A Wanderer, A Dreamer

23

[winteryn]

₊˚ ꒰ a little recap ꒱ ‧₊ ᵎᵎ

hello dears 🧡 since I’ll officially be on a break until the end of june, I thought I’d leave you with this small collection of everything I’ve posted these last two months—in case you missed anything and would like to read it—and what to expect this summer!

in the meantime, I’ll try to work on the requests sent in for my 1.5k follower celebration 🥹

wishing you a lovely start of the week! take care 🫶🏻

❀ ROUGH HANDS, STRAWBERRY KISSES & OTHER SOFT THINGS farmer!bucky barnes x teacher!reader

navigating your first relationship feels overwhelming at times—every touch, every question, every new feeling makes you wonder if you’re doing things right. thankfully, bucky loves you with enough patience and gentleness to turn every new experience into a reason to hold you a little closer. or, a collection of moments in which your boyfriend teaches you that love was never supposed to feel frightening—not when it’s held in careful hands like his.

❀ GODS, GORE & GROPING cosmic entity!bucky barnes x human!reader

your habit of talking to yourself inadvertently catches the attention of something ancient lurking in the shadows. trick or tease series

❀ THE ART OF DEVOTION [collection] bucky barnes x female!reader

an excuse to shamelessly explore different versions of bucky while indulging in my favorite dynamic: a man who falls hard and never recovers.

❀ THE PRETTIEST SKIRTS ARE WORN TO BE TAKEN OFF congressman!bucky barnes x administrative assistant!reader

bucky bends every edge of himself toward you, softening in ways no one else sees and utterly devoting his soul to the warmth you bring. until his sanity is tested at work of all places.

❀ THIRSTFACE [01/07] best friend/ghostface!clark kent x female!reader

after yet another argument about his compliant nature and his bad habit of letting people walk all over him, clark decides he’s had enough. determined to prove he can be intimidating too, he starts plotting the perfect revenge. things don’t exactly go as planned, however, and one very unfortunate abandoned cabin ends up thoroughly defiled by years of unresolved feelings. trick or tease series

[notimetoblog]

STORIES!

BUCKY STORIES

-SERIES-

Not The Time - Completed!

Summary: After not seeing Bucky Barnes in what felt like forever you find yourself with him in the middle of a chaotic situation. Definitely not the time to reminisce about your past with him. 

Summer Plans - Completed!

Summary: Planning a trip with Bucky takes a turn when someone new comes into his life. Will it all change or can you still manage to have the perfect summer you planned?

Not Happening - Completed!

Summary: An online dating site clearly makes a mistake when it matches you with the one person you cannot stand. 

Love After You - Ongoing!

Summary: In a time of ballrooms and ballgowns, a looming war threatens to bring darkness. Still, love finds a way to cut through. Some loves, you find, come slowly. Others, come unexpectedly. Could either one survive the war that is to come?

Cant Help Falling In Love - Ongoing!

Summary: Series of moments where Bucky just can’t help getting drawn to her.

A New Tradition - Ongoing!

Summary: Will this new tradition bring on more than just Christmas cheer?

Keep reading

[barnescafe]

grumpy x grumpy angst?? im on my knees??

a/n: girl who is definitely not projecting on her fanfic: haha yeah man

featuring the two bozos the clowns from misery loves company. all parts are stand alone fics

warnings: emotionally unavailable fucks, swearing

"You thinkin' about asking her out?"

"Dunno," Bucky mutters, eyes staring into his phone. "Maybe."

Bob sends a quick glance your way.

"Real romantic." You raise your eyebrows, focusing on the stupid drink in front of you.

"Are you sensing any vibes?" Bob continues to test, wiping down the kitchen island.

"The hell does that mean now," he murmurs more as a statement than a question.

Bob answers anyway. "Flirting, Interest. Maybe she’s trying to let you know she’s single.”

Awfully rude conversation to have within your hearing range, honestly.

Bucky squints at his phone again. Probably the tenth message in five minutes.

“I guess.”

Your drink’s gone cold. You keep stirring it anyway. It's basically rancid now.

"Well, you look excited about it." Bob says encouragingly, still casting another glance your way.

Bucky stares back, emotionless.

You snort, feeling a sick sense of fatigue set in on you.

You hop off the counter, taking your stupid drink with you because pouring it down the sink would probably look entirely suspicious.

Not that there was anything to be suspicious of.

In fact, this is what you wanted.

"What do you think?" he asks abruptly

You send him a wry look. "I don't think anything."

“We noticed,” Bucky says immediately. Like breathing. It makes your heart curl until it withers away. “What do you think about this?”

"Ask her out. Or don't. I don't care."

"You're a terrible friend."

"Devastating," you say monotonously.

Seriously, what the fuck.

Bucky locks his phone and puta it away, watching you slowly drag yourself out of the room before you say something worse.

Behind you, there’s silence for a beat before Bucky locks his phone and follows.

Bob looks back and forth between the both of you before deciding he actually wants nothing to do with any of this, contrary to his earlier belief

"You got a problem?" Bucky asks, the silence of the hallway cracking under his audacity.

"Many. Take your pick."

"Funny."

You hum, praying that the fucking elevator gets here faster.

"You don't want me to ask her out," the says, too close to you for your liking right now

"I don't even know her."

"Does that matter?"

You press the elevator button harder than necessary.

Not really. You noticed this whole thing the second it started. The texting. Him checking his phone more. Smiling at it sometimes, which was frankly irritating to witness. Something ugly lodged itself in your chest after that and never really left. Slithered it's way down to your stomach, and legs, and arms, and had just stayed there, stagnant.

You close your eyes, still turned away from him.

"You said this was nothing," he says, voice hard. "Not me."

He was right.

"it is nothing."

“Then you won’t care if I ask her to get coffee this weekend.”

The elevator dings open. You exhale shakily.

You step inside. He follows immediately.

Annoying.

You stare at the glowing floor numbers instead of him.

This was nothing. You’d repeated it enough times that eventually it stopped sounding ridiculous to yourself. You knew there was no hope for the both of you, that this was fruitless, so why waste each other's time.

At least until someone else entered the picture.

Now you feel vaguely homicidal over someone you actually really liked.

"You didn't answer."

"I already said do whatever you want."

"What do you want?"

"A bagel."

Bucky let's out a heavy exhale, like he's tired.

It feels like you're speed running the 5 stages of grief at once as you prepare for the inevitable distance you would have to put between the both of you.

You glance at all the fucking floors left to go and realise you're stuck here for longer than you want.

You can feel him looking at you. Terrible experience.

“She’s nice,” he says after a second. “Likes documentaries. Hiking.”

“Wow,” you mutter. “Soulmates.”

You’ve watched documentaries. You’ve also nearly died on several mountains.

The lift moves with the urgency of a fucking melting stick of butter down a hill.

“Tell me not to go.”

“I don’t care.”

“Bullshit.”

You finally look at him.

His brows are drawn together slightly. Tired. Irritated.

Like this is somehow your fault.

Funny.

You always assumed if this thing ended, it’d be because you eventually got your shit together and moved on.

Didn’t really account for him getting there first.

You're well aware of your hypocrisy.

“Right. I'm gonna go cry in my room about this” you mutter. “I’m gonna go journal about it.”

His expression flickers. “You journal?”

“Christ, no.”

That almost gets a smile out of him.

The elevator finally opens.

You step out immediately.

“Just be honest for once,” he says behind you.

Your jaw tightens.

You could do it.

You could tell him you thought you had more time.

That the idea of him sitting across from someone else, smiling at them the way he smiles at his phone lately, makes something sharp twist in your stomach.

You could tell him you already miss him, which is pathetic considering he’s standing ten feet away.

“Do whatever," you say. "It doesn't matter what I want."

The elevator doors start sliding shut.

The last thing you see is Bucky’s expression tightening, like he’s angry at you. Or himself.

Hard to tell with him.

Maybe now's a good time to start a journal.

[wakemeornot]

I love your writing and I missed these two so badly, but okay that did hurt me 😭

I hope he asks us out before any other girl 🥺

[smorgaswhored]

null & void (part three)

pairing: sugar daddy!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (p-in-v & unprotected, oral - f!receiving, fingering, creampie, lots of dirty talk, edging, p-pronouns, light p-inspection, mentions of somno and free use), dom!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, no mentions of y/n

word count: 10.7k

part one - part two - masterlist

summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…

sammy speaks: wow I’m at a loss for words again. thank you so much for the love on this series! it’s been so fun going on this ride with all of you, and I really hope you enjoy this final part!!! don’t worry, sugar daddy Bucky will be back soon (;

Things are…different when you return home.

Bucky is as charming and attentive as ever, but his touches have grown fleeting, infrequent, passive. Somehow he orchestrates a healthy amount of distance between the two of you whenever you’re next to him that reminds you of your early days together.

And what he lacks for in physical contact he tries to make up for with gifts. You’ve never had such an onslaught of surprises from him before: dresses, jewelry, shoes, handbags, a new laptop, a new phone; you’re forced to draw the line at a car, a beautiful red convertible that looks like one button could turn it into a space ship.

“Bucky, I don’t even have my license.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t look at it, doll.”

It sits untouched in his parking garage for weeks.

He still dedicates most of his time to you, he still texts you every minute of the day when you’re not together, he still deposits money into your account and makes you promise him that you’ll treat yourself.

But he doesn’t stare into your eyes while holding you close anymore. His lips don’t linger against your skin when he places a kiss on your forehead.

It’s still him, still Bucky — just at an arm’s length away. And it’s maddening. You miss him — even when he’s standing right in front of you, you miss him.

But you don’t push it. You’ve done enough. Keeping him happy is the goal, and if an added six inches of space makes him happy, then that’s what you’ll do.

Unfortunately this means sleepovers have been very rare since returning from the Maldives. Your toothbrush sits untouched next to his in the bathroom for days, your side of the bed tucked in immaculately for weeks. Your heart throbs painfully each time you look at his bedroom door, so you start avoiding looking at it altogether.

Neither of you say anything — it’s the obvious elephant in the room, but you keep it in the corner and ignore it as if you both explicitly agreed on it, even though you didn’t.

Instead, you end your nights by giving him a small smile and flashing your phone, declaring Bob’s arrived to pick you up, and he gives you a small smile back before riding down the elevator with you and walking you to the car. Before he shuts the door, a voice in your head screams at him to stop you, to ask you to come back up and spend the night cuddled up to his chest where you belong.

But he doesn’t.

It hurts every time.

You know tonight will be no different. You’ll cook dinner, you’ll sit a foot apart on the couch while you half-heartedly watch Below Deck, you’ll make small talk about his work, and then you’ll leave. Rinse and repeat.

Your night is off to a very bad start.

Bucky calls you when you’re five minutes from his place, slouched in your seat in the back of Bob’s car.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and tired. “I’m gonna be late — I’m held up at the office. The CFO quit today and our lawyers got a tip off that he’s been funneling deal information to Hydra Investment Partners for the last month. Fucking Rumlow—“ He cuts himself off with a growl. “So I gotta meet with them to go over the non-compete and start building a case.”

“Shit,” you breathe. “I’m sorry, Bucky, that’s awful.“

“Yeah. It’s a goddamn mess, and it’s only gonna get bigger.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“We can reschedule if you want—“

“No, I want to see you. I think it’s the only thing that could make this day better.”

You bite your lip. “Okay, if you’re sure…”

“Positive. I’ll see you at home in a couple hours.”

The line goes dead. You catch Bob’s questioning look in the rear view mirror and summon a smile. “All good, Bob.” He gives you a salute and drives on.

Bucky’s penthouse is dead silent when you step into it. A light is on over the stove, but the rest of the apartment is dark. A half-drunk mug of coffee sits in the sink, an unchosen tie is draped across the kitchen island, and a protein bar wrapper is discarded on the floor near the trash.

Bucky oozes out of every displaced item and unobtrusive mess around the place. You can picture him clear as day in your head creating these nuances: tossing papers to the other end of the couch when his eyes grow too tired, kicking his dress shoes off haphazardly as soon as he gets through the elevator doors. It makes you want to laugh as much as it makes you want to cry, being able to see him living his life so clearly just from an out-of-place wrapper.

Or maybe you want to cry because there’s a part of his life that exists without you around.

You shake your head. There you go again with the dramatics. You’ve been seesawing between rational and irrational since finals — you’d think you’d be leveled out by now. But you suppose unrequited love might make a person a little imbalanced.

You start on dinner before the silence of the apartment can press too hard against your heart. You turn on the TV for some background noise and hum a nameless tune to keep you company. Thankfully, you fall into the motions of preparing the dish with ease, and time slips by unnoticed.

You’re turning down the heat on the risotto when the elevator doors open and Bucky spills out of them.

He looks just shy of defeated, the color drained from his face and chosen tie askew. He shrugs off his suit jacket with a groan and it crumples to the floor. Your lip wobbles between a pout and a smile seeing it lying there.

“Hey, doll,” he mutters, sliding in beside you to place a chaste kiss against your hair.

“Hi,” you say softly. “How did it go?”

“About as good as it could go, but that doesn’t make it any easier. He’s clearly violating the non-compete, but now we have to get the evidence that he’s been passing information along, and that could take months.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s gonna be a long fucking spring,” he replies, slumping into a seat at the counter. He undoes the tie around his neck, tossing it next to the forgotten one from this morning. “Smells amazing,” he adds, voice warmer.

“You’re just saying that, I told you I’m not a great cook.”

He rolls his eyes, popping open the top three buttons of his shirt. You turn quickly back to the stove to avoid the sight of his chest hair. The fucking chest hair that started this mess.

“I don’t think you’ve ever cooked for me before.”

“You never let me.”

“I find that hard to believe when it’s my job to give you what you want.” Your stomach does a filthy little flip.

“Every time I offered, you told me to go study instead.”

“Hmm. Well I’d say that’s a pretty valid reason to say no to you, then.”

“Always taking care of me, aren’t ya?” you tease.

“I try,” he says, and his tone is more serious than before. You gulp.

Bucky asks about your day because he always does, no matter his mood or circumstances, and you fill him in on the stream of trivial events that made up your schedule: breakfast at the cafe around the corner from your apartment, vet appointment for Lucky, lunch with a girl from your class who shows promise as a new friend, you started a book you’d been meaning to read, manicure and pedicure, and also…

“I got an email from my Digital Marketing Analytics professor,” you say, stirring the risotto. “He sent me some details on this position opening up at a marketing firm next month — he knows a few of the higher ups there and thought I’d be a good fit for it. Asked if I wanted him to write me a letter of recommendation.”

Behind you, Bucky stays silent. You glance over your shoulder to find him on his phone, but his eyes aren’t moving.

“…So I took a look at it, and it seems like a great opportunity. The company’s well respected, Glassdoor ranks it high for employee satisfaction…401K, hybrid, four weeks paid time off…”

Bucky’s still staring blankly at his phone.

“And the role seems fair. Challenging, but the good kind. I’d be putting my degree to work, but that’s why I got it, right?” you say lightly.

“Hm,” Bucky grunts, barely audible.

You cut off the heat on the stove and turn to face him. “What do you think?”

He looks up at you finally, eyes distant, face neutral. “It sounds great.”

You wait for him to say more — he doesn’t. Your jaw falls open slightly. “Oh. Well…good.”

He’s back to his phone. The lines of his shoulders are rigidly straight, a muscle in his jaw ticks. You play back every word you just said, trying to figure out where you went wrong with the conversation.

“I think I’ll tell him to write me the recommendation, then.”

“Hm.”

You tilt your head. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, but his fingers grip his phone tighter. “I’m fine. Just…thinking about Rumlow.”

You pause before speaking, letting his words sit. “Okay…”

You begin serving up the food, your mind still analyzing Bucky’s sudden change in behavior. He was perfectly fine when you mentioned the lunch with your classmate, and he seemed smug when you admitted you treated yourself to the nail appointment.

You watch him closely when you slide his plate in front of him; he barely looks up when you set down the fork, muttering a quiet “thanks” that’s nowhere near his usual praise.

“Are you sure you’re good?” you ask as you dish up for yourself.

His phone clatters to the counter. “I said I’m fine,” he says quietly, picking up the fork and jabbing at his food. “Just stressed from work.”

You say nothing, your eyes falling to your plate. Slowly, you set it down on the counter, still empty.

“I can go,” you start, “if you need some space to…”

His head snaps up, his eyes wide. He looks like you hit him across the face. “What? Why?”

Small embers of anger begin to kindle inside of you, patience wearing thin. “You’re obviously in a mood about work,” you answer, irritation leaking into your tone. “You seemed fine earlier but it’s clearly getting to you again. I’d rather not force conversation out of you when you’re like this.”

He gapes at you, food falling from his hovering fork. He sets it down with a soft clink and closes his eyes.

“No, that’s not—“ He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. It is work, but it’s also— it’s not—“

“What is it, Bucky?” you push.

“I can’t just— it’s hard to say, you wouldn’t get it—“

You see red for a second. “Try me.”

His mouth shuts with a snap. He’s got a hundred different emotions passing through his eyes, all of them unrecognizable to you. He says nothing.

“Okay, well.” You wipe your hands on the back of your jeans with crisp resignation and reach for your purse. “Sounds like you need some time to yourself to process the Rumlow situation, so I’ll just call Bob and get out of your hair—“

“Come on,” he mutters, reaching out a hand that you ignore in favor of grabbing your phone.

“It’s fine, Bucky,” you answer airily, “you’re dealing with shit, it happens to all of us. We can just resched—“

“It’s not—“ He cuts himself off with a groan and tries again. “It’s not Rumlow, it’s you.”

You whip around. Bucky’s got his head in his heads now, staring down at his plate, shoulders slumped forward like he’s facing a losing battle. Your body stills as you take him in, this deflated version of the confident man you’ve grown to know intimately over the last eight months — you’ve never seen him like this before.

“What do you mean?” you ask slowly.

He exhales deeply, and even that shakes.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, finding your eyes. “I shouldn’t have treated you like that. You were talking about something important to you, and I blew it off. Please forgive me.”

Your anger is caught between growing into a roaring inferno, or dissipating into smoke.

“Tell me what you meant,” you demand, standing firm on the other side of the island. “How is it me?”

Bucky runs a hand down his face. He looks exhausted, conflicted, desperate…but also resolute.

“I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not you, it’s…” He takes another breath. “When you started talking about the job, I think it just…hit me. That you got what you wanted. And I panicked.”

Your lips part in question, but he continues on.

“The night we met,” he murmurs, “you told me that all you wanted to do was make it through school so that you could get a job, a job exactly like this one, and then you’d get things under control again, get your life back on track. And I said I’d help you do it. That’s how this started.” The corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly. “Now you’re here. You’ve done it.”

“I don’t have the job yet—“

“Don’t kid yourself,” he interrupts softly. “You’ll get any job you apply for — you’re brilliant, you’re headstrong, you’re hardworking. It’s not a matter of if, it’s when.”

Bucky’s head tilts, a sad smile stretching across his face.

“I think I’ve been secretly dreading the day that ‘when’ comes. The day you don’t really need me anymore,” he says quietly.

Your breath stutters out of your lungs.

It’s written plain as day across his face that it took a lot for him to admit that, and you understand; it’s a reveal of weakness, something you didn’t think Bucky possessed, which you’re almost certain was by his design. And why should he have weaknesses? With his money, success and looks, there’s nothing for him to fear.

Except, apparently, losing you.

The irony of it all doesn’t escape you. But if he can be brave, so can you. Moving on unsteady legs, you come around to his side of the island.

“Bucky,” you tell him. “I’ll always need you. More than you know.”

His eyes flick across your face, his breathing deep.

“Yes, we only found each other because of my…financial situation,” you admit softly, “but it’s grown to be so much more than that. It — it’s crazy, how much I’ve come to depend on you. And I’ll be honest, I didn’t think it would get this far, but…but somewhere along the way, you became my best friend.”

Bucky’s shoulders sag imperceptibly. For a moment, relief crosses his face, and his eyes are the warmest you’ve seen them all night. You keep going before he can say anything, though, before you can lose your nerve.

“So I couldn’t just leave you, even if I tried,” you tell him, meeting his gaze. “Even if the parties and the vacations and the gifts stopped. Even if all your money dried up. I still wouldn’t dream of leaving you.”

Bucky releases a shaky sigh that slips into a shaky laugh. Wordlessly, he reaches out his hand, beckoning you closer; you take it, allowing him to pull you toward his chair slowly but surely.

“You don’t know what that means to me to hear that,” he murmurs, other hand folding over the one holding yours. “I’m not…I never felt like this…with my other friends,” he starts delicately. “When our time together was done, it made sense. I could wish them well and move on without looking back.”

He takes a deep breath that syncs up with your own, looking up at you through his dark eyelashes.

“But with you…I can’t even picture my life without you in it. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you here for as long as I can.”

His words hit you like a battering ram. Your heart cracks from the effort of holding back every feeling you’ve pushed down, every urge you’ve suppressed. A voice floats through your head, soft but clear.

Tell him.

And for the first time since the floodgates opened, it feels right.

You take a deep, steadying breath before moving closer to him, slipping into the space between his knees. He quickly releases your hand in favor of holding onto your waist, like it’s instinct. His brow furrows in confusion, but he gives no sign of you crossing a line, so you find the courage to slip your hands into his hair, slowly, intentionally, threading your fingers through it on the back of his neck.

“Give me all of you,” your voice is barely a whisper, “that’s how you keep me.”

You watch him process your words, and it’s like seeing the sun rise for the first time; realization dawns across his face and settles with a look of searing intensity. Your heart thunders in your chest. He tugs you closer before his hands carefully cup your jaw, eyes flitting down to your lips and back up.

“All of me?” he whispers back, searching your face.

You nod, holding your breath. Bucky whispers your name reverently, and your eyes slide shut, waiting for the other shoe to drop. One excruciatingly long heartbeat later, his lips are on yours.

You melt instantly, meeting his mouth with a soft groan, your fingers tightening in his hair. He kisses you carefully, purposefully, like he’s writing the story of you and him in real time with his lips. It’s greater than anything you thought it would be, and you vow to yourself to hold onto this moment forever.

With reluctance, he pulls back enough to allow a breath, lips tenderly brushing yours, pupils blown wide.

“Are you sure?”

You let out a shaky exhale, brain scrambling to process if the kiss was a dream or reality. “Yes, I want this, Bucky. I want the last part of you that you haven’t given me yet.”

His eyes flutter shut.

“How long?”

“Since New Years,” you answer, a flush creeping up your neck. A dry smirk crosses his face.

“You mean I’ve been holding myself back for nothing?”

You pull away further, forcing his eyes open to meet yours. “What?”

He chuckles, the sound somewhere between bitter and amused. His thumb pulls down your bottom lip, sweeping across the delicate skin.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ve been in love with you since the night you walked across the city in the rain just to make sure you weren’t losing me.”

There’s a pressure growing between your ears, like the feeling that comes before you pass out; if your knees weren’t weak before, they are now. Your hand slides down to his chest, over his heart, and you fist the fabric tightly.

“You love me?” you breathe.

“Yes,” he answers, strong and certain. His blue eyes honest and open.

So you kiss him, throwing all that you have into it. He gives it all back to you, mouth dancing with yours till you can taste every emotion on his lips. “I love you,” you whisper against them. “I love you I love you I love you…” He groans, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss; his tongue brushes yours, and you let him in.

The room fades around you — it’s just you and him in the world.

He tugs you onto his lap, hands moving from your face to the small of your back. His body is warm and soft in all the right places, and you sigh into the kiss from the contact. A heat is starting to spread through you, starting in your heart but growing strongest in your core. It builds slowly, like a balloon filling up with air, and the more you get familiar with how Bucky Barnes kisses, you know it’s only a matter of time before it pops.

You pull at the collar of his shirt, he slides his hands under yours. Your skin is feverish beneath his touch, and soon enough you’re in desperate need of less clothing, less barriers between you and him. His lips chase after yours when you come up for air. “Bucky…” you whisper, fingers dancing down the buttons of his shirt.

Simultaneously, you feel him harden beneath you, the mere outline of it sending a thrill down your spine while a flicker of nervousness darts across his face.

“Doll, I…” he begins softly, “you should know, I can get…carried away in these moments. I don’t — don’t usually let my friends see this side for a reason.” He swallows roughly, brushing a hair from your eyes. “I say things, I—I do things...They can be—“ He swears softly against your jaw. “They can be a lot…”

You draw closer, your nose bumping his. “I told you I want all of you. I meant it.”

There’s a quick pause as he stills. “Promise you’ll tell me if it’s too much.”

Your core ignites, as well as your curiosity. “I promise,” you say.

Bucky seals your promise with a searing kiss, tongue pushing its way into your mouth; your surprised gasp is cut off and swallowed by him when he lifts you effortlessly from his lap, depositing you on the edge of the counter. His mouth parts from yours as he pushes you back gently, until your spine kisses the cool marble, his plate shoved out of the way and landing with a crash on the floor that you both fail to acknowledge.

Your brain spins as you watch him pant above you — you swear you’ve seen him like this before in dreams — struggling to catch up to reality. But your body is already there. You can feel the effects of his kisses dripping into your panties, soaking them through. You’d be embarrassed if Bucky didn’t look like he was ready to devour you.

His hands run down your body appreciatively, gentle and tender. As he cups your breasts through your shirt, he releases a soft noise from the back of his throat. You arch into him, nipples visible through the fabric, and he circles them with expert precision with his thumbs.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “If you knew how many times I’ve thought about this…”

He trails off, but the message is clear. You move your hands on top of his, meeting his eyes. “I’ve thought about this, too.”

He licks his lips, eyes dark with want, then moves his hands lower, reluctantly parting with your chest. His fingertips tickle your sides as they make their way to your jeans, hooking into the waistband and circling the edge until they meet in the middle. He pops the fly and drags the zipper down slowly, either to prolong the moment or to tease you brutally as his knuckle drags against the front of your underwear.

Your hands seize his again, “Bucky,” you whimper. He shushes you with another rough kiss, his stubble rubbing the skin of your chin raw in a way that you’ll never forget, even when it heals. You’d like to drag that stubble over every inch of your body.

With ease and grace that you know you don’t have, he peels your jeans down your legs; you kick them off your feet and they land on the floor behind him. Instantly, his big palms are pushing your legs apart; goosebumps erupt all over you when the cool air finds your slick panties.

Bucky stares.

But not in a way that makes you want to close your legs — in a way that makes you open them wider, any insecurities flying out the window just from the intention of his gaze. His breathing is heavy as he watches that adjustment.

“This for me?” he whispers, dragging a finger along the edge of the dark patch, outlining your entrance through the fabric.

You bite your lip and nod. His eyes flash to your face.

“I need to hear it. Please.”

“Yes, all for you, Bucky,” you sigh as he runs his other hand down your leg and to your ankle. He grips it for a moment before pulling your leg up against his chest, foot just angled off his shoulder; he steps closer, the bulge in his pants irrefutable, borderline painful-looking, aligned with your center. You moan softly when he palms it through his pants, obscene and without an ounce of shame.

“My girl,” he says, “fucking perfect.” He curls his finger into your underwear. The tip of it slips down your folds, cataloguing how wet you are with his hands-on approach; he withdraws it and quickly sucks the finger into his mouth, holding your gaze. Your body sings for him in response.

“Sweetest thing I’ve tasted,” he mutters, spit-soaked finger yanking your panties down your legs with a blind recklessness that you find incredibly attractive. He doesn’t release your eyes yet. “Tell me you’re mine. Before I eat you out on my kitchen counter. Wanna hear that you’re mine.”

Your exposed pussy clenches around nothing. “I’m yours,” you choke out, “fuck, I’m yours forever. Wanted you for so long—“

He grabs your jaw and pulls you up for a bruising kiss, bending your leg back to your chest with a stretch that burns too good. You meet his passion with your own, tongues clashing and teeth knocking. When he pulls back, your head is floating from the increasing levels of desire, levels you’ve never reached before with anyone else. God, if he just looked at you a certain way, you swear you could come on the spot—

“No going back,” he says against your lips, voice low. “Not now that I have you.”

He makes his descent back down your body, placing chaste kisses over your covered nipples. You whimper and writhe when he sinks to his knees, eagerly throwing your other leg over his shoulder so that he’s trapped between them. You prop yourself up by your elbows to better see the dirtiest, most breathtaking view in front of you.

Bucky’s chest heaves, his eyes drinking in your glistening, aching core. You move your hips in the hopes of enticing him closer, but his hands put a stop to your motions.

“Let me see her,” he mutters. Your heart beats in time with your throbbing pussy. He observes his newest possession like a collector observes his prized item. With awe and greed and devotion.

Slowly, so slowly, he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, shaky breath warming the skin. You sigh again, head tipping back. “Bucky,” you whisper to the heavens.

God doesn’t answer, but Bucky does.

His lips trail up to the juncture between your thighs, mouthing at your folds with light touches. You let out a soft wail at the sudden contact. Your hips buck in his hold, but he pins you down firmly and begins to eat.

His tongue finds your clit and attaches to it, flicking back and forth in tiny circles that awaken feelings you’ve never felt before from your own hand or with others. Instantly, the sounds start falling from your lips, whimpers and half-curses and incoherent words; they seem to encourage him, because he doubles-down against your clit, pressing harder with his tongue as he continues to bring your body to life.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this for a long time,” he exhales on your core before diving back in. Your hips try to escape his hold when he does something special with the top of his tongue, but he forces them back down firmly, reinforcing the controlled way he explores your pleasure.

And when he sucks your clit into his mouth—

“Yes, yes — oh, right there—“ You bite down on your hand to cut off the whining; Bucky takes one glance at you and pulls away immediately, brow furrowed.

“Don’t do that,” he says roughly, his breath warm against your folds, “I want to hear you.”

You obey without arguement. Your hand slumps down to the counter, nails sliding along the smooth surface.

He works you slowly, torturously, following the lead from your hitches in breath and involuntary noises until he’s found an enthusiastic pattern that sends pleasure to every nerve ending. You’re impossibly close already, you can feel your arousal dripping down your ass and onto his chest, that cord in you threatening to snap.

But he draws back like he read your mind, meeting your eyes to create an image that will be burned into your retinas for all of eternity. The cord loosens from lack of attention, finding slack, and you whimper.

Bucky says nothing, opting to lick around the outside of your folds like he’s cleaning you up. It’s cruelty in a new form, and you hate it and love it at the same time. For once, Bucky’s refusing to give you what you very clearly want, and it sends a rush of heated desire through you.

You’re about ready to beg when his tongue slips across your folds and lands directly on your entrance with a gravely hum. You cry out, your spine defying all anatomical physics, but Bucky pays it no mind. His rhythm starts with languid strokes, getting acquainted with the tight hole that cries for him; he laps at it with care and concentration, allowing no corner unattended.

Bucky’s good at this — way too good. His hands press harder against your hips, leaving you at the mercy of his mouth, and it’s quickly becoming too much for you to handle.

Bucky notices it like a sixth sense once again, but decides to indulge it with a long, thick finger taking the place of his tongue. The air leaves your lungs with a choked cry. He grunts and nips at your leg.

“Jesus, sweetheart, she wants it so bad…”

Your fingers find his hair and pull, just to keep yourself grounded when he moves his mouth back to your clit, sucking and swirling it around while his finger slides in and out of you at a deviously slow pace. He very quickly adds another finger, stretching you out as he curls them and strokes your walls.

They take their time exploring you until they come across the spongey spot that opens your stairway to heaven. Your jaw goes slack and a moan slips out, stars blooming across your vision.

“Right here, honey?”

You blink until you can see clearly, finding him watching you from between your legs with his mouth still pressed to your clit. “Yes,” you breathe, “like that, I’m close…”

That’s when he releases you with a *pop*, fingers stopping inside of you. “Not yet,” he rumbles. “Gonna make this last. You taste too good.”

He keeps you on the brink like this for ages — hours could have passed and you would have never known. Just as the cord begins to splinter, he slows his hand and releases your clit, breathing heavily over it like he’s catching his breath, like he’s the one being brought to the edge. Every time he does this, you whine his name through your teeth, tears blurring your vision, until he decides you’ve been patient enough and resumes his assault.

“Talk to me,” he mutters, free hand pulling you closer to his face, then laps at the little button just above your entrance. You arch off the counter, skin on fire.

“Fuck, I’m so close, Bucky, so close — just wanna come, please — wanna come on your face—“

He buries himself into your center with a fierce determination, fingers gliding in and out with brutal dedication and curling at the right places.

“Bucky…B-Bucky, I—“

“Give it to me,” he growls, flicking his tongue rapidly against you.

You fall apart in seconds, your body tightening and releasing with a snap as the cord breaks. Slick leaks around his hand in a sudden gush that stains his sleeve. You curl into yourself as the orgasm wracks your body, legs closing around his head, keeping him in place, threatening to suffocate him.

Bucky works you through it, making soft noises against your flesh, pressing his fingers to the special spot inside of you while frenching your clit. He eases up when your legs tremble around him, your fingers twitching against his roots from oversensitivity, and pulls away to watch you come back down to earth.

When you finally get reacquainted with reality, you only see him.

Kneeling before you, he looks the part of a sinner at an altar, seeking absolution in the divine. From the look in his eyes, you think he’s found it.

He stands, holding your legs steady against his chest; the lower half of his face is soaked, glistening in the soft light of the kitchen. He licks his lips before leaning over you, dragging his mouth across yours with a featherlight brush. Your tongue eagerly reaches out to taste yourself on him, a surge of possessive pride running through your blissed out body.

He moans into your mouth at your boldness, giving you what you’re searching for. His tongue strokes yours from back to front, sharing the taste of your arousal. It’s sweet and sour at the same time, new and surprisingly addicting; you understand why Bucky wanted to stay rooted at the source.

Just as your body begins to hum at the thought, you feel the length of him behind his slacks press into your center. It makes you jump, letting out a small squeak, but Bucky shushes you, sliding his arms around your back, setting you upright on the counter.

He finds your eyes, cups your jaw in his hand. “I’m gonna fuck you now.”

He says it so simply, like it’s a known fact the universe has held on to for a millennia. You frantically reach for him, arms winding around his neck as your lips meet.

In a blur of moving walls and flashing lights, he picks you up and carries you to the bedroom, laying you gently down on top of his bed. His hands find the hem of your shirt and tug it over your head efficiently, leaving you completely bare to him now. He leans back to stand at the foot of the bed, taking in your naked body splayed out for him and only him.

You imagine how you must look in his eyes, bottom lip bitten raw, nipples stiff, pussy swollen and wet with his spit and your arousal. You hope he likes what he sees.

Based on the hungry look on his face, you think he does.

Bucky places trembling hands on both of your ankles, rubbing at the bone before they slide delicately up your calves, the ghost of a touch that turns your core molten. When he gets to your knees he squeezes, pushing on a pressure point that makes your legs jump apart.

He lets go, restraint written all across his face as he begins to slowly take off his shirt.

“God, look at you,” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded. “She’s so pretty like that.”

The fact that he’s talking about your pussy makes your eyes roll back. Never has dirty talk sounded like music to your ears, until now.

“I’ve been thinking about you like this for weeks — fucked my hand in the shower to you before you’d come over. I felt horrible for it every time…turns out you were thinking about me like this, too.”

He meets your stare as he pulls his under shirt over his head, leaving you to ogle at the sharp angles of his chest, the hard cut of his abs. The dark chest hair expands across his skin, leading down to a trail that disappears into his pants. You want your mouth on it immediately.

You reach for him, one hand lifting in the air, but Bucky smacks it away with a light tap. Your eyes go wide.

“Whole time I could’ve had you like this, I was just imagining you instead. I’ll never forgive myself for all that time lost, spent picturing you spread out for me, or on your knees for me, or handcuffed to my bed…”

Bucky trails off, watching you squirm from his words. He undoes his belt, the clink of metal interrupting the heavy silence; he lets his pants slide down his legs before he reaches into his briefs and pulls out his cock.

Your lips part, drool pooling at the corners.

He’s thick and long with a flushed, leaking tip. His thumb runs over it to smear it down his shaft, hand moving slowly along the skin, just enough to keep him rock hard.

“Are you gonna let me know what the real thing is like?”

“Yes,” you gasp, your fingers creeping toward your center. “Yes, Bucky. I want it all, please—”

He spots your fingers beginning to tease at your clit. In a flash, he has your wrists in one hand, the other picking up the pace on his cock. One look from him is the only warning you need.

“Next time I’ll hold you down any way I want,” he says, voice dangerously low. “I’ll take my time. Make sure you never forget how I feel inside of you. I’ll make you come until your body gives out on me.”

You shudder underneath him, a sticky warmth dripping out of you.

“And in the morning, when you’re cooking me breakfast to thank me for the best fuck of your life, I’ll take you again on the counter because I can. The food’ll burn, but you won’t say anything, you’ll just let me like you should.”

His hand tightens around your wrists.

“And when I get home late from work, and you’re passed out in my bed, I’ll wake you up with my cock inside you, because I haven’t thought about anything else all day, and I won’t waste a second of finally being able to fuck you again.”

Your whimper is positively shameful, the mess between your legs growing worse by the minute. Bucky releases you. Your hands fall onto the bed with a hollow smack — you don’t dare move them. Not when he’s watching you with those sharp eyes.

He loses the briefs, leaving him utterly naked before you. How many times have you dreamt of this? Too many to count. Slowly, he crawls onto the bed and over your body. You feel his cock glide up your thigh, rigid and hot to the touch.

“But tonight I just wanna feel you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “Don’t want to wait any longer.”

The hand around his cock moves to your core, expertly gathering your arousal and dragging it up your folds. You follow his hand with your hips, moaning, your fingers twitching to touch him but unsure of the consequences.

He plays your body like he’s known it his whole life. Fingertips rolling your clit back and forth before teasing your entrance. Your breath catches when he eases a finger in, making his lips curve up in a smile, open mouth hovering over yours; he watches your face with unwavering focus, learning your tells and tics as you come apart for him once again.

When he’s knuckle-deep in you, your spine locks up. You moan his name, hands flying up to grasp at his neck. He exhales heavily as he fucks you with his finger, warm breath fanning across your lips.

“That’s it, baby, show me how it feels…I wanna see what I do to you…”

Your nails dig into his skin, bound to leave marks. You huff when he suddenly skips a second finger, going straight for three. “Oh!”

“Come on, sweetheart, you can take it. Be my good girl.”

Bucky’s fingers are much bigger than yours, and reach greater depths; you feel full of him already, and it’s not even close to what his cock will do to you. The stretch burns around his fingers, the muscles protesting yet welcoming them at the same time.

“B-Bucky, it’s…too…too—“

“Gotta open you up, doll, you’re not ready for me yet,” he murmurs against your cheek. “Relax and let me take care of you…”

His words are your command; you sink into the mattress and tilt your hips up until he hits a spot that releases the tension from your body. Your pussy flutters around him, pulling him deeper.

“There she is,” he whispers. “God, you feel unreal like this. So warm and tight.”

You let out a high-pitched whine when the heel of his hand comes down forcibly on your clit. The stimulation rocks through you with an hedonistic effect, pleasure building quickly to the point of no return.

“Fuck,” you cry out, biting at his ear. His answering groan is lewd.

“You gonna come for me again?” he grits through his teeth, grinding his palm over your bundle of nerves.

“Oh, God,” you sob, arching into him. You can feel the wave of pleasure building, building, growing in intensity. He leans back to spit directly onto your clit, then smears it with his hand, moving faster, fingers plunging in and out at a delicious tempo.

“Let’s see it,” Bucky says, “show me you want my cock. You said you wanted it, show me you can take it.”

His fingers curl against your walls and you shatter as the wave crashes into you. Your whole body is a sea of live wires and nerve endings as you come for him, muscles tensing and relaxing and tensing again like your body’s hooked up to an electroshock machine. He breathes heavily over you as you convulse, thumb gently circling your clit to ease the comedown, until you’re panting and gasping and twisting out of his grip.

He releases you, nose nudging at your temple as your breaths even out.

“Gonna take my cock so well, sweetheart,” he whispers. A whimper escapes you, a spent tear sliding down your cheek. He brushes it away with his lips.

His knee nudges your legs further apart, making room for his broad body to settle firmly between them. He lines himself up with your center, the tip of him just grazing your needy entrance. Bucky looks down at you then.

“You want this?” he murmurs, voice low and soft and…vulnerable, the bravado from earlier stripped away now. His eyes ask for one last confirmation that this is real.

It sparks a set of real tears from you, and you have to blink quickly to keep them where they are. You silently grieve for the Bucky who thought he’d never get this with you, who thought it’d only ever stay a dream, just as you grieved the same thing for yourself, knowing how much pain lived within you each day just from carrying a silent love for someone.

But you’re here now, fitted underneath him like missing puzzle pieces reuniting, and it’s very, very real.

Your chin tilts up to brush a kiss on his mouth. “I love you, Bucky,” you breathe.

A shudder runs through him, a sharp exhale falling from his lips. He rolls his hips forward automatically and the first inch of him slides home. He splits you open on his cock with a finality that soothes as much as it burns. You gasp with him, open mouths sharing a breath and eyes locked together as he feels your pussy pull at him, adjusting to the size while asking for more.

“Love you,” he mumbles, pushing forward, his cock slowly dragging down your walls. “Love you so much.”

“Oh!” you moan when the size of him makes its presence known by knocking against your sweet spot already.

A breathless laugh leaves him as he hovers above you. “Of course you’re this fucking tight. Like you’re fucking made for me.” He hisses as he slides fully in, you answer with a low whine. “Feel so fucking perfect.”

Bucky’s panting by the time his hips rest against yours, swearing under his breath. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other holds your leg open, seeking out a final nonexistent inch of space to get closer to you. You’re clenching hard around his cock, testing his resolve, accommodating to the feeling of being stuffed full of him. It’s all-consuming and disorienting and feels much bigger than just two people becoming one. Your face nuzzles into his shoulder, whimpers escaping your throat.

“Oh, God, you’re…” you whisper.

Bucky shushes you. ”I know, baby. Doing so good.”

He draws back at a glacial pace, revering the feel of your tight walls against his cock, until just the tip is left and you’re already aching for him to fill you again. He pushes back in easily, fitting into place with a slow, deep thrust.

“Fuck,” he mutters, kissing your forehead. You whine. He responds by starting a brutal pace, sliding a big hand down your thigh to hitch it higher around his waist. He pushes your other leg against your chest, opening you up to the steady, rhythmic motion of his hips. You feel the warmth sparking in your core again, growing hotter and hotter with each thrust, building in intensity every time he mouths at your throat or forces you to meet his eyes with a firm grip around your jaw.

He’s commanding in the softest way possible, anchoring you to this moment with touches and kisses that sear your skin, some featherlight, some heavier, shocking your system each time with their contrast, until all of existence has been consumed by him.

Bucky’s cock hits every delicious point within your walls like he’s already memorized your body. He draws out whimpers and soft cries from you repeatedly, to the point that you think he’s become addicted to them, finding the right spot and honing in on it like a man obsessed. The noises you make layer over the muffled, wet sounds of your bodies joining, of heated skin moving against heated skin, and it sounds like a goddamn symphony of love.

He doesn’t leave you guessing how good you’re making him feel either.

He groans his approval every time you arch up into him, meeting his hips with your own.

“That’s it, sweetheart…taking me so well…”

You let out a moan when his tip drags along your cervix, pussy fluttering around his cock. Bucky makes a choked noise, pace stuttering.

“Fuck, she’s—she’s milking me, honey,” he gasps, pupils dilating till there’s no more blue. “God, you feel incredible. So perfect. My girl…” His mouth reaches for yours, drawing you in for an earth-shattering kiss; the heat in your belly swells as your tongues dance, his words seeping deep into your soul.

“Bucky—“ you whine against his lips, feeling the start of your orgasm begin to crest. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, his back, tethering yourself to him.

Bucky can feel you’re close. He speeds up, licking down your chest to pull a nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting to multiply the sparks dancing up and down your body. One hand locks itself into your hair again, the other slips down to your clit, thumb brushing back and forth just slow enough to draw the pleasure out.

“Oh! Oh shit — fuck, Bucky—“

“Let me hear it,” he growls against your skin, his arm shaking beside your head where his forearm holds himself up on the mattress. You turn to bite into his bicep as the buildup inside of you finally explodes.

You shudder through a low groan, equal parts pained and relieved. Your orgasm crashes through you like waves on a beach, sending your brain tumbling to the brink of a dark abyss. Your eyes flutter closed.

Bucky takes every pulse and throb you have to offer him, riding it out with frantic thrusts that are borderline manic. His eyes are wild but eternally locked on you as he extends this moment for as long as possible, continuing his assault on your clit while you jerk and shake underneath him.

“F-fuck— Jesus, baby—“

Through the heavy haze of your world-bending pleasure, you can feel Bucky’s cock twitch inside of you. He pulls at your hair to tilt your chin back.

“Look at me,” he begs lowly. You open your eyes to find him hovering above you again, eyes wide as they drink you in, pink lips shiny from his work on your nipple. “Good girl,” he breathes, thrusts faltering when he meets your gaze. “Good fucking girl. Keep your eyes on me while I fill you up.”

You arch into him again, a powerful aftershock of your orgasm ripping through you. Bucky groans, forehead falling to yours.

“You like that, sweetheart? You want me to fill you up?”

His hips smack into yours, finally giving your clit a break as his arm pushes back both of your legs as far as they can go. You think you see another planet when his cocks finds a new place inside of you that you didn’t know existed.

“Oh, God,” you sob, feeling like you’re floating out of your body from the change in angle. “I want all of it, Bucky—”

“Yeah?” he grits out between his teeth, slowing down to hard thrusts that push your body up the bed. “Greedy little thing. I’ll give you all of it, baby, you can take it.”

You nod because your words have turned into babbling cries — Bucky’s removed all coherent thoughts from your head. You’re reduced to the five senses now, and all of them are overwhelmed with him.

“Gonna give it all to you just like this,” he says, and brings you in for a desperate kiss.

Your body hums and vibrates through the final waves of your orgasm while Bucky nears his, pounding into you with a deep intensity that you feel in your bones. When he comes, he moans unashamedly into your mouth, broad body locking up as his hips still with a loud snap against yours.

“Fuck, never letting you go,” he stutters out, words slurred, “never giving up this pussy. All mine—“

You can feel the heat of his cum pool into your core, filling you up as it was meant to, leaving you satisfied in ways you’d like to explore deeper another time. Bucky breathes heavily into your mouth, a groan slipping out every now and then as he lets the pleasure wash over him.

When both of your breaths have evened out, he pulls back, far enough for those dark eyes — slowly changing back to the bright blue — to search your face.

“You okay?” he asks softly, shyly. Your hands slide down his back, gentle over the nail marks you’ve left on it.

“More than okay,” you whisper. “That was…amazing…you’re amazing.”

He shakes his head.

“That was all you, my love.”

You smile, your fingers brushing the damp strands of hair on the back of his neck. “I think I like that nickname the best.”

A tender smile curls his lips, and he leans down to press a kiss to the space between your eyebrows, then the tip of your nose, then your lips. You keep him there, moving your mouth languidly against him until Bucky’s cock has softened enough inside of you for him to pull out.

You both hiss at the loss of contact, and there’s a cool edge to the air as it brushes against your well-abused pussy. With a light groan, Bucky pushes himself back on his knees, your legs falling bonelessly to the bed on either side of him. You watch with love-drunk eyes as he ducks down to observe the slow trickle of his cum from your hole, and your cheeks flare up with heat when he bends over to place a kiss on your clit.

“Bucky,” you mumble, legs closing on instinct, but he holds them open as he begins lapping at both of your releases spilling from you, cleaning you up while also stuffing it back into you with his tongue.

You cry out from the new sensations on your oversensitive pussy, a hand darting down to his hair to push him away or tug him closer, you’re unsure. Either way, you’re a panting mess again by the time he’s had his fill — literally.

He crawls up your body slowly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand before settling over you. You can feel yourself relax once the skin of his chest meets yours again.

“Had to taste you again,” he murmurs, “somehow y‘taste even better with me in you.”

A delicate shiver rolls down your spine. He’s fucking filthy and you love it.

He kisses you deeply, the remnants of your combined releases waking up your tastebuds, then pulls away, leaving you alone on the bed. Your heart flutters as you watch Bucky’s naked figure disappear into his closet, returning half a moment later clad in briefs and holding another pair along with his comfiest, biggest sweatshirt and a wet cloth from the bathroom.

“Come here, sweet girl,” he whispers, kneeling on the edge of the bed.

You comply as best as you can, rolling yourself toward him with whatever strength’s left in your body, which isn’t a lot. He meets you halfway, hauling you close with his big, strong arms, and runs the warm cloth along your center, gentle strokes that only pull out the softest of sighs from you; he tosses it into the hamper once you’re clean before sliding the briefs up your legs gently, rubbing your skin along the way, and pulling the sweatshirt over your head, helping your arms through as well.

When you’re bundled up in his clothes, he climbs onto the bed and lays you across his chest like you weigh nothing, like you’re made of rubber, like there’s not a thought in your head capable of doing it for yourself.

There’s a good chance there isn’t.

Bucky tugs the covers up to your waists, entwining his legs with yours and pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your hand finds his chest and strokes the skin there, feeling his heartbeat with every pass.

“Can’t believe we could’ve been doing this for weeks,” you mumble.

You hear a low rumble of laughter in Bucky’s chest. “Lots to make up for.” He pulls you tighter against him as your eyes begin to droop, the feeling of a long, hard fuck rendering you exhausted. His sigh into your hair tells you he feels the same, and his cheek drops to the top of your head.

After a quiet moment, he says, “You didn’t eat.”

You giggle sleepily. “It wasn’t that good anyway.”

“Not true, it was just…a different take on Italian.”

“Nice save.”

“Seriously. Do you want something?”

You hum into his chest. “Maybe pizza, from Luigi’s? Later, though. Right now I just want this.”

His heart skips a beat beneath your hand and he wraps impossibly closer around you. You’re grinning like a deranged lunatic into his skin, the giddiness of your current predicament keeping you awake for a few moments longer.

“My love,” he breathes. Not a question, nor the start of a statement. Just the name, new and bold and absolutely perfect.

Your brain recalls that first gala together, when he introduced you as his friend all night, and it made sense until it didn’t, until your heart moved to a place your brain couldn’t get to yet and decided that “friend” wasn’t enough. Listening to him now, you know your heart’s been patiently waiting for this the whole time.

Then your mind conjures up another memory, more startling than the last: of the days leading up to the agreement, when you moved around your apartment like a ghost as you considered his offer, ignoring your bills and worrying a path into your hardwood floors. You had all but decided to say yes to Bucky, but the thing that gave you pause was your mom. Your brain couldn’t help but wonder what she’d think of you for agreeing to something like this, what’d she say if she knew her daughter signed a contract with a billionaire for companionship.

As you listen to Bucky’s steady heart beat in his chest, as you feel his hands stroke tenderly down your skin, you’re struck with the answer you couldn’t find then: she’d be so fucking happy for you.

Smiling, you melt against him, basking in the dawn of something new, something beautiful that awaits you on the horizon with Bucky by your side.

His hand traces circles on your arm, his lips brush your hair, he whispers your name over and over and over until you fall asleep surrounded in his love.

Luigi’s comes much later than you planned. The two of you don’t stir for a long time, until the early morning hours when the sky is still gray and traffic is just a trickle. Bucky shifts beneath you as your eyes flutter open, arms tightening around your waist.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming.”

You sigh, tilting your face up to his, a soft smile stretching across your face.

“Want me to pinch you?”

He’s watching you with a sleepy, adoring gaze, hands creeping under your sweatshirt to press against your warm skin.

“How ‘bout a kiss instead?”

Bucky’s drawing you closer before he finishes his sentence, gently capturing your lips with his in a slow, lazy kiss.

“Still think you’re dreaming?” you whisper against his mouth.

“Mmm. Need a little more to make sure…”

His hands slide up your back as he kisses you again, deeper this time, with intention, until you’re breathless putty in his arms. Bucky’s mouth moves down your jaw when you pull back for air. “Bucky…” you breathe, feeling his leg slide between yours, and a certain hardness pressing into your stomach. But as his thigh reaches the juncture between your legs, you twitch, wincing, biting down on a moan. You’re sore — very, very sore.

Bucky notices right away, leaning back to search your face. “You’re hurt.”

You quickly shake your head. “Not hurt, just sore. The good kind,” you add when you see the beginnings of guilt cross his face. You take his jaw in your hands, keeping him close. “You made me feel things I’ve never felt before last night, Buck. Worth it.”

Bucky stares at you for a moment, face blank, until his forehead drops to yours. He groans softly, thumbs smoothing the skin of your shoulders.

“Now I know I’m dreaming. You’re too perfect to be real.”

“You know, you’re real corny after you get some. Should I expect breakfast in bed next?” you tease.

He buries his face into your neck, hiding the pink flush to his cheeks. He mumbles something, but you can’t make it out.

“What was that? Something about rose petals in the bath?”

Bucky nips at your collarbone in retribution as you laugh. Eventually he shows his face to you again, still flushed, but his expression is somber.

“I’m sorry if I was rough with you. I can learn to be softer, if—

“Don’t. I love you just the way you are,” you hush him, pulling him in for another kiss. He responds softly, lovingly, easing his leg between you gently until you’re crisscrossed together beneath the sheets, waiting for the first rays of light to shine on the first day of the rest of your lives.

“Don’t forget to call me if you need me!” you shout to your assistant as she all but shoves you out the door. Her sarcastic salute tells you that she will not be calling you during your time off, even if the office burned down.

You slide your sunglasses on as you walk out into the September sunshine. It’s a beautiful day, the first chill of fall in the air reminding you of why it’s your favorite time of year. Well, that and a certain anniversary.

Bucky’s leaning against the sleek red sports car at the curb (your gift is finally having its moment). He’s devastating in a light blue suit with the button down open to give you a generous view of his chest hair. The smile breaks across your face automatically, instinctively, and you all but skip down the steps to him.

He wears his own smug grin as you approach, arms opening to catch you when you launch yourself into them; his mouth is on yours instantly, bringing you close for a searing reunion kiss.

“How was your day, my love?” he murmurs against your lips. You smile, fingers sliding into the hair at the back of his neck.

“Busy. Long. Lonely without you,” you tease.

“Mmm, same here. Feels like it’s been years since I last saw you.”

“You saw me at lunch, babe.”

“Too long.”

You kiss him hard again, feeling the familiar planes of his body press into yours. He pulls back reluctantly with a groan when you’re good and dizzy.

“As much as I’d love to continue this, we have a plane to catch.”

You tilt your head. “If it’s your plane, don’t they have to wait for you?”

“Doesn’t work like that, sweetheart.”

“I thought it works whatever way I want it to.”

He gives you a look as he opens the door for you, raising an eyebrow. “Eager, are we?”

You slide into the seat. “Can’t a girl celebrate a little?”

“Well, I’ve never had road head before, but I’ll try anything once.” He swings your door shut with a wink before coming around to the driver’s side; you’re still laughing when he joins you.

“Nice try,” you say, “but your driving would put an end to that real quick.”

“I’m a good driver.”

“Honey. No.”

“Says the girl without a license. Talk to me when you can drive.”

The words hold no real bite as he puts the car into drive and pulls into traffic. His free hand takes its place on your knee, squeezing gently; you cover it with your own, fingers threading together, in search of the soothing feel of skin-to-skin.

“What’s the first thing you want to do when we get to Paris?” you ask. He smirks, eyes on the road.

“Practice my French on your pussy. Ma magnifique amante.”

Your other hand reaches for his ear, giving it a quick pinch that earns you a tighter squeeze to your thigh.

“Stop distracting the driver.”

You laugh. “I’m serious! What do you want to do?”

He glances at you, a twinkle in his eye. “I thought you had everything planned. You paid for this trip with your hard-earned, Senior Marketing Analyst money, after all.”

“I know,” you say, smiling giddily, “but I thought we could decide together. Make it our trip. You only celebrate your one year anniversary of meeting each other once.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, taking a sharp right turn that has you careening into him; he takes advantage of the physics and presses a kiss to your cheek, making you blush. A year after knowing him, and four months of being ravished by him day and night, he still gives you butterflies from the simplest gestures.

“Is that what we’re calling it? Sounds like a mouthful. I could give you—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, James. Even the French can censor themselves,” you warn, wagging a finger in his face. He snaps at it, baring his teeth, and your heart explodes with warmth at his playfulness.

“Alright,” Bucky concedes, “we’ll decide together. But this is still your trip.”

You reach over to caress his cheek softly, drinking in his profile as if you haven’t already memorized it. “Deal. Only because I like taking care of you — when you let me.”

Bucky smiles, leaning into your touch. “I’ll start thinking up some ways to thank you,” he replies.

“Please don’t. It’ll probably be something amazing that one-ups my trip to Paris,” you joke lightly, scratching at the gray in his beard. Bucky huffs a laugh, eyes finding yours and shining with something bright and mysterious.

“We’ll see,” he says, placing a kiss to your palm before he turns back to the road. You lean back in your seat, smiling gently, mind already in Paris, picturing the silk sheets you’ll be tangled up in with your boyfriend in a matter of hours.

Bucky shifts in his seat with a small grin, feeling the weight of the ring box tucked safely in his pocket, bringing you closer and closer to your next adventure.

sammy speaks again: yeah I’m emotional. sorry it took so long, I was on vacation!!! can’t believe it’s over, but thanks for coming along with me on this ride. seriously it has been SO fun!!! can’t wait to give you more soon (very soon lol)

[smorgaswhored]

null & void (part two)

pairing: sugar daddy!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking cigarettes, no mentions of y/n

word count: 8.6k

part one - part three - masterlist

summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…

sammy speaks: part two is here!! I don’t think I’ve written this many words since my 1D fanfic days lol. good news is I’m on vacation now so the writing will be flowing! I wouldn’t mind an ask or prompt about these two either 😏 hope you enjoy lovelies

December arrives suddenly. With it comes your winter break.

You spend most of it staying up late, indulging in mindless scrolls and shitty TV, and sleeping in until the afternoon. It’s lazy, self-serving and irresponsible, but it’s healing something childlike within you that hasn’t gotten attention since your mom passed.

Bucky understands this, but it doesn’t mean he likes it.

“I’m giving my brain a break,” you tell him for the third time, phone tucked between your ear and your shoulder as you make a fresh cup of coffee at four in the afternoon.

“You’re becoming nocturnal,” Bucky replies sternly on the other end.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Sunlight’s good for a person.”

‘I’m looking at sunlight right now.”

“Sunset,” he corrects. Sure enough, the light is fading quickly, street lamps powering on outside of your window. Damn daylight savings.

“Oh, whatever,” you dismiss. “It’s not like it’s forever — I promise I’ll go back to a normal person’s sleep schedule after the new year.”

“I don’t like waiting around all day to hear from you.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. “I’m sorry,” you say, gentler. “I don’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“I know,” he sighs, resigned. “It’s just boring without you.”

You bite your lip, an idea blooming in your brain. “You know what’s not boring?”

“What?”

“Malibu.”

He exhales, long and deep, dragging it out.

“Alright,” he relents. “Fine. But when we get back, you’re gonna start going to bed at a normal time like a well-adjusted person. I’m tired of eating lunch alone.”

“Ok, grandpa. I promise.”

He picks you up an hour later when you’re still zipping up your suitcase, dressed like a Tom Ford ad with a cashmere scarf and designer pea coat draped over him, face appropriately disgruntled but eyes bright with adventure as he holds the car door open for you. By six, you’re buckled into the seat next to him on the private jet. By midnight, you’re touching down at Santa Monica Airport.

Sun, sand and ocean breeze occupy your next forty-eight hours. Bucky’s house in Malibu boasts floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Pacific, a waterfall pool set to the perfect temperature, and a large back deck to soak in the sun while eating breakfast. Bucky scrolls the morning news on his phone, shades on and shirt unbuttoned to his naval, while you sip mimosas and try not to stare.

That’s a difficult ask when you’re finally getting an unobstructed view of the chest hair that teased you so long ago.

The first day, you hop in his vintage convertible and drive up the coast to his sprawling vineyard. He gives you a tour of the grounds while you catch a buzz taste testing all the wines he’s made. You’re flushed and giggling by the time you head back, and Bucky’s smile seems like a permanent fixture on his face. Dinner is a seafood feast at a small restaurant right off the beach, where the owner welcomes Bucky like a son and calls you stunning at least five times. The night ends with a glass of wine in front of the moonlit ocean, curled up on a blanket with oversized sweatshirts to block the wind. Whispers back and forth about childhood dreams and failed first kisses; favorite books and most embarrassing moments. You feel light as a feather by the time you float off to bed, a warmth that has nothing to do with the wine settling deep in your chest.

The next day, Bucky rouses you from your sleep before the sun’s fully up, claiming you “need the practice” and muttering that it’s already 9 in the morning back home when you prove difficult to move from the guest bed. When you’re finally up, the two of you walk the beach with the rest of the early risers, sipping travel mugs of extra strong coffee and making fun of runners who stumble through the sand.

The ocean’s coming alive at this time of day, and for a few minutes, the two of you stop to watch it do its thing. Waves crash, shells tumble. Not far from the coast, dolphins jump through the air, chasing fish and playing.

It’s the calmest your mind and heart have been in ages, and the feeling makes you smile, face tipped up toward the sun. When Bucky reaches for your hand, you thread your fingers through his and squeeze.

Later, you take a dip in the pool while Bucky makes a work call. The sun beats down on your skin relentlessly like it’s never heard of winter. You’re starting to doze on your floating lounge chair when you hear a small splash, and waves lap at your skin. You push your sunglasses up and look around.

Bucky breaks through the water at the other end of the pool. You blink at him.

When he spots you, a wicked smile crosses his face. Before you can say a word, he’s ducked under again and streaking towards you like a shark.

“Bucky—“

You’re tossed overboard, the sound of Bucky’s laughter the last thing you hear before you hit the water. He’s still laughing when you emerge, drenched and in disbelief. You answer his laugh with a sharp splash right to the face, scowling. His smile turns evil after he shakes the water from his eyes.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart.”

You splash him again because he fucking deserves it. Then he lunges.

You shriek, making a break for the edge of the pool, but he’s got you by the ankle before you even touch the wall. He yanks, sending you spiraling underwater again.

You’re sputtering when you come up, but it’s game on now. You throw yourself at him, hands pressing down on his shoulders to give him a taste of his own medicine, but he’s immovable to your touch. Wasting no time, he grabs you by the waist and tosses you several feet across the water. You launch another attack when his head’s turned, coming up from behind and wrapping your arms around his neck to drag him down with you. He goes willingly this time, but his hands maneuver you easily so that you’re thrown over his shoulder when you break the surface. You writhe and wrestle him to let you go, but he’s got an unbreakable grip across your legs; he carries you through the shallow end while you whine about unfairness, fists beating at his back. He crosses the deck quickly and suddenly, you’re airborne.

Until you smack the water in the deep end.

You gasp for air when you come up. “You’re a fucking bully,” you cough, throat raw from the unprecedented amount of water you inhaled. “You win.”

“You started it,” Bucky lifts his hands helplessly. Then, without warning, he gives you his best smile before cannonballing directly next to you. You scream as another wave of water brings you under.

You have half a mind to shove him back down when he reemerges, but his unbridled laughter is possibly one of the greatest sounds you’ve ever heard in your entire life. You greedily take in the arch of his neck as he throws his head back, and the way his nose scrunches in delight.

After he accepts your white flag, he helps you to the wall, a hand on your back pushing you gently. He hoists himself out first, and suddenly the water in your nose isn’t the only thing making it difficult for you to breathe.

Rivulets trail down his broad back, emphasizing the isolated muscles used to push himself up. They’re large, but sharp, clearly built by hours spent in the gym. When he turns around to offer you a hand, you can’t look him in the eye. The front of him is downright obscene, a replica of any Greek sculpture you can think of. And with his hair slicked back, swim trunks clinging to his muscular thighs, and the chest hair on full display— the chest hair—

He lifts you one-handed out of the water. You scurry away before you can make a bad decision — like lick the water from his chest.

Dinner is sushi on a private deck with the stars shining down on you. He’s placed his jacket around your shoulders, the scent of his cologne and something innately him smothering you in the best way possible. Bucky’s chatty tonight, talking about work, talking about the vineyard, talking about old friends from college. You only absorb every other word, too busy sneaking lingering glances when he’s not looking.

His posture is more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it, and his phone — his usual stressor — is nowhere in sight. The ocean breeze ruffles his hair but he doesn’t bother to fix it. When he meets your eyes, he offers a smile that says he’s right where he wants to be. Like he could do this for the rest of his life.

But all good things must come to an end eventually.

New York is a tundra wasteland when you return. Your timing was impeccable because you just missed the biggest snowstorm of the season. Bucky’s grumbling about the cold the minute you step onto the tarmac, drawing the collar of his coat around his ears despite the car idling thirty feet away.

The drive into the city goes by too quickly. Malibu fades more into a memory with each mile you put between you and the plane.

You think you must be sleep-deprived and jet lagged, because when Bucky presses a parting kiss to your forehead once you’re in front of your building, tears spring to your eyes. You’re out of the car before he can get a chance to see them.

But as soon as you step foot in your apartment, you’re missing the warmth of California, the beautiful Malibu home, the smell of the ocean, and Bucky by your side. It’s not exhaustion that brought the tears — it’s longing. Heavy, irrational, unfiltered longing.

You force yourself to take a nap anyway.

Eventually, the holidays are here, and Bucky gets into the spirit by sparing no expense.

Two days before Christmas, he rents out the entire top floor restaurant of a skyscraper and presents you with a solid gold, heart-shaped locket in the middle of the quiet, candlelit room. It’s vintage, it’s supposedly priceless, and it’s everything you never knew you wanted but now can’t live without. You’re stumbling over your thank yous as he helps you put it on. His fingers are warm and confident as he hooks the clasp, and trail down your neck unintentionally as you turn, giving you goosebumps.

“Beautiful,” he says quietly. Your skin flushes and your heart soars. That’s all you need to hear. You can’t help but touch it repeatedly throughout the night, and Bucky notices, hiding his smile behind his drink.

He’s over the top with giddiness when you give him his gift. A vinyl for his collection, a one-of-a-kind collector’s album of his favorite band that took weeks to track down. And it’s something you purchased with your own meager savings — you know you didn’t have to, but it means something to you to have given back even a minuscule fraction of what he’s given you.

Later that night, when you’re getting ready for bed at your own apartment, you take the locket off and unclasp it.

It pops open easily, revealing two empty frames.

Despite the incredible night, your heart can’t help but sink.

You don’t know what you were expecting — Bucky’s hardly the type to put a photo of himself in a locket, he barely looks in the mirror in the morning. But something inside of you was obviously hoping for it. A small sign of possession. Of claiming this relationship, no matter how it started or what it’s defined as.

You set the locket gently on your bedside table. You fall asleep looking at it, mind sifting through what’s real and what’s imagined.

Christmas day is a quiet event with an estranged aunt that makes the effort to keep family in your life. It’s an awkward affair, with stilted small talk and pauses long enough to make you sweat, but you don’t have the heart to tell her no each time she comes around.

Bucky’s unusually silent throughout the day, nothing from him except a text in the morning wishing you a merry Christmas. It’s a strange feeling for you when most of your day is spent in contact with him. You’re not sure where he is, or if he’s with family, or if he has any. Somehow, you haven’t asked, and he hasn’t volunteered that information yet.

But as the day goes on and you still haven’t heard from him, the curiosity is starting to burn you alive.

Or is it jealousy? Jealousy for whoever’s taking up all his time, time that’s normally dedicated solely to you?

You’re probably being overdramatic, but this feels like the first taste of what your life would be like without him, and it’s turning you inside out. Your usual detachment tendencies are nowhere to be found, instead making room for a frantic need to confirm his existence. You have to battle with the urge to call him three different times before your aunt gives you a stiff hug and heads out.

Once it’s just you and Lucky, the silence is a bitter enabler. You’re ringing him before you know it.

He picks up just before it goes to voicemail. “Hey,” he answers, voice hushed.

“Hi,” you say. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart. How’s your aunt?”

“She’s good. She made cookies and then we ate them in silence while watching Rudolph.”

He chuckles. “Sounds like a heartwarming Christmas tradition.”

“I know. She’s trying, at least. She just left, actually…how’s your Christmas?”

“It’s good.”

There’s a pause as you wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.

“Good,” you croak. “I-I’m glad. I was afraid you’d spend it in the office.”

“Even I know when to take a day off, unlike some of us.”

Your smile is automatic as you recall the conversation from months ago. “Hey, some of us didn’t have a choice.”

“I know,” his chest rumbles, “but now you do.”

“I don’t have a job, Bucky.”

“So you can take as many days off as you want.”

You giggle. “I don’t think it works like that.”

“It works whatever way you want it to, doll—“ He cuts off when a voice in the background calls his name. A woman’s voice. High and lilting, musical. Your blood runs cold, like you’ve been dropped into the Hudson. “Hey, listen, I gotta go,” Bucky says, low and rushed. “But I’ll call you first thing tomorrow, okay? We’ll do something. Don’t sleep in.”

Your mouth’s open to reply but he’s already hung up. You stare at your phone until the screen goes black. Lucky jumps off the couch next to you, disappearing into the other room and leaving you to deal with your new fears alone.

Bucky makes good on his promise to call you the next morning. In a strange twist of events, you wake up early, probably because you were tossing and turning all night after the abrupt end to your call.

“Hey, doll,” he says cheerfully.

“Hey,” you breathe, praying you hide the hint of relief in your tone.

“Feel like ice skating today?”

Famous last words.

Much later, when your feet are numb from loss of circulation and the cold, and you’ve tired of grumbling at Bucky about how effortless he is at skating, you stare down over the city from his penthouse windows. He has the fireplace lit, Christmas tree lights on, a Bing Crosby carol playing on the vinyl; your hands are wrapped around a hot tea, its steam warming your face. It’s peaceful and serene.

Bucky falls into place beside you on silent feet.

“Whatcha thinking about?”

Your mind conjures up the phone call, the woman’s voice on Bucky’s end.

You smile. “That I missed my calling as a figure skater.”

Bucky’s laugh is low and gravely. It scrapes against your spine and makes you shiver.

“I was thinking the same thing. You could’ve had a gold medal by now.”

“A dream deferred.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Bucky reaches for you, pulling you closer by the hip. You can smell his cologne again, and it momentarily deprives you of all other senses.

“I had fun today,” he tells you. “Skating was my favorite thing to do as a kid. I couldn’t tell you the last time I went.”

You hum and look up at him. “What made you think of it, then?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says slowly, taking a sip of tea. “I guess I was feeling nostalgic.” He meets your eyes. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Thank you for taking me. It was surprisingly fun to embarrass myself in front of all those people.”

He scoffs. “You were a lot better than you think. You just need practice.”

“Sure. But let’s save that for next year when there’s a better chance that people don’t remember me.”

“Whatever you say, doll.” He pauses. “What are you doing for New Years?”

You blink. “Oh, uh — nothing, I guess.”

His head tilts. “Up for another fancy party?”

Five days later, you’re draped in silk and diamonds, hair done and skin glowing. Bucky’s hand is dragging lazily up and down your back as he listens to a board member’s hypothetical on splitting shares. You barely hear a word he’s saying.

When the man walks away, Bucky leans in. “Having a holiday work party on an actual holiday is already dickish, but talking about work at the holiday work party? Unbelievable.“

“The nerve of him,” you whisper back. He sends you a wink before leading you to the other side of the room.

Before the end of the night, Bucky gives a speech to the partygoers. He thanks everyone for coming before humbly acknowledging the company having another record-breaking year. Cheers erupt all around; everywhere you look, people are smiling at him with respect and admiration. Bucky calls out a few people in particular for exemplary performance, then reminds everyone to arrange for rides home before cracking a joke about who will be the first one in HR’s office after tonight.

He’s charming, he’s magnetic, he’s impossible to look away from. And when he steps off stage and heads directly for you, your heart nearly goes into cardiac arrest.

During the countdown to midnight, Bucky has you pressed against his side, eyes twinkling as they take in the room. Meanwhile, you’re barely breathing, desperately wondering if Bucky will respect the age-old tradition of a kiss to ring in the new year. Just as the clock hits twelve, and you turn your face to his, Bucky leans down and brushes his lips to your forehead. Gentle, steady.

And not at all what you wanted.

“Happy New Year, honey.”

You exhale softly. “Happy New Year, Bucky.”

It takes everything in you to keep those floodgates right where they are.

After the party’s ended, you agree to go back to Bucky’s. He’s rubbing the marks of your heels from your feet while you recap the night, massaging the stiffness out of them; you’re bundled up in his sweatshirt and sweatpants, and he wears the same.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” he says.

“Of course. It was a really beautiful party.”

“Agreed. I’m looking forward to signing off on that bill on Monday.”

You laugh. “You know, your employees really love you. I could see it on their faces.”

Bucky shrugs, but his ears go pink. “They’re good people.”

“I think you’re good people.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he says with a smile. You attempt to push his chest with your foot, but he holds your ankle steady, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“I also think you don’t give yourself enough credit,” you continue softly, voice lowering. “You work hard, you fight for things that’ll make the company better, and you care so much. These people see it. They’re lucky to have you and they know it. I know I am.”

His hands pause. When his eyes find yours, they’re wide, vulnerable. “Thank you,” he whispers.

You shoot him a shy smile. “You’re welcome.”

Your phone lights up just then, an alert from your cat camera detecting movement. But Bucky’s gaze is drawn to the time.

“Christ,” he swears, “it’s already three. Think it’s time for bed.”

You follow him toward the bedrooms, fighting off yawns; he turns to you in front of his door, sleepy smile already stretched across his face. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, turning the handle.

A thought occurs to you. A very selfish thought.

“Bucky?” you blurt out.

He turns.

“Yeah?”

“Can I, uh — can I sleep…in your bed? With you?”

Bucky’s silent, eyes blinking. You feel the heat creep up your neck and more words rush out of your mouth in response. You’re looking everywhere but at him.

“Just for tonight, I — um, I just mean, it’s a holiday and, you know, you spend holidays with people…You totally don’t have to say yes, oh my God, I probably crossed a line—“

“Sweetheart.”

Bucky holds the door to his room open, standing aside to allow you to pass. Your mouth opens and closes without a sound, but you scamper by him when he raises an eyebrow. The lights are off, the bed made; you unfold it together, like you’ve done this before a million times, and slide under the sheets.

Lying down, you face each other, eyes dancing over the other’s features softly illuminated by the lights of the city through the window; there’s only a few inches of space between you — it feels too close yet not close enough at the same time.

“Thank you,” you whisper to him. A soft smile flits across his face. Wordlessly, he reaches out and curls two fingers around yours, then his eyes flutter shut.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart.”

You watch his breathing slow, getting comfort from the steady rise and fall of his chest. Like this, you’re free to stare. You drink him in, every inch you can see, from the strands of hair falling in his face to the outlines of his legs underneath the sheets. You wish you could see all of him, every freckle, every line, every angle, so you can greedily commit it to memory. So you can be one of the lucky few to have known Bucky Barnes so intimately.

It isn’t lust, it isn’t want —it’s something much deeper than that. Something much more devastating.

You’re eventually lulled to sleep by the pulse in his wrist beating against yours.

January is cold and brutal. February is no better. March finally brings a taste of the sun, but you’re too busy buried up to your neck in school that you hardly step outside to savor it, unless Bucky’s there to drag you out the door.

With finals on the horizon, sometimes you have to make the hard decision to decline Bucky’s invites to dinner, or a show, or another charity gala. The guilt and pressure cut so deep after you say no that you burst into tears as soon as you get off the phone with him.

To his credit, Bucky doesn’t push — he’s your number one champion for you getting your degree — but in your weakest moments, when a headache throbs at your temple and you’ve gone cross-eyed from staring at a screen all day, you think about the woman’s voice on Bucky’s phone. It’s like your brain is punishing you for overworking it day in and day out, pushing nasty propaganda about losing him to a faceless woman as you try to fall asleep.

Dark circles under your eyes become a constant. You live off of electrolytes, coffee and takeout that Bucky has delivered to your apartment. You’re too tired to even doomscroll when you allow yourself a five minute break. It’s a very isolated existence.

Bucky comes by when he can, bearing groceries and ibuprofen and looking larger than life in your little one bedroom flat.

When he’s with you, he shows absolutely no signs of there being another woman in his life, patiently listening to your complaints about thesis formatting and unproved data formulas, gently making you eat after you’ve paced a ditch into your floorboards, holding you close on the couch until your body finally relaxes.

But your brain is a vengeful motherfucker. It torments you for choosing school over Bucky in between writing papers and compiling research. It convinces you that he’s faking every sweet word of encouragement that he gives you. It blends your reality until you believe that he’s cozied up at dinner with someone new, working his effortless charm on your replacement while you sit at home in the dark with your textbooks.

Unsurprisingly, you reach a breaking point.

Now, a sane person would pick up the phone and talk to him about it. But you’ve been entertaining a mild psychosis for days, brought on by stress and fatigue and pathetic amounts of yearning, so — naturally — you decide to show up at his home.

It’s half past midnight when you stumble out of the elevator into his dark penthouse. You bump into a side table as you struggle to find the light switch, sending it to the floor with a crash that could wake the dead, i.e., Bucky. Sure enough, you hear his bedroom door open and the sound of feet rounding the corner. The light flips on.

“What the fuck?”

He’s wearing nothing except his briefs, hair mussed from sleep but eyes wide and alert. He looks like he’s seeing a ghost. You certainly look the part — your clothes are soaked through from the rain, your teeth chattering and lips blue.

“H-hey,” you say weakly.

He says nothing, a tense moment passing between the two of you, before he crosses the room and pulls you into his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he demands. “Are you okay?” He pushes you back to scan you from head to toe. Your fingers curl around his forearms.

“N-no, I’m f-fine. Just c-c-cold.”

He yanks you back into his hold, arms like pythons around your waist and shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” he breathes against your hair. “I thought you were asleep.”

Your sigh brushes against his collarbone; your body is melting against his already. “I t-tried, but…I m-missed you.”

Bucky stills, just for a second. Then his arms pull even tighter around you.

“I missed you, too.”

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” you whisper.

“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you’re here.” He lifts his cheek from your head, taking in your wet clothes. “Did you — did you walk here?”

You have the grace to look guilty.

“Fuck,” he hisses, leaning down to meet your eye, “don’t ever do that again. I don’t want you walking around the city alone at this time of night — either call Bob or call an uber and charge it to my card. You don’t walk. Do you hear me?”

The tone of his voice is new and startling to your already-vulnerable psyche. Tears spill over before you can stop them. He exhales deeply, hands coming up to cup your face.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softer. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. You just…scared me.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, sniffling.

“Says the woman who walked God knows how far in the pouring rain at midnight.” His eyes search your face. “What’s going on?”

Your lip trembles. ”I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Shhh. Tell me what’s wrong,” he urges, and all of the ugly thoughts rear their heads inside your brain.

“It — it’s stupid…”

“It can’t be if you came all this way. Just tell me.”

He waits in silence for you to answer. You struggle to find the words, sifting through scraps of explanations while your head and your heart duke it out.

“…I guess I was…afraid,” you mumble, unable to hold his gaze.

“Afraid of what, sweetheart?” His thumbs brush your cheekbones soothingly.

“Of…losing you.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

You take a sharp, rattling breath. “I keep saying no to doing things with you because I’m so worried about school, and I — I haven’t made any effort at all to make up for it. We’ve barely seen each other in weeks — I didn’t realize until now how much I’ve been pushing you a-away. It made me scared that you’d see that I was choosing school over you and…y-you’d get tired of me, or want someone else…”

For the longest minute of your life, he says nothing. You watch as a thousand different emotions cross his face, from anger to sadness to relief. He settles on a blend of happy and pained, jaw clenching but eyes calm as ever. Bucky brings you closer, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Sweetheart, you’re not losing me.” He speaks softly, melodically. “I told you a long time ago that I wanted you to be able to focus on what matters to you, and I meant it. I’m so damn proud of what you’re doing, it makes every second I’m not with you worth it.”

He tilts your head up so that you meet his gaze. It’s warm, tender, almost pleading.

“And I could never get tired of you, even if we go days, or weeks, or months without seeing each other. You bring so much joy to my life just by being in it. Just by being you. Why would I ever want anyone else?”

In the back of your mind, you know you’re sobbing, but you don’t care. A hundred pound weight has been lifted off your chest and you think you might float to the ceiling if you weren’t wrapped up in Bucky’s arms. Whimpering, you bury your face into his chest, clutching at him with all your might. Bucky’s hands spread across your back, pressing you closer.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his skin. His lips brush your hair in a soft kiss.

The other floodgate cracks open, as inevitable as the sun rises. This time, you don’t fight it — you push the door all the way open, standing aside to let the oncoming rush of feelings flood your heart after they’ve been locked away for so long. It hurts, but it’s a good kind of hurt. Especially when Bucky’s holding you through it.

He only pulls away once your tears have turned into the occasional hiccup. “Come on,” he says gently, “let’s get you warmed up.”

He steers you into his bathroom, turning on the shower and placing a hoodie and boxers next to the sink. He leaves you to it, and you spend a good amount of time scrubbing at your face and regaining feeling in your limbs.

When you open the bathroom door, drowning in his clothes and smelling like his soap, he’s waiting for you, dressed in a hoodie of his own. A tiny part of you mourns the loss of seeing his skin. He helps you climb into his bed, pulling the covers up to your chin as you settle against the pillows. He flicks the light off before sliding in beside you, shuffling over until his cold toes touch yours, and his hand slides down your wrist and grabs your arm, pulling you in to close the distance between you.

A faint noise escapes you as you tuck your head against his shoulder. You’ve never been this close to him before — it feels like coming home after a long time away.

You’re drifting off in minutes, Bucky’s arm a comforting weight around your waist. Your dreams start sweetly when you hear his voice saying, “I’m all yours, sweetheart.”

When you receive the email that late April morning, you’re lying in Bucky’s bed scrolling on your phone. Even though Bucky left for work hours ago, you have a habit of drawing out your mornings from the comfort of his king mattress. As soon as you get the notification, your heart stops. You shoot up quickly, opening the email with shaky fingers, and read.

On behalf of the faculty and administration, we extend our sincere congratulations on the successful completion of your Master’s degree in Business Analytics.

This message serves as official confirmation that your degree has been conferred. Your academic achievement reflects a high level of dedication, discipline, and commitment to your field of study…

You scream before erupting into a fit of laughter, scrambling out from under the covers to jump on the bed until your legs give out. You fucking did it.

Breathless, you collapse onto the bed, immediately dialing Bucky. He picks up in one ring.

“Your ears must’ve been burning ‘cause I’ve got a bone to pick with you, doll, you took all the covers from me last night arou—”

“Bucky. I did it. I got the email.”

Silence for the length of a heartbeat. Then, with a smile in his voice, “That’s my girl. Congratulations, sweetheart, I always knew you’d do it.”

“Thank you, Bucky — I-I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Nah, that was all you, smarty pants.”

You giggle, smushing your face into the pillow to hide your blush.

“It doesn’t feel real,” you muse, blowing hair from your eyes. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel different or what.”

“That’s because you need to celebrate. You worked so hard for this, your brain isn’t out of school mode yet. You need to show yourself that you earned it. That’s when it will sink in.”

