howdy.

Austin, Texas. Summer heat hangs thick enough to stir with a spoon, wrapping around the city in warm, golden haze. The air smells like mesquite smoke, cut grass, and the faint, sweet tang of wildflowers along the river. Down on South Lamar, there’s a honky-tonk with peeling paint and a porch strung with fairy lights, where the music runs from late afternoon until the sun comes back up.

That’s where you first saw him.

Bucky Barnes leans against the wooden bar like he belongs there — broad shoulders draped in a worn denim jacket, faded blue jeans tucked into scuffed leather boots, a silver belt buckle catching the light. His dark hair is a little longer than he keeps it in the city, falling loose around his jaw, and a faint stubble lines his cheeks. One hand wraps around a glass of whiskey, the other rests easy on the bar, the metal glint of his prosthetic catching the glow of the neon sign outside.

He doesn’t look like he’s looking for anyone. He looks like he’s just passing through, like he could mount his horse and ride out before the moon even reaches its peak.

You slide onto the stool two down from him, heart picking up a little speed. “Bartender,” you call, “another round for the gentleman.”

Bucky doesn’t turn his head right away. He takes a slow sip, sets the glass down with a soft clink, and only then glances over. His eyes are that bright, stormy blue — sharp, guarded, like he’s spent years learning not to let anyone get too close.

“Didn’t ask for one,” he says, voice low and rough, thick with that quiet drawl he’s picked up since settling out here.

You grin, undeterred. “I know. But I figured you wouldn’t say no to something good.”

He studies you for a long moment, like he’s deciding if you’re worth the trouble. Then he nods once, just a flick of his chin. “Thanks.”

It’s the barest acknowledgment, but you’ll take it.

That’s how it starts.

Every evening, you show up at the same time. Every evening, you buy him his drink — straight bourbon, no ice, just the way he likes it. And every evening, he plays it cool.

He’ll answer your questions with one or two words, never more than necessary. If you lean in to talk, he’ll lean back just enough to put space between you. If you laugh at something he says, he’ll give you that half-smile — the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes — and then look away, like he’s scared letting you in too far will only end badly.

“Y’know,” you say one night, resting your elbow on the bar, “you’re making me work awful hard just to get you to say more than three sentences.”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “That so?”

“Mhm. I buy you a drink every night. I listen to you complain about the dust, the heat, the way the horses act up when storms roll in. And still… you act like I’m gonna disappear if you look at me too long.”

His jaw tightens, just a little. Old habits, old fears — they run deep in him. “Not used to people sticking around,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it over the fiddle music.

“Well, get used to it,” you say firmly. “I don’t quit easy.”

For a week, it stays exactly like that.

You work for every little inch. You get him to tell you about the ranch he helps run outside town, about the way the sky turns pink and orange before dawn, about how he still struggles sometimes to trust his own hands, let alone anyone else’s. He’ll give you a crumb of information, then pull back like he’s afraid he’s said too much.

You buy him another drink. You stay a little later. You laugh a little louder, and you don’t push too hard — just keep showing him you’re there, no strings attached.

Then one night, something shifts.

The band plays a slow, swaying tune — soft, warm, carrying that same sweet, longing feel of Mexico Honey — and the crowd thins out, leaving just a few folks lingering near the stage. You slide his usual glass across the bar, and this time, instead of just nodding, he catches your wrist gently before you can pull away.

His fingers — warm, calloused, even the metal one feels careful against your skin — rest light enough that you could pull free if you wanted. But you don’t.

“You know why I’m hard to get?” he asks, voice softer now, no sharp edge left.

You shake your head. “Tell me.”

“‘Cause if I let someone in… and then they leave?” He looks down at your joined hands, then lifts his gaze to yours, and this time his eyes are open, vulnerable. “Hurts more than any wound I’ve ever had. So I make ’em earn it. Make sure they’re not just passing through.”

Your heart swells, slow and steady. “And have I earned it yet?”

A real smile tugs at his mouth — wide, warm, the kind that lights up his whole face. “You’re getting there. You’ve been buying my drinks, listening to my nonsense, putting up with my grumpy self… you’ve put in the work.”

He leans in now, closing the distance he’s kept for so long. The scent of pine, leather, and whiskey wraps around you. His thumb brushes lightly over your pulse, and his voice drops to a murmur.

“Mexico honey,” he says, using the phrase you’ve hummed under your breath around him more than once, “you worked for every inch. And I ain’t gonna make you work no more.”

He lifts his glass, taps it gently against yours. “From here on out? The drinks are on me. And so’s whatever else you want.”

When you lean in to rest your shoulder against his, he doesn’t pull back. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulls you close, and lets you settle against him — no walls, no distance, no playing hard to get anymore.

The song drifts on, slow and sweet, and outside the Texas night stretches wide and open. He still has his guard up, a little — old habits die hard — but now he’s letting you help him lower it, one quiet moment at a time.

You earned every bit of it. And he’s more than happy to give you everything he has.

Mexico Honey

Chapter 2: Under the Texas Stars

The ride out of Austin starts just after midnight, the city lights fading behind you like embers blowing off a fire. Bucky leads the way, his big chestnut gelding stepping sure and steady over dirt roads dusted with limestone. You follow close behind, the warm night air brushing your cheeks, carrying the scent of sagebrush and wild clover.

For miles, there’s nothing but open sky — deep, ink-black, streaked with more stars than you ever see in town. Every now and then, Bucky glances back over his shoulder, checking you’re still there, and when he catches your eye, he gives you that new, softer smile — no more holding back, no more walls.

“Almost there,” he calls, his voice clear over the rustle of grass. “Hope you don’t mind a little rough around the edges.”

“I don’t mind one bit,” you call back. “I like things real.”

Ten minutes later, the ranch comes into view: a weathered two-story cabin with a wide porch, a tin roof glinting pale silver under the moon, and a corral stretching out to the left. Beyond it, fields roll all the way to the tree line. He pulls up at the gate and swings down easily, boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. He ties his horse, then comes over to help you dismount, his hands firm and warm around your waist as he lowers you gently.

“Welcome home,” he says quietly.

You walk together toward the cabin, the horses trailing behind you as if they know the path by heart. Once inside, he lights an oil lamp, and golden light spills over hardwood floors, a stone fireplace, and walls lined with old saddles, ropes, and framed photos. It’s simple, lived-in — all him.

You turn to face him, and the air feels different here — quieter, closer. He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, watching you, his blue eyes dark and open now.

“Took a long time to let anyone bring me out here,” he admits, voice low. “Never thought I’d want anyone to see this place, or see me like this.”

You step closer, closing the last little bit of space he used to keep. “You made me work for every step, remember?” You smile softly. “I’m not going anywhere now.”

His breath catches, just a little. Then he reaches up, brushing a strand of hair back from your face — his flesh hand first, then the cool, gentle press of his metal fingers along your jaw. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You earned every part of it.”

He leans in slow, giving you every chance to pull away, but you meet him halfway. The kiss is warm and slow, tasting of whiskey and the sweet, open air of the ranch — careful at first, then deeper, like he’s been waiting a long time to let himself have this. His arms wrap tight around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and you can feel how solid he is, how all that guarded tension finally melts away.

When you both pull back, breathless, his forehead rests against yours. “You sure about this?” he asks, quiet but earnest. “Once I let you in… I ain’t gonna let you go.”

“Positive,” you whisper.

A soft, grateful smile spreads across his face. Then he bends, slips one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, and lifts you easily into his arms — strong, steady, no hesitation. You loop your arms around his neck, resting your head against his shoulder as he carries you down the short hall to his bedroom.

He sets you gently on the bed, then sits beside you, brushing your hair back again. Outside, the horses shift in the yard, crickets hum, and the night stretches peaceful and endless.

“From here on out,” he says, his thumb tracing slow circles over your cheek, “you don’t have to work for anything. You just have to stay.”

You pull him down to lie beside you, and he holds you close, his body warm and solid against yours, no more distance, no more playing hard to get. He’s all yours — finally, fully, and for good.

Mexico Honey

Chapter 3: No More Holding Back

The mattress dips as Bucky leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other resting light but firm on your hip. The lamplight gilds the edges of his frame—broad shoulders, the faint lines of his muscles, the glint of his metal arm catching the soft glow. His hair falls forward, framing his face, and his eyes are dark and burning, all that careful reserve completely gone now.

“You sure you want this, honey?” he murmurs, voice thick and rough, lips brushing your jaw. “Once I start, I ain’t gonna be gentle right away—not after making myself wait this long.”

“Please, Bucky,” you whisper, hands already sliding up his chest, feeling the heat and strength beneath his shirt. “I want all of you.”

A low, hungry sound rumbles in his throat. He shifts his weight, settling fully between your legs, pressing his body close enough you can feel every hard line of him. His mouth crashes down on yours—deep, demanding, claiming the kiss like he’s been starved for it. His tongue slides against yours, slow and heated, and you arch up into him, fingers tangling in his hair to pull him even closer.

He trails kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin until you gasp, leaving dark, blooming marks that will stay there long after the night ends—marks to show you’re his.

“Look so pretty like this,” he growls against your throat, one hand starting to fumble with the buttons of your shirt. “Worked so hard to get here… gonna make sure you know it was worth every second.”

He yanks your shirt open, lips moving lower over your chest, his calloused hands and cool metal fingers roaming over your skin, making you shiver. You help him push your clothes off, kicking them aside, and he sits back just long enough to rip his own shirt over his head, then work his jeans down, his movements sharp and eager.

Before you can fully take him in, he reaches over to the wooden nightstand, yanks the drawer open, and pulls out a foil packet. He tears it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours as he rolls the condom on slow and deliberate. Your breath catches when you see him—thick, long, and bigger than anything you’ve ever felt before. Your pulse spikes, half anticipation, half nervousness.

Bucky notices the flicker in your gaze, and he leans back over you again, brushing your hair back. “Easy now, baby,” he soothes, his voice dropping to a purr, rough and sweet all at once. “I know I’m big. Gonna go slow, let you take me. You can do it—you’re tougher than you think.”

He lines himself up, rubbing the head gently through your folds to wet you, making you moan and arch into the touch. When he starts to press in, you feel the stretch immediately—sharp and intense, enough to make your breath catch and your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Bucky… so much…” you gasp, head falling back.

“I know, honey, I know,” he groans, holding still, letting you adjust. “So tight around me—feels like heaven. Just breathe for me. That’s it… relax, let me in. You’re doing so good, so perfect for me.”

He kisses away the little sounds of discomfort, his mouth soft against yours while he whispers constant praise. “Look at you—taking me already. So good for your cowboy. No one else gets to have you like this, only me. You feel how deep I am? How well I fit?”

Little by little, the sharp burn melts into something warmer, something that makes you ache for more. You tilt your hips up, silently asking him to move, and he rewards you with a low, satisfied growl.

“There we go,” he purrs, starting to roll his hips slow and deep, hitting places no one ever had before. “That’s my girl. Taking every inch like you were made for it. Feel me? All of me inside you… no more walls, no more games. Just us.”

His pace builds—slow, then harder, deeper, each stroke dragging a moan from your throat. He bites and sucks new love bites along your collarbone and shoulders, marking you over and over, while his dirty words fill the quiet room.

“Sounds so sweet when you moan my name,” he grunts, hips snapping harder. “Gonna make you come so hard you forget every other man who ever touched you. Only I can give you this much, baby. Only I can make you feel this good.”

“Bucky—yes—don’t stop,” you cry out, wrapping your legs tight around his waist, pulling him as close as physically possible. The stretch has turned into overwhelming pleasure, every movement sending sparks up your spine.

“Fuck—you feel incredible,” he breathes, his own voice breaking, forehead pressed to yours. “So warm, so wet, so mine. You earned every bit of this, honey. Every stroke, every kiss, every sound you make. I’m never gonna let you go now.”

He kisses you deeply, swallowing your moans as he drives into you with steady, deep rhythm, his praise and dirty talk never stopping, making every second feel hotter, more intimate, more perfect. Outside, the Texas night stays quiet, but inside the cabin, there’s only the sound of skin meeting skin, heavy breathing, and two people finally letting go completely.

Mexico Honey

Chapter 4: Too Good to Stop

The slow, careful pace he started with didn’t last long—not once he felt you relax fully around him, not once you started begging for more. Something in him snapped, that last thread of restraint finally fraying away, and he drove into you harder, deeper, every thrust sharp and claiming, like he wanted to bury himself so far inside you you’d never forget it.

“Atta girl—take it,” he grunts, voice rough and broken, one hand gripping your hip so tight you know there’ll be fingerprints tomorrow, the other fisting into the sheets beside your head. “Told you I wasn’t gonna hold back anymore. You wanted every inch? You’re gonna get every damn inch.”

You were already a mess—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed bright, lips swollen and red from his kisses. Your moans had turned into high, keening cries, your body trembling nonstop as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. He’d already made you come three times, four, lost count of how many times your muscles clamped down around him so hard he had to bite back his own groan.

“Look at you—so sensitive, so perfect,” he growls, his thumb finding that little bundle of nerves and pressing down hard, circling fast and firm. “Can’t take it, can you? But you’re gonna give me more. Gonna give me everything you’ve got.”

It only took a few strokes of his hips and that relentless pressure from his thumb before you were crying out, back arching clear off the mattress, your whole body tensing up as hot, wet release flooded out—again and again, spilling over his hand, down his thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you both.

“Fuck—there it is,” he roars, watching you fall apart with dark, hungry eyes. “That’s my good girl. Squirt for me, honey—let it all go. Give me every last drop.”

He didn’t slow down. If anything, he drove harder, his hips snapping against yours with a deep, heavy rhythm that shook the bed frame. The sheets were soaked clear through, sticking to your skin and his, the air thick with the smell of sweat and sex and the sweet, earthy scent of him. You were both slick and glistening, every movement making wet, slick sounds that only made him growl louder and you cry harder.

Your legs shook uncontrollably around his waist, your nails raking down his back, leaving bright red marks in their wake. It felt too much—so much pleasure it bordered on overwhelming, every nerve ending alight and screaming.

“Bucky—too much,” you sobbed, tears spilling hot down your temples, your voice cracking. “I can’t—can’t take any more… gonna pass out… I swear I’m gonna pass out…”

Your words came out in broken, breathless mumbles, nothing but gasps and sobs and repeated, frantic curses.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—”

You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you anchored, arms locked tight around his neck, fingers tangling so hard in his hair you must’ve been pulling, but he only groaned louder and drove deeper, his mouth latching onto your neck to suck another bruising mark right over your pulse.

“Almost there, baby—just a little more,” he rasped, his own hips stuttering, his rhythm turning wild and desperate. “You can take it—you’re so strong. Look how good you feel… squeezing me so tight… milking me like you were made for this. You wanted me to stop playing hard to get? This is what you get—all of me, over and over till you can’t remember your own name.”

He kissed the tears off your cheeks, biting gently at your lower lip, his words mixing with praise and filthy promises, all while you trembled beneath him, completely unraveled, soaked and spent and so full of him you didn’t know where you ended and he began.

“Say it again,” he demanded, thrusting harder still. “Tell me who makes you feel this good. Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours—only yours!” you wailed, another blinding peak crashing over you so hard your vision went white, your body convulsing as you came apart once more, gushing around him and soaking the sheets even further. “Fuck—fuck—Bucky—I can’t—can’t—”

Your head fell back limp against the pillow, limbs going heavy and loose, your sobs turning into soft, whimpering breaths, every muscle exhausted. You were half-delirious, barely able to keep your eyes open, already teetering right on the edge of passing out from the intensity of it all.

And even as he felt you start to drift, he kept moving, slow and deep now, drawing out every last bit of pleasure, until with a guttural, broken shout of your name, he finally followed you over the edge, pouring himself into the condom, his whole body shaking as he pressed himself as deep as he could go, holding you tight against him like he’d never let go.

Mexico Honey

Chapter 5: Spent and Sated

The world felt soft and blurry around you, your chest heaving with ragged, shallow breaths, every inch of your skin still buzzing like live wire. You trembled uncontrollably beneath him—thighs shaking, knees still bent and spread wide, too weak to even try to close them. Your whole body felt loose, heavy, melted into the soaked sheets, and he was still there, still buried deep inside you, not pulling away even as the sharpest peaks faded into warm, throbbing fullness.

His hips gave slow, lazy, little pushes against yours—not hard thrusts anymore, just deep, gentle rolls, pressing himself as far in as he could go, like he wanted to stay connected to you for as long as possible. Every small shift sent faint, jolting ripples through your oversensitive nerves, making you gasp and twitch beneath him.

“Easy, baby… easy,” he murmured, voice thick and rough, still breathless, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His arms bracketed you, holding you secure, one hand splayed wide across your back to keep you pressed tight to him. “Got you… I got you. You did so good… so perfect for me.”

You kept making those tiny, broken sounds—half whimper, half sigh—your fingers still tangled in his hair, nails dragging lightly down his damp shoulders. Every time he shifted, you’d jolt, a soft “fuck…” or “Bucky…” slipping past your swollen lips, your body still fluttering and clenching weakly around him even when you were too tired to think straight.

“Still feel me, huh?” he whispered, his lips brushing the marks he’d left all over your throat and collarbone, kissing each bruise like he was soothing them even as he left more. “Still squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go either. Soaking wet… we’re both soaked right through, honey. Bed’s a mess… and I don’t regret a single second of it.”

He lifted his head just enough to look down at you—his blue eyes dark and warm, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, sweat beading along his jaw and chest. He brushed damp strands of hair off your forehead, his metal hand cool and gentle against your overheated skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his flesh palm cupping your cheek.

“You were a mess for me,” he said, half-smiling, pride and affection thick in his tone. “Sobbing, begging, coming so hard you couldn’t see straight… and you still took every last bit I gave you. My tough girl… worked so hard to get here, and now you’re never gonna have to ask for anything again.”

He rolled his hips once more, slow and deep, making your breath catch again, your legs quaking harder. “Still full of me… gonna feel me for days. Gonna walk a little sore tomorrow, and you’ll remember exactly who gave it to you.”

Your voice came out thin and wobbly, barely more than a murmur. “Still… still so much… feels like you’re never gonna leave…”

“Not for a while,” he promised, kissing you slow and deep—soft this time, no bite, just warmth. “Just gonna stay right here. Keep you close. Let you come down easy. You’re safe… you’re mine.”

He settled his weight gently on top of you, supporting most of it on his elbows so he wouldn’t crush you, but keeping himself pressed deep, his hips still resting snug against yours. Your trembling slowly eased into a soft, steady shiver, your breathing slowing, your eyes fluttering shut as exhaustion finally pulled at you, safe and warm and completely, utterly satisfied.

Chapter 5: After the Storm

After a long, quiet stretch of just holding you, his breathing finally steadies, and he gives your hip a soft, tender squeeze. Slowly, carefully, he eases his hips back—pulling out inch by slow inch, and you both sigh at the gentle drag as he leaves you empty but still warm and throbbing.

Your eyes flutter open, and your gaze drops instinctively. There, in the clear tip of the condom, is a thick, heavy amount of release, more than you’d ever seen before. You blink, half-dazed, and a low, rumbling laugh bubbles up in his chest when he follows your line of sight.

“Guess I made up for lost time, huh?” he murmurs, a faint, sheepish grin tugging at his swollen lips. “Been a long while since I let myself have this—let myself have you. No wonder it feels like so much.”

He carefully slides the condom off, ties it neatly, and tosses it into the small wastebasket by the nightstand. Then he leans over, grabbing a clean cloth and the pitcher of cool water he keeps on the shelf. He dampens the cloth, wrings it out, and settles beside you again, his touch turning impossibly gentle now—nothing like the rough, demanding pace from minutes before.

“Easy now, honey,” he soothes, wiping softly between your legs, cleaning away the mess of sweat and release, his movements slow and careful so he doesn’t irritate your already oversensitive skin. He brushes the cloth over your thighs, your hips, every spot he’d marked and touched, then cleans his own skin before tossing the cloth aside.

