choking on daisies

A/N: even if my exam went well (🥳) these nights my anxiety is through the roof, meaning I’m doing anything except sleeping lol. so I decided to be productive and finish this. I guess it’s also an alternative to gods, gore, & groping—I know many people don’t like monsterfucking. btw I’m so excited I’m actually shaking as I’m writing this 🥹 these two are already my favorite!! fun fact: I had h2o: just add water ambient instrumentals on repeat while writing this 😭 hope you’ll enjoy 🌊 next part | series masterlist

Northwick sits at the edge of a stretch of coastline so remote that most maps barely seem interested in acknowledging its existence.

There is a road leading to it—a narrow ribbon of asphalt that winds its way through miles upon miles of dense pine forest and jagged cliffs, before finally surrendering to the sea. But the journey is long enough that very few people ever find themselves here by accident. Nobody even passes through on their way somewhere else, because the road ends here, at a cluster of weather-beaten buildings pressed between water and rocks. It feels like nature has been slowly reclaiming the town for years.

Most of the time, the sea and the sky blend into a single sheet of dull grey.

Drizzle visits often enough that the residents rarely bother carrying umbrellas anymore, choosing instead to endure the weather with the sort of weary resignation that comes from decades of losing the same battle over and over again. 

The wind is worse. It never seems to stop entirely, always carrying with it the scent of salt, seaweed, and old wood. It comes shrieking off the water at all hours, rattling shutters and slamming loose signs against walls.

The sea itself is no friendlier. Dark, cold, and perpetually restless, it spends its days throwing itself against the cliffs with a violence that makes outsiders wonder why anyone had chosen to build a town there in the first place.

The truth is that nobody living here remembers a different life.

Certainly not James Bucky Barnes.

He has spent every single year of his existence within sight of that sea. He was born in the small hospital overlooking the harbor, attended the local school, worked the docks since he was old enough to lift a crate without embarrassing himself, and eventually inherited the modest house that had belonged to his grandparents before him.

His entire life can be traced through these streets: every corner carries a memory, every building has a story attached to it—although most of them aren’t particularly interesting.

His parents are gone now. His grandparents too. An assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins disappeared over the years until the Barnes family, which was one of the memorable families in town, had gradually been reduced to a single man living alone at the end of a quiet street.

He has a sister, but after a long series of arguments that neither of them seemed willing to lose, she eventually left for New York and they simply stopped trying to bridge the distance.

There was a period of time, many years ago, when he imagined things might turn out differently. 

He married young enough to believe that marriage itself would somehow change him and introduce a desire for things he had never wanted before. Instead, it had simply highlighted the differences that had always existed between himself and his wife.

She wanted cities, opportunities, children, experiences and possibilities that stretched beyond the horizon.

Bucky looked around at the life he already possessed and failed to understand what was missing.

The divorce was not dramatic. There was nothing to hate, no one to blame, only the slow realization that they were standing on opposite sides of a road that kept fracturing each passing year. 

When she finally left, loading her belongings into a rented truck before driving away from Northwick without a second glance, Bucky watched her disappear around the bend at the end of the road and accepted, with surprising clarity, that he would probably never see her again.

He was right.

More than fifteen years have passed since then.

No letters. No phone calls. No messages.

For all he knows she might have built the exact life she had always dreamed about.

The thought doesn’t bother him, and not because he is heartless; he has simply made peace with the fact that some people are meant for larger lives than his.

And Bucky chose this life.

He chose the quiet predictability of his routine.

Every morning begins with the same shrill of the same alarm clock, and every night ends at the same hour in the same bed. 

Some people would call the repetition depressing, lonely... Bucky calls it peaceful.

Bucky reaches the harbor when engines start coughing to life and the first ropes are being dragged across wet wood.

He adjusts his gloves as he walks, fingers closing briefly in a fist around the worn fabric before releasing again, more out of habit than anything. His boots strike the planks in a steady rhythm that never changes, no matter how many years pass.

“Well,” a raspy voice calls from his left, tinted with exaggerated surprise. “If it isn’t the ghost of punctuality himself being five minutes late.”

Bucky doesn’t slow down, but exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that barely registers as acknowledgment.

Pietro appears beside him a moment later anyway, just like every morning, matching his pace with the effortless ease of someone who has never once respected personal space in his life. He has been working the docks for a few years now—one of the youngest of the group—and possesses the deeply unfortunate personality trait of wanting to talk to other people.

Specifically people who wish to be left alone.

“I was beginning to think you’d finally retired.” He continues, glancing at Bucky with a grin that suggests this is already the most interesting thing that would happen all day. 

The older man lifts a crate without breaking stride, shifting it onto his shoulder as though it weighs nothing, then sets it down exactly where it needs to go.

“I’m forty-five.”

Pietro hums thoughtfully, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Exactly.”

Bucky throws him a glance and the blond young man does nothing to hide his smugness.

Workers move between warehouses carrying clipboards and coffee cups as forklifts rumble across the rain-darkened planks. There isn’t a particularly pleasant smell—a mix of diesel fumes and fish—but after nearly three decades of working here, he barely notices it anymore.

As a matter of fact, the harbor itself has changed very little since Bucky was a child. New boats occasionally arrive. Old boats occasionally disappear. Businesses open, fail, and reopen beneath different names. Yet somehow the place always remains fundamentally the same, preserved beneath layers of salt and stubbornness.

A few meters ahead, Sam and Drax are arguing over a misprinted shipping label, their voices rising just enough to cut through the wind. The moment Drax notices Bucky walking by, he immediately straightens, catching Sam’s attention with a light tap to his chest.

“Morning, Barnes.” He grins.

Bucky gives a single nod without looking at them properly, already scanning the area for whatever needs fixing or lifting before anyone else can complain about it.

The gesture, minimal as it is, detonates something entirely disproportionate in the group behind him.

There is a beat of silence, the kind that always comes just before trouble.

“Did he just—”

“Oh shit.”

“He acknowledged us.”

“Barton, write this down. We need witnesses.”

“Already got three.”

“You think he’s feeling alright?”

“I don’t know. Somebody check his temperature.”

Bucky closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, half a dozen colleagues are watching him with varying degrees of amusement.

Pietro walks right into his line of sight, turning to stare at him with open disbelief.

“Barnes,” he starts slowly, as if addressing a skittish animal. “Was that... social interaction?”

Bucky shoots him a flat look.

“Have you never seen a nod?”

The dock erupts at once. Brock, who is standing near the edge of the dock, drops a coil of rope in theatrical shock.

“He talks!”

“He’s evolving.” Clint crosses his arms to his chest, nodding sagely. 

Pietro clutches his chest dramatically, staggering back a step.

“I can’t believe I lived to see this day.” He sniffles, wiping away a fake tear.

Bucky resumes walking, expression unchanged, though his grip on the next crate tightens slightly as he lifts it.

“Don’t start, Maximoff.” He mutters.

But Pietro jogs ahead of him now, walking backward just to keep eye contact, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“Seriously, you feeling okay, Barnes? You need water? A nap? Emotional support?”

“I’m fine.” He sighs.

“That’s the most words I’ve heard out of you in a week. I was starting to think you’d forgotten how language works.”

Bucky stops to set the crate down harder than necessary, the impact echoing loudly through the wood beneath it, before staring blankly at the younger man.

Pietro raises both hands in surrender, though his grin never falters.

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you alone.”

But he doesn’t actually leave. He just sort of… shifts his weight.

Bucky exhales through his nose and decides to ignore him completely, moving to the side where a length of rope has been left half-coiled from earlier work. He starts redoing it properly, hands working in tight, repetitive motions that give him something solid to focus on.

“So...” The younger man draws out. “How’s your love life?”

Bucky considers walking directly into the sea.

See, the problem with living somewhere this small is that people become comfortable... far too comfortable. After decades of seeing the same faces every day, the boundaries that exist in normal society begin to erode, and privacy becomes communal property as everyone feels entitled to everyone else’s business.

Especially his.

“Dead.”

That answer, as always, triggers a round of snickers among his colleagues.

Pietro claps him on the shoulder. “You’re so funny, man.”

Bucky follows the movement of his hand with frightening calm, causing Pietro to immediately snatch it back, before he clears his throat awkwardly.

“I wasn’t being funny.” Bucky retorts as he picks up the rope, the movement sharper this time as his patience thins in a way that’s entirely visible to anyone who knows him well enough.

Unfortunately, his colleagues couldn’t give two fucks about it.

“You know,” the younger man quips, leaning casually against a stack of supplies as if he has completely forgotten why he is here in the first place. “My aunt’s still single.”

Bucky stops mid-step. Slowly, he turns his head, just enough to stare at him right in the eye.

“No.”

“Hey, c’mon now, you didn’t even ask her name!”

“I don’t need to.” He resumes walking.

Pietro is already at his heels. “She’s nice.”

He rolls his eyes to the sky. “I don’t care.”

“She makes excellent soup.”

“I can cook.”

He once again jogs ahead to face Bucky. “She’s rich.” He lifts his eyebrows knowingly.

“I’m leaving.” Bucky announces deadpan.

“What—” Pietro’s eyes widen. “You just got here!”

“I can still leave.” Bucky shrugs nonchalantly.

The threat carries absolutely no weight, everyone knows it. Including Bucky, yet a chorus of protests promptly rises.

“You can’t quit.”

“We need you to scare the seagulls away.”

“Who’s gonna stop Maximoff from talking our ears off?”

“Hey!”

He shakes his head.

Some days he wonders if he’s the only serious person in town. Probably not, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to prove.

“Tell you what,” Pietro continues, clearly encouraged by his own stupidity. “If you won’t date my aunt, what about Ms. Hargrove?”

Bucky looks mildly horrified.

“No, no, hear him out.” Drax promptly intervenes, approaching the two of them.

“She’s only seventy-two!” Pietro continues.

“Seventy-four.” Brock corrects as he passes by.

“Still young at heart.”

“She’s been asking about you for years, Barnes.” Clint snickers, a cup of coffee already in hand.

“Everybody’s been asking about him for years.” Sam adds with a poorly concealed grin.

That, unfortunately, is true.

People ask constantly, because Bucky has become something of a local mystery. A man who lives alone on the top of a cliff, works alone, spends his evenings alone. Who has not been seen on a date in over two decades...

“She bakes.” Drax starts counting on his fingers.

“Oh, God.” Bucky mutters, tipping his head back tiredly.

“Excellent pies.” The other man continues solemnly. “She owns a house. She has all her teeth—”

“Most of them.” Sam interjects.

“Most of her teeth,” Drax agrees. “She grows her own vegetables. She volunteers at the church. She has strong opinions about parking regulations.”

“And she killed a raccoon with a shovel once.” Pietro adds with his stupid big grin.

Drax lights up. “See? She’s strong, a protector.”

“Leave him alone.” A new cocky voice appears.

Oh, great. Mr. Congeniality #2 has finally graced them with his presence.

“I bet he’s secretly married with some pretty businesswoman.”

“Shut up Storm, Barnes’ a ladies’ man.”

“Maybe he’s a spy.” Drax suddenly gasps, and he and Clint point at each other, clearly agreeing. “That’s why he always disappears after work! He might be working for the KGB.”

Johnny cringes. “The KGB hasn’t existed for thirty years, you idiot.”

Sam snorts. “Also, a spy who spends every day lifting crates and yelling at the weather? Really?”

“You don’t know if that’s a cover and he just pretends to work.”

“I know for sure he doesn’t pretend since you lazy asses are too busy gossiping like old ladies instead of doing your job like Barnes.” A deep voice interjects firmly and the group springs into action at once.

Sam bends down to inspect a crate as Pietro grabs a random clipboard from a nearby table, him and Johnny furrowing their brows at it with the intense concentration of someone attempting to decipher ancient scripture. Clint picks up a perfectly coiled length of rope and begins rearranging it for no apparent reason, while Drax plants both hands on a pallet jack and starts pushing it confidently in a direction that serves absolutely no purpose.

Fury shakes his head from the door of his office shack, choosing to ignore their quiet sniggers.

This is why, more than anything else, Bucky prefers the sea.

The sea minds its own damn business.

The longer Bucky works at the harbor, the more the routine stops feeling like something he follows and more like something that follows him instead.

It’s present in the way he ties his boots each morning, always in the same order, the laces pulled tight with a consistency he never consciously thinks about anymore. In the way he checks the weather without really needing to. In the route he takes to go grocery shopping, because some paths avoid certain corners and certain people who like to talk too much and ask questions that linger longer than he likes.

He thinks of these choices as efficiency. Or, if he is being honest in a way he rarely allows himself to be, as a way to preserve his peace.

Quiet people are often misunderstood. Others assume silence means absence, sadness, but Bucky has never felt better. He simply prefers to keep things where they belong: work stays at the harbor, the rest of his life within his house.

Memory, on the other hand, stays locked away in compartments he doesn’t open unless absolutely necessary.

Even grief has been assigned its proper space.

His parents belong to a drawer he doesn’t open often. His failed marriage to one he avoids entirely.

Eventually, even absence weaves itself into his routine.

And so Bucky goes to work every morning and comes home at the same time every evening. He fixes things that are broken and ignores those that are not worth fixing. He reads whenever he feels like it, though there is rarely anything new that piques his interest. He eats without much thought and sleeps enough to recover from exhaustion.

It’s not a life that demands attention, that’s precisely why it suits him.

His colleagues, though, treat it like something flexible that could be interrupted for conversation, for laughter, for questions that have no real purpose other than the enjoyment of seeing him grumble.

Bucky tolerates it all, but there are limits. They are not clearly defined, but simply translate into an internal threshold he recognizes immediately when it’s crossed.

A delay in starting the day. A change in the order of tasks. A request that requires him to be somewhere other than where he intended to be.

These are the kind of things that irritate him more than he ever expresses, because they are unnecessary.

And the world, in his opinion, is already full of many unnecessary things.

On that particular Thursday morning, nothing suggests it would be any different from the thousands that have come before it, because disturbances don’t announce themselves.

They don’t arrive with warnings or changes in weather that could be meaningfully interpreted as signs. They don’t break the rhythm of the town or alter the predictable movement of the harbor. If anything, they present themselves as almost insultingly ordinary, as though the world took care to disguise them beneath the same grey sky and the same restless water so that they wouldn’t be noticed until it’s already too late to ignore them.

Bucky wakes before the town has properly decided to exist for the day. He drinks his coffee in silence, standing by the window of his kitchen while the sky outside slowly shifts to a dull white. Watching the harbor lights flicker off one by one as the workers begin to arrive gives him a strange sense of tranquility.

He drives the same route through the narrow streets, passing the same abandoned buildings that have yet to be fully repaired.

At the docks, crates still need moving, boats still need unloading, and machines still need maintenance that nobody ever seems particularly grateful for until they stop working entirely. Pietro still talks too much, appearing beside him at inconvenient moments with questions that are more invitations to participate in conversations Bucky has no intention of joining. The others still laugh at his lack of participation, and he answers in the same way: briefly, reluctantly. Only when necessary.

When the end of the shift finally starts approaching, the harbor gradually empties around him as engines fall silent one by one. Warehouse doors roll shut at last and workers drift toward parking lots and side streets in loose groups, already discussing dinner plans, family obligations, and whatever local gossip has managed to survive the day.

Bucky avoids all three, which is how he finds himself at the far end of the outer dock, finishing one last inspection before heading home.

The outer moorings are more exposed to the weather than the rest, and by evening the wind has picked up enough to sting against his face whenever he turns toward the open sea. That’s why this is the kind of task nobody particularly enjoys.

Still, the lines need checking.

A damaged mooring left unattended can become a costly problem overnight, and Bucky has always preferred spending an extra ten minutes solving an issue now rather than dealing with the consequences later.

This section of the dock is also quieter, far enough from the warehouses that most voices blur together beneath the constant rush of the waves, and that gives him some sort of reprieve from his colleagues’ ability to turn any moment of silence into a forced conversation. It’s one of the few places where he can work without someone deciding that his apparent lack of enthusiasm is an invitation to fix it.

Bucky tightens the last line, testing the tension with a practiced pull before slowly standing back to his full height. The movement draws a familiar sting through his thighs, one he barely notices anymore.

Almost done.

A few more minutes and he can go back to his silent house and worn books.

His gaze drifts absently toward the water as he reaches for the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, and his entire body stills.

At first he sees only a shape, a disruption in the surface several yards beyond the dock, where the harbor opens toward deeper sea. Something moves beneath the waves, slow enough that it might be debris caught in the current or a trick of fading light reflecting on the water.

He watches it for a moment, but eventually lowers his eyes back to the clipboard and continues writing.

It’s only when the shape surfaces again, closer this time, and holds its position in a way that no floating object should have been capable of, that the rhythm of his day finally stutters.

The shape rises and falls with the movement of the water, appearing and disappearing between swells. But it doesn’t tumble the way driftwood would have, nor bobs with the lightness of abandoned equipment. 

Bucky cautiously rests one hand against the railing and continues staring with a deep wrinkle between his brows despite himself.

The shape drifts closer.

A swell lifts it.

For a brief moment, something iridescent emerges before disappearing again.

His eyes narrow.

Then, a human arm.

The realization doesn’t alarm him immediately. The possibility of people ending up in the water presents itself before anything more unusual could. A fisherman might have fallen overboard, or the current has carried a body farther than expected.

Neither explanation is pleasant, but both are infinitely reasonable.

Another wave rolls through the harbor, and it stirs the figure more harshly.

Strands of hair spread across the water. A shoulder becomes visible, then the outline of a head. The closer it drifts, the more certain Bucky becomes that he’s looking at a person, and although the sight should have inspired urgency, there is something oddly unsettling about the way the body moves—some small inconsistency his mind can’t quite identify but refuses to ignore.

It’s only when the water shifts again that Bucky swears he feels his heart stop for a moment.

The lower half of the body should have surfaced with the rest. Instead, the same iridescent thing flashes again beneath the water.

For a moment he thinks it might be a trick of the light—the evenings are dark here, and the sea tends to distort everything with its uneven inconsistency. He has spent enough years staring at moving water to know how easily the eye could be fooled. Yet when the figure rises again, there is enough distance behind him from the rest of the harbor and enough light across the liquid surface for Bucky to be confronted with an unjustifiable fact.

Because the upper half of the figure is human.

The lower half is not.

A tail emerges only briefly before slipping under water once more, but the glimpse still allows him to recognize scales that catch what remains of the afternoon light. He sees the shape of it and understands that whatever is floating toward the dock doesn’t belong to any category of living thing he has ever encountered.

“Hey, Barnes—”

The sound breaks through the unnatural quiet so abruptly that Bucky turns far more sharply than he intends to, the movement quick enough to make Sam take a step back.

“Whoa man,” he flinches, lifting his hands. “You okay?”

Under normal circumstances, Bucky would have answered immediately—perhaps with a grunt—and both of them would have gone on with their evenings without giving the exchange another thought. Instead, he finds himself standing there in silence, too aware of Sam’s growing confusion.

Of the fact that something half human and half fish is floating right behind him.

Now, Bucky has spent his entire life in Northwick. He understands how information moves through places like this, how a single unusual detail could travel from one end of the town to the other before sunset and somehow become common knowledge by breakfast. People talk. Most of the time it amounts to nothing more than harmless chats about neighbors, relatives, weather forecasts that end up being wrong, and private arguments that are treated like celebrity gossip.

Something like this, however, would not remain gossip for very long.

It would take one person looking in the right direction.

One person deciding to tell somebody else.

One person making a phone call.

The thought settles like a boulder in his stomach as he imagines the chain reaction unfolding beyond anyone’s ability to control it.

The harbor would fill with annoying strangers first, because people have always been drawn toward things they don’t understand, particularly when there is a possibility of witnessing something extraordinary with their own eyes. Then would come the reporters, eager to turn a forgotten coastal town into a headline. Scientists would inevitably follow, along with researchers, government agencies, and every other institution that believes to have the right to dissect, catalogue, study, explain, and ultimately claim the unknown.

The town would become famous, either as a tourist destination overrun with Airbnbs and souvenir shops selling mermaid-shaped keychains and t-shirts with the town’s name printed across the chest, or as a heavily restricted government zone surrounded by fences and security checkpoints.

For years, one of the things Bucky has appreciated most about living here is the simple fact that nobody cares about it. 

People drive past it. Forget it exists. The isolation that others complain about has always suited him perfectly because it allows him to live at his own pace, untouched by the constant noise of the outside world. Bucky has no desire to watch that disappear because of whatever thing happened to be floating toward shore today.

Nor does he particularly enjoy imagining what role he might end up playing in the disaster.

The man who found it.

The man who saw it first.

The man everyone would inevitably want to speak to.

Questions, interviews, strangers knocking on his door, people expecting him to repeat the story over and over again to squeeze the news until the very last dollar.

The more he thinks about it, the more his anger grows.

All because of a creature he would have been perfectly content going his entire life without seeing.

Sam is still watching him, and the concern in his expression has deepened, gradually replacing whatever casual curiosity had prompted the question in the first place.

“Bucky?”

Only then does Bucky realize how long he has been standing there, silent. The pause has stretched far beyond what’s normal, long enough that another few seconds might encourage Sam to get closer and see for himself what has captured his attention.

That can’t happen.

Not now.

Perhaps not ever.

“Yes.”

The answer is devoid of any emotion yet delivered with enough certainty that someone else might have accepted it without question.

Sam knows him too well for that.

For a long moment he studies Bucky’s face with the skepticism of a man who has already reached the conclusion that something is wrong but has not yet decided whether it’s worth arguing about. The wind moves between them, tugging at jackets and carrying the distant sound of waves against the rocks beyond the harbor, while behind Bucky the figure continues drifting steadily through the dark water.

Eventually, Sam exhales and gives a small nod.

“Alright,” he hums. “Pietro wanted me to ask if you’re coming to Joe’s for a beer.”

“No, I’m beat.”

Sam stares at his friend for a little longer, before nodding slowly. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

But he doesn’t make any move to leave.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He doesn’t sound particularly convinced as he frowns. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

He shrugs, his eyes flicking briefly toward the open sea out of sheer habit before meeting Bucky’s gaze.

“Well, don’t stay out here all night.” He sighs.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

Sam nods again, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

“See you tomorrow, Barnes.”

Bucky grunts in response, waiting until the sound of his footsteps has disappeared completely before allowing himself to look back at his new problem.

The first indication that Bucky has made a catastrophic mistake arrives approximately halfway between the maintenance ramp and his truck.