Your smile grows. “I like the way you think, Barnes. What do you think our odds are of getting into Minetta tonight?”

There’s a pause on his end, the sound of his keyboard the only thing you hear.

“Actually, I was thinking of something a little further away than Minetta.”

You know that tone. You sit up straight.

“Bucky. What are you planning?”

You’ve never seen water so blue in your entire life. Not even the beaches of Positano hold a candle to the sea surrounding the Maldives.

Bucky offers you a hand as you step out of the car. You take it gratefully, squeezing tightly just to make sure he’s real, that all of this is real.

“Welcome to One&Only Reethi Rah, Mr. Barnes. We’re so happy you could join us here.”

Bucky pulls you close, an arm slung over your shoulders, as the guide takes you across the grounds and to the docks where several large huts are built over the turquoise water. He shows you to the door of yours and Bucky’s villa, prattling off the agenda Bucky’s already set with the staff. You just barely register the words “snorkeling” and “private dinner” while you wander. It’s a long structure with an open concept, you can just see the end of the bed past the dining table; all of the walls are windows that are open to let in the breeze; on the far end, a large sundeck faces the ocean.

Bucky speaks with the guide while you weave in and out of the rooms. Two bathrooms, a small kitchen, a pool, and one bed. A small smile stretches across your face as your fingers brush over the comforter.

“What do you think?”

You turn, finding Bucky leaning against the wall across from you. Your smile grows and you let out a squeal, scrambling up and over the bed in your hurry to wrap your arms around him.

He smiles back, crushing you to him. “I’ve never heard that sound from you before. I’m guessing you like it?”

“Bucky — I love it. This place is a dream!”

“Glad you think so. Not a bad spot to celebrate getting your Master’s, huh?”

You laugh. “Way better than Minetta.”

The celebrations start with — of all things — a nap, because the twenty-four hours of traveling catch up to you once the adrenaline wears off. You stretch out on the bed next to Bucky, his hand carding through your hair, feet dangling over the edge, the sound of the ocean lulling you to sleep.

You feel like you’ve just closed your eyes when he nudges you awake. His hair’s all over the place in the most endearing way possible, so you reach up and muss it up even more; he grabs your wrist and holds it tight, warning you that you’ll be swimming in the ocean sooner than you think if you keep it up.

The sun’s just kissing the horizon when you head toward the beach, where another member of the resort staff escorts you to a private table set up for dinner. You sit through six courses of the freshest seafood and sweetest fruit you’ve ever had, sipping Bellinis while you and Bucky talk about nothing and everything at once.

At the end of the meal, after you can’t eat another bite of the desert, he pulls out a small black velvet box. Inside is a pair of earrings of your birthstone, shined till they gleam. You give him an earful for buying these when he’s already brought you here, but he smiles through it until your chastising turns into an endless stream of gratitude.

The next morning begins with a huge breakfast spread out on the sundeck, where Bucky insists on sunscreen first thing. You laugh at him for his responsible antics, but when you take turns putting it on each other’s backs, his big hands touching parts of you he hasn’t touched before, you can’t think of a more beautiful invention than sunscreen.

Bucky looks like God’s gift to women lounging next to you in the sun chair, sipping coffee and eating berries in a linen shirt he doesn’t bother to button, like it’s his birthright, like he was made to do it. You’re thankful for the heavy tint on your sunglasses concealing your wandering gaze.

Later, the two of you set off on a private yacht tour of the islands. You sit leaning against him on the front of the ship, pointing out dolphins that flip through the air and waving at passing boaters. With the roar of the wind and the motor, Bucky has to lean down and speak directly into your ear so you can hear him, and every time his lips brush your skin, you’re melting further and further into him.

You know you’re not being as subtle as you’d like — a small voice in your head wonders if he notices.

Dinner is back at the villa, where a private chef prepares choice cuts of steak and lobsters the size of your arm. The chef is entertaining, cracking jokes and flipping knives, and as you laugh through his horrible impression of Gordon Ramsay, you catch Bucky watching you from the corner of your eye.

He smiles shyly when he sees he’s caught, but he doesn’t look away. You feel a flush of warmth drag down your spine, limbs tingling in anticipation of something you don’t know the name of.

That night, you’re facing each other in bed, heads propped up by elbows so that you can reminisce on the day. You’re raving about the miles of rainbow coral you saw when Bucky reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger longer than necessary, much longer than appropriate, and it takes everything you have to keep going like his touch didn’t just send your heart into a frenzy. You take note of his half-lidded gaze locked onto your face — it could be from exhaustion, or it could be from something else.

You try not to let your mind spiral into the possibilities.

But when he has you cuddled close to his chest, just like every other night, you can hear his heart pounding through his thin t-shirt.

The rest of your week in paradise is a balance of dream-like activities and tension-filled moments. One minute you’re snorkeling, the next, Bucky’s undoing the back strap of your bikini and retying it with slow, concentrated precision. One minute you’re learning how to sail, the next, Bucky has you laid out on his chest, every inch of you on him as you take a nap in the sun.

You tell yourself that this is just Vacation Bucky, that nothing’s changed for him when it comes to what this arrangement is.

But his eyes follow you everywhere, he follows you everywhere, a hand lingering near your skin at all times.

It’s enough to make a rational person snap. And you do.

You’re getting ready for dinner after hours spent in the ocean. Bucky’s already cleaned up, now rummaging through his suitcase for something to wear while you’ve slipped into the connecting bathroom. You absentmindedly slide the door shut behind you, and it doesn’t quite connect with the frame; instead, a sliver of space is left open, just enough that, when you reach to close it all the way, you can see Bucky moving about the room.

The idea arrives unbidden, and it makes your stomach swoop low. Do it, the devil on your shoulder urges. The angel on the other shoulder stays silent.

You wait until he’s directly lined up with the crack in the door, then you turn your back to him.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Remind me what we’re doing for dinner again.” There’s a brief pause.

“We’re heading inland,” Bucky says. You think he sounds like he’s directly behind you.

Wasting no time, you take the ties of your bikini bottoms and pull them loose — they crumple to the floor.

“Do you know what they’re serving?”

Then you turn to the side, reaching up to untie the knot at the back of your neck; slowly, your bikini top slinks down your torso, exposing your breasts to the warm, night air.

You want to look — you really, really want to look — but you know you can’t. You can’t risk what comes after catching him looking. And what if he’s not looking? What if he’s done the decent thing, like the decent man he is, and walked away? You’re not sure how you’d be able to shoulder that feeling for the rest of the trip, not when you’re bartering your firstborn to the higher powers above for him to be looking.

You realize that Bucky hasn’t said anything.

“Bucky?” you call out, reaching to undo the last of the ties, and the bikini top lands on the bottoms, leaving you completely naked before the crack in the door.

“Yeah,” you hear. Low, rough, distracted.

Don’t fucking look—

“The food,” you reply, forcing an amused smile. “Do you know what it is? I don’t think I could eat another tartar with a gun to my head.”

There’s a pause before he speaks, sounding further away. “You’ll be fine.”

His words sound final; you think you hear the slide of the door leading out to the water. You bite your lip before turning for the shower. The boldness you were feeling before is quickly shrinking into nothing, leaving you with an empty feeling in your stomach and a knot of guilt in your chest.

Back in the room, Bucky nowhere in sight, you sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your chest, damp hair clinging to your skin.

“Fucking idiot” you whisper to yourself. You think you might actually be insane. Or tremendously stupid. Or both. Who tries to seduce their best friend, their supportive, respectful, gorgeous best friend, with a fucking strip tease?

The words are like a knife to your chest as you sit with them. It’s the first time you’ve acknowledged Bucky being your best friend, and it’s right after going down in history as the shittiest friend ever.

…but are you?

Your mind replays every crooked smile he’s sent you, every dirty joke he’s laughed at, every hug and cuddle and forehead kiss, every second of this damn trip. You’re analyzing all of it frame by frame in pursuit of a sign that he wants more.

Because you sure as hell do.

It’s no question that things have changed completely for you, as devastating as a religious reckoning. You want him. You love him. You’re fucking head over heels for him.

But until you get that sign. The sign that he wants more, too. You can’t tell him. Not without risking everything — and you’d rather die with your love a secret than destroy what you have with him now by saying it out loud. Yet another tragedy to add on to your already pitiful life.

Bucky’s out on the deck when you emerge from the bathroom, wearing a flowy white linen dress that allows your skin to breathe.

“Hey,” you call out, voice on the wobbly side, heart fluttering nervously. “You ready?”

He turns from staring out at the ocean. When his eyes land on you, he stills.

“What?” you can’t help but ask as the silence stretches. “Should I change?”

He shakes his head, taking a step toward you. “Please don’t. You look…you look like an angel.”

The new compliment sinks deep into your heart, making you blush. Your answering smile is shy. “Thanks, Buck…so, are we going or what?”

You watch as Bucky’s shoulders move up and down in a deep breath; beyond him, the dark ocean cradles a strip of silver in its endless surface, the moon’s mirror image. It lights up the side of his face, exposing the soft look he’s wearing as he drinks you in. You’re hit with a sudden wave of what you can only describe as reverse déjà vu, like you’ve just come across a moment you never want to forget, a moment you want to come back to, time and time again.

You reach out your hand.

Bucky takes it.

The dinner is beautiful, no surprise there; you, Bucky, and a few other guests sit in a treehouse-like structure while aproned servers bring around plates of local dishes that melt on your tongue and introduce you to flavors you could only dream of. There’s live music in the corner of the room, a light breeze that cools your skin, and the ambiance is the perfect mix of cozy and seductive.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s giving an Oscar-worthy performance of everything being perfectly fine and normal. He smiles at you over his drink and lets his hand wander over your back. He laughs at the server’s joke and encourages you to get a second desert. He seems calm. Content. Happy.

But his eyes are dark and distracted. You catch him staring off into the distance more than once. And when you say his name to brink him back, his gaze burns into yours like a brand.

Back in the villa, the two of you get ready for bed quickly, the day getting the better of you both. You’re fighting through a fifth yawn when you finally collapse on top of the bed, spreading out over the covers in a small tank top and matching shorts to fight off the heat of the night. Behind you, Bucky emerges from the bathroom; the sound of his footsteps stop suddenly near the end of the bed, where you’re on full display to whoever passes by. They start up again before you can turn and look, and then Bucky’s pulling back the covers and sliding into bed.

“Budge over, doll,” he murmurs, stretching out his legs beneath the sheets. You sigh and roll over and off the bed so you can join him. He reaches over to turn off the light, and then it’s just the two of you and the moon’s reflection on the ocean.

“It’s so pretty,” you whisper. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of this.”

“Me neither,” he says. You turn on your side to look at him, a hand propping up your head.

“What’s been your favorite part?”

A faint smile flickers across his face. “The eel.”

You laugh. “Oh, I’m so glad you found my fear so entertaining.”

“I’ve never seen anyone swim that fast.”

“A moray eel crossed right in front of us and you’re saying you didn’t almost shit yourself?”

He shrugs before flipping onto his side. “They don’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that for next time.”

“And maybe next time you won’t push me toward it while you’re trying to get away.”

You cover your face with your hand. “Okay, that was shitty of me, I admit it.”

“Just shitty?” he repeats. “You were sacrificing me to save yourself! I started questioning everything I thought I knew about you.”

Your jaw drops open. “That’s not fair! I’d love to see what you’d do to me if a big fat spider crawled up the bed.” Bucky shudders for effect. “And what happened to ‘they don’t bother you if you don’t bother them’?”

“They’re territorial, doll — you pushed me into his reef.”

“And he didn’t do anything because he could sense your hippie-dippy, ‘respect the ocean, it respects you back’ manifesto. Point is, you’re fine.”

“Yeah, physically. Emotionally? I’ll never recover.”

“Drama queen.” You shove at his shoulder to push him out of the bed.

Quick as a whip, he seizes your wrist and pushes you back. You can’t help but laugh as your plan backfires, his strength overtaking yours by a long shot. He rolls you closer to the edge of the bed, restraining your other wrist easily. You push back with all your might, slipping one wrist from his grasp and pushing at his chest, locking your leg around his to keep you anchored. Your giggles and his huffs of laughter fill the room as you struggle to push each other out of the bed.

And then something shifts, like a light switch turning off; Bucky’s eyes, bright with laughter, turn darker, steadier. His breath hitches.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he murmurs, voice rough. With no effort at all, he grabs both wrists in one hand. His other hand grips your bare knee, unhooking it from around his thigh and placing it on the mattress.

Shocked, you slide your leg down beside the other, your skin burning where his hand touched. He keeps your wrists.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He says nothing, breathing deep as he stares at your hands. You shake them in his hold. “Bucky.”

He sighs softly, just a push of air from his lungs like he’s come to a decision but hates the choice he made.

“I need you to stay there, sweetheart.”

You gape at him. “What? Did I — did I hurt you?”

“No, you didn’t hurt me.”

“Bucky—“ you start, inching closer, but he pins your wrists to the mattress, pressing firmly to make a point.

“Please.”

You watch with wide eyes as he slowly turns from his side to his stomach, resettling into the mattress with a fleeting wince.

Is he…?

He can’t meet your gaze, and there’s a flush to his neck that wasn’t there before, that you suspect is not from the heat. His hand over your wrists tightens imperceptibly. You stay silent until he has no choice but to look at you, and all you see is blown pupils.

He is.

You nod and he releases you, but you can’t look away from him. Not when he looks like this. Not when he’s the most vulnerable he’s ever been in front of you.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

He makes a faint noise in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t move.

Eventually, his breathing levels out and so does yours — you hadn’t realized it had picked up when he held your hands down. The waves crash again and again, a tropical white noise to chip away at the tension.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice screams at you that this is it, this is your moment to let him know exactly how you feel.

You think about crossing that symbolic six inches of space between you and kissing him. You think about touching him softly until he relaxes for you, until he welcomes you over to him. You think about forcing him over and straddling him before he can say a word.

What stops you is the look on his face. He isn’t embarrassed, like you expected — he’s disappointed, remorseful, pained, like he violated your trust as his friend and decided it’s unforgivable.

It makes your gut sink, remembering the bait you dangled before him earlier. A conflicting mix of emotions crowd your heart, vying for priority, the biggest battle between sweet satisfaction, and crushing guilt.

You can’t do it. Not like this. Not when he looks so broken over it. You take a deep breath, strands of hair floating into your face.

Without a word, and giving you all the time in the world to stop him, Bucky reaches over and tucks the pieces carefully behind your ear. Your eyes flutter shut.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” he whispers.

Your lips part. Your eyes open. He’s staring at you.

“You too, Buck.”

sammy speaks again: thank you for reading! I appreciate all the love I got from part one so much, it meant the absolute world to me. it’s a privilege just to be able to share my silly little stories with others 🤍 last part coming soon!

[smorgaswhored]

null & void (part one)

pairing: sugar daddy!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, eventual smut, fluffy!Bucky, power imbalance, sugar daddy / sugar baby dynamic, age gap (reader in mid-to-late twenties while Bucky’s in his early forties), mentioned illness/death of parents (minor characters), money troubles, i.e., debt, bills, etc., alcohol consumption, one instance of smoking cigarettes, no mentions of y/n

word count: 12.5k

part two - part three - masterlist

summary: The arrangement is simple enough: you give him friendship, he gives you a better life. But between the private dinners cozied up in a booth and the charity galas pressed to his side, it’s getting harder for you to hold up your end of the bargain when you’re starting to feel things for your sugar daddy that were not included in the contract…

sammy speaks: so the rumors are true, I am in fact bucky’s sugar baby and this is my autobiography, thank you for reading it!! could easily say this is my magnum opus, I don’t think I’ve put more time and effort into a piece of writing than I have this one. I hope everyone out there on the bucky x reader tag gets the chance to read it <3

Your shift is off to a very bad start.

The subway broke down — again — which means you had to sprint the last six blocks in your tiny skirt and sheer tights just to make it to work forty minutes late. Sweat pours down your back by the time you burst through the service door; the girls still lingering after the day shift give you wary looks while you lean against the wall, panting and brushing wet strands of hair from your face. You don’t care.

All you want is some water and to clean yourself up before heading out onto the floor, but your manager decides now is as good a time as any to give you a lecture on tardiness.

Your lungs are still struggling for air as you endure his power trip, your teeth grinding together over the fact that he hadn’t let you clock in before launching into his tirade. His ruddy face and the drool collecting at the corners of his mouth would’ve made for a comical sight if you weren’t already fuming over your situation. By the time he tires himself out, he’s eaten away at seven additional minutes you could’ve been paid for.

Safe to say, there’s a black cloud over your head when you finally emerge onto the floor. Cleaning yourself up had been futile — there was nothing you could do about your hair, and you’re putting a lot of faith in the ambiance to keep the sweat stains on your uniform indiscernible. And not only are you sticky with dried sweat, smelling of the cheap drug store body spray and year-old deodorant you borrowed, but blisters are beginning to form after your uncoordinated run in heels earlier. You have a feeling you’ll be cleaning dried blood from them at the end of the shift, and until then, every step will be torture.

That is until you see the floor map at the host stand, then you don’t even register the pain anymore. The hostess fidgets nervously beside you as you double and triple-check what you’re seeing.

At first glance, it looks like it always does. You have the same tables every night with the same people filling them like clockwork, because this place thrives on consistency and it’s common knowledge that regulars have the deepest pockets. Everything looks normal…except for one table. And once your eyes catch on it, it makes your heart seize.

Your Friday night 8:30 p.m. regulars is missing — the group of eighty-something year-old men that like to compare you to their granddaughters and fuss over your wellbeing and always tip like it’s their last day on earth are no longer in their usual back booth. No, the long-standing reservation under ‘S. Lee’ is off in another corner of the screen. In Melissa’s section. In her booth.

“This has to be a mistake,” you say out loud. The young girl playing hostess for the evening squeaks, curling in on herself.

“I’m sorry, he made me,” she whispers urgently, and you know she means your manager. “You were running late and he didn’t want them to wait, so he had me put them at Mel’s table next to the piano—“

You tune her out, a hand covering your eyes to block out every sensory input you could. The missing table of your best regulars feels like the death blow to your optimism, your hope, your last chance. With debt collectors clogging up your voicemail, you haven’t thought about anything but this shift for the last week. A lot was riding on it, and not just the tips or the wages — tonight was going to be the night you swallowed your pride and pitched your sob story to the table of Warren Buffet clones. It’s a gamble — one that risks your job if you don’t play your cards right — but after months of buttering them up with winks and pats and an endless amount of patience for repeatedly-told stories, you figured at least two out of the six might crack open their wallets for a charitable cause of a motherless young woman with crippling medical debt.

But now you would never know. The thought hurts a lot worse than the blisters.

It takes great effort to slap a smile on your face and act like you didn’t just miss the last lifeboat on the sinking ship, but every time you pass the empty booth, a cold chill runs down your spine. Deadlines, due dates, and late notices swirl in your brain while you take orders or fake laughter. Your mind has catalogued everything you think the repo men will take first when they come knocking next week. It’s a dark and winding internal spiral.

But just when you think it can’t get any worse, your black cloud becomes a roaring thunderstorm.

You know the hostess thought she was helping — you’ve been catching her apologetic looks from the corner of your eye throughout the shift. But when she creeps over to you cautiously, a small smile on her face, and says she found the perfect replacement reservation for you, you’re about ready to dump a pitcher of water over her head.

“Replacement” rings alarm bells in your head. “Replacement” means reservations outside of the regulars’ time slots. “Replacement” means snotty out-of-towners with connections or ignorant first-time club members. “Replacement” means trouble.

And trouble they are.

You assess your new group of gentleman from across the bar. There are seven of them in the secluded booth, all of them spread out and lounging comfortably like they’ve been patrons of your table for years. You don’t recognize any of them, and neither does the bartender, which confirms your biggest fears. You’re at risk of cracking a tooth.

But your manager appears out of nowhere, giving you the evil eye, so you have no choice but to relax your jaw and make your way over to the newcomers.

Your forced smile could power a small generator when you sidle up to the table.

“Welcome to The Alpine, gentlemen. How are we?”

Seven pairs of eyes snap to you, and you know what comes next: the head-to-toe look over and appreciative smiles that follow shortly after. The tall blonde in the middle has a particularly disarming curl to his lips that raises the hair on the back of your neck.

“Better, now that you’re here,” he quips, line of vision resting somewhere between your chin and your naval. The man beside him chuckles.

“Well, glad I could be of service,” you say brightly, eyelashes fluttering on command. Even if it kills you, you’ll flirt like hell with them if it means better tips. “What brings you in tonight?”

The blonde one speaks up again. “Our friend here just bought another nightclub,” he says, gesturing to a man to his right. “So we thought we’d celebrate him adding to his empire.”

Your smile never falters, but you feel your eye twitch.

“How exciting,” you manage to say.

It takes you much longer than necessary to get their drink orders. The blonde man — whose name you learned is Walker — doesn’t seem to know how to stop talking. Even if you shoved a dirty bar towel down his throat, you think he’d still be shooting off jokes. Probably about ball gags, after hearing the mouth on him.

As you walk away to put in their orders, you can just hear Walker’s nasty little comparison of a bouncy ball and your ass. Your eyes roll so hard they hurt.

When you return with their drinks, he once again zeroes in on your neckline.

“How long have you been working here, sweetie?” he asks your breasts, voice cutting through the others’ conversations. Your smile is blank and placid as you hand him his drink, ignoring the purposeful drag of his fingers over yours.

“Coming up on a year,” you reply. “Long enough to know when someone interesting walks in.”

You add a wink for good measure and he devours it. Sitting up straighter, Walker puffs out his chest.

“Interesting, huh?” he asks with a smirk that’s probably meant to seduce but instead summons vomit. “Sounds like I might be a new favorite of yours.”

Do not gag do not gag do not gag—

“Oh, I don’t do favorites. I just like my clientele to feel special.”

God, you might make yourself vomit—

“Good to know,” he drawls, “because I’ll be around a lot more soon. Barnes is getting me on the short-list next month, right, Barnes?”

Before whichever man named Barnes can reply, Walker continues. “So don’t go running off anywhere. Wouldn’t want you breaking my heart before I even get settled in.”

The cliche of it all has you actively fighting the urge to burst out laughing.

“And give up the chance to have you as a regular? Wouldn’t dream of it,” you soothe, smile cracking with your hidden mirth. The man at the end of the booth makes a noise somewhere between a snort and cough, but Walker beams like he won the lottery.

As the drinks flow, his audacity grows, which you find as shocking as it is endearing — which is to say, not at all. But you play along, because what other choice do you have? None when Walker’s giving all the signs that he’ll be footing the bill.

So you keep it up, the back and forth, the balance of flirty and dismissive responses; you can see the interest growing in Walker’s eyes as his sobriety shrinks. His friends are right there with him, and soon enough the energy of the table starts to shift in Walker’s direction.

“That vest really does wonders for you.”

“I like it when a girl shows a little skin.”

“That skirt looks like it was made for you.”

Your patience is wearing thin.

To their credit, a couple others at the table try to rein him in when they can, including the man of the hour, the club buyer, an attractive guy in his early forties called Sam. He makes pointed subject changes and laughs off the awkwardness when Walker makes a comment that lands just this side of perverted. Truthfully, you wouldn’t mind Walker running his mouth until you had grounds to have him removed, essentially destroying whatever chance he has at the “short-list,” or whatever the fuck that made up thing was. But you appreciate Sam’s efforts all the same.

And then there’s the other guy, the one on the end, who takes a more direct approach to shutting Walker up.

Walker’s in the middle of a slurred proposition for you to accompany him home after your shift when the man at the end of the booth lifts his head.

“Enough,” he says bluntly, suddenly; his voice is low and rough, direct. The tongue-in-cheek comment about sharing a bed immediately dies on Walker’s lips, his eyes flashing to his interruptor.

He doesn’t even bother looking at Walker, staring at his drink as he slowly spins it on the table, still his first one when the others are on their fourth or fifth. There’s a brief flash of something black and gold peeking from underneath the cuff of his suit jacket — a brilliant watch, clearly high-end and probably worth more than you’ll ever make in your life. A ring sits on his pinky, polished titanium. His charcoal suit fits his shoulders like every stitch and seam were custom made for his measurements — and maybe they were.

You see money in various forms all the time at this job, but occasionally you’ll stumble across real money. Big money. Stupid money. The kind that expresses itself quietly instead of boisterously like Mr. Short-List. It’s not always easy to spot, but you’ve learned how to over the last year, and when you do, it doesn’t fail to knock you on your ass every time.

One quick look and you know this man has real money. Your heart stutters in your chest, thoughts of your stack of unpaid bills wiping the smile clean off your face.

On the other side of the table, Sam disrupts the new silence by making a brave pivot to the stock market, something the rest of the group jumps on, even Walker. You’re attempting to swallow the lump in your throat, scrambling to grab empty glasses and old napkins, when you feel eyes on you.

It’s him, the man at the end of the booth.

His eyes are a startlingly bright blue that sends an electric shock down your spine. His face, looking like it was carved straight from Michelangelo’s private diary, stays neutral as you meet his gaze; you can see the years on him through scars and scruff and wrinkles around the eyes, but you wouldn’t guess him to be older than forty-five. His thick dark hair is swept back, threaded with silver near the temples that matches the silver around his chin.

He’s watching you like he’s waiting for something. Some sort of reaction maybe. His pink lips are parted like he’s about to ask a question. You have no idea what it could be.

Not giving yourself the chance to hesitate, the smile is back on your face with practiced ease. “Can I get you anything, sir?” you murmur quietly, trying to draw as little attention from the others as possible.

He blinks, breaking the undisclosed stare down between the two of you. “Just the check, please.”

“Of course. Can I get the name under the membership?”

“Barnes,” he says, holding out a black credit card for you to take. “James Barnes. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”

His eyes find yours again and stare. You offer him one last smile before leaving.

Your fingers tap restlessly against the counter as you wait for the receipt to print. From across the room, you watch as the group at the booth begins to get up. Walker’s foot catches on the lip and he stumbles into his friend; Sam’s there immediately to usher them toward the door. You place the receipt in the black book and make your way back to the table, where James Barnes still sits, still staring at his drink.

Unfortunately, you have to pass Walker on your way over. With a sad excuse for a smile, you thank him for coming in tonight. He leans forward, into your personal space, reeking of liquor and leering at you.

“Left my number on the napkin if you miss me too much. We can pick up where we left off when you’re done with work.”

Clearly he thought he was bestowing a tremendous gift on you, from the way he winks and struts away. Your smile drops as soon as you turn back to the table, where you see James Barnes staring at you yet again.

Feeling caught, you offer him a sheepish look, a small upturn of your lips, and hand him the receipt.

“Thank you for coming in tonight, Mr. Barnes. We hope you come back soon.”

He hums, taking it from your hands; your fingers brush, and your brain has no choice but to acknowledge how different it feels from when Walker did it. He signs the receipt and offers it back to you before you have the chance to give him privacy, but when you grab it, he holds on to the other end, stopping you in your place.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, eyes boring into yours again, “for what you had to put up with tonight.”

You blink. “Oh, that’s — it’s not a problem at all, your friends seem like a, uh — fun time.”

A smile flits across his face, crooked and devastating. “Fun? So, you enjoy getting asked to go home with your customers?”

“I—“ your blush lights up your face. “He didn’t mean it, I’m sure—“

“He did.”

“It’s fine,” you rush to say. “I get it a lot, comes with the territory. Call it a work perk.”

His eyebrow lifts.

“A work perk,” he repeats. “Sure. Some places offer health insurance, but you get to be flirted with by married men.”

Fucking dick bag, you seethe internally, your mind conjuring up a scenario where you curb stomp Walker until his teeth fall out.

You try to smile but it feels like a grimace. “What can I say? I’m living the dream.”

He chuckles, finally releasing the bill. His eyes sweep across your face.

“Are you?”

You pause. “Am I what?”

“Living the dream.”

“Is anyone, really?” you say with a quirk of your lips.

“I don’t know,” he allows, tilting his head. ”Maybe not. But we keep pretending we are.” His gaze drifts around the room before settling back on you. “Were late nights and putting up with guys like Walker what you always pictured your life to look like?”

You chuckle, but there’s hesitation in it. Images of your verbally abusive manager and meager paystubs flash through your mind. But that’s the darker side of the club that customers aren’t supposed to know about. As a server, your job is to slap a pair of rose-colored glasses over their eyes and keep them there. Yet he’s asking to take them off. It feels taboo.

He’s looking at you like he can read your thoughts, but he waits for your answer like he has all the time in the world.

“Uh, no,” you say slowly. “Definitely not.”

You glance over your shoulder like you’re expecting your manager to be standing there, red-faced and spitting again.

“Good,” James murmurs, “I was starting to worry about your long-term goals.”

“I’m…I’m actually in school,” you admit before you can stop yourself. “Grad school. Masters in Business Analytics.”

His lips do something similar to a smile, but his eyes are serious as he leans your way. “Impressive. What are you hoping to do with this degree?”

You shrug, feeling the full weight of his undivided attention. It isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s heavy.

“Something with data. It kind of — I don’t know — speaks to me, I guess? I’m good with numbers. I can read an Excel sheet, which is half the battle. Interpreting data really isn’t that difficult when you dictate the right models and—“ You stop short and shake your head quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m boring you.”

His smile returns. “You’re not boring me.”

“I was rambling. You probably have better things to do than listen to me run my mouth about dictating data models,” you joke.

“On the contrary,” he murmurs, “I’d like to hear what you have to say about data models.”

You look to the floor as the blush blooms across your face. “It doesn’t make for very thrilling conversation.”

“We’re at The Alpine Club — I’m pretty sure data models make up ninety percent of the conversations around here. What’s one more?”

You laugh, bright and unexpected. “You got me there.”

He watches you for a moment, thoughtful.

“So,” he says, twirling his empty glass, “what kind of data are you hoping to manipulate around when you graduate?”

You blink as his question lands. It isn’t lost on you that he’s prolonging the conversation. Your weight shifts, you debate answering him; you have tables that haven’t been touched in minutes, you have side work that’s waiting for you in the back. Plus, your gut is screaming at you that this has gone a lot further than the average conversation between customer and server, especially when he’s already settled up. You should thank him for coming in and walk away.

“Manipulating data sounds corrupt,” you say with a small smile. The side work can wait. “It’s more like…making sense of it. Organizations collect all this information and half the time they don’t even know what to do with it. I like the idea of being the person who can look at a mess of numbers and data points and say okay, here’s the story.”

“Sounds like an art,” he says.

“Artists don’t use spreadsheets.”

“I think it still counts.”

Your hands tighten around the receipt book. “Not sure if I’ve ever heard someone call data analytics an art. Most people start disassociating when I mention Excel.”

“Most people are missing out.”

Your smile grows. “That sounds like a line.”

“It’s not,” he says easily, placing both hands on the table. “I’m genuinely interested.”

“In data?”

“In you.”

The words are a shock to your system. You feel heat climb into your cheeks again. Okay, that’s definitely a line.

That smile flickers on his face again, and he points toward his empty glass. “Actually, do you mind if I get one more from you? Please?”

You hesitate for a moment before nodding, turning for the bar again. When you return with his drink, he takes it from you with gentle fingers that brush yours.

“Do you think you’d be able to sit with me? Just for the drink?” he asks.

You freeze.

“If you’re busy, I understand,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

Chewing your lip, you chance a look at your section. It’s died down considerably — closing time is near, but your last few tables have yet to pay. He watches you in that patient way of his.

“No, it’s — I’m not busy,” you mumble. You’re about to move to the other side of the booth when he slides over deftly, leaving room for you to sit next to him with a healthy amount of distance left between. Your hesitation is quick, but obvious, although he says nothing when you eventually take the spot beside him.

“Where do you go to school?” he asks, like there wasn’t a break in the conversation.

“O’Malley.”

His eyebrows lift a fraction. “That’s a great school.”

“Ha. Thank you. Yeah, my mom nearly had a heart attack when I got my acceptance letter. Big school, bigger price tag.” Your nose wrinkles. “I guess you could say that’s part of the reason I’m here.”

You’re not sure what made you bring up your mom — you haven’t weaved her into conversation in weeks. While your brows furrow in thought, James shifts in his seat, suddenly, like a twitch but more intentional. He lifts the drink to his lips.

“Part of the reason?” he repeats.

“It’s a long story.”

He looks at you, eyes bright but calm.

“I have time.”

You exhale softly, unable to hold the eye contact. “It — well, it’s not a very good story either.”

He doesn’t say anything, letting you consider in silence whether or not to share. You don’t tell your story very often — in fact, you’ve tried running from it multiple times. Hence the reason the debt collectors were after you. Tonight was going to be a rare occurrence if you had actually ended up telling your table of regulars your tearful tale.

Sitting beside him, you can’t deny the pull to James, nor the urge to tell him; you want to chalk it up to being prepared for another audience, but deep down, you know it’s something completely different.

With a sigh, you start.

“I had a lot saved up. A good chunk of it from my dad’s life insurance policy. Car accident when I was sixteen,” you add, when James’ tilts his head questioningly. “It was…sad, but we got through it. My mom and me. I got the money when I turned twenty-two, just in time to graduate college. I worked at a bar part-time and made some money there, so I decided to take a year off before grad school. Travel. See the world…”

James clears his throat. “Where did you go?”

“Europe. Mostly Italy. I love the food, the history, how the country’s broken up by states and each one has its own culture…” You trail off, biting down on a smile. “I think it’s my favorite place in the world.”

Next to you, James shifts again, but he’s got a soft smile on his face as he watches the liquid swirl in his glass.

“But then my mom got sick,” you continue, your voice lowering automatically. “Stage 4 colon cancer. I came home right away, brought her to every doctor in the city, but they all said the same thing: that there was nothing they could do.”

There’s a sound like a hushed rumble coming from James’ chest. He sets his drink down and meets your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

A stab of grief shoots through your heart at those two words. You’ve heard them a million times over in your life, eventually growing numb to them — especially when they came from strangers. But the way he’s looking at you, the simplicity in the way he said it, causes a reaction you haven’t had in months. You quickly blink away the burn behind your eyes.

“It’s…thank you.”

He nods once, a gesture of acknowledgment and to continue. You take a breath.

“She refused to give up. She was a badass, but I also think that was just her being a mom. She didn’t want to leave me on my own in the world. So we used up every cent we had flying across the country, meeting with the best doctors out there and trying treatment after treatment. We spent a stint at the Mayo in Rochester, and for a moment, things were starting to look up. But she took a sudden turn for the worse, so we came back here. We came home.”

You rest your chin in your palm, eyes following his finger as it taps against his glass. You can feel him watching you closely.

“I tried to make her as comfortable as I could. Took the rest of my savings and poured it into her care. She hated that I did that, but there was no point arguing. Not when we only had weeks left. She passed last spring.”

James’ free hand twitches in your direction. You pretend not to notice.

“After the funeral, I looked around and realized I had mountains of medical bills to pay, a mortgage suddenly in my name, and a future full of student loans.” You make a soft noise in the back of your throat, untitled in emotion. “Despite everything, my mom made me enroll in classes as soon as we got home — she wanted me to have something waiting for me on the other side of it all. I thought she was crazy at first because I couldn’t think about anything but her, but now that she’s gone, I’m glad she made me do it.”

The silence after you finish is surprisingly light. It doesn’t feel tense or heavy like it usually does, when your audience isn’t sure how to reconcile all of that grief in one person’s lifetime. James sits beside you easily, absorbing your story with careful consideration and space.

“For what it’s worth, I think your mom would be really proud of where you are today” he murmurs.

The corner of your mouth lifts.

“Don’t speak too soon. I sold the house, but it barely made a dent in the medical bills. Whoever invented interest can suck my dick.”

James coughs and takes a large sip of his drink.

“Truthfully, I’m — I’m drowning,” you laugh breathlessly. “I can’t study because I’m constantly worried about having enough money to keep the lights on, and then that makes me worry that I’ll get kicked out of the program and lose my chance at a job that pays enough to make these bills go away. So I got a job here in the meantime because — well, everything’s outrageously priced and that means you get outrageous tips, which is literally the only way to keep my head above water.”

Your voice has raised in volume, pitch and speed, but you plow on, too late to bottle it up now.

“I ran the numbers a hundred times, set them against average incomes of thousands of jobs in the city, calculated inflation and costs, and it came down to either this or stripping. Which I don’t have anything against! But I can’t move like that, I can barely do a push up — so tips would be beyond sad for me, if I get any, and then I’d be back to where I started. So between that and The Alpine, I thought why not save myself the embarrassment and—”

You cut yourself off with a wince. You did it again.

You shoot a furtive glance his way. He’s turned completely in his seat to face you, jaw tight and eyes unreadable. Like this, you get the full force of him, the piercing blue of his eyes, the sharp features of his face; it’s unnerving, but in a way that makes your skin tingle, like electricity’s dancing down your limbs. A brief look reveals a brush of chest hair peeking out from under his white button down, and your subconscious decides it would like to see the rest of it someday.

He appears to be considering something, mulling it over carefully in his head. He hasn’t looked away from you since you stopped talking, but you don’t find it creepy. Yet.

“Sounds like you have a lot on your plate,” James mutters.

“Yeah,” you say faintly, “sorry to unload all of that on you.”

He shakes his head quickly, throwing back the last of his drink in one large gulp. His lips press into a thin line. You’re kicking yourself mentally, thinking you’ve finally traumatized the poor guy with your unfiltered stream of consciousness, when he sets the glass down with a sharp klink.

“I could help,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Oh, you don’t — you don’t need to do that. I promise I wasn’t using my sob story to get you to kick me a bigger tip or anything—“

“Just listen, please.”

Your mouth shuts with a snap. The air hums with a level of anticipation that wasn’t there before. His eyes hold steadily onto yours.

“I’ll only say this once, and if it’s not for you, I won’t say another word about it ever again.” He tilts his head. “I believe two people can come together in an uncomplicated and beneficial way, like friends do, to help each other out. I’d like to make your life easier so you can focus on what actually matters to you. I’d be someone you can rely on, who values your time and wants to see you succeed…while also helping you with any roadblocks in your way. I could take some of the pressure off — financially — so that you can focus on your future instead of struggling to make things work today. And in return, I get your company. I’ve had a better time talking to you for the last twenty minutes than I’ve had with that group of guys for years. You’re sharp, you’re funny, you’re grounded…your time and your attention is all I would want.”

He lets that sit between you with a short pause. Meanwhile, the air has left your lungs.

“This requires trust. Discretion. Maturity. It’s not about rescuing anyone or buying affection. It’s more…intentional than that. Mutual.”

He pauses again, longer, as if he’s waiting for his words to sink in with you. They certainly have.

“Being my friend will never require you to be out of your comfort zone,” he continues softly. “It’s about making you comfortable. You’ll get support without strings, without owing anything, and without judgment. It’s not complicated, and it’s not about control. It’s about being a friend. I’d like to be your friend.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Not a whisper of a sound. The corners of his mouth twitch up as he searches your face — you suspect you’re not doing a very good job at concealing your emotions.

“You don’t need to give me an answer now,” James murmurs, leaning back against the booth; his voice has dipped into a lower octave, and the sound of it sends vibrations up your spine. “All I’m asking is that you consider it.”

You’re silent as you turn his words over in your mind, your heart thrumming beneath your chest.

“We don’t even know each other,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies, “but I’d like to know you. This is a way for me to do that.”

You bite your lip. “If you’re saying all of this because of my mom, or — or ‘cause you feel bad—“

“No,” he says calmly, hand resting on the table near yours. “This isn’t because I feel bad.”

“Then why?” you ask.

“Because you’re beautiful, and I enjoy the sides of you that you’ve shown me tonight. And selfishly, I’d like to be your friend that makes things easier for you.”

Your gut swoops low. He called you beautiful. But there was an innocence behind it, like he was stating a fact rather than making a move. This settles over you like a warm blanket after a long day.

James watches you for another moment before reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a card. He offers it to you.

“Take some time. Think it over. If you have questions, call me. If you never want to hear from me again, say the word and I’ll leave you alone. But if you’re interested in what this could be, let me know.”

You take the card without a word, absentmindedly pocketing it while you get to your feet. Your body has overridden your brain, moving you through the motions. James rises after you, and his frame towers over yours as you finally stand next to him. His bright eyes scan your face, assessing every detail. You swallow hard, his eyes track that as well.

“I hope to hear from you soon,” he murmurs, dipping his head down to your eye level. You nod breathlessly.

With a pointed look, he nudges the receipt book closer to you, where it had been abandoned on the table after he asked for another drink.

“It’s—it’s on me,” you say weakly. He raises his eyebrows, hands shoved into his pockets; you wave vaguely in front of you. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you,” James says politely, and with a small dip of his chin, he turns away for the door. You watch as he crosses the room at a relaxed pace, dark hair bouncing gracefully, suit swishing perfectly. He doesn’t look back as the door is opened for him like a king and he exits the room.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Holy shit.

Later that evening, when you stumble home with ruptured blisters, smelling of stale sweat and cleaning products, you collapse onto your couch and pull out the card.

James B. Barnes, Chairman of the Board

Barnes Group, Inc.

The last name should have given it away, but to be fair, you were blindsided by the smooth talking and how good he looked. Barnes Group, Inc. is a quiet but major asset management firm that dominates the Financial District. They hold their weight against the big ones despite being around for less than twenty years. They’re well-respected and popular, from what you’ve heard around The Alpine. Your instincts proved correct once again — he really does have real money.

Your mind whirls. How cliche is it for one of the wealthiest men in the city to offer an arrangement like this to a younger woman? Very — there’s no beating around that bush.

But the way he framed it had broken through your initial judgment, hitting you in a place that was dark and dusty and unused for ages. Friendship.

You couldn’t remember the last time you spoke to someone you could call a friend. All of them had slowly disappeared after you buried your mother, and for valid reasons; you made it impossible to keep in touch, dodging phone calls and ignoring texts like it was your job. But you’re still human — even if you push everyone away, that doesn’t mean you’re immune to loneliness. And with hardly any family left, that doesn’t leave you with many options for human companionship.

His words had shined a spotlight on that gaping hole in your life, intentional or not. Maybe he could see that on top of flirting with poverty, you’re lonely.

Maybe he’s lonely, too.

You rub your eyes viscously with your knuckles, willing the day to seep from your bones. Your cat, Lucky, hops onto the couch and curls up beside you.

You can’t believe it, but you think you need to consider this. While several true crime documentaries could show you the downfall of trusting the wrong person, you can’t help but take James’ words as they are. Perhaps that ity, bity, tiny sliver of hope you allow to live on inside you has taken charge of your decision making. It would explain your sudden deviation from enormous dislike for the rich.

You sigh, stroking Lucky’s back. “If this is real, I’d be an idiot not to,” you say to him, like you have no other choice. Lucky yawns his affirmation.

So you think on it. A lot. A lot a lot. Pretty much every minute of the next three days, you’re thinking about James. His words replay over and over in your head until it’s an automatic loop of noise.

I’d like to be your friend.

It’s distracting, thinking about him and his offer. Which means you’re distracted at work, you’re distracted on the subway, you’re distracted folding laundry. You even answer a debt collector by accident because your mind is in two places. You’ll never do that again.

…He could make sure you never do that again.

It comes to a head when you’re taking your break during your shift. The August night is hot and humid, the sky bragging of potential thunderstorms. The cigarette in your hand shakes as you inhale greedily.

The same two things circle your brain: how long would you let this go on for? And what would your mom think?

Both questions hold great weight, yet both are unanswerable to you — at least for now. Just when you start going down that road, your brain screeches to a halt in some sort of self-preservation tactic, distracting you by throwing mental memories of James’ soft smile, his quiet empathy, or — even worse — his chest hair.

It makes it a lot easier to pull out your phone than you think. The card is slightly crumpled from taking it out and holding it so often, but the numbers read clearly as you punch them in.

He’s offering you a way out of this mess you call your life. Just because he wants to. And all he asks is for you to smile and thank him for it over dinner every now and then. Either he’s dealing with a lot of guilt over having money, or he truly wants to see your life get easier because of him. Maybe it’s both. Either way, it’ll change your life.

For the better. Right?

The line rings three times before he answers. “James Barnes.”

“James,” you croak, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “It’s me. From The Alpine. Hi.”

Something shifts in the background, like he’s sitting up straighter or moving something around. It sounds like sheets against skin. “Hi,” he says back, neutral. You glance at the time on your phone.

“Shit,” you mutter, “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about how late it is. I can call you back—?”

“No,” he cuts in. “Now’s fine. How are you?”

You chew on your lip. “I’m good. Busy, but…I’ve been— uh, I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, yeah?” he murmurs, soft and loose like it’s a knee-jerk response. Your gut swoops low.

“About what you said,” you choke out. “About being…friends. I…I have some questions.”

“I have some answers.”

“I was wondering if we could meet. Soon. So I can ask you the questions. And learn a little more about…what this will be like.”

There’s a pause on the other end, not even a rustle of fabric or a brush of his breathing against the receiver to be heard. Then he clears his throat.

“How about tomorrow night? 8 o’clock at Pepper’s.”

“Yeah— uh, yes. That works,” you breathe. There’s a moment of silence where all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart.

“Would it be presumptive of me to bring a few documents? Unless you’d like to have a lawyer look over them—”

Your mouth goes dry. “No. That’s okay,” you say. “You can bring them.”

He makes a soft noise, something pleased. “I’m glad you called,” he says, voice low and warm. “I was starting to think I wouldn’t hear from you.”

The hand holding your cellphone spasms. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He shushes you quietly. “It’s okay. I’m glad you took your time. You seem like the type of person who wants to know exactly what she gets herself into. I admire that.”

You hum, because words are elusive as ever right now.

“Are you working?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“It’s almost midnight. Isn’t The Alpine closed by now?”

“Yeah, well…side work’s a bitch. I’ll probably be here until one.”

He grunts. “Let me send a car to get you home.”

“James, I—“

“Please. It’ll let me sleep tonight. Worrying about you walking around New York at one in the morning in the rain will do the opposite.”

Your foot taps restlessly. “Okay,” you breathe.

“Okay, doll.”

A flush runs through your body, from the crown of your head to the tip fo your toes. It leaves behind a wave of tingles that tickle your skin.

“Yeah, uh. I’ll let you— uh, I’ll let you get back to it then. I’ll see you tomorrow, James.”

“Tomorrow,” he vows. And the line goes dead.

You adjust the straps of your dress again, pulling them further back on your shoulders so that they frame your chest just right. It’s your favorite dress — or, more accurately, your only dress — and your one item of clothing that’s acceptable enough for the five star restaurant you’re meeting James at.

He’s sending another car — he texted you this time, brokering no argument over it, just a time and the driver’s name. You’d be put off if the ride last night hadn’t cut your usual hour-long hike home down to ten minutes and saved you from a torrential downpour. Private cars have their benefits, apparently.

The driver, Bob, picks you up at half past seven. He weaves in and out of traffic flawlessly, leaving you with very little time to fix your makeup and call on every shred of courage you have.

When he pulls up to the curb, he hops out of the car and opens the door for you, helping you to balance on your heels that don’t entirely cover the bandaids on the back of your ankles. You thank him for the ride as he ushers you into the restaurant.

James waits at the table tucked into a secluded corner at the back of the room, hair parted perfectly, scruff a little longer than before, and dressed in a suit of midnight black. His shirt is a shade lighter, the top three buttons undone and exposing even more chest hair than the last time. You take a deep breath as you approach.

He stands immediately when he spots you, eyes appraising you gently, like his favorite person in the world just showed up.

“Hello,” he says, coming around to hold out your chair for you.

“Hi,” you mumble, blushing as you sit. He holds eye contact as he resettles into his own seat, a small smile on his face.

“You look breathtaking,” he admits, a twinge in his voice that could pass for pained, like the way you look is so devastatingly beautiful, it hurts.

“Thank you. You look very nice, too.”

His smile grows. “I’m glad you could meet me tonight. I have to say I’ve been a bit restless since our talk last night.”

“Oh?” is your dumb response. Your pulse flutters as his smile grows crooked.

“I guess you could say I’m eager to hear your questions.”

“Oh, um…yes. I have a few…”

He gestures to the table. “Do your worst.”

You were prepared for this, but it still makes you feel light-headed as you pull out the small slip of paper from your purse. He watches you carefully as you unfold it, pieces of the ripped edges fluttering to the floor. Maybe you were expecting a bit of small talk, but what’s there to talk about when you hardly know each other? You can appreciate cutting to the chase, even if it makes your mouth dry.

“First, I…I just want to say thank you,” you begin quietly, shyly meeting his gaze. “For listening to me. And for not making it a big deal. It was the first time I’ve told that story that I didn’t feel like a tragedy after, and you made me feel that way.”

His shoulders seem to relax a little, his expression gentle. “You’re welcome.”

“That being said,” you continue shakily, unable to meet his eyes any longer. “I’m wondering what kind of help you want to give, and if there are things I can say no to.”

He nods, his face becoming serious. “Of course. I want to help, not intrude. If there are things you don’t want me to touch, then I won’t. You get the say in that.”

“So, if I say I don’t want any help with my student loans…”

“Then that’s that. I won’t push you about it either.”

You nod, fingering the edge of the paper nervously. The silence stretches.

“Would it be useful to give you a summary of what I will and won’t help with?” he asks, leaning back in his seat. You nod again, motioning for him to continue. He settles into his seat, clearing his throat. “To start, I won’t help with the circumstances of friends or relatives, unless they’re direct dependents of yours, which it doesn’t sound like you have anyway. This arrangement is for us, so it stays between us. And I won’t help with any legal troubles either. If you end up in jail, I won’t pay for bail, I won’t pay fines, and I won’t pay for legal counsel. If you’re charged with anything, this arrangement is void.”

His voice is level, almost monotonous, like he’s said this a few times. You gulp.

“But I will pay for everything else, if you’ll let me,” he remarks, growing softer. “You’ll get my card for the day-to-day things. Groceries, coffee, transit, take out. Anything you do when you’re not at work. I also want to pay for the things you couldn’t do before. Expect appointments booked for the spa, massages, hair, nails — whatever you decide. My assistant will help with that.”

“Okay,” you breathe, feeling just a little dizzy. God, when was the last time you got your nails done?

“I’ll also pay for your rent. Or, if you want to move, I’ll buy you a new place. Apartment. Condo. Brownstone. Up to you. I want you feeling comfortable and safe when you’re not with me.”

Your mouth falls open to protest. Buy a brownstone? For you? The girl he just met? You crumples the paper in a reflex reaction, but he holds up a hand before you can speak.

“You don’t have to, I’m just giving you the option. Remember, you’ll never have to go out of your comfort zone with me.”

He scans your face — you’re sure you’re a shade paler than before.

“Where do you live now?” he asks gently.

“Queens.” He smiles.

“Then I’d at least argue for you to use my driver.”

“Makes sense,” you murmur distractedly.

The server comes over then, placing a whiskey in front of James and asking what you’d like to drink. You order a white wine, cringing when he asks if you have a preferred bottle, but James answers for you, naming a brand you’ve never heard of, his eyes on you the entire time. The waiter returns a minute later with your glass, and you take a greedy sip as soon as it hits the table.

“I also like to give gifts,” James says, picking up where he left off. “That could mean jewelry, bags, cars, vacations—“ you choke on your wine, he politely ignores it. “Whatever I’m feeling that day.”

“Oh, is that all?” you say weakly. He chuckles, genuine and soft.

“It may change, depending on what I think you’d like. And what you tell me you like.”

“I’m picky,” you attempt to joke.

“I like a challenge.”

The air shifts subtly, you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. He crosses his legs effortlessly at the knee, looking every bit composed while you’re pinching yourself to keep from hyperventilating.

“Ideally, you’d quit your job,” he begins slowly. “Not for me, but because you won’t need to work anymore. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you’re in school, and it’s clear you love it. I want you to be comfortable enough to focus on that. Put your time into studying. Not dealing with men like Walker.”

You huff a soft laugh because you aren’t sure what else to say. Quitting your job hadn’t even crossed your mind through all of this, but now that the seed’s been planted, it takes root quickly, despite the voice in your head telling you not to let it.

James must be a mind reader, because he leans forward, making sure you meet his eyes.

“I’d like to spoil you, because I think you deserve it. Not because of what’s happened to you, but because of what you’ve done since it happened,” he says, voice pulling you in with the husky lilt to it. “I think you’ve earned the right to feel taken care of. It can be on your terms, of course, but trust me when I say there’s almost nothing I wouldn’t help with. Including the medical bills and the debt. Including the loans. But I will respect whatever you wish to keep separate from this.”

For a moment, you’re not sure what to say, but you end up on, “Thank you, James. I…I’ll think about it.”

He nods, businesslike. ”What other questions do you have?”

You blink, looking down at your list. “Well, you answered a couple of them, actually…um, I guess my next question is—“ You feel the heat rise to your cheeks. “When you say friendship, what does that…include, exactly?”

He leans back in his seat, taking a slow sip of his drink.

“I meant what I said about being friends,” he offers, “and I meant it in the traditional sense. This isn’t a “friends with benefits” situation. Holding hands, a light hug, or sitting close together are all reasonable to me. But touch isn’t required by you — you’re welcome to do whatever you’re comfortable with, and I won’t withhold anything from you if you aren’t comfortable with it. And I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but I will say I’m hoping to earn that right eventually.”

Something loosens in your chest, an unnamed tension releasing.

“I understand,” you say slowly. “I think those are reasonable, too.” His eyes flicker across your face for a moment. “I appreciate you clarifying that for me. It was on my mind a lot over the last few days.”

“That’s why we’re here,” he answers calmly. “Any more questions?”

“Yes, um. How does this…start?”

The smile returns to James’ face, sweet and relaxed. He waves two fingers in the air, and a server comes hurrying over with an official-looking envelope, setting it before him. James pulls out a small stack of documents and finds a pen in his suit jacket.

“It starts with a couple signatures. These are NDAs stating you won’t talk or publish anything about our time together, and the same goes for me. I’m held to the same principles you are. If I say a word about us to anyone without your permission, you have every right to sue me for all I’m worth. I hope it tells you how serious I am about this.”

It actually says a hell of a lot more than just how serious it is, but he’s already shuffling the papers aside, picking up the one on the bottom.

“This is an agreement on what I’m allowed to pay for. Like the rent — I’ll need to know where to pay to. There’s also a place for your bank account information, in the case of moving large sums of money. I’d like it wired safely and securely.”

You must show signs of panic, because he quickly tucks it away and says, “You don’t have to decide on anything today. You can add whatever you want to this as time goes on.”

Your breathing evens. He taps the pen against the stack of NDAs.

“Anything else?” he asks quietly. Your pinching grows stronger.

“Are you…friends…with anyone else right now? Or is it just me?”

His lips quirk like he was expecting this question. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and holds your gaze steadily.

“Just you. And I can promise that I won’t need any other friends as long as I have you.”

Oh.

“But you’ve…had other friends before. In the past.”

His eyes go blank for a moment. “Yes, I’ve had other friends before. A few.”

“They’re not still your friends, though?” you ask.

“No,” he answers. “There came a point when it was time for them to explore other…friendships. Start different lives. It always ended amicably.”

You hesitate. “So, if one day I decide I want to…stop being friends, that would be okay with you?”

“Of course. I’m here as long as you’ll have me. Or until we both decide it’s time.”

“Okay,” you whisper, meeting his gaze. There’s a roaring sound in your ears, like the ocean on a stormy night, but your hands are surprisingly steady as you reach out your hand toward him. “Okay. Can I borrow your pen?”

James smiles, the biggest smile you’ve seen from him yet. He offers you the pen and the first document, pointing out where to sign and initial. You do so quickly, conscious of your climbing blood pressure, but the adrenaline leaves a sweet aftertaste as you write your name with a flourish. Or maybe it’s him, beaming at you while you sign up for this new chapter of life with him.

Once the documents are signed, he proposes a toast. “To friendships,” he says. You clink your glass to his. “And, by the way, call me Bucky.”

“Bucky?” you ask, eyebrows raised.

“It’s what my friends call me.”

It starts immediately.

The next morning, you’re greeted with a jungle of flowers waiting outside your apartment door. Flowers of all shapes and colors, some tropical, some simple, and all of them make you smile. You’re placing the last of them on the counter when there’s a knock on your door — a dozen freshly-made croissants from the Parisian cafe in Midtown. Impossible to get into, impossible to order out from, yet here’s a box full of their best-selling pastries, still warm from the oven. You indulge in one too many, but it’s worth it.

Throughout the day, Bucky texts you. It’s something he mentioned off-handedly, probably meant to give you a choice, but he likes to talk during the day. A lot. He likes check ins, he likes updates; he wants to hear about anything and everything.

At first, it’s odd having someone to talk to so consistently again — the last person you spoke to like this was your mom.

But Bucky keeps it unforced, easing the conversation along with the right questions and dry comments that actually have you smiling at your phone. When you get to work that night, he wishes you a good shift. No mention of you quitting. You appreciate this so much that you have half a mind to quit anyway.

Not today, you tell yourself. You need to wait to see if Bucky actually puts his money where his mouth is first.

It isn’t long before he does.

Less than a week after you signed the papers, he asks you to join him for dinner on your night off. He makes the reservation early because he knows you have an exam in two days that you’re stressed over, leaving you with the rest of the evening to study. You’re grateful for his mindfulness, but equally grateful for the distraction he’s providing. He’s waiting outside the restaurant when Bob pulls up, offering his hand to help you out of the car.

“You look beautiful,” he states plainly, like only an idiot would argue with him. Your answering smile is wide and uninhibited.

Inside, the two of you are seated at a booth mostly concealed from the other diners. He sits beside you, much like he did that first night, close but with enough space for you to breathe easily. He asks you about your day, he encourages you to try something strange on the menu, he compliments you again and again and again.

Your whole body is flushed from the wine and his attention by the time the desert arrives. You’re licking chocolate syrup off the spoon, regaling a work story involving your meathead manager and another server.

“He just chooses to ignore anything that makes us seem human to him. No emotions allowed. No personal problems allowed. You show up for your shift, you do your job, and that’s it. Leave your life at the door, God help you if you don’t.”

You sigh, your spoon clattering loudly onto the plate. Bucky fidgets with his own spoon, eyes on the corner of your mouth. He shakes his head a little, like he thought better of something, then points to the corner of his own mouth, smiling. You blush, taking the hint, and wipe a dab of chocolate away from your skin. Bucky’s still smiling as he takes another sip of his drink.

“Might be because he lacks his own personal life,” he muses. “People are always going to project what hurts them.”

You consider this. “Now that you say it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take a day off.”

“That can do some fucked up things to a person.”

“Tell me about it,” you whine. “I haven’t taken a day off in months.”

His eyes slide lazily to you, glass held loosely in his hand. He smiles wryly, and you understand what he means before he says a word.

“I know, I know. I just…” You take a breath. “I need to know this is real first. Before I start cutting ties.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Tomorrow’s the first of the month,” he says. “Have you thought more about allowing me to help with your rent?”

Your breath hitches.

“Yes,” you whisper. He hums, eyes sparkling with something bright and ambiguous.

“And what have you decided?”

“I think…it would be a show of good faith…if you helped me out.”

“Good faith,” he laughs. “Sweetheart, I’ll buy you the moon if it means you’ll believe me when I say I’ll take care of you.”

The next morning, you get the email at 9 a.m. — your rent has been paid, utilities as well. Your stomach had been in knots when you wrote down the information for him, but seeing the confirmation makes you feel like you’re floating.

It only takes you another week until you’re calling your manager and quitting. To celebrate, Bucky rents out the Met for the night, and you explore and observe and admire to your heart’s content as he stands quietly and steadily by your side. He knows an impressive amount about art, surprisingly, but then he starts making things up when a specific piece stumps him, and the rest of the unguided tour is spent inventing made-up artists and their tragic backstories. By the end of the night, you can’t resist anymore. You quickly lean in and wrap your arms around his waist.

It’s clear he’s shocked, that you’ve caught him off guard. But he recovers quickly, mirroring your grip and resting his cheek on top of your head. It’s strange, it’s new, but it’s…comforting.

Quitting your job means a lot more free time, but Bucky is adamant about you dedicating much of that time for school. So to keep a balance between time spent studying and time spent with him, Bucky proposes you come by his office between classes. Sometimes for lunch, sometimes to take a break, sometimes to set up camp on his leather couch, nose to your laptop screen as you research data sets and monitor the market while he quietly works at his desk.

It’s calming and oddly motivating — he’s the perfect person to work next to.

When you’re not studying, Bucky’s supplying you with appointments that fill up your calendar. You have a new contact saved in your phone — Inga, Bucky’s very Dutch, very cheerful assistant — because she calls you at least twice a day, arranging your schedule and finding time you didn’t know existed to fill.

A certain Thursday brings a yoga class from 7:45 to 9, then a massage from 10 to 11:30. After that is lunch with Bucky at his office (take out sushi from a place you’ve only ever dreamed of going to), followed up by a nail appointment from 2 to 3 and a virtual meeting from 3:30 to 4:30 with your old therapist that you had to abandon when money got tight.

Once you get past the catch up, your therapist says you seem a lot better than you were the last time you saw her. Crazy concept, to agree with a therapist, but you actually do.

You’re about a month into the arrangement when Bucky clears his throat at dinner, making you pause while twirling your pasta on your fork. You’ve slowly graduated to sitting closer, and his arm rests on the back of the booth behind you, its presence warm and obvious around your shoulders. You look up at him, waiting.

“I’ve got this thing tomorrow night,” he begins, voice a little on the gruff side. You’re shocked to realize he’s being shy, and poorly hiding it. “It’s a gala. The black tie kind. It’s for charity — Children’s, I think. If you’re up for it, I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”

You smile slowly. “I’d love to. Just need something to wear.”

A stack of hundred dollar bills is on the table in seconds. Inga accompanies you the following morning to ten different stores, all designer, all with prices that make you feel faint, but she is quick to shoo you away from the price tags and push you to try on the dresses that make you sigh dreamily. Maybe that’s the reason Bucky wanted her with you.

You pick something bold, something you’d never see yourself in unless you had it on your body. It fits like a glove and reminds you that you’re a woman, not just a cog in the wheel of the working class. You only panic a little when you hand over the entire wad of cash Bucky gave you.

After that, you’re dropped off at the salon, where a facial and a blowout get you glowing like the sun. Bob picks you up and brings you to your apartment where your dress is waiting for you, courtesy of Inga. At 9 o’clock, Bucky’s waiting for you outside. The late September breeze ruffles his hair and swishes your dress as you come face-to-face.

He takes in every inch of you, from your painted toe nails to your shiny hair, and he sighs.

“You look…unbelievable.”

Later, when you’re buried deep into a crowd of people you don’t know, Bucky’s anchoring you to him with a hand on the small of your back, thumb brushing the skin there. He leans in, nose nudging your temple, and whispers, “I’m very lucky to have you here with me.”

Just like that, something inside of you breaks. Not in a sad way, but in a revolutionary way. Like a floodgate’s been cracked open, and what’s been locked inside is beginning to trickle out.

When he pulls back, your eyes linger on him. He flashes a movie star smile for the people that approach, but when he meets your gaze again, he gives you his crooked grin. Meant only for you. His warm hand pulls you closer into his side.

And that’s when it begins, right there at that gala. Your appreciation for Bucky has opened up into something larger, still undefinable, but growing in magnitude.

You find yourself sweating under the lights of the ballroom, not from the heat, but from the unknown shift. It shapes itself a little more when Bucky runs into a colleague and introduces you as his friend. He’s been doing it all night, but this time, it doesn’t feel right. It feels…off. Generalized. Misplaced.

Not that you’d ever tell him. Bucky was clear about your arrangement being a friendship — to question what he calls you would be to question where you stand, and you don’t want to make it seem like you can’t hold up your end of the bargain as his friend.

So you smile through it, focusing on the feel of his hand on your skin, and push it down. For now.

You’re a couple months into the arrangement when Bucky opens his home to you. It’s a penthouse suite hundreds of feet in the sky, offering breathtaking views of the city sprawled below. The apartment is big and modern, with plenty of low lighting and soft colors. You find out right away that he’s messy, which you think is more endearing than it is a nuisance, even if that means throwing sweatshirts and belts and books off the couch just to find a place to sit.

He apologizes constantly, but it never gets better each time you come over. You don’t mind.

With classes gearing up for finals, your time is more limited than before, leaving you with just a few windows of opportunity a week to be with each other. Most of these fall late at night, past 10 p.m., or early in the morning before he leaves for work.

So you start staying over.

It happens accidentally the first time. He picks you up and takes you back to his place for Chinese take out and binge watching trashy reality TV (of which he is a secret super fan), but you end up passing out minutes after he turns the show on.

The next morning, you wake in a soft bed, surrounded by oversized pillows and silk sheets. Bleary eyed, you stumble into the kitchen to find him dressed for work, sipping a coffee at the kitchen island and scrolling on his phone. He sets both of them down when he sees you, standing as you shuffle over.

“Morning,” he says, stretching out a hand to catch your sweatshirt clad waist.

This is par for the course these days — soft, grounding touches that don’t linger for too long, cuddles on the couch that don’t get too pretzel-like, barely-there kisses against the forehead when you say something that makes him smile a little too hard. All friendly, all innocent.

“Did I — did I crash?” you ask, suppressing a yawn. He chuckles, offering you his coffee.

“Didn’t even make it to the elimination. Steve R. went home.”

“Fuck, I liked him.”

“Me too.”

You look up at him, suddenly shy. “I’m sorry. Thanks for carrying me to bed.”

“Only threw out my back for it. No worries.”

You slap away his hand on your waist, but it’s teasing, playful. He withdraws, taking a seat again so you’re eye level with him. A look takes over his face, something caught between serious and hopeful.

“You know, that room can be yours, if you’d like.”

You pause mid sip of coffee. “What?”

“The room. It’s yours. For when you want to crash. Or just don’t want to go home.”

“Really.” It’s not a question.

“Really,” he repeats. “Don’t ever feel like you have to stay, I’ll take you home any time of night. But if you do want to stay, it’s there for you.”

“That’s…really sweet of you.”

He smiles a little. “Not too much?” You shake your head. “Good. ‘Cause I like knowing you’re close. Think I slept better. And I like waking up with you here.”

The feeling from the gala returns with renewed force. It almost drowns you, leaving you reeling in its tidal wave of emotion. It defines itself a little more as you picture sharing mornings with him, pouring travel mugs of coffee and shoving pieces of toast in his mouth as he races out the door.

But he’s watching you closely, expecting an answer, so you beat the feelings down until you’re numb. Sending him a smile over the mug, you say, “Okay.”

And that’s that.

The first time you sleep over intentionally, Bucky’s not in a great mood. Which is a rare occasion in and of itself. You know he’s only human, but you’ve barely seen him annoyed, let alone upset.

He makes an effort to hide it from you, greeting you with a soft kiss to the top of your head when you step out of the private elevator that opens to his floor. He all but forces you to relax on the couch while he cooks dinner, so you do, cracking open your textbook and stretching out lazily while he cooks. But even from the living room, you can feel the negative energy radiating from him.

He throws pans into the sink with a little too much force. He answers a call with a sharp bark of “what now?” He mutters to himself like a cranky old man.

His face is drawn and stony when he hands you a plate and joins you on the couch — pasta with red sauce, simple, and a family recipe, he claims. But the way he eats it, you’d think he hates it.

“Bucky,” you say after watching him stab his food with homicidal intent. He grunts. “Bucky,” you try again.

“What?” he snaps, sneering. Immediately, his eyes go round with guilt before you even have the chance to react. “Oh, God — I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—“ He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply; when he opens his eyes again, his expression is calmer, more open. “Jesus. You didn’t deserve that. Forgive me.”

“Always,” you say like it’s second nature. “What’s going on?”

He sighs, setting down his plate. “Work,” he mutters, “is killing me. Someone fucked up a deal with a really, really important client. They aren’t happy, so I had to step in to clean up the mess. But now they’re playing hard to get, so all day I had to suck their dicks and call them pretty just to get a reply.”

You giggle. He tilts his head at you.

“You think that’s funny?”

“A little. But I can’t imagine anyone not getting on their knees for you immediately.”

Something flashes in Bucky’s eyes, something darker that doesn’t fit the conversation topic. It’s quick, brief, but you see it. He smiles before you can think twice about it.

“Not these guys. They like to test me. And I don’t like being tested.”

“I can tell,” you comment. “Want me to help?”

He side-eyes you. “How?”

“You can take all your anger out by…rubbing my feet?” Your smile is saccharine as you slide your legs into his lap. He laughs, one loud sound, but takes your left foot in his hands anyway.

“How sweet of you,” he coos. “How’d you know this is exactly what I needed?”

His mood improves for the most part, although his phone buzzes a few times and sets his jaw ticking. But whether it’s to keep him sane or to keep the easy vibe of the night going, he ignores it. Reality TV is watched, cookies are eaten (he has five), and you’re feeling satisfied for having turned his night around just as you start to yawn.

He notices it immediately.

“Alright, doll. You’re tired. I’m taking you home.”

“I might stay here tonight, if that’s okay with you.”

He freezes as he reaches for his keys. Slowly, his arm lowers, and there’s a slightly dazed look in his eye.

“Sure, yeah. Whatever you want,” he breathes.

He sets you up with a tooth brush and towels, an old shirt of his and boxers. While you’re brushing your teeth, you wander over to his bathroom and find him doing the same. You stand beside him, laughing through the toothpaste as he gets his all over his mouth and chin. Unintentionally, though he’ll deny it.

He walks you to your room like he’s dropping you off at the end of date. You try not to think too much about that.

“Sleep tight,” he says softly, leaning against the doorway, smiling at the too-big shirt and boxers. You smile back, sleepy and content.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

He’s gone before you wake up the next morning, but the note on the counter thanks you for being there with him last night. It makes your heart flutter much too fast for having just started your day.

When you get back to your own apartment, your phone alerts you to a new email. The name on it makes your stomach sink: the debt collectors. They’ve been quiet for a while since you’ve been able to offer them bigger scraps of money, so what do they want now?

Thank you for your payment. Your bills have been reconciled and your current balance is at $0.00.

The room tilts. Your breathing stops. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical bills, gone overnight.

Bucky.

It was only a week ago that you had shyly asked to amend the document on what he could help pay for. You weren’t even sure that he looked at it yet.

Well, now you know he has. And in one fell swoop, he banned the debt collectors from ever bothering you again. Your mind can hardly wrap around it, can hardly wrap around Bucky, and his generosity, and his promises, and his follow through. All of it is a murky, muddy emotional mess inside of you. For the first time in months, you break down and cry.

Later that night, when the tears have finally dried and you’re sitting next to him at your favorite little Italian spot, you place a hand over his and just squeeze. You meant to say words, but they’ve disappeared on you.

But Bucky doesn’t need the words. He knows everything that you’re saying with the simple touch. He squeezes back, smile soft, posture relaxed as he nudges your shoulder with his.

The floodgate inside of you swings open wider.

sammy speaks again: wowowowowow ok that’s a wrap on part one. part two coming almost immediately! I tried to fit it all into one but tumblr doesn’t like 30k word posts I guess :/ don’t forget to let me know what you think, I appreciate all of you for making it this far 🤍

see ya at the next part!

[winteryn]

BUNNY GONE WILD

18+ | MDNI

PAIRING: the winter soldier x ditzy!reader SUMMARY: the winter soldier infiltrates a college halloween party to follow the pretty girl with bunny ears who collided into him on the sidewalk.  WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; ditzy & clueless!reader; reader is mentioned to have hair & wears a skimpy bunny costume; size difference (he's beefy and taller than reader); original characters; mention of punishment and violence (suck dick, hydra); mention of alcohol & weed (they're not the ones intoxicated); mention of murder; bucky mainly speaks russian (it's english in cursive because I don't speak russian + I don't trust google translate when I don't have a basic knowledge of a language) and a little broken english; he asks reader to call him soldat; touch starved bucky; slightly dark & possessive!bucky; light fluff & angst; smut (there is no explicit consent but both of them want it); feral behavior; big dick bucky organization (🙂‍↕️); oral (f receiving); spanking & pussy spanking; pussy pronouns; nipple play; a little bit of degradation; sex in the woods; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); primal and rough sex; multiple orgasms; creampie; panty sniffing & stealing. WORD COUNT: 8.5k A/N: I posted this last october if I'm not wrong, and honestly this is still one of my favorite one-shots lol. the reader's behavior and personality was heavily inspired by karen from mean girls and rose from the golden girls (a line in particular comes from one of the episodes 🥸). hope you'll enjoy it!

“I can already smell the weed from here. It’s only eleven, for fuck’s sake.” Sarah grimaces as she gets out of the driver’s seat of her Nissan Versa. 

“It’s a college party, were you expecting tea and cookies?” Nicole sighs, bent over as she reties the straps of her shoes for the umpteenth time. 

The huge mansion sits among the bare trees like a sore thumb. Strings of fake cobwebs dangle from the balconies in tangled clumps, lazily swaying in the cold October breeze. The projectors wash the building in a ghostly glow and pumpkins with bizarre carved faces line the porch, their flickering candles warping the jagged smiles into something unsettling.

The front steps are already crowded with masked people smoking, drinking and laughing too loudly. Sarah snorts out loud as one of the few latecomers nearly trips over a fake gravestone planted in the lawn beside a massive steaming cauldron that reeks faintly of dry ice.

“At least this year Ethan and his minions put some effort into decorating. Do you remember last Halloween?” Nicole turns towards the house with Sarah beside her, but then glances back to find you still standing by the car window, adjusting the corset of your costume.

“Jesus,” Sarah huffs exasperated, planting a hand on her hip. “Stop fussing, you look good!” 

“Just a sec…” You mumble absently, turning sideways to check your back.

This year, the three of you agreed to not pick a group costume. Last Halloween had been a disaster from start to finish, mainly because Nicole wanted to go as Cher, Tai and Dionne from Clueless, while you suggested Sam, Clover and Alex from Totally Spies. Sarah was too busy with her now ex-boyfriend to care either way, and a few days before the party she ditched both of you to dress up as Princess Peach and Super Mario with him. 

Naturally, you and Nicole still managed to clash over something as simple as matching outfits: she pushed for Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy, but you barely knew who they were, so you argued for Daphne and Velma instead. Long story short, neither of you had time to buy decent costumes and ended up throwing together the easiest thing possible: a devil and an angel.

Just like at least thirty other girls at the party. 

That same night, Sarah caught her dear Super Mario kissing Princess Daisy—her cousin—in one of the upstairs bathrooms of this exact mansion, and from that moment on, she swore off group costumes forever.

One year later, in front of the Nissan, a Kim Possible looks pretty much done with life, while a Cher from Clueless sits on the curb smoking her first cigarette of the night. And you, a bunny in a very revealing outfit, tap your lips to even out the glittery gloss.

You thought the ears were a little too big when you bought them, but now, paired with the sheer corset and the short skirt, they look perfect.

“Okay,” you tug the skirt down out of instinct, though the snug fabric barely moves against your thighs. “I’m ready!”

“Fucking finally.” Nicole mumbles, lifting herself from the sidewalk with a groan.

“Hey—” 

Sarah’s warning comes too late. Your body is already colliding with something solid, hard as steel. A startled yelp escapes you as a large hand instantly clamps around your bare arm to keep you from stumbling backward. You realize your eyes have squeezed shut reflexively only when they flutter open at once, landing directly on a broad chest covered by what looks like a black tactical vest. Your gaze slowly drifts up, along a strong neck, until it catches on a pair of blue eyes staring down at you. The lower half of the stranger’s face is hidden behind a black mask, yet you are instantly fascinated.

“Oh, hi!” You beam, tilting your head slightly, fully aware of how much guys usually love it when you do that.

The bulky stranger simply looks at you, expression barely changing. There’s a faint furrow between his brows that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s assessing you or debating scolding you for nearly knocking yourself flat against him.

A beat of silence passes between you, in which you let your curious eyes roam shamelessly on his face, before dropping to his impossibly large shoulders. Heat tingles low in your stomach, before a hint of embarrassment curls through you at how obvious you must look beneath his unwavering stare.

Someone clears their throat behind you, but you can’t look away. You don’t want to.

“Honey, let the gentleman go, c’mon.” Sarah grabs your wrist while wrapping her other arm around your waist to gently steer you away.

The long fingers around your forearm jump back as if your skin burned him.

“Nice costume, man. Looks expensive.” Nicole nods at the strange guy, still standing rigidly in the same spot. Only his eyes move, tracking you carefully as your friends lead you toward the entrance at an unhurried pace.

Something about him feels off and Sarah has no interest in provoking some potentially dangerous individual. After all, nights like these are full of creeps looking to take advantage of crowded parties and drunk girls.

Still, you glance back twice.

Each time, you catch him still looking at you.

Before fully crossing the threshold and navigating the sea of intoxicated students, your head turns one last time. The stranger is now facing the house with his shoulders squared beneath his dark clothes, and a stupid little thrill runs through your veins at the thought that maybe he might be here for the party as well.

Years without being touched by anything except harsh hands and cold medical equipment, and what unravels the Winter Soldier is a sweet-looking girl wearing bunny ears and clothes so tight he could almost trace the shape of her nipples. 

He can’t remember the last time he felt such a delicate thing brush against him.

Because you are soft. Too soft. Too pretty. He could snap your bones with one twist of his wrist, yet you looked at him like you wanted to be swallowed whole.

His heartbeat has not slowed down since the moment his hand closed around your arm. And as much as he wanted to glare at your friend the moment she took you away from him, he had taken the chance to study your body properly: from the luscious curve of your hips straining against that pathetic excuse for a skirt, to the way your tits threatened to spill from the indecent corset that looked almost painted onto your torso. The fishnet stockings bit into your flesh with every step you took, the tiny bows stitched along the hems probably meant to make the costume cute, but to the Soldier, they only made it filthier.

But the thing that truly made him swallow thickly was the puffy, white cotton tail sewn to the back of your skirt, right at the top of your ass.

Fake.

Such a shame.

He could picture it so clearly: grabbing it between his fingers and tugging until you made that sweet little sound again for him.

It makes his jaw clench beneath the mask.

With a sharp shake of his head, the Soldier forces the intrusive thoughts away.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Nobody was.

The orders had been clear: break in, eliminate everyone inside, then wait at the nearest safe house for extraction. 

No witnesses.

The target is a former HYDRA scientist who’d escaped over a decade ago. He’d covered his tracks well, moving states almost yearly, changing names often enough to become little more than smoke in old files. The Soldier vaguely wonders if the man had worked on the Winter Soldier project at some point, even if there would be no way to know. The face in the mission folder had looked painfully ordinary. Like all the others.

The wife and son were to be eliminated too, if present.

HYDRA had enforced the no witness rule brutally during his earlier missions. Back when he still hesitated. Back when stray civilians had managed to survive because he’d been too uncertain.

He can almost feel the scars across his back throb faintly at the memory—a lesson carved into flesh.

However, this situation is entirely new for the Asset.

For starters, the black SUV belonging to the scientist is missing from its usual spot in the driveway. And considering the mansion now resembles a nightclub overflowing with sweaty college students in cheap costumes, the target is clearly elsewhere.

He can’t proceed with the mission.

HYDRA hasn’t contacted him with further instructions either, which means he’s expected to wait at the designated safe house until retrieval. That could mean tomorrow. Or next week.

The Soldier looks back at the house spilling laughter and obnoxious music into the cold night air, then glances down at his gloved hand, slowly flexing his fingers.

Your warmth still seems trapped against his palm.

With a quiet exhale, barely audible beneath the pounding bass, he starts walking toward the door.

Inside, it’s pure chaos.

The bass from the speakers had already been rattling the lawn outside, but in here it practically punches through your rib cage. You roll your eyes at the umpteenth awful EDM remix of some new pop song you don’t even know the lyrics to. Personally, you’d rather dance to early 2000s hits—preferably ones not butchered by a DJ with a SoundCloud account and too much confidence.

People spill through every hallway of the mansion. The improvised dance floor is packed shoulder to shoulder with students clumsily grinding against each other beneath flashing purple lights, while smaller groups cling to the walls, shouting over the music with red cups clenched in their hands.

The smell hits the second you step inside: a mix of cheap perfume, spilled beer soaked into hardwood floors, and sweat that makes your nose wrinkle—all layered beneath the sickeningly sweet scent of vape smoke. Laughter ricochets off the high ceilings, blending with shrill screams every time the DJ blasts the fog machine over the crowd.

A staggering vampire bumps hard into your shoulder, nearly sending you wobbling off your pumps, but Sarah promptly catches your elbow before you can stumble. She immediately sends his back a glare, before shooting a look of utter disgust toward a group of visibly wasted frat boys gathered around the kitchen island.

“I hate college.” She gags dramatically, scowling as they loudly dare each other to shotgun whatever neon-colored concoction the host is pouring into their plastic cups.  

You grin at her because, honestly, Sarah would rather be home wrapped in a blanket watching some obscure slasher movie marathon. But after the stunt she pulled last Halloween, you and Nicole practically dragged her here by force. Ever since her cheating ex, she’d shut men out entirely, and a small part of you hopes tonight might finally loosen her up enough to flirt with some attractive masked stranger for a few hours.

Your attention drifts toward the windows lining the far wall. Beyond the glass, the quiet street stretches through the chilly night, washed in pale streetlights.

The strange man is nowhere to be seen.

Almost immediately, your eyes flick toward the front door, scanning person after person as they wander in and out. Vampires. Cheerleaders. Devils. Witches. Cowboys.

No sign of the hot, tall man in black tactical gear.

Disappointment settles strangely heavy in your chest. With a small, dejected sigh, you turn back toward your friends, who are currently debating whether it’s worth risking the kitchen—where there’s at least a seventy percent chance of walking in on some couple making out—for drinks, or staying in the living room to dance instead.

Adjusting your bunny ears with a small smile, you vote for alcohol.

“Hey, Nic!”

All three of you turn at the sound of a familiar voice.

Jacob, captain of the basketball team, jogs toward your group, stopping directly in front of Nicole with an easy grin plastered across his face.

“Hey, girls. Nice costumes.” He grins, wiggling his fingers at you and Sarah in greeting. She gives him a flat nod in return.

“Hi, Jacob! You too!” You smile politely, before leaning closer to your friend. “Is that a... basketball uniform?” You mumble into her ear.

“Of course.” She raises both eyebrows, pressing her lips together as she fights a chuckle at the sight of your college team’s uniform.

Jacob isn’t a bad guy. Just a little painfully self-absorbed. And maybe slightly too obsessed with basketball—to the point where being team captain has somehow become his entire personality. Nicole went on one date with him last semester and came back with a migraine after listening to him talk about playoff rankings for nearly two hours straight.

She’d tried letting him down gently afterward, but he insisted on staying friends. Now he trails after her like an overgrown golden retriever.

“Which player did he dress up as?” You ask quietly.

Sarah’s face goes completely blank. She stares at you for a full second, mouth opening and closing once before she gives up entirely and decides eavesdropping on their conversation is more worthwhile.

“I need a teammate for beer pong,” he mentions offhandedly, pointing toward the long folding table at the far end of the living room, where rows of red cups are already set up beneath flashing lights.

Nicole grimaces slightly. “I don’t know. Maybe later? I’m with my friends right now.”

“Don’t worry about us, Nic.” You interrupt immediately, grabbing Sarah’s arm before she can object. “We’re getting drinks, then we’ll come find you, right?”

Sarah smirks at Jacob’s instantly hopeful expression and nods once.

