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[obsidianpegasus]

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[superbassbuck]

sexual healing | bucky barnes (18+)

⤷ thunderbolts*!bucky barnes x apothecary fem!reader

⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, thunderbolts fluff, opposites attract, slight enemies to lovers, grumpy and sunshine, sex pollen, dom!bucky, bucky is hungryyy, rough sex, angry sex, oral (m!receiving), intense eye contact

⭐︎ word count: 8.6k

⭐︎ a/n: probably my final thunderbolts fic huzzah before bucky gets slimed in doomsday (will edit this in a few months when the movie comes out)

synopsis: The team is in dire need of a healer. So when Alexei mentions that he knows someone who's proficient with medicinal herbs, Bucky has his hesitations. How could someone possibly heal people with stupid plants and minerals? Then, upon meeting, you accidentally give Bucky a tincture that leaves him feeling all fuzzy and warm, proving his concerns exactly right. And only you can help him get rid of his ache.

← previous fic | main masterlist

There is one thing many people know about the once Thunderbolts*, now appointed New Avengers, and no one knows it better than the team themselves: they get their asses kicked. A lot.

As a result, the team is now stuck trying to find a reliable healer who can patch up three super soldiers, a man who can turn into a void, an ex-widow, and a woman who can phase in and out of the visible spectrum.

“There’s this woman I know,” Alexei rambles for what feels like the fourth time today, despite it barely being noon. “Lovely lady. Lives in some... cottage somewhere.” He waves a hand like the gesture itself can fill in the blanks. “She crafts these strange potions that can mend pretty much anything!”

“What, like a wizard?” John asks, raising a brow from where he sits on the couch.

“Wizards don’t exist,” Bucky interjects matter of factly.

“No, not a wizard.” Alexei wags his fat finger. “Better than a wizard. She gathers all these herbs and plants and—”

“So... an apothecary?” Ava asks, one hand settling on her hip.

“What the hell is an apothecary?” Yelena squints, her gaze flicking between the group.

Alexei stands there, dumbfounded, mouth hanging slightly open at everyone else's audacity to interrupt. “If you people would actually listen to me and let me explain, then you would know.”

Bob, slouched lazily on the couch beside John, raises a finger with a guileless smile. “I’m listening.”

“Thank you, Bob—”

“I don’t need to hear any more,” Bucky interrupts, pushing himself off the seat with a groan. “We are not resorting to an apothecary.”

Alexei, dramatic as ever, throws his hands into the air in disbelief. He opens his mouth, ready to argue, but Bucky is just as ready to shut him down with a dismissive wave.

“I’m sure there are plenty of capable doctors out there with futuristic, high-quality equipment that can keep up with all of our abilities,” Bucky says gruffly, sweeping a wary gaze around the room as if daring someone to argue.

And John, of course, does.

“I don’t think that’s within our budget.”

“I can’t believe we’re the Avengers on a budget,” Bob mutters, disappointed.

“New Avengers,” Yelena corrects with a pointed look. “Don’t forget the New.”

Bucky can already feel himself aging the longer he stays in this room. “Regardless, we are not going to some old woman who plays with flowers and leaves and calls herself a healer.”

“She’s not an old woman,” Alexei mutters quietly, mostly because no one is listening to him anyway. “She’s quite beautiful, actually—”

“I don’t care,” Bucky cuts him off immediately, his face twisting into a muddled expression. “We’re going to find another healer—an actual licensed doctor who knows what they’re doing. And that’s final.”

Before anyone else can get a word in, he storms out of the room, his boots echoing against the floor. No one dares speak until the door clicks shut behind him.

Once the brooding soldier is gone, everyone finally lets out the breath they’ve been holding.

Yelena rolls her eyes. “Since when did he become the leader?”

Ava, John, and Bob shrug.

Yelena sighs before nodding at Alexei. “Tell us more about this apothecary friend of yours.”

It’s not often that you get visitors at your little cottage, tucked away beneath towering trees and overgrown grass. On the rare occasions you do expect someone, they already know your policy: all correspondence goes through mail-in letters. From there, you prepare whatever elixirs, salves, or tinctures they need—a process that usually takes days—before they stop by to collect their order and go on their merry way.

So you can only imagine your surprise when you open the door to find Alexei of all people standing on your front porch.

“Alexei?” you frown, making no effort to hide your confusion. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you.”

You peek past him, only to find what looks like a misfit party of five lingering at the foot of your steps like its Halloween and they’re waiting for their candy.

Most of them look... reasonably okay to be there. Or, at the very least, resigned to it. But one man in particular looks like he had been dragged across the country by his metal arm and held at gunpoint just to stand still and play nice.

“And I certainly wasn’t expecting visitors,” you add.

Alexei chuckles, scratching at his beard. “Yeah... well, you know how it is. When duty calls. Or something like that.”

You raise a brow. “And what exactly is your duty calling for?”

“Our team needs a healer.”

To your surprise, Bucky is the first to speak, despite being the most reluctant to come here in the first place.

“And Alexei vouched for you,” he continues. “Though I don’t know how much I trust his judgment.” He mutters the last part under his breath, but you hear him just fine.

Ava nudges him in the arm, a silent warning to show some class.

“We’re interested in working with you,” Yelena says, deciding to take over. She steps onto your porch, subtly nudging Alexei aside. “As the team’s medic. You’d be staying at the base—”

You blink before letting out a small chuckle, lifting a hand to stop her.

“I’m sorry. You must be mistaken,” you say, offering the group an awkward smile. “I don’t know what Alexei told you, or what you’ve heard, but I don’t work with groups.”

Yelena crosses her arms with a frown. “Why not?” she asks. It is ironic, considering everyone in this group was a lone wolf before they were forcibly lumped together.

You gesture to the lush greenery surrounding the cottage—to the bright red strawberry bushes and the carefully tended patch of soil near the front.

“Because everything my soul requires is right here, rooted in this very earth,” you say, your voice taking on a dreamy, sing-songy cadence that gives them goosebumps. Not in a good way. “The soil sings to me. I cannot possibly hear the secrets of my remedies if I am near danger. All the chaos disrupts their vibrations. It simply isn’t safe for me, or for my leafy little green children.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky groans, his face twisting into a sour cringe. “I’m meeting you guys back inside the Quinjet. This is pointless—”

“Bucky,” John warns over his shoulder. “We did not travel all this way just to turn around and leave. Let’s hear her out. Don’t be rude.”

That makes Bucky stop, his brow twitching in annoyance at being lectured by John Walker of all people. He mutters something grumpy under his breath, crossing his arms and staying put.

“Okay, fine,” Yelena shrugs, “but it’s just as my teammate said—we didn’t travel all this way for nothing. Can we maybe work something out? How about we try one of your elixirs that we can take on the go? Just to keep us from getting killed on our missions until we find a real doctor.” She winces slightly at her last phrase. “No offense.”

“None taken,” you say, dismissing it with a serene smile. “Though, my precious brews are not mere trinkets to be pulled from a dusty cabinet. Each tincture must be sung to, tailored specifically to the unique essence of the soul who drinks it.”

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as you eye the team warily. You already know Alexei is a super soldier of some sort, and the man with the metal arm brings a whole host of concerns. Considering the rest of the group’s heavy gear, you assume they all have their own peculiar…. afflictions.

“I can make something for each of you, but it will take time.”

“And we’ll pay you for your time,” Ava speaks up. “How long?”

“There are six of you,” you say, gesturing across the group. “It will take about a week.”

John furrows his brows. “A week? That’s too long. We keep getting our asses kicked out there, and without proper medical care, it’s only a matter of time before we’re put into the ground for good.”

You tuck your hands behind your back, tilting your head slightly. You hate talking about money—you explicitly moved out to this isolated cottage to get away from modern society and capitalism—but everything comes with a price.

“I can get it done sooner. Maybe in about two days, max. But it will cost you extra.”

The team exchanges apprehensive glances before their eyes land on Bucky, the only one still openly against this. A silent debate seems to pass between the group until Bucky finally lets out a defeated sigh. The group nods in unison, reaching a quiet agreement.

“Fine,” Yelena says. “We’ll take it. What’s the process?”

Your smile widens. “Good. I don’t need much—just a list of each person’s specific powers and abilities. When I start brewing, I need to know exactly what I am working with.”

“Okay. Sure. That makes sense.” Yelena looks around the group, crossing her arms. “But if we want this done in two days instead of seven, she’s going to need an assistant. Someone to stay behind, write all this down, and help her keep the details straight.”

The team falls silent, everyone warily looking around to see who can get out of it.

Alexei is already shaking his head, gesturing to his massive hands. Ava looks away, unwilling to sit still in a remote cottage for forty-eight hours. Bob was out of the picture—they needed Bob. John looks like he’s about to volunteer, but Yelena cuts him off with a subtle warning look. Terrible idea.

Slowly, all eyes turn and lock onto Bucky.

It actually makes perfect sense.

Bucky Barnes was a literal U.S. Congressman. If anyone on this chaotic team knows how to organize information and keep a meticulous track record, it’s him.

Bucky realizes they are all staring at him and immediately shakes his head. “No.”

“Oh, come on, Bucky,” John says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I mean… despite the whole brainwashing thing, you’re pretty good at keeping track of details. You used to read policy packets for a living. You’re perfect for it.”

“What?” Bucky scowls. “No. I haven’t even touched a single policy packet since I was in office.”

“Either way, we need someone to stay, and you’re the best fit,” Yelena interjects.

Bucky hates this. He hates the plan, and he especially hates the whole idea of an apothecary healer thing.

“Think about it,” John adds, trying to sound enthusiastic to help his case. It doesn’t. “Being out here kind of reminds you of your time back in Wakanda, doesn’t it?”

Your eyes go wide with interest. “Wakanda? That’s wonderful! I import many of my rarest herbs and minerals from Wakanda. It’s a beautiful place.”

Alexei gives Bucky a heavy pat on the back, though it comes off more like a shove in your direction. “Perfect. Now you two have something to bond over.”

While you stand gleefully in the doorway, thrilled by the thought of having a personal assistant—especially one who lived in Wakanda—Bucky stands frozen, holding an energy so dark it feels like it might wither your nearby plants if he so much as glares at them.

“Yeah,” the grumpy soldier mumbles. “Perfect.”

Bucky has never seen anything like this before. When he spent time in Wakanda, it was the perfect blend of high technology and nature. Being here feels like he has been transported into a fairy tale book.

Except, you aren’t the princess. You are more like a witch, moving briskly around the cottage. You set down glass vials and stone mortars while Bucky stands by the wooden table, looking entirely out of place as he holds a blank notepad and a pen at your command.

“Alright, let’s begin with the blonde one—Yelena,” you say, tossing a handful of blue petals into a mortar. “Tell me of her physical trials. What are her abilities?”

Bucky is amused by the way veins pop out of your forearms as you work the stone pestle—likely from years of grinding and manual labor. He thinks the contradiction to the white dress and apron you are wearing is funny.

“She’s a Widow,” Bucky explains. “Came from the Red Room, so she has enhanced human conditioning—”

Before he can finish, you shoot him a look. He raises a brow in confusion, and your eyes point sharply down to the notepad in his hands to emphasize, why aren’t you writing this down?

With a reluctant sigh, he starts writing down everything he just said.

“Okay,” you huff. “And what of her endurance? Her cellular recovery?”

Bucky shrugs. “It’s good, I guess.”

You frown. You can’t tell if he’s purposefully being stubborn, or if he just isn’t understanding you.

“Can you please be a little bit more specific?”

“She recovers fine, alright?” Bucky grunts. “Just make a standard healing potion.”

You pause your work, blowing a stray strand of hair away from your face in mild frustration. You wipe your hands on your apron as you step closer to the table.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” you warn, meeting Bucky’s eyes. “It is incredibly important that I know these details. My elixirs are potent. If I balance the herbs incorrectly because you are being stubborn, the side effects will be disastrous. Do you want your teammate to drink a remedy for a flesh wound and end up vomiting neon green bile for a week? Or worse, having her lungs seize up because it clashed with her natural chemistry?”

Bucky makes a face, lifting his pen from the notepad as if preparing to say something smart back. But then he stops.

You furrow your brows. “What was that?”

“What was what?” he tries to play dumb, which only annoys you more.

“It looked like you had something to say,” you point out. “So, what is it?”

Bucky presses his lips together, his eyes looking innocent, and shakes his head. “I have nothing to say.”

You huff, pouring the freshly ground petals into a vial. Capping the lid, you give it a gentle shake before holding it out to Bucky.

“Here,” you say. “Try it.”

Bucky raises a brow, hesitantly taking the glass from your hands. “I thought this was for Yelena?”

“Based on the very vague details you’ve given me, it seems like you, Yelena, and John share similar capabilities. The tinctures I’m brewing for the three of you won’t differ by much—this is just the base.”

He hesitates, swirling the mysterious liquid and eyeing it with suspicion. “So, what, I’m your test subject?”

You give him a bright and serene smile that makes him visibly uncomfortable. “Well, we have to test them all eventually, don’t we? Don’t let a single drop go to waste.”

Bucky studies the smile on your face. Ever since he arrived, he’s felt like you’ve taken a personal delight in getting on his nerves. What started out as natural incompatibility has quickly turned into a deliberate effort to get him riled up. It is no wonder you work alone.

Knowing that arguing with you will accomplish nothing and only delay his sweet release from this cottage and your presence, he gives up. With a defeated sigh and a wary glance in your direction, he pops the cap and downs the vial in one gulp.

He sets the empty vial back down on the wooden table with a clink—just to emphasize that he did exactly as he was told.

“How do you feel?” you ask with a curious tilt of your head.

Bucky shrugs casually. “I didn’t have any injuries to begin with, so I feel fine.”

You nod with an approving hum. “Good.” Stepping back over to your station, you add, “Let me know if you experience any strange side effects. I’m going to prepare the rest of the vials using that same base, and then we’ll get down to the nitty-gritty.”

As you line up empty vials and neatly label each one with the team members’ names, Bucky nods in satisfaction. He’s pleased that things are moving much faster than he anticipated.

But as the minutes tick by, Bucky feels himself growing increasingly restless.

The air in the cottage suddenly feels thick, hot, and suffocating. It has nothing to do with the plants or the aromas—and yet he can smell every single note. He can pick up the faint, sweet scent of your sweat from across the room. Every grind of your pestle echoes in his ears, and he can hear every soft rustle of your clothes as you move.

He swallows hard, but his throat is bone-dry. He tries to focus on his own station—on anything else—but his eyes keep drifting back to you.

When you pause to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his breath hitches. His heart stutters. When you absently lick your dry lips while double-checking a label, a heavy ache coils tight in his gut.

What the hell is happening?

He grips the edge of the counter, fighting the dizziness consuming him. His clothes feel suffocating, his entire body is burning up, and his nerves are spiraling out of control. Every sense is firing on all cylinders, hypersensitive to the tiny cottage—and above all, to you.

He tries to adjust his hands, but his palm accidentally sweeps into an empty glass jar. It flies off the counter and shatters against the floor.

“Shit,” he curses, bending down to pick up the shards, only to prick his own fingers on a sharp edge.

When he swears again in pain, you turn sharply, gasping at the mess. “Bucky! Are you okay?”

You hurry over, catching his forearm to help him stand back up. You are surprised by how heavily he slumps against you, leaning his weight into yours just to keep his balance. You take his wrist, pulling his hand closer to inspect the slice dripping blood onto the floor.

“Let me see—you’re bleeding, hold still—”

With you standing so close, your fingers ghosting over his cut, he catches the faint scent of those blue petals on your skin—the very petals you made him consume just minutes ago.

The scent, the proximity, the gentleness of your touch—everything acts like gasoline poured onto the flame roaring in his gut. Every instinct in his mind screams at him to push you away, to bark at you to give him space, but his body rebels at the thought of losing your touch.

He breathes hard through his mouth, sweat beading at his temples as strands of dark hair fall over his face, partially shielding him from your sight.

“What—what the hell did you do to me?” he hisses, forcing himself to stare at the ground.

You blink at him, confused. “I didn’t do anything—”

You pause, a sudden thought striking you. “Oh. Oh, no. You must be experiencing a side effect from the base tincture.”

You lean closer, your soft, warm hand reaching up to brush the dark, damp strands of hair out of his face. As you rest your palm against his forehead to check his temperature, a growl rumbles deep in his chest. He flinches at the contact, but he doesn't pull away.

When he finally looks up, meeting your gaze head on, the intensity in his eyes sends a shiver straight down your spine. His bright blue irises are swallowed by his dark, blown out pupils.

“Your fever is spiking,” you breathe. “The properties in the blue petals... they must have reacted with the super soldier serum.”

“Properties?” Bucky rasps, sounding almost angry. “What properties?”

You swallow hard, worried about how he’ll react. “I’m talking aphrodisiac properties.”

Bucky’s hand tightens around your wrist. His fingers are molten, his grip strengthening in a way that keeps you in place, showing you just how frustrated he is with all this.

It is no wonder he feels so warm, his body coiled up so tight. His pants strain against his pelvis, trying to fight away the sudden tightness drawing up in his groin.

There is no doubt about it—he’s aroused.

A feeling a man like him thought he’d never get to feel again, after everything. But one sip of your potion and one sniff of your scent, it’s enough to make his heart pound like an animal in heat.

“Fix it,” Bucky commands roughly. “Or so help me God, because I won’t be able to restrain myself.”

Instead of making the tinctures for the rest of the team, you spend the entire day coming up with a remedy for Bucky. You’ve never had an experience quite like this, and you find yourself stumbling over your own feet trying to reach a resolution.

Bucky sits on a wooden stool in the corner of the cottage, his head rolled back against the wall as he watches your every step.

His blue eyes follow you as you frantically scramble from counter to shelf, from glass jars to leather bound herbology books. The serene composure he was met with from the beginning is nothing like the woman he’s seeing now. You’re nervous, muttering under your breath and spilling dried leaves across the wooden table, fighting against your internal panic to heal him.

In another circumstance, seeing you flustered might have brought him a twisted sense of satisfaction, but right now, every passing second feels like torture.

The aphrodisiac courses violently through his bloodstream, amplifying every throb between his thighs, every drop of sweat slipping down his neck, and every scent that radiates off your smooth skin.

His jaw clenches so tight, his gums ache. Watching you stumble over your own feet, picking up the wrong vials and second-guessing your every move makes him unreasonably angry.

“You’re taking too long,” Bucky growls from where he sits.

You freeze, glancing over your shoulder with a look of impatience. “I’m trying, Bucky! The super-soldier serum is accelerating the chemical process, so I have to adjust the proportions carefully, or—”

“God,” he cuts you off with another groan, his fists tightening against his thighs. “You’re stumbling all over yourself.”

You try your best to ignore the clear outline throbbing against his pants in your direction. He gets up abruptly, pushing the stool back until it clatters onto the floor. His boots stomp over to you, each step heavy with frustration, causing the bottles on the shelf to rattle. He stops right before you, his chest heaving.

“Do you even know what you’re doing? Or are you doing this on purpose?”

You blink at his sudden outburst. A scoff escapes you, offended by his accusation.

“Excuse me? No—of course not. Why on earth would you think that?”

While Bucky towers over you, you feel the heat coming off his body and dance with your own warmth. He steps closer, closing what little space remains between you until your lower back hits the edge of the counter.

“You’re punishing me,” he snaps, hot breath ghosting across your cheeks. “This is payback for not cooperating with you earlier, isn’t it?”

Your brows furrow with frustration. Here you are, delaying your work to find a remedy for the angry man before you, and he dares to question your intentions.

“I can’t believe you would assume I’d be setting you up,” you snap back.

You raise your palm, a placating gesture meant to create distance between you two, but you might as well be holding the shovel for your own grave. Your hand rests on his chest, giving him a slight push that only does more damage to his self-control.

“I am trying to save your life—or at least your dignity! If I mess up this ratio, the reaction could be permanent, or worse. So excuse me if I want to get it right!”

Bucky huffs a harsh and bitter laugh. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before he bites down in annoyance. He steps back to you, but his snarky comeback dies in his throat once his throbbing length makes contact with your leg.

He chokes out a gasp, eyes flying wide as his forehead dips against yours. The mere contact of another human makes his cock beg desperately for some sort of release—it begs his hips to rock back and forth for any friction.

He watches, wide-eyed and a face burning with humiliation, as his cock rests heavy against your thigh. All he has to do is hike up your skirt, unbutton his pants, and…

“Bucky?” you whisper, leaning in closer.

That soft, gentle voice is broken with concern for him—yet all he wants is to hear it broken with moans in pain and bliss.

He pulls back sudden and fast, as if you hurt him.

You inhale deeply, swallowing your pride for him just this once. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Where’s your bathroom?” he interrupts. “I’m going to take care of this myself.”

You blink, momentarily stunned before pointing to the right, not wanting to elaborate any further. “Just down the hall. Make a left.”

Without another word, he pries himself away from you completely. He stomps down your hallway, his frame far too large for the narrow corridor, but he makes do by tilting his body to the side. The bathroom door shuts behind him roughly, making your glass vials shake on the counter.

As the minutes tick by, you try your best not to think about what he could be doing behind those closed doors.

Grunts of frustration and breathless curses echo from the bathroom and throughout your tiny cottage. You pound the pestle harder, trying to drown out his moans, but it’s futile. Your mind can’t help but wander.

You picture him standing large and imposing in the center of your bathroom. Shirtless, probably. Broad shoulders hunching over as he dips his head, beads of sweat rolling down the side of his face while his large hand circles around his length, stroking himself fast for any form of relief.

You remember the way he pressed himself up against you not that long ago—you felt how big he was, and you’re certain he wouldn’t be able to satisfy himself with just one hand.

“Fuck.” “God—fuck…” “Mmph—”

Moans and grunts continue to filter from your bathroom, and each sound and thought sends a wave of heat deep into your stomach to pool between your legs. You bite your lip hard, subconsciously pressing your thighs together, rubbing them against each other as a soft gasp slips past your lips.

You’re shamelessly wet, your mind running wild with filthy thoughts of what the brooding man could be doing just a room over. Your fingers trace down your body until they find the sweet spot between your legs. Rubbing your clit through the thin fabric of your dress, you begin to stroke yourself, moaning in time with Bucky’s.

You feel your legs growing weak, gripping onto the table for support as you play with yourself, but then a loud grunt echoes down the hall, followed by a hard thump that shakes the entire wall.

It doesn’t sound like pleasure.

It sounds like he’s in pain.

Eyes flying wide, you abandon everything at your station—including your own pleasure—and run down the hall to tend to Bucky.

“Bucky?” you call out with a frantic knock. “Bucky? Are you okay?”

Silence, save for his labored panting.

Panic takes over your senses. “I’m coming in!”

You throw the door open to a room that is suffocatingly hot. You smell his sweat and masculine musk from where you stand by the doorframe. Bucky is hunched over the edge of the sink, half-undressed, his pants shoved down past his hips. His cock is thick, red, and throbbing angrily in his flesh hand, slick and agonizingly unsated.

You gulp. He looks exactly as you imagined just seconds ago, and the sight is doing no favors for your heart rate.

You expect him to startle at your entry. You wait for him to bark at you to get out, but the order never comes. Breathing heavily with one arm propped on the sink to hold himself up—tricep muscles and forearm veins popping with frustration—he slowly glances over his shoulder.

He looks like a wild, untamed beast. His hair hangs in dark strings around his face, his blue eyes lost to lust, and a thin strand of drool leaks from the corner of his mouth and down his jaw.

Bucky catches you staring at his humiliating state, but he doesn’t point it out. You clear your throat awkwardly, already stepping back toward the doorway.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were hurt—”

“Where are you going?”

You pause. “I should leave you alone. Let you finish, or go back to working on the remedy.”

Before you can escape, Bucky turns his body to face you, not even bothering to cover himself up. His chest heaves, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. The sight of his heavy, veined length standing proud and untreated between his thighs makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“It’s not working,” he rasps, hungry eyes tracing your curves shamelessly. “I’ve been going at it for ten minutes, and it’s doing nothing.”

You’re terrified, but you can’t bring yourself to run, and the dampness between your legs gives you away. “Bucky, it’s your serum. I don’t think your hand would be enough to fix it. A normal remedy will take time—”

“I don’t have time,” he growls, grabbing your wrist tightly. “Look at me! I’m losing my fucking mind.”

You wince, the warmth of his skin burning yours.

“Did you just come in here to taunt me?” Bucky leans closer, baring his teeth as he snarls in your face, forcing you to look at him and nowhere else. “You tell me my hand isn’t enough. So what do you think I need, huh?”

He backs you up against the wall, pressing his legs between yours, forcing you to part for him. His cock rests heavy against your skirt. He reaches up to find your waistband, tugging it down in a rough motion that makes you gasp.

The fabric falls and pools uselessly around your ankles, baring your legs and panties under his hungry gaze. The sight makes him groan roughly—taking in the damp patch resting right over your center. Soaked, and ripe for the taking.

“Looks like you need more than just your hand, too,” he murmurs.

Releasing your wrist, his hand settles for your waist while the other guides the length of his cock against your soaked underwear. He rubs his leaking tip up and down, hissing at the sensation.

“Bucky,” you pant so helplessly, it comes as a moan. “We shouldn’t—”

“I need you to fix me,” he interrupts, gazing at you with desperate, pleading eyes. “I can’t—I can’t continue on with this ache. Especially if I’m going to be stuck here with you for two days, smelling you, looking at you…”

His head falls into the crook of your neck pathetically, breathing you in. His eyes flutter shut in bliss as he rocks his hips forward against your core.

“Fix me,” Bucky pleads. “Just let me slip it inside—just for a little bit. I’ll finish quick. Fuck, please. It hurts so bad.”

You’re holding your breath, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest that you’re certain he can hear it. You should push him away, but with the way he’s kissing your neck, sucking at the sensitive skin, you know he’s not going to give you a choice in this matter.

With vibranium resting on your hip, his right hand tickles the waistband of your panties before dipping beneath the fabric.

His warm fingers stroke your prodding clit gently, applying enough pressure to make you toss your head back with a gasp—giving him an even better opportunity to leave love bites all over your neck. He groans against your skin as his fingers move even lower, slipping against your slick folds and stroking back and forth, teasing the entrance.

“Christ,” he mutters. “You’re so wet—could easily slide my fingers right in. Bet you could take something bigger, too.” He rasps a laugh, his stubble tickling your skin. “There’s no way you could’ve gotten this wet just from hearing me.”

His cock twitches at the realization.

“You were touching yourself, weren’t you?”

Your face burns with a humiliation you don’t want to admit.

“No,” you try to deny it, but your breathless voice gives you away. “I was trying to make the remedy—”

Your voice cracks into a moan when two of his fingers slip past your entrance. Your walls tighten as he slowly eases himself in, just until his knuckles hit your opening.

“My remedy is right here,” he grunts, savoring the way you tighten up around his fingers. “Tight, wet, and already opening up just for me.”

Bucky’s nose tickles your neck again, closing the space with his lips. His tongue dances over your skin, warm lips sucking and tugging to leave his mark. While his fingers fuck your pussy, you can’t help but moan into the sensation, encouraging him to continue.

His cock trembles against your leg, his hips subtly rocking into your thigh. Just the sight of it terrifies you. Hard, engorged, red, and begging to be taken care of. You almost feel sorry for him, considering how long he’s had to deal with this up until now.

Your body works pliantly against his fingers, your hips rocking in subtle movements to meet his digits. He groans, relishing the way you leak around his fingertips. His thumb pads over your clit, working the sensitive bundle of nerves. You mewl helplessly into the air, panting his name and clawing his back for support.

The heat of his skin burns you. He’s so hot and sweaty, like he’s breaking a fever.

With your earlier ministrations, coupled with Bucky taking over your pleasure, your body tightens up as you get ridiculously close.

“Bucky,” you pant. “Don’t stop, please.”

He groans in frustration, forcing his hand to still. “I’m dying over here, and you want me to let you come?”

Bucky moves back just slightly, heaving and angrily glaring you down in a way that makes you feel like a cornered cat. You feel dirty and exposed right in your own home.

“You’re a healer, aren’t you?” His deep voice vibrates in his chest.

His hand finds your panties once more, tearing the soaked fabric easily and letting it slip down your hips to meet the discarded skirt on the floor.

“Then prove it to me. Show me that you can take care of a man in need.”

You tremble as the cool air embraces your skin after the sudden loss of his touch. His eyes rake over your body while he lazily strokes himself, trying to decipher where he wants to start. Blue orbs hone in on the space between your legs. He grunts, as if he’s made his decision, but his gaze slowly rises to your face, stopping at your mouth.

“On your knees,” he urges.

Your breath catches in your throat. At your hesitation, he steps closer to you, giving you a sudden thrill.

“You want me to say please?” he rasps in frustration, tugging at his cock. “Get on your knees, please.” The word comes out bitter.

Without breaking eye contact, you finally submit and sink to your knees. A low groan tears from his mouth at the sight of you kneeling before him—face feverish, lips parted in shock at his size, eyes burning with lust.

He steps closer, guiding his cock toward your plump lips.

“Thank you,” he says, though the words sound almost painful. “This’ll make me feel better. I know it.” He taps the tip gently against your lips. “Come on. Open.”

You slowly open your mouth, strings of saliva already beading between your tongue and the roof of your mouth. Bucky’s breathing is heavy as he slowly guides his cock into the warm expanse.

His eyes roll and his head tosses back at the immediate pleasure he finds in your mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” he drawls, using his right hand to thread through your hair. “God, this feels—fuck. I don’t even know how to describe it—”

Slowly, he rocks his hips back and forth. His cock feels heavy against your tongue, your lips stretching obscenely around his length until your jaw aches.

“Yes, just like that. Fuck. That’s a good girl,” he groans, his hips increasing their pace. “My good little healer.”

Bucky stares down at you with heavy eyes, forcing himself to stick to a steady, medium pace so he doesn’t overwork your jaw. The dark, curly hair at the base of his shaft tickles the tip of your nose as he works his cock deeper into your mouth.

You gag and choke, drool dripping obscenely down his length and over your chin while he uses your mouth like his personal toy.

“Mmph,” you choke around him, and the vibration of your moan makes his cock twitch and his balls draw up tight.

“I don’t know how—” his voice cracks into a groan, “—but just fucking your mouth like this… is already gonna make me cum faster than when I tried to use my hand. Shit—”

Your hands rest on his strong thighs, your eyes watery as you peer up at the man who has his cock deep down your throat. His eyes flutter open, meeting yours, and he lets out a sound that comes off half growl and half choke.

“Stay like that,” he grunts. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”

The words leave his mouth breathlessly. His hips stutter against your lips, his cock twitching heavily against your tongue. His balls slap against your wet chin, drawing tight and pulsing with every stroke inside your warm mouth.

You do exactly as you’re told and keep your eyes locked on his. Tears streak down your face from the ache of your jaw being stretched open, but your pain is Bucky’s pleasure. His jaw hangs loose as his hips pick up speed, fucking your mouth deeper and making you gag.

“God, those eyes,” he moans, his grip in your hair tightening. “Fuck—gonna cum. Look at me while I cum inside this tight little mouth.”

His hand tightens in your hair, holding your head completely still while he thrusts shallowly. A deep groan fills the air, his quad muscles tensing beneath your palms as his balls draw up tight.

His tip pulses against the back of your tongue until, finally, a thick release spills from the slit, coating the back of your throat with hot seed. He holds you still while you choke and gag around the sudden rush filling your mouth. He holds you there until you can’t take it anymore, and only then does he finally release your head.

You sputter and hack, his spunk coating your throat. Some of it dribbles down your lips as you heave to catch your breath.

He stands right before you, completely bare, taking in shallow, heavy breaths. But his cock still shadows over your face—still painfully hard and throbbing, even after his climax subsides.

“Shit,” he breathes, his right hand wrapping heavy around his length, stroking it furiously. “It won’t go down—why won’t it go down?”

“Bucky, wait—” you manage to choke out, wiping the back of your hand across your lips. “Listen to me—”

He staggers back, staring down at his fully erect and still throbbing length in absolute disbelief. His chest is slick with sweat, his eyes wild with confusion and a mounting frustration that tests his patience. His hand strokes the underside of his tip, trying to feel for any decrease in sensitivity, but it remains rock solid, flushed deep red and leaking. Again.

“I just came!” he growls in anger. “I just filled your fucking mouth, and it still feels like it’s going to burst. What the fuck did you put in that drink? What did you do to me?!”

A frustrated sound escapes you. “If you would just let me go back to my station, I could finish your remedy. I’ll make something strong enough to burn through your metabolism, and you can wait it out—”

“I can’t wait it out anymore. I’ve tried,” his wild eyes snap to you. “If your mouth didn’t work—then I’ll have to use something else.”

Before the last word even clears his teeth, his patience boils over completely. Bucky reaches down, his large hands gripping your arms. He lifts you effortlessly off your knees, hauling you up like you weigh nothing.

“Bucky—!”

You gasp as he spins you around, slamming your hips roughly against the edge of the sink counter hard enough to make the bottles on the shelves shake.

Coming eye to eye with your reflection in the mirror, your face heats up at how utterly debauched you look. Your cheeks are streaked with tears, your lips puffy and swollen, and a sheen of saliva and leftover cum reflects off your chin.

“H-how do you know if this will even work?” you stammer.

Bucky’s vibranium hand settles on your hip while the other finds the small of your back, forcing you to bend until your ass tilts up to him. He grabs your knee and hitches your leg up and over the counter, spreading your thighs wide.

“It’ll work,” he grunts deeply, aligning the head of his cock against your drenched entrance. “I’ll make sure it works.”

His relentless arousal is screaming at him to take what he wants. He doesn’t bother teasing or easing in; he knows you’re soaked enough to take it. He drives his hips forward, burying half of his length—forced to pause briefly from your tightness—before pushing the rest of his length deep inside from behind.

A high, breathless scream tears from your throat, your fingers desperately clawing at the wood for purchase. Your walls aren’t used to this size, forced to stretch wildly around his girth.

“Fuck!” Bucky roars out, his head falling forward between your shoulder blades.

The scorching heat of your body suffocating his angry, unsated length makes him shudder violently.

“Fuck, yes—right there. You’re gonna help me burn it off.”

The counter shakes in time with his thrusts.

With your leg propped up on the sink, it allows Bucky to drive deeper and deeper, his balls slapping against your wet folds with every move. You watch him pound into you relentlessly from behind through the reflection of the mirror.

Bucky’s face is twisted in a mix of both pleasure and frustration. He looks almost animalistic—sweaty, hot, and desperate for release.

A litany of moans and curses drifts from his mouth to fill the air while the mirror fogs up with your collective body heat. Bucky’s eyes watch your body from behind, and the sight makes him drive into you even harder. You look like a mess beneath him, your tits bouncing with every thrust.

He watches where his cock disappears in and out of your pussy, admiring the creamy white ring that sits at the base of his shaft and dampens the dark curls on his pelvis. Every sense is heightened to the max—every whimper that leaves your lips doesn’t go unnoticed, and your sweet scent fills his nostrils, swimming in his head like a drug.

Bucky reaches around your front with his flesh hand, wrapping his fingers around your neck to crane it and force you to look at yourself in the mirror.

“Look at what you’re doing to me,” he growls, meeting your eyes in the reflection. “Look at how good you take it.”

You whimper, your head tilting back against his broad chest. Through the fog on the glass, Bucky doesn’t look like himself at all. The aphrodisiac has turned him into a monster who won’t let you go until he gets what he wants.

“Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he grunts into your shoulder, his teeth nipping at the warm skin before licking over the bite mark. “Moan for me. Let me hear how wet you are for this. God—you’re squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe.”

He hitches your leg up even higher over the edge of the sink, opening you up completely. The new angle lets him hit that deep, aching sweet spot inside you with every single stroke.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, watching the reflection as his thick length disappears into your cream coated entrance, over and over. “You’re taking every inch of it. Right where you belong. You’re gonna milk every drop out of me until this fever breaks.”

His eyes roll back as his grip on your hip tightens. Every inch of him ravages your body like it belongs to him, every move delivering a kiss to your cervix and leaving a trail of pre-cum in its wake.

You’re stuffed completely full, and as his right hand circles around your hip to pad at your clit, it’s only a matter of time before you cum all over him.

“Oh my god! Right there, don’t stop!” you instinctively roll your hips against his palm, the movement sending lightning bolts of pleasure straight to Bucky’s gut.

Bucky groans, feeling your core clench up tight around his cock. You’re already impossibly tight, and he can only imagine how tight your body will squeeze him when you finally come.

His cock works shallowly inside you while his fingers rub over your clit. The mixture of his length stretching you open and his fingers grinding against your swollen nerves is enough to make you see stars.

Finally, a broken scream tears from your throat, your fingers scrambling against the counter for purchase as you come undone all over Bucky’s cock.

Your body spasms violently, clenching and milking him for everything he’s worth, and Bucky can’t hold back any longer.

“Oh, fucking hell,” he gasps. His entire body locks up as his cool metal digits dig into your hip, forcing you to take every drop of his second release.

A scalding rush of his seed erupts deep inside you, coating your cervix and spilling past his thick shaft. It’s heavier and thicker than the first time—so much that your body can’t hold it all, and it shamelessly drips down your entrance to pool on the floor.

He holds himself buried deep, gritting his teeth and groaning through the endless, pulsing wave of his climax. His cock throbs in time with your pulsing core while you both try to catch your breath.

Pants and heavy breathing fill the hot, humid bathroom. Bucky’s cock stays warm inside you, but because of how swollen and thoroughly used you feel, you can’t even tell if this remedy helped him or not.

“Bucky?” you ask breathlessly, glancing at him in the mirror as you catch your breath.

Bucky keeps his forehead rested against the back of your head, his hot breaths tickling the nape of your sweaty neck as he steadies himself.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes in a broken voice that catches you off guard. His big arms wrap around your bare waist, pulling you in closer.

That’s when you feel his cock throb inside you again.

“That felt so good—but dammit, I’m still hard.”

A week has passed since the Thunderbolts picked up the elixirs from your cottage. Between all the fighting, jobs, and unnecessary damage they’ve taken as a team, they went through every single one. Not a single drop remains.

John opens one cabinet, then the next, and the next, his brows furrowing with growing confusion when he realizes all the shelves are empty.

“Hey, did someone misplace that extra batch of potions we were supposed to hold onto?” he shouts to the rest of the team over his shoulder.

“You mean elixirs,” Bucky says, stepping out of the elevator with a grumpy look on his face, already mentally checked out for the day.

“Whatever,” John waves his hand dismissively. “Where are they?”

“We went through them all,” Ava answers from where she sits on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table.

Bob frowns at Ava. “I thought we agreed this would be a no-shoes indoor household.”

Ava ignores Bob, not even bothering to take her boots off. “Ask Walker. He’s the one who used three of them on a minor scrape because he panicked.”

“It was a deep laceration!” John snaps, slamming a cabinet door shut. “And it was infected! Regardless, we need more. We’re going on that operation next week, and I’m not going in without backup med supplies. Who’s making the run back to the cottage?”

Bucky remains still at the kitchen island. He slowly raises a glass of ice water to his lips to take a long gulp, hoping the cold liquid might flush out the sudden heat rising up his neck.

The second John utters the word cottage, Bucky’s mind floods with memories he had been trying desperately to suppress for the past seven days.

The scent of sweet herbs mixing with sweat. The sound of your breathless whimpers moaning his name as he pinned you to the sink counter, helpless against a fever that had nearly driven him out of his mind. Even now, just thinking about the way your body had squeezed him—over and over, completely ruined beneath him—made his jaw clench hard enough to crack a tooth.

“Okay,” Yelena huffs, looking around. “I don’t know where Alexei is, so he’s out of the picture. Who volunteers?” She asks, already opting herself out.

The room stays quiet. Bucky keeps his eyes glued to the glass in his hand, watching the ice cubes float.

“I’d go,” Bob offers gently, raising a hand. “Buuut I have that severe pollen allergy.”

“Well, Valentina is trying to arrange an interview with the press with me eventually, so..” John explains in a way that makes him sound more important than he actually is. “Gotta stay on call for that.”

Ava and Yelena glance at each other with a snort.

John turns around, leaning back against the empty pantry counter, and his eyes land on the other super soldier who hasn’t said a word.

John squints at him. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet.”

Bucky doesn’t break his stare with the water glass. “I’m drinking.”

Yelena raises a brow. “You know what? Yeah. Bucky, you should go. You two are already well acquainted, no?”

“And let’s be honest, you look like you need to get out of the tower. You’ve been moody all week.” Ava chimes in, finally releasing her feet off the coffee table, shifting on the couch to look over at him. Bob sighs in relief.

Bucky’s jaw clenches.

Going back means coming face-to-face with you for the first time after… everything.

His cheeks heat up at the sheer humiliation that’ll come with it, but his heart thumps with something he didn’t expect: anticipation. Ever since those two days he spent with you, you were the only thing playing in the back of his mind. And truthfully—a secret he would take to his grave—he’d been using more doses of the tinctures than normal just to have an excuse to see you, assuming he could build up the courage to actually do it.

You, and everything that transpired in your cottage, had been playing in his head like a movie on a loop. At night, he rolls around restless in his bed, thinking only of you. Even taking... sexual matters into his own hands isn’t enough anymore.

The room is awfully quiet as everyone stares at him. They expect him to fight back like he did the first time, maybe throw out a snarky remark.

Bucky lifts the glass to his lips with a indifferent shrug, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.

“I’ll go.”

this was kind of fun to write at first, but then i abandoned the draft for like two weeks and got back to it and was like "wtf did i write"

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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[buildingmysteri]

[sl-newsie]

Normal people: look up an actor to see what other shows they've been in

Me: sees a hot character and immediately researches for fanfiction about them

It's an instinct now.

[meltygetswifi]

not to be a dirty commie or anything but i don't think any one person should have enough money to solve world hunger and then get to decide not to

[metal-armed-muse]

BAD HABITS

DAD’S BEST FRIEND BUCKY X F!READER

SUMMARY. What’s so bad about Bucky Barnes? The fact that he watches you or calls you kid while he does it?

WORD COUNT. 12.2K WARNINGS. age gap, dad’s best friend, bucky calls reader ‘kid’ but she’s 25, MDNI, smut, forbidden relationship, guilt, mutual pining, first time, virginity loss, oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv, breeding kink, cum play, possessive language, bucky is obsessed with reader’s stomach, soft aftercare, porn with plot sprinkled, no use of y/n. FROM KIE. The summary makes it seem like he’s some sleazy asshole, he’s not. I tried real with the title and summary, and that’s all I could come up with. Sigh.

Kid. The word has always been there between you, too worn-in to sound accidental now. Kid at nineteen, when you came home during college break and saw him for the first time, sitting at your father's dining table, quiet and so beautiful it annoyed you for three straight days. Kid at twenty-one, when you brought home cheap wine and he took the corkscrew from you while you were mangling it, his fingers brushing yours, that you almost dropped the bottle opener entirely. Kid at twenty-four, when your dad started leaving tools here and Bucky started appearing in your kitchen with excuses thin enough to see through.

Kid, so he could look away.

Kid, so you'd stay safe.

You've been watching him for six years now. Learning the way he takes his coffee, the tells when he's had a bad night, how he'll rub at his left shoulder where metal meets flesh, like the junction still aches. You've seen all of it, studied all of it.  Sometimes you think about making a list, just to prove to yourself how pathetic you've become. Line item number one: he takes his coffee black but adds sugar when he thinks no one's looking. Line item number seventy-three: the nightmares are worse in winter. You could write a dissertation on Bucky Barnes and never run out of material.

You've watched him go from your dad's traumatized war buddy to something resembling human again. Watched him learn to laugh at your dad's shitty jokes and argue about sports teams and pretend the nightmares didn't still wake him up sometimes.

Watched him, lately, watch you back.

It's different the way he watches you. You don't think there's a name for it, or if there is, it is too scandalous to say out loud. His gaze will catch on your mouth when you're talking, or track the movement of your hands, or linger on the strip of skin between your shirt and jeans when you reach for something on a high shelf. Then he'll look away fast enough to give himself whiplash, and call you kid again like the word's a shield against whatever he's been thinking. It's one of those 'say it enough times, you'll start believing it' situation.

The first time you caught him staring at your mouth, you'd forgotten what you were saying mid-sentence. Just stood there like an idiot while he blinked and looked away. Your dad asked if you were feeling okay. You weren't. You haven't been okay since you were nineteen and saw him for the first time.

What's killing you now is that you don't know what happens next. You've played out a dozen scenarios in your head — him kissing you against the kitchen counter, you finally calling him on his bullshit, the world ending before either of you has to acknowledge this thing happening between you two. But you can't predict Bucky Barnes. He's controlled but also has triggers you don't know from stories he won't tell, and trying to guess his next move is like trying to catch smoke.

When you let yourself into your apartment on a Tuesday and hear him at your sink, you're not even surprised anymore. This has become routine. Your dad forgets his stuff more often than not, Bucky shows up to collect them, the excuse wearing thin each passing day. Both of you pretending this is normal.

"Kitchen," he calls before you've closed the door.

You don't question why he's here before you're even here. To be honest, it makes you happy, to see someone else — no, to see him. The henley he's wearing enhances his biceps, you almost want to chew through it. You've seen him in this shirt before. You know you have. But every time feels like the first time, like your brain can't quite process the reality of him. There's grease smudged on his jaw that he's completely missed while washing, all you want to do is let your fingers touch him under the guise of removing it. His hair's getting long, and you have approximately thirty seconds before you do something stupid like offer to trim it for him.

"Where's dad?"

Bucky glances at you, a fractional hesitation before he shuts off the water. "Got held up at work." He reaches for the dish towel — the one you've told him a hundred times not to use for his greasy hands — and starts drying off. "Said he'll grab the bike next week."

"Right. Next week." You drop your bag on the counter, not surprised once again. Your dad's been saying next week for three weeks now. At this point, the bike is practically furniture. Why does he leave his things over here if he never cares enough to get them back himself? 

"Well, he's busy." 

"So, he sent you?"

"He didn't send me, I offered," he says. The way he's looking at you now makes your aware of your heartbeat, the steady thunk it used to be is now replaced by this erratic energy that has nowhere else to go.

The kitchen suddenly feels too warm. Or maybe you're too warm. Maybe you've been too warm since the moment you walked in and saw him standing at your sink. You shrug out of your jacket, feel Bucky's eyes track the movement, watching the fabric slide down your arms, every inch of your skin waking up under his gaze. When you look back at him though, his eyes are fixed on the ragged towel at his hand, like they weren't on your skin this whole time. 

The grease on his face is starting to bother you. Though, bother would be a big word. You just want to rub it off. Why? You don't know. Maybe to get your hands on him. "You've got something on your face," you tell him.

His hand rises automatically, searching for the stain in the wrong place. "Where?"

"Other side. No — here, just —" You step closer, and immediately realise this is a mistake. You know it's a mistake even as you're doing it, but your hand's already there, thumb swiping at the smudge on his jaw.

Bucky goes still, that's the only way to put it. A whole-body freeze, every muscle locked down. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to count his eyelashes if you wanted to, which you absolutely do not want to. That's what you keep telling yourself. Liar, something in you whispers. You've wanted to count them since forever. You've wanted to note every detail of him and keep them somewhere safe.

There's a faint knowing of the world running in the background, but nothing else seems to matter when he's still not moving. And neither are you. "Got it," you say, but you don't step back.

"Thanks." 

Your thumb's still on his jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin. You can feel the texture of it, slightly coarse. Suddenly, you're struck by the intimacy of knowing how his face feels under your hand. This is the kind of knowledge that belongs to girlfriends and wives, not to the daughter of his best friend who's been harbouring increasingly inappropriate thoughts for years. You can feel his pulse jumping in his throat, like he's been running. Neither of you is moving. Neither of you is even breathing if you're entirely honest. There's a slow dance of his eyes, from your own to your mouth, then back to your own. Yours do the same, mirroring him in the most minute way possible. There's about three inches of space between your mouth and his.

"This is a terrible idea," Bucky says as he leans in, which in turn makes you lean in. The distance closes in itself by excruciating degrees. 

"The worst." The two words from your mouth are swallowed by his own, the space between you both narrowed to a negative as his lips touch yours. The first graze of it is gentle, testing. Like he's afraid you'll shatter or bolt or realize what a stupid thing this is. But you've been waiting for this. There's months — no, years — of watching, wanting and pretending you weren't doing either, years of lying to yourself that you could be satisfied with just existing in his orbit, and gentle just isn't going to cut it. You fist your hand in his shirt and pull him closer, breaking whatever thread of control he's been clinging to.

Bucky makes a low sound in his throat and kisses you harder, hand coming up to cup the back of your head, metal arm sliding around your waist. The metal is cool even through your shirt, a shock of temperature that makes you gasp into his mouth. He tastes like coffee and mint gum, the taste so unique because it's him. When his tongue sweeps into your mouth, you forget how to think in complete sentences. Language becomes optional, unnecessary. Who needs words when you have this, have him finally, finally touching you the way you've dreamed about. Your free hand finds his shoulder, gripping hard enough to feel the shift of muscle under skin, as he backs you up until your hips hit the counter.

The kiss turns messier and desperate. His beard scrapes your chin, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling small sounds from you. You'd be totally embarrassed if you had any capacity to think. But, you're drowning in it, in him, in six years of wanting finally combusting into this.

The limbo of the kiss, the existence narrowed down to the dance of your lips is mercilessly interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket.

Bucky tears his mouth away from yours with a curse that would make your father blush, his forehead finding residence at your temple, both of you panting. You can feel his breath on your skin, uneven, matching your own. His hand shakes slightly as he fumbles for his phone.

"It's your dad."

The words are a bucket of ice water, waking up fear and shame, squashing any leftover desire. Guilt crashes over you in waves. This is your dad's best friend. Your dad's traumatized war buddy who he trusts completely, who he invited into his life, into your life. And here you are with swollen lips and shaking hands, having just had his tongue in your mouth. 

Bucky steps back, puts physical distance between you before he answers the phone. The loss of his warmth feels physical, like something's been ripped away. "Yeah?" His eyes are still on you, pupils still blown, gaze oscillating between your parted lips and your pleading eyes. "No, just wrapped up. Heading out now." A pause where he could take a deep breath, but doesn't. "Yeah, she's good. I'll tell her."

When he hangs up, the silence that follows is excruciating.

Expectant eyes search his face, his mouth, guilt threading through your own features as you take in his. Whatever you'd expected him to say, it wasn't this, "I should go," Bucky says

"That's it?" The words tear through you, frustrated and angered by his choice, his decision. "That's all you're gonna say?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Maybe any sentence that doesn't make me feel like I imagined the last five minutes."

His jaw clenches and unclenches. You can see him thinking, the gears turning behind his eyes, weighing what he should say versus what he wants to say. He looks like he's choosing his next sentence carefully. But when it does come out, it doesn't seem all that careful. "You didn't imagine it."

"No? Great. Very comforting." You cross your arms, looking like the very kid he claims that you are. "So what, you kiss me like that and then just leave?"

Bucky doesn't quite meet your gaze as he grabs his jacket and starts his way away from you, stillnot looking at you. 

"Why?" You prod. 

"You know why." Finally, he looks at you, whatever you see on his face makes you want to hit him or kiss him again. Pain, maybe. Regret. Want that he's trying desperately to bury and failing. Not trusting your body to keep its distance, you put some between you, stepping back. Bucky sighs, and runs his metal fingers through his hair. "Your dad's my best friend. I'm too old for you. This is — we can't —"

"I'm twenty-five, Bucky."

"I know how old you are. You think I don't know exactly how old you are? You think I — Fuck!" The frustration in his voice borders on anguish, like the knowing is what's killing him.

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is that your dad would kill me. The problem is that I've got no business touching you. The problem is that I can't —" He runs his hand through his hair again, and you think he might pull it off if he's not careful. "I need to go."

Bucky walks out, leaving you standing in your kitchen with kiss-swollen lips, racing heart, and anger. You're furious. At him for kissing you and leaving. At your dad for existing. At the whole goddamn universe for making this so complicated. At yourself most of all, for still wanting him even as he walks away.

A week. Seven days of you jumping every time someone knocks on your door, checking your phone obsessively like he's going to text you, half-expecting Bucky to show up with another tissue-thin excuse about tools or motorcycles or whatever.

He doesn't.

Day two, you convinced yourself you hallucinated the whole thing. Day three, you stared at your kitchen counter trying to remember the exact spot where he'd backed you up against it, like if you stand there long enough you'll be able to conjure the feeling of his hands on your waist.

Your dad picks up the bike himself. Mentions Bucky's been busy with some job for Sam, says it casually, disinterested. That means he has no idea anything's changed. You smile, nod and try not to think about the way Bucky's mouth felt on yours.

It doesn't work.

You replay the kiss in your mind so many times it starts to feel like fiction. But, you can still feel the ghost of his metal arm around your waist, still taste coffee and mint when you close your eyes.

On day seven, you've nearly convinced yourself to show up at his apartment and demand answers.

But he shows up at yours.

It's Tuesday night, exactly one week later. You're in old sweats and a tank top, halfway through a pint of ice cream you're eating straight from the container. 

The knock is an inconvenience at this time, perfectly ruining your plans of rewatching Brooklyn 99, turn your mind off and eat the damn ice cream. You almost don't open, 9 PM is hardly any time for visitors, hoping that person takes the hint and fucks off.

The second knock comes up more insistent, a hurry in the air, forcing you to pad towards the door, ice cream in hand. 

And there's Bucky. 

Bucky, who looks terrible, dark circles under his eyes, wearing an expression like he hasn't slept in days. He looks how you feel, which is both gratifying and heartbreaking. His hair is damp. It takes you a moment to understand it's drizzling. Drizzle would be a stretch, for the raindrops are the size of a pomegranate pearl, dropping down with vigour. 

"Hey," he says.

"No." You start to close the door, even though all you want to do is haul him inside, towel off his hair, dry those strands that are matted together. 

His boot hits the doorframe, an obstacle in your plans, a test on your self-preservation. "Wait —"

"I don't want to hear it, Bucky. I really don't." You try to push the door close anyway, mustering up the courage. But he's stronger than you physically, stronger than your thinning anger, which is dissipating by the second. "Move your foot," you try somehow. 

"Not until you let me talk."

"Why should I?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're a nicer person than I deserve."

A smile starts to break into your features, but you quickly tone it down. He's not playing fair, showing up here looking lost and using that voice. "Flattery's not gonna work."

"I'm not trying to flatter you. I'm trying to apologize."

You stop pushing on the door, the bare minimum you could do without showing all your cards. "Then apologize."

"Can I come in?"

Now, that would be a tremendously bad idea. If he comes in, you're not sure where else he'll be coming in. 

"You can apologize from right there." 

Bucky's quiet for a moment, studying your face. You try not to show your true feelings,keep your expression neutral, unaffected, like your heart isn't actively trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I'm sorry. For leaving like that. For not calling. For —" He looks like he's frustrated with himself, abruptly stopping the sentence. He takes a deep breath before continuing, "for all of it."

"Okay." You still don't open the door wider. "Apology received. Have a good night."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Shut me out. I know I fucked up, but —" He runs his hand through his hair, the water droplets cascading down his skin. You hate that you find it endearing, that even now, even angry and hurt, you're memorising the way the water runs down his temple, the exact shade of misery in his eyes. "Can we talk? Please?"

The 'please' is what does you in. You've never heard Bucky Barnes say please about anything, the sheer novelty of it makes you hesitate just long enough for him to see the weakness in your armor. "Five minutes," you tell him, stepping back.

You close the door behind him as he enters. When you turn around, he's closer than you expected, your back hitting the door with the need to put distance between you both. "You said you wanted to talk," you remind him, voice breathier than you'd like.

"I can't stop thinking about it." His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips. "About kissing you. About how you tasted. About the sound you made when —"

Feigning indifference seems like the only way out of this. "Okay." You try to sound unaffected, like your pulse isn't racing, like you haven't been thinking about it too. Obsessively, unhealthily, to the point where you can't focus on anything else. "So you've been thinking about it."

"That's not okay."

"No?" You raise an eyebrow, daring him. "Sounds like a you problem."

Bucky takes a step closer, trapping you between him and the door, the distance feeling anything but threatening, not having felt this alive in seven days. "I've been trying to do the right thing. I know that sounds like garbage from where you're standing."

"It does have that smell."

His lips curve into a smile. You wish you were immune to that, to his smile, to him. His hand comes up, hovering near your waist but not quite touching. "Your dad trusts me. He's trusted me for years. And here I am, showing up at his daughter's apartment, thinking things I've got no business thinking."

"What kind of things?" 

"Don't ask me that."

"Why not?" You're goading him, and you both know it. "Afraid you'll tell me the truth?"

His hand finally makes contact, just a light touch on your hip, just over the fabric of your top. "I've thought about you in every room of this apartment. I've thought about you when I shouldn't, in ways I definitely shouldn't. I've tried to stop, and I can't, and it's driving me out of my mind."

"You should suffer a little. You left me standing in my kitchen like what happened meant nothing."

"It meant everything." His other hand finds your waist, both of them spanning your hips, and you wish you weren't wearing anything, just so you could feel his hands on your skin. "That's the problem. If it meant nothing, I could've walked away and stayed away. But it meant everything. I still tried to stay away — tried to do the right thing, but here I am."

His breath comes out hard, he's so close you can clearly see the flecks of gray in his blue iries, which are turning black by the moment. You can smell the rain on him, soaked strands falling in front of his face, begging to be brushed away from his eyes.

"Stop calling me kid," you tell him.

Bucky's hands tighten on your hips. "I didn't call you that tonight."

"Not tonight. In general."

Bucky doesn't respond, but his hands move a fraction, the metal in his arm grazing your skin, cool even through your thin tank top.

"Say my name."

He hesitates like the word might burn him. You watch him struggle with it, something like pain or hurt flickering across his face before he utters, "sweetheart."

"That's not my name."

"Please." His voice is rough, pleading. 

"Say it, Bucky."

"Please don't make me."

The vulnerability in it catches you off-guard. "Why not?"

"Once I say it, that's it. I can't take it back. Can't pretend this is something I can walk away from."

"So you do want to walk away still?"

So soft, so fragile, your name leaves his mouth. It sounds different in his voice, shaped by his accent, rough with want. You've heard your name a thousand times but never like this.

"Was that so hard?" Your own voice is softer now, your hands somehow having found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

"Yes." All that want he's been trying to bury, is written across his face in sharp relief. His eyes are almost black, pupils blown wide, grip on your hips tight enough to bruise. "You have no idea how hard it is."

"Saying my name is hard?"

"Saying your name while I've been watching you, wanting you, knowing I shouldn't touch you. That's hard."

"You want me?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.

"Don't ask me that." It sounds like it's being dragged out of him. "Please."

"Why not?"

"You know why."

"No, I don't."

Bucky makes a sound that just might be the frustration in him seeping through, but his eyes are full of want. "Yes. Fuck, yes, I want you. I want you so much it feels like it's killing me. Happy now?"

"Not yet," you tell him befote smashing your lips into his. Anything but gentle, absolutely no testing the waters thing he did the first time. This is want distilled into action, six years of waiting and pretending all combusting at once, every fantasy you've ever had, every late-night thought you've tried to suppress, finally made real. Your hands fist in his damp hair, tightening his grip on your hips, bruising. When you bite his lower lip, he groans into your mouth like you've wounded him.

"We shouldn't," he speaks against your lips, but he's doesn't pull away, not even close. "Your dad —"

"Is not here." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Do you want to stop?"

Bucky looks at you like you're asking him to cut off his other arm. "No."

"Then stop talking about my dad while you're kissing me."

That startles a brief laugh out of him. Without wasting another second, he's kissing you again, walking you backward through your apartment. You're vaguely aware of furniture and doorways, of his jacket hitting the floor somewhere, of your ice cream forgotten on the counter. None of it matters as much as the slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of him, the way his hands are mapping your waist like he's memorizing you.

When the backs of your knees hit the couch, you try to pull him down with you, but Bucky resists. His hands find your hips, steering you around until you're standing and he's sitting, thighs spread wide to make room for you between them. The position puts you above him, taller for once. On his face, theres a crack in the armor where you can see straight through to the want underneath.

He looks up at you, and you've never seen him like this. Vulnerable doesn't seem like the right word for Bucky Barnes, but it's close. It's in the way his hands rest on your hips, loose enough that you could step away if you wanted. In the tilt of his head, exposing his throat, how he's letting you see him want you without the usual defenses. It makes you feel invincible and terrified both.

"Still time," he says.

"For what?"

"For you to tell me to leave."

You reach down, fingers sliding into his hair. The strands are cool and wet against your palm. When you drag your nails lightly against his scalp, his eyes flutter close. "I don't want you to leave."

Bucky leans forward, resting his forehead against your stomach. The intimacy of it steals whatever breath you have left. His hands tighten on your hips, thumbs stroking small circles through your tank top, the warmth of his breath you can feel through the thin fabric.

"Should've done this right," he mutters into your stomach. "Should've taken you to dinner. Somewhere nice. Not just shown up at your door like some —" he stops, breathing into you, the warm breath wet against your skin even through the flimsy cloth. 

"Like some what?" You prod. 

"I don't know. Obsessed asshole with no self-control."

That makes you laugh, earning a smile from him that you feel against your stomach. "I don't want dinner," you say. 

"You should want dinner. You should want the whole thing — flowers, romance, somebody who isn't —" He sighs, not able to finish what he was going to say. If he says it, it will be real. 

"Who isn't what?"

"Too old for you. Too —"

"Bucky." You tug his hair until he looks up at you, mouth parted, so gorgeous. "I don't care about any of that."

"You should."

His hair is soft under your touch, your fingers playing with them as you speak. "Well, I don't. And for the record, I hate fancy restaurants. They never give you enough food, and everyone whispers."

His mouth quirks into the fondest of smiles. "That's your objection? Portion sizes and volume?"

"I'm serious. I went to this place once where they served a single scallop on a plate the size of my head. One scallop. I'm supposed to eat one scallop and pretend I'm satisfied?"

"Sounds terrible."

"It was. I stopped at McDonald's on the way home." It had been a date, actually. Some guy from your office who'd taken you where the menu didn't have prices and the portions were insulting. You'd been hungry, bored and wishing the entire time that you were with Bucky instead.

Bucky's hands slide under the hem of your tank top, fingers finding bare skin. "No famcy restaurants where they serve a single scallop. Noted."

His touch almost derails your thoughts, you have to work to keep your voice steady. The rough calluses on his fingers drag against your skin, leaving trails of fire. "Anyway, you're here now. That's worth more than some overpriced shit."

"Is it?" There's doubt clouding his eyes, you can see clearly. 

"Yeah. It is." You just hope he understands how much you mean this. 

His hands move higher, taking your shirt with them, bunching the fabric above your waist. The metal hand is cool against your overheated skin, cold enough to make you gasp. Bucky stops his touch on its tracks. "Is it cold?"

"A little."

He starts to pull back, his touch leaving you becoming a physical thing you feel the loss of. Catching his wrist, you hold the metal hand flat against your stomach. "Don't."

"You sure?"

"I like it." The contrast, the warm flesh on one side, cool metal on the other, makes your skin feel alive. You've thought about his arm before, late at night when you shouldn't. Wondered what the metal would feel like against your skin, wondered if he'd let you touch it, trace the plates. "Feels good."

His grip tightens, both hands spanning your waist now, the slight tremor in his fingers you feel more and more each passing second. Like he's overwhelmed by being allowed to touch you like this. Like he can't quite believe you're real. The next thing you know, Bucky is leaning in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss just above your navel.

The wet heat of his mouth against your skin makes your knees weak, almost wobbling. He does it again, lower this time, tongue tracing a path across your stomach that has you gripping his shoulders for balance. His stubble scrapes your skin, adding another layer of sensation you've never felt. When he bites down gently on your hipbone, a soft gasp leaves you, like there's not enough oxygen in this room for the both of you, especially not with the way he's pressing these kisses. 

The silence while he's kissing your stomach is too much. You need to fill it with something before you combust entirely. "Been thinking about this?" Your voice comes out breathy.

"Yes." Bucky doesn't even attempt to lift his head, continuing his way across your stomach, hands holding you steady.

"How long?"

Bucky's mouth stills against your skin. For a second you think maybe he won't answer, maybe he'll pull back, and this is it. But almost soft as a whisper, his words come. "Long enough to feel ashamed about it."

"How long is that?"

"Remember that barbecue last summer?" His lips brush your navel as he talks. "You were wearing that black top, and you bent over to grab a beer from the cooler? Yeah, I spent the next twenty minutes trying not to stare at your ass."

"That was July."

"I know when it was." His hands slide higher, taking your shirt with them. He pushes the fabric up and over your head, dropping it somewhere behind you, leaving you in just your bra from the waist up. The air feels cold against your exposed skin, but Bucky's gaze is hot enough to burn. "Been drivin' me crazy for months."

You remember that day. Remember catching him staring and thinking you'd imagined it. Apparently, you hadn't. Bucky looks at your bra, but decides against it, pushing it up too, just shoving it out of the way, pulling you down into his lap. The position puts you straddling his thigh, friction of his jeans against your sweats making you acutely aware of how wet you already are. Embarrassingly wet. He's barely touched you and you're already soaked through, probably leaving a damp spot on his jeans. 

Bucky's mouth finds your breast, and whatever coherent thought you had left scatters like startled birds. He sucks your nipple into his mouth, tongue working the sensitive peak. Your hips roll forward involuntarily, the pressure against your clit perfect but not nearly enough, chasing more friction, grinding down on his thigh.

"That's it," he murmurs against your breast, switching to the other side. "Take what you need."

His metal hand cups your neglected breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, the cool touch making you gasp. He seems to like that reaction, doing it again with more pressure. Having him like this, puts all your fantasies to shame, your fingers threading through his hair to hold him close.

You didn't know it could feel like this. This consuming. Every nerve ending in your body is focused on the wet heat of his mouth, the cool press of metal, the friction building between your legs. You're making these small desperate sounds you can't control, hips moving faster now. Bucky groans against your breast like watching you get off on his thigh is the best thing he's ever seen.

"Bucky —" You're close already, wound too tight, and it's almost embarrassing how fast he's gotten you here.

"I know." He bites down gently on your nipple, soothing it with his tongue. "Can feel how wet you are through your sweats. Gonna cum just from this, aren't you?"

The words almost send you over, but before you can, he lifts you off his lap, laying you down on the couch. You barely have time to process the change before he's hooking his fingers into your waistband, dragging both your sweats and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. Your bra which was previously pushed atop your breasts, is discarded too, and you're naked. Completely naked while he's still fully dressed, and somehow that makes this hotter. There's this moment where neither of you moves, stuck in a limbo, where he just looks at you, sprawled across your couch. You watch him take in every inch of exposed skin. You watch him watch you. 

"Jesus," he breathes.

"Are you just gonna stare, or —"

Bucky kisses you, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark you were about to make, mouth insistent, tongue tasting yours. When he pulls back, you try to follow, chasing him, but he's moving down your body.

He kisses your jaw, your throat, the hollow at the base of your neck where your pulse is racing. You wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating, if he knows what he does to you. He takes his time with your breasts again, like he can't quite believe he gets to touch them. His mouth blazes a trail down your sternum, mapping the soft plane of your stomach with lips, teeth and tongue.

When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips inside, circling, your back bows of the couch in response. "Bucky, please —"

"Patience. Wanna look at you first." His hands are on your thighs, pushing them apart. The first brush of cool air against your wet core makes you shudder. You should be self-conscious about this, spread open for him, the position in itself making you vulnerable, but the way he's looking at you makes you feel like a goddamn masterpiece, killing any embarrassment before it takes root. 

His finger traces your slit, so light it's almost not there, and you try to cant your hips up for more pressure. Bucky's metal hand presses down on your lower stomach, holding you still.

"Stay," he says, like you're a misbehaving dog and not someone who's writhing for breath beneath him. It's not quite a command but close enough to make you clench around nothing. 

Bucky explores you with devastating thoroughness, tracing the shape of you with one finger, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you whimper. He spreads you open with two fingers, just looking. "She's so pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So fucking pretty."

He leans down to lick a stripe up your center, tongue flat and broad, and you forget how to breathe. Even the first touch of his mouth is too much, when you're already so worked up, so close from grinding on his thigh. The wet heat of his tongue against your clit makes you cry out, not even embarrassed about how loud you are. Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole building know. He seems encouraged by the sound, doing it again with more pressure. He eats you out like it's the only thing he wants to be doing. Like he could spend hours between your legs and die happy. His tongue works your clit in slow circles, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has you squirming. When he closes his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks, you nearly come off the couch entirely. "Oh god — Bucky —"

He slides one finger inside you while his mouth stays focused on your clit. Your fingers on his hair tug them harder with each pass of his tongue, almost scaring you with how tight you're pulling and whether you're hurting him. You might actually rip his hair out, but you can't bring yourself to care because it feels too good. None of that even seems to cross his mind as his finger curls, finding that spot inside you that makes your whole body tense. He works it mercilessly while his tongue keeps that same steady rhythm.

You're pretty sure you're babbling now, saying his name and god and please in an endless stream, nails of your one hand — the one not currently buried in his hair — grasping his flesh shoulder, hard enough that it has to hurt. Again, Bucky doesn't seem to care. If anything, he doubles down, adding a second finger and increasing the pressure of his tongue. He's going to ruin you for anyone else. Not that there's ever been anyone else to compare with, but after this, you're done for.

You can feel the release gathering in the clench of your thighs, in the way every muscle in your body goes tight. Bucky seems to sense how close you are, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you steady as he keeps that relentless pace. "C'mon," he says against your clit, the vibration of his voice sending shockwaves through you. "Let me taste it."

The orgasm crashes over you, your whole body seizing as pleasure tears through you. With your hands, it's never been like this. Never this intense, never this all-consuming. This feels like you're coming apart and Bucky's the only thing holding you together. You're dimly aware of crying out his name, your thighs trying to close around his head, the way your inner walls clenched rhythmically around his fingers. Bucky works you through it, tongue gentling but never stopping, drawing out every last aftershock until you're pushing at his head from oversensitivity.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is glistening. He looks obscene, debauched, like something out of your dirtiest fantasy. The satisfied look on his face would be smug on anyone else. On him it's just honest satisfaction, like getting you off was the highlight of his month. "You good?" His voice is rough.

Words seem far away right now, you can barely remember your own name. You just nod, boneless, wondering if it's possible to die from pleasure.