When he’s done, he yanks the soaked top sheet off the bed and tosses it to the floor, pulling a fresh, dry blanket up over both of you. He shifts to lie fully on his side, then pulls you right against his chest, tucking your head under his chin and wrapping both arms—warm flesh and cool metal—firmly around your waist.

“Comfortable?” he asks, his voice already thick with sleep, lips brushing the top of your head.

You just hum, already melting into him, your legs tangling with his, your hand resting flat over his heart. The room smells like pine, leather, and the sweet, heady scent of what you just shared. Outside, the crickets hum, and the horses shift softly in the corral, the Texas night quiet and still.

“Told you,” he mumbles drowsily, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, “once you earned your way in… I ain’t ever letting you go.”

Within minutes, his breathing deepens and evens out, his hold staying steady and secure. You drift off right beside him—sore, sated, completely spent, and safer than you’ve ever felt in your life. No more games, no more walls, no more making you work for every inch. He’s all yours, and you’re all his.

Mexico Honey

Chapter 6: Morning on the Ranch

You wake slowly, sunlight already spilling through the gaps in the cabin curtains, warm and golden across the sheets. The bed feels big and empty beside you—cool, no solid weight pressed against your back, no arm draped over your waist. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you sit up, and a soft smile tugs at your lips when you realize what you’re wearing: Bucky’s faded flannel shirt, hanging loose and oversized on you, the hem falling halfway down your thighs, still carrying his scent of pine, leather, and whiskey.

You swing your legs over the edge and pad barefoot across the hardwood floor, moving quiet through the quiet house. You check the kitchen—empty. The living room, the porch—still no sign of him. You wander toward the back door, and that’s when you hear it: the soft nickering of horses and the low, familiar rumble of his voice.

Pushing the screen door open, you lean against the frame, arms crossed over your chest, and your heart gives a little flutter.

Bucky stands in the corral, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, holding a bucket of feed. His dark hair is messy from sleep, his jaw dusted with stubble, and he moves easy and sure between the animals—his big chestnut stallion, and your mare, Sugar, right there beside him. He’s talking to them like they understand every word, stroking their necks and dropping handfuls of grain into their troughs.

He looks up then, and when his eyes land on you, his whole face lights up—that slow, warm smile that used to be so hard to earn now coming freely, bright and open.

“Mornin’, honey,” he calls out, that soft Texas drawl thick and lazy in the early air. “Sleep good?”

“Good enough,” you call back, grinning. “Woke up and thought you’d ridden off without me.”

He laughs, a deep, rich sound, and sets the bucket down, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Not a chance. Got up early to take care of the herd… and found something I swear I never thought I’d see.”

He gestures toward the two horses, and his grin turns wicked, amused. “You’re never gonna believe what I walked out to ten minutes ago.”

You push off the doorframe and walk out into the sunshine, squinting a little. “What? Did they get into the hay again?”

“Better,” he says, shaking his head, still laughing. “Turns out it wasn’t just us two having a good time last night. Seems the horses decided to join in on the fun.”

Your steps stutter. You blink, confused for half a second—then your eyes dart between Sugar and his stallion, and your jaw drops clean open.

“What?”

You hurry over to the fence, leaning in to check on your mare, who just nickers softly and nuzzles your hand like nothing out of the ordinary happened. “Oh my GOD, Bucky—she’s never even been near a stallion before! Never had one, not once in her whole life!”

He leans against the fence beside you, shoulder brushing yours, that cocky, satisfied smile still tugging at his mouth. “Well,” he drawls, glancing down at you with those bright blue eyes, “she has now.”

He pauses, then leans in a little closer, voice dropping to a warm, teasing murmur that sends heat straight up your cheeks.

“And so have you.”

You gasp and swat lightly at his arm, but you can’t stop the wide, giddy smile spreading across your face. He catches your hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses your knuckles slow and sweet, while behind you, the horses munch away like nothing happened—two new pairs, perfectly matched, just like their owners.

Mexico Honey

Chapter 7: Worries and Reassurance

As the morning stretches into afternoon, that light, giddy feeling slowly fades, replaced by a tight, heavy knot in your chest. Every time you glance over at Sugar grazing quietly in the corral, your stomach twists. You’d bought her two years back—paid $12,500 cash for her, a well-bred, gentle mare you’d handpicked and raised like family. She wasn’t just a horse; she was yours, your pride, your comfort, practically your baby.

By mid-afternoon, you can’t stand it anymore. You find Bucky fixing a loose gate hinge, hammer in hand, and your voice comes out tight and anxious.

“Bucky… can you check her over? Properly? I know horses are tough, but I can’t stop worrying. I don’t want her hurt or sick or anything.”

He sets the hammer down immediately, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Sure thing, honey. Easy now—let’s take a look.”

He leads you both over to the corral, speaking soft and steady to Sugar as he runs his hands carefully over her legs, her belly, her flanks, checking her eyes, her breathing, her pulse. He lifts her tail gently, inspecting closely, then steps back with a slow, thoughtful shrug.

“Physically, she’s perfect,” he says honestly. “No swelling, no tenderness, no cuts or tears. Breathing’s steady, heart rate’s normal. Yeah… there’s still some residual semen, but that’s just how it goes. No sign of pain, no trauma, no fever. She’s calm, eating good, acting like herself. She’s fine.”

He turns to face you fully, and that’s when he sees it—your bottom lip trembling, eyes shiny and glistening, your whole face crumpling before you can stop it. Before you can even say a word, hot tears spill over and roll down your cheeks.

“Hey—hey, c’mere,” he murmurs, dropping any pretense and stepping straight to you. He pulls you tight against his chest, one arm wrapped firm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head, letting you bury your face in his shirt. “It’s okay… I got you.”

You sob into him, fingers clutching hard at his shoulders, voice breaking as the words come pouring out.

“She’s like my baby, Bucky… I love her so much. And she wasn’t cheap either—paid twelve thousand five hundred dollars for her, saved up for months to get her. If anything happened to her… I don’t know what I’d do. I just… I didn’t plan for this, didn’t know it would happen so fast… I’m scared I messed up somehow.”

He holds you through every shaky breath and every tear, rubbing slow, soothing circles up and down your back, his chest warm and solid against yours. When you start to quiet a little, he tilts your chin up gently, wiping the tears away with his thumbs—one warm, one cool—his expression soft and serious.

“Listen to me,” he says firmly but gently. “You didn’t mess up. Horses do this—it’s natural, not an accident that hurts her. She’s strong, she’s healthy, and she’s gonna be just fine. That price you paid? It bought you a solid, sound animal, and right now she’s proving exactly why she was worth every penny. She’s tough, just like you.”

He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, holding you close again.

“And if anything does come up later? We’ll call the vet first thing, pay whatever it takes, fix it together. You’re not doing this alone anymore—remember? You earned your spot here, and that means Sugar’s part of the deal too. She’s my girl now just as much as she’s yours.”

You rest your head back against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart, the fear slowly melting away under his warmth. Outside, Sugar nickers softly, as if agreeing that everything really is alright.

Mexico Honey

Final Chapter: New Beginnings

Once Bucky calmed you down and assured you Sugar was healthy, you both made the same choice—no rushing to interfere, no unnecessary medications. Just let nature take its course.

“Whatever happens,” he told you that evening, sitting side by side on the porch swing, “we handle it together. If she’s not pregnant, no harm done. If she is? Then we raise that foal like it’s ours too.”

You nodded, resting your head on his shoulder, finally letting go of the worry. “Together,” you agreed.

Three and a half weeks later, Bucky came back from checking the horses with a slow, wide grin on his face. He wiped his boots on the step and held out his hands like he was bringing you the best news in the world.

“Got something to tell you,” he said, pulling you close. “Called the vet out this morning just to be sure. Sugar’s in perfect health… and she’s definitely pregnant.”

Your breath caught, and you laughed through happy tears, throwing your arms around his neck. “Really? She’s gonna have a baby?”

“Sure is,” he chuckled, lifting you right off your feet and spinning you around gently. “That old stallion of mine did his job good. And Sugar’s strong—she’ll carry it just fine.”

Over the next months, the ranch settled into a soft, steady rhythm. You and Bucky worked side by side: fixing fences, tending the pastures, and slowly turning one of the empty stalls into a safe, warm space for the new arrival. You stacked fresh hay, hung extra lanterns, and checked the water trough twice a day. Bucky taught you how to watch for signs of her progress, and together you’d sit on the fence for hours, just watching Sugar graze with her belly rounding out more each week.

One evening, as the sun painted the sky in pink and orange, you leaned against Bucky’s chest while he wrapped both arms around your waist. Sugar stood below, calm and content, her head resting near the stallion who’d fathered her foal.

“Look at us,” Bucky murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Came here chasing a stubborn cowboy who played hard to get… and now you’re helping me build something real. A home, a place to stay, and soon enough, a little one running around the pasture.”

You smiled, lacing your fingers through his. “You made me work for every inch to get here,” you teased softly. “But it was worth every single step.”

“Worth more than I ever thought I deserved,” he admitted, his voice quiet and warm. “No more walls, no more running. You, me, Sugar, that foal on the way… this is all I want.”

The wind carried the sweet scent of clover and dust across the Texas hills. Somewhere in the distance, a whip-poor-will called out, and the horses nickered softly to each other.

He turned you in his arms, brushing a strand of hair back from your face, his blue eyes bright and full of everything he no longer tried to hide.

“Mexico honey,” he whispered, using that name that had started it all, “you earned every part of this. And I’m gonna spend the rest of my days making sure you never have to work for a single thing again.”

Delmar’s is too loud.

Too crowded and too hot with summer bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath yellow hanging lights while someone’s record player crackles faint jazz into the room.

The whole neighborhood showed up for the send-off. Brooklyn boys in freshly pressed uniforms get clapped on the back and handed drinks while mothers dab at their eyes pretending they aren’t terrified. Girls dance too close to soldiers trying hard to make tonight feel normal and worth remembering. Dum Dum is already halfway drunk, Morita’s winning money off somebody in cards while Jones keeps trying to drag everyone onto the dance floor.

And Bucky keeps looking at the door.

“Barnes!”

A hand slams against his shoulder hard enough to jolt him from his thoughts as he turns automatically, plastering on an easy grin for the older man standing there.

“Mr. Delmar.”

The man beams proudly while shoving another beer into his hand.

“Look at you, huh? Sergeant now.” He shakes his head. “Your ma would’ve been proud.”

Bucky swallows around something uncomfortable in his throat.

“Thanks.”

More people pull him away before the conversation can linger. Another handshake, another “good luck overseas.” Another smiling girl asking for one dance before he ships out. Bucky gives everyone exactly what they expect, the grin and the charm.

Because that’s what they need tonight. What they deserve.

But every few minutes his eyes drift back toward the entrance anyway, still waiting. Steve notices first, obviously, because Steve Rogers has always looked at Bucky like he can read the wiring in his head.

“You’re gonna wear a hole through the door,” Steve mutters beside him while accepting two drinks from the bartender.

Bucky tears his gaze away too slowly. “I’m not lookin’ at the door.”

“You checked it four times during one conversation.” Steve stares at him flatly.

“She’s probably just late.”

The words slip out before Bucky can stop them and Steve’s expression softens immediately. Oh. So that’s what this is.

“You told her to come?”

Bucky shrugs too casually.

“Mentioned it.”

“You must really like her.”

“I invited her for the drinks.”

“That’s practically a marriage proposal from you.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches despite himself. Then the door opens again and Bucky looks up immediately.

Not you, just another group filtering in from the street laughing loudly. The hope that sparked in his chest disappears so fast it almost embarrasses him.

Steve notices that too.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Lie.

Across the room somebody calls Bucky’s name again with ,ore congratulations, more shoulder claps, more promises that he’ll “make Brooklyn proud.” And Bucky tries, God, he tries to stay inside the moment but all he can think about is you.

The way you looked the last time he saw you standing outside the corner store while he told you about deployment papers finally coming through, the party that the block was putting up for him. You’d smiled for him but it never reached your eyes.

Now hours pass and there's still no sign of you. The party keeps moving around him anyway. The music swells and people dance, someone starts singing badly near the bar while Bucky stands in the center of all of it feeling strangely disconnected. Like he’s underwater because deep down, a thought keeps growing uglier and uglier in the back of his mind. Maybe she’s not coming.

The realization settles heavy in his chest until Jones eventually drags him into a celebratory toast near midnight.

“To Sergeant Barnes!” someone yells.

Everyone cheers loudly around him and Bucky lifts his beer automatically, smiles on cue but over the rim of the bottle, his eyes drift one last time toward the door. Still hoping, still waiting.

Nothing. And for the first time all night, his smile finally slips just for a second. Long enough for Steve to see it from across the room, long enough for Bucky to quietly wonder what he did wrong. Or worse—if maybe you saying goodbye would’ve hurt less than not showing up at all.

The phone rings three times before you answer it.

You almost let it keep going.

Almost let the sound echo through your apartment until whoever stood on the other end finally gave up and hung up for good. But something ugly and hopeful twists in your chest when it rings a fourth time, and despite every stubborn thought in your head, your hand reaches for it anyway.

“Hello?”

Static crackles softly through the line before his voice comes warm and rough and achingly familiar.

“Doll?”

Your eyes squeeze shut immediately. Of course. You lean heavily against the kitchen wall, fingers tightening around the receiver.

“What do you want, Bucky?”

There’s a pause, not long, just enough to hear the smile fall from his voice.

“You were supposed to be there.”

The deployment party.

The one at Delmar’s with music too loud and cheap beer and neighborhood girls crying into handkerchiefs while boys barely old enough to shave pretended they weren’t terrified of dying overseas. You couldn't go. Because you knew the second you saw him in uniform smiling like war was just another adventure, something inside you would crack clean open.

“Yeah well,” you mutter quietly, swallowing around the ache climbing your throat, “forgive me if I didn’t feel like celebrating.”

Silence hums between you. Somewhere through the line you hear traffic, distant voices, Brooklyn still moving like the world isn’t changing around it.

Then softer than you'd ever heard before.

“Doll…”

“No, Bucky, don’t do that.”

Your voice comes sharper than intended. You press your hand harder against your forehead, pacing once across the apartment.

“I’m not gonna stand there and watch you ride off to your death, alright?”

The words finally spill loose after being trapped in your chest for days.

“Because you’d smile that stupid smile like everything was okay, and it’s not.” Your breath catches painfully. “I might not ever see you again.”

The line goes quiet enough that for one terrible second you think maybe he hung up.

“You’ll see me again.”

You laugh weakly under your breath.

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” he admits gently. “Guess I can’t.”

The honesty nearly ruins you more than reassurance would’ve. You slide slowly down the kitchen wall until you’re sitting on the floor, phone cord twisted around your wrist.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate the uniform.”

“I know.”

“I hate everybody acting like this is brave and noble when really it’s just—”

You stop yourself before the word terrifying escapes.

Bucky finishes it quietly anyway.

“Scary.”

Your eyes sting. On the other end of the line, his voice lowers like he’s speaking something sacred.

“I’ll always be yours, no matter what.”

The words settle heavily into the silence and your chest aches with them. Then carefully, Bucky almost sounds hesitant for the first time in his life.

“Can I come see you?”

You wipe quickly beneath your eyes before he can somehow hear it.

“…Only if you leave the uniform at home.”

Bucky goes quiet.

“I want Bucky,” you whisper. “Not Sergeant Barnes.”

For the first time since answering the phone, you hear his real smile, small and soft and entirely yours.

“Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at your door. You open it to find him standing there in dark slacks, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair still damp like he rushed washing the pomade from it before coming over.

Not Sergeant Barnes, just Bucky, and suddenly the air leaves your lungs. Because this, this is the dangerous part. Not the war, not the train he’ll board tomorrow morning to England. It’s this soft, ordinary version of him standing in your hallway looking at you like you’re home already.

Neither of you speaks at first. Bucky’s eyes move slowly over your face, searching for damage. You realize distantly that he probably expected you to still be angry, to scold him some more, instead you step aside quietly.

He walks in like he’s trying not to disturb something fragile, glancing around before landing on you again.

“You been cryin’?”

“No.”

“Doll.”

“Don’t start.”

A faint smile pulls at his mouth despite everything.

“There she is.”

You hate that the sight of it still makes your heart stutter. Bucky takes a slow step closer, then another until your socks nearly touch his shoes, close enough to smell soap and cigarette smoke and the familiar warmth of him.

“You really that mad at me?” he asks softly.

You look up at him then, finally letting him see it. Not anger, but the fear. Pure, ugly fear. And Bucky’s expression breaks instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

His hands settle carefully at your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear.

“I invited you tonight because I didn’t wanna leave things bad between us.”

“They’re not bad,” you whisper shakily. “They’re just… ending too soon.”

That wrecks him a little. You see it happen in real time. Bucky lowers his forehead against yours with a tired exhale, eyes closing briefly.

“I wish I knew how to make it better,” he admits quietly.

You melt a little hearing that. Because Bucky Barnes always acts like he knows exactly what to say, but not now, not when it matters. So instead of answering, you lift your hand to his cheek and he leans into it immediately.

“You come back to me, that'll make it better,” you murmur.

Bucky opens his eyes and there’s something unbearably tender in them now. Something young, frightened and loving. Maybe it was the thought of tomorrow morning, maybe it was the way he looked at you like leaving already hurt. Maybe it was the terrible understanding you both had that there might not be another chance after this one.

Whatever it was, it pulled you toward him before fear could stop you.

The kiss happened softly, your lips brushing his in a way that felt almost disbelieving, like even this was subject to disappearing if you thought about it too long. Bucky exhaled shakily against your mouth as he kissed you back, one hand tightened lightly at your waist while the other slid warm against your jaw.

It wasn’t a practiced kiss, wasn’t smooth or perfect. It felt like relief, like months of almosts finally giving in all at once. When you pulled back, Bucky stayed close enough that his nose brushed yours.

His eyes were still closed.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I’ll try real hard to do that.”

You want to believe him. To know in your heart that his words are true. But it's hard. Loving someone during peacetime already felt terrifying enough, but loving someone marching toward war feels unbearable.

“That wrinkle between your eyebrows means you’re thinkin’ too hard again.” He says with a soft grin.

You huff softly through your nose.

“You say that like it’s avoidable.”

“For you? Probably not.”

“I’m comin’ back for you, you know.”

Your breath catches softly.

“Buck—”

“No, listen to me.”

There’s something steady in him now. He steps closer until the world narrows into the smell of cigarette smoke on his collar, soap, and the warmth of him standing near enough to feel.

“I’m gonna come back,” he says quietly, “and the first day I do, I’m gonna take you to the pictures.”

A laugh escapes you through the ache in your chest.

“The pictures?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re using all your big romantic material tonight, huh?”

Bucky grins softly.

“I’m serious.”

His thumb traces lightly along your cheekbone.

“I’ll get one of those giant buckets of popcorn you like.”

“The overpriced kind?”

“The very overpriced kind.”

“And?”

“And those little chocolate M&M’s you like.”

You smile helplessly and Bucky’s expression softens like he’d do anything just to keep seeing that look on your face.

“We’ll spend the whole day there,” he murmurs. “Movie after movie until you fall asleep on my shoulder.”

Your chest aches so badly it feels beautiful. Because the promise itself isn’t really about popcorn or candy or movie theaters. It’s about a future, small and ordinary and domestic. The kind of life that war keeps trying to steal from boys like Bucky.

You reach for him before thinking too hard about it, fingers curling softly into the front of his shirt.

“You really believe that?” you whisper.

Bucky looks at you like the answer is easy.

“I believe in you.”

The words settle somewhere deep inside you permanently and you think maybe this is what love really is. Not grand speeches or dramatic declarations. Just a boy standing close, promising you a future made of popcorn buckets and shared silence in dark movie theaters because that’s the only way he knows how to say please wait for me, please let me come home to you.

And finally you let yourself lean into him completely. Bucky exhales softly the second you do, arms wrapping around you instinctively, pausing only long enough to look at you, to really look at you.

Like he wants to memorize this version of you beneath the streetlight forever.