“See?” He spreads his arms dramatically. “C’mon, we’re gonna crush them. Don’t you remember? You’ve got a winning streak to defend.”

Nicole laughs—a sharp, bright sound that somehow cuts through the pounding music.

“Okay, fine.” She sighs, sending you a half-smile.

As she steps beside him, someone near the table suddenly shouts her name. Then another voice joins in. Within seconds, half the group is chanting Nicole! loud enough to rival a halftime show.

Throwing her arms into the air, she pumps her fists along with the cheers like she’s entering a stadium instead of a living room.

Sarah shakes her head before nudging you toward the kitchen. “C’mon, Lola Bunny. Let’s get a drink.”

If his handlers found out about this, he isn’t sure he would get away with something as mild as hair pulling and a few lashes on his back.

“Cool outfit, dude!”

A guy dressed up as a banana—only his face visible through the costume—shouts after him. The Soldier glances at him briefly, expression unreadable, before continuing to run a silent scan of the room, re-evaluating the night’s target. His enhanced senses catch everything at once, unfortunately: from the humid press of bodies, to the sour-sweet spill of rum beside the DJ booth. Sweat and perfume and alcohol mingle into something thick and suffocating.

“Shit, man. That’s a nice costume you got there.” Someone slurs behind him. “Looks like real metal—” Before the hand can even reach his wrist, instincts detonate and his fingers clutch the guy’s forearm.

Hard.

“Ow ow ow—sorry sorry! Y—You’re crushing my bones, dude!”

The man wearing a cheap Jack Sparrow costume goes pale beneath the eyeliner, features twisting in pain as the Asset looms over him, a silent threat carved into posture alone.

At some point, he registers a small cluster of students turning towards them, whispering with curiosity blooming into something sharper.

Exhaling, the Soldier ultimately decides to release his grip. The pirate stumbles back into his friend, who immediately starts scolding him about consent and personal space.

Satisfied with the clear warning, the Soldier turns around, moving again through the crowd.

He raises an eyebrow, scanning the sea of people with his keen eyes. Finally, he catches a familiar pair of bunny ears excitedly turning left and right.

He walks to a dark corner of the living room with deliberate ease, folding his arms across his chest and leisurely resting back against the wall.

And he waits.

Nicole’s yellow and navy-blue plaid jacket is neatly draped across Sarah’s arm as she rolls up the sleeves of her shirt, a cocky grin spreading across her face. 

“Watch and learn, losers.” She snaps, reaching for a ping-pong ball.

From the sidelines, Sarah offers a shout of encouragement, her voice already a little hoarse from all the previous screaming as Nicole sank those balls one right after the other in the rival team’s cups with brutal consistency. You lean into her slightly, eyes tracking the table from one end to the other as a red cup still full of peach vodka sits loosely in your hand, mostly forgotten as you watch the game unfold.

Nicole lines up her shot with practiced ease, wrist flicking at just the right angle. The ball arcs, drops, and sinks cleanly into the last cup with a satisfying splash.

The crowd erupts, chants of her name break out from multiple directions as you and Sarah cheer, briefly pulling Nicole into a tight, celebratory hug. Jacob throws himself at her, and she shrieks as his muscled arms lift her body from the ground, parading your friend around like he would do with the player scoring at the last minute of an important game. Nicole blows a kiss at the losing team, and once her feet touch the floor again, she bows before the intoxicated crowd surrounding the table. 

You dart forward to hug her again, while Sarah claps behind you, still laughing. 

“God, you were amazing. That was a really Tour de France!” You beam excitedly, but Nicole just stares at you deadpan for a second, before bursting out laughing, too tipsy to deal with your clueless ass.

“Thank you, bunny.”

“Also, Jacob is still very much smitten with you.” Your eyebrows wriggle up and down and Nicole is already sighing half-amused, lips parting to say something, but Sarah’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Her expression tightens, focus snapping in place as she leans closer to you and Nicole, lowering her voice.

“Tactical guy is here.”

“Who?”

“The weird guy you bumped into outside. Black gear and blue eyes. Tactical guy.” She explains as if her choice of the nickname should be obvious.

He’s easy to spot because he doesn’t belong here—not in movement, not in stillness, not in anything about the way he stands. He towers above the crowd in matte black, posture too controlled and a judging frown permanently etched on his features.

The people around him are too inebriated to notice him, yet he doesn’t even spare a mere glance to anyone who isn’t you, not even the girl in a lingerie-level costume strutting up and down the room, hoping to catch the attention of his icy eyes. 

She doesn’t know he’s busy admiring a much better view that is making his pants tighter and tighter the more he studies it.

“Holy shit,” Nicole gasps. “He’s staring at you.”

Your stomach does a weird flip at her confirmation. At least you aren’t imagining it. 

“Yeah, and it’s creepy as hell. He hasn’t blinked once in the past five minutes.” Sarah frowns, goosebumps running up and down her arms. Nicole just smirks, eyes flicking between him and your parted lips. 

“Go talk to him!”

“What? No way!” Sarah retorts, her head snapping towards the other. “He looks like he eats people like her for breakfast.”

“Duh, that’s exactly her type!” Nicole chuckles, nudging you forward as she gently takes the cup of vodka from your hand. “C’mon, put on that pretty smile of yours and he’ll be asking you to go upstairs before the next song starts.”

Across the room, his steady gaze still hasn’t moved.

Sarah grabs your right arm again. “Seriously, something’s off about him.”

“Boring!” Nicole says in a singsong voice, rolling her eyes to the sky. “We’re literally right here if anything happens.” She touches your left elbow, subtly pushing you forward.

If this were a cartoon, they’d be the angel and devil arguing over your shoulders.

You grin as usual, even if your heart is pounding so fast you are sure it’s going to come out of your chest any moment now.

With a small nod, you leave your two bickering friends behind and slowly make your way through the bodies swaying to the beat of Candy Shop. Your heels click against the sticky floor, until they stop short in front of the brooding man. 

“Hey.” You smile, shouting over the music. “You look kinda lonely. It’s okay if you don’t know anyone, first parties are totally the worst. At my first college party, I ended up throwing up on my crush’s shoes after kissing him.” He doesn’t answer, but a deep line forms between his eyebrows.

“You’re very quiet, but that’s fine. My friend Sarah says I talk enough for two people. Or a whole group, depends on how much caffeine I’ve had.” You shrug.

Still nothing. 

“So, um… what’s your name?” You tilt your head, this time expecting at least a reluctant answer, but the guy just keeps staring down at you with an unreadable expression.

“You’re the silent type, hm?” You muse, your amused chuckle soft. “That’s okay. You’re like those spy movie protagonists who never smile until the very end, and then make everyone swoon the second they do.”

He blinks once. Slowly. Maybe a little confused?

“Anyway,” your manicured fingers adjust your bunny headband as you introduce yourself. “I don’t know if you remember but I actually ran into you earlier outside. Sorry again about that. I’m a little clumsy.” You clear your throat, taking a step forward.

“You really are a good listener, by the way!” You sigh dreamily. “Most guys just check their phones halfway through our conversation.”

“So,” You lean closer, slightly standing on the tip of your toes. “Do you want to dance? You look like you need to loosen up a little.” Your eyes immediately fall down to his torso, following the sculpted muscles hidden under those heavy clothes. It’s honestly a miracle slick doesn’t start running down your thighs the moment you realize he could literally pin you to the ground and have his wicked way with you right here in the middle of the party.

Well, you spoke too fast. 

The flimsy pair of panties you chose tonight to avoid the outline to be seen through the fit skirt, is getting damper. The thought of this beefy man fucking you until you pass out tickles the back of your brain for a second too long, and suddenly your thighs are clenching against each other in a way you are certain went unnoticed.

It didn’t. But you couldn’t know that the man in front of you is an enhanced individual who could probably track you from a single sniff of your pussy.

The pungent scent of something inherently you teases his nostrils even through the thick black mask. Yet he hesitates, as though he’s trying to determine whether ignoring you would make this conversation end faster. The problem is, he isn’t entirely sure he wants it to end. On one hand, he doubts he can keep himself together much longer if you continue speaking to him in that sweet voice, especially while standing this close to his starved body.

On the other… he doesn’t want to leave you.

But then you slip your hand into his left one, and his body stiffens.

“Wow, your hands are freezing!” You mention casually, squeezing his palm once. It’s indeed cold and weirdly smooth. Before his brain can fully process the alarming ease with which you’ve intertwined your fingers with the most dangerous weapon he possesses, you are unknowingly leading the fucking Winter Soldier straight onto a dance floor packed with sweaty college students—him silent and tense behind you, you practically glowing with excitement.

Yet, he doesn’t dare to stop you. 

Why would he do that? A gorgeous girl with soft hands and even softer eyes has been watching him like he embodies all her prohibited wet fantasies. He would be a cruel bastard to deny this pretty thing anything.

The dance floor is a chaos of flashing lights and flailing arms that makes the Soldier’s breath hitch, but you don’t give up, and lead him right into the middle of it. 

“Okay!” You yell over the music—far too close—and raise a finger. “Rule number one: just move! Don’t think too much about it or you’ll get self-conscious. I’m talking from experience.” Then raise a second one. “Rule number two: have fun!”

He just stands there—stiff as a marble statue—blue eyes darting back and forth, as if he can’t decide whether to scan the crowd like he’s on guard duty or watch the angel swaying her sinful hips right in front of him.

“See? It’s easy! Just let the music guide you.”

You smile anyway at his lack of response, peering up at him through your eyelashes. “You know, you look so cool. You’ve got this very brooding bodyguard vibe going on, like I’m some rich, dangerous man’s daughter and you’re protecting me from his enemies trying to harm me.”

Another confused blink. 

“Maybe I read too many fanfics.” You ponder under your breath, before you reprise your little tantalizing moves, giggling as your fingers barely wrap around both of his wrists to coax him to move with you.

Somewhere at the edge of the improvised dance floor, Nicole is whooping, bouncing on her feet like an overexcited puppy as she takes a sip of your drink. Beside her, Sarah observes the scene appalled.

“Shit.” She mutters, tiredly dragging a hand down her face.

“I like your company. You don’t talk much, but that’s okay. Also, you’re kind of scary—but like, in a cute way.” You chuckle, twirling once and nearly bumping into him again.

That’s when it happens.

A slow, careful shift of his shoulders, but it still is something. His movements are stiff, precise, like his body is negotiating with itself about whether it’s allowed to respond at all. But it’s enough to make you smile satisfied.

The heavy bass pulses hard through your bones, and for a moment, it’s easy to forget he isn’t even really dancing, yet his presence feels like gravity: solid, unshakable, dragging attention toward him without trying.

You turn once again, this time giving him your back. His hand accidentally brushes your hip, causing you to shiver at the faintest twitch of his fingers. They jump back at his side, flexing once like he’s fighting the urge to touch you.

You tilt your head up at him, eyelashes lowered just enough to make it feel deliberate. “Are you having fun, big guy?”

You don’t expect an answer, obviously, but the way his gaze sharpens, intensely following the movement of your lips, is enough for you. It’s not unsettling. On the contrary, it feels… focused. And you already love being the centre of his undivided attention. 

The music slows into a deeper beat, couples around you melting closer together, so you get bolder. Initially it’s your back simply brushing against his chest. And then, you unexpectedly find yourself gasping as his right arm circles your waist, keeping you firmly to his front. His jaw locks as you rub yourself against his solid body, your ass inevitably grinding against his bulge. For a second, you really think he might actually say something. Instead, his chest moves behind you with a slow exhale.

“You are so beautiful.” He murmurs against your neck, almost too quiet to hear. As a matter of fact, you don’t catch that, the words being swallowed by the loud song and the thick mask.

“Not so bad, right?” You bite your bottom lip, turning your face back enough to glance at him.

But your lips accidentally brush his mask and the last thread keeping his brain anchored to sanity rips in half.

“Oh!” A loud squeal erupts from your lips as the man spins you around and takes you into his arms. Suddenly, the world is hanging upside down.

Well, no. You are.

He throws your squirming body on his shoulder with an ease that should scare you, yet your stomach twists in excitement as you are kept completely still into his strong arms. You can feel several eyes burn through you as he struts towards the front door, an abrupt gust of cold wind sending a shiver down your spine as you realize he’s taking you somewhere outside.

“Oh my Gosh!” You giggle, feeling the urge to kick your legs like a teenage girl gushing about her crush. 

He’s taking you to the woods. This is really happening!

Inside, Nicole freezes mid-sip. “What the—is he taking her away?”

“I told you! Fuck, Nicole! I told you!” Sarah shrieks, running to the door with her friend in tow. They both stop on the porch, eyes frantically searching into the darkness, until they see you waving at them from his shoulder, grinning ear to ear. 

“Don’t wait up!” Nicole bursts out laughing, astonished.

“Holy shit, look at her, she’s loving it!”

Sarah groans in response, pressing a hand to her forehead, her chest heaving with quick, short breaths. “She’s giggling. She’s actually giggling. Why is she giggling?”

Nicole simply shrugs. “If a quiet, huge masked man with those gorgeous eyes picked me up like that to fuck me in the woods, I’d giggle too.”

They observe in silence as you get smaller and smaller, until you completely disappear amongst the dense trees. Nicole sighs, placing her hands on her hips.

“Well, you heard her, don’t need to wait up.” She claps once, skipping down the front steps.

“Where the fuck are you going? Of course we’re gonna wait for her to come back.” Nicole stops at the bottom of the stoop, throwing Sarah a deadpan look.

“You really think she’s coming back here? They will probably go at it like bunnies—pun not intended—all night, and then he’s going to take her home tomorrow morning.” She climbs two steps, grasping her friend’s wrist. “Like any adult having fun on Halloween.” She tugs at it, until Sarah reluctantly complies, hesitatingly following her to the Nissan.

“I don’t know, Nic. There’s something wrong about him—” 

“So what if the guy is quiet? Maybe he just wants to stay in character.” She huffs, raising both her eyebrows expectantly. 

“Mmh... that makes sense.” Sarah mutters, frowning at the trees. “Where are we going, by the way?”

“Home. And we are watching the new The Conjuring. You look miserable here.”

“Well thanks, you asshole.”

“You still haven’t told me your name.” You breathe out, yet to be released. After a few seconds of silence, you huff out a laugh. “You really don’t talk much, do you? By the way, that exit was so dramatic. I loved it!” He grunts in reply, shaking his head. It’s a deep sound that makes your legs shake a little, and you hope you’ll hear it again when he pounds you against a tree.

The walk feels endless as you dangle upside down, forced to watch the ground without anyone to talk to. Finally, he stops in a rather secluded place, and from the looks of it, you must be quite far from Ethan’s house.

Good. You don’t need some wandering drunk couple ruining your night.

As soon as your heels touch the crouching leaves scattered on the damp land, you shriek in surprise, finding yourself pinned to a tree as the man’s hands eagerly explore the sides of your body.

“O—oh! That—that feels nice.” You gasp when his palms squeeze your tits, his thumbs roughly stroking your nipples. The Asset’s eyes don’t know where to focus, torn between your hazy eyes staring up at him pleadingly and the outline of your turgid nubs pressing insistently against the fabric of your top.

“I need to kiss you.” He mumbles, the tip of your nose brushing against his mask. The hoarseness in his voice makes you flinch. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in a while... A long while.

“I don’t understand you.” You complain, clinging onto his vest to keep him close. He sighs, abruptly leaving your chest to cradle your face with a certain rudeness that twists your insides with arousal.

“Kiss. But you close… eyes…” He utters tentatively, staring right into your sparkling eyes. “Don’t look.” 

The implications of seeing his face are several and dire. First and foremost, he doesn’t even remember the last time he saw his reflection, and his heart wouldn’t bear a potential rejection. What HYDRA forces him to do is repulsive, but of course you don’t know who he is—and you don’t need to. His face could reflect that repulsiveness though, and be in the worst conditions known to mankind. At that point, why would someone as lovely as you allow him to taint your body with his touch? 

Plus, recognizing him would mean putting a target as large as a skyscraper on your back. If anyone were to ever find out about this, you would be in serious danger with both legal and illegal organizations. 

The less you know, the better.

Your eager nod momentarily sets his worries, your hands immediately shooting up to cover your face. The Soldier’s mouth twists into what should be a small smile, but probably looks more like a grimace after years of his features knowing only pain and anger. His trembling fingers reach for the side of the mask, stopping there briefly to take you in. He waits, just enough to make sure you are actually following his order. Then, the device is tossed to the side with an uncaring flick of his hand, falling on the ground with a dull thud.

His fingers shake as they wrap around each of your wrists, waiting. 

“Kiss, but… don’t look.” He repeats, his voice coming out in a rough, agitated whisper.

“My eyes are closed.” You swear, giving him a resolute nod. The Soldier lowers your hands with great care, until he can see your pinched expression as you keep your eyes squeezed shut. 

And then, your lips finally meet. From the way he was treating you a second ago, you would think he was going to kiss you just as softly, like a doll made of glass.

Wrong.

The kiss is feral. His teeth clash against yours, biting and tasting you as if he has been waiting for you his whole life, his tongue frantically searching yours as his hands keep your jaw firmly open, allowing him to do whatever he wants with you. 

And you can’t help a needy whimper from clawing out of your throat.

The Soldier pulls you closer to his chest, his metal arm now wrapping around your waist as the other hand traces a slow path down your body, from the side of your breast to your exposed thigh, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps. 

He knows he just crossed an inviolable line he won’t easily come back from. He was ruined the moment he decided to look for you inside that chaotic mansion instead of following HYDRA’s orders. Yet, that stinging guilt rapidly crumbles the more he kisses this sweet creature.

He has yearned for something warm for so long. Something soft, and pretty, and nice. Something that is completely and utterly his. And now, it is time to finally collect what he is owed.

The sloppy kiss is met with eagerness from your part, your hands urgently tugging at his vest to keep him pressed against your squirming form. You need more. You need to feel him too. 

He reaches for the corset first, pulling both cups down until your breasts spill free from their confines. Once his lips leave yours to focus on your neck, you let out a gasp at how dizzy you feel—your head has been spinning all along because of the intensity radiating off him.

Your moans are still pretty restrained, and the Asset doesn’t like that at all. He wants to hear you whimper for him, beg him to paint your insides white, scream his name over and over again in that sweet voice of yours.

His name. 

He doesn’t own a name.

Maybe you could give him one. You sound like a creative girl, with all your silly little anecdotes.

When his mouth finally reaches the swell of your chest, the sight of your soft, bare tits makes him grunt appreciatively. His lips immediately latch onto one of your nipples, while his capable fingers flick and tug at the other. Your whimpers echo through the small clearing as he uses his teeth to lightly pull at your sensitive nub, moaning as he feels it hardening in his mouth. The way he kneads and sucks at your soft skin reminds you of a starving man being offered food after a week without eating.

The Soldier has never seen a more beautiful pair of breasts in his entire life. Well, he doesn’t remember ever looking at a woman’s chest before, but if he did, he is sure it wouldn’t even get close to yours. 

The hickeys that now mark the tender skin of your tits are burning, causing you to flinch each time the Soldier’s tongue worships them softly. 

“What—oh shit—what’s your name?” You utter between your own wanton noises, eyes still closed as your head falls back against the bark of the tree. Your bare back keeps brushing against it as your body jerks in time with his tongue stroking your nipples. They are so sore, tingling whenever he leaves one exposed to the chilly October air to give the other some love. Still, the scratches on your back are already burning as the coarse surface cruelly scrapes your skin, and you’re certain they are going to hurt so bad in the following days.

The Asset momentarily leaves your nub with a wet pop, frowning up at your parted lips. He grips your jaw with one hand, keeping your mouth open while rising to his full height. He gathers a bit of saliva, before letting it fall gently onto your tongue. Your breath hitches at the unexpected, lewd act.

“Swallow.” His cock twitches at the way you obey at once.

“Soldat.” His voice is authoritative, leaving no space for questions and doubts, before going back to lavish your nipples. Your eyebrows momentarily knit in confusion, not understanding what it means.

Is it a video game character? Is that why he’s all geared up like some sort of spy?

Your brain doesn’t have the time to elaborate a sensible question, as a twist of your poor, abused peaks draws a loud cry out of your throat. 

The scent coming from between your legs is now too much for his straining cock. He needs to taste all of you: your mouth is sweet, your breasts are sweet... but the Soldier is certain your pussy is even sweeter.

With an annoyed huff at the realization he has to leave your tits, he makes quick work of removing his tactical vest, tossing it on the ground. You squeal as you are once again lifted in the air; still, you keep your eyes firmly shut and that makes his expression soften a little. 

“You’re such a good girl for me, sweetheart.” With a small peck, he takes you away from the poor tree that has already witnessed enough for one night, manhandling you down on your knees and guiding your hands on the ground to make you understand he wants you on all four.

“Stay.” The order growled right into your ear, along with his hands squeezing your hips, makes you whimper and nod quickly as a reflex.

Now that he’s behind you, you deem the situation safe enough for you to slowly open your eyes. Black spots soon materialize out of nowhere, yet you notice immediately the rough fabric underneath you. 

“Oh,” you blink at it. “Thank you, Soldat.” 

There might be a feral beast clawing at his chest, challenging him to take you right there right now, over and over again, but he doesn’t want the rough ground to scratch your knees and palms. The softness in your voice makes him tense up, enough to feel an unfamiliar sting behind his eyes. His name—his title—said with so much gentleness stokes the flames in his lower belly until he feels a damn blaze licking at his insides.

You barely catch the black glove being discarded to the side as his calloused hands grope your hips, pushing you back against his crotch. You gasp at the ferocity he puts into his thrusts as he starts rutting your ass, grunting and panting with the effort of not coming in his pants like a fucking virgin seeing a pretty girl half-naked for the first time.

“This is what you’ve done to me.” He groans under his breath.

“Soldat…” You hum, one arm reaching behind to caress a strong thigh. “Don’t tell me you’re going to come like this, humping me like an animal.” The little airy giggle you let out makes him swallow, a shiver running down his back at those mocking words that should make him recoil. Instead, the fire grows, and before he can regain control of his body, his hips stop abruptly. 

His nimble fingers don’t waste any more time, lifting the hem of your skirt until your ass is completely at his mercy.

“Yes, yes!” You encourage him, gently rocking back. The heady scent is stronger now, but it’s still not enough. The flimsy panties leave you with a sad ripping noise and a feral growl rumbling in his chest. A gasp falls from your lips at the sudden bareness of your core, giggling when you hear him inhale deeply. Is he smelling your underwear? Fuck, you want to turn around so bad and enjoy the show.

The Soldier almost drools when your scent clings to his nose, along with your slick soiling the delicate fabric. He clumsily stuffs your panties into his pocket, shifting around until he’s lying right beneath the lower half of your body.

“C’mere, bunny.” His digits sink into the skin of your thighs, forcing you down until you are fully sitting on his face. “It’s time to eat.”

“Wait! Oh, fuck!” Your lips part pathetically around a breathy moan as his tongue looks for your clit, pulling your knees apart until you’re completely spread open for him. Tears form at the corners of your eyes as your hips uncontrollably buckle down, clawing at the vest when the tip of his tongue leisurely flicks your throbbing nub.

A loud moan escapes your lips when he finally breaches your hole, eating and sucking as if he’s savoring the most exquisite delicacy he’s ever had the chance to taste. Your body squirms at the unforgiving stimulation, still, you’re covering his face like a fucking oxygen mask and you’re far too worried he’s not breathing at all. 

“S—Soldat, wait! You can’t brea—AH!” A smacking sound echoes through the air as his palm leaves his mark on your asscheek. “Fuck, please! Do it again.” You beg, hips grinding down without restraint as slick shamelessly falls into his waiting mouth.

Finally.

The Asset internally preens at your enthusiastic reaction to something he did so spontaneously. Unprompted. Human.

Because you are not treating him like a ruthless weapon. A lethal killer that acts in the shadow. An ugly experiment with no dignity left. 

But like a man.

So he does it again. And again. 

“Taste so good, my pretty bunny.” He rasps out, returning to your clit, two of his fingers curling inside you in the meantime. You yelp, the knot in your belly getting closer and closer to snapping. Your asscheeks are burning, yet you don’t stop his punishing palm, instead arching up into his hand every time it comes down on your tender skin. 

“I’m gonna come.” You mumble deliriously, sobbing when in response his metal palm smacks your ass before meanly grabbing the tender flesh, and a third finger joins the other two, pounding against that sweet spot of yours before your orgasm hits you out of nowhere.

“Fuck fuck—Soldat!”

He wonders what he’s going to do from now on when he hears that word. It would be impossible to not get hard as your delightful whines resound through his mind. 

Your hole clenches desperately as he nurses on your throbbing clit one last time, panting heavily once he lifts your shaky thighs up. 

“Holy shit.” He whispers surprised, licking his lips clean. His lower face is completely damp with your arousal, and in that moment he decides he’s not going to wash his face until the scent disappears on its own. 

The Soldier takes a good, long look at your trembling body, now back on his knees behind you. His palms gently caress your raw skin, pulling a shiver out of you as one of his two palms is colder than the other, yet the sensation is soothing against your burning cheeks. 

He would really love to kiss the sensitive spots until you fall asleep, but he can’t stop now, not when his cock is painfully craving to be inside you, his imposing bulge pushing forcefully against his pants.

The rustling sounds behind you are loud but you can’t find it in yourself to focus, still dizzy after the violent orgasm Soldat drew out of you mercilessly. You are not inexperienced by any means, yet you’ve never come this hard and fast in your life. You wonder if it’s the whole situation influencing you—being half-naked in the woods while a feral, beefy stranger eats your pussy as if it’s his last day on Earth—or if he’s just that good.

Maybe it’s a mix of both, maybe it’s something else. You don’t care. You just want him to rearrange your insides. Now.

You seem to share the same sentiment as your eyes widen at his cock obstinate at your wet folds. Your gasp soon morphs into a startled moan when the tip slides inside. The way he feeds you his length is far from careful, and without warning, your hole is tightening around all of him.

The Soldier needs to take a deep breath, the muscles in his abdomen clenching to prevent himself from disappointing you by spilling his cum at once.

When was the last time he was intimate with someone? When was the last time he felt something other than fear? 

He doesn’t hold back, gradually pulling back, before lust takes over him and your trembling arms give up under you. You fall forward with a whimper, resting your cheek on his vest as his grip on your hips becomes brutal, and barely catching the foreign words being muttered under his breath.

You are delirious with pleasure, the stretch of his thick girth burning so good you can’t breath—for a second you truly fear your hole is going to tear apart.

It’s almost humiliating how it takes only a big cock and a pair of broad shoulders to reduce you to a shaky mess of moans and whimpers. 

“Beautiful, sweet creature... you’re so lovely.” The obscene, sloppy noises of your pussy swallowing every inch of him drives him insane. You’re like heaven incarnate wrapped around him, and he refuses to leave, his hips barely pulling back as he clumsily humps you from behind. 

“Mine, mine, mine.” You whisper the name he gave you, lying helpless with your eyes rolled into oblivion and drool soaking the dark fabric under you. It’s a miracle how the bunny headband still survives on your head as his harsh thrusts push your body back and forth, your fingers weakly holding onto the same ruined vest that your nipples brush against, now rubbed raw and sensitive.

“That’s a good girl. She’s squeezing me so tight, baby. I can’t let you go now that I found you, need to keep you forever here around my cock.” He grits out, head falling back as he feels his orgasm dangerously close, yet he’s ready to deny himself over and over again until he can feel you come around him again.

“Bet you’d like that... be my little cumdump until you are too full it starts spilling down your thighs. But I’ll just fuck more into you and then everyone will know you are fucking mine.” That’s when, with his mind clouded by pure pleasure, he reaches between your wet thighs, experimentally spanking your clit.

“Fuck!” Your squeal pulls a smirk on his lips, prompting him to do that again, his thrusts still frantic and erratic. 

“Take it, my sweet little bunny. That’s it.”

Your nub throbs as the man fucking you like an animal smacks it repeatedly, and you’re certain he’s enjoying himself so much watching you jolt each time, panting like a dog the louder you whimper. His tip relentlessly taps your sweet spot, and it’s just a matter of time before you let out a delirious moan, walls tightening as your second climax washes over you—this time leaving you stiff and crying as wave after wave of bliss settle deep in your bones. 

 “Got… you.” The Asset grits out breathless as he buries his cock deep into you with a hard, final thrust, succumbing to the overwhelming sensation of your hole squeezing him. He falls over the edge with a guttural groan. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your insides at once—there’s so much of it you almost choke at the unfamiliar yet pleasant sensation of being stuffed full.

You shiver under him, exhausted but sated, yet the Soldier doesn’t seem to want to budge, still hugging you tight as his thighs shakes at every little twitch of his cock. 

It feels too much.

His dick snug inside your tight heat, your body held with care by the same hands soiled with innocents’ blood, the sudden emptiness in his chest after such a heavenly experience... Should he cry? He feels like crying. He’s almost certain of it, though he doesn’t understand why. He just had the best night of his entire life with the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. 

Still, the weird sensation sits somewhere deep in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar, pressing against ribs that only know obedience and survival.

He knows he’ll have to move eventually, reality catching up to him the moment he steps too far from this strange warmth you keep offering so freely.

But he doesn’t want to let you go yet.

Honestly, he isn’t sure he can.

“Soldat, my back hurts.” Your voice is feeble yet tinted with amusement. Still, he scrambles on his knees, pulling out carefully in fear of hurting you. You wheeze softly at the sudden loss, your weak arms barely moving at your sides as you try to get yourself into an upright position, but the man behind you has other plans. You find yourself facing him at once, gently led down until your back is touching the vest.

With your mind too foggy with exhaustion, it is hard to remember the only rule he gave you. And shock flashes across your face the moment you can finally see Soldat’s handsome features clearly.

Your lips part, a compliment already rising to the surface, but it never makes it out. His hands come up instead, cradling your face with surprising tenderness before guiding you into a slow, lingering kiss. There’s no urgency in his actions this time, no hunger sharpened by desperation. Just some deep and achingly careful adoration that makes your heart clench painfully all the same. The kind of kiss that feels dangerously close to a goodbye. Like he’s trying to memorize you through touch alone.

He kisses you until your lungs are begging for oxygen, and when he finally pulls away, neither of you can move. His blue eyes simply observe you, urgently tracing your features with a spark of veneration glinting in his gaze.

You look like the personification of debauchery with your smudged mascara and lips swollen from kissing and biting, the poor bunny ears hanging crookedly from your hair after being fucked so crudely.

Yet, the Winter Soldier thinks he has never seen anything prettier.

“I looked at you.” You whisper softly, your dazed eyes dancing over his face with sleepy fascination, utterly devoid of remorse.

His right thumb lovingly strokes your cheek, and somewhere beneath the Soldier, beneath HYDRA’s cruelty, something human finally smiles back at you.

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍

[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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[heldbybarnes]

library for two

pairing: regency!duke bucky barnes x reader | 7.7k

warnings: regency-era societal pressure, family disappointment, cruel sibling commentary, ableism toward physical disability/scarring, anxiety/insecurity, soft angst, slow-burn tenderness

summary: born the quiet, overlooked sister, you’ve learned to survive in the shadows—until a ball places you before duke bucky barnes, war-scarred, steel-armed, and whispered about by all of london. the ton declares you ill-matched, but in stolen quiet and candlelit corners, you discover a love that makes you feel seen at last.

authors note: i love the regency era and i loveeee this trope. the concept of duke barnes saving me from my family that doesn't understand me has melted me in an absolute puddle!! please note, in this fic, it is understood that the Queen grants each home with a "name". Ashford is the name of readers home and to make the story flow better in my head, is often called upon as such!

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The first thing your mother does, every time she looks at you, is count.

Not with her fingers—not so crudely. With her eyes. With the faint pause between breath and greeting. With the way her gaze passes over your sisters first, as if she must take inventory of what she is proud of before she can bear to acknowledge what she is not.

Arabella—oldest, already married and radiant in it, a hostess in the making with a laugh that never trembles.

Seraphina—clever as a blade and twice as polished, the sort who can make a compliment sound like a promise.

Daphne—pretty and effortless, all dimples and flirtation, built for ballrooms like a swan is built for lakes.

Imogen—sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, always the first to notice a weakness and the last to forgive one.

Cordelia—youngest, sweet-faced, eager, still soft enough to be shaped by the rest of them.

And then you.

Your father calls you “quiet” as though it is a virtue he might one day learn to tolerate. Your sisters call you “bookish” as though it is a disease. Your mother calls you nothing at all, most days, which is somehow worse—because it implies you are not a thing worth naming.

You’ve tried, in the ways a daughter tries.

You’ve worn the colors your mother prefers—pale pinks and creams that make you feel like a faded flower pressed between pages. You’ve practiced smiling until your cheeks ache. You’ve learned to curtsy without wobbling, to speak only when spoken to, to laugh on cue at jokes you do not find funny.

But there is no practice for being overlooked. No lesson for becoming small enough to stop disappointing the people who expect you to be someone else.

So you do the one thing you’ve always been able to do: you retreat to what does not ask you to perform.

You read.

In books, no one tells you that you are too much or not enough. No one sighs when you speak. No one looks past you to find the glittering thing behind.

Tonight, however, there will be no library to hide in.

Tonight, Arabella is hosting her first grand ball in London—her first as Viscountess Harrowgate, her first as the sister who has succeeded where your mother once feared daughters could fail. Her invitation came like a command sealed with lace: You will attend. All of you. The entire family. The ton must see us.

Your mother has clung to that final line like it is scripture.

“The ton must see us,” she repeats now, adjusting the line of your gloves with pinching fingers. “We must make an impression.”

“We always do,” Seraphina murmurs behind her fan, not quite hiding her smile.

“Precisely,” your mother says, and then her eyes flick to you like a draft sneaking under a door. “And you, my dear—please do try to look… pleasant.”

You swallow the first reply that rises in your throat. What does pleasant look like? Like Daphne? Like Arabella? Like someone worth watching?

Instead, you nod. Because you’ve learned that arguing only makes them look at you longer.

Imogen leans in as the maid pins a ribbon at your back. “Do not frighten away Arabella’s guests by talking about your dreadful poetry.”

“I don’t write poetry,” you say softly.

“You read it,” Imogen answers, as though that is equally offensive. “Which is nearly as bad.”

Cordelia, perched on the edge of the chaise like a bird too young to know the cage is real, tilts her head. “I like when she reads to me.”

Imogen’s gaze cuts. “That is because you are still a child.”

Cordelia’s mouth tightens. She looks down at her slippers.

Something in your chest twists—not dramatic, not sharp. Just a small ache you’ve learned to tuck away with the rest of the quiet hurts. You reach for Cordelia’s hand under the fold of your skirt, giving it a brief squeeze. She squeezes back, grateful, as though you’ve offered her a rescue rope.

Your mother misses the exchange entirely. “Remember,” she says, “you are not to wander. You are not to disappear into some corner like a—” She inhales, restrains herself, finishes with forced calm. “Like an unsociable girl.”

Seraphina’s eyes glint. “Like herself, Mama means.”

Daphne laughs, sweet and light.

Arabella, already dressed and luminous, pauses at the door. Her gaze lands on you. For a heartbeat, something softer lives there—under her pride, under her practiced hostess smile.

“Be kind,” she says to your sisters, quietly, but not quietly enough.

Imogen rolls her eyes. Seraphina’s smile turns sharper, but she says nothing. Your mother pretends she did not hear. Arabella hesitates, as if she might say something else—to you, perhaps—and then the moment passes. She is swept away by the crush of responsibility, the weight of her new title, the desperate need to appear perfect.

And you follow, as you always do.

The Harrowgate townhouse is a blaze of candlelight and expectation.

The entry hall smells of beeswax and perfume. Footmen take cloaks and names and secrets alike. The ballroom itself gleams—polished floors reflecting chandeliers like captured constellations. Everywhere there is silk and laughter and the soft shock of jewels catching light.

Your sisters bloom in it. Arabella floats through the room like she was born to move people where she wants them. Seraphina collects admirers as if it is sport. Daphne is surrounded before the first set ends, three gentlemen vying for her attention with the earnestness of men who have never been told no. Imogen stands near your mother, issuing judgments under her breath like a magistrate.

You stand where you are placed—near a pillar, close enough to be seen, far enough to be forgotten. Your mother’s hand presses briefly to your shoulder as she passes, a reminder that you are an accessory to her ambitions, not a person within them.

“Do not slouch,” she murmurs.

You straighten.

A waltz begins. Couples spin, skirts flaring like petals caught in wind. You watch the patterns because they are safe—numbers and music, steps and symmetry. It is easier to observe the world than to risk being noticed by it.

Your gaze drifts without meaning—past laughing mouths, past gloved hands, past the bright faces of girls who have practiced wanting what they are told to want.

And then you see him.

He is not bright.

He is not easy.

He stands at the far edge of the room near the shadowed archway that leads into the adjoining salon, as if the ballroom’s light is something he tolerates rather than enjoys. His hair is dark, brushed back with minimal care. His posture is too still—soldier-still, as though his body has learned to be ready even in peace.

The first thing people notice is his arm.

Even from here, you see the metallic gleam beneath the cuff of his sleeve when he shifts, the unnatural line where polished steel meets fabric. A murmur ripples through a nearby cluster of ladies; fans lift like shields. A gentleman leans in to whisper something that makes a woman’s eyes widen in fascinated horror.

The Duke of Barnes, someone says, and the name travels like a spark.

Duke.

War-torn.

Scarred.

A man made of stories the ton tells itself to feel thrillingly safe.

You should look away. It is what everyone else is doing—staring and then pretending not to, as though curiosity is indecent and empathy impossible.

But you don’t.

Not because you are brave, but because you know what it is to be watched like an oddity. You know what it is to be the thing people discuss behind fans and laughter.

As if he feels the weight of your attention, he turns his head.

His eyes find you across the room.

They are not the cold eyes of rumor. They are a blue-gray that holds storms and fatigue and something else—something older than the ballroom, older than polite society.

His gaze catches, and for one awful, breathless moment, you think you have done something wrong. That your staring has made you rude, that you are about to be exposed as the quiet girl who forgets the rules.

Then his expression shifts—not into a smile, not quite. Into recognition.

As if he has spotted another person standing at the edges, surviving rather than performing.

You look away first, because you always do. Because it is safer to become invisible.

But the heat of his gaze lingers like candle-warmth on your skin.

You last exactly twenty minutes before you need air.

It isn’t the crowd, not really. It’s the sense of being pressed into place—of existing as a piece on someone else’s board. You slip out when your mother is distracted by a conversation about dowries and Dorsetshire estates, and when your sisters are consumed by admirers.

The corridor outside the ballroom is cooler, dimmer. The noise becomes distant, as if you’ve stepped underwater. You move as quietly as you can, past a row of portraits in gilded frames—Harrowgate ancestors who look down at you with bored superiority.

A door stands slightly ajar at the end of the hall, light spilling from within. You recognize the room by its scent before you see it: paper, leather, dust warmed by lamps.

A library.

Your heart loosens, just a little, the way it does when you step into someplace that does not demand you shine.

You push the door open, slip inside, and close it softly behind you.

The room is lined with shelves, the kind that reach toward the ceiling like devotion. There are chairs by the fireplace, a writing desk, a scattering of volumes left open as if someone abandoned them mid-thought. A lamp glows on a side table, throwing warm light over a stack of books.

You move toward them as if drawn by gravity.

Your fingers brush a spine—Milton, then Rousseau, then a worn copy of Persuasion that makes your chest ache, though you are not sure why. You pick it up, almost reverently, flipping to a page at random.

“You’re hiding.”

The voice comes from behind you—low, roughened by disuse, as though he doesn’t speak often unless he must.

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn.

He stands near the doorway, half in shadow. The Duke of Barnes. Bucky Barnes, if the murmurs were accurate—though no one says “Bucky” in ballrooms. They say “Your Grace,” and they say it with a tremble.

He has removed his gloves. One hand is bare, strong, human. The other—metal, articulated in a way that is both beautiful and unsettling, fingers of steel catching lamplight.

He looks at you not like a creature to be studied, but like a person caught doing something familiar.

“I could say the same of you,” you manage, and it surprises you—how easily the words come.

His mouth tilts at one corner, nearly a smile. “I wasn’t subtle.”

“No,” you agree, and then you flush because it sounds like judgment.

He doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he looks… relieved. Like you have named the truth and spared him the performance of denying it.

“You shouldn’t be in here alone,” he says after a moment. “People talk.”

You glance at the book in your hand. “People talk no matter where I stand.”

He studies you as if the sentence has struck something in him. “That so?”

You shrug, a small movement. “My sisters are the sort people notice. I am… not.”

His gaze lowers briefly to the pages, then back to your face. “You came here for the books.”

“Yes.”

“And not,” he adds, almost cautiously, “because you were hoping to catch someone’s attention.”

The question is strange—almost too direct for polite society. But you realize he is not teasing. He is… checking. As if he has been hunted by expectations and wants to know whether you are another trap.

“No,” you say, honest. “I came because it is quiet.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing. “Good.”

You blink. “Good?”

“Quiet’s… rare.” His eyes flick to the door, as though he expects it to burst open with laughter and judgment. “And I’ve had enough of rooms full of people pretending not to stare.”

The words are careful, controlled, but beneath them you hear exhaustion. Something in you softens in recognition. Not pity—pity is a kind of distance. This is something else. Understanding, perhaps.

You find yourself speaking before you can stop. “Does it hurt?”

His gaze snaps back to you, sharp.

You almost apologize immediately. You almost retreat into silence, mortified at your own boldness.

But he doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t sneer.

He looks down at his arm, the metal gleaming where the lamplight catches the joints. His fingers flex once, slow. “Sometimes,” he admits. “Not like it did at first. But… there are things a body remembers.”

You swallow. “I’m sorry.”

He lifts his eyes again. “Don’t be. You didn’t do it.”

It is a simple sentence, but it lands heavy. Like a door opening into a room you’ve never dared enter.

You shift the book in your hands. “You fought in the war,” you say, not a question.

He nods once. “And I came home less… whole than I left.”

There’s no self-pity in it. Just fact.

You gesture helplessly to the library around you. “They talk as if you are a monster.”

His expression hardens, just a little. “They talk as if I’m entertainment.”

Anger rises in you—a slow burn, unfamiliar. You are used to swallowing hurt, not holding it.

“It’s cruel,” you say, and your voice is firmer than you expect.

Something flickers across his face—surprise, and then something warmer, softer. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is.”

You look down at the book, at the lines of ink that have survived centuries because they mattered to someone. “I don’t think you’re a monster,” you say, and the honesty in it makes your throat tight. “I think you’re… tired.”

His breath catches, subtle enough that you might have missed it if you weren’t watching him the way you watch stories unfold.

“Tired,” he repeats, as though he is tasting the word. “No one’s called me that.”

“What do they call you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

His jaw tightens. “Scarred. Ruined. Dangerous. Tragic.” A humorless exhale. “As if those are the only things a man can be.”

You meet his gaze, steady now because something in you refuses to flinch. “They’re wrong.”

His eyes hold yours for a long moment. The air between you feels charged—not with scandal, but with something strangely intimate: the shared relief of dropping masks.

“You got a name, Miss…?” he prompts gently.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know it, but because names, in your family, feel like expectations. Labels people use to decide what you are worth.

But his voice is not demanding. It is offering.

You give it. Quietly.

He nods as though it matters. As though he will remember it when the room grows loud again.

“I’m James,” he says, and then, as if he knows how stiff it sounds, he adds, “Most call me Bucky, when they’re brave enough to forget I’m a duke.”

You almost smile. “Bucky.”

The sound of it feels like stepping off a polished floor onto grass. Real.

He watches your mouth when you say it, and something in his expression softens into something you’ve never been the object of before: interest without agenda.

“You like books,” he says, gesturing to the one in your hands.

“I like stories,” you correct quietly. “I like… the way they tell the truth without making you perform it.”

His gaze drops again to the book. “Read to me,” he says, then pauses as if he cannot believe he asked. “If you want. I mean. You don’t have to.”

You should be nervous. You should be thinking about propriety, about how your mother would faint if she found you alone in a library with a duke whose reputation has frightened half of Mayfair.

But the room is warm and quiet and safe in a way the ballroom isn’t, and his eyes look at you like you are not a disappointment.

So you sit.

You choose a chair by the lamp, hands trembling only slightly as you open the book. He takes the other chair—not too close, not too far, positioned like someone who has learned to give women space. His metal hand rests on the armrest, glinting. His human hand folds loosely over his knee.

You begin to read.

At first, your voice is soft. Then it steadies. Then it finds rhythm—words like familiar footsteps. You feel him listening, truly listening, in a way most people do not. His gaze stays on the pages, on your hands, on your face. He does not interrupt. He does not tease. He does not try to impress you with his own cleverness.

He simply lets you exist.

When you reach the end of a passage, you look up without thinking.

He is watching you as if you are the most interesting thing in the room.

“What?” you ask, flustered.

He blinks, as if caught. “You look… different in here.”

“Different?”

“Like you belong to yourself.” His voice is quiet, almost reverent, and something in your chest aches with the sweetness of it. “In there—” his eyes flick toward the ballroom “—you were trying to disappear.”

You swallow. “It’s easier.”

He leans forward slightly, the movement careful, controlled. “Don’t,” he says, and the word is so gentle it almost hurts. “Not for them.”

Your throat tightens. No one has ever told you not to vanish.

Before you can answer, the door opens.

Light spills in. Laughter. A familiar voice, bright and sharp.

“There you are,” Seraphina says, stepping into the library as if she owns it. Her gaze darts to you, then to the duke, and her smile changes—becoming polished, predatory. “Oh.”

Behind her, your mother appears, like a storm finally finding the house it means to break.

You stand so fast the book nearly slips from your hands. “Mama—”

Your mother’s eyes lock on Bucky’s arm first, and you watch the reflexive flicker of distaste cross her face before she smothers it with forced courtesy.

“Your Grace,” she says, dipping into a shallow curtsy that contains more calculation than respect. “I did not realize you would be… joining us in private.”

Bucky stands, too. Taller than you realized. Broader. His expression closes like a door.

“Lady Ashford,” he says evenly.

Seraphina fans herself, eyes gleaming. “How extraordinary. I didn’t know you were acquainted.”

You open your mouth, but your mother speaks over you. “My daughter has a habit of wandering,” she says lightly, as though you are a child who strays from the nursemaid. “I was just reminding her of proper conduct.”

Bucky’s gaze shifts to you, and in it you see a question: Are you alright?

You nod, barely.

Your mother continues, oblivious to anything but appearances. “Of course, Miss Ashford is not… accustomed to such company. She spends most of her days with books rather than people.”

The insult is wrapped in silk, but it is still an insult. Your cheeks burn.

Bucky’s metal fingers flex once, the soft click of joints in the quiet room.

“She reads well,” he says, voice calm. “Better than most I’ve heard.”

Seraphina’s eyes narrow, quickly masked by delight. “How charming. I didn’t realize Your Grace enjoyed being read to.”

Bucky’s gaze is flat. “I enjoy honesty,” he answers.

Imogen’s voice drifts from the doorway now—she must have followed. “And what honesty is there in a girl hiding in a library?”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Imogen.”

Imogen shrugs, unrepentant. “It’s true. She cannot even survive one ball without fleeing.”

You want to disappear. You want the floor to open and swallow you whole.

But then Bucky looks at you again, and in that look is something steady—like a hand offered in the dark.

“She didn’t flee,” he says. His voice is still controlled, but there is iron beneath it. “She stepped away from the noise. There’s a difference.”

Your mother’s smile grows tighter. “A young lady’s duty is to be seen.”

Bucky’s gaze sharpens. “And a young lady is also a person.”

The room goes very still.

Your mother’s nostrils flare slightly, scandal barely held back. “Your Grace,” she says, warning threaded through the title, “I do not believe you understand—”

“I understand,” he interrupts quietly, and the quiet is worse than shouting. “I understand what it is to be treated as a thing rather than a human being.”

Your mother’s composure wavers for the first time. She recovers quickly, smoothing her skirts. “Come,” she says to you, voice clipped. “You will return to the ballroom.”

Your feet feel rooted.

Bucky’s gaze holds yours. He does not command you. He does not rescue you without permission.

But he stays.

So you take a breath you did not know you were capable of taking, and you nod at your mother.

“Of course,” you say, because it is not yet the moment to fight.

But as you pass Bucky, leaving the library, you feel something brush your hand.

Metal, cool and careful.

Not grasping. Not claiming.

Just… there.

A touch as light as a bookmark between pages.

Your breath catches.

His voice follows you, low enough that only you hear it. “Don’t disappear,” he murmurs. “Not entirely.”

You step back into the ballroom with your pulse racing like you’ve done something wildly improper—like you’ve done something dangerously brave.

After that night, the ton begins to talk in earnest.

They always talked about Bucky Barnes—about the tragedy of him, the horror and fascination, the rumors of how he lost his arm (a cannon, a blade, a French trap, a punishment). They talked about how he returned from war as if he carried winter in his bones.

But now, they talk about you too.

Because the Duke of Barnes calls.

He leaves his card at the Ashford residence the very next morning.

Your mother holds it between her fingers as if it might stain her. “This is highly irregular,” she says.

Seraphina’s eyes gleam. “It’s highly interesting.”

Daphne gasps, delighted. “A duke!”

Imogen sneers. “A scarred duke.”

Cordelia watches you quietly, worry and wonder tangled in her gaze.

Your father clears his throat, uncomfortable. “He is… wealthy.”

Your mother’s mouth tightens. “And damaged.”

Your stomach twists. “Mama—”

“I will not have you throw yourself at a man simply because he paid you a moment of attention,” she snaps, and the words hit harder than they should, because some part of you fears she is right. “You are not suited to the role of duchess. You would embarrass us.”

You go cold all over. “He wasn’t— I didn’t—”

Seraphina’s smile is syrupy. “Perhaps he only called because he enjoys being pitied.”

Bile rises in your throat. “I don’t pity him.”

Imogen tilts her head. “Then what do you feel?”

You don’t answer, because you cannot. Not without exposing yourself.

Not without admitting that one quiet hour in a library made you feel seen in a way you have been craving your whole life.

Your mother presses the calling card to the table as though pinning down an insect. “You will not be alone with him,” she declares. “You will not encourage him.”

“And if he asks to dance with you again?” Daphne asks, bright-eyed.

Your mother’s gaze flicks to Daphne, then Seraphina, calculating. “If he wishes to court an Ashford, he may court properly.”

Seraphina straightens, hopeful.

Your mother glances at you, and the disappointment sharpens. “But it will not be you.”

The room goes silent.

Your father does not contradict her.

Your sisters do not protest.

Only Cordelia looks stricken, like she has just witnessed a cruelty she cannot yet name.

You swallow the hurt until it tastes like blood. “Of course,” you whisper.

You excuse yourself before anyone can see you crack.

You take refuge where you always do—in a book.

But now, every page feels haunted by the memory of a voice at your side, listening. Of eyes watching you as if you mattered.

Days pass. Then another calling card arrives. Then another.

He does not stop.

Your mother refuses him twice before she can no longer do so without causing commentary, and commentary is the only thing she fears more than scandal.

So Bucky Barnes is invited for tea.

Your mother arranges the drawing room like a battlefield.

Daphne and Seraphina sit poised like flowers. Imogen sits like a judge. Cordelia hovers close to you, a quiet anchor. Your mother sits at the center, spine rigid, smile sharp.

You sit where you are told.

And then he enters.

In daylight, he looks even more out of place in your world—dark clothes, severe lines, a presence that fills the room without trying. His metal arm is covered by his coat sleeve, but you can see the shape of it beneath the fabric.

Your mother rises, all polite stiffness. “Your Grace.”

He bows, controlled. “Lady Ashford. Miss Ashford.” His gaze flicks over your sisters—and then finds you, and settles like something warm on your skin. “Miss Ashford,” he says again, softer, as if the second time is for you alone.

Your breath catches.

Tea is poured. Questions are asked—the kind meant to assess rather than understand.

“How is your estate?” your mother asks, as though she might find rot beneath the wealth.

“Managed,” Bucky answers, polite, clipped.

“And your health?” Seraphina asks, voice sugared. “You must have suffered terribly.”

His gaze is flat. “I recovered.”

Imogen’s eyes narrow. “Can you dance with that arm?”

The room freezes.

Your cheeks flame. “Imogen—”

Bucky’s metal fingers tap once against his teacup saucer, a soft clink. His expression doesn’t change. “I can,” he says simply.

Daphne leans forward, eager. “And do you plan to marry, Your Grace?”

Your mother sends her a warning look that says: Let him speak when spoken to, but the question is already out, and your sisters watch with hungry curiosity.

Bucky’s gaze drifts, slow, to you.

“I plan,” he says carefully, “to marry someone who doesn’t look at me like a spectacle.”

Seraphina’s smile falters.

Your mother’s eyes sharpen. “And where might you find such a woman?”

Bucky’s eyes do not leave you. “I’ve already met her.”

The air goes thin.

Your heart stutters. Surely he cannot mean— Surely—

Your mother laughs, brittle. “Your Grace, you scarcely know my daughters.”

“I know enough,” he replies, and there is quiet authority in it. “I know which one listens instead of performs. I know which one doesn’t flinch at my arm. I know which one reads like she’s speaking the truth.”

Your mother’s face tightens. “Miss Ashford is not—”

“Not what?” he cuts in softly, and it is the softness that makes it dangerous. “Not charming enough? Not loud enough? Not a proper ornament for your ambitions?”

Your mother’s mouth opens, shocked.

Cordelia’s hand finds yours under the cushion. She squeezes, hard.

You stare at Bucky, stunned. No man has ever spoken on your behalf. No one has ever put words to what you endure.

And yet terror coils in your stomach too, because his honesty could ruin you.

Your mother straightens, forcing control back into her spine. “Your Grace,” she says coldly, “you are not welcome to make sport of my family.”

“I’m not making sport,” he says. “I’m asking permission to court her.”

The word her lands like thunder.

Your sisters stare.

Seraphina’s cheeks flush with fury. Daphne looks bewildered. Imogen looks offended, as though he has insulted the entire concept of taste.

Your mother turns her gaze to you.

It is the same gaze that has weighed you and found you lacking all your life, but now it holds something new: fear. Fear that you might step out of your place.

“You will not,” she says quietly, as if she can command your choice by sheer will.

Bucky’s eyes are on you again, steady. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t pressure.

He waits.

For the first time in your life, a room full of people is waiting to see what you will do.

Your throat tightens. Your pulse pounds.

You think of the library—of quiet, of warmth, of being spoken to like you are not a disappointment.

You think of your mother’s words: You would embarrass us.

And then you realize something terrifying.

Perhaps you are done trying not to.

You swallow. “I would like,” you say, voice shaking but real, “to be courted.”

Your mother’s breath hitches, a sound like outrage.

Bucky’s expression softens—not into triumph, but into something that looks like relief.

“As you wish,” he murmurs.

Courting Bucky Barnes is not like courting any other gentleman.

He does not bombard you with flattery. He does not bring you bouquets that smell like a stranger’s effort. He does not linger too close, smile too wide, speak too loudly.

He brings you books.

The first time he arrives with one, your mother nearly chokes on her own indignation.

“A gift already,” she snaps. “Your Grace, this is—”

“A book,” he says, calm. “Not a diamond.”

“It is still an impropriety.”

He glances at you, eyes quiet. “Does she think it is?”

Your mother’s gaze darts to you, warning.

You take the book with careful hands, as if it is precious. “No,” you say softly. “I think it is… thoughtful.”

Bucky’s mouth twitches. “Good.”

He visits, properly chaperoned, though he treats your mother’s hovering like bad weather—present, irritating, not something worth surrendering to. Sometimes the chaperone is Arabella when she can manage it, her presence a small mercy. Sometimes it is Cordelia, who tags along like a determined little guardian, refusing to let your mother poison every moment.

Bucky speaks to you as if the room is not full of observers.

He asks what you like. What you think. What makes you laugh when no one is watching. He listens when you answer, even when your voice is quiet.

At first, you don’t know how to do it—how to exist without shrinking. You catch yourself softening your opinions, hiding your enthusiasm, stopping sentences before they become too much.

And every time you do, he notices.

“You don’t have to edit yourself for me,” he says one afternoon, when you pause mid-thought about a novel’s heroine.

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says gently. “I know that look. It’s the same one I wore when people asked me what the war was like and expected me to say something that made them feel brave for listening.”

You swallow. “What was it like?” you ask quietly.

His gaze drops to his tea. “Loud,” he says after a moment. “And cold. And… lonely, even with men beside you.”

Your chest tightens. “And now?”

He lifts his eyes. “Now it’s loud in a different way. People stare and whisper and decide what I am without asking.”

You shift, then, without thinking, you let your fingers brush the cuff of his sleeve where the metal begins beneath. Not grasping. Not claiming. Just touching the fabric, a question.

He goes very still.

Then, slowly, carefully, he moves his arm so the metal hand rests on the table between you.

The room is quiet. Even your mother, across the way, has paused—watching with something like horrified fascination.

Bucky’s eyes stay on yours. “You can,” he says, voice low. “If you want.”

Your breath catches.

You reach out.

Your fingertips meet cool steel.

It is not monstrous. It is not obscene. It is simply… part of him. And in the precision of its design, the careful way it responds when he flexes his fingers beneath your touch, you see something you didn’t expect.

Survival.

A body refusing to be ended.

A man refusing to be reduced to what he lost.

You don’t know why tears prick your eyes. You blink them back quickly, embarrassed.

Bucky’s gaze softens. “Hey,” he murmurs, as if the word is a comfort. “Don’t cry for me.”

“I’m not,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’m… angry for you.”

His throat works as he swallows. “No one’s ever been angry for me,” he admits, so quietly it feels like a secret.

Your fingers curl slightly around his metal ones—not tight, not possessive, just steady.

“I am,” you say. “And I think… I think you deserve better than their whispers.”

His eyes go bright for a moment, and you realize he is fighting something too—something sharp and painful and hopeful.

“So do you,” he says.

It is not the ton that tries to tear you apart first.

It is your family.

It begins with little cruelties. Imogen “accidentally” misplaces your gloves before an outing. Seraphina makes comments about your “strange taste” in men. Daphne, though less malicious, sighs and says, “But imagine the gowns you could have if you married someone… normal.”

Your mother grows colder by the day. She critiques your appearance like she is searching for flaws to justify her disapproval.

“Your hair is too plain.”

“Your laugh is too quiet.”

“Do not look at him like that. You’ll encourage him.”

One night, after Bucky leaves, your mother corners you in the corridor.

“You think this is romance,” she says, voice harsh. “You think you’ve found some poetic tragedy to live in. But men like that do not make good husbands.”

“Men like what?” you ask, quiet but steady.

“Broken men,” she spits.

Your chest aches. “He isn’t broken.”

“He is,” she insists, and her eyes flash with something ugly. “And he will break you too.”

You stare at her in the dim hallway, the candlelight making her face look older, harder. “You don’t know him,” you say.

“And you do?” she scoffs. “Because he listened to you read a book? Because he made you feel special for once?” Her voice sharpens. “You are vulnerable, and he sees it.”

Your throat tightens. “He sees me,” you correct, and your voice shakes on the truth. “No one else bothers.”

For a heartbeat, your mother looks struck—as if you’ve slapped her without touching her.

Then her face closes. “You are my daughter,” she says, as if it is ownership. “And you will not disgrace this family.”

You feel the familiar pull—the urge to shrink, to apologize, to become the obedient shadow again.

But the memory of Bucky’s steady gaze, his gentle don’t disappear, holds you upright.

“I’m not trying to disgrace you,” you say softly. “I’m trying to live.”

Her eyes narrow. “Then live quietly. Live properly.”

You swallow. “I have done that my entire life,” you whisper. “And it has never been enough for you.”

She inhales sharply, as though she might retort.

But footsteps echo from the entry hall—Bucky returning, perhaps forgotten something, or Arabella calling for you.

Your mother’s face hardens. “We will speak of this again.”

And she leaves you standing in the corridor, shaking.

The next ball you attend is not yours.

It is Seraphina’s—a smaller gathering, hosted by a friend who has a ballroom and a mother with ambitions just as sharp as Lady Ashford’s. Your mother insists you go, insisting that if Bucky intends to court you, he must show the ton he can tolerate society.

“He must prove himself,” she says, and you know she means: He must prove he is worth the risk of having you attached to him.

Bucky arrives late.

When he enters, the room shifts. Conversations stutter. Eyes turn. Whispers bloom like rot.

You stand near a wall with Cordelia, who clings to your hand as if she can feel the danger.

“There he is,” Cordelia whispers.

You look.

Bucky’s gaze finds you immediately, steady as ever. He crosses the room with controlled steps, ignoring the way people part like he is dangerous water.

When he reaches you, he bows. “Miss Ashford.”

Your mother appears at your shoulder like a hawk. “Your Grace.”

He doesn’t flinch at her chill. His attention returns to you. “Would you grant me this dance?”

A hush seems to fall around you—not because people are polite, but because they are eager to witness either romance or disaster.

Your mother’s fingers dig into your arm. “You must consider—”

“I have,” you say, and you step forward.

Bucky’s metal hand extends, palm up, not as a command but as an invitation.

You place your gloved hand in it.

His grip is careful, steady, warm through fabric despite the steel.

He leads you to the floor, and as you take your position, you feel the ton’s gaze like needles.

The music begins.

Bucky moves with surprising grace. The metal arm does not hinder him; it simply exists, as natural to him as breathing. His other hand rests at your back, firm but gentle, guiding you through the steps.

“You alright?” he murmurs, close enough that only you hear.

You swallow. “They’re staring.”

“I know,” he says softly. “Look at me.”

You do.

And the ballroom blurs.

Because his eyes are on you like you are not a spectacle, not a scandal, not a disappointment—just a person worth holding.

“Good,” he murmurs, as if praising bravery you don’t feel.

Halfway through the dance, you hear it—a sharp, cruel whisper from the edge of the floor.

“She must be desperate.”

Another: “No one else would have her.”

Your chest tightens. Your steps falter.

Bucky’s hold steadies you instantly, his hand at your back firming. “Hey,” he murmurs.

You blink rapidly, fighting tears. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, humiliated. “I shouldn’t—”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, and there is steel beneath the gentleness now. “Not for existing.”

You swallow hard. “They’re right,” you whisper, the old poison rising. “No one else would—”

His eyes sharpen, and for the first time you see anger in him—not wild, not violent. Controlled, purposeful.

“They’re not right,” he says quietly. “And if you ever repeat their cruelty to yourself again, I’ll have to spend the rest of my life proving you wrong.”

Your breath catches. “The rest of your—”

His gaze holds yours. “If you’ll let me.”

The music swells, and you realize the room has quieted again—not because of the dance, but because Bucky Barnes has tilted his head toward you as if speaking something intimate.

Your mother is watching from the sidelines, pale with fury.

Seraphina’s lips are pressed into a thin line.

Imogen looks disgusted.

Daphne looks conflicted.

Cordelia looks like she might burst into tears from sheer hope.

And you—

You feel like you are standing at the edge of a cliff you’ve been afraid to approach your whole life.

Bucky finishes the dance and does not let go of your hand when the music ends.

Instead, he turns to face the room.

The ton leans in, hungry.

He bows to you first, respectful.

Then he turns his gaze—cold, calm—toward your mother.

“Lady Ashford,” he says, voice carrying just enough. “May I speak with you.”

Your mother’s smile is rigid. “Now?”

“Now,” he says.

Whispers erupt.

He doesn’t wait for her to approve. He leads her—not by force, but by presence—toward a quieter corner, where Arabella has drifted close as a shield, and where your father hovers, uncomfortable but attentive.

You stand with Cordelia, your heart hammering, watching as Bucky speaks with your parents like a man who has decided he will no longer be treated as entertainment.

You cannot hear every word, but you see your mother’s expression change—anger, outrage, then something like calculation as she realizes the room is watching her now.

You see your father’s shoulders sag as if relieved someone else is bearing the weight of decision.

Then Bucky turns.

He walks back to you, the ballroom parting again, but this time the parting feels like acknowledgment rather than avoidance.

He stops in front of you.

“You told me once,” he says quietly, “that people talk no matter where you stand.”

Your throat tightens. “Yes.”

He nods. “Then stand with me.”

The simplicity of it steals your breath.

He turns, facing your parents, facing the room, facing the world that has tried to shape you into silence.

And then, in the most proper voice he can manage while still being utterly himself, he says:

“I intend to marry Miss Ashford, if she will have me.”

The room erupts.

Your mother makes a sound—half gasp, half protest.

Seraphina’s face goes red.

Imogen looks as if she might faint from outrage.

Daphne’s mouth falls open.

Cordelia clutches your hand so hard it hurts.

Arabella’s eyes shine with something like pride.

Bucky turns back to you, and suddenly none of the noise matters, because he is looking at you like your answer is the only thing in the world.

He doesn’t assume. He doesn’t claim. He asks—with his eyes, with his steady presence, with the gentleness in his voice.

“Will you?” he murmurs.

Your throat feels tight enough to choke you.

You think of your mother’s disappointment, your father’s silence, your sisters’ cruelty.

You think of the library, the lamp glow, the way Bucky listened like your words mattered.

You think of the metal hand that held yours like it was precious.

And you realize, with a clarity that makes you almost dizzy, that love is not loud.

Love is not a performance.

Love is someone seeing you in the quiet and choosing you anyway.

You take a breath.

Then you step forward.

“Yes,” you say, voice trembling but sure. “I will.”

Bucky’s eyes close for a brief second, as if the relief is too much to hold. When he opens them, they shine.

He bows over your hand—not for the room, not for propriety, but as if he is honoring you.

When his lips touch your knuckles through your glove, it feels like a promise sealed in warmth.

The engagement is a storm.

Your mother attempts to salvage control by insisting on conditions: timelines, announcements, guest lists. She speaks about scandal as though it is a living thing stalking your family.

Bucky listens, polite, unmoved.

He gives her the respect due to her position, and none of the power she thinks she holds.

Your sisters fluctuate between outrage and fascination. Seraphina makes pointed remarks about your “luck,” as if love is a lottery you cheated to win. Imogen predicts misery with the satisfaction of someone who wants to be right more than she wants you happy. Daphne, after one private conversation where she cannot quite meet your eyes, murmurs, “I didn’t know you could be… chosen,” and you realize she never believed you could be either.

Only Cordelia is unabashedly delighted. She slips into your room at night and whispers, “He looks at you like you’re his whole world,” as if that is the greatest magic she has ever seen.

And Arabella—Arabella pulls you aside a week before the wedding and presses your hands between hers.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

Your throat tightens. “For what?”

“For not noticing sooner,” she admits, eyes glossy. “For letting Mama and the others make you feel small.” She swallows. “I was so busy trying to be perfect that I didn’t see what it cost you.”

You blink, stunned. “Arabella…”

She shakes her head. “He sees you,” she says, and the words are soft, aching. “And I’m glad. I’m glad you found someone who does.”

You hug her, careful, and she clings back as if she’s been holding guilt for years.

On your wedding day, the world is still loud.

There are guests and whispers and eyes that try to measure you.

But when you stand at the front of the church and Bucky turns to face you, the noise recedes.

He looks nervous, you realize. Not about the ton, not about judgment.

About you.

About doing this right.

As if marrying you is something sacred, something he cannot afford to mishandle.

His metal hand trembles slightly when he reaches for yours.

You take it anyway.

You do not flinch.

You do not hide.

And when the vows are spoken, when you say I do, it feels less like stepping into a role and more like stepping into yourself.

Later, when the reception swirls with music and conversation, you find a moment of escape—not into a library this time, but into a quiet side room with a window cracked open to cool air.

Bucky follows you, as if drawn by instinct.

He closes the door behind him gently, then leans against it like he’s guarding you from the world.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You smile, small. “I should be asking you that.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

You drift toward him. Close enough to see the faint scars along his jaw, the lines of weariness that have nothing to do with age and everything to do with memory.

“You look…” You search for the word.

He tilts his head. “Like what?”

“Like you can breathe,” you whisper.

His gaze softens. “Yeah,” he admits. “Because you’re here.”

Your chest tightens with something sweet and painful.

You lift your hand, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he needs.

He doesn’t.

Your fingers brush his cheek, and his eyes close briefly at the touch, like it’s a kindness he still doesn’t fully trust.

“You know,” you whisper, “they’ll still talk.”

He opens his eyes, looking at you like you are a truth he chose on purpose. “Let them,” he says, voice steady. “They can spend their lives whispering. We’ll spend ours living.”

You swallow, emotion thick in your throat. “I don’t know how to be… loud.”

His mouth tilts, gentle. “Then don’t be.” He lifts his metal hand, slow, careful, and cups the side of your face with it—cool at first, then warming where it meets your skin. “I didn’t fall in love with loud.”

Your breath catches. “You—”

“I did,” he says simply, as if it is not a confession but a fact. “In that library, when you read like you weren’t afraid to exist. I’ve been done for ever since.”

A laugh escapes you, soft and disbelieving. “That’s not how courtship works.”

“It is for me,” he murmurs.

He leans in, giving you every chance to turn away.

You don’t.

His kiss is gentle. Not hungry, not demanding. Just warm and sure, like a hand finding yours in the dark. Like a promise kept in quiet.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment.

“You don’t have to disappear anymore,” he whispers.

You close your eyes, breathing him in—the scent of clean linen and winter air and something steady.

“I won’t,” you promise, and for the first time in your life, the promise feels possible.

Outside the door, the world still spins with music and gossip and expectation.

But here, in the small quiet, you are not an odd one out.

You are chosen.

And in Bucky Barnes’s careful hands, you find a love that does not ask you to be anything but yourself.

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

[singulartoast]

That’s All I Really Know

Pairing: Farmer!Bucky x Popstar!Reader Summary: When life keeps you apart from your rugged farmer boyfriend, Bucky Barnes, you start imagining the worst. Especially with how secretive Bucky has been acting lately ... Small sequel to Don’t Wait For The Sky To Clear Tags/Warnings: return of Bucky in a Stetson, yer, talk of processing farm animals, implied mutual masturbation and phone sex, no use of y/n, some miscommunication (Bucky being deliberately obtuse, Sam not helping) Word Count: 4.6k

You didn’t recognise the silver car parked out front. The silver car parked in your spot. The silver car you’d never seen before parked outside the farmhouse in your spot.

You cut the engine and closed your eyes, taking a long, deep breath.

Yes, coming to the farm was your escape. Yes, that Bucky rarely entertained visitors meant you were alone in a way you could never be back in the city.

You briskly told yourself that your immediate ire over seeing someone at Bucky’s farm was purely disappointment at delaying the peace and freedom you hoped to find here in his arms, but it was only a temporary setback and you would find that perfect bliss soon enough.

Those calming thoughts froze like ice in your veins and tasted like ash on your tongue when you mounted the three wooden steps of the verandah only to find Sarah Wilson stepping out the screen door. The smile on her face was wide, satisfied, like a cat who got the best cream, as her eyes took you in.

“Hey there, darlin’,” came that familiar drawl from somewhere behind her. “Wasn’t expectin’ you?”

Bucky stepped out, the shadow of his Stetson failing to hide the colour high on his cheeks or his eyes darting between you and Sarah like he didn’t know how to handle the situation before him.

Deep breath. “I thought I’d surprise you,” you said, struggling to keep your voice even. You turned to the other woman with a tight smile. “Hey, Sarah. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Hey, Princess,” she returned with a happy grin, and suddenly the sweet nickname the Wilsons had for you felt less like an endearment and more a cruel jibe. Sarah waved the papers in her hands. “I was just sortin’ some business with your beau, but I think we’re done for the day. Right, Barnes?”

Bucky stood, hands on hips, eyes taking in the two of you with his mouth pulled into a grim line.

He cleared his throat. “Right.”

Sarah’s smile was bright as she made for her car. “See you around!”

Bucky took two steps to stand even with you, his arm curving around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your temple as Sarah waved out the window of her car and turned for the property drive.

As the dust settled and her car disappeared from view, Bucky turned your body toward his and tucked you against his chest. You breathed deep, taking in his scent, the farm, and the quiet air.

“Not that I’m complainin’,” he started, cocking his head to peer down at you. “But I kinda enjoy yer usual way of tacklin’ me to the floor the moment you step foot up here.”

He crooked a finger under your chin, tilting your head up to meet his eyes squarely.

“Didn’t you miss me?”

His blue eyes were warm, soft and crinkled in the way he only ever looked at you, but you saw the flicker in the depths. The way his jaw still pinched tight.

He was worried. And not about your weak welcome.

You closed your eyes against his gaze and pressed your nose to his flannel shirt.

This was Bucky. Your Bucky. Your quiet man from the country who braved ruthless paparazzi and the overwhelm of the red carpet just to stand at your side.

“I wanted to surprise you,” you said again slowly, fingers curling into his shirt. “I didn’t expect you to have company.”

“Hm.”

The two of you stood together for a while longer, soaking in the feeling of holding each other after so long apart, the quiet of the late afternoon cloaking you both in its pull.

There was nothing to fear out here. Just the steadiness of the old farmhouse. The gentle calm of the land. The surety of the man in your arms.

Right?

“Come on,” he murmured, parting finally to swing open the screen door and lead you inside. “Had the butcher do up one of the steers. Just picked him up at noon.”

You nodded, feeling the farmhouse welcome you like an old friend in its warm embrace. Faded gingham curtains fluttered with a soft breeze. The kitchen counter was covered in styrofoam boxes, and stacked haphazardly on the dining table were some papers and Bucky’s meticulously detailed ledgers. He had digital copies, of course, but he always maintained that paper made more sense to him. It’s what Ma taught me, and it sticks, he’d said, and it had made you smile.

You didn’t feel much like smiling when he hurriedly cleared the pile away to the writing desk in the corner, locking them up like … like …

Well, like he was afraid you’d see them.

He quirked a brow at you when you very visibly shook your head, trying to dispel the thoughts seeping in like poison. You rubbed at your temple and Bucky rounded the table again, concern etched all over his face.

“Did y’want a bath?” He asked, eyes searching for a sign that would tell him exactly what was wrong so he could fix it for you. “A drink?”

But still you caught the way his eyes darted back to the writing table, double checking it was closed up.

“I’m fine,” you murmured, and that caught his attention.

Eyes zeroed in on you, unwavering, and he crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Nah. Try again. What’s going on in that pretty head ‘f yers?”

You had always been honest with Bucky. It was never an agreement the two of you came to, never a conversation had about it, just a fact of nature. You’d never felt the need to be anything less than transparent with him, and you appreciated beyond measure that he was the same with you. It was a precious thing to you, a rare commodity in a world where lies and hidden agendas lurked behind every conversation Hollywood had. Bucky was the one beacon of truth in your life.

You worried your lip between your teeth before replying. “You looked a tad guilty when I found Sarah here.”

And there it was again. You saw the flash across his eyes before he avoided your gaze, saw the colour highlight his cheeks as he rubbed at the back of his neck.

“You surprised me, is all. Not often you appear unannounced at my door. Not anymore.”

Not since the week you met two years ago. You were too wary of your limited time and of interrupting his work and routine to be a nuisance like that.

But you’d missed him, dearly. Award nominations and the PR maelstrom that came with them had kept you busy, and then calving season had kept him completely occupied with his herd. This year alone you felt like you’d spent more time without him than with him, and it burned an ache in your soul so deep you’d taken the first opportunity you could to drive out.

But that ugly voice in your head, that one that was getting louder by the second, whispered a particular piece of poison that settled cold in your stomach.

It said, maybe he didn’t miss you that much.

You couldn’t let the lie take root. You couldn’t let it twist your mind against him. You only had to ask him for the truth, and he’d set you straight. You know he would.

“Why was Sarah here?”

The words were barely a whisper, so quiet you wonder if he heard them at all. But he did. You could see the gravity of your question weave through his mind, could see the wave of expressions across his face as your meaning and his reality played out before you.

“Darlin’, you ain’t got nothing to fear from Sarah Wilson.”

Tears slipped free before you could stop them.

A small wounded noise escaped Bucky as he pulled you into his arms again, one hand cradling the back of your head and the other wrapping tight around you.

“Honey,” he murmured against your temple, kissing your skin and your hair, and pressing his cheek against your head. “Sarah was here f’ business, just like she said. Farm business. You got me?”

You sniffed and nodded against his chest, but the sick feeling didn’t yet let you out of its hold.

Bucky’s metal hand swept soothingly up and down your back and he slowly rocked you in his arms.

“Farm business. That’s all. Couple changes I was thinkin’ of makin’ and needed a carpenter’s eye on things.”

He drew back only far enough to look you in the eye so you could not mistake his words. “I love you, you hear me? You. My popstar. My sweet darlin’ girl. Ain’t no one in the world competin’ with you.”

You drew in one shaky breath, then another. Your lip wobbled with a smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Okay,” you whispered, and he nodded once, sure his words got through to you, and pressed a brief kiss to your cheek.

“Now how about that beef? What’re you feelin’? Haven’t put any cuts away yet. Y’ got yer choice of …”

His voice slid over you like a wave as he stepped into the kitchen and begin sorting through the styrofoam boxes of meat, telling you in his gruff manner about the young steer he’d picked out and how the herd was looking as the calves grew stronger.

His Stetson sat beside him on the counter, a thin layer of dust paling the dark leather. You scooped it up by the brim and settled the hat over your head.

Bucky immediately stopped talking. Watching him watch you, you saw his jaw tighten as he looked you over, beautiful blue eyes flashing with something dark. Possessive.

“No one f’me but you.” It was barely a murmur, but it was there, plain as day in his stance and his gaze.

Finally the truth sank in, and you nodded, smiling up at him, your fears abated.

Mostly.

Later, lounging on the couch together, a thought occurred to you and you poked at his arm.

“Hm?” He shifted the notepad he was scribbling in to look at you.

“What changes were you going to make around the farm?”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “What?”

You shuffled, lowering your book and turning to face him. “Earlier, you said you were working on farm business. You wanted to make some changes.”

He looked back down at the notepad and started scribbling again, and even without the warmth from the fire you swore you could see his cheeks darken. “Just some ideas I had. Don’t feel like gettin’ into it now.”

“Oh, sure.”

You looked back down at your book, but the words swum before your eyes and that cold feeling started to take root in your stomach again.

Weeks had passed. Months. Some days you could catch Bucky during normal hours, but here you were late on a Friday night at the recording studio, trying him one last time. You’d begged your manager to step away for just a moment, claiming an urgent call, but he only rolled his eyes and waved you off.

He knew urgent didn’t mean work related.

The dial tone taunted you, until—

“Bucky’s phone.”

That was not the voice you expected to hear. “Sam?”

“Hey there, Princess.”

“Where’s Bucky?”

“He’s cutting struts for the, uh, the … barn.”

You blinked. All those words made sense together, but the delivery gave you pause. “The barn?”

“Yup. Barn.”

“What’s he doing to the barn, Sam?”

“I-I don’t know, Princess, you know I’m no good with this cattle nonsense. I’m just a barman.”

“Don’t give me that tripe, Wilson. Are you telling me Sarah’s husband is the only man running your folks’ farm and you know nothing about its workings?”

“Don’t you go questioning my manhood now, missy, or we’ll be having some words.”

“I’d like to have some words with Bucky.”

He spluttered something that didn’t quite sound like words, and you weren’t even sure they were directed at you, before grumbling, “Not with that attitude you’re not.”

And he hung up.

You gaped down at your phone but had no time to react or process, your manager already reappearing at your side to usher you back into the studio. Just one more sound bite and you could all leave for the evening.

Miles away, Bucky winced as Sam passed his phone back to him.

“Yer gonna put me in the doghouse with that attitude, punk,” he grumbled, hoisting the planks of hardwood they’d been working on up over his shoulder. “Help me with this, would you?”

“… and then he hung up on me!” You finished your story, gesturing widely in a bewildered manner, and across from you Natasha rolled her eyes.

“That Sam has a wild streak,” she said, taking another bite of the meal before her.

“You haven’t even met him,” you say, shaking your head and looking down at your plate.

Natasha’s eyes widened. “You’re always talking about what those boys get up to out there,” she said around a mouthful of food. “Ain’t hard to figure him out.”

You were glad the restaurant had a more private area available tonight so you and Natasha could eat and talk in peace. Being able to freely talk about what was on your mind without it landing in the tabloids the next morning was a blessing.

You could see it now. ‘City Girl whines to Country Queen about her Bumpkin Beau.’

Poking idly at your meal, you sighed. “This is the first time in two years we’ve been so out of sync. I can’t catch even a moment with him.”

Natasha shrugged. “You know he’s got a lot on his hands with those calves and getting them ready for auction.”

“I know, it’s only— wait. I told you about that?”

Natasha shrugged again, eyes on her food. “Time of year for it anyhow.”

“Sure.”

Pushing food around your plate, you bit your lip and put down your fork. It was now or never. You had to speak the fear that was plaguing your mind. “I worry he’s had enough of me.”

A heavy snort and peeling laughter had you looking up at your friend, her obvious mirth pulling a smile from you even as your stomach turned in knots.

“Honey,” Natasha said, reaching across the table to rub your hand. “That man is smitten. Has been since the moment he laid eyes on you. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.”

She turned back to her meal, shaking her head and chuckling softly again. “And he’ll prove it to you, I’m sure. Just you wait.”

Waiting. That was the hardest part, the insufferable waiting.

You hadn’t been to the farm in months, and with all the seasonal work left to do, Bucky couldn’t afford to be away at the moment either.

Sighing, you started on your food again. “Yeah,” you said, smiling wanly at Natasha. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“Fuck, darlin’ you sound so damn sweet.”

His voice crackled over the phone but you couldn’t mistake that low gravelly tone. He was so close.

“Wish I was there to … to…”

He trailed off in a groan, and your answering gasp had him doubling down, his grunts and your moans building to a crescendo as you chased that high together.

You peaked first.

Your phone, forgotten, tumbled from your shoulder as your back arched, and from the muffled response on the other end of the call you knew Bucky fell apart right after you.

Panting, body flooding with warmth, you curled onto your side. A soft sound escaped you, one still full of longing. A little mutual play helped soothe the ache he’d started in you, but it didn’t quite fill the void in your heart where you missed him.

“Hmm, needed that,” Bucky drawled, back on the line, and you smiled at the satisfaction in his voice. “Need more though.”

“Yeah?” You asked, your voice small. “Need the real thing?”

His needy groan was nothing like the sounds he’d been making just moments before. “Fuckin’ right I do.”

“Maybe … next week?”

A pause. That was all it took for your stomach to swoop in fear all over again.

“Next week. Yeah … yeah, let’s do next week.”

“You sure, Sarge?” He didn’t sound sure.

He huffed out a chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, “Been a long time coming.” His voice was quiet, almost like the words weren’t meant for you, and suddenly next week couldn’t come soon enough.

You know you’d been gone a long time, longer than normal, but even you couldn’t mistake the sight that greeted you as you pulled up to the turn into the farm.

There was something unfamiliar on the horizon. You parked just outside the gates to Bucky’s main drive, and frowned.

Out there in one of the fields, a gentle hill that used to hold crops through spring and fed the cattle through the fallow years, sat a newly constructed building.

You stepped out of the car to swing the gate wide, checking the letterbox automatically as you did, and returned to slowly drive your car through, all the while taking in this strange new building on your boyfriend’s land.