Bucky crawls up your body, settling his weight on top of you carefully. Even wrecked with want, he's careful not to crush you. When he kisses you slowly, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It feels filthy and intimate at the same time, sending a fresh wave of arousal through you despite having just come. "That was —" You still can't form complete sentences. "You're really good at that."

He grins against your mouth. "Yeah?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." Bucky is smiling, you realize this might be the most relaxed you've ever seen him. Happy. He looks happy. When was the last time you saw him look happy? "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

"Since July, apparently."

His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing spit. "July's when I stopped being able to pretend."

"What changed?"

"You looked at me." He says it simply, like it explains everything. "Just me. After that, I couldn't pretend anymore that I didn't want you looking at me like that all the time."

You've been looking at him since the day you knew him. You don't tell him that, those demons can stay where they lay. You pull him down into another kiss, slower this time, trading breath and heat. When you finally break apart, you can feel how hard he is against your hip, still fully clothed and probably painfully uncomfortable.

"Your turn," you tell him, reaching for his belt. Bucky catches your wrist, slowing you down, thumb stroking across your radial pulse, eyes pleading, saying everything his mouth can't. The gentle touch is at odds with the hunger in his gaze. You feel your pulse jumping under his fingers, giving away how badly you want this.

"I want to," your voice is barely a whisper. You need him to know, to understand that this isn't one-sided, that you've been wanting this just as long. That seems to be all the permission he needs. He releases your wrist and lets you work his belt open, the metal buckle clinking as you pull it free. Your fingers are shaking slightly, adrenaline and want making them clumsy. His jeans follow, while he watches with those hooded eyes, like this is some kind of religious experience.

When you get his shirt off, you take a moment to just look. God, he's a masterpiece. You've seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never laid out for you, never yours to touch. There are scars you knew about, the ones you've seen at pool parties and barbecues, the ones your dad mentioned in passing when he thought you weren't listening. But there are others you didn't know, smaller ones scattered across his ribs and chest, a puckered bullet wound near his collarbone. Each one tells a story he's never shared, pain he's survived, and you want to learn every single one. The place where metal meets flesh is a work of terrible artistry, plates and skin fused in ways that probably hurt more than he'll ever admit.

You lean in and press your lips to his shoulder, right where metal becomes man. Bucky goes very still. Like he's holding his breath, waiting for you to recoil, to change your mind. "You don't have to do that."

You don't respond him with words, just another kiss to the seam, the metal cool under your lips, then lower, across his chest, the skin warm, the contrast intoxicating.You work your way down his body, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his boxers, wanting to map every inch of him with your mouth, memorize the way he tastes. Bucky's hand leaps to tangle in your hair, gentle but insistent nonetheless, pulling you back up. 

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. But if you put your mouth on me right now, this is gonna be over embarrassingly fast," he answers. The admission goes to your heart and cunt at the same time, the idea that you affect him that much doing things to you. 

That makes you pause, a laugh threatening to bubble out of you, but you keep it contained. "How fast we talking?"

"Thirty seconds, maybe." He doesn't look embarrassed about the admission, though there's a slight red tinge to the tip of his ears. That blush, that tiny hint of vulnerability, makes you want him even more. "I've been half-hard since I kissed you in the doorway, and I've been thinking about this for months. So unless you want me coming down your throat before we even get to the good part, you're gonna have to wait."

The bluntness of it sends heat racing through you, right between your legs, warmth spreading over the apples of your cheeks. Glancing down to not meet his eyes, you're met with the unevenness of this situation, suddenly very aware that you're naked while he's still got his boxer briefs on. "That's not fair."

Bucky manoeuvres you, hands on your hips, guiding you back down to the couch with a gentleness that contradicts his size. "Life ain't fair, sweetheart." 

Bucky's body looms above you as he settles between your thighs. The breadth of his shoulders blocks out the light from the lamp, casting shadows across his face that make him look almost dangerous, but he's soft to you. You watch him shove his boxers down, cock springing free, curved slightly towards his stomach, thick and flushed, bead of precum spilling over the tip. It's bigger than you expected, thicker, and for a moment anxiety spikes through your arousal. His flesh hand wraps around himself, working his cock, while the metal one is braced against the couch, framing your head. And you realise this is quite possibly the hottest thing you've ever seen.

"Like what you see?" You'd assume it was asked out of cockiness if you didn't know him better. You know him better, and there's genuine curiosity in his question, mixed with almost boyish shyness. 

"You already know the answer to that."

"Maybe I wanna hear you say it."

"You're fishing for compliments now?"

"Is it working?"

"Yes," you admit, earning a bright eyed and genuine smile from him,transforming his whole face, making him look younger, happier, and you want to be the reason he smiles like that forever. "You're gorgeous, okay? You're so hot it's actually annoying."

"Annoying?"

"Yeah. You walk around being all broody and hot, and I'm supposed to just — what? Pretend I don't notice?"

"You can notice me all you want, sweet girl."

Sweet girl. You like the sound of it, somehow much more intimate that anything he's ever called you. It's not really an accomplishment because all he's called you before is 'kid'. 

Bucky laughs, a sound you want to bottle up and listen when your days get dark. His fingers are between your legs again, two of them sliding inside easily, thanks to your orgasm from earlier, still wet, still open. But the stretch makes you gasp anyway, an open-mouthed silent cry, that he swallows for himself with a kiss. He works them slowly, watching your face, conflict playing across his features. Want versus restraint. Need versus caution.

"You're so tight," he mutters, almost to himself, fingers pumping in and out. Each slick sound makes your face burn, embarrassingly loud evidence of how much you want this. "Gonna have to take my time with you."

"I can take it," you tell him, voice fracturing with need, the ache to be filled by him. His cock stands proud against his abdomen, jerking with every motion of his fingers, taunting you. You want to feel the weight of him inside you, splitting you open, claiming you completely.

"I know you can." He curls his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your back arch, and does it again just to watch you squirm. "But I'm not gonna hurt you. Not if I can help it."

He leans down to kiss you, slower this time, thorough, his tongue plunging into your mouth, remnants of your own juices lingering, while his fingers keep that steady rhythm. You're climbing toward another orgasm already, your body wound tight and responsive. Bucky breaks the kiss, only to pepper a few more on your jaw, the corner of your mouth, breath coming in hot. 

"Have you taken cock before?"

The question catches you off-guard, the blatant crudeness of it. Stilling beneath him, you will your breath to come, his fingers slowing on your cunt not being of much help. 

"Baby." His free hand comes up to cup your face. The tenderness in the gesture makes your eyes sting. "I need to know. Need to know how careful I gotta be."

The truth sits in your throat, heavy as a stone. You could lie, tell him you've done this a dozen times, that you're experienced and worldly and this is no big deal. But lying to Bucky feels wrong, feels like starting this thing between you on a foundation of sand.The way he's looking at you, open and honest, worry lines framing his face, also makes it impossible. "No," you finally whisper.

His fingers stop moving, just frozen inside you while he stares at you with an expression you can't quite read. Shock. Concern. Fear? "What?"

"No. I haven't."

Bucky starts to pull his fingers out, a pained expression on his face, like the knowledge of it physically hurts him. "Jesus Christ. You should've — I wouldn't have—"

No, no. He can't do that. You catch his wrist, holding his hand in place. "Don't."

"We can't —"

"Yes, we can." You roll your hips, taking his fingers deeper, and watch his eyes go dark, control slipping. "I want this. I want you."

"Your first time shouldn't be — It should be special. Someone who —"

"Someone who what? Takes me to a fancy restaurant and serves me one scallop?" You're babbling now, words tumbling out, desperate to keep him in. "I don't want that. I want you. This is special."

"I'm too old for you. Too fucked up. Your dad's gonna —"

"I don't care about my dad right now." You tighten your grip on his wrist, needing him to see that this isn't some impulsive decision. "I care about you. And I'm not some delicate flower you're gonna break. I can take you."

Bucky looks at you like you've wounded him, like the trust you're placing in him is almost too much to bear. You can see the war happening behind his eyes, and you hope he loses, you hope the walls he'd erected within the past twenty seconds crumble and he comes back to you. "You're all I want, Buck," you press. 

A long sigh leaves him, but finally he says, "you tell me if it's too much." The words sound torn from him, reluctant but resolute. "The second it's too much, you tell me and we stop. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"If it's too much, I'll tell you." You pull him down into a kiss, teeth claiming his lips. You bite down, tasting copper, needing him to feel something, anything. "Now stop treating me like I'm made of glass and fuck me already."

That startles a laugh out of him. You wrap your fingers around his length, almost pulling him by his dick, he doesn't seem to care though. The skin is hot and silky under your palm, cock twitching in your grip, precum leaking from the tip. Bucky pulls his fingers free, positioning himself at your entrance. The blunt head of his cock presses against you, even that initial pressure making you tense. "Breathe," he instructs. "Just breathe for me, sweetheart."

You force your muscles to relax, and he pushes in. Just the tip at first, just enough to make you gasp at the stretch of it. It's immediately more than his fingers, wider and so overwhelming you forget how to think in complete sentences.

Bucky freezes, his hard length stuffing you halfway. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just — a lot."

"I know, sweet girl." His metal hand comes up to cup your face with a gentleness, it in itself bringing you to tears, cool metal against your overheated cheek grounding, keeping you anchored. "We go slow. As slow as you need."

He works himself in gradually, stopping every time you tense, giving you time to ease yourself. It's torturous, this slow invasion, your body struggling to accommodate his size. But his words keep you company, praise, reassurance, sometimes filthy little things he'd want to do once you get used to this. Things about how he'll fuck you in every room of this apartment, how he'll bend you over the kitchen counter, how he'll wake you up with his cock inside you. About how good you're doing, how tight you are, how perfect you feel. When he's about halfway in, tears fully start leaking from the corners of your eyes. You don't think it's from the pain, just from the overwhelming fullness of it, the sensation of being split open, claimed and filled so completely there's no room for anything else. 

Bucky immediately senses the tears and stops, jaw clenching with the restraint of holding himself still above you, trembling with the effort of not moving. "Too much?"

"No." Back of your hand rushes to wipe your eyes impatiently, frustrated that your body's betraying you like this, showing weakness when you want to be strong for him. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

"You're crying."

"I know I'm crying. It doesn't mean —" You roll your hips, to show him that you can take him deeper, that these are good tears, from pleasure alone and nothing else. At another roll of your hips, Bucky groans. "See? I can take it."

Bucky stays still, his hand finding your lower stomach, pressing down gently. The added pressure makes everything more intense, even fuller. "Can feel myself inside you," he mutters, almost wonderstruck. "Right here. Can you feel it?"

"What?" You're barely coherent, too overwhelmed to process what he's saying. You think he's trying to distract you, the palm on your abdomen pulls you enough from whatever discomfort you might feel from your first time. You welcome it. 

Bucky takes your hand and presses it against your lower stomach, right where his hand was. You can feel it, feel the solid presence of him inside you, the way your body's stretched around him. "Oh my god." The realization is visceral and overwhelming. "That's — you're —"

"Yeah. That's me, fillin' you up, sweetheart." Sounding wrecked, Bucky pushes the rest of the way in. The slide of it, the final inch that seats him fully inside you, makes you both freeze. You just lie there connected, trying to adjust to the reality of this. Through hooded eyes, you look at him. He's focused, jaw tightening as his gaze is fixed on the way your cunt swallows him whole. 

"You okay?" His eyes tear from your place of union reluctantly to look into yours. 

"Ask me that one more time and I'm gonna hit you."

That makes him laugh, the movement jostling where you're joined, making you clench around him involuntarily.

"Can you —" You shift your hips experimentally. "Can you move? Please?"

"Yeah." He pulls out slowly, so slowly that you can feel every ridge and vein, before he pushes back in just as carefully. The slide is easier now, your body adjusting, learning to take him. "This okay?"

"More." You're chasing the friction, hips canting up to meet him. "I need more."

Bucky is so careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But when you urge him on with hands, hips and broken pleas, his control starts to slip gradually. The thrusts get deeper, the couch creaking beneath you, until you're making sounds you didn't know you were capable of.

It's never this good when you're alone. Bucky seems to have woken up your body from a slumber you didn't know it was in. Every sensation is not only new but also heightened. 

"So fucking tight," he groans, his hand pressed to your belly again. "Can feel my cock moving inside you. You're takin' me so well, sweetheart. Look at you."

You can't look at anything except him, his jaw is clenched with effort, pupils blown so wide there's no blue remaining, just black, the flush spreading across his chest. The still slightly damp hair falling in front of his face, but he makes no effort in moving it off, the salt and pepper stubble that scratches your cheek everytime he pushes forward, everytime his pelvis meets yours. He's gorgeous like this, desperate and wanting. 

"Bucky —" You're climbing again already, wound too tight to last much longer. "I'm gonna —"

"I know, baby." His thumb finds your clit, circling with devastating precision. "Can feel you getting tighter. Squeezin' me — fuck —"

The added stimulation is almost too much. You're right on the edge, balanced on that knife-point between pleasure and too much. Already at the verge of losing, made worse by Bucky leaning down to suck a mark into your neck while his hips keep that relentless rhythm. "Wanna fill you up," he mutters against your throat. "Wanna fuck you full of my cum. Wanna fuck a baby into you."

"Yes — Please —" You are completely disconnected from your mouth, it being a separate thing only remembering words that are his name, yes and please. 

"Gonna make sure it takes." His thrusts get erratic, control fraying. "Gonna keep you full of me until your belly swells. Until everyone can see what we've been doing."

The image he's painting is filthy and visceral. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping tight, verge of telling him yes to everything when he keeps going. This is not just distraction anymore, the farthest part of your brain whispers.

"Think about it," he groans, hand spanning your stomach again. "You round and full with my kid. These perfect tits getting bigger." His thumb presses harder on your clit, while he bends to take one nipple into his lips, neck straining. "So full of milk you'd need me to help you, need my mouth on you. They'd be so heavy, baby."

That's what sends you over. The orgasm tears through you, whole body seizing as pleasure obliterates thought, ears ringing, not even hearing the way you scream his name. Your inner walls clamp down on him so hard, he curses, loses his rhythm, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

Bucky fucks you through it, chasing his own release. "That's it. Milk my cock. Show me how much you want it. Want me to breed you properly —"

He comes with your name on his lips, hips grinding against yours as he spills inside you. The warmth of it, the sheer volume is startling, pulling soft noises from your wrung out body. You can feel it coating your walls, filling you up exactly like he promised, marking you from the inside out. 

Boneless like you, Bucky balances himself on top of you, forearms braced against the couch, not pulling out. You feel his cock twitching inside you, spurting the remnants of his release, and feel the wet slide of cum down your inner thighs. Through the haze of your orgasm, something clicks into place. The way he'd been fixated on your stomach from the beginning, how his hands always found their way there, pressing, holding and claiming. The breeding talk that seemed to come so naturally to him. He'd been obsessed with it, with your stomach, with the idea of filling you up, you'd just been too overwhelmed to notice.

"You're obsessed with my stomach," you say, still trying to catch your breath.

Bucky lifts his head to look at you, and there's no embarrassment in his expression. If anything, there's pride there, satisfaction. "Yeah. Have been since you wore crop tops all summer."

"All summer?"

"I'm not proud of it." But he's smiling slightly, thumb stroking across your stomach where he's softening inside you. "Couldn't stop thinking about marking you here. Putting my hands on you. Making you mine in every way that matters."

The possessiveness in his tone, the raw need, stirs something primal in you, that wants to be his. The fact that this is your first time ever doesn't concern you, just makes you feel wanted and claimed in the best possible way.

He finally pulls out, and you both wince at the sensitivity. The slide of him leaving you feels like a loss, an ache of emptiness. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you. Those worry lines are back, you want to smooth them away. "That was perfect. You were perfect." You kiss him softly. "I'm fine. Better than fine."

He still looks unconvinced, but before he can spiral into guilt, you pull him down on top of you. His weight is comforting rather than crushing, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close. His arms band around you, face buried in your neck. 

For a while, he stays where you put him, his body heavy over yours, warm and shaking in small, leftover ways he would probably deny if you mentioned them. His face remains tucked in your neck like he can hide there from every terrible, responsible thought trying to crawl back into his head. You can feel the guilt gathering anyway. It keeps making itself known in the careful way he holds his weight off you, the tiny pauses before his mouth touches your skin, the way his arms tighten whenever you shift. The guilt doesn't get to settle in though, because you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently, pulling him back to look at you. "Stop thinking so loud."

"I'm not —"

"You are." Your thumb traces the crease between his brows. "I can hear it from here."

Bucky huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before starting a slow path downward. His lips drag across your sternum, then lower, mapping ribs and soft flesh. Each kiss is soft and slow, like he's got all the time in the world to learn what makes you sigh. When he reaches your navel, his tongue dips in the same way it did earlier, circling, and your hips twitch involuntarily.

"Stay still," he murmurs against your skin, quiet want in his tone. His mouth continues lower, across the plane of your stomach, and this is where he lingers. Open-mouthed kisses pressed to skin that's still flushed and overheated, his stubble scraping in ways that make you squirm. Both hands splay across your belly, spanning the width of it, metal and flesh holding you like something precious. He's almost worshipful about it, pressing his lips just below your navel and staying there, breathing you in.

"What are you doing?" Your voice comes out soft.

"Thinkin' about how good you'd look." His thumb strokes back and forth across your stomach. "Round and full. Wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you."

Bucky's orgasm doesn't seem slow him down, he's only edging you towards the start of another one, the words sending signals straight to your core. "You already can't keep your hands off me."

Bucky laughs as he presses another kiss lower, then another, working his way down until he's kneeling between your spread thighs. 

You're about to pull him up, tell him you're still not recovered, but Bucky's not looking at your face anymore. His gaze is fixed between your legs, watching as his cum starts to leak out of you, painting your inner thighs white. "Fuck," he breathes, his fingers gathering the mess and pushing it back inside you. "Can't waste it," he mutters, almost to himself, two fingers pressing deep, pushing his release back where it belongs. "Gotta make sure it takes. Gotta keep you full."

You're boneless, can't do anything but lie there and let him have this strange, filthy little ritual, watching through dazed eyes. The room smells like rain and sex. Your couch is absolutely never recovering, and maybe neither are you. He keeps his fingers inside you with that focused, almost frightening devotion, pushing the mess back where he thinks it belongs, one open-mouthed kiss landing on your lower stomach as he does it.

You reach down and catch his wrist, stilling his hand. "Bucky. I'm not going anywhere. It's not going to leak out in the next five seconds."

He looks up at you, a bashfulness in his face you've never seen on him before, caught doing exactly what he wants with zero shame left to hide behind. "I know. I just —" He trails off, fingers still buried inside you.

"You just what?"

"Like seeing it," he admits. "Like knowing I put it there."

The honesty of it makes you want the next round desperately, and before that thought could take root, you tug on his wrist, pulling him towards you. He withdraws his fingers reluctantly, wiping them on his discarded shirt before crawling up your body. When he settles next to you on the couch, you turn into him, tucking yourself against his chest. His arm comes around you, metal hand cool against your overheated skin.

"So that happened."

"Yeah. That happened." His lips and hands keep mapping your body in small increments, like he's making up for lost time, like he doesn't want to let you go. 

The silence stretches. You count his heartbeats — twelve, fifteen, twenty — before he eventually says, "your dad's gonna kill me."

"Probably." You trace patterns on his chest with one finger, following old scars, the raised tissue telling stories he won't. "But at least you'll die happy."

"Small comfort."

"I could tell him it was my idea," you supply. 

"That'll make it worse. Then he'll kill me for not having more self-control." He catches your hand, stilling your wandering fingers mid-trace. "He trusts me. Trusted me with you. And I just —"

"Fell in love with me?"

The words shatter between you. You've never said them out loud before, never put a name to this thing that's been building since you were nineteen. Bucky goes very still at that, body stopping everything, even breathing. "What?"

"That's what this is, right?" You prop yourself up on one elbow to look at him. "Because if this is just some — I don't know, some itch you needed to scratch, you should probably tell me now before I —"

"It's not." He cuts you off urgently. "It's not that. It's —" The struggle plays out on his face, words getting stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.

"It's what?"

"It's me being stupid in love with you for the past six months and trying real hard not to be," he finally says. The confession comes out rough, like it's been dragged from deep inside him. "It's me seeing you and forgetting how to be a person. It's me lying awake at 3 AM thinking about your laugh. It's — fuck, I don't know. I'm not good at this."

"Doin' fine so far," you tell him softly.

"I'm old. You just graduated college a few years ago. Your dad's my best friend. I got no business —"

"Bucky." You cup his face, forcing him to look at you, meet your eyes, the intensity in them hopefully squashing any lingering doubts. His eyes do that thing where they won't hold yours for more than two seconds, darting away like he's afraid of what you'll see if he stays. "I'm twenty five. I have a job, an apartment, a 401k that I don't understand but I have one. I'm not some kid you're taking advantage of."

"I know that. I do. But —"

"But what?"

"But I've been to war. I've killed people. I got nightmares that wake me up screaming and a metal arm because I got fucked up and — You should want someone normal. Someone who doesn't have to check the exits in every room and who doesn't flinch at loud noises."

You think about all the times you've watched him scan a room, cataloging threats that aren't there. How he never sits with his back to a door. How he jumped that time your neighbor dropped a toolbox in the hallway. "Should I? Is that what I should want?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I don't." You lean in and kiss him before he can argue, or state reasons why this shouldn't happen. You continueto speak against his mouth, "I want you. Nightmares, metal arm, all of it. I want you at 3 AM when you can't sleep. I want you checking exits. I want all the parts you think are too broken to love."

A frustrated sound leaves him, sounds like a laugh but could easily be anything else. "You're gonna regret this."

"Let me worry about that."

"When your dad finds out —"

"When my dad finds out, we'll deal with it. Together." You settle back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, its jumping out of his ribs. "Besides, he likes you better than me anyway. I'm pretty sure if it came down to it, he'd keep you and disown me."

That actually makes him laugh. "That's not true."

"It absolutely is. You fixed his transmission. I can't even check my own oil."

"I'll teach you."

"See? This is why he likes you better." You press a kiss to his sternum. "Useful."

"That's me. Useful." You can hear the smile in his voice now, the tension finally bleeding out of him.

"Among other things." Your hand drifts lower, fingers trailing down his stomach.

He catches your wrist, halting its path. "Again? Already?"

"What? You get to be obsessed with my stomach but I can't appreciate yours?"

"I don't —" He stops when you look up at him. Your expression must give away exactly what you're thinking, Bucky's jaw tightens, Adam's apple bobbing on a hard swallow. "Okay, yeah. I'm obsessed with your stomach. Happy?"

"Very." You kiss his jaw. It's hard to keep your hands to yourself when he's laid out beside you like a Greek statue taunting you. "For the record, I'm obsessed with your arms. Both of them. And your shoulders. And this thing you do where you bite your lip when you're concentrating."

"I don't do that."

"You absolutely do. You did it like three times while you were trying to get my bra off."

"I was nervous," he admits. There's a pink tinge creeping up his neck, faint but visible. "Kept thinking you'd realize this was a mistake and change your mind."

"Not a mistake." You tilt your head up to look at him properly. "Best decision I ever made, actually. Well, second best. First best was wearing that black crop top to the barbecue."

He groans. "Don't remind me. I had to hide in the garage for twenty minutes."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" He shifts, and you feel the evidence of why pressing against your hip. "You bent over to grab a beer and I thought I was gonna die right there."

"Poor baby. Must've been so hard for you." You're not even a little bit sorry. 

"Not funny."

"It's hilarious." You kiss him again, deeper this time. His tongue slides against yours lazily, like you have all the time in the world. When you pull back, his eyes are dark again. "Also, we should probably move to the bedroom. This couch isn't big enough for both of us."

"Can you walk?"

Good question. Your legs feel like overcooked pasta, your body wrung out and remade into someone new. "I — Maybe?"

Bucky sits up, taking you with him, and before you can protest he's scooping you up. "I got you."

"I can walk," you insist, even as you're wrapping your arms around his neck. The automatic way your body curls into him feels like muscle memory you haven't earned yet.

"Sure you can." He's heading down the hallway. "But let me do this."

"Such a hardship, carrying me around naked."

"The worst." He's grinning, and when he lays you down on your bed, carefully, like you're precious cargo. He stands there for a second, just looking at you sprawled across your sheets. You should feel exposed — you are exposed, completely bare under his gaze — but the way he's looking at you kills the urge to cover up.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing. Just —" He shakes his head. "Can't believe this is real."

"Want me to pinch you?"

"Smart ass." He crawls onto the bed, settling beside you and pulling the blanket over both of you. You curl into him automatically, throwing one leg over his hip, and he makes this satisfied sound in his throat. Out of content, maybe. Or possession. Hard to tell the difference.

"Gonna stay?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

"Yeah." His arm tightens around you. "If that's okay."

"More than okay." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. He smells like yours. "Bucky?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you too. Just so you know."

For three full seconds, he doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe if you're being honest, his ribs don't move. You're about to take it back, pretend you were joking, anything to break the awful stillness — "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Have for a while now. Since before the barbecue, even. Maybe since I was nineteen and saw you sitting at my dad's table looking all broody and tragic."

"I wasn't broody."

"You were absolutely broody. You still are. It's annoyingly attractive."

He huffs a laugh against your hair, the warmth spreading to your neck, raising goosebumps. "Attractive, huh?"

You bite his shoulder lightly, teeth scraping enough skin to make him hiss slightly. "Everything about you is attractive."

"Everything else like what?"

"You don't cut your hair unless it bothers you, until it falls over your face and blocks your vision, like now. You like it when I ask you things, when I need help… I think it makes you feel wanted, you don't know that I always want you." Your mind goes to your windowsill. "You always fill the bird feeder, even if I forget." 

"You noticed all that?"

"I've been studying you for six years, Barnes. I could talk about you in my sleep."

"That's — That's a little creepy, actually."

"Says the man who just spent ten minutes trying to plug me up with his cum."

A soft laugh vibrates from him as his fingers trace idle patterns on your hip. "Go to sleep, sweetheart."

There are a hundred things you could say. Practical things about what happens now, how this changes everything, whether he'll still come over for coffee on Saturday mornings with your dad or if this makes it weird. But your eyes are heavy, body sated and wrung out, not enough energy to keep the conversation going, even if you so badly want to.

"Buck?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't leave before I wake up."

"Not going anywhere. Not anymore, sweet girl." A soft lingering kiss to your forehead is all you remember, the ghost of its touch following you to dreamland. 

MY MASTERLIST!

EXTRAS. what can i say i love the concept of dbf bucky, i have like 15 more dbf pwp in mind lmao… also no taglist bc this is queued.

[w1nter-fairy]

Wildfire

main masterlist

pairing: foreman!Bucky Barnes x ranch owner!Reader

summary: You were born to run the ranch, Bucky was raised to work the land. Somewhere between exhausting days of work, barn hookups and ten months of something neither of you dared to name you've crossed a line you can't uncross. But love doesn't mean the same thing to both of you. And when pride, class, and everything Bucky thinks he should be start pulling him away from you you realize loving him might not be enough to make him stay.

word count: 19.8 k (longest one posted yet omg)

warnings: +18 MNI explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v, oral sex (f receiving), secret affair, angst, mutual pining, class difference, miscommunication, power imbalance, harassment, attempted intimidation, physical violence, alcohol use, happy ending. | english is not my first language so I'm sorry for any grammar mistake or mystipo

a/n: as some of you may or may not know, I'm from Mexico so that means I grew up watching telenovelas full of drama and all of that, this idea came to me when I suddenly saw a picture in pinterest and my mind started thinking a lot of what if? I hope you enjoy it! dividers by @saradika-graphics & beta read by my girls @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysdecaflove & Denice ꨄ︎

read in AO3

The sun hasn't cleared the horizon when you step onto the porch, coffee mug in hand. The ranch is already awake. You can hear the low murmur of cattle in the distance, the sharp whistle of someone calling the dogs, the creak of the barn doors and machinery coming to life. This was your ranch. Your responsibility. Your pride.

You'd grown up with dirt under your fingernails and hay in your hair, your father's shadow stretching long over every fence post and pasture. He'd raised you to run this place since you were little. Mainly, because you were his only child, but also because he knew you would take care of the land accordingly.

Now the shadow is yours and you wear it well.

"Morning, wildfire."

The voice comes from near the equipment barn. You don't have to look to know who it is—you'd recognize that low rasp anywhere, the way he says that nickname with practiced ease.

Bucky Barnes leans against the fence, one boot propped on the lower rail, his work shirt already dusty though the day's barely started. His dark hair is combed back, a few strands escaping to frame his face, and his blue eyes track you as you descend the porch steps.

"Morning," you say, keeping your voice level professional. "Crew's here?"

"Most of 'em. Sanchez is running late—truck trouble. I sent Pete to pick him up." He straightens, falling into step beside you as you head toward the barn. "We're rotating the herd to the north pasture today. Fencing's solid, checked it myself yesterday."

"Good." You pause at the barn entrance, turning to face him. "What about the irrigation system? Johnson said there was a blockage in sector three."

"Already working on it, it should be cleared by noon."

You nod, taking a sip of your coffee. This is how it always goes—Bucky anticipating problems before you have to ask, handling details before they become emergencies. Your father had hired his dad twenty years ago, and when the old man got sick, Bucky stepped into the role like he'd be born for it.

Which in a way, he had been.

"You're thinking too hard," Bucky says, his mouth quirking. "I can see those gears turning."

"Well, I'm always thinking. Kind of part of my job."

"Yeah, well." He shifts his weight and for a moment, something flickers across his face, something soft and unguarded… you blink and it's gone. "Try to not hurt yourself."

You shoot him a look that would wilt lesser man. He just grins and tips an imaginary hat before heading toward the equipment barn, leaving you with your coffee and the creeping warmth in your chest that you refuse to name.

By midday, you're elbow-deep in the business of running the ranch, fielding calls from suppliers, reviewing feed costs, checking the schedule for the county livestock show next month. Your office is a converted tack room in the main barn, all exposed beams and the faint smell of leather and hay. You liked it here. It feels real in a way that glass and steel never could.

You're on the phone with the feed supplier, arguing about bulk pricing, when Bucky appears in the doorway. He doesn't interrupt, just leans against the frame and waits, and you're hyper-aware of his presence in a way that's become second nature over the past— how long has it been? Ten months since that first kiss in the summer heat, all sweat and impulse and that kid of chemistry that burns.

Ten months of this thing between you that has no name, no rules, no promises.

You finish the call—a victory, 10% discount— and set the phone down. "What's up?"

"Got a situation with the new colt. He's favoring his left foreleg, might be nothing, but I want you to take a look before I call the vet."

You're already standing. "Show me."

The colt is in the training pen, a gorgeous chestnut with a white blaze and too much attitude for his own good. You'd purchased him at auction three months ago, saw the potential in his bloodline and the fire in his eyes. Now he's limping, and your stomach tightens.

Bucky's already in the pen, speaking low and calm as he approaches the colt. The animal sidesteps, nervous, but Bucky doesn't rush. Just keeps talking, that steady murmur that works in horses and people alike, until the colt allows him close enough to run a hand down his neck.

"Easy, buddy."

You slip through the fence rails and approach from the other side, moving slow. The colt's ears flick toward you, but he doesn't spook. Between you and Bucky, he's boxed in by a kind of trust, and after a moment he settles.

"I've got his head," Bucky says. "Check the leg."

You crouch, running your hands carefully down the colt's foreleg, feeling for heat, for swelling, for anything out of place. The colt shifts but doesn't pull away, and you can feel Bucky's presence above you, solid and grounding.

"There," you murmur, fingers finding a tender spot just above the fetlock. "Minor strain, I think… it's not serious, but he needs rest."

"Figured." Bucky's voice is close—closer than you expected. You glance up and find him watching you with an expression you can't quite read. "You want me to call Doc Johnson anyway?"

"Yeah, better be safe than sorry." You straighten, brushing dirt from your jeans. "Good catch."

"Just doing my job."

"You do it well."

Something passes between you— a look, a breath, the weight of words unsaid. The colt stamps impatiently, breaking the moment, and you step back.

"I'll handle the rest of the rotations," Bucky says, his tone careful and neutral. "You've got that conference call at two, right?"

You'd forgotten. "Shit, yeah. Thanks."

"Anytime, wildfire."

There it is again. That nickname. The way he says it—affectionate and just a little bit awed, like you're something bright and untamed and worth admiring from a careful distance.

You walk away before you can do something stupid like ask him what it means, why he started calling you that. If it means what you think it might.

That evenings you stop by Miller's feed store in town to pick up supplements. Bucky's with you—he'd been checking on a part for the tractor at the hardware store next door.

Old Miller's behind the counter, and his eyes light up when he sees you.

"Well if it isn't the lady rancher herself," he says warmly. "How's business?"

"Good, been busy lately." You hand him your list. "Need these loaded up when you get a chance."

"You got it," he glances at Bucky. "And how's your foreman treating you" Working you too hard?"

It's a joke, everyone knows you're the one who sets the pace, but you see Bucky's jaw tighten slightly.

"Bucky runs a tight ship," you say. "Couldn't do it without him."

"That's good, that's good. 'Course your daddy always said the Barnes men were the best workers in the county." Miller starts pulling items from shelves. "You keeping busy, Bucky? Staying out of trouble?"

"Yes, sir" Bucky says evenly.

"Good man," Miller chuckles. "Though I gotta say, at your age, figured you'd have your own spread by now. Following in your old man's footsteps is fine work, but eventually a man wants something of his own, you know? Something to build on."

The words are casual, friendly even, but you see Bucky's shoulders stiffen.

"I'm exactly where I want to be," Bucky says, but there's an edge to it.

You pay quickly and get out of there, but the damage is done. Bucky's quiet on the drive back, staring out the window with that same look from earlier.

"Miller's an old gossip," you say. "Don't listen to him."

"He's not wrong though." Bucky's voice is carefully neutral. "I'm thirty-two and I don't own anything but a truck and a cabin on someone else's land."

"You own half the knowledge that keeps this ranch running," you counter. "That's worth more than—"

"It's not the same," he cuts you off gently. "And you know it."

You don't know what to say to that. Because in the world you both live in—where land equals legacy and property equals status— maybe he has a point.

But it doesn't make it right.

By the time the crew clocks out, the sky is bruising purple and gold, the heat of the day giving way to the cool promise of night. You make your rounds, checking that everything's secured, the animals settled, the equipment stored. It's a ritual, this final sweep and you always find peace in it.

You're in the main barn, running through inventory counts one last time, when you hear footsteps behind you.

You don't turn around. "Thought you left already."

"Had some things to finish." Bucky's voice is low in a way that sends heat curling through your belly. "Saw your truck was still here, figured you were doing your obsessive end-of-day check."

"It's not obsessive, it's thorough."

"Right." He's closer now, close enough that you can smell him—sweat and hay and something uniquely Bucky that makes you want to turn around and close the distance, and— "You done?" he asks and there's an edge to his voice that makes your pulse quicken.

You set down the clipboard and turn to face him.

He's still in his work clothes, shirt untucked and streaked with dust, hair falling loose from its tie. There's smudge of grease on his jaw and his eyes are dark in the dim light of the barn, and you know this look. Know what comes next.

"Yeah," you say, your voice already dropping to something lower. "I'm done."

The space between you evaporates. You don't know who moves first—maybe it doesn't matter. His hands find your hips, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to make you gasp, and your fingers curl into his shirt, yanking him closer. Then his mouth is on yours, hot and demanding, and you open for him immediately.

