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captainsimagines · 2 years ago

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the warmth of the future || one

Summary: It’s been two years since you fell in love with Bucky Barnes, and the holidays are just around the corner. With even more love, more friends, and more family in attendance, you and Bucky fully intend to enjoy these days with as little drama as possible. But that’s not always the case with a relationship like yours, is it?

Pairing: DBF James “Bucky” Barnes x (Fem) Reader

Based on the Song: ‘Willow’ by Taylor Swift

Warnings: strong language; age difference kink; exhibitionism; anal fingering (Bucky receiving); blowjob; unprotected sex

Word Count: 7,160+

Author’s Note: Oh, I’m so ready for the holidays this year. Can’t wait for you guys to start this mini-series! I love these characters just as much as you do, and after so many messages this year about this fanfic in particular, I just had to make a mini sequel. I love you guys so much. I hope you enjoy and get into the early holiday spirit.

“I take back what I said before. You’re probably going to die by getting hit by a fucking bus.”

The sound of the horn near you is impossible to recover from. You know Bucky heard that over the phone. Still, you continue to sidestep several pedestrians and another taxi, running to the subway. A few weeks ago you two theorized the craziest possible ways you both would die. Bucky bet you’d be abducted by aliens and killed for being so annoying. You bet he would die by falling off a train in the icy Austrian Alps. “Funny, Barnes. Excuse me for being excited for Christmas break.”

Bucky scoffs gently. “So excited you can’t look both ways before you cross the street?”

You’ve navigated New York streets for years now. You know every crack, every turn, by heart. “You want me home on time, or no?”

Bucky grumbles, “Just get home in one piece.”

Home. It seemed like Bucky’s two-bedroom above his bar was more of a home than your own apartment. You spent more time in Brooklyn than you did Manhattan. Peter had practically bullied you about how much money you were wasting on rent. And you were, no doubt. It was a pain to wake up in Brooklyn and have to travel to Manhattan for work, but you did it anyway. And besides, it made sense. Bucky works nights, so him staying the night in Manhattan was illogical.

But home. That was wherever Bucky was. Warm beside him and wrapped up safely. This would be your third Christmas together, the third you’re spending together back home with your dad. It feels like a tradition now. Bucky had tried convincing his sister, Becca, to join this year but she planned an impromptu cruise with her fiancé instead.

Bucky didn’t blame her, though. It was her engagement present apparently.

This time, Bucky had rented a car and you two would be driving down today. With your assistant tagging along. Not because you were working this holiday break, but because Peter Parker had nowhere else to go in the city. His aunt died this year and this would be his first holiday season without close family to celebrate with. Peter was going to meet you at your apartment, but you were running late, and Bucky was calling to scold you for it.

I’ll put the book down after chapter fifty, I promise.

That promise is stale, Doll. I know you.

I prooooomise.

You had not, indeed, kept that promise and read all the way to chapter sixty today. But you had to. This was Loki Laufeyson’s third book in his insanely popular trilogy. It’s an impossible read to put down.

The reception becomes spotty the deeper you go into the subway station.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get home in one piece. Hey Bucky, would you love me if I was a worm?” The group of teenage girls swiping their Metrocards giggle beside you.

“We’re not doing this again. Get home.”

Rolling your eyes for no one to see, you bid him goodbye.

Another holiday with your family, another holiday with your friends, another holiday with the love of your life. How could life possibly get better than this?

Life did have ways of planting the smallest mishaps. Take the snow for example: Did Bucky know driving in the snow was such a major pain in the ass? He figured. Did he listen to your warnings about having to buy chains for the tires earlier? Nope.

One gas station, Peter’s googling of instructions, and an hour wasted putting the damn chains on later, you finally passed the town sign welcoming you home.

Your childhood town looked the same. It always looked the same. Feelings of nostalgia, scents of cinnamon, and an overall sense of calm quickly settled into your stomach as Bucky drove through town. Leaning your head out the window, you grinned widely as the car passed Wanda and Pietro’s flower shop, closed for lunch. Half of you wanted to fly out the car and bust down the door. The other half really wanted to see your dad first. A four hour drive was nothing with a good playlist and some burgers on the way down.

Once you finally pulled up to your dad’s house, you flew out of the passenger seat before Bucky had the chance to put the car in park. He followed less quickly as you, but his face showed his contained excitement. “It looks like the whole crew got here before us—”

Bucky’s voice floats away as your body slams onto the icy grass. “Oof!”

Clint squeezes tightly, his body weight compressing you into a smooshed pancake. “You’re here!”

“My…lungs…”

Bucky’s boot comes into view. “Get off my girl, Barton.”

“You get to see her every single day! Let me have this!”

Struggling, you shimmy like a worm and try your hardest not to touch anything intimate on the giant squishing you. “Clint. Remove…yourself!”

Your boyfriend’s loud sigh precedes his show of strength. Grabbing Clint by the collar of his winter jacket, Bucky yanks him upward and drops him on a high pile of snow. “Idiot.”

Clint’s laugh is interrupted by Pietro’s loud announcement of, “We’ve started decorating already!”

Sitting up, you dust snow from your elbows as best you can. “Without me?”

“We had extra hands,” Pietro reveals, grinning like a mad man. Before you can ask, a muscled body steps from the front door and onto the porch, wearing too little layers for the temperature outside.

“Steve!” Bucky exclaims, abandoning both you and Clint in the snow to run to his best friend. “You lied about visiting your mom!”

Steve runs a hand down the back of his neck, instantly turning red. He meets Bucky at the bottom of the porch and shares that clap-on-the-back slash bro-hug. “She decided to spend it with her partner’s kids and let me know a week ago.”

You huff as you stand, now dusting off your ass. “We had lunch a week ago.”

He meets your eye over Bucky’s shoulder. “And I didn’t exactly lie. Just omitted the truth.”

“Big fat liar.”

Steve ignores you, completely accustomed to your sarcasm and kindergarten insults. His attention returns to Bucky, as you turn your attention to Clint.

“Sometimes I think you want to kill me.”

Clint snorts, “I’m not that heavy. You’re just small.”

He accepts the shove to his shoulder. Clint would never admit it, but he acts this way because he’s an only child. By teasing you, Kate, and Wanda, he’s able to channel all that big brother energy somewhere. Why only you three? No one knows. Pietro is the same age and yet, receives Clint’s best friend energy. Maybe Clint Barton was destined to be a girl-brother—like a girl dad. The words sound stupid in your head as you repeat it.

He pulls your mini-suitcase from the trunk just as Peter emerges, shy as always around new people. “Clint, this is Peter Parker! He’s my assistant, but for the next week he’s just a friend! Got it?”

Clint barely acknowledges a single word you said besides the formal introduction. He shakes Peter’s hand and welcomes him to town, pointing back at the house as Peter lugs his own suitcase forward. With the snow, the pink of his cheeks, and his raggedy bag, Peter Parker fits in perfectly. As if the town gave its blessing.

“On a scale of one to ten, how much do you like Steve?” Clint asks, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Uh,” you mumble, pulling Bucky’s suitcase out. “Ten. He’s been in my life since the beginning.”

Clint nods, a thin smile spreading across his face. Adjusting his hearing aid, he says, “Please let me know the new number when he tells you.”

“Huh?” But Clint’s already running back into the house, carrying your suitcase over his head. He’s lucky his dumbass didn’t slip on the driveway.

When you finally go inside, your dad and Sam are nowhere in sight. You can vaguely hear them near the back of the house, though. Steve is in the kitchen alone, chugging some water and Bucky gone.

“Why am I going to hate you?” you ask, setting your purse down on the dining room table. It’s littered with holiday decorations. Paper snowflakes, red and green candles, baking utensils.

Steve smirks, wiping his mouth. “I’m staying in your room.”

Your brows furrow. “Where the hell are Bucky and I supposed to sleep?”

“Oh, you’re staying in your room, too! Bucky gets the guest room.”

There it is.

“Wha—”

“Your dad isn’t taking any chances this time.”

Huh? What kind of joke was this? A cruel game Steve, Sam, and your dad must have come up with before you even entered the damn town, probably. “I’ve been dating the guy for two years! Of course we fuck!”

Steve purses his lips, eyes widening. “Oh, don’t worry, I know!” Sarcastic, loud, sonofabitch. “Fucking know well enough, too!”

One time. One damn time he walked in on you. “Don’t be jealous.”

He blinks. “Jealous?”

“You want to join? Just ask.”

Steve dramatically slaps his chest as he goes to grip at his heart. “I’m going to throw up in my mouth. Then I’m going to spit it on you.”

“Kinky.”

“You little—”

“Bumblebee!”

Your dad practically sprints into the kitchen, arms stretched wide. You jump up and down as you grip him tightly. “Dad!”

“The drive okay? You hungry?”

“Yes and no! How are you? How’s Monica?”

Your dad flushes at the mere mention of his girlfriend’s name. “Great. She’ll be here for the party.”

He swings you around twice, surprisingly strong for a man who works at a desk nowadays. Sam smiles brightly at the sight. “Gosh, I missed you.”

“I missed you too, but that’s diminishing by the second. What’s this about you barring my boyfriend from my bedroom?”

Sam shoves Steve when he starts cracking up, scolding him. Your dad scrunches his face. “Bumblebee, the horror stories I’ve heard from your friends! From my friends! I understand young love—well, young and middle-aged love, really—but I have more guests staying here this season than just you! I’m being considerate.”

You grimace, then gag dramatically. “I don’t know what frightens me more. The fact that my own father views me as a sex-crazed monster or that I’m sharing a room with Captain Rogers.”

“I trust Steve. He’ll make sure no one goes in or out of that room.”

Steve continues to silently laugh behind Sam, who’s trying hard not to break himself. “Have I done something to you? Am I finally being rightfully punished for stealing one of your friends?”

Your dad scoffs playfully, pulling you in for a side hug. You hang limp, a bodily protest. “No, but now that you mention it, the punishment fits the crime.”

Steve pulls you from your dad, side-hugging you as well. “Don’t worry, pal. I’ll make sure she gets her full eight hours of sleep.”

“Suck my tit, Steve.”

“I’d rather not.”

Bucky chooses that moment to join the squabble, Clint and Pietro following close behind. “What’s happening?”

Shoving Steve away, his waist hitting the corner of the kitchen countertop, you disregard his yelp for Bucky’s attention. “Oh, Bucky, it’s horrible! It’s Romeo and Juliet all over again!”

“I may have missed the first time we lived that story,” Bucky says, his head tilting.

“We’re being separated! You and I are no more! The house is split!”

Steve groans, clutching at his side. His voice comes out gravely. “If it’s any consolation, I’m on your side, man.”

“It was my idea,” Sam offers, raising a hand. Looking back at him, he shoots you a cocky smirk.

“Sam…You traitor.”

“You’ll see each other all day. The nights aren’t going to kill you—”

“Shut up, Tybalt.”

Bucky gives you an unimpressed look. He’ll hype your Romeo and Juliet character reference later, but for now he needs to diffuse the situation.

He heard the conversation. He knows what you’re complaining about. Hell, he wants to complain too. But there’s this nagging voice at the back of his head telling him, Hey Bud. Remember that time one of your good friends invited you over during the holidays and you proceeded to fuck his daughter in every depraved position, every single night, while he was sleeping two doors over?

So he surrenders. “How about we continue with the decorations, yeah?”

“Why is it that you never fight by my side when my dad is involved?” you whine.

He clears his throat, smiling that white-person smile at your dad. “Either I stay on his good side and continue being with his beautiful daughter, or we duel and he wins.”

Your dad accepts this. “You earn some points with me by saying I’d win.”

Beside you, you feel Bucky relax instantly. Giving him the side-eye, you notice Peter emerging from the bathroom over his shoulder.

“Dad! This is Peter, my assistant!” Dragging Peter by the shoulders and presenting him like one would their greatest achievement, Peter holds out a timid hand.

“Ah! This is the man who dodges my calls by saying you’re in a meeting,” your dad jokes, shaking his hand.

Something flashes in Peter’s eyes. Alarm, panic, dread. Who knows. “The meetings were real, sir.”

“Well, either way. The couch is all yours! The more the merrier.”

“Thank you for having me, sir.”

“Everyone is welcome in my house! I try to be a good host.”

With those words, Peter’s eyes immediately soften. “Well, I’ve no longer got family in the city so this is a real honor.”

You notice how the words affect everyone. This tradition has run in your family since you were born—since before. It was an unspoken thing that everyone would convene at your dad’s house. Even if it wasn’t the largest, and people had to share beds, and everyone had to chip in for beer. But there was something about the fireplace in the corner, showcasing nine stockings with everyone’s names on them. The Menorah that was missing its final candle. The smell of cookies and pie every single day of December.

To share this tradition with a new edition, even if Peter might decide not to return next holiday season, filled you with honor.

Your dad, the king of making others feel a part of the club, asks Peter, “What’s your menu like? I’ll send Bumblebee to the store later today.”

Can’t forget that tradition, either. It was always your job to get everyone’s groceries for the week.

“I’ll go with you,” Pietro volunteers. “We’ll pick up Wanda along the way.”

You hum in response. “Make a list. Oh, and Steve?”

Steve lifts an eyebrow.

“I like to fall asleep to whale sounds and the sounds of gorilla’s mating.”

Bucky quickly agrees, just to fuck with Steve. The man who’ll be sharing his girl’s room, it seemed. Something silent but feral was festering in the pit of his stomach, but Bucky chose to make a joke of it instead.

Maybe it won’t be so bad. You two have slept away from each other before. You don’t see each other everyday.

So Bucky won’t let it get to him.

He won’t.

Promise.

“You’re forced to share a room with another magnificent and stunning male?” Peggy laughs, clearly entertained by the news you’ve shared. Peggy follows you down the aisle with a basket in hand, waving off Pietro’s constant asks of carrying it for her. Wanda swipes the listed items off the shelves into the cart with impressive speed, only half-listening to the conversation. “I don’t see the problem!”

“I’m with Bucky.”

“So?”

“And it’s monogamous.”

Peggy huffs, “Then strike everything I would have said you do if you were me.”

“I personally don’t understand why Steve has to stay in your room anyway,” Pietro interjects. “Like, there are two couches in the living room.”

“Sam is taking one.”

“Then why not have Steve bunk with Bucky?”

Wanda twirls, a box of sugar cookies in her grip. “I can answer this one! Because even though Bucky slept with his daughter, our little Bumblebee is being scolded now. Your dad is getting revenge.”

So by having Steve bunk with you, it’s essentially torture…for you. Because you’ll have to be the one to sneak out if you dare; you’ll be the one dealing with Steve’s horrendous snoring; you’ll be the one who has to go down the stairs. It was brilliant. Evil and brilliant.

“Revenge? After two years?”

Peggy chuckles, moving her basket from Pietro’s reach again. “Fathers. Always such rascals. My father turned a blind eye and I loved him more for it.”

“My father isn’t turning a blind eye. He’s actively engaging in separating us.”

“I think it’s fucking funny,” Pietro admits, covering his mouth. “Sorry, Peggy.”

Peggy waves him off. “I think it’s fucking funny, too.”

“So, what?” Wanda scoffs, throwing a package of napkins in the cart. “So you’re separated for a week. You don’t have to fuck in the house. There are other places!”

“Wanda!”

“No, no, she’s right on that front!” Peggy admits. “Kate’s bar, the gym Clint attends, the motel!”

You groan, leaning down against the cart. Your chin rests on your folded arms and your back is at an awkward angle. “To stay at a motel like last summer? Then my father will know what we’re doing. And that makes my insides twist.”

“You’re young and you keep your man young. If fucking is the solution, then find a way to accomplish it.”

Pietro sends Peggy an incredulous look, frozen in place as the three of you pass him by. “Does she always speak like that?”

“Address me, dear. I can speak for myself.”

“Okay,” Pietro says, blinking a few times. “Do you always speak like that?”

“Only on Tuesdays.”

Pietro does the mental calendar-hopping in his head. Peggy Carter was the resident grocery store customer you formed an odd friendship with two Christmases ago. She had been outspoken then, and she’s definitely outspoken now. Just because she reigns supreme in age doesn’t mean that all she says and suggests is wise. Sometimes you wonder how she even got past her fifties with her mindset.

“Anyways, that’s my problem right now. Bucky and I will get through it and I will smother Captain Rogers in his sleep. Done!”

Wanda giggles, “He’s cute, though.”

Pietro rounds on her. “No, no! Stop talking.”

“He’s big and handsome and totally not off-limits for me.”

Pietro looks as if he’s just witnessed a mass murder. “I…He’s old enough to be our dad.” Then to you, “No offense.”

“If he had us in his teens.”

Pietro literally whines, “Wanda, I beg you. Do not fuck the Captain.”

“Are you going to let him order you, love?” Peggy asks Wanda, eyebrows high.

Wanda smiles, teeth and all. “Nope!”

Pietro whines again, watching his sister skip down the aisle. He calls after you, so you twist around slowly. “Talk her out of it.”

You shake your head. “You laughed at my predicament. Your sister can fuck who she wants.”

Pietro grumbles as you all pay for the groceries, as you say goodbye to Peggy, and on the drive home. Wanda seems to be two seconds away from cackling.

“This town is so tiny. It’s like a Hallmark movie.”

You give Peter a side-smirk while also holding the door open for him. He enters the bookstore like he’s on a mission, looking for everything and nothing at once. You figure he’s only accompanying you because he’s got nothing better to do in a strange town. And if he is planning on buying you a Christmas present—because he has literally no one else besides Bucky to buy one for—he probably wouldn’t buy it now while you’re with him.

“There’s talk about combining it with the town next over. But that never goes down well for us small town folk.”

Peter scrunches his nose, shaking his head. “Every place has a personality. Combining two doesn’t guarantee a functioning third.”

“You’ve got the right.”

Two Christmases ago you had found Bucky a perfect first-edition about rejected Christmas tales. This time, however, you’re thinking something different. Last summer you had edited a book and included one of Bucky’s major plot suggestions…which made it into the final draft. Bucky doesn’t know, and getting the book for him seemed like a proper gift with meaning attached to it.

Peter watches you drift into the fantasy section. He huffs a laugh, “Another book? What are you guys? Like, 50?”

“You followed my ass into a bookstore. What did you expect? Besides, we’re both avid readers.”

“So get the dude a bookmark.”

“I’m gonna get you a bookmark, you ungrateful son of a bitch.”

Peter laughs again. He grabs a random book and inspects the cover. “What else have you gotten him? I remember you getting him a book last Christmas, too. Actually, for the past two Christmases you’ve known each other.”

“The first Christmas doesn’t count. I had literally just met him.”

“And you got him a book. What did you get him for Hanukkah?”

Anal. But you’re not about to tell your assistant that little tid-bit.

So you answer, “An appropriate gift.”

Peter shakes his head. "A book is a gift that says ‘I love you’, sure. But you need a gift that says ‘I love you, and I want to screw you forever but as husband and wife.'"

Eyes widening, you practically sprint the short distance over to cover his mouth with your hand. “Shhh!”

“What—What?” he mumbles behind it.

“Don’t you dare mention marriage in this town. The gossip will spread, and next thing you know you’re pregnant with your ex-boyfriend’s child, who may or may not be the actual father because you were plastered when you slept with three different guys that same night.”

Peter blinks, waiting a few seconds after you remove your hand from his face to speak. “That’s too specific to be made-up.”

You shrug. “Happened to a cousin of mine.”

“Did she have the kid?”

“I think so. Haven’t seen her in years—”

The sound of your name cuts off your sentence. That voice distinct—unmistakable. Turning, you’re half-convinced you imagined it. But no—there he is. Beautiful as ever, and so much older than the last time you saw him. Like Bucky, you had missed seeing him every time you visited. Two people passing through and yet, never reconnecting. The voice of the only man you dated from this town.

“Peter,” you sigh, astonished by the chance meeting.

“Yeah?” Peter answers, confused.

“No—Peter,” you say, pointing at the man walking toward you, a bright smile on his face. “Peter Quill.”

“And he is?”

Quill extends his arms out in joyful greeting, surprise written across every feature of his fine face. “Well, I’ll be damned. I’ve heard you’ve been visiting every Christmas since you got that fancy New York job!”

You accept his quick hug. “Ever since! How are you?”

“Same old, same old. Dad retired, so I manage the business now.”

“Oh, that’s great! You always wanted to be the boss!”

He runs a hand down the back of his neck, blushing. “It is great. But I want to hear about you! I haven’t seen you since—”

“Since high school graduation.”

He nods, looking you up and down. Not in a sleazy way, but in a way that conveys pure wonder. Like you were a flower that had withered and magically revived. “You’ve…grown.”

You snort softly, pointing at his chest. “Obviously, both of us did.”

He blushes again. “Well, hey. How about we meet up sometime this week and have dinner or something?”

“I was actually planning on going to Kate’s tomorrow night for the fundraiser. You should come!”

His face brightens as he accepts. “You know, I just might. I don’t remember the last time I just sat down and had a beer in public.”

“Contracting that much of a hard job?”

“I am the boss.”

Peter clears his throat beside you, a half-smile plastered on his face. A somewhat incredulous smile.

Knocked from your one-on-one, you instantly start introducing them. “Oh shit. Peter, this is Peter. Peter Parker, my assistant.”

Quill adopts a proud look. “Assistant? Damn, Bumblebee, you’ve been climbing that ladder.”

Quill was the first one out of your friends who began calling you Bumblebee for shits and giggles. Then Wanda and Kate followed, then Clint, then the whole universe. Guess you have Quill to thank for it, but it still made you squeal as a teenager. Now it just functions as a term of endearment.

Peter waves a bored hand through the air. “I don’t get her coffee if that’s what you’re imagining. I google shit for her.”

Quill nods reassuringly. “A very important job indeed.”

Peter purses his lips. “So, Peter—”

“Oh, I go by Quill. It’s been my nickname since…forever, really.”

“Quill…High school friends, then?”

Your eyes settle into a I know what the fuck you’re doing glance. As if daring Peter to investigate further.

But Quill gives him the answer he’s looking for. “We used to date.”

Peter bends forward, over-exaggerated amusement spilling from his literal pores as he slaps his palms against his knees. “Really!”

“Yeah, like ten years ago,” you deadpan.

“Still interesting news!”

Pursing your lips, you turn back to Quill. “Don’t mind him. He’s this close to being fired.”

Peter puffs, “Who else will close the blinds and lock your office door for you whenever Buck—”

Quickly, you pat Quill’s shoulder. “I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow night, Quill. The festivities start at eight!”

He stares down at you, something raw flashing in his eyes. Something akin to eagerness. “Looking forward to it.” He takes whatever was in his hands and pays at the front counter, shooting you one final grin before exiting the store.

Peter steps in front of you, arms-crossed and expression smug. “You invited your ex-boyfriend to hang out with your friends and current boyfriend?”

“Hey, he’s Clint’s friend too! And Quill literally lives here.”

“Did Clint ever make out with him?”

You raise a hand to pinch your index and thumb together. “This close to being fired, Parker.”

He turns and skips down the aisle, ignoring your threat. “I feel like I’m in a movie! Small town, old boyfriend, current boyfriend, the holidays!”

Jogging to catch up to him, you basically abandon the thoughts of Christmas presents in order to convince the little shit he’s reading the situation wrong. “Nothing is going to happen with Quill ever again. Do you hear me?”

“Were you and I looking at the same man?”

Glaring, you promise, “Just because he bulked up doesn’t mean my panties are going to drop.”

“Ah, but you did notice he’s huge.”

You exit the store, leaving him a few feet back. “You’re fired.”

Dramatically, Peter presses, “But who will google the definitions of words that stump you when you’re editing?”

The air conditioner blasts around your hundredth sigh. And yet, it’s still not loud enough to mask the sound of Captain Steve fucking Rogers snoring on the floor at the foot of your bed.

What the fuck was your dad thinking? This was so fucking awkward for both you and Steve, obviously, but Steve was too good of a man to say anything. He was given the opportunity to play the protect our shared daughter from boys card, and he snatched that shit right up. Now you were cursed with his snoring practically in your ear, a personal assistant sleeping on the couch downstairs, and a boyfriend a whole staircase below you. A boyfriend that was probably wide awake and low key theorizing all the ways he’d kill Steve in the morning.

Because even though he trusts Steve, and Steve has obviously shared space with you before back in New York, the mere fact you’re alone with an attractive male who is not him must be eating at his self-control. Hell, it’s eating at you. It’s not fun when Steve plays the angel card. He’s much more fun when he fights back.

“Steve,” you whisper-yell, locking your muscles tight as you wait for a response. But the only verbal response you receive is another loud snore. “Steve.”

He doesn’t stir. Slowly, painstakingly slow—you slip from under the covers and tip-toe to the door. Looking back, you’re half convinced Steve will roll over and point with a loud declaration of, “Ha-ha! Got you!”

But the big lug snores and chokes, deep in whatever sedated dream he’s currently experiencing.

Rolling your eyes, you then step out into the hallway with the grace of a literal swan. Sidestepping the noisy wooden planks, avoiding breathing when you walk past your dad’s closed door, pausing between each stair on the way down. The second you touch the carpet, you silently cheer.

Now all you’ve got to do is pass Peter Parker and Sam Wilson. Which proves easy as well, considering Peter’s draped over one couch, on his stomach, with one leg out the blanket and a hand tangled in his hair. Out cold. Sam’s on his back, arm folded over his face, and snoring loudly.

Pulling your phone out of your pajama-shorts pocket, you send Bucky a text.

Open the door.

There’s no response, but there is the distinct sound of bedsheets ruffling and soft pads of feet across the floor.

Bucky opens the door, and the soft orange light shining behind him gives him such a lovely halo, such a gorgeous glow, that you’re tempered to fall to your knees and pray.

“I’m not dueling your dad,” he says, glaring and squinting at the same time.

“Then we’ll have to be quiet.”

He huffs, leaning his forehead against the doorframe. The door is only slightly cracked open, like he’s restraining himself. “Doll…”

“Please?” Because what else can you say?

“Fuck…We’ve gone a week celibate before. How is this any different?”

Biting your lip, you admit, “Everyone’s telling me that I can’t.”

Bucky smirks a little. “So, I’m forbidden fruit?”

Now you pull out the big guns. Still biting your lip, you tilt your head down—barely—and lift your right foot up—barely—so it looks like you’re faintly tempted to cross your legs. “Please.”

Bucky’s eyes slowly close, and his nostrils flare. He pulls you in, expertly shutting the door with a faint click. Immediately, you attack his lips, kissing him feverishly. Like you’ve forgotten his taste. Like you can’t get enough.

“Doll—“

“I want to fuck you.”

Sucking in a harsh breath, Bucky asks, “Yeah?”

You nod the best you’re able, your lips still pecking his. “Mm, I want to see if you can be quiet.”

Bucky detaches himself long enough to speak, his hands gripping your waist. “And here I was thinking you were a little cockslut for me today. But you actually want to make me beg for it.”

You whine softly in response.

“Torture, is what that is. Selfish, and evil.”

You didn’t even realize Bucky had been walking you toward the bed until he crashed into it, dragging your body onto his. With him splayed out underneath you, your fantasies grow supreme.

“It’s both. I want your cock inside me, but I want to see that look on your face you only get when I fuck you just right.”

Bucky’s hips hitch upward involuntarily. “God, I love you.”

With a small giggle, you lean down to nibble on his neck.

Was it dangerous to do this on the very first night? Not exactly. If you were caught, you would just be bullied to the ends of the earth because of it. You’ll be hearing this story even when you are old and in diapers. Your dad may have some choice words with you in the morning, and his gun would definitely make an appearance—aimed at Bucky, of course—but he’d get over it.

Yes, this whole exhibitionist thing you and Bucky have going on is the slightest bit rude. You’re a guest at your father’s house, not a resident. You don’t pay the mortgage. He asked this one simple thing of you for the duration of your stay: Do not share a room with your lover, one of my best friends, under my roof.

But are you respecting his wishes? No.

Does it feel naughty and so fucking nasty, though? Yes.

By the time you get to the, “Will I feel guilty in the morning?” internal bit, Bucky’s cock is deep inside your mouth, and you’ve been stripped of all of your clothes.

Bucky grips the bed sheets as hard as he can, his metal hand squeaking in the otherwise quiet room. His breathing is erratic, but not loud enough to warrant inspection.

Popping off him, you run your tongue from the base to the tip, swirling it around and sucking—one of Bucky’s favorite moves. His tip is the most sensitive part. And when you dip the tip of your tongue over his slit, Bucky nearly shouts. His flesh hand shoots down to grip your hair, half-trying to ball it into a ponytail and half-trying to move it out of the way in whatever direction he can.

“Fuck, look at those lips,” Bucky praises. His eyes meet yours when you look up at him, cock hard on your tongue, and his mouth drops from a sudden rush of tingling pleasure that hits the base of his stomach. “Fucking born to suck my cock, huh?”

With a few final long licks and deep sucks, you release his cock to stand from the bed. “Born to suck and fuck you, Barnes,” you giggle. “Did you bring the lube?”

Bucky rests his head against the pillow, chuckling softly toward the ceiling. “I brought it in case of a quickie and we wanted to skip your prep.”

Humming, you snap open the lid and walk back to the bed. You don’t miss the hungry look Bucky has as he visibly eats your figure up. Settling between his legs, you pat the outside of his right thigh. “Open up, sweetheart.”

“God,” Bucky quietly moans, and bends his knees. Spreading them farther apart, he presents himself to you. And fuck, is he a treat. Cock hard and red, dribbling against his lower abdomen. His balls locked tight, practically begging to be fondled. And his tight, puckered hole waiting for your fingers.

Spreading some lube onto your index finger, you look up at him. “Do you want to fuck me after this?”

“Sweetheart,” he mocks, sucking in one deep breath as he watches you warm the lube between your fingers. “I don’t come unless you come, too. Got that? Don’t you dare make me feel good and then leave yourself untouched.”

“I can always return to my room and take care of myself there. This is for you.”

You say the last sentence with the most teasing tone you can conjure. Bucky Barnes is wholly complete to you. Meaning, there isn’t a puzzle piece left unturned, a secret left untold, or a wish left unsaid. And even though people claim you never stop learning about a person no matter how long you’re with them, they’re wrong about that. Because even if you “learn” something new about Bucky, it’s a given. Something you may not have guessed entirely accurate, but something irrevocably him that it proves to be the most obvious thing in the world.

And as raunchy as this example was, you know Bucky would never let you leave this room without coming at least once, but you never thought he’d declare it so hot and angrily.

“Fuck yourself in front of my friends and see what happens.”

Smiling wide, you lay the pad of your index against his hole. Bucky tenses, gritting his teeth at the sudden touch. “You want to fuck me in front of Steve?”

Bucky growls, suddenly reaching forward to grip the back of your head to tug you down. With a tiny yelp, you fall forward onto his chest, your lips a centimeter away from each other.