Even at this distance you could tell it wasn’t another barn or pen. It was too domestic, with its beautiful large front window, small porch, and various satellite dishes and poles on the roof, all obvious signs pointing to a human dwelling.

Months of conversations, of cryptic words and misunderstandings came to a head, and you felt laughter bubble up out of you.

He’d been building. That’s what this was all about?

You ambled down the dirt drive, replaying every word that had twisted you up in knots. Bucky’s ‘farm business’ with Sarah—the owner of the hardware and supply store in town. Sam’s faux pax and cutting you off the call. Bucky’s late hours, later than normal even for a farmer, obviously spent working on this new project.

You passed the final post of the fence line and pulled into your spot in front of the farmhouse, and frowned.

Why the secrecy?

And what was the building even for, so separate from the main house?

You saw the kitchen light flicker on inside and found yourself smiling despite the questions circling your mind. Climbing out the car, you left everything behind as you ran across the yard and up those three steps to see him.

He met you at the screen door, pulling you in for a devastatingly thorough kiss.

“Hello,” you whispered, a little breathless. “What’s with the building out there?”

Bucky groaned, shaking his head. “You couldn’t wait five minutes?”

He kissed you again.

And again.

Moaning softly into his mouth, his hands crowding you against his body, you pressed a hand to his chest to try and stall the onslaught of attention.

“Missed you,” he mumbled against your mouth, barely letting his hold loosen, and you wanted to melt.

“Don’t keep me away so long again,” you said, your voice mock stern, and he shook his head, deep blue eyes searching yours.

“Never.”

Something in his eyes caught you. You looked closely, and found uncertainty clouding his gaze, a frisson of doubt through the love he held for you, and your breath caught.

“Bucky?”

He cleared his throat, kissing you thoroughly one last time before drawing back.

“You, uh, wanna see what I’ve been workin’ on, darlin’?”

You simply nodded.

You needed answers.

The four-wheeler stood nearby and Bucky took your hand, leading you over to the vehicle and hoisting you up on the rear. Firing the motor he ambled off.

You noticed now the main drive began to continue on, a new track leading straight up the hill to the little building perched there.

The noise of the motor meant you couldn’t pester him with questions, and so every bump in the track and the rumble of the vehicle had your nerves and your curiosity building like wildfire.

Finally parked out front, you hopped off the four-wheeler before Bucky even cut the engine and stared up in awe.

It was a miniature farmhouse. The little porch you’d seen from the drive in had two small chairs sat side by side, and next to you in the yard was a new firepit dug deep. You could just imagine being out here late autumn, sitting with Bucky, admiring the perfect view of the sunset and the farmhouse below by a roaring fire.

The walls were a faint yellow, just like the faded wallpaper inside the farmhouse proper, and it warmed your heart.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured as Bucky stepped forward.

“Mhmm. Little surprise for you.”

Your eyes darted back to him. “Bucky … what is this?”

You’d never seen your strong, rugged farmer look so small. His shoulders hunched, Stetson as crooked as his tiny smile, and he jutted his chin out toward the building, urging you forward.

“Get inside and look.”

You climbed the three stairs up to the porch, delighting in the similarity with his family home, and swung open the screen door.

It was small, and quaint, the smell of fresh paint and inherent newness washing over you.

Immediately inside sat a tiny kitchenette and dining table with bench seats. A door disappeared ahead off into a room you could already spy a bed in, and another lead to a small bathroom. It was modest and comfortable.

But what caught your attention was the wide sliding doors that led to something from your wildest dreams.

A complete studio.

Your feet dragged you forward as you stared wide eyed at the room around you. Floor to ceiling foam and soft covers, a desk with monitors and two brand new PCs whirring softly beneath it. An empty guitar stand stood off in one corner, next to—

Your keyboard. The one he’d bought as a gift in the first year of your relationship, something for you to use and work from when you were staying on the farm. He’d moved it and set it up perfectly to the side.

Microphone stands and brand new headphones sat nearby, and you realised the walls were littered with power outlets all ready for strenuous use.

“This hill had the best signal around.” His voice was barely a rumble from behind you. “Satellite and mobile reception. Laying the lines for internet took longer than the whole damn construction.” He muttered something under his breath about fuckin’ telecomm companies, and you giggled despite yourself.

You touched a hand to the soft foam wall at your side, like feeling it would make your mind accept the reality before you.

“It’s soundproofed,” he said. “Had Nat check it all out.”

You whirled on him. “Nat? Natasha?”

His cheeks, if possible, burned brighter. “Needed to know it was good enough f’ you.”

You couldn’t close your mouth. You turned and turned, taking it all in again and again, agape.

“So… you can work from here. Take yer calls and meetings, record, play and sing as loud as you want.”

Your heart stuttered.

“It’s all quality gear, I made sure of it,” he said, taking your silence for hesitation.

“So, what you’re saying is—“ stepping toward him, you picked up first his metal hand then flesh one, clutching tight to his fingers and gazing up at him, “—I could stay here. With you. I wouldn’t have to leave.”

He cleared his throat once, twice, scowling when the words still caught, but you waited with bated breath, wanting to know exactly what he’d planned.

“Yeah. You can stay here ‘n’ work. I know you’d still have to head to the city. There’s things there yer needed for. But—“ he broke off, and for his sake you would swear against it until the day you died, but nothing could ever make you forget the way your strong, stoic farmer’s eyes misted over as he said the words, “But I want you to live with me. Be with me. On my family’s farm.”

He drew his metal hand away for a moment, keeping your left hand held tightly in his, and you closed your eyes as happiness overwhelmed you.

“Bucky, I would love to live with you,” you gushed. “It’s all I—“

You felt him shift and you opened your eyes to the sight of James Buchanan Barnes dropping to his knee in the middle of the studio he built for you.

“Darlin’, I don’t just want you to live with me,” he murmured, and your free hand rose to cover your racing breaths as he dug into his pocket and produced a beautifully fine piece of jewellery. 

“My darlin’. My little popstar.”

You hiccoughed on a wild giggle.

Bucky swallowed hard, and you felt the tremor in the hand that held yours tight. “Ever since that storm blew you onto my property I knew you were somethin’ special. Didn’t even know then all the fanciness that went along with it, but you know that’s not what matters to me.”

His gaze on you softened, eyes warm and crinkling in that way you loved so much, and you felt a tear slip down your cheek.

“You’re brilliant. Kind. Goddamn sexy. And I don’t wanna spend another minute of my life wonderin’ when I can see you again.”

He took a deep breath, posture straightening below you, and his grip on the delicate little ring tightened.

“The whole world wants a piece o’ you, but I wondered if you might wanna do me the honour of bein’ just mine.”

You held your breath.

“Will you marry me?”

There was no hesitation on your part. No question, no thought in the world that was anything other than—

“Yes!”

Bucky Barnes rarely smiled. He’d perfected the art of communicating with his eyes alone, though sometimes you coaxed a crooked grin or two from him.

But this man before you, grasping your left hand with care and sliding his engagement ring onto your finger, was beaming. His rosy cheeks and mile-wide smile were brighter than you’ve ever seen, and he surged to his feet to pick you up and spin you around. Your laughter rang out, clutching at his shoulders and letting him twirl you about with glee, until he placed you back on your feet.

You stared up at him, then down at the ring on your finger glinting in the light from where it rested on his shoulder.

“What if I’d said no?”

He groaned. “Don’t. I drove myself buck wild debatin’ this whole thing.” He dropped his forehead to yours, murmuring, “Hated hidin’ it from you. Hated bein’ so busy doin’ somethin’ f’you I couldn’t even talk to you.” His accent was thick with emotion, and you pulled him down into your embrace, arms strong around his shoulders and your face pressed to his neck.

Home.

“I knew something was off,” you whispered, the months of fears completely drained away. All that was left was the truth. “I just didn’t know you would … that all this was …”

Choking up on your own emotions, you huffed out a breath as Bucky pulled you impossibly closer, crushing you to him like he never wanted to let you go.

“All f’you,” he mumbled, and you felt the hot sting of his tears against your face. “All yours.”

There were no cameras, no crowds, no witnesses to this singular perfect moment.

As if reading your mind, Bucky shifted in your arms. “I figure the wedding has to be a big affair,” he said gruffly, swiping at his face like he could hide the evidence. “What with you needing to invite half of New York and all. So I wanted this to be just … us.”

Just something simple and meaningful. Just Bucky.

Home. Your home, and Bucky’s, together.

Finally.

“What do you say we test out just how good the soundproofing is?”

His answering chuckle was wicked and low. “Thought you’d never ask.”

[singulartoast]

Don’t Wait For The Sky To Clear

Pairing: Farmer!Bucky x Popstar!reader

Summary: A storm blew you off course and into his bed leaving an invisible string tying you to rugged farmer Bucky Barnes. Can he rodeo the red carpet while you write melodies in meadows?

Tags/Warnings: strangers to lovers, smut (unprotected p in v, oral (m and f receiving), one spank, egregious use of a wooden fence), Bucky in a Stetson, no use of y/n, petnames (darlin’ and honey, Sarge and cowboy), alcohol consumption but no drunkenness, maybe vague implied animal farming, shifting POVs, yer

Note: Written for my darling @buckysdecaflove for the Dear My Darling Reader Valentine Fic Exchange hosted by the delightful @salty-tang. As promised because of our little matchmaking trio, the barest hint of a TSwift reference lolol

Word Count: 17k

Currently Listening: “Come In With the Rain” by Taylor Swift & “Good Directions” by Billy Currington 🎵

I’ll leave my window open  ‘Cause I’m too tired tonight to call your name  Just know I’m right here hoping That you’ll come in with the rain …

Event Masterlist | AO3 | Read the sequel

His harmonica wailed out a lonely tune into the stormy night.

He’d watched the dark clouds blow in early afternoon, his small herd already crowding against the outer barn wall, bawling and mooing, making their agitation known. He’d pushed open the doors, letting his best girls amble into the barn for their safety while he cleared up for the day. Even Alpine, the fiercest prissy barn cat he’d ever met, had disappeared into the top rafters of the hay loft. Her bunker for the night ahead.

He stored the four-wheeler in the shed, the tractor already put away that morning, stowed his tools, and shut up for the night.

And he did it all alone.

When the sun disappeared, he didn’t know, the sky already painted black and blue with clouds.

Now, sitting out on the sheltered verandah, Stetson tilted low and bending notes on the blues harp as fast wind and heavy rain tore through his property, he didn’t bother to lament the devastation the storm was causing to his crops. Couldn’t think now about the old northern fence line that might not hold up in this weather. Instead Bucky found his mind wandering, craving the kind of company a cold, wet night like this always demanded.

What he wouldn’t give to have a warm body in his bed tonight. Someone desperate beneath him, their cries and warmth chasing off the chill of the storm. Someone to fall asleep to, to hold tight as the night cooled, and to pull closer as the morning filtered in.

A flash of lightening to the east broke his reverie and drew his gaze, and in the distance he saw it.

Two beams of light recklessly arcing over his field as some tiny car made its way down his property drive. 

His hands dropped to his lap with the harmonica and he cursed, grumbling about idiots getting lost on country roads, taking the wrong turn-offs, disturbing his peace.

He hauled himself to his feet when the car ambled into his yard, a tiny thing not suited to long country drives, and watched until the engine cut and the figure inside peered up at him.

He walked back into the house.

You bit your lip as you approached the house slowly. A lone light shone in one window but the rain was crashing so hard against your windscreen you couldn’t make out anything else.

With every bump in the road as you rolled over uneven ground, you cursed the weather, the poor cell service, the shoddy country signage, and even your childhood friend who you had driven out to see in your precious spare time.

Your twenty-three-city-sixty-two-show tour of the US was over, most of the major music awards done with just one to go. You’d agreed to see your darling friend in her third trimester who was, as she said, in dire need of civilised company.

Inching along this wet dirt road in the middle of nowhere, the rain battering your poor car, desperately trying to reach the only buildings you had seen for miles, you were feeling rather un-civilised about the whole endeavour.

And what would you even say when you pulled up? The truth made you feel so foolish. Assuming whoever lived in this house didn’t abduct you or worse upon recognising you instantly.

You weren’t egotistical, but as the number one pop singer in the country regularly topping the charts, you were thoroughly aware of the cursed enormity of fame that dogged you like this storm chased your tailpipe.

Your headlights ambled hesitantly past the last posts flanking the dirt drive. Passing the final fence line you entered the bare bones yard, open grass to one side and an old rusted wreck to the other. The tracks you followed led further on to a parked beaten truck, but you halted directly in front of the house.

The windscreen wipers ticked frantically and the shadow of a person obscured by the rain stepped forward out of the dark, making you gasp.

At least now you were sure there was life out here. 

You switched off the car but the roar of the rain was louder, unceasing noise as it battered your car with the wind.

A sign hanging from the verandah roofline swung in the wind and caught your eye. There was some word burned into the wood that you squinted to see in the low light…

J. B. BARNES

The stranger, whose shrouded figure you could barely see, promptly turned and headed back indoors. 

Probably to fetch a shotgun to tell you to get off their property.

You hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but a door in the face before you’d even stepped a foot out was a bit much.

Gathering your things that had scattered during the drive into your handbag, you pulled yourself together and prepared to run for your life.

You opened the car door, the rain barrelling in immediately. Scrambling, your sandalled foot dropping straight into a muddy puddle, you clutched your handbag close, not even needing to close the door behind you—it slammed shut with the force of the wind. You hurried through grass and mud up to the verandah, hands uselessly trying to shield your face from the rain that soaked through your thin cardigan in seconds.

Climbing the wooden steps to shelter you halted, panting, looking back out at the blustery weather you’d braved, and gulped. The wood farmhouse broke the storm about you, wind and rain held at bay by its warm old bones, and you were grateful for the reprieve.

The farmhouse door opened, and you weren’t sure if the man that stepped out was a killer or not.

In that moment you didn’t care.

He was the most devastatingly handsome man you had ever seen.

Hollywood was full of models, men groomed and primed to polished perfection, but this rugged man before you drew your attention in the most primal way. His chiseled jaw was shadowed by a few days worth of scruff. His button-down shirt sat taught across his broad chest and arms, the top few buttons undone revealing a hint of chest hair and a chain that disappeared beneath where your hands itched to follow, the fabric hugging down his body to jeans that barely contained his strong thighs.

But when he tilted his head to look at you out from under his dark brimmed hat, it was his eyes, pools of stormy blue boring into you with barely held frustration, that had you swaying closer toward him.

“You lost.”

You tried to blink away your stupor. “Yes. I’m so sorry, my phone dropped reception and—“

“Wasn’t a question.”

Taken aback by his abrupt response, the words died in your throat.

Oh he was definitely going to murder you and bury you in a field somewhere. Maybe throw you in a pig pen like those documentaries. No one would ever know, they would never find you, you would be—

“There’s bad weather,” he said matter of fact, like you were stupid enough to miss it. “Come inside.”

And he walked back in without another word.

You hesitated by the door, looking down at your muddy sandals and feet. Gingerly you toed them off, swiping your feet on the doormat to try to remove the grime, before stepping inside.

The house smelled earthy, of lingering smoke and wood from the lit fireplace which closely warmed a couch and solid wood coffee table. A bureau sat disused in the corner surrounded by shelves, and the remaining open space was dwarfed with a heavy rustic dining table. The kitchen was surprisingly modern, still country but in a  magazine-chic way, and your hero-slash-murderer rounded the counter, his presence filling the room and leaving a delightfully male scent in his wake.

Finally, in the soft light overhead, you caught the glimmer of a metal prosthetic as he palmed his phone and dialled out a number without saying another word to you

“Yeah, Sam. You still open?” Cold blue eyes settled on you. “Had a stray blow in with the storm.”

His face clouded over, eyes flashing, and he cursed to himself.

Obviously Sam didnt provide the answer he was looking for.

You inched forward, clutching your handbag tightly to you, knowing you should say something but not sure what.

He turned his back to you, leaning back against the counter, and you felt your mouth hang slack at the sight. He might as well be naked with how perfectly his shirt hugged every ripple of his back and shoulders.

A long ago conversation about not wanting country boys flew in your face. This man before you broke every rule you’d ever thought to set. 

His voice dropped to a low murmur, and you tucked your wet hair behind your ear to listen in closer.

“… yeah, whole crops gonna be drowned come mornin’. Nothin’ I can do now.” A pause. “You sittin’ pretty out there?” Another pause. “And Sara?”

You found yourself smiling at the way his chuckle turned wickedly cheeky, barely hearing the agitated ear-bashing this Sam was giving him over the din of the rain. “Just being neighbourly is all. A’ight, man. Later.”

He turned back, tossing the phone onto the counter, and stared at you. His face was more relaxed now than it had been before, the laughter having eased the hard lines, but you still found yourself caught under his steady gaze.

“What’s yer name?”

You tensed. Eyes narrowing on him you hesitated to answer, looking for some kind of trick or prank. Did he not recognise you after all? Finding no reason in his openly bored expression not to respond, you told him your first name only.

No flash of recognition. No reaction at all really.

So you asked, “What’s yours?”

“Bucky,” he said instantly. Then— “James.” His faced twisted like he was annoyed at himself. “Everyone calls me Bucky.”

He cleared his throat.

“Want a beer?”

You nod.

“Bathroom’s down on the right.” He jerked his head in the direction of the hallway, and you stood still for a moment longer, unsure why he was offering up that information.

But curiosity about your reluctant host spiked, and you decide to investigate the bathroom. If that’s where he wanted you to go.

Floorboards creaked between flashes of lightening and you lightly traced your path down the hall with your fingertips against the faded yellow wallpaper.

A door at the end of the hall, cracked open, revealed the barest outline of a bed from the light from the hall. Quietly, you turn to the door on your right.

When you stepped foot in the bathroom, you realised exactly why he sent you.

Your hair, soaked from your dash in the rain, was still dripping and plastered to your head. Your makeup, not waterproof, had half dried again in ghostly trails across your cheeks, mascara now smudged in an unintentional smoky eye. Your cardigan was doing more harm than good, soaked as it was and making you colder. With a grimace you made for the sink, grabbing a fluffy towel for your hair, and tried to make yourself presentable again.

All the while you marvelled that for all his gruff behaviour he hadn’t said a thing about your messy appearance.

Back in the kitchen, Bucky was still staring off down the hallway, gaze unfocused as he awaited your return.

The sight of your sleek form, clothes rain-plastered around your gorgeous curves, seared like hot iron across his brain.

His streak was as dry as a dusty dirt road and you swanned into his farmhouse like a wet dream, all prim and proper. Just begging to be ridden dirty for a country mile ‘til you were stained with it.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his now too-tight jeans, trying to ease the rise you got out of him.

He’d retreated behind the kitchen counter to not scare away the poor city girl looking for a rescue. 

And he had no doubt you weren’t from around here. No where near. Your doe-eyed expression was one thing, but you were too shiny. Too perfect. From the Big Apple license plate on your fancy car to your clothes and the way you held yourself, you were too good for where you found yourself stranded.

Maybe the devil himself had heard him and delivered temptation right to his door.

Hearing the water shut off, Bucky shook his head to temper his racing thoughts and cracked opened two beer bottles as you walked back into the room.

But he didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes raked over you from head to toe when you reemerged.

Fresh faced and drier than before, you looked far too pretty standing in his living room, clutching your bag and soaking wet jumper nervously.

So he pushed a bottle at you and took your jumper without a word, walking around to drag a chair away from the dining table toward the fireplace. He draped your piece of clothing over the chair back, arranging it so it would dry quick as a whip by the firelight, wondering what you thought that scrap of fabric was going to keep at bay in this weather.

Finally he dropped onto the couch, feet kicking up to rest on the solid wood coffee table and arm draping over the back cushions.

“Might as well get comfortable. Storm won’t clear ‘til mornin’.”

Only then did you move, placing your bag on the floor.

“I’m so sorry for intruding like this,” you began, rounding the couch and your eyes darting to the open space on the couch next to him. Though you still wouldn’t sit down. “I lost reception and my navigation dropped out. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Bucky sighed, taking a long drag from the bottle. Didn’t anyone keep maps anymore?

“In clearer weather you’d best have backtracked to somewhere you knew. But out here in this—“ he sucked on his teeth, shaking his head, “— roads this far out of town might wash away if the rain keeps up. Yer better off here than out there.”

You don’t look relieved by his statement and he wanted to laugh. So skittish. Probably never had a bad day in your life before now.

Poor city girl.

“Where you headed?”

Wrong question. Your expression shuttered and body tensed, same as before when he’d asked your name.

He held up a hand to stay the answer you weren’t going to give anyway. “Nevermind. Not my business.”

Your eyes softened and he felt strangely elated at having read you so easily.

“Who is Sam?” You inched closer, still no intention to sit, the beer bottle turning in your hands as nervous fingers sought to ease your tension. “That you called earlier? About me.”

“Owns the bar in town. Has a couple rooms upstairs.” Bucky shrugged, taking another sip. “But he’d locked up and left already.”

He eyed you over again and you shivered under his gaze. It definitely wasn’t from the cold— you were warm all over every time he looked at you.

Lightening flashed so brightly it illuminated everything outside the wide windows, and seconds later a crack of thunder nearby made you jump.

Bucky cursed under his breath. “Sit down already so I don’t gotta crane my neck to look at you.”

With another apology you quickly sat down next to him, the warmth in your body ticking up a notch higher as you feel the brush of his fingers against your shoulder where his arm resting on the back of the couch. Directly behind you.

Doing your best to ignore it, you twisted in the seat to better talk with him—and immediately regretted it. Only you didn’t, not really.

If you thought he looked delicious before, here before the fire, shadows and dancing light making the angles of his face harder and his eyes glow ocean-blue, he was absolutely sinful.

You bit your lip and desperately told yourself to ignore the way his eyes dropped to your mouth.

“Ain’t got much by way of lodgings, but you can crash here on the couch for the night.” His mouth pulled to one side in a not-quite smile. “Guest room ain’t prepped for guests, and wouldn’t be right f’me to let you head back out in this.“ Thunder rolled overhead, ominous and low, lending weight to his words.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” you murmured, the guilt mounting again at appearing on his doorstep like this. “I appreciate the kindness. Yours was the only place I could see around.”

He took another swig of beer instead of replying, and your gaze lingered on his prosthetic, fascinated. The firelight made its inset gold turn molten, the dark metal surrounds inky black as the night sky. It was a work of art.

Much like its wearer.

“So, what do you do, city girl?”

You shifted, still uncomfortable with his questions, but where was the harm? You were sure by now he either didn’t know who you were, or was a skilled liar. Based on his blatant honesty so far, that seemed unlikely. “I’m a singer.”

His brow raised, eyes showing nothing but interest — and not just in your answer. “Oh yeah? Have I ever heard yer stuff?”

“What do you listen to?”

You watched the way his mouth twisted as he mused on that for a moment. “Forties and fifties, mostly.”

“Then probably not.”

“Probably not,” he agreed. He motioned with his beer toward the shelves you’d spied earlier, saying, “Got grandmama’s old gramophone over there.”

You glanced back, spotting it nestled amongst the books and papers, and though you were fascinated it didn’t quite draw your attention the same way Bucky did.

“That’s neat,” you say politely. “I’ve never heard one play before.”

He nodded, his thumb gently gathering the condensation on the side of the bottle he held. Your eyes followed as one rivulet formed and rolled down, down, catching the bottom rung as a droplet before falling to his jeans clothed thigh.

In your mind, it hissed on contact.

“Ma used to love playing it on nights like this.”

You hummed a response, forgetting the conversation entirely, your mouth parched in a way that had nothing to do with thirst.

You took a swig of beer anyway.

He watched the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed.

“You live alone out here?”

He nodded slow, his eyes locking on your mouth. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips and you tracked the movement, bottom lip dragging between your teeth as you wondered what his lips taste like.

Thunder cracked directly overhead, the booming sound shaking the old walls of the farmhouse, and a strangled shriek escaped you.

Much to Bucky’s amusement. As his soft chuckle soothed your frayed nerves, you felt his fingertips at your shoulder again, touching burning into your skin, his arm on the back of the couch curving into you.

“Yer a flighty filly, hm?”

You realised you had plastered yourself to his side, clutching at his shirt, and yet you didn’t want to let go.

He took your beer bottle and his, placing them on the coffee table, and turned back to you.

“C’mere.” The low rumble of his voice tore through your body just like the storm raging outside. Your eyes dragged up to his. “I’ve got you.”

The last thing you saw was the blue of his eyes almost completely black, pupils blown wide.

Then his mouth was on yours.

You gasped into the kiss and he immediately swooped in, tongue tangling with yours in a groan.

You were kissing a complete stranger. Maybe possibly your future murderer.

And it was good.

You broke away. “We shouldn’t have done that.” Your eyes met his again and your voice grew small. “I don’t even know you.”

His lips slowly curved into the first real smile you’ve seen, eyes crinkling and teeth flashing. It transformed his whole face and your lips parted on a small breath.

You forgot why you stopped kissing him.

“Wanna know me?”

With a nod you fisted your hands in his shirt and fell into his chest, lips crashing against his and smothering the low groan he let out. His arm snaked around you, drawing you impossibly closer, metal hand sliding up the back of your neck and into your hair.

He tilted you in his grasp, deepening the kiss, and you were lost. Lost in the taste of him, in the way his hands held you steady even as you came apart.

And that was just his kiss.

So when he turned your body, pressing you back into the couch and pulling away, your hands scramble to pull him back, your lips seeking his.

“Trust me.”

You fell back limply against the couch, pouting just a little. “You can’t go kissing a girl like that then leave her.”

But Bucky’s chuckle was wickedly low as he slid from the couch and kneeled on the floor before you. “Not leavin’ you, darlin’.”

His eyes, hooded and dark, drag from your pouty mouth down your neck, scored red from his stubble, over your heaving chest and to your legs.

“Wouldn’t dream of leavin’ you hangin’.”

His hands clasped your knees, slowly, slowly, sliding up your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper, mind finally catching up. With his help you unbuttoned your pants, peeling the slightly rain-damp fabric from your legs, a few giggles and chuckles from each of you slowing the process.

Your panties quickly followed.

You think you should feel cold, but with the fire burning before you and Bucky’s hands swiftly acquainting themselves with your bare skin, your temperature was soaring.

His touch drove you wild. His calloused hand on your bare thigh in stark contrast to the smooth metal of his other hand, both gripping and rubbing your skin as he watched you intently. Your breaths sped up with every inch he climbed higher.

Where he leaned down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee, your stomach clenched and your hips rolled, and there was that low chuckle again, a rumble you felt resonate within you.

“C’mere.”

He encouraged you to hook your legs over his shoulders, opening you wide to his gaze, his stubble grazing against the soft skin of your inner thighs.

“You said yer a singer?”

You could do nothing else but nod frantically.

“Let me hear you high pitched then, honey.”

You held your breath.

With the fire behind him you couldn’t see his face, shadowed between your legs, but even in the contrasting dark you didn’t miss the determined glint in his eye when his tongue licked that first achingly slow stripe between your folds.

No warning, no gentling you through it. You couldn’t control how your jerked against him, you were so shocked at the molten touch.

He wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you down, holding you apart.

You watched, mouth open, as he licked his lips and leaned in again, tongue flat as he lapped at you real slow.

His groan matched yours.

“Taste like sugar.”

Then he devoured you. Tongue delving deep or swirling with earth-shattering accuracy. One hand left your thigh to plunge one finger in, then two, stretching you wide, curling just right, soothing and building an ache within you all at once.

There’s a noise, louder than the rain and the wind, louder than the howling storm outside, and you slowly realise it’s you. Your keening cries as you bucked against his tongue, as your thighs tried to close around his head— but he ruthlessly held your legs apart with his metal hand, holding you down, making you take his fingers and his tongue until your thighs shook and you couldn’t think anymore.

His fingers crooked and you shattered.

Heels of your feet digging into his back, hands clutching desperately at his hair, you arched as you came hard against his tongue and around his fingers, his name a broken prayer on your lips.

Fitting since sin incarnate knelt before you, hair tousled and chin wet with you. He pressed soft kisses to your inner thigh, beard scratching gently and making you shiver.

He shrugged your legs off his shoulders.

“Hold on.”

Wrapping your legs around his waist and arms behind his neck, Bucky lifted you easily, metal arm under your ass to keep you steady.

He covered the length of the house in a handful of strides, toeing open the door you had spied earlier into his bedroom.

Shuffling you in his grasp he sat on the edge of the bed with you straddling his lap, mouth seeking yours over and over again as his hands fumbled with the hem of your shirt. Finally he slid off your shirt and bra, baring you completely to his gaze.

He was still fully clothed.

Shivering, not from the cold but the sheer force of desire running through you, you placed your hands on his chest and pushed. He gave way, laying down on the bed, staring up at you with those hypnotising eyes that drank you in as you got to work on his shirt.

Unbuttoning slowly, you marvelled at every perfect inch of skin you revealed. Spreading the halves wide you stared down at him, not knowing your hips rocked a needy rhythm as you took in the sight of his chiselled body, honed from years of hard work, his dog tags and chain bright in the dark. 

“Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and this ain’t gonna last long.”

Palm pressed flat he ran his hand from your navel up your stomach and between your breasts before grasping the back of your neck and pulling you down for a searing kiss. You writhed against him, his skin scorching hot under yours.

“I have to have you,” you mumbled into his lips, body arching with the way his palms travelled the planes of your back.

“Top drawer.” His hands dropped to clasp your hips and ground you down on him.

But with a whine you shook your head. “I’m on the pill. And clean. Please?”

A guttural groan tore from him and his head dropped back onto the bed.

“Lord, this woman might kill me yet.”

And you’d thought him the murderer.

You couldn’t wait any longer. Sitting back you started on his belt and buckle, fingers fumbling in their haste, the straining heat of him making his jeans impossibly tight.

The button popped and he toed off his boots, helping you shove down his jeans and briefs until he finally sprang free.

A sharp breath escaped at the sight of him, thick and full, pearl glistening at the tip.

Bucky swore when he caught your stare.

“C’mere.”

A word had never held so much power over you before, but if you heard him say it one more time—

Dragging you forward he slid between your slick folds, tearing a moan from you both as he rutted up into your heat.

With one hand between you he palmed himself, settling you over his thick bulge, and eased himself in.

You sank down slowly, hand braced against his chest, taking him inch by delicious inch. He stretched you, filled you, until finally, fully seated, your name escaped his lips in a guttural groan.

The fullness of him choked you, your hips already rocking with the need to ease the ache and chase more of it.

Lips parting on a breathless moan, you began to ride, his hands like a brand against you, guiding your hips, grasp steady as he showed you how to take him. A sheen of sweat over your thighs made you shine in the dim light.

Bucky watched you, devoured you with his eyes, fucking up into you with a strength that had you gasping and moaning and begging for more.

His hand pressed between you, rubbing against that perfect spot right where you joined that hurtled you quickly to the edge.

Your head rolled back, thighs shaking, grinding down against him.

With a grunt Bucky sat up and flipped you onto your back. Settling between your thighs he entered you again with one devastating slow roll of his hips, sinking so fully inside you saw stars. Legs hooked around his waist, and hands clawing at his shoulders, you took it all as he pounded into you again and again. You could feel every inch, every drag of him against your walls, driving into you, quickly bringing you to the edge and sending you soaring. 

His name left your lips over and over in a broken sob. It’s raw, unguarded, so precious it’s holy, and you hear how it affects him, his ragged breaths ripping through the air.

He comes with a sound that starts with your name but devolves into a ragged groan, hips slowing, thrusting shallowly as he rode it out.

Until he slumped over you, weight caught on his arms, face pressed against the hollow of your neck.

You don’t know how long you lay there, hands gentle against the planes of his back, feeling every ripple as your breath slowed to match his.

It’s quiet.

The storm still raged outside, wind and rain and lightening battling it out across the fields, but here in this house all you listen for is the sound of his breath.

Eventually he pushed away, brushing a kiss against your cheek and padding out of the room. His naked silhouette in the dim light of the night burnt into your memory.

There’s the sound of running water, then he’s back, wordlessly handing you a damp cloth to clean yourself up.

He fell into bed beside you with a sigh, arm slung up over his head and eyes closing. 

Clean, you dropped the cloth to the floor, drawing the covers over you.

Quiet descends again.

“I don’t normally do this,” you whispered into the room.

Bucky’s voice was thick with sleep, his words slurring when he answered, “‘S alright. Can be a dream y’had once.”

You didn’t quite understand what he meant, though it sounded sweet.

“Girl came in with the rain …”

But when you propped yourself up on an elbow to question him further you could see his chest rose and fell slowly, eyelashes pillowed in perfect crescents against his cheek.

And when you laid down again, resting against his open side, he grunted something inaudible and snaked his arm around you, drawing you in closer.

The morning brought aching muscles and an empty space beside you. You sat up, wincing at the way your body protested the movement, and looked around for your discarded clothes.

They were neatly folding in a pile on the end of the bed. Dry.

You stared at the pile for a long time, taking in the kindness of the gesture, before eventually getting up and dressing.

Decent, you peered out into the living area only to find it, too, empty. Your heart sank.

A crumpled scrap of paper sat on the wooden dining table. Glancing around again you walked over to read.

Neighbours fence down with the storm. Won’t be back before you’re gone. -B.

Beneath was a rough drawn map to get you back to the main road.

His words the night before drifted back to you, and your fingers ghosted across your lips as you remembered the way he kissed you. Your body still ached with how he’d had you.

A dream indeed.

With a nod to yourself, you gathered your things and left quietly, the scrawled paper tucked away in your pocket.

And when he got back late that afternoon, the sun sitting low on the horizon and your departing tyre marks the only trace of you, Bucky sighed, staring off down the long dirt road out of this place.

The next time he saw your headlights he was mildly surprised, to say the least. It was only days later. His lips kicked up in a half smile as your boots swung out first.

“You lost?”

“Nope. Maps go both ways.”

There’s a familiar scrap of paper held in your hand.

A bark of laughter escaped him, and he turned for the door, shaking his head as he stomped inside.

He left the flyscreen wide open for you.

Bucky had half a mind to offer you another round of beer, but the moment you stepped inside you dropped your bag on the floor and wound your arms around his neck, pressing your sweet little mouth to his in a kiss that sent a bolt of lightening straight to his cock.

“Hmm still taste like rain.”

Since you asked so nicely, he laid you down right there on the kitchen counter, pressing your thighs apart and eating at you nice and slow like, then turned and fucked you on the dining table for dessert.

And in the aftermath, with his spent body sweaty and deliciously heavy pressing you down into the wooden surface, you felt laughter bubble up.

You were happy.

“What you laughin’ at?” He murmured against your neck, his stubble scratching against your skin with every word.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of welcome I’d get second time around.”

You felt him exhale, then slowly he pushed up and away from you, finally pulling out of your body, and you sucked in a breath at the loss of him.

There was a decidedly smug lilt to his voice when he said, “We ain’t strangers and I don’t mind greetin’ you nice and proper.”

You’d walked in with such bravado, climbing those three steps of his porch under the swinging sign with his name like you knew them by heart, kissing him like you had every right to. But your insecurities and self-doubts crashed back to earth in the soft, emotional aftermath of sleeping with this unknown person. Again.

“I’m sorry for barging in—“

“I let you.”

“—and accosting you like a madwoman—“

“Can you accost me a few more times?”

“Bucky, please. I’m just trying to say—“

He shut you up the best way he knew how, with a slow, tender kiss that left you dazed and speechless when he pulled away again.

“‘S fine. You always this scared o’ yer own actions?”

He pressed his mouth to the valley between your breasts before hauling himself up, dog tags jangling, and he disappeared down the hall. Distantly you heard the sound of water running.

Were you always this scared?

You tried to lower your legs again and hissed at the way your hips protested the movement.

Your body was not used to being snapped in half this often in only so many days.

Bucky returned wearing a new pair of boxer briefs and with a damp towel in his hand.

“Here.”

With a tenderness you found surprising and endearing, he carefully helped clean your body.

There was a strange moment of bashful domesticity as you both hunted for your scattered clothing.

“Hungry?”

Dressed, silently musing all the while about whether Hollywood had taught you to never seize what you truly wanted, you perched on a stool at the counter and watched as he collected bread from the tin and fresh eggs from the pantry.

“Were you in the army?” You asked, motioning to his dog tags when he glanced your way.

“Yes ma’am. Sergeant Barnes.”

“Ooh Sarge,” you teased, and laughed at the withering stare he threw you that didn’t quite land, not when the smile that tugged at his lips gave him away.

“Me and my buddy, he was a Captain. Until I did this.” Bucky rotated his metal prosthetic. “Now it’s farm life for the rest of my days.”

You rested your chin in your hand, elbow propped on the counter. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He nodded firmly. “That’s the truth of it.”

You looked down as your phone buzzed with a text from your friend, whose house you’d stayed at for the last two nights as planned, asking if you were making it home in good time. You felt your cheeks heat and decided not to answer right away.

Bucky hummed a tune quietly as he cooked, and your eyes flew up to watch him.

You knew that tune.

It was yours.

“Thought you didn’t know any of my music.”

“I didn’t.”

“And now?”

He shrugged casually but you caught the way the tips of his ears turned pink. “It’s not all bad.”

“You looked me up,” you accused him, and the embarrassed flush spread down his cheeks and neck.

You snickered softly, watching for the little glances he shot your way.

“Wasn’t hard to find you,” he said finally, flipping the egg battered bread in the pan. He pinned you with a stare then, and you hoped you didn’t imagine the admiration you spied in it. “Turns out yer quite somethin’, huh?”

Your last album was recently lauded as the fastest album of the decade to reach five times platinum in the US, barely beating your previous album which had broke that same record. This following the sensational performance of your third tour that just wrapped up—You dropped your gaze, shrugging at the reality of his question. “I do alright.”

Bucky snorted. “No, honey, I do alright. Ain’t got much but what I earn from the crops and animals. You?” He whistled, impressed.

“Okay,” you began, squaring your shoulders. “You’re right. I’ve accomplished a lot. But it’s not hard work, not when I love it so much.”

He cocked his head, gesturing with the spatula for you to go on.

“I love to craft my own melodies, my own lyrics. Or have the producers send me a sample of something new and my mind run away with ideas. I’m just lucky people seem to like what I make.”

Bucky nodded along, his gaze focussed on cooking.

“All yer songs, they always this boppy?“

“Pop.”

“That.”

You laughed. “Yes, Sarge.”

He hummed another melody and with another laugh you half-sung the words, sliding off the stool and running your hand along the kitchen counter as you rounded it to stand with him. 

Helping him collect plates and toppings he requested from the fridge, you smiled when he presented you with a plate.

“Egg bread.”

“This is French toast.”

Bucky looked down at the plates, then the sauces and vegetables from the fridge. “But it’s savoury.”

“Still French toast.”

“Egg bread,” he insisted, with a finality to his tone that had you cocking a brow at him. “‘S what my Ma called it.”

“Well, I’d never argue with Mama Barnes.”

“She would’a liked you,” he said, offhand, and you wondered at the way joy swept your body and curled your toes.

So you ate, talked, stared into his eyes far too long to be polite, and grinned more than once at the way you kept catching him doing the same. But this was a working farm, and this farmer had to get to it.

It was difficult to convince both of you of that when, after clearing up, he’d lifted you into the counter again, stepped between your legs, and kissed you senseless.

“I’d love to stay and …” he trailed off, gaze slowly dropping to where his hands squeezed your thighs, “… chat.”

He didn’t look like he wanted to chat. He looked like he wanted to devour you whole. Again.

“But I got some girls in the bottom paddock that need seein’ to.”

“Can I help?”

“Doubt it.”

No malice, just honesty.

“Yer welcome to stay,” donning his hat, his smile turned down at the corners, “But I imagine you got plenty important places to be.”

He was right. You found yourself wishing he wasn’t.

He jerked his head toward the dining table. “Left a present for you.”

And with one last kiss he was gone.

You lazily watched his figure cross the yard, admiring the way his jeans hugged tight, and his corded, tanned arm and stunningly designed prosthetic looked with his sleeves rolled up just so.

You’d stumbled on a diamond in the rough. In a storm, no less.

Finally dragging your gaze away you searched for his supposed present.

A scrawled note sat on the sturdy wooden table. Same place as before.

Next time doesn’t have to be a surprise - B.

And his phone number.

All you saw in your mind’s eye was blue. That pretty horizon over rolling hills. The colour rain clouds turned before lightening had its way. The covers on the cushions of a rusty swing chair on the porch. The faded paint of a old beat up Ford that saw better days long before he drove it.

And those eyes. Eyes deeper than the ocean and brighter than the sky. Eyes that saw right through you and saw all of you at the same time.

Eyes you’d only seen twice and already you hoped you could keep staring into them for the rest of your life.

You stepped inside the door of your New York townhouse, shutting it quickly behind you, blocking out the sound of camera shutters and probing questions of the paparazzi and fans lurking outside.

With a deep, fortifying breath, you carried your bags through to the living area and dropped them onto your couch with a sigh, breathing in the familiar scents.

It was good to be home. 

But you grabbed your phone and snapped a quick picture right there in the room, your eyes tired and hair still tousled from the long drive. You sent it without overthinking too much, typing out ‘Home safe but thinking of rain and dirt roads’.

A reply came almost instantly.

‘When can you get lost again?’

Several visits later, there’s a tension to your shoulders he realised he’s seen before but hadn’t recognised. Your eyes were tired, skin flawless and beautiful as always but lacking the light that usually glowed from within.

You were exhausted.

“What’re they doing to you up in the city, huh?”

Your mumbled response was lost against his chest as he enveloped you in his arms. He could feel the way you sagged against him, clinging like only he could give you what you need.

He decides he can.

Hands under your thighs he lifts you easily, ignoring your shrill gasp as he tucked your body against his, and carried you into the farmhouse, kicking the door shut behind him.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, you buried your face into the crook of his neck. He smelled of hay, sweat, and something uniquely him.

You pressed closer to breathe in more.

He carried you through the house, old floorboards creaking their telltale tune all the way to the bathroom where he gently set you down until your feet touched the tiles. The huge clawed bathtub, generally unused, became your salvation as he begins to let it fill with piping hot water. You perched on its cold edge while you wait.

When it’s full he wordlessly accepts your clothes, the banked heat in his eyes as they sweep your body a mere promise of what’s to come.

Later.

First, you step gingerly into the bathtub, hissing at the blissful heat, and you sink in with a long drawn out sigh.

You were exhausted, and you hated that he saw it.

But you couldn’t hate this.

Eyes closing, you let yourself drift. Let the smells of the farmhouse envelop you, let the warmth of the water ease everything else away. 

There had been contract questions. An interview. Some papers about the new project you were working on, and a bunch of people who decided their time with you was more important than everything else.

And you loved it. That was the hardest part; you relished every second of it. Of fitting so much into one day, of the balancing act. Sometimes the games too, because right now you were on a winning streak.

But as you drove and the roads turned rougher, the tiredness overwhelmed you. It was regrettably stronger than your excitement at seeing Bucky again.

So when he’d opened that door and you’d collapsed in his arms, you’d trusted him to catch you.

It was nice.

Even with the window propped open for the steam, it’s quiet. Just the fresh breeze outside, the far off sound of animals, and Bucky quietly moving through the house.

You doze in and out, mindful of slipping beneath the water, tension and worries leaching away as this house, this place, and the care of this farmer lulled you into an ease you had only ever found here.

Your whole body felt languid when you eventually stepped out, steam rising off your skin, colour darker with the heat. Humming, you dried off, dipping into your bag for fresh clothes, and ventured back into the house.

A wailing soulful tune lured you to the verandah.

Bucky sat on the wooden edge, afternoon sun burnishing his hair a deep brown, metal arm gleaming as he riffed a blues melody on his harmonica.

Eyes trailing from him out to gold and green fields specked with cattle, to the old barn and the endless open horizon beyond, you breathed it all in.

Without a word you sat beside him on the verandah, legs dangling off the edge as he bends notes on the harp, playing any kind of tune as it comes to him like he would on any other night.

When you learn his key and catch the beat, you hum along whatever melody comes to you first, and he places his free hand on your knee, thumb rubbing back and forth until the sun sets.

He’s up before you. When you see him, leaning against the wall by the hallway, arms crossed and staring right at you, you smile. The same one you always have when you set eyes on him.

A smile that grows larger when his face softens and his eyes crinkle just so. What he wears isn’t quite a smile, but it warms you like one just the same.

He pushed off and stalked toward you, heavy boots thudding loud in the room. Taking your shoulders in his hands, he drew you in to press a kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes.

“I got some friends stopping by for lunch,” he told you, voice a low rumble and his breath fanning over your hair. “Steve and his missus. You gonna be right with that?”

Your heart thumped so loud you were sure he could hear it in the quiet of the day. Wrapping your arms around his waist and spreading your legs to pull him in, you nodded. “I’ll be alright.”

His lips brushed your skin. “Can I ask a favour?”

“Sure.” Reluctantly drawing away you looked up at him. “What kind of favour?”

“I need a couple things in town. Will you drive us in?” He rubbed at the back of his neck, but there was something about his gaze that had yours narrowing, skeptical.

“A couple things? My car’s not built to carry much.”

“Nah, that’s why you’ll be in my truck.”

Brow raised you looked at him wide eyed. “I’ve never driven one that big.”

The smirk on his face said it all. “Sure you have, darlin’.”

It’s a challenge to ignore the rush of heat pooling low within you.

“You want me to drive your truck?”

“Maybe I want you to be seen drivin’ my truck.”

“This feels like some kind of next step business,” you muse, heart fluttering. He wants you to meet his friends and be seen with him, it was enough giddiness to make you feel like a high schooler. 

He shrugged, and you kissed the small smile playing across his lips.

The trip was eye opening, and not just because of the truck. The turning circle was wider than you’re used to, but you puttered along the tracks and road just fine.

No, what kept you entertained was discovering a new facet of the man you were still getting to know. 

Bucky is even more tight-lipped here than in his own home, and no sooner had you jumped out of the truck, Sam Wilson was by the bumper welcoming you to town and slinging his arm around your shoulder like you were the oldest of friends.

The tic in Bucky’s jaw could not jump higher as he ground his teeth.

But when he asks if the stockfeed is open and if Sarah was working today, Sam is immediately stony faced and grumbling, telling him to stay in his lane. You learn quickly that not only can Sam Wilson get under his skin but Bucky lets him; a mutually aggravating camaraderie you don’t understand.

It’s in stark difference to the polite, gentlemanly way he speaks to Sarah at the stockfeed and hardware store, which makes you all the more curious to find out she and Sam are siblings.

Except when Bucky plops his Stetson on your head as you head back out onto the street, and you watch the identical way they cross their arms and watch him with matching eyes sharper than all the paparazzi in the city. You just know he’s gonna hear an earful when they get him alone next.

The meaning of wearing his hat is lost on you, but it gleams in both their eyes and everyone else’s on the street that day as you lug two bags of fence clips back to his vehicle.

You’re tempted to record the way he loads feed bags in the back of the truck like they weigh nothing. You imagine you’re one of them, slung over his shoulder until he grabs your waist with two hands and swings you down onto your back—

“Ready to go?”

With a gulp you nod and climb in.

Many eyes fervently follow your dust trail down the road.

You watch through the window as a flatbed truck pulls up the drive, and busy yourself setting out plates on the dining table.

Two doors slam and there’s a murmur of voices coming closer up the steps.

“What happened to the wagon?”

“On the fritz. Plus I’m picking up some hay when we leave.”

Wait a minute.

You knew that voice.

A tall blonde swung open the flyscreen, politely removing his hat and nodding hello before freezing in place.

“Steve?”

He paused in the doorway, looking at you slack jawed, when—

“Don’t block the door, I’m in dire need of a sit-down.”

“Peggy!”

In waddled your very dear, very pregnant and very surprised friend.

She blinked, mouth forming a delighted oh as you rushed in to hug her. 

“Long time no see!” She says in a daze, clutching you close before holding you out at arms length, head shaking incredulously. “But how is it that you’re here?”

You helped her to a seat at the table, her eyes darting between you and Bucky who looked equally bewildered. Steve moved to his side, murmuring something low at his friend you couldn’t hear, and Bucky shrugged his response.

“Remember when I was delayed a day coming to see you? With the storm?”

“Yes,” Peggy said, hand covering yours on the table. “You had us worried sick. I had images of you lost in a ditch somewhere.”

She’d said as much the next day when you eventually turned up.

Ducking your head you admitted, “I didn’t stop at a motel like I said.” Your gaze rose and met hers. “I ended up here.”

“You’re the girl that blew in with the storm,” Steve said, his voice tinged with laughter. You looked over and Bucky was a delightful shade of pink, the flush high in his cheeks and running all the way down beneath the vee of his shirt.

Peggy regarded you warmly, her eyes gleaming with a new wealth of knowledge that put you on edge.

“I’m sure he took great care of you.”

“Alright, Peg,” Bucky interrupted with a grumble. “Steve? Want to take a look at that gear?” 

When the men walked outside to the barn, gesturing animatedly and discussing farming things you had no idea about, Peggy followed you out and sat back into Bucky’s verandah swing chair with a sigh.

“I’ve loved every moment of this pregnancy,” she said through gritted teeth. “But my feet may never recover.”

You laughed, settling on the cushion next to her and helping her twist in the seat until she could lay back with her legs across your lap.

“I’ve wanted to set the two of you up for years now, you know.”

“The two of—“ Something clicked in your brain, several long-ago conversations crowding in all at once of a young feller with a rough exterior but a kind heart. “—This is James?”

He’d asked you to call him Bucky, you’d completely forgotten. Your eyes glanced up to the sign swinging gently in the breeze, emblazoned with his initials.

And Steve was a Captain! From the moment he was off active duty he and Peggy had tried for a baby, this pregnancy being the magic one that finally took.

A pregnancy that brought you out of the city for the first time in years to see your dear friend that you hadn’t visited in so long, only to end up on this very porch with Bucky Barnes sweeping you off your feet.

There was no way to know this could happen, but the threads were there. Your mind whirled, unable to consider the odds.

“And you said you’d never date a country boy.” Her voice was so smug you could do nothing but shrug.

“He’s no boy,” you whispered, and Peggy’s laughter peeled out across the yard, drawing Steve’s attention who smiled indulgently at his wife and gave you both a little wave.

Bucky was staring, face unreadable at this distance, but you could feel his eyes like a brand.

He watched you sitting there, so comfortable in his home, friends with his friends, looking more relaxed than he’s ever seen you.

Steve made a noise next to him, and he turned to see his best friend smirking and shaking his head.

“You got something to say, Rogers?”

“She’ll make an honest man outta you.”

Bucky scowled. “How would you know that?”

“I know you’ve never looked this happy since your folks passed and Becca moved away.”

Kicking at a weed tuft in the gravel, Bucky grumbled, “Yeah, well, you never mentioned you had a damn famous person as a friend.”

“Why would I?” Steve laughed. “Had you even heard of her before she fell in your lap?”

Bucky shrugged a non-answer.

“Besides, she’s not like that with us. And Peggy knew her from before all that anyhow.” As if that settled that matter.

He watched you there with Peggy, giggling like schoolgirls and all the while cradling her legs, making sure she was comfortable. In his house.

His voice was quiet but sure when he told Steve, “I got a good feeling about this one, Cap.”

“Yeah, Buck. Yeah, me too.”

It was late at night. The house was still alive with boisterous conversations and delightful reminiscing. Lunch had turned into card games which had turned into dinner and sitting by the fire. Peggy regaled you with the worst kind of stories about the boys, who had the decency to look bashful before sharing a few tales of their own.

You’d hugged your dear friend close, wishing her well for the last weeks of her pregnancy, Bucky promising over your shoulder he’d live up to his godfathering duties if they ever needed a hand.

The moment they’d left, disappearing down the dirt drive into the dark of night, Bucky took your hand and drew you back to the fireplace, showing you in the most delicious way possible how happy he was with the day.

“So.”

Pillowed in his arm amongst blankets and pillows strewn on the floor, you dragged your eyes away from the gentle rise and fall of his chest to meet his steady gaze.

“When do I get to return the favour?”

Even after the last hour of pleasure your body clenched at his words, heat sweeping from your cheeks down your neck and chest.

“Bucky,” you whispered, scandalised. “I already came three times, you don’t—“

His bark of laughter surprised you.

“‘M flattered, darlin’, but not what I meant.”

He rolled then, body curving into yours and his metal arm snaking around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“When can I come to New York?”

Nothing about him changed, there was no shift in tone, but something in the question appeared so small and earnest, so hopeful, that your heart doubled over.

“You want to come to the big smoke with me?”

You felt his nod against your shoulder, his lips brushing your skin reverently.

“Wanna see your world, darlin’.”

You liked the escapism, that out here you’re just you, no watching over your shoulder or calculating the hidden meaning of every word spoken to you. With Bucky you could be yourself, and not consider the PR implications of an honest reaction.

But even out here in the calm, parts of your soul longed for home.

And one particular part buried in your chest swelled at the thought of showing off your gorgeous farmer to the world.

“What about the farm?”

“I got plenty o’ favours to call in.”

The first visit was a blur of motion.

The long miles faded quickly behind him, buildings piling up on the horizon as he drove his old truck steadily down the highway, but Bucky was unfazed.

When Becca left with her new husband he’d been into the cities a few times.

Turns out this was not like those times.

There was a country mile difference between walking the streets of New York and walking the streets of New York on your arm.

‘Be there in a song.’

When he arrived it was to the interested looks of people lurking outside your door, all who swiftly drew their cameras and phones when he walked up and knocked.

And there you were, thousand-watt smile and hands grabbing him, dragging him indoors to the sound of fast shutters as the photographers captured the moment. But how could he care about them when the second he was inside behind closed doors you squeaked a happy, ‘Hi Sarge,’ and threw your arms around his neck, kissing him like you needed his mouth to draw breath.

“You got gawkers outside,” he murmured to your lips, nudging his nose against yours.

“Nevermind them,” you said dismissively, taking his hand and showing him your expensive town house.

It’s big. Foot-for-square-foot it was bigger than his family home, but filled to the brim with life. Your life. Awards and photographs and music, so much music everywhere.

“So, this is where you spin yer tunes,” he said, pressing down the keys of your keyboard and frowning when they emitted no sound.

“It’s an electric keyboard,” you tell him, and his cheeks heat.

“Right. Of course.”

“Actually, it’s a workstation. It plays, but I also use it for sampling and recording when I’m struck by any new ideas.”

He plucks the silent keys a couple more times for good measure and lets you lead him on.

Through the tour he quietly takes note of how much money is invested around your house alone, and feels something within him tighten. No, strengthen.

You’re really something. He had an idea of it, of course, after searching you up online and learning. But it was a little different seeing the fruits of your labours here in person.

Bucky knew he’d better prove he’s worthy of you. That he could meet you halfway in all this.

“So, that’s everything!”

Your smile was brighter than the sun and hadn’t dimmed since the moment you set eyes on him.

“Ready for lunch?”

The little smile playing around Bucky’s lips, one that had his eyes softening and his head tilting just so, set your heart aflutter. He stared at you, simply taking you in.

“What?” You touched your cheek, then your nose. “You gave me pash rash with that kiss, didn’t you?”

He shook his head, slow and measured, and laughed to himself. You didn’t know the joke.

“You said lunch?” He collected his keys from his bag.

“Oh, um—“ you placed your hand over his, shaking your head, “—my driver is waiting to take us.”

His brow furrowed. “But my truck’s just out front.”

“And Happy is already waiting.” Embarrassment twisted inside you. What must he be thinking? This man who had seen war and managed a farm all on his own, while you have a driver for something as simple as lunch.

But Bucky gestured for you to lead the way, popping his Stetson back in place and tipping the brim low.

As promised, Happy Hogan and the black sedan sat just outside, beside Bucky’s beaten truck.

You took his hand, knowing yours was clammy as your nerves spiked with the onset of cameras and people calling your name.

You should’ve warned him.

Too late now.

The crowd pressed in, larger than when he had arrived, likely drawn in by the news of a stranger at your door. They surrounded the car, surround the two of you, and Bucky forcibly placed himself between you and them.

“Who’s your visitor?”

“Seeing someone new?”

“Sir, look this way!”

Keeping Bucky close down the stairs and the sidewalk, you smiled gratefully at Happy who hurried around to get your door.

“Welcome to New York, Mr Barnes,” he said as you both hopped into the car, and he promptly shut you away from prying eyes.

You turned to him immediately, watching the way his gaze lingered out the window at the gathered crowd as the car pulled away. “Was that a lot?”

“Do you have, uh—“ Bucky fumbled for words as he faced you, a deeply etched frown on his face. “A bodyguard? Or somethin’?”

“Yes.” You gestured beyond the privacy screen at the passenger side front seat where your bodyguard sat beside Happy. “Bruce? Say hello?”

Bruce Banner twisted in the seat and smiled brightly at Bucky, uttering a quiet hello before turning back.

Bucky’s face was all hard lines, a tic in his jaw jumping as he thought. Then his eyes met yours and you saw the concern etched there.

“They look after me,” you whisper. “I promise.”

He nods once, barely satisfied, and takes your hand in his. “Where we headed today?”

Twining your fingers in his, relishing the callouses that graze your palm, you tell him, “Burgers first. Then I wanted to take you to the studio.”

You smiled, watching the way his gaze softened when it landed on you. The way his eyes, weather worn, crinkled at the edges and the sun spots dusting his cheeks lifted with the apple of his smile matching yours.

And all the while he’s watching you back, unable to stop the way his lips curve as you stare up at him with those pretty eyes sparkling with something he hasn’t seen before.

This time when you step out the car, he’s prepared. Bruce opens the door first, helping you to your feet, and Bucky immediately follows behind. He has a hand around your waist, grasping your side firmly, but his eyes are up and out over the heads of people around them, guiding and shielding you in Bruce’s wake.

It’s not as pointed at last time, fewer people expecting your arrival, but there’s no mistaking the piqued interest at the company you brought. At him and the obvious connection between you.

Inside the restaurant in no time, Bucky politely slid off his Stetson. He blinked slowly, banishing the afterglow of camera flashes, his only tell that this wasn’t normal. Seeing your concerned face as you waited, he grinned at you, hand outstretched, gesturing to follow the server as they lead you to a table.

Bucky’s eyes flickered around, noting the stares and the phones sneaking photos of the two of you. He took it all in, cataloguing his surroundings. Keeping his expression neutral, ignoring the prickling sensation at the back of his neck at being watched so closely by so many complete strangers, he made sure you were comfortably seated before sitting.

Only once did he ask, “Is it always like this?” and you didn’t hesitate, knowing exactly what he meant.

“Yes. You get used to it.”

Even he was unsure if his grunted reply was agreement or not.

Frowning down at the menu, he took in his options.

“These ain’t gonna to be those tiny meals I see on TV, are they?” He murmured quietly.

A snort escaped before you could help yourself. “No!” Bucky’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “No, Bucky, I promise these burgers will fill up even a strapping lad like you.”

And when his eyes widened as your plates were delivered, you allowed yourself a moment to gloat as he gauged how best to eat the massive meal before him.

He thought he’d fed you hearty meals back on the farm, but there was a primal kind of satisfaction inside him at seeing you dig into a meaty burger that felt a little caveman-like. 

He liked a woman that could eat, and he especially liked knowing you were taken care of.

Plus these burgers were darn tasty.

He kept his voice low over lunch, not for anyone else to hear, concerned for the other patrons and staff who are clearly listening in for a little celebrity gossip. A small part of him flinched at the idea of you being lumped in with a country hick, a regular ol’ redneck, and though he’s never been ashamed of his home he has a vague idea of what that might mean to these city folk.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” you say at one point, your expression so openly warm and pleased that he sits a little straighter.

“Darlin’, I’d follow you to the end of the earth if you keep smilin’ at me like that,” he told you gruffly.

His shoulders stiffen when he hears a faint collective ‘aww’ and sigh from the table over, but you’re oblivious, flushed from his compliment, hand snaking over the table to capture his prosthetic one and squeezing tight.

He risked a glance up and sees a table of women, friends hanging out he supposes, looking at the two of you with stars in their eyes. They made themselves look busy when they realised he was looking their way. 

“Burger was good?”

He cleared his throat. “Ain’t as good as Sam’s brisket, let me tell you. But yeah.”

He looked between both your now-empty plates.

“Should we get goin’? Didn’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Hang on,” you said earnestly, waving over the server, “you have to try their pie.”

He placed a hand on his stomach. “Honey, I don’t think I got room.”

“Sure you do, cowboy.”

A slice was placed down on the table.

As you carved out a piece for yourself, Bucky’s spoon knocked yours. Deliberately. Giggling, you spared back, crossing his spoon with yours and making him drop the mouthful he had scooped up.

“It’s like that, is it?” He chuckled, holding up his spoon like a fencer before his face.

“Oh, Sarge.” You pointed your spoon directly at his chest. “It’s on.”

Your spoons clashed together in a loud twang and your laughter rang out through the restaurant, Bucky’s tenor underscoring it.

It wasn’t until you caught a server looking curiously at your spoon fight did you take in your surroundings, noticing the number of eyes and phones pointed toward your table. With a gentle cough you lowered your weaponised spoon.

“I yield. Even though you didn’t have room for it.”

Bucky chuckled, digging into the slice of pie, taking a large mouthful and grinning as he chewed.

“‘S real good.”

You lowered your gaze to the plate and carved out another piece for yourself, missing the charming smile and small salute Bucky gave the nosy table next to yours who continued to gawk.

You’re glad timing worked out the way it did, as you checked the text that just came in. You had a tiny surprise lined up for your dear farmer.

“Now we swing by the studio for five minutes,” you tell him in the car, Happy already making his way there. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Honey, I’m here for you. Whatever you got to do, I’m a foot behind you.”

Stark Studios was surprisingly busy for midday, people from all walks of life bustling through its doors. But there was one in particular who promised they’d be there, and as you twined your arm around Bucky’s you felt giddy knowing he would find this fun.

The main lobby run off into a little gallery, pictures, posters, album covers and exemplary statistics showing just what a powerhouse Stark Studios was in the music business. 

You’d left Bucky there to talk a little business with your manager and record executive, and when you returned twenty minutes later with someone else on your arm, you found him standing in front of the wall dedicated to you and your work. Your career so far.

There was a blank space still to be filled, with a cheeky sign stating, ‘For her future hits.’ Tony had thought it was both motivating for you and a challenge declared to the other artists signed to the record label.

Bucky chuckled and nodded when he saw it.

“Hey, cowboy? I want to introduce you to someone.”

You indulged him in dragging his feet, wide eyes taking in all the signed memorabilia and photographs.

This would be a treat.

But when you stood in front of the red head and gave their introductions, you smirked knowingly at his slack-jawed expression.

No, he hadn’t known of you when you first met, but Natasha Romanoff?

You’d found not one but three of her albums by the Queen of country music in his home one visit, and some of his favourite tunes to play on the harmonica were harmonies from her songs.

His ears tinged pink as he shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? Do I look that old, son?”

His gaze flickered to you, uncertainty clouding his baby blues, and you hip checked Natasha out of her pointed stare.

“‘Tasha, you’re scaring the poor boy.”

His eyes flashed. You smiled at him sweetly, knowingly. 

You’d pay for that comment later.

And the exchange doesn’t go unnoticed. Natasha’s eyes were wickedly bright when she said, “I’m waiting for him to stomp around like an unbroken horse.”

He snorted out a breath heavily through his nose and that cracked her. She broke into a genuine smile, clapping him affectionately on the shoulder. “You’ll do.”

You stepped away and he clasped your elbow firm enough to draw your complete attention.

“Call me boy again and I’ll remind you what this man can do.”

He felt the shiver that wracked your whole body.

Stood to one side while he spoke with Natasha, you mouthed a thank you to your friend when she gifted him a signed poster and kissed him on the cheek, lipstick stain lingering and all.

You weren’t jealous of the starry eyed expression on his face, nor the way he rambled like a schoolboy all the way back to the car. Honestly, you were pleased he’d liked the surprise so much.

You still felt a little reminder of how much you cared was in order.

Bucky motioned you into the car first, watchful eyes on the street and surrounds, ever vigilante.

But he didn’t see you coming.

Pulling him roughly to the backseat, you could barely wait for Happy to shut the door before you got to work on his belt.

“Christ, darlin’, what—“

Kissing him firmly, you pulled back only enough to tell him, “Let me.”

His jaw clenched hard but his eyes were already darkening. You felt him twitch beneath your hands.

Bucky’s eyes flickered to the front seat over the privacy partition where Happy climbed in to drive them home.

Biting your lip, you pressed the button for the privacy screen to close.

“Bye, Happy.”

You ignored the man’s knowing smile in the rear view mirror as the glass slid in place.

Belt undone and jeans quickly pried open, you delved in, humming happily as your hand closed around his cock, already thick and heavy in your grasp. He bucked up into your touch and his head thunked back against the seatrest.

“Yer a madwoman,” he muttered, watching from beneath hooded eyes as you knelt on the seat and lowered your mouth to him.

The first touch of your lips made him jerk again, smearing precum against your mouth. Licking your lips to the sound of his gasp, you twirled your tongue against the swollen head and took him in, inch by inch, all the way until your lips touched your hand at his base.

“Darlin’, you can’t. You—“ he choked on a guttural groan as you swallowed around him.

You pulled away with an audible pop.

“Ssh, Bucky.” You didn’t recognise your own voice, deep and husky with want for him. “You don’t want someone to hear you.”

His cock twitched in your hand, his fist clenching hard.

“Be a good boy and stay quiet for me, Sarge,” you whispered, and took him in your mouth again.

When he began to rut up into your mouth you hummed your approval, your eyes rolling back as you felt him hot and heavy at the back of your throat.

And when he came for you on a muffled groan as you swallowed everything he gave you, you delighted in how wrecked he looked sprawled out in the car seat, mouth parted with heavy breaths.

He stared at you, your lips swollen and lipstick smeared, and grit his teeth, sending out a silent prayer to whoever listened for dropping you in his path.

Awake long before you, farm hours never gifting him the luxury of a sleep in, Bucky lounged in bed. Arm slung behind his head, nothing better to do with his time, he browsed the internet for something he never thought he’d care for.

Gossip.

He searched your name, searched his, scrolled through social media and news blogs, unable to fathom how quickly the world moved up here.

Day one in New York and he could map it through these posts and stories almost to the minute.

Photos of his arrival at your door, of his guarding you from the onslaught of attention. Where the two of you ate, who you saw at the studio.

Even analysis of where to buy a hat just like his. That got his hackles raised.

He felt you stir next to him, gorgeous limbs flexing and stretching like they ached from hard work.

He knew his grin turned wolfish at the reminder of how thoroughly you’d welcomed him to the city late into the night.

“Good morning.”

And what a good morning it was. Your hair tousled on the pillow, smile languid and warm, hand pressed against his bare stomach.

“Mornin’,” he rasped, his voice the only thing not yet woken from slumber. “Wanna know what the world thinks of your farmer debut?”

You huff out a laugh and shuffle closer, pressing your face against his side. “What do they say?”

“Mostly talk about how good-lookin’ I am.”

You thump him lightly with your fist.

Chuckling, he reads a passage from a particularly kind blog, one that called him rakishly handsome, softly spoken, and only drew on his military history. He chuckled reading it again.

“I gave ‘em nothing to talk about.”

“You can do that,” you pout. “If I don’t talk I’m labelled a snob.”

“That’s not quite what they say here.”

Interested, you pushed further up the bed, settling into the crook of his arm.

He kept his tone light while he read. “‘So smitten with her new beau, our pop princess barely spoke to anyone else, preferring to keep her attention — and her lips — on him.’”

He tilted his phone toward you, showing you the last photograph anyone had captured of the two of you yesterday.

A photo of you both stepping out of Happy’s sedan onto the sidewalk outside the townhouse, a close up of the red lipstick stains in his stubble and your perfect lip line all but disappeared, smudged around your swollen lips.

The bedsheets did nothing to hide his body’s reaction at the reminder of your gift to him in the car.

“They missed one thing,” he said, dropping his phone and rolling until he hovered over your body, one arm braced near your shoulder and the other tracing a line from the hollow of your neck down your chest.

You blinked up at him, eyes still sleepy but warming quickly to his line of thinking. “And what’s that?”

“That I can’t keep my hands off you either.”

His fingers found your side, tickling mercilessly.

With a shriek and a giggle you squirmed under his hands until the sounds devolved into moans, your body writhing in a different way as he settled between your legs.

The noise is constant. The texts, emails, calls. But also the voices, the cars, the underlying hum of everything.

He learns quickly that Happy and Bruce see you as a friend, a responsibility, not just a job, and he warms to them immediately.

He especially likes when your bodyguard hangs back because they know in Bucky’s hands you’re safer than you’ll ever be.

He doesn’t like the photographers and reporters in your face, urgent words and desperate requests jostling you when you’re only trying to get to the car, and he quickly becomes acquainted with how bodily the guarding of you keeps him occupied on every outing. 

Until the day an arrogant paparazzo tries to get too close between him and your bodyguard.

“Get the fuck outta her way or I’ll bury you in a field where no one will find you.”

But somehow even that is brushed off, twisted into some heroic act, no mention of threats or an investigation.

The world is enamoured by the pop star and her farm boy, and for now you can’t go wrong.

He hates that whenever you step outside your home you’re no longer your own person, open to the whims of the paparazzi, fans on the street, demands on your time for stupid reasons like being seen in the right places and with the right people.

But he loves how you handle it all. Your grace and determination, especially when it’s your fans begging for a scrap of your attention, and you give it to them willingly because, as you say, who would you be without them?

He pictures you in his barn, hand gentle on his horse’s flank as he shows you how to whisper sweet words to his girl, and he thinks he has a pretty good idea of who you can be no matter where you are or who your audience is.

What he loves most are the evenings, the quiet hours nearing then passing midnight, when he can take you in his arms and soothe away the trials of the day. When he can make you tense and relax in the best way he knows how. And especially after, when you curl up against him like only he can hold the world at bay.

And for you he would.

There are days on the farm he wished he could say ‘no more’. Long, tiring days when the hard labour pulls too much and he entertains thoughts of throwing in the towel.

But watching you here in your giant plush king bed, the tension slowly leaching from your shoulders as you rest, your eyes still creased with the struggles you endure, he wonders how you push yourself through. No one works as hard as you.

“Yer guarded out here.”

His words made the hair on your head ruffle where he’s pressed his cheek to your crown.

You hummed. “I’m on display here.”

“‘S why yer so tired all’a time.” His accent thickened as he too felt tiredness set in.

Sighing, you buried your face closer, breathing him in. “It doesn’t help.”

“‘N why you question e’rythin’ you do.”

You felt for the seem of his prosthetic beneath his shirt, tracing the line over the fabric.

“Lucky I’ve got my own slice of paradise to escape to, huh?”

“Where’s that?”

Tilting your head back, you gave him a small smile. “Your place.”

“Hmm.”

He gazed down at you and you let yourself get lost in his big blue eyes.

“Can’t really keep chickens here anyhow.”

Scoffing, you pressed your face to his chest again.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Sergeant Idiot. And you picked me. In a storm no less.”

“Yeah,” you said, your hand resting over his fast bearing heart. “Yeah I did.”

You’re fussing over him, flitting through the townhouse like a whirlwind to make sure he hasn’t left anything behind.

He knew he hadn’t, knew everything was inside the duffle bag at his feet, but he didn’t mind leaving you distracted as he carefully he noted down the name and make of your keyboard, taking a photo for good measure.

You’d lamented the missing of it on one visit, dragging the whole thing stand, cords and all on another. He thought to save you the trouble next time.

What he did mind was the pain you tried to hide as you kissed him goodbye. He didn’t always have the luxury of seeing your face when the two of you parted, the farm always ensuring he was up at the crack of dawn and leaving you sleeping soundly in his bed until you were ready to drive. It was bittersweet, but in some ways easier.

Then he wouldn’t have to feel the tremor in your hand as you held his, walking him to the door and promising you’d see him soon.

And as you watched him leave, watched his old truck peel away from the curb and take the sunshine with him, you felt a pang in your chest that never truly went away until you were in his arms again.

The drive back to the farm was the longest he’d ever driven. Not by miles, but by the road stretching behind him.

The growing distance between him and you.

He’d never felt it so succinctly, seeing your car amble away down the the dirt track. But this ached in his chest in a way he’d never felt before.

He knew the name of that feeling. Knew those four letters without a doubt. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to only think it once the dust began to kick up behind his truck.

Nevermind. He’d tell you next time.

When he found not one but three separate photographers slinking around on his property, sticking their noses in places they shouldn’t because this was private land, he called the sheriff.

He promptly installed two shining new signs on the outer gate at the property line, warning about private property, trespassing and prosecution.

He chuckled as he surveyed them, snapping a photo to send you because he knew you’d get a kick out of it. And he wondered how different his life would be right now if he’d had those signs up on that fateful stormy day.

Probably no different at all, not back then. Same ol’ country boy on his family farm, labouring away day in and day out. This was the different future he’d longed for. You were the difference.

He was glad you’d never been warned away. He was glad you came in with the rain.

Another month, another country drive.

Cutting the engine in what had become your parking spot, you stepped out onto the grass and dirt of Bucky’s front yard and looked around.

His old Ford was parked up, but in one of the distant fields you could see some dust on the horizon.

Looks like you had a wait on your hands.

You glanced at the swing chair on the verandah, but something behind you tugged hard. You turned, your eyes settling on the wood of the fence line, and started forward.

You step first onto the bottom beam, pulling yourself up by the top second beam, then you swung your leg up and over, hauling yourself up to straddle the fence line. You rested your ass on the fence post and surveyed everything around you.

Gently rolling meadows. Fields of greens. A clear sky as blue as the eyes of the man you waited for.

You bit your lip, an idea for lyrics slowly swirling and forming in your mind, and you dug out your phone to capture the moment of inspiration.

And that’s how Bucky found you, an hour later, humming a tune into the receiver end of your phone as it recorded.

You visibly gulped when you caught sight of him, and didn’t miss the unmistakeable way his walk turned swagger as he approached.

He knew what he looked like, shirt plastered against his body, hands, arms and jeans dusty and dirt smeared from hard work, sweat beading deliciously on his forehead under the wide brim of his Stetson that drove you utterly wild.

“Hey there, honey.”

There was a dangerous glint in his eye as he helped you down, hands clasping your hips firmly and not letting go when he set you on your feet.

“Turn around.”

A voice of steel, commanding, slicing through you and melting any thought of denying him.

You turned in his grasp.

“Hands on the fence.”

You rushed to obey, hands gripping the top wooden beam.

He made a tsk sound and you trembled.

“Bottom one.”

Your face flushed hot as his hands encouraged you to slowly hinge at the hips, to bend over and place your hands on the lower beam.

“Good girl.”

He ground himself against you then with a slow roll and you felt exactly how happy he was to see you from the hot, hard length of him pressing against your core.

His hands dipped around, roughly unbuttoning your pants and shoving them down in one swift motion. You gasped when your panties followed suit.

Bucky groaned at the sight.

You squirmed as the cool afternoon air breezed against the most sensitive parts of you, damp flesh tingling cold. A soft whimper escaped, unbidden, and his chuckle stung with a little cruelty.

“You need somethin’, honey?”

You felt your body sway back, searching for that press of him against you again, but instead you cried out as his hand came down in a stinging slap against the bare skin of your ass.

“Use your words.”

It hit you then that you hadn’t spoken since he appeared from the barn, struck dumb by the sight of him.

Turned even dumber by this.

When you could speak, it came out broken and breathy. “B-Bucky, please—“

“Please, what?”

You didn’t know. You had no clue what to expect let alone what you wanted most. All you knew was you didn’t want him to stop.

“Please, I need more. I need— n-need”

“Know exactly what you be needin’, darlin’. And I’m gonna give it to you.”

A booted foot pressed between yours, nudging your stance wider, and the soft whoosh of him dropping to his knees in the grass behind you had you dragging in a deep breath.

But you lost it again a second later when he buried his mouth against your slit.

A groan escaped him at the first taste, guttural and ragged, his hands clasping each cheek and spreading you apart. You moaned with him as his tongue plunged deep.

He ate at you fiercely, like you were the first meal he had all day and he was a man starved. His tongue lapped and laved, his lips and mouth sucking and sipping at your flesh, drinking you in. You tried hard to contain the sounds desperate to spill out of you, but Bucky would have none of it.

“Let me hear you, darlin’,” he rasped, hand replacing his tongue as he gathered the slick drooling out of you and used it to circle your entrance. “Tell the meadows yer mine.”

He pressed a single finger in, thick and deep inside you, and your strangled cry echoed throughout the yard. Slowly, a second finger joined the first, stretching you wider, curling just so until you clenched hard around him.

And when his mouth fastened around your clit, sucking hard as his fingers pistoned in and out of you, you devolved into a mess of babbled words and broken moans as your orgasm tore through you with lightening speed. Still his mouth stayed on you, fingers deep but gentling, easing you through the waves and keeping you on edge.

Your legs buckled, and he wrapped his metal arm around your thighs.

“Got you.”

But he didn’t lower you down, didn’t gather you into his arms. No, Bucky pushed forward, easily lifting you inches off the ground and pressing you up and over the wooden beam until you rested on it. Your hands scrambled for purchase, your still-shaking body burning where the hard edge of the wood pressed into your skin, your shirt hardly softening the edge.

“Bucky, wha—“

When the sound of his belt unbuckling hit your ears you twisted around.

The sight you beheld would never leave your memory for as long as you lived.

Bucky behind you, jeans shoved down around his thighs, palming his raging erection with the hand still slick from you, the tip of him angry red and leaking. His shirt pushed up out of the way, his lean stomach and abs on display for your needy gaze.

He rested his metal hand against the small of your back, lining himself up with you, and only then did he glance down and catch you watching him.

His eyes were dark, blue swallowed whole by black, arousal flushed high on his cheeks and mouth open in heated admiration. His damn Stetson was as crooked as the smile he gave you as he rasped, “Ready f’me?”

He didn’t give you time to answer.

His gaze held yours as he pressed in, the thick heat of him stretching you in a delicious burn as he pushed every inch.

Your ragged moan covered his grunt of pleasure when he bottomed out inside you, filling you so completely your eyes rolled back and fluttered shut.

“Welcome back, honey.”

In one long breath he drew out again, then brutally drove home.

Your hips stung with every thrust as he pushed you against the fence beam over and over, and you knew come morning you’d be bruised and sore, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t, not when he fucked you so deeply, when he heaped praise and desperate grunts upon you in equal measure.

“So fuckin’ good,” he told you, each word panting out with a snap of his hips. “Missed this. Missed you. Fuck, I missed you.”

His words became lost in a series of groans as you clenched around him, your second orgasm drawing in, and his hips stuttered.

“Got another f’me?”

Your hips pressed back against him now, meeting him thrust for thrust, chasing that high only Bucky could give you. Your legs were shaking, your voice hoarse as you whined and moaned for him, your fingers white-knuckled where you clutched the fence.

He bent forward and thrust up into you, the angle driving the length of him against that sweet spot deep inside that had you bucking wildly in his grasp. His hand snaked around your body, finding your clit and rubbing with single minded determination.

You came with a strangled cry.

Bucky swore violently and fucked into you once, twice more, before burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside. You could feel every pulse, every bit of him as you clenched and fluttered around him in the aftermath.

The yard fell quiet, save for the sounds of both your soft panting breaths. 

Bucky gently eased you back, gathering you into his arms as he lifted you and sat down on the ground against the fence post, folding you across his lap. You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat strong and rhythmic against you, and you sighed.

In the distance a cow mooed and you giggled helplessly.

“Who knew it could be like this,” you whispered, uncaring if there was an answer.

Bucky was quiet for a time, his cheek resting against your head and his hand idly tracing shapes against your thigh.

“I was ticked off when I saw headlights that night.”

Another laugh huffed out of you. “I thought you might murder me.”

You felt his chest shake with silent laughter.

“Now I get all melancholy when it rains and yer not here with me.”

“You mean that?” Your voice was small and you didn’t draw back to look at him, didn’t know how to handle whatever answer he gave you.

“‘M sittin’ bare-ass in the grass right now. Only f’ you.”

“Bucky.”

You felt his shrug, his lips pressing gently to your forehead.

“Fell in love with you when you ran up those there steps and kissed me. E’rythin’ else fell into place around that.”

That’s when you pulled back to look at him.

He met your gaze openly, no holding back, no doubt in his eyes. Only the surety of his feelings.

You didn’t say it then.

He didn’t need you to, kissing first the tip of your nose then pressing his lips to yours in an achingly soft kiss.

But later, when you winced as you climbed into bed beside him and he touched the line of bruises across your hips reverently, kissing your skin and apologising over and over for being so rough with you, it slipped out like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

He hummed agreement, his thumb rubbing soft circles against your skin, hoping to soothe the angry marks with touch alone.

“Yeah. I am.”

There was always something to do on the farm, and the animals always needed tending, but he felt a tug on his heart and an itch under his skin as the days stretched on.

So he texted you for another trip.

You called back that night, uncertain.

“I’m really busy with work,” you say, and it’s not an excuse to push him away, he knows that. It’s just your crazy schedule isn’t as routine as farm chores and country life.

He’s sitting in his truck, parked outside Sam’s bar, music and voices spilling out with the light from the door, and he knows there’s a cold beer waiting for him inside.

But he’d miss it all to keep talking with you.

“There’s an awards things coming up, and—“

“You gotta get dolled up?” That perked his interest. “Wear one of those slinky dresses, your hair all twisted up nice. Struttin’ down that red carpet like you already won?”

He pulls laughter from you, the tinkling sounds better than any song of yours he’s ever heard, and he doesn’t even mind when you chide him gently. He just laughs too.

Until your soft confession punches the breath out of him, setting his heart beating so hard his ribs would bruise. “I want to show everyone how in love with you I am.”

“Then I’ll come to the show,” he said gruffly. “You on my arm, the whole world knows who I belong to.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is.” So cocky. So confident. Easiest thing in the world, to declare you were his. And he yours.

“Can I buy you a suit?”

“I got a suit.”

“Bucky.”

Ah, right. This was a fancy thing. “Not the right suit, hm?”

“I want to get you something tailored.” There’s a wistfulness to your voice that sends a bolt of heat straight through him. “Something that hugs you perfectly, shows off your shoulders and your arms—“

You broke off, letting out a soft sound he’s heard a million times before, and he wants to crawl through the phone to get at you.

“Yer gettin’ all wet just thinkin’ ‘bout me in those clothes. Wait ‘til you get ‘em off.” His accent comes out thick with a growl, and you whimper, actually whimper, making him curse and shift in his seat as his jeans grow too tight.

His voice is low and husky when he promises, “You can get me whatever you’d like, darlin’. Just let me be there with you.”

He doesn’t have a regular parking spot in New York, not like you do back home. There isn’t a growing bare patch in the concrete where his tyres sat while you were out and worked business all day.

Truth be told he kinda liked the way his dull paintwork stood out against the shiny black sedans, the stupid Teslas, and the little electric things. He liked that someone could glance down the street and see something different had arrived.

But he especially liked it when he got the spot right outside your building, those cold looking grey stairs leading from his rusty Ford door to the one that let him enter the one place in the big city that felt a little like entering heavens gates.

‘Cause they brought him to you.

And despite your hectic schedule, despite people vying for your attention all over town, you’re right there at the doorway every time he knocks to great him nice and proper with a kiss.