God, you'll never get tired of kissing him. The way he tastes like coffee and the mint he chews when he's working, the way his stubble scrapes against your skin, the way he kisses like he's starving for you.

His tongue slides against yours and you moan into his mouth, pressing closer, needing more. His hands slide from your hips to your ass, squeezing, lifting, and suddenly your feet aren't touching the ground anymore. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, feeling the hard length of him pressed against your core even through layers of denim, and the friction makes you both groan.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, walking you backward "You feel—"

"Don't talk," you manage, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss. "Just—"

Your back hits the wall of the tack room and he pins you there with his hips, grinding against you making your head fall back and desperate sounds tear from your throat. His mouth moves to your neck, teeth and tongue and the kind of rough attention that you crave. Your hands are already fumbling with his belt, impatient, needing him out of these fucking clothes.

"Wildfire," he murmurs against your throat, and the nickname sounds different now. "Let me—"

He sets you down just long enough to yank your shirt over your head, his flannel following seconds later. Then his hands are on your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the fabric of your bra, and the sensation shoots straight between your legs.

"Off," you demand, reaching behind yourself to unhook it, and he helps, tossing it aside before his mouth replaces his hands.

The first pull of his lips around your nipple makes your knees buckle, makes you grab his hair to stay upright. He works you with his mouth—sucking, biting, soothing with his tongue—while his hands work open the button of your jeans. You're already shoving them down your hips, kicking off your boots in a graceless rush, and then you're standing there in nothing but your underwear, while he's still mostly dressed.

"Not fair," you gasp and he pulls back just enough to flash you a wicked grin before dropping to his knees. Oh. "Bucky—"

"Let me," he says again, and this time it's not a question. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs tracing the edge of your underwear, and when he leans forward and presses his mouth against you through the fabric, you nearly come apart right there.

"Jesus Christ," you manage, fingers tightening in his hair as he mouths at you, the friction not nearly enough. "Stop teasing."

He hooks his fingers into the waistband and drags your underwear down, helping you step out of them, and then he's right there, face level with your cunt, looking up at you like you're something sacred.

"You're so fucking wet already," he murmurs and then his tongue is on you and coherent thought becomes impossible.

He eats you out like it's his religion—long, slow strokes of his tongue followed by focused attention on your clit that makes you shake. Your fingers are fisted in his hair, hips rocking against his face, and he takes it all, groaning like your pleasure is his, like this is what he needs.

When he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you cry out his name.

"That's it," he encourages, voice muffled against you. "Let me hear you, wildfire. Let me—"

The orgasm hits you like a lightning strike, sudden and devastating, and you come with his name on your lips and your legs shaking and his fingers still working inside you, drawing it out until you're oversensitive and trembling.

He pulls back, mouth glistening, and the look on his face is pure hunger.

"I need you," you manage, still catching your breath. "Now."

He's on his feet in seconds, shedding his jeans and boxer in quick, efficient movements, and then he's sitting on the old wooden bench and you're straddling him, lining him up, sinking down onto him in one smooth motion that makes you both groan.

He feels so good, thick and hard and perfectly filling, the stretch of him always just on the edge of too much in the best possible way.

"Christ," Bucky grits out, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "You're fucking perfect."

You start to move, rolling your hips, finding the rhythm that works, and his head falls back against the wall, throat exposed, jaw clenched. You lean forward and bite the tendon in his neck, and his hips buck up involuntarily.

"Harder," you demand against his skin. "Don't hold back."

His hands tighten on your hips and he starts to thrust up into you, meeting your movements, and the angle is perfect—hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You brace your hands on his shoulders and ride him harder, chasing the pleasure building in your core, and he watches you with dark, hungry eyes.

"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs, one hand leaving your hip to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple. "You look so beautiful like this, taking what you need from me—"

"Bucky," you gasp, rhythm faltering as the pleasure builds. "I'm—"

"I know, wildfire, I can feel that pretty cunt of you squeezing me so tight…" His other hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, and the added stimulation makes you cry out. "There you go, come for me wildfire. Wanna feel you come on my cock."

His touch and relentless thrust sends you over the edge and the orgasm crashes through you, walls clenching around him. You can hear him curse as he follows you over, spilling inside you with your name broken on his lips.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You just lay down breathing, tangled together in the half-dark of the barn, the smell of hay and sex and the summer breeze in the air, your bodies still joined, hearts pounding against each other.

Then—and this is different, this is new—Bucky doesn't pull away immediately.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest, and your head finds the curve of his shoulder like it was made to rest there. His hand slides up yous spine, tracing patterns on your bare back, and you feel him press a kiss to your temple.

That wasn't part of your routine. The sex? Yes. The intensity? Definitely. But this tenderness, this soft aftermath… that was new territory.

"Hey," you say quietly, not moving from where you're tucked against him.

"Mm?"

"You okay?"

He's quiet for a moment, then his hand finds your hair, fingers threading through the stray strands absentmindedly.

"Yeah," he says, but his voice sounds strange. "Yeah, I'm just… catching my breath."

You pull back just enough to look at him, and what you see in his face makes your chest tighten. There's something unguarded there, something raw and almost frightened, like he's said too much, shown to much.

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and for a second you think he's going to say something important, something that will change the shape of this thing between you.

But then he blinks and the moment fractures.

He lifts you gently, helping you off him, and you both reach for your clothes in a silence that feels heavier than before. You watch him dress—jeans first, then his shirt, fingers working the buttons with a focus that seems excessive for such a simple task. He doesn't glance at you once.

"Same time tomorrow?" You ask, trying to sound casual, trying to rebuild the easy rhythm that's kept this simple for ten months.

He stills, shirt half-buttoned, and for a long moment he doesn't answer.

When he finally looks at you, there's something in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. Something that looks like longing and resignation all tangled together.

"Yeah, sure."

Not "same time, wildfire" with that hint of warmth. Just "yeah, sure". Like you're asking him to check the fences, not meet you here tomorrow night.

He finishes dressing in silence, and you pull on your own clothes, hyper-aware of every movement, every breath. When you're both decent again, he moves toward the door. Just before he reaches it, he pauses. Doesn't turn around.

"You know Miller's not wrong," he says quietly. "About… a man wanting something of his own."

Your stomach drops. "Bucky—"

"I'm just the foreman," he continues, still not looking at you. "Always will be. That's—" He shakes his head. "That's just how it is."

"That's not—you're more than—"

"Goodnight, wildfire."

The nickname sounds wrong in his mouth now. Distant like he's already pulling away.

Then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and you're left in the tack room, fully dressed now but somehow feeling more exposed than when you were naked.

You sink onto the bench, hand drifting to where his thumb had traced patterns on your back, and Miller's words echo in your head.

Eventually a man wants something of his own.

And Bucky's response: I'm just a foreman, always will be.

Like that's all he'll ever be. Like that's all he thinks he's worth. Like loving you—if that's what this is— means settling for scraps instead of building something real.

The thought settles in your chest like a stone, and you realize with creeping dread that something's changed. And if Bucky's convinced himself he's not good enough, that he can't give you what you deserve because he doesn't own land or have money or status… you don't know how to fight that. Or if he'll even let you.

The first sign that something's wrong comes three days after that night in the tack room. You're going over breeding schedules when Bucky comes in to report on the north pasture rotation. He's all business, standing near the door instead of leaning against the frame like usual, keeps his eyes on the clipboard in his hand.

"Rotation's complete," he says. "Moved the last of the herd this morning without issues."

"Good," you wait for more—the usual back and forth, the easy conversation that filled spaces between work tasks, but he just nods.

"Need anything else?" He asks instead.

You, you want to say. I need you to look at me like you did three nights ago. I need you to stop acting like a stranger.

"No," you say instead. "That's all."

He's gone before you can figure out how to ask what's wrong.

Within the days, things get worse.

Bucky starts sending Pete or Sanchez to give you reports instead of coming himself. When you do see him, he's never alone; he's always with the crew, always busy, always with a reason he can't try for long. The nickname disappears entirely. Now he calls you by your name, said in a tone so professional it feels like a reprimand.

Meals with the crew become exercises in studied avoidance. He sits at the opposite end of the table, talks to everyone but you and leaves as soon as he's done eating.

The nights are the worst. You wait in the barn like always, telling yourself you're just finishing paperwork, but he doesn't come. Not that night,not the next, not the one after that.

On the fifth night, you stop waiting.

On the sixth day, you corner him in the equipment barn.

"We need to talk," you say, closing the door behind you.

He doesn't look up from the harness he's mending. "Kind of busy."

"Bucky, what the hell is going on?"

"Nothing's going on, just work."

"That's bullshit," you move closer and he shifts away and the retreat stings. "You've been avoiding me for almost a week, you won't look at me, won't talk to me—"

"I talk to you every day, about work."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

His jaw tightens. "Don't know what else you expect from me."

"I want you to tell me what changed!" Your voice rises despite yourself. "I want you to tell me why you're acting like—like we're nothing to each other."

"We're not nothing." He finally looks at you, and his eyes are so carefully blank it makes your chest ache. "You're my boss, I'm your foreman, that's what we are."

"That's not— we're more than that. You know we are."

"Are we?" He sets down the harness, standing up. "Or was it just convenient? You scratch an itch, I scratch an itch, nobody has to call it anything more?"

The words hit like a slap.

"You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" His voice is even, controlled, and somehow makes it worse than if he was yelling. "Been thinking about it, about what this is, and maybe Miller was right, maybe it's time I figure out what I want instead of just—" He gestures vaguely. "Instead of this."

"Instead of me, you mean."

Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe— but it's gone too fast to be sure.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." You're trying to keep your voice steady and failing. "If you want to end this, Bucky, just say it. Don't make up excuses about figuring out what you want."

"I'm to making excuses." His hands clench at his sides. "You're running a multi-million dollar operation, you're smart, successful and I'm just—"

"Stop." You know where this is going and you can't stand to hear it. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."

"I'm the hired help," he says anyway. "That's the reality, and maybe it;s time we both stopped pretending it's anything else."

You laugh, but it's an ugly sound. "Is that really what you think you are to me? After everything we—"

"After everything, that's still what I am." His voice is flat. "That's all I'll ever be."

You stare at him, at this man you've known for years, loved for months even if you haven't said it out loud… and you don't recognize the stranger looking back at you.

"You're a coward," you say quietly.

He flinches. "Maybe I am."

"This isn't about what you are, this is about you being too scared to—"

"I need to finish this repair," he cuts you off, turning back to the harness. "Was there something work-related that you needed?"

The dismissal is clear and absolute.

You leave before he can see you cry.

The Hillside County Livestock Show is your least favorite event of the year, and that's saying something considering you spend most of your life covered in dust and dealing with literal bullshit. But there's something about the forced socializing, the political maneuvering disguised as friendly conversation, the way everyone sizes up everyone else's cattle like they're comparing dick sizes—it grates.

Still, you go. Because your ranch has a reputation to maintain, and because your breeding program produces some of the best cattle in three counties, and because your father never missed a year and neither will you.

You're standing near the action ring, catalog in hand, watching a decent Angus heifer go for more than she's worth, when you feel someone approach from your left.

"Impressive animal," a voice says. Deep, smooth, with the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no. "Though I'd say she's overvalued by at least fifteen percent, maybe is some sentimental bidding."

You glance over. The man beside you is older, mid forties probably, with silver threading through dark hair and a smile that has probably charmed plenty of people. Expensive boots, custom shirt, a watch that costs more than most people's trucks. Everything about him screams money.

"Sentimental bidding keeps the market interesting," you reply neutrally, turning back to the ring. "Besides, she's got excellent bloodlines, she'll be worth the premium to the right buyer."

"Spoken like someone who knows her stock," he extends a hand. "My name is Clayton Sheridan, I just purchased the Meadow brook Ranch, east of your property."

So this was your new neighbor. You'd heard someone bought old man Peterson's spread after he retired to Arizona, but you hadn't paid much attention to the details.

You shake his hand briefly. "Welcome to the area."

"Thank you, I've heard impressive things about your operation, fastest-growing herd in the county, certification for quality genetics…" His hand lingers a moment too long before you pull away. "It's rare to see a woman running a ranch this size… and running it so well."

There it is. There it's the compliment wrapped in condescension, the implication you're an exception rather than simply capable.

"My father raised me for it," you say, voice cool. "Gender doesn't have much to do with whether you can read a market or manage a land."

"Of course, of course." His smile doesn't falter. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise, just… admiration. It must keep you very busy, handling everything by yourself."

"I have an excellent crew."

"Ah yes, your foreman Barnes, isn't it? Son of your father's foreman?" Something in his tone makes your jaw tighten. "Lucky to have someone who knows the place so well, family legacy and all that."

You're trying to formulate a response that's polite but firm when you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Bucky, standing near the equipment displays about thirty feet away, his attention locked on you and Clayton with an expression you can't quite read.

Even from there, you can see the tension in his shoulders.

"Excuse me," you say to Clayton, not waiting for a response before you start walking toward Bucky.

But by the time you navigate through the crowd, he's already gone.

You get home from the show late, exhausted and frustrated. The house is dark and empty, and you should go to bed, but instead you find yourself walking to the stables.

Copper's in his usual stall, the big bay gelding lifting his head when you approach. Twenty-two now, long retired, but still your father's horse.

"Hey, old man," you murmur, letting yourself in. He presses his nose into your palm, warm and familiar, and you lean your forehead against his neck. "Long day."

He huffs softly, patient like always.

You're running your hand down his shoulder when you hear footsteps.

"Thought I saw the lights on."

Bucky's in the stable entrance, hands in his pockets.

"Couldn't sleep," you say.

"Yeah, me neither." He shifts his weight. "How's old Copper doing?"

"Good, little stiff in the mornings." You stroke the horse's neck. "I should take him out to pasture more."

"I can do it tomorrow if you want," Bucky offers quietly. "Give him a good walk, let him stretch his legs."

Something in your chest aches at the offer. Even with all this distance between you, he's still thinking about what you need.

"You don't have to."

"I know," he takes a step closer. "But Copper's important to you."

"My dad's horse," you say quietly. "He was the first horse I rode."

"I know," his voice is gentle. "I remember."

For a moment, the walls between you feel thinner. Like maybe you could reach across this space, say what needs saying. Then Copper shifts, and Bucky clears his throat.

"I should let you finish up. Just wanted to check you were okay."

"I'm fine."

It's obviously a lie, but he doesn't call you on it.

"Goodnight, wildfire," he says softly, and then he's gone.

"He still cares," you tell the horse. "He wouldn't check on me if he didn't, right?"

Copper just snorts and goes back to his hay.

You stay a while longer, taking comfort in the familiar routine of checking water, running your hands over Copper's legs to make sure he's sound, whispering all the things you can't say to Buck into the horse's patient ear.

When you finally head back to the house, you see Bucky's cabin light is still on.

Neither of you is sleeping tonight.

Clayton Sheridan doesn't understand the concept of boundaries, as you discover the next two weeks.

The flowers arrive first, expensive arrangements delivered to your door with cards that are just on the edge of appropriate.

Looking forward to being neighbors.

Thinking of you.

You throw most of them away.

Then, he starts showing up: at the feed store when you're picking up supplies, at the diner where you grab Saturday breakfast, at the county planning meeting where you're discussing water management.

"What a coincidence," he says every time, with that practiced smile.

It's not a coincidence and you both know it, but he keeps playing his game.

The gifts escalate: wine, a leather portfolio with your ranch name embossed, an invitation to some charity gala in the city, hand-delivered.

"I think we'd make quite an impression together," Clayton says when he drops off the invitation. "Power couple of the ranching community."

You haven't even said yes to coffee.

"I'll think about it," you answer, because outright rejection seems to make him more persistent.

Through it all, Bucky gets quieter, more distant. Like he's disappearing piece by piece.

You catch him watching sometimes— watching Clayton talk to you, watching the gifts arrive, watching you navigate the attention with gritted-teeth politeness. And every time, his expression is the same: resigned, like he's watching something inevitable play out.

Like he's already decided how this story ends.

Three weeks into Clayton's courtship, you're in the barn doing evening checks when Bucky appears in the doorway. Your heart jumps at the sight of him. This is the first time he's sought you out in almost a month.

"Hey," you say carefully.

"Hey." He shifts his weight, not quite meeting your eyes. "Wanted to let you know… the mare's showing signs, probably foaling tonight or tomorrow."

"Okay, you need help monitoring?"

"No, I got it." He starts to turn away, then pauses. "Your neighbor came by today. Sheridan, he was looking for you."

Your stomach sinks. "What did he want?"

"Didn't say, just asked where you were, when you'd be back." Bucky's jaw tightens. "Seemed pretty comfortable helping himself to the property."

"I'll talk to him."

"Sure." Another pause. "He seems… interested."

"Bucky—"

"Just an observation." His voice is carefully neutral. "A guy like that— successful, established. Probably looking to settle down with the right person."

"I don't care what he's looking for."

"Maybe you should." Bucky finally looks at you and there's something in his eyes that makes your breath catch. "Opportunities like this don't come around often."

"Opportunity?" You stare at him. "He's a stranger who won't take a hint, that's not an opportunity, that's a problem."

"Is it?" Bucky's voice is soft, almost sad. "Or is it exactly what someone in your position should be looking for?"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Means he can give you things, things I—" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching again. "Just think about it."

He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in the barn with a sick feeling in your stomach.

Clayton makes his move the following week. You're at Miller's feed store, alone for once, when he corners near the grain.

"I was hoping to run into you," he says, blocking your path to the checkout. "Saved me a trip to your property."

"I'm kind of in a hurry—"

"It'll just take a moment." He steps closer, and you resist the urge to step back. "I've been patient, I think. Given you time to get to know me. And I'd like to think we've developed a… bond."

"Clayton—"

"Let me take you to dinner." It's phrased like a request, but it feels like a demand. "A real dinner, not as neighbors, not as business associates… a date."

"I appreciate the offer, but—"

"I know I can give you what you need," he continues, like you haven't spoken. "Partnership, stability. A merger of our operations could be incredibly beneficial for both of us. I know you're a smart woman, you have to see the potential."

There it is, the assumption that this is about business, about strategy, like you're an asset to be acquired.

"I'm not interested," you say clearly. "In dinner, in partnership, in any of it. Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but—"

"The wrong impression?" He interrupts you again, his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You've been accepting my gifts, letting me court you."

"I've been polite, there's a difference."

"Is there?" He is closer now, close enough that you can smell his cologne. "Or are you just playing hard to get? Because I have to tell you, it's getting old."

"I'm not playing anything," your voice goes cold. "I said no. That's final."

Something flickers across his face—surprise, then anger, quickly masked.

"You're making a mistake," he says quietly.

"That's my choice to make."

"Is it?" He glances toward the window, where your truck is parked. "Or does your foreman make your choices for you?"

Your blood runs cold. "That's none of your business."

"In a town this size, everything is everyone's business." His smile turns cruel. "You're fucking the help, everyone knows it. So stop acting high and mighty with me when you're spreading your legs for some ranch hand who'll never be able to give you what a real man could—"

"That's enough." The voice comes from behind you. Miller is standing at the end of the aisle with a bag of feed in his arms and steel in his eyes. "Mr. Sheridan, I think it's time for you to leave my store."

Clayton's expression smooths back into charm "We're just having a conversation—"

"I heard what kind of conversation you were having." Miller sets the feed down with a heavy thump. "And I won't have you speaking to a lady like that in my establishment. Time to go."

"This is ridiculous—"

"Now." Miller's voice is firm. "Before I call sheriff Morrison and have you removed for harassment."

Clayton looks between you and Miller, jaw tight with barely contained rage. Then, he smooths his expression into something coldly polite.

"Of course, my apologies if I caused any… discomfort." But his eyes hold a dark promise when they land on you. "We'll continue this conversation another time."

He's gone before you can tell him there won't be another time. Miller waits until the door closes before turning to you with concern.

"You alright, honey?"

You nod, but your hands are shaking. "Thank you for stepping in."

"That man's got a mean streak under all that polish," Miller says. "My wife had a cousin who dated a man like that once, all charm until you say no, then…" He shakes his head. "You be careful. Men like that don't handle rejection well."

"I will."

"And for what it's worth?" Miller's voice gentles. "Whatever that jackass said about you and Bucky? That's your business and nobody else's. Young Barnes is a good man, his father was good people and he is too. Don't let anyone tell you different."

The kindness breaks something in you and your eyes sting. "Thank you, Mr. Miller."

"Call me if you need anything. And tell Bucky to keep an eye on that one, Clayton Sheridan strikes me as the type to hold a grudge."

You pay for your supplies in a daze and load them into your truck with shaking hands. You should go home, go straight to your bed. Instead, you park near the stables.

Copper's in his stall, and he lifts his head when you approach, nickering softly.

"Hey, old man," you manage, voice cracking.

You let yourself into the stall and he immediately presses his nose to your chest, and that's when you break.

You cry into Copper's neck—from anger, from humiliation, from the way Clayton looked at you like you were something he could buy or break. From the fear that maybe he's right, that everyone is talking about you and Bucky, judging you, seeing something shameful in what feels sacred.

"He doesn't know anything," you whisper into Copper's mane. "He doesn't know us, doesn't know what we—"

But even as you say it, Clayton's words echo: Fucking the help.

Is that what people see? Not two people who care about each other, but something tawdry and wrong?

You're still crying when you hear footsteps.

"Wildfire?"

You straighten quickly, wiping at your eyes, but it's too late. Bucky's standing at the stall entrance, and even in the dim light, you notice he's been drinking. Not drunk yet, but there's a flush on his cheeks, a looseness to his shoulders that means he's had a few. And his eyes look sad, pained.

"You heard," you say flatly.

"Whole town's heard by now," his voice is rough. "Was at the diner grabbing lunch and Pete and Sanchez were with me. Table next to us was talking about how Sheridan got turned down by the ice queen rancher who's too busy fucking her foreman to see a real opportunity."

You flinch at his words.

"They didn't know we were there," Bucky continues, stepping into the stall. "Didn't know Pete and Sanchez were ready to flip the table. I had to practically drag them out before they started throwing punches."

"Bucky—"

"Then I heard the rest of it, how you rejected him at Miller's, how he got nasty about it, how old Miller had to throw him out." His jaw clenches. "And I wasn't there, I was checking fence posts while he cornered you and I wasn't fucking there."

"You couldn't have known—"

"I should've been there!" The words burst out of him. "I should've been the one telling him to back off, to leave alone, to—" He stops, hands clenching into fists. "But I can't, can I? Can't defend you publicly without everyone knowing exactly what we are to each other. Can't step in without proving every goddamn thing they're saying about us. Can't stand next to you in town and tell assholes like Clayton Sheridan that you're mine."

"I don't need you to—"

"Well maybe you should." His voice drops. "Maybe you should have someone who can do all that, someone who can take you out without counting cents."

"Stop," you cut him off, voice shaking.

"Why? He's right about one thing, wildfire. I can't give you what someone like him could. Can't give you respectability, or stability, I can't give—"

You cross the stall in two strides and kiss him hard. He freezes for half a second, then he's kissing you back something that feels like desperation… and fear.

His hands fist in your hair and you grab his shirt, pulling him closer, needing to erase Clayton's words, the town's gossip, the shame trying to creep into something that's never felt shameful before.

"I don't want respectable," you gasp against his mouth. "I don't want public dinners, or whatever the hell you think I need. I want you."

"You're upset."

"I'm fucking furious," you correct. "At Clayton for being an entitled asshole, furious at this stupid town for their gossip, furious for you thinking any of it matters—"

He kisses you again, harder this time, walking you backward until your back hits the stall wall. His body presses against yours and you can feel how much he wants this despite all his protests about what you deserve.

"We shouldn't," he breathes against your neck. "You're upset, I've been drinking, this is—"

"I don't care," your hands work at his belt. "I need this, I need you, please Bucky—"

Something breaks in him. He lifts you and you wrap your legs around his waist, and then you're fumbling with clothes, desperate and graceless. When he pushes inside you, you both groan like it's a homecoming and a goodbye all at once.

The sex is different this time. Rougher, more desperate. Like you're both trying to prove or forget something. Or like you're trying to hold onto something that feels like it's slipping away.

When you come, it's with his name on your lips and tears on your cheeks. He follows moments later, your name broken and his forehead against your shoulder. For a moment, you stay like that, connected, breathing hard, coexisting in the same space. Then he sets you down carefully and reality crashes back in.

You both fix your clothes in silence. The air feels heavy, charged with everything still unsaid.

"I'm sorry," Bucky says finally. "For drinking, for not being there when Clayton—"

"Stop apologizing." Your voice comes out sharper than intended. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Didn't I?" He won't look at you. "Miller threw him out, Miller defended you. And where was I?Where the fuck was I?"

"You were working, doing your job."

"My job." He laughs, but it's bitter. "Right, because that's what I am. The foreman, the employee, not the—"

"Not the what?" You push. "Say it."

"Not the boyfriend," he says quietly. "I heard what he said about you, about us. And I wanted to kill him, wanted to drive straight to his ranch and—"

"But you didn't."

"Because what would that accomplish? Everyone would know then, would see exactly what we are and—" He runs a hand through his hair. "Maybe they're right to gossip, maybe we are—"

"Would you please stop?" You grab his arm, forcing him to look at you. "Don't let him do this, don't let their gossip make this into something shameful."

"It's not shameful," he says. "But it's not right either. You deserve better than barn hookups and secrets, you deserve someone who can stand next to you proudly, take you to dinner, court you the way you should be courted—"

"I don't wanna be courted by anyone else!"

"Well maybe you should! Maybe you should want someone who can give you a normal relationship, someone who's—" He swallows hard. "Someone who's your equal."

"You think you're not my equal," you say slowly.

"I know I'm not." His voice is flat. "I'm the foreman, you're the owner. And no matter what we feel, that's the reality, that's what everyone sees when they look at us."

"I don't care what they see—"

"Well, maybe I do." He's breathing hard. "Maybe I care that I can't defend you without it looking like the hired help overstepping. Maybe I care that men like Clayton can say whatever they want about you and I have to just— just take it because what am I? What right do I have?"

"The right of someone who loves me," you say, and watch his face go white.

"Don't," he whispers.

"Why not? It's true, isn't it?" You step closer. "You love me, and I—"

"Don't say it," he backs away, hands up like he's warding off a blow. "Please don't say it."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't change anything!" His voice breaks. "It doesn't change that I can't give you what you deserve. It doesn't change that I will never be enough. I'll never be enough for you, wildfire. And the sooner we both accept that, the—"

He doesn't finish, just turns and walks out of the stall, leaving you standing there with Copper and the ruins of your heart. You sink down onto the bench and Copper nuzzles your shoulder gently.

"He's wrong," you tell the horse. "He's so wrong."

But the words feel hollow even as you say them. Because how do you fight someone who's convinced themselves they're not worth fighting for?

You threw yourself into work because work didn't require you to think about the way Bucky's jaw had tightened when you'd said the word "love".

Work was spreadsheets and feed orders and the county extension agent calling about soil testing. Work was quantifiable, solvable, something you could actually control… unlike the man who was currently avoiding you like you carried some contagious disease.

It had been two weeks since the stable. Two weeks of Bucky sending Pete or Sanchez to deliver reports that he used to give himself, two weeks of catching glimpses of him across the property—always busy, always moving, always just out of reach. When you did cross paths, his eyes would slide past you like you were part of the landscape, something to navigate around rather than toward.

"Boss?" Pete stood in your office doorway, hat in hand. "Bucky wanted me to tell you the irrigation system's back online, no more issues in sector three."

Bucky wanted me to tell you. Not "Bucky said", or "Bucky asked", like even the mention of his name in connection with you required careful phrasing.

"Thanks, Pete." You kept your voice level. "Anything else?"

"No, ma'am, that's all." He hesitated. "Though uh… if you need anything else, I can—"

"I'm fine," the lie came easily now. "Tell the crew I'll do the evening walk-through myself tonight."

After Pete left, you sat back in your chair and let your eyes drift to the window. You could see the training pen from here, the fence where you and Bucky had worked with the colt just weeks ago, where his hands had been steady on the animal's neck, his voice low and soothing, and the three of you—you, him, the skittish colt— were the only things that mattered in the world.

Your mind drifted before you could stop it, reaching back to a different summer. You'd been sixteen, and Bucky had been nineteen, home from community college for the summer to help his dad with the heavy work.

Your father had sent you both to check the fence line at the north property border, and you'd spent the whole afternoon trying not to stare at the way Bucky's shirt stuck to his back in the heat, the flex of his forearms as he drove new posts into the hard ground. He'd caught you looking once and grinned—that easy, boyish grin that always made your stomach flip—and you'd turned away so fast you nearly tripped over the wire spool.

Later, sitting in the shade of the truck bed sharing a canteen of water, he'd looked at you differently. Not like his boss' daughter, not like the kid who used to chase him around the barn.

"You've got dirt on your face," he'd said.

"Where?"

Instead of answering, he'd reached out and brushed his thumb across your cheekbone, so gentle it barely counted as touch. Your breath had caught, and then… so quick you almost thought you'd imagined it, he'd leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

Just a peck, soft and sweet and over in a heartbeat.

He'd pulled back immediately, eyes wide. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's okay," you'd whispered.

But he was already climbing out of the truck bed, putting distance between you, and the rest of the drive back had been silent. Neither of you mentioned it again, not that summer, not the next. By the time he came back to work full-time after his dad got sick, you'd both learned how to pretend it never happened.

Except you've never forgotten.

And now, seventeen years later, he was looking at you the same way: like you were something he wanted but couldn't let himself have. Only this time it wasn't because you were too young, or because he was overstepping with the boss' daughter. This time he'd convinced himself you were too good for him.

You pressed your palms against your eyes, willing yourself not to cry in your office in the middle of the workday.

Your phone buzzed, another text from Clayton Sheridan that you immediately deleted without reading. He'd been trying to "apologize" for a week now, messages that sounded sincere until you read between the lines and saw the entitlement still lurking here.

The afternoon sun slanted through the window, dust motes dancing in the golden light, and you forced yourself back to the feed cost analysis spreadsheet on your screen. Work didn't ask questions you couldn't answer, work didn't look at you with resignation and longing tangled together… work was safe.

So you buried yourself in it and pretended you couldn't feel the Bucky-shaped hole in your chest getting wider every day.

Bucky sat at his kitchen table with his laptop open and a beer he hadn't touched going warm beside him. The numbers on the screen hadn't changed in the last hour, no matter how many times he refreshed the page or recalculated his math.

$58,000 in savings. Fifteen years of hard work, of living cheap and saving steady, and that's what he had to show for it.

He pulled up another tab showing land listings in the county. The cheapest viable spread was listed at $425,000. The nicer properties started at $650,000 and went up from there.

He took a long pull from the beer, grimacing at the taste. The smart move would be to look further out, maybe two counties over where land was cheaper, but that would mean leaving the ranch, leaving you, and what was fucking point of building something if you weren't part of it?

His phone sat face-down on the table. He'd been staring at it for twenty minutes, trying to decide if he should call his cousin Hugh. He had made something of himself, built a successful business in Denver, bought a house. Hugh would probably tell him to forget the ranch work, come to the city, learn a trade that paid better..

But Bucky wasn't Hugh. He didn't want an office or a crew of subcontractors or a house in the suburbs. He wanted land, cattle and horses and the kind of legacy his father had helped build for someone else's family. He wanted to be able to stand next to you and not feel like he was taking something he hadn't earned.

His father's voice echoed in his head, rough from years of cigarettes and dust: A man provides for his family, son. You work hard, build something and give your wife and kids a life worth living.

His old man worked himself into an early grave trying to live up to that standard, died at sixty-two with nothing but a paid off truck and a pension that barely covered his medical bills. Bucky's mother had held it together with grit and his father's life insurance, but she's had to move into town and had to make herself smaller to fit into what was left.

Bucky had sworn he'd never put a woman in that position, that he'd build something solid before thinking about settling down… and then you'd kissed him in the barn last summer with dirt on your jeans and challenge in your eyes, and every promise he'd made to himself had evaporated.

Ten months of telling himself it was just physical, just chemistry, just two people scratching an itch. Ten months of lying to himself and to you and pretending it wouldn't end in exactly this kind of pain,

He opened a new tab for job listings this time. Foreman positions at other ranches—most paid about what he was making now, maybe five thousand more if he was lucky. Manager positions required degrees he didn't have. The oil and gas jobs paid better but required months away at a time, and what good was money if he couldn't be near you?

He closed the laptop harder than necessary.

This was about building something with you, about not being that guy who moved into your house, worked your land, lived off your success. He'd seen it before: men who married into ranching families and became permanent accessories, useful but ultimately replaceable.

His pride wouldn't let him become that.

But how the hell was he supposed to close a $400,00 gap? Even if he worked himself into the ground, saved every penny, made all the right moves he'd still be forty before he had enough to buy anything worth having.

And you'd be what? Waiting around for him to get his shit together? Turning down men like Clayton Sheridan who could give you everything right now? The thought of you with Sheridan made him want to put his fist through the wall, made him want to drive to that bastard's ranch and make it crystal clear that he'd never speak to you like that again.

But he hadn't, because what right did he have? He wasn't your boyfriend or your husband. He was just an employee, the man who was too proud to be with you on your terms and too poor to offer his own.

His phone buzzed, it was a text from Pete:

Boss asked me to tell you she's doing the evening rounds herself tonight, thought you should know.

Bucky's chest tightened. You were avoiding the crew now, doing the work yourself rather than risk running into him. Or maybe you didn't trust him to do his job anymore.

He typed back: Thanks, I'll check the north pasture, make sure everything's locked down.

It was cowardice, making sure he'd be on the opposite end of the property when you made your rounds. But he wasn't strong enough yet to see you and not break, he wasn't ready to look into your eyes and see the hurt he'd put there.

Not until he had a plan and could offer you something more than apologies and empty promises.

Bucky drained the flat beer and got back to work on the numbers. Somewhere in these spreadsheets, in these listings, in the careful mathematics of sacrifice and saving, there had to be an answer, there had to be a way to become the man you deserved… he just had to find it.

You found him in the equipment barn three days later, and this time you didn't let him walk away. You were done avoiding him.

He was replacing the hydraulic line on one of the tractors, his shirt off in the afternoon heat, and for a moment you just watched him work, watched the flex of his shoulders, the concentration on his face, the competent sureness of his hands. This was the Bucky you'd grown up with, the one who could fix anything, who moved through the wold with quiet capability.

The one you'd loved since you were sixteen years old.

"We need to talk," you said.

His hands stilled on the wrench, but he didn't look up. "Kind of in the middle of something."

"I don't care." You stepped into the barn, letting the door swing shut behind you. "You've been avoiding me for three weeks, I'm done pretending this isn't happening."

"Nothing's happening," his voice was carefully flat. "I'm working, you're working, that's all there is."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

He finally looked at you, and the exhaustion in his eyes made your chest ache. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to stop running," you move closer. "I want you to stop deciding what's best for me without asking me what I actually want."

"I know what you want."

"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you've built this whole story in your head about what I need and what you can't give me."

His jaw tightened. "You deserve someone who can give you a real future."

"I deserve someone who loves me," you countered. "Everything else is just details."

"They're not just details!" His voice rose, frustration finally breaking through. "They're the difference between being your partner and your charity case. I don't want to just be the guy who lives in your mansion, works your land and gets to be with you because you're generous enough not to care that he's got nothing to offer."