Then he kisses you again. His hand slides warm against the back of your neck while yours bunch softly in the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepens slowly, unhurried and aching with all the things tomorrow threatens to take from you.

Bucky kisses like he’s trying to promise something impossible, like if he loves you carefully enough, the war won’t touch either of you.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours while both of you breathe the same summer air.

“See?” he murmurs softly, lips brushing near yours again. “Now you got somethin’ to come back to too.”

"such a needy little thing," you teased, your voice dripping with snark. you leaned in, your thumbs digging hard into his nipples, thumping them until he was practically vibrating.

"look at you. all that muscle and you're just a mess for a little handiwork?"

you squeezed the heavy mounds of muscle with a possessive force, far from your typical masseur routine - that made him gasp. you weren't being gentle at all, just groping at him like a toy.

"god, you're so sensitive," you snickered, watching his eyes roll back to his head. you caught one of his nipples between your fingers and gave it a sharp pinch.

"ah! fuck —" bucky let out a broken whine, his hips bucking off the seat.

"don't 'fuck' me, just hold your damn shirt," you snapped, your thumbs resuming their heavy, rhythmic rolling against his hardening nipples. "you've got these big, useless tits just waiting to be played with. just a big, soft chested boy who can't handle a little pressure."

he couldn't even argue. he just sat there, panting and whimpering, completely undone by the way you handle them. he was nothing but a puddle of needy muscle under your palms. his breath hitched every time you squeezed the heavy weight of his chest.

"there we go," you murmured, a condescending purr as you worked your fingers deep, rolling the sensitive tissue with your hands. "just stay still — let me handle you. you're doing so well, barnes. such a good boy."

bucky let out a long shuddering moan; he was completely lost to the sensation of your hands ruthlessly claiming him.

"that's it — just take it," you commanded, voice low and biting. you gave his nipples one last hard tug, making him cry out a choked, desperate sound echoing in your spa.

"you're a fucking disaster," you snickered, finally pulling your oil-slicked hands away from his heaving chest.

you glance down at your watch, noting the session was officially up. "time's up, barnes. try not to fall off the table on your way out."

as you wiped the excess oil from your hands, bucky gingerly rolled his shirt back down, his movements slow and shaky. but as he moved, you caught the tell-tale twitch in his thighs — a desperate tremor that told you he wasn't nearly as recovered as he was pretending to be.

a slow, predatory smirk pulled at your lips. hmm, maybe his session could be pushed forwards tonight.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

You stir from your sleep to feel warm, gentle kisses across your shoulder and on your neck. You let out a whine as your brain tries to remember where you are and you hear a faint whisper in your ear telling you it's time to get up. You slowly open your eyes, remembering that you’re at Bucky’s place and a smile forms on your face as you feel his lips move across your skin.

“There she is. Good morning, sweetheart.” Bucky leans over you and gently kisses your lips. “Did you sleep well?”

You hum for a second. “In between you going down on me throughout the night, I will say yes, I did.”

Bucky chuckles. “I couldn’t help myself. You taste delicious, I could eat you out every day of the week if I had it my way.”

You giggle against the pillow. “Bucky. You’re just saying that to be funny.”

His lips come closer to your ear and whisper, “Do I need to show you again?”

“No!” You start laughing as Bucky pouts. “As much as that sounds tempting, I need a shower and to get something to eat.” Your stomach begins to growl a little.

“That’s fine, sweetheart. Let’s shower and then grab breakfast.”

Who are you to argue with showering with this handsome man?

Both of you end up showering in the warmth of the water and sure enough, Bucky goes down on you again. You can’t believe how much this man wants to consume you. Just the thought of it makes you blush. If he’s like this with oral, how’s he going to be when you have sex?

After showering and changing into fresh clothes from your closet in the spare bedroom, you head to the kitchen, where you find Bucky making eggs. He’s lightly cussing under his breath as he tries to make breakfast and seeing that he needs help, you walk up to him and kiss his cheek.

“Anything I can do to help?” you ask.

“Can you cook eggs?” he enquires.

“That I can,” you confirm with a smile before switching places and starting over from scratch. Whatever he was attempting to make can’t be salvaged, but what he can do right is toast and coffee. The pair of you chat as you cook and in no time it’s ready. You each take a place at the bar on the other end of the counter and start eating in peace. You notice that as you eat, Bucky keeps stealing glances at you. It’s like he’s storing this morning in his memory. When you both finish, you place the plates and cups in the dishwasher before Bucky leans into you and kisses your forehead.

“Thank you for cooking breakfast, beautiful. Now, are you ready to go back to your apartment and start packing? The house is ready for you to move into anytime.”

“I’m so excited to move out of the apartment and into a new home. The first thing I’m going to do once I’m settled is paint again. I have so many creative ideas flowing through my head,” you proudly say.

Bucky smiles back at you. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with. Now, let’s go meet the men I hired to help pack your place and move it for you. I’ve used them before and they are professional and trustworthy.”

You both grab your things and head to the garage to start the journey back to your place.

As promised, once at your apartment, Bucky and you meet with the movers. They’ll be helping you pack your tiny apartment for the next week while Bucky’s at work. Time seems to pass quickly over the next few days. With the packers boxing everything up, you deal with taking your paintings off the wall, carefully wrapping each one for transport.

Bucky shows up after work each day, just as promised, to help you with whatever you need. You’re truly thankful for all the help you receive and in no time, Saturday arrives. You’re excited about moving this weekend and finally having a home all to yourself, all thanks to your sugar daddy. Without Bucky, none of this would be possible, as you were just scraping by in life as a student and artist.

The movers and Bucky show up at eight in the morning, ready to transport your belongings. While you and Bucky put your paintings in your SUV, the movers load all the boxes into their truck. Things go smoothly, and by eleven, the vehicles are filled and the apartment is empty. You return your keys to the landlord and head out in your SUV to go to your new home.

You follow behind Bucky’s SUV to your new place. You’re excited for this next step and to see what the future will hold for you. So far, you’re enjoying your life as Bucky’s sugar baby. He’s definitely giving you not only the resources to succeed, but also the love and affection you crave as well. This relationship is so vastly different to others you’ve had in the past, but it’s also so exciting.

When you arrive, you skip over to Bucky, who’s grinning at the way you’re jingling the keys.

“It’s all yours, babygirl,” he says before kissing you gently on the lips.

You run, giggling, up to the front door and open it, allowing the movers to start bringing in your furniture and boxes. It takes them a couple of hours to place everything where you want it while you and Bucky bring in your paintings and place them in the rooms where you’ll hang them.

While Bucky says goodbye to the movers, shaking their hands, you look around your living room, taking it all in. It’s so beautiful that it almost didn’t feel real. A new home, a new vehicle, and a hot sugar daddy that you were in a relationship with. Was this a dream?

The sound of the door shutting signalled Bucky joining you. “How are you feeling now that your stuff is moved in?”

You turn to look at him and grin. “Honestly, excited, overwhelmed, relieved. Take your pick. I just can’t believe this is happening to me.”

“Believe it, sweetheart. This is happening and I’ll continue to spoil you every chance that I get.”

“You know you don’t have to.” You wrap your arms around yourself.

He walks over to you and cups your cheeks before kissing you. “You deserve to be spoiled. So let me.”

You jokingly huff at him and raise your hands in surrender. “Fine. Spoil away.”

“Now that is what I like to hear. Second only to you moaning my name in pleasure.”

You feel the heat in your cheeks and sheepishly look away for a moment before you make eye contact with him again.

“Bucky…”

“I’m teasing you, darling. I love seeing you all shy when we both know you’re anything but that.” His thumb runs across your bottom lip and you part your lips, allowing him to push the tip in. You slowly suck on it and swirl your tongue, making Bucky inhale a quick breath and pull his thumb out. His eyes are dilated and it’s like he is staring into your soul.

“Want to go upstairs and fool around?” you ask shyly.

“Prinţesă, more than you know.” Bucky gives you a big grin and wiggles his eyebrows.

You hold out your hand and he takes it instantly, letting you lead the way upstairs to the master bedroom. He follows you into the room and you circle him seductively. You push him toward the bed and make him sit down. Bucky grabs a pillow and places it in front of him so you have something to kneel on.

You kneel in front of him and unzip his pants. Your eyes remain on his as you tug on both them and his underwear, and Bucky lifts his hips, letting you pull them down. His cock is already hard and leaking precum from the tip.

Keeping eye contact, you lick your lips before you take the tip of him into your mouth. You lick the precum from him and he lets out a shuddering breath. You slowly take him into your mouth and then all the way to the back of your throat. You pull back just as gently as you tease him. Pulling off him, you lick the large vein under his cock before taking him back in.

Bucky is panting as you work him over slowly but surely. You love the control you have over him as he watches you take him apart piece by piece. Finally, you decide to have mercy on him and start bobbing your head up and down his cock. Your right hand is holding him at the base while your left hand starts playing with his balls. All while you keep taking him in your throat.

His groans of pleasure tell you that he’s not going to last much longer.

“Sweetheart, I’m close. You gonna swallow my cum like a good girl?”

You hum around his cock as he lightly grabs you by the hair and starts fucking your mouth. He’s not violent, but he easily takes back the control you thought you had. His cock is steady in and out of your mouth, every once in a while plunging down your throat. A couple more thrusts and he’s cumming, and you swallow every last drop as he grunts out your name.

When you pull off, it’s with a pop and lick your lips. Your eyes are watery, the streaks of tears down your face and Bucky looks at you with a smile. Carefully he wipes the tears away for you with his left hand, his right caressing your face.

“You’re so gorgeous, sweetheart. You spoiled me just now, so be a good girl and climb on the bed so I can feast on my pussy. I want to make you feel good.”

Bucky stands up and tucks himself back into his pants.

“Your pussy?” you smirk at him

He offers you a hand and helps you stand up. You stand nearly face-to-face with him as he grins back down at you. “Yes, my pussy.”

A chill runs down your body as you kick off your sneakers and peel your leggings and underwear down your legs before you clamber onto the bed. You watch how his gaze never leaves your body. How he looks like he is going to devour you whole and lord, maybe he will. You know full well that this is something he enjoys doing and is an expert at. You lie on your back and you watch him crawl up the bed to lie on his stomach between your thighs, his face right where you need him.

Bucky’s lips travel across your thighs as he slowly kisses his way to their destination between your legs. Pushing your thighs further apart, Bucky descends on you and licks a stripe up your pussy. He does it again, this time licking and nibbling his way to your clit. You purr out his name and then begin to shiver as he starts to eat you out, his soft beard tickling you in all the right places. Every lick, every suckle on your clit, makes you a moaning mess and you grind down on Bucky’s face as he hums his approval.

He adds two fingers into your tight, wet pussy, fingering you as he continues to play with your clit with his mouth. His fingers curl with every breathy moan you make, and as you beg for more, his fingers speed up, hitting your sweet spot over and over.

“Ohmygod, yes! Bucky please… I need to cum,” you beg him.

“Cum for me, sweetheart. Be good for me and cum for me now,” he growls at you.

With a crook of his fingers, your eyes roll to the back of your head and you scream his name, cumming hard Bucky hums in delight as he licks you clean, making sure he leaves nothing behind. He crawls back up your body and kisses you passionately on the lips. You taste yourself as he does and groan your appreciation. Your man makes sure you want for nothing. If eating pussy was an art form, then Bucky has mastered it. You can’t help but wonder how it will be once he finally makes love to you. The thought makes you wet again, but you try to brush it from your mind before you get too carried away.

Bucky smiles at you, his eyes crinkle as he takes in your sated form. “How are you feeling, darling?”

You let out a soft sigh. “Like I’m floating on cloud nine and never want to come down again.”

Bucky chuckles at how relaxed and serene you’re. He wants to always make you feel this way and can’t wait to have you in his bed so he can finally take you apart properly.

“Well, let’s get you changed and get you something to eat. You need some nourishment after that.” He gives you a cheeky grin and you let out a full belly laugh.

“Yes, sir,” you say and salute him.

Bucky stares at you and licks his lips. “Sir? I kinda like the sound of that. Now, no more distractions.”

He helps you sit up in bed and hands you your clothes to put back on. Once you’re redressed it was two thirty in the afternoon, you walk hand in hand downstairs discussing what you're going to order from the local sandwich shop a couple of blocks away. It doesn’t take long to get there and back and you set the dining table while Bucky plates up the food.

You talk about starting to paint again once you get settled in, and how you’re going to unpack over the next week so that way you can start to focus on the things you enjoy. You’re especially looking forward to being able to go to more fancy dinners with Bucky now that you're done with the semester.

Bucky smiles at you as you talk, until he suddenly remembers something. “There’ll be another event next weekend that I forgot to tell you about. I hope you're not mad that it slipped my mind. I was very busy with meetings all week.”

You smile back at him. “No, that’s fine. Isn’t that what this is all about? Me being flexible with my schedule so I can attend these dinner dates. It’s wide open just for you.”

“I appreciate it, sweetheart.” He reaches across the table and grabs your hand gently. His thumb runs across your knuckles. Twisting your wrist round, your fingers graze against his and you both chuckle.

After lunch it was around three thirty and time to get the bedroom set up so later all you had to do was shower and climb into bed. Luckily, there wasn’t too much to unpack in there and Bucky hung up your clothes while you rifled through boxes and put things on the built-in bookcases that were situated throughout the house. After spending a few hours in the bedroom, you move onto the room you’ve decided will be your art studio. Setting up and adjusting your easel and then organising all your paints and brushes take another couple of hours and by dinner time, you’re both exhausted as the time shows eight in the evening.

You end up ordering a pizza to be delivered and by the time it arrives, Bucky has finished setting up the TV in the living room. It’s nice to relax on the couch and eat while watching a comedy show. When you’re done eating, you both cleaned up and you can see that Bucky is hesitant about what to do next.

“Hey, if you want, you can stay over tonight. It will help me ease into this new house living situation.” You fiddle with the hem of your shirt and watch Bucky offer a huge smile.

“Yeah, that would be great. I had an overnight bag packed in my SUV just in case – let me go grab it.”

He returns in the blink of an eye, locking the door behind him and you both make your way upstairs to the shower. Under the hot spray of the shower you wash the other, but also take the opportunity to get frisky. You trace the tattoos that snake up and down his arms as you wash him and try to work out what they all mean. By the time you step out you’re both clean and tired.

Cuddling up in the middle of the bed together, you lie with your head on his chest while his hand softly rubs down your arm. It’s nice having Bucky over in your new place and you hope there’ll be more nights like this in your future.

“So,” Bucky drawls, gaining your attention, “remember me telling you the other day that I was going to plan a getaway somewhere tropical for us?”

“Yeah, I do. Why?” you ask curiously.

“After next weekend, when we get done with the dinner event, I’ll be whisking you away to a private island. We’ll have my private waitstaff and chef to run the place, but other than them, it’ll be just us. We won’t have to worry about having our privacy interrupted so we can do whatever it is that you want. Swimming, snorkeling, or if you want to do nothing, we can do that as well.”

You squeal in excitement and hug him close. “I’m so excited. I’ve never been out of the country before. I mean, I have my passport, but I never thought I’d be using it. I don’t even know what to pack.”

Bucky chuckles. “Light clothing, bathing suits, hell, I would say pack nothing, but then I don’t like the idea of other men seeing you naked.”

“Jealous type?” You giggle as he looks down at you with a gleam in his eyes.

“When it comes to my naked girl, heck yeah, I am. No one gets to see your sexy body but me.”

You both laugh at his response and he winks at you, continuing his thought.

“But if we’re being serious, I have nothing to be jealous of. You’ve chosen me and come home to me at night, whether it’s your place or mine. I’m happy with you and I hope you feel the same way.” Bucky caresses your cheek as he looks into your eyes.

“I do feel the same way about you. I’m so happy when I’m with you. You make me feel very spoiled.” You snuggle closer to him, thinking of everything he has already done for you. For a moment, you both stare in silence and gaze into each other's eyes. It's like time stands still and you’re the only two people that exist in the world.

“As I said before,” he says, stroking your face with the back of his hand, “that’s my job. I‘ll always take care of you. Now let’s relax and get some sleep. We’ll talk more about the vacation tomorrow. Sleep well, sweetheart.”

You yawn big before whispering, “Sleep well, Bucky.”

Taglist is still open. If you were tagged and no longer wish to be let me know.

@americasass81

@awesomerextyphoon

@awkwardgiraffe726

@b3autyfuld1sast3r

@castielscaplan

@denisemarieangelina

@fictional-affairs

@get0verit

@joannie95

@jobean12-blog

@jtargaryen18

@jvanilly

@kaifloof

@kmc1989

@labella420

@lfnr-blog-blog-blog

@madscape

@mcira

@mdemontespan1667

@missvelvetsstuff

@mrsmischief209

@mycrazyasslikestoread

@nekoannie-chan

@noellez-best-life23

@notyourtypicalrose

@obsessedwithcevans

@patzammit

@rayofdawnworld

@roofwitty779

@spectre-posts

@stellar-solar-flare

@steviebbboi

@sweater-daddiesdumbdork

@talia-rumlow

@wolfsmom1

@yenzys-lucky-charm

@disneyprincessbuffyannesummers

@casa-boiardi

@avengersfan25

@darylandbethfanforever9

@merkitty49

@danzer8705

@mrsnikstan

@ozwriterchick

@florie1

@umadirectioner

@enchantedbarnes

@vicmc624

Bucky never saw the turn coming; a few months ago he would've read the bull before it even thought about changing direction. Now Instead of the raging bull, he was thinking about whether Grant had finished his morning bottle yet. 

It was all the opening the bull needed.

His body goes flying before he can even register what happened, his back slamming into the hard-packed dirt, a low groan leaving his lips as chaos in the wring erupts around him. ‘Fuckin hell!’

‘Jesus Christ, Wilson get him out of there now!’

Bucky’s eyes fall shut, losing himself to the chaos and pain. A shadow passes over him a moment later; he squints one eye open to find an equally pissed off Steve Rogers looking down at him, “What the hell was that Buck, you trying to get yourself killed out there!’

Bucky’s attempt at waving him off is half-assed at best, his back really hurts, ‘I had it handled Steve.’ Is the only response he can bring himself to give, because if he was being honest he wasn’t feeling it.

His heart isn’t in it, hell neither is his head. It hasn’t been since he arrived at the beginning of the week, but he'd told himself it was time. Time to get back on the circuit. Back to the life he'd spent years building, the life that was supposed to provide for Grant. Funny how the one thing he'd wanted to get back to now felt like the one thing pulling him away from where he actually wanted to be.

His boy.

He can't help but wonder if Grant is down for his morning nap yet. If you're rocking him in that old chair by the nursery window. If his little face scrunches the way it always does before he smiles.

Steve offers him a hand as he pulls him to sit studying him for a long moment. "You can't hesitate." Silence. "You keep riding like that -“ He shakes his head. "you're gonna get yourself killed."

He lets out a drawn out sigh meeting his bearded friends eyes, “m’trying Steve.”

Steve lands a hand on his shoulder squeezing, “are you?” Bucky’s jaw clenches, “if you expect to be ready for the circuit in a few months you need to try harder, I won’t hesitate to get you pulled if I think you’re gonna risk an injury, you have someone else to think about other than yourself now.”

Bucky's lips part on a reply, but it dies on his tongue at the sound of his name. Your voice. His stomach drops, why are you here? He turns too quickly - he's definitely going to feel that later - but the worry evaporates just as fast because there you are. Grant tucked securely against your chest, tiny hands wrapped around the fabric of your shirt. His face lights up the moment he spots his dad, a gummy grin spreading across his cheeks as his legs kick excitedly. 

He turns his head back to Steve, “you called her?” His friend shakes his head, “she was already on route when Natasha reached out to her, she’s never missed your training before said she wasn’t going to start now.”

Bucky takes Steve’s offered hand as he pulls him to his feet, hand clapping his back as they make their way over to you. “Who’s that?” You coo to the infant as they draw closer, “Is that daddy?”