There’s a fitting at some snazzy building in the middle of the city, a private tailor upstairs from offices who go through more money in one day than he sees in a year.

It makes his head spin a little, but your pleased grin when he stands up on the podium wearing the suit you’d ordered is all he really needs to worry about.

“What do you think?”

The tailor is a lanky older gentleman, the type you see in all the old movies, and Bucky turns this way and that as he looks at himself.

If only his folks could see him now. They wouldn’t recognise him in all this.

“I don’t have a dog in this fight, sir.” He turned to you, sitting on the little couch by the window, looking pretty as a peach in a dress and smiling up at him. “Lady’s call.”

You stand, approaching him slow, your eyes telling him without a doubt exactly how good you think he looks.

“You’ll do,” you say on a sigh, and even the tailor chuckled. “Thank you, Jarvis.”

When Jarvis leaves the room, Bucky finds enough confidence to nod at his Stetson you carry in your hands. “Reckon they’ll let me wear it on the red carpet?”

You match his cheeky grin with one of your own, reaching up to place the hat on his head and turning him back to the mirror.

“Why do you think I picked this colour?”

You enjoy every moment of his surprise when he takes in the whole perfectly matching ensemble.

Time moved like an avalanche in New York. One minute he was sharing a light breakfast and early morning kisses with you, and the next you’re both in a hotel suite near Madison Square Garden. Hair and makeup stylists fussed over you in a seat before a mirror while wardrobe people and your management team talked logistics and the possibilities for the night ahead.

You sat in the middle of all the chaos, letting them paint your face and play with your hair, and all Bucky could do was stand to the side and let it all happen around him.

They’d already dressed him and messed with his hair and face an hour ago.

“Would you like us to shine your— um, your, uh…”

One of the poor wardrobe girls gestured hopelessly at his prosthetic and Bucky arched a brow at her. “What you gonna shine with? Shoe polish?”

She looked like the floor could’ve swallowed her whole.

“It’s a well-meaning thought, but not necessary,” you called out, your voice carefully measured. But when Bucky looked your way you seemed conflicted between rage on his behalf and the urge to laugh at the girl’s predicament.

He stepped forward to cool your temper, and put that fire to better use.

“All this pampering is, uh—“ he brushed his knuckles against his stubble and through his hair, peering at himself in the mirror over your shoulder. “It’s a fuss, but nice. Didn’t know it could sit like this.”

“Hmm a little clean for my liking.” You meet his gaze in the reflection.

“Yeah?”

“I like my farmer a little … rougher.”

“You like me dirty.” 

There was a soft gasp from somewhere behind you both, but you didn’t care what they overheard. Not with the way Bucky’s eyes darkened and his gaze dropped to the soft robe you were wearing.

The robe with nothing beneath it.

“I have to dress,” you said quietly.

“Don’t need the robe to dress,” he said back, voice low enough for only you to hear.

Your eyes burned with the desire to give in, but you couldn’t. Not this time.

“If you let me dress in private now, I’ll let you take it off me later.”

He scoffed, lips curving in an entirely too-smug smile. “Let me?” He said, shaking his head and lifting your hand to brush a kiss against your knuckle. “Try to stop me.”

Because he hadn’t seen the dress before, having only arrived in town long enough to have his suit finished, but he knew whatever design they had cooked up for you was going to knock him dead.

Time ticked by as he stood in the other room with your management team, Tony explaining to him exactly how the red carpet and ceremony would run, when the wardrobe team returned to the room.

He felt his hands grew clammy as you called out, “Ready?”

This felt like it could be his damn wedding day with how nervous he found himself.

But when you stepped into the room, everything else faded away. You were a vision, glowing in your gown with your hair perfectly pinned and face painted just right. You were always gorgeous in his eyes, but the hours of work they put in now finally seemed justified.

They turned you into a goddess.

“Do you like it?”

He laughed because how could you not know?

“Yeah, darlin’, it’s—“

But then he looked.

Really looked.

And his mouth fell open.

The colour. The colour stopped his heart.

Inky dark and shimmering, the black fabric hugged your figure and swept down around you, the stark colour the perfect background for the spears of brilliant golden arcs crossing and flowing, like lightening slashing across your body

Your dress matched his prosthetic.

For a moment Bucky was speechless,his hand reaching out to hover over the lines of gold reverently, mapping your body like he was learning you all over again. 

“I asked them to make it look like kintsugi and lightening,” you told him quietly. 

He said your name on a broken whisper. You could see in his eyes his emotions choked him.

“I told you, Bucky. I want the world to know who my heart belongs to.”

He met your gaze then.

He knew how long it had taken to perfectly apply your foundation and makeup. He knew and he didn’t care.

He kissed you. With all the force of the love beating hard in his chest, he took your face in his hands and kissed you like he could infuse every ounce of his being into you in that moment.

He stole your breath but he gave you back so much more.

“Are you ready?”

They asked you, but the question was clearly directed at Bucky.

He flashed his most charming smile, donning his hat and turning to offer you his hand so you could step out the vehicle.

“I’ll manage. And if I can’t, I’ll just stare at her.”

Like he could drag his eyes away. 

Honestly the cameras were dazzling. He saw stars. He thought he was handling it well, expression stoic, steady hand at your back, thumb rubbing circles against your bare skin.

He stands where he’s told to stand, helps guide you where you’re told to go, only stepping away when your red carpet handler asked him to leave space for photos.

And when you looked at him, your thousand watt smile banishing any doubts as you murmur, “Eyes on me, Sarge,” he knew how much this mattered.

He’s here for you. He’ll do this right for you.

Later, in the grand open space full of hundreds of your peers, everyone seated according to who was who in the industry, you hold his hand and smile at him like he’s the only one there.

When your name is read from an envelope and you throw your arms around him in elation, he knows the two of you have got this thing right.

Until you steal his hat, hurrying away as you place it on your head to accept your award.

He doesn’t see the camera focussed on his face, capturing his wondrous laugh as he claps and beams with pride. He only has eyes for you up on stage, gushing with gratitude and thanking the world that helped you reach this pinnacle.

“And to the man that brought me here tonight—“

Your gaze locked with his from beneath his Stetson, eyes misty and smile shining brighter than the award in your hands.

“I do this for you,” you said, pointing through the fancy crowd right at him.

He thinks out of all the people here tonight, and for all these coveted awards, he might actually be the biggest winner of the evening.

a/n: this is officially the first smut I’ve ever written 🫣 only for you dear Decaf. Have a moodboard for Bucky’s farm to make up for it, and what I vaguely think the dress would look like

Catch the sequel, That’s All I Really Know here!

[goldivystring]

fire and the thud

pairing thundelbolts!bucky x PR!reader (enemies to lovers trope)

summary When your whole world collided, your job was the only thing you hold to. Trough the blip and grief you became the perfect employee, but then you are assigned to turn Bucky Barnes, retired assasin into a PR dream, and your job doesn't seem so easy anymore.

tags/warnings enemies to lovers; grief; death; hurt; they are kind of mean to eachother; bad attempt to emulate angers tower fics lol; incoming angst

author's note hi!! this is going to be a series obviously but i just wanted to test the idea. this is my first bucky fic so please let me know if i got the character right. ALSOO please like, comment, or repost if you liked it, i really appreciate it <3

dividers by @uzmacchiato

wordcount 6.4k

masterlist

   The unrelenting sound of the NYC Subway floats in the air as the train finally pulls into stop.

-"Grand Central–42 St"- The monotone voice of a woman cuts through the speakers.

A sudden stampede of people pulling forward at your sides snaps you from the dizzying state that you had drifted to in the middle of stops. Leaving your comfortable spot against the small rail in the back of the wagon, you harden your grip, knuckles turning white, against the styrofoam cup of hot coffee. Your elbow swiftly glued to your other side pressing a black leather folder under your arm, the front smartly hidden underneath your sleeve to not draw attention to its design.

The rush hour never treated you nicely, the morning cold seeping through your skin-coloured pantyhose, the impatient workers trying to make it into their schedule and the usual chaos that New York city was on a daily basis, but more annoying since it was the start of your day.

Through people elbowing you and trying to pass you as if you were made of pure air, you made it to the subway entrance. Ignoring the thought of how many illnesses you must have picked up in your hands, you straighten your dark blue blazer. You'll be damned if you showed up with a crease after you spent an hour steaming your clothes at your kitchen last night, your boss wouldn't let you hear the end of it for sure.

You sighed as the amber sky became present over you, and trying to not get your heels trapped into the weird patterns of the concrete, you started to make your way through the familiar streets. Soon enough, a tall skyscraper appeared, your eyes flicked undividedly to the top of it, searching for the letter that also used to match the one in your folder, the bold “A”, but it never came. Instead, vertigo hit you just from thinking how many floors you had to go up now.

You loved the tower, probably you spent more hours inside of your office there than in your own one bedroom apartment, but now the atmosphere was different, definitely darker. A mixed feeling of sadness and grief was stuck onto the walls, the lonely desks and the empty bullpens. Long gone were the days where jazz melodies filled the speakers in each corridor and laughter was not only heard but also resounded through the panels. A place where you found your passion and also, your family.

People always defined you as an overachiever, and maybe they were right. You were really young in comparison to your other colleagues when you finished your major in International Relations with excel notes, and that was just the beginning. You were a year far from finishing a master of Professional Studies in Crisis & Emergency Management when Pepper Potts got in contact with you through the email you addressed in your thesis.

She was surprised to hear your voice, even said she expected you to be a elderly man with anger issues for the type of job she wanted to offer you. You laughed thinking she was joking, but she was not. As naive as you could be, you accepted, knowing that working in such a huge company as Stark Industries was like taking a skyrocket to the exact point where you always imagined you would end up, and turning an ear deaf to the warnings of people.

You thought you would argue with angry senators, making conferences around the globe to promote the company's reach or something just as epic as you had seen people do in TV shows. Instead, your job required you to sell action figures, arrange photoshoots and erase scandals from the public eye.

Like the time where Thor wandered the streets of New York in just boxers, while he loudly (and drunk) complained about some ex-girlfriend. The videos immediately spread through the internet like wildfire and you came up with the only solution you could think of, hire a Thor lookalike to repeat the same thing over and over again until everyone thought it was just a bit meant to entertain tourists at Times Square.

Or the time where Hulk destroyed a man´s car (in his defense the man was taking photos really close with a blinding flash and it woke the worst of him) and you prayed that the image of the green monster painting toys to donate to charity was enough to keep people at least not terrified to death about him.

But after all of that, your hard work had finally paid off as Tony Stark trusted you enough to write the first drafts to the Sokovia Accords, which you did, but immediately regretted as you watched the team being divided by an irremediable crack. You worked even harder to maintain at least some of the respect the public had for The Avengers, trying to paint them as normal humans with feelings that made mistakes too. Families had crises too, right? Maybe they didn't involve superpowers and special prisons, but still, the context was just a little bit different.

Years passed by slowly and painfully, like swallowing rocks. You couldn't leave the company, maybe you were emotionally compromised, but you were determined to get its glory back. That's the reason why you stayed after the Snap.

Walking into the office almost empty if it wasn't for other two coworkers and Natasha, who took the leadership without even questioning it, was gut wrenching. Without products to sell or scandals to manage, you drifted into organizing press conferences and maintaining global communications with other countries.

After some weeks of staying extra hours, one day you felt sleep on top of some papers, drool accumulating in your forearm which you were using as a pillow when the sudden sound of a paper bag was placed in front of you. You immediately jumped in place, your reading glasses sliding down your frame, and right through them the figure of a redhead appeared.

Natasha smirked at you, finding the scene fun, but after seeing you blush, she just shrugged and opened the bag, taking out a plastic container that had a burger logo.

"”Figured it out that you may have skipped dinner”" She briefly explained and then proceeded to sit in the wheeled office chair beside you, grabbing a filled to the top fries carton, taking each one and eating while meticulously observing you, trying to read you. Instead, you opened conversation, letting her in to fill the void in the cubicle where you spent your working days.

The friendship blossomed from there, making you her right hand, bringing back the business to life.

In those five years you gained a best friend, considering how lonely you both were, you even went as far as to call each other sisters. She trained you with quick sparrings (which always ended up with you on the floor mat begging for mercy and air) and you trained her in pop culture, your favorite movies and whatever drama that was happening in social media.

Probably what you missed the most was those nights where sleeping felt like dangerous territory. The silence and the loneliness of it clinging to you like smoke after a fire, impossible to escape, impossible to breathe. So, you'd go to the Tower, with the excuse of finishing some papers you left there earlier, and you'd find her sitting at the burgundy couch in the middle of the common room, her look as haunted as yours. A moment later, music would fill the space, encapsulating the room in a bubble, so far away from the terror, the war and the past. And you both danced, drunk in happiness, the type of happiness you only realise it had been there because your cheeks start to ache from smiling.  

The song would be a saccharine pop, volume so high even the unbrokeable windows would wobble, but at that hour of the night it didn't matter. Both of your minds aching to forget and move on, and when you thought you got the hand of it, life struck again.

You knew the price of the victory was high, sacrifices are bound to happen, but nothing could ever prepare to lose someone. And deep in your heart, when you walked the morning after in the Tower and the silence was screaming back at you, pain painting everyone's face, you knew she wasn't coming back. Not in another jet, not in five years, never.

The timeline blurried after that.

You buried yourself in self pity and an illegal overload of work, all done through the confinement of your small apartment and your laptop. Barely surviving out of cereal and instant noodles, the high achiever was left behind, even doing the dishes twice a week felt energy draining. 

One afternoon, you received a call (more like dozens of them) offering you your old job, in the Tower which had been restored. The answer came confidently, a hard no and the slam of the red button on your screen. The last thing you needed was to go back there.

But then the image of Valentina de Fontaine standing in a podium with the chaos of what you assumed to be New York city behind her, appeared on your TV, demanding your full attention. She then presented her team, the New Avengers. 

The name gave you a visceral reaction, your brain catching up a second later, but before you could form an opinion, Yelena Romanoff came up beside the authoritarian woman, grabbing her by the shoulders and muttering a phrase, which you didn't catch in your hazy state.

Immediately, you jumped out of your designated spot on your uncomfortable couch, grabbing your phone from the floor and dialling the number who called you weeks ago. Maybe you didn't have superpowers or any type of gift to help Natasha, but if you could honor her and help her sister in any way, you would.

That's the statement phrase you say to yourself to cheer you up when the elevator’s doors open, welcoming you into the eighteenth flor of the now WatchTower, where the conference room awaits you.

Given your rush, you murmured some type of salute to the secretary sitting at the desk in the right side of the waiting area and then proceeded to open the heavy grey door, pushing with the minimal force you were able to make that early in the morning.

When you stepped into the room, panting and feeling a thin layer of sweat covering your temples, everyone turned to look at you. Your face elaborated a weak side smile, your version of an apology.

Yelena was sitting at the far right edge, when you made eye contact she just raised her hand slightly, waving at you. Beside her, the Red Guardian imitated her gesture, way more dramatic, hitting his elbow in the process. Ava laughed under her breath, she was sitting on the far left edge of the table with Bob at her side, who was watching the scene silently.

Walker was nowhere in sight, which should've worried you given the nature of your job was keeping him out of trouble, but you decided to put that topic for after your lunch break.

You took the only seat left beside Bob, immediately in front of you, Bucky Barnes caught your eye. 

There was nothing particularly new about him today: same long hair down to his jawline, tucked behind his ears, same black tactical long sleeve you've seen him wear a thousand times and same uninterested look. He traced your movements as you sat down, eyes wandering around your figure. When you finally completed the action and decided to look him back to give at least a polite smile, he was already drifting, turning his attention to an imaginary point between Ava and Bob.

"”Sorry for being late, the subway was a bit crowded today”" is what you decided to say, putting down the styrofoam cup of coffee (now gone cold) and the folder in your area of the large table. 

“Ha! Subway! Is that still a thing?”" Valentina joked, looking around the table for approval, earning zero laughs whatsoever. She took a seat in the head chair, the wrinkle of the leather filling the dead silence. "”Difficult public today I see”

After a clap of her hands, the automatic white curtains started to cover the windows, lights turning off on command too, the projector behind her gaining the attention of everyone in the room.

“I’ve arranged this meeting to talk about the public image of the team”

You could make out a graphic on the slide, six lines with different colors in it, the gears of your brain started to turn.

“Thanks to our amazing…mmhm…PR manager?” She said, furrowing her eyebrows and signaling to you with both hands. You just nodded in confirmation, trying to keep your expression neutral.

“People are loving us!!” The sudden raise of her voice made Alexei, who was falling asleep in his seat, jump wide awake. You couldn't help but grin at the sound of Yelena’s muffled laugh.

“But we have one problem. These lines represent the amount of positive comments we see about all of you across our social media, as you can see the acceptance its surprisingly high”

You followed the figure of Valentina’s finger, which was pointing to the dark blue line of the graphic. The line was a little bit lower than the others, but at the end of the graphic the line was almost hitting the bottom.

“Except for this one”

A warm sensation started to form in your gut, you knew who this was about, you dreaded this moment, but after all it was your job.

“Whose line is it?” Bob asked, looking up at the image.

“Barnes” you deadpanned, feeling everyone's curious eyes pointing at you. You decided to focus on the statistics of it all, pretending to be particularly interested in the graphic, rather than to meet the piercing stare that you were feeling heavy on your side profile.

“We noticed a decrease in the general public’s acceptance of James Barnes, so we need to take action to get it back to normal” You prayed that the group didn't notice the slight red burning up in your ears, you were feeling like a caged animal.

“For the well being of the team, of course”" You finished your vague speech, not knowing how to defend whatever was about to come from Valentina’s mouth.

“Well, I brought some ideas!” She said before clapping her hands again to change the slide.

The next one was a stock image of a man playing with puppies, his smile felt painful as it occupied almost all of his face. From the corner of the screen, an image of Bucky’s face made its way to replace the man’s from the photo.

“Puppy dates!” Your boss exclaimed, the excitement visible in her expression.

The room erupted in laughter.

The table shook every time Alexei hit it, Yelena was grabbing her stomach, balancing back and forth, not making any effort to contain her laugh. You swear you could see a tear leaking from Ava's eye, as she observed the way Bob was trying (and very much failing) not to let any chuckles fall from his mouth.

The sharp scrap of a chair across the floor made everyone quiet again, and you froze, you were frightened to turn as you heard footsteps making their way to the door.

When you finally got out of your trance, you noticed that Barnes had really left the meeting.

“Come on! This wasn't even the best one! I have plenty more” Valentina continued to show the slides and explain what their goal was, but you tuned out the echo of the voices, turning them into distant background noise.

Your thoughts were moving at full speed through your mind. If Barnes didn't hate you before, with all his avoidant gaze and indifference, he for sure despised you now.It was like a silent agreement, he didn't get himself in trouble and you didn't get in his way, but now you had to break it for bigger reasons. 

You had to turn the goddamn Winter Soldier, ex deadliest assassin of the world, into a lovely and kind hero. This was going to be probably the most difficult challenge in your career so far, but you were excited to work with him and succeed, right?

Your head gained a couple pounds since the last hour you had spent sitting in front of your computer, an emotional support bag of chips beside you on the couch, busy enough with the blank document before you to mind the little crumbs falling.

In the last sixty minutes you couldn't bring yourself to write a single word, the title “Operation America’s sweetheart” sending chills along your spine, despite having your favorite hoodie on. This was part of your job, you had done this before, like when last month you had to upload a video of Yelena and Alexei bonding and you decided that playing Just Dance was the move. Or that time when you got that partnership with the app Calm and you put Bob to narrate a sleep story, and people absolutely loved it. He did too, the next week he was asking for advice to open up an ASMR youtube channel.

But this time was different. The rest of the team wanted (deep inside) people to like them and accept them, they were tired of living in the shadows and were determined to make things right, except Bucky.

You didn't know much about him really, you knew he was trying to get into politics and then dropped everything when Valentina got him to enter the New Avengers. He was a closed-off man, wouldn't utter a word if it wasn't extremely necessary, and you understand that, he went through quite a lot. But the others did too, and they treated you nicely or at least with respect, maybe you shouldn't give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just an asshole. 

And you wouldn't put your job at risk, at least not for a person that couldn't even look your way to acknowledge you. So, after cleaning your greasy fingers on the fabric of your clothes, you started to type ideas, you were going to transform the serious Bucky Barnes into a literal ray of sunshine.

The glasses you were wearing were doing wonders for your sore eyes after a long research on James Buchanan Barnes. The lack of proper sleep coming through your lazy steps to the Watchtower.

The first step is getting to know what you're working with, ideally you would do an interview with the client, getting to know what they are trying to portray and establish a concept that feels genuine enough for people to believe in, but this wasn't the ideal case.

Instead you decided to sacrifice your rest to dig some old S.H.I.E.L.D archives about the soldier, only to hit a dead end. You spent more hours than you were willing to admit reading psychological tests, medical stats and other experiments about him. To be honest, half the time you didn't get what they were supposed to mean, but after the thirteenth document, you decided it was enough. You weren't getting any personal information that was useful to your campaign.

That's why you decided to get it yourself.

The elevator’s ding cut through your ravelling thoughts as you made your way to the living room, without even taking your foot out you could hear the familiar chaos.

"Bob! Bob! Bob!" John and Yelena were chanting, both grinning and raising their arms in enthusiasm.

"What are you guys doing?" 

The sound of your voice made them stop, and you couldn't help but to laugh when Bob turned around, his cheeks full.

"He’s trying to fit as many marshmallows as possible in his mouth," Walker explained, while the blonde just shoved the bag of marshmallows to Bob’s chest.

"¡Keep going Bob!"

"How many has he got yet?" 

Before they could answer, Bob raised a finger and mumbled some words. You think you heard seven before all the marshmallows started to erupt from his mouth. John and Yelena started to give him a lesson making him blush.

"You shouldn't have talked!"

"Try it again!"

"Have anyone seen Barnes?" You asked, so they all just shrugged their shoulders.

"I think he was in the terrace" Yelena gave you a compassive look, rubbing your right shoulder in support "Good luck with that"

"Thanks" 

As you left behind the weird scene, the nervousness began to creep up your system. It was just going to be a friendly (mostly work related) conversation but it felt like walking right to the eye of the storm. 

You found him sitting in a patio chair, his back turned to you, a black long sleeve shirt covering the frame of his broad figure. The sound of you fake clearing your throat alerted him, making him sit straight in a second, you put your black folder against your chest as if it was a shield that could protect you for what was about to go down.

"Hi James" You opted to say" Is it okay if I sit here?" 

The scraping of the patio chair beside him made him turn to face you, his eyes lingering in the object that you were grasping, and he just nodded in response. 

The sky was bright, hiding behind some clouds, you were thankful that the sun wasn't too strong today. The view before seemed more interesting than the task in hand, that's when you noticed the fake plastic plants in the flowerpots or the amount of leaves that were piling up in the corner of the rail. You don't exactly remember if you had been here before, but the terrace stood up like a place frozen in time, probably the only one where you could find some loneliness in the building. And yet, here you were bothering Barnes in what probably was the best part of his day.

"So, James, I have some questions I would like you to answer if that’s alright" You took the slight drop of his stiff position as a sign to continue.

"Okay… How is the team treating you? Do you like them?" 

The silence felt too loud as your question lingered in the air, the overthinking coming in like a habit. After a beat, he nodded again, rearranging his position in the chair. Now he was laid back, still sitting straight with his arms crossed around his chest. 

"Alright then, what do you think about the missions you are assigned?”

He kept looking straight, the city of New York as tumultuous as always filling the gaps of his answer. You got the hint that he wasn't going to answer your brief pop quiz, fool you for thinking this was going to be easy. The exasperation made you sigh, you knew you didn't have the best relationship -because you had none- but at least he could try to be polite. He wasn't even looking at you.

"Barnes, I know you probably don't want to do this, but i really need some answers" You really tried to sound neutral, but he was keeping that attitude and you had enough, the lack of sleep probably having its consequences.

"Lets try a fun one, what is your favo…"

The sudden movement of him standing up and pushing back the heavy chair like it was made of air made you jump. He was finally looking at you, his blue eyes cold and sharp. If you weren't so bothered, maybe you would have been scared, but you couldn't concentrate on two emotions at once. The slight gesture of his jaw clenching caught your eye, he was trying to contain something, and you were tired of talking with a wall, so you tilted your head, singing him to spit it out.

"I´m not a fucking toy figure, Im not something you can redesign, so tell Valentina to leave me alone. I've had enough of this bullshit"

Your mouth dropped in disbelief, you think it was the most you've heard of him in years, and it wasn't exactly a good thing. You were processing his voice, dark and low, when he turned back to you, his metal hand on the handle of the double door.

"If you want to sell a lie, make it up yourself, you're good at that, right?" 

And with that, he left, the loud slam of the door as it closed making you come right to your senses. Did he try to make a hurtful comment about your job? 

You came here in peace, just trying to know him, and he treated you like a plague he couldn't eradicate. Anger was boiling inside you, warming up your cheeks. You were good at what you did, you knew that, you couldn't let a difficult case disturb your performance. The determination was probably reckless, but you needed to prove it to him, prove it to you, that you were capable. 

The afternoon sun came right through the window warming the room, Mean Girls was playing on the TV working as a background noise as you and Yelena had already seen it a thousand times. You were laying on your stomach, papers spread around your figure, your purpose of getting ahead of your work defeated the moment you entered her bedroom.

The blonde almost fell down the bed with laughter when the too familiar scene of students attacking each other like animals came on the screen, her head was upside down hanging from the edge and when the giggles faded, she looked at you with a serious expression.

"He was kind of an asshole I'll give you that" She finally agreed with you after fifteen minutes of rambling about the terrace incident. "But he has been through a lot, I mean it's obvious he was going to turn into a grumpy grandpa.”

You grabbed a licorice red twist and aimed right to her forehead, making her sit straight after the shot.

"Don't call him that" You lectured, turning back to the movie, in your rear view you noticed that she rolled her eyes in a mocking tone " I know he's been through hell and back, but is it too hard to smile for some pictures?”

The sooner you get your job done, the sooner you are out of his hair. It was just a simple transaction, but he seemed to make things complicated.

"Listen, I've been through similar things, the programming, people trying to control your life. You aren't exactly full of trust after that. " Her lips closed shut, probably from remembering the first time you met, when she acted rude until you dropped her sister’s name.

"If you want him to open up, make him trust you. Maybe he could use a friend.”

You tilted your head, the train of thought becoming clearer. It's been a long time since you tried to get to know a new person, perhaps you could learn to be a little less cold and calculative than usual. Fuck Valentina and her ideas, you were going to do this your way, not matter how long it takes.

Hope started to bloom in your chest with the idea of your goal completed, but then it faded away the second Yelena opened her mouth again.

"Or maybe he’s going to punch you with the metal arm if you come close.”

She giggled when another piece of licorice was thrown in her direction, her arms protecting her head.

That simple conversation in your friend's room leads you to an intense investigation about the soldier’s life, stepping into every corner on the internet to find interviews, photos and even old footage from his time in the Howling commandos.

Maybe it was the late hour or the sudden loneliness that surrendered your apartment, but you started to overthink. 

It began with a video, what once was Sergeant Barnes waving his right hand and mouthing words. You couldn't guess which year it belonged to, but the unintelligible audio and grainy image gave you an idea. The colors seemed washed away, the sky behind him looking grey, but his uniform, a shade of army green, contrasted with the gold insignia attached to his chest. 

Curiosity creeped in, it looked like he was on a stage or a podium of some sort, people around him clapping their hands on congrats. Did he accomplish something important? Was he saying goodbye to them? 

It wasn't clear, and the doubt had to die inside of you, you couldn't ask about his time in the military, it would be disrespectful.

Suddenly, your brainstorm concluded when a group of ladies were brought up on stage. Their skirts were floor length and they all seemed to be wearing the same type of uniform. It reminded you of the ones nurses used to wear on those old war movies you came across on TV. 

The girl who positioned herself to his right caught your attention, her ponytail moving side to side with her trust. And then, he looked in her direction, his eyes lightning up in recognition.

His smile grew even bigger when he pulled her to his side, his hand carefully placed on her waist. The other girls also took a place on stage, but the distance was clear. 

The head of a photographer became visible on the bottom of the screen, he was holding a camera that seemed bigger than him. And when he signaled with his fingers “on the count of three”, the girl stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss on Bucky’s cheek.

You let out a silent gasp, the scene felt like it was straight out of a romcom. And you searched, really searched, for a trace of discomfort or even a faint awkward reaction from him, but there were none. He seemed happy, truly happy. 

So you stopped your search there, the old memories started to feel like a self inflicted torture. But the image of his smile kept haunting you even when you slammed your computer shut. 

There was a natural ease in the way she got closer to him that felt like a blow to your chest. You were sure that if now you got that close to Barnes he would snap at you like a furious dog.  Any time you step into a room, he would trace down your movements as if you were a threat to him, even though you were just a girl and he was a super soldier.

That's why you decided that the first step to the plan was going to establish a conversation with him, and if you were lucky enough, maybe get to know him and warm him up. You knew that Bucky had to be buried somewhere.

Today was a rare day as the team had a day off. Without fighting targets or PR duties, they were lingering around the tower, bored and moping as always. You decided to use your exclusive access to the system of the building, and you noticed that Bucky had left a couple of minutes ago.

So, you grabbed your bag and your small notebook, determined to walk around New York to find him and hoping that the fresh air and public place would work in your favour.  You wandered through the closer streets, following the flood of tourists, your eyes quickly tracing every person that resembled his figure.

The sky was getting darker, a breeze started to appear making it hard to keep your hair out of your face, so when you spotted a small record shop in a parallel street. The facade of the store wasn't too appealing, probably its best days were behind it, but the cozy atmosphere felt like a refugee at this time.

Feeling the defeat of your mission, you decided to enter,, the bell at the top of the door announcing your entrance to no one in particular as it was practically empty besides from the old man at the counter, who briefly gave you a salute. Inside, the smell of old wood and coffee invaded your nostrils, your stomach grunted in protest reminding you of your lack of a proper lunch for being walking around New York all day.

There was a table in the middle of the room, a box full of CDs on top, which brought you back in time where you still had a cd player in your room and used to treat yourself to a new one whenever something felt good enough to recognize it. Your fingertips traced the dividers between each category, stopping when you spotted the album you and Natasha used to blast on late nights which felt eternal.

The impulsive thought of buying it came instantly, and you were debating the absurd decision (because you didn't have a player anymore) when the unexpected sound of a deep voice startled you.

"Are you following me?" 

The perception of a warmth that wasn't there beside you before followed, you turned around in your heels to face him. His expression was as cold and somber as earlier, making you shiver, your immediate response would be to run, to escape the confrontation, but you were searching for him and you couldn't back it up now. It was too late.

"No" you deadpanned, the word coming out quite like a question but he didn't notice it, or didn't care.

"Why are you here?" The question felt appropriate as He stood there like a sore thumb, dressed all back with a leather jacket that didn't match the vibe of the shop. 

Instead of words, Bucky lifted his glove covered left hand, waving a vinyl in front of you.

"Oh great, what are you buying?" 

His demeanor changed when your spirit of continuing the conversation came through as if for a brief moment he had forgotten who you were and why he had his guard up all the time. He maintained eye contact (which was starting to generate a visceral reaction out of you) and twitched his jawline.

"Listen,I'm sorry, I didn’t want to be rude to you but I really mean it when I say I won't be participating in what Valentina has asked you to do.”

Your eyebrows were raised in amusement, you had expected anything to come out of his mouth except for an apology that looked sincere. Your gears started to turn, maybe if you were discreet with your work, he won't be as irritated by it like before. 

"Valentina didn’t ask me to come" You half lied, turning around before he could see your face and detect something. 

"I actually came here to buy a CD" The plastic box did nothing to put a distance between you as you raised it in front of his face. You were grateful you didn't let go of it when this interaction started.

He opened his mouth, and your heart was pounding in anticipation of him blowing your buff, but he didn't. Instead he shut it again and started to make his way to the counter, where the owner was pretending to wipe the cash register. You followed him, decided to get through this, and finally settled with your hip against the wood, awaiting your turn.

"Buck!" The man lit up, his white moustache raising with his smile. "Haven´t seen you in a long time, boy."

The supersoldier suddenly seemed shy, not expecting the gracious recognition, but he returned the greeting with a slight lift of one side of his mouth, which you did not fail to spot from your position.

“Hello Mr. Davis”

“Oh! Is she your girl? It was about time!” Reaching out, he put his wrinkled hand on top of yours, giving you another smile, and then took the CD in your hands to start the checkout. 

Words died on your tongue, out of sudden it felt dry enough to conjure up anything. You looked up to Barnes to watch his reaction, but couldn't see anything since he lifted up his arm to scratch the back of his neck. Thankfully, Bucky decided to manage the situation himself.

“No, no, she’s just a… colleague” 

It would be stupid to deny that you felt a tiny hit on your chest from the statement. Surely, you weren't more than that, but after sharing some time working together and being around The Avenger for quite some time, you expected his tone to be more neutral about it. Maybe you were right and he really despises you, he doesn't seem to be so grumpy with everyone else.

“Forgive me then” The old man started to put the vinyl and the cd box in a bag, and you felt sour enough to not inform him that you weren't purchasing together. Bucky didn’t seem to care either, he just pulled a card, grabbed the bag and after a simple goodbye walked out of the store.

The bell rang when he pulled the door open and you followed his exit, the bell above you dangling. And for a second you hated that you noticed, you noticed that he didn't hold the door, you noticed that he didn't even look back to see if you were behind, he just left.

You groaned in retaliation when you stood in the middle of the sidewalk, the soldier nowhere in sight and the sky getting dark every minute.

You turned and started your way to the subway to get to the safety of your home as soon as possible, an aftertaste left behind. You knew he wouldn't be so receptive but he was not even interested in being socially polite. 

Some part of you wished you weren't so stubborn, to leave things as they had been, so you grabbed your phone from the back pocket of your jeans, the green button appeared below Valentina’s contact. One call and it would be over, maybe she would understand the difficulty of the chore. The pad of your thumb hovering over the screen when a thought popped up. 

Barnes still had your cd, and you would need to meet him again so he could give it to you. 

Your reflection immediately became visible in the black mirror when you pressed the power button, a defeated look washed over your features. Why was he getting under your skin? 

You had never been the one to give up, and you couldn't do it now, not because of a petulant man.

One last try. 

One last try to befriend grumpy James Barnes, and if he was an irremediable case, you were going to call it all off.

masterlist

if you liked it please interact with the post <3 thanks for reading!

[aderna01]

Blind, Deaf, & Mute

pairing: avenger!bucky x PRspecialist!f!reader

summary: you are hired as the avengers’ new public relations specialist, a sunshine‑bright force dropped into a tower full of exhausted superheroes and one very grumpy former assassin. bucky barnes wants nothing to do with you, and you seem determined to befriend him anyway. what starts as mutual annoyance slowly shifts into something softer as the two of you stumble through awkward teamwork, unexpected moments, and one disastrously chaotic baking challenge that proves the avengers might actually be a family after all.

warnings: pure fluff, more friendship that romance, baking chaos, mentions of public image, bonding, no use of y/n

word count: 2.9k

song inspo: i like me better by lauv

a/n: lowkey love blind, deaf, mute challenges so I had to add it to this universe somehow (also I didn’t proof read so fingers crossed)

─˖· masterlist

it started out rough. no, rough was an understatement. it was a car crash in slow motion. you, the avengers’ newly hired public relations specialist, all sharp wit and sharper tongue, a whirlwind of deadlines, crisis management, and social media strategy. and him, james buchanan barnes, a ghost with a metal arm, a man so buried under layers of trauma and stoicism it was a miracle he could speak at all. he found your energy grating, your constant stream of chatter and chaotic movements an assault on his carefully constructed quiet. you found his perpetual silence and brooding presence a personal challenge, a brick wall you were determined to chip away at, if only out of spite.

tony had been annoyingly smug about hiring you. “we need someone who can handle our image,” he’d said, waving a tablet full of disastrous headlines. “someone who can keep us from looking like a walking PR nightmare.”

steve had frowned. “we’re not a brand, tony. we’re a team.”

bucky had muttered, “feels like a reality show,” under his breath.

tony ignored them both. “too bad. she starts monday.”

they hated the idea. steve because he didn’t like the thought of the team being “managed,” and bucky because he didn’t like the thought of being perceived at all. but tony was right. public support mattered. government support mattered. and someone had to keep the avengers from accidentally setting the internet on fire every other week.

tony, to his credit, had been weirdly kind about the whole thing. he’d insisted you move into the tower almost immediately, claiming it was “more efficient for workflow” but really because he knew you would start pulling eighteen‑hour days trying to keep the team’s image from spontaneously combusting. you’d protested at first, but he’d waved you off, muttering something about hazard pay and unlimited coffee. so you moved in, bright-eyed, caffeinated, and ready to fix everything. you had set up your little corner of the tower with your laptop and color‑coded digital planners, and tried not to feel too out of place among superheroes.

for the first several weeks bucky avoided you like you were a landmine.

he was grumpy about it too, in that very specific bucky barnes way where he never actually said anything but somehow managed to radiate irritation like a space heater. every time you walked into a room with your bright “good morning!” and your stack of color‑coded schedules, he would tense like you’d just thrown a grenade at him. you tried to be friendly, tried to make the whole “living with superheroes” thing less awkward, but he met every attempt with a grunt, a scowl, or a pointed exit. you were sunshine and caffeine and relentless optimism, and he was a thundercloud in combat boots who clearly wished you came with an off switch.

months in, nothing had changed.

"ugh! he's like a sentient, angry statue, and im nothing but nice to him," you'd complained to natasha one night, sprawled across her bed while she cleaned her knives with unnerving focus. “also, he makes my job ten times harder! i hate him.”

"he's been through a lot," she'd said, not looking up.

"so have i," you'd shot back. "i had to sit through tony’s three-hour lecture on brand consistency. i have trauma too." you joked.

natasha had just hummed, a small smile playing on her lips. 

steve would try to mediate, his earnest attempts at getting you two to ‘find common ground’ usually ending with you making a sarcastic comment and bucky retreating further into himself. sam just found the whole thing hilarious. "look at them," he'd whisper to clint, not so quietly, as you and bucky sat on opposite ends of the common room couch. "the grumpy cat and the little bird. it's a nature documentary."

but weeks turned into a month, and then two. the ice thawed, not with a grand gesture, but with a series of small, almost insignificant moments. it was you leaving a cup of coffee next to the book he was reading, not saying a word. it was him wordlessly moving a large stack of your paperwork from a chair so you could sit down. it was the day you'd been up for 36 hours straight preparing a press release and scheduling interviews, and you'd fallen asleep at the kitchen table. you woke up a few hours later with a blanket draped over your shoulders and a glass of water and two aspirin next to your head. you never saw him, but you knew.

"team bonding," you'd called it the first time you'd dragged him out of the tower. it was just a walk through central park, you chattering about everything and nothing, him listening with his hands shoved in his pockets, a noncommittal "hm" his only contribution. but he came. the next time, it was to a ridiculously obscure foreign film you wanted to see during your free time. he fell asleep ten minutes in, but he'd bought the popcorn. slowly, the grumpy statue started to look a little less like granite and a little more like a man who just needed a friend.

and then came the day you needed content.

not damage control. not rumor control. not a PR emergency.

just… content.

“we need something fun,” you’d told tony, scrolling through analytics. “something human. something that shows the team isn’t just doom and gloom.”

tony raised an eyebrow. “define fun.”

“a youtube video,” you said, already grinning. “the blind, deaf, and mute baking challenge. everyone seems to love it, so it might just help our case.”

tony stared at you. “you’re insane.”

“and you hired me,” you shot back smiling.

and that was how you found yourself setting up a tripod in the middle of the avenger tower’s ridiculously large kitchen, while sam wilson was trying to stick a piece of duct tape over his own mouth.

"i don't think this is going to stick," sam mumbled, his voice muffled by the tape.

"that's the point, sam," you said, adjusting the camera angle. "it's supposed to be a challenge. now, no more talking from you." you teased.

bucky was already sitting at the massive island, looking deeply unimpressed. he was fiddling with a pair of your oversized, hot pink, noise canceling headphones. "this is your idea of damage control?"

"this is my idea of good publicity," you corrected, grabbing a soft silk scarf from your pocket.

you filmed a quick little intro to explain the challenge. your bubbly personality being perfect for the camera as you introduced sam and bucky. 

"now, you're deaf. put those on. i've got my playlist queued up. it's... eclectic." you said smiling up at him.

he sighed, the sound long-suffering, but he put the headphones on. you hit play on your phone, connected via bluetooth, and the sound of sabrina carpenter blasting directly into his ears. you saw his eye twitch. perfect.

"and you," you said to yourself, tying the silk scarf securely around your eyes, plunging yourself into darkness. "are blind. okay, the camera's rolling. we're making chocolate chip cookies. the recipe is on the counter. let the chaos begin.” you spoke to yourself, knowing you would just edit this out later.

the kitchen was already a war zone, but somehow things got worse once you started mixing.

you reached for the bowl, hands sweeping blindly across the counter. bucky saw this and immediately panicked.

“wait— WAIT— you’re gonna knock it over!” he shouted, even though he couldn’t hear himself.

you froze. “bucky, i can’t see you. use your words.”

“i am using my words!” he yelled, arms full as he held ingredients in his hands. he frantically nodded towards the bowl as if that would help “the bowl! the bowl is— it’s— it’s somewhere near your elbow!”

“that’s not helpful!” you yelled back.

sam, who had given up on the tape entirely, made a strangled noise and grabbed your wrist, guiding it to the bowl before bucky had a meltdown.

“oh,” you said. “there it is.”

bucky put his hands on his hips. “i told you. i definitely told you.”

“you didn’t tell me anything,” you said. “you were just yelling the word ‘wait’ like i was about to detonate.”

“you were about to detonate,” he insisted, being able to read your lips. “that bowl is our last hope.”

you snorted. “dramatic.”

“you know I can read your lips right?” bucky pointed at his own chest. “super soldier. everything is dramatic.”

you rolled your eyes behind the blindfold and reached for the whisk. bucky watched you grab a spatula instead.

“no, no, no— wrong thing!” he shouted, leaning over the counter. “the whippy thing! the— the— the—”

sam slapped a whisk into his hand.

bucky blinked at it. “yes. this. the whippy thing.” he shoved it toward you. “use this.”

you felt something poke your arm. “is that… is that the whisk?”

“yes!” bucky said proudly.

you grabbed it. “okay. mixing.”

bucky nodded, satisfied—until he saw what was happening inside the bowl.

“no— no— you’re not mixing, you’re… stabbing it,” he said, annoyed. “why are you stabbing it.”

“i can’t see,” you reminded him.

“well i can’t hear,” he shot back, reading your lips, “but you don’t see me stabbing things.”

you paused. “bucky, you stab things all the time.”

he opened his mouth, closed it, not hearing what you said and not being able to respond.

sam made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

you kept whisking—sort of—and bucky leaned closer, trying to supervise. “okay, okay, slower. slower. you’re gonna fling it everywhere.”

“if im not doing it correctly then you do it!” you snapped back, moving your hands away from the bowl and crossing your arms.

at this point sam was near the cabinet, quietly rummaging for more ingredients. 

“i can’t hear a word you’re saying,” bucky yelled, after he watched you speak.

you moved your head up, towards where you assumed he was standing. “bucky. look at my mouth.” you said pointing at your lips.

he leaned down, squinting like that would help.

“mix. the. ingredients,” you mouthed slowly.

bucky’s eyebrows shot up. “kiss the expedients?! WHY WOULD I KISS ANYTHING RIGHT NOW?!”

sam doubled over, wheezing.

you slapped your hand over your face. “mix! MIX!”

“oh!” bucky said, nodding. “mix. right. that makes more sense,” he grumbled.

he moved towards the bowl in one fluid motion, accidentally nudging you on the shoulder because you didn’t move, still not seeing a thing. you quickly stepped back, knocking a spoon onto the floor. he froze, staring at it like it had personally betrayed him.

“i didn’t do that,” he said immediately.

“you absolutely did. you nudged me!” you yelled, loud enough so he could hear you over the pop girl music in his ears.

“nope,” bucky insisted. “that was you… and gravity i guess. but mostly you.”

sam tapped your shoulder again, trying to warn you about something. 

“what sam? i can’t see a thing!” you retorted. you turned your head back, hearing the shuffling of what seemed to be a plastic bag. maybe the chocolate chips?

“i’ll add these,” bucky said confidently.

“bucky, wait—” sam tried to say, but it came out as a garbled mess.

bucky ripped the bag open like it was an enemy combatant. chocolate chips exploded everywhere—across the counter, the floor, your shirt, sam’s hair.

you gasped. “what was that?!”

sam pointed at bucky.

bucky pointed at the bag. “it attacked me!” he retorted.

“it did not attack you,” you said.

“it did,” he insisted, still managing to read your lips somehow. “it was aggressive. i defended myself.”

you reached out blindly and your hand landed on his arm. “bucky. you massacred the chocolate chips.”

he looked down at the mess in silence.

sam made a noise like he was choking on his own laughter.

you sighed dramatically. “okay. okay. we can still salvage this. maybe.”

bucky crouched down to pick up the chips, muttering, “five second rule,” even though he couldn’t hear himself say it.

“don’t put those back in the bowl!” you warned, loud enough for him to hear.

“i wasn’t going to,” he lied immediately.

sam snatched the handful from him.

bucky looked offended. “i was helping.”

“you’re doing great!” you yelled, patting the air until your hand landed on his shoulder. “chaotic, but great.”

he straightened a little at that, like he’d just been promoted.

“okay,” he said, rolling his shoulders back. “what’s next. what do we ruin now.”

you laughed. “hopefully nothing.”

“unlikely,” sam muttered.

bucky faking a nod of agreement because he heard absolutely nothing.

you all ended up successfully placing the cookies in the oven without burning the tower down. sam wiped the counters while you salvaged what you could of the used ingredients, and bucky, with his surprising steadiness, managed to actually help produce a decent batch of chocolate chip cookies, mostly by following the recipe like a normal person. by the time you were done, the kitchen smelled like chocolate and sugar, and the three of you were sitting on stools, munching on slightly lumpy but delicious cookies, a comfortable silence settling between you.

later that night, after a long, hot shower that washed away the flour and the stress of the day, you were sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop glowing softly in the dark room. it was well past midnight, the rest of the tower quiet. you were editing the video, your fingers flying across the keyboard, cutting out the boring parts and adding silly music and captions. you zoomed in on bucky's confused face as he tried to measure sugar with a liquid cup, added a "womp womp" sound effect when you dropped the flour, and put a giant question mark over sam's head when he was trying to mime instructions. it was perfect. it was ridiculous. but it was perfect, especially for the public.

a soft knock on your door made you jump. you glanced at the clock, 1:17 am.

"come in," you called softly, your voice hushed in the quiet.

the door creaked open and bucky peeked in, his hair messy, wearing just a simple grey t-shirt and sweats. he looked softer like this, less like the winter soldier and more like just... a guy. "couldn't sleep," he murmured, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

"me neither," you said, patting the space on the bed next to you. "editing our masterpiece," you giggled quietly.

he sat down, his weight dipping the mattress, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. he leaned over to watch the screen, his shoulder brushing against yours. you tried to focus on the timeline, on the little clips of you all flailing around the kitchen, but all you could think about was the solid presence of him next to you, the clean, faint scent of his soap.

on the screen, sam was having his silent meltdown, and bucky let out another soft chuckle. "he looked like a distressed penguin."

you giggled, leaning your head against his shoulder for a moment. "he really did." the contact was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through you. you straightened up quickly, your cheeks feeling warm. you finished adding the last few touches to the video, a simple thumbnail: "avengers: baking challenge (fail)." your finger hovered over the 'post' button.

"you sure about this?" he asked, his voice quiet in the darkness.

"positive," you said, and clicked it. the video uploaded, a tiny spinning wheel appearing on the screen. "there. it's done. lets hope it does well"

you closed the laptop, plunging the room into near darkness, besides for the soft glow of the city lights through your window. you both sat there for a moment, the silence comfortable, easy. you could feel his gaze on you, but when you turned to look, his eyes were fixed on the window.

"thanks for today," he said, still looking away. "it was... fun."

"yeah," you agreed, your heart beating a little faster. "it was."

he finally turned to look at you, his blue eyes soft in the dim light. he reached up, his metal hand cool against your skin, and gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. his fingers lingered for a second, tracing the line of your jaw. then he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. it wasn't romantic, not really. it was just... sweet. a quiet acknowledgment of everything you'd become to each other.

you didn't say anything. you just closed your eyes, leaning into the touch. when you opened them, he was leaning back, a faint blush on his own cheeks. you both were oblivious, dancing around a feeling neither of you could name, content to just exist in this quiet moment.

"get some sleep," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"you too," you replied.

he didn't get up. he just shifted, settling back against your pillows, his eyes already drifting closed. you watched him for a moment, his breathing evening out, his face relaxed in sleep. you felt your own eyelids getting heavy, the warmth of his body next to yours a comforting weight. you curled up on your side, your laptop forgotten at the foot of the bed, and let yourself drift off, the faint smell of chocolate chip cookies and the lingering warmth of his kiss on your temple the last things you registered before sleep took you.

─˖· masterlist

*as always, thanks @uzmacchiato for the gorgeous lace banners <3

[goldiwrites]

man on your mind, pt 3 - b. barnes

pairing: new avengers!bucky barnes x inexperienced fem!reader

word count: 22.6k (ok, now i'm sorry)

summary: adjusting to life living in the Watchtower is hard. What's even harder is that your crush, your boss, lives a few doors down and your feelings towards him just keep getting stronger. Between Walker being a creep, bonding with the girls (and Bob), and late night kitchen conversations the tension becomes too much to handle. What happens when a genetically altered chemical agent gets thrown in the mix?

warnings: (18+) MDNI, smut, dubcon, plot with porn, sex pollen (i'm a sucker), details of female masturbation, nipple play, dry humping, oral (f!receiving), fingering, one pussy slap, breeding kink, dirty talk, loss of virginity, unprotected pnv (don't be silly, wrap your willy), multiple orgasms (f!receiving), poor explanation of sex pollen?, metal arm kink, vibrator mention, tensionnnnn, jealousy, some angst?, fluff, protective buckyyyy, swearing, smutty thoughts, slow burn, drinking, teasing, team bonding, y/n used a couple times, pet names (doll, sweetheart, baby, pretty girl), mentions of reader having curly hair and blushing, john is a creep, grammatical errors no doubt, partly proofread, let me know if i missed anything!

authors note: howdy again! wow, this was hard to write - writing smut while suffering PMDD is not for the fainthearted - sorry if it's a bit rushed. i think i actually went feral. i am so shocked with how much love the first 2 parts got - like what do you mean part 2 already has 1,000 notes?!, i'm sorry for keeping you waiting! now i'm gonna go smoke a cone (i promised myself i wouldn't smoke today until i posted). thanks so much for the love, i really do appreciate it <3 i hope you enjoy part 3! there may be a part 4... please like, reblog, and comment x

part one part two

The half hour drive—on a good day—from the Watchtower to your apartment was cut in half by Bucky, his driving bordering on reckless and definitely illegal. The honking from pissed off New Yorkers fell on deaf ears as Bucky raced through the city, his mind focused only on you and your safety. 

Yelena was quiet in the passenger seat, her own worry for you keeping her silent. Sounds of your quiet sniffling filled the tense silence in the car, Bucky asking if you’re okay every few minutes—reminding himself that you’re not in any immediate danger. His gut still churned every time you let out a shaky breath. 

The car’s engine was still on when Bucky jumped out of the driver’s side, his eyes scanning the small park—a flash of panic bolting through him when he didn’t see you straight away. Yelena reached over the middle console to turn the car off before joining him outside. 

Bucky was gone in a flash, his eyes catching sight of you sat next to a family, their dogs head resting on your knee as your body trembled. He almost didn’t recognise your fragile frame, arms wrapped tightly around your chest in an attempt to keep yourself from falling apart.

Bucky felt his heart break as he beelined towards you—dropping to his knees in front of you in an instant.

You sucked in a sharp breath as gentle hands cradled your face—one warm, one cold. You opened your eyes, your tear-filled vision taking in the blurry figure in front of you. Bucky.

His flesh thumb delicately brushed tears away as more fell down your cheeks. His eyes studied your face, checking for any injuries—only finding fear and relief written on your features. His grip tightened imperceptibly at the fear in your eyes. 

Your body slumped forward in relief, your forehead resting on Bucky’s collarbone as the adrenaline crashed through you. You let out little sobs against his chest as the events of the day caught up to you. He moved his vibranium hand from your jaw, wrapping it around your back and squeezing you to him tightly. Your hands clutched the front of his shirt in response, anchoring yourself to him.

“I’m here, doll. You’re okay, just breathe for me.” He whispered soothingly into your hair, his chin resting on your head as you collapsed into him more. His flesh hand slid from your cheek to the back of your head, fingers rubbing slow circles on your scalp causing your breath to shudder against him—the comforting touches almost overwhelming you.

You sat clutching to Bucky for a few minutes, your breath evening out to match his own. You pulled away from him, the feeling of his vibranium fingers gently running up and down your back bringing you back to reality. You looked over his shoulder to see Yelena silently watching the two of you, her face scrunched in concern over the state you were in. 

Bucky rose to his full height, taking a step back from you and addressing Yelena while his eyes never left your face. 

“You stay here with her—I’m going to check the apartment.” He met Yelena’s eyes with a commanding fire in his own, “don’t take your eyes off her for a second.” His voice was low, final. 

You gave him a small watery smile, which was all he needed before he turned and ran across the street into your building. 

Bucky made it to your front door in under a minute, easily tracking your scent like a bloodhound. His eyes examined the scene in front of him, his gut wrenching at the sight of your home torn apart. 

He pulled his cracked phone out of his pocket, quickly sending a text to Bob.

Bucky: Make sure the spare room is set up. Now. 

Bob: why??

Bucky: It’s for Y/N, I’ll explain later. Get a move on. 

Bucky stealthily moved throughout the apartment, gun drawn at his side as he checked every dark corner for intruders. He holstered his weapon once he cleared the apartment, confident there were no threats hiding after his sweep. 

He went back through every room, cataloguing everything he could. His heart rate picked up as he came to the realisation that this wasn’t a burglary—the place was trashed, including valuable items thieves would’ve taken. This was a personal attack meant to scare you. He felt his body seizing in dread and guilt, knowing your job was the reason you had a target on your back.

Your bedroom got the brunt of the attack—your bed upturned, dresser drawers broken and flung around the room, your clothes ripped into shreds lying on the floor. Your bedside table was covered in what looked like pages from your journal, your private musings on display for anyone to see. 

Bucky’s stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as he saw your underwear thrown throughout the room. Lace hanging from the light shade, ripped bras draped on the frame of your broken mirror, torn cotton in a pile on the floor. 

A protective rage gripped his chest at the sight—he felt like he was the one who had been violated. He didn’t want you to see this. He didn’t want you knowing a stranger had defiled the things you kept private, the intimate parts of you now exposed. 

Feeling ashamed at himself for even looking at your private belongings, he turned to exit your room. He took a few centering breaths, trying to squash the possessive beast stirring in his gut. 

His enhanced hearing picked up on a faint buzzing—something the normal human ear would’ve missed—coming from the bookcase opposite your bed. He approached it slowly, the buzzing growing louder. He raised his flesh hand and ran it down the wood on the back of the bookcase, his fingertip grazing a small raised bump. He pushed the bookcase away from the wall, eyes falling on the small bump—a listening device. 

Fuck.

This confirmed his worst fears—you are a target. Someone is surveilling you, terrorising your apartment and life, and for a reason he’s scared to find out.

He pulled his phone out again, this time texting Yelena.

Bucky: This was a targeted attack. I found a bug in her room. 

Yelena: Shit.

Bucky: Yeah. Bob’s getting the spare room at the tower ready now. Bring her up to pack a bag.

Pocketing the phone, Bucky swept the rooms—again—this time listening out for bugs. He found one more, tucked into a book on the bookshelf in the living room—one of the only books not ripped in half lying on the floor. The book stood out like a sore thumb against the chaos—whoever planted the bugs was trying to conceal them behind the destruction of your apartment.

It was sloppy, in his professional opinion.

He removed both bugs and placed them on your kitchen table, ready for Yelena to inspect as the two of you walked in the open door. 

You walked over to Bucky instantly, gazing at him with shining, red-rimmed eyes.

Still beautiful, he thought.

He tilted his head towards the bugs on the table before gently grabbing your arm and leading you to the bathroom. Once inside he closed the door, directing you to sit on the toilet as he squatted down to your level. 

He let go of your arm, lifting his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose—the action showing his clear distress at the situation. He sighed deeply before he looked at you with soft, troubled eyes. 

This was not how I had imagined him in my bathroom, the only helpful thing your brain could think of in this moment. 

“There’s no easy way to say this,” he started, voice low and comforting. “But…I believe you’re being targeted because of your job, because of us.” His flesh hand grabbed one of yours, squeezing gently. 

“I found two bugs—listening devices. One in the living room, and the other…the other was in your room.” He gripped your hand tighter at your sharp gasp echoing in the bathroom. “I’m so sorry, doll.”

You quickly wiped away the fresh tears streaming down your cheeks, taking a few deep breaths as your mind raced. Not only had your place been wrecked, someone had been listening to you.

“Do—do you know, um, do you know how long? H-how long they’ve been listening?” You whispered tentatively, your voice cracking at the end. 

Bucky felt his heart tug towards you as he looked at the terror in your eyes. “I don’t know, doll. I have a feeling they’ve only been placed today, but we’ll take them back to the tower to run tests.”

He stood to his full height, gently pulling you up with him. “Go pack a bag. You’ll stay at the tower with us until we find who did this to you.” Bucky commanded gently, leaving no room for argument. 

Yelena had wrapped the bugs in multiple layers of fabric by the time you both reappeared, holding the bundle out to Bucky. “They’re pretty rudimentary, probably bought from the store on the corner. I’ll check surveillance cameras when we get back to the tower.” 

He nodded at her once, showing his thanks. “Help her pack. I’ll stand watch.” 

From Bucky’s position guarding the front door he heard your sharp intake of breath as you stepped into your room. He squeezed his eyes shut, guilt taking ahold of his chest. He should’ve warned you. 

He heard Yelena joking around softly, trying to distract you. “That shirt was unflattering, anyway. We’ll get you a whole new wardrobe—see how much we can put on the New Avengers credit card, yeah?” You were too tired to give her a response.

This was all his fault. 

————————

The car ride back to the Watchtower was completely silent. Bucky drove slower than before, his grip on the steering wheel loose now that he knew you were safe. You were in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window as you watched the setting sun encompass the city, casting everything in a pink and orange glow. Bucky’s eyes flickered to you every few minutes admiring the way the sunset shone on your hair, giving you a subtle halo.

Yelena was in the backseat, thumbs flying across her phone screen as she updated the team and tried to answer their questions before you got back to the tower. 

Ava: Is she ok? What can we do to help?

Bob: i made sure to give her our softest, nicest smelling sheets. should i run a bath for her??

Yelena: Ava, she’s as ok as someone would be having their privacy violated and life torn apart. Give her space, no bombarding her with questions, please.

Yelena: Bob, that is bordering on creepy. No bath running. 

Bob: shit i didn’t mean it like that!! just thought it might help her relax, i swear

John: Just wait until Barnes reads this, Bobby. He’s gonna wring your neck!

Yelena: Shut the fuck up and don’t be an insensitive ass for once in your life, Walker. You better be hiding in your room by the time we get up there. 

Bucky pulled into the Watchtower basement and jumped out of the car once parked, rounding the hood and opening your door in the blink of an eye. You stepped out slowly, watching in a daze as he grabbed your suitcase and bag from the trunk before guiding you to the elevator. Your chest squeezed at his chivalrous actions—he was a goddamn dreamboat and it was doing dangerous things to your heart. 

“We’ll go to the common room first, get you some food and water.” Bucky spoke as the elevator ascended, “I’m sure the team will want to check on you, too.”

You tried to hold in your sigh, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed. You were exhausted, and while the thought of the other New Avengers waiting for you brought you some comfort, you just wanted to pass out. 

You responded to Bucky with a hesitant quiet voice, “I’m not really that hungry…” You trailed off at the stern look in Bucky’s eyes, his brows furrowed in a frown. 

“I don’t care, doll. You need to eat.” 

The doors opening cut off any response you might’ve had. The rest of the team—minus Walker—jumped up from their spots on the couches, rushing over to make sure you were okay. 

Alexei was the first to reach you immediately pulling you into a tight bear hug, your feet lifting off the ground. You wrapped your arms around him, resting your head on his shoulder briefly. This man had hugged you more in the past two weeks than your father had in your whole life. 

“We’ll make them pay, my solnyshko. No one who hurts you deserves to live.” You let out a huffed laugh despite yourself, Alexei’s violent promise soothing you. You had no doubt they would protect you like one of their own. 

Ava and Bob came over to check on you once Alexei let go, both offering reassuring smiles and promising their doors were open if you needed. You felt your eyes welling up again at their kindness and support.

Bucky led you over to the kitchen, instructing you to sit down at the island while he reheated yesterday’s leftovers  for you. He leaned against the counter opposite the island, watching you like a hawk as you ate a few pitiful spoonfuls. 

You lifted your eyes up meeting Bucky’s troubled, watchful gaze. Letting out a sigh, you spoke softly despite your frayed nerves. “Bucky, I—thank you for taking care of me, I really appreciate it.” 

Bucky’s hands tightened into fists at your gratitude, feeling sick with guilt that he was the reason you were even in this position. 

“But,” you continued. “I just want to shower and go to sleep. Please, I’m not hungry I swear—I had a big lunch.” You pleaded with the super soldier, wide eyes locked on his softening ones. 

He crossed his arms across his chest, the urge to pull you into his embrace overwhelming him. 

“Fine, I’ll show you to your room. Grab that glass of water.” Bucky relented, grabbing your stuff and taking you up to the bedroom level. 

You followed him down a long, wide hallway until he reached the door at the very end. He opened the door, sweeping his hand forward to signal you enter first. 

The room was bathed in a dim yellow light, the lamps on the bedside tables illuminating the place softly. The bed was pressed against the wall on the right—the plush, clean bedding beckoning you forward. In front of you, on the other side of the bed, were large windows overlooking the city—an open balcony door bringing in a gentle breeze that rustled the partially closed curtains. To the left of the windows was an open door—the bathroom, you presume—, a dresser with a TV atop it against the wall, and an open wardrobe door closer to where you stood.

Bucky walked in behind you, putting your bags next to the wardrobe and dresser. He cleared his throat slightly, getting your attention. “Ava is in the room to the left and—unfortunately—Walker is in the room across the hall.” A frown took over his face at the thought of John being close to you. “Sorry, this was the only spare room left. If you need anything, go to Ava first.”

He hesitated, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Otherwise, my room is at the other end of the hall, just past the elevator.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit. “You know, if no one else is around. Or if you wanted to talk, we can do that too,” he gave you a nervous smile as he briskly walked towards the door. 

He paused with his hand on the door, turning back to you. “Good night, doll. Sleep well.”

And with a soft click of the door, you were alone. 

————————

Bucky returned to the common room downstairs, hearing the tail end of Yelena’s recount of the afternoon. 

Ava was quick to offer a theory, “did we do a background check on the roommate? Seems like suspicious timing to go on a ‘romantic getaway’.” She raised her eyebrows pointedly at Bucky who dismissed her with a small head shake. 

“Yes. There were no red flags.” Bucky responded gruffly. 

Bob was lying on the floor on his stomach with his head propped on his hands, squinting slightly as he tried to think of other theories. 

“Is she dating anyone? Maybe there’s a connection there,” he suggested, earning himself a glare from Bucky. 

Both woman on the couch behind Bob shook their heads. “No, we asked her about it last week.” Yelena muttered. “She said she’s not seeing anyone.”

That fact pleased Bucky absurdly. 

“Ah, my solnyshko, she’s a smart girl! Not wastin’ her time with silly boys,” Alexei exclaimed from his spot on the armchair—Bucky nodding along, agreeing with the unruly man.

He put his hands on his hips, letting out a deep sigh as he addressed the team.

“It’s because of us, we know that.” A tense silence filled the room, everyone feeling partly to blame for your life being in danger. Bucky continued after a beat, “still, we need to look into everyone we can—find out what stores she frequents, if she walks the same route, if she’s received strange messages on social media.” 

The soldier took charge, barking out orders to his teammates—everyone following his command with no complaint. He finished his drill sergeant routine with one last demand.

“Someone needs to have eyes on her at all times, got it?”

————————

The first week living at the Watchtower was hard to adjust to at first. 

You missed seeing your best friend everyday—she was begrudgingly staying with her parents while the team hunted down whoever broke in—even though you FaceTimed nearly every night. You couldn’t help but feel awkward staying at the tower; fully living with superheroes making you feel self-conscious and even more like a fraud than when you just worked for them. 

You found yourself walking around on your tip-toes, trying to make as little noise as possible to not disturb your new roommates. You tried keeping to yourself for the most part, retreating back to your room when you finished your work for the day, telling everyone you were wiped out from everything—which wasn’t a lie. You were still struggling with mental exhaustion after the break-in, but really you were just afraid of intruding into their lives. They didn’t ask for this, you were just a temporary guest who would be gone shortly. 

Your attempt to keep to yourself was foiled on Thursday evening, when you came out of your bathroom in your pyjamas to find Ava and Yelena lounging on your bed with bowls of snacks.

You felt your heart fly up to your throat, a gasp startling out of you as you clutched your chest in fright. 

“Jesus Christ! What are you two doing in here? Except for trying to give me a heart attack,” you exclaimed at the two woman, both now cackling at your scared response. 

“Oh, come on—we just wanted to spend time with you! No need to huff and puff,” Yelena responded with a teasing smile, patting the empty spot on the bed next to her in invitation. 

“Yelena convinced me to finally watch The Office, you should consider yourself lucky.” Ava contributed, throwing a lolly up in the air and catching it in her mouth. 

You fell asleep with your head on Yelena’s shoulder, exhausted from laughing and the sugar high crash. 

Yelena’s phone vibrated in her hand, Ava and her both smirking at the who the text was from.

Bucky: All good?

She angled her phone screen towards your sleeping form, snapping a selfie of you to send to the super soldier. 

Yelena: Yeah, she’s good. 

Bucky: Good. Thanks. 

The hardest thing to adjust to living in the tower was Bucky. He was everywhere. Every time you turned a corner, there he was—watching you with those sharp, unwavering blue eyes. He rarely went on missions, choosing to stay at the tower to chase down another dead end on your intruder. He assured you the team didn’t need him out on the field, they could manage without him. But really, he just wanted to keep an eye on you himself. 

He sat in the kitchen with you while you ate your lunch, not saying a word and not leaving until you cleaned your plate. You often found a vibranium hand shoving a glass of water in your face when you had gone an hour without a sip. 

“Gotta stay hydrated, doll.” Fuck him and his stupid Brooklyn accent. 

Your heart couldn’t cope with both his attention and the goddamn accent that was more prominent in the morning, slurred and raspy as he’s still waking up.

And what was with him calling you doll. Currents of electricity prickle your skin whenever he says the damned pet name—and when he says it with those soft eyes and faint smile? You think you might spontaneously combust. 

You thought working in close proximity to him every day was torture—living with him felt like hell. A sweet, brooding, muscle filled hell that had you screaming into your pillow, wanting to bang your head against the wall.

You felt even more frustrated than the week before, your body vibrating with pent-up tension that begged to snap every time you ogled Bucky’s shoulders—the arm. You were able to excuse your shaking leg, worried bottom lip, and stiff shoulders on post break-in anxiety. The prolonged gazing at the vibranium arm though? Yeah, you couldn’t blame that on anything.

Shuffling into the kitchen after midnight on your seventh night in the tower, you came to a halt in the doorframe. You rubbed your eyes, your brain not believing what you were seeing. Bucky was leaning against the kitchen sink bare-chested, sweatpants dangerously low on his hips, his eyebrows furrowing at the tablet in his right hand. His vibranium arm missing. 

Heat flared though you at the sight, desire stirring low in your belly. This was your worst nightmare and your sweetest wet dream.

Your eyes travelled the expanse of his broad muscular chest, your gaze catching on the dog tags hanging from his neck. 

The sound of the dishwasher finishing snapped you out of the trance Bucky’s chest had you in. He turned, putting the tablet on the counter next to the sink before opening the dishwasher and grabbing his vibranium arm. 

With his back turned to you, you watched in a daze as he lifted the arm to the shoulder socket. You held your breath as the arms circuitry gently hummed, a subtle click echoing in the quiet kitchen as he reconnected it seamlessly. His vibranium fingers twitched before he rotated his shoulder, spinning the arm in a fast circle to ensure smooth recalibration.

The breath you were holding punched out of you in a sharp gasp, your brain short-circuiting at what you just watched. 

What the fuck. 

Bucky knew it was you coming out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened. He smelt you before he heard you, your sweet scent wafting down the hallway—beckoning him towards you. He resisted the temptation, keeping his feet planted next to the dishwasher, waiting for his arm to finish cleaning. 

Only a couple more minutes.

He kept his eyes glued on the screen in his hand, barely taking in the security footage he was meant to be analysing. He watched from the corner of his eye as you stopped in the doorway, partially hidden in the shadows. Not hidden enough for his sanity—he could still make out the shape of your bare legs, his grip tightening around the tablet at the sight of your soft, plush thighs. His dick stirred at the thought of touching your smooth skin. Get a grip, Barnes.

The sound of the dishwasher finishing saved him from his dangerous, wandering mind. He grabbed the arm, reattaching it in a practiced manner that had become second nature. His shoulders pulled taut as he heard a little gasp sound out from your spot in the shadows, his head turning just in time to catch you hightailing it back towards the elevator.

At least he didn’t have to worry about you clocking his semi-hard dick twitching in his sweats.

You leaned back against the door once you were in the safety of your room, your chest heaving like you had run a marathon. You muttered out a string of curses, a feeling of hopelessness crashing down on you. You felt like crying—this wasn’t fair. The control he had over you—your reactions—rendered you powerless, reduced to a puddle at the simple act of him reconnecting his arm. 

It wasn’t just that you were physically attracted to him—no, that would’ve been a lot easier. He was a genuinely good guy. Kind, caring, furiously protective of those he loves. His Winter Soldier past didn’t scare you—he went through something unimaginable, you couldn’t even begin to comprehend the pain he’s felt. He could’ve sat with the pain, the anger—let it control him and take the rest of his life away. Instead he made amends, put in the hard fucking work and learned how to live with his trauma and not let it haunt him. 

You saw the little cracks in his rough exterior, the vulnerability slipping through his hard shell. The lines of exhaustion next to his eyes, the faraway look as a memory resurfaced. The late night trips to the kitchen when the nightmares refused to let him sleep.

It only made your heart yearn for him more—you wanted to see the soft Bucky who let his guard down. You craved to be by his side, maybe help take some of the weight of the world off his shoulders. 

Living with your crush—your boss—fucking sucked.

“Fuck it,” you whispered into the quiet of your room. 

You didn’t care about the promise you had made to yourself when you moved in a week ago. You didn’t care if your enhanced spy roommates heard you. You didn’t care about anything but the hunger overtaking your body, dampening your underwear.

You settled into the rumpled duvet on your bed, your hand wasting no time slipping under the waistband of your sleep shorts. You let out a breathy sigh as you felt the wet patch blooming on your underwear, your fingers gently pressing against it. 

He didn’t even say a word to you and here you were, needy and aching for him.

There was already a ball sitting heavy in your core—dormant, waiting for you to light the fuse. It sparked alive beneath your desperate fingers, sending flares of warmth through your veins. You pressed harder on the wet patch, the fabric catching on your sensitive clit—a small whine bubbling in your chest at the sensation. 

You continued to tease yourself, not stopping your movements until your underwear was completely soaked. Slick dripped down your ass, staining your shorts and the duvet underneath you. You failed to care about anything but the need for release, shaky breaths and barely audible whines filling the air as you pleasured yourself.

You finally dipped your fingers beneath your soiled underwear, gasping at the wet heat leaking from you. You circled a fingertip around your neglected hole, your body shuddering and hips jerking instinctively. Your other hand joined in, circling your aching clit that was begging for attention. A small moan escaped past your lips at the dual stimulation.

You squeezed your eyes tight as you pushed a single finger into your weeping core, a stuttered whine filling the room—you were pulsing, your core clenching with the pent-up desperation you had been feeling for weeks. You moved your finger slowly, rubbing it along your walls trying to find that special spot—wishing it was cold vibranium filling you instead. The fingers on your clit sped up at the thought, the feeling in your core building higher as you imagined it was Bucky’s fingers making you feel good. 

Soft, squelching noises emanated from your core, your urgent hands working yourself harder. The noises were almost imperceptible. Almost. You would’ve been embarrassed if it weren't for the primal need to come thrumming throughout your body, coiling deep in your belly. 

You were so close. Your back arching against the bed, mouth falling open with pants of “please” slipping freely. The finger in your pussy was thrusting harder, trying to hit your g-spot but still not reaching. The pleasure blooming in your chest started to morph into frustration, your hands cramping from exertion. You were so close. A pained groan vibrated up your throat as you felt your high slip through your fingers. 

“No, please, I’m so close,” you whimpered into the darkness, begging your body to grant you the release you desperately needed. You shifted your fingers slightly, hoping a change will bring the pleasure back. 

Nothing. You felt the warmth leave your body, shivering as the cold air in the room brought you back to reality. A single frustrated tear ran down your cheek as you pulled your hands away, the ruined orgasm gripping your chest painfully. You turned on your side, burrowing your face in the pillow and let out a single, small, annoyed scream. You wanted to cry.

Bucky felt the shift in the air the moment he stepped off the elevator. Your scent was bleeding through the walls, drifting from under your door and wrapping around him. The sweetness had reached intoxicating levels—he couldn’t focus on anything else. 

He lingered by the elevator, his body screaming at him to turn left instead of right—to walk towards your door instead of his own. He felt his hand start to sweat as your scent grew stronger, filling the hallway in a thick musk he could almost see. He inhaled deeply, pulling more of you into his lungs—an error on his part as his chest rumbled with a hungry growl. Saliva started to pool in his mouth, his vibranium arm whirring with barely contained restraint.

His body knew what was happening before his brain caught up, his enhanced hearing picking up a little gasp—unmistakably yours. 

His super soldier hearing focused on the noises behind your door without his permission. Everything faded around him as he listened to your small breathy whines, his semi-hard dick now straining against his sweats—fully hard and starting to leak.

Underneath your needy whines was a soft wet sound that had his brows furrowing. And then it finally clicked.

You were touching yourself.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. 

He felt the vein in his temple pulse, his jaw clenched in pain, his hands in fists so tight they were shaking. He had to go to his room. Now.

His feet disobeyed him, your noises and scent keeping him frozen in the hallway. He shouldn’t be listening to this, shouldn’t be listening to you in your most intimate and vulnerable state. 

Your needy pleas lured him closer—a hungry, primal instinct clawing at his chest, urging him to kick your door down and give you what you were desperately begging for. 

“No, please, I’m so close,” your whimper crawled under the closed door, embedding itself into his ears. His heart lurched at the desperation and pain in your voice—he could help you, make you feel better than anyone else could. 

A small sniffle and muffled, frustrated scream brought him out of his lust-filled daze, like ice water had been poured over him. The hallway came back into focus as he hastily turned on his heels, shame coursing through him as he slipped into his room quietly. 

He paced back and forth, berating himself for listening to you. For indulging in the fantasy of you on your back, aching and pleading for him. Berating himself for the raging boner that was pulsing at the thought of you, the sounds you were making in the solace of your room. 

He pulled at his hair, his scalp protesting from the sharp tug. His chest was heaving, sweat slicking the skin—the sounds you made replaying in his head like sweet torture.

Touching himself was out of the question—it would cross a line, a professional line, and he was terrified he wouldn’t be able to take it back. 

He stood in his shower recounting horrible memories while his skin stung under the freezing cold water. He had been in the cold shower for at least 30 minutes, replaying the worst moments of his Winter Soldier past in the hopes they would distract him from you.

He left the bathroom still half hard, exhaustion and defeat weighing down his shoulders. He didn’t understand it—why is body wouldn’t listen to him, why he couldn’t regain full control of his reactions. He flopped on his bed, covering his face with his hands and letting out a prolonged groan. 

He tried to blame it on the fact he hadn’t gotten laid in a couple years. He was just insanely wound tight—the sounds of anyone getting off would’ve made him react like this…right? It had nothing to do with you. Absolutely nothing. Definitely not.

His mind wandered more as he willed sleep to rescue him from this torture—hell, he would prefer his usual nightmares over this.

He shot up from his bed, a possessive rage overwhelming his body so quickly it scared him. What if someone else heard you?

His breathing turned ragged at the thought. Walker was in the room right across from yours. If he wasn’t asleep he would’ve heard the same things Bucky had. He felt sick at the thought—hated that John might’ve been witness to the same vulnerable side of you that he had. He huffed out a growl, already imagining the godawful things John would say to you. 

That’s it. Walker was being kicked out come morning. 

————————

The next morning you were on the balcony, seated in the hanging egg chair while reading a book. Well, trying to read a book—you had reread the same paragraph four times, your brain struggling to focus after a restless night. 

“You should lock your door,” came a voice from the open balcony door. You jumped slightly, still not used to the spies you live with sneaking up on you.

Yelena was leaning against the doorframe, an iced latte in one hand and a breakfast burrito in the other. She held them out for you to grab, a bored expression on her face.

“I don’t need to lock it, I trust the team—what’s this for?” You replied, questioning the food she was holding out to you with a frown. 

The blonde sighed, exasperated. “It’s late breakfast—hurry up and eat. We need to get going.” She shoved the food into your hands impatiently, grabbing the book from you and skimming the pages while you ate hesitantly.

You took a gulp of the iced coffee, smiling at the fact she got your order right. Your smile quickly dropped as she peered at the book with more interest, her eyes widening slightly.

“So, you like romance books.” It wasn’t a question. You felt panic shoot through you at the growing smirk on her face.

You snatched the book out of her hands, your cheeks heating up and jaw dropping slightly as you read what she had.

She had flipped to a random page halfway through the book when you were only a few chapters in. The page was pure filth—detailed descriptions of the knight chasing the princess through a forest, pinning her against a tree and whispering the dirtiest things in her ear as he fucked her relentlessly, ignoring her pleas for him to slow down. 

“I—that’s not—” you stuttered out. “I haven’t read that part yet…” you trailed off in a small voice, finding the balcony floor utterly fascinating.

A soft chuckle had you lifting your head tentatively. Yelena’s smirk had softened, her eyes full of fondness as she took in your clearly embarrassed state.

“Relax, I’m not judging. Was gonna ask if I could borrow it after you’ve finished.” She paused, her roaming eyes taking in the exhaustion lining your face. 

“You okay?” She asked softly, worried. 

Your heart bloomed at her concern. “I’m fine, had a rough sleep.”

She nodded once before grabbing your breakfast and walking back into your room.

“Come on,” she yelled over her shoulder. “You can eat on the way. Ava and Bob are downstairs waiting for us.”

You scrambled after her, grabbing your shoulder bag and jumping around your room trying to get your shoes on. You briefly glanced in the mirror on your way out, deeming your current outfit as acceptable for spring in New York.

“Waiting for us? Where are we going?” You questioned Yelena, rushing after the spy who was halfway to the elevator. 

She whipped the New Avengers credit card out of her pocket, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “We’re taking you shopping!”

Ava and Bob were waiting in the downstairs foyer, matching iced coffees in their hands. You were slightly surprised at Bob joining the girls shopping trip.

You exchanged brief hellos with the two of them, surprised again when Ava pulled you into a tight hug.

“Bob, please don’t take this the wrong way…but why are you joining us?” You questioned the man with one raised brow.

He didn’t take offence, chuckling slightly and shrugging his shoulders. “It’s not the first time—I like hanging with you girls, beats being stuck in the tower with moody super soldiers who have complicated histories.”

“Besides,” he continued. “I want to buy more books.”

You started off with replacing your wardrobe essentials, feeling a bit upset over the fact you had to replace anything. The other three caught on immediately, catching the tired sighs and frown on your face as you browsed racks.

Ava gently grabbed your hand, pulling you across the store to the more expensive, more lush clothing. 

“Go hard, girl. You deserve it.” She squeezed your hand once before turning to a silk blouse and running her hand along it. “Now this—you are definitely trying this on.” 

Bob and Yelena came over, joining Ava in picking items off the rack and throwing them on the growing pile in your hands. Bob surprisingly had good taste, you understood why the girls brought him along.

The dressing room was completely empty—thanks to Yelena bribing the store manager to close the store for you—and half of the New Avengers were chanting at you for a fashion show, mimosas in their hands.

This was absolutely ridiculous. How the hell were you now clothes shopping with superheroes cheering you on?

You felt self-conscious at first—you didn’t like being the centre of attention, didn’t like people staring at your body purposely—but it was hard to stay hidden in your shell with three very attractive people hyping you up.

Bob clapped every time you stepped out of the stall, Yelena whistled loudly and told you to spin every time—lightly slapping your ass in really flattering jeans once—, and Ava made appropriate helpful comments. Well, mostly appropriate. 

“Ten out of ten, I would bang.” Yelena hummed her agreement, nodding as she sipped her mimosa.

“Do you only date men?” You laughed, caught off guard before returning to the stall with red cheeks.

“Not a flattering colour—next one.” You respected the honesty.

“I’m sorry but I’m only looking at your boobs right now.” Bob choked on his virgin mimosa at that.

Each time you returned to the stall feeling more confident, a large smile on your lips as you checked yourself out in the mirror. 

You weren’t expecting the jaw-dropped reaction all three had when you stepped out in the first dress. It was a little out of your comfort zone, showing more skin than you were used to and hinted at the curves you kept hidden.

“What?” You asked, nervously rubbing your hands along the soft cotton. “Does it look that bad?” You started to gnaw on the inside of your cheek. You thought it looked good.

Yelena got over her shock first.

“No! No, no, no, no. It looks—you look amazing.” She looked at the other two who had composed themselves, worried they made you feel bad. 

“Seriously, you look great. I think we’re all just a little…surprised.” The other two hummed. “We’ve never seen you in a dress before.”

The reassurance put you at ease. “Oh! Right. Yeah, I don’t like wearing them at work.” You shrugged nonchalantly.

“Go! I want to see more,” Ava waved her hand at you, motioning towards the stall.

You heard a low mutter from Yelena to the others. “…he’s not going to cope with that.” 

Every dress you tried on made you feel good, and the reactions from your friends made you feel even better. Your cheeks hurt from constantly smiling at their antics, your skin permanently flushed at their endless compliments, your stomach sore from laughing at their bickering. 

Finally, you got to the dress you were most excited to try on. The dark green grabbed your eye immediately, the satin smooth along your fingertips. The lace trim along the chest and the short length were more daring than you would usually go for, but you felt it calling to you.

Trying it on in the stall you were taken aback by your reflection. You looked really good. Like, you don’t think a dress has looked better on you. 

Yelena let out a long, low whistle as you stepped out. Ava motioned her head exploding as she looked you up and down multiple times. Bob looked at you quickly before darting his eyes away, holding two thumbs up in your direction.