Up until that point, the plan seemed bothersome but achievable. Certainly not smart, but achievable.

You, the creature—because he still refuses to think of you as anything else—were fully unconscious as the current eventually carried you near enough for him to step off the ramp and into the freezing water. From there, he decided that he would check whether you were alive, get you out of the water, and then figure out the rest somewhere private.

Instead, the moment his hand finally closed around your wrist, the entire evening began deteriorating at an alarming pace.

The first problem was that you were barely alive. The pulse beneath his fingertips was weak, but still there.

The second problem revealed itself only after he managed to drag you close enough to properly examine you, and that forced Bucky to immediately abandon several much simpler solutions, because his nose instantly caught the revolting smell of seaweed mixed with iron.

The blood was difficult to see at first in the dark, diluted by water, but red streaks had spread around you as the waves shifted, eventually staining his palms and clothes once he reached underneath your shoulders to keep your face above the surface.

Bucky adjusted his grip and promptly regretted it when the movement caused the weight of your tail to shift again.

“Jesus Christ.”

If there was one thing he had learned during the last twenty minutes, it was that mermaids are significantly heavier than they look.

His attention then settled on the scratches scattered across your arms and shoulders—thin deep lines that looked as though a ferocious beast with big claws had taken an interest in you with all the intention of turning you into its next meal. More marked your sides as others disappeared around your back.

The damage to your tail, however, was horrifying.

Even now Bucky finds himself grimacing whenever his eyes drop to the big bloody stains on the beach towel wrapped around it.

Several scales were torn away completely and parts of the fin looked shredded. Deep gouges crossed sections of muscle that probably made swimming impossible, as the amount of blood surrounding the wounds suggested that whatever had happened to you was quite recent.

The sight alone was enough agonizing to make Bucky wince.

And because the injury somehow made the entire situation feel more real.

Unfortunately, the third problem proved considerably more immediate: transportation.

Bucky stops briefly beside a stack of lobster traps to adjust his hold before continuing toward the parking lot.

You remain entirely unhelpful throughout the process.

“Could’ve at least woken up.” He grunts. “You don’t have to hold a conversation. Just enough to explain why your mauled tail is so damn heavy.”

The closest thing to a response he receives is your head rolling slightly against his shoulder.

His jaw clenches.

“Yeah, that’s about what I expected.”

The walk should not have been difficult, his truck is visible from the dock, a distance he crosses almost daily without effort. Tonight, however, every step seems determined to prove some previously unknown law of physics regarding large aquatic women.

The tail keeps shifting, the fin catching against his legs.

Twice he nearly lost his grip entirely.

The second occasion could have been particularly catastrophic because it occurs directly beside a puddle deep enough to soak both of you. The sudden jolt nearly sends you slipping from his arms and onto the hard concrete.

Bucky lurches forward instinctively.

“Absolutely not.” He tightens his hold.

“No.” He grits out, his chest heaving quickly under the exertion. “We’re not doing that.”

He stops for a second, enough to properly recover his balance.

“If I drop you in a fucking parking lot after dragging you out of the damn sea, I swear on my mother’s grave I’m leaving this town.”

By the time he finally reaches the truck, his lungs are burning.

The vehicle sits alone beneath one of the lampposts, exactly where he left it that morning, completely unaware that its owner has apparently spent the evening acquiring a mermaid.

Bucky stares at it for a long moment, before he looks at you.

Then back at the truck, before his eyes fall on the tail.

A deep sigh escapes him.

“Stupid dock.”

He shifts your weight.

“Stupid town.”

He takes a step forward.

“Stupid Sam.”

A particularly awkward portion of your tail nearly slides out of his grasp.

“Stupid fish-lady.”

The nickname feels unfair, but he uses it anyway. Because blaming himself would have required accepting that every terrible consequence currently happening is the direct result of a decision he had made entirely on his own.

The irritation only grows as Bucky awkwardly maneuvers you on the passenger side, already wondering how exactly he intends to explain the blood covering his clothes if anybody happens to drive past before he gets out of there.

That concern alone is enough to make him move faster.

Carrying an unconscious, half-naked woman through the harbor after dark would already guarantee several months of gossip.

Carrying an unconscious, half-naked woman covered in blood would almost certainly result in the police becoming involved.

And carrying an unconscious, half-naked mermaid covered in blood...

Bucky doesn’t even bother finishing the thought.

Some things are too large to contemplate while lifting.

The passenger seat offers the illusion of structure. It’s familiar, comfortable... None of which matter the moment he realizes that your lower half doesn’t, in fact, respect the concept of seating.

The tail doesn’t fold, nor moves in any cooperative manner. It simply exists—heavy and entirely indifferent to the existence of upholstery.

Bucky stands before the passenger seat for a moment longer than necessary, breathing hard with one hand braced on the truck door while the other supports your shoulders. He stares at the seat with quiet resentment.

“Of fucking course.” He grits out under his breath.

Carefully, he tries once again to lower you into the seat anyway, because he has already wasted too much time trying to not drop you on his way back to the truck. The moment your weight shifts fully into the cabin, the tail slides sideways with alarming inevitability, dragging across the door frame before settling awkwardly along the floorboard, resulting in the fin to bend unnaturally.

Bucky pauses to look at it for a long moment, arms open as if ready to catch you, before he lets out a slow sigh.

“This is fine.” He murmurs, in the same tone of someone who is trying to convince himself as well.

The engine starts with its usual reluctant groan and for a few seconds there is a brief, deceptive sense that the worst part has just begun.

The road away from the docks is, as always, in a state of neglect that could only be described as communal acceptance of decay. Potholes interrupt the asphalt at irregular intervals, forcing the truck into sudden dips that make the suspension complain loudly, while uneven patches send vibrations through the chassis that consequentially reach the passenger seat.

And you.

The first jolt is mild, barely noticeable. The second makes your upper body shift forward enough for Bucky’s arm to shoot out instinctively, bracing across your chest to push you back against the seat.

“Yeah,” he exclaims flatly, eyes going back and forth between you and the road. “That’s right. Stay there.”

Another pothole hits immediately after, harsher this time, and the truck lurches hard enough that your entire weight shifts again.

Bucky’s hand moves without thought, catching your arm firmly before you can tilt any further.

“I don’t know who the hell is in charge of this town,” he states far more loudly than before, steering one-handed as the road curves unexpectedly. “But I would very much like five minutes alone with them and a shovel.”

The truck bounces again and your tail scrapes against the floorboard with a dull, dragging sound that makes his jaw clench.

“We have time and money to build a fucking dock extension nobody asked for, but fixing the only road anyone actually uses is apparently optional.”

The silence that follows is, as always, entirely unhelpful. It makes the entire situation worse—at least if you had been awake, he could have been annoyed at you directly.

Instead Bucky is forced to distribute his frustration evenly across the universe.

The truck continues forward, tires thudding rhythmically over uneven pavement, while the landscape outside the windows shifts from industrial structures to the quieter edges of town. Streetlights pass in slow intervals, casting brief white flashes across the interior of the truck that make you look almost unreal, as though you were the beloved, ethereal character out of a forgotten fairytale rather than a half-dying creature tossed around by the cruel sea.

Bucky keeps one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally bracing you when the road demands it, each movement growing more automatic the longer the drive continues.

Eventually, the houses grow farther apart and the roads slightly less cratered, until the familiar shape of his street comes into view.

Only then does he notice the faint sting in his muscles, how tightly his shoulders have been locked.

Bucky parks into his driveway with more precision than usual, worried that any sudden turn might somehow jerk your body one final fatal time. When the truck finally comes to a full stop, he allows himself to exhale properly.

For a long moment, he just sits there with the faint noise of the engine ticking as it cools, and his hands still on the wheel.

Then, slowly, he turns his head.

You are still unconscious. Still inconveniently alive. Your tail occupies roughly eighty percent of his passenger seat in a way that suggests you have no intention of becoming easier to deal with at any point in the near future. Saltwater has already begun to dry in uneven patches across the upholstery and Bucky already knows he is going to regret the smell for a very long time.

With a tired sigh, he tips his head back against the headrest, letting his eyelids flutter shut.

Even for him—broad-shouldered and built for hauling anything the harbor demands—this is a new kind of effort. It settles deep into his muscles in a way that ordinary work never does, accumulating in his forearms and shoulders and along the length of his back with a dull, persistent ache that sharpens every time he shifts in his seat.

Crates have handles, machinery can be pushed, and even the heaviest loads usually possess the decency to distribute their weight evenly. But between the painful wounds and the sheer mass of that ridiculous tail, carrying you feels more like wrestling with gravity itself. 

Now that the adrenaline has worn off, a knot throbs beneath his left shoulder blade. His lower back protests when he breathes too deeply, and his hands faintly burn from how tightly he had been holding on.

Bucky drags a hand down his face, and as he sits in the dark in the middle of his quiet driveway, he’s forced to acknowledge the next dreadful step: getting you inside.

That night, locking the front door comes with a heavy weight on his chest.

He can no longer pretend this is temporary. The ocean is not going to reclaim you overnight, nor the harbor is going to quietly undo his fate.

Officially you are, for the foreseeable future, his responsibility.

The bathroom is the only place that makes even a limited amount of sense, because as far as Bucky is concerned fish need water to survive.

He carries you in carefully, adjusting his grip more than once with low, strained groans, and by the time he finally manages to lower you into the tub, he is already panting in a way that has nothing to do with physical strain alone. The tub itself is barely large enough, your body forced into a curled position that makes the entire thing feel wrong from every possible angle.

With a long sigh, he can finally focus on the injuries.

Every time he peels back maimed scales or moves a section of the tail enough to inspect the wounds, he finds himself pausing for a fraction too long, hissing quietly as he registers just how extensive the damage actually is.

The scratches along your arms and torso are deep enough that he cleans them with antiseptic without hesitation, muttering under his breath the entire time.

“What the fuck did you do?” He shakes his head, though there is no indication you could hear him. 

The gauze comes next, wrapped carefully around injuries that would have required a hospital if you had been human. He works methodically, hands steady out of habit more than comfort, leaning closer than he would have liked in order to keep the bandaging tight enough to stay in place without cutting off circulation.

The tail is another story.

Nothing about it behaves like something that could be treated in a conventional medical way. Bucky does what he can, though, gently wiping the blood, applying antiseptic where it makes sense, and then carefully positioning the injured section so that it remains mostly above the waterline while the rest of you is gradually submerged. 

It’s an awkward compromise, the kind that makes him repeatedly adjust the placement of towels and folded fabric until he is reasonably satisfied that nothing is actively getting worse.

Bucky stands over the edge of the tub for a long moment, one hand braced on the tiles to support his aching body as much as he can while he watches absently the water fill around you. At least something in your posture finally eases a little.

“That’ll have to do.” He mutters, finally breathing properly once he steps into the hallway.

Over the next three days, the house stops feeling his in any meaningful sense.

The bathtub remains occupied at all times, which means that basic routines have to be adjusted in ways he finds increasingly irritating. At one point, after nearly knocking over a bottle of soap while trying to maneuver around the bathroom, he stares at you for a long moment.

“This is ridiculous.”

You don’t respond, which he has already established as your primary method of communication.

On the third day, he drives into town and returns with a large tub that requires significant rearranging of his living room to accommodate. The old furniture is pushed aside with minimal ceremony, the new container placed near the center of the space like some kind of absurd contemporary art installation he refuses to acknowledge as emotionally significant in any way.

“I’m not doing this for you,” he grunts while dragging it slightly to the left. “I’m doing this because I need a place to shower without stepping over a fucking unconscious fish.”

When he finally deems the position satisfying, he stops right before the tub and stares at you.

“You’re not even supposed to exist.”

By the fifth day, Bucky has acquired a new kind of routine, because now every part of the day revolves around returning home.

He checks on you before leaving for the dock. At first, the visits are practical and necessary: he needs to make sure the water is clean, that the bandages have not come loose during the night, that whatever infection he has been quietly expecting has not finally decided to appear.

The tail still unsettles him every time: some mornings he rounds the corner carrying a mug of coffee and stops at the sight of the scales beneath the surface before remembering that there is, in fact, a mermaid occupying his living room.

The realization is somehow never less strange.

He checks on you again when he comes back for lunch. He tells himself it’s because no sensible person would leave an unconscious stranger unattended for twelve hours yet this conveniently ignores the fact that he has never once come home for lunch before, though. It happens on the third day of this new arrangement for the first time ever, not even realizing what he’s doing until he’s pulling into his driveway instead of sitting with the others eating his sandwich.

The second time, he pretends it’s intentional. Until he gives up trying to justify it altogether.

The moment he returns in the evening, before taking off his boots—before even putting away his keys—Bucky walks to the tub.

His groceries sit forgotten by the front door more than once. One evening he tracks muddy footprints across half the house because he catches sight of the injured part of your tail on the brink of falling into the water, so he ends up jogging straight past the mat. Another time he leaves the television running in the background for nearly an hour before realizing he has spent the entire time sitting beside the tub staring blankly at the water instead of watching the stupid show Sam insisted he would like.

At some point during the night, he inevitably finds himself getting up for no reason he can adequately explain, walking across the house in silence and standing beside the tub just to confirm that you are still breathing.

Sometimes he remains there longer than necessary, enough to notice that the house sounds eerily different at night. The old pipes creak, the wind howls against the windows, water shifts softly whenever you move in your sleep... and he catches himself waiting for that sound.

He hates himself.

It’s fucking humiliating and he’s fully aware of that.

And then there is the staring.

Bucky would like to claim that it only happens while he’s changing the bandages, while his hands are occupied with gauze and antiseptic and his mind with the careful reminder of making sure nothing has worsened overnight, because that would somehow justify it.

Yet there are moments when he lingers there long after cleaning your wounds, sitting beside the tub with his hands resting loosely on his knees, his attention no longer anchored to anything in particular, as though he has simply forgotten to stand up and leave. Only after several seconds does he realize that his eyes have settled on your slack face and stayed there without permission.

The problem is not simply that you are beautiful, though even that thought irritates him in a way he doesn’t fully care to examine, because it’s too simple and therefore too easy to dismiss. The problem is that everything about you feels impossible in a way that doesn’t sit comfortably within the ordinary structure of his life.

Although silence was forced upon you, your magnetic presence still creates an unsettling contrast with the quiet, predictable weight of his house. At the end of the day, you are something borrowed from a place that doesn’t follow the same rules as the rest of the world.

More than once, while standing in the middle of tasks that require his full attention, he finds himself wondering what color your eyes are, and not as a question he intends to answer, but as something that simply appears in the background of his thoughts and refuses to leave when he tries to push it away.

It leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue, because it’s unnecessary and Bucky doesn’t have time for unnecessary things. It implies a level of attention he has no intention of giving, even though it returns again and again in the quietest moments, as persistent as the sound of the tide against the harbor walls.

At work, he is more silent than usual even by his own standards, which is something Pietro comments on more than once with the kind of exaggerated concern that suggests he is both amused and genuinely uncertain whether something is wrong. Even the few words he normally allows himself seem to cost more effort than they should, part of his attention already drifting back toward the house without him fully noticing it.

There are moments when he finds himself standing still, eyes fixed on the open stretch of sea beyond the harbor where the water darkens with depth and distance. His thoughts lose their usual shape and linger instead on the parts of the world that have never been accounted for in humans’ understanding of it.

It’s not simply the sea as he knew it, with the predictable rhythms of tide and current and the weathered ships moving in and out of the harbor, but something broader and less defined. Your existence is indeed the confirmation that most of it remains unseen, untouched, and entirely outside of anything he has ever had reason to consider.

Bucky wonders, without meaning to, how many things move beneath that surface without ever breaking it, how many shapes exist in the deep water that have no connection to anything on land, and whether the world has always been fuller than it looks from the edge of a dock.

The thought is not particularly welcome, because it doesn’t fit into anything that Bucky normally considers useful.

Another ten days pass and you still haven’t awakened, but your breathing has stabilized and that has to mean something. Right?

That morning, when he steps closer to the tub, Bucky is already reaching for the edge before his brain fully registers what his eyes are seeing.

The bandages on your tail are still in place, though slightly shifted from movement he had not witnessed. The injuries beneath them look marginally less severe than before—still far from healed, but no longer actively worsening.

He frowns slightly as he leans in, adjusting the gauze diligently and checking the open wounds with the same clinical focus of the last couple of days.

“Still looks like hell,” he mutters. “But at least you’re stable.”

He straightens slowly with a sigh, unconsciously letting his gaze trace the length of your body until they reach your face.

And there, he meets your eyes.

Your open eyes.

Bucky freezes mid-motion, both his hands still hovering over your tail. His lips part pathetically at the ethereal sight, but before he can comprehend what’s happening, you scream right in his face.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general bucky taglist: @itzzkayla @randomfanpage @astraea-and-her-novels @heavenlypjm @spinsteringintoamillionpieces @pandasslol @wildflowersandvibranium @scribblesandquotes @beans-and-toast @singulartoast @gentlelimerence @secretxion14wells @maplesyrizzup @phantom-wolf-girl @norucking @punkh3arted @r4isins @doctorbitchcrxft @butterfly-lover @secretdream2 @sambuckystony @cowboylikeh @jasontoddswhitestreak @shrupshrooms @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @ninauh @metal-armed-muse @mehmeh331 @iloveshawnieboi @namjoohnie @onyx8514 @nash-dara @tt-bby @midnightmondaykiss @mikonawa @oomexluvsseb @floraslcve @erina00 @clover1004 @eatingyourboyfriend @starfire-irl @phoenix-in-writing @shyshyraven-writes @thegirlfatherr @jamesbbcrnes @yapeez @jynx-the-dynx

You let out a small huff, annoyed that they weren’t right beside you like usual. Usually, you wake up sandwiched between them. Your head smacked dab in the middle of Rhett’s chest, his steady heart beating rhythmically in your ears while Bob was pressed against your back, his arms snaked around your waist with his head buried in your neck.

The smell of freshly made bacon wafts its way through the air, and despite not feeling too well, you decide to make your way out into the kitchen, ignoring the pain that shoots through your head and down your neck. You still need to eat some breakfast anyway; you can rest all you want after.

You greet Rhett with a sleepy wave as you rub your eyes awake, adjusting to the bright lights of the kitchen. A small giggle escapes you when he throws you a wink. You walk over to Bob who’s sitting at the kitchen table, coming up behind him, gently tipping his head back so you can place a kiss on his forehead. He closes his eyes and smiles when your plush lips press against his skin. You make sure to ruffle his hair before plopping down on the empty chair beside him.

Bob clings to your side the moment you sit down, whispering a ‘missed you’ as he nuzzles your cheek. You let out a small, not-so-there laugh, whispering back that he’d just been sleeping with you not too long ago, but he ignores you, simply kissing your cheek as he stays wrapped around you.

This is how it usually is. Bob has always the one clingier out of the three of you. Sometimes you’d wake up to find him completely draped over you like a blanket. You didn’t even need a blanket most nights because Bobs’ body heat kept you plenty warm.

Even outside your nest, he’d drape himself over your body, needing you as close as physically possible. You’d joke that he was like a koala or squid, just clinging to you, limbs and all. Bob would nip at your neck, grumbling an empty threat about withholding cuddles from you as he simultaneously burrowed into your side. You both knew he couldn’t go through with the threat even if he tried.

Rhett would always chuckle at the sight, calling him a ‘needy lil’ omega’ which would always resort in Bob proving his point, reaching out and pulling him alongside you, encasing you completely in both their bodies.

Rhett presses a kiss to the top of Bobs head as he places a plate of food down in front of him before Rhett does the same for you. A plate topped with pancake and bacon is placed in front of you before all too familiar arms wrap around your shoulders, “Sleep good?”

You shrug, eyes closed as you lean back into him, basking in his embrace, soaking in the feeling of his strong arms wrap around you.

Rhett makes a questioning noise, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead, “Feel a little warm darlin’?” There’s a slight tinge of concern laced in his voice.

You nod, but shrug it off, “Probably just coming down with something. My head hurts a lot, and I feel a little stuffy. Might go nap after we eat.”

Bob and Rhett share a look of concern.

You don’t often get sick, but when you do, it hits you like a freight train, leaving you weak and shivering under the bed covers. And with winter coming stronger and sooner this year, Wyoming was already covered in snow with the four inches that had fallen overnight, and more was to come this week. You’d made sure to stock up on all the essentials, but there was still more to do around the farm before nightfall.

Rhett hums into your hair, rubbing your sides once more before detaching from you. He heads for the window, peaking through the blinds to look at the barn. He sighs before calling out to you both, “M’ gonna go and check on the horses in the barn, alright? Might need to reinforce the wood too, make sure the storm don’t cause too much chaos for them. Then I’m just gonna shovel the snow. Doubt it’ll do much with the storm comin’, but just in case.” Rhett nods over to Bob, “She gets worse, just call for me and I’ll come right back.”

Bob nods, moving closer so you can lean on him as you try and finish your food. Rhett smiles, satisfied at seeing his two omegas taking care of each other before pulling on his coat and Stetson before making his way out in that icy Wyoming snow.

Usually, you’d scold him for insisting on still wearing that old Stetson when you bought him a perfectly good beanie not too long ago to keep him warm when he had to work in the snow, but instead you just wave goodbye to him with a frown. You didn’t want Rhett to go. You wanted him to stay inside where it was warm and safe. Where he was in your line of sight and always close by.

Rhett worried seeing you look so out of it, and he wanted nothing more than to scope you up in his arms and soothe the ache away, but if you came down with something, he needed to make sure he got everything done on the farm first and then he could come back and take care of you properly.

It didn’t occur to either of you that this could be something more than a cold or flu. You’d always been regular, your heats coming every six weeks like clockwork, and since you weren’t due for two weeks, the thought didn’t even cross your mind.

You shiver when the door shuts behind Rhett, burrowing into Bobs’ side before hiding your face in his neck and breathing in his scent. He smells like honey and apricot, and it immediately soothed the ache in your head that started pulsing even harder.

“Hey, you okay baby?”

Concern laces his voice at your neediness, but you just shake your head at him, pushing your half-eaten breakfast away from you, “Think I should just go lie down now.”

You move to stand, but Bob’s faster than you, and within a blink of an eye he’s carrying you bridal style, making his way back to your room. Usually, you’d protest or squeal in surprise, but instead you just sink further into his chest.

“There we go baby.” Bob settles you down on the bed, nuzzling your nose before pressing a kiss against it, “Need anything before we get comfy?”

