⋆˚࿔ cin 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The gown was a mistake.

Not the gown itself—the gown was stunning, a deep emerald thing that pooled at your feet like liquid velvet and made your skin look like it had been kissed by something ancient and expensive. The neckline plunged just enough to be interesting without being scandalous. The back dipped to somewhere in the vicinity of your waist, held together by nothing but faith and a single delicate clasp that you'd made Bucky practice opening and closing three times before you'd deemed him ready for public consumption. No, the gown was perfect.

The mistake was wearing it before seeing him.

You'd had to come early. That was the problem. Some nonsense about being one of the responsable ones from the team, greeting the donors" and "please for the love of god someone needs to make small talk with the ambassador from Sokovia while Tony tries to fix the hologram projector." So you'd kissed Bucky goodbye at the door of your shared apartment—he'd been in his boxers, hair still damp from the shower, that morning's trim already blurring the lines of his buzz cut back toward something shaggier—and you'd promised to save him a dance.

That had been two hours and fifteen minutes ago.

More tan two hours of champagne flutes and canapés and the particular strain of social performance that came with being adjacent to Earth's Mightiest Heroes. Two hours of smiling until your cheeks ached and deflecting questions about your "relationship with the Winter Soldier" and pretending not to notice the way certain guests looked at you like you were either a saint or a fool for loving him.

Two hours of glancing at the door every thirty seconds like a dog waiting for its owner to come home.

Music swelled from somewhere—a string quartet playing something classical and vaguely pretentious, the kind of music that was supposed to make people feel sophisticated while they held champagne flutes and discussed geopolitics in hushed, important tones. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, casting prismatic light across the sea of black ties and glittering gowns. Somewhere to your left, Sam Wilson was telling a story that involved a lot of hand gestures and the word "unbelievable," and somewhere to your right, Carol Danvers was laughing at something Tony Stark had said, her teeth impossibly white against her impossibly perfect everything.

You couldn't have told a single person what any of them looked like.

Because your boyfriend had just walked through the door, and the entire room had gone blurry around the edges.

Later, you would try to find the words for what you felt in that moment. You would fail. You would describe it to him in fragments—like being hit by a truck, like the floor dropped out, like someone poured honey into my veins and set it on fire—and he would laugh at you, soft and fond, and kiss the top of your head.

He was late, the bastard. Fashionably late, which was not a thing he usually did—Bucky Barnes operated on a schedule that belonged to a man who had spent decades being told exactly when to eat, sleep, and kill. He was the kind of person who showed up fifteen minutes early to everything, who stood outside your apartment building waiting because he'd rather be early than risk making you wait.

All you could do was stare. He was wearing black. All black.

Not the tactical black of his mission gear, not the soft, worn black of his favorite henley, but the deep, dangerous black of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. The jacket was tailored to within an inch of its life, broad shoulders stretching the fabric in a way that made you think about what was underneath. The trousers fit him like they'd been sewn onto his body while he stood perfectly still, which they probably had

But the suit wasn't what destroyed you. The shirt was what destroyed you. It was going to kill you.

Black. Silk. The top two buttons undone.

Black silk—silk, of all things, since when did Bucky Barnes wear silk?—buttoned up to his throat, except it wasn't buttoned up to his throat. The first two buttons were undone, just enough to show a sliver of pale skin, just enough to make you ache, and there, barely visible against his chest, was the chain of his dogtags that caught the light, two small discs of metal nestled against his skin, even thought they were hidden beneath the shirt and you watched in real time as his pulse beat a steady rhythm beneath them. The same dogtags you'd held in your hands while he slept, reading the embossed letters by moonlight, tracing the edges with your thumb like they were a prayer. The same dogtags you see each night above you while he makes love to you.

The chain glinted, just a flash of silver in the hollow of his throat, and you wanted to bite him there.

And his head. God, his head.

The buzz cut was fresh—you could tell, could see the clean lines where he'd trimmed it before leaving, the way the short bristles caught the chandelier light and threw it back in soft glints. Without the curtain of hair to soften anything, the suit made him look like something out of a noir film. A hitman. A spy. A man who had done terrible things and would do them again if it meant getting what he wanted.

And what he wanted, you realized, as his gaze swept the ballroom and found you, was apparently you.

His eyes locked onto yours across the crowded room, and something passed between you—something hot and electric and entirely inappropriate for a charity gala hosted by the Avengers. His mouth curved. Not a smile, not exactly. Something smaller. Something knowing. The kind of expression that said I know exactly what I'm doing to you right now, and I'm not sorry.

You were going to kill him.

You were going to march across this ballroom and kill him with your bare hands, and then you were going to bring him back to life and kill him again, and then maybe, maybe, you would let him kiss you.

But you didn't march because your feet seemed to have forgotten how to work.

Sam's voice faded into background noise. The champagne flute slipped in your grip, and you barely registered catching it before it shattered on the floor. All you could see was him—the impossible, infuriating, devastatingly beautiful man who had apparently decided that tonight was the night he would finally push you past the point of no return.

“Uh oh,” Natasha said from somewhere to your left, her voice dry as a martini. “She's gone.”

“Completely offline,” Sam agreed. “I've seen this before. Total system failure.”

You couldn't even muster the energy to glare at them. Because Bucky was walking toward you, and the crowd seemed to part around him like water around a stone, and the buzz cut caught the chandelier light and gleamed, dark velvet against the sharp planes of his skull, and the suit jacket pulled across his shoulders with every step, and the dogtags swung gently with the rhythm of his movement.

“Hi, honey.”

His voice was low. Rough. The kind of rough that came from somewhere deep in his chest, from spending too long wanting something he wasn't sure he deserved. His eyes dragged over you—the emerald gown, the bare shoulders, the way your hair had been pinned up to expose the line of your neck—and you saw his pupils blow wide. He was so close, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something woodsy and warm, a new bottle you'd picked out together last month, the one that made you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there indefinitely.

“Hi,” you managed. It came out as a squeak.

Bucky's smile widened, just a fraction. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, slow and deliberate and hot.

“You look...” He trailed off, shook his head slightly, like he couldn't find a word big enough. “Jesus. You look so fucking beautiful. I think I said it before you left home but you’re the prettiest here, baby.”

Now you know that the dress you'd spent three hours picking out, was worth it. You'd done your hair up in something complicated that involved approximately forty-seven bobby pins and a prayer. You'd put on the earrings he'd given you for your birthday, the ones that caught the light like captured stars.

“You—” You stopped. Swallowed. Started again. “You cannot look like that in public, James Buchanan Barnes. It's indecent. I'm going to have to file a complaint with someone.”

His eyebrows rose. “A complaint?”

“With HR. Or Tony. Or the President. I don't know, someone.” You reached out and grabbed his lapels—the fabric was so soft, expensive wool that slid through your fingers like water—and pulled him closer. “You look like something I want to eat with a spoon.”

Beside you, Sam choked on his champagne.

Bucky's flesh hand came up to cover yours where it gripped his jacket, his thumb stroking across your knuckles in a slow, soothing circle. “That's... a new one.”

“I'm full of new ones. You've undone me. I'm un-done. I'm going to be a puddle on this very expensive floor, and it's your fault, James. You—” You had to stop, swallow, try again. “You look like you're about to commit a crime.”

His mouth quirked. “What kind of crime?”

“All of them.”

He laughed—soft, private, meant only for you—his metal hand settled on your waist, cool even through the silk of your dress, and he leaned down until his mouth was level with your ear. The buzz cut brushed your temple—that velvet sensation, that ridiculous texture that you still couldn't get enough of—and his breath was warm against your skin. “You're adorable like this, even when I am having some innapropiate thoughts about you in this dress” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.and that was when your body finally remembered how to move.

You closed the distance between you in one step, grabbed the front of his suit jacket—the fabric was obscenely soft under your fingers, expensive in a way that made you want to ask questions you didn't actually care about the answers to—and pulled him down into a kiss.

He made a sound. Something surprised and pleased, something that vibrated against your lips and traveled down your spine like a match striking. His hands found your waist—flesh and metal, warm and cool, familiar—and he pulled you closer, deeper, like he'd been waiting for this all night.

Maybe he had.

The kiss wasn't long—you were in a ballroom, after all, surrounded by people who were definitely staring—but it was intentional. It was a statement. It was mine, mine, mine in a language everyone could understand.

When you pulled back, his eyes were dark.

“Okay,” he said, a little breathless. “Okay. So I'm guessing you approve of the suit.”

“The suit,” you repeated. Your voice was doing something strange—higher, thinner, like you were about to laugh or cry or possibly both. “Bucky. Bucky. Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”

His brow furrowed. “Based on your reaction so far, I'm gonna go with 'confused and vaguely terrified.'”

You punched him in the chest. Not hard. Just enough to make a point.

“You look like someone took every single one of my weaknesses and put them in a blender and poured them into the shape of a man,” you said, the words tumbling out too fast, too honest. “You look like you should be illegal in several countries. You look like—like a problem, Bucky Barnes, and I am going to spend this entire evening being a problem right back at you.”

His lips twitched. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

“I'm not making any promises,” you said and then you let him lead you toward the bar, your hand slipping down from his lapel to twine your fingers through his. His flesh hand was warm, calloused, familiar, and the contrast between that warmth and the cool metal of his other hand on your waist made you shiver.

The bar was a long, gleaming stretch of marble at the far end of the ballroom, staffed by a man in a white jacket who looked like he'd seen everything and was no longer impressed by any of it. Bucky ordered for you both—old-fashioned for him, something fruity and pink for you that made his lips twitch when the bartender set it down—and you stood together at the end of the bar, shoulders touching, watching the crowd swirl and eddy like a river of wealth and power.

Except you weren't watching the crowd.

You were watching him.

The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his fingers curled around his glass, flesh hand and metal hand in perfect symmetry. The way the buzz cut made the line of his jaw look like something carved by a Renaissance sculptor who had known he was creating a masterpiece. The way his dogtags caught the light every time he breathed, that tiny flash of silver in the hollow of his throat, and god, you wanted to put your mouth right there.

“You're staring,” he said, not looking at you.

“You're stare-able,” you replied. “It's not my fault.”

He turned his head then, and the look he gave you was slow and molten and dangerous. “We're in public, sweetheart.”

“I'm aware.”

“There are cameras.”

“Let them look.” You set your drink down on the bar—untouched, forgotten—and stepped closer to him, close enough that your chest almost brushed his, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. “Let them see. I don't care.”

His breath caught. Just a fraction, just enough that you noticed, and his metal hand came up to rest on your hip, fingers splaying across the silk of your dress like he was claiming you. “What's gotten into you tonight?”

You, you wanted to say. You've gotten into me. You've crawled under my skin and made a home there, and every time you look at me like that, I forget how to breathe.

Instead, you reached up and ran your fingers over the short bristles at the back of his head.

His eyes fluttered shut. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to see the effect you were having on him.

“I like your hair, the lack of it,” you said, soft and simple. “I like your suit. I like your everything, Bucky. And I've been watching you, and I can't—” You paused, swallowed, tried to find words that didn't feel inadequate. “I can't handle it. You're too much. You're too good. And everyone in this room is looking at you like they want to eat you alive, and I just... I want them to know you're mine.”

He opened his eyes.

The grey had gone dark, nearly blue, and there was something burning in them that made your stomach flip over. “Sweetheart—”

“I'm not done.” You pressed closer, your free hand coming up to rest on his chest, right over his heart. It was pounding. Good. “You're wearing silk, Bucky. Silk. Do you know what that does to me? Do you have any idea what I've been thinking about for the past hour?”

His Adam's apple bobbed. “Tell me.”

“No.” You grinned, and it wasn't a nice grin. It was the kind of grin that made him groan and drop his forehead to yours, the kind of grin that meant trouble. “I'll show you later. But right now, I need you to kiss me.”

“We're in the middle of a gala.”

“I don't care.”

“There are photographers, sweetheart.”

“Let them get a good angle.”

He stared at you for a long moment—long enough that you started to worry you'd pushed too far, long enough that the flush on your cheeks started to feel less like desire and more like embarrassment—and then he moved.

His metal hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. His flesh hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb tilting your chin up, and when he kissed you, it was nothing like the chaste, quick pecks he usually allowed in public.

It was filthy.

Open-mouthed and hungry, his tongue sliding against yours, his teeth grazing your lower lip, his whole body curving around yours like he was trying to absorb you. He tasted like whiskey and something darker, something that was just him, and you made a sound against his mouth—something desperate and pleading—that you'd be embarrassed about later.

Right now, you didn't care.

You couldn't care. Because his hand was in your hair now, careful of the pins but demanding, tilting your head exactly where he wanted it, and the buzz cut was brushing your forehead, and the dogtags were cool against your collarbone where they'd slipped out of his shirt, and oh, oh, this was what you'd been waiting for.

When he finally pulled back—slowly, reluctantly, like he was physically incapable of putting distance between you—his lips were reddened and his eyes were dark and his chest was heaving.

“There,” he said, voice rough. “Now they know.”

You were pretty sure your mascara was ruined. You were also pretty sure you didn't care.

“One more,” you whispered.

He laughed—that low, helpless laugh that meant you're going to be the death of me—and kissed you again. Softer this time, almost sweet, but with an undercurrent of promise that made your toes curl in your heels.

“You're going to be the death of me,” he said, echoing your thoughts exactly.

“Good death,” you managed. “Top ten deaths. Five stars.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling, and the smile reached his eyes, and god, you loved him. You loved him so much it made your chest ache, made your throat tight, made you want to drag him into a closet and keep him there until the end of time.

The next hour was a blur.

You stayed glued to his side—hand on his arm, fingers threaded through his, palm pressed flat against the small of his back whenever you moved through the crowd. You introduced him to people whose names you forgot immediately, and he was polite and quiet and devastating, and every time he spoke, his voice rumbled through you like thunder.

He ate it up.

You could tell. The way his hand tightened on your waist when you leaned in to whisper something in his ear. The way his breathing changed when you ran your fingers over the short bristles of his buzz cut, just once, just to remind him you were thinking about it. The way his eyes tracked your every movement like he was memorizing you.

At one point, Tony Stark cornered you both near the dessert table.

“Barnes,” Tony said, gesturing with a champagne flute. “Bold choice. The all-black. The silk. The—is that two buttons? That's two buttons. That's a statement. I respect it.”

Bucky's arm slid around your waist, casual and possessive. “Wasn't trying to make a statement.”

“Oh, you were definitely trying to make a statement.” Tony looked at you, then back at Bucky, then at you again. “Is she okay? She seems... not okay.”

“I'm fine,” you said, and your voice was about an octave too high. “I'm perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?”

“Because you've been staring at Barnes's chest for the last three minutes like you're trying to set it on fire with your mind.”

You looked down. Bucky's hand was on your waist. The silk of his shirt was right there, the dog tags gleaming, the hollow of his throat right there, and you realized with a start that Tony was right.

You had been staring.

“I'm going to get some air,” you announced.

“We're in a ballroom,” Tony said. “There's no air. It's all recycled.”

“Then I'm going to find some different air.”

You grabbed Bucky's hand and pulled him toward the terrace doors.

He came willingly—he always came willingly—but you heard the low laugh he tried to hide, felt the way his fingers interlaced with yours like they belonged there.

The garden was quiet.

The terrace led to a small courtyard, hidden from the ballroom by a hedge maze that was probably meant to be romantic and was definitely meant to keep drunk donors from wandering into restricted areas. Fairy lights twinkled in the trees above, casting everything in soft gold. The sounds of the gala faded to a distant murmur, replaced by crickets and the gentle splash of a fountain somewhere out of sight.

You stopped in the middle of the cobblestone path, turned to face him, and looked.

The fairy lights caught the angles of his face—the sharp cheekbones, the strong jaw, the way the buzz cut made his eyes seem impossibly large and impossibly blue. His suit jacket was unbuttoned now, hanging open over the silk shirt. The dog tags had shifted slightly, the chain catching the light as he breathed.

He was leaning against a stone pillar, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

“So,” he said. “Air?”

“Shut up.”

“You dragged me out here for a reason, sweetheart.”

“I know.” You stepped closer. “The reason is that I cannot be held responsible for my actions in a room full of people when you look like that. It’s your fault.”

His eyebrow arched. “My fault?”

“Your everything.” You were close enough now to touch, close enough to see the way his pulse jumped in his throat. “The suit. The shirt. The buttons, Bucky. Two buttons. Who do you think you are?”

“Your boyfriend?”

“That's not an excuse.”

“It's the only excuse I need.” He chuckles, that sound that makes your knees weak.

