summary: For months, Bucky has looked forward to one thing: seeing his favorite camgirl live. He never expected to find her poolside in a white bikini... or discover that she's been flirting with him all summer long.
word count: <3.7k
warnings: +18 MDNI explicit sexual content, age gap, mutual pining, mutual obsession, voyeurism, mention of m and f masturbating, oral sex, face sitting, dirty talk, infidelity (reader has a boyfriend), porn with a little bit of plot, unprotected p in v. | english is ot my first language so I'm sorry in advance for any grammar mistakes or mistypos.
a/n: This request has been sitting in my inbox for months now (I'm truly sorry for the delay) I had to do a minor adjustment to the original one, since I've never posted my guidelines, but after talking with the lovely person who submitted it we came to this agreement ❤︎ as always a big thank you for my girls @herejustforbuckybarnes and @buckysdecaflove for beta reading.
read in AO3
Bucky's alone in his department, laptop open on the bed, his door locked even though no one's coming over. It's become a routine—every few nights, sometimes more, he finds himself here… waiting.
The notification pops up: StarryKitten is live.
He clicks immediately.
The stream loads, and there she is. No face, she never shows her face—just that perfect body in black lace, the camera angled to show everything from her neck down. She's on her knees on the bed, and even through the screen he can see how her skin would feel under his hands.
"Hi everyone," she says, and her voice—fuck, her voice is what hooked him in the first place. Soft and breathy and just a little teasing. "Missed me?"
The chat explodes. He watches the usernames scroll by, all desperate and pathetic, and then he types his own message.
oldsoul17: Always.
She laughs, and he swears, he can hear the smile in it. "Well, aren't you sweet."
He's been watching for months now. He found her by accident—late night, couldn't sleep, scrolling through sites he probably shouldn't be on. And then there she was. Something about her pulled him in and wouldn't let go. The way she moved, the sounds she made, the little freckle on her left hip that the camera caught sometimes when she shifted positions.
He's spent more money than he cares to admit. Tips, private requests, custom videos. He's become one of her regulars, and she knows it—she calls him out by the username he uses, thanks him specifically.
"I see you there, old soul," she says now, shifting onto her back. "That mean it's going to be a good night."
His hand is already on his belt.
She touches herself slowly, teasingly, and he follows every movement. He's memorized her body at this point—the curve of her waist, the way her hips roll, the little sounds she makes when she's getting close. He knows what she likes, what makes her gasp.
When she comes, he's right there with her, and afterward he sits there in the dark, heart pounding, feeling like a fucking creep.
He doesn't know who she is. Doesn't know her real name, her face, anything beyond what she shows on camera.
It's safer that way.
The July heat is brutal, but your dad's summer house has a pool, and you're taking full advantage. You're stretched out on a lounger in your new bikini—white, high-cut, the kind that shows off your legs and draws the eye.
Bucky's here this weekend. Your dad invited him up, something about work and fishing. You've known him for years—he's been your dad's friend and business associate since you were sixteen—but lately, something's shifted.
The way he looks at you has changed.
You've noticed it over the past few months. The lingering glances, the way his eyes track you when you walk into a room. The way he stands just a little too close, lets his hand rest on your lower back a second too long when he passes behind you.
You've started testing it, wearing shorter dresses, leaning over in front of him to grab something, brushing against him in hallways… just to see.
He always reacts. A sharp inhale, a tightening of his jaw; but he never acts on it.
You're starting to wonder what it would take.
"You want something to drink?" your friend calls from the pool.
"I'm good!" you call back, adjusting your position on the longer. You tug at the waistband of your bikini bottoms, pulling them a little higher, and that's when you feel it.
Someone's staring.
You glance toward the patio, Bucky's standing there, frozen, beer in hand. But he's not looking at your face, his eyes are locked on your hip, on the small exposed stretch of skin where your freckle is visible. His face goes completely still. You watch his throat works as he swallows, his knuckles white around the bottle. His eyes are dark, intense, and when they finally drag up to meet yours, there's something in them that makes your stomach flip.
He looks almost… stricken.
Then he turns abruptly and walks back inside.
You sit there with your pulse racing, wondering what the hell just happened.
The afternoon drags on. Your friends eventually leave, pilling into cars with promises to meet up next week. Your parents head out for their dinner reservation, and Bucky claims he's not feeling well, that he'll just stay back and relax.
"Make yourself at home"your dad says, clapping him on the shoulder.
The door closes. The house goes quiet.
You're in the kitchen, still in your bikini with denim shorts pulled over it, bare feet on the cool tile. You're pouring yourself water when you sense him behind you.
You turn, leaning back against the counter. "Hey. Feeling better?"
Bucky's standing in the doorway, and the way he's looking at you it's different from before.
"Yeah," he says, but his voice sounds restrained.
You take a sip of water, watching him over the rim of the glass. "You sure? You left pretty quick earlier."
"Just needed to cool off."
"It is hot," you agree, setting the glass down. You stretch, arching your back slightly, and you don't miss the way his eyes track the movement. "I might go for another swim later."
"You should put more clothes on."
The words come out harder than he probably meant. You tilt your head, playing innocent. "Why?"
"Because—" He stops. "Because your parents will be back soon."
"Not for hours." You push off the counter, taking a few steps toward him. "It's just us."
You watch him fight it. Watch the tension coil in his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to hear his breathing change.
"You should go upstairs," he says quietly.
"What if I don't want to?"
For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then you do something reckless—you reach up and adjust your bikini top, fingers grazing the tie at your neck, and his eyes follow the movement like he's starving.
"Shit," he mutters under his breath, turning away. "I—I'll be right back."
He disappears down the hall, and you hear a door close. The bathroom.
You bite your lip, because you know exactly what he's doing in there.
Bucky braces his hands on the sink, his head bowed, trying to breathe.
This was insane.
He knows that freckle. He's seen it dozens of times, hundreds, in videos and live streams and photos. Right there, just under the waistband of your left hip.
StarryKitten. You're the girl he's been watching for months, the one he's jerked off to more times than he can count, the one he's tipped thousands of dollars… you've been right here the whole time.
And you had no fucking idea he knows.
He's watched you parade around in those little outfits, leaning over in front of him, brushing up against him. You think you're just teasing your dad's friend. You don't know he's seen everything.
His cock is painfully hard against his jeans. He palms himself through the denim, groaning quietly. He shouldn't. He should get the fuck out of this house, drive back to the city, block your account and never think about this again.
But then he remembers the way you looked at him just now. The way you've stretched, arched your back, adjusted your bikini.
You want him.
Maybe not the way he wants you—you don't know about the months of watching, the obsession, the desperate need—but you want him.
He unbuckles his belt with shaking hands,.
Just once, just to take the edge off. Then he'll get his shit together.
He wraps his hand around himself and the relief is immediate. He braces against the sink with his other hand, eyes closed, and all he can see is you. In that white bikini, in those videos on your knees, on your back, touching yourself while saying his username.
"Fuck," he breathes.
It doesn't take long. He comes hard, biting back a groan, and in the aftermath he just stands there, forehead against the mirror, trying to catch his breath.
This can't happen.
But he knows deep down it's going to.
When Bucky comes back, his hair is damp like he splashed water on his face, and his eyes are darker than before.
"Better?" you ask innocently.
"No."
The honesty in his voice makes you shiver. You're standing in the living room now, the evening light slanting through the windows. The house feels huge and empty, but also full of possibilities.
"Your parents will be back soon," he says again, but it sounds less convincing this time.
"Two hours at least," you take a step closer. "Maybe three."
"You should—" He stops, exhaling roughly. "You don't know what you're doing."
"Don't I?"
You close the distance between you, and you can see him fighting not to back up, not to run. You're close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him, to see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
"I see the way you look at me," you say softly. "I've seen it for months now."
His hands curl into fists. "You're my best friend's daughter."
"I'm also an adult."
"You have a boyfriend."
"Do you care?"
The question hangs between you. His eyes are locked on yours, and you can see the war happening behind them.
"I should," he says finally. "But no, I don't."
Your heart is pounding. "Then why are you holding back?"
"Because I'm trying to be the responsible one between us."
You reach up and untie your bikini top. It falls away, and his eyes drop immediately, his breathing going ragged.
"There's no need to be responsible here," you whisper.
And that's all it takes. His hands are on you in a second, pulling you against him, and his mouth crashes down on yours. It's not gentle—it's months of build up tension breaking all at once, desperate and overwhelming. You kiss him back just as frantically, fingers tangling in his hair.
"We should go upstairs," you murmur against his lips.
He takes you to your room, and the second the door closes,he's on you again. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, sliding up your ribcage to cup your breasts. You're pulling at his shirt, desperate, and when it finally comes off you run your hands over his chest, his shoulders.
"I've wanted this for so long," he mutters, backing you toward the bed. "You have no fucking idea."
"Tell me," you breathe.
"Every time you walk into a room, every time you lean over in those little dresses, every time you brush against me—" He groans, his hand sliding into your hair. "I've thought about bending you over and making you mine."
"Do it."
He pushes you back onto the bed, and you land with a gasp. He's over you in a second, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his mouth on your neck.
"Do you know how perfect you are?" He murmurs against your skin. "How fucking gorgeous?"
His hands slide down to your shorts, and he makes quick work of the button and zipper. You lift your hips and he drags them off along with your bikini bottoms, and then you're completely bare beneath him.
"Christ," he breathes, his eyes raking over you. His hand slides up your inner thigh, and when his fingers finally touch you, he groans. "You're soaked."
"For you."
"Yeah?" He pushes one finger inside, and you arch into the touch. "All for me? Not for that little boyfriend of yours, huh?"
"Yes—fuck—Bucky—"
"That's it baby, say my name." He adds another finger, curling them just right, and you're already trembling. "Does that little punk makes you feel this good?"
You just can shake your head while he works you with his fingers, his thumb finding your clit, and you're already gasping and writhing beneath him. But before you can get too close, he pulls away.
"Not yet," he says, and there's something wicked in his smile. "I want to taste you first."
He moves down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hip—right over that freckle that started all of this. Then he's settling between your thighs and the first touch of his tongue makes you cry out.
He eats you out like a man starving, his hands grip your hips, holding you in place as his tongue works over you, and the sounds he's making—low groans of appreciation, like you're the best thing he's ever tasted—are almost as overwhelming as the sensation itself.
"Bucky—oh my god—"
"That's it," he murmurs against you. "Let me hear you, gorgeous. Let me hear how good I make you feel."
You're already so close, the tension coiling tight in your belly, but then he pulls back. Before you can protest, he's moving up the bed, lying on his back.
"Come here," he says. "I want you to ride my face."
"But I can suffocate you!"
"Get up here, sweetheart, it wasn't a question."
The command in his voice makes you move without thinking. You straddle his chest, thighs shaking, and he grips your hips and pulls you forward until you're positioned right over his mouth.
"Perfect," he breathes, and then he's pulling you down.
The sensation is overwhelming. His tongue is everywhere, licking and sucking and fucking into you, and his hands on your hips are guiding you to grind against him. You're gasping, one hand braced on the headboard, and the other tangled in his hair.
"Fuck—Bucky—that's so good."
He groans against you, the vibration making you jolt, and his grip tightens. He's relentless, working you higher and higher until you're shaking, until you can't hold back anymore.
"I'm gonna—oh god—I'm—"
"Come for me," he growls against you. "Come all over my face, kitten."
The nickname hits you like a shock. Your eyes fly open, but before you can process it, your orgasm crashes over you. You come with a cry, hips rolling against his mouth as he works you through it, licking up everything you give him.
When you finally slump forward, trembling, he eases you off and you collapse next to him on the bed, your chest heaving.
"What—" you start, but your voice won't work. "Did you just—did you call me—"
He sits up, and when you see his face—lips swollen, chin wet—your stomach flips. "StarryKitten," he says, and his voice is pure gravel. "That's you, isn't it?"
Your heart stops. "How did you—"
"This freckle." He reaches out, thumb brushing over the spot on your hip. "I've seen it before, dozens of times, in your videos."
Oh god. "You're oldsoul17," you whisper.
"Yeah," he moves over you again. "I've been watching you for months, baby, touching myself to your videos. Tipping you, messaging you… and the whole time, it was you."
You should be embarrassed. Mortified even, but instead heat floods through you. "Bucky—"
"I've wanted you for so long," he mutters, his fingers rolling your nipple, making you arch into his touch. "Both versions of you. The girl who walks around here in those little dresses, teasing me. And the girl on my screen who makes the sweetest sounds when she comes."
His other hand finds your other breast, and he's playing with both now, watching your face as you writhe beneath him.
"I've watched you touch these," he says. "Watched you pinch and tease yourself. But I've always wanted to be the one doing it."
"Then do it," you breathe.
He leans down and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and you cry out. His hand continues working the other, pinching and rolling, and the dual sensation is overwhelming. He switches sides, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, and you're already getting wet again. But you need to touch him too.
You push at his shoulders, and he pulls back, confused. "What—"
"My turn," you say, and push him onto his back.
"Baby—"
"You've watched me," you say, moving down his body. "Now let me show you what I can do in person."
You settle between his thighs, and up close, he's even more impressive. Hard and thick, already leaking. You wrap your hand around him, and the groan he lets out makes you clench.
"You don't have to do this—" he grits out, but his his jerk against your touch.
"I want to," you stroke him slowly, base to tip, and lean down to press a kiss to the head. "I want to taste you."
You take him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue, and his hand immediately tangles in your hair.
"That's it," he mutters. "Just like that."
You take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and the sounds he's making are even better than you imagined. Low groans and muttered curses and your name over and over. You work him with your mouth and hand together, finding a rhythm, paying attention to what makes him grip your hair tighter, what makes his thighs tense. You pull off to lick along the underside, tracing the vein, and he nearly comes off the bed.
You take him deeper again, and his control starts to slip. His hips rock up slightly, and you relax your throat, letting him.
"Look at you," he groans, propping himself up on his elbows to watch. "So fucking perfect with your lips wrapped around me. I've imagined this, but nothing compares to the real thing."
You moan around him, and the vibration makes him curse. You can feel him getting close, his cock pulsing against your tongue, and you double your efforts.
"I'm close, you don't have to—"
But you want to. You want to taste him, feel him come apart because of you. You take him as deep as you can and swallow, and that's all it takes.
He comes with a shout, hips jerking, and you take everything he gives you. When you finally pull off, you look up at him through your lashes, and the look on his face is of someone absolutely wrecked.
"Come here," he growls.
You crawl up his body, and he pulls you into a filthy kiss, tasting himself on your tongue. His hands are on your breasts again immediately, kneading and teasing, and you're so turned on you're trembling.
"I need you inside me," you whisper against his mouth. "Please, Bucky—"
"Greedy girl," he mutters, but he's already hardening again. "Want more already?"
"Always."
He flips you onto your back, settling between your thighs. His mouth finds your breast again, sucking and biting while his hand works the other. You're writhing beneath him, desperate for more.
"Bucky— fuck—I need—"
"I know, I know sweet girl."
He lines himself up and pushes in slowly and the stretch is perfect and overwhelming. You grip his shoulders, nails digging in, and he groans against your neck.
"You feel incredible," he grits out. "So tight and wet."
He starts to move, slow and deep, and every thrust makes your toes curl. His mouth finds yours, kissing you deep and filthy while he fucks you into the mattress. One hand is braced by your head, but the other finds your breast again, rolling your nipple between his fingers.
"You're so perfect," he mutters against your lips. "My good girl, taking me so well."
"Faster, please—"
He shifts the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You're gasping and moaning and he's talking you through it.
"That's it, baby. Let me hear you. Let me hear those sounds you make. I've heard them through my speakers for months, but this—" He thrusts harder, deeper. "This is so much better."
"Oh god— please—"
"You're close, aren't you? I can feel you getting tighter." He pinches your nipple again, and you cry out. "You gonna come for me, kitten? Gonna come all over my cock like a good girl?"
"Yes—yes—Bucky"
"Come on, let me feel this perfect pussy squeeze me."
Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave. You cry out, back arching, and he fucks you through it, his rhythm getting rougher, more desperate. The hand on your breast slides down to grip your hip, fingers pressing into that freckle that gave you away.
"You're so fucking perfect when you come." He mutters before burying himself deep and groaning your name as he comes, and the feeling of him spilling inside you sends another wave of pleasure through you.
After, you're tangled together in the sheets, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back. Your breasts are pressed against his chest, still sensitive from all the attention, and every time you shift you feel the pleasant ache.
"Your parents," he says eventually. "They'll be back soon."
"I know."
"This is insane."
"I know."
He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. "I'm not done with you yet."
Your stomach flips. "Good."
"This isn't a one-time thing," he says, and there's something fierce in his voice. "Now that I have you, I'm not letting you go."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you're mine now." His hands slides from your breast down to your hip, over your freckle. "Secret. No one else gets to know. Not your boyfriend, not your parents…"
You should feel guilty. Your boyfriend, your parents, the risk. But all you feel is a thrill running through you.
"Okay," you whisper.
He kisses you again, slower this time. You can feel him hardening against your thigh again.
"Again?"
"I've waited months for this," he says before rolling you onto your back. "I'm not wasting a single second."
And he doesn't.
By the time you hear your parents' car I the driveway two hours later, you've come three more times, and you can barely walk straight. But you both know this is just the beginning.
RAW & OLDER
(ex)boyfriend’s dad!bucky barnes x female!reader [14.4k]
— ⟢ SUMMARY: you catch your boyfriend cheating on you with another girl at your neighbour’s halloween party. bucky barnes, his hot and thoughtful dad, is ready to take care of your broken heart.
— ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; she/her pronouns for reader; mentions of reader's family; reader wears a skirt and makeup; original characters; age gap (reader’s in her mid 20s; bucky's 40+); cheating; light angst; emotional hurt/comfort; lots of praises and pet names; smut; size difference; soft dom!bucky; slight jealousy; slightly possessive!bucky; big dick bucky organization (🙂↕️); dirty talk; nipple play; oral (f receiving); fingering; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); mention of reader being on the pill; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; riding; caught in the act (the ex boyfriend overhears them 🤪).
A/N: I was too excited to wait until tomorrow, this was my first dilf!bucky story after all 😭 hope you'll enjoy!
The retail store is too bright and colorful compared to the stormy sky outside.
You and your friends have been coming here ever since middle school. Back then, Yelena’s older sister was the only one with a driver’s license, piling all of you into her car to take you wherever you wanted to go. Halloween has always been your favorite excuse to spend time together, with Kate opening her doors for your annual sleepover: a night of mildly scary movies, gossip about the cutest guys in town, and enough junk food to leave all of you clutching your stomachs by midnight.
By the time you started high school, your older neighbor’s extravagant Halloween party had become the talk of the town. Hosted in her massive mansion, it was the kind of event people counted down to months in advance. You’d never considered yourself much of a party girl, but it was the perfect excuse to dress up and show off the elaborate costumes you and your friends spent weeks planning.
When college began, the four of you ended up scattered across different universities around the state. Nearly a year passed without shared laughter in the canteen and a morning dose of tight hugs to begin your days, until you finally agreed to reunite this October. It would probably be the last chance for you four to meet for a long time. With everyone caught up in their own schedules and studies, moments like this had become rare, that’s why you were determined to make the most of these three days together.
The store looks exactly the same as it did ten years ago: fake cobwebs dangling from the white ceiling, evil-looking pumpkins staring down at customers from the shelves, racks of masks and toys that once felt endless. Now, you swear everything seems smaller than it used to be.
The air still smells of dust and cheap plastic. Strangely, it’s that sharp, chemical tang coming from the latex masks lining the walls that makes the place feel so familiar.
The first room is completely devoted to rows and rows of children’s toys, while the second—normally a storage space—is crammed with costumes and accessories messily thrown together. From the ceiling, a dozen paper bats sluggishly sway in the cold draft slipping through the old windows, while somewhere on the counter, a motion-sensor witch clutches a plastic pumpkin-shaped bowl of sweets, cackling like a banshee every time someone reaches for a piece. The sagging orange letters spelling HAPPY HALLOWEEN are stuck to the front of the counter, crooked and peeling at the edges, and you’re pretty sure the owner has left them there all year round since you can remember.
The store definitely looked scarier and quieter when you were younger, the fact that it’s located in an isolated area of the town near the woods didn’t really help. Now, it’s just the kind of place that tries too hard to be spooky, only to end up looking a little tacky.
Wanda has been wearing a perpetual scowl since she started browsing through racks of angel wings and synthetic, overly lavish princess gowns, searching for something less glittery and darker. A few rows over, Yelena tries to give you a heart attack by silently hovering behind you, switching between different clown masks each time you turn around. Kate, on the other hand, is determined to find a Wednesday Addams costume—she’s been completely obsessed with the show lately.
You already have your outfit at home: a short skirt and a lace top paired with sparkling boots, the colors an homage to your favorite Barbie doll. You’re still bitter about missing Rachel’s Halloween party because of the chickenpox you caught from Kate in senior year. You had everything ready down to the smallest detail, that Barbie costume was flawless. Instead, you spent the night in fleece pajamas, curled under the covers as you peeked from behind your pillow at Art the Clown mauling people on screen, while the muffled music from the neighboring mansion made your walls vibrate.
Still, you decided to tag along for old times’ sake.
“Black or maroon?” Wanda holds up two identical dresses.
Kate hums, absently twirling a wig between her fingers as she studies the fabric. “Black.”
“Maroon,” you say without looking up, inspecting a bloodstained lab coat before placing it back on the rack with a grimace. “It suits your hair.”
“Lena?” Wanda turns to the blonde, who’s currently trying to stab her own palm with a fake knife to test how real it feels.
“Is that even a question?” She lifts her eyebrows, gaze landing on her dark red coat.
“I know, but it looks cute in both colors.” Wanda hesitates, eyes flicking between the dresses before finally putting the black one back with a sigh. “Alright, I’m done. Have you found anything interesting?”
“I can’t believe they don’t have a Wednesday costume,” Kate frowns, rifling through plastic bags for the third time. “It’s like, one of the most popular shows ever.”
“You know online shopping exists, right?” Yelena shoots back, tossing the knife into a display bin. “Just buy a black dress with a white collar.”
“But I wanted the school uniform, not some generic dress.”
The blonde rolls her eyes, already fiddling with a pair of popping-eye glasses.
“Hey, is Nathan coming to the party?”
You flinch, almost dropping the fake vampire teeth in your hand, not expecting Wanda standing so close beside you.
“Yeah. He has some things to take care of at his apartment first, so he’ll meet us at Rachel’s house.”
A disgusted ugh echoes behind you, and that makes your lips curl into a small smile despite the clear vitriol on the blonde’s features.
It’s no secret that Yelena can’t stand your boyfriend, Nathan. They’ve only met once, but that was enough for him to immediately pick up on her dislike. He often tried to get an explanation out of you, but you always brushed it off, claiming that your friend is just like that.
In truth, you know exactly why every word coming out of his mouth sounds like a fork scraping against a plate to her ears.
During the first months of your blooming relationship, Nathan had a habit of disappearing, ignoring your messages for days—sometimes for an entire week—only to come back with grand gestures as if nothing had happened. It left you confused and anxious, and Yelena more than anyone spent entire nights on the phone trying to calm you down, warning you about how unreliable he was. After a while, you convinced yourself he was just the type to get bored easily, the kind of guy who discards the “old toy” the moment a new, shinier one comes along.
Then, just before Christmas, he stood at your dorm room door with the biggest bouquet of flowers you had ever received, and an apology on his lips. He explained—almost shamefully—that his behavior stemmed from his parents’ toxic relationship. He didn’t go into details, only that their divorce had been messy, something that left him with a warped sense of commitment. Still, he insisted he liked you, that he was finally ready for something real.
Yelena had been furious. Not only did you let him off far too easily, but there had been little to no groveling—nowhere near enough to make up for the emotional whiplash he’d put you through. She was certain, deep down, that he would hurt you again someday. And your best friend didn’t want to see you that miserable ever again, especially for an asshole like Nathan.
You can’t really blame her for feeling so strongly. She was the one who comforted you during those sleepless nights, listening as you tried to make sense of his sudden distance when everything had seemed to be going so well.
It’s not like she brings it up all the time, but whenever his name comes up, she can’t help slipping in a sarcastic remark or two—ones that, despite yourself, make you laugh.
“Oh, so Casper finally decided to show up.”
That’s another thing: she refuses to call him by his name. Back when you used to cry over him, she’d come up with ridiculous nicknames just to lighten the mood. Casper is the latest, because of how little you see him these days. Always busy, always somewhere else. Fleeting like a ghost.
“His professors are giving him hell, cut him some slack, Lena. He’s practically living in the library nowadays.” Wanda glances at you with quiet sympathy, nodding along as you speak. “I always tell him to text me when he gets home, but some days he’s so exhausted he forgets. And the few times he does remember, it’s like three in the morning.”
Yelena’s eyebrows lift at your explanation. For once, though, she doesn’t argue. She just shakes her head with a resigned half-smile.
You met Nathan at the beginning of your first academic year. He and his dad had just moved to your hometown; apparently, his father had grown tired of the chaos of the city and decided to start working from home. Home, in this case, meant his mother’s hometown—the place where Mr. Barnes’ parents met years ago, during a summer visit to their relatives. After marrying, they moved to New York and never really came back.
When the divorce happened, Nathan stayed with his father and eventually enrolled in the nearest university to remain close. Once your relationship grew more serious, the two of you started traveling back and forth together, mostly because he had a shiny, fully functioning car, unlike you. And that’s when he finally introduced you to his dad, James Buchanan Barnes.
Now, Nathan is undeniably handsome and after meeting Mr. Barnes, you can clearly see where he gets his looks from. The difference is... his father is on another level. It’s not just that he’s handsome. The man is hot. Yes, there are streaks of white in his beard, and crow’s feet appear whenever his smile softens his features—but those details don’t take away from his looks. If anything, they only make him more attractive.
He’s big, too: broad-shouldered, towering over you with an ease that’s both intimidating and… not unwelcome. And he’s a real gentleman. Every time you stayed over for lunch or dinner, he served you first, firmly refusing to let you lift a finger, insisting his son is more than capable of cleaning up after himself.
The first time he pulled out a chair for you, your heart dropped straight to your stomach.
Since February, your boyfriend has been buried in projects and assignments, and you’ve often gone back home alone. Because of that, you stopped visiting Mr. Barnes—it didn’t feel right showing up when Nathan wasn’t there.
That is, until you ran into the older man at the local supermarket one day, and after his usual gentle hug, he looked at you with his kind, blue eyes, his voice as warm as a cup of hot, creamy chocolate, “You know you’re welcome to visit anytime, right? It doesn’t matter if Nathan’s home or not.”
Despite your initial hesitation, you went. And then you went again. More times than you’d like to admit.
Conversations with him drift so effortlessly from ridiculous stuff he sees on the internet yet doesn’t quite understand, to more serious topics. At some point, you even started confiding in him. No matter the problem, Bucky always seems to know exactly what to say to soothe your worries. More than anything, he treats you like an equal, an adult. He doesn’t tiptoe around your age, or reduce your personality to his son’s girlfriend. With him, you’re just… you.
It’s almost unsettling, when you think about it—how often he’s been there for you compared to your boyfriend. Nathan replies late, often too late. There’s always an excuse: a project he still has to finish, a study session that ran too late, outings at the bar with friends he supposedly never sees. The times you try to ask about his day, he brushes it aside, steering the conversation back to you after a two-word response, until eventually he disappears again for hours.
At first, you had your doubts, and you hate yourself a little for it now.
You never told anyone—not even your closest friends—but once, you went to his faculty library. Not to spy, you told yourself. Just to... check, to make sure he was actually there.
And he was. Completely absorbed in his books.
You left with shame burning hot on your cheeks. That night, when he texted you to let you know he was home, you couldn’t even bring yourself to reply. The guilt only got worse when you realized how often your thoughts drifted to Mr. Barnes throughout your days. Over something small, like seeing a cat minding its own business in the streets—because he once told you he used to feed the strays when he was a kid, but his chance to adopt one of his own is now long gone since Nathan is allergic—or when you need advice on an assignment. He’s always there. Even when he’s busy, Mr. Barnes still takes the time to send a quick message, apologizing for delayed replies. You told him he didn’t have to do that, you understood he had work, responsibilities... Yet he just smiled and kept putting you first anyway.
During one of your weekly video calls, Kate asked about Nathan, mentioning she hadn’t seen him in the background for a while. You brushed it off pretty quickly, explaining how busy he’s been with his studies, and the conversation ended there.
Later, while talking about food, you casually mentioned a restaurant Mr. Barnes had recommended. He’d made a habit of suggesting places he’d tried with his colleagues, knowing how much you and your friends enjoy exploring new cuisines together.
The silence that followed was mortifying.
Your gaze slowly lifted from the blanket you were knitting to find your friends staring at you, half amused, half shocked. Promptly waving off their nosy questions, you insisted you just saw each other from time to time. That he’s kind, funny, easy to talk to. Still, they teased you about having a tiny crush on your boyfriend’s dad.
The joke got out of hand the following week, when you accidentally admitted the blanket you were working on was for him—Mr. Barnes had discovered your hobby and casually mentioned that he’d love to have something made by you some day.
Yelena nearly lost her mind. At one point, she actually dropped to her knees in front of her phone, dramatically begging you to leave Nathan and just sleep with his dad.
You awkwardly laughed it off, your face burning as you resisted the urge to hang up and disappear under your covers.
In the end, Wanda stepped in, declaring there was nothing wrong with being friends with your very attractive almost-father-in-law. That helped… a little. Because you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just two adults who get along, who often text each other for hours between a good morning and a good night. Who share an occasional cup of tea when you’re back in town that promptly turns into you staying for dinner because he is a great cook and always has a new recipe he found on Pinterest that made him think of you.
It just so happens he’s your boyfriend’s father.
You do like Nathan—a lot. And he wants you just as much. You’ve been together for two years now, for fuck’s sake! Life just… gets in the way sometimes. Things will settle down once he graduates in winter and you both understand where you want to go from there.
Every relationship has its ups and downs.
This is just a rough patch.
This year, your neighbor truly outdid herself. Rachel was the ultimate popular girl: indulgent parents, cheer captain of the only high school in town, and glossy dark waves that every girl tried so desperately to imitate. Everyone wanted to be her, but few had the privilege of sitting at her table. She wasn’t the stereotypical mean girl—just ambitious and filthy rich. Her pretty features had sharpened since the last time you saw her. After enrolling in one of the most prestigious law schools in the country, many thought her days of excessive drinking and wild nights were behind her.
Apparently not.
The rumors of her Halloween parties had spread far beyond your town. Everyone counted on her keeping the tradition alive, and now she returns each year, bringing more and more people with her, to host the biggest party in the county.