Your voice comes out small, wavering a little as you feel an twinge in your chest at the third body missing from your side, “Rhett’s hoodie and some water, please.”

Bob coos at how sweet you sound, placing a light kiss on your forehead before pulling away. “Coming right up.”

Bob’s quick as he gets you some water, placing it on the bedside table before walking over to the closet and picking out Rhett’s black hoodie that he wears basically all the time. He breathes in the musk and cedarwood of his mate, smiling before bringing it back to you, chuckling as it swallows you whole. Bob lays beside you, letting you burrow in his chest as you try and shake off this pounding you’ve been feeling all day. Hopefully with some more sleep, you’ll wake up good as new.

Fat chance.

You’d been asleep only for maybe an hour or two when you woke up drenched in sweat, doubling over as an intense, sharp-shooting pain flooded your lower belly from where you laid against the nest you and Bob had created together.

A sickly-sweet smell flooded your nose as you realized how soaked you were between your legs, gasping out when another wave of pain swept through you, making you clutch your stomach, “Robby!”

You shake Bob awake, desperate for his touch. Bob looks confused for a moment, before the smell of your slick hits him, making his dick twitch in his sweats, “Oh fuck baby, your heat came early.”

You whine, hastily and clumsily taking off what you were wearing, needing his skin on yours. Bob stares up at you in awe, his eyes wide, following your every move as you crawl on top of him, pawing at his clothing, desperate for him to remove it. Bob takes off his shirt just in time for you to capture him in a kiss and the moment he slides his sweats off, you grind against his leg, urgently needing some friction against your swollen clit.

“Wait,” Bob holds you still by your hips, detaching himself from your lips as he tries to speak, “I should get-”

“No! Need you! Now!” You let out a broken whine, desperate for his cock to fill the ache in your dripping pussy.

Bob gnaws at his bottom lip. While yes, he wanted nothing more than to nestle himself between your legs. Nipping at your neck as you clench around his leaking cock, filling you with his cum, he knew you needed Rhett. Bob could satisfy the ache momentarily, but Rhett would keep the pain away for hours.

“But-”

“Please Robby, need you inside me.”

Bobs resolve crumbles entirely at your frantic tone and tear-stained cheeks. As much as he wants to get Rhett, his need to take care of you right now supersedes the logic in his mind.

Bob whispers an ‘okay’, kissing your fallen tears as he switches positions, his arms on either side of your head as he hovers above you. With another loving kiss, his cock slowly pushes forward, moaning into your mouth the moment your warm walls touch the tip of his cock.

He slips in easily, your slick making you so wet during your heats that you don’t usually require any prep. You mewl as he fills you to the hilt, wrapping your legs around his waist to keep Bob as close as possible he starts fucking into you.

Bobs hand comes up, pressing lightly against where his and Rhett’s mating marks meet, sending a wave of emotions through you as your hands suddenly clamp down across him, your nails digging into the flesh of Bobs back.

While pressing against the marks helped make the mate feel safety and pleasure all at once, it also sent a signal to Rhett, who was still in the middle of boarding up the barn. Rhett was hammering the last of the wood to the wall, the howling of the wind and the snap of metal against wood is all he hears as he focuses on working fast. His arm is lifted, ready to hammer into the wood again when he winces, clutching his neck in surprise that his mating mark is burning. He stills for a moment before taking a big sniff of the air, focusing his ears and nose on what he can’t see.  

At first, Rhett could only smell the faint aroma of the crisp snow and the hay in the barn, but as he focused, he was hit with the smell of yours and Bobs combined scents, and the delicious smell of your slick, kicked up to 100. Rhett groans, nearly falling to his knees as your scent hits him with full force. He catches himself on the wall, blinking in surprise, before hastily dropping the hammer down on the bench in the barn. He bolts out of there, barely making sure the barn was secure before he rushed back inside. The need to take care of his mates’ heat overriding everything else.

Before Rhett even stumbles into the room, he was greeted with your sound of your moans echoing through the house, reverberating off the walls as you chanted Bobs name. His dick immediately twitched in his pants, hardening as Rhett palms himself to the sweet little sounds you let out. Rhett makes his way to the room, quickly discarding his clothes along the way, letting them sit wherever they land. The sound of both of your desperate, needy cries and the smell of sex greet him as the door opens.

“Robby, m’cum-”

“Shit, me too-”

Rhett watches with amused eyes as Bob groans, clamping down on your shoulder as his thrusts get sloppy, fucking his seed into you nice and deep. Bob’s frantic to take care of you, to make sure you’re feeling all the pleasure he can possibly give you. All he wants is to be good for you as he fucks his cum into you like this.

Bob smells Rhett before he hears him, not showing an ounce of surprise when the cowboy’s voice suddenly echoes through the room, “You takin’ good care of our girl?” Bob nods, his thrusts slowing down to a stop as he lays on top of you, his cock still buried deep inside despite him softening. Sweat drips down Bob’s temple as he leans into Rhett’s touch, out of breath. “That’s a good boy, always takin’ good care of our omega.”

“Always.” Bob huffs out, tired. Before Bob can protest, Rhett’s hands snake around Bobs waist, gently pulling him out of you. You both whine, Bob at the cold, and you at the sudden emptiness. Rhett shushed you both with a kiss, easily manhandling Bob and placing the other omega beside you. Rhett nudges Bob head to your breast, a satisfied smile gracing his lips once the other man latches to your nipple.

You moan, your hand coming up and holding Bobs head in place at your chest, entangling your fingers in his wild hair as he starts suckling on your sensitive nub.

Rhett hovers above you, taking in your slacked jaw and glazed over eyes before dragging his tongue along your neck, leaving a trail of saliva all the way down your body, the taste of salt on his tongue before he’s face to face with your pulsing core, his mouth watering as he stares down at your lips that are already starting to leak out Bobs cum. Now that just won’t do.

Your back arches, moaning as Rhett flicks his tongue out, licking a long strip along your folds. Rhett moans as he tastes the mix of Bobs seed and your slick on his tongue, before he takes your sensitive clit in his mouth.

You cry out, frantically squirming in his hold. Bob places a hand in the middle of your chest, pushing you back down against the bed, keeping you in place as he bites down on your nipple, as if scolding you for disrupting his alone time with your sensitive nub.

“Robby!” There’s a glint of amusement behind those blue eyes as Bob ignores your whine, simply continuing to lap at your nipple while his hand moves to toy with your other breast.

Rhett nips at your sensitive bundle of nerves in reprimand, making you let out a pitiful howl, as your hips shakily buck into the air.

Rhett finds his rhythm fast, hearing your heartbeat quicken and the way your breath hitches that tells him you feel another orgasm approaching. Your legs clamp down around his head as an intense wave crashes through you, a choked cry of Rhett’s name leaving your lips. Twitching in sensitivity, Rhett continues to rub his tongue along your core, loving how you jolt and squirm under him.

Your sobs echo through the room as Rhett detaches from your clit. Bob is already cradling your head, whispering gentle praises in your ear as you try to regulate your breathing. Usually, you’d be spent after such an intense orgasm if this were any other day. But because of your heat, your core was already aching to be filled again sensitivity be damned.

“You okay darlin?”

You meekly nod, sniffling as you whimper, “Need you. Please.”

Rhett doesn’t waste any more time, sighing in relief once he finally slides all the way into your slick soaked walls, groaning as you try and clench around him. Bobs cum and your slick cause a squelching noise to echo through the room as Rhett’s skin slaps against yours. The bed creaks under you, slamming against the wall as Rhett picks up speed, lifting your hips at an angel so he’s fucking into you deeper. You whine, swearing that you can see the outline of his cock as your belly bulges.

Bob stays at your side, mumbling praises in your ear, as Rhett stretches you impossibly wide, “Such a good omega, taking our alphas cock so well. Like you were made for it.”

You whimper, vulnerability glistening in your eyes as you seek reassurance, “Yeah?”

“Of course.” Rhett’s voice comes out sounding almost like a growl, clawing its way out from deep within his chest, “Made for me, my little ‘mega.”

Rhett laces his hand with Bobs before pulling you into a kiss full of teeth and tongue, groaning in your mouth as he feels himself nearing his orgasm. Rhett detaches himself from your lips to bite down on your mating mark just as his knot catches onto your entrance, securing his cock in your pulsating core as he floods you with his seed.

You cry out, cuming a third time on his knot, shaking between them as you feel Rhett fill you to the brim, an ungodly amount of cum secured in your cunt.

Comforting kisses are pressed all over you. Along your forehead, shoulders, and breasts. Rhett stays on top of you; the weight of his burly body brings comfort to you as the ache that’d been burning inside you finally calms.

Hushed voices and soft touches bringing forth the drowsiness that slowly causes your eye lids to droop. You try to keep them open, but your mates synching heart beats are the final nail in the coffin and you welcome sleep like an old friend.

---

Quiet whimpers and the moan of your name wake you from your slumber. You immediately notice the emptiness between your legs, feeling Bob and Rhett’s cum leaking out of you the moment you shift. You let out a quiet yip, mind still hazy from sleep as you try and figure out where your mates are. You hear another whimper, turning your body towards the noise.

You squint, eyes narrowing in on the sight that makes your clit pulse. Calloused hands hold those dark curls tight, Rhett’s expression is mean as he tugs the other man’s head up and down his cock.

Your sleepy eyes meet Bobs tear filled ones. His whine once again muffled by Rhett’s cock as he reaches a handout for you, wanting to touch you, needing to breath in your scent to feel whole. The smell hits you then, heat growing in your sore pussy as you realize your heat must have triggered Bobs own.

“Needy lil omega, aren’t ya Robby?”

Bob nods, humping Rhett’s leg, desperate for some friction as the other man uses his mouth. Your core aches with a burning fire.

“Darlin’.” Rhett calls out, beckoning you over with a nod, “C’mere.”

You slowly crawl over to Rhett’s outreached hand, still sore between the legs, before you let him pull you into a sloppy kiss. You turn from the kiss when you hear a quiet whimper from Bob, feeling the desire radiating in his eyes as he watches you and Rhett. You smirk, excited when Rhett gives you a nod.

You crawl down, settling yourself between Bobs legs before taking his leaking, red cock in your mouth, moaning around his length. Bob immediately mewls, bucking his hips into your mouth, making you gag as his dick hit the back of your throat. Before he knows it, Rhett’s tugging him back on his cock, Bob’s nose nestled so nicely right at Rhett’s pelvic bone as the alpha continues to fuck his mouth.

The day was just getting started for you three. Soon you’ll all be a turned into a sweaty, overstimulated pile of nothing desperate whimpers and explosive climaxes until your heats would subside after a couple of days of non-stop fucking and orgasms.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! Love ya!

Please do not copy or repost. Love and thank you all!

A/N: so... I won’t lie, I’m a little anxious. this story is extremely self-indulgent and stems from a deeply personal place. I know it might not be many people’s cup of tea but writing this was actually therapeutic after my friend gave me a sort of reality check about my love life lmao. one last thing, the order is not chronological. hope you’ll enjoy! series masterlist

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO WEAR MATCHING CLOTHES Sitting cross-legged on your bed, your laptop is balanced precariously on your thighs. The cursor has been hovering over the same cream-colored sweatshirt for almost twenty minutes now, your eyes flicking uselessly between the product picture and the tiny sizing chart beneath it as if either one could help with the actual problem here.

Because unfortunately the problem is not the hoodie per se, but that Bucky owns the exact same one. Well, almost exact. His is a beautiful shade of forest green, faded slightly at the cuffs from use and permanently smelling like fresh air, and the cedar and rose body wash he keeps in his shower. You saw it weeks ago, the first time he picked you up to drive you to work because you had planned to grab dinner together later. His broad shoulders easily filled the doorway of your house, holding two coffees and wearing that stupid hoodie that somehow made him look even larger. You remember trying to subtly peek at it while he drove, only to end up staring shamelessly at the way the sleeves strained around his forearms every time he turned the steering wheel.

And now here you are, thinking about matching clothes like a sixteen-year-old girl with a Pinterest board titled someday. It’s embarrassing enough that you need to physically close the laptop for a couple of seconds, before opening it again with a sigh.

You don’t even know why this matters so much. You have never done this before—the soft, easy parts of a relationship. You have never had someone long enough to build small habits with, someone steady enough that you could easily picture yourself sharing jokes only the two of you could understand over morning coffee, or reaching for their hand in the grocery store without spending days working up the courage first. You are still learning how to ask for things without feeling guilty afterward. Still learning how to want openly. And Bucky... God, Bucky makes it so much worse by being so impossibly patient about everything. From the very beginning.

Your first date had barely even started before he showed up with flowers hidden awkwardly behind his back, his left hand rubbing at the back of his neck almost sheepishly when he handed them to you.

“Before you say anything, sweetheart, my mama raised me right and she’d come back from the dead to beat my ass if I showed up empty-handed.”

Your laugh was so loud and unexpected that he stared at you for a good moment like he had just been entrusted with a beautiful, precious gem.

Then there was the second date. And the third. And somehow every single time, he never failed to surprise you with his sweet thoughtfulness. Sometimes it was wildflowers from his property he’d personally tie together with twine. Sometimes big yet tasteful bouquets of stargazer lilies that you would immediately put in a vase and proudly display on your dining table. Once, peonies so full and soft they had shed pink petals all over the inside of his truck.

He opened every door without making it feel performative, always guiding you carefully with one warm hand on your lower back as if that had become instinct before he even realized it. And then came the night of your fourth day, when he walked you to your door, lingering awkwardly while you fumbled with your keys.

You remember smiling nervously. “So… what exactly are we doing here?”

Bucky had taken a long moment to look at you, blue eyes softening under the faint light of your doorstep. “I was hoping I could court you properly.”

Court you. Who even says that anymore? Apparently, James Buchanan Barnes.

You stared at him while your heartbeat climbed into your throat. And because silence had stretched a little too long, he had immediately stepped in to reassure you.

“Only if you want me to, sweetheart. No pressure.”

No pressure. As if he had not already made your entire understanding of men shift off its axis.

Sometimes, it frightened you how naturally Bucky fit into your life. It started with warm drinks and pastries between classes because, “my pretty girl shouldn’t have to survive on burnt coffee from that old thing in the staff room”; with calling you every night just to hear your voice before bed, and taking you out on dates every Friday. Yet he could not stand going the rest of the week without seeing you, which was how sunny Sunday walks around his property became routine, along with Wednesday lunches at the little diner where his aunt’s friend, Pat, worked and spent the entirety of your meals watching the two of you with the sort of fondness reserved for people who are obviously in love yet keep shyly tiptoeing around each other.

Bucky loves intensely in all the quietest ways, which somehow makes asking for things complicated. Because what if one day you asked for something silly enough that made him realize how inexperienced you really were at all this?

Your eyes land back on the hoodie again as you chew at the inside of your cheek. Before you can overthink yourself out of it, you click purchase.

The first time you wear it around him is for movie night next Saturday. You have been shaking with excitement for weeks over the special twenty-fifth-anniversary screening of The Lord of the Rings. Bucky had agreed to come with you without even letting you finish explaining why it mattered so much, only to follow it up with an amused, “don’t gotta sell it to me, doll. I’ll take you wherever you wanna go.”

You almost change three times before he arrives. By the time his truck pulls up in your driveway, your stomach is churning so badly you feel like throwing up. It’s a hoodie that just happens to be like his, so what? People wear hoodies every day, they’re such a common piece of clothing... This is not a confession of undying love.

Still, the moment you pull open your door and find Bucky waiting on the other side like he’s been standing there just long enough to start missing you, you realize the sweater has perhaps not been your most emotionally neutral decision. His eyes find your face immediately, his default frown melting at once. But before he can even say hi, his gaze drops on the cream-colored fabric. You watch with horror the exact moment recognition settles in.

There is a brief, heavy pause, and then that slow, familiar curve of his mouth appears—not teasing in any cruel sense, never that. Just quietly pleased, enough that heat crawls all the way up your neck. And because your brain seems biologically incapable of letting you experience vulnerability like most people, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I thought the color looked nice.” The words tumble over each other so quickly they barely sound coherent by the end of the sentence.

Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard by your sudden defensiveness, before one dark eyebrow lifts, amusement flickering across his face in the gentlest possible way.

“Nobody said it didn’t, baby.”

You promptly look away as if the floor might offer some kind of mercy, pretending to be preoccupied with the sleeve of your hoodie while internally mourning what little dignity you have left. Bucky doesn’t let you sit in it alone for long, though. Taking a step closer, his warm presence is grounding enough that all the static noise in your brain fades. His hands naturally find your waist like they have always belonged there, before he softly nudges you forward.

“C’mere, sweetheart. Let me say hi properly.” He murmurs, leaning down to press a slow kiss on your lips, grinning at your unguarded, little giggle when his stubble tickles your skin.

The cold evening air makes you shiver, and you instinctively tug your sleeves further over your hands while Bucky leads you to his pickup truck, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. You can sense his quiet amusement, though he is kind enough not to mention the hoodie outright. Still, every now and then you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that same smitten expression reserved for you only.

Once you reach the passenger side, Bucky opens the door before you can even think about touching the handle yourself, one hand braced against the top of the frame while you climb inside.

“Watch your head.”

You duck obediently beneath his arm, trying very hard not to think about how quickly you have fallen into these tiny routines with him.

As Bucky rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat, your heart finally starts calming down. You might survive the evening with minimal humiliation, after all. But then, he just has to reach across and smoothly pull the seatbelt into place for you—the way his knuckles brush your thigh briefly through the fabric of your jeans still manages to send your thoughts scattering again.

“You’re fidgeting.” He mentions quietly, eyes flicking toward your hands where they are twisting nervously in the sleeves of your hoodie. “What’s going on in that pretty head, hm?”

You shake your head, far too quickly to look convincing.

“Nothing. I’m just a little cold.”

Bucky hums under his breath like he doesn’t believe you for even a second, yet doesn’t comment and instead lets his gaze fall on your sweater one more time before returning to your face. The smile that spreads slowly across his lips is so openly fond that your cheeks start burning.

In a careful movement, he leans over the center console and kisses you, his calloused fingers cupping your jaw with impossible tenderness.

“You look lovely tonight.”

That almost makes your heart explode out of your chest.

The next time he picks you up for lunch on your day off, your breath hitches as you freeze on the threshold. Because Bucky is leaning against the hood of his truck in his dark green sweatshirt, looking so boyishly handsome with his sunglasses pushed up into his long hair.

His expression loosens when he sees your features fall in realization. God, he looks so unfairly gorgeous when he gets that look in his eyes, the same one that suggests every sharp edge exists only for the rest of the world, never for you.

“There’s my pretty girl.”

Your stomach flips violently as he pushes himself off the imposing vehicle to cross the short distance, his hands easily settling at your hips the second he reaches you. He bends to kiss you hello, unhurried despite the cold, and your palms unconsciously come up to touch his chest.

“I missed you so much, baby.”

You are still too busy internally combusting to softly point out that you just saw each other two days ago for bowling night with your friends, Natasha and Darcy. Your fingers curl tighter in the fabric, and Bucky notices instantly.

His thumbs stroke once the curve of your waist. “You okay?”

You nod eagerly.

“You wore it.” The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, gaze still lingering on the hoodie in pure wonder.

Bucky glances down at himself, and then at your own sweater before meeting your eyes, the right corner of his mouth lifting adorably.

“Thought we’d look real cute if we matched.”

You feel dizzy at his effortless answer, devoid of any trace of irony or hesitation. And that’s the thing about Bucky, you realize again as you stand there trying to steady your pulse: he doesn’t treat these moments like anything out of the ordinary. He simply folds them into the shape of his care for you.

Before you can collect yourself enough to answer, he is already guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulders, opening the passenger door ahead of you with that same practiced care. The warmth of the truck hits you almost dazedly after standing still in the cold.

“Heat’s been on for a bit.” He remarks at your blink of surprise as he settles into the driver’s seat, his chin lightly nodding at the backseat, where two of his heavier jackets are folded neatly, placed with deliberate care so they will not shift during the drive. Beside them a fuzzy blanket sits just as methodically arranged.

“I know it’s not the warmest of hoodies.”

When you look back at him, he sends you a small wink. At your stunned silence, his fingers gently move beneath your chin to have your complete attention, your heart already beating too fast for you to pretend otherwise.

“You alright there, doll?” He asks with a small crease between his brows.

You nod too quickly, not entirely sure what words would even hold up under the weight of everything you are feeling right now. Bucky lets out a low sound that might almost be a laugh if it were not so gentle, and then he is leaning in just enough to press a peck to the corner of your mouth.

“Y’know, I think I’m getting attached to this whole matching thing. Sends a pretty clear message.” He murmurs against your skin.

From that point on, it’s an unspoken agreement that has tenderly carved its rightful place between you both. It never turns into a conversation so much as it becomes a habit for the two of you. A jacket chosen to match the tone of your skirt, a top swapped for a darker color, small details that only make sense when you realize he’s genuinely paying attention to you, building your relationship one quiet choice at a time.

And months later, there are mornings when he is sitting at the edge of the bed with coffee in hand, his eyes lazily following you move around his room as you get ready. They eventually land on your shoes.

“You wearing the brown boots today?”

You glance down at your outfit, confirming it with a small nod as you keep applying your mascara. Bucky hums once in acknowledgment, already pushing himself up with a low groan to reach for his own pair in the shoe rack.

“Then I’ll wear mine.” He mumbles casually.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO TAKE A CUTE PICTURE TOGETHER The local café is a half-forgotten hole-in-the-wall tucked between a bookstore and a florist, the kind that only feels busy because the tables are close enough that conversations blur into one another in a soft, overlapping hum. Today it’s warmer than usual for the season, sunlight spilling lazily across the pavement outside almost indulgently after days of grey skies and persistent rain. It coaxes people into lingering longer than they probably intend to as though no one is in any particular rush to leave.

You are sitting across from Bucky at a small round table on the patio, your cups half-full and an empty plate sitting between you, remnants of the slice of red velvet cake you shared earlier still scattered across it. He stepped away only a few minutes ago, murmuring something about the restroom and brushing his knuckles briefly against your shoulder as he left.

In an attempt to occupy yourself while you wait, you take out your phone, your thumb moving absentmindedly across the screen as you scroll through whatever comes up. Until a specific post catches your attention so suddenly it stops you entirely.