"That's not—"

"It is, though." He set down the wrench, finally giving you his full attention. "You're telling me the money doesn't matter, that the land doesn't matter, that I don't need to be able to provide anything because you've already got it all covered. You're telling me to just… accept the fact that I'll never contribute equally to this relationship, that I'll always be the hired help who got lucky enough to fuck the boss."

The crudeness of it made you flinch. "Don't talk about us like that."

"Why not? That's what everyone else is saying." His laugh was bitter. "And maybe they're right. Maybe that's exactly what this is—you slumming it with the help because it's convenient and exciting, and me being too stupid to see that I'm just a phase before you settle down with someone appropriate."

The accusation stung like a slap. "You think you're just a phase to me?"

"I don't know what I am to you!" His voice cracked. "Because you keep saying it doesn't matter, that we'll figure it out,that love is enough, but it's not! Not when I lie awake every night doing math that doesn't add up, not when I have to watch men like Clayton Sheridan circle you like sharks because I can't protect you… not when I know that staying with me means you'll never have a man who can stand beside you on his own as an equal—"

"You're my equal—"

"I'm your foreman! I earn in one year what you make in one month! We're not equals, no matter how much you want to pretend we are."

"Money doesn't make someone more or less valuable, Bucky. We—"

"It's not about value!" He ran both hands through his hair, pulling slightly like he wanted to tear something out. "It's about being able to build something together, about me being able to contribute more than just labor and good intentions… about not feeling like a kept man every time you solve a problem I can't afford to fix."

"So what do you want from me?" Your voice shook. "You want me to pretend I don't have money? Want me to apologize for inheriting this ranch? To make myself smaller so you can feel more like a man?"

"No! Christ, no, it's completely the opposite. I want—" He stopped, his jaw working. "I want to be worthy of you, I want to look at you without feeling like I'm stealing something that should belong to someone better. But I can't do that with fifty-eight thousand dollars in savings and a truck I've had since college."

Fifty-eight thousand dollars. That number hit you like a gut punch. He'd been counting, calculating, measuring himself against some impossible standard and finding himself lacking.

"Bucky," you said softly, stepping toward him. "I don't care how much money you have, or if you own land or if you live in that cabin for the rest of your life. I care about you because I love—"

"Don't," he backed away, hands up. "Please don't say that again."

"Why not? It is the truth."

"Because it doesn't change anything!" His voice was ragged. "You saying you love me doesn't change the fact that I can't give you what you deserve, doesn't change that I wake up every morning knowing I'm not enough or that I want to be the kind of man who can take care of you."

"I don't need you to take care of me, I can take care of myself, I just… I just need you to be here, to stop running from our love, to—"

"That's exactly the problem." His voice went quiet, deadly calm. "You don't need me, not really. You need a good foreman and a warm body in your bed, and I can be both of these things but that's not what I want to be. I want to be necessary, I want to provide for you. I want to build you a life instead of just existing in the one you already have. And you telling me none of that matters, that I should just be grateful that you want me anyway…"

He laughed, but it sounded like something breaking.

"I don't need your pity, ma'am."

The formality hit like a physical blow. Not wildfire, not your name, not even a cold distant boss. Just ma'am, with all the professional distance that implied, with all the class and power differential laid bare.

Your throat closed. "That's not— I'm not pitying you, Bucky, I'm trying to tell you that I love you—"

"And I'm trying to tell you that's not enough. Not when loving you means giving up every shred of pride and self-respect I have left."

"So what?" Your voice broke. "You'd rather have your pride than have me?"

"I'd rather become someone worthy of having you." He picked up his shirt, pulling it on with sharp, angry movements. "And I won't let you settle for less than you deserve just because you think you love me."

"I don't think I love you, I know I love you, I've been in love with you since I was sixteen years old." He froze, shirt half buttoned. "That kiss by the north fence, you think I forgot about it? You think I didn't spend the last decade wondering what would've happened if you hadn't pulled away?"

"Stop," the world was barely a whisper. "Don't do this."

"Don't tell me what I feel, Bucky, don't tell me I'm wrong about loving you, and don't you dare walk away just because you've convinced yourself matters more than—"

"Don't you understand? It's not about the money!" He shouted, and you'd never heard him yell like that, not in twenty years. "It's about what the money represents, about being able to look my father's ghost and say I built something… it's about not being the guy who couldn't make it on his own, so he shacked up with the rich girl who felt sorry for him. It's about not being enough, and I'm not, not yet. I have to at least try to become someone who can stand next to you without shame."

You stared at him, this stubborn, proud, heartbroken man and realized you were fighting a ghost. Not just his father's expectations, but generations of them… every man in his family who'd worked someone else's land and dreamed of their own. Every lesson about what it meant to be a provider, the man of the house.

"And what if you never have enough?" You asked. "If the math never adds up and the land prices keep rising and you're still chasing this impossible standard in ten years? What then?"

His silence was answer enough.

"You're going to let this destroy us," you said. "You're going to choose pride over love, over happiness, over us, because you can't accept that maybe your father's way isn't the only way. That maybe I don't need you to own land to prove you're worthy of me."

"It's not about what you need," he said quietly. "It's about what I need. And I need to be able to respect myself when I look in the mirror, which I can't do right now."

He moved past you toward the door, and you didn't stop him this time. At the threshold, he paused, but didn't turn around.

"I'm sorry, wildfire," he said and the nickname sounded like a goodbye. "I'm sorry I'm not the man you think I am."

Then he was gone, and you were alone in the equipment barn with the smell of motor oil and the wreckage of your heart scattered across the concrete floor. You sank down onto the workbench, pressing your palms against your eyes and let yourself finally break.

Because he was right about one thing: love wasn't enough. Not when one person had already decided they weren't worthy of it.

You were in your office when you heard a truck. The engine was too loud, too aggressive, not the familiar sounds of Pete, Sanchez or Bucky's trucks. Something was wrong.

You looked up as footsteps approached, uneven and heavy on the gravel outside, and Clayton Sheridan appeared on your doorway. The smell of whiskey hit you before his expression did.

"There you are," his words spurred slightly at the edges. "Been looking for you."

Your hand moved toward your phone on the desk, but he saw the movement and stepped fully into the small office, blocking the only exit. The space suddenly felt suffocatingly small.

"Clayton, you need to leave." Your voice came out steady, but without its usual steel. You were so tired lately, tired of fighting, of hurting, tired of everything. "You're drunk, this isn't—“

"This isn't what?" He moved closer, and you stood up instinctively, chair scraping back. "Isn't appropriate? Since when do you care about appropriate? You've been fucking your foreman for months, don't talk to me about appropriate."

"Get out of my office."

"Or what?" He was close enough that you could see the anger in his bloodshot eyes, the mean set of his jaw. "You gonna call your cowboy to come save you? Oh, wait. I heard you two had a falling out, guess even he figured out you're not worth the trouble."

The words hit hard, landing right on the wound Bucky had left bleeding. Your breath caught, and Clayton saw the flinch, the way you'd gone still.

"That's it, isn't it?" His voice dropped, almost soothing, which made it worse. "He finally wised up, left you all alone in this big ranch, and now you're realizing what a mistake you made by turning down a real man for some hired hand who couldn't even stick around."

You should tell him to leave again, move past him, get out of this small room, get your phone, do something. But you felt frozen, hollowed out, like all the fight had been burned out of you in that equipment barn when Bucky had called you ma'am and walked away.

Clayton took another step, you backed up until your hip hit the desk.

"I'm trying to be reasonable here," he was so close, invading your space, using his size to intimidate. "Trying to give you another chance, because despite you embarrassing me, rejecting me and making me look like a fool, I'm still willing to overlook it. Still willing to offer you a real partnership."

"I don't want—" Your voice came smaller than intended, and you hated how weak you sounded. But you were so empty, so worn down by weeks of heartbreak and loneliness and loving someone who'd convinced himself he wasn't worthy of being loved back.

"Don't want what?" Clayton's hand came up, palm flat against the wall beside your head, caging you in. "Don't want stability? Success? A man who can actually provide for you instead of living off your charity?"

You turned your head away, trying to duck under his arm, but he shifted and suddenly you were truly cornered, desk behind you, Clayton in front, his other hand coming up to block your escape route.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," his voice had gone hard. "I've been patient, I've been courteous. I've given you space and time and you've thrown it back in my face over and over, and I'm done being nice.

"Let me go," you tried to put command in it, but it came out defeated.

"Not until you listen and understand what you're throwing away by being stubborn about some ridiculous idea of love with a man who has already given up on you. He doesn't want you enough to fight for you, but I do. So you're going to stop being difficult and—"

"Get your fucking hands off her."

The voice came from the doorway, low and lethal, and you'd never heard Bucky sound like that. Clayton turned, hands dropping, and you could see him trying to recalibrate, trying to pull on charm or authority, but he didn't get the chance. Bucky had already crossed the small office and his fist connected with Clayton's jaw with a sickening crack.

Clayton staggered backward and hit the wall. "What the hell—"

"You don't fucking touch her." Bucky hit him again, this time in the ribs and Clayton doubled over with a wheeze. "You don't corner her, or come to her property drunk and put your hands near her talking like she's something you can intimidate into—"

He grabbed Clayton by the shirt and hauled him toward the door. Clayton tried to swing back, caught Bucky's cheek with a glancing blow, but Bucky barely seemed to notice. He shoved Clayton out into the barn aisle, following him out.

You stood frozen in the office, watching through the doorway as Bucky grabbed Clayton again and drove his fist into his stomach. Clayton crumpled, coughing and Bucky dragged him upright.

"You ever come near her again," Bucky's voice was shaking with barely controlled rage, "and I will fucking end you. I don't care about consequences, or going to jail, you don't get to scare her and make her feel small. Are we clear?"

"You're insane—" Clayton choked out.

Bucky shoved him toward the barn entrance. "Get the hell out."

He punctuated it with a kick to Clayton's ass that sent him stumbling forward. Clayton caught himself, turned back like he might try to fight, but whatever he saw in Bucky's face made him think better of it. He spat blood onto the barn floor and shot you a look full of venom before limping toward the exit.

"This isn't over," Clayton said.

"Yeah, it is." Bucky's voice was flat. "You're done. Now get the fuck off this property before I make you."

Clayton left, and you could hear his truck start up moments later, tires spitting gravel as he sped away.

Silence filled the barn. You were still standing in the office doorway, arms wrapped around yourself, shaking. Not from fear but from shock, from the crash of adrenaline, from everything finally being too much. Bucky turned to look at you, and his expression crumpled.

"Did he hurt you?" He stayed where he was, like he was afraid to get closer. "Did he touch you?"

You shook your head, the words wouldn't come.

"Jesus Christ," he ran both hands through his hair, pulling hard. "I was just walking back from the equipment barn, heard his voice and— If I hadn't been walking by, if I hadn't heard him say that shit about you, if he'd—"

He couldn't finish, his hands were shaking, knuckles already swelling and split.

"Bucky—" You managed, but your voice sounded wrong and distant, like it belonged to someone else.

"Boss!" Pete appeared in the barn entrance, Sanchez right behind him. They must've seen or heard the commotion. Pete took in the scene: you trembling in the office doorway, Bucky with blood on his knuckles, the tension still cracking in the air. "What happened?"

"Sheridan," Bucky's jaw was tight. "Showed up drunk, cornered her in the office. I handled it."

"Handled it?" Sanchez was looking at Bucky's hands. "Jesus, man."

"Is he gone?" Pete asked.

"Yeah," Bucky's eyes hadn't left you. "He's gone."

Pete moved toward you carefully, like you might spook. "Boss? You okay?"

You nodded, but it was a lie and everyone knew it. You weren't okay, hadn't been for weeks, and this had just broken something that was already cracked.

"Why don't you come with me?" Peter said gently. "Maria's at home, she can make you some tea, you can get away from here for a bit."

"I'm fine," but your voice shook on the words. "I don't need—"

"I insist," Pete said. "Just for a few hours, let us make sure Sheridan doesn't try to come back, let yourself breathe."

You wanted to argue, stay here and deal with this yourself, prove you didn't need protecting, but you were so tired of fighting, so tired of being strong. And the thought of Pete's warm, comfortable house, of his wife Maria's kind presence, of being somewhere that felt safe for just a little while…

"Okay," you whispered.

Bucky's face did something complicated. "I can stay here, keep watch—"

"No." Pete's voice was firm. "You need to clean up and cool down. Sanchez and I will handle security, you go home."

For a moment you thought Bucky would argue, but then he just nodded. His eyes met yours one more time, and the guilt and longing and helplessness in them made your chest ache. But he didn't say anything, he walked away, disappearing into the darkness beyond the barn, and you felt the distance between you like a physical wound.

Pete's house was warm and lived-in, smelling like the chicken Maria had roasted for dinner and the vanilla candles she loved. She met you at the door with soft hands and softer eyes, asked no questions, just guided you to the kitchen table where a chamomile tea was already waiting for you.

"Pete called ahead," she said settling into the chair across from you. "Said you had a rough evening."

"You could say that," your hands wrapped around the mug, seeking warmth even though you weren't cold. You were shaking again, small tremors you couldn't control.

Maria reached across the table and covered your hand with hers. "You're safe here, mija. Whatever happened, you're safe now."

You nodded, throat tight. Through the window, you could see Pete outside, on the phone—probably coordinating with Sanchez, making sure your property was secure. Making sure Clayton wouldn't come back.

The simple care of it broke something loose in your chest.

"Pete's a good man."

"The best," Maria's smile was soft, full of easy affection. "Drives me crazy sometimes, leaves his boots in the middle of the floor and falls asleep during every movie, but he's good all the way through"

You watched Pete through the window, the way he moved with easy confidence, the way he glanced back at the house, checking on his wife to make sure she was okay. There was something so simple about it, so uncomplicated.

"How do you make it look so easy?" The words came out before you could stop them. "Being together."

Maria tilted her head, studying you. "It's not always easy. We've had our share of hard times—money troubles, my mother getting sick, that year Pete threw his back out and couldn't wait for three months. But we're partners, you know? We figure it out together."

Partners. That word sat heavily on your chest.

"What if one person thinks they're not good enough?" You stared into your tea. "What if two people love each other but one of them is convinced… they don't have enough to offer?"

Maria was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was gentle. "This is about Bucky, isn't it?" You looked up, startled. She smiled sadly. "Honey, everyone knows you two have been circling each other for months, and everyone can see you're both miserable right now. Whatever he thinks he doesn't have… does it matter to you?"

"No," the answer came immediately. "It doesn't matter at all, I don't care about money or land or any of it. I just want him."

"Have you told him that?"

"Yes, multiple times, but he won't listen. He's convinced that loving me means being able to provide for me the way his father provided for his mother, the way—" Your voice broke. "The way Pete provides for you, and he can't. At least not in the way he thinks he should, so… he'd rather let me go than accept that maybe I don't need what he's supposed to give me."

Maria's eyes were sad. "Men and their pride, especially the good ones. They get these ideas in their heads about what it means to be a man, what they owe the women they love, and sometimes those ideas do more harm than good."

"So what do I do?" You hated how desperate you sounded. "How do I fight someone who's already decided he's not enough?"

"I don't know if you can, mija." She said it kindly, but it still hurt. "Sometimes people have to figure things out for themselves, have to learn that love isn't about what you can provide in dollars and cents.It's about showing up, being present, building a life together even when it's hard… But you can't force someone to believe they're worthy of love, that's something they have to find on their own."

You felt tears prick your eyes. "What if he never does?"

"Then that's his loss. Because from where I'm sitting, he's throwing away something real and good because he's too stubborn to see that you already chose him, that you'd choose him every day if he'd let you."

The tears spilled over then, you tried to wipe them away, embarrassed, but Maria just moved her chair closer and pulled you into a hug. You let yourself cry against her shoulder—for Bucky, for the relationship that was dying before it ever really lived, for the loneliness that had become your constant companion.

"I love him," you whispered into her shoulder. "I've been in love with him since I was sixteen years old and I don't know how to stop."

"Oh, sweetheart." Maria rubbed your back. "Maybe you're not supposed to stop, maybe you just have to love him from a distance while he figures things out. And maybe he'll figure it out on time… but you can't sacrifice yourself while you wait. Can't make yourself smaller or quieter just to make him comfortable with loving you."

You pulled back, wiping your eyes. "I don't know how to do this."

"None of us do," she smiled sadly. "We're all just making it up as we go."

Pete came back inside then, took in your tear-stained face and his wife's protective posture, and his expression softened.

"Everything's secure, Sanchez is doing perimeter checks, but the property's locked down tight." He hesitated. "You're welcome to stay here tonight, the guest room is ready."

You shook your head. "I appreciate the offer, but I should go home. I can't let Clayton chase me out of my own house."

"You sure?" Maria asked.

"Yeah," you stood, steadier now. "I'm sure."

They walked you to your truck, Pete insisting on following you back to make sure you got inside safely. The drive was short, and when you pulled up to your dark house, Pete waited until you unlocked the door and turned on the lights before giving you a wave and heading back to his own home.

You stood in your empty living room and felt the silence press in. You've always loved this house and all the memories that it contained, but lately it felt too big and lonely. Tonight it was just you and the weight of everything that happened.

You should eat something, shower or try to sleep.

Instead, you sank onto the couch and let yourself feel everything you'd been holding back—the fear from Clayton's visit, the heartbreak from Bucky's rejection, the bone-deep exhaustion of loving someone who wouldn't let himself be loved.

Eventually you dragged yourself upstairs, changed into sleep clothes and crawled into bed. The house settled around you with familiar creaks and sighs, and slowly, finally, you drifted into an uneasy sleep.

The smell woke you first. Acrid, wrong, burning.

You sat up in bed, disoriented. The clock read 2:17 AM. For a moment you thought you were dreaming, but then you heard it— the panicked whinnying of horses, the sharp crack of wood giving way. Fire.

You were out of bed and running before conscious though kicked in, flying down the stairs in your sleep clothes, your slippers hitting the porch steps, and then you saw it: the stables lit up against the night sky, flames already consuming the east side of the building, spreading fast through the old dry wood.

The horses.

Copper.

You didn't think or stop to call for help or consider the danger. You just ran.

The heat hit you when you reached the stable doors, but you ripped your shirt up over your nose and mouth and plunged inside anyway. The smoke was thick, black, choking, but you knew this building like you knew your own heartbeat, knew exactly where each stall was, which horses were where.

"I'm coming!" You shouted, voice muffled through the fabric. "I'm coming, it's okay!"

The first stall was Daisy's, the chestnut mare. You fumbled with the latch, hands shaking,a nod shoved the door open. She reared back, eyes rolling white with terror, but you grabbed her halter and dragged her toward the entrance. "Go, go, go!"

She bolted past you into the night, and you were already moving to the next stall. Juniper, the bay mare heavy with foal. She was screaming, hooves striking the stall door, and you got it open just as part of the roof above groaned ominously.

"Out!" You slapped her hindquarters and she ran, coat slick with sweat and far.

The smoke was getting thicker. You couldn't see more than a few feet in front of you, couldn't breathe without coughing, but you kept moving. Duke and Ranger in the double stall, the two yearling colts next, skittish and terrified but moving when you shouted at them.

Your lungs were burning. Each breath felt like inhaling glass, and your eyes streamed tears from the smoke, but you pushed deeper into the stable. Eight horses out. Copper was the only one missing.

His stall was in the back, farthest from the entrance, and the fire was spreading fast. You could feel the heat on your skin, could hear the ceiling beams cracking and shifting. You should leave, get out while you still could, but Copper was your father's horse. Your first horse. The only living reminder of him, and you wouldn't leave him.

"I'm coming, old man!" You choked on smoke, stumbled, caught yourself against a stall door. "I'm coming!"

You found his stall by memory more than sight. The smoke was too thick now, the world reduced to burning shapes. Your fingers found the latch and you yanked it open. "Copper! Come on, baby, we gotta go—"

He was pressed into the back corner, wild-eyed, making sounds you'd never heard from him before. You grabbed his halter, pulled, but he wouldn't move.

"Please," you begged, coughing so hard you nearly doubled over. "Please, Copper, please—"

He finally moved, and you were leading him toward where you thought the entrance was, one hand on his hater and one hand trailing the wall, it the smoke was everywhere now. You couldn't see or breathe properly anymore.

Your foot caught on something and you went down hard, hand ripping free from Copper's halter. You heard him bolt, heard his hooves on the concrete floor, and you tried to get up and call after him, but your lungs wouldn't work. The smoke was too thick and the world was starting to gray at the edges.

Get up, you told yourself. Get up, you have to get out.

But your arms wouldn't hold you. You collapsed face-down on the concrete floor near what you thought was the entrance, and distantly you realized you were going to die here in the stable. On the land you loved.

You couldn't breathe anymore, couldn't move. The smoke filled your lungs and the world went soft and strange, and the last thought before everything went black was of Bucky's face when he told you he wasn't enough for you and walked away.

Then nothing.

Bucky had been awake when the fire started.

He'd been lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way you'd looked when Clayton had you cornered in that office. The fear in your eyes, the way you seemed so small, so defeated, like all the fight had been burned out of you.

It was all his fault. If he hadn't pushed you away, if he hadn't been so goddamn stubborn about his pride and his plans, maybe you wouldn't have been so vulnerable when that bastard showed up.

He was still stewing in guilt and self-loathing when he smelled the smoke.

For a second, he thought maybe someone was burning trash, but it was 2 AM and the smell was too strong. He got out of bed and looked out his window toward his property.

His heart stopped.

The stables were on fire, visible even from his cabin, and he was running before his brain fully processed what he was seeing. Running toward the fire in just his sleep pants and boots he grabbed by the door, no shirt, no phone, nothing but pure animal panic driving him forward.

The horses were scattered in the yard, wild-eyed and panicked, and his first thought was relief—someone got them out, they were safe—but then he got closer and saw the stables entrance and his world tilted sideways.

You were lying face-down just inside the doorway, smoke billowing around you, and you weren't moving.

"No!" The scream tore out of him, raw and animal. He was at the entrance in seconds, dropping to his knees, hands on your back. "No, no, no, please—"

You weren't breathing. Your skin was gray, lips tinged blue, and there was ash in your hair and you weren't fucking breathing.

"Help!' He screamed it into the night, voice breaking. "Help! Someone call 911! Please help!"

He got his arms under you and lifted, staggering away from the entrance as part of the roof collapsed inward with a shower of sparks. You weren't breathing limp in his arms, a horrible dead weight, and he couldn't—

"Please, don't be dead, please wildfire, please—"

He laid you down on the grass far from the fire, hands shaking so hard he could barely function. Tilted your head back, checking for breathing… nothing. He pressed his fingers to your throat, searching desperately for a pulse.

There. Weak and thready, but there.

"Call 911!" He screamed it again, looking around wildly, but no one was there. Everyone was asleep or too far away to hear. "Somebody please help us!"

He started CPR, hands laced over your sternum, counting compressions like the training he'd taken years ago. Thirty compressions, two breaths. Your lips were so cold under his, and you still weren't breathing on your own, and he was going to lose you before he ever got the chance to tell you, that he'd been an idiot, that his pride meant nothing compared to you.

"Come on, baby, come on," he begged between breaths. "Breathe for me, please breathe. I'm sorry, I love you, please don't leave me, please—"

He continued, thirty compressions, two breaths. Your chest rose and fell when he breathed for you, but then nothing. No response.

"HELP!" His voice was wrecked, tears streaming down his face. "Please, someone help!"

Lights flickered on in the distance. There was a truck approaching. Thank god.

Thirty compressions, two breaths.

"You don't get to do this," he told you, voice breaking. "You don't get to die because I was too fucking stupid to tell you I love you. Come on, wildfire, fight, I know you're strong."

Another thirty compressions, two more breaths.

Your body jerked and you coughed, harsh and wet and he rolled you onto your side as you vomited up smoke and ash. You gasped, a horrible wheezing sound, but you were breathing. Your eyes fluttered but didn't open, and your breathing was labored and wrong, but you were alive.

"That's it, that it baby, breathe." He was sobbing openly now, one hand on your back and one stroking your hair. "You're okay, you're gonna be okay, just keep breathing for me."

Pete's truck roared up, and he was out and running before it fully stopped. "Jesus Christ— what happened?"

"She went in," Bucky choked out. "She went into the fucking fire, got the horses out and she— call 911, she's not breathing right, she needs oxygen."

Pete already had his phone out and was shouting into it about the address and fire and person down.

Sanchez appeared from somewhere, still pulling on his shirt. "Holy shit— is she—"

"She's breathing, but barely." Bucky couldn't stop touching you, couldn't stop checking your pulse like it might disappear if he looked away. "She inhaled too much smoke, she was unconscious—"

You coughed again, weaker this time, and made a sound like you were trying to speak.

"Don't talk," Bucky said. "Don't try to talk, just breathe, help is coming, you're gonna be fine—"

But you weren't fine. Your breathing was getting worse, more labored, and your skin was still that terrible gray color. He gathered you against his chest and pressed his forehead to yours.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so fucking sorry, I love you, I was just too stupid and proud and scared to—" His voice broke completely. "You have to be okay, because I can't do this without you, wildfire, I can't."

Sirens in the distance getting closer. The volunteer fire department, the ambulance. Pete was directing them, shouting coordinates.

You made another small sound, and your eyes opened just a crack. "Bucky," you breathed, barely audible.

"I'm here," he was crying so hard he could barely see. "I'm right here, I've got you, you're gonna be fine."

"Copper—"

"He's fine, all the horses are fine. You got them all out, you crazy, brave, stubborn—" He couldn't finish, just held you tight as the ambulance pulled up, as EMT's swarmed with oxygen and equipment.

They tried to take you from him but he couldn't let go, couldn't release you until one of them put a hand on his shoulder.

"We've got her," she said gently. "Let us help her."

He forced himself to release you, watched as they got an oxygen mask on your face, loaded you onto a gurney. Your eyes found his one more time before they put you in the ambulance, and he saw fear there.

"I'm coming with you," he told the EMTs.

They didn't argue. He climbed into the ambulance and took your hand, and as they pulled away, he pressed his lips to your knuckles and made you a promise.

"You're gonna be okay," he said. "And when you are, I'm gonna tell you every single day for the rest of my life that I love you. Gonna prove to you that I can be the man you deserve, that my pride was bullshit, that yore all that matters. Just— don't leave me before I get the chance. Please, wildfire, please don't leave."

Your fingers twitched in his, the barest squeeze and he held on like you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

The first thing you became aware of was the beeping. Steady, rhythmic, accompanied by a mechanical hiss that matched the uncomfortable pressure around your face. The second thing was the voice.

"—and I know I don't deserve it, I know I fucked everything up, but if you wake up, I swear to God, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Proving that I can be the man you think I am, even if I don't believe it yet."

That was Bucky's voice, coming from somewhere to your left.

"I'm sorry I pushed you away, I'm sorry I let my pride and my own stubbornness matter more than you, I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention when the fire started. I'm sorry for all of it."

You tried to open your eyes but they felt crusted shut, heavy. Your throat burned like you'd swallowed razor blades, and breathing hurt in a way that suggested your lungs had been through something awful. And then you remembered it all: the fire, the stables, Copper.

You tried to move or speak, but all that came out was a rough sound that might have been a cough.

There was movement immediately, a warm hand closing around yours. "Wildfire? Hey, hey, don't try to talk. You've got an oxygen mask on, your lungs need time to heal. Just— just squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

You squeezed, or at least tried to. Your hand felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

"Thank god," his voice broke on the words. "You scared the hell out of me, I've aged like ten years tonight."

You managed to get your eyes open finally, blinking against the harsh hospital lights. Everything was blurry at first, but slowly it resolved: white ceiling tiles, an IV stand, medical equipment beeping away. And Bucky, sitting in a chair pulled up close to your bed, still shirtless under the blanket someone had draped over his shoulders, covered in soot and ash, eyes red-rimmed.

He looked like he'd been crying. Bucky Barnes, who you'd never seen cry, not even when his father died, had been crying over you.

"Hey," he said softly, and his thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. "Welcome back."

You tried to speak, but the oxygen mask muffled everything, and your throat was too raw anyway. You lifted your other hand weakly, gesturing at the mask.

"No way," he caught your hand gently, brought it back down. "Doctor said you need to keep that on for at least another few hours, your oxygen levels were scary low when you came in, you inhaled a lot of smoke."

You made a frustrated sound, and he actually smiled. "I know, I know, wildfire. But just rest, okay? Everything else can wait."

But you didn't want to wait. You'd heard him confessing, apologizing, saying things you'd been desperate to hear for weeks. You needed him to know you'd heard and needed to respond, needed—

The door opened and a nurse came in, checked your vitals with practiced efficiency. "Good to see those eyes open. How's the pain level? Blink once for manageable, twice for severe."

You blinked once. Everything hurt, but it was distant, muted by whatever they had you on.

"Good, the doctor will be in soon to check on you." She adjusted something on your IV. "You're very lucky, young lady. Another minute or two in that smoke and we'd be having a very different conversation." Her eyes cut to Bucky. "And you should probably get checked out too. That cough doesn't sound good."

"I'm fine," Bucky said automatically.

"You performed CPR for several minutes and you've been breathing smoke residue all night, at least let me listen to yous lungs."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but the nurse had already pulled out her stethoscope with a look that said she wasn't asking. While she checked him over—pronounced him "borderline but not critical"— you watched him. Catalogued the soot in his hair, the redness along his eyes, the exhaustion in his body… He'd stayed all night.

After the nurse left, silence fell between you. Bucky was still holding your hand, his thumb still stroking your knuckles, but he was looking down at your joined hands like he was afraid to meet your eyes.

"The horses are all okay," he said finally. "Pete's got them in the training paddock and the north pasture. Copper's fine—spooked but fine. You got every single one out before you…" He swallowed hard. "Before you collapsed."

You squeezed his hand.

"The stable's gone, total loss. But Sanchez thinks the fire was deliberately set, he found evidence of accelerant near the east wall. The sheriff's already investigating, smart money's o Sheridan."

That should have made you angry, should've sparked fear or rage, but you just felt tired. You'd deal with Clayton later. Right now, all you cared about was the man sitting beside your bed, still covered in ash from pulling you out of the fire.

You tugged weakly at the oxygen mask, and this time Bucky didn't stop you, just helped you pull it down to rest under your chin.

"Wildfire—"

"Did you mean it?" Your voice came out as a rasp, barely audible, your throat shredded but you needed to know. "What you said earlier, did you mean it?"

His eyes finally met yours, and they were so raw it hurt to look at. "Every word, I love you. I've been in love with you for so long I can't remember what it felt like not to love you. And I'm sorry I let my pride and y stupid hang-ups about money and worth keep me from saying it. I'm sorry when I pushed you away when all you wanted was—"

"Bucky," you interrupted him, voice still rough. "I'm not gonna die."

He blinked. "What?"

"I'm not gonna die," you repeated. "So you can stop with the dramatic deathbed confessions."

For a second he just stared at you, then incredibly, he laughed. "You almost died and you're making jokes?"

"Someone has to lighten the mood." You tried to smile but your face felt stiff. "You look like shit, by the way."

"Yeah, well." He scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing the soot. "Watching the woman you love nearly die in a fire will do that to you."

The woman you love. He'd said it again, and this time the words settled in your chest like something warm and permanent.

"I heard you," you said quietly. "In the ambulance, and when I first woke up, I heard you."

His hand tightened on yours. "Then you heard me say I'm sorry, that I was an idiot, and that I'm going to spend every day proving I can be man you—"

"You already are." You cut him off. "You've always been, that was never the problem."

"Then what was?"

"You not believing it." You coughed, wincing at the pain in your chest. "You letting your father's expectations and your own pride convince you that you weren't enough… but you were always enough, Bucky, you were always more than enough."

He was quiet for a moment, just looking at you with those blue eyes full of things he'd never let himself say out loud.

"I thought I needed to build something first," he said finally. "Thought I needed to have land, money, something concrete to offer you, something that would make me your equal instead of just… the foreman who got lucky."

"I never wanted an equal. I don't want a business partner or a merger, or someone who can match my net worth. I just want you, the guy who checks on Copper because he knows the horse matters to me. The guy who fixes problems before I know they exist, the guy who punched Sheridan for cornering me and then ran into a burning building to save me even though—" Your voice cracked. "Even though I'd already gotten myself out."

"Barely," he said roughly. "You barely got yourself out, and when I found you lying there not breathing, I—" He stopped, jaw working. "I couldn't breathe either, felt like my heart was being ripped out of my chest. And all I could think was that I'd wasted so much time, weeks we could have had together because I was too proud to accept that maybe love doesn't care about bank balances and property."

You brought your other hand up to cup his face, felt the scrape of stubble and the warmth of his skin. "Life's too short."

"Yeah, it is." He said leaning into your touch.

"I was at Pete and Maria's house yesterday before the fire," you ran your thumb along his cheekbone. "Watched them together, the way they move around each other, the easy affection, how simply it all looked… and I just wanted that with you so badly it hurt. Just simple love, coming home to each other, building a life together without all the weight and the expectations and the fear."

"I want that too," he said quietly. "But I don't know if I know how to do simple. Don't know if I can turn off the voice in my head that says I should be providing more."

"Then we'll figure it out together." You held his gaze. "I'm not asking you to change overnight. I'm not asking you to suddenly be okay with everything you're not okay with, but I need you to try. Need you to let me in instead of pushing me away when it gets hard."

His eyes were bright again. "What if I fuck it up?"

"You will," you smiled slightly. "And I'll fuck it up too. We'll fight and disagree and drive each other crazy, but we'll do it together."

He was quiet, and you could see him wrestling with it—the pride and the fear, but also hope, all tangled together in a know he'd spent his whole life tying.

"I don't have much," he said finally. "Don't have some grand plan, damn, I don't even have a shirt on right now, but I love you, wildfire. I love you so much it terrifies me. And if you're willing to take a chance on a stubborn idiot who almost lost you because he couldn't get out of his own way—"

"I'd give it all up," you interrupted. "The ranch, the money, the legacy… all of it. If it meant I could have something like what Pete and Maria have, If it meant I could have you."

His breath caught. "You don't mean that."

"I do," you held his eyes, let him see the truth "I love the ranch, the work, the land… but I would walk away from all of it tomorrow if it meant having a simple life with you. A small place, horses we actually have time to ride, mornings where we drink coffee together. I'd trade the empire for the everyday, Bucky, every single time."

"Don't say things like that, wildfire." He pressed is forehead to yours, careful with the oxygen tubes and the IV lines.

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me want to take you up on it, makes me want to say fuck the ranch and the town and everyone's expectations and let's just run away together."

"Maybe we should," you said.

He pulled back to look at you. "You're delirious from smoke inhalation."

"I'm serious," and you were. "Not today, or tomorrow, but maybe eventually."

"You'd really leave?" He searched your face. "You'd really walk away from everything you've built."

"For us?" You smiled. "In a heartbeat."

He kissed you then, gentle and careful with your injuries, tasting like smoke and salt and promise. When he pulled back, his eyes were wet again.

"I don't deserve you."

"Probably not," you agreed and he huffed a laugh. "But you love me anyway."

"I do," he said it like a vow. "God help me, I do."

"Then that's enough," you laced your fingers through his. "We'll figure out the rest, but right now, can we just… be?"

"Be what?"

"Together." You squeezed his hand. "Just two people who love each other… just us."

He settled back into the chair, brought your joined hands up to press a kiss to your knuckles. "Yeah, wildfire. We can do that."