One look at the claustrophobic living room, now a dance floor, makes your lungs constrict, the strobe lights not helping at all as they blind you while flashing across the sticky floors. Costumes blur together: you saw at least a dozen demons, three cowboys, and Rachel and her two best friends as the iconic Plastics. Though every time you think you see the flash of Nathan’s leather jacket, it turns out to be a stranger. He had texted an hour ago that he’d just parked, having thrown together a leather biker jacket and black trousers to pass as Danny Zuko from Grease, but so far, no sign of him.
Laughter ripples through Rihanna’s Disturbia from a group leaning against the kitchen counter, the walls of the lavish mansion rattling along the pulsing bass. Someone spills a drink in front of you, narrowly missing your top. Your temples pulse with an excruciating headache when a group of guys holler like animals after completing a keg stand: they each wear a plastic bag with a condom sign attached to their chest, hugging each other in victory. Yet you can’t help but imagine how Nathan would’ve laughed at the scene.
Right. Nathan. Where the fuck is he?
“Hey!” Your shoulders jump at the shout over the beginning of Thriller. Yelena and Wanda appear at your sides, pulling you toward the open patio windows overlooking the huge backyard without much ceremony.
“Have you seen Nathan?” You ask while scanning the crowd by the punch bowls.
“Nope.” Yelena mutters something else under her breath, but you decide to ignore it. It must be another one of her tailored nicknames for your boyfriend.
The cold air sharply hits your face as they lead you outside, goosebumps prickling your skin.
“Why are we here? It’s freezing and I still need to find Nathan. He got here an hour ago and—”
“I’m starving!” Wanda cuts in, practically skipping across the grass. “C’mon, they’re grilling sausages! Hot dogs! Want one?”
You squint at her, confused. Her rambling is classic Wanda, nervous energy spilling out at a mile a minute.
“Wanda, stop, for fuck’s sake.” Yelena snaps, planting her feet on the ground firmly.
“What’s going on?” You glance back and forth between the two of them, but they are too busy staring each other down to acknowledge you, a silent conversation you can’t follow unfolding in frowns too subtle to catch.
Wanda shakes her head, addressing you with a polite, closed-lip smile. “It’s nothing. Let’s just eat.” She reaches for your hand, but you step back, glancing at the other.
“What’s going on, Lena?” Her jaw clenches.
“There’s no need to make a scene right now.” Wanda hisses.
“There’s no need—” The blonde sputters outraged. “This is fucking insane, what is your problem?”
You step between them, grabbing their wrists. “Hey! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, guys, but I need you to calm down and tell me what’s up.” You bark. “Kinda feeling left out here.” Your attempt to lighten the mood is entirely overlooked as Wanda tilts her head, silently begging the blonde to be patient.
“She deserves to know.” Yelena grits out.
“Not now! It’ll just make things worse for her.”
“You think it’s better if we wait?”
The argument draws a few stares from the patio. Kate, watching from the door, clumsily invents a story about a lost lipstick to defuse tension, quickly making her way to you as most people shrug and return to their drinks.
The air suddenly feels heavier, tension crawling up your spine and settling in your shoulders.
“Someone tell me what the fuck is happening. Right now.” Your voice shakes despite your effort to stay calm. “Is Kate okay? Did Nathan do something?”
Yelena simply exhales a long breath, pushing her tongue into her cheek in annoyance. Wanda takes your hand at once, her eyes pleading.
“It’s not about Kate. She’s fine. We’ll explain later, okay?”
“No,” you snap, wrenching your wrist free. “Explain now.”
Yelena huffs. “You’re just making it worse.”
Wanda’s auburn hair swings as she faces her, her voice turning serious. “Me? We know you hate his guts, Lena. You’ve been waiting for him to fuck up since the moment they started dating. But could you please put your fucking ego aside for once and think about her wellbeing? We’re in the middle of a party and you’re ruining her night.”
“Oh! I am ruining her night? You have been kissing his ass since the very beginning. And you talk about my fucking ego? You’re such a bi—”
“I saw Nathan upstairs making out with a girl!” The words pierce through the booming music like thunder.
Yelena and Wanda go abruptly still, all their annoyance vanishing at once as they slowly turn to face you with wide eyes. Kate is standing behind you, half-squirming as she watches you with something akin to desperation.
The ominous pit of nervousness you’ve been carrying in your stomach for the last hour suddenly doesn’t feel so irrational.
“I’m so sorry.” Kate whispers after a heavy pause, fingers fidgeting.
“Upstairs… where?” The words taste bitter on your tongue.
“In one of the bedrooms. The one closest to the bathroom.” She looks mortified, unable to meet your gaze.
You shove past her before you can even fully digest what’s going on, barreling through drunk students and ignoring their startled stares.
The strobe lights fracture the room into flashes of color—violet, red, sickly white—laughter spiking through the air in uneven bursts. The sharp tang of beer clings to everything, mixing with the artificial sweetness of fake fog that curls low around your ankles. It should feel alive, electric. Instead, it dulls to a distant, muffled hum as Kate’s words settle heavy and cruel deep in your chest.
Step after step, heavier than the last, your chest tightens, each breath catching halfway in, sharp and fast. For a moment, it feels like the world simply... pauses. It’s just you and the growing ache in your throat, threatening to spill over.
You hear Yelena screaming your name as you burst into the bedroom on the left. It’s empty, dark, and the bed is intact. Heart hammering painfully against your ribs, you storm into the next room, scaring a couple of people lingering nearby for a moment of intimate quiet. The door slams against the wall with a splintering bang, and in that moment you swear your heart stutters—one missed beat, maybe two—before it kicks back in, pounding wildly like it’s trying to break free. The sound rushes up into your ears, a violent, dizzying thrum that makes your head spin.
You stand there, frozen in the doorway, not knowing whether to scream, to run, or to crumple right there and let the floor open up and swallow you whole.
Maybe throwing up seems the best option as you take in the disgusting scene before you.
Nathan turns, confused by the sudden commotion. A girl is straddling him, but the light is too dim to recognize her, though you can clearly see how her skirt is bunched at her hips, exposing her lower half. The moment his eyes meet yours, he roughly shoves her away, causing her to squeal as she falls on the other side of the bed. Nathan’s weak voice calls out your name, but you are already turning away.
The scene is quite pathetic, Yelena thinks, as Nathan clumsily tries to run after you, but he keeps stumbling into the pants creased around his ankles.
“Wait—fuck, baby wait! It’s not what it looks like!” He shouts as he runs in the living room, fingers clumsily trying to zip up his pants.
“Shut up, Barnes.” Yelena’s voice cuts sharp from the stairs, Wanda and Kate close behind her. The music fades further, letting nearby partygoers witness the drama.
With a sharp inhale, you stop right in the entryway, fingers curling into fists at your sides to steady the chaos inside you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction to see you cry.
In the spur of the moment, you decide to turn around, lips parted to tell him to go to hell, but a shriek erupting from the top of the stairwell stops you.
“You’re an asshole!” The girl stands there, mascara smeared and skirt hastily pulled down.
“Jesus Christ.” Wanda tiredly rubs the bridge of her nose.
The girl’s face seems familiar, but you can’t place her. Maybe she used to go to high school with you? One of the many forgettable faces of your past.
“You’re a fucking liar, Nathan Barnes. You promised you’d tell her about us. You promised me you’d leave her.”
Someone in the crowd gasps, but it barely registers.
“What the fuck, Nathan?” You grimace, repulsion tightening your chest.
“I—I didn’t…” His voice falters, head turning back and forth between the two of you, a mix of shame and panic flashing across his features.
“I’ll tell you what he did, since he’s too much of a coward.” The girl interrupts, slowly stepping down the stairs. “We’ve been dating since March and he kept promising me he’d break up with you. He told me he did it as soon as he got here... But apparently it was just another lie.” She throws him a look of disdain, arms crossed to her chest.
Since March.
He’s been dating another girl for eight months. No. He’s been cheating on you with another girl for eight months.
The floor crumbles under your feet.
The constant busyness, the unanswered texts, the lack of intimacy, all the weekends you decided to come back here and he never once seemed to care about tagging along, not even texting you to make sure you had safely arrived, knowing your car is literally a jalopy.
The image of her straddling him flashes behind your eyes over and over again, cold sweat rushing down your back as you realize how many times they have acted like that undisturbed, how Nathan was about to have sex with her while his girlfriend was in the same house, waiting for him downstairs.
You refuse to meet some stranger’s pitiful eyes, or worse… their small smirk, the amusement dancing in their eyes. Somewhere nearby, people keep laughing, dancing, kissing, while you stand there, in front of the person you wasted two years of your life on, feeling like the butt of a scornful joke.
Guilt has been eating you alive since you doubted his words that day, yet he has been betraying your trust all along. Something shatters inside you at the realization that maybe everything you shared at first—the whispered plans for traveling the world together, the way his hands always found yours under the table, the warmth of him wrapped around you late at night—was never real at all.
You feel exposed, far beyond anything physical. The rawest parts of you burn under all these curious eyes, laid bare in a way you can’t hide from. You need to cover yourself, to disappear behind something—anything—a blanket, a jacket, a closed door.
Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you force out one last question.
“All the assignments, the projects—were they real at all? Or were they just a cover to fuck another girl behind my back?”
Nathan opens his mouth but doesn’t answer. His pleading brown eyes only stoke the fire in your veins, looking at you like he deserves your sympathy.
Shaking your head, you sprint toward the door, ignoring your friends’ desperate calls of your name. They try to reach you, but there’s too many people gathered there to watch the scene like a movie. By the time Yelena, Wanda, and Kate get to the front yard, you’ve long vanished into the dark.
Yelena curses out loud in Russian, stomping back inside to give that asshole a piece of her mind, and Wanda and Kate can only hurry after her, trying to stop the blonde from sending Nathan to the hospital.
Walking in the biting October cold clears your mind a little, even as the tears keep flowing. You hadn’t even noticed them until you had to slow down, your feet hurting in those damn boots. Sniffling, you keep your head down; despite being alone in the dark, that mix of humiliation and disbelief still makes your skin burn in shame. You didn’t do anything wrong, yet thoughts of how stupid you’ve been cloud your mind.
How could you have been so blind? All the signs were there, and you chose to ignore them.
That girl… she went to your university, which is why she felt so familiar. She’s pretty, you can’t deny it. And yet, was that enough for you to deserve that? Was she funnier than you? More caring? Better in bed? What were you lacking? You’ve always considered yourself average-looking—decent, sure, but not someone guys have ever fought over. You flirted, went on a few dates, but it never went beyond that. Maybe someone had a crush on you at some point, but you never knew.
It hurt your confidence, of course, but then Nathan happened, and that was your first mistake, probably—tying your self-worth to the way he treated you.
And now you can’t even go home and cry yourself to sleep. Kate was the only one with a purse, so you left all your belongings with her, except for your phone since you were waiting for Nathan to text you.
Going back is not an option, it feels like walking into a cage full of starving lions, especially since Nathan will probably be there still—either with her, or already laughing the whole thing off. She didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by his betrayal. If you were in her place, you’d be questioning him, wondering if you’d be on the other side as well someday.
You’ve seen it before. Your aunt was miserable after forgiving her cheating husband. He begged, cried, swore it was a moment of weakness. She was too busy with her job and he needed her, that’s how he justified himself.
So he fell into another woman’s vagina.
Your mom refused to speak to her for a while after her decision to not divorce him. Your dad then eventually convinced her to change her mind: that good-for-nothing was likely to do it again, and she couldn’t risk leaving her sister alone and vulnerable. Four months later, your aunt came home early from a work trip to surprise him—but she was the one whose heart fell to her feet.
He was in their bed with one of her closest friends.
After witnessing and experiencing that kind of pain first-hand, you can’t bring yourself to wish the same hurt on her. Even if she knew Nathan was already taken, even if she willingly started a relationship with him. But why would a single girl like her worry about your relationship when your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—didn’t seem to care in the first place?
You sigh, thinking of your parents. They’re out of town for your dad’s birthday. You can’t call them at one in the morning to tell them what happened. It wouldn’t be fair; you know they’d drop everything to come home if they knew and you can’t ruin the rare time they decide to treat themselves. After working so hard, this trip is the only moment of peace they are willing to indulge in once a year.
The back of your hand brushes over your raw cheeks in a useless attempt to clean yourself a little, tears still clouding your vision as you stare down at your phone screen, your finger hovering over that one contact that could save you, but shame pins you in place.
How can you face Mr. Barnes? Calling him now doesn’t just mean worrying him, but also possibly interrupting his night with… well, a woman. He’s a single, attractive man with a big house all to himself. Nathan was supposed to stay over, so who knows what the older man had planned for tonight?
It also means telling him about what happened.
The possibility of him defending his son makes a lonely tear slide down your cheek. No, Mr. Barnes would never justify a cheater. He’s too smart, too emotionally intelligent for that, even if the cheater in question is his own child.
Taking a deep breath, your mind races, torn between desperation and hesitation. The thought of disturbing him like a little kid makes you want to crawl into a hole and never get out, but it’s freezing outside and you are starting to not feel your toes. Your finger trembles with indecision above the screen, until reflex takes over. It presses the call icon.
You gasp, quickly bringing the phone to your ear when it immediately comes alive with his muffled voice.
“Sweetheart? Are you okay? Do you need something?” His deep, serene voice eases the wild thumping in your chest at once.
Right, another thing about Mr. Barnes. He calls you sweetheart, and seldom, other cute pet names slip by that make your traitorous heart flutter and your cheeks burn.
When you sniffle, he calls your name urgently.
“Are you busy?” You swallow, biting your trembling bottom lip.
“No. Never for you. What happened? Do you need me to come get you?”
You nod, then let out a frustrated huff when you remember he can’t see you. The faint clink of keys reaches your ears, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. You haven’t even replied and he’s already getting ready to come for you.
“Please… if you’re not busy.” You mumble.
“I told you I’m not. Don’t worry.” You hear a door close. Moments later, his voice returns. “Are you alright? Are you safe?”
You glance around, telling him you’re sitting on a bench in front of Ms. Garcia’s house. From his silence, you can gather his shock—you’re almost thirty minutes away from Rachel’s place.
“Why are you there, sweetheart? Is Nathan with you?” His words are slightly distorted by the rumble of the car engine.
“No, I’m alone. He’s still at the party.” You shiver as the cold metal of the bench presses against your bare thighs. “And I’m alright. Just tired.”
He doesn’t need all the details right now. The least you can do is explain in person.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” he murmurs under his breath. “You’ve been crying.”
You simply hum at his statement, expecting him to hang up, but instead he waits, respecting your silence, keeping the line open rather than leaving you alone in the dark.
When the familiar black SUV pulls up in front of you only a few minutes later, your body reacts instinctively. You hang up and watch as Mr. Barnes steps out. Before you can even find the right words to thank him, he’s around you, holding you close against his broad chest. Your lips part to whine out a pathetic apology, but the sound dies in your throat. Tears fall again, soaking his shirt.
“I’m so sorry… I didn’t know who to call,” you sniffle, swallowing an embarrassing sob. “My parents are out of town and Kate has my keys, but I didn’t want to go back there—”
“Hey, hey.” He gently pries your head away with a hand on your cheek, enough to examine your devastated eyes. “I’ve always told you I’m here if you ever need something. Anything. So don’t you dare apologize. I’m so proud you remembered that and called me, sweetheart.”
Your gaze drops at once on a random spot on his neck, unsure what to say next.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” His other hand cradles your left cheek now, thumbs brushing away the lingering tears at the corners of your eyes. You shake your head lightly, jaw tightening at the thought.
“Alright, alright. We’ll go at your pace.” He frowns. “Do you want to come home? It’s freezing and you’re—”
The next words die in his throat as his blue eyes sweep over your body like they are acknowledging the rest of you for the first time that night. Now you feel so foolish for not bringing a jacket. Despite the cold, you’d known Rachel’s house would feel like a furnace, packed with sweaty dancers and drinkers. A dramatic escape in the middle of the night was not in your plans and yet here you are.
Even in the middle of your internal scolding, you can easily notice how Mr. Barnes blinks, seemingly snapping out of whatever thought had caught his entire attention, only to quickly glance back up at your face. Being under the lamppost, it’s easy to spot the blush creeping across his cheeks.
You’re his son’s girlfriend, of course he would feel awkward with you so close and barely covered.
“I guess you didn’t want to hide your pretty outfit.” He comments instead, amusement lacing his tone. Your eyes widen. “You’re always beautiful, by the way. A jacket wouldn’t have ruined it.” He winks as his hand comes to rest on your back, guiding you toward his car. You’re still processing his tone and its meaning as he opens the passenger door to help you inside.
He’s never explicitly called you beautiful before, compliments used to stop at your outfits or your makeup.
Once inside, the engine hums to life, but before he takes care of anything else, he makes sure to turn on the heat. You shiver, muscles slowly loosening as the warmth seeps through your chilled body.
“Better?” He glances at you, receiving a simple, grateful nod as answer.
“Fuck, should have thought about bringing you one of my jackets.” He was probably talking to himself but you catch it anyway, pressing your palms lightly to your thighs. It’s just a jacket—nothing grand—but the thought behind it makes you breathe slightly more easily.
Bucky maneuvers the vehicle on the roadway, unhurriedly driving back the way you came from. A sense of dread abruptly washes over you at the realization that you are about to pass by your neighborhood, right in front of Rachel’s house. You try to be as subtle as possible when you slide down the seat, at least to not be completely recognizable from the outside, your head turning toward the window as if that could be enough to disappear completely. Bucky notices anyway, keeping a careful eye on you as you drive by the mansion looming chaotic in the dark.
“I saw Nathan with another girl.” You blurt out once Rachel’s house is at a safe distance. The car swerves slightly, your stomach twisting with a hint of fear as your hand instinctively reaches to grab the edge of the seat. Your worried eyes fly to Bucky, meeting his shocked gaze.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry.” He clears his throat. “How…”
You take a deep breath, eyes back on the road, feeling too ashamed to face him.
“Kate caught him in one of the bedrooms upstairs. When I opened the door… a girl was straddling him. They were kissing, and… probably about to do other things.” Another lump swells in your throat. “Apparently all those assignments and projects were just an excuse.” You scoff out a humorless laugh, the back of your hand already brushing a lonely tear away.
“They’ve been together since March, and he promised her he’d break up with me soon.”
Each word feels like biting broken glass.
From your peripheral vision, you see his body stiffen, knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Apologies form on your tongue as a reflex, but why? For calling him to pick you up? For having to be the one to reveal such a horrible thing about his son? You don’t even know, yet his crushed expression is enough to make you feel terribly guilty.
Then, something happens that completely catches you off guard.
His hand reaches across the console, covering yours, fingers intertwining.
Mr. Barnes is good with words, yet that simple gesture is worth more than any speech right now. Tears come back with such a violent speed that shocks even you, but you try your best to bite them back, mortified about the whole situation.
Confused, you watch the car steer, eventually coming to a stop at the roadside. Bucky exhales heavily once the engine is turned off, plunging you both into darkness. His body then turns toward you as best he can in the cramped space.
“Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please?” His voice is barely a murmur, fingers squeezing yours gently. Reluctantly, you lift your chin, catching him in your peripheral vision. “Thank you.”
“I know you’re hurting right now, and words might feel meaningless in the face of this betrayal, but please… listen to me carefully.” His blue eyes burn fiercely. “Sometimes people don’t know how to treat something good the way it deserves, but that says nothing about its worth. I’m deeply disappointed in Nathan. I didn’t raise him to behave like this, and believe me, I will have words with him. Very strong ones.” You squeeze his hand back, the corners of your lips lightly lifting despite pain stabbing your chest.
“Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Barnes. Your words are never meaningless to me,” you murmur, frowning at your knees. “He is an adult, responsible for his own actions, and still chose to do this. He could’ve ended things with me before starting something with her, but instead took the easy way out without remorse.”
Bucky slumps back against the seat with a slow sigh, staring absent-minded at the dashboard. Eventually, a humorless laugh falls from his lips. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Your eyebrows jump up at the bitterness in his tone, and he allows a rueful smile. “My ex-wife cheated on me. That’s why we divorced.”
Your jaw drops.
“Nathan was thirteen and he still had to witness how much his mother’s choices affected me. It wasn’t easy for him. I never spoke badly of her, never kept him from seeing her... but he still chose to stay with me.” He sighs tiredly, head softly falling back against the headrest. “They only went back on speaking terms a couple years ago. Nathan felt like she betrayed him as well… refused to even text her at Christmas.” His neck turns just enough to look at you. “Has he ever told you that?”
You shake your head, swallowing.
“I’m—I’m so sorry, Mr. Barnes. I didn’t know… Nathan never talks about his mom, much less about your divorce.” Your words are not louder than a whisper.
His hand squeezes yours. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. The scars are there, but they don’t hurt anymore.”
Mr. Barnes straightens up after that, looking more resolute. “My point is, I’ve been through that kind of betrayal. For a long time, I was miserable, frustrated with her for ruining what we had, and with myself for missing the signs. And Nathan… he was the only good thing to come out of that marriage.” His gaze is fixed on yours with newfound strength, his voice tender. “Some days you’ll be angry at the world. You’ll stay in bed and cry your heart out, you’ll even miss the happy moments with him. But it won’t last forever.”
You clear your throat at that, staring down at the glove box for what feels like minutes. “Is it wrong,” you start quietly. “That I’m more upset about him betraying my trust than actually losing him?”
“What do you mean?” He tilts his head slightly, the simple gesture letting you know he’s here for you, ready to listen.
“He was always busy, and deep down I knew something was off. I guess… unconsciously, I’ve been trying to distance myself emotionally so I wouldn’t get hurt.” Your eyes widen at once, quickly trying to correct yourself as you realize you are still talking to his dad. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I liked Nathan and I’m shaken by what he did. He built a whole, new relationship behind my back. But…” You sigh, shoulders falling in dejection.
“I’m not actually sad about losing him.” You whisper. Saying that out loud only makes you feel more uncomfortable, causing you to shift your weight in your seat in a last attempt to ground yourself. “I don’t even know if I’m making any sense right now.”
“You’re angry because he made you doubt your self-worth.” He says softly.
“Yes!” You exclaim, facing him with surprise.
Bucky nods pensively. “And you’re upset because he betrayed your trust.”
“Exactly.” The dam breaks. “I’ve been feeling guilty since that day I followed him to the library to see if he was actually there to study. I felt awful for a whole month! I was doubting all the work his professors piled on him while he was breaking his back on those damn books. But in reality he was just fucking someone else the whole time.” Your hand flies to your mouth as you hear him chuckle, eyes wide at your own honesty. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so crude.”
“Don’t you dare apologize. I feel so bad whenever I curse around you.”
You share a soft, meaningful laugh, before the car falls into a comforting silence.
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You murmur, taking a deep breath. He returns your smile, squeezing your fingers once more before starting the engine.
“You know I’m here for you. Always.”
He claps his hands lightly, and somehow it feels like that dark cloud pressing on your head has finally lifted. “C’mon, let’s get you home so you can get more comfortable and rest. You had a long night.”
“Are you sure you’re not busy? I don’t want to crash your free night—”
“Are you kidding? I love your company. And you didn’t interrupt anything, I was just watching a movie and eating some leftover candy, waiting for a text that you got home safely.”
Once the car is parked in its usual spot, Mr. Barnes is quick to get out and jog to your side to open your door. You whisper a shy thank you, still not used to all these caring gestures.
“Alright, here we are.” He breathes out, shoulders relaxing as if the familiar smell of his home alone is enough to soothe any worries. He leaves his sneakers in the shoe rack by the entrance and you follow suit, placing your boots neatly in the space he vacated for your shoes long ago, back when Nathan had started bringing you over more frequently.
“Are you hungry? Wanna shower first?”
You press your palm to your temple, eyes closing briefly. “A shower would be perfect. I feel sweaty from the party and I’m pretty sure my clothes still smell of weed.”
He doesn’t ask if you drank—he knows you despise the taste of alcohol, but also any type of substance that could make you lose control. He simply leaves a glass of water and some Advil on the kitchen counter, then jogs upstairs to grab some clean clothes for you. You take your time finishing the glass, savoring the simple act of rehydrating after walking and crying for so long in the cold.
Once you are alone in the bathroom, the reflection in the mirror makes you flinch. Your makeup is completely ruined: lipstick smudged at the corners, eyeshadow streaked under your eyes, mascara melted. The thought of Mr. Barnes seeing you like this has you shuddering in shame, but you push the embarrassment aside for now. You’re too drained.
A sealed bottle of micellar water and a package of cotton pads on the counter catch your eye immediately. With a relieved sigh, you remove the ruined makeup, silently making a mental note to thank him for his thoughtfulness.
The warm water cascading over your skin and the floral scent of the products tidily lined up on the shower caddy are enough to ease the strain in your muscles. Once dry, you pull on the black shirt he left on the small stool and a pair of boxers, adjusting them according to your comfort. You are actually so relieved he provided you with his own clothes, instead of Nathan’s. Making sure you’re presentable enough before heading downstairs, you glance at your reflection in the mirror one last time, before you have to take a second look. Because on the far left of the counter sit unopened some products you recognize too well: a moisturizer for your skin type, a gentle cleanser, some neutral-smelling deodorant, and a purple toothbrush. All pristine and unopened.
Did he buy all this for you? Even after nearly a year since the last time you slept here?
Your chest tightens at the thought of someone caring enough to remember such simple, forgettable things about you, taking a deep breath before diving into your skincare routine.
When you enter the kitchen, the breathtaking sight of Mr. Barnes’ broad back makes you pause momentarily. The domesticity of it all—him cooking for you, the quiet familiarity of being surrounded by his smell in his home—fills you with a strange fuzzy feeling that leaves your skin pleasantly warm and tingly. You’ve never been here at this time of the day, alone with him, clad in his clothes.
Turning around, he places the plate he was previously arranging on the table, before he glances up at you. Smiling, his lips part as if he wants to say something, but the words die on his tongue when his blue eyes fall on your naked legs. Clearing his throat, the man abruptly turns back around to swipe the counter.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah. Thank you for the clothes.” You sit, eyeing the plate with interest. “And the sandwich.” You add with a smile. Your stomach aches a little from all the sugary soft drinks, so a proper meal will only do you good.
“They look good on you.” He mumbles, glancing down. Then, with a playful smirk. “Still, I miss the Barbie outfit.” You giggle, unsure whether he’s teasing or truly means it.
“Oh, and the hygiene products—thank you for those as well. When did you get them?” You quip, devouring half of the bread as if you haven’t eaten in ages.
“I’ve been stocking them since you started staying over, just in case you forgot something.” He shrugs with another effortless smile.
Bucky knew you were going to spend multiple nights here and wished for you to be comfortable and safe in his home. Simple as that.
You had to pack an overnight bag with all your things whenever you went over to Nathan’s apartment. It never occurred that you could just leave something behind, because it was so sporadic for you to spend the night there. Plus, he lives with three other people, so you didn’t want to intrude. Yet, now that you’re realizing how much Mr. Barnes has been going out of his way to take care of you, you can’t help but think about how many things Nathan took for granted.
Only when you finally settle on the sofa do you realize how much your body has been hurting from all the dancing and the walking. It instantly becomes one with the cushions.
Your phone lights up once on the coffee table, half of Wanda’s message visible from here. You texted the group chat to let them know you’re safe with a friend. Yelena will understand immediately, you are certain of that. Your eyes mindlessly catch a really sorry, but you don’t have the energy to deal with the situation right now. They know you’re alright and sheltered from the cold, and that’s enough for tonight.
The TV drones on in the background; a mediocre horror movie is playing on cable, but you can’t bring yourself to focus on it—or anything else, for that matter. Not when Mr. Barnes is sitting comfortably beside you, the warmth of his body tempting you to move closer. For a moment, it feels like he’s glancing at you as intently as you’ve been watching him.
The moment you properly look up and he doesn’t shy away, the air between you hums with an unspoken, charged tension. You must be imagining things, half delirious from exhaustion, because he keeps glancing back and forth between your eyes and your lips, something akin to desire burning hot in his eyes.
You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly the space separating you disappears. The first touch is tentative, a timid brush of hands, and then, as soon as the tips of your noses touch, he is pressing against you like he’s been craving your lips for ages. One of his hands cups the back of your head, guiding you closer until your fingers tangle in his shirt.
It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this right. It shouldn’t...
It shouldn’t happen.
“Wait—” You gasp, abruptly pulling back. Your eyes snap open, staring at him with horror dawning on your features. “W—What… what are we doing?”
“Shit,” Bucky mumbles under his breath, chest heaving as he tries to regain a crumb of control on his raging heartbeat. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”
“Oh my God, I’m a terrible person!” You slump forward, hiding your face in your hands as hot tears threaten to spill again.
“Hey, c’mon now sweetheart.” His shaky palm smoothes over your back. “Why would you be a terrible person? You did nothing wrong.”
Your head snaps towards him, regarding him with red and glassy eyes.
“I just kissed my ex-boyfriend’s dad!”
“If anything, I kissed you.”
“We both leaned in!”
Bucky moves closer, taking your other hand in his. “Okay, okay. Let’s take a deep breath now—”
“Oh God, if Nathan finds out—”
A firm call of your name has your shoulders fall down in defeat. Bucky’s hand travels to the back of your neck, gently turning your face until you are forced to look at him.
“You know you don’t owe him anything, right?” His voice is grounding, calm, but it’s not enough to quell the storm in your head.
“Why are you so calm? You’re his dad! I shouldn’t feel—” You pause abruptly, swallowing thickly. The way his eyes are wide with hope makes you want to sob in his arms.
“Feel what?” He urges, squeezing your hand.
“I…”
“Feel what, sweetheart?” Shame keeps your throat closed, physically unable to utter any sound. So Bucky takes the matter into his own hands, cradling your cheeks with both rough palms.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you ran in here, smiling about your A on that paper about online language evolution you spent weeks stressing over.” Bucky admits softly. Your breath hitches.
“You looked at me with stars in your eyes,” he continues with a proud smile. “And I felt so lucky to be part of such a happy moment for you. And then you hugged me and believe me, I tried to ignore it, but I just felt… complete.”
His voice drops to a whisper. “I felt like a dirty pervert whenever my eyes fell on the curve of your waist. Whenever I imagined the adorable sighs you’d make against my lips. Whenever you strutted here in my house with those damn revealing shirts, jealous that the whole neighborhood got the chance to admire your beautiful cleavage.” Sighing, his eyelids flutter shut for a second, as if trying to focus.
“You were Nathan’s girlfriend and here I was, resenting my own son for getting to have you like this. For being the one to call you his.”
He lets his words hang, heavy with honesty. “I promised myself I’d keep my distance. But no one ever compared to your pretty eyes, your passion, your energy.” He swallows, kind eyes flicking once between your eyes and your parted lips.
“Nathan had his chance and failed to take care of you, to love you like you deserve. He was so cruel, baby, and I can’t allow myself to stand by and watch you suffer when I’m right here, begging you to let me show you how much I am enamored of you. Let me be the man you deserve by your side. Someone who knows what you need just by looking into your eyes.”