It’s one of those photos you have seen countless times while looking for outfit inspirations on Pinterest, clearly curated despite its effortless appearance. A girl sits on what you assume must be her boyfriend’s lap while the camera is angled downward just enough to capture their shoes together, his heavy worn boots resting beside her delicate heels. The entire image is framed in warm light that makes it look like wanting something and simply having it without hesitation.

The contrast is cute rather than discordant.

You find yourself stuck on that picture as your chest tightens, because there are still so many small things that you don’t know how to ask for yet, things that feel too silly to voice even though they linger in your mind longer than you would like to admit. A lap. A picture. His boots beside your pretty Mary Jane heels… It feels ridiculous to desire it this badly, yet you keep staring at your phone as if hesitation could soften the sting of being dismissed. Or worse, laughed at.

You don’t notice Bucky returning until the chair across from you shifts under his weight, the scrape of it pulling you sharply into the present as you instinctively place your phone back on the table a tad too quickly for it to look natural. He sits down pretending to not have noticed any of it, reaching for his coffee.

“Alright, lovely?” He asks, voice unbothered.

You open your mouth, then close it again almost immediately, your mind caught between embarrassment and the awareness of how easily he always seems to understand you. Bucky notices your uncertainty, but doesn’t push, instead loosely rests his forearms on the table to lean closer.

“Hey,” his voice lowers just enough to gently pull you out of your thoughts. “What were you saying before I got up? About yesterday’s meeting?”

It’s such a simple question yet it almost disarms you completely. People don’t usually do that—they interrupt you to start new conversations, change direction, lose track halfway through and then forget about it entirely. But Bucky is looking at you like your words were simply waiting there for him to return to them.

So you blink once, a little startled, then slowly exhale as memories come back with a sharp pang. About that stupid staff meeting. About Ms. Cox.

The words come out carefully at first, testing how much space you are allowed to take up, but the more you speak, the clearer Bucky can see frustration still fresh beneath your composure. 

“There is this student, Mark. Ms. Cox keeps insisting that he’s lazy and just—” You exhale tiredly. “She believes he doesn’t care about school.”

His jaw subtly tenses as he nods for you to go on.

“And I tried to explain that it isn’t that simple,” you continue, your fingers fidgeting on your lap. “Because it’s true that he struggles with math, but he works really hard, always does his best. He just needs time. And she… well, she went off on me.”

His brows draw together. “Went off how?”

Your eyes fall on the table before you adjust in your seat, as if moving could shake off the discomfort.

“She accused me of inflating grades to make myself look like a good teacher.” You admit quietly, the accusation leaving behind an ugly taste of shame on your tongue despite your innocence. “Because students do well in English. Including Mark.”

You can practically sense Bucky biting back his irritation, his frown deepening as he watches you shrink just talking about it.

“And the principal just let it slide?” His voice roughens slightly at the edges despite his effort to keep it even.

You huff out a small breath that resembles a laugh, devoid of any humor. “She has been teaching there forever. They just don’t deal with her anymore. Alice described her as—ah, sorry. Alice is the—”

“The art teacher.” 

You finally look at him, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah.” 

He gives you a small nod, a brief smile crossing his features.

“I remember.”

“Oh.” You have mentioned your colleagues only once since you started going steady, your meager dating experience having taught you that nobody was really interested in your life—especially your job. They focused more on meaningless, polite conversations punctuated by some generic compliment about your eyes, or your dress, that could guarantee them some sort of reward at the end of the night.

“Um.” You clear your throat, trying to ignore the intensity of his gaze. “So, Alice described her as a vindictive woman and since she’s close to retirement, they let her do whatever she wants because it’s easier than arguing with her.”

You hesitate for a second. “Years ago, there was this new physical education teacher...” Your voice lowers a little as if she might appear out of thin air and point her condescending finger at you. “She refused to approve his one-day school trip unless it was on her day off, because she didn’t want her schedule disrupted.”

Your jaw clenches briefly. “He told the principal… and after that she kept filing complaint after complaint about his ‘lack of professionalism’, until the school ended up not renewing his contract the next year.”

“What the fuck?” He mumbles under his breath, his lips pressing together tightly. “Wait—and they just expect you to take it?” His nostrils flare with a slow exhale.

“Pretty much.” You shrug, though it feels heavier than you intend.

For a moment, Bucky just sits there with his jaw tight as he chooses to not push his annoyance outward yet, mainly because he is waiting for you to let it all out. It’s in that pause that your eyes move unconsciously to the side of the table. Your phone is still there, the screen dark now, but not locked properly. You realize it too late, when a notification from that stupid teachers’ group chat—the one filled with nothing but good morning texts, good night wishes, and painfully unfunny memes—briefly wakes it and reveals that picture again, bright and candid.

Bucky’s attention promptly lands on it too. He doesn’t comment, which only makes your stomach tighten further as you hastily reach for your phone, turning it face down with too much force.

“What was that?” He asks casually, quiet curiosity dancing in his eyes.

“Nothing.” You answer too fast and his eyes narrow slightly, more observant than suspicious.

“That didn’t exactly sound like nothing, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, then deflect again, weaker this time. “Just a random picture.” You shrug, hoping to appear disinterested. “I was on Instagram and forgot to close it.”

That earns a pause from him, his head tilting just a fraction as he studies you more carefully.

“A picture you don’t wanna show me?” He asks gently.

You shake your head, eyes shyly falling on his arms. At that, Bucky simply shifts in his seat, his hand crossing the small space between you—not to take your phone, but to find your wrist and gently guide it to his lips. When you peek through your eyelashes, you almost flinch at how close he is now, his thumb reverently stroking your knuckles before his other hand cups your chin deliberately.

“You can tell me anything.” His voice is steady in a way that doesn’t leave room for pressure, only reassurance. “Y’know that, right?”

You shiver at the proximity. You do know, that’s the problem, how could you forget when Bucky stands before you, always so careful and sweet? And still, you are never entirely sure how to stop the words from breaking in your mouth.

“I just… saw something,” you confess weakly. “That I thought would be cute to recreate together.”

Bucky’s expression softens instantly.

“What is it, sweetheart?” 

You swallow thickly, fingers flexing once under his hand. Then, barely above a whisper, you manage it. “I’d like for us to take pictures like… couples do.”

He observes you silently, expression unreadable, until a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, patient and knowing all at once. He nudges his chair back a little farther to make room for you, patting his thigh once.

“C’mere.”

You blink. “What?”

He nods toward his lap.

“C’mere, doll.” He repeats quietly, reaching for your wrist before you can overthink yourself into refusing, to guide you around the table.

The realization of what you are doing hits in one overwhelming wave of self-consciousness the second your weight fully sinks on his lap. Bucky is bigger than you in every conceivable way, broader and heavier with muscle, solid where you are soft. His thick forearm dusted with dark hair keeps you close to the warmth of his chest, and his strong thighs spread comfortably beneath yours. When his palm settles on your knee to keep you balanced, the rough heat of his skin bleeds straight through the thin fabric of your stockings, and a small involuntary shiver runs through you. It’s humiliating how dizzy it makes you feel, because Bucky appears completely at peace behind you. You are trying not to implode from his touch and there he is, sitting back and holding you as if that’s exactly where you are meant to be.

Your unsteady hands finally reach for your phone, trying to angle it properly, breath catching a little when his fingers flex against your waist.

“You’re thinking way too hard.” He murmurs near your ear, his salt-and-pepper stubble faintly scratching your skin.

“I’m not.” You insist weakly.

Bucky hums low in his chest, unconvinced, the sound of it vibrating through his body into yours.

“Baby,” he calls out gently, mirth lying beneath his words. “You’ve taken six pictures of the table.”

Your face burns.

“I’m trying.” You mumble horrified, sighing in relief when you finally manage to frame your shoes correctly while he chuckles behind you.

“I know. You’re doing just fine, sweetheart. Take all the time you need...” He releases a slow exhale, then under his breath, “I’m definitely not complaining right now.”

The faint rasp in his voice and the way his thumb strokes the skin of your knee only make your pulse stumble harder. Finally, after another moment of fumbling and readjusting yourself against him, you manage to take a few proper photos.

The knot in your chest loosens gradually as you look through them. They are good. Not overly posed or awkward as you feared, but cute and intimate in that effortless way you had envied earlier. His scuffed work boots are beside your neat Mary Janes, your knees tucked between his jeans-clad ones, the edge of his large hand visible against your thigh like a quiet reminder that the man holding you is very much real, and that’s him.

A coy smile brightens your features. It’s a small, absent-minded gesture, yet Bucky is completely enraptured.

“There she is.” A comment under his breath, meant for himself.

You feel him lean closer to look over your shoulder, his chin brushing your cheek as his gaze settles on the screen, and the expression that crosses his face afterward is so openly proud that you feel the sudden urge to squirm out of giddiness.

“They came out pretty nice, huh?” 

You nod before turning back to properly look at him, still smiling.

“Thank you, Jamie.”

The words leave your mouth instinctively, sincere. Still, Bucky furrows his brows at you. His hand leaves your knee to curl delicately around your chin, guiding your face until your eyes meet properly.

“You don’t need to thank me.” His voice low but firm—a fact rather than a suggestion. “I love spending time with my girl. Y’hear me, baby?”

Your next breath catches in your throat so fast you almost choke on it. His expression softens further at whatever he sees on your face, his thumb stroking once your bottom lip before he closes the distance between your lips.

“You ask me for something, I’m gonna give it to you if I can.” He adds quietly against your mouth.

You swallow thickly, answering with an imperceptible nod that makes him hum, pleased. For a while, it’s just you and him. Tucked against his chest with the phone still loose in your hand, you sit sideways on his lap, his arm tightening around your waist the more your body grows pliant. The initial embarrassment melts into pure bliss once his forehead comes to rest on yours, his blue eyes fiercely glinting with devotion as they trace your pretty features.

You would probably stay here all afternoon if you could: no talking needed, just the safety of his arms. Eventually, though, duty creeps back in enough that you stiffen slightly, and Bucky loosens his hold at once, watching you get up. The hand on your thigh lingers for one last meaningful squeeze, goosebumps prickling across your covered skin.

The second your feet touch the ground again, you suddenly become aware of your slow breathing; of how his touch made you completely forget that you were sitting in your boyfriend’s lap, making out in the middle of a café situated on the main street, for anyone to see.

“I should probably go.” You mumble, smoothing your flowy dress unnecessarily to avoid his eyes.

A small smirk tugs at his lips at your clumsy attempt to regain composure.

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

By the time you reach the parking lot, your embarrassment has faded into a fuzzy tingle in the back of your head. Bucky opens the driver’s side door for you without breaking stride, one large hand resting automatically against the top of the frame while you climb inside. Your movements are a little languid as you place your palms on his chest for another kiss—quick and sweet and still a little flustered—but before you can pull away fully, his fingers close gently around your wrists.

“Send me those pictures later.”

You almost flinch in surprise. “You want them?”

That earns you a look.

“Sweetheart,” he starts slowly, like the answer should be painfully obvious by now. “Of course I want the pictures we took together.”

You promise you will do that once you get home, and Bucky lets you go only after one last heated kiss that has you sighing dreamily the entire drive back.

Later that night, long after you have changed into pajamas and curled beneath your blankets, your phone lights up with a message from him. It’s a reel of a chubby orange cat dramatically rolling onto its back for belly rubs. The giggle that falls from your lips is immediate, because you know how much Bucky loves these silly videos.

Still smiling, you tap back to reply but your fingers freeze, because his profile picture has changed. And there, framed in a tiny circle at the top of the screen, are your shoes beside his boots.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WEAR HIS CLOTHES FOR THE FIRST TIME Bucky’s bedroom smells like him. Not cologne, or any sharp, artificial department store fragrance sprayed onto stiff collars and wrists... but a scent warm and lived-in. Cedar and clean detergent tangle together with fresh air drifting in through cracked windows, traces of earth and hay and early morning breeze clinging stubbornly to heavy fabrics, no matter how many times they are washed.

The whole house smells like sun-warmed wood floors and open fields after rain. Like stepping onto his farm and understanding right away why he belongs there.

The shower is running somewhere down the hallway after a long day spent driving deliveries back and forth across town, leaving you curled near the headboard with the remote in your hand, halfheartedly scrolling through movies while waiting for Bucky to come back. Your attention drifts eventually, pulled away from the television by the sight of one of his flannels folded over the chair near the dresser. It’s clean, probably left there after laundry day, thick dark fabric softened with wear. Before you can really stop yourself, your gaze lingers.

There is something strangely intimate about wearing someone else’s clothes. Not just in the obvious sense. It’s like stepping quietly into the shape of their life, wrapping yourself in something that has spent time caressing their skin, that carries their warmth and scent and the evidence of their existence in every seam. And maybe that’s exactly why your heart flutters at the thought. You stare at the flannel for another few seconds before finally setting the remote aside and climbing off the bed, moving almost cautiously toward the chair like it might bite you halfway there.

With a meaningful glance toward the door, you listen to the muted sound of running water, before carefully lifting it from the chair. The moment you pull it closer, his scent fills your lungs completely, clean and grounding and unmistakably Bucky. Without thinking too hard about it, you peel off your own sweater and slip his shirt on instead. The sleeves hang long past your wrists as the heavy fabric settles warmly around your body, and suddenly you are standing in front of the mirror near his dresser, turning slightly from side to side while smoothing your hands absently over the front buttons.

You feel ridiculously happy. Safe, somehow. Because it reminds your body that it never needs to stay on guard if he is there.

For a moment, you simply stand there smiling privately at your reflection. You are so entranced by it that you barely notice the bathroom door opening.

“Hey doll, did I tell you that yesterday those sneaky ducks nearly knocked over—”

Bucky stops mid-sentence. The silence that follows is sharp enough to make your stomach drop.

You glance at him through the mirror with wide eyes and freeze. He is standing just outside the bedroom doorway with his hair still damp from the shower, a grey henley stretched across his chest while he drags a towel over the back of his neck, but all movement stops the second his eyes land on you.

On his flannel wrapped around your body.

His gaze languidly follows your curves like he is trying to commit them to memory, scared you might vanish like some beautiful, cruel dream. Because his girl is standing barefoot in his bedroom wrapped in pieces of his life. And Bucky looks at you like he just forgot how to breathe.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, heat rushing into your face as you turn around. “I’m so sorry, I—I saw it there and—”

The towel drops forgotten onto the end of the bed as he carefully shortens the distance. The closer he gets, the quieter you become, until the only sound left is the faint clucking of the chickens outside.

Up close, you swallow at his gentle eyes, though there is something else lingering beneath them, proud and possessive.

“Are you apologizing for wearing my shirt?” He lifts an eyebrow.

Your lips part unhelpfully, but they close again on a second thought. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the sleeves swallowing your hands before he reaches out, large fingers carefully rolling the cuffs back for you one at a time, movements unhurried and practiced despite the roughness his hands are used to.

“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”

When he finally glances back at your face, there is a spark of amusement dancing in his gaze. “You keeping this one, sweetheart?”

“What?” The question catches you off guard enough that you huff out an embarrassed chuckle.

“The shirt,” he nods at it, still delighted. “Think it’s yours now.”

“Bucky, no. I can’t just steal it.”

“Sure you can.” He shrugs easily.

Your eyes widen. “What—no!”

A real smile finally breaks properly across his face, devastatingly fond.

“Angel,” he murmurs patiently, hands warm against your waist. “You’re standing in my bedroom looking happier than you have all week. Think I’d be pretty stupid to ask for it back.”

You awkwardly tuck your chin down, studying your socks.

“You’re exaggerating.”

A quiet laugh falls from his lips. “You were twirling around in front of the mirror.”

Your head snaps up at that, your jaw dropping indignantly.

“I was not!”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was simply checking how it fit.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Before you can argue back, his hands slide a little more securely around your back to pull you closer, eyes dropping briefly to the flannel.

“Looks better on you anyway.” He murmurs.

“That’s a lie.” You focus on a spot on his neck, too shy to meet his gaze.

“Ain’t.”

“It’s your shirt.” You retort weakly.

“Not anymore.”

The certainty in his tone makes your stomach flip. Bucky watches the reaction happen in real time, something unbearably tender crossing his face at your attempt to further hide from his gaze, before he leans just enough for his forehead to touch yours.

“Y’know,” he starts casually, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your sides through the fabric. “I like seeing you in my clothes a little too much to complain about it.”

Your chest warms at the sincerity in his voice, yet you keep stubbornly staring at his chest, trying and failing to stop the grin tugging at your mouth.

“I think that would get out of hand very fast.” You mumble, finally meeting his eyes.

He smirks down at you. “Would it now?”

“You have a lot of nice flannels.” Your arms wrap around his neck, prompting him to get impossibly closer.

“Mhm.”

“And your hoodies are comfortable.” The tip of your nose brushes his.

“That so?” His brows shoot up playfully.

“And your jackets smell good.” You admit before you can stop yourself.

That finally earns you a proper grin. Far too pleased with himself.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “You’re in real trouble then.”

You groan tiredly, throwing your head back in despair but his arms don’t allow you to stray too far from him.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you.” His hands settle more firmly. “Just thinking I oughta start keeping extras around.”

His brows then lift as though he has just reached a very reasonable conclusion.

“Actually,” he corrects himself, voice thoughtful. “Might need to make a rule.”

You squint up at him suspiciously. “A rule?”

“Yeah.” He nods once, completely serious despite the subtle, teasing smile. “Think the second you walk through my front door, you’re legally required to put on one of my flannels.”

“Legally required?” You ask unimpressed.

“Mm-hmm.”

You shake your head pensively. “I really don’t think you can do that, Jamie.”

“Sweetheart, I own the property.” His expression turns impressively solemn, his lips grazing yours as he speaks.

“Means I make the laws around here.”

A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, bright enough that Bucky beams at the unguarded sound.

“No exceptions either, baby. Could be ninety degrees outside, I don’t care. Flannel goes on.” He hugs you tighter, his next words nothing short than a low murmur in your ear.

“Don’t even need to wear anything else underneath.” A squeak unexpectedly falls from your lips as his palms land briefly on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh before sliding back on your waist.

You sigh fondly despite the heat crawling up your neck. “This is the dumbest rule I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet,” his eyes drop briefly to the flannel before returning to your face. “Here you are.”

At some point, Bucky doesn’t announce it anymore. The moment you step inside the farmhouse, he’s already reaching for one of his flannels and holding it out—doesn’t matter if you’re staying for hours or just long enough to share a meal and a quiet evening that doesn’t demand anything from either of you. And then he’s crossing the distance between you in a few unhurried steps to pull you into his chest. He lowers his face into the slope of your neck, and breathes in deeply, again and again, like he needs the second breath more than the first.

Something unmistakably you—familiar, layered with the faintly sweet body cream you always use—mixes with his own scent that lingers in the weave of the flannel, worn-in and musky. His shoulders drop every time unfailingly, the tension he carries out in the world has no choice but to disappear.

His obsession for your scent doesn’t stop there, it only exacerbates when you are finally lying on his sheets, the two halves of the flannel crumpled at your sides as Bucky pants against your chest. He kisses you desperately, clutching your bare thighs until you are left warm and moaning under his roaming hands caressing your body with reverence. His palms map the dip of your waist, stroking along your ribs, until they encompass the swell of your breasts, gently kneading the skin as his lips trace a wet path from your mouth to that sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you whine so sweetly.

Your lips part around a breathy squeak the moment the calloused pads of his thumbs delicately circle your nipples, a low hum vibrates unintentionally in his chest at how fast they harden.

“Wanna hear you, princess.” He murmurs against your collarbones. “Let me hear how good it feels, c’mon.”

Bucky takes his time. You feel as light as cotton candy in his arms, sighing at every brush of his lips against your nipples. His mouth is hot and his tongue eager against the tender surface.

“Jamie!” You gasp as he starts sucking. His hand fondles the other breast, whimpers filling the dark room as his fingers playfully tug and flick your nub until your back arches so beautifully. His other hand grasps your thigh, leaving behind delicious reminders of his lust.

The gentle licks soon turn into harsher suckles, and your hands shoot forward to anchor yourself—one of them twists the sheets until your fingers hurt, the other sinks into his locks. Bucky exhales sharply at the light sting when your fingers pull at his hair, loving how the wet sounds bounce off the walls.

“Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.” He growls. 

“Jamie, it’s—oh my God.” Your head falls back when his lips take care of your other nipple, the one left behind now damp and tingling.

“Mhm, I know princess, they’re so sensitive. You gonna come in your cute panties?” You nod eagerly. Bucky’s dark eyes stay fixed on your crumpled features like a predator observing his prey, his mouth wicked on your poor abused nubs. Until the pressure in your belly is just too strong, and to your sheer surprise, your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Your breasts are tingling with sensitivity, your hips frantically humping the air as your pussy throbs painfully at the lack of stimulation, clenching around nothing.

“That’s it, my needy girl. Look at you, coming just from having your tits sucked.” He grits out, giving your breasts one last, little smack a harsh squeeze. 

Your skin is sticky and your lungs burning as Bucky finally moves between your shaky legs, peeling off your ruined panties with a swift, practiced movement. His calloused hands are firm on your thighs as they spread you open, silently watching your pussy as it pulses and drips, the unbearable ache mixing deliciously with the embarrassment of being this exposed for him—not a single ounce of shame in Bucky as he inspects it more thoroughly. 

First, it’s his thumbs gently spreading your folds, his eyes devouring the way it tenses under his intense hunger. A shiver runs down your spine when his index finger slowly traces the tender slit, marveling at the way your slick sticks to his digit.

“Jamie...” You whine, your body—still so sensitive—lurching at his delicate teasing.

“Look at the pretty mess you made.” He whispers amazed, leaving a soothing kiss on your hipbone. You hear a sharp inhale as he buries his face into your core, his eyes rolling back at how strongly your scent hits his lungs. With blissful serenity written all over his face, his tongue starts lapping at your clit with lazy strokes. A strangled gasp falls from your lips at the sensation, your hips moving helplessly under the arm that blankets your stomach as Bucky hums satisfied at the drops of sweet arousal blessing his senses. 

You almost choke on a delirious moan the moment a long finger slips inside, the hand grasping his sheets shooting down to grasp his wrist instead.

“Gonna bury my face here every morning, sweet girl.” He mumbles, a second finger joining the other inside you. “Make you soak my beard so I can smell your pussy all day at work.”

“Shit!” You almost scream, thighs snapping close around his head.