“You’ve been hiding all this from us?” Yelena asked incredulously. “You’re buying one in every colour—that’s an order.” She shared a conspicuous look with the other two before adding, “I think Barnes would agree with me on that.”

Bob snorted loudly, trying and failing to cover it with a cough.

Ava had a sly smirk on her face, nodding and humming at Yelena’s comment.

You narrowed your eyes at the trio, trying to figure out what they were insinuating.

“…okay, whatever that means.” 

Your eyes bulged at the total your shop came to—it was way more than one weeks pay, and the New Avengers paid you well. Yelena didn’t care, handing the card over before you could protest.

“One last stop and then we’ll go home. Bob, time for you to go look for books!” Bob rolled his eyes at Yelena shooing him away. He grabbed as many bags out of your arms as he could before crossing the road to the old bookstore on the corner.

The girls led you down the street before stopping in front of Victoria’s Secret. Right, you needed to replace majority of your underwear too. Cool.

You felt comfortable with them, but the repressed virgin in you was nervous to be lingerie shopping with them. 

They let you do your thing for the most part. They browsed for themselves for ten minutes, keeping an eye on you at all times—Bucky’s orders.

They slowly drifted over as you approached the racks of matching sets, drawn towards a delicate lace set.

“That would suit your complexion well,” Ava offered casually, holding up a set for herself squinting and then putting it back on the rack.

“Mmm. That set would look good with your hair,” Yelena nodded towards a satin set on your left.

You picked it up, tilting your head considering it before returning it.

“Not like anyone’s ever going to see it,” you muttered absentmindedly, scrunching your nose up at a hot pink cheetah print set. Not your thing.

The two woman stilled at your words, sensing bitterness in your tone.

“What do you mean by that?” Yelena asked.

You froze as you realised your tiny slip up. Of course they picked up on it, they’re goddamn spies.

“I mean, because like—I’m staying at the tower! Can’t really bring anyone home,” you chucked awkwardly, neck and cheeks flushing. 

You refused to make eye contact with either of them, grabbing a few sets before moving over to the section of slips and babydolls.

They followed, curious at your rambling. 

“I thought you said you weren’t dating?” Ava asked, adding a navy babydoll to the pile she was collecting for you.

“Yeah, no, I’m not. It was just a silly comment. You know, dry spell and all that,” you waved a hand dismissively.

Both women relented their questioning, humming in agreement.

“Oh yeah, we get that. Bit hard to find time to date when you’re saving the world,” Ava chuckled. 

They hung back as you looked around more, appreciating the breathing room.

Yelena looked at Ava serious, unyielding. “We are not dropping this. Next post-mission drinks, the three of us are having a wine night in my room.”

Ava nodded, expression just as serious. “Agreed. She’s too vague, I need to know more.”

Yelena snickered, a thought crossing her mind as she eyed the abundance of lace and silk in your hands. “If you think about it, technically Barnes is paying for her lingerie—it’s his signature on the credit card.”

Ava smacked her arm lightly with wide elated eyes. “That’s so good. Make sure you mention that to him, I want to see him squirm.” The both of them started cackling, relishing at the thought of teasing the Winter Soldier. 

————————

The three of you returned to the Watchtower to find Bob waiting in the common room, your shopping bags on the couch next to him. 

He raised his eyebrows at the amount of bags you had in your hands. “Damn, should we expect an angry call from Val? That’s a lot of shopping.”

Your cheeks went bright red, terrified that the big bad boss was going to hunt you down for splurging on lingerie. “You guys told me to not worry about—oh my god, she’s totally going to kill me! What the fuck guys?” You started to spiral, eyes wide with fear.

“Hey, no you’re fine—Bob was just joking. Weren’t you, Bob?” Yelena glared at him as she rubbed your shoulders soothingly. 

“Yes—yep! Totally joking!”

The conversation trailed off as John walked in from the kitchen clutching an ice pack against his right eye, his bottom lip cut and bleeding. He looked awful.

Yelena let out a low whistle at him, “looks like you fought a bear and lost.”

John rolled his eyes, wincing as the small movement pulled on his injuries. 

“If by bear you mean Barnes, then yeah. Dude had something to prove today—he was not pulling his punches at all.”

Yelena’s eyes darted to you briefly before she stepped towards him. She slowly muttered, voice low and serious, “what did you do.”

“Nothing! Why do you always think I did something?” John brushed her off. He looked past her to the rest of the room before his eyes fell on you.

His eyes going up and down your body made you want to disappear. You crossed your arms over your chest, his eyes darting to the shopping bags in your hands. You watched in slight horror at the wicked smile that stretched his lips, the cut on his bottom lip bleeding more. 

“Oh, princess,” he chuckled shaking his head mockingly, like a predator about to pounce. You felt sick. 

“You know just how to make me feel better. How about you give me a little show and tell of what you bought? Somewhere private, just the two of us.” 

You flinched in disgust at Walker, stepping back instinctively. Shocked tears welled behind your eyes—why would he say something like that?

In the blink of an eye, Alexei appeared behind Walker, gripping the back of his neck harshly. He jerked Walker’s head back, hissing into his ear. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Yelena kneed Walker in the balls, hard. The man dropped to his knees, howling as Yelena took another shot. 

“That’s why I think you did something! What is wrong with you?” She seethed through clenched teeth, outraged at what Walker had said to you.

Bob was at your side by this point, resting a gentle arm on your shoulder, his fingers tracing soft comforting circles. He showed his repulsion at John’s words, his face scrunched in disbelief. “What the hell, man. That was uncalled for.”

Bucky stilled as John’s voice drifted down the hallway to the gym. He was paused mid-action, reaching up to hang his third punching bag in the last hour. The bag dropped heavy on the floor as Bucky stormed down the hall towards John. Towards you.

His teeth were clenched hard, the pain radiating up to his eyes. He could only see red. Could only feel a bloodthirsty anger taking control of him. He should’ve knocked Walker out during their sparring session. 

Rounding the corner into the common room his eyes fell on you instantly. Arms wrapped around your torso, shrinking towards Bob—trying to hide yourself. 

Bucky was on John in a flash, wrapping his vibranium fist around the man’s neck before slamming him into the wall. 

John grabbed the arm around his neck as he choked slightly, eyes wide with fear as he looked at Bucky. He has never seen Bucky this angry before. His eyes were narrowed slightly, dark and shining wild, dangerously. The vein in his forehead was bulging and his neck was a dark red with barely contained restraint.

Walker held his hands up slowly, preferring to surrender than deal with the beast Barnes was seconds from unleashing.

The older man leaned in slowly, his voice a low growl. “Apologise to her. Now.”

Walker swallowed nervously, his throat straining under the vibranium hold. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, okay—I was just teasing! Honestly, that was wrong—I’m sorry, princess.” He started to panic as Bucky’s hand gripped tighter, “I promise I won’t say anything like that again—I swear!”

Bucky didn’t believe him, refusing to let go until your voice called out behind him softly.

“Bucky, you can let him go. I’m okay.” He turned his head slightly, seeing you standing closer to him than before—no longer hiding next to Bob. 

His eyes bore into yours, scanning. He could only find a sincere warmth in your expression—no anger, no fear.

He let go of John’s neck, glowering at him as he scrambled to leave the room.

“Stop calling her princess. She doesn’t like it,” Bucky’s booming voice ordered John.

“Yes, sir!” And with that John bolted towards the elevator down the hall. 

You watched in a slight daze as Bucky walked towards the couch to grab all your shopping bags. He nodded towards Ava and Yelena, motioning them to hand him the bags of yours they were holding. 

He walked towards you slowly, his eyes searching your face for any unease. Satisfied that you appeared mostly okay, he rested his right hand gently on the small of your back. 

“Big day, huh?” He murmured, trying to lighten the mood as he guided you towards the elevator. 

You let out a breathy chuckle, “yeah, you could say that. I think I need a nap now.” 

You walked in silence down the hall, both of your minds whirring with what just happened. Bucky opened your door before letting you in first—always the gentleman. 

He placed the shopping bags on the ground next to your bed, trying to ignore the sweet sounds from the night before replaying in his head as he briefly glanced at the bed. Your scent was surrounding him and he felt like a drug addict taking a hit after years sober. 

His eyes scanned the rest of the room, noticing the little things you had done to make it your own. The photo on the bedside table caught his eye, the one of you and your best friend mid-laugh. You looked happy—head thrown back, eyes squinted with joy, large breathless smile on your face. He wanted to see you like that—to make you laugh like that. 

He found himself looking at the photo Yelena sent him of you sleeping more often than he’d ever admit. He didn’t save it to his phone—no, that would be creepy—instead he scrolled through their texts every time he wanted to see you. 

You moved behind him, putting the Victoria’s Secret bags on the bed—unintentionally drawing his attention to the bags, to what might be in them. 

He felt his blood rushing south—the image of whatever you bought and the sounds you made last night playing on a loop in his head.

I’m no better than Walker, he thought as he focused all his super soldier strength on calming himself down.

You sat down on the bed to start taking off your shoes, oblivious to the turmoil you were inadvertently causing the man. 

You looked up at him hesitantly before asking, “how did you know I don’t like him calling me princess? I don’t think I’ve mentioned it…” You trailed off.

It’s all your brain could focus on—well that, and how fucking hot Bucky looked pinning Walker to the wall. Yeah, you know you’ll be thinking about that a lot. 

But you were curious—you were so sure you didn’t mention your dislike of the nickname to anyone, not even the girls. 

Bucky sighed, shoving his hands in his front pockets with a shrug. “I could see it on your face whenever he said it. You looked uncomfortable.” He tried to play it off casually, like it was no big deal.

But it was a big deal to you—that he paid enough attention to notice that you hated the nickname. Or at least, hated when John called you it.

“I’m sorry he said that shit to you, doll. I don’t know why he would—you don’t deserve to be spoken to like that.” Your breath hitched at the earnest look in his eyes, almost pleading.

“He can sleep in the med bay—on the street, for all I care. He’s not coming near you.” The protective rasp in his voice had your heart soaring. Fuck, he was hot. 

You took a slow breath in to calm your nerves, feeling worked up from how caring and attractive he was being. 

“Thank you, Bucky. I’m okay—it’s not the worst thing I’ve heard,” that didn’t make him feel any better. 

“I just wasn’t expecting him—someone I work with—to say something like that.” You looked down at your hands, nervously picking at the skin around your nails. Your voice grew quieter, “I feel weird that he lives across the hall, you know?”

Bucky crouched down in front of you, placing his flesh hand on top of your fidgeting ones. He looked at you with an intense expression—sharp jaw clenched tight, brows set in a hard line, blue eyes steely. 

“I’ll make Yelena swap rooms with him. I don’t want you feeling scared here. We’re meant to be protecting you, doll.” He pushed a strand of hair behind your ear gently with his vibranium hand—a stark contrast to the hand choking John not even ten minutes ago.

You leaned your head towards the hand subconsciously—barely an inch.

He stood up like he had been shocked, clearing his throat before walking towards the door. He stopped, gave you a brief wave and closed the door behind him.

————————

“We’re still on for Friday night, right?” 

It was Wednesday night and you were FaceTiming your best friend while you were getting ready for bed. 

The tower had recovered after John’s inappropriate comments on Sunday—he stayed away for a couple nights and came back with apology gifts for everyone, promising he would stop being a creep. You believed him for the most part—there was an inherent creepiness to Walker that you don’t think he would ever be rid of. Still, you appreciated that he was trying.

It helped that Bucky had kept true to his word and ordered Yelena to swap rooms with John. Now it was a little girls corner with Yelena opposite you and Ava right next to you—you felt safe. This place was starting to feel more like home. 

The team sat you down before you finished work earlier to give you an update on the break-in. The update was that there was no update—they had hit dead ends with all their leads and there was nothing new to go off. You were disappointed, not in the team but at being away from your best friend—your home—for longer. You only left the tower when joining someone on a coffee run and you were getting major cabin fever. 

You dreaded having to give your friend the news that there was no news. She took it how you expected—dramatic sighs, eye rolling, complaining on where her tax money was going. She found a silver lining quickly, though. She had moved out of her parents place a week ago—they were having too many arguments and she couldn’t cope—and was now staying with her boyfriend. And from what she spent over an hour telling you, they were having great sex. A lot of it. 

You frantically grabbed your headphones from your bag when her voice rang out in your quiet room. “He made me come hard from just sucking my ni—.” God, you hoped no one heard that. You had become used to her sharing explicit details about her sex life, but it still made the virgin in you get both uncomfortable and insanely jealous. 

“What’s on Friday?” You asked her, rubbing moisturiser over your face and neck.

“We were gonna go out for my birthday? I couldn’t get Saturday night off work so we talked about going to karaoke on Friday instead…” Your friends voice came through your phone, her tone showing her hurt at you forgetting.

You closed your eyes and let out a deep sigh. “Shit…I am so sorry—with everything going on I completely forgot.” You opened your eyes and watched her shoulders deflate through the screen. You felt horrible for forgetting and letting her down—it wasn’t just your life that had been uprooted, she lost her apartment and stability too. 

She huffed grumpily, “they keep you locked away in that tower like Rapunzel—there’s no way they’ll let you come out!” She cried out, clutching her chest like she was in pain. “I need this so badly. I miss us so much—we haven’t drunk wine and gossiped for weeks.” She sniffled and ran a hand under her eye, acting like she was crying.

Despite her dramatics you really did want to go out. It had been months since you went out dancing with her and you needed a night to let loose a little. Determination surged through you—you were going to make Friday night happen.

“Okay, I’ve got a plan. I’ll convince them it’s safe—don’t worry, we’re still going out on Friday.” You assured your friend.

After your phone call ended you flicked Ava and Yelena a text.

Y/N: I have a favour to ask you both. Please. 

Two minutes later you heard sharp knocks on your door before it opened, Yelena and Ava rushing inside. 

“What’s wrong?” Ava asked as she sat next to you on the bed, Yelena sitting on your other side.

You smiled slightly, touched by their concern. “Nothing’s wrong, I just need some help.”

Their shoulders eased slightly, both nodding at you to continue.

“So, it’s my best friend’s birthday this weekend and I completely forgot we made plans weeks ago to go out, and now with everything going on I don’t know if Bucky will let me go—I really need to go, I’ve been such a shit friend to her lately—and I need you two to convince him it’s safe and I’ll be fine!” You took in a deep breath after your explanation. 

Ava glanced hesitantly at Yelena—she was fairly certain Barnes would punch them both for suggesting you go out without protection.

Yelena smirked in response—she knew she could guilt trip him into letting you go. “Don’t you worry, solnyshko. I’ve got this.”

And she was right. After telling Barnes he was taking your youth away, keeping you as a prisoner, ruining your friendship with your best friend—that was a low blow, she’ll admit—, he finally conceded to Yelena. But only if she promised she would watch you the whole night—without you knowing.

“I am a highly skilled spy, Barnes. I know how to track a target without detection.” She was offended he even implied you would find out.

“I know. It’s just—I don’t think she’d be happy knowing we followed her,” he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, uncomfortable letting you go out but more worried you would be upset at them watching your night out with your friend. It felt like they were invading your privacy. 

“She’ll never know.”

————————

You don’t know what Yelena said to Bucky to let you go out tonight but you were not going to question her methods. 

You weren’t exactly enthused about the safety on a night out lesson they gave you earlier, though. You felt like a teenager being lectured by her parents before senior prom. 

“You guys do realise I’m an adult, right? I’ve been out plenty of times before,” you grumbled with your arms crossed, glaring at Bucky on the other side of the common room. 

Sure you had an unhealthy crush on the man, but you were allowed to be annoyed at him when he was treating you like a child. 

Bucky ignored your grumbling, continuing his speech. “Do not let anyone buy you a drink, or leave your drink unattended. Don’t take any random drugs—,”

“Oh, but I can take drugs I recognise?” Your sarcasm ignored by Barnes, again.

“—and no leaving the group you’re with. I’m serious,” he added when your shoulders shook with a laugh. 

“I’ve got it, dad. You just listed the main rules for a night out when you’re a woman,” you raised an expectant eyebrow at Bucky.

He sighed warily, “fine, you can go now. You run into any trouble, you call me right away. Got it?”

It was nearing 8pm and you were putting the finishing touches on your makeup, sitting crosslegged on the floor at your friends boyfriend’s apartment not far from the Watchtower. 

“Why haven’t we been hanging out more? We’re only a few blocks away from each other!” You yelled to your best friend who was curling her hair in the bathroom.

“Because, I’ve been busy working…and having a lot of sex. Besides, you weren’t allowed outside until today!” She yelled back at you, hard to hear over the throwback playlist blaring through the speaker next to you.

“Firstly, ew. Secondly, I have been allowed outside! Maybe only with a chaperone, but progress right?”

She came out of the bathroom, joining you on the floor in front of the mirror. “Yeah, but I don’t really want your superhero chaperones to hear me talk about my sex life.”

You threw a makeup brush at her face lightly, “hmm, it’s almost like you should talk about your sex life less, then.”

She gave your arm a light pinch, “oh, shut up. We both know you love hearing all my stories—you get your action vicariously through me.”

You laughed at her before focusing back on your reflection in the mirror. You were still in your work clothes, having run here straight from the tower after Bucky’s dad lecture. In your bag was the satin lace trim dress you had bought on Sunday.

Your friends boyfriend had left you two alone at the apartment, opting to have beers with his friends before meeting you both after karaoke. The plan was to meet a couple of your old friends from the diner at karaoke, and then go out dancing with his friends. You hadn’t met his friends yet, but you decided to leave that part out when you told the New Avengers the plan. They were already overly protective and you didn’t want to ruin your friends birthday. 

You grabbed the dress out of the bag and headed into the bathroom to get changed. It still fit you the same as when you first tried it on. The satin clung to your curves in all the right places, accentuating your waist and hips, ending just above mid thigh. The lace trim sat flush against your breasts, straining slightly when you inhaled—the new bra you were wearing pushing your chest up more than you were used to. It was formfitting but you still felt like you could breathe, not feeling the instinct to cover your body self-consciously.

Would Bucky like the dress, you pondered. 

You went back into the living room, spinning with a flourish for your friend. 

“Holy shit! Look at you, girl.” Her jaw dropped and you giggled at her reaction, feeling a slight buzz from the glass of wine you had while getting ready. 

“No, but seriously—what the fuck? You look incredible—effortlessly sexy.” She shook her head in disbelief, a cheeky smile forming on her face. “You know, if I didn’t have a boyfriend and we both liked girls I would definitely fuck you.”

Red flushed your cheeks as you tried to control your giggles, happy that you were spending time with your best friend again. 

You stood behind her while you looked in the mirror, pinning your curls in a messy half up half down style. Your friend watched with a small smile on her face, noticing how you glowed more now. 

“I think working for the superheroes suits you—you seem more confident, more comfortable in your own skin.”

Your heart clenched, feeling taken aback that she noticed that—you hadn’t. 

“So, any progress with Bucky vibranium arm Barnes yet?” 

————————

8:45pm

Yelena: Target walking into the karaoke bar now.

9:15pm

Yelena: Good thing she’s cute, she sucks at singing. 

9:45pm

Yelena: I think they’ve been through Rihanna’s whole discography. 

10:15pm

Yelena: Now they’re massacring Avril Lavigne.

10:45pm

Yelena: En route to a rooftop bar. 

11:15pm 

Yelena: At least she can move her hips…

Bucky: And you needed to tell me that, why?

Yelena: Just thought you might like to know. 

You raised your hands above your head, swaying your hips from side to side as the bass from the Calvin Harris song vibrated through your body. The alcohol loosened your movements, helping you escape your head and focus on the atmosphere of the lively bar around you.

Your friend came back to the group, holding a tray of shots for everyone. You knew that it was tequila immediately. Before you could protest, tell your friend she knows how you are with tequila, she gave you her best puppy dog eyes.

“Please, for me? C’mon, it’s my birthday!”

Two rounds of shots later and you were dancing with your friend, her hands on your hips and yours around her shoulders, screaming the lyrics to Buttons in each other’s face with matching grins. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of your neck prickled in awareness—the feeling like someone was watching you washing over your body.

You spun around, scanning the bar for anything suspicious—for anyone looking at you. Your eyes were drawn to a dark corner of the smokers area, squinting to see if there was a figure hiding in the shadows or if it was the bars strobe lights messing with your vision. Nothing. 

You turned back to your friend, feeling on edge and needing another drink. “I’m going to the bar!” You shouted over the music, getting a thumbs up in response.

Yelena watched you walk over to the bar from her spot in the corner, studying your now tense shoulders. She watched as the bartender stopped his conversation with another woman to serve you, flashing you a flirty smile while checking you out. She watched as the woman glared at you stealing the bartenders attention, shoulder checking you hard enough to make you stumble. 

The cogs in Yelena’s brain started to turn, replaying the scene she just witnessed—a woman’s clear jealously over something that wasn’t your fault. She thought about the levels of psychological torture women inflict on each other, how they play games to terrorise their competition. 

The crime scene photos from your apartment flashed in her mind. The destruction, the carelessness screamed male intruder. But the destruction of your journal, your underwear—that screamed intentional psychological torment. The fact someone had put your private musings on display, laid out all your vulnerabilities for anyone to see—only a resentful ex or jealous woman would want to inflict that kind of terror. And from what the team could find out, there were no resentful exes in your past—no exes at all, actually. 

After coming to the realisation that they had been looking for the wrong suspects entirely, Yelena focused her attention back on the bar where you were. Or, had been a couple minutes ago. 

11:48pm

Bucky: What’s going on?

She rolled her eyes at Barnes’ impatience—she was only a few minutes late for her half hour check in.

Her eyes found you near the exit to the bathrooms, back pressed against the wall as a guy leaned into your personal space. She recognised him as one of the guys that joined your group at the bar, but your body language showed you weren’t friendly. Arms crossed over your chest, tense polite smile, body leaning away from him. Clearly you did not want his attention.

11:49pm

Yelena: She’s fine.

Bucky: Fine? Why didn’t you report back on time?

Yelena: Jesus Christ, it was only 4 minutes Barnes! And yes, fine. 

Yelena: Want me to send you a photo of her flirting with some guy? 

Bucky: No. Why the fuck would I want that?

You were on your way to the bathroom when Dean—or was it Derek?—cornered you with a suggestive smile on his face. He was cute enough, total surfer dude vibes—curly blonde hair, bright blue eyes, face sprinkled with freckles. 

Normally, a guy like him flirting with you would’ve made you flustered—not believing he would be interested in you—but you had already watched him strike out with two other women in the last half hour. He was just looking to get laid and you were the third choice. A friend of a friend. Safe backup. And you couldn’t help but notice the differences.

His eyes were blue, but not the right blue. They were unsettling, almost unnatural. They weren’t the icy, yet somehow warm, blue that you would feel staring at you across the common room. He was physically fit, but more on the lanky side—his shoulders weren’t much wider than your own. No beefy muscles that tower over you. His face was clean shaven and smooth, no scruffy stubble or fine lines. He was a boy, not a man.

And you wanted a man. A brooding, traumatised, immensely protective man. A man you couldn’t have.

You half-heartedly listened to him brag about his surfing awards—called it—nodding your head at appropriate times while looking for an excuse to leave the conversation.

Your excuse came skipping over with a demand for one more dance before heading home. 

12:15am

Yelena: She’s on her way back to you. 

Yelena: I have a new theory on the intruder. Will debrief the team in the morning. 

————————

Bucky knew something was wrong the second you stepped off the elevator in the common room. He was in the gym—where he usually finds himself when he can’t stop thinking about you—pummelling his fourth punching bag for the night when your perfume, your scent, graced his nose. But, it was different. There was another smell, another scent, overpowering your sweet one. It was harsh, metallic—stinging his nose and leaving a stale taste in his mouth. It smelt like cheap cologne a teenage boy would wear. 

The realisation had him freezing—his muscles pulling taut, jaw clenched achingly tight, a deep burning in his stomach. You had brought someone—a guy—back to the tower. A possessive growl rumbled in Bucky’s chest. 

No. No, you wouldn’t do that.

His feet carried him to the kitchen without his awareness—his mind spiralling about who the fuck you brought home and why Yelena didn’t tell him. Was it the guy she said you were flirting with? The thought made him sick.

The sounds of cupboards banging closed met his ears. And then the sound he had been enraptured with since the first day—soft humming. Your soft humming.

You’re home. You’re safe. 

He focused on his hearing more, trying to pick up any other noises—the shuffling of shoes on the tiles, a deep chuckle, a man’s voice. He could only hear you.

But, that goddamn smell suffocating yours had only gotten stronger and it made it hard for Bucky to control his breathing—to calm down. 

The vein in his forehead was bulging, his neck strained and red, when he got to the door to the kitchen. 

He stopped short, his heart stuttering in his chest and his brain malfunctioning. 

There you were, standing at the kitchen counter with your back turned to him. Quietly humming and gently swaying your hips like you usually do when you’re here alone. He’s seen you do this before, from his spot in the shadows.

But he’d never seen you like this before. Curls messy and frizzy from dancing, hips moving with drunken freedom—like you’re still listening to the music at the bar. 

Tantalising satin and lace embraced your thighs, but he couldn’t appreciate that—not when a stiff, ill-fitting, man’s leather jacket obstructed the rest of your dress. 

A low hiss escaped through his teeth, his fists clenching with the visceral urge to rip the damn thing off of you. Before he could take a step forward, you opened a cabinet above your head reaching up on your tiptoes to grab a glass. 

Bucky watched in pure agony as the jacket lifted, exposing the satin hugging your ass. His blood rushed south as the lace trim inched up your thighs, revealing more of your soft, plush skin to the starved man. 

The show you had unknowingly put on stopped as you stepped back, moving to the sink to fill a glass with water. 

“Good night?” Bucky doesn’t remember opening his mouth, doesn’t remember stepping out of the shadows.

You whirled around in fright, a small scream leaping from your throat. The glass in your hand slipped and smashed on the kitchen tiles, covering your shoes in water and shards of glass.

Before your sluggish, intoxicated mind could comprehend what happened you were lifted in the air, two strong hands gripping your leather and satin covered hips. You were gently placed on the counter behind you, the cold shock of the marble on your bare thighs barely registering. You could only focus on the hands clutching you and the soft blue eyes staring into yours. 

Your heart lurched and your breath stuttered. Bucky.

Looking so devastatingly handsome inches from your face. Dark sweaty strands framing his face, teasing the sharp line of his jaw. Your fingers twitched with the urge to push his hair behind his ear, the want to trail your fingers along his sculpted face multiplying tenfold thanks to the tequila. You felt like you were drowning in his cerulean blues, your body inching towards his unconsciously. Your brain was a foggy haze that could only focus on him. His hands that you wish were on your bare hips, his electric eyes roaming over your features, his lips that looked so fucking enticing. 

“Always so clumsy, doll.” Bucky muttered quietly, his hands squeezing your hips once before taking a step back.

Then, he squatted down. Right between your legs. 

A soft gasp left you at the sight of him kneeling in front of your legs. The alcohol in your system unlocked the flood gates in your mind, the images you had conjured late at night with your hand between your legs surging forward. Your legs shifted open more in response, a liquid heat flowing through your nerves and gathering low in your belly—the coiled ball you were oh so familiar with waking up like an angry beast.

Bucky hated that fucking jacket. It’s all he could think of as he squatted down to clean up the broken glass. He was so close to you, closer than he’s ever been and he couldn’t even appreciate it because that god awful cheap cologne smell was dominating over your intoxicating sweetness. His hands clenched tightly—they were itching with the need to feel your hips through satin, to rip off the leather and burn it so it was just you and him.

He made the mistake of lifting his head to look at you. Sitting above him looking like a dream—lips parted slightly letting out shallow breaths, glazed over eyes dark and dilated, messy curls clinging to your sweat dampened forehead. His eyes helplessly traced down your neck like they had a mind of their own. He couldn’t control when they drifted lower, zeroing in on the frantic rise and fall of your chest. The lace trim of your dress straining against your breasts with every breath in. You looked like sin, like his favourite wet dream.

He snapped his eyes back to the floor with visible effort, the muscles in his face twitching to get more of the sinful view of you above him. His dick twitched in his sweats, the need he felt last week swelling dangerously. 

Just pick up the glass, Barnes. Don’t think about the soft skin right in front of you. Soft, sweet smelling skin.

You managed to find your voice as he looked down, picking up the shards of glass. “Not m’fault,” you mumbled softly. “You snuck up on me.” 

He let out a low chuckle, his breath ghosting your shins and erupting goosebumps all over your body.

“You should pay better attention to your surroundings.” The side of his mouth quirked up in amusement. “Had a bit to drink, doll?” 

The sight of him kneeling at your feet with the mischievous glint in his eyes as he reprimanded you and called you doll. It was too much.

Your body responded before your mind could catch up. Your mouth parted more, letting out a shuddering breath. Wetness leaked from your core and dampened your panties, your thighs clenching together as your pussy throbbed with need. 

A wave of your sweetness broke through the scent of the leather jacket. Bucky’s nostrils flared, instinctively taking in a deep lungful of your smell. A muscle in his jaw twitched as his focus wavered, his hands trembling with the effort to not pull you closer and bury his head in between your thighs. 

The sweet musk surrounded him like fog, stronger than the night he listened to you touch yourself. His brain proved it was his own worst enemy—pulling forth the sounds he had been replaying every night. Your pathetic, desperate little whines. Your breathy, pleading gasps. 

The squeak of the leather jacket as you shifted tore him from his trance, reminding him where he was. In the kitchen, cleaning up glass that was now digging into his clenched hands, blood dotting his flesh palm.

He cleared his throat, trying to focus on the pain in his hand and not the distraction that was you perched pretty on the counter. 

“So? Did you have a good night?” 

“Mhmm,” you hummed, still dazed. “Was fun. Lots of singing and dancing, m’tired now.” He watched as your eyelids drooped sleepily, the alcohol and physical exertion making you slump in exhaustion. 

He stood to his full height, moving over to dispose of the broken glass. 

“Thanks for letting me go,” you slurred slightly, half focused eyes following his movements. 

Bucky tensed at your thanks, shutting his eyes as guilt punched his stomach. Hard. 

“It wasn’t about letting you go,” he spoke lowly, his voice rough with unexpected emotion clogging his throat. “Was only ever about your safety.” 

You rolled your eyes lightheartedly, “I’m always safe.” Your body thrummed at his worry for your safety, the protectiveness lacing his tone. “I made it back home in one piece, didn’t I?” 

Home. Like the tower was where you belonged now. 

He hummed casually, trying not to show how much you calling the tower ‘home’ affected him. 

His eyes drifted back to your figure as he washed the blood from his palm. Possessiveness clawed at his chest at the sight of that goddamn jacket. It didn’t look comfortable at all.

His mouth opened before he could think about what he was saying. “That doesn’t look comfortable,” he nodded towards the jacket at your confused expression. 

Your brows furrowed as you looked down at the jacket, your right hand trailing along the stiff leather covering your waist. 

“Yeah, it isn’t really. Just needed something for the walk home,” his eyes narrowed at your response, prompting you to explain further. “A friend lent it to me before we left the bar.” 

A single disgruntled brow raised on his rugged face. “A friend.” It wasn’t a question, it was an accusation. 

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling defensive at his tone. The jacket was too stiff, pulling uncomfortably tight across your shoulders and arms. You huffed, dropping your arms to your sides. You felt claustrophobic in the jacket and under his unrelenting gaze.

“Yes, a friend. Friend of a friend, if you want to be specific.”

His right eye twitched slightly, his left hand scrubbing harder at the glass shards embedded in his flesh hand.

“And? What did you give him?”

Your jaw dropped slightly, shooting him an incredulous look. “What did I give him? What’s that supposed to mean, Bucky?” Did he think you slutted yourself out for a goddamn jacket? One that wasn’t even nice? 

That same guilt clenched deep in his gut at the hurtful look on your face. God, he’s really stuck his foot in this one.

“A man doesn’t give a pretty girl his jacket out of the kindness of his heart, doll.” 

You jumped down from the counter on shaky legs, ripping the jacket off your body and throwing it onto the kitchen island forcefully. 

Your eyes blazed with anger at his implication. You completely missed him calling you a pretty girl.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but nothing happened. Not even a kiss,” his shoulders sagged with relief—short lived relief as you opened your mouth again. 

“Is that what you do, James? Act all chivalrous to lure some unsuspecting girl into your bed?”

Your seething anger was completely ignored, his body only registering you calling him James. Even wrapped in malice it sounded so right coming from your lips. He was momentarily frozen, only able to fully absorb the sight of you without the jacket—his eyes stuck on the way your satin dress sensually draped your curves. 

His dick twitched painfully, the combination of the tantalising dress and you saying his first name clouding his rational mind. All he wanted to do was drop to his knees and worship you, drawing out those goddamn needy whimpers and make you gasp out his name.

You took his lapse of silence as your window to leave, stepping past him at the sink to hurry towards the elevator. You were angry at him and yourself—letting yourself get worked up over this man who apparently saw you as easy. Your blood was boiling with arousal and bitterness, the image of him kneeling at your feet still lingering despite your hurt.

Your small stumble as you passed him snapped him out of his dazed lust, his left arm shooting out to grip your hip to stable you. 

“Jesus, that’s not what I meant, doll. I…your generation of men—boys—think they’re entitled to everything. I didn’t—I was worried…worried he took advantage of your kindness.” The fingers on your hip twitched, pressing into the plushness of your hip with a gentle urgency. 

Your mind blanked the second his hand touched your hip. You could feel the cold from his hand through the satin, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure racing along your skin. You could feel the ridges of the vibranium through the fabric, feel them digging slightly as his grip tightened. It felt like it was branding you—you wanted it to brand you, wanted him to grip you tight enough to leave bruises. 

The hand left your hip before an embarrassing, needy whimper could work its way out of your throat. It sat stuck in your chest, tension coiling under your skin at his simple touch.

“Let’s get you to bed.” You watched him in a daze as he grabbed a glass and filled it with water, then opened the fridge and grabbed a bowl of leftover pasta salad.

The journey to your room was filled with a tense silence. You were a flurry of emotions—the anger towards the man next to you morphing into an insatiable need, your heart yearning at how he was taking care of you in your tipsy state. 

Bucky was dealing with his own onslaught of emotions—the guilt from his insinuation hurting you making him feel sick, vicious jealousy at the thought of other men seeing you look like a fallen angel in that dress, an overwhelming desire to lock you away and keep you for himself.

He opened your bedroom door, ushering you in before putting the water and food on your bedside table. He had to get out before your scent played tricks on him, before it convinced him to stay and claim you as his. 

He looked everywhere but you as you collapsed onto your bed, flopping onto your back with a dazed sigh, your hair fanning out on the white bedspread and looking everything like the sinful angel that you were.

He turned to the door abruptly, his fists clenching at his sides, his shoulders rising and falling with the visible effort to control himself.

“Eat and drink everything before you fall asleep.” His low, commanding voice trembled imperceptibly. “Don’t want you hungover in the morning.” 

You huffed, pulling yourself into a sitting position and grabbed the bowl off the bedside table. “Yes, sir.”

Satisfied that you were following his orders, he left the room without a goodbye. He couldn’t turn around, not when you called him sir like it was another day in the office—like it was your job to take orders from him. Technically it was your job. But his dick didn’t care about that—all it wanted was for you to call him sir while writhing in pleasure underneath him. All it wanted was for you to gasp out James while he finally—finally—tasted the sweet nectar your body has been taunting him with.

He should’ve stayed in the fucking gym.

————————

“You said that you had a new theory on the intruder?”

Snow crunched underneath the weight of tactical boots, the piercing arctic winds whistling through the forest and biting into the New Avengers’ faces. All five of them were trudging through the Northern Canadian wilderness in hunt of a ghost Hydra lab. One that Valentina was adamant they find.

Bucky had woken up to his ringtone grating his ears before 7am, an urgent and steel-toned Val on the other end demanding all five New Avengers find that lab within the next 24 hours. 

“You are essential to this mission, Barnes. No, don’t even think about mentioning the girl. You have a job, a duty. Get to the jet. Now” 

She hung up before he could get a word in. 

Ava debriefed the sleepy team on the jet. “Val heard chatter that there were still active compounds, experiments, whatever at a Hydra lab apparently no one has heard of. Whatever she heard spooked her—she thinks some underground organisation is on their way already, and she does not want them getting their hands on whatever secrets the lab holds.”

Yelena sighed warily, her accent thick this early in the morning. “Be ready for a fight.”

Bucky had heard of the lab—had visited it once. It was one of the few memories that still alluded him, a hazy hint of a memory that he never knew if it was real or not. He had been drugged the whole time there, that he was sure of. What they had drugged the Winter Soldier with to be able to forget, he had no clue—and he was terrified to find out. 

That was why he was essential, as Val put it. She knew he had some vague idea of a location, so here they were: three hours into an uphill hike with no end in sight. 

Yelena had spent over an hour updating them of your night out—like it was a mission report and not her stalking your night out with your best friend. Though, mission reports don’t normally involve Ava and Yelena gossiping so much—especially not about some guy you were flirting with. Bucky was quick to steer the conversation away from that, feeling jealous some other guy had your attention and feeling distressed they were even talking about following you when you had no clue. Even though he was the one to order Yelena to watch over you.

“Oh! Oh, I forgot the best part! She was wearing that little satin dress she bought last week!” Yelena wiggled her eyebrows eagerly at Ava. 

“Holy shit, the one we saw her try on? That sexy little thing? Damn, I’m surprised you only saw one guy flirt with her.” Ava was beyond elated you wore the dress on your night out, but she was over the moon that they were talking about it in front of a clearly seething Bucky—the perfect image of male jealousy, clenched jaw and fists included. 

“Yelena,” he muttered through his clenched teeth. “The intruder?” 

He didn’t need them to remind him of the dress you wore, he had only slept for three hours last night because he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. 

The girls deliberately ignored him, continuing their gossip like it was adamant to the mission. “Well, he was the only one she actually talked to. She was either oblivious to the way men, and some women, looked at her or she wasn’t interested. Either way, looked like she had a great time.” Ava shot Bucky a side-eye, snickering at how much effort it took for him to control his breathing.

He was sick of their shit. “I swear to god, what she wore isn’t important right now—“

“The bartender was definitely interested, he stopped his conversation with some other woman to check her out—“

“Yelena!” Bucky shouted, his anger and jealousy overtaking his usually composed demeanour. 

The blonde woman smirked, subtly nudging Ava—ecstatic that they had broken his composure with a few words about your dress and other men flirting with you.

“Jealous, Barnes?”

Yelena’s pleasure at him losing his shit wasn’t subtle, the shit-eating grin on her face giving away how happy his supposed jealousy made her. He took in a deep breath, closing his eyes to regain strength. He was too old for this bullshit.

“The intruder. You said you had a theory. Explain now.” Short, sharp sentences in his low commanding tone.

“Geesh, lighten up old man. I was just getting to that,” Yelena rolled her eyes at Bucky’s grumpiness and avoidance of her teasing. She was just starting to have fun. 

“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted…the woman the bartender had been talking to?” Why the fuck was Yelena still going on about this? “She was mad, and I mean mad at Y/N. Shoulder barged her and almost knocked her over,” that had Bucky freezing, his foot almost catching on a tree root hidden under snow. 

“It had me thinking: a jealous woman can be a cruel, malicious beast—they don’t cause physical pain like men, instead they mess with their perceived competitions mind. Psychological torture.” Bucky could see where Yelena was going with this and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it earlier. “The damage done tosolnyshko’s bedroom? Rings more like a woman’s doing than a man’s to me.”

Bucky met her eyes with a wide-eyed stare, impressed with her theory even if the explanation could’ve been cut shorter. Before he could open his mouth to ask follow up questions, Yelena bet him to it.

“I already have Bob reanalysing the security footage from the corner store down the street from her apartment—looks like he has a lead. A woman bought two listening devices the day before the break-in and tried disguising them by buying like $300 worth of unnecessary crap.”

The team had made it to the top of the hill as Yelena finished explaining Bob’s findings, the ground levelling out into a wide expanse of glistening snow and pine trees. A cluster of younger trees in a circle stood out to the team, all of them making their way towards it without discussion. They knew the lab’s door was hidden somewhere beneath the circle. 

————————

You woke up with a dull, dehydrated headache and the tower all to yourself. Bob had flicked you a text to let you know the rest of the team were out on a time sensitive mission and that he had some errands to run. So, you spent a slightly dusty Saturday by yourself trying to read the fantasy book Yelena wanted to borrow. You barely digested the words you read, your mind replaying the night before like delicious torture.

You touched yourself remembering the way Bucky looked kneeling between your legs, you thought about the way his vibranium hand gripped your hip—all while wishing it was that hand rubbing your clit instead of your own. You were so needy, whining loudly knowing no one was home to hear you. Yet, you couldn’t come. Again. You needed more, your body had grown used to your own touch and it just wasn’t enough anymore. 

You deliberated leaving the tower to go back to the crime scene that was your apartment, to grab the vibrator you were too embarrassed to bring to the tower in the first place. Hell, you were ready to walk to the sex shop a couple blocks over when your third ruined orgasm made you sob. Something always stopped you, though. A deep, rough voice in your head telling you to not step a foot out of the tower. 

It was nearing midnight when sleep finally blurred your eyes and relaxed your aching body. The faint sound of footsteps rushing down the hall barely registered through the sleepy haze. Your door slammed open, banging against the wall making you bolt upright in bed—adrenaline coursing though your veins at the sudden noise disrupting your peace. Yelena was standing in the softly lit doorway, looking at you with frantic, wild eyes. She was breathing hard, like she had run up 20 flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator.

“‘Lena?” You muttered sleepily, rubbing your eyes to clear the sleepy haze. “What’s wrong?”

She ignored your question, heading to your dresser to grab warm clothes and shoved them in your arms. “Get changed. We’re going for a walk.”

Her tone was deadly serious, making you pause and follow her instructions with no other questions. Something was definitely wrong.

The late night spring air snuck through the holes in your knit sweater, your arms tightening across your chest in attempt to keep some of the cold out. Midtown Manhattan was busy like it usually was on a Saturday night—groups laughing and clinking their glasses in the bars you passed, couples linking their arms and whispering to each other as they stumbled down the street, a group comforting a crying girl outside a club. Yelena paid them no mind, leading you to a quiet, well-lit park a few blocks from the tower.

She sat down on a bench with a weary sigh, gently grabbing your hands and pulling you down next to her. She held your stare with her own heavy one, weighed down by concern and grudging acceptance. 

“The mission was compromised. Barn—Bucky was exposed to something.”

————————

The bright lights in the Watchtowers medical bay were blinding, causing Bucky to groan in pain as his eyes failed to adjust. His body was burning up, his legs unsteady enough to need the help of Alexei and John to get him from the jet to the medical bay where Val’s team had already prepped for his arrival. Ava didn’t hesitate to call Val when she saw Barnes drop to his knees in the Hydra lab, groaning in agony as the air vents pumped out a gold, shimmering substance. 

Everyone had been in the same lab room, sifting through old files trying to gather as much intel for Val as they could. Everything was fine until Bucky stepped into the room. It was like he had triggered a trap just by his presence; as soon as he placed a foot in the room the air vents hummed awake and hissed the substance directly onto him. The team all watched in shock as the glitter-like substance covered his face, the skin absorbing the chemicals almost immediately. He took in a startled breath—something he regretted in a matter of seconds.

The vents quietened within 30 seconds, seemingly happy that they had hit their intended target. The team sprang into action the second the substance evaporated—absorbed into Bucky. They kept their distance from the panting soldier, worried that the substance would hit them as well. Yelena gathered all the files she could find, her arms full as they made their way through the lab to the exit—Alexei and John hovering near Bucky as he stumbled down the halls, his vibranium hand trailing on the wall to try keep himself steady.

They were halfway through their journey back to the jet when Alexei and John stopped worrying about getting infected and focused on helping their teammate—their friend—as shivers wracked his body. He had tripped over numerous tree roots and rocks already and they couldn’t let him struggle on his own. He grumbled his protests as they put his arms around their shoulders, telling them to keep back or they’d experience the pain he currently was. Nothing happened to them, though.

Yelena was almost done examining the files on the jet when one made her blood run cold. She reread the Russian three times, her brain refusing to accept what the aged papers were telling her.  The substance didn’t have a name, only being referred to as a chemical agent. Designed specifically for Hydra’s Winter Soldiers, modified to weave into each soldiers DNA seamlessly. Bucky had triggered a trap, the air vents were lying in wait for his presence to activate them. The agent had been designed to control the soldiers, to strip them of their rational thinking and force them to give in to their primal biological needs and not stop until their mission had succeeded. Not stop until they had reproduced—breed with a fertile, compatible woman. It was designed for the sole purpose of creating more super soldiers without the need for serum.

Her voice shook as she relayed the information to the team, trying to be both professional and gentle for Bucky’s sake. His reaction was predictable and instantaneous—ripping a seat off the wall and throwing it across the jet, denting the opposite wall and causing the jet to veer to the side from the force. The rest of the ride home was quiet, the sounds of Bucky’s ragged breathing and small pained groans filling the space. 

“I told you to contain and extract, Barnes! Not sample the goddamn shit for yourself!” Val’s infuriated yell made his ears feel like they were bleeding. He hadn’t even made it to the fucking medical bed and she was already berating him. It filled him with a vicious rage he couldn’t tamp down anymore. 

The other super soldiers held his shoulders back as a growl ripped through him, spit flying from his mouth as he hissed at Val. 

“Get the fuck out of my face before I break your neck.” 

John narrowed his eyes when Val showed no emotion to Bucky’s threat—no fear, no surprise—and he knew.

“This was the whole reason for the mission, wasn’t it?” Walker’s voice raised above the sound of Bucky’s growls. “You wanted us to retrieve this goddamn agent—no, sex pollen—and for what?!”

Val finally showed a lick of fear—intimidated by the two fuming super soldiers. “Look, I didn’t know it’s exact nature but I knew it would only affect Barnes—no one else was in danger.”

“And that somehow makes this fine? Look at Bucky! He can’t even stand up by himself!” Ava cut in, furious that Val was trying to rationalise this.

Val raised her hands and took a step back towards the door. “He won’t die…he’ll just wish he was dead if he doesn’t do what the agent wants. I suggest you make some calls.” And with that, she turned and left the medical bay. 

Two male lab techs hesitantly approached Bucky once he was sat on the medical bed, telling him they needed to run some tests but didn’t touch him until he gave a slight nod.

After confirming that there wasn’t a risk of contamination and Bucky’s body had fully absorbed the agent, the lab techs led the team to a containment room down the hall—set up like a bedroom, but reinforced to contain whatever beast the agent was rearing to release.

No glass walls, no cameras, just a vitals monitor on the exterior wall next to the door—an illusion of privacy. Bucky was starting to feel like a caged animal, like he was once again not in control of his mind or body. He was a puppet in the hands of Hydra, again.

The team were lingering in the doorway once Bucky was sat on the bed, stuck between retreating for their own safety and wanting to help him in some way. He took in a deep breath, ready to assure his teammates that he’ll tough it out and survive this torture on his own. And then the smell hit him, and whatever he was thinking of saying vanished.

The monitor outside the room started to beep rapidly, indicating Barnes heartbeat was rising—fast. The team exchanged worried glances before looking back at him, looking seconds away from unraveling. Sweat was beading on his hairline, a few drops trailing down his face and dripping onto his shirt. His chest was rising and falling erratically—taking in deep ragged breaths that only seemed to cause him more pain. And there was no missing the raging boner in his medical issued sweats. It looked fucking painful.

“Yelena,” he managed to growl out through clenched teeth. “I can smell her. Get her out of the tower, now.” His voice trembled with restraint, using every ounce of willpower he had left to not find her and do what the agent wanted.

Everyone knew who Bucky was talking about, they knew that what they had been watching unfold between the two of you over the past month was going to explode dangerously if they didn’t do something about it. Yelena ushered everyone out of the room, closing the door behind her and activating the deadbolt locks.

Now, here she was—trying to explain the sensitive situation to you, who looked like a deer in headlights with your wide shocked eyes.

“So—wait, what? How does that, what does that even mean? I can’t stay in the tower because he—because he can smell me?” You whispered in disbelief.

“It’s more than that, Y/N. The agent is stripping all his rational thought, all his self-control. He’s locked in the containment room so there’s no immediate danger, but if I’m right then you being in the tower will make him wish he was dead.”

Yelena hesitated before speaking in a low, soft voice—meant to soothe you. “I think I already know the answer, but I have to ask. Do you know where you are in your cycle?”

You stuttered slightly, slowly starting to understand why Yelena would ask that, why it’s relevant to the conversation.

You didn’t need to check the cycle tracking app on your phone, how worked up you’ve been feeling the last week was indication enough. 

“I’m…I’m ovulating—but, why does this matter?” You needed her to confirm what you were already thinking.

Yelena cursed softly, rubbing her right temple. She was pretty certain that was the case, but now that it was confirmed it made the situation feel so much more real—more dangerous.

“The agent was designed with the intention to create a new generation of super soldiers…without the use of the serum. It—fuck, there’s no easy way to say this—it makes the infected soldiers have only one goal, one mission, and that’s to reproduce.” Yelena took a deep breath and continued. “They won’t stop until the agent is satisfied they’ve completed the mission—successfully created a new super soldier through the most natural way. And, to ensure the soldiers didn’t fuck anyone with a heartbeat and potentially die from the exertion, the agent was modified so they would only want to fuck—breed—fertile woman. Your body has already told Bucky—told the agent that you’re ready, suitable for what it was designed for. That’s why you can’t stay at the tower, solnyshko.”

You felt dizzy hearing Yelena’s explanation, your hands shaking in your lap as your mind raced trying to process the insanity you just heard. But, though you were panicking for yourself something else was a lot stronger—your worry for the man you had been crushing on for the past month. She said he was in pain, that he would wish he was dead.

“You said—“ you cleared your throat, trying to push through the nerves. “You said that he would wish he was dead, that he’s in pain…that the agent won’t stop until the mission is completed. How…how do we help him?”

Yelena chuckled though it was void of humour. “Well, as far as I’m aware there’s no escort services that specialise in ovulating women—they’d all be on birth control and the agent wouldn’t like that.” She looked at you with a pained expression mirroring your own, “we just have to let him ride it out on his own, hope that it doesn’t last too long.”

You hated that. There was nothing anyone could do to help him? To ease some of the agony the agent was unleashing on him?

You opened your mouth before you were aware of what you were about to say. 

“I want to help.”

Yelena was quick to shake her head. “No,” she said firmly. “There is no fucking way any of us, especially Bucky, are letting you help with this.” She knew he would rather die than let this be the reason you got together. 

“But, he’s in pain and I can help. Hell, I’m the only person who’s in the biological position to help!” The more Yelena refused, the more adamant you became.

“Biological position? I’m sure Barnes would love to hear you say that in regards to finally having sex with you. No—not happening. Can you stay with your friend and her boyfriend for a few days?” 

You were outraged, this wasn’t just about sex but about helping the man you cared for. Deeply. 

“What? No! Listen Yelena, I care for Bucky a lot. More than I should. More than I have for anyone in my life and in such a small amount of time—it’s honestly terrifying! Let me help, please.” You were seconds away from getting on your knees and begging.

She could see how serious you were, how you weren’t even concerned for your own safety—solely focusing on helping Bucky. Your connection with him ran deeper than any of the team realised. 

She sighed in defeat, trying to think of anything that would sway your mind. “You sure this is how you want to lose your virginity? By being ruthlessly fucked by a barbaric caveman version of Barnes?”

You gasped in shock, both surprised that she knew you were a virgin and slightly turned on by the thought of a desperate Bucky fucking you ruthlessly.

“How did you…is it that obvious?” Your face flushed in embarrassment—was your inexperience that noticeable? Had Bucky noticed? 

Yelena let out a soft sound, something between a fond chuckle and a resigned sigh. “Ava and I figured it out the other day. It’s not that obvious, we’re just nosy—interested in your life. You’re careful with what you say, or really what you don’t say. Not currently dating, no exes in your past that we could find, your behaviour and comments when we were shopping…doesn’t take much for two gossip hungry spies to figure out.”

You let out a stunned laugh, feeling weirdly comforted that the two women knew your secret and hadn’t pressured or teased you for it. 

Yelena grasped your hands in her own, soothingly rubbing her thumb over your knuckles. “Are you sure, completely sure, this is what you want?”

Well, might as well bite the bullet with this one. You take in a deep grounding breath and nodded your head.

“I’ve been thinking about fucking him since the day I met him. I’m sure.”

————————

Bucky could sense the second you stepped foot in the tower, your scent pulling a pained growl from his chest and making his dick twitch in interest. 

Why were you back? He told—commanded—Yelena to get you out of here. He couldn’t focus on anything, couldn’t even try to control his breathing when you were near.

Not when your body was sending him signals that you were ready—that you could carry his seed. The thought of filling you up, claiming you as his had his cock weeping—precum oozing from his tip and staining his sweats. His flesh hand was moving before he could think, palming his hard bulge over the wet fabric. He gasped at the sensation, feeling overwhelmed by the small touch and your smell permeating his lungs. He could almost taste you on his tongue and he gripped his cock harder, hissing at the pleasure he had deprived himself of for so long. 

“Bucky?” Your soft voice came through the room’s intercom, making him freeze before leaping to his feet and rushing to the door. He leaned his forehead against it as his breathing became even more ragged, the door the only thing between him and claiming what was his—what was always his. 

“Doll,” his voice was a deep, gravelly growl that shook the walls. He heard your soft gasp through the door, making his dick throb painfully. He wanted to tear through the fucking door. 

“You shouldn’t be here. I told—it’s not safe for you.”

Hearing him so clearly distressed made you feel even more certain with your decision.

“I want to help,” your voice was steady despite your buzzing nerves. “Please, let me help you.” 

Your pleading tone kicked the chemical agent into high gear, his body coiling tight at hearing you wanting to be breed. The substance running through his veins was ecstatic to hear you plead—it was ripping through Bucky’s last thread of self-restraint as the smell of your ovulating body was begging to be breed. 

He let out a pained whimper, his vibranium hand scratching at the door to try to get to you. 

He took a deep breath to compose himself. “You need to understand. If I let you in, if you unlock this door—I won’t be able to stop. Not until you’re full of me, not until you’re breed. You’ll be mine, do you get that?” 

He heard your breath hitch and then came your shaky reply. “I understand, Bucky. I…I want that—I want you.”

He staggered back from the door with the little control he had left over the chemical fever. His voice was low, quiet, but clear through the door. 

“Ok. You can come in.”

The deadbolts whirred loudly as you unlocked the door and stepped into the room, closing the door behind you quietly.

The two of you stared at each other silently, two metres of distance between you. Bucky looked like a caged animal ready to pounce. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction like he had been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes were almost black with a dark hunger, the muscles in his face tensing from his restraint. His white shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to his muscles and showing every hard ridge. His grey sweatpants left nothing to the imagination—a dark wet patch already formed where his heavy cock was straining against the fabric. You couldn’t take your eyes off it. He looked big—painfully big, and it had you clenching your thighs in anticipation, slick already gathering in your core. 

His nostrils flared, the smell of your arousal coating the walls and urging him closer—to take what was his. He groaned lowly as more of your sweet, musky scent filled his lungs. He was seconds away from ravaging you.

You looked like an angel in front of him—windswept curls, big innocent doe eyes, knit jumper swallowing your top half, leggings clinging to your legs. He growled, annoyed that the jumper was hiding your hips from his view. 

The last thread of his restraint finally snapped, a combination of the chemical agent and the need he’s felt for you since the day he met you making him lose his control. 

He was on you in a second, grasping your hips underneath your jumper and pushing you back until you were trapped between his body and the wall. The air around you became electric, charged with the unresolved tension the both of you had been feeling for weeks.

He looked into your eyes, double checking there was no doubt, before he finally kissed you. It wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t soft. It was all-consuming—his need and desperation spilling through as he kissed you like you were his oxygen. His lips sucked on your upper lip, clashing his teeth against yours in his desperation. A rumble vibrated from his chest as your hesitant hands rested on his shoulders, a small gasp leaving you at the feel of the hard vibranium beneath your right palm. His hands on your hips clutched harder, pulling you flush to his body. You broke the kiss when you felt his dick pressing—twitching—against your stomach. 

“I’m sorry, doll.” He whispered against your lips before he claimed them again, tilting his head to the side and running his tongue along your bottom lip—asking for permission, despite the feral fever coursing through him. Your lips opened for him without hesitation, his tongue pushing against yours with a dominant frenzy. Your hands traveled from his shoulders to his hair, running your fingers through his damp strands before gently tugging. He groaned deeply into your mouth at the feeling, his hips starting to rock against you for some relief. 

His mouth left yours, his stubble scratching your jaw and neck as he lavished the skin with sloppy kisses. You sighed at the feeling, a small moan slipping out as he sucked on a spot below your ear. His hands gripped your hips tightly before they slipped to your ass, palming harshly making you moan again. He lifted you off the ground, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist—a needy whine tearing from your throat at the feeling of his bulge pressing against your core. You could feel the heat of him through the layers of fabric, your own pants growing damp with your need. He pressed into you more, grinding his cock against you roughly as he sucked and bit your neck—sure to leave dark marks. The thought only urged him on more, wanting the whole world to know just who you belonged to. 

He pulled away from your neck, frustrated by the jumper restricting his access to more of your skin. He turned with you in his arms, walking to the bed in quick strides and throwing you on the sheets with as much gentleness as a starving man could manage. You looked up at him with dazed eyes, already looking ruined and he had barely started. He reached for the hem of your jumper, ripping it over your head and revealing your thin pyjama shirt underneath. He groaned at the sight of your nipples straining through the shirt, eager for his attention. 

“God, look at you. Fuckin’ dream,” and then he was on you again. His hips slotted between your open legs as his mouth closed around your clothed right nipple. And then he sucked hard. Your back arched slightly, your hips bucking against his at the intense pleasure that ran from your nipple to your clit. A loud whine sounded out in the room as he continued his assault, his flesh hand groping at your other clothed breast. His vibranium arm snuck underneath your back, keeping you slightly arched as his hips started to rut against you. His eyes fell shut as he listened to the noises you were letting out, the chemical agent in his body telling him to skip the foreplay and breed you already. He couldn’t though, he was the reason you were letting out those goddamn sweet moans and he wasn’t going to stop. 

He switched his mouth to your other nipple, giving it the same attention. Your hips were rocking against his with the same frantic need as his own and he groaned into your breast at the feeling. “Listen to you, pretty girl. So fuckin’ needy,” he mumbled out, the need coursing through his veins obliterating his filter. You gasped at his words, looking down to see his dark eyes already focused on your face.

“Take it off,” you rasped out, raising your arms above your head. He didn’t hesitate to remove his mouth, grabbing the hem of your shirt and tearing it off you. He stopped, momentarily starstruck at the sight of your naked heaving breasts below him. He dropped back on top of you, greedily sucking a nipple into his mouth and biting down. “Fuck!” You exclaimed at the feeling—it was so much better than your own fingers tugging and twisting.

Your slick was now soaking your panties, the crotch of your leggings wet with both your arousal and Bucky’s. The smell of your scents mixing had him freezing, resting his forehead on your sternum with a pained groan. 

“You smell so good, doll. It’s been torture, you know.” The floodgates opened and he couldn’t hold back what he’s been thinking for weeks. “Ever since you stepped foot in the tower, I haven’t stopped thinking about you.” His hips resumed their grinding against yours, bothhis hands now tugging at your aching breasts. You let out a wanton moan at the contrasting feeling of his warm flesh hand and cold vibranium hand—it was so much better than you imagined. His stubble was rough against the soft skin of your neck as he traveled up to suck at your neck and collarbones. 

“I could smell you the other night, baby. Could smell and hear as you touched yourself.” His confession had your eyes flying open, a gasp getting stuck in your throat. Your body flushed in both embarrassment and need. “I just stood there like a fucking idiot, listening to your sweet moans echo down the hall—resisting the urge to tear your door down and touch you myself.” His mouth was making it’s way down your torso, sloppily kissing and biting your skin and stopping at the waistband of your leggings. 

“I was thinking about you,” you gasped out without thinking. He stopped his descent, a low groan rumbling in his chest and hands gripping your breasts even tighter.

“…What?” He looked back up at your face, seeing the panic in your eyes as you let your dirty little secret free. His own eyes reflected his need—his pupils dilated with lust, leaving only a thin ring of blue.

The primal hunger you saw on his face spurred you on. You nodded shyly before muttering in a low voice. “I was thinking about you when I was touching myself. I…I have been since that first week.”

A loud rip tore through the air as his hands gripped the waistband of your leggings, ripping them in half in his rush to get them off you. He got off the bed, kneeling on the floor and grabbed your hips before quickly pulling you to the edge. His cock jumped and ached at the sight of your soaked panties, begging him to quit the foreplay and rut inside of you already. 

“You have no idea what that does to me, sweetheart.” A whine tore through your throat—him between your legs and calling you sweetheart was what made you come the first time you touched yourself to the thought of him. It made the ball in your core tighten more, a fresh gush of slick leaking out of your pussy. You watched him inhale deeply, gripping your knees and resting them on his shoulders. His stubble scratched the sensitive skin on your inner thighs as he trailed greedy kisses along them—biting into your flesh as he got closer to your core.

You couldn’t control the noises you let out, gasps and whines spilling free as your hips rocked towards him—the teasing on the edge of unbearable.

“So goddamn responsive,” he muttered into your skin, the low timbre of his voice vibrating through your leg and making your pussy clench around nothing.

“Please,” you gasped out. “Please fuck me.” You knew you were begging but you didn’t care, you were so worked up and he was making you feel better than you ever imagined. 

A light slap to your clothed pussy had your back arching and head falling back. Fuck, that was hot.

“Impatient girl. Wanna make you feel good first.” Your begging was the last straw from him, whatever restraint he had been holding onto vanishing into thin air. He gripped your drenched panties, pulling them down your legs and watching mesmerised as the wet fabric clung to your soaked pussy. He groaned at the sight, drool leaking from his mouth as your sweetness overwhelmed his senses. He stopped holding back.

He dove in fast, licking a strip from your leaking entrance to your clit before wrapping his lips around the throbbing bud and sucking. His eyes closed at the taste of you, a pained whimper sounding in the back of his throat. “Fuck, you taste so fucking good, doll. Better than I imagined,” he raised his head slightly to whisper into your pussy before diving back in. He ate you out like a man starved, moaning at the taste of you. He focused on your clit and your hands tugged at his hair as the ball in your core grew heavier, your hips rocking against his face as the pleasure overwhelmed you.

“Yes, fuck! That feels so good, oh my god,” you gasped out loudly. His hands were clutching your hips hard, and your right one left his hair to grab his left hand. “Inside, please.” His mouth stopped devouring you for a split second as your pleading met his ears. He let out a filthy moan as he processed what you wanted.

“You want the vibranium hand, doll? Hmm? Is this what you imagine when you touch yourself?” His cold hand trailed from your hip to your neglected entrance, lightly pinching your clit on the way. Shivers wracked your body at the feeling, nodding your head eagerly at his questions. “Dirty fucking girl,” he mocked before a single vibranium digit nudged at your opening, a keen whimper falling from your lips. He slipped it in with little resistance, your soaked walls clamping down on the intrusion. It felt unreal—his cold, ridged finger running along your silky walls.

“Fuck, you’re tight. Relax, doll, breathe for me.” He didn’t understand how he maintained his composure, your tight pussy squeezing his finger making the chemical agent rear it’s ugly head and sending pain all throughout him. But, he refused to let it take over. He had to make sure you enjoyed this too. From how your pussy was dripping down his hand and on the sheets, he could tell you were enjoying this. He had to work you open though, you were so fucking tight and he didn’t want to cause you pain when he finally fucked you. 

“Move, please.” You whimpered to him. He granted your wish, curling his finger and rubbing it against your walls. You let out a loud moan as he hit the spot you could never reach on your own, and he doubled his efforts on that spot. Your needy moans and whines echoed in the air as you felt your core coiling tighter. He was transfixed by the sight of you, hips thrusting up to meet his hand as he inserted another finger. A choked cry tore from your chest at the feeling of his fingers deliciously stretching you.

“You’re fucking dripping sweetheart, listen to how fucking wet you are.” His fingers curled into you faster, an obscene squelching mingling with the sounds of your moans. You started to pant as your body tensed up, your legs shaking as your high climbed to a point you hadn’t experienced before. He lowered his mouth back to your clit, kitten licking it a couple times then sucking on it hard. Stars exploded behind your eyes and your hips raised off the bed, your whole body shaking.

“Bucky, I’m coming—oh, fuck!” You cried out as the tension in your core snapped and you came hard. His fingers slowed their pace slightly as he worked you through your high, his mouth going back to licking your clit as the sucking started to overwhelm you. You felt like you were floating, aftershocks trembling through your body—the feeling of Bucky between your thighs the only thing grounding you to earth.

He stood to his full height, bulging muscles towering over you as he looked down at you like prey. He pulled his shirt over his head quickly before working his sweatpants down his legs. You watched in a post-orgasm daze as his hard cock slapped against his stomach, the tip red and leaking. He was fucking massive and it had your thighs clenching instinctively. How was that going to fit in you?

He chuckled darkly at your wide-eyed stare, a wolfish grin on his face. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make it fit.” He grabbed under your armpits and hoisted you further up the bed, your head resting against the soft pillows. He loomed over you, pushing a curl behind your ear in an act of softness you weren’t expecting with the chemical agent torturing him. 

“This wasn’t how I wanted this to happen,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “I wanted to take you out for dinner, make you come multiple times before fucking you.” He couldn’t wait any longer, his body trembling and burning up the more he delayed filling you. “Wanted to make love to you, not fuck you like an animal.”

Your shaky hands cupped his face to make him look into your eyes. “It’s okay, I want this. We can do all that stuff later.” Later. You wanted this, and you wanted him later too. 

He grabbed his sensitive, aching cock and lined it up with your still dripping hole. The chemicals surging through his body pushed his hips forward, sheathing his tip in your tight walls. His head fell to yours with a pained groan as he felt you struggle to open up for him. You let out a pained whimper as he pushed forward more, the stretch of him burning your virgin pussy. He continued to slowly inch in, his face and neck red from the restraint of holding himself back from pounding into you like an animal.

“That’s it, god, you’re gripping me so tight, fuck.” He mumbled, feeling you clench more at his words. “Doll, you—shit, you gotta let me in.” His left hand gripped your hip tightly, spreading your legs wider to accommodate more of him. His right hand dragged up your body to your chest, grabbing one of your breasts—making you arch into him and gasp. You were still so sensitive from your first orgasm and everything was overwhelming you. He raised his head slightly, looking down between your bodies where his dick wasn’t even half in you yet. He groaned loudly at the sight and the chemical agent took over.

He sunk into you, his hips flush against yours as he bottomed out. A pained cry tore from your chest as he stretched you—his fingers had not been enough to prep you for his massive dick. He hardly gave you a second to adjust before he rutted into you, grunts falling from his lips at the feeling of you clenching him. 

“You feel so fuckin’ good—you were made for this, Jesus—“ His words slurred together from the pleasure, his Brooklyn accent slipping through. He picked up the pace, both hands gripping your hips as he pounded into you. Your hands were on his back, pulling him closer as you wrapped your legs around his waist. The position made him reach deeper in you, his tip hitting your cervix with each thrust. Sweat ran down his chest and dropped onto your stomach, adding to the mix of fluids covering your lower half. You screwed your eyes shut at the pain radiating from your core, trying to ignore the burn for his sake. 

“This what you wanted, huh? To be fucked and breed like a good girl?” He didn’t know what he was saying anymore, the pleasure and chemicals mixing into a delicious torture that had him mumbling nonsense. He felt your walls clench tight and it only spurred him on more. “God, that is what you want—fuckin’ dirty.” His cock pistoned into you faster, the sounds of skin slapping on skin filling the room. He could already feel his release building in his balls, trying to hold off on coming to make it better for you. His flesh hand moved from your hip to your pussy, his fingers rubbing harsh circles on your clit.

Your eyes shot open with a gasp, the pain in your core morphing into intense pleasure. His thick cock was hitting that spot inside of you perfectly, and your clit was still so sensitive that his touch had you hurtling towards your second release. Fast. He dropped his forehead to yours, his lips ghosting yours as you moaned into each other’s mouths. 

“Fuck—I’m gonna come, I’m gonna fill you up, baby.” He panted into your mouth. “You want that?  Want me to breed you?”

“Yes, god—James I need it so bad!” You wailed into his mouth in response. He fucking roared at hearing you say his first name, his hips stuttering as his release edged closer.

“Say. It. Again.” He punctuated each word with a harsh thrust.

“James, come inside me, please!” He stood no fucking chance. He plunged into your aching pussy two more times before stilling with an animalistic noise—something between a groan and a growl. His hips rocked into yours as his release filled you, the warm seed coating your walls and coaxing your second orgasm out of you. You came with a high-pitched cry, your eyes rolling back as he kept coming inside—it wasn’t stopping. He held you tightly as he continued rocking his release into you, your overworked body trembling in his arms and little sobs heaving from your chest.

“Shhh, you’re okay, you did so well, doll.” He whispered into your temple, littering your face with soft kisses as his high ebbed and the fog cleared from his head. He gently rolled you both over, his back resting on the bed and you snuggled tight to his chest. His dick softened inside you, indicating that the chemical agent got what it wanted. He held you in his arms until your breath evened out, and he found himself falling asleep not long after. 

————————

Bucky woke up with you still in his arms, letting out little snores against his chest. He could feel his release staining the both of you and he moved as slowly as he could to not wake you. Your face pinched slightly as he pulled out of your sore pussy but you stayed asleep and snuggled into the pillows. He walked over to the sink in the corner of the room, wetting the hand towel before returning to clean you up. He took his time, watching your face carefully to ensure he didn’t disturb your sleep—you needed to rest. He threw the towel in the sink once he was finished, gathering his dirty clothes off the floor and putting them on. Food—you needed food. 

The sun was barely a spot on the horizon as he made his way to the kitchen, sighing in relief that no one else would be awake. That relief was replaced with hesitation as he saw Yelena sitting at the kitchen island nursing a cup of coffee. She raised her eyebrows at Bucky as he entered the room, surprised that he was seemingly normal. He gave her a small nod in greeting before turning to the fridge, gathering food for the two of you.

Yelena took a breath before broaching the subject. “So…you okay?”

Bucky tensed at her question, not wanting to engage in conversation and get back to you as fast as possible. “Mhmm.” He mumbled casually. 

Yelena wasn’t having a bar of his silence. “And? How’s Y/N?” He turned to her, ready to shut down her questioning when she opened her mouth again. “I hope you didn’t kill her during her first time.”

Bucky froze. The fork in his hand clattered on the tiles. He felt dread washing over his body, paralysing him in fear. Your first time?

He found his voice, though meek and small. “…What?”

series taglist: @stydiaforeverbitchezz @shewakesupwithflowersinherhair @darkgardenersoul @vicmc624 @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @seleneblack16 @mysteriousduckprincess @stesha02 @mathcat345 @kombuchaaaaa

[cheekybarnes]

habits of the heart | bucky barnes x reader

Summary: You and Bucky both know what it means to wake up haunted after a nightmare. over time, taking care of each other through it becomes second nature.

MCU Timeline Placement: Thunderbolts-ish

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: nightmares, panic attacks, vomiting, nausea, PTSD, flashbacks, HYDRA and Red Room-related trauma, implied past torture / past conditioning, smoking, kind of two parts smashed into one, angsty af but with lots of comfort, two idiots in love it’s borderline painful

Word Count: 10.6k

Author’s Note: HIIIIII <3 crawling out of my nearly six-month hiatus to throw this at the wall and scuttle away like a goblin. life has actually been really good, which is WILD, and somehow my brain said guess what we have time for again?? bucky barnes! honestly, writing fics again felt so refreshing and familiar and sweet, and i missed this more than i realized. love you all dearly, thank you for still being here :’)

Your knees hit the tile hard enough to sting, but the pain barely registered over everything else.

The toilet bowl blurred in and out of focus beneath you, white porcelain swimming at the edges of your vision as another violent spasm tore through your stomach. Your body folded in on itself with brutal, helpless force, one hand braced against the seat, the other slipping against the floor where cold tile had already gone slick beneath your palm. 

Your throat burned. Bitter acid clung to the back of your tongue. Tears dripped hot and useless down your face, dragged there by strain more than grief, though the two had long since learned how to wear each other’s skin.

By the time the heaving slowed, your lungs felt flayed open.

You stayed bent over anyway, forehead nearly touching the rim, breathing in harsh, ragged pulls that wouldn’t quite fill your chest. The sound of it crowded the tiny bathroom, too loud in the middle of the night. Wet, ugly, shaking. Every inhale snagged like there was something lodged behind your ribs, some leftover shard of fear your body hadn’t realized was no longer lodged in blood and bone but memory instead. 

You tried to swallow and nearly gagged again. Your stomach cramped, empty. A tremor ran through your arms so hard your elbow buckled, and your shoulder knocked the side of the vanity with a dull thud.

For one disorienting second, the cramped bathroom wasn’t a bathroom at all.

It was a concrete floor slick with something darker than water. It was the sterile burn of antiseptic threaded with iron and something sour beneath it. It was the sharp, echoing crack of a baton striking bone, the clipped Russian commands that never needed to be loud to be obeyed. It was the snap of a restraint at your wrist, the bite of it, the cold certainty that your body was no longer your own—but something trained, sharpened, used.

Things you’d never truly forget, no matter how many nights you slept in clean sheets with Bucky Barnes’ arm draped heavy over your waist, his breath steady at the back of your neck: boots against concrete, measured and unhurried, the kind that meant someone was coming for you—or worse, that you were being sent for someone else. The soft click of a chamber being checked. The silence just before a command was given, before you moved without thinking, before you became something you could never quite scrub out of your skin.

Your stomach lurched again on pure reflex.

Nothing came up this time, just a dry, painful wrench that bowed your spine and pulled a strangled sound out of you. You squeezed your eyes shut, but that only made it worse. 

The dark behind your lids fractured into pieces. Broken glass. A blood-slick knife. White lights. Red orders. Your hands steady around a throat, a trigger, a blade. The shape of Bucky turning back for you when every instinct in the world should have sent him the other direction. The heat of his hand catching yours. Gunfire. Fire licking up the walls of a place that should never have existed.

You knew where you were.

You did. You knew the apartment. Knew the soft yellow light above the sink. Knew the curtains Bucky kept meaning to replace because the bottom hem had started to fray. Knew the towel hanging crooked because he always tossed it there instead of folding it. Knew the dark blue bathmat under your knees and the way the grout line by the baseboard had a hairline crack running through it.

But knowing and feeling had never been the same thing. Not on nights like this.

Your hands had gone numb. You curled them into fists anyway, then flattened them again, fingertips pressing into tile like you could anchor yourself by force. Your pulse hammered so hard it made your teeth ache. 

The room felt too small. Your skin felt too tight. Something hot and frantic clawed up the inside of your throat, and before you could stop it, another sound broke loose—thin, raw, humiliated by how frightened it sounded in the quiet.

The bed creaked in the other room.

You heard it faintly through the rushing in your ears. Then the rustle of sheets. Then footsteps—quick, heavy, instantly awake in the way only Bucky ever seemed to be, as if some part of him never fully slept at all. The door creaked open. It was silent for all but a second.

“Hey.”

His voice came rough with sleep and immediate concern from the doorway, low enough not to startle, but there was already movement in it, already urgency. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You didn’t turn.

A fresh wave of nausea and panic hit at once, and you coughed hard over the bowl, one hand flying to your chest like you could physically hold yourself together. The bathroom light was suddenly brighter. Had you turned it on? Had he? You couldn’t remember. Your vision had gone watery again.

Bucky crossed the space in two quick steps and dropped to his knees beside you before you could protest, bare shoulders tense, dog tags shifting against his chest. His hair was sleep-mussed, face still soft with the remnants of rest, but his eyes were already sharp, already searching you for damage.

His hand landed first between your shoulder blades. Steady. Warm. Broad enough to cover half your back.

You flinched anyway, not from him, just from the overload of sensation, and his palm immediately softened, not leaving, just easing into slow, grounding pressure. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured, closer now. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Your throat worked uselessly around words that wouldn’t form. The air still wouldn’t come right. You tried to drag in a breath and choked on it, lungs hitching into that horrible in-between state where you weren’t quite hyperventilating, but every inhale was getting thinner, shallower, feeding the panic instead of easing it.

Bucky noticed in seconds. He always did.

“Don’t force it.” His voice stayed calm, even as you heard him shift, turning more fully toward you. His other hand came up to cup the side of your face, cool vibranium cradling your skin with impossible care as he coaxed your head away from the toilet just enough to see you. “Hey, look at me.”

You couldn’t. Not really. Your gaze skittered somewhere near his collarbone, then the hollow of his throat, then the edge of his mouth. But it was enough for him to catch on to where you were, enough for him to angle himself more squarely in front of you, making himself impossible to miss.

“Good,” he said softly, like you’d done something far harder than simply lift your head. “That’s it.”

Another tremor wracked through you. Your eyes squeezed shut.

Bucky reached blindly for the flush, handled it one-handed, then leaned back in without complaint the moment it was done. His fingers slid from your cheek to brush damp hair back from your face. There was no disgust in him, no hesitation, no trace of the sharp awkwardness other people might have carried into a moment like this. 

“Can you breathe with me?” he asked.

You let out something between a laugh and a sob, because if you could do that, you wouldn’t be on the bathroom floor shaking apart in the middle of the night. But Bucky only huffed the faintest breath through his nose, not quite a smile, not quite amusement. Just recognition. You’d both been here before.

“That bad, huh?”

His thumb stroked under your eye, catching at the wetness there. You nodded before you could stop yourself, small and miserable and angry at how quickly the motion made more tears spill.

“Okay.” He shifted again, arm sliding around your ribs, careful of the way your muscles were still seizing, gathering you in his arms. “Come here.”

There was no room for pride in the state you were in. No strength left for pretending to protest.

He pulled you sideways, away from the toilet, not in one jarring motion but gradually, giving your body time to follow. The tile was freezing beneath your bare feet as they dragged over it. Then you were half turned, then fully turned, and then Bucky sat back against the side of the tub and brought you with him until you ended up in the space between his legs. 

He adjusted instantly, one arm around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head, guiding you down until you were tucked against his chest like he could fold his whole body around yours and wall the rest of the night out.

The second you felt the solid heat of him, something inside you cracked.

A sob tore loose, ugly and helpless and far too loud for the hour, muffled into his shoulder. 

His heartbeat thudded against your ear, fast enough to tell you he was scared too, or had been when he first woke and found the bed empty, but his hold never tightened in a way that trapped. One palm flattened between your shoulder blades again, rubbing slow circles. The other stayed at the nape of your neck, thumb brushing there in absent, cold-soothing sweeps.

“I know,” he whispered into your hair. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

You hated how much your body needed that. Hated and loved it in equal measure. The softness of his voice. The way he anchored every word like it could keep you from slipping under. 

You pressed closer instead of fighting it, face buried against his chest, and the scent of him—soap, detergent, something warm and sleep-soft, and the faintest lingering trace of gun oil that never seemed to leave his skin entirely no matter how long it had been since his last mission—hit you with such fierce familiarity it made your lungs stutter again.

Only this time, the breath came.

Still shaky. Still broken around the edges. But it came.

Bucky felt it and adjusted to that too, his own breathing turning deeper, slower on purpose so you could borrow the rhythm if you wanted it. He never made a performance out of helping. He never talked to you like you were fragile glass or some skittish thing that might bolt if handled wrong. He just offered himself, over and over, in small physical certainties your body could understand when words became useless.

Your stomach churned once more. You tensed immediately.

“Still sick?” he asked quietly.

You nodded hesitantly against him.

He reached without fully letting go of you, snagging the wastebasket next to the toilet with one arm and setting it within reach near your knee. It was such a practical, ridiculous little act—so unromantic, so matter-of-fact—that fresh tears burned at the backs of your eyes. 

Bucky, still half asleep, sitting bare-chested on cold tile in the middle of the night, dragging the trash can closer in case moving back to the toilet was too much. Bucky, who knew what it was to wake with someone else’s orders still clawing under his skin, treating your panic with the same seriousness he would a wound.

You swallowed hard and finally managed a hoarse, “M’sorry.”

His hand stilled for half a second, then resumed its slow path up your spine.

“For what?”

The question came immediate and flat in that way he had when he thought something you were saying was fundamentally absurd.

You couldn’t answer. For waking him. For being like this. For the mess. For the fact that the past kept reaching into your throat and pulling you out of bed by the ribs no matter how safe the apartment was, no matter how many nights ended with his lips on your temple and his arm heavy over your waist and a quiet promise that he was here.

Bucky exhaled softly through his nose, like he’d heard every apology you hadn’t said anyway. He tipped his head until his lips pressed against your hairline.

“None of that,” he murmured. “You hear me? Not for this.”

Your fingers tightened around him. His skin was damp now where your tears had fallen. He didn’t care.

For a while, neither of you said anything else.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was full of your breathing evening out by degrees, the hum of the vent overhead, the muted city noise filtering in through the apartment windows. Bucky kept touching you the whole time, never restless, never distracted. Slow circles over your back. A steady palm at your side when another tremor hit. 

His thumb at the base of your skull, rubbing little arcs there that made some of the locked tension in your neck begin, reluctantly, to loosen. Every now and then he kissed your temple or the crown of your head, quiet little presses of his mouth that asked for nothing and gave everything.

When the worst of the shaking finally passed, the exhaustion underneath it crashed in hard.

It settled over you like wet concrete, thick and immediate. Your limbs felt hollowed out. Your throat throbbed. There was sweat cooling at the base of your spine. 

The adrenaline that had ripped you awake was draining now, leaving behind a full-body ache and that awful raw vulnerability that always came after, when you were no longer actively drowning in the panic but still stranded in what it left behind.

Bucky eased back just enough to look at you.

His hair was a mess, dark strands falling into his eyes. His face still carried the softened edges of sleep, but worry had sharpened the rest of it into something painfully tender. There was no impatience there. No strain. Just the familiar crease between his brows and the kind of attention that made you feel seen all the way down to the bones, even when you wanted to disappear from your own skin.

“Can I get you some water?” he asked.

You hesitated, then nodded.

“Okay.” He brushed your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Think you can sit on your own for a second?”

Under any other circumstance, you would have rolled your eyes at the question. Bucky could make shifting you off his lap on a bathroom floor sound as careful as disarming a bomb. But tonight there was no teasing in him, only sincerity.

“I can sit,” you whispered.

“Yeah?”

You gave the smallest nod.

“All right.”

He helped you move slowly, one hand steady at your waist while the other guided your shoulder until your back rested against the side of the tub instead of his chest. He waited there a beat, making sure you didn’t tip sideways, then rose from the floor.

The bathroom felt colder without him around you.

He filled a cup from the sink, rinsed it once, then filled it again. When he came back, he didn’t hover over you. He lowered himself right back onto the tile beside you, shoulder pressed lightly to yours, close enough that his warmth found you again.

“Small sips,” he said, holding the cup near your mouth instead of handing it over immediately.

You did as told. The water tasted metallic at first, your mouth still sour and stripped raw, but it helped. Cooled some of the acid burn. Gave you something simple to focus on. Swallow. Breathe. Swallow again.