“And what do I need now, James?” His breath hitches, not expecting his first name to sound so right on your tongue.
Bucky, James, Jamie… He doesn’t care. He just needs you to demolish that already fractured wall of propriety that has kept you apart all along.
“My lips on yours.” His blue eyes shine, smitten, and that is enough to give you that confidence boost you’ve been looking for a while. Your fingers graze his jaw for a fleeting moment, before they grab his shirt to pull him forward.
You meet him in an urgent kiss, your other hand tangling in his hair, pulling just enough that the guttural sound clawing out of his throat has your thighs squeezing close. His tongue roams freely in your mouth, until oxygen leaves you entirely. You kiss for what feels like a lifetime, your lips fitting together like the final two lost pieces of a puzzle.
His palms fondle the curve of your waist until he finds the courage to guide you on his laps with a hand on your thigh. A moan is muffled against your mouth when your covered core comes into contact with his crotch, his bulge the proof that you’re not the only one affected. One hand sneakily trails up your torso, resting ultimately on the side of your breast, a gentle squeeze of your flesh eliciting a gasp out of you, so you take the chance to grind down on Bucky, the teasing movement leaving him moaning under you.
When you separate, he regards you with blown pupils, his chest raising and lowering with ragged breaths.
Your fingers finally allow themselves to do what they’ve secretly wished for since the moment you sat on this couch: starting from the gentle creases on his forehead, they tenderly trace down his dark brows, until they reach the sharp profile of his nose, his blushing cheekbones, the trim stubble on his jawline. His mouth parts just a fraction when your thumb strokes his bottom lip, his next breath shaky, frightened to interrupt this sublime, quiet connection.
“You’re stunning, James.” You utter softly with a faint smile. His eyes flutter shut with a sigh when your fingers move then on to his collarbone. Shivering, the older man wraps one muscular arm around your back, bringing you close, until he can comfortably lean in to return the favor, lavishing the column of your throat with wet kisses. Your head falls back, brokenly gasping each time his teeth gently graze your skin.
“You’re driving me crazy with all these cute, sinful sounds.” He growls, a grin blooming on your mouth at his poorly concealed desperation. The hand firmly resting on your ribs slowly travels down to your side, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind; then over your half-bare thighs, until it lands on your covered ass. Your gasp gets promptly swallowed by his mouth when he hungrily squeezes the flesh, encouraging the circular movements of your hips against his erection. The sound of his low groan makes your pussy throb, suddenly shifting your focus on the embarrassing dampness of the boxers you’re wearing.
When was the last time someone touched you as if you were their most precious treasure?
This time your kiss is more animalistic, all teeth and tongue, than the ones you previously shared, a testament of your growing arousal.
“Baby,” he breathes out, cradling your cheek to assure you’re making eye contact. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, you know that, right?”
“Mmh?” Your movements are a little more lethargic after the way his hands have gently played with your curves, your fingers weakly curling into the fabric covering his broad shoulders. The ghost of his palms on your chest and thighs still tingles on your skin, and you slightly tilt your head when he starts talking again, regarding him with half-lidded eyes.
“We can do whatever you want. You wanna watch a movie? I’m already opening Netflix. You wanna sleep by yourself? I’ll make the bed in the guest room right away. We can cuddle all night if you’d let me—”
“What if I want you to fuck me?” The words feel like cotton candy in your mouth, yet you don’t miss the way his eyes widen.
There is a brief, meaningful pause.
“Are you sure?” His voice shakes a little as his hands squeeze your hips.
“Please.” Your sigh almost has him maneuvering you on your back to see what other sweet sounds he can coax out of you. Just for him.
“Yeah? You’ve been thinking about it, sweetheart?” You simply hum, slowly nodding. “About all the ways I could make you come on my tongue?” He whispers, towering over you as his firm fingers keep your chin raised, preventing you from hiding.
Squirming in his lap, you are forced to look him in the eye as your slick steadily soils his boxers, cheeks scorching hot with a hint of mortification.
“Did you think about me when you were fingers deep into your sweet pussy? Imagining it was my cock making you scream?” He continues calmly. “Did you come like a good girl with my name on your lips, mmh?”
You whimper, nodding jerkily. “I was... so lonely.”
“Well,” he chuckles smugly. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore, pretty girl.”
A squeal claws out of your throat as Bucky lifts you without much of a fuss. You keep your legs tightly wrapped around his waist, your arms circling his neck with newfound strength. Moaning, he has to stop multiple times on the stairs as you can’t resist leaving small pecks all over his jaw, teeth softly biting the most sensitive spots.
It’s the first time you cross the threshold of his bedroom, yet it doesn’t feel as awkward as it should.
You completely ignore the big walk-in closet and his en-suite bathroom as soon as you are placed in the center of the large bed, his six-foot frame covering yours without actually resting his full weight on you. Your lips meet again and this time, his palm travels under the shirt you are wearing, finding your bare chest.
“James, wait—” You moan, hips twitching up as his fingers graze your already erect nipple. You’re now fully lying on your back with his hard body straddling you, but a weak push against his chest is enough for Bucky to immediately lift his torso up.
“Are you oka—”
“More than okay, I feel so good. I just—I need to make something clear.” This time it’s you who cradles his jaw, swallowing thickly. “I like you, James. I think I have for a while, actually. It wasn’t just... pure admiration, or friendship. And this,” your finger wriggles between the two of you, pointing at your chests. “It’s not a one-night stand for me. I don’t want you to think you’re... some sort of revenge; much less a rebound.”
“This is a dream come true.” He mumbles against your lips, caressing the back of your head in awe.
“I’m gonna make this right, okay sweetheart?” Bucky kisses your forehead, then focuses on both cheeks. “I’m gonna take care of you.” His mouth trails south, on your neck. “Play with your sweet pussy until you are nice and ready to take me.” Your eyes roll back, shuddering at his low voice whispering right in your ear.
“Worship your body until you are left shaking and gasping in my arms, orgasm after orgasm.” The fingers trailing up your thigh finally reach the inner part, his thumb stroking the wet fabric right where you need him the most.
“Then I’m gonna fill you up,” your hips buckle up, causing him to huff out a chuckle. “Yeah? You like the sound of it, angel? Like the idea of me stuffing you full with my cum until you can’t take a step without it sliding down your thighs?”
“Bucky, please.” You breathe out, trembling fingers squeezing his forearm.
His shaky exhale gives his excitement away, despite his confident and collected behavior. He makes sure to look in your eyes for his next words.
“Gonna take you on a date tomorrow, alright?” You simply nod, swallowing as his other palm traces your bare stomach, lifting the shirt up and up, until your ribs are exposed to the warm air of his bedroom. “Give you everything you deserve and more.”
His smirk grows when you whine at his hands moving away to take off your top. A low groan falls from his lips when your naked chest is finally exposed. His large hands cup your tits without much thought, the pads of his thumbs brushing over your nipples, eliciting another whimper out of you. You finally look up at his face, biting your bottom lip when you notice the way his eyes have turned darker, just like the ocean abyss, as they marvel at your breasts, perfectly fitting inside his palms.
“Such gorgeous tits, sweetheart.” Your cheeks instantly heat up at the praise; overwhelmed by the sudden attention on your naked torso, you try to turn your chin away, but Bucky is faster. Cradling your cheeks, he turns your head until you are forced to stare right at him.
“None of that hiding shit.” He mutters against your breasts between kisses, your back arching the moment his tongue starts lavishing your nipples, until they are both raw and turgid.
“You’re going to lie back and watch me as I ravish you, darling.”
The boxers are suddenly discarded on the floor. It’s electrifying, being so open for Bucky to freely admire you. You’re quivering under his devoted gaze and tender smile, your breath hitching each time his fingers stroke a patch of burning skin as he takes his time in appreciating every single curve, every aspect that you might consider a flaw. To him, they’re new features to cherish. A way to learn you in the most intimate of ways.
You don’t even notice your eyelids fluttering shut. The rustling sound of fabric is what drives you to open them, just in time to catch Bucky throwing his shirt somewhere on the carpet.
He truly is handsome, with his strong physique and his muscles still defined, even with the small layer of fat covering most of it.
With a lewd twist of his lips, his hands guide your legs up until your feet are firmly planted on the mattress and your knees bent. You are certain your heart is going to come out of your chest if Bucky doesn’t hurry up, rather focusing on pressing sweet, delicate kisses from your ankle to your thigh, just stopping short of where the skin turns wet with your arousal. His smirk is devilish when your breath hitches in frustration, taking his time in giving the same reverent treatment to your other leg.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
By the time he finally lies between your spread thighs, you are a shaky, sensitive mess, palms instantly covering your face when his nose almost touches your clit as his thumbs delicately part your folds.
Bucky lightly gasps. “Look how pretty you are. Already so wet for me, pretty girl?”
To be fair, you think this is the most aroused you’ve been in your whole life.
It’s mortifying how quickly your first orgasm approaches, it only takes Bucky a few languid circling movements on your clit and you’re already clenching, shivering against the beige bedsheets.
Breathy moans and whimpers fall from your parted lips as his fingers toy with your nub some more. “You’re so responsive, darling.” He marvels, licking his lips. “But not yet.”
Your pathetic whine once he focuses on your hole only fuels his teases.
“I know, sweetheart.” He soothes, a thick finger gently tracing up and down the seam of your entrance. “Just a little more. I promise it’s going to feel so good later.”
And just like that, one of his digits is inside you. Your limbs go rigid, before his other arm comes up to rest on your belly, his thumb finding a leisure yet firm rhythm as it rubs your clit, grinning when your body melts at once against the cool sheets.
You sigh at the heavenly sensation, and Bucky feels the exact moment it starts feeling good, your hole slowly making room for another finger.
“There we go, pretty girl. Is that the right spot? You are gripping me so tight, darling, bet it feels so good, right?”
Your eyes squeeze shut as you can only manage a nod, your own hand shooting down to anchor itself to one of his shoulders as the tip of his tongue replaces the finger taunting your nub. The first swipe makes your head fall back.
“Bucky!” A loud moan resounds through the dimly lit room, making his cock twitch.
“Jesus Christ.” His growl vibrates pleasantly against your tender core. “Has anyone ever tasted you, baby?”
“No!” You sob at his fingers pushing against your sweet spot.
“Fucking fools.” He snarls. “I’ll take care of you from now on, sweet girl. You won’t have to worry about anything.” He rasps out, feral with the thought of you making a mess on his face now that he has been blessed with your taste. “Just need to sit back and be good for me.”
You sniffle, the muscle of your stomach clenching to keep your orgasm at bay. You’re completely enraptured by his gentle yet solemn voice, not so different from the way his fingers play with your body. You subtly rock back on them, drawing him deeper and deeper.
“Oh I know, I know baby. I can feel you want to come.” Your hips twitch up, but the arm blanketing your belly keeps you nice and still as he enjoys his meal. His stubble leaves crude marks on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the rough friction causing your back to arch as high as his heavy arm allows.
“You know, sweetheart felt like the safest option.” He pants, coming up for air, his lips glistening with your arousal. “Now I can finally call you whatever I want.”
“Baby,” he leaves a kiss on your mound, half-lidded eyes fixed on your crumpled features. You couldn’t be more grateful for Nathan to have his mom’s eyes. “Darling,” his lips move on your clit next, sucking harshly. “Pretty girl—oh.”
You hoped he wouldn’t notice the way you clenched at that, but of course the smug bastard does.
“You like when I call you pretty girl?” You toss your head back as his thumb goes back to flick your nub. He can only coax out an embarrassed squeak that vaguely resembles a yes, but it’s enough to make Bucky smirk with pride.
“Yes, my pretty girl?” He relishes in the way you clench again, knowing you’re at your limit now.
“Give it to me, angel. C’mon,” he growls, ravaging your clit with steady suckles. “I’ve been too well-behaved and patient.”
Your head falls back against his pillow as your eyes fall shut, your first orgasm of the night hitting you hard and leaving you whimpering and dizzy under his palms. Your body tightens as wave after wave of pleasure seeps deep into your bones. Bucky groans at the sight of your pussy practically swallowing his damp fingers. You have never felt so good you could cry, the added sensation of his coarse beard against your sensitive core making your thighs tremble precariously around his head.
“Gorgeous.” Your nails cling onto his shoulder as you ride it out, humping his face with abandon under his soft grunts of encouragement. Bucky’s hips have been twitching against the mattress for a while now, unable to stay stoic in front of a goddess like you unraveling so sweetly before him. With a final teasing kiss to your clit, his thick fingers finally pull away.
You’re still breathless when Bucky lifts himself up, enough to pull you into another hungry kiss. Tasting yourself on someone’s tongue is definitely new, but not unpleasant. Not when a pathetic sound—half moan, half whine—claws out of your throat at your tongues dancing.
“Wish I could stay between your thighs all night.” He mumbles against your lips. Kissing Bucky… It’s just so lovely. Particularly like this, when he is towering over you, so close that the trimmed hair on his chest softly brushes your nipples as it heaves against yours. Your body lurches at the light stimulation on your raw nubs, completely missing the way one of his hands abandons your hip to swiftly discard his boxers.
It’s only when Bucky gets into an upright position that you can finally catch a proper glimpse of his body. Even his cock is beautiful, for fuck’s sake, all flushed and thick, proudly curving up toward his belly. You gulp thickly at the sight of how majestic he looks, naked and kneeling for you, before you promptly shy away at the amusement twinkling in his eyes. His strong arms wrap around your thighs without a word, dragging you closer to him until his length lightly nudges your core. His tongue is inside your mouth before you can even let a full gasp out. Whining, your fingers slip into his hair as he teases the seam of your entrance with the tip.
“So impatient.” He chuckles at your eager hips, before extending his arm towards the night stand.
“No!” Your fingers shoot forward and wrap around his bicep, causing Bucky to freeze entirely.
“I’m clean, got tested last month, and I’m on the pill.” You wheeze out, suddenly fearing your implicit request will be rejected.
Bucky scrutinizes you with open surprise, before a long, pensive exhale slowly leaves his nostrils.
He places a sweet peck on your forehead. “I’m clean too. But are you sure, sweetheart?” His brows furrow in worry.
“I’ve never let anyone else do it without.” You swallow nervously, taking his hand in yours to guide it to your cheek, unconsciously leaning into his palm.
“Want you to be the first.” You whisper.
“Fucking hell.” He grits out, letting his forehead fall on your shoulder. It’s your turn to smirk now, until you feel the bulbous head of his cock insistent against your hole.
“Oh.” You squeak out once he slides in halfway without much resistance on your part. The sight of your glassy eyes rolling back has him groaning.
“Feeling alright, doll?”
“Fuck—yes, fuck, it’s just—big!” You gasp, stiffening at the burning stretch. “More... More, I need more please.”
Despite your begging, Bucky feeds you his cock gradually, fearing he could hurt you and possibly scare you away forever. Once he bottoms out, his jaw clenches at the mere realization of finally being inside his girl. Attempting to calm the both of you down is difficult, yet he finds the strength to still, his lips finding yours at once. His self-control weakens precariously the more your body grows pliant under his, your walls hugging his cock so tightly he can feel every little, eager movement. The lewd, wet sounds of your mouth moving against each other only spur him on as his hips involuntarily jerk forward.
“Bucky.”
“Yes, yes, I know sweetheart.” He coos at your ragged breaths. “Gonna make the ache go away, mmh?”
Dragging his hips back slightly, Bucky carefully studies your expression, and only when he finds no sign of discomfort he lets himself slip right back in, harder.
“Oh, sweet girl.” He grins at you clinging onto his shoulders. “That feels good, right? Hear how she sings for me?” Leaning in to plant his lips right over your damp brow, he allows his hips to slowly move back, biting back a loud groan at the squelching sound.
“Need to see you fall apart on my cock.” He grunts.
“Please, need—harder.” You cry out, eyes rolling back as the tip nudges your sweet spot. Your moans grow higher and louder once he starts pounding you earnestly, your slack body trapped under his broad one, sliding up and down the mattress with each brutal thrust.
Bucky loses himself a little the moment he buries his nose in the damp skin of your neck, licking and kissing away the salty tang of your sweat, finally fucking you properly. The slapping noise of your skins meeting shamelessly fills the bedroom, mixing with your labored breaths and desperate moans.
“Shit, doll.” His growl vibrates against your pulse. “Need this all the time, need to hear your sweet squeals as I carve a place for my cock inside your cute little pussy.”
The way he kisses your mouth like a starving man, and how his cock fits so perfectly inside you, stirs a warm feeling inside your chest, far too tender compared to the throbbing ache in your belly.
“Such a good girl for me, taking all of me so well.” He gushes deliriously, smiling at your connected lower half. “My girl. My pretty, sweet girl.”
“Come with me?” You whimper, your nails digging into his soft skin as pleasure threatens to swallow you whole.
“Want to give you another one.” He pants, slowing down just enough to properly look you in the eye. “I’m not so young anymore, sweet thing.” The back of his hand brushes your cheek with such tenderness you almost forget the hard length plunged deep inside your pussy, before Bucky resumes his punishing pace, coaxing moan after moan out of you.
Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, your body tensing as your back arches, finally letting yourself go.
“That’s it!” He draws the words out, keeping his eyes firmly on your face. Your legs feel like they are falling to pieces, sore but still squeezing helplessly his waist.
“So tight, so good for me. You look like an angel, sweetheart. A pretty, fucked-out angel. Wish you could see how beautiful you look with a big cock giving you exactly what you need.” He can hardly fend off the devastating orgasm threatening to make him fall apart; yet he keeps going, wanting to prolong your pleasure as much as he can. It’s only when your whimper borders on painful and your palms shoot down to push at his chest, that his hips gradually come to a stop.
“Holy fuck.”
Your lower half is pleasantly aching by the time you are coming down from your earth-shattering climax. Bucky is still trying to dominate his instincts, jaw clenched and nose lightly tracing the soft skin of your collarbone, breathing in your scent. The primal urge to make you his violently rattles at the cage of care and protection that Bucky scrupulously crafted day by day, just to keep it contained. He’s at his limit, yet he always makes sure to take such good care of you first... your stunning, kind Mr. Barnes.
But now it’s your turn to have your fun with him.
“Get up.” You mutter, pressing on his pecs. Panic briefly crosses his features as he clumsily lifts up on shaky muscles. You don’t let him go too far though, gently pushing him until he’s laying on his back. When you land directly on his crotch, cock still snuggled inside you, his eyes widen in astonishment.
Everything feels more sensitive like this.
You don’t care about your aching joints, nor about your sensitive and sore body still going through the aftershock, immediately setting a fast pace. You bounce up and down, biting your bottom lip as you stare at his parted lips. Your combined ragged breaths make you clench around his length, loving the way you sound together. Bucky is too busy pawing at your hips with one hand and groping your breast with the other to rationally think about something clever that would surely turn this debauched doll in his laps into the timid sweetheart he likes teasing.
You’re not sure how long it has been, but what makes you still is definitely not the sudden uncomfortable stiffness in your lower back, but rather a loud, muffled noise.
Like something falling, or... a door slamming shut.
You stop at once, your wide eyes meeting Bucky’s astonished gaze. His shock, though, has short life, as his hands land on both of your thighs with a resounding smack, encouraging you to go on.
“Bucky!” You reprimand him, gasping at the abrupt stimulation against your sweet spot. The older man under you slowly lifts his torso up, encircling your waist as he gently guides you down with him, until your forehead rests against his.
“We have already established that we like each other and that this,” he points between you two just like you did before. “Is not a one time thing.” You nod quickly, still panting and alarmingly aware of all the noises coming from downstairs: bare feet thumping against the tiles, a cabinet closing, a small sigh of relief after drinking some water.
“Don’t you want to give him a taste of his own medicine?” You can’t believe the shadow of malice falling over his eyes.
“He’s your son!” You whisper-shout, partial to his proposal but still too timid to go along with it.
“And you are my girl.” He growls with the same heat, his fingers digging into your skin bruisingly. “The same girl he cheated on for eight months.”
Something shatters inside your chest. You don’t know if it’s the reality finally catching up to you, or the humiliation gradually mutating into a fiercer, hotter thirst for vengeance. Or maybe it’s the way this absolutely lovely man just defined you his girl so easily. No shame, no reservations.
Your palms press against his shoulders, urging him to fully lie back down. The slow smirk forming on his lips matches your playful smile.
“Fuck.” Your hips resume their pace with a newfound strength.
“You’re doing so well, angel. Look at you, taking all my cock in your tight little pussy. My pretty girl, all mine.” His dirty words only spur you on, taking his hands to guide them back on your curves. In the meantime, the stairs creak under careful yet not-so-silent steps, as Nathan warily makes his way up.
“Oh my God. Mr. Barnes, ’s so big.” You gasp, completely forgetting about your ex probably standing just outside the door. You don’t miss the way Bucky’s breath hitches at the name you used to softly utter with so much admiration and respect, now sounding so beautifully obscene as you cry for his cock. Faintly grinning down at him, you squeeze the hand fondling your breast, Bucky immediately looking up from your core engulfing his length so well.
“Yeah? And whose pussy is this, mmh?” His fingers settle on your clit with determination, careful to put the right pressure, and you respond at once, riding him faster.
“Yours! Fuck, always been yours!”
"Good girl.” He groans, using every bit of self-restraint to not succumb to the heavenly feeling of you desperately gripping his leaking cock.
“That’s it.” His jaw locks. “Come for me, my beautiful girl.” Your third climax of the night is the most intense. You shatter with a breathy shriek, collapsing against Bucky’s chest as he promptly catches you. The urgent noise of footsteps climbing down the stairs and the final bang of the front door slamming shut are completely disregarded as you fall apart in the most delicious of ways.
“Fuck, you just tightened so fucking hard, baby girl. Feel so fucking good coming all over my cock, you were made for me.” His head falls back, exposing the refined line on his throat. “Taking it so well.” You cling to his large frame, shaking and whimpering as his hips ruthlessly chase his own pleasure.
“’M gonna ruin you for anyone else, angel.” The crack in his voice tells you he’s close, his hands keeping you nice and still as you try to relax, letting him use you.
“Bet you’ve never looked this lovely with him,” he hisses, his thrusts frantic and sloppy. “Never came this hard—shit, you’re gonna be leaking my cum from now on.”
With one last effort, your chin lifts enough for you to whisper right into his ear, “’M yours, Mr. Barnes. Always have been.”
His grip around your thighs borders on painful, but you don’t care as long as his filthy groans turn louder and needier. His hips thrust up once, twice, and then he is holding you down as rope after rope of his cum reaches the deepest part of you. Your content sigh at the surreal sensation of finally being filled soothes Bucky a little, his body finally falling back against the mattress as his cock keeps twitching inside you.
“Shit,” his next exhale is harsh, tired eyes staring dumbfounded at the ceiling. “I’ve never come this hard in my life, sweet girl.” His palms trace a slow path up and down your back, and you silently thank him for staying inside you. You are not sure you’d react well if Bucky were to part from you at once after what you just did.
Your weak body settles on his little by little, until you are completely pliant in his arms.
“C’mere and give me a kiss, I miss my pretty girl.” His mouth moves against your temple, before his thumb and index finger tenderly hold your chin to coax you out of your hiding place.
You lazily yield, meeting him in a languid kiss that is more tongue than lips.
“The best.” Kiss. “Prettiest.” Kiss. “Girl.” Kiss. “You’re so good to me, took it all inside and didn’t waste a single drop.” He playfully growls against your jaw, eliciting a tired giggle out of you.
“Bucky, it tickles.” You squirm slightly, wrinkling your nose when he leaves a gentle peck right on the tip. He couldn’t be more proud of how serene you look, safe and thoroughly fucked as you lie drowsily on his chest.
“So,” he sighs after a while, arms squeezing your waist as he beams up at the ceiling. “About that date…”
— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 💕
my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist
I mentioned it before but the inspiration for the title comes from this spectacular meme, of course lmaooo
SUMMARY: bucky barnes is head over heels for a girl who could say i love you and simultaneously try to kill him in the same breath. (but don’t save him! he is exactly where he wants to be).
PARING: grumpy!reader x lovesick!bucky
WORD COUNT: 2.7k
WARNINGS: lovesick!bucky, bucky is an idiot in love, fluff, weapons, suggestive comments, no use of y/n.
NOTE: it’s always grumpy!bucky x sunshine!reader. i thought i’d switch it up ;) i’m not too sure how i feel about this tbh, but if i stare at it anymore i’ll go crazy </3
If someone was to tell Bucky Barnes two years ago that he’d fall hopelessly in love with a girl who was all flirty smiles, baked cookies and wore pretty pastel sundresses, respectfully?
He would’ve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.
Now, if they were to tell that same Bucky Barnes that he’d fall hopelessly in love with a girl who threw knives for sport and had the permanent expression of I’m going to kill you and enjoy doing it on her face?
. . . Well, let’s be honest, he still would’ve rolled his eyes and told them to fuck off.
But hey! At least this time they wouldn’t be wrong, but he’d never admit that to their face. Or to anyone else’s for that matter.
The first time Bucky meets you, you almost slice his ear clean off.
Honestly? That’s the moment he thinks he fell in love with you. Love at first sight. . . or possible ear amputation, in this situation.
It was his own error. He was walking in the gym, too in his own head and oblivious to his surroundings to notice you and walked right in front of the target you were hurling throwing knives at. They were all crammed around the center. Defenitely could've got him if you wanted to.
There’s no panic, there’s no loud dramatics like gasps or hands flying to mouths in shock, you're not rushing to take a look and see if he’s okay and spewing out apologies.
You just stand there and narrow your eyes with a head tilt that doesn’t say you’re concerned, but rather you’re lucky.
“You good?” You ask simply.
Bucky's mouth goes dry, and he finds himself being able to only nod in response.
He was doomed from the very start.
———
After your first encounter, he kept running into you.
In the gym (again), the kitchen, the common room. He seemed to gravitate towards you like there was something nudging him in your direction.
Bucky’s the one to ask you on a date. No grand gestures, just a simple question in the hush of the quinjet on your way back from a mission. Broken, bloody and bruised, the sun setting behind you.
This was one of the moments where you were at your softest. You were exhausted, your arm resting in Bucky's careful palms so he could stitch together a small gash on your arm.
“This is gonna hurt.” He says softly.
“I’ve had worse.” You whisper gently. No flat tone or sarcasm falling from your mouth like usual. Just you, tired and recovering.
He cleans it with antiseptic, and you welcome the sting with a shaky inhale, eyes fluttering shut.
The silence stretches between you. Steve controls the jet upfront, taking the three of you back to compound. That’s when Bucky asks you on a date.
And to his surprise? You say okay.
He blinks like he heard you wrong, his gentle grasp on your wounded arm going slack, "Really?"
You shrug, "Sure, why not."
His mouth stays a little agape, and you shake your head softly and rest your head back against your seat. Your eyes flutter shutter, tapping his chin, "Close your mouth, Barnes. You'll catch flies in that trap."
Bucky blinks again, and then his mouth shuts promptly.
The date is nothing overly fancy, an Italian restaurant somewhere in downtown Manhattan because he overheard you in conversation with Natasha once about it and how much you liked their tiramisu.
You wear jeans, a simple top and a pair of heels, all various dark colours, hair pulled away from your face. When Bucky hears you coming he turns opens his mouth like a fish out of water when he catches sight if you. He stumbles over his words, shooting up from the couch and almost tripping over his own feet.
"With limbs flailing like that, no-one would ever believe you were the Winter Soldier," You quip with an unimpressed arch of your eyebrow, "Just a man with bad coordination."
"You, uh— you look, uh, really nice." He chokes.
"You don't look so bad yourself, Barnes." You reply, already sashaying your way to the exit, "Are you just going to stand there or am I going on my own?"
Bucky prays for strength and to not make an absolute fool of himself, scoops up his car keys, and then jogs after you.
———
Ever since that first date, and the dates that followed, Bucky has been so totally whipped, and he knows that.
Sam says that to his face at least three times a day.
Bucky doesn’t deny it, not once— he can't.
You spar one time just for fun, and you told him not to take it easy on you. You both pounce at each other, hitting and deflecting like you were practicing choreography, like you had memorised what comes next after he swung his arm in a low arc.
You catch him off guard at one point, and suddenly your swinging up and around his neck before he can blink, thighs squeezing either side of his throat.
And he. . . doesn’t do anything.
Brain short circuits.
Bucky.exe has stopped working.
What a good way to go, is about the only thing rolling around in his brain.
“You’re distracted,” You pant as he sets you down, sweat dripping from your temples and wisps of hair sticking to your forehead.
“No shit,” Bucky huffs, his eyes lingering on you for longer than necessary, “Kinda what happens when you wrap your legs around my head.”
You shake your head, exasperated, “Always thinking with your downstairs brain.”
Bucky grins, “Only when it’s you.”
You give him a sharp stare that would probably unsettle anyone else. It just makes Bucky melt like ice-cream left in the sun.
Only you would wrap your legs around your boyfriend’s head and expect him not to be completely distracted by that. . . or maybe you do, and you’re messing with him. He can’t be sure, and your expression doesn’t give anything away.
All Bucky knows is if it’s psychological warfare you’re playing at?
He’ll never win.
———
You're stood at the foot of the bed, sorting your clothes, a basket of Bucky's waiting on the floor for its own turn to be sorted after.
“Sam says I dress like I’m going to a funeral,” You grumble, folding clothes with more vigour than necessary, “Who the fuck wears dark green to a funeral?”
Bucky approaches you from the doorway, pushing the door gently behind him. He wraps his arms around your waist, and you tense for a moment before letting yourself relax into him.
A kiss is pressed to the back of your neck, soft and gentle, “Think he just means you wear a lot of dark clothes, baby.”
“I know what he meant,” You mutter, folding socks over each other so you don’t lose the pair, “The comment was uncalled for.”
Bucky huffs a laugh into your shoulder. You squirm like you hate it, but Bucky knows you don’t. He nuzzles into, thumbs running in soothing circles over your hipbones.
"Since when have you ever listened to Sam?" He murmur, peppering kisses against the soft skin behind your ear and trailing them down neck.
"I don't listen to Sam," You mumble, eyebrows furrowed and your lips pursed.
"He's trying to get under your skin."
"He's annoying."
"Aggravatingly so."
You lean into his touch as his hands curl around your hips to hold gently instead, until your eyes lock onto a basket of clothes that're pink and your body goes still.
"Bucky?" You say softly.
That tone of voice is never good.
That tone of voice means he's in trouble.
He doesn't register it though, he only hums noncommittally. You feel the vibration against the sensitive skin of your neck that makes you flinch before you can try to stop yourself from reacting.
Bucky grins, happy with himself, and lifts his head from your neck. He kisses your cheek, "Yeah, baby?"
You point at the basket of clothes he left on the floor, "What is that?"
His eyebrows furrow, looking at where your pointing, "My clean clothes?"