Bucky growls at the pressure, hungrily nursing on your throbbing clit as his nostrils flare. It’s so messy, with his saliva dripping down his chin and the insatiable need to please you driving his hips wild against the mattress. You can feel its intensity from the way his starved tongue laps at you, every flick sending biting sparks down your spine. 

When he momentarily pulls away with a wet squelch, he groans in delight at the intoxicating taste. “C’mon princess, time to make a mess on my face.” He rumbles, mouth already latched back onto your clit, sucking with a steady rhythm as his fingers hit your sweet spot at the right speed.

Your body shakes from the unbearable pleasure washing over you, but Bucky refuses to stop, only pressing himself further into your clenching pussy, his tongue insistent as he pumps his fingers quickly.

“‘M gonna—Jamie!” You sob, hips jerking up as he pushes you right over the edge for a third time, this orgasm just as powerful as the others. Thoroughly consumed by him, you tremble and writhe, wailing when you squirt all over his face, soaking the sheets and your inner thighs as well. Bucky is not doing any better, resting his forehead on your mound. He tries to regain his breath after almost coming in his boxers as if touching a pretty, naked woman for the first time.

When he finally has a steadier grip on his self-control, he licks his lips with a low hum, shifting both of you until you are straddling him, your head lying limply on his chest as he plants sweet, little kisses on your forehead.

“Breathe, angel.” He murmurs, voice still rough with arousal. “You did so good for me, lovely.”

You blink, still spent and disoriented, but as his arms gently pull you higher, your sensitive core accidentally brushes against his erection. Bucky is still kissing you, noticing your little shiver but not thinking much about it—he knows you must be sleepy and tired. Yet he couldn’t be far from the truth.

Your hips gently rut against his thigh, squeaking under your breath when it finally touches your naked clit. Bucky’s body goes rigid for a heartbeat, suddenly catching on what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. You keep moving your hips, now thoroughly and shamelessly humping his thigh. His arms squeeze your waist hard, eliciting a surprised gasp out of you.

“What are you doing, doll?” He rasps out, his voice heavy with lust. He planned to take care of himself in the bathroom, maybe paint your tits with his cum if you insisted on helping... But how can he keep his composure with such a beautiful, sweet woman in his arms, so desperate for his touch?

Your head lifts enough for you to meet his gaze. “Please, Jamie.”

“Please what?” One of his hands grasps your jaw. “Use your words.”

You moan shamelessly, the warm tingle in your core impossible to ignore now. “Your cock... please.”

“You’re making a mess.” He mutters absently, his chest heaving at the sweet sight. And suddenly, his tongue is slowly tracing your bottom lip. A whimper escapes you, before his fingers tighten on your jaw as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he would with your pussy. 

“You need my help, baby?” He reiterates, his gaze marveling at your fucked-out expression. At your eager nod, Bucky swallows thickly, fingers digging into your hips until you are forced to stop the desperate rocking motion of your hips.

It takes a single look at your big, shiny eyes and suddenly you are on your back, his cock so thick you start to tear up. “I know, I know. baby girl. It’s big, hm?” He coos, carefully kissing your cheeks and licking up the little tears like a ravenous beast.

“Eyes on me, princess… There you go, that’s a good girl.” Your mouth falls open into a perfect round shape, squeaking as his hips thrust forward leisurely. Bucky takes in the sight of your pussy stretched nicely around his length with pride burning hot in his chest. He would be lying if he said he isn’t getting impatient himself, unable to ignore anymore the fervent urge to see you unravel on his cock.

“Hold on to me.” You obey, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck, your breasts pressed against his soft torso dusted in dark hair.

Once his cock slams right back into you, you gasp, nails digging into his back as he sets a brutal pace. The sounds of your skin slapping against his fill the room obscenely along your little whines of Jamie.

It only spurs him on because, “Fucking hell—yes, baby. Your Jamie.” Before searching your lips to pull you into a filthy kiss.

His calloused fingers dig into the plush of your ass, keeping you anchored to him just to see your eyes roll back at the delicious friction between your clit and his pubic hair. 

“She’s so tight.” He grunts. “Keep clenching like that and I’ll make you leak for days.”

Your legs squeeze around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper. “Please.”

He takes note of the way your eyes start to roll back as your pussy flutters eagerly, even if you do your best to keep them on him just like he told you... His pretty angel is always so good for him.

“Jamie...” You breathe out, body squirming between his sturdy arms built by years of hard work in the fields rather than gym. “’M so close—oh my God, yes right there!”

“I know, princess.” He mumbles, never breaking his rhythm. “Fuck, can feel her squeeze me so good, wanna keep me there forever, huh?” His lips twist smugly. “Don’t worry sweetheart, this cock’s all yours.”

Your breath stumbles in your throat as though there’s not enough air. Bucky is right there with you, brows pulled in concentration when he feels the familiar ache in his belly. His thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, almost primal in their intensity, and you can tell by the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his arms, that he’s fighting for control. Even lost in pleasure, he is always putting you first.

“Tell me when you’re close.” He grits out, leaning down to steal a wet kiss that is more tongue than lips. “So I can fill my pussy up. That’s what you want, right princess? Wanna feel my cum drip out of you while you sit all cute watching me cook, hm?” 

Your words come out in a warped, pathetic moan as he stuffs your mouth with two thick fingers. Your tongue is already playing with them, a sad whine clawing out of your throat when Bucky takes them out. It’s not even seconds later that you are tossing your head back, your words barely coherent as you tell him you are coming, his two wet fingers rubbing your clit at the right speed.

“That’s it.” He drawls through his teeth, his rhythm clumsily faltering at the thought of your pussy completely covered in his white cream. “Just like that, beautiful.”

Your vision blurs at the edges as pleasure consumes every single crevice of your body until your brain only knows how to scream your boyfriend’s name. Until there’s nothing but the delicious shape of his cock. You clench so tight his hips can barely move, pulsing and shaking around him as your hazy eyes cross, before rolling back.

Bucky follows moments later, pressing deep inside you as a full shudder travels down his body. His face is insistently pressed into your neck, trying to muffle the roaring groan that rumbles through his chest. The contact grounds him as his cock twitches and swells inside you, borderline animalistic in the way his fingers clutch your hips when he finally fills you up—the thought of leaving a part of himself inside you only prolonging his orgasm.

“Oh, my pretty princess.” Bucky pulls you tighter against him like he cannot bear the thought of letting go yet, both your hearts still hammering in sync as the aftershock pulses beneath your skin. His warm breath tickles your collarbones, and although his limbs are trembling with exhaustion, his hips still thrust lazily inside you to make sure not a single drop goes to waste.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU START REACHING BACK By the time Bucky introduces you to his friends properly, you have already learned something important: everyone else gets a different version of him than you do.

You begin noticing the pattern before he ever points it out himself. People straighten when he walks into a room, some of his new employees still stumble over their words when he speaks to them, and children stare at him in open fascination because he is broad and carries himself with grounded confidence without appearing arrogant. And honestly, you understand it. Bucky looks like someone built to endure anything. His hands are coarse from years of work, permanently marked with small scars and callouses from repairing machinery, hauling feed, and spending entire days beneath brutal weather conditions without complaint. His voice settles low and gravelly in his chest, and whenever he frowns in concentration—which is often—he appears unapproachable to anyone who doesn’t know him well enough to recognize that his silences are rooted in reflection rather than coldness.

Then there is the version of him that exists around you, so quiet in its devotion that you only begin noticing it gradually, through dozens of tiny moments. He automatically slows his pace to match yours whenever you walk together—just enough that your shorter steps never have to hurry to keep up with him. On the nights you stay over, he reaches past you to test the shower water before you step under it.

And somehow, it extends to even the smallest, most ridiculous things. Like the time you gasp at the sight of a spider near the kitchen sink and instinctively dart behind him before you can stop yourself. Embarrassment burns on your cheeks at your own reaction as you quietly ask him if he can please take it outside instead of killing it. Bucky only glances back at you, visibly amused by the fact that you are clinging to the back of his shirt like the spider personally declared war on your bloodline. Then, he easily cups it beneath a glass, slides paper underneath, and carries it out onto the porch with all the patience in the world. And when he comes back inside, there is a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth as you mumble a sheepish thank you from the safety of the hallway.

And maybe, the thing that affects you the most is how instinctive all of it seems for him. His care exists in reflexes. In the quick appearance of his hand over the sharp corner of an open cabinet before you can bump into it while bending down. In the way he reaches for your hand whenever a crowd grows too dense around you, thumb constantly stroking your knuckles in reassurance before you even realize you needed it. In the way he notices your social battery draining only by the slight slump of your shoulders, then gently finding reasons to get you home before exhaustion fully settles into your bones.

It feels less like being looked after and more like being... considered. Constantly. Carefully. Which becomes a problem eventually. Because the safer you feel with him, the more affection you want to give in return. And unfortunately, loving someone openly without constantly doubting yourself is still difficult for you.

Despite how naturally Bucky seems to exist inside your life now, there are moments where you feel painfully aware of your own inexperience. You want to reach for his hand first, sit beside him in diners instead of across from him, kiss his cheek whenever he starts rambling about the farm with that subtle enthusiasm that makes him look so unfairly adorable. You want to curl into his lap during movie night and play with his hair and bury your face into his chest whenever he hugs you.

Every little touch from him feels so dangerously addictive now that you know what it’s like to be handled with genuine tenderness. But every single time you think about doing any of it, your brain betrays you. What if he thinks you are clingy? What if you interrupt him? What if he only tolerates it because he knows you have never done this before?

So instead, you hesitate. But the thing about dating someone who observes the world as methodically as he does is that very little escapes him for long, especially when it concerns you. Therefore, he just starts making things easier. When the two of you sit together somewhere public, his hand begins resting palm-up beside yours on purpose—an open invitation without forcing you before you are ready. He starts pulling you gently against his side halfway through movies, and sometimes, while talking with Steve or Sam out on the porch, he pats his thigh absentmindedly without interrupting the conversation at all, silently inviting you closer. Eventually, sitting on his lap is expected and anticipated. And every single time he notices your hesitation before kissing him first, his head tilts downward before you can even decide whether to ask.

But it’s the first time you meet Steve and Sam properly that you understand how clearly his devotion to you reads to everyone else.

Dinner happens at a small place near the edge of town after one of Bucky’s longer delivery days, rain clouds gathering thick and heavy outside while the restaurant buzzes warmly around you.

You keep squirming nervously beforehand despite Bucky reassuring you the entire drive there.

“Baby, believe me, you’re worrying over nothing. They already like you.” He repeats patiently while turning into the parking lot.

You glance over suspiciously. “They’ve never met me.”

Bucky snorts under his breath, one hand settling on your thigh to give it a comforting squeeze.

“Sam’s heard about you so much he already acts like he knows you.”

“That’s not reassuring.” You mumble, sinking a little lower in the seat.

A beat passes in which the car slows as he searches for a parking spot, and you take the opportunity to dramatically exhale like your entire future depends on this night going well.

“You’re meeting my friends, not attending a parole hearing.”

“They could easily be the same thing.” You insist. “Meeting your partner’s best friends is basically like meeting... I don’t know—their adoptive parents.” Bucky snorts, shaking his head.

“Don’t laugh! I’m serious. There’s judgment involved. Silent scoring. Probably some kind of test I don’t know about yet.” You hastily list with your fingers.

That pulls a chuckle out of him, warm and low in a way that only worsens your dramatic suffering.

“Baby—”

“No, because what if they hate me?” You whine, already spiraling. “What if I say something weird? What if I accidentally make Steve uncomfortable? He looks like the kind of man who says ‘language’ unironically.”

Bucky laughs harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly.

“Steve absolutely says language unironically.”

“See? I’m going to swear once and he’s never going to recover from it.”

His grin only grows as the car comes to a stop, but he doesn’t turn it off yet. Instead, Bucky leans back slightly in his seat, head turned to watch you with that infuriatingly entertained expression that makes your anxiety feel personally mocked.

“You’re one to talk anyway.” You quip before he can say anything.

His eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”

“Because let’s talk about the first time you met Nat and Darcy.” You smile innocently, straightening up. “You kept me on the phone for forty minutes because you didn’t know what to wear.”

There’s a beat of silence, before his entire posture shifts.

“Hey, I wanted to make a good first impression.” He frowns.

“You were debating a tie,” you repeat slowly. “For bowling.”

“It was a new environment.” He shrugs.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “It was bowling!”

He simply shakes his head dismissively. “You don’t understand the social dynamics—”

“You were spiraling,” you cut in, now completely turned in your seat to face him. “I remember it very clearly. You kept throwing clothes on your bed that I’ve never seen you wear to this day.”

“I was being thoughtful.” He answers quickly.

“That’s anxiety.”

“That’s being prepared. And my first impression went fine.”

“Yeah, because I talked you out of the tie.”

You lean back in your seat, absolutely delighted now despite your earlier panic.

“I see how it is. I don’t need to worry about meeting your friends, but you needed a forty-minute emotional support phone call about whether you needed a tie for a bowling alley.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, clearly trying not to laugh at being exposed so thoroughly.

“It was a valid concern, I wanted to be respectful, sweetheart.”

“To who? A bowling ball?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, having run out of arguments to defend himself.

A grin takes over your lips as you nod in victory. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Bucky laughs properly at that, fondly shaking his head at you. The sound makes the knot in your chest loosen despite the anxiety, and when his hand eventually reaches over the console to intertwine your fingers together, you finally feel like you can breathe a little more easily.

“Steve and Sam are gonna like you. That’s not even up for debate.” He says anyway, quieter now.

You purse your lips, the teasing softening just a little.

“And neither is the fact that you’re still nervous about a tie.” You add gently.

His head briefly falls forward as he sighs dejectedly. “It was a good tie.”

And that, somehow, makes you laugh all the way out of the car.

Inside, Steve and Sam hug you instead of shaking your hand, and within less than twenty minutes, both men seem to realize something deeply unsettling about Bucky Barnes.

Namely that he becomes ridiculously, unbearably soft around you. For starters, his hand settles automatically against the back of your chair while you sit down. At some point, he subtly pushes your drink closer because he knows you forget to hydrate when too engrossed in a conversation, his attention entirely shifting on you whenever your lips part, no matter what topic.

And then there is the hand-holding “incident”.

You are talking about your disastrous attempt at baking banana bread last weekend, when your eye briefly catches Bucky’s hand resting near yours on the booth seat.

His large, warm palm tilted upward.

Your gaze keeps drifting toward it despite yourself, because you want to take it so bad. God, you need to feel his skin against yours. But... What if you are misinterpreting it and he is ashamed of being affectionate in front of his friends? What if Steve and Sam think it’s excessive?

Without looking away from Sam, who is now complaining about boat repairs, his hand moves another inch closer until his knuckles brush lightly against yours.

Your heartbeat quickens embarrassingly fast at how obvious he makes it for you.

Hoping nobody is going to notice how you keep squirming in your seat, your hand moves before you can change your mind. Bucky’s fingers close around yours like he had been eagerly waiting for you all night. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles as he replies to his friends, completely unfazed.

Across the table, Sam goes still. Steve, on the other hand, is trying very hard to hide a smile behind his beer. Because the thing is, they have both known Bucky for years. They know him as reserved and controlled and difficult to read most of the time. Yet, what they are witnessing now is essentially an imposing Anatolian Shepherd collapsing happily onto its back because someone finally understood that looking scary doesn’t mean hating cuddles.

Once you are back at the farmhouse, rain is crashing heavily against the roof, therefore Steve and Sam help Bucky move a few things into the barn before the weather worsens further. Afterward, everyone ends up scattered throughout the kitchen while you make lemonade because inside it feels warm from all the damp clothes and humid air.

You are standing near the counter slicing lemons when Bucky walks in, settling beside you after washing his hands.

His gaze automatically drops to the knife, then to you. Then back to the knife.

“You’re holding it wrong.”

Your chin snaps up, eyes blinking at him in confusion.

“What?”

Instead of answering verbally, Bucky steps behind you until the softness of his belly is touching your back. One hand covers yours around the handle while the other steadies the cutting board before showing you a safer angle to hold the knife.

“There,” he murmurs near your shoulder. “Less chance of slipping.”

The entire interaction lasts maybe twenty seconds, yet the butterflies in your stomach go absolutely feral. The worst is that Bucky doesn’t even seem aware of what he does to you half the time. To him, this is simply how he loves, through guidance and care.

A little later, after his friends disappear into the kitchen for more lemonade while loudly arguing over the score of some recent football match, you end up curled beside Bucky on the couch, on the brink of dozing off to the soothing sound of rain tapping against the glass. Your head rests on his chest while he absently rubs slow circles along your arm, and eventually your fingers find his hair without much thought.

You expect tolerance at most. Maybe amusement. Instead, the second your nails lightly scratch his scalp, Bucky goes completely still, before his eyelids flutter shut. A deep, slow breath leaves his nose, his posture slumped as he leans unconsciously into your touch. His expression is so devastatingly content that you feel a mix of pride and joy burn hot in your chest.

From the kitchen doorway, Sam witnesses the scene in horrified fascination.

“Steve!” He whispers sharply.

The other man can’t help but burst into helpless laughter because there, curled around you in complete bliss, sits the same man who once made a grown mechanic squirm just by staring at him too long during an argument over tractor parts. Meanwhile Bucky, fully aware you are being watched, slowly opens one eye to glare at them with pure annoyance.

“What.”

“Man, you know your imaginary tail is wagging so hard I can practically hear it from here?”

Bucky silently stares at Sam for exactly five seconds, and without any shame whatsoever, tightens his arm around your waist to pull you closer.

“Yeah,” he rasps out. “And?”

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU NEED HIM THE MOST Bucky simply moves through your life with the quiet assumption that if something can be made easier for you, then of course he will do it.

One freezing morning in late November, you walk outside expecting the usual miserable routine of scraping ice from your windshield before work while trying not to freeze your fingers off in the process, only to stop short at the sight of your car already running softly in the driveway, pale exhaust curling into the cold air while warm light glows through the windshield.

And there he is, leaning casually against his pickup truck with two cups of coffee in his hands. Wrapped in his heavy work jacket, Bucky looks entirely unbothered by the bitter cold biting at his skin this early in the morning. You stare at him with wide eyes before glancing at your car. Then back at him.

“Did you come all the way over here just to start my car?”

His eyebrows pull together, genuine confusion touching his face.

“You hate being cold, sweetheart.”

Bucky never treats care as some grand romantic gesture that deserves applause. To him, love exists in maintenance, in noticing and remembering. It exists in the way he arranges himself around the sharp edges of your life without ever making you feel ashamed of needing help.

By the third month of your relationship, he already knows you forget meals whenever work gets too stressful, so he begins leaving containers of food in your fridge after particularly exhausting weeks, usually with little notes written in neat handwriting.

Eat something besides crackers today.

This one’s got vegetables in it. Don’t roll your eyes.

At first, a mix of embarrassment and old habits makes you protest.

“Jamie,” you sigh one evening while unpacking groceries he absolutely did not need to buy for you. “I can feed myself.”

“I know you can.”

The answer comes calmly, his attention never even leaving the frozen peas he’s putting away in your freezer.

“Then why are you doing all this?”

That finally makes him look at you, blue eyes steady and open.

“Because yesterday you had cereal for dinner and called it a balanced meal.”

Heat floods your face instantly. “It was one time.”

“It happened last Tuesday as well, baby.”

Your eyes squint at him betrayed. “You remember way too much.”

“You tell me things,” he shrugs lightly, shutting the fridge with his hip. “And I pay attention.”

Yes, Bucky pays attention. To everything. He notices the way your head starts to ache more than usual after difficult meetings at work; the moments you shrink because someone talked over you while discussing something important; the days you’ve had too much coffee and not nearly enough water before you’ve even registered it yourself. Once he recognizes a pattern, he simply starts building small routines around it—never demanding, or controlling. But guiding you so tenderly that by the time you notice, he’s already taken the weight you carry and made it easier to bear.

“Three coffees, baby.” He reminds you one afternoon after spotting the suspiciously large iced drink in your hand during lunch.

You promptly clutch the cup closer to your chest.

“This is tea.”

Bucky stares at you for a long moment, before his eyes lower meaningfully to the giant logo on the side of the cup.

“Sweetheart,” he starts patiently. “That thing smells like melted tiramisu.”

Your smile is sheepish. “It’s been a hard week.”

The teasing falls from his face at the exhaustion in your voice, concern replacing it so quickly it makes warmth bloom beautifully behind your ribs. He steps closer without hesitation, one broad palm settling on the back of your neck while his other hand cradles your cheek—a gesture so instinctively soothing that your entire body loosens before you can acknowledge it.

“I know, princess.” He murmurs softly. “Still need water though.”

And somehow—impossibly—you find yourself listening. He never makes care feel humiliating, because every reminder sounds far from correction and more like loving you so much it physically pains him seeing you not taking care of yourself the way you deserve. However, having someone pay attention to you this reverently is still complicated when, for your whole life, you’ve been used to being the responsible one, the accommodating one, the person who notices everybody else’s needs before they can become problems. Teaching only sharpened instincts you already had mastered long before adulthood: constantly anticipating, organizing, soothing, fixing. Somewhere along the way, taking care of yourself became secondary to making sure everyone else was never burdened by you.

Then Bucky arrives and begins undoing those habits piece by piece without ever criticizing you for it.

There is one particular parent-teacher night that leaves you painfully exhausted and miserable, so much that your eyes burn with unshed tears the entire walk to your car. One parent spends twenty minutes speaking over you every time you attempt to explain their child’s struggles in class; another openly questions whether you are “experienced enough” to manage disruptive students, because “you definitely don’t look like you are”. And Ms. Cox still finds enough energy afterward to criticize your “overly emotional teaching style” in front of half the faculty before finally leaving for the night.

By the time you make it home, you feel like an empty shell. You sway on your feet while eating half a granola bar in the dark, then drag yourself into bed wearing one of Bucky’s old sweatshirts—the same ones you shyly asked to have for particularly hard nights where his absence presses heavy on your heart. Yet, you spend nearly two hours staring miserably at your ceiling because exhaustion apparently does not guarantee sleep.

You and Bucky already said goodnight earlier. Normally he insists on calling before bed no matter how busy either of you are, but tonight he could feel how drained you were by text alone. Still, sometime after midnight, loneliness finally outweighs guilt. And even as you beg him to stay in bed and rest, insisting it’s late and he should be sleeping, he still replies with two simple words that make your heart flutter.

