✩ I’m a writer, reader, photographer, collector of fictional boyfriends, and firm believer that every version of Bucky Barnes deserves a happy ending. ✩
✩ I’m a lover of many things, including: ✩
✩ Bucky Barnes (uh duh), Chris Beck (aka SPACEMAN), Gossip Girl especially Carter Baizen and Nate Archibald, The Walking Dead (gimme Negan plz and thx), Bellamy Blake, Game of Thrones, and House of the Dragon (unhealthy obsession with Daemon, don’t judge me). ✩
✩ Also a huge fan of ACOTAR, Throne of Glass, Crescent City, and Fourth Wing. These series have permanently altered my brain chemistry and I fear there’s no cure. ✩
✩ Currently playing: Slow Bloom by The Home Team ✩
✩ When I’m not writing, you’ll most likely find me spending time with my family (mama to two amazing kiddos), starting another Stardew play-through, making playlists on Spotify, absolutely wrecking the Elite Four in any Pokemon game, or napping. ✩
✩ You can find my masterlist here and please feel free to send in requests! ✩
✩ Likes: white peach redbull, spicy chips, the smell of rain, soft blankets, mac and cheese, 4/20, smut that makes me question myself. ✩
✩ Dislikes: bad tv show endings (looking at you the 100 and game of thrones), devastating cliffhangers, people who don’t use turn signals, steve rogers (more specifically him leaving bucky because wtf was that????), writers block. ✩
✩ I’m happy you’re all here, welcome to the chaos! ✩
word count | 13.5k words
summary | you had the house. the husband. the hollow life. but every tuesday and thursday at 10:45 AM, you opened the door to something sweeter—a young mailman with a mouth full of yes ma’am and hands made for sin.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, unprotected sex, suburbia au, pwp, cheating sex, infidelity, age gap, power imbalance (but consensual), marital infidelity, dom/sub dynamics, begging, doggy style, overstimulation, light dirty talk, reader fantasises about bucky during sex with husband, tw: br*ck r*mlow, mention of emotional neglect in marriage, praise kink, creampie, bucky is obsessed, lowkey inexperienced!bucky, subby!bucky, bucky calls you ma’am and then fucks you stupid, he leaves your pussy full of mail, cuckold core, possessive!bucky, pussy drunk!bucky, heavy praise
a/n | tbh this could’ve taken place in the 50s or 2000s, nobody knows. this was inspired by desperate housewives but i made it sluttier (if gabby and bree were one person)
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
divider by @enchanthings
There’s something peculiar about the way a woman can be broken without ever making a sound.
No cracks. No gasps. No shattering porcelain on the floor.
Just a quiet kind of nothing that settles behind her eyes like dust on a windowsill, inevitable and slowly turning everything gray.
You were folding laundry when you found it.
One of Brock’s white shirts. The expensive kind. Egyptian cotton, triple-stitched, with his initials monogrammed just inside the collar—BRR—like a cattle brand stamped into the fabric. You’d pressed it yourself that morning, running the iron over the sleeves in slow, methodical passes, breathing in the steam and starch and the faint ghost of his cologne.
And then you saw it.
Lipstick.
Not yours.
Too red. Too loud. The kind of colour worn by women who laugh too hard at dinner parties and drink too much gin straight from the glass. Women who don’t bother to wipe the smudge off the rim before they hand it back to the waiter.
Right there, faint but certain, a smear near the collarbone. Just a whisper of crimson against the white. Like a signature. Like a taunt.
You didn’t scream or crumble. You just held the shirt between your fingers and stared at that mark like it was a wine stain on the wallpaper. Inconvenient and not even worth fussing about.
Because this is what it meant to be Mrs. Rumlow. And you had no one to blame but yourself.
After all, you weren’t swept off your feet. You were just worn down.
Brock pursued you the way a dog gnaws a bone—persistent and aggressive. He asked you out eight times before you said yes. Called your job every afternoon until the receptionist started putting him through just to shut him up. Sent flowers to your apartment; carnations, always carnations, because he never bothered to learn what you actually liked. Showed up at your mother’s dinner parties with that performative charm, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, grinning like he’d already won.
And everyone else loved him.
Your friends said he was handsome. Your mother said he had prospects. Your father just nodded and shook his hand and called him a good man.
You didn’t feel anything at all really.
But the word “yes” started falling out of your mouth like clockwork. Yes to dinner. Yes to letting him in. Yes to the ring—heavy and perfect and exactly what a girl should want. Yes to the house with the white picket fence and the immaculate lawn. Yes to the title—Mrs. Rumlow.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Until suddenly you were thirty, standing in your laundry room at two in the afternoon, holding a man’s shirt that didn’t even smell like you anymore.
And what now? You could confront him. Cry, maybe. Throw a tantrum. Smash a vase against the wall and watch the pieces scatter across the hardwood.
But for what? To make him feel bad for fifteen minutes before he went right back to doing whatever he pleased? To force an apology you knew wouldn’t mean a thing?
No, thank you.
You hung the shirt neatly over the back of the chair, the way you’d been taught, and went back to folding towels. Matching corners. Smooth stacks. The rhythm of it steadied something in your chest.
That afternoon, you made a lemon cake.
You creamed the butter and sugar until it was pale and fluffy. You zested the lemons until your fingers smelled sharp and bright. You poured the batter into the pan and watched it rise through the oven door, golden and perfect. You whipped the frosting by hand until your arm ached, then spread it in smooth, even layers across the top.
And when you sat down in your immaculate kitchen—surrounded by the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock, with a slice of cake on a china plate in front of you—you took a bite.
The frosting was just a little too sweet.
You felt absolutely nothing at all.
Dinner was silent.
You set the pot roast on the table, the porcelain platter warm against your palms, steam curling upward like cigarette smoke in a half-empty bar. The scent of rosemary and roasted carrots hung in the air, filling the dining room with something that smelled like home… even if it didn’t feel like one.
Brock thanked you without looking up from the newspaper.
The words came out flat, automatic, as if spoken by a machine. He ate quickly, efficiently, like everything in his life. Fork, knife, chew, swallow. A rhythm of consumption without pleasure. He checked his watch between bites, that little gold-faced wristband catching the chandelier light, and you wondered if he ever really tasted anything at all.
You nodded at the right moments. Smiled when he made a dry comment about work… something about a man named Alexander Pierce, a deal gone sour, a shipment delayed. You didn’t really listen. You just let your mouth move in practiced curves while your eyes drifted to the lipstick stain you’d pressed out of that shirt hours ago.
You poured him another drink when he tapped the glass. The two clinks of his wedding band against the crystal, a wordless request you had long since learned to obey without thought.
You didn’t bring up the lipstick.
Why would you? He would deny it. Or worse—he would tell the truth like it was trivial, like it was nothing more than a spilled drink at a work function, a kiss on the cheek from a client’s wife. He would wave his hand and say you know how these things go, sweetheart, and then he’d go back to carving the roast.
So you kept your mouth shut and your hands steady and your face smooth as porcelain.
After dinner, you washed the dishes while he stood behind you. His hands found your hips in that familiar way, yet less like a husband touching his wife and more like a man checking the fence posts on his property. You didn’t flinch or lean back into him. You just let the warm water run over your fingers and watched the soap bubbles pop one by one against the stainless steel.
He guided you upstairs without a word.
In the bedroom, he didn’t turn on the lights. He never did when he was in this mood. It was easier for him to pretend you were anyone he wanted. Easier for you to pretend you didn’t know who he was imagining. Easier for both of you to exist in that shadowed space without having to look each other in the eye.
He unbuttoned your dress halfway, just enough to get what he needed, and pushed inside you with a sigh. The same tired exhale he gave when he loosened his tie after work. A release. Not affection. Not even desire. Just pressure leaving the body, a valve opened after a long day.
He moved like a man finishing a task before bed. His breath warm and stale against your neck, tinged with whiskey and gravy. Your cheek pressed into the pillow, eyes open in the dark, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling where the moonlight bled through the curtains.
You didn’t make a sound. You didn’t tremble or cling or gasp. You just lay there, letting him take what he thought was his, feeling nothing but the soft thud of your heartbeat in your ear and the slight friction of the sheets against your thighs.
When he came, he groaned your name like an afterthought and rolled off you immediately. A completed chore. The mattress shifted as he settled onto his back, and within minutes his breathing evened out into the low, rough snore you’d grown accustomed to.
You pulled the sheets back up to your chin and lay on your back, staring at the ceiling.
The moonlight cut pale lines across the room, sharp and silver, like broken glass scattered on the floor. You traced them with your eyes, following the angles where they crossed the crown molding, the light fixture, the corner where the wallpaper had begun to peel ever so slightly.
They didn’t point anywhere. They didn’t mean anything. They were just lines of light falling across a dark room where a woman lay next to a man who didn’t see her.
The ache between your legs was faint now, fading into something distant and numb. You folded your hands over your stomach, fingers interlaced, like a woman lying in a casket.
The ceiling fan hummed above you, a low mechanical drone that filled the silence with something almost like comfort.
Then you let sleep pull you under, still hollow, still quiet, still waiting for something to crack.
Tuesday
You sat in the kitchen with a cigarette burning between your fingers and your second cup of coffee growing cold on the counter, wearing a satin robe the colour of pale champagne; too soft, too pretty, too delicate for a life this dull. The fabric whispered against your skin with every small movement, a reminder that you still had a body, still had nerve endings, still had wants that went unacknowledged.
The floor was spotless. Linoleum gleaming under the morning light, every crumb swept, every scuff wiped away. The breakfast dishes were stacked neatly in the drying rack, porcelain and ceramic arranged like soldiers at attention. Everything in its place. Everything perfect.
And for a moment, just one dizzy, suffocating moment, you considered what it would be like if you just… walked out.
Not packed. Not explained. Not left a note. Just stood up, pushed back the chair, and let the front door click shut behind you without a backward glance. No destination. No plan. Just the simple, radical act of leaving.
You thought about the other wives on the block. Margaret with her twin boys and her perpetual exhaustion. Doris with her tennis club and her too-bright laugh. Eleanor with her country luncheons and her gossip that cut like a finely sharpened knife. All of them busy, all of them pretending they weren’t slowly going mad in their identical houses with their identical husbands and their identical lives.
You didn’t have a baby. You didn’t have a career. You didn’t even have friends you really liked—just women you drank tea with because it was expected, because the calendar said Monday and Wednesday meant bridge club whether you wanted it or not.
You had a house that stayed clean and a husband that didn’t. And every day felt the same.
Breakfast. Clean. Grocery store. Smile politely. Dinner. Dishes. Sex if he remembered. Sleep. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
You stubbed the cigarette out in the ceramic ashtray, the ember hissing against porcelain, and let out a long, slow breath. Maybe you’d bake something today. A cheesecake, perhaps—the one your mother had taught you, the one that took two hours and left your hands smelling of cream and sugar. Or maybe you’d just sit here, watching the clock tick toward noon, counting the minutes until the day blurred into the next one.
Knock. Knock.
Your head turned, like a reflex you hadn’t trained but couldn’t control.
The clock on the wall said 10:45. Which meant it was Tuesday. Which meant—
You already knew before you opened the door.
The morning light spilled across the porch, catching in his hair, turning it something between caramel and chocolate. He stood there in his postal uniform; navy trousers pressed sharp, shirt buttoned to regulation, the leather strap of his mailbag cutting across his chest.
But beneath the uniform, he wore a white t-shirt, the collar just visible at his throat, and he’d cuffed his sleeves once, twice, to show his forearms. Tan skin dusted with fine golden hair, muscles that moved beneath the surface with a boyish, easy strength.
There was a curl stuck to his forehead, dark and damp from the morning humidity. Your fingers itched to push it back.
He smiled when he saw you, that wide, eager grin that made him look like he’d just found something he’d been searching for. “G’mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.” His voice had a rumble to it, low and warm. “You’re lookin’ mighty pretty this mornin’.”
The words landed somewhere in your chest, like a stone dropped into still water. You didn’t smile back, not the full thing, anyway. Just a curve at the corner of your mouth, a softening of your eyes. You held the doorframe with two fingers, the satin of your robe draping against the painted wood.
“Thank you, James.” His name felt intentional on your tongue, drawn out just a little longer than necessary. “Right on time, I see.”
Bucky scratched the back of his neck, a gesture so young, so unpolished, it made something tighten in your stomach. “You know me, ma’am. Gotta keep to a schedule.” He laughed once, a short breath of sound. “Wouldn’t wanna disappoint.”
Disappoint. The word hung in the air between you, weighted with something neither of you acknowledged aloud.
He pulled the letters from his bag with careful hands; one bill, one catalog, one cream-coloured envelope with your mother’s looping handwriting on the front. He offered them to you, and you reached out to take them, your fingers brushing his in the exchange.
A whisper of contact. Barely anything at all. But your skin remembered it. Tingled with it. Held onto it like a secret.
You looked down at the envelopes, then back up at him. His cheeks were flushed, that telltale pink climbing up from his collar, and he was looking at you like you were something more than a housewife in a bathrobe holding a stack of bills.
“You have a good day now, ma’am,” he said, quieter this time, as if the words were meant only for the space between you.
The ma’am made something in your chest loosen. It wasn’t condescending, not the way Brock said it when he was irritated, a dismissive verbal pat on the head. This was different. Like being called something sacred.
“Thank you, James.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt. “I’ll see you Thursday.”
His grin widened, a flash of white teeth, and he touched the brim of his cap like a soldier saluting. “Yes, ma’am. Thursday.”
Bucky turned and walked back down the path, his stride easy and confident, the mailbag swinging against his hip. You watched him go, fingers still pressed to the doorframe, the letters clutched against your chest. He glanced back once, just before the hedge swallowed him from view, and caught your eye.
He didn’t wave. Neither did you.
But the look he gave you lingered long after he disappeared.
You closed the door slowly and leaned against it, the wood cool against your back through the thin satin. And suddenly, all you could think about was Thursday.
All you could think about was him.
Thursday
You put on lipstick before breakfast.
Not the usual pale pink you wore to bridge club or church, the kind that barely registered on your lips, a ghost of colour meant to be respectable and forgettable. No. Today, you reached for the tube tucked behind the vanity mirror, the one you’d bought weeks ago on a whim and never worn. A glossier red. Crimson. The kind of shade that demanded attention.
It wasn’t quite as brazen as the stain on Brock’s collar’ that shade had been brighter, cheaper, applied with less care, but it was close. Close enough to feel like a statement. Close enough to feel like your own small rebellion.
You curled your hair, too. The iron hissed against the strands, shaping them into soft curls that brushed your shoulders. You ironed your best blouse, cream silk with mother-of-pearl buttons, and paired it with a navy skirt that cinched at your waist and fell just below your knees. You dabbed perfume behind your ears, at your wrists, between your breasts, letting the scent settle into your skin like a secret.
All for what? A two-minute doorstep exchange.
Maybe.
But it had been a long time since you got ready for someone. A long time since you’d felt the flutter of anticipation in your chest, the nervous checking of your reflection, the quiet thrill of wondering if he would notice.
And Bucky? He always noticed.
The morning moved slowly. You tried to busy yourself—made the bed with hospital corners, scrubbed the kitchen counters until they gleamed, cleaned out the icebox with methodical precision. But your hands went through the motions while your mind wandered elsewhere.
You kept glancing at the clock.
10:32.
10:39.
The coffee grew cold in your cup, untouched.
10:44.
Your pulse quickened, an involuntary flutter against your ribs. You wiped your palms on your skirt, smoothed a hand over your hair, touched your lips to check the lipstick was still perfect.
Then—
Footsteps on gravel.
Your breath caught. You straightened your posture, squared your shoulders, and walked to the front door with a calm you didn’t feel. You opened it before he could knock, the morning light spilling across the porch and catching him mid-step.
“Well, good mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.”
He stood there with a toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth, rolling it lazily between his lips. Same cuffed sleeves, same easy stance, same sunshine grin, but something shifted when his eyes landed on you. The grin faltered, just a fraction. His gaze traveled down, then back up, taking his time. Top to bottom. Appreciative. Hungry.
Your skin warmed under the weight of it.
“Why, James,” you said, your voice light and teasing, carrying the faintest lilt of surprise. “You’re lucky I’m dressed. Another ten seconds and you might’ve caught me in a robe.”
He laughed, a low, full sound that rumbled from his chest. “Guess I showed up just in time, then.” He pulled the toothpick from his mouth, tucking it into his shirt pocket, and let his eyes linger on your lips. “You look real nice today, Mrs. Rumlow. That colour suits you.”
You felt the compliment settle low in your belly. You leaned against the doorframe, letting your hip jut out just slightly, letting him see the curve of your waist beneath the silk. “Thursdays feel longer than Tuesdays,” you mused, taking the mail from his outstretched hand. Your fingers brushed his on purpose this time. “I think I like Tuesdays better.”
He cocked his head, watching your fingers trace the edge of the envelope. A slow smile spread across his face, not shy now, not boyish. Something else. “Then I guess I’ll have to make Thursdays worth your while, won’t I?”
There it was. The cocky edge under all that charm. The faintest bite, the shift from sweet to knowing. He wasn’t just flirting anymore, he was answering you.
You felt it in your chest. In your thighs. That quiet, familiar clench that hadn’t visited in years, the one you’d thought had died somewhere between Brock’s indifference and your own resignation.
“You always this flattering to the women on your route?” you asked, tilting your head, keeping your tone airy. But your eyes held his, unflinching.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Only the pretty ones.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? So just Mrs. McCall across the street, then?”
He laughed again, and God, that laugh. It was warm and genuine, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. He placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “You wound me, Mrs. Rumlow. You know you’re my favourite.”
The way he said it. That confident little smirk. The way his eyes dropped to your lips again, just for a second, before returning to yours, like he was memorising you.
It shouldn’t have made your thighs press together. But it did.
He made no move to step back. You made no move to end the conversation. The morning stretched around you, the only sounds the distant hum of a lawnmower and the thrumming of your own pulse.
“You got plans this weekend?” he asked suddenly.
The question caught you off guard. You blinked, your composure slipping for just a moment. “No,” you admitted. “Just the usual. Laundry. Groceries. Maybe lunch with some women I don’t particularly like.”
He smiled again, wide and wolfish this time. “I could think of better ways to spend a Sunday.”
Your lips parted. You could feel the weight of his words, the implication wrapped in that easy grin. But you didn’t speak.
He stepped back then, finally, breaking the spell slowly. He tipped two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute, his eyes never leaving yours. “See you Tuesday, Mrs. Rumlow.”
“Tuesday,” you repeated, your voice softer than you intended.
He turned and walked down the path, his stride easy, his shoulders broad beneath the blue uniform. You watched him go, watched the way his hips moved, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. And this time, when he glanced back, just before the hedge swallowed him, he didn’t just look.
He winked.
You closed the door slowly, and exhaled through your nose, a long, shaky breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Your heart rattled against your ribs. Your lips still tingled from the weight of his gaze.
You were old enough to know better. Old enough to recognize the danger in a boy who looked at you like you were the sun. But today? You didn’t feel old. You didn’t feel married. You didn’t feel like a housewife in a quiet suburb with a cheating husband and a hollow life.
You felt looked at. You felt chosen. And maybe Bucky had other girls. Maybe he had dozens, scattered across his route like wildflowers. But when he looked at you like that, like you were the only woman on the planet, you let yourself bask in it.
Saturday Night
Brock wanted sex, again.
You could always tell by the way he stood in the doorway after his shower, towel slung low around his hips, rubbing the bridge of his nose like the very thought of wanting you exhausted him. It never felt like desire. It felt like appetite, hunger without taste, a reflex he performed out of schedule rather than longing. He never looked at you the way Bucky did. He looked through you, like you were a task to check off before sleep.
You were propped against the headboard, a copy of Ladies’ Home Journal open in your lap, your eyes scanning the same paragraph three times without reading a word. The magazine had been a shield. A pretense of being occupied. But when Brock padded over and plucked it from your hands, his fingers brushing yours without lingering, you didn’t protest.
He placed it on the nightstand and you watched his shadow fall across the bed.
“You ready for me?” he asked, already knowing the answer. His voice was flat, perfunctory.
“Mhm,” you murmured, the sound soft, neutral. Invitation enough.
He climbed on top of you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His lips found yours in a single, dry kiss , just a press of mouth against mouth before he pulled back. His lips were damp from the shower. Impatient. He pushed your nightgown up over your hips, the cotton gathering in wrinkled bunches around your ribs. The air hit your thighs, cool and indifferent.
“I missed you,” he whispered, but the words were hollow, a script he recited by rote. He didn’t mean it. He never meant it. But the sound still filled the room, settling between you like dust.
You opened your legs because that was the routine. That was marriage. That was being Mrs. Rumlow, a woman who spread her thighs for a man who forgot she had a name beyond the ring on her finger.
He entered you with a grunt. As you felt the familiar weight of a man claiming what he believed belonged to him. His hips settled against yours, and he began to move, steady, mechanical, like the piston of a machine. In. Out. In. Out. His breath hot against your neck.
It didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel good. It felt like nothing.
You stared over his shoulder at the wall. The pattern in the wallpaper blurred as your focus drifted. The lamp on the nightstand flickered once, a tired bulb. The headboard creaked with each thrust, a rhythmic complaint that had long since become white noise. You counted the creaks. Six. Seven. Eight. You wandered through the numbers like hallways, searching for somewhere else to be.
Your mind wandered. It always did. But tonight it wandered somewhere new.
James Buchanan Barnes.
You pictured him without even meaning to. The curve of his smile, that boyish confidence that didn’t know its own power. His hands, rough and calloused from sorting mail and lifting parcels, curling around envelopes with a casual grace. Forearms tight and sun-browned, taut with youth and strength, so much younger than they should be for how much they made you ache.
You imagined those hands on your waist instead. Sliding over the curve of your hip. Fingers digging in like he was afraid you might slip through them, like he wanted to hold on so tight he’d leave bruises you could press in the morning and remember.
Brock groaned into your shoulder. A sound of effort, not passion. You barely heard it.
Your mind was in your foyer. Sunlight streaming through the side window, catching the gold in James’s hair, turning it to chocolate brown. His eyes dropping to your lips and the quiet hitch of his breath when he realised you were wearing red today. The way his tongue touched his bottom lip before he spoke.
You imagined him standing too close. Close enough that you could smell the soap on his skin, the faint salt of a morning’s work. You imagined him saying your name with that low rasp, Mrs. Rumlow, not as a title, but as a confession. Almost shy. Almost cocky. Almost daring you to stop him.
You imagined him whispering something filthy in your ear. Something a young man should never say to a married woman. Something you would let him say anyway, would crave him to say, would press your thighs together under the kitchen table and pretend not to hear.
“I think about you when I’m alone, Mrs. Rumlow. Late at night. Do you think about me?”
Brock picked up his pace. His breathing turned heavy, tight, a rhythm he knew by heart. His hips slapped against yours, harder now, more insistent. Your body moved out of habit—a practiced arch of your back, a soft sound you’d learned to make at the right intervals. But you weren’t there.
You were in the kitchen with Bucky, morning light streaming through the lace curtains. Your robe hanging open. His mouth hot on your throat, trailing down, down, tasting the perfume you’d dabbed there just for him. His voice unsteady and hungry, cracking with want. His hand sliding up your thigh, like he had been dreaming about the feel of your skin for months.
“Tell me you want this,” he’d whisper. “Tell me you want me.”
You imagined him losing control. The careful restraint crumbling. The boyish charm replaced by something ravenous, something that needed you so badly it frightened him. You imagined him taking you right there against the counter, your back arching, your fingers tangled in his hair, every sound you made pulling him deeper.
Your breath caught. Heat crawled up your spine like fingers tracing vertebrae. Your nails dug into the sheets, white-knuckled, pulling the fabric taut.
Brock didn’t notice.
You came quietly. An involuntary gasp against his shoulder, a tremour that ran through your thighs and settled deep in your belly. You bit down on the sound, swallowed it whole. You didn’t want him to know why. You didn’t want him to know it wasn’t for him.
He finished thirty seconds later with a strained grunt, his body tensing, his release hot and forgettable. He collapsed on top of you, a dead weight, sweating and satisfied, completely ignorant. His breath evened out against your neck, slowing into the rhythm of a man who had taken what he wanted and was already forgetting he’d had it.
“I missed you,” he said again. A kiss pressed to your shoulder, empty of meaning.
You closed your eyes. Your pulse settled slowly, like dust after a storm.
Your husband had made you orgasm for the first time in years. And he would never know that he had nothing to do with it.
You lay there under Brock’s weight, the lamp flickering, the headboard silent now. Your fingers still curled in the sheets. Your skin still tingled where you’d imagined Bucky’s hands.
You thought about Tuesday. You thought about the red lipstick in your vanity drawer. You thought about the way James’s eyes had dropped to your lips this morning, hungry and hopeful, like a boy ready to sin.
And you smiled in the dark.
Tuesday came again.
And so did you.
Not physically. Not yet. But God, did you want to.
You spent the morning choosing your clothes with the kind of care you usually reserved for holidays or funerals. A blush pink blouse with three buttons undone, sleeves rolled just past your elbows. An indecent skirt that hugged your hips when you walked. You applied your lipstick slowly, blotting against tissue paper until the colour was perfect, a deep, shameful red that screamed look at me.
You heard the mail truck before you saw him. The low rumble of the engine, the crunch of gravel, the squeak of brakes. Your pulse quickened. You stepped onto the porch just as he rounded the corner of the driveway, satchel slung over one shoulder, a stack of envelopes in his hand.
He looked up. Saw you. Stopped.
The sun caught the sweat on his brow, glistening on his temple. He was so young. It made your stomach tighten.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.” His voice came out a little rough. He cleared his throat. “Got your usual. Couple of bills. A catalog.”
You smiled and stepped forward. Close enough that the breeze carried your perfume straight to him. You saw his nostrils flare, just slightly—, efore he caught himself.
“That’s very kind of you to bring them right to the door,” you said, letting your voice dip low. “Y’know most mailmen would just toss them in the box.”
“I like makin’ sure you get yours proper.” He held out the envelopes. His fingers brushed yours when you took them. Lingered. You didn’t pull away.
You looked up at him through your lashes. “You’re good at your job, James.”
He smiled, crooked and shy. “Only ‘cause the scenery’s nice.”
You laughed softly. “Careful. You’ll spoil me.”
“Well, maybe you deserve to be spoiled.”
The words hung in the air between you, heavy and warm. He didn’t look away. Neither did you.
Thursday came with a different kind of heat.
Thick and humid, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel slow. You wore a sundress, thin straps, low neckline, the fabric loose enough to hint at what lay beneath without giving everything away. No stockings. No slip. Just your body and cotton and the knowledge that the afternoon sun would make the dress cling to every curve.
You heard the truck at the usual time. You opened the door before he could knock.
This time you leaned out a little too far as you reached for the envelopes. Let the neckline gape. Let him see the swell of your breasts, the shadow between them, the way your skin glistened from the humidity.
His eyes dropped.
It was only for a second. Less. But you saw it. The way his jaw twitched. The way his hand tightened around the mail he was holding, crinkling the edge of an envelope.
“Thanks, James.” You straightened slowly, letting him see the smile playing on your lips.
“Y-yes ma’am.” He swallowed. “You have a good day now.”
“I plan to.”
You closed the door and leaned against it, heart pounding. That night, you ran a bath so hot the mirror fogged over. You lay in the water with your knees bent, steam curling around your face, and you let your hand drift between your thighs.
You imagined him on his knees in front of the tub. His hands gripping the porcelain. His eyes on you, dark and hungry. The way he’d look up at you before lowering his head.
“Please, Mrs. Rumlow. Let me taste you.”
You pressed your fingers deeper, biting down on your own wrist to muffle the sound. You came with his name on your tongue, barely whispered, lost in the steam.