You grit your teeth and turn your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral, "Yes, but why are they pink?"
Bucky does a double-take, blinking at his clothes. He picks up the basket and sets it on the foot of the bed next to your neatly folded clothes.
He chews on his bottom lip, "They looked white in the washing machine."
You scoff, "Oh, so the air made them pink?"
Bucky doesn't say a word.
You rummage through his clothes, dress shirts and t-shirts and vests and socks, until you find the culprit. You hold it up slowly, dangling it in front of him.
The look on your face says he's fucked up.
"Are you gonna kill me?" He blurts out.
"I might've if it was my clothes, but you did this to yourself," You huff, gesturing at the ruined pile of his clothes, "How do you even do this, Bucky?"
He shrugs, "Wasn't paying attention."
You hold the offender in your hand— a single red sock. Not even a pair.
"I can see that," You deadpan, "Now your whites are all. . . pastel pink."
At least he has the audacity to look a little sheepish.
"You had one job," You continue, "Just one."
Bucky nods solemnly.
"I did."
"You failed. . . how do you fail washing clothes, Bucky?"
"I didn't fail washing them," He corrects, "They're clean, aren't they?"
You blink at him, "They're pink. They're supposed to be white!"
"I just— I missed the red sock!"
"You have pristine vision!" You exclaim, "You're a super-soldier, it's part of the package!"
"Yeah, but I don't have x-ray vision!"
You huff, shaking your head and muttering about your useless 106 year-old super-soldier boyfriend who can't wash clothes correctly under your breath.
You're complaining, but it still has the corners of Bucky's mouth upturn fondly.
He guides your hips to turn you around, wrapping his arms back around your waist, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other coming up to knead the back of your neck gently.
Your jaw grinds, and you stare at him, that same stare from the first day he saw you in the gym, but this time there's something else there.
Love.
And it's for him.
And isn't that something special in itself?
"I'm sorry," He whispers softly, brushing hair from your face, "I'll never touch the washing again."
You try not to smile at that. It's a failing task.
"I'm an 106 year-old man, we didn't have washing machines," Bucky exaggerates a long sigh, "All this technology. . .”
"Alright, old man." You roll your eyes, patting his chest.
He grins, a thumb stroking over your cheek before leaning in to kiss you— slow and soft, a kiss that warms you on the inside and makes you melt.
Something that makes you feel safe, cared for, loved.
Everything the two of you deserved to be.
"I love you," Bucky murmurs against your lips, soft like a prayer, his hand cradling your cheek.
"I love you too," You sigh in a rare defeat, nipping at his lower lip in warning, "But if you ever do that to my clothes, Bucky. . ."
"Told you, I'll never touch the washing machine again," He offers quickly, "Or try to be helpful."
You roll your eyes with a lingering smile, "Might be for the best."
You can still feel the honeyed trace of his lips that had just been pressed to yours, residual warmth still seeping into your skin like sunlight.
If he's going to kiss you like that? You ought to have to him apologising more often.
He tilts your head just enough to kiss you a second time, pouring love into you as if it comes from an endless source that lives in his chest.
Your eyes flutter shut, hands coming up to cup his cheeks, and suddenly the reason why you were mad at him in the first place slowly begins to fade away.
Later, he'll buy you flowers as an apology. A small bunch of red roses and he'll make a silly joke about the two of you and true love. You'll scoff and give him a playful shove, but you'll take the bouquet and inhale the floral scent. You'll gingerly untie the ribbon and put it in your pocket, filling a vase with water and placing the flowers inside with the utmost care.
But for right now? You can settle for this.
———
Some of Bucky's favourite moments with you is in the morning, specifically when the sun is rising and shines through your bedroom window.
Hues of orange and yellow bleed into the darkness of the room, slithering through the gaps in the curtains that had been haphazardly drawn the night prior.
Your face, illuminated by the rising sun from its golden light spills into the room and streaks across your face, will be an image he will never be able to rid from his mind.
In your sleep you had always looked serene, as though the traumatic weight you carry on your shoulders doesn't exist at all. The wrinkle between your usually furrowed eyebrows is smooth and that flat, unimpressed look you usually wear is nowhere to be seen.
It's just you, stripped of that façade you wear like armour.
Sometimes, he can't believe that he's lucky enough to see you just as you are.
Bucky tucks hair that had fallen in your face behind your ear, and the soft sweep of his fingertips against your skin has your face twitch, the corners of your lips quiver at the fleeting touch.
"Shhh," He hushes softly as you shift, seeking him out with a deep sigh.
That alone could've made him melt.
His grumpy girl, searching for him even when she was asleep.
Your hand settles against his chest and a leg weaves between his. Bucky watches the tension that had started to rise in your body slowly dissipate until you were pilant against the sheets once more.
He smiles, his metal arm enveloping your back, and curls his free hand over yours where it rests against his heart.
———
You in your element is something that Bucky will never quite get over.
He watches you move— dangerous and deadly, your body twisting fluidly and your limbs swing in arcs meant to deliver heavy blows to take down men that're twice your size.
Bucky sighs wistfully.
Sam blinks, looking both mildly frustrated and slightly horrified at his reaction.
“She’s doing her job, Buck.”
Bucky huffs, “Yeah, but she looks good doing it.”
“Are you two finished with your mother's meeting or what?" You yell, glancing over your shoulder at them with a withering stare.
Someone takes this as the chance to try and rush you.
You curse under your breath, exasperated and utterly irritated, jaw clenched as your body moves fluidly, whirling around on your heel and swinging your leg in the air. The heel of your boot connects with his face, a sickening crunch under it where his nose snaps to the side.
He staggers from the force of it and swears, trying to grasp clumsily at your leg in his disorientation. You grab him by his shoulders and smack his head against your knee hard, and he falls like a sack of potatoes— unconscious.
"Seems like you have it handled." Sam quips.
You roll your eyes, pointing a throwing knife at him, "Careful, Wilson, or it'll be you next."
"What about me?"
"You're such a machochist, dude." Sam huffs with a shake of his head, following redwing down one of the corridor's that'll hopefully lead you all where you need to go.
"If you want a punishment, James, you know where to find me." You tease with a roll of you eyes, but there's a hint of a smile there.
And that's for him.
When he doesn't move from his spot, you huff softly and take his wrist to drag him along with you to follow Sam, still failing to hold off that smile, "C'mon, old man."
Bucky grins and trails behind you like a puppy.
There's no place he'd rather be.
🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @juniebjonesin @kileyking @nightfirecomit + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
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."
Pairing | Tow truck driver!Bucky x rich girl!reader
Summary | When you step into Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair, you think all you're leaving with is a newly repaired car, simple as that. But Bucky has other plans. After one glimpse of those pink heels and your overly bright personality—too polite to be genuine—he knows you're nothing but trouble. A few choice words slip from his lips before he can stop himself, and guilt hits as soon as you're gone. Now…he can't get you out of his head, and the universe is dead set on throwing the two of you together again and again.
Warnings/tags | MDNI (18+), nsfw, dual pov, slow burn, forced proximity??? age gap romance?? (I imagined reader in her mid to late 20's and Bucky is late 30's) modern au, poor guy x rich girl, grumpy x sunshine, enemies to lovers if you squint, Sam Wilson makes an appearance, reader loves pink (like a concerning amount), reader is described as smaller than Bucky and can easily carry her, reader is a bit ditzy (she's just like me fr), Bucky's an asshole for like .2 seconds (pinky promise he redeems himself), reader is the daughter of a CEO, reader's father is an actual asshole (he doesn't redeem himself...it's the daddy issues in me), John Walker makes an appearance as a NASCAR driver and is a slightly cocky asshole (y'know what, maybe everyone's an asshole in this...my hate for men came through on this one, I fear), use of alcohol, hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, fluff, car accident, minor injuries, Bucky is a sexy motherfucker with a soaked tank top, Bucky's a groveler, Alpine makes an appearance, Bucky has a happy trail, reader catches print, mentions of how Bucky lost his arm, grief, mentions of death, mentions of drunk driving, smut, kissing, dirty talk, slightly pervy Bucky, Bucky cums in his pants, masturbation (f+m), oral (f receiving), breast attention, fingering, pussy pronouns, p in v, unprotected sex, biting, marking, praise kink, save a horse; ride a Bucky, multiple orgasms, pet names (princess, baby, sweet girl, pretty boy)
Word Count | 19.5k (can you believe I popped out this big ass baby?)
A/N | hi barbie, please don't be perturbed by the length of this (don't you like it bigger? :smugass:) this is officially the longest fic i've written, and i like it??? i think i really just love these characters, that's why it was so difficult for me to stop writing. i know next to nothing about cars/tow truck driving/mechanics/racing/the air force, so i'm truly sorry if anything is wrong:((
This is my portion of the Barbie Dreamhouse collab brought to you by @stantastic-association!! A heartfelt thanks to @miraclediviner for putting this together and doing such a wonderful job organizing it. And also being such a big support to everyone <3 dt: to my babies @phoenix-in-writing @sheriff-bodecker @metal-armed-muse @buckytakethewheel i love you all so much:))
cloud divider credit: @/uzmacchiato
Also on A03:))
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Sam Wilson tapped the end of his pen against the counter in a steady rhythm, deep in thought, the metallic click filling the silence. Leaning over, he pressed his elbows to the cool surface and released a long, dramatic sigh. The ceaseless ting of metal hitting acrylic was beginning to irritate Bucky, but to be fair, everything about his friend seemed to irk him most days. His jaw ticked before the pen even made a sound, as if he were bracing for it now.
A barely there, unhelpful voice echoed in the back of his mind, suggesting that he reach over the table and snap the pen clean in half. Oh, it would be so satisfying. The hurt look on Sam's face, combined with the following silence after, was getting too tempting by the second. However, he thought better of making a scene, opting instead for taking a steady inhale through his nose and blowing it out through his mouth.
It really wouldn't matter if he did cause a scene. It was one of the slower days at the shop. The kind where only a couple of customers drifted in with quick replies and hurried footsteps, so they could continue on with their day. But most of today was like this—an empty room with a pressing stillness and lingering pauses. Ones that Bucky wasn't keen on filling.
"I don't know, man," Sam finally broke the silence. "The common denominator between all these relationships ending is you. Maybe you need to adjust your attitude."
"I don't need to adjust nothin'," Bucky muttered stubbornly.
Sam raised a brow. "Right. It's them. Every single one. Not the guy who's always in a mood and has a staring problem."
"'m just particular. There ain't nothin' wrong with that."
"Some might say too particular," Sam murmured under his breath. "Look, I just don't want to see your sad little face walk in here, moping around like someone punted your cat."
"Don't bring Alpine into this," Bucky's scowl deepened, his jaw twitching again. "Besides, Alpine and I are fine. Don't have time for anythin' serious anyway."
"Did you ever send a message to…what was her name?" Sam trailed off, tapping the pen against his forehead, as if that would jog his memory. "Oh, Violet."
"No. 'm not textin' your barista, just because she gives you an extra shot of espresso and happens to have a nice smile."
The man behind the counter huffed air out of his nose. "Fine, just know I'm done playing matchmaker for your sorry ass."
Bucky rolled his eyes. Never asked for your help in the first place, he thought. Then, that same instigating voice nudged him, and he gave in this time. "How's Sarah?"
Sam's posture straightened rapidly, pointing the pen at him like it was a weapon instead of a writing tool. "Don't you fucking dare, Barnes."
"What? I was just askin'," Bucky shrugged, a smirk gracing his lips.
"My sister is off limits. You know that."
"Okay, okay." Bucky held up his hands in surrender, dropping the subject completely. Still, it gave him that brief, cathartic release he had been searching for earlier, even if it was fleeting.
Glancing around, his eyes drifted out of the wide windows. The sun was a bright statement in the clear blue sky, only partially blocked by the towering 'Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair' sign outside—bold enough that it could be read by anyone speeding down the highway. The reflection of the window pane left a white cast on the tiled floor. A small black rectangle carved in the bleached reflection forced his gaze up to the flimsy paper posted by the door, its edges slightly creased. The ink fading betrayed just how long it had been hanging there.
Now hiring.
Sometimes, Bucky wondered if this place was less a job and more a coasting point for people to move through to something better. No matter who he and Sam hired, they would leave within a couple of months—the universe was never gracious enough to gift them someone for more than that. Then the cycle would start again, and he'd have to reprint the sign.
So, there it stayed—a permanent decoration on the glass until they could find someone permanent.
The rays of the sun were interrupted by a dark Rolls-Royce pulling into the lot, snagging Bucky's attention immediately. His eyes flicked over the body of the car—spotless, glistening even. Tinted windows. Freshly polished rims. Even the emblem of the tiny woman with wings appeared untouched.
He scoffed at the ridiculous sight. Obviously, this car wasn't a potential customer. This was someone who took a wrong turn along the way and needed a place to swing around, so they could head back to whatever mansion they stumbled out of.
But the car idled. Right in front of the shop. Unmoving.
The driver's door opened, revealing an older man in a pressed suit. The fabric was all clean, sharp lines—tailored perfectly for him. He even wore one of those chauffeur caps, the kind Bucky only saw in movies that Sam would force him to watch on his rare days off.
The whole get-up screamed wealth and status, as though money itself dripped off of him—none of which belonged anywhere near the likes of Bucky's shop. Yet, there he stood.
The man moved around the front of the car, adjusting his gloves and smoothing out wrinkles that weren't visible. After assessing his surroundings, he wrapped his fingers around the chrome door handle, keeping his chin high as he pulled it open.
A single pearlescent pink heel appeared first, the pointed toe hovering for a beat before carefully finding purchase on the oil‑stained pavement below. You were smart enough to avoid the puddles that could potentially ruin your expensive shoes.
You stepped out, rising to your full height. Sunlight glinted off your dark sunglasses, adding a shiny sheen to your hair. You straightened your designer coat and fixed the creases in your pale pink dress before giving your driver a practiced, polite smile.
Then, you sauntered forward, hips swaying as you adjusted the strap of your small handbag over your shoulder. Bucky could hear the loud click of your heels before you ever entered the shop.
"This oughta be good," Sam whispered behind his dark-haired friend.
As you entered, the bell above the door chimed, announcing your arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue.
You pushed your sunglasses up with two manicured fingers, resting them on your hair. Bright eyes darted around the room as you inspected it with your clear vision. You took it all in before you spoke. Walls filled with old metal signs. Counters lined with tools and little bobbles.
You breathed in the air that smelled faintly of strong coffee and even stronger motor oil, but you didn't wrinkle your nose. You looked…prepared, trained not to visibly react.
Finally, your gaze drifted to the two men who were frozen in place, as if just noticing their existence.
"Hi, I'm here to pick up my car," your voice came, velvet confidence. You introduced yourself, muttering your last name so quickly, he would've missed it if he wasn't listening. He swore he had heard that name, but immediately brushed it off like it was inconsequential.
"My father brought it in for a routine check-up, and he received a call that it was ready," you clarified.
For a moment, no one moved. Bucky didn't even blink. And even though you explained why you were here, he still thought you took a wrong turn on the way to the mall.
Eventually, Sam snapped out of it, fingers finding the computer's keyboard. "Right. The Porsche?"
Of course. He should have known that your car was the most expensive thing to ever roll through here. And if the price of the car didn't give it a way, surely the color did. Pink. The first time he saw it, he wanted it out of the garage, almost called to have it sent to another mechanic because he couldn't stand to look at the damn thing.
"That's correct," you said sweetly, causing something in Bucky's gut to sour.
It must've shown on his face because you gave him a small, courteous wave. The kind of gesture people made when they were raised to address everyone in the room, even the ones they actually didn't want to make conversation with.
Your gaze flicked briefly to his metal arm. He no longer bothered to hide it like some kind of secret. In those first few years, still adjusting to the foreign weight, he’d kept it concealed under layers of clothing—even in the heat of summer. Most days, it was less a badge from his time in the Air Force and more an inconvenience at best.
But as the years rolled by, he cared less and less about what people thought. Customers would stare at him with pity, similar to the look you were giving him now. You offered him a tight-lipped smile, and he hated the feeling it carried.
Instantly rolling his eyes, he turned away; he clearly wasn't interested in your fake-friendly facade. He knew that look all too well, and he knew that under the practiced posture and fancy clothing, you wanted to get the hell out of this place. And he wasn't going to stop you.
Noticing the slight edge of tension, Sam tapped away at the keys as he kept his eyes on the screen, feigning professionalism. He cleared his throat. "Ahh, here it is…Porsche 918 Spyder. Yeah, it looks like all you needed was an oil change and a tire rotation."
"Did you happen to take a look at the weird sound it was making? It sounded…" You paused, pursing your lips, "mechanical."
Bucky let out a dry, humorless laugh, "It's a car. Everything is mechanical."
"Right," you giggled, light and airy, and it sounded like it belonged somewhere less cramped. More open, like a rose garden, to complement the warmth of it.
Was he really comparing your laugh to fucking flowers? Maybe that perfume of yours had gone to his head and messed up his brain chemistry.
"I mean, it sounded unusual," you added after your laughter had faded.
Bucky opened his mouth to respond with something snarky, but Sam cut in immediately. "After the tire rotation, the sound went away. But if you happen to hear it again, bring it in, and we'll assess it further."
He typed out something else, then clapped his hands together as he met your eyes. "Alright, if that's all, I can bring her around."
"Thank you. I appreciate your help, Mister…?"
"Sam will do just fine," he corrected, and you offered a sharp nod in return.
Then, he disappeared into the back, heading towards the garage, leaving you and Bucky alone.
You turned to him, your expression open and approachable, as if you didn't even notice his hostility towards you. "So, you work on cars, then?"
"No, I just stand 'ere and look pretty," he grumbled sarcastically.
"Well, you're doing a great job," you teased, obviously not perturbed by his glum behavior. "Don't let me stop you from your hard work."
The tips of his ears turned red, but he recovered quickly. "'m just glad to get that pink monstrousity outta the garage," he mumbled.
"You don't like it?"
"It's…loud."
"Well, isn't it supposed to be?"
He narrowed his gaze at you, impatience flickering over his expression. "I didn't mean the engine.
"Ohh," you said with a lilt of amusement in your tone. "The color."
"It's pink," he deadpanned.
"Good observation, Sherlock," you shot back, but it lacked the bite he was expecting. Your grin stayed plastered on your face, unflinching. "Maybe you should take up detective work when you're not…y'know…standing there looking pretty."
Bucky leaned against the counter, the cool acrylic biting his heated skin. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head as his eyes flicked over your appearance. "It doesn't take a detective to know that color is hideous."
You crossed your arms, but for the most part, you were keeping your cool. "Like I'm going to take fashion advice from someone who only sees the world in greys and blacks. And is appalled by the simple sight of color."
"I like color just fine."
"Really?" you questioned, arching a brow. "Let me guess, your closet is full of the same black shirt. But when winter rolls in, you'll throw on a flannel to spice it up."
Something shifted in his expression, irritation sharpening on his features. "You think you have it all figured out, huh?"
You leaned in, not backing down from the challenge in his words. "Don't you? You seemed to have made up your mind about me as soon as I walked in the door, without knowing a single thing about me."
"Oh, I know exactly who you are," he smirked, amused. "Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do. You just get behind that wheel because Daddy bought it. He even spiffed it up for you. Ain't that right, princess?"
The words hit hard, and it showed on your face. Your expression changed in an instant. Before he could even blink, your smile twisted into a grimace, as if you’d just tasted something bitter.
This time, you didn't brush off his words. Instead, you took a step closer, not backing down. "Here's the thing, I don't expect you to like my car, or the color, or even me." Your voice never wavered, bold and composed. "But don't mistake my kindness for ignorance."
And with that, you made your rushed exit—the echo of your heels lingering long after you disappeared from view.
A moment later, your car zoomed past in a pink blur, merging onto the busy streets of Brooklyn. He wished the image of the hurt etched on your face would have faded, along with the smoke from your exhaust dissipating. But it stayed, lodged between his ribs like a thorn in his side.
Sam stepped into the room a minute too soon, and Bucky could already hear the criticism forming on his tongue. "What the fuck was that? What the hell did you say to her?"
"Nothin'."
"Bullshit. She hopped into that car like she was fatally wounded and needed emergency assistance."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not." Sam shook his head, eyes to the ceiling as if he was praying for strength. "Do you know who her father is?"
"No."
"You don't want to. At least not personally. He's…intense," Sam sucked air through his teeth, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ever heard of Apex Motors?"
Bucky promptly nodded; he was very familiar with the brand. Apex Motors was everywhere. Their parts were the gold standard. Their engines were the kind mechanics whispered about—if you hadn't seen them, you wouldn't believe they truly existed. Their logo showed up at every car show, every charity race, every community event that was always over-advertised.
"Of course, I know Apex. Who doesn't?" Bucky scoffed.
"Yeah, well, her father owns it, dumbass," Sam barked. "He doesn't just own it. He is Apex Motors. The founder. He's the one who elects to sponsor all those races we're lucky enough to attend. The one whose logo is clearly plastered on all the major drivers' cars and even bigger on the fucking banners outside those events."
Bucky's stomach dropped. "Fuck."
"Yeah, fuck is right." Sam dragged a hand down his face. "That man has enough influence in Brooklyn—hell, New York—that he could get us shut down. And forget about getting a job after that. Our names would be on everyone's blacklist."
"I didn't know."
"That's the problem, Bucky. You just don't know when to stop, do you? Not everything needs your input," Sam griped, then his voice softened. "Just pray she doesn't tell her dad, before you apologize."
Bucky's eyebrows knitted together in protest, but Sam raised a hand to stop him. "It's not up for discussion. Act like the adult you are, and apologize to the poor girl."
Poor girl.
Bucky couldn't help but notice the irony in his words; her purse likely cost more than his monthly house payments. However, he decided that it probably wasn’t the best time to laugh at the joke he had thought of, let alone say it out loud.
He spent the rest of the day mulling over his stupid mistake, and the constant side-eye from his friend didn't help.
The ballroom was grand, but at the same time, it was too congested. The weight of everyone’s piercing stares made it hard to breathe. You felt less like yourself and more like an accessory on your dad’s arm at these pointless, flashy events.
The marble floors seemed to glitter under the tasteful chandeliers above. Everything accented with gold looked like embers from a fire in this light. The Champagne flutes were polished to perfection, sparkling on the silver platters that waiters carried with ramrod-straight spines. Banners were strewn around the room, reading 30 years of Apex Motors.
You should be used to this scene by now. Used to the less-than-heartfelt speeches, the handshakes, the forced smiles, the way you tilted your chin just right to make it look like you were interested when you were anything but.
Tonight, that cracked mask felt heavier, and it was slipping.
You weren't sure if it was the series of fake grins and unwanted conversations, but it was overwhelming.
Your father must be so proud.
You look so much like him in this lighting.
Are you thinking about following in his footsteps and running Apex someday?
One too-polite statement after the next, and the pain of it began to ebb at you. The sting burrowed beneath your thick skin like an incessant sliver that refused to go unnoticed.
Or maybe tonight was different because of the feeling of being profiled. Again. You really should be used to that, too. But it never got easier. Living in your dad's shadow meant you were constantly being measured against him.
To your face, they might say that you'll fill his shoes perfectly. But behind your back, they whispered that you'll never be him. You'll never be as smart as him. You'll never amount to his achievements.
Because a girl in a pink skirt could never command a whole room.
Truthfully, it always rolled right off your shoulders. You didn't want to be your father anyway, so those words never struck you.
But now, those words tangled with a deeper voice.
It had been a week. A full week since you visited the auto shop, yet his words were just as loud in your head as the day he said them to your face, without guilt.
Bet you don't know what half the buttons in that car do.
Princess.
The words punctured deep, but what hurt worse was his expression. The certainty in his eyes, the way he looked at you like he’d already solved you. Like you were a simple equation he’d seen a thousand times before.
The thought of your walls—the ones you had so expertly built—crumbling under his penetrating gaze was baffling. How could a stranger know you?
You told yourself he didn't. That you weren't like half the people drifting through this ballroom. You were different. You had to be. Even if it was a thinly veiled lie, you were adamant in believing it.
Click, click, click.
Three snaps of a camera sliced through your train of thought. You glanced up, focusing on the photographer and the scene he was capturing. Your father was chuckling at something one of his business friends said, booming laughter traveling across all corners of the building. It made your jaw twitch; you hadn't heard him laugh like that in years. At least not when you were around.
He spotted you, laughter dying on his tongue as quickly as it bloomed. He muttered something to the man beside him that you couldn't make out, then he excused himself.
He crossed the room like royalty—small groups parted, and guests dipped their chins in acknowledgment. When he made it to you, he paused like he didn't know what to do. He eventually settled for an awkward side hug, the kind that felt void of affection. Hollow. Forced.
When he pulled back, he scanned you as if he hadn't seen you in a while. And frankly, he hadn't. The last time he saw you was when he picked up your car for its routine check-up.
Your regular mechanic had closed up shop and moved across the state, so you asked for recommendations on a new auto shop. He said he'd handle it.
His assistant handled it.
"You came," your father trilled.
"Wouldn't miss it," you said too hastily; it sounded like a lie. It was.
His eyes narrowed, searching for the deception in your words. He always noticed the cracks in your mask before anyone else did, but he didn't comment on it. Too many investors to please and cameras to smile at to break the facade that this was a happy pair—a dad and his daughter simply catching up.
Instead of voicing the slip in your guise aloud, he adjusted the sheer pink shawl over your shoulder. It could've been viewed as a tender gesture to any onlookers, but you knew it was a silent correction to fix your mask.
"Good. I wanted you here for the big speech," he started casually. "I was hoping you could take some notes on what points you'll need to touch on when you're up there."
You opened your mouth to object, but he was waving someone over a second later. "John," he called. "Come here a minute. I'd like you to meet my daughter."
A dirty-blonde, tall man broke away from a nearby conversation. It clearly wasn't as important as your father's needs because he was eagerly striding towards the two of you. He was refined—crisp suit and a nice smile, revealing his pearly white teeth. Exactly the type of man your father wanted for you.
Great.
John gave your father a firm handshake, exchanging pleasantries, then turned to you. You offered your hand, and he took it with a gentle touch as if you were fragile and couldn't risk breaking you. Leaning down, his lips brushed your knuckles. Something in you recoiled at the contact, but you kept your composure.
"I've heard so much about you," he said by way of greeting.
The grin you gave him didn't quite reach your eyes, but he didn't notice. Guys like him didn't notice much. He was too busy gliding his thumb over the back of your hand, like he was trying to convey something unspoken. You reclaimed your hand, gingerly prying it from his grasp.
Noticing the tension in your posture, your father interjected, “This is one of the drivers competing in the NASCAR Cup Series.”
Apex Motors had been sponsoring one of the NASCAR Cup races consistently for the past ten years. You started memorizing the competitors by name around the fourth year you attended. But you were out of touch with the more recent drivers.
This year, Pocono Raceway was hosting. Your father had invited you a month in advance; you still hadn't gotten back to him about whether you'd be joining him.
John nodded, adding, “Yeah, your father hooked all the drivers up with head-to-toe Apex gear and spruced up our rides.”
You forced down the bile rising in your throat. "That’s him all right. He's always been the generous type."
But you knew it wasn't generosity that drove him. It was selfish. Strategic. Anything for the good of the company. More advertisements meant more customers, which always led to more people talking about him. If it didn't benefit him or his company, it wasn't worth his time and energy.
"Maybe you could swing by and watch him drive sometime. You know, to get a feel for the kind of things Apex invests in," your father suggested. He reached toward John, gripping his shoulder tenderly—the son he always wanted. "He's very talented on the track."
"You honor me, sir," John murmured coyly, though the confident smirk on his face betrayed exactly how highly he thought of himself.
The corner of your mouth twitched, but you kept that same easy smile on your face. You leaned towards your father, lowering your voice. "Can I speak with you in private?"
Your gaze flicked to John, who instantly took a step back with a quick nod. "Of course."
You led your father a few steps aside, far enough that no one could overhear, but not so far as to draw attention. Your tone stayed light and casual, the kind you’d practiced and perfected, ensuring nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
"We talked about this," you said softly. "I don't want anything to do with Apex. At least not right now."
Something shifted in his expression, anger carving out the edges of his features. "Then, what are you going to do with your life?"
"I don't know," you muttered brokenly.
"Well, that's not an option."
You inhaled slowly through your nose, keeping your cool. "I'm just not ready to figure it out quite yet."
"You said that after your mother died," he replied, tone clipped. "I'm going to need a different excuse this time."
He rarely brought up your mother these days, so the words landed like a punch to the gut. It wasn't like he didn't include her in your conversations because her death still stung. No. Instead, it seemed like he didn't talk about her because it was better to ignore that she existed altogether.
"No daughter of mine is going to be unemployed the rest of her life," he added, voice rising. "The world doesn't wait for you just because you ask it to. At some point, you're going to have to catch up, and I can't stand here and hold your hand forever."
You didn't recall a time when he ever held your hand.
"I've given you ample time to screw around and grieve," he continued bitterly. "But you need to grow up and reevaluate your life."
You flinched, the words hitting like venom rather than offering sympathy to a daughter who was still mourning. Your breathing stuttered, and you tried to push down the tears welling in your vision.
He sighed, his voice going soft. "We can talk about this later."
Or never would be the better option, you thought.
"Go have fun. Mingle." Then, he hauled you into another uncomfortable hug, kissing the crown of your head.
This time, when he pulled away, he didn't look at you. He didn't notice the tension in your shoulders or the way your fingers curled into your palm, your nails leaving tiny crescent-moon shapes in your flesh.
He simply turned and walked back towards the guests, only to be instantly swallowed by the crowd.
You stood there, feet firmly planted on the ground. Frozen in time, while everything around you seemed to speed up. Maybe your father was right; you couldn't just will the world to slow down.
But there was also no reason for you to stick around here.
You slipped into the crowd, brushing elbows with investors and bumping shoulders with drivers who were probably begging for a sliver of your father's time. None of which made room for you to get through. A photographer said your name as you passed, but you ignored them and kept moving toward your exit.
When you finally made it to the front, you pushed open the door. You didn't even wait for the gentleman stationed there to hold it for you.
The city was calling for you to do something reckless, and that, you couldn't ignore.
The blaring music and strobbing lights inside the bar were enough to give someone a severe migraine or a trip to the emergency room. Thankfully, the former was what Bucky was dealing with as he stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk. The noisy contents of the bar spilled out of the door as soon as he opened it, and somehow it sounded exactly the same beyond the walls. He swore it even sounded louder, if that was possible.
He patted his pockets to make sure he hadn't forgotten his wallet in his rushed exit. Once he found the familiar square outline tucked safely in his leather jacket, he reached for his keys and started toward his truck.
He made it about four long strides before he stopped dead in his tracks. Loud, off-key singing. With the combination of drunken shouting and the thumping bass echoing behind him, he hadn't noticed the noise until he was face-to-face with the image of a very hammered girl.