Already driving 12:22am

Twenty-five minutes later, headlights sweep across your curtains and you get out of your bed with a pained groan, your legs heavy as you shuffle into the kitchen in fuzzy socks. Bucky is already inside, carrying a paper bag in one hand, concern settling visibly between his brows the second you appear.

“Hey there, princess.” He whispers, leaving everything on the counter so he can pull you against him.

And that’s the moment your body goes frighteningly limp as you realize how badly you needed Bucky to hold you, knowing he would never ask for anything in return.

“I’m okay.” You quickly try to reassure him, but don’t do a very good job when your words come out slurred against his jacket.

His low hum expresses clear disagreement, one hand smoothing slowly over your back before he pulls away enough to cradle your cheeks.

“You ate dinner?”

The hesitation on your face answers for you.

His jaw clenches slightly. “Sweetheart.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” You blurt out, dangerously close to tears.

“I know, angel.” His voice turns to a whisper in front of your distress. “But you had a long day.”

There is no irritation in his voice, only concern wrapped in gentle firmness that somehow makes embarrassment crawl up your throat anyway. But before shame can take you away from him, Bucky leans down to press a long kiss on your forehead.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’m not angry.”

Your shoulders visibly lower a little.

“Sit down for me while I make you something warm, okay?”

And there it is again, that tingly sensation spreading low in your belly whenever he speaks like that, calm and assured and already prepared to handle things for you before you can break.

You curl beneath your favorite blanket on the couch while he heats soup and makes some chamomile tea. Watching him in all his composure as he takes care of you, moving around your house, and opening cabinets without needing directions because he already memorized where everything belongs months ago... Well, it nearly undoes you completely.

“You always think about me like that?” You ask feebly once he finally appears with a tray that he momentarily places on the coffee table.

Bucky glances at you from where he’s adjusting the blanket around your legs. “Like what?”

“Like… this.” You swallow, not liking how your throat is starting to tighten. “Taking care of things—of me, before I even notice what’s wrong.”

“‘Course I do, princess.” He answers quietly.

Tears dangerously sting at the back of your eyes, but your teeth promptly sink into your bottom lip before you can succumb to them. There is a brief moment suspended in time in which Bucky’s eyes search your expression, before he moves to kneel on the floor in front of you, palms already reaching for your jaw. 

“You spend so much time looking after everybody else.” He starts under his breath. “I just want... somebody looking after you too.” His thumb strokes the skin of your cheek and that’s when you notice the lonely tear that escaped the last thread of your control.

“I wanna be your safe place. Want you to know you can come to me. Always. You don’t gotta hold it together with me.”

“And when it gets too much out there,” he adds after a beat. “Or here,” his knuckle gently brushes your temple. “I’ll be right beside you. I’ll catch you. Every time.”

You built a relationship based on care and mutual trust, something you never had before but deeply craved. For quite a long time, those sleepless nights spent wondering when it will finally be your turn, soon turned into cruel reminders that maybe, after all, you just were not built for that kind of love. So you kept running yourself into the ground for everyone else without anyone actually noticing how much that cost you. Some people though, Bucky said, weren’t even worthy of those pretty eyes looking their way, let alone your kindness. Still, a small flame of hope kept burning in your heart—the hope that someday, someone would truly see you. Nobody has ever tried to earn your trust enough for you to hand over your vulnerability. But with Bucky, you bloom so easily in the warmth of his love.

Rain has turned part of the farm path into thick mud after a storm, and despite Bucky repeatedly warning you to not wear your pretty shoes near the fields, you ignored him confidently right up until your foot sinks deep enough into the mud to trap you completely. Bucky turns at the sound of your horrified gasp, and immediately starts laughing.

“Bucky!” You whine while trying unsuccessfully to yank your shoe free. “Stop laughing.”

“Sweetheart,” he says through obvious amusement while walking toward you. “Why’re you wearing those heels out here?”

“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“Mhm.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re being mean.”

His grin only grows as he reaches you.

“Far from it, princess. C’mere.”

Before you can ask what he means, both hands settle firmly around your waist and suddenly your feet leave the ground entirely. A startled squeak escapes your throat as your boyfriend lifts you effortlessly out of the mud like one of those bags of fodder he so easily carries around the farm.

“Bucky!”

“You were getting stuck.” He smirks.

“I could’ve figured it out myself.” You mumble shyly.

“I know you could.”

His words are tinged with mirth as he carries you back toward solid ground, one arm secure around your waist while your hands instinctively clutch his shoulders.

“Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand there watching you struggle.” Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with guilt anymore, your hands instinctively curling a little tighter into the collar of his jacket as the real meaning of it sinks deep in your heart.

This becomes another habit somehow. He lifts you onto kitchen counters while cooking because otherwise you “hover too much.” Carries you inside from the truck whenever you fall asleep during long drives home from town. Sometimes, after particularly exhausting school days, he simply hooks an arm beneath your knees and picks you up before you can properly protest.

“Jamie, I can walk.” You mumble sleepily against his collarbone.

“I know you can, baby.”

“Then put me down.”

“No.”

The answer comes calm and completely immovable while he adjusts you more securely against his chest.

He looks down at you. “You’re tired.” As if that is enough of an explanation.

You squint at him, but he raises one eyebrow before your overworked brain can elaborate something witty to retort with.

“You gonna keep arguing or you gonna let me hold my girl?”

Being with him has a way of quieting the constant vigilance in you as your body learns—gradually, unconsciously—that Bucky’s strength never asks you to fear it. All that’s left is a fuzzy, unfocused warmth you can’t quite name. And over time, you begin realizing that what affects you most is not the carrying itself, but what it represents. Around him, you are allowed to take up space without apologizing for it first. You are allowed to keep him company as he works, to cling to him through difficult days and cry without trying to make yourself smaller afterward.

The first time you break down in front of him happens after a bad argument with your mom. You spend nearly ten minutes apologizing between sobs. Bucky listens quietly the entire time before finally reaching up to tenderly wipe your tears with his thumbs, brows drawn together in soft confusion.

“Princess,” he asks gently. “Why’re you apologizing for being upset?”

You open your mouth, but then close it again helplessly. Because once again, you were about to slip back into the bad habits you are carefully working through together. Bucky’s expression morphs instantly in silent understanding.

“C’mere, baby.”

And just like always, you go.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU WANT TO BE PART OF HIS WORLD For a long time, you are convinced that helping Bucky with work will only make things harder for him. Not because he ever said that—quite the opposite, actually. But he moves through the farm with effortless capability, making everything look so easy. He knows where every tool belongs, which fence post is beginning to loosen before anybody else notices, the sound each engine is supposed to make—immediately catching when something is wrong.

Meanwhile, you once managed to stall your own car three times in a row trying to leave the school parking lot because your brain was too tired to function properly. So naturally, the idea of “helping” him feels laughable. Standing in the middle of his world feels strangely similar to trying to communicate in a language you don’t speak fluently yet. Still, that doesn’t stop you from wanting to try. Loving Bucky means wanting to understand the shape of his days and exist inside the life he built long before you arrived in it. You want to know what his mornings look like at sunrise, learn the routines his body slips into automatically after years of repetition, and more than anything, you want to stand there beside him without feeling like a guest.

His blue eyes catch the golden afternoon sunlight so prettily as he glances up from where he’s crouched in front of the fencing, near the south pasture.

“What’s up, lovely?” One corner of his mouth lifts when you linger there without answering right away, your hands fidgeting against the wooden post as if looking for something to ground you.

“What?” He teases lightly. “My girl misses me already?”

You huff a quiet laugh through your nose, eyes dropping briefly to the tools scattered beside him.

“Maybe a little,” you mumble. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”

His expression softens instantly at that. “C’mere, then.”

You step closer without thinking.

“You wanna help?”

You hesitate under the weight of the question. “Only if I’m not gonna be in the way.”

The offended look Bucky gives you makes you chuckle lightly. He frowns, standing to full height while wiping his hands against his jeans.

“You being here is the opposite of in the way.”

And there it is again—that wonderful ache in your chest. You shift your weight from foot to foot, head ducking a little at the sheer love in his words. His rough fingers slowly hook beneath your chin to tilt your face back toward him.

“You wanna stay with me while I work?” He asks softly.

You nod silently.

“Then stay.”

Simple as that. No sighing. No tolerating your presence to avoid arguments. No making you feel like affection must be earned through usefulness.

After that, he begins finding small ways to pull you into his world. Nothing overwhelming that leaves room for you to panic about messing things up.

“Hold this for me.”

“Pass me that small wrench, pretty girl.”

“Sit over there where I can see you, and watch your step.”

At first, your help is mostly symbolic. You hand him tools, hold flashlights, keep him company while he works beneath trucks or repairs broken equipment in the barn. At some point, Bucky quietly sets up a small table near his workbench for you, sanding the wood smooth and making sure to buy a comfortable pillow for the chair so you can sit there for hours grading assignments and planning lessons while he moves around you.

One afternoon, while you are perched on the workbench as he works beneath the hood of his pickup truck, you accidentally hand him the wrong tool three times in a row. By the third attempt, you groan dramatically. Your face falls into your hands.

“I’m fucking useless.”

Bucky leans back enough to look at you, expression deeply unimpressed.

“Hey.” The single word lands firmly enough that your head snaps up at once. “You ain’t allowed to talk about my girl like that.”

You simply stare at him as he reaches out to squeeze your knee before taking the wrench from your hands.

“Besides,” Bucky adds casually. “You’re real cute when you boss me around with the wrong tools.”

You burst out laughing despite yourself, shyly looking away once you notice he has been busy admiring you with a smitten grin.

Every single time insecurity starts curling around your throat, ugly and uninvited, Bucky is there to loosen it with his careful hands before it can choke you. Dismissing insecurity is far too easy, yet that’s what most people do. It makes them uncomfortable and impatient, so they wave it away with empty reassurance. They joke about it, call it overthinking... They turn vulnerability into a shameful weakness. Because acknowledging it properly would require them to sit inside someone else’s discomfort for a while. But Bucky never treats your vulnerable moments like inconveniences he has to endure. He looks at them directly in the eye until they stop feeling quite so monstrous inside your head.

The way you feel warm all over has nothing to do with the late afternoon sun spilling gold across the land. He had sounded genuinely insulted, because loving you also includes protecting the way you speak about yourself. He cannot stand cruelty directed at you even when it comes from your own mouth.

Your pulse flutters embarrassingly beneath your skin.

His attention returns to the engine eventually, muttering something under his breath as he reaches deeper beneath the hood. Your eyes focus on the rolled sleeves exposing his strong forearms slightly soiled with grease, then slowly travel up the faded flannel stretching across his broad chest, before noticing the crease between his brows. The low hum he gives every now and then when something cooperates correctly makes your pussy throbs, your mind clouded with memories of your thighs around his head.

Your legs swing idly as you sigh, watching him work for another silent moment.

“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully. “For someone who says he likes having me around, you sure are ignoring me right now.”

Bucky snorts softly without looking up.

“I’m working , sweetheart.”

“Mhm.”

He glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. “What?”

You exhale dramatically, leisurely looking around the shed. “I think you’re pretending to fix the truck because you secretly enjoy making me suffer.”

A low chuckle rumbles out of him at that, though he still turns another bolt calmly like you are not trying to derail him on purpose.

“You surviving okay over there, pretty girl?”

“Barely.”

“You’ll make it.”

The problem is that he sounds entirely too entertained by this. Your eyes narrow slightly at his tone. Then, after a moment of consideration, you shift a little closer along the edge and let your thighs part slightly, your hands landing on the wooden surface by your sides to slightly push your chest forward.

Bucky notices immediately from his peripheral vision, but all he gives you is a low, “Careful, doll.” Without any real heat in it.

You stare at the side of his face for another second, then toss your head back enough to deserve an award.

“Mhm...” You hum mournfully. “If my boyfriend really loved me, he would stop fixing stuff and pay attention to me.”

This time Bucky laughs unguarded, the sound rough around the edges as he finally leans back enough to look at you.

“Oh, so that’s what this is?”

You try to appear unbothered. “What?”

“You being a needy girl.”

Heat crawls immediately into your cheeks, still you keep your eyes on his.

“I am not needy.” You insist.

His mouth twitches, incredibly amused. “No?”

“No.”

“Mhm.”

You huff softly, crossing your arms while he turns back toward the engine with entirely too much satisfaction for your liking. And unfortunately—for the both of you—you are an incredibly stubborn woman. Which means your brain immediately decides to make things worse by jumping down the bench and silently approaching the vehicle until you are leaning down the edge of the hood, right beside your boyfriend. 

“Maybe there are more interesting things you could be doing with your hands right now.” You murmur, eyes dragging slowly over the length of his body.

The wrench stops turning at once. For one very dangerous second, the entire world seems to go still with it. Bucky exhales slowly through his nose before straightening to his full height, wiping his palms across his jeans with deliberate calm that somehow feels infinitely more threatening than any other reaction.

“Oh, you’re trouble today.”

You try to hold his gaze without shrinking under it, but that becomes significantly harder once he starts edging closer to you, the stupid tool that confused you completely forgotten. The light teasing in his face has shifted into something heavier, a kind of seriousness that has your panties completely ruined.

“Looking at me like that while I’m trying to behave...”

You swallow. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

His nostrils flare for a brief moment, one large hand sliding around your waist while the other braces on your hip, and before your brain fully catches up, he is backing you a few slow steps toward the side of the shed. The wall presses lightly against your back, Bucky’s frame crowding you back into stillness, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him through every layer between you. His thumbs stroke your sides rhythmically as he studies you with an expression that almost makes you forget how to breathe.

“You’re playing with fire, doll.”

You tilt your chin up despite the way your pulse stumbles. “I just wanted your attention.”

Bucky’s jaw flexes once. “Oh, you got it.”

His mouth claims yours like he is afraid you will disappear if he doesn’t, the hand on the curve of your waist tightening possessively while the other traces the length of your neck, until his fingers dig into your jaw to keep your head tilted exactly how he wants it. A small, unintentional whimper is muffled against his mouth as your fingers curl tight into the front of his shirt, and Bucky exhales softly through his nose like the sound nearly undid him too. It is rough, urgent... Too much and still not enough.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough for his forehead to rest briefly against yours. Both of you breathe a little unevenly, his palms still heavy on your skin, as though he has no intention whatsoever of letting you wander too far now that he finally has you pliant and whining for him.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, gaze frantically going back and forth between your hazy eyes and your lips glinting with his spit.

“I need you, Jamie.”

And he is kissing you again, slower this time but no less distracting, and you are just beginning to melt properly into him when his hands slide beneath your sundress, harshly grabbing the back of your thighs.

“Jamie—”

“C’mon, up sweetheart.” He rumbles in your mouth, already pushing you higher against the wall.

Your giggle dissolves into a wanton moan when his tongue slides back between your lips, fervent and eager, your fingers tangling into his hair while his grip tightens instinctively on your ass.

“Fuck.” He pants wrecked, his bulge pressing insistently against your covered core.

“Jamie, please.” You toss your head back as his lips frantically move over your neck and cleavage, more lapping and biting at your skin than actually kissing. 

“So fucking sweet.” He grunts, humping you like an animal right in front of the open door of the shed. 

See, Bucky is… well, particularly insatiable. It’s not enough to spend Sunday mornings slowly grinding into you until you are begging him to make you come, tears staining your cheeks as he coos at you. It’s not enough to bend you over the kitchen counter and thrust his cock into your pussy from behind, his warm and heavy body pressing you down as you hold onto the edge of the wooden surface for dear life. It’s also not enough for his fingers to not-so-subtly slip beneath the hem of the blouse you just spent ten minutes adjusting to your liking, just to squeeze your tits because “They’re missing me, doll”.

And he never seems to care if you are late for something, or how long it takes... or where you are. Like that time he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a random mall on the way back from your cousin’s engagement party because one of her friends had flirted with you a few too many times—even with Bucky standing just a couple of feet away, talking to your aunts while openly glaring at him. He growled an amused, “Try not making a mess on the seats, princess” before you ended up squirming and moaning in the backseat of his pickup truck, still fully clothed as his hand slid down the front of your unbuttoned pants. He was three fingers deep inside your pussy, his other hand gripping your jaw to keep your eyes on his as he whispered how good he was going to fuck you later in his bed, and how good he’d make you cream all over his cock. His dick was straining against the confines of his pants, painful and throbbing because you were so pretty with your lips parted around your little, unrestrained whimpers, your half-lidded eyes staring hazily at him, and then… the bright flash of red and blue lights blinded you both in an instant.

By the time the two police officers knocked on the window car, you were both just about composed—his jacket lay on his lap to hide the impressive bulge while you leaned against his shoulder, carefully performing a convincing enough bout of nausea to explain why you had been parked there so long. They told you that someone had reported a vehicle acting suspiciously nearby and Bucky quickly chimed in, matching their story just enough. However, the car in question disappeared down the road the moment you parked. A brief, measured silence followed, until one of the officers glanced at you. Then at Bucky. Then back at his partner, clearly deciding that whatever they might have walked in on was not worth pursuing further. 

Or that time your first picnic date turned into Bucky keeping a hand on your mouth as he fucked you right in the middle of the blanket you had so carefully arranged, imagining quiet naps beneath the trees and lazy kisses. Instead, you had squirted all over it after Bucky had growled into your neck that you needed to be quiet, or else one of his employees might catch you. Still hard, he hastily lay between your thighs for his earned “dessert”.

You have always managed to get away with it before—never caught, never interrupted, always just out of reach of consequence. Until now.

The wall rattles with a particular hard thrust of his hips, loud enough that the sound travels straight through the large space, followed immediately by a sharp, unceremonious clatter from somewhere above your head. Before either of you has even processed what’s happening, something tumbles from the nearby shelf and lands directly on Bucky’s head with a force that makes you both flinch at the same time.

Your boyfriend jerks back instantly, a harsh curse slipping out under his breath as one hand flies up to the exact point of impact, while his other arm tightens around you, still holding you close out of reflex even as he recoils.

“Oh my God—” You gasp, eyes widening in horror as you register what just happened. “Bucky!”

“’M fine.” He grunts automatically, though the tight set of his jaw and the faint squint in his eye suggest otherwise.

You wriggle out from his hold with anxious urgency until he sets you back on your feet, quickly reaching for his wrists as though you can physically prevent any further damage. He keeps muttering under his breath about “fucking shelves” and “the motherfucker who put that damn thing there.”

“Sweetheart, it was just a flashlight, not a bullet.” He grits out to reassure you.

“Who cares, it hit your head!” You argue frantically. “Move your hand, let me see.”

There is a long, theatrical pause, during which Bucky clearly considers refusing out of principle alone, but eventually he exhales through his nose and lowers his hand with exaggerated reluctance, revealing nothing particularly dramatic beyond a faintly annoyed expression.

“There,” he sighs. “Still alive.”

You stare at him with genuine devastation shining in your eyes.

“Oh, baby.”

And that is the moment everything shifts. Because your tone changes completely, your panic dissolving into something softer and infinitely more dangerous as your hands come up to his face without hesitation, cradling him with careful precision while your thumbs brush lightly over his cheeks. You inspect him with big, worried eyes, pouting at him like he has just survived something far more dramatic than an ambush by a shelf.

Bucky, for his part, goes still in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with your attention. It’s almost humiliating how quickly his entire focus narrows down to you. The way your thumb absently brushes his cheek. The way your voice drops into a gentle, breathy coo every time you ask if he is alright. The way you keep smoothing your thumb over the bruise like it physically pains you to see him like this. And somewhere in the middle of it, a thought forms with unsettling clarity—he really likes this.

“You poor thing,” you murmur mournfully. “Does it hurt?”

Bucky blinks once, twice. “A little...” He admits slowly, though the word feels less like an answer and more like an experiment he is conducting purely for the sake of seeing how you respond.

You frown. “Oh, Jamie.”

He leans into your soft palms without thinking, eyelids lowering in complete bliss.

“Mhm.”

“Do you feel dizzy?”

“... Think I might now that you mentioned it.”

The crease in your brows deepens at once, fingers sliding into his hair as you begin checking for other bumps, your touch careful and thorough in a way that turns his brain into pure mush.

“You need ice.”

“Mhm.”

“And water.”

“Probably.”

“And you should sit down for a minute.”

At that, something entirely too satisfied slips into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. Because you are standing in front of him on the verge of tears, treating this huge, rough man like a wounded woodland creature.

“You’re real sweet when you worry about me.” He murmurs, smitten.

You roll your eyes even as your hands stay on his face. “Someone has to take care of you.”

That’s all it takes. He is not going to discourage this behavior in any way, shape, or form.

Bucky lets you guide him toward the chair beside the workbench without resistance, lowering himself into it with slow obedience. The moment he is seated, you are immediately between his knees, hovering, checking, fussing, entirely focused on him as though nothing else in the world currently matters. Which, unfortunately, becomes the highlight of his entire week.

“There’s a bump.” You murmur to yourself, brows drawn together in concentration.

“Mhm.” He agrees gravely, as if this confirms a deeply unfortunate outcome for his future.

“You could’ve been seriously hurt.”

And Bucky just watches you, completely lost in the way you move around him with anxious care, your hands never quite leaving him. There is something recklessly addicting about being the center of your attention that settles into him far too easily, like it has always been waiting there for you to unlock it. It goes to his head faster than the flashlight ever could.

“Are you still feeling dizzy?” You fret.

Bucky tilts his head slightly as if genuinely considering it, though the truth is he could not care less about his symptoms.

“…Little bit.” He decides finally.

Your eyes widen. “You do?”

“Might need mouth-to-mouth.” He adds, entirely deadpan.

You stare at him in disbelief. “James.”

“What?” A pause, thoughtful. “I got a concussion, sweetheart. Have some compassion.”

“You don’t have a concussion.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Your voice briefly cracks with amusement.

He sighs as though genuinely disappointed by the medical community. Still, he looks unbearably pleased with himself.

“Stay still,” you mutter pensively, already turning toward the small freezer tucked away nearby. “I’m getting ice.”

Bucky watches you go with an expression bordering on lovesick, his lips twisting into a soft curve. By the time you return, he has already shifted slightly, spreading his knees just enough to make space for you again. His hands find your hips as soon as you’re close enough, steadying you, holding you in place while you press the ice gently against the bump, your face still pinched with concentration.

“Too cold?” You ask softly.

“Nah.” Then, after a beat, entirely too casually, “Still think you should kiss it better, though.”

