singulartoast’s fics @retoast - Tumblr Blog

Don’t Wait For The Sky To Clear

Pairing: Farmer!Bucky x Popstar!reader

Summary: A storm blew you off course and into his bed leaving an invisible string tying you to rugged farmer Bucky Barnes. Can he rodeo the red carpet while you write melodies in meadows?

Tags/Warnings: strangers to lovers, smut (unprotected p in v, oral (m and f receiving), one spank, egregious use of a wooden fence), Bucky in a Stetson, no use of y/n, petnames (darlin’ and honey, Sarge and cowboy), alcohol consumption but no drunkenness, maybe vague implied animal farming, shifting POVs, yer

Note: Written for my darling @buckysdecaflove for the Dear My Darling Reader Valentine Fic Exchange hosted by the delightful @salty-tang. As promised because of our little matchmaking trio, the barest hint of a TSwift reference lolol

Word Count: 17k

Currently Listening: “Come In With the Rain” by Taylor Swift & “Good Directions” by Billy Currington 🎵

I’ll leave my window open ‘Cause I’m too tired tonight to call your name Just know I’m right here hoping That you’ll come in with the rain …

Event Masterlist | AO3 | Read the sequel

His harmonica wailed out a lonely tune into the stormy night.

He’d watched the dark clouds blow in early afternoon, his small herd already crowding against the outer barn wall, bawling and mooing, making their agitation known. He’d pushed open the doors, letting his best girls amble into the barn for their safety while he cleared up for the day. Even Alpine, the fiercest prissy barn cat he’d ever met, had disappeared into the top rafters of the hay loft. Her bunker for the night ahead.

He stored the four-wheeler in the shed, the tractor already put away that morning, stowed his tools, and shut up for the night.

And he did it all alone.

When the sun disappeared, he didn’t know, the sky already painted black and blue with clouds.

Now, sitting out on the sheltered verandah, Stetson tilted low and bending notes on the blues harp as fast wind and heavy rain tore through his property, he didn’t bother to lament the devastation the storm was causing to his crops. Couldn’t think now about the old northern fence line that might not hold up in this weather. Instead Bucky found his mind wandering, craving the kind of company a cold, wet night like this always demanded.

What he wouldn’t give to have a warm body in his bed tonight. Someone desperate beneath him, their cries and warmth chasing off the chill of the storm. Someone to fall asleep to, to hold tight as the night cooled, and to pull closer as the morning filtered in.

A flash of lightening to the east broke his reverie and drew his gaze, and in the distance he saw it.

Two beams of light recklessly arcing over his field as some tiny car made its way down his property drive.

His hands dropped to his lap with the harmonica and he cursed, grumbling about idiots getting lost on country roads, taking the wrong turn-offs, disturbing his peace.

He hauled himself to his feet when the car ambled into his yard, a tiny thing not suited to long country drives, and watched until the engine cut and the figure inside peered up at him.

He walked back into the house.

You bit your lip as you approached the house slowly. A lone light shone in one window but the rain was crashing so hard against your windscreen you couldn’t make out anything else.

With every bump in the road as you rolled over uneven ground, you cursed the weather, the poor cell service, the shoddy country signage, and even your childhood friend who you had driven out to see in your precious spare time.

Your twenty-three-city-sixty-two-show tour of the US was over, most of the major music awards done with just one to go. You’d agreed to see your darling friend in her third trimester who was, as she said, in dire need of civilised company.

Inching along this wet dirt road in the middle of nowhere, the rain battering your poor car, desperately trying to reach the only buildings you had seen for miles, you were feeling rather un-civilised about the whole endeavour.

And what would you even say when you pulled up? The truth made you feel so foolish. Assuming whoever lived in this house didn’t abduct you or worse upon recognising you instantly.

You weren’t egotistical, but as the number one pop singer in the country regularly topping the charts, you were thoroughly aware of the cursed enormity of fame that dogged you like this storm chased your tailpipe.

Your headlights ambled hesitantly past the last posts flanking the dirt drive. Passing the final fence line you entered the bare bones yard, open grass to one side and an old rusted wreck to the other. The tracks you followed led further on to a parked beaten truck, but you halted directly in front of the house.

The windscreen wipers ticked frantically and the shadow of a person obscured by the rain stepped forward out of the dark, making you gasp.

At least now you were sure there was life out here.

You switched off the car but the roar of the rain was louder, unceasing noise as it battered your car with the wind.

A sign hanging from the verandah roofline swung in the wind and caught your eye. There was some word burned into the wood that you squinted to see in the low light…

J. B. BARNES

The stranger, whose shrouded figure you could barely see, promptly turned and headed back indoors.

Probably to fetch a shotgun to tell you to get off their property.

You hadn’t expected a warm welcome, but a door in the face before you’d even stepped a foot out was a bit much.

Gathering your things that had scattered during the drive into your handbag, you pulled yourself together and prepared to run for your life.

You opened the car door, the rain barrelling in immediately. Scrambling, your sandalled foot dropping straight into a muddy puddle, you clutched your handbag close, not even needing to close the door behind you—it slammed shut with the force of the wind. You hurried through grass and mud up to the verandah, hands uselessly trying to shield your face from the rain that soaked through your thin cardigan in seconds.

Climbing the wooden steps to shelter you halted, panting, looking back out at the blustery weather you’d braved, and gulped. The wood farmhouse broke the storm about you, wind and rain held at bay by its warm old bones, and you were grateful for the reprieve.

The farmhouse door opened, and you weren’t sure if the man that stepped out was a killer or not.

In that moment you didn’t care.

He was the most devastatingly handsome man you had ever seen.

Hollywood was full of models, men groomed and primed to polished perfection, but this rugged man before you drew your attention in the most primal way. His chiseled jaw was shadowed by a few days worth of scruff. His button-down shirt sat taught across his broad chest and arms, the top few buttons undone revealing a hint of chest hair and a chain that disappeared beneath where your hands itched to follow, the fabric hugging down his body to jeans that barely contained his strong thighs.

But when he tilted his head to look at you out from under his dark brimmed hat, it was his eyes, pools of stormy blue boring into you with barely held frustration, that had you swaying closer toward him.

“You lost.”

You tried to blink away your stupor. “Yes. I’m so sorry, my phone dropped reception and—“

“Wasn’t a question.”

Taken aback by his abrupt response, the words died in your throat.

Oh he was definitely going to murder you and bury you in a field somewhere. Maybe throw you in a pig pen like those documentaries. No one would ever know, they would never find you, you would be—

“There’s bad weather,” he said matter of fact, like you were stupid enough to miss it. “Come inside.”

And he walked back in without another word.

You hesitated by the door, looking down at your muddy sandals and feet. Gingerly you toed them off, swiping your feet on the doormat to try to remove the grime, before stepping inside.

The house smelled earthy, of lingering smoke and wood from the lit fireplace which closely warmed a couch and solid wood coffee table. A bureau sat disused in the corner surrounded by shelves, and the remaining open space was dwarfed with a heavy rustic dining table. The kitchen was surprisingly modern, still country but in a magazine-chic way, and your hero-slash-murderer rounded the counter, his presence filling the room and leaving a delightfully male scent in his wake.

Finally, in the soft light overhead, you caught the glimmer of a metal prosthetic as he palmed his phone and dialled out a number without saying another word to you

“Yeah, Sam. You still open?” Cold blue eyes settled on you. “Had a stray blow in with the storm.”

His face clouded over, eyes flashing, and he cursed to himself.

Obviously Sam didnt provide the answer he was looking for.

You inched forward, clutching your handbag tightly to you, knowing you should say something but not sure what.

He turned his back to you, leaning back against the counter, and you felt your mouth hang slack at the sight. He might as well be naked with how perfectly his shirt hugged every ripple of his back and shoulders.

A long ago conversation about not wanting country boys flew in your face. This man before you broke every rule you’d ever thought to set.

His voice dropped to a low murmur, and you tucked your wet hair behind your ear to listen in closer.

“… yeah, whole crops gonna be drowned come mornin’. Nothin’ I can do now.” A pause. “You sittin’ pretty out there?” Another pause. “And Sara?”

You found yourself smiling at the way his chuckle turned wickedly cheeky, barely hearing the agitated ear-bashing this Sam was giving him over the din of the rain. “Just being neighbourly is all. A’ight, man. Later.”

He turned back, tossing the phone onto the counter, and stared at you. His face was more relaxed now than it had been before, the laughter having eased the hard lines, but you still found yourself caught under his steady gaze.

“What’s yer name?”

You tensed. Eyes narrowing on him you hesitated to answer, looking for some kind of trick or prank. Did he not recognise you after all? Finding no reason in his openly bored expression not to respond, you told him your first name only.

No flash of recognition. No reaction at all really.

So you asked, “What’s yours?”

“Bucky,” he said instantly. Then— “James.” His faced twisted like he was annoyed at himself. “Everyone calls me Bucky.”

He cleared his throat.

“Want a beer?”

You nod.

“Bathroom’s down on the right.” He jerked his head in the direction of the hallway, and you stood still for a moment longer, unsure why he was offering up that information.

But curiosity about your reluctant host spiked, and you decide to investigate the bathroom. If that’s where he wanted you to go.

Floorboards creaked between flashes of lightening and you lightly traced your path down the hall with your fingertips against the faded yellow wallpaper.

A door at the end of the hall, cracked open, revealed the barest outline of a bed from the light from the hall. Quietly, you turn to the door on your right.

When you stepped foot in the bathroom, you realised exactly why he sent you.

Your hair, soaked from your dash in the rain, was still dripping and plastered to your head. Your makeup, not waterproof, had half dried again in ghostly trails across your cheeks, mascara now smudged in an unintentional smoky eye. Your cardigan was doing more harm than good, soaked as it was and making you colder. With a grimace you made for the sink, grabbing a fluffy towel for your hair, and tried to make yourself presentable again.

All the while you marvelled that for all his gruff behaviour he hadn’t said a thing about your messy appearance.

Back in the kitchen, Bucky was still staring off down the hallway, gaze unfocused as he awaited your return.

The sight of your sleek form, clothes rain-plastered around your gorgeous curves, seared like hot iron across his brain.

His streak was as dry as a dusty dirt road and you swanned into his farmhouse like a wet dream, all prim and proper. Just begging to be ridden dirty for a country mile ‘til you were stained with it.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his now too-tight jeans, trying to ease the rise you got out of him.