Streetlights flickered above the woman as she threw her head back, belting out the lyrics to a song Bucky recognized. Yet, the way she was singing, made it feel as if he were hearing it for the first time. Her voice cracked on a high note, and it caused him to wince in response.
"Only the young can saaaaay," she screeched, tripping over her own heels.
His lips twitched upward before he could stop it. She was wasted, no doubt about it, but there was something…blissful about her. Completely carefree. Untouched by the world around her. Chaos incarnate.
She twirled, the night air getting caught beneath her silk dress and lifting at the hem slightly. Her legs twisted, her arms flinging out awkwardly, like a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest prematurely.
"They're free to fly away," she bellowed, a melody only she could hear.
Then, she teetered dangerously close to the curb, her heels wobbling. Snapping out of his trance, he stretched out his arms, lunging to her aid. He caught her right before she landed face-first into the asphalt.
"Careful," he rasped, firmly holding her arms as he guided her back to safety.
Her back hit his chest, and she giggled as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Craning her neck back, her head rested on his shoulder, leaning into his warmth. Soft hair brushed over his cheek as she shifted in his hold.
Too late, it hit him. He recognized that laugh. How could he not?
He gently turned her as she used him for balance. And his worst nightmare materialized in front of him.
You.
His smile instantly dropped.
"Of course," he muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.
You were still struggling to focus, your eyes locked on the letters of his shirt. Blinking, your gaze flicked up as your laughter faded into the wind. You tilted your head, squinting your eyes as you attempted to steady your vision.
"Hey, I know youuuu," you squealed, like he was a long-lost friend you hadn't seen in years, though it had only been a week. "I don't think I caught your name, pretty boy."
"'s Bucky," he sighed, already annoyed. "And don't call me that."
"You're the one who said you get paid to look pretty," you slurred, raising a manicured finger to poke his nose.
You broke away from his grasp, raising your arms to the sky while you stumbled backward. "You're just in time," you cheered, your voice carrying a block down the street. The thin shawl draped over your shoulders slipped during your celebration. Bucky scooped it up as he steadied you again, his metal fingers gliding across your warm skin.
"Stay still. You're gonna break your ankles and fall flat on your ass."
"Are you thinking about my ass, Bucky?" you teased, ending your question with a wink. "Is that part of your very serious itinerary? Does it usually fall in the afternoon, somewhere between your third cup of coffee and your ritual complaint about the sun being too bright?"
"I am not— I don't—" he stammered, pink creeping up his neck and blooming across his cheeks.
"Aw, you're all flustered," you cooed, sweeping a knuckle across the flush.
There was a gentleness to your touch and a sparkle in your eyes, as if you were just discovering the beauty of this world, and nothing could dim your joy. It made his expression soften faintly, and something in his chest twisted unbidden. He hated it. He hated that it took you so little to make his entire demeanor shift.
He grabbed your wrist, carefully dragging it away from his face. "Quit."
"Sorry, mister grumpy pants," you said, scrunching your nose.
"Anywayyyy," you sing-songed. "Aren't you going to ask me what you're in time for?"
"My own demise, hopefully," he whispered.
"What?"
"Nothin'. What am I just in time for, princess?"
"The," you paused, drumming two fingers on his chest. "Concert. It'll be the performance of a lifetime."
Bucky snorted, "Yeah, I caught the tail end of Journey before I saved your a—" He was not about to make the mistake of talking about your ass again. He restarted, "Before I saved you…The performance itself needs some work. You were a bit pitchy."
Feigning offense, you lightly smacked his chest, a frown finding a way onto your lips. "Asshole. If you're done mocking me, do you have a song request?"
He gazed up at the twinkling stars above thoughtfully. "How 'bout 'go home, you're drunk?'"
"Huh? I don't know that one."
His fingers lifted to his forehead, massaging in slow circles on either side of his temples. "No, 'm tellin' ya to go home."
You blinked up at him, swaying slightly. "Ohhh," you drawled, his true meaning finally clicking through the haze in your skull. "You meant that literally. How boring. The concert just started."
"This isn't a concert," he said bluntly.
"I'll have you know, this is a sold-out show. Very exclusive." You crossed your arms with a very serious expression, lifting your chin. It was…adorable. "You're lucky I haven't kicked your ass to the curb."
He leveled his gaze at you, a smirk lifting his lips. "We're literally standing on the curb."
You glanced down, as if this was your first time noticing. "And? Haven't you heard? Curbs are all the rage now. Very underrated venue. The acoustics are top tier."
A laugh slipped between Bucky's lips before he could catch it. It was a real, genuine one, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the hard lines of his face.
Momentarily surprised by the sudden sound, you dropped your theatrics. You stared at him, unblinking.
"What was that?" you asked.
He forced the grin off his mouth, biting the inside of his cheek. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do," you insisted cheekily. "You laughed. You actually laughed."
"That's not what happened."
"I just made Bucky laugh," you screamed from the top of your lungs, like you just won the lottery.
His eyes widened in panic. "Shh…" He slapped his flesh hand over your mouth, scanning his surroundings. "Are you crazy? You're gonna wake up the whole city."
You mumbled something against his palm, vibrating his hand. The expression on your face could only be described as smug, mischief glittering in your eyes.
His eyes narrowed, pointing a single finger at you. "If you bite me, I swear—"
Peeling his hand away, you furrowed your brow. "I'm not a biter," you promised. He lowered his hand once he realized it was safe to do so.
"…Not unless you want me to be," you added flirtatiously.
Bucky shook his head in disbelief. "What am I gonna do with you, princess?"
Your smile softened into something warm and inviting, and he didn't mind the feeling that stirred in his chest. Maybe he really did misjudge you that day in the shop; you were nothing as he imagined.
You shivered, an imperceptible shimmy of your shoulders, but he noticed.
"Cold?" he asked, concern laced in his tone.
"A little," you replied, wrapping your shawl tighter around you. It did less than nothing to warm you, goosebumps spreading across your skin regardless of how well it covered you.
"Here." He slipped his wallet into his back pocket and slid out of his leather jacket. He gave you a look, silently asking for permission to touch. It felt appropriate, even though he touched you only moments ago.
You offered him a subtle nod, and he stepped closer, draping the jacket over your shoulders. His touch was light as he adjusted it over your arms, sliding his hands up the zipper. As he tweaked the collar around your neck, his fingers brushed over your bare skin. You shuddered again, but this time, he knew it wasn't from the chill in the air.
Locking eyes with you, he noticed your pupils dilate. He tried to rationalize it, thinking you might be drunk, or it was darker on this part of the sidewalk.
But rationalizing it didn't change the fact that the air around him felt thicker, and he could taste electricity on the tip of his tongue, as if he had just licked a nine-volt battery. An energy seemed to be swirling around the pair of you, drawing him in.
Bucky's fingerpads grazed over your pulse point, testing. He could feel the rapid thrum of your heart beneath his touch, and it made his breath catch. Because that right there was confirmation that he wasn't the only one feeling this.
Pulling away abruptly, he put some much-needed distance between you. You were still wasted, and he…obviously wasn't thinking clearly.
He cleared his throat after a beat.
"Listen, you're gonna forget all this 'n the mornin'," he began, rubbing the back of his neck. You gazed up at him, beaming, your eyes were a little squinty, and you were still very drunk. Oh, you definitely weren't going to remember this. "I wanted to apologize…for before."
Waving him off, you shook your head. "All is forgiven."
"But," he objected. "I was a complete dick to you."
"Yeah, you were," you admitted. "But I've dealt with worse."
Bucky pulled his eyebrows together, something washing over his face—guilt, or maybe irritation. "That doesn't make it okay."
You shrugged, indifferent. "I didn't say it did."
"I shouldn't've said what I did. I didn't know anythin' 'bout you."
"No," you agreed. "You thought I was some spoiled brat who had exactly two functioning brain cells." You giggled, mostly to yourself. "Which might be true as of right now." hiccup. "But I also made assumptions about you." You pointed a wobbly finger at him.
"Oh yeah?" he questioned, intrigued. "What were your assumptions, princess?"
"Grumpy."
"Fair."
"You hate fun."
"Hey, now—" he started, but you interrupted before he could say more.
"And you were only an asshole to me because you thought I'd bite first," you whispered, almost like you were afraid of calling him out. "If you bite first, you're less likely to get hurt, right?"
Bucky gulped, a little taken aback by your boldness. Racking his brain, he wondered how you obtained that information. He hadn't ever told anyone that. Not even Sam. Was he just that easy to read?
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tilted his head, not in annoyance but interest.
"I do that, too," you confessed. "Or, at least, I used to. I've gotten better about keeping my cool."
He didn't respond; he didn't know how to. Instead, he just looked at you—really looked—like he needed a second to take in this version of you he hadn’t expected.
"Well, 'm sorry," he repeated because he felt it was necessary.
"It's okay."
"Y'know," he choked on a half-laugh. "I didn't even know who your dad was until Sam said somethin'."
You sobered at that immediately. "Oh."
"He's intense, huh?" he asked, wiggling his hands into his front pockets casually.
"Um…yeah, you could say that," you mumbled, your expression suddenly blank. Your whole disposition had changed in an instant. "Is that why you apologized?"
His eyebrows twitched, confused. "No," he blurted out too quickly.
"It's okay if you did," you assured, but he could hear the tension in your voice.
"No," he restated, firmer this time. "'m genuinely sorry."
You studied him, looking for the lie you swore was hidden somewhere. "Let me guess, Sam said something like 'my father could shut down your shop.'"
Bucky's eyes widened slightly, the color draining from his face. The silence that followed was only confirmation.
You let out a bitter laugh, forcing a smile that didn't quite fit your face. "Right. Well…don't worry. Your shop isn't in jeopardy."
The hurt engraved on your face made his heart squeeze painfully beneath his rib cage because he hadn't meant to hurt you. And he truly didn't know how to fix it. Any response that came to mind didn't seem quite right. So, he just stood there, awkward and foolish.
"You were right," your voice cracked on those three simple words. "I should go home. It's getting late."
You reached for the collar of his jacket, attempting to shrug it off, but he stopped you. "No, keep it. You're cold."
"Thanks," you said stiffly.
The quiet that settled after was agonizing. He stared at you, and you stared right back. Bucky felt exactly how you looked—numb. And for some reason, this felt final.
Two chances. That's what he was so graciously given with you, and he squandered both of them.
You eventually turned on your heels and strode away without another word. You got as far as the crosswalk before he realized where you were headed. Your car.
"You're not thinkin' of drivin', are ya?" he called out, worry evident in his words.
Glancing over your shoulder, your expression was even more pained than before. "I would never," you scoffed, then you restarted, softer. "…I'm calling my driver."
Nodding in understanding, he gave you a tight-lipped grin.
When you reached your pink monstrousity, as he once not-so-lovingly called it, you yanked the door open and vanished behind it as it slammed shut.
And he was sure that was the last time he'd see you.
It wasn't.
Bucky saw you everywhere. Not you physically, but your presence was always there. The color pink. You. Anytime he smelled vanilla. You. A laugh on the wind while he was driving. You. Even the flowers near the checkout at the grocery store. You.
You were a ghost, haunting his every move.
A couple of days after the sidewalk incident, you sent your driver to return his leather jacket, dry-cleaned. It was still in the plastic covering, and the ticket dangled off the neck of the hanger. And even though it had been cleaned to perfection, he could still smell the faint trace of vanilla and grapefruit, as if you were now woven into the fabric.
He wasn't even embarrassed by how many times he pressed the material to his nose, breathing in your scent.
He didn't know how to shake you. He tried throwing himself into work, operating on the vehicles in the shop well into the night—elbow-deep in engines. He worked until his hand ached. Until the only thing on his mind was the soreness in his muscles.
That is, until Sam threatened to leave and lock the door behind him.
It was affecting his work. The way he interacted with customers was unusual; he was short, barely listening to a single word of their monologue of problems with their car. They rattled on about noises their vehicle wasn't meant to make—clunking, or sputtering, maybe both. He nodded at the right times, professional on the surface, but his mind was constantly far off.
It got so bad that on one tow job, he installed the tow hook on the front bumper the wrong way and nearly tore the whole thing off. The one task he used to nail with practiced skill, he botched completely.
The shop lost money that day. Sam gave him shit for it.
Maybe he wasn't the best at human interaction, or he didn't fully comprehend their minds—too difficult a puzzle to put together. But he knew cars. Cars were simple, predictable. He could do a full diagnostic of any vehicle just by hearing the engine purr. He understood them as if they were a second language, and he was an expert in communicating exactly what was being said.
And that was precisely why he royally messed up with you.
You weren’t a problem to diagnose or an engine to operate on. You weren’t some equation he could solve if he just stared at it long enough. But he kept treating you like one. Kept trying to force you into a mold—a predictable one. One he could understand.
And he couldn't get that through his thick skull.
So, no matter how loud the voice in his head got—the one telling him to just call and fix whatever he broke, he didn't give in. Not when he'd pull up a customer's information on the shop's computer, and your name would appear in the system, tucked neatly beneath your father's. Those ten digits sat there, blinking at him like a glaring reminder. Or…temptation.
But he gave you your space. Distancing himself was the best option for both of you…right?
Yet, it was as if the universe kept teasing him with you, like an owner waving a treat in front of a hungry pet. And a man can only be so strong.
It was late that night, legs stretched out on the couch with the blanket half-covering him. He didn't even know why his thumb was hovering over the app, but he found himself pressing it. He barely even used the damn thing, but Sam insisted it would be good for business. It wasn't. He never actually posted anything, except for a single picture of a car mid-repair, and another of Alpine perched by the window, with the sun warming her fur.
He had accidentally clicked the discover page—the little magnifying glass at the bottom of his screen. Twelve posts came into view, blinding him. Blinking, he adjusted to the brightness. He eventually started swiping through the posts. One after the other, depicting images and videos of cars and engines, all curated specifically for him.
Then.
You.
He sat up straight.
How you appeared on his Instagram, he had no clue. Before he could think better of it, he was tapping on the image. You were smiling, green straw between your teeth, and your eyes full of amusement. The arms of a pink sweater were tied around your neck, sunglasses resting on your head as you posed for your photo op.
He couldn't help himself; he pressed on your username. Pretty.in.pink. It suited you.
And, damn, did you have followers. 597.2k hovered between the number of posts you had and who you were following.
Scrolling through your feed, he glanced over your photos. Some showed you flaunting an outfit, pink checkered skirts, and white heels. You were adjusting the strap around your ankle in one. In the next image, you were holding a bouquet of daisies, pressed tightly to your chest, as you gazed up at the sky.
And he definitely didn't zoom in on your cleavage, hidden amongst the petals of the flowers.
You captured images of New York: skyscrapers, billboards, and the Brooklyn Bridge with the sunset as the backdrop. He noted some of the cafes and restaurants you visited, and the reviews that came with them. You had a very clear aesthetic that carried through your posts.
He kept scrolling. A mirror selfie. Pink makeup products on a white marble table. Mid-step off a sidewalk.
He felt like a stalker, looking at you like this. Like he was seeing something personal he wasn't supposed to. But he had convinced himself that this was for public viewing, and it wasn't like he was doing anything nefarious.
Well, that is, until he scrolled too far and saw your series of summer shots.
Sure, some were innocent, harmless. A cute one-piece swimsuit, hugging your curves. You had your hands on your hips, giggling. Or another with your legs dangling off the pier, bare feet kissing the surface of the water.
But most were tastefully suggestive. A floral bikini, barely covering your tits. You were toying with the strings of your bottoms, as if silently conveying that if you tugged just right, you'd be half-naked.
He wished he had stopped there. Because the next one he landed on filled his mind with every impure thought. "Fuck," he whispered under his breath.
You were on your stomach, legs folded behind you, crossing at the ankle with your feet in the air. His gaze dragged down the slope of your back to the curve of your plump ass.
He let out a low growl, his hand already finding the growing erection, pushing against his shorts. A feeling of depravity entered his body, even as he kept stroking himself through the fabric.
Scanning over your body, he noted the sparkle in your eyes as you looked over your shoulder playfully. The soft tilt of your lips. Your silky skin, and how it would feel beneath his fingers. The glimpse of your side boob, spilling out of the cup of the bikini top.
He stroked faster, biting his lip as the pressure built.
He told himself to stop. That this was wrong.
He didn't.
"You see what you do to me, princess," he groaned at the picture. "Y'know what you were doin' when you posted this, huh? Such a 'lil tease, aren't ya?"
Mind drifting, he imagined those same eyes looking up at him, a pout on your lips as he tapped the head of his cock on them. And the way those lips would feel wrapped around—
Hips jerking upward, he let out another low, broken curse. He was close. He could feel it in the way the vein on his neck stuck out, and his thighs tensed. Pressing the palm of his hand harder against his bulge, his breath stuttered.
He realized too late the predicament he was in. There he was, sprawled out on the couch, one hand curled around his phone, the other rubbing his dick through his pants. He came, his release blooming in his boxers and darkening the front of his shorts as your name fell from his lips.
Immediately after, he hissed, his eyes blown wide. Because he just came in his pants. Like a horny fucking teenager. Guilt and disgust flooded his body. He dropped his phone, as if it had burned him, sprinting to the bathroom.
He passed Alpine on his way there, and he swore she looked disappointed as she sat in the middle of the hallway, licking her paw. "Don't you dare," he scolded, but he knew he deserved it.
He banned himself from ever going on that stupid app. Because that couldn't happen. Not again.
After that, things settled. He still thought about you, of course, but he didn't have any more incidents. And the urge to call you faded.
It wasn't until he saw your face in the local newspaper that he almost broke that unspoken rule he had created, and finally called you.
It was dawn, and the sun had barely risen, just peeking over the horizon. The sky was a vibrant orange, and the clouds had a wispy quality that reminded him of the cotton candy he got as a kid on trips to Coney Island.
He was on his second cup of coffee as he reached for the newspaper that was thrown on the counter. Flicking out the paper with one hand, he attempted to right it as he raised his ceramic mug to his lips. The steaming dark liquid hit the tip of his tongue just as he saw you.
Setting down his cup with a sharp click, his eyes fixed on the image just above the article. It was a feature titled, "Upcoming Race in the NASCAR Cup Series: Apex Motors 500."
Your father was clearly the main focus, but that hardly mattered to Bucky. You were positioned behind him, and even slightly blurred, he could see those bright eyes of yours clear as day.
The photo seemed to be taken at some gala—a place he wouldn't be caught dead at. Too fancy and polished for his taste. He doesn't even recall the last time he wore a suit, let alone why he would've worn one.
Flipping the page, he was met with three more photos. Mostly with your father and his team. But there you were again. Another gala shot, but this one you were standing beside a tall man who was leaning in to kiss your hand. The caption read: John Walker, Two-time Lucas Oil Late Model Dirt Series Winner and NASCAR Cup Series Competitor, Seen Getting Cozy With a Potential Girlfriend?
The coffee settling in Bucky's stomach curdled.
John honestly looked perfect for you. Someone you could bring home to Daddy, and he'd have all the correct answers and say all the right things. Someone who fit flawlessly into the world you came from. And, of course, it helped that he was a NASCAR competitor, and in a race your father sponsored.
The smile you gave John wasn't genuine, though. He'd seen a real smile from you; it lit up your entire face. This one looked forced and uncomfortable.
"Buck?"
He jerked his head up, meeting Sam's narrowed gaze, the kind that said he'd called for Bucky more than once. Sam rounded the counter, peering over Bucky's shoulder to see what had so easily captured his attention.
"Man," Sam sighed. "You gotta talk to her."
After one too many of Sam’s knowing looks, the whole story spilled out. Everything that had happened between you and him. Sam had truly listened that day, without judgment or offering any unsolicited advice.
And if Bucky didn't want to talk about it, Sam changed the subject. But now Sam was fed up with it.
"'s…complicated," Bucky replied.
"From where I'm standing, it's pretty clean cut."
"Look at her," he pointed to your picture in the paper. "We come from opposite ends of the world."
"Do you really think she's so superficial that she wouldn't give you the time of day just because you have a different status?"
Bucky's face dropped. "That's not what I meant."
"No?" Sam shot back. "Then stop treating her like that. Stop assuming things you know nothing about." He didn't even wait for a response, just vanished into the garage and got to work.
A few days passed.
Bucky threw himself back into work, a wrench firmly in his fist as he tightened a bolt on an engine. Sam burst into the garage with a wild look in his eyes, panic written all over his face.
Somehow, Bucky already knew without hearing a word. Dropping the wrench, he wiped his hands on the nearest rag. Then, sprang to his feet, snatching his keys off the hook.
“Where is she?” he demanded, already moving.
The difference between the pouring rain and the tears blurring in your vision was indistinguishable. The tears were coming down your cheeks, hot and quick, before you could stop them. It didn't matter how many times you blinked or wiped the wet from your cheeks; they kept coming.
Why did this have to happen? Why today of all days?
The accident happened before you could prevent it. You swore that the family of raccoons came out of nowhere. One minute you were driving, the next you were slamming on your brakes as you yanked your wheel in the opposite direction. Your heart leaped to your throat, gripping the wheel so hard your knuckles had gone white. Swerving on a slick road like that one was always going to be a losing battle. With the combination of braking and swerving too hastily, your wheels locked, and you lost control. That was why the front of your car was curved around a telephone pole.
Now, you sat there with your hands trembling on the steering wheel as the rain pelted your windshield. Your breath was coming out heavy and uneven, fogging up the glass.
You weren't hurt, not really anyway. Your nose hit the top of the wheel from the impact, leaving a warm trickle of blood pooling above your lip. Your ribs ached from the brief constriction of your seatbelt across your chest—a whispering promise of bruising come morning. But you were fine.
After it happened, your hand was already curled around your phone, before you could properly register what you were doing. Anxious fingers flew across your keyboard, typing in the first person that came to mind. Your eyes were locked on ten digits, Barnes' Towing & Auto Repair hovering directly above them.
It wasn't the first time you had been in this predicament. You always talked yourself out of it before. Because you were embarrassed by the display you showed Bucky after he brought up your father. Because you couldn't muster the courage to talk to him.
But this time, as you stared at the phone number, you realized you really didn't know who else to call.
Luckily, Sam picked up the phone instead, so you still had ample time to think about what you were going to say to Bucky. Yet, your mind felt blank.
Weeks had passed, and you didn't even know if that spark you'd felt that night under the stars with too much liquor in your system was still there. Or if it even existed in the first place. You were so drunk that you could've imagined it. Did the laugh that echoed in your dreams ever even happen, or was that something you hallucinated as well? All a trick of the light.
Headlights flared in your rear-view mirror, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. You squinted against the brightness until the beams dimmed. The truck eased forward, turning around before backing up toward you until there were only inches between your bumpers.
You rubbed the blood from your nose, and you swiped the tears from under your eyes. Adjusting your sweater and running a hand over your hair, you tried to look as presentable as possible.
The driver's side opened, and out stepped Bucky. All six feet of him strode towards your car, white tank top getting soaked as he got closer. You could see the definition in his abs through the thin material, and the flex of his muscles as he…knocked on the glass.
Shit. You'd been gawking as he waited for you to roll down your window.
You were so fucked.
Bucky rapped on the glass one more time as you stared up at him, blinking. Your shimmering eyes eventually met his, lashes fluttering. Fuck, he missed seeing those in person. Your fingers reached for the switch, lowering the window with a mechanical hum. The steady rush of rain began to enter your car, raindrops dotting the interior of the door.
You almost appeared frazzled now that the glass wasn't interrupting his vision. Were you still in shock?
Bucky propped his elbow on the roof, leaning into the opening. "Hey," he greeted. "You still with me, princess?"
"Y-yeah," you stammered.
Now he could see the streaks of dried tears across your cheeks and the smear of crimson right below your nose. His chest clenched, and his skin suddenly felt too tight around his rib cage.
He cleared his throat. "Sam said you assured him you didn't need medical attention…you gonna fight me on that, too?"
"I'm really okay. Just a minor nosebleed. Nothing serious." You offered him a stiff smile that didn't reach your eyes.
He didn't know how to push down the worry stirring in his chest, so he responded with humor instead. "We gotta stop meetin' like this."
"Like what?"
"You're drunk," he teased.
Straightening your spine, you knitted your brows together in offense. "I'm not."
"Just a joke. Bad joke," he admitted, grabbing the back of his neck. "How'd you get in this mess anyway?"
"It's raining," you said, shrugging, as if that alone was an answer.
"I see that, Sherlock," he deadpanned. "But I got 'ere just fine."
"There was a little family of raccoons. Just a momma and her babies crossing the street, and I didn't see them right away. And…well…this happened."
"Adorable." The word slipped before he could stop it. He stared at you, eyes wide, hoping you didn't hear him.
"What?"
"I bet the raccoons were adorable," he offered, too quickly. "And I bet they're thankin' you for sparin' their lives."
Nodding, you sighed. "I just wish I hadn't sacrificed my pink monstrosity in the process."
He softened at the nickname he gave your car. "Uh…before I pull ya out," Bucky started, tapping on the roof of your car. "I'd like to apologize…again. It was never my intention to hurt you, and 'm sorry it came across that way. Your father had nothin' to do with the apology."
You stilled, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. Then, you still didn't move, and the two of you continued to face off in a little staring contest.
But he was getting anxious waiting for a reply, so he kept going. "Listen, I could wait out in the rain all day, beggin' for forgiveness. 'm not afraid to drop to my knees 'n the mud f' you. In fact—"
Doing just as he said, he lowered himself, dropping to his knees. His knees sank into the mud, no doubt darkening his jeans with the sludge. The droplets were streaming onto his face now, hair getting soaked in the process. But he didn't care.
"'m not goin' anywhere 'til you know I mean it," he promised. "'m deeply sorry."
You peeked out of the open window, watching him with your eyes blown wide. "Are you crazy?"
"A 'lil."
"Get up before you ruin your jeans," you order, slightly flustered.
He could ruin a lot more than his jeans on his knees for you. But this was not the time, nor the place.
Realizing he looked like an idiot, he rose with an awful sucking sound as he attempted to free his knees from the mud.
"You did nothing wrong, so there's nothing to forgive," you admitted, gazing up at him as he leaned against your vehicle. "I have some issues to work through, and that's not your problem."
"It could be."
He hadn't even realized he said it out loud, but there the words hung in the air between you like a confession. Lips separating, you released a soft breath, but you appeared too stunned to say anything.
Promptly moving on, he asked, "Did you call anyone to pick you up?"
"Just you."
Bucky hummed. "I know you don't wanna hear this, but maybe you should call your dad."
You instantly looked panicked. "Are you kidding? He'll kill me."
"Okay," he drawled. "How 'bout a friend?"
Grimacing, you shook your head.
"Well, I don't want you to be alone tonight," he mumbled, then thought of the most ridiculous solution. "You can stay with me tonight. You take my bed, and I'll—"
"Yes," you interrupted.
He was taken aback by your immediate response, but nodded. "My house it is," he confirmed. "Now, how 'bout I get you outta this rain, princess?"
The car ride to Bucky's shop was mostly quiet, save for the occasional clinking of the wheel lift that was supporting the weight of your car as it dragged behind his truck. You kept glancing over your shoulder, a nervous tic, though he assured you multiple times that it was secured. It was also an excuse to catch his biceps in your periphery.
You were sitting on a bench seat, so the close proximity was something you hadn't expected. But you weren't complaining. But you didn't know what to do with yourself either. You started by fixating on two separate raindrops on the windshield to distract yourself. In your head, those two clear dots were having a race, and the one you were rooting for slowed as the other one began streaming quicker down the glass, as if it knew.
When that didn't fully shift your attention, you decided to just sit stiffly beside him. You folded your hands neatly in your lap as you tried not to let the faint scent of his cologne mess with your head…again.
You had a hard time sending his leather jacket back after he let you borrow it. Sure, it had undertones of grease and motor oil, but the most prominent scent was a mix of sandalwood and cardamom. You blamed that damn jacket for the reason why you couldn't get him out of your head.
After that night outside of the bar, you had come home and immediately flopped into bed, the jacket still wrapped snuggly around your shoulders. The next morning was torture. You'd draped it over one of your kitchen chairs as you made some coffee and swallowed down some Tylenol to help with your lingering hangover. You stared at the jacket over the rim of your mug until you couldn't take it anymore and started wearing it around the house. It was because of the draft circulating the house, you had told yourself.
And you swore the time your fingers traveled between your aching thighs as you breathed in his scent was only because the alcohol was still in your system. You weren't thinking clearly when you slipped your fingers inside yourself, and you certainly weren't thinking when you came on your palm, his jacket pressed to your nose as your mind drifted to what Bucky's head would look like between your legs.
That familiar scent was flooding your senses as you scanned his profile, following the sharp line of his jaw to the slow bob of his Adam's apple. Your gaze kept dipping to his saturated tank top and the way it clung to his chest. Your lip continued to find its way between your teeth. Because who the hell looks that good fresh from a day's work and a shower in the rain?
His human arm was casually resting over the back of the seat, his fingers kissing the nape of your neck. You hadn't figured out if he was doing it on purpose yet, but it caused a chill to travel down your spine, all the same.
When you reached his shop, it was an easy enough drop-off. He got your car into the garage without any problems, efficient and professional, everything your brain wasn't. The rain was still a wild downpour, and any time he'd had to dry off on the drive over was wasted. He was sopping-wet as he jogged back to the truck.
When he slammed the door shut, his breath was coming out in gasps, his chest heaving as he threw his head back against the seat. The water dripped steadily off his dark hair, and his tank top was plastered to his chest—practically sheer at that point. You couldn't take your eyes off of him, and with the noises he was making from the exertion, you were having a hard time not letting your mind drift to sinful things. If you just crawled over and straddled his lap…would he make the same noises?
Glancing over at you, a slow grin spread across his lips. "You'd think it'd slow down at some point, but 's only coming down harder out there. 'm soaked," he panted.
"Yeah, me too," you sighed before your brain caught up, then your eyes widened, blinking. "I mean— my clothes are still wet. From the rain."
His smile stretched, easy and knowing. You could see the spark in his eyes, but he didn't say anything about your slip-up. Dragging a hand through his hair, he let out a slow exhale. Before you knew what was happening, he was shaking his head frantically, like a dog straight out of the bath. Water went everywhere: the dashboard, the windows, and you.
You gasped, turning your face the other direction as he splashed you with water droplets. "Bucky," you screeched.
"What?" he laughed, a sound that rattled deep in his chest. "I was just helpin' you catch up."
You lightly shoved his shoulder. "You're a menace."
Before you could pull your hand back, he caught your wrist—playfully and unmistakably up to something. His eyes lit with mischief, and that alone should’ve been your warning to scramble away.
"Come 'ere," he teased.
His metal hand dropped to your waist, guiding you toward him into a soaking-wet hug. You squeaked, planting your free hand on his chest in a desperate attempt to get some distance. It was too late, though. His arm tightened on the dip of your waist as his opposite hand curled around the back of your neck, angling you exactly where he wanted you. Like an overgrown golden retriever, he rubbed his face across your cheeks.