Grant babbles in your arms, feet kicking steadier the closer he gets to the both of you, there’s  a warmth in his chest now, and he can’t help the grin that catches his lips. “Is that my boy, what are you doing here buddy?” Every instinct tells him to take Grant into his arms. But he waits, watches the careful way you slip him from the carrier, one hand cradling the back of his head while the other steadies his tiny body.

Gentle.

Like you'd been doing it forever.

The moment Grant is in his arms, everything settles the world feels right again. He cradles his son against his chest, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of his head. “Thank you for bringing him by,” he says finally letting his eyes take you in.

A smile kisses your lips. "This is a big moment for you, B. I wasn't about to miss it." You reach out, offering Grant your finger his tiny hand curls around it almost instantly. "Besides..." you murmur, smiling at him. "Little man missed his dad."

“Barnes!” Sam’s voice cuts through the noise as he jerks his chin toward the chute. “Got you a new ride.”

Bucky barely hears him, because his eyes are still on you, on Grant still tucked against his chest. 

Something in his chest tightens. “Hey,” he says, quieter now.

You look up at him, watching his throat works like the words don’t come easy.

“You planning on staying?”

Then that smile, soft, certain turns fully toward him.

He made a triumphant sound and flicked the lighter, illuminating his grazed knuckles and blood stained palms. It had been a hard won freedom, but that only made it taste sweeter to you both.

"Here," you waved him over while you pulled a series of stubby candles from the under the sink, setting them on the cracked plates and bowls you'd found in the sink.

Jamie lined them up and lit them carefully, leaving half back.

"Just in case," he said gruffly, and you nodded, just in case you had to stay, just in case the others melted away.

Jamie took two in his hands and left one behind, placing them on the hearth in front of the empty fireplace. He tapped the space between his outstretched legs and you lowered your aching body to the floor. Immediately his arms found your waist, tugging you back, pressing the warmth of his chest into your body. His kisses tickled your neck.

"There's your smile."

It felt strange on your face, tight, unsused and rusty after so long in a HYDRA cell.

Jamie's thumb rubbed your chin, tilting your head back, "it's beautiful."

The cracked feeling in your cheeks grew, your smile widening.

"Jamie." You sighed into the feeling, safety, or at least the impression of it.

The candlelight picked out the hint of grey in his beard, the crinkle around his eyes and the tilt of his bottom lip.

You turned in his arms, kneeling between his legs, and kissed the curve of his lip gently. "Beautiful." You echoed his words and enjoyed the way his lips tilted upwards too, his eyes closing as his cheeks blushed.

"No."

"Yes."

You’ve never really stood out. Physically at least. Recently, you’ve been trying to work on your confidence. Now, you’re in your head about a friend’s wedding you and Bucky are going to this weekend. You had no idea what you were going to wear. You never know what you’re going to wear when it comes to weddings or even galas. You bought a few dresses. Was it necessary to buy that many dresses? No, but you wanted to give yourself options. There’s nothing wrong with that.

As soon as you got home from dress shopping, you went home to try on the dresses. You like the dresses. You really do, but there’s one problem. You don’t like the way they look on you. You zero in on yourself in the mirror. You try to feel confident, but all of your confidence goes out of the window. It took everything in you to not cry in front of the mirror. You sighed softly before putting your regular and comfortable clothes back on. Your insecurities won. You sat down on the edge of the bed, a single tear rolling down your cheek. Bucky immediately knew you were upset about something as soon as he walked into yours and his bedroom.

“What’s wrong, babydoll?” Bucky asks softly as he sat down next to you.

You were quiet for a few seconds before answering him.

“I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to be honest.” You say.

“Ok.” He says.

“Do you think I’m ugly?” You asked.

Even though the question wasn’t about him, he still felt offended that you asked him that question.

“Why would you ask me something like that?” He asks.

“Just answer the question, Bucky.” You say.

“No, I do not think you’re ugly. You’re the most beautiful woman I know. Your beauty stuns me everyday.” He says softly.

“You don’t mean that. You’re just saying that because you’re my boyfriend.” You say.

“I mean every single word.” He says.

You looked at him with teary eyes. You know he means what he just said. Your insecurities aren’t letting you believe it.

“Where’s this coming from?” Bucky asks.

“I bought a few dresses and I got insecure when I was trying them on.” You say.

“You have absolutely no reason to feel insecure.” He says.

“I do, Bucky. I’ve been trying to work on my confidence, but all of it went out of the window when I saw what I looked like in those dresses.” You say.

“Try the dresses on again. I want to see what you look like in each dress.” He says.

You looked at the dresses before hesitantly trying them on again. Bucky stares at you with the look of love and adoration as you showed him what you look like in each dress.

“Well? What do you think?” You nervously asked.

“I think you look absolutely beautiful in all of them.” Bucky compliments softly.

“I know you’re being sweet and all, but that doesn’t help my insecurities.” You say.

Bucky stands up and walks over to you, putting his hands on your waist. You looked up at him.

“Your insecurities are making you get into your head. Don’t listen to anything your insecurities say. You look absolutely beautiful.” He says softly.

“Do you really mean that?” You asked.

“Of course I do, doll.” He says softly.

Bucky just made you forget all about your insecurities. You smiled and stood on your tippy toes to kiss him softly.

“Now that you helped me forget about my insecurities, the question is, what dress do I wear to my friend’s wedding this weekend?” You asked.

Bucky looks at the dresses again, helping you pick one out.

“You should wear this one to the wedding. I like this one.” Bucky says, holding up a light blue dress with spaghetti straps.

“You think so?” You asked, looking at the dress.

“Yes.” He answers.

“Ok.” You replied.

When the weekend comes, you and Bucky got ready for the wedding. You wore the light blue dress Bucky helped you pick out the other day.

“Babe!” You called out for your boyfriend. “Can you come here please?” You asked.

Bucky goes straight to yours and his bedroom without asking any questions.

“Yes, doll?” Bucky asks.

“Can you zip this for me please?” You asked, turning around.

“Of course, babydoll.” He says softly.

Bucky zips the back of your dress for you. Then you took a look at yourself in the mirror. You rubbed your hands over the dress to smooth out the fabric. Bucky stood behind you and wrapped his arms around you.

“You look absolutely breathtaking.” He says softly.

“You think so?” You asked.

“Yes. If I’m being honest, I think you’re going to be the one who stands out the most at the wedding. That’s how gorgeous you are.” He says.

A smile grew on your face and blush crept up on your face too. You turned around and gave him a soft kiss on his lips.

“Let’s go to the wedding.” You say.

When you and Bucky got to the wedding venue, you two entered the venue holding hands. You guys were greeted by some friends. Then the wedding was getting close to starting so everyone took a seat. You and Bucky were still holding hands throughout the ceremony.

“Maybe that’ll be us one day.” Bucky whispers in your ear.

You looked at him and smiled, imagining it. Bucky was smiling and imagining it too. Through the ceremony and reception, all of your insecurities began to fade away. You got a lot of compliments on your dress and how pretty you look in it.

“Y/N!” Your friend who just got married calls out to you.

You smiled and walked over to her with Bucky. You gave her a hug and congratulated her on getting married.

“You look so pretty in this dress.” Your friend compliments.

“You’re the one who should be talking. You’re the one who’s wearing the prettiest dress in this room.” You say.

“That may be, but I think you’re the one who’s standing out tonight.” She says.

“I’ve been saying that all day.” Bucky chimes in.

“He’s right, Y/N. You are standing out.” She says.

“You guys really think so?” You asked, looking from Bucky to your friend.

“Yes.” They say at the same time.

A smile grows on your face.

“I would love to stay and chat longer, but I have to find my husband and talk to our guests. We should hangout soon though.” Your friend says.

“Sounds good to me.” You say.

You two hugged before she went to find her husband and talked to the rest of the guests. Bucky’s arms find their place on your waist and he gazes deeply in your eyes.

“See, I told you that you didn’t have anything to be insecure about.” Bucky says softly.

“I know and you’re right.” You say just as softly.

“If you feel insecure again, I’ll be more than happy to help you out with them.” He says.

“You’re so sweet.” You smiled.

Bucky dips his head down just enough to kiss you softly and sweetly. You two smiled against each other’s lips.

“I love you so much, gorgeous.” He almost whispers.

“I love you too, sweetie.” You say just as softly.

Just listen to the rhythm of my heart

There’s a chance we could make it now

We'll be rocking ‘til the sun goes down

“Why am I still sitting here?” Bucky muttered, the sound pulsing through the walls.

The common room had cleared out an hour ago, but Alexei decided to play his limo playlist at full volume from the other room. At least “Pony” stopped playing. It seemed like every third song it popped up again.

“You’re sitting here because I’m sitting here,” you pointed out.

Bucky smiled a little, not bothering to argue since it was true. 

“You know, I’m a little disappointed,” you said, casually turning the page of your book.

He lifted his head from the couch cushion and narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“You didn’t once attempt to give me a lap dance when ‘Pony’ played and you had many chances to do so,” you teased, trying not to smile. 

His eye twitched. “I’m not giving you one to that song.”

You gasped. “Why not?”

“Because it was bad enough that Alexei played it when we fooled around in his limo,” he said, shaking his head as he remembered how excited was when the Red Guardian caught the two of you. “But then that fucking movie Ava made us watch.”

You did laugh this time. “You mean ‘Magic Mike’?”

He growled. “Yeah. That,” he said. He was proud he hadn’t punched the television. “You want a lap dance? Pick another song.”

“What about ‘Earned It’?” you suggested.

Both of his eyes twitched. “From the fucking ‘Fifty Shades of Shit’ or whatever it’s called?”

You laughed again, harder. “Fine. You pick a song.”

“I will,” he grumbled.

And he’d find a song for you to give him a dance, too.

What song will he choose? Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

The door slid open, Bucky pushing past it and toppling into the new hallway. How many had it been now? At least a dozen. Endless corridors and hallways. He'd thought his memories were back, that he knew what had happened. That had been a lie. The traumatic ones he remembered, but those didn't hurt like what he'd seen.

He slides to the floor, laminate of some kind, and curls in on himself. The faces of those who hadn't been targets, casualties, or family members. People who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It burnt. The screams of those he cut to pieces to get the needed information. Hearing the wails of people finding their loved ones dead. Bucky knew what he had done, but seeing it was a new level of hell. How many times did he have to relive this nightmare before he was free?

No one was safe if he was tasked with killing them. The brutal efficiency with which he had to finish his mission was what had kept him alive. Handlers were killed when they lost usefulness; scientists, doctors, trainers- it didn't matter. They died by his hand. Bucky had been so good that they couldn't replace him. Even tasked to try and train the next set of soldiers, widows, other military men he had lost the names to. Now he was being forced to see what he did, over and over again. 

Something touched his shoulder, and he jerked back. Metal arm pushing back against what had touched him, it hit metal. Looking up, he saw himself, the younger Soldier holding Bucky’s metal hand with his. The muzzle was gone, the black paint smeared like he had tried to wipe it off unsuccessfully. His blue eyes were red from irritation. How long had he been gone for? The Soldier had just been left here. Had been here for so long. Years. Now it was worse, because he knew that he wasn't whole. Knew the handlers weren't coming, that he was trapped in this unending maze of horrors.

Bucky stared at him for a moment before they both moved away from each other. The Soldier sat down across from Bucky, who put his back to the wall. 

“Uh,” Bucky swallowed, wiping at his face. “I am sorry we got separated again.”

The other man just nodded, shoulder pulled tight. His arm grinding uncomfortably, he reached over and popped it off. Tossing it away from him, before leaning his head against his hand. Bucky watched him for a moment, feeling the waves of sadness wash over him. Bucky didn’t stop to think about what he was doing and just slid over so that he was beside the trembling man. He still didn’t touch him, afraid that he might not be able to. That they would get separated again. 

Bucky had told the Soldier that he was in his own mind, that they were one and the same. Hydra was gone, and he had been walking here for years. It had broken him out of whatever spell he had been under, or maybe this was part of the algorithm. What Shuri was doing. Why Bucky had been seeing so many of his own transgressions. Somehow, this was all part of the mending of his mind. At least he hoped it was. What else could it be? He didn’t want to be going through this, to have to experience this. To have to witness a part of him be so broken and confused. All of it was so unspeakable. For it to be nothing. 

“I don’t know what is going on,” Bucky starts, trying to gather as much strength as he could. “I think this all part of healing.” He rubbed his face. “This is so stupid, or sounds stupid. But I just saw some really, really terrible stuff that we did.” Fingers clenched and unclenched, your voice, Steve’s voice. “No, it wasn’t what we did. It was what we were made to do.”

“We did it.” The Soldier whispers, snuffling at his nose. Tears leave trails down his smeared face as he stares blankly at the wall across from him. “I’ve seen.”

Closing his eyes, Bucky leans his head against the wall. The words rang true in his mind, it always had, no matter what he’d been told. No matter how many times he tried to believe what others said, the blood had been on his hands, their last words that echoed in his ears. 

“Yeah, you're right, we did a lot of really terrible things. We followed orders. We were told what to do, and we did it. Played the part of the perfect weapon, the perfect soldier.” Bucky felt his throat tighten. “But that doesn’t mean we have to stay here. Stay in this place forever. We were brainwashed, tortured, forced to do terrible things, over and over and over again.” Bucky wipes at his face, letting it out into whatever hell this was. “But we get a chance. A chance that most people don’t get. We get a chance to be free. To have a life that could be ours. Not to be dictated by what they made us do.” 

The silence stretches for several moments, Bucky working to catch his breath and calm his mind. This was difficult, trying to convince himself that it was okay to move on. He had to move on, or he would never get out of here. Shuri or not, it was still his mind; part of him knew that. She could cut as much as possible, but he had to accept the change. Accept that he was free.

It didn’t erase what had happened, or what his own hands had done. None of it would remove the scars he would carry for the rest of his life. The memories would always be there, those moments. Nothing could change that. The only thing he could change was what happened next. There was no going back in time or changing the outcome, just what happened next. No longer living in the shadow of his past. His future was in his hands. Both of theirs. Bucky and the Soldier. 

“You do,” The Soldier replies. His voice trembles, but there is no malice in the words.

Bucky shakes his head, “Not without you. We are in this together. Think we are more like than you know.”

Moving around the room felt surreal. You could put most of your weight on the joint already; it had been about ten days since surgery. It felt a lot longer than that; your days were spent between bed, shuffling down to sit with James, and physiotherapy. Everything was going as expected for you. James was also progressing, but at a much slower pace. The words were still triggering areas at random. Shuri would run the algorithm to attack the areas, only to find it had little effect.

Despite this, Shuri was not giving up. If anything, it seemed to spur her forward. Her and her team were spending countless hours trying to figure out what was happening. Trying new techniques, adjusting how the attack certain areas. The current method was stimulating the brain with a certain trigger word and immediately using a laser to cut it. It was a painfully slow process, but it seemed to be working. 

“Nicely done,” Nurse Kona says with a smile as you manage to sit down on your own after doing several laps of the small room. 

“Thanks,” You say, taking a drink of water. “Getting better. I am amazed that I have this much mobility already.”

Kona sits beside you, “You’re pushing hard, but not too hard. Ellen is keeping a close eye on your progress.”

“I have to keep both of you on your toes,” You tease, rubbing at your knee. It had become a habit of yours, fingers tracing over the faint raised scars. There was barely anything. The scar from the stab wound was more raised than any of the others. 

Chuckling, Kona stands up and stretches. “I believe your friend, Steve, is back. I’ll bring you back to your room, and you can have lunch.”

You nod and push yourself up, making sure your brace is tightened, before slotting yourself into the crutches. The pads push gently against your forearms, hands wrap around the handles. Ellen had moved you to the forearm crutches relatively quickly. It made you more aware of how much weight you could put on your knee. There was still a bit of a limp, and you often found yourself automatically holding your leg up as you used to before. Habits had been made, and you were having to change them every day.

Down the hallways and a few elevators later, you came into your room, no longer a hospital room, but an apartment in the complex. Steve was pacing the room when Kona dropped you off, promising to come get you to go see James later that day. You hobble over, relishing in the smell of curry before watching your friend. His hair stood on end from his fingers constantly carding it. 

He was talking at a rapid pace into the small device, which looked like an old school flip phone. Aside from the blue glow, it could have been something from the early two thousands. You worry at your lip and lean the crutches against the counter, carefully grabbing plates and glasses. 

Steve had been gone for several days, talking at a UN hearing over the Accords. He had been working tirelessly, trying to get the Accords overturned or amended at least. This didn’t cover the endless oddities that he had been facing, a lot of them tied back to the Enders. There were others; some groups of ex-hydra militants had joined together to try to resurrect experiments that were going terribly wrong. You weren’t sure how he was handling it. The man was dealing with bureaucratic paperwork on a global scale. Getting permissions from governments and their military was almost impossible. Yet, he was still getting them. A few countries had given them blanket permission, as long as certain parameters were met. 

The man would probably make a great politician if he didn’t despise the system so much. Steve had made a face when you’d mentioned it. Natasha had laughed so hard that your cheeks had gone pink. Your heart clenched; you missed the team. It had never been easy, but there were small things, talking with Natasha. Helping show Wanda that tech and medicine weren’t scary but a tool that could be useful. Watching Sam take the lead and Steve set up, as Tony stepped back. It hadn’t been perfect, but it had been yours. 

“I never thought it would be easier to deal with the Russians than with the English,” Steve grumbles, finally closing the phone, snapping you out of your own mind.

You force a smile on your face as you slide a plate over to him, “Well, it is the English, never been good at sharing.”

He snorts and grabs the plate that looks like the plainest chicken and rice you’ve ever seen. “How are you doing, Doc?” 

“Can do five laps of the room without falling over, trying not to use the crutches as much.” You fill him in on the details, trying to hide the twinge in your guts. 

The underlying fear that everything was going to fall apart was always there. The two of you sit across from each other, the window open enough that you can smell fresh rain. You try to relax, staring down at the food. James would love the curry; you’d have to find out where they got it. 

“Not talkin' about your knee,” Steve replies, tapping the side of his head. “How’s up there? It looked like you’d disappeared for a moment.”

Your tongue pushes against your lower lip. “I didn’t expect to miss the compound so much. Not the actual building, but the people.” Pausing, you push your food around. “I know we were running from one thing to another. Just absolute chaos, but I miss the group. Not sure we will ever get back to what we had.”

Steve nods, his own brows furrowing, “Not sure we will. Doesn’t mean we won’t come to visit. Think once Buck is out of the deep freeze, we will have a little get-together. Nothing Stark-level, but it feels like we should do something.”

“That would be good, really good.” You let yourself smile, the idea of having everyone under one roof is a balm on your heart. 

Shuri taps at the screen, her lip caught between her teeth as she flips through different pages and images. You watch her, triggering different areas, lights popping up in different parts of James’ mind. It was less than before, but there were still highlights. 

Shuffling over, you reach up to place a hand on the glass. It’s cool under your fingertips; his face is slack. Looking almost peaceful, in a way it never had when he was asleep. However, when you looked at your tablet, you could spot a few of the blips in his readings. There was no clear pattern to them; despite the algorithm running through his mind, they came at random points. You knew that time was different inside his mind; what felt like minutes could be hours here. 

“I know you’re stubborn, but it would be really great if you could work with us on this,” You say out loud to him. Watching his heart rate go up a few beats, it always did when you talked to him. “Steve is going to be leaving again, not sure when he is going to be back.” You let yourself sit in a chair, keeping your hand against the glass. “I am moving around almost on my own, got the forearm crutches. Pain is pretty good too, less than it was before. Could probably move the goats with you now. Sure, Marge will be yelling at us for being gone so long.”

Coming over to you, Shuri pulls out her projector, turning it on to show James’ brain. “We are down to two words.” She flips through the list of words, “Rusted, and Nine. If I skip over those, we get no lights. But if we say them-” Flipping through different highlighted areas until she stops on one. “-Even out of order. The whole place lights up.” 

You reach up and spin the brain scan around, taking in all the lights. “Two more words.” Sitting back, you look up at James. “I am guessing it’s just going to take more time?”

