hips jerk forward involuntarily. You feel him swell even fuller in the wet heat of your mouth, hardening impossibly in seconds like his body’s been waiting a month for this exact moment.

You work lower, taking more of his shaft inch by inch until your lips meet your fingers wrapped around the base, then slide back up, hollowing your cheeks, tongue lavishing the head again with greedy circles. You pull off just long enough to look up at him through your lashes, lips shiny and swollen, a wicked little smile curving your mouth.

The look on his face—brows pinched tight, jaw clenched like he’s in pain, eyes dark and desperate—tells you everything. It’s definitely been a while.

Your free hand cups his balls, heavy and drawn up tight, rolling them gently, tugging just enough to make him throw his head back with a broken curse, vibranium fingers tangling in your hair.

“Shit—I’m so sensitive,” he rasps, voice cracking, looking down again with that wild, pleading edge. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

You pull off him with a lewd, wet pop. His cock—glistening thick and slick from your mouth—bobs heavily in front of your face, flushed dark and veined, a string of saliva still connecting your bottom lip to the swollen tip.

You let out a low, throaty giggle, eyes locked on his as you tilt your head and stick your tongue out flat. Then you guide his length with your hand, slapping the heavy weight of it against your tongue once, twice, three times—hard enough to make wet, filthy smacks, precum and spit smearing across your taste buds and chin in shiny streaks.

Bucky’s breath punches out of him in a shocked laugh as he stares down at the sight, vibranium fingers tightening in your hair.

“Holy shit,” he rasps, voice wrecked and incredulous, a dazed grin pulling at his mouth. “You dirty fucking girl.”

You hum, pleased and wicked, letting the head rest heavy on your outstretched tongue again, giving it a slow, lick from base to tip while you look up at him through wet lashes.

His thighs flex hard, abs clenching, and a low, desperate groan rumbles out of his chest.

“Baby,” he warns, hips shifting forward just an inch—like he’s already fighting not to thrust. “You keep playing like that and I’m not gonna last.”

You pull back just enough, lips brushing the sensitive underside as you murmur, voice husky and teasing, “Good. You can come in my mouth.”

The words hit him like a punch—his eyes flare wide, dark blue gone almost black, a ragged “Fuck—” punching out of him as his cock jerks hard against your lips. You don’t wait for more; you sink down again, taking him deep in one smooth glide until he hits the back of your throat. Your hand works the base in tight, twisting strokes while the other keeps teasing his balls, rolling them gently, feeling how tight and full they are.

He’s unraveling fast—head falling back, throat working on a swallow, a string of broken curses spilling out as his hips start to rock in shallow thrusts he can’t quite control.

“God, your mouth—feels so fucking good,” he pants, looking down again with that pinched, wrecked expression, like pleasure’s bordering on pain. “Not gonna… fuck, baby, I’m close—”

You hear the warning in his voice, feel it in the way his cock throbs heavier against your tongue, but it only spurs you on. 

You double down—suction tightening, cheeks hollowing as you bob faster, hand twisting in that perfect corkscrew motion guys swear by, the one that strokes him root to tip in sync with your mouth. Your tongue presses flat against the sensitive frenulum on every upstroke, flicking quick, while your other hand never stops its worship of his balls—rolling them gently, then tugging downward just enough to heighten the pull.

You pull off for a breath, dropping lower to take one ball into your mouth, sucking soft but firm, tongue swirling as your fist pumps his slick shaft in twisting pulls. 

His thighs quake harder, a strangled “Fuck—yes—” ripping out as you switch back to his cock, taking him deep again, throat relaxing to swallow around the head while your fingers keep that gentle downward tension on his balls.

His hips stutter, vibranium hand leaving your hair to grip the edge of the couch—his whole body goes rigid, abs clenching visibly as the orgasm barrels through him.

“Shit, I’m gonna come—I’m coming, I’m coming—” he chokes out, and then he’s pulsing hard against your tongue, thick ropes of cum flooding your mouth in hot, heavy spurts. You swallow greedily, milking him with your lips and hand, drawing it out until he’s shuddering violently, a low, broken groan dragging from his chest.

When it finally ebbs, he slumps against the couch, chest heaving, cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound. You sit back on your heels, licking the corner of your mouth, watching him come down with a satisfied little smile.

Bucky drags a shaky hand through his messy hair, letting out a breathless, incredulous laugh—the classic post-nut clarity hitting hard, loose and dazed.

“Where the fuck did you learn that?” he pants, voice hoarse, blue eyes wide and still a little glazed as he stares down at you. Another huff of laughter escapes him, fond and wrecked. “Jesus, baby. You trying to ruin me for good?”

He reaches down, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip, smearing the gloss there like he can’t help himself.

You lick your lips slowly, tasting him still, and meet his glazed eyes with a soft, teasing smile.

“Just my way of saying sorry to you. . .” you murmur, voice husky from everything you just did to him.

Bucky’s breathless laugh turns darker and hungrier. He sinks fully onto the couch now, legs spread, chest still heaving as he reaches for you with both hands, pulling you up from your knees.

“Come here,” he says, low and rough, patting his thigh. “Sit on me. I’m not done with you yet.”

His cock rests heavy against his stomach, semi-soft and glistening from your mouth, twitching faintly like it’s already eager for round two. You don’t hesitate—clothes half-shed, you strip off what’s left.

You know exactly what he loves, what gets him hard again. 

Lowering yourself slowly, you drag your bare, soaked pussy along his length—just slick skin on skin. The head of his cock nudges your clit on the first pass, and you both groan at the contact. You rock forward again, grinding slow and languid, coating him in your wetness, feeling him thicken and harden beneath you with every slide.

Bucky’s head falls back against the couch for a second, eyes hooded, before he snaps his gaze down to watch—transfixed by the sight of your folds parting around his shaft, gliding up and down, your arousal making everything shiny and messy.

“Oh my God,” he hisses through clenched teeth, hips lifting just slightly to chase the friction. “That’s it… just like that.”

You guide his hands up to your breasts, pressing them into his palms, and he doesn’t need more invitation. His flesh hand cups one, thumb circling the nipple before pinching while the vibranium one mirrors the motion on the other, cool metal warming fast against your skin. He tugs and rolls your nipples between his fingers, twisting just hard enough to make you gasp and grind down firmer, your clit dragging along his now fully hard length.

Every rock of your hips pulls a low rumble from his chest, his cock throbbing hot and rigid between your folds, precum mixing with your slickness until you’re both dripping.

“God, look at you,” he breathes, voice gravel-rough, eyes dark as he watches himself disappear and reappear between your lips with every roll. “Using that pretty pussy to get me hard again…”

You nod slowly, breath hitching as you grind down one last time, feeling him throb fully hard and ready between your slick folds.

“How do you want me?” you ask, voice soft and needy, eyes locked on his.

Bucky’s lips curve into a wolfish smile.

“How do I want you?” he echoes, voice low and rough, vibranium hand sliding down to grip your hip possessively. “I want you under me, baby. Ankles right beside your ears.” His eyes darken further, thumb stroking your skin. “How do you want to take it? Rough? Slow?”

You lean in, pecking his lips quick and teasing, a breathless laugh escaping you. “That’s up to you.”

His brows lift, surprise flickering before that hungry edge sharpens again. “You really trusting me to leave it up to me?” He swallows hard, throat working, gaze searching yours for a beat—like he’s making sure. Then he exhales, soft and resolute. “Alright. We can take it slow.”

He shifts, strong arms lifting you effortlessly as he moves you both to the chaise end of the sectional, laying you back against the soft leather. The cool surface contrasts with the heat of your skin, and he settles between your thighs, nudging them wider with his knees.

“Get in position for me,” he murmurs, voice deep and commanding, sending a shiver straight through you. “Ankles up by your ears. And spread that pretty pussy—use your fingers on both sides of your lips. Show it to me.”

You obey without hesitation, legs folding back until your ankles frame your face, knees splayed wide. Your hands slide down, fingers parting your slick, swollen folds, baring yourself completely—glistening, aching, dripping for him.

Bucky groans low and guttural, eyes locked on you like he’s starving. “Fuck, look at that… I just wanna eat that pussy, but next time—right now, I need to fuck you.”

He leans over you, one hand bracing beside your head, the other guiding his thick cock. He slaps it against you once, twice—wet, heavy thuds that make you gasp and clench around nothing. Then the broad head teases you—rubbing slow circles over your clit, then dragging down to nudge your entrance. 

He presses in just barely, stretching you open an inch before pulling back. Again—deeper, teasing—until he surges forward in one controlled thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

The stretch is overwhelming, his thick length splitting you wide as your walls flutter and grip him. A muffled moan tears from your throat; his rumbles deep in his chest, ragged and desperate.

“Oh fuck—” he murmurs, forehead dropping to yours. 

He stills, hips flush, letting you feel every pulsing inch—impossibly deep in this folded position, the head kissing your cervix until your toes curl beside your ears.

Then he pulls back slow, dragging every ridge along your walls, before slamming home again. Each thrust jolts through you, wet slaps echoing, your slick coating him, dripping where you’re joined. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you pinned open, helpless to his rhythm.

“Look at you,” he rasps between thrusts, voice wrecked, eyes flicking from your face to where he disappears into you. “Taking me so deep… feel how full you are, baby?”

His control frays—breaths rougher, hips snapping harder as you gasp, “Fuck me like that.” Sweat beads on his skin, vibranium hand tightening on your thigh.

He locks eyes with you. “Look down,” he orders, gravel-rough. “Watch me fuck this pretty pussy. Watch how you take every inch.”

You obey, gaze dropping to where your folds stretch tight around his glistening shaft, swallowing him whole on every sink.

“That’s it,” he growls, pace turning heavier, more possessive. He slams deep, grinds slow circles against that spot that sparks stars behind your eyes. “You feel me? Feel how deep I am? I’m not letting you go this time—never again.”

He rasps against your ear, thrusting faster—balls-deep slams marking you inside out. “Gonna fuck a hole inside you only I can fill.”

“Oh God—yes,” you choke out, voice breaking on every word as tears prick your eyes from the intensity.

“Yeah?” His eyes lock on yours, wild and undone, but soft at the edges with everything he hasn’t said in a month. “You want me to give you everything? Want me to knock you up so you never forget who you belong to—who you love?”

You nod frantically, nails raking down his back. “Yes—God, yes—don’t stop—”

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, vibranium hand sliding to your lower belly, pressing just enough for you to feel him moving inside you. “Gonna give you all of me. Gonna love you so fucking deep you’ll feel me for days—every time you move, you’ll know you’re mine.”

His forehead drops to yours, sweat-slick skin sliding, thrusts frantic now—hips snapping, chaise rocking.

“Look at me,” he rasps, cupping your jaw. His blue eyes lock wild and intense. “I love you too—fuck, I love you.”

“I love—”

His mouth crashes onto yours, devouring, tongue thrusting in time with his cock as he ruts like he’s possessed—pouring a month of longing into every slam. His vibranium arm hooks your knee tighter, folding you impossibly deeper.

“Bucky—I’m gonna come—”

He grunts into the kiss, nipping your lip. “Then come. I want that pretty pussy squeezing me first.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling hard in sync with his relentless thrusts—and you shatter.

“Yes—yes—” you cry, walls clenching vise-tight, pulsing around him as pleasure whites out everything. Your nails dig bloody trails down his back; he hisses, thrusts erratic, chasing your climax.

His hips stutter, losing all rhythm as the pressure coils unbearably tight at the base of his spine.

“Fuck—oh fuck—” The words fracture against your neck, muffled and raw. His cock jerks again and again, thick ropes of semen flooding deep in hot, endless surges while he grinds slow circles. Each spasm drags helpless whine from him, hips grinding instinctively, dragging every last shuddering drop as far into you as he can get.

Finally spent, his body sags heavily on top of you—warm, sweat-slick weight pressing you into the chaise cushions, chest heaving with ragged pants against your throat. 

You unfold slowly, legs trembling as you lower them, ankles sliding down his sides until your thighs bracket his hips. The shift draws a soft groan from him—cock still buried deep, softening but reluctant to leave, letting gravity ease him out with a warm trickle of your mixed release leaking onto the leather.

Bucky lifts his head just enough to find your mouth, kissing you sweetly—slow, tender presses of his lips, gentle brushes of tongue, no hunger now, only devotion. He trails soft kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose.

He stays close, forehead resting against yours, the faint sheen of sweat cooling between you in the dim glow of the lamps. Those blue eyes, heavy-lidded and unguarded, trace your face like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with leftover want, thumb stroking slow along your cheekbone. “So fucking much.”

You lean up just enough to brush a soft peck against his lips, lingering there a second before pulling back. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, guilt threading through the words. “I’ll be more mindful when you’re stressed. I didn’t mean to push.”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, the sound warm and forgiving as he nuzzles closer, lips grazing yours again. “It’s okay, baby. Honestly? Best kind of stress relief I’ve had in weeks.” The corner of his mouth quirks—that familiar teasing glint flickering back into his eyes. “Might start picking fights on purpose if this is how we make up.”

He steals one more slow, sweet kiss before easing his weight off you. The cool air of the room rushes between your thighs, sticky and sensitive, and he notices the way you shift. “C’mon, let me clean you up.”

Before you can protest, he’s sliding his arms beneath you and lifting you effortlessly against his chest in a bridal carry. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, legs dangling, still boneless and floating as he pads barefoot across the living room toward the bathroom.

That’s when you glance over his shoulder—and freeze.

The tall brownstone windows are thrown wide open, sheer curtains pushed aside, and directly across the narrow street, in the window of the opposite brownstone, Mrs. Kowalski—the sweet little old lady who always bakes too many cookies and leaves them on Bucky’s stoop—is standing there in her robe, sipping coffee.

She’s holding up both hands, fingers splayed: a perfect 10.

Then she gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up, mouths “Happy New Year!” and adds a cheeky little golf clap.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, mortified heat flooding your face as you duck your head into Bucky’s neck.

Bucky slows, brow furrowing at the sudden tension in your body. “What?”

“Don’t—don’t turn around,” you hiss, burying your face deeper into his neck. “You’ll flash the entire block.”

Bucky freezes mid-step, confusion flickering before realization hits him like a truck. He’s stark naked, dick out in the breeze, carrying you the same way. His eyes widen, a rare flush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears—the Winter Soldier actually blushing.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, shifting his hold on you instinctively to angle his hips away from the window, using your body like a very strategic human shield. He risks one quick, awkward sideways glance—just enough to spot Mrs. K’s scorecard performance—then snaps his gaze forward again, jaw tight and cringing from motification.

Mrs. Kowalski winks, points at you both like a proud matchmaker, and shuffles off—probably to speed dial her bridge club with the gossip of the century.

Bucky exhales a choked laugh, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as his whole body vibrates with it. “Well… at least we got a perfect score?” he manages, voice strained between amusement and genuine mortification. “Fuck, I’m never living this down. She’s gonna tell the whole block I’ve still got it.”

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[winteryn]

MY WIFE

18+ | MDNI - masterlist

PAIRING: ceo!bucky barnes x wife!reader SUMMARY: three times in which the new intern tries to impress her hot, grumpy boss, mr. barnes. or, three times in which bucky can’t stop talking about his lovely wife.  WARNINGS: use of third person & second person & pov changes (she/her pronouns for reader); pictures don't reflect reader's appearance; reader wears a dress; original character (I’m so sorry if your name is madison 🥲); ceo!bucky (who is a little mean, tbh); whipped!bucky (he’s pathetically obsessed); pregnancy stuff (trying for a baby); fluff; smut; daddy & mommy kink; one (1) use of ‘slut’; mention of cockwarming; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); breeding kink; office sex (so... kind of public sex?). WORD COUNT: 6k A/N: I had so much fun writing this one-shot at the time and re-reading it put me in such a good mood, ngl. hope you’ll enjoy!

The little ding from an elevator has never felt so ominous. Wanda, Darcy and Carol scurry away like thieves from a crime scene, abandoning their morning gossip by the copier. Scott almost drops his freshly brewed coffee, fatigue instantly melting off his features and shoulders tensing up, while Monica throws her phone in her bag, pretending she’s been working all along on an already strategically open Excel sheet.

Once the elevator doors part, the whole floor falls into a silent distress. Mr. Barnes steps out with the same expression he wears every single morning: lips pressed in a thin line, jaw clenched, and a faint, permanent scowl, as if the world had already disappointed him the moment he woke up. 

His suit is always impeccably ironed, not a single crease on his white, crisp shirt. His cologne—Tom Ford’s Beau de Jour—is never too strong, but it lingers in the air like a constant reminder of his authority. As far as his employees can remember, his left wrist has never been bare: a prized watch, very simple yet tasteful, that can’t strangely be associated with any expensive brand, rests there. He’s very protective of it, and nobody has ever dared to comment on its simplicity, especially after an unpleasant episode involving one of the company's previous clients, Mr. Pierce.

The older man attempted to touch it with a grimace, as a joke, he kept insisting after. Nobody ever believed Mr. Barnes’ blue eyes could turn even icier. His voice was tinted with a subtle growl as he intimated the man to get his filthy hands off his watch. Scott almost fainted when he noticed Mr. Wilson tightly press his lips together to avoid bursting out laughing.

Needless to say, Mr. Pierce’s company lost all its deals with Barnes Investments.

Mr. Barnes walks with purpose, the same black coat gently swaying with every clipped step and tie mathematically aligned. He doesn’t even glance at his visibly fidgety employees, his blue eyes hidden behind a pair of Ami Paris black sunglasses that he only removes once he enters his office, strategically located at the very end of the open space. 

He also doesn’t greet anyone. His presence alone is a daily roll call.

The CEO doesn’t talk much in general—not unless he absolutely has to. But when he does, one either ends up walking away with a quiet pride burning in their chest, or crying and shaking in the restroom. His words are sharp and efficient. A simple “fix this” could ruin an entire afternoon. A “this is unacceptable”, a week.

The worst thing is that he doesn’t even need to raise his voice, because his perpetual glacial calm is enough to make a grown man in his fifties tremble like a fawn taking its first steps. His disappointed silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the sleek desk, could send any adult into an existential crisis.

He doesn’t even need to walk past the desks to know what happens inside his company. Every attempt to impress him is ignored without mercy and humor is met with a slow blink, as if it were a personal insult to his entire bloodline.

Somewhere along the way, the office collectively settled on calling him Mr. Tightass behind his back. Despite that, the CEO puts equal attention in rewarding and commending his employees when credit is due. It still feels like talking with someone who has been constipated for a month, but coming from the strict boss himself, the praise is always very welcomed.

Every morning, he follows the same meticulous routine: he checks his schedule with his trusted assistant, Natasha; retreats into his office to scan the reports left on his desk, flagging all the things he disapproves of, and then closes the door behind him with a resounding bang that feels like an order to not be disturbed.

He is habit wrapped in a suit and polished shoes; an ongoing source of heart palpitations for the entire staff.

This is the environment Madison Carrell, freshly graduated from NYU, walks into two days later, with a smug smile and pink high heels, blissfully unaware of what lies ahead.

Wanda is the one designated to show her the ropes, and Madison’s first day unfolds in a tour of the office—from the rows of desks lining the wooden floor to the large glass-walled meeting room. They pause briefly in the break room, where the analyst takes her time explaining how the kitchenette works. That’s when a dull knock on the open door interrupts their conversation. There, Mr. Barnes slightly leans forward, eyeing Wanda with his usual blank expression.

“I need the volatility report yesterday, Miss Maximoff.” 

“Yes, sir. I apologize. I’ll bring it to your office right now—” He raises a palm, stopping her nervous rambling.

“No need, leave it to Natasha and she’ll bring it to me.” Mr. Barnes has already turned away when she remembers the girl beside her.

“Um s—sir, this is one of the new interns, Madison Carrell.” His head turns enough to marginally eye the girl, giving her a curt nod before he’s returning to his cavern.

“Was that… James Barnes?” Wanda’s eyes flit on the intern, grimacing at her wide, sparkling eyes.

“Yeah, that’s him. A real gentleman, as you can see.” She rolls her eyes, stealing a handful of cereal from the glass jar.

Madison quietly gasps, patting her skirt as if to ensure she looks presentable. “I didn’t think I would meet him today. I’ve been a fan ever since he was invited to speak at a conference at my university two years ago.”

Wanda blinks once, one eyebrow raising skeptically. “A fan?”

“Of course!” The blonde wheezes. “He’s a brilliant, successful man who has built this company with his own blood, sweat and tears from the ground up. You should be grateful he even glances your way.” She stares at the vacant spot previously occupied by the CEO, trying to fruitlessly contain a grin. “And he's very handsome.” 

“You know he’s married, right?” Madison’s head snaps toward the analyst, her smile suddenly replaced by a scowl.

“What?”

It’s impossible. She knows his Wikipedia page by heart and there isn't a single mention of a marriage, nor of his personal life in general.

“Yeah, and also very much in love with his wife.” The older woman nods, quite amused. Now she almost regrets telling her, nothing exciting ever happens in this office, after all.

Madison’s mouth curves up, looking almost sympathetic. “Oh Wanda,” the analyst's eyes narrow on the intern patting her forearm condescendingly. “Everything ends. Even marriages.”

The analyst simply smirks knowingly, already walking to the door. “Mh, if you say so.” She then eyes the blonde, nodding towards the open space. “C’mon, I’ll show you your desk. It’s right next to mine and Darcy’s.”

The break room is unusually quiet for a mid-morning. Madison stands by the kitchenette, pretending to tidy up a stack of colorful mugs while her ear is tuned to the hallway. 

“Move Stark’s call to Wednesday, and if he complains, remind him we received an equally convincing offer from Williams Enterprise.” The moment Mr. Barnes’ deep, commanding voice thunders in the hallway, she straightens, a toothy smile brightening her face as his measured footsteps get louder and louder, until he crosses the threshold of the break room.

He steps inside, heading straight for the coffee machine with his red ceramic cup in hand—it’s his third refill already. He presses the button, then crosses his arms with a rigid posture, his left foot tapping rhythmically. Impatiently.

Madison takes a second to adjust her locks, before she turns toward the man. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes!”  

He gives her a brief glance, nothing more than a flicker of acknowledgement, and a curt nod, before returning his frown to the humming appliance.

She clears her throat, refusing to let his disregard deter her. “I, um… I baked something. Thought I’d bring some in for the team.”

Mr. Barnes looks bored at this point, still not moving his icy eyes from the cup. 

She swallows. “They’re chocolate chip cookies, fresh from this morning. I figured you might like to try one.” As the CEO turns with his steaming coffee in hand, he almost bumps into the extended tray of sweets. He grunts, clearly annoyed at this intern’s insistence, and in that exact moment, his wife’s words echo sweetly through his mind.

“They’re your employees, Jamie. Just… Try to be a little nicer?”

With a sigh, Mr. Barnes places the cup back on the counter, before taking a cookie under Madison’s hopeful eyes. But her enthusiasm is abruptly torn to shreds as she watches him break the tiniest piece off, almost a crumb, then taste it with the air of someone challenged to eat concrete for money.

A low hum escapes him, thoughtful. He eyes the rest of the cookie distracted as he starts mumbling. 

“I wonder if my wife will bake cookies, she already made a pie two days ago.” 

Madison blinks. Why does he need his wife’s cookies? She's literally in front of him right now, with a tray full of them that she specifically baked just for him! Does he know how hard it was to keep the team away from them, then look for a good hiding place in the break room so they would go unnoticed? She had to wait here for hours, pretending to clean and look for random stuff every time a passing co-worker eyed her with suspicion.

Madison forces a chuckle, an idea quickly forming in her mind to not let the conversation die. “What kind of pie?”

His fingers lightly scratch the stubble on his chin, still pensive. “Apple. It’s my favorite.”

Her eyes lit up. “I make a mean apple pie! Next time I can—” 

“It was excellent. The crust was neither too flaky nor too hard. And the flavors were perfectly balanced.” He shakes his head, still impressed. Madison winces as he literally cuts her off, but by the hazy look in his eyes, she doubts he even noticed her talking at all. “She’s a baker, so she knows her deal. Always testing new recipes on me.”

Is he pouting? 

“I finished the whole thing in two days.” 

Madison stands there frozen, the paper tray cradled awkwardly in her hands as she watches Mr. Barnes swiftly set the cookie down on the counter. 

“I need to text her.” He murmurs, not even glancing at his cup as he moves hastily toward the door. “Tell her to make another one for tonight.”

And just like that, he disappears, leaving the untouched tray and Madison’s crushed expectations behind.

It’s not until Scott pokes his head in that her vacant stare finally moves. “Can we eat them now?”

Alright, so the first attempt to impress her boss didn’t go as well as she predicted. That’s okay! Madison wasn’t elected student body president by throwing the towel at the first obstacle.

The next occasion presents itself the following week. Wanda was tasked with drafting a counter proposal to Mr. Stark’s new project, which meant Madison could not only be present during the presentation, but also outline a section of the submission and prove to Mr. Barnes she deserves her place there—someone who belongs in his professional world, beside him, not a lowly baker.

Right now, they are on a small break after four boring hours spent discussing the billionaire’s proposal. From her peripheral vision, Madison catches Mr. Barnes coming back in the room, along with Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Stark. Her chest slightly puffs out, finally ready to spring into action.

“So I told him I didn’t give a fuck about fishing, and then he spent all night crying over his ex-wife—”

“Ask me about my lunch.” Monica balks at Madison, tilting her head.

“Excuse me?”

“Ask me about my lunch. Ask me where I bought those nice tomatoes!” She whispers, leaning sideways against the long table. Monica stares at her appalled, until their boss’ booming voice reaches her ears and her eyes roll to the sky. Of course it’s one of the new intern’s weird plans to catch Mr. Barnes’ attention. She can't believe Madison is still at it after ‘The Cookie Failure’, as Scott named it. 

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” She mutters reluctantly.

“Louder.”

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” Her yell attracts the attention of the four men and other nearby employees minding their own business.

Madison gives her a little coquettish giggle. “You mean the ones in the salad I had for lunch? Of course I grow them in my garden!”

Last week, Mr. Wilson teased Mr. Barnes about his prettily packed lunch—no, she was not eavesdropping... She just happened to be walking past his office at the exact moment highly confidential conversations have the bad habit of being perfectly audible. At some point, he mentioned that the lettuce came straight from his garden, so she concluded he must have a green thumb. 

Of course she didn't have the time, nor the patience, to grow fucking vegetables. No one would ever be able to tell the difference between store-bought tomatoes and homegrown ones, anyway.

Tomatoes were tomatoes. The internet agreed.

“My wife has a beautiful garden.” 

Madison goes still.

“Does she now?” Mr. Stark amusedly teases him.

She doesn’t blink for a moment, like her brain has briefly stopped accepting information.

“Last year she grew tomatoes so perfect the neighbors thought they were made of wax.” He pats the pocket of his black pants. “Hold on, I have pictures.” And everyone gathers around him. Like bees around a flower. Even Monica! 

“Look at the color! It’s incredible.” A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the room, no doubt praising her and her damn tomatoes.

“And these are her cucumbers. And her lettuce. And—oh, here she is mulching. She didn’t know I was there.” Madison almost has an aneurysm as a faint, unguarded smile appears on his lips. “She’s so lovely.”

Coughing, Madison raises her voice in a pathetic last attempt. “I, uh… planted some basil.”

And without missing a beat, Mr. Barnes destroys her while still swiping through the pictures. 

“My wife grows five varieties of basil.”

Then, he stops short, his finger hovering over the screen as his lips press together to hide a grin. That's when Mr. Rogers clears his throat, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. His head jerks up, blinking as if he just woke up from a dream. 

“Alright.” His frown returns. “Break’s over. Miss Maximoff, it’s your turn.”

“Shit.” Madison whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. She was so focused on looking up gardening tips these past few days that she completely forgot she also had to help Wanda present her counter proposal. Which entails talking in front of an entire board of stakeholders about things she only read in her university books. 

Suddenly, those stupid tomatoes feel like they’re crawling back up her esophagus, and a cold sweat breaks across her skin. She makes it to the massive presentation screen on unsteady legs, her hands shaking so badly she can barely grip the clicker. Behind her, Mr. Barnes stands and starts walking toward them, while the rest of the table settles back into their seats.

“Maximoff, I read the counter proposal last night. Good job. The section about forecasted performance—”

Madison perks up. “I drafted that section—”

“My wife caught five mistakes there. Be careful.” He concludes, not sparing her a single glance as he turns to make his way back to the head of the table. Still, she catches his breathy comment.

“Such a brilliant woman.”

Her fiasco at Mr. Stark’s deal sets Madison back a few steps. Well, did she even move forward at all? After a week of reflection—mostly spent on TikTok tutorials about “what men like in a woman”, a suspicious amount of “CEO mindset” content and questionable productivity hacks she saved at 2 a.m.—the intern decides to take a new approach.

It’s Friday when Madison plans to stay back at the office, knowing Mr. Barnes always finishes late on Fridays. He doesn’t like being bothered over the weekend, so he ensures everything is done before he leaves.

Silence settles heavily over the building once the team leaves, making it easy to catch the rustle of papers and the faint creak of his chair around nine, signaling he’s finally done. Her coat is already on as she stands near her desk, deliberately checking her bag as if making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything. When he finally opens the door, she lets out an exaggerated sigh, lifting her eyes and putting on her best expression of surprise.

“Mr. Barnes! I didn’t think there was anyone left at this hour.” The man stops abruptly in his quick advance toward the elevator, turning to face her. “I had to finish a few things for Wanda and I didn’t notice the time. I’m just so happy to be here time kind of disappears when you get into it. You surely get that, right?”

He stares at her, deadpan. “Who are you, again?”

Her eyes bulge out. “I—” She gapes. “Madison Carrell! The new intern!” She rushes out, bordering on a shriek.

“Right.” He mutters, resuming his steps as she quickly jogs to reach him. “No, I actually don't get that. If it were for me, I would stay at home, or help my wife run her bakery.” After pressing the button to call the elevator, he stares ahead, still looking so put together after twelve hours of work.  

James Buchanan Barnes—one of the richest, most hard-working people in the whole continent, two-time #1 on Forbes’ Top 100 CEO, and major partner at Stark Industries—longs to be a househusband just so he can stay with his wife? And run a fucking bakery?

“She’s always telling me I need to come home earlier.” He sighs, and to her shock, his mouth twists into something akin to a fond smile. “She worries so much about me. She sent me a selfie an hour ago and now I can’t wait to see her.”

Madison simply nods along, face frozen in polite agony while her bag takes the worst of it, her knuckles turning white as she crumples the poor handle. She just wasted four hours of her Friday night doing nothing only to hear the man of her dreams sing praises about a woman she’s never met, yet knows entirely too much about.

The ride in the elevator is excruciating. Mr. Barnes is too busy grinning down at his phone to entertain her, and Madison’s slumped shoulders are a testament of her crushed hopes. Once they’re outside, she notices a couple of people gathered in front of the window of a clothing store right across the street. They look like they are decorating for Christmas, strings of lights already up and various boxes blocking half of the sidewalk. Mr. Barnes shakes his head at the sight, and Madison catches it from her peripheral vision.

Of course a cranky and curt man like Mr. Barnes would be a grinch!

Such a shame she completely missed his soft smile.

“I can’t believe some people are already decorating for Christmas.” She scoffs. “C’mon, it’s still November! Who is the idiot that does that?” Turning her head toward him, her chuckle dies in her throat at his gelid expression. 

“My wife.”

Madison’s heart drops to her stomach. “W–What–”

“My wife is the idiot who decorates for Christmas in November.” His caustic reply sends shivers down her back. Madison's jaw falls to the ground, and for a moment she just stands there, toes curling in shame and cheeks flaming red. Her mouth opens and closes twice, not really knowing what to say or do in front of the man eyeing her with so much vitriol.

Maybe the ground should open right this instant and swallow her whole. It would hurt less.

“I—” 

“Goodnight, Miss Carroll.” 

“What—” She whispers, completely caught off guard. “It’s Carrell!” She shouts, but he’s already halfway to his black Jaguar.

“FUCK!”

Wanda is so engrossed in her conversation with Darcy about the umpteenth date with a loser she met on Tinder that the loud thump on her right makes both women jolt in surprise. 

It's Madison and she is... a mess. 

Her ponytail is barely hanging on, a few blonde hair sticking in the air as if she was just electrocuted. Her makeup only consists of some smudged gloss—a rough contrast to the full face she has been displaying every single morning since she set foot here at Barnes Investments. Darcy and Wanda exchange a look of worry as they spot the big brown stain on her light blue shirt, probably coffee. 

They’ve never seen Madison look so distraught in the two months she’s been here. 

“Honey, are you okay?” Wanda tentatively asks. 

“Okay? Why yeah sure! Why shouldn’t I be okay?” She grits out with a fake, entirely too big smile, while literally throwing her things on her desk. 

“You sure?” Darcy raises an eyebrow.

“Of course! I mean, my crush is happily married to a woman who apparently has a pussy made of gold, because he can’t stop talking about her for one damn second.” Her pencil case almost flies to the ground. The desk shakes under the heavy laptop mindlessly tossed on its surface. 

Her little outburst makes a few heads turn, prompting the two analysts to shoot on their feet.

“Hey, lower your voice!” Wanda whisper shouts. “I understand you’re disappointed, but did you forget said crush is also your boss?”

“No, Wanda. You don’t understand.” She growls out, looking like a feral dog. “Two days ago I had to bribe his assistant with a fucking thirty-five-dollar chocolate bar just to find out his coffee order! Do you know where Mr. Barnes buys his coffee from every. Single. Morning?” Wanda shakes her head, mildly scared as Madison leans forward, her right eye twitching. “From a fucking coffee shop on the other side of New York. It took me fifty minutes just to get there, only for him to tell me he doesn’t drink that shit anymore because that stupid wife of his says it makes him too jittery.” She mocks with a pout and a whiny voice.

“He switched to herbal tea, or something. Last week!”

“Stand back, she’s gonna blow.” Darcy whispers horrified. 

“It’s been two months and I know more about this alleged wife of his than about the fucking company! He describes her as she is some sort of goddess who knows everything! And who the fuck keeps two hundred pictures of vegetables in their phone?” 

At this point, Madison is having a genuine outburst, screaming and slamming her bag on the desk under her co-workers’ bewildered gaze.

“For God’s sake, is she even real?”

As if by magic, the ding of the elevator suspends the room in silence. Everything seems to freeze as the doors slide open, revealing a woman Madison has never seen before, cautiously stepping forward. Her A-line mini dress has a soft plaid pattern, the sleeves sheer and flowy. The skirt flares out with a gentle silhouette, half hidden under a long black coat.

The entire floor gapes, taken aback by the romantic, almost ethereal vision. There’s only one person who doesn’t seem fazed at all, and that’s Mr. Barnes, who abruptly opens the door of his office as soon as the elevator door shuts. 

“Sweetheart.”

Your eyes immediately find Bucky's as he quickly makes his way to you at the end of the room. 

“Jamie.” His own lips twist into a grin when he finally reaches you, circling your waist with his muscular arms. 

“What are you doing here, doll? It’s your day off.” He mumbles, leaving a small kiss on your forehead. His blue eyes carefully take you in, poorly concealing his appreciation for your cute outfit, until they land on your bare legs. 

“Where are your tights?” He frowns, gently tugging you forward. “C'mere, let's sit in my office so you can warm up.”

“I wanted to see you.” You hum, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground as your fingers pull at his suit jacket, so you can drag his face closer to yours. Once your lips are brushing against his ear, you whisper as quietly as you can, hoping only your husband will catch your words. 

“They're not the only thing I’m not wearing right now.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen, before his saliva goes down the wrong pipe, sending him into a coughing fit under your amused gaze. His employees try to not stare at the scene, but it’s so endearingly rare witnessing their stern boss turn into this blushing, pliant mess in front of a pretty girl. 

“Shit.” He swallows, awkwardly clearing his throat as he quickly recomposes himself. “Let’s go, sweetheart.” 

Everyone knows that at his core, Mr. Barnes is just a man pathetically in love with his wife, still, curious eyes follow you as he hastily guides you to his office with a hand on your back, his gaze not steering away once from your face as giggles unusually fill the open space.

“Thank God she came by.” Scott leans in, addressing the three women. “He’s always more lenient after her visits.” He elaborates, mainly for a flustered Madison, who releases her expensive bag, letting it fall on the floor with a dull thud, before storming off to the restroom. Wanda sighs, slightly shaking her head in exhaustion.

The man just stares at the two analysts with knitted eyebrows, completely confused. “What?”