You drifted off to sleep with his hand in yours and his voice soft in the darkness, telling you about how Copper had tried to break back into the paddock, about how Pete was already talking to contractors about rebuilding the stable, about how the sun was going to rise soon, and when it did, everything would look better.

One year later

You woke up to the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window and the smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs. For a moment, you just lay there, hand drifting to your still-flat stomach, the secret sitting warm in your chest.

You've known for three weeks, ever since you'd taken the test in the bathroom of the main house while Bucky was out checking the irrigation system. You'd been waiting for the right moment to tell him, something that matched the enormity of it.

You are going to be a father.

The other side of the bed was rumpled and empty, Bucky's watch still on the nightstand beside a book about investment strategies he's been reading. Your husband had surprised you over the past year while you've been scaling back the ranch operations, he'd been building something of his own. Nothing that took him away from you, nothing that required sacrifice or absence, but careful investments in stocks, a small stake in a friend's agricultural tech startup, some rental properties two counties over that he managed remotely.

"Not trying to match you," he said when he first told you about it, almost shy. "Just building something for us, for the future."

And now there was a very specific future growing inside you.

You pulled on one of Bucky's old flannel shirts, over your sleep clothes and padded downstairs barefoot. He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in jeans and nothing else, two mugs of coffee already poured.

Well, one mug of coffee… the other was herbal tea.

Your heart stuttered. Had he noticed? You've been so careful, switching to decaf when he wasn't looking, making excuses about wanting to cut back on caffeine.

"Morning, wildfire." He turned and smiled, and you searched his face for signs that he knew. But he just looked like himself—happy, relaxed, the permanent tension he used to carry finally gone from his shoulders.

"Morning, husband." You crossed to him, let him pull you in for a kiss that tasted like coffee and mint toothpaste. "You made me tea?"

"Figured you might want something different." He handed you the mug."You've been drinking less coffee lately, thought maybe you were getting tired of it."

Not suspicious, then. Just Bucky taking care of you the way he always did, paying attention to the small details.

"Thank you," you took a sip. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep." His hands settled on your hips. "Kept thinking about that trail ride you promised me."

"Did I promise you a trail ride?"

"You definitely did," he kissed your temple. "Said something about finally having time to actually ride horses instead of just breeding and training them."

He wasn't wrong. In the year since the fire, things had changed. You hired two additional hands, promoted Pete to co-manager, and started actually delegating tasks. The ranch still ran beautifully, but you and Bucky had something you'd never had before: time.

And soon, you'd need that time for something else entirely.

Your hand drifted to your stomach before you could stop it, and you caught yourself, turning the gesture into smoothing down the shirt. But your mind was already spinning—would you still be able to ride in a few months? Would Bucky insist you stop? Would he be overprotective, or excited or scared or—

"Wildfire?" Bucky's voice pulled you back. "You okay? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine," you smiled, probably too brightly. "I'm just hungry, should eat something before we ride."

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he just nodded. "I'll make breakfast, you sit."

You perched on one of the kitchen stools and watched him move around the kitchen with easy familiarity. This was your favorite part of the new life you'd built, mornings like this, just the two of you before the day really started.

Soon there would be three of you, and the thought made your chest tight with joy and terror in equal measure.

"Actually," you said as he cracked eggs into a pan, "what if we skip the trail ride this morning? We could go this afternoon instead, make a whole thing of it… pack a picnic, ride out to the creek, spend a few hours just existing."

He glanced over his shoulder a bit surprised. "Yeah? You want to play hooky from ranch work on a Tuesday?"

"We're the bosses, we're allowed." You wrapped both hands around your mug. "Besides, when was the last time we just took an afternoon for ourselves?"

"Good point," he played the eggs, added toast and brought it over to you. "We can do the morning checks, make sure everything's running smooth, then disappear for a few hours."

"Perfect."

The world came out soft, full of meaning he didn't quite catch yet, but he would. This afternoon, by the creek, you'd tell him about the baby, about your future, about how everything was about to change in the best possible way.

You just had to make it through the morning without giving it away.

By noon, you'd packed a basket with sandwiches, fruit, and the fancy cheese Bucky loved from the market in town. You'd also packed ginger cookies for the nausea that had been creeping in the past week, and a bottle of sparkling cider that you hoped would work for a toast.

Bucky was tacking up Duke and Ranger, and you were trying to calm your racing heart. You've told people difficult things before, you've fired employees, negotiated contracts, stood up to your father when he was being stubborn, but this felt bigger than all of that.

"Ready?" Bucky appeared in the tack room doorway, looking unfairly handsome in his worn jeans and work shirt, hair pushed back from his face.

"Ready," you grabbed the basket and let him help you mount Ranger.

You rode out in comfortable silence, taking the familiar trail north toward the creek. The autumn day was perfect—cool but not cold, the leaves just starting to turn gold and red. When you reached the creek, Bucky dismounted first and came to help you down, hands lingering at your waist a moment longer than necessary.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked. "You've seemed… I don't know, different today. Nervous, maybe?"

Damn his observant nature. "I'm fine, just happy."

"Yeah?" He smiled, some of the concern easing. "Me too."

You spread out the blanket you'd fought while Bucky loosened the horses' girths and let them graze nearby. The creek burbled softly, and the sun filtered through the trees in dappled patterns, and everything felt almost too perfect.

"This was a good idea," Bucky said settling beside you on the blanket. "We should do this more often, just disappear for a few hours."

"We should," you busied yourself unpacking the basket, hands shaking slightly. "Especially now that you've got your investments working for you, Pete can handle more of the daily operations."

"Speaking of which," he took the sandwich you handed him. "I wanted to talk about that. Remember the tech startup I invested in? They're doing really well, better than projected. My stake has almost doubled in value, and—" He paused, looking almost shy. "I've been thinking about diversifying more, maybe some agriculture projects or another rental property, something that can generate passive income."

"That's amazing, Bucky." And it was. You'd watched him transform over the past year from someone who measured his worth in sweat equity to someone who understood there were other ways to build security.

"Yeah, well." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I used to be weird about money, but this feels different. Feels like I'm building something that's ours without sacrificing time with you. Without having to choose between being present and being a provider."

"You've always been a provider." You set down your untouched sandwich. "But I'm proud of you for finding a way to do it that works for you."

"I had a good teacher," he kissed your temple. "You taught me that there's ore than one way to build a life together."

This was it. This was the moment. Your heart was pounding so hard you wee sure he could hear it.

"Speaking of building a life together," you started, voice shaking slightly. "There's something I need to tell you."

He set down his sandwich, his attention immediately focused on you. "What's wrong? Are you sick? Is it the ranch? Is—"

"Nothing's wrong." You took his hand, pressed it against your still-flat stomach. "Everything's right, actually. Everything is… perfect."

He froze and you watched understanding dawn slowly: the tea instead of coffee, the fact that you'd been tired lately, the way you'd been careful about lifting heavy things. All the small signs he'd noticed but hadn't put together.

"Wildfire," he breathed. "Are you—"

"I'm pregnant." The words came out in a rush, nervous and excited all at once. "About six weeks. I found out three weeks ago and I've been trying to find the right moment to tell you and I thought here, by the creek, it felt—"

He cut you off with a kiss, so deep and full of joy so pure it made your chest ache. When he used back, his eyes were bright with tears.

"You're pregnant," he said, like he was testing the words. "We are having a baby."

"We're having a baby," you were crying now too, laughing through the tears. "I know we didn't plan this, we haven't even talked about kids yet, but I'm so happy, I'm so—"

"Happy," he finished for you, his hands coming up to frame your face. "God, I'm so happy I can't even— I don't have words, I don't know what else to say except I love you and this is everything."

He pulled you into his arms, held you tight against his chest, and you could feel him shaking.

"Holy shit, I'm going to be a dad" he whispered into your hair.

"You're gonna be a great dad," you pulled back to look at him.

"I know, thanks to you. And this baby is gonna have everything they need, not because of money or any of that shit I used to obsess over, but because we'll be their parents."

"Yeah," you covered his hand with yours. "Yeah, they will."

"How are you feeling? Are you sick? Do you need to see a doctor? Should you even be riding? Jesus, should I have let you get on a horse—"

"Bucky," you laughed, cutting off his spiral. "I'm fine, I saw the doctor two weeks ago, everything looks good. I can ride for another few months as long as I'm careful. The morning sickness is mild, just some nausea, nothing terrible. I'm healthy, baby's healthy, everything's perfect."

"Everything's perfect," he repeated, and then his eyes went wide again. "Wait, does anyone else know? Pete? Maria? Have you been keeping this secret by yourself."

"Just me," you squeezed his hand. "I wanted you to be the first to know, wanted it to be just us, just this moment."

"Best moment of my life," he kissed you again, soft and sweet. "Well, second best, first was marrying you."

"Third best was punching Sheridan's face."

He laughed, loud and bright, and the sound of it made your heart soar. This was the man you'd fallen in love with, the one who could still laugh, who could let go of his pride and just be happy, just be present in the moment.

"We should celebrate." He reached for the basket, pulled out the sparkling cider you'd packed. "Did you plan this?"

"I hoped," you watched him pour two glasses. "Hoped you'd be happy, and this would be the right way to tell you."

"It's perfect." He handed you a glass, raised his own. "To our future."

You clinked glasses, sipped the sweet fizz, and then he was kissing you again, laying you back on the blanket with careful hands.

You laid there together as the afternoon sun shifted through the trees, talking about names and nursery colors and whether you'd find out the gender or be surprised. About how the ranch would need some adjustments, but nothing you couldn't handle. About how Pete and Maria would be thrilled, how the crew would rally around you, how this baby would grow up surrounded by love.

About the future you were building, not just the two of you anymore, but three.

He placed his hand over your stomach, and you covered it with yours, and for a long moment, you just sat there together, listening to the creek and the horses and the perfect silence of a life finally fully lived.

When you finally rode back, the ranch was settling into evening—crew heading home, lights coming on in the main house, the familiar rhythm of end of the day routines. But everything looked different now, felt different.

Because you weren't just coming home to the ranch you ran together. You were coming home to the place where you'd raise your child, whey you would see their first steps, teach how to ride their first horse, learn what it meant to work hard and love harder. Where they'd grow p knowing their parents chose each other every day and created a life worth living.

Bucky helped you dismount, hands lingering in your waist, his eyes soft with wonder and love and barely contained joy.

"Ready to tell everyone?" You asked.

"Ready," he laced his fingers through yours. "Let's go tell our family."

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[theconcealedweapon]

[heldbybarnes]

cowboys always find a way to leave

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

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

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

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

---------

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

He doesn’t. Not yet.

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

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

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

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

—and forget what you were gonna say.

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

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

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

You arch a brow. “Name?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate how it makes you want to smile back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He winks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s home,” you finish.

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

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

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

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

You don’t.

Not that night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For him. For you.

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

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is.”

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

Your heart stutters. “Bucky—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence stretches between you, hot and taut.

There it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t.

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

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

You answer by fisting his shirt and dragging him down.

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

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

“Don’t you dare,” you breathe.

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

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

You’ll remember the shape of his promise.

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

You want to believe him so badly that it hurts.

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

He rides the rank bull.

He covers the eight seconds.

The scout notices.

The sponsor calls.

He leaves.

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

You throw up in the barn two months later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you stop.

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I bet you do.”

You select his number.

You hover over the call button.

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

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

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

You delete the message.

You turn your phone off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She is too much like both of you.

You try not to think about that.

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

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

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

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

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

You almost don’t see the banner at first.

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

The world tilts on its axis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All the while, your stomach is in knots.

You could leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look.

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

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

You do.

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

The stands erupt. Willa’s eyes shine.

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

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

She giggles. “You sound like Nana.”

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

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

Your heart squeezes.

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

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

“Breathe and ride,” she repeats.

You step back.

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

His hand goes still on the rail.

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

Then Willa is flying.

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

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

You’ve never been more terrified or more proud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She preens, glowing.

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

You freeze.

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

You turn slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate.

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

You nod.

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

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

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart stutters. “Wasn’t… where?”

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

You flinch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes.

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

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

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

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

He flinches like you slapped him.

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

Tears burn your eyes. You swipe at them angrily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The we hits you like a physical blow.

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

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

You look up, finally.

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

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

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

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

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

Home.

The word hangs between you, tender and dangerous.

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

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

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

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

You carry your own.

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

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

You could say no.

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

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

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

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

You sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod.

She is silent for a long heartbeat. Two.

“Cool,” she says finally.

You blink. “Cool,” you echo weakly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you dare,” you mutter.

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

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

He swallows hard. “Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

Your heart does a stupid little flip.

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

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

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

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

Tonight, he stays.

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

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

[buckysdecaflove]

Into Thin Air.

Repost

All my stories are R18. I write smut, and I may touch sensitive topics or topics that are not intended to be read by minors.

YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN CONTENT CONSUMPTIONS.

Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warning/Tags: AU, Angst, Fluffy ending, relationship established.

Word count: ~3.1k

Summary: After you tell Bucky you're expecting, the Blip happens, now you have to deal with the fact of not knowing if he was just not ready for the commitment or if he blipped.

Author's Note: This came out of a short idea I had, plus a bad day. Enjoy it! This was also for my one and only @kileyking 🤎 she betaread it the first time and she still says it's her favorite.

This is a repost; if you've seen it before, I've added one or two things at the end. Feel free to read it again. I'll also appreciate support to get back to the community I had.

If this is the first time you've read me, I'd love for you to read this post.

You had been on and on–and–off relationship with Bucky Barnes for the last year; it was not that someone had failed in the relationship, it was more that he tended to pay attention to his self–deprecating thoughts. Sometimes he could disappear for a day or two, since he felt a kind of guilt for enjoying having something as good as you.

You knew his past, who The Winter Soldier was, and what he did; he told you everything with details, but he always preferred to keep you the most private thing he could ever have. It was half preservation, half fear. And that’s why you never met any of his friends, not even Steve Rogers.

And that’s how you ended up in that position—alone, pregnant, without information about Bucky’s whereabouts. The Blip came two days after you confessed to Bucky that you were pregnant. You had always worn protection; you weren't irresponsible. He was very clear on the fact that he didn’t want children—he didn’t feel like someone who could protect a child. 

Since you both started to get intimate, he was very cautious; it didn't matter how eager he was, how much you pleaded or tried to convince him you were on the pill too, he never went through unless he had condoms. 

When your period didn’t come on time, it was not a very big deal; that happened from time to time, but after the second month with no menstruation, you got suspicious—and without even letting Bucky know, you took a pregnancy test.

Positive.

You sighed. You knew it was not that simple, you knew that this pregnancy came with a lot of nuances, Bucky always made sure of letting everyone know he was not ready for something like this—every time you were in front of a child he created a distance, he never carried your niece or your nephew when he came to see you and you were taking care of them. 

He had been on and off on some important missions, but he never displayed much information. ‘The less you know, the better,’ he always said. But somehow you knew this was something bigger, his tired eyes told you something was wrong, you knew the pregnancy didn’t arrive in the best moment, not of the relationship, not in his life—not in your life. 

Five years earlier

“What’s going on?” He said, taking his jacket off and placing it on a hanger.

“Can you take a seat?” 

Your hands were trembling, and you felt cold in your bones. 

The blood test came back as positive as it could, and the ultrasound didn’t lie either. Your reddened eyes burned with the tears you were trying to hold.

“Sweetheart, what is going on?” He took your hands and sat you down, his jaw clenched while he tried to read your face.

“I know—this is not something you wanted to happen, it’s something we both tried to avoid,” you sighed and started tearing up, “God, I wish I wasn’t this emotional.”

“Whatever thing you’re talking about—we can deal with it together, I know I’m not the best, but I try my best for you, and that should count for you to believe that I can be reliable.” 

Your hiccups didn’t let you talk anymore—and before you could stutter any other thing, you took out the paper and placed it on his hands. He sighed and started reading it. His hands were shaking—you could swear you saw fear in his eyes. Real fear. 

“Oh.” 

It was the only sound that came out of his parted lips. He caressed the paper; his eyes were now closed, his head tilted up.

“How did this happen?” He mumbled; it was more an internal question that escaped than a real question for you. 

“I’m sorry, Bucky. I am on the pill, I tried to take it as punctually as possible, this—”

He shook his head. 

“No—this is not your fault, it’s uh—well it happened.” 

“It happened?” You said, a kind of disappointed tint came out in your tone. 

“No, uh—fuck. That’s not what I meant.” 

“I knew this was going to happen, I—god.” 

He stood up, crumpled up the paper, and shoved it in his pocket. “I think I need a minute.”

He had left your apartment without saying any other word—his jacket was still hanging on the entrance, the apartment felt cold, you could swear it was freezing, the whole world was dizzy, and you couldn’t even process what had happened at that moment.

And that was the last time you saw him after that. 

It was not something weird coming from him; he used to disappear if he had a rough day, or if he felt he did something horrible—even if he didn’t.

Then, The Blip. 

It happened like it was nothing—one minute you were talking with someone, and in front of your eyes they disappeared, they turned into literally dust—and you couldn’t do anything. They were just gone. 

And what else could you do? Just wait, just wait and see who had survived—if ’survived’ was the correct word.

A week passed, and the government started to issue statements, even some of The Avengers had been turned into dust, or had ‘blipped’ as they called it.  

But Bucky Barnes never appeared—in any list. Not on the list of people who had died fighting against Thanos, not on the people who had blipped. 

And you accepted it. 

You accepted he had disappeared into thin air—not literally. 

You accepted he wasn’t coming back and that he had decided all this was not worth it. 

And you spent the next five years raising a lovely girl, Gwen. 

She resembled Bucky in every way possible; the older she got, the more she looked like him—she smiled like him, had his deep blue eyes, and the worst part? Somehow, along the way, her nickname turned into Winnie, which was his mother’s nickname. 

And she loved it—if you tried to call her Gwen, she would make a whole tantrum, and you would have to correct yourself and call her Winnie. 

The first year was rough—people didn’t even know how to navigate in this new world, and you moved in with your sister since she had lost her partner with The Blip. She knew you were dating someone, but didn’t meet him, and your niece and nephews were too young to even remember him.

And life was better like that—no one even mentioned him again, you didn’t call his name ever again. Winnie’s father? Gone, deadbeat. 

In the second year, when things started to settle in the literal world, you and your sister got a job opportunity, the cost of living was lower, you could afford to buy a bigger house for you and her with the three children. 

The problem was the place. Brooklyn. Fucking Brooklyn.

But, oh well. Life must go on, right? 

Years passed, you really tried to date, but no one felt like him—even with his flaws, he was like no one else. 

You missed everything—even after he left. You missed his touch, his sad smile, his blue eyes, the way he always tried not to touch you with his metal arm; he always said you didn’t deserve to be touched with something that was created to kill.

You missed how he loved to sleep tangled with you, how he never got off the bed before you—he never wanted you to feel lonely if he was in the apartment. 

Was he perfect? Of course not. He tried not to go off on you, but sometimes it happened—and then he was all apologetic after all. 

And there you were, work was rough that day, something felt off in the air—you could swear it felt similar to the day The Blip happened. The street was too quiet, the sky was too clear, something felt oddly similar. 

You were walking to get Winnie from school when it happened—someone in front of your eyes appeared from thin air—dust all over the place, people running, people coming out of nowhere, and panic began to spread. Your blood ran cold, you went numb, for a split second, you stood frozen, watching people running. 

But reality hit you hard, and you started to run to get Winnie. 

The school was no better; everything was a disaster, and students were crying—there were at least double the number of people they were used to having in the premises. A teacher recognized you and waved to hand you Winnie. You gripped her hand as hard as you could, you carried her in your arms, and walked as fast as you could to get home. 

After everything settled—and everything came to an end with Thanos—Bucky, Steve, and Sam were on the quinjet, he was sitting on top of an armory box, his hands roaming through the back of his neck to the crown of his head. He sighed and despaired. When his mind could process everything he was told, he understood that nothing was sure. 

He didn’t know anything about you— nor did Steve know, how could he? He didn’t even know you existed in his life. 

“Buck, I know it’s a lot to process—but we need to get you checked.”

“No, I need to find her.”

“To find who?” Sam asked, furrowing. 

“My—fuck, my girlfriend,” he sighed. Sam and Steve sat with their mouths on the floor, “she—she was pregnant.” 

“What the fuck, man?” Sam questioned. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” 

“It—I was about to—but all this happened, she told me just two days before we got into this."

When they arrived in New York, Steve took Bucky to your apartment, even when deep down he knew you wouldn’t be there—but he held a hope you were going to be there.

Nothing.

Then Steve did research, he found you were now living in Brooklyn, he found your address and—yes, he found you had a daughter who was almost five years old. 

Steve handed him the information, “This is what I could find. She’s very low–profile.”

“Exactly how I taught her.” He tried to smile, but the photo on the printed page made him feel horrible. You looked slightly older, but you looked so beautiful, you looked mature, you looked like someone so distant and close at the same time.

He started digging more and more until he found where you lived.

There were bikes in the front yard—three bikes, he assumed you had gotten married and maybe had stepchildren, and a lot of toys could be seen on the porch. The neighborhood reminded him a lot of where he was raised, and he was happy to know you were raising your daughter in such a beautiful place, in such a beautiful house.

How could he blame you if you decided to get married? You probably struggled the first years, and then met him maybe at your workplace, maybe on a quick visit to Brooklyn—and then he moved you here.

But even with all those thoughts roaming his head, he didn’t dare yet to come in and knock on your door. What was he going to say? ‘Hey, I blipped, and I’m back. Can I help you with your child’?

So he started to follow you—not in a psycho way, he really tried to make it the least weird possible. He drove past your house from time to time—once he caught a glimpse of like five children, some older, some younger, and he didn’t dare to stare at them and catch who your child was, or if any other was yours with someone else.

He didn’t tell anyone what was going on—he just disappeared for hours and then came back as if he hadn’t been stalking your house just to see a glimpse of you. 

But one day he was there, sitting on the corner of your street, something he would do to not be seen that often, creeping on the street. 

He was so focused on your house that he didn’t even notice when Steve leaned on his open window, “She has a nice house.” 

Bucky jumped on his seat; he was sure he was about to have a heart attack.

“Fuck, Stevie. Don’t do that shit again.”

“Me? I’m not the one stalking my… ex girlfriend’s neighborhood.” 

“Weren’t you the one who broke into my apartment in Bucharest?” 

He chuckled, “Man, you should really go and knock on her door, it’s been a month, if she had any hope of you being blipped at this point, she’s probably sure you ran away.”  

“I need more time—if at this point she already hates me, a month or a day won’t make any difference.” 

And three weeks later, he found the strength to be in front of you—Steve was three houses down, leaning outside the car, and Bucky was in front of your door. 

His hands were shaking; he didn’t even know how to start the conversation. 

He knocked three times and waited—your voice came through the door.

“Coming!” 

And when you opened the door, your heart fell to your feet. You felt cold; you could swear the floor under your feet was shaking. 

James Buchanan Barnes.

He was in front of you after almost five years of going MIA—and he looked exactly the same—did that mean that he had blipped? But it had been almost two months since everyone had come back. Why didn’t he come before? 

“Bucky?” 

His name came out of your mouth like a prayer; you couldn’t even feel your body at that moment. He couldn’t speak either.

You sighed, touching your chest, caressing it slowly, tears welling in your eyes, “What are you doing here?” 

He didn’t even say anything—he just moved closer, cutting the distance to hug you, both hands gripping your shirt from your back. You really tried to stop yourself, but smelling that woodsy scent once again after five years was too much to handle, was enough to tear your walls down. 

Your face was buried on his chest, tears fighting to leave your eyes—he was stroking your hair with that softness he had always had when it was about you. And then, a sudden noise made you both come back to reality

“Mommy! Are you ready to play?” Winnie’s voice echoed through the hallway. Bucky stood frozen. You cut the hug and knelt in front of her.

“Can you give mommy a minute? A—friend came to visit,” Bucky didn’t allow himself to look at the child, he didn’t feel worthy of it, “Do you want to introduce yourself?”

“Hi!” She said, looking up at him, “I’m Winnie.” 

That nickname—he bit his lip hard, “Hi—Winnie, I’m Bucky.”

“Are you Bucky Barnes?” She asked with that wiggly voice she had. 

“Uh—yes,” he looked at you, and you shook your head, you really didn’t know how she knew who he was. 

“How do you know, sweetie?” You asked, still kneeling in front of her.

“We read about superheroes this week! And he was there—he's a friend of Captain America!” 

Both of you chuckled, “Yeah—yeah. I'm a friend of Captain America.” 

“Honey, what about you go with Auntie, and after that we can play?” She nodded and waved goodbye to Bucky.” 

“Bye, Bucky! Nice to meet you.”

He nodded, “Nice to meet you, too, Winnie.” 

And then she wiggled back down the hallway.

“I would highly recommend going out before the rest of the kids come.” 

He laughed and nodded. You closed the door behind you—three houses down, Steve waved at you shyly.

“Oh—” You felt the rush you used to feel when you were about to get caught five years ago. 

“No. He knows… everything.”

“There’s a park one block away,” you said, and he gestured to make you lead the way.

When you sat on a bench, your knees touched for a moment, you felt a lot of things at the same time, and you couldn’t decide which one you wanted to feel completely.

“So—”

“Look, I know it looks horrible—Steve told me he asked for me not to be announced as blipped since my legal status was still complicated, he didn’t know you existed—if he had known he would have looked for you and taken care of you, I—don’t know what you’ve been through, and you probably felt like I ran away…”

“Yes—basically that’s what I’ve been saying and thinking for the last five years.”  

“So, Winnie?” He asked, smiling, and a tint of nostalgia could be seen.

“Her name’s Gwen, someone in school called her Winnie—she’s been Winnie since she was three, you can’t call her otherwise, or she will be pissed.” 

He chuckled, “Well, I refused to be called James most of my life—I guess it was my payback, but you received it.” 

His laugh made you tremble. You didn’t even remember it before today—it was good to have the blessing of hearing it again.

“I really want to do things right, you know?” He gazed down, “but I will do whatever you want—If you got married, I get it, it was five years. If your husband is her dad, I will have to live with it.”

“Wait—why do you assume I got married?” 

“Well, I saw three bikes on your front.”

“Bucky, those are my niece’s and nephew’s, we live together—well, I guess things are going to change now, her husband came back too.”

“Oh,” he paused for a moment, “what did you tell Winnie about her father?” 

“That he passed away, it was easier to lie than to confront life and explain you had run away because you were afraid.” 

You were ashamed; you couldn’t believe what you were saying at that moment.

“Hey, look at me,” he placed his hand on your knee, and you looked at him, “whatever thing you had done, said, or lied—it was for the best.” 

“I should’ve thought you blipped, I should’ve looked for Steve, but I was afraid no one would believe me—Imagine it? A crazy lady out of nowhere on the Stark Tower ‘Hey, I’m Bucky’s girlfriend, and I’m pregnant with his child, and you have no option but to believe me.’ God, sounds ridiculous.” 

“To be fair—I was terrified, I never thought of running away, but I didn’t know what I was going to do.” 

“And what do you want to do now?” You asked, looking at him. 

He sighed, his flesh hand cupping your chin, “If you let me—kiss you, I’ve missed you these months like an idiot.”

You nodded, and he didn’t wait longer—he closed the distance and kissed you. It was tender, but you could feel the yearning behind it. 

He missed you for a couple of months, but you tried to continue your life without him for five years. That kiss was everything you thought you would never feel again.

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[heldbybarnes]

Hi I'm really enjoying ur bucky dad fanfic ad I was wondering if u could write something. So I saw this reel where experience their toddler and now grown teens.....The toddlers r talkative and always wanna be around the parent but teens r in their room, they hardly talk and there is usual only one parent they confide in. So I was wondering if u could write about bucky experience with his child now and then....and he's very dramatic and upset and reader comforts him. Thank you!

You used to joke that James Buchanan Barnes—former assassin, literal super soldier—had been taken down by a pair of chubby hands and a sticky applesauce kiss.

Her name is Emmy. She’s three years old, curls like spun honey and Bucky’s exact blue eyes. She follows him everywhere.

“Daddy, up,” is her favorite phrase.

You find them one afternoon in the kitchen, Bucky attempting to make a sandwich one-handed because Emmy is latched to his thigh like a koala. She narrates everything he does.

“Daddy bread. Daddy knife. Daddy peanut butter. Daddy messy.”

“I’m not messy,” he mutters, glancing down at the smear on his shirt. “It’s tactical peanut butter.”

She gasps like he’s committed a crime against humanity. “No tactical! Mommy!”

And then she’s calling for you, because you are the referee, the sun, the ultimate authority on all things peanut butter related.

At three, she talks nonstop. She wants to sit on his lap while he watches TV, wants him to read the same book seven times in a row, wants to know why the moon follows the car and why birds don’t get cold and why Daddy’s metal arm is shiny.

“Does it get sad?” she asks once, patting the vibranium gently.

He blinks. “Sad?”

“When you don’t hug it?”

You watch his throat work as he swallows. “No, bug. It’s okay.”

She hugs it anyway. Both arms around the metal forearm like she can squeeze the ghosts out of it. Bucky looks at you over her head, wrecked and in love and so full of something it almost hurts to witness.

At night, she refuses to sleep unless he’s there. You’ll hear the little padding of feet, then the creak of your bedroom door.

“Daddy. I had a dream.”

Every dream requires his full presence. He carries her back, whispers nonsense stories about brave princesses and grumpy dragons who just need naps. She tangles her fingers in his hair and says, “You my best friend, Daddy.”

He pretends to be tough about it. Pretends it doesn’t melt him into a puddle on the hardwood.

But when she finally sleeps, he lingers at her doorway.

“She won’t always need me like that,” he murmurs once.

You bump your shoulder into his. “She will. Just differently.”

He doesn’t believe you.

---

Emmy is sixteen.

Her curls are still there, but now they’re usually twisted into a messy bun. Headphones live around her neck like a permanent accessory. Her bedroom door is closed more often than it’s open.

Bucky stands in the hallway staring at it like it personally betrayed him.

“She used to kick it open,” he says mournfully. “Didn’t even knock. Just—boom—‘Daddy, watch this!’ Now it’s locked.”

You press your lips together to keep from smiling. “She’s a teenager, Buck.”

“She’s in there. On purpose.”

“Yes. That’s how rooms work.”

He shoots you a look.

Dinner used to be Emmy perched in his lap, demanding he cut her chicken into dinosaur shapes. Now she picks at her food, scrolling on her phone.

“How was school?” Bucky asks carefully.

“Fine.”

“What’d you do?”

“Stuff.”

You watch his soul leave his body in real time.

Later, when she disappears back into her room, he slumps against the kitchen counter like he’s been shot.

“That’s it? ‘Fine’? I fought Hydra for this?”

You laugh, crossing the room to wrap your arms around his waist. “You’re being dramatic.”

“She doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

“She does.”

“Not like before.” His voice softens, something wounded underneath the theatrics. “She used to tell me everything.”

You cup his face, forcing him to look at you. “She still needs you. She’s just figuring out who she is.”

He grumbles, but he leans into your touch like he always does.

Then one night, you’re in the living room when you hear Emmy's door open.

Soft footsteps.

You glance up, expecting her to head for the kitchen—but she pauses, then veers left.

Into your bedroom.

Bucky looks up from the couch immediately, alert like he sensed it.

“Is she—?”

You nod toward the hallway. “Go.”

He tries to play it cool, but he’s halfway down the hall in two seconds.

You hover nearby, not eavesdropping, just…present.

Emmy's voice is quieter now. Not the babbling toddler cadence. Something heavier.

“…and I don’t know if she’s actually my friend or if she just—” She huffs. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Bucky says instantly. “Nothing that makes you feel bad is stupid.”

There’s a pause. Then a sniff.

Your chest tightens.

“I just miss when things were easy,” she admits. “When I was little.”

He exhales, slow and shaky. “Yeah. Me too, bug.”

Silence. The soft creak of the bed as he probably sits beside her.

“You don’t talk to me much anymore,” he says carefully. Not accusing. Just honest.

“I know.” Another sniff. “It’s not you. I just… I don’t know how to say stuff sometimes.”

His voice cracks just a little. “You can always say it to me.”

More silence.

Then: “Can I… can I stay in here tonight?”

You see him in your mind—the way his face would crumble.

“Yeah,” he says thickly. “Always.”

You step away before they come out, giving them space.

Later, he joins you in bed with Emmy curled between you, just like she used to be. She’s all long limbs now, not the tiny bundle she once was—but she still fits.

He stares at the ceiling like he’s processing something monumental.

“She still came to me,” he whispers.

You smile in the dark. “Told you.”

He rolls toward you carefully so he doesn’t jostle her. His eyes are suspiciously shiny.

“I thought I lost her.”

“You didn’t lose her,” you murmur. “She’s growing.”

He nods slowly.

“I miss when she needed help tying her shoes,” he admits. “Miss when she’d make me watch her jump off the couch a hundred times.”

You brush your fingers through his hair. “Now she needs help untangling friendships. Or deciding colleges. Or surviving heartbreak.”

He swallows. “I can handle heartbreak.”

You snort softly. “You’ll try to fight a seventeen-year-old boy.”

“He better be scared,” Bucky mutters, but there’s no real heat in it.

Emmy shifts in her sleep, instinctively reaching out. Her hand lands on his chest.

Even at sixteen, she still finds him.

He looks down at her hand, then back at you.

“She’ll always be my little girl,” he says quietly.

“She will,” you agree. “And one day, when she’s got her own place and her own life, she’ll still call you when she doesn’t know how to fix something.”

His mouth curves into a small, hopeful smile.

“You think?”

“I know.”

He presses his forehead to yours over Emmy's sleeping form.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. I can survive the locked door.”

You grin. “Good. Because next year she’s learning to drive.”

He groans dramatically into the pillow.

And Emmy, half-asleep, mumbles, “Daddy, stop being dramatic.”

You laugh softly while Bucky stares at the ceiling again—defeated, adored, and completely, hopelessly in love with every version of his daughter.

[sunflowersoldat]

Suit and Tie

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Warnings: +18 ONLY, slight slut shaming, mentions of light bondage, light Dom/Sub interactions, rough smut.

Summary: After reader and Bucky get invited to a costume party, things take a turn when Bucky has to explain his costume.

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

You walked into the tower, where Tony was throwing another one of his parties. Most of the guests had gone by now, you were incredibly late. The team was sitting in the common area around the table, most of them still in their costumes.

Thor was wearing an old Superman costume, Tony had dressed up as one of ACDC’s band members, Nat wore a black dress with a witch’s hat, you giggled when you saw Steve in a full Red Sox uniform. The only one that didn’t really look like they were dressed up was Bucky, your boyfriend, he wore a grey suit and slate blue tie, the colors making his steel blue eyes pop.

You swallowed thickly, you had thought his stealth suit was hot, this was different, your stomach flipping and mouth going dry as you tried not to stare. Walking up to the team, you flopped down onto the couch between Bucky and Steve as he sided-eyed you under his ballcap,

“Who are you supposed to be? He asked huskily, motioning toward your black sweats and white band tee.

“Yeah, where is your costume?” Sam added from behind you, dressed as a cowboy, hat, chaps, and all.

“You can’t dress up as yourself kid. Even though you are scary looking.” Tony jested across the room from behind his whiskey.