The cold droplets smeared across your skin, making you shriek louder. "Bucky! Come on, you're—"
"Drenched?" he finished for you, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. "Hadn't noticed."
You wiggled in his hold, swatting his chest. "Okay, okay. I surrender."
He eventually released you, leaning back. His laughter faded into a gentle smirk, looking way too smug for his own good. Rolling your eyes, you wiped the water off your face with the back of your hand. You thought about scooting away, keeping that distance you so desperately wished for before. But now, as you watched him, the amusement softening his features, you remembered there were worse things than having your skin a little wet.
The ride back to Bucky's house was a stark contrast to the one to his shop. Words were easier. The conversation flowed. It simultaneously felt like no time had passed, and like you'd known him for years and were just catching up.
The pair of you shared soft stories, the kind that made you giggle and made the tension in his shoulders loosen. He shared the time that Sam dragged him to meditation in the park, and it went so poorly that the instructor kicked him out. You shared that time your dress accidentally got thrown in with your father's wash, and it turned all his white dress shirts pink; he had to wear them for a week before they were replaced.
After almost an hour of driving, he turned onto a gravel path surrounded by tall, lively trees. You hadn't seen this part of Brooklyn before. The cityscape slowly diminished, giving way to lush greenery. He passed a sign that read: Green Meadows Farm.
You briefly wondered what your life would've been like if your father had taken you somewhere like this in your youth. If he had just slowed down enough to give you the attention you deserved. Without the buffer of your mother, who was the glue that kept your family stable. But that was too much to ask.
The truck dipped over the rockier sections, but Bucky avoided any major holes. Until he ran over a bump in the road, and despite the seatbelt, you nearly flew out of your seat. But he was quicker, swinging his arm out to catch you and secure you against the bench. He whispered, "I gotcha, princess," then shifted his gaze to the road as if nothing had happened.
Though you were safely back in your seat, his arm lingered, bicep pressed firmly to your chest. When he finally moved it, his hand found purchase on your thigh, calloused fingers bending around your bare flesh. Not gripping, just holding, like he had a right to. Like it was natural.
Eventually, the trees down the path cleared, and his house came into view. The only reason you knew it was his was that it was very…him. There was no other way to describe it. A quaint cabin with a wraparound porch that overlooked the river.
The truck rolled to a stop as he shifted it into park. With the rain softening to an even patter, you could finally hear how quiet it was here. The rustle and bustle of the city felt like a distant memory. Nature was the only soundtrack here, the gentle rush of the river, and you could just make out the faint noises of an owl, high up in the branches of a nearby tree.
Bucky didn't waste any time. He leaped down from the truck, then helped you, offering you a hand. As you hopped down, the heels of your shoes vanished into the mud with a subtle squelch. He sighed dramatically beside you before leaning down and sliding his hands around your waist. With barely any effort on his part, he lifted and threw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
You let out a startled wheeze. "I do have two legs."
"Can't have your precious heels gettin' ruined," he cooed in an almost mocking tone. Trudging toward the door, he placed a protective hand over your ass as he smoothed out your skirt.
"I can walk," you ordered, but he was dead set on ignoring your protests. "I'm serious, put me down." You lightly pounded your fists into the dip of his back, but he only huffed a laugh in response. Flopping forward, you figured it best not to waste your energy arguing with a brick wall. Your arms dangled out in front of you as he carried you up the steps, the wood squeaking under the weight of his boots.
He gently set you down with a light click of your heels, reaching for the keys in his back pocket. "Better?"
You crossed your arms, tilting your head. "Thank you," you muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but failing miserably.
"Anythin' for you," he replied coolly. And even if he said the words as a joke, they made the corner of your lip lift.
Unlocking the door, he pushed in. He flicked on the light, bathing the interior in warm light, and you followed him in. You were immediately hit with the scent of cedar, and him. The inside was exactly what you expect—minimal decor, yet it had a lived-in feel. A worn leather couch in the living room with a black jacket draped over the arm. A wall of photos with unusual frames. A small fireplace. Everything was practical, but charming.
"It ain't much," he said, exhaling slowly with his hands on his hips. "But make yourself at home." He kicked off his heavy work boots, then disappeared down a dark hallway. A light flicked on as he entered a room, which you could only guess was his room. He closed it most of the way, but kept it open a crack.
You slipped off your heels, and they hit the floor with a gentle thud. You did a rough sweep of the room, then padded over to the wall of frames. You scanned the photos, some from his childhood, some of his shop, some of him and Sam.
But your eyes lingered on two, hanging beside each other. A navy blue uniform, neatly buttoned with a matching cap. Bucky and Sam stood side by side with perfect posture, saluting the camera. Metal arm. The other image was a solo shot, clad in an army green jumpsuit. No metal arm.
A set of dog tags dangled off the corner of the frame, twinkling under the light. They clinked as you twisted them in your palm. James Buchanan Barnes. You tested the name, mouthing it softly.
You peeked around the corner, ready to tell him what you uncovered. Instead, you were met with carved back muscles just as he was tugging up his sweatpants. You nearly choked on your own saliva, your cheeks warming from guilt of seeing something you weren't supposed to. He turned, pulling a dark shirt over his head, and flattened out the wrinkles in the fabric. His arm glinted, drawing your attention downward, and then your eyes drifted lower. And lower.
You caught the patch of hair above the waistband before disappearing beneath his grey sweatpants. You followed the trail. Fuck. Nothing could drag your gaze away from the subtle bulge against the material of his sweats. No matter how hard you tried to reason with yourself that this was wrong, that you were openly objectifying him, you continued to gawk.
"You can ask about it," Bucky said, walking towards you with a plush towel in his hands.
Shit.
You hadn't even noticed him step out of his room, and now you were caught with no possible way out of this one. But was he really giving you permission to ask about his dick size? Wait, maybe he wanted you to ask about the shape.
No, that's ridiculous…just…play dumb? Yeah. Some guys love that, right?
You've been staring for too long with no other excuse to use. Fuck it.
Play dumb. Play dumb. Play dumb.
You swallowed thickly. "What?"
"I keep catchin' you lookin' at my arm. If you're curious, you can ask. 'm an open book."
"Right, I've been wondering about your arm," you drawled. You mentally thanked yourself because, yes, sometimes playing dumb has gotten you out of some sticky situations. "How'd you get it?"
He motioned for you to turn around, and you scrunched your brows, but did it anyway. His hands moved to your shoulders, sliding your sweater down your arms, then hanging it on a hook by the door. Unfolding the towel, he glided it over your upper back, the nape of your neck, and anywhere else that was out of your reach.
"Sam and I were in the Air Force together. It feels like a lifetime ago," he began as he handed over the towel.
You took it, still a little stunned by how naturally he moved around you. As if he'd done it a thousand times. He guided you over to the couch, hand cupping your elbow. He nodded for you to sit as you started to pat down your hair, squeezing the dampness from the strands. Grabbing the plaid blanket from the back of the sofa, he covered your lower half, tucking the edges in. And he did it all without you ever needing to say a word.
Why did everything feel so natural with him? Why did it feel like he was reading your every thought before you even asked?
Lifting the blanket, he slipped under it, scooting closer until your legs brushed. His arm fell to the back of the couch, turning his full body toward you as he spoke. "That's how we met, actually. We served multiple tours overseas together. Got close in the process. Honestly, don't think I'd be 'ere without him."
The vulnerability in his tone cut you deeper than you expected. His gaze drifted, and he had this faraway look in his eyes that told you to let the silence breathe. So, you waited. You didn't force the conversation, just let him take his time.
He cleared his throat. "We had some aerial trainin' the day it happened. The other soldiers in the aircraft strapped on their parachutes. I was the last one to grab mine."
Bucky went quiet again, finding his words. "Y'know, everyone puts their trust in the manufacturers. You kinda have to have a 'lil blind faith that the equipment's been tested and retested. That they're suitable for jumps of high altitudes, or that 's even capable of carrying a large amount. That's why, when I jumped, I didn't even think twice. Just did it."
Your stomach dropped because you already knew the outcome of this story. You looked at him—really looked at him. It wasn't a look of pity, but understanding.
His eyebrows twitched. "I had a faulty parachute. It wouldn't deploy no matter how hard I pulled. Thankfully, I landed in a tree before I fully hit the ground, so the branches lessened the blow."
You felt your heart crack wide open, raw and exposed. Unfamiliar with this side of grief, you didn't know the procedure. You didn't know whether to reach for him or if he even wanted to be touched. You settled for a whispered apology instead. "I know this doesn't help, but I'm sorry."
Sighing, he offered you a small smile. "From you…it does."
You mirrored his smile, but he didn't dwell on the emotion for much longer. Correcting his posture, he coughed. "After that, I settled back in Brooklyn. Needed a job. Figured I've always been good at fixin' things, so I opened my own shop. Sam gave me a call not too long after, and we've been in business together ever since."
His expression softened, as if he were reminiscing. "Though some days I regret that decision," he jokingly added.
You hummed in amusement, easing into the couch as you shifted to face him. "You love him."
"I tolerate him. There's a difference," he said stubbornly.
"Right."
He rolled his eyes, but you knew there was truth to your words. "So, what's your story?" he asked, shifting the spotlight off himself.
You shrugged. "I don't have one."
Arching a brow, he bumped you with his knee. "Come on. Gimme somethin'. How 'bout why you were cryin' in the car?"
You stilled; you hadn't realized he saw that. "Just overwhelmed," you half-answered. Blinking slowly, he leveled you with a glare. Your head dropped back, puffing air through your nose.
"Fine," you murmured. "I was on the way to visit my mother's grave."
Bucky leaned in, not dramatically, but just enough to let you know he was listening.
"It's the anniversary of her death," you continued, quieter. "Which…ironically was because of a car accident." You nearly laughed, though nothing felt humorous about it. But you hadn't really reflected on the similarities until right now.
Your fingers tightened around the blanket, attempting to ground yourself. "Every year, my father and I make plans to honor her, and every year, he cancels. I guess I got sick of it. No, I am sick of it. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who feels the weight of her death."
Your voice wavered slightly, but you pushed on. "I know everyone grieves differently. But I expected…something. Glimpses of pain, maybe? But nothing. He ignores her very existence. And the one time I ask him to acknowledge her, even that's too hard."
Silence settled again, and under the blanket, his hand found your thigh—a grounding pressure you needed. As if to say, I'm here.
You exhaled slowly. "It was a drunk driver that killed her…That's why I got upset when you asked. That night, when I was singing on the sidewalk, was a rarity for me. I don't drink. And I especially don't drink and drive. It's irresponsible and stupid…and—"
Squeezing your eyes shut, you tried to keep the tears at bay. "I lost the most important person in my life because someone couldn't pick up the damn phone and call a taxi."
For a moment, the only sound was the soft patter of rain against the roof and the gentle wind whistling just beyond the windows. Just as you did for him, Bucky didn't fill the silence. He didn't try to fix it. He just offered a light squeeze to your thigh in comfort.
Releasing a shaky breath, you blinked back the threat of tears. "Sorry," you said brokenly. "I didn't mean to dump all that on you."
Reaching up with his metal hand, he tucked a stray hair behind your ear. "You never need to apologize for feelin' things, princess."
His gaze flicked over your features, as if he didn't know where to look. "I know it doesn't help, but 'm sorry," he echoed your earlier words.
You couldn't help the smile that grew on your lips. "From you, it does help," you repeated his earlier words.
The cool metal of his fingers dragged down your jaw, relaxed and measured, as his gaze drifted down to your lips. He inched a little closer, firmly taking your jaw in his hand. Lips parting, he hovered in your space. You felt that same electric energy from all those nights ago. Still present. Still charged.
Your eyes fluttered closed, certainty driving your actions.
Then.
You felt a sudden weight on your lap, causing your eyes to fly open. Backing away, you gasped. A white fluff ball with a pink nose and twitching ears sat on your knees, staring at you with its wide blue eyes. The cat tilted its head, assessing you.
Bucky rolled his eyes, huffing out a laugh. "I guess someone wanted an introduction." His flesh hand loosened on your thigh to scratch under the cat's chin. "Meet Alpine. She's…particular."
Alpine shut her eyes, purring as her owner gave her the attention she'd been missing. "She almost clawed Sam's face off the first time they met. So don't be offended if she isn't the biggest fan of you right—"
He cut himself off as Alpine moved out of the way of his hand. She crept up towards you, her front paws finding purchase on your chest as she lifted her head towards your face. Turning her head, she rubbed the side of her face against your jaw. She let out a long, low purr as she nuzzled into you. Lifting your hand tentatively, you carded your fingers through her thick fur.
"Hey there, pretty girl," you giggled. "I think he's painting you to be some kind of scary monster. You're not, are you?"
"Huh," he said, slightly baffled by the sight. "I don't know what I was worried 'bout. She doesn't usually click with anyone that quickly."
"Aw, just like her daddy," you cooed, winking at him.
Swallowing hard, his cheeks flushed faintly. The tips of his ears turned red, just like that day in the shop. He brushed it off, shaking his head as his hand found your thigh again.
Alpine blinked up at him, then you. Retreating from you, you swore she gave a subtle nod as if to say that she approved. Then she scurried off your lap just as quickly as she came, her tail flicking as she disappeared down the hallway.
A grin still plastered on your face, you let out a soft breath. "She's sweet."
"Don't let her fool you," he mumbled, gingerly rubbing your thigh. "She's opinionated."
The air shifted once more, warmth pooling in your stomach as he touched you. While his earlier grip had been innocent, this felt different. This was eagerness, as if he couldn’t wait another moment longer. The hunger in his eyes was undeniable, silently urging to resume where you’d left off before the interruption.
You forced your thighs together, your heart racing with desire.
"You're a flirty drunk. Did you know that?" he asked arrogantly, his hand still firmly pressed to your thigh, inching higher and higher in intervals so you wouldn't notice. But you noticed. Your body noticed. The space between your legs noticed, which only made you squeeze your thighs together tighter.
"G-guess that's another reason I don't drink very often," you stuttered.
"I dunno, I thought it was pretty cute. You said somethin' 'bout wantin' to bite me at one point?"
"I did not," you objected. "I said if you wanted me to, I would.
"So, hypothetically," he rasped. "If I said I wanted you to right now, you would."
"Bucky," you squealed, lightly slapping his metal arm, which probably hurt you more than him. "I was wasted."
"Yeah, but y'know what they say, drunk words are sober thoughts."
"Are you saying I thought about biting you the first day we met? Because that's as far as my sober thoughts about you went after our little conflict in your shop," you harmlessly teased.
Bucky sucked air through his teeth. "Oof, you wound me, princess." He placed his metal hand over his heart, feigning offense. "But yes, you looked like you wanted to bite my head off that day, so I wouldn't be surprised."
Then, he did something you least expected; he leaned closer. You figured this was all just teasing. That this back and forth was just innocent flirtation. But his lips brushed your ear as he whispered against the shell of it. "Bet that pretty 'lil head of yours is thinkin' real hard 'bout it now."
"Only because you won't shut up about it," you shot back breathlessly, lacking the bite you were intending.
"Ooh, she's got teeth," he chuckled, his warm breath fanning across your neck. He attempted to wedge his fingers between your thighs. A heat washed over your body, your cheeks warm with lust, and your head swimming with thoughts that were anything but pure.
The stubble of his beard grazed your jaw, and your breath caught. "So, when are we gonna stop dancin' around the fact that I've been tryin' to get between these thighs of yours?" he pressed boldly. "Are you ignorin' me? Because we know how well that worked out last time."
"I never ignored you," you said. "In fact, I couldn't get rid of you. You were like a pesky fly that was always there."
Bucky hummed in satisfaction, and you could feel his smirk against your skin. "You missed me then?"
"Yes," you blurted too quickly. "Yes, I missed you."
"I missed you, too," he muttered softly, and you could hear the truth in his words. The way his voice dipped into something gentle and earnest made your chest feel suddenly tight. Then, his tone dipped lower, deep and starving as he nudged your leg. "Lemme in, princess. Wanna show you just how much I missed you."
As if you were under his spell, your thighs parted. His fingers curled around your thigh, squeezing twice in quick succession. "There ya go. Keep 'em spread f'me."
Fingers danced up the inner part of your thigh until they disappeared beneath the hem of your skirt. They kissed the edge of your panties, his touch light as he circled your clothed clit. You sighed at the contact, your chin tipping back blissfully.
"Good girl," he praised, lips scorching the underside of your jaw. "Just relax."
Your breath stuttered at the combination of his lips trailing down your neck and the tantalizing patterns he was tracing over the dark patch on the seam of your panties. Metal-plated digits unexpectedly grazed the heated flesh of your shoulder, causing a shiver to ripple through you.
Bucky leaned back slightly, still keeping his close proximity to you, but needing to see your expression. "This still okay?" he asked, eyes flicking between yours, searching for any indication that you wanted to stop.
You nodded frantically. "Yeah. Please, keep going."
The smirk that graced his lips could only be described as downright smug. He moved your spaghetti strap over your shoulder, dragging it down your arm achingly slow. His mouth followed directly after, lips skimming over your collarbone.
All at once, he began nipping at the protruding bone as his fingers on your clit added more pressure. You moaned loudly—a long, elated noise that made him pause his ministrations.
The realization of how desperate it sounded hit like a force, and you could hear your heartbeat thudding in your ears, louder than before. "Oh gosh," you whispered, shame flooding your face. You raised your arm, concealing the embarrassment etched into your features.
"Ah-ah, don't hide from me, baby," he gently scolded as he pried your arm away. Bringing your wrist to his lips, he pressed them to your fluttering pulse. "Why're you all shy on me now?"
You didn't answer, your eyes sealed shut as the pang of humiliation echoed in your skull.
"What're you doin'?" he asked, planting another kiss on your palm.
"If I squeeze my eyes as tightly as humanly possible, I think I might disappear."
He chuckled, and even with your eyes closed, you knew he was showing off the creases beside his eyes. "No, you can't disappear on me this time. Y'know how long I've been waitin' to hear that?"
Cracking open your eye, you peeked up at him. "Why'd you stop then?"
"'Cause now 'm so hard, 's painful," he confessed, a little breathy. "I would fuck you 'til the ache went away, but 'm not done playin' with you."
You shivered, completely turned on by this bold version of him. If you were wet before, now you were soaked from his dirty mouth alone.
"You gonna lemme keep goin'?" he asked.
Nodding, you silently gave him permission. His hand traveled back between your thighs, running his fingers up the front of your underwear. Your hips jerked as his began rubbing in slow, captivating circles again.
His metal fingers grazed the side of your neck, curling around the nape as he pulled you closer. Leaning forward, his lips brushed the corner of your mouth, then the other. He pulled back a hair, studying your face. "Can I kiss you, baby?"
"Please do," you said, as if it were the most obvious answer.
His mouth was on yours in a second, your bottom lip getting caught between his. You sighed against his mouth, your hand coming up to cup his jaw and draw him even closer. The kiss was a lazy analysis of one another's mouths at first. Each slow graze of his lips elicited sparks coursing through your veins, like tiny fireworks exploding beneath your skin.
The urgency to fully taste you prompted him to force your chin up, his tongue delving into your mouth. He moaned against your mouth, eyebrows twitching as he found your tongue. Tongues swirled, teeth clashed, and your hold tightened on him. You felt light-headed from the kiss, breathing hard into his mouth.
The fingers on your clit picked up the pace as his lips began to move hastily against yours, as if he already couldn't get enough. You whined, your other hand finding his shoulder as your nails dug in. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, then pulled back.
His mouth met your neck again as you struggled to catch your breath, lips dragging lower and lower. Tongue darting out, he licked along the top of your tank top. He tugged on the material, exposing more of your skin until your tit spilled free. His non-human hand reached up, cupping the underside of your breast.
Heated lips closed around your nipple, pulling a whimper from you. You wiggled under his attention. The dual pleasure was making your head spin and your heart pound. His tongue licked around the sensitive bud, then flicked it before sucking it into his mouth. Gazing up at you, he softly rolled your nipple between his teeth. You sucked air through your teeth, hissing. He switched back to trailing kisses across your skin in deep devotion, leaving no space untouched.
"Have you thought 'bout this as much as I have?" he rasped against your flesh.
"Yes," you mewled shamelessly.
Inclining back, he retracted his hand with a cocky grin. "Show me."
"What?"
"Show me what you did when you thought 'bout it."
Momentarily shocked, you stared dumbly at him. He lightly pinched your thigh, grabbing your attention. "Come on, princess. Wanna hear all those pretty noises you made when you were all alone," he pressed. Scooting to the edge of the couch, he dropped to his knees before you. "Lemme help you."
Spreading your legs further apart, his hands—one icy and the other warm—drifted up your thighs. His thumbs hooked in the band of your underwear, yanking them towards him. The blush pink panties slid down your legs without much resistance. Tossing them aside, his hands snaked under your thighs, sliding you down the couch. He lifted the hem of your skirt, resting it across your stomach, revealing your bare pussy to the chilled air.
"Fuck." Bucky's tongue grazed his lower lip, ravenous. "She's so pretty."
Bending down, he kissed the inner part of your knee. "Put on a show f'me," he urged gently.
Your hands trembled lightly at your sides, nerves curling at the edges of your mind. You’d never had anyone witness something so personal before. But with a deep breath, you steadied yourself, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, being with him felt strangely comforting.
Your fingers met the skin of your thigh, tracing patterns before they moved closer to the place he couldn't keep his eyes off of. Two fingers pushed between your slick folds, gathering wetness as they skimmed through. They found your clit, mirroring the same pressure and pace as he did.
"Just like that. Nice 'n slow," he instructed. "You're doin' so good f'me, baby."
Exhaling roughly, your mouth opened in a soft 'o' as your fingers swirled around the swollen bud. Your eyes stayed locked on him, and the way he was gazing up at you, his chin gently propped on your knee with a longing in his eyes, nearly made you come on the spot.
"Spread her f'me," he whispered gravelly.
Doing as you were told, you straightened your fingers, delicately spreading the lips of your cunt. With your fingers already damp with your arousal, they glistened right alongside your pussy in this lighting. His eyes darkened, his lip getting caught between his teeth as he diligently watched you.
Your fingers dipped, sliding down the length of your pussy, and toying with your entrance. Two fingers slipped right in from how soaked you were. The noise your cunt made in response had you and Bucky groaning in unison. Your fingers sped up, caressing and curling against your plushy walls. Your free hand lifted, covering your breast and massaging it.
"Do you like to watch, Bucky?" You don't know where your boldness came from. Maybe it was being in control of your own body, or the way he looked at you like you hung the stars. Either way, the question hung between you.
"Yeah, fuck," he murmured pathetically. "Yeah, I like to watch."
The obscene sounds of your fingers going in and out of your already weeping pussy filled the air, along with the moans you just couldn't hold back.
"Listen to her talk to me," he growled, his eyelids drooping as he followed the sight of your disappearing fingers. "She sounds so fuckin' good."
Eventually, his hand snatched your wrist, and he brought the saturated pair to his lips. They enveloped your fingers, sucking them clean. He hummed at the contact of your juices on his tongue, eyelashes fluttering. He released them with a soft smack of his lips.
"Tastes so fuckin' good," he said, licking the tips of his fingers, like he just consumed his favorite meal. "Think I need more."
His hands closed around the back of your knees, pulling you until only a portion of your ass remained on the sofa. Scooping your legs up, he settled them over his shoulders, immediately diving in. His tongue flattened, licking a long stripe up your center. You gasped, your fingers carding through his hair and holding firm.
Tongue flicking over your clit, he leaned down and tenderly kissed it. He pressed his face flush with your cunt, sucking the bud hard before descending upon your clenching hole. The tip of his tongue traced around your entrance until it plunged deep into your cunt.
He pushed his face further into you, practically submerging himself in you. As he devoured you, fucking you with his tongue, his nose steadily nudged your clit. Your grip on his dark strands tightened, your thighs squeezing tighter around his head. His eyes flicked up—a predator feasting on its prey.
"Yeah, fuckin' drown me, baby," he hummed against you, patting your thigh.
Then, that same hand vanished beneath you as his mouth returned to your clit. Two fingers pushed into your pussy without warning as he slurped on your swollen bud. You squirmed above him, your hips wiggling this way and that. Metal-plated fingers reached around your thigh, his palm flattening over your lower stomach.
"I know, I know. You're close, aren't ya? Just stay still, sweet girl," he ordered gently, tapping his fingers over your belly button.
His flesh fingers curled as his tongue spiraled, leaving you a whimpering mess. The tension in your gut coiled. Your free hand bent around the edge of the couch as your hips canted. Vision flaring white, the coil snapped. You came with a cry of his name, gasping as your cunt fluttered around his thick fingers. With trembling thighs and your eyes flashing open, you let the climax wash over you.
Prolonging your orgasm, he guided you through it. He softened his ministrations to a stop when you went limp above him. He planted a lingering kiss on your inner thigh, then removed your legs from his shoulders. They flopped against the floor, boneless.
"You don't realize how beautiful you are, do you?" he asked, awestruck. "Did you know your eyes get even brighter when you cum? I didn't know that was even possible."
Attempting to get you to meet his eyes again, he shook your leg. "You still with me, princess."
You kept your gaze to the ceiling, tracing the wood panels with your vision as you slowed your breathing. "I think I went to heaven," you panted, dazed.
Bucky chuckled, rising to his full height. Interrupting your view, he hovered over you, stabilizing himself against the back of the couch. His biceps bulged on either side of his head, muscles locking as he gazed down at your blissed-out expression.
"Yup, I bartered with the angels to bring you back," he teased.
A small grin tugged at your lips, eyes glinting. "And? What did it take to bring me back?"
"Everythin'," he whispered. "But it was so fuckin' worth it."
Your breath caught, butterflies erupting in your stomach that had nothing to do with the aftereffects of your climax. He leaned down lower, snaking his arm under the curve of your spine, and lifted you.
"You gonna lemme fuck you now, baby?" he questioned carefully, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist.
Resting your arms on his shoulders, your lips brushed his, voice coming out in a sultry purr. "Fuck me, Bucky. I need it."
Eager lips pressed against his, prompting him to let out an animalistic growl. He moved, blindly feeling around his living room. As your lips parted, your teeth sank into his bottom lip, lightly tugging on it. His knee bumped the corner of the couch, stumbling forward. Luckily, his instincts kicked in. Metal arm locking, he caught himself against the wall before it caused you any harm.
You giggled into his mouth, "Careful, pretty boy."
"Are you tryin' to kill me and get yourself killed in the process?" he scoffed, righting himself before continuing the short journey to his bedroom.
"What?" you said, feigning innocence. "You said you wanted me to bite you."
"You're lucky you're cute."
He tossed you onto the bed, the mattress squeaking subtly. The softness of the blankets briefly swallowed you before you propped yourself up on your elbows. Reaching behind his back, Bucky tugged at the collar of his shirt until it was off.
This time, when you looked at his muscles, you didn't feel any guilt. Openly, you traced the lines of his battle-worn body. Every scar that the years in the Air Force granted him, or the cuts that he received from long shifts at the shop, was thoroughly admired by you.
"You're perfect," you praised.
As if he'd never heard such a compliment, he tilted his head in fondness. Then, his thumbs hooked into his sweats, yanking them down. As he pulled the cuffs from his feet, you watched his cock bob gently against his stomach.
"Holy fuck," you breathed, eyes wide and mouth agape.
He was thick. Huge. Your little exploration in the hallway as he changed didn't do him justice. You followed the veins along his cock that led to his angry, red tip. A bead of precum dripped from the slit of his dick.
Crawling to you, he settled over you. You were still staring as he positioned himself between your legs. Gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, he forced your gaze up.
"My eyes are up here, princess," he mocked lightly, then his tone softened. "I'll go slow, I promise. You're safe with me."
You nodded, but your mouth still felt desert-dry. "I have a confession to make."
"But 's not even Sunday," he jokingly replied.
"I wasn't looking at your arm earlier."
He hummed, amusement etching into his expression. "I also have a confession." His head dipped, mouth hovering beside your ear. "I knew."
Fingers curving around his cock, he pressed the head to your entrance, teasing it. You grasped his metal bicep, firmly planted by your head. You couldn't slow your breathing, your heartbeat galloping like a racehorse from nerves.
"Shh…" Bucky soothed. "Breathe with me. In 'n out. Yeah, that's perfect," he rambled as you matched his breathing.
The tip pushed through your folds, the thick head invading your pussy. The stretch was intense, stealing the air from your lungs. Even through his grunts of pleasure, he continued to guide you, talking you through the dull sting of his dick spreading you open.
"That's my good girl. Take it all," he groaned.
You whined brokenly as he bottomed out inside you; you'd never felt so full. Leaning back, he brushed a few damp strands out of your eyes. He pressed tender kisses to your slightly bruised nose—you were honestly so distracted by his presence that you hadn't thought about it since the accident. But he hadn't forgotten.
The attention he was giving your nose distracted you enough that by the time you had remembered the pain of him stretching you out, it had already faded. He pressed his forehead to yours, sighing in contentment.
With your pussy well-adjusted, he began rocking steadily into you. His metal hand found purchase on your hip as his other hand drifted up your arm that held the back of his neck. Securing your wrist, he drew it away, flattening your arm against the mattress. His hand glided up until he was intertwining your fingers with his. The intimacy of the gesture made it suddenly hard to swallow.
"I gotcha," he promised, squeezing your hand.
His hips picked up their pace, snapping up to meet yours. Setting a rhythmic pace, he gripped your hip with a more solid hold. Rapid breaths mingled in the space between you as the sound of skin slapping echoed around you.
The world around you fell away, and all you could see was him. He was invading your senses, leaving you completely connected to him. The worries of your personal life, everything that caused you pain, all dimmed in that moment. Because you were no longer letting those thoughts and feelings run your life.
Slamming into you, he groaned, his chin tipping back. "Baby, you feel so good. You're just perfect, aren't ya? Made just f'me."
You let out a loud, throaty moan as he hit that sweet spot deep inside you. The head of his cock bullied into your G-spot over and over until you were breathless. You arched into him, spine bowing.
Then, his hands slipped under you, lifting you. Your legs twisted as he adjusted you over top of him, straddling his thighs. Knees digging into the mattress, he thrusted up into you. Arms lifting to his shoulders, you held him. You moved with him, riding him at the pace he set. Your hips rolled, grinding against that spot that had you reeling.
A protective arm wrapped around the small of your back, fingers sprawled over your warm skin. His flesh palm rested over the back of your head as you buried your face in his shoulder. The next time he bucked up into you, your pussy clamped down hard around him. Like the force of a rising tide, you felt your climax ascend.
"'m right there," Bucky grunted. "I can feel her squeezin' me. That mean your close too, sweet girl?"
You nodded against him. "Come with me, please. I need it."