“My pretty little slut, coming to Daddy’s office without wearing any panties.” Bucky grunts against the skin of your bare chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to keep you nice and still on his desk.

It’s been six months since you and Bucky have agreed to try for a baby. Six months of pure, unhinged, hot sex in his office. It just so happens that your husband has been at work during your fertile window for the past few months, meaning that he could use that as an excuse to have you bare and whimpering in his office for a few days a month. 

Never in his career has Bucky dreamt of actually having sex here, of all places. Sure, he fantasized about your warmth by his side during those hard nights spent here amongst mountains of documents—he, Steve and Sam worked overtime almost every day at the beginning; his company was too small and new to afford the luxury of going home at a decent time. 

And you supported him through it all, his perfect darling. 

So imagine his face when you showed up at his workplace one day, locking the door behind you before literally throwing yourself at him, your breath warm against his ear as you gasped out how badly you needed him to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name.

Honestly, it wasn’t his proudest moment. He ended up coming before you after only a minute top, too aroused as he stared at you eagerly riding him on his chair, a hand on your mouth to prevent any loud noise from spilling out as his employees kept working, not having the faintest idea about what was happening inside their boss’ office.

From that moment on, your little visits meant only one thing. 

“Fuck, Daddy you’re so big.” You whine, clinging onto his shoulders. 

He lets out an animalistic groan as he squeezes your hips bruisingly. “Say it again.” He growls, grinding his hips harder against you. “You know I love it when you call me that, baby.” 

“Daddy please.” He slams his lips against yours, moaning as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, he goes straight for your chest, sucking on your nipple. Bucky loves to play with your breasts, you always get so responsive when his fingers tug and flicker your pretty nipples. Sometimes he just palms them for comfort during particularly frustrating calls he gets on the weekends from bratty assholes who refuse to go through his assistant first. Or out of boredom, while watching a movie. Until you get all worked up and end up cockwarming him throughout the rest of the movie.

“Can’t wait for these to swell up, gonna take such good care of you when they get too heavy and sensitive.” His head moves, the tip of his tongue already out to give some attention to the other nipple. “Wanna taste your milk so bad, baby. Will you let me? Bet it's just as sweet as your pussy.”

“Bucky!” Your head falls back as his teeth gently graze your erect nub, pulling a little pathetic whimper out of you that echoes loudly in the room.

“Shh-shh.” Your husband soothes, his voice back at your ear, his breath tickling your damp skin. “Been thinking about your pretty pussy all day.”

Bucky sounds a little dazed, his voice hoarse with something primal as one of his hands travels from your hip to your abdomen. “You’ll look so beautiful with your belly all big and round and full. All because of me.” 

“Please.” You cry out, trembling as tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes. It’s too much. Everything is too much. Your hot skin rubbing against his soft clothes, his filthy words, the way his blue eyes look at you with barely concealed hunger... His big cock stretching you open for him to move as he pleases. 

“You’re so fucking wet, baby.” Bucky marvels, staring in awe as his length disappears inside you, the loud, squelching sounds heating your cheeks up in embarrassment. You’ve done this so many times, yet that sense of danger, of possibly being caught doing something so debauched in such a professional environment, never fails to make your stomach flip and your core throb.

“Everyone will know how good I fuck you, how good I am for my beautiful wife.” He growls out against your lips. “My gorgeous Mommy.”

Your whole body shudder as your tongues dance, your pussy clenching at the sensation of his thick cock plunging deep inside you. It makes your head spin, leaving you completely speechless as Bucky's hips speed up. 

“Fuck, Daddy!” A whimper involuntarily falls from your parted lips, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, too big—” You gasp out the last word, his hips giving a particular brutal thrust that allows him to reach impossibly deeper.

“Yeah? I know, baby. I know. So big you can’t even talk properly.” He smirks. “Still, you take it so good, such a good girl.”

He covers your cheeks with sweet kisses, tracing a slow path down to the slope of your neck, where he makes sure to bite hard enough to elicit a surprised squeal from you.

“‘M gonna make you a mommy.” He pants harshly into your skin, his orgasm gradually approaching when you clench again. “The prettiest.” Thrust. “Sweetest.” Thrust. “Mommy.”

“Yes yes yes Daddy please!”  

Bucky’s low grunts and moans get louder as his fingers gently rub your clit, making your eyes roll back at the blinding pleasure. Your nails almost tear through the fabric of his half-open shirt.

“You’re so tight. Shit, I can feel you coming baby.” He moans, watching you nod quickly, and his voice drops a little. “Yeah? You finally gonna milk Daddy’s cock, pretty girl?” 

Your palm slaps on your parted mouth to stifle your lewd sounds. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips, and as he keeps thrusting faster and faster, your vision goes blurry and the knot in your belly finally snaps. 

“Daddy.” You whimper behind your hand, toes curling at the overwhelming bliss quickly hitting you. “Oh my God, I'm coming!” Your body wraps around him tightly as your hole clenches down, squeezing him so hard he almost chokes on his own spit. His fingers are cruel on your throbbing nub, toying with it until your hips jerk in overstimulation. You feel that hot pleasure everywhere—the base of your spine, deep in your gut, in your walls keeping him nice and warm. It’s always this intense with your husband: he knows what to say and where to put his hands so your orgasm hits you like a freight train, leaving your body exhausted yet quivering for more. 

“Fuck fuck—Daddy’s coming too.” He grits out, his thrusts messy and frantic, before his cock twitches, spilling deep inside you. “Shit—that’s it. Take it all, beautiful.”

Your chest is still heaving when you flop against him, forehead falling on his shoulder as your trembling fingers stay anchored to his shirt. His hands move to your asscheeks, thumbs leisurely stroking small circles into your skin as he tries to regain his breath as well. Yet, smugness drip off his voice. 

“Gave it to you so good you can’t even sit up straight, mh?”

You don’t have the energy to clap back, mewling with oversensitivity as he continues to gently thrust his softening dick lightly in and out of you, the mix of your juices trickling down and soiling the inner part of your thighs. Your lips part anyway to say something, but everything dissolves into an incoherent squeak when he gives your ass a light spank.

Bucky chuckles, proud of himself, his arms moving around your waist, hugging your body closer to his. “So gorgeous.” He coos, his eyelids fluttering close as the tip of his nose nuzzles your neck, breathing in your perfume, by now impeccably mixed with the scent of your favorite body cream. 

“So good for me. Fuck baby, I love you. I love you so much.” His hands gently cradle your cheeks, tenderly coaxing you out of your hiding spot as the strong urge to kiss you takes over his whole body. “Gonna have my baby and be the best mommy in the world.” He utters between sweet kisses. 

“Love you too, Jamie.” Bucky's lips curve softly at the way your eyelids barely stay open, letting you cuddle against his chest. His heartbeat never fails to speed up when those three magic words fall from your lips. 

“Think we did it this time?” You yawn tiredly, trying to keep your voice neutral. Still, your husband knows you too well after all these years by your side, instantly recognizing that hint of fragile hope in your question, and the faint change in your body, gone a little rigid.

His arms squeeze your waist once, before he drops a kiss on the top of your head, hoping it conveyed all his tenderness for your small family. That gesture, although little, instantly warms your heart, melting the tension off of your limbs as you squeeze his torso once.

“I have a hunch we did, my love.”

She just wanted to gather more information about your marriage from Natasha in a last, desperate attempt to convince herself she still had a chance. She is Mr. Barnes’ personal assistant, the only one who gets more than a single austere sentence out of him; the only one he calls by her first name. She must know something about his personal life. 

But Natasha was not at her desk. As a matter of fact, the small hallway was completely deserted, she noticed with a frown. 

And unfortunately, she had to find out the reason the hard way.

It's impossible to not notice the intern's pale face as she makes her way back to her cubicle, slow and stiff as her eyes stay fixed on nothing in particular. 

With a gentle voice, Wanda tries to strike up a conversation. “Hey, are you okay?”

Madison simply retrieves her bag, then turns away, Wanda barely catching her mumbled words as she starts walking toward the elevator. 

“I’m resigning.”

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💛

[smorgaswhored]

Expect Some Turbulence!

pairing: pilot!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, smut (protected p-in-v, oral - m!receiving, fingering, voyeurism I suppose, mile high club🤷🏼‍♀️, plot what plot, shameless porn fic), reckless abuse of privilege lol, actual turbulence if you care, no use of y/n

word count: ~2k

summary: Stark Airlines pilot Bucky Barnes takes a much needed break on his red-eye flight, and you’re there to keep him company.

sammy speaks: pure smut in the cockpit wink (but not the actual cockpit) (I’m sick in case none of this makes sense)

Captain James “Bucky” Barnes has approximately 2,839 total flight hours to his name when he gets assigned to the same red-eye as you.

He has 2,851 total flight hours logged when you grab him by his tie and pull him into the crew bunk.

Your lips are on his before he’s even made it through the door. Through the shock, he registers how soft you feel against him, how warm your skin is beneath the uniform. It contrasts greatly to the commanding way you loop his tie around your hand, forcing him closer and earning you a low groan from the back of his throat. He can feel you smile against his mouth before deepening the kiss.

Bucky’s mind struggles to catch up to this mind-blowing reality when your tongue curls around his.

One minute, he’s on his way to the crew bunk for a much-needed mid-flight break; the next, you’re stepping in front of him with a pout on your face, mentioning a gauge on the fritz and asking if he could take a look.

And now you’re kissing him stupid, like your only purpose in life is to suck all the air from his lungs with your pretty pink lips.

With a moan, you release his tie in favor of touching as much of him as you can. Fingers slide through his hair, nails rake down his jaw, hands pull at his shirt: your touch is not gentle — no, it’s urgent, borderline desperate, and Bucky understands why.

The two of you have been playing this cat-and-mouse game for weeks, ever since your first flight together. You were brand new to Stark Airlines, shadowing Natasha R. on the 09:25 a.m. flight from JFK to LAX, and he was the lucky bastard piloting it.

As soon as you stepped onto the plane, uniform hugging your body just right but neck scarf slightly off center, he was done for.

Bucky doesn’t normally mix business with pleasure — he’s seen the fallout of what happens when his co-workers treat the scheduling app like a dating app. The mornings after are awkward at best, violent at worst, and they’re not something he cares to bring into his happy place of 30,000 feet in the air.

But within minutes of meeting you, your smile had challenged every rule he had given himself on fraternizing with his crew members.

He was damn near salivating by the time the last of the passengers had disembarked; you had undone the top three buttons of your blouse, looking disheveled and flushed, yet pleased after completing your first shift as a flight attendant for Stark Airlines.

He congratulated you on a job well done, playing the part of the cool and composed boss. But when your eyes found his, heat raced down his spine like a bolt of lightning, rooting him in place and blowing his pupils wide. And you had smiled like you knew exactly what had just happened to him.

It only got worse from there.

On your second flight together, he got a taste of how easy and pretty your laugh is, so he teased and flirted with you endlessly just to hear it. Your third flight together gave him intoxicating glimpses of the girl behind the uniform after a mechanical delay kept you on the tarmac for hours with nothing to do but talk. By the fourth flight, it was impossible not to touch you — a hand on your waist when he passed behind you, soft fingers on your scarf when it went crooked again, shoulders brushing together when you happened to grab coffee at the same time as him. The fifth flight was pure torture of his own doing: he let nicknames slip like it was second-nature — sweetheart, doll, beautiful — and you blushed and squirmed at every single one of them, setting off not-suitable-for-work fantasies like a triggered field of landmines in his brain.

It grew as into something bigger as time went on. More shared flights, more flirting, more touching, more heated glances, more desire. He must’ve been a saint in a past life because the higher powers above (i.e., Tony) seemed to like syncing your schedules; he never went more than a day or two without seeing you standing by the gate, an extra coffee in your hand and a small smile on your face when you saw him coming.

The simple act of you waiting for him could bring Bucky to his knees, and after weeks of it building and building, he couldn’t hide it from you any longer. You noticed.

And today you decided to do something about it.

When his brain catches up to his body, Bucky pushes you back against the wall, caging you with his arms. His mouth moves hungrily down your neck like it’s known this path his whole life. You whine as he licks a stripe across your pulse before biting the skin, your fingers twisting in the collar of his white button down.

“How much time do you have?” you breathe, trying to pull yourself impossibly closer to him.

“Half hour,” he grunts, lips glued to your throat. Your heart races in your chest — thirty minutes with him.

You put a hand to his chest, pushing him back. He obeys immediately, blue eyes wide but darkened with lust and need and urgency.

“Lock the door,” you whisper, back against the wall.

A small smile curls his lips into something devilish and obscene. “Yes, ma’am,” he complies, eyes on you as he reaches behind him to slide the lock into place. The sound echoes in the warm room, a resounding promise for what’s to come.

You move, he meets you in the middle; bodies pressed together, mouths clashing as the heat between you fires up again. There’s a hardness pressing into your hip, and your body leans into it instinctively while Bucky kisses you stupid. He nips at your bottom lip, untucking your shirt from your skirt, hands wandering where they haven’t wandered before.

“Hope you weren’t — ahh — weren’t planning on slee—eeping— Jesus,” you pant as he squeezes your ass greedily, sending shocks of pleasure straight to your core.

“Not sleepy,” Bucky mumbles, chasing your mouth with his.

He kisses you deeply, making you melt into his hold while his tongue ravishes yours. He tastes like mint and coffee and everything you’ve ever wanted in a man. You groan into his mouth, allowing him to slowly take control. Holding you carefully, Bucky walks you further into the room until your legs hit the edge of the crew bunk, the obvious destination.

“I’m guessing there’s no broken gauge,” he murmurs against your lips.

You giggle breathlessly, twirling his hair through your fingers. “Had to lure you in somehow.”

He swears. A whine slips from your mouth when he pulls at your ass again, spreading your cheeks until you can feel the unchecked desire dripping in your panties. The unmistakable squelching noise of your arousal echoes between you, and Bucky looks wrecked, done for, faint with hunger — hunger for you.

He kisses you again, bruising and filled with need. Once you’re gasping for air, he pulls away, his lips shiny and pink, hair mussed and wild.

“So your plan was to get me into the bunks and…”

“Have my way with you,” you finish for him, smile teasing as you dig your nails into his shoulders.

“About time,” he growls, pressing closer and leaning down suck a mark into your neck. “Wanted this for so long.”

“I know.”

This makes Bucky pause, hands stilling where they are. He chuckles lightly, breath fanning over the bruise he put over your pulse. “Was I that obvious?”

You’re as stable as a puddle when a set of nimble fingers start tugging on your scarf until it falls to the floor, providing more skin for him to devour.

“Y-yes, but it was cute.”

Bucky makes a noise, soft but indignant. “Cute? Sweetheart, there’s nothing cute about what I want to do to you.” Heat floods your core immediately, his words a warning and a promise all at once.

“Then do it,” you tell him, pulling back to meet his eyes. They burn when they hold your gaze. “I want you, too, Bucky.”

You actually see the restraint inside of him snap, like a switch being flipped; his eyes dilate until the blue is gone, his lips part with a ragged breath of air. And then he pounces.

Bucky grabs at your skirt and pulls up until the material is bunched around your waist, exposing your delicate lace panties. His hips seek out yours, his erection growing increasingly painful but supplying you with a delicious friction through his pants. You stumble back against the edge of the bunk before falling onto it. Bucky moves to join you, but you put a hand over his naval to stop him. He halts immediately, confusion and concern replacing his hungry gaze, but you smile at him cheekily, fingers creeping down his crisp white shirt to his belt.

“I’m having my way with you, remember?”

He lets out a low groan while you unhook his belt, realization making his jaw go slack. His heavy breathing combines with the click of his buckle and draw of his zipper to create a song that gets your heart racing.

For one brief moment, before the line is crossed into something you can’t come back from, you’re hyperaware of the steamy, closet-sized crew bunk, the hum of the plane over open ocean, the clock ticking on your time together before he’s due back in the cockpit. All of them signs pointing to how wrong this is, how much this shouldn’t be happening.

But one look at him, and you know stopping now would be a form of torture. You know he can’t wait any longer. And neither can you.

You remove the last barrier between you and his cock; it springs forward, proud and needy, long and hard, demanding your attention. You can feel yourself drooling as you wonder if it will fit, wonder if he’ll make it fit — and not just in your mouth. A shiver of pleasure rolls down your spine, and you take him into your hands.

Bucky sighs, head thrown back: “Be gentle with me, or this will be over before it starts.”

You giggle again, palm dancing lightly up his shaft. It twitches beneath you, as if drawn to your warmth. You take your time appreciating him, learning him; his thickness, his weight, the consistent leak of precum at his slit. Curiosity gets the better of you, and you lean forward to get a taste.

“Oh, God—“

Bucky cuts himself off by shoving his knuckles into his mouth. With a smile, you lick delicately at the head, coating your tongue in him — salty, tangy, but not unpleasant. You move your mouth further down his length, brushing your tongue along the silky skin until it becomes coarse hair at the base. You hum when you catch a deep whiff of him, his true scent, and find it intoxicating. Satisfied with your exploration, you allow the drool to pool on your tongue before you take him into your mouth — slowly, making sure to keep the eye contact as you feed his cock past your lips.

He hisses, thighs trembling from trying not to snap his hips forward, but he doesn’t touch you yet, choosing to watch the scene unfold on your terms. Despite his size, he fits like a dream; the best kind of tears prick your eyes when the tip of him reaches the back of your throat. You swallow around him, breathing deep through your nose, and stroke the last couple inches that don’t make it inside your mouth while your other hand cups his balls.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes, “taking me so deep.”

Dipping your chin, you swipe your tongue underneath him, light as a tickle, pressing into every ridge and vein until you have them committed to memory. Then your lips close around his cock and your cheeks hallow out as you suck hard. His breath stutters out of his chest, his hands slip from the bunk.

“Holy shit—“ he whimpers.

You hum around him before starting a slow pace, bobbing your head and swirling your tongue in a particular rhythm that feels right to you, increasing in speed each time he makes another pretty, involuntary noise. Soon enough, you’re throat’s raw and the hinge of your jaw is already starting to ache from your efforts, but in ways that shoot a thrill down your spine, like you know your hard work will earn its reward in the end.

You take all of him again, until tears leak from your eyes, sweat drips down your back, and you’re close to gagging. Bucky can’t hold back any longer, hips thrusting forward with a pathetic little moan.

“Fuck, sorry— I’m sorry,” he babbles, but you take him anyway, choking and sputtering, but keeping him there. He shakes when he feels your throat work around him, a hand finding the back of your head and weaving its fingers through your hair. “Oh, shit, you — you can take it,” he sighs contentedly. “Of course you can. Fucking perfect girl.”

You devour him in response, eagerly showing him just how much you can take of him. He jerks his hips a few more times as your mouth dances up and down his cock, sucking and licking and drenching it in your drool. It spills down your lips and over your chin, turning you into a mess that will take a concentrated amount of time to fix before you return to the cabin, but you can’t find it in you to care. Not when he’s watching you like this.

You change up the pace, slowing down and pulling back until just the tip sits on your tongue; you pump the rest of him with a heavy hand, and he groans at your new touch. Beads of precum spill from his slit, which you lap up immediately, giving undivided attention to the sensitive head until his legs shake and his spine starts to fold.

“Jesus, doll, slow down,” he says, lightly pulling at your hair, and you pop off of him with a gasp. There’s a pout on your face when you meet his eyes, but he just laughs breathlessly. “What’d I say about being gentle?”

Your lips tilt up slightly at the corners. “Got excited.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “I know the feeling,” he murmurs, holding his cock delicately in his hand. “I just had my cock in my dream girl’s mouth.”

This earns him a low whine, arousal slipping from you in a steady trickle while your heart does a pleased little flip.

“Bucky,” you say, and he opens his eyes to see you leaning back on the bed, spreading your legs enough for him to get a glimpse of the steadily-growing wet patch on your panties. He gapes. “I want you inside of me.”

“Oh my God,” he groans, face collapsing in unabashed pleasure.

He doesn’t need to be told twice, crawling over you in seconds, hands frantic as they find your waist, mumbling incoherently about giving you what you want. Your head falls back onto the sad, single pillow, the sheets scratching at your back, but your heart is pounding, your eyes fluttering, and Bucky is pushing your knees apart to find his place between your thighs. Every inch of him is pressed against you, and the heat is almost unbearable in the sticky room, but you want him even closer.

The two of you work together to get rid of the rest of your clothing, sharing clumsy kisses against bare shoulders and using tentative hands to help balance one another. It’s a tight squeeze in the little bunk, and there’s the risk of a nasty headache if Bucky sits up straight too fast, but like all of the other factors pointing towards this being a bad decision, the both of you implicitly ignore them. There’s a heavy thrum of need and desire that can’t be put off any longer — to put it in incredibly cliche terms, the plane has left the gate, and there’s no way to bring it back.

When you’re both bare, sweating and panting from the acrobatic effort, Bucky dips his head down to your neck, softly kissing over the mark he made earlier while his hand trails down your chest and stomach until it reaches the hot, wet mess between your legs.

You both sigh at the contact, his long fingers sliding through your folds with ease. His thumb presses down on your clit as he teases your entrance, and you careen into him, spine bending in ways it shouldn’t just to get closer to him and his touch. Bucky notices, and his cock twitches against your leg, so close yet so far to sliding home.

As he learns his way around your pussy, you learn about his dirty mouth.

“Leaking for me,” he murmurs, “just from my cock in your mouth. Didn’t think you could get more perfect, but now I know this pussy cries for me before I even touch her.” He inserts a finger without warning, and your muscles seize around him before fluttering with pleasure. “Oh, sweetheart, she wants it so bad.”

You moan when he pushes in to the knuckle. “More,” you pant.

“I’ll give you more,” he promises, pulling out of you just to go back in with another finger. The stretch is sweet, yet daunting. You know his cock is much, much bigger.

You writhe beneath him as he fucks you with his fingers at a torturously slow pace. He’s taking his time to feel you, memorize your responses, find your sweet spots. He curls up and your vision whites out, stomach dropping low — you’re on the precipice now.

“Bucky, please.”

“Jesus…can’t even think when you say my name like that,” he whines, his forehead meeting your chest. He takes a nipple into his mouth, tugging with his teeth until you’re struggling for air as his fingers continue their leisure thrusts. You can feel the pressure building deep within you, growing bigger and needier and closer to the point of no return. You tug on his hair, lifting his eyes to yours.

“Need to feel you. Now.”

He grins crookedly. “Yes ma’am.”

He searches blindly for his pants, eventually extracting his wallet from the pile of clothes on the floor and pulling out a condom. He rips it open in a flash, and you cradle his head with your hand as he sits up to put it on, providing a barrier between him and the top bunk; he smiles appreciatively at you, eyes soft and heavy all at once, and you’re reminded of how hard you fell for Bucky long before he made you feel like this.

With the condom on, he uses a hand to line himself up with your dripping center. But before he can push in, you reach up and kiss him. A heated yet tender kiss, meant to say more than words can at the moment.

He responds with a hunger that rivals your own. It steals your breath away.

Without breaking the kiss, he drags his cock up and down your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal and making your legs tremble around him. Your heels dig into his back, urging him forward, and with a hushed gasp, he eases into you.

Your head falls back — the stretch is everything you thought it would be, but better. He bottoms out and swears into your skin. “Oh, fuck,” he whines, low and desperate. “You’re so fucking tight, baby. She’s made for me, isn’t she?”

Before you can answer, he draws his hips back and thrusts them forward again, slow and controlled, like he’s testing the waters. Your body moves around him, acclimating to his size, responding to his pace. The drag of his cock doubles the pressure in your core — you’re a rubber band about to snap.

Your nails scrape down his back, your lips brush his throat, and all the while he brings you closer to your unraveling, whispering dirty praises in your ear as he tests out rhythms and speeds. You take it all as he gives it, feeling light as a feather as his body pours pleasure into yours. Sweaty skin slides across sweaty skin, hips meet in the middle of deep, grinding rolls, the constant hum of the engines fades into the void. All you can feel, hear and see is Bucky, who stares down at you with unwavering intensity, like he’d die if he missed even one micro-expression from you.

You kiss him again, because how could you not? It’s sweet and demanding all at once, a cry for more attention while thanking him for what he’s already given. Bucky understands the message, because his thumb sweeps your clit, brushing it until you’re twitching beneath him, the pleasure sharp and unforgiving.

“Fuck, she’s squeezing me,” he chokes against your lips.

“‘m close,” you whimper.

“I know, baby. You’re taking me so well, everything I’m givin’ you—“

The plane lurches suddenly, a quick, jerking movement that drops you a few feet in the air; you feel the familiar floating sensation before the plane jostles again, and Bucky’s hips slam into yours as gravity does its job. His cock reaches a new depth within you, shattering whatever control you had left. Your back arches as you chase after the feeling.

“Motherfu—“

“Oh, God—“

Bucky glances down at you, chest heaving. “You goo—“

The plane does it again: another free fall until it regains balance with a rattling force. This makes Bucky’s mid-thrust hips drive back into you with extra velocity, and the tip of him touches the sweet spot inside of you that rarely gets attention. Stars burst in front of your eyes, and the pressure tumbles down your spine as you tip over the edge.

You cry out, burying your teeth into his shoulder. Bucky swears as your pussy clenches around him, reducing his pace to an uneven rhythm.

“Holy shit — holy fuck, you just—“

Another wave of pleasure wracks your body, your walls throbbing around his cock, refusing to let it go. He groans.

“That’s it, baby, give it all to me,” he demands, voice winded but reverent.

He punches into you desperately, holding your thighs open as far as they go, eyes locked onto your face slack with pleasure. He comes with a soft moan, fingers clenching the sheets next to your head. You can feel the warmth of his spend spread through the condom inside of you, your sensitive walls pulsing around it. His lips brush yours as he struggles to pull himself up.

Bucky hovers above you, breathing like he just ran a mile, and the image of him swims in front of you; you’re dizzy — from the rocking plane and your earth-shattering orgasm.

“Is it bad if I kind of liked the turbulence?” Bucky smiles sheepishly down at you.

You blink, absorbing his words while you come back into your body. Then you laugh. “No. I liked it, too.”

“Totally ruins sex on the ground, right?”

“Maybe. We’ll have to compare.”

Bucky’s eyes soften. He leans down to kiss you, sweet and light and comforting. “Just say the word,” he murmurs. “But how about I take you out to dinner first?”

Despite the last twenty minutes, you blush hard, nodding wordlessly as you bury your face into his neck. He smiles into your hair.

Then the plane bounces again, sending you both flying. When the two of you collide again, you groan, oversensitive and sore.

“Bucky—“

“Yeah, yep, I should probably—“

The private PA for crew areas turns on with a burst of feedback. It crackles for a second before the unmistakable voice of Bucky’s co-pilot, Sam, speaks. “Barnes, you’re ten minutes past your break. Get to the cockpit.” You stare at each other, wide-eyed but amused. “And tell the new flight attendant that Nat’s looking for her.”

Busted.

I was off the dayquil when I wrote this! I’m so sorry for the very clear ‘plot what plot’ fic but I needed to get this out of my system before it buried me alive in wips. have a great night!🤍

check out my masterlist for more!

[winteryn]

BUNNY GONE WILD

18+ | MDNI

PAIRING: the winter soldier x ditzy!reader SUMMARY: the winter soldier infiltrates a college halloween party to follow the pretty girl with bunny ears who collided into him on the sidewalk.  WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; ditzy & clueless!reader; reader is mentioned to have hair & wears a skimpy bunny costume; size difference (he's beefy and taller than reader); original characters; mention of punishment and violence (suck dick, hydra); mention of alcohol & weed (they're not the ones intoxicated); mention of murder; bucky mainly speaks russian (it's english in cursive because I don't speak russian + I don't trust google translate when I don't have a basic knowledge of a language) and a little broken english; he asks reader to call him soldat; touch starved bucky; slightly dark & possessive!bucky; light fluff & angst; smut (there is no explicit consent but both of them want it); feral behavior; big dick bucky organization (🙂‍↕️); oral (f receiving); spanking & pussy spanking; pussy pronouns; nipple play; a little bit of degradation; sex in the woods; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); primal and rough sex; multiple orgasms; creampie; panty sniffing & stealing. WORD COUNT: 8.5k A/N: I posted this last october if I'm not wrong, and honestly this is still one of my favorite one-shots lol. the reader's behavior and personality was heavily inspired by karen from mean girls and rose from the golden girls (a line in particular comes from one of the episodes 🥸). hope you'll enjoy it!

“I can already smell the weed from here. It’s only eleven, for fuck’s sake.” Sarah grimaces as she gets out of the driver’s seat of her Nissan Versa. 

“It’s a college party, were you expecting tea and cookies?” Nicole sighs, bent over as she reties the straps of her shoes for the umpteenth time. 

The huge mansion sits among the bare trees like a sore thumb. Strings of fake cobwebs dangle from the balconies in tangled clumps, lazily swaying in the cold October breeze. The projectors wash the building in a ghostly glow and pumpkins with bizarre carved faces line the porch, their flickering candles warping the jagged smiles into something unsettling.

The front steps are already crowded with masked people smoking, drinking and laughing too loudly. Sarah snorts out loud as one of the few latecomers nearly trips over a fake gravestone planted in the lawn beside a massive steaming cauldron that reeks faintly of dry ice.

“At least this year Ethan and his minions put some effort into decorating. Do you remember last Halloween?” Nicole turns towards the house with Sarah beside her, but then glances back to find you still standing by the car window, adjusting the corset of your costume.

“Jesus,” Sarah huffs exasperated, planting a hand on her hip. “Stop fussing, you look good!” 

“Just a sec…” You mumble absently, turning sideways to check your back.

This year, the three of you agreed to not pick a group costume. Last Halloween had been a disaster from start to finish, mainly because Nicole wanted to go as Cher, Tai and Dionne from Clueless, while you suggested Sam, Clover and Alex from Totally Spies. Sarah was too busy with her now ex-boyfriend to care either way, and a few days before the party she ditched both of you to dress up as Princess Peach and Super Mario with him. 

Naturally, you and Nicole still managed to clash over something as simple as matching outfits: she pushed for Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, but you barely knew who they were, so you argued for Daphne and Velma instead. Long story short, neither of you had time to buy decent costumes and ended up throwing together the easiest thing possible: a devil and an angel.

Just like at least thirty other girls at the party. 

That same night, Sarah caught her dear Super Mario kissing Princess Daisy—her cousin—in one of the upstairs bathrooms of this exact mansion, and from that moment on, she swore off group costumes forever.

One year later, in front of the Nissan, a Kim Possible looks pretty much done with life, while a Cher from Clueless sits on the curb smoking her first cigarette of the night. And you, a bunny in a very revealing outfit, tap your lips to even out the glittery gloss.

You thought the ears were a little too big when you bought them, but now, paired with the sheer corset and the short skirt, they look perfect.

“Okay,” you tug the skirt down out of instinct, though the snug fabric barely moves against your thighs. “I’m ready!”

“Fucking finally.” Nicole mumbles, lifting herself from the sidewalk with a groan.

“Hey—” 

Sarah’s warning comes too late. Your body is already colliding with something solid, hard as steel. A startled yelp escapes you as a large hand instantly clamps around your bare arm to keep you from stumbling backward. You realize your eyes have squeezed shut reflexively only when they flutter open at once, landing directly on a broad chest covered by what looks like a black tactical vest. Your gaze slowly drifts up, along a strong neck, until it catches on a pair of blue eyes staring down at you. The lower half of the stranger’s face is hidden behind a black mask, yet you are instantly fascinated.

“Oh, hi!” You beam, tilting your head slightly, fully aware of how much guys usually love it when you do that.

The bulky stranger simply looks at you, expression barely changing. There’s a faint furrow between his brows that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s assessing you or debating scolding you for nearly knocking yourself flat against him.

A beat of silence passes between you, in which you let your curious eyes roam shamelessly on his face, before dropping to his impossibly large shoulders. Heat tingles low in your stomach, before a hint of embarrassment curls through you at how obvious you must look beneath his unwavering stare.

Someone clears their throat behind you, but you can’t look away. You don’t want to.

“Honey, let the gentleman go, c’mon.” Sarah grabs your wrist while wrapping her other arm around your waist to gently steer you away.

The long fingers around your forearm jump back as if your skin burned him.

“Nice costume, man. Looks expensive.” Nicole nods at the strange guy, still standing rigidly in the same spot. Only his eyes move, tracking you carefully as your friends lead you toward the entrance at an unhurried pace.

Something about him feels off and Sarah has no interest in provoking some potentially dangerous individual. After all, nights like these are full of creeps looking to take advantage of crowded parties and drunk girls.

Still, you glance back twice.

Each time, you catch him still looking at you.

Before fully crossing the threshold and navigating the sea of intoxicated students, your head turns one last time. The stranger is now facing the house with his shoulders squared beneath his dark clothes, and a stupid little thrill runs through your veins at the thought that maybe he might be here for the party as well.

Years without being touched by anything except harsh hands and cold medical equipment, and what unravels the Winter Soldier is a sweet-looking girl wearing bunny ears and clothes so tight he could almost trace the shape of her nipples. 

He can’t remember the last time he felt such a delicate thing brush against him.

Because you are soft. Too soft. Too pretty. He could snap your bones with one twist of his wrist, yet you looked at him like you wanted to be swallowed whole.

His heartbeat has not slowed down since the moment his hand closed around your arm. And as much as he wanted to glare at your friend the moment she took you away from him, he had taken the chance to study your body properly: from the luscious curve of your hips straining against that pathetic excuse for a skirt, to the way your tits threatened to spill from the indecent corset that looked almost painted onto your torso. The fishnet stockings bit into your flesh with every step you took, the tiny bows stitched along the hems probably meant to make the costume cute, but to the Soldier, they only made it filthier.

But the thing that truly made him swallow thickly was the puffy, white cotton tail sewn to the back of your skirt, right at the top of your ass.

Fake.

Such a shame.

He could picture it so clearly: grabbing it between his fingers and tugging until you made that sweet little sound again for him.

It makes his jaw clench beneath the mask.

With a sharp shake of his head, the Soldier forces the intrusive thoughts away.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Nobody was.

The orders had been clear: break in, eliminate everyone inside, then wait at the nearest safe house for extraction. 

No witnesses.

The target is a former HYDRA scientist who’d escaped over a decade ago. He’d covered his tracks well, moving states almost yearly, changing names often enough to become little more than smoke in old files. The Soldier vaguely wonders if the man had worked on the Winter Soldier project at some point, even if there would be no way to know. The face in the mission folder had looked painfully ordinary. Like all the others.

The wife and son were to be eliminated too, if present.

HYDRA had enforced the no witness rule brutally during his earlier missions. Back when he still hesitated. Back when stray civilians had managed to survive because he’d been too uncertain.

He can almost feel the scars across his back throb faintly at the memory—a lesson carved into flesh.

However, this situation is entirely new for the Asset.

For starters, the black SUV belonging to the scientist is missing from its usual spot in the driveway. And considering the mansion now resembles a nightclub overflowing with sweaty college students in cheap costumes, the target is clearly elsewhere.

He can’t proceed with the mission.

HYDRA hasn’t contacted him with further instructions either, which means he’s expected to wait at the designated safe house until retrieval. That could mean tomorrow. Or next week.

The Soldier looks back at the house spilling laughter and obnoxious music into the cold night air, then glances down at his gloved hand, slowly flexing his fingers.

Your warmth still seems trapped against his palm.

With a quiet exhale, barely audible beneath the pounding bass, he starts walking toward the door.

Inside, it’s pure chaos.

The bass from the speakers had already been rattling the lawn outside, but in here it practically punches through your rib cage. You roll your eyes at the umpteenth awful EDM remix of some new pop song you don’t even know the lyrics to. Personally, you’d rather dance to early 2000s hits—preferably ones not butchered by a DJ with a SoundCloud account and too much confidence.

People spill through every hallway of the mansion. The improvised dance floor is packed shoulder to shoulder with students clumsily grinding against each other beneath flashing purple lights, while smaller groups cling to the walls, shouting over the music with red cups clenched in their hands.

The smell hits the second you step inside: a mix of cheap perfume, spilled beer soaked into hardwood floors, and sweat that makes your nose wrinkle—all layered beneath the sickeningly sweet scent of vape smoke. Laughter ricochets off the high ceilings, blending with shrill screams every time the DJ blasts the fog machine over the crowd.

A staggering vampire bumps hard into your shoulder, nearly sending you wobbling off your pumps, but Sarah promptly catches your elbow before you can stumble. She immediately sends his back a glare, before shooting a look of utter disgust toward a group of visibly wasted frat boys gathered around the kitchen island.