“I think his mind is fighting against us. Similar to when he and Wanda would go in and try to block off areas. From what I read in your reports, his mind would remove it just as fast as you could get in. It’s trying to protect itself from more damage,” Shuri explains, flipping back to the live scan of his mind. “I think we may have to try something more extreme.”

“Getting him fully unconscious.” You reply, having already wondered if this would be the case. 

“We can keep going with what we have been doing,” Shuri continues. “I am not certain of the time, or if it will work as we hope.” She pauses, worrying at her lip. “Or. We could increase his sedation. It would put him on the edge of death, but enough that his mind would be offline. So to speak. Run the algorithm for those two words, and then decrease the sedation. Not enough to wake him up, but enough that we could test those words without worry of causing any damage.” 

Running a hand through your hair, you look at your tablet; everything is stable, an occasional blip surfacing and disappearing just as quickly. The sedation he was under was already significantly higher than anything you’d seen before. His body metabolised medication at a rapid rate, meaning that increasing it was dangerous. 

“We would have to run tests on how much he could handle. We never got to this point before, but I know it was difficult with how fast his body metabolised drugs. Even the anesthesiologist struggled to keep a nerve block working properly.” You close your eyes, unsure what to do or if this is the right choice. 

“We would be using a combination of things. Our pharmacist has been running small tests to see what would work over the last several weeks,” Shuri replies, placing her hand on your shoulder. “He would go on a ventilator instead of the mask we are currently using. We would drop the temperature as low as possible, keeping his heart rate just above flatline. Then run the algorithm, pinpoint the spots that need to be resected, then go in through his skull. It’s complicated and hasn’t been done before.” She sighs, standing beside the cryochamber. “I am not sure there is a better option. We could keep running different programs, but I am certain we won’t be able to rid him of these words without shutting him out. The only option is to actually go in physically, removing larger amounts of tissue.”

“Okay,” You say quietly, wanting to scream at the world. Why could nothing just be simple? Why couldn’t this have worked the way it was planned? “When?”

Shuri’s shoulder dropped. “I will need to do some further testing. Make sure the medication we are using is appropriate. Gather a team together; get us all on the same page. Double-check everything. I will not proceed if I have any doubt, Doc.”

You nod and wipe at the stray tears that have found their way out. Anger pushing at the edges, not at Shuri, or James, or anyone. It was the situation you have been put in, how things keep stacking up. What you would do to have some peace. To have something go the way it was planned.

The lights kept flickering on and off, walls shimmering and changing all around them. They had tried to move, going to any door that would open, passing by memories that never seemed to see them. It had changed since Bucky had last been through here. The memories no longer sucked them in, making them experience them as if they were really there; instead, he and the soldier saw them from the outside. No one inside reacted to them coming and going. Bucky wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. He was currently too busy trying to keep his younger half with him. 

Rounding a corner, they found themselves in another cement corridor. The Soldier froze, body tightening like a coil. Every time they found themselves in a Hydra base memory, he would start shutting down. Bucky would often have to physically drag him away or shake him out of it. 

This time, he only froze for a moment, then his shoulder moved away from his ear. He looked at Bucky, then gestured with his head to go down the hallway. Bucky nodded and followed after him. 

It was the first time the Soldier had made a move without Bucky leading the way. He was taking charge of this situation; whatever it was, Bucky would back him in it. The younger version of himself had become like a younger sibling, reminding him of his sisters. He needed guidance and comfort, and if the Soldier needed to confront a memory, then Bucky would do that too. 

The experience of being in his memories had been disturbing at first. A constant barrage of terrible experiences that he had to relive and be a witness to. Then it evolved. Bucky had seen how his younger self reacted to dangerous situations; he always put himself between the danger and Bucky. The Soldier, despite being so broken he barely spoke, still looked out for others. It had snapped something into place for Bucky. Against everything he had been through, inside him was someone who would still fight to protect those he cared about. 

Bucky watched as the Soldier went through a door, he knew where he was going and what would be behind it. Following his lead, Bucky was the one to freeze in the doorway. Dr. Zola stood there, medical tools in his hand. The Soldier walked right up to him, his shoulders square and tight, metal fist clicking as he clenched it tight. Behind Zola, another version of Bucky lay on the metal medical table. His blue eyes fogged like he was dead, arm severed halfway below his elbow.

“My most successful subje-" A strange noise came out of the man as the Soldier grabbed him by his throat. The man tried to call out, but the memory guards didn't move. 

The Soldier roared loud enough for it to echo in the room. Bucky stepped in, letting the Soldier slam the man against the metal. He shifted his focus to himself on the table. His hair was short-cropped, his face clean-shaven, military fatigues cut away from his body. There were IVs and tubes running in and out of his body. A crude metal arm sat beside his bloody stump. The Zola seemed to have just started to close up the wound. Bucky shivered, seeing the stump half open. As he moved around the table, he saw that the back left side of his skull had also been opened, crude wires sticking out that ran into what must have been a computer. They had already started to reinforce his body with metal and wires. 

His teeth ground together, tearing his eyes from the memory, he looked up to see the Soldier rip Zola's arm out of his socket. The violence of it shocked Bucky for a moment. As the man slid to the floor with a scream, the Soldier threw the arm to the side. 

“You did this to me.” The Soldier spoke, his voice calm, despite his frenzied eyes. “You haunt my dreams. You broke me.”

Bucky came over to stand beside his younger self. Reaching up, he touched the man's shoulder. He turned to his older self and hugged him. Bucky freezes for a moment, then embraces him back. The two hold onto one another, clinging to the hope they could be whole again. That by confronting the monster that called himself a doctor would help heal open wounds that had been open for too long.

“He's dead. Zola can't hurt us now,” Bucky says, mostly to himself. “I am proud of you.”

The whole world goes black.

Somewhere outside of his mind, Bucky can faintly hear beeping.  There is a tug on his mind. He can still feel the Soldier, the two of them wrapped in an embrace. Zola was dead. Peirce was dead. Hydra was fractured. He was safe; no words could touch him.

Watching them sedate Bucky further was uncomfortable. His heart rate dropped; they then intubated him and hooked him up to several IVs. The theatre was quiet; you had been asked if students could watch. You'd declined. James was always private. He had said yes to being observed in the cryotube, but this was different. It felt so much more intimate now, him lying on the metal table. His hair was carefully parted so that they could cut into his skull and insert tools. 

The debate about whether to be here or not had been waged for two weeks. Shuri had been in meetings with other doctors and surgeons. This seemed to be the best outcome. It was the first of its kind, and possibly the only one. The risk was heightened because of his metabolism and healing factor. You know all this, and you knew it inside and out, yet your hands were still shaking.

You rubbed at your knee, the brace keeping it support, your forearm crutches leaning against the chair beside you. Your phone hadn't stopped buzzing since you woke up. People asking if you were okay, if James was okay. The worry had spread through your teammates; it was understandable, considering. It didn’t stop you from muting your phone. Taping your ear, you began to listen to the surgeons, techs, and nurses start to work. The earpiece translated for you. You had learned many languages, but technical language was not something you had full understanding of yet. 

An Anesthesiologist stood at their machine, eyes dialled in on the readings. You couldn’t imagine the stress they were under. James’ files had been gone over by everyone; they knew how his body worked as well as you did. Didn’t make it any easier for them. His blood pressure, heart rate, O2 saturation were all dangerously low. As low as they could safely go without lasting damage. 

Would he have damage? He’d been out for just under six weeks now. This wasn’t close to the longest he had been under for. During his time in Hydra, it had numbered into the years. It still made you nervous. There was a high chance that he would have some memory loss, but Shuri and her team were certain it would be temporary. But how temporary? Would he remember you? Remember the last two years? Or would it be lost, leaving you to have to start all over again? Would he even want that? 

Reaching up, you wipe at the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. How often had you cried in the last fourteen days? Whatever happened, you’d be there, even if it was from afar. Just the idea made you have to sit. James was your whole world, your lifeline, the reason to keep getting up in the morning. Why you had fought so hard to be here. Would you be able to keep going from arm's distance? 

Stop. 

Your voice echoed in the room. 

That’s enough. 

A breath leaves you. Spiralling wasn’t going to help. You needed to focus on the here and now. Ground yourself. This was for James. The boundary needed to be drawn, made solid. It didn’t matter what happened or how it affected you personally. What mattered was that James was freed from the words. Free to live as close to a normal, enhanced human life. 

Right now, he needs to get through this operation. That was the focus. 

Gripping the armrests, you squeeze them until your palms hurt. Another breath before you look out the observation glass. 

All his stats were in range; it would have been terrifyingly low in anyone else. The techs adjust things as they move to use a laser to cut a small hole into his scalp, then skull bone, dura mater, and into the brain. Tiny micro-tools are then inserted into the exact area of the brain. The surgeon uses a constantly running scan to place the tool exactly where it is needed. Under normal circumstances, you’d be zooming in with each camera, trying to see exactly what they were doing. Right now, your eyes are just watching all the readings. 

The tool retracts, and the area is carefully closed. A small amount of liquid is put into the hole to ensure the skull heals properly. It was so small that it would barely be noticeable. You remember how James would carefully touch his scalp, fingers finding the dozens of scars that had been made. Trying to ignore how your heart lurches at the thought of him now having more. 

Six more holes are carefully cut, opened, tools slide in and are retracted. James’ heart jumps up once, his body twitching, but the Anesthesiologist quickly gets it under control. Your fingers dig into the armrests so hard you wonder how you haven’t shattered plastic into pieces. 

The one reading you keep flipping to is his EEG, watching his brain activity. Every time the tool was inserted, his Alpha waves would move ever so slightly. Despite being heavily sedated, his mind was still fighting back. You wrote a few notes down on this. Wanting to show it all to Shuri afterwards. It was something that, if studied further, could help others who experience anaesthesia awareness. There was so much information and value in people enhanced by serums that had been missed by those just looking to create weapons. 

How much groundbreaking technology has been kept away from the general public in the name of military interest? Your fist clenched, Stark had started to work on it. Trying to help vets, working with colleges and universities, starting programs. It wasn’t enough, it would never be enough, not really. Billions of dollars that were funnelled into making the next weapon. 

James, Steve, Bruce, Natasha, Tony, and so many more. People forced into impossible situations and told to survive. 

Your fingers clenched so hard into your palm they felt like they would cut. Somehow, someway, you would work so that this didn’t have to keep happening, even if it was just to help those around you.

Something was choking him, but his arms wouldn’t work. Coughing, sputtering, he wretched up whatever it was. Gasping, someone was speaking, a thing was shoved in his mouth, sucking up the goop inside. He tried to open his eyes, fighting for them to at least show him who he was fighting for. It was all a blur. The lights were like runny paint in his eyes. His hands finally moved, barely dragging at the fabric of the bed.

Bed.

He was in a bed. Was it a hospital? Hydra? 

“You need to breathe, Mr. Barnes.” Someone said to his side as his breath came out in short pants. 

This wasn’t right. He needed to get out of here. Why couldn’t he remember where he was? He fought against the bedding; there were no straps. His body froze. They hadn’t strapped him in. The bed was comfortable, their voice soft, not demanding. His left arm was gone, no metal, no plates clicking, just gone.

“There you go; I know this is probably confusing.” The voice continued. “You are in Wakanda; we are helping you.”

Wakanda. Where was Wakanda?

“You’re in Africa, eastern Africa.” 

“Ultron,” His throat tightened to the point it was hard to breathe.

“He’s dead, well, we hope he’s dead,” The voice replies, tone even and practical. “You just came out of cryo, so your mind is going to be a little altered. Can you relax your arm, please?”

No Ultron, Wakanda, that meant no Hydra. He just couldn’t remember how he knew that. He closed his eyes. Images of hallways came in, so many hallways. Memories. Hallways and memories. His stomach heaved, and he turned his head in time for it to go over into a waiting bucket. It was almost nothing, more fluid than actual vomit. 

“Get it out. We will make sure you get some proper food soon.” Looking up, he saw a woman watching him, holding the bucket as if it were a normal day for her. “Cryo is rough on the body, not to mention you had surgery.”

“Hydra?” He coughs out, it had to be. 

She gave him a soft smile, not condescending, but comforting. “Not Hydra,” She says, a name, one he should know, again. “Do you want me to send her in?”

He blinks several times, clearing his eyes some more. “Who is she?” 

“I can’t tell you details, got to let your brain sort that out on its own.” The kind doctor says as she adjusts a few things on her tablet. “But she is important to you, been waiting for you to wake up.”

“Okay,” He replies, nodding his head. The room is clearer now, it's cosy and comfortable. The space is lit up by dim lights, the wall is made up of wood and sand-like plaster so that it doesn’t feel so sterile. 

A memory of a woman falling comes to mind, her body going over an edge. She’d been wearing his shirt; she hadn’t been scared, just determined. Another image of her in his arms, she had been bleeding. Whoever she was, he could feel his heart tighten, reaching for her. 

The woman stands and goes to the door, opening it up. He watches her gesture for someone to come inside.

You walk into the room, unsure of what lies past the door. James is sitting up against pillows, propped up, awake, mostly tube-free. He had struggled while waking up; it had been hard to watch. Not knowing if he would be combative or even remember anything. Seven weeks. It felt like a lifetime ago now. They had put James back into cryo after the surgery to do further testing. Despite things coming back positive, Shuri had found no activity to the words that would be concerning; his brain was acting as it should.  

Putting on a brave face, you look at him, really look, his blue eyes focus on you. Brows furrowing as he looks you up and down, trying to place you, to understand who you are. It was unnerving seeing him like this, just in a hospital gown, armless. You try to keep your body neutral, moving over to sit beside him. His eyes follow how you move, how you sit, fixating on your knee. It was still wrapped in a brace, but was moving better every day. You didn’t have to use a cane or forearm crutches for most things, unless it was long walks. 

Pulling the chair closer, you have to fold your hands over themselves so that you don’t reach for him. Touching him had been normal, but now it was starting at square one. He didn’t remember who you were, not yet. One step at a time; you have to keep reminding yourself.

“Been a while, James,” You say, not sure where to start. Steeling your heart, you give him your name, watching his eyes flick back and forth. “I think Yuri explained some. She's been your primary neurologist since you went under. Helped perform your surgery. Very talented doctor.”

James nods, still staring at you. You can almost hear the wheels turning. His right hand goes over to his left, fingers running over where his left arm used to be. Fingers tracing over the metal plating that's still there. His eyes flicker closed for a moment as he presses against a scar.

“If it hurts, they have figured out a combination of medication that will help,” You explain, carefully reaching to grab the PCA pump. “Just got to press the button.”

You place it beside his right hand, watching as he looks down at it before looking back up at you. He doesn’t grab it, fingers coming down to lie on the sheets. It was hard to let it go, to not want to push things. You just wanted to feel his skin under yours, to know that he was alive, real.

“I am not supposed to explain things to you. Got to let your mind piece things together.” You continue, trying to find a way to fill the space. “I’ve been in your shoes, forgetting things, people. It’s hard. But it will come back.”

Another nod from him. His face almost completely impassive, not giving away anything that was going on in his mind. It was almost comedic; James, when he wasn’t on mission, was incredibly expressive and you could almost read his thoughts just by watching him at meetings. Now he was hidden away again, so far away. Your heart twisted, biting at your lip.

“Steve found this curry place, the food is so good. He just got the spiced rice and plain chicken. I will have to bring you some if you want?” Just talk about anything at this point, you thought to yourself. It felt so awkward, so unnatural. 

“Steve?” James’ eyes dart towards the door, then back at you. 

That stung. You had to remind yourself that Steve and James had known each other for almost ten times longer than you did. Of course, he would remember Steve first. This was normal. You hadn’t remembered him right away when you had woken up. 

“Yeah, Steve Rogers. He is going to be coming to visit in a few days. Probably bring a few friends, Sam, Natasha.” You kept your tone as even as possible, watching to see if there was any recognition there. If there was any, he didn’t show it. “Why don’t I tell you what I can?”

James looked around for a moment, seemingly confused, before continuing. “Okay, I remember some.”

“That’s good. Do you want to tell me? Or should I go first?” 

“You.”

“Your name is James Bauchan Barnes, but most people call you Bucky. I’ve always called you James; it felt appropriate at first. Then it just became our thing. Kinda stuck.”

“We are friends.”

“Yes, I like to think so. I haven’t known you as long as Steve. I think he’s known you longer than anyone else.”

“Steve helped me leave Hydra?”

“Yes, he did, made sure you got here too.”

“With you?” 

You have to bite your tongue for a moment: “Yes. I had to have my own surgery done.”

His brows furrow, and he fiddles with the tube beside him. “For your knee. It’s better?”

“Yeah, a lot better actually. Can walk without crutches for the most part. I still get tired, but it’s getting better.”

“You were hurt, shot. I saw you fall.” His hand flips over, fingers letting go of the tubing. 

Nodding, you keep going, “You’re starting to remember; that’s good.”

“Did I hurt you?” His voice was so low, his eyes glassy as he looked away from you. It was barely a question, as if he had already resigned himself to having done it.

You go to reach for his hand, but stop. “Can I hold your hand?”

He nods his head and lets you take his. “Yes.”

The way your fingers fit together fills you with warmth and courage to keep going. “It wasn't you.” He shakes his head, fingers squeezing yours. A small sigh escapes. “It was your body, your hands, but I knew it wasn't you. The Soldier didn't have a choice. The man that I know didn't have a choice. That's why we are here. So you will always have a choice.”

His hand shakes in yours. “I have a choice?”

Moving just slightly so you're in his eyeline. “Yes. You can choose whatever comes next.”

Something breaks in him, a cog clicking into place, as a muffled sob escapes him.

Part 35

If you can believe it.. happy times are coming, even if its just a for a little while.

<3 Tag list <3 Want to be added or removed? Ask!

@riki-785 @overwintering-soldier

@alex-cheraya @justyna4a

@ficmeiguess @vunblr @kimberly-stocks @rue963 @shameless-klutz

@feynightlight @humblechumbble @buckysgirl-12 @aureliaborea @nialhero-blog

@puffins13 @heartsforseo @local-crazy @booakaisha @goldnhabitx

@chaneylhb @jainaeatsstars

@mypainischronicbutmyassisiconic @nonyabusinesswhatmynameis @levisungjingwoo2099

@je-suis-prest-rachel @turtle-tot @kileyking @wildcherryspark

The Rogers' backyard was, for all intents and purposes, the hottest wedding venue in town. 

At least if anyone asked nine-year-old you and 11-year-old Bucky, as much was true. 

The cracked sidewalk leading to the clothesline was the aisle, peony and dandelion flower beds were the decorations. The old apple tree was the altar at which Steve stood taller on an upside down wooden crate, one of your father's old dress shirts over his shoulders to pretend he was a preist, or a pope, or some sort of higher entiry able to witness this whole thing. 

Bucky had one of your dad's suit jackets on, the navy fabric completely swallowing his frame, overlapping at the front and masking the Yankees jersey he had on, and all the dirt and grass stains on it. 

You had a pillowcase that definitely needed to be in the hamper for laundry day pinned to your hair with your favorite hair clips, of a little crystal blue butterfly. 

"Everybody be quiet," Steve announced, nose high up in the air like he was presenting a case to the Supreme Court. "This is serious business."

"It is serious business," you agreed immediately, failing to bite back a grin, missing your top right canine tooth.

One that Bucky held your hand the whole time so you'd let Steve run away with the string and pull it out. 

"We are gathered here today because Bucky and my sister wanted to play wedding instead of baseball."

"You said you'd play too!" you accused. 

Steve ignored and just kept going. "Now, Bucky Barnes." He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice lower. "Do you promise to be nice to her forever, always save her a seat to watch fireworks on my birthday, and never eat the last s'more?"

Bucky rolled his eyes, his dimple coming out as he smiled wth the side of his mouth. "Yeah," he said simply. "I promise."

You raised your brow, mock-scolding him. "You're supposed to say I do."

"Okay, yes," Your heart did an odd flip. "I do."