“Better?”

“A little.”

He took the cup and set it back on the sink, then moved to pick up a washcloth hanging over the edge. He ran it under warm water, wrung it out, kneeled in front of you, and brought it to your face with a gentleness that nearly wrecked you again. 

He wiped under your eyes first, then your mouth, then the damp skin at your throat where sweat and tears had dried sticky-cold. The cloth was warm enough to coax a shiver out of you. Not from discomfort. From relief so deep it hurt.

You watched his hands because you couldn’t bear not to. Flesh and vibranium. Knuckles scarred, plates shifting soft and quiet when he moved. Capable of terrible things. Capable of this too. That was what ruined you most, how the same man who had been made into a weapon, who knew exactly what blood looked like under his own hands, could sit on a bathroom floor at three in the morning and clean your face like gentleness had always belonged to him.

When he was done, he set the cloth aside, gathered you back into his lap, and curled both arms around you again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The question stayed soft, neutral. No pressure either way.

You let your head tip against his shoulder and stared at the wall for a moment, at the shadow of the towel rack cast under the bathroom light. Pieces of the nightmare still clung like cobwebs, not a coherent story so much as a collage of every worst thing your body had cataloged and refused to forget. Fear rarely cared about chronology. It only cared about finding old wounds and pressing until they split.

“It was everything,” you said finally, voice scraped thin. “Not one thing. Just… all of it.”

Bucky went very still in the way he did when he was listening with his whole body.

“The room,” you whispered. “The lights. Somebody reading out orders like they were grocery lists. Girls screaming behind walls you couldn’t get through. Me with blood on my hands and no idea whose it was supposed to be.” Your throat tightened hard enough to hurt. “You turning around when you shouldn’t have. Over and over again.”

His hold on you changed in some subtle way, not tighter, exactly, but deeper. More deliberate. His jaw brushed your temple when he rested his cheek against your hair.

“I was always going to turn around.”

The words were so simple they lodged under your ribs.

You shut your eyes. “That’s not comforting.”

A faint breath left him, the closest thing to a tired little laugh. “Yeah. I know.” His mouth touched your temple again. “Still true.”

Something in your chest ached at that—at the awful, inevitable certainty in him. Bucky had never been good at preserving himself when someone he cared about was on the line. You knew that. He knew that you knew it. There was no use pretending otherwise. But there was something wrenchingly honest in the way he said it.

You turned your face into the line of his neck, pressing there until his skin warmed under your mouth.

“I hate when it follows us here,” you said, so quietly the words almost vanished.

His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head again. “Me too.”

That, more than any grand reassurance, made your eyes sting fresh. Because he didn’t lie to you. Didn’t tell you it was over in ways either of you knew weren’t real. Didn’t promise that the nightmares would stop for good if you just wanted hard enough. He met you where you were and stayed there.

After a moment, he shifted carefully and rose to his feet, bringing you with him before you could protest. One arm hooked under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you off the floor as if the effort cost him nothing. A startled breath caught in your throat.

“Bucky—”

“I know you can walk,” he said, already stepping out into the dim hallway. “Let me do it anyway.”

His voice had gone that little bit firmer, not unkind, just decided. Protective in a way that made warmth spread weakly through the cold aftermath inside you. 

You were too wrung out to argue. Your arm slid around his neck instead, and he adjusted your weight closer to his chest.

The apartment beyond the bathroom was different in the dark, softer at the edges. The bedroom door stood open, the lamp on the nightstand casting a low amber pool across tangled sheets. Your side of the bed was still thrown back from where you’d bolted out of it. Bucky had clearly turned the lamp on when he went looking for you. The sight of that—evidence of his immediate search, his immediate response—hit something tender in you.

He carried you to the bed and lowered you onto the mattress with a care that still had the power to undo you, one arm behind your shoulders, the other under your knees until your head found the pillow. He pulled the blankets back, eased them over you, then climbed in beside you.

The mattress dipped under his weight. He gathered you in almost before his own head hit the pillow. One arm went under your neck. The other crossed your waist, pulling you flush against him until your face was tucked against his chest and one of his thighs bracketed yours. He was warm everywhere. Solid. The weight of him, the familiar architecture of his body around yours, made the room feel more real.

His fingers threaded into your hair and began smoothing it back from your face in slow passes.

“You cold?” he asked after a second.

“A little.”

He tugged the blanket higher around your shoulders, then reached back to snag the extra throw bunched at the side of the bed and draped it over both of you. The movement shifted him just enough that you could hear his heartbeat again when he settled, still slightly faster than normal, still not entirely come down from the rush of waking to find you gone and hurting. That frightened, fiercely controlled part of him never quite disappeared on nights like this. He just refused to let it become your problem.

Your body gave one last, exhausted shudder. Bucky’s hand immediately moved down your spine.

“Easy,” he murmured. “You’re okay.”

You stared at the hollow of his throat in the lamplight, at the faint shadow of stubble there, at the old scar just visible near his collarbone. The world had taken so much from both of you. It had left marks everywhere. Some visible. Some not. 

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

There it was again, the apology you couldn’t seem to stop offering, though this one came softer now, less frantic. Just tired.

Bucky tipped your chin up enough that you had to look at him.

“Hey.” His voice was quiet, but there was steel under it now. “You don’t have to apologize. Not tonight. Not ever.”

The force of that hit you so hard your throat closed.

He must have seen it happen, because his expression changed instantly, the firmness melting back into warmth. His thumb traced once over your cheekbone. “Come here.”

You were already there, but you went anyway, pressing closer until there was no space left between you. His mouth touched your forehead, then lingered. Not a quick kiss. A long, deliberate press, like he was sealing something in place.

The silence that followed was different from the bathroom silence. Softer. Heavier with sleep. Your body still buzzed unpleasantly in places, adrenaline residue and lingering nausea and the deep ache of old fear reawakened, but it was no longer swallowing you whole. 

His hand kept moving in your hair.

After a while, he said, very quietly, “You want me to talk?”

You knew what he meant. Sometimes, on nights when the nightmares left too much room in the dark, he’d fill it for you. Not with reassurance, but with small, ordinary things. The kind of details that pinned you back to the present. 

He’d tell you about the coffee he meant to buy tomorrow, or the neighbor’s dog that had barked at him from the elevator last week, or the awful movie he’d half watched on a hotel television months ago and still hadn’t finished. Mundane things. Gentle things. Proof that life had continued after all the blood and terror, however unevenly.

You nodded.

So Bucky talked.

He told you he needed to get groceries because the two of you had somehow managed to end up with five different hot sauces in the fridge and nothing you could actually make for dinner. He told you the plant by the window was still alive, which he said in a tone suggesting he considered this a personal triumph, even though you were the one who remembered to water it. He told you he’d finally call the landlord about the kitchen light that kept flickering because if it shorted out while one of you was cooking, he was pretty sure that would be the stupidest possible way to survive everything else and die in your own apartment.

A weak, real sound escaped you at that. Not quite a laugh, but close.

Bucky’s mouth curved against your hair.

“There you are,” he murmured.

You kept listening.

He talked until your breathing had fully lengthened and the tight clench in your stomach eased into something survivable. Talked until your fingers loosened against his skin. Talked until the fear no longer felt like something standing over the bed, only a bruise left behind by a thing that had passed through. 

His voice stayed low and rough and close, vibrating through his chest into your cheek. Sometimes he paused to kiss your temple. Sometimes his words blurred together as sleep began to pull at him again.

At some point, your eyes slipped closed.

The darkness was still there behind them. Of course it was. Memory did not vanish because you were tired enough to stop fighting it. But now there was the warmth of Bucky’s arm over your waist, the slow drag of his thumb just above your hip, the rise and fall of his breathing under your ear. There was the bed. The apartment. The lamp still glowing low on the nightstand. The familiar scent of laundry detergent and his skin. There was the shape of his promise, unspoken now because he had already proven it.

I’m here.

Your last waking thought was not of the nightmare.

It was of the way Bucky’s hand had found yours beneath the blankets and held on, even as his own breathing finally began to deepen, like some part of him refused to sleep unless he knew you had made it back too.

You woke to absence before you woke to anything else.

It was not a sound that pulled you up out of sleep, not at first. It was the shape of missing warmth beside you, the place in the bed where Bucky should have been and wasn’t, the subtle but immediate wrongness of sheets cooled too quickly in the dark. 

Your hand moved before your mind did, sliding across the mattress in a half-conscious search for his chest, his shoulder, the easy, familiar weight of him. Your palm met only wrinkled cotton and a dip in the bed that had already started to rise. That alone was enough to sharpen you. 

Your eyes opened to a room washed dim and blue by city light bleeding through the curtains, and for one disorienting second your heart kicked hard enough to hurt.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet in the particular way the middle of the night always was, when every ordinary sound seemed louder. The refrigerator humming in the kitchen. A pipe ticking faintly in the wall. The distant hiss of tires on wet pavement far below. The bedroom door stood cracked, the narrow slice of hallway beyond it dark, and the stillness pressing in around that darkness made something old and defensive stir under your ribs before you could stop it.

You pushed yourself up slowly, blankets dragging down into your lap, and let your eyes adjust. 

Bucky’s side of the bed was empty down to the flattened pillow. He had been gone long enough for the heat to leave but not long enough to have done it quietly enough to fool the part of you that had learned, over time, exactly how his absence felt. There was a glass on the nightstand with water halfway gone. His phone lay face down beside it. He would not have left it there if he had gone anywhere beyond the apartment.

You listened harder.

There was no television. No running water. No cabinet doors in the kitchen. No soft scrape of his steps on hardwood. His shirt from earlier in the day had been draped over the chair in the corner. His belt lay half-looped through the top of his jeans where he’d dropped them. 

You slipped out from under the blanket and stood, the floor cool beneath your feet. The apartment’s shadows shifted around you as you moved. You didn’t bother with the lamp. A pale wash of city light filtered through the curtains, enough to keep you from stumbling as you stepped into the hallway.

The bathroom was empty. Door open. Light off.

The kitchen too, when you reached it. The counters were dark. The sink was empty except for the two mugs you’d left there before bed. One cabinet stood open an inch, not enough to suggest he’d been rifling through it recently, just the normal lazy forgetfulness of your shared life together. A thin stripe of moonlight cut across the tile from the living room, and a breeze caught your arm.

The balcony door was cracked open.

Only by a few inches, but enough for the curtain beside it to stir in the night air. Enough to let in a ribbon of colder wind that made the fine hairs on your arms rise.

You crossed the living room quietly, heartbeat beginning to thud harder for reasons you didn’t entirely want to name. The city beyond the glass spread out in muted lights and dark shapes, buildings stacked in shadow, distant lone cars threading gold and white through the streets. And there, just outside, was the silhouette of Bucky.

He sat in the chair near the railing with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands clasped loosely between them, head bowed. He had thrown on a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants sometime after leaving the bed, but neither seemed to be doing much against the cold. 

The line of his shoulders was rigid, tension drawn tight and inward, every muscle held under a lid that looked deceptively calm from a distance. Moonlight caught in the dark mess of his hair, turning the edges pale where it fell loose around his face, bent at the crown where he’d probably dragged a hand through it too many times.

A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray on the little metal table beside him—nearly gone, burned down more than smoked, the ember at the tip pulsing red every few seconds in the dark.

Bucky didn’t smoke anymore.

Not at all. Certainly not often. Not unless something had him by the throat.

He should have heard you already. Bucky heard everything. The fact that he hadn’t turned yet meant he was farther gone than he wanted to be.

The thought made something deep and aching soften in your chest.

For a moment, you just stood in the doorway and looked at him. Not because you were unsure what to do, but because the sight of him like that always reached into something bruised and complicated inside you. Bucky carried himself with so much control in the daylight, so much deliberate stillness, all dry muttered humor and quiet restraint and that hard-won ability to make himself look solid even when the ground under him had every reason to give way.

But every now and then, usually in the middle of the night, when there was no mission to focus on and no immediate danger to cut through the noise, you caught glimpses of what lived underneath it. Not weakness. Never that. Just the kind of exhaustion that came from being turned into a weapon and surviving it. Something old enough to have settled into his bones.

You slid the door open.

The track gave a soft scrape. Bucky’s head lifted immediately.

Even half lost in whatever had dragged him out here, he still turned fast, still alert in that way that never really left him. His posture changed on instinct before his eyes found you—subtle, automatic, the ghost of a defensive response already fading by the time recognition softened his face.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low and rough with disuse. “Did I wake you?”

It was such a Bucky thing to say that it almost hurt. Sitting alone in the cold at an hour no one should have been awake, a cigarette burning itself to ash beside him, and his first concern was still whether he had disturbed your sleep.

You stepped out onto the balcony and let the door slide shut behind you until the two of you were left with the distant city and the whisper of wind between buildings. The balcony floor under your feet was freezing. You folded your arms loosely against the cold, more out of reflex than discomfort, and moved toward him.

“You weren’t in bed,” you said quietly.

Bucky watched you come closer, and something in his expression shifted—some small guarded thing tightening and loosening at once. His eyes were shadowed in the low light, bluer in the moonlight than they ever looked during the day, ringed by the kind of tiredness sleep didn’t fix. He looked devastatingly awake for someone who should have still been in bed.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said.

You stopped in front of him, close enough now to see the faint flex in his jaw, the way one thumb rubbed once across the side of his opposite hand and then stilled, like he’d caught himself doing it. Tiny tells. 

Bucky was full of them if you knew where to look. The mistake most people made was expecting his distress to look dramatic. It almost never did. It was quieter. Straighter. More contained. Everything in him drew inward until the only evidence left was in the details: the sleepless eyes, the cigarette he wasn’t really smoking, the tension at the base of his neck, the way he kept his gaze fixed somewhere just past the railing like looking at you too directly might split something open he was trying to keep sealed.

You reached past him and pinched the cigarette out in the ashtray.

He made a faint sound that might have been a humorless little exhale.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Probably for the best.”

Then he leaned back just enough to look up at you properly. “You should be inside. It’s cold.”

You could have smiled at that, if the ache in your chest had left room for it. There he was again. Half frozen on the balcony in the dead of night, clearly unraveling in some private, disciplined way, and still trying to make sure you weren’t chilly.

Instead of answering, you moved closer until you stood between his knees. His gaze tracked you automatically. The city lights touched the edges of his face, caught along the bridge of his nose, the line of his mouth, the stubble that had come in a little darker by night. 

“Hey,” you said, softer now.

Something flickered behind his eyes at the sound of your voice that close. Not surprise. Recognition. A yielding he didn’t always grant himself but gave you more readily than anyone else.

You lifted your hands and touched his face.

Just the pads of your fingers at first, brushing his cheeks, letting him feel you there before your palms settled fully against the sides of his jaw. His skin was cool from the air outside, but there was warmth underneath it, a pulse you could feel where your thumb rested near his temple. Bucky’s eyes shut for one brief, helpless second.

That tiny, involuntary reaction nearly broke you.

“You okay?” you asked.

He opened his eyes again, and for a moment you saw the instinctive answer rise—the automatic yes, the deflection, the practiced, manageable version of himself that had gotten him through years of surviving things no one should have had to survive. It reached his mouth, paused there, then died before he could give it shape.

His flesh hand came up instead, covering one of yours where it rested on his face.

“Not really,” he admitted.

The words were quiet. Controlled. But there was a nakedness to them that only made the restraint more painful.

You swallowed hard.

“Can I sit with you?”

Bucky looked at you like the question itself undid him a little. Like there was still some part of him, after everything, that expected to weather the worst nights alone unless someone explicitly chose otherwise.

“Yeah,” he said, almost immediately. “Yeah, of course.”

He shifted back in the chair, making room. It was a tight fit, the balcony chair not built for two people, but that hardly mattered. You settled sideways onto his lap, one leg tucked carefully along the outside of his thigh, the other bent at the knee against the edge of the seat. 

The second your weight rested against him, Bucky’s arms came around you on instinct. Not as tightly as he held you when he was the one comforting you, not at first. There was a hesitation there, a fragility to the movement—as if he was trying not to need too much all at once.

You answered it by leaning fully into him.

Your chest against his. Your cheek near his temple. Your arms winding around his shoulders until there was no ambiguity left in the gesture. You felt the breath leave him. Felt the way his body gave, just slightly, the rigid line of his back easing by a degree as the contact settled into something real.

The wind threaded through the balcony railing in cool, intermittent currents. Far below, the city kept moving with the distant hush of tires and the occasional pulse of headlights crossing an intersection. Somewhere in another building, a television flickered blue against an unseen wall. The world went on, indifferent and ordinary, while you sat in Bucky’s lap in the middle of the night and felt the careful control in him slowly, reluctantly soften beneath your hands.

His face turned into the curve of your neck.

The movement was small. So small someone else might have missed the significance of it. But you felt it all the way through you—the way his forehead came to rest briefly against your shoulder, the way his breath hit your skin warmer than the night air, the way one hand spread over your back and stayed there as if grounding himself by the fact of you.

It was never easy, seeing Bucky like this.

Not because it made him less himself. If anything, it made him more. But because loving him meant learning the shape of all the things he carried, including the ones he didn’t have language for until they were already dragging him under. 

It meant knowing that some nights the ghosts rose too close. That the body kept score in ways even he couldn’t out-stubborn forever. That beneath the training and the dry humor and the endless, exhausted competence was a man who had spent years surviving catastrophe after catastrophe and had somehow never learned how to believe he was allowed to simply fall apart in someone else’s arms.

You put your hand in his hair and stroked it back from his forehead.

“How long have you been out here?” you asked.

“A while.”

“That doesn’t answer me.”

He raised his head and let out a breath through his nose, looking out over the city like maybe the exact shape of the skyline might help him answer honestly. “Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked.

Bucky’s grip tightened once at your waist, then loosened. His mouth moved back to brush your shoulder when he answered, words muffled against your skin.

“It’s stupid.”

“No, it isn’t.”

He let out a faint breath that stirred the collar of your shirt. “I know that’s the right answer.”

“It’s also the true one.”

That drew the barest huff from him, something dry and tired enough to almost qualify as amusement. Almost.

His silence stretched a little longer after that. You didn’t rush to fill it. Bucky needed space to reach for things in his own time. Pressing him too hard only made him retreat farther inside himself, not out of distrust, but out of habit. 

“Just… one of those nights.”

The answer was so him you nearly laughed, if it hadn’t hurt.

One of those nights. As if there weren’t decades buried under a phrase like that. The snow. The train. Cryo fog and fluorescent lights. Russian in his ear. The names he didn’t know he remembered until they came back bloodstained. The things he had done with someone else’s hand on the back of his neck. The things done to him until choice had been peeled down to the nerve. Bucky had always had a way of making ruin sound smaller than it was, like if he kept his voice low enough it might not take up so much space between you.

“And what kind of night is it, exactly?”

His jaw moved once beneath his skin. “The kind where my brain decides I should’ve done everything differently.”

There it was.

Not the whole truth, not all of it, but a real piece. Enough to open the door.

His voice had gone flatter on the last word, not cold but tired, worn down by an argument he’d clearly already been having with himself for the better part of half an hour. You knew that tone. Knew the shape of the guilt that lived under it. Bucky’s ghosts were rarely the loud kind. They did not always arrive as vivid nightmares or violent wakeups. Sometimes they came as stillness. As silence. As the terrible calm of a man sitting out in the cold, replaying the things done to him, the things done through him, and all the pieces of himself he still couldn’t quite separate from the weapon they made.

You slid your hand from his neck to his cheek, turning his face toward you with gentle insistence until he looked at you fully.

The city light caught in his eyes, pale and far away. There was no deflection in him now. No muttered half-joke, no practiced flatness, none of that careful distance he sometimes pulled around himself like armor. You saw the moment he almost reached for it anyway. Then your thumb brushed beneath his eye, and whatever thin defense had started to lock into place went still.

“Do you want to tell me,” you asked, “or do you want me to just sit here and keep you company until your brain stops being an asshole?”

That got you something real.

Small, but real. A tired pull at one corner of his mouth, brief enough to vanish almost as soon as it appeared. His gaze dropped to your lips and back up again. “You make a compelling second option.”

“I know.”

His hand at your waist tightened slightly, not possessive, not restraining. More like he needed to feel something solid and chosen under his palm before he answered. When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its flatness.

“I was dreaming,” he said slowly, as if deciding each word before he released it. “I was back in Siberia, except it wasn’t exactly. It was every place layered on top of each other. All of it wrong in that dream logic way where you know it doesn’t make sense and it still feels real.” He paused. “And I knew you were there somewhere. I could hear you, but I couldn’t get to you.”

Something tight and cold slid through you at that, but you kept your face open and your hands gentle.

His eyes dropped to the line of your shoulder, unfocused now, seeing something else. “Every door I opened led somewhere it shouldn’t. Every turn was the wrong one. And I kept being just a little too late.” The last four words came quieter. Rawer. “That part felt familiar.”

The understatement of it nearly broke your heart.

You let silence hold for a beat, giving the confession room to settle between you rather than rushing to patch it over. Bucky did not need false reassurance. He needed truth met with truth.

“And then you woke up,” you said softly.

He nodded. “And you were asleep. And for a second I just…” His throat worked. “I don’t know. I couldn’t shake it.”

The words thinned there, fraying around the edges, and you knew exactly what he meant. That first split second of waking had left something behind—something sharp enough that he’d gotten out of bed and come outside rather than risk lying in the dark beside you with it still climbing his throat. Maybe because he hadn’t wanted to wake you. Maybe because he hadn’t trusted himself to settle. Maybe because after a lifetime of associating love with danger, there were still nights when having something precious under his hand made the fear worse before it made it better.

He had probably laid there beside you, staring into the dark, trying to settle himself without moving enough to wake you. Trying to swallow it. Manage it. Handle it alone. Then finally given up and come outside instead, not because he wanted distance from you, but because he had wanted to contain the damage. Not to let the night touch you if he could help it.

The tenderness of that hurt. The stupidity of it hurt more.

You shifted just enough to take his face gently between both hands and draw him back so you could look at him.

Bucky let you, though the movement clearly cost him. His eyes met yours at last, and the sight of the strain there was almost unbearable. Not because he was crying—he wasn’t. Bucky’s pain rarely looked like that. It lived in the tension around his mouth, the exhaustion in his stare, the way he seemed to be holding himself together one deliberate breath at a time. But the emotion in him was no less fierce for being contained. If anything, the effort of containing it made it ache more.

“You didn’t have to come out here alone,” you said.

His gaze flicked over your face, searching it in that intensely attentive way of his, like he was testing for judgment, for pity, for anything that might make him retreat. He found none. After a beat, his expression changed—small, almost invisible. Something in him softened with a kind of weary disbelief.

“It was late,” he said, and the excuse was so weak you almost loved him for it.

A breath of incredulous affection escaped you. “Buck...”

A corner of his mouth pulled faintly, not enough for a smile. “I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

He leaned into your hand just a fraction, a motion so subtle it would have been easy to miss if you hadn’t been watching for exactly that. Then, as if some final line of resistance gave way, his forehead lowered until it rested against yours.

The position stole what little distance remained. Your breath mixed in the cold air. His lashes lowered. One of his hands slid up from your back to the nape of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady despite the chill.

“I hate that you have to deal with this,” he murmured.

The confession sat between you, heavy with everything beneath it. Not just tonight. Not just the nightmare. The whole ugly web of loving someone whose life had been shaped by violence and loss, by years of being dropped into impossible situations and expected to keep moving afterward like survival alone was enough. Bucky’s guilt had always been like that—expansive, indiscriminate. He blamed himself for damage done with his own hands, even when those hands had never truly been his to command.

Your throat tightened.

“You are not something I deal with,” you said.

His eyes lifted to yours again.

You held his face gently, making sure he saw all of it. “You’re the person I love.”

The hand at his cheek slipped back into his hair again, fingertips scratching lightly at his scalp the way you knew he liked, the way that pulled the tension from him without forcing him to admit he needed it. His eyelids lowered halfway at once. The man was impossible. You wondered if he knew how transparently he betrayed himself in small comforts, in the way he leaned almost imperceptibly into the things that soothed him.

“You take care of me like it’s breathing,” you said quietly. “Like it never even occurs to you not to. And then the second it’s your turn, you act like making room for me in it is asking too much.”

He went still under that. Really still. Not rigid this time. Listening.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

He looked at you for a long moment. When he answered, there was no self-protection left in it, only exhaustion and honesty worn raw.

“I spend enough of my life feeling like trouble follows me into every room,” he said. “I don’t want it following me with you too.”

The words landed with quiet force.

You stared at him, breath catching somewhere under your sternum. There it was. The heart of it. Not just guilt. Not just control. Fear. Not of his own pain, exactly, but of what it might do to the fragile pocket of peace the two of you had built together in this apartment, in this bed, in the ordinary domestic intimacy that both of you had earned the hard way and still sometimes looked at like it might vanish if held too tightly.

He thought he was protecting it by stepping away.

He thought he was protecting you.

Your hand slid from his hair to cup the back of his neck, holding him there, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“Listen to me,” you said, and your voice came low and steady, leaving no room for him to turn the meaning aside. “The worst things that ever happened to us were never the nights we woke each other up.” His eyes did not leave yours. “The worst things were all the times we had to be alone in it.”

Something in his face changed.

It was small. A minute shift in the mouth, the brow, the stare he held on you like he was trying to absorb the shape of the sentence from every angle at once. But you felt it. The hit. The place where the truth had found him.

You stroked your thumb along the line just under his ear.

“I don’t care if it’s three in the morning,” you whispered. “I don’t care if you wake me up because you can’t breathe, or because you had a dream, or because your head won’t shut up and you need to hear something real. I don’t care if all I can do is sit with you on a freezing balcony in one of these terribly uncomfortable chairs.” His mouth twitched faintly at that, and you kept going before he could hide inside the almost-smile. “You do not have to try and be less heavy just because I love you.”

For one suspended second, he looked like he had forgotten how to breathe.

The hand on your thigh tightened. Enough to tell you exactly how hard he was holding himself together. Then he let out a breath so slow it seemed to drag out of him from somewhere much deeper than his lungs, and his forehead dropped against yours once more.

His eyes closed.

“Jesus,” he said quietly, the word more exhale than sound.

You felt the tremor in him then—a fine, internal shake that ran through his arm around your waist and into your ribs where you were pressed against him. The kind of tremor that came when the body finally stopped bracing quite so hard against being seen.

Your own throat tightened.

Without thinking, you shifted again and drew him down, one hand at the back of his head, guiding until he let himself fold into you as much as the awkward chair allowed. His face turned into the curve of your neck, breath warm against your skin despite the cold air around you. The position forced him to bend, broad shoulders crowding close, and there was something so starkly intimate in the sightless trust of it that your chest ached. Bucky was not a man who surrendered weight easily. Not physical weight. Not emotional. Yet here he was, head bowed into your shoulder, letting himself be held in the dark.

Your arms wrapped around him fully.

You held him the way he held you on bad nights: one hand in his hair, the other sliding slow and steady up and down his back. You could feel every line of tension there, muscles drawn tight beneath his shirt. You let the touch stay consistent. Grounding. Unhurried. The kind of care that asked for nothing except his continued presence.

The silence was not empty. His breathing was in it, gradually changing. The first few pulls were shallow, too high in the chest. Then deeper. Then deeper still. You felt his hand at your side start to move, not restless now, just tracing absent little paths over the fabric of the shirt you wore, as if reassuring himself by touch that you were really here, warm and living and within reach. 

His other hand slid from your thigh around your back, settling there with a careful pressure that made the chair protest softly beneath you both. He was holding you now too. Not because he had to be strong again. Because comfort, with the two of you, had never been a one-way act.

The wind picked up just enough to stir your hair across his temple.

After a while, he lifted his head. His face stayed close to yours, not quite touching now, eyes open but softer than before. The distance in them had not vanished entirely—those things rarely did, not all at once—but it had eased. He looked more present. More here.

“You always know when I’m trying to pull that stoic bullshit,” he murmured.

A laugh escaped you then, quiet and a little wet around the edges. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

He huffed a faint breath that almost resembled a laugh of his own. “That’s not what I hear.”

“That’s because everyone else is afraid of you.”

One brow lifted slightly.

You touched the crease between them with your thumb. “I’m serious. You do this whole brooding, emotionally-constipated, stare-at-the-wall-like-it-owes-you-money thing and people mistake it for mystery.”

That got you the closest thing to a real smile yet, brief and crooked and so achingly familiar it made warmth flood through you despite the cold. He dipped his head and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Emotionally constipated?”

“You heard me.”

“Wow.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I don’t know,” he said, dry now in a way that felt more like him, more daylight-Bucky creeping back in around the edges. “That one was brutal.”

You smiled in spite of yourself, but the softness in you never left. Neither did the ache. It sat there underneath the humor, the knowledge of what it had taken for him to open even this much. You brushed your lips to his cheek, then lingered there for a second, feeling the coolness of his skin and the faint roughness of stubble.

“You don’t have to be okay all the time,” you said into the space beside his mouth.

His eyes closed again at that. Not in pain. In acceptance of the thing he still didn’t know how to give himself, but maybe, slowly, could take from you.

“I know,” he said, and for once it didn’t sound like automatic agreement. It sounded like a man trying very hard to let the truth land somewhere it might stay.

Bucky’s mouth parted slightly, then closed again. His hand at your neck tightened, not enough to hurt, only enough to keep you close.

“C’mere,” he said.

You were already close enough to feel the shape of the word against your mouth, but you went anyway, and he met you halfway.

It was quiet, the first press of his lips. Careful in that way Bucky had when he was giving you something real. His metal hand settled more firmly at your waist, not pulling, just holding you there while his mouth moved against yours like he was trying to remember what it meant to stop bracing for impact. You felt the breath leave him, warm and uneven, felt the way he leaned in a fraction more when your fingers slid into his hair.

Something low caught in his throat.

You kissed him back gently, your hand at the nape of his neck, your thumb brushing skin still cool from the night air. He stayed close when it broke, forehead falling to yours again, breathing slow enough now to feel the difference.

After a moment, you said, “Your lips are freezing.”

That got a genuine, tired little exhale from him. “Says the person who came out here barefoot.”

You shifted one foot pointedly against the balcony floor. “And whose fault is that?”

That earned you the faintest ghost of a smile. There and gone, but enough to loosen something inside you. Enough to know he was coming back toward himself.

“I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

“No,” you said, brushing your nose lightly against his. “You just vanished in the middle of the night like a deeply concerning man.”

Bucky actually laughed then—quiet and brief, but real. It hit you with absurd force, relief moving through you so fast it almost made your eyes sting. He must have seen something of that on your face, because his expression softened immediately afterward, the humor fading into something warmer and deeper.

“Sorry,” he murmured, and you knew he meant for leaving the bed, for worrying you, for all of it.

You kissed him once more, quick and soft. “No apologizing. I think I’ve heard that somewhere before.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction in that sleepy, rueful way that told you he recognized his own words being handed back to him. “Using my own stuff against me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Cold.”

“You taught me that too.”

Another tiny, helpless smile. Then it slipped away as his gaze lingered on you, on your bare legs, your arms prickling in the night air, the fact that you had come out here without hesitation the second you realized he was gone. The look in his eyes changed with that realization—not guilt exactly, but something more fragile and more profound. A quiet wonder he’d never quite gotten good at hiding when the depth of your care caught him off guard.

He drew you closer until your chest pressed flush to his again and tucked his face into the side of your neck.

You sat with him in the cold and let the night pass around you. Your fingers moved lazily through his hair. His flesh hands slid beneath the hem of your shirt to rest warm against the small of your back, the touch intimate in its simplicity. You felt the gradual slowing of him there—the breaths evening out, the tension draining by fractions, the restless edge that had driven him from bed wearing down under the quiet persistence of being held.

Eventually, you drew back enough to brush your thumb over the crease between his brows.

“Come back to bed with me.”

Bucky looked out over the city for one last moment, as if checking whether there was anything left for him to outrun out here. There wasn’t. Not tonight. When he looked back at you, the sharpest edges in him had dulled.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

He stood with you still in his arms, steadying you automatically as your feet met the balcony floor. Before you could protest, he bent and scooped you up under the knees and back in one practiced motion. The sudden lift pulled a startled breath from you, and his mouth brushed the edge of your jaw.

“You’re cold,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

“Bucky.”

“You can yell at me once we’re under a blanket.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself and looped an arm around his neck as he carried you inside. The apartment was warmer the second the balcony door shut behind you, cutting off the wind and the noise. He locked it without even looking, all muscle memory and habit, then walked you back toward the bedroom.

The room was still dim, the sheets still half thrown back from where you’d woken. Bucky set you down gently on the mattress, then climbed in right after you, tugging the blankets up and around both of you until the trapped warmth began to gather again. 

You turned into him immediately, one arm across his middle, your leg sliding between his. Bucky settled onto his side facing you, his hand spanning the back of your ribs, thumb moving in slow, absent strokes. Up close like this, the last traces of strain were still there in his face, but softer now, threaded through with exhaustion instead of active hurt. His eyes searched yours once, lingering.

“You okay?” he asked.

It was almost enough to make you laugh again. There it was. Even now.

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “Are you?”

He was quiet for a beat. Then he tipped his head in a small, honest half-shrug.

“Better.”

It was not a complete fix. Neither of you needed to pretend it was. The past didn’t vanish because the night had softened. Nightmares didn’t lose their teeth in a single hour. But there was something sacred in the smallness of that answer. Better. Not perfect. Not fine. Just better, because you had come looking for him. Because he had let you find him.

You reached up and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

“Good.”

Bucky’s gaze moved over your face with that same impossible gentleness, and then he gathered you closer until your forehead tucked beneath his chin. His mouth brushed the top of your head. One kiss. Then another. The third lingered.

His breathing slowed.

You stayed awake a little longer, listening to it. Feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. The weight of his arm over you. The way his fingers, even half asleep, curled lightly into the fabric at your back as if some deep instinct in him needed to keep contact even in rest.

And when sleep finally began to pull at you again, softer this time, less sharp at the edges, your last clear thought was not of the empty bed or the cold balcony or the shadows he still carried.

It was of the way Bucky had let himself be held.

Of the way he had come back inside with you.

Of the fact that for all the things the world had carved out of both of you, this—your hand in his hair, his body warm around yours, the dark made bearable because neither of you was facing it alone—was still here.

And that was more than you could ever ask for.

no more taglists! tumblr’s @ limit said no 💔 follow @cheekybarnesupdates + turn on notifs for all fic drops!

[sheriff-bodecker]

vital refractions

pairing: paramedic!bucky x paramedic!reader

summary: you and bucky have always been close, close enough that everyone else noticed a spark long before you did. but after a shift leaves you both strung out, comfort blurs into something heavier, then when guilt tells him to pull away, you’re left fighting for the truth of what you did and what it meant.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut (first; not overly detailed, second; full on), fluff & angst, traumatic shift (not overly detailed), miscommunication, silent treatment, friends to something to lovers, arguments, confessions, mild dissociation (reader), bestfriend!bucky, emotionally repressed!bucky (wooow everyone act shocked), alcohol/bars, smoking, bucky smokes & it's implied reader does with him, switch!bucky, switch!reader, semi-public, making out, hair pulling (m&f!rec), dry humping, thigh humping, cumming in pants (f!rec), mean!bucky, whiny!bucky, uncut!bucky, tit worship, nipple sucking and pulling (james boobchanan barnes amirite), degradation (B wants reader to say mean things to him), the L word, lotus position, angry sex to sweet(?), missionary, clit stim, creampie, aftercare, showering together, sappy ending, no beta . . .

word count: 15.8k (i dont know either man...)

a/n: hey barbies !! it's babys first collab, and i can't be happier to be doing this with @stantastic-association !! thank you to the absolutely amazing @miraclediviner for creating this spectacular event, all the ideas, and graphics and keeping everything in check, thank you so so much mj :") and thank you to @metal-armed-muse for helping me with smart med stuff shdfsjsfh and @barnes-babydoll @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel for keeping me from going insane with this fic, although i think thats too late,, i love you all so so much, thank you for letting me be a part of this amazing and beautiful collab and group <33

just a little heads up, i'm from the uk and also not a paramedic or work in the medical field so i relied heavily on google and reddit when researching about paramedic shifts, clock ins, where ambulances sleep at night and whatnot,, if theres anything wrong i am so sorry i really tried :')

masterlist || navigation || bucky's dreamhouse m.list

✴︎ i'm just an art degree having person, i dont know shit about this im gonna be honest, but i wanted to challenge myself, so i am so sorry to the smart people in the ER, and to paramedics themselves, for anything wrong :") i'll grovel istg.

✴︎ Nat is head nurse at the ER (and readers bestie), Sam is a nurse, and Steve is Nat's partner who's energy can be felt if you look hard enough :") paramedics are basically the new avengers (Ava, Yelena and John) (im so sorry Bob..)

✴︎ this is all from reader's POV except for one small tiny bit near the beginning, but from then on, the rest is all reader and i apologise in advance:')

The call came late in the shift. The kind that settled into your bones without asking permission.

Everything that came after moved too quickly and not fast enough at the same time, muscle memory carrying you both through while something essential lagged behind. By the time you were at the ER — voices loud and assertive, arms still carrying the sting and scrape of metal, plastic and sweat — the adrenaline burned at the edges, a hum on the edge of your skin, a live wire through your fingertips, and left a cavity where certainty used to lie.

The paperwork was finished. The rig was cleaned and the building smelt like sickly-sweet antiseptic and medical supplies. A sterile zing, one you had gotten used to after a few days now burns through your insides, as if to rid you of what occurred just minutes ago. And the city outside went on, undisturbed, breathing.

It was well past evening when you finished, the sun barely had time to say goodbye, as you walked out into the parking-lot with both hands cradling your midsection, head down, hoodie up and the warm presence of Bucky beside you.

His hair was a mess from his fingers combing through incessantly. Eyes dark, jaw set and clenched with words unsaid and memories replaying, but his hand set low on your back, a radiator almost, rubbing up and down each ridge as if he was trying to remind himself that despite everything, you're still here.

"I spoke to Natasha," he spoke low, voice crackled from the tightness and silence. "She said it's best I take you home."

You stayed silent, not thinking, your brain stayed silent ever since you passed your case along, watched them try and try and try, until it was too late and now you're both stuck with a ballpoint pen that keeps skipping and fingers that wont stop twitching. Your writing was borderline unintelligible, and the pads of your palms still burn from how hard you gripped the gurney bars.

"I feel like I should be stronger than this," you huff, a mimic of a laugh that comes out tired, impatient. "I feel pathetic."

"You're not pathetic. You don't need to be strong. Not here, not right now." he responds, never letting your words hit the ground and holds his hand out. "C'mon, gets go home."

By the way his words come, the warmth that curls around them, and you, how he spoke with sureness, quickly and strong, never giving your own doubts time to release fully before they were fought back with praise, comfort. Hope squeezed your lungs together like the tightest embrace, and never let go.

Red light streaked through the windshield, spilling on the tarmac in velvet tresses, covering your faces. Bucky's car stood still with only the whirring hum of the engine to soundtrack your awkward silences. It felt full, too thick.

You sat too still, knees knocked together, hands in your lap, picking at the skin around your nails. No radio tonight. Even with an empty car, the two of you couldn't stomach some shitty three minute commercialised industry plant. Your combined sighs and incessant picking of skin will have to do.

Bucky's right hand gripped the wheel at two, thumb impatiently drumming against the fabric, and his left hand held up his head, elbow on the door.

Scraping his palm over his salt and pepper beard, he sighs.

"You did good," he says. "Really good."

Though your chest burns with the need to speak, you don't reply. You just let the soft fire creep up your sternum and lungs.

"Everything you did today was on point, no mistakes, no mishaps," He shrugs with his hand, two fingers tap on the leather. "You were perfect. You should be proud of yourself, I know I am."

A breath hitches its way from your nose, harsh and quick, a sob that stuck and makes itself known vehemently, and you grimace at the way it sounded humoured. Bucky turns his head at the sound.

"I'm sorry." Rubbing your eyes of the sleep and dirt and stress that accumulated in the corners with a deep sigh. He places his hand on your shoulder in a reassuring gesture, peeling you back from your mind and into the passenger seat of his car.

He hums, "what for."

"Everything," you whisper. Letting the word lie, you expect him to find a way to reply, to reassure and find a solution to your desolate mood. But you find yourself sitting on in the silence you made. "I did everything right. But it didn't work."

This time the silence hangs clearer. Not man-made in an attempt at gaining soft words to pillow the fall, this time it stays still and works. Both of your brains sitting in on the rapt of earlier. Resolution wasn't what either of you needed, but it comes anyway. Only this time it's jumbled and frosted, and coming from the mouth of your best friend.

"As much as I hate to say shit like this, I'm gonna have to, so — I'm sorry if i cant find the right words," Bucky rasps, calloused palm scraping against his scruff, licking his lips, and he exhales. Deep and slow, letting it all out, and you cant help the tiny voice in the back of your head from murmuring 'ah, shit, not a speech'.

"Sometimes… things don't go the way we plan. We see a solution, we see the light at the end of the dark tunnel, but suddenly theres an obstacle we didn't see, a detour kinda…" he inhales, finding his footing, and it wheezes slightly in the back of his neck. "… and sometimes… sometimes that obstacle slows you down. Or sometimes, in this case, it wraps around your legs until you can't do anything but stay."

He winces slightly, appalled by his wording, how slow it comes, how his head tingles from trying to find synonyms and meanings. A grin points the edge of your lips. "What I'm trying to say is, the outcome is never what we expect it to be. Sometimes we have this image in our head of the perfect project, but along the line your tastes change, you hate a colour, so you choose a different one. Or sometimes, you scrap the project altogether. Your angry, sad, distraught, you should feel that way, you're human. But life has it's way of putting you through shit you didn't see comin'."

Staring out onto the street, you take in his words. Clumsy as they can be, over the years of your friendship with Bucky you've gotten used to his disorder and understand how to rearrange them into something slightly comprehensible.

"I liked the second one better." You hummed, eyes still glued to the watercolour of black, white and red against the dark street.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Nodding slowly, you turned to face him, smile still stuck to your lips. "And then you kinda referred to them as a 'project'. Very tasteful, Barnes."

He smirked lazily at your animated retort. Your words come humourless, sarcasm laced and sleepy, but they still had that sharpness you carried — that he loved. A scoffed chuckle fills the car and paints his face with smile lines and a colour, despite the red of the traffic light spilling overhead. It's contagious, and you cant fight the ache of your cheeks.

Once the light turns green, the attitude shifts. The laughter still ebbed around you both, but it felt like it was suddenly swatted away with a wave of remembrance, like you both had this need to stay composed and professional.

"I'll walk you in." He decides, shaking his head with the remnants of wit.

You run your palm over your cheek, feeling the warmth. Your eyes suddenly feel heavier, skin tighter yet so lose against your muscles you're not sure how to feel.

"You really don't have to." Slips out, lower than usual, you barely recognise your voice.

Everything feels… different. Yet the world keeps turning, his car keeps driving, streetlights still spilling against his arms, and the indicator keeps blinking with every turn.

"Please," he pleads firmly, edged with a wobble. A sound that tells you he needs this, maybe even more than you do. "Just… Please."

And you cant fight. Not him.

Not when a dull ache has been ruminating inside of your chest since the call, only to deepen and cultivate through the night.

He helps you inside. Takes your keys for you after he caught the tremor in your fingers, lets you rest against him when your knees felt too weak to hold — arm wrapped tight and securely around your shoulder, letting the hum of your buildings elevator ruminate as he presses a soft kiss against your head, whispering soft praises into your scalp, as if willing them to sink into your brain and keep.

Doing so well for me.

It's okay.

You're okay.

His hand squeezes the meat of your shoulder, a pattern of kneads against taut muscle and soft slides of his thumb against your hot collarbone. It makes you shiver in a way it never had before.

Your breath expels harshly, twitches of your lungs that quiver your ribs in his hold.

"Hey," you hear him say, hand clasping ever so slightly harder, "hey, look at me."

When you don't at first, he inhales your scent once more before he moves. Gently sliding his hand to your other shoulder, pushing you to look into his eyes as he tilts his head, his free hand finding your neck, your pulse, and caressing.

"Breathe in for me, sweetheart." He requests. You try, but the air gets trapped and sputters out. Your hands go up to push his own away, but instead they weakly circle around his wrists.

"C'mon, you got it, like this," Bucky inhales. The hand that rest on your neck finds its way to your jaw, then to your cheek, a mindless move to pull your sight from his shoes and into his eyes.

And you inhale. And exhale.

"There we go, just like that." The praise, though soft, hits you in every inch of your skin like tiny pin-pricks in each follicle. The warmth of his hand, his breath, his words, it all pulls over you like a wool blanket, like that one winter he made sure to use his break-time to check up on on you while you were sick, making sure you were warm, fed and relaxed, practically forcing a spoon into your face to get you hydrated and full of the proper nutrients, to get your eyes a little wider and joins less achy for tomorrows shift.

You both almost miss the ding when you get to your floor.

The walk to your apartment is quiet. Full. You can feel it all spill out at the edges once you shut the door and suddenly it all tips over. Contents gone, messy and everywhere.

Wires seem to get mixed up. Touches linger. Voices hush lower into murmurs and whispers.

Tension snaps like a taut rubber band, and comfort is the only thing the two of you need in that moment.

Years of friendship balling up into an combination of bodies — sweat, skin, tears, whispers and closeness you didn't realise could exist. Not with Bucky anyway.

Of course you had your fair share of quick crushes and epiphanies while he was by your side, but they all quietly dissipated with each new fling or relationship he brought into the mix. Nothing indicated reciprocation. So why stay at this bus stop when it had departed long, long ago.

Being needed felt so good.

You forgot to shut the curtains last night.

Bright morning sun filters through the panes, soaking your sleep ridden body in a glow that renders Bucky dumb. From the moment he woke up, warm from your body at his front, his arm tightly wrapped around your middle, face pressed into your hair that smelled like salt and sex, with the lingering scent of your vanilla shampoo.

Guilt hits like a sucker punch straight to the stomach, rattling up his chest, and blowing his knees, even while he was laying down. Getting up immediately, retracting himself as softly and quietly as possible, letting you bask unconsciously in whatever last night was. Whatever it became.

Putting his clothes back on his body, making sure to gather your own, throw them in your laundry basket and fold some fresher clothes for the new day at the end of your bed, he sat with a heavy feeling of remorse.

Last night was a mistake.

It shouldn't have happened. Not like that, anyway.

Too inebriated with adrenaline and 'too big' emotions; the both of you needed a vice to let it all out, and it just so happened to be each other — but Bucky can't, and won't, let himself believe that.

He insisted on walking you in.

He helped you with your keys.

He draped his arm over your shoulder, tucked you in close and whispered and pecked sweet nothings into your hair like it was just another day.

The coffee machine in your kitchen hummed as it filled your favourite mug. Bucky stared at the dark liquid as it filled the ceramic. Distant.

Silently praying the whirring wont wake you up, his brain replayed the way you looked underneath him. The way your lips felt, how you felt. Hands roaming with no destination, mapping new skin like this wasn't a fresh, quick adventure, but a finale, a place to call home, a place to familiarise.

His muscles tightened as they tingled with remembrance.

It was good. It all felt right, correct in a way nothing else he had ever felt before. But it had to have been because it was you.

Good old you, and your sullen, tired eyes that reddened around the edges with unshed tears. Back and shoulders arched into yourself, only to slowly uncover at his touch and voice. You, who always beamed each morning when your names were paired, as if it wasn't a regular, everyday occurrence, as if he didn't make sure to double — triple — check the sheet just in case he didn't read the name wrong. But how could he?

It's you.

Which is precisely why he gently makes your coffee exactly how you like it. Hands moving by their own accord, muscle memory working overtime while his brain tries to wrack around last night.

How you held onto him like you needed this, needed him. The soft whispers of his name mixed with sleepy praises breathed against his neck, shoulder and collarbone. Your hands roaming his body almost as if you knew it would end with detachment, like you wanted his skin pierced into your palms forever. How you asked him, so gently, voice laced with sleep and something so much deeper than he ever thought he'd hear from you, if he could stay, not move from his position on top of you, slowly twitching while you paced yourself back into reality with pulses that traced through his skin.

You wanted him to stay.

His warmth you craved, his weight atop of you, his skin, his presence, his body inside of you. You wanted it all.

And that's precisely why he places the mug on your bedside with a clink, careful enough not to wake you. Took one last, long look at your sleeping form. Unknowing of his internal dilemma.

And left.

The emptiness that comes after you wake up didn't deter you. You expected it, kind of.

Bucky has always been the type of person who gets into work bright and early, gets everything in check, memorise, recount, retain, as if he hasn't been doing this almost every morning for years. The routine helps him, and you know that.

The coffee was still warm, steam curling while your eyes adjusted to the creamy morning sun peeking through the window, and the first conscious thought of the morning is, 'i hope it didn't wake him'.

Friday busses are always busy, especially in the morning, but this time two of your usuals skidded past without a care of your hand waving out for them. Pure coincidence? Maybe they didn't see your hand, or maybe they're full and forgot to show it on the destination sigh.

Eventually, after your card failed once, twice, before finally going through with a huff from the driver. The road was bumpier, there were kids on their way to school way too energised this early in the day. And turns out you forgot to charge your headphones the night before.

Of course you did.

You clocked in mechanically, bones already awaiting the hours waiting to be endured. Flexing your head in a circle, ridding it of a readying strain, the building felt… off. It wasn't the kind that was spotted immediately, it was a feeling, an energy that laid itself on your shoulders like a perfectly content cat already cozying up while your back started to ache and it's claws poked.

At your locker, the hallway felt emptier, the room itself was only full with the incessant humming of the ventilation and pipes in the walls — a tune half unknown to you with the accustomed noise of yours and Bucky's lazy conversations, his body facing yours, leaning against the locker beside by his shoulder, arms and legs crossed, tired grin on his face while you ramble on about anything to keep your brain awake.

The thought crystallised. The routine, the meticulous rules he ran himself by all day, everyday, simply vanishing after twenty-four hours.

You didn't put it past him though. Last night was a lot. Mentally, physically.

As if to rid you of your doubts, you shook your head, taking a deep inhale of antiseptic and a floral zip of a Dollar Tree air freshener, masking the smell around with hopes and dreams.

The rest of the team greeted you like normal. Short waves, tight-lipped smiles, though this time, some had added a soft pat on the shoulder — a gesture you should find endearing, but it only just digs its fingers deeper into the wound.

Walker was the first to talk to you. Sat at the break table, legs up, fiddling with his watch. He looks up at the sound of your footsteps.

"Hey," He said, light like usual but it dipped like a question — interrogating — looking at you quizzically. "Aren't you supposed to be with Barnes?"

Stopping in your tracks, your boots squeaked against the linoleum. "Uh," you shake your head quickly in confusion, sputtering. "I don't know, am I?"

He scoffs amusedly, "I dunno, you two are like," he gestures, hands spread wide, interlocking his fingers once, then twice, before dropping them down onto his lap. "Y'know? So."

The sentence hangs, his voice echos quietly through the dead halls, bouncing off the walls while he waits for you to speak. But you don't. You just stand there, head tilting to the side as an open invite for more context.

So he adds in a mumble, staring back down at his watch. "Think he left already though."

"What?" The words slip out before you could try to catch them, and you flinch back minutely.

John catches on, tickled by your automatic obtrusion. He settles back with a sigh, bluffing, putting on a show of carelessness. "Left like a half hour ago—"

This time you don't even try to stop yourself from asking. "With who?"

Glancing back up, he grins, shrugging his hands up. "Check the sheet. You can even find your new partner."

Your stomach churned with the words — 'new partner'. Yet, still, anticipation flowed through your veins, and you couldn't keep moping like a puppy at the door.

"Huh."

Your head flinched back slightly, tilting to the side. Thumbing at your lip automatically, scraping across the skin in an attempt to rest yourself from picking at it.

He was on call. With Yelena.

"You okay?" a voice snapped you back. Eyes clenching shut for a moment before turning your head around to face Ava.

"Hm?" You squeak, "oh, right. No, yeah, I'm fine. Great."

Brows creasing, she crosses her arms lazily, leaning back on one foot, scanning you up and down.

You scowl. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" She asks, voice pitched innocently as a teasing smile cloaks her lips.

With a tut you turn back to the sheet, finger brushing against the paper. "That scanning thing you do with your eyes, like you can read my mind."

She pouts, hands over her heart. "So you do notice the little things, huh?"

Without looking away, you kick at her shin, chuckling softly.

She takes a peek at the sheet from beside your shoulder, humming in contemplation. "No Bucky today, huh?"

Your face pulls, "seems like it."

"Hey, it's okay," tapping your bicep with her knuckles, she tips her head back. "You're with me anyways."

Your chest eased at that. Ava was better than John. But then again, anyone is better than John. And Ava had this 'no nonsense' energy you absolutely adored and found intimidating in one giant cluster, and it sent your body tingling with readiness to get the day started.

But there was no familiarity. No comforting jabs, no inside jokes, no off-hand bets you'd always gasp at in disbelief (a smile always finding its way on your face), yet add a twenty to the pool.

"Come on," Ava clicks her tongue twice. "Better to get this started sooner than later. Let's shut that brain off, shall we?"

Shut your brain off it did. In the opposite way you had hoped.

The hours you had spent working alongside Ava, speeding down streets, rushing to a patients side, checking, working, calculating, pumping the heels of your hands against chests until your wrists ached. But along the line, once the coast was clear and the area seemed to let your body rest, you sat in the passenger seat silently, thinking.

It seemed to you like the majority of those back at the bay believed you were still shaken — rightfully so — and that little assumption had your chest scarcely easing.

You couldn't fault Bucky for leaving early, that was his routine, even during hangouts that turned into impromptu sleepovers, he'd wake up earlier than you to get ready for the day ahead, leaving you a text and a coffee in his wake.

That's what was missing. A text.

Heart picking up, thumping softly against your sternum, brows furrowed, you go for your phone and scroll through your notifications. Empty, apart from the occasional passive-aggressive instruction from the work group chat and a Facebook post from your mom (you'll get back to her later), it all seemed to be crickets from Bucky's side.

Sighing louder than you anticipated, you scroll to manually check your conversation itself.

You [7:16am]: See u at work B. You [7:16am]: Bringing u some coffee btw. Deserveddd.

Yesterday morning seemed so far away. Reading back with a feeling of nostalgia that laid tainted and blackhole-like in your stomach, staring specifically at the little pink heart he had sent back as a reaction. The last sign of reciprocation through pixels before the day would inevitably wash you both up to shore, an island where only the two of you inhabit, and made nature take it's course.

Sure you weren't bright-eyed and bushy tailed, having seen the worst of the worst in your first few years, memories and shifts you buried in your brain so deep, you couldn't even remember them if you tried. But for some reason, yesterday stuck. The patient, the technique, the van ride, the whispered prayers of loved ones while you worked in the back, moving as steadily and quickly as you could with the rocking of the cab. The aftermath. The numbers that passed through your lips like a ghost itself, and the goddamn aftermath.

Cutting the thoughts off immediately with a jolt back, and you found yourself in the back of the van. Working on autopilot, hands moving with muscle memory, the tingles of used equipment still tingling on your palms.

You cursed under your breath, how long has it been? Did you dissociate that whole time? Flexing your fingers and patting down your hips, you realise your phone is still in your pocket, thanking the universe that the patient onboard the gurney was passed out, looked after well and seemingly looked like they were making a mends after you went and triple checked them over. The minor panic subsided and was immediately by the opening of the tailgate doors, listing off every bit of information and detail your unconscious mind miraculously retained, wheeling them down and out and into the anarchy that is the ER.

Instantaneously, as you moved about the bustle of bodies, Nat's eyes caught yours from the nurses' station. Standing up, she was leant forward, her weight on her palms that stuck to the desk, focused on lab results or a patient's medical history. It was as if her body was attuned to your whereabouts, finally waking up once you rushed through.

By the time the case was handed off, finding yourself strolling back through where you had entered, the scene ahead was practically unchanged. Only now, Ava seeped into the image. Cool as can be, her body slanted with her elbow to the desk that sheltered the computers while her free hand sat confidently on her hip, attention set on the redhead in front. She had a smile on her face, one that only came when gossip was shared, mouth slightly agape, eyes rocking up and down Nat's face.

Strolling past with a rigid exhale, a breath you hadn't realised you've been holding in for how long now, a hand curls it's way around your bicep. Voice, low and velvety, speaks before you could turn.

"You know, you could power an entire state with the amount of energy you're giving off."

With a playful tut and a smile, you tilt your head to the side and cross your arms. "Hello, good afternoon to you too, Natasha and Ava."

Returning your demeanour, she speaks with a classy intonation. "Hello and good afternoon, grumps," she smirked. "Now whats up with you."

You turn and nod to Ava, eyes squinting at her laid back manner. "What did you tell her."

"I had absolutely nothing to do with this," her eyes hold defence, nodding her head back in Nat's direction, "she can just read people. And to be honest you do have this energy."

"I do not."

"Yeah you do," Nat chimes back in, now holding you still with both hands on each bicep, scanning, analysing, brows taut, eyes wandering. "Was it the shift? You did look more shaken up than usual."

Without much of a pause, your lungs inhaling deep with frustration, eyes moving to the ceiling. Ready to deflect, to push away, build a wall higher than any skyscraper in Manhattan, complete with steel walls, bulletproof and all, but it all crumbles apart as Ava hums, tracing nonexistent patterns in the corian surface.

"Barnes did switch partners this morning."

As quick as her murmur came, Nat whipped her head to face her, only to start looking back and forth between the two of you, the hold of her hands becoming tighter and tighter. "Deliberately?"

"Ava—" You warn, praying the way you speak — tired and gritted — will help camouflage it into something softer than it actually is. Only it falls on deaf ears.

She hums again, a hint of amusement in her voice, song-like. "He's with your sister today."

As much as you want to let the topic go, let it lie and mend itself with the passage of time, the casualness of your two friends still pokes and jabs at your ribs like tiny pin pricks. Each easy slide of their tones, their quips, their treating your internal dilemma as nonchalant gossip, it's just another tough poke to the side that'll most likely bruise, and you'll have to endure the growing pain in fear of being a coward.

"Lena? Really?" As Nat's attitude morphs into something akin to scepticism, you try to push the pain aside. Her voice growing higher with curiousness, a scowl curling her lip even when she tries to hold it down.

Tiredness blankets you like a storm cloud, only just about half finished with your shift, and you realise now, with the new unauthorised information shared, this shift will last a lifetime. You can already feel it in your bones, and the way you barely try to debate. "We seriously don't have to talk about this."

And it was then, every ounce of you, you had left, completely left the building.

"Talk about what?" Sam's voice felt like a strike to the already blossoming purples and yellows from Nat and Ava. You love him, honestly, he's the first person you go to when you find some good, hot gossip that's burning on the tip of your tongue, begging to be free.

And that's exactly why, to the trio's hilarity, you groan obnoxiously loud, turning away, only to turn back to your spot.

"Bucky changed his partner this morning." Nat replied, low and conspiratorial, already plotting ways to talk to her sister off he clock with unsuspecting questions that Yelena will very much see through.

With a huff, Sam leans forward, palms braced on the counters edge, "And why would he do that?"

"Okay," Ava cut through, turning herself to you, closer, hands together, pointed. "Just walk us through yesterday evening."

A sigh wracked through your body, dragging a hand down your face. "He drive me home, like you told him to," glancing at Nat, who nodded attentively, silently asking for more, "he walked me in, and I didn't wanna be alone so he stayed the night."

"And that's it?"

"Yeah, basically," you suck in a breath, "he didn't text me this morning though."

"Huh…" Nat paced in her spot, "but did you text him at all?"

The silence was enough to answer.

"Sweetheart—"

"Listen I'll do it later," stepping back to address them all, you edge closer to Ava. "I'll update you or something, it's probably just because yesterday was a lot. I'll see you guys later, come on Ava."

The room moved without disturbance. Still breathed with frenzied bodies walking, jogging, hands moving without thought. Yet Nat and Sam just watch on next to each other as you and Ava scurry out through the doors.

"I bet twenty she and Barnes fucked."

Wheezing, Sam bowed his head, shaking it. "They just walked out the damn doors. You're cold, Romanoff."

"What can i say," she smiles and saunters backwards, "I like to play dirty."

"Hey, save that shit for Steve, he's not gonna be happy when you have to add another five to the jar." He called out to her as she turned, but she didn't look back. Red hair a beacon among the pack around them, her voice picks up.

"I'll make it up to him!"

After a couple days, you let it slide. Perhaps memories, emotions, muscle aches got the better of him and he needed some quiet. But his name seemed to find another, every single goddamn shift, while yours was stuck paired with Ava (not that you minded), and your days overlapped more-so than usual. Trying to find him around the station felt worse than trying to scout a glimpse of Bigfoot. His presence felt ghostlike, almost like a memory taunting you with the scuff of boots on linoleum, a hint of his aftershave in the locker room, all sharp and clean, sending your brain miles and miles away, back to your bedroom and the pillow that still carried his air like it was made for him. His voice sometimes echoes, only murmurs, nothing intelligible, your brain cannot process the words while they grasp onto his gruffness, right where it spilled onto your neck and the hinge of your jaw, just on the soft skin where it dips into your tendons.

You can still feel the warmth of it lingering. Especially after shifts that burned in your muscles and your head unfortunately laid too deep into your side, excreting his scent like the skin of an orange, reminding you that you did, in fact, text him after the shift. But his replies after felt vacant and unenthusiastic, so again, you chalked it up to him wanting to be alone.

But you tried not to let three words from forming after that thought. 'Away from you'.

He wanted to be alone, away from you.

Late nights seemed the most vacant over those silent hours. Your apartment, a place once full of joint laughter, a warmth that permeated even when his presence lacked amongst the soft pillows and handmade throws, and soft yellow lamps, it all seemed… empty. Your phone dared to buzz against your bedside table, even though you turned it onto 'do not disturb', too nervous to hear that ding of a notification. What if it's someone else? And it always is.

Natasha, ever the observer, caught wind of this sudden change between you and Bucky too quick for your liking, and understood how deep it truly was after the first day without him — something totally not lightly mentioned by Steve over takeout. Nat had a way of sniffing things out, too smart for her own good, and throughout the years (much to your chagrin) she's just gotten better at reading you. Even when it's through short two minute glances across the ER as you wheel in a patient, body running on stale gas-station coffee and burgeoning resentment. Try as you might to keep stats clear and hands steady, your eyebrows apparently have this minuscule taut the redhead can pull twenty different meanings from, just across the bay, and they're all correct.

And then there's Sam. Who wouldn't leave her alone until she spilled something. Even when he got most of the story beforehand, the man just didn't let up until someone broke, and even then you both knew he'd just take one glance at Bucky's tight jaw and immediately guess correctly, or corner Steve when he brings Nat her lunch and he'd spill. So there was really no winning. And in the ER, your business is everyone's business.

The mawkish scent of the bay hit's your gut even before you arrive.

"Incoming!" Speaking before your body could catch up, your entire nervous system, muscles, worked while you were put on standby, praying everything that came out of your mouth was eligible. "GCS 12 and dropping, heart rate 130, BP 90 over 60. twenty four year old male, MVA at 18:27, approximately twenty minutes ago. Blunt force trauma to the chest with a suspected flail segment… obvious compound fracture of the right femur. Diminished breath sounds on the left, and cool, clammy skin. Showing signs of compensated shock."

As if sensing your apprehension, Ava cut in, composed and ready. "Two large bore IVs started with a litre of saline running, and a needle decompression performed on the left side for tension pneumothorax." She nodded, eyes sharp on your own. You reciprocated, quick and tightlipped.

Once your presence was quickly filled by staff on hand — Ava moving to take a call outside — you found yourself leaning with your back against the brick wall at the side of the building. Head tipping back with a dull thunk, exhaling, you close your eyes at the feel of the early evening breeze. Light hues of yellows and oranged curtained the sky, and you let yourself bask in it for as many seconds as you possibly could.

Gravel crunched underfoot, pace quick, but not distressed, just determined. Tilting your head to the side, the bright flash of red coming closer to you settled a weight on you, yet you couldn't help the lazy smile that grew on your face.

She hummed before you could counteract, eyeing you like a cat, up and down, with a pleased smirk on her face, the kind that reads 'I know everything just by the way you're carrying yourself'.

"Still trouble in paradise?"

Taking one quick glance at her, you suck in a breath. The tiredness of the shifts, of the silence, of the week — even though it's only been a few days — hits you in a wave through your body. "I'm fine."

A singular, amused laugh claps back, "He still hasn't texted you back?"

"Who?"

"Don't 'who' me, you owl," she takes a small step forward, leaning beside you, voice lowering just enough to be heard through the hums and whirrs of traffic. "Steve mentioned earlier that Buck's been all weird and you look one second away from snapping your molars. And stop chewing the insides of your cheeks."

You swat her hand away with a groan as she tries to squish your cheeks.

"It's nothing," you sigh, hands folding over your chest, looking away from her gaze. "You know how he gets sometimes."

"Yeah, but he's never gets like this with you,"

Rolling your neck back, you shoot her an unimpressed, flat look to say 'that didn't help one bit'.

Sucking her teeth, she tapped your shoulder with the back of her hand, eyes rolling to the back of her head.

"Listen. Whatever happened — actually happened — big or small, I'm always here. So is Steve, and unfortunately by default, so's Sam," the soft attempt at humour works. Breathing out sharply through your nose, a tight, but real, smile stretches across your lips. Finally looking at Nat in the eyes, her own smile is warm. Cosy in the way that something familiar is, the way something tainted in autumnal orange and gentle grazes can be. "Just give it a little more time, yeah? He'll come around."

You sniffle, something you instantly regret with a shake of your head and murmur, but push through anyway. "Thanks Nat."

"Anytime," she replies, "Now back to work, you've got a long day ahead of you."

The next time you're back at the ER, Steve's there. A sight you rarely ever see during work hours, only if timed perfectly — which, when you're no longer next to his best friend, is scarce. His presence, though you saw him the week before, felt like a comet sighting. An eclipse in a way.

Only now, you weren't filled with delight at the sight of the blond. Not with him talking up close in hushed murmurs with Natasha and Sam.

Before you could walk up and greet the group, the redhead spotted you, and without a word, expression, or a goodbye to the guys, she was on you. Manicured hand pulling you by the bicep, down crowded hallways, weaving through bodies like it was an Olympic sport. Her face was stern, set in stone, and no matter your half-assed protests, and jokes of "it's nice to see you too!", she made no indicator of stopping, nor giving you any warmth back.

It was like third grade all over again. When your favourite teacher suddenly got stern with you one lesson, and all resolve would come tumbling down, and from then on til you left school, they were now just a teacher, and nothing else. But Nat is your friend. Albeit, terrifying sometimes, especially when you close off back into your shell and try to work shit out yourself, even when you both know that's not how you work. But she is still your friend.

Rounding a corner, your body flung slightly off circuit, boots squeaking the linoleum, scuffing the light blue with a dark grey smudge.

The closet clicked shut. Flicking the lock shut, more for theatrics than for any real purpose, Nat stared with taut brows and a confused glower. Hands snake their way to cross over her chest, she leaned back against the door with a cool ease you can, and will never get used to.

"I love you way too much and you know that. Sam is tired of you and Bucky's silences, and that's saying something. Steve won't stop talking about how tired he looks, and his default face is unimpressed and bothered. Keeps saying he's sighing like an old dog, snapping at people, hell, he's smoking more!"

Your chest does something torturous. Caves in on itself with a sound you never thought you could make. Your body sinks into the wall opposite her, spine curved, arms crossed, a mimic of Nat's powerful stance, only for it to fall weak and wet, as you turn your head to stare at the floor while your nose tingles.

Anger, frustration and anxiety start to creep up your spine. It wouldn't have gotten so bad if you both just… talked.

"I'm worried. You two were so inseparable, and now it feels like all of us are living with two ghosts who refuse to move onto the afterlife even though you both hate the house you haunt. Steve and Sam can't get a goddamn lick out'a him, and you're here," she motions you up and down with a lazy hand, "I don't even know what you're doing. 'I'm fine', 'don't worry'… Fuck, i know i said to give him time, but at this point Sam and I are so close to pushing you both into a closet, locking the door and making you sort it out."

Silence spreads in the closed off space. The only thing you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears. Guilt spread through your veins like poison, and your stomach rolled.

"I love you. So does Steve and Sam even though they never say so. But they, we, also love Buck. And we care so much about you both, and your friendship, and we don't want this to split anything up — especially if it's over some childish bullshit, you know?" She lets her words sit for a few seconds before continuing. "So please. Spill."

The throb up your nose worsened, ascending up to an ache in the inner corners of your eyes, darkening the skin around your cheeks.

"That Thursday… a week ago or something, you know," you mumble, voice croaky and whiny, your gut clenched with how embarrassed you felt. Childish. Barely able to take your eyes off the floor, and through the blur of unshed tears you see her nod for you to continue. "It was stressful. It—I, we—"

Hands cradled your shoulders, albeit cold through your shirt, but the temperature helped to mix with your warming cheeks and flushing body, as with her soft voice when it came.

"Breathe with me, hun," she exaggerates her inhales, eyes widening until you follow shakily. "In and out, that's it. Take your time, we can work this out together."

You tried. Staggering the first few breaths, breathing too quick and short, but Natasha stayed still and quiet, letting you gather yourself in your own time. After sputtering, covering your face with the back of your hand, trying to hide yourself behind tightly shut eyelids, you finally find your footing. Humming to find your voice, whispering the first utter of the situation you've been cruelly holding tight to your chest.

"Bucky gave me a ride home," you swallow, jaw clamping shut, you breathe a couple more times, feeling the next few words in your mouth before setting them free. "… and we had sex."

"Halle-fuckin-lujah."

The confession was still fresh. Warm in the confines of the tight four walls you both occupy, but the redheads bluntness swatted the squishy texture until it rid and became something hard and natural, and something… normal. You hated it.

"Nat."

The look on her face was an accumulation of happiness, irritation, and impatience. She scoffed, almost scorned by the casualness of this secret.

"What? We've been praying for this since you two were rookies, and Sam owes me twenty," She jabs, trying to fill the tiny supply closet with a lighthearted joke, but it falls a little stiff.

She sighs, "look, I know this may seem like the end of the world, but Bucky's just," she waves her hands trying to find the words, "stupid. He's doing this shit to process his feelings and this new dynamic you two created — also, this started, what? The call on Sixth?" Her voice lowers, tentative and almost motherly.

Nat's hands stay firmly on your shoulders, not in a vice grip, soft enough to say 'you can leave if you want' but tight enough to let you know this means business and you'll want to hear what she says. Her head dips, trying to hold eye contact.

"From everything the boy's have been huffing about, he most likely feels conflicted. That was… a night," she exhales harshly, "I saw the way he looked at you while you were handling paperwork. He cares. Maybe a little too much, but fuck, he really cares."

When you look up, all you see is comfort.

"I'm not saying the way he's handling this is correct or healthy, or even remotely okay, but… It's just what he does, and it's so aggravatingly him and it's dumb."

The edge of your lip points. "He is dumb"

"The dumbest," squeezing your shoulders, she shakes you softly. "Listen, Steve and I are going out after tomorrow's shift to that bar on First — shit, what's it called… the one with the karaoke?"

You chime in, voice still croaky, whispering unevenly, "The Plum Tree?"

"That's the one," her smile broadens. "Come with us. Sam'll be there, Lena and Ava too —"

"And Bucky?"

She chuckles lightly, fidgeting, but she stays collected, like this is just a tiny bump in the road and she has all the tools to fix it. "Steve's already on it. Placed a few mentions of the name here and there, said 'beer' one too many times—"

"Are you… using subliminal messaging?"

"Potato Potahto," she dismisses with a flick of her wrist, already edging backwards to the door. "In no time it's all gonna seem like it was his idea to go out."

"Wait but what will I —"

"My love, I'm begging, do not worry," flicking the latch, she opens the door and the flood of chatter and beeps is back to dull your senses. "Everything you need and want to ask will come. Don't dwell on it, even though i know you will, but Steve and I've got it. We're smart."

"Sure you are."

"Oh, was that a little sarcasm?"

"Shut up"

The bar is livelier than you expected, even though it was a Friday and it's just started to drizzle. You arrived alone and on foot, hoping to get at least a little bit of alcohol in your system just to pump yourself up and get your confidence boosting. You opted for comfort too, a casual long-sleeve and jeans combo, though the weather called for a jacket despite the nearing warmth of the sun whenever it peaked midday. The chill never ceases to bite once her company has gone. And you have an intimation something else might sink their teeth into you later.

Warmth evaded your senses, heat from bodies; familiarity in almost every corner of the place, groups of fours or more occupied booths, whereas couples stayed put by the bar. Amber lights basked on their skin, washing everything in a dark orange that felt more intimate than it needed to be, mellow and harmonious. It felt like a joke made at your own expense.

Slipping your way through, you locked onto Sam who sat at a booth. Wooden table stained with rings of condensation and carvings from years of use, half drunk glasses and cups sat atop, ice melting, dripping onto the surface and you have half the mind to collect a bundle of coasters. The acrylic sheets of maroon that coated the seats looked worn in, and well loved.

It wasn't until you neared closer to the man you saw that beside him was Ava, and in front sat Yelena.

"And here she is."

Sam's bright voice followed through the music overhead, tickled, his smile carried through. You grin despite yourself, and took the empty spot next to Yelena as she scooted to give you room.

Scanning the table with squinted eyes, you sigh. "So was this all a ruse to get Bucky and I locked in the same room?"

Hushed mutters and mumbles of 'maybe's and 'perchance's hum across the table, and Sam completely diminishes your smug with a push of an untouched bottle. "Just drink your drink."

You have no choice but to huff out a chuckle mixed with disbelief and something akin to feeling impressed.

Taking a well needed sip, letting the coldness, the fizz, the alcohol do it's work. "Where's Nat and Steve?"

Chiming in, speech slurred slightly — not from alcohol, but from drowsiness — Yelena grumped out a sound with an elbow to the table, closed fist against cheek. "Back alley with the perpetrator. Probably on his fourth pack of the day."

You wince ephemerally, catching the slight turn of your face, but the blonde is quick to catch it and try to backtrack.

"I'm sorry. He's just been so — God, shit, I don't even know —"

Ava watches on amused, and meanwhile Sam just sips this beer, looking out behind you, like it's a regular night.

"Lena here, thinks you hate her."

The sly lilt of Ava's teasing has you perking up in your seat. Tilting your head in question, eyes widening. Your hand mindlessly moving an inch closer to her as if to comfort. "Lena, please, I don't hate you."

"Good! Because really, I had no say in the matter," she mumbled into her cup, taking a gulp. "It was like babysitting an thirteen-year-old emo kid who had his first heartbreak. Sad. Made my arms hurt."

"Poor boys been sulking for a week."

You hum unamused at Ava, sarcasm dripping from your lips as you take another sip. "I wonder who's fault that might be."

"Oh, he knows." Sam quips, sarcasm filled the words he spoke, but the truth remained clear and deep. Glancing back and forth between you and the space over your shoulder, he straightens. Nodding to himself, to you, with a tight smile, trying to make light but you saw the hardness inside of it.

Taking another sip, a hand slides over your shoulder, making you lock up, only for a voice, ever so familiar and velvety, to murmur beside your ear like this was a stakeout. Clandestinely working with the grace of a spy. "He's outside. Talk to him."

You wince into your drink, groaning into the spout as you swallow. "Nat, come on—"

"Talk to him," she declares. Eyes widening, voice dropping with seriousness you only ever heard when she was on the clock, "or I swear I will drag you outside myself."

You scrunch your face with a huff, pushing yourself out of your seat with a squeak. "I hate you."

Without as much as a glance back, hearing the softness in your words despite the bite, she slips into your spot. "You so love me," she smiles. "And you'll love me more after this!"

The smoking area smells like old ash and rain. Bucky’s leaning against the farthest wall, covered by the smallest of awnings, watching the rain fall with his arms crossed, legs stretched out with a kind of composure that jabs you in the chest.

There's a warm light above him, a curved fixture that spotlights over him, making him like some kind of divine presence. The smoke he exhales trails off above him, dancing around his head and it makes you think of a halo.

You should hate him.

Your chests grows tighter as you just stand and watch him, all casual, all him with no audience. After not seeing him after a week, it felt torturous how your body immediately reacted. Emotions ended up manifesting to physical aches, tightening in your biceps and gut. Besides that, the worst part, it seems the little dog in your brain — the one that latches onto familiarity like a chew toy, holding it in your locked jaw, growling at anyone who dares to take — remembers that night like it was yesterday.

The tightening in your gut coincided with another feeling. It coiled and dragged, too sensitive and delicate, your breath hitched when you felt the first wave wash down and spill in your underwear.

A cigarette hangs from his lips barely halfway done before he sees you, silhouetted by the light of the frosted windows and outdoor lights, and holds it in his fingers.

“Nuh-uh, nope,” he mumbles the second he notices you. “I'm not doing this right now.”

A sigh slips out, small and steadying. You could already feel your eyelids drooping from tiredness.

From knowing how this will go. From being in his presence again. From the week you've had. You couldn't count all the possibilities on one hand, so you push it down and decide to make Nat and the group at least a little bit proud, and rip the bandage off.

"Too late," you draw out, inching closer slowly, testing the waters. The playful hint you always kept for him slipping out, but you catch it quickly before you could finish. "We have to, or all of them back there are handcuffing us together for the next week."

Silence.

You don't expect him to talk immediately, but there's something about this particular stillness that makes your gut tense more.

You let the rain, moved from a drizzle to a downpour, orchestrate the moment.

"Bucky, why didn't you just talk to me."

The quiet stays, though now you understand he wants to fill it. It pulls harder and hits thicker after you speak. And you can see his chest move inwards on a breath.

With a ruffle of his jacket as he shrugs briefly, a scratch of the back of his neck, an awkward, a smoke, and breathy chuckle he does when he doesn't quite know what to say. So you let him stew, like how he did to you before, only this time a minute of your withdrawal feels like years to him.

"I'm a coward."

"Not good enough."

You almost flinch at the harshness of your voice. Almost cower in on yourself and apologise, but you stand down. You stopped just in front of him, close enough that he can see the tiny movements of your face, the tightness of your jaw, and the stare of your eyes, how the honey coloured lamp above him colours your irises, but far enough that theres an obvious space between the two of you — there is now a distance, and he should notice and want to fix.

"Okay," he sighs, minutely amused, "but it's the truth."

"Okay, so, I'll reword," shuffling in your spot, your arms tighten over your chest like a physical barrier. An added wall to the stretch, and you can just about see his restraint start to fray. "Why did you shut me out for an entire week without a word?"

He chuckles again, breath and smoke swirling in front of him as he flicks the cigarette out into the rain.

"Sweetheart—"

“See, because from where I’m standing, you fucked me and then decided I was too fragile to deal with the aftermath.”

You don't shout, but the truth comes louder than expected and you're both glad no one else occupies the space with you.

"No," he straightens, jaw clicking, “I took advantage of you.”

This time you chuckle, “that's bullshit, and you know it.”

“You were shaking.” He replies, voice unshaken and fair.

“So were you!" You counteract louder and frustrated. As you lick your lips you check yourself, lowering your voice back to something that holds structure. But Bucky knows you, knows you completely and, as of recently, wholly. The watches the space between your brows crinkle and the way your right cheek hollows as you scrape your teeth against it. "We'd just worked a long shift, Bucky, and a really shitty one at that. That doesn’t make us incapable of… of consent. Of wanting something.”

“You weren’t thinking clearly.”

A groan almost slides up your throat. Tipping your head back with your eyes closed, drawing in a breath that tastes too much like warm rain and earth, and the fatally addictive scent of his aftershave and cigarettes that sunk into the fabric of his clothes and skin.

“You don’t get to say that,” you mutter, stepping closer. “You don’t get to strip me of my agency because it makes you feel better about bailing.”

"I didn't bail," His hands curl into fists at his sides, only for him to hold them up, palms out. Another barrier. “I’m trying to not be the kind of guy who—”

“Who what?” you interrupt. “Who fucks his coworker and, what? Regrets it?”

"Oh?" His eyes flash, widening a fraction and he just about stutters on his words. “Oh, 'coworker' now? Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” He steps closer, never minding the space, the makeshift restrictions you both created wordlessly, his eyes dark, voice low. “You’re the one who keeps saying it like that word didn’t mean something different two weeks ago.”

“That is not what I meant." You could laugh. Annunciating each word carefully, feet planted to your spot, tipping your head like it was the only part of you that wanted to be closer to him.

“Sure sounds like it.” His jaw tightens again, ready to bite. “Funny how it’s ‘coworker’ when you’re mad, but — oh, when you were pulling me in by the shirt—”

"You're fucking mean." You swallow, eyebrows furrowing deep as anger flares hotter.

“Yeah?” He asks, stepping closer, voice rising, rough around the edges. “Say it again. If that’s all I am to you, say it to my face.”

Your pulse thunders, anger buzzing so loud it makes your hands shake. “You’re such an asshole.”

His eyes flick to your mouth, dark and heated. “Then why are you standing right here?”

You scoff incredulously, still unwilling to move, standing ground like a stubborn horse.

"Get in my face."

Something in you snaps. Tiny, but it snaps nonetheless. You tip your head back, hand wiping down from your eyes to your neck, anger sparking hot, you almost shout. "Oh, Jesus Christ —"

"Just me, sweetheart, and I'm serious," he steps closer than ever, repeating the same line again like a mantra, a demand for something, a plea of sorts, but you don't want to dig too deep into it. "Get in my face."

So you do. One step forward, boots knocking on his own, chest to chest, air exhaled becomes his, and suddenly you feel warm and clammy.

Your eyebrows tighten as you look up to him. His perfect eyebrows, the harsh crinkle of crows feet beside his eyes, those azureous pools that maliciously make your stomach flip even know. They warmed in the golden lamplight, almost a sea foam green.

His pupils flickered then, and it all snapped.

His hand fists in your jacket and he hauls you in, mouth crashing against yours with zero finesse and all intent. It’s rough and hungry, all teeth and pressure and pent-up frustration finally given somewhere to go. His kiss tastes like tobacco and anger and it ached underneath.

You make a sound you don’t recognize and grab him back just as hard, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’re trying to anchor him there, merely to plant onto his neck. Bucky kisses you deeper, sloppier, like he’s furious at the distance he created that ever existed at all.

His teeth scrape your lip. You bite back, breathless and unyielding.

"You," you murmur against his lips breathlessly, "you are so mean."

But he doesn't stop. The hands that had crumpled into your clothes rummaged up to your face, cupping your cheeks with a soft reverence that spread molten through your entire body, forcing another noise from you that he swallowed entirely. They tangled into your hair, keeping you in, holding you steady.

"I know, I know," he whispered back, lips never letting up, hands cradling you gently, one back to your cheek while his other held you by the nape of your neck. "I'm the fuckin' worst."

Nodding in agreement, you hum, your own hands finding purchase back on his shoulders and down his front, smoothing down his chest.

His soft lips mapped with earnest obedience, slipping away without a notice or protest from you. Pecking the edge of your lips, to your cheeks and temple, before moving downwards, slow and steady, memorising the way you feel, sound and taste as he licks, nips and sucks at the skin of your jaw and neck.