“I hate college.” She gags dramatically, scowling as they loudly dare each other to shotgun whatever neon-colored concoction the host is pouring into their plastic cups.  

You grin at her because, honestly, Sarah would rather be home wrapped in a blanket watching some obscure slasher movie marathon. But after the stunt she pulled last Halloween, you and Nicole practically dragged her here by force. Ever since her cheating ex, she’d shut men out entirely, and a small part of you hopes tonight might finally loosen her up enough to flirt with some attractive masked stranger for a few hours.

Your attention drifts toward the windows lining the far wall. Beyond the glass, the quiet street stretches through the chilly night, washed in pale streetlights.

The strange man is nowhere to be seen.

Almost immediately, your eyes flick toward the front door, scanning person after person as they wander in and out. Vampires. Cheerleaders. Devils. Witches. Cowboys.

No sign of the hot, tall man in black tactical gear.

Disappointment settles strangely heavy in your chest. With a small, dejected sigh, you turn back toward your friends, who are currently debating whether it’s worth risking the kitchen—where there’s at least a seventy percent chance of walking in on some couple making out—for drinks, or staying in the living room to dance instead.

Adjusting your bunny ears with a small smile, you vote for alcohol.

“Hey, Nic!”

All three of you turn at the sound of a familiar voice.

Jacob, captain of the basketball team, jogs toward your group, stopping directly in front of Nicole with an easy grin plastered across his face.

“Hey, girls. Nice costumes.” He grins, wiggling his fingers at you and Sarah in greeting. She gives him a flat nod in return.

“Hi, Jacob! You too!” You smile politely, before leaning closer to your friend. “Is that a... basketball uniform?” You mumble into her ear.

“Of course.” She raises both eyebrows, pressing her lips together as she fights a chuckle at the sight of your college team’s uniform.

Jacob isn’t a bad guy. Just a little painfully self-absorbed. And maybe slightly too obsessed with basketball—to the point where being team captain has somehow become his entire personality. Nicole went on one date with him last semester and came back with a migraine after listening to him talk about playoff rankings for nearly two hours straight.

She’d tried letting him down gently afterward, but he insisted on staying friends. Now he trails after her like an overgrown golden retriever.

“Which player did he dress up as?” You ask quietly.

Sarah’s face goes completely blank. She stares at you for a full second, mouth opening and closing once before she gives up entirely and decides eavesdropping on their conversation is more worthwhile.

“I need a teammate for beer pong,” he mentions offhandedly, pointing toward the long folding table at the far end of the living room, where rows of red cups are already set up beneath flashing lights.

Nicole grimaces slightly. “I don’t know. Maybe later? I’m with my friends right now.”

“Don’t worry about us, Nic.” You interrupt immediately, grabbing Sarah’s arm before she can object. “We’re getting drinks, then we’ll come find you, right?”

Sarah smirks at Jacob’s instantly hopeful expression and nods once.

“See?” He spreads his arms dramatically. “C’mon, we’re gonna crush them. Don’t you remember? You’ve got a winning streak to defend.”

Nicole laughs—a sharp, bright sound that somehow cuts through the pounding music.

“Okay, fine.” She sighs, sending you a half-smile.

As she steps beside him, someone near the table suddenly shouts her name. Then another voice joins in. Within seconds, half the group is chanting Nicole! loud enough to rival a halftime show.

Throwing her arms into the air, she pumps her fists along with the cheers like she’s entering a stadium instead of a living room.

Sarah shakes her head before nudging you toward the kitchen. “C’mon, Lola Bunny. Let’s get a drink.”

If his handlers found out about this, he isn’t sure he would get away with something as mild as hair pulling and a few lashes on his back.

“Cool outfit, dude!”

A guy dressed up as a banana—only his face visible through the costume—shouts after him. The Soldier glances at him briefly, expression unreadable, before continuing to run a silent scan of the room, re-evaluating the night’s target. His enhanced senses catch everything at once, unfortunately: from the humid press of bodies, to the sour-sweet spill of rum beside the DJ booth. Sweat and perfume and alcohol mingle into something thick and suffocating.

“Shit, man. That’s a nice costume you got there.” Someone slurs behind him. “Looks like real metal—” Before the hand can even reach his wrist, instincts detonate and his fingers clutch the guy’s forearm.

Hard.

“Ow ow ow—sorry sorry! Y—You’re crushing my bones, dude!”

The man wearing a cheap Jack Sparrow costume goes pale beneath the eyeliner, features twisting in pain as the Asset looms over him, a silent threat carved into posture alone.

At some point, he registers a small cluster of students turning towards them, whispering with curiosity blooming into something sharper.

Exhaling, the Soldier ultimately decides to release his grip. The pirate stumbles back into his friend, who immediately starts scolding him about consent and personal space.

Satisfied with the clear warning, the Soldier turns around, moving again through the crowd.

He raises an eyebrow, scanning the sea of people with his keen eyes. Finally, he catches a familiar pair of bunny ears excitedly turning left and right.

He walks to a dark corner of the living room with deliberate ease, folding his arms across his chest and leisurely resting back against the wall.

And he waits.

Nicole’s yellow and navy-blue plaid jacket is neatly draped across Sarah’s arm as she rolls up the sleeves of her shirt, a cocky grin spreading across her face. 

“Watch and learn, losers.” She snaps, reaching for a ping-pong ball.

From the sidelines, Sarah offers a shout of encouragement, her voice already a little hoarse from all the previous screaming as Nicole sank those balls one right after the other in the rival team’s cups with brutal consistency. You lean into her slightly, eyes tracking the table from one end to the other as a red cup still full of peach vodka sits loosely in your hand, mostly forgotten as you watch the game unfold.

Nicole lines up her shot with practiced ease, wrist flicking at just the right angle. The ball arcs, drops, and sinks cleanly into the last cup with a satisfying splash.

The crowd erupts, chants of her name break out from multiple directions as you and Sarah cheer, briefly pulling Nicole into a tight, celebratory hug. Jacob throws himself at her, and she shrieks as his muscled arms lift her body from the ground, parading your friend around like he would do with the player scoring at the last minute of an important game. Nicole blows a kiss at the losing team, and once her feet touch the floor again, she bows before the intoxicated crowd surrounding the table. 

You dart forward to hug her again, while Sarah claps behind you, still laughing. 

“God, you were amazing. That was a really Tour de France!” You beam excitedly, but Nicole just stares at you deadpan for a second, before bursting out laughing, too tipsy to deal with your clueless ass.

“Thank you, bunny.”

“Also, Jacob is still very much smitten with you.” Your eyebrows wriggle up and down and Nicole is already sighing half-amused, lips parting to say something, but Sarah’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Her expression tightens, focus snapping in place as she leans closer to you and Nicole, lowering her voice.

“Tactical guy is here.”

“Who?”

“The weird guy you bumped into outside. Black gear and blue eyes. Tactical guy.” She explains as if her choice of the nickname should be obvious.

He’s easy to spot because he doesn’t belong here—not in movement, not in stillness, not in anything about the way he stands. He towers above the crowd in matte black, posture too controlled and a judging frown permanently etched on his features.

The people around him are too inebriated to notice him, yet he doesn’t even spare a mere glance to anyone who isn’t you, not even the girl in a lingerie-level costume strutting up and down the room, hoping to catch the attention of his icy eyes. 

She doesn’t know he’s busy admiring a much better view that is making his pants tighter and tighter the more he studies it.

“Holy shit,” Nicole gasps. “He’s staring at you.”

Your stomach does a weird flip at her confirmation. At least you aren’t imagining it. 

“Yeah, and it’s creepy as hell. He hasn’t blinked once in the past five minutes.” Sarah frowns, goosebumps running up and down her arms. Nicole just smirks, eyes flicking between him and your parted lips. 

“Go talk to him!”

“What? No way!” Sarah retorts, her head snapping towards the other. “He looks like he eats people like her for breakfast.”

“Duh, that’s exactly her type!” Nicole chuckles, nudging you forward as she gently takes the cup of vodka from your hand. “C’mon, put on that pretty smile of yours and he’ll be asking you to go upstairs before the next song starts.”

Across the room, his steady gaze still hasn’t moved.

Sarah grabs your right arm again. “Seriously, something’s off about him.”

“Boring!” Nicole says in a singsong voice, rolling her eyes to the sky. “We’re literally right here if anything happens.” She touches your left elbow, subtly pushing you forward.

If this were a cartoon, they’d be the angel and devil arguing over your shoulders.

You grin as usual, even if your heart is pounding so fast you are sure it’s going to come out of your chest any moment now.

With a small nod, you leave your two bickering friends behind and slowly make your way through the bodies swaying to the beat of Candy Shop. Your heels click against the sticky floor, until they stop short in front of the brooding man. 

“Hey.” You smile, shouting over the music. “You look kinda lonely. It’s okay if you don’t know anyone, first parties are totally the worst. At my first college party, I ended up throwing up on my crush’s shoes after kissing him.” He doesn’t answer, but a deep line forms between his eyebrows.

“You’re very quiet, but that’s fine. My friend Sarah says I talk enough for two people. Or a whole group, depends on how much caffeine I’ve had.” You shrug.

Still nothing. 

“So, um… what’s your name?” You tilt your head, this time expecting at least a reluctant answer, but the guy just keeps staring down at you with an unreadable expression.

“You’re the silent type, hm?” You muse, your amused chuckle soft. “That’s okay. You’re like those spy movie protagonists who never smile until the very end, and then make everyone swoon the second they do.”

He blinks once. Slowly. Maybe a little confused?

“Anyway,” your manicured fingers adjust your bunny headband as you introduce yourself. “I don’t know if you remember but I actually ran into you earlier outside. Sorry again about that. I’m a little clumsy.” You clear your throat, taking a step forward.

“You really are a good listener, by the way!” You sigh dreamily. “Most guys just check their phones halfway through our conversation.”

“So,” You lean closer, slightly standing on the tip of your toes. “Do you want to dance? You look like you need to loosen up a little.” Your eyes immediately fall down to his torso, following the sculpted muscles hidden under those heavy clothes. It’s honestly a miracle slick doesn’t start running down your thighs the moment you realize he could literally pin you to the ground and have his wicked way with you right here in the middle of the party.

Well, you spoke too fast. 

The flimsy pair of panties you chose tonight to avoid the outline to be seen through the fit skirt, is getting damper. The thought of this beefy man fucking you until you pass out tickles the back of your brain for a second too long, and suddenly your thighs are clenching against each other in a way you are certain went unnoticed.

It didn’t. But you couldn’t know that the man in front of you is an enhanced individual who could probably track you from a single sniff of your pussy.

The pungent scent of something inherently you teases his nostrils even through the thick black mask. Yet he hesitates, as though he’s trying to determine whether ignoring you would make this conversation end faster. The problem is, he isn’t entirely sure he wants it to end. On one hand, he doubts he can keep himself together much longer if you continue speaking to him in that sweet voice, especially while standing this close to his starved body.

On the other… he doesn’t want to leave you.

But then you slip your hand into his left one, and his body stiffens.

“Wow, your hands are freezing!” You mention casually, squeezing his palm once. It’s indeed cold and weirdly smooth. Before his brain can fully process the alarming ease with which you’ve intertwined your fingers with the most dangerous weapon he possesses, you are unknowingly leading the fucking Winter Soldier straight onto a dance floor packed with sweaty college students—him silent and tense behind you, you practically glowing with excitement.

Yet, he doesn’t dare to stop you. 

Why would he do that? A gorgeous girl with soft hands and even softer eyes has been watching him like he embodies all her prohibited wet fantasies. He would be a cruel bastard to deny this pretty thing anything.

The dance floor is a chaos of flashing lights and flailing arms that makes the Soldier’s breath hitch, but you don’t give up, and lead him right into the middle of it. 

“Okay!” You yell over the music—far too close—and raise a finger. “Rule number one: just move! Don’t think too much about it or you’ll get self-conscious. I’m talking from experience.” Then raise a second one. “Rule number two: have fun!”

He just stands there—stiff as a marble statue—blue eyes darting back and forth, as if he can’t decide whether to scan the crowd like he’s on guard duty or watch the angel swaying her sinful hips right in front of him.

“See? It’s easy! Just let the music guide you.”

You smile anyway at his lack of response, peering up at him through your eyelashes. “You know, you look so cool. You’ve got this very brooding bodyguard vibe going on, like I’m some rich, dangerous man’s daughter and you’re protecting me from his enemies trying to harm me.”

Another confused blink. 

“Maybe I read too many fanfics.” You ponder under your breath, before you reprise your little tantalizing moves, giggling as your fingers barely wrap around both of his wrists to coax him to move with you.

Somewhere at the edge of the improvised dance floor, Nicole is whooping, bouncing on her feet like an overexcited puppy as she takes a sip of your drink. Beside her, Sarah observes the scene appalled.

“Shit.” She mutters, tiredly dragging a hand down her face.

“I like your company. You don’t talk much, but that’s okay. Also, you’re kind of scary—but like, in a cute way.” You chuckle, twirling once and nearly bumping into him again.

That’s when it happens.

A slow, careful shift of his shoulders, but it still is something. His movements are stiff, precise, like his body is negotiating with itself about whether it’s allowed to respond at all. But it’s enough to make you smile satisfied.

The heavy bass pulses hard through your bones, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget he isn’t even really dancing, yet his presence feels like gravity: solid, unshakable, dragging attention toward him without trying.

You turn once again, this time giving him your back. His hand accidentally brushes your hip, causing you to shiver at the faintest twitch of his fingers. They jump back at his side, flexing once like he’s fighting the urge to touch you.

You tilt your head up at him, eyelashes lowered just enough to make it feel deliberate. “Are you having fun, big guy?”

You don’t expect an answer, obviously, but the way his gaze sharpens, intensely following the movement of your lips, is enough for you. It’s not unsettling. On the contrary, it feels… focused. And you already love being the centre of his undivided attention. 

The music slows into a deeper beat, couples around you melting closer together, so you get bolder. Initially it’s your back simply brushing against his chest. And then, you unexpectedly find yourself gasping as his right arm circles your waist, keeping you firmly to his front. His jaw locks as you rub yourself against his solid body, your ass inevitably grinding against his bulge. For a second, you really think he might actually say something. Instead, his chest moves behind you with a slow exhale.

“You are so beautiful.” He murmurs against your neck, almost too quiet to hear. As a matter of fact, you don’t catch that, the words being swallowed by the loud song and the thick mask.

“Not so bad, right?” You bite your bottom lip, turning your face back enough to glance at him.

But your lips accidentally brush his mask and the last thread keeping his brain anchored to sanity rips in half.

“Oh!” A loud squeal erupts from your lips as the man spins you around and takes you into his arms. Suddenly, the world is hanging upside down.

Well, no. You are.

He throws your squirming body on his shoulder with an ease that should scare you, yet your stomach twists in excitement as you are kept completely still into his strong arms. You can feel several eyes burn through you as he struts towards the front door, an abrupt gust of cold wind sending a shiver down your spine as you realize he’s taking you somewhere outside.

“Oh my Gosh!” You giggle, feeling the urge to kick your legs like a teenage girl gushing about her crush. 

He’s taking you to the woods. This is really happening!

Inside, Nicole freezes mid-sip. “What the—is he taking her away?”

“I told you! Fuck, Nicole! I told you!” Sarah shrieks, running to the door with her friend in tow. They both stop on the porch, eyes frantically searching into the darkness, until they see you waving at them from his shoulder, grinning ear to ear. 

“Don’t wait up!” Nicole bursts out laughing, astonished.

“Holy shit, look at her, she’s loving it!”

Sarah groans in response, pressing a hand to her forehead, her chest heaving with quick, short breaths. “She’s giggling. She’s actually giggling. Why is she giggling?”

Nicole simply shrugs. “If a quiet, huge masked man with those gorgeous eyes picked me up like that to fuck me in the woods, I’d giggle too.”

They observe in silence as you get smaller and smaller, until you completely disappear amongst the dense trees. Nicole sighs, placing her hands on her hips.

“Well, you heard her, don’t need to wait up.” She claps once, skipping down the front steps.

“Where the fuck are you going? Of course we’re gonna wait for her to come back.” Nicole stops at the bottom of the stoop, throwing Sarah a deadpan look.

“You really think she’s coming back here? They will probably go at it like bunnies—pun not intended—all night, and then he’s going to take her home tomorrow morning.” She climbs two steps, grasping her friend’s wrist. “Like any adult having fun on Halloween.” She tugs at it, until Sarah reluctantly complies, hesitatingly following her to the Nissan.

“I don’t know, Nic. There’s something wrong about him—” 

“So what if the guy is quiet? Maybe he just wants to stay in character.” She huffs, raising both her eyebrows expectantly. 

“Mmh... that makes sense.” Sarah mutters, frowning at the trees. “Where are we going, by the way?”

“Home. And we are watching the new The Conjuring. You look miserable here.”

“Well thanks, you asshole.”

“You still haven’t told me your name.” You breathe out, yet to be released. After a few seconds of silence, you huff out a laugh. “You really don’t talk much, do you? By the way, that exit was so dramatic. I loved it!” He grunts in reply, shaking his head. It’s a deep sound that makes your legs shake a little, and you hope you’ll hear it again when he pounds you against a tree.

The walk feels endless as you dangle upside down, forced to watch the ground without anyone to talk to. Finally, he stops in a rather secluded place, and from the looks of it, you must be quite far from Ethan’s house.

Good. You don’t need some wandering drunk couple ruining your night.

As soon as your heels touch the crouching leaves scattered on the damp land, you shriek in surprise, finding yourself pinned to a tree as the man’s hands eagerly explore the sides of your body.

“O—oh! That—that feels nice.” You gasp when his palms squeeze your tits, his thumbs roughly stroking your nipples. The Asset’s eyes don’t know where to focus, torn between your hazy eyes staring up at him pleadingly and the outline of your turgid nubs pressing insistently against the fabric of your top.

“I need to kiss you.” He mumbles, the tip of your nose brushing against his mask. The hoarseness in his voice makes you flinch. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in a while... A long while.

“I don’t understand you.” You complain, clinging onto his vest to keep him close. He sighs, abruptly leaving your chest to cradle your face with a certain rudeness that twists your insides with arousal.

“Kiss. But you close… eyes…” He utters tentatively, staring right into your sparkling eyes. “Don’t look.” 

The implications of seeing his face are several and dire. First and foremost, he doesn’t even remember the last time he saw his reflection, and his heart wouldn’t bear a potential rejection. What HYDRA forces him to do is repulsive, but of course you don’t know who he is—and you don’t need to. His face could reflect that repulsiveness though, and be in the worst conditions known to mankind. At that point, why would someone as lovely as you allow him to taint your body with his touch? 

Plus, recognizing him would mean putting a target as large as a skyscraper on your back. If anyone were to ever find out about this, you would be in serious danger with both legal and illegal organizations. 

The less you know, the better.

Your eager nod momentarily sets his worries, your hands immediately shooting up to cover your face. The Soldier’s mouth twists into what should be a small smile, but probably looks more like a grimace after years of his features knowing only pain and anger. His trembling fingers reach for the side of the mask, stopping there briefly to take you in. He waits, just enough to make sure you are actually following his order. Then, the device is tossed to the side with an uncaring flick of his hand, falling on the ground with a dull thud.

His fingers shake as they wrap around each of your wrists, waiting. 

“Kiss, but… don’t look.” He repeats, his voice coming out in a rough, agitated whisper.

“My eyes are closed.” You swear, giving him a resolute nod. The Soldier lowers your hands with great care, until he can see your pinched expression as you keep your eyes squeezed shut. 

And then, your lips finally meet. From the way he was treating you a second ago, you would think he was going to kiss you just as softly, like a doll made of glass.

Wrong.

The kiss is feral. His teeth clash against yours, biting and tasting you as if he has been waiting for you his whole life, his tongue frantically searching yours as his hands keep your jaw firmly open, allowing him to do whatever he wants with you. 

And you can’t help a needy whimper from clawing out of your throat.

The Soldier pulls you closer to his chest, his metal arm now wrapping around your waist as the other hand traces a slow path down your body, from the side of your breast to your exposed thigh, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps. 

He knows he just crossed an inviolable line he won’t easily come back from. He was ruined the moment he decided to look for you inside that chaotic mansion instead of following HYDRA’s orders. Yet, that stinging guilt rapidly crumbles the more he kisses this sweet creature.

He has yearned for something warm for so long. Something soft, and pretty, and nice. Something that is completely and utterly his. And now, it is time to finally collect what he is owed.

The sloppy kiss is met with eagerness from your part, your hands urgently tugging at his vest to keep him pressed against your squirming form. You need more. You need to feel him too. 

He reaches for the corset first, pulling both cups down until your breasts spill free from their confines. Once his lips leave yours to focus on your neck, you let out a gasp at how dizzy you feel—your head has been spinning all along because of the intensity radiating off him.

Your moans are still pretty restrained, and the Asset doesn’t like that at all. He wants to hear you whimper for him, beg him to paint your insides white, scream his name over and over again in that sweet voice of yours.

His name. 

He doesn’t own a name.

Maybe you could give him one. You sound like a creative girl, with all your silly little anecdotes.

When his mouth finally reaches the swell of your chest, the sight of your soft, bare tits makes him grunt appreciatively. His lips immediately latch onto one of your nipples, while his capable fingers flick and tug at the other. Your whimpers echo through the small clearing as he uses his teeth to lightly pull at your sensitive nub, moaning as he feels it hardening in his mouth. The way he kneads and sucks at your soft skin reminds you of a starving man being offered food after a week without eating.

The Soldier has never seen a more beautiful pair of breasts in his entire life. Well, he doesn’t remember ever looking at a woman’s chest before, but if he did, he is sure it wouldn’t even get close to yours. 

The hickeys that now mark the tender skin of your tits are burning, causing you to flinch each time the Soldier’s tongue worships them softly. 

“What—oh shit—what’s your name?” You utter between your own wanton noises, eyes still closed as your head falls back against the bark of the tree. Your bare back keeps brushing against it as your body jerks in time with his tongue stroking your nipples. They are so sore, tingling whenever he leaves one exposed to the chilly October air to give the other some love. Still, the scratches on your back are already burning as the coarse surface cruelly scrapes your skin, and you’re certain they are going to hurt so bad in the following days.

The Asset momentarily leaves your nub with a wet pop, frowning up at your parted lips. He grips your jaw with one hand, keeping your mouth open while rising to his full height. He gathers a bit of saliva, before letting it fall gently onto your tongue. Your breath hitches at the unexpected, lewd act.

“Swallow.” His cock twitches at the way you obey at once.

“Soldat.” His voice is authoritative, leaving no space for questions and doubts, before going back to lavish your nipples. Your eyebrows momentarily knit in confusion, not understanding what it means.

Is it a video game character? Is that why he’s all geared up like some sort of spy?

Your brain doesn’t have the time to elaborate a sensible question, as a twist of your poor, abused peaks draws a loud cry out of your throat. 

The scent coming from between your legs is now too much for his straining cock. He needs to taste all of you: your mouth is sweet, your breasts are sweet... but the Soldier is certain your pussy is even sweeter.

With an annoyed huff at the realization he has to leave your tits, he makes quick work of removing his tactical vest, tossing it on the ground. You squeal as you are once again lifted in the air; still, you keep your eyes firmly shut and that makes his expression soften a little. 

“You’re such a good girl for me, sweetheart.” With a small peck, he takes you away from the poor tree that has already witnessed enough for one night, manhandling you down on your knees and guiding your hands on the ground to make you understand he wants you on all four.

“Stay.” The order growled right into your ear, along with his hands squeezing your hips, makes you whimper and nod quickly as a reflex.

Now that he’s behind you, you deem the situation safe enough for you to slowly open your eyes. Black spots soon materialize out of nowhere, yet you notice immediately the rough fabric underneath you. 

“Oh,” you blink at it. “Thank you, Soldat.” 

There might be a feral beast clawing at his chest, challenging him to take you right there right now, over and over again, but he doesn’t want the rough ground to scratch your knees and palms. The softness in your voice makes him tense up, enough to feel an unfamiliar sting behind his eyes. His name—his title—said with so much gentleness stokes the flames in his lower belly until he feels a damn blaze licking at his insides.

You barely catch the black glove being discarded to the side as his calloused hands grope your hips, pushing you back against his crotch. You gasp at the ferocity he puts into his thrusts as he starts rutting your ass, grunting and panting with the effort of not coming in his pants like a fucking virgin seeing a pretty girl half-naked for the first time.

“This is what you’ve done to me.” He groans under his breath.

“Soldat…” You hum, one arm reaching behind to caress a strong thigh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to come like this, humping me like an animal.” The little airy giggle you let out makes him swallow, a shiver running down his back at those mocking words that should make him recoil. Instead, the fire grows, and before he can regain control of his body, his hips stop abruptly. 

His nimble fingers don’t waste any more time, lifting the hem of your skirt until your ass is completely at his mercy.

“Yes, yes!” You encourage him, gently rocking back. The heady scent is stronger now, but it’s still not enough. The flimsy panties leave you with a sad ripping noise and a feral growl rumbling in his chest. A gasp falls from your lips at the sudden bareness of your core, giggling when you hear him inhale deeply. Is he smelling your underwear? Fuck, you want to turn around so bad and enjoy the show.

The Soldier almost drools when your scent clings to his nose, along with your slick soiling the delicate fabric. He clumsily stuffs your panties into his pocket, shifting around until he’s lying right beneath the lower half of your body.

“C’mere, bunny.” His digits sink into the skin of your thighs, forcing you down until you are fully sitting on his face. “It’s time to eat.”

“Wait! Oh, fuck!” Your lips part pathetically around a breathy moan as his tongue looks for your clit, pulling your knees apart until you’re completely spread open for him. Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your hips uncontrollably buckle down, clawing at the vest when the tip of his tongue leisurely flicks your throbbing nub.

A loud moan escapes your lips when he finally breaches your hole, eating and sucking as if he’s savoring the most exquisite delicacy he’s ever had the chance to taste. Your body squirms at the unforgiving stimulation, still, you’re covering his face like a fucking oxygen mask and you’re far too worried he’s not breathing at all. 

“S—Soldat, wait! You can’t brea—AH!” A smacking sound echoes through the air as his palm leaves his mark on your asscheek. “Fuck, please! Do it again.” You beg, hips grinding down without restraint as slick shamelessly falls into his waiting mouth.

Finally.

The Asset internally preens at your enthusiastic reaction to something he did so spontaneously. Unprompted. Human.

Because you are not treating him like a ruthless weapon. A lethal killer that acts in the shadow. An ugly experiment with no dignity left. 

But like a man.

So he does it again. And again. 

“Taste so good, my pretty bunny.” He rasps out, returning to your clit, two of his fingers curling inside you in the meantime. You yelp, the knot in your belly getting closer and closer to snapping. Your asscheeks are burning, yet you don’t stop his punishing palm, instead arching up into his hand every time it comes down on your tender skin. 

“I’m gonna come.” You mumble deliriously, sobbing when in response his metal palm smacks your ass before meanly grabbing the tender flesh, and a third finger joins the other two, pounding against that sweet spot of yours before your orgasm hits you out of nowhere.

“Fuck fuck—Soldat!”

He wonders what he’s going to do from now on when he hears that word. It would be impossible to not get hard as your delightful whines resound through his mind. 

Your hole clenches desperately as he nurses on your throbbing clit one last time, panting heavily once he lifts your shaky thighs up. 

“Holy shit.” He whispers surprised, licking his lips clean. His lower face is completely damp with your arousal, and in that moment he decides he’s not going to wash his face until the scent disappears on its own. 

The Soldier takes a good, long look at your trembling body, now back on his knees behind you. His palms gently caress your raw skin, pulling a shiver out of you as one of his two palms is colder than the other, yet the sensation is soothing against your burning cheeks. 

He would really love to kiss the sensitive spots until you fall asleep, but he can’t stop now, not when his cock is painfully craving to be inside you, his imposing bulge pushing forcefully against his pants.

The rustling sounds behind you are loud but you can’t find it in yourself to focus, still dizzy after the violent orgasm Soldat drew out of you mercilessly. You are not inexperienced by any means, yet you’ve never come this hard and fast in your life. You wonder if it’s the whole situation influencing you—being half-naked in the woods while a feral, beefy stranger eats your pussy as if it’s his last day on Earth—or if he’s just that good.

Maybe it’s a mix of both, maybe it’s something else. You don’t care. You just want him to rearrange your insides. Now.

You seem to share the same sentiment as your eyes widen at his cock obstinate at your wet folds. Your gasp soon morphs into a startled moan when the tip slides inside. The way he feeds you his length is far from careful, and without warning, your hole is tightening around all of him.

The Soldier needs to take a deep breath, the muscles in his abdomen clenching to prevent himself from disappointing you by spilling his cum at once.

When was the last time he was intimate with someone? When was the last time he felt something other than fear? 

He doesn’t hold back, gradually pulling back, before lust takes over him and your trembling arms give up under you. You fall forward with a whimper, resting your cheek on his vest as his grip on your hips becomes brutal, and barely catching the foreign words being muttered under his breath.

You are delirious with pleasure, the stretch of his thick girth burning so good you can’t breath—for a second you truly fear your hole is going to tear apart.

It’s almost humiliating how it takes only a big cock and a pair of broad shoulders to reduce you to a shaky mess of moans and whimpers. 

“Beautiful, sweet creature... you’re so lovely.” The obscene, sloppy noises of your pussy swallowing every inch of him drives him insane. You’re like heaven incarnate wrapped around him, and he refuses to leave, his hips barely pulling back as he clumsily humps you from behind. 

“Mine, mine, mine.” You whisper the name he gave you, lying helpless with your eyes rolled into oblivion and drool soaking the dark fabric under you. It’s a miracle how the bunny headband still survives on your head as his harsh thrusts push your body back and forth, your fingers weakly holding onto the same ruined vest that your nipples brush against, now rubbed raw and sensitive.

“That’s a good girl. She’s squeezing me so tight, baby. I can’t let you go now that I found you, need to keep you forever here around my cock.” He grits out, head falling back as he feels his orgasm dangerously close, yet he’s ready to deny himself over and over again until he can feel you come around him again.

“Bet you’d like that... be my little cumdump until you are too full it starts spilling down your thighs. But I’ll just fuck more into you and then everyone will know you are fucking mine.” That’s when, with his mind clouded by pure pleasure, he reaches between your wet thighs, experimentally spanking your clit.

“Fuck!” Your squeal pulls a smirk on his lips, prompting him to do that again, his thrusts still frantic and erratic. 

“Take it, my sweet little bunny. That’s it.”

Your nub throbs as the man fucking you like an animal smacks it repeatedly, and you’re certain he’s enjoying himself so much watching you jolt each time, panting like a dog the louder you whimper. His tip relentlessly taps your sweet spot, and it’s just a matter of time before you let out a delirious moan, walls tightening as your second climax washes over you—this time leaving you stiff and crying as wave after wave of bliss settle deep in your bones. 

 “Got… you.” The Asset grits out breathless as he buries his cock deep into you with a hard, final thrust, succumbing to the overwhelming sensation of your hole squeezing him. He falls over the edge with a guttural groan. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your insides at once—there’s so much of it you almost choke at the unfamiliar yet pleasant sensation of being stuffed full.

You shiver under him, exhausted but sated, yet the Soldier doesn’t seem to want to budge, still hugging you tight as his thighs shakes at every little twitch of his cock. 

It feels too much.

His dick snug inside your tight heat, your body held with care by the same hands soiled with innocents’ blood, the sudden emptiness in his chest after such a heavenly experience... Should he cry? He feels like crying. He’s almost certain of it, though he doesn’t understand why. He just had the best night of his entire life with the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. 

Still, the weird sensation sits somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar, pressing against ribs that only know obedience and survival.

He knows he’ll have to move eventually, reality catching up to him the moment he steps too far from this strange warmth you keep offering so freely.

But he doesn’t want to let you go yet.

Honestly, he isn’t sure he can.

“Soldat, my back hurts.” Your voice is feeble yet tinted with amusement. Still, he scrambles on his knees, pulling out carefully in fear of hurting you. You wheeze softly at the sudden loss, your weak arms barely moving at your sides as you try to get yourself into an upright position, but the man behind you has other plans. You find yourself facing him at once, gently led down until your back is touching the vest.

With your mind too foggy with exhaustion, it is hard to remember the only rule he gave you. And shock flashes across your face the moment you can finally see Soldat’s handsome features clearly.

Your lips part, a compliment already rising to the surface, but it never makes it out. His hands come up instead, cradling your face with surprising tenderness before guiding you into a slow, lingering kiss. There’s no urgency in his actions this time, no hunger sharpened by desperation. Just some deep and achingly careful adoration that makes your heart clench painfully all the same. The kind of kiss that feels dangerously close to a goodbye. Like he’s trying to memorize you through touch alone.

He kisses you until your lungs are begging for oxygen, and when he finally pulls away, neither of you can move. His blue eyes simply observe you, urgently tracing your features with a spark of veneration glinting in his gaze.

You look like the personification of debauchery with your smudged mascara and lips swollen from kissing and biting, the poor bunny ears hanging crookedly from your hair after being fucked so crudely.

Yet, the Winter Soldier thinks he has never seen anything prettier.

“I looked at you.” You whisper softly, your dazed eyes dancing over his face with sleepy fascination, utterly devoid of remorse.

His right thumb lovingly strokes your cheek, and somewhere beneath the Soldier, beneath HYDRA’s cruelty, something human finally smiles back at you.

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍

[incorrectstevebucky]

bucky welcoming steve back in doomsday:

[heldbybarnes]

Bucky’s wife (reader) gets her nails done while she’s out with her friends and she’s excited to show Bucky her nails when she gets home and when he sees them all he can think about what her newly done nails feel like when they’re scratching down his back while he’s fucking her senseless and then he tells her how pretty her nails are🤭

You push open the front door of your apartment, the familiar scent of home wrapping around you like a warm hug after a long afternoon out. Your fingers flex in the cool evening air, admiring your nails for what has to be the tenth time since leaving the salon.

They’re perfect—elegant almond shapes painted a deep, glossy crimson, kissed with delicate gold accents that catch the light like tiny flames. Bold. A little dangerous. Not your usual, but your friends had insisted, and now you can’t stop smiling.

“Babe? I’m home!” you call, toeing off your shoes as you make your way down the hall.

The low hum of the TV drifts from the living room, and there he is—your husband, stretched out across the couch like he owns the place (he kind of does). Black henley, gray sweats, broad chest rising slow and easy. His metal arm rests along the back of the couch, the other hand wrapped loosely around a beer.

Even after all this time, he still steals the air right out of your lungs.

“Hey, doll,” Bucky greets, voice warm and gravelly as he sits up a little. His blue eyes brighten the second they land on you. “How was girls’ day?”

You grin, already crossing the room toward him. “So good. We got lunch, talked way too much, and…” You hold your hands out between you, wiggling your fingers dramatically. “Ta-da! What do you think?”

His gaze drops instantly.

For a second, he just looks. Really looks. Then the corner of his mouth ticks up into that familiar half-smirk as he reaches for you, large hand closing gently around yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, careful—always careful.

“Damn, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “These are gorgeous.”

Warmth blooms in your chest at the praise, and you step closer, sliding easily between his knees. “Right? I wasn’t sure about the red, but I kinda love them. Not too much?”

Bucky hums thoughtfully, turning your hand over in his. The contrast is almost striking—your delicate fingers, polished and precise, against his rough skin and cool vibranium.

His eyes darken just slightly as his thumb traces along one of the sharp tips.

“Not too much,” he says quietly. “They look dangerous.”

You laugh, soft and breathy. “Dangerous? They’re just nails, Buck.”

But something in his expression shifts.

His jaw tightens, gaze flicking up to yours with a heat that makes your stomach dip. Before you can react, he’s tugging you down into his lap, settling you across his thighs like it’s second nature. His hands slide up your sides, firm and grounding.

“Just nails,” he repeats, voice lower now, threaded with something heavier. “You sure about that?”

Your breath catches as you feel him beneath you—already reacting, already wanting.

“Then tell me what you’re thinking,” you murmur.

Bucky leans in, lips brushing just beneath your ear, breath warm against your skin.

“All I can think about,” he says softly, “is how good these would feel on me. Digging in. Holding on.” His fingers tighten at your hips. “Bet you’d leave marks.”

Heat floods through you, pooling low and slow.