He’d retreated behind the kitchen counter to not scare away the poor city girl looking for a rescue.

And he had no doubt you weren’t from around here. No where near. Your doe-eyed expression was one thing, but you were too shiny. Too perfect. From the Big Apple license plate on your fancy car to your clothes and the way you held yourself, you were too good for where you found yourself stranded.

Maybe the devil himself had heard him and delivered temptation right to his door.

Hearing the water shut off, Bucky shook his head to temper his racing thoughts and cracked opened two beer bottles as you walked back into the room.

But he didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes raked over you from head to toe when you reemerged.

Fresh faced and drier than before, you looked far too pretty standing in his living room, clutching your bag and soaking wet jumper nervously.

So he pushed a bottle at you and took your jumper without a word, walking around to drag a chair away from the dining table toward the fireplace. He draped your piece of clothing over the chair back, arranging it so it would dry quick as a whip by the firelight, wondering what you thought that scrap of fabric was going to keep at bay in this weather.

Finally he dropped onto the couch, feet kicking up to rest on the solid wood coffee table and arm draping over the back cushions.

“Might as well get comfortable. Storm won’t clear ‘til mornin’.”

Only then did you move, placing your bag on the floor.

“I’m so sorry for intruding like this,” you began, rounding the couch and your eyes darting to the open space on the couch next to him. Though you still wouldn’t sit down. “I lost reception and my navigation dropped out. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Bucky sighed, taking a long drag from the bottle. Didn’t anyone keep maps anymore?

“In clearer weather you’d best have backtracked to somewhere you knew. But out here in this—“ he sucked on his teeth, shaking his head, “— roads this far out of town might wash away if the rain keeps up. Yer better off here than out there.”

You don’t look relieved by his statement and he wanted to laugh. So skittish. Probably never had a bad day in your life before now.

Poor city girl.

“Where you headed?”

Wrong question. Your expression shuttered and body tensed, same as before when he’d asked your name.

He held up a hand to stay the answer you weren’t going to give anyway. “Nevermind. Not my business.”

Your eyes softened and he felt strangely elated at having read you so easily.

“Who is Sam?” You inched closer, still no intention to sit, the beer bottle turning in your hands as nervous fingers sought to ease your tension. “That you called earlier? About me.”

“Owns the bar in town. Has a couple rooms upstairs.” Bucky shrugged, taking another sip. “But he’d locked up and left already.”

He eyed you over again and you shivered under his gaze. It definitely wasn’t from the cold— you were warm all over every time he looked at you.

Lightening flashed so brightly it illuminated everything outside the wide windows, and seconds later a crack of thunder nearby made you jump.

Bucky cursed under his breath. “Sit down already so I don’t gotta crane my neck to look at you.”

With another apology you quickly sat down next to him, the warmth in your body ticking up a notch higher as you feel the brush of his fingers against your shoulder where his arm resting on the back of the couch. Directly behind you.

Doing your best to ignore it, you twisted in the seat to better talk with him—and immediately regretted it. Only you didn’t, not really.

If you thought he looked delicious before, here before the fire, shadows and dancing light making the angles of his face harder and his eyes glow ocean-blue, he was absolutely sinful.

You bit your lip and desperately told yourself to ignore the way his eyes dropped to your mouth.

“Ain’t got much by way of lodgings, but you can crash here on the couch for the night.” His mouth pulled to one side in a not-quite smile. “Guest room ain’t prepped for guests, and wouldn’t be right f’me to let you head back out in this.“ Thunder rolled overhead, ominous and low, lending weight to his words.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” you murmured, the guilt mounting again at appearing on his doorstep like this. “I appreciate the kindness. Yours was the only place I could see around.”

He took another swig of beer instead of replying, and your gaze lingered on his prosthetic, fascinated. The firelight made its inset gold turn molten, the dark metal surrounds inky black as the night sky. It was a work of art.

Much like its wearer.

“So, what do you do, city girl?”

You shifted, still uncomfortable with his questions, but where was the harm? You were sure by now he either didn’t know who you were, or was a skilled liar. Based on his blatant honesty so far, that seemed unlikely. “I’m a singer.”

His brow raised, eyes showing nothing but interest — and not just in your answer. “Oh yeah? Have I ever heard yer stuff?”

“What do you listen to?”

You watched the way his mouth twisted as he mused on that for a moment. “Forties and fifties, mostly.”

“Then probably not.”

“Probably not,” he agreed. He motioned with his beer toward the shelves you’d spied earlier, saying, “Got grandmama’s old gramophone over there.”

You glanced back, spotting it nestled amongst the books and papers, and though you were fascinated it didn’t quite draw your attention the same way Bucky did.

“That’s neat,” you say politely. “I’ve never heard one play before.”

He nodded, his thumb gently gathering the condensation on the side of the bottle he held. Your eyes followed as one rivulet formed and rolled down, down, catching the bottom rung as a droplet before falling to his jeans clothed thigh.

In your mind, it hissed on contact.

“Ma used to love playing it on nights like this.”

You hummed a response, forgetting the conversation entirely, your mouth parched in a way that had nothing to do with thirst.

You took a swig of beer anyway.

He watched the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed.

“You live alone out here?”

He nodded slow, his eyes locking on your mouth. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips and you tracked the movement, bottom lip dragging between your teeth as you wondered what his lips taste like.

Thunder cracked directly overhead, the booming sound shaking the old walls of the farmhouse, and a strangled shriek escaped you.

Much to Bucky’s amusement. As his soft chuckle soothed your frayed nerves, you felt his fingertips at your shoulder again, touching burning into your skin, his arm on the back of the couch curving into you.

“Yer a flighty filly, hm?”

You realised you had plastered yourself to his side, clutching at his shirt, and yet you didn’t want to let go.

He took your beer bottle and his, placing them on the coffee table, and turned back to you.

“C’mere.” The low rumble of his voice tore through your body just like the storm raging outside. Your eyes dragged up to his. “I’ve got you.”

The last thing you saw was the blue of his eyes almost completely black, pupils blown wide.

Then his mouth was on yours.

You gasped into the kiss and he immediately swooped in, tongue tangling with yours in a groan.

You were kissing a complete stranger. Maybe possibly your future murderer.

And it was good.

You broke away. “We shouldn’t have done that.” Your eyes met his again and your voice grew small. “I don’t even know you.”

His lips slowly curved into the first real smile you’ve seen, eyes crinkling and teeth flashing. It transformed his whole face and your lips parted on a small breath.

You forgot why you stopped kissing him.

“Wanna know me?”

With a nod you fisted your hands in his shirt and fell into his chest, lips crashing against his and smothering the low groan he let out. His arm snaked around you, drawing you impossibly closer, metal hand sliding up the back of your neck and into your hair.

He tilted you in his grasp, deepening the kiss, and you were lost. Lost in the taste of him, in the way his hands held you steady even as you came apart.

And that was just his kiss.

So when he turned your body, pressing you back into the couch and pulling away, your hands scramble to pull him back, your lips seeking his.

“Trust me.”

You fell back limply against the couch, pouting just a little. “You can’t go kissing a girl like that then leave her.”

But Bucky’s chuckle was wickedly low as he slid from the couch and kneeled on the floor before you. “Not leavin’ you, darlin’.”

His eyes, hooded and dark, drag from your pouty mouth down your neck, scored red from his stubble, over your heaving chest and to your legs.

“Wouldn’t dream of leavin’ you hangin’.”

His hands clasped your knees, slowly, slowly, sliding up your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper, mind finally catching up. With his help you unbuttoned your pants, peeling the slightly rain-damp fabric from your legs, a few giggles and chuckles from each of you slowing the process.

Your panties quickly followed.

You think you should feel cold, but with the fire burning before you and Bucky’s hands swiftly acquainting themselves with your bare skin, your temperature was soaring.

His touch drove you wild. His calloused hand on your bare thigh in stark contrast to the smooth metal of his other hand, both gripping and rubbing your skin as he watched you intently. Your breaths sped up with every inch he climbed higher.

Where he leaned down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee, your stomach clenched and your hips rolled, and there was that low chuckle again, a rumble you felt resonate within you.

“C’mere.”

He encouraged you to hook your legs over his shoulders, opening you wide to his gaze, his stubble grazing against the soft skin of your inner thighs.

“You said yer a singer?”

You could do nothing else but nod frantically.

“Let me hear you high pitched then, honey.”

You held your breath.

With the fire behind him you couldn’t see his face, shadowed between your legs, but even in the contrasting dark you didn’t miss the determined glint in his eye when his tongue licked that first achingly slow stripe between your folds.

No warning, no gentling you through it. You couldn’t control how your jerked against him, you were so shocked at the molten touch.

He wrapped his arms around your thighs, holding you down, holding you apart.

You watched, mouth open, as he licked his lips and leaned in again, tongue flat as he lapped at you real slow.

His groan matched yours.

“Taste like sugar.”

Then he devoured you. Tongue delving deep or swirling with earth-shattering accuracy. One hand left your thigh to plunge one finger in, then two, stretching you wide, curling just right, soothing and building an ache within you all at once.

There’s a noise, louder than the rain and the wind, louder than the howling storm outside, and you slowly realise it’s you. Your keening cries as you bucked against his tongue, as your thighs tried to close around his head— but he ruthlessly held your legs apart with his metal hand, holding you down, making you take his fingers and his tongue until your thighs shook and you couldn’t think anymore.

His fingers crooked and you shattered.

Heels of your feet digging into his back, hands clutching desperately at his hair, you arched as you came hard against his tongue and around his fingers, his name a broken prayer on your lips.

Fitting since sin incarnate knelt before you, hair tousled and chin wet with you. He pressed soft kisses to your inner thigh, beard scratching gently and making you shiver.

He shrugged your legs off his shoulders.

“Hold on.”

Wrapping your legs around his waist and arms behind his neck, Bucky lifted you easily, metal arm under your ass to keep you steady.

He covered the length of the house in a handful of strides, toeing open the door you had spied earlier into his bedroom.

Shuffling you in his grasp he sat on the edge of the bed with you straddling his lap, mouth seeking yours over and over again as his hands fumbled with the hem of your shirt. Finally he slid off your shirt and bra, baring you completely to his gaze.

He was still fully clothed.

Shivering, not from the cold but the sheer force of desire running through you, you placed your hands on his chest and pushed. He gave way, laying down on the bed, staring up at you with those hypnotising eyes that drank you in as you got to work on his shirt.