"Awful… just," a broken, breathless sigh leaves your mouth as he grazes the soft spot just beneath the hinge of your jaw, making you ball your fists into his front. "God, the worst."

Bucky grunts, feeling a heat accumulate where you both begin to ache, and he finds himself already in too deep to care, and his lips find yours again, bruising.

The brick crumbles and catches against your back as you both writhe, hands with no destination cling onto any surface and inch of clothing, your fists clench around his shirt, creasing the fabric, trying to pull him closer into you as possible.

Without preamble, Bucky's knee knocks into your own, hastily pushing them apart with a grunt into your mouth to which you steal gratefully, the vibration lingers on your lips and tongue. This dance the two of you follow, a new creation of the nights lingering need and unabashed desire, all made up on the go, seems to fall together so perfectly, even the clumsy shoves and hums and touches hard enough to leave tiny yellowed bruises seem so purposeful.

His fingers trail down your body and through your belt loops, keeping you secure in his palms as he pushes you down, just a slight crook to your knees atop of his thigh with a groan. Splitting from your lips, his breath strokes your ear.

"C'mon, that's it," he praises as your hips grind, denim on denim, "take it out on me, right here."

Your fists ball tighter, and a whimper falls from your slacked jaw from a strong mix of arousal, annoyance, forgiveness and punishment.

It's not him. Well not fully. It's his thigh, his thigh that's covered by denim, against you, who's also covered. The barriers of thick cloth makes your head thunk back onto the wall, but your hips never stop their movements, nor can they stop with Bucky's strong grip guiding them to and fro. The warmth of them tightens your chest, and your hands fall to them, holding his forearms, his wrists — to keep you steady, grounded, or to just touch some semblance of his skin.

You watch his eyes through heavy lids, staring down at where you frot, how you arch into him instinctively, how your nails dig into his skin without remorse.

"You're such… an asshole." You pant shakily, and he finally looks up. When he does so his grip tightens, making you grind into him, hips to hips, harder, slower, than before, and you can feel the obvious hardness of his cock tented beneath his zipper against your hip.

"I know."

You scoff weakly, "I didn't even wanna be out here."

"Understandable."

"I hate you." You bite. It's sleepy under the haze of lingering nicotine and liquid courage, but the nip is there, nonetheless. And the worst thing is, he smiles. Something that makes your heart flip inside of your chest, cracking beneath your ribs, thumping so hard, you lick your lips and clench your jaw.

"That's good to know, sweetheart," he huffs, smirk wobbling for half a second before correcting itself. "Fuck, say it again."

"I fucking hate you," you repeat, harsher than before, cutting to his chest but it feels good all the same. His arms move faster, bucking his knee up as he whispers approval in the heady air around you and against your sticky skin.

You move your hips in time, missing the short but momentous touch of his clothed cock against your hip. The note of you doing something to him, making him turned on — this turned on — brings a whole new wave of wetness to pool in your panties and ache to your already stimulated clit.

"The worst person ever… leaving me like that." You're half-gone and just about ready to cum. Thighs trembling around his own, hands shaking against his shirt, and your teeth chatter from the excess adrenaline.

Completely forgetting where you were.

As his name whispered past your lips, escaped by a sharp exhale against his neck, your movements were suddenly halted. Bucky's hands had moved you up, just enough for you to miss the friction, to drive you to the edge, and have it tingle and linger.

"Buck," you started, a hiss between your teeth as your nails dug into his skin. "Bucky, what the fuck?"

He sighs, unmoving from your temple. "You deserve better,"

"Jesus Christ, Barnes."

"I'm serious," one hand moves from your belt loop, tangling itself within your hair, keeping you close — scared of you running, of watching him undo himself in front of you. You feel him exhale shakily. "Not… Not in your jeans in the middle of some alley. I want you to cum on my cock again."

With a wobbly, breathless chuckle, you shake your head. Disbelief washing through you. "Bucky."

"Please sweetheart," his tone lingers on whiny, pleading, a complete contrast of his earlier disposition. His hands held tighter, fingertips digging deep enough for your ribs to stutter. "Please, I wanna feel you again."

The trembling of his breath, his body softly reeling against yours with leftover adrenaline, you couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt against your chest. For what, you have no clue — it's stupid, really — so you shove it down, exactly like you have for the last few days.

His gentle pleas lodged deep inside of you, pinging a new ache in your abdomen, making you feel cruel and hot.

"With the week you've put me through, I deserve this shit," pushing your hips back down, you're so glad Bucky had the gall to move one of his hands away, giving you less strength to fight against, less weight to push, and you find yourself stationed back against the thick plain of his thigh. "You started it, right here, so you finish it, Bucky," a strangled choke breaks from his lips, the hand that stayed stationed to your hip readying.

"Make me cum in this alley, and you can finish where we left off last week," you whisper. Meanwhile, Bucky stays still like your words lodged him into place, sifting through his brain, so you give him a little nudge with your own knee against his tent. Just a split second of boiling bliss, before you moved it away. "Deal?"

He wheezes. An unfortunate sound, sweet yet sharp and it reminds you of all the cigarettes he smokes, and the ones you'd share on nights where shifts hung tight and heavy on your shoulders, where you would lose track of how many beers you drank and laugh a little too loud on the fire escape. And though it's only been about a week, you missed it ever so badly.

But in that moment, the pious hums were gone, and left was the Bucky Barnes you'd only ever imagined when he'd invite the latest girl he was seeing on a night out with you and your friends — the Bucky who liked to chase and challenge, the one who had the kind of hunger in his eye that would glint insurgently. Even when the attitude wasn't directed at you at those times, it still sparked a light up your spine. And it was wholeheartedly and perfectly worse now it was for you, and only you.

Smirking, he glanced away for a split second. Back to the door where anyone could walk in to see your position, and he shrugged. "Deal."

The drags, starting slow, almost teasing with how measured and deliberate they were, drawing out the pleasure in long stretches, quickly accumulated into short bursts of need and attention.

Pulls turned to grinds. Tiny jolts of your hips on his lap, moving yourself in his hold as much as you could as he pushed.

Slick puddled, wet and sloppy between your thighs and words felt like water in your hands. Slipping from the crevices that was your lips in quick, unintelligible mumbles and whispers. Your eyes glossed over, unfocused, rolling up to look at the sky as if you were ready to ascend straight to heaven.

Your hold tightens, nails leaving deep, dark red punctures in his arms while you work yourself over the edge. Gasping, grinding slower with the help of Bucky, his breath glues to your neck with praise so sweet it just about prolongs the feeling of ecstasy.

"That's it, good girl," he draws out, holding you down, letting your senses fire up as pleasure ebbs into overstimulation. "So beautiful. So good for me, God, you're beautiful."

He whispers against you, around you, letting the breeze of the night carry them against your flushed cheeks as you come to. Bottom lip pulled between your teeth, eyes slacked but they stared unto his face as he slowed down to a stop.

You looked wrecked.

You were wrecked.

"You…" catching your breath, your mouth opened, never wandering your gaze from his face that now looked down on you with wonder. "You brought your car… right?"

He nods. Lips parting, only to close, wet and red.

"Deals a deal," You tap on his wrist twice with a smile, one too sweet for the moment shines on your face and fills your cheeks, eyes glinting with leftover pleasure. "Let's go to my place. "

The drive home felt like déjà vu. Quiet and loaded all the same, now its filled with a different kind of adrenaline. It wasn't a mystery this time, the universe wasn't pulling cards with a hand over its eyes, now it was clearer.

Anticipation thrummed through the vibrations of the engine. Words seemed too much and not enough, both of you too worried about scaring off the other, even though you both knew that this was it. Permanently and irrevocably.

The elevator ride wasn't filled with soft spoken words and comfort, this time it felt telepathic. Leaning against the handrail on the further wall, watching the red light counting floors flicker by, while in the corner of your eye you could see him looking. Watching you feign casualness with a soft smile on his face. You wanted to slap it off him, and kiss it better all at once.

Once you got to your floor, to your door, all reserve fell through the cracks in the floor boards.

Lips finding yours in a breathless mess, moving you blindly until your back hit the wall, holding your head in his hands like something precious, because to him you are, and he's not making any mistakes ever again. Humming into the touch, he takes the opportunity to run his tongue across your lip, before deciding to jump the gun. One hand moved backwards, finding the same position from back in the alleyway. The hand that rest on your cheek stroked with a loving calmness that contrasted to the way his mouth had you, and how his other hand — now threaded through your hair — pulled, causing your mouth to open with a gasped moan. He dove in.

His hands move with a sharp purpose. Sliding through the opening of your jacket, it slipped and hit the ground with a clink of the zipper, his own following, and his palms smoothed over your face once more before grazing down. Curling lightly over your neck, squeezing at the sides just enough to have you feeling light and desperate.

You tugged him closer, moving back into your home while you both became a messy bundle of hands. Touching and groping with fervour.

Bucky didn't let you get so far, pushing you back by your hips and pulling your shirt up and over your head, leaving you in just your bra and jeans.

"I missed you." He muttered as he kissed up your cheek and down your jaw. A sentiment slipped out before he could stop and inspect it. As if to divert your attention, he cups your breasts, nipping and licking at your neck.

You arch your back at the feeling. His jaw scraping raw against you, the heat of his mouth, the marks you'll see in the morning. The way he squeezes your chest just right, pinching your nipples over the fabric, making you arch into his hold.

Coasting your hands down to his jeans, you cup his crotch, palming leisurely as you feel it twitch under the thick denim.

"Fuck, don't do that," Bucky groans loudly as his hips jerk into your touch. "Please, baby."

"But you look so pretty." You whisper back, dragging your palm over him once more before holding his hips.

"You're trouble."

His hands don't let up their grip, holding, massaging, until he sneaks a hand behind you and unclips your bra with precision you file into the back of your mind for later. You push his shirt up. He helps you, tugging it off, while you slip out of your bra and quickly unbutton your jeans.

"Oh, Jesus Christ." Bucky pauses for a moment, caught in a trance, watching you unzip your fly and slip out of your pants and underwear. Watching your breasts, the way your hair covers your face messily, all before snapping out of it when your arms extend outwards to unbutton his jeans.

You giggle softly under your breath at his exclamation, and how his fingers start to fumble over yours as you both try to get his pants off.

"You okay, Buck?" You tease, staring up at him, pushing his pants down his thighs. Its then you find yourself on your knees, helping him untangle his feet from the legs.

Lips parted in harsh breaths, ears tinted pink, chest wobbling as he tries to steady himself. Bucky is conflicted between two scenarios: Watching you take him in your mouth, have you choke so beautifully around his cock, see how you look with your eyes and nose all red while you swallow around him, taking all his load. Or take you to bed.

As much as he wants to, even when people find he's such a selfless man. Bucky often finds himself in moments of weakness, a reminder that he is a part of the male species. But this time, he chooses the latter. "Sweetheart, c'mere."

With hands finding your face again, he doesn't miss the gentle confusion that washes your features. Your hands stuck on each of his thighs as he tries to hold you up, shushing your protests quickly.

"I wanna fuck you, on your bed," he clarifies, stroking your face, "I would take you on the floor, right here, but I don't think you're neighbours would appreciate that. And I wanna do this proper." He chuckles lightly with a wonky smile, thumbs tracking over the apples of your cheeks again as you whine but comply.

Once you stand at full height, he runs his big hands down your body. Cupping your breasts once again, thumbs circling your nipples as your breathing picks up, watching them harden, before giving them a lazy pinch as he trails lower and lower, down your waist, circling to your back, and finally resting at your ass. He massaged playfully, pulling you closer to his chest.

You sigh theatrically, "You're such a mean man, Bucky."

"Am I?" Tilting his head, he pouts, "talk to me, sweetheart. How am I mean?"

"First of all, you — Oh!" With one last squeeze of your ass, his hands lowered, and gripped onto the backs of your legs to hoist you up. Without a word he moved down the hall, leaving your clothes to wrinkle on the hardwood floor beside your front door. "Bucky!"

"C'mon, tell me," with his hands still on your ass, he bounced you up, making you both fall into soft laughter and sighs with a minute relief as you both grazed each other. His voice dipped breathy and low, "I'm curious, baby, don't leave me like this."

His brows dipped dramatically, smiling wide as he glanced into your eyes, trying to find your room without looking (as if he doesn't know the floor plan like the back of his hand).

"For one," you start, fingers tugging on the fuzz at the nape of his neck, making his cheeks blush, teeth to bite into his bottom lip and dick stir against you. "Leaving me all by my lonesome, all goddamn week."

Turning you both around, he pushes the door open with his back, and kicks it to with his foot.

"Lonesome," he repeated, hiding his face in your neck and scraping his teeth, "you poor, poor thing."

Your room, a disastrous mess of you. Sleep clothes stay screwed up on the floor, bottles of perfume and makeup you wear on the rare occasion you get to go out, or on random nights when you want to try something new, laid haphazardly on your desk with colourful puffs of dust coating the surface like watercolour. Your bed, Bucky's destination, was cleaned ever so quickly with a tug of your duvet and quick turn and press of your pillows just to pretend and make yourself believe you have your shit together.

"I am a poor, poor thing, Bucky," you grin, carding through his hair and pulling him back with a moan, "so you better make it up to me."

"Oh, I think I will."

Kneeling against the edge of the mattress, his knee dips, settling you down against the pillows. He follows, blanketing your torso, licking kisses down to your collarbone, easing his body down until his tongue reaches the expanse of your sternum.

"Keep talkin', sweetheart, I'm not gonna stop until I don't understand a single word that come out'a your mouth," one of his hands holds your chin, making you stare into his eyes. The blue, once vast and freeing, were now swallowed by the darkness of his pupils, leaving a ring as dark as the ocean, deep and tenacious. "Got it?"

You nod quickly, adamantly, and before you could register, Bucky licked up the middle of your chest in a broad stripe. He moves, sucking kisses around the top of your left breast, nipping into the skin, leaving soft bruises and red marks, a trail running around until he finally circles your nipple with the wet tip of his tongue.

Whispering a curse, your legs open wider and hips buck up trying to find any way to release the tension throbbing against the gusset of your panties. As he suckles, he breathes out moans, sounds that release like sighs to your wet skin, making you shiver. His free hand moves to copy on your neglected nipple, pinching, rolling between his thumb and forefinger, tugging off, before repeating.

"Teasing me, an-and," your jaw slacks as he switches sides, slipping his thumb over your wet, bullied nipple while he sucks and grunts on your other, sending vibrations through your body. "Fuck, you — oh…"

With his body over yours, his hips met your own, still covered, now in ruined, wet cloth. He lurched his hips against yours, looking for some semblance of relief as he nipped your breasts.

Unlatching with a soft pop, he pushes the mounds together, squeezing them in his grip as his hips dragged at their own rhythm. Shaky, messy, twitching at every flick down and against your sopping core. "What was that?"

"Fuck you." You bite, hands coming up to push into your eyes.

"Soon, sweetheart," he hums, dragging his tongue out to lick from one tit to the other, dragging lazily while he squished them together, leaving a sloppy trail of spit. "Patience."

A singular laugh pierces out with a shake to your chest. Your hand runs up the front of Bucky's hair, and you pull his face up.

"Patience?" You probe, staring into his watery eyes like that one pull of his hair undid his mask in just one second. His lips spit stained, kissed red and full, a string of dribble still connected him to your slick breasts.

When he stayed silent, gulped heavily, and ground his hips into yours, pushing his luck, you let go of his head and pushed his body back by his shoulders.

He stayed sat upright on his haunches, trying to catch any crumb of power, but you kept pushing until his back hit the mattress, head whipping down making the frame creak, and he watched you straddle his lap with a light grin.

You moved quickly, as if at any moment a spell would break and you'd wake up in this exact bed, only for it to be empty and cold. Fingers curling over the waistband of his boxers, silently admiring the mess he made of the front and the silhouette of his thick cock straining. Tugging without preamble. Once they got to his thighs, down to his knees, Bucky launched.

"Fuck!" You squeaked at the surprise attack, barely enough time to fully appreciate the heavy smack he made against his abdomen, or the veins that trailed down his shaft to his balls, the aching red tip that peeked out under blushing skin, wet and sticky, so needy.

Because his hands worked faster. He was always better than you at work, even though whenever you'd tell him, he'd either wave his hand and grumble or put it over your mouth and tell you to 'shut up'. But his hands always worked faster. He memorised, took notes, and when in a new environment, he made sure to understand, appreciate and work.

Understand, appreciate and work was absolutely what he did.

Your underwear was gone with a rip of the waistband, surprised they even lasted this long, sticking to your slit from cum and arousal.

Warm on your waist, pulling you forward, Bucky began to direct your body. The other snakes to your back, right between your shoulder blades where he could hold you close. His eyes bore into yours while sliding from your torso, to the curve of your hip, until it fists and kneads down your ass again. The pulsing of his fingers pushes your hips forward and into the slick heat of his cock.

"Still mean, aren't I?" Pulling from your ass with a quick, stinging slap, he holds his weeping cock in his fist, sighing with relief as he slides his hands up and down the shaft, slicking it up with his own pre, right in front of your cunt. "Tell me I'm such an asshole. Tell me you hate me for fucking you so good."

Your walls clamp around nothing, aching uncomfortably with emptiness as you whine and shift your hips closer. Your head tips forward, holding your arms around his neck and hiding your face into his collar as he slowly, achingly makes love to his hand.

"Say that you hate me and I'll let you have him," he whispers so quietly, so softly it makes your bones feel like jelly. The saliva pooling in his mouth clicks around the words, something you've always hated on others but in this moment you cant help but feel the burning desire to lick it all from his tongue and swallow it for yourself.

He nudges your head up with his shoulder, making you look up at him with a tired gaze, sleepy with need so thick it hurts, eyes dark and settling into the skin underneath. God, he hasn't seen anything so beautiful in his life.

To wake you up further, he sets his hips so the tip grazes over your clit. The shock is immediate, burning, vicious, it almost feels delirious. How your entire body jolts in short shakes, how your hands tighten around his neck, how you coat him. The sounds you both create, syrupy and sweet, mixed with the ever light taps his tip makes as he drags himself through your mess. And your chorus of moans and sighs, all while he keeps composure — tries to.

"C'mon, baby, say it," he jerks up, slipping between your lips. Hardly hiding his neediness and desperation. "Tell me, God, please just fuckin' tell me."

You have half the mind to leave him like this. Wet, shaking, pleading at his knees for you like a man praying for forgiveness, like you hold a sword to his shoulders. He deserves to wait, to beg, and whimper — needing to hear your words, hear you reprimand and berate him for what he did.

But there's a quiet voice in your head that asks: what's a week next to years of friendship?

Your hips tip up, catching the head of his cock in your entrance, and the words on your lips feel odd and quiet.

You mean them.

"I love you,"

The burn reaches every corner of your body as you slip. Taking him all. All of him. Of Bucky. Your coworker, your partner, your best friend. Inside of you, held snug and tight in your walls, twitching against your cervix, as your body greets him again.

Your breaths mingle as you share gasps and skin.

"I love you so much, that I hate…" you strain, inhaling deep and hard, swallowing back the feeling of anxiety and his length all the way in the back of your throat. "I hate that you left me, and made me guess, and — and made everyone stress the fuck out."

You don't feel the tears until he starts wiping them away from your face, cooing gently, kissing away the salty tracks.

"I'm sorry."

You sniffle, causing your walls to clamp messily around his erection. He groans under his breath, holding your hip while moving your hair away from your eyes.

The feeling of his thickness and the attention on your face and emotions has your hips canting in his hold. Grinding down and against him, clit grazing the hair of his abdomen, making sure your body remembers him completely. "Never do it again."

"Never," he shakes his head, still wiping away the tiny trails welling in the corners of your eyes, kissing your lids, breathing in your scent. He holds onto your hips tighter, following your lead, your rhythm as you find it, and starts to shift his own to your beat.

"Not — never in a million years," his head cranes back on a grunt in his throat, and he lets go of your hip, moving his arm behind him, holding your sheets, and himself from behind. He lets you move. "Make me pay for it… for the rest of our lives, and I'd — fuck, baby — I'll thank you, forever."

As your hips grinded, Bucky's eyes never faltered off yours (as badly as he wanted to watch the way your pussy swallows his cock). His hand stayed on the side of your face, moving down, just enough to cup your jaw when he felt your gaze slipping away.

Grinding, the slick sounds of your exertion got louder, your walls aching around him, his breath coming out in tight, long pants, you slowly started easing into confidence. Tipping your hips up every time you eased forward, short inches at first, letting him know you're ready to take him, until you start to ride.

Hips rocking off his, bouncing on his lap, taking his length over and over again. You could feel him deep in your belly, making himself home. And through your frosty eyes, you saw him gaze on you like you were another being.

As you locked sights, his hips pushed up into yours at every touch down, chasing you. To retaliate, you moved your head to the side and took his thumb into your mouth, humming around the digit.

He scoffed, huffed a laugh out, and pressed it to your tongue.

"You feel so good baby," he breathed, pressing up into you, chasing a speed you cant get. "Takin' me so good. Missed this pussy so bad, sweetheart. She miss me, too?"

Of course she did. You wanted to scream at him, strangle him for asking such a dumb question. But the only thing you could do was nod, moan and suck around his finger.

"Is my girl getting tired?"

Despite your previous words, you do hate him. All these nicknames, now with a little addition. An ownership.

His.

You hate him in the way that he know exactly how to push your buttons and get you going in the same order, even after just one play, because your cunt traitorously clamps around him.

Moaning, his eyebrows dip, and his hips drive up again and again.

"Yeah? Sleepy thing, aren't you?" it's with that, he leans forward. Hand back on your ass, as you're being laid down onto your back.

You want to fight back, to push him back down and take and take until your body burn and tears flood your face. But you can barely hold on.

Legs dropping open around his hips, cock still sheathed inside. And he's still so goddamn attentive, even when he speaks with sarcasm.

"I hate you," you shake your head and grumble, "fuckin' asshole."

His cock stuttered inside you, and you could've sworn you felt his balls tighten. But all was lost once his hips started moving. Smacking against yours, wet trails of fluids dripping and splatting on skin, it was all too perfect.

His girth leaving and entering in quick succession, leaving your whole body tightening, right on the edge of hysteria — unable to breathe or know if you want to laugh, cry, or both.

"You wanna cum so bad, sweetheart, i can feel it," he clasped at your hips, digging into you while he held you down and close, keeping you still while he works. "Speak."

"Fuck, yes! Fuck," You wailed into the sheets below you. Your cunt clamping down so tight, it hurt. "Bucky, please."

He didn't let up.

"Please what?" He panted, fingers tight on your skin.

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, coming out breathy. "Please touch me. Please, please."

There was no need for spit. With the amount of cum you had created, from the exact moment you saw him in the alley at the bar to now, spit wasn't needed at all. But the thought of more of him being close to your pretty pussy, the fact he didn't get to know what you tasted like tonight, couldn't see how his saliva mixed into you so pretty. He had to drop a fat string of spit from where he sat, still fucking into you deep and hard, and chase the dribble with his thumb.

Wiping circles over your neglected bundle with the accumulated stickiness, watching how it frothed and bubbled, how a ring of cream settled at the base of his cock as you brace.

Jaw slacking with pants and whines, body fastening as every second closer to finishing comes. Bucky notices how you seem to quiet down, how you start focusing on the pleasure at hand. The drilling of his cock, his thumb bullying your clit so perfectly, it only toppled over, finally, to the sweet release when his body folded over yours, breathing sweet nothings into the corners of your mouth, where he kissed and sighed and grunted, until you shook in his embrace.

Molten, white hot, and wet. He took you in his arms, easing off your clit, keeping his pelvis to yours to bring more relief to the nerves, while he wrapped himself around you and held you close as you both finished.

Your hands fell to his skin as he filled you up. Heavy breaths slippery on your jaw, cock and balls twitching with each burst inside of you. You gripped onto his ass with each twitch, keeping him in, holding on, wanting it all to last.

It took a while for your heavy breaths and jelly-like limbs to subside.

"Wow." You don't know who made the noise, but with Bucky's face still hidden in your neck, kissing soft pecks, rustling his beard, you're pretty sure it was all you.

"I'm sorry."

Laughing softly, accidentally squeezing his half-hard cock, you pull him up to look at him. You're both fucked out. Ugly in the most beautiful ways. And it's this time you both laugh.

"Thank you for apologising," you whisper, "but I don't think I can forgive you. Not yet anyway."

He nods, the smile that was on his face before, eases into something slightly more serious. Sadder, but understanding. "Of course."

Easing up, Bucky makes no mistake in taking care of you. Picking you up, carrying you down the hall like absolutely nothing, sitting you at the toilet, cleaning you with a warm rag and making you pee, despite your protests in him being there, watching.

"Sweetheart I've seen everything," he replies, standing in front of you, cupping your jaw. "I'm seein' everything now, too."

You don't really know how it slipped your mind that you were both still naked in that moment, but it felt… strange. In a good way.

Showering with him felt harmonious. As with his touch, cleaning you all over, reverent, not lustful. Careful. He looked and worked with determination, lips pouted and brows taut, making sure your hair was thoroughly washed out of the products before shutting off the water and plopping a towel over your head, only to then start to messily rub it around. Something he would do on beach days years ago.

Laughing comes easy, same with the teasing and groans of displeasure.

"Bucky! Come on, you'll tangle my hair!" You whine from under the sheet, flicking it up and slapping his hands away with a grin and squint. His smile is wide. Bigger than you remember it ever being, all as he watches you dry your hair in comfortable silence.

"I meant what I said by the way." You say after a while, watching him from the mirror.

He hums, snapping out of the trance you put him in by just being.

"When we… I said 'I love you'," you pause for any indication, "I meant it."

Coming up behind you, arms slinging tight around your waist, holding you close. He automatically kisses your temple as he rests his chin on your shoulder. "I know."

Looking at him through the glass with your brows furrowed. "You know?"

Bucky shrugs casually. "Sweetheart, we say it all the time."

You refrain from sighing loudly, so you turn in his hold. Naked chest to naked chest and his arms stay secured, lazily draped on your sides.

"Yeah but this time its…" you gesture broadly, "different."

He smiles, breathlessly staring into your eyes, like he needed to memorise the colour and swirls of your irises. "Different."

You didn't need to clarify if it was good or bad. Didn't need to tell him anything, because when Bucky looked at you, he understood every minuscule detail your body was trying to explain.

Different isn't so bad after all. And when it's something you get to enjoy with your best friend, it's actually a lovely feeling.

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[elixirfromthestars]

Taming Bullet

Pairing:Racer!Bucky x Ex!Childhood Best Friend!Reader

Summary: James Bucky “Bullet” Barnes hasn’t taken a proper break from his professional racing career in years. Feeling homesick and a little lost in life, he decides to take an extended break and return to his hometown. What he doesn’t expect to learn when he gets back, is that you and his sister Becca are no longer best friends. Not only that, but no one’s heard from you in years. And Bucky fears his biggest regret, a mistake he made in his sophomore year of college, is the cause of that.

WC: 13.3k

Contains: 18+ mdni / fluff / angst / smut / female reader / childhood friends to enemies to …? / ex!best friend’s brother / miscommunication / misunderstandings / reunion & revenge / street racing (I did some research, but I took some liberties for plot purposes) / bucky is clueless and down bad / illegal activities tied to street racing / not everything is as it seems / lots of back and forth between these two idiots in love / backseat car protected p in v / dream sequence that takes bucky down memory lane / fun cameos / buckys pov so the truth of it all isn't revealed until the end

a/n hi barbies! 💗 this fic is for @stantastic-association's barbie collab! thank you to our darling @miraclediviner for putting this gorgeous collab together 💗 And thank you to the prettiest barbie of them all, my bestie @thelomlbuckybarnes who listened to me yap endlessly about this fic until it was ready for everyone to read. 💞 Thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

bucky's dreamhouse | bucky masterlist | main masterlist

This was it.

Bucky was home.

Nostalgia should be hitting him the hardest right now. The longing pull to be back in his childhood home with his Ma's cooking, his Pa's laughter, stupid arguments he can only get into with his sister that always end with Bucky giving her the reason. Sleeping in until his body feels like waking up, getting to pick what he wants to do in the day instead of sticking to a tight schedule—being able to just exist instead of only living for the sake of his career. He should be looking forward to all of that and more right now.

And he is, to some extent.

Underneath the nostalgia, there's an persistent thrum beneath his ribcage. Poking at a part of his heart that's been deeply tucked away within him for years. It made itself known the moment he decided to take a break from racing and come home. It followed him through press conferences and meetings, to his apartment while he was packing his bags and preparing to head to the airport. The thrumming only got louder, harder to ignore, the second he landed in his home town.

And it has your name written all over it.

"Hey! James! Over here!" Rebecca’s voice can be heard from somewhere in the distance, pulling Bucky from his thoughts. The airport was bustling with activity, people rushing to catch their flights or make it home. Bucky maneuvers through the crowd, his suitcase in tow, scanning faces at the arrivals bay until he finally spots his sister. Only half a year has gone by since he's last seen her, and yet she looks different, more grown up if that's even possible. It makes his chest squeeze slightly with the uncomfortable reality of this being one of many things he misses while he's gone.

"Hey Becs," his greeting comes in the form of a smothering hug, the kind only big brother's know how to give. She whines dramatically about him ruining the sign she made for him, pushing at his chest. He looks down at the piece of poster paper squished between them and chuckles. It's a small cheesy welcome home sign, clearly written in haste as most of the letters are wonky and the glitter thrown at it looks half-assed. He pulls away, grabbing it from her hands and smoothening it out before giving it back, "See, all better." She rolls her eyes, slapping at his arm and grumbling under her breath, "You big buffoon, learn to be more careful." Bucky barks out a laugh in response that only serves to annoy his sister more. Oh, how he's missed this.

He ignores her protests as he slings an arm around her shoulders, pushing them past the crowd of people in the direction of the elevators. "Folks didn't come?" He asks her as they get in and she shakes her head, pressing the button labeled L2, "Ma wanted to stay home and cook you up something nice for tonight. She's driving us all crazy making sure everything's perfect for you." Bucky frowns, and Becca looks at him like she's said too much, "Everything?"

The elevator doors open and they step out. "Yeah, you know how Ma gets about her cooking," Rebecca replies, waving her hand in the air like it's no big deal. He decides it's best not to press the issue, it's just dinner after all.

The conversation changes as they make their way to her car. Rebecca catches his up on her life post graduation. She talks about her new job in the city over, the apartment she's renting with a couple roommates, the coworker she doesn't get along with, how she still visits their parents on the weekends and oh, how can she forget to mention how ridiculously in love her roommates are with his teammate and friend, Steve Rogers.

"You have to get me tickets when you go back. I don't think they'll forgive me if I don't give them a chance to meet him," she mentions, and he hums in response, not fully paying attention as he places his suitcase in the backseat. But it's not like she has anything to worry about, her little sister privileges always win over Bucky in the end.

"Let me drive," he offers, closing the backseat door. Rebecca looks at him like he just asked her something atrocious. "Absolutely not. My car, I drive. Now get in," she orders, not hearing him out at all and getting into the driver's seat. Bucky is too tired to argue, so he heads over to the passenger seat and reluctantly buckles in. But as she's pulling out of the parking lot he realizes, there's something, no, someone she hasn't mentioned at all.

Bucky says your name out loud, pretty as always, but foreign on his tongue as he hasn't heard it anywhere, but in his head for years. Rebecca's body goes rigid, and he doesn't notice at first as he asks, "How's she doing?" He knows he has no right to ask. He knows he has no right to pry into your life or know anything about you now, but he can't help it. He needs to know. Maybe if he knows that insistent thrum beneath his ribcage will finally go away.

Rebecca stares straight ahead at the traffic on the road like it's the most interesting thing she's seen in a long time, exhaling apprehensively, "I don't know."

Well that's shocking.

"You don't know?" Bucky echoes, face pulling in a frown of disbelief. Rebecca's hold on the steering tightens ever so slightly, clearly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation being you. "Yeah, I don't know. We haven't been friends for years. Why would I keep up with her?" At that revelation, Bucky can practically feel the way his eyes bulge out of their sockets, a dreadful feeling creeping in to his system.

"Wait—hold on. You haven't been friends with her for years? When did that happen?" He's trying his best to wrap his head around it all. His brain picking out every memory from the last few years, holidays and birthdays he attended and not once did anyone mention you and his sister no longer being friends. Well, no one mentioned you at all, and your absence was felt, but he thought your absence had to do with what happened between you and him, not what apparently happened between you and Becca.

"Years ago," she replies simply.

"Becca."

"What? You asked, I answered."

Bucky stays silent, staring at his sister expectantly. She glances at him briefly, biting the inside of her lip knowing her brother is too stubborn to not keep pushing for more answers. "We stopped being friends after our first year of college. Things were already rocky when we started, but… I don't know we drifted apart—things happened." Her response was vague, like it took effort to reach into the past and look for a proper explanation.

"Things?" He couldn't help, but keep pushing.

Rebecca sighs, "Yeah, things. New friends, boyfriends, different schedules—look, it was a lot of things, but mainly she changed. A lot."

"What do you mean she changed?"

She rolls her eyes, Bucky evidently having pushed her too much, "God, what's with all the questions? Why do you even care?"

The truth is on the tip of his tongue, but he's too much of a coward to let it out. "I don't know, maybe because the three of us were best friends from the moment you two were put in the same kindergarten class. Because we were basically like family to each other."

"Yeah, well, that's in the past now."

The sadness in her voice tugs at Bucky's heart, watching her slump in her seat. It's obvious she wants the conversation to end, retreating into herself the way that she is. Whatever happened between you still weighs heavy on her heart. Whatever Bucky hoped to learn about you upon his return will have to wait. He thought his sister would be the one to give him answers, but all she managed to do was raise more questions.

Bucky turns to face the window, deciding it's best to not bring you up anymore. Rebecca's shoulders relax at that, reaching over to turn on the radio so the music can fill the tense silence. He closes his eyes, trying to focus on the music, but nothing can stop his thoughts from drifting to things he's been avoiding.

When he first decided to take a longer break than he usually gives himself, it was to give himself a chance to figure out what comes next. Racing professionally had always been his dream, but once he achieved it, he felt lost on the after. His racing career took off when he was young, too young to understand when something takes off so fast and bigger than himself, some people get left behind in the dust.

For years, his racing career was overwhelming in the best way. Making a name for himself, proving he was good enough, was all he strived for. His parents and sister had always been supportive, even when certain family members gave their unwanted opinions on how he'd never make it, certain he'd fail. And even though they only got to see him during the holidays or when he flew them out to one of his competitions, his parents and Rebecca cheered him on every step of the way. Promotions, sponsorships, media events, touring—it took up all his time for over half a decade.

But when he finally has made a name for himself, when he finally has the fame, the recognition, when he always wins… what's the next big thing he has to look forward to?

That question brought him back here, back home. Feeling lost on his purpose and fulfillment in life made him come back to where it all started. But being back here brings him back to you. And back to the biggest regret of his entire life.

Beyond the window of the car, the streets stretch out into something more familiar. They pass his old high school, the local bakery his mother used to send him to get fresh bread every week, the street that leads to his father's office, the corner store where your first boyfriend used to work, a sleazy guy he remembers punching the hell out of in that very corner for breaking your heart. They pass a park that's been here for ages, the rusty almost rundown playground evidence of its lack of maintenance, but all the years of usage. He remembers taking you and Becca there all the time when you were kids. Chasing you two with his friends around the playground, or pushing you on the wings just a little harder every time to hear you laugh harder. Every inch of this town were where his roots were founded on and surely it must have the answers to what he's looking for.

It takes another fifteen minutes before Becca pulls into the driveway of their childhood home, a cozy light blue two story building with his mother's meticulously cared for flower beds with blue and pink hydrangeas proudly displayed in the front. There's more cars on the street than he last remembered, but he guesses the number neighbors must have grown since the last time he's been here. It wouldn't be the only thing that's changed since then.

Bucky steps out of the car, wondering if maybe he has a chance to take a nap before dinner. He vaguely listens to his sister ramble on about their mother's plans for tonight as he opens the backseat door to get his suitcase. Becca is whining about how they'll probably have to play Yahtzee for the millionth time, when he gathers his things and follows behind her.

His sister walks to the side of the house, confusing Bucky until she explains. "Gotta use the side door, the front's stuck again." Right. At least that's another thing that stayed consistent. No matter how many times his father or Bucky put in the effort to fix the door, it somehow always managed to get stuck. And his father was always too stubborn to replace it no matter how many time his mother asked him to. Stubbornness seems to run in the family.

They step into the backyard, and Bucky was halfway through making an amused comment about his father not fixing that damn door when a loud cacophony of the word surprise startles him. When Becca had mentioned the word everything earlier, when it came to what their parents had prepared for him, what she meant was a welcome party. Various family members and friends of the family were all gathered to welcome him home at least forty people. Tables were set up in neat rows decorated with blue race car table covers to match the balloons tied to each ends. Blue pennant banners were strewn from tree to tree, and whatever his parents were cooking at the grill had his stomach growling like he hadn't eaten in weeks.

So much for hoping to take a nap.

Bucky is touched by the effort his family put in to welcome him home. Although, from the moment he stepped into the backyard he isn't left alone. His mother comes over to engulf him in a hug that is larger than life itself. His father gives him a welcoming hug too before insisting he needs to sit down and eat. Bucky lost count on how many cousins, uncles, aunts, family friends, and others came up to him to welcome him home, hugging him, patting him on the back, and passing him around from greeting to greeting. Once he finally gets a moment to sit down his parents pile up enough cheeseburgers on his plate to stuff him full for a whole week.

The celebrations are enough to keep his mind off of other things for awhile. Between savoring some home cooked food, sharing stories and catching up his cousins on his adventures, and being pulled into a game of dodgeball, he barely has time to think of anything else. And yet, every so often, his eyes drift to different sections of the party as if they were searching for something. He could lie to himself about not what, but who he was searching for. Someone he foolishly hoped would be hear despite what he was told.

By the time the sun starts to set in the sky, Bucky can feel his energy deplete to a point where he can no longer hide it. It's an exhaustion that goes beyond having to evade dodgeballs to the face. Things have started to settle and everyone's migrated to their own corner of the yard depending on whether they wanted to keep playing games, relax by the bonfire, or eat leftovers. He spots his mother at the grill heating up leftovers and he makes his way over to her.

"Need some help, Ma?" He asks, grabbing one of the tongs not waiting for her answer. His mother shakes her head, "I got it, hun. You go back to having fun." She tries to get him back to the party, but at that Bucky shakes his head, scrunching his face up with a clear I don't want to look. His mother laughs at his expression and then instructs him to help out with the burger patties. She starts asking him about his travel here and how he's been liking his party, little things and start conversation. Bucky's giving her simple answers when he looks out at the guests one more time, biting on his bottom lip absentmindedly. His mother can tell he's distracted, and more than that. It seems like she knows exactly what's going on in his head.

"She wasn't invited," she starts, causing Bucky to whip his head in her direction, eyes wide like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing as she continues, "It's not like your dad and I didn't want to, but your sister was against it."

"What?" Bucky sounds and looks dumbfounded, and his mother can only respond with a short exhale. She says your name, and Bucky's heart races and breaks all in one. "How did you—?"

"You can't hide things from your mother, James," his mother interjects as if it were obvious. He gaze locks with his mother's for a moment, and there's something close to pity in them. She's right. He was never one to lie to his mother, much less be able to.

A defeated sigh slips past his lips, "Is it stupid I thought she'd be here?" His mother prepares another leftover plate as she responds, "No, not at all," she hands the plate to one of his younger cousins who scurries off with it. "She wouldn't have come if she had been invited anyway."

Bucky clears his throat, suddenly feeling like there's something stuck in it. "Why not?" His mother gives him a look, like she has something to say, but no explanation for it. "I talk to her mom every so often, maybe once a month. She's told me they barely have any contact with her. No one really knows where she is."

"What? And no one's gone looking for her?" Bucky can't believe what he's hearing. His question has no short of worry in it, and he doesn't bother to hide it. The thought of you being out there somewhere and no one knowing—no one even bothering to look—it didn't sit right with him. It settles within him as well as poison would.

His mother's lips draw into a thin line, a somber look in her eyes. "I'm sure they've tried. I know her parents have, but it's not easy when your kids shut you out. Especially when they're in trouble." Bucky's heart sinks, "Trouble? What trouble?" His mother starts preparing another plate, like she needs something to do, "I'm not sure, hun. Her parents don't know and even your sister hasn't been forthcoming with the way things ended between them. All I know is she got mixed in with the wrong crowd and ended up dropping out of college. The last time I saw her was when Becca found out and they had a screaming match over it. I don't think I've ever seen your sister so angry…"

Out of all the thing Bucky could have been preparing himself to hear about you from his mother, none of this would have ever come close. There's something sickly brewing in his stomach and he thinks if he hears another word of your apparent disappearance, he'll spill his dinner all over the grill.

His mother can tell something is off, so she promptly sends him to bed. He wants to protest until he realizes he burned the burger patty he had been reheating and agrees some rest would be for the best. His mother gives him a goodnight hug and he presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. Everyone at the gathering is still preoccupied with their own things, so Bucky forgoes any farewells and instead slips inside the house without anyone noticing. Every step up the stairs and toward his childhood bedroom feels heavier than the last.

When he enters his room, there's an appreciative smile that appears on his face when he realizes not much has changed in here either. He can tell his mother has changed the sheets and installed one of those little air freshener devices in preparation for his coming home. And besides his suitcase in the corner, which he still has to thank his father for bringing it up for him, everything else is exactly the same. Which isn't saying much since he's always kept his room simple the older he got. A few racing posters on his walls, shelves decorated with knickknacks, a bookcase filled with books he has yet to revisit, there's not much besides that.

He strips out of his clothes lazily just wanting to get into bed already, when his eyes stray to his desk. He knows why they did. He knows what he'll find when he looks. And yet, he walks over to it anyway, feeling the lump in his throat grow when he sees it's been left untouched. Above his desk on the wall there's a bulletin board frozen in time to the last time he ever used it. He has pictures pinned all across it, happy memories from his childhood with you with him in almost all of them. Every birthday card and letter you ever wrote him is pinned on the board too. Anything you ever gave him he saved and treasured down to the smallest thing. Even to the four leaf clover you once found, gently tucking it between tape for safe keeping. Giving it to him as a good luck charm, promising him it would help him win every race he ever dreamed up as long as he kept it close.

He keeps it in his wallet to this day.

Bucky blinks away the tears he can feel forming in the corner of his eyes. He finds himself more than upset now, maybe even bordering on an anxious frustration as he wills himself to look away. He hastily strips out of his clothes and climbs into his bed, hoping that his mind can quiet once he's bundled up in it. But of course that's not the case. All he can think about now is you. Why would you disappear? Why would you leave and tell no one? Why does no one know where you are? Why did you and Becca get into a big fight and stop being friends?

And why does he feel like it's all his fault?

As he drifts off into a restless slumber, there's a final image that haunts him. It's you. Holding back tears as you look at him with the kind of ire he deserved, but never excepted he would ever have caused you.

That image takes him back to where it all ended.

It happened at his parent's lake house, the summer after his sophomore year of college concluded. The summer you and Becca graduated high school, and had to adjust transitioning into adulthood and newfound independence. Your families had thrown a big graduation party for the two of you, but it was a little too family friendly for Bucky's liking. So without telling his parents, a couple weeks later, he threw a massive party at his parent's lake house in celebration of you two.

You had always held a special place in Bucky's heart, there was no denying that. Whether you or Bucky acknowledged it was another thing entirely. Your friendship with Bucky was just as deeply bonded as yours and Rebecca's, but it was different in its own way. Somehow you found yourself being more vulnerable with Bucky about your fears of the future, about school and life. There were times you wanted to appear strong or dependable to Becca when she was going through a rough patch, and yet Bucky was always able to crumble down your walls almost as if those walls didn't exist when it came to him. From patching up a cut on your knee you'd gotten when you were six while playing hopscotch, to holding you close and soothing you when you cried over your first boyfriend breaking your heart—Bucky had always been there for you. The trust between you ran deep, deep in a way that felt rooted in something tied to your souls.

Perhaps that's what always frightened him about acting on his feelings. If he ever told you how he truly felt, that he loved you in ways that went far beyond just friends, and you didn't feel the same or it didn't work out—he'd lose you for good. And the thought of that, he couldn't even imagine it. Not having you in his life. He honestly thought he'd never survive that.

Nothing was supposed to happen that night. He kept his drinks to a minimum, not wanting to get drunk so he could watch over the party guests. He threw it without his parents knowledge or permission, the last thing he needed was to have an accident happen that he couldn't explain away. You hadn't been drinking much, if at all, either. Mingling throughout the party a little lost since Becca had been hanging out with her boyfriend at the time. Bucky shouldn't have gone over to you when you were standing in the corner by yourself, but he did. He shouldn't have invited you to dance, but he wanted to so badly, so he did.

But he should've known things would end in more than a dance. Having you so close, your body pressed against his, touching him, all over him—it drove him crazy. Careful touches at your hips and waist turned into greedy handfuls that couldn't be satisfied despite the lack of distance. It lead to you two kissing for the first time, desperate and inevitable. And that one kiss led to two then three, until the two of you stumbled up the stairs, not being able to keep your hands or lips off of each other as you made your way to Bucky's bedroom. It led to Bucky caging you underneath him on his bed, kissing you senselessly until the heat between you became too much and you slept together for the first time.

The next morning, you were tucked into his side with his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight to his chest like it would hurt him to let you go. You looked so peaceful in your sleep, beautiful as the morning sunlight blanketed your form. Bucky didn't want to get up, but he knew he had to survey whatever potential damage was leftover from the party and possibly kick out anyone who overstayed their welcome. He kissed your forehead, whispering a promise of not taking too long before slipping on a pair of sweatpants. He groaned inwardly as he made his way downstairs, hoping the damage wasn't too bad. But a quick survey of the house settled his worry. Every room was trashed, but at least nothing seemed broken or irreparably stained. When Bucky made his way back to the living room he noticed Sam, his closest friend, stirring awake on the crouch.

"You crashed on the couch?" Bucky eyed his friend weirdly, he hated sleeping on couches. Sam yawned, stretching dramatically, "Yeah, figured you'd need help cleaning up."

"Aw, aren't you sweet."

"Shut up."

Sam threw a pillow at Bucky's head, which he dodged at the last second. Sam sat up on the couch, scratching the back of his head like he was still trying to come to, "Saw you two go up to your room last night. Congrats on finally getting the guts to make a move—thought you'd never do it. I can hear the bells already," Sam teased, humming out the tune for 'here comes the bride' while wiggling his brows at Bucky suggestively. Bucky can't remember why, can't understand why, but he panicked in that moment. The image of you in a wedding dress and saying I do freaked him out so badly because for the first time it dawned on him that's something that he wanted. But you were both still so young, with so much life and experiences to love ahead of you. He knew he was getting ahead of himself. He didn't even know if you liked him like he loved you.

Fuck, he's in love with you.

Bucky tried to play it cool. Tried to ignore the way his heart squeezed uncomfortably with the truth. He shook his head, playing it down, "Nah, it… it was just an itch I had to scratch. Nothing more. Just something I needed to get out of my system…" Sam was not amused by his lies, painfully seeing through them, "Bullshit. You and I both know you're hopelessly in love with that girl." Bucky's mouth opened to deny it, but another hard look from Sam had him crumbling.

"I know I know. And I think I messed everything up." Bucky slumped on the couch next to Sam, a devastated look on his face. Sam definitely was judging him. "You did not mess anything up, Buck."

"No I did. I wanted to do this the right way, ask her out on a date. Treat her right, like she deserves to be. Show her what she means to me—" A couch pillow hit Bucky square in the face, stopping him mid sentence. "Buck, you're spiraling, stop it. You didn't mess anything up. Trust me, just go up there and tell her how you feel."

Bucky rubbed at his face, soothing it from the hit, "But what if she doesn't feel the same?" Sam looked like he was two seconds from throwing another pillow, "I'm starting to think those engine fumes have caused you to go stupid or blind. Buck, that girl is so in love with you."

For a brief moment, Bucky dared to hope that Sam was right. That you do feel the same. That you'd want it to work out between you as much as he does. But then the image of you in a wedding dress flashed across his mind again, and that unrelenting voice in his head made him doubt everything once more. A voice that strangely sounded like his uncles. His father's brothers who constantly let him know how his racing career would never work out. How he'll never make good enough money and he'll just disappoint his parents. How he should just play it safe, smart. Become an accountant like his father and get rid of those silly childhood dreams because his parents didn't give up everything for him just to go "play racer." Scolding him like a child to stop being so ungrateful with his parents and get a proper job so he can take care of them like they took care of him. Voices of people who were supposed to love and encourage him and instead reminded him everyday that he wasn't good enough to ever achieve his dreams.

And if he wasn't good enough for his dreams, then he certainly wasn't good enough for you.

"Even if she is," Bucky swallowed hard, the words feeling bitter on his tongue, "even if we are, she deserves so much more than what I can give her right now."

"Buck."

"No, I mean it. Her life's just starting Sam. She's going to her dream college, finally getting away from this town like she's always wanted to," Bucky shook his head, like admitting his fears cost him something, "I'm pursuing something I don't even know will work out. And if it doesn't… I don't want to drag her into that. I don't want to drag her into my failures."

Sam sighed, feeling for his friend, "You're not going to fail, Buck. And even if you do—loves so much more than the good times. It's being there despite what happens, despite the obstacles." Bucky mulls over his friend's words knowing there's some truth to them. But, unfortunately, the voice in the back of his mind refused to let him go.

"Yeah, but loves also about walking away when the timing isn't right."

"Not when, if. You don't know which one it is yet."

With those last words, Bucky managed to find the courage to go back up those steps and back to you. With his heart on his sleeve, his hopes in the palm of your hands, and his blood pumping a mile a minute. But when he opened the door to his room, you were already making your way out of it. Eyes wide and teary when they narrowed on him.

"Hey, baby, hey," he reached out to cup your face, "What's wrong?" You flinched back from his hold like his hands were made of ice, his heart stopped. "Nothing. I'm fine," you bite out, clearly holding back. He stood his ground, "You know you've never been able to lie to me, come on tell me what's wrong." He pleaded, feeling distressed at your change in attitude.

"Nothing is wrong, just let me through already," you tried pushing past him, but his arm shot out between you and the doorway. "No. Not until we talk. Not until you tells me what's going on." He tried to get you to look at him, but your eyes were on everything but him.

"Bucky—" He cut you off by saying your name in a way that sounded somewhere between utter devotion and utter devastation. You sighed, broken and like you had something caught in your throat. "There's nothing we have to talk about, nothing important anyway."

Now that stung. Bucky would have preferred you slapping him across the face instead.

"What? So did last night mean nothing to you?" Bucky didn't stop the anger that was seeping through his hurt. You looked like you didn't know what to say or did and just didn't want to, "That's not what I said. And it doesn't matter what I think of it anyway. You got what you wanted." Bucky stared at you, scoffing in offense, "I got what I wanted? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You know what I mean," you said with a finality that caused him to panic. You tried evading his arm by ducking below it. But he was faster than you and stopped you from getting past him. He was frustrated by your vagueness and confused on what you tried telling him without really telling him anything. This was a complete switch up from last night and he didn't know how to handle it.

"Look, I don't know where this is coming from, but just listen to me, sweetheart. I know I can't… I know I'm not," He ran his free hand through his hair, frustrated that he couldn't put his vulnerabilities into words, "My career's just starting. There's big opportunities ahead of me and I know I'm not guaranteed success. I'm not thinking of…I don't want to make any mistakes—" That last word, he should've never used that word. Because you didn't even let him finish when something between a cynical laugh and broken sob came out of you. "I get it. I was a mistake."

Bucky was quick in his attempt to shut that accusation down, "No! No! Absolutely not, that is not what I said," you tried to squeeze past him again, but this time he held onto your arm, "Would you please just listen to me?" You pushed at his chest, hard enough to hurt, the ire in your eyes and tone made his blood run cold. "Don't touch me." There was something close to hatred in your voice and that had him stunned, frozen in place. He was so stunned he could only watch you walk away to the guest bedroom. By the time he came to on what happened, he ran to chase after you only to have you slam the door right in his face. And no matter how hard he knocked, how long he waited, how much he pleaded into the wooden oak for you to talk to him, you never responded.

He was heartbroken beyond what you could every imagine. He couldn't understand where everything went wrong and why you were so upset. He wanted to talk to you, but he also knew he needed to give you space to cool down. He figured at some point in the day he'd be able to get you aside for a private conversation and clear things up.

He was wrong.

That small glimpse of you before the door slammed in his face was the last time he saw you for the next six whole years.

Reliving that moment in his dream was so vivid it startles him awake. Chest heaving, and face covered in sweat as the memory of that regretful morning resurfaces. Thinking back to the way you looked at him, to the way you spoke to him—it's enough to rip his heart to pieces all over again.

Even after all these years he still doesn't understand what happened back then, what had you so upset. At first he thought it was over his slip up and using that damn word, mistake. But thinking back on that moment throughout the years, he realized you had been upset before that. Something happened between falling asleep that night and him going up those stairs the next morning to confess to you that had set you off. And to this day he hasn't figured out what it was. The absence of you in his life, the hollow cavity losing you left in his chest—that's all he's really come to understand.

Bucky is surrounded by the darkness of his room, the crescent moon in the sky not providing much light to filter in through the window. His room suddenly feels stuffy, and the ache in his chest seems like it's going nowhere any time soon, so he gets up and decides to take a hot shower. Hoping maybe that can help him relax. He's in and out before he knows it, careful to not make too much noise in the hallway as to not wake his parents or his sister in case she stayed for the night. Thankfully, the bathroom's right across the hall from him, so there's not much noise he can make anyway.

By the time Bucky's back in his room he catches the screen on his phone light up. He reaches for it where it lies on his nightstand, seeing he's gotten a couple recent messages. He frowns when he looks at the time, it's just past midnight. Who could be texting him at this hour?

Mini Falcon: Heard you're back in town! You do not want to miss this.

Mini Falcon: [Attachment: 1 movie]

Bucky has an idea of what he's going to find when he opens the video from his old street racing friend. When he clicks on the video, sure enough it's Joaquin showing off a car meet he's at. There's a crowd of people already forming, showing off their cars and probably figuring out who's going to race tonight. He plays the video a few times, reminiscing on his street racing days, and a little envious at how nice some of the cars have gotten. God, there's no amount of money he wouldn't have bet to get a chance to race against some of those machines.

On one of his rewinds, he spots someone in the background that catches his eye. No, not someone, not just anyone.

It's you.

Bucky's jaw drop comically, pausing the video and hating how pixelated it looks when he zooms in, but even through the blurriness he swears that's you. An older you for sure, but it's still you nonetheless. He's recognize you anywhere. You're laughing with a brunette and a blonde, he thinks maybe they're you're friends.

But what the hell are you doing there? Since when are you involved in the street racing scene?

Bucky's mind is working a mile a minute, but if that is you—which he sure it is—he can't miss this opportunity to see you. Especially not after finding out no one knows where you are. If he's found you, then he's taking the chance to bring you home.

Bucky texts Joaquin back asking for the location of the car meet. He's scrambling to look decent, throwing open his suitcase and putting on the first outfit he finds, a matching pair of black sweatpants and hoodie, topping it off with a jean jacket and cap for good measure.

When he looks at his phone again Joaquin's sent him the location of the car meet, and when he puts it in his phone's maps it shows it's being held at an abandoned industrial complex in the next town, over thirty minutes away. With his skills he knows he can get there in half the time, so he wastes no more in getting ready and heading out the door. Extremely grateful that his father kept up with the maintence of his first car, a modified Honda Civic, and he has something of his own to get him there.

Just as he thought, he's able to get to the meet in half the expected time. He vaguely remembers racing here once or twice, which means he also remembers how it's one of the easier spots to get caught at because of the parameters of the race. He decides to park his car a few blocks away, hidden and tucked into a parking lot, a large patch of overgrown foliage and trees obstructing the view of it to anyone passing by. He makes his way over to the car meet on foot, locating it by the booming music echoing throughout the abandoned walls of the complex.

And yet, despite the music and all the engine revving getting louder as he approaches, he can still hear Joaquin's laugh above all that.

When Joaquin spots Bucky, he excitedly waves him over to where he's resting on the hood of what Bucky assumes is his car. "Bucky, man you made it!" They greet each other with one of those hand clasping, one armed embraces that guys do. "Yeah, after seeing the video you sent I knew I couldn't miss it." Bucky responds, making Joaquin grin, "Told you," he points to the guy next to him, "This is my friend Bob. Bob this is Bucky thee legendary Bullet." The man standing next to Joaquin turns to Bucky impressed, his doe eyes wide in awe as they greet each other. Bucky shakes his head, side eyeing Joaquin as if saying 'he's exaggerating'.

"He used to win all the races back in the day, he set all the records," Joaquin adds.

Bucky was going to say something when Bob beat him to it, "All the records Blitz beat?"

"Blitz?" Bucky inquires, not remembering that name in the roster of racers he knew back when he was racing here. Joaquin nods to the car positioned in the middle of the lineup race, a gorgeous blue Nissan GT-R Bucky's sure has been tuned up like hell. "That's what they call her. She's part of Rumlow's crew."

That catches Bucky's attention, "Rumlow's got a crew now?"

Joaquin hums in confirmation, "A few years back he got into a nasty car wreck. Car went up in flames and fucked up his body. He can't race now, so he got a crew to do that and his dirty work for him."

"Dirty work?"

Joaquin shrugs, "Don't know much about it. I just know he imports illegal parts from overseas to modify his cars, but I stay out of whatever they got going on."Bucky makes a clicking noise with his tongue, feeling sorry for any unlucky bastard that got stuck working for Rumlow.

"His crew hard to beat?" Bucky can't help but ask, reminiscing on all the times he beat Rumlow in a race. If his crews anything like him, then they're probably not that good. Bob is the one who answers his question, "Nope. Blitz is the best racer he's got. When he wants a certified win he has her race." Bucky takes that information in. If at any point he wanted to relive his street racing days, then it seems Blitz is the one to beat.

The three of them chat for another while. Bucky learns that Bob races too—for a team called the Thunderbolts—although he's still pretty new at it, so there's much he has to learn. Bucky offers to teach Bob a few things while he's in town and Bob seems more than eager to learn from him. Joaquin and Bob try to catch Bucky up on all the new faces in the racing scene, but it's too many names at once for him to really take anything in. Once the race starts, Bucky excuses himself from them, pretending like he saw someone he wanted to go catch up with so he could step away.

In reality, he's going back to concentrate on what he really came for. To find you.

He weaves through the crowds of people gathered, being careful not to bump into any of the showcase vehicles. As much as his eyes want to stray to admire them, he keeps his mind focused on you. He pays close attention to every single face he passes, hope blooming and then dying in his chest when he walks past someone that looks like you. When he circles back to where he started he's distraught at the realization that he might've missed you.

He goes back to Joaquin feeling dejected and like he has to start all over again with something he never really started. Bob is no longer standing with Joaquin, and Bucky barely catches the finish of the race. As expected by what he was told, Blitz comes in first with Yelena, one of Bob's teammates he pointed out to Bucky earlier, coming in a close second. He can't remember the names of the other races and quite frankly he doesn't care. They're not why he came here.

Although, even though Bucky only got a glimpse of how the race finished and a bit of the start, he's seen enough to know that whoever is racing for Rumlow is good—really good. Blitz drives like the car she's in is an extension of her body and she knows how to get it to do exactly what she wants it to. She's got the kind of control he's only seen with a handful of drivers. Him being one of them.

He finds it impressive.

Blitz's car door opens, and there's a small part of him that's anticipating putting a face to the name. And when Blitz steps out of the car, he finds himself receiving the shock of a lifetime for the second time that night.

You are the one to step out of the car.

You are Blitz.

That means, you're the one who's part of Rumlow's crew.

Shit.

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

Bucky is convinced this has to be a dream, he's rubbing the hell out of his eyes in hopes that it is. But it's not. You're standing by your car with a self-satisfied smile on your face as you're handed the winnings of the race. Yelena steps out of her car and heads toward you with a giant grin, congratulating you on your win. It's clear you two are friends. You look every part of belonging here and he doesn't know what to do with that.

Bucky clears his throat, bumping Joaquin's shoulder, "Hey, is that..?" He can't even finish the sentence, but Joaquin doesn't need him to as he follows the direction Bucky is looking in. "Blitz? Yeah, that's her." Joaquin's confirmation only makes the pit in Bucky's stomach grow. "And you said she's part of Rumlow's crew?"

Joaquin nods, not understanding the weight of what Bucky is asking. "Yeah, I don't know much about what else she does for him, but she's his main racer. Any time he wants a guaranteed win he sends her." Bucky's scared to know, but he has to ask, "And when you mention that Rumlow's got some shady business going on, how shady are we talking?"

"Class B felonies dude," Joaquin says it like it's gossip and not the worst news he could've possibly given Bucky. At his silence, Joaquin gives Bucky a look over. "Are you good? Bro, you look like you're about to spill your guts—literally." Joaquin steps back a bit just in case Bucky does.

"I know her."

"Who?"

"Blitz." He says your real name after. The name he knows you by, the name he knew you by.

"Oh shit." Joaquin doesn't know what to say. Not with Bucky looking like he's seen a ghost. "Look, dude, she's friends with Yelena and Kate, they're good friends of mine and I know they're always looking out for her. I'm sure she's okay. Maybe Rumlow's only got her racing, not in his other shit." Joaquin attempts to comfort Bucky, but it doesn't seem like what he said did at all.

"Yeah, maybe…"

"Are you gonna go talk to her or just stare at her with your mouth open?" Joaquin teases, trying to lighten the mood. Bucky shuts his mouth and glares at Joaquin causing him to laugh. Bucky roles his eyes at him, Joaquin might've grown up, but he's still like that annoying little brother he remembers. He won't tell him, but Bucky is a grateful to have that unchanged connection to his old friend.

Joaquin's words might've not done much to comfort Bucky, but his teasing was enough to give Bucky the push to walk away from him and toward you. Joaquin whistles to cheer Bucky on, throwing some words his way that resemble good luck. Bucky shakes his head, wondering how crazy you're going to think he is for finding you here.

Every step closer Bucky is to you throws his nerves into high gear. You've already gotten your car and yourself away from the concrete race track. Somewhere over by the corner where a cluster of smaller buildings and a smaller group of people were in. He really doesn't know what to expect once he finally reaches you, or what he'll say, but he knows he can't leave without trying.

The moment you spot him approaching time seems to freeze, your eyes widening and your lips parting like you can't believe what your eyes are seeing. But just as fast as the shock hits your face, you mask it with indifference, but the iciness in your gaze is something he feels penetrate down to his bones.

He sees the door slamming in his face again. The look you gave him the last time he saw you, staring at him through the closing door like he had reached into your chest and snatched your heart right out of its cavity. And now? Now, you were glowering at him like you would put a bullet through his head and not bat an eye. Eyes looking at him with such a disdain it makes him feel physically ill.

When he finally reaches you, Bucky can only come up with one word, "Hey." He says lamely, quietly like there's an obstruction in his throat. You blink at him, crossing your arms as your friends at your side give him wary glances.

"You." Is all you say back, the word coming out almost like an accusation. Bucky grimaces, but he knows he deserves that so he tries to stay calm. He doesn't say anything else, but he glances at Yelena and who he guesses is Kate next to you, before his eyes find yours again, feeling a bit awkward at involving anyone else in your conversation.

You sigh, taking the hint, turning to your friends to ask them for a bit of space. The girls don't look happy about it, but they listen to you. Kate doesn't spare him another glance while Yelena makes sure to give him one hard glare, acting like she'd break his arm if you asked her to.

He really hopes you don't.

"Please, don't look at me like that," he finds himself saying, to which you barely react to. There's clearly a wall you've built between you, one he doesn't know how to lower for the first time in his life.

"Like what."

"Like I'm the last person you'd wanna see here."

"Well," you shrug like that's enough of an answer. Bucky takes a tentative step closer to you, making you tense up. Your reaction makes something break inside him. He steps back, feeling too many emotions all at once. A frustration at you running away, fear at you working for Rumlow, disheartened at the way you're acting like he's a stranger—confusion over everything that has and hasn't happened in the last six years. It all accumulates the second he has you this close again.

"What the hell are you even doing here?" He didn't mean for the question to come out as harsh as it did. "Excuse me? What the hell are you doing here?" You throw the question back at him with bit of venom in your tone. He elects to ignore it.

"Looking for you," he replies honestly. And that catches you off guard, he can see it written all over your face. "A friend invited me to come watch the race, sent me a video and everything. I saw you in the background of it and I thought I was seeing things. But I had to come see for myself only to find out that not only are you a racer, but you're racing for fucking Rumlow of all people. What the hell is that about?"

You wave him off, "It's none of your concern." He says your name like you're testing his patience. "It's not," you reiterate, rolling your eyes and leaning on the hood of your car, “It’s not even that big of a deal.” 

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Bucky growls out with something deeper than frustration, debating on whether or not he should just drag your ass back home instead of trying to reason with you. You stare at him like you could bite his head off. "I haven't seen you in years and all of a sudden you want to show up here and act like you're looking out for me? Fuck off, Bucky," you raise your voice at him, your own anger increasing by the minute. Bucky's arms shoot out in exasperation, tired of you twisting his actions and words into something negative, "I am looking out for you! I did all my life and that care doesn't just go away because I left for some time."

"Six years," you correct him, the heaviness of all the time apart settling between you like a wound that hasn't healed. He swallows hard, letting out a shaky breath, "Doesn't matter, sweetheart. I thought about you all the damn time during those years. I cared about you then, and I care about you now."

You don't believe him, scoffing, "I'm sure you do." He doesn't know how to get through to you. Feeling as though his efforts are going nowhere. "I'm serious. I've been thinking about you all damn day since I got here—its been driving me crazy. Especially after Becca told me you two stopped being friends. What happened there?"

"It's none of your business," you're quick to say—too quick.

He says your name again, but this time in a plea, but you're done talking. "I'm serious, Bucky, fuck off. None of this is of your concern, none of this is your business. Leave me alone."

"No."

Before you can even start ripping him a new one, the music is cut off. Someone's voice can be heard yelling, warning everyone to get the hell out as the cops are on their way. Bucky doesn't hesitate, having through this same scenario many times before. You don't even see it coming, how fast he swipes the keys from your hand, rushing over to the driver's side of your car.

"Get in the car," he urges, and you're smart enough not to argue with him over this. He can tell you're biting your tongue as you get in the passenger's side of the car, not at all happy with him being the driver. Bucky turns on the ignition and speeds out of the industrial complex while others still scramble to get into their cars and do the same. He doesn't drive in the same direction as everyone else. Making a swift u-turn in the opposite direction everyone else is going. He ignores your protests directing him on which way to go and drives the car in the direction he left his. You don't know what he's doing until he ends up back in the secluded parking lot, parking right next to his car. There's no doubt you recognize it, having been in it more times than he can count. He shuts off the engine, making everything go quiet. There's only one streetlight working, the light flickering every so often making it even harder to see the cars past the foliage. If anyone were to drive by at this time of night, there's absolutely no chance you'd be seen.

The tension in the car is palpable, thick with everything left there is to say between you. Bucky's holding his breath like even his breathing could set you off at any moment.

"You can get out now," you say after a painfully long silence. "Not until we talk," Bucky sees the way the word spark that anger in you again. "I don't want to talk." Bucky shrugs, leaning back in the seat like he's got at all night to go back and forth, "That's too damn bad, 'cause I'm not leaving until we do." He pockets your keys in the chest pocket of his jacket, not giving you a chance to take them back.

"You're fucking unbelievable," you growl out, getting out of the car and slamming the door closed. You practically stomp your way to the other side, yanking the driver door open. "Get out," you grind out through gritted teeth.

"Don't want to."

"James."

You used his first name, clearly he's pushing you past your limits, and truthfully he doesn't want that. He just wants you to talk to him, that's all he wants. He wants to get to the bottom of whats going on with you in hopes he can help you in some way. So he gets out of the car, slower than you'd like him to, stepping to the side to give you enough room to look inside and notice your keys are missing.

"Barnes, give me my keys."

"Not until we talk."

"Are you serious?

"Deadly."

You let the door shut, before holding out your hand expectantly, ignoring his request. "Bucky give me back the keys, the car isn't mine. I have to take it back to Rumlow." Bucky's worry only grows at your words, "Why are you working for him? How did you get involved with him?"

"It's a long story."

"I got time."

"Well I don't."

You're at a stand still, neither of you willing to budge. But in the interest of moving things along, you're the first to break. "My ex got me into this mess alright? Now I gotta get myself out of it. It's that simple," you explain, but Bucky isn't satisfied with just that. "What mess?"

You take a deep breath before confessing, eyes lowering to the ground, "I dated Rumlow's cousin for about a year. I didn't know they were cousins back then, and I didn't know about the family business. He swiped some money from Rumlow and then disappeared. Since I was the girlfriend, Rumlow made me responsible for paying off the money my ex stole." At the revelation of your predicament, of you being taken advantage of, Bucky has to take a deep breath and reign in his anger before he takes his car over to Rumlow's and finishes off what the car wreck didn't.

"How much?" He's apprehensive to ask, but he needs to know. You shrug, "I don't know the exact amount. I just know it's in the six figures." Bucky's heart drops, blood running cold with dread, "Fuck, sweetheart," a beat passes as his head wraps around the amount of debt Rumlow's put you in, "How much do you have left to pay off?" You shrug again, "I don't know, Rumlow adds interest every time I race with one of his cars or some other bullshit reason. I don't think he's gonna let me go any time soon." His jaw clenches so tight, you'd think he's about to break a tooth.

"Let me go with you, let me talk to him," he says it not like he's asking you, but like he's letting you know in advance you're not doing this alone. You shake your head, refusing, "No, absolutely not."

"He knows me. I used to race against him all the time. Stop being so goddamn stubborn and let me help you." They weren't friends by any means, but there had always been a mutual respect between them.

"I don't want your help. I don't need your help." You deny, but Bucky isn't having any of that. "Yes you do. Look at you. You run away from home, you drop out of college, no one knows where you are, and Rumlow's got you racing and doing his dirty work." You bristle at being reminded of your situation. Like if it were the first time anyone's said it out loud and addressed it head on with you.

"And why do you give a fuck? I'm not your responsibility, Bucky," you spit out, making Bucky feel like he's back to square one with you. But this time, you've ran through the last of his patience. "Fuck, this isn't about that! I give a fuck because I care! I give a fuck because despite all these years you still mean everything to me! Because the thought of anything happening to you would actually kill me." His admission causes you to lock eyes with him and within yours he can see something is cracking, he's getting through to you.

"Shut up, and go," you whisper out the words weakly, but he shakes his head, "No. I'm not leaving you. Not again," he cups your face, brushing away a stray tear from your cheek, "I don't fully understand why you ran, although I can take a pretty good guess its got to do with that piece of shit…," a horrifying thought strikes him, "Is he threatening you?"

You tense in his hold, "Bucky drop it."

"He is, isn't he?"

Your silence is the only confirmation he needs.

A few things finally start connecting for him, "That's why your parents don't know where you are, why you barley contact them. Is he also why you and Becca stopped being friends?" The mention of Becca has you stepping out of grasp, his hands falling reluctantly to his sides, "Becca and I stopped being friends before that. So you don't have to worry about her being mixed up in this mess."

"So why did you? Is it because of us? Because of what happened between us?" He doesn't think he's ready for the answer. But he should know better by now that answers from you don't come easily.

"Nothing happened between us."

"No, don't brush it off like it meant nothing."

"Well I wouldn't be the first to do that."

There you go again being vague and cryptic—and sounding accusatory toward him when he doesn't even know what he did. "Are you saying that because of the whole mistake thing? You don't even know what I was actually going to say. You didn't even let me finish what I wanted to say back then. Not before you stormed out of my room and slammed that door in my face. Before you blocked me on everything and I couldn't even reach out to talk to you."

His grievances don't seem to move you, "Seems like you still haven't gotten the hint." Bucky doesn't know how many more of your dismissals he can take, so he decides to leave it all out in the open once and for all. "No I haven't, and I won't because I was so hopelessly in love with you and you left my room like what happened between us meant nothing to you. You left and took my heart with you. And now that I have it back I have some things I want to say to you."

His confession throws you off balance, stumbling over your own footing as you take a step back. But he's not letting you get away this time, he's saying his peace like it's the last time you two might ever speak. "That night scared the absolute shit out of me. Because it was the first time in my life I felt as alive as I do when I'm behind the wheel. The thought of you feeling the same way I did brought that out in me and I didn't know how to handle it, and that's on me."

"Bucky, please stop."

He doesn't.

"That morning, I was trying to tell you that deep down I knew I wasn't good enough for you. I was still getting my shit together, still trying to prove myself to people who didn't give a damn about me. But on the off chance that you felt the same way, I would've dropped everything for you. I would've pursued something that would've had me better off, something close to home, close to you. I would've done what I could to help you pursue your dreams and—" this time you don't cut him off with words, but with your lips crashing against his, hard and with purpose. Knocking the cap right off his head. He's taken by surprise, but when your lips press harder, insistent on not being ignored, he kiss you back. His hands landing at your waist to keep him grounded to you.

You pull away slightly out of breath, "I just wanted you to shut up," you tease, and Bucky takes in a shaky breath staring down at your lips like he wants another taste, "You wanna shut me up again?" You don't hesitate to take the invitation, kissing him again with a passion bordering on hunger. You're stumbling backwards, pulling him in as he's crashing full force into you, lips parting to let him fully in. You're making out, your back pressed against his car, as you pull sounds out from each other that echo in the night air. He takes a moment to tell you this conversation isn't over, but you quickly shush him with another kiss. The heat between you is growing quickly, and it's no surprise when you find yourselves stumbling into the backseat of his car to take things further.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, his body hovering over yours. One of his knees slots between your legs, deliberately pressing on your core causing you to whine. You can feel the way you've soaked through your panties and tights already. He helps you take off your leather jacket and matching shorts, and he can't help himself as he tears away at your tights, making you gasp. "Bucky, what the—" He kisses you, mumbling into your lips, "I'll buy you as many new pairs as you want, sweetheart." His answer seems to quell your annoyance for now.

His hand reaches down to rub you through your panties, finding out just how soaked you are for him. He grins wolfishly into the kiss, "Fuck, baby. Didn't know fighting with me would turn you on so much." His tease is met with a slap to his bicep, which only makes him press harder along your slit making you cry out. He kisses your lips one last time, trailing featherlight kisses to cheek and jaw, all the way down to your neck where he nips at the skin. His fingers brush upwards toward your sensitive bundle of nerves to continue his ministrations there.

You only let him have his way for a few more seconds before you're pushing impatiently at his chest. He's already dazed by just a few kisses from you, so when you tell him to sit back he listens without putting up a fight. He sits back in the seat, watching you with something close to devotion as you go to straddle his lap, bracketing his thick thighs with your legs. You strip him of his jean jacket and hoodie, throwing it on the car floor somewhere, raking your nails down his chest with just enough pressure to make him bite down on his lip, looking like he's moments away from coming undone.

You start to grind on him, making a mess of his sweatpants, but he doesn't care, it feels too good to care. His cock twitches beneath you and with the way you smirk at him he knows you felt it. You're making him go crazy, drunk on you, and you're living for every second of it.

One hand snakes it's way beneath your white tee to palm at your breasts, while the other grips your hip to press you down on him harder. A deep groan leaves his chest, and it mingles with your own as you crash your lips to his again, biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him whine. Your hips continue their grinding motion, leaving you both breathing heavily enough to start fogging up the windows of the car. One of your hands finds the back of his head and tugs at his hair, pulling his attention long enough to slip your other hands into his sweats, giving him a teasing squeeze that his seems stars with how hard he's holding back from coming undone so embarrassingly soon.

"Oh, fuck," a deep groan rumbles with his chest when you squeeze him again, "Wait, baby, I can't. I don't got a condom on me," he grabs your wrist to stop you, "Just let me make you feel good okay? Let tonight be all about you." He tries to coax you, his hand leaving your wrist to bring the attention back to your cunt when you swat his hand away. He pouts, confused as he watches you pull your white tee off and reach into your bra to grab a condom out it.

His eyes narrow at you, "Why the hell do you have that there?"

You huff, the jealousy in his tone not getting past you, "Don't ask what you don't wanna know, Barnes."

Whether or not he wants to pry into that detail, you don't let him. Making his breath catch in his throat as you tear the condom wrapper with your teeth—an action he found incredibly hot.

He takes himself out of his sweats, squeezing the base of his cock to get himself under control. He's already leaking as you hastily roll the condom down his length. You're getting yourself into position when he stops you. Your gazes meet, a questioning look in your eyes. "You sure about this? We can stop if you're not. It's okay." He assures you, needing you to confirm you really want this. When you realize what he's asking, you smile at him. Taking his lips in a softer kiss, one that conveys how sure you are of this happening. "I'm sure, Bucky. I want this."

That's all Bucky needed to hear.

He rubs your folds through your panties a few more times before his fingers hook into the fabric of your panties and push them to the side. He helps guide himself inside you as you lower yourself down on him, inch by inch. "Baby, you're squeezing the hell outta me—fuck," he curses under his breath, urging you to take it slow. He hasn't told you, but it's been a long time since it's been anything other than his hand and him. And he feels every bit of that longing as your walls squeeze him tighter the more of him you take.

"Sweetheart, you gotta give me a minute. I can't. I don't want this to end so soon," he's pleading with you, breathing heavily as the need to thrust up into you gets harder to restrain. You cup his face, making sure he's staring right into your eyes as you lower yourself completely. His breath his hot against your mouth as he gasps, the sound turn into a moan the second you start riding him. Not giving him any time to adjust as if this were your way of getting payback for the way he pushed your buttons all night.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he grits out, guiding your hips with his hands to move you in ways that have you both moaning out for each other. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him in for a makeout that's all tongue and teeth—messy and passionate all in one. Breathing each other in like the only source of air you need can be found within each other. And that's when Bucky feels it again, his heart soaring with how right this feels, just like the first time you slept together.

"I missed you, I—" he mumbles into your lips, but when you pick up your pace, he forgets what he was going to say. You've got him pussy drunk and wrapped around your finger—right where he wants to be.

He can tell he won't last much longer at this pace, and he needs you to come before he does. His hand goes to where you're connected, pressing circles onto your clit in the way he knows you like, making you mewl. "That's it baby, you're doing so good for me, pretty girl." His other hand grips you tighter, keeping you steady as he starts fucking up into you, meeting your hips. You whine at how deep he's going, one of your hands shooting out to the fogged up glass like that'll help anchor you. He can feel how close you are, so he doubles down, fucking up into you harder and increasing the pressure on your clit. "Come on, baby, give it to me. Let go, sweetheart, I got you," he whispers affectionately and wrecked, bringing you in for another kiss that undoes you. You come hard, crying out his name, and he follows suit, coming harder than he has in years. You got him seeing stars with the way your cunt squeezes him for all he's got.

You're both panting in the aftermath, his head resting against the backseat as he tries to catch his breath. Your head drops onto his shoulder, his hand gently rubbing at your back to help you with the aftershocks of your coupling. He kisses your temple reverently, whispering soft praises and sweet nothings as you both come down from your highs. For a few minutes, the car is quiet with a tranquility Bucky wasn't sure you two would ever get to again.

Your head rises from his shoulder, moments later, a dopey smile on your face. He laughs fondly, his hand rising to stroke your cheek affectionately, "You're so beautiful." He doesn't know if it's what he says or the way he said it, but your smile no longer reaches your eyes. It makes his heart squeeze in his chest uncomfortably.

"Everything okay?" He's looking you over to make sure you're okay, fearing he might've been a little rough with you. You clear your throat, wincing, "Yeah, it's just—I'm feeling a bit sure already." His eyes widen at that and he apologizes right away, helping you gently off of him as you both wince, sensitive at the disconnection.

You start redressing yourself, confusing him, but he didn't question you. He had hoped you two could stay together a little longer in the backseat, talk a few things out and just enjoy this pocket of happiness you had granted each other. But whatever spell you two were under seemed to be broken. And faster than Bucky could process it, you were already dressed and getting out of his car. He scrambled to clean himself up with what he had at his disposal, tucking himself back in his sweats and hastily slipping on his hoodie just as he heard the engine to your car turn on.

He gets out of his car, rushing over to you and knocking on the window for you to lower it. You do, staring at him in a way that he can't read, but it makes him uneasy nonetheless.

"You're leaving already?" Bucky can't hide the disappointment in his tone. You sigh, picking at a nonexistent thread on your jacket to keep your eyes somewhere that isn't on him. "I told you I have to return the car to Rumlow, it's not mine. He's got trackers on all his cars, so I have to return it before he comes looking for it."

"I can go with—"

"No, you'd only make things worse for me, okay? It's best if you just stay out of this."

He can't accept that, leaving you to deal with this on your own. Especially after being the only one who knows exactly how much trouble you're in. "I dont know how to help you, but I want to. Maybe I can't help, but maybe I can find someone who can."

"No, Bucky, just drop it," your tone made it clear you weren't budging from this. And maybe he couldn't make you budge on this now, but later, later he could fully convince you to let him help. "Fine, I will—for now. But, there's still some stuff I want to talk about," you give him a look and he's quick to dispel your apprehension, "Not now, I know you have to go. But later I'd like to have a proper talk. About us."

Something about you changes in this moment. Bucky can almost see it in the way you straighten up in the driver's seat, in the way your eyes glaze over with something deeply broken crawling it's way to the surface. Something meant to hurt him just as badly as he once hurt you.

"Us? Bucky, there is no us. Tonight… you were just an itch I had to scratch. Something I had to get out of my system, so thanks for that," your voice doesn't sound like your own when you say that. It sounds distant and cold, like you're trying your best to keep yourself together. However, the way in which you said certain things rings alarms bells inside his head. He's barley able to stutter out a reply when you pull back and drive off, leaving him in the dust of the engine fumes.

Those words. He's heard them before, but not from you, no, from his own mouth. He's replayed those words time and time again in his mind for the last six years. The things he once said to Sam way back then when he stupidly was trying to deny how he felt about you. You used those exact words against him tonight. It dawns on him, horrifically, that you heard him say that back then. Your anger and frustration—the heartbreak of that morning. It came from you thinking you weren't anything, but a one night stand for him.

And now youd done the same thing to him, as if trying to make things even. Maybe you had.

Bucky slumps against his car, sliding down it until he hits the floor. Pieces of a puzzle he could never solve slowly start clicking together until he gets a better picture of what happened. He had messed everything up like he feared he would. And it wasn't something he had done, it was something he had said. He wanted to kick himself for ever saying those things. If you were still angry at him all these years later, then you must have not heard the rest of the conversation. You only heard the part that broke your heart and made you hate him all this time.

Was there ever a possibility you would forgive him?

Could you forgive him?

Bucky doesn't know the answers to those questions, but what he does know is that he won't find out unless he tries to earn it.

a/n Well my darling barbies, you now have a choice to make. If you decide to not forgive Bucky, then your story ends here. If you decide to give him a second chance, then you're in luck! A part two is already in the works. Once again, comments and reblogs are so appreciated! ♡♡♡

bucky's dreamhouse | bucky masterlist | main masterlist | purple divider by @/cursed-carmine ݁⋆⭒˚.⋆