“Bucky…”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes stormy and intent. One hand lifts yours again, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your fingertips—one by one, like he’s memorizing them.

“They’re so pretty,” he murmurs. “But I need them on me, doll. Now.”

The kiss that follows is anything but gentle.

Hungry. Heated. All teeth and breath and the faint scrape of stubble that makes your head spin. You melt into him instantly, arms looping around his shoulders, nails grazing lightly over the back of his neck this time—testing.

He groans.

And then he’s standing, lifting you like it’s nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, laughter caught somewhere between surprise and anticipation as he carries you down the hall, never once breaking the kiss.

By the time you hit the bedroom, everything is heat and movement and too much feeling all at once.

He lays you back like you’re something precious, something worth taking his time with—and then promptly proves he has no intention of being patient.

Clothes disappear in a blur. Hands everywhere. Mouths chasing, finding, devouring.

And when he finally settles between your thighs, pressing in close, his forehead resting briefly against yours, there’s a moment—a single breath—where everything stills.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Let me feel you.”

You don’t hold back.

The second he starts moving, your nails drag down his back—long, deliberate, sharp enough to pull a broken sound from his throat. His reaction is instant, hips snapping forward, pace faltering for just a second before picking up again, rougher this time.

“Yeah,” he exhales, voice wrecked. “Like that.”

Your nails trace down again, following the flex of muscle beneath your palms, leaving faint, burning trails in their wake. The new polish holds, gleaming even as you lose yourself in the rhythm of it—of him.

Each movement pulls you tighter, closer, until you’re clinging to him, nails digging in without thought now.

Bucky’s grip tightens at your thigh, spreading you just a little wider, his other hand tangling in your hair as he presses his mouth to your neck.

“You feel so good,” you breathe, voice trembling.

He answers with a low, broken sound against your skin.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, almost pleading now. “Don’t hold back on me.”

You don’t.

And when the tension finally snaps, it takes everything with it—your breath, your voice, your grip tightening as you drag your nails down his back one last time, holding on through the rush of it.

Bucky follows close behind, a rough exhale of your name spilling between you as he buries himself against you, holding you there.

For a while, neither of you moves.

Just breath and warmth and the steady beat of something soft beneath it all.

Eventually, he shifts, careful as always, settling half over you with his face tucked into your neck. Your fingers—still a little unsteady—trace lightly through his hair, nails gentler now.

“Jesus, doll,” he mumbles. Then, softer, almost amused, “Your nails are dangerous.”

You laugh quietly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Told you they were just nails.”

“Yeah?” He lifts his head, blue eyes warm and bright again despite everything. A slow grin spreads across his face. “Then why do I think I’m gonna be thinking about them for the next two weeks straight?”

You drag one lightly down his chest just to watch him react, satisfied when his eyes flutter.

“Guess you’ll just have to deal with it, Sergeant.”

His laugh is low, fond, and a little bit promising.

“Yeah,” he says, pulling you closer. “I think I can manage that.”

[dreamofbucky-deactivated2026060]

— bucky barnes likes to watch —

mdni (1.5k)

bucky had always been good at watching.

back in the forties it was survival—scanning rooftops for snipers, reading the twitch in a mark’s jaw before he pulled the trigger, noting every exit in a crowded room. hydra sharpened it into something colder, more clinical. the winter soldier didn’t just observe; he catalogued. every weakness. every tell. every pretty girl who lingered too long on the dance floor while he waited in the shadows for his next orders.

after the serum, after the nightmares, after years of clawing his way back to something like a person… that instinct never left. it just changed.

now it curled low and hungry in his gut whenever you were involved.

it started small.

he’d come home from a mission at 3 a.m., exhausted and wired, and find you asleep in their bed wearing nothing but one of his old henleys. the hem had ridden up just enough to bare the soft curve of your ass and the shadowed line between your thighs. one leg kicked out from under the sheet, your pussy peeking out slightly, still a little puffy from the night before. he’d stand in the doorway for long minutes, barely breathing, cock thickening in his sweats as he memorized every inch—the faint red marks his stubble had left on your inner thigh, the way your folds glistened faintly even in sleep, the way your lips parted on a sleepy sigh.

he never woke you. not at first. just watched, hand pressing against the hard line of his dick while he imagined sliding his tongue through that slick heat again.

then one night you weren’t asleep.

you were on your back in the middle of their bed, legs splayed wide, two fingers buried knuckle-deep in your dripping cunt while you whispered his name like a prayer. the bedside lamp cast warm gold over your skin, highlighting the shiny mess coating your fingers and the inside of your thighs. bucky had slipped in silent as death, still dressed in his tac gear, and stopped dead just outside the bedroom door.

you hadn’t noticed him.

he stayed hidden, jaw tight, and watched you fuck yourself—slow at first, fingers curling lazily against that spongy spot inside you, then faster, hips rolling up to meet every thrust. your free hand pinched and rolled your nipple, tugging hard enough to make you gasp. little breathy moans spilled out every time your thumb brushed your swollen clit. your pussy made wet, obscene sounds around your fingers, slick dripping down to soak the sheets beneath your ass.

when you came, back arching clean off the mattress, thighs shaking violently, his name broke on your lips in a high, desperate cry. your cunt clenched visibly around your fingers, a fresh gush of wetness coating your hand.

bucky had to bite his knuckle bloody to keep from groaning out loud, his own cock leaking steadily into his underwear.

he waited until your breathing evened out, until you curled up satisfied and sleepy with your fingers still tucked loosely between your thighs, before he finally stepped inside. he stripped down in seconds, slid into bed behind you, and woke you with his mouth on your neck and his metal fingers sliding through all that warm, sticky mess to replace yours. you’d moaned sleepily and spread your legs wider without even opening your eyes.

after that, the game changed.

he started leaving the bedroom door cracked on purpose when he knew you were in the mood. he’d come home early from the gym or a briefing and hear the faint buzz of your vibrator or the slick, rhythmic sounds of your fingers working your pussy and instead of announcing himself, he’d lean against the wall just out of sight and listen. sometimes he’d pull his cock out and stroke himself slow and tight, matching your rhythm, thumb smearing the precum over the head while you fell apart with his name on your tongue.

he never let himself come. not until later—when he was buried balls-deep inside your still-fluttering cunt, fucking you slow and deep while you were oversensitive and dazed, growling filthy praise in your ear about how pretty you sounded when you thought you were alone, how your pussy clenched so greedily even after you’d already come.

one evening you caught him.

you’d been in the shower, glass door wide open because the steam made everything useless anyway. bucky had been on the couch pretending to read a mission report. the second he heard the water turn on he gave it five minutes, then padded silently down the hall.

you were facing the tiled wall, one hand braced, water cascading over the arch of your back and the round swell of your ass. your other hand was between your legs—two fingers pumping steadily into your soaked hole while your thumb rubbed tight circles over your clit. soft, breathy gasps echoed off the tiles with every thrust. your pussy lips were flushed dark and swollen, slick mixing with the shower water and dripping down your thighs.

bucky stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyes locked on every detail.

he didn’t hide this time.

when you turned your head and saw him there—fully dressed, dark eyes burning, the obvious bulge straining against his jeans—you startled, then smirked, slow and wicked.

“enjoying the show, sergeant?”

bucky’s voice came out rough and low. “always do, doll. keep going. don’t stop on my account.”

you didn’t. instead you leaned back against the cool tile, planted one foot on the built-in bench to spread yourself wider, and kept fucking your fingers deeper—eyes locked on his the whole time. he watched every second: the way your tits bounced lightly with each thrust, nipples tight and begging, the flush creeping down your chest and belly, the exact moment your thighs started to tremble and your pussy started making those wet, squelching sounds around your fingers.

when you came, you kept your gaze on his face, moaning his name loud and broken as your cunt pulsed and gushed, a visible spurt of your release mixing with the shower spray.

bucky was on you before the aftershocks even faded—clothes still on, water soaking through his shirt instantly as he dropped to his knees right there on the wet tile. he yanked your fingers out and replaced them with his tongue, licking broad and filthy through your folds, sucking your swollen clit hard while two metal fingers shoved back inside you, curling ruthlessly against your g-spot. he ate you through a second orgasm, then a third, until you were crying, legs buckling, slapping weakly at his shoulders because your clit was too sensitive and your pussy wouldn’t stop fluttering.

later, tangled in damp sheets with your body still twitching, you traced the line of his jaw with your fingertip.

“you like watching me,” you said softly. not a question.

he didn’t deny it. his metal hand slid down to cup your still-throbbing pussy possessively. “yeah. i do.”

“why?”

bucky stayed quiet for a long moment, fingers idly stroking through your slick folds, occasionally dipping just inside to feel you clench.

“spent a long time not feeling anything real. everything was orders, targets, pain. when i’m watching you… i feel it all. every gasp, every twitch of your hips, every time your pretty cunt drips because you’re thinking about me—it’s mine. i get to keep it. even when i’m not touching you, i’m still part of it.”

you kissed him slow and deep, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“so watch me whenever you want,” you whispered against his mouth, nipping his bottom lip. “but sometimes… i want you to let me watch you too.”

that was how the new rule started.

sometimes he’d come home and find you waiting on the bed wearing nothing but his dog tags, legs spread obscenely wide, three fingers buried in your soaked pussy while you told him exactly what filthy things you’d been thinking about—how you’d imagined his tongue, his cock, his metal hand choking you while he fucked you raw. he’d sit in the chair across the room, fully clothed, legs spread, and just watch—cock straining painfully against his zipper, hands gripping the armrests white-knuckled so he wouldn’t touch himself until you were begging, tears in your eyes, pussy visibly clenching around nothing.

other times he’d make you sit on the edge of the bed, knees wide, while he stood in front of you and stroked his thick cock slowly—fist tight, thumb swiping over the leaking head, veins standing out along the shaft. his eyes never left yours as he worked himself, low groans rumbling in his chest, until you were squirming and dripping onto the sheets just from watching, your own hand sneaking between your thighs until he growled at you to keep them still.

he loved both sides of it. loved the power of seeing you fall apart under his gaze alone. loved the raw vulnerability of letting your eyes devour him while he jerked off thinking about burying himself in your tight, greedy heat.

but his favorite moments were still the stolen ones—when you didn’t know he was there yet, when he could stand in the shadows and watch you chase your pleasure with his name on your lips, cock throbbing, already planning exactly how he was going to wreck you the second he stepped into the light.

because no matter how many times he watched you come, it was never enough.

you were his favorite thing to look at.

and he was never going to stop.

[thewintermuse]

Holy shit this was incredible!!!

[thewintermuse]

a warm place to land

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Pairing: College!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings/Tags: Modern/College AU, Best Friends To Lovers, Mutual Pining, Idiots In Love, Oral Sex, Unprotected Sex, Emotional Intimacy, Fluff And Angst, Protective Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Is Down Bad 

Word count: 22k

Music: 

Delicate - Taylor Swift

Stick Season - Noah Kahan

Guilty as Sin? - Taylor Swift 

Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys

Ruin The Friendship - Taylor Swift

I Put A Spell On You - Annie Lennox

Notes: hi hello!! When I tell you I have been working on this fic since the beginning of the year, I’m not kidding. I made this post January 2nd and it’s been sitting in draft hell while I write, and re-write, then edit, then re-write again. But here it is!! I hope you all enjoy this one! <3

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Bucky’s apartment always felt like a second campus building you actually liked.

Not because it was clean, because it definitely wasn’t. There were always a couple of abandoned textbooks stacked on the coffee table like a small, depressing tower of responsibility. A stray hoodie draped over the arm of the couch. A lone sock that didn’t belong to anyone currently in the room (you refused to ask). 

But it was his. 

Warm light leaked out of mismatched lamps, one with a shade that was slightly crooked no matter how many times Bucky fixed it, another thrift-store find that cast everything in a soft amber glow. The couch had survived at least three different friend groups and probably a small war, it dipped in the middle like it recognized your body and welcomed you back. 

The snack cabinet was perpetually half-empty in the way that proved Bucky tried to stock it and Sam took that as a personal challenge. And there was always some low-level hum of life: the radiator clanking, the faint buzz of street noise through the window, the occasional creak of the floorboards when someone shifted their weight.

The kind of easy, lived-in chaos that made your shoulders drop the second you stepped inside, like you could unclench without anyone noticing.

Tonight was no different.

Sam had claimed the “good” spot on the couch like he paid rent (he did not), sprawled out with his feet on the coffee table and a bag of chips balanced on his stomach like it was sacred. Steve was sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, posture stupidly perfect even while he ate pizza like an art form. There was an open notebook beside him that he’d pretended to take notes in for exactly five minutes before giving up and just existing pleasantly in the room.

And Bucky was in the kitchen. Well, not fully in the kitchen, more like hovering at the boundary between the living room and the counter, as if he couldn’t decide whether to participate or retreat. He’d made himself busy with something that didn’t require much effort: rinsing a glass that was already clean, rearranging the stack of paper plates, checking the oven even though nothing was in it.

The performance was obvious. So was the way he kept half an eye on you anyway.

You hovered near the counter too, picking at a bag of kettle chips like it was a delicate hobby. One chip at a time. Slow crunch. Salt on your fingers. A ridiculous amount of focus for someone who was absolutely not thinking about chips.

Bucky glanced over quickly, like a reflex, and his gaze landed on your hands, then your face. His expression didn’t change much… but it did soften at the edges, in that way it always did when you were around, like his body remembered you before his brain could get in the way.

You pretended not to notice. Because noticing made things feel… loaded.

“You know,” Sam said suddenly, craning his neck dramatically as if addressing an invisible audience, “I could do my homework tonight.”

You blinked, deadpan. “That’s a strange way to spell ‘ignore it until the deadline and panic-text me at 2 a.m.’”

Steve laughed into his soda, the sound bright and helpless. Sam pressed a hand to his chest like you’d stabbed him. “Et tu, Brute?”

“You say that like I haven’t watched you ‘suddenly remember’ an entire semester’s worth of work in one night,” you shot back.

Sam wagged a finger. “First of all, I prefer the term academically spontaneous.”

Steve snorted. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is a thing,” Sam insisted. “It’s just not a thing that gets you scholarships.”

From the kitchen, Bucky huffed, quiet and low, but there was a curve to it, something soft that always slipped into his reactions when you were there, like he couldn’t help it. “She’s not wrong.”

Sam whipped his head around. “Wow. Betrayal from within the house.”

Bucky didn’t look up from the cabinet he was pretending to organize. “Do your homework.”

“You’re all conspiring against me,” Sam said, pointing at each of you like you were a jury.

You smiled, reaching into the bag for another chip. “It’s not a conspiracy. It’s an intervention.”

Sam gasped. “I don’t need an intervention.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to you again and this time it lingered a fraction longer, like he was tracking the way you smiled, the way you fit into this space like you belonged here. Like you always had.

Your eyes drifted to him without permission, pulled by something magnetic and irritating and familiar.

He was leaning against the counter with that permanently unimpressed expression he wore like armor, one hip hooked against the edge, arms loosely crossed. A dark henley stretched across his shoulders and chest like it had been designed solely to ruin your ability to think, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, skin warm-toned under the lamp light, and his hair was messier than usual in a way that looked accidental but… wasn’t helping. 

His gaze met yours for half a second too long.

And the room didn’t go silent, Sam was still talking, Steve was still laughing… but your brain did. Just a brief blank, like your thoughts hit a wall.

You felt your heart stumble in your chest, just a little stutter. Like a skipped stair step. Like that moment right before you trip, when your body goes oh— and tries to correct itself.

It was stupid. It was so stupid how normal it all was, how easy it was to pretend this was just another night. Just another round of Sam being loud and Steve being kind and Bucky pretending he didn’t care while constantly making sure everyone had what they needed.

And still, your body acted surprised every time Bucky looked at you like that. Like you were something steady. Something safe. Something he didn’t have to brace himself around.

It made your throat tighten in a way you hated. So you did what you always did when emotions got too close: you shoved them back down, forced your attention onto Sam, and willed your face into neutrality before you did something embarrassing like smile too much, or soften too obviously, or let him see that his attention hit you like a touch.

Sam was mid-story, gesturing wildly with a chip like it was a microphone. “—and then the professor looked at me and said, ‘Mr. Wilson, what exactly are you contributing to this discussion?’”

Steve made a sympathetic noise. “What did you say?”

Sam spread his hands. “I said, ‘Vibes.’”

You snorted. “You did not.”

“I did,” Sam insisted. “And she said, ‘That is not a measurable academic contribution.’”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “She’s not wrong.”

“Anyway,” Sam said, pointing at you like the moral of the story was your fault, “this is why I need you to bring the flashcards. Because if I’m left to my own devices, I will perish.”

“You brought the flashcards?” Steve asked hopefully, like there was a real chance you’d show up unprepared and the world would end.

You held up your tote bag with exaggerated dignity. “I’m not an animal.”

Bucky’s voice came from the kitchen without him even looking up. “Debatable.”

You turned slowly, deadpan, letting the pause stretch just long enough to make it a threat. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you said, calm as a scalpel, “I will personally label every cabinet in this apartment in Comic Sans.”

Sam made a choking sound that was half laughter, half horror. Steve gasped like you’d just threatened a war crime.

Bucky’s mouth twitched barely, like he was trying to smother it before it became a smile. He straightened a fraction against the counter, eyes narrowing like he was measuring you. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just… amused in that reluctant way he got when you cornered him.

“You wouldn’t,” he said, voice low, like he was calling your bluff.

You raised your brows. “Try me.”

His eyes stayed on yours, steady and challenging, but there was something warm underneath it now, something that made the air between you feel charged in a way it shouldn’t. “You’re evil,” he muttered, like it pained him to admit it.

You tipped your chin up. “You love it.” The words slipped out too easy, too familiar. Too true in a way that made your stomach do a slow, traitorous flip, like your body heard it and went Oh. That. That’s a thing.

For half a second, you regretted it. Not because it was wrong, but because it wasn’t. Because Bucky’s expression shifted in the smallest way, like he’d been caught off guard by how soft it sounded coming from you. Like he’d been prepared for sarcasm, for banter, for a fight.

Sam noticed immediately, because Sam noticed everything. He grinned like a shark. “Aww.”

You pointed at him with a chip. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it loud.”

You bit down on the chip and tried to ignore the way Bucky’s ears had gone a faint pink. Which was… ridiculous. Bucky Barnes did not blush. Bucky Barnes stared down frat guys at parties until they apologized for existing.

And yet… here he was, subtly flustered because you teased him the way you’d been teasing him since freshman year, back when you’d met him in Intro to Psych and he’d looked like someone had dragged him into the building against his will.

The lecture hall had been too warm, packed with bodies and backpack straps and the faint smell of overbrewed coffee. The professor had been cheerful in a way that felt illegal for an 8 a.m., clicking through a slide titled “Welcome to PSYCH 101!” like it was the most thrilling thing on earth.

And then there was Bucky. Three rows down, hunched in his seat like he wanted to shrink out of existence. Hoodie up. Jaw clenched. The kind of posture that screamed do not talk to me.

Which, obviously, had been a challenge.

You’d chosen the seat next to him like it was fate instead of impulse. Dropped your tote down. Pulled out a notebook. And when he’d flicked his eyes to you with that flat, unimpressed stare, you’d smiled like you were meeting a stray cat.

“Hi,” you’d said, bright and fearless, offering up your name. “You look like you hate it here.”

He’d blinked slowly, like he wasn’t used to someone pointing out the obvious. “I do,” he’d replied.

“That’s okay,” you’d said, utterly delighted. “I’m going to sit here anyway.”

He’d stared at you for a beat too long, like he couldn’t decide if you were annoying or dangerous. And then, begrudgingly: “Fine.”

That had been it. That had been the beginning. Not some grand meet-cute. Just you deciding, without consulting him, that you were going to be friends.

And somehow, impossibly, you’d gotten under his skin the way you always did. You’d teased him when he refused to participate in discussion. You’d slide your notes toward him when he’d missed a class. You’d offered him a piece of gum one day and watched him look at it like it was a trap.

He’d been prickly. Guarded. Uninterested in everyone. And still, somewhere along the way, he’d let you stay, let you become a constant.

Now, three years later, it was easy. So easy it should’ve been suspicious.

You could walk into his apartment without knocking. You could steal his hoodie off the back of his chair and he’d grumble but not stop you. You could talk over him, interrupt him, poke at his patience like it was a button you’d installed, and he would roll his eyes like he hated it while quietly making sure you had a plate, a drink, a place to sit.

It was easy. And the ease of it terrified you a little, because it felt like something you weren’t supposed to get for free.

The night kept rolling, a blur of half-studying and mostly roasting each other.

Sam was the loudest variable, as usual. He’d contributed absolutely nothing to the study effort but 80% of the noise, narrating the evening like it was a documentary no one asked for.

Steve had tried, earnestly, to implement structure—“Okay, twenty minutes of focus, five minutes break”—as if any of you were wired for that kind of discipline.

And Bucky continued to hover in the kitchen entrance, close enough to be part of the group but far enough to feel like he had an exit. He was present in that steady way that made the room feel anchored, even when Sam’s brain was ping-ponging around like a loose marble.

At some point the sky outside the windows shifted from dusky blue to full dark. You checked the time and groaned. “Okay,” you announced, cheerful but tired. “I should go. I have an eight a.m. lab and I’d like to arrive with my soul intact.”

Sam groaned, flopping back dramatically. “You’re leaving? But we were just getting to the part where we all admit we can’t read.”

“You’ve admitted that,” Steve said. “Like, ten times.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t processed it emotionally,” Sam argued.

Steve was already rubbing at his eyes, fatigue setting in like a slow tide. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, voice warm. “Get some sleep.”

You slung your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door, fingers curling around the strap like it anchored you. “Text me if you need anything.”

Sam lifted a hand immediately. “Need you to stay and explain what ‘citations’ means.” You flipped him off with love, a gesture so familiar it felt like home.

Then, because your body did it before your brain could stop it, you looked back at Bucky. He was still standing at the kitchen entrance like he’d been doing all night, pretending he wasn’t paying attention to you like you were the only thing in the room that made sense.

He took a step forward before he spoke, as if his body had decided for him. “I’ll walk you out,” he said, quick. Like the words had been waiting behind his teeth all night.

Your heart did that stupid thing again, thudding too hard, too fast, like it didn’t know how to be normal about him.“It’s…” you started, forcing a laugh that sounded steadier than you felt. “It’s ten steps to my car.”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t soften, not really. They stayed serious, grounded, like this was not a debate.

“Still,” he said. One word. No argument. Just Bucky being Bucky, like it was a rule carved into him: you don’t walk alone at night.

The door to Bucky’s apartment clicked closed behind you a few steps later and the warmth you’d been swimming in fell away as you stepped into cooler air that smelled faintly of old carpet and laundry detergent.

Bucky fell in beside you without making it a thing, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders broad enough to make the cramped corridor feel smaller, like he took up space even when he was trying not to. 

He walked at your pace the way he always did, matching you without looking like he was doing it. Every few steps his gaze flicked forward, then to the side, checking corners out of habit, old instincts in a place that didn’t deserve them.

It should’ve felt ridiculous, letting him escort you ten steps to your car like you were made of glass. But it never did.

Because with Bucky, it didn’t feel like control. It felt like… care. Quiet and steady. Like a hand at the small of your back when you stepped off a curb or an umbrella offered without commentary.

Your fingers tightened around your bag strap as you walked, the fabric rough against your palm. “Thanks for tonight,” you said, because you always said it, even if the night had been chaotic and loud and half-useless academically.

Bucky gave a small nod like it was nothing. “Mm,” he murmured, noncommittal, like gratitude made him uncomfortable.

You tried not to smile too hard.

The front entrance came into view, glass doors, the small lobby beyond it lit by harsh overhead fluorescents. The building’s posted notices on the wall. A crooked bulletin board covered in flyers for lost cats and study groups and someone offering tarot readings for $10.

Your steps slowed without you meaning them to.

Bucky opened the lobby door and held it, letting you pass first. The air changed as you stepped into the brighter light: colder, cleaner, less forgiving.

He followed you through, the door easing shut behind him with a soft thump. His boots sounded heavier on the tile.

You stopped just before the final doors to outside.

Bucky stopped too, turning slightly, angling his body between you and the glass as if it mattered. As if it was his job.

It wasn’t. That was the problem.

“Drive safe,” he said, voice low.

“I always do,” you answered automatically.

He didn’t respond right away.

His gaze flicked down your face in a way that made your stomach tilt. Not scanning like he scanned the hallway. Not checking like he checked exits. This was different, slower, almost careful, like he was trying to place something he’d felt all night and didn’t have a name for.

Like he was memorizing you.

Your pulse stumbled.

Bucky’s jaw shifted like he was about to speak and decided against it. Like the words were right there behind his teeth and he didn’t trust them.

Your fingers tightened around your bag strap again “Bucky?” you heard yourself say.

His eyes lifted immediately. “Yeah?”

A single word and yet it felt like it meant too much.

You didn’t know what you were asking. Not really. Not unless you wanted to pull at the thread you’d been avoiding for months and watch everything unravel.

You didn’t know what you wanted from him… an answer, a confession, permission, denial. So you did what you always did when you got too close to the edge and grabbed humor like it was a life raft.

You smiled softly and said, “Tell Sam I’m not proofreading his essay if he keeps calling it ‘a vibe piece.’”

Bucky’s mouth curved, the tension easing with it. It wasn’t a big smile, Bucky didn’t do big smiles, but it was real and it warmed something in your chest you didn’t want to examine.

“I’ll tell him,” he said, voice rough with amusement.

“Good.” You shifted your weight toward the door, trying to behave somewhat normal. “Night.”

“Night, doll.”

The nickname slipped out like muscle memory. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… easy. 

Your breath caught. Heat rushed up your neck and into your cheeks so fast you felt embarrassed by your own body. Because doll wasn’t new, he’d said it before, here and there, but tonight it landed different.

You forced a laugh that came out too thin. “Goodnight,” you repeated, like saying it twice could override the way your heart was sprinting.

Then you stepped backward toward the glass doors before you could do something stupid like stare. You lifted your hand in a small wave, because you were normal, and this was normal, and best friends said goodnight all the time.

Bucky lifted his hand back, just a fraction, like he didn’t want to let the moment go any more than you did.

You turned quickly before he could see how flustered you were. You hurried down the steps, boots tapping, the night air loud in your ears. You didn’t look back.

You told yourself you didn’t look back because you didn’t want to slip on the icy step, because you were focused, because you were responsible.

Not because if you looked back and saw him watching you, you might crumble.

You reached your car and fumbled your keys out, fingers clumsy from cold and nerves. You slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and sitting there for a beat with both hands on the steering wheel, breathing like you’d run a mile.

You started the car, heat blasting on weakly, the engine coughing awake. Only then did you glance up through the windshield… and see him. Bucky was still inside the lobby, standing just behind the glass doors.

Still, broad shoulders squared, hands in his pockets like he’d put them there to stop himself from doing something else. His face was turned toward your car, eyes fixed on you with that quiet, steady attention that always made you feel seen.

He didn’t wave this time, he just watched. As if you leaving was the part he hated most. As if he wasn’t satisfied until he knew you were gone, safe, out of sight, beyond the reach of whatever his brain insisted might happen.

You looked away quickly, because the moment felt too intimate through the glass. Because your cheeks were still hot. Because your heart was doing something stupid and hopeful and dangerous.

You backed out carefully, tires crunching over gravel, as you pulled out of your parking space and out onto the main street. 

You didn’t see Bucky standing there, watching your taillights until they disappeared at the corner. You didn’t see the way his jaw clenched after you were gone.

You didn’t hear what happened after.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Back upstairs, the apartment felt quieter without you, which was stupid because it was still three grown men and a TV that Sam refused to mute.

But your absence left a shape. Like the warmth you brought in with you didn’t fully disappear so much as drain out slowly, leaving everything a little flatter around the edges.

Bucky shut the door and leaned against it for half a second like he needed the wood to keep him upright.

Sam, half-sprawled on the couch, glanced up immediately because Sam had the survival instincts of someone who’d spent years learning how to read a room faster than it could read him. His grin came slow, sharp, delighted.

“Aww,” Sam crooned, all fake tenderness. “He walked her out.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He moved into the kitchen and grabbed a glass, filling it with water like hydration could fix… anything.

Steve was collecting empty cans and stacking them in a neat little row on the counter like he couldn’t help himself. His voice stayed casual, like he was narrating something harmless.

“She’s got lab early,” Steve said, as if that explained the tight line in Bucky’s jaw.

Bucky nodded once, short and clipped. Still not looking at them. He took a long drink of water that did absolutely nothing. Cold slid down his throat. His pulse stayed high anyway.

Steve didn’t push right away. That was Steve’s thing, he never yanked. He waited. He let people settle into their own truth.

Sam, on the other hand, lived to poke bruises and Bucky could feel Sam’s stare like heat.

Then Steve spoke again, tone light, like he was asking about the weather. “So…” He tipped his head toward the door. “You guys just friends?”

Bucky’s stomach did something unpleasant, like a drop on an elevator. He kept his eyes on the faucet even though it was off, like he was still busy. “Yeah.” But it came out too fast.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. Steve’s expression didn’t change, but there was curiosity under it…real, quiet curiosity.

“Just friends,” Steve repeated, like he was testing the words.

Bucky’s grip tightened around the glass. “Yeah. We’ve been friends forever.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Uh-huh. Bucky shot him a look that said don’t you dare. Sam held up both hands, delight practically vibrating off him. “I’m just… listening.”

Steve nodded slowly, like he’d reached a conclusion. “Okay.”

Bucky finally looked over, suspicious. “Okay?”

Steve shrugged. “Just checking.”

Bucky drank again because he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. The water didn’t help. His chest still felt tight, like it remembered your smile too vividly.

Then Steve’s mouth tipped into something almost mischievous, so rare on him it should’ve been illegal “Cool,” he said, lightly. “So I can talk to her.”

The room went silent.

Not the normal “we ran out of things to say” silence, but the kind of silence that happens when something instinctive snaps into place.

Bucky’s entire body locked up like someone had flipped a switch in his spine. The glass in his hand stopped halfway to the counter.

Sam’s eyes widened, delighted. “Oh my God.”

Bucky’s voice came low. Flat. “What.”

Steve lifted his brows. “I said, if you’re just friends, then—”

Bucky set the glass down very carefully… then stepped closer. Not aggressive, at least not outwardly. But the air changed anyway, heavier, sharpened. Bucky Barnes did not have to raise his voice to make a room listen.

Steve’s smile faded into confusion. “Dude—”

“You’re not talking to her.” Bucky’s words were quiet, almost casual, which somehow made them worse.

Sam pressed a fist to his mouth to keep from laughing. It sounded like pain.

Steve stared. “Bucky. Why would I not talk to her? She’s cool. She’s smart. She’s funny—”

Bucky’s jaw flexed and Sam made a strangled noise like oh no he’s listing reasons. Steve, still oblivious in the way only Steve Rogers could be: “And she’s pretty, and—”

Bucky’s eyes went dangerous as he interrupted Steve, voice still calm but edged with something feral. “Stop.”

Bucky took another step, close enough now that Steve actually leaned back a fraction without realizing he was doing it.

“Listen,” Bucky said, each word measured. “You don’t get to—” He cut himself off, because saying you don’t get to look at her like that would’ve been admitting too much. But his stare did it for him anyway.

Steve’s eyes flicked across Bucky’s face like he was reading something he hadn’t noticed before, like puzzle pieces clicking together.

Realization dawned slowly. “Oh,” Steve said, very quietly. “Ohhhh.” Sam wheezed in the background. 

Bucky’s cheeks went hot with irritation, at Steve, at Sam, at himself, at the fact that his body had reacted like a guard dog before his mouth could catch up.

Steve’s expression softened into something almost fond, which only made Bucky angrier. “You like her,” Steve said.

Bucky’s shoulders went rigid. “No.”

Sam barked a laugh. “That ‘no’ had a stutter in it, buddy.” Bucky looked like he wanted to throw the entire couch at Sam.

Steve held up both hands, backing off a little. “Okay. Okay. But you just told me you’re friends.”

“We are friends,” Bucky snapped.

Steve tilted his head. “But you want more.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Which was an answer.

Sam swung his legs off the couch, animated now. “Dude. You literally look like you’re about to challenge Steve to a duel for even imagining asking her out.”

Bucky’s gaze cut to Sam. “I’m not.”

Sam pointed. “You are.”

Bucky’s voice dropped again, stubborn. “I’m not.”

Steve’s smile came back, gentle this time, not teasing. “Bucky.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked away like the ceiling suddenly had something interesting going on.

Steve stepped closer, careful. “I wasn’t actually going to ask her out. I was messing with you.”

Bucky looked back at him, sharp. “Why.”

Steve shrugged, helpless honesty. “Because it’s been three years,” he said. “And you’ve been looking at her like she hung the moon.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed once. Steve kept going, because he wasn’t wrong and they all knew it.

“You keep calling her cute little nicknames like you don’t know what that does to you. You save her a seat without thinking. You go quiet when she’s tired like you’re trying to absorb the weight for her. And you get weird when anyone else gets her attention.”

Sam nodded violently. “So weird.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I don’t.”

“You do,” Steve said, gentle but firm. “And I’m not trying to steal your girl.” He paused, watching Bucky’s face. “I’m trying to get you to be honest… at least with yourself.”

That phrase, your girl, hit something deep and instinctive in Bucky’s chest, and the worst part was how right it sounded, like it had been written somewhere long before he’d even learned how to want things again.

Bucky exhaled, hard, like he was letting go of a fight he didn’t know he’d started.

Sam leaned forward, quieter now. “You gonna tell her?”

Bucky stared at the floor for a beat.

He could still see you at the door, turning with that small smile. He could still hear the soft “night.” He could still feel the way his chest had tightened when you stepped away, like his body didn’t know what to do when you weren’t within reach.

Then, barely, like the words cost him pride and oxygen, “She deserves better than me springing it on her,” he said.

Steve’s expression softened even more. “That’s not an answer.”

Bucky swallowed. “I’m not gonna—” He shook his head once, frustrated. “I don’t wanna mess up what we have.”

Sam’s voice went surprisingly gentle. “You mean the thing you’re already messing up by acting like a kicked puppy every time she smiles at someone else?”

Bucky shot him a look. Sam held it, unflinching.

Steve nodded, calm. “You don’t have to do anything tonight. But… maybe stop lying about what you feel.”

Bucky’s hands clenched at his sides. Then he muttered, like the words tasted like pride and fear at the same time, “I’m not lying.”

Sam lifted his brows. “Then what was that back there? ‘Yeah just friends’?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I’m just… defensive.”

Steve smiled, small. “You mean possessive.”

Bucky’s glare could’ve melted glass.

Sam slapped his thigh. “Oh, he’s down bad.”

Bucky’s voice came low, warning. “Sam.”

Sam held up his hands again, laughing. “Okay, okay. But for the record? If you don’t tell her soon, somebody else is gonna try. And you’re gonna have an aneurysm.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to the door, like he could still see you, could still feel the warmth you left behind in the room. Then, reluctantly, like admitting it might break him, “…Yeah,” he said. “Probably.”

Steve’s smile went soft. “Good. That means you care.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve always cared.”

Sam grinned like Christmas came early. “Awww.”

Bucky turned, already moving toward his bedroom, because if he stayed in the living room any longer he was going to do something dramatic, like text you right now and say something catastrophically honest.

Sam called after him, bright and smug: “So we agree? She’s not just your friend.”

Bucky paused in the doorway, shoulders tense. Then, without looking back, he said, quiet and deadly: “Try and find out.” And shut the door. 

Sam exploded into laughter. Steve just stood there, shaking his head, smiling like he’d finally solved a mystery.

And somewhere off in the distance, you were driving home with no idea that the line between “best friends” and “mine” had just been drawn hard inside Bucky’s chest.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You didn’t think about Bucky on the drive home. That was the lie you told yourself, anyway.

You told yourself you were thinking about your eight a.m. lab, about the way your TA looked like he’d been spawned by black coffee and bad sleep, about how you still needed to print your pre-lab worksheet, about whether you’d remembered to pack your goggles or if Future You was about to have to buy another pair from the bookstore for a price that felt criminal. 

You told yourself you were thinking about the exam next week, the one that sat in the back of your head like a storm cloud you kept pretending wasn’t there. You told yourself you were thinking about literally anything else.

But your mind kept doing that annoying, traitorous thing where it rewound moments like a song you couldn’t stop replaying, even when you changed the station.