Steve then turned to you next. "And do you promise to be nice to Bucky forever, not tell Mrs. Barnes when he sneaks cookies before dinner, and always let him have the red Popsicle if there's only one left?"

"But they're the best ones!" You whined. 

Steve sighed, ever the dramatic, looking at Bucky with fake sorrow. "Okay, then I guess you don't love him as much as—"

That set panic in your little heart. "I do! I do!" His face changed immediately, and bucky smiled at you. 

The kind of smile that always made you feel like maybe the sun shined a little brighter on your side of the street than everybody else's.

Steve smiled, as if everything was back on track. "Now, for the rings."

Bucky dug into his pocket and produced two dandelions he'd twisted into little circles. Your eyes widened. "You made those?"

He nodded, brown hair bouncing up and down his head with the gesture. "Took me forever, but they're your favorites."

He held one carefully between his fingers before sliding it onto yours with all the concentration in the world.

"You made me a flower ring." Your grin stretched so wide your cheeks hurt.

Bucky shrugged. "Yeah."

Steve interrupted your thoughts, "Okay, okay. By the power in this vest… or in me, whatever they say in movies, you are now married." He pointed at Bucky. "No cooties." Then at you. "And don't make him play tea party every day."

Your stomach did that weird fluttery thing it always did around Bucky Barnes. It did the same thing when you rode rollercoasters, felt like it was gonna fly away and take you with it. 

"You may now high-five the bride." Steve announced, stepping down from the crate. 

Bucky extended his pinky towards you, "We'll be best friends forever."

"No take-backs." You smiled, wrapping your pinky around his.

TEN YEARS LATER

As time passed, you grew up. You got new interests, all of you got new friends, and the found family you had just seemed to get bigger. Of course, you weren't as close with Bucky anymore, no college sophomore wants to hang out constantly with his best friend's kid sister.

It's kind of uncool.

The house was loud in that familiar, comfortable way—the kind of loud that doesn’t feel chaotic so much as lived-in. Every sound has a place. Every voice belongs. Bucky, as much as he isn't family by blood, grew up running up and down these stairs the same you and Steve did, as Steve did in his house. 

Both of your moms were best friends since diapers, and it was only fate that Bucky and Steve were too. 

The kitchen doorway had his height and age and name scratched on it just the same as it did yours, he knew that house in the dark just as much as Steve, trying to sneak around to get snacks during late nights playing video games. 

Controller clicks. Steve muttering under his breath. Bucky’s low laugh every time he wins—because of course he’s winning.

“Dude, you’re cheating,” Steve groans, tossing his controller down for a second.

“I’m just better than you,” Bucky shoots back easily, stretched out on the couch like he owns the place, long legs kicked up, completely at home.

He always is.

Him and Steve drove back home from their Sophomore college parties for your graduation weekend, still half-running on energy drinks and bad decisions from the night before, which just happened to fall in the same one as your prom, only separated by three days. 

They could hear your speaker booming in your bathroom while you got ready with your two best friends, Yelena and Kate, and Natasha, Steve's girlfriend, helped you with your makeup. 

It was a mix of Megan Thee Stallion playing and giggles coming from the three of you, your two best friends gushing over their dates.

Makeup scattered across the counter. Curling iron plugged in and dangerously close to knocking something over. Dresses half-hanging, half-draped over the shower rod.

And Natasha’s laugh, warmer, older, threaded through all of it as she tried to keep things somewhat under control.

Kate is perched on the edge of the tub, kicking her heels against the porcelain. Yelena is leaning into the mirror, fixing her lip gloss with unnecessary intensity.

And you—

You’re standing between them, half-finished, dress still unzipped, hair clipped up, trying to decide if you feel as good as you’re supposed to.

“Okay, no—seriously,” Kate says, pointing at you like she’s making a case in court. “John is going to lose his mind.”

Yelena hums in agreement. “He already looks at you like he has no thoughts.”

You laugh, a little breathy. “That’s not even true.”

“It is completely true,” Kate insists.

“You’re just saying that.”

“We are not just saying that,” Yelena shoots back.

Natasha, standing behind you, gently brushes powder along your cheek, more focused than the rest of them—but she’s listening. And she notices there's a sparkle in your eye that's missing when John's the subject. 

He's nice, he's good looking, he's captain of your football team, maybe he has some anger issues with other guys, but all in all he's a solid boyfriend. He's just not—

“Alright,” Natasha says finally, pulling you from your thoughts, lightening her tone again. “Turn around. Let me see the full thing.”

You do as she asks, and she takes in her work of art, your hopeful eyes, and the soft blownout curls of your hair framing your face. 

"Perfect!"

Careful with your steps as she reaches for the zipper, pulling it up your back slowly, sealing you into the dress, into the night, into everything that’s supposed to happen.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door. "You girls alive in there?" Steve calls. "Or did the hairspray fumes get you?"

"We're decent!" Natasha calls back.

Steve pokes his head in for a second. "Oh."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

His expression shifts immediately into something resembling offense. "What happened to my little sister?"

"Oh my God." You snorted. 

Steve's broad frame now came into full view in the tiny bathroom as he stood on the dorway. "Who is this grown woman and where did she put the gremlin that used to steal my fries?"

You rolled you eyes. "I'll still steal your fries."

He shakes his head. "You look beautiful, Bug."

Your expression softens. "Thanks, Stevie."

As Pietro and Bob scrolled their phones impatiently at the bottom of the stairs, making small talk with Steve and Bucky, you were almost wearing a path into the carpeted floor of your bedroom.

Seconds after he was supposed to arrive with the other two, he texted you some shitty excuse as to why he was taking Olivia, his ex, to prom instead. 

“I was gonna explain,” John says finally, like that makes it better.

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Explain what? That you’re ditching me the night of prom?”

“I’m not ditching you,” he says quickly, defensive already. “It’s just—Olivia asked me to go with her and it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeat, your grip tightening around your phone. “John, it’s prom. We’ve had this planned for weeks.”

“I know, I know,” he says, exhaling like you’re the one making this difficult. “But she’s going through stuff right now and I don’t wanna make things worse.”

Your chest tightens. “So you thought canceling on me last minute wouldn’t make things worse?”

“That’s not what I said.”

You huffed. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

He goes quiet again for a second, and you can practically hear him thinking—calculating—trying to figure out how to spin it in a way that makes him look less like the bad guy.

“Look,” he says finally, voice shifting into something more controlled, “you’re gonna have fun no matter what. You’ve got your friends, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”

The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.

Because they’re so easy for him. So dismissive.

“So that’s it?” you ask, quieter now, but it wavers anyway. “You just—drop me and go with her, and I’m supposed to be fine with that?”

“I’m not dropping you,” he insists again, frustration creeping in. “It’s one night.”

“It’s prom,” you snap, the word catching in your throat. “It’s not just some random thing, John.”

“Why are you making this such a big deal?” he shoots back.

That’s what does it.

Your eyes sting, tears blurring your vision as you shake your head even though he can’t see it. “I’m making it a big deal?” you echo. “You’re the one who decided, what, an hour before we’re supposed to leave, that I don’t matter as much as your ex?”

“It’s not like that,” he says, sharper now. “You’re twisting it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you say, your voice breaking despite your best effort to keep it steady. “You just told me exactly where I stand.”

He exhales, long and annoyed, like he’s already over the conversation. “You’re being dramatic. The words land like a slap. And for a second, you can’t even respond.

“Okay,” you say finally, and your voice is quieter now, but steadier in a way that feels final. “Okay. Go with her.”

“—See? That’s all I’m saying, it’s not that—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head again, even though he still can’t see you. “I get it now.”

There’s a shift on his end, like he didn’t expect that. “Wait—”

“Have fun at prom, John.”

And before he can say anything else, you hang up.

The silence that follows is immediate and heavy, pressing in around you as you stare at your reflection, your chest rising and falling too fast, your phone still clutched in your hand.

For a second, you just stand there. And then your face crumples, and the tears come before you can stop them. 

Great. You think. An hour of Natasha's hard work gone in two seconds. 

You ripped a couple squares of toiled paper off of the roll, trying to dab away the tears when a knock interrupted you. You didn't even have time to tell whoever it was to leave you alone, the door opened anyway. 

And of course it was Bucky. 

"Hey, Walker finally—" Then he saw your face. The red rimmed eyes, the puffy nose and lips, he'd recognize your crying face if he was in a dark room blindfolded and you were three states away. "What happened?"

His voice wasn't panicked our loud, just immediate. 

"Apparently my boyfriend had a better offer." You said with a humorless laugh, fiddling with the corner of the tissue. 

His expression then changed to confusion, then disbelief, then anger. "He did what?"

Your eyes stayed on the paper, humiliated. "He took his ex to prom instead." It sounds ridiculous out loud. Embarrassing. "I know it's stupid—"

He shook his head. "It's not stupid."

You shrugged one shoulder anyway. "It kind of is."

"It kind of isn't." Bucky insisted. 

Your laugh broke apart into another shaky breath. "He said I was being dramatic." Your voice was small, like a small part of you almost believed John. 

"No the fuck he didn't." Bucky's voice, on the contrary, sounded like he was about to make sure John was in three zipcodes at the same time.

You wiped at your face furiously. "Can we not do the whole protective older brother routine thing right now? Steve's probably already planning a felony downstairs."

Bucky nodded, as if agreeing that yes, Steve should be planning felonies. "Good."

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escapes you. "Bucky."

"I'm serious." He took the couple steps needed to lean back against the sink, back to the mirror, while you faced it. The familiar weight of him beside you settled something in your chest. "You know what I think?" he asks.

You sniffled. "What?"

"I think he's an idiot."

You snort. "Very eloquent."

"You spent weeks excited about tonight." You shrug. "You talked about your dress for months." A smaller shrug, your head shaking like you agreed with him three weeks was a little excessive. "And some guy decides at the last second that he doesn't feel like showing up?"

His eyes looked for yours, and he continued once you met his gaze. "That's his loss." 

Downstairs someone was shouting something about finding the car keys. "I just feel stupid."

His brows furrowed immediatelly. "Why?"

"Because I was excited." The words came out smaller than you meant them to. "I really thought tonight was gonna be special."

Bucky's expression softens. "It still can be."

You laughed weakly. "My date literally dumped me an hour before prom."

"Okay." He says, like the solutions is obvious. Like a dragon staring you in the face. 

You were confused. "Okay?"

"Okay." He stands up straight. "Counterpoint." You raise an eyebrow. "I've seen enough terrible teen movies to know where this goes." Despite yourself, curiosity wins.

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah." He nodded, and started counting on his fingers. "Option one: you go with your friends and have an incredible time."

"Mm." An amused smile played on your lips. 

He continued. "Option two: Steve commits a crime."

You smiled widened. "Likely."

"Or a secret, better option three—"

You quirked a brow. "There are three options?"

Bucky rolled his eyes playfully. "There are always three options." You gestured for him to continue and he grinned. "Option three: some devastatingly handsome college sophomore heroically steps in and saves prom."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Bucky Barnes."

"What?" 

"You are not asking me to prom."

"Why not?"

"Because that's ridiculous." You stammered. "You're a college guy and it's gonna be a bunch of drunk high school seniors and—"

"Seems pretty straightforward to me."

You crossed your arms over your chest, the action making your breasts stand out more, and Bucky had to hold back from looking briefly. "You drove eight hours home from college."

"Correct."

"You haven't slept." Another excuse.

"Also correct."

Truth is… You didn't trust yourself not to ruin your friendship, and Steve's, with Bucky as your date. Yes it was a childhood crush, yes it was stupid, yes he only saw you as a little sister, but for some reason every time you smelled sandalwood and listened to divorced dad rock, your stomach did the same fucking thing it always did.

It flipped. 

"I'm serious." The grin on his face faded into something gentler. "You shouldn't miss your prom because some idiot couldn't see what was standing right in front of him."

Your throat tightens. "I don't want a pity Bucky Barnes date."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Bucky shook his head. "I want to go to a high school prom sleep deprived, listen to bad music, and drink shitty punch."

You pretended to think about it. "I want milkshake and fries from Juniper's after."

Bucky got down on his knees dramatically, clutching his hands together, play-begging. "Please, let me spend my hard earned student loans on a malted brownie shake for you, m'lady."

You signed, as if you weren't blushing seven shades of red at the moment, all hidden by Natasha's foundation. "I suppose."

After Nat talked Steve down from whatever Law Abiding Citizen crap he was gonna pull, Bucky borrowed one of your dad's suits while you touched up your makeup, and off into his jeep you went. 

Bucky lingered back as he watched you walk to the old car excitedly, Natasha stopping right beside him as your friends walked to their cars, watching you get twirled by Kate. 

Bucky noticed Natasha staring at him and raised a brow in question. "What?"

She gave a noncommittal noise. "Nothing."

"Romanoff." Bucky scoffed.

She put her hands up in surrender. "I didn't say anything."

"You've got the face."

Now it was her turn to raise a brow, trying to bite back a grin. "What face?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "The face where you've figured something out before everyone else."

Nat shrugged her shoulders. "I always figure something out before everyone, Bucky." Tapping him on the shoulder and turning arounfd to go inside. 

The prom commitee worked very hard to make sure the night looked exactly like every movie promised it would.

String lights draped from the ceiling of the gymnasium like stars somebody had caught and hung overhead. Balloons clustered in the corners. A photo booth occupied one wall. The basketball hoops had been disguised beneath enough tulle and fairy lights to fool almost everyone.

Turns out, getting ditched by John Walker was the best thing that ever happened to your prom night. You didn't even notice when Olivia was cryingin the bathroom because she caught him making out with someone else. 

No. 

You were too busy slow dancing with Bucky Barnes.

When the first chorus of the song came on, he held out his hand. "May I have this dance?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're such a dork."

"Tick tock, Rogers." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

You took his hand as if it didn't make your fingers go numb with excitement, and Bucky quickly nestled a hand on your low back, your forehead to the side of his jaw. 

"You know," Bucky said after a minute, "this is definitely better than my prom when I was your age."

"Okay, grandpa." You laughed softly. "What happened at your senior prom?"

"My date spent forty-five minutes crying in the bathroom because her friend wore the same shoes she did."

You clicked your tongue. "That's tragic."

"It was devastating." Bucky agreed, nodding his head, laughing softly. 

You nudged his jaw. "I'll try to hold it together."

"I appreciate that."

A moment passed, then another, and you spoke up. "Thank you for doing this for me."

"Anytime." He let out a soft breath, leaning back the slightest bit so he could look at you. "You do look beautiful, I mean it."

Thank fuck for Natasha's foundation, powder, and concealer for hiding your flush. "Thank you, Bucky." Oh how you wished you hadn't looked into his pretty eyes, reflecting the lights off of the mirrorball back onto the dancefloor. 

The ten seconds seemed to stretch an entire decade. Somehow Bucky's face getting closer and closer to yours, eyes switching from your lips back to your eyes and to your lips again. 

Oh my God, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he's gonna—

"Hey." The word cut through the moment like broken glass. Fucking John Walker. King of never in the history of the world reading anything. Specialy the fucking room. "Can we talk?"

Bucky's hand tightened around your waist, "What do you want, John? Olivia is probably looking for you."

"C'mon, baby, you're not gonna throw our relationship away over one bad call, are you?" He was seriously trying to play this off. "I made a mistake." His hand reached for you but you stepped away. 

"I'm not your baby."

He scoffed. "Aw, c'mon." And tried again. 

This time, Bucky got between you two. "She's done, Walker. Walk away."

Now John got… Defensive. "This isn't any of your business."

Bucky clicked his tongue. "She kind of is." The words slipped out before he could stop them.

The air stood still for a minute before the football bros came to get John, leaving you and Bucky with the weight of unsaid words and unspoken looks. 

Juniper's was closed by the time you finally left prom.

Not closed enough to stop Bucky from leaning halfway out of the driver's side window and convincing one of the employees locking up to sell him two milkshakes and an order of fries out of pure pity.

It wasn't until you were stargazing in his jeep with soft music from his Spotify mixing with the crickets hiding in the grass that your heart settled again. 

You were in the passenger seat, your burger already eaten, just finishing your delicious fries and your milkshake with Bucky in the same predicament in the driver's seat. 

Now the two of you sat on the hood of his Jeep in the empty parking lot overlooking the river, the New York spring air cool enough that your bare shoulders prickled every time the wind picked up.

Without a word, Bucky shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. You blushed. "Thanks."

He shrugged. "'M not using it."

"You literally had it on 30 seconds ago." You rolled your eyes. Bucky just muttered details between a mouthful of fries. 

"You know," you said eventually, "this wasn't exactly how I pictured prom going."

Bucky laughed quietly. "No?"

"I don't know. There was significantly less public humiliation in the original draft." You laughed softly. "But I like this version better."

Bucky nodded. "I had fun."

You looked over. "Yeah?" Hopeful little edge in your voice giving you away to anyone that knew you remotely well. 

"Yeah." His expression softened. "Got to dance with a pretty girl."

Heat climbed into your cheeks immediately. "You flirt with everybody." You rolled your eyes. 

Bucky made an offended expression, clutching his chest. "I absolutely do not."

"You absolutely do." You lolled you head to the side, raising a brow to make your point. He laughed.

God, you loved his laugh. Always had. The thought came and went so quickly you almost didn't notice it.

Your eyes drifted back toward the sky. "You know what this reminds me of?"

"Hm?" He lifted his eyes from the milkshake cup he was trying to get every last bit out of. 

"The meteor shower."

Bucky smiled immediately. "Oh man."

You grinned. "You remember?"

"Remember?" Bucky chuckled. "I had baseball tryouts the next day and I was up all night to make sure you didn't miss it."

It stopped you dead in your tracks. He did what? "No, you didn't. Your mom came and woke us up."

Bucky nodded. "Yeah, because I woke her up. I was outside waiting for it while you and Steve snoozed it off. Played like shit the next morning." He continued. "You had the date circled on the calendar."

Your brow furrowed. "I did?"

He nodded. "You drew stars around it."

"Oh my God."

Bucky chuckled, his own head lolling to the side on the head rest to look at you. "You made Steve and I promise we wouldn't stay up late the night before because we had to be rested."

You buried your face in your hands. "That sounds insufferable."

"It was kinda cute." He smiled at you like he always did, and your heart promptly forgot how to function. Bucky, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the devastation he'd just caused.

Trying so desperately to change the subject to something that wouldn't make you tear up or your heart jump, you fiddled with your milkshake, taking a sip and making a face. "You know, I think this thing is eighty percent whipped cream."

Bucky grinned. "I can see that, it's all over your face." His left thumb came up to wipe down the leftover shake on the corner of your mouth, and it lingered just a second too long. 

For a second, or three years, the world felt like it stilled. A moment frozen in a snow globe to be forever replayed. 

Neither of you moved, not entirely sure how to. Suddenly Bucky was very close, close enough to see the tiny scar in his eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was fourteen, to count the freckles dusting across his nose, enough that you could feel your heartbeat somewhere in your throat.

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back up, and your heart and lungs stumbled over themselves. 

His hand lowered slowly, resting on your thigh. The night around you seemed quieter somehow. Smaller, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between you.

"Buck..." His name came out softer than you intended.

His expression shifted into something you'd never seen directed at you before. "If you don't want—"

And then your body moved forward on instinct, your brain a mess of fuzzy TV static, and when you came back to your body, your lips were on his.

Not because you were brave or even confident, just mostly because if you let him finish that sentence you thought your heart might actually explode.

For one terrifying second you were convinced you'd made the biggest mistake of your life. Then you felt the warmth of his hand on your cheek, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss as his tongue slipped past your lips.

The kind of kiss that felt less like fireworks and more like coming home after a very long trip.

One of your hands quickly found the nape of his neck, gently scratching your manicured nails against his scalp. He whined against your lips, hand drifting to your waist, and just as much as he pulled you onto his lap, you climbed over the console to him, food wrappers forgotten on the floor. 

You shrugged the suit jacket off, accidentally honking the horn with your butt in the process, and Bucky's hands rubbed up and down your thighs as you rocked your hips against him, feeling the heat of him against the suit pants. 