Unbuttoning slowly, you marvelled at every perfect inch of skin you revealed. Spreading the halves wide you stared down at him, not knowing your hips rocked a needy rhythm as you took in the sight of his chiselled body, honed from years of hard work, his dog tags and chain bright in the dark.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and this ain’t gonna last long.”

Palm pressed flat he ran his hand from your navel up your stomach and between your breasts before grasping the back of your neck and pulling you down for a searing kiss. You writhed against him, his skin scorching hot under yours.

“I have to have you,” you mumbled into his lips, body arching with the way his palms travelled the planes of your back.

“Top drawer.” His hands dropped to clasp your hips and ground you down on him.

But with a whine you shook your head. “I’m on the pill. And clean. Please?”

A guttural groan tore from him and his head dropped back onto the bed.

“Lord, this woman might kill me yet.”

And you’d thought him the murderer.

You couldn’t wait any longer. Sitting back you started on his belt and buckle, fingers fumbling in their haste, the straining heat of him making his jeans impossibly tight.

The button popped and he toed off his boots, helping you shove down his jeans and briefs until he finally sprang free.

A sharp breath escaped at the sight of him, thick and full, pearl glistening at the tip.

Bucky swore when he caught your stare.

“C’mere.”

A word had never held so much power over you before, but if you heard him say it one more time—

Dragging you forward he slid between your slick folds, tearing a moan from you both as he rutted up into your heat.

With one hand between you he palmed himself, settling you over his thick bulge, and eased himself in.

You sank down slowly, hand braced against his chest, taking him inch by delicious inch. He stretched you, filled you, until finally, fully seated, your name escaped his lips in a guttural groan.

The fullness of him choked you, your hips already rocking with the need to ease the ache and chase more of it.

Lips parting on a breathless moan, you began to ride, his hands like a brand against you, guiding your hips, grasp steady as he showed you how to take him. A sheen of sweat over your thighs made you shine in the dim light.

Bucky watched you, devoured you with his eyes, fucking up into you with a strength that had you gasping and moaning and begging for more.

His hand pressed between you, rubbing against that perfect spot right where you joined that hurtled you quickly to the edge.

Your head rolled back, thighs shaking, grinding down against him.

With a grunt Bucky sat up and flipped you onto your back. Settling between your thighs he entered you again with one devastating slow roll of his hips, sinking so fully inside you saw stars. Legs hooked around his waist, and hands clawing at his shoulders, you took it all as he pounded into you again and again. You could feel every inch, every drag of him against your walls, driving into you, quickly bringing you to the edge and sending you soaring.

His name left your lips over and over in a broken sob. It’s raw, unguarded, so precious it’s holy, and you hear how it affects him, his ragged breaths ripping through the air.

He comes with a sound that starts with your name but devolves into a ragged groan, hips slowing, thrusting shallowly as he rode it out.

Until he slumped over you, weight caught on his arms, face pressed against the hollow of your neck.

You don’t know how long you lay there, hands gentle against the planes of his back, feeling every ripple as your breath slowed to match his.

It’s quiet.

The storm still raged outside, wind and rain and lightening battling it out across the fields, but here in this house all you listen for is the sound of his breath.

Eventually he pushed away, brushing a kiss against your cheek and padding out of the room. His naked silhouette in the dim light of the night burnt into your memory.

There’s the sound of running water, then he’s back, wordlessly handing you a damp cloth to clean yourself up.

He fell into bed beside you with a sigh, arm slung up over his head and eyes closing.

Clean, you dropped the cloth to the floor, drawing the covers over you.

Quiet descends again.

“I don’t normally do this,” you whispered into the room.

Bucky’s voice was thick with sleep, his words slurring when he answered, “‘S alright. Can be a dream y’had once.”

You didn’t quite understand what he meant, though it sounded sweet.

“Girl came in with the rain …”

But when you propped yourself up on an elbow to question him further you could see his chest rose and fell slowly, eyelashes pillowed in perfect crescents against his cheek.

And when you laid down again, resting against his open side, he grunted something inaudible and snaked his arm around you, drawing you in closer.

The morning brought aching muscles and an empty space beside you. You sat up, wincing at the way your body protested the movement, and looked around for your discarded clothes.

They were neatly folding in a pile on the end of the bed. Dry.

You stared at the pile for a long time, taking in the kindness of the gesture, before eventually getting up and dressing.

Decent, you peered out into the living area only to find it, too, empty. Your heart sank.

A crumpled scrap of paper sat on the wooden dining table. Glancing around again you walked over to read.

Neighbours fence down with the storm. Won’t be back before you’re gone. -B.

Beneath was a rough drawn map to get you back to the main road.

His words the night before drifted back to you, and your fingers ghosted across your lips as you remembered the way he kissed you. Your body still ached with how he’d had you.

A dream indeed.

With a nod to yourself, you gathered your things and left quietly, the scrawled paper tucked away in your pocket.

And when he got back late that afternoon, the sun sitting low on the horizon and your departing tyre marks the only trace of you, Bucky sighed, staring off down the long dirt road out of this place.

The next time he saw your headlights he was mildly surprised, to say the least. It was only days later. His lips kicked up in a half smile as your boots swung out first.

“You lost?”

“Nope. Maps go both ways.”

There’s a familiar scrap of paper held in your hand.

A bark of laughter escaped him, and he turned for the door, shaking his head as he stomped inside.

He left the flyscreen wide open for you.

Bucky had half a mind to offer you another round of beer, but the moment you stepped inside you dropped your bag on the floor and wound your arms around his neck, pressing your sweet little mouth to his in a kiss that sent a bolt of lightening straight to his cock.

“Hmm still taste like rain.”

Since you asked so nicely, he laid you down right there on the kitchen counter, pressing your thighs apart and eating at you nice and slow like, then turned and fucked you on the dining table for dessert.

And in the aftermath, with his spent body sweaty and deliciously heavy pressing you down into the wooden surface, you felt laughter bubble up.

You were happy.

“What you laughin’ at?” He murmured against your neck, his stubble scratching against your skin with every word.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of welcome I’d get second time around.”

You felt him exhale, then slowly he pushed up and away from you, finally pulling out of your body, and you sucked in a breath at the loss of him.

There was a decidedly smug lilt to his voice when he said, “We ain’t strangers and I don’t mind greetin’ you nice and proper.”

You’d walked in with such bravado, climbing those three steps of his porch under the swinging sign with his name like you knew them by heart, kissing him like you had every right to. But your insecurities and self-doubts crashed back to earth in the soft, emotional aftermath of sleeping with this unknown person. Again.

“I’m sorry for barging in—“

“I let you.”

“—and accosting you like a madwoman—“

“Can you accost me a few more times?”

“Bucky, please. I’m just trying to say—“

He shut you up the best way he knew how, with a slow, tender kiss that left you dazed and speechless when he pulled away again.

“‘S fine. You always this scared o’ yer own actions?”

He pressed his mouth to the valley between your breasts before hauling himself up, dog tags jangling, and he disappeared down the hall. Distantly you heard the sound of water running.

Were you always this scared?

You tried to lower your legs again and hissed at the way your hips protested the movement.

Your body was not used to being snapped in half this often in only so many days.

Bucky returned wearing a new pair of boxer briefs and with a damp towel in his hand.

“Here.”

With a tenderness you found surprising and endearing, he carefully helped clean your body.

There was a strange moment of bashful domesticity as you both hunted for your scattered clothing.

“Hungry?”

Dressed, silently musing all the while about whether Hollywood had taught you to never seize what you truly wanted, you perched on a stool at the counter and watched as he collected bread from the tin and fresh eggs from the pantry.

“Were you in the army?” You asked, motioning to his dog tags when he glanced your way.

“Yes ma’am. Sergeant Barnes.”

“Ooh Sarge,” you teased, and laughed at the withering stare he threw you that didn’t quite land, not when the smile that tugged at his lips gave him away.

“Me and my buddy, he was a Captain. Until I did this.” Bucky rotated his metal prosthetic. “Now it’s farm life for the rest of my days.”

You rested your chin in your hand, elbow propped on the counter. “And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He nodded firmly. “That’s the truth of it.”

You looked down as your phone buzzed with a text from your friend, whose house you’d stayed at for the last two nights as planned, asking if you were making it home in good time. You felt your cheeks heat and decided not to answer right away.

Bucky hummed a tune quietly as he cooked, and your eyes flew up to watch him.

You knew that tune.

It was yours.

“Thought you didn’t know any of my music.”

“I didn’t.”

“And now?”

He shrugged casually but you caught the way the tips of his ears turned pink. “It’s not all bad.”

“You looked me up,” you accused him, and the embarrassed flush spread down his cheeks and neck.

You snickered softly, watching for the little glances he shot your way.

“Wasn’t hard to find you,” he said finally, flipping the egg battered bread in the pan. He pinned you with a stare then, and you hoped you didn’t imagine the admiration you spied in it. “Turns out yer quite somethin’, huh?”

Your last album was recently lauded as the fastest album of the decade to reach five times platinum in the US, barely beating your previous album which had broke that same record. This following the sensational performance of your third tour that just wrapped up—You dropped your gaze, shrugging at the reality of his question. “I do alright.”

Bucky snorted. “No, honey, I do alright. Ain’t got much but what I earn from the crops and animals. You?” He whistled, impressed.

“Okay,” you began, squaring your shoulders. “You’re right. I’ve accomplished a lot. But it’s not hard work, not when I love it so much.”

He cocked his head, gesturing with the spatula for you to go on.

“I love to craft my own melodies, my own lyrics. Or have the producers send me a sample of something new and my mind run away with ideas. I’m just lucky people seem to like what I make.”

Bucky nodded along, his gaze focussed on cooking.

“All yer songs, they always this boppy?“

“Pop.”

“That.”

You laughed. “Yes, Sarge.”

He hummed another melody and with another laugh you half-sung the words, sliding off the stool and running your hand along the kitchen counter as you rounded it to stand with him.

Helping him collect plates and toppings he requested from the fridge, you smiled when he presented you with a plate.

“Egg bread.”

“This is French toast.”

Bucky looked down at the plates, then the sauces and vegetables from the fridge. “But it’s savoury.”

“Still French toast.”

“Egg bread,” he insisted, with a finality to his tone that had you cocking a brow at him. “‘S what my Ma called it.”

“Well, I’d never argue with Mama Barnes.”