You reached up and ran your hand over his head—the buzz cut, the soft bristles, the warmth of his scalp beneath your palm. He closed his eyes, just for a second, and a sound escaped him—something low and wanting, something that made your knees weak.

“You've been doing this all night,” you said. “Walking around like—like that. Letting me touch you. Letting me kiss you. Watching me fall apart in public like some kind of—of spectacle.”

His eyes opened. The smirk that curved his mouth was lethal—the one he kept reserved only for you, the one that said I know exactly what I'm doing and I'm not sorry and also you love it.

“Maybe I like watching you fall apart,” he said. “Maybe I like knowing that I can do this—” He reached up and undid the third button of his shirt, just one more, just enough to expose another inch of skin, the top of his chest, the beginning of the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the silk. “—and you forget how to speak.”

You forgot how to speak.

He laughed—low and satisfied—and pushed off from the pillar, closing the distance between you until you were chest to chest, his hands on your hips, your hands on his shoulders. The silk of his shirt was warm under your palms, and you could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric, could feel his heart beating steady and strong.

“You're doing this on purpose,” you accused.

“Absolutely.”

“You're evil.”

“I've been told.”

You kissed him.

It wasn't gentle—it was hungry, desperate, the kind of kiss you gave someone when you'd been holding back for hours and your self-control was a thread about to snap. He met you with equal intensity, his metal hand coming up to cup the back of your head, his flesh hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

You bit his lower lip. He groaned. The sound went straight between your legs.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed against your mouth. “We're in a garden.”

“I don't care.”

“People can see.”

“Let them.”

But even as you said it, you knew he was right. The terrace doors were still visible through the hedge, and you could hear laughter drifting from the ballroom, and neither of you was nearly drunk enough to risk that kind of scandal.

“Later,” you said, pulling back just enough to look at him. “When we get home. I'm going to—”

“Yeah?” His voice was rough. “What are you going to do?”

You ran your hand over his buzz cut again, watched his eyes flutter shut, watched his lips part on a shaky exhale.

“I'm going to take that suit off you,” you said. “Very slowly. Button by button.”

“There are a lot of buttons.”

“I'm aware.”

“And then?”

“And then I'm going to kiss every inch of skin you've been torturing me with all night. Your collarbone. Your chest. That place behind your ear that makes you shiver. And then you’ll whimper, we know you love when I make you whimper like that.”

His grip tightened on your hip. “You're trying to kill me.”

“You started it.”

He kissed you again—softer this time, deeper, a promise of everything that was waiting for you both at home. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft, the smirk replaced by something more vulnerable. Something that looked like home.

After some time, you didn’t know if it was seconds, minutes, it could be hours, Bucky led you down the gravel path, his hand warm in yours, until you reached a small stone bench tucked beneath a sprawling oak. The leaves rustled overhead, and somewhere nearby, a fountain trickled, and the whole place smelled like jasmine and night-blooming flowers and him.

He sat down, then tugged you onto his lap without asking, arranging you so that you were straddling his thighs, your dress pooling around you both like a spill of green silk.

“Hi,” he said, looking up at you.

“Hi,” you said back.

His hands settled on your waist—flesh and metal, warm and cool—and he leaned back against the bench, watching you with those dark, dark eyes. The fairy lights caught the planes of his face, the sharp cheekbones, the strong jaw, the velvet-soft buzz cut that you still hadn't gotten enough of.

“You're staring again,” he said.

“I'm appreciating,” you corrected him. “There's a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Yes. Staring is what strangers do. Appreciating is what girlfriends do.” You ran your hands over his shoulders, feeling the expensive wool of his jacket, the warmth of his body beneath. “And I am appreciating the hell out of you right now, James.”

He hummed, low in his throat, and his fingers traced idle patterns on your hips. “You were pretty handsy in there.”

“I was restrained. You should see what I wanted to do.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice dropped, went dark and teasing. “What did you want to do?”

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I wanted to undo the rest of your buttons. Right there. In front of everyone. I wanted to see how far that silk goes down.”

His breath hitched. “Honey—”

“I wanted to put my mouth on your dogtags.” You kissed his jaw. “Right here.” His throat. “And here.” The hollow of his collarbone, where the chain disappeared beneath his shirt. “And here.”

His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging into the silk, and when you pulled back to look at him, his expression had shifted. The teasing was still there, underneath, but there was something else now. Something hungry.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice rough, “what it does to me. When you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I'm the only thing in the room.” His metal hand came up to trace the line of your jaw, cool and smooth. “Like you want to devour me. Like you've never seen anything better in your entire life.”

“I haven't,” you said simply. “I haven't seen anything better. Not ever.”

He made a sound—something between a groan and a sigh—and pulled you down into a kiss that was nothing like the ones in the ballroom. Those had been for show, for the cameras, for the people watching.

This was for you.

Slow and deep and searching, like he was trying to find something inside you, like he was mapping every corner of your mouth with his tongue, like he was memorizing the way you tasted so he could recall it later, in the dark, when you weren't there.

You melted against him. There was no other word for it. Your hands slid into his hair—that buzz cut, that velvet, that impossible softness—and you felt him shiver beneath you, felt his grip tighten, felt his whole body go taut like a wire about to snap.

“I love this,” you breathed against his mouth. “I love you. I love the way this feels. I love that you did this for yourself, because you wanted to, because it makes you comfortable, and I get to touch it anyway.”

His forehead dropped to yours. “You're going to make me cry at a gala.”

“Good tears or bad tears?”

“Good tears. Overwhelmed tears.” He laughed, a little wetly, and his hands smoothed up your back, pulling you closer. “I don't... I don't know how you do this. How you make me feel like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I'm enough.” The words were barely a whisper. “Like I don't have to be anything other than what I am. Like this—” He touched his own head, the short bristles, a self-conscious gesture that had become second nature. “—isn't a mistake. Like I'm not a mistake.”

You kissed him. Hard and fierce and demanding, pouring everything you couldn't say into the press of your lips, the sweep of your tongue, the way your fingers curled against his scalp.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes were burning.

“You are not a mistake,” you said, and your voice shook. “You have never been a mistake. You are the best thing that ever happened to me, James Buchanan Barnes, and if you ever doubt that again, I will—I will spank you in front of our team, I swear to god.”

He blinked.

Then he laughed—a real laugh, bright and surprised and so full of joy that it made your heart stutter—and pulled you into his chest, wrapping both arms around you so tightly that you could barely breathe.

“I love you,” he said into your hair. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you too,” you said, muffled against his shoulder. “Now stop being insecure about the buzz cut. It's ruining my aesthetic.”

He snorted. “Your aesthetic?”

“My 'being wildly attracted to my boyfriend' aesthetic. It's very important.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and there it was—the smirk. The one he reserved only for you. The one that said I know exactly what I'm doing, and I'm going to keep doing it until you combust.

“So,” he said, slow and deliberate, “just to be clear. You like the buzz cut.”

“I love the buzz cut.”

“You like the suit.”

“I want to burn the suit so I can have you naked faster, but yes. I like the suit.”

“You like the dogtags.” He reached up and pulled the chain out of his shirt, letting the silver tags rest against the black silk, and your mouth went dry.

“Bucky.”

“And you've been thinking about this all night.” His voice dropped, went dark and sweet like honey and whiskey. “About getting your hands on me. About getting your mouth on me.”

“Bucky.”

“So here's what's going to happen.” He shifted beneath you, settling you more firmly on his lap, and his smirk sharpened into something dangerous. “We're going to stay here for a little while longer. Long enough that people notice we're gone. Long enough that Sam sends someone to check on us.”

“That's—that's not—why would we—?”

“Because,” he said, and leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, “I want them to know that I took you out to this garden. I want them to know that we were gone for forty-five minutes. I want them to wonder, sweetheart. Maybe we fuck here, maybe we make out like teenagers or maybe I just have you in my lap while we look at the lights but I want them to look at you tomorrow, with that pretty smile on that beautiful fase and I want them to wonder”

You shivered. Full-body, no-holding-back shivered, and you felt him smile against your neck.

“You're evil,” you whispered.

“I'm yours,” he corrected, echoing your words from earlier, and then his mouth was on your throat and you forgot how to think entirely.

The garden became a blur of sensation after that.

His hands—both of them, flesh and metal, warm and cool, everywhere—sliding up your thighs beneath the silk of your dress. Your fingers—tangled in his hair, in the collar of his shirt, in the chain of his dogtags—pulling and clutching and begging without words. His mouth—on your jaw, your throat, the place where your pulse beat frantic and wild—leaving marks that would bloom purple by morning.

“Tell me,” he murmured against your collarbone. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” you gasped. “I want you. I've wanted you all night. I've wanted you since you walked through that door looking like—like that, like some kind of—of wet dream in a tailored suit—”

He laughed, low and dark, and his metal hand slid higher, cool fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh. “Wet dream?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You kissed him. It was the only way to shut him up, and he knew it, and he wanted it, and god, you loved this man. You loved him so much it felt like drowning, like falling, like the most dangerous and wonderful thing you'd ever done.

When you finally pulled back—breathless, flushed, your dress rumpled and your hair half-fallen from its pins—he was looking at you like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking for a hundred years.

“I love you,” he said, simple and certain. “I love you, and I love the way you look at me, and I love that I get to have this. You. Tonight. Tomorrow. Every day.”

Your eyes burned. “Bucky—”

“I know.” He kissed your forehead, soft and sweet. “I know. We don't have to say it again. I just... I needed you to know.”

You cupped his face in your hands—the buzz cut, the stubble, the sharp cheekbones, the impossible beauty of him—and kissed him until you couldn't feel the tears anymore.

“Forty-five minutes,” you said when you finally let him go.

“What?”

“You said we'd stay here for forty-five minutes.” You glanced at your watch—a small, vintage thing that had belonged to your grandmother—and raised an eyebrow. “We've been out here for twelve.”

His smirk returned, slow and lethal. “Then we'd better make the most of the remaining thirty-three.”

He pulled you back down, and the garden swallowed you whole.

“We should go,” he said. “Say goodbye. Make an excuse.”

“We've only been here an hour.”

“An hour too long, baby. Weh ave only kissed and I gripped you around and you maybe roll your hips in that way I love but it’s a garden and I bet my ass that Stark has cameras around because he probably doesn’t want another incident like the one in Punta Mita.”

He was right. You knew he was right and the memory makes you chuckle. But you couldn't make yourself move, couldn't make yourself step away from the warmth of him, the solidness of him, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“One more minute,” you said.

“We don't have a minute.”

“Then thirty seconds.”

He smiled—that real smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and made you feel like the sun had come out. “Thirty seconds,” he agreed.

You spent them with your forehead pressed to his, breathing the same air, feeling the same wanting hum between you like a live wire.

When you finally pulled apart, his hand found yours.

“Home?” he said.

“Home.”

The apartment smelled like you—candle wax and something floral, the remnants of whatever perfume you'd dabbed on your wrists before leaving. The door had barely closed behind you before you had him pressed against it, your mouth on his, your hands fisting in the lapels of his suit jacket.

He laughed against your lips—breathless, giddy, young in a way he rarely got to be.

“Impatient,” he murmured.

“You have no idea.”

“I have some idea.”

You pushed the jacket off his shoulders, let it fall to the floor, and he didn't complain—just watched you with those dark, dark eyes, his chest rising and falling under the silk shirt. The dog tags had shifted again, resting now against the hollow of his throat, and you bent your head to press a kiss to the spot just below them.

His head fell back against the door. A sound escaped him—low, wrecked, perfect.

“Sweetheart.”

“Shh.” You kissed the line of his collarbone, following the chain of the dog tags down to where it disappeared beneath the silk. “I've been thinking about this all night.”

“Me too.”

“Thinking about getting you alone. Getting you undressed. Finding out if the rest of you is as—” You kissed the place where his neck met his shoulder, felt him shudder. “—devastating as the parts you were showing off.”

“Jesus.”

“Not Jesus. Just me.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

He was beautiful.

The buzz caught the low light of the apartment, the short bristles casting tiny shadows on his scalp. His cheeks were flushed, his lips reddened from kissing, his eyes so dark they were almost black. The silk shirt gaped open, exposing more of his chest than you'd seen all night, and you could see the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he breathed.

“Bedroom,” you said.

“Bedroom,” he agreed.

He didn't wait for you to lead. Instead, he swept you up—one arm under your knees, the other around your back—and carried you down the hallway like you weighed nothing. You laughed, startled and delighted, and buried your face in his neck.

“You're going to ruin the gown,” you said.

“It's your gown.”

“It's expensive.”

“I'll buy you another one. Five more.”

He laid you down on the bed—your shared bed, the one with the worn sheets and the pillows that smelled like him, the one where you’d spent countless nights tracing the lines of his face and learning the sounds he made when he was happy, when he was sad, when he was wanting—and for a moment, he just stood there.

Looking at you. Taking you in.

The streetlight filtered through the curtains, throwing the room in soft gold and grey. The fairy lights from the garden had followed you home, apparently, because everything seemed to glow—the curve of your shoulder where the emerald gown had slipped, the gleam of his metal arm, the dark bristles of his buzz cut catching the dim light like a halo.

“You’re staring again,” you said, and your voice came out softer than you intended.

“So are you.”

“Fair point.”

He didn’t move. Just stood at the edge of the bed, drinking you in, and you watched something shift in his expression—the usual guardedness falling away, replaced by something raw and open and almost frightened in its tenderness.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked.

“Anything.”

“I was nervous tonight.” He said it like a confession, like a secret he’d been holding in his chest all evening. “Ridiculously nervous. Standing in front of the mirror for twenty minutes, trying to decide if I should undo a third button or if that would be too much.”

You laughed—soft, disbelieving. “You were nervous?”

“Terrified.” He climbed onto the bed, slow and deliberate, and when he hovered over you—braced on his metal arm, his flesh hand coming up to cup your face—you felt the weight of him, the warmth of him, the way his thumb stroked your cheek like you were made of something precious. “I kept thinking… what if she doesn’t like it? What if she thinks I look like a thug? What if she spends the whole night embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“Bucky.”

“I know it’s stupid.” His eyes dropped, lashes dark against his cheeks. “I know. You’ve told me a hundred times. But I can’t help it. Every time I walk into a room full of people, I hear their thoughts. I see the way they look at me. The Winter Soldier. The assassin. The weapon.” He swallowed hard. “And then I see the way you look at me, and I think… maybe I’m not that person anymore. Maybe I get to be someone else. Someone good.”

Your heart cracked open, spilling warmth through your chest, and you reached up to touch his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the softness of his lips, the place where his stubble met the smooth skin of his cheek.

“You are good,” you said. “You are the best person I know, James Buchanan Barnes. And I am never embarrassed to be seen with you. Do you understand? Never.”

His eyes searched yours, looking for something—doubt, maybe, or pity, or the lie he’d been trained his whole life to expect. He didn’t find it. All he found was you, looking back at him, steady and sure.

“Okay,” he said, and his voice was rough. “Okay.”

He hovered over you—braced on his metal arm, his flesh hand coming up to cup your face—you felt like the entire world had narrowed to this single moment.

“I love you,” he said. “In case I haven't said it enough tonight.”

“You've said it.”

“I'll say it again.” He kissed your forehead. “I love you.” Your nose. “I love you.” Your chin. “I love you.”

Each kiss was softer than the last, more reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

“I love you too,” you whispered. “Even when you show up to galas looking like a war crime.”

He laughed—that real laugh, the one that shook his shoulders and made your chest ache. “A war crime?”

“A handsome war crime.”

“I'll take it.”

You reached up and ran your hands over his buzz cut, savoring the velvet-soft bristles, the warmth of his scalp, the way his eyes fluttered shut and his whole body seemed to melt into your touch.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” you said. “With this. With the suit. With the buttons, Bucky. I'm never going to recover.”

“Good,” he said, and his voice was rough. “Then we're even.”

“Even?”

“Because I've been wrecked since the moment I saw you in that gown.” His metal hand traced the neckline of the emerald velvet, feather-light, barely touching. “The way it fits you. The way it moves when you walk. The way everyone in that room was looking at you like they wanted to eat you alive, and I had to stand there and smile and pretend I wasn't imagining all the ways I was going to take you apart the second we got home.”

Your breath caught.

“So yeah,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, his mouth hovering just above yours. “We're even.”

He kissed you.

It was different from the kisses in the ballroom, different from the desperate tangle in the garden, different from the frantic hello at the door. This kiss was slow. Deep and searching, the kind of kiss that asked questions and answered them in the same breath. His mouth moved against yours like he had all the time in the world, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

You let yourself sink into it. Into him.