“That’s already happened, and it was an accident.”

Slowly, you push your finger into him. Bucky swivels his hips, the movement itself an ask for you to do something else with the intrusion.

“Oh? I remember you admitting to me that it was one of the hottest things that’s ever happened to you, even if Captain Rogers, one of your best friends, saw my wet cunt stretched around your cock.”

Bucky slams his lips against yours, his mouth parting when your finger starts sliding in and out, in and out. He tightens around you, and his hips swivel again. You rise up so you can get a better view.

“You like when people know how well you fuck me.” Pulling out, you massage his hole before lining up your middle finger. You slide both fingers in as you say, “Especially when I have to look those people in the eye the next day.”

Pumping into his body, you marvel at the way his face scrunches in pleasure. How his mouth parts and his bottom lip shines. How his throat bobs and his skin turns a dark pink. How his chest heaves and his nipples harden. Nipples you find yourself leaning toward and biting softly, pulling the pebbled tip between your teeth. Bucky whines, his breathing quickening.

“Sometimes I just want you to rip my jeans off in front of everyone and fuck me right there. I want you to talk them through it—what it feels like, what you want to do to me. I want a fucking audience for when your cock finally leaves me and I’m dripping your—“

“Doll, I’m going to need you to shut the fuck up or else I’m exploding right here, right now.”

Bending your fingers, you rub against his prostate until he’s writhing. His cock gives a slight pulse, then another and another as you nearly rub him to completion. But you alternate between fucking him with your hand as fast and coordinated as you can, then stopping to stroke him from the inside. It’s a combination that always brings Bucky to fucked-out tears.

“Tell me when you want to switch,” you assure him. “Tell me and I’m all yours.”

“You little minx,” he grunts, hands sliding along your waist and up to your tits. He pinches a nipple with his metal hand, elated when your face slackens. “Now, sweetheart. Make yourself come now.”

With one final swipe at his prostate, you remove your fingers and wipe the excess lube off on the bed sheets. Then, in one of the most practiced moves you’ve come to achieve, swing your leg over until you’re hovering over his cock, and sink onto him.

“Fuck,” he moans, gripping your hips as he readies to bounce you. But he lets one hand travel, one hand rise and smack your mound. Quickly, you cover your mouth with your hand, clenching your eyes shut.

Pussy-slapping. Huh. Everyday you find out something new about yourself.

He does it again. And again, and again, until you get the message and begin lifting your hips. Bouncing up and down, clenching purposely just to teeter him over that sweet edge, pinching his nipples whenever he did yours.

It’s rough and wet and possibly a little too loud for your predicament, but it’s too good to stop. Every spring of your hips reminds you of that glorious fullness, how the girth of Bucky’s cock burns and shocks and blesses you all at once. Reminds you of his sculpted body beneath yours, a body that has lain there and took it, a body that has draped itself over you and encased you with loving warmth. And the whimpers he expels, the way he bites his lip, the way his fingers leave masculine imprints on your skin…it’s evident you’re the same way, that your face contorts the same way his does, that your nails are leaving light red marks on his chest.

A magnificent pair��two bodies, two people attempting to reach a new height hidden at the base of stomachs, at the edges of spines, in the melting slush behind ribs.

Fuck your exhibitionist kink. You can’t stay away from Bucky because you, simply put, can’t stay away. If you weren’t horny tonight, you’d bet millions that you still would have snuck in and simply held him goodnight.

Bucky tugs you forward until you’re chest to chest, practically hugging, and holds you there as he fucks up into you. Fast, deep, desperate.

“I fucking love you,” he whispers through a moan, his voice near your ear. “Love you with all my goddamn heart.”

“I—” He hits that spot inside of you, and continues to hit it once he realizes. “I love you.”

His arms unwrap from your waist so he can grip your ass, spreading you wider as he pumps. “C’mon, Doll. Come for me. Come all over my cock like the cockslut you are.”

Biting into his shoulder, you shatter completely. Black spots impair your vision, and your back practically bows. Bucky fucks you quicker, and with a low grunt, spills into you.

Sweaty and overheating, you lift yourself with weak elbows. His eyes are still closed as you comment, “For the record, the next time I fuck you in this house, it’ll be with a strap-on and you’ll be bent over this bed, do you hear me?”

Bucky smiles through his post-orgasm daze. “Fuck yes. Make me that promise, sweetheart. Make me your cockslut.”

You chuckle deeply. “It’s funny when you say it when you refer to yourself.”

He blinks an eye open. “Funny?”

“Cute,” you correct. “Because it’s you admitting you’re as much of a horny little bastard as I am.”

Bucky snorts softly, and helps lift you from on top of him. Reaching over the nightstand, he snatches a couple tissues. He cleans what he can, but a bathroom trip is required. “You better sneak back to your room before someone gets suspicious about my light being on.”

“Maybe Steve woke up.”

“Steve sleeps through those loud as fuck broadcasted alerts and earthquakes. I highly doubt the jerk woke up on a silent night like this one.”

“Not so silent anymore.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. You dress, plant a long kiss on Bucky’s bruised lips, and slip from the room undetected. Peter hadn’t moved from his spider position and Sam still snored loudly. Nothing in the kitchen has been disturbed.

You succeeded. You actually fucking succeeded. With a wonderful tenderness between your legs and a blush on your cheeks, you gently climb the stairs and open your bedroom door. Steve lies on his stomach now, sprawled out and practically dead.

You’ll have to sleep without Bucky’s arms around you tonight, but knowing he wanted you as badly as you wanted him? Bliss.

TAGLIST: [on masterlist]

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes smut #Bucky Barnes x female reader #holiday fanfic #marvel fanfiction #avengers au #warmth of winter sequel #warmth of the future #part one #captainsimagines #by Moni #dbf!bucky #dbf!buckybarnes

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captainsimagines · 2 years ago

Text

the warmth of the future || B.B || Masterlist

Pairing: James “Bucky” Barnes x (Fem) Reader

Trope: DBF Bucky Barnes ; Established Relationship ; Holiday Fanfic

Based on the Song(s): ‘Willow’ by Taylor Swift

This Mini-Series is completed. (THIS IS A SEQUEL TO “THE WARMTH OF WINTER”)

AO3 Link

Warnings: This series deals with heavy sexual situations that include: an age difference kink, exhibitionism, accidental voyeurism, and oral/unprotected sex. Individual warnings are listed chapter-by-chapter. You are responsible for your own media consumption. This work is strictly 18+ and is purely fanfiction.

Total Word Count: 23,380+

Author’s Note: I’ve always wanted to write more than an epilogue for these two. It’s more found-family based with a lot more dialogue. I hope you enjoy this little glimpse into their future, and the holidays in August. Love you all. xxMoni

one 🌹

two 🌹

three 🌹

TAGLIST: @fandoms-writings @mannien @povlvr @real-jane @gabewerk @smokeinherperfume @natbarnes1917

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #the warmth of winter sequel #the warmth of the future #captainsimagines #by Moni #dbf!buckybarnes #dbf!bucky #dad's best friend bucky barnes #bucky barnes miniseries #based on a taylor swift song

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captainsimagines · 2 years ago

Text

the warmth of the future || two

Pairing: DBF James “Bucky” Barnes x (Fem) Reader

Based on the Song: ‘Willow’ by Taylor Swift

Warnings: strong language; bar games; age difference kink; exhibitionism; jealous! Bucky; dom+sub vibes; some angst

Word Count: 8,890+

Author’s Note: Sorry? Lol

You’re barely entering the kitchen, head a matted mess, when the conversation snags your attention.

“Steven,” Pietro says quietly, sitting at the dining table, his hands intertwined in front of him. “Be honest with me.”

Steve sips his coffee, the white t-shirt he’s wearing already branded with a small coffee stain. His eyebrows scrunch as he responds, treading carefully. “I am being honest with you. Wanda has never flirted with me like that.”

Pietro releases a comical, shaky breath. “Oh, thank God—”

“I mean,” Steve continues, reaching over for the box of blueberry muffins. “She sometimes calls me cute. Tells me that I’m respectful and she doesn’t understand how I’m single. She even gives me free flowers whenever I visit because you guys typically have extras.”

Pietro freezes, his eye twitching. “This is the first time I’m hearing about the flowers.”

“Oh? Was I not supposed to be getting free flowers? I like to twirl the tiny ones around my watch so I can smell them from time-to-time.”

Your dad blows over his own coffee mug, his chest vibrating with a small laugh. “Now you know how it feels, Pietro.”

“How what feels?” Steve asks, looking around the kitchen. Even Peter and Sam are participating, enjoying their muffins at the dining table. “What’s going on?”

Bucky sighs, clapping Steve on the back. “I’ll tell you later, buddy.”

“What’s all this?” you finally interject, stepping off the stairs. Your dad moves to fill your mug, passing it to you with a kiss at the top of your head.

“Pietro thinks Wanda’s trying to get at Steve,” Sam chuckles.

“She is! Back me up—Tell them what she said yesterday,” Pietro begs you, filling his mouth with muffin and coffee at the same time.

“I don’t recall her saying such a thing,” you answer, your expression of fake confusion taunting him.

“What—”

“Besides, Wanda going after Steve? Ew.”

Steve’s mouth drops, a quiet squeak escaping. “Women love me.”

“I don’t believe it,” you say, still sarcastic. Pietro seems to want to slap his hand over your mouth. “Maybe you should flirt with her to get your answer.”

Pietro throws his arms in the air, giving up. Everyone joins in on the laughter. Steve and Wanda—a couple? Steve never brought home his dates and just like Bucky before, he never had many long-term relationships. It was an odd match, just as you and Bucky are, but what of it? Maybe they’ll hit things off. Maybe there will be a spark no one thought would ignite. Maybe they’ll fall in love and truly experience what that emotion feels like.

When you think of Bucky—who’s currently shoveling muffins and biscuits into his mouth—your heart is near seconds from exploding. That slight ticklish feeling, that melting Clint urged you to recognize two years ago. Even the heartwarming impression of Bucky giving you your first flower—all these emotions tied into one and sometimes you thought you were going to throw up. Liking Bucky, loving Bucky, made you feel sick. But that good kind of sickness. The kind that kept you moving, that kept you from spiraling, the kind that promised to have all the answers to even the most insane questions.

So, yes, Wanda and Steve would make an odd couple. But they were so similar in so many ways. Wanda, loud and eccentric, who only wanted to share her excitement and love of multiple things with someone other than Clint, Kate, or Pietro. Steve, reserved and witty, who only wanted to listen to people’s wonders and help them see them.

You were mature enough to let the conversation take an alternative road, and once everyone but you, Sam, Bucky, and Pietro were left in the kitchen, finishing off the muffins, the conversation steered into something more personal.

“He’s been dating her for a year and a half,” you comment. “Dad’s not going to propose. Is he?”

Sam grits his teeth in an awkward smile. “I think he is, Bumblebee.”

Your mouth parts, “But he would have told me!”

“Monica’s all he talks about.” Okay, that was true for you too. Your dad couldn’t shut up about Monica whenever you asked about her. Sometimes you would lay the phone down on speaker and continue whatever you were doing as he rambled on. “He’s so fucking getting that ring, Bumblebee.”

And see, you want him to propose to her. Monica is an absolute sweetheart and perfect for your dad. Your relationship with her, considering you hardly ever see her in person, is that of good friends. You’d definitely call her if you needed help. It’s just breaking your heart in three different places that your dad hadn’t mentioned his intentions to you.

“Well, when do you think he’s going to do it? At the Christmas party?”

Bucky adjusts himself in his seat, his fingers tapping his thighs rapidly with no set rhythm. “I think he mentioned waiting until New Years, actually.”

“He told you that?” Pietro urges. “He only said that he was waiting for you—”

Sam quickly interjects, “And you ruined the surprise!” Did he, though? “Bumblebee, your dad was going to ask for your permission to marry, of course.”

“My permission?” Your dad has never been married, so why would he need your permission? “He’s a grown man.”

Bucky raises his metal hand in a I-don’t-know fashion. “Father-daughter bonding, I guess. But I remember him mentioning proposing on New Years yesterday.”

“Huh.” They were all acting really weird. Well, Pietro wasn’t but that’s because he only pretends to know half the shit going on. “Interesting.”

The front door slams open and Clint wanders into the house, wiping snow off his shoulders. “It’s coming down like hellfire out there!” He throws his jacket over a barstool, then wipes at his face. “Kate’s gonna have to shovel the snow out before the fundraiser tonight.”

Pietro immediately stands, raising a hand as if volunteering. “You think I would be any help now? I could—”

Clint shoves a hand into Pietro’s chest, effectively stopping him from walking past. Clint makes a show of sniffing the air and studying the faces of everyone in the kitchen. Then, with his eyes opening wide and a smile splitting his face, he exclaims, “You had sex! Your phone is vibrating like crazy! You’ve been leaving to help Kate way too often. I don’t even help my damn niece as much as you do.”

“Hey, woah, wait—” Sam tries, but Clint’s cackle cuts him off.

“Of course you don’t smell like sex, Wilson. Last time you slept with someone, people were still wearin’ pagers.”

“Okay, hold up—”

“These two fucked last night. They’re not even tryin’ to hide it!”

Your mouth opens and closes with surprise. Bucky hides his face in his hands. “How the fuck did you—”

“I didn’t! But look at that, your dumbass just admitted it.”

“You snuck past me last night?” Sam blinks at you, chuckling between each word.

“Clint,” you groan, smacking your forehead against the dining table. “Why today? Why two days before Christmas? Why couldn’t your present to me be shutting the fuck up?”

“Right, sorry, sorry,” Clint apologizes, pushing Pietro down back into his chair. “Sam, why is your phone havin’ seizures?”

Sam pushes his phone across the table, huffing as he reveals, “It’s my nephews, man. Sarah was going to surprise all of you guys on Christmas morning, but look at that, surprise spoiled.”

“You could have lied!” Clint says, picking up Sam’s phone, unlocking it, and scrolling through the messages. How he knows the passcode, you don’t know.

“You would have just done that,” Sam deadpans.

“Sarah and the boys are coming?” you yell. Fuck, you’ve got to buy even more gifts.

“Yup, room booked and everything. Just, keep it a surprise for everyone else, will ya?”

“But,” Clint whines, “We see everyone tonight! How can I keep it a secret?”

“You will or else Sarah will beat your ass, not me.”

"Noted."

Horrendous fact that Sam, Clint, and Pietro now know you fucked Bucky last night aside, you can’t help but be delighted with even more guests. Especially family you haven’t seen in years. Pictures don’t do the boys justice, so they’re probably towering you in height by now.

“Am I free to go now?” Pietro carefully inquires. Clint eyes him suspiciously, like he’s a bug that needs trapping.

“Guess Wanda’s openin’ up the shop then?”

Pietro nods. “Tell her I’m at Kate’s?”

With only slight hesitation, Clint lets him go. Pietro sprints out of there, waving goodbye as he exits the front door. Bucky clears his throat, “Is it just me or is everyone getting romantic this holiday season?”

“It’s just you,” Clint quickly replies. “C’mon man, or we’ll be late for the appointment.”

“Appointment? Where?” you ask.

Bucky bites his bottom lip, lightly stuttering. “Some tax specialist…guy.”

Blinking, you stare at Bucky in a way that tells him he’s going to regret lying to you, but that you also find his attempt at lying really funny.

Sam shakes his head. “Idiot.”

Clint waves a hand through the air. “Don’t worry about it, Bumblebee. It’s just a Christmas thing.”

“Don’t go overboard on the presents,” you chastise, standing to wrap your arms around Bucky’s neck, hugging him close. “You’ve bested me two years in a row now.”

Bucky chuckles deeply, raising one of your hands to kiss your palm. “But you deserve the best, Doll.”

“Blagh,” Clint gags. “We’ll see you guys tonight.” And with that, Clint ushers Bucky’s sweatsuit-covered ass out the front door.

“What kind of morning was that?” You turn to Sam, who’s smiling toward the two who just left.

“Chaotic, huh?”

“Yeah.”

It’s always chaotic, and this morning didn’t even include the full cluster of personalities. If Kate had been here, she would have been as loud as Clint. If Wanda had been here, you bet the conversation about her and Steve would have delved into more specific scenarios. If Peter would have stayed instead of leaving to explore the town, he would have seen the light being shone on all your family stories. Especially the holiday ones.

And what the hell was it with Bucky and Clint being secretive about that appointment? And your dad not telling you he’s proposing?

But nope. Nope. This holiday season was going to run smoothly. You would make sure of it.

“You’re kidding.”

Wanda shakes her head as she brings her coffee to her mouth. Kate slams her forehead down onto the counter, alarming the elderly customer smelling the poinsettias. You stare at them both, mouth dropped open and breakfast sandwich abandoned.

“Was no one going to tell me that Pietro’s got a thing for you?”

Kate groans softly, rolling her forehead against the counter. “He’s not really trying to hide it anymore, is he?”

Wanda snorts, sputtering some drops of coffee. Some strands of her dirty-blonde hair catch them. “He’s had a crush on you since high school.”

“Okay, no.” Kate finally raises her head, holding up an index finger. “It’s been over ten years. That man has not been harboring a crush on me for that long. He has not. Bumblewumble, tell her she’s crazy.”

“Um. I haven’t observed much, obviously. Now less than ever.”

Kate rolls her eyes. “But every time you visit, do you notice anything?”

Let’s see.

There was that time when you were all enjoying morning coffee and you noticed Pietro was a little too engrossed in Kate’s retelling of The Princess and The Frog. Sound effects, hand movements, everything. But Pietro stared at everyone intently, as if his whole heart was in it.

There was also last summer when you all went on vacation together for a week and you noticed that Pietro tried—obviously, too—not to stare at Kate in her yellow bikini. But you just thought he was being respectful. You certainly had an eyeful, Bucky too.

And Pietro usually sits near Kate every chance he gets. He volunteers to drink her wild drink concoctions. He lets her borrow his truck, especially when it rains.

“Fuck, I think he does.”

Wanda cheers, laughing loudly when Kate slams her forehead down again. The elderly customer slides beside Kate shyly, placing a basket of poinsettias near the register. Wanda hops off the counter to ring up her order.

“Kate.” Your voice is stern as it comes out. You lean your upper body downward since you’re also sitting on the counter. Kate blinks one eye open. “Do you not like him back? Is that the problem?”

“I mean…” Her nose scrunches as the words start to take form. “I do. I really do. But why now? Why is he making it so obvious now?”

You have the same question.

“If I may,” the older customer interrupts, her pale face reddening. “A lot of people get romantic during the holidays.”

Wanda nods, swiping the debit card through. “That could be the main reason he’s being obvious about it now. We’ve got the prime example right here about holiday hook-ups and their success rate.”

“Hey!” you laugh, swiping the air in a pretend smack. “My story was magical!”

“Your story was crazy cliché and rare at the same time. Make it make sense,” Kate whines.

The customer laughs along with the three of you. “Sometimes men just need a little boost. Whether it be liquid courage, Christmas lights, or the sound of music.”

“Oh! That could be why I’m feeling things for Steve!” Wanda concludes, as if she’s just solved an unanswerable problem.

“You don’t feel things for Steve,” Kate mumbles. “A certain part of you does.”

You snort, trying not to share your own dirty remarks out of respect for the customer. But the customer surprises you three again as she says, “When you think of this boy, does he make you happy?”

Kate sighs, her smile almost sad. “Yeah.”

“And would it be so bad to tell yourself you might like him, too?”

To that, Kate takes a little while longer to respond. She turns to you, worrying her bottom lip. “You took a chance with Bucky that could have destroyed our friend group and family. No offense. Pietro and I are here everyday, and you and Bucky are all the way in New York. You have more freedom. If Pietro and I don’t work out or if something bad happens, it would be worse.”

You one-hundred percent understand where she’s coming from. Dating within a friend group, especially a friend group as close as yours, is dangerous.

“Then keep holding out, dear,” the customer shares, cradling her order. “Sometimes you just don’t know the answer until they’re on their knees in front of you.”

“Great,” Kate says. “He’s gotta propose first, then date me?”

“Men get on their knees for other reasons besides marriage, dear.”

Your mouth drops, a potato chip loose and dangling. Wanda shares the same expression as she mutters, “We have a really good friend you’d probably like. Her name is Peggy.”

The older woman smiles. “I believe I would. She’s my aunt.” The revelation sticks with you long after the customer, Sharon, leaves with your regards for Peggy and Wanda’s flowers.

“So what about it, Kate?” you push, finishing the last bite of your sandwich.

Kate shrugs, stealing a sip from Wanda’s cold coffee while she helps another customer. “I guess I won’t know my answer until he’s on his knees.”

The atmosphere would never change in this bar. That mixture of home life, forty-year old fathers watching the weekend games, and after-school sport celebrations. This was perhaps the only bar on the east coast that had a special area for underage customers. Despite the segregation, a few drifters were crossing the boundary to put their names in to participate in the bar games tonight. Fundraising bar games. With both alcohol and water provided.

The distinction was important—Kate had been yelling it for the past twenty minutes.

“Water for you, Mr. Star Quarterback. It’s gonna take a shit ton more to pull a fast one on me.”

The cute blond kid snickers, thanking her for his glass of water. Before he leaves, however, he shoots Wanda a quick wink. Wanda waves him away, grinning widely. “It makes me insanely insecure that I’m unable to pull guys my own age.”

Oh, but she was trying to pull Steve? You don’t mention that to her, though.

Kate laughs, “I’ve told you a million times that Clint has a crush on you.”

Wanda gags dramatically, “Clint has a crush on everyone. And shut the fuck up, Kate. That’d be like fucking my brother.”

Now Kate gags. Some beer dribbles from your bottom lip as you choke, “No. Don’t say that shit again.”

“Clint’s basically my brother.”

“And yet, not. The comparison you just made is fucking frightening.”

Wanda scoffs, but the music playing on the overhead speakers catches her attention mid-thought. Not just hers, it seems. Yours and Kate’s, too. The three of you are a synced chorus of intrusive thoughts.

Give it up to Kate for playing pop music tonight. And when pop is introduced, so is Taylor Swift.

“BUT I MISS—SCREAMING AND FIGHTING AND KISSING IN THE RAIN, IT’S TWO AM AND I’M CURSING YOUR NAME. SO IN LOVE THAT YOU ACT INSANE AND THAT’S THE WAY I LOVED YOU!”

Then, from across the room, Peter Parker joins in with, “BREAKING DOWN AND COMING UNDONE, IT’S A ROLLERCOASTER KIND OF RUSH!”

The whole bar freezes for your small performance, but it’s just the chorus that’s screamed. To scream that whole song would leave your throat raw.

Wanda’s composure straightens literally as quickly as she lost it. “Would you fuck Clint?”

Taking a sip from your beer, your heart trying its best to ignore the second verse of the chorus coming up, you admit, “I’d actually rather die.”

Clint materializes from the backroom, lugging a case of beer on his shoulder. He takes them out one-by-one, placing them into their own pretty containers of ice as he curses, “Fuck you, Bumblebee. You know what? If you and I were the last people on Earth, and you begged for my cock, I’d say no. You would die of horniness. I’d jack off in front of you to show you what you’re missin’.”

You smile around the tip of your beer bottle, eyes sparkling with laughter. Your expression of amusement has Clint puffing a breath with his hands on his hips. You're incredibly thankful your dad was spending the night with Monica and had to miss the fundraiser. If he heard this conversation…

Kate cracks open a beer for herself. “Not even to repopulate the Earth?”

The fact Clint actually takes a few seconds to theorize his answer is brilliant. “After, it would be some creepy Adam and Eve shit where brother fucked sister. So, no. Not even then.”

“Good answer,” you tell him, reaching over to pat his shoulder encouragingly.

“But.”

“Stop talking.”

“If we’re truly the last ones on Earth, why bother? I’d kill you out of mercy and murder myself after. There, problem solved.”

The sound of cheering interrupts whatever it is Clint is about to say next. You see Captain Rogers fist bump the air, then grip Pietro’s shoulders proudly. Which can only mean they’ve added another point to their scoreboard. On the opposite team, Sam and Bucky sit with sore faces, rolling their eyes every chance they get. According to their scoreboard, they’re five points behind and losing. Which means the twenty dollars they each donated was about to raise to forty each.

“Your boyfriend is fuckin’ stupid,” Clint comments, stepping around the bar to take the seat beside yours.

With a quick kick to Clint’s shin, you rebuke, “It was an unfair question.”

A question you didn’t hear, but hey, you’ve got to defend your man.

Clint snorts, adjusting his hearing-aid. “Which football team won the 1998 Superbowl? The Rams? Fuck outta here.”

“Rams won in 2000.”

“Completely different numbers, stupid.”

“Next person who says stupid automatically donates a hundred without even participating in the games,” Kate chastises, handing a customer their beer.

Wanda purses her lips at both you and Clint. “Then maybe you should have been on your boyfriend’s team. And you should have joined the game when they were calling volunteers.”

Clint waves a hand through the air. “Sports trivia isn’t really my thing.”

“Then why are you bullying Bucky for it?”

Clint smirks. “To get your panties in a twist.”

This time, the sound of cheers is also accompanied by Sam’s loud whoop. High-fiving Bucky, who’s red in the cheeks and definitely not looking down at his lap, Sam points at the scoreboard until their 7 becomes an 8.

“Wooo!” you shout, cupping your hands around your mouth. Bucky looks up and tries desperately hard not to grin wider, but your constant shouts are making it hard not to. You give him a thumbs-up, which he enthusiastically returns. Pietro leans back on his bar stool, all the way around Steve’s shoulder, just to shoot you a nice view of his middle finger.

Bucky’s lucky guess wasn’t enough for him and Sam to win the game, though. They suffer Steve and Pietro’s badgering, and release heavy sighs as they fish that extra twenty dollars from their wallets. Walking over to you at the bar, Bucky kisses you on the forehead. “Apparently I don’t know sports as well as I thought I did.”

You mock a pout. “It’s okay. Maybe they’ll have a Lord of the Rings trivia next time.”

“Ha, ha.”

Kate grabs the microphone by the cash register and announces the next game. “Alright, my lovely townspeople! It’s time for the talent portion! If you’ve got a talent and think you’ll bring in those good tips, let’s see what you got!”

“Anyone got a secret talent they want to bestow upon us?” Steve asks, nodding his thanks at Kate as she hands him a beer.

“I’m really flexible,” Wanda comments, batting her lashes.

“Something worthy?” Steve replies.

Wanda fakes hurt, while Pietro sends her a grossed-out glare. You don’t have many talents that you can just whip out and bring in the big bucks with, so you choose to remain silent. In that silence, you look around the room, to the entrance, where the doors swing open and bring with them a flood of people. In that flood, surprisingly, is Peter Quill.

“Quill!” you call, waving your hand excitedly in the air. He spots you instantly, his grin widening. Wanda slaps your thigh repeatedly, her words jumbled. Clint automatically mimics her. Your thighs take matching assaults as you wait for Quill to step into your circle of friends.

“Hey!” He greets everyone with the same lovely smile, the same strong handshake. When he gets to Bucky, he doesn’t comment on the metal appendage. Everything goes smoothly, no matter how many of Peter’s instincts scratched at the back of your skull.

Speaking of Peter—Oh, he’s at the free video game consoles. Of course he is.

“You came!”

Quill shrugs, blushing lightly. “I don’t get out much and I heard about the roof. You got a guy for it already, Bishop?”

Kate smacks a hand towel over her left shoulder. “I’m thinking on a few. Why? You volunteering?”

Again, he shrugs. A loose yet individual gesture for him. “My guys usually do floors, but I’m all yours if you need me. I’ll even give you the ‘I-went-to-high-school-with-you’ discount.”

Kate smiles, all teeth. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

Quill finally turns back to you, pretending not to notice the smacking hands. “I’m here to donate my money and my time, Bumblebee. What mischief have you been getting into without me?”

You roll your eyes at the nickname this whole town has adopted for you, it seemed. “Well, we’re waiting on volunteers for the talent portion.”

“I’m sure you can pull something together in such short notice,” Quill smirks.

“Uh.” That was Bucky. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite placing you…Who are you?”

Fuck. The conversation was flying so quickly that you completely forgot to introduce them. “Right! Bucky, this is Peter Quill! Quill, this is Bucky Barnes!”

“Bucky Barnes!” Quill repeats enthusiastically. “Man, you were a legend growing up!”

“The one and only,” Bucky shyly responds.

“Quill and I went to high school together,” you explain.

Quill shakes his head, smiling. “We also dated for a year.”

At this, Bucky stills. Not from outright jealousy, but something else. Okay, a little bit from jealousy.

A lot from jealousy.

But something else is combined with it. Something akin to wounded. Like the very fact you hadn’t mentioned Quill, or the fact you had invited him tonight, or not mentioned him being an ex in your introductions, hurt him just a little. Yet he buries that under a thousand other feelings for now. It’s a good night, has been a fun night, and he doesn’t want to ruin it by lashing out with some petty bullshit.

So he answers with, “Ah. Small town and all, I guess.”

Quill chuckles, “Still is, always will be.”

“Hang on,” Kate interrupts. “Let’s get back to the talent portion. Pietro, you sing right?”

Pietro’s mouth parts with stuttering noises. Sam and Steve grip his shoulders and shake him wildly, shouting their encouragement as Pietro continues to shy away from the stares. That little tidbit had been stored near the back of your mind for years now. Pietro never really sang in front of crowds, nor did he whip out his guitar and piano during parties. Sometimes though, you would hear soft melodies escaping the closed office doors where you knew Pietro kept his keyboard piano, and very rarely would his voice join in. He performed in the school talent shows which is how you all know he was better than most, but he hasn’t performed in public since. It was mostly you and Kate stealing the spotlight during your senior year, with plays and cheerleading and track and field. Pietro was satisfied with cheering from the sidelines.

It’s not like he didn’t have a support system. You, Kate, and Wanda were his biggest fans, as were the four burly men screaming from the audience. Your dad, Steve, Sam, and Bruce. Tonight, that support system would definitely explode if Pietro decided to perform. Minus Bruce, but he was a rare occurrence nowadays anyway. Maybe next Christmas his magnificent brain would cool it with the scientific discoveries.

“I don’t know,” Pietro shyly admits. “I didn’t bring my guitar or keyboard with me.”

“I’ve got my old one upstairs. You might have to twist those thingies at the top or whatever, but it could work! Hold on,” Kate excitedly offers, abandoning the bar to race up the backstairs. Clint sighs deeply, hopping the counter to tend to customers.

“You don’t have to go up there if you don’t want to,” you assure him. “I’m confident someone will volunteer soon.”

Pietro gives a timid smile, his gaze settled on the stairs. As if waiting for Kate to return. “She needs the money.” Then, in a low whisper, “And it would make her happy.”