Your hands dropped from his shoulders down to his arms, then forearms, directing him to paw at the zipper on the back of your dress.

That made him pull away, looking for your eyes. "Are you—"

You could not have nodded more feverishly if you were a damn bobblehead. Bucky needed no further incentive, he made quick work of the zipper, excitement bubbling in your stomach like freshly popped champagne while he peppered kisses along your jawline and neck. 

The now bothersome fabric of the dress fell to your waist as you worked on the buttons of his shirt, hands moving to his belt and pants after. He kissed you again, deeper as his hand snuck under the hem of your dress to find the wet spot on your panties. 

You moaned against his mouth, your own hand finding its way inside of his boxers. You broke the kiss, gasping for air. "Is this— I mean— okay?" It was hushed and murured against his lips as you stroked his length. "I've never— oh!"

You got rudely interrupted by Bucky's index and middle fingers rubbing your sensitive clit over the blue cotton of your panties. He nodded against you, "Y-yeah, you're— fuck— you're doing so good." His hips bucked up against you, and the second he slipped out of his pants with your movements his hand left your core and now were both squeezing your ass.

Bucky brought you flush against him, the angry red tip of him begging for friction found it when you started to dry hump him through your underwear, gasping into his mouth every time it nudged your clit.

"Bucky, please…" He couldn't not give you what you wanted, right? "I can't take it." Not when you begged this pretty.

He nodded against you, "I know, baby." And his right hand went under your dress, behind you, and pulled your panties to the side. "I know."

The second his bare cock made contact with your wet slit, he hissed, and a lightbulb went off in his head.

Condom.

He did not trust himself to pull out. Not of you. "Condom." His voice was almost distant to you, like it hadn't crossed your mind to use protection. Not with Bucky, anyway. He'd never hurt you, he was your—

"I—" You were dazed, lost and drunk in the scent and thought and feel of him. "My purse." His hands let you go and you leaned over the seat to grab your purse from the backseat, your ass right beside Bucky's head. 

Of course he took advantage of that fully pull your panties down, now that you had the leg space. 

You sat back down on top of him with a little huff, trembling hands fumbling with the wrapper.

Bucky hissed as you rolled it down on him, and one of his hands lined himself up with your entrance.

As you sank down on him, you thought maybe you should've thought twice about it. I mean, you knew he was packing, you walked in on him changing one time a couple years ago, there was no way you could—

"Hey," Bucky's voice brought you back from your spiral. "Look at me." Beautiful cerulean eyes stared up at you like the moonlight was made to bounce off them specifically. "Breathe."

His other hand brushed your hair away from your face, just as the hand that was holding his shaft traveled up, thumb finding your clit rubbing soothing circles on it. "Just take it slow." Your eyes fluttered closed. 

"How do you not get knocked over hauling this thing around?" That brought a chuckle out of him, landing straight onto the skin of your neck. "Oh, God..."

You rocked yourself back and forth, until he was fully inside of you, your lips touching the light hair at the base. 

Bucky kissed all over your face, his thumb never stopping its work. "You're doing so good, baby."

"Feels full." He laughed softly. squeezing your waist and helping guide you into a rhythm. "Feels good."

"Yeah?" Hushed and right by your ear, you felt like drowning and the happiest person alive at the same time. "You're so tight," He continued. "So warm."

You whined against his lips, the vibration going all the way down to his core.

He moved you up and down his cock, listening to the obscene wet squelch each time you sat up and sank back down on him, and each time it dawned on him what was actually happening, he got louder.

Bolder.

He bounced you on his length, hissing each time, you squeezed around him. "Feel good, Buck. Hah!"

It surprisingly didn't take long for Bucky to have you right at the edge, not as long as people online led you to believe losing your virginity would feel like. "Can feel you fluttering." His thumb worked faster.

"Wanna come, Bucky." You whined, kissing him, and pulling away with his bottom lip between your teeth, "Can I?"

He hissed, the question making it hard for him to not blow his load right then and there. "F'course you can, pretty girl, c'mon."

Your release felt like a million meteors hitting you at once. Like Earth came apart and got put together all in the same breath. 

It felt entirely different, better, than when you tried to do it on your own. And your orgasm triggered Bucky's, waves of pleasure milking rope after rope of cum from him into the unworthy latex of the condom. 

For what it felt like forever for the milionth time that night, neither of you spoke. Your breaths and the crickets were the only sounds. 

It was quiet after. 

Just… quiet.

The kind that only existed when two people had known each other so long that silence wasn't something to fill. Starts lit up the sky that was now your ceiling, and Bucky had taken the condom off and tied it, throwing it inside of the trash with the fry bag and the milkshake cups.

For once in his life, James Buchanan Barnes appeared to be completely out of words.

Which was concerning.

You smiled a little, back in the passenger seat with the suit jacket around your chilly shoulders. "What?"

He glanced over. "Hm?"

"You're thinking too loud." That got a laugh out of him. A quiet one, but still a laugh. "Sorry."

A beat of silence, then another. "I don't want this to ruin anything."

Your smile faltered slightly.

Of course, you thought. Of course he doesn't feel that way about you, why would he—

"Oh, Buck." You faked a smile as his eyes met yours. "We'll be okay."

A sheepish, hopeful look hit his face. "Yeah?"

"Of course." You nodded and reached over and laced your pinky with his. "We're us."

His expression softened when he looked down at your joined fingers. "We're us," he echoed.

You smiled. "We survived Steve's bowl cut phase." You listed off. "The great Thanksgiving mashed potato incident."

"Traumatic." He chuckled.

"The time I accidentally backed your Jeep into Mrs. Russo's mailbox." You continued. 

He scolded you playfully. "You still owe me for emotional damages."

You laughed softly. "We'll be best friends forever."

The words came so naturally, so easily. The same words you'd said years before ona hot day beneath a tree. A pinky promise.

Forever.

Beside you, Bucky went quiet. Of course she wouldn't want anything to do with you, you're her brother's best friend. That shit only works in mov— "Right." His eyes dropped for a moment. "Friends."

Your stomach twisted at the word for the first time in your life. Because why did that sound disappointing?

Why did it sound like something had slipped through your fingers without you realizing you were holding it?

a little bit of fran in your life: okay did we like it??????? it was meant to read like a first chapter but also a standalone in case you wanted to just be done with it. yippieeeeeeee

💌 permanent freaks taglist: @chateaubarnes @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @superbassbuck @its-in-the-woods @wildflowersandvibranium @unificsation @flockoff-featherface @54nboo @earthsmightiestbenders @winterdecember18 @juniebjonesin @barnesonly @bckyslover @buckyfmd @starfire-irl @tw1sters @pinksplace @artficlly @daddysbitchybaby @globetrotter28 @epiphanyrogers @famoushoshi @avgdestitute @blobfishlol @buckysdecaflove @buckybsdoll @allthingswickedpodcast

A government vehicle brought you there when you left your apartment, not allowing you to ask questions or decline. The room they had you in was small and cold. It felt like an interrogation room thanks to the chairs, tables, and cement walls, minus one wall of mirrors. The woman sitting across from you smiled, but it didn’t put you at ease.

Not when she was wearing a pin with the symbol of the new world.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” she said, taking a tablet from her bag and sliding it over. “You’ve been chosen.”

You couldn’t believe it.

The planet was dying. A new planet was the only hope for survival. But there was a catch.

Only a small percentage of the world population could go to the new planet to rebuild and repopulate.

Those with wealth and power were chosen, of course. People like doctors and those with skills needed to help the new world thrive were selected, too. And the protectors.

The Avengers.

So, no, you didn’t expect to be chosen.

“I don’t understand,” you said, looking at the screen. “Why me? And why are you showing me a picture of Bucky Barnes?”

Everyone knew who he was.

Her smile widened. “Because he chose you to be his wife,” she said like she was telling you about a dinner special. “Congratulations!”

Your stomach dropped.

“Bucky chose me?” you whispered.

It didn’t make any sense. Why you? You had only met him once.

“Isn’t there someone else?” you added softly.

“No, I couldn’t ask for another.”

You jumped at the deep male voice filling the room. Where did that come from?

“Oh, he’s watching,” she said, nodding to the mirror. “And it’s best not to resist.”

You didn’t have a choice.

Uh-oh! Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

An itch formed right where the seam of the long sleeved designer dress brushed against the inside of Kelly's right wrist. At first she rubbed it absently, not attributing it to anything other than her sensitive skin. When a spot on the jewel neckline began to bother her, she pulled at the fabric in annoyance, again wondering why her skin was acting up while she was working at the hotel's charity gala, of all places. It wasn't until she saw a reflection of herself in a mirrored wall and realized that the side seam of the dress displayed a noticeable pucker that wasn't noticeable when she tried it on, that she considered the formal dress she bought for what seemed a reasonable price at the resale shop may have been there for a reason.

"You're fidgeting," said a voice at her side and she turned to look at her boss, Hillary, who was gazing at the assembled guests with a slightly forced smile. "What's bothering you?"

"My dress is attacking me," whispered Kelly, in response. "I think it's a knock-off, and not even a good one."

Hillary glanced over the dress for an instant before looking back at the party. "Well, ignore its flaws. We need this event to go well and if you can't hold it together for a few hours then we'll both be out of a job. You also forgot your name badge." Her demeanour instantly became friendlier as a rather large man wearing a too-tight tuxedo approached. "Senator Markham! I hope everything is to your satisfaction."

"Mrs. Ford, my favourite events manager." He leaned closer to her, pushing the boundaries of her personal space. "Tell me, do you have those little meatballs with the sauce ... you know the ones?"

She smiled as if they were sharing a secret. "Actually, I have them in the kitchen, just waiting for you to have your fill before the others get their chance at them. Shall we?"

Glancing back at Kelly, she ushered him away to fill a plate with his favourite meatballs before they were brought out for everyone else. The look she gave her assistant was a "make sure the staff are clearing the glasses, dirty plates and used napkins" look. Stepping away from where she had positioned herself, the assistant events manager strolled around, occasionally stopping to pick up fallen food before it was ground in the carpet, or using a napkin to discreetly pick up a partially eaten canapé that was left on the tablecloth. Some people had no manners at all when the party wasn't at their place.

As she turned away from depositing the contents of one of those napkins into a garbage can behind one of the serving stations she recognized a man leaning against a pillar who watched everything and everyone. It wasn't an unusual thing, as this was Washington, and there were an abundance of people, both single and married, who often used functions like these to connect with someone, female or male, depending on their inclination. But this particular man was watching things in a way that was more than checking people out for a possible hookup. Nothing escaped his notice. It made sense, considering how famous, or infamous he was, the newly elected Representative from Brooklyn, New York, James Buchanan Barnes. She imagined the way he was casing the room was a holdover from his days as an assassin.

As she kept an eye on him, she noticed that he occasionally tugged his shirt collar away from his throat as if it constricted him. Perhaps he was having wardrobe issues as well. That was confirmed when he was introduced to someone who wanted a selfie with him. He adjusted the collar again then winced slightly as the few steps he took suggested to Kelly that his shoes were also bothering him. As soon as the person moved on to the next photographic subject, Barnes looked at his watch and visibly sighed. Barely an hour into the event and he already wanted to leave. She sympathized with him and even envied him a little as he could probably leave now while she was stuck here until well past the last tipsy guest had been escorted out and put into a limousine or ride share.

Bumped from behind by a laughing woman well on her way to being over served, Kelly stabilized herself, then got back to her job, although some man gave her the creeps when he sidled up beside her, visibly ogled her body and whispered "how much," seemingly mistaking her for a paid escort. Before she could answer politely that she was event staff, she was surprised by the sudden appearance of a flute of champagne from out of nowhere. Its appearance conveniently coincided with the creepy man's look of fear as he backed away. The hand holding the glass was metallic black with gold accents. Turning towards the arm it was attached to, she breathed in audibly at the face of the living legend himself, Bucky Barnes. This close up he was devastatingly handsome.

"You don't have a drink," he said, in a voice that made her insides twist a little, in a good way. "It might be the only way to survive this evening."

"No ... I don't ... um, I can't as I'm working," she stammered. "I work for the hotel." She glanced at the glass. "Thank you anyway."

"My mistake," he answered, withdrawing the drink, "although I should have realized you were staff since you were cleaning up. I thought staff wore a uniform while they work."

"For daytime business events, yes," she nodded, finding it a little difficult not to stare at his eyes. "For formal evening events the hotel manager prefers that events management staff wear something more dressy." She patted her upper chest. "I forgot my name badge so it wasn't really obvious."

His slightly lopsided smile at her admission was completely charming. "Well, I'm Bucky," he said.

"Kelly," she answered. "I know who you are." She looked away for a moment. "You don't seem thrilled to be here."

"I wasn't, until I noticed you." It was his turn to look away, distracted by someone else's overloud response to a cheesy joke. "Is my discomfort that obvious?"

"You were pulling at your collar and I think your feet are bothering you." Kelly rubbed her wrist again and chuckled. "I'm not much better. This dress has some loose threads or something and it's irritating me here and here." She indicated her wrist and neck as she spoke. "At the time I bought it I thought I was getting a good bargain on a top designer dress but now ...."

"I think you look great." He looked past her as he ran his hand through his hair, then down to the back of his neck. "Someone is trying to get your attention."

Turning around, Kelly noticed Hillary looking at her with raised eyebrows. Busted. She turned back to the well built man.

"I'm not supposed to fraternize with the guests. Sorry, but I have to get back to work."

Backing away, she kept him in her view until she almost stumbled into a table. Bucky grinned and shook his head, then drained the glass. Turning to leave, he stopped and turned back to where she was kneeling while picking up a discarded plate and glass that had been left on the floor.

"Hang in there," he murmured.

"You, too," she answered, and this time watched him leave via the doors, hoping she might see him again as Washington really was a small place in many ways.

That wish came true sooner rather than later as midweek she was sent to another hotel with a van and a driver named Travis to pick up some decorations they lent out and needed back. On their arrival they were unable to park at the loading dock due to construction that blocked access to the back lane. They would have parked where guests dropped off their cars for valet parking but the concierge nixed that, telling them to go down the street a bit and he would inform their events people to bring out the decorations on a luggage trolley. That was the plan. The execution of the plan took a left turn when the luggage trolley lost a wheel and tipped over, sending boxes across the sidewalk. Some of them spilled open, and while the person who pushed the trolley went looking for something to reattach the wheel, Kelly found herself on her hands and knees picking up strings of lights in the shape of birds and butterflies while people stepped around the mess. Several of them made less than helpful comments as they did. Then a pair of muscular legs, in shorts and running shoes, stopped and she looked up into the amused blue eyes of Bucky Barnes.

"Is being on your knees part of your job description?" he asked, kneeling down to join her, and picking up a string of lights.

"No, but maybe they should give me hazard pay for it today," she replied, taking the lights from him, folding them up and placing them in a nearby box. "Thank you."

He gestured to Travis who stood and watched. "Isn't he supposed to help?"

"Teamster," she replied, with a shrug. "His duties are very specific; he loads, unloads and drives." She leaned closer and whispered. "He makes more than I do."

Nodding his head in understanding, Bucky helped gather the remaining light strings, then assisted Kelly to stand by offering her his hand. They both stood back as the driver picked up the full boxes and loaded them in the van. The other employee hadn't yet returned so Bucky propped the damaged trolley up against a retaining wall and got the concierge's attention that they were done. For the few minutes it took to load the van they waited together on the sidewalk; her in slacks, blouse and a hotel blazer, him in his running gear.

"Didn't I read somewhere that your metabolism burns off everything you eat or drink?" she suddenly asked, looking up at him. "Somehow I never pictured you needing to exercise."

"It does normally, but since I was elected I'm not as physically active as I used to be." He patted his belly, which she thought looked pretty good in the tight compression shirt he wore. "I'm a bit thicker in the middle now. I try to get more exercise to counter the amount of late night takeout I eat."

"Your wife or girlfriend could help you with that," she remarked, then she considered the implications of that remark. "I meant in the sense of making nutritious meals." Okay that was sexist. "I meant ...."

A chuckle made his face light up in delight. "I know what you meant. No wife, no girlfriend and I wouldn't expect them to cook for me. What I eat is my responsibility." A mischievous look appeared in his eyes as he glanced at her left hand. "What you choose to do with your husband or boyfriend is your business." The driver had finished loading the boxes and was watching this exchange. Bucky gestured towards him. "Your ride is ready to go. We can debate gender roles another time."

Backing away, he waved at her, then turned around and resumed his run. Kelly watched him go, then looked at her bare ring finger. There had been a husband once, and a few boyfriends since the divorce but it had been a while for anything since the last one. A cleared throat behind her made her turn to see the smiling driver.

"You should ask him out," said Travis. "There's some chemistry between you two."

"Thanks, but no thanks," she answered, putting her hand on the door handle. "I was married to a politician and most of them don't have room in their egos for anyone else."

"He's not like other politicians, though, is he?" He looked in the distance, at the barely visible runner, with a look that was either of longing or admiration. "He's not like other men at all."

"No, he's not," she thought, then sighed audibly. "Let's go before Hillary thinks we've driven to New York."

It was over two weeks later before Kelly saw Bucky again, a length of time that had her dreaming or thinking of him several times wearing those shorts while peeling that compression shirt off. This encounter was at another formal function in the hotel ballroom. She wore a different dress this time, one that she made sure had no sources of irritation to bother her, plus it had pockets. She also remembered her name tag, not that it really mattered, as she still received a few leering looks, and a couple of brazen individuals of the male species offered her their hotel room card, wanting a personal delivery of champagne and chocolate covered strawberries. Somehow, they didn't quite believe that she wasn't available for room service.

Then Bucky arrived with an attractive woman at his side and Kelly felt something break a little in her chest when she saw them. If she had paid closer attention to them, she would have realized that the vibe between the pair was quite platonic. They were polite with each other, but there was no physical contact, and only the occasional side remark that drew acknowledgment. Instead, Kelly tried to keep on the opposite side of the ballroom from him, not wanting to be reminded that he could date who he wanted. Then the other woman excused herself to take a phone call and he looked over the assembled guests, searching for that one particular face.

An upset exclamation about a missing earring had Kelly on her knees, lifting up tablecloths in search of the jewelry item while the owner and her husband did the same in another aisle.

"You have followers now?" asked Bucky, as he kneeled down beside her. She bit the inside of her cheek at his flippant comment. He noticed how the couple were searching for something. "What are we looking for?"

"A missing earring," she breathed, trying not to look at him. "We'll look for a few more minutes then make an announcement. It has to be here somewhere."

She turned away, noticing how he frowned slightly at her.

"Are you angry with me?" he asked, in a low voice.

"Why would I be angry?" Exasperated, she glared at him, which was a mistake. Why did he have to be so damned good looking? "I don't want to take you away from your date."

"My date? Carol?" He looked over at the blonde woman, realizing that Kelly didn't recognize Captain Marvel who was in Washington for some meetings on alien diplomacy. "She's not my date. We were both invited and since we know each other from the Avengers, we decided to share a ride." The edges of his mouth rose a little. "You're jealous."

"No. Why would I be jealous?" She refocused her attention on the floor, then huffed and shifted so she was perched on her lower legs. "We're not dating or anything."

"No, but you're acting like we are."

"I am not." Suddenly aware that some people were now looking at them, she lowered her voice. "I just .... Why are you so irritating?" It looked like he was going to answer, but she suddenly spotted the glint of the missing earring and crawled over to it, lifting it up in triumph. "Found it!"

There was a smattering of applause as she got up and placed the earring in the outstretched palm of the woman who lost it. Receiving a quick hug for her troubles she watched as the husband helped his wife reinsert it in her earlobe. Bucky was still there, but Kelly moved away from him, not wanting to have any sort of conversation with him in front of an audience.         

He didn't follow right away. Looking back at him, she watched as he pulled his wallet out of his pocket. Slipping a card out, he went to a bartender and asked to borrow a pen, writing on the back of it. Catching up to where she was, he stood directly in front of her, holding the business card between his thumb and forefinger. For what seemed like a long moment, he studied her face, then he ran his free hand through his hair and squeezed the back of his own neck for a moment.

"If I offended you, I am truly sorry. In the 1940s I used to find dating easy but times change ... I changed, too, and sometimes I feel like I'm still trying to figure out how to speak to a woman." He took her hand in his free one and placed the card in her palm, folding her fingers over it. "I would like to go on a real date with you. If you don't come, then I'll know that I have to work more on my approach."

Leaning over, he kissed Kelly gently on the cheek. For a moment she felt the warmth of his lips on her skin, accompanied by the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather, and something inside of her whispered that she could avoid a lot of sleepless nights if she just surrendered now. Quietly, he took his leave from her side, and spoke to the blonde woman who nodded her head and squeezed his arm in understanding. Then he left and Kelly found the courage to read the back of the card.

Have dinner with me, tomorrow. 7 pm. Corbezzolo

Her heart was pounding. Bucky Barnes wanted to have dinner ... with her, at one of the more popular Italian restaurants in Washington. It wasn't far from where she lived. People waited in line for hours for a table because they didn't take reservations, yet he wanted her to meet him there at 7 pm, tomorrow. There would definitely be a lineup by then. He included a phone number, his personal one she presumed.

The sound of a breaking plate, and the sight of an unsteady guest who was laughing over the mess on the floor brought her back to the reality of her job. Hillary was already trying to get him away from the scene, waving at one of the security staff to help. Sticking the card in her dress pocket, Kelly went over and kneeled down to pick up the broken pieces. A server came with a broom and a dustpan, helping to sweep the fragments up, then took it from her to dispose of them.

She returned to making sure everything in the banquet room was going as it should, while wondering if she should accept the invitation. There was always a risk associated with dating a politician but that usually applied to those who were married while looking for a side piece, like her ex-husband. Barnes was single. So was she and there were no hard and fast rules from her employer about her private life, other than keeping it private and not flirting with guests while she was working. He definitely ticked off all the boxes physically and despite how they parted she was attracted to his manner, finding him to be very self-aware.

It was well after midnight before she finished work, and called for an Uber to her Columbia Heights apartment. Opening the back door of the vehicle, she got inside, brooding about how Bucky apologized to her for his behaviour. His behaviour ... she groaned. It was loud enough to draw the driver's attention.

"Are you alright?" asked the man.

"No," she admitted, then leaned forward. "What would you do if you were in my situation? You met a guy a few weeks ago and there were sparks but you were working and he respected that by not asking you out while you were on the clock. Then you saw him again, while you were working and those sparks got brighter and a little louder but he still didn't ask you out, because of the job. Then he shows up to another event you're working at and you get a little huffy with him for bringing a date. This time, you snap at him, but it turns out the date was just a friend, and he apologizes to you for being clumsy." Her eyes teared up. "Then he asks you out for real but doesn't wait for an answer; only says that he'll wait at the restaurant for you to show up and if you don't he'll assume he has more work to do on his dating game."

She looked earnestly at him through the rear view mirror. He looked like a deer in the headlights.

"Ma'am, I'm married. I don't think you should be asking me this."

Flopping backwards onto the seat, she sighed and looked outside. The driver said nothing else although it seemed like he wanted this ride to be over now. If she didn't go out with Bucky whatever this was would end before it even started. If she did go, what did that say about her? After her divorce she swore she would never date a politician and yet, here she was, seriously considering going out with one of the most famous politicians in the country. Why was her love life this complicated?

All day, Kelly fretted about the date. She slept in, got to work late, spilled coffee on her slacks, and still hadn't decided if she was going or not. On the plus side, Bucky was handsome, polite, and earnest. He was also sexy as hell. That encounter with him in shorts and the hint of a slightly padded six pack under that compression shirt had occupied her mind more than once. It was only a matter of time before her imagination took those thoughts even further.

What would be the downside of going out with him? First of all, he was a politician and she had promised herself never to be involved with anyone in the political field ever again, not after the humiliation she had experienced with her ex-husband. So why did you accept a job in Washington then?

"Shut up," she said, under her breath. "Focus."

He was over 110 years old. But he looks a lot younger. I'll bet that body looks as good naked as it does in a tuxedo.

"Stop it," she murmured, as she opened an email from Hillary about an event they were hosting in two months.

Old fashioned. A gentleman. Known to prefer old music. Much of it is still good music. Corbezzolo wasn't exactly known as a romantic place. But it is authentic and you know the food will be good. If the date didn't pan out, it wouldn't take her long to get home on her own. Checking her pocket for change, she pulled out a quarter and stared at it. Heads, she would go; tails, she wouldn't. Standing up, she moved away from her desk, flipped the coin into the air and was disappointed when it landed on the carpeted floor showing tails. Best out of three. Flipping it again, it landed heads and she breathed out. This final coin flip would decide it. Just as she tossed it up, her office phone rang and she lunged for the receiver, hitting the coin on its way down. It flew across the room, somehow slipping into the floor vent and disappearing from view. Shit!

"Hello?" she barked, into the phone.

"Kelly? It's Bucky. I'm sorry to bother you at work but I didn't have your personal phone number. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

Why was he phoning? Her mind went blank as she tried to come up with an excuse, then she saw the coffee stain on her slacks.

"I'm not having the best day and I spilled coffee on my lap."

"Oh, I'm sorry." He was silent for a moment. "I know that I said I would leave it to you to decide about meeting me tonight but it occurred to me that it was kind of a cop out. The old me would have sent you flowers but that can be seen as me trying to impress you and influence you into going out with me. Which I want ... but not if you're having second thoughts about it."

"Are you calling to cancel?" she asked, suddenly feeling like this was her worst case scenario enacting itself in real time.

"No. I really want to go out with you. I was originally going to suggest somewhere really nice but it would have meant dressing up and I'm actually more of a jeans and T-shirt guy, even though my job calls for me to dress a lot nicer. Corbezzolo popped into my head because I do like the food and atmosphere there but I didn't know they don't take reservations until I phoned to make one. Apparently they don't make exceptions, even for an elected member of the House of Representatives." His sigh was audible. "I guess I started second guessing myself and tried to solve a problem without waiting for it to become a problem in the first place."

She could hear some muffled sounds in the background and wondered if he was running his hand through his hair, then squeezing the back of his neck. It occurred to her that was his way of dealing with immediate stress.

"We could meet there earlier," she suggested. "It's easier to get a table then, and Corbezzolo is worth it."

"So, you do want to go out with me?"

She did want that but she didn't answer his question immediately. "You know I've been distracted all day trying to decide if I should go to dinner with you. I've been going over all the pros and cons of it and my brain keeps telling me that there really isn't a down side."

A lesser man might have been offended by that admission but his chuckle made her picture his smile. "I'm sure there are. Really, I'm just a guy trying to find his place in a world that is still overwhelming at times. But I am trying."

"I know and that counts for a lot. Let's meet at 6 pm. Whoever is there first can wait in the lineup, if there is one. If there isn't one, get a table and text the other."

"I don't have your number." She gave it to him. The silence after that wasn't as intimidating as it had been before. "Alright, you're saved in my contacts. I'll see you at six."

"I'll see you later, Bucky."

She hung up and looked over at the vent where the quarter had disappeared. It didn't matter now how it would have landed. This call had proven one thing to her, she did want to go out with Bucky Barnes. Truthfully, she had wanted to ever since she saw him leaning against a pillar assessing the banquet room and the people in it. He had intervened against the man who treated her like a paid escort. Outside of the other hotel, where others had stepped over the scattered contents of boxes, he had joined her in picking up the pieces without even asking first. At last night's event before she almost sabotaged any potential relationship, he got on his hands and knees, trying to find the missing earring with her. Then he had apologized to her, in front of everyone, for her wrong assumptions, taking the blame for that on his shoulders.

Travis was right. Bucky Barnes wasn't like other men. He was rare and unique, and if she passed on this opportunity to know him better, that would always bother her, just like the flaws in the dress she wore that first time she met him, the dress she now regretted buying. She had settled for a poor imitation of a good man with her ex-husband and had let the bitterness of that experience colour her expectations. Bucky admitted he had flaws, but was also working on them and that was at least authentic. Since she was feeling good about that she allowed herself to acknowledge something else. Whether they ended up at her place, or his, she was going to enjoy it when he took his shirt off. Sometimes the best things in life came wrapped in a very nice covering.

One Shots Masterlist

- Did you have a good nap honey ?

Bucky nods without a word. It always helped him a little to sleep under three weighted blankets, even though he preferred sleeping with Bob. Comfortably settled on one of the couches rather than in his armchair, with a milkshake within reach and a movie playing on the giant screen, Bob is wearing jeans and an unbuttoned shirt over a T-shirt, a style their team had gotten into the habit of wearing as little as possible in hopes of surviving the heat wave despite the air conditioning. As if the heat didn’t affect him, which was indeed the case. Bob’s hands slip under his sweater to caress his skin as he straddles his lap, and Bucky sighs with contentment. He was always cold, but Bob was the only person who could warm him up.

- Bob, I’m cold.

- I know honey, so let me warm you up, okay ?

Bob’s smile is so beautiful, and his hands are so warm… Bucky protests a little when his boyfriend takes off the sweater he’s wearing, and looks away to avoid meeting his eyes. He’s being ridiculous, he knows it. Bob didn’t care at all that he was walking around without his vibranium arm; the cool temperature maintained in the Tower for the past few days, combined with the heat wave outside, made both of them feel as if the joint in his arm were on fire, forcing him to remove it to keep it in a temperate place. He protests far less when he finds himself wedged between the back of the couch and his partner’s burning body, their legs tangled together.

- What about the others ?

- They all left really early for the water park. They wanted to wait until you woke up to ask if you wanted to go with them, but I know you don’t like that kind of place, so I told them to go without us. That way, I can serve as your human heater if you need me.

- Bob, you’re not…

- I am, and I’m perfectly fine with that. I have to make sure my boyfriend doesn’t freeze to death, don’t I ?

Bucky feels himself melt as Bob’s lips press against his, his warmth reviving his frozen body. How could he possibly be cold when his partner was as hot as a million suns ? The Super Soldier can’t help but smile slightly, always happy to escape the cold that tortured him almost constantly, thanks to Bob’s mere presence by his side. On his waist, his stomach, his neck, his cheeks… Bob’s hands are everywhere on him, as if his boyfriend were trying to make sure no part of his body was left out. And Bucky loves it, his skin tingling with pleasant shivers.

- What were you watching ?

“I..." You looked back toward the dark opening carved into the cliff. For the first time since pulling the trigger, the question truly registered. Had you? You couldn't answer it. "I don't know. I don’t think so. I just freaked.”

Liam followed your gaze toward the mountain.

His expression changed almost imperceptibly.

"Can you go back?"

The answer came before he'd even finished asking.

"No."

He nodded once.

That was all he needed.

"We're leaving."

Without another word, he took your backpack from your shoulder, slung it across his own, and guided you away from the opening.

Neither of you noticed that, somewhere deep within the mountain, another group had just entered through an entirely different passage.

The walk back to the Land Rover passed in near silence.

The mountain disappeared gradually behind the trees, swallowed once more by dense forest until there was nothing left to distinguish it from the countless horizons stretching across the Sierra de Guanajuato. Had someone passed through the area an hour later, they might have noticed the freshly fractured limestone lying at the base of the cliff. Or perhaps they wouldn't have. The forest had already begun reclaiming what the laser had exposed.

Liam carried the heavier equipment case in one hand and your backpack in the other.

You never asked him for it back.

He never offered.

Neither of you spoke until the vehicle came into view through the trees.

Only then did Liam set the cases on the ground and unlock the rear hatch.

He packed everything away with the same deliberate rhythm he always had, securing straps, checking latches, making sure nothing shifted unnecessarily. Routine. Not because the equipment demanded it, but because routine gave the mind somewhere to go when it wasn't ready to think.

You remained standing beside the passenger door.

One hand rested inside your jacket pocket.

Curled tightly around the necklace.

Liam noticed. Of course he did.

He closed the hatch and looked at you for a moment.

"You still have it."

You nodded.

"I think so."

He frowned almost imperceptibly.

"You think so?” He asks.

Your fingers tightened around the pendant.

"I haven't looked."

"You've been holding it the entire walk."

"I know."

Another silence settled between you.

This one felt different.

Not heavy.

Fragile.

Liam didn't ask to see it.

He knew better.

If you'd wanted to show him, you already would have.

He opened the driver's door.

"You ready?” He asks.

You looked back once toward the mountain.

The opening you'd cut into the limestone was no longer visible from here.

Only trees.

Only stone.

Only another mountain keeping its secrets.

“Yeah." You say softly.

___

The drive to the airstrip felt shorter than the journey in.

Neither of you turned on the radio.

The tires hummed steadily against the narrow mountain roads as afternoon slowly surrendered to evening, shadows stretching across the valleys below while the last traces of sunlight slipped behind the sky.

You rested your forehead lightly against the passenger window, the cool glass a welcome contrast to the heat still lingering beneath your skin.

Every few minutes your hand drifted back into your pocket.

The necklace remained there.

Solid.

Real.

Every time your fingers brushed against it, the memory of the chamber returned with startling clarity.

The dust.

The platform.

The weight of the gold settling into your hands.

You closed your eyes.

For the first time in years, you allowed yourself to imagine the possibility that the search might actually be over. Not solved. Never solved. But over.

The thought felt almost foreign.

You had spent so much of your life chasing the next lead that you had never considered what would happen if there wasn't another one waiting beyond it.

Liam glanced toward you briefly before returning his attention to the road.

"You should eat something."

You smiled faintly without opening your eyes.

"You're relentless."

"I've been called worse."

"The bag's still in my backpack."

"It is."

"I'll eat on the plane."

He didn't remind you that you'd said the same thing six hours earlier.

He simply nodded.

"I'll hold you to it."

You knew he wouldn't.

That wasn't the point.

By the time the aircraft lifted off the runway, the mountains had disappeared beneath the first shadows of evening.

The cabin lights remained dim.

The engines settled into their steady, familiar rhythm as Mexico slowly dissolved beneath a blanket of cloud.

Liam had already unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and settled into the seat across from you, a worn hardcover book open in his lap. Whether he was actually reading it or simply giving you the privacy he knew you wanted was impossible to tell.

You waited until the aircraft leveled off.

Only then did you finally reach into your jacket.

The necklace emerged slowly from the pocket, catching the soft cabin lighting as the chain slipped carefully through your fingers.

For several long moments...

You simply looked at it, as someone who had spent almost twenty years believing this moment might never come.

Your thumb traced the edge of the pendant with extraordinary care.

A smile found you. Small.Almost disbelieving.

You reached into your backpack for the folded sketches you'd carried across continents, laying them carefully beside the necklace on the table before leaning closer.

You wanted to compare them.

Just once to be certain.

The aircraft hummed steadily around you as your eyes moved from the sketch, to the necklace and back again.

Then they stopped.

Something wasn't right.

The sketches lay side by side beneath the soft cabin light, their edges held flat against the table by your notebook as the aircraft droned steadily somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico.

You studied them the way you had studied thousands of artifacts before. 

Objectively.

Methodically.

The pendant rested in the center of the page.

You began with the obvious.

Overall dimensions.

Proportions.

The curvature of the outer frame.

The placement of the stone.

Everything appeared...

Correct.

You reached into your pack again and removed a jeweler's loupe from its protective case, settling it carefully against your eye before drawing the pendant closer.

The gold filled your vision.

Fine tool marks became visible beneath the magnification, each one no wider than a strand of hair. You rotated the pendant slowly between your fingertips, following the engravings around its outer edge before comparing them to the copies Hydra had preserved decades earlier.

Your breathing slowed.

Again.

You checked the sketch.

Then the necklace.

Back.

Then again.

The aircraft disappeared around you.

There was only the object.

Only the comparison.

Only years of training reducing instinct into observation.

One line.

Barely visible without magnification.

You frowned.

No.

You adjusted the loupe.

Looked again.

The engraving along the eastern edge should have terminated beneath the third notch.

Instead, it continued.

Not much. Perhaps half a millimeter.

Enough.

Your pulse quickened. 

You lowered the loupe.

Picked up the sketch.

Compared them again.

No.

The archive could have been wrong.

Hydra's illustrations had been copied by hand. Someone else could have made a mistake centuries ago. You reached for another folder. Then another. Reference photographs. Translated notes. Every copy you had brought with you. One by one, they all agreed with each other.

The necklace in your hand did not.

Your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the edge of the pendant.

"No."

The word escaped before you realized you'd spoken aloud.

Across the cabin, Liam looked up from his book.

"What is it?"

You didn't answer.

Not yet.

You reached for the digital calipers lying inside the equipment case and measured the width of the pendant. Once. Then again. Then a third time.

You checked your notes. Measured it again.

The difference was almost laughably small. Less than a millimeter.

Small enough that no museum curator would've questioned it. Small enough that almost nobody on Earth would've ever noticed.

Almost.

You stared at the number.

Your stomach tightened.

"Liam."

His chair shifted softly as he stood.

"What happened?"

You still couldn't look at him.

Your eyes remained fixed on the necklace resting between your hands.

“It,” You stopped. Measured it again. Same result. "No."

Liam was beside you now.

He didn't touch the necklace.

He didn't touch you.

He simply waited.

Your voice had become almost inaudible.

"They knew."

A long silence filled the cabin.

"They knew someone would come looking."

Your thumb drifted once more across the edge of the pendant, tracing the tiny imperfection that had shattered nearly twenty years of certainty.

"It's not the original.” The words hung between you. You let out a slow breath that caught somewhere halfway through, ”It's a copy."

For several seconds neither of you moved.

The engines continued their steady rhythm. Clouds drifted silently beyond the window. The world carried on exactly as it had a minute earlier. Only yours had stopped.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

The necklace remained exactly where you'd placed it, resting on the open notebook between scattered sketches and handwritten measurements. Only a few minutes earlier it had felt impossibly valuable, capable of answering questions that had followed you since childhood. Now it looked strangely ordinary.

Just another piece of gold.

Liam was the first to move.

He reached for the loupe you had quietly set aside, bringing it to his eye before studying the pendant with the same patience he'd watched you employ hundreds of times before. He wasn't an archaeologist, and he would never pretend to be one, but he'd worked beside you long enough to recognize the difference between speculation and certainty.

He lowered the magnifier.

"You've checked it?"

You nodded.

"Every reference I brought."

"And?"

"They all agree."

His eyes returned to the necklace.

"You think someone copied it."

"I know they did."

The certainty in your voice surprised even you.

Not because you doubted your conclusion.

Because you hated it.

Liam stayed silent for another moment before carefully setting the loupe back onto the table.

"They wanted it found.” You looked at him. "They didn't just steal it."

He shook his head.

"If someone wanted to hide the original, they would've left nothing."

His gaze settled once more on the necklace.

"They left this."

You followed his eyes back to the pendant.

A replacement.

Not hurried.

Not careless.

Whoever had made it understood the original well enough to reproduce almost every detail. Good enough to fool a collector. Good enough to fool a museum.

Good enough to fool you.

Until you'd finally stopped looking at what you wanted to see and started looking at what was actually there.

Your fingers curled slowly into your palms.

The realization settled over both of you with uncomfortable weight.

Outside the window, the last traces of daylight disappeared beyond the horizon, leaving only an endless stretch of cloud illuminated by the fading glow of the setting sun.

You reached forward and closed the notebook. The sketches disappeared beneath its cover. Then you picked up the necklace one final time.

You slipped it carefully back into its protective pouch before placing it inside your backpack and fastening the zipper. Not because it had lost its value.

Liam watched you in silence.

"You know what you're going to do."

It wasn't a question.

You looked out the window.

For the first time in nearly years, you didn't.

"I have no idea."

Those four words hung quietly between you, carrying more weight than either of you cared to admit.

The engines droned steadily as the aircraft disappeared into the night, carrying you home with nothing to show for years of searching except another question, another mystery. And fear.