Your hands found his head—the buzz cut, the soft bristles, the warmth of his scalp beneath your palms—and you marveled, not for the first time, at how something so simple could feel so intimate. Without the curtain of hair to hide behind, there was nowhere for him to go. He was here, completely and utterly, and the vulnerability in his expression when you pulled back made your breath catch.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, “what it does to me when you touch me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours.”

“You are mine.”

His smile was small and soft and so full of love it made your chest ache. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I am.”

He kissed your forehead. Your nose. Your chin. The corner of your mouth. Each one a tiny absolution, a thank-you, an I love you in a language that didn’t need words.

“Can I take this off?” he asked, his fingers finding the zipper of your gown.

“Please.”

He drew it down slowly, agonizingly, the whisper of metal on metal the only sound in the room besides your breathing. His eyes stayed on yours the whole time, watching your reaction, making sure you were okay. Even now, even after all this time, he was checking in—because that was who he was. That was who he’d always been, under the metal and the memories and the century of pain.

A good man. A sweet man.

The emerald velvet pooled at your waist, and his breath caught.

“Sweetheart,” he said, and his voice was wrecked.

“What?”

“You’re so beautiful.” He said it like he couldn’t believe it, like he was seeing you for the first time. His hands hovered over your bare skin—not touching, not yet, just revering. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t start that.”

“I mean it.”

“I don’t care what you mean.” You reached up and pulled him down, until his forehead rested against yours, until you were breathing the same air. “I love you. I chose you. Every day, I wake up and choose you. And I will keep choosing you, over and over, until I stop breathing. Do you understand?”

His eyes were bright. His jaw was tight.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I understand.”

He kissed you again—deeper this time, hungrier, but still gentle. Always gentle, with you. Even when he was desperate, even when he was wanting, even when his hands shook with the effort of holding back, he was gentle. Because that was who he was. That was who the world had tried to break and failed.

The gown came off the rest of the way, and he made a sound—something low and wondering, something that vibrated against your skin and traveled down your spine like a match striking.

“Can I tell you something else?” he asked, his lips brushing your collarbone.

“You can tell me anything.”

“I love the way you look at me.” He pressed a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “I love the way you say my name.” Another kiss, lower this time, over your heart. “I love the way you touch me, like I’m not broken, like I’m not—like I’m just me.”

“You are just you.”

“I know.” He lifted his head, and his eyes were soft, soft, soft. “Because of you. I know.”

His hands mapped your body like he was memorizing it—the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip, the place where your pulse beat quick and fragile at your wrist. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent, and every brush of his fingers left a trail of fire in its wake.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“You’re touching me.”

“Is that okay?”

“It’s better than okay.” You reached for him, tugged at his shirt, the silk slipping through your fingers. “But I need you closer.”

He helped you. Buttons came undone, silk parted, and then his chest was bare above you, and you forgot how to breathe.

He was beautiful. All of him. The broad shoulders, the smooth planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers. The metal arm gleamed in the low light, the vibranium plates shifting as he moved, and you reached up to trace the place where flesh met machinery—the boundary line that he’d once been ashamed of and now wore like armor.

“You’re doing it again,” he said softly.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like I’m something precious.”

“You are something precious.”

His throat worked. His eyes, impossibly, went soft.

“Sweetheart.”

“I mean it.” You sat up, pushed the silk shirt off his shoulders, let it fall somewhere on the floor. Your hands mapped his chest—the warm skin, the steady heartbeat, the way his breath hitched every time your fingers brushed over a sensitive spot. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. With the buzz cut. Without the buzz cut. In a suit. In your boxers. In nothing at all.” You looked up at him through your lashes. “Especially in nothing at all.”

He made a sound—half laugh, half groan—and captured your mouth with his.

The kiss was everything. Deep and hungry and desperate and tender all at once, the kind of kiss that happened when two people had been wanting each other all night and finally, finally had the privacy to do something about it. His hands were everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—and you arched into his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.

“I want to take my time with you,” he said against your skin. “Is that okay?”

“Yes.” The word came out breathless. “God, yes.”

“I want to learn every inch of you again. The way you look tonight. The way you feel.” His metal hand skimmed down your side, over your ribs, over your hip, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “I want to memorize you.”

“Bucky.”

“Shh.” He pressed a kiss to the hollow of your throat, right where the dog tags had rested against his skin all night. “Let me.”

You let him.

He was thorough. He was patient. He kissed every inch of skin he could reach—your shoulders, your arms, the inside of your wrists, the palms of your hands. He traced the line of your spine with his metal fingers, and you arched into his touch like a cat. He murmured your name like a prayer, over and over, until it lost all meaning and became just a sound, just a breath, just the shape of his love for you.

At some point, his trousers followed the shirt. The dog tags stayed on—you’d asked him to keep them, once, and he’d never taken them off since—and they swung between you as he moved, cool metal against your heated skin.

“You’re so good to me,” he said, and his voice was thick. “You’re so good, sweetheart. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“You existed,” you said. “That’s all. You existed, and I found you, and I’m never letting you go.”

He laughed—wet, almost, like he was crying or close to it. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

He kissed you again, and this time there was nothing slow about it. This was want, pure and simple, the kind of want that had been building all night, all week, all lifetime. His body pressed you into the mattress, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and pulled him close, close, close.

His face was inches from yours. The buzz cut brushed against your forehead, soft and warm. His eyes were dark and bright all at once, full of something that looked like wonder.

“I love you,” he said, and his voice broke on the words.

“I love you too.” You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Now show me, Barnes.”

He smiled—that real smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and made you feel like the sun had come out—and he did.

He showed you with every touch, every kiss, every murmured word against your skin. He showed you in the way he held you, like you were something fragile and precious and worth protecting. He showed you in the way he moved—slow at first, deep, deliberate, drawing out every sensation until you were trembling beneath him, gasping his name into the dark.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s it, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

And he did. He always did.

His hands found yours, fingers interlacing, pinning them gently to the mattress on either side of your head. The metal hand was cool, the flesh hand warm, and the contrast made you shiver. He pressed his forehead to yours, staying close, staying connected, even as the pace built and the world narrowed to just the two of you.

“Look at me, precious,” he said. “Please. I need to see you.”

You opened your eyes—you hadn’t realized you’d closed them—and found him watching you. His gaze was intense, burning, but underneath it was something softer. Something that looked like awe.

“There you are,” he whispered. “There’s my girl.”

You made a sound—something between a laugh and a sob—and pulled him down into a kiss.

He swallowed every noise you made, held you through every tremor, whispered I love you against your lips until the words lost all meaning and became just a rhythm, just a heartbeat, just the truth of him.

And when you finally shattered—when the world went white and bright and everything—he was right there with you, holding on, holding together, pressing his face into the curve of your neck and breathing your name like a benediction.

At 3 am, around the time where the city had gone quiet and the streetlight had flickered out and the only light in the room came from the soft glow of the bathroom, where you’d left the door cracked—you lay with your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

It was steady now. Calm. The frantic thrum from earlier had settled into something slow and rhythmic, a lullaby in B-flat major.

His hand was in your hair, fingers combing through the tangles with absent-minded tenderness. His other arm—the metal one—was wrapped around your waist, holding you close even in sleep’s approach. The dog tags rested against his skin, cool and familiar. You traced the outline of them with your fingertip, feeling the stamped letters, the weight of history, the story of a man who had survived things no one should survive and somehow found his way to this.

To you.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

“Mm?”

“I’m glad I cut my hair.”

You lifted your head, propped your chin on his chest, and looked at him. The buzz cut was already growing out—you could see it, the faint shadow of length that would need trimming in the morning. But right now, in the dim light, it looked perfect. Soft. His.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His flesh hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Because now I know. Even at a fancy gala, even in a suit that costs more than our first apartment combined, even with everyone looking at me like they’re trying to figure out if I’m a hero or a weapon…” He paused, swallowed. “You still look at me the same way.”

“And what way is that?”

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

“Like I’m worth coming home to.”

You kissed him. Soft. Slow. A promise.

“You’re worth everything,” you said. “In a suit. Out of a suit. With a buzz cut that makes me want to do unspeakable things to you in public gardens.”

He snorted. “We didn’t do anything in the garden.”

“Barely.”

He laughed—that real laugh, the one that made your heart feel too big for your chest—and pulled you back down against him. His arms wrapped around you, flesh and metal, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“You’re sweet, you know that?” you murmured into his chest.

“Me?”

“You. The way you touch me. The way you look at me. The way you check in, even when you’re—” You paused, searched for the word. “—even when you’re lost in it. You’re always careful with me. Always gentle.”

He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was thick.

“That’s because you’re the most important thing in my life,” he said. “And I spent a long time being something else. Something hard. Something that broke things.” His arms tightened around you. “I never want to break you.”

“You couldn’t break me,” you said. “Even if you tried.”

“I know.” He pressed another kiss to your hair. “That’s why I love you.”

You fell asleep like that—tangled together, heartbeat to heartbeat, the man with the buzz cut and the dog tags and the heart that had learned to love again holding you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

And in the morning, when the sun came streaming through the curtains and you woke to find him already watching you, soft-eyed and sleep-rumpled and more beautiful than any suit or gala or garden could ever make him, you smiled.

“Good morning, James.”

“Good morning, sweetheart.” He ran his hand over his own head—the new gesture, the one that was already becoming yours—and grinned. “I love you, did you know that?”

Afternoons on the farm like this are your absolute favorite: quiet, slow, and syrupy. The land looks hazy and green. It's beautiful. If someone would have asked you five years ago if you'd ever leave Metropolis, you would have said no way. But Smallville felt like home the moment Clark brought you back to meet his folks. Jonathan and Martha Kent are the best in-laws and grandparents two gals could ever ask for. They give your growing family space, but are always here to help when you call. Grandma Marty, as Iris calls her, loves to bring whatever fresh fruit is ripe from her garden to make pies and cobblers and crisps with Iris. The kitchen turns into a happy disaster and the entire house smells like baked fruit and coffee.

The front door opens slowly, revealing your sweet husband wearing a flannel over a white t-shirt and a pair of workout shorts. You finally convinced him to go with a shorter inseam, and your eyes are thanking you. He's so handsome - you think it's completely unfair and ridiculous. But he keeps smiling at you, so you don't think too much of it. 

"Nice thighs, babe," you say quietly so as not to wake Iris.

He chuckles bashfully and shakes his head, looking down at the shorter-than-normal shorts. He flexes his quads and smiles at you. Ugh, devastating. "Thanks, my wife picked them out."

"Good answer," you tease.

"Glad it's rainin'," he starts. "We need it." He looks out at the acres upon acres of corn that he helped his dad plant earlier this year.

"Spoken like a true farmer," you say with a smile. This is all Clark wanted-a quiet piece of land in Smallville, away from the hustle and bustle of the city and everyone pulling him in all directions. He still dons the suit every now and then, but he rests easy under the Kansas stars knowing that the Justice Gang has most things under control.

"I suppose so. Do you like it out here?"

You tilt your head. "Out here in the rain or out here out here?"

"Away from Metropolis. Here," he clarifies.

"I love it here, Clark." You nuzzle Iris's head and smile at your husband. "I can still write and do the things I love without the stress of the city. You know that."

"I know, I know," he starts. "I just want to make sure my girls are happy."

"We're perfect. Are you happy?" You press.

"I've never felt like I really belonged anywhere, even if I was happy. But being out here with you two, I finally feel like I have a real home. I'm incredibly happy."

You know what Clark means without having to press. You can only imagine how hard it is for the man you love to feel like he truly belongs anywhere but Krypton. To be born on another planet in an entirely different galaxy, shuttled to Earth, and taken in by two aliens (to Clark, not to you) would give most people plenty of fuel for therapy. To fall in love with a human and somehow, miraculously, be able to create life together would baffle most, but Clark is grateful for this life.

He moves toward you and kisses your head quietly. Softly. "Let me take her in. I'll put her in her bed."

"She's not bothering me," you tell him.

"Yeah, but maybe we can have some time to ourselves?" He asks hopefully, blushing.

You nod and let him take Iris to her room.

You watch the rain until you feel his warm arms around your shoulders. "Come on, honey." He helps you up from the rocking chair, a large hand ghosting over the small swell of your stomach where another life grows.

"Bedroom?" You ask.

"Bedroom," he agrees.

"Don't forget your logbook, Rookie," he grumbles as he shoves a protein bar and a few clementines in his pack. You watch him zip the bag with ease and set it on a nearby counter.

"Sure thing, Vet," you grumble back. Your nicknames are not at all contentious or uttered with malice. Not at all. Ha. "What's on the agenda today? Ooooh, are we going to yell at tourists for not following park rules? Maybe we’ll get to pick up X-rated litter at the campsites? Or–oh!–you'll even show me the firewatch station? The weather is going to be perfect today, you know."

"We'll see, kid," he mumbles, lacing up his hiking boots with a grunt.

You roll your eyes, tired of his incessant attitude and the unnecessary nickname. Kid. Blech. You're twenty-three, not a child. And if you had to guess, he's at least ten years older than you, maybe more, but still not old enough to call you a kid. You say your name in response, willing him to call you by it instead of the irritating moniker. He nods, but doesn’t apologize.

James "Bucky" Barnes has been a park ranger for nearly sixteen years, and he has the scars and stories to prove it. Newbies tend to romanticize the gig, and his personal mission is to beat the optimism out quickly and quietly—preferably over a Thermos of hot coffee on a cliff side. But you, optimistic little you, were having none of it. Like a wild stallion he just can’t break, you show up everyday with that damned smile plastered across your face, always always armed with some baked goods you've whipped up the night before and a random nature anecdote in the chamber. Today’s is about how direct sunlight on the skin can decrease cortisol levels in the body.

"I made banana bread," you say, pulling the wrapped loaf out of your backpack. “I forgot my lunch, so I’m stealing a piece for our break.”

Bucky smirks knowingly. Like clockwork. "Great. Bears are gonna love you today," he replies.

You scoff. "Don't pretend you don't eat up every last crumb at the end of your shift. I watched you lick the plate clean when I brought that blueberry cheesecake last week." It was amazing. You’d used blueberries from your home garden. They were perfectly round and juicy.

"I was hungry. We hiked all over the damn park that day!" He retorts with a huff.

Such a huffy, grumbly human. "You're probably just getting old," you reply with a shrug and a smirk. "Tiring out faster than you did in your prime. When do you qualify for Medicare again? You must be getting close.”

“Ha-ha,” Bucky faux laughs and grimaces, silently wincing at the idea of you thinking he's past his prime. He turns away from you toward the mirror above the utilitarian sink. The ranger's cabin near the entrance of the park serves as a break room/locker storage/First Aid area with an emergency eye wash station. His reflection shows a few shining grays highlighting his temples and chin. You're not wrong about him being older, but he doesn’t agree with being past his prime. In fact, he feels like he’s just cresting that hill. And he’s definitely not eligible for fucking Medicare anytime soon.

Teasing your pissy mentor has quickly become a highlight of your day, and you giggle under your breath as he inspects himself in the mirror with an appraising look. You change from your slip-on Birks to one of your favorite pairs of hiking socks: sky blue with jump-roping avocados. Bucky turns back toward you and subtly rolls his eyes at your ridiculous socks before throwing on his backpack.

“Do you ever have any fun? Or do you get your kicks from sucking it out of whatever room you happen to be in?" You ask as you pull on your boots with an oomph.

“Hmm,” he watches you and pretends to mull it over, scratching his fingers through the stubble on his chin. "The second one. Fun-sucking."

You send a tight-lipped frown his way as you lace up your boots and rearrange a few things in your pack. You always feel like a kid on the first day of school when you put it on–two thumbs through the loops as you smile enthusiastically at the beautiful day outside. You’re ready for whatever magic the park decides to show you today. 

Bucky glances at the banana bread on the communal counter and back at your pack. "You're not going to bring more than a piece with you? Won’t you get hungry?"

"Did you not point out earlier that I'd be eaten alive by the rabid bears that inhabit the park if I take that out of the wrapping?"

He shakes his head. "Dramatic much?"

You click your tongue and smile. "Only because I know it gets under your skin, old man."

He makes a mental note to pack some extra food with his lunch tomorrow in case you forget again. Rolling his shoulders with a big sigh, he declares, "You're gonna kill me before I retire."

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - May 29

The Rookie is going to kill me. This job is going to break her heart. She's too optimistic, too impressionable. I need to have a serious talk about burnout and managing expectations.

Items of note: Picked up litter left by an unsanctioned campsite. At least they used protection. Insane banana bread. Buy better sun protection-do I look old?