The whole exchange completely tears your attention away from Bucky and Quill. Quill, who’s watching Pietro light up by the mere sight of Kate’s busted guitar. Bucky, who’s watching Quill.

“We have a volunteer!” Kate shouts, clapping her hands together to incite a round of applause. Pietro sucks in a deep breath, climbs the small stage in the corner, and drags the microphone to his height. The bucket near his feet catches the snow and water dribbling down from the hole above. It’s both a problem and a stunner—the snow glistens white and orange, while the moonlight reflects the Christmas lights. A shame it has to be fixed. But at this one moment, it works.

“I don’t usually do this,” he tells the crowd. “But it’s for a friend. And she really needs her roof fixed.”

He picks at the strings, messes with those thingies at the top, and begins. Something twists in your gut as the first notes of Taylor Swift’s ‘Willow’ fill the bar—Kate’s favorite song. The song she put on her playlist a thousand times. The song she labeled yours and Bucky’s. A song with notes and verses that made you see Bucky in a whole new light.

Pietro’s deep and sensual voice carries, grabbing the attention of dozens of customers. The longer he sings, the longer he turns words into wine, the shorter that invisible, glowing string between you and Bucky becomes. Shorter, nearing its final merger, calling two souls to combine. Bucky comes up behind you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist, and settling his chin on your shoulder. Slowly, he rocks you both back and forth, dancing. Dancing in a rundown family bar, with snow sneaking through, surrounded by the people you love most.

And you love him, you love him, you love him. You don’t care that he lied to you earlier today. You don’t care about the secret, surprise, or catastrophic revelation. Bucky Barnes is holding you like you’re the Christmas spirit itself, and you love him.

“He’s only looking at her,” Bucky whispers into your ear, ruffling your hair. You follow Pietro’s gaze to the bar, where Kate has paused, towel held in both hands against her chest, an expression of pure awe painted across her elegant face.

There, you realize how much you truly miss every year when you’re off in New York living your life. The number of days and nights and conversations. You miss it all. How long had Pietro been pining over Kate?

You don’t know. You’ll probably never know.

But you’re here now, witnessing it, and it’s enough.

Two other townspeople volunteered for the talent portion after Pietro. The grand total of five thousand was nearing, and you were absolutely sure this game of spin-the-bottle would push it over the top. It was a twenty-dollar charge to participate, and as Kate’s friends, you were basically obligated.

So everyone pushed tables to the side, dragging chairs over to form one large circle. Everyone apart from Kate and Pietro paid to participate. Considering Kate had to continue running the bar and Pietro volunteered to help her, you let it slide.

But if you had to sit in a damn circle and watch Clint kiss Bucky one more damn time, you were going to implode.

“You’re rigging it,” you scold him. “Spin it faster!”

Clint shoots kissy faces at you. “Jealous?”

“I have seen him kiss you, Steve, and Wanda tonight. Your luck is pissing me off.”

Clint cackles, but spins harder this time. It lands on you. With a loud groan, you prepare yourself for his weight as he shoots from his seat, lands in your lap, and smooches you. One large kiss that’s over in under a second. He winks over at Bucky, who’s sitting a couple seats away from you.

Bucky lifts a hand. “It’s a game, Barton.” Clint delivers the statement back in a teasing voice.

It’s your turn to spin. Crouching down, you spin and pray, watching the bottle land on Steve. With a wrinkle of your nose and a slight tilt of the head, you say, “Ew, ready?”

Steve huffs, offended. “Come here and get it over with.”

Skipping over, you grip his cheeks and kiss him quickly. His lips are soft, thank goodness. “Your turn!”

Steve stands to spin the bottle as you return to your seat. The bottle lands on Sam, and their shared kiss is forced at best. Steve gags, “Ugh, it’s like kissing my brother.”

“Let’s not make it into something it’s not,” Sam urges. His spin lands on you, and that it’s even more awkward than the first. But Sam is a good sport, and his kiss is to the side of your mouth. Gentle and sweet, like a friendship kiss.

But now this means it's your turn again, and worry starts building as you think about the number of strangers in the circle. Because kissing people you know is fine and dandy, but strangers are another story. Luckily, the bottle lands on Bucky. Cheers erupt around the circle. Two large strides is all it takes for you to plop down on his lap, and kiss him. With tongue, to Steve's dismay, who’s sitting right beside him.

“I’ll never escape it,” Steve mumbles, but at the same time Clint announces, “Hey, you know what I noticed?”

Pulling yourself from Bucky, you smirk down at him and wink. “What, Clint?”

“You’ve kissed all of your dad’s friends.”

You freeze, as do Bucky’s hands on your waist.

“You slut.”

Flicking your middle finger at him, Clint just laughs louder.

The walk back to your assigned chair is calculated, with a hip sway and a glance over your shoulder. All enough to make Bucky readjust his seated position, crossing an ankle over a knee.

As you plop down in your seat, Quill leans over to say, “That was…A deep one.”

“Yup!”

“Like…You two were really dedicated.”

You laugh, “Well, duh.”

Quill’s eyebrows push together as his mouth forms a confused ‘O’ in response. As if genuinely puzzled. Did he not see you two dancing earlier?

A few more spins of the bottle signal the end. The bottle lands on Quill, and a stunning blonde rises from her chair, glowing in the cheeks. Her blush reaches her neck as her friends hype her up. Chants of “Carol! Carol! Carol!”

Quill, ever the gentleman, kisses her softly and respectfully. Carol’s face turns even redder and her walk back to her seat is dazed. As Quill leans down to spin the bottle, you notice how Bucky frowns at him.

And his frown grows even deeper as the bottle lands on you.

Standing and dusting off your pants, you laugh awkwardly. “Alright, let’s just get this over—”

Quill struts forward, grabs your cheeks, and kisses you deeply. That type of kiss that calls for the push of all emotion in one’s body. That type of kiss that says, I’ve been wanting to do this forever. A kiss that Quill tries to deepen, where his hands are now traveling dangerously low on your back. You push at his chest, and he goes with it. His eyes meet yours—foggy and mystified. Then confused and hurt.

“What did I do?”

The whole bar quiets. Kate even pauses the overhead music like the nosy bitch she is. Words elude your stunted ass.

“Uh.” The cough comes from none other than Peter Parker, who has been sitting in the circle without a single bottle landing on him. “If you didn’t already notice, man—she’s dating Bucky.”

Quill blinks at you, surprised. Nodding, you give him a pained smile. “Thus your kiss was a little…inappropriate.”

Glancing around the circle, you meet the gaze of your friends. Of Wanda, frozen but smiling like a Cheshire cat. Sam and Steve, deers in headlights. Clint, mid-chew on a hot wing and lips twitching upward.

But it’s Bucky that your gaze finds last. There’s something simmering in his irises, but he’s cool otherwise. Leaning back in his chair, calm and collected. Arms crossed, and a smirk threatening to split.

“I think the game is over. Right, guys? Right?” Sam presses, rallying the others to agree. Everyone does. Chairs and tables are put back into their original places while you and Quill just stare at each other, words absent.

Bucky slowly walks to you both, standing to the side, scarily undisturbed. “That’s right!” He snaps his fingers, like he has just remembered something important. “I’m not just a friend. I’m her boyfriend, too.”

You swallow loudly. “I’m his girlfriend.”

Quill looks between you. “I didn’t assume…I’m sorry.”

Bucky lays a hand on Quill’s shoulder, patting once, then twice. “Of course you didn’t. But now you know.” He turns to you, his eyes dark. “I’m getting tired actually. Happy to head home with me?”

It’s not an order. It’s a suggestion. Because even though the obvious answer is to follow Bucky out of here, he's still giving you the chance to choose. So you nod, placing your hand in his outstretched one, and quietly tell Quill goodnight. He remains standing where you left him, watching as Bucky leads you outside, knowing exactly what Bucky’s going to do with you.

“Look,” you start, throwing your purse to the corner of the room. Bucky heads straight for the kitchen, not paying a single glance over his shoulder. “I should have told you yesterday when Peter and I ran into him. But it wasn’t the most important thing on my mind.”

Bucky whirls around, eyebrows high. “Not the most important thing? Doll, it was obvious tonight that Quill thought he stood a chance.”

“Because I failed to mention I was dating you!”

“He kissed you.” And those three words, the way Bucky delivered them, absolutely obliterates you. Because you understand he’s jealous, but he also hurt. You kissed a ton of people tonight, and it was consensual, but Quill’s kiss was too far.

“He kissed you, and you have a history, he’s your age, and I—” His voice cracks at the end. But he steels himself as he says, “And it bothered the fuck out of me.”

Sadly, Bucky’s thought about that before. When he notices the surprise on people’s faces when you introduce him as your partner. When the topic of children is brought up randomly. When visiting your family, seeing your dad, and being his age. It’s all awkward and so not the norm, but would Bucky trade it for something else? Definitely not. He just needs you to know he’s all in. Completely, embarrassingly all in. Fuck the age insecurity. He’s yours and you’re his. He needs confirmation before he—

“God, Bucky.” You race to stand in front of him, cupping his cheeks. You don’t continue speaking until his wounded eyes meet yours. “I love you. I dated that man ten years ago, and it was a healthy and mutual break-up. I choose you.”

“But—”

“But nothing.”

For a second, Bucky seems to accept this. His blue eyes go soft, familiar and warm. Yet, he closes them and breathes in deeply. His grip on your shoulders tightens. “He touched you. And even if we speak of it during sex, sweetheart—I do not share unless we both agree to it beforehand.”

Furrowing your brows, you reply, “Yeah, I get that. I don’t want him in any way, shape, or form.”

“I'm the only one who touches you.”

Ah. You see what’s happening. Bucky’s gone territorial. Alpha-male status. It was unnecessary because you definitely did not harbor romantic or sexual feelings for Quill. Not even a sliver. But for some reason—and you’re betting that reason has a shit ton to do with the age difference—Bucky feels the need to remind you, everyone, of his claim.

“You’re the only one I let touch me, anyway.”

It’s sarcastic, and totally not what Bucky needs right now. With a sharp inhale, Bucky orders, “Kneel.”

Oh fuck. Okay, shit. He’s going to go full-on ballistic alpha-male. You’ve role-played these roles before, dominant and submissive and all that jazz, but this included actual jealousy. What would it be like?

“Kneel,” he repeats, his hot breath hitting your cheeks. You’re about to find out what it’ll feel like, that’s for fucking sure.

Slipping onto the floor, you kneel before him, gazes connected. His metal hand reaches forward, gripping your chin roughly. “I’m the only one who gets to kiss you. Taste you. Fuck you.”

You whimper softly, trying your best to nod. But Bucky grips your chin harder, the action causing your mouth to drop open further.

“I know you understand, sweetheart. I don’t need your confirmation. I just need you to listen.”

Your thighs brace, wanting to inch closer together. You don’t do good on your knees—they bruise too easily.

“I thought we were clear. You belong to me, and I belong to you. But it seems I have to remind you.”

Slowly, you let your eyes close. Then Bucky’s fingers grip your cheeks instead, holding you steady. “You will look at me. You will know I’m the one fucking you.”

Bucky lets go of your face to reach for his belt. Excitement floods your veins, causing you to go hot and cold at the same time. The sound of Bucky’s falling belt buckle is one of your top five favorite sounds in the world, a sound that mixes your insides and drenches you instantly.

Leaning on the dining table, Bucky lowers his boxers just enough to pull his cock out. He’s half-hard, thickening just from the sight of you looking up at him. He doesn’t need to command you or give specific instructions—they’re clear enough.

With his metal hand cradling the back of your head, Bucky pushes you forward so your lips make contact with his hot skin. Slowly, teasingly, you kiss up his cock, poking your tongue out only lightly. It’s enough to drive him wild, and Bucky pushes you harder. “Get to work. The quicker you finish this, the quicker I’m fucking you.”

One last stripe and you take Bucky in your mouth, suckling the tip and sliding down gradually. You’re familiar enough with his cock to know just how quickly you could dare push, how much deeper. With only half of him in, a few light sucks wets him enough that you can move faster, taking him until your nose nearly touches his lower stomach. Gagging, you go to pull off but Bucky holds you tight, groaning.

“Tap my thigh if you really need it.”

Nodding the best you’re able, you continue bobbing. Throat clenching, saliva dripping, lipstick smudged. Painting his perfect cock a pinkish red. You can handle it by breathing through your nose, pacing yourself.

His roughness is not a new concept. It’s no new exploration. But the jealousy sprinkled on top? New, new, new. And it was making you physically ache, as if your center was made to be full and having an absence was sin.

“Just like—fuck—I love you.”

His words threaten to make you smile. Bucky is fully hard and aching inside your hot mouth, holding himself from toppling over the edge. On the rarest occasions does Bucky come within five minutes of you sucking him off. But when it’s this good, when your tongue feels just the added bit of velvety and soaked, when your enthusiasm tops his, when your anticipation tops his—he’s at risk of coming down your throat.

“C’mon, Doll. Get me right there. Right there,” he moans, tugging you back so he can meet your eyes. “I know you want me to come inside you. You want me to come inside you?”

Moaning, you suck faster. It’s his answer. “You want me to come inside your mouth?”

You try to shake your head, bobbing instead.

“No? Where do you want me to come?”

The pressure of his hand releases, and you pop off him. Swallowing in a deep breath, saliva dripping a long strand down your chin, you whine, “I want you to come inside me…Inside my…”

“Inside your…what? Pussy? Cunt? Use your words, sweetheart. You’re not a kid.”

No, you aren’t. Twenty-eight now, your age difference wasn’t all that shocking when introducing yourselves to new people. Bucky is forty-one, still too old for you by societal standards, but that fucking nickname…

Kid. Like he knew more than you. Like he had to walk you through the simplest of tasks. Like he held some form of authority.

“Come inside my pussy.” Even now, no matter how many times you’ve spoken dirty words to him, pussy was the hardest to deliver. Because it sounded so degrading, so nasty. But it was Bucky’s favorite way of describing you down there, the word that flowed more easily off his eager tongue. The word you hated saying, but loved him repeating.

Bucky hoists you up with unbelievable strength, holding you steady to him. Your legs wobble, knees numb. “Strip,” he commands, already helping you in removing your shirt. You both undress as quickly as you can, tension heavy in the air.

There was no one else home. Your dad wouldn’t be home soon, either. Bucky has you all to himself, and it excited you to a whole new level. Because this Bucky Barnes looked half in love, half furious. Full of pent-up jealousy and archaic alpha feelings that were battling his sensitive side.

Bucky glances toward the stairs, then to you, and it clicks. No longer can he restrain himself from burying himself inside you. No longer can he avoid feeling your warmth combine with his. He pulls you to him, a fervent display of impatience, and kisses you. His soft lips mold perfectly with yours, but it’s the teeth clattering and tongue battle that does it for you. Grabbing at his hands, you push them toward your hips, silently begging him to hurry. He backs you up to the couch, against the side table, but ultimately pushes you to the floor. Facing the front door, on your stomach, ready to be devoured.

“I’ve always wanted to be caught again,” Bucky admits, grabbing a pillow from the couch and shoving it beneath your face. You thank him with a long whimper, resting your cheek against it. He hoists your hips up, presenting your backside and drenched center. “And I was this close. This fucking close to ripping your clothes off in the middle of that goddamn circle—” Pushing your head down, Bucky leans over you and drags his cockhead against your cunt. “And fucking you right in front of that bold ex of yours.”

Bucky pushes into you, holding you down, making sure the slide is perfect. All too easily he buries himself to the hilt, hips connected to your backside. He’s always so deep at this angle, in this position. Like he’ll rip you in half, like his cock massages that spot specifically. So full, and ready to be fuller.

“I…love…you.” The words are wrestled from your chest as Bucky starts pounding you from behind, hitting every pleasurable zone flawlessly. “Only you.”

“I know that, sweetheart,” he grunts. “But it’s the fact that he’s touched you before.”

Gripping the carpet the best you can, you aid his mission by moving along with him. Pushing yourself to him, arching your back. “It wasn’t…important!”

Bucky grinds against you, pushing you down by the back instead of your head now. It gives you a breather. “Did you let him fuck you?”

Twice. You were in high school. Sometimes boyfriends and girlfriends have sex. But as Bucky pounds into you, the sound of your mess so gloriously intoxicating, the memory is foggy. Unimportant. All you feel is Bucky.

“Just two times.”

Bucky’s hips halt, and a rough intake of air is all the evidence you receive that his jealousy is through the roof.

“Did you scream for him like you do for me?” He slides out slowly, leaving only the tip. You wiggle your ass in invitation, but Bucky simply smacks it. The sting makes you bear your face deeper into the pillow. “Did you squeeze this pussy on his cock like you do for me? Did you let him come inside of you?”

At that, you shake your head, probably rubbing some eyeliner off in the process. “No. No to all of it. I was…I was not how I am now.”

“Oh? And how are you now?” He slides in, then out, giving your ass another harsh smack.

You sob, your walls clenching around him. “I’m in love with you. I only let you love me. I only let you come inside me.”

Your voice is raspy, lungs strained from the amount of pressure being applied. Bucky seems to notice, so he hooks an arm underneath your chest, dragging you upward until your back smacks against his front.

“I love you so much,” he groans, kissing and licking at your shoulders and neck. “You know I’m yours, right? Say I’m yours.”

His hot breath coats the sweat on your skin. His voice sounds so desperate, so strained, so deserving of your declaration that you immediately gratify it. “You’re mine.”

He holds you to him, fucking you with such an intensity that you’re sure your words have just been carved into his heart.

“You’re mine, Bucky. All mine. You’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine.”

Planting his cheek over yours, his flesh fingers over your clit, it only takes a few more thrusts before you’re coming around him, and he deep inside of you. Painting you his, accepting your words as truth.

Languid, he guides you down onto the carpet, falling beside you. Breathing heavily, you turn to him and cup a hand over one of his cheeks. Simply looking at him, smiling.

His mouth twitches, and he reddens. “Was that a little too far?”

You shake your head, bringing your arm up so you can rest your cheek on it. “No. I like when you get jealous.”

He huffs a laugh. “It makes me feel hot and toxic at the same time.”

Giggling, you say, “It makes me feel wanted and degraded at the same time.”

He leans forward to kiss your forehead. Softly, he whispers, “And you’re mine.”

Your heart swells, and somewhere in this large universe of strings and lights, you know those shared declarations to be authentic.

Christmas Eve. A morning you’ve come to anticipate. A morning filled with low snores and a cold room, twisted bedsheets and snow. Last year, the kitchen downstairs smelled like cinnamon. You can’t smell anything quite yet, which was odd. Your dad usually started baking for the party around four. The answer is given as you crack one eye open, seeing that the sun hasn’t even risen yet. There’s a soft blue glow, but it’s still a little before dawn.

Stretching, you also realize that no one is lying beside you. Bucky must have snuck away after you fell asleep—which was the smart thing to do, considering Captain Rogers was snoring like a freight train on the floor.

Still, you didn’t have to wake up next to Bucky to enjoy Christmas Eve morning. It was a simple, tranquil scene in itself.

Your phone vibrates on the bedside table, waking you fully. The light blinds you as you pick it up and yank the charger out, pressing ‘answer’ without even seeing the caller name. Your voice is raspy, your throat sore. “Hello?”

“Bumblebee?”

You sit up quickly, confusion and worry flooding your veins. “Dad?”

“Are you home?”

“I am. So are Bucky and Steve. Why? Is everything okay?” It doesn’t matter what his answer is at this point—whether it’s negative or minimal—you’re already hopping out of bed in search of sweatpants.

“It burned down.”

Halting, frozen, you stare directly at the blue hues bursting through your curtains. “...The bar?”

Not the bar. Please, please, please. That was Kate’s prize possession. The one thing she owned fully at twenty-eight, her home.

Throwing a sweater over your shoulders, you fling a throw pillow at Steve. “Steve.”

He grumbles and turns over. His face scrunches as you turn on the bedside light. “Dad, keep talking to me. What happened?”

Now Steve lunges from his messy pile of blankets. He’s changing out of his sweatpants just as your dad replies, “The flower shop.”

You meet Steve’s eye, knowing damn well he heard the words. Steve bursts out of your room and downstairs, probably going to wake Bucky, Sam, and Peter. “Please tell me they weren’t inside. Because…because you know how sometimes Clint likes to sleep in his office? Wanda sometimes—some—sometimes works through the night making bouquets. Especially during this season.”

You’re sobbing, flying down the stairs and to the front door. Several voices call to you to stop, but you can’t. Not as your dad says, “I don’t know, Bumblebee. I was at Monica’s and Kate called me. She didn’t say anything else because she didn’t know anything else.”

The snow beneath your feet crunches and burns, and it’s then that you realize you disregarded shoes. And socks. With each step, the cold seeps into your sensitive feet, torching your feet like dry ice. Why does the cold burn so much?

They could have been in there. The shop is closer than Clint’s house and they were all drinking. They could have stopped there to rest until morning. And your dad didn’t say, The flower shop is on fire.

No. He said it burned down.

The same loud voices trail you from behind, sprinting after you. But you can’t stop. You need to know that your friends are okay. That their business can be salvaged. That their parent’s business can be salvaged. That no one was hurt. That Christmas Eve is just Christmas Eve.

It’s a five minute run, but you don’t feel it. Sure, your feet are now numb and your lungs ache, but you don’t feel tired. How could you be tired when—

Stopping abruptly, you try to blink away the onslaught of tears. Your lips catch them falling, the taste of salt overwhelming. Bucky runs into you from behind, holding you to his naked chest as he stares at the same thing you’re staring at.

The empty spot in between two charred buildings, the only missing center of the whole street. Nothing but black wood and curling smoke, firefighters and police.

To your right, you find your dad running toward you, Monica following with a hand covering her mouth.

And to your left, Clint and Wanda holding Pietro’s shoulders as he cries softly.

The Christmas lights that are strung from one building to another, crossing the street in a glorious zig-zag, flicker and turn off automatically, welcoming the morning sun and its natural shine.

TAGLIST: [on masterlist]

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #warmth of winter sequel #the warmth of the future #part two #captainsimagines #by Moni #holiday fanfic #dbf!bucky #dbf!buckybarnes #avengers au

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captainsimagines · 3 years ago

Text

the warmth of winter || two

Summary: You’re home for the holidays after landing your dream job. When your dad’s old army friend stops by for the month, he makes waves immediately. Your little vacation is disrupted... for better or for worse? Nobody has to know.

Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (F) Reader

Based on the Song: ‘Illicit Affairs’ by Taylor Swift

Mini-Series (2/6)

Warnings: 18+ ONLY; conversations about workplace sexual harassment; exhibitionism kink; unprotected sex; oral sex; heavy drinking; strong language; suggestive language; age difference kink (Reader is 25, Bucky is 39)

Word Count: 11,800+

Author’s Note: Mmm, here we go with the smut and fast-paced romance! Enjoy this filth as we gear up for holiday season!

�� “He’s!—” You rest your hands on your knees and try to suck in large gulps of air. Wanda always wins these races: your pace matches hers, she looks like she’s losing momentum, then on the last turn back to her shop she dashes full sprint and beats you to it. She does a little victory cheer, wiping the sweat off her forehead as she checks her miles on her apple watch. You suck in a breath, and finally say, “He’s too pretty. Like, too pretty. To be… oh my god, Wanda how do you do this?”

Wanda laughs as she watches you suffer, all while unlocking the shop door. The smell of the flowers overwhelms you, but it’s a nice distraction to the taste of blood on the back of your tongue. You honestly don’t know why you keep doing this: you’re not a runner. She locks the door again and starts up the coffee maker she had prepared before leaving.

“Practice.” Wanda says, tone almost sarcastic. “So, this James. Bucky. Too hot?”

You laugh and lean back on the large green sofa nearest the cash register. A few leaves poke at your head. “Immensely. My first thought looking at him was, ‘now this is the type of man I’d fuck if I went older’.”

Wanda’s eyebrows shoot up. “How old is this guy exactly?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“Kinky.”

“No! That’s not—!” You groan and slide the lower half of your body down the couch so you’re resting at an awkward angle. Wanda just watches with a knowing smirk. “He’s not one of my dad’s regulars, you know? I haven’t known this guy for years. He didn’t teach me to swim like Sam did. He didn’t teach me how to throw a good punch like Captain Rogers did. He didn’t hammer the quadratic formula into my brain at twelve like Bruce did.”

“So, because this man has never known you as a child, you automatically want to sleep with him?”

“Be cruder, Wanda. Helpful.”

“I mean—” Wanda pauses. Not because she’s collecting her thoughts, but because she lets out a loud cackle. It’s a powerful one too: she throws her head back and everything. You slide down the couch until your knees hit the floor. “I get it. The other men in your life are all father figures. That’s all you’ve ever had. And here comes this Bucky, who isn’t a lifelong acquaintance, and who flirted with you the second he saw you.”

“But he is a lifelong acquaintance of my dad’s.”

“Hmm,” Wanda hums, opening a water bottle. She knows about Bucky, vaguely remembers meeting him a few years ago, but most of the stories she’s heard are from Clint’s perspective — not the most reliable source. “Then get to know him. Isn’t that what this trip is about for him? Maybe once you learn about his hobbies, and his likes, and the way he takes his coffee, you’ll finally see him differently.”

You struggle to stand from the floor. You grab the sports bag you brought this morning and start slumping towards the register. “You’ll see what I mean when you see him tonight.”

“If he’s given you this much of a headrush then I’m really excited to get to know him.”

“Good, maybe you’ll snag him instead.”

“You want me… to sleep with him?” That’s not what you meant at all, but Wanda’s face does the most hilarious thing you’ve ever seen it do.

So you shrug. “I feel like it’s forbidden for me.”

“That just makes it hotter.”

“Wanda…”

“So, I sleep with him on the last holy night of Hanukkah, because you can’t?”

“I am not—”

“Wait until Clint here’s about this!”

“Wait until Clint hears about what?” Clint asks, jogging into the room while carrying similar roses as the ones yesterday, except these are pink and not red.

“Our little bumblebee wants me to try out the goods before she samples them.”

You quickly interject, “Nope. She lies. Wanda’s a liar.” You point your index finger at her. “Don’t touch him.”

Wanda smirks and goes back to drinking her water.

After your late night talk yesterday in the kitchen, you don’t know what to think. The logical side of your brain says that Bucky was only teasing — that he’s probably a massive flirt to everyone. Then your conscience wakes, slaps the shit out of your logical side, and says: No, this is the man who saved your dad’s life at the young age of eighteen and has graciously accepted your hospitality. He may be a flirt, but he has been nothing but kind in the two moments you’ve had with him.

“Still trying to find a con?” It’s like Wanda can read your mind. But that’s exactly what you’ve been trying to do for the past twenty-four hours — find a negative so you can wrap up these impure thoughts without trouble.

You sigh, “I’m not gonna find one, am I?”

Clint chuckles deeply, “Stop tryin’ to find one irregardless if you end up fuckin’ the dude or not. Hell, his ears are probably ringin’ like a bitch with how much you’ve been thinkin’ about him!”

Wanda snorts then shoots you a smile that says she agrees with Clint. You figure he’s right.

“You know, when I speak of him I don’t mention fucking at all.” You give them both a thin smile. “Why is that on everyone’s mind? I mention the dude’s hot and you all think I can’t keep it in my pants?”

“Can you?”

Your mouth drops as Clint wiggles his eyebrows. “Shut the fuck up, Clint.” The three of you fall into hysterical giggles. “I think I’m reading too many of those cheesy, Hallmark romance novels at work.”

Wanda and Clint share a look, gasping.

“Now it makes total sense!” Clint screams triumphantly, alarming the woman just outside the store. There’s Christmas music playing over the speakers in the cafe next door but Clint’s voice overpowers Jingle Bell Rock. Sometimes you wonder if he was this loud even before he lost his hearing. “I forgot all about your job!”

“Gee, thanks,” you reply sarcastically, then go to smack away his arms as he tries to envelope you in a hug. But that only leaves you wide open for Wanda’s sweaty attack, and once she wraps her arms around your waist, in comes Clint.

Baseball stats. Fantasy football’s going good even if he needs to get rid of that fucking wide receiver he thought would do good this season. No one will trade him. Basketball stats. Fuck, he misses Kobe. Taylor Swift released the newest version of Red. He should give that a listen.

And — FUCK — that got him hard again?

It’s been ten minutes since Bucky woke up with a raging hard-on at seven in the goddamn morning and he was actually getting somewhere. Thinking about numbers usually kills the blood flow. Who the fuck likes math?

But Taylor Swift? Everyone loves Taylor Swift whether they care to admit it or not.

He can’t escape the image of your ass in those night shorts you wore to bed. Hell, he can’t get your face out of his mind, especially the expression you made when he tried to flirt by calling you an outdated pet name. And Bucky never uses pet names unless the person warrants one. Steve is punk, Sam is pal, Bruce is Mr. Smart, Clint is Hawkeye, and his sister is Becks. Everyone else goes by the name they tell him.

Anyway, Bucky should roll over out of bed and take a cold shower. Maybe even go on a run. You mentioned running this morning with your friend Wanda, so at least someone is occupying their time with physical activity. Then Bucky curses again because he has this stupid thought about gym clothes but his depraved mind is obviously wrong because it’s fucking freezing outside and you’re probably bundled up.

Bucky cannot, and he repeats, cannot find his friend’s daughter attractive. It’s not right. He cannot, will not, cannot cannot cannot—

He slides his flesh hand down the naked expanse of his chest, scowl on his face and a quiet mutter of ‘forgive me’ under his breath. He hooks his briefs below his balls and feels his hardening cock flop back onto his stomach. The heater in the house hasn’t been turned on and the guest room is sizing up a chill, but Bucky’s body is producing flame after flame of body heat that he barely feels it. He shivers for a whole other reason: an embarrassingly wrong reason that he’ll recite a couple Hail Marys for later.

He wraps his hand around the base of his cock, hard and heavy, and sighs audibly. It’s like the first touch of a puberty-high, a touch like no other. He isn’t watching porn or thinking about an old fling. Bucky’s never really been the type to think much about anything anyway when jerking off. He usually imagines the feeling instead of an individual.

But now, as he tugs his cock slowly, trailing higher and higher until the open part of his curled hand squeezes his tender head and collects the premature bead of pre-come, Bucky’s imagining his friend’s daughter.

Bucky doesn’t even know Hail Marys so he’ll burn in hell instead.

He moans quietly and tries to stifle the volume in case anyone gets home. Overtime should be wrapping up soon and Bucky’s not about to be caught jacking away on the first fucking morning of being a welcomed guest.

He does the same maneuver a couple times: grabbing the base, hand loose, then tightening his grip as he jacks upward, squeezing his drooling red tip until his hips arch off the mattress and he feels his eyes glaze over. He pauses momentarily when he remembers he didn’t pack lube, but did pack vaseline. It’s a mini container that Bucky seriously doesn’t want to waste but fuck, now he’s imagining how you would look all sweaty after a run and if that same image matches what you would look like riding his dick.

He groans in both annoyance at himself and in pleasure. Once he retrieves the vaseline from the bathroom, slathering his flesh hand in what’s acceptable, he gets back to work.

It’s always better when he’s lubed up. The grip is slippery but it allows him to move faster. He bites his bottom lip as that blissful feeling begins to pool at the base of his tummy. The vaseline is quieter than lube, thicker, but it still creates that naughty squelching sound as he jerks faster. Bucky catches the whine that threatens to burst his throat open. In a quick second, Bucky repositions himself so he lays face down. It’s a more difficult angle to jerk off but he still gets a rather pleasant rub to the hot skin of his cock and friction against his pebbled nipples. And he’s able to dig his face into the pillows to muffle his sounds. And Bucky’s making a lot of sounds.

He thinks he’s speaking coherently, like he’s muttering versions of your real name or pet name he just gave you, but it’s really coming out like restrained uh-umfphs that he’ll be embarrassed about afterward. He angles his hips up so his fist can move and then he’s back at it for real.

He slides a tight fist up and down, massages his leaking slit with the pad of his overturned thumb, then abandons that technique to roll his balls and his hips down into the mattress.

He’ll wash the sheets later. Maybe that’ll make up for not memorizing a single useful forgiveness prayer from any damn religion.

“Uh, mmm, o-oh!” Bucky barely recognizes his own voice. Granted he’s holding back a lot, but Bucky hasn’t been this vocal since he bought himself that prostate massager.

The thought of bending you over the kitchen counter. You’d be so confused but curious, looking up at him with those magnificent eyes, questioning his actions and motives. And Bucky would describe them, intimately, softly in your ear as you shudder underneath him. You’d absolutely bend for him, beg him to ruin you until you’re a mess of limited vocabulary and sticky skin.

Bucky comes hard, shooting off long strings of come onto the bed sheets. He tries to prolong it, slack jaw with tense eyebrows, and he milks himself of all he can. Slowly, the sudden punch of pleasure dies down until Bucky’s simply a bulky pile of loose limbs and dumb thoughts. He lies in his own spent for another minute, hazy vision and a random ringing in his right ear.

He’s in deep trouble.

‘Miss you —Brock’

“How? How do you miss me, Brock? We aren’t dating!” you whisper-yell, grasping the kitchen counter for leverage as you rock back and forth. It’s driving you crazy, it really is: this guy just won’t take a damn hint.

You’ve already reported him to HR but since he isn’t actually saying anything remotely sexual or touching you inappropriately, the advice you were given was just to ignore it. Dream job but their HR department made you want to burn the place down.

Fuck. It really shouldn’t bother you so much to have you angrily sipping your coffee. He’s literally making your coffee taste bad. It’s like you have to occupy your mind immediately after reading his messages.

“What’s got you so annoyed?”

Bucky’s voice is new and rougher, throat a little scratched because of the morning hour. It startles you: it takes you a few days to get used to every new visitor. And since this new visitor is one you actively try to avoid having impure thoughts about — his voice just does things.

“This guy from work doesn’t know how to take ‘no’ as an answer.”

You chuckle a little to try and show that it’s really not that much of a big deal, but Bucky’s eyebrows furrow and his lips part. “Excuse me?”

Bucky mimics like he’s just waking up and rubs the “last” remnants of sleep from his eyes. He hurries to the coffee maker.

“He’s not like… threatening me or anything. We went on one date and I told him I wasn’t looking for a relationship. Well, I wasn’t looking for anything with him but he took that as ‘let me keep on trying until she changes her mind’. So yeah, he’s really annoying me with these random text messages.”

Bucky swirls the fresh coffee around on his tongue and stares at you hard. His gaze is intense, and as much as you’re trying to search for any other emotion, you’re getting a really big ‘protective’ vibe from this.

Wait. No, he’s puffing out his chest and breathing in deep, mind working behind his eyes, and you’re half expecting this big shovel speech and now you wanna die—

“I can kill him, if you’d like.”

A few seconds pass before you release one of the loudest laughs your body has ever produced. When your dad gave this speech a while back to your high school partners, he always joked afterwards and told you not to worry: ‘it’s just my job!’

But Bucky actually looks serious. He smirks, sure, your laugh startled the fuck out of him and he truly sees the humor in the situation, but he’s literally telling the truth.

Bucky, with all his mind and soul, does not like men who cannot take ‘no’ for an answer. He’s dealt with them before, has had to throw a couple of them out of his bar and on their ass, and it’s never a happy scenario. Most of the time women whisper to him sweetly, eyes pleading for a way out, questions of ‘did you see him put anything in my drink?’ Bucky rarely even waits for confirmation — the guy is immediately barred from returning and threatened with a call to the police. The metal arm does wonders as well: no one dares square up when that thing whirs.

So to hear that someone is harassing you at work, a place that’s supposed to be safe and without this massive concern, it angers him to his core. He doesn’t like comparing women to each other, but he can’t help but hear the same timid crack in your voice as you brush it off.

“Are you… are you serious?”

Bucky forgets to change his hard expression. He relaxes his eyebrows almost instantly and hopes the wrinkles in his forehead have smoothed over. “I own a bar. I’ve had my fair share of experiences with those kinds of men. Hell, I’ve had to kick touchy men out because they wouldn’t stop touching me.”

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Sorry you’ve had to experience that.”

“Same, doll.”

“It’s just weird, you know? Most of the time he’s tolerable and he never texts me. But he’s got this deadline coming up and when Rumlow has a deadline… he can’t seem to get me off his mind.”

Bucky digests every word. He’s not so much in the killing mood anymore — he’s actually quite curious as to why this dude does what he does. You would think this Rumlow fella would actively avoid any other human being while under stress, but from your explanation it seems that he finds you relaxing… or stimulating. Either way, it’s kind of creepy.

“You report him?”

You groan softly and take a sip from your half-finished coffee. “I have. But then he lays off and avoids me, and everything’s great! Team functions well, morale is up, books get published. I even feel guilty reporting him after that.”

Bucky puts down his cup. “Woah, woah… don’t feel guilty when someone else makes you feel uncomfortable. You have a right to not like them. You’re just second guessing yourself but from what you’re telling me, this guy repeatedly does what he does then makes you confused, so you question it.” His little speech falls off at the end and his eyes go soft.

“That’s deep,” you say, stupidly, because Bucky’s words have actually broken through. Now you just feel guilty for neglecting your conscience. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Bucky hums and decides that he’s not going to blow smoke out his ears this morning. It’s his first full day back to his childhood home, his childhood memories, and he wants this day to go well.

“Listen, you enjoy the coffee. Watch some TV. I’m heading up to take a shower real quick to get all this morning run off me, then we’ll head to the store, okay?”

Bucky smiles, refills his cup until it almost tips over, and salutes you goodbye. The gesture pushes out an innocent giggle from your chest. It makes something in Bucky’s head give him an instant rush.

Wanda beat you to the shop first so you’re buying the round of drinks tonight. You never were much of a jogger, but ever since college it sort of became a tradition to meet up with Wanda whenever you could. And since she worked overtime during the holiday seasons and you were only visiting for a short while, you braved it and bought some running shoes. Doesn’t mean you still don’t curse every time you have to stretch out your thighs.

It was freezing this morning and even though you worked up a good sweat, you change the temperature throughout your shower. Cold to begin with, then warm. You wash the back of your neck instead of washing your whole head, then slather down the rest of your body with as many bubbles as you can.

No matter the thousands of thoughts currently running through your head, you always seemed to revert back to the nice man downstairs. You don’t know if it’s because of the holiday season and you always develop this hopeless romantic idealism, stemming from the countless books you read on a daily basis, but it’s both weird and exciting all at once. Last time you truly liked someone, it didn’t last long until you realized it was merely infatuation. Daydreaming, laughing a little too much at their jokes, and wanting to see them every minute of every day. Even when they did something wrong your messed up idealism would simply excuse them. Afterward, you came to the same conclusion: infatuation.

You figure that’s what’s happening now with Bucky. He’s sweet, handsome, and treats you good. It’s the bare minimum, but you don’t want to class this as anything else. The feeling will go away during his stay… it has to.

“Fuck,” you curse yourself, then turn the shower handle to cold and take the torture.

“You eat chips?”

“‘Do you eat chips?’ What kind of question?”

You hold your hand up feigning self-defense. “Yes or no?”

Bucky gasps audibly and throws about four bags of chips into the shopping cart. Doritos, both regular and ranch, kettle potato chips, and pretzels. “That answer it?”

“Do pretzels even count as chips?”

“Don’t know, doll. But they do for me,” Bucky smiles then practically skips down the rest of the aisle in search of anything else on his list. You simply push the cart and grin as he adds yet another item you’re surprised he eats. He has his oat milk, his sourdough bread, his mini donuts, cranberry juice, and even a hair dryer. He doesn’t listen to you when you say he can just borrow yours.

“You’re paying for all this right? My hospitality only stretches so far.”

Bucky snorts, “And if I were to tell you that your dad told me that you gotta pay for everything… that I shouldn’t lift a finger. Oh! And he said you’ll be making my dinner. What would you—”

You bump the front of the cart into his backside, sending him yelping and scurrying away. He laughs hard, the crinkles turning his eyes into lovely dark slits, and he throws his hands up. “I yield!”

You roll your eyes and push the cart straight past him. “Think you’re so funny?”

“I think I’m goddamn hilarious.”

You roll your eyes. “So I hear you also live in New York.”

“Mm-hmm! Own my own bar and everything!”

“Where?”

“Brooklyn. And before you ask, yes, my roommate is Steve.”

You try to whistle, but it comes out more like a puff of air. “I haven’t seen Captain Rogers in years.”

“You live in New York,” Bucky says and squints.

You shrug, “I live in Manhattan, though. I don’t travel to Brooklyn much.”

He moves to the front of the cart, effectively stopping you from pushing it any further, and leans forward. “So what? You sayin’ you’re not gonna visit me?”

He purposely made his voice deeper. You caught it. And you know he knows you caught it. “Do you want me to visit you?”

“I think we’re getting along quite well, no? Or did I make a bad impression?”

“You made an impression.”

“That’s all I need to hear, doll.” Bucky turns on his heel. “I’m gonna go get some turkey slices down by the deli. Could you get me shavers?”

“Mm-hmm,” you answer and try hard not to watch him jog away. He’s surprisingly energetic this morning. You head over to the bathroom aisle and search hard for men’s shavers. When you find them, you decide to get three boxes — one for Bucky, one for your dad, and one for yourself. They’re surprisingly cheaper than the ones marketed towards women.

“I love seeing happy couples in the grocery store. So domestic. Especially when one makes the other seem and act several years younger than they truly are.”

The British accent is a shock. The woman who has easily uprooted your definition of subtlety is elderly, really old judging by her voice, with white feathered hair that reaches her shoulders and brown eyes that look shiny underneath the harsh lights. She’s short and hunched over, the top of her head meeting your shoulder, but she pushes a full shopping cart with ease. She looks you up and down as if waiting for you to agree, then she maneuvers her way around your cart to snatch the remaining little bottle of red nail polish.

“What?”

She smiles delicately, then points down the aisle where Bucky had left. “Your partner. Oh, he looked at you like you were some tasty treat! I remember that feeling. Men down at the docks couldn’t get enough. Granted, I was sleeping with men much older than your partner when I was your age but—”

“Oh my god.”

She brings her hand up to cover her mouth and laughs behind it. “Sorry, darling. I forget how to talk to strangers sometimes. Not everyone enjoys my ramblings.”

“It’s good, you’re good.” Without her noticing, you reach down to pinch the inside of your elbow. It hurts, stings, and so you only minimally accept that you’re living in a literal Hallmark movie. “Sorry, it just caught me off guard.”

“By how blatant I was?”

“Y-Yeah.” You clear your throat awkwardly. You’re not so freaked out by a stranger talking to you but more so because she sees the same thing everyone has been seeing: how easily you and Bucky get along. “And he’s not my partner.”

“No? Well, why not?”

“Excuse me?” You look around to make sure no one else overhears this. You’re getting the third-degree by a total stranger and it’s a little embarrassing.

“I’m usually good at seeing such things. Maybe I need to get my prescription checked,” she mumbles, then rubs at her eyes.

“What made you think—”

“Oh, darling, the smile on that man! You said not but a couple words and he reacted like you gave him his first flower!”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“Well, trying is not important. I saw it. Anyone with eyes saw it.”

“I’m blind.”

She snorts, and reaches for a bag of Hershey’s kisses. You didn’t even notice you’ve been walking down the aisle together. “Promise me one thing: that the second he makes you smile like he gave you your first flower, you recognize it.”

She’s sweet, kind, and you admit her words are making you blush like mad. At least she spoke of her own sex life and not the possibility of yours igniting. “Who are you?”

“Margaret. But I tell everyone to call me Peggy.” She hums low, and smiles up at you as you repeat the two syllables softly. “They let us out every Friday morning to buy our snacks with our weekly allowance. I make at least one new friend each time.”

“I bet,” you laugh. “How come I’ve never seen you around? I grew up here.”

She huffs and squeezes your upper arm like she’s about to tell a sad story. “Oh, I’ve been in that nursery home since you were in diapers, darling. I’m old enough to remember Pearl Harbor.”

Your two best friends are your age. They’re the people you’re closest to. But you also have friends who rival your years, and you are nowhere near their life experience. But if there was one thing that you knew about yourself, it was that you attracted old souls and the god’s honest truth is that you’re probably one as well. “Every Friday morning, you say?”

She nods, happy. “It’d be good for you to remember. I want to know how this story ends!”

Before you can roll your eyes at her comment, Bucky comes rushing down the aisle with the wrapped meat from the deli. “Hey, doll. I’m all set.” He looks over at Peggy and tilts his head in her direction. “Who’s your friend?”

He immediately shakes her outstretched hand and shines that famous empire shattering smile. Peggy rests her other hand over his, introduces herself, and exclaims, “Oh, even the nickname sends me back!”

Peggy waves goodbye and says, “It was nice meeting you, uh…”

You tell her your name, and just like you did with hers, she repeats it back softly.

Bucky turns to you once she’s out of hearing range. “How long was I gone?”

You simply tell Bucky that she initiated small talk about the most random topics and that she was easy to talk to. He mentions how some of his favorite customers are the older crowd because they have a lot of history in their heads. You think about Peggy and wonder if there’s enough time in the world to hear hers.

“Whatcha readin’?” You ask Bucky, who sits on the large lounge chair in the living room. It’s facing the fireplace, which is up and crackling at three in the afternoon. Bucky looks up from his page to you. He turns the book closed to peek at the title. The glasses on his face catch you off guard.

Scholastic. That’s the first word that pops into your mind, as stupid as that is.

“‘The Chronicles of Time Travel’ by Loki Laufeyson. Don’t ask me about it because I’m kind of angry right now.”

“Are you serious?” You hold your hands out, palming them open and closed rapidly in excitement. “I edited this book!”

Bucky bookmarks his page and hands you the book. “Are you serious?”

“Insanely! Oh my god, it was one of my favorite reads! I couldn’t put it down!”

“Well I wish I was just as enthusiastic as you.”

You scoff, and hug the book to your chest. “Tell me what’s got you pissed. I’m all ears!”

“Okay… Okay!” Bucky decides, and sits up straighter. Your eyes dart down out of habit, not searching for anything specific, but you can’t miss the fuzzy red socks Bucky has on. He even makes sure his feet are still facing the fire as he sits up. “The main character, Mobius, why in the hell would he trust Sylvie again? After everything he knows about her, why trust it? She left his ass in 1613 to burn in the Globe Theater and he just… accepted her back in the club?”

“She saved someone else instead! She knows Mobius can fend for himself and in turn, completed the mission.”

Bucky grumbles, “You don’t leave friends behind.”

You catch yourself before you argue that point. One thing an audience looks for when reading a book or watching a movie is how relatable the characters are or subject matter is. If it’s too outrageous and odd, chances are it won’t sit well with the consumer. And Bucky, who has relatable experience, has found a flaw. ��Yeah…” you say, but shrug your shoulders casually. “Think he realized that in 1692 when she was about to burn at the stake.”

Bucky chuckles a little, and accepts the book when you hand it back to him. “I would have saved her, too. But I wouldn’t forgive her.”

“I don’t think he forgave her. But he does understand her.” You look at the pile of books Bucky brought. They’re stacked one on top of the other. It’s a little funny how Bucky dragged them all out of his suitcase but you figure he’s just a fast reader and wants to be prepared.

“What else are you reading?” you ask, but your hand stops outreached before you can pick up the next title. “No…”

Bucky moves to shield the pile, an index finger raised like he’s ready to prove a point. “It’s Christmas time!”

You gasp dramatically and clutch at your chest. “‘A Christmas Carol’? Seriously?”

“It’s a great read!”

“It’s a cliche read!”

Bucky scoffs, but there’s a hearty laugh mixed in with it. “Are you kidding me? Don’t you edit all those cliche Hallmark-inspired books?”

You squint at him. “Touche. But this is supposed to be for pleasure, not convenience!”

“And it brings me pleasure!”

You stand there trying hard not to cackle. Bucky looks like he’s in the same predicament. Finally, you bite your tongue, turn on your heel, and walk toward the staircase. “Come on…” you tell him. He stays put, eyebrows furrowed. You groan softly. “Come.”

Bucky follows you, pausing outside your bedroom at the doorway as you begin fumbling around. You didn’t invite him in, but Bucky thinks it’s weirder to just awkwardly stand there. So he lets himself in, and scans the room with his arms to his sides. “Nice room.”

“Thanks, I’ve done absolutely nothing with it since I was eighteen.” You grab the book you were looking for and hand it to Bucky. “Here.”

“‘Una Donna’,” Bucky sounds out. “By Sibilla Aleramo.”

“Early twentieth century read. Emotional, angsty, fucked-up. Feminist read, really.”

“Any other suggestions?”

You blow a short raspberry, staring at Bucky hard. He’s serious, clutching Una Donna to his chest like he’s a high-schooler who just checked it out from the library. You sigh, then drop down to search through the bottom of your bookcase. “I promised myself I would never let anyone find these…”

Bucky tilts his head slowly, eyes caught on your ass. You’re bent on your knees, the perfect angle, and Bucky marvels at how fully you fill out your pants. He catches himself biting his lip, guilty, but he doesn’t look away until you move to stand back up. But your hips do this incredible swivel, and your back dips and slightly arches, and Bucky feels his throat clench. “‘Indigo’ by Beverly Jenkins. Underground Railroad romance… with smut.”

Bucky’s eyebrows raise slightly. A smile tugs at his upper lip. “You’re giving me a sex book?”

“It’s not a sex book. It’s a book with sex. And you’re borrowing.”

“It’s a sex book,” Bucky replies, as if it’s legal fact. You roll your eyes and reach for the book, but Bucky holds it above his head.

You don’t even try to reach for it again. “You’re an avid reader. Don’t even try to lie to me about never having read a book that has hardcore smut.”

“I’m not denying anything. I’ve just never been given a book to borrow that’s got that.”

“Well, consider me one of your firsts.”

Bucky swallows hard. The words digest differently in his unclean mind. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Wanda, Pietro, and Clint arrive together, decked out in matching knitted Hanukkah sweaters and with trays of food. They aren’t the most traditional and they haven’t celebrated with their family or parent’s friends since their passing. The day your dad brought up the idea of lighting the last candle together, Wanda and Pietro were delighted to start their tradition.

Clint tags along, eats the food, and practically tackles Bucky when he sees him. Bucky’s got the same massive smile Clint has. You didn’t know it was possible but Bucky’s matching Clint’s pitch — they’re loud as shit as they talk about what they’ve been up to for the last few years. You even hear Bucky joke about Clint being the third Maximoff sibling. Clint beams.

Pietro does the honor of lighting the last candle and starts to recite a prayer when Bucky joins. Together they pray and all the while you’re wondering how Bucky’s possible participation tonight had gone unspoken all day. You hit each other with the cart a few more times after meeting Peggy, raced to the car, sang loudly at the top of your lungs on the ride home, and even had lunch together — sandwiches — then Bucky retired to the fireplace with a novel in hand and his glasses tipping low on his nose.

You simply close your eyes and enjoy his velvet voice as he speaks fluent Hebrew.

The food is devoured quickly. It’s only the six of you and your dad is having the most fun: he’s laughing at all the jokes (even the ones that are only a little funny), has scarfed down a ton of fried food, and even repeatedly proclaims he has to get up early tomorrow as he beats Clint at Connect 4 for the sixth time in a row. Seeing him this happy literally makes your heart hurt and you curse inwardly for not visiting sooner, even during the summer. Work has been demanding, but it was no excuse.

When your dad finally announces he’s beat, it’s ten. The party gets moved to the bar, where Kate yells each of your individual names as you enter. Only a few customers acknowledge her. It’s not packed yet, but it’s getting there. Bucky mentioned having to call a few of his employees back home to see how the bar was doing and how Alpine, his cat, has been holding up. So when Kate asks you where your new fella is, you promptly flick her off.

Kate lines up a couple shots for both you and Wanda but before you can get to them, Clint and Pietro down them without so much as a second glance. Thus, it’s a challenge to see who can get the most smashed on this beautiful holy night.

But your only one blissful drink in when your phone vibrates with a text message.

‘When are you coming back to NY? The office is lonely without you here. -Brock’

“I… I can’t with him. Here’s my phone. Go stupid,” you say angrily, handing your phone to Wanda. She downs her tequila shot in one go and flashes you a silly grin before taking the phone for herself. She inspects the message like it’s some undercover assignment, squinting and humming her recognition — it’s quite cute.

But you’re too annoyed and frustrated to acknowledge it any more.

“What should I say?”

“Anything. I really don’t care.”

Wanda hums again and types in the first thing her buzzed mind comes up with.

‘Neat!’

Your snort is loud. “Yeah, that’ll work.”

Wanda catches your sarcastic tone instantly. “You sure?”

You give her a side-eye and simply lay your phone upside down. If Brock texts again, you’ll just will it away. Or block him. You can’t exactly do that, but it’s fun to dream, right?

“You know what you need? You need to get laid.”

“Oh? I need that, now do I?”

“Yes! When’s the last time you’ve gotten a good fucking?”

Two men on the other end of the bar instantly raise their heads. You inwardly roll your eyes — Wanda gets too loud when buzzed.

“Forever.”

“Like, a good, nice, hard and deep, fucked-out fucking?”

“Wanda, jesus fucking christ.”

“What? I’m being serious… half-serious. Well, mostly.” She nudges your shoulder with hers. “C’mon, I know damn well Brock is pissing you off and that kinky side of you is thinking, ‘lemme fuck someone good and well while he keeps sending me those desperate texts.’”

“You’re crazy.”

“Am I?” She cocks an eyebrow. The loud conversation you're having finally attracts Kate’s attention, and she motions that she’ll join you guys in a few minutes. Wanda says, “Anyone here catch your eye?”

You look around briefly, not really looking, but you do notice how the bar is getting more packed. It’s Friday night after all. “Not at the moment, no.”

“Then let’s hang out for another hour! If there isn’t anyone that catches your eye, I’ll give it up.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Pinky swear. Cross my heart.”

“Hope to die,” you mumble, and Wanda nudges your shoulder harder this time.

She laughs, “You’re nasty when you drink!”

“I’ve had one shot.”

She leans over the counter and discreetly swipes a beer from the basket Kate hasn’t shelved yet. “Ooof, then you’re just nasty.”

One of the men from the end of the bar leaves their seat, runs a hand through their hair, and holds out his hand for you to shake. He’s awkward on his own two feet and he thinks his easy smile is making up for it. “Hey, couldn’t help but overhear—”

“Run.”

He swiftly turns back around, “Yep.”

Wanda cackles and Kate sends a ‘I’m sorry about her’ look to the man you’ve just turned down. Thankfully out of hearing reach, Wanda says, “Okay, I agree with you there. Not even blackout drunk would I think he was cute.”

“Trying to get laid in this crowd?” Kate quips, and pours two shots for both you and Wanda. Then her eyes widen a little and she quickly shuffles around to pour a third. Before you can ask, someone sits in the barstool directly beside yours.

“Who’s trying to get laid?” Bucky Barnes asks, easily inserting himself in the conversation and making the two other women beside you immediately gush. He thanks Kate for the shot, then downs it, all while looking directly at you.

Wanda points at you, then pokes you, and loudly complains when Kate whispers over to her that she’s temporarily cut off until she drinks a full cup of water. Bucky raises his eyebrows and waits for your response.

“Didn’t think you would actually join us,” you say, and casually push the small tray of peanuts in his direction. He smiles, breaks a peanut open, and eats it.

“Seemed fun! It’s Friday night, thought I’d catch up with the town.”

“Bar is the go to?”

“Used to work here,” Bucky says and cracks open another peanut. “Plus, it’s where you are.”

Your chest halts mid-breath and to try and cover it up, you smile at him. But it’s an involuntary thin smile, cheeks tight, and you feel them quickly heat up.

You scratch at your neck to try and calm your nerves. “Uh, how’s your cat?”

“Ayo’s got it all under control. Think Alpine likes her better than me.”

“You look like a cat person.”

“Oh?” Bucky glows at the statement. “What is it about me?”

You shrug, half of you hoping Wanda will do what she does best and interrupt (or maybe Kate), but they’re obviously in their own conversation on purpose, giving you the privacy you didn’t think you needed. But you know your friends: if you strain your ears hard enough, you swear you can hear their snickers.

“You’re kind, fluid in your movements, you wear fuzzy socks,” you describe, and clear your throat as Bucky’s smirk grows larger. “That’s the vibe, I guess.”

Bucky nods and looks away in thought. Finally, he says, “Didn’t think you saw my fuzzy socks.”

You laugh, “It was the first thing I noticed when you cuddled up by the fireplace earlier today.”

Bucky seems to want to add onto the subject, but Kate interrupts. “Bucky! We were just discussing how long it’s been since I’ve gotten laid!”

You practically stab Kate with your bulging eyes as you spin around. Wanda backs her up. “Same here! Bumblebee is probably in the same predicament. How long did you say it’s been again?”

There it is: the first piece of your soul crumbling to the depths of Hell. You literally felt it break off.

“I didn’t say—” You try to save yourself, but Bucky suddenly makes a startled noise and points at Kate and yells, “Me too! I think everyone hits a dry spell during the holiday season, though. No big deal!”

Again, you’re shocked into silence. You can say anything really, but you opt to just nod and smile.

“No one catches my eye anyway,” Kate grumbles. “Bet Bumblebee can mark a couple on the scoreboard tonight.”

You give her pointed glare. “You want me to fuck a whole soccer team in one night?”

Kate shoots a finger gun. “Bet you can. Bet you can get more numbers than any of us here.”

“Now, woah. Woah. I'll take you up on that bet,” Bucky says. “You in, doll?”

“What, to fuck a whole soccer team?”

“Just one?”

Bucky has this playful gleam in his eyes. His cheeks turn a bright shade of pink and he’s even taken off his gloves. He’s comfortable, and it makes you unreasonably giddy.

“You’re on.”

As if on cue, the bar fills to capacity. There are people you remember from your childhood enjoying hot wings with their grandkids, couples using whatever free space they find to dance to the soft Taylor Swift playing (Kate had told everyone to ‘suck it up and respect my girl during Friday nights’), and the winning high school football team is in the underage section, scarfing down victory sandwiches and wings. Pietro is shooting shots with Clint and talking about discount prices on Christmas bouquets that he’ll definitely forget about in the morning. And it seems both you and Bucky recognize this relaxing atmosphere — you’ve both been away for so long and although not all your friends are here to celebrate, it feels full. The sparkly lights twinkle after each song change and the crowd cheers as Kate’s playlist plays a 70s classic instead. Kate promptly flicks everyone off from behind the counter.

Bucky initiates the beginning of the bet with a rise of his eyebrows. He clears his throat, smiles triumphantly, and heads over to the first table he sees. There are four women huddled together, laughing and drinking, all over thirty at least. You can’t hear the specifics, but the closest woman with whom Bucky’s making the most eye contact laughs loudly, throws her head back, and gently places her palm on his jacket-covered forearm. You’re certain he’s going to choose her, and not because she’s the easiest catch. They’re similar in age, she’s beautiful with the way she carries herself, and she’s drinking a virgin. It’s almost perfect, but Bucky says one last thing that makes them soar joyfully, then heads back over to you and Wanda.

“What are you doing—?”

“Happily married, pregnant with her third child, and was so fucking happy with the attention and sorry for the rejection she offered to buy me a drink—” Kate pours the beer in a tall glass in front of him, “— your turn.”

Blindsided, yeah, that’s what you are. In the matter of two minutes, Bucky’s made nice to a whole group of women, made a woman’s night, and scored a free drink from it. It’s not even that much of a major accomplishment but it’s enough to see the melting feeling in action. Like you’re experiencing it vicariously through someone else.

“Yeah, Bumblewumble, go get some dick!”

You throw back your shot to hide from Kate’s crude words and from her high five with Wanda. Wanda’s too tipsy to see the horror in that statement.

You stand, pull up your pants, and suck in a deep breath. Wanda double-checks your lipstick, smacks your cheeks gently to get your blood flowing, then slaps your ass to send you off. You scan the room searching for the first handsome face you don’t recognize as anyone from high school, and find two. The first is a woman with dark black hair and equally dark make-up. She drinks champagne like she’s the main character in her own movie, and she sips with her lips puckered softly. She glows under the holiday lights and it’s then that you see she’s wearing an ugly Christmas sweater. But before you can dive in, another woman slips into the booth and gives her a massive smooch on her left cheek. Her frown literally turns upside down with her arrival.

The second option is a guy around your age, maybe a year or two older, and he’s already looking at you. He’s a darkish blonde, somewhat built, and he’s enjoying a beer while watching the basketball game on TV.

Hook, sink, catch, reel.

“Haven’t seen you here recently,” the man says as you near his high table. His voice is too deep for your liking— it’s somewhat hard to hear him over the bass of the music.

“Visiting for the holidays,” you answer, and sit at the empty chair beside him. “Why? I catch your attention?”

“Of course. You’re hard to miss.” He reaches over to twirl his finger through one of the loops of your thin sweater. You let him, even though there are alarm bells ringing over your head.

“So I assume you come here often. You live in town or just outside of—”

“What do you say you and I go back to my place?”

Your mouth snaps shut. There’s a sudden urge to laugh and awkwardly walk away, to willingly admit loss to your friends.

“If it’s alright I’d like to speak with you for at least ten minutes before I make that kind of decision.”