Moving in unison, the room filled with your combined sounds of pleasure. The wave came crashing down, your cunt pulsating around him. Your teeth punctured the skin of his shoulder as your second orgasm rippled through you. Hissing, his thrusts turned sloppy. Warmth spread through you, his release coating your walls as he spilled into you.
Slumping forward, your head rolling to the side. Breathing in tandem, his chest rose as yours sank. He nuzzled into your hair, inhaling your scent, and kissing the crown of your head.
You caught the teeth marks in his flesh, a flicker of concern overwhelming you. The emotion softened upon realizing you liked the sight of it. With a finger, you traced over each ridge.
"I know I said I'm not a biter," you slurred, still high on the experience. "But I have to say, it looks really good."
Bucky let out a gentle puff of air against your hair. "Oh yeah? I could get used to being marked up by you. As long as I can give you a matching one."
Lying you back on the bed, he moved over you and pressed his lips to your collarbone before sinking his teeth into the skin above it.
And though you knew there was not a soul around, you could have sworn your laugh carried for miles.
The sun appeared brighter this morning when you woke. You were drifting through Bucky's house with a pep in your step. The coffee was brewed, Alpine was fed, and you did it all while Bucky snored in the next room over.
But now with the sun sitting just above the treeline, everything felt dimmer than before. Frowning, you placed your phone on the kitchen counter. The white fluff ball, nudging at your hand, noticed your attitude change, as if she could smell it amongst the boldness of the coffee.
Your fingers carded through her fur, grounding yourself.
Warm arms enveloped you from behind, squeezing your midsection gingerly. "Mornin', princess."
"Morning," you parroted, but quieter.
Bucky stiffened behind you. "Hey, is everythin' alright?"
"I just got off the phone with my father."
"Oh," he muttered, turning you around so he could see your expression. "Judgin' by your face, 'm guessin' that didn't go well."
"No," you confirmed. "He said he was glad that I'm okay, but…" You trailed off, glancing at something over his shoulder. "He's not paying for the damages. Not unless I work for him. His wish for me to inherit his stupid company is finally coming true. I don't know why I even tried to resist it. He always wins anyway."
His brows knitted together in confusion, or maybe agitation. "Don't worry 'bout it," he said, framing your face with his massive hands. "I'll pay for it."
You scoffed, shaking him off. "No, I can't ask you to do that."
"You're not askin', 'm offerin'."
"No," you repeated more firmly. "I appreciate it, but I don't want that."
"Don't let him win," he muttered, eyes flicking between yours, searching.
"I'm trying not to," you insisted. "I guess I'll figure it out. I'll get a job, hopefully one I like, and I'll pay it off."
Bucky's lip lifted at the corner, giving you a look that could only mean trouble. "I know a place that's hirin'."
"Really?" You tilted your head, then it dawned on you what he meant. "No. Absolutely not. You were right, I don't know anything about cars. I can't work for you."
"I'll teach you," he said simply. "You don't gotta know everythin' right away. We can start slow. You can work at the front. Take calls. Schedule appointments. Take people's money…" His tone dipped into something teasing. "I know you won't have a problem with that one."
"Asshole," you chirped, slapping his chest. Then, your expression shifted into something warm. "I'll think about it."
"That's a yes," he murmured, as if he already knew.
"No, I said I'll think about it."
"Yeah, but your eyes said yes."
"You're ridiculous," you shot back, but you were grinning like an idiot.
He backed you into the counter, caging you in. "And you love it." Before you could even react, his lips were on yours, warm and inviting.
Five Months Later
The neon sign stood proudly outside Bucky's shop. It was a bright crimson that could be seen for miles, snagging just about anyone's attention. You suggested it. Because, of course, you did. You knew what customers liked, and you were right. The shop had an influx of people coming and going.
Your original suggestion was rejected. You wanted pink. He wanted blue. After bickering for half an hour, you both settled on red.
Sometimes he just had to stand there, leaning against his truck, taking it all in. The sign. The shop. His life…with you.
Eventually, he found his way to the front. His eyes scanned the poster hanging on the glass door, where the 'now hiring' sign had once lived. It read, 'Wrong Turn'—a foundation you were investing in. It was an organization specializing in drunk-driving awareness. Proud didn't even cover how he felt about it. About you, finding something that you were so passionate about. That you had poured your heart into.
Opening the door, the bell rang above him, announcing his arrival. Bucky was hit with a gust of warm vanilla layered with grapefruit, which he could practically taste on his tongue. He immediately heard the familiar sound of you singing. It was a little off-key, but unapologetically you.
Following the sound, he slipped into the garage, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He watched you silently, a warm smile gracing his lips. You were tightening a bolt on an engine with a pink—yes, pink—wrench. In fact, your entire toolbox and tools were pink.
You finally glanced up from your task, offering him a small wave with oil-slicked fingers. "Hi, handsome," you greeted. Grabbing the rag hanging from the vehicle, you wiped the grease from your fingers.
Closing the distance, his hands found your hips, pressing a kiss to your nose. "Hey, princess." He glanced down and frowned. "What're you wearin'?"
"A shirt."
"I see that. Why is it like that?" he asked, scanning the shirt that had his logo on the front of it…but in blush pink.
"They just came in today. Isn't it cute?"
"No. Nope. I didn't agree to this."
"Buck," you drawled, a lilt to your voice. "Sam is wearing one. I have one ready for Joaquin when he comes in for work tomorrow. I even have one set aside for Alpine."
"After the pink bow incident, 'm not lettin' you put anythin' on her."
"She loved it, and she looked adorable in it. Just admit it," you muttered, poking him in the ribs.
She really did look cute in it, but he wasn't about to tell you that.
Sam stepped in then, wearing his new pink shirt, and the moment his eyes fell on the two of you, he started backing up. "Wilson, get your ass back in 'ere," Bucky called. Sam froze mid-step, turning with a guilty look on his face.
"Were you in on this?" Bucky inquired, pointing at your shirt.
"Will you dock my pay if I say yes?" Sam asked tentatively.
Bucky rubbed his forehead, groaning. "'m gettin' run out of my own shop."
"You love it," you cooed, and he only glared in return. You tried for a different approach, offering him a full, toothy smile as your eyelashes fluttered. "You love me?"
"You're lucky I love you," he corrected. "Alright, the shirts can stay."
Sam’s jaw dropped. “Wait, that’s all it took? All she had to do was bat her lashes, and you're just fine? I’ve been trying to get you to approve new uniforms for years.”
Bucky shot him a look. “Don’t push it.”
You just beamed, triumphant. "Thanks, baby," you cheered, pushing up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, smearing some of your glittery lip gloss on his skin.
But he didn't mind. Because for the last five months, he was happy. Content. And it was all because he'd fallen for the rich girl, who strutted into his shop with pink heels and a smile. The one who turned his world upside down with one glimpse of those bright eyes. The one who caused him to prefer chaos to his normal quiet.
And he thanked the universe every day for dropping you into his lap.
me posting this because holy shit...this took a lot out of me:
PAIRING: dad's best friend!bucky barnes x female!reader
SUMMARY: after graduating college, you return to your father’s hometown, disheartened and uncertain about the future. two years later, you have a stable job, a trustworthy best friend and a doting boyfriend who wants to spend the rest of his life with you, and dreams of kids looking like you two running around his farm. the only problem? he's your dad's best friend.
WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; age gap (bucky’s in his 40s, reader’s in her late 20s); pre-established relationship; secret relationship; dbf!bucky (they met when reader had already finished college); farmer & store owner!bucky; whipped!bucky; very light angst; fluff; romance; discussion of marriage and having kids; mention of bucky drinking one (1) beer (he's not tipsy nor drunk); smut; feral!bucky; implied lactation kink; nipple play; heavy breeding kink (bucky calls reader mama twice); kinda dom!bucky; bucky uses pronouns for reader's pussy; oral (f receiving); fingering; pussy slapping; squirting; overstimulation; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); rough & primal sex; doggy style; multple orgasms; creampie.
WORD COUNT: 7k
A/N: found out the em dash is not supposed to be separated from the words preceding and following it, and now I'm screaming. I separated them because it looked good, but I got curious and looked it up. now I want to cry because, one, the sentences look stuffy to me (idk if it makes sense, but everything is so close??), and two, of course I have to edit everything 😭 anyway, hope you’ll enjoy it 🩵
You let yourself in by sliding the key into the lock, the same one Bucky pressed into your palm five months ago. The house is a single-story ranch set back from the road, the kind of place someone builds when they plan to stay, dreaming of muddy shoes by the door, a full table, and years unfolding in the same rooms.
The door opens with a soft catch, and you lock it behind you, standing at the entryway for a second to breath in the familiar scent: a mix of clean soap and worn leather. Underneath, a trace of hay and cedar that never quite leaves.
Bucky is still out with the guys, today it’s darts night at the bar. Your dad thought you were staying over at Wanda’s, which isn’t exactly a lie—you had dinner with her, and your friend would cover for you anytime, being the only person you trusted enough to confide in about your unusual situation.
You hang your coat on one of the hooks by the door, before sitting on the nearby bench to slip your boots off. The house is quiet as you pass by a stack of mail sorted carefully on the console table, before your attention is instantly drawn to a familiar brown jacket draped over the back of a chair, probably a last-minute outfit change before going out. Your eyes promptly catch a hole near the sleeve once you hang it back by the front door, so you make a mental note to mend it for Bucky tomorrow.
Fixing things is just who he is—not in a grand way, but in a thousand small ones. A hinge tightened; a cracked step reinforced; a toaster coaxed back to life with patience and a screwdriver. It’s one of the first things you noticed about him.
You met Bucky two years ago. That night, one of your dad’s friends, Sam, hosted a cookout—one of those informal gatherings that somehow turn into half the town showing up with folding chairs and enough home-cooked meals to feed a whole county.
You had just arrived, still living out of a suitcase, still feeling like a guest in your dad’s hometown. You stepped out of his truck to the distant sounds of laughter and animated chatter, when you saw him. Bucky stood by the grill, sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms dusted with dark hair, his henley stretching across a chest that looked built by years of hard work rather than any gym. His salt-and-pepper stubble was slightly unkempt, and his sun-kissed skin spoke of long days outdoors.
He wasn’t trying to impress, yet your eyes couldn't look away.
Your dad nudged you out of your stupor. “I get to finally introduce you to Bucky. Have I already told you he owns the local feed store?” As if that explained everything. And technically, you didn’t need a recap of his whole life; after all, you had spent the past three years on video calls listening to the exact same things.
“Today Bucky fixed the screen door. Saved me hundreds of dollars.”
“I can’t keep up with him anymore. He and Steve are too fast.”
“He’s such a sore loser at darts.”
Yet, you listened to it all over again, this time eager to remember every single detail about the handsome, older man.
Your dad was on the verge of depression when he moved back to his hometown after your mom asked for a divorce. You were worried about him, yet couldn’t do much while living on the other side of the country. Then, after a week spent reacquainting himself with the place he had left to follow your mom’s dream career, the light in his eyes gradually returned. All thanks to this James Barnes guy who he met at the store while looking for chicken feed. Apparently, their parents knew each other very well. From that day on, he and Bucky became inseparable. The farmer was well-loved by the community, especially after taking over his family’s store.
He introduced your dad to darts night and weekend morning runs, and you couldn't be more thankful for that.
When you were finally introduced to him, Bucky smiled like he had all the time in the world, his blue eyes full of a gentle attention that made you feel seen without being appraised.
The way your name rolled on his tongue made your knees tremble. Then, he shook your hand, slowly, as if to savor the feel of your skin. “Welcome back.”
Over the following weeks, you kept hearing his name everywhere. At the diner, where the waitress mentioned that Bucky had tipped them generously, again, even if he always orders the same thing. At the flower shop, where your boss Wanda would roll her eyes fondly and repeat, “If you need help, just ask Bucky. He’ll be on his way before you know it.”
Then at the hardware store, the post office, the bar...
Always the same refrain: good man. Reliable. Kind. Devoted.
He helps without making it a favor; fixes fences for neighbors who can’t; makes deliveries after hours whenever storms hit; sits with old men who want company more than conversation. He loves his land, his animals, the rhythm of days that begin early and end with the satisfying ache of honest work.
And with you, he was a gentleman.
He never assumed, nor rushed. When he touched you at the beginning of your relationship, it was careful, reverent even, like he understood the weight of what you were doing and refused to treat it lightly. The age difference lingered there, quiet but acknowledged in the way he always checked in, giving you room to choose him. And well, he is your father’s best friend after all. That man trusts Bucky with his own life. You don’t think ‘delighted’ would be the right word if he found out his daughter and his forty-something friend have been sneaking around behind his back for almost two years.
You lean against the counter now, posture relaxed as you fill the kettle. Outside, the stars shine brightly in the sky, an unusual sight for someone used to the constant glow of city lights. You know he’d probably come home later than usual—darts nights always run long—but you don’t mind waiting. You like this part, too. Being here alone, belonging.
You move through the house easily with your cup of steaming tea cradled in your hands, turning on a lamp in the living room, straightening a cushion that didn’t really need it. The walls tell his story without trying: framed photos of Bucky and his family posing on the porch in different seasons, several ribbons from different county fairs pinned beside a faded map of the town, and his father’s tools hanging neatly as a reminder of his hard work.
This is a man who stands firm in who he is.
You change into one of his old shirts—soft and discolored in places—and curl up on the couch with a book you barely pay attention to.
Somewhere down the main road, laughter spills out of Barton’s Corner, the oldest bar in town, always crowded with familiar faces. Soon enough, you’d hear the rumbling sound of Bucky’s truck pulling in, older than most of the others but spotless. The kind of vehicle someone keeps not because they have to, but because it carries their story.
For now you just wait, safe and cozy.
The front door opens slowly, the sounds of heavy steps followed by the low click of the lock. Bucky walks inside, moving on instinct: his boots are lined up neatly by the door before he even thinks about it, and his jacket is hung right beside yours. The house is steeped in silence, the lamps casting that familiar honeyed glow that tells him someone has been awake recently.
His gaze goes straight to the couch.
You are asleep, a book fallen open on your chest and one arm draped loosely over it as if you’d tried to hold onto the last sentence. Your expression is unguarded in a way that makes something warm bloom in his chest. He stands there for a moment, longer than necessary, taking you in as the quiet of the night settles around him like a held breath.
It’s not the beer, he only drank one tonight, almost an hour ago. This dizzy feeling stems from something completely different. Coming home and finding you here, waiting for him to come back safely… It feels like a gift he’s still not sure he deserves.
Bucky crosses the room quietly to crouch beside your relaxed form. He murmurs your name, as gently as he can, his knuckles brushing against your arm, barely there.
“Hey, sweetheart. You’re gonna wake up with a crick in your neck.”
You frown faintly, nose scrunching as if his voice has deeply offended you.
“Mh.” You completely ignore him.
A soft grin tugs at the corners of his mouth despite himself. He says your name again under his breath, then tries a little firmer, but you only bury your face deeper against the cushion beneath you, clutching the book like a shield.
He sighs. “All right. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
After successfully prying the book out of your grip, placing it next to your half-empty cup, Bucky slips his arms under your body and hosts you up in one smooth motion. An exaggerated grunt falls from his lips as he settles you over his shoulder, and the reaction is immediate.
“Bucky!” You screech, eyes snapping open as you suddenly find yourself upside down, head dangling toward the floor. “Oh my God! Put me down!”
He chuckles, deep and unbothered, adjusting his firm grip on you. “You had your chance,” he playfully pats your asscheek. “I tried wakin’ you up.”
“So you thought this was a good idea?” You protest, laughter bleeding into your words.
He starts climbing up the stairs with careful steps. “I know I’m too old to be doin’ this kind of nonsense, so you’re gonna have to appreciate the effort.”
You huff, lightly thumping his back with your fingers. “You’re not that old.”
“Tell that to my knees tomorrow.” Bucky grins. “Now hush before I drop you.”
You go still, but not before squeezing his ass hard enough to elicit an indignant noise out of him. It’s in small moments like this that Bucky feels quiet joy settling deep in his chest. Making breakfast together, your laughter filling the kitchen, curling up on the couch in comfortable silence... Even the simplest, most ordinary things feel extraordinary since he met you.
He nudges the bedroom door shut with his heel, careful not to let it click shut. The room smells faintly of laundry soap and something inherently his. He adjusts his grip on you out of habit even though you’re already stirring to be let down.
“Easy.” He murmurs, more to himself than to you.
The moment he lowers you onto the mattress, you ignite like a spark on the Fourth of July. You’re on your feet in an instant, arms wrapping around his neck with enough force to knock the breath out of him.
“Hey—wow.” He guffaws, instinctively bracing himself. “Go easy on your old man.”
You make a small, irritated sound against his shoulder, half whine, half reluctant chuckle. “Stop calling yourself that.” Your face presses harder to his neck, your next words muffled against his skin. “You’re not old.”
Bucky immediately feels the sharp tension of the thought that flares to life at the back of your mind whenever he makes these jokes. He’s noticed it before, the way your smile tightens and your eyes go briefly distant. You mentioned it once during one of your late night talks in his truck, that you’ve always hated how your dad used to joke about that too, back when time started showing up in his bones, coloring his hair with grey streaks. Even when you were younger, it scared you—how fast years could slip by, how easily people started measuring themselves in what had already passed.
Bucky swallows and his arms adjust around you properly, one hand spreading solidly between your shoulder blades. “Alright.” He says softly. “I hear you.”
Your body melts into his hold at once, cheek pressing against his chest and eyelids fluttering shut. “It feels like it’s been years since we’ve seen each other. I missed you.”
He closes his eyes as well, and for a moment, the whole world reduces itself to the feeling of you: your warmth, your breathing against his, your soft hands on his skin… He lets himself bask in it.
“It’s only been three days.” He teases lightly.
You pull back just enough to look up at him, brows drawn together in mock severity. “Still too long.”
He guides your head back into your favorite hiding place with a low hum in his throat, his body mindlessly swaying side to side, settling into the rhythm of a slow song no one else can hear.
You could fall asleep just like this, content in his arms.
“You stayed out later than usual.” You ponder drowsily.
There it is. Bucky feels heat creep up the back of his neck as he gently pulls back to properly look into your eyes. “Ah, yeah. Guess I did.”
You squint at him, suspicious and amused all at once. “Did you ask for a re-match again?”
“No.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not a sore loser, contrary to what the rumors say.” You let out a skeptical hum, prompting him to tickle your sides. You burst out laughing, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes as you beg him to stop. Bucky’s barely contained grin makes him look so boyishly pretty as he keeps teasing you, until he eventually decides to spare you.
“You know I hate when you do that.” You pant, still smiling.
He exhales a small, helpless laugh as his hands slide up to your waist, thumbs brushing familiar circles into your sides as if to ground himself. Then, when you’re finally calmed down, “I’m not going to the farm tomorrow.”
You stiffen, gazing up at him with wide eyes. “What?”
“Nor to the store.”
You straighten up, now staring at him like he’s just told you the sky's been purple all along. “You’re sick.” You conclude decisively. “You have to be sick.”
He shrugs, the corners of his mouth lifting up. “Feel fine.”
“You never skip work.”
“I know.”
“But—”
“And you, my love, are skipping yours too.”
Your brows furrow, he can clearly see the gears turning in your head. “Did I—did I forget something? I didn’t ask Wanda for the day off. Is it someone’s birthday? My dad’s? Oh God, is it—”
A chuckle claws out of his throat, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek before you can spiral any further. “Baby, breathe.”
You blink at him, worry softening into confusion.
“I just… needed a day off.” He shrugs. “Life has been hectic lately. Always somewhere to be, something to fix, someone needing my help.” His thumb brushes the skin under your eye. “I figured it might be nice to slow down for a bit. Have you all to myself for once.”
Your expression shifts, surprise giving way to something hopeful and almost shy. “Just… us?”
“Just us.” Bucky nods, trying to not grin. But then you smile, bright and a little disbelieving, and he can’t help himself. He leans in to kiss you, unhurried, lingering like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips. Your hands cup his jaw, so soft, so sure, that something in his chest tightens unexpectedly.
He pulls away before he can sink any deeper into it, jaw tightening as he realizes his focus has pathetically thinned with a single kiss, mind slipping somewhere far more tempting.
The tips of your noses brush against each other as his voice drops into that playful register that always gets to you, refusing to burst the quiet bubble of peace.
“So here’s how it’s gonna go: we’re sleeping in. I don’t care that we both wake up at the crack of dawn—we’re rotting in this bed until one of us gets hungry enough to complain.”
You laugh softly. “You always get hungry first.”
“True. Then I’m making pancakes—the good ones.”
Your eyes light up. “The ones with Nutella inside?”
“The very same.” He beams, eyebrows wiggling up and down. “And then,” he continues, resuming the gently rocking motion, that teasing grin you love so much tugging at his lips. “We’re catching up on that show we started a month ago.”
“I knew you liked it!”
“In my defense, the day we watched the first episode I spent the entire afternoon arguing with Mr. Jones over that fuckin’ tractor part he ordered. He kept insisting it was the wrong one, and you know how stubborn that old man is.” He kisses you once more, savoring the sweet taste of your lips. “Lunch is whatever you want. I’ll cook.”
You open your mouth to argue, yet he silences you with another kiss, quick but firmer in intent. “I want to.” He rasps out, forehead resting against yours. “Let me take care of you. All I need is for you to be here, nice and warm by my side.”
Your eyes soften. “You don’t have to do everything.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “I just want to.”
Drawing you impossibly closer, his hands tighten at your hips. “So,” he clears his throat, voice low and content. “We sleep, we eat, and we make love on every piece of furniture in this fuckin’ house. Sounds like a productive day, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. It really does.” You can't help but laugh again at his serious tone, your forehead falling on his chest.
“But,” you start, palms smoothing the fabric clinging to his pecs. “Since you’re taking the day off, I suppose I should warn you.”
He raises a brow. “About?”
“Me.”
He snorts. “Bit late for that.”
You gasp affronted, giving his chest a light shove that doesn’t actually create any distance between you.
“Excuse you. I was going to say that I tend to steal blankets and hog pillows, but you never notice since you’re always falling asleep before me—”
“Damn right if I do, sweetheart!” He cuts in smoothly. “And add ‘thinking out loud’ to your little list of quirks.”
You freeze. “I do not.”
“Oh, you do.” He grins, nodding. “Especially when you’re looking for something you’ve just put down. You ask questions like there’s a second you in the room with all the answers.”
Your mouth falls open, then closes again. “That is wildly exaggerated.”
“And,” he continues, enjoying this a tad too much. “You leave half-finished mugs of tea everywhere. Windowsills, bookshelves... Even the bathroom counter.”
Your eyes narrow. “You’re one to talk. You fix things that aren’t broken.”
“I told you already, it's called preventative maintenance.”
“You fixed the door hinge because it ‘sounded sad’.” You tilt your head, making air quotes.
“It was asking for help.”
You burst out laughing despite his seriousness, shaking your head. “Oh, my poor Jamie.” You sigh, slipping into a dramatic tone as you cradle his face. “Always working so hard, and not getting a single moment of well-deserved peace in his own home.”
A tingling warmth settles in his chest at the word home, even wrapped in teasing. He stills you gently, thumb brushing along your jaw, his expression turning solemn. Certain.
“Our home, my love.”
Those soft words land heavily than intended, like the final piece of a puzzle setting into place.
Blinking and caught off guard, humor drains out of your face at once. You can only swallow a fresh set of tears, a slow and real smile brightening your features as you lean into his touch.
“Yeah.” You bite your bottom lip. “Our home.”
Bucky presses his forehead to yours, breathing in the scent of your body lotion lingering on your skin since this morning, before playfulness returns to his voice, familiar.
“And for the record, I find your habits endearing.”
“Oh, now you’re backtracking.”
“Not at all. I reserve the right to complain while secretly liking them.”
Your laugh is full and bright, making Bucky feel like he’s stepping into sunlight after months spent in the shade of a dark, cold winter. Your arms wrap around his neck again, and he holds you there, thinking—not for the first time—that he wants to spend forever doing this with you. Just existing together, right here.
Goosebumps rise on your skin as Bucky lowers his face into the slope of your neck, leaving a trail of small, open-mouth kisses from the sensitive patch of skin just behind you ear, to your shoulder.
“Aren’t you tired?” You mumble, eyelids falling close as he starts leading you backwards.
“For you? Never.” He pushes you gently until you are lying on your back, pliant and open amidst the soft sheets.
When the cold tip of his nose touches the skin of your throat, a shiver runs down your back. He inhales deeply, moaning as your scent finally melts away the rest of the day’s tension. His broad body presses you more firmly into the mattress, still teasing your neck with pecks and languid licks, while his hips start a gentle grinding motion against your core. You can’t stop yourself from squirming, your chest heaving in anticipation at the feeling of his already half-hard cock brushing your sensitive clit.
You bite your lip, placing your hand on his belt, and after making sure Bucky is paying attention, you slowly slip your hand under his flannel shirt, gradually hiking it up to reveal more and more of his skin.
“Go on.” Comes his raspy encouragement. His blue eyes turn darker with lust, relishing in the soft pressure of your nails as you caress his belly. He shudders once, too impatient to wait. Once he removes the shirt himself, his heartbeat quickens as blood pumps hot in his veins, and travels way too fast south.
Your eyes barely manage to set on his naked chest before Bucky is back on you, devouring your lips in a scorching kiss, his hands roaming freely over your covered torso. Your back arches, arousal pooling hot in your core as he brushes the underside of your breasts, thumbs teasingly tracing the shape of your nipples.
“Bucky.” You whimper.
“Arms up, doll.” Soon, you are left in your panties. It’s way too hot in his bedroom, and yet you shiver under his intense stare, the ever consuming urge to have you closer bleeding out of his pores.
“Cute.” He flicks the little bow on the hem of your panties with a small smirk, and you let out a trembling breath, torn between hiding in embarrassment and pushing your hips harder against his hand.
“Jamie, please.” Bucky focuses on your chest now, goosebumps raising once he traces the swell of your breasts with his nose, before leaving a harsh bite.
“You’re so mean.”
His little grin presses against your cleavage. “I know, bunny. I know.”
He looms over you, taking in the view, his breath ghosting, sliding over your hot skin until he suddenly gets fed up with his own teasing and leans in to kiss the supple flesh. He grabs one of your tits in his hand, studying your face as his thumb grazes over your nipple. You suck in a sharp breath, mouth parting around a low moan at the rough texture—proof of years spent taking care of the land.
Your eyes roll back as his tongue circles your left areola, both your nipples finally receiving soft nibbles and sweet suckles that gradually turn harsher.
“Don't stop.” You whimper melts into a gasp when Bucky delicately blows on your sensitive flesh, the cold contrast making you squirm. “Please, don't stop Bucky."
He switches from one breast to the other, using his fingers to tease the neglected nipple, moaning appreciatively when your hand tugs at his hair and presses his face firmly into the soft flesh. At some point, Bucky lets his teeth gently graze your nub, and you reward him with a sweet squeal, prompting him to do it again.
Momentarily pulling away, he glances up at you with glistening lips, then back at your breasts, his eyes hazy.
“One day…” He mumbles, leaving a kiss on a raw nub. You suck in a confused breath.
“What?”
Your whisper is like a bucket of icy water dropping right over his body. The moment realization hits him like a freight train, horror dawns upon his features, his eyes widening, startled at his own admission.
“Bucky?” You raise on trembling elbows when he withdraws from you as if your skin just burned him. “Bucky?” You plea again, fingers desperately grasping onto his shoulder when he gives you his back, settling at the edge of the bed with his chin tipped down.
Dreadful minutes of silence stretch between you, before Bucky finally summons the courage to speak. To lay bare the truth for you, and for himself.
He nervously fidgets with his fingers. “I’ve been trying to let it go. To be subtle.” A low, humorless chuckle echoes in the still room. “Didn’t wanna scare you off.”
Your shoulders drop at his dejected tone.
“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He shakes his head. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. I am in my forties, and you still have your whole life ahead of you. I don’t want you to be stuck in this damn town—”
“Bucky, hey. Look at me.” You stop him immediately, frowning. You crawl at the edge of the bed by his side, slowly guiding his chin to face you. “I am not ‘stuck’ in this town. I chose to stay here because I like it, and I love you.”
“I love you too, sweetheart. So much, you are my whole world. But I don’t want to tie you down. I can't hold you back.” He swallows around the uncomfortable knot in his throat, words turning frantic. “And your dad—God, he’s my best friend and here I am, dreaming about marrying his daughter, about having kids who look like us running around the farm and calling you mama.”
Your throat tightens, and you swear your heart stops for a second before resuming its fast pace, as if trying to come out of your chest.
“But… when I think about a future without you… it’s just wrong. Everything is wrong if you are not by my side.”
He looks down for a second, tentatively intertwining your fingers together. His shoulders loosen a bit when you don't dismiss his touch, and the fact that he would even think that feels like a stab in your heart. When his eyes land back on yours, the storm inside has now eased into a gentle drizzle.
“I want everything with you. Even if it means your dad will hate me forever. I’ll let him punch me in the face if he wants, I’ll fix every single thing in his house—”
“You already do that.” You sniffle, biting your bottom lip to hide a smile. Bucky stops short, the corners of his mouth slightly lifting up before he cradles your cheek.
“I hate myself for wanting this, for feeling like I'm clipping your wings, but I can't imagine my life without you. I’ll wait, sweetheart. As long as you need. And if you don’t want it? Good, okay. Means we’re spending the rest of our lives making love and—and traveling. You’d like that, right angel? You mentioned you want to see the world, and I can make that happen.” His smile is pleading, blue eyes glistening with tears. “I know this is all so sudden, but—” He swallows. “Please, don’t leave me.”
“You would really give up your dreams of having kids… for me?” Your jaw clenches in hope to keep the tears at bay, even if your voice breaks.
Bucky nods resolutely, frowning as if you’ve just asked him if the grass is green. “Of course. I just want you, my love. Just need you.”
Your chin trembles, glassy eyes looking at the man you love—raw, uncertain, fragile in a way that pulls painfully at your heart. The sight of him like this, laid bare and willing to give up something so deeply rooted just to be with you, leaves you with a bitter taste on your tongue. And all you can think, is that you want that future too. You want him, and every piece of that life he's been dreaming about, without hesitation.
“Bucky, I want to be with you.” You choke on a sob. “And I want—” Taking a deep breath, you smile through the tears sliding down your cheeks. “Kids who look like us running around the farm and calling you dad.”
“Yeah?” He whispers hopeful, his shaky hand holding your jaw as if guarding a priceless treasure. “You really want that with me?”
You nuzzle closer into his palm, momentarily closing your eyes to bask into the familiar warmth. “I love you, Jamie. Don't ever think that you're tying me down, or holding me back from some... imaginary life you've made up for me in your head. I love you, and I want everything with you.”
“I love you too, baby.” He chokes out. “But what about your dad?” He presses his lips together, tense.