An official summer kick-off party with the other rangers is not Bucky’s definition of fun, but you, little ball of incessant sunshine, assured him that it would be a great time, stating that it’s important for elderly people to get out of their homes and interact with others. It keeps the mind sharp and the hips groovin’. He’d rolled his eyes at that, but you peeped his mouth turned up slightly at the corner–a crack in his invisible shield.

“You never come to these things,” Alex, a fellow ranger, pokes at Bucky as you two sit on a wooden picnic bench under some string lights. The bar hosting the event is rustic with a touch of mountain-town charm that’s hard to pin down.

“Yeah, well, this one convinced me with her feminine trickery,” he huffs, scratching at the sweaty label on his bottle of Coors.

You laugh and roll your eyes. “The feminine trickery was the homemade tiramisu I brought on Thursday,” you inform Alex swiftly. “He has a sweet tooth. I simply played to his weakness. And now, Bucky, you get to relax and recharge to the sounds of cicadas and John Denver. Don’t forget to thank me!”

“Not happenin’,” he grunts as he takes a drink of beer. 

Alex laughs and offers his drink up in cheers. You clink yours against it. “No, seriously,” he starts, “I haven’t seen Barnes at one of these work parties in… damn, have I ever seen you at one? So, whatever you’re doing, keep it up, new girl!” He waves you both off with a salute as he heads inside to the bar.

“See, I told you that people want you here,” you say, shifting your attention back to Bucky. “They look up to you, Vet.”

“It’s not that I think people don’t want me here,” he starts. “I guess I’m just more of a solo guy.”

“That’s called a loner, Bucky,” you say with a friendly wink. “Alone time is important. I don’t want you to think I’m knocking solitude, but being around people can be nice too.”

He nods like he agrees and notices your nearly empty glass. “What are you drinking?” 

You look from him to your empty glass and back again. “A Sea Breeze.”

“Sea breeze?” He repeats for confirmation with a furrowed brow. “Now what the hell is that?”

You laugh at his antics and list the juicy ingredients in the cocktail. He stands up and motions for you to hand him your empty glass. “Here. I got your next fruity little drink, Rookie.”

“Okay,” you smile, giving him the glass. “But only if you get one too. Don’t be a fruity little drink hater, Bucky.”

He swishes around the remnants of the drink and brings it to his nose. “It smells like sugar.”

“Tastes even better,” you quip. 

He narrows his eyes at you and notices where your tinted Chapstick has transferred to the glass. He lifts the same spot to his lips and takes a sip of the watered down drink. Your stomach heats at the intimate gesture. Or maybe it’s the alcohol. 

“It’s sweet,” he says. “I’ll get one for myself if you take a shot of tequila with me.”

Your eyes widen in shock. “Bucky Barnes, resident loner and fun sucker, wants to do shots? Has Hell frozen over?”

“I don’t want to do shots,” he corrects with a raised brow. “I want to do one shot with the Rookie. You in?”

“I’m in.”

Bucky isn’t sure when one shot turned into three, but now the fireflies are starting to look a bit angelic, like little glowing halos floating around the purple night sky. “Hell did freeze over,” he chuckles. “There’s tiny angels everywhere.”

You smirk and laugh. “Bucky, are you drunk?”

“Mmm…” he thinks it over, looking at you with a slightly glazed expression. “Just a little buzzed. Don’t you have socks with fireflies on them?” He asks, looking under the picnic table. You snap your legs together.

“I’m wearing a dress, Bucky! Eyes up here.”

His face turns an even deeper shade of red. “I’m sorry. I was looking for your cute socks.”

“I’m wearing sandals, Ranger. No cute socks tonight.” You say the last part with a pointed look. Bucky never says things like that. He’s always extremely professional, albeit grumpy as fuck. Get a few drinks in the guy and all of a sudden he turns to pudding.

“I wasn’t trying to look up your dress,” he reiterates, clearly embarrassed. 

“I know!” You assure him. “We’re colleagues.”

“Right,” he mutters, looking out at the slowly emptying parking lot.

Before you can dig more into whatever that exchange was, some more coworkers, Natalie and Anton, skip over with handfuls of tiny glasses… full of some type of clear liquid.

“A round on us!” Natalie practically shouts. She’s tipsy and adorable. Anton holds out a glass for you and Bucky. 

“To say thank you for helping us with the Junior Ranger camping fiasco last week,” Anton adds, looking fairly sober. Ah, the Junior Ranger camping fiasco. Who knew that flushing a tampon was going to wreak havoc on the entire education cabin? What began as an instructional lecture about what to do if you encounter a bear turned into how to properly dispose of feminine products. Preteens.

You hold a hand up to the offered shot. “That’s so sweet, but I’m feeling good after a couple glasses of water. I can’t.”

“More for me!” Natalie says, downing your shot. 

Bucky takes his, clinking it against Anton’s, and downs it. He hisses at the heat of the alcohol and mutters a thank you. 

“See you guys at CPR training next month!” Anton shouts over his shoulder as they stagger back into the bar.

“CRP training… I forgot about that…” Bucky mutters, sitting down heavily on his side of the picnic table. He’s clearly drunk. You glance over at his truck and frown. You’re going to have to get him an Uber. 

“Bucky? Are you okay with an Uber? I can reserve one for you. You can’t drive,” you say, reaching across the table to get his attention. He sways a bit and smiles.

“You can’t drive,” he chuckles. 

“I’m fine to drive. I switched to water after we took a shot together,” you tell him as you pull up the rideshare app on your phone. “Eighty nine dollars? For economy? Christ…” You look up at him, but his eyes are already on you. He’s smiling and a small giggle-like sound erupts from his chest.

“Keys are in my pocket, Rookie,” he slurs. “Come get them.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Bucky. We can take my car. Just don’t throw up in it or you’re paying to get it detailed! We can pick up your truck in the morning.”

“Mmkay,” he agrees easily. “Whatever ya say, cutie patoots.”

“Good lord. Can you walk?” You ask with a grimace. You’re not sure you can support his weight back to your vehicle. He’s much broader and taller than you.

“I can walk,” he utters. “C’mon.”

You offer him a friendly arm, and he loops through yours. “Are you okay?”

“Mhmm.”

He manages to walk fairly steadily back to your Subaru. You help him fold his large body into the passenger seat and buckle him in. Alex walks up as you shut the car door. You offer him a weak smile. “Gotta get this one back to his place. Any idea where he lives?”

“Not a clue. He’s so private,” Alex says. “You sure you’re okay to drive and get him home?”

You tsk. “Yeah, we’ll be fine. Drive safe.”

“You too.”

You get into the car and buckle up before turning to ask Bucky for his address, but he’s out cold.

“Damn it, Barnes!” You yell, but he doesn’t even stir. To your place it is.

The drive is quick and quiet since your driving companion is currently passed out with his mouth slightly ajar. You pull into your parking spot and thank God that you live on the first floor because you have no idea how you’d get this larger than life man up a flight of stairs. 

“Bucky?” You ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt. No answer. You shake his arm. “Bucky?” You yell. “Ranger Barnes!” Louder this time.

“Huh?” He rouses, eyes slowly opening and taking in his surroundings. He looks around the unfamiliar car interior and then slowly turns to you. “Oh, hi sunshine.”

“Feeling more like an annoyed rain cloud right now,” you offer. “You’re going to sleep on my couch, okay?” 

“Couch. Yeah.”

“Let’s go, old man.”

The state of your apartment is a work in progress to put it mildly. Half open boxes are strewn about. You moved here at the start of the summer, right after graduation, but you’d started at the park at the same time. Days have been long, so it’s been hard to keep momentum and your energy levels up to get fully unpacked. 

“You’re messy,” Bucky says, looking around the place on unsteady legs. 

“You are the bigger mess right now,” you snarl. “There’s the couch.”

He plops onto it quickly while you grab him a clean blanket and pillow. He has one arm thrown over the back of the couch when you get back, just staring at your ceiling. You hand him the bed linens and stand back, crossing your arms. 

“I’ll take you back to your truck in the morning,” you say.

“Mmkay,” he agrees with a sleepy voice as he pulls the blanket up to his chin.

“Night, Bucky.”

“Night angel lightning bug.”

You sigh and head to your bedroom. What a night.

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - June 8

She hasn't exiled me for her having to drive my drunk ass home after the work party. I'm such a dumbass. And I can't get the vanilla smell of the blanket she threw at me out of my nose. So warm. So her. God damn it.

Items of note: Soil samples today. Google what's in a Sea Breeze besides shame and regret.

The forecast is predicting a high in the mid-nineties today, so you packed your swimsuit in the hopes of taking a dip in the crystal clear lake you spotted a couple weeks ago. It’s secluded, clean, and deep enough to actually enjoy a swim in the cool water.

Bucky is in a better mood than usual today, and has honestly been more friendly overall since the night you let him couch surf. He was awkward as hell the next morning–all apologies and fancy takeout coffee. You assured him it was fine, and definitely didn’t bring up all the pet names he called you when he was out of his right mind. Maybe you remind him of an old flame, but you know it didn’t mean anything. It’s best to just keep trucking until you’re done with this summer training and finally, blissfully on your own. But today, you blame his good mood on your famous fruit salad. You brought it one day last week and it was devoured by lunchtime. You made a huge bowl for everyone again, but this time you made a separate, smaller one for Bucky without the kiwi. You noticed him picking the tiny green chunks out last time.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he says as he forks another mouthful of the fruit into his mouth. Some juice dribbles down his lip and he licks it up. “I can just eat around them.”

You shrug. “It’s no trouble. Plus, maybe I only made you your own bowl to sweet talk you into finally showing me the firewatch tower. It’s called an ulterior motive, or you know… feminine trickery.”

He laughs genuinely before rolling his eyes and spearing a strawberry. “I know what an ulterior motive is. And I stand by the trickery sentiment.”

“So… firewatch tower?” You ask with pleading eyes. You can’t place why, but you’ve been drawn to the tower since your first shift. It has an otherworldly, slightly spooky aura to it, like anything could happen up there. Maybe you are just excited by heights.

“Maybe,” he replies. “If you behave.”

“Maybe?! I made a special bowl of fruit salad sans kiwi for you, Mr. Picky. Show me the tower!”

He laughs and washes his bowl in the sink before filling up two stainless steel bottles with ice water and putting them in his pack. 

“Are you super thirsty today or something?” You ask, nodding toward his backpack. “Ooh, did you meet a milf at the bar and drink one too many Sea Breezes?”

“A milf? Jesus, no,” he says with a frown. “It’s going to be really hot today so we need to stay hydrated. I can carry more weight in my pack than you.”

Oh. He packed you an extra water bottle. How… thoughtful. He’s usually all survival of the fittest. “Well, thanks, but I can handle an extra bottle. You don’t have to–”

He tightens the straps of his pack and stands up straight, looking you in the eye while he cuts you off. “I had a former rookie pass out from heat stroke on a trail a few summers back. I don’t want that to happen again, especially…” he trails off before clearing his throat. “Anyway, let’s get going. We’re in C sect today and the Gator is in the shop for repairs, so we have a long trek on foot.”

“Okay, let me lace up my boots,” you say, quickly plopping down on the wooden bench. 

Bucky notes your socks today: bananas wearing fedoras and carrying briefcases. “Where do you even find those?” He nods toward your feet–one sock on, one foot still bare. His eyes flit from the bright orange polish on your toes to your concentrated face. The tip of your tongue pokes out between your front teeth as you pull the other sock on. 

“My cute socks?” You ask, wondering if he remembers calling them that.

“Sure, I guess.”

You laugh and nod, not sure if he’s playing it off or really doesn’t remember. “My brother gets me a pair for my birthday and Christmas every year. We like to get each other silly, but useful things.”

Bucky smiles. “So what do you get him?”

You pull on your boots and start lacing up. “He’s a lawyer so he has to wear ties and fancy clothes to work. I get him vintage cuff links, bow-ties, pocket squares… that kind of thing. I like to find them at thrift shops, estate sales, you know. The crazier the pattern or style, the better. It must run in our genes to like loud accessories. I once found a pair of cuff links that were tiny bottles of Yoohoo. He loves those."

Bucky chuckles. “How thoughtful. That’s a nice tradition.”

You finish tying your boots.

“C’mon, Rook. Let’s get going.”

After a few hours and miles in, you have to admit that Bucky was right–you are beyond thankful for that extra icy cold water bottle he packed this morning. It’s toasty outside, but thankfully nearly time for lunch. You’ve already finished your first bottle of water, and your throat thanks you as you drink from the second. You sit down on a bench under a covered shelter spot with a few picnic benches, relishing the shade as you check your watch.

Bucky sees you check the time. “We can break early and eat in the shade,” he says, starting to unzip his backpack more. There’s a line of sweat staining his shirt where the pack was sitting against his spine.

“Oh, thank goodness. I’m roasting,” you say. You sigh and look around, realizing exactly where you are. “Actually, I’m going to eat lunch in a bit. I want to walk down to that lake and take my break there if that’s okay.”

“Lac nu?” He asks with a smirk as he takes the lid off his lunch.

You tilt your head, confused. “Is that the name of the lake?” You suppose you hadn’t noticed a sign the last time you were in the area.

Bucky nods slowly, crunching into a carrot.

“Okay, well, I’m going to Lack New or whatever it’s called for my break. I’ll be back in an hour,” you say as you saunter off. He gets so weirdly quiet sometimes. He’s hard to read.

“Watch out for snakes,” he says loudly before he laughs under his breath. He watches you walk away as he bites into another carrot and his tongue. “Damn it!”

Bucky finishes his lunch quickly and picks up some nearby litter before checking his watch–still forty-five minutes before lunch is over. He always ate too fast from working up an appetite logging miles in the park. He fans himself with his logbook and undoes the top button of his brown uniform shirt.

“Ah, fuck it,” he grunts as he slings his pack over one shoulder and follows your path down to the small lake. He normally doesn’t swim in the park because he doesn’t want to interact with dumb tourists, but he doubts anyone will be down there but you. Even though you’re way more chipper than a normal human, you know how to appreciate the park’s beauty without ruining the ecosystem or leaving your mark behind.

The sunlight streams through the surface of the water into the lake below, painting sparkles across the rocky bottom as you swim beneath the clear veneer. The water is lukewarm and doing a magnificent job of cooling you off. You turn and start to float on your back, closing your eyes to the sun for several moments. When you move upright to start another lap, you let out a squeal at Bucky standing on the grassy lake shore.

He holds his hands up in defense with a small smirk. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You laugh out a sigh in relief that it’s just him. “It’s fine. Just glad I’m not getting axe murdered!” You say as you tread water, letting your head bob above the water. He looks from you to your discarded uniform shoved into your unzipped pack and back again.

“How’s the water?” He asks as he drops his backpack on the grass next to yours. 

“It’s perfect, actually,” you smile, readjusting the strap of your swimsuit. “Are you coming in?”

His eyes follow your hand across your shoulder back down under the water. “Would you mind? I don’t have swim trunks, though, so maybe I’ll just put my feet in.”

“Oh, get in here. A little skinny dip never hurt anyone,” you tease with a laugh.

“Uh, okay. You’d better turn around unless you want a show.”

You spin around in the water and make a dramatic show of covering your eyes even though you’re facing the other direction. “Just social distance from me, old man.”

He huffs as he undresses quickly, tossing his clothing in a heap at his feet before wading into the lake. It is perfect. When he’s certain his manhood is hidden beneath the water he calls out to you. “Okay, I’m in. Just don’t look down.” 

“Wait, are you seriously naked? I was just joking about skinny dipping!” You shout. 

“Well, I seriously don’t have swim trunks, so…”

“Oh,” you say and swallow before spinning around and putting a bit more distance between your two bodies. You decide to trek forward with the conversation and ignore the elephant (Or was it more like a mouse? Stop, brain. Why are you thinking about it?) in the lake. “The water’s nice, huh?”

“Mhmm,” he hums in agreement. His hand comes up above his eyes to shade the sun from his vision as he looks at you. “You know it’s called Lac nu, right? Not Lack New.” He says the former with a French accent and the latter with a slightly offensive American South one.

“What are you talking about?” You ask, perplexed.

“This lake,” he starts, waving a pointer finger around the area. “It’s called Lac nu. It translates to Naked Lake.” He says the last part with a breathy laugh and flicks some water at you.

You snort and roll your eyes. “I guess I’m breaking the rules then?”

“I won’t tell,” he says with a playful wink.

“I think there’s probably a spot in the employee handbook about this,” you joke.

“Skinny dipping?” He asks.

“No, winking at me when you’re naked,” you say with a giggle.

He chuckles and dips lower into the water before dipping his head under to wet his hair. When he resurfaces, your eyes trace the beads of water racing down his neck.