“She would’a liked you,” he said, offhand, and you wondered at the way joy swept your body and curled your toes.

So you ate, talked, stared into his eyes far too long to be polite, and grinned more than once at the way you kept catching him doing the same. But this was a working farm, and this farmer had to get to it.

It was difficult to convince both of you of that when, after clearing up, he’d lifted you into the counter again, stepped between your legs, and kissed you senseless.

“I’d love to stay and …” he trailed off, gaze slowly dropping to where his hands squeezed your thighs, “… chat.”

He didn’t look like he wanted to chat. He looked like he wanted to devour you whole. Again.

“But I got some girls in the bottom paddock that need seein’ to.”

“Can I help?”

“Doubt it.”

No malice, just honesty.

“Yer welcome to stay,” donning his hat, his smile turned down at the corners, “But I imagine you got plenty important places to be.”

He was right. You found yourself wishing he wasn’t.

He jerked his head toward the dining table. “Left a present for you.”

And with one last kiss he was gone.

You lazily watched his figure cross the yard, admiring the way his jeans hugged tight, and his corded, tanned arm and stunningly designed prosthetic looked with his sleeves rolled up just so.

You’d stumbled on a diamond in the rough. In a storm, no less.

Finally dragging your gaze away you searched for his supposed present.

A scrawled note sat on the sturdy wooden table. Same place as before.

Next time doesn’t have to be a surprise - B.

And his phone number.

All you saw in your mind’s eye was blue. That pretty horizon over rolling hills. The colour rain clouds turned before lightening had its way. The covers on the cushions of a rusty swing chair on the porch. The faded paint of a old beat up Ford that saw better days long before he drove it.

And those eyes. Eyes deeper than the ocean and brighter than the sky. Eyes that saw right through you and saw all of you at the same time.

Eyes you’d only seen twice and already you hoped you could keep staring into them for the rest of your life.

You stepped inside the door of your New York townhouse, shutting it quickly behind you, blocking out the sound of camera shutters and probing questions of the paparazzi and fans lurking outside.

With a deep, fortifying breath, you carried your bags through to the living area and dropped them onto your couch with a sigh, breathing in the familiar scents.

It was good to be home.

But you grabbed your phone and snapped a quick picture right there in the room, your eyes tired and hair still tousled from the long drive. You sent it without overthinking too much, typing out ‘Home safe but thinking of rain and dirt roads’.

A reply came almost instantly.

‘When can you get lost again?’

Several visits later, there’s a tension to your shoulders he realised he’s seen before but hadn’t recognised. Your eyes were tired, skin flawless and beautiful as always but lacking the light that usually glowed from within.

You were exhausted.

“What’re they doing to you up in the city, huh?”

Your mumbled response was lost against his chest as he enveloped you in his arms. He could feel the way you sagged against him, clinging like only he could give you what you need.

He decides he can.

Hands under your thighs he lifts you easily, ignoring your shrill gasp as he tucked your body against his, and carried you into the farmhouse, kicking the door shut behind him.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, you buried your face into the crook of his neck. He smelled of hay, sweat, and something uniquely him.

You pressed closer to breathe in more.

He carried you through the house, old floorboards creaking their telltale tune all the way to the bathroom where he gently set you down until your feet touched the tiles. The huge clawed bathtub, generally unused, became your salvation as he begins to let it fill with piping hot water. You perched on its cold edge while you wait.

When it’s full he wordlessly accepts your clothes, the banked heat in his eyes as they sweep your body a mere promise of what’s to come.

Later.

First, you step gingerly into the bathtub, hissing at the blissful heat, and you sink in with a long drawn out sigh.

You were exhausted, and you hated that he saw it.

But you couldn’t hate this.

Eyes closing, you let yourself drift. Let the smells of the farmhouse envelop you, let the warmth of the water ease everything else away.

There had been contract questions. An interview. Some papers about the new project you were working on, and a bunch of people who decided their time with you was more important than everything else.

And you loved it. That was the hardest part; you relished every second of it. Of fitting so much into one day, of the balancing act. Sometimes the games too, because right now you were on a winning streak.

But as you drove and the roads turned rougher, the tiredness overwhelmed you. It was regrettably stronger than your excitement at seeing Bucky again.

So when he’d opened that door and you’d collapsed in his arms, you’d trusted him to catch you.

It was nice.

Even with the window propped open for the steam, it’s quiet. Just the fresh breeze outside, the far off sound of animals, and Bucky quietly moving through the house.

You doze in and out, mindful of slipping beneath the water, tension and worries leaching away as this house, this place, and the care of this farmer lulled you into an ease you had only ever found here.

Your whole body felt languid when you eventually stepped out, steam rising off your skin, colour darker with the heat. Humming, you dried off, dipping into your bag for fresh clothes, and ventured back into the house.

A wailing soulful tune lured you to the verandah.

Bucky sat on the wooden edge, afternoon sun burnishing his hair a deep brown, metal arm gleaming as he riffed a blues melody on his harmonica.

Eyes trailing from him out to gold and green fields specked with cattle, to the old barn and the endless open horizon beyond, you breathed it all in.

Without a word you sat beside him on the verandah, legs dangling off the edge as he bends notes on the harp, playing any kind of tune as it comes to him like he would on any other night.

When you learn his key and catch the beat, you hum along whatever melody comes to you first, and he places his free hand on your knee, thumb rubbing back and forth until the sun sets.

He’s up before you. When you see him, leaning against the wall by the hallway, arms crossed and staring right at you, you smile. The same one you always have when you set eyes on him.

A smile that grows larger when his face softens and his eyes crinkle just so. What he wears isn’t quite a smile, but it warms you like one just the same.

He pushed off and stalked toward you, heavy boots thudding loud in the room. Taking your shoulders in his hands, he drew you in to press a kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes.

“I got some friends stopping by for lunch,” he told you, voice a low rumble and his breath fanning over your hair. “Steve and his missus. You gonna be right with that?”

Your heart thumped so loud you were sure he could hear it in the quiet of the day. Wrapping your arms around his waist and spreading your legs to pull him in, you nodded. “I’ll be alright.”

His lips brushed your skin. “Can I ask a favour?”

“Sure.” Reluctantly drawing away you looked up at him. “What kind of favour?”

“I need a couple things in town. Will you drive us in?” He rubbed at the back of his neck, but there was something about his gaze that had yours narrowing, skeptical.

“A couple things? My car’s not built to carry much.”

“Nah, that’s why you’ll be in my truck.”

Brow raised you looked at him wide eyed. “I’ve never driven one that big.”

The smirk on his face said it all. “Sure you have, darlin’.”

It’s a challenge to ignore the rush of heat pooling low within you.

“You want me to drive your truck?”

“Maybe I want you to be seen drivin’ my truck.”

“This feels like some kind of next step business,” you muse, heart fluttering. He wants you to meet his friends and be seen with him, it was enough giddiness to make you feel like a high schooler.

He shrugged, and you kissed the small smile playing across his lips.

The trip was eye opening, and not just because of the truck. The turning circle was wider than you’re used to, but you puttered along the tracks and road just fine.

No, what kept you entertained was discovering a new facet of the man you were still getting to know.

Bucky is even more tight-lipped here than in his own home, and no sooner had you jumped out of the truck, Sam Wilson was by the bumper welcoming you to town and slinging his arm around your shoulder like you were the oldest of friends.

The tic in Bucky’s jaw could not jump higher as he ground his teeth.

But when he asks if the stockfeed is open and if Sarah was working today, Sam is immediately stony faced and grumbling, telling him to stay in his lane. You learn quickly that not only can Sam Wilson get under his skin but Bucky lets him; a mutually aggravating camaraderie you don’t understand.

It’s in stark difference to the polite, gentlemanly way he speaks to Sarah at the stockfeed and hardware store, which makes you all the more curious to find out she and Sam are siblings.

Except when Bucky plops his Stetson on your head as you head back out onto the street, and you watch the identical way they cross their arms and watch him with matching eyes sharper than all the paparazzi in the city. You just know he’s gonna hear an earful when they get him alone next.

The meaning of wearing his hat is lost on you, but it gleams in both their eyes and everyone else’s on the street that day as you lug two bags of fence clips back to his vehicle.

You’re tempted to record the way he loads feed bags in the back of the truck like they weigh nothing. You imagine you’re one of them, slung over his shoulder until he grabs your waist with two hands and swings you down onto your back—

“Ready to go?”

With a gulp you nod and climb in.

Many eyes fervently follow your dust trail down the road.

You watch through the window as a flatbed truck pulls up the drive, and busy yourself setting out plates on the dining table.

Two doors slam and there’s a murmur of voices coming closer up the steps.

“What happened to the wagon?”

“On the fritz. Plus I’m picking up some hay when we leave.”

Wait a minute.

You knew that voice.

A tall blonde swung open the flyscreen, politely removing his hat and nodding hello before freezing in place.

“Steve?”

He paused in the doorway, looking at you slack jawed, when—

“Don’t block the door, I’m in dire need of a sit-down.”

“Peggy!”

In waddled your very dear, very pregnant and very surprised friend.

She blinked, mouth forming a delighted oh as you rushed in to hug her.

“Long time no see!” She says in a daze, clutching you close before holding you out at arms length, head shaking incredulously. “But how is it that you’re here?”

You helped her to a seat at the table, her eyes darting between you and Bucky who looked equally bewildered. Steve moved to his side, murmuring something low at his friend you couldn’t hear, and Bucky shrugged his response.

“Remember when I was delayed a day coming to see you? With the storm?”

“Yes,” Peggy said, hand covering yours on the table. “You had us worried sick. I had images of you lost in a ditch somewhere.”

She’d said as much the next day when you eventually turned up.

Ducking your head you admitted, “I didn’t stop at a motel like I said.” Your gaze rose and met hers. “I ended up here.”

“You’re the girl that blew in with the storm,” Steve said, his voice tinged with laughter. You looked over and Bucky was a delightful shade of pink, the flush high in his cheeks and running all the way down beneath the vee of his shirt.

Peggy regarded you warmly, her eyes gleaming with a new wealth of knowledge that put you on edge.

“I’m sure he took great care of you.”

“Alright, Peg,” Bucky interrupted with a grumble. “Steve? Want to take a look at that gear?”

When the men walked outside to the barn, gesturing animatedly and discussing farming things you had no idea about, Peggy followed you out and sat back into Bucky’s verandah swing chair with a sigh.