Bucky’s eyes on you in the kitchen. Not a glance. Not a check-in. A linger. Like he’d been looking at you and forgetting to look away.

The way his voice had dropped when he’d said “Night, doll”, soft and low, like it belonged in the quiet. And the pause after, that half second where everything in you had gone still because you could tell he’d realized he’d said it out loud.

You gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and forced your gaze onto the road, like you could steer yourself away from the thought if you held on hard enough.

It was nothing, you told yourself. It was a nickname. Bucky called people nicknames. Bucky was… Bucky. Quiet, protective, occasionally softer than he wanted anyone to notice. And you were his friend.

His best friend, technically, if you were counting hours spent in the same space, shared notes, shared snacks, shared silence. If you were counting the way he always saved you the seat that wasn’t too close to other people. The way he always angled his body between you and whatever made you tense. The way he somehow knew when your social battery was dying and would silently hand you your coat like here, I’m giving you an exit.

Friends did that. Friends walked you out. Friends texted you to make sure you got home.

You repeated it like an incantation as you drove, friends, friends, friends, like saying it enough times would make your stomach stop doing that weird, soft flip every time you pictured his face at the door.

You should not be noticing his shoulders. You should not be noticing the shape of his hands when he reached for a glass. You should not be noticing the way he looked at you like you were the only calm thing in a room.

You were not doing that. You were normal. This was normal.

Your brain, unfortunately, did not agree.

You swallowed hard at a red light and stared straight ahead, unblinking, like that could keep you from spiraling.

Because spiraling meant admitting something, and admitting something meant you’d have to do something about it… and you weren’t ready.

You weren’t ready to name the thing in your chest that kept swelling every time he said your name. You weren’t ready to admit that sometimes you caught yourself looking at his mouth. That sometimes, when he was laughing, rare and rough and real, you felt like your heart had been physically tugged in that direction.

You weren’t ready to ask yourself what it would mean if he didn’t just feel safe, but what it would mean if he felt like home.

So you did what you always did when feelings got too big: You shoved them into the “later” folder in your brain and hoped they would die of neglect.

By the time you pulled into your apartment complex and killed the engine, you’d decided it meant nothing. By the time you climbed the stairs and brushed your teeth and crawled into bed, you’d reinforced that decision so aggressively you almost believed it.

And by the time you fell asleep, you’d filed the whole night away under:

Bucky being Bucky. Me being dramatic. Nothing to see here.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you woke up, your phone buzzed. You blinked at the screen through sleep-heavy eyes squinting at the brightness like it was personally offensive.

Bucky: You get home okay?

Your brain didn’t even have time to put up defenses before your body reacted, warmth blooming in your chest, soft and immediate. Like your insides had been waiting for it. 

You stared at it for a full ten seconds until your thoughts caught up.

He texted to check in. That’s normal. People do that.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Don’t be weird, you told yourself as you typed back with a yawn and a smile you refused to examine.

You: Yeah. Fell asleep like a rock. You guys survive without me?

You hit send, then immediately rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling like it might tell you why your heart was suddenly beating like you’d just done cardio.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Bucky: Barely.

Bucky: Good luck in lab.

You blinked at the screen.

That second text, good luck in lab, was so stupidly sweet it made your chest do the thing again. That soft squeeze, right under your ribs, like your body recognized care before your brain could dismiss it.

He remembered your schedule. Of course he did. He remembered everything. He remembered your coffee order “by accident” and then never forgot it. He remembered the exact brand of granola bar you liked. He remembered the way you got quiet when you were anxious.

He wasn’t just being polite. He was being… Bucky. And you weren’t supposed to feel like this about Bucky.

Because feeling like this about Bucky meant risk. It meant the possibility of losing the easiest, safest relationship you’d ever had. It meant ruining the one thing in your life that didn’t feel complicated.

It meant taking something good and putting it in your shaky hands. 

You typed a reply, erased it, typed again.

You: Thanks 😊

Too soft. Delete. 

You: Appreciate it.

Too formal. Like he was your professor. Delete. 

Your fingers hovered again and your brain scrambled for something safe and normal, something that didn’t scream I read your texts like they’re scripture.

So you sent the only armor you had: sarcasm.

You: Thanks, old man.

Three dots popped up immediately and you felt your mouth twitch, helpless, like you could already hear him.

Bucky: I’m 23.

You laughed before you could stop yourself, one of those soft, stupid laughs that made your whole face warm. You rolled onto your side and hugged your pillow tighter, smiling like an idiot.

Stop it, you told yourself. Stop smiling. Stop reading into it. Stop—stop—stop—

But your mind, traitorous as ever, offered up the image of him in his lobby again. The way he’d looked at you like he was holding something back. Like he’d wanted to say more and didn’t trust himself.

Your stomach dipped.

Because if you were being honest, if you peeled back all the sarcasm and denial and careful avoidance, there was a part of you that knew this wasn’t new. It had been building. In tiny, quiet ways. In ways you’d pretended were nothing because nothing was safer than something.

But last night… last night had felt like a line you’d both stepped too close to.

And now you were lying in bed with your phone in your hand, cheeks warm, heart stupid, and your lab looming, trying very hard not to think about how you wanted to text him something soft. 

Something honest, something… terrifying.

Instead, you sat up fast, like movement could shake the thoughts loose, and threw the covers back.

“Nope,” you muttered to yourself, climbing out of bed. “We are not doing this today.”

You set your phone down like it had personally betrayed you, then immediately picked it back up and looked at the screen again.

Because you were weak. And because Bucky Barnes was your best friend. And because something in you was starting to realize that might not be the whole truth anymore.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Campus was already loud by the time you got there.

Winter air, backpacks, the smell of burnt espresso and wet concrete. You power-walked across the quad with your tote bag thumping against your hip and your hair still damp from the shower.

Halfway to the science building, you cut through the student union to grab coffee, because if you had to pipette anything before caffeine, you would simply pass away.

The line was long. Of course it was.

You shuffled forward, clutching your tote bag, scrolling your phone with the dead-eyed focus of someone trying not to think about how little you’d slept.

“Hey.”

You looked up and immediately softened at the sight of Steve, standing a few feet away with one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, the other lifting in a small wave like he’d been waiting to spot you. 

He looked annoyingly put-together for eight in the morning in a hoodie, clean sneakers, his hair behaving. The human embodiment of “I definitely slept.”

“Steve,” you said, relief in your voice before you could help it. “Thank God. A friendly face.”

He smiled. “Is that what I am? Not ‘a walking lecture on responsibility’?”

“You contain multitudes,” you said gravely. “Mostly protein.”

Steve laughed, stepping up beside you so you were shoulder-to-shoulder in line like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which it was. You’d had enough shared group projects and late-night study sessions for it to be normal.

“Early lab?” he murmured, like he didn’t remember from the night before. 

“Eight a.m. The crime of it all,” you sighed. “Why are you up? You don’t even have class until like… never.”

“Rude.” Steve took a sip of his coffee. “I have an eight-thirty. And Sam texted me at seven asking if ‘breakfast counts as a concept.’ So I’m on crisis duty.”

Your mouth twitched. “You’re enabling him.”

“I’m saving the GPA of the friend group.”

You bumped your shoulder lightly into his. “Hero complex.” 

Steve’s grin widened. “Guilty.”

You both moved forward a couple steps. You felt your shoulders unclench, the simple ease of it. Steve was one of the few people who could talk to you without draining your battery. 

He took a sip of his coffee, then glanced at you over the rim like he was trying very hard to look casual about something he’d already decided to bring up.

“So,” he said, measured, “you escaped pretty quick last night.”

You blinked. “I did not escape.”

Steve’s mouth quirked. “Uh-huh. You left and Buck spent the next ten minutes pretending he wasn’t listening for the door.”

Heat climbed your neck. “He did not.”

Steve’s expression stayed infuriatingly neutral. “He did.”

You huffed, trying to keep it light. “Maybe he was just… making sure the door latched. He’s weird about locks.”

Steve’s eyes crinkled. “Maybe.” Then, softer, like he couldn’t help it: “He’s just… different when you’re around.”

That landed quieter than it should’ve. You busied yourself with the menu board, as if latte options could save you from emotions.

Steve didn’t push right away. He let the line move, let the moment breathe. He was good at that. Then he said, like it was nothing: “He was up early.”

You glanced at him. “Bucky? Voluntarily?”

Steve’s mouth tipped. “Didn’t say that.” A beat. “Just… seemed like something was on his mind.”

Your stomach did a small, annoying flip.

Steve’s gaze dipped to your hand, the way your thumb kept hovering over your phone like you were waiting for it to light up. He didn’t smile, just looked back at you with quiet, patient understanding.

“And you,” he added, “seem… a little distracted.”

You scoffed automatically. “I’m not distracted. I’m thriving.”

Steve smiled like he’d known you long enough to translate. “Sure you are.”

The line crept forward again. You were just starting to decide what you wanted when Steve, very casually, asked: “So… you and Buck still doing the “we’re just friends” thing?”

You paused for half a second, your brain doing a hard reset at the question. Steve’s eyes crinkled. “That’s not a no.”

You gave him an unimpressed look. “It’s also not a yes to whatever you’re trying to start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” Steve said, too innocent.

You scoffed. “You’re literally always starting something.”

Steve lifted his free hand in surrender, but his voice softened as he said it, no teasing now, just honest. “Okay, fine. I just…” he shrugged, eyes kind, “I care about him. And you’re important to him. That’s all.”

Your throat tightened in a way you didn’t love. You reached for sarcasm once again like it was a blanket. “I’m important to everyone. I’m a national treasure.”

Steve smiled like he believed you. “You kind of are.”

You rolled your eyes, but you can’t stop the little tug at the corner of your mouth. The line shuffles forward again, and now you’re close enough to the counter that you can actually smell the espresso. The barista at the register looks half-awake, hair shoved into a messy bun, name tag slightly crooked. “Next!” You step up automatically, slipping into your practiced morning voice as you rattle off your order. 

You drift toward the pick-up counter after paying for your drink, the shop humming around you. Steam hissing, cups sliding, the low clatter of lids and sleeves. Music plays somewhere under all the conversation, muffled by the grinder going off again.

You lean back against the wall near the window, cradling your receipt like it’s a promise. Outside, students cross the quad in bundled-up clusters, their breath ghosting in the cold. Inside, it’s warm enough that your cheeks finally stop stinging.

Steve sips his coffee and watches you over the rim with that same I’m being casual but I’m actually paying attention look.

You lift your chin, already defensive. “Don’t.”

Steve’s eyes crinkle. “Don’t what?”

“Do your Captain Concerned face.”

“I’m not,” he says, which is a blatant lie.

You huff a laugh and look away, tracking the line of cups moving down the counter like you can will yours into existence. A barista calls a name and someone snatches the drink like it’s a life raft.

Steve shifts a little closer, voice dropping just enough to stay between the two of you. “You know you don’t have to figure all of that out at eight in the morning, right?”

You glance at him. “Figure what out.”

He gives you a look. Not pushy. Just… come on. “You and Buck,” he says simply.

Your stomach flips. “I’m not figuring anything out,” you say, a little too quickly. “There’s nothing to figure out.”

Steve hums, unconvinced, but lets it sit. “Okay,” he says lightly. “Just don’t spiral yourself into a wall over it.”

You flick your gaze back to him. “And if you keep talking like that, I’m going to start calling you ‘Dad’ unironically.”

Steve grins. “I can live with that.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and bounce lightly on your heels, half-impatient, half-anticipating that first sip like it’s going to reset your whole nervous system.

Then the barista calls your name and relief hits so fast you almost laugh. “That’s me.” You step forward, reach for the cup, warm in your hands, sleeve snug around it. The smell alone makes your shoulders drop like your body finally remembers how to unclench.

You turn back toward Steve… and nearly collide with someone entering the shop. You stop short on instinct, yanking your drink back so it won’t spill, heat sloshing dangerously close to the lid. Your apology is already on your tongue, automatic, practiced.

“Sorry—” But the word catches.

Because it’s Bucky. And for one stupid second, your body reacts like the universe just reached into your chest and squeezed.

He’s not dressed up. Just a worn jacket and a dark hoodie underneath, like he threw it on without thinking. His hair looks slightly damp, like he showered in a hurry and left with his hoodie still smelling faintly like soap. The cold outside has pinked his cheeks a little, and you hate how much you notice details you shouldn’t be noticing.

His eyes sweep the room once as he steps in on instinct and they land on you almost immediately. For a second, his face eases. The hard line of his mouth loosens. The set of his shoulders drops by a fraction. Like seeing you in the room resets something in him.

And your chest tightens, because you feel it.

Then Bucky’s gaze shifts, just a quick flick to your side where he notices Steve. You watch the tiny recalibration. Not anger. Not hostility. Nothing that would give him away. Just… awareness.

Bucky’s gaze flicks back to you like he’s checking in, like the only question that matters is are you okay?

“Hey,” you say, surprised into a smile that you try to make normal. Try to make casual. Try to make friend-shaped. It comes out softer anyway. “What are you doing here?”

Bucky clears his throat like your voice did something to him. “I—” His eyes dart to the menu board, like he needs a reason to exist in this space that isn’t you. “Was nearby.”

Nearby. On campus. At your coffee shop. Right when you’re here… Sure.

Steve, because Steve is Steve, lifts his coffee in greeting like this is all perfectly normal and not actively making your pulse misbehave. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Bucky returns, polite. Normal. The kind of normal he uses when he’s trying very hard not to show his cards.

Your fingers tighten around your cup without you meaning to, the sleeve warm against your palm. Bucky’s eyes dropped to the cup in your hand, lingering on it like it was safer to look at that than at your face for too long. “You got something?”

“Hazelnut latte,” you said. “Because I’m brave.”

Your voice comes out light, teasing, your practiced armor. Like you didn’t spend the entire morning trying not to think about him and that you didn’t stare at his text until your chest warmed in a way you refused to label.

He nods once, gaze still on your drink and then, casual, almost absentminded, he reaches out and adjusts the tote strap on your shoulder where it’s slipping.

The touch is quick, nothing dramatic, not even a full second. But it lands like a spark on dry paper.

His fingers brush the fabric, then the edge of your shoulder through your sweater, and your brain goes briefly blank, like someone unplugged it and forgot to plug it back in.

Bucky’s hand drops back to his side like it meant nothing. Like he hasn’t been doing little things like that for years.

Like you don’t remember a hundred tiny versions of this: him tucking your scarf in when you didn’t notice it slipping, him nudging your notebook back onto the desk when it slid, him sliding your coffee closer when you were too busy talking to reach for it.

“Thanks,” you manage, and it comes out quieter than you intended.

Bucky meets your eyes for the smallest second, just enough for you to feel like he heard the softness and didn’t look away from it. “Yeah,” he says.

Steve watches it happen with the patient expression of someone seeing a puzzle piece click into place. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t pounce, doesn’t make you feel exposed. He just shifts his weight and asks, warmly, “You heading to lab?”

You clear your throat like a person who has not just short-circuited over a tote strap. “Yep. My own personal hell.” You try to laugh but it comes out a little breathy.

Bucky’s gaze sharpens immediately, purpose sliding over his features like a mask he knows how to wear. “I’ll walk you.”

Your stomach drops again and you blink. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His tone is gentle, like he doesn’t mean it as pressure. Just fact. “I want to.”

The words hit like a warm hand on your spine, your chest squeezes in that soft, terrifying way it did last night when he said doll. In the way it did this morning when he wished you good luck like he’d been thinking about you before you even woke up.

“Okay,” you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to flustered. “Sure. You can—” you gesture vaguely, because words are failing you, “escort me across the terrifying quad.”

Bucky nods, already turning with you like the decision is made. Like this is just what he does: follows you. keeps you warm. makes sure you get where you’re going.

Steve steps back to give you space and smiles at you. “Text me later,” he says. “I want the lab gossip.”

You point at him, grateful for something normal to hold onto. “Only if you promise not to mother-hen Sam into my DMs.”

Steve laughs. “No promises.”

You roll your eyes and start toward the door with Bucky beside you, your shoulder nearly brushing his, your body walking a little too carefully like it doesn’t trust itself not to lean in.

As you pass, Steve adds lightly, like it’s nothing at all: “Tell Buck I said hi later.”

You look back, incredulous, grateful for the excuse to blink and breathe. “He literally heard you.”

“I like to be thorough,” Steve calls, grin bright.

You snorted and stepped into the cold with Bucky, breath catching as the chill cut straight through you.

It was that sharp, early-winter kind that made the inside of your nose sting and turned every exhale into smoke. You tucked your chin into your scarf and immediately regretted wearing cute boots instead of practical ones.

Bucky didn’t seem to register the temperature at all. He moved beside you with that steady, unhurried pace he always had, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the wind. 

The student union doors swung shut behind them, sealing in the warmth and noise and suddenly it was just campus morning again: footsteps on concrete, distant laughter, the thrum of cars, someone yelling into a phone about a quiz they definitely forgot.

You glanced at Bucky sideways and instantly noticed how he was walking half a step closer than normal.

Not touching. Not crowding. Not doing anything that anyone else would clock as anything. Just… close enough that when the wind cut hard between buildings, you felt the edge of his body heat brush your sleeve like a private little shelter.

It shouldn’t have felt like anything. And yet your brain kept tripping over it like a loose stair. You told yourself it was just him being protective. You told yourself that didn’t mean anything.

Your body, traitor, did not agree.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming to campus today,” you said, keeping your tone casual, like you weren’t overanalyzing his presence as if it were a crime scene.

Bucky’s eyes stayed forward. His hands were in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, jaw set like he was bracing for the wind to pick a fight. “Didn’t know I was.”

You snorted. “That’s deeply concerning.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I was up,” he said, like that explained everything. Like being awake automatically meant he belonged wherever you were.

Your gaze flicked to the faint shadows under his eyes, the kind that didn’t come from one bad night but more like a pattern he pretended wasn’t a pattern. “You didn’t sleep.”

Bucky’s jaw shifted subtly, like a muscle flex. Like he didn’t love being perceived. “Some.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

He glanced down at you and for a second his expression softened in a way that always startled you. like the “Bucky Barnes who scowls at the world” melted into something warmer when it was just you.

“I’m fine,” he said, quieter.

You made a face. “You say that like it’s a spell.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched again. “Works most of the time.”

“It does not,” you said, and your voice wanted to be teasing, wanted to stay light, but there was something tender underneath it you couldn’t quite smother. You swallowed it down and tried again, steadier. “But really… why did you really come?”

Bucky’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug, but his eyes stayed fixed ahead, scanning the quad like he was tracking a hundred small things at once. “You had lab.”

You blinked, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn’t “Okay,” you said slowly. “And?”

“And it’s early,” he added, simple as a fact. “And it’s cold.”

Something in your chest shifted. It wasn’t fireworks, wasn’t a confession, wasn’t even romantic on the surface… but it hit you anyway.

Because it wasn’t about the weather. Not really.

It was about him showing up. About him quietly deciding that you shouldn’t have to do the morning alone. About him making himself part of your day the same way he always did, like it didn’t cost him anything, like it wasn’t a choice.

Your mouth went dry. You forced a laugh to cover it. “You’re acting like I’m going to get jumped by a chemistry beaker.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you again, sharp and steady. “Stranger things have happened.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re dramatic.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “You’re underdressed.”

You gasped, offended, clutching your coat tighter around yourself like it was a courtroom drama. “These boots are fashion.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, quiet and rough, barely there, but it warmed something in you anyway. “Those boots are a lawsuit.”

You bumped your shoulder into his, a little harder than necessary, because you needed the contact to feel normal. “You’re such an old man,” you accused.

“I’m twenty-three,” he reminded you again, like he’d been waiting to say it. 

You smiled despite yourself, couldn’t help it, even when you tried. “And yet. So ancient.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you for half a beat, like he wanted to say something else. Like there was another version of this conversation where he admitted the real reason he was here wasn’t the cold, or the hour, or the hypothetical beaker attack.

Like maybe the real reason was the simplest one: I wanted to see you.

But he didn’t say it.

You crossed the quad together, weaving through the morning crowd like you’d done it a hundred times except this time… you couldn’t stop noticing the shape of it.

Bucky stayed half a step closer than normal, body angled just enough that he took the worst of the wind when it knifed between buildings. His pace matched yours without you asking. When you slowed to dodge a cluster of freshmen walking five-wide like they’d never heard of spatial awareness, he slowed too. When you sped up to get around a skateboarder who nearly clipped your ankle, he adjusted without breaking stride, guiding you through the chaos like it was second nature.

It should’ve been funny. It was funny, a little. But it also made something in your chest twist in that warm, uncomfortable way you’d been trying to ignore. 

By the time the science building came into view, your hands were cold inside your sleeves, but your face was warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the weather.

At the edge of the steps, you slowed.

“This is me,” you said, turning toward the doors like you weren’t reluctant to break away from him. Like you weren’t suddenly hyperaware of how much calmer your brain had been with him beside you.

Bucky stopped with you but didn’t immediately step away.

You became abruptly aware of how close you were now, close enough you could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth from the way he held tension, the little flecks of lighter brown in his eyes when the sun hit them right.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your hands. “You got gloves?”

You blinked down, as if the answer might change if you looked harder. Your fingers were shoved into your sleeves like a child. “No.”

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, and you weren’t sure if it was aimed at you or at the concept of winter itself. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of black knit gloves, and held them out.

You stared. “Are those… yours?”

Bucky’s face stayed neutral, but his ears pinked faintly, the only betrayal of anything happening under the surface. “Extra pair.”

“Since when do you carry extra gloves?” you asked, because your brain needed to cling to logistics before it got swallowed by the way your chest was tightening.

Bucky shrugged like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t at all strange to have an extra layer of warmth ready to hand to you.“Since always.”

You didn’t believe him. You didn’t believe most things Bucky said when he was trying to play something off. But you took them anyway because you always did. Because your hands were freezing. Because refusing would make this a thing, and you were trying so hard not to make things things.

Your fingers brushed his for the briefest moment as you took them and your body reacted like you’d been burned. A little jolt, sharp and hot, flaring up your arm and straight into your chest, and your stomach dipped like you’d stepped off a curb you didn’t see.

You focused on the gloves like they were the only thing holding you together. “You just carry extra gloves,” you said, a little too pointed, like you could logic your way out of whatever feeling was trying to take root in your ribs.

Bucky’s shrug came again, smaller this time. “Yeah.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re lying.”

“I’m prepared,” he said.

You huffed a laugh, but it came out thin. “You’re—” you started, ready to tease him, ready to keep it light… then the truth landed too cleanly in your mouth.

“You’re always prepared for me.”

The words hung there between you, visible in the cold. You hadn’t meant to say it like that, hadn’t meant to say it at all.

Bucky didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze lifted to your face, steady and unreadable except for the way something in it tightened, like your words had hit a place he kept guarded.

You swallowed, forcing air into your lungs.

“Well,” you said too brightly, voice climbing a note higher than usual. You shoved one glove on, then the other, because movement felt safer than standing still. “Thanks for walking me.”

Bucky’s voice dropped lower. “Text me when you’re done.”

You blinked. “Why?”

His gaze flicked past your shoulder toward the building, scanning like it was a threat, then came back to you, sharp and full of intent, like the only thing he was really paying attention to was you. “Just… do it.”

It wasn’t controlling. It wasn’t harsh. It sounded like a habit he didn’t realize he had: check in, make sure she’s okay, make sure she’s still here.

Your chest tightened. “Okay,” you said, quieter now. Honest despite yourself. “I will.”

Bucky nodded once, satisfied, as if that was all he needed. As if your promise was something he could hold onto. Then, finally, he stepped back like he’d completed his mission.

You turned toward the doors, breath fogging in front of you, and took one step… then hesitated.

You looked back and he was still standing there, watching like he always did until you were inside. Your heart did that stupid, traitorous thing again, beating too hard against your ribs.

You lifted a hand in a small wave, trying to look normal, trying to ignore the fact that your fingers felt warm inside hisgloves.

Bucky lifted his hand back, subtle and restrained, but his eyes stayed on you the whole time.

And you ducked inside before you could talk yourself into circles, before you could stand there long enough to do something reckless, like walk back down the steps and ask him what the hell you were to him.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The lab greeted you with the sharp scent of bleach and metal, disinfectant hanging heavy in the air. You shrugged off your coat, hung it on the rack, slipped your goggles into place, and forced yourself back into the rhythm of the room: steady hands, precise measurements, careful data collection.

You turned toward your station, the one with the slightly crooked label and the burner that always clicked twice before it lit. Your lab partner, Riley, was already there, hair in a messy bun, sleeves shoved up, face bright with the kind of morning energy that made you distrust her.

“Hey!” Riley chirped, waving like you were meeting for brunch instead of chemistry.

You waved back, grateful for something normal. “Morning.”

Riley leaned over the bench, eyes scanning your materials like she had a radar for preparedness. “Did you bring your notebook?”

You patted your tote bag. “Always. I’m the only reason you pass.”

Riley grinned, shameless. “True.”

That made you laugh, and for half a second you felt like yourself again, like you could just slide into the routine and let your brain go quiet. You both started setting up: measuring, labeling, filling small beakers with precise amounts of solution. You wrote your names on a strip of lab tape and stuck it to the glassware.

Normally, you loved this part, the rhythm of it. Hands busy, mind narrowing down to a single point. The satisfaction of order: numbers, measurements, exactness. Lab work was one of the few places your brain could be loud without being chaotic.

But today your thoughts kept drifting like static, like a radio station you couldn’t tune out.

Bucky standing at the science building steps, still watching you when you turned back. Bucky’s quiet voice: Just… do it.Bucky’s gloves on your hands, now folded in your tote like a secret you couldn’t put down.

You shook your head once, sharp, like you could physically dislodge it.

Focus.

Riley was mid-sentence about your TA, something about the man’s obsession with “proper labeling” and “not treating acid like juice”, when a voice cut in from the station beside you, murmuring your name like it belonged in his mouth.

“Hey… that’s you, right?”

You glance over and another classmate, Ethan Calder, tall, sandy-haired, always wearing a hoodie like it was glued to him, stood by the neighboring bench with a smile that was trying a little too hard. He sat two rows behind you in one of your lecture classes. He’d asked you for notes once and now laughed too loudly at your jokes since.

“Yeah,” you said, polite. “Hey.”

Ethan’s smile brightened like you’d just rewarded him. He leaned an elbow on the counter, casual and rehearsed, like he’d seen someone do it in a movie and decided it counted as charm.

“Didn’t know you were a morning person,” he said, tone light.

You blinked. “I’m not.”

He laughed, like that was delightful. “That’s kind of cute.”

Your stomach twisted.

Not because Ethan was doing anything wrong, he wasn’t. He was flirting, harmlessly, the way college guys did when they thought they had an opening.

But the word cute landed on your skin like an ill-fitting sweater. Scratchy. Wrong. A label you didn’t want.

Ethan kept going, undeterred. “You always seem… chill,” he said, gaze lingering in a way that made your shoulders want to tense. “Like you’ve got your life together.”

You stared at him for a beat. My life together?

Your life was held together by color-coded planners, caffeine, and the sheer determination not to disappoint people. But sure. If that looked like “together” from the outside, maybe everyone else was worse off than you thought.

“Uh,” you said, trying to steer it back to neutral ground, “I just… write everything down.”

Ethan nodded like that was adorable, like the idea of you being organized was part of his fantasy. “Maybe you could write my number down.”

Riley made a very unfortunate choking sound that could’ve been interpreted as a cough if the universe was kind and your face went hot instantly.

Ethan smiled, pleased with himself. “Unless you’re seeing someone.”

The question should’ve been easy. You should’ve smiled, said no thanks, kept it polite. It would’ve slid off you like water. You’ve brushed off flirting before, deflected, redirected.

Except your brain didn’t stay in the present, no, instead it immediately supplied Bucky.

Bucky’s face at the coffee shop. Bucky stepping to your side like he belonged there. Bucky adjusting your tote strap without thinking, like touching you was instinct. Bucky giving you gloves as if keeping you warm was as natural as breathing.

Your mouth opened… and nothing came out.

Because if you said no, it felt like lying. And if you said yes, you didn’t know who you’d be talking about.

Ethan’s smile faltered slightly. “Or… are you?”

You forced a small laugh, light and awkward. “I’m… not really looking to—”

“That’s fair,” Ethan said quickly, eager to recover, but then he added, softer, like he thought this was romantic: “I could change your mind.”

Your skin prickled. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t cruel. It was the kind of line people said when they thought persistence was attractive, but it made something in you recoil. Not because he was scary… but because he wasn’t Bucky.

And that was the problem. That was the sudden, horrifying clarity of it.

You didn’t want attention like this from someone else. You didn’t want to be someone’s new interest, someone’s casual flirt, someone’s challenge. You didn’t want to be looked at like a prize. You wanted—

You froze. Because your brain finished the sentence before you could stop it.

You wanted Bucky.

The thought landed clean and undeniable, like a door slamming shut. Your breath caught in your chest and your hands, holding a test tube, went suddenly too still.

You swallowed past the tightness, forcing your voice steady the way you did when you were trying not to shake.

“Ethan,” you said, calm but firm, “you’re nice, but… no.”

Ethan blinked. “No?”

You nodded, firmer now. “No.”

He stared at you for a beat like he wasn’t used to being shut down without softness. Then he lifted his hands, backing off. “Okay. Got it. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you said, because you were always fine, always polite, always smoothing edges even when you didn’t owe it.

Ethan retreated to his station, cheeks a little pink, posture a little smaller, and the air around you finally loosened.

Riley leaned in, whispering, “Was that—”

“Don’t,” you hissed.

Riley held up both hands. “I was going to say ‘was that uncomfortable’ but okay.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose and focused on the beakers because if you looked at Riley’s face for one more second you might actually scream.

They worked in silence for a few minutes: measure, pour, record, repeat. Your hands moved on autopilot. Your mind, meanwhile, was in full catastrophe.

Why did that feel so wrong?

Because you didn’t like Ethan, that was normal, but it wasn’t just dislike.

It was… comparison. Immediate, involuntary comparison. Ethan’s smile against Bucky’s quiet warmth. Ethan’s practiced charm against Bucky’s raw sincerity. Ethan trying to impress you versus Bucky never trying at all and still somehow being the person you wanted most.

Your throat tightened again. 

You’d been telling yourself for years that what you felt for Bucky was friendship.

You’d told herself the warmth in your chest when he smiled was normal. That the jealousy you felt when other girls laughed too hard at his jokes was just protectiveness. That the way you always noticed him first in a room was just because he was your person.

But Ethan had flirted with you for thirty seconds and all you could think was: I want Bucky.

Your hand steadied the burette like it was the only thing keeping you upright, eyes locked on the meniscus because if you looked up you might actually fall apart in front of fluorescent lights and twelve other people in goggles. You counted drops. You breathed through your nose. You pretended the tightness in your chest was just anxiety about the lab report.

Riley nudged you lightly with an elbow. “You okay?”

You blinked hard, refocusing on the liquid levels like your life depended on it. “Yep.”

Riley’s eyes flicked to your face, immediately unimpressed. “That was a ‘no’ disguised as a ‘yep.’”

Your laugh came out too sharp, more of a bark than a laugh, the kind that was all edges. “I’m fine.”

Riley narrowed her eyes like she could see straight through your skull. “Did Ethan bother you?”

You hesitated, because the truth wasn’t that Ethan bothered you. He was fine. He was normal. He was what flirting was supposed to look like in college: harmless lines, easy confidence, a little too much charm.

He’d held up a mirror for half a second, and you’d seen what you’d been refusing to look at, what your body already knew, what your mind had been trying to outrun.

You shook your head quickly. Too quickly. “No. He’s—he’s harmless.”

Riley didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just waited, patient in the way only someone who knows you well can be.

You stared at the data sheet until the numbers blurred into gray lines, swallowing thickly. And then, so quietly it barely registered over the lab noise, you whispered, “I think I’m screwed.”

Riley’s eyebrows lifted. “Academically or emotionally?”

A sound escaped you, half laugh, half broken exhale. “Both.”

Riley’s expression softened immediately, the teasing draining out of her face. “Hey…”

Your fingers tightened around your pen until it dug into your grip. “I didn’t like it.”

“Okay,” Riley said, gentle. “That’s allowed.”

“No, I mean—” You swallowed hard, throat tight in a way that made your eyes sting for the stupidest reason. “I didn’t like it because it wasn’t… him.”

Riley went still.

And you hated that your body betrayed you in real time, the heat crawling up your neck, the ache behind your ribs like something deep had been pulled awake, the way your breath turned shallow like you’d just run up stairs.

Riley’s voice dropped. “Bucky.”

You didn’t answer, because saying his name out loud felt like stepping off a cliff.

Riley’s face did that slow, dawning thing people do when the last gear finally clicks. “Oh my God.”

You squeezed your eyes shut for half a second. “Don’t say it like that.”

Riley’s whisper was reverent yet delighted, like she’d just discovered a secret romance in the margins of your life. “You like him.”

Your eyes snapped open. “No.”

Riley stared at you. “Dude,” she said, flatly.

Your throat bobbed. “I mean—I don’t know. We’re just—”

Riley held your gaze with the quiet endurance of someone watching a friend lie to themselves in slow motion.

“I didn’t want Ethan to ask for my number,” you admitted, your voice cracking with honesty as the words came rushing out. “I didn’t want anyone else to… want me like that. It felt wrong.” You inhaled shakily. “And then all I could think about was—” Your stomach rolled. “How Bucky looks at me.”

Riley’s mouth softened. “How does he look at you?”

You stared at the beaker like it contained the answer and if you stared long enough, the solution would change color and give you clarity. But the truth was already there, bright and unavoidable.

He looked at you like he was holding back, like he was always one breath away from doing something reckless.

Like he was trying to be good, trying to be careful, trying not to ruin what you had, while still orbiting you like gravity.

Like he wasn’t just watching you… he was keeping you.

Your voice came out on a whisper that scared you with how true it sounded.

“Like I’m his.”

Riley’s eyes widened.

Your heart thudded, loud in your ears. Because now that you’d said it, you couldn’t un-know it. And worse? You realized you wanted it to be true.

You wanted to be his. Not in some dramatic, possessive, unhealthy way. In that quiet, steady way Bucky did everything, like care could be a constant and safety could be a person.

The thought terrified you so badly your hands shook, the pen wobbling against the page.

Riley reached out and touched your wrist lightly, grounding you. “Okay,” she murmured. “Breathe. You’re not dying.”

You let out a shaky exhale. “It feels like I am.”

Riley’s eyes flicked to your phone on the counter. “Didn’t you say he walked you here?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

“And he told you to text him when you’re done.”

Your chest tightened again, because you’d almost forgotten, you’d been too busy unraveling. Riley gave you a look that was gentle but firm, the kind that didn’t let you run away from yourself. “Text him when lab ends,” she said. 

You nodded, even though the idea of seeing Bucky now, knowing what you knew, feeling what you felt, made your stomach flip violently.

You finished the lab on autopilot. You recorded numbers. Cleaned glassware. Put equipment away. Smiled at the TA like you weren’t internally combusting. When the final timer beeped, relief hit you so hard you almost swayed.

Around you, the room loosened. Students started filtering out in clumps, noise swelling as people tugged off goggles and complained about the assignment, their voices overlapping into that familiar post-lab chaos.

You wiped your hands on a paper towel, tossed it, and reached for your phone with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, your screen lighting up. Your stomach flipped like it recognized what was about to happen and you stared at the screen like it might bite. 

Your thumb hovered over Bucky’s contact for a second. You swallowed hard, pulse thumping in your throat and you typed before you could chicken out.

You: Done. Survived. Barely.

You hit send… and then you just stood there, heart pounding, staring at “Delivered,” because suddenly you couldn’t remember how to be casual with the boy you’d been casual with for years.

Riley nudged your shoulder gently, snapping you back into your body. “You okay?”

You blinked and realized you were holding your breath. Your hand was still hovering midair, phone clenched like a lifeline.

“No,” you whispered honestly, because you were past pretending now. “I’m not.”

Riley’s mouth quirked, sympathetic and smug at the same time. “Welcome to having feelings.”

You let out a small, shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t on the verge of panic.

Your phone stayed silent for one awful second. Then two. Your chest tightened.

Because now that you’d realized it, now that you’d said it out loud, even if only to Riley… there was no going back to just friends.

Not when your body reacted to him like this. Not when the thought of someone else flirting with you made your skin crawl. Not when being “casual” suddenly felt like standing on a fault line pretending the earth wasn’t moving beneath your feet.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, startling you out of your spiraling thoughts. 

Bucky: Where are you coming out?

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like your organs shifted.

Because… of course he was asking that.

Because he hadn’t actually said he’d be waiting, he’d just quietly built it into his day like a fact. Like your lab ending meant his next step was to be wherever you came out.

You swallowed, fingers suddenly clumsy on the screen, and typed back.

You: East doors. By the stairs.

The response came so fast it almost felt like he’d been holding the phone, waiting for it.

Bucky: Okay.

You shoved your phone into your tote, forced your face into something neutral, and started packing up the last of your things while Riley watched you with the kind of expression you wore when your friend was actively walking into a romcom plot.

The hallway outside the lab was crowded with students spilling out in little clusters, chattering about assignments or complaining about rubrics as you walked around them with your head down, moving with purpose.

Then you saw him, standing near the east doors like he’d been placed there on purpose.

Hands in his jacket pockets. Shoulders loose but alert. Hair slightly messy, like he’d run his fingers through it and forgotten to fix it after. That familiar, contained stillness that made him look like he’d been carved out of calm.

But the second his eyes found you… something in him eased. Not dramatic, just a subtle softening in his mouth, in his gaze, like tension he’d been holding finally released. He pushed off the wall and started toward you, closing the distance with that steady, unhurried stride of his. 

And then, because the universe loved torment, Ethan appeared at your elbow like a poorly-timed jump scare, sliding into your path with the kind of confidence that only came from not realizing you were currently hanging on by a thread.

“Hey,” Ethan said, too smooth, matching your stride like it was the most natural thing in the world. “About earlier—”

Your skin prickled instantly. Not fear, not dread, just that full-body nope, the reflexive recoil of your nervous system when it recognized a situation you did not have the bandwidth for.

You didn’t want to do this again. Not in a hallway full of people. Not while you were still trying to pretend your life hadn’t tilted on its axis. Not with Bucky ten feet away, walking toward you, and your heart already sprinting like it knew.

“I meant what I said,” you replied, polite but firm. “No.”

Ethan blinked, then lifted both hands like you’d just pointed a weapon at him and he wanted you to know he was harmless. “I know,” he said quickly. “I just—listen, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

The hallway swelled around you: voices, laughter, the squeak of shoes, the faint beep of a door mechanism. People streamed past in clumps, talking over each other, and you could feel your pulse in your throat like your body was trying to make itself heard.

“Okay,” you said, careful. “Thanks for saying that.”

Ethan nodded, and instead of stopping there like a normal person, he kept walking with you, still at your elbow, still in your space, still acting like proximity was something he was entitled to.

“So… no hard feelings?” he asked, as if the conversation needed to continue. As if he could negotiate his way back into comfort.

You opened your mouth to answer, but then Bucky reached you.

He didn’t wedge himself between you and Ethan. He didn’t square up or puff out his chest or do anything dramatic. He simply stepped into the space on your other side, close enough that the air around you changed. Like a warm wall appeared. Like your body recognized him and settled on instinct.

And Ethan, without even realizing he was doing it, drifted half a step away.

Bucky’s gaze flicked once to Ethan, quick and assessing, before landing on you like Ethan didn’t exist. Like you were the only thing that mattered.

“You okay?” Bucky asked quietly.

Your brain stuttered for a second before you nodded, a bit too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Bucky held your eyes for a second longer than necessary, like he was deciding whether to believe you. Like he could see the little crack in your “fine” and he wasn’t sure yet whether to push.

Then he shifted his attention just slightly to Ethan.

Ethan cleared his throat, suddenly aware of his own existence. “Hey, man.”

Bucky gave a short nod. “Hey.”

A beat of silence sat between them and you could practically hear Ethan recalculating his odds, his confidence shrinking by degrees. His gaze flicked from Bucky to you, then back, trying to read the situation like it was a test question he hadn’t studied for.

Ethan’s smile returned, smaller now, edges a little forced. “So you two are…?”

Your heart jumped into your throat, but Bucky didn’t look at you when he answered, didn’t glance at you for permission, didn’t hesitate. He just said it, calm and sure: “She’s with me.”

Your breath caught so hard it almost hurt. Not because it was a lie… but because it didn’t feel like one.

Ethan blinked, thrown off-balance. “Oh.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yeah.”

Ethan’s mouth opened like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to clarify or try to save face. But then he looked at Bucky again and thought better of it. “Okay,” Ethan said quickly, backing off with an awkward half-laugh. “Cool. My bad. Have a good one.”

He peeled away into the crowd, disappearing into the hallway noise like he’d never been there.

And you just… stood there, frozen in the hallway while the world kept moving around you. Students streamed past in waves. A girl laughed loudly behind you. Someone complained about the lab report. The doors hissed open, letting in a bite of cold air, then shut again.

But everything sounded muffled, like your hearing had dipped underwater.

Bucky turned back to you like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just taken your entire nervous system and shaken it.

“Let’s go,” he said gently. “It’s cold.”

Your voice came out too soft, almost fragile. “Bucky…”

He paused immediately, like your tone hooked him by the spine. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice quiet.

You didn’t know what to say, you just knew that a warm, traitorous part of you had liked it.

Liked the way Ethan had backed off without argument.

Liked the way Bucky had been effortless about it.

Liked the way he hadn’t asked you if it was okay first, because he’d read you, decided you didn’t have the bandwidth, and stepped in.

Liked the way it made you feel… chosen.

You swallowed hard, forcing your brain to function. “You didn’t have to do that,” you managed.

Bucky’s brows knit faintly, genuine confusion crossing his face. “Do what?”

“Say… that.” You made a helpless little gesture in the air, fingers fluttering like you could physically wave the sentence away. “The… with me thing.”

Bucky stared at you for a second, like he genuinely didn’t understand why it was a big deal. Then his jaw shifted subtly, the smallest tell you’d learned to recognize over years of knowing him. Not anger or irritation, but something more like restraint.

“He was bothering you,” he said simply.

You blinked, thrown off. “He wasn’t— I mean, kind of, but—”

Bucky’s gaze sharpened, not at you, never at you, but like he was focusing in, narrowing down to the truth you were trying to dodge. “You didn’t like it.”

Your chest tightened. Because he wasn’t just guessing, he knew. Not in a dramatic, mind reading way, but in the way he always knew things about you.

You tried to laugh it off, because laughing was safer than letting your throat go tight like it wanted to. “You’re psychic now?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched once, the hint of humor faint and fleeting. “No.”

And then, quieter, like he was admitting something he didn’t usually say out loud: “I pay attention.”

The words hit you like a punch to the ribs.

You looked away quickly, because if you kept staring at him you were going to do something insane, something that would change the entire shape of your life like grab his sleeve and ask him what he meant by she’s with me.

You pushed through the doors into the cold with him. The wind met you immediately, biting at your cheeks, threading through your hair, slipping under the edges of your coat like it had a personal vendetta. You instinctively hunched and Bucky, without thinking, angled his body slightly on your side.

Not dramatically or obviously, just enough that the wind hit his shoulder first instead of yours.

Your fingers curled around your tote strap until your knuckles went pale under the knit gloves. Your heart wouldn’t calm down, pounding violently in your chest like it didn’t know how to be normal anymore.

You walked in silence for a minute. Not an awkward silence, exactly. Just… full. Packed with everything neither of you was saying.

Finally, the question bubbled up and spilled out before you could talk yourself out of it. “How did you know I didn’t like it?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes forward, scanning the walkway out of habit like he was still half in protector mode even though the biggest threat on campus was probably a rogue scooter.

His silence stretched just long enough to make your stomach dip, and when he did answer, his voice was low. “Because you smile different when you’re uncomfortable.”

Your throat went dry so fast it felt like someone had turned off a faucet. You swallowed, trying to force your voice back into something normal. “That’s… weirdly specific.”

Bucky shrugged, but his shoulders were tense like he’d said too much, like he’d let something slip past the walls he kept up around everyone else.

“I told you,” he said quietly. “I pay attention.”

And your brain, which had already been cracked open all morning, just… spiraled.

He notices my smiles. He knows the difference. He knows my uncomfortable smile. He knows me.

You stared at the path ahead like it might offer a lifeline. You needed something normal. Something you could grab onto that wouldn’t make your ribs ache.

“So,” you said, forcing lightness into your voice like you were shoving a smile onto a bruise, “do you just hang out outside my classes now? Like a campus security guard?”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. It was small, but it was real. “No.”

You arched a brow. “Because it kind of feels like yes.”

“I was already up,” he said again, like that explained everything.

Your stomach twisted, the humor slipping away. “Why?” you asked, softer without meaning to be. You had brushed it off earlier but now it was going to nag at you. “Why didn’t you sleep?”

Bucky’s hands stayed buried in his pockets. His jaw was tight, a muscle shifting once as if he was grinding something down, and for a second you thought he might dodge. Thought he’d give you something vague and safe: had stuff on my mind, just couldn’t, it’s fine.

But then he said it, very quietly, like it slipped out before he could stop it. 

“I didn’t like what Steve said last night.”

Your breath caught. “What did he say?” you asked, your stomach dropping to your feet as you could only imagine what Steve might’ve said. 

“He said…” Bucky’s voice dropped, rougher than before. “If we’re just friends, he can… talk to you.”

Your heart slammed so hard it felt like it knocked air out of your lungs. For a second, the campus noise blurred, all of the chatter turned into background static as the sentence rearranged itself inside your head into something sharper.

Because Steve wasn’t a threat. Steve was Steve. But the idea had landed somewhere deep in Bucky and set off something instinctive.

And suddenly everything clicked into one clean, terrifying line: Bucky had come to campus because Steve’s joke had hit something real in him. He’d come because the thought of someone else having access to you made him restless.

He’d come because… Because he didn’t want to share.

You forced your voice steady. “And that bothered you?”

Bucky’s shoulders went rigid for half a second like your question hit the exact spot he’d been trying not to press, before he muttered, rough and blunt, “Yeah.”

Your pulse went so loud you could hear it in your ears, a frantic drumbeat that didn’t match the slow winter morning at all. “Why?” you asked, barely above a whisper, the word sound almost like a plea. 

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second and then snapped back to your eyes. His voice came out low. Careful. Measured like each word was something he had to decide to let go of.

“Because I—”

Your name being shouted from across the quad interrupted Bucky.

You turned on instinct, heart still lodged in your throat, and saw Sam jogging toward you from the sidewalk, one arm lifted in an enthusiastic wave. He was moving with that unmistakable Sam energy, loud even when he wasn’t speaking yet. Steve followed behind him at an annoyingly calm pace, moving like a man who had never once in his life been late to anything.

Beside you, Bucky’s posture changed, subtle, but immediate. His shoulders shifted, his stance angling a fraction closer to yours, like his body had decided to make you a safe point without asking permission first.

“There you are!” he said, slightly out of breath, grin wide. “Steve said he saw you earlier and I was like—”

He cut himself off mid-sentence as his eyes finally took in the scene properly: the proximity, Bucky’s position, your flushed face, the fact that you and Bucky looked like you’d been in the middle of something serious.

Sam’s grin sharpened into something gleeful and dangerous. “Ohhhh.”

Steve stopped beside Sam, gaze flicking between you and Bucky, taking in the distance between your shoulders, the way Bucky’s body was angled toward you, the slight tension in Bucky’s jaw like he was clenching down on words.

Steve’s smile was gentle. Not smug, just… knowing. “Well,” he said, like he was commenting on the weather, “this looks familiar.”

Heat flooded your face so fast you could’ve powered the entire science building. Bucky looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot.

Sam’s grin widened until it bordered on feral. “Oh my God.”

You cleared your throat violently, because if you didn’t make some sound you were going to combust. “Hi, Sam.”

Sam’s eyes sparkled with chaos, gaze bouncing between you and Bucky like he was watching live entertainment. “Hi,” he said brightly. “Are we interrupting something?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Yes,” he said flatly.

You and Steve both spoke at the exact same time. “No.”

Sam blinked, then slowly turned his head between the three of you like a referee. “That,” he said, delighted, “is a lie from at least two of you.”

You wanted to disappear into the concrete. Melt right into the sidewalk. Become one with the campus landscaping.

Bucky’s gaze flicked to you briefly and you could see the frustration, felt it like a touch. Not angry at you, but annoyed at the interruption. And even more annoyed at himself for almost saying something he couldn’t take back.

Because you could still feel it… the way he’d looked at you right before Sam showed up, the way his voice had dipped.

You couldn’t unfeel the sentence he’d been about to say. And you couldn’t ignore the sick little flip in your stomach when you realized:

Whatever Bucky had been about to tell you… It mattered.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · · · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Later that evening, you tried to be normal about it. You really did.

You went home, kicked your shoes off by the door like you always did, washed your hands like you’d been handling radioactive material, scrubbed under your nails, tied your hair up, made yourself a sad little dinner that consisted of a microwaved frozen dinner, a slice of toast, a handful of grapes you ate standing at the counter because sitting down felt like admitting you were home alone with your thoughts.

You even opened your laptop, even pulled up your lab notes, even stared at them long enough to pretend you were reading.

But the words might as well have been written in another language because your brain refused to care about molarity when it was busy replaying Bucky’s voice like a cursed audio loop.

She’s with me.

I didn’t like what Steve said last night.

Because I—

You pressed your palms to your eyes until you saw stars.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t known Bucky was… protective, he always had been. In ways that were easy to explain away if you kept your eyes half-closed and your heart on mute.

He walked you to your car. He waited until you got inside. He kept an eye on your drink at parties. He texted when you got home, sometimes hours later, like the worry came for him in waves.

You had always filed it under best friend behavior, because if you didn’t file it there, you’d have to file it somewhere much more dangerous.

Somewhere that asked you questions like:

Why does your heart do that when he looks at you?

Why do you hate it when he laughs with other girls?

Why did “she’s with me” make you feel… safe?

You groaned into your hands and slumped down onto the couch.

Your apartment was quiet in that particular way that made your thoughts louder. The window beside your couch showed a slice of campus life: students crossing the sidewalk, headlights in the dusk, the occasional burst of laughter.

You felt like you were trapped behind glass.

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table and you snatched it up so fast you nearly dropped it.

Bucky: You good?

You stared at the screen until your eyes stung. Because that was his favorite question. Like he could feel when you weren’t. 

You typed back, deleted it, typed again, erased half the words and tried to make the lie look smaller.

You: Yeah.

You hated the lie the second you sent it.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again, like he was choosing his words carefully.

Bucky: Okay.

Bucky: You got my gloves?

You set your phone down like it was too heavy and opened your tote bag. Your fingers found the simple, black knit immediately. They were soft from use, warm in the way fabric got warm when it lived near someone’s skin. You turned them over in your hands like you might find an explanation stitched into the seams.

Your thumb brushed the inside cuff and caught on something. You frowned, pinching the fabric between your fingers and pulling it open. There was a little stitched tag on the inside with a name written in black ink like someone had labeled them carefully.

BUCKY

Your chest cracked open.

Of course he’d labeled them. Of course he’d kept track of them. Of course there was no such thing as an “extra pair” that just happened to be in his pocket the exact day you forgot yours. 

He’d brought them for you, like he’d been prepared to take care of you before you even realized you needed it.

You stared at the name until you went a little dizzy, your vision blurring at the edges.

Stop, you told yourself. Stop being dramatic.

But your mind wouldn’t stop pulling at every thread, because now that you’d seen it, it was everywhere.

You swallowed hard, staring at your phone again like it might save you as your thumb hovered over Bucky’s name. You could call. You could text. You could pretend this was fine.

But it wasn’t fine. You didn’t do well with limbo, never had. It ate you alive.

And Bucky… Bucky was your best friend.

If this was going to change, you needed it to change on purpose, not in pieces, not in half sentences and interrupted almost-confessions and Steve and Sam showing up like the universe’s worst timing.

You needed to know if you had just imagined the whole thing… or if Bucky Barnes had almost admitted something that would rearrange your entire life.

You stood abruptly, like your body decided before your brain did. You paced the living room once, then twice, the gloves still in your hand like a stupid little talisman.

Your phone buzzed again.

Bucky: If you’re not, just say that.

You stopped mid-step, your throat tightening so hard it felt like swallowing glass.

He knew your “yeah” was a lie because he knew your voice even through text. Because he knew how you dodged when you were unraveling. Because he’d been paying attention for so long you didn’t even know what parts of you belonged only to you anymore.

You stared at the message for a long beat, chest rising and falling too fast. Then you typed before fear could talk you out of it.

You: I’m not.

The response came so fast it felt like he’d been waiting with his phone in his hand the whole time.

Bucky: Want me to come over?

Your pulse spiked as you imagined Bucky in your apartment, in this quiet space where there was nowhere to hide. You imagined him sitting on your couch, those steady eyes on you, his voice low and careful.

It made you feel like you might combust.

You swallowed, fingers trembling.

You: No.

You: I’m coming to you.

There was a pause. Not long, but long enough for you to imagine him reading it, blinking, sitting up straighter.

Bucky: Okay.

Bucky: Door’s open.

That did something to you, something soft and devastating. Like he’d been waiting for you all along.

You grabbed your coat without thinking, shoved your feet back into your boots, and headed out the door before you could reconsider.

The walk across campus was cold and surreal, streetlights pooling pale gold on the sidewalks. Your breath came out in nervous little clouds. The air smelled like winter, sharp, clean, faintly like smoke from someone’s distant cigarette.

Every step made your stomach tighten.

Because what if you were wrong? What if Bucky had been protecting you because that’s what he did and you were about to embarrass yourself in the most catastrophic way possible?

But then you remembered the gloves. The name inside them. And the way his voice had gone low and rough when he said he didn’t like Steve’s joke.

Your heart pounded harder.

Bucky’s building was only a few blocks away, but it felt like a mile by the time you made it there. 

The stairwell smelled faintly like someone’s laundry detergent and old carpet. Your boots thudded softly as you climbed, the sound too loud in the quiet. Your hands were numb by the time you reached his floor and stopped outside his door. 

You lifted your fist… and hesitated. Because this was it. This was the moment where you either saved your friendship by pretending nothing had happened… or risked everything by naming it.

You exhaled shakily, then knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, as if he’d been standing on the other side waiting for the exact moment you decided you were brave.

Bucky stood there in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp like he’d showered recently. He looked… tense, like he’d been pacing, like he’d been trying to burn nervous energy off with movement and failing.

His eyes found you and something in his expression eased. Relief. Quick and raw and so obvious it nearly broke you.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “Hey.”

For a half second neither of you moved. Then Bucky stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in.”

You walked in on legs that felt slightly unsteady, like your body was moving a beat behind your mind.

Bucky shut the door behind you, the click of the latch loud in the stillness.

You turned to face him and for a moment you just… looked at each other. Best friends, standing a little too close. Two people on the edge of something neither of you had wanted to name until the universe forced your hand.

Bucky’s eyes tracked your face the way they always did, like he was checking for damage, like he could read your mood in microexpressions you didn’t even know you made. Your throat tightened at the thought.

Your voice came out shaky despite your best efforts. “What were you about to say.”

Bucky blinked once, like your bluntness snapped him out of whatever careful script he’d been trying to build in his head. “What?”

You dug into your coat pocket and pulled out the gloves, holding them up between you like evidence. “These,” you said, breathy. “The ‘extra pair’ you just happened to have. With your name written inside.”

Bucky’s ears went pink instantly, the color creeping up like betrayal. His jaw flexed once, and his gaze flicked away to the side toward the kitchen, toward the counter, toward literally anything that wasn’t your eyes.

“You were about to say something today,” you continued, forcing yourself to keep going before you lost the nerve. “Outside the quad. You said… you didn’t like what Steve said.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

You stepped closer, just enough to make it impossible to pretend this was casual. “And then you said ‘because I—’” your voice cracked on the last word. “And you stopped.”

Bucky finally looked back at you, his eyes serious and unguarded in a way that made you feel like you’d stepped too close to the edge of something sharp. He breathed in slowly through his nose, controlled and measured, like he was trying to keep himself steady.

“I need you to tell me what that was,” you said quietly. “Because I’ve been spiraling for six hours and I’m either insane or… you meant something.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed as he looked down for a second, like he couldn’t bear the weight of your gaze, then back up at you. When he spoke, it wasn’t your question he answered first.

He said your name, rough and low, like saying it hurt.

You didn’t flinch. You lifted the gloves slightly, your hands trembling. “Tell me,” you whispered.

Bucky stared at you like the truth was something fragile in his hands. Then he exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath for years.

“I meant it,” he said.

Your chest tightened. “Meant what.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to your mouth, quick and involuntary, then snapped back up to your eyes like he hated himself for it. 

“When I said you were with me,” he said quietly. He took a step closer, closing the space between you until you could feel his warmth like heat rolling off a radiator.

His voice dropped, softer but more dangerous somehow. “I didn’t say it to scare you,” he said. “Or to… make you feel trapped.”

You shook your head quickly. “I didn’t—”

“I know.” His words cut in gently, not harsh, just urgent, like he needed you to understand this part. “But I need you to hear me anyway.”

His hands stayed at his sides, fists loose but clenched enough to show he didn’t trust himself to reach for you.

“I said it because the idea of someone else—” Bucky stopped, jaw working, like he was fighting himself for control over the sentence. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Because I don’t like it.”

Your heartbeat was so loud in your ears it felt like it filled the whole apartment. “Don’t like what?” you whispered, even though you knew.

Bucky’s gaze held yours, steady and raw. “I don’t like anyone thinking they can have you,” he said, voice low. “Like you’re… available. Like you’re a thing they can just try for.”

Your breath hitched. The words shouldn’t have sounded as intimate as they did. They shouldn’t have made your chest ache like relief… but they did.

Bucky’s eyes went a little darker, not with anger, not really, but more like restraint straining at the edges. Like he was trying to keep himself from stepping over a line he’d drawn for himself years ago.

“And I know that’s not—” he swallowed again. “I know I don’t get to decide that. I know you’re not mine.”

Your eyes burned. Because the words hurt in a way that didn’t make sense.

You’re not mine.

You hated it.

Bucky’s voice broke just slightly and it was the crack in it that shattered you more than anything. “But I want you to be.”

Silence stretched between you like a held breath, too big for the room, too heavy for your ribs. Your chest went tight, as if your lungs forgot how to work. Bucky’s eyes looked almost panicked now, the kind of panic that didn’t match his size or his stillness, like he’d said too much and was about to start taking it back.

“Shit,” he said quickly, words tumbling out rough and hurried. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t— I—”

He started to shift, shoulders pulling inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, like he was about to back away and put space between you before you could reject him, but you stepped forward and grabbed his wrist before he could.

Bucky froze, his eyes snapping to where your fingers wrapped around him.

Your voice came out small. “I didn’t like it,” you admitted.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, pain flashing so fast it made your stomach twist. “I—”

“No,” you rushed, tightening your hold just a fraction, not to restrain him but to anchor him. “Not… not what you said. Not you.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. “I didn’t like it when Ethan flirted with me today,” you said, the words feeling like an electric shock to your nervous system. “Because it wasn’t you.”

Bucky went completely still.

“I realized it in lab today,” you whispered. “And it scared the hell out of me.”

Bucky stared at you like you’d just handed him oxygen. Your name left his lips on a breathless whisper, soft and disbelieving, like he needed to say it just to make sure you were real.

You laughed shakily, the sound wobbling on the edge of tears because apparently your body decided this was the moment to be dramatic. “I think I’ve liked you for a long time,” you confessed, and your voice broke on the last part, “and I just… didn’t let myself know.”

Bucky’s eyes softened so suddenly it made your heart ache. He lifted his hand slowly, like he was asking permission with every inch of movement, and brushed his knuckles along your cheek, so gentle it almost didn’t feel real.

“You’re sure?” he whispered.

The question wasn’t just about the words. It was about the jump, the change, the way there was no putting it back once you stepped over this line.

You leaned into his touch before you could stop yourself, your cheek fitting into his hand like it belonged there. “Yes,” you said.

Bucky exhaled like a prayer, then nodded once, jaw tight, like he was trying not to fall apart right in front of you. “Okay,” he murmured, and it sounded like he was telling himself as much as he was telling you. “Okay.”

Your fingers tightened around his wrist. Your voice trembled, suddenly shy in a way you hadn’t been in years. “So what now?”

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips again, slower this time. Less accidental, no longer fighting it. 

“Now I kiss you,” he said softly, “if you’ll let me.”

Your breath hitched, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips, in the space between your ribs.

And you didn’t even pretend to be brave, you just whispered: “Please.”

And Bucky moved, slow and careful, like he was handling something precious. Like he’d been wanting to do this for years and had forced himself not to.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, warm and steady, fingers spreading there like he’d memorized the shape of you in his head long before he ever got to touch you. He tilted his forehead to yours for a brief second, eyes closing, breath leaving him in a shaky exhale as if he needed to ground himself first.

Then his mouth found yours, soft at first. A question that you answered immediately without hesitation, your lips parting, your hand still holding his wrist like you were afraid he’d think this wasn’t real and pull away.

Bucky made a sound in the back of his throat, low and wrecked, as the kiss deepened with all the restraint he’d been holding back finally slipping loose. 

You rose onto your toes without thinking, needing to be closer, needing to meet him fully. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his t-shirt like you needed proof he was solid and warm and not just a daydream you’d tortured yourself with.

Bucky’s hand tightened protectively at the back of your neck, pulling you in that last inch like he couldn’t stand the space anymore.

It wasn’t frantic, it was inevitable. The kind of kiss that rewrote the past. That made every late night “drive safe,” every tote strap adjustment, every “text me when you’re done” suddenly glow with new meaning.

When he finally pulled back, it was only an inch. His forehead stayed close to yours, his hand still at your neck like he was anchoring you both to the same reality. His eyes searched your face, as if he was checking for regret and finding none.

His voice came out rough, almost shaken. “Hi,” he murmured, like he was meeting you for the first time.

“Hi,” you breathed back, smiling through the residual tremble in your lips. “Took you long enough.” The words came out like a joke, but they landed like truth.

Because you could still feel him, still feel the warmth of his mouth on yours, the careful way he’d kissed you like you were something fragile and holy and real. Not a moment he’d stolen. A moment he’d waited for.

And now… now he was just looking at you like he didn’t know what to do with the fact that you were standing in his apartment and you’d said yes and the world hadn’t ended.

His chest rose and fell slow, controlled, but his hands were giving him away, hovering just above your waist like he couldn’t decide whether he was allowed to touch you again. Like he was holding himself back by force, braced on a thin line of restraint.

You watched his throat move when he swallowed, watched his gaze flick from your eyes to your mouth and back again like it hurt.

“You’re… really here,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You let out a soft breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Yeah, Buck. I’m here.”

His eyes softened, relief and disbelief tangling together, like he’d been preparing for you to change your mind at any second.

Your voice came out quieter, gentler, because you could see how hard he was trying to be careful. “Are you going to kiss me again,” you asked, heart thudding, “or…?”

Bucky huffed a low laugh, quiet and disbelieving, like you’d just handed him permission he didn’t trust himself to want.

Then he stepped in like the floor gave way beneath him. His hands found your waist gently, thumbs brushing the hem of your shirt. He leaned in, and this time when he kissed you, it wasn’t exploratory. It wasn’t cautious.

It was yes. It was finally.

You made a soft, helpless sound into the kiss, and that was all it took. Bucky responded with a quiet, almost desperate shift of his body, tilting his head, deepening the kiss with purpose. With hunger. With years of restraint breaking like a tide over both of you.

He kissed you like he’d been starving. Like this, like you, were something he’d wanted for so long that now, having you in his arms, was almost too much to believe.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt as he began walking you backward, not forcefully, never that, but with a steady, unspoken pull. The kind of guidance he’d always offered without words. The kind that made you feel like he’d always known how to take care of you, even now, even here.

Your back met his bedroom wall with a quiet thud, gasping softly against his lips.

Bucky froze the moment you made that sound. He pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes scanning your face with wide, protective panic.

“Too much?” he rasped, voice hoarse, already starting to pull back like he’d rather hurt himself than risk hurting you.

“No,” you whispered, your voice shaking as your fingers tugged at the front of his shirt to keep him close. “Please don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened instantly, breath catching.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he murmured, voice low, nose brushing yours, his hands still bracketing your waist like he was containing himself by touch alone. “Because I—” He swallowed. “I won’t be able to stop wanting you.”

You slid your hands up under his shirt, fingers meeting warm skin. The heat of him made your breath catch, His chest rising unevenly beneath your palms.

You traced the defined line of his abs, the faint scar that cut across his ribs, the familiar terrain you’d never let yourself map until now. His breath shuddered, body rocking infinitesimally closer to you like he couldn’t help it.

Your voice came out trembling, but sure. “I mean it.”

Bucky exhaled something close to a moan, a low, wrecked groan that sounded like surrender. “Fuck,” he breathed, eyes fluttering shut like the weight of your touch, your words, your want was too much all at once.

His hands slid beneath your shirt, palms dragging over the curve of your back, and you shivered at the heat of his skin. He kissed you again, deeper this time. Hotter. No hesitation. No fear. His mouth moved with urgency, his tongue parting your lips, teeth grazing your bottom one like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.

Your back arched with a soft moan when his fingers brushed the clasp of your bra, and he made a sound low in his chest, something primal and completely wrecked. Like he’d dreamed about this. Lived in the edges of it. And now that it was happening, he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this.

“I’ve thought about this,” he panted between kisses, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your neck, “more times than I should admit.”

You let out a breathless laugh, light and shaky. “Tell me.”

He shook his head, kissed down the column of your throat with open-mouthed heat, nipping lightly at your pulse point as you gasped. “I’d rather show you.”

With shaking hands, you helped him pull off your sweater and bra, suddenly bare to him under the low golden light of his bedroom. You expected him to dive in hungrily, to lose control.

But Bucky didn’t move. He just stared like you were something sacred.

His breath hitched, eyes dragging over every inch of you like he was trying to memorize it. The reverence in his gaze made your whole body flush.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse with truth. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your face went warm. “Stop looking at me like that.”

He blinked, confused. “Like what?”

“Like I’m going to disappear.”

His brow furrowed.

And then, so slowly, like he wanted you to feel it, he leaned in and kissed the center of your chest. Then just above your heart. Then lower, to your sternum, your collarbone, the soft swell of your breast.

“I look at you like that,” he murmured against your skin, “because I still can’t believe you’re real.”

You made a small, broken sound, a half sigh, half laugh, and reached for him with shaking hands. You pulled his shirt up and over his head, and your fingers immediately splayed across his chest.

You felt everything, the lines of his muscle, the warmth of his skin, the old scars that you’d only ever glimpsed before. Now, they were yours to learn.

“You are so—” you choked, voice cracking. “God, Bucky.”

He kissed you again before you could finish, and this one was hot. Messy. Desperate. His mouth moved like he was drowning in you. Like he didn’t know how to stop. His hands slid down your sides, over your hips, gripping tight enough to make you gasp.

“Come here,” he breathed.

You didn’t even hesitate.

He walked you backward toward the bed, guiding you with gentle pressure, and when your legs hit the edge, he caught you, lifting you just enough to lay you back like you were something precious.

Bucky hovered over you like he was afraid you might fade if he moved too fast. You reached up again, arms around his neck, legs curling around his waist, needing the contact, the heat, the pressure.

He kissed you like he wanted to know every inch of you by heart.

When his mouth finally moved down over your chest, your ribs, your stomach, you could barely breathe. He peeled your leggings down slowly, dragging his hands over every new inch of revealed skin.

Bucky looked up at you from between your thighs, hair falling into his eyes, pupils blown, lips swollen. “You still sure?” He asked, waiting. 

You bit your lip and nodded, dazed, already unraveling. But he didn’t move.

“Use your words, baby,” he said softly, gently kissing the inside of your thigh. “Need to hear it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “God, yes.”

The look he gave you, starving, reverent, almost ruined, was something you would never forget.

Then he lowered his mouth to you.

There was no urgency in him, only intention. Purpose in every movement, like he’d waited his whole life to be here and now that he was, he wasn’t going to waste a second of it. 

His mouth was slow and devastating, tongue dragging in languid, sinful strokes that made your breath catch and your thighs twitch around his head. He held you down when you tried to lift your hips, just enough pressure to remind you who was in control, making your stomach flutter and your fingers clutch the sheets like they were your only tether.

Bucky learned you. Treated every gasp and every stuttered moan like gospel. He was methodical, alternating between soft, teasing licks and firm, relentless pressure that made you feel like you were unraveling from the inside out.

He groaned when your thighs clenched around him, like it turned him on just knowing how close you were. 

When you pulled his hair harder than you meant to, he let out a ragged moan against your skin, the vibration sending another shudder straight through you. One of his hands slid up to lace his fingers with yours above your head, grounding you, anchoring you, holding you still as your body began to tremble beneath his mouth.

And when you finally came, loud and breathless, your back arching, eyes shut tight, voice breaking on his name… he didn’t stop.

He didn’t stop.

He slowed, yes, gentled his mouth, softened the drag of his tongue, but he didn’t stop. He coaxed you through it, easing you down from the high with care in every movement. He kissed the inside of your thigh as you shook. Pressed his cheek to your skin like he was listening to your heartbeat there. He murmured something low and sweet that you couldn’t quite hear. couldn’t think enough to make out, but it sounded like “That’s it, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

And then he crawled up your body slowly, each movement deliberate, almost languid. He kissed the soft slope of your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone, your lips. Slow and messy. Open-mouthed and gentle. Like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be but here.

You tasted yourself on his tongue and whimpered into his mouth, trembling. “Bucky,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “I need—please—”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice rough and broken in the middle. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. How long I’ve wanted you.”

He stripped the rest of the way, pushing his sweatpants down his hips with hands that weren’t nearly as steady as he probably wanted them to be. The last barrier between you fell away and for a second he just stood there, exposed and breathing hard, eyes flicking over your body like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You were already bare beneath him, skin flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen from his mouth.

For one blinding second, nerves flared sharp and electric in your chest. Not because you weren’t sure, but because this was real now.

No more almost. No more tension disguised as friendship. No more pretending the looks didn’t linger too long.

What if this changed everything?

Bucky’s gaze lifted to yours, vulnerable in a way he rarely let himself be. Not cocky. Not smug. Not assuming.

Just… hoping.

And that’s when you knew… It already had.

He moved back between your thighs slowly, like he was stepping into something sacred rather than something physical. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin like he was grounding himself.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured. “I’ll never—”

You kissed him quiet. “Please,” you whispered against his lips. “I want you.”

He groaned softly and dropped his forehead to yours. His breath mingled with yours in the quiet space between, warm and ragged. You could feel the heat of him, the solid weight of his body pressing you into the bed, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

Then, slowly, achingly slow, he began to push into you.

The head of his cock nudged at your entrance, teasing at first, until he started to sink deeper, inch by inch. Your breath caught, a soft gasp breaking from your lips as he stretched you open, filling you with steady, unrelenting pressure. There was no rush in his movement, only worship. Like every second inside you was something sacred.

Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails grazing down his skin, trying to anchor yourself as your body trembled beneath the overwhelming sensation. Every inch he gave you felt like a new place inside you had been claimed. 

He didn’t stop until he was buried fully, flush against you, his hips nestled to yours. Both of you stilled, breathless, bodies shaking under the weight of it.

His forehead rested against yours again, nose brushing yours, eyes fluttering closed. His voice was barely a whisper when it came, raw and wrecked. “Fuck… You feel like home.”

Your chest cracked wide open like a dam giving way, every nerve ending suddenly too exposed, too alive. You couldn’t get enough air. Each breath stuttered in your lungs, shallow and desperate, like your body had forgotten how to function under the weight of him.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly over his scalp as you tugged him closer, like proximity alone could soothe the ache blooming hot and needy between your hips.

“Move,” you whispered, already wrecked, your voice breaking on the word. “Please… I need you.”

He groaned low in his throat, like the sound had been ripped from the center of his chest, and obeyed, rolling his hips forward devastatingly slowly. 

The stretch was deep and intoxicating, the drag of him inside you so full it made your mouth fall open in a silent cry. He didn’t thrust like someone chasing release. He moved like someone memorizing you. Like someone savoring every inch.

His hips circled once before he pushed in again, deeper this time. Your back arched helplessly off the bed, breasts brushing against his chest as your thighs tightened around his waist.

“Jesus…” he breathed, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel so damn good.”

Every word vibrated between you.

He pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, slow and unhurried, and you felt every single inch. The heat. The stretch. The way your body welcomed him like it had been waiting.

You moaned openly now, unable to hold it in, your nails dragging down his back as you tried to pull him even closer, impossible as that was. “Bucky,” you sobbed softly. “Please.”

“Got you,” he rasped, kissing along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

His pace shifted, still deep, still intentional, but heavier now. Each thrust pressed into that sensitive place inside you that made your toes curl and your stomach tighten. He wasn’t frantic. He was claiming.

Every roll of his hips said I’ve wanted this.

Every slow drag said you’re mine to learn.

Every deep push said I’m not letting go.

Your legs locked tighter around him, ankles crossing at his lower back as if your body had made the decision before your brain could. You rocked up to meet him, desperate for friction, for more.

He groaned when you did that and his hands slid from your waist to grip your hips, steadying you as he began thrusting harder.

“Could live here,” he muttered against your throat, kissing and biting at the sensitive skin beneath your ear. “Die right here.”

Your body clenched at the rawness in his voice.

He kissed down your neck, tongue smoothing over the spot he’d just bitten before moving lower, dragging his mouth across your collarbone, your chest. His thrusts never faltered. Slow, powerful, stretching you open around him again and again.

The bed creaked softly beneath you. The sound of skin against skin filled the room. You could feel the slick heat of yourself coating him, feel the way he slid inside you with increasing ease, each motion sending sparks down your spine.

His name spilled from your mouth in broken, breathless sobs. Over and over. Like a mantra. Like you needed him to know exactly who was doing this to you.

“Mine,” he growled against your ear, the word rough and possessive but not demanding, just overwhelmed. “You’re mine, sunshine. Every inch.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours, Bucky—God—please—”

That did something to him. His hips snapped forward harder, a sharp thrust that made you cry out. His hand slid between your bodies without breaking rhythm, fingers finding your clit immediately, like he’d studied you for this moment.

He circled once, slow and precise. You jolted, your thighs trembling violently around him.

“Look at me,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours.

You forced your eyes open. His were dark, blown wide, pupils swallowing the blue. He looked wrecked. Completely undone.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he said hoarsely. “Taking me so good.”

The praise shattered whatever control you had left as your orgasm hit hard and blinding, ripping through you with a cry that broke in your throat. Your body locked up around him, clenching tight, pulsing helplessly as wave after wave tore through your core.

You shook violently beneath him.

Bucky swore, his thrusts losing their smooth rhythm as your body milked him. He pressed deeper, hips grinding against you as he worked you through it, not stopping, not pulling away.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “That’s it—come for me—”

You felt like you were falling apart, like your entire nervous system had short-circuited. Your hands clawed at his back, your legs tightening impossibly tighter as you rode out the aftershocks.

He snapped once more, deep and desperate, before he was coming too. His hips stuttered against yours, his whole body trembling as he buried himself fully inside you. A low, broken sound tore from his throat, your name spilling out with it like confession.

He held you close, so close your ribs ached, while he came undone. You felt him everywhere. The heat. The fullness. The way he pulsed inside you as he finished, forehead pressed hard to yours like he needed the anchor.

Neither of you moved for a long moment. Just breathing. Just feeling.

His face dropped into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your pulse. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves against yours, sweat-damp skin sticking together.

And when your legs loosened slightly around his waist, his arms tightened instinctively, pulling you back against him like letting space form between you wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not ever, if he could help it.

His hand slid up your back, slow and grounding, fingers threading gently through your hair as your heartbeat came down from the clouds. “You okay?” he murmured, lips brushing the skin just beneath your ear.

You nodded, still breathless, still floating. “More than okay.”

There was a beat, a moment suspended in the quiet, where the air felt thick with everything unspoken. And then it spilled from you, raw and steady, like it had been waiting all along.

“I’m in love with you,” you whispered, voice rough with truth.

Bucky’s hand stilled mid-stroke. Then he leaned in, nose brushing your temple, and breathed you in like that was the only answer he’d ever needed.

“You’re lucky,” he murmured, voice thick. “Because I’ve been gone for years.”

You blinked up at him, lips parted. And this time, when you kissed him, slow and soft and certain…

It didn’t feel like a first. It felt like forever.

[superbassbuck]

down at the bayou

pairing: tfatws!bucky barnes x f!reader

warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers, bantering, lowk grumpy and man-hater reader, sam playing matchmaker, arguments, bucky has nightmares, semi-public sex, spanking, brat-taming, degradation and praise.

wordcount: 14.9k

a/n: i've never been to louisiana, so i tried my best to do research to keep it as accurate as possible. i apologize for any mistakes.

main masterlist

synopsis: Sam has been trying to get you and Bucky to get along—or at least tolerate each other—for the longest time. And what better way to do that than by inviting you both back home for a weekend in Louisiana?

It was always hard to decline the Wilsons every time they invited you over to visit them in Delacroix.

They always made sure to show you a fun time, whether it was something as simple as a boat ride on Paul & Darlene’s — God bless them — shooting water guns with the kids, going fishing, or just grabbing some folding chairs to watch the sun set past the lake line with cold Heinekens in hand.

It was AJ’s—Sarah’s son—birthday this weekend, and Sam had invited you to stay over for a full weekend of nonstop partying and celebration.

How could you possibly resist when you have your very best friends waiting for you across the states with good music and food ready at their doorstep?

You showed up at the top of the steps with a heavy weekender bag slung over your shoulder. When you pushed through the front door, which had been left unlocked, the last person you expected to see was standing right in the middle of the room.

Bucky.

He looked like he had just arrived, too. A simple dark backpack sat squared and centered on the couch—as if he were already claiming his spot.

Bucky slowly turned toward you, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t expected you to arrive either.

“What are you doing—”

“What are you doing—”

You both spoke and stopped at the same time, eyes glaring at one another. Bucky’s shoulders were tense, his discomfort obvious, while your own brows were furrowed and lips scrunched in disdain.

Your first impression of Bucky hadn’t been great—and it still wasn’t.

When you first met him, you walked in on him talking to Sam about his flirting with Sarah. Sam had warned Bucky to back off—that typical overprotective brother routine—but Bucky insisted he was “merely joking around” and “wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

The two of them might have found it funny, but Sarah was your best friend, and you were extremely protective over the people you cared about.

While Sam was busy in New York, you had stuck by her side like glue. You were there for her through the divorce, you were there to watch the kids when Sam wasn’t around, and you were there for every single one of her and the boys’ milestones.

Sarah was a woman who deserved to be taken care of, just as she took care of everyone else.

To Bucky, pursuing her and tossing out flirtatious comments was just a joke.

You knew Sarah was strong, and that maybe she wouldn’t let things get too far with Bucky, but the way she’d chuckle and giggle at his words filled you with doubt.

Bucky wasn’t a man who would take care of her or her kids. He was just like Sam—he’d always be away, too occupied with other things across the country to actually show up for her and her needs. You didn’t want her to get hurt and left in the dust again.

Bucky let out a patient exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Sam invited me to stay the weekend for AJ’s birthday.”

You crossed your arms. “That’s funny. Sam invited me over to stay, too.” You glanced at the couch. “They don’t have a spare bedroom—so that couch is going to have to be mine.”

He huffed an incredulous laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching into a disbelieving smile.

The gentleman in him told him to give up the couch and let you have it, even if he had arrived first. But the petty part of him didn’t want to give in that easily—not with how cold you have been towards him.

“What?” Bucky motioned to the sofa. “You don’t think the couch is big enough for the both of us?”

You didn’t laugh, and he let out a frustrated sigh.

“Look, I—”

“Mom! Uncle Bucky and Auntie are here!” Cass’s voice rang from around the corner. His happy brown eyes, so much like Sarah’s, peered between the two of you. “AJ, come here!”

Bucky’s shoulders eased slightly, his expression softening at the sight of Sam’s nephew.

Cass ran to Bucky first since he was closer, throwing his arms around his waist as he knelt to meet the kid halfway.

“Good to see you again, kid,” Bucky murmured.

Then Cass lunged at you for a hug next, nearly sending you stumbling backward from the impact. You laughed, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing tight. “Hey there, Cass!”

AJ rounded the corner next, his footsteps thudding against the floorboards before he collided head first into Bucky, catching him in a bear hug.

Jealousy started to boil in your blood. It was infuriating how much Bucky had these two kids wrapped around his stupid vibranium finger after knowing them for such a short time. Meanwhile, you have been around forever. You might as well have been their biological aunt, for fuck’s sake.

“Uncle Bucky!” AJ beamed.

Bucky laughed, giving his head a playful ruffle. “Well, if it isn’t the birthday boy. Hey, I got you something—”

“Aren’t you going to say hi to your aunt, AJ?” you cut in, catching the boy’s attention.

AJ’s excitement for whatever gift Bucky had for him faded slightly as he turned his attention to you. He smiled, walking—not running—to greet you with a hug. The polite gesture did nothing to soothe your jealousy or your emotional attachment to these kids.

“It’s nice to see you, Auntie,” AJ said politely.

You forced a smile anyway. “Happy early birthday, AJ. Are you excited for the weekend?”

AJ grinned and nodded, but before he could answer, the sound of Sam’s footsteps approached from down the hall.

“Well, well, well,” Sam said, a hand on his hip and a smirk on his face. “If it isn’t my two favorite people in the world—standing in the same room.”

The little boys glanced at each other, already starting their own silent game of tag before they pushed through the front door and disappeared into the yard.

“Sam,” you greeted, finally dropping your heavy duffel bag on the floor. “There isn’t enough space for Bucky and me to stay.”

Bucky was already reaching for his backpack. “I’ll just let her take the couch. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“What?” Sam huffed, shaking his head. “No, no, no. None of that. I bought an air mattress that we can set up right here.” He motioned to the floor in front of the sofa. “We’ll just move the coffee table. It’s big enough to fit the both of you. No one is sleeping on the floor.”

Big enough to fit the both of you?

“We are not sharing a bed,” you interjected sternly, trying to hide the embarassment on your face.

Bucky glanced at Sam casually. “I’ll just take the couch, then. She’ll take the bed.”

The tension in the room was thicker than the Louisiana humidity. Sam and Bucky traded a knowing look—one that typically meant they were thinking the same thing but didn’t want to say it out loud.

“Where’s Sarah?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. There was too much testosterone in this room.

Sam pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s out back.”

You nodded and walked past the two men, heading for the backyard. Sam and Bucky watched you retreat, waiting until the sound of the screen door clicked shut before Bucky finally let out the breath he had been holding.

“She doesn’t like me much, Sam,” Bucky muttered.

“You think?” Sam mused sarcastically, folding his arms over his chest. “Look, man, it’s my nephew’s birthday. Sarah and I want both of you here this weekend, and I’m going to make sure it stays a good weekend.”

Bucky pressed his lips together, his right hand coming up to tug at the stubble on his chin as if he were trying to calculate a solution.

“Alright, well...” He shrugged. “Guess I’ll just make sure to stay on the opposite side of the room—”

“No,” Sam interrupted, stepping closer. “That’s not how we’re doing things. It’s a celebration, man. I’m not having you two avoid each other like the plague the entire time. My nephews and everyone else around us will catch on.”

Bucky made a face. He knew Sam well enough to know he was already plotting something. “What do you propose we do, then?”

“There are plenty of things to do down at the bayou,” Sam explained. “Not even just the bayou—all over the damn state. Activities you two can do together.”

Bucky was terrible at hiding his expressions. He grimaced immediately at the thought—enduring constant nagging, side-eyes, and petty one liners from you while he just had to sit there and take it for Sam’s sake.

This wasn’t a fun vacation at all.

“I don’t know about this, Sam—”

“We’re supposed to be a family, Buck,” Sam cut him off, raising a hand to silence the protest. “You’re going to spend time with her, and you’re going to enjoy every second of it.”

You were down at the docks, the sun beaming down as sweat began to trickle from your temples. The humidity in Louisiana was suffocating, but the occasional lake breeze, the cold beers, and the company were enough to keep the heat at bay.

Paul & Darlene’s was swaying gently against the waves, looking as rusty as ever.

“Is she ready for a ride?” you asked Sarah, who was currently engrossed in a clipboard. “Are you seriously still working on your son’s birthday weekend?”

Sarah didn’t reply, mumbling to herself as her eyes traced the words on the paper. You sighed, your fingers gently nudging the clipboard down.

“Sarah, enough,” you said gently. You glanced over at AJ and Cass, who were sitting on the benches playing with action figures. “Take the weekend off like the rest of us and spend time with the kids. Take them out on the boat.”

Sarah looked at the boys, her brown eyes filling with guilt. “You know I would, but the boat’s still broken—”

“Stop with the sulking,” Sam’s voice shouted from the end of the dock.

He squinted against the sun as he approached, carrying two boat paddles, while Bucky trailed behind him with a third.

“We still have three perfectly good rowboats we can take the kids on,” Sam grinned, handing you one of the paddles. “Ever rowed a boat before?”

“Of course I have,” you said, taking it. “That sounds like fun.” You smiled, turning toward the boys. “Which one of you lucky boys wants to ride with your super cool aunt?”

Bucky lifted his paddle up to Sarah with a small, stupidly charming smile. “Want to ride with me, Sarah?”

You felt your eyebrow twitch.

“AJ, you’re with me,” Sam called out, cutting Bucky off. “Cass, you’re with your mom.”

“What? No fair!” Cass made a face, throwing his hands up. “I want to ride with someone cool!”

“You better watch your mouth, boy,” Sarah warned, completely ignoring Bucky as she snatched a paddle from Sam’s hand, already heading toward the end of the dock where the boats were tied.

Sam didn’t bother hiding his grin. It was wide, unabashed, and entirely too fucking satisfied as he ushered the boys toward the edge of the dock.

“Alright, move it or lose it! First one to the sandbar gets the first slice of cake on Saturday!” Sam shouted. AJ and Cass scrambled past you, their sneakers slapping loudly against the wooden planks as they raced toward the smaller rowboats, leaving giggles in their wake.

You and Bucky stood frozen, paddles in hand like two statues, blinking as the Wilsons walked off without you.

“Wait, what?” you finally managed to choke out, your head whipping between Sam’s retreating back and the boats. “Sam, hold on. There are only three boats.” You stumbled after them, desperately trying to create space between you and Bucky.

“Yep!” Sam called over his shoulder, not slowing down at all. “One for Sarah and Cass, one for me and the birthday boy…”

He paused to hop into a boat, the wood creaking under him. He looked back at you and Bucky, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

“And one for the two of you. Try not to tip it.”

You turned slowly to look at Bucky. He looked just as dumbfounded as you felt, his vibranium hand gripped tight around the handle of his paddle.

“He’s kidding,” you muttered. “He’s definitely kidding.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, mostly because he knew Sam wasn’t kidding at all. He looked at the third rowboat—a small, weathered piece of wood that bobbed innocently at the end of the line.

It looked incredibly small.

It looked too intimate.

It looked like a disaster waiting to happen.

“Sam!” you yelled, taking a step forward. “This is ridiculous! I can just stay back and help Sarah with the—the decorations! Or the food!”

“Decorations are done! Food isn’t being prepped ‘til tomorrow!” Sarah shouted from her own boat, already pushing off from the dock with Cass sitting across from her.

You couldn’t believe it. You were stranded.

You were stranded with Bucky fucking Barnes.

Bucky let out a long, slow breath through his nose. He glanced at you, taking the way your jaw had hung open as you watched Sam and Sarah float away. A fly could’ve flown in at any moment.

Without a word, Bucky started walking toward the last boat, his heavy boots thumping against the dock. He stepped one foot into the boat to steady it and extended a hand toward you.

“Come on,” he muttered. “I’ll help you down.”

You blinked, snapped out of your disbelief as you looked down at Bucky—propped up like a knight in shining armor helping a fair maiden onto his trusty steed.

“I can help myself just fine, thanks,” you scoffed.

You stepped down into the boat, and it tipped slightly under your weight. The both of you quickly got settled, undid the rope, and assembled the paddles at the sides. Without a single word being exchanged, you both reached for the handles at the same time.

Except Bucky’s hands landed first—and your hands landed right on top of his. You both stared at each other, gazes hard and unwavering.

“Let go,” you said.

Bucky didn’t budge at all. “I grabbed them first.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know how to row a boat, do you?” you immediately countered.

He paused. The only sounds were the cicadas buzzing in your ears and the gentle thrashing of water as the rowboat swayed.

“I do know how to row a boat,” Bucky argued back pridefully.

He didn’t.

He probably had during his Winter Soldier days—and maybe the muscle memory would have come back—but definitely not for a teeny, tiny little rowboat like this.

You grinned, a little taunting chuckle escaping your lips as you silently called his bluff. “Oh, yeah?”

You knew that stung his pride. He mumbled incoherent, grumpy words under his breath as he started to paddle away from the docks and toward the center of the lake, trying to follow Sam and Sarah’s lead.

The two of you sat in an awkward, tense silence as he worked the paddles. The sun was beaming in your face, and you lifted your hand to provide shade—but it was also a discreet method to help shield the way you were staring intently at Bucky’s muscles as he pushed the paddles.

Bucky would grunt occasionally as the blades lapped through the water, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way his muscles bulged and flexed through a shirt that looked ridiculously tight on a big guy like him.

His henley was pulled up to his forearms, the vibranium shimmering against the reflections of the lake and the veins in his right arm catching your eyes with every pushing motion of the paddle.

“You, uh… you come to Louisiana often?” Bucky tried for a conversation.

You huffed a laugh that didn’t sound humorous at all. “Way more than you have, that’s for sure.”

Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something smart. He had to suck it up for Sam’s sake.

“The weather’s nice, isn’t it?”

You couldn’t believe Bucky was trying to talk to you about the weather.

“It’s always hot and swampy in Delacroix,” you said flatly.

You looked around, noticing how the boat was drifting further away from Sam and Sarah. You watched as Cass and AJ shouted to each other from across their boats—how Sarah and Sam were tossing their heads back in laughter.

A frown settled on your lips as you began to feel left out.

“We’re drifting, Bucky,” you said, pointing toward them. “Steer in that direction.”

Bucky adjusted his grip on the paddles and huffed. “Fine.”

He started to dig the right paddle deep into the water while the left one barely grazed the surface. But instead of cutting toward Sam and Sarah, the boat’s nose jerked sharply to the right.

“What are you doing?” you snapped, your patience thinning as the distance between you and the Wilsons grew wider. “We’re not going toward them, Bucky. We’re going…” You frowned. “…nowhere.”

“I’m adjusting,” Bucky said shortly, his vibranium fingers tightening on the paddle. He tried to over-correct, pulling back hard with his left arm, but the only result was the boat beginning to pivot on its axis.

You weren’t moving anywhere. You were spinning.

The same cluster of cypress trees passed by for the third time. Sam and Sarah were becoming distant specks on the horizon, their laughter echoing faintly across the water.

An impatient sigh escaped you as you leaned forward, motioning to the paddles. “Here, move over. Let me take over—”

“I got it,” Bucky insisted, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense in that way that made him look particularly stubborn. “Just give me a second, alright?”

“Bucky, we’ve barely moved from the dock and now you’ve got us—” you motioned to the boat, “—spinning in circles. I’m getting dizzy. Just hand me the damn paddles.”

Your hands found an open space on the handles and you jerked them toward your side of the boat, causing the wood to thrash against the water. Bucky—taken aback by your unexpected strength—was pulled forward. He let out a hiss, immediately yanking the oars back toward him and making you jerk forward instead.

You both glared at each other stubbornly, muttering curses as you continued this back and forth struggle for the paddles.

But unfortunately for you, Bucky was significantly stronger, and every jerk he made sent you nearly flying out of your seat and in his direction.

“Goddammit, Bucky! Just let go!” you hissed, trying to find your balance as the boat thrashed around, water splashing everywhere.

Bucky had told himself he would try to suck up your attitude for Sam—but fuck, you were treading on his nerves every second.

“Christ, woman!” Bucky barked, his fingers tightening on the handles. “Just let me take care of it—alright? I know what I’m doing!”

“Well, clearly you don’t! Because we’re still just spinning in circles!”

The boat rocked violently, tipping precariously every time the two of you fought for the oars. The wood creaked and groaned under the movement, and water began slopping over the gunwales, soaking your sandals.

“Will you stop being such a prideful man and let a woman take over the damn oars already?” you shouted over the splashing water, throwing your entire weight into a massive yank.

The paddles lurched toward you.

“I can’t believe you offered to take Sarah for a ride when you can’t even steer the damn thing!”

Bucky’s brow twitched. He hated feeling incompetent, and every word you hurled was a direct jab to his pride. He had tried so hard to be on his best behavior for you, but his patience had finally worn thin.

“I would’ve done just fine if you hadn’t gotten in the way,” Bucky snapped back in a low growl.

His fingers clamped down so hard on the wood it was a wonder it didn’t snap. Out of sheer, petty spite, he jerked the oars back toward himself.

“Now give me these damn paddles—”

But the force of his movement caught you completely off guard. You let out a sharp yelp as you were catapulted forward, your hands losing their grip on the wood. You had zero time to brace yourself before you collided hard with his chest—it felt like hitting a brick wall wrapped in damp cotton.

With all the weight suddenly slammed onto one side, the boat lurched backward, the stern dipping dangerously low.

Pressed against his chest, you scrambled to get up in a panic. “Jesus, Bucky! Look at what you—”

“Stop squirming! Just… just stay still!”

Bucky’s grip on the oars was long forgotten as his hands found your waist in a desperate attempt to steady you, but it was too late.

With a loud, undignified splash that caught the attention of everyone on the docks, the rowboat flipped.

One moment, the sun was burning your skin, and the next, you were greeted by cold water enveloping you. Everything from above was muffled as you were completely submerged. Keeping your eyes squeezed shut against the murky water, you tried to swim upward, but panic started to flare as your head kept bumping into the underside of the wooden boat.

Suddenly, a strong, vibranium arm wrapped roughly around your waist. He pulled your body tight against his, dragging you toward the surface and back to the shore.

You gasped for air the moment you broke the surface, your skin warming as the sunlight hit your soaked face. People on the docks were smiling and laughing at your predicament, but Bucky paid them no mind. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the water.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low.

Sam’s laughter, joined by the kids’ giggles, filled your ears as their boats drew closer.

“Oh no, what happened to you two?” Sam grinned, spinning his boat around to get a better look at you. “Let me guess—was it the wind?” He motioned to the upside down boat.

Rolling your eyes, you pushed through the water until you reached the edge of the docks, with Bucky swimming close behind. You tried to paddle faster to create some distance, but there was no point—he caught up to you in no time.

When you reached the dock, you tried to hoist yourself up, but Bucky’s hands found your waist again, easily hauling you up and over the wooden floorboards.

You sneered at him the second your feet were steady. “I didn’t need your help.”

Bucky ignored you as he hauled himself up onto the dock, his muscles rippling beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt. Water clung to his skin, dripping from the tips of his short, shaggy hair and trailing down the tanned column of his throat.

You were furious—absolutely livid—but as you watched the way his broad shoulders tensed just underneath the thin fabric, you found yourself swallowing hard.

You hated that, even in the middle of a fucking swamp, he still managed to look like that.

Bucky didn’t notice you staring at him. He stood up, shaking his head like a dog to get the water out of his ears.

“I was doing a fine job,” he bit out roughly, “until you had to butt your head in and try to take over. If you had just sat still, we wouldn’t be soaked right now—”

As Bucky finally lifted his head to glare at you, the breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, his gaze dropping from your drenched head to your chest—and then freezing there.

You were wearing a sheer white blouse—light and airy for the Louisiana heat, of course—but now that it was drenched through, it had turned completely translucent. It clung tight to your skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination and revealing the lace of your bra underneath.

Bucky’s jaw went tight, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t—not even as you continued to yell and point a finger at him.

“What? Are you insinuating that it’s my fault?” you scoffed in disbelief.

Bucky couldn’t concentrate. It felt like his brain had short circuited as he stared shamelessly at the damp lace and the soft curve of your skin.

“And another thing!” you shouted, stepping closer and poking a finger square into the center of his chest. “If you hadn’t been so stubborn about the oars, we would’ve caught up to Sam and Sarah and been having a good time with them!”

Bucky winced, not because of the poke, but because you moving closer only made the view more prominent. He glanced toward the docks, noticing a few of the guys from the neighborhood whistling and laughing at the both of you.

Without thinking, Bucky stepped closer, his large frame shielding you from the view of the men. He reached out, his hands hovering awkwardly near your shoulders as he tried to pull you against him to hide your vulnerable state.

“Hey—? What the hell are you doing?” you snapped, trying to shove him back. “Why are you hugging me? Get off!”

“I’m not hugging you,” Bucky mumbled grumpily as he forced you to stay put, caging you between his big arms.

“It feels a lot like hugging, Barnes! Let go!” You squirmed, but his grip on you was tight. His face flushed as he felt your chest rub up against his.

“Stop moving,” he hissed, his face turning a deep, frustrated red as he looked anywhere but at your chest. He leaned down, his mouth inches away from your ear so only you could hear. “Your damn shirt.”

“My shirt?” You blinked up at him in confusion. “What about my—?”

You looked down, and the realization hit you. Your face got hot with embarrassment once you noticed how the white fabric of your shirt was basically invisible, clinging to every inch of your bra and skin.

Sam and Sarah pulled their boat alongside the dock, the hull bumping gently against the wood. Sam hopped out first, looping the rope around the cleat. He looked up, taking in the sight of the two of you standing so close together.

“Well, would you look at that,” Sam said, a massive grin spreading across his face. “One little dip in the lake and you two finally made up?”

Bucky felt your body tense. Sensing how uncomfortable this was for you, he was just about to step back—until you crossed your arms over your chest and huddled deeper into his shadow.

“You okay?” Bucky murmured quietly, tilting his head down toward you.

After Sarah helped Cass off the boat, she stepped onto the dock and walked straight to you, moving between you and the men. She wrapped an arm around your shoulders and gently pried you away from Bucky, taking over his job of hiding you.

“Come on,” Sarah said softly, her voice full of understanding as she began to lead you away. “Let’s get you fixed up and into some dry clothes.”

You didn’t dare look back at Bucky as you let her lead you away, though you could feel his gaze on your back until you and Sarah rounded the corner, leaving the men out of sight.

Back on the dock, the laughter died down. Bucky stood there dripping wet, looking uncharacteristically flustered.

“I take it the boat ride didn’t go well?” Sam taunted, his eyes still fixed on the corner where you and his sister had disappeared.

Bucky stayed quiet, glaring at Sam as water droplets fell from his hair onto the floorboards of the dock.

“This isn’t going to work, Sam,” Bucky muttered, wringing the hem of his shirt. “She hates me.”

“Don’t be like that, Buck.” Sam patted him on the shoulder. “She doesn’t hate anyone. Besides, we’ve got the whole weekend ahead of us, alright?”

Sam likely said that in hopes of lifting Bucky’s spirits—but it only did the exact opposite.

The sky was dark as you sat on the air mattress, applying lotion to your skin. The thought of sharing a space with Bucky felt daunting.

The rest of the day had been awkward and tense after the disaster on the lake. It didn’t help that Bucky did exactly what Sam told him not to do—which was hovering at the far end of the room, making sure to stand wherever you weren’t.

Bucky was taking his sweet time in the bathroom. As you finished with the lotion, you quickly snuggled into the air mattress, trying to fall asleep before he came back out.

Only a few minutes passed before the light from the bathroom hit your eyes as he pulled the door open. You winced at the sudden brightness but kept your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.

A small sigh—almost a breath of relief—escaped his lips when he noticed you were out, or at least appeared to be.

You heard his heavy footsteps thud toward the couch. He crouched with his back to you, digging through his backpack for something.

Curiosity got the best of you. You peeked one eye open, and your heart nearly leaped out of your chest.

Bucky was shirtless.

You watched as he balanced on the balls of his feet, rummaging through the bag. The moonlight piercing through the window shadowed the deep lines and muscles of his back. His vibranium arm looked just as beautiful under the moon as it had in the sun.

His hair, no longer damp and scruffy like it was at the docks, was still slightly wet and brushed back neatly.

You could smell him all the way from the air mattress. He smelled soft and clean, with the underlying masculine scent of his deodorant. You knew you should have been asleep by now, but your heart wouldn’t stop racing.

Was he really going to sleep shirtless even though you were here?

Despite your heart thumping loudly in your chest, you kept your back turned to him and tried your best to fall asleep.

Hours later, you eventually drifted off, only to be jolted awake by the sound of shuffling, groaning, and mumbled curses coming from across the room.

Lifting your head, you tiredly rubbed your eyes as you glanced in Bucky’s direction.

“Bucky… can you keep it down?”

But as you focused, you realized that whatever he was doing wasn’t intentional.

Bucky’s eyes were squeezed shut, his face scrunched into a grimace as he panted heavily. A thin sheen of sweat covered the column of his neck and chest, and his fingers were digging deep into the cushions of the couch. He kept mumbling incoherent, unfinished sentences that made your heart sink with worry.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped.

“Bucky? Are you okay?” you asked, your voice rising.

“Don’t do this, please—don’t… mph… don't do this...”

“Bucky, listen to me!”

“Stop, stop!” he choked out, his body jerking against the couch.

You scrambled off the air mattress, tossing the blanket aside as you rushed to Bucky’s side at the couch.

“Bucky!” you whispered urgently, reaching out to grab his shoulders. You shook him, your palms warming from the heat radiating off his damp skin. “Bucky, wake up. You’re having a nightmare!”

When he didn’t wake, you shook him harder until he gasped awake so violently he nearly knocked you backward. His eyes snapped open—wide, unfocused, and… terrified.

He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. His vibranium hand clamped onto the edge of the couch so hard the wood underneath groaned.

“I’m—I…” he stammered, his voice heavy with panic.

“Hey... hey, look at me,” you said softly, your hands finding his wet cheeks and forcing his focus onto you. “I’m here. You’re in Louisiana. You’re at Sarah’s.”

You started saying the first things that came to mind. Surely, reminding someone where they were would help in a situation like this, right?

Bucky’s head whipped toward you, his gaze darting around the dark room until it finally landed on your face again. He was still shaking, the tremors racking his broad shoulders as he tried to calm himself in your touch.

You didn’t say anything else—you didn’t really know what to say in a situation like this. But being there, holding him and simply staying in his space, seemed to be enough for now.

Slowly and quietly, he began to catch his breath, and that’s when you noticed he was trying to match his breathing to yours.

In and out. In and out, slowly, until he finally started to calm down.

“Did…” He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your lap—noticing how your oversized shirt hung loosely over your legs. “Did I wake you?”

You nodded gently, deciding to be truthful. “You did.”

Guilt immediately clouded his features. “I’m sorry.”

A solemn frown tugged at your lips as you leaned in closer to get a better look at him. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, pulling away from your touch so suddenly it made your hands feel cold.

He tried to get comfortable on the couch again, but the tension in his shoulders and the stiff way he moved made it clear that settling back into sleep would be impossible.

Your heart ached for him. You felt terrible.

“You can take the air mattress, Bucky,” you said, already rising to your feet. “Here, I’ll move my things—”

As you stepped away, Bucky’s hand immediately clamped around your wrist. “No, stop. Just—just keep the mattress, okay? I’ll be fine,” he insisted, though the wobble in his voice betrayed how he really felt.

Your frown deepened. Even in this vulnerable state, he held onto that same stubborn pride that had clashed with yours earlier at the docks. Except this time, his attitude didn’t piss you off. Standing before him while he looked so broken and tired only made you feel completely useless.

“Is there anything I can do?” you asked quietly, searching his face. “Anything to help?”

Bucky managed a small smile—a forced, tired expression that didn’t reach his eyes. He let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the couch.

“Let’s just get some rest. We’ve got a big birthday party tomorrow. I’m sorry for waking you.”

You stood there for a second, looking at the cramped, uncomfortable couch and then back at the oversized air mattress that looked far too big for just one person.

“You’re really pulling at my heartstrings here, old man.” You reached out, grabbing the hem of his blanket. “Come on. There’s plenty of room. Let’s just share the mattress.”

Bucky froze, his eyes widening as he looked from you to the bed. “S-share…?”

You were already getting settled on your side, your back facing him, hoping the distance would help his flustered state.

“You need sleep, and I’m not going to be able to close my eyes knowing you’re over there miserable on a cramped couch,” you huffed. “Now get over here.”

Bucky knew there was no point in arguing with you further. If he had learned anything from the disaster at the docks, it was that once you set your mind on something, he was better off just letting you have your way.

With a reluctant, heavy sigh, he finally stood up and moved toward the air mattress. The mattress dipped significantly under his body as he shuffled around to get comfortable on his side. He kept a respectable amount of space between the both of you, lying stiffly on the very edge.

You both remained back to back, with only the sound of crickets outside filling the silence.

“Do you get nightmares often?” you suddenly asked.

Bucky hesitated. “Not as much as I used to,” he answered in a gravelly rasp. “But they still come and go.”

There was another pause.

This time, Bucky broke it.

“Do you care if I sleep without a shirt on?”

You couldn’t help the snort that escaped your lips. “Don’t worry,” you chuckled. “I’m not looking.”

The sound of your laughter in this awkward, tense space made his shoulders ease slightly and his heart beat a little slower. You two continued to lay quietly like that for a long moment—side by side, back to back.

There were a million thoughts running through Bucky’s head, and he felt particularly restless.

Finally, he decided to ask the very thing that had been occupying his mind since you two first met.

“Why do you dislike me so much?”

Bucky braced himself for the answer, but it didn’t come.

He waited, wondering if you were pretending not to hear him. He called your name softly and turned over his shoulder to look at you, but he stopped short.

You had already fallen asleep.

The morning light pierced through the front windows, hitting you right in the face. The quiet peace of the night before had been replaced by the chaotic, joyful energy of a house in full celebration mode.

From the kitchen, the clattering of pots and pans and the high pitched laughter of AJ and Cass bounced off the walls, forcing you awake.

You blinked, rubbing the grogginess from your eyes as you realized the air mattress felt much, much lighter. Bucky was already gone. His side of the bed was nearly smoothed over, and his blanket was folded neatly back on the couch—as if he hadn’t slept next to you at all.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” Sarah called out from the kitchen. “I’m so sorry for all this ruckus. We were tryin’ our best to stay quiet, but everyone is just so excited since it’s AJ’s big day today.”

A sleepy, lopsided smile pulled at your lips at the sight of Sarah and the kids gathered in the living room.

“It’s okay,” you said groggily, pulling yourself off the air mattress. “Happy Birthday, AJ.”

You started walking toward Sarah, meeting her in the kitchen. You took note of the trays and various types of produce lying around. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sarah didn’t glance up from the onions she was laying out on the cutting board.

“Oh no, no,” she clicked her tongue. “It’s a warzone in here that only I can handle. You’d only get in my way, and I don’t need two people trippin’ over each other in this kitchen—I can leave that to my kids.”

You frowned, leaning against the wall. “Are you sure? I feel bad just sitting around while you’re doing all this—”

“I’m positive,” Sarah cut you off, pointing her knife at you and then toward the clock on the wall. “The party doesn’t start ‘til five. So you can get outta here and enjoy New Orleans or somethin’ until everything’s ready.”

“But Sarah, that’s an hour drive—”

“Out!” she laughed, shooing you toward the front door with a wave of her knife. “Go breathe some fresh air. Enjoy yourself and the town. I know you miss it.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, just as the sound of Bucky approaching from the backyard—already dressed for the day—met you and Sarah in the kitchen.

“Morning,” he nodded to you curtly, as if last night hadn’t happened at all.

Then he glanced at Sarah with a smile—that stupidly charming smile. He nodded toward the counter. “Let me help—”

Before he could take a step closer, Sarah pointed the knife at him, too. She looked back at you. “And take hunky robot here with you while you’re at it.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at the way she brushed Bucky aside.

Bucky blinked, confused. “Take me where?”

“Sarah, if I’m going out to enjoy the town, I’m doing it by myself—”

You were cut off by the sound of the screen door hitting the wall as Sam hauled a heavy box of supplies into the room. He dropped it onto the floor with a loud thud and wiped the sweat from his forehead, grinning when he saw the three of you standing there.

“Oh, perfect,” Sam panted. “You goin’ to town? Take Bucky with you. Show him around. He’s been following me around like some fly buzzin’ in my ear.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms defensively. “A fly?”

Sam ignored him as he began to unbox. “Seriously, take him. He needs the fresh air, and I need the floor space. Go on, get out of here.”

You were about to protest—to insist on staying and offer your assistance—but Sam and Sarah were already bickering in the kitchen, talking about how Sam had to pick up AJ’s friends and run to the store for last minute groceries.

When you told them that you could be an extra set of hands, they both looked at you and, at the same time, shouted, “Get out!”

Now, you found yourself behind the wheel of Sarah’s run-down but reliable Chevy with Bucky sitting in the passenger seat.

He had offered to drive, but you didn’t allow him to—which, after the incident with the boat, was a smart move on his part.

The radio didn’t work, so you two sat in awkward silence with the windows rolled down, letting the humid breeze pass through as you drove toward New Orleans. Bucky had one arm out the window, his eyes focused on the trees passing by.

“So, where are you taking me?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

“New Orleans,” you answered flatly.

The short burst of warmth that the two of you had shared in the middle of the night seemed to have disappeared completely. Bucky had his body turned slightly away from you, and maybe that was how he wanted it. Perhaps the vulnerability he had shared last night was something he wanted to keep under wraps.

“I know that,” he scoffed. “But what are we going to do there?”

“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” you said, keeping your eyes on the road. “Monty’s.”

Bucky hummed. “That like a breakfast joint or something?”

“It’s a classic diner. They have the best crawfish and cheesesteaks you’ll ever put in your mouth,” you said, your stomach growling just thinking about it. “But the best part are the beignets. They have the best stuffed beignets I’ve ever had.”

Bucky finally glanced at you, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’ve never had a beignet.”

Your eyes went wide, and you looked at him in disbelief. “What? You stay with the Wilsons and you’ve never had a beignet?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Have you ever been to New Orleans?”

He shook his head again. “I’ve only ever stayed in Delacroix with Sam.”

The idea of introducing the city of New Orleans—a place you adored—to someone who had never been filled you with a sudden burst of excitement, even if it was for Bucky.

“Well, we’ve got a lot of time to spare. So we’ll park somewhere and walk to Monty’s, and since the restaurant is near Jackson Square, I’ll show you around.”

While you kept your eyes on the road, Bucky could only stare at you as you went on and on about the beauty of New Orleans.

You explained breathlessly how gorgeous the square was—about how the greenery around the cathedral was breathtaking. You mentioned the French Market a couple of blocks away and went on about the street musicians and talented jazz players on every corner. You told him about the vendors posted all around and how you could even take a trolley around the area.

For the first time since he met you, he had never heard you speak this much in one breath.

For once, you weren’t throwing petty remarks at him. You talked and talked about the things you loved about the city, and Bucky felt like his heart was swelling too large for his chest.

Before long, the two of you made it into the vibrant heart of New Orleans.

The restaurant was already loud—the clinking of silverware, loud laughter, and a jazz band playing down the street hummed in your ears.

Despite the heat, Bucky had kept his jacket on for as long as possible, but eventually, the Louisiana humidity won.

Now, with his sleeves rolled up, the vibranium of his arm caught the light poking through the window with every movement. You saw the way the couple at the table next to you whispered to each other, and how a group of tourists leaned in, pointing in his direction.

Bucky felt it, too. His jaw was clenched, and he kept his left hand tucked partially under the table. He looked like he wanted to disappear. It was no wonder he preferred staying at Sam’s.

Then, the server arrived with a tray that smelled like heaven.

“Here you go,” you said, pushing the plate of powdered goodness toward him. “The legendary stuffed beignets,” you added with a bright smile, hoping to ease his mood.

The pastries were massive, perfectly golden brown and buried under a mountain of powdered sugar. Bucky lifted one and took a careful bite, the crunch of the dough giving way to a rich and creamy center. His eyes widened, and he let out a small, muffled “mm” as he chewed.

“It’s good, right?” you grinned, already halfway through your own beignet.

Bucky nodded, taking an even bigger bite. “Good,” he confirmed mid-chew. “Very fucking good.”

As he pulled the beignet away from his mouth, he was oblivious to the thick coat of white powder smeared across his upper lip like a mustache, with a stray patch sitting right on the tip of his nose. Bucky still had that natural, broody look on his face as he chewed. He reached for his water, and as much as you tried to keep a straight face, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.

“Bucky,” you snickered, shielding your mouth with your hand.

He stopped, glass halfway to his mouth, frowning in confusion. “What?”

“You’ve got…” You pointed to your own face, doubling over as another giggle escaped. “Powder all over your face, old man.”

Bucky reached up with his right hand, wiping his lip only to smear the powder further across his cheek. He realized then how ridiculous he must have looked.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes down as his face flushed with embarrassment. But with the way you were giggling across the table, he couldn’t help but smile, too.

“Here, let me help you.”

To save him from further embarrassment, you reached across the small, wobbly table.

Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, sweeping away the stubborn white powder. Any petty remark Bucky had been about to throw at you died in his throat the second your thumb made contact with his skin.

With the sunlight peering through the window and casting a soft glow on you, you looked… soft.

You looked exactly as you had last night, with the moonlight over your face while you comforted him after his nightmare.

Bucky swallowed hard. “I—”

Suddenly, a waiter rushing by with a loaded tray clipped the corner of your table. The wood jolted, the water glasses sloshing dangerously.

“Sorry, folks! Pardon me,” the man mumbled, already halfway to the next table.

You pulled your hand back quickly, clearing your throat. Bucky sat back, his hand dropping to his lap as he looked toward the door.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice a little lower than usual.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Let’s go.”

The two of you left the restaurant. Stepping out into the warm air, Jackson Square was already vibrant and bustling with a good mix of tourists and locals.

Couples drifted past, fingers intertwined or arms slung over shoulders, soaking in the romance of the city. You and Bucky, however, kept a careful, “friendly” distance, though every time your shoulders brushed in the crowd, you both tensed up.

As you rounded the corner toward the cathedral, the soulful, brass of a trumpet pulled you toward a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.

A jazz quartet was set up near the iron gates. The music was loud and swinging. People were swaying, and some older couples were even dancing in the middle of the pavement, lost in the beat as an elderly man sang, his smooth, gravelly voice beaming through the microphone.

You stopped at the edge of the circle, smiling as you watched a young couple spin each other around.

The music was infectious, and you found yourself tapping your foot against the cobblestones. Bucky stood beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, but his eyes weren’t on the musicians. He was watching the people dancing with a look of quiet, distant longing that made your heart ache just a little.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, grabbing his attention.

Bucky—as if snapped out of his own thoughts—jumped slightly at your question. He looked down at you, a sheepish smile on his lips.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

You motioned to the other dancers. “Do you want to dance?”

He blinked as your question processed in his mind. You were inviting him to dance?

Were you trying to pull his leg?

Bucky sucked in a deep breath, his face flushing and his eyes going wide. “… Dance?”

Before Bucky could deny your offer, the saxophone player stepped forward and got lost in a wild, trilling solo that made the crowd cheer even louder. The man on the microphone let out a joyful laugh, clapping his hands in time with the beat.

“That’s it! That’s it!” he called out. “Don’t just stand there lookin’ pretty, now! Everyone grab a partner and start dancin’ if you haven’t already—life’s way too short to be standin’ still.”

More people spilled into the center of the circle, bumping into you and Bucky. Total strangers were spinning each other around, and it was as if the old cobblestones started to shake with everyone’s footsteps dancing over them.

You looked up at Bucky—his body was tense with the clear desire to bolt in the opposite direction.

“Do you want to leave—”

“C’mon now, you two!” the singer bellowed over the music, drawing the eyes of everyone in the circle as he pointed directly at the two of you with a big grin on his face. “I see you shy young lovebirds over there. Don’t be shy, big man—take the lady’s hand and show us what you got!”

Bucky looked like he wanted to die.

His face was as red as a tomato, and his body was as stiff as a rock. You wanted to laugh at him being called a ‘young lovebird big man,’ but you knew that would only wound his pride even more.

You grabbed his hand, and his body jolted, not expecting the sudden contact.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Come on,” you said, nodding your head toward the middle of the circle. “We’re going to dance.”

“What? Hey—wait—!”

Bucky let himself be dragged to the center of the circle, his feet dragging against the cobblestones.

He couldn’t believe this was happening.

Just twelve hours ago, he had been waking up from a nightmare in a cold sweat, and now he was standing in the middle of Jackson Square with a hundred sets of eyes on him.

This was worse than any nightmare he ever had, probably.

“I can’t,” he hissed, his voice cracking slightly as he looked at the couples spinning around them. “I haven’t danced since... since…”

The Forties.

“Just don’t think about it,” you said, stepping closer into his arms so he was forced to look at you instead of the crowd.

You took his right hand in yours and placed your other hand on his shoulder. His hand found your waist—respectfully. “Just follow my lead.”

You started moving your body to the swing of the rhythm, pulling him into a simple two step move.

At first, Bucky was like a statue—immovable and completely terrified—but then you caught the beat and spun yourself out. Your hand remained intertwined with his before you stepped back into his arms with a little chuckle.

Everyone around you beamed with glee. As the saxophone solo reached its peak, the notes spiraling higher and higher into the humid Louisiana air, Bucky finally started to follow along. His long legs found the rhythm, and he began moving with you.

The man on the microphone threw his head back, laughing in pure delight as Bucky finally found his feet. He pointed at Bucky with a wink before pulling the mic back to his lips.

“There he is! White boy’s got rhythm!” he cheered—and the crowd joined in—before he sung back into a smooth, jazzy verse.

As Bucky spun you around to the music, everything else became a complete blur.

In this moment, it was just you, Bucky, and the beautiful music of New Orleans.

He would occasionally step on your feet, and you would occasionally step on his. You bumped into other dancing couples now and then, but it didn’t matter. You were both laughing, getting lost in the moment and in each other.

It was the first time either of you had seen the other smile like that—completely genuine and unburdened.

After everything that had happened today, it felt like things between you would be different from here on out. There was a soft, gentle side to Bucky that you were slowly starting to notice—a side that made you realize it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he were to… pursue Sarah.

As the song came to an end, Bucky dipped you, holding you up with the strength of his arms alone. The two of you looked at each other breathlessly, his face just inches from yours. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you—just like the other couples were doing, exchanging sweet, quick pecks as the music faded.

But he swallowed hard, hauling you back up and abruptly pulling his hands away from the closeness of your body.

“We should go… so we can make it back in time for the party,” he said, his voice a little strained.

For some reason, the sudden loss of Bucky’s touch hurt you more than you’d like to admit.

“I… sure,” you nodded, straightening your clothes and avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. It’s a long drive. We should go.”

This time, Bucky insisted on driving back to Sarah’s, his excuse being, “You showed me New Orleans, the least I can do is drive us home.”

With how great the day had been and the good mood you were in because of it, you had no problem letting him take the wheel.

“New Orleans is beautiful,” Bucky said, glancing at you with a small smile. “It’s busy and the crowds are loud, but I had a lot of fun—surprisingly so.”

You chuckled, letting the breeze sweep over your face as you looked out the window. “There’s so much more I have to show you. Like the steamboats—oh! And if we’d gone further downtown French Quarter, I could’ve introduced you to my favorite spot for Cajun gumbo—”

Bucky snickered. Here you were again—rambling on about your favorite things. But to Bucky, listening to you talk was, oddly enough, music to his ears.

“That all sounds great,” he said. “Just no swamp boat tours, please. I’ve had enough of those.”

You threw your head back with a hearty laugh. “Fair enough.”

The truck slowly began to lose its momentum, the engine sputtering and making strange sounds—sounds that indicated it wouldn’t survive the over hour long drive back home.

“Uh… Bucky?” you asked, sitting up straighter as you watched the speedometer needle start to dip. “What’s going on?”

Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I… I don’t know.”

“Well, stop slowing down! We’re in the middle of the road!” Panic started to flare as you glanced at the rearview mirror.

“I’m not slowing down,” Bucky snapped back, his voice rising in panic equal to yours. He pressed his foot harder against the gas pedal, but Sarah’s Chevy only groaned in response. “The truck is doing it on its own.”

“Well, fix it!” you shrieked. “Like… shift gears or something!”

“Fix it?” Bucky scoffed at your expectations.

He groaned, steering the truck toward the grassy shoulder. He peered through the windshield, his expression grim as the truck gave one final lurch before going completely dead. He sighed, reaching for the keys.

“Cut the engine and try again,” you urged.

He gave you a snappy look—mostly because that was exactly what he was about to do.

“No shit,” he mumbled, twisting the key to try the ignition again. He grunted, muttering curses as he tried over and over, but the truck wouldn’t budge.

“Great,” Bucky muttered, leaning his head back against the headrest with a thud. “Just great.”

“Oh my god,” you breathed in disbelief.

You had over an hour’s drive ahead of you, and with it already being four o’clock, you were definitely going to be late for AJ’s birthday party.

“You broke Sarah’s truck.”

Bucky’s eyes flew wide as he turned to you, appalled by your audacity. “I broke Sarah’s truck?”

You crossed your arms and stubbornly glared out the window, refusing to look at him. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t Bucky’s fault—the thing was a relic—but with the panic of missing the party bubbling up, you couldn’t help yourself.

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, just stay in the truck, alright? I’ll fix this.”

He pushed the door open and hopped out, but despite his instructions, you were right on his heels.

Bucky popped open the hood, and a fresh cloud of gray smoke billowed out, forcing him to cough and wave his hand to clear the air. He leaned over the engine bay, his vibranium hand resting on the frame as he squinted at the mess of hoses and wires.

“See anything?” you pestered over his shoulder.

“I see a lot of things that shouldn’t be smoking,” he mumbled grumpily.

He reached in, his fingers grazing a radiator hose that looked suspiciously frayed. He tried to tighten a loose bolt, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, but as soon as he touched a connector near the battery, a stray spark flew up.

“It’s the alternator,” he suggested, pulling his hand back and wiping grease onto his jeans. “Or the fuel pump. Or maybe it’s just tired of living.”

“Can you fix it?” you asked, your brows furrowed.

He looked at the smoking engine, then back at the empty road, and finally at you. He let out a long, defeated breath and shook his head.

“There are no tools for me to work with.” He explained, shutting the hood.

“Oh my god,” you repeated, your heart racing. “Oh my god—wait, so what do we do? Do we call someone?”

Bucky already had his phone out—a damned flip phone—and was already dialing Sam’s number.

“What are you doing?” you pestered him, buzzing around him like a fly.

“I’m calling Sam to pick us up,” he answered shortly.

“Oh—okay… good… that’s… good.”

You crossed your arms, your thumb nail caught between your teeth as you started to pace back and forth.

You felt terrible about Sam having to go out of his way to bail you out of this mess on his nephew’s birthday—and you felt even worse about adding a broken truck to the long list of things Sarah already had to take care of.

“Sam, can you hear me? Hello?” Bucky started, raising his voice to be heard over the static. “We’re stranded on—” He looked at you. “Where are we?”

“300 East,” you answered quickly.

“300 East. Sarah’s truck broke down and we need a—hello? Sam, can you hear me?”

Bucky tried again, but the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and sighed, snapping it shut.

“Wait, what happened? Did he pick up?”

“Line went dead,” Bucky said, staring at the useless piece of plastic in his hand.

“But is he coming?” you pressed, stepping closer. “Does he know where we are? Did he hear you?”

“I don’t know.”

Your patience, already worn thin from the humidity and the stress of the entire situation, finally snapped.

“What do you mean you don’t know?!” You threw your hands up in the air, your frustration taking over. “God, maybe if I had driven, we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess—”

Bucky’s head snapped toward you, a scoff leaving his lips as he glared at you. “Excuse me? Why do you always blame things on me?”

“Because you insisted on driving! And you weren’t just driving—you were speeding! You were pushing the truck to its limits and now look at us!” Your voice rose as you stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Look at the mess you got us into!”

Bucky’s face twisted into a sneer so ugly, it nearly made you flinch. He stepped even closer, letting your finger dig into his chest as he loomed over you, as if reminding you of your place.

“You know, I’m starting to get sick and tired of the way you’re treating me,” he growled. “We had a great day—we were finally getting along—and you went and ruined it.”

Your eyes went wide. “I ruined it?”

“Oh, you ruined it the second you opened your mouth!” Bucky barked.

He didn’t even give you a chance to argue back, stepping forward until you were backed up against the hood of the truck.

“I’ve tried my best to be patient with you—goddamnit!” he continued angrily. “I’ve tried to suck up every petty thing you’ve said about me, the way you look at me like I’m nothing but trouble, the way you’ve treated me like a burden on Sarah’s and Sam’s doorstep.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, a smile touching his lips—though it wasn’t a smile that held any happiness at all.

“Hell, I thought today I finally got through to that stubborn little head of yours. I thought maybe we actually enjoyed each other’s company for five minutes. But I guess not, because the second something goes wrong, you go right back to the same old script.”

You felt your bottom lip wobble. You kept your eyes down, refusing to look him in the eye.

You knew he was right—he had no idea how he was actually perceived by you, and your treatment of him was starting to feel completely one-sided and unfair.

Unable to take his yelling any longer, you shoved Bucky out of your way. He stumbled back, surprised by the force of your hand. You started walking away from him toward the truck doors without a word, but his voice followed you, sounding exhausted and completely defeated.

“Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”

The sound of his boots scraping against the gravel caught up to you. Before you could pull away, he put a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm as he urged you to turn around.

“Look at me—”

You wrenched your shoulder out of his grasp, spinning around to face him.

“You want to know why?” you hissed. “It’s because of what you said the first day I met you. I overheard you talking to Sam—laughing about how you were ‘merely joking around’ with Sarah, and how you weren’t looking for anything serious.”

Bucky flinched, his hands dropping to his sides as the anger that clouded his eyes was replaced by a look of sheer confusion.

“Sarah is my best friend. I was the one who sat with her through the divorce. I’m the one who stays when Sam has to leave for months at a time. I’ve seen her work herself to the bone for those boys and this family, and she deserves someone who actually values her. She deserves a real man who means what he says—not someone who uses her as a punchline for a joke with his buddy.”

You stepped even closer, and Bucky looked more and more blindsided.

“You’re ‘just having fun,’ but people like you don’t realize that when you play around with someone like Sarah, you leave a mess behind for people like me to clean up. So yeah, I’ve been hard on you. Because I’m not going to let you come into her life, charm her every time you’re over, and then leave her wondering what she did wrong when men like you get bored.”

Bucky just stood there, taking in every word as they echoed in his mind.

Was this what you had thought of him all this time?

That he was some playboy with nothing but bad intentions for Sam’s—his best friend’s—sister?

“I don’t know what to say,” Bucky finally breathed out.

You crossed your arms, tilting your chin with that same stubborn scrunch of your face you did every time you were sure you were right.

“Of course you don’t,” you bit out.

Bucky huffed a dry laugh, running his tongue over his front teeth as he looked down at you. Despite everything, there it was again—that familiar, infuriating spark of yours.

Here you were, being a brat again, and as much as you got under his skin, he couldn’t ever look away.

“I’m sorry,” he admitted, his voice sincere and gentle. “I didn’t... I didn’t think it would affect her like that. Or you, especially. If I had known it was getting under your skin, I wouldn’t have kept it up.”

“If you knew you weren’t looking for a relationship, Bucky, then you should’ve known to stop. It’s that simple,” you snapped back, refusing to let the sudden softness in his voice throw you off.

“I get it. I’m sorry, alright?” Bucky said, his voice straining between genuine regret and a growing irritation.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. You dismissively rolled your eyes and turned on your heel. Right now, you just needed to get away from him, so you reached for the truck door, intending to climb back into the cab and wait in silence until Sam eventually found you.

But before your hand could even wrap around the handle, Bucky’s vibranium arm shot out, slamming the door shut hard enough to make the Chevy shake.

He didn’t move his hand, pinning you between his body and the truck.

“Jesus Christ,” he growled, leaning down so his face was inches from your ear. “I’m apologizing, and you’re still being a stubborn brat.”

“And you’re being annoying!” you shot back, refusing to shrink away even though you were trapped. Your back pressed against his chest with every shallow breath you took.

“Oh? So not only am I a player, but I’m also annoying?” His eyes darkened as they searched yours, catching your gaze as you tilted your head back to look at him. “I can never win with you, can I?”

Your heart raced as you looked him dead in the eye, trying to ignore the way he loomed over you. “And what exactly are you trying to win out of me, Barnes?” you challenged.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth, tracing the curve of it before snapping back up. He shifted his stance, his thigh brushing firmly against yours and closing the last bit of air between you.

“Your approval,” he murmured. His voice vibrated so low in his chest that you could feel it against your own body. “I just want you to like me.”

“I… do like you,” you admitted, though your voice came out shaky. “You’re a friend of Sam’s—I respect you enough for that.”

“That’s the problem,” Bucky said, the complaint sounding like a painful corak. “You don’t like me. You tolerate me.”

With his vibranium hand still propped up against the truck near your head, his right hand trailed up to play with the ends of your hair. He twirled the strands between his fingers with a careful, almost yearning touch, his fingertips gentle against the locks.

He kept his head down, but even without looking, you could feel the burn of his gaze on the back of your head.

“I want more.”

A short, sharp breath escaped your lungs at his admission. More?

“Bucky,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. “What more could you possibly want from me? If I can tolerate you—isn’t that already enough?”

“No, it’s not,” he groaned. He lowered his head, nuzzling his nose against your hair and breathing you in. “I want the girl who was there for me when I was having a nightmare. I want the girl I was eating beignets with and dancing with in the middle of Jackson Square.”

Your heart was beating so fast you felt like you were running out of air.

He pressed closer, and a small gasp escaped you as you felt his thigh wedge firmly against yours. When your hand scrambled for the side of the truck for support, you gasped as as you felt a twitch coming from between his legs.

“But instead, I’m getting nothing but a real fucking brat,” he hissed into your ear.

He rocked his hips forward, letting you feel his hard erection against your bottom, forcing you to press even deeper against the truck.

You couldn’t believe it—the man you swore you hated was hovering over you, rocking his hips against yours like an animal. You were pinned hard against the truck, helpless to do anything but take it.

The worst part was that even if you tried to protest, you knew he’d see right through you. You were actually enjoying this. You craved the feeling of him, the way Bucky was grinding against you from behind right here on the side of the road, where anyone could drive by and see exactly what he was doing to you.

Despite being caught in such a vulnerable position, you couldn’t help but let that stubborn streak flare up one more time—mostly because you were dying to see how much more you could get out of him.

You tilted your head back until it rested against his shoulder, looking up at him and batting your lashes.

“Is this it then, Barnes?” you teased, rubbing your bottom against his straining, painful bulge. “You think pinning me against a broken truck and acting like a caveman is going to make me like you? You’re even more desperate than I thought.”

A broken, ragged shudder escaped his lips as he watched the curve of you settle perfectly against his cock.

It had been a long time since he had been in contact with a woman like this—much less the one woman who had been driving him absolutely crazy since the moment he stepped foot back in Louisiana.

Bucky’s hands moved from the truck to your waist, giving you a possessive squeeze.

He held you still as he continued to grind into you. A low groan escaped him as the friction of his clothes against his sensitive skin hit just right.

He felt like he was on the verge of losing it. He could have come right there from the dry humping alone.

But he wasn’t about to give in that easily.

“Desperate...” he muttered, breathless, as he continued to hump you like an animal. “Yes—I’m desperate. I’ve been desperate for you this entire fucking time, and you didn’t even know it.”

His fingers tangled into your hair, giving it a sharp tug that forced a gasp from your lips and exposed the long line of your neck to him.

“Every time I come back to Louisiana, I’m always hoping you’d be there—even if your very existence aggravates me.”

He was always looking for you?

Bucky nuzzled his nose against the sensitive skin there, his lips grazing your throat as he continued to talk filth.

“Need to kiss you,” he mumbled against your skin, peppering your neck with sloppy, wet kisses. “Need to stick my tongue down your throat—bet that’ll shut you up for good, won’t it?”

His rough hands roamed relentlessly over your body, bunching the fabric of your top and squeezing your breasts through the thin material. He was possessive, his touch leaving no doubt about who you belonged to in this moment.

You let out a breath as his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, cupping your tits in his palms.

“A lot of talking, but not a lot of action,” you taunted, trying to bite back a moan as he gripped you harder. “Seems very on brand for you, doesn’t it?”

With a snarl, his grip on your hips tightened. He spun you around, nearly slamming your back against the truck. Your yelp of surprise was cut short the second his lips found yours.

The kiss was desperate, almost inexperienced in its hunger, but he moved like a man who had been starving for this very moment with you.

You couldn’t help but lean into him, your hands tangling into his hair with a tug. You moaned into his mouth, and Bucky groaned back, his tongue pushing past your lips to delve deep into the wet warmth of your mouth.

He kept you pinned firmly against the truck, his thigh between yours. You were growing wetter by the second, and you took it upon yourself to start rubbing against him, grinding your dampened cunt against his thick thigh.

Bucky pulled away to rest his forehead against yours, both of you panting for air. He watched, eyes dark and blown out, as you practically fucked yourself against his leg.

A taunting, low laugh left his lips at the filthy sight of it.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “You’re fucking asking for it now.”

Reaching behind you, he yanked the door handle and threw it open.

“Get in the damn truck,” Bucky demanded roughly.

You scrambled inside with a defiant grin, your lips puffy and swollen. You didn’t hesitate to discard your bottoms, leaving yourself in just your panties as you sprawled across the bench seat.

From your spot on the upholstery, you watched with uneven breaths as Bucky began to fumble with his belt.

“Turn around,” Bucky instructed, palming his cock through his jeans as he finally rid himself of the thick fabric. “Face down, ass up.”

Before you could even get into position, Bucky crawled into the truck right after you.

The truck dipped with all the weight shifting to one side, and he slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t even give you time to adjust before his hands found your hips, spinning you around until you were bent over, ass presented to him with your hands planted firmly on the worn leather of the Chevy’s seats.

“God—eager, are you?” you teased.

“Shut up,” Bucky hissed as his flesh hand found the back of your hair, pinning you down so your cheek squished up against the leather.

His fingers hooked the waistband of your cotton panties, giving them a harsh tug and nearly ripping them.

With your face pressed into the seats, you couldn’t make out what he was doing from behind you—only the sounds coming out of his mouth.

“Fuck—look at you,” Bucky groaned, accompanied by the sounds of his jeans and belt being pushed down. “Dripping and completely bare—all just for me.”

Then, you heard the sounds of skin rubbing against skin.

The truck started to shake as deep, breathy little moans escaped Bucky’s mouth. Craning your head to peek at him, your eyes widened at what you saw.

Bucky was admiring the view from behind, his eyes completely glued to the curve of your ass and your wet, puffy cunt—clenching and begging for him. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as his cool, vibranium hand spread your ass wide to get a better view, while the other was stroking his cock hard and fast.

Pre-cum already bubbled at the tip as breathy groans kept leaving his mouth. He was so big—so fucking big—and you weren’t sure he was even going to fit.

Trying to tilt your head to get a better look, Bucky’s hand immediately left his cock and went straight back to your head, pinning you in place against the seat.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

You winced. “What? I can’t even look at you now?”

“You don’t get to make demands of me anymore,” he murmured roughly. He guided his cock up and down against your slit, coating himself and spreading his pre-cum everywhere. “Not when you’re bent over like this. Bent over like a dirty little slut.”

Your pussy immediately pulsed and twitched against Bucky’s tip. He probed and teased the entrance, pushing against the tight heat of your cunt to make you moan, but never quite slipping inside.

It was enough to drive you insane.

Despite everything, you wanted him to fill you right here—right in the truck in the middle of the road, where anyone could see you getting fucked by him.

You started to wiggle your hips, your entrance catching his tip and forcing a broken groan from his throat.

“Still all this talk and no action,” you taunted, wiggling your ass against him. “You just keep proving me more right every day. You’re all talk—”

A yelp broke from your lips as his palm connected with the bare curve of your ass. Your body arched, a sting blooming across your skin and making your toes curl.

“You just don’t know how to keep that mouth shut, do you?” Bucky growled, leaning over you until his breath was hot against your ear.

Without waiting for an answer, he brought his hand down again, forcing another yelp from you as the slap echoed in the small truck.

Your bottom—bare and vulnerable—began to throb with a pulsing heat. Bucky’s right hand smoothed over the warm skin, and he mockingly clicked his tongue when you bucked your hips back for more, seeking friction from his cock despite the pain.

“Christ,” Bucky groaned, his fingers swiping your sensitive slit. “Did you just get wetter?”

“Bucky…” you whined against the leather seat. “... p-please.”

Bucky froze behind you, his eyes widening slightly as the word hung in the air. Then, a devilish little grin tugged at his lips.

Please?

Did you just say ‘please’?

He continued to soothe your burning skin with his palm, his touch gentle and taunting. “Sorry, sweetheart. What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

You groaned, burying your face out of embarrassment. “You know what? Forget it—”

Another gasp escaped you as his hand came down hard against your bottom again, making your body jolt. Before you could pull away, both of his hands clamped down on your hips, dragging you back until you were pushed against him.

You could feel the ridge of his warm, throbbing cock resting right against the curve of your ass.

“Come on, baby. I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you say ‘please.’ Say it again. I know you’ve got a voice.”

When you continued to remain stubbornly silent, he guided his cock toward your entrance, sinking just the tip in.

You arched your back, a needy sound catching in your throat. Bucky groaned, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your tight hole. He wanted to grab your hips and slam you down on his cock—but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make you beg for it.

“Fuck—come on, sweets. Just say please like a good girl,” he coaxed, his own voice breaking. “Come on, I want to hear you say it. Just one more time for me, baby. Say please once and I’ll give it to you good—I promise.”

Just once.

All he needed from you was a simple, breathy little ‘please’— a broken whimper he could hold onto.

He knew he couldn’t make you beg for much longer, mostly because he was just as greedy as you were. He was starving, and he wanted to fuck you right here, right now, until instead of begging him with a ‘please’ you’d be begging with a ‘stop’.

“P-please…”

The word finally broke from your lips—breathless and broken. It was exactly what he wanted to hear.

With his tip buried in your tight entrance, and you pulsing and wet around him, he needed to feel more. That breathy little ‘please’ was the perfect invitation.

“Good girl,” Bucky praised, his grip on your hips tightening as he began to sink into you—slowly, making sure you felt every agonizing inch. “Good fucking girl.”

Your mouth hung wide open, drool surely spilling out and onto the seats as Bucky stretched you wide until you felt completely filled. Your breath hitched, coming in short, panicked bursts.

“God, you’re so small,” Bucky groaned, leaning over you—his chest pressing hard against your back. “Tight enough to break me.”

Even with your lungs feeling squeezed and your head light from the stretch, you couldn’t help the small, muffled huff that left you. You turned your face to glance back at him with a dazed and defiant look.

“Maybe you’re just… hah… out of practice,” you managed to choke out, a weak smirk tugging at your lips. “Forgotten what a real woman feels like?”

Bucky’s eyes went dark, his brow twitching at your words. He didn’t give you the satisfaction of a laugh. His fingers dug into the leather on either side of your head and he began to pull out, agonizingly slow, only to slam back into you completely—filling you in one hard and ruthless thrust. A thrust hard enough to make the truck shake.

“Out of practice?” he hissed. He did it again, a short, hard thrust that knocked the wind out of you. “Since you’ve got such a big mouth, I’ll make sure to fuck that one next.”

Bucky grabbed your hips, his fingers pushing into your flesh and making you gasp as he began to rock his hips back and forth. He withdrew nearly all the way, leaving you cold and aching for a split second, before fucking all the way back into you.

The truck began to rock and creak, the worn leather squeaking beneath your sweaty palms as he fucked you into it.

He made sure you felt every ridge and throb of him, his tip aiming at your softest spots until your vision swam and blurred.

“Still.. got something.. to say?” he grunted between words, his heavy balls slapping against your cunt as he fucked you.

You couldn’t even form a syllable. Your eyes—rolled back—were disoriented as he used your body for his pleasure.

All the noises that filled the small space of the truck were filthy. The wet squelching of your pussy as Bucky’s cock pumped in and out of you. The breathy grunts and groans leaving Bucky’s lips. Your gasps and mewls whimpering in the air.

“I… hah—mph—B-bucky, I—”

“Look at you,” he huffed a deep, condescending laugh. “Can’t even talk now, can you? Just laying there and taking it. God—I’ve dreamed of this so many times, you know? You, pinned underneath me, finally putting this bratty pussy to work. When I fill you up, we’re not nearly done. I’m going to use your mouth next, I’ll make sure of it.”

Every filthy word that left Bucky’s lips only made you clench tighter around him, bringing you closer and closer.

“But fuck, your pussy is so tight—feel like I could be buried here all day,” Bucky groaned.

He reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing with a pressure that sent sparks through your vision. He felt you flutter around him, tightening around his cock almost painfully so.

“Fuck—you gonna cum?” he asked roughly.

“M-mph—mhm—!” you moaned against the leather, nodding your head frantically. “M’gonna cum, Bucky!”

A deep, sexy vibration of a laugh rumbled in Bucky’s chest—and you couldn’t hold back anymore.

Your body shook against the leather as your walls clamped down on him with heavy pulses. A broken, high pitched keen left your throat as you felt yourself come undone all over him, wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure crashing over you while he savored your tightness.

Bucky clenched his teeth, hissing as your pussy—already tight as it was—became restrictive and completely unbearable for him.

But despite the tightness, he didn’t stop—not even for a second.

It was too good not to.

“Shit, I’m gonna cum, baby—” Bucky gasped, his hips moving uncoordinated as his cock pulsed and throbbed. “Fuck, fuck, gonna cum… inside… gonna fill you up—!”

Bucky pushed his hips into yours, bottoming out until there wasn’t a breath of space left between you.

You felt his cock pulse inside you—and then you started to feel even fuller than you already were. His cum began to seep into your tight pussy, pumping into you until you overflowed, the excess dripping out and onto the seats.

He dropped his forehead against the back of your neck, his hot breath tickling your damp skin as he felt himself start to calm down, catching his breath.

His hands roamed over your hips, giving you a gentle rub before he pulled himself out of your abused pussy with a wet squelch. He sat back on the seat, chest heaving as he motioned for you to come closer.

“Come here, baby,” he cooed.

Bucky gently guided you toward his lap, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your sweaty forehead. Then, his vibranium hand found the back of your head, slowly—gently—guiding you down toward his cock, which was still half hard and coated in juices.

“I said I was going to use your mouth next, didn’t I?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered with a shaky laugh.

You were exhausted, your body still trembling from the way he had completely ruined you, yet here he was—demanding more. Bucky didn’t look bothered at all. He just flashed a lopsided, lazy grin.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded softly, his vibranium fingers curling gently into your hair, guiding you back toward his lap.

You rolled your eyes even as you sank down, your tongue slowly dragging up his spent cock. Your tongue danced around the tip—then beneath the head—making him shudder and groan.

He was sensitive, yet he still wanted more. You stretched your mouth open, taking him in as best as you could. He was already thickening back to fullness, responding instantly to the warmth of your throat.

As you bobbed your head lazily on his cock, Bucky tossed his head back against the leather seats with a moan, rutting his hips up gently—just barely—seeking more.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “God—that fucking mouth—”

But the sound of his phone ringing cut through the truck, silencing him instantly. Bucky stiffened, his breath hitching as he felt around the tangled leather seats. He grabbed his phone, glancing at the flip-phone screen with a low curse.

It was Sam.

He answered, pressing the phone to his ear while his other hand stayed tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking your cheek as you continued to work his cock.

“Hey man! I'm halfway there,” Sam’s voice crackled through. “Just hold on for about twenty more minutes, alright?”

Bucky’s head fell back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock. His hips gave a small, involuntary twitch, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out.

“Alright,” Bucky managed to grit out, his voice a strained, gravelly mess. “We’re here… waiting— fuck.”

He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath as you took him deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair as a warning. There was a moment of silence on the other line.

He was sure the connection had died or Sam might’ve hung up.

“Yo, Buck? You sound hurt,” Sam said, his voice rising with concern. “Y’all good? You two aren’t fighting, are you?”

Fighting was one way to put it.

“We’re perfectly fine,” Bucky huffed, growing impatient. “You said twenty minutes, right? Okay. We’ll wait for you. Bye.”

He flipped the phone shut and tossed it somewhere behind him, his attention snapping back to you. You fluttered your eyes to look up at him, your mouth still stuffed with his cock.

“You heard that, baby? You’ve got twenty minutes to make me cum again,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. “Think that’s enough time for you?”

You popped his cock out of your mouth, wiping at the saliva that spilled onto your chin with a smug, little grin.

“Bet I can do it in two.”

“Oh, here you go again.”

i actually had a lot of fun writing this. now i want to book a trip to new orleans.

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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