“You’re in a good mood today,” you say, swimming in a circle around him, always keeping your eyes above the water. “What’s the occasion?”

Bucky lets out a sarcastic “ha-ha” and blows water droplets from his lips before dipping back under the water. You watch his eyes open under the surface and drop your jaw as he resurfaces. 

“Did you just… sneak a peek?” You ask, pretending to be scandalized. You hold your arms around your body, covering your chest. “Did you just check out your controversially younger coworker? Your mentee?” 

He splashes you with yet another eye roll. “First of all, I’m the naked one here. So if anyone should feel exposed, it’s me. Second of all, you’re not controversially younger than me. How old do you think I am, anyway?”

You rub your chin, pretending to think before mocking him. “First of all, Barnes, you’re not denying the checking out your coworker accusation. Second of all, I’m not guessing your age.” You huff, feeling like you’ve won.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says matter of factly. “I’m thirty-eight for the record.”

You size him up–the smattering of grays you’re met with day after day, the broad shoulders and beefy arms built by years in the park, the crow’s feet around his blue eyes when he flashes you a rare smile. “Yeah, I suppose thirty-eight checks out.”

“Now who’s doing the checking out?” He asks cheekily as he swims further into the lake. His back is to you now.

You notice the constellation of freckles across his tanned shoulders and the muscles there. The sun’s rays hit the water just so, shining through the lake. You follow the trail of light with your gaze under the surface, down the hard lines of his back to his…

That’s not a butt. That’s a–oh.

“Eyes up here, Rookie.”

You snap your eyes up to to his and your cheeks immediately heat in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to–I-I wasn’t trying to…” Words escape you. 

He laughs and runs a hand through his wet hair. “Come on. Let’s get dressed and get back to work. I’ll go first so you can get dressed in private. Keep an eye out for water snakes, would ya?” 

You gasp at the naughty joke and watch him get out of the water, his back to you. He climbs the small incline gracefully. You only notice your bottom lip between your teeth as he ducks behind a nearby bush to dry off and get dressed. You let go of the flesh and clear your throat, willing your body to calm down before you exit the lake. Why do you feel all tingly? Surely a brain eating amoeba has made its way into your ear canal and started its work. It’s definitely not your grumpy, graying, somewhat pessimistic coworker. Right?

“All clear,” he says with a wink as he trots up the hill fully dressed and out of sight. Your stomach flutters again. Oh no.

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - June 30

Lac nu is a hidden gem of the park, and I'm thankful for it today. It was nearly 90 degrees and served as a cool-off during our lunch break. Fuck, this logbook is turning into evidence. Must burn to ash when it's filled.

Items of note: Orange toes and swimsuit. Wet hair. Nature is beautiful, but she's stunning.

CPR training–not an aphrodisiac, just a standard practice, great knowledge to have in case of emergencies, absolutely not a turn-on. Ugh… until it’s his turn to do chest compressions.

You have definitely never listened to those breathy, suggestive audios of dudes doing push-ups to failure on Quinn. Not the ones where they’re practically moaning “baby girl” through your headphones while you get a little sweaty folding laundry. And you’re absolutely NOT thinking of how Bucky sounds like he’s doing those devious push-ups right now. He’s trying to save Hector’s life for crying out loud! Hector is the CPR dummy that you are slightly, weirdly jealous of right now. A lock of hair falls out of place across Bucky’s forehead as he keeps pressing on Hector’s chest. His arms–God, have they always been so veiny and muscular–are tensed from the compressions, and his face is flushed from the exertion. Your mind wanders to what other activities make the Ranger flush and you feel a blush creep up your neck. He’s like… old. What is wrong with you?

You hear your name and are pulled from your sexy trance. “Huh?” 

“You’re up,” the instructor says.

Bucky takes his place next to you and nudges your shoulder. “Go! He’s literally dying.”

You huff and kneel down next to the dummy. 

“To the rhythm of Stayin’ Alive by The Bee Gees,” the instructor says, nodding for you to begin. You start the compressions and count, growing tired by the end. No wonder Bucky was huffing and breathing a little more… well, just more than you’re used to when he was doing this. Why did his breathing sound hot? Are you ovulating? You mentally count back to your last period and shake your head. No, definitely not ovulating anymore. That must mean you actually think he’s hot. Your mind isn’t clouded by some cavewoman needs. These are your true, luteal phase thoughts. Oh no. You save Hector from the brink of death and take your place back by Bucky as a few other colleagues revive the dummy.

“Good work,” Bucky says with a wink. “You got a little tired at the end, huh?”

“I guess so.”

“You sounded a little breathy,” he adds to which you look up at him with irritation.

“So did you!"

“Did I?” He asks.

“Yes, you were all huh huh ugh heeehuhhhh ugh huh.” You imitate his breathing.

He smirks, holding back a laugh. “Do you want to run that by me again?”

“Oh, hush!” You say. The instructor glances up at the two of you. Damn, if looks could kill.

“Your face is red,” Bucky whispers, leaning down a bit to get his mouth closer to your ear.

“Yeah, well, I just did chest compressions. Besides, you’re sweaty.”

“I’m not sweaty,” he says.

“You’re… there’s a sheen,” you say, pointing to his face and circling the air around his head.

“A sheen?” He smirks.

“Yes, Bucky, a sheen.”

“Now it’s more pink than red,” he says, nodding at your face. “Now it’s the same color as it was when you saw that water snake in the lake.”

“Bucky!” You gasp. “I didn’t see anything.

“Mmm, I think you did. You blushed like you did.”

“Let it go, Barnes.”

“Oh, I’m never forgetting that, sunshine. Ever.”

You huff and cross your arms as the instructor stands and claps his hands together. “Okay, let’s move on to First Aid.”

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - July 6

Hector is enemy number one. Why can't I stop thinking about her flushed face and the way she was breathing? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Items of note: So much July 4th garbage around the campsites. Disposed of properly and citations issued as needed. Be respectful, people.

“Guess where we’re going today?” Bucky asks with a genuine smile as you both start out on the main trail.

“Well, I’ve given up on the firewatch tower, so… maybe to clean up some campgrounds?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “You’ve given up too easily.”

Your eyes widen and you gasp. “You’re taking me?!”

“I’m taking you. It’s a long walk, so I’m glad you packed some extra trail mix.”

“Bucky!” You exclaim, jumping on the dirt trail. “I’m so excited! Thank you!” You hug him and he carefully wraps one arm around your waist to return the sentiment. 

“You-you’re welcome, Rookie.”

You can hear something in his voice and break away, realizing that it’s kind of inappropriate to hug your coworker.

“Sorry,” you mutter, looping your thumbs through your backpack straps for something to focus on that’s not his muscle-y back. 

“It’s fine,” he assures you. “You smell like oranges.”

You laugh. “I made orange juice this morning.”

“What? With real oranges?” 

“Of course!” You say. “It’s way better that way.”

“You really are a ray of sunshine.”

“Thanks. You’re kind of a storm cloud, but we need some rain, so…”

He laughs and nods. “That’s actually why I figured now’s the perfect time to show you the tower. We’re technically in a drought at this point, so forest fires are more likely. It’s important that you know what to look for if you ever have to cover the tower. Usually they have special rangers for it, but if someone is out and you get called up, you have to know your shit.”

“Sounds good.”

You start your trek to the tower with a smile on your face, his spicy deodorant in your nose, and butterflies in your stomach. 

When you’re about a quarter mile from the tower, the clouds start quickly rolling in.

“Did you check the weather today?” You ask Bucky, biting your lip nervously. You didn’t pack umbrellas or any rain gear. 

“I-uh, it must have slipped my mind.” It’s your fault it slipped his mind. He was watching you pull on your ridiculous hiking socks-golfballs with moustaches and tees wearing high heels-and forgot to check the damn app.

The last four hundred yards to the tower are a mad, rain-soaked dash.

By the time you reach cover you’re both drenched, chilled, and your feet are covered in blisters from the rainwater squelching in your hiking boots. You didn’t expect to see the tower for the first time looking like a wet noodle while Bucky somehow looks like a wet Adonis. Unfair.

You carefully climb the slick stairs to the top and both heave a sigh of relief when you’re safely under the roof. Finally.

The clouds outside darken and the wind picks up, making the branches of the trees dance in a frantic rhythm. You watch from one of the many windows. It’s not just rain. It’s a full-on thunderstorm. 

“Well, I don’t think you’re going to spot any rogue wildfires now,” Bucky says with a click of his tongue. He sits on a small cot in the corner and pulls his log book out of his pack. 

“This is kind of beautiful, though,” you muse, watching the way the rain is coming down in sheets of silver. 

“Nature is, yeah,” he says quietly and he uncaps his pen with his teeth and chews on the cap thoughtfully before the pen meets the page. 

“What are you always writing in there?” You ask, nodding toward the weathered book. 

“Observations.”

“I don’t write in mine enough then. You’re always jotting stuff down. Can I read it? Get an idea of what I should be documenting?” You walk toward him and he snaps the book shut. “No. It’s… you know… a Ranger’s logbook is personal.” 

“C’mon,” you laugh. “How personal can soil samples be?” 

“Extremely!” 

“Fine, grumpy,” you say, too soaked and cold to fight him on it. “How long do you think this will last?”

He glances out the window with a shrug. “No clue. You cold?” 

You nod, and he looks under the cot. He grunts as he pulls a heavy trunk upright and clicks open the latches. There’s an array of first aid supplies, tarps, blankets, a couple National Park Service sweatshirts in an ugly shade of moss green. He hands one to you. “You should take your top off.”

“Sorry?” You gasp.

“No!” He stammers, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I mean you should take your wet shirt off before you put the dry sweatshirt on or else you’ll stay cold. I’m not looking.”

He turns around and looks out the opposite window with his arms crossed. By the time you’ve shed your shirt and cozied up in the dry, ugly sweatshirt he asks “You decent?” 

“Yeah,” you say. He turns around too. At least you’re wearing matching ugly sweatshirts. In this fashion crime together.

“So, we’re kind of stuck up here for a bit, aren’t we?” You ask.

“Looks like it.”

"Okay, we could just play a game to pass the time, or volley questions back and forth to get to know each other better," you suggest. You feel like you only know the surface of this man, and you wonder if he’d let you crack him open a bit like the sky outside.

“Sure,” Bucky rifles through the drawers of the decrepit desk near the cot, searching for a pack of cards. Nothing. He slams the last drawer, and it's punctuated by a flash of lightning outside.

"Is it actually safe to be up here when there's lightning?" You ask, peering out the window at the raging storm.

He shrugs. "It's better than being on the ground of a literal forest. With trees."

You roll your eyes. "Fine. Questions it is. I'll go first. What's your favorite color?"

Bucky sits on the cot in the corner and leans his head against the wall. He shrugs. "I don't really have one."

"You don't - okay, nevermind. What's your favorite dessert?" You try again, leaning on the desk across the small room.

His lips quirk into a smile. "Don't get a big head about it, but that cheesecake you made."

"Aww, you love my goodies," you tease as his eyes widen and he snorts out a laugh. "Sorry, that sounded-"

"My turn," he says, cutting you off. "What's your favorite part of the park so far? I know you haven't seen everything, but…?"

You consider his question and look around at the tall trees, some at eye-level in the tall tower. There's a lot of things you like about the park - the way it's misty in the morning sometimes after a night rain, when the frogs in the pond by the Ranger cabin will quiet themselves if it gets too loud with human noise, how the light filters through the trees when the sun isn't directly overhead, when Bucky always asks if you have your logbook (even though you only use it for doodles of flora and noting down how often he sighs when he's particularly grumpy, and the way he's watching you right now). Whoops. You hope you don’t have to turn it in at the end of training.

"My favorite part of the park?" You repeat the question, eyes wide at your internal realization. "Having you as my mentor has been nice."

His eyes flit to yours, brow furrowed. "That doesn't count, plus I'm not that great. You don't have to say that-"

"I'm not saying anything I don't mean," you retort. A flash of lightning lights up the sky with a crack of thunder following not long after. It's not letting up, and you silently wonder how long you'll be taking refuge here. "But if you want me to pick something in nature, I guess I'd say just how big some of the tree roots are. Some of them are thicker than two people put together. It's incredible. You're kind of like a tree root, you know."

He scoffs. "Well, you keep bringing in sugary desserts and goodies."

You laugh and roll your eyes. "No! That's not what I mean. I'm not saying you're thick," you say with a giggle. He is terribly, deliciously thick, but in the best way. "I'm saying you remind me of the roots of a tree - stable, grounded, only searching for the good soil, one with the Earth. Strong. All that jazz."

“All that jazz,” he hums and nods his head, eyes moving to the storm outside. You peep a blush on his cheeks. "Like roots, okay."

"What would I be?" You ask, nudging his foot with yours. "And don't say anything about the muskrats."

He chuckles and assesses you before swallowing. He knows what he wants to say, but isn't sure if it's too much. He knows he got too flirty… too inappropriate at the lake the other day, and he needs to reel it in, but damn. He doesn't want to regret not saying how he feels.

"Okay, I have an answer," he says, voice a bit deeper than it was seconds ago. "Do you know how the sun hits the water at a certain angle and makes it shimmer? But with colors, like…" he searches for the right word, but you fill it in for him.

"Like a rainbow prism?" You offer.

"Yes, exactly like… a prism. Every color kind of dances across the surface. That's what you would be," he answers, running a hand through his beard like he's stressed.

Your chest heats at his answer. It almost sounds romantic if you didn't know better. "Why'd you pick that?" You ask eagerly. You swallow, trying to push down any expectations.

He clears his throat and decides to just go for it. "Because you came blazing into this park and into… my life… in color. Your whole persona is just like a rainbow I guess - your weird socks, your smile, your jokes, your orange toes, just you. You bring life into this place. Into my life, too. I wasn’t looking forward to one last mentee, but you… I’m just glad it was you.”

You close your mouth. It had fallen open during Bucky's short but effective declaration. "I-I'm not sure what to say," you start. "Which is a first for me."

He laughs and shrugs. "You don't have to say anything. You're done with training after this shift anyway."

"I'm done with training?" You repeat, blinking at him. "But I thought I had the rest of the week with you.

"No," he says, shaking his head. He pulls a crinkled and folded paper out of his shorts pocket. "I graduated you this morning. I guess I just wanted one more shift with you." He looks at his watch. "And the shift just officially ended, so you're a full-fledged Ranger now, sunshine."

"So you're not my supervisor anymore?" You clarify, pushing off the desk you're leaning on and taking a step toward him. Another crack of thunder intensifies the already heady air of the tower.

"Correct," he says, standing up. "Are you… happy about that?"

"Ecstatic, in fact," you say, taking another tentative step. He meets you in the middle and you breathe the same humid air for what feels like a full minute. His chest is heaving in symphony with yours. Eyes bounce from each other to your lips to his eyes and back again like a mating ritual.

"Why?" He breathes across your skin. His breath is minty and smells slightly of honeydew. "Because now you can do this?" He mutters as his lips brush against yours. You inhale sharply at the contact and your heart picks up its pace. The rain outside starts coming down in heavier sheets, soaking the deck surrounding the tower.

"Yeah," you answer weakly. All sense of reality has been turned on its head as his tongue slips easily into your mouth. Kissing Bucky is like dipping your toe into Lac nu, like picking the first ripe strawberry of the season off the vine, like sinking into fresh bedsheets dried on the line after a long day. It feels right. So right. It’s warm and light and perfect. He breaks away first and you can feel his smile.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since you called me an old man that first week,” he admits.

“You called me an angel lightning bug,” you mutter with a smile.

He looks at you with a quizzical brow. “Those Sea Breezes got to my head, didn’t they?”

“They did.”

“Well, you know what they say… drunk words are sober thoughts.”

“You should kiss me again,” you whisper. “You taste like honeydew.”

His hands find the nape of your neck and his fingers comb through your damp hair as he pulls your mouth toward his. “You taste like mine.”

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - July 15

Maybe I'll give her this logbook when I marry her annoying, perfect, sunshine and rainbows ass. Why the hell does the firewatch tower have a condom stash?

Items of note: Replenish the firewatch tower's condom stash.

Time passed quickly over the next week.

Actually, you weren’t sure if it passed by quickly or if you were just living in a haze with the early buds of whatever was blooming between you and a certain mechanic.

For the most part, everyone spent most of their time at the beach soaking up the warm sun and soft sand while you could before retiring to the house for the night where intense debates about what movie to watch would always follow dinner.

Your friends, both old and new, were enjoying themselves and it was such a pleasant feeling to see a smile on Natasha’s face that wasn’t sarcastic or a knowing smirk. Seeing her around her chosen family made your heart burst out of your chest for your friend.

Speaking of things that made your heart burst out of your chest, you leaned back into the warm body behind you as the movie the group chose ran across the wide screen in the living room. Strong arms constricted around your torso before a plush pair of lips connected with the skin of your neck. Your eyes fluttered shut momentarily as you soaked in the affection.

“All good?” Bucky whispered into your ear as he pulled his lips from your neck. You looked up at him and gave him a smile and a nod of your head. The corner of his eyes briefly crinkled as he fought to keep a smile from forming on his face while Sam was in a twenty-yard vicinity. The man had an uncanny ability for catching Bucky showing emotion and made sure everyone knew it; each and every time. While you found it to be endearing and a sign of a healthy relationship between friends, it would always take Bucky a moment or two to come back to the moment you were caught in and you preferred him to stay for the whole moment and however much longer he would give you.

You felt his lips brush your temple briefly before trailing down to your ear. “This movie is boring,” he grumbled. Each movement his lips made producing his words caused a barrage of tingles to explode beneath the shallow flesh barrier of your skin. It took all of your willpower, and the tensing of most of your muscles, to fight off the sound that threatened to fall from your mouth. When you didn’t respond, he continued to voice his thoughts.

“You know, there’s a telescope up in the observation room,” he whispered.

You arched an eyebrow, not knowing exactly where he was going, but aware of the general direction.

“We could go up there and entertain ourselves,” he said, his timbre seeming to drop an octave. “The couch up there is very comfortable, too.”

The implication of entertaining yourselves made a warmth unfurl inside of you and spread to your hips. You shifted slightly, needing to feel some relief, and felt Bucky’s fingertips dig into your sides in the same second. You stilled and felt his body tense underneath you.

“Bucky,” you whined beneath your breath, only loud enough for him to hear. Your hands, which were holding his forearms, squeezed before gently rubbing circles into the muscle and metal beneath your fingertips. “We’re watching a movie with our friends.”

“You mean we’re all stuck watching Sam’s pick for the second time on this trip? A person can only watch Godzilla so many times,” he argued, making a smile appear on your lips instantly at his quip.

“I can hear you,” Sam hissed from his seat on the opposite end of the sofa you and Bucky were sitting on. Your eyes shot over to Sam, only to see him looking at you guys with an irritated look, but a softness in his eyes that let you know he was teasing.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t trying to hide it,” Bucky shot back, giving his friend the famous deadpan stare that Bucky has perfected.

“Man, just leave with your girl,” Sam huffed. “The rest of us actually enjoy watching this cinematic masterpiece.”

“I wouldn’t say enjoy,” Nat added.

“Cinematic masterpiece is a big stretch,” Wanda chimed in at the same time, making Steve laugh after taking a sip of his beer.

“What? You guys voted for this movie. It’s the Monster Universe,” Sam said, getting defensive since no one was siding with him.

“More like we didn’t want to see you pout for the rest of the night,” Natasha corrected.

That caused Sam to erupt and the rest of the group to tease him or try to get him to calm down. Bucky used the opportunity to pull you away from movie night and up towards the observation room on the third floor. You eagerly followed him as he ran up the stairs, feeling giddy and slightly nervous.

Now, you and Bucky had only known each other for about two weeks and in that span of time, you both got close to one another rather quickly. However, you had yet to go further than a few heated make out sessions much to both of your dismay.

The first time you and Bucky were able to keep your lips locked for more than twenty seconds without being interrupted had been absloutely thrilling. After everyone finished dinner at a local seafood restaurant, you and Bucky had gone outside to “get some air” while the others finished their drinks and paid the bill. With interlocked fingers, Bucky led you to Sam’s pickup and leaned against the back of the truck, pulling your body between his thick, muscular thighs. The parking lot was packed with all of the patrons’ cars, but everyone seemed to be inside and you found yourselves in a bubble of privacy right there, in the barely lit back of the parking lot.

As you leaned into him, Bucky wrapped his metal arm around your waist while his flesh hand tangled itself in the hair on the back of your head. The second his fingertips made contact with the skin of your scalp, you shuddered against him. It felt as if every ounce of tension flowed down into the ground underneath the soles of your beat-up sandals.

In no time at all, he had dazzled you with a smile and some pretty words before the two of you were fused together in a heated exchange of passion. Your limbs entwined with each other’s, and your hands roamed his form, eagerly seeking any patch of skin that you could. Your blissful moment was ruined by Steve awkwardly clearing his throat, tearing the two of you apart, only to see everyone slowly coming out of the restaurant and towards the car.

“You’re lucky it was only me,” Steve mumbled, giving Bucky’s shoulder a shove.

Bucky pushed his friend back playfully and grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “punk” while you rushed to smooth down your clothes and hair.

The second and third time were at the beach.

The second time, everyone else was taking a walk while you and Bucky were floating in the water together. You clung to the soldier in front of you, still not too comfortable in the water, and Bucky took full advantage. With your legs wrapped around his hips and your arms around his shoulders, he swooped in and planted a rushed kiss to your lips. You followed his lips as he pulled back, not wanting your lips to be separated from his even for the half second to take a breath.

Bucky was very enthusiastic about your eagerness, as made apparent by the erection that was straining against his swim trunks. The second your core brushed against his obvious arousal it felt as if the world tilted on its axis and everything slowed down until it was just the two of you. You eagerly chased the electric feeling of grinding against the most attractive man you’d ever had the pleasure of seeing, only to be broken apart by a giant splash next to you that left both of you looking like wet dogs.

The two of you pulled apart and looked to the side, only to see Sam and Steve come up from the water with a football between their hands, arguing over who got the ball first.

The third time was just yesterday. You were lying on your back in the sand, soaking in the sun and Bucky was sitting next to you reading a book, with his body fully angled towards you. His shirt had come off after the first chapter; the heat and humidity made it uncomfortable to wear any clothing you could afford to take off. His chest had a sheen of sweat on it that looked so tempting and made your mouth water slightly. His thigh was pressed up against the side of your body while he kept the rest of his body in shade under the umbrella while reading aloud from the book he had picked up from the house’s collection for visitors. You weren’t sure what the book was about. You could only pay attention to his gruff timbre and how the sound made your body come alive.

You turned your body to face him fully, propping your head up on your hand and resting your other one on the skin right above his knee. He trailed off as he sensed your gaze on him in addition to your soft caresses. Bucky put the book down and leaned forward, brushing his fingers along your jaw. He placed a light kiss on the corner of your mouth before trailing them down to your neck and then back up to your mouth. The second his soft lips touched yours, you threw your arms around his torso and pulled him down to your body. He laughed as he fell forward and you used the opportunity to explore the cavern of his mouth.

Unfortunately, the moment was ruined by some kids who were running by, screaming at seagulls trying to steal their snacks; their terrified shrieking effectively ruining the mood.

As you climbed the final staircase to the observation room, you felt the nerves from the anticipation creep up your throat. The booming of an action scene playing through the surround sound system was able to still reach your ears, but knowing your friends were two floors below made the situation feel like sneaking around your parents’ house as a teenager.

But this time with a man.

Not just any man – Bucky.

The devastatingly handsome Bucky, who had pulled you into a whirlwind when he grabbed your broken suitcase without hesitation and you met his eyes. From the moment you saw him, you practically began to drool. Sure, it had been years since your last sexual exploit and you had found all your past partners attractive at some point, but you’d never, ever seen anyone whose beauty struck you like a lightning bolt until two weeks ago.

Just watching his back as you ascended the stairs was enough to make your brain go fuzzy. The muscles gently rippled and shifted under his shirt as he climbed the stairs ahead of you. The sight of his hand wrapped around yours was enough to make your knees weak, but you forced yourself to continue following him, not wanting to miss out on any moment with him.

When you finally stepped into the observation room, the two of you were surrounded by the moon, stars, and trees swaying in the sea breeze behind the floor to ceiling glass windows. Bucky pulled you to the middle of the small room where a telescope stood. He dropped your hand to uncap the telescope, and you had to physically fight a whine from leaving your throat. He bent down and looked through the lens of the instrument, a small smile gracing his lips at whatever he saw.

You stood beside him, watching in awe as the man before you occupied space around you and wanted you closer. A warm, fuzzy feeling slowly surrounded through your body.

It was a privilege to be here with him and to be chosen by him.

“I can feel you staring, sweetheart,” he chuckled while pulling away from the telescope lens.

“Just appreciating the view,” you quipped back, trying to look as normal as possible and not like you were falling hard and fast, head over heels for the man in front of you.

He nudged you and pinched your waist while switching positions, moving you in front of the telescope. You followed his lead and leaned down to look through the telescope. A view of the sparkling stars greeted you as you peered through the instrument and you immediately understood why Bucky had smiled upon looking through the lens. It was breathtakingly beautiful and inspiring.

One warm and one cold hand encased your hips as you were bent forward to look at the stars. The fingers of said hands squeezed into the flesh of your hips and pulled your bottom back into Bucky’s hips, settling against the growing arousal that was growing underneath his pants. Your hands flew to the telescope and held on tightly to keep yourself upright while all the blood drained from your head and the breath left your lungs.

“I prefer this view,” Bucky whispered in your ear, leaning his body over yours. The tip of his nose fell against your jawline as his lips placed themselves behind your ear, before his teeth grazed your earlobe and gave a light tug. Your knees gave out momentarily, but Bucky quickly secured you to his chest with his strong arms which were now banded around your waist and chest.

The heat radiating from his chest up against your back was intoxicating. It felt like you were making your way to Cloud Nine; drifting up towards the highest cloud in the sky and feeling the softness from said clouds brush against your skin. You chased the feeling, arching your back into his form before angling your head to the side so his lips could continue their wandering path on the side of your neck. Instinctively, you pushed your hips back into his and gasped at the feeling of his thick length sliding deliciously between your ass cheeks.

The grumble that escaped from his chest rolled down your spine and relaxed all of your muscles. Your thighs spread apart a little as you felt yourself heat up from the inside out as the sensation of his firm muscles, warm skin, soft lips, and gravely voice hijacked your mind.

“Those stars have nothing on you,” he purred as his lips paused their barrage on the skin of your neck. His lips continued their journey as his words sunk into your lust hazed mind. His compliment stoked the embers that were already burning in your lower belly.

“Mm,” you sighed, leaning back against him even more. “You’re one to talk. I’ve never seen someone as pretty as you until we met.”

The corner of his mouth curled up in a smile as he ceased his caressing of your neck. His head moved to hook his chin over your shoulder while simultaneously moving the arm banded around your chest lower so his hand could cup your breast. You couldn’t help yourself. You had to look down and soak in the view of him cupping your chest so openly and appreciatively. The sight sent you further into heat: his large hand grasping your tit, some flesh still falling out of his hand, and the slow squeezes of his palm around the soft skin.

“You know what I bet is pretty?” he asked, barely waiting for an answer before twisting you around in his grip and responding. “The view underneath this shirt.”

Your hazy eyes caught the heat in his eyes the second you saw them and you felt yourself reaching for the hem of your shirt before you knew what you were doing. You’d give him anything he wanted when he looked at you and talked to you like that. He released his hold on your body briefly to help you yank it over your head and toss the fabric behind him. His hands came back to your skin and gripped your hips, holding you in front of him while he took in the sight before him.

His blue irises shrunk as his pupil dilated upon looking at your chest without any barriers in the way. You could practically feel the path of his gaze roam you from the underside of your breasts to your taught nipples. “Oh, baby,” he groaned. “I knew I was right, but goddamn, this is better than I expected.”

You grinned, feeling drunk off his sultry words. You quickly reached for the hem of his shirt, too, and Bucky ripped the offending fabric from his body faster than he had for your shirt. Now, you had seen his chest before almost every day you have been at the beach, but something about it being bathed in the moonlight and stars made it so much more mouthwatering. It looked like he was glowing under the ambiance and you reached forward, needing to feel his smooth, firm skin under your palms.

The second your skin made contact with his chest, Bucky grabbed your face and crashed his mouth on to yours, intensifying the fire building between you both. His wet muscle wrapped around your own before it traced the backs of your teeth.

Your hands ran down the expanse of his chest, caressing his bulging pecs and the nipples hanging on the curve, to his abdomen, where the muscles rippled upon feeling your warm touch slink further down his body. The trail your fingers left reduced the man in front of you into his baser instincts, letting out a long and deep groan.

Just as your fingers were about to trace his happy trail, he caught your hand with one of his own and pulled it up to his lips, peppering your knuckles with sloppy kisses. “Not now,” was all he could mange to say before he pushed your body gently down to the plush couch that lined most of the windows. The squeak you let out was louder than you intended to be and you were very grateful for the extra floor between you and your friends.

In a flash, Bucky was on his knees in front of you, pushing your thighs apart, forcing your skirt to gather around your waist. With no fabric in the way, you knew that he would see how much of a wet mess his kisses and caresses had left you and, surprisingly, the embarrassment you were waiting to feel never came. Instead, the warmth churning inside you intensified as he slowly leaned forward and caught the edge of your panties with his teeth and started to move down your leg. The thin cotton obeyed his actions, and you vaguely made out how he deposited his trophy on top of his shirt.

With his gaze focused on the most intimate part of your body, you couldn’t help but preen when you saw his eyes darken further before slowly moving towards you, like he was under the enchantment of a siren. His tongue ran over his lips twice before he spoke. “This is the prettiest view of all.”

His fingers ran through your damp curls enshrouding your mound. His touch was so calming and electrifying all at the same time, it made your head swim. Parting his fingers, he parted your lips shortly before blowing on your hot skin.

You jolted, your body unable to handle the sensations he was giving you. To keep you in place, Bucky moved his shoulders further between your legs, effectively spreading you open further for his exploration. The feeling of a cold, metallic digit circling your sensitive bud of nerves and the feeling of a warm, flesh digit pressing over your slit made you whine like you were going into heat. It had been years since you were touched but you never remember it ever feeling this good.

Your teeth trapped your lower lip between them as you tried to muffle your sounds, but you felt his left hand lift and pull it out of its trap. “Don’t,” Bucky pleaded. “Let me hear you.”

He returned to his ministrations once he saw you nod your head in agreement with his plea. His fingers kept teasing you, rubbing you lightly and applying pressure every so often, but it wasn’t enough. If anything, it made you more frustrated.

“Bucky, please,” you panted, bringing a hand up to his head to latch on to the dark hair at his crown. “I need something more.”

“More?” he teased, trailing a finger down your sensitive slit before stopping at your entrance. His blue eyes met yours briefly before they were pulled back to your expectant pussy which was fluttering for him. “No need to be greedy, sweetheart.”

A frustrated sigh left your mouth and was abruptly cut off when he slid his middle finger into your weeping hole, stroking your velvety walls. You clenched around his finger, only letting him move so far inside of you.

“God,” he growled. “She’s so tight.” His finger pulled out to the first knuckle before sliding back in. The drag of his calloused fingertips sent you into orbit. Sure, you were no stranger to touching yourself, but your fingers never felt this thick, this firm, or penetrated you this deep. He kept pumping his finger in and out of you, collecting little sighs and whimpers from your lips. While his right hand worked to open you up, his metal hand started to circle your clit. The pleasure shot right from the base of your spine up to your brain, sending all your senses into overtime, unable to comprehend the amount of pleasure flooding through your system.

When Bucky slid a second finger in, he was met with resistance from your body. You watched as he licked his lips and leaned closer to get a better view of your pussy attempting to swallow his digits. “There we go,” he cooed as he was able to push his second finger in further. You could feel tears forming behind your eyelids from the sensations his fingers were able to bring you.

“Please,” you cried, feeling tears gather behind your eyelids. What you were begging for, you had no idea. All you knew was that it wasn’t enough.

“Shh,” he hushed, placing a kiss on your clit as his metal fingers disappeared. He kissed you a second time, slower and sloppier than before, letting his spit and your arousal mix under his tongue which was circling your clit. Your eyes rolled back in your head under the wet heat of his mouth on the most sensitive part of your body. You needed him closer, so you pulled one of your legs back and used a hand to press his face further into your wet cunt. He moaned, sending vibrations through your spine, back down to your womb.

He pulled back with a lewd pop! that echoed in the small room. You opened your eyes and looked down at him, only to be greeted with a possessive smile that captured his glistening lips. Your arousal shimmered in his beard underneath the moonlight, and you felt yourself become that much more wet at the debauched sight in front of you.

“So sweet,” he whispered, leaving kisses all over your dripping slit and the sensitive skin surrounding your pussy lips. “She’s drooling so much, sweetheart,” he said before dragging the flat of his tongue through your folds, drinking up all he could.

“Bucky,” you moan, “please.”

His eyes snap up to meet yours and you feel yourself turning to liquid underneath his smoldering gaze. You’ve never seen someone look at you with such blatant lust, devotion, and awe before. Looking down at the man on his knees before you, you knew that he had ruined you for any other man, and you hadn’t even orgasmed or seen him naked yet. Your limbs scrambled to pull him up to you upon the realization settling into your mind. Even though you knew he wanted to stay down where he was, he followed your desperate grasps and moved up your body, placing wet kisses on any skin that he passed on his way up to meet your lips.

As soon as he was close enough, you crashed your mouth onto his and felt yourself go up in flames just from tasting yourself on his mouth. If you burnt alive here and now, you would die a happy woman. While the two of you embraced and invaded the other’s mouth, you managed to turn around and place Bucky’s hard, warm body beneath yours.

“Sweetheart, I wasn’t even close to being finished with your tight little hole,” Bucky groaned in faux annoyance as his hands came up to clamp around your hips and bring your weight down on top of his erection, which was leaving a stain on the front of his sweatpants from the amount of precum he had already leaked.

Your lips had their chance to trail down the side of his neck and you enjoyed every second of it. Feeling his body respond to your touch was intoxicating and gave you a brief power trip, knowing that you could make this mountain of a man tremble beneath you. As you lightly raked your teeth over the crook of his neck, you could feel his dick twitch beneath you. Your hips instantly dropped into his, adding more of your weight as you rocked over his excited cock.

“You can have more time later,” you promised. “I just need to feel you.”

A loud groan fell from his throat as he pulled your body flush against his and rolled you over so you were under him once again. The little fight for dominance you were having was only making the warmth in your veins grow.

“Yeah? You need to feel me?” he asked, rutting down into your slick folds, making the front of his sweatpants an even bigger mess than before. The pressure sent all coherent thoughts out of your head and you moaned as you swiveled your hips to move against his.

You nodded your head and looked up at him with wide eyes as you moved your hands to slip under the waistband of his sweatpants. Your fingers met with smooth skin and no other barriers between your hand and him. One hand stayed clutching his ass while the other moved to pull the front of his pants down, letting him escape the confines of his pants. The sound of his cock slapping his abdomen had you choking on air and gushing all over the couch beneath you.

The moment his cock and balls were free, Bucky pulled back to kick his clothes all the way off. Now both of you were naked and the heat between you two was about to reach the boiling point.

His cock was a glorious sight.

Standing tall and proud, the ruddy cockhead wept more pearlescent fluid from the tip and you watched, enraptured with the sight of the fluid leaking down the underside of his length, following the side of a prominent vein all the way down to the dark, coarse hair between his legs.

“Jesus, Bucky,” you practically sang. “I don’t know if it will—”

He cut you off by shoving the fingers that were inside of you a moment ago into your mouth. Your tongue immediately swirled around the pads of his fingertips and you had to fight to keep your eyes open at the display of dominance. “If you say it won’t fit, I’m going to finish before we even start,” he said.

You moaned around his fingers and sucked the rest of your essence from his fingers before pulling back and sliding off the couch to sit on the floor. The movement had his cock right before your mouth in less than a second and you gave him no warning before your lips engulfed the tip of him.

The sound that Bucky let out was masked as the music from the movie downstairs came to a crescendo. Twirling your tongue around his cockhead, you tilted your head a little to look up at his face. The sight before you nearly sent you over the edge yourself.

Bucky was staring down at you with the look of a predator waiting to devour his prey. The fire behind his eyes and the way his pupils swallowed all of the blue that you always admired had you doubling down on your efforts to please him. You hollowed out your cheeks and gave a harsh suck while dipping the tip of your tongue into the slit on the head and were rewarded with Bucky hissing your name after gathering your hair in his clenched fist.

“Jesus Christ,” he panted, “Just like that baby.”

You repeated your action several times before you dared to take more of his gloriously thick member into the cavern of your mouth. Bucky pressed forward on instinct, pushing your head back to rest on the seat of the couch while he leaned over the furniture and fisted at the soft suede material.

A hum left your lips as his movement fed more of himself into your mouth. Your jaw opened further and you silently took the discomfort while worshiping his velvety skin. You’d never been a huge fan of giving head in the past, as previous lovers had been head pushers or just too enthusiastic that the experience became painful. That, plus the bitter taste of precum had added to your dislike for the activity.

But with Bucky, you couldn’t bring yourself to find anything worth complaining about. He was gentle and so enraptured with the sight of your lips wrapped around his cock that you became drunk off his movements. Plus, he tasted simply divine. The blend of salt, musk, and something that was uniquely him had you eager to bring him further and further into your mouth.

“Shit,” he bit out before reaching down to run his finger over your cheek, adding pressure to the suction you already had around his member. “You feel so good wrapped around my dick. I’m not going to last much longer, sweetheart.” You moaned your approval and dared to take another inch of him into your throat, eager to taste him.

That moment never came, though.

The sounds from downstairs had gone quiet right before a series of explosions sounded through the surround sound speakers. Bucky’s body went rigid and you saw his lustful eyes switch to fearful and panicked. His hand that was in your hair tightened its grip and you furiously blinked back tears at the pain, trying to draw yourself from him. His stiff body refused to move and you began to panic yourself a bit as you started to choke on his length. His breathing became irregular and you could see a cold sweat start to bead at his brow.

Your heart was breaking inside of your chest as you watched him succumb to the depths of his mind during your intimate moment. Your panic increased as you saw him become more distant in his eyes and you gave his thigh a forceful pat to try and gain his attention. You were momentarily relieved when he pulled back, but the relief was short lived as you saw him fall back harshly on his ass and scoot himself into a corner with his hands gripping his hair.

You sputtered and coughed for a moment before clearing your throat to reach out to him. “Bucky,” you whispered.

He didn’t register your voice and started to rock a bit, trying to soothe himself. You scooted closer to him slowly and tried again in a slightly louder tone. His eyes flicked around the room this time, trying to gain a semblance of normality that would help pull him from the depths of his memories. You slowly reached a hand out towards him, not knowing what else to do to get his attention. The second your hand was in his line of sight, his metal hand reached out and gripped your limb with an extraordinary pressure.

Pushing through the pain, you let him keep his grip, but called out to him once again, this time, more panicked than the other times. “Bucky!”

He immediately turned to look at you and you could see the cloud over his eyes move away as he slowly returned to the present moment. You couldn’t resist the urge to comfort him and you moved closer to him, following your instincts.

Bucky remained frozen where he was sitting, but his eyes tracked your movements. His chest was heaving, trying to regulate his breathing and heartbeat. Sweat still clung to his brow and you could see his body start to tremble.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, bringing your hand that was not in his hold to cup his face. As you brushed your thumb under his eye, you could see them start to well up with tears as his mind caught up to the present. “I’m here for you.”

“I’m so sorry,” he nearly sobbed. “I thought I was past this.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” you repeated in a tone that you hoped was soothing, continuing to stroke his cheek. “Healing isn’t linear. Sometimes things come back when you least expect it.”

He searched your eyes, looking for a hint of deception or placation, but you were nothing but sincere and serious. When he found no judgement, he began to relax a little bit, loosening the tense muscles in his shoulders and relaxing his grip on your wrist.

“I can’t even enjoy being in the moment with you without my fucked-up brain short circuiting.”

“Bucky—”

“No,” he said forcefully, dropping your hand in favor of holding his head in his hands after pulling your comforting touch from his face. “Don’t say it’s okay, because it’s not. I could have hurt you. Hell, I fucking choked you because I couldn’t get out of my head.”

“I’m okay, though,” you defended. “And you didn’t do it on purpose. That’s all that matters to me.”

He looked up at you then and you were met with the most heartbroken look on his face. The tears that had welled up in his eyes out of fear and frustration had spilled over his lower lash line and traced paths down his cheeks. He shook his head, trying to push your comfort away. “I feel horrible for doing it, though.” He looked down at your wrist, and though it was hard to see clear details in the moonlight, he was able to see the marks he had left on your skin. “I could have really hurt you and I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself if I did.”

You sighed, frustrated that he wasn’t listening to your words, but understanding where he was coming from. You didn’t know what would make him feel better in this moment, but you knew you had to try.

“Look at me,” you asked softly, reaching out to angle his face towards you. Once his sad ocean eyes met yours, you gave him a watery smile and took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m not naïve. I know that you’ve experienced horrible things and I know that the human mind can be cruel to itself. But, I knew all of that going into this, Bucky. I chose to explore this with you knowing that there would be set backs and moments that you wouldn’t feel like yourself. But, I’m here. I still want to be with you, even after this.”

“But you deserve someone who isn’t broken. Someone who can have sex like a normal person and not break when they hear loud sounds,” he argued.

“Maybe that’s true,” you conceded. Upon hearing your words, his face instantly crumbled and he dropped his gaze to his lap. “But, I chose you and I’d do it all over again. I want you and all your broken pieces, all your jagged edges, and all your bad days.”

He looked back up and you could see something akin to hope fill his eyes.

“I’ll take you at your bad days and I’ll take you at your good days,” you continued. “But, I want you to choose me, too, and not make decisions for both of us without talking to me. Because I want to be here for you.”

Bucky murmured your name and reached his flesh hand out to your face. You moved even closer and leaned into his warm, rough palm. “I must have done something right in a past life to deserve you.”

You felt your heartstrings being pulled taught. His skewed view of what he thought he deserved hurt, but you would reassure him every step of the way. Because he was worth it.

“It doesn’t matter what you did in a past life, pretty boy. You have me in this life and that’s enough for me.”

He leaned forward and captured your lips in the gentlest kiss you had experienced with him yet. Your arms came up to wrap around his neck and you pulled your body closer to his, enjoying the feel of his skin pressed against yours. Bucky broke the kiss earlier than you wanted, but you were content to still bask in his warmth.

“I hope you know I’m never letting you go,” he whispered against your lips.

“Good, because I’m not letting go,” you answered, pecking his lips afterwards to seal your sentiment with a kiss.

He leaned his forehead against yours and pulled you into his lap. You felt his cock twitch between you, half-hard and stirring again after the emotional drop-off. Bucky huffed at his body’s response and you shook your head, threading your fingers through his hair.

“I’m flattered,” you joked, “but I think we should pump the breaks for tonight.”

Bucky nodded his head in understanding and agreement, but still held you close as if he was unwilling to let you leave his embrace.

After a few more moments of holding each other, you both parted to put your clothing back on before snuggling up together on the plush couch. Bucky remained silent and you didn’t want to disturb the peace. You closed your eyes and rested against his chest, listening to the sound of his steady heartbeat. It was enough to lull you to sleep.

You woke the next morning to find yourself in a bed, covered in blankets and a very warm body. You nuzzled deeper into the cocoon of warmth and fought to fall back asleep. You were close to succeeding when you felt the body covering yours move slowly, stretching its limbs. After a moment, you felt a pair of plush lips brush your forehead, layering kisses on your skin.

“Morning,” Bucky rasped in his gravely morning voice.

“Mmm,” you grumbled, not sure if you were greeting him or trying to avoid truly waking up. His chest shook with a chuckle as he tightened his hold on you. You both embraced the silence for a moment before Bucky broke it.

“Thank you for last night,” he whispered, as if he was afraid to shatter the peaceful atmosphere with the memory of his moment of weakness.

You pressed your face further into his chest and peppered the skin with kisses, not yet awake enough to formulate a reply. He responded by giving you a squeeze and kissing your forehead.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to thank you enough,” he thought aloud. “But, I’ll start with making you breakfast.”

“Scrambled eggs are a great way to say thank you,” you quipped, smiling against his pectoral. Your first words of the day earned a full body laugh from the soldier draped over you.

With one last kiss, Bucky pulled himself off your body and out of the bed before slipping out the door, leaving you to bask in the warmth of your shared body heat trapped under the covers. You buried your face in the pillow he used and inhaled his scent. It was comforting enough that it pulled you back to sleep for a few minutes before you were brought back to the real world by the smell of eggs, toast, and orange juice.

Your eyes fluttered open just in time to see Bucky almost trip over his clothes strewn about the room from. He regained his footing in time to avoid dropping or spilling anything and you giggled as a relieved look washed over his features.

Upon hearing your laugh, Bucky looked at you and gave you a faux glare. It lasted all of three seconds before he broke out into a smile and made his way to the bed, delivering your breakfast with another kiss to your forehead. You pushed yourself to sit up after stretching and eagerly reached for the man holding both of your plates and drinks on a tray. He sat down next to you and placed the tray over your lap before he slid under the sheets to be closer to you.

The two of you ate and exchanged small talk, enjoying the moment together. Once you finished, the two of you stayed under the covers and enjoyed hot and heavy touches and kisses until you were startled by a pounding on the bedroom door.

“Buck! C’mon! Get your ass in gear,” Sam shouted through the door. “I want to go on this run before it gets too damn hot.”

Bucky groaned and buried his head in the crook of your neck briefly. “I’ll be out in a minute,” he shouted back after pulling away from you begrudgingly. You remained in bed while you watched him shed his clothes and look for clean athletic wear. A smile took over your lips as you basked in the domestic normality of the moment.

Once he was dressed, he turned back to you in the bed and flung himself over you, pressing kisses wherever he could access your skin. You giggled uncontrollably and pulled him closer so you could bring your lips to his. Morning breath be damned, you needed to get your lips on this man to shower him in the affection he was so freely giving you.

After another bang was heard on the door, the two of you parted and Bucky left the room to go on his jog with Sam and Steve after winking at you and promising to continue your moment later.

You laid in the bed for a few minutes after his departure and thought about all that had occurred in the last twelve hours alone. You had experienced the best intimacy you had ever been apart of and you had seen Bucky at one of his lowest moments. You were rattled by the depth of compassion that you had for this man knowing that last night was only a glimpse of what you would go through if you were to continue seeing each other long term. Even though it was a frightening and unexpected incident, you wouldn’t change it for the world.

Being able to stand by him and provide a bit of comfort was more meaningful to you than you thought it would be. And it only solidified the intense feelings you were garnering for the mechanic who had been warming your bed recently.

After getting dressed and ready for the day, you headed downstairs to see Wanda and Natasha sitting on the back deck, sipping their coffees. You joined them after pouring your own cup.

“I was wondering when we would see you,” Natasha teased as you sat down in the Adirondack chair next to hers. You narrowed your eyes at her and stuck out your tongue before you took a sip of the warm liquid in your cup.

“I’m surprised you both kept pretty quiet last night,” Wanda added.

You shook your head at the girls and debated telling them about last night. You didn’t want to share Bucky’s trauma with them, but you wanted to tell them about your experience. You ultimately decided to keep the night’s events to yourself and changed the topic to your plans for the day.

You wanted a peaceful day and it seemed so did the girls, so you all agreed to spend the day at the house, lounging around and taking it slow. While you were discussing your plans to watch the latest season of whatever trashy reality television show Natasha was currently watching, you heard the back door slide open as all three boys stepped out on to the deck.

“Ladies,” Steve greeted, plopping down in a chair that was covered by the shade. “Any plans for the day?”

As Natasha answered his question, you felt a sweaty arm band around your shoulders and a very warm head lay on top of yours.

“You have a good morning?” Bucky asked as he pressed a kiss to your hair.

You nodded and gave his arm a squeeze before pushing him away so you could turn to face him.

It was so unfair how beautiful he was even after exercising. The man behind you was dripping in sweat, flushed all over, and still looked like Adonis. His muscles rippled as he moved his body and you could feel yourself start to heat up from the inside out.

“Ew, Barnes,” Natasha groaned from next to you. “I can smell you from here. Go take a shower.”

Bucky rolled his eyes at his friends and pressed a fleeting kiss to your lips before turning around to go clean up. The other two men followed in his footsteps, and you were left alone with the women once again.

“The PDA is disgusting,” Nat groaned.

“I don’t know. I think it’s rather sweet,” Wanda said, beaming in your direction. “It’s nice to see you both so happy.”

Natasha agreed but still held her ground on not being a fan of public displays of affection. You couldn’t fight the smile that broke across your face because it was true. You were very happy and it was apparent that Bucky was as well. Knowing that you were able to make him happy caused butterflies to erupt in your stomach and you had no intention of freeing them.

Somehow, after a relaxing day at the beach house, the entire group found themselves at a local dive bar playing darts, drinking whatever was on tap, and laughing about whatever old songs came on the jukebox in a corner of the establishment.