“I’ve loved every moment of this pregnancy,” she said through gritted teeth. “But my feet may never recover.”

You laughed, settling on the cushion next to her and helping her twist in the seat until she could lay back with her legs across your lap.

“I’ve wanted to set the two of you up for years now, you know.”

“The two of—“ Something clicked in your brain, several long-ago conversations crowding in all at once of a young feller with a rough exterior but a kind heart. “—This is James?”

He’d asked you to call him Bucky, you’d completely forgotten. Your eyes glanced up to the sign swinging gently in the breeze, emblazoned with his initials.

And Steve was a Captain! From the moment he was off active duty he and Peggy had tried for a baby, this pregnancy being the magic one that finally took.

A pregnancy that brought you out of the city for the first time in years to see your dear friend that you hadn’t visited in so long, only to end up on this very porch with Bucky Barnes sweeping you off your feet.

There was no way to know this could happen, but the threads were there. Your mind whirled, unable to consider the odds.

“And you said you’d never date a country boy.” Her voice was so smug you could do nothing but shrug.

“He’s no boy,” you whispered, and Peggy’s laughter peeled out across the yard, drawing Steve’s attention who smiled indulgently at his wife and gave you both a little wave.

Bucky was staring, face unreadable at this distance, but you could feel his eyes like a brand.

He watched you sitting there, so comfortable in his home, friends with his friends, looking more relaxed than he’s ever seen you.

Steve made a noise next to him, and he turned to see his best friend smirking and shaking his head.

“You got something to say, Rogers?”

“She’ll make an honest man outta you.”

Bucky scowled. “How would you know that?”

“I know you’ve never looked this happy since your folks passed and Becca moved away.”

Kicking at a weed tuft in the gravel, Bucky grumbled, “Yeah, well, you never mentioned you had a damn famous person as a friend.”

“Why would I?” Steve laughed. “Had you even heard of her before she fell in your lap?”

Bucky shrugged a non-answer.

“Besides, she’s not like that with us. And Peggy knew her from before all that anyhow.” As if that settled that matter.

He watched you there with Peggy, giggling like schoolgirls and all the while cradling her legs, making sure she was comfortable. In his house.

His voice was quiet but sure when he told Steve, “I got a good feeling about this one, Cap.”

“Yeah, Buck. Yeah, me too.”

It was late at night. The house was still alive with boisterous conversations and delightful reminiscing. Lunch had turned into card games which had turned into dinner and sitting by the fire. Peggy regaled you with the worst kind of stories about the boys, who had the decency to look bashful before sharing a few tales of their own.

You’d hugged your dear friend close, wishing her well for the last weeks of her pregnancy, Bucky promising over your shoulder he’d live up to his godfathering duties if they ever needed a hand.

The moment they’d left, disappearing down the dirt drive into the dark of night, Bucky took your hand and drew you back to the fireplace, showing you in the most delicious way possible how happy he was with the day.

“So.”

Pillowed in his arm amongst blankets and pillows strewn on the floor, you dragged your eyes away from the gentle rise and fall of his chest to meet his steady gaze.

“When do I get to return the favour?”

Even after the last hour of pleasure your body clenched at his words, heat sweeping from your cheeks down your neck and chest.

“Bucky,” you whispered, scandalised. “I already came three times, you don’t—“

His bark of laughter surprised you.

“‘M flattered, darlin’, but not what I meant.”

He rolled then, body curving into yours and his metal arm snaking around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“When can I come to New York?”

Nothing about him changed, there was no shift in tone, but something in the question appeared so small and earnest, so hopeful, that your heart doubled over.

“You want to come to the big smoke with me?”

You felt his nod against your shoulder, his lips brushing your skin reverently.

“Wanna see your world, darlin’.”

You liked the escapism, that out here you’re just you, no watching over your shoulder or calculating the hidden meaning of every word spoken to you. With Bucky you could be yourself, and not consider the PR implications of an honest reaction.

But even out here in the calm, parts of your soul longed for home.

And one particular part buried in your chest swelled at the thought of showing off your gorgeous farmer to the world.

“What about the farm?”

“I got plenty o’ favours to call in.”

The first visit was a blur of motion.

The long miles faded quickly behind him, buildings piling up on the horizon as he drove his old truck steadily down the highway, but Bucky was unfazed.

When Becca left with her new husband he’d been into the cities a few times.

Turns out this was not like those times.

There was a country mile difference between walking the streets of New York and walking the streets of New York on your arm.

‘Be there in a song.’

When he arrived it was to the interested looks of people lurking outside your door, all who swiftly drew their cameras and phones when he walked up and knocked.

And there you were, thousand-watt smile and hands grabbing him, dragging him indoors to the sound of fast shutters as the photographers captured the moment. But how could he care about them when the second he was inside behind closed doors you squeaked a happy, ‘Hi Sarge,’ and threw your arms around his neck, kissing him like you needed his mouth to draw breath.

“You got gawkers outside,” he murmured to your lips, nudging his nose against yours.

“Nevermind them,” you said dismissively, taking his hand and showing him your expensive town house.

It’s big. Foot-for-square-foot it was bigger than his family home, but filled to the brim with life. Your life. Awards and photographs and music, so much music everywhere.

“So, this is where you spin yer tunes,” he said, pressing down the keys of your keyboard and frowning when they emitted no sound.

“It’s an electric keyboard,” you tell him, and his cheeks heat.

“Right. Of course.”

“Actually, it’s a workstation. It plays, but I also use it for sampling and recording when I’m struck by any new ideas.”

He plucks the silent keys a couple more times for good measure and lets you lead him on.

Through the tour he quietly takes note of how much money is invested around your house alone, and feels something within him tighten. No, strengthen.

You’re really something. He had an idea of it, of course, after searching you up online and learning. But it was a little different seeing the fruits of your labours here in person.

Bucky knew he’d better prove he’s worthy of you. That he could meet you halfway in all this.

“So, that’s everything!”

Your smile was brighter than the sun and hadn’t dimmed since the moment you set eyes on him.

“Ready for lunch?”

The little smile playing around Bucky’s lips, one that had his eyes softening and his head tilting just so, set your heart aflutter. He stared at you, simply taking you in.

“What?” You touched your cheek, then your nose. “You gave me pash rash with that kiss, didn’t you?”

He shook his head, slow and measured, and laughed to himself. You didn’t know the joke.

“You said lunch?” He collected his keys from his bag.

“Oh, um—“ you placed your hand over his, shaking your head, “—my driver is waiting to take us.”

His brow furrowed. “But my truck’s just out front.”

“And Happy is already waiting.” Embarrassment twisted inside you. What must he be thinking? This man who had seen war and managed a farm all on his own, while you have a driver for something as simple as lunch.

But Bucky gestured for you to lead the way, popping his Stetson back in place and tipping the brim low.

As promised, Happy Hogan and the black sedan sat just outside, beside Bucky’s beaten truck.

You took his hand, knowing yours was clammy as your nerves spiked with the onset of cameras and people calling your name.

You should’ve warned him.

Too late now.

The crowd pressed in, larger than when he had arrived, likely drawn in by the news of a stranger at your door. They surrounded the car, surround the two of you, and Bucky forcibly placed himself between you and them.

“Who’s your visitor?”

“Seeing someone new?”

“Sir, look this way!”

Keeping Bucky close down the stairs and the sidewalk, you smiled gratefully at Happy who hurried around to get your door.

“Welcome to New York, Mr Barnes,” he said as you both hopped into the car, and he promptly shut you away from prying eyes.

You turned to him immediately, watching the way his gaze lingered out the window at the gathered crowd as the car pulled away. “Was that a lot?”

“Do you have, uh—“ Bucky fumbled for words as he faced you, a deeply etched frown on his face. “A bodyguard? Or somethin’?”

“Yes.” You gestured beyond the privacy screen at the passenger side front seat where your bodyguard sat beside Happy. “Bruce? Say hello?”

Bruce Banner twisted in the seat and smiled brightly at Bucky, uttering a quiet hello before turning back.

Bucky’s face was all hard lines, a tic in his jaw jumping as he thought. Then his eyes met yours and you saw the concern etched there.

“They look after me,” you whisper. “I promise.”

He nods once, barely satisfied, and takes your hand in his. “Where we headed today?”

Twining your fingers in his, relishing the callouses that graze your palm, you tell him, “Burgers first. Then I wanted to take you to the studio.”

You smiled, watching the way his gaze softened when it landed on you. The way his eyes, weather worn, crinkled at the edges and the sun spots dusting his cheeks lifted with the apple of his smile matching yours.

And all the while he’s watching you back, unable to stop the way his lips curve as you stare up at him with those pretty eyes sparkling with something he hasn’t seen before.

This time when you step out the car, he’s prepared. Bruce opens the door first, helping you to your feet, and Bucky immediately follows behind. He has a hand around your waist, grasping your side firmly, but his eyes are up and out over the heads of people around them, guiding and shielding you in Bruce’s wake.

It’s not as pointed at last time, fewer people expecting your arrival, but there’s no mistaking the piqued interest at the company you brought. At him and the obvious connection between you.

Inside the restaurant in no time, Bucky politely slid off his Stetson. He blinked slowly, banishing the afterglow of camera flashes, his only tell that this wasn’t normal. Seeing your concerned face as you waited, he grinned at you, hand outstretched, gesturing to follow the server as they lead you to a table.

Bucky’s eyes flickered around, noting the stares and the phones sneaking photos of the two of you. He took it all in, cataloguing his surroundings. Keeping his expression neutral, ignoring the prickling sensation at the back of his neck at being watched so closely by so many complete strangers, he made sure you were comfortably seated before sitting.

Only once did he ask, “Is it always like this?” and you didn’t hesitate, knowing exactly what he meant.

“Yes. You get used to it.”

Even he was unsure if his grunted reply was agreement or not.

Frowning down at the menu, he took in his options.

“These ain’t gonna to be those tiny meals I see on TV, are they?” He murmured quietly.

A snort escaped before you could help yourself. “No!” Bucky’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “No, Bucky, I promise these burgers will fill up even a strapping lad like you.”

And when his eyes widened as your plates were delivered, you allowed yourself a moment to gloat as he gauged how best to eat the massive meal before him.

He thought he’d fed you hearty meals back on the farm, but there was a primal kind of satisfaction inside him at seeing you dig into a meaty burger that felt a little caveman-like.

He liked a woman that could eat, and he especially liked knowing you were taken care of.

Plus these burgers were darn tasty.

He kept his voice low over lunch, not for anyone else to hear, concerned for the other patrons and staff who are clearly listening in for a little celebrity gossip. A small part of him flinched at the idea of you being lumped in with a country hick, a regular ol’ redneck, and though he’s never been ashamed of his home he has a vague idea of what that might mean to these city folk.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” you say at one point, your expression so openly warm and pleased that he sits a little straighter.

“Darlin’, I’d follow you to the end of the earth if you keep smilin’ at me like that,” he told you gruffly.

His shoulders stiffen when he hears a faint collective ‘aww’ and sigh from the table over, but you’re oblivious, flushed from his compliment, hand snaking over the table to capture his prosthetic one and squeezing tight.

He risked a glance up and sees a table of women, friends hanging out he supposes, looking at the two of you with stars in their eyes. They made themselves look busy when they realised he was looking their way.

“Burger was good?”

He cleared his throat. “Ain’t as good as Sam’s brisket, let me tell you. But yeah.”

He looked between both your now-empty plates.

“Should we get goin’? Didn’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Hang on,” you said earnestly, waving over the server, “you have to try their pie.”

He placed a hand on his stomach. “Honey, I don’t think I got room.”

“Sure you do, cowboy.”

A slice was placed down on the table.

As you carved out a piece for yourself, Bucky’s spoon knocked yours. Deliberately. Giggling, you spared back, crossing his spoon with yours and making him drop the mouthful he had scooped up.

“It’s like that, is it?” He chuckled, holding up his spoon like a fencer before his face.

“Oh, Sarge.” You pointed your spoon directly at his chest. “It’s on.”

Your spoons clashed together in a loud twang and your laughter rang out through the restaurant, Bucky’s tenor underscoring it.

It wasn’t until you caught a server looking curiously at your spoon fight did you take in your surroundings, noticing the number of eyes and phones pointed toward your table. With a gentle cough you lowered your weaponised spoon.

“I yield. Even though you didn’t have room for it.”

Bucky chuckled, digging into the slice of pie, taking a large mouthful and grinning as he chewed.

“‘S real good.”

You lowered your gaze to the plate and carved out another piece for yourself, missing the charming smile and small salute Bucky gave the nosy table next to yours who continued to gawk.

You’re glad timing worked out the way it did, as you checked the text that just came in. You had a tiny surprise lined up for your dear farmer.

“Now we swing by the studio for five minutes,” you tell him in the car, Happy already making his way there. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Honey, I’m here for you. Whatever you got to do, I’m a foot behind you.”

Stark Studios was surprisingly busy for midday, people from all walks of life bustling through its doors. But there was one in particular who promised they’d be there, and as you twined your arm around Bucky’s you felt giddy knowing he would find this fun.

The main lobby run off into a little gallery, pictures, posters, album covers and exemplary statistics showing just what a powerhouse Stark Studios was in the music business.

You’d left Bucky there to talk a little business with your manager and record executive, and when you returned twenty minutes later with someone else on your arm, you found him standing in front of the wall dedicated to you and your work. Your career so far.

There was a blank space still to be filled, with a cheeky sign stating, ‘For her future hits.’ Tony had thought it was both motivating for you and a challenge declared to the other artists signed to the record label.

Bucky chuckled and nodded when he saw it.

“Hey, cowboy? I want to introduce you to someone.”

You indulged him in dragging his feet, wide eyes taking in all the signed memorabilia and photographs.

This would be a treat.

But when you stood in front of the red head and gave their introductions, you smirked knowingly at his slack-jawed expression.

No, he hadn’t known of you when you first met, but Natasha Romanoff?

You’d found not one but three of her albums by the Queen of country music in his home one visit, and some of his favourite tunes to play on the harmonica were harmonies from her songs.

His ears tinged pink as he shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? Do I look that old, son?”

His gaze flickered to you, uncertainty clouding his baby blues, and you hip checked Natasha out of her pointed stare.

“‘Tasha, you’re scaring the poor boy.”

His eyes flashed. You smiled at him sweetly, knowingly.

You’d pay for that comment later.

And the exchange doesn’t go unnoticed. Natasha’s eyes were wickedly bright when she said, “I’m waiting for him to stomp around like an unbroken horse.”

He snorted out a breath heavily through his nose and that cracked her. She broke into a genuine smile, clapping him affectionately on the shoulder. “You’ll do.”

You stepped away and he clasped your elbow firm enough to draw your complete attention.

“Call me boy again and I’ll remind you what this man can do.”

He felt the shiver that wracked your whole body.

Stood to one side while he spoke with Natasha, you mouthed a thank you to your friend when she gifted him a signed poster and kissed him on the cheek, lipstick stain lingering and all.

You weren’t jealous of the starry eyed expression on his face, nor the way he rambled like a schoolboy all the way back to the car. Honestly, you were pleased he’d liked the surprise so much.

You still felt a little reminder of how much you cared was in order.

Bucky motioned you into the car first, watchful eyes on the street and surrounds, ever vigilante.

But he didn’t see you coming.

Pulling him roughly to the backseat, you could barely wait for Happy to shut the door before you got to work on his belt.

“Christ, darlin’, what—“

Kissing him firmly, you pulled back only enough to tell him, “Let me.”

His jaw clenched hard but his eyes were already darkening. You felt him twitch beneath your hands.

Bucky’s eyes flickered to the front seat over the privacy partition where Happy climbed in to drive them home.

Biting your lip, you pressed the button for the privacy screen to close.

“Bye, Happy.”

You ignored the man’s knowing smile in the rear view mirror as the glass slid in place.

Belt undone and jeans quickly pried open, you delved in, humming happily as your hand closed around his cock, already thick and heavy in your grasp. He bucked up into your touch and his head thunked back against the seatrest.

“Yer a madwoman,” he muttered, watching from beneath hooded eyes as you knelt on the seat and lowered your mouth to him.

The first touch of your lips made him jerk again, smearing precum against your mouth. Licking your lips to the sound of his gasp, you twirled your tongue against the swollen head and took him in, inch by inch, all the way until your lips touched your hand at his base.

“Darlin’, you can’t. You—“ he choked on a guttural groan as you swallowed around him.

You pulled away with an audible pop.

“Ssh, Bucky.” You didn’t recognise your own voice, deep and husky with want for him. “You don’t want someone to hear you.”

His cock twitched in your hand, his fist clenching hard.

“Be a good boy and stay quiet for me, Sarge,” you whispered, and took him in your mouth again.

When he began to rut up into your mouth you hummed your approval, your eyes rolling back as you felt him hot and heavy at the back of your throat.

And when he came for you on a muffled groan as you swallowed everything he gave you, you delighted in how wrecked he looked sprawled out in the car seat, mouth parted with heavy breaths.

He stared at you, your lips swollen and lipstick smeared, and grit his teeth, sending out a silent prayer to whoever listened for dropping you in his path.

Awake long before you, farm hours never gifting him the luxury of a sleep in, Bucky lounged in bed. Arm slung behind his head, nothing better to do with his time, he browsed the internet for something he never thought he’d care for.

Gossip.

He searched your name, searched his, scrolled through social media and news blogs, unable to fathom how quickly the world moved up here.

Day one in New York and he could map it through these posts and stories almost to the minute.

Photos of his arrival at your door, of his guarding you from the onslaught of attention. Where the two of you ate, who you saw at the studio.

Even analysis of where to buy a hat just like his. That got his hackles raised.

He felt you stir next to him, gorgeous limbs flexing and stretching like they ached from hard work.

He knew his grin turned wolfish at the reminder of how thoroughly you’d welcomed him to the city late into the night.

“Good morning.”

And what a good morning it was. Your hair tousled on the pillow, smile languid and warm, hand pressed against his bare stomach.

“Mornin’,” he rasped, his voice the only thing not yet woken from slumber. “Wanna know what the world thinks of your farmer debut?”

You huff out a laugh and shuffle closer, pressing your face against his side. “What do they say?”

“Mostly talk about how good-lookin’ I am.”

You thump him lightly with your fist.

Chuckling, he reads a passage from a particularly kind blog, one that called him rakishly handsome, softly spoken, and only drew on his military history. He chuckled reading it again.

“I gave ‘em nothing to talk about.”

“You can do that,” you pout. “If I don’t talk I’m labelled a snob.”

“That’s not quite what they say here.”

Interested, you pushed further up the bed, settling into the crook of his arm.

He kept his tone light while he read. “‘So smitten with her new beau, our pop princess barely spoke to anyone else, preferring to keep her attention — and her lips — on him.’”

He tilted his phone toward you, showing you the last photograph anyone had captured of the two of you yesterday.

A photo of you both stepping out of Happy’s sedan onto the sidewalk outside the townhouse, a close up of the red lipstick stains in his stubble and your perfect lip line all but disappeared, smudged around your swollen lips.

The bedsheets did nothing to hide his body’s reaction at the reminder of your gift to him in the car.

“They missed one thing,” he said, dropping his phone and rolling until he hovered over your body, one arm braced near your shoulder and the other tracing a line from the hollow of your neck down your chest.

You blinked up at him, eyes still sleepy but warming quickly to his line of thinking. “And what’s that?”

“That I can’t keep my hands off you either.”

His fingers found your side, tickling mercilessly.

With a shriek and a giggle you squirmed under his hands until the sounds devolved into moans, your body writhing in a different way as he settled between your legs.

The noise is constant. The texts, emails, calls. But also the voices, the cars, the underlying hum of everything.

He learns quickly that Happy and Bruce see you as a friend, a responsibility, not just a job, and he warms to them immediately.

He especially likes when your bodyguard hangs back because they know in Bucky’s hands you’re safer than you’ll ever be.

He doesn’t like the photographers and reporters in your face, urgent words and desperate requests jostling you when you’re only trying to get to the car, and he quickly becomes acquainted with how bodily the guarding of you keeps him occupied on every outing.

Until the day an arrogant paparazzo tries to get too close between him and your bodyguard.

“Get the fuck outta her way or I’ll bury you in a field where no one will find you.”

But somehow even that is brushed off, twisted into some heroic act, no mention of threats or an investigation.

The world is enamoured by the pop star and her farm boy, and for now you can’t go wrong.

He hates that whenever you step outside your home you’re no longer your own person, open to the whims of the paparazzi, fans on the street, demands on your time for stupid reasons like being seen in the right places and with the right people.

But he loves how you handle it all. Your grace and determination, especially when it’s your fans begging for a scrap of your attention, and you give it to them willingly because, as you say, who would you be without them?

He pictures you in his barn, hand gentle on his horse’s flank as he shows you how to whisper sweet words to his girl, and he thinks he has a pretty good idea of who you can be no matter where you are or who your audience is.

What he loves most are the evenings, the quiet hours nearing then passing midnight, when he can take you in his arms and soothe away the trials of the day. When he can make you tense and relax in the best way he knows how. And especially after, when you curl up against him like only he can hold the world at bay.

And for you he would.

There are days on the farm he wished he could say ‘no more’. Long, tiring days when the hard labour pulls too much and he entertains thoughts of throwing in the towel.

But watching you here in your giant plush king bed, the tension slowly leaching from your shoulders as you rest, your eyes still creased with the struggles you endure, he wonders how you push yourself through. No one works as hard as you.

“Yer guarded out here.”

His words made the hair on your head ruffle where he’s pressed his cheek to your crown.

You hummed. “I’m on display here.”

“‘S why yer so tired all’a time.” His accent thickened as he too felt tiredness set in.

Sighing, you buried your face closer, breathing him in. “It doesn’t help.”

“‘N why you question e’rythin’ you do.”

You felt for the seem of his prosthetic beneath his shirt, tracing the line over the fabric.

“Lucky I’ve got my own slice of paradise to escape to, huh?”

“Where’s that?”

Tilting your head back, you gave him a small smile. “Your place.”

“Hmm.”

He gazed down at you and you let yourself get lost in his big blue eyes.

“Can’t really keep chickens here anyhow.”

Scoffing, you pressed your face to his chest again.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Sergeant Idiot. And you picked me. In a storm no less.”

“Yeah,” you said, your hand resting over his fast bearing heart. “Yeah I did.”

You’re fussing over him, flitting through the townhouse like a whirlwind to make sure he hasn’t left anything behind.

He knew he hadn’t, knew everything was inside the duffle bag at his feet, but he didn’t mind leaving you distracted as he carefully he noted down the name and make of your keyboard, taking a photo for good measure.

You’d lamented the missing of it on one visit, dragging the whole thing stand, cords and all on another. He thought to save you the trouble next time.

What he did mind was the pain you tried to hide as you kissed him goodbye. He didn’t always have the luxury of seeing your face when the two of you parted, the farm always ensuring he was up at the crack of dawn and leaving you sleeping soundly in his bed until you were ready to drive. It was bittersweet, but in some ways easier.

Then he wouldn’t have to feel the tremor in your hand as you held his, walking him to the door and promising you’d see him soon.

And as you watched him leave, watched his old truck peel away from the curb and take the sunshine with him, you felt a pang in your chest that never truly went away until you were in his arms again.

The drive back to the farm was the longest he’d ever driven. Not by miles, but by the road stretching behind him.

The growing distance between him and you.

He’d never felt it so succinctly, seeing your car amble away down the the dirt track. But this ached in his chest in a way he’d never felt before.

He knew the name of that feeling. Knew those four letters without a doubt. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to only think it once the dust began to kick up behind his truck.

Nevermind. He’d tell you next time.

When he found not one but three separate photographers slinking around on his property, sticking their noses in places they shouldn’t because this was private land, he called the sheriff.

He promptly installed two shining new signs on the outer gate at the property line, warning about private property, trespassing and prosecution.

He chuckled as he surveyed them, snapping a photo to send you because he knew you’d get a kick out of it. And he wondered how different his life would be right now if he’d had those signs up on that fateful stormy day.

Probably no different at all, not back then. Same ol’ country boy on his family farm, labouring away day in and day out. This was the different future he’d longed for. You were the difference.

He was glad you’d never been warned away. He was glad you came in with the rain.

Another month, another country drive.

Cutting the engine in what had become your parking spot, you stepped out onto the grass and dirt of Bucky’s front yard and looked around.

His old Ford was parked up, but in one of the distant fields you could see some dust on the horizon.

Looks like you had a wait on your hands.

You glanced at the swing chair on the verandah, but something behind you tugged hard. You turned, your eyes settling on the wood of the fence line, and started forward.

You step first onto the bottom beam, pulling yourself up by the top second beam, then you swung your leg up and over, hauling yourself up to straddle the fence line. You rested your ass on the fence post and surveyed everything around you.

Gently rolling meadows. Fields of greens. A clear sky as blue as the eyes of the man you waited for.

You bit your lip, an idea for lyrics slowly swirling and forming in your mind, and you dug out your phone to capture the moment of inspiration.

And that’s how Bucky found you, an hour later, humming a tune into the receiver end of your phone as it recorded.

You visibly gulped when you caught sight of him, and didn’t miss the unmistakeable way his walk turned swagger as he approached.

He knew what he looked like, shirt plastered against his body, hands, arms and jeans dusty and dirt smeared from hard work, sweat beading deliciously on his forehead under the wide brim of his Stetson that drove you utterly wild.

“Hey there, honey.”

There was a dangerous glint in his eye as he helped you down, hands clasping your hips firmly and not letting go when he set you on your feet.

“Turn around.”

A voice of steel, commanding, slicing through you and melting any thought of denying him.

You turned in his grasp.

“Hands on the fence.”

You rushed to obey, hands gripping the top wooden beam.

He made a tsk sound and you trembled.

“Bottom one.”

Your face flushed hot as his hands encouraged you to slowly hinge at the hips, to bend over and place your hands on the lower beam.

“Good girl.”

He ground himself against you then with a slow roll and you felt exactly how happy he was to see you from the hot, hard length of him pressing against your core.

His hands dipped around, roughly unbuttoning your pants and shoving them down in one swift motion. You gasped when your panties followed suit.

Bucky groaned at the sight.

You squirmed as the cool afternoon air breezed against the most sensitive parts of you, damp flesh tingling cold. A soft whimper escaped, unbidden, and his chuckle stung with a little cruelty.

“You need somethin’, honey?”

You felt your body sway back, searching for that press of him against you again, but instead you cried out as his hand came down in a stinging slap against the bare skin of your ass.

“Use your words.”

It hit you then that you hadn’t spoken since he appeared from the barn, struck dumb by the sight of him.

Turned even dumber by this.

When you could speak, it came out broken and breathy. “B-Bucky, please—“

“Please, what?”

You didn’t know. You had no clue what to expect let alone what you wanted most. All you knew was you didn’t want him to stop.

“Please, I need more. I need— n-need”

“Know exactly what you be needin’, darlin’. And I’m gonna give it to you.”

A booted foot pressed between yours, nudging your stance wider, and the soft whoosh of him dropping to his knees in the grass behind you had you dragging in a deep breath.

But you lost it again a second later when he buried his mouth against your slit.

A groan escaped him at the first taste, guttural and ragged, his hands clasping each cheek and spreading you apart. You moaned with him as his tongue plunged deep.

He ate at you fiercely, like you were the first meal he had all day and he was a man starved. His tongue lapped and laved, his lips and mouth sucking and sipping at your flesh, drinking you in. You tried hard to contain the sounds desperate to spill out of you, but Bucky would have none of it.

“Let me hear you, darlin’,” he rasped, hand replacing his tongue as he gathered the slick drooling out of you and used it to circle your entrance. “Tell the meadows yer mine.”

He pressed a single finger in, thick and deep inside you, and your strangled cry echoed throughout the yard. Slowly, a second finger joined the first, stretching you wider, curling just so until you clenched hard around him.

And when his mouth fastened around your clit, sucking hard as his fingers pistoned in and out of you, you devolved into a mess of babbled words and broken moans as your orgasm tore through you with lightening speed. Still his mouth stayed on you, fingers deep but gentling, easing you through the waves and keeping you on edge.

Your legs buckled, and he wrapped his metal arm around your thighs.

“Got you.”

But he didn’t lower you down, didn’t gather you into his arms. No, Bucky pushed forward, easily lifting you inches off the ground and pressing you up and over the wooden beam until you rested on it. Your hands scrambled for purchase, your still-shaking body burning where the hard edge of the wood pressed into your skin, your shirt hardly softening the edge.

“Bucky, wha—“

When the sound of his belt unbuckling hit your ears you twisted around.

The sight you beheld would never leave your memory for as long as you lived.

Bucky behind you, jeans shoved down around his thighs, palming his raging erection with the hand still slick from you, the tip of him angry red and leaking. His shirt pushed up out of the way, his lean stomach and abs on display for your needy gaze.

He rested his metal hand against the small of your back, lining himself up with you, and only then did he glance down and catch you watching him.

His eyes were dark, blue swallowed whole by black, arousal flushed high on his cheeks and mouth open in heated admiration. His damn Stetson was as crooked as the smile he gave you as he rasped, “Ready f’me?”

He didn’t give you time to answer.

His gaze held yours as he pressed in, the thick heat of him stretching you in a delicious burn as he pushed every inch.

Your ragged moan covered his grunt of pleasure when he bottomed out inside you, filling you so completely your eyes rolled back and fluttered shut.

“Welcome back, honey.”

In one long breath he drew out again, then brutally drove home.

Your hips stung with every thrust as he pushed you against the fence beam over and over, and you knew come morning you’d be bruised and sore, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t, not when he fucked you so deeply, when he heaped praise and desperate grunts upon you in equal measure.

“So fuckin’ good,” he told you, each word panting out with a snap of his hips. “Missed this. Missed you. Fuck, I missed you.”

His words became lost in a series of groans as you clenched around him, your second orgasm drawing in, and his hips stuttered.

“Got another f’me?”

Your hips pressed back against him now, meeting him thrust for thrust, chasing that high only Bucky could give you. Your legs were shaking, your voice hoarse as you whined and moaned for him, your fingers white-knuckled where you clutched the fence.

He bent forward and thrust up into you, the angle driving the length of him against that sweet spot deep inside that had you bucking wildly in his grasp. His hand snaked around your body, finding your clit and rubbing with single minded determination.

You came with a strangled cry.

Bucky swore violently and fucked into you once, twice more, before burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside. You could feel every pulse, every bit of him as you clenched and fluttered around him in the aftermath.

The yard fell quiet, save for the sounds of both your soft panting breaths.

Bucky gently eased you back, gathering you into his arms as he lifted you and sat down on the ground against the fence post, folding you across his lap. You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat strong and rhythmic against you, and you sighed.

In the distance a cow mooed and you giggled helplessly.

“Who knew it could be like this,” you whispered, uncaring if there was an answer.

Bucky was quiet for a time, his cheek resting against your head and his hand idly tracing shapes against your thigh.

“I was ticked off when I saw headlights that night.”

Another laugh huffed out of you. “I thought you might murder me.”

You felt his chest shake with silent laughter.

“Now I get all melancholy when it rains and yer not here with me.”

“You mean that?” Your voice was small and you didn’t draw back to look at him, didn’t know how to handle whatever answer he gave you.

“‘M sittin’ bare-ass in the grass right now. Only f’ you.”

“Bucky.”

You felt his shrug, his lips pressing gently to your forehead.

“Fell in love with you when you ran up those there steps and kissed me. E’rythin’ else fell into place around that.”

That’s when you pulled back to look at him.

He met your gaze openly, no holding back, no doubt in his eyes. Only the surety of his feelings.

You didn’t say it then.

He didn’t need you to, kissing first the tip of your nose then pressing his lips to yours in an achingly soft kiss.

But later, when you winced as you climbed into bed beside him and he touched the line of bruises across your hips reverently, kissing your skin and apologising over and over for being so rough with you, it slipped out like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

He hummed agreement, his thumb rubbing soft circles against your skin, hoping to soothe the angry marks with touch alone.

“Yeah. I am.”

There was always something to do on the farm, and the animals always needed tending, but he felt a tug on his heart and an itch under his skin as the days stretched on.

So he texted you for another trip.

You called back that night, uncertain.

“I’m really busy with work,” you say, and it’s not an excuse to push him away, he knows that. It’s just your crazy schedule isn’t as routine as farm chores and country life.

He’s sitting in his truck, parked outside Sam’s bar, music and voices spilling out with the light from the door, and he knows there’s a cold beer waiting for him inside.

But he’d miss it all to keep talking with you.

“There’s an awards things coming up, and—“

“You gotta get dolled up?” That perked his interest. “Wear one of those slinky dresses, your hair all twisted up nice. Struttin’ down that red carpet like you already won?”

He pulls laughter from you, the tinkling sounds better than any song of yours he’s ever heard, and he doesn’t even mind when you chide him gently. He just laughs too.

Until your soft confession punches the breath out of him, setting his heart beating so hard his ribs would bruise. “I want to show everyone how in love with you I am.”

“Then I’ll come to the show,” he said gruffly. “You on my arm, the whole world knows who I belong to.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is.” So cocky. So confident. Easiest thing in the world, to declare you were his. And he yours.

“Can I buy you a suit?”

“I got a suit.”

“Bucky.”

Ah, right. This was a fancy thing. “Not the right suit, hm?”

“I want to get you something tailored.” There’s a wistfulness to your voice that sends a bolt of heat straight through him. “Something that hugs you perfectly, shows off your shoulders and your arms—“

You broke off, letting out a soft sound he’s heard a million times before, and he wants to crawl through the phone to get at you.

“Yer gettin’ all wet just thinkin’ ‘bout me in those clothes. Wait ‘til you get ‘em off.” His accent comes out thick with a growl, and you whimper, actually whimper, making him curse and shift in his seat as his jeans grow too tight.

His voice is low and husky when he promises, “You can get me whatever you’d like, darlin’. Just let me be there with you.”

He doesn’t have a regular parking spot in New York, not like you do back home. There isn’t a growing bare patch in the concrete where his tyres sat while you were out and worked business all day.

Truth be told he kinda liked the way his dull paintwork stood out against the shiny black sedans, the stupid Teslas, and the little electric things. He liked that someone could glance down the street and see something different had arrived.

But he especially liked it when he got the spot right outside your building, those cold looking grey stairs leading from his rusty Ford door to the one that let him enter the one place in the big city that felt a little like entering heavens gates.

‘Cause they brought him to you.

And despite your hectic schedule, despite people vying for your attention all over town, you’re right there at the doorway every time he knocks to great him nice and proper with a kiss.

There’s a fitting at some snazzy building in the middle of the city, a private tailor upstairs from offices who go through more money in one day than he sees in a year.

It makes his head spin a little, but your pleased grin when he stands up on the podium wearing the suit you’d ordered is all he really needs to worry about.

“What do you think?”

The tailor is a lanky older gentleman, the type you see in all the old movies, and Bucky turns this way and that as he looks at himself.

If only his folks could see him now. They wouldn’t recognise him in all this.

“I don’t have a dog in this fight, sir.” He turned to you, sitting on the little couch by the window, looking pretty as a peach in a dress and smiling up at him. “Lady’s call.”

You stand, approaching him slow, your eyes telling him without a doubt exactly how good you think he looks.

“You’ll do,” you say on a sigh, and even the tailor chuckled. “Thank you, Jarvis.”

When Jarvis leaves the room, Bucky finds enough confidence to nod at his Stetson you carry in your hands. “Reckon they’ll let me wear it on the red carpet?”

You match his cheeky grin with one of your own, reaching up to place the hat on his head and turning him back to the mirror.

“Why do you think I picked this colour?”

You enjoy every moment of his surprise when he takes in the whole perfectly matching ensemble.

Time moved like an avalanche in New York. One minute he was sharing a light breakfast and early morning kisses with you, and the next you’re both in a hotel suite near Madison Square Garden. Hair and makeup stylists fussed over you in a seat before a mirror while wardrobe people and your management team talked logistics and the possibilities for the night ahead.

You sat in the middle of all the chaos, letting them paint your face and play with your hair, and all Bucky could do was stand to the side and let it all happen around him.

They’d already dressed him and messed with his hair and face an hour ago.

“Would you like us to shine your— um, your, uh…”

One of the poor wardrobe girls gestured hopelessly at his prosthetic and Bucky arched a brow at her. “What you gonna shine with? Shoe polish?”

She looked like the floor could’ve swallowed her whole.

“It’s a well-meaning thought, but not necessary,” you called out, your voice carefully measured. But when Bucky looked your way you seemed conflicted between rage on his behalf and the urge to laugh at the girl’s predicament.

He stepped forward to cool your temper, and put that fire to better use.

“All this pampering is, uh—“ he brushed his knuckles against his stubble and through his hair, peering at himself in the mirror over your shoulder. “It’s a fuss, but nice. Didn’t know it could sit like this.”

“Hmm a little clean for my liking.” You meet his gaze in the reflection.

“Yeah?”

“I like my farmer a little … rougher.”

“You like me dirty.”

There was a soft gasp from somewhere behind you both, but you didn’t care what they overheard. Not with the way Bucky’s eyes darkened and his gaze dropped to the soft robe you were wearing.

The robe with nothing beneath it.

“I have to dress,” you said quietly.

“Don’t need the robe to dress,” he said back, voice low enough for only you to hear.

Your eyes burned with the desire to give in, but you couldn’t. Not this time.

“If you let me dress in private now, I’ll let you take it off me later.”

He scoffed, lips curving in an entirely too-smug smile. “Let me?” He said, shaking his head and lifting your hand to brush a kiss against your knuckle. “Try to stop me.”

Because he hadn’t seen the dress before, having only arrived in town long enough to have his suit finished, but he knew whatever design they had cooked up for you was going to knock him dead.

Time ticked by as he stood in the other room with your management team, Tony explaining to him exactly how the red carpet and ceremony would run, when the wardrobe team returned to the room.

He felt his hands grew clammy as you called out, “Ready?”

This felt like it could be his damn wedding day with how nervous he found himself.

But when you stepped into the room, everything else faded away. You were a vision, glowing in your gown with your hair perfectly pinned and face painted just right. You were always gorgeous in his eyes, but the hours of work they put in now finally seemed justified.

They turned you into a goddess.

“Do you like it?”

He laughed because how could you not know?

“Yeah, darlin’, it’s—“

But then he looked.

Really looked.

And his mouth fell open.

The colour. The colour stopped his heart.

Inky dark and shimmering, the black fabric hugged your figure and swept down around you, the stark colour the perfect background for the spears of brilliant golden arcs crossing and flowing, like lightening slashing across your body

Your dress matched his prosthetic.

For a moment Bucky was speechless,his hand reaching out to hover over the lines of gold reverently, mapping your body like he was learning you all over again.

“I asked them to make it look like kintsugi and lightening,” you told him quietly.

He said your name on a broken whisper. You could see in his eyes his emotions choked him.

“I told you, Bucky. I want the world to know who my heart belongs to.”

He met your gaze then.

He knew how long it had taken to perfectly apply your foundation and makeup. He knew and he didn’t care.

He kissed you. With all the force of the love beating hard in his chest, he took your face in his hands and kissed you like he could infuse every ounce of his being into you in that moment.

He stole your breath but he gave you back so much more.

“Are you ready?”

They asked you, but the question was clearly directed at Bucky.

He flashed his most charming smile, donning his hat and turning to offer you his hand so you could step out the vehicle.

“I’ll manage. And if I can’t, I’ll just stare at her.”

Like he could drag his eyes away.

Honestly the cameras were dazzling. He saw stars. He thought he was handling it well, expression stoic, steady hand at your back, thumb rubbing circles against your bare skin.

He stands where he’s told to stand, helps guide you where you’re told to go, only stepping away when your red carpet handler asked him to leave space for photos.

And when you looked at him, your thousand watt smile banishing any doubts as you murmur, “Eyes on me, Sarge,” he knew how much this mattered.

He’s here for you. He’ll do this right for you.

Later, in the grand open space full of hundreds of your peers, everyone seated according to who was who in the industry, you hold his hand and smile at him like he’s the only one there.

When your name is read from an envelope and you throw your arms around him in elation, he knows the two of you have got this thing right.

Until you steal his hat, hurrying away as you place it on your head to accept your award.

He doesn’t see the camera focussed on his face, capturing his wondrous laugh as he claps and beams with pride. He only has eyes for you up on stage, gushing with gratitude and thanking the world that helped you reach this pinnacle.

“And to the man that brought me here tonight—“

Your gaze locked with his from beneath his Stetson, eyes misty and smile shining brighter than the award in your hands.

“I do this for you,” you said, pointing through the fancy crowd right at him.

He thinks out of all the people here tonight, and for all these coveted awards, he might actually be the biggest winner of the evening.

a/n: this is officially the first smut I’ve ever written 🫣 only for you dear Decaf. Have a moodboard for Bucky’s farm to make up for it, and what I vaguely think the dress would look like

Catch the sequel, That’s All I Really Know here!

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