The man sighs but agrees. You two chat about the most boring and mundane subjects, all the while you’re sending Kate, Wanda, and Bucky little stares of disbelief. They seem to be having the time of their lives watching you.

“Now, I’m not against it, so I would totally be up for it.”

You have to blink a few times as your eyes glaze over. You turn back to the man beside you. “Hmm?”

“I don’t usually go for redheads but I gotta admit she’s hot.”

“...I’m sorry. Huh?”

“Your friend over there.” He points to Wanda, who sees and quickly ducks her drunken head. “I’m not opposed to it. I’ve had plenty of threesomes before.”

Your mouth drops in disbelief. This has got to be the funniest thing that has ever happened to you. Ever. You don’t even know what vibe you gave off that let it happen. Something like this doesn’t just occur for shits and giggles.

“Oh my god.”

“It feels like my lucky night. Let’s see if we can talk the sexy bartender into it as well—”

“You ready to go, doll?”

Thank fuck.

Bucky beams, the cheesiest smile on his face, and he holds his jacket out for you. You look up at him like he’s your knight in shining armor.

Bucky fucking knows it, too.

“Definitely!” You slip into the jacket with his help and relish in the sweet feeling of Bucky patting down the sleeves for you. “It was nice meeting you!”

The man’s eyebrows are furrowed and he looks rightly confused, but just as quickly as Bucky’s rescue he reacts like a lightbulb has just lighted. “Oh! I’m not opposed to this either!”

Now you really have to turn your head as a loud laugh is expelled from your chest, wet and happy as a newborn. Bucky pulls you into his right side and holds you up as your laugh attack threatens to tip you over. You catch your breath long enough to tell Kate to take Wanda upstairs to her apartment and to keep her away from that man. Kate gives you one enthusiastic thumbs up.

You and Bucky stumble out the bar, still laughing hard, and bet forgotten. The short hour inside the bar brought a fresh trickle of snow, though it’s minimal on the sidewalk and only lightly coats the road. The sun’s down, obviously, but the amount of streamed holiday lights contest that.

“Well that didn’t work out!” you say, clutching at your chest.

Bucky wipes his forehead and hums his agreement. You two laugh it out some more before calming down.

Bucky focuses on the way the red, green, and gold lights make the color of your eyes seem brighter — there’s a thin layer of laughter tears on your waterline and because of your constant rubbing, your mascara is slightly smudged near the outside of your left eye. But your lipstick stays perfectly intact, and you’re smiling so big, and your cheeks rise enough for your eyes to crinkle, and Bucky takes a step closer. He doesn’t think too much of it.

He doesn’t remember the butterfly situation all that well — he’s older and wiser, not really ever looking for anything too serious since he thinks he’s exhausted any possible chance at true love at his age — but it’s a different feeling than the one he vaguely remembers, he knows. It starts deep in his chest, sort of ticklish, then slowly drips down into his abdomen until it settles peacefully.

He can’t really describe it — it’s not that cliche, stupid fluttering almost all his romance novels describe. It’s softer, more delicate — he feels like something’s melting.

You watch as he steps closer and as his eyes drift lower to your lips, and you slowly count to three. Whether it’s the lights, or because of the holiday season, or because Bucky makes you feel happy, you go for it.

Gently, Bucky cups your cheeks and pulls you in. His pink lips are smooth over yours, exploring with just the faintest touch before you close the remaining gap for him. You press against him deeper, reveling in the soft groan that pushes out of Bucky, and slowly part your lips to let him in. Now he kisses with purpose, admirable pecks until his tongue pokes through, sliding over your bottom lip, and delving into your parted mouth to meet yours. It’s not at all sloppy — it’s sweet and slow and your noses bump naturally as each of you turn your head. Bucky’s hands simply hold you close to him, one weathered and one cool, and it takes him only a few moments to figure out what you currently taste like: the faintest lime. He must taste like craft beer.

Slowly, regretfully, you pull away when the sudden sound of loud ‘boo’s! erupts inside the bar as yet another pop song begins: one from an original Jonas Brothers album. Kate tells everyone to ‘shut the fuck up!’

Bucky rests with the tip of his nose nudging your cheek. It’s a little cold, as shown by the redness it’s sporting, but you don’t move because of it. It’s quite an innocent gesture and although his nose is cold, his warm breath makes up for it.

“Guess neither of us is getting laid tonight, huh?”

Bucky chuckles against your skin and the vibration makes your knees weak. He pulls back and his blue eyes glint with that mischievous, nonverbal word.

Bet.

You make it halfway up the stairs before both of you tumble and land awkwardly on top of each other. Bucky has his flesh hand gripping the railing so the two of you don’t slide down further and his metal arm wrapped tightly around your waist. You meet his eye, granted a little awkwardly considering the twisted position you’re in, and try hard not to burst out laughing. Bucky looks like he’s struggling with the same thoughts. The two of you keep still for another few seconds, just hoping your dad doesn’t come out of his room to investigate.

But nothing happens. There are no sounds besides your heavy breathing and the whir of Bucky’s metal arm. It’s cold against your tummy — your shirt has slid up and Bucky noticed earlier because he’s rubbing sweet tiny circles near your belly button. It’s the softest type of intimate touch you’ve ever received from a man — and it’s delicate and erotic at the same time. It causes a rush of activated goosebumps and here, now, you’ve never been so turned on.

“I think we’re good,” you say, twisting a little so Bucky can give you a small push. You help each other and tip-toe the rest of the way to your room. It’s in that moment, when you lock your door and Bucky presses you against it with his hardening cock against the inside of your thigh, that you realize your room is closer to your dad’s. The guest room would have allowed for more privacy, more of a chance to whimper at least, and a locked door isn’t enough.

“Fuck, doll. Are we really doing this?” He lost the battle in his own head. The feeling of your soft lips instructs him to worry about it later.

Your throat goes dry as you try to formulate a response. Bucky’s trailing wet and sloppy kisses down your exposed neck, stopping wherever he sees fit to bite down just a little. He’s careful not to suck or bite down too hard — he’s saving you the awkward stumble of lies you’d have to spill to anyone who asked. And he’s so big: bulky in all the right places and so goddamn warm. His thighs are massively constructed, grinding upward as you grind yourself down. You didn’t even know you were desperately humping the strong muscle until now.

“You so don’t get to back down now,” you mewl, turning your head slightly so you can mark up his neck as well. He tastes like salt and soft skin, warm to the touch and lovely, lovely Bucky. You swear he tastes as he smells: distinctive tones of cinnamon here, and mild whiffs of cologne there. “I wanted to get fucked tonight. Guess it has to be you, no?”

Bucky growls and practically rips your sweater from your shoulders. Once he discards it, he does the same to your shirt. His hands are large and the pads of his fingers are rough — the fingers of a working man. You’re so used to the soft hands of men who worked in offices, in education, who never got roughed up. But Bucky has the hands of a worker: hands that have seen combat, hands that have worked hard jobs, hands that are full of experience.

Maybe that’s just it — Bucky feels different, smells different, tastes different because he’s older. More mature. And you’re so tiny compared to him: trapped against him and the door as he kisses his way down your throat to your heaving chest. He reaches back quickly and easily snaps off your bra.

“I’m sorry, doll.” He groans as he catches his first full glance at your naked breasts. You try not to peacock, but Bucky licks his lips and you can’t help but whine and push your chest out to him. “But that guy wouldn’t have done the job. You wanna get fucked? I’m here, babygirl. I’ll fuck you so good.”

It takes everything within you not to moan obscenely. Bucky seems to want you to, however, because the moment he finishes speaking his filth, his mouth attaches eagerly to the round swells of your breasts. He licks and sucks and molds your breasts with his hands like he’s hungry for it, desperate to have every inch of your available skin on his taste buds, in between his incisors, hot on his pink lips. “I’ll fuck you so good, doll. I’ll fuck you so good and well that I’ll have to gag you so you don’t wake up your dad, huh?”

“Mmmpf.” It’s a pathetic little mewl, you know this, and the sad little thrust of your hips does no better. Bucky knows what he’s doing to you: god, he can feel the welcoming heat radiating through the fabric of your thin jeans for christ’s sake.

“Fuck, that gets you off?” His voice gets deeper each time he curses. He’s so hot and hard against you; you’re curious as to how he hasn’t come untouched. “The thought of me fucking you nice and deep while your dad sleeps peacefully in the other room?”

“Fuck, Bucky. If you don’t fuck me right now I might just kill you.”

Bucky chuckles low and in one swift movement, grips your ass and walks to your bed. He plops you down, relishing the way the momentum causes your tits to jiggle. He wastes no time and climbs onto the bed to help remove your jeans as well. After he undresses, leaving his boxers on simply for teasing you further, he reattaches his mouth to your breasts.

The metal arm glints in the little light the room provides but you’d know it was there even in the dark. Bucky makes sure to not lay it directly over your skin for risk of the sudden cold, but you wouldn’t mind. Hell fucking no, not with the way he lightly trails it down the side of your stomach to grip your ass; the cold of the metal and heat of your skin produces a new sensation you’re absolutely drunk on.

The bed creaks with his added weight; the sound of the sheets ruffling and his tiny gasps in between each gentle bite causes your thighs to shake involuntarily, and Bucky has to plant one of your knees down onto the bed to keep you open for him.

“Bucky, shit, please,” you whine quietly, voice high-pitched and desperate and for a second you can’t believe that sound even left your mouth. You’re on fire, burning through every crevice of your slightly sweaty body, and you can feel your clit pulsating. The flimsy piece of lace you’re wearing keeps rubbing you so good, pulled and yanked by Bucky spreading you open, so you buck your hips upward just to feel the nice rub.

“Where do you want me, doll?” Bucky teases, voice raspier than it was a few minutes ago. His curls have gone all directions now, flopping lazily across his forehead and some higher on top. “You want me here?” He kisses a sloppy kiss just above your belly button. He grins against your skin as your hips buck up higher. “Or here?” The next kiss is right below and he pokes his tongue out a little just to see you jump. His index fingers hook through your panties. “Or here?”

Bucky doesn’t pull your panties down at all and instead buries his face to your mound, lapping at the wet spot you’ve accumulated. It’s enough to make you yelp.

“Shh!” Bucky chastises, the vibration and breath of hot air too much. You bite your lip to prevent another broken cry, but it’s pointless. Bucky mouths expertly at the spot you need him most, devouring your covered heat like it’s his last meal. It’s slightly uncoordinated, but Bucky shows commitment and expertise that not even your best one night stands have shown. You slap your own palm over your open mouth once he finally slips your panties down your thighs and gets down to business.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes out. You’re wet and messy and so perfectly made for him that he sees double for a good second. It’s enough to make the brain cells firing their delayed signals to kick back into gear — he leaves your heat for a second to stand and then kneel, pulls you by the back of your knees to the edge of the bed, and throws your legs over his shoulders.

“Oh!” You writhe and rut upwards, gasping from how good Bucky licks at your clit. “Buck—, oh shit! Fuck, yes, yes!” Your screams are merely gentle cries, broken and wet and practically sobs when Bucky begins sucking. He laps at your left lip for a few seconds, moaning against you and chuckling when your thighs vibrate in response. He moves on to the right, then slips low down to your perineum, and swipes right back up. The action makes you snap right up, hands going directly to his messed up curls and pulling him into you harder.

Bucky’s close to coming. It’s embarrassing and so fucking ridiculous for a man his age, especially with his experience, but he can’t fucking help it. You’re so goddamn wet, drenched down his dimpled chin, mouth parted in a silent gasp with these tiny whines escaping no matter how hard you try to keep them in. The skin of your thighs against his bearded cheeks is driving him crazy that he’s seeing white, the softness activating a trigger in his brain that tells him he has to finish on you. It’s almost like a primal need: to spill on your young skin and claim you as his.

The thought makes him lap at you faster, swirling his tongue with as much accuracy as he can muster up as his brain fires more ideas throughout his skull. Coming on the inside of your soft thighs, watching as it drips inward and close to your fucked-out pussy. Coming inside of you, filling you up with his come and watching as it drips out and down onto your bed sheets. Coming in your mouth and having you swallow his spent down, that fucking little smirk on your plump lips as you do so. Bucky wants to come on every available surface of your body until he’s convinced you're his, that he’s made his mark, that this archaic and primal instinct gets him off more than he thinks it will.

He groans low as he continues swirling and sucking, and he reaches down to squeeze at his cock. He’s aching, a sweet wet spot at the front of his boxers that matches yours, and the next little moan you let out has him squeezing the base of his cock harder as he groans again. “Doll, come on,” he urges, pads of his fingers digging deep into the meat of your thighs.

It’s enough for you — if you could compare that rasp in his throat to anything, it would be honey in tea next to a crackling fireplace — and you’re coming with a tight groan and your palm turned sideways in your mouth. Bucky holds your hips as you writhe uncontrollably, working you through your powerful orgasm, even massaging the sides of your ass. It isn’t until you plop back down onto the sheets that you realize you were even mid-air.

Bucky emerges with the proudest smile you’ve ever seen. It actually makes you scoff. “Well, I’d be a goddamn liar if I said you weren’t the fucking best lay so far,” you admit.

He grins wide and throws your legs up again, this time around his naked hips. He cock stands proudly, leaking from the tip and an almost angry red. Bucky tugs at himself a few times before his eyes shoot up to yours.

“Good?”

Fuck. You’re about to fuck your dad’s friend. A guy way older than you. In your childhood bedroom.

You shimmy the slightest bit down and open your legs wider, resting your sweaty palms against your own thighs. “Fuck me.”

It’s a desperate plea, one Bucky will certainly treasure for as long as he lives. He dips down and lays over you, planting a messy kiss against the underside of your neck. It tickles, but you’re so distracted by his weight, pressed chest to chest, the soft light from the moon illuminating the olive skin of his shoulders. You leave your own pattern of kisses along them, nipping gently and marveling at the soft little chuckles it causes him to expel.

“You gotta be quiet, okay?” Bucky whispers, voice already hoarse as he runs the tip of his cock across your wet slit. It’s such a dirty movement, one that not many people you’ve slept with have taken the time to do. But Bucky seems to relish each moment, hungry for more. “You gonna be quiet for me, doll?”

“Mm,” you whine and push your hips higher as the tip of his cock runs against your sensitive clit. It’s not the answer Bucky wants so he presses down against you harder, running his cock over you a couple more times until your eyebrows scrunch and you’re voicing your displeasure in waiting. “I’ll be good.”

Bucky halts with his lips over yours, breathing in your beer-infused puffs of air. The air is quite literally knocked out of his own lungs and the air you’re supplying is all he has.

‘I’ll be good.’

Now there’s a kink Bucky didn’t know he had. Granted, he didn’t think he’d get off fucking his friend’s daughter just two doors down.

“Say that again,” Bucky literally begs, voice raspy as he finally breaches your tight walls. He pushes slowly, not even half way in, and savours the way your neck stretches like an open invitation. He ruts once, pushing in deeper, and nearly comes from the smallest whine your chest produces. “Tell me you’ll be so good for me. Can you do that?”

There’s a slight burn, delectable and a bit restrained, but it’s the best thing you’ve felt in months. Bucky’s cock is the perfect girth, stretching you further than any toy or person, and even though he’s not all the way seated inside, the ridges and veins of his cock are obvious. He’s already touching spots you didn’t even know you had.

Bucky wants you to be good. This is bordering on Babygirl and Daddy kink and if you were asked a week ago, any interest in this roleplay would have never been raised. But you have the sudden urge to please Bucky, to be absolutely ruined and reduced to tears, to be spanked and called dumb. The mere thought is getting you off.

“I’ll be good,” you gasp, nails leaving little crescents in his flesh arm. He pushes all the way in and rolls his hips against yours to situate himself and rub against your needy clit. The shock of it causes you to clench down around him and Bucky grits his teeth.

“I need you to be quiet, doll,” he repeats, breathing in slowly as he thrusts a couple of times. He’s so goddamn deep, threatening to send you into a weeping mess. Bucky lifts himself up and grips your thighs hard, then begins to pound into you like you’ve been begging him to.

“Oh, my,” you struggle to gasp out, mouth hanging open in a parted scream. “Oh, fuck!”

He knows he should chastise you, but the screams are just egging him on. He holds onto your thighs tightly, slamming into you with so much force you’re being thrust higher up onto the bed. It should hurt — you’ve had guys slam their dicks into you and hit your cervix spot on and send you yelling in pain rather than pleasure — but Bucky’s cock spreads you apart like it’s the most delicate thing in the world, massaging your tight walls with each noisy thrust. The nasty sound of skin slapping skin drowns the once quiet night and you’re certain that sound is louder than anything your vocal cords have produced so far.

“That good, doll?” Bucky teases. He’s got a nice sheen of sweat over his body — the shine somehow makes his build seem larger, thicker, and the metal arm looks so damn good near that shiny olive skin. “You like taking my cock?”

Dirty talk. You really don’t want to be thinking about your other sexual exploits but jesus fucking christ Bucky is ruining them all. He’s hotter, older, the dirty talk doesn’t sound forced or cringy, his cock hits all the right places, and his hands are gripping and molding your skin like he’s studying it. It’s impossible not to compare — Bucky is shattering your initial beliefs of sex and you’re close to crying from sheer joy.

“Yes!” It’s one damn syllable and you choke on your spit. “O-oh, yes!” He’s literally fucking you stupid.

“Fuck, fuck!” Bucky moans between a laugh. “So fucking tight. Look at ya.” And just to make sure he’s being fucked stupid along with you, you purposely clench down as he drags out, giving him the perfect tight slide as he drives home again. “Oh, god.”

You smile lazily and a shaky laugh escapes your parted lips. “Fuck, Bucky. You’re fucking me like you’ve been dying for it.”

Bucky hits a particularly sensitive spot inside you and it causes you to release a short scream. You don’t exactly come, but your thighs jiggle from the impact and the oversensitivity. Bucky groans deep and hooks your legs around him tighter.

“Been wanting to fuck you since I walked through the front door, doll. First night I thought about being balls deep inside your tight cunt. Came this morning just thinking about your ass.”

This time you involuntarily clench and it makes Bucky release the most perfect whine. It’s that type of whine only guys close to coming make after being edged for so long. But Bucky continues, slamming into you until the base of his cock and even his lower stomach are drenched with your juices.

There’s a knock at the door.

Bucky stops, still deep inside you, and leans down until he too is settled on the bed.

“Bumblebee?”

“Shit,” you whisper-yell, burying your face into the sweaty crevice between Bucky’s neck and his metal shoulder. “Yeah?”

You struggle to make your voice sound normal, but there’s still a little bounce at the end of your words.

“You okay in there? I thought I heard you groaning.”

“Yeah, dad! I’m fine! Just… period cramps…”

It’s an okay lie, and the man balls deep inside you chuckles quietly as if he’s saying just that.

“You need anything? It’s like, one in the morning but if you need me to run to the general store—”

“No, it’s okay!” Your voice is this close to sounding bright and normal again and it’s at that very moment Bucky decides to start thrusting again. It’s slow, but hard and deep, repeatedly dragging against that special spot Bucky’s been hitting for the past several minutes. “O-oh!”

“You sure you’re okay?”

Bucky practically slaps his palm down onto your mouth. He thrusts fast, slamming into you a few times until your eyes water and your pussy pulsates, then stops. He uncovers your mouth. He looks down at you with this gleam in his dark eyes and a smirk pulling at his cheeks.

“I’m good!” you try, then are immediately shut up again as Bucky slaps his palm down and repeatedly thrusts. Again, your pussy pulsates around him, wild with want. Your chest heaves with each sound you’re being restricted.

“Okay, well. Don’t want to sound rude, but try and keep it down? I work early and we don’t wanna go waking James.”

Bucky fucks you fast. He’s surprised the bed hasn’t broken or that your chest hasn’t exploded. He dips down and takes one of your nipples into his needy mouth, sucking and biting as he thrusts.

“No! We don’t want that,” you try again, tiny gaps between each word.

“Lemme know if you need anything. Night Bumblebee.”

You don’t bother voicing a goodnight in return. Bucky covers your mouth and fucks you hard, eyes locked with yours. There’s a lovely crease in the middle of his forehead and in between his eyebrows, and he crinkles up his nose in one of the most innocent ways you’ve ever seen. Which is ironic considering he’s currently fucking the living hell out of you, but it’s glorious. His cheeks are pink and his lips are wet with his spit and all his curls are flopping like they’re having the time of their lives. He looks young, euphoric, and all-around god-like.

“Don’t wanna be waking him up again, now do we?” Bucky laughs, then groans when you clench down around him. “Fuck, you wanna get caught?”

Your eyes widen a little and Bucky lets his palm fall to the side of your head where he claws at the sheet instead. “What would everyone say if they knew I was fucking you, huh? People in this town know me. They know you. They — fuck — How do you think they’ll react knowing you’re about to come your pretty little head all over my cock?”

“Bucky…” It comes out like a broken sob. You’re so fucking close, teetering over the edge as each delicious slide of Bucky’s cock hits the perfect spot. You crave it — having him come deep inside you like some forbidden piece of fruit and fucking it deeper into you — and you know Bucky wants that too. His little speeches basically give it away. “What are you waiting for, hmm? Come on, Bucky. Come inside me. Make me yours.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow only briefly, like he’s trying to discern whether or not he heard you right, then he’s fucking you with precision and care. He’s careful when lifting your hips up higher, both his flesh and metal hands gripping your waist as he does so. Then he drags the metal hand down over your stomach, massaging a little, until his thumb rubs over your clit. It’s cold, but you’re so wet and hot that it’s barely noticeable.

“Oh my—” Your yell gets cut off, and good too, because your scream would have been incredibly loud. Bucky smacks his flesh hand over your mouth and catches all of your blissed noises: little grunts and broken whines that occur in time with each wave of your orgasm. Bucky watches the space where his cock spreads you open, mouth falling open as your cunt squeezes down like he’s never felt it before. Bucky catches the loud moan he almost lets out — grateful he does because that would be a lot harder to explain.

Bucky leans down and replaces his hand with his mouth, kissing you deep and sloppy as he grunts low and finally reaches his own high. He spills into you, gasping against your plump lips, and gives a few more admirable thrusts that help him ride it out to the fullest.

It’s suddenly too hot, too sweaty, but you like Bucky weighing you down. He’s still buried deep inside you, lips dragging slowly against your heated cheeks. Bucky tilts his head, then brings both hands up to cup the sides of your face.

You know what the effects of a good orgasm do to you. Your legs get weak, your chest gets a little sore, and your head is a little dizzy. All those things you’re currently feeling.

But Bucky meets your gaze, eyes searching yours for anything — words you haven’t said yet, emotions you haven’t expressed. Then he does something. Something that no one has ever done, and you promise you won’t compare him to anyone else after that.

Bucky smiles. Enough for those crinkles near his eyes to multiply.

All those wonderful feelings within you are there but so is something else. Your chest is sore, sure, but there’s a weird pulse behind your sternum: like a lovely little tickle that melts across each individual rib. Melting.

You place the pad of your thumb on the dimple in his chin.

Yeah, you’re in trouble.

xxMoni

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fanfic #reader x bucky barnes #marvel fanfiction #Marvel AU #bucky barnes au #dilf!buckybarnes #dbf!bucky #dbf!buckybarnes #captainsimagines #by Moni #part two #avengers x reader #holiday smut #the warmth of winter

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captainsimagines · 3 years ago

Text

the warmth of summer || epilogue

Summary: Time has flown by and the universe continues to spin on, while you and Bucky Barnes create an axis of your own. How is everything going?

Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (Fem) Reader

Trope(s): DBF! Bucky Barnes; Age Difference; Idiots in Love; Epilogue

Based on the Song(s): Illicit Affairs by Taylor Swift

Epilogue to The Warmth of Winter || MiniSeries

Warnings: 18+ ONLY; unprotected sex; dirty talk; pet names (sweetheart, doll, kid); exhibitionism kink; age difference kink; strong language

Word Count: 4,500+

Author’s Note: Sigh. I couldn’t resist. Enjoy my lovelies. 🥺

“Craziest place I’ve ever had sex was in line, outside of a Best Buy, waiting to buy the new Wii that was released that year. Can’t remember what year, but I remember her tits.”

The whole group pauses, drinks suspended mid-air, shock evident on everyone’s contorting faces. Clint… fuck, what else is there to say about Clint Barton? He’s won the indirect “who has had sex in the craziest place” challenge. A close second was Wanda, with her not-so-innocent “a classroom”. Pietro damn well almost threw up.

“While other people were also… waiting in line?” you ask, trying and failing to use your vodka lemonade as a barrier for a blush. But Clint sees the way your lip curls sheepishly and the way your eyes avoid his.

“You’re one to talk.”

It always impresses you how well you and Bucky work in sync. Both your legs kick out at the same time and pierce Clint’s shins: you his right, Bucky his left. Clint wails and clutches his beer as if it holds magical healing abilities.

“God, don’t bring that up.” Captain Rogers, or Steve as he’s been literally begging you to call him for the past eight months now, groans and runs a large hand down his face.

Now, here’s the story. Captain Rog— Steve— said he would be home at nine pm. on a spring evening in the middle of the week. It was a Thursday, to be exact. He gave absolutely no warning or additional indication he would actually not, or that he wrapped up work down at the Commando Center an hour earlier than expected. He didn’t text to see if you or Bucky wanted some take-out. He assumed you’d bother devour it whether he asked or not. So he ordered your food, climbed the steps to his and Bucky’s apartment, put the key in the door, turned the goddamn doorknob, and came face to face with the one sight he never thought he’d see.

He’s accidentally walked in on Bucky having sex before. He’s seen his partners in the midst of orgasmic bliss. Hell, Steve has often wondered how good Bucky is in bed a little too often. But he’s never walked into his own apartment and caught Bucky Barnes, plastered on the couch, with his girl practically full-frontal in his lap and bouncing, before. Or at least, that girl had never been you.

You had gasped so loudly, doe-eyed and sweaty, completely exposed. Bucky had moved so quickly, tucked you into his side, covered you with a blanket and—

But Bucky hadn’t had time to pull out before he moved, and the movement was an accidentally calculated one, and he involuntarily toppled you over that delicious edge. You had come so hard, a scream on your lips, embarrassment flooding your veins, in front of Captain Rog— Steve.

And Steve didn’t know whether to move or not. Several seconds had passed, his eyes locked with yours. So he placed the bag of food down on the floor, backed up slowly, and camped in the hallway until you and Bucky put some pants on.

No one really brought it up until now. Because you’re a goddamn idiot and told Wanda, who told Pietro, who told Clint, who told Kate, who told Peggy, who told someone else in the nursing home, who told a nurse, who told your dad for some godforsaken reason.

A week later and Bucky’s apartment door was basically broken down by your dad marching through, loading his pistol, and screaming, “Steven Grant Rogers, you fucking hypocritical-ass voyeur, get your white ass out here and pay for your fucking sins!”

You stood in between them, arms raised, screaming, “He didn’t see anything!”

But Steve had groaned, head his hands as he admitted, “I saw everything! God, I saw everything!”

And you snapping at him, “I will let him put that bullet in you! Stop fucking talking!”

And Steve responding, “It was the first thing I told my therapist because I was having nightmares.”

Then, “Fuck, Rogers! You’re on your goddamn own! Idiot.”

Your dad hadn’t shot him that day. But he promises he’ll shoot a bullet into Steve’s gravestone when he ultimately dies first.

Bucky had just mentioned that it’s nice not being on the other side of the gun for once. You had laughed until you cried.

“Everyone’s seen your tits, ‘cept for me?” Clint asks.

No. Sam hasn’t and he says so immediately. And Pietro has only caught a glimpse of a nipple at the beach once. So, no. No.

“Alright, Clint, that’s enough beer,” Kate mumbles, trying to pull the bottle from his tense grasp. She can’t really cut him off considering she’s not the bartender tonight.

“Keep talking about my girl’s tits, man. See what happens,” Bucky chuckles, taking a sip of his own beer.

Clint is Clint and Clint is basically a brother. You know for certain he doesn’t want to see any part of you naked. Listening in the one time was for blackmail purposes and because… well, Clint is Clint. He’s just shitfaced right now.

“Let’s change the subject!”

Everyone agrees with your exclamation. It’s late August so the air is a little humid and the bar is packed. School has barely started, back-to-school shopping has created a dent in every parent’s bank account, and a cold beer after a hard day’s work is the summer thing to do. Instead of massive overcoats and cardigans and mittens, it’s short-shorts and tank-tops, and ponytails. You don’t have to raise your beer with a napkin to protect your chilly fingers, you don’t have to breathe into your hands after removing your gloves, and your boots aren’t soaked to your socks anymore.

You had gotten some vacation time, Bucky had left Ayo in charge of the bar back in Brooklyn, and Steve and Sam made the trip home together, finally, for the first time in ten years. Your dad’s house is packed to the brim. But he absolutely loves it— the amount of baked goods he’s placed on the counter, the amount of new board games he’s bought, it’s insane. But a good insane. He’s happy.

After the first month, he had called you on a regular Monday night. He talked about work, other things that you can’t really remember, and then he paused. A long pause.

“… He’s been good to you?”

“You’re really worried about that? Of course he has.”

“I know he’s my friend, but I still have to ask.”

“I know you gotta. I promise you, he’s been amazing.”

“You love him?”

“It’s been a month!”

“So?”

And that’s just it. So?

Peggy had mentioned how she fell in love with this man named Daniel in 1950. The love of her life, she called him. She wanted to sit in on a meeting, was denied, but before she could kill everyone involved, Daniel had placed a fully-typed transcript of the entire meeting, even the gossip discussed, on her desk. “We slept together two days later,” she admitted, pushing her cart down the aisle. “Ooo, it’s strawberry season!”

So a month was nothing but also everything, and you knew for damn certain you had fallen in love with James Buchanan Barnes. And he you, you could tell, but neither of you has said it yet.

What were you waiting for? Who fucking knows. But you feel it, and you know he knows you feel it. It’s like riding an ever growing wave, one that doesn’t seem to be crashing anytime soon. It’s brilliant.

“So, how’s the new book coming along?” Sam asks as he pokes around his french fries.

“It’s coming,” you answer, about to elaborate when—

“Mm, I bet it is,” Clint winks about a thousand times. Steve reaches over, steals his beer, and replaces it with his water.

“Clint, fucking pervert!” Wanda laughs, twisting his nipple beneath his shirt. Clint yelps, snags her nipple with his index and thumb, and twists as hard as his drunk strength will allow. Wanda screams and smacks him repeatedly. Pietro calmly stands, shimmies in between the two bickering children, and takes Wanda’s smacks for himself.

“As I was saying,” you say, lips pursed with a threatening laugh. “It’s another science fiction novel written by one of my favorite authors, Loki Laufeyson. It’s about some multiverse theory, and there’s this wizard, and some witch that has become my favorite anti-hero.”

“And even though it’s illegal and/or immoral, I have no idea which,” Bucky jokes. “She’s let me read some chapters.”

“Bad editor etiquette,” Sam chastises.

And what can you do? Bucky’s an avid reader and he shares the same bed as you. You can’t exactly sit on your side of the bed, glasses on the tip of your nose, a mountain of highlighters and pens on your blanket, and expect your boyfriend not to sneak a peek every once and a while. You’ve simply given up rejecting him— every page you finish and place face down in its own pile, Bucky picks up and reads for himself.

He’s challenged you on a correction once… ONCE… and after a screaming match about whose grammar was better, he fucked you into the mattress until the left side of your face had blanket burn and your ass was bruised.

You shiver from the memory. Bucky tugs you closer into his side, smirking down at you as you continue praising science fiction and fantasy in general. Somehow he knows you’re remembering that time.

You’re currently editing a few books, Kate’s thinking of going back to college, Wanda and Pietro are gearing up for the last of the summer flower shipments, Sam just got a promotion at work, Clint and Wanda have been discussing him buying a share of the shop, and your dad is enjoying his vacation time sleeping in and hosting his friends. He even promised to drop by the bar within the next hour before he meets up with a friend.

A lady friend. You overheard Pietro tell Sam excitedly, who then proceeded to slap his palm over his mouth and loudly shush him. It’s been… how old are you?… so long since your dad has been on a genuine date. She’s Peggy’s nurse, Monica something, and in Peggy’s own words, “Quite the dish.”

As if on cue, the bar doors open and your whole table erupts with a loud cheer. Your dad sheepishly makes his way over to you guys, hushing everyone as he slides into the large booth beside Steve.

“Look at you! Leather jacket, non-work boots, hair combed to one side! Someone’s getting laid!” Sam cheers, patting your dad on his shoulder.

Your face contorts. “Ew, don’t say that.”

Your dad, surprisingly, scoffs and points a finger at you. “Consider it payback, Bumblebee. I’ve had to suffer almost a full year of those comments you guys don’t think I hear when you whisper.”

You drop your head onto the table. Bucky rubs your back, in between your shoulders, and says, “Aw, sweetheart.”

But your dad quickly interjects before Bucky even pushes out the last syllable. “You shut the fuck up. You’ve corrupted my daughter and I still haven’t decided if I’m gonna kill you yet.”

Wanda slams her face into Steve’s chest as a loud cackle escapes. Bucky’s lips spread thin, and he nods because he knows your dad is right.

Kate reaches over to pat your head. “Cheer up, BumbleWumble. We’ve all wanted to say that to your face for a longass time, though.”

You snap your head up. “Guys!”

Clint, as drunk as ever, laughs almost louder than Wanda. Almost. “Ms. Exhibitionist can’t take the heat, huh?”

Both you and Bucky take cover, you behind him and him almost underneath the table. Your dad slaps the table as he tries and fails to keep his face settled. “Aaaand that’s my cue to leave.”

Everyone at the table grumbles and tells him to stay a little while longer. But he stands and smiles down at all of them. “Can’t be late for my first real date in three years, now can’t I?”

Avoiding the eyes of everyone else, you shimmy out of the booth with Bucky’s help. You pull your dad in close, your hands tight around his waist as you speak. “Good luck. She’s gonna love you.”

“Well, I don’t know about love.”

You pull away to grin up at him. “Trust me.”

He smiles down and kisses your forehead. He whispers, side-eyeing the rest of the group. “Don’t let them tease you too much. I can’t believe Bucky’s just blushing and taking it. Unlike him…”

“Oh?”

“He’s always been a ray of stupid sunshine, but getting teased about a girl? Not since his twenties, Bumblebee.”

You gasp, “Ooo, interesting!”

He kisses the top of your head and backs away as he waves goodbye to the group. “Visit the house in the morning, yeah?”

Oh, yeah. You’re not staying with your dad this summer vacation. With how often you and Bucky do the deed, it wouldn’t have been appropriate. You’re staying in the one hotel in town, letting Steve and Sam stay in your room and the guest room. It’s the least you could offer Sam. You’ve already paid him back for the plane tickets. And it’s the least you could do for Steve. Especially Steve. Dude has seen and heard too much as is.

You give your dad a thumbs-up.

“I can’t feel my toes. Can anyone else not feel their toes?” Clint asks, smacking his lips together. His words and actions contradict themselves. Kate rolls her eyes and starts helping him stand up.

“Up to bed, you,” Kate says, and says goodbye to everyone. Steve and Sam share a nod, then they’re off. Wanda and Pietro stick around and order one more drink each.

“Wanna blow this popsicle stand?”

“That was so white and middle-aged of you.”

Bucky feigns hurt, clutching at his chest. “You wound me, kid.”

“Good. I’ll make sure to completely saw you in half next time.”

Bucky hooks his arm around your neck and tugs you down, effectively wrestling you out of the bar doors. It’s routine, this. Bucky’s manhandling and treating you like a sparring partner makes your heart burst violent red. His sheer force but careful coordination, calculated and on purpose, gets you going in more ways than one. The two of you finish your little wrestling match: he’s squished your cheeks under his armpits enough and you’ve tugged at his hair. He’s been growing it out. His hair grows fast and it reaches the middle of his neck now.

You tug it a lot nowadays. You walk hand-in-hand the few blocks it takes to get back to the hotel.

“Hey, doll?”

“Hmm?” The town looks different without the obscenity of holiday lights. It’s not that it looks dull, but it’s harder to see the street signs and store fronts without the extra luminescence.

“Did you ever think we’d be here this time last year?”

The question is an easy one to answer. After everything happened with Brock and after your dad sat both you and Bucky down to have a serious discussion, the answer simply ignited like a well-known prophecy. Like it was obvious all along.

“Yes.”

Bucky startles only slightly. “Seriously?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You didn’t?”

Bucky’s eyes widen enormously. “Trap. Trap! It’s a trap!”

You throw open the hotel doors with a loud laugh, stumbling to the elevator as Bucky tries to grip your waist from behind. Once inside, Bucky holds you close. “It felt like a dream. A very real dream. But because it felt like a dream, I felt like I would wake up at any moment.”

You hum and lean your cheek on the top of his head. He’s bending his knees in order to hug you like this. “I’m very real, James.”

Bucky stills and slowly unhooks his arms from around you. He meets your eye and slowly, teasingly, a bright smile spreads on his face. “You haven’t called me James since the day we met.”

Before you can respond, Bucky lunges forward and plasters you to the elevator wall. It’ll open at any second and anyone could be standing waiting to board. But Bucky immediately sucks a large kiss and bite to your neck like an alpha in rut.

“Buck—“, you plead, hips knocking forward out of instinct by now. “There’s a camera.”

But that doesn’t stop the bulky soldier from biting down further, trailing little nips above your clothed breasts. “And that’s a problem because?”

God, it really isn’t. You’ve come to accept it. You’re an exhibitionist, through and through. Just knowing someone is watching Bucky take what’s his in such a primal manner is making your thighs quiver, a delicious drip in your panties. And fuck, you’d be lying if Steve walking in on you bare and spread didn’t give you one of the strongest orgasms you’ve ever had in your life. Because the idea of sharing isn’t necessarily one that gets you off, but the idea of someone witnessing you getting off? You think Bucky knows. He came, too. That was obvious.

“They can see,” you whisper, glancing at the blinking red light in the corner. Bucky eases his right hand to the middle of your thighs where you need him most, and applies just the faintest amount of pressure. You whimper into his neck, finally glancing away from the onlookers.

“God, sweetheart,” Bucky groans, then sighs when the elevator doors open. He quickly tugs you out and to your shared room, fumbling with the key card. You look away to smirk, finding the whole situation borderline hilarious. Finally, Bucky succeeds and pulls you through, signaling at you to begin stripping. You don’t have to be told twice.

“You know,” Bucky says, tugging his shirt over his head. You don’t have much to take off either— just your tank top, bra, jeans, and your shoes. You do so quickly. “I know you like being watched. Or at least, like knowing someone could be.”

You roll your eyes and shimmy your underwear down your legs. Bucky licks his lips as you snap back up. “Your point?”

Bucky strips himself of his boxers and walks toward you until you have no other choice but to fall back onto the bed. The sheets are still undone from this morning. “What if we create some form of amateur porn? Like those videos where they film everything from the neck down?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Bucky, you have a metal arm.”

“I can always take it off.”

“You can do that?”

Bucky smiles from above you, his weight becoming heavier as he dips down to kiss along your collarbones. “Yeah, but I usually do that with T’Challa or Shuri there to help me.”

“I am not letting you remove your arm so we can be unrecognizable in order to shoot some amateur porn.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

You huff a laugh and kiss along Bucky’s neck. He answers with gentle sighs and the feeling of his lips turning up against your skin makes your chest pound. He kisses all the way down to your belly button until you think he’s about to eat you out, but he hikes your thighs up and bends you in half. Then his face is directly across yours again and he sinks into you slowly. Neither of you had the will to hold out and fuck around with foreplay anyway.

“Fuck,” you breathe, wrapping your arms around his neck and digging your nails into the soft flesh of his back. Bucky attacks his lips with yours, smothering you with both his breath and weight. He rocks into you slowly, at a set pace, and oh so deep.

“Then, how about this?” he continues. You can see your feet dangling above his head. “We go to a club. One of those BDSM sex clubs where they practice public sex.”

Fuck. You automatically clench around his thick cock, delighted in the way it tears a soft grunt from Bucky’s throat. His fingers dig deeper into the flesh of your thighs, holding you impossibly still. You’ll start cramping soon, but Bucky always somehow knows when the discomfort is starting.

“Are you serious?”

Bucky quickly nods, then he starts driving into you faster. Bucky grunts once, then twice, in response to your clenching. “So fucking serious. Think about it. Our own little booth, everything is consensual and people respect the performers. I fuck you nice and hard until you’re dripping down my cock while others have a front row seat.”

You whimper, practically breathless, and nod helplessly. “I want that. I want them to see you fuck me.”

“God,” Bucky whines, clenching his teeth. He lets go of your thighs and expertly rearranges you both. Now he tips you on your side while he settles behind you, his hot chest to your sweaty back, as he hikes your leg up. He sinks back into you, attaching his swollen lips to your already bruising neck. When Bucky bites, he bites. “You want them to watch as I bend you over the table and sink into you, pull you up so they see as every inch of me impales you?”

Your eyes roll back in your head. Bucky’s snapping his hips so rhythmically, so damn good, and your ass is jiggling as he makes contacts with your hips. He sneaks his left arm over the pillow until it’s all the way in front of you, then he holds your chin up. He tilts your head to him, smacking a sloppy kiss to your parted lips. His right hand continues holding your leg up, but you’re so damn close with all this dirty talk and wonderful expectations that you switch his hand out for yours. You hold yourself open as he moves his right hand down to smooth over your heated clit.

“They’ll watch as I make you mine, over and over. They’ll see as I come so deep inside your dripping pussy they’ll fucking salivate, wanting to lick you clean themselves.”

You whimper repeatedly, clenching your eyes shut as white spots start overtaking your already blurry vision. It takes a moment for you to realize the pillow beneath your head is slightly wet. Bucky’s fucking you so damn nicely that tears of fucking joy are streaming. The pulse of heat in your stomach is gradual, tickling then pounding, burning with each thick inch of Bucky’s cock.

“But I won’t let them. You’re mine. I’ll lick you clean myself. And you know what?” Fuck, does he expect you to respond? You mutter something incoherent, but you think you succeed in nodding. Bucky huffs, pinching your clit wonderfully. “Once you’re good and fucked, it’s my turn.”

W…h…a…t…

“You’ll bend me over that same table, lube me up and fuck me open, then you’ll sink into me with a toy of your own and fuck me until my spit drips onto the fucking floor.”

A scream tears through your heaving chest as your orgasm hurdles through each of your blasted nerve endings. Your legs move to close but you force yourself to keep them open, writhing back into Bucky’s hot chest and cock so you can prolong the amazing feeling. Tingles erupt all over your skin, your hearing mutes, and your throat stretches as yet another scream erupts. Bucky’s not letting your clit rest.

“Think we’re at that point of our relationship, no? You can’t be the only one taking it,” Bucky chuckles, but it soon turns into a groan as your cunt squeezes him nonstop. He’s right there at the edge, teetering in that blissful purgatory. He plays with your sensitive clit more, ignoring your tiny protests (because he damn well knows you can come again), and continues voicing his desires. “You wanna fuck me, doll? Wanna see me scream and beg the same way you do?”

YES! YES! YES! YES!

It takes a moment, but you soon realize you just screamed that response. Bucky holds you to him tightly, thrusting hard and fast, rhythm slightly faltering. As he rolls expert circles into your clit, dipping his fingers down to where you’re connected to collect more of your juices, he rolls his hips against your ass. It’s like he wants to melt into you, connect with your skin forever.

It hits you hard. You milk him once more, now breathless, throat tight and clenching as this orgasm steals your sound.

But Bucky’s not quite there yet, and even though you know it’ll take maybe another ten minutes for you to orgasm for a third time, you let him fuck you, use you, as he reaches his end.

“I’m one-hundred percent certain,” Bucky breathes, his eyes shut. His lips tickle your neck. “That if you fuck me, I’ll cry. I’ll melt into whatever surface you’re fucking me on. I’ll make noises you haven’t heard me make yet.”

You don’t get to respond. You don’t even think you would have been able to. Bucky groans deeply, bites your shoulder, and comes in rough, scattered spurts. He grunts after each prolonged thrust, slowing down once his chest stops heaving erratically.

You’ve said it before, and you’ll say it again: Fuck.

“You good?” you ask him, bringing an arm up to pet his hair. He snuggles into your neck and kisses your skin softly, humming his answer. It takes a few minutes for you both to settle down, breathing back to normal, white spots gone. After cleaning up and slipping on underwear, you change the sheets with the extra ones provided from the closet.

Bliss, bliss, and even more bliss.

Bucky’s chest is a wonder. Warm, inviting, sculpted. Laying your cheek against him has proven one of your favorite pastimes. The amount of times you’ve fallen asleep on his wonderful chest and drooled all over him is insane. Bucky doesn’t even mention the drool, but you know damn well he notices it.

“Hey, Bucky?”

“Hmm?” he says, metal fingers massaging your scalp.

You breathe in slowly, extend the fingers of your left hand on his chest, and close your eyes. It’s not that you’re afraid of saying it, but it’s the fact that you’ve never said it to a significant other before. It swirls within you, like the warmth of summer, stretching it’s fingers in a longing grasp. You’re finally home.

“I love you.”

Bucky’s fingers still over your head. His chest halts and you hear his heartbeat quicken. For a millisecond, just a fraction of that time even, you’re worried you rushed into saying it. But Bucky hurries to tug you up, rather clumsily, until your entire body is sprawled on top of his and his lips are meeting yours.

“I love you,” he quickly admits, pecking your lips. He kisses your chin, both your cheeks, your forehead, and once the skin of your face is covered, he moves to your head and to the top of it. “I love you. With everything in me. I belong to you.”

He belongs to you. Your heart feels tight and tears spring to your eyes.

“Say it again. A million times more. So I know you’re mine, too,” Bucky asks.

Your voice is gravely by the time you fall asleep, but you repeat the affirmation to him a million times more. He knows it now. It’d be impossible for him to forget.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #avengers x reader #marvel fanfiction #captainsimagines #by moni #bucky #bucky x reader #reader x bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagines #the warmth of winter series #epilogue #the warmth of summer #the warmth of winter masterlist #dbf!buckybarnes #dbf!bucky shall arrive #dbf!bucky #dadsbestfriend!bucky

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captainsimagines · 2 years ago

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the warmth of the future || three

Pairing: DBF James “Bucky” Barnes x (Fem) Reader

Based on the Song: ‘Willow’ by Taylor Swift

Warnings: strong language; angst; money talk; mention of dead parents; age difference; accidental voyeurism; unprotected sex

Word Count: 7,130+

Author’s Note: The finale! We’ve come to yet another end for these characters! Love them with all my heart, and I’m so happy (as always) to share them with you. xxMoni

The firefighters had the fire controlled within thirty minutes of the faulty switch striking a flame. Or rather, they controlled the remaining flames. Apparently the fire started around one in the morning when the fundraiser was still going strong and most of the townspeople were either at the bar or asleep. Someone finally called 911 around twenty minutes later, but by then the fire had consumed every item in the store. And since plant life burns with villainous purpose, the walls didn’t stand much of a chance.

All that remained now was the black outline of the structure, chipped and broken wood sticking in all directions. The couches were charred, as was the register and back office. Clint and Steve carried the burnt safe out into the street so they could load it into Pietro’s truck. Your dad already volunteered to store it in the garage.

It was heartbreaking to see so many flowers burned. Some lifeless, some gone. Bucky had run back home to bring you a heavier jacket and some shoes as he knew you would want to help your friends salvage what they could. Once he saw that you were bundled up and no longer at risk for frostbite, he got to work.

Hours of cleaning, sweeping, calling contractors and customers.

Customers.

Pietro had released a garbled, angry yell when Wanda mentioned the Christmas Eve and Christmas orders. He rubbed at his temples, then his chest, muttering something along the lines of, We needed that money.

Wanda and Pietro are somewhat paralyzed—Clint at least tried to sprinkle in some jokes here and there—and it’s killing you.

The holidays were always festive. Nothing bad was supposed to happen during the holidays. Because when they do, they’re never the same.

“All the money we raised last night for the roof—I’ll put it toward the store.” You were now all seated at the barstools and booths in Kate’s bar as she made that drastic declaration. She passed Sam a plate of fried eggs and bacon that she had cooked upstairs twenty minutes before, ignoring the way everyone immediately rejected her idea.

“Kate, you spent all that time organizing that event. You earned the money,” you say, stealing a piece of bacon yourself. The shock from the morning finally wore off long enough for you to put some food into your stomach. Bucky adjusts you on his lap as he adds, “You have a business too, Kate. You need to keep it up and running.”

Kate rolls her eyes. “That bucket is holding up just fine.” She points at the bucket near the tiny stage, nearly filled with water.

Wanda sighs, rubbing the tension from her shoulder as her other hand nestles a mug of coffee to her chest. “They’re right, Kate. Besides, I’ve been too lenient on our annual inspections. We were supposed to have a check-up two months ago. I kept pushing it back.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Pietro orders. “I use the same calendar as you do.”

At that moment, everyone shares a collective sigh. This was bad. Very bad. That shop was Wanda and Pietro’s only source of income. Clint’s, too. It was their parent’s memory.

“What are we going to do?” Wanda whimpers, resting her forehead against Sam’s shoulder. Everyone else shares a look, a look that conveys no answers and no ideas.

After talking logistics and finishing breakfast, everyone begins filing out to get back to work. Sam, Steve, Bucky, and your dad decided they would stay behind, driving anything that wasn’t too badly burned back to the house. Kate offered to bring everyone water and lunch. Clint, Wanda, and Pietro hopped into Pietro’s truck immediately, their list full and priorities straight. Most of their day would be spent out of town, away from the wreckage. You figure that’s convenient—they probably don’t want to stare at what they lost.

Bucky meets you at the bar entrance, kissing your cheek briefly before following Steve.

“Bucky?” He turns, hands in his pockets. “I didn’t get you a present yet.”

His mouth twitches, and something beautiful gleams in his eyes. “You got the money for it, though. Don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna make sure their flower orders get out one way or another, aren’t you?”

The fact that he knows you so well has you believing in the concept of soulmates. “Yeah.”

He smiles, at you and at nothing. “You’ve already given me your heart. I would be honored if you used it for this.”

Then he turns, chuckling softly to himself. Rubbing at his chest—rubbing at something in his coat pocket.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but when I agreed to a holiday vacay in a town that resembled the set of Gilmore Girls, I didn’t expect to get the ‘Oh, no! Our beloved inn burned down and now I’m unemployed’ storyline.”

Peter’s admission, no matter how inappropriate, evokes a short burst of laughter from your chest. Peter Parker had that ability—make the best out of the worst.

The two of you were driving to the next town over, aiming to cross out the biggest item on the list: find a flower shop that would fulfill the orders. It made a good impression on the customers and could make them donate loads of cash to rebuilding the shop. It was worth it to try.

“I only meant to introduce you to my family and attend the Christmas party. Trust me, this wasn’t planned.”

“You think throwing the party is still a good idea? What if they don’t want to celebrate during a time like this?”

You pull into the parking lot, parking in front of a gothic-style flower shop whose display sign read, Flowers For The Living. “Probably no party. And I think Wanda and Pietro realize they’re getting help whether they like it or not, so they’ll be okay.”

Peter hums, and gets out of the car with you. The shop is smaller, with vintage furniture and flowers ranging from all colors, especially the darker shades. It was a nice contrast to the stereotype that all flower shops had to be these lively, colorful places. There are no holiday decorations, either.

“Hello?” you call out, running your finger along the leaves of black roses.

A tall woman enters from the back office, dusting her pants of lint. She chews the final bites of her food as she answers, “Yes, yes! I’m here, I’m here.”

Peter blinks, his mouth forming a tiny ‘O’ as he takes her in. Quite obviously, you might add.

“Uh, I’m MJ. Who are you?”

When you realize Peter’s mouth isn’t actually going to be forming words anytime soon, you let out the whole spiel. How the only flower shop in your town burned down, how orders needed to start shipping today, how the owners are family and this was the least you could do for them. The woman, MJ, listens. And all the while a small smile creeps onto her face, noticing that your explanation is turning into rambling.

“So, yeah. We’d be honored to buy some flowers from you.”

MJ tilts her head up, biting her bottom lip. “You’re going to buy my flowers and market them as your own?”

Fuck. Okay, backtrack.

But it’s Peter who snaps out of whatever trance he was in, coming up with, “Actually, with your permission, we were hoping that we could attach small notes to every order. Custom-made. Your stamp, your name, and a message from us thanking you for saving the day. It would show that Wanda and Pietro still cared enough to get the orders in and sent out, and you’d get free publicity.”

That right there. That’s why he’s the best assistant.

MJ smirks, fingering the massive bouquet beside the register. She makes a show of thinking about her answer, ignoring the fumbling of your thumbs and Peter’s giant grin.

“When I first set up this shop,” she starts, walking around the register. You don’t miss the way Peter studies her further. You're tempted to hit him upside the head. “I knew jackshit about business. All I knew was that I wanted to have an alternative flower shop where people could buy one-of-a-kind bouquets. Do you have any idea what my first act as a new business owner was?”

Both you and Peter shake your head.

“I bought more inventory before even making a sale.”

Ooof.

“It was Wanda Maximoff who ventured to this part of town, looking for advice on how to darken certain flowers. Where to order them, how to arrange them. I had been open for a week and was already in debt. I gave her all my tips, and she came in the next day with her hair in a scarf, a broom, and a whole itinerary.”

“She did?”

MJ nods, smiling to herself as she remembers the memory. “Wouldn’t take no as an answer. Said her father hammered the rules of business into her head by age twelve and that she would do the same for me. I don’t speak to my parents and I have no siblings, so…”

MJ pauses, then pulls out her notebook, turning to a blank page. “This is the first I’m hearing about the fire.” Sorrow flashes across her features. “So I’ll help her get back on two feet if it’s the last thing I do. Give me the order information. I’ve got a big job ahead of me.”

Wanda had never mentioned MJ, but she did talk about this town and the businesses in it. She often brought home food from family-run restaurants, antiques for her apartment—she just never mentioned making another friend.

Peter snaps his fingers multiple times, cheering as he says, “You got sticky tabs and highlighters?”

MJ lights up. “In the back! Hold on, hold on!”

As she skips back to the office to retrieve more supplies, you turn to Peter. “Match made in Heaven.”

Peter scoffs, shoving your shoulder with his. A blush creeps from the base of his neck to his cheeks. “Everybody likes office supplies. If you don’t, there’s something wrong with you.”

“Ah.”

You set the teasing aside for the next two hours, working with MJ on getting the orders fulfilled and loading them up in delivery trucks. By the end, you’ve made a new friend. And you bet Peter Parker will be tagging along on your family vacations every holiday season from now on.

“This is just shit luck, man.”

Everyone mumbles their agreement to Sam’s comment. They’re currently cleaning glass shards, rolling the shredded curtains, and piling picture frames.

“How long do you think it’ll take to rebuild?” Sam continues, broom in one hand and dustpan in the other.

Bucky sends him a half-hearted glare, wiping his face free of soot. “Considering it just burned down this morning, I’m gonna say a ton of time.”

“Five months, tops.”

Bucky’s eyes widen at your dad’s declaration. “You’re optimistic.”

Your dad shrugs, sweeping his designated corner. He carefully creates a pile of glass. “Those kids have some otherworldly determination. You remember how they picked up the mantle after their parents died?”

“We helped…” Steve grimaces.

“Nah, they ran that shop like their parents were watching. They did most of it.”

“Think they can do it again?” Sam pushes, curious. He bends down to sweep your dad’s glass pile.

“I know they can do it again. But the emotional toll might just hit harder than last.”

Steve clears his throat, raising his hand like a kid in the classroom. “Hey…Is the party tonight…”

“Cancelled? Most likely,” your dad answers.

Bucky sighs, “Always looked forward to your little shindigs.”

Then Steve says something that makes Bucky think he’s truly gone mad. “Hey…Why don’t we still have it?”

Your dad half-cackles, half-snorts. “Oh, for obvious reasons, Steven! God, you’re even more dense than Bumblebee claimed.” And even as he says it, it’s with love etched into each word.

Steve grumbles, “No, idiot! I mean—Why don’t we bring the decorations here? Make this into something…To tell those kids that we’re going to help them. And that we should celebrate the fact that we know they’ll be okay.”

To throw a party on the gravesite of their parent’s business…Steve was both dense and confident, Bucky concludes. “Think they’ll go for it?”

“Won’t know unless we try, right?”

Maybe it was a good idea. On a day as gloomy as this one, perhaps a little cheer is what was needed. And who knows? Having it in the center of town could bring a crowd desperate to donate.

“Gonna go drive all we’ve got in the truck back to the house,” your dad announces. “Meet me there in a few hours for the decorations, alright?” Everyone agrees, seemingly excited for the prospect of such a wild idea.

Bucky throws aside some random wood the same moment he catches sight of the one person he really doesn’t want to converse with. “Woah…What are you doing here?”

Quill strolls past the crumbling doorway, hands in his pockets and wearing an expression of shame. “I apologize for last night. I honestly didn’t know, and I thought there was something still between us. Like…some holiday fairytale.”

Bucky cringes, but gives him the benefit of the doubt. His jealousy is still burning in his stomach, but he squashes it long enough to give Quill a proper verbal response. “Okay?”

“I came to offer my assistance. And my men.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m already drawing up plans.” And with that, Bucky realizes his jealousy was misplaced. Because even though the thought of another man touching you without his permission gets him heated, he realizes that this was not the situation he thought it was. Quill is not Rumlow. Quill did not force you to do anything, nor has he attempted to contact you afterward. He owes you another apology, sure, but Bucky’s thankful Quill had the gall to apologize at all. “Clint’s an old friend. I don’t hang out much with people anymore. But seeing all of you makes me want to have a social life again.”

And Bucky has to admit, his heart breaks a little. Breaks even more when he understands exactly what Quill means.

Bucky grabs the nearest broom leaning against the wall, holding it out to Quill. “Here…You can help us with that bit over there.”

Quill takes it, gives Bucky a quick and respectful nod, and gets to work. Even with extra hands, the shop wasn’t going to magically rebuild itself in a few weeks. Wanda and Pietro needed income by the end of January or else they risked dipping into their savings. Which, that’s the point of savings, but they didn’t have much. At least, that’s what Pietro mumbled this morning.

So Bucky puts down his broom and tears off his gloves, heading for the crumbling door and to the street.

“Buck, where you going?” Sam calls out.

“You said it yourself: Those kids are gonna need all the help they can get! And I have a favor to cash in!”

It’s clean. Well, less messy than this morning. Half the town came out to offer some assistance, bringing food and water to everyone working overtime. Clint, Pietro, and Wanda were off being responsible—insurance, their tax guy, going through the documents stored in the safe. Luckily those weren’t too harmed.

You figure helping with the clean up would be too emotional for them. You saw how Pietro was—his face hadn’t fallen that way since he witnessed what Brock Rumlow was planning to do to you two Christmases ago.

“Everything go good at the flower shop?” Your dad’s voice rocks you from your thoughts. You’re currently sitting on the charred front steps, knees tucked high enough that your chin rests on them.

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure my assistant pulled a date, too.”

He laughs, releasing a low grunt as he sits beside you. “Oh, everyone’s falling in love nowadays.”

You allow the silence to fester between you for a while longer. It seems like your dad expects it because he pretends to study the storefronts directly within eyesight, waiting for you to drop the bomb. The bomb he should have dropped months ago when he made up his mind. “When were you going to tell me that you’re going to propose to Monica?”

He dips his head, sighing heavily. A spot of shame tainting his features. “Who told you?”

“Does it matter? You didn’t tell me.”

It’s only been you and your dad since you could remember. Sure, Sam and Bruce were there, raising you like you were their own. Because you were, by some definition. One of their best friends had a child at fifteen, who was then abandoned and left to raise that child alone. They stepped up, as did Steve whenever he visited, and you couldn’t be more thankful.

But even with such a crowd, it was only you two. Sharing inside jokes, downloading the same video games on your phone so you could play together, taking bike rides and trying new foods in the town over. Him not telling you this major milestone hurts.

“Bumblebee…I didn’t mention it for a reason.”

Turning to him, it’s impossible to shield the pain in your eyes. “Did you think I wouldn’t approve? Because I do, a million times yes.”

“I wasn’t doubting that. It just—just wasn’t the right time to bring it up.”

The way he says the right time—he’s hiding something and you know it.

“Then when? The day you proposed?”

Your dad chuckles. “I’m going to propose sometime in the new year. Obviously not at this moment considering I don’t want to steal the spotlight.” He motions to the scene before him, his dark joke landing strong enough that a laugh bursts from your chest. You shake your head, a gesture of half-assed chastising.

“I wanted to tell you in person.”

It makes some sense. But you can’t help the feeling that he’s hiding something big. So you play it off. “Marriage. Wow.”

“Not a fan?” your dad asks, his smile growing.

Marriage. The next milestone that so many people your age conquer. People from high school have been getting married and having children since you were in your early twenties. Sometimes you feel like you’re a little late. But it was never a priority or something with a ticking clock. If it happened, it happened.

“I’ve never really thought of it. Well, I have…but it’s never been a priority.”

“Tell me, Bumblebee—Would you marry James?”

Goddamnit, you would. You would, you would, you would. No other man you’ve dated has ever elicited those feelings. To ponder a life with them. A lifelong commitment. “Would you like me marrying your friend?”

“This isn’t about me. It hasn’t been about me in a long time. So answer the question: Would you marry him?”

“The scary thing is that I think I would.”

“Saying all that, and there’s still a part of you that wants to seek my approval of such a union?” The way he says union makes his statement sound sarcastic.

“Don’t make it into a joke. I care about what you think, Dad.”

His mouth twitches into a small grin, slight wrinkles stretching across his left cheek. “Your only job in this life is to love someone without conditions. Whether it be yourself, a friend, blood, or a partner.”

“Your approval is a condition?”

“My approval is a bonus. But even then, I see how he looks at you. It’s how I used to look at your mother. How I now look at Monica.”

You snort, “My mother isn’t the best example.”

Looking up at the sky, your dad considers his next words carefully. “No but, the love was real. Just because it wasn’t the right person doesn’t mean that my feelings were invalid. We love a lot of people in our lifetime. When you find that you’re capable of it, it’s really easy to recognize it in others.”

“Like Kate and Pietro?” You click your tongue, raising one eyebrow at your dad.

Your dad laughs, rubbing at his chin. “I have seen that boy’s eyes since high school. You won’t believe the amount of talks I’ve had with him.”

“You knew?”

“He didn’t know until earlier this year. Sam made a comment and Pietro had some, out of body realization.”

Did all the adults know? You guess that Wanda didn’t, or maybe she considered it to be mundane or anything but romantic. Boys were attracted to girls all the time—didn’t mean their feelings came from a place of respect and admiration.

“I really do miss a lot by living in New York, huh?”

He throws an arm around your shoulders, tugging you close to his side. Lightly shaking you as he declares, “You’re not allowed to feel guilty about working at your dream job.”

“It’s not that. I just miss you guys all the time.”

“Then visit more often.”

Scoffing, you rest your head on his shoulder. “Being a working girl is tedious.”

“Even I would go crazy with just James and Steven for company.”

You giggle. New York wasn’t all it was jacked up to be, but it was a pleasant place to live. Were you in love with New York before meeting Bucky? Did it hold the same influence over you? Sometimes places aren’t really called home until you have a reason to name it so. It’s the people who make a place, and Bucky is your home.

“They tell you we’re going to bring the decorations over here?”

You blink at him. Bring the decorations over? Over here? In this area of ash and debris? “In what capacity?”

Your dad brings a finger to his lips, miming for you to be quiet. He stands, holding out his hand to help you up. “Stall the three flower nerds. I’ll call you when it’s all ready.”

He starts jogging down the street, completely ignoring your question. You yell out after him, “Is Bucky going to help you?”

“Stall the flower nerds!”

You look around the street, perplexed. Huh?

To be honest, it didn’t take much to stall the flower nerds. It took a while to locate them around town, anyway. They hadn’t passed by the house or noticed that everyone was driving decorations back and forth. The mini Christmas trees, the lights, the Hanukkah decorations, the food. Many nearby businesses donated tables and chairs, some even offering to keep their doors open tonight so that guests may use the restroom.

It was now a party of not just your friends, neighbors, and family—but of the entire town. A town that came together on Christmas Eve.

“I really don’t feel like seeing the area right now,” Pietro moaned, sitting in the passenger seat as Clint drove his truck.

“I know, but Bucky asked me if we could pick him up there.”

“He’s got one arm, but two legs,” Clint mutters, earning a smack on the shoulder from the backseat.

“Just drive,” you softly order, anticipation simmering in your chest. The town felt empty as you drove through it, as if they all went to sleep. Wanda even commented on it.

When the final turn came about, and your heart was burning a nauseating hole in your mouth, you just prayed these three didn’t outright scream with fury. That the spot in which all their hard work had been was being desecrated—

“What in the—” Clint curses, leaning forward in the driver’s seat to get a better look. Parking across the street, he’s out of the car immediately. Pietro and Wanda follow, hesitant at first.

“Surprise?” you try, cringing at how stupid you sound.

“Is this why you were acting so weird?” Clint asks, eyes wide in what you hope is wonder.

And wonder would be correct. In the last few hours, your friends have managed to turn an area that was burnt to a crisp in the early hours of this morning into something revolutionary. You figure they got the fire department’s permission to add some of these decorations…because oh my god.

Displayed like a grand patio, its deck carried about a dozen tables, each filled with food, flowers, drinks, and mini Christmas trees. Your dad seems to have brought out the Menorah as well, lighting all the candles even if the last candle was still missing. Chairs were spread about, some of the older townspeople seated and comfortable. Music played from two tiny speakers, crackling at a mediocre frequency, but still strong enough to make out the song. It’s then that you recognize the two boys setting them up and tinkering with them—taller than you remember, and looking more like Sarah each day.

Lights are strung in the same zig-zag formation as the ones on the street, flickering red and green and gold. All those damn paper snowflakes rest on the tables, probably mocking Clint since they aren’t currently hanging from a ceiling. Yet it’s the person on the ladder, tightening one of the green bulbs that surprises you. Quill, who looks across the crowd and over at you, smiling shyly as he raises one hand in polite greeting.

“It wasn’t my idea,” you clarify, walking over to the entrance that the guys have simply torn down. The door’s archway is gone—the shop officially starts from scratch. “The orders were sent out, by the way.”

Wanda snaps her head toward you. Then she sees MJ in the crowd, and her shoulders drop.

Steve breaks through the crowd, his flannel shirt still a little dirty from a hard day’s work. Sam and Bucky tilt their heads at him, obviously surprised by his forwardness. The surprise hits you too as Steve strolls forward to none other than Wanda herself.

“I, uh—” Steve blushes, running a hand down the back of his neck. “I thought that a little Christmas cheer might help. I know you’re Jewish and all, but Hanukkah has passed and it seemed…nice.”

You and Clint stare at the two, silent but communicating with your eyes.

He’s flirting.

I can fuckin’ see that. Why is he flirtin’?

He’s blushing.

I can fuckin’ see that! Why is he blushin’?

“You are red.” Wanda’s observation only makes Steve turn even more scarlet.

“I’m a very pale person.”

Pietro—who has decided he doesn’t care if Wanda and Steve flirt—walks toward Kate, who’s dressed as a waiter rather than a guest. Black tie attire, and her combat boots to pull it all together.

“You have a hand in this?” Pietro playfully interrogates, scanning her up and down. It’s the first time Kate’s never worn a dress for a party, and by the look on Pietro’s face, he’s loving it all the same.

She shrugs, like this was all casual. “Who do you think donated all the alcohol?”

Pietro smirks, then runs a slow hand through his white hair. “I’m still going to help fix your roof.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.” Kate goes to step toward him, for a hug no doubt, but he holds out a hand to stop her. Kate looks wounded in that second, before Pietro crouches, onto one knee, to tie her shoe.

Kate blinks, and the world makes sense.

“Merry Christmas!” Clint exclaims, practically sprinting into the crowd. He jumps into the arms of your dad, who somehow anticipated his weight, and screams it over and over again.

The stress of not knowing how they would react disintegrates to dust, releasing its tension from your ribs and shoulders. This isn’t a solution, nor is it the first step, but it is progress. Self-defined progress for the long road ahead.

“Now…I promised my mother, myself, and God that I would never do this again!” Clint proclaims, gassing himself up as he stands between Sam and Steve, ready to flip. He steadies his hands on the chair in front of him, kicks his legs up, and allows the two veterans to hold them high. Then Kate guides the pump to his mouth, and Clint proceeds to accomplish the most insanely coordinated keg stand in the history of keg stands.

He lasts a total of twenty seconds. When Kate announces that she’s next, you decide it’s time to mingle with other people. Peter speaks with MJ at the drinks table, while Quill chats up that girl from yesterday. Carol, was it? She was twisting the ends of her hair, obviously enjoying Quill's flirting. The hair twirling was encouragement.

Heading over to grab a water bottle, a rare face drops into your peripheral. Tall and handsome, perhaps one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. He grabs the attention of dozens, his elegant face vibrant as his mouth spreads into a smile. He greets everyone who flocked to him with the same grace, with the same delight. A man who hasn’t been seen in this town for a long time.

“Is that the one and only T’Challa?” Monica’s voice booms over the music. You turn to her to see she’s already dragging your dad through the crowd. It clicks through you—the picture in Kate’s bar, the one where Bucky looks like a twenty-year old twink.

Your dad beams, accepting T’Challa's handshake. “This is even rarer than my daughter and James visiting.”

T’Challa laughs, scanning the room as if in search of the man mentioned. Instead, he finds you as you timidly walk over, giving him a good-natured wave in exchange.

“I heard what happened. Plus, my mother still lives here and it was about time I jumped on a plane instead,” T’Challa admits, giving you a slight nod in greeting.

“Have you been in town since this morning?” your dad asks.

“Actually, Barnes called me.”

“He what?” T’Challa nearly laughs again from your shocked expression.

“Did you know that I asked him to be my patient when I came up with the prototype for his arm?”

“Well, no. But it makes sense.”

He finally finds Bucky in the crowd, watching as he jokes around with Steve and Pietro. His eyes never leave him as he confesses, “I gave him his arm without cost. He was my guinea pig, my selfish science experiment when I was in my late twenties. He let me work on him, tear him apart and put him back together, as a favor to me. I owe him for believing in me and my brain.”

“You…owe him?”

He nods. Then, as casual as ever, says, “I’m here to throw my millions of dollars into rebuilding the flower shop.”

Everyone near pauses, the surprise emitting around the room. Even Clint, recovering from his kegs-capades, saddles up beside you. Elbow stabbing your side, being annoying as ever.

“I…don’t think it’ll take a million dollars.”

Clint scoffs, “Shit! I’ll take the million! Don’t listen to her!”

T’Challa chuckles, “Good to see you again, Clint.”

“I’m a pleasure, I know. What’s this about a million?”

“Clint—” Your elbow stabs him this time.

“Monica.” T’Challa turns to her, bowing a little. Clint laughs to himself, like he expected the dismissal. “I’m so glad to see you again. Is your mother doing well?”

“Attached to your mother’s hip as usual,” Monica responds, rolling her eyes at the mental image it causes.

“I’ll see about staying longer this time. My sister can handle everything back in California.” Then, more shyly, he asks, “And how is your friend?”

“Oh, the nurse I work with? Your mother’s nurse?” T’Challa clears his throat awkwardly as Monica continues. “Nakia’s fine. She’s actually around here somewhere—”

T’Challa starts, speechless and stuttering. Both you and Clint look on, the concept of holiday romanticism growing more real by the second. But neither of you say a word, happy to be spectators to yet another love story in the making.

Bystanders. Readers. Onlookers.

When you turn to find Bucky, he’s gone.

“Are the festivities too much for you?”

Entering the store next door, a rustic cafe, you spot Bucky leaning against the diner and counting his breaths. He blinks one eye open at your question, smiling a little as you cautiously make your way to him. It was your way of non-verbally asking if he wanted you here at all, or truly needed some time to himself.

“The day was a lot.” He loosens a breath that’s both a groan and sigh, then rolls his neck to crack it. “To be honest, I’m surprised my back is still holding out.”

You chuckle lightly. "T'Challa?"

"Ah. So he did come."

Pausing halfway toward him, the red light from outside shining upon the left side of your face, the original question still stands.

“Just let me hold you.” Well, you can certainly give him that.

His words hang in the air as you allow it, melting in his embrace. He’s tired, but he walks you to the wall, providing that extra leverage. Something about the hug turns vibrant, innocence deteriorating quickly as Bucky’s hands begin to wander. As your hands trace up his chest, his neck, his cheeks. Those beautiful, high cheeks that retain the most gorgeous pink. That pink he turns when his blood decides to also travel elsewhere. That pink he turns when he decides his time would be better spent worshiping you.

His emotions get the better of him. Multiplying. He whimpers as he digs his face into the crook of your neck, fisting your velvet dress. Noises that mean he’s desperate. Noises that mean he needs you.

Not wants.

Needs.

“I—” you choke, a rush of air leaving your lungs as your back meets the wall. He hoists you up, holding your thighs the second you wrap them around his waist. Your high heels knock against each other. Bundling the dress to your waist, Bucky dips his flesh fingers into your heated center.

The heat from this moment and the chill from outside amplifies the pleasure building in your abdomen. The knowledge that anyone could interrupt does so as well. You internally thank Bucky for choosing to fuck you against the wall—that way you won’t be defiling someone’s table.

Bucky draws tight circles against your clit, breathing heavily into your neck. Pushing his body against yours, holding you to him. He leaves your neck, only to rest his forehead against yours, your lips barely touching. Intimate.

“Are you sure?” you drag out, the pressure in your chest increasing.

Bucky nods, mumbling a yes as soft as you’ve ever heard it. He sets you down so he can unzip his pants while you remove your underwear and your heels. Until you’re back in his arms, legs around him, guiding him into you.

You both release a collective sigh of relief, clutching onto each other in a frenzied display of emotion. Your hands in his hair, his lips on your neck, his cock buried deep inside you. It’s not fast and it’s not quick. Instead, it’s slow and deep, stirring your heartstrings and dragging out short whimpers from your chest.

Half of you wants to get this over with as quickly as possible in fear that someone will walk in. The other half wants to experience this forever, bask in the glow of Bucky’s warm embrace. Why he felt the need to be with you right now, you don’t know. But whatever it was, you’re thankful for it.

To feel wanted—that’s a blessing.

“I’m—close,” you push out, gritted teeth making it hard to do so. This angle isn’t the best, but Bucky’s fingers circling your clit adds the necessary pressure. “Bucky.”

“You can come, Doll,” he groans, hiking his hips a little more forceful now. Moaning, you discover that all you can do is listen to him.

You’re on the verge of toppling over that sweet edge, to witnessing those wonderful black dots across your vision, when the door opens and Peter Quill walks through. Stunted, probably here to use the bathroom, staring wide-eyed. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice.

With your eyes locked on Quill’s and him completely paralyzed a few feet away, you come around Bucky’s cock. Eyebrows furrowed, mouth dropped open, silky legs pulling Bucky’s body tighter against you. You fist a handful of Bucky’s hair at the back of his head, grinding your hips down to help him reach his end.

Quill blinks, his eyes scanning from the top of your head to your curling toes. Nothing in his stare gives off jealousy or anger. Instead, his mouth twitches upward and his neck reddens. He gives you a small salute, walking back to the party like he didn’t witness a thing.

Bucky thrusts a few more times, the generosity of his fingers not enough to throw you into a second orgasm, but still pleasurable nonetheless. You hold him, playing with his hair, and smiling to yourself about what just happened.

The party is still in full swing when you and Bucky decide to take a walk around the block. The snow had stopped falling around mid-day, so the streets weren’t difficult to navigate. The sounds of the party carried on as you two walked, flowing like magic through the street.

“Will this be our tradition then? Visiting every holiday season?” you ask, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth.

Bucky squeezes you. “Families create traditions, don’t they?”

“Am I your family?”

Bucky’s insides turn into heavenly mush. He doesn’t know the exact moment that he considered you more important than himself, but he knows that he considers you to be more important than anything else. Family meant a connection. Not blood—your family can be anybody you choose. He would describe your relationship as an ethereal connection, one molded by sensations he didn’t even know existed.

“Am I yours?”

“We’ve been over this.”

“No, I mean…Will you have me?”

You stop walking, and Bucky accidentally tugs at your arm. It doesn’t hurt, but it does shake you from the shock.

This sounds a lot like a—

You meet his eyes, silver already gleaming in his. Your heart threatens to leap from your chest, too joyful from the mere sight of him. His tall build, his longer hair, his beautiful pink lips.

It’s the very simple fact that you would allow Bucky Barnes to take your hand, guide you through war, and seal your fate. If there was anyone in the world you wanted to be stranded in the middle of the ocean with, fighting the currents with, it would be him. Any person you wanted to climb down balconies with, co-own a bar with, share New York with, it would be him. Any person you wanted to climb trees with, celebrate every holiday with, catch the train for, it would be him. It would always be him.

You know it the moment he bends down to one knee. The moment he pulls a velvet box from his jacket pocket. The moment it’s lifted, revealing a gorgeous emerald ring. The moment his breath hitches and he looks up at you, his blue eyes meeting yours. Blue eyes that are soft and tender.

Then he whispers your full name softly, the sound like marvelous honey, and asks, “Will you marry me?”

This was the grand secret he and everyone else was hiding from you, wasn’t it? The reason your dad wasn’t going to steal Bucky’s thunder by proposing to Monica tonight. Because Bucky Barnes asked for permission, made sure your most annoying friends knew, and waited until he was back in your hometown, his hometown, to buy a ring and propose.

And the stranger yesterday was correct: you know everything the moment a man is on their knees for you. Whatever plans you had before this, they’re all wrecked for the better. Whatever paths that were carved out, new ones have just been made for you. All worries, all questions, have been squashed and answered. The warmth of the future has never felt more inviting.

Bucky Barnes is the man you want to leave the Christmas lights up until January with. The man you want to share a bed with, share breakfast with, share a life with. This man is yours, and you are his.

“Yes.” You mean for it to come out louder, but it’s barely above a whisper. Like your voice is shocked silent. “Yes.”

Bucky expels a quick breath. “Yes?”

With a quick nod, you smile wide. “Yes!"

Bucky bursts up, capturing your lips with his. Overdramatic and true. “Yes,” he repeats against your mouth. “Yes, yes, yes!”

A laugh erupts from your chest, but Bucky just keeps trying to kiss you silent. Or not silent, but attempting to swallow the sound, as if it fuels his soul.

“I love you,” he promises.

Here, in the glistening winter night with flowers barely sprouting from the sidewalk and the town voices in the background, you’ve never felt so happy.

“You make me so happy, Bucky Barnes.”

His smile damn near breaks your heart. Resting his forehead on yours, he vows, “Tell me if that ever changes, Doll. I only ever want to make your heart beat for mine. I only ever want my heart to ache for you. Love of my life, introduce me as yours.”

You giggle, “Poetic, Barnes.”

He smiles again, happy to see his words landing. “Only around you.”

And isn’t that what love is? Spouting random poetic verses because you just can’t help it? Finally meeting the person who prompts you to do so. They don’t have to be pure Shakespeare—the emotion behind the poems is enough.

So you vow to make your life with Bucky Barnes a poem, where each new verse is more beautiful than the last, original and sincere. Endless, and true.

“Let me see, let me see, let me see!” Kate shouts, jumping up and down, practically shaking the windows of the living room. Everyone’s crowded in your dad’s house for Christmas morning, even Sarah and the boys, Monica, and Peggy. No one tells Kate to calm down, nor do they ask what she’s so excited about.

They saw the ring. They grabbed your hand. They’ve all been screaming just as loud as her.

You didn’t show anyone last night. After Bucky proposed, you had simply gone home and made love again. So the proposal was just yours and his, a secret to keep for a few hours. You basked in the glow, in the knowledge no other human being had. Sure, everyone knew he was going to do it, but they didn’t know if he was going to go through with it.

And when you walked down the stairs, realizing that Steve had not come into your room last night and no one had pulled Bucky out, you know that they all expected.

So you show Kate the ring again, holding your hand out as she tugs you across the living room, modeling you to everyone. Everyone gives their congratulations; everyone looks so damn happy.

Presents are exchanged—you still managed to buy that book for Bucky—plans are discussed, and food is eaten. You look around the room, at your full house, and cannot contain your glee. Turning slightly, you let the tear slip, hoping nobody noticed.

But Bucky does. With a gentle swipe across your cheek, he reinforces your love for him. Shows his love for you. Fortifies it. Simple, and yet not at all.

TAGLIST: [on masterlist]

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x you #Bucky Barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #dbf!bucky #dbf!buckybarnes #avengers au #marvel fanfiction #warmth of winter sequel #the warmth of the future #captainsimagines #by Moni #holiday fanfic #part three #finale

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captainsimagines · 3 years ago

Text

the warmth of winter || four

Summary:��You’re home for the holidays after landing your dream job. When your dad’s old army friend stops by for the month, he makes waves immediately. Your little vacation is disrupted... for better or for worse? Nobody has to know.

Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x (F) Reader

Based on the Song: ‘Illicit Affairs’ by Taylor Swift

Mini-Series (4/6)

Warnings: 18+ ONLY; unprotected sex; exhibitionism kink; harassment from a coworker; strong language; suggestive language; age difference kink (Reader is 25, Bucky is 39)

Word Count: 6,200+

Author’s Note: It’s not a holiday special without all those Hallmark tropes. :)

“Oh, darling. That’s a lot to take in,” Peggy exhales dramatically, and pushes her cart down the aisle. She picks out wheat bread and the largest box of spaghetti the grocer offers. She’s made you promise not to help her with the items higher up on the shelf — she says she likes the stretch, but you know she just wants to preserve her independence.

“Yeah, my life is a little weird right now.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you! I love a little gossip.” She gives you that sneaky smile, one that says she already knows the answer to the question she’s about to ask. “Tell me: has he made you smile yet?”

“Like that flower smile you mentioned? I guess.”

“Mmm, ‘I guess’ is not a yes.”

“Well, what do you want me to say, Peggy?”

“You know when you know.”

You sigh, “I’ve been living in the rush of it all. Telling myself this is too good to be true. I’m never happy. I’m the person that works, that watches romantic movies, that reads about people falling in love. I’m not that person.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic! We all deserve love. Platonic, romantic, familial, friendship, the whole hundred miles.” Still, she ponders everything you’ve told her. You smile as her wrinkled face moves when she scrunches her eyebrows or parts her mouth.

For the past week and a half, you’ve come in each Friday morning to do your grocery shopping and to seek out Peggy. The first Friday she had found you and her immediate question was if you realized you liked James yet. You had almost forgotten that “Bucky” was a nickname. Today, however, you found her. She exited the communal bus and immediately hooked her arm through yours and asked if it was tangerine season yet.

“If you were to describe what you feel for this man, what would you say?”

“That flower thing isn’t really—”

“Ignore my literary devices. Use your own figurative language.”

Has Bucky made you smile like he gave you your first flower? You’ve had moments where your heart swelled so much you were sure it was going to burst. When Bucky smiled at you from across the room, longing but quick, it blessed you from the tips of your toes, to the meat of your bones, to the spark of every neuron your brain fired. And maybe that was the flower moment — maybe that was it and you missed it — and if that's the case then you’ll inwardly curse yourself forever. Because how can you miss it? Morning, noon, night you think about Bucky. Sweet, older, magnificent Bucky who made you smile until your heart hurt.

“Well, to be dramatic,” you tease, and Peggy scoffs playfully. “He makes me see colors I don’t see with anyone else. We speak and I want to listen to everything. I never get bored. The sex is amazing, pardon my French... And he makes me feel young and I’m not even old.”

Peggy’s a good alternative voice to hear. Wanda, Kate, and Clint usually just ask about the sex. Albeit, you don’t really mention the overwhelming feelings you two have, and usually keep that part of your relationship private — ironically. But you think Clint’s catching on. He sees more than he lets on.

“I remember what it was like to be young… longing glances and secret languages. My advice? Live in the moment and stop thinking about the end when you haven’t even experienced the beginning.”

An amazing alternative voice. “You sure you’re not my fairy godmother?”

“Darling, as if.”

You’ve come up with a plan to deal with the Rumlow situation. To work, you and Bucky decided it was smarter and safer to include your dad. So when your dad came home and you said don’t freak out!, his immediate thought was that someone had died. He sprinted so fast to Bucky’s room as Bucky himself was exiting, turned to you, and gasped, “Oh, good! You didn’t kill him.”

You explained how a guy from work got the wrong message, even though you’ve been perfectly clear, and that he randomly showed up on the front porch yesterday. Then after calming your dad down and having Bucky promise they’ll kill Rumlow together, you set up the plan.

If Rumlow showed up at the house again, your lie would be that your dad was expecting you soon. And if he insisted he’d tag along, then Bucky, Clint, and Pietro would also.

But to make sure you don’t piss off a coworker before Pepper can legally fire his ass, you reluctantly text him to invite him to the Christmas party. To say Rumlow was excited would be an understatement. Clint just stared at the guy as he thanked you, but then Rumlow started ranting about the politics of Christmas.

Bucky still offers to kill him. Quick, no mess. And now, as horrible as it sounds, you’re actually contemplating. You’ve never seen a Hallmark movie where the main couple end up being Bonnie and fuckin’ Clyde, but maybe you’ll star in the first one.

You try not to think much about it. You’re safe here, in your home, and everyone you love is just a phone call away. Everyone has a photo of Rumlow, just in case he causes any disturbances in town, and to avoid him as much as possible. The one person who’s been in most contact with him so far is Kate, but she can’t really control that considering she’s the bartender of the only bar in town. She tells you how he only orders beer, and when you respond that you really couldn’t care less, she says ‘A real man throws back a beer and an appletini!’

That they do, Kate. That they do.

“A Fabio book. You gave me a Fabio-type book, kid.”

You poke Bucky’s side and watch as he squirms. “Keep complaining and I won’t give you any more books from now on.”

“Now, I’m not saying I’m not into big, buff Fabio types but it’s the fact you gave me the book!”

You curse under your breath and poke him harder. Bucky cackles and catches the attention of several older customers standing behind you in line. The cafe is quite crowded for Christmas Eve morning — guess even Vietnam war vets need their bagel and coffee fix. Same, since your dad asked very nicely if you could pick up his favorite drink after your run with Wanda.

“Well, I think it’s great!”

“Uh, duh! A black romance during one of the most important times of history, he’s kind to her, and she’s a dark-skinned protagonist that doesn’t unnecessarily suffer because the plot warrants it? Fuckin’ New York Times Best Seller right there!”

You snort and grab your coffee at the counter when your name is called. “I love how you argue about these books but end up preaching how great they are in the end.”

“You’ve got great taste, kid. Dating an editor really does have its perks,” Bucky blushes, and takes his coffee from the cardboard container. He looks around quickly before he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulls you close, and plants a kiss to your forehead, your nose, and then your lips.

You smile against him as he tries to deepen the kiss. “Now I know what you saw in me.”

It’s Christmas Eve. Rumlow stopped by yesterday to ask what the attire is for tomorrow night, then traveled around town taking notes for his next novel. You gotta hand it to him — at least he’s treating some of this like fieldwork.

It’s creepy, though. Sometimes he’ll act like he just ran into you at the corner of some coffee shop or is nursing a drink at the exact time you come in for your nightly talks with Kate. It’s like he’s stalking you, and he probably fucking is, but he makes it seem like the most realistic coincidence that you find yourself questioning if it really is. Most of the time you’re with Bucky, but since you and Bucky don’t hold hands in public, Rumlow should only suspect friends.

Get through it, you tell yourself. He doesn’t know where I live back in New York. Captain Rogers, and now Bucky, are just a train ride away.

“I’ve got a surprise!”

“That’s never good,” you mumble, and stick your tongue out at your dad in response to his middle finger.

“One of these days, Bumblebee. I’m actually gonna go crazy and you’ll think it’s a joke.”

You roll your eyes. Bucky asks, “What’s the surprise, man?”

Your dad smiles madly, runs to the front door, and reveals Sam, who’s already cheekily posing. You scramble off the couch, but so does Bucky, and it’s a battle of limbs and knocking each other down to see who can hug Sam first. But Bucky ultimately succeeds, pushing you into the wall and ignoring your overdramatic cries of pain as you sink to the floor. He tackles Sam, almost knocks him over, and Sam picks him up and literally carries him back inside.

“Man, I saw you three months ago!” Sam yells, but makes it a point to twirl Bucky around until he almost falls over. Bucky doesn’t seem so keen on being let go. You shove past him and throw yourself into Sam’s arms.

“You’re only copyin’,” Bucky murmurs, but allows you your own personal Sam twirl.

“Alright, alright,” your dad says, and once you detach from your new guest he goes in for a big bear hug. “Surprise was—”

“Me, obviously!” Sam says. “Business sent me here for three days. Celebrating Christmas with my extended fam.” Sam ruffles the top of your head. “Then it’s back to the ol’ boot state for New Years.”

You take the time to study the features of his face you haven’t seen in more than a year. He’s grown more facial hair — it frames his face and makes him look older, but healthier. His smile never changes, still elastic and full and real. Sam’s the kind of guy who smiles because he wants to, or because someone needs him to, but never because someone expects him to. He immediately gives you a reason to be happy and that same feeling extends to your dad and Bucky.

“Yeah, yeah! I know how much I’m missed,” Sam teases. He does a tour around the room, messes with the new little trinkets that weren’t here when he visited last year, and nods his approval. “Remind me why we got to decorate more for the party?”

Your dad laughs and claps Sam on the back, then goes to get lunch ready. The first thing your dad does when hosting a guest is make sure their stomachs are full.

“Now catch me up! I’ve got two and half days to hear what you guys been up to!”

Bucky talks about his bar and his employees, about his sister Becca, even about Alpine. You talk about the book you’ve been editing and which ones you’ll probably pass for approval, and about some of your coworkers and life in the city. You briefly mention Brock and his unexpected arrival — he hasn’t seen him everyday for the past couple months, but Sam can read Bucky’s mind without having to try too hard. Bucky tenses at the mention of Rumlow’s name, and Sam notices.

So Sam changes the subject. “What about other people? You into anyone?”

Clint’s the only guy in your friend group you openly discuss relationships with. Pietro too, if he’s around. So talking about dating with Sam feels awkward even if it shouldn’t be.

“Uh, not really.”

“Seriously? You’re in your mid-twenties! There’s no one?”

Bucky shuffles his feet and twiddles his thumbs. He doesn’t look directly at you.

“Well… there is one person.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

Everyone stares at you expectantly. Your dad reacts like you’ve betrayed him, dramatic gasping and all. You roll your eyes and keep them waiting a while longer. They lean in closer. Finally, after giving them nothing, Sam huffs, “You gonna be like that?”

You laugh and pop a potato chip into your mouth. You wipe the excess salt off on your thigh. “Gonna be like that.”

Sam squints, studying your face, but he ultimately lets it go. There’s a tell-tale sign that Sam will find out — he gave up too easily. And he’s Bucky’s best friend: Bucky will tell him eventually.

But you don’t mind. It’s becoming heavy keeping Bucky a dirty little secret. He deserves more than that. And you do too, you think. You just hope you’re on the same page.

“We can tell them once the holidays are over?” Bucky says, words slightly muffled since his face is buried in the back of your neck. He nudges his nose further, scrunching it when your hair tickles him.

“We can,” you say, but don’t really believe it. Sam’s been giving you a ton of side-eyes and even your friends are starting to think the same way as you. It’s difficult hiding this from your dad, someone who ties everyone together whether he knows it or not, so it’s becoming increasingly hard to keep this a secret.

Bucky makes a content noise. Even with all the questions in your head, the sound still knocks against your sternum and pools in the middle of your stomach. Bucky stretches his legs a little and intertwines them with yours. The bed is full of blankets: horrible knitted ones Captain Rogers attempted that summer he was out of a job. Hobbies die hard, but this particular one was easy for him to kill. You have a couple of his masterpieces in your apartment back home.

Bucky untucks his metal arm from underneath you and moves it back to his left side, opting to pull you into his chest instead as he moves to lay on his back. “You’re soft.”

That makes you smile. “So are you.”

“Nah,” Bucky says, and groans softly as you cuddle the top of your head into his armpit. “You can’t say that when you’re literally camping on a piece of metal.”

You tilt your head up, a slight twinge in your neck making it uncomfortable, but you make sure Bucky sees the disgruntled look on your face. “Do you not think it’s soft?”

“I know it isn’t soft.”

“It doesn’t bother me, Bucky. It’s a part of you. It’s you.”

Bucky doesn’t have any readable expression. Nothing happens with his eyebrows, or the curl of his lips, or the crinkles by his eyes. He’s searching yours for something else — like the word ‘but’ to follow your proclamation. But you just tilt your neck higher, arching your back to relieve the twinge, and set on having Bucky see the genuine look on your face.

Finally, Bucky’s mouth tilts downward in a frown. “My last partner didn’t know. Kept it hidden for two months before they caught me shirtless one day.”

He weighs his options before he does it, but he shimmies his metal arm out from between you and brings his hand to your head, running four modestly pressured lines across your scalp, then through again… and again. He continues, “Said it was weird. Asked if it would work for life and what happened if it malfunctioned. Didn’t get the science of it… It’s odd because they didn’t mind it all that much during our last weeks together. But the second they met Steve and all our other buddies from the Commando Center, they couldn’t differentiate my injuries from the guys who lost literally everything. Suddenly I was too much of a burden for them.”

Anger rises from the pits of your stomach, swirling dangerously with the promise of speaking your mind. But nothing comes out — Bucky doesn’t look angry; he doesn’t sound angry either. He just looks disappointed. So you breathe, nuzzle deeper into his chest, and place your ear over where his heart is thumping. You grip his waist and pull him closer, a side-hug that Bucky wholeheartedly melts into.

“I don’t know if this will make sense to you,” you start, voice low in a whisper. “But I was expecting no limb whatsoever. And the moment I saw you, I thought about the arm once. Just that you now had one. Then it was just… natural. It sounds stupid now that I say it, but I just mean that… It’s a part of you. And I have never once thought about you as anything less or anything different because of it. Do I make sense?”

Bucky smiles up at the ceiling. And just because he’s a little evil, he lets the moment go silent for a while longer. He feels you fidgeting and your fingers dig into his waist deeper. He continues running those four lines through your scalp.

“You rambled on, but yeah, you make sense.”

You pinch his side, which causes him to yelp, and soon it’s a battle of who can throw the other off the bed first.

It’s Christmas Eve and you’re a fucking dumbass. There is absolutely no possible way you could have forgotten. No possible way. None.

Except there was a way and you’ve just proven it. It’s Christmas Eve and you haven’t bought Bucky a Christmas present yet.

Legos? An easel? A full-sized pillow for bad posture? The aisles you jog down are basically empty, give or take the few small items that make no relevant sense. Bucky doesn’t build goddamn legos, he doesn’t goddamn paint, and you’ll be damned if you buy him a gift that reminds him of his old age.

You’re close to giving up. Your date is an hour and there’s only so many brain cells left after Bucky fucked you dumb in the shower this morning.

You go through the list of obvious choices. Bucky likes cats. Bucky likes old-timey music. Bucky likes paintings of ballerinas. Bucky likes the color blue but not when it’s too light. Bucky likes books — okay, it may be the most cliche item you could ever get him but the buzzer is about to signal no time left and you’re half-positive you can make the gift as meaningful as possible.

The book store down the street is full, thank the Gods, and it looks recently sorted. You find a couple novels that your company has edited but none scream Bucky, and that’s all you’re searching for. No murder mysteries, no horror, no novelas.

Bucky likes period pieces. Bucky likes holiday-themed stories. Bucky likes you.

Then, by the grace of all that is holy, you discover the weirdest find. ‘The Rejected Stories of Christmas Time’ by… no specific author. You turn the book over in your hands and skim through the pages. The paper is a dirty tan, some pages clipped at the top-right corners, and there’s writing in some of the margins. The book cover is a discolored dark green and the book, in all its glory, is just the slightest bit larger than your hand. You chew your bottom lip for a while before you decide to chance it. You fish out your phone and call the office.

‘Potts Printing Company, how may I help—’

“Give it up, Peter. It’s me.”

‘... I know a lot of Me’s.’

You stare blankly down the small aisle and to the empty register, like you’re judging Peter as if he were standing right in front of you. “I am a ‘me’ that knows my own extension.”

‘Oh, hey! What’s up, dude? How’s the vacation?’

“It’s going good. The hell are you doing in the office on Christmas Eve?”

‘I got shit to do.’

“You’re an intern! You don’t got shit unless I got shit.”

‘All I hear is ‘blah, blah, blah’. What’s up?’

You chuckle into the speaker. “I need you to run a book title for me.”

There’s a distinct clacking sound of the keyboard on the other line. Peter hums, ‘Alright, shoot.’

“‘The Rejected Stories of Christmas Time’. No author.”

‘You just gotta make it harder for me, huh boss?’

“I’m not your boss.”

‘You know the boss. That counts.’

You huff and roll your eyes. You can’t believe this kid. Kid finds Tony Stark’s wallet and doesn’t steal a thing (not that Tony Stark would even notice if a twenty went missing), returns it, and is offered an internship at his wife’s company. Would have been at Stark’s own if Peter wasn’t so obsessed with literature and art.

‘Okay, so I only found one result. Don’t know what you’re looking for exactly, but it says here that that specific book was printed in 1892, belonged to Theodore Roosevelt,’ Peter pauses, then laughs. ‘Which is ironic because the dude seemed to hate Christmas. Eh, title fits.’

You look around the small store like cameras are about to jump out at any moment. What the hell is a first-edition doing in a small bookstore in the middle of nowhere? “You serious right now?”

‘As serious as I can be. Doesn’t say how many were printed exactly but it’s not a popular read.’

“Huh. No original author?”

Peter clicks the keyboard a couple times until the page lands him in a dead-end. ‘Nah. Says multiple, though. None specific.’

“What if you ran the title down to Scott for a second, I’m sure he’s in the office on Christmas fucking—”

“Funny seeing you here!”

Brock Rumlow. The human-form of the dreaded mosquito. You turn slowly and move to hide the book behind your back. It’s somehow instinct — you really don’t want to explain such a rare find to someone who makes a living discrediting feminist authors and holiday-themed works.

“It’s a small town, Brock.”

‘HUH? BROCK?”

Peter’s voice flies through the mic at an incredible volume. Rumlow peeks down at the hand you were trying to sneak into your coat pocket.

“Who knows me by my first name?” Rumlow teases, and finally steps into your personal space. He reaches for your phone, which you let go of without a fight, because you seriously don’t want to feel his fingertips on your skin for much longer than that. “Brock Rumlow speaking.”

You vaguely hear Peter stuttering and forcing himself to small talk with Rumlow, who’s yapping away about the town and how his novel is slowly forming in his head. He even describes the main character in great detail. Before you know it, it’s been five full minutes and you’re restricted from leaving until you get your phone back. Rumlow says his goodbyes and hands the phone back to you. He hasn’t hung up, but he doesn’t leave the aisle either.

“Thinking about buying me a book?”

You clear your throat and nod slowly. “Sure, Brock. What else, huh?”

Rumlow laughs. It’s an awkward look for him. He looks more attractive when his face is plain — a smile doesn’t seem natural. “I was just scanning. Hey, what are you doing later?”

You shuffle in place and discreetly check the screen of your phone. The office number is still bright and flashing, the number of minutes and seconds increasing. Peter’s still on the line. “Dad’s decorating for the party tomorrow. That’s it.”

“You can skip that!”

“I really can’t. It’s tradition.”

“Oh? Tradition?”

If you could backhand yourself, you would. Brock Rumlow, even if it’s a bullshit excuse, said he was visiting the town and studying its traditions. And you’ve just given him a bone.

He continues, “I’d love to help!”

“House is already full—”

“Oh, c’mon! It’d be great stuff for my novel!”

You suck in a deep breath and finally nod. Rumlow cheers, gives a quick pat to your shoulder, and leaves in a hasty rush so you can continue your Christmas shopping. He didn’t buy a single thing. For a brief moment, you wonder if he is stalking you.

‘What the hell are you doing on vacation with Brock Rumlow?’

You fumble the phone and the book in your hand. “Don’t you dare go spreading that around, Parker. He followed me here. There was no invite.”

Peter’s tone seems to even out. He’s silent for a while before he sighs into the speaker. ‘Should I report him for you? Is there anyone there that can be around next time he—’

“Report him. Go ahead, it’s what I did already through email. And yeah, I’ve got Bucky.”

‘... Bucky?’

You feel your face flush with heat as Peter repeats Bucky’s name back. “Shit, I wasn’t supposed to reveal that.”

Peter laughs loudly and you try to muffle the loud sound as you place the book on the counter and start paying. The book comes out to be five dollars. An absolute steal.

‘I look forward to meeting this Bucky. Tell him to bring your lunch to the office sometime. Malewife and all.’

“You kill me, Peter.”

‘You love me.’

You wouldn’t be able to find a better intern/kind-of assistant even if you looked all throughout New York City.

“Before we start…” You stand to go illuminate the light from Kate’s old laptop. She’s got her spotify playlist playing on low on the overhead speakers. “Yup! Kate’s got Taylor Swift queued up for the next two hours.”

Bucky smiles, “Girl has taste.”

“She put ‘Willow’ fifteen times on this playlist,” you snort, and continue scrolling through the songs.

“Please tell me she’s got some songs from Fearless on there.”

“You’re in for a treat.”

Bucky laughs from his chest, deep and real, and lifts his champagne glass as you walk back to the booth. “To our first date.”

You slide into your seat and hold your glass up as well. “To our first date.”

Bucky looks at you, and excuse the figurative language you use nowadays to describe even the simplest things Bucky does, but he looks at you and you hear guitar strings in the distance and the world becomes smaller, eternal.

Then, as if he knows you’re composing a Jane Austen novel in your head, Bucky smirks and says, “Wonder if I’m gonna reach third base or not.”

You groan when the innocent moment is ruined, but still clink your glass with his.

“So why New York?”

Kate had snuck a box of chocolates for dessert. They’re assorted, and Bucky’s liked three so far, while almost barfing with the coconut. You ate the rest of that piece for him.

“Art scene. And I’ve always loved the city. Getting my dream job was just a perk. Sam knew this guy, Tony, and he brought my name up with him. Next thing I know I have an interview with Pepper Potts of Potts Printing Company straight out of graduate school.”

Bucky lets out a long whistle. “Pays to have connections, kid.”

“Oh, bet.” You bite into a circle-shaped chocolate, surprised it was peanut butter and not the caramel you were expecting. “You?”

“Pays to have connections,” Bucky smirks. “Nah, I chose New York because of Rebecca. She lives in Queens.”

“And the bar?”

“That’s where the connections come in. Didn’t know shit about owning a bar but I did know how to bartend. Nick called a couple of people in Brooklyn who were looking to sell… G.I Bill and one shitty loan later, I was the proud owner of The Alibi.”

You chuckle a little, “The Alibi?”

Bucky makes a face as he bites into a jelly-filled piece. He hands it out to you but you reject it. “Hell yeah. Commit accidental manslaughter? No you didn’t, we’re your alibi.”

“Smart,” you say, and search for another piece of chocolate. The speakers have played about fifteen songs — that’s how you’re keeping track of the time. You can’t get home too late together, considering, so you’re timing it. It’s seven now, and your dad always procrastinates with organizing, so probably only half the additional decorations are set up. Clint and Pietro are probably there as well — they’ve promised to uphold any lies you have to tell. “How long it take you to get the hang of it? The bar business.”

“Phew, years,” Bucky admits, then suddenly grows solemn. He runs a palm over his face, sighing as he does so. “I had to, you know? I didn’t want to stay here. When your dad and I got back… he couldn’t stand to look at me, doll.”

“Bucky—”

“It’s true. He was only reminded of—”

“You don’t have to say it.”

He smiles at your attempts of ‘not prying’, as you call it. “I didn’t think twice, you know? I pushed him out of the way, I got the brunt of the hit, I know what I did. I don’t regret it.”

He says all this quickly. But once he finishes, he looks lighter. It’s certainly not everything he’s been holding in about the incident, but unless he wants to talk, you’ll accept what he gives. You nod, “Okay.”

Bucky looks up from the table, a little surprised that you ended the conversation where he wanted it to. People always ask him what happened to his arm, what the full story is, what history he has in his head. He tries not to think too much of it and shrugs his shoulders. “Plus, I got this sick new arm. I tried out the prototype, then I got the real thing. Had an article about me and everything.”

You point to the bar. “Think I saw the picture they used behind the bar… right?”

Bucky groans loudly, “Ugh, that thing?” He uses that moment you're distracted looking at the picture to sneak to your side. He settles beside you, snuggling deeper into the seat. The cold is seeping in through the space beneath the front door, something that hasn’t been fixed since the late nineties, and the chill from the freshly fallen snow is starting to become uncomfortable. But Bucky is like a walking heater, and his warmth is wholeheartedly welcome.

“Kate says you looked like a twink up until your early thirties.”

“Kate needs to shut her fucking mouth,” Bucky mumbles against your lips, and pushes you down into the booth as you laugh loudly.

You walk through the front door at the same moment Sam flashes by carrying the ladder and a dozen paper snowflakes in his other hand.

“A very welcome home indeed!” Bucky yells happily, then helps you take off your coat. He swipes the little clumps of snow that haven’t melted yet off the fabric before he hangs it.

Clint rounds the corner with two mini Christmas trees, almost running over your dad. “You know your dad… ever the procrastinator!”

“Thought you said Pietro would come and hel—” you begin to say, removing your gloves. But a new face appears, this one completely unexpected.

“Surprise!” Rumlow exclaims as he walks from the kitchen, your dad following him from close behind. He sends you a sorry smile.

You forgot to warn all of them that this might happen. The excitement of finally finding Bucky a Christmas present, wrapping all the other gifts, and the date just made this slip your mind.

“Yeah…” your dad says, then hands Rumlow a box of ornaments. “Brock here wanted to get to know the neighborhood traditions. Guess the decorating is a part of that.”

Rumlow side-steps everything in his path. He practically runs right through Clint. “Great stuff for my book! Thought you’d be here earlier, though!”

You chuckle nervously and accept his little side hug. Working beside him is one thing, but having to deal with such proximity when you’re off the clock? “Buck and I just grabbed dinner, is all.”

“Huh.” Rumlow comments, eyes wandering over to the bulky soldier who’s standing a little too close to call friendly. Bucky forces a grin. He treats this similar to how he treats those weirdos at his bar. He keeps his metal arm visible, moving is slightly so it whirs. Rumlow eyes it, frowns, then quickly tries to hide his distaste. Watching Rumlow place his hands on you is firing up every single one of his most dangerous nerve endings. “Well, now that you’re here—”

“Bumblebee, why don’t you go and shower and meet us down here after, yeah?”

Your dad is a god-send. Truly a goddamned (double negative?) angel. Rumlow doesn’t argue with that. He’d be stupid to argue with the main patriarch of the girl he’s trying to court. Sam and Clint hide their smug smiles behind whatever they’re currently holding. Bucky doesn’t bother hiding.

You send little finger guns to everyone in the room, already walking backwards and to the staircase. “Sure thing!”

Sanctuary. Slamming the door now literally feels like the times you were an emotional teenager and locked yourself away in your tiny safe haven. Gotta love your wrinkled posters and half-written diaries and your own bathroom.

Before you can start stripping for a long-awaited shower, Bucky throws open your bedroom door and pushes you against the adjacent wall. “What are you—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

You raise your eyebrows at him, challenging. “Damn. Mean, much?”

Bucky only chuckles against your lips, biting the bottom one with restraint, his stress seeping through no matter how much he holds back. He’s jealous.

“Brock got you this pissed?”

“Let’s get one thing straight, alright? You don’t mention him unless it’s to tell me he can never fuck you as good as I can. Alright?”

Okay. Okay. Not once, in all your years on this earth or your time in New York or the amount of time you’ve been working at Potts Printing Company, did you ever, EVER, think about sleeping with Brock Rumlow. He asked you out, you accepted because yes, you were lonely in the big city, but then he took a call the first two minutes of the date… and didn’t return for ten minutes. And when you asked if it was important, he said nah. Nah. So he could have let it go to voicemail. You kept your legs closed for the rest of the night, even when they started cramping up. For Bucky to assume you’ve ever wanted to sleep with Brock Rumlow… that’s just earth-shatteringly horrible. “You’re not thinking—”

“Oh, I’m thinking.”

God, you love it when his voice gets all husky like that. Like whiskey honey, heated and mixed to soothe a sore throat.

“It’s too wrong…” you try to reason, but as the words spill out, they’re foreign in effect. “Fuck, did anyone see you come up here?”

“Gonna be honest with you,” Bucky mumbles as he bites and sucks a nice, little hickey just above your left collarbone. It makes you shudder, and Bucky provides such a warmth pressed up against you so harshly, so controlling, so big, it’s got you pushing your hips up into his for some much-needed friction. “Told everyone Kate was expecting me to pick something up for the bar back in New York. Left through the front door, crawled in through the bathroom window.”

You pull back, mouth dropping in pure shock. “You did not just go full fucking teenage boy on me.”

Bucky just shrugs. “I’m here now. Gonna kick me out?”

As he says this, he plants his thick thigh in between your legs and grinds. The fabric of his rough jeans rubs against your mound and Bucky angles just right; he rolls perfectly so it provides that same rub to your clit. You gasp and as much as you try to fight it, because it’s so goddamn wrong, you push down into him. It makes Bucky grin against your skin.

“We gotta be quiet,” you tell him. He accepts the invitation: he hooks your legs around his waist, guides you to the edge of the bed, and sits you on it — and you’re facing the door. He settles behind you, his inner thighs warming the outside of yours, and wraps his arms around your middle. Slowly, he removes your sweater, then your shirt, then your bra, making sure to leave electric brushes against every goosebump he causes. They erupt with each gentle stroke, gradually popping up as Bucky traces a light trail. He’s got such a gentle touch, and that metal hand provides a rather cold but satisfying sensation that it’s literally half the reason you’re soaking through your panties.

“I’m gonna fuck you, right here, with the door unlocked.” He catches as your breath staggers. “I promise no one is going to come in while you’re showering. That would just be rude,” Bucky enunciates, then draws his metal hand up and past your breasts until he grips the bottom of your neck, squeezing gently. “But how fucking fantastic would it be if that piece of shit downstairs comes in and sees me fucking his lovely girlfriend?”

You huff, “Not his girlfriend.”

“How you gonna prove that, huh?”

You roll your eyes, a little apprehensive to fucking with the door unlocked. Anyone can walk in. And as much as it gets you off doing the naughty with unknowing people nearby, you definitely don’t want anyone but Bucky to see you naked. Fuck, you’ve got a dad, a father figure, two best friends, and a horrid coworker downstairs that you would much rather keep in the dark.

“I gotta prove it?”

Bucky tweaks your nipples, rolling them in between his fingers, then pulls a little. You tremble slightly and before you can beg for more, Bucky unbuttons your pants and taps your thigh in a nonverbal way that says ‘sit up’. Complying is easy, no doubt, but even though Bucky asked you to do something so simple — simple regardless of the circumstances — he manhandles you so he rips off your jeans and settles you on your hands and knees.

“Bucky, jesus,” you rasp. He responds with a harsh rasp, then leans over to suck a deep kiss in the middle of your shoulder blades.

He palms your ass, slipping from the tops of your hips to your thighs. And when he travels back up, he grabs ahold of your bottom roughly, like a man hungry for it. “Perfect, perky little ass, huh?”

You answer by nodding, an incoherent ‘yes’ stumbling from your lips. You hang your head so your forehead almost touches your bedsheets, but the second you hear Bucky stripping quickly, belt buckle hitting the floor with a tiny thump, you lift your head up. “Oh, shit.”

Bucky only chuckles. He wastes no more time — you release a startled breath when he bites your asscheeks over your panties, nipping and teasing as he breathes warm air against your clothed skin. You look up to the door, just in case, eyeing the doorknob carefully for any sudden turns. But it’s still, and you can hear the men downstairs laughing and moving the ladder. Maybe you should have turned the shower on to sway suspicion—

“Ah—!” you gasp as Bucky practically tears your panties down your legs. He’s harsh with it too, dragging them down your legs until they’re bunched at your ankles. Bucky lets out a low groan, hands spread over your ass and thumbs spreading your pussy lips open. The cold air nips brutally.

“Fuck,” Bucky marvels, and when you lift your head back up to look over your shoulder you’re met with Bucky biting his bottom lip, eyebrows all scrunched up, red in the cheeks. It makes you whimper quietly and wiggle your ass a little more toward him. “Have I mentioned how fucking perfect you are?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is now, undeniably, rendered useless. There’s a heavy lump in the middle of your throat that prevents you from speaking coherently, to voice a normal-sounding response. Instead, you sound like Bucky’s fucked your throat for an hour straight. The thought has you wiggling back again.

“I’ll take good care of you, doll,” Bucky promises as he sets your hips in place. The anticipation has you clenching around nothing; it reminds you of how empty you are. God, Bucky’s got you realizing how many dormant kinks you have. Bucky, who’s now completely naked, begins to slide the tip of cock, leaking with excitement, through your wet lips. You drag out a long groan, one that Bucky has to close his eyes to truly devour. “Fucking take good care of you.”

In one, slow, lingering slide, Bucky’s hips finally connect with yours. You whimper, breathless, and muster up the strength to hold yourself up. Your elbows are already tense and your wrists are cramping up but fuck that if you’re not gonna be a Bucky’s good girl and take it.

“Fucking hell, Bucky,” you say, quiet like a naughty secret, muffling his name into your shoulder. You want to watch the door and watch Bucky at the same time. So you alternate: one look over your shoulder to see the most glorious man preparing to fuck you into oblivion, then another back to the bedroom door in order to brace yourself in case someone were to barge in. You must be sight — on your hands and knees, sweating, gritted teeth with Bucky’s name in between — Bucky’s words repeat themselves like an echo, taunting you with the whole possibility that Rumlow, same as he barged into your childhood town, can barge into your childhood room; the sight he’ll catch would be marvelous. As if reading your mind, Bucky catches your gaze as you stare over your shoulder: sharp, wicked, and with all the means of making you feel like you’re being stared down by a predator hunting prey. If this is what Bucky’s like when he’s jealous for no reason, how would he act with?

You can’t tell if you’re making any noise — are you moaning, shouting, somewhere in the middle? — but you figure Bucky would shut you up like he did before if you were being too loud. Bucky has set a steady pace, one where the tip of his cock hits a new depth deep inside your cunt, pressing and pressing and stroking and stroking that it’s got you choking. Now you know for sure you’re nonverbal — there’s no way you can formulate words with the amount of saliva your mouth is accumulating. You’d think you’d go dry, but like all the crevices of your body, you’re slick with want.

Bucky pounds into you brutally, his jealousy traveling from his thick skull to his thick dick, claiming you as his in the most primal way he knows how. “You’re mine,” Bucky grunts, and angles his hips just right in order to relay the message. You choke again, going rigid, unable to control as your thighs tremble from the stimulation. “Feel’s great, doll. Huh? Giving it up like this. Knowing damn well we have guests.”

You mewl loudly but quickly hide it by lowering your upper body into the bedsheets. You dig your cheek into the soft fabric, muffling your mouth against it as Bucky fucks you faster. With each thrust forward, he sends you almost toppling off the edge of the bed. But just as coordinated, his thrusts back are accompanied by his great grip around your waist. He won’t let you fall — no — not unless he feels an overwhelming urge to fuck you into the carpet.

Bucky watches the area in which he drives in you fast and hard, sliding with such precision he about thinks his cock is meant to be buried there for life. He groans low when each time he pulls out, he finds his cock drenched even more; when he fucks back into you, he loves the ring of your clear and white spent wrapping around the area in which you connect.

“No one, babygirl,” Bucky rasps, palming your right asscheek. “Will ever fuck you like I do. You hear me?”

He slides so deep you’re positive that the lump in your throat is his cock. When in reality, it’s all the unspoken words that merely bubble in the rawness of your throat.

“You’re mine. You hear me?”

You hear him. Fuck you hear him and every single syllable is heaven made real, desirable and blissful and consuming.

Bucky leans forward, grips a tight fistful of your hair, and tugs you upwards. The action leaves you basically weightless, and the sudden weight removed from your elbows and wrists is almost painful. Your voice cracks over a moan that’s both mixed with pleasure and pain.

“Are you good? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Bucky whispers as he slows down his thrusts. He lets his words show through his touch. You mutter a quiet no and shake your head in case he didn’t hear. Bucky gently caresses your cheek with his metal hand, then grasps at your earlobe for a small tug. “Okay.” He moves his hips again after accepting your answer.

His movement is limited at first. He moves slowly so he can watch as his cock buries deep inside you from this angle. He watches as your perfect ass jiggles and he applies more pressure at your hips, molding your skin and trailing his hands lower.

He wants to be rough. He wants to mark you as his in the only way he currently knows how.

He asks this of you, through the strength of his grip and the uneven gasps his body creates.

Bucky may be unique and an all-around tattoo on your swelled heart, but he’s not that different from every man who meets a challenge. Jealousy is a man’s kryptonite. It turns even the most sane man into a protective animal.

So you draw your hand back to grip his waist and push him slightly back. He lets go of you immediately and gently slips out. It’s weird being that empty in the woes of sex, like an echo of a cry in an abyss of pleasure. Your body rejects it, craves to be hammered and full, to be ignited. You flip over, careful of not hitting your ankles or knees against Bucky’s body. He’s slightly confused with your actions — he thought he crossed a line and was too rough, too demanding. But you simply lay beneath him, comfortable on your sheets and spread out like the loveliest dessert table, ready to be devoured.

“I’m gonna have to take a shower after this anyways. I need you to fuck me, and fuck me good. I want to feel the slide of your cock while I’m down there tonight, with Brock right in front of me, fucking oblivious.”

Bucky groans loud until he reminds himself of where you are. Of who can hear. He wastes no more time: he bends your knees up to your chest, marveling at the fantastic spread you make, and fucks back into you with a force that propels you higher up the sheets.

“Ah— yes!— Bucky, yes fuck, please!” Your voice is high-pitched but as quiet as you can make it. Trying to restrain your cries and uncontrollable noises creates this seed of pressure at the base of your throat, roots spreading to your temples, pounding away as the feeling overwhelms you at the same time your pussy is being pounded. Bucky’s hips slap nastily against yours, his balls dragging teasingly against your bottom. His drive is so smooth, like he fucking means to take your words to heart.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Bucky rasps. The pet names are all over the place — Bucky can’t settle on a single one. You’re his doll when your mouth parts and a dribble of saliva threatens to escape the sides, the same lips that lessen their confines when sucking his cock. Then, it’s a mess. You’re his babygirl when you produce that sweet whine that starts in your chest and brushes softly in the curl of his ear. You’re his sweetheart when he can see you’re enjoying this too, where you’re both equals and fighting for each other’s pleasure, breaths molding into one. And you’re kid when you challenge him, when you decide to take control and edge his release; that pet name rolls off his tongue with the sole purpose of reminding you of his age, of his maturity, of his position in your life. Because it starts like a prayer, the hymn of music swaying beside his body when he thinks about it. Each time he shoves his cock deep inside your hot cunt, reveling in the tight squeeze, his conscience reminds him of how young you are. How dirty this whole situation is. But it’s not the devil’s voice that reminds him: it’s his own and it’s nowhere near judgemental. It eggs him on — Anyone would kill to eat her sweet pussy. Anyone would kill to taste the lipstick on her lips and feel her cheeks heat up with just the tip of their nose. Anyone would kill to hear her sweet love-sounds, quiet and loud and pornographic. Anyone would kill to be in Bucky’s place, cock exactly where it belongs, her legs holding him in place.

He holds the backs of your knees and thrusts harder, deeper, until you’re stuttering over loose breaths and your palms extend over the cotton sheets searching for leverage. “I’m—I’m gonna come!” you pant, now reaching up to place your sweaty palms over the large expanse of his chest. He makes a muffled sound when your hands mold his pecs like his hands did your ass. Okay, you take note even in the glorious fucking you’re receiving, Bucky likes me playing with his tits.

“Yeah, you are…” Bucky hisses, unrelenting in his pace. “Gonna fuck my come deep inside you. I want you to feel me running down your legs for the rest of the night. You’ll be feeling me for days, doll.”

It’s about ten more harsh thrusts before you keen, back arched in whatever space your knees allow, clenching and unclenching mercilessly around Bucky’s thick cock. You feel Bucky’s touch everywhere — it burns your skin in the most insanely erotic way, then it ripples with goosebumps. Bucky fucks into you a few more times, each slide accompanied with a low growl, until he too releases deep inside your abused cunt. He stutters, lips slightly pouted, eyebrows scrunched almost like he’s confused. But Bucky’s soul has just exploded, left his body for a mere second, then catapulted back inside as the rush of endorphins littered each and every one of his vertebrae.

He slowly removes himself from you. You gather all your strength to risk a peek at the door. You tilt your head backwards, eyes upside down, and see that the door is still (thankfully) shut. The noises from downstairs carry on — they’ve even turned on the stereo to play Christmas music.

You gasp out a few short breaths, trying and failing to control the heaving of your chest. “That was…”

Bucky chuckles darkly, lays down beside you, and snuggles close. He maneuvers his face into the soft crook of your neck, breathing in deep as he rubs the tip of his nose against the skin below your ear. He takes a few moments, sure that the gloss in his fuzzy brain wears off just a little more, before he speaks. “When we get back to New York… say that you’ll be mine.”

There’s this feeling that character’s in novels usually experience. That feeling of falling in love, like it’s such a sudden thing, and that everyone is capable of it. They describe it as swelling of the heart, a push against the sternum, melting. But you look at Bucky and there’s a little gray in the light blue of his eyes. Suddenly the feeling that the author describes is completely wrong. The figurative language is scattered, jumbled, like they haven’t truly experienced what they write about. And maybe that’s true. Because seeing Bucky in all his multitudes: full, looking back at you, awaiting a response — then seeing Bucky in his singularities: the grays that pepper his beard, the mole near the top left of his forehead, the softness of his lips — it makes you gluttonous. No, the authors of the world haven’t come up with the proper name for it yet.

“I’ll be yours.”

xxMoni

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