You were leaning against the bar, sipping your beer and chatting with Wanda, when you felt a presence behind your back. You turned around and saw Bucky looking down at you with a fond smile on his face and twinkling blue eyes. His cheeks were a bit flushed from all the beer he had drank and you thought he looked so adorable in this moment.

“Hi,” he slyly greeted, snaking an arm around your waist to pull you into his orbit.

“Hi there, pretty boy,” you returned, pecking the corner of his mouth.

“What do you say we ditch this place and go back to the house?” he proposed, kneading your flesh with his fingertips.

“I’m in the middle of a conversation with Wanda,” you said, feeling guilty about being swept away while you were spending time with your friend.

“No, you aren’t,” the auburn-haired woman laughed. “We can talk about our shopping trip later. I’m going to go play darts with Steve, Sam, and Tasha.”

With that, your friend left the bar and headed towards the rest of the group, leaving you and your mechanic alone together.

“So, what do you say, gorgeous?” he pressed, leaning down to trail kisses behind your ear.

“I guess I’m all yours now, sarge,” you quietly moaned. His lips curved into a smile on your neck and you felt yourself become light-headed from his presence and the alcohol in your system. “Are you good to ride?”

He nodded his affirmation and pulled back to look in your eyes. “I’m good. I only had two beers and Steve made me chug water when I told him my plan.”

“Your plan?” you asked, arching an eyebrow. “Now I’m suspicious.”

He let out a boyish laugh and began to guide you both towards the exit. You clung on to his strong arms and followed him eagerly after waving goodbye to your friends who were watching you both with knowing smirks and smiles.

The cool night air was a welcome sensation to your warmed skin as you both walked over to his motorcycle. After settling himself in the seat, you grabbed his shoulders and perched yourself on the seat behind him, scooting as close to his solid form as you could. Bucky fastened his helmet and you did the same before he returned the kickstand to its rightful space and backed his bike out of the parking space.

His bike roared to life and you wrapped yourself around him right before he took off into the night, heading back towards the beach house. The ride was fairly short since the bar was only two miles from the house, but you soaked in every moment that you could with his body pressed tightly to yours.

Less than five minutes later, thanks to a certain soldier surpassing the speed limit, you reached the house and parked the bike. You climbed off and set the helmet down on the seat while you watched Bucky do the same.

He grabbed your hand and pulled you towards the house as he walked backwards and held your gaze with blazing eyes. You knew that look and you knew what it meant.

“It’s criminal that we haven’t enjoyed a dip in the pool this whole trip,” he said as he walked you both around the house and to the backyard where the pool sat beneath the extensive deck. “I say we fix that.”

“Bucky, I’m not wearing my swimsuit,” you pointed out, looking down at your thin camisole and terry cloth shorts. “And neither are you.”

“That’s what skinny dipping is for, sweetheart,” he replied, winking at you before he dropped your hand and started to strip himself of his clothes. You watched with rapt attention while his shirt and shorts fell to the concrete, marveling over each inch of skin that was revealed to your gaze. He reached for his boxers next and pulled them down his thick thighs slowly, watching you gawk at his physique with a smirk on his face.

Once he was stark naked, you couldn’t resist chewing on you bottom lip as your eyes raked up and down his form. In all his naked glory, he walked towards you and started to undress you when he was close enough. Your camisole fell to the floor before he tugged your shorts down to join them. You could hear his breath catch when he noticed that you weren’t wearing any underwear beneath your shorts. You grinned at him and stepped out of your clothes before quickly diving into the pool.

When you broke the surface of the water, you were met with a giant splash from Bucky cannonballing into the pool after you. You felt his hands slide up your legs to grip your ass as he came up to the surface as well. Your arms wrapped around his neck and your legs entwined themselves around his waist, pressing your core to his groin. His hips gave a shallow rut against yours as he fused his lips to yours, stealing your breath away and leaving you floating in bliss.

He pulled back briefly and rubbed his nose against yours, peering into your soul with his hypnotic eyes. “I don’t want to wait anymore, darling,” he whispered. “I want you so bad.”

“Then what are you waiting for, pretty boy?” you inquired as you leaned in to capture his lips once more.

The kiss turned heated quickly as his hands explored your body and you rubbed yourself against his rapidly hardening cock. He groaned into the kiss and swept his tongue into your mouth, savoring the taste of you and the beer still on your tongue.

One of your hands gripped the hair at the base of his neck while the other one reached down into the water between you and grabbed his erection. You dragged the tip through your folds and preened at the feeling of your most intimate parts finally meeting. No word in the English language could convey how wonderful it felt to be so intimate with this beautiful man before you.

One of his hands reached down and pulled your hand from his dick, taking over so he could tease you with the fat head of his aching cock. The heat in your tummy roared to life with each stroke against your lower lips. You let out breathy moans and clutched him closer as he notched his head against your entrance.

“God, I can’t believe you’re real,” he said as he shuddered at the feeling of your hole pulsing against the most sensitive part of him. With that, he pressed in slowly, inch by marvelous inch, until he was sheathed and his pelvis was pressed to yours.

The feeling of being completely filled and molding yourself around his cock was simply divine and the sound that came from your throat was lewd and breathy. Bucky brushed his lips against your throat and groaned as he let you adjust to his length.

“So fucking tight,” he hissed as your walls strangled him and pulsed with your desire.

“Bucky,” you moaned, throwing your head back to give him better access to the delicate skin of your throat. “It feels so big.”

His pornographic moan cut through the space between you and it had you bearing down on him and swiveling your hips to get some friction.

“Move, please,” you panted as the ache in your pussy became unbearable from the stillness. “I want you to move.”

Bucky drew his hips back, leaving half of his cock inside of your warm cunt before he thrust forward, filling you up and massaging your inner walls. His hips began a steady, yet sloppy rhythm and you felt yourself rapidly approaching the edge of your climax embarrassingly fast. He could tell by your moans and whimpers and the way your walls clenched around him that you were quickly approaching your orgasm.

“That’s it,” he moaned as your walls fluttered around him. “Milk my cock, sweetheart.”

“Bucky,” you nearly cried. His filthy words were sending your body into overstimulation in the best way possible. “I’m so close. Please, keep going.”

He doubled down on his efforts and you peered down between you to see the distorted view of where your bodies were joined together. It was erotic and filthy and everything you wanted and more. As his hips pistoned into yours, you felt the tip brush against a certain spot in your walls that sent stars across your vision.

You’d never had anyone reach this spot before and had only done so yourself once or twice with a particularly big toy when you were in college. Feeling him hit that sweet spot after years of neglecting it had you tumbling over the edge with no warning.

You screamed as your orgasm swept over you and you couldn’t pull yourself close enough to his chest, wishing to become a part of him in the haze of your pleasure.

“Fuck!” Bucky exclaimed as your walls constricted around him and pulled pleasure from him. “I can’t hold out any longer, baby.”

With that, he followed you over the edge, spilling inside of you and filling your pussy with extra warmth and his seed. The feeling of being filled by him was so euphoric, your orgasm was extended, leaving you floating in the most pleasurable fog you’ve ever experienced.

Bucky buried his head in your neck while he continued to fill you up and clung to you desperately.

Once both of your pleasures subsided, you were left wrapped around each other, trying to catch your breaths.

“That was…” you trailed off, not knowing how to express what you were feeling inside.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “and then some.”

You giggled and leaned forward to kiss his lips, pouring all the affection you could into the action. His warm, wet tongue traced your lower lip before you felt his teeth nip at the soft skin, earning a moan from the back of your throat. Bucky pulled away from the kiss and met your gaze with his lust blown eyes.

“Let’s clean you up, sweetheart,” he said before wading through the water towards the shallow end with you still wrapped around his softening cock.

You still felt so full from all his cum and didn’t want to lose the sensation of holding his release, but you were too spent to protest as he hoisted you up and set you on the ledge of the pool.

He pushed your legs apart and dropped his gaze to your glistening folds that were covered in water and mixture of both of your fluids. He reverently ran a finger through them and collected your essences on the tip of his finger before he brought it to your mouth. Without hesitation, you licked his fingertip clean and moaned around his digit at the heavenly taste of the two of you mixed together.

“My turn to taste,” he said before diving into your pussy and lapping up the rest of the mess between your thighs. Your hand flew into his hair and tried to pull him even closer, loosing yourself in the feeling of his velvety tongue between your folds. No one had ever eaten your pussy with that much gusto and you could feel yourself approaching yet another orgasm.

“Bucky, I’m gonna cum,” you warned him. He just grunted against your sensitive skin and flicked his tongue even faster, trying to bring you over the edge once more.

He was successful after a few more flicks of his wet muscle and you clenched his head between your thighs as you rode his face while your climax engulfed you once again.

When he pulled away from your pussy, his lips, his beard, and his cheeks were glistening in your spend and you swore you had never seen a more divine sight before. You eagerly pulled his face to yours and licked his cheek, tasting yourself on his salty skin.

Bucky growled and clutched you closer as you cleaned his face just as he had cleaned your cunt. You’d never cleaned your past lovers of your cum before, but after tasting yourself on his face, you knew that this would become one of your favorite past times.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” he moaned loudly as you continued to clean his face. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You pulled back, satisfied with your cleaning job and gave him a quick kiss before pulling back to get a better look at him. He looked utterly depleted and spent and the sheen of sweat that covered his skin made him look like something holy.

“I’ve never cum that fast in my life,” you confided in him. “I swear, you must be magic.”

He glowed under your praise and leaned in to seal his lips over yours once more. The two of you stayed wrapped in your own haven, exchanging molten kisses and heated touches. Bucky’s excitement became evident as he rutted his hips against your legs.

“Already, sarge?” you quipped, looking down to see his fully erect cock protruding from the water.

“I can’t help it around you. It’s like your body was made to draw me in.”

Before you could respond, Bucky grabbed your hips and gently flipped you over so your tummy was pressed into the concrete ledge and your ass was in the air, presenting him with a perfect view of your still soaked folds. Without any preamble, Bucky pushed his pulsing length into your hole once more and set a ravaging pace.

You reached out, trying to grab at the concrete to find purchase, but ultimately ended up holding yourself up so you could look behind you and watch your lover’s face as he pounded into you.

He brought his prosthetic hand up to your pussy and used his pointer and middle finger to rub tight circles around your clit, sending fire rippling through your veins. An animalistic sound escaped from your chest as you cried out and clenched profusely around his thick cock.

“Just like that, baby. Squeeze my dick and make a mess,” he begged from behind you, bending his top half over your back to feel your skin pressed to his. “It’s yours now. Do what you want with it.”

All the pleasure and warm feelings you had for Bucky sent you over the edge quickly again. You were slightly embarrassed by how quickly you finished with him tonight, but you let the thought go as you heard him whimper behind you as you brought him more pleasure.

“My cock is yours, just like this pussy is mine,” he growled, pumping his hips faster, prolonging your euphoria.

He pulled out of you soon after and pumped himself twice in his fist before he sprayed his cum over your pussy, ass, and back of your thighs. It made you feel dirty in the best possible way.

“Fuck, what a sight, sweetheart,” he murmured before leaning forward to make out with your pussy lips and clean his cum from your skin with the wet heat of his mouth. He licked all his mess from your skin before you turned around and crashed your mouth on to his, eagerly licking into his mouth to taste him.

You broke apart when a harsh flood light came on and illuminated the pool. You scrambled to submerge yourself in the water, not wanting anyone else to see your naked body. Bucky protectively and possessively wrapped his body around yours, concealing your bare skin from the intrusive light.

“Gross!” you heard Sam groan as he stepped out on to the deck above the pool. “Now the pool’s contaminated.”

You buried your head in Bucky’s shoulder as your face flamed with the heat of embarrassment. You felt his arms tighten their hold on you and you melted into his comforting embrace.

“Fuck off, Sam!” Bucky shouted back. “And while you’re at it, throw down some towels.”

Sam muttered under his breath as he left the two of you alone to hopefully go retrieve towels for you.

You pulled your face from the cavern of Bucky’s body and glanced up at him to see him already looking down at you with a look of awe and pride on his face. You both leaned in to steal one last kiss. When you pulled apart, your heads were immediately hit with two beach towels and Sam shouting about how he needed to bleach his eyes now.

The two of you ignored his childish antics and emerged from the pool, wrapping yourselves in towels, sharing giddy grins and giggles.

This was easily one of the best nights of your life.

The last week you had at the beach went by quickly in a haze of blazing heat, soft sand, and intimate moments shared between you and your lover. It was now the last day of your trip and everyone begrudgingly accepted that they had to return to real life.

Everyone’s bags were packed and you were all enjoying one last meal out on the deck, trying to soak up as much time away from reality as possible. Sam and Steve were manning the grill, Natasha was sunbathing on a lounger nearby, and Wanda was peacefully pulling tarot cards while hiding from the sun in the shade. You were sitting on one of the lower steps as you watched Bucky check over his motorcycle, ensuring she would be able to make the ride back without any issues.

Your head was tilted to the side and propped in your hand as you watched his muscles expand and contract as he tightened whatever it was he was messing with on his bike. The heat was also making his shirt stick to his skin with all his sweat, hugging all of his bulging muscles so intimately that you felt a little jealous of the flimsy piece of cotton.

“Finished?” you asked as he pushed himself up from the ground and wiped the grease from his hands on a towel he had nearby.

He looked back at his motorcycle and gave a proud nod. “She just needed some extra love to make it back home comfortably,” he explained. “Speaking of, will you be riding back with me?”

The question was one you had been asking yourself for the last day and a half. While it was thrilling to feel the wind blow your hair back and to have your body pressed against Bucky’s beefy body, you were still apprehensive about having to share part of the drive with semitrucks once you neared the city.

Bucky could see your thoughts flicker across your face. You watched as he came closer before crouching in front of you, cupping your cheek. “There’s no pressure. Plus, if you’re riding with me, I’ll have Steve drive in front of us and Sam behind us so that way we’re buffered from other people on the road.”

You melted into his touch and turned your head to place a kiss to the palm of his hand. He was the most thoughtful person you had ever had the pleasure of dating and it made your insides feel fuzzy and warm.

“If that’s the plan, then I’ll ride with you,” you answered, earning a half smile, half smirk from Bucky.

“Then it’s settled,” he echoed, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He stood up from his crouched position and held his hand out to you. Without knowing what he wanted, you slid your hand into his and let him tug you close. “Come sit with me under the trees?”

You nodded your head in agreement and followed closely behind him as you walked the couple hundred feet away from the deck to the small grove of trees on the edge of the property. Bucky plopped himself down on the ground and gently pulled you down with him, settling your body between his firm thighs and pulling your back to meet his chest.

“You know, I almost passed on this vacation,” he murmured into your hair.

You twisted to look at him in disbelief. You didn’t want to imagine a trip where you didn’t meet him; you were grateful for whatever pushed him into coming.

He chuckled at your slightly alarmed expression and gave your body a soft squeeze in reassurance.

"Steve ended up calling my Ma and telling her about the trip and she marched over and chewed me out for not giving myself a break,” he reminisced. “I was irritated with him the whole way down, but as soon as I saw you get out of Sam’s truck, I was thanking him profusely in my head.”

“Remind me to send him an edible arrangement,” you half joked. Part of you was completely serious because if it weren’t for Steve, you wouldn’t be this happy and content.

Bucky chuckled and shook his head in amusement before leaning back further against the tree behind him.

As the two of you sat in the shade, enjoying a comfortable silence, your mind raced through all the memories that were made on this trip.

Finally meeting all of Natasha’s chosen family.

Being stunned by Bucky’s kindness and charm.

The shy back and forth between you two.

The pictures at the tidal pool.

Bucky bearing his soul to you.

Choosing him knowing about all of his so-called baggage.

The intense make-out sessions.

The heated night in the observatory which was interrupted by Bucky’s still healing mind.

The reassurance between you afterwards.

And, finally, all the times you intimately explored Bucky following that night at the bar and your first skinny dipping experience.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Bucky asked in a worried tone, pulling you from your thoughts. His flesh hand reached up to brush away the tears that you didn’t notice fell from your eyes.

“Nothing,” you reassured him. “It’s just been a while since I’ve cried over something so nice.”

“There’s no need to cry over me, sweetheart,” he hushed. “I’m right here and I have no intention of going anywhere. Not unless you are behind me on my bike.”

You let out a watery laugh and turned your body around so you were straddling his lap. Your fingers found their natural place in his hair as you played with the soft strands and he leaned into your touch, savoring the affection you so freely gave him.

“James Buchanan Barnes, I’ll go anywhere that you go,” you vowed before kissing him senseless in the shade of the trees surrounding you.

With Bucky by your side, you had a feeling that your happiness would only grow from this moment on.

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