You can't help but chuckle at how adorable he looks right now. “Well, he’d better start working out. He’ll soon have a grandchild to keep up with.”
Finally, he gives you a relieved laugh. “Soon?”
Your playful smirk makes his hold on you tighten just slightly. “Well, we’re already half-naked, and there’s an empty bed right here, so...”
His breath hitches for half a second, because this is finally real: you, him, the possibility of building a life stitched together from little hands reaching for both of you, and sleepy hugs before school. All the dreams he’d never dared to voice, the small, secret hopes he’d held onto before falling asleep... They were all worth waiting for.
A squeal claws out of your throat as Bucky abruptly grabs your waist to pull you closer, filthily kissing you until you’re left clinging desperately to his shoulders. Your giggle soon turns into a gasp when you find yourself lying back on his bed.
“Wanna fill you up so fucking bad.” He mutters, sparkling blue eyes reverently tracing your curves. “Gonna worship you every night, and still want you more by morning. You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”
“You already do.” Your voice wobbles pathetically, suddenly a little breathless, squirming beneath him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, doll.” He breathes you in, dragging his nose down your throat as he tightens his hold on your thighs. “I’ll stuff you full until it takes. Again and again. Fuck you against the wall, the shower—hell, even the damn barn.”
“Please!” Your pussy shamelessly throbs at the thought of him taking you right there, out in the open for anyone to see.
“But first,” Bucky’s fingers lightly graze the embarrassingly damp spot on your cotton panties. “Need to feel you around my fingers.” You whine in protest at that, but you know it’s futile. Kneeling between your thighs to keep them nice and open for him, his arm drapes over your hips to keep you still. Your panties are tossed somewhere on the floor, before he attacks your pulsing clit, alternating between steady flicks of his tongue and slow rubbing motions with his calloused fingers. Two of his digits stretch you open, your eyes rolling back at how perfectly they hit your sweet spot, until you flinch, a desperate gasp escaping your lips at the sudden sting.
“So fucking gorgeous.” A growl is swallowed back when you fist his locks. “The prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, dark eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features. You can barely form any coherent word, crying out as he smacks your pussy again.
“Good girl.” The proud praise elicits a whimper out of you before you can stop it. “Taking whatever your old man gives you so well.” His hand falls on your tender flesh a little harder this time, making you gasp at the delicious pain, back arching up.
“You want another one, doll?”
“Please.”
“So fucking polite.” He groans between your folds, forcing you to stay put for his greedy mouth. “Go on, make me proud and come for me.”
The knot in your lower belly snaps at his command. Your thighs shake around his head, your hole tightening to keep his fingers trapped inside you as he nurses on your nub until overstimulation sets in.
A high, desperate sound escapes your throat as Bucky pulls away, and for a second you truly believe he’s finally going to fuck you, but his hand is back at it again, leaving quick, little slaps on your clit that make your hips jerk helplessly, straining against his muscled arm.
If seeing your pussy drool means taking you apart until you can barely remember your own name, then so be it.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, head tossed back against the pillow.
“You’re so messy, lovely.” He marvels, voice husky with arousal. His mouth latches back around your bundle of nerves, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds. “Look at her, sweetheart, crying so prettily for me.”
He grinds against your swollen clit once more, your legs jerking close at the raw scrape of his stubble, before he is getting out of his own clothes with a brisk motion.
Boneless and gasping for breath, you glance up at him through your damp lashes, gaping at the leisurely pace he uses to stroke his hard cock, the flushed tip copiously leaking precum.
Bucky smirks, his mouth glistening with your slick as he settles closer to your core. “My pretty girl is finally gonna let me put a baby in her.” His hand assertively squashes your cheeks together until your lips pucker, only then his tongue pushes past them, claiming you with a hungry kiss. A strand of saliva connects your mouths, thin and filthy, as he slightly pulls back.
“Been thinking about you round with my kid for months. All soft and giggling, with a ring shining on your left hand.” He confesses roughly, dragging his mouth along your neck.
Your lips part in a silent moan when his cock makes itself comfortable between your folds, the head slipping inside you without hesitation. His right palm settles on your belly, heavy and possessive, but still mindful. The pressure makes everything better as his hips speed up, immediately setting a punishing, impatient pace.
“I’ll be good,” his voice cracks against your breast, your body shoved further up the bed with each brutal thrust. “Best husband ever. You’ll never have to lift a finger, my darling wife.”
“You’re already so good to me, Jamie.” You moan, high and helpless, inevitably clenching around him as he calls you his wife. He growls at the pressure, harshly moving your hips to meet his, the room soon filling with the shameless slaps of your skins and the wet squelch of his cock driving deeper and deeper.
“Gonna rub your feet when they hurt, and eat all your weird cravings with you in the middle of the night—fuck mama, this perfect pussy is so tight.” His head falls back in bliss.
That’s when the hand on your belly moves lower, until his fingers are back at toying with your clit, pinching and flicking it, as you squirm under his possessive stare.
“God, you’re taking it so good. Look at you, such a pretty little thing.” He gasps, frantically moving your bent knees back until they are touching your chest, his thrusts turning cruel as soon as you respond with a delirious sob at the new angle.
“Let me hear you” He pants, his lips hovering over yours. “Tell me how badly you want it, princess.”
“So bad, Jamie!” Your nails leave red marks along his back. He moans at the delicious pain, thrusting harder. “Fuck Bucky, give it to me! Wanna be always full with you, breed me Jamie.”
The way he wrenches himself back with a snarl makes you wail, your pussy feeling pathetically empty, before he flips you on your hands and knees. The change of position is so sudden that your hazy brain can barely catch up, not until his length is filling you again, his thrusts turning messy as its tip perfectly slams against your sweet spot at an almost desperate speed.
The maddening pace drives you forward, your nipples rubbed raw against the sheets and your arms scrambling to anchor yourself, before his thick belly pushes heavy against your back, and one of his hands traps both of your wrists under you. His other arm wraps around your waist, palming your stomach.
You can only lie there, pliant and still, as he stakes his claim on you.
“There we go, sweetheart. Are you gonna make a stupid mess all over my cock?” He coos in your ear, fingers traveling lower only to give your throbbing nub a mean pinch.
The way his hips are driving into you at such a primal pace, his strangled moans as his cock abuses your sweet spot… It’s too much. You scream his name, eyes rolling back and toes curling when your climax finally unravels, violently. Shaking and with tears running down your cheeks, you end up squirting all over his crotch and sheets, body erupting in flames and vision momentarily fading to black.
Bucky grunts when your slick slides down his heavy balls, wishing he could have his mouth on your pussy to taste it.
“Good girl. You came so hard angel, look at that.” His smile is predatory, delirious. “My turn now to make a mess, mama.” His cruel fingers fly back between your thighs, rubbing and slapping your clit only to feel your body squirm pathetically under his.
It’s only a matter of seconds before Bucky spills into you, the animalistic urge to feel his cum leak out of you and onto his cock is too intoxicating to resist.
“I'm coming, baby, fuck. Gonna come so fucking hard for you, not gonna waste a single drop.” He grits his teeth, forehead falling on your shoulder. “Take it, sweetheart, take it. Love you so fucking much.” He chokes out, and then his cock is pulsing with each spurt of cum filling you, mixing with your creamy mess.
A satisfied sigh unconsciously falls from your lips, your spent body finally slackening as you’ve never felt so full before.
Your legs are now sore with that unique ache that seeps deliciously into your bones, yet you can’t stop the pained whimper when you try to move, still trapped under Bucky’s heavy body. He gently tries to adjust the two of you, at least enough for his arms to support the majority of his weight, but his face buries in the slope of your neck, cuddling your damp skin like a needy cat.
“Jus’ a little more.” He grunts, words slurred. “Need to make sure it takes.”
One moment, Bucky is gently rocking into you from behind; the next, you are clean and tucked under clean sheets with his arms wrapped securely around your waist, your back perfectly molded to his chest. The way his palm rests on your belly, protective and certain, makes your heart beat just a little bit faster. It makes you realize just how much of him you already carry with you.
Quietly, he breaks the peaceful silence. “You with me, sweetheart? Are you alright?”
You nod, even if your throat still hurts a little and your limbs lie uselessly, heavy and spent. Your index finger sluggishly drifts up, blindly touching his cheek as if to ask ‘what about you?’. Bucky huffs a laugh against your neck, before pressing a soft kiss on your cheek.
“Never felt anything like this before.” He mumbles, a soft sigh of wonder slipping past him.
The room holds its breath for a moment, the quiet stretching so long it feels almost sacred. You swallow hard, before your voice finally rises in a trembling whisper. “Do you think… we did it?”
His chuckle is easy, the warm sound somehow pacifying the tension coiled in your stomach. His fingers gently lift your chin, delicately turning your head enough for your eyes to meet.
“Don't worry, my love.” His voice is a teasing murmur. “I’m gonna keep you full until we do.”
When Steve stops the truck in your front yard, he rises an eyebrow at your house still being swallowed in darkness.
“Isn’t your daughter home yet?” He frowns at the time displayed on the dashboard. Your dad shrugs with an amused grin on his lips.
“She’s at Wanda’s.” He mocks your voice, skeptically raising both his eyebrows, and Steve does a double take.
“You still haven’t told them you found out about their relationship?”
“Oh please, you wouldn't either if you could see Barnes twists in his seat whenever I ask about his weekends.”
“You are such an asshole.” Steve guffaws.
Your dad groans as he jumps down the red truck. “Hey! I’m allowed to have some fun too.”
END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🩵 I know raw & older is winning the poll and I swear it's going to be posted soon!
Summary: Everyone says she’s too much. Too sharp. Too stubborn. Too wild. Bob Floyd never bought that though. To him, her fire is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. One late night, she learns what it feels like to be touch by a man who finds loving her is the easiest thing he’s ever done.
Song Title + Artist: Easy to Love - Bryce Savage
Character (Name + Fandom/Film): Robert “Bob” Floyd (Top Gun: Maverick)
Kink/Trope: Body Worship
Warnings: Reader discretion advised: this is a graphic work intended for mature audiences only (18+). This fic contains explicit sexual content including: Oral Sex (female receiving), some body worship, maybe a little vanilla but like turned up to 100. There’s also some emotional vulnerability, light angst, and mentions of a military setting and flying related injuries.
Word Count: 3,235
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You could always tell what kind of day it had been by the pitch of the hangar lights. After a good day, they hummed steady, an ambient backing to the sounds of boots on concrete and the slow tick of cooling metal. After a bad day, the fluorescents screamed overhead, strobing like the inside of your skull after you got chewed out by the CAG. Tonight, the lights vibrated somewhere in between, more nervous than angry, still running too fast for comfort even though the space had emptied hours ago.
You counted the leftover echo of your own steps, boots thudding out a lopsided rhythm as you threaded between darkened tool carts and the FOD bins no one ever bothered to empty. Your bird, the last in line like always, waited in her cradle, nose pointed at the open bay, glass cockpit glaring at the midnight spill of tarmac outside. You slouched against her cold composite flank, let your head drop, and inhaled the aftertaste of burnt kerosene and sweat and the medicinal tang of the wipes they used to sanitize the sticks.
Your hair stuck to your face in greasy sheets, and you peeled it away absently, gaze catching on the ghost of yourself in the curved canopy glass: uniform jacket shrugged off one shoulder, flight suit unzipped to sternum, the T-shirt underneath patched dark where the harness had ground sweat into skin. Your left forearm bloomed purple yellow from the G-strain, and your fingers still twitched from the caffeine tablets you'd mainlined before preflight.
You replayed the day's dogfight drills with Hangman the way some people ran movie scenes: full throttle, all angles and acceleration. You lost count how many times you bled the altitude in that last vertical scissors, how close you came to blackout before you broke him off your six. He'd grinned at you afterward, still helmeted, and for a second you'd wanted to slug him, or maybe something else.
The hangar doors yawned, motor coughing, and you didn't look up until you heard the shuffle of soft soled shoes on the approach.
Bob stood at the threshold a second, silhouetted by the sodium vapor flood. He always waited there quietly, like you needed a warning before he entered your airspace. His flight suit was rolled to his waist, the sleeves knotted at the hips, white undershirt creased sharp across a ribcage built for breaking turbulence, not people. He carried himself like he'd rather be smaller, except he was one of the taller fuckers on the squadron.
“Rought day?” He asked, even though he already knew.
You shrugged, forehead resting on the fuselage.
"She flew rough," you lied.
Bob blinked once, then looked at the F/A-18 as if she'd talk back to him. "You know they'll rebrief the whole run in the morning."
"Yeah, but I don't want to listen to them drone through the data points if I already know where I screwed it." You reached for your water bottle and brought it to your lips only to find it empty. You immediately sighed, made a face.
Bob produced a cold Gatorade from the kangaroo pouch in his suit, held it out without comment.
You snorted, took it. "What, do you moonlight as a team mom now?"
"Grabbed an extra after Nat and I finished up earlier. Figured you hadn't stopped moving since debrief. Hydration's mission critical."
You tilted the bottle back, letting the fake-lemon flavor burn your throat, and wiped your mouth on the back of your wrist. "You're too good, Bob. It's unnatural."
He grinned, looking embarrassed but also like he couldn't help it. "Habit, I guess."
You cocked your head, watching him in the sodium yellow. "Seriously, why are you here? Don't you have, like, twelve hours of sleep to catch before the CAG makes us his problem again?"
He looked down, working at the edge of a thumbnail. "Was just making sure you got out okay. There was a…well. Never mind."
You let the pause hang, let him stew in it, which was maybe cruel but felt necessary. "There was a what?"
He tried to laugh it off, but it stuck in his throat. "Rumor. Guys in the showers said you were pissed enough to throw hands."
You leaned back, put on your best wolfish grin. "If I threw hands, you’d see the shiner on Seresin’s face."
"I figured as much," he said, smile lingering just behind the worry. "But I had to check."
You shifted, feeling the familiar itch in your skin. "You always this persistent?"
Bob shrugged, rolling a shoulder that probably had a medal tucked behind the bone. "Just when it matters."
The hum of the lights skated over the moment, and for a second you wondered how close he’d let you stand before he'd retreat.
"You're allowed to go home, you know," you said.
He nodded. "So are you."
You shook your head, closing the gap to set the Gatorade on the nearest flat surface, just a little too close to him. He didn't move away. You could feel the static cling off his skin.
"So," you said, folding your arms. "Now that you've confirmed I'm not homicidal, what's your next move?"
Bob looked at you, really looked, the way you did at a nav plot when you couldn’t find the line you’d missed. "I dunno. Guess I'll keep an eye on you for a while. If that's okay."
He meant it as a joke, but something in his face said it was truer than he wanted to admit. You could’ve pushed it, made him squirm, but the hangar felt safer with the both of you in it.
"Yeah," you said, letting your hair fall in your eyes again. "That’s okay."
It was easier to talk when nobody else was around, the air clear of all the jokes that never quite stayed friendly, the names you’d been called enough times they barely registered as insults anymore.
Bob said, "You going to sleep in here tonight or just until they cut the lights?"
"Maybe both," you said, stretching your legs until your heels clicked against the steel strut. "It’s quiet. They can't judge me if they're all home watching Netflix and pretending they didn't get smoked today."
Bob gave the barest laugh. "You act like you don't love being the problem child."
You shot him a look. "I don't mind being hated. I just wish they'd come up with something original."
"You’re not hated," he said, and the certainty in his voice made you want to crack a joke or flick Gatorade at his face, anything to make the feeling pass.
"Sure," you said, "I’m everybody's favorite cautionary tale." You pulled your knees up to your chest. "You ever wonder what it’s like to be the one people want to root for?"
Bob looked at you for a long time, so long you felt your skin prickle. "I don’t need to wonder. You are."
You snorted. "You’ve been drinking the maintenance shop cleaning supplies again, haven't you."
He ignored it. "I mean it." He rocked forward, resting elbows on his knees. "They don't get you, so they call you too much. But you’re… I dunno, I think you’re just right."
The silence felt too big, like stepping into the negative Gs at the apex of a loop. You opened your mouth, then closed it. Tried again.
"Are you flirting with me, Floyd?"
He smiled at the concrete, sheepish and a little bit proud. "What would you say if I said yes?"
You thought about it, really thought about it, and realized you had no comeback that wouldn’t sound like a lie. Your tongue felt thick. You went for bravado anyway. "You're gonna have to try harder than that. I don't do subtle."
He stood and crossed the gap. Not all the way, just enough that you could see the ridges in his knuckles, the old engine grease worked into the web of his hand. He held out a palm, like you were on the edge of a high dive and he was offering you the choice to jump or not.
"You’re not too much," he said, voice lower now, almost a vibration against your bones. "You’re easy to love."
That knocked the wind out of you. You tried to laugh, but it came out cracked.
"That's…statistically unlikely," you said.
It was a joke, or you tried to make it one, but he didn’t smile this time.
He stepped in, slow and steady, until the toe of his shoe bracketed yours. You felt your own pulse sync to the slow metronome of his breath. The world shrank to the patch of deck between you, the place where your knee brushed his thigh.
"I know what I said," Bob murmured, and you didn’t know who moved first, only that your mouth was on his, tentative, half shocked, almost like an accident.
Except it wasn’t. His hand cupped the back of your neck, careful, steady, like he’d been planning the maneuver for years. You let him, let the kiss build from a shy bump to something deliberate, the warm press of lips and then the sharper taste of teeth.
When you broke apart, it was because you needed to breathe, and even then he didn’t let go. His forehead rested against yours, and you counted the micro-tremors in his hands, how they matched the ones you tried to hide.
"So," you managed, "that was—"
"Yeah," he said.
You laughed, and this time it sounded like victory.
You took the long way back to the barracks, walking the perimeter of the empty tarmac, counting the stars as they blinked into visibility. The night had a new pressure, the oxygen thinner and the sky too close, like the universe was holding its breath to see what you’d do next.
When you got to your room, you stared at the blank metal door for a full minute, waiting for your heart rate to come down. It didn’t. If anything, it spiked harder when you heard footsteps, slow and even, coming down the corridor.
You opened the door without thinking, and there he was, hand still raised to knock. He looked surprised to see you, but not unhappy.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself.” You wanted to be cool, but your voice cracked on the last syllable.
Bob didn’t step in until you moved aside, and then he stood in the narrow entry, just inside, as if waiting for orders.
“You want a drink?” You asked, mostly for something to say.
He shook his head. “I’m good.”
The silence ballooned out, full of everything that hadn’t been said in the hangar. He waited, patient as ever, until you broke.
“I don’t do this,” you said. “I’m not…” You didn’t know how to finish, so you left it there.
Bob smiled, soft and real. “You’re allowed to not know the script.”
That made you laugh, and with it, the tension snapped. You kicked off your boots and flopped onto the edge of your bunk, legs dangling. Bob watched you, not in the way guys usually did, but like he was waiting for you to set the speed.
You realized you wanted to, and that was new.
“So,” you said, “what’s the plan?”
He grinned, closing the door behind him, but he didn’t move fast. He crossed the room slowly, as if memorizing each square of linoleum, and sat beside you with careful distance.
“I just want to be here,” he said.
You rolled your eyes. “You’re so damn earnest.”
Bob shrugged, his arm brushing yours, and the contact was electric in a way that had nothing to do with static. “I mean it.”
You looked at your hands, knuckles scabbed from yesterday’s deck brawl with a toolbox, and felt suddenly shy. He reached for your hand, and you let him. He traced a finger along the knuckle, as if reading a map.
“Does this hurt?” He asked.
You shook your head. “Not much.”
He kept his hand there, thumb moving in tiny circles over the healing skin.
He looked up, expression unreadable. “Can I?”
You nodded. “Go for it.”
He lifted your hand, pressing a kiss to the scraped knuckle, then to the inside of your wrist, where the veins mapped out under thin skin. You watched him, unable to move, as he worked his way up your arm, pausing at every bruise and bite mark left by flight harness or training mishap.
When his mouth reached the crook of your elbow, you shivered, not from cold. He looked up at you again, eyes dark and steady.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
You nodded, hair falling in your eyes.
He moved closer, sliding a hand to the zipper of your flight suit, stopping just short of pulling it down. “Can I?”
You let out a laugh, short and breathless. “Please.”
He didn’t rush. He unzipped the suit in slow increments, parting it to reveal your favorite ratty tank top, the one with “NO FEAR” stenciled over the breast. He seemed to like that, mouth twitching as he read it. He peeled the suit off your shoulders, letting it puddle at your hips.
You should have felt exposed, but you didn’t. Not with the way he looked at you, taking in every detail like it was important, sacred.
He ran a finger along your collarbone, pausing at the white scar above your left breast. “What’s this from?”
You smirked. “Old dogfight. Got grounded for a week.”
He bent to kiss the scar, soft and careful.
“Badass,” he said, and you believed he meant it.
You leaned in then, pressing your mouth to his. The kiss was different now, less desperate, more exploratory. You let him take the lead, and he did, one hand tangling in your hair, the other cradling your face.
He pulled back, breathing hard. “Tell me if you want to stop.”
You huffed. “I’ll stop you if I want to.”
He smiled, then hooked a finger in your tank top, dragging it upward. He paused, waited for a nod, then pulled it off, baring you to the chill air.
He ran his hands over your shoulders, down your arms, like he needed to confirm you were all there. When he ducked his head to your chest, you felt the first flick of tongue and almost laughed at how gentle he was, how unhurried.
You threaded your hands in his hair, soft and short and surprisingly nice to hold. He mouthed at your skin, lips finding every bruise and mark, cataloguing them with his tongue.
You reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up, and he broke away only long enough to strip it off. He was pale, freckled, strong in a way that made sense now. You ran your hands over his ribs, feeling the shape of him, and he shivered.
You kissed his neck, biting just hard enough to leave a mark. He groaned, hands tightening on your hips, and the sound made you bold.
You pushed him back on the bunk, straddling him, and he laughed, surprised.
“Control freak,” he teased, hands sliding to your waist.
You grinned, but then his hands stilled you, holding you in place.
“Let me?” He asked, voice low.
You hesitated, but nodded. “Okay. Yeah.”
He rolled you onto your back, bracing his weight on one arm so he didn’t crush you. His other hand skimmed down your body, over ribs and stomach, thumb pausing to circle your navel.
He kissed you again, slower this time, lingering. When he reached your waistband, he stopped. “Still good?”
You almost cursed at him, but instead just nodded. He slipped the suit off your hips, peeling away the panties you had on with it. He took his time, eyes on you, not missing a single reaction.
His mouth followed, trailing down your stomach, tongue tracing the indents of muscle and the scattered scars. When he reached your thigh, he kissed a bruise that was there, and you felt your chest go tight.
He looked up, searching your face for any hint of doubt.
“Please,” you said, and it came out ragged.
He bent, pressing his mouth between your thighs, and you gasped at the contact. He worked slowly and patiently, using his tongue and lips and nothing else. There wasn’t an ounce of urgency to his movements. It was as if he had all the time in the world.
He was good. Not in the way that some guys were where their movements were frantic, showy, and just trying to impress. He was good because he paid attention, because he listened. He watched every hitch in your breath, every tremor, and adjusted until he found the angle that made you clench his hair with one hand and muffle a shout into your other.
He didn’t stop until you pushed him away, breathless and shaking from the overstimulation as he didn’t let up even once you had come. He kissed the inside of your knee, then worked his way up, settling beside you on the narrow bunk.
You reached for him, desperate now, tugging at his waistband.
“Your turn,” you said.
He let you undress him, all limbs and nervous laughter, and when he was finally bare, you took a second to just look at him, memorizing every detail.
He kissed you again, deep and hungry this time, and you pulled him down, feeling the heat of him pressed against your skin.
When he pushed inside you, it was careful. He watched your face, as if ready to stop at any moment if needed. The stretch hurt, but you welcomed it. He was a little thicker than you imagined, and you weren’t exactly the type to sleep around, so it had been awhile.
He moved slow at first, then faster when you dug your nails into his back, urging him on. You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in place, and rode the sensation until you felt yourself unravel, nerves igniting all at once.
He came soon after, head buried in your shoulder, body shaking.
You lay there together, a tangle of limbs and sweat, neither of you speaking. He stroked your hair, hand warm against your scalp.
“You okay?” He whispered.
You nodded, voice gone. You turned, pressing your face into his chest, and let yourself breathe him in.
After a while you said, “you treat me like I’m breakable.”
He tipped your chin up, meeting your eyes. “No,” he said. “I treat you like you’re precious.”
You wanted to laugh, but it caught in your throat. Instead, you pulled him down, holding him tight, and not letting go. You liked the heaviness of him on top of you, and the way your bodies fit. For the first time in a long time, you felt steady as you laid there with Bob. Not grounded per se. But stabilized. Like a plane when it reaches it’s goal altitude and starts to cruise.
You reached up, fingers finding the chain of his dog tags, warm from skin. You traced the letters with your thumb, slow and deliberate. He shifted, half awake, and nuzzled into your hair.
“You really think I’m easy to love?” You asked, the words so quiet you weren’t sure you’d actually spoken.
He smiled, eyes still closed, and drew his thumb across your jaw. “Easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
I'm pissing myself they're talking about the mistakes and strengths of Kimi during the race and then Simon points off camera to a bush and says "we're talking about you" and there is Kimi looking like a deer in headlight in fucking dyingnhsksjsjsjjs
Summary: A fiery interruption at a mob meeting proves that Bucky’s wife isn’t to be underestimated — and that he’s absolutely obsessed with her.
Warnings: fluff, 18+ please, mob AU, power couple, hints of violence, fiery arguments, deep obsession
Word count: 987 🩵
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The last time Bucky’s business partners saw someone raise their voice during a meeting, they wound up in the Hudson.
So when you storm through the heavy mahogany doors of his private study in nothing but an oversized silk robe, bare feet slapping against the polished wood floors, the only sounds in the room are:
– The quiet shuffle of Steve shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
– The subtle clink of Sam setting down his whiskey glass.
– And your voice. Loud. Sharp. Furious.
“James Buchanan Barnes!”
Every man in the room freezes.
You’ve never once called him by his full name in front of anyone.
But here you are. Hair wild from the steam of your bath, lashes still dewy, mouth slick with that berry-red gloss he loves so much—and eyes blazing with fire that could burn cities down.
God, Bucky’s in trouble.
And he’s never looked more in love.
He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t panic. Doesn’t move a muscle—except to casually lean back in his leather chair and raise a slow brow, like you didn’t just interrupt a million-dollar negotiation in a fluffy pink robe.
“Doll,” he drawls, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Something on your mind?”
Your voice is deadly calm. “Did you, or did you not, tell the building manager that I was the one who approved that hideous marble slab in the penthouse kitchen?”
The room shifts. Sam mutters “Shit,” under his breath and looks away.
Bucky’s tongue runs along the inside of his cheek. “It didn’t match the cabinets.”
You take two dangerous steps closer. “So you lied and blamed it on me?”
“Technically, I redirected the blame. Different thing.”
“Technically,” you bite out, “I’m about to redirect your ass off the balcony.”
A low chuckle escapes Steve. He tries to cover it with a cough. You shoot him a look and he quickly busies himself with his notepad.
That’s when it happens.
The new guy—Tony Deluca, some hotshot Bucky’s considering for a weapons deal—leans forward with a smirk and mutters under his breath, “Christ, can’t even keep your bitch in check.”
The entire room turns to ice.
Bucky’s smile vanishes.
You freeze mid-step.
Tony doesn’t realize he’s signed his death warrant.
Steve’s already pinching the bridge of his nose. Sam mutters, “Dumb motherfucker,” and shifts to the side like he’s getting out of the splash zone.
You turn. Slowly. Robe swaying.
“I’m sorry,” you say sweetly, eyes narrowing. “Who the fuck are you again?”
Tony chuckles, smug. “The guy who was talking business until you decided to come in here screaming like a housewife from Staten Island.”
You tilt your head. “Cute. And how’s your wife? Still fucking your driver?”
Steve coughs violently. Sam whistles low.
Tony’s smirk slips.
“I—what the fuck did you just say?”
You blink. “Oh, she didn’t tell you? Hm. She was moaning his name over the phone loud enough for the neighbors to hear. But hey, maybe that’s just her support for the working class.”
“You little—”
“Tony.”
Bucky’s voice slices through the room like a gunshot.
Calm. Controlled. Deadly.
Tony stiffens in his chair.
Bucky finally stands, tall and terrifying, his suit pristine and tailored to hell, every inch of him screaming power. He walks around the table slowly, eyes never leaving the man who dared open his mouth.
“She’s not my bitch,” he says, tone eerily level. “She’s my wife. My partner. My Queen.”
His hand comes to rest on your lower back as he stops beside you, thumb brushing the silk of your robe.
“And if you disrespect her again,” he adds, voice dropping lower, “you’ll leave here in a pine box.”
Tony’s mouth opens. Closes.
“Apologize,” Bucky says simply.
“…What?”
The room is dead silent.
Bucky tilts his head.
“I said apologize. To my wife. Or I’ll have your tongue.”
Tony stares. “You’re joking.”
Bucky smiles. “Do I look like I’m fucking joking?”
There’s a pause. Then a strangled, “I’m… sorry.”
You blink slowly, savoring the victory. “You’re forgiven. For now.”
Bucky guides you out of the room with a gentle hand, murmuring, “Good girl,” under his breath as the doors shut behind you.
But not before you hear Sam mutter, “Tony’s about to be listed as a missing person, huh.”
Later that night, you’re curled in Bucky’s lap on the penthouse balcony, still in your robe, legs draped over his thighs as he sips from a glass of bourbon.
“Did you really have to throw me under the bus over the marble?” you grumble into his neck.
“I didn’t think you’d notice.”
“It was brown. Our cabinets are black.”
He chuckles and kisses your temple. “Yeah, it was ugly as sin. But I’d replace the whole damn kitchen if it meant you barging into my meeting looking like that again.”
“Like what? A rabid raccoon?”
“Like my wife. Fiery. Barefoot. Ready to throw hands. God, I’ve never been harder during a briefing.”
You swat his arm, but your smile betrays you.
“Seriously though,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss beneath your ear, “you know I love that mouth of yours.”
“Because of what it says or what it does?”
His laugh is low, wicked. “Both.”
You twist in his lap, straddling him, and his hands immediately find your thighs.
“You shouldn’t let men like Tony near your business,” you say, eyes soft now. “They’re not loyal. They don’t respect you—or me.”
Bucky leans in, brushing his nose against yours. “He won’t be a problem.”
“…Because you’re dropping him from the deal?”
He kisses you, slow and deep. “Because he’s already dead.”
Your heart stutters. You shouldn’t be turned on.
But god, you are.
“I love you,” you breathe against his lips.
He grins. “I’d kill the whole world for you.”
Then he lifts you in his arms and carries you to the bedroom.
And by the time the sun rises, every inch of you remembers exactly who your husband is.