You roll your eyes, yet your small smile betrays you. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Can’t believe you’d say that while I’m injured.” He retorts, tone solemn. “I got hit real hard, doll.”

“You said it was a flashlight.” Your eyebrow raises skeptically.

“Still could’ve knocked loose my precious brain cell.”

That finally does it, a laugh slipping out of you despite the anxiety still lingering in your stomach. It’s soft and breathless and completely unrestrained, and Bucky’s hands squeeze your waist, as though he is physically anchoring himself to it.

“What am I going to do with you?” You sigh, fingers threading carefully through his hair. It occurs to you with a fond, helpless kind of clarity that you have accidentally created a monster. One who is absolutely going to treat every minor inconvenience like a life-threatening injury, if it means being doted on by you.

This time, there is no hesitation when he answers, voice quieter but absolutely certain.

“Keep spoiling me like this.”

The words come out lazy and teasing, yet they land heavier than either of you anticipate. Because he means it a little. Maybe a lot. Your expression softens in response, the final threads of panic melting away into something far more vulnerable. Then, much to his delight, you lean down and press a long kiss to the top of his head.

“There,” you murmur. “Better?”

Bucky goes still beneath you, before his arms wrap more firmly around you, pulling you just a fraction closer until his chin can comfortably rest on your torso.

“Yeah,” he whispers, reverent eyes looking up at you. “Way better.”

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU SPEND YOUR MORNINGS TOGETHER The two of you are stretched across his bed after a late dinner and a movie downtown, the television flickering low pale light across the room. One of Bucky’s older hoodies hangs from your shoulders, and the comforter pooled around your legs still carries faint traces of that comforting earthy scent that always seems permanently stitched into everything he owns.

You are trying very hard to stay awake. The week has been horrible: your students restless from too many rainy recesses indoors, paperwork piling endlessly across your desk, and parent emails arriving faster than you could answer them. By the time Bucky picked you up earlier that evening, your body had already been aching with fatigue. Still, you are determined not to fall asleep here. Because despite the fact that Bucky has never once made you feel unwelcome in his space, there is still a nervous little part of you convinced that accidentally crossing invisible boundaries will somehow ruin everything. Falling asleep in his bed feels far more intimate than kissing him does, strangely enough, because it means trusting him enough to stop monitoring yourself.

So every time your eyelids begin slipping lower, you stubbornly force them open again. Unfortunately, Bucky notices the way your responses slow down halfway through conversations and the increasingly delayed reaction every time he asks you something about the movie. Your body keeps unconsciously curling closer and closer toward his warmth before you catch yourself and straighten again. At one point, your head dips toward his chest for too long you abruptly jerk yourself upright.

Bucky glances at you, his hand leisurely rubbing along your arm, and one corner of his mouth already threatens to lift.

“You don’t gotta stay awake for me, doll.”

His voice comes low and soothing beside you, yet your eyes widen abruptly.

“I’m awake.”

Bucky hums softly, deeply unconvinced. “You sure?”

“Yep. I was listening.”

“To what?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, your eyes fluttering shut in defeat when you realize you absolutely set yourself up for that.

Bucky’s chest shakes slightly with restrained laughter at your weak glare.

“I’m serious.” You slur, shifting upright again beneath the blankets with all the determination of somebody seconds away from losing consciousness. He hums patiently, still rubbing slow circles against your sleeve.

You try very hard after that. You focus on the movie, ask questions about the actors… You even sit up straighter just to prove you are perfectly fine. Then Bucky’s hand slides absentmindedly beneath his shirt to rub slowly along your bare hip instead.

And honestly, after that, you never really stood a chance. Bucky glances down after a couple of silent minutes and finds your body curled into his side while your breathing evens out gradually beneath the faint sound of the wind outside. And something about the sight hits him so deeply it hurts. Because he knows this is not easy for you yet. That you are still learning how to be yourself around another person without feeling like an inconvenience. 

Your boyfriend slowly adjusts himself against the headboard so you can settle more comfortably on him, one hand pulling the comforter higher around your shoulders before he lowers the volume of the television. You stir faintly at the movement, brows pinching briefly in your sleep, but his hand promptly strokes your back with gentle movements.

“There you go,” he murmurs quietly. “Go back to sleep, pretty girl.” The tension melts from your muscles so quickly beneath his touch that Bucky’s eyes linger on you in silent wonder for a long moment. He presses one long kiss on your forehead, and sometime later, sleep finally finds him too, quiet and unguarded with you tucked safely against his side.

The next morning, you wake feeling unexpectedly well-rested. For several peaceful seconds, your mind drifts lazily through the hazy border between sleep and awareness. It’s only when your body stirs with a slow, languid stretch that you realize you are pressed against something solid.

Solid, pleasantly warm, and… moving?

Memories crash into you all at once—the dinner, the movie... Bucky’s bed.

Your eyes fly open.

Early sunlight catches along the broad expanse of his bare forearm where it rests heavily around your waist, like he fell asleep making sure you were always close throughout the night. Mortification hits you like a punch in the stomach. You can’t believe you were careless enough to fall asleep in his bed without discussing it first, the surprise quickly curdling into guilt as you picture him stuck with you there, too kind to wake you up.

Trying to not be swallowed by panic until you are completely alone, you carefully shift beneath the blankets only for Bucky’s hold to tighten automatically around you. A sleepy hum leaves him, followed by his voice a second later, raspy and deep.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You turn carefully enough to find him already watching you through heavy-lidded eyes, hair messy from sleep and jaw still shadowed with yesterday’s stubble.

“I’m sorry.” The words come out before you can even think about it.

Bucky blinks slowly, his soft smile falling at once. “For what?”

“For falling asleep here.”

“You were tired.” He frowns.

“I know but… I didn’t mean to bother you.”

The second the words leave your mouth, something in Bucky’s expression morphs into painful understanding. You genuinely believe this inconvenienced him.

“You silly girl,” he murmurs fondly, pulling you closer by your waist. “You fell asleep during a movie. That ain’t exactly a crime, y’know?”

You stare down at the comforter instead, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “I just didn’t wanna impose.”

Long fingers are already sliding beneath your chin, guiding your face back toward him with impossible patience.

“You think I’d rather have you driving home exhausted in the rain at midnight? Hm?”

Your lips part slightly. “Well—”

“No, baby.” His thumb delicately brushes your bottom lip. “I’d rather have you here with me.”

It feels hard to breathe properly when faced with the certainty in his voice.

“I liked waking up next to you.”

The confession lands directly beneath your ribs.

“You did?” Your eyes observe him wide with hope.

“‘Course I did.” A sleepy little smile tugs at his mouth. “I...” He huffs out an abashed chuckle, and you recoil a little, completely caught off guard. Because Bucky has never once looked this flushed since your first date.

“I’d really like it if you stayed over more.”

“Really?” It’s nothing short of a whisper.

“Mhm.” His hand drifts slowly along your side as his gaze lingers on your face with devastating devotion.

“Don’t really like the idea of you driving home late all the time anyway, and…” He pauses briefly, almost thoughtful. “I wanna wake up with you in my arms.”

The room suddenly feels far too warm. Bucky shifts slightly closer again, his other arm coming under you to anchor your body to his, his nose teasingly grazing yours.

“Wanna have my mouth on you before either of us even gets outta bed, and be late because we inevitably get carried away with our little kisses.” He whispers lazily against the slope of your neck, pressing a peck on your collarbone that makes you shudder.

“Wanna make breakfast together and watch you steal half the bacon off my plate after you said you weren’t hungry.” His mouth barely brushes your cheek. “Wanna sit at the kitchen table while you talk my ear off about your day before it even starts.”

Nobody has ever spoken about wanting you in their life as a fantasy too fragile to touch. But Bucky has already made space for you in his future without hesitation.

And then he completely ruins you by adding under his breath, “You look good here, sweetheart. With me.”

The same hesitation holding you back melts completely after that.

“I liked waking up next to you too.” You whisper, cheeks warming up at your own brave confession. But the bright smile he gives you is completely worth it. 

Staying over becomes less of an exception and more of a habit neither of you wants to break. Soon enough, pieces of you begin appearing around the farmhouse: a spare toothbrush beside his sink; a brand new box of your favorite strawberry lipgloss that Bucky bought for you to specifically use when you stay over; your favorite cookies tucked into one of the kitchen cabinets—because Bucky noticed you always look for them first in the mornings.

He never rushes you into the day. Even when he has technically been awake for hours already, he moves through the morning with a steady, unhurried ease, as though the world itself knows it can take a break around him.

Sometimes you wake to find him already watching you quietly from the pillow beside yours, one arm still draped across your waist while pale sunrays spill across the sheets between you. Most mornings, you simply cuddle closer for a little while, listening to him breathe, memorizing the warmth of his arms around you, letting yourself exist without urgency for once.

“Morning, baby.”

His voice still sounds rough around the edges from sleep when he leans to meet you halfway, pressing a slow kiss on your mouth that lingers far longer than necessary because neither of you is in any hurry to separate yet.

Downstairs, the kitchen already smells faintly of coffee he started earlier. You are halfway through pouring cream into your mug when dread hits you like a bucket of icy water. Bucky notices immediately from his seat at the kitchen island, where he’s reading the newspaper like every morning.

“What happened?”

You sigh softly, your head falling back with a groan. “I still have to finish prepping activities for today.”

Instead of looking disappointed that your attention has shifted elsewhere, Bucky simply studies you thoughtfully for a moment before setting his mug down.

“Show me.”

You turn in surprise. “What?”

“Show me what you gotta do.”

“You wanna help me lesson plan?” Your eyebrows raise in amusement.

“Correction, I wanna spend my morning with you.”

So eventually you spread everything across the wooden surface: worksheets, glue sticks, colored markers, laminated reading cards, paper cutouts for today’s classroom activity. Bucky watches the process unfold with intense concentration, a deep crease between his eyebrows while he studies your materials.

“This all for one class?”

“Mm-hmm. Reading exercise, drawing activity, vocabulary review…” You point at each group of items.

Bucky gives you a slow nod, despite still looking vaguely overwhelmed by the amount of paper involved. Without thinking much about it, you hand him a stack of cut-out shapes that needs to be organized by color. He takes them at once, no hesitation whatsoever. Several minutes later, you glance up and nearly snort out loud when you realize he’s sorting them not only by color, but by shade. After that, he busies himself with other simple tasks, like passing markers to you in color order because he noticed you unconsciously arrange them that way yourself, and flattening laminated sheets carefully beneath one rough hand while you cut around them.

At one point, Bucky picks up one of the worksheets and studies it with intense concentration, his brows slowly knitting together the more he reads through the page. You barely pay attention at first, too focused on cutting out paper stars for the reading activity, until silence stretches suspiciously long. When you are done, you find Bucky still staring at the paper as if studying a government document.

“These kids gotta circle the adjective?”

You blink once. “Yes?”

He glances down at the paper, then back at you. “They know what an adjective is?”

“Most of them.” You chuckle at his genuine curiosity.

Bucky shakes his head like the information has sincerely overwhelmed him.

“When I was their age, I was eating dirt behind the barn.”

“Bucky.”

“I’m just being honest, sweetheart.” His finger taps the worksheet once. “These little kids are out here identifying pronouns and shit at eight in the morning.”

You are laughing too hard now imagining a smaller, frowning Bucky eating dirt and running around the pasture hugging lambs probably larger than him. Bucky watches you with obvious satisfaction, until his eyes narrow at another page on the table.

“Is that a frog?”

You grin at him. “That’s the reading mascot, Sir Ribbits.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “The frog helps them read?”

“He encourages them.”

Bucky stares at the cartoon amphibian for another long moment before giving it a satisfied nod.

“Good for him.”

After hunching over papers for what feels like hours, you stretch your arms with a tired little moan. Bucky is already rounding the table to rub your stiff shoulders, and instead of flinching, you simply lean back into it.

By the time everything is finally packed away, the kitchen table is covered in marker caps and paper scraps. He gathers the last stack of worksheets into neat piles before you can even reach for them.

“You’re weirdly good at this.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you prop your elbow on the table and rest your chin against your knuckles.

Bucky glances up from the papers. “You let me into your world,” he says simply. “Figured I should learn it too.”

He never expected you to abandon pieces of yourself to fit into his life more easily. Instead, he stepped gently into yours, observing every detail with patience and the kind of love that makes ordinary mornings feel sacred without either of you even realizing it.

A strange heaviness weighs in your body on Thursday morning but Bucky is so warm, and still dozing beside you with one of his large hands resting on your stomach. So you yawn, lazily letting your eyes blink at the window just enough to not abandon that pleasant, fuzzy state of drowsiness. But then they accidentally land on the clock on your nightstand and the realization is like electricity in your veins.

“Oh no.”

The words catch painfully in your throat while you scramble upright so fast the mattress shifts violently beneath you.

“No, no, no, no—”

Bucky wakes with a jolt at the desperation in your voice, his brows pulling together while he pushes himself up on one elbow, still heavy with sleep but already alert.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

You are throwing the blankets aside, heart hammering painfully while you frantically open your closet. “I’m so fucking late.”

He glances once toward the clock and sits up fully.

“Okay.” He says calmly, rubbing one hand briefly over his face before standing. “Hey, sweetheart. You need to breathe.”

But your thoughts pile over each other in a chaotic succession to acknowledge the note of seriousness tinging his voice. Stumbling around your bedroom, you mentally list everything waiting for you at school, and fuck! You still need to print the spelling worksheets—

Suddenly your chest feels too tight for your lungs.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you whine shakily while yanking open dresser drawers with far more force than necessary. “Why didn’t my alarm go off?”

Bucky watches you for approximately three seconds before deciding this has gone on long enough.

“Sweetheart.”

You barely hear him.

“Where are my tights? Fuck—”

The sound of your name in his low voice is like an arm dragging you out of the fog. You look up just in time to see him step directly into your path, his palms settling carefully on your upper arms before your nervous pacing can continue.

“Sit down for me.”

The words are not sharp, but there is enough firmness in his voice that your body pauses anyway.

“I don’t have time to sit down.” You argue weakly, still breathless.

“You got thirty seconds.”

“Bucky—”

“Thirty.” His thumbs stroke once over your arms. “Then you can go back to panicking all you want.”

And somehow, despite yourself, a tiny startled laugh almost escapes your throat. Your spiraling does not scare him, he has already decided he can handle it.

Reluctantly, you fall back on the edge of the bed, your right knee already bouncing anxiously. Meanwhile, your boyfriend moves around the room with military efficiency despite being startled awake not even five minutes ago, opening drawers you left hanging crooked and pulling out clothes with far more success than you had managed one minute earlier.

“This sweater okay?” He asks, holding up the brown-colored knit you wear most often to school.

You nod quickly. “Yeah.”

“What about bottoms?”

“The dark jeans. Not the—no, the other ones.”

A sleepy smile pulls at his mouth. “Doll, you own six pairs of those.”

“They’re different.”

“Mhm. I’m learning.”

He lays the clothes neatly beside you before his eyes meet yours.

“I’ll get the shower running.” You are already half-way up but he stops you promptly with a hand on your shoulder. “You stay put for one minute and focus on your breathing.”

Your body slumps back on the mattress dejected. “I don’t have one minute.”

“You do,” he calls back over the hallway. “You just decided you don’t.”

And annoyingly enough, hearing him say that steadies your heartbeat embarrassingly fast. Bucky never meets your panic with more panic, but with this quiet expectation that life will go on if you slow down to take a breath.

By the time you finally hurry into the kitchen twenty minutes later, still trying to button one sleeve, you stop short at the familiar sizzling of the pan. Bucky is standing near the stove in grey sweatpants and an old dark henley, hair still messy from sleep and posture relaxed while he slides scrambled eggs onto a plate.

“Sit.” He says after spotting you hovering on the threshold.

“Bucky—”

He turns toward you fully then, watching you with that deeply patient expression of his.

“C’mere.”

You comply with a sigh as he slides the plate in front of you alongside a toast, some jam and a travel mug of coffee already prepared exactly the way you like it.

“You need protein.”

You massage your temples to soothe the impending headache. “I’m gonna be late.”

“You’re already late,” he points out calmly, leaning against the counter. “Now, you can either be late and fed or late and miserable.”

You stare at him and he promptly raises one eyebrow. “You done fighting me on this or you got another argument ready?”

That finally pulls a reluctant laugh from you. “You’re bossy in the morning.”

He shrugs easily, now understanding why you arrive home every afternoon looking like somebody has been ruthlessly peeling pieces off you since sunrise.

He then helps without making a performance out of it. Your coat appears folded neatly over a chair, and your keys get placed directly beside your coffee as you try to eat faster. When your lunch bag nearly gets forgotten on the kitchen counter, Bucky simply hooks two fingers through the strap and places it near your coat.

“Every morning you skitter through this part like a startled little thing.” He murmurs eventually.

Your answer is a tired sigh. “Because I’m always running behind.”

“Nah,” he corrects gently, stepping behind your chair to put his hands over your shoulders and press a kiss to your temple. “You just got it in your head that if you ain’t running yourself ragged, you’re not working hard enough.”

The words hit uncomfortably close to home, leaving you staring down at your empty plate in silence. Bucky promptly kneels beside you, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“You hear what I’m saying, princess?” He mumbles softly.

“A little.” You nod reluctantly.

“You don’t gotta earn rest by wearing yourself thin.”

Your throat tightens unexpectedly, not used to have your exhaustion treated like something deserving tenderness instead of expectation. Before the moment can settle too heavily inside you though, Bucky glances toward your bag where papers are sticking halfway out.

“You got everything?”

You finally look up, straightening just a little. “I think so.”

“That usually means no.”

You groan softly. “Please don’t start.”

He chuckles under his breath before walking over to the bag for a checkup, clearly having observed this exact routine unravel before. Within seconds, he pulls out your half-empty water bottle.

“You forgot to fill this.”

“Oh.” You frown.

“And your portable charger.”

“Oh.” Your shoulders slump.

“And doll?” His eyes lift to you knowingly while he holds up the folder with all the notes for your lesson currently bent sideways. “This thing’s fighting for its life.”

Exasperated, you hide your face behind your hands while he fixes the folder carefully before zipping everything properly closed. But the bag is too full and when your fingers close around the handle a few minutes later, the zipper gives away anyway, and frustration spikes sharply enough that your eyes sting.

“Why won’t this stupid thing—”

Before you can fight with it further, Bucky steps in and takes the bag from your hands. One smooth motion and the zipper slides perfectly into place.

“There.”

Your entire nervous system settles slightly from that tiny act alone.

You finally make it to the front door—still flustered, still behind schedule, still trying to mentally catch up with the day waiting outside. But you are no longer drowning in it.

You grab your car keys, expecting some hurried goodbye while Bucky cleans the kitchen. Instead, he is standing directly in front of the door, and without a word, his hands reach down and fix your collar where it folded awkwardly.

“Text me when you get there.”

“I will.” His eyes search your face for another moment, cradling it between his warm palms.

“You did good.”

You stare at him incredulously. “I overslept by almost an hour.”

“And you still got up,” Bucky comments simply. “Still got dressed. Still ate breakfast. Still remembered your stuff. That’s what matters, baby.”

He never measures your worth through perfection, only through effort. Through whether or not you are being gentle enough with yourself while surviving difficult days.

He leaves a long kiss on your forehead, completely unbothered by the clock ticking loudly behind you.

“Now go teach your little gremlins.”

“They’re not gremlins.” You roll your eyes fondly.

His left eyebrow raises in skepticism. “One of ’em tried to lick glue yesterday.”

“He said he wanted to know if it tasted like blueberries because the bottle was blue.” You mumble defensively.

“Mhm.” He presses one last kiss to your lips. “Tiny gremlins.”

You shake your head, chuckling as you reach for the door. And while walking to your car, you realize with pleasant surprise that your breathing is a little steadier. Controlled. Because Bucky stood beside your panic and refused to let it carry you away.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN YOU ARGUE FOR THE FIRST TIME Pickup was already chaotic: one of the first graders had burst into tears after losing her glitter-covered pencil somewhere near the cubbies, a little boy had refused to put on his raincoat because he insisted it was “for babies,” and by the time the middle school students started flooding the shared hallway, you already felt like hiding beneath your blanket and sleeping for two days.

That’s when the shouting starts—two eighth graders near the front doors, chest-to-chest, yelling loud enough to make half the younger kids stop in place.

You don’t even think before stepping in.

“Hey!” You call sharply, moving between them before either could swing properly. “That’s enough.”

One of them backs off immediately. The other glares at you. He is taller by several inches, angry in the ugly, reckless way teenagers sometimes become when they realize they can intimidate adults physically now. His face twists the second you tell him to step away from the younger students.

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I absolutely can,” you answer promptly, trying to keep your voice collected because several of your students are staring with huge frightened eyes. “Go cool off in one of the classrooms.”

He laughs, a sharp and bitter sound, before stepping closer.

“You think because you teach stupid little kids that you can boss everybody around?”

You ignore that part. “Watch your language.”

That only makes him angrier. “You gonna write me up?” He mocks. “Go teach somebody the alphabet or something.”

He starts talking over you, muttering insults under his breath, waving his hands too close to your face while you try to de-escalate things without frightening your students more than they already are.

And then Bucky walks in. He has come to pick you up because your car is still at the mechanic after the tire issue earlier that week. The second he steps through the school doors and sees some teenage boy towering over you while a crowd of scared children has shrunk back against the wall, something in him visibly sharpens.

Once the boy swings one hand again while barking the umpteenth insult aimed at you, too close to your shoulder this time, Bucky is there in seconds.

“That’s enough.”

His voice cuts through the noise so coldly that even the younger kids go quiet.

The boy freezes. Honestly, anybody would in front of a six-foot-something man wearing rough work clothes still dusted faintly from the farm, and a face that rarely softens around strangers.

“You’re done yelling at her, and you better start showing some respect to your teachers.” He continues evenly. “You understand me?”

The boy mutters something under his breath about you not being his teacher, prompting Bucky to take a step closer. The younger snaps his head up, before taking a step back.

“Try again.”

Silence.

Then finally, begrudgingly, “Yes, sir.”

The principal arrives not even a minute later after hearing the commotion, quickly pulling the boy away while apologizing profusely to you both, and the altercation ends as quickly as it started. At least physically. Emotionally, it’s heavy as a boulder on your shoulders, because the entire drive home, Bucky is quieter than usual, so tense that you feel the need to tentatively reach for the handle at your side and roll down the car window for some fresh air.