Tuesday
The heat came early that morning, crawling through the window screens like something alive. Thick and unforgiving. By the time the clock struck ten, the air in the house had gone still and heavy, pressing against your skin like a warm palm.
You didn’t bother dressing.
There was no point. Brock had left before sunrise, a muttered goodbye and the slam of the front door, off to wherever it was he went when he wasn’t here. The house was yours.
You slipped into your favourit pink champagne robe. You tied it just once at the waist, loose enough that the fabric fell open when you moved, baring the slope of your collarbone, the shadow between your breasts, the long line of your thigh as you walked from the bedroom to the kitchen.
No bra. No slip. Just your skin beneath the silk, damp from the humidity.
The clock ticked to 10:45.
Right on schedule.
You’d been standing at the kitchen window, watching the street through the sheer curtain, a glass of ice water sweating in your hand. You saw the mail truck pull up. Saw him step out, satchel slung over his shoulder, wiping the back of his hand across his brow.
He looked up at your house. Paused. Adjusted his collar.
You smiled to yourself, set down the glass, and walked to the door.
Knock, knock.
You waited two beats—long enough to seem unhurried, not long enough to seem reluctant. Then you turned the knob and pulled the door open.
The heat hit you first, a wall of it, thick and wet. It smelled like cut grass and pavement and the faint, clean sweat of a young man who’d been working under the sun.
And there he was.
Bucky Barnes, all six feet of him, backlit by the morning glare. The light caught his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, the brown strands of his hair darkened with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His uniform shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the fabric gaping open to reveal the smooth plane of his chest, the sun-warmed skin, the fine sheen of sweat that made it gleam.
He had a stack of mail in one hand. The other hung loose at his side, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them.
His eyes met yours.
And then they dropped.
Down your body. Over the open V of your robe. Down to your bare legs, the curve of your calf, the way the silk shifted when you breathed. It wasn’t a glance. It was a slow and helpless look and he didn’t even try to hide it.
You saw the exact moment his brain caught up with his body. His throat moved. His jaw tightened. His gaze snapped back to your face, but it was too late. You’d already seen everything.
“M-Mornin’, Mrs. Rumlow.”
The stutter was tiny. Barely there. But you heard it, felt it like a small victory.
“Good morning, James.”
Your voice came out low, syrupy, the kind of voice you used when you wanted a man to lean in closer. You let your hand drift up to the doorframe, the movement casual, but it pulled the robe just a fraction tighter across your chest.
“Hot one today,” you murmured, tilting your head. “I thought I’d stay in something a little lighter. The heat’s been unbearable.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes flickered down again, just for a second, just a brief, helpless slip, before he forced them back up.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s—real hot. Humid, too.”
“You must be dying out there in that uniform.”
“It ain’t so bad.” He shifted his weight, licked his lips. “Got a good schedule. Nice houses. Nice people.”
He held out the mail. You took it, slowly letting your fingertips brush against his. His skin was warm. His pulse jumped under your touch.
“Thank you,” you said, soft. “I notice you always bring it to me personally. You don’t do that for anyone else, do you?”
He blinked. “I—no, ma’am. I usually just leave it in the box.”
“So why do you bring mine to the door?”
The question hung in the air between you, sweet as poison. He stared at you, and you watched him search for an answer that wouldn’t give too much away.
He failed.
“Guess I like seein’ your face.” His voice dropped, quieter now, almost rough. “You’re always real nice to me. Not everyone is.”
You stepped closer, just enough to bring you into the wedge of sunlight spilling through the doorway. The robe shifted, gaping open at your thigh. You saw his eyes track the movement.
“You like talking to me, James?”
“Yeah.” The word came out breathless. “I really do.”
You let a small smile play at the corner of your mouth. “I like talking to you too.”
A silence settled between you. The air itself seemed to thicken, you could hear the hum of a lawnmower two streets away, the distant bark of a dog, the ragged rhythm of his breathing.
The sun spilled across his shoulders, catching the sweat on his collarbone. Your robe was loose, barely tied, the silk shifting with every shallow rise and fall of your chest. Just standing there, two feet apart, was a kind of intimacy.
You could have kissed him then. You knew he would have let you. You knew he wanted you to. You could see it in the way his pupils had swallowed the blue of his irises, the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way his gaze kept dropping to your mouth and then darting away, like he was afraid of what he might do if he looked too long.
Instead, you smiled.
“Would you like some lemonade?”
The question hung in the air like a dare. His eyes snapped to your mouth, then back up, and you watched him process what you’d just offered. The invitation. The implication. The fact that you weren’t asking him to leave.
He nodded. Too quickly. His voice cracked when he spoke.
“Yeah. Sure. I’d—I’d like that.”
Come in.
You didn’t say it. You just stepped back, letting the door swing open wider, and turned without another word. Bare feet on cool tile. The soft whisper of silk against your thighs. You walked ahead of him, letting him follow, letting him watch.
The robe shifted when you moved, slipping off one shoulder, brushing the backs of your knees, the hem fluttering just above the curve of your calf. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You could feel his gaze on you like a hand at your waist, trailing down your spine, settling low.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. No radio humming. No laundry churning. Just the low buzz of the ceiling fan from the living room and the soft, steady tick of the wall clock over the sink.
The kitchen blazed with sunlight pouring through the open windows, catching the dust motes drifting in the still air. The counters gleamed. A half-used lemon sat on the cutting board from this morning. The whole room smelled faintly of citrus and sugar and the clean scent of dish soap.
“Sit,” you said gently, motioning toward the stools at the counter. “I’ll get the lemonade.”
He obeyed. Quietly. He set his satchel down on the counter, then pulled out one of the stools, the legs scraping against the tile. He sat, watched you, said nothing. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers flexing.
You moved unhurriedly. Opened the refrigerator door. Let the cold air wash over you. Bent slowly, reaching all the way to the back for the glass pitcher, knowing exactly how the robe tightened across the backs of your thighs, knowing exactly how the hem rose just a little higher when you stretched.
When you straightened and turned, his eyes snapped up too fast. A flush crept up his neck. He’d been staring. Caught.
You didn’t acknowledge it. Just smiled to yourself and poured two tall glasses, condensation already beading on the glass.
You set one in front of him. Then took the stool across the counter, crossing your legs as you settled. The robe fell open at the knee, baring the length of your thigh. You saw him glance down, then force himself to look at the lemonade.
You brought the glass to your lips. Sipped. Let the cold sweetness coat your tongue. When you set it down, you licked a stray drop from your lower lip, slow enough to make him shift in his seat.
“Still hot out,” you said, your voice light, conversational. “Not used to this kind of heat. Makes a woman crave something cold.”
He swallowed. “Yeah. It’s—it’s bad this week.” His voice was rough, like he’d been shouting, though he’d barely spoken a word.
You tilted your head, studying him. “You alright, sweetheart? You look a little flushed.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Just warm,” he managed.
“Mmm.” You rested your chin on your palm, elbow on the counter, watching him. “You know, you’re always so nice. I really like that about you.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Ma’am?”
“A lot of boys your age wouldn’t be so kind to someone like me.”
His brow furrowed. “Someone like you?”
You smiled, bittersweet, letting your gaze drop. “A housewife,” you murmured. “Married. Boring. A little past my prime, I suppose.”
The words hung in the air. You felt the weight of them, the small lie you were telling, the way you were baiting him.
He sat up straighter. His jaw tightened. “You’re not past anything.”
You looked at him, surprised by the sudden heat in his voice.
“You’re—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his damp hair. His ears were red. “You’re beautiful, Mrs. Rumlow.”
The silence stretched between you. The ceiling fan turned overhead, stirring the warm air. Somewhere outside, a bird called. The ice in your glass settled with a soft clink.
You held his gaze a second longer than was appropriate. Then you took another sip of your lemonade, letting the moment breathe.
“That’s very sweet of you to say, James.” Your voice was quieter now. Softer. “Very sweet.”
He swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around his glass, knuckles white, like he was bracing himself against something.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
Just sat in the sun-warmed silence, pretending to be casual while the air thickened between you like honey left too long on the stove. The whole world had narrowed to this kitchen, this counter, this boy with his hands wrapped around a glass like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.
You shifted in your seat, uncrossing your legs and recrossing them the other way. The silk whispered against your skin.
His eyes dropped. You felt them like a touch, the way they traced the line of your thigh where the robe had fallen open, the way they lingered on the curve of your knee, the shadow above it. He watched the slow slide of your fingers over your glass, watched the way you wet your lips without thinking, and you watched him right back, cataloging every small tell.
The way his breath stalled when you moved. The way his knuckles went white. The way he bit his lower lip—just the tiniest flicker of restraint cracking, the pressure of his teeth against the soft flesh making you feel something warm and dangerous coil low in your belly.
You caught him. You didn’t say a word. Just smiled, the kind that said, I saw you. It’s alright. I wanted you to.
He bit his lip harder, then let it go. His mouth stayed parted, pink and slightly swollen.
You leaned forward, elbows on the counter, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Do you like coming here, James?”
The question was simple. Innocent in its phrasing.
He looked up. Met your eyes. Nodded, like he was admitting something he’d been holding back for weeks.
“Yeah,” he said, like gravel scraped smooth by water. “I really do.”
You let the silence fall again, full and heavy and humming. And then, with the softest, most dangerous smile you owned. “Good,” you whispered. “Me too.”
You stood from your stool, the wood scraping softly against the tile. Took your empty glass to the sink, and rinsed it slowly, letting the water run over your fingers, watching the last traces of lemon and sugar swirl down the drain. The tap hummed. The water was cool against your heated skin.
You lifted your eyes to the window above the sink, watching his distorted reflection in the glass. He was staring at your back. The curve of your spine through the thin silk. The dip of your waist. The way your hips swayed just slightly as you shifted your weight from one foot to the other.
Finally, you turned off the tap. Shook the excess water from your hands. Dried them slowly on a dish towel hanging from the oven handle.
Then you spoke.
“Tell me something, James.”
Your voice was soft. Curious.
“Yes, ma’am?”
You turned around slowly, hips resting against the counter’s edge, the thin silk of your robe parting just a little as it settled around your waist. The morning light caught the curve of your hip, the shadow of your navel, the soft swell of your breasts beneath the fabric.
You watched his eyes follow it.
“Do you flirt with every woman on your route,” you asked gently, tilting your head, “or only me?”
His mouth opened, then closed. He actually blinked, like he needed to reset his brain, like the question had short-circuited something vital. His ears reddened. His hands tightened on the glass again, then relaxed as he set it down carefully, as if afraid he might break it.
“Only you,” he said quietly. The words came out steady, but his voice trembled at the edges. “Only ever you.”
You nodded once. As if that confirmed something you already knew, something you’d suspected since the first time he lingered a little too long at your door, since the first time his fingers brushed yours when he handed you the mail.
Then you walked toward him.
Slow steps. Bare feet on cool tile. The sun fell across your path, warm on your shoulders, and you felt beautiful in a way you hadn’t in years. Not for Brock. Not for anyone else. For yourself. For the way this boy’s eyes followed every inch of you like you were something sacred.
When you reached him, you placed your hand lightly on the counter beside his shoulder. Not touching him. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from your skin. You leaned in just slightly, letting him smell your perfume.
His breath hitched so sharply it almost broke your composure. You felt a thrill run through you, sharp and electric.
“Look at me,” you whispered.
He did.
You let your gaze drag over his face, the strong line of his jaw, the delicate curve of his lips. The way his blue eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide, the colour swallowed by want. The way his throat worked as he swallowed again, the Adam’s apple bobbing.
You let your fingers trail down his forearm. Barely a touch. The lightest brush of your fingertips over the fine hair on his skin, over the warmth of him, over the tremour that ran through his muscles when you made contact.
“You know,” you said softly, your voice a murmur, “you have been very good to me these last few months.”
His chest rose. Fell. His lips parted.
“I like our chats, James.”
Your fingers continued their lazy path, tracing the line of a vein, the curve of his wrist. You felt his pulse jump beneath your touch, rapid and wild.
“And I like how you look at me,” you added. “Even when you try not to.”
He swallowed hard. His jaw worked. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, rough and honest and cracked at the edges.
“I am trying real hard right now.”
You smiled. A slow, sinful curl of your lips. “You don’t have to.”
Then, in the softest voice you had used with him yet, “Stand up for me, James.”
He obeyed before he realized he had moved. The stool scraped back against the tile, and suddenly he was towering over you—tall, flushed to the tips of his ears, trying not to tremble.
You stepped closer. Close enough that the fabric of your robe brushed his barely opened shirt. Close enough that your breath touched his mouth. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the slight shake in his hands as they hung at his sides, not quite daring to reach for you.
“You want me,” you said. Not a question. A truth spoken plainly, laid out on the counter between you like a confession.
He nodded. Hard. His jaw worked, and when he spoke, his voice cracked on the first word.
“I been tryin’ not to,” he whispered. “Swear I been tryin’, ma’am. Every time I see you at that door, I tell myself—” He broke off, swallowing. “I tell myself to just hand you the mail and go. Just walk away.”
“But you don’t.”
“No, ma’am.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “I can’t.”
You touched his jaw. The barest brush of your fingertips against the stubble along his cheekbone. He shivered under your touch.
“I don’t want you to try anymore.”
His eyes darkened. Something shifted behind them, the last thread of restraint snapping. What was left was something hungry. Something young and desperate and finally set free. His breathing turned shallow. His hands curled into fists at his sides, then released.
“M-Mrs. Rumlow,” he breathed, voice shaking, “if I touch you I’m not gonna be able to stop.”
You tilted your chin up, lips inches from his. Close enough to taste the warmth of his breath, to see the fine tremor in his lower lip.
“Good.”
That was it. That was the spark.
He grabbed your waist with both hands, strong fingers digging into silk and skin, pulling you into him with a force that stole your breath. His mouth crashed into yours. Hungry and messy and eager. A young man who had been imagining this for months and finally snapped.
You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, took the chance to push his tongue into your mouth. He tasted like lemonade and something masculine. His hands moved without permission, shoving your robe open at your hips, dragging you against his body like he needed to feel every inch of you through the thin silk.
He kissed you like he was starving. Like you were the first taste of anything real in his short, hungry life. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, and you felt the tremble in his arms, the barely leashed violence of his need.
You let him. You let him take. You let him lose control.
Because you had been waiting for this. For this exact moment.
You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Take me, James.”
The hallway was a blur.
You didn't remember crossing it. You didn't remember the robe slipping from your shoulders and pooling on the floor. You didn't remember the bedroom door swinging open, or the way the afternoon light fell across the bed in golden stripes.
What you remembered was the moment Bucky lost control.
The moment his hands gripped your thighs like he needed to hold you in place or he’d fall apart. The moment he lowered you onto the mattress, his body covering yours, the weight of him pressing you into the sheets.
The moment he said your name.
Not ma’am. Not Mrs. Rumlow. Not anything polite or proper.
But your name, whispered like a sin he was dying to commit, like he’d been saving it for this exact moment, tasting it on his tongue for the first time.
“Please,” he breathed, hot against your neck, lips brushing the thrumming pulse at your throat. “Please let me.”
And then he pushed inside you.
Your gasp broke in half. Your fingers clutched the sheets. Your breasts arched into his chest on instinct, a reflexive surrender.
You cunt was soaked, open and ready, aching for him in a way you hadn’t ached for anything in years. But he still felt too big. Too deep. The stretch of him made your eyes roll back, made your breath catch in your throat.
You hadn’t been touched like this in years. Not with intention. Not with fire. Not with the kind of desperate, worshipful need that made you feel like you were the only woman in the world.
“You feel so good,” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. His voice was muffled against your skin, rough and broken. “God, you feel—fuck—”
Each thrust was harder. Needier and more frantic. The headboard knocked against the wall in a steady rhythm, the sound mixing with the ragged fall of his breathing, the wet, slick sound of him moving inside you.
He fucked you like he was making up for every time he watched you from the sidewalk and imagined what you’d sound like under him. Like he’d been storing up this hunger for weeks, months, and finally had permission to let it out.
You dragged your nails down his back and he trembled, a full-body shudder that made him bury himself deeper.
“Easy,” you whispered, breath hot in his ear. “Slow down, sweetheart.”
He shook his head, fucking into you harder, faster, his rhythm falling apart at the edges.
“I can’t,” he said, voice cracking. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I—been wanting you so long—”
You grabbed his jaw. Forced him to look at you.
His pupils were blown, dark as ink. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen from kissing you too hard. A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead, and he looked wrecked in the most beautiful way.
“Then take what you want,” you said softly, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Come on, baby. Don’t hold back.”
He broke.
His mouth crashed onto yours again, sloppy and desperate. His hips snapped forward in a brutal rhythm, the headboard slamming the wall in a steady, percussive beat. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs, your tits bouncing with every impact.
He stared at you like he’d never seen a naked woman in his life, like you were something sacred and filthy all at once. His gaze traced the curve of your breasts, the flush spreading across your chest, the way your body moved beneath him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he gasped, the words tumbling out broken. “Been dreamin’ about you in this bed—fuck—thought about it every damn night. Every time I walked past your door, I’d picture you right here, spread out for me.”
You moaned, loud and shameless, your fingers threading through his damp hair and tugging him down. Your mouth met his in a kiss that bruised, tongues sliding, the taste of salt and lemon mingling between you.
He kissed like he fucked. All tongue and breath and raw, unfettered hunger. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and moaned into the kiss, his cock still pounding into you with that relentless, youthful urgency.
“You like this?” he panted, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His were glassy, pupils blown wide. “You like how I fuck you? Tell me. Please—I need to hear it. I need to know I’m doin’ it right.”
Your voice came out broken, barely recognizable. “Yes. God, yes. Harder—don’t stop—”
His grip shifted. One hand stayed firm on your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh. The other slid under your thigh, lifting it higher, angling you deeper, opening you to him in a way that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Shit—James—”
“I know, I know—feels good, right?” His voice was ragged, breath sawing in and out of his lungs. “I can feel you—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me, ma’am. Like you don’t wanna let me go.”
He was falling apart. You were too. Your nails dragged down his shoulders, leaving red crescents in their wake. Your breath hitched, stuttered, dissolved into a whimper. Your thighs quivered around his waist, the muscles trembling with the effort of holding on.
“Don’t stop,” you whined, the plea ripping out of your throat. “Don’t you dare stop—”
His voice broke completely, cracking under the weight of his own need. “I’m not. I’m not. I’m gonna stay right here—gonna give you everything, Mrs. Rumlow—everythin’ I got—”
Your orgasm hit you so hard you didn’t even register your own moan. It tore through you like a wave, white-hot and blinding, clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses that stole your breath and turned your limbs to jelly. Your back arched off the bed, your fingers twisting in the sheets, your vision going white at the edges.
Bucky’s breath caught in his throat as he felt you clench around him, a sudden grip that dragged him over the edge with you.
“Oh—oh my God—” he gasped, his rhythm faltering, his hips stuttering. “You’re—fuck—you’re cummin’—”
And then he fell apart inside you.
A guttural, broken groan tore out of his chest as he thrust deep burying himself to the hilt while he spilled into you with an urgency that bordered on desperate. His body shook, every muscle taut, his hands clutching your hips like you were the only solid thing in a world that had just tilted sideways.
His forehead fell to your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your sweat-slicked skin. He breathed you in; the scent of your perfume, the salt of your skin, the lingering musk of sex, and let out a shuddering exhale.
“Mrs. Rumlow…” he whispered, like a confession. His voice was raw and hoarse. Then, as he slowly pulled out, the loss of him making you feel suddenly empty, he added, “I… I don’t wanna stop.”
You stroked the back of his head gently, your nails grazing the nape of his neck, tracing the fine hairs there. His skin was damp, warm, trembling slightly under your touch.
“You don’t have to, sweetheart,” you murmured, the words low and honeyed.
He lifted his head. His eyes were blown wide, dark and glassy. His hair was a wild mess, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His cheeks were flushed, his lips red and swollen, and under all that, still hard, still pressing against your thigh with stubborn, unapologetic desire.
“I can go again,” he whispered, almost frightened of his own need. “Please let me. I know I just—but I need—please, I ain’t done with you yet.”
Your fingers raked through his damp hair, smoothing it back from his brow. He was so young. So pink. So earnest in his hunger. You’d just let him cum inside you, and he still looked like he wanted to say thank you.
You kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting the salt of his skin.
“Breathe, honey,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his. “You’re not done yet.”
And before he could even answer, you shifted from underneath him, a slow, fluid motion that left him blinking, confused, his body still humming with unspent need. You climbed onto all fours, and looked back over your shoulder at him. The afternoon light caught the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the soft swell of your hips.
You looked over your shoulder at him, a lazy, knowing smile curving your lips.
“Come here, James. Show me what else you’ve been dreaming about.”
His eyes went wide. The pupils had already swallowed most of the blue, leaving just a thin ring of colour around the black. His chest heaved, still slick with sweat, a fine sheen glistening across his collarbones and the hollow of his throat.
You didn’t have to tell him twice.
He was already fully hard again, flushed tip, veins twitching along the shaft, the head glistening with a mixture of your combined slick. When he slid behind you, it wasn’t with the frantic rush you expected. He took his time. Let his hands trace the curve of your ass first, palming the roundness like he couldn’t believe it was real.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hushed and awed. “You’re perfect. I swear to god—”
“Show me, then,” you said. “Show me how perfect I am.”
His hands tightened. Fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, anchoring himself. And then, he pushed in again. Thick and warm, the slick heat of you parting around him like you’d been waiting for this very moment. You moaned like you meant it, your forehead dropping to the sheets as he filled you inch by inch.
“Jesus—still so fuckin’ wet—” he hissed, hips stuttering as he bottomed out, pressing flush against you.
You were. Dripping with the evidence of his first release and still greedy for more. The feeling of him sliding into that already-fucked heat sent a shiver through you, your inner walls clenching instinctively around him.
“Harder,” you rasped, cheek pressed to the mattress, the words muffled but clear. “I can take it. Come on, honey. Fuck me.”
His grip on your hips turned bruising, fingers pressing deep enough to leave marks you’d find tomorrow. His thrusts came harder, deeper, desperate and sloppy with sound. The wet, obscene noise of his cock driving into you filled the room, mingling with his ragged breaths and your broken moans. He was panting behind you, fingers digging in as he drove into you like he wanted to climb inside, to bury himself so deep you’d never forget the shape of him.
You arched your back, pressed into him, gave him more. Your breasts swung beneath you, nipples dragging against the sheets with each impact. The sensation sent sparks through your chest.
“That’s it, baby. That’s it. Use me.”
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he gasped, his voice cracking. “You’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me, ma’am. I’m never gonna be able to look at another woman without thinkin’ of you.”
And you smiled, even as your mouth fell open with another moan as his cock hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur and your toes curl.
The room was hot. The sheets wrinkled and twisted beneath you. Skin stuck together wherever you touched, his thighs against yours, his chest against your back when he leaned forward, his breath hot on your shoulder blade. The scent of sex clung to every inch of air; sharp and sweet, salt and musk, the metallic tang of arousal and the warmth of two bodies pushed past their limits.
Slap—slap—slap of skin meeting skin. The desperate whine building in his throat. The soft chant of your name breaking from his lips like a prayer, ma’am, Mrs. Rumlow, please, please, each syllable punctuated by a thrust.
“You like this?” you managed to gasp, your voice frayed at the edges. “Fucking a married woman? In her bed? Filling her up like a good boy?”
He whimpered. The sound was raw, stripped of all pretense.
“Yes—yes, ma’am—fuck—” His rhythm faltered, his hips stuttering as he fought for control. “Please let me cum again. Please. I’ll do anythin’—I’ll be so good—”
You reached between your legs and rubbed your clit with two fingers, the pressure just enough to send sparks up your spine, to tighten the coil building low in your belly. Your hips pushed back to meet his thrusts, driving him deeper.
“Then do it,” you moaned, the words thick with approaching release. “Cum in me, James. Again. Show me how much you want me.”
He buried himself so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat, a fullness that stole your breath, that made your eyes roll back. And with a strangled grunt, he came again.
Pulsing inside you like he never wanted to leave. You felt each spasm, each flood of warmth, each desperate clench of his hands on your hips as he emptied himself into you.
The sensation pushed you over the edge. You followed hard, clenching around him, crying out into the sheets as your body finally gave out. The tremors ran through you in waves, stealing your strength, turning your limbs to jelly. Your arms collapsed beneath you, and you sank into the mattress, cheek pressed to the damp fabric.
But he stayed inside. Held your hips. Rested his forehead on your back and just breathed, hot, uneven puffs of air against your spine.
You didn’t move at first. Didn’t speak. Didn’t reach for the sheets to cover yourself. Just lay there, chest pressed to the mattress, skin hot and slick with sweat and the evidence of what you’d done, your breath slowing in the heavy stillness of the room.
The clock on the nightstand ticked. Somewhere outside, a bird sang. Life continued in the world beyond these walls, oblivious to the sin unfolding in this bed.
You felt the soft drag of Bucky’s fingers down your spine. Tracing each vertebrae like he was memorising you.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice still shaking, still raw. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
You smiled into the pillow, eyes closed, lips curving against the cotton.
“Believe it,” you murmured, voice rasped and ruined. “You earned it.”
He laughed, a breathless sound that didn’t quite mask the wonder in it, and pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades. His lips lingered, warm and soft.
And then another. And another. Trailing up the ridge of your spine to the nape of your neck, where he nuzzled into the fine hairs there and let out a contented sigh.
“I don’t wanna leave,” he mumbled against your skin. “Ever.”
You hummed, a low, pleased sound. Your hand reached back blindly, finding his head, patting it once.
“Then stay a little longer, sweetheart. Clock’s not even at twelve yet.”
He shifted, pulling out slowly, the loss of him making you feel suddenly empty, a faint ache in its wake.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, nosing into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp. The question came out hushed, almost fragile. “Did I—was I too rough?”
You shook your head, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. The pillowcase was cool beneath your cheek, a soft counterpoint to the heat still radiating from your skin.
“No, honey. You were perfect.”
That made him groan, the sound vibrating against your back where his chest pressed flush against you. You could feel his cock twitch, still half-hard against your thigh, a stubborn pulse of warmth that refused to fully subside.
He shifted beside you, curling around your back, fitting himself to the curve of your spine like he’d been made to fill that space. His mouth kept moving, over your shoulder, across the delicate skin where your neck met your collarbone, pressing featherlight kisses that made your breath catch.
“I’ve never…” He paused, his lips still against your skin. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”
His hand slid up your stomach, palm flat, fingers tracing lazy circles into the soft plane of your belly. It came to rest just beneath your breasts, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his palm.
“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispered, wonder threading through the words. “I can’t stop touching you.”
“Then don’t.”
You meant it. Let him have you. Let him touch and kiss and worship every inch of you until your skin felt new again, until the ghost of Brock’s careless hands was erased entirely, replaced by the devotion of this boy who acted like you were something special.
His lips found your jaw. Your cheek. The slope of your neck where your pulse still fluttered. He kissed the hollow of your throat, and you felt the tip of his tongue.
“Can I stay a little longer?” His voice was quieter now. Stripped of the confident swagger he’d worn on your doorstep. This was the boy beneath the uniform, the one who still got nervous around pretty girls and asked permission like he expected to be denied.
You turned your head, looked him in the eye for the first time since you’d let him fuck you senseless. The blue of his irises was hazy, pupils still blown wide, but there was something raw there too. Something that needed to hear the answer.
“You can stay as long as you want, honey.”
His exhale was shaky. His forehead dropped to yours, nose brushing against your cheek, and he let out a sound that was half-sigh of relief.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, James.”
He smiled. A real one, boyish and crooked.
You lay there for a while, tangled together in the wreckage of the sheets, letting your heartbeat settle, letting the room breathe around you. The afternoon light had shifted, softer now, casting long shadows across the floor.
Bucky eventually had to pull away to dress again. He stumbled a little getting off the bed, his legs still unsteady, and you watched him gather his uniform from where it lay scattered across the floor. He flushed every time he caught your eye, a pink bloom creeping up his neck and across his cheeks.
He kept looking back at you. At your thighs still parted, at the imprint of your body on the mattress he’d just ruined.
You watched him pull his uniform pants back up, hands shaking as he fumbled with the zipper. His tucked-in shirt stuck to the sweat drying on his chest, and he smoothed it down like he was trying to make himself look respectable again.
Like he hadn’t just spent the last hour moaning into your pillow.
When he reached the doorway of your bedroom, his steps slowed. His hand came up to grip the doorframe, knuckles whitening. He hesitated. Then lingered.
“Um… I should… I gotta get back,” he muttered, voice small, almost apologetic. “My route. They’ll notice if I’m gone too long.”
You nodded gently, propping yourself up on one elbow.
He looked down at the floor. At the worn wooden boards. Then at you again, as if drawn by some invisible force.
“Was that… was this just…?”
He swallowed, his jaw flexing as if the words hurt to push past his teeth. “Was it just a one-time thing?”
You didn’t move. Not at first. You let him stand there, already addicted, already terrified of losing something he never thought he could have. The silence stretched, just long enough to make him fidget.
“I… I didn’t mean to cross a line,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I know you’re married. I just— I couldn’t help it. Every time I saw you at that door, I couldn’t think straight. And if you don’t want to see me again, I—”
You didn’t let him finish.
You slid out of bed, the sheets pooling at your feet, not bothering to cover yourself. The air hit your skin, but you didn’t shiver. You walked toward him slowly, each step intentional, the floorboards creaking beneath your bare feet.
When you reached him, you put your hands on his face, palms against his stubbled jaw, fingers threading into the hair at his temples. His skin was warm, and he leaned into your touch like a man starved for it.
His breath stopped altogether.
And you kissed him.
A slow, sultry kiss, tongue sliding into his mouth, your body pressed against his until you felt the hard line of him through his uniform pants. He groaned softly against your lips, the sound swallowed by the kiss, his free hand coming up to grip your waist like he might fall without you.
His fingers curled into the doorframe with his other hand, white-knuckled, like he needed the support to stay upright. His chest heaved against yours.
When you finally pulled back, his eyes were dazed. Puppy-soft.
You brushed your thumb over his cheek, feeling the faint stubble, the heat still lingering in his skin.
“Baby,” you whispered, lips grazing his, close enough that you felt his breath ghost across your mouth. “I’ll see you again on Thursday.”
He exhaled like you’d just saved his life. Like you’d reached into his chest and wrapped your hand around his heart and told him it was safe to keep beating.
“Thursday,” he repeated, dazed, the word rolling off his tongue like a prayer. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll… I’ll be here.”
You smiled. Soft and sure. A promise sealed in the space between your bodies.
“I know you will.”
He stared at you one last time, like he didn’t want to look away, like leaving meant losing something he’d only just found. His eyes traced your face, your lips, the line of your throat where his mouth had been. Then he forced himself to turn, to walk out of the bedroom, down the hallway, toward the front door.
You followed at a distance, leaning against the wall just inside the living room, watching through the sheer curtain as he stepped outside. He paused on the porch, shoulders tense, one hand pressed over his mouth like he was still trying to understand what you’d done to him.
He walked down the path, past the rose bushes, past the mailbox, towards his truck, his steps heavy and light all at once. At the gate, he stopped. Turned back. Looked at the house.
At the window where you stood, half-hidden behind the curtain.
He didn’t wave, he just looked. A long, searching look that said everything his stammering words couldn’t.
Then he turned and disappeared down the street, his mailbag slapping against his hip, his life forever changed by the woman in the window.
After that Tuesdays and Thursdays became your favourite days of the week.
The clock became your accomplice. You’d watch the hands crawl toward 10:45, feel the familiar flutter build in your chest, absolute anticipation. That electric hum that made everything sharper, brighter, more alive.
By the time his footsteps sounded on the porch, you were already at the door.
He never had to knock again.
The first Thursday after that Tuesday, you opened it before his knuckles could meet wood, and he stood there, mailbag slung across his body, cap in hand, that boyish grin already spreading across his face. But his eyes were different now. Hungrier. Like he’d spent the the last two days reliving every second.
“Good mornin’,” he said, voice low, glancing down the street before stepping inside.
You didn’t bother with pleasantries. You grabbed his collar, pulled him into the kitchen, and pushed him against the counter.
He laughed against your mouth, surprised and delighted. “Damn, woman—”
You bit his lower lip. “Shut up and kiss me.”
He did.
The kitchen became a playground. Flour dusted the counter where he’d lifted you onto it, your legs wrapped around his waist, his hands gripping your hips as he fucked you slow and deep. The sun streamed through the window, catching the sweat on his chest, and you remembered thinking, this is what mornings should feel like.
“I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you,” he murmured against your throat, thrusting up into you. “All day. Every night.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He buried his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged. “Kept seein’ you in my head. The way you looked at me when I—”
You pulled his head back, made him look at you. “When you what, honey?”
His cheeks flushed. “When I came inside you.”
You smiled, slow and wicked, and clenched around him. He groaned, head falling forward.
“Good,” you whispered. “You keep thinking about it.”
The stairs came next.
It was Tuesday, and you’d been waiting at the top of the staircase when he walked in. You’d worn nothing but his cap, the mailman’s cap you’d stolen from his head the week before, and peered down at him from the landing.
His eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open.
“Mrs. Rumlow…”
“You coming up or not?”
He took the stairs two at a time, but you didn’t let him reach the top. You met him halfway, pushed him onto his knees, and let him bury his face between your thighs right there on the steps. His hands gripped your hips, his mouth worked you until your knees buckled, and you came with your fingers tangled in his hair, your back against the banister, the wood creaking beneath you.
He looked up at you afterward, lips slick, eyes dazed. “I’m gonna get fired if I keep this up.”
You helped him stand, kissed the taste of yourself off his mouth. “Then get fired. I’ll keep you.”
He laughed, breathless, and pulled you into the bedroom.
The dining table became an altar.
It was a Thursday, and you’d set it for two; plates, silverware, a vase of fresh roses, but lunch sat untouched. Instead, he bent you over the mahogany surface, your palms flat against the wood, his body pressed against your back. The china rattled with every thrust. A glass clattered to the floor, shattering.
“Sorry,” he gasped, stilling for a moment.
“Don’t stop.” You pushed back against him. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He didn’t.
Afterward, you lay tangled on the rug, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. The afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, casting patterns across the floor.
“I ever tell you what I think about?” he asked quietly.
“What?”
He turned his head, kissed your hair. “When I’m out on my route. Walkin’ up all those driveways. I pretend every door is yours. Every house. Just… imagine your face, waitin’ for me on the other side.”
You lifted your head, looked at him. “That’s sweet, James.”
His ears went red. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell nobody.”
The Cadillac was your pièce de résistance.
Brock had taken it out just once that month, to some dinner with his boss, and he’d left it in the garage, waxed and gleaming, untouched. You knew exactly where he kept the spare key.
You led Bucky out there with your fingers laced through his, past the gardening tools and the oil-stained floor. When he saw the car, he stopped.
“Shit. You’re not serious.”
“Open the door.”
“Mrs. Rumlow, your husband will kill me if he finds out—”
“Bucky.” You turned, pressed yourself against him, looked up through your lashes. “Don’t you want to know what it feels like to fuck another man’s wife in his own car?”
His breath caught. His hands trembled. And then he was fumbling with the door handle, pushing you into the backseat, following you in.
The leather was cool against your skin. The windows fogged up fast. He moved above you, inside you, his mouth against your ear, whispering things that would’ve made a priest blush.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he breathed.
“Then die happy, sweetheart.”
He came with a shudder, his face pressed into your shoulder, his body shaking. You held him through it, ran your fingers through his damp hair, felt the last tremors ripple through him.
He pulled back, looked at you like you’d rewritten the stars.
“I don’t have much,” he said softly. “But everything I got? It’s yours.”
You cupped his face, kissed him slow. “I know, baby.”
And every time, he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
The way he’d trace the lines of your face afterward, like he was memorising you. The way he’d whisper your name. The way he’d hold you after, his arms wrapped around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.
Maybe you weren’t in love. Not the kind you read about in books, anyway. Not the kind that lasted.
But you were wanted.
Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Every time he stepped through that door, you saw it in his eyes; that hungry, desperate, devoted look that said you were the best part of his week, the secret he’d carry to his grave, the woman who’d ruined him for anyone else.
And for now, that was enough.
a/n | yeah reading back on this, it’s very repetitive in some parts, maybe that’s why i didn’t post it, srry for keeping this fic hostage for eight months chat
Summary: The bonfire was supposed to be harmless. One night, one invitation, one more reckless vacation decision before reality came calling. But Bucky’s hard to keep at a distance when he looks at you like that, asks before he touches, and makes every careful moment feel like something worth trusting. Between firelight, a first kiss, and one last proper date before he leaves, what started as a detour begins to feel dangerously close to a beginning.
Warnings/Tags: Second Chance At Love, Romantic Bucky Barnes, Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex (F Receiving), Consensual Protected Sex, Public Sex, Like 55 Consent Check-Ins, Emotional Vulnerability, Bucky Barnes Being Dangerously Respectful: The Sequel
Word Count: 14.7k
Music:
Dress - Taylor Swift
Work Song - Hozier
Northern Attitude - Noah Kahan
Call It What You Want - Taylor Swift
Sweet Creature - Harry Styles
Talk - Hozier
Notes: hi hello!! This is part two of a three part series, part one can be found here! As mentioned before, this idea came from a TikTok I saw and festered in my brain. I’ve seen all the reblogs and comments for part one and I cannot thank you all enough for the love and support! I hope you all love part two while I finish up part three. <3
The bonfire came into view slowly, then all at once.
At first it was only a glow, warm and orange against the deepening blue of evening, licking up beyond the curve of the dunes. Then came the shapes: silhouettes moving in front of the firelight, people gathered in small clusters with drinks in hand, beach chairs half-sunk into the sand, a cooler near a weathered wooden post, strings of battery-powered lanterns looped between two poles like someone had cared enough to make the whole thing feel inviting instead of thrown together.
The beach stretched wide and dusky around it, the ocean rolling black and silver a little ways beyond, waves collapsing softly against the shore. The sky hadn’t gone dark yet, not fully. It held on to the last bruised colors of sunset: lavender, peach, a fading stripe of gold at the horizon, and the fire made everything below it glow like some private little world carved out of the night.
You slowed without meaning to.
Beside you, Lena noticed immediately. “Still okay?”
You looked toward the bonfire.
You saw Sam first.
You knew it had to be Sam because he was standing near the food table with the kind of confidence that suggested he’d either organized everything or was loudly taking credit for it. He had a beer in one hand and was gesturing with the other while a blond man beside him, Steve probably, watched him with the patient exhaustion of someone who had heard this exact speech before and lost the will to interrupt.
Then your eyes moved past them… and there he was.
Bucky stood near the edge of the firelight, a little apart from the loudest part of the group, like he had tried to position himself casually and failed because every line of his body was angled toward the path you’d just walked down.
He was wearing dark jeans again, boots planted in the sand, and a faded navy shirt under an open gray button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was pushed back from his face, though the breeze had already started pulling a few strands loose. Firelight flickered over the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the dark scruff along his jaw, the slight crease between his brows that vanished the second he saw you.
And then he smiled.
Not the careful half-smile from the terrace. Not the controlled, almost shy one from your texts.
This one hit him before he could hide it.
Open. Warm. Relieved.
Like he had, in fact, been staring at the entrance all night.
Your heart did something terribly inconvenient.
“Oh,” Tori whispered beside you. “He is absolutely gone.”
“Behave,” Lena murmured.
“I am observing.”
Jess leaned in on your other side. “For the record, that was a very good reaction.”
Mia hummed thoughtfully. “Supportively less suspicious.”
You tried to glare at them, but the effect was probably weakened by the fact that you could not stop smiling.
Bucky began walking toward you before anyone else seemed to fully notice your group’s arrival. He didn’t rush, exactly, but there was a purpose to it. A quiet intent that made your stomach flutter with every step he took. The firelight followed him unevenly, catching in his eyes when he came close enough to stand in front of you.
For one suspended second, neither of you said anything.
The sounds of the bonfire moved around you: laughter, music, the distant crash of waves, Sam’s voice saying something far too loudly about “optimal marshmallow technique.” Your friends had gone quiet in that very obvious way people did when they were pretending not to be listening.
Bucky’s gaze moved over your face, then dropped, just briefly, to the blue dress.
When his eyes came back to yours, he looked almost pained.
“Hi,” he said.
You smiled despite yourself. “Hi.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for longer than was reasonable. “You look…”
His mouth closed.
You arched a brow, trying to save yourself from melting into the sand. “Careful. Expectations are dangerous, remember?”
That got him. His smile tilted, a little sheepish and a little devastating.
“Beautiful,” he said anyway. “You look beautiful.”
Behind you, Tori made a tiny sound that she immediately tried to disguise as a cough.
Bucky’s eyes flicked past your shoulder and you felt him take in the group lined up behind you like a very pretty jury.
His posture shifted, not nervous, exactly, but respectful. Like he knew he was about to be assessed and had accepted his fate.
“You must be the protective friends,” he said.
Jess folded her arms. “Depends who’s asking.”
Bucky held out a hand. “Bucky Barnes.”
Jess looked at his hand for one theatrical second before shaking it. “Jess. Current stance: undecided.”
“Fair.”
Mia stepped forward next, smiling in a way that was friendly but sharp at the edges. “Mia. I hear Sam thinks I’m leadership material.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “He does. I should warn you, that’s how he recruits people into doing things he doesn’t want to do.”
Mia nodded approvingly. “Good to know.”
Tori shook his hand with far less subtlety, looking delighted. “Tori. I’m rooting for you, but quietly, because I was told to be suspicious.”
Bucky actually laughed at that, and the sound warmed something beneath your ribs.
“Appreciate the honesty.”
Lena was last. She stepped forward with her calm, steady gaze and took his hand. “Lena.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said, and somehow he made it sound like he meant more than manners.
Lena studied him for a beat, then nodded. “You too.”
It was not an endorsement, but it wasn’t a warning shot either.
Progress.
Bucky turned back to you. For a moment, his attention settled so fully that the others seemed to fade around the edges.
“I’m glad you came,” he said.
You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Me too.”
His eyes dropped to the movement, then back to your face. “Can I introduce you around?”
“Sure.”
He hesitated for half a second, then held out his hand, palm open. Not grabbing. Not assuming, but asking.
You looked at it, then at him, and placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed gently around yours.
It was absurd, how immediate the warmth was. How quickly your body remembered him from the night before. Not just the shape of his hand, but the feeling of being given space and held carefully inside it.
Your friends noticed. Of course they noticed.
Jess’s eyebrows went up.
Tori silently clutched Mia’s arm.
Lena’s gaze softened again, just barely.
Bucky led all of you toward the main group, his thumb brushing once over the side of your hand.
Sam spotted you first.
“Well, well, well,” he called, grin already spreading. “Look who finally stopped pretending he wasn’t waiting by the entrance.”
Bucky closed his eyes briefly. “Here we go.”
You looked up at him. “That was very fast.”
“I warned you.”
Sam came forward with a cooler confidence than anyone had a right to possess on sand, smile bright, eyes mischievous. “Sam Wilson. Food director, fire supervisor, emotional support extrovert.”
“Self-appointed,” Steve said, joining him.
“Incorrect. Democracy chose me.”
“No one voted.”
“Because they trusted my leadership.”
Steve sighed and turned to your group with a smile that was instantly calming, all polite warmth and old-fashioned steadiness. “Steve Rogers. Sorry in advance for him.”
“Never apologize for excellence,” Sam said.
Mia stepped forward at once. “Mia. I respect a man who knows his brand.”
Sam’s grin sharpened. “Leadership material.”
“I was told.”
“Oh, this is gonna be good,” he said, looking at Bucky. “I like them.”
Bucky muttered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The introductions unfolded easily after that, helped by Sam’s complete inability to let anything become awkward. Steve was exactly as Bucky had described: respectable in a simple white shirt, quietly amused, the kind of man who seemed to listen more than he spoke but somehow missed nothing. There were a few others there too, friends of friends, relaxed vacation acquaintances whose names you caught and then immediately half-forgot because Bucky’s hand was still around yours and your brain had priorities.
And then there was Natasha.
She sat near the far side of the fire, red hair catching every flicker of flame like copper. She had one leg crossed over the other, a drink in hand, and an expression that made it seem like she had already figured out everyone’s secrets and was politely waiting for the rest of you to catch up.
“Nat,” she said when Sam introduced her, standing to greet your group.
Her gaze moved over all of you with cool, clever interest. When Jess introduced herself with a flat, “Current stance: suspicious,” Natasha’s smile sharpened.
“Smart,” Natasha said.
Jess blinked once, caught just slightly off guard, and you tucked that away for later.
Then Bucky’s hand shifted gently around yours and your attention swung back to him like it had been pulled by gravity.
The evening opened around you after that.
Sam swept everyone toward the food table with the authority of a man who had indeed appointed himself director of hospitality. There were foil trays of grilled skewers, corn, chips, fruit, dips, a truly unnecessary number of marshmallows, and a cooler stocked with drinks. Someone had brought a portable speaker, currently playing something mellow and summery beneath the louder rhythm of conversations. The fire cracked and snapped, sending sparks upward into the darkening sky.
Bucky stayed close, but not too close.
That was the thing you kept noticing. He was attentive without hovering. Present without trapping you in his attention. He introduced you, made sure you knew where things were, asked what you wanted to drink, but never made you feel like the entire night had to orbit him.
When you chose a bottled lemonade from the cooler instead of alcohol, he didn’t comment beyond opening it for you when the cap stuck.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, handing it over.
“Yeah. I figured I’d take it easier tonight.”
“Probably smarter than whatever Sam’s mixing over there.”
You glanced over to where Sam was holding court beside a cooler while Mia inspected his drink-pouring technique with theatrical skepticism.
“What is he mixing?”
“Confidence and poor judgment.”
You laughed, and Bucky’s eyes warmed like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.
The two of you drifted closer to the fire, standing just outside the circle of chairs. Around you, your friends were settling in with surprising ease. Tori was already laughing at something Steve had said, though Steve looked faintly confused by how funny she found him. Mia and Sam had entered what appeared to be a competitive banter spiral over who was more qualified to manage the roasting sticks. Lena had taken a seat near the edge of the group, relaxed but watchful, though every now and then you caught her smiling into her cup.
Across the fire, Jess had somehow ended up beside Natasha, the two of them speaking low beneath the music. Jess said something that made Natasha’s mouth curve into a slow, approving smile, and you made a mental note to interrogate her later.
A gust of wind came off the water, cool enough to raise goosebumps along your bare arms. You tried not to react, but Bucky noticed anyway.
“Cold?”
“A little.”
He glanced down at his open button-down, hand already moving toward it. “Here.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”
“I know.”
He slipped it off anyway, leaving him in the navy shirt that pulled unfairly across his shoulders and chest. He held the button-down open, but paused before placing it around you.
“Can I?”
The question was soft. Almost too soft beneath the music and waves, but you heard it.
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
He stepped behind you.
For one second, his body was close enough that you felt the heat of him along your back. Then the shirt settled over your shoulders, warm from him, smelling faintly like cedar and soap and smoke from the fire. His hands lingered only long enough to adjust the collar so it sat comfortably, fingertips barely brushing your shoulders through the fabric.
Your breath caught despite your best effort.
Bucky stepped back around in front of you, watching your face carefully. “Okay?”
You nodded, fingers curling into the edges of the shirt. “Okay.”
His gaze softened.
From somewhere near the food table, Sam yelled, “BARNES, IS THAT YOUR SHIRT?”
Bucky’s eyes closed.
You bit your lip, smiling.
“Sure is,” Steve called before Bucky could answer, sounding far too cheerful.
Sam appeared delighted. “Look at him! Chivalry at the beach!”
“Sam,” Bucky warned.
“Man’s been here five minutes and already donated clothing.”
Mia lifted her drink. “That’s community service.”
Tori beamed. “We love community service.”
Jess called from beside Natasha, “We are observing community service.”
Bucky looked like he wanted the sand to swallow him.
You laughed so hard you had to tuck your face briefly against his sleeve, now draped over you. When you looked back up, his embarrassment had softened into something else entirely.
He was watching you laugh.
Not smiling at the joke. Not glancing toward Sam or the others.
Watching you.
As if the sound had reached into him and turned some hidden light on.
Your laughter faded slowly.
The fire popped between you.
Bucky’s voice lowered. “Worth it.”
Your cheeks warmed. “Being mocked by your friends?”
“Making you laugh like that.”
Oh.
You looked down, suddenly very interested in the sand near your feet.
He let you have the moment, not pushing, not filling the space with another line. That almost made it worse. The quiet sincerity sat there between you, glowing.
Eventually, you lifted your eyes again. “You’re doing very well for someone who promised to disappoint me a little.”
His mouth tipped. “Night’s still young.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Only if Sam offers you something called a Wilson Special.”
You glanced over to Sam, who was now dramatically demonstrating something with a marshmallow while Mia heckled him.
“Noted.”
The next hour passed like something out of a life you hadn’t thought you were allowed to step into yet.
You roasted marshmallows badly.
Bucky roasted his perfectly, which you immediately accused him of doing just to be annoying.
“You’re too good at that,” you said, watching him turn the stick with patient precision.
“It’s a marshmallow.”
“It’s suspicious.”
“Everything is suspicious to your group.”
“Correct. We’ve been through a lot.”
His expression softened just slightly, but he kept his tone light. “Then I’ll try to look less competent.”
“Too late. You’ve revealed yourself as a man with fire-adjacent skills.”
“That going in my file?”
“Jess is probably keeping one.”
Across the fire, Jess lifted her cup without turning around. “I am.”
Bucky leaned closer and murmured, “That woman hears everything.”
You laughed and his smile lingered as he turned back to his marshmallow.
The two of you ended up sitting side by side on a blanket someone had spread near the edge of the fire circle. Not alone, exactly, but apart enough that the conversation around you blurred into something softer. His shirt stayed around your shoulders. Your knees were bent, toes buried in cooling sand, and Bucky sat close enough that his arm brushed yours whenever either of you shifted.
Each accidental touch felt less accidental than the last.
He asked you questions.
Real ones.
Not the easy vacation small talk of where are you from and what do you do tossed out like filler, though those came too. He asked what you loved about your work. What kind of things made you laugh when you were having a terrible day. Whether you were the type to plan every detail of a trip or pretend you were spontaneous while secretly knowing the restaurant menu three days in advance.
You told him more than you meant to.
That you liked knowing people were safe because of you, even in small ways. That your friends teased you for being stubborn but usually meant it as a compliment. That you loved mornings in theory but not in practice. That you bought books faster than you read them. That you used to make playlists for every important era of your life, but lately you hadn’t known what to call this one.
He listened like every answer mattered.
And when you asked him things in return, he answered with that same careful honesty you were beginning to associate with him.
He told you he liked quiet mornings. Old movies. Good coffee. Long walks when his head got too loud. He told you Sam had dragged him into the trip because he’d been “getting broody again,” and when Sam overheard that, he yelled, “I said emotionally unavailable hermit, not broody!”
Bucky threw a bottle cap at him.
You laughed until your side hurt.
He told you Steve had been his best friend for so long that they’d practically grown up under each other’s skin. That Natasha was the kind of friend who knew too much and used it with surgical precision. That he wasn’t always good in crowds, but he was trying to say yes to things more often.
“To bonfires?” you asked.
“To people,” he said.
The answer quieted you.
Firelight shifted over his face, softening the strong lines, catching in the blue of his eyes when he looked at you.
“Is that hard?” you asked.
He looked down at his hands for a moment. They were clasped loosely between his knees, broad and scarred in a way you hadn’t noticed before. Not dramatically, not enough to invite questions, but enough to suggest his life had left marks.
“Sometimes,” he said. “I got used to keeping distance. It’s easier.”
You understood that more than you wanted to.
“Safer,” you said.
His gaze lifted.
You hadn’t meant to say it quite so softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “Safer.”
For a moment, neither of you looked away.
Then Sam yelled, “Who wants another hot dog?” and the spell cracked just enough for you both to laugh.
But it didn’t fully break. Not really.
It lingered.
In the way Bucky’s knee touched yours and stayed there.
In the way he passed you napkins before you realized you needed them.
In the way his eyes kept finding you across little interruptions, as though checking that you were still with him.
And you were.
That was the frightening part.
You were so with him.
At some point, the fire burned lower and the sky turned fully dark. Stars began to prick through overhead, faint at first, then clearer the farther your eyes moved from the lanterns. The beach stretched shadowy beyond the circle, the ocean a constant hush in the distance. People had shifted positions, some standing near the cooler, others sprawled in chairs, the conversations looser now.
Tori and Steve were debating something about whether a hot dog counted as a sandwich. Mia and Sam had entered an alliance over music selection, which seemed dangerous for everyone. Lena was talking with one of Steve’s friends, relaxed enough that she’d stopped scanning for emergencies every few minutes.
Jess’s eyes immediately swept over you when you shifted closer to Bucky on the blanket, sharp and assessing. Beside her, Natasha hid a smile behind her cup, looking entirely too pleased by whatever she’d noticed and wisely choosing not to say a word.
Bucky glanced toward the water, then back at you. Something shifted in his expression… hesitation, maybe. Want, definitely. Carefully contained.
“Would you walk with me?” he asked.
Your heartbeat changed.
Not in alarm. Not exactly.
But awareness moved through you, bright and immediate.
Bucky seemed to sense the flicker of nerves, because he nodded toward the shore. “Just down there. Still in view. Unless you’d rather stay here.”
There it was again. The room to say no.
The space.
You glanced toward your friends automatically.
Lena was already looking at you. Of course she was. Her eyes moved from you to Bucky, then to the stretch of beach he had indicated. Still visible from the bonfire. Still public. Still safe.
She lifted her brows in a silent question.
You nodded once.
She nodded back.
Jess, still watching, gave you two fingers pointed at her eyes, then at Bucky.
Bucky saw it and lifted one hand in solemn acknowledgment.
You snorted. “She’s going to be insufferable.”
“I respect her methods.”
“That will help your file.”
“Good.”
You stood, brushing sand from the skirt of your dress. Bucky rose beside you and offered his hand.
You took it.
The two of you walked away from the fire slowly, leaving the loudest laughter behind. The sand grew cooler as you neared the water, firmer under your feet. You slipped off your sandals after a few steps, hooking them in one hand, and Bucky wordlessly adjusted his pace to match yours.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
It was not uncomfortable.
The night had deepened around you, vast and salt-scented. The bonfire glowed behind you, a warm blur of orange and gold. Ahead, the ocean rolled beneath the moon, dark and endless, white foam curling and vanishing over the shore. The wind moved through Bucky’s borrowed shirt around your shoulders, pressing it closer to your skin.
Your hand was still in his.
You were very aware of that.
“So,” you said eventually, because silence with him felt intimate enough to make you brave and nervous all at once, “do you often invite emotionally compromised women and their entire security detail to beach bonfires?”
Bucky huffed a laugh. “First time.”
“Lucky me.”
“Lucky me,” he said, and there was no joke in it.
You looked over.
He was watching the water, profile silvered by moonlight, jaw relaxed but eyes serious.
“You can’t just say things like that,” you murmured.
His gaze shifted to you. “Why not?”
“Because I might start believing you.”
He stopped walking.
So did you.
The bonfire was still visible in the distance, the group still close enough to be reassuring but far enough that their voices had softened into indistinct warmth. The waves moved beside you, rushing in, pulling back, leaving the sand shining around your bare feet.
Bucky turned to face you fully.
“I’d like that,” he said.
Your breath caught.
He seemed to realize how direct that sounded, because he looked down for a second, a faint, self-conscious smile tugging at his mouth. “Sorry. That came out…”
“Honest?”
His eyes came back up.
You tried to smile, but it wavered. Not because of him. Because something about his sincerity pressed gently against a bruise you were still trying to protect.
Bucky’s expression changed at once.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Too much?”
You shook your head quickly, then stopped because the truth was more complicated than that.
“I don’t know,” you admitted.
He didn’t move closer. “Okay.”
“I like it,” you said, and your voice sounded embarrassingly vulnerable in the open air. “That’s the problem.”
His face softened.
You looked out at the water because it was easier than looking at him. “I like how you talk to me. I like that you ask before you touch me. I like that you invited my friends instead of acting like they were in the way. I like that you’re funny in this dry, accidental way and that you get embarrassed when people call you out.” You swallowed. “I like that I wanted you to text me this morning.”
The confession hung there between you.
Your chest tightened immediately with the old instinct to take it back. To make it smaller. To laugh it off before he could hold it.
But Bucky did not look triumphant.
He did not look smug.
He looked almost unbearably gentle.
“I wanted to text you at seven,” he said.
You laughed under your breath, shaky. “You told me.”
“No.” He stepped one inch closer, then stopped. “I mean I had the message typed out. Sat there staring at it like an idiot because I didn’t want you waking up and thinking, ‘Great, the guy from last night is already too much.’”
You turned back to him.
His mouth pulled into a rueful half-smile. “Sam saw me deleting it for the third time and told me I was setting feminism back by overthinking a good morning text.”
Despite everything, you laughed.
Bucky’s shoulders loosened a little at the sound.
“He may have had a point,” you said.
“He usually does. It’s annoying.”
The humor softened the moment, but only enough to make room for the rest of it.
Bucky looked at you carefully. “I know this is bad timing.”
You breathed out slowly.
“Maybe.”
“I know you’re hurting.”
Your eyes stung, sudden and unwelcome.
He continued, voice low. “And I’m not trying to be the guy who shows up on vacation and makes you forget everything for a weekend just so it hurts worse after.”
The accuracy of that fear made your throat tighten.
Bucky’s gaze stayed on yours, steady despite the vulnerability in his own expression. “I don’t want to be a distraction you regret.”
You looked down at where your feet had sunk slightly into the wet sand. A thin rush of water slid over your toes and pulled away again.
“I’m afraid of that,” you said.
“I figured.”
“But I’m also afraid of… not letting myself have anything good because he ruined so much.”
Bucky was quiet.
Your fingers tightened around your sandals. “That’s the part that makes me angry. That he gets to still be in my head. That even meeting someone who’s kind to me turns into this whole internal debate about whether I’m being stupid again.”
“You’re not stupid.”
The words came fast. Firm. Almost sharp.
You looked at him.
Bucky’s jaw had tightened, something protective flashing in his eyes before he visibly tempered it.
“You’re not,” he repeated, gentler. “Trusting someone who didn’t deserve it doesn’t make you stupid.”
You let out a small, humorless laugh. “My friends said that this morning.”
“Smart women.”
“They keep saying you’re making it difficult to stay suspicious.”
His mouth twitched. “Good.”
“I thought you respected their methods.”
“I do. Still want to pass.”
Something about that made you smile.
Bucky took another small step, close enough now that the wind lifted the ends of your hair against his chest. His shirt still hung around your shoulders. You wondered if he noticed the way you’d wrapped yourself in it, fingers tucked into the cuffs.
He definitely noticed.
His eyes dropped briefly, softening at the sight, before finding your face again.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m scared too.”
That surprised you.
“You are?”
“Yeah.”
“Of what?”
His laugh was quiet and a little rough. “Right now? Saying the wrong thing. Moving too fast. Moving too slow. Looking at you too much.”
Your heart stumbled.
“I don’t mind that last one,” you whispered.
His eyes darkened, not in a way that felt heavy or demanding, but in a way that made the air between you feel warmer despite the ocean breeze.
“No?”
You shook your head.
The waves came in again, closer this time, washing over your feet and making you gasp at the cold. You instinctively stepped forward, away from the water.
Straight into him.
Bucky’s hands lifted automatically, catching you lightly at the waist.
You both froze.
His palms were warm through the thin fabric of your dress. Steady. Careful. He held you just enough to keep you from stumbling and no more, though your body had ended up close enough that you could see every shift in his expression.
“Sorry,” you breathed.
“Don’t be.”
His voice was low.
You should have stepped back.
You did not.
Your hands had landed against his chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. Beneath your palms, he was solid and warm, his breath moving slow but not quite even. His gaze moved over your face like he was trying to memorize the moment without taking more of it than you wanted to give.
The fire was distant now.
The ocean was loud.
Your heart was louder.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
His eyes flicked to your mouth.
Then back.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question was so soft it nearly came apart in the wind.
For a second, you couldn’t answer.
Not because you didn’t want it.
Because you wanted it so badly it frightened you.
And maybe he saw that too, because his hands loosened instantly at your waist.
“You can say no,” he murmured. “Or not yet. Or—”
“Yes.”
The word left you before fear could catch it.
Bucky stilled.
You swallowed, fingers tightening once against his shirt. “Yes.”
His expression shifted, something tender and stunned moving through his eyes.
Then he leaned in.
Slowly.
So slowly that it felt like a thousand tiny choices instead of one reckless one. He gave you every chance to turn away. Every chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You rose slightly onto your toes, meeting him halfway because you wanted him to know this was not something happening to you.
It was something you were choosing.
His mouth touched yours softly at first.
A question.
A warmth.
Barely more than a press of lips, gentle enough that it made your chest ache. You had expected intensity from him. Expected the pull you’d felt since the terrace to finally spark into something overwhelming. But instead, the first kiss was careful. Almost reverent. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs still, his body held in check as though he was afraid one wrong move might break the fragile trust between you.
Your eyes closed.
Something inside you went quiet.
Not healed. Not erased.
Quiet.
You kissed him back.
That was when he exhaled, the sound low and unsteady against your mouth, and the kiss deepened by degrees. Still gentle, still restrained, but warmer now. More certain. One of his hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, holding you a little closer, and you let him. Your fingers moved up from his chest to the side of his neck, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath your thumb, the way his pulse jumped under your touch.
He kissed like he had been wanting to all night and refusing himself until you gave him permission.
Like wanting you did not make him careless, like y tenderness could be its own kind of hunger.
The thought nearly undid you.
When you finally parted, it was only by an inch.
Bucky’s forehead hovered close to yours, his breath warm against your lips. His eyes stayed closed for half a second longer, like he needed it.
Then he opened them.
Blue. Soft. A little wrecked.
“Still okay?” he whispered.
Your laugh came out quiet and shaky. “Yeah,” you said, a wobbly smile playing on your lips.
His thumb moved once at your back. “Yeah?”
You nodded, and this time your smile steadied. “Still okay.”
The relief in his face was almost enough to make you kiss him again.
Almost.
From somewhere near the bonfire, Jess called, “You good?”
You laughed against Bucky’s chest, mortified and fond all at once. “That’s my emotional support menace.”
Bucky’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter. “I respect her.”
“You should. She’s terrifying.”
“Noted.”
The moment might have broken under the teasing, but instead it only folded itself into something sweeter. Realer. Less perfect in the best possible way.
Bucky reached up and brushed a windblown strand of hair from your cheek. He moved slowly enough that you could have pulled back.
You didn’t.
His fingers lingered near your jaw for one soft second.
“I should walk you back before they organize,” he said.
“Probably.”
Neither of you moved.
His eyes dropped to your mouth again, then lifted with visible restraint.
You smiled. “You’re trying to be a gentleman again.”
“Trying real hard.”
“And?”
His mouth curved. “In trouble again.”
Warmth bloomed beneath your skin.
This time, you were the one who leaned in.
The second kiss was shorter, smiling, softer at the edges because you were both laughing a little. But it still sent something bright through you, something frighteningly close to joy.
When you pulled away, Bucky looked at you like he was trying not to say ten things at once.
You slipped your hand back into his.
“Come on,” you said, tugging lightly. “Before Jess files a missing person report.”
He looked down at your joined hands, then back at you.
The smile he gave you was quiet enough that no one else could have seen it from the fire.
But you felt it.
All the way back.
By the time you and Bucky made it back to the bonfire, something had changed.
Not loudly. Not in a way anyone could point to without sounding ridiculous. There was no announcement, no dramatic music cue, no sudden shift in the stars above the beach. The fire still cracked in the sand. Sam was still talking too loudly. Mia was still arguing with him like she had known him for years instead of hours. Steve still looked half-amused, half-concerned by everyone around him. Your friends still watched you with varying degrees of subtlety, which was to say none at all.
But something had changed anyway.
It was in Bucky’s hand around yours.
Before the walk, he had held you like he was asking.
Now, he held you like he knew you had answered.
Still careful. Still gentle. But different somehow. Warmer. More certain. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles as you neared the group, and the small movement lit through you with such ridiculous force that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too obviously.
Jess saw anyway.
Of course she did.
Her gaze dropped to your joined hands, then swept over your face with the precision of a woman collecting evidence. She didn’t say anything, at least not at first. She only lifted her cup to her mouth, eyes narrowing with that sharp, assessing affection you had come to both fear and rely on.
“You good?” she asked.
You tried for casual. “I’m good.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I am.”
“Never said you weren’t.”
Her mouth twitched.
Beside her, Natasha hid a smile behind her drink, looking far too amused by whatever she had pieced together and far too wise to say it aloud.
Bucky’s hand tightened around yours once, almost like he was trying not to laugh.
You gave him a look.
He leaned closer, voice low enough that only you could hear. “I’m starting to think I’m the one who needs protection.”
“You are.”
“From who?”
“All of them.”
His eyes moved over your friends: Lena watching calmly from her chair, Mia pretending not to grin while Sam whispered something in her ear, Tori practically vibrating with delight, Jess still wearing her best interrogator face.
“Fair,” he murmured.
You laughed softly, and his gaze dropped to your mouth.
It was brief. Barely a second.
But you felt it everywhere.
The rest of the night passed with a strange, glowing ease.
You sat beside Bucky near the fire again, close enough that your knee rested against his and neither of you pretended it was an accident anymore. His shirt stayed around your shoulders. At some point, he brought you another lemonade without asking, twisting off the cap before handing it over. Later, when Sam insisted everyone participate in what he called a “high-stakes marshmallow tournament” and what Steve called “Sam needing attention,” Bucky deliberately burned his marshmallow after your previous accusations about him of being too marshmallow competent.
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped yours.
“There,” he said, holding up the blackened, smoking disaster with quiet dignity. “Disappointing.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“You said expectations were dangerous.”
“I didn’t ask you to commit crimes against dessert.”
His mouth curved. “Can’t please you, huh?”
The words were innocent enough, but the look he gave you was most certainly not.
Heat rose in your face so fast that you turned toward the fire and took an aggressive sip of your lemonade.
Bucky’s quiet laugh landed near your ear.
“You’re terrible,” you muttered.
“I’m behaving.”
“Barely.”
“Trying real hard,” he said.
And there it was again: an echo of the beach, of his mouth close to yours, of his hands at your waist and the way he had asked before kissing you. The memory moved through you in a slow, warm wave, leaving you unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol (not that you had any anyways) and everything to do with the man beside you.
He knew it too.
You could tell by the way his smile softened when you dared a glance back at him. By the way his teasing gave way to that careful, intent look that made everything else fade at the edges.
The night ended late, though not nearly late enough.
People began leaving in small clusters, shaking sand from blankets, gathering coolers, extinguishing lanterns. Sam declared the bonfire an overwhelming success, despite Steve pointing out that Sam had dropped two hot dogs in the sand and almost set a napkin on fire. Mia immediately defended him on the grounds of “visionary leadership,” which only encouraged him.
Your friends lingered near the edge of the group, waiting without making it too obvious that they were waiting.
Bucky walked you back toward them, his hand still in yours.
“I should probably say goodnight before Jess starts timing us,” he said.
“She started timing us before we walked away.”
His gaze flicked toward Jess. “Yeah, that tracks.”
You smiled, but there was a small ache beneath it now. A tiny, premature grief. Because the night was ending. Because tomorrow was his last full day here. Because the morning after that, he would leave, and this fragile, impossible thing blooming between you had a deadline neither of you had chosen.
Bucky seemed to feel the shift.
His expression gentled.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You looked up.
“Can I see you tomorrow?”
The question landed low in your chest.
You nodded before you could overthink it. “Yeah.”
“Properly,” he added.
Your brow furrowed. “Properly?”
His thumb moved over your hand once. “A date. Not just running into each other. Not just standing around while Sam tries to burn down a beach.”
You laughed quietly, but your throat felt tight.
Bucky held your gaze. “I meant what I said. I don’t want to be some vacation distraction you regret. So let me take you out. Just us.”
Behind you, someone (Tori, probably) made the smallest possible sound of approval.
You ignored her with great effort.
“A proper date,” you repeated.
“If you want.”
That tiny caveat. That soft exit ramp.
Always there. Always given.
Your heart folded around it.
“I want,” you said.
Bucky smiled like you had given him something precious.
“Good.”
The word warmed you all the way back to the hotel.
And the next morning, when your phone buzzed at 8:03 a.m., you were already awake.
You had been awake for twenty minutes, lying on your back in the soft white bed with the curtains drawn against the early sun, staring at the ceiling while the room around you breathed with the heavy sleep of five women who had stayed out too late for the second night in a row.
Your lips still felt like they remembered him.
That was the problem.
Your body remembered too much. The weight of his shirt around your shoulders. The careful pressure of his hands at your waist. The salt air between you. The way he had kissed you like wanting you mattered less than making sure you felt safe with it.
You had spent so long being angry at yourself for missing signs, for trusting wrong, for loving someone who had made your love look foolish in hindsight. But Bucky’s gentleness had done something strange to the tender, defensive places inside you.
It hadn’t fixed them.
It had simply touched them without hurting.
Your phone buzzed again.
You grabbed it from the nightstand so quickly that Jess, half-buried in blankets in the next bed, mumbled, “Pathetic.”
You froze. “You’re awake?”
“No.”
You looked at your phone.
Bucky: Morning.
Then, a second message.
Bucky: I waited until eight this time. Personal growth.
Your smile spread before you could stop it.
You: Very respectful. Very restrained.
Bucky: Don’t give me too much credit. I’ve been awake since six.
Your stomach flipped.
You: That sounds like a you problem.
Bucky: It is. You free this afternoon?
You bit your lip.
You: Depends what you have planned.
A pause.
Then:
Bucky: Lunch somewhere quiet. A walk through that little market by the marina if you’re up for it. Maybe coffee after. No pressure. No schedule. Just a proper date.
Your chest went soft.
Not dinner. Not drinks. Not something dimly lit and easy to blur into temptation, though God knew the temptation was already there. Lunch. A market. Coffee. Daylight. Time.
Something chosen.
Something intentional.
You stared at the message until Jess rolled onto her side and cracked one eye open.
“If you don’t tell me what he said, I’m going to assume he proposed.”
“He asked me out this afternoon.”
Jess’s eye opened fully. “Properly?”
You smiled down at the phone. “Actually, yes.”
That got the room moving.
Not quickly. Everyone was too hungover-adjacent and sleep-heavy for speed. But one by one, they surfaced: Lena sitting up with her hair in a messy knot and immediate concern in her eyes, Tori emerging from the pullout with a gasp when Jess said “date,” Mia stumbling in from the adjoining room wearing sunglasses and asking if anyone had died or fallen in love.
“Neither,” you said.
Jess pointed at you. “Debatable.”
You threw a pillow at her.
The morning became another debrief, though gentler than the one before. There was teasing, of course. There were threats of interrogation. Mia wanted to know what he had planned. Tori wanted to know if you had already picked an outfit. Jess wanted his last name again “for normal, non-criminal reasons.” Lena stayed quieter, watching you over the rim of her coffee.
Eventually, when the others got distracted arguing about whether you should wear the sundress from yesterday or something more casual, Lena nudged your foot under the table.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
You looked down at your phone, at Bucky’s last message.
Bucky: I’ll pick you up at two? Lobby?
You had already said yes.
“Nervous,” you admitted.
Lena nodded. “Good nervous?”
You thought about it.
The fear was still there. It would probably be there for a while, woven through anything new, anything tender. But beneath it was something else. Anticipation. Warmth. A little flicker of trust you weren’t ready to name but could feel anyway.
“Mostly,” you said.
Lena smiled. “Then go.”
So you did.
At two o’clock exactly, Bucky was waiting in the lobby.
Not at 1:58, pacing so visibly that you would feel guilty. Not late enough to seem casual. Exactly two. Standing near one of the wide windows overlooking the front drive, hands in his pockets, wearing dark jeans and a short-sleeved linen button down in a soft blue-gray that made his eyes look unfair even from across the room.
He looked up when the elevator doors opened.
The second he saw you, his face changed.
It was beginning to become your favorite thing.
His expression didn’t break open as dramatically as it had at the bonfire, but it softened in that same helpless way, like whatever he had been thinking simply disappeared and left room only for you.
You stepped out of the elevator, suddenly aware of every inch of yourself: the simple sundress you had finally chosen, the sandals, the necklace resting at your collarbone, the way your pulse had gone quick at the sight of him.
Bucky met you halfway.
“Hi,” he said.
You smiled. “Hi.”
His gaze moved over your face, then down just briefly, respectfully, before returning to your eyes.
“You look beautiful.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
You had no defense against him when he said things like that so plainly.
You looked down, smiling. “You look pretty nice yourself.”
His mouth quirked. “Pretty nice?”
“I’m trying to keep you humble.”
“Good luck.”
There it was. That flash of dry humor, the little curl at the corner of his mouth. You laughed, and something in him eased at the sound.
He held out his hand. “Ready?”
You looked at it.
Then took it.
“Yes.”
——————
Lunch was at a small restaurant tucked away from the busiest stretch of the beach, the kind of place with shaded outdoor tables, painted blue chairs, and bougainvillea climbing the wall in bright, impossible blooms. It overlooked a narrow side street that sloped down toward the marina, where sailboat masts cut thin white lines into the sky.
Bucky had chosen well.
Quiet, but not empty. Pretty, but not showy. Public enough to feel easy. Private enough that conversation could settle between you without being drowned out.
“I asked Steve for a recommendation,” he admitted once you were seated.
“You did?”
“Sam offered, but his first suggestion had bottomless rum punch and a mechanical shark.”
You paused with your water halfway to your mouth. “A mechanical shark?”
“Apparently.”
“That sounds incredible.”
Bucky stared at you.
You bit back a smile. “What?”
“I’m trying to take you on a respectful date and you’re telling me I should’ve chosen the mechanical shark.”
“I contain multitudes.”
His laugh was soft and startled, like you had caught it from him before he could guard it. The sound settled over the table, warm as sunlight.
Lunch stretched longer than either of you seemed to notice.
You talked about everything and nothing. Favorite foods. Worst vacations. Childhood trouble. The kind of music you could never skip. The little habits that made your friends love you and mock you in equal measure. Bucky told you stories about Steve with the kind of affection that made his teasing gentle. You told him about the time Mia got you both kicked out of a karaoke bar for arguing with the DJ about song order. He asked questions and remembered the answers. Noticed when you paused. Let silence exist without trying to conquer it.
At one point, your ex’s name came up. Not his actual name, because Bucky never asked for it, and you loved him a little for that, in a terrifying, premature, impossible way.
It happened because the waiter set down your food and said something about honeymooners getting a dessert discount if you were celebrating.
The words landed awkwardly.
The waiter realized it too late, face flushing as he stumbled through an apology, but you waved it off quickly.
“It’s okay,” you said, because it was. Mostly.
Still, a shadow moved through you.
Bucky waited until the waiter left before speaking.
“You don’t have to pretend that didn’t hurt.”
Your throat tightened. You looked at him across the table, at his steady face, at the way his hands rested near his glass but did not reach for you in public without permission.
“I’m okay,” you said.
“I believe you.”
That surprised you.
He continued, softer, “And I also think it probably still hurt.”
You looked down at your plate, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.
“It’s stupid,” you whispered.
“No.”
“It is. I don’t even want him anymore.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re not grieving what he broke.”
The simple accuracy of it made your chest ache.
You took a slow breath.
“I hate that he’s still here,” you admitted. “Not here here, but… in things. In words. In stupid assumptions from strangers. In the way I have to explain why I’m on a trip that was supposed to be for a wedding that isn’t happening.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed gentle. “I hate that for you.”
You laughed a little, shaky. “Me too.”
His hand moved then, slowly across the table, palm up.
An offering.
You placed your hand in his and he closed his fingers around yours.
“You don’t have to be over it for this to matter,” he said.
Your eyes lifted to his.
“This?” you asked.
The corner of his mouth softened, but he did not look away. “This.”
There was no mistaking what he meant. Not the lunch. Not the trip. Not the flirtation alone.
This thing between you. This fragile, sudden, inconvenient spark that kept refusing to behave like something casual.
Your heart gave one hard, hopeful thud.
“Bucky,” you said softly.
“I know,” he murmured. “Poor timing.”
“Maybe.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
“But not bad?”
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then you shook your head. “No. Not bad.”
After lunch, you walked through the market by the marina.
Colorful stalls lined the walkway, striped awnings fluttering in the breeze. There were handmade bracelets, linen shirts, jars of local honey, tiny watercolor paintings of the coastline, shells polished into jewelry, sun hats stacked in leaning towers. The air smelled like salt, sunscreen, grilled fish from a nearby stand, and sugar from a cart selling warm pastries dusted with cinnamon.
It was easy with him.
That was what kept surprising you.
The date should have felt loaded after the night before. Heavy with expectation, tangled in all the things you were both not saying about him leaving in the morning. Instead, it unfolded with a sweetness that made you ache. Bucky bought a bag of candied almonds from a vendor and held it open for you without comment. You tried on a ridiculous oversized sun hat, and he looked at you with such solemn admiration that you nearly lost it.
“Don’t,” you warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking something.”
“I was thinking it’s a strong look.”
“You’re lying.”
“Absolutely.”
You laughed and put the hat back.
At another stall, you paused over a display of delicate bracelets woven with tiny glass beads. One was sea-blue, nearly the color of the dress you’d worn the night before.
Bucky noticed.
Of course he did.
You moved on without buying it.
Ten minutes later, while you were distracted by a shelf of painted postcards, he disappeared for exactly long enough to be suspicious.
When he returned, his expression was too neutral.
You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Bucky.”
“Walked.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“Been told that.”
He held out his closed fist.
Your stomach dipped.
Slowly, he opened his hand.
The bracelet rested in his palm, tiny blue beads catching the afternoon light.
You stared at it.
“Bucky.”
His voice softened. “I saw you looking at it.”
“You didn’t have to buy it.”
“I know.”
That phrase again. Never defensive. Never trying to turn kindness into debt.
Just: I know.
He looked almost shy when he added, “Wanted you to have something from today that wasn’t complicated.”
The words went straight through you.
For a moment, you couldn’t speak.
Then you held out your wrist.
His eyes lifted to yours, asking silently.
You nodded.
He tied the bracelet around your wrist with careful fingers, his head bent, his touch light and focused. The moment was so small. So quiet. Just a man tying a bracelet beneath the shade of a market awning while strangers moved around you and gulls cried somewhere overhead.
But it felt enormous.
When he finished, his fingers lingered for half a second against the inside of your wrist.
Your pulse jumped beneath his touch.
He noticed.
You knew he noticed because his gaze flicked there, then up to your face.
The market noise seemed to fade.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
His voice was low. “You’re welcome.”
By late afternoon, the date had blurred into coffee, then a walk along the marina, then sitting side by side on a stone wall watching boats drift in and out of the harbor while the sun began to lean westward. Neither of you seemed willing to call it.
Not yet.
The hours had become precious, though neither of you said so.
Bucky’s flight left the next morning, while your group still had another day after that. There was a clock on this, ticking beneath every laugh, every glance, every brush of his hand against yours.
And yet, somehow, the deadline made him more present, not less.
He did not rush. Did not push. Did not treat the day like something to consume before it vanished.
He simply stayed with you.
Fully.
When your phone buzzed with a message from the group chat around six, you glanced down to find a photo Mia had sent of herself, Sam, Tori, Steve, Lena, Jess, and Natasha crowded around a table somewhere, drinks raised, all wearing varying expressions of chaos.
Mia: Dinner acquired. We are alive. Suspicious levels currently moderate. Have fun, don’t be reckless. Actually be a little reckless. Lena says hydrated reckless.
Then:
Jess: Text me your location or I become a problem.
You smiled and sent back a quick update.
Bucky watched your face. “They okay?”
“They’ve adopted your friends.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Probably.”
His mouth curved. “Sam’s going to be impossible after this.”
“Mia too.”
“Good pair.”
You looked at him, amused. “Careful.”
“What?”
“You sound like a man trying to merge friend groups after one date.”
His expression shifted, like he’d been caught, maybe, then softer.
“Too much?”
You should have teased him.
Instead, you said, “No.”
The honesty startled both of you.
Bucky looked down, smiling faintly. “Good.”
Dinner happened almost accidentally.
A small place near the water. Outdoor table. Shared plates because neither of you could decide and Bucky claimed ordering half the menu was “efficient.” The sky turned gold, then rose, then a deepening blue. Lanterns came on around you. Your knees brushed beneath the table. Your bracelet caught the light every time you reached for your glass.
At some point, Bucky looked at it and smiled to himself.
“What?” you asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
He leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking from your wrist to your face. “Just like seeing it on you.”
The warmth that moved through you then was dangerous.
Not because it was unfamiliar.
Because it felt like belonging to a moment you didn’t want to end.
After dinner, you walked again.
Neither of you made a decision about where to go. You simply followed the pull of the evening, through quieter streets, past shops closing for the night, past couples walking hand in hand and families carrying tired children back toward hotels. Eventually, inevitably, your feet found the path toward the beach.
The same beach.
The same stretch of sand.
The bonfire was gone now, the permitted fire pit cold and dark, the lantern poles bare. Without the crowd, without the music and laughter, the beach seemed larger. Softer. More intimate in its emptiness. The ocean moved under the moon just as it had the night before, steady and silver-edged, the tide whispering up the shore.
Bucky slowed when he realized where you were.
You did too.
For a moment, both of you stood at the top of the wooden path, looking down at the place where everything had shifted the night before.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
Your throat tightened.
You looked at him.
The moonlight softened his face, but not the concern in his eyes. He was already prepared to turn around. Already prepared to choose your comfort over nostalgia, over romance, over whatever he might have wanted from bringing you here.
You reached for his hand.
“Yeah,” you said. “It’s okay.”
You walked down together.
The sand was cooler tonight, the beach emptier. You slipped off your sandals and carried them in one hand, just like before. Bucky matched your pace, his hand warm around yours. No firelight this time. No friends watching from a distance. No laughter to soften the silence.
Just the two of you.
And the ocean.
You walked along the tide line until the lights from the busier part of the beach dimmed behind you. Not far enough to be hidden entirely, but far enough that the world felt hushed. Private. The waves rushed in close, foaming around your feet before sliding back into the dark.
Bucky stopped where you had kissed the night before.
Or close to it.
You knew because your body remembered.
He turned toward you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
The whole day seemed to gather there between you. The date. The bracelet. The laughter. The quiet confessions. The knowledge of morning waiting too close.
“You leave tomorrow,” you said.
Bucky’s expression dimmed at the edges.
“Yeah.”
“I keep trying not to think about it.”
“Me too.”
The wind moved between you, lifting your hair across your cheek. He reached up slowly, brushing it back with the backs of his fingers.
“I had a good day,” he said.
You smiled, though it hurt a little. “Me too.”
“No.” His thumb grazed your cheek once. “I mean… I had the kind of day I’m going to think about when I’m somewhere else and probably make myself miserable.”
Your breath caught.
“That sounds awful.”
“It will be.”
“Bucky.”
His smile was small and aching. “Worth it.”
Something in your chest cracked open.
You stepped closer.
He watched you carefully, but there was want in his eyes now. Clearer than before. Not hidden, not denied, only held back by the thread of restraint he had kept between you from the start.
You were suddenly tired of restraint.
Not because you wanted him to stop being gentle.
Because you trusted the gentleness.
Because wanting him no longer felt like betraying yourself.
Because grief had taken enough from you, and standing barefoot in moonlit sand with a man who had spent the whole day choosing you carefully, you did not want to hand it this too.
You set your sandals down.
Bucky’s eyes dropped to them, then returned to your face.
Your voice came out soft. “Kiss me.”
He did not need to be asked twice.
Bucky stepped into you, one hand sliding to your waist, the other cupping your jaw as his mouth found yours. This kiss was not the tentative question from the night before.
It began gentle because he was Bucky, because care seemed written into the way he touched you now, but the softness deepened quickly into something warmer. Hungrier. Your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer as the ocean rushed around your ankles and the wind wrapped around you both.
He made a low sound against your mouth when you kissed him harder.
The sound moved through you like flame.
His hand tightened at your waist.
Not enough to trap. Just enough to tell you he felt it too. The pull. The ache. The day’s worth of looking and wanting and waiting compressed into this one point of contact.
You broke away only to breathe.
Bucky’s forehead dipped to yours, his breath uneven.
“We should slow down,” he murmured, though he did not move away.
“Do you want to?”
His eyes opened.
The answer was there before he spoke.
“No.”
Heat curled low in your stomach.
“Then don’t,” you whispered.
His jaw flexed. “I need you to be sure.”
You looked at him beneath the moonlight, at this man who had asked at every step, who had held back not because he didn’t want you but because he wanted you safely, honestly, without regret.
Your fingers softened at his chest.
“I’m sure.”
Bucky went still.
For a second, all you heard was the ocean.
Then he kissed you again.
The world narrowed to his mouth, his hands, the warmth of him against the cool night air.
You whispered his name against his mouth.
He answered by kissing you deeper.
It was like the careful dam he’d built between you finally gave way. Not in a crash, but in a slow, inevitable surge.
His tongue traced your lower lip, asking, and you opened for him with a soft sound that seemed to unravel something in his chest. He tasted like salt air and the faint sweetness of the candied almonds you’d shared and underneath it all, something warm and unmistakably him. The kiss grew hungry, tongues sliding together, breaths mingling as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
Until the ocean reminded you it was there.
The tide rushed in around your ankles, colder this time, a sharp, startling bite that stole a gasp right out of you against his lips. Your toes dug instinctively into the sand as the water swirled and tugged, and Bucky reacted before you even finished flinching with one arm tightening around your waist, anchoring you to him like instinct had already memorized your balance.
You laughed breathlessly into the kiss, half shock and half delight, and he chased the sound with his mouth, smiling against you as the water pulled back again.
His forehead hovered close. “Cold?”
“A little,” you admitted, voice unsteady from more than the water.
His thumb brushed once at your hip, a quiet check-in. “Want to move back?”
You should have said yes.
The practical answer was yes. Away from the water. Back to dry sand. Back to the blanket that had been in the bag he’d brought, because apparently Bucky Barnes prepared for comfort and contingencies and possibilities he was too honorable to assume.
But the moonlight was silver across his face, turning his eyes dark and bright at once. The ocean softened around the edges of the night like a living thing. His hands were careful on your body, his mouth still warm against yours, and something about the tide washing over your feet made the moment feel less like standing on the edge of something and more like finally stepping into it.
So instead, you shook your head.
“No.”
Bucky’s brows drew together faintly, not displeased, just questioning. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t try to steer you. He simply watched you, waiting for you to lead the next step the way he had been letting you lead from the beginning.
You stepped backward.
Not away from him. Not really.
Toward the water.
The next wave slid up around your calves, tugging at the hem of your dress and you bit back a gasp at the cold. The fabric clung instantly, heavy and damp against your legs. Bucky’s grip tightened, instinctive and protective, as if he’d already decided he’d catch you no matter what.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low but laced with wonder.
Your heart hammered hard enough you could feel it in your throat.
Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was childish. Maybe it was the kind of thing you’d laugh about later, with sand in your hair and salt on your skin and the memory of him looking at you like this burned permanently behind your ribs.
But tonight had already become something you would remember forever.
And you wanted to remember all of it.
The moon. The water. The way he looked at you like he was afraid to want too much and unable to stop wanting anyway.
You took another step back, the water rising around your knees, and held out your hand like a dare.
“Come here.”
Bucky stared at you for a long second.
Then a slow, disbelieving smile touched his mouth, soft and dangerous, like surrender dressed up as amusement.
“You’re trouble,” he murmured.
You didn’t even try to deny it. You only lifted your hand higher. “You coming?”
His gaze dropped to your hand.
Then to the water.
Then back to your face.
Something in him shifted, like a careful internal debate ended, like the last thread of restraint snapped in a way that wasn’t reckless, just inevitable.
“Yeah sweetheart,” he said, voice rough. “I’m coming.”
He followed you into the surf.
The ocean curled around his boots first, then his calves, darkening the denim at his legs. His shirt clung at the hem where the water splashed up, and you watched him take another step without hesitation, as if the cold didn’t matter. As if the only thing that mattered was you.
You backed farther into the shallow water, laughing softly when another wave pushed against your thighs and made your dress cling cool and heavy to your skin.
Bucky caught up to you in two strides.
His hands found your waist again
“Still okay?” he asked.
You nearly broke apart right there.
Even now. Even here. With the ocean around you, your dress soaked at the hem, and the heat between you making every breath feel fragile and bright… he still asked. Still offered you the choice. Still held himself back by the same thread of care that had undone you from the beginning.
You reached up, water dripping from your fingers as you touched his face, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw.
“Still okay.”
His eyes closed for half a second, like the words landed somewhere deep.
Then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss hit differently in the water.
Less polished. Less careful around the edges. The ocean moved around you both, pressing you together and pulling away again, making balance something you had to share. Your hands slid up his wet shirt, fingers curling at his shoulders, while his arm locked securely around your back to keep you steady. The tide surged against your thighs, and Bucky used the momentum to draw you closer, his breath breaking against your mouth when your body met his.
You kissed him harder.
He answered with a sound that disappeared into the rush of the next wave, muffled and ruined against your lips.
The water rose and fell around you, dark and silver, soaking the skirt of your dress. Bucky’s shirt stuck to his chest, outlining the hard breadth of him beneath your palms. Salt gathered on your lips. His hair came loose in the breeze, damp strands brushing his forehead, and when you pushed them back, he looked at you like the touch had ruined him.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, voice rough yet the question beneath it was gentle, careful as ever.
Everything in you trembled.
The ocean whispered around your legs. The shore waited behind him, the sand pale beneath moonlight. Somewhere far away, the rest of the world existed: hotels, flights, friends, mornings, consequences.
Here, there was only Bucky.
Only his hands holding you above the pull of the water.
Only the knowledge that wanting him did not feel like losing yourself.
Your thumb brushed over the line of his jaw. “You.”
His breath caught.
“You,” you said again, quieter, letting the word carry everything you couldn’t explain. “This. I don’t want to be afraid of wanting this.”
His expression changed. Not into triumph, not into impatience.
Into something reverent.
Something careful and starving all at once.
He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. The kind of kiss that made the cold water feel distant, the kind that warmed you from the inside out until the night felt liquid around you. His hands slid over your back, your waist, the wet fabric of your dress, never taking more than you gave, yet making it clear with every restrained touch how badly he wanted to.
You rose onto your toes, arms winding around his neck, and the movement shifted your balance.
The next wave came in stronger.
You gasped as it hit, and Bucky caught you instantly, one arm banding around your waist, the other bracing at your back, lifting you just enough that the water couldn’t pull you under. Your laughter broke into the kiss, startled and breathless, and his followed, low and disbelieving, like he couldn’t decide whether to be exasperated or completely undone by you.
“Careful,” he murmured against your mouth.
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep making it hard.”
Your smile faded slowly.
So did his.
The air between you changed again, thicker, quieter, charged in a way the ocean couldn’t wash out.
You were close enough now that every breath brushed his mouth. Water streamed from the hem of your dress. His shirt was wet beneath your hands. His eyes moved over your face, down to your lips, then back up again, and the want there made your knees feel unsteady in a way the ocean had nothing to do with.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
His forehead came to rest against yours.
“I know,” he breathed.
You closed your eyes, heart beating too loud. “I don’t want to stop.”
His hand flexed once at your back, not pushing, just holding.
“I need you to be sure.”
You opened your eyes and looked at him. Really looked.
At this man who had turned your ruined bachelorette trip into something that felt dangerously like a beginning. This man who asked, and asked, and asked again, not because he doubted you, but because he respected your answer too much to assume it.
You kissed him softly, then said against his mouth, “I’m sure.”
Bucky’s breath left him unevenly.
For a moment, he only held you there in the surf.
The water moved around both of you in cool, insistent pulses, but Bucky’s body was warm and solid against yours, his arms locked around your back like he was afraid the tide might steal you away. He was taking the words in, your quiet, trembling confession that you wanted this, that you wanted him, and memorizing them. You could feel it in the way his chest rose and fell against yours, in the slight tremor that ran through him.
Then he bent his head and kissed your shoulder through the damp strap of your dress in a slow press of lips that made your eyes flutter shut.
The kiss lingered, warm and salt-tinged, his beard rasping gently over wet skin and sending shivers racing straight down your spine.
He didn’t rush. His mouth traced the curve of your shoulder, then lower, following the line where fabric met flesh. One broad hand slipped beneath the strap, easing it down with a care that made your chest ache, baring one breast to the cool night air and the occasional spray of the tide.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look.
Moonlight caught on the droplets of water sliding over your skin, tracing the swell of your breast and the tight peak of your nipple. The raw hunger in his gaze stole what little breath you had left, but there was something else there too… wonder. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
“God,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re unreal.”
Then his mouth was on you, hot and insistent against cool skin. His tongue circled your nipple in slow, devastating strokes before he sucked it into his mouth with a low groan that vibrated straight through you.
His hand cupped and kneaded the other breast through the soaked fabric, thumb brushing back and forth over the nipple until you arched into him with a soft, broken cry. Your fingers threaded through his damp hair, holding him close as pleasure sparked sharp and bright through the chill of the water.
He lavished you with attention, switching sides, sucking and licking until your knees truly threatened to give out and the only thing keeping you upright was his arm locked around your waist.
The tide kept surging, waves lapping higher against your thighs, but the cold barely registered anymore. All you could feel was him: the solid heat of his body, the scrape of his beard, the low groans vibrating from his chest every time you gasped his name. Your hands roamed desperately over his wet shirt, tugging at the fabric, needing more of him.
As if he sensed it, Bucky lifted his head.
For a moment he simply looked at you.
Water glistened on your skin beneath the moonlight. Your dress clung to your body, soaked through from the surf. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, blue eyes dark with something that looked dangerously close to awe.
“God,” he murmured again, almost to himself.
Then he was kissing you.
Not gentle this time. Not tentative.
His mouth found yours with a hunger that had been building all night, all day, maybe from the moment he’d seen you standing on that restaurant terrace. You felt it in the way his hands tightened at your waist, in the rough exhale he swallowed from your lips, in the way he kissed you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real and needed the reassurance of touching you to make it true.
Your arms wrapped around his neck immediately, pulling him closer. The ocean swirled around your legs, the wind tugged at your hair, but everything else disappeared beneath the rush of him.
Bucky made a low sound against your mouth.
Then, suddenly, he straightened.
In one fluid motion he hoisted you up. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his hips as he lifted you clear of the deeper pull of the water, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs with firm, possessive strength. The movement pressed you flush against him, the hard line of his arousal evident even through his soaked jeans, and a fresh wave of heat flooded your core.
His mouth never left yours.
Not as he turned, carrying you back through the surf toward the dry sand. Not as another wave crashed against his legs and sent spray up around you both. Not as he walked with steady, determined steps, boots sinking into the wet packed sand before hitting the softer dry stretch.
The kiss stayed deep and devouring, tongues sliding, breaths shared, salt and heat and desperate want mingling between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, his dog tags pressed cool against your chest through his shirt, your soaked dress clinging to both of you like a second skin. Every step rocked your bodies together in the most delicious friction.
By the time he reached the blanket he’d laid out earlier, you were both breathing hard, lips swollen, bodies trembling with restraint that was rapidly fraying. He lowered you onto it with aching gentleness, never fully breaking the kiss until you were settled beneath him, the soft fabric warm against your back compared to the cool ocean air.
Bucky hovered over you, eyes searching your face even as his hands trembled slightly at your waist. “Still okay?” he rasped, the question threaded through with the same care that had defined every moment with him.
You cupped his face, his cheeks warm beneath your palms, and pulled him back down. “Yes. Don’t stop.”
He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air, deep and consuming. His hands worked the soaked dress up and off you completely, peeling the clinging fabric away until you lay bare beneath the moonlight and his gaze.
He drank in the sight of you, scarred hands tracing reverently over your curves, learning every dip and swell as if committing it to memory.
You reached for his shirt. He helped you tug it off, revealing the powerful lines of his chest and shoulders. His dog tags caught the silver light as they settled against his skin. Faint scars crossed his flesh, and you traced them with gentle fingers.
He shivered under your touch, leaning down to kiss a slow path down your body: collarbones, the valley between your breasts, ribs, the soft plane of your stomach.
When he settled between your thighs, broad shoulders holding you open, he looked up at you once more for permission.
At your nod, his mouth found your core.
The first broad stroke of his tongue, flat and slow from your entrance to your clit, drew a broken cry from your throat. He savored you like something precious, humming in pleasure at your taste, the vibration sending fresh waves of heat spiraling through you.
He explored every inch with devastating patience: circling your clit with the tip of his tongue, dipping lower to taste you deeper, then back up with firm, rhythmic strokes.
One thick finger slid inside you, curling just right against that sensitive spot, and you clenched around it with a gasp. He added a second, pumping them steadily while his mouth focused on your clit with steady, relentless attention.
The sensations overwhelmed you: the cool night air on your heated skin, the distant rush of waves, the warm, insistent pressure of his mouth and the stretch of his fingers. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, your thighs trembling around his shoulders.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips rolling against his face as you chased the edge. The sounds were obscene and intimate: the wet slide of his fingers, your breathless moans, the distant crash of waves. “Bucky—oh fuck—”
He didn’t stop. He redoubled his efforts, fingers thrusting deeper, tongue relentless. The orgasm crashed over you suddenly, white-hot and life-changing.
You shattered with a cry that the ocean swallowed whole, back arching, thighs clamping around him, inner walls pulsing rhythmically around his fingers. He worked you through it gently, slowing his tongue to soft, soothing strokes, kissing your inner thighs as the aftershocks rolled through you.
Only when you went limp did he kiss his way back up your body. Soft, soothing presses to your hip, your belly, the curve of your breast until he reached your mouth. You tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned into the kiss, hands roaming his back, pulling him closer. The hard length of him pressed against your thigh and you reached for the button of his jeans with eager fingers.
Together you worked them open, shoving the wet denim and his boxers down. He was beautiful in the moonlight, thick and heavy, flushed dark, the head glistening with arousal. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly from base to tip, and he hissed, hips jerking into your touch. “Careful,” he rasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Been thinking about you all day.”
You smiled against his neck, thumb brushing over the sensitive head. “I want you inside me. Now.”
He reached for his discarded jeans, pulling a condom from his wallet with steady hands. You watched, arousal spiking anew, as he rolled it on with careful fingers. Then he settled over you again, the blunt head of him nudging your slick entrance. One hand braced beside your head while the other cupped your cheek, thumb stroking tenderly, eyes locked on yours in the moonlight.
“Eyes on me,” he whispered.
You met his gaze, moonlight turning his blue eyes silver-dark. The intensity there made your breath catch, but it wasn’t just hunger… it was something softer, something that wrapped around your heart and held it gently. He nudged forward, the thick head of his cock parting you, and pushed in slowly, inch by careful inch.
The stretch was exquisite. Your body yielded to him with a delicious burn that melted into fullness, the thick heat of him sinking deeper until your walls fluttered around every ridge and vein. He moved with impeccable control, watching your face the entire time, pausing when your breath hitched so you could adjust. When he finally bottomed out, hips flush to yours, a low, broken sound escaped him.
“Fuck…” His forehead dropped to yours, breath warm and ragged against your lips. “You feel perfect. So warm. So tight around me. Like you were made for this.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, and rolled your hips experimentally. The movement dragged him against that sensitive spot inside you and pulled a soft moan from your throat. Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, jaw clenching.
“Move, Bucky,” you whispered. “Please—I need you.”
At that whispered plea, he began to thrust.
At first it was slow, deep rolls of his hips, pulling almost all the way out then sinking back in with a smooth, deliberate glide that made you feel every inch. The wet sound of your bodies joining mingled with the distant crash of waves and your shared, shaky breaths. His hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit and circling it in tight, perfect strokes that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.
You met him thrust for thrust, hips lifting to take him deeper. The dog tags around his neck swung gently with every movement, cool metal occasionally brushing the heated skin between your breasts. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the powerful shift of muscle beneath warm skin. Every time he sank into you, your inner walls clenched around him, and every time he groaned your name like it was the only word he knew.
Bucky’s control began to fray.
He shifted the angle slightly, rolling his hips so the head of his cock dragged against that perfect spot with every thrust. His thumb pressed a little firmer against your clit, circling faster. “That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, voice rough and low. “Let me feel you. God, you’re so beautiful like this, taking me so well.”
Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly. Your thighs trembled around his hips. Your nails dug lightly into his shoulders, and you couldn’t stop the soft, desperate sounds spilling from your lips. He kissed you through them, deep, open-mouthed kisses that swallowed your moans and gave you his in return.
The world narrowed to the slide of him inside you, the press of his body over yours, the cool metal of his arm against your temple when you turned your head, the warm weight of his other hand between your legs, and the endless, rhythmic crash of the ocean behind you.
You felt it building, bigger and deeper than before. Your walls started to flutter around him in warning.
Bucky felt it too. His rhythm grew a little harder, a little faster, hips snapping with more urgency even as he kept his thumb moving in those tight, perfect circles. “Come for me,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours again so you couldn’t look away. “Let me feel you come, want to feel this pretty pussy squeezing me. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
The words, the eye contact, the way he filled you so completely… it all crashed over you at once.
You came with a broken cry of his name, back arching hard off the blanket as ecstasy tore through you in long, pulsing waves. Your inner walls clamped down around him rhythmically, fluttering and squeezing as pleasure rolled through your entire body. Your thighs shook around his hips. Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, at his arms, at anything you could reach. For a few endless seconds the only thing that existed was him: inside you, around you, holding you through it.
Bucky followed you seconds later.
A guttural groan tore from his chest as your orgasm triggered his. He buried himself as deep as he could go, hips stuttering, the thick length of him pulsing inside the condom as he spilled. His whole body trembled above you.
His arm locked, holding his weight off you even as the other clutched your hip like he never wanted to let go. He kept moving through it with small, shallow thrusts that prolonged both your pleasure, until the last aftershocks faded and he finally stilled, still buried inside you.
For a long moment neither of you moved.
You stayed joined, breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other. His forehead rested against yours. The cool night air kissed the sweat on your skin, but Bucky’s body heat kept you warm. Sand clung to your hair, to the damp places where your bodies met, to the inside of your thighs, small, gritty reminders that this was real.
Slowly, carefully, he eased out of you. You made a soft, reluctant sound at the loss, and he kissed it away before reaching for the condom. He disposed of it quickly and efficiently, then pulled you straight back into his arms, settling on his side so he could tuck you against his chest.
He dragged his discarded shirt over both of you like a blanket, the fabric still faintly damp but carrying his scent. One arm curled securely around your back, hand stroking slow, soothing patterns along your spine, fingertips occasionally brushing through your hair to dislodge bits of sand.
You tucked your face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in. Your leg slid over his hip, keeping as much of you pressed to him as possible. The aftershocks still rippled through you in gentle waves, and every time your body gave a little tremor, Bucky’s arms tightened around you.
For a long time, neither of you spoke.
You listened to his heartbeat beneath your ear.
Steady.
Real.
Morning waited somewhere beyond the horizon, unavoidable and cruel. In a few hours, the sky would lighten. The world would return. There would be bags to pack, friends to meet, transportation to catch, goodbye pressing sharp and necessary at the edges of everything.
You tried not to think about it.
Bucky’s hand stilled against your shoulder.
“I don’t want to leave,” he said.
Your eyes closed.
There it was, the thing both of you had been walking around all day.
“I know.”
His chest rose beneath your cheek with a slow breath.
“I keep telling myself to be reasonable,” he said. “That this is fast. That we met two nights ago. That you’re still dealing with everything he did, and I shouldn’t make it harder by acting like this is simple.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at him.
His face was turned toward the stars, jaw tight, eyes bright in the moonlight.
“But?” you whispered.
His gaze found yours.
“But nothing about this feels simple,” he said. “And I don’t want to insult it by pretending it does.”
Your throat tightened.
Bucky shifted slightly, rolling toward you so he could see you fully. His hand came up to touch the bracelet at your wrist, thumb brushing over the tiny blue beads.
“I meant what I said,” he continued. “I don’t want to be a distraction.”
“You’re not.”
The answer came quickly. Clearly.
His eyes searched yours.
You swallowed hard. “You’re not.”
Something in his expression broke open, quiet and vulnerable.
“I don’t know what happens after tomorrow,” you admitted. “I don’t know how to be… whatever this is, with everything still messy. I don’t know how to not be scared.”
“You don’t have to not be scared.”
A sad little smile touched your mouth. “That easy?”
“No.” His thumb moved over your wrist. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”
The words settled into you with almost painful tenderness.
You looked at him, at the man who had appeared in the wreckage of a trip that was supposed to hurt and somehow made it feel like the beginning of something instead. The man who had met your broken edges with patience instead of pressure. The man leaving in the morning, looking at you like distance was already an enemy he intended to fight.
“You barely know me,” you whispered.
Bucky’s gaze did not waver.
“I know enough to want to know the rest.”
Your breath caught. He lifted your hand, pressing his mouth softly to the inside of your wrist, right beside the bracelet.
The kiss was gentle. Devastating.
“I’ll call,” he said. “I’ll text. I’ll come see you, if you want me to. You can take all the time you need. You can tell me to slow down. You can tell me when it’s too much.” His voice roughened. “But I’m not walking away from this just because morning came too soon.”
Your eyes stung.
“Bucky.”
He moved closer, forehead resting lightly against yours.
“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he whispered.
The words broke something open in you.
Not the old wound. Not the grief. Something beneath it. Something tender and terrified and alive.
You kissed him because you did not know what else to do with the feeling.
Soft and slow this time. Like a promise neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt anyway.
Above you, the stars burned quietly.
Beside you, the ocean kept moving.
And for the first time since everything fell apart, tomorrow did not feel like an ending.
pairing ۶ৎ lighthouse keeper!bucky barnes x ghost!reader.
prompt ۶ৎ right place wrong time / dr john — june 4th entry for june jukebox scribbles, hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles !
summary ۶ৎ in which, two ghost stories overlap and become a salt-air, liberating haunting.
a/n ۶ৎ i was rewatching ‘the light between oceans’ when this idea swam to the surface of my mind, and i’m hoping one day i’ll explore more of this!!
word count ۶ৎ 299 | divider creds ۶ৎ @/angeliicide
Ocean waves briskly sweep across each other, celebrating the vastness of the heavens parting and gifting the water a glimpse of sunlight.
The lighthouse skims the wisps of heaven’s entrance—a place Bucky is forbidden from entering. Yet, being far away from the ground that’s tried burying him on numerous occasions is serenity itself.
His company consists of a salt aroma warding off past gunpowder residue, seagulls discovering refuge after soaring past the window he longingly gazes out of, and a reminiscent tale citizens on the mainland whispered about when the waves clamoured loudly.
You’re supposably a myth birthed from Poseidon’s wrath, summoned to ensure collisions of tidal waves wreak havoc against soul-filled boats.
They warned him of you, but they must have used the wrong line, for your presence settles the rampant ache in his chest.
You’re an eidolic, mimicking his once hollow self. You drift where the world allows you, and as his dog tags, lying lazily on the desk, jingle peacefully against the faint, whirring rhythm of the lighthouse’s ticker, your otherworldly nature gracefully appears.
“You can keep them, if you’d like,” The corner of Bucky’s lips curl upwards as he watches your fingers delicately brush against the metal, “Saves you creepin’ up on me.”
“You’re used to me creeping up on you.”
“I am,” he muses, “But a calling would be nice. It’d at least let me fix myself up first.”
A ghostly smile flickers on your mouth. His charming spirit is unbreakable. Not even the ocean could drown it, no matter how many times he’s been knocked down.
Your souls may be barricaded from heaven, but not from this lighthouse. Here, when storms arise and the beacon shines, creatures both above and below the surface yearn for the contentment shared between a lighthouse keeper and a ghost.
Summary: What was supposed to be your bachelorette trip becomes a girls getaway after your fiancé’s betrayal leaves you single, heartbroken, and unsure how to move forward. But when the trip is non-refundable and your friends refuse to let him ruin one more thing, you find yourself along the coast, trying to laugh through the ache. Then you meet Bucky Barnes: quiet, careful, unfairly handsome, and somehow exactly where you need him to be.
Warnings/Tags: Cheating Ex-Fiancé, Cancelled Wedding, Heartbreak, Post-Breakup Grief, Self-Doubt After Betrayal, Alcohol/Hangover References, Anxiety Around New Romance, Protective Friends (Original Characters), Flirting, Romantic Tension, Bucky Barnes Being Dangerously Respectful
Word count: 10.9k
Music:
I Can Do It With A Broken Heart - Taylor Swift
Feather - Sabrina Carpenter
Ocean Eyes - Billie Eilish
Begin Again - Taylor Swift
Kiss Me - Sixpence None The Richer
Delicate - Taylor Swift
Notes: hi hello!! This is going to be part one of a three part series!! Find part two here! I will link each part together once they’re all posted, I’ve been working on this for a while after being inspired by a TikTok a few months ago and well… I’ve really flushed it out for sure 😅 I hope you all love this as much as I do!
The hotel suite was beautiful in the kind of way that felt almost offensive.
All white linen and gauzy curtains that shifted with the ocean breeze, polished tile cool under bare feet, a wide balcony overlooking water so blue it barely looked real. There was a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket on the counter that none of them had opened. Matching gift bags still sat in a neat row by the door where they’d dropped them on the first day, each one stuffed with things that had been chosen months ago, back when this trip had meant something else. Back when the cheap satin sashes and heart-shaped sunglasses and ridiculous little ring-shaped drink stirrers had been funny instead of cruel.
Someone (Mia, probably) had turned the sash around so the glittering BRIDE TO BE faced the wall.
You stood in front of the bathroom mirror with one earring in, one hand braced against the counter, staring at your reflection like she belonged to somebody else.
There was nothing objectively wrong with the girl in the mirror. Your makeup was soft and glowy, your hair falling in careful waves over one shoulder, your dress the color of sea glass and cut just enough to make all your friends whistle when you’d stepped out earlier. You looked exactly like the kind of woman who should’ve been on a bachelorette trip in a beach town with four of her closest friends, buzzing with excitement, cheeks warm from laughing too much, texting her fiancé blurry selfies with the caption miss you already.
Instead, you looked like a woman who had learned, six weeks ago, that the man she’d nearly married had been sleeping with someone from his office for almost five months.
You still remembered the way the apartment had smelled that day. Coffee gone cold. Laundry detergent. The sharp citrus of the dish soap because you’d been standing at the sink when the messages lit up his iPad one after another, stupidly ordinary in their cruelty. You still remembered how your body had gone cold first and then violently hot, like your skin didn’t know how to hold what had just happened. You remembered him trying to explain. Trying to cry. Trying to touch your arm.
You remembered saying, very quietly, “Don’t.”
That had been the end of it.
No dramatic reconciliation. No begging worth hearing. No grand speech that fixed the unforgivable fact of it. Just the sick collapse of a life you’d already started arranging furniture in.
The venue had been canceled. The dress returned. Some deposits lost, some salvaged, some too humiliating to deal with until later. The bachelorette trip, however, had been stubbornly, stupidly non-refundable.
So your friends had done what best friends do when your life explodes in your hands. They had shown up with snacks and wine and righteous fury. They had boxed up his things while cursing creatively. They had taken your phone when you were at your weakest and blocked his number for you. And when you’d tried to tell them you didn’t want to go on the trip anymore, that it would be embarrassing, pathetic, that the whole thing would feel like one big neon sign flashing she got cheated on, they’d looked at you like you’d lost your mind.
“He ruined a relationship,” Mia had said flatly, stuffing sandals into a suitcase for you because you’d been too numb to pack. “He does not also get to ruin a beachfront villa.”
So here you were.
A former bride on what had become, through sheer force of friendship and denial, a girls’ trip in denial.
There was a knock on the bathroom door before it pushed open an inch. “You decent?”
“Depends on who’s asking.”
Lena slipped through the gap, already dressed in a red wrap dress that made her look like trouble in the best possible way. She took one look at your face in the mirror and softened. “Hey.”
“I’m fine,” you said automatically.
“Liar.”
You laughed, but it came out thin. Lena stepped behind you and rested her chin lightly on your shoulder, both of you looking at your reflections.
“You don’t have to go out tonight,” she said. “We can stay in. Order room service. Watch terrible reality TV. I’ll even let Jess pick the movie and you know what a sacrifice that is.”
From the other room, right on cue, Jess yelled, “I heard that, and for the record, my taste is immaculate.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Lena squeezed your shoulder. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” You swallowed. “I just… I don’t want this trip to become some sad little memorial service to my canceled wedding.”
“It won’t.”
“It already kind of is.”
“It was,” she corrected gently. “The first night was. Yesterday was weird because we all kept almost saying things and then not saying them. But tonight?” She lifted one brow in the mirror. “Tonight, we get drunk, dance badly, and remind you that your life didn’t end because one mediocre man had the self-control of wet cardboard.”
You barked out a real laugh at that.
“There she is,” Lena said softly.
You looked down, blinking hard. “I hate that I’m still this upset.”
“Of course you’re still upset.”
“It’s been weeks.”
“And?”
“And I should be…” You gestured helplessly at yourself, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. “Better.”
Lena’s voice went very quiet. “You were going to marry him.”
That landed in the room with all the weight you’d been trying not to feel.
Not just date him. Not just love him. Marry him. Build a life with him. Wake up next to him for years and years and years, and trust that the future you were stepping into was solid beneath your feet. He hadn’t just cheated on you. He’d made you question your own memory, your own judgment, your own ability to know when you were loved honestly and when you were being made a fool.
Lena turned you gently on the stool until you were facing her. “You do not have to be over it on anyone’s schedule,” she said. “Especially not yours.”
Your throat tightened. “I really, really hate crying with mascara on.”
“So don’t cry.” Her mouth curved. “Come let me put obnoxious lip gloss on you and tell you how hot you are.”
From the bedroom, Mia called, “We are going to miss the dinner reservation if you two keep having a feelings summit in there.”
“And I’m starving,” Tori added.
“Tragic,” Jess deadpanned. “Thoughts and prayers.”
Lena held out a hand. “C’mon.”
You stared at it for a second, then took it.
The restaurant was loud in the pleasantly expensive way only vacation places seemed to perfect.
Warm lights strung across the open-air terrace cast everyone in gold. Music drifted from somewhere near the bar, something upbeat and rhythmic that mixed with the crash of distant waves and the low murmur of a hundred overlapping conversations. The air smelled like salt, grilled meats and citrus, sunscreen, and the faintest hint of tequila.
Your table overlooked the marina, all bobbing lights on black water. Your friends had done what they did best: formed a protective wall of normal around you without making it obvious. Nobody mentioned him. Nobody made pitying faces. They just ordered too many appetizers, argued over cocktails, stole bites off one another’s plates, and dragged you into conversation until the tension in your shoulders slowly, almost reluctantly, began to loosen.
By the second drink, you were laughing more easily.
By the third, Mia had somehow gotten the whole table ranking celebrity breakups by messiness.
“Absolutely not,” Jess said, pointing with a french fry. “Public cheating scandals are bad, yes, but nothing tops a man leaving his wife for a woman he met while making a movie where they play soulmates. That is psychotic.”
“That is unfortunately a classic,” Tori agreed.
Lena tilted her head at you. “Your thoughts, wounded party?”
You swirled your drink, pretending to consider it deeply. “I think men should have to apply for licenses before speaking to women.”
“Renewed annually,” Mia said.
“With references,” Jess added.
“And an essay portion,” Tori said.
You grinned. “Minimum one thousand words.”
The table erupted, and for one soft, golden moment, it almost felt easy. Not fixed. Not fully healed. But easy enough to breathe inside.
Then a group at the bar started cheering over some birthday shot ritual, and the sound hit you wrong—too close to celebration, too adjacent to the thing this trip was originally supposed to be—and the air seemed to thin.
It was sudden, stupid, and so incredibly unfair.
You set your glass down too carefully.
Lena noticed first because of course she did. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said, already halfway out of your chair. “I just need a second.”
Nobody tried to stop you. Another kindness. Mia only squeezed your wrist as you passed, and Jess said, “Text if you need me to come glare at strangers.”
You slipped away before they could see your face fully give you away.
The terrace opened into a quieter walkway that curved along the side of the restaurant toward the beach access path. The noise softened there, blunted by wind and distance. A line of palms swayed overhead, their fronds whispering against the night. Somewhere below, the tide moved in and out with steady, indifferent patience.
You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept walking until the music and voices behind you were little more than a blur.
This was the part no one told you about heartbreak, how it could ambush you in the middle of a good moment. That you could be laughing one second and then wrecked the next because someone popped champagne two tables over or because a song came on or because your brain remembered, without your permission, what was supposed to be happening instead.
You pressed the heel of your hand briefly to your sternum like it might steady the ache there.
“Not your night either, huh?”
The voice was low and rough-edged, threaded with something almost like humor. Not invasive. Just there.
You turned.
He was leaning against the white stucco wall a few yards away, one boot braced behind him, a beer bottle loose in one hand.
Your first ridiculous and entirely involuntary thought was that he looked unfair.
Not just handsome. Plenty of men were handsome. This was something more disruptive than that. Tall in a way that made the space around him seem smaller, broad-shouldered, dressed simply in dark jeans and a black henley with the sleeves shoved to his forearms. There was silver at one wrist from a watch, dark hair pushed back carelessly, a beard that softened the hard lines of his jaw only enough to make you wonder what he looked like clean-shaven and then immediately resent yourself for wondering that at all.
But it was his face that kept you there a second too long.
Something in his expression was watchful, steady. Not the eager opportunism of a man who’d spotted a woman alone and decided to try his luck. He looked like someone who knew what it was to need air.
His gaze flicked once to your face, then away again with deliberate politeness. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “I was just…”
“Escaping?”
A faint laugh caught in your throat. “That obvious?”
He took a small sip from the bottle. “You’ve got the same look I do.”
“And what look is that?”
“Like if one more person asks if you’re having fun, you might throw yourself into the ocean.”
You stared at him.
Then, to your own surprise, you laughed. Really laughed. Sudden and bright and helpless enough that you had to press your lips together after. The man’s mouth tipped at one corner, not smug, just pleased to have earned it.
“Okay,” you said. “That was kind of funny.”
“Kind of?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
His eyes, startlingly blue even in the low light, settled on you again. “Too late.”
There it was. Chemistry. Not a spark. Not a flicker. A live wire.
You felt it in the curious little pause after your laughter faded. In the way the air between you changed shape. In the way he seemed perfectly still and yet somehow entirely attentive.
He straightened off the wall and held out his free hand, not too close, not presumptuous. “Bucky.”
You blinked at the name, then smiled despite yourself. “Bucky?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“No, I like it.” You slid your hand into his. “It just surprised me.”
His hand was warm and much larger than yours, his grip gentle in a way that made your pulse misbehave. He repeated your name quietly after you gave it to him, like he was testing the shape of it.
It should not have affected you as much as it did.
“So,” Bucky said, easing back half a step but not too far, “what are you escaping from?”
You should have lied.
You almost did. Almost said a loud table or too many margaritas or my friends are insane. Something light. Easy. The kind of answer that kept things shallow and safe.
Instead, maybe because he was a stranger and therefore safer than anyone else in the world for the span of a few minutes, you said, “This was supposed to be my bachelorette trip.”
His expression changed instantly.
Not dramatically. Not with that terrible exaggerated pity people wore when they thought they were being compassionate. It was subtler than that. A stilling. A sharpened attention.
“Supposed to be?” he asked carefully.
“I caught my fiancé cheating.” You looked out toward the dark line of the water. “The trip was non-refundable.”
For one beat, he said nothing.
Then: “He’s an idiot.”
The answer was so immediate, so certain, that your head turned back to him.
“You don’t even know him.”
“Don’t need to.”
That should not have made heat rise behind your ribs. It absolutely did.
You huffed a quiet laugh and looked down at the tile. “My friends agree with you.”
“Smart women.”
“They are.”
He tipped the beer bottle lightly toward the restaurant. “They the ones keeping an eye on you from inside?”
You glanced back through the open terrace and immediately spotted them. Four women pretending very badly not to watch from across the restaurant. The second Lena realized she’d been caught, she gave a tiny, unapologetic wave.
A smile tugged at your mouth. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Something about the way he said it made you look at him again. “Good?”
“Yeah.” His shoulders lifted in one small shrug. “You got your heart broken. Means anybody with sense oughta be cautious with you for a while.”
There was no flirtatious edge to it. No but I’m different tucked inside. Just simple, grounded truth.
That, more than anything, disarmed you.
“You always this honest?” you asked.
“Only when I’m trying to make a good impression.”
“That your plan?”
“Wasn’t, originally.”
“And now?”
His gaze met yours full on, and there was something devastatingly direct in it. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’d like to keep you talking.”
Your breath caught. Just a little. Enough to annoy you.
You folded your arms loosely. “That a line?”
“Not a very polished one.”
“No.”
“I can do worse, if it helps.”
You laughed again, and this time he smiled properly.
Lord. It changed him completely.
The seriousness in his face didn’t disappear, exactly, but it warmed, the corners of his eyes creasing, the whole effect unexpectedly boyish for someone built like he could carry furniture by himself. It made him look less like a man leaning in the shadows and more like someone you could picture grinning across a kitchen table at midnight.
Dangerous thought.
You cleared your throat. “So what are you doing out here, Bucky?”
He looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Friend’s birthday dinner. Too many people, not enough exits.”
“Ah. Fellow escape artist.”
“Seems that way.”
“Your friends keeping tabs on you too?”
He angled his head toward a table farther inside, and you followed the motion.
Three people were watching him with absolutely no shame.
The first was a broad-shouldered blond man who looked like he’d been carved out of old-fashioned decency and stubbornness, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, his expression calm except for the faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. Beside him sat a man with an easy grin and warm, assessing eyes, leaning back like he was enjoying a show he fully intended to heckle later. He caught your eye and lifted his glass in a quick, charming salute that made Bucky mutter something under his breath.
And next to them was a woman with red hair and a smile sharp enough to cut glass, watching the entire exchange with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had already figured out the ending and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.
“Yep,” Bucky said dryly. “Like a zoo exhibit.”
“You say that like you’re not talking to a woman currently being monitored by a four-person committee.”
“Fair point.”
The night wind lifted a strand of hair across your cheek. Without thinking, you tucked it back, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders, the dip of your dress, the fact that you’d come out here to have a small private breakdown and instead found yourself flirting with a stranger who looked like he’d stepped out of some absurdly specific fantasy.
You should probably go back inside.
That was the sensible thing. The smart thing. The emotionally mature thing, even.
Instead you heard yourself say, “So what happens now?”
Bucky’s brows drew together faintly. “Now?”
“You’ve made me laugh during my dramatic escape moment. That’s a high-risk move. What’s your follow-up strategy?”
His mouth twitched. “Well. Could offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve already got one.”
“Very observant.”
“Could ask you to dance.”
You blinked.
Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, the live music had shifted. Slower now. Not fully slow, but smoother. The kind of song people swayed to more than danced.
Bucky watched your face carefully, like he was making sure not to crowd you.
“Or,” he added, “I could just stand out here with you a while. Whichever you’d rather.”
There it was again. That carefulness. That unexpected, almost old-fashioned gentleness. Not pushy. Not performative. As though your comfort mattered to him on instinct.
It had been a long time since anyone’s instinct had felt like care.
You looked at him for a long second.
Then you said, “You know what? Ask me properly.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something warmer. He set the beer bottle down on the ledge beside him, took one step closer, and held out his hand.
“Would you let me have this dance?”
Oh.
That was unfair too.
You stared at his hand, then at his face, then at the hand again. Somewhere behind you, your friends were absolutely losing their minds in silent, collective suspicion. You could feel it from here.
And maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was too soon and too strange and too much for a woman still nursing a cracked-open heart.
But maybe, too, life did not wait for perfect timing to offer you something tender.
You put your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours with quiet certainty.
He led you back toward the edge of the terrace where there was just enough room between tables for dancing if people were willing to be a little shameless about it. You were very aware, suddenly, of everything. The warmth of his palm, the nearness of his body as he turned to face you, the curious glances from strangers, the way your friends had all gone rigid at your table as though witnessing a wildlife event they didn’t dare interrupt.
Bucky’s hand settled at your waist with measured care, like he was asking permission even after you’d already given it. Your free hand came to rest against his shoulder, and the solid heat of him beneath the thin fabric of his shirt nearly short-circuited your brain.
“Still okay?” he asked quietly.
You looked up.
He was serious again, gaze fixed on yours, all the humor gentled into something steadier.
The question wasn’t about dancing. Or not only about dancing.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Still okay.”
He nodded once, satisfied, and drew you a fraction closer.
The music wrapped around you soft and low. Beyond him, lights blurred against the marina, gold melting into black water. A breeze moved through the terrace, carrying salt and jasmine and the faint clink of glasses. His hand at your waist was warm, anchoring without pressing. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his body was in space and was making damn sure it never overwhelmed yours.
You hadn’t expected that either.
“You’re good at this,” you murmured.
“Dancing?”
“Making a woman feel like she’s the only person in the room.”
Something in his expression shifted. Deepened.
“Maybe,” he said, “that’s because right now you are.”
Your pulse stumbled so hard it was almost embarrassing.
“Bucky.”
“Too much?”
You should’ve said yes.
Instead you smiled helplessly and shook your head.
His thumb moved once against your side. Barely there. Enough to send a tiny shiver through you anyway.
At your table, Lena looked one second away from marching over with a clipboard and a background check.
You caught sight of her over Bucky’s shoulder and snorted.
“What?”
“My friends are conducting a silent tribunal.”
He glanced discreetly, then huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I see that.”
“They mean well.”
“I know.”
“They’ll probably interrogate me later.”
“That so?”
“Oh, absolutely. They’ll want to know your full name, your social security number, whether you’ve ever hurt a woman’s feelings, your stance on emotional availability—”
“Got good answers for most of that.”
“Most?”
He looked down at you, mouth curving. “Might fail the social security one.”
You rolled your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself.
The song shifted again, your bodies swaying almost lazily now, and there was suddenly very little space between your laughter and silence. Not awkward silence. The charged kind. The kind that gathers. That asks.
You became aware, with startling clarity, of the roughness of his hand at your waist. The clean smell of soap and cedar and maybe something darker underneath. The exact shade of blue in his eyes. The fact that if either of you leaned in even an inch, everything about this moment would change.
Your breath slowed.
His did too.
He looked at your mouth once. Quick enough that you could have pretended not to notice.
Instead, because apparently heartbreak had destroyed your self-preservation along with everything else, you said softly, “You’re very intense.”
Bucky exhaled a quiet laugh. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t say I hated it.”
That landed.
He went very still, his eyes on yours.
From somewhere far away, you could hear your friends collectively combusting.
But Bucky didn’t move closer. Didn’t presume. He just watched you with that impossible, careful attention, as though he understood exactly how fragile first steps could be when somebody else had already broken the ground beneath you once.
It made your chest ache in a whole new way.
“You know,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear, “I was gonna be a gentleman.”
“Were you?”
“Tryin’ to be.”
“And now?”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and back. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’m in trouble.”
For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the ache in your chest loosened around something other than grief.
Something bright. Warm. A little terrifying.
Hope, maybe.
Or at least the beginning of wanting something again.
You tilted your head. “That sounds like a you problem.”
His smile was slow and devastating. “Could be.”
The song ended. Neither of you stepped back right away.
Applause rose around the terrace. Glasses clinked. The spell should have broken.
It didn’t.
“You should probably get back to your friends,” Bucky said at last, though it sounded like the suggestion cost him something.
“I probably should.”
He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was for one beat longer, two, before he let go.
The loss of warmth was immediate and ridiculous.
You took half a step back, tucking hair behind your ear mostly so you had something to do with your hands. “This was…”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It was.”
You searched his face. “Are you going to ask for my number?”
One dark brow lifted. “Would that be okay?”
The fact that he still asked nearly undid you.
You smiled. “Yes.”
By the time you made it back to your table, your friends looked like a panel of judges moments away from delivering a verdict.
Jess leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “Well?”
Mia shoved a glass of water into your hand. “Before anything else, hydrate.”
Tori was openly staring over your shoulder toward the bar. “He’s hot.”
“Thank you, Tori,” Lena said, not taking her eyes off you. “Can we focus?”
You sat down slowly, aware that your face felt warm. Warm enough that all four women immediately noticed.
Mia gasped. “Oh my God.”
“What?” you demanded, already defensive.
“You like him.”
“Shut up.”
“You do,” Jess said, sounding delighted and skeptical all at once.
“It was one dance.”
“One very charged dance,” Tori said.
Lena leaned forward, expression gentler than the others. “Are you okay?”
The question quieted everything.
You looked down at the condensation sliding down your water glass. At the tacky ring-shaped stirrer someone had stuck in your untouched second cocktail. At your own hand, where his warmth felt like it had somehow lingered.
And then you looked back up at your friends.
For the first time since the world had tilted sideways, the answer didn’t feel complicated.
“Actually,” you said softly, a little stunned by it yourself, “I think I am.”
The first thing you became aware of was the light.
Not soft morning light. Not gentle, poetic, new day, new beginnings light.
Aggressive light.
Bright, merciless, tropical sunlight poured through the thin gap in the curtains like it had personally been sent to punish you for every tequila-based decision you’d made the night before. It sliced across the hotel room in one golden blade and landed directly over your closed eyelids, dragging you reluctantly back into consciousness one miserable degree at a time.
You made a sound that was not quite human and rolled onto your stomach.
Something crinkled beneath your cheek.
You opened one eye.
A silver sash lay half-under your face, the sequins catching the light in tiny, hateful flashes.
Not the BRIDE TO BE sash. Thank God. That one had been shoved into the back of Lena’s suitcase after the first night with a solemnity usually reserved for disposing of cursed objects.
This one said HOT GIRL DETOUR in glittery pink letters.
You stared at it for a long second, trying to piece together when exactly it had entered your life.
Then the memories began filtering in.
Dinner. The terrace. The music. The boy at the wall with the blue eyes and the unfair smile.
Bucky.
Your heart did a small, humiliating thing.
Then came the rest of it. The dance. His hand at your waist. Your friends staring like government officials observing an unidentified flying object. The way he’d asked for your number like he genuinely cared whether you wanted to give it. The brief, warm press of his fingers around yours before he’d let go.
Your hand moved before your brain fully caught up, patting blindly over the bedspread until you found your phone wedged dangerously close to the edge of the mattress.
You squinted at the screen.
9:47 a.m.
Three notifications from your group chat.
One missed photo drop from Mia.
One reminder from the airline app you had no emotional capacity to deal with.
No text from Bucky.
Your stomach sank in a way you immediately hated.
It was stupid. Completely, embarrassingly stupid. You had met the man less than twelve hours ago. He did not owe you a good morning text. He did not owe you anything. A dance, a conversation, a charming little moment on vacation… it could remain exactly that. A moment. Not every nice thing had to become something. Not every man who looked at you like he wanted to keep you talking was secretly the first chapter of a love story.
Still.
Your thumb unlocked the phone anyway, as if perhaps the text might be hiding somewhere beneath the wallpaper.
Nothing.
You dropped the phone onto the mattress and turned your face into the pillow with a groan.
From the other bed, Jess rasped, “If you’re dying, do it quietly.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at her.
Jess lay on her back in the exact position she must have fallen asleep in, one arm flung over her face, mascara faintly smudged beneath one eye, still wearing one earring and none of her dignity. Her hair had become something of a structural event overnight. Beside her on the nightstand sat three empty water bottles, a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips, and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses with one lens missing.
“You look incredible,” you croaked.
“Don’t flirt with me,” she muttered. “I’m vulnerable.”
Across the room, a mound of blankets shifted on the small pullout sofa. Tori emerged from it slowly, blinking like a newly unearthed creature seeing daylight for the first time.
“Why is the sun yelling?” she whispered.
“Because you ordered a round of shots called ‘The Bad Decision’ at midnight,” Jess said without moving.
Tori frowned, then seemed to consider this. “That does sound like me.”
The bathroom door opened, and Lena stepped out already wearing sunglasses indoors, an oversized T-shirt, and the expression of a woman held together by sheer moral superiority and electrolyte packets.
“Alive?” she asked.
“No,” Jess said.
“Emotionally?” Lena asked, looking specifically at you.
You groaned and flopped onto your back. “Why are you all like this?”
“Because last night you danced with six feet of emotionally available jawline,” Tori said, pointing weakly from the pullout. “And now we require updates.”
“There are no updates.”
That got Jess to remove her arm from her face.
Lena stopped halfway to the mini-fridge.
Tori sat upright too quickly, winced, and clutched her head. “Ow. Also—what?”
You held up your phone with a miserable little shake. “No text.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Jess said, “I knew it. Men are disappointing in every climate.”
Lena shot her a look. “Jess.”
“What? I’m not saying we send him hate mail yet. I’m just saying I had one eyebrow raised from the beginning and she knows it.”
You pulled a pillow over your face. “Can everyone please stop acting like he promised me a dowry and then disappeared at sea?”
“No,” Tori said immediately. “Because he had vibes.”
“He did have vibes,” Lena admitted, though reluctantly.
“Very intense, careful, ‘I chop firewood but also ask about your feelings’ vibes,” Tori continued.
“That’s a suspicious combination,” Jess said.
You peeked out from beneath the pillow. “How is that suspicious?”
“Because men should not be allowed to be both hot and emotionally attentive. It’s how they get past security.”
Lena pointed at Jess. “That is, unfortunately, not entirely wrong.”
You sat up slowly, wincing when your head objected to the movement. “He could just be busy. Or asleep. Or also hungover.”
“Or gathering references for the essay portion of his license to speak to women,” Tori said.
Despite yourself, you smiled.
Then your smile faded as your eyes drifted back to your phone.
You hated that you cared.
That was the worst part. Not the lack of text. Not the uncertainty. Not even the tiny, uninvited sting of disappointment.
It was caring at all.
After everything with your ex, you’d promised yourself that you were done handing pieces of yourself over too quickly. Done making excuses. Done mistaking sparks for safety. Done letting a man’s attention feel like proof of your worth.
And then Bucky had smiled at you once under terrace lights, and here you were the next morning, hungover and freshly pathetic, staring at your phone like a teenager.
Lena’s expression softened when she saw your face.
“Hey,” she said, quieter now.
You shook your head before she could continue. “I know. I know it’s dumb.”
“It’s not dumb.”
“It is,” you insisted, throat tightening with irritation at yourself more than sadness. “I met him last night. I had one dance with him. I’m not—” You stopped, pressing your lips together. “I’m not spiraling over some guy not texting me by breakfast.”
Jess was quiet for once.
Tori looked down at the blanket in her lap.
Lena crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you too much. “You’re not spiraling over him,” she said gently. “You’re bracing.”
That hit too close.
You looked away.
Lena lowered her voice. “There’s a difference.”
The room softened around that. The obnoxious sunlight, the scattered shoes, the sequins, the water bottles, the stale scent of perfume and salt air and last night’s cocktails… it all seemed to go still for a second.
“I just don’t want to feel stupid again,” you said.
It came out small enough that you wished you could grab the words and shove them back into your mouth.
Jess sat up slowly, suddenly much less sarcastic. “You were never stupid.”
You gave her a look.
“No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. He was a cheating little sewer rat who made choices behind your back. You trusting the person you were going to marry does not make you stupid.”
“I missed so much.”
“You didn’t miss anything,” Lena said. “He hid things.”
Tori nodded, eyes earnest despite the disaster of her hair. “And now your nervous system is doing that cute little thing where it thinks every silence means danger.”
“That is unfortunately very accurate,” you muttered.
“Which is why,” Jess said, reaching for a water bottle and pointing it at you like a gavel, “we are maintaining cautious optimism at best.”
“Supportively suspicious,” Tori added.
“Exactly.”
You laughed weakly. “Supportively suspicious.”
“That’s our official stance,” Lena said. “We liked him. We are willing to admit he seemed sweet. We are also prepared to ruin his life if necessary.”
“Balance,” Jess said.
“Healthy,” Tori agreed.
A knock sounded at the connecting door from the room Mia had taken with Tori originally, though clearly room assignments had become more of a suggestion than a rule after midnight.
“Is everyone decent?” Mia called.
“No,” Jess yelled.
The door opened anyway.
Mia entered wearing linen pants, a bikini top, and sunglasses pushed into her hair, looking far too fresh for someone who had absolutely been the reason the group had ended up singing along to early 2000s breakup songs in a bar called The Tipsy Pelican at one in the morning.
She carried an iced coffee tray like an offering from the gods.
“I come bearing caffeine and judgment,” she announced.
Tori made a reverent sound and crawled toward her.
Mia handed out drinks, then took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes. “He hasn’t texted.”
“How did you know?”
“Because you look like you’re trying to be chill about not being chill.”
Jess snapped her fingers. “Exactly.”
You accepted your iced coffee with a glare. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Mia said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of your bed. “You hate uncertainty. Which is reasonable, because uncertainty recently kicked in your front door and stole your wedding registry.”
You took a long sip. “That metaphor got away from you.”
“It did, but I stand by the emotional truth.”
Lena reached over and squeezed your ankle through the blanket. “We’re doing brunch at eleven-thirty. You have time to shower, hydrate, and stop checking your phone every eighteen seconds.”
“I am not checking it every eighteen seconds.”
Your phone lit up.
All five heads turned toward it.
You froze.
The screen showed only a weather alert.
Jess inhaled through her nose. “The universe is tacky for that.”
You grabbed the phone and turned it face down. “Nobody is allowed to perceive me until brunch.”
Unfortunately, being perceived was the primary hobby of your friend group.
The next hour unfolded in a haze of showers, shared concealer, dry shampoo, and the particular kind of fragile laughter that came after a night out with people who knew exactly how much fun to push on you before it became too much. The suite slowly transformed from disaster zone to controlled chaos. Jess found her missing earring inside one of Tori’s shoes. Mia discovered a video of herself dramatically toasting “to women with standards and men who fear God,” which none of you remembered but all of you agreed was thematically strong. Lena made everyone drink water before she would allow a single person to leave.
You tried not to check your phone.
You failed six times.
No text.
By the time you reached the brunch place, some breezy little café with white umbrellas, blue tile, and a view of the beach, you had almost successfully convinced yourself that it was fine.
Almost.
The hostess led you to a corner table outside. The morning had softened into something kinder by then, the sun higher but less cruel, the sea flashing silver beyond the low dunes. Around you, other vacationers nursed bloody marys and iced coffees, sunglasses hiding the universal evidence of poor evening choices.
You slid into your chair, grateful for the shade.
Mia immediately opened the menu and said, “I need potatoes in a spiritual way.”
“I need eggs,” Tori said.
“I need silence,” Jess muttered.
“You need toast,” Lena told her.
“I need justice.”
You were smiling down at your menu when your phone buzzed against the table.
Once.
A real buzz this time.
Not a weather alert.
Not the group chat.
A single notification slid across the screen.
Unknown Number: Morning. This is Bucky. I was trying to wait until a respectable hour, but I’m starting to think I may have overcorrected.
Your entire body went still.
Unfortunately, your friends saw everything.
Mia gasped so loudly that the woman at the next table glanced over.
“Oh my God,” Tori whispered. “Is it him?”
You snatched the phone up, but it was too late.
Lena leaned in. “Read it.”
“No.”
Jess put her sunglasses down her nose. “Read it, or I will climb across this table and take your phone.”
“You are in no physical condition to climb anything.”
“Try me.”
You held the phone to your chest for one last second, cheeks already warm, then read the message aloud.
There was a collective pause.
Then Tori pressed both hands to her heart. “That’s cute.”
Mia looked deeply conflicted. “That is… unfortunately a good text.”
Jess narrowed her eyes. “Respectable hour, huh? Clever. Takes accountability without groveling.”
Lena pointed at Jess. “Do not sound impressed. It weakens our position.”
“I’m analyzing the enemy.”
You stared at the message, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the ridiculous smile fighting its way onto your face.
Bucky had texted.
Not at some lazy afternoon hour that said he’d remembered you as an afterthought. Not with a boring hey or a performative line. He’d apparently been overthinking the proper time to reach out, which was either wildly charming or dangerous to your fragile little heart.
Possibly both.
You typed, deleted, typed again.
You: Good morning, Bucky. Respectable hour is subjective, but I appreciate the restraint.
You stared at it.
“Too much?” you asked.
Mia leaned over. “Perfect.”
Jess nodded. “Dry, mildly flirty, not desperate.”
“Thank you for grading my trauma texts.”
“Anytime.”
You hit send before you could lose your nerve.
The reply came faster than expected.
Bucky: For the record, the restraint was difficult.
Tori made a sound like she’d been wounded.
You pressed your lips together, but your smile won.
You: That’s a bold confession before noon.
Bucky: I’ve been awake since seven trying not to make a bad impression.
You read that one silently first, and something warm unfurled in your chest before you could stop it.
Lena’s face softened when you showed them.
“Okay,” she said. “That’s… kind of sweet.”
“Kind of?” Tori demanded.
“Supportively suspicious,” Lena reminded her.
“Right. Sorry.” Tori straightened. “Suspiciously sweet.”
You huffed a laugh and typed back.
You: Seven? That’s either disciplined or alarming.
Bucky: Little of both, probably.
You: Honest answer. Dangerous strategy.
Bucky: Worked last night.
You stopped breathing for half a second.
Your friends, fully shameless now, leaned so close that the waiter arrived with water and visibly reconsidered whether he wanted to get involved in whatever ritual was occurring at your table.
“Can I start you ladies with drinks?” he asked.
“Five mimosas,” Mia said immediately.
Lena lifted one finger. “Four mimosas and one coffee.”
Jess pointed at herself. “Coffee is for me. I’m recovering from an incident.”
The waiter smiled politely and fled.
You looked back at your phone.
You: Did it?
A few seconds passed. Then:
Bucky: I got your number, didn’t I?
Your cheeks went warm.
Mia slapped the table softly. “Oh, he’s good.”
Jess grimaced. “Annoyingly.”
Lena took a deep breath. “I am trying so hard not to approve.”
“He’s making it difficult,” Tori whispered.
You typed under the table this time, not because they couldn’t still see you smiling, but because you needed at least the illusion of privacy.
You: You did. Though technically I may have prompted that.
Bucky: I was getting there.
You: Were you?
Bucky: Eventually.
You: Very smooth.
Bucky: Never claimed to be smooth. Just interested.
Oh. There went your pulse again.
You stared at the words for too long. Interested.
Not you’re hot. Not last night was fun in the kind of noncommittal way that could be said to anyone after anything. Just interested. Like he was naming a fact instead of tossing bait into the water.
Lena studied your face. “Good text?”
You handed her the phone without speaking.
She read it. Her expression betrayed her before she could stop it.
Mia snatched the phone next. “Oh, damn.”
Jess took it last, eyes moving across the screen with reluctant focus. “Hmm.”
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“Jess.”
She handed it back. “I hate that I don’t hate him.”
Tori beamed. “Progress!”
You were about to reply when another message came through.
Bucky: Also, I should probably say this before I accidentally imply otherwise: I know last night was a lot. I’m not trying to rush you into anything. I just liked talking to you.
The table went quiet.
For a moment, even Jess didn’t have anything sarcastic to say.
Your throat tightened, but not in the awful way it had the night before. This was different. Softer. More dangerous in its own right.
Because there was something excruciatingly disarming about being handled gently when you’d gotten used to flinching.
You swallowed and looked down at your lap.
Lena reached over beneath the table and squeezed your knee.
“You okay?” she murmured.
You nodded.
Then you typed carefully.
You: I liked talking to you too.
You hesitated, then added:
You: And dancing with you.
His reply came a moment later.
Bucky: Good. I was hoping you’d say that.
Then another:
Bucky: My friends are doing a beach bonfire tonight. Nothing fancy. Food, drinks, music, probably Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. You and your friends would be welcome, if you want to come.
You blinked and the words seemed to rearrange themselves twice.
Bonfire. Tonight. You and your friends.
Not come meet me alone. Not ditch your group. Not a late-night, half-vague invitation that carried all the wrong implications. He had invited all of you, directly and comfortably, as if he understood exactly who the gatekeepers were and had decided not to sneak around them.
You slowly lowered the phone.
Four faces stared back at you.
“What?” Mia asked.
“He invited us to a beach bonfire tonight.”
There was an immediate eruption.
“Us?” Tori squealed.
“All of us?” Lena asked.
Jess’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”
Mia grabbed your phone. “Let me see.”
You handed it over, half-laughing, half-terrified. They passed it around like a sacred document.
Tori looked delighted. “That’s so cute.”
Lena looked thoughtful. “Inviting the whole group is good.”
“Strategic,” Jess said.
“Respectful,” Lena countered.
“Could be both.”
Mia was already reading the message again. “Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. That’s funny.”
You took your phone back. “We don’t have to go.”
All four of them looked at you like you’d suggested spending the evening watching tax law seminars.
“Excuse me?” Tori said.
“I mean, we just met them.”
“Correct,” Jess said. “Which is why we go as a group, remain supportively suspicious, and gather data.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
Lena folded her arms, still considering. “Where is it?”
You typed.
You: That sounds fun. Where would it be?
Bucky: North end of the beach, past the public pier. There’s a permitted fire pit area. Starts around seven, but people drift in after.
You showed them.
Mia nodded slowly. “Public place. Group setting. Reasonable time.”
Jess pointed a finger. “We are not getting murdered at a permitted fire pit.”
“That’s reassuring,” Tori said.
“Statistically.”
“Less reassuring.”
You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, but you were smiling. “You guys, it’s okay to say no.”
Lena looked at you carefully. “Do you want to go?”
The question quieted the table again.
You looked down at the phone. At Bucky’s name, well not even his name yet, technically just an unknown number you hadn’t saved because saving it felt somehow too intimate and too hopeful at the same time.
Did you want to go?
Yes.
That was the terrifying part. You wanted to go. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to find out whether last night had been a trick of good lighting and grief and tequila, or whether that strange, warm tug in your chest meant something real enough to follow for one more evening.
You wanted to hear his laugh again.
You wanted to watch him try to be smooth and fail with charm.
You wanted to stand near him in the firelight and find out whether his hand would brush yours, whether he’d ask before touching you again, whether he’d look at you like he had on that terrace.
And because you wanted it, fear immediately rose up behind it.
“I don’t know,” you said softly.
Lena’s expression didn’t change. “That’s not what I asked.”
You exhaled, staring at the table.
Then, barely above a whisper, you admitted, “Yes.”
Tori’s whole face melted.
Jess sighed like the universe had personally inconvenienced her. “Then I guess we’re going to a bonfire.”
Mia lifted her mimosa as soon as the waiter set it down. “To questionable but potentially excellent vacation decisions.”
Lena clinked her glass against Mia’s. “To staying together as a group.”
Jess added, “To background checks conducted in real time.”
Tori raised hers last. “To hot men with manners.”
You laughed, cheeks aching with it, and lifted your water because you were still not confident your body would tolerate champagne yet.
“To supportively suspicious friends,” you said.
They all drank to that.
You typed back before you could overthink it.
You: We’re in. But fair warning, my friends are protective and nosy.
His reply came almost immediately.
Bucky: Good. Protective friends are usually right to be protective.
Your chest squeezed again.
A second message followed.
Bucky: And my friends are nosy too, so it’ll be fair.
You smiled down at your phone.
You: Should I be worried?
Bucky: About Steve? No. About Sam? Maybe.
You: That sounds like something someone says right before Sam becomes a problem.
Bucky: He’s already a problem. But he’s mostly harmless.
You: Mostly?
Bucky: Emotionally exhausting, occasionally loud, very committed to making me look stupid in front of pretty women.
You read the last two words three times.
Pretty women.
Mia saw your expression. “What did he say?”
“No.”
“Read it.”
“No.”
Jess leaned across the table. “Oh, it’s good.”
You held the phone away from them, laughing. “I’m allowed to have some private dignity.”
“Not on this trip,” Tori said.
You typed:
You: Pretty women plural? Should I warn them?
There was a longer pause this time.
Then:
Bucky: Woman. Singular.
Your stomach flipped clean over. You put the phone facedown on the table and covered your face.
The girls exploded.
“What?” Lena demanded.
“What did he say?”
“You can’t react like that and not tell us.”
“That’s illegal.”
You dragged your hands down your face, laughing helplessly as they snagged your phone to read what was said.
Tori actually squeaked.
Mia slapped Lena’s arm repeatedly. “I’m sorry, I know we’re suspicious, but that was hot.”
Jess stared at the ocean like she was wrestling with herself. “I hate men.”
“No, you don’t,” Tori said.
“I hate that one might be doing well.”
Brunch became, from that point forward, less of a meal and more of a strategic council.
There were pancakes and omelets and potatoes that Mia described as spiritually restorative. There were iced coffees and mimosas and a second round of water under Lena’s watchful eye. There was an extremely serious discussion about what one wore to a beach bonfire when one was trying to communicate effortless vacation goddess without looking like one had spent three hours spiraling in front of a mirror.
“You need something breezy,” Tori said, stabbing a piece of fruit with unnecessary intensity. “But not too sweet.”
“Why not too sweet?” Mia asked.
“Because she already has the wounded-heart thing going on. We need hot, not tragic.”
“I am sitting right here,” you said.
“And we love you,” Tori replied without missing a beat.
Jess took a sip of coffee. “No white.”
Everyone looked at her.
“What?”
“White reads bridal adjacent. We’re not doing that.”
You grimaced. “Agreed.”
“Black?” Mia suggested.
“For a beach bonfire?” Lena made a face. “She’ll look like she’s attending a seaside funeral.”
“I could be,” you said. “For my engagement.”
“Too soon?” Tori asked.
You considered it.
Then you shrugged. “No, actually. That one was funny.”
Your friends cheered with the kind of disproportionate enthusiasm only best friends could manage over one mildly dark joke.
It felt good.
That was the strange thing. The day began to unfold around you, and it felt good. Not untouched by pain. Not miraculously healed because a handsome stranger had texted you before brunch. But there were pockets of light again. Little ones. Enough to notice.
After brunch, the five of you wandered through the streets near the beach, drifting in and out of boutiques and tourist shops with woven bags, linen dresses, handmade jewelry, oversized hats no one needed, and candles that all claimed to smell like some variation of ocean, coconut, or emotional rebirth.
Bucky texted again while you were holding up two dresses in a shop mirror, one coral and one deep blue.
Bucky: Sam wants me to ask if your group has dietary restrictions. Steve wants me to clarify that Sam is asking because he’s in charge of food, not because this is a trap.
You laughed out loud in the dressing area.
Lena, who was sorting through a rack of cover-ups, looked over. “Bucky?”
You nodded, reading the text aloud.
Mia, from somewhere behind a display of straw hats, called, “Tell Sam we appreciate the trap transparency.”
You typed:
You: No restrictions. Mia says thank you for the trap transparency.
Bucky: Sam says Mia sounds like leadership material.
You: She is. Fear her.
Bucky: Noted.
Then, after a beat:
Bucky: What are you doing today? Besides letting your friends interrogate my text etiquette.
You snorted.
You: Shopping. Possibly being bullied into buying something for tonight.
Bucky: Bullied?
You: Affectionately.
Bucky: Good. I’d hate to have to defend you from a sundress.
Your smile went soft before you could stop it.
You: You think you could?
Bucky: Against the dress? Probably.
You: Against my friends?
Bucky: Absolutely not.
That one you showed the group.
Jess nodded once. “Self-aware. Good.”
“He knows his limits,” Lena said.
“Green flag?” Tori asked.
“Don’t get greedy,” Jess replied.
In the end, you did not buy the coral dress.
You tried it on and stared at yourself in the boutique mirror, trying to decide whether it was cute or whether you were simply drawn to anything bright because your life had been so gray lately. It fit well. It made your skin look warm. It would have been perfect in another mood.
But the deep blue one made you pause.
It was simple, soft, the kind of dress that moved with you instead of clinging too tightly. Thin straps. A low back. A skirt that floated around your thighs when you turned. It wasn’t trying too hard. It didn’t feel like armor or costume or some desperate attempt to prove you were fine.
It just felt like you.
When you stepped out of the dressing room, your friends went silent.
Your stomach dipped. “Bad?”
Lena’s expression softened. “No.”
Mia pressed a hand to her chest. “Absolutely not bad.”
Tori clasped her hands together. “Beach bonfire Bucky is going to walk into the ocean.”
Jess considered you with the seriousness of a museum curator. “That’s the one.”
You looked back at the mirror.
For a second, you tried to see yourself the way Bucky had seemed to see you the night before. Not discarded. Not humiliated. Not some tragic almost-bride carrying around the wreckage of a man who couldn’t love her correctly.
Just a woman in a blue dress on vacation.
Pretty.
Interested.
Maybe even beginning again.
You bought the dress.
The afternoon slipped by in that slow, sun-soaked way vacation days did, stretching and melting until time felt less like a schedule and more like a suggestion. You went back to the hotel with shopping bags swinging from your wrists, changed into swimsuits, and spent a few hours by the pool, where Jess fell asleep under a hat, Tori befriended a retired couple from Michigan, and Mia kept ordering things with pineapple in them while claiming the fruit made them medicinal.
You alternated between reading half a page of a book you were not absorbing and texting Bucky.
He did not overwhelm you. That was what you noticed. He didn’t send message after message demanding your attention. He let conversations breathe. He answered when you answered. He flirted, yes, but carefully, with enough sincerity beneath it that you never felt like he was performing for a reaction.
At 2:13 p.m.:
Bucky: Sam has now asked twice if matching shirts would make the bonfire more festive.
You: Please tell me you said no.
Bucky: I said hell no.
You: Strong leadership.
Bucky: Steve said I should compromise.
You: Did you?
Bucky: I compromised by leaving the room.
At 3:02 p.m.:
You: Important question: is this bonfire casual casual or “everyone says casual but somehow looks beautiful” casual?
Bucky: I’m wearing jeans. Sam will probably dress like he’s hosting a lifestyle show. Steve owns three shirts and somehow looks respectable in all of them.
You: That answered nothing and yet told me so much.
Bucky: Wear whatever makes you comfortable.
Then, a moment later:
Bucky: But for what it’s worth, you looked beautiful last night.
You stared at that one so long your screen dimmed.
You tapped it awake, read it again, then let the phone rest against your chest.
The pool noise moved around you. Laughter, splashing, the hum of conversation, Mia arguing with Jess about whether SPF 30 was enough, Lena reminding Tori to reapply said sunscreen. Everything ordinary. Everything sunlit.
You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses.
A compliment should not feel like this. It should not make your ribs ache. It should not make you feel both shy and seen, both happy and terrified. Your ex had called you beautiful plenty of times. Automatically, sometimes. Lazily. As punctuation. Like saying it meant he’d done the work of loving you.
But Bucky had said it like he remembered.
Like he had thought about you after you left.
You typed back slowly.
You: Thank you.
That felt too small, so you added:
You: You didn’t look so bad yourself.
His response took thirty seconds.
Bucky: That was smooth.
You: I’m capable of growth.
Bucky: Proud of you.
The laugh that left you was soft and stupid and impossible to hide.
Jess lifted her hat with two fingers. “You’re giggling.”
“I am not.”
“You are. It’s disgusting.”
“Let her giggle,” Tori said, floating nearby with her arms draped over the edge of the pool. “She deserves vacation giggles.”
Mia pointed at you with her pineapple drink. “Vacation giggles are legally protected.”
Lena watched you from beneath the brim of her hat, her smile small but tender. She didn’t tease. She didn’t need to. Her expression said enough.
Careful, but happy for you.
By late afternoon, the sky had started to soften around the edges.
Everyone returned to the suite with that pleasantly tired, sun-warmed heaviness that made the idea of getting ready feel both exciting and impossible. For a moment, you all stood in the middle of the room surrounded by bags and damp towels and half-finished coffees, silently assessing the amount of effort required to transform yourselves into bonfire-ready women.
Then Mia clapped her hands once. “Okay. We have two and a half hours. Nobody panic.”
Jess walked past her toward the bathroom. “I call first shower because I am emotionally the oldest.”
“You are emotionally a Victorian ghost,” Lena said.
“Exactly. Respect your elders.”
The room became chaos again.
Music went on, not too loud at first, then louder after Tori found a playlist called Post-Breakup Beach Goddess Energyand declared it fate. Dresses were pulled from bags. Makeup bags exploded across the counters.
Someone opened the champagne that had been glaring at everyone from the ice bucket since arrival, and though nobody drank more than a glass, it felt symbolic. Less like celebrating a wedding that wasn’t happening. More like reclaiming the trip from everything it had been meant to mourn.
You sat on the edge of the bed in a robe while Lena curled a piece of your hair, your phone resting facedown beside you.
“You’ve been calmer this afternoon,” she said.
You met her eyes in the mirror. “Have I?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t feel calm.”
“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But you feel less like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
You looked down at your hands.
That was true, maybe. Not fully. The fear was still there, tucked beneath your ribs like a blade you couldn’t quite put down. But it had dulled a little throughout the day. Bucky’s steady presence on the other end of your phone had not fixed you (God, you hated the idea of being fixed by anyone) but it had given your nervous system something new to consider.
Maybe interest didn’t always have to feel like a trap.
Maybe attention didn’t always come with a hook buried inside it.
Maybe a man could be eager without being careless.
Lena finished one curl and moved to the next. “You know we’re going to be annoying tonight.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Good. Because if he gives me even one weird vibe, I’m pulling you into the ocean as an emergency evacuation tactic.”
“That seems dramatic.”
“It’ll look spontaneous.”
You laughed, then your phone buzzed.
Lena’s eyebrows rose.
You picked it up.
Bucky: Do I get to tell you I’m looking forward to tonight or is that too much pressure?
Your smile came before you could stop it.
You: You can tell me.
Bucky: I’m looking forward to tonight.
A second message came right after.
Bucky: Maybe more than I should admit.
Your pulse warmed.
You: That was almost smooth again.
Bucky: Damn. I’m improving too fast.
You: Careful. Expectations are dangerous.
Bucky: I’ll try to disappoint you a little when you get here.
You laughed.
You: Please don’t.
Bucky: I won’t.
The simplicity of it landed harder than any clever line could have.
You stared at the screen until Lena gently tapped your shoulder with the curling iron, safely closed, but still enough to make you look up.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Breathe.”
You did.
In. Out.
The girl in the mirror looked different than she had that morning. Not because of the makeup, though Mia had done something glowy and unfairly effective with highlighter. Not because of the hair, though the loose waves softened around your face beautifully. Not even because of the blue dress waiting on the hanger behind you.
She looked different because she didn’t look quite so haunted.
Still bruised, yes. Still cautious. Still carrying the ache of betrayal in places no one else could see.
But not empty.
Not defeated.
By the time the sun began sinking toward the horizon, the suite was full of perfume, music, and the frantic final rituals of women getting ready together. Tori kept losing her lip gloss. Jess changed shoes three times before deciding comfort was sexier than blisters. Mia delivered a solemn speech about how everyone should eat something before drinking near open flames. Lena packed a small purse with the energy of someone preparing for both a party and a tactical extraction.
“Water bottle,” she said, dropping one in.
“Phone charger.”
“Mini sunscreen.”
“It’ll be dark,” Jess said.
“You can still burn if you’re spiritually vulnerable.”
“That is not science.”
“Band-Aids,” Lena continued.
Mia looked over. “Are you packing snacks?”
Lena paused.
Everyone stared at her.
She unzipped the purse again and added two granola bars.
“Leadership,” Tori whispered.
You stood near the mirror, smoothing your hands over the blue dress.
It really was the right one. The fabric skimmed over you lightly, catching movement every time you shifted. Your shoulders were bare, your skin still warm from the afternoon sun, your hair loose down your back. You had chosen simple earrings, a thin bracelet, sandals that wouldn’t sink too badly into the sand.
You looked like someone going to a beach bonfire because she wanted to.
Not because she was proving a point.
Not because she was running from pain.
Because she wanted to see a man with blue eyes and a careful smile again.
That was all.
That could be enough for tonight.
Mia came up behind you in the mirror and rested her chin on your shoulder, echoing Lena from that morning. “How are we feeling?”
“Nervous.”
“Good nervous or bad nervous?”
You thought about it.
“Both.”
“That’s allowed.”
Jess appeared on your other side, holding a tube of lip gloss. “For the record, if he turns out to be awful, we leave immediately and I personally throw sand at him.”
“Noted.”
Tori joined the cluster, already beaming. “But if he’s wonderful, we also support that.”
Lena stepped into view last, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “We support you. That’s the actual thing.”
Your throat tightened.
You looked at all of them reflected around you, your ridiculous, loyal, fiercely loving little army, and for a second the ache of the canceled trip shifted into something else. Because this was still not the bachelorette weekend you’d planned. It wasn’t the beginning of married life. It wasn’t the pretty, predictable future you had thought you were walking toward.
But it was yours.
The laughter. The grief. The hangovers. The group texts. The blue dress. The man waiting somewhere on the beach, probably pretending not to be nervous while his friends gave him hell.
All of it.
Yours.
Your phone buzzed one more time as you were slipping it into your purse.
Bucky: No pressure, but Sam just asked if I’m going to stare at the entrance all night until you arrive. I said no. I may have lied.
You bit your lip against a smile.
You: We’re leaving now.
His reply came almost instantly.
Bucky: Good.
Then, after a few seconds:
Bucky: I’ll be the one trying not to stare.
You looked up from your phone, cheeks warm.
“Well?” Jess asked.
You slipped the phone into your purse. “He says he’ll be the one trying not to stare.”
Tori made an ungodly noise.
Mia pointed toward the door. “Move. We are not wasting that line standing in a hotel suite.”
The five of you spilled into the hallway in a cloud of perfume and nervous laughter, the door clicking shut behind you. Downstairs, the lobby glowed gold with early evening light. Outside, the air had cooled just enough for the ocean breeze to raise goosebumps along your arms.
The walk toward the beach felt longer than it probably was.
The sky had turned peach and lavender at the edges, the last of the sun melting low behind rooftops and palms. Sandals slapped softly against pavement. Somewhere ahead, beyond the dunes, you could already hear faint music drifting on the wind. Laughter too. The distant crackle of something that might have been fire.
Your friends walked around you in loose formation, still joking, still teasing, still making it impossible for fear to swallow the whole moment.
But beneath their voices, beneath the rustle of your dress and the rush of waves beyond the dunes, your heart beat hard and bright.
You crested the wooden path toward the beach.
A warm orange glow flickered ahead, just out of full view.
And somewhere beyond it, waiting in the firelight, was Bucky.
♪ Prompt | Hey! Baby - Bruce Channel | “I'm gonna make her mine, all mine”
♪ Summary | Bucky lays eyes on the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, and is convinced he has a shot.
♪ Warnings + Tags | Fluff, mentions of alcohol and smoking
♪ Phoenix Chirps | Evidently I'm in a 40s Bucky kick. Aren't we all though? If only he were real...
♪ Word Count | 298
⏮ Prev | Masterlist ⏯ Event Masterlist | Next ⏭
The Stork Club was not where Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes thought he would end up. An ocean away from home, next to his best friend who had just saved him from almost certain death, nursing a glass of whiskey that didn't quite have the same kick to it that it used to.
This was supposed to be a celebratory night, considering the surviving members of the 107th were now safe. Or as safe as could be considering they were in a war zone.
And yet, Bucky still felt like he was missing…something. A puzzle piece right at the edge of his needs and wants, that neither camaraderie nor alcohol was fixing.
That was, until the crowd - and even the thick cloud of cigarette smoke - seemed to part when the bell over the door jingled.
There you were, looking like you had stepped right off a cinema screen someone had produced just for him.
You barely glanced at the soldiers who all briefly vied for you attention silently. Yet when they realized you were more interested in finding whoever it was you were meeting, they turned away, dejected.
Bucky's eyes, though, tracked you through the crowd, until you found who you were looking for - Peggy Carter.
A convenience that Bucky didn't think he would've been afforded. At least now he sort of had a way to strike up a conversation with you.
"What's got you so starstruck?" Steve chuckled sliding in next to him against the bar.
Bucky just tipped his head in your direction, a smile finally appearing across his features. "See that girl? I'm gonna make her mine, all mine."
Steve followed his gaze, seeing you chatting animatedly with Peggy. He shook his head once, taking a sip of his own drink.
Pairing: Alpha! Winter Soldier x Omega! Female Reader
Tags: A/B/O AU. True mates.
Warnings: Each installment has its own.
Summary: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.
note: I want to organize this AU because I'll probably write about them again.
Status: Ended
Alpha!Soldat: Headcanons. HYDRA's greatest achievement: an alpha without instinct. A Weapon without want. Suppressed, obedient, useful. Oh, how pleased they are with their relentless fist.
Omega!Reader: Reader's headcanons.
Brown Sugar and Gunmetal: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all. Vol. 01 / Vol. 02 / Vol. 03
Summary: After a devastating twelve-hour ER shift leaves you exhausted, grieving, and unable to shake the loss of a patient, you come home to Bucky waiting in your shared apartment. He knows what it means to carry ghosts home, and with quiet tenderness, steady hands, and unwavering devotion, he helps you lay the day down piece by piece, reminding you that, in his arms, the world can’t reach you.
Warnings/Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Hospital/ER Trauma, Referenced (non-graphic) Patient Death, Grief, Crying, Burnout, Blood/Antiseptic Imagery, Guilt After Losing A Patient, Hurt/Comfort, Fingering, Oral Sex (F Receiving), P in V Unprotected Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Soft Bucky, Soft Smut
Word count: 5.9k
Music:
Sweet Nothing - Taylor Swift
I Will Follow You Into The Dark - Death Cab for Cutie
Fix You - Coldplay
Iris - The Goo Goo Dolls
Die For You - The Weeknd
Say You Won’t Let Go - James Arthur
Notes: hi hello!! This idea entered my brain the other day and festered, so here it is spat out into a story <3 I hope you all enjoy!!
You pushed open the door to your shared apartment in Brooklyn with the last bit of strength you had left.
The hinges gave their familiar soft creak, the sound usually comforting after a long day, but tonight it barely registered. The weight of the shift followed you inside like a shadow, heavy and damp and clinging, wrapping itself around your shoulders before you could even toe off your sneakers. The hallway smelled faintly of home: laundry detergent, the cedar candle Bucky liked even though he pretended not to care about candles, and something warm lingering from the kitchen, but beneath it all, you could still smell the hospital on your skin.
Antiseptic. Sweat. Latex. Sterile corridors.
The metallic ghost of blood.
Your scrubs stuck unpleasantly to your body, wrinkled from twelve brutal hours in the ER.
Twelve hours of alarms and overhead pages, of frantic footsteps and clipped voices, of families begging for answers no one could give them.
Twelve hours of holding yourself together because there was no time to fall apart. Not when someone needed compressions. Not when someone’s mother was sobbing into her hands. Not when a patient crashed right in front of you and every heroic measure still wasn’t enough to pull them back.
Your feet ached so badly they felt bruised down to the bone. Your back throbbed. Your shoulders were locked tight, muscles pulled into knots from hours of tension you hadn’t even noticed until now. Your eyes burned with the sting of tears you had swallowed over and over again because crying in the supply closet only wasted time you didn’t have.
You shut the door behind you.
The click of the lock sounded too final.
For one long second, you just stood there in the entryway with your hand still on the knob, staring blankly at the floor, unable to move any farther into your own home.
The apartment was dim, quiet in the way only late-night Brooklyn apartments could be, the city humming beyond the windows like a distant ocean. Somewhere outside, a car passed. A dog barked once. Pipes knocked softly in the wall.
And then you heard movement.
The couch shifted.
A book closed.
Before you even lifted your head, you knew.
Bucky.
He was in the living room, half-lit by the amber glow of the floor lamp beside the couch. The light softened the sharp edges of him, gilding the dark fall of his hair where it brushed his cheekbones, catching in the faint silver lines of his vibranium arm where it rested across his thigh. He wore a black t-shirt that stretched comfortably over his broad chest and gray sweatpants low on his hips, barefoot, one ankle crossed over the other like he had been trying to convince himself he was relaxed.
But the second he saw you, all of that stillness changed.
His posture shifted first. Subtle, instinctive. His spine straightened. His shoulders squared. The book was forgotten beside him before he was even fully on his feet.
Those storm-blue eyes found yours across the room, and whatever he saw there made his expression soften so fast it nearly broke you.
Not pity, never pity.
Understanding.
The kind that came from someone who knew what it meant to carry ghosts home under your skin.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured.
Just one word.
That was all it took.
Your mouth trembled before you could stop it.
Bucky crossed the room in three long strides, moving with that quiet, predatory grace he never fully lost, even here, even safe. But there was nothing sharp about him when he reached you. Nothing demanding. His flesh hand rose slowly, giving you time, always giving you time, before he cupped the side of your face with a tenderness that made your throat close.
His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching moisture you hadn’t realized had escaped.
“Hey,” he whispered. “C’mere.”
You stepped into him like your body had been waiting for permission.
The moment his arms closed around you, something inside you folded.
You pressed your face into his chest, into the soft warmth of his shirt, into the familiar scent of him: soap, clean cotton, the faint cool metallic trace of vibranium, and that deeper thing that was just Bucky. Safe. Steady. Yours.
His flesh hand slid to the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your hair. His metal arm settled around your lower back with careful pressure, cool through the thin fabric of your scrub top.
He didn’t squeeze too tight. Didn’t ask you to explain right away. He just held you as if he had all the time in the world and every intention of spending it right there, wrapped around you until your breathing stopped shaking.
“Rough shift?” he asked quietly.
You nodded against him, unable to trust your voice at first.
His chin brushed the top of your head. “Yeah,” he breathed, like he could feel it. Like the answer had already been written all over the way you stood in the doorway. “I know.”
That undid you more than anything else could have.
Not the shift itself. Not the code. Not the family’s grief. Not the bone-deep exhaustion.
That simple, quiet knowing.
Your hands curled weakly in the fabric at his sides. “It was bad,” you whispered. Your voice cracked on the last word, small and raw and nothing like the composed version of yourself you had worn all day.
Bucky’s hold tightened by the smallest degree.
“I’m sorry, doll.”
You swallowed hard, eyes squeezed shut against his chest. “I just… I can’t think about it anymore. I can’t hear it anymore. I keep seeing—” You stopped, breath catching.
He didn’t push.
He never pushed.
His palm stroked slowly down the back of your head, over and over, grounding you in the rhythm of him. “You’re home now,” he murmured. “You hear me? You’re home. It’s just me. Just us.”
You nodded again, more because you wanted to believe him than because your body had caught up with the truth.
“I need to forget it for a while,” you admitted. “Please.”
Bucky went very still for half a breath.
Then he softly kissed your temple, his lips lingering. “I’ve got you,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and steady. “Let me take care of you.”
The words settled into you like warmth poured into cold hands.
He eased back just enough to look at your face, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone. His eyes moved over you carefully, cataloging every sign of exhaustion: the tension in your jaw, the dark smudges beneath your eyes, the way your shoulders had climbed nearly to your ears.
“You eat?” he asked.
You made a faint sound that might have been a laugh if you had more energy. “There was a granola bar at some point.”
His brows drew together, but he didn’t scold. “Water?”
“Coffee.”
“Doll.”
“I know.”
That earned you the smallest exhale from his nose, not quite amusement and not quite concern, but something familiar enough to loosen one thread of tension in your chest.
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll fix that after. Right now, off your feet.”
Before you could protest, he bent and scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all.
A startled sound left you as one strong arm slid beneath your knees and the other braced your back. Instinctively, your arms looped around his neck. He rose with effortless strength, holding you securely against him, your cheek resting against his shoulder as he carried you down the short hallway toward the bedroom.
“Buck, I can walk,” you mumbled, though you made no actual attempt to be put down.
“I know you can.” His mouth brushed your hair. “Doesn’t mean you have to.”
That was Bucky.
That was what he did to you.
He took all the things you had forced yourself to endure alone and quietly, stubbornly, made them softer.
The bedroom was dim when he nudged the door open with his foot. The bedside lamp was already on, turned low enough that the room glowed rather than shone. The bed was turned down with clean sheets, the pillows fluffed, the soft throw blanket folded at the foot. On your nightstand sat a glass of water, a bottle of lotion, and one of his shirts, the navy one, worn thin and soft, that you always stole when you needed comfort.
Your chest tightened.
“You changed the sheets,” you whispered.
He set you carefully on the edge of the mattress. “Figured you’d want clean.”
You looked up at him.
He looked almost shy for a second, eyes flicking away as though the gesture was nothing. As though he hadn’t spent part of his evening thinking about what would make you feel human again when you came home. As though he hadn’t memorized every little thing that soothed you.
Your throat ached.
“Bucky.”
His gaze came back to yours, softer now. “I know, sweetheart.”
He knelt in front of you before you could say anything else.
The sight of him like that, broad shoulders lowered between your knees, dark hair falling forward, hands already reaching for your laces, made your heart squeeze painfully. This man, who had been made into a weapon, who had survived decades of being used and hurt and stripped down to something less than himself, was so gentle with you that it still stunned you sometimes.
He untied your sneakers with quiet focus, loosening each knot, easing the shoes from your feet one at a time. Then he peeled off your socks, careful around the tender places he somehow knew would hurt. His warm hand wrapped around one foot while his metal fingers supported the heel, and when his thumbs pressed into the arch with firm, practiced pressure, your entire body sagged.
A broken little sigh slipped out of you.
Bucky glanced up through his lashes. “There?”
You nodded, eyes fluttering.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Thought so.”
He worked slowly, thoroughly, pressing into the sore places until relief spread up your calves like warm water. His metal hand stayed cool and steady, the contrast making your nerves hum in the best possible way. He moved from one foot to the other, then up to your ankles, thumbs circling gently where swelling had settled from too many hours on hard hospital floors.
“You should’ve texted me,” he said quietly, not accusing. Just soft.
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
His hands paused.
When he looked up again, his expression was unbearably tender.
“Worrying about you is kind of my thing.”
Your lips trembled, almost a smile.
He leaned forward and kissed your knee through the scrub pants. “You don’t have to protect me from loving you.”
And there it was.
The thing he always managed to say without making it sound grand or theatrical. Just truth. Simple and devastating.
You looked down at him, eyes wet again. “I’m really tired.”
“I know.” He rose just enough to press a kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get you out of these.”
His hands went to the hem of your scrub top, then stopped.
“Okay?”
You nodded. “Okay.”
“Arms up, doll.”
You lifted your arms, heavy as they felt, and let him tug the top over your head. The fabric caught briefly in your hair before he gently freed it and tossed the scrub top into the laundry basket across the room with more accuracy than anyone had a right to have. Then he helped you stand just long enough to ease your scrub pants down your legs, steadying you with one hand at your waist when your balance wavered.
You were left in your bra and underwear, skin prickling slightly in the cool air of the bedroom.
Bucky’s gaze moved over you, but there was no hunger in it yet. No rush. No taking.
Only devotion.
He looked at you like you were something precious he had been trusted to hold.
“Here,” he murmured, picking up his shirt from the nightstand. “Wear this for now.”
You let him slip it over your head. The fabric fell around you, soft and warm and smelling like him. It swallowed you a little, hem brushing your thighs, sleeves loose around your arms.
Bucky smiled faintly at the sight, a private little thing he didn’t try to hide quickly enough.
“What?” you asked, voice quieter now.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
His smile deepened. “Just like seeing you in my clothes.”
The warmth that bloomed in your chest was small, fragile, but real.
He guided you onto the bed. “On your stomach, baby. Let me work some of that out.”
You crawled up the mattress and settled face-down with your cheek pressed into the cool pillow. The clean scent of detergent surrounded you. You heard Bucky move behind you, the soft opening of the lotion bottle, the quiet rub of his palms warming it before the mattress dipped under his weight.
He straddled the backs of your thighs without putting his full weight on you, knees bracketing you carefully. His hands slid under your shirt, first settling at your shoulders, broad and grounding.
“Breathe in,” he murmured.
You obeyed.
“Out.”
His thumbs pressed down on the exhale, firm and slow, sinking into the hard knots at the base of your neck.
A sound left you that was half groan, half whimper.
“Jesus, sweetheart,” he said under his breath. “You’re carrying the whole damn hospital in here.”
“Feels like it.”
“I know.” His hands moved with patient skill, thumbs working in tight circles, then long strokes outward toward your shoulders. “But not tonight. Not in this bed.”
You closed your eyes.
He started at the worst of it, the brutal tension across your shoulders where stress always gathered. His flesh hand was warm, calloused, alive with familiar strength. His vibranium hand was cooler, smoother, the pressure perfectly controlled. Together, they worked over you in a rhythm so soothing it made your thoughts begin to blur at the edges.
He pressed down either side of your spine, slow and deliberate, careful never to dig too hard. When he found a knot near your left shoulder blade, you sucked in a sharp breath.
“There,” he murmured.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Hurts?”
“Good hurt.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
“You always are.”
His hands stilled for a fraction of a second.
Then he leaned down and kissed the back of your shoulder through the shirt.
The gesture was so soft it made you ache.
For a while, there was only the sound of your breathing and his. The occasional sigh you couldn’t hold back. The faint creak of the bed under the shift of his weight. The distant city outside the window.
Bucky worked lower, pushing the shirt up just enough to reach the bare skin of your lower back. His hands slid over you with warm lotion, slow and reverent, smoothing out the tension lodged deep in your muscles. Each stroke seemed to pull something out of you. Pain. Grief. Fear. The echo of monitors and alarms. The image of gloved hands moving too fast. The helplessness of doing everything right and still losing.
Your breathing hitched.
Bucky noticed immediately.
His hands stopped moving, resting flat and warm against your back.
“Where’d you go?” he asked softly.
You swallowed hard, eyes still closed. “Room three.”
His silence changed. Deepened.
He didn’t ask what happened. He could guess enough.
You drew in a shaky breath. “She was younger than me.”
Bucky’s thumb moved once along your spine.
“She had this—” Your voice broke, and you pressed your face harder into the pillow. “Her dad kept asking if she could hear him. And I kept doing my job. I did everything I was supposed to do, and it didn’t—”
The rest dissolved.
You didn’t sob loudly. You didn’t have the energy for that. It came out quiet and painful, your body trembling beneath his hands as the tears finally pushed their way free after hours of being held back.
Bucky shifted off you at once.
For one terrified second, your body missed the weight of him.
Then he was beside you, gathering you into his arms, pulling you against his chest as you turned into him. He settled back against the pillows with you tucked against him, one hand cradling your head, the other wrapped securely around your waist.
“I’m sorry,” you choked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t.” His voice was firm, but not harsh. “Don’t apologize for this.”
You clung to him.
“I couldn’t save her.”
His jaw tightened against your hair.
“I know,” he whispered. “I know, doll.”
“I keep thinking maybe if we’d caught it sooner, or if I’d—”
“No.” He pulled back enough to look at you, his hand sliding to your cheek. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
Your eyes searched his, desperate and wrecked.
His face was close, gaze steady despite the emotion gathered there. “You did everything you could.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“Sometimes everything isn’t enough.” His voice roughened slightly, like the words hurt him too. “And that’s the cruelest damn part. But it doesn’t mean you failed her.”
You closed your eyes.
His forehead came to rest against yours.
“You stayed,” he said. “You fought for her. You cared. That matters.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, and he kissed it away.
Not dramatically. Not with any expectation that it would fix you.
Just because it was there.
Just because he loved you.
“You’re not made of stone,” he murmured. “You’re allowed to break a little when the day is too heavy.”
“I don’t want to feel like this.”
“I know.”
“I want it to stop.”
His thumb brushed your cheek. “Then stay with me. Right here. Don’t go back there. Just feel me.”
Your fingers tightened in his shirt.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “You’re in our bed. You’re wearing my shirt. The window’s cracked because you like the cold air. Your water’s on the nightstand. I’m holding you. That’s all that exists right now.”
You took a breath.
It shook… but it came easier than the last one.
Bucky waited, patient as always, breathing with you until your body began to follow his. In. Out. Slow. Steady.
He kissed your forehead. Then your temple. Then the bridge of your nose.
“There you are,” he murmured.
You let out a weak laugh through your tears. “Barely.”
“Barely still counts.”
You huffed again, and this time it almost resembled something real.
Bucky’s mouth curved faintly. “That’s my girl.”
The words slipped into you, warm and possessive in the gentlest way. Not ownership. Belonging. The kind you had both built carefully, with trust and patience and late nights spent learning where all the tender places were.
You rested your hand against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.
“Can you keep going?” you asked quietly after a while. “The massage?”
His expression softened. “Yeah, sweetheart. Whatever you need.”
He helped you settle back onto your stomach, but this time he stayed lower beside you instead of straddling you, one knee bent on the mattress as he worked at your back again. The crying had loosened something in you, leaving you drained but lighter, your body pliant under his hands.
His touch changed now. Slower. Less focused on chasing tension, more on reminding you that you had a body beyond labor and pain. Beyond adrenaline and exhaustion.
He pushed the shirt up again, kissing the base of your spine before his hands followed. Your breath caught softly.
Bucky paused. “Still okay?”
You nodded, cheek against the pillow. “Yes.”
His lips brushed your skin again.
“Tell me if it’s not.”
“I will.”
He moved with a tenderness that made your eyes sting all over again for a different reason. His mouth traced the places his hands had softened, lingering between your shoulder blades, the nape of your neck, the slope of one shoulder. Each kiss felt like a quiet promise pressed into your skin.
You are here.
You are safe.
You are loved.
By the time his lips reached the side of your throat, the ache inside you had changed shape. It hadn’t vanished. Nothing could make a day like that disappear completely. But it had faded from something sharp and unbearable into something distant, muffled beneath the warmth of his hands and the weight of his devotion.
You turned your head, seeking him.
Bucky understood without being told.
He helped you roll onto your back, his shirt still loose around you, your hair spread against the pillow. He hovered above you, braced on one forearm, his metal hand resting at your waist like an anchor.
The low lamplight painted gold across the sharp lines of his jaw and the dark sweep of his lashes as he looked down at you. His eyes weren’t just soft anymore—they had deepened, that stormy blue turning molten with something heavier, something that answered the slow shift in your body.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, voice low and rough at the edges. His thumb swept under the hem of his shirt, brushing bare skin just above your hip. “Still with me?”
You nodded, reaching up to thread your fingers through the hair at his nape. “I’m here. I want… I need you to make everything else disappear, Buck. Please.”
His exhale brushed warm across your lips. “Then let me.”
He kissed you slowly at first, deep and unhurried, like he was pouring every ounce of patience and love into the slide of his mouth against yours. His tongue traced the seam of your lips until you opened for him, and the taste of him, warm, familiar, and faintly mint flooded your senses.
The kiss grew deeper, hungrier, as your hands tightened in his hair. A soft sound escaped you when his metal fingers slipped higher under the shirt, cool against your heated skin, tracing the curve of your waist.
Bucky pulled back just enough to tug the oversized shirt up and over your head, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. His gaze dragged over you, reverent and dark. “Beautiful,” he breathed, almost to himself. “So damn beautiful.”
He lowered himself beside you, one leg sliding between yours as he captured your mouth again. This time the kiss was hotter, more demanding. His flesh hand cupped your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it tightened under his touch. You arched into him with a gasp, and he swallowed the sound, his hand sliding down your stomach, teasing the waistband of your panties.
“Tell me what you need, sweetheart,” he rasped against your lips. “Use your words.”
“Touch me,” you whispered, hips shifting restlessly. “I need your hands on me. Your mouth.”
A low, approving growl rumbled in his chest. “Good girl.”
His metal fingers dipped beneath the fabric first, cool and smooth as they parted your folds. You were already slick, aching from the slow build of his care and the safety of his arms. He groaned softly at the feeling, circling your clit with deliberate, feather-light strokes that made your thighs tremble.
“Fuck, you’re soaked for me already,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “That’s it. Just feel me.”
Two fingers pressed inside you slowly, stretching you with that perfect, controlled pressure. The contrast of cool metal and the heat of your body drew a broken moan from your throat. Bucky curled them, stroking that sensitive spot inside you while his thumb continued its maddening circles on your clit. Your back arched off the bed, one hand fisting the sheets, the other clutching his shoulder.
He didn’t rush. He watched you, every flutter of your lashes, every hitch in your breath, like memorizing a map only he was allowed to read. His mouth found your neck, sucking gently, then harder, as his fingers pumped deeper, faster. The wet sounds of his hand working between your thighs filled the quiet room, obscene and intimate.
“Bucky—” His name came out wrecked.
“I’ve got you,” he promised, voice dark velvet. He added a third finger, stretching you fuller, and the intensity made stars burst behind your eyes. His metal thumb pressed firmer on your clit, relentless now, driving you higher while his flesh hand pinned your hip down, keeping you open for him.
Your orgasm hit you hard and sudden, crashing through the exhaustion like a wave. You cried out, thighs clamping around his wrist as pleasure ripped through you in shuddering pulses. Bucky kept moving, drawing it out, murmuring praise against your throat.
“That’s my girl.”
“Let it go.”
“I’ve got you.”
“So good for me.”
You were still panting, aftershocks trembling through your limbs, when he withdrew his fingers and brought them to his mouth. His eyes locked on yours as he licked them clean, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating in his chest.
“Not done with you yet,” he said, the words rough with need.
He kissed his way down your body, slow, open-mouthed kisses across your collarbone, between your breasts, over the soft plane of your stomach. When he reached your hips, he hooked his fingers in your panties and dragged them down your legs, tossing them aside. Then he settled between your thighs, broad shoulders spreading you open, his dark hair falling messily across his forehead as he looked up at you.
The first slow drag of his tongue through your folds tore a strangled sound from you. He groaned at your taste, the vibration shooting straight to your core. Bucky took his time, long, luxurious licks from your entrance to your clit, savoring you like he could do this for hours. One hand gripped your thigh, holding you steady, while his other arm wrapped under your other leg, his fingers digging into your ass.
He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked gently, then firmer, alternating with slow circles of his tongue.
Two fingers slid back inside you, curling deep and stroking in time with his mouth. The dual sensation was overwhelming, hot tongue, cool fingers, the relentless devotion in every movement.
Your hands flew to his hair, hips rocking against his face as pleasure coiled tighter again. “Bucky—oh god—”
He growled against you, the sound possessive. He devoured you with single-minded intensity, sucking harder, fucking you deeper with his fingers, curling them just right until your second orgasm slammed into you even stronger than the first. Your thighs shook around his head, a broken sob of pleasure tearing from your chest as white-hot ecstasy flooded every nerve.
He didn’t stop. He gentled his touch just enough to ease you through it, licking you softly, tenderly, until the tremors finally subsided and you were a boneless, panting mess against the sheets.
Only then did he crawl back up your body, kissing every inch of skin he could reach. His lips found yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You kissed him back desperately, hands sliding under his shirt to feel the warm, scarred skin beneath.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard, his cock straining against his sweatpants where it pressed against your thigh.
“You okay?” he whispered, thumb stroking your cheek.
The emotion in his voice was thick with love, lust, and that deep protective tenderness that was so uniquely him.
You nodded, cupping his face with both hands. “I need more. I need all of you.”
Bucky’s eyes darkened with promise. “Then you’ll have me, doll. As much as you want. All night if that’s what it takes to make the world disappear.”
He kissed you again, deep and slow, the heat between you building once more as his hands began to roam. His mouth moved with purpose now, no longer just soothing but claiming.
The kiss deepened until you were both breathing each other in, tongues sliding, teeth grazing. You tugged at the hem of his shirt, desperate for skin, and he broke away only long enough to rip it over his head in one fluid motion.
The sight of him: broad chest, scarred shoulder where metal met flesh, the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath his sweatpants made your core clench with fresh need.
You reached for him, palms sliding over warm skin and old scars, mapping the body you knew by heart. Bucky groaned softly into your mouth as your fingers traced the ridges of his abs, then lower, palming the hard length of him through the thin fabric.
“Careful, doll,” he rasped, voice gravel-rough. “Been hard for you since I saw you in the doorway. Want this to last.”
But you didn’t want careful anymore. You wanted to drown in him.
You pushed at his sweatpants, and he helped you, kicking them off along with his boxers until he was gloriously naked above you. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the head already glistening. The weight of it rested heavy against your thigh as he settled between your legs, one strong forearm braced beside your head while his metal hand stroked down your side, cool fingers raising goosebumps.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
Your eyes met his, storm-blue darkened to near black with lust and something deeper, something almost reverent. He notched the head of his cock against your entrance, sliding it through your slick folds, teasing your still sensitive clit until you whimpered.
“Bucky… please.”
He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open with that perfect burn. Your head fell back against the pillow, a long moan spilling from your lips as he filled you completely. When he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, he stilled, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned. “So tight. So perfect. Like you were made for me.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him impossibly deeper. The fullness was overwhelming in the best way, grounding, intimate, erasing every lingering shadow from the day.
He started moving then. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged against that sweet spot inside you with every thrust. The wet slide of him inside you, the slap of skin on skin, the low sounds he made in your ear… it all wove together into something hypnotic. His flesh hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as he drove into you, while his metal arm braced beside you, cool fingers threading through yours above your head.
Every thrust pushed the air from your lungs. Every retreat left you aching for more. He kissed you through it, messy, open-mouthed kisses that tasted like salt and desperation. When he angled his hips just right and hit that devastating spot inside you, your nails dug into his back, leaving red trails across scarred skin.
“Right there?” he growled, repeating the motion until your vision blurred.
“Yes—God, yes—”
He picked up the pace, thrusting harder, deeper, the bed creaking beneath you. Sweat slicked your bodies where they pressed together. His mouth found your throat, sucking a mark just below your ear, then lower to your collarbone, your breasts. He captured one nipple between his lips, tongue flicking as he drove into you, the sensation making you cry out.
The coil inside you tightened again, faster this time, sharper. Bucky felt it, felt the way your walls fluttered around him.
“That’s it, baby. Come on my cock. Let me feel you.”
His hand slipped between you, cool thumb finding your clit and circling with perfect pressure. The contrast, hot cock stretching you, cool metal brushing tight circles over your clit, shattered you.
Your orgasm crashed over you like a storm, back arching violently as pleasure tore through every nerve. You clenched around him, pulsing, soaking his cock as you came with his name on your lips in a broken sob. Bucky fucked you through it, hips stuttering but never stopping, drawing out every last tremor until you were shaking beneath him.
He kissed you through the aftershocks, slow and tender, even as his own control frayed. When your eyes fluttered open, he was watching you with raw hunger and devastating love.
“Not done,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Need you to come again. Need to feel it again.”
He pulled out suddenly, making you whine at the loss. Before you could protest, he flipped you onto your stomach with effortless strength, one hand gripping your hip to pull you up onto your knees. You pressed your chest to the mattress, ass raised, presenting yourself to him. The vulnerability of the position only made you wetter.
Bucky groaned at the sight. “So fucking pretty like this.”
He gripped your hips with both hands and thrust back into you in one smooth stroke. The new angle was devastating. Deeper. Harder. He set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward, the sound of skin meeting skin loud and filthy in the quiet bedroom.
You fisted the sheets, moaning into the pillow as he railed you. His metal hand slid up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades, holding you down while he fucked you. The dominance mixed with the tenderness in his voice, murmuring how good you felt, how much he loved you, how he’d take care of you forever, pushed you right back to the edge.
One of his hands snaked around to rub your clit again. Fast, tight circles that matched the brutal pace of his cock.
“Come with me, sweetheart,” he panted, voice strained. “Want to feel you milking me when I fill you up.”
The words sent you spiraling. Your final orgasm ripped through you, even more intense than the others, vision whiting out as your walls clamped down around him like a vice. Bucky followed right behind you with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt. You felt the hot pulse of him coming deep inside you, thick ropes of cum filling you as his body shuddered against yours.
For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the bed as he collapsed over you, careful not to crush you. He stayed inside you, softening slowly, both of you connected in the most intimate way possible.
Eventually he pulled out gently, a low hiss escaping both of you. He rolled you onto your side and pulled you back against his chest, spooning you tightly. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other slid under your pillow, his metal fingers gently stroking your arm.
“You okay?” he whispered against the nape of your neck, pressing soft kisses there.
You nodded, boneless and blissed out, tears of a completely different kind pricking at your eyes. Not from pain or grief this time, but from the overwhelming safety and love that wrapped around you like a blanket.
“I’m perfect,” you murmured, voice hoarse. “Thank you… for everything.”
Bucky nuzzled closer, his breath warm on your skin. “Don’t thank me for loving you. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
He reached down and pulled the sheet over both of you, tucking it around your bodies. His hand settled possessively over your lower belly, where you could still feel the warmth of him inside you.
“Sleep now, doll,” he said softly. “I’ve got you. Tomorrow we’ll face whatever comes. Tonight… you’re mine. Just mine.”
You drifted off just like that, wrapped in his arms, his heartbeat steady against your back, the city humming distantly outside the window. The horrors of the shift had been pushed far away, buried beneath layers of pleasure, devotion, and the kind of love that could survive anything.
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.”
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! ❤️
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!
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.
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.”
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! again, please be sure to check out the stardew valley inspired masterlist if you haven't already!
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݈݇— 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.”
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!”
“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.
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!🤍