You raised your hands in surrender, “Jeez guys, I just got back from a mission and threw on something comfy. I wasn’t aware you were having a costume party, Tony. Some of us actually work around here.” You shake your head as Nat hands you a glass,

“Ignore then rookie. You weren’t required to wear a costume, besides all the guests are gone anyway.” She sat back down next to Barton, who was dressed in the exact same costume as Sam.

“Besides I am not the only one who didn’t dress up.” You nod at Bucky next you, who began eyeing you suspiciously, “I hope you gave Barnes the same hell you gave me.” You looked around the room as the team started to laugh quietly, hiding their smiles when Bucky rose from his seat,

“You don’t think this is a good costume? Tony suggested it, I still don’t understand why. Something about you not being able to resist me. I don’t know.” He ends quietly, taking a drink of his beer as he spun around, giving you a better look.

You raise your brows at him, “Yeah… I am not following who you are supposed to be Buck.” You lift your glass to your lips taking a sip, eyes following him around the table.

“What was it, Tony? Christian something…” Bucky mumbles, “Oh right,” Bucky snapped his metal fingers as they glistened in the low light, “Christian Grey…”

You spit out your drink, followed by a fit of coughing, as Steve pat your back gently,

“Damn kid, are you okay?”

The team members who understand the reference laugh hysterically. You glare at Tony as you wipe your face, “Did you tell him who Christian Grey was?!” you croak. This only makes Tony laugh harder, as Bucky looks around the room brows furrowed, he knows there is a deeper meaning to the costume and doesn’t like the idea of being a joke.

“He said he was a renowned businessman…” Bucky looked at you, irritation marring his beautiful features, he did make an exquisite Mr. Grey. “Doll? He isn’t a businessman… is he?” he asked pursing his lips tossing a dirty look at Tony.

You placed your hand over your mouth, as screwed up as this was, it was rather hilarious. You shook your head slightly, “Well… I mean… He isn’t not a businessman…” you were not sure how to tell the terrifying super soldier in front of you that he was dressed as a dominant sex fiend. “He um… Just watch the movie 50 Shades of Grey. Or… you could read the books, there are several. But the movies will get to the point faster.”

Nat sighed, “We could just tell him…”

Tony scoffed, “Why?! When we could show him.” As Tony spoke a screen lowered near the window, the movie already playing. You hid your face in your hands, Steve, Bucky and Thor watching intently, wanting to understand the joke.

You rose from your seat; you could feel the heat on your face, you may be dating, but there was no way in hell you were going to watch this with Bucky let alone the rest of the team in the room. You snatched the remote from Tony’s grasp, tuning the movie off and raising the screen, “Absolutely not.” You hissed as you tossed the remote behind the bar. “We don’t need to give him ideas Tony.”

Bucky turned to look at you, irritation growing,

“Will someone please explain who Bucky is dressed as please?” Steve groaned.

You sighed digging out your phone from your pocket, typing then tossing it to Steve, his cheeks mimicking red of his shield, as he read quietly, glancing between you, Bucky and your phone. He stood clearing his throat, walking over to Bucky, clapping his hand on his back before he returned to his seat.

Bucky gave you one last incredulous look before dropping his gaze to your phone. After a moment, his eyes widened and mouth dropped just a smidge, as you watched his cheeks turn a light pink.

“That would explain a lot… I kept trying to figure out why the women at the party kept giggling when I told them who I was…” lethal anger flashed across Bucky’s face as he turned to Tony, “Stark…” Bucky was standing now, cracking his neck, you slapped Tony’s shoulder, “Tony, if I were you, I would run…’

Tony laughed dismissing your hand, as he looked back at Bucky. Tony’s smile disappearing as Bucky launched himself in his direction. Tony scrambled over the top of his chair, running for the elevator,

“This was for you, kid! Thank me later!” he yelled before the doors closed mere seconds before Bucky slammed his fists against them. As Bucky turned around, the rest of the team stared at him, unsure if he was truly mad or if he was playing. Until a dark smile broke across his lips,

“Someone please remind me to get him back for this later.”

“Oh, Buck it isn’t that bad…” you grab his hand as he returns to the common area with the rest of the team, you tiptoe to place a kiss to his cheek, “Its actually kind of hot.” You whisper, lowering yourself back down as you glance up at him through your lashes.

You watch his eyes darken as he swallows hard and sets his jaw. Bucky sits down in the chair Tony just vacated, maneuvering you to sit on his lap as you both continue to converse with the rest of the team.

Bucky placing one hand on the armchair, holding his drink, as his other hand slipped nonchalantly under your shirt, rubbing circles on the sensitive skin of your side. One by one, the rest of the team tapped out, calling it a night and heading up to their rooms, until only you, Steve, Sam and Bucky remained. Bucky’s hand dipped lower, sliding under the band of your sweats, causing you to squirm and clear your throat,

“Well boys I am beat, I think I am going to call it a night. It’s been a long day.” As you try to remove yourself from Bucky’s lap, his metal hand tightens briefly on your waist, then loosens, allowing you to leave.

Your head is spinning by the time you make it to the floor where your room is located, unsure if its form the alcohol or from Bucky’s touch. Damn that beautiful man and his fancy suit. If you took his hints correctly, Bucky would be walking down the hallway and into your room shortly. You opened your door, scrambling onto your bed and under the covers, you drifted off into sleep.

You woke when you heard your door close gently, only opening your eyes when your bed dipped on either side of your thighs. You were greeted by pale blue eyes with lust blown pupils, you squeaked as Bucky worked his way into the covers on top of you.

He placed one hand next to your head to steady himself, as he caressed your face with the other, the quiet whir of his metal arm almost lulling you back to sleep. He slotted his lips over yours hastily, you whimpered into his mouth. Bucky lowered himself, grinding down on you, you squirmed under him, moving your hands to unbuckle his pants, but he grabbed your wrists, bringing them above your head, moving his hand from your face to rip off your shirt and bra, tossing them into the darkness in your room.

You whined when he broke the kiss, as he removed his tie, wrapping it around your wrists and then to the bedpost.

“Buck, what are you…”

Gasping when his now free hands cupped your breasts, one hot one cold, sending goosebumps down your body. You arched your back into him, he growled as your hips met, your clothed core brushing against his hardened cock through his slacks.

Removing himself from on top of you, he ripped your sweats and underwear off, throwing them behind him to land somewhere else in the room. The second you were naked, he was on top of you again, his mouth biting and sucking your neck. As he worked his way down your chest, one hand massaging your breast, as the metal one snaked up to grasp your throat firmly. Moaning as his grasp tightened and slid his other hand down to your soaked core,

“All this for me baby?”

He continued to nip and suck on your nipples, switching back and forth between them.

“B-Buck. What… What are you d-doing?” you choked.

He growled, releasing your breast with a wet pop, teeth scraping against your hardened nipple, you whimpered, the pleasure and pain of it overwhelming you,

“Sargent… You will call me Sargent, until I tell you otherwise.” He snapped before he crushed his lips to yours. This wasn’t the Bucky you were used to, but you were in no way complaining.

He moved his hand in your slick, teasing your entrance, you mewled, thrusting your hips towards his hand. Wanting, no needing more of him, needing to feel him all over, for your skin to burn with his touch.

“Do you understand?”

When you didn’t respond, he tapped your core, pulling a strangled cry from your throat, you nodded hastily, wanting him to continue what he had been doing to you. “Y-Yes.”

“Yes what?” he growled.

“Yes Sa-Sargent.” As you finished the word, he slid his fingers through your folds, stopping on your throbbing clit, rubbing slow circles, before lowering his head placing kisses down your torso. Teasing you, lower, lower moving to your thighs and kissing the sensitive flesh there, eliciting quiet moans from you, until he stopped, hovering over your core, warm breath fanning your folds.

He lifted your hips with his hands, removing the metal one from your neck, giving him easier access, starting at your entrance he flattened his tongue licking a long slow stipe up your slit, causing your eyes to roll back as he thrust two fingers into you, his mouth focusing on your clit.

Licking and sucking as you struggled against his tie restraining your hands, the cord in your stomach tightening, almost snapping, when he stopped. He pulled himself away from you, he disappeared into the darkness,

“B-Bucky?” you called hoarsely.

You jumped when he returned grabbing your waist and flipping you on to your stomach, crying out when you felt a harsh smack on your ass, the unmistakable jingle of his belt buckle ringing through the air, as he brought it down on your ass again.

“What did I say you were to call me.” He reached around, lifting your hips slipping his fingers into your folds again.

“S-Sorry Sargent.” You gasp, mewling as his fingers slipped into you again. Leaning down to your shoulders kissing and biting, as his metal hand circled around to your throat again, the other hand leaving your core making you whimper.

Only to scream his name as he centered his cock and slammed into you, you felt every glorious inch of him as the head of his cock kissed your cervix, knocking the air from your lungs. He set a brutal pace, thrusting into you harshly, eliciting obscene moans from you in response, he reached for the tie around your hands, releasing you, as he yanked you against his chest by your hair, kissing and biting at your neck.

He moved his hand to sit firmly around your throat, you gripped his arm tightly as the other one slipped down to your clit, hastily rubbing, and flicking until you couldn’t take it anymore. You came crying his name,

“That’s it Doll give it to me, give it all to me.”

He continued his harsh pace, only stopping to flip you onto your back again, his hips slowed as he pulled out of you, immediately feeling empty. You were already so blissed out, as he dragged you from the bed, lifting you to wrap your legs around his waist, slipping down onto his cock. Your hands clawed at his back as he pinned you to the wall, fucking up into you. skin slapping skin filled the room with your incoherent words and his moans.

“So greedy for me, huh? That pussy was made for me, my pretty little cock whore.”

You felt the cord in you tighten again as he pulled out, releasing his bruising hold on your thighs, letting you land on the ground in front of him on your knees.

“I’m gonna ruin that pretty mouth princess.”

You looked up at Bucky through your lashes, dropping your mouth open, tongue out, as he placed his heavy cock in your mouth.

“I want you to touch yourself, princess, but you can’t come until I tell you to. Do you understand?”

You nodded eagerly, slipping one hand down to your clit, you moaned around his cock. He placed his hand on the wall behind you, as his other hand tangled in your hair, without warning he snapped his hips, cock slamming down your throat.

Tears prickled your eyes as you reminded yourself to breathe through your nose, your free hand on his thigh to brace yourself as he used your mouth to find his release. His warm spend coating the back of your throat as his cock twitched on your tongue. You moved your fingers faster, chasing your own release, when Bucky removed himself from your mouth, and caught your hand.

“Sar-Sargent please…”

“Please what princess, use your words.”

He lifted your fingers to his mouth sucking them clean, he lifted you from the floor, setting you on the bed before tying your hands behind your back. He laid himself on the bed, lifting you onto him, centering his cock to your entrance, before slamming you down on to him.

You struggled against the restraints on your wrists, as he slowly, painfully slowly fucked up into you. He brought you to the edge again, your body ready to let go, as tears spilled from your eyes, you begged him to let you finish, to no avail. He continued to edge for the final time before he reached around behind you to release your wrists,

“Ride me princess, make yourself come on my cock.”

You did as you were told, grinding down on him relentlessly chasing your orgasm, not stopping until sweet release washed over you, not even as Bucky screamed your name, cock stilling inside you as he coated your silky walls with his thick spend. When you finally reached your release, your whole body shuddered as you fell limply against his chest. The two of you breathing heavily as he rolled you onto your side, cock still snug inside of you as he pressed feather light kisses to your lips and closed eyes.

“You are keeping the suit, right?” you asked breathlessly,

“Absolutely.”

Bucky’s Duckies

@texan-tazzy @tianamontag @daiseychaindisaster @silently-killing-you @buckyfan12 @happyt0exist

[skullbubbles]

Danhausen x Reader [Locker Room Talk] 18+

Danhausen hoped he impressed you with his perfectly legitimate and 100% legal win against Brian Johnson. He ended up covered in bruises which you decided to kiss better.

1.6k words // AFAB reader, dating, first time together, "hurt"/comfort, boners haha, shower sex, cumming inside.

[Based on his ROH FINAL BATTLE match in 2020, where this cheeky little fuck pretends to get dinked by a microphone and wins by disqualification.]

🔞 No minors please genuinely fuck off. 🔞

Danhausen burst into the locker room with his newly signed contract in hand. He had already managed to crumple it but it was his and he couldn’t have looked prouder. The place was empty aside from you, as most of the wrestlers were still watching the show play out. 

He scurried over, waving it in your face.

“SEE. YES. DANHAUSEN IS NOW IN RING OF HONOR. HE IS A 100% LEGITIMATE AND TOTALLY LEGAL WINNER.”

He was practically panting as he beamed ear to ear. You could have counted every one of his teeth with a smile like that.

“Congratulations!”

You threw your arms around him in a tight hug. He gave a small yelp and he collapsed onto the bench. You helped ease him down; his skin was beaded with sweat and red welts had started to flush across his chest and back.

“You must go easy on Danhausen.” He winced, “He is… somewhat tender.”

You stroked his hair back, attempting to tame it all in one direction. It was matted with sweat and facepaint, there might have been a baby tooth stuck somewhere in it.

He leaned into your touch, hesitantly at first before humming contentedly.

“This is pleasing.”

He melted as you held him. From your experience so far, he had never seemed entirely comfortable being touched at first. But would lower his defences after a few moments, perhaps ‘demons’ were prone to trust issues. 

“Poor thing…” You cooed, twirling a lock of his hair around your finger.

“Yes indeed,” He let out a beleaguered sigh, “the things Danhausen must put himself through for human monies…”

“Where does it hurt? Want me to kiss it better?

He froze for a moment, his eyes widening. He looked behind himself as if to check you weren’t asking someone behind him. You couldn’t help but laugh.

He mumbled and looked away shyly, “Here.” 

He pointed to where he’d smeared the make up on the mic before tucking his hands away quickly. You placed a slow and gentle kiss on his brow. You could hear him hold his breath as you drew closer.

“Danhausen might be hurting on this spot also.” He pointed to his cheek.

You cradled his head and pulled him into another slow kiss. He shivered. You pressed a few more against his skin, he was smiling now soaking in all the little pecks across his nose, cheeks and jaw.

You lingered at his lips as you cradled him. He smoothed his hand over the back of your neck and pulled you closer. You felt him flash his teeth against your open mouth. He sat up, never relenting from the kisses. His clawing fingers were tracing all over your body, hesitating around delicate areas but returning to them over and over nonetheless. Soon you were climbing into his lap, sinking your weight onto him.

He broke the kiss, his thighs tensed and his knees bounced anxiously.

“Danhausen commands you to stop.” He was breathless, his sweat bleeding through his facepaint and his hair askew in three different directions. 

“Did I do something wrong? Are we taking things too fast?”

“No, no you are very, very nice. This is a Danhausen problem.”

“Are you okay?”

His face twinged, “Danhausen is… excited. He needs to calm down-hausen. If he is seen this way, he will be taken off the air for obscenities.”

Oh. You definitely felt his excitement through his wrestling tights, you could feel his pulse, too. He was fidgeting under you now. It was quite the compliment, you thought.

He took your shoulders and looked you in the eye, “Danhausen must take a very evil, very cold shower immediately.”

“We could always take this somewhere private…?”

Danhausen’s cheek muscles seemed to play tug of war as his expression fought between delight, fear and confusion. Surely most of the wrestlers were occupying themselves elsewhere, though it was risky.

You patted his hand, “It’s okay, no one is going to disturb us in the showers.”

“Hm. Yes. And if we are caught, you were personally assisting Danhausen’s hygiene routine. This is genius!”

With that he scooped you up and carried you to the shower cubicles, seemingly unbothered by his previous bruises and bumps. He hopped and skipped through the maze of lockers to the corner where he found the men's showers.

He practically threw you into the cubicle with an Irish whip, pulling off your shirt and fumbling to pinch off your bra in one frantic motion. There was enough room for the two of you to untangle yourselves and shove your clothes into a corner. You yelped and giggled as he yanked down your bottoms and left you naked for him to admire. 

You covered yourself, “What, so its just me getting nude? Its cold in here you know!”

You regretted that; he gave you a devilish smile as he reached behind you to turn the water on. You shrieked and jumped as the water hit you. He looked entirely too smug. You grabbed his hand and tried to pull him in by the wrist.

“Oh no no no, you will get Danhausen’s very expensive gear wet! Stop it, nyehh!”

He freed his arm, too strong for you to over power him. Sticking his hands on his hips, he sneered at you. 

“Danhausen just wants to get a good look at your very nice very wet body.”

“You’re not touching me until you're naked, too.” You poked out your tongue.

He rolled his eyes dramatically as he kicked off his leggings and boots into a dry spot with the rest of your clothes. It wasn’t graceful but he was soon naked. His previous shyness seemed to be overwhelmed by his desire to feel your skin.

He stepped into the water, now warm as it flowed over both of you. He enclosed you with his arms and swayed as your bodies met with a shiver.

“You’re soooo evil.” You teased.

“Danhausen is being evil at a minimum capacity for Danhausen.” He said, planting kisses on your shoulder, “You will soon forgive Danhausen.” 

His hands were less feverish now; he must have felt safer after laughing with you. His hand snaked to your middle. He made an inquisitive hum, asking permission before his dipped his fingers between you. You nodded in response. With that, his calloused finger ran a ring around your clit. Deliberate and heavy, stopping every so often to beckon through your wet folds.

You felt your body grow heavy and limp, it was hard to stand as the heat pulsed through you. He began to fuck you with his fingers, using his arm to hold you steady. He pressed his brow to yours. Your breath mingled, heady and gentle. Grey face paint began to dribble down your chin, to your neck and all the way down your stomach. You felt his cock press against your belly, he was bucking his hips ever so slightly as you moaned at his touch.

“You want to cum?” He murmured. No jokes or aggrandizing. He was mesmerised by your pleasure.

All you could manage was a moan. He thrust his fingers faster and deeper until the friction was too much to bear. You whimpered and staggered, clenching around his fingers as he held you firm. 

You took a deep breath, laughing off the dizziness. He chuckled with you. It was only then you noticed he was hardly under the water at all. You pulled him into the warmth to enjoy the afterglow.

Danhausen shook out his damp hair; you thought he looked like the cutest drowned rat there ever was. He turned you around, sat himself down cross legged under the stream.

“Here we will both be warm, yes?” He said as he patted his thigh.

He gave you a gentlemanly hand to help you down; the tiles were hard but his lap was so inviting. Danhausen bit his lip as you took him in hand, giving him a few strokes and a squeeze. You coaxed the head of his cock against your folds, back and forth to make him slick. His knuckles were white as he clawed into your waist. Not pushing you down, just wringing out his desperation to cum right there and then.

You took him in with a wash of pleasure and a tinge of stinging. He closed his eyes and exhaled, finally letting the pressure off your waist. He decided to paw your back instead, he scratched red trails into your skin as you rode him. He raked up and down your spine, nodding and groaning as you fucked. You could feel his heart beat as you laid your head on his collar bone, it was racing with yours.

“Danhausen is… Danhausen is–” He grunted, incapable of finishing his words without his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

“Cum inside me.” You moaned, letting yourself tip into climax. Thighs twitching and body shivering.

He took it as a command; his thrusts were fast and uncoordinated as he came, his balls slapping against you and tightening as he unloaded. You felt the cum pooling around the base of his cock, dripping out of you as it softened. He gave a few last thrusts; he seemed to want to keep it inside you for as long as he could.

You ran your thumbs over his cheeks as you held his head. Kissing the paint off his lips, it tasted powdery and you were sure it was staining your lips, too.

His facepaint was now all over you, in ghostly hands prints and smudges. His eyes, lips and chin were still black, the rest was just a blur of red and grey.

He hugged you close. He buried his nose into your chest, laying his head down as he had done earlier. He looked up drowsily for a moment, noticing a smear of make up on your chest.

“No one can see evidence of Danhausen’s misdeeds.” He mumbled, reaching up to pump some shower gel from a wall mounted bottle, “Let us become clean-hausen.”

You giggled sleepily as he lathered your skin and washed it all away.

[heldbybarnes]

red zone doctrine

pairing: bucky barnes x reader | 8k | jurassic park au

warnings: red zone horror, dinosaur attacks, blood/injury, death, weapon violence, panic, unethical experimentation, military-funded projects

summary: the park’s biggest nightmares live behind doors the guests will never see. when the red zone breaches, you and bucky barnes—internal security, lethal and unshakeable—fight your way out with a small group of survivors and the truth snapping at your heels.

author's note: chat, i was shaking in my boots writing this! i would rather die than be put in this situation; HOWEVER, if i had a broody, no nonsense bucky with my i think i could manage?!? pls don't sue me if you get nightmares from this🫣🦖🦕

----------

The tourist side of the island smells like sunscreen and money.

The air is salt-bright and warm, thick with the perfume of hibiscus hedges planted to look accidental. The visitor center runs on curated awe—polished concrete floors, gift shop plushies, the looping video that promises you “a once-in-a-lifetime experience” in seven languages. The dinosaurs here are safe enough to put on a brochure.

Even when something goes wrong, it’s the kind of wrong you can spin.

A goat goes missing and the kids squeal like it’s a show. A fence flickers and the tour guide cracks a joke about “ancient predators and modern technology.” A staff member breaks their wrist on a service ladder and you patch them up in the clinic while they tell you, laughing too loudly, that they’re fine, totally fine, couldn’t happen on a better island.

You nod. You smile. You keep your voice soothing.

Because the other side of the island doesn’t smell like money.

It smells like bleach and electricity. Like wet concrete. Like the metallic bite of blood that never fully leaves your hands no matter how much you scrub.

The other side of the island doesn’t get brochures.

It gets classification stamps.

You’re not supposed to call it the other side. You’re not supposed to say the words classified wing out loud. Officially, it’s a “restricted research corridor,” a cluster of facilities “supporting veterinary excellence and specimen health.”

Unofficially, it’s the Red Zone.

And you are the medic stationed there.

Not because you’re naïve enough to think you can save the island, but because you’ve always been foolish enough to think you can save people.

Your badge doesn’t have your name on it. It has a number. Your access key doesn’t open the visitor center. It opens doors that don’t exist on any map.

Doors like the one in front of you now: matte black, no window, a single camera lens sunk into the wall like an unblinking eye.

The lock gives a quiet click when you press your thumb to it. The door swings inward with a hydraulic hush.

Inside, the corridor lights are too bright. White, clinical. Designed to make everything visible, even the things you’d rather not see.

You push your cart forward—trauma kit, suture pack, field dressings, IV fluids, portable defib—because you’ve learned the Red Zone doesn’t wait for you to be ready. The air is colder here, regulated. The hum of generators is a constant under everything, like the island’s heartbeat, steady and oblivious.

At the end of the hall stands Bucky Barnes.

He doesn’t lean. He doesn’t slouch. He doesn’t waste energy pretending to be casual.

He’s in black tactical gear that makes him look like a shadow that learned how to hold a gun. No park logo, no cheerful patch. His hair is pulled back, just long enough to brush his collar. The security badge on his vest has been stripped down to a bar code. Even his presence feels classified.

He watches you approach like he’s tracking the threat level of the air around you.

The first time you met him, you’d thought, stupidly, Oh. That’s what a weapon looks like when you let it walk around as a man.

The second time, you’d realized the worse truth:

He’s not pretending to be anything.

“Morning,” you say, because you refuse to let the island turn you into a whisper.

His eyes flick to your hands. To your cart. To the stethoscope looped at your neck. Then back to your face.

“Doc,” he answers, voice like gravel pressed into velvet. It’s not a nickname, not really. It’s a role. A classification.

Bucky is the head of internal security for this section, but “security” on the Red Zone side is a polite word. You know what he actually is. You’ve seen the way other staff go quiet when he walks past. You’ve heard the clipped radio codes. You’ve watched him escort men in military fatigues through doors you’re not allowed to look at.

There are rumors. There are always rumors. Some say he’s former special forces. Some say he’s the reason this wing hasn’t collapsed under its own sins. Some say he was sent here because he knows how to keep mouths shut.

The only rumor you trust is the one you can feel when he looks at you:

He’s been ordered to keep you quiet too.

“Any injuries overnight?” you ask, because you’ll keep doing your job even if it kills you.

“None you need to know about,” he says automatically.

You give him a look.

His jaw flexes, like he’s swallowing down an answer that tastes wrong. “One tech got clawed. Superficial. Bandaged it. Told him to come see you.”

“You bandaged it.”

“I know where to put gauze.”

“That’s not the same as knowing what infection looks like.” You move past him, cart wheels clicking softly. “Where is he?”

“In quarantine bay three.”

“Of course he is.”

Bucky falls into step beside you, silent as a threat. You can feel the weight of him, the constant readiness. It does something to your nerves, makes your skin too aware of itself. He’s always like this here—tight, contained, lethal.

On the tourist side, security wears khaki and smiles. Here, security wears darkness and doesn’t.

You glance up at him. “Did you sleep?”

His eyes don’t leave the corridor ahead. “Sleep’s a luxury.”

“You’re going to get someone killed if you run yourself into the ground.”

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “This place already got people killed.”

He isn’t wrong.

You pass a frosted glass window that looks into a lab. Inside, scientists in white coats move around a table with the reverence of priests. On a screen behind them is a rotating model of a creature’s skull. It’s wrong in a way you can’t articulate—too many ridges, too many teeth, eye sockets angled predatory and too forward.

You don’t stop walking.

The Red Zone teaches you to keep moving.

At quarantine bay three, the air smells like antiseptic and fear. The tech sits on a cot with his shirt torn at the shoulder, a bandage wrapped tight around his upper arm. His face is pale.

When he sees you, relief loosens his shoulders. When he sees Bucky behind you, it tightens again.

“Let me see,” you say gently.

He holds his arm out with a tremor. You peel back the bandage carefully. Three parallel gashes run along his bicep, shallow but angry. The skin around them is red.

“Did you clean this?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says too fast. “Barnes—he—he poured something on it.”

“Alcohol,” Bucky says flatly.

You look up. “The drinking kind or the sterilizing kind?”

Bucky’s gaze meets yours. Something unreadable flickers there. “Sterilizing.”

You hum, not convinced. You start flushing the wounds properly. “What happened?”

The tech swallows. “We were moving the specimen to containment—project—” His eyes dart to Bucky.

“Don’t,” Bucky says, low.

The tech clamps his mouth shut.

You pause, saline dripping from your gloved fingers. “Bucky.”

He doesn’t flinch at his name, but something in him goes still, like a blade held in place.

“It’s okay,” you say quietly. “If it’s a biohazard risk, I need to know.”

His stare is hard. “You don’t.”

You hold his gaze anyway. “You can’t order bacteria not to spread.”

For a long moment, the only sound is the hum of the vents.

Then Bucky exhales through his nose, sharp. “Talons.”

“That narrows it down to half the nightmares in this place.”

“Not the park ones.”

You don’t let your face change. “I figured.”

You finish cleaning, apply antibiotic ointment, dress the wounds properly. “You’re on prophylactic antibiotics,” you tell the tech. “And you’re off shift. No exceptions.”

He nods so hard it’s almost desperate.

When you step back, Bucky’s hand clamps on the tech’s uninjured shoulder with a finality. “You heard her.”

The tech scrambles up like he’s been granted a pardon. He practically runs out.

As soon as he’s gone, you turn on Bucky. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what.”

“Keeping everyone in the dark,” you say. “They’re terrified. They’re hurt. They deserve to know what they’re dealing with.”

Bucky’s expression doesn’t soften. “They deserve to live.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is here.”

You step closer without meaning to. The air between you feels… charged. Like standing too close to a fence that could spark.

“I know you think you’re protecting us,” you say, keeping your voice low. “But you’re also protecting them. Whoever funded this. Whoever signed off on it. Whoever decided ‘failed genetic projects’ were a reasonable expense.”

His eyes sharpen. “Watch it.”

You lift your chin. “Or what?”

The question hangs there for a beat too llong.

Bucky’s gaze drags down your face, slow, assessing. You know he’s cataloguing the vulnerability: you’re in scrubs, you don’t have a weapon, your job is literally to bleed for other people. You can’t win a fight with him.

And yet, you’re the one who makes him pause.

His voice drops. “Or you become a problem.”

You should be scared of that.

Instead, something tight in your chest pulls into a dangerous kind of curiosity. “Am I a problem?”

The corner of his mouth twitches again, a shadow of something human. “You ask too many questions.”

“Someone has to.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The fluorescent light catches in his eyes, makes them look cold. But you’ve seen him in the infirmary at two in the morning, when he brought in a guard with a shattered knee and waited outside the door like a penitent. You’ve watched him hand you a protein bar when you forgot to eat. You’ve heard him murmur “thank you” so quietly you almost thought you imagined it.

You know he’s not just a weapon.

You also know he could choose to be.

The alarms start as a low pulse.

At first, you think it’s one of the routine drills. The Red Zone runs drills like religion. Everything here is contingency. Everything here is if.

But then the lights flicker once—just a stutter—and the hum of the generators dips like the island’s heart skipped.

Bucky’s head snaps up, attention cutting toward the ceiling speakers.

The pulse becomes a wail.

A voice crackles through the intercom, strained, too fast. “Containment breach—repeat, containment breach—Red Zone perimeter compromised—”

The next words come out garbled, swallowed by static and the sudden rise of screaming voices in the corridor.

You freeze for half a second, the way your body tries to decide whether this is real.

Bucky doesn’t.

He moves like the alarm is a starter pistol. His hand yanks a radio from his vest. “Barnes, report.”

The reply is chaos. “—fence down—project Cerberus out—God, it’s in—”

A wet crunch. A scream cut off.

Static.

Your mouth goes dry.

Bucky’s eyes flick to you, sharp. “Get your bag.”

“I have—”

“Not that.” He grabs your cart and shoves it toward the wall hard enough the wheels squeal. “Field kit. Now.”

You don’t argue. You’ve learned Bucky’s commands are born from a math you don’t have time to do.

You snatch your go-bag from the hook, fingers shaking only once you’ve got it slung over your shoulder. “What is Cerberus?”

Bucky’s jaw tightens. “Not a dinosaur.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s worse,” he says, and there’s something ugly in his voice, something like disgust.

The lights flicker again. This time, they don’t come back at full strength. The corridor dims into a strobing, sickly half-light.

Somewhere down the hall, metal shrieks. A door slams open.

Footsteps pound closer—running, frantic, too many.

A scientist bursts around the corner, lab coat torn, face smeared with blood that isn’t all his. He sees Bucky and you and lunges like he’s drowning.

“They’re out,” he gasps. “The prototypes—they—”

Behind him, something moves.

It’s fast—too fast for something that size. A shadow under the flashing emergency lights, a blur of muscle and slick skin. It hits the scientist from behind with a force that folds him like paper.

His scream doesn’t finish.

You stumble back, hand flying to your mouth.

Bucky is already in motion. He pulls you behind him with one brutal tug, his body a shield. His other hand brings his rifle up—where it came from, you don’t know, it’s like it just exists when he needs it.

The creature lifts its head.

For a second, the strobing light catches it fully.

It looks like something a child would draw if you asked them to make a dinosaur scarier.

Long, raptor-like, but the proportions are wrong—forelimbs too thick, joints angled in ways that suggest something else was stitched into the DNA. Its skin is dark and wet-looking, almost amphibious, with patches of scale that glitter oily. Its jaw splits wider than it should, rows of teeth layered like needles. And its eyes—

Its eyes catch the light and reflect back, pale and wrong, like a cat’s.

It turns its head slightly, tasting the air.

Then its gaze locks on you.

Your blood goes ice.

Bucky’s finger tightens on the trigger.

The rifle cracks—three sharp shots that echo down the hall. The creature jerks as rounds hit its shoulder, its flank, its neck.

It doesn’t go down.

It shrieks—a sound that isn’t just animal, that vibrates with something engineered and furious—and launches.

Bucky shoves you hard to the side.

The creature slams into him instead, claws scraping armor, teeth snapping inches from his face. He braces, boots skidding on the slick floor, and then he does something you’ve never seen a park guard do in your life.

He uses his body like a weapon.

He pivots, using the creature’s momentum, and drives it into the wall. Metal buckles. The creature thrashes, tail whipping, knocking a wall-mounted monitor loose. Sparks rain.

Bucky grunts, muscles corded, and jams the barrel of his rifle under the creature’s jaw. He fires point blank.

Blood sprays—hot and dark. The creature convulses.

Still, it tries to bite.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate. He drops the rifle, grabs a combat knife, and drives it up, under the jawline, into the soft tissue where bone meets nerve.

The creature shudders once, twice.

Then goes limp.

Silence crashes in after the struggle, broken only by the alarm’s relentless wail and the crackle of sparking wires.

You stand frozen, chest heaving.

Bucky wipes his blade on the creature’s hide like it disgusts him. He snatches his rifle back up and turns to you.

“Move,” he orders.

Your legs don’t cooperate immediately. Your brain is still stuck on the image of teeth. On the scientist’s scream cutting off. On the way that thing looked at you like you were prey.

Bucky’s hand clamps around your wrist—firm, not gentle, but grounding—and drags you forward.

“Bucky,” you manage, voice thin. “What the hell was that?”

He doesn’t slow. “A failure.”

“That doesn’t—”

He hauls you around a corner just as something slams into the wall behind you. The impact shudders through the floor.

Bucky shoves you into a recessed doorway. He leans out, rifle ready, scanning.

The corridor is chaos now—people screaming, running, some bleeding, some clutching radios that only spit static. A security guard stumbles past with a torn thigh, leaving a smear of blood.

You surge forward instinctively. “Hey—”

Bucky catches your shoulder, stops you. “You can’t help if you’re dead.”

“I’m a medic.”

“And I’m telling you he’s not leaving this corridor alive if you step out.” His voice is low, savage with certainty. “Stay.”

Something about the way he says it makes your skin prickle. Not just fear—something else. Something darkly magnetic.

Because he isn’t bluffing.

Bucky moves out into the hall like he owns it. Like chaos is just another environment he knows how to breathe in.

You hate that a part of you watches him and thinks, God.

He grabs the bleeding guard by the vest, drags him into the doorway with you. “Doc.”

You drop to your knees automatically. The guard’s thigh is shredded, muscle exposed. Bite marks. Not clean. Ragged.

You pull your kit open with shaking hands. “Tourniquet,” you snap.

Bucky’s hands are already there, pulling a strap from his gear. He cinches it high and tight with brutal efficiency.

The guard whimpers.

“Hold still,” Bucky says, not unkind, just absolute.

You pack the wound, press gauze hard until the bleeding slows. Your hands are slick with blood. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

“What bit you?” you ask the guard.

He sobs, eyes wide. “It—it was—like a raptor but—wrong.”

You glance up at Bucky.

His eyes are fixed down the corridor. “Told you.”

A new voice crackles over a radio nearby, clearer this time, panicked. “Barnes! We’ve got survivors at the substation—four, maybe five—can’t reach the helipad, perimeter fence is down—”

Bucky snatches his own radio. “Where’s the breach?”

“Red Zone enclosure six—then it spread—power grid’s unstable—God, Barnes, it’s a bloodbath—”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “How many out?”

A pause. A swallow you can hear through the speaker. “We—don’t know.”

Bucky’s eyes flick to you. “We’re going.”

Your stomach drops. “We?”

He doesn’t even blink. “You’re the only medic on this side.”

“There are others—”

“Not anymore,” he says, and the flatness of it is worse than if he’d screamed.

You swallow hard, forcing your hands to keep working. The guard grips your wrist weakly, desperate.

“I need to get him to the clinic,” you say.

Bucky looks down at the guard, then back at you. “Can he walk?”

The guard shakes his head, tears spilling.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate. He crouches, grabs the guard under the arms, and hauls him up like he weighs nothing. “Then he rides.”

He throws the guard over his shoulder. The guard cries out.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, not sounding sorry at all. Then to you: “Stay on my six. Don’t lag. Don’t run ahead. If I say down, you go down.”

Your mouth feels full of cotton. “Bucky—”

He meets your gaze, and for a heartbeat the strobing red light makes him look like something out of a nightmare too—blood spattered across his jaw, eyes hard, posture coiled.

“You wanna live,” he says quietly, “you listen to me.”

It’s not a threat.

It’s a promise.

You nod once.

Bucky moves.

You follow.

The substation is a concrete blockhouse half-swallowed by jungle, fenced off from tourists by signage that says AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY in cheerful font, like that’s enough to keep curiosity away.

Today, the signs are pointless. The fence is bent. The gate hangs open.

Inside, the air smells like ozone and wet earth. The generator hum has a jagged edge to it, like it’s struggling. Somewhere deeper in the jungle, something roars—low, huge, too close.

Bucky dumps the injured guard onto a bench inside the substation and barks at a tech with a bleeding forehead, “Watch him.”

The tech nods frantically.

In the corner, four people huddle together: two scientists, a young intern with mascara streaked down her cheeks, and a security runner with his arm in a makeshift sling.

They look at Bucky like he’s either salvation or doom.

Then they see you.

Hope flares, fragile.

“Thank God,” one of the scientists whispers. “We thought—”

Bucky cuts him off. “We’re leaving.”

“Leaving where?” the intern chokes out. “The helipad’s—”

“Compromised,” Bucky says. “We go through service tunnel nine. It connects to the old water treatment route. That gets us to the east ridge. Extraction will meet there.”

The security runner’s face goes gray. “Tunnel nine goes through—”

Bucky’s eyes flash. “Yeah.”

The runner swallows. “The… other enclosures.”

The scientists exchange looks, terror sharpening. “We can’t go through the Red Zone,” one says. “That’s—those are—”

“Classified,” Bucky finishes for him, voice cold. “You should’ve thought about that before you took the funding.”

The scientist flinches like he’s been slapped.

You look between them, mind racing. “Bucky, tunnel nine—if it goes through the Red Zone—”

“It’s the only route not flooded with tourists and not on fire,” he says. “We take it or we die here.”

A distant crash shudders through the jungle—trees snapping. The sound is so big your bones vibrate with it.

The intern whimpers.

Bucky shoulders his rifle. “Move.”

No one argues after that.

You tighten your grip on your go-bag strap as you step out into the open.

The jungle is different when you’re not behind glass.

On the tourist tours, the forest is a backdrop. Controlled. Curated. But out here, it’s a wall of green that breathes. Humidity clings to your skin instantly. Bugs whine in your ears. The ground is slick mud and rotting leaves, eager to swallow your boots.

Bucky moves ahead, silent, scanning. His posture is predatory—head tilted slightly like he’s listening to frequencies you can’t hear. Every few steps, he lifts his hand to signal stop, go, crouch, like he’s choreographing survival.

You keep the group tight behind you. You check on the runner’s sling, on the intern’s breathing, on the scientist whose hands won’t stop shaking.

You tell yourself you can do this.

You tell yourself you’re trained.

Then you see the first body.

A guard lies half in the mud, throat torn out. His radio crackles weakly beside him, soaked. His eyes are open, staring at nothing.

The intern gasps, hand over her mouth.

One of the scientists makes a strangled sound.

You swallow bile.

Bucky doesn’t even slow. He steps over the body like he’s stepping over a log.

You want to hate him for that.

Instead, you understand.

If you stop, you die.

The service tunnel entrance is a concrete mouth in a hillside, framed by overgrown vines. The keypad beside it blinks, lights stuttering.

Bucky swears under his breath and yanks a tool from his belt. He pries the panel open with practiced speed, fingers moving like he’s done this a hundred times.

“Thought you said you didn’t know where to put gauze,” you mutter, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

His mouth twitches faintly. “I didn’t say I was just security.”

The keypad sparks once, then goes dark.

Bucky curses again, then slams his metal hand against the lock.

The metal door shudders.

Again.

The hinges groan.

With a final, brutal shove, the lock gives. The door swings inward.

The tunnel yawns dark and damp, a stale breath rolling out.

Bucky flicks on a flashlight attached to his rifle. The beam cuts through the darkness, catching on wet concrete and old signage that reads MAINTENANCE ACCESS — AUTHORIZED STAFF ONLY.

The intern whispers, “I don’t—like—”

Bucky turns his head slightly. “You wanna stay out here?”

Another roar rolls through the jungle—closer now. The sound is massive, like the island itself is angry.

The intern shakes her head violently.

“Then move,” Bucky says.

You go in.

The tunnel is colder, the air heavy with mildew. Water drips from the ceiling. Your flashlight beam trembles slightly, betraying your nerves.

Bucky takes point. You’re right behind him. The survivors trail in a line.

You walk for what feels like forever, the tunnel swallowing sound, making every footstep echo.

Then the wall signage changes.

The cheerful maintenance warnings vanish. In their place: black-and-white placards with red stamps.

RED ZONE—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.BIOHAZARD.PROJECT ACCESS—CLASSIFIED.

Your skin prickles.

One of the scientists whispers, “This is—this is wrong.”

“You think?” you whisper back, more bitter than you mean to.

Bucky slows at a junction. Two paths: one marked WATER TREATMENT, the other marked simply RZ-9.

He pauses, listening.

In the silence, you hear it: a faint clicking sound, rapid, almost insect-like.

Bucky’s hand lifts—stop.

Everyone freezes.

The clicking grows louder.

Then, from somewhere in the darkness ahead, something scuttles across the tunnel ceiling.

Your flashlight catches a glimpse—pale flesh, too many limbs, a tail like a whip.

The intern makes a tiny, terrified noise.

The clicking stops.

A breath.

Then a sound like claws scraping concrete.

Bucky’s rifle swings up. “Down,” he snaps.

You drop instinctively. The others scramble.

Something drops from the ceiling.

It lands with a wet slap and a hiss.

Your light catches it fully and your brain stutters.

It’s small—dog-sized—but it’s wrong in a way that makes your stomach lurch. It has the sleek body of a raptor, but its limbs are longer, almost spider-like, jointed in too many places. Its head is narrow, eyes huge and glossy, mouth packed with needle teeth.

And on its back—your light glints off something metallic.

Harness.

Armor plating.

The scientist beside you whispers, horrified, “They put… gear on them.”

The creature’s head snaps toward the sound.

Bucky fires.

The shot booms in the tunnel, deafening. The creature jerks, but the armor plate deflects enough that it doesn’t drop. It shrieks and launches—

Not at Bucky.

At you.

Your breath stops.

Bucky moves faster than thought. He slams into it mid-leap, driving it into the wall. The creature thrashes, claws scrabbling, teeth snapping.

Bucky grabs its neck with his metal hand and twists.

You hear bone crack.

The creature goes limp.

Bucky throws it to the floor like trash.

The survivors stare, stunned.

You stare too, pulse pounding, because for a split second that thing was going to tear you open and Bucky didn’t even hesitate.

He didn’t even think.

He just… saved you.

You push up onto your knees, breathing hard. “Thank you.”

Bucky doesn’t look at you. “Keep moving.”

But his shoulder brushes yours as he steps past, just barely, and the contact feels like a promise you’re not ready to name.

Tunnel nine spits you out into a corridor that doesn’t belong to the park.

The walls are reinforced steel, stained with old scratches. The lighting is dim, red emergency strips that make everything look like it’s bleeding.

There are doors on either side, heavy, numbered with stenciled codes: RZ-6, RZ-7, RZ-8.

A smell hangs in the air—chemical, sour, like something rotting under bleach.

The intern starts crying silently.

You want to comfort her, but you don’t have time.

Bucky stops at a viewing window set into one of the doors. The glass is thick, layered, scratched from the inside.

He angles his flashlight through it.

You shouldn’t look.

You do anyway.

Inside, the enclosure is huge, lit dimly by UV lamps. The ground is torn up. Blood smears the concrete.

And in the corner, curled like a nightmare trying to make itself small, is something that looks like a raptor… until it lifts its head.

Its mouth opens.

Rows of teeth—too many—unfurl like a flower of knives.

A second set of jaws slides forward from inside the first.

The intern chokes on a sob.

The scientist whispers, “That’s—impossible.”

Bucky’s voice is a quiet blade. “It’s funded.”

You step back from the window, heart pounding. “Bucky… what are these.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze stays on the enclosure, as if he’s watching for movement. “Military wanted assets,” he says finally. “Park wanted profit. Scientists wanted to play God.”

“And you?” you ask, too sharply. “What do you want?”

His eyes flick to you. In the red light, they look almost black.

“I want to keep people alive,” he says. “Even when they don’t deserve it.”

Something about that lands heavy in your chest.

You’re about to speak when a sound echoes down the corridor.

A deep, dragging thud.

Slow. Heavy.

Like something big moving with purpose.

Bucky’s body goes rigid. He lifts his hand—stop.

The survivors freeze behind you, trembling.

The thud grows louder.

Then you hear it: a wet, rasping breath, like something breathing through fluid.

Bucky’s flashlight beam steadies on the corridor ahead.

At the far end, where the hall widens into a junction, something steps into view.

At first, your brain tries to categorize it. T. rex. Big. Bipedal. Head heavy.

Then it tilts its skull and you see the details that don’t belong.

Its skin isn’t scaled like the park rex. It’s textured, almost armored, with patches of bony plating that catch the red light. Its forelimbs are longer than they should be, ending in claws that look built for gripping, not just tearing. Along its spine, ridges rise like blades.

And its eyes—

They aren’t animal.

They’re too aware.

It lowers its head, nostrils flaring.

Smelling.

Finding.

The security runner whispers, “Oh my God.”

The creature’s head snaps toward the sound.

It roars.

The sound slams into you like a physical force. The corridor vibrates. Dust sifts from the ceiling. The intern screams.

Bucky’s voice cuts through. “RUN.”

You run.

The corridor becomes a tunnel of panic, red light strobes, footsteps pounding. Your lungs burn instantly. The survivors stumble, sobbing, clinging to each other.

Behind you, the thuds accelerate.

Fast.

Too fast for something that big.

Bucky moves beside you, herding, shoving a scientist forward when he trips, grabbing the intern by the collar to keep her from falling.

“Left!” he barks at a junction.

You veer left without thinking, into a narrower hallway.

A door ahead reads RZ-9 — EMERGENCY EXIT.

Bucky slams his shoulder into it.

Locked.

He curses, then drives his metal hand into the control panel.

Sparks explode. The lock clicks.

He yanks the door open.

“IN!” he shouts.

You shove the survivors through into a stairwell. Concrete steps spiral down. The air is colder here, damp.

Bucky is last in. He slams the door shut, throws a heavy bar across it.

Then the impact hits.

The entire door buckles inward as the creature slams into it from the other side. The metal groans. The bar shudders.

The survivors scream.

Bucky braces his shoulder against the door, muscles straining.

“Down,” he snarls at you. “Get them down!”

You don’t argue. You herd the survivors down the stairs, heart hammering, hands gripping the rail slick with condensation.

Above, the door shrieks under assault.

Bucky’s boots thunder on the steps as he follows, still calm in a way that feels impossible.

“How long will that hold?” you gasp.

He doesn’t look back. “Not long.”

“Then what—”

He stops mid-stairwell, grabs a red metal box on the wall, rips it open.

Inside: emergency explosives.

Your blood turns to ice. “Bucky—”

“Keep moving,” he snaps.

He plants charges with swift efficiency, like this is familiar. Like he’s done this in places that weren’t supposed to exist on maps either.

The door above bends inward again with a horrific scream of metal.

Bucky slams the box shut, grabs your wrist, hauls you down the last stretch of stairs.

At the bottom, the stairwell opens into a service corridor that smells like old water and rust. Pipes run along the ceiling. A sign points toward WATER TREATMENT ROUTE.

You sprint.

Behind you, Bucky’s voice is sharp. “Go!”

Then he shoves you forward, turns, and runs back up a few steps.

You spin, panic slicing through you. “BUCKY!”

He doesn’t look at you. He just lifts a hand—move.

The door above finally gives with a scream. The creature’s roar floods the stairwell.

Bucky hits the trigger.

The explosion is deafening, a concussive blast that punches air into your lungs. The stairwell shakes violently. Dust and debris rain down.

The roar cuts off abruptly, smothered.

For a heartbeat, there’s silence.

Then Bucky comes flying down the stairs, coughing, soot streaking his face, eyes wild.

He grabs your arm and runs, dragging you with him.

You don’t realize you’re crying until your vision blurs.

The water treatment route is a labyrinth of pipes, open channels, and concrete walkways slick with algae. The sound of rushing water echoes off the walls, constant, masking smaller noises.

It should feel safer.

It doesn’t.

Because safety on this island is an illusion.

You push the survivors onto a catwalk, forcing them to keep moving. The intern is sobbing openly now, breaths hiccupping. One scientist has gone eerily quiet, eyes glassy.

The security runner staggers, pale.

You stop long enough to check him. His sling is soaked through.

“Let me see,” you say.

He flinches. “We can’t stop.”

“If you bleed out, you slow us down more.” You don’t soften the truth. The Red Zone doesn’t reward tenderness. “Sit.”

He sits, trembling. You unwrap the makeshift sling. The wound underneath is ugly—deep gouges, muscle torn.

Bucky crouches beside you, rifle still up, scanning the shadows.

“You have anything for pain?” the runner whispers.

You nod, digging in your kit. “This will sting.”

You clean the wound quickly, inject local anesthetic as best you can. Your hands are steady because you’ve trained them to be. Your heart is still racing, but your fingers don’t betray you.

Bucky watches you work, head tilted slightly. “You’re shaking,” he says softly.

You blink. “No, I’m not.”

He reaches out with his flesh hand—careful, controlled—and cups your elbow. His thumb presses lightly against your skin.

You realize then that the shaking isn’t in your hands.

It’s in your arm.

It’s in your body, adrenaline finally crashing into your muscles.

You swallow hard. “I’m fine.”

His eyes meet yours. The red emergency light from the corridor above is gone now, replaced by the dim industrial glow of the treatment plant. In this light, his face looks… human. Tired. Smeared with soot and blood.

“I’ve seen ‘fine,’” he murmurs. “This ain’t it.”

The intimacy of it—his touch, his attention—hits you like a shock. Your throat tightens.

You want to say something sharp to cover the softness. You want to say something stupid like don’t. Like you don’t get to look at me like that after what I just saw you do.

Instead, you whisper, “You’re hurt.”

His jaw flexes. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You told me I can’t help if I’m dead,” you say, voice trembling with something that isn’t just fear. “Same goes for you.”

For a moment, he looks like he might argue.

Then he glances down at his own arm.

There’s blood soaking through his sleeve.

Your stomach drops. “Bucky.”

“It’s not mine,” he says automatically.

You stare.

He sighs, exasperated, and peels back the sleeve.

A deep gash runs along his forearm—fresh, angry, bleeding slowly. You don’t know when it happened. You don’t know how you didn’t see it.

Because you were watching him like he was invincible.

You swallow hard and reach for gauze. “Sit.”

He hesitates.

You lift your eyes to him, steady. “That’s an order, Barnes.”

Something flickers in his expression—amusement, maybe, or respect.

He sits.

You clean the gash, your fingers gentle despite everything. The skin around it is warm. Real. You patch him with practiced care, wrap the bandage tight.

Bucky watches your hands the entire time, like he’s memorizing the way you touch him when you’re not afraid.

When you finish, you glance up—and realize how close his face is.

Close enough that you can see the faint line of scars near his jaw. Close enough that you can feel his breath.

Your pulse kicks.

His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second.

Something hot and dangerous curls in your belly—an awful thought, born in terror and adrenaline:

I should be scared of you too.

You should be.

Because you just watched him kill like it was breathing.

And yet… he’s letting you bandage him like you’re something precious.

You pull back sharply, clearing your throat. “We need to move.”

His eyes hold yours for a beat longer. Then he nods once, as if locking something away. “Yeah.”

You stand, turn to the survivors. “We’re going to the east ridge. Stay close. Don’t wander. If you hear anything, you don’t scream—you get down and you cover your head. Understood?”

They nod, terrified.

Bucky rises behind you like a shadow.

You move.

The east ridge is where the island drops away into cliffs, jagged rock cutting into violent sea. The wind is sharp up here, smelling of salt and storm. Gray clouds churn overhead, heavy with rain.

You emerge from the service access into open air and for a second your lungs feel like they might actually work again.

Then you see the state of the ridge.

The fence line is shredded. Metal posts bent like straw. A security jeep lies overturned, its windshield spiderwebbed with cracks.

Bodies.

Not many, but enough.

The intern sobs again, collapsing to her knees.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep moving. You scan the ridge for the extraction point—an open pad marked with faded paint, a place where helicopters can land.

It’s empty.

Your heart drops.

Bucky raises his radio. “East ridge. We’re here.”

Static answers.

He tries again. “Extraction, respond.”

Nothing.

The wind howls.

The survivors look at him like he’s about to tell them they’re doomed.

Bucky’s jaw tightens. He lowers the radio slowly, eyes scanning the horizon.

Rain begins to fall, cold drops that slick your hair to your forehead.

You step closer. “Bucky—”

He turns to you, and something in his face is hard and grim and angry—not at you, but at the island, at the people who built this, at the fact that the math of survival is never fair.

“They’re not coming,” the scientist whispers, voice broken.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Not yet.”

A sound cuts through the wind.

Not a roar this time.

A clicking.

Rapid. Coordinated.

Your stomach twists.

Bucky’s head tilts slightly. He listens.

Then he swears, low. “Get down.”

You don’t hesitate. You shove the survivors behind the overturned jeep, dropping with them. Mud soaks your knees.

Bucky moves away from cover, stepping into the open like he’s offering himself up.

“Bucky!” you hiss, horrified.

He doesn’t look back. His rifle lifts, steady, aimed toward the treeline.

The clicking grows louder.

Then shapes move in the brush.

Not one.

Several.

You see them in flashes through rain and branches—sleek bodies, too-long limbs, reflective eyes. Smaller than the Cerberus thing, faster, coordinated.

Pack.

The intern makes a small, terrified sound.

One of the creatures snaps its head toward it.

Bucky fires.

A creature drops, twitching. Another darts forward, too fast. Bucky pivots, firing again, rounds cracking through the air.

The pack fans out, circling.

They’re smart.

Your breath comes in sharp gasps. Your hands dig into mud, useless, because you don’t have a gun. You have gauze and saline and stubbornness.

Bucky keeps firing, moving, never letting them flank him fully. His body is fluid, lethal. He looks like violence given purpose.

One creature lunges at his left.

He swings the rifle, strikes it mid-air. The stock cracks against its skull. It yelps and scrambles back.

Another lunges at his right, jaws snapping—

Bucky’s metal hand shoots out, catches it by the throat mid-leap.

He slams it into the ground hard enough mud splatters.

It thrashes, claws scraping his armor. He holds it down like it’s nothing, then drives his knife into its skull.

The pack hesitates.

In that hesitation, you see it: the way they look at him.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Like they know what he is.

Like he’s something engineered too.

A chill crawls up your spine.

The pack shifts again, clicking, searching for weakness.

One breaks from the group and darts toward the jeep—toward you.

Your body moves before your brain does. You snatch a metal tool from the mud near the jeep—some broken piece of fence—and swing as the creature lunges.

The metal bar connects with its snout. The impact jars your arms to the bone.

The creature shrieks, snapping at you again.

You stumble back, heart in your throat.

It lunges—

And Bucky is there.

He moves like a bullet, slamming into it, knocking it away from you. His hand grabs your collar, yanks you behind him, shielding you again.

His voice is a snarl. “I said down.”

“I was down,” you choke, shaking. “It came at us.”

His eyes flick over you quickly, assessing injuries. Rain streaks down his face. His gaze is fierce, almost furious, but not at you.

At the idea of you being hurt.

“Stay behind me,” he says, voice lower now, deadly calm.

You nod, breath hitching.

Bucky turns back to the pack.

“Come on,” he mutters, like he’s talking to monsters the way someone might talk to a storm. “Let’s do this.”

He advances.

The pack retreats a step, then surges together, a coordinated rush.

Bucky fires until the magazine clicks empty.

Then he throws the rifle aside and draws a second weapon—a pistol you didn’t see, because of course he has one. He fires again, precise.

Creatures drop, twitching.

But there are still too many.

One lunges. Bucky ducks. Another snaps at his shoulder; it catches fabric, tears. He grunts, twists, drives his elbow into its jaw.

The third lunges low—

You see it a heartbeat before it happens.

You shout, “Bucky!”

He pivots too late. The creature’s claws rake across his side, tearing.

Blood blooms dark against black gear.

Your stomach drops.

Bucky’s face doesn’t change. He grabs the creature with his metal hand and rips it away from him like tearing weeds. He throws it into the cliffside rocks. It hits with a sick crunch.

The pack falters again, clicking frantic now, uncertain.

Then a new sound cuts through everything.

Rotor blades.

A helicopter crests the ridge, lights cutting through rain.

Relief hits so hard your knees go weak.

The pack hears it too. They scatter into the trees, vanishing like nightmares fleeing dawn.

The helicopter lowers, wind whipping rain and mud.

A voice blasts through a loudspeaker. “MOVE TO EXTRACTION!”

You grab the intern, hauling her up. You pull the scientists to their feet, shove them toward the landing zone.

Bucky staggers slightly.

You see it and your chest tightens. “Bucky!”

He tries to wave you off. “Go.”

“No,” you snap, grabbing his arm. “You’re bleeding.”

His jaw clenches. “I can walk.”

“Then walk with me.”

For a second, his gaze locks on yours, intense enough to feel like a touch.

Then he nods once.

You half-drag him toward the helicopter, the wind roaring, rain stinging your face. The survivors scramble aboard.

A soldier reaches for you. “Move, now!”

You push Bucky forward. He climbs in, grimacing.

You start to climb after him—

Then something moves at the edge of the treeline.

A shape, bigger than the pack.

Watching.

Waiting.

Your blood turns cold again.

Bucky’s head snaps up, following your gaze.

For a heartbeat, you see something in his eyes—recognition, dread.

“Cerberus,” he breathes.

The creature doesn’t charge.

It just stands there, half-hidden by rain and leaves, eyes reflecting pale.

Like it’s memorizing you.

Bucky’s hand clamps around your wrist, yanking you into the helicopter. “Now.”

You stumble inside. The soldier slams the door.

The helicopter lifts, rising fast, wind screaming.

Through the window, you see the Red Zone recede—the shredded fence, the bent metal, the jungle swallowing secrets whole.

And you see Cerberus still watching, unmoving, as if it knows the island will never really let you leave.

Inside the helicopter, everything is loud and shaking and wet.

The survivors huddle together, sobbing, staring at their hands like they can’t believe they’re still attached. The intern keeps whispering “oh my God” like a prayer.

You drop to your knees beside Bucky.

He’s slumped against the wall, one hand braced on the floor, the other pressed to his side. Blood seeps between his fingers.

“Let me see,” you say, voice trembling.

“It’s fine,” he grits out.

“You don’t get to say that.” You pry his hand away gently.

The gash on his side is deep—claw marks, torn skin. Not fatal, but bad.

You grab gauze, press hard.

Bucky hisses, body tightening.

“Sorry,” you whisper automatically.

His eyes flick to you—sharp, then softer. “Don’t apologize for doing your job.”

“You’re bleeding because you did yours,” you shoot back, and your throat tightens unexpectedly. “Because you—because you keep—”

Because you keep putting yourself between me and teeth.

You swallow it down, focus on the wound.

You clean it as best you can in a shaking helicopter, stitch when you can, bandage tight.

Bucky watches you the entire time.

Not like before, in the corridor—cold, assessing.

Now, his gaze is something else.

Something heavy.

When you finish, you sit back on your heels, hands trembling. Blood streaks your gloves. Your stomach churns with delayed horror.

Bucky’s hand reaches out—slow, deliberate.

He touches your wrist, thumb brushing the pulse there like he’s checking that you’re real.

“You’re hurt?” he asks, voice low.

You blink, surprised. “No.”

His eyes narrow, like he doesn’t believe you. His gaze drags over you—your face, your arms, your knees, cataloguing. “You sure.”

“Yes,” you breathe.

His hand stays on your wrist anyway, warm and steady.

You look at him, really look, and the adrenaline crash makes your emotions feel sharp-edged and raw.

“You’re terrifying,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

Bucky’s brow furrows slightly. “Yeah?”

You swallow. “The way you—out there—how you moved—how you—” Your voice breaks, not from fear, but from something too big to fit in your chest. “I watched you kill like it was nothing.”

His gaze doesn’t flinch. “It wasn’t nothing.”

“It looked like nothing.”

His jaw tightens. He looks past you, toward the helicopter door, toward the island fading behind storm clouds. “I was trained to make it look like nothing.”

A beat.

Then he looks back at you.

And in his eyes is the thing that undoes you—not violence, not coldness, but a kind of brutal honesty.

“I am scary,” he says quietly. “You should be careful around me.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s giving you an out.

Because he’s warning you.

Because he’s letting you decide.

And all you can think is:

I should be scared of you too.

But you aren’t.

Not in the way you should be.

You shake your head slowly, rainwater dripping from your lashes. “You weren’t scary when you—” You swallow. “When you checked me. When you… looked at me like I mattered.”

Bucky’s hand tightens on your wrist, just slightly.

“You matter,” he says, like it’s a fact. Like it’s been a fact this whole time.

Your chest aches. “Why.”

His eyes flicker—something like pain, something like longing.

“Because you’re the only one in that place who still acts like people are people,” he says, voice rough. “Not assets. Not projects. Not… collateral.”

The helicopter shakes with turbulence. The intern sobs again. The world is loud.

But here, in this pocket of space, it’s just you and him and the steady press of his thumb against your pulse.

You whisper, “What happens now?”

His gaze holds yours. “Now we tell the truth.”

You almost laugh—soft, broken. “They’ll bury it.”

“Then we dig,” he says, and there’s something fierce and certain in him that isn’t just soldier. It’s survivor. It’s rebellion.

You stare at him, rain and blood and adrenaline mixing into something dizzying.

“Bucky,” you whisper, barely a sound.

His eyes drop to your mouth again. Slower this time. Not like a man scanning for threats.

Like a man who wants something and doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

He leans a fraction closer.

Not enough to kiss you.

Enough to make you feel the heat of him, the gravity.

“I’m not gentle,” he murmurs. “Not really.”

You swallow, heartbeat loud in your ears. “You were with me.”

His breath shudders out, almost a laugh, almost a curse. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “With you, I can be.”

The helicopter climbs into cloud cover, the island vanishing completely behind gray.

You don’t kiss him—not with survivors sobbing beside you, not with blood on your gloves, not with the taste of fear still sharp on your tongue.

But you let his hand stay on your wrist.

You let the promise sit there between you, unspoken and electric.

Because you can feel it, sure as the beat under his thumb:

Whatever was unleashed on that island didn’t just break containment.

It broke the world you thought you lived in.

And Bucky Barnes—terrifying, lethal, impossible—just chose you as the one thing he refuses to let it take.

Outside, thunder rolls.

Inside, his thumb keeps counting your pulse like it’s the only truth left.

And for the first time since the alarms started, you believe you might actually survive what comes next.

Not because the island let you go.

But because he did.

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

[piouscoffeelover]

i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you meme lord shuri and peter. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you resurrected, shamelessly flirty pietro. i miss you clueless, socially inept vision. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you cheeky reader who always called fury by his first name. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you 😔😔😔

[sprinkledinkle101]

guys like do you see it

[bloodskullinked]

Ringside Love Triangle

Chapter 1

Downtime at the Avengers compound never looked like peace.

It looked like Tony Stark pacing the living room like a man on the brink of either a breakthrough or a breakdown. Which, to be fair, was his natural state.

“I’m telling you,” Tony said, pointing at the massive screen as if it had personally offended him, “this is cultural. This is athleticism. This is art.”

Steve Rogers didn’t even look up from the file in his hands. “You’re trying to sell us wrestling.”

“I’m not trying,” Tony shot back. “I’m succeeding. You’re just resisting growth.”

Natasha Romanoff, sprawled across the couch like she owned the place, smirked. “He’s been like this for three days.”

“Correction,” Tony said, spinning toward her, “I’ve been like this for years. You people are just late to the party.”

Wanda Maximoff leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes flicking between Tony and the screen. “So what exactly is the appeal?”

Tony paused, like she’d just asked him to define oxygen.

“The appeal,” he said slowly, reverently, “is Ember ‘The Queen of Hearts’ Foley.”

Bucky Barnes, seated off to the side, didn’t react. Not outwardly, anyway. His eyes stayed on the screen, but his expression didn’t shift.

Steve noticed.

Of course he did.

Tony tapped something on his tablet, and the screen changed. A highlight reel started playing.

The arena roared through the speakers. Lights. Pyro. Chaos.

And then—

Her.

Ember stepped out onto the ramp like she owned the building, the crowd erupting in a mixture of cheers and boos so loud it blurred into one violent sound.

Red and black.

Always red and black.

Her corset hugged tight, sharp and structured, paired with that grunge-styled skirt that looked like it had seen a fight and won. The blazer hung off her shoulders like an afterthought, like she didn’t need it but wore it anyway just to make a point.

Her expression?

Unbothered.

Unimpressed.

Dangerous.

“She’s insane,” Tony said, like it was the highest compliment imaginable. “Look at that. Absolute menace. I love her.”

On screen, Ember rolled into the ring and didn’t even wait for the bell before striking. A brutal hit, fast and precise. The kind of move that made the audience gasp before they could cheer.

“She doesn’t follow rules,” Tony continued. “She doesn’t care about rules. She wins because she decides she’s going to.”

“She’s a heel,” Natasha said, watching closely now.

“She’s the heel,” Tony corrected.

Bucky’s eyes tracked every movement on the screen.

The way Ember moved wasn’t just aggressive. It was calculated. Controlled chaos. Every hit looked reckless, but it landed exactly where it needed to.

Like she’d already played the match out in her head and was just executing it.

The clip shifted.

Another match.

Another opponent.

Ember lifted her clean off the mat and slammed her down into a Riptide that shook the ring.

Tony actually clapped.

“Did you see that? That’s power. That’s dominance. That’s—”

“Excessive,” Steve muttered.

“Beautiful,” Tony corrected.

Bucky leaned forward slightly.

He didn’t realize he’d done it until Steve’s eyes flicked toward him.

Interesting.

⸻

The night of the match, the arena was packed.

Loud. Bright. Alive in a way the compound never was.

Tony walked in like he owned the place.

“Front row,” he said casually, flashing the passes. “You’re welcome.”

“Of course you got front row,” Natasha said.

Tony grinned. “Please. I didn’t just get front row. I made front row better by existing in it.”

Steve sighed. “I already regret this.”

“You regret everything,” Tony replied.

Wanda smiled, clearly entertained now. “I think it’s fun.”

Bucky said nothing.

He sat down, arms resting on his knees, eyes scanning the arena.

Different kind of battlefield.

Different kind of noise.

But the energy?

That part felt familiar.

⸻

The lights dropped.

The crowd shifted instantly, anticipation snapping tight like a wire.

Then the music hit.

A heavy, distorted sound that felt like it crawled under your skin.

And the reaction?

Explosive.

Mixed boos and cheers, loud enough to rattle the air.

Then she appeared.

Ember stepped out slow, deliberate, like she knew every single eye in the building was locked on her and she deserved it.

Behind her—

Danhausen.

Tall, strange, theatrical in a way that didn’t make sense and didn’t need to.

He pointed dramatically at the crowd, muttering something animated and bizarre, hyping her like some unholy ringmaster.

Tony leaned forward, practically vibrating. “There she is.”

Ember didn’t rush.

She walked down the ramp like a queen approaching a throne, not a fight.

Her gaze swept over the crowd, unimpressed, detached.

Until—

For half a second—

Her eyes flicked toward ringside.

Toward them.

It was quick. Probably nothing.

But Bucky felt it.

And he didn’t know why.

⸻

The bell rang.

And Ember didn’t wait.

She struck first.

Fast. Brutal. No hesitation.

Her opponent barely had time to react before Ember had her grounded, twisting her into the Black Widow submission.

Control.

Complete and suffocating.

The crowd roared.

Tony was on his feet. “That’s it. That’s control. You see that? She’s playing with her.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened slightly.

Not in discomfort.

In focus.

Her movements weren’t just aggressive. They were efficient. Every shift of her weight, every grip, every adjustment.

It was intentional.

Her opponent managed to break free, scrambling back—

Only for Ember to strike again.

Out of nowhere.

An RKO that snapped the momentum clean in half.

The sound of impact echoed.

The crowd exploded.

“Did you see that?” Tony shouted, like anyone within a mile could’ve missed it.

Steve didn’t answer.

He was watching Bucky.

Because Bucky wasn’t reacting like everyone else.

No cheering. No commentary.

Just watching.

Too closely.

In the ring, Ember stood over her opponent, breathing steady, expression cold.

Then she smiled.

Not wide. Not friendly.

Sharp.

The kind of smile that promised more damage.

She dragged her opponent up—

And hit the Riptide.

Hard.

Final.

The ref counted.

One.

Two.

Three.

The bell rang.

⸻

The crowd roared again, louder this time.

Boos. Cheers. Both.

Ember didn’t care.

She stood, adjusting her gloves like it was just another day, another win.

Danhausen slid into the ring, raising her arm dramatically, hyping her like she’d just conquered something far bigger than a match.

Tony clapped like a man who’d just witnessed perfection. “That. That is why we’re here.”

Natasha smirked. “You’re insufferable.”

“And correct,” Tony added.

Bucky didn’t move.

His eyes stayed on the ring.

On her.

Until she disappeared backstage.

⸻

Tony didn’t sit back down.

“I’m meeting her.”

Steve blinked. “You’re what?”

“I’m meeting her,” Tony repeated. “VIP access. Already handled.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Of course it is.”

Wanda smiled. “That could be fun.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is not going to end well.”

Tony turned, already moving. “It’s going to end great. For me.”

Bucky stood slowly.

“Don’t,” Steve said quietly.

Bucky glanced at him. “Don’t what?”

Steve studied him for a second.

“You tell me.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t have one.

⸻

The VIP area was quieter.

Controlled.

Still loud, still alive, but polished.

Tony fit in immediately.

Of course he did.

Natasha and Wanda blended in just as easily, scanning, observing.

Steve looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Bucky?

Bucky looked like he was considering leaving.

“Relax,” Tony said, already scanning the room. “This is history in the making.”

“For you,” Steve muttered.

Tony ignored him.

Because across the room—

There she was.

Ember stood near the back, still in partial gear, blazer thrown on like armor, talking to someone who clearly didn’t have her attention.

Even here, she stood out.

Not because she tried.

Because she didn’t have to.

Tony grinned. “Showtime.”

Bucky’s stomach tightened.

Annoying.

Unnecessary.

He hated it.

And still—

He didn’t walk away.

Steve noticed that too.

Of course he did.

“Buck,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

Lie.

Steve didn’t push.

Not yet.

Because whatever this was?

It had already started.

And none of them were stopping it now.