His hand still rests on your thigh, he still opens your door, and asks if you have eaten. But there is something bothering him underneath all of it. And eventually, while he is cooking dinner later that evening, it finally surfaces.

“You shouldn’t have stepped between them like that.”

You look up from where you are sitting at the kitchen island grading some assignments. “What?”

Bucky keeps stirring something in the pan, shoulders tight beneath his henley. “He was bigger than you,” he continues carefully. “And he was already angry.”

“He’s a kid.”

“He’s fifteen.”

“He’s still a student.”

His jaw clenches briefly. “And if he had hit you?”

With a slow sigh, you decide to put your pen down—these are all signs that you are not getting out of this conversation anytime soon. 

“He wasn’t going to, I had it under control.” You rebut tiredly.

“Didn’t look like you did.”

The second those words leave his mouth, something ugly inside your chest twists painfully. His voice is controlled, far from cruel, but those words feel like a knife ruthlessly stabbing an old scar that refuses to heal properly. And suddenly, you are twenty-two again, standing in your parents’ kitchen while your mom frowns at your teaching degree paperwork.

Teaching little kids? What are you gonna do with that?

You’re wasting your time, this won’t pay bills.

“Well, I handled it anyway.” You look back at the paper in front of you, quietly.

Bucky exhales through his nose, still focused on the stove. 

“Sweetheart, I know you were trying to help, but—”

“I did help.” You frown at his back.

“You can’t just jump between two angry teenagers.”

“I’m a teacher.”

“And I’m saying you don’t gotta throw yourself in front of people to prove that.”

That one hurts too. It tastes like doubt, criticism... disappointment.

“I know how to do my job.” You croak out.

Bucky finally turns then, brows drawn slightly.

“I didn’t say you don’t.”

But his voice is firmer now, frustration slipping through the cracks of his apparent composure despite himself, and when he gestures with the wooden spoon in his hand, his tone rises just enough to make you flinch before you can stop it. The movement is barely noticeable, more out of surprise than anything. Except Bucky freezes.

You don’t even realize your eyes have dropped somewhere on the counter in front of you until his voice changes completely.

“Sweetheart.” A soft, tentative sound, but you are already shaking your head.

“It’s okay.” Your voice sounds wrong and dismissive even to you and Bucky’s expression shifts into painful realization.

He sets the spoon down without another word, turns off the stove, then gingerly walks toward, still keeping his distance so you won’t feel cornered.

“C’mere a second, baby.”

You hesitate, because your body already knows the shape arguments are supposed to take, even if your mind is trying to remind itself that this is your Bucky. Your Jamie.

Still, somewhere deep inside you, disagreement has tied to punishment long ago, to that awful tightening in the air that used to settle over rooms after somebody got upset. You are used to conversations turning cold the second emotions become inconvenient; to silence stretching for hours or even days because you were the one expected to smooth everything over—apologize first, speak softer, take up less space. Growing up, anger always came with withdrawal attached to it. Simple disagreements morphed into slammed cabinets and heavy sighs and someone suddenly acting as though your mere presence had become irritating. And even though Bucky has never treated you that way, your instincts still brace for him to go quiet in that unbearable way that turns a home into a suffocating prison.

But his hand rests on your back as it gently guides you toward the couch, settling beside you but still leaving enough room to breathe. Bucky does not like the way you move cautiously around him, the way you slowly lower yourself onto the same couch that has held you both through late-night talks that stretched until early morning, and movie nights that ended in soft, unhurried kisses.

“We’re not doing silence, okay?”

Your eyes fall on the floor. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.” His voice stays gentle. “You started disappearing on me halfway through that conversation.”

“I was listening.” You stare at your fingers fidgeting on your thighs. 

“No, angel.” He shakes his head once, his eyes never once straying away from you. “You got quiet because you thought I was gonna turn into somebody I’m not.”

The stinging pressure behind your eyes becomes unbearable. Bucky braces his forearms on his thighs, leaning forward with a slow exhale instead of pressing closer.

“I’m not mad at you.” He adds in a whisper. “I was worried for you.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “I know.”

“Do you?” His tone is impossibly feeble now, because suddenly this is not about the hallway anymore, but a habit that was acquired through mortification and fear. Bucky studies your face for another second before speaking again.

“Ain’t no reason for you to be scared to talk back to me, sweetheart.” His brows pinch faintly. “And if I say something that hurts you, I need you to tell me.”

You let out a shaky breath, your voice coming out weaker than you intend to. “It wasn’t just that.”

Bucky straightens at once at the first crack in your armor, unconsciously getting closer. 

“Then help me understand.”

Eventually, with trembling hands and wet eyes, you open up. About your mom and how every time you came home exhausted during your first teaching year, she would look at you like you were failing at life itself. About how your dad used to scoff whenever you talked about your students, because “Teaching kids how to write their name isn’t a real career”. About how even the tiniest mistake sounded like proof you were incapable.

And the more you speak, the worse Bucky looks. By the time you finish talking, it feels like a weight has finally been removed off your chest, yet he looks genuinely sick with guilt.

“Baby,” he mumbles, reaching for your hand. “I wasn’t doubting you. I would never do that.”

You shrug weakly. “I know you weren’t trying to.”

“But I still made you feel that way.”

That’s what finally breaks you, because he’s not defending himself, nor minimizing it.

Tears spill before you can stop them, and your Bucky is already there with open arms to catch you.

“C’mere, babygirl.”

You climb into his lap without hesitation, burying your face against his neck as his arms wrap around you securely. One large hand slides slowly up and down your back, and you try really hard to swallow down your sobs, but you only end up making a bigger mess of his shirt.

“I’m so sorry, princess.” He whispers against your temple. “And I should never’ve raised my voice at you.”

“You weren’t yelling.” You answer shakily.

“You still flinched.”

The shame in his voice makes your heart ache. His hold tightens around you instinctively at your whimper.

“I wasn’t angry at you.” He mumbles urgently. “I was angry at the whole damn situation. At that kid thinking he could talk to you like that after nearly starting a fight in front of your students.” His jaw tightens briefly before he continues. “Couldn’t stand there listening to some mouthy little bastard trying to scare you in front of those little kids.”

Your eyes close in sorrow as the image of their startled faces comes back cruel and still fresh. 

“They were terrified.” You sniffle and his arms squeeze you just a little tighter. 

“I know why you stepped in.” he sighs. “You love those kids like they’re your own for eight hours every damn day, and you can’t stand the idea of any of ’em feeling helpless in a place that’s supposed to be safe.” His palms cradle your cheeks to slowly coax you out of his chest, the urge to see you so strong it pulls hard at his heart. 

“You walk into that school every morning and spend your whole day teaching them how to read and write and believe in themselves. And you’re so fucking good at that, angel. You teach ’em how to be brave enough to admit when they don’t understand something. How to speak up without being scared of failing. How to be kind with each other when the world already gives them enough reasons not to be.” A faint, helpless sort of admiration softens his face then, like he still can’t believe he gets to love and be loved by someone as precious as you. 

Your lips shake as you give him a pained smile, tears still sliding relentlessly down your cheeks.

“Years from now those kids probably won’t remember every worksheet you gave ’em, but they’ll remember how you were patient with ’em. That you listened.” His teeth clench when his voice wavers a little. 

“So yeah, I know exactly why you did that. But that boy still thought he could stand there and talk to you like you were nothing.” He exhales slowly, forehead leaning against yours. “And baby… I got scared too.”

Your chest heaves, something akin to panic swirling in your stomach, because you have never seen your boyfriend look so devastated.

“You matter to me more than being right in an argument,” the words come out rough, his throat working hard around the tight knot lodged there. “So if I get scared and it comes out wrong sometimes, I need you to remember it’s only because the thought of something happening to you tears me apart.”

You nod slowly before folding yourself back against him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you bury your face in the warmth of his chest. And then you simply exist together for a long while, curled into him with your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt while his strong arms hold you safely close to his heart.

The living room has gone quiet around you, the stove forgotten for the moment, as your breathing gradually evens out. He is the one who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat lightly as his lips brush your forehead.

“We’re gonna argue sometimes,” he murmurs carefully, almost reluctantly, like the thought alone upsets him as well. “I can’t promise we’ll never get frustrated with each other.”

Your arms tighten around him at that.

“What I can promise you,” he continues softly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, one hand coming up to cup your jaw with impossible tenderness. “Is that I’m not gonna stop loving you when things get hard.”

A fresh set of tears settles at the corners of your eyes, because that’s the part you never learned growing up—that the love of the people close to you was not supposed to be conditional.

Bucky’s thumb brushes beneath your eye. “And I’m really, really sorry, sweetheart.” His voice full of genuine regret. “I hate that I made you feel small for even a second.”

You shake your head urgently, not liking his expression. “You didn’t mean to, Jamie.”

“Yet I still did it.” He shifts slightly beneath you then, settling you more comfortably against his chest before continuing quietly.

“Next time one of us gets too worked up, we stop.” His tone is thoughtful now, already trying to build something safer for you with his bare hands. “Nobody keeps pushing the conversation just to win it. We sit down, we breathe, maybe hold each other if that’s what you need, and then we talk when it actually feels like us again instead of our anger. How’s that sound?”

You nod eagerly, before letting out the tiniest watery chuckle against his shoulder.

“That sounds very therapist of you.”

Bucky huffs a soft laugh of his own through his nose. “Probably because I’m thinking real hard how I never wanna be the reason my girl cries like this again.”

A sob threatens to spill out at the pain beneath his words, so you press your face against his neck insistently—as if that could physically stop your own anguish. Bucky plants a gentle kiss on your temple.

“And if I ever get loud again,” he continues with quiet embarrassment, brows pinching in guilt. “You tell me straight away, okay? There are no excuses for it. Don’t sit there holding it on your own while I’m thinking everything’s fine.”

You nod slowly. “I can do that.”

“Promise?” He mumbles, teasingly pushing the tip of his nose against yours.

“Promise.” You leave a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth and only then does some of the tension finally leave him.

His hand slides upwards, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp just how you like, a soft sigh escaping him at the feeling of your body melting against his. 

“You okay now, babygirl?” The whispered question comes out so sweetly, so sincerely worried, that it nearly brings you to tears all over again.

He gets a simple nod as an answer, and that’s enough for him to understand you are still quite overwhelmed to communicate with words. Bucky considers your body for a moment, his eyes moving carefully over you like he needs to be absolutely certain before he believes it. Your shoulders are no longer drawn up near your ears, and your hands have loosened, clutching lightly at his shirt instead of gripping it desperately. Your breathing has finally settled as well, slower and steadier against his chest. Even your eyes have lost their heat, no longer shiny with panic but tired and present in the moment. Only when he seems fully convinced that you are no longer bracing for something awful to happen does his expression finally ease.

“I got you,” he murmurs quietly against your forehead. “Even when we get things wrong, I still got you.”

Later that night, long after your chagrin has faded and dinner has finally been eaten cold straight from reheated plates, you lie on him with your ear resting directly over his heartbeat. Usually Bucky melts into the sheets whenever you cuddle him like this. Tonight, he stays strangely rigid beneath you.

Lifting your head slightly, you look at his handsome features kissed by the dim, warm light coming from the lamp on his nightstand.

“Jamie?” His fingers pause where they have been tracing absently along your spine, eyes fixed emptily on the TV screen.

“Hm?” He blinks once, hastily turning toward you, like your voice had suddenly pulled him out of whatever thought he had disappeared into.

“You alright?”

The silence that stretches afterward allows anxiety to creep onto the edge of your ribs, before he carefully maneuvers the both of you so you are lying on your sides, facing each other.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always.” His jaw clenches before he meets your eyes.

“Were you scared of me?”

You almost flinch back. “What?”

“Tonight.” He grunts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Or before. At any point.”

You stare at him in genuine disbelief. “Bucky—”

“I know I ain’t exactly…” He huffs. “Mr. Friendly with strangers.”

You snort softly because the statement sounds so painfully sincere.

“I’m serious, doll.” His gaze absently lands somewhere on your collarbone. “Most people think I’m angry before I even open my mouth.”

You frown at the tinge of sadness in his voice.

“And then tonight happened,” he continues quietly. “You flinched when I raised my voice and—”

“That wasn’t because of you.” You quickly correct him.

“But I can’t stand that your body reacted like that around me.”

You push yourself upward, cupping his face between your hands until he finally looks at you properly. “James Buchanan Barnes,” you whisper solemnly. “I have never been scared of you. And never will.”

His expression softens at the full name.

“You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel safe.” His eyes still refuse to meet yours, but from the blush settling high on his cheeks, you reckon it’s out of shyness rather than bitter insecurity.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” He shakes his head once. “I see a good,” you murmur softly. “Gentle, patient man.” Your voice lowers even further at that, warmth blooming through your chest when he finally looks at you. 

“You always reach for my hand before we cross a street without even thinking about it. You remember which side of the bed I sleep better on; you peel oranges for me because you know I hate the smell on my fingers, and you always turn the porch light on before I get to your house so I never have to walk up in the dark alone.” An adoring grin tugs at your mouth then. “You look at me like I’m the prettiest girl in the world. All the time—even when I’m exhausted and cranky and covered in glitter glue from school projects.” 

“So no, Bucky. I don’t think there’s anything about you to be scared of.” You sigh dreamily, lying back down. “You’re my Jamie.”

He swallows hard, jaw tightening for a moment as he fights for control over the tears threatening to spill.

“I love you.” He whispers abruptly, like he can’t hold it back anymore.

Your breath hitches, and then your smile breaks open so wide your cheeks start to ache. “I love you too, Jamie.”

The second the words leave your mouth, Bucky is pulling you over him for a feverish kiss that steals the oxygen from your burning lungs.

That night, he carefully rolls until he’s the one resting on your chest, his arms locked securely around your waist. And for the first time in your life, disagreement ends with someone offering silence as a space to settle instead of weaponizing it.

ᥫ᭡. WHEN HE THINKS ABOUT FOREVER You are sitting with crossed legs on the couch in one of Bucky’s flannels and thick socks, Alpine dramatically sprawled on your lap as one tiny paw stretches lazily beneath your chin. Her purring is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs every time your fingers drag slowly through her white fur. She arrived in the middle of January wrapped inside one of Bucky’s old flannels, small enough that at first you mistook her for some white bundle of fabric against his chest. You still remember the way he had stepped through the front door that evening with rainwater clinging to the shoulders of his jacket and damp locks at the nape of his neck, one large hand carefully cupped beneath the trembling kitten like he was afraid she might dissolve if he held her too tightly.

“Found her near the south fence,” he had explained quietly while you fretted over them, your heart already breaking at the sight of the little thing. “No collar. Could barely stop shivering to eat.”

Alpine had looked miserable then, all wide blue eyes and soaked fur, but the second you reached for her, she had pushed her tiny face straight into your palm with a desperate little squeak that made Bucky huff a soft laugh. And that was it for you.

Months later, Alpine rules the farmhouse like she personally pays the mortgage. She follows Bucky everywhere when he is home, winding around his boots while he cooks or trying to climb directly into his lap whenever he sits down for more than five minutes. But with you she turns even softer, almost spoiled in the way she melts instantly against your affection. The moment you walk through the front door, she is meowing to be picked up, trotting across the hardwood floors before you even have time to take your shoes off. Sometimes she is eagerly waiting on the back of the couch like she somehow heard your car turn into Bucky’s lane.

He pretends to find it deeply offensive.

“Think she likes you more’n me now.” He had grumbled once while watching Alpine stretch shamelessly in your arms instead of his. You laughed, finding him extremely adorable.

“She sees you every day.”

“Exactly,” he had replied, narrowing his eyes at the cat like she had personally betrayed him. “And apparently that means nothing anymore.”

Tonight is no different.

“There’s my pretty girl,” you murmur as your hands delicately cradle her face. “Yes, there she is. Sweet baby.” Alpine answers by shoving her tiny face directly beneath your chin.

“Oh, you want more attention?” You gasp theatrically. “What a shocking development!”

From the doorway, Bucky watches the entire thing unfold in silence with the shadow of a fond smile lingering on his lips, one shoulder leaning against the frame separating the living room from the kitchen and thick arms crossed loosely over his chest. There is dirt still faintly smudged along one forearm from work outside, his flannel pushed up to his elbows, hair still slightly messy from where he dragged his fingers through it earlier. But all of that roughness fades beneath the look in his eyes. Because you are sitting there treating that tiny stray kitten like she hung the moon. Carefully kissing her head. Adjusting the blanket around her. Holding her with such tenderness, like this is the only language your body knows how to speak.

“Needy thing.” You murmur affectionately before pressing another kiss between her ears.

“You say that like you’re any better.”

The sound of Bucky’s teasing voice makes you glance up immediately. Alpine notices him too, her ears perking instantly before she lets out a tiny chirp of recognition. Still, she makes absolutely no attempt to leave your arms. The floor creaks softly beneath his boots as he finally pushes away from the doorway and walks toward the couch. You give him a sweet smile before your attention drops back to the kitten currently trying to chew on the sleeve hanging over your hand.

“Your daughter is biting me again.” Bucky snorts quietly as he lowers himself beside you, one arm immediately stretching around your shoulders.

“My daughter?” He repeats, pulling you closer. “That cat stopped being mine the second you started baby-talking her.”

“Mmh, that’s not true.”

“Princess, you carried her around this house for three hours yesterday because she sneezed once.”

You frown. “She was sick.”

“She had dust on her nose.”

You gasp softly in mock offense while Alpine flips onto her back, completely unconcerned with the argument happening over her custody. Bucky watches you scratch carefully beneath her chin, your entire face softening without restraint every time she purrs louder. Something in his chest pulls so hard it almost feels unfair, because you have no idea how gorgeous you look, and that he could stand there for hours just watching you pour your love out so freely.

Bucky reaches down then, scratching gently beneath Alpine’s chin until the kitten practically melts in your lap. “She sits in front of the door when you leave, y’know.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “She does not.”

“Mhm.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Walks around crying for twenty minutes like her entire life just fell apart.”

“That’s dramatic.” You tell her with an exaggerated pout.

“Says the woman holding her like an actual infant.”

You look down instinctively. She has, in fact, moved to lie against your chest beneath the blanket with only her tiny head visible. “… Okay maybe a little.”

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound settling warm and deep inside your chest. You eventually notice his silence as somewhere deeper in the house the dryer hums low and steady. The air smells faintly like coffee and detergent and the water lily and sheer musk candle you lit earlier before sunset. When Alpine decides it’s time for the second round against the buttons of the flannel, your smile fades gradually as you become aware that Bucky’s still looking at you.

“What?” You ask softly. He blinks once like he has to pull himself back into the room.

“Nothing.” He murmurs automatically, though it’s very clearly not nothing.

Your eyes narrow a little. “James.”

His expression shifts then, softening even further until it almost looks thoughtful, his gaze drifting toward Alpine.

“I keep picturing something,” he breathes out absently. “Not in a big, dramatic way. Just… small things stacked together.”

Your breath catches quietly.

“Waking up,” he continues, almost like he can see it somewhere in front of him. “And not having to rush outta bed right away. Coffee that gets cold because neither of us remembers it’s there. A kitchen that’s too full of noise for how early it is.” His frame moves with the faint breath of amusement that slips through his lips, but it never breaks the softness of the moment.

“And coming home at the end of the day knowing it doesn’t matter how it went out there,” he adds more quietly, finally meeting your eyes. “Because there’s still you here.”

You can barely breathe now, your heart doing a strange little stutter. He says it so easily. Like these thoughts have existed inside him for a long time already. Like he’s visited them before and kept coming back to them over and over again.

Bucky shifts slightly closer on the couch without even seeming aware he is doing it, his free hand settling warm on your knee, his thumb brushing back and forth on your bare skin.

“I don’t know all the details yet,” he whispers, eyes moving from your eyes to your lips. “But I know it keeps coming back to the same thing. You being here. That’s the part my mind doesn’t change.”

Bucky leans closer until his forehead finally rests against yours. “If someday you decide you want kids, I’ll build something bigger for us. A place with too much noise, toys everywhere and muddy boots by the front door.” His smile grows almost boyishly giddy now, soft laughter warming his words. “Maybe a little boy with your eyes... and a little girl with your smile.”

Your chest rises sharply, your love for this sweet man soaring so suddenly in your heart it almost hurts. Tears burn hot behind your eyes before you can stop them.

“And if you don’t want that,” he continues gently, certain that every path still leads to you anyway. “Then we’ll keep the farmhouse just the way it is and spoil every animal we’ve got. Those damn ducks already act like they’re running the place anyway.” A watery laugh escapes you despite the lump in your throat, and Bucky smiles at the sound, his nose brushing lightly against yours.

“You wanna travel? We’ll travel. You wanna stay here forever teaching little ones while I complain about tractors and rain?” His hand squeezes your knee once. “Fine too.” Then the teasing fades from his expression entirely.

“Any future is right if you’re in it.”

Your vision blurs completely to the point a few small tears escape anyway, Bucky reaching up almost instinctively with his rough thumb to carefully brush away the wetness beneath one eye.

“I love you,” he whispers, thick with emotion. “I just need you.”

You stare at him for one helpless second before you finally cup his face.

“I love you too, Jamie.” You manage shakily, chuckling at how wobbly your voice must sound.

And yet, you couldn’t care less, because his lips are on yours—soft, reverent. One hand moves on your waist while the last rays of sunset spill warm gold across the walls around you.

Alpine promptly puts her front paws on your chest halfway through like she refuses to be excluded from this sweet moment. You feel Bucky laugh gently against your mouth at the feeling of fur brushing against his neck, but even then, he stays close enough that your foreheads still touch.

“Everything else,” he murmurs quietly, like a promise made as much to himself as to you. “Can figure itself out around that.”

— ⟢ END NOTES: as I mentioned in another post, nowadays it’s hard to find someone who is willing to put real effort into a relationship, but with this story I wanted to focus on the more positive side of dating—especially how someone like this reader, kinda insecure and with little relationship experience, might navigate certain situations for the first time + the degree of trust it takes to let yourself be vulnerable for the first time with someone. honestly there was so much more that I wanted to write, but because of the 1000 blocks limit, I had to cut out many scenes, shorten the smutty parts and make longer paragraphs (hope it doesn't look bad). I also intend to further explore the non-sexual d/s dynamic in other stories, because this one-shot was just a collection of moments so I thought it'd be better to keep it pretty tame. what was your favorite moment 🥰? thank you so much for reading 💕 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist