#western!bucky

[spineless-lobster]

Me when there’s gay people and they’re at war

[artficlly]

king of pentacles [one-shot]

Wild West Marvel AU

outlaw!bucky x fortune teller!reader when your travelling circus rolls into town, you are warned that bucky barnes is the outlaw who rules these lands. you plan to keep your distance, but he and his men can not resist a little entertainment.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, blowjobs, begging, p in v, cowgirl position, bit of teasing, soft sub bucky??, if you squint theres some plot, fortune telling, tarot cards, violence, choking, blood, mention of death, mention of torture, mention of beatings, implied previous non-con to reader (not from bucky), protective bucky barnes, smoking, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.9k

A/N: i literally cannot even tell you where this idea came from. i had a vague thought about a travelling circus, tarot reading character. i wrote this out and edited it in like two days?? insane. i don't normally write smut so let me know your thots lol. if you enjoy western marvel aus, please check out some of my other works. i have a one-shot called 'me & the devil' and a mini-series called 'a dish served cold'! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

It was a windy autumn night when James Buchanan Barnes and his pack of vermin invaded Elkhorn’s Travelling Circus and Freakshow. 

There were scarcely few in the area who had not heard of Barnes and his gang of outlaws. From the moment your caravans had pulled across state lines, you had been warned not to cross Bucky Barnes or his dogs. The law did not concern itself with this place, a place so far west that civilization had been left behind. The memories of cities, people, and culture were a mere whisper on the winds, a fleck of sand in an endless desert. This place was ruled by barbarians, and Bucky Barnes was their king. 

You had heard stories of the fabled man. Some said he was the devil himself, that he sported horns and hooved feet. Others said his eyes were black as the night but reflected the light as if he were part beast. Those terrified people would recall his wrath and how his enemies were never afforded a simple, painless death. No, those who crossed the King suffered for their crimes. 

So when that twisted, cruel man of legend stood before you... You were surprised to find he was none of what he was rumoured to be. 

It had only been an hour since the nightly show had wrapped up, darkness falling quickly due to the colder months looming. The gang of outlaws had stormed your small campsite, locating your leader and employer, Duke Elkhorn, and demanding they be entertained! The candles had been lit, and the music was playing. The animals had been brought from their cages once more, and dancers and performers were laced back into costumes. Barnes had asked for entertainment, so you would provide it, lest you find yourself dead in a ditch. 

Thankfully, you had not yet taken off your own outfit and makeup. A kohl to line your eyes; your lips painted red; hair loose with intermitten beading and braids. You wore large jewled earrings and layers of necklaces that partially covered the deep v of your neckline. Your dress was tightly fitted, your breasts were pushed upwards by the corset beneath, and your skirt was a deep green that swirled around your legs with each movement. Your small tent was filled with a haze of incense, lavish velvet, and silk used as draperies. Your tent was divided into two sections—your working space and your personal quarters. You had been checking your appearance in your cracked mirror when the ruffle of fabric alerted you to his presence. 

He stood with an unquestionable air of confidence, a cigarette in hand. His eyes narrowed as he looked you over, a cruel smirk playing across his lips. He was large and burly, with muscular forearms that bulged against the fabric of his sleeves, which had been pushed up to gather at his elbows. Blood stained his collar and sleeves, and a gold pocket watch was tucked into his vest. His dark hair was windblown, bits peeking out from under his black, cattleman hat. 

As he flicked his cigarette, you realised his knuckles were bruised and split. A subtle splatter of blood across his cheek, smeared, as if somone had reached up and grasped his face in their dying moments. 

“Our mutual friend, Mr. Elkhorn, told me that if I was lookin’ for a pretty thing to come find ya.” His voice was deep when he spoke, gravelly and rough. It sent a shudder down your spine. Damn Elkhorn. You always knew he was a coward, even though he thought himself a big man. You and the other performers were not strangers to his temper and desperation. You all tended not to challenge it, as he could be a cruel man as equally as he could be fearful. 

“He weren’t lyin’ was he?” He lets out a low whistle, exhaling smoke. “How’s he kept you a secret for so long, huh? Guess mah boys don’t come pokin’ in the tents that often. Too busy pokin’ their bits into them dancer girls.”

You remain silent as he chuckles to himself. He eyes you greedily; his icy blue eyes are anything but discreet. You could feel how his gaze rested on the curves of your hips and breasts, watching how your skin moved with each breath. Desire was a strange thing—how easily you might shift from feeling confident and powerful to nothing at all. 

You certainly felt like a squirming idiot under his gaze. 

“I’m not a whore.” You speak up, though your voice is hushed, hesitant, or even uneasy. You knew men like Barnes would not take being denied well. If you thought Elkhorn’s brutality was something to fear, your knees would positively buckle before Barnes. 

Barnes barks out a laugh, his brows raising in something between delight and surprise. He strides towards you, grinning as you flinch back. “Yer employer seems to think differently.”

Your eyes slide closed as he reaches forward, a finger sweeping a strand of hair from your face to better look at you. You swallow hard as he chuckles, smoke blowing across your face. Teeth grit, you slowly open your eyes, a shuddering exhale leaving your nose as he runs a finger across your cheek.

“He’s a spineless excuse of a man.” You dare to bite back, your voice wavering, but you stand tall. His amused expression has morphed into one of intrigue. His actions falter; hesitation is clear in his demeanour. 

“He make ya do things ya don’t wanna do, darlin’?” The outlaw asks, his voice surprisingly genuine. He is still close to you, close enough that you can smell the tobacco on his breath and feel the vibration of each word in his chest. 

“Sometimes.” You admit, your eyes flickering up to meet his gaze. He curses under his breath, rubbing his jaw in annoyance. Barnes backs off a few paces, putting out his cigarette on one of your sidetables. From your side view of his chiselled face, you see a muscle in his jaw tense. 

“Well, sweetheart. I ain’t in the business of bein’ with women who don’t want it.” He says with a roll of his shoulders. He has stalked over to your reading table, bruised knuckles white as he grips the back of your chair. 

You are at a momentary loss for words. You had anticipated being repulsed by this man, the one who repeatedly terrorised these lands and enabled his dogs to do what they wanted and take what they pleased. There was something strangely endearing about his care for your consent. 

“Well, I am glad to hear it.” You finally uttered. “Can’t say the same for some of your boys, though.”

A tense silence washes over the tent, and you almost immediately regret your words. Against your better judgement, you creep towards him. He doesn’t flinch away from your touch as your hands smooth over the top of his hands and wrists. Beneath you, he feels like stone, each tendon and muscle expertly chiselled like the statues you saw in the big cities back east. 

“Yer right. Pack o’ wild mongrels they are. Good for puttin’ folk in their place. I think I’ll get ‘em to pay yer employer a little visit. Remind him whose land he’s on.” 

Barnes goes to leave, pulling away from your touch. A wave of horror washes over you at his implication. You find yourself reaching for him again in an unexpected panic. Your hands latch around his bare forearm, tugging him back an inch. 

“Wait.” You shake your head, gripping his forearm. The outlaw looks back at you in curiosity. 

“I ain’t gonna hurt anyone else, sweetheart. Just him. ” He drawls, eyes darting to where you hold his arm. You drop it immediately, backing off. Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. 

“He will think your lesson is because I turned you down or because I wasn’t good enough for you.” You explain desperately. His eyes narrow, as if offended on your behalf. “Whatever you do to him, he will do to me twofold. As punishment. He is a cruel man, you understand?”

“Yer definitely not pleading his case well, darlin’.” There is impatience in his tone and ire that you could not even begin to comprehend. Your eyes flicker to his bruised knuckles, the splatters of blood. If Elkhorn found out, well, you would have to wear a veil for the rest of your life. Your face would be so mishapened and destroyed that you would bring fear into the hearts of anyone who laid eyes upon you. You would no longer be a fortune teller but a featured freak of Elkhorn’s sideshow. Men and women alike would pull faces, with children throwing food and rocks. The deformed woman— another beast in a cage. 

You have seen this fate play out too many times. Too many were lost to Elkhorn’s wickedness. 

“Please.” You beg. His brow arches and his adams apple bobs. 

You swallow nervously, then hesitantly step forward. With gentle hands, you take his forearm once more, guiding him to your reading table. “Just… I will entertain you for a suitable time. I can read your cards. Then, you can tell Mr. Elkhorn that you laid with me; embellish it if you wish.”

Barnes seems too intrigued to protest. 

He unbuttons his vest with a soft grunt, taking a seat at the table. His legs are spread wide in a domineering pose as he leans back into the seat with cool confidence. As you take a seat at the opposite end of the table, he reaches into his vest pocket. 

“So, how does this work?” He asks. You can tell he is irritated from the way his brow twitches and jaw muscles are still tense. He is playing along for your benefit, you realise. He is looking to you for amusement to stop himself from marching out of the tent and dealing with Elkhorn as promised. 

“I will shuffle the cards, then draw three. Each card has meaning, and all together, it will tell you the message you need to hear.” You explain. Barnes had pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering you one. You decline with a wave of your hands, instead taking the cards into your palm. He shrugs, lighting it with a half-interested sigh. 

As he inhaled and you shuffled, you noticed his interest lay closer to your exposed skin. Even if he had backed off per your request, it did not seem to stop him from undressing you with his eyes from the opposite side of the table. He seemed emnamoured by the layers of necklaces and how they clinked and rolled across your skin. 

As you shuffled, the first card fell out. His tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip as he watched you work. You slid the escapee card onto the table, facedown on the red tablecloth. 

“Anything in particular that you want to hear, hm?” You ask. As you lift your gaze, you find Barnes enraptured by your movements, so much so that he has forgotten to take another drag. “Most people want to know about their careers… their families. Love.”

“I don’t believe in love.” He says, sucking in a breath. You tilt your head. He didn’t believe in love, no. He believed in lust. Desire. From the way his pupils were blown and his lips parted in awe, he was positively eating out of your hand. A second card falls. You slide it next to the first. 

“Business it is, then.” You breathe. The final card falls from the deck just as the words leave your lips. You put it in place, then place the stack of the remaining deck to the side. Barnes is transfixed as you lean your arms parallel to the table and tilt forward. “Flip one.”

“Does it matter which order?”

“No.”

With unwavering confidence, he reaches forward, flipping over the first in the row. Your gaze falls downward to view the card, a frown pulling at your lips. You examine the familiar figures on the card. Two figures stood on either side, naked and chained. Behind them, in the darkness, loomed a beast with claws, horns, and wings. The Devil. 

How fitting. 

Barnes seems to find it ironic as well, as he scoffs in disbelief. “Ya playin’ a trick on me?”

You look up at him. The tension in the small tent is as thick as the smoke that hangs in the air. “No. The cards tell the truth, if you want to hear it or not.”

You reach out, stroking a finger over the card.

“The figures, they are chained. They don’t want to be there, but if you look closely… their chains are loose. They could escape at any moment.” If Barnes had a snarky comment, he does not say. He hung on to your every word. “And the longer they remain, the longer they become more like the devil. He represents the darkness within them, their shadow selves. It is the evil within you—the short-term pleasures—to ignore the long-term pains. Instant gratification. Greed, violence. You think you have free will, but you have sold your soul to the devil.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t already know darlin,” The outlaw says with a chuckle. You notice that his shoulders have relaxed, a cool amusement embodying him. 

You hold his gaze. “Next card.”

His fingers brush yours as he flips over the centre card. The King of Pentacles. 

“The Devil and now the King? You’re spoilin’ me, sweetheart.” He chuckles. 

You eyed the card. The king sat upon his lavish throne, surrounded by wealth. You tap your nail across the yellow pentacle symbol, humming in thought. “King of Pentacles. It represents wealth and abundance. He has influence and is a skilled leader.”

Your head tilts. “It’s a warning.”

“A warnin’? Sounds like a good card to me.” 

“The king has all that he wants. An abundance of wealth. Everything he touches turns to gold, like King Midas.”

“King Midas?”

“It’s an old tale. One of caution. About a king who was blessed with the power to turn anything he touched into gold. His kingdom flourished with wealth, but he soon found himself to be unhappy. He could not eat, as any food that touched his lips turned to gold. He could not know the comforts of the flesh, for the women would also turn to gold. Everything he once cherished…gone. Then, one day he lost the one thing he loved most, his daughter. She kissed her father upon his forehead and instantly became a statue of gold.”

“I would be a far richer man if I were this…King Midas.”

“But don’t you see? You are him. You are a king who is flush with wealth; your influence is strong. Your people flourish. Everything you do and everything you touch becomes profit. But at what cost? How much more will you lose? How much more will you give up for greed?” You finger turns to point at the Devil card. His lips are set in a straight line as he scowls at you. 

“You best be careful now.” He warns. You shudder, leaning back in your seat, motioning for him to flip the final card. 

You stare down at the table, your breath held in horror. The figure in the card sits up in bed, hands to their face in anguish. Decorating the wall behind them are a row of swords, two of which could be seen to be piercing through the figure. Stabbed through the back. The frame of the bed is carved, illustrating two figures fighting. Nine of Swords. 

Your mouth feels dry as Barnes peers at you expectantly. “Well?”

You can’t find the words; your brows are scrunching as you try to find the best way to articulate the meaning without triggering the brooding outlaw’s wrath. Your finger taps on the table, and you clear your throat, squirming in your seat. 

“Nine of Swords.” You utter quietly. “The figure… they are troubled by their own thoughts. Their worries, speculations… so much so that they manifest it into reality.”

Your fingers trace over the fighting figures. “You worry of a rising conflict.”

You ghost over the swords next. A backstabbing. 

It was all very clear to you how it all intertwined. Barnes was a man possessed by evil and greed. He had sacrificed much to accumulate his wealth; like King Midas, he had all the gold he could need, but at what cost? His followers, his people—they were afraid. Weary of their cruel leader. A coup was in the works. Jealousy brewed within his men; all they knew was evil, so all they could give was violence in return. 

“A betrayal.” You breathe. Your eyes snap up to meet his. His pupils were no longer blown, instead replaced with an icy rage. 

“How do ya know this?” His voice had dropped, low and threatening. His cigarette was discarded, flecks of burning ash glowing across the floor. His shoulders were tensed, straining against the fabric as he began to loom over you, slowly standing from his seat. 

You shrunk back. “I don’t, I just read the cards—” 

You let out a shriek as Barnes gripped the table, flipping it in one solid motion. The cards fluttered to the ground around you, the glossy paper flickering in the low candle light. You recoiled in your seat, limbs trembling as Barnes stood over you. 

“Did Rumlow put you up to this, huh? I know what him and his little pack of vermin have been whisperin’.” He spat on the ground beside you, and you flinched back. Barnes reached down, gripping your throat as he forced you to look up at him. 

“I don’t know anythin’. I swear—” You begged, tears prickling at your eyes. 

Barnes scanned your face, then released you with a huff. You scrambled away, retreating to the furthest corner of the tent. Barnes waved his hand at you with a sigh, re-buttoning his vest and straightening his shirt. 

“I’ll give ya the benefit of the doubt, darlin’. But if I find out you’ve been lyin’...I’ll kill ya myself. Ya understand?” 

You nodded wordlessly, whimpering as the outlaw marched out of your tent without a glance back. 

—

“Where is she?” The enraged roar of Bucky Barnes sent a nauseating wave of panic through your body. 

A couple weeks had past, and Elkhorn’s Travelling Circus and Freakshow were wrapping up their stay. Duke Elkhorn wanted to push further west, bring entertainment to the drivers and rustlers of the far reaches of the country. Within two days, you were set to leave this awful place and flee the clutches of Barnes and his boys. 

Well, it seemed that had been hopeful thinking. 

You were in your tent, in your personal quarters. You had pulled shut the draperies to allow yourself privacy. The strong men, slick with oil and always sporting toothy grins, were always eager to deliver you water to bathe in. It had become a sort of ritualistic routine of yours to undress and wash the makeup from your face. After hours of sitting in a stuffy tent stinking of incense, it was a relief to wash the smell from your body. 

You wore a silk robe, loosely tied at the waist. It had been a gift from a patron back east—some rich city boy who had a fascination with you. When Barnes crashed through your draperies into the back of your tent, chest heaving with a livid look in his eye… you froze. You were perched on a stool before your cracked mirror, pulling a brush through your long locks of hair. 

You stumbled to your feet, stool knocked to the ground. 

Barnes was covered in blood, his shirt so drenched that it clung to his skin. His jaw was clenched tightly, and his teeth were bared in a growl. The blood was still fresh on his arms and neck, the liquid glinting in the candlelight. He had not bothered to wear his hat; instead, his hair was messy, with a splattering of blood across his cheek.

“I told ya I would kill ya myself.” The outlaw snarled. 

You backed away, back meeting the tent wall. “I didn’t do anythin—”

You were cut off as Barnes marched forward, large hands wrapping around your throat. He squeezed tightly, a breathless whimper escaping your mouth.

“How did ya know?” He demanded, his face twisted into a look of rage. 

You claw at the front of his shirt, sticky blood coating your palms as you struggle. 

“Ya knew about Rumlow. Ya warned me of a betrayal.” 

He releases the pressure on your throat, and you meekly gasp in air, nails digging into his shoulder as you try to keep your knees steady. 

“I didn’t know, I just said what the cards showed—” You rasp. Barnes doesn’t seem pleased by your answer, jaw muscle ticing. 

“I don’t believe in yer magical horseshit. I know it’s all tricks and acts. How did ya know?”

“The cards aren’t magical. Each card has a meaning that can be understood in different ways, it’s my job to apply them to whoever walks into my tent. The cards just reveal thoughts you have not quite spoken aloud—ideas at the back of your mind. They ask you to confront your inner self. You knew Rumlow was a traitor before the cards, you had a suspicion, but you did not act on it until prompted by the cards.” You wheezed out. The outlaw slowly releases your throat, his face controrting into something closer to frustration than rage. Your palms brace flat on his chest as you steady yourself against him. 

“Deep down, you already knew he was a traitor.” You reiterate. 

“You’re a fuckin’ witch.” He breathes, then runs a hand through his messy hair. Blood streaks across his forehead, clumping his strands of hair. His head tilts as he looks down at you. His face has relaxed, as if a silent clarity had overcome him. “Even if ya deny it… ya did warn me.”

You clear your throat, hand raising to your neck as you brush your fingers over the tender flesh where he had gripped you. “You warned yourself.”

He stares down at you, then frowns guiltily. “Apologies, darlin’. I shouldn’t have done that to ya.”

You believe him.

You hold your breath as his fingers briefly skim over your neck. His gaze falls deeper, his eyes following the curve of your breast that was half-exposed by your robe. The fabric was bunched into a deep v, leaving the swell of your breasts, sternum, and skin down to your belly button exposed. The outlaw sucks in a deep, shuddering breath, then stalks away with a frustrated growl. 

“Barnes—” you call to him softly.

“Bucky.” He corrects.

You catch a glance at yourself in the mirror. The silk robe hangs perfectly from your curves, blood smeared across your chest and neck. You suck in your own deep breath, sweeping your hair over your shoulders as you hesitantly approach the outlaw. He paced like the beasts Elkhorn kept caged up, endlessly forced to perform for cruel crowds. You knew what he needed. A delicate touch, a sweetness to lean on. 

“Speak to me.” You whisper to him, gentle hands guiding him to the edge of your bed. The canopy was draped with deep purple fabrics, furs, and blankets over the straw mattress. He silently obliges. 

“One of my boys, one I thought I could trust. He betrayed me. Thought he could make a little gang of his own and overthrow me from the inside.” The outlaw explains. His voice is stiff, and his posture is tense. You smooth a palm over his forearm, and your thigh presses against his as you sit closely together. 

There is a distant look in his eye as he stares past you at the wall of the tent. It shifts with the cool breeze outside, rising and falling like the night itself breathes. “I dealt with it.”

You cock your head to the side, hand running up his arm as you examine his face with a frown. “Dealt with it?” 

His eyes snap to yours, and your hand wavers in hesitation. There is a darkness in his eyes. His expression made goosebumps rise across your skin. You could only explain it as something primal, something caught between violence and arousal. 

“I made them pay.” He explains, his body twisting as he faces you fully. A bloodied hand raises, his thumb rubbing across your cheek as he cradles your face. “After two days, they begged me to end it. To end their lives.”

“And did you?” You dare to whisper back. His thumb traces inward, across your lower lip. 

“No.” He says simply. “I cut out their tongues so they could no longer beg. I made them pay.”

Your eyes must have been wide in shock because he chuckled, his hand sweeping through your hair. Then, with an uncharacteristic softness to his tone, he utters a question. “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart thunders in your ears, a short gasp leaving you as your lips part. In all your travels, you have heard stories of women who could make men fall in love with them with just their eyes. Women who used their bodies and seduced their way to the top. Even violent men like Bucky had one weakness—a woman who showed them kindness. A woman who could momentarily take control. The men would let their minds drift away; the burdens were lifted, if only for a night. 

Heat pools between your legs. You nod, a hand reaching to stroke across his jaw. The two of you meet in mutual desperation and touch once gentle, now needy. His tongue brushes against your lips, effortlessly parting them as he licks into your mouth. A moan escapes your throat at the taste of his tongue.

Your hands find the front of his shirt, blindly unbuttoning as he grips your hair in one hand. The outlaw groans as his hand slides across your shoulders, pushing away the robe. Your top half is exposed, nipples have hardened, and silk has pooled at your waist. 

As your tongues tangle, Bucky tilts his head to gain better access to your mouth. Your gasps meet his as he moans heavily into your mouth. His hands trace along your body, one squeezing your waist and hips, the other coming to grasp your breast. 

With a tug, you pull his shirt free. The two of you part, your head lulling back as he paints sloopy, feverish kisses down your neck. A groan rises in your throat as you lean into him, one hand gripping his dark hair and the other beginning to palm him through his pants. 

His kisses move further down, head dipping as he licks a stripe across your breast. He takes a nipple into his mouth, kissing and sucking as you gasp and lean into him. The space between your legs is throbbing; a wet neediness rising. 

You clutch his thigh, squirming with desire. The stubble along his jaw prickles your flesh, and a shudder runs down your spine. Your hands find his, easing his grip on your hips as you slide off the bed. Lowering yourself to the floor on your knees, you sit between his legs. Bucky lets out a groan as he looks down at you. His pupils are blown, and his lips are swollen and glossy. Your hands trace up his thighs, and your quick fingers relieve him of his belt. 

“Let me.” You hum to him. You tilt your head, your cheek brushing against his knee. His adams apple bobs as he swallows hard. “I can make you feel good.”

You can see his bulge under the fabric. He eagerly helps you pull his pants down, his cock springing free already fully hard. You press a kiss to the tip. His cock twitches in response and a low moan vibrates in his chest. You look up at him through your lashes, biting your lip. He leans back, looking at the tent roof, as his chest rises and falls with a loud, satisfied sigh. 

There was a power that resonated in your chest, seeing the outlaw so vulnerable under your touch. He did not protest your lead, instead eagerly following your command. You take him into your mouth slowly, one hand running up his thigh as the other wraps around his length. 

You bob your head, feeling him tense with pleasure beneath you. As you come up, you whisper to him quietly. “Relax.”

As your tongue swirls over his tip, then down his broad length, you feel his hips rock beneath you. His hand comes to fist your hair, subtly guiding you as you take him fully into your mouth once more. You follow his needs, taking notice of each pleasured twitch or motion in response to your touch. His fingers tangle in your long locks of hair, tugging as you pull unimaginable, explicit sounds from the outlaw. 

“Fuck—” He groans above you, his breath coming in short pants. You hum in response, relishing the sensation of him falling to pieces beneath you. The spot between your legs was slick, and wetness was beginning to drip down your inner thigh. There was a selfish urge within you that desired to reach down between your legs to gift yourself some friction. 

You swallowed him down deeper, flattening your tongue against his ridgid length. His hips started to jerk, stronger than the previous gentle rocking. You could feel him growing undone, his breath coming shorter, and his nails desperately digging into your scalp as he desperately tried to guide your head deeper and deeper. 

You obliged, but only as you felt his cock twitch once more did you pull away fully. Not yet. You weren’t finished with him yet. The outlaw let out a pained grumble. His hands caressed your shoulders as you rose to your feet. 

“Darlin’—” Bucky protests, but you shush him. 

“How much do you want me, hm?” You ask him. He has propped himself up onto his elbows to look up at you. His cock was still erect, glistening in the candlelight from your saliva. 

“I want you.” He affirms.

“How desperately? Would you get on your knees for me? Beg for me?” You say it breathlessly. You take one of his hands in yours, pressing a kiss to the palm. 

His breath stutters. “Yes.” 

“Go on then.” As the words leave your mouth, your eyes flicker upwards. You look at him through your lashes.

“Please, sweetheart—” He whines. You cock your head to the side, peppering more kisses along each fingertip. 

“Louder.” 

“Please.” He begs. You smirk down at him wickedly, shifting closer. Your palm meets his chest, pushing him back down onto the bed as his elbows buckle beneath him. 

“Lie back.” You instruct, helping guide his legs so he lies flat along the bed. In one fluid motion, you straddle his waist, his silk robe still pooling around your hips. You lean over him, taking one of the waist straps of your robe. With slow breaths, you move the soft fabric across his bloodied chest, tracing each vein and muscle before finally grazing it across his nipples. He shudders beneath you, his grip bruising where he grasps your hips. 

“Say it again.” You breathe. You are embarrassingly wet as you sit perched upon him. 

“Please. I need you.” He obeys, and another wave of arousal washes over you. Only now did you give in to your selfish desires, dead rolling back as you ground your hips slowly. Your lips parted, a small mewling moan leaving you as you clenched around nothing. You flatten a hand over his chest, allowing him to help guide you as you raise onto your knees. 

With one gentle movement, you lower yourself onto him. Your wet heat engulfs him, and the two of you groan in unison. You feel yourself stretch around him, and you moan as you allow your body to take him in completely. His hands tighten their hold on your waist. 

Bucky looks at you with a slightly slack-jawed expression. “Fuck, sweetheart. I think I’m gonna make ya my wife.”

You manage a smile through your own arousal, your hand gliding up and down his chest as you move your hips in a grinding motion. You gasp out a low, “Oh yeah?”

His head tips back with a moan as you clench around him. You experiment momentarily, brows drawn and biting your lip, until you find a grinding rhythm that ignites a fire within you. Bucky meets you halfway, helping guide you with his hands still gripping your hips. Your head lulls forward, small panting gasps leaving you as your eyes squeeze shut. 

“I’ll make you beg for that too…Fuck—” You whine, and Bucky chuckles beneath you. He continues to help direct your hips, and your thighs begin to shake as you lower and raise yourself. 

A strangled cry leaves you as Bucky’s hand lowers, his thumb circling your clit. Pleasure spikes up your spine, your knees wobbling as you nearly double over at the sensation. His fingers swirl with purpose, pulling all manner of illicit words and sounds from your throat. 

“You like that, sweetheart?” Bucky hummed.

Just as you feel like sobbing from the pleasure, you cock your head to the side. With a deep breath, you tug Bucky’s shoulders, pulling him upright to meet you. The two of you clash, breath hot. His arms wrap around you, pinning you to his chest as he kisses you with a primal hunger. You moan into his mouth, your tongue sloppily moving against his as he begins to thrust vigorously. 

You could feel your climax building steadily within you, the peak of a tumbling wave that had not yet crested. Bucky was a panting, sweaty mess beneath you. He greedily kissed and sucked along your neck, head dipping as he ran his tongue along your collarbone. 

Your own head fell, teeth grazing across his neck. He tastes like salt and copper. You nuzzled your nose against his jaw, taking his earlobe between your teeth. Deep within you, you felt his cock twitch. 

You wrap your arms over his shoulders, your fingers tugging at his hair. That pulled a groan from him, the noise vibrating across your skin. With a devious smile pressed against his cheek, you lean in close to his ear. Breath hot, you whisper into his ear. 

“Come for me.”

As if he had been waiting for those exact words, he explodes within you. The sensation tips you over the edge, a thundering in your ears defeans you as your eyes roll back into your head. You clench around Bucky tightly, your body milking every last drop of him as he lazily ruts the last of his energy into you. 

The two of you pant, catching a breath as you both come to a halt. The outlaw nuzzles your neck with a content sigh, then laughs against your sweaty skin. 

“I wasn’t jokin’ earlier.” He finally speaks up, his voice somewhat more dignified now that he wasn’t a moaning mess beneath you. 

“Hm?” You respond sleepily, too fucked-out to be bothered opening your eyes. 

“I’m gonna steal ya away from here. Make ya my goddamn wife.”

Against your better judgement, you believed him.

[ketzpart]

What if they spent like a weekend at a ranch?

[latibvles]

trouble's always gonna find you, baby.

okay hi, here's a piece of that western au I've been yapping about all week!! wahoo!! you can find my thoughts in the tag #western au (creative I know) but in short summary this is a Wild West au, the Bucks and (some of) the guys are in a vigilante-esque cowboy gang, Viv is the banker's daughter, and there's a whole lot more details about it because I've subjected Several people to it. Do not come to this expecting peak historical accuracy but do come here if you want John Egan and Friends in cowboy hats. TW for blood & discussion of a gunshot wound if that bothers you at all — otherwise here's three of Bucky's meetings with his ahem "angel" of sorts. tagginggg @hellofanidea , @saturnwisteria , @shoshiwrites & @upontherisers for having to listen to me yap about this (this is not proofread folks be kind to me)

I.

He thinks he’s died and gone to heaven the first time he sees her.

Not that Bucky thinks he’s necessarily deserving of it (he knows he’s not, has known as much since the first time he felt the spray of blood on his face) — but that’s the story isn’t it? Jesus comes to the Apostle John on a white horse, something like that. Resurrection, salvation, and all that fun stuff he didn’t pay much attention to as a kid despite his mother’s best efforts. Why Christ would appear to him and not someone like Brady or Jo, who are much better about praying and piousness, he doesn’t really know why. He’s also pretty sure Christ was supposed to come back the same way he left, so maybe it isn’t Jesus himself after all.

Her horse is pale and white, like her nightgown; early morning light and slight mist in the air make her look somewhere between an angel and a ghost. What was that thing his mom used to say? When the Devil tries to take you, he could see her now, pinching his chin between her finger and thumb to keep her looking at him, tilting his head up to her to ensure it, he’ll sink his claws in while giving you the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen, John. That feels more reasonable. The closer he gets, the easier it’ll be for her to drag him to the pit.

She reflects all the light of dawn — he can hear her mare chuffing, moving this way and that as she grazes the field, her white coat glowing in the haze. Bucky can’t fight that urge to move closer to her — but to his credit he’s not really trying either. He knows he shouldn’t, that he should just keep going, but curiosity grips him and doesn’t let go.

Maybe it's temptation. In his experience they tend to overlap anyway.

 He can see the grass stains now on the hem of the gown where it falls on either side of her; vibrant green against thin white fabric, flashes of olive skin that he tries not to linger on as he moves closer.

“You an angel?” Bucky asks without thinking, watches how she jumps slightly and snaps her head to look at him— eye level on their respective perches. She laughs a little, shaking her head.

“No,” she looks him up and down. “You from around here?”

“No,” Bucky’s lips curl on a grin, taking in the way her hair falls around her shoulders in soft brown waves. “Two towns over.” She whistles low, raising her brows at him.

“Long way from home then, sir.” Bucky reaches up, tipping the brim of his hat and she laughs a little as her horse moves again, a bit closer and still trained on the grass as opposed to his curious stallion.

“Not sir,” he declines. “It’s Bucky. You got a name?”

“Maybe.”

“Well I can keep calling you angel if you want.” She rolls her eyes at that, a smile tugging at her own lips. Gotta be an angel he affirms, just from the sight of the small strip of white between her lips, the amusement clear in her expression. Christ, she really is beautiful. Hers are some kind of warm hazel; a little gold, little green. Her hair falls freely past her shoulders, a bit past her chest — warm and brown and wavy.

“Seems a little dishonest if I’m not one though,” she notes. “Are you a liar, Bucky?”

He’s about to give her an affirmative no ma’am but it catches in his throat. She’s been holding his stare for a while now; arched brow, head tilted and he has the strangest inclination that she’d know even his answer would be a lie. Hell, for the past few years his mother thought he was working on a ranch with a buddy and his wife. And yes, he’s working with his buddy, and his wife — but it’s not a damn horse ranch.

“You give all strangers the third degree?”

“Just the chatty ones.” She looks him up and down, smile growing a little wider. “Guess I got my answer then.” Bucky kisses his teeth, feigning disappointment.

“Guess that’s a no-go on the name then?” She hums, looking around for a few seconds like she’s searching for something and Bucky can’t help but look around too — towards the barn on one end of the field, the house behind them with the pale white siding, and the mostly-broken and rotting fence encompassing much of what he assumes now is her backyard.

“Race me to that fence over there and you get it if you win,” she declares, pointing straight ahead. “But if I win I get yours.”

“Already told you. It’s Bucky.”

“You also told me you’re a liar. Maybe I’m shooting for last names,” she counters with a slight shrug. “Deal or no deal? I don’t have all day.” Bucky snorts at that, the edge of impatience, the way her mare seems to dig at the dirt in an antsy way to emphasize the point.

“Alright, deal.”

“And you better not go easy on me, Bucky.” He tries not to preen at the sound of his name on her tongue, the slight toothiness to her smile and how her brows furrow at him — voice taking on a competitive tone that stokes at some kind of fire within him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it ma’am.” She snorts at that as she leads him towards the center of the field with a slight tilt of her head, and he follows with a grin making its way onto his face. He sidles up next to her, watching with interest as she holds the reins a little tighter, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

He hardly even registers her counting them off — which is to say he doesn’t register it at all. Too focused on how her lips move and the slight uptick at the corners of them. The crack of the reins is deafening when she takes off, a blur of white that has Bucky chasing after her — the heavy thundering of hooves loud in his ears. She’s faster with the transition but he’s really only a few paces behind, cracking the reins and urging the horse beneath him forward.

She looks over her shoulder, barely, at him and smiles again. Her nightgown’s rippling with the speed of her movement, dark hair whipping behind her with every thunder of her mare’s hooves against the hard dirt.

Bucky feels his heart stutter in his chest.

She slows at their agreed upon finish line, but he continues to move forward until he’s a few feet past her rotted fence. She eyes it, then looks back up at him. 

“I win.” She declares, and he can’t help but chuckle at that, taking in this newly windswept state of her. So if they ever do this again, he’ll know exactly what to expect, and if he never sees her again, he’ll have this memorized in its entirety. He nods a little, tipping his hat to her once more. He’s been lingering long enough. He could already envision the way Marge would turn his face this way and that, looking for scratches and Willie’s sage, mildly annoyed “you’re late” when he walks through the doors. But he likes this silence between them, in an odd inexplicable way.

“John Egan,” he says after a minute’s past, watching her brows raise slightly. “Friends call me Bucky, though.”

“We’re friends?”

“Halfway there, ideally friends know each other’s names,” he teases. Her lips press into an indiscernible line as she looks him over, before nodding slowly.

“Maybe next time.” Bucky grins at that, nearly preens beneath the promise of a next time.

“I’ll hold you to it, angel.” he counters as he turns to leave, relishing in that slightly amused scoff from her as he takes off once more.

II.

The second time he sees her is about as unplanned as the first time.

There’s a lot of things he didn’t notice before, that he’s noticing now for better or for worse. He’s pressing a hand to his side haphazardly, barely upright on his stallion as bright vermillion leaks through his fingers despite his best efforts. The bullet went clean through, thankfully, and the other guy was laid out in the middle of the dirt path for his guys to come pick him up if they cared about that kind of thing.

The territory they consider theirs is a handful of towns in close proximity to one another — close enough to share one Sheriff. He knew the dangers of traveling to the fringes of it — a general no man’s land that was riddled with bandits and scouts from other gangs searching for a means to expand their reach. Which is why he went at all; Buck and Willie with him to check out a commotion that ended up in a shootout. He’d broken off from them, drawing a couple riders with him despite Buck’s protests, and maybe he ate a bullet in the process but the other two guys were laid out which was what really mattered anyway.

He’s not really guiding his horse anywhere. Sometimes he decides to just do his thing and Bucky isn’t too hard pressed to stop him as he steps over rotting fence work and makes his way towards a barn with the doors left ajar. It’s mostly hay and workbenches in there, a couple stables and saddles hanging about. He dismounts unceremoniously and his horse immediately lays on one of the piles of hay.

His head’s spinning as he slumps against the pitch-black mount, sliding his shirt up to assess the damage.

It’s not pretty but it’s not life-threatening. Maybe. Okay, how should he know? He’s not the goddamn doctor. That’s Jo — or, technically, Jo’s brother, but neither of them are here right now. Christ he’s dizzy, head leaning against his horse’s torso as it expands with every inhale, and he presses a little harder against the wound — it’s not like he’s got bandages on him.

There’s a brief moment where Bucky wonders if this is meant to be his final resting place. Bleeding out over a surface-level bullet hole, Christ, what a way to go out. If he had the blood for it he’d be flushing. The notion makes him snicker and feel half out of his mind for laughing at his own unfunny joke.

He barely registers the creak of the doors, but he feels the warmth of sunlight as they open, can see the dust hanging in the air from the loading hatch also left inexplicably open — his gaze fixed on the beams and ladder leading up to the hayloft.

“Miss Vivian? Are you—” A soft gasp brings him back to reality. He tilts his head to look ahead at an older woman; much shorter than him and heavy-set. They hold each other’s stare before he smiles and waves with a bloodstained hand. She’s taking off like a bat out of hell.

Whoops.

She moves faster than he’d expect for a little old lady, and he almost laughs at that if there weren’t black spots in his vision, if his mouth didn’t feel dry, if he wasn’t jumping from one thought to another as the adrenaline wears off and leaves much of his body feeling sluggish and heavier than it already was. Back to staring at the ceiling, then, counting dust particles and biding his time as he waits for the Devil to finally come pick him up.

“John?”

Fuck. He recognizes that voice. He lifts his head again. She’s different in this light — hair pulled away from her face, in a much nicer dress than the nightgown he’d first seen her in. She pays them no regard though as she walks forward, casting a shadow over him. He thinks she might yell at him. He laughs half-heartedly at the odds — noticing everything except that it’s apparently her barn he found himself making a mess of, things tucked into the crux of her arm.

A bottle of whiskey, a flask, cloth dressings, rags— oh, she really is too good to him.

“Hey angel,” he murmurs as she kneels before him without a word. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Of all the barns to go and die in you had to pick mine?” she asks, exasperated as she untucks his shirt to undo the buttons. He tries not to let his mind wander with every brush of her warm fingers against his skin. She pulls him up by the pits to a proper sitting position, and he grunts as he tries to help her with that.

“What can I say? Had to get that name.”

“Well you’ve got it.” He watches her drench the rag with the alcohol, running it across the exit wound first. He’s silently grateful it didn’t hit anything vital — or at least, he doesn’t think it did. It’d probably hurt even more than it already does.

“No I don’t,” he counters. Her movements stall for a moment before she continues, shifting again to clean where it’d entered him. Her head is bowed before him as she works, and once again his heart’s stuttering a little when she looks up at him through dark lashes, squinting at him.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Wanna hear it from you,” Bucky shrugs a little. “Doesn’t count if you’re not the one telling me, angel.” She mutters something about him being ridiculous that has him chuckling as she grabs the bandages. There’s smudges of mud on her skirts now that he can’t look away from — jaw clenching as she wraps his torso with careful precision. Her fingers drag across his skin, rough palms pressing to his stomach, his back. It’s all he can focus on; the roughness of her hands and the mud on her skirts, he damn near misses what she says next.

“Vivian,” she murmurs. “Viv. Whatever works.”

“Vivian… Viv… angel,” he chuckles a bit. “You gotta give me a third.”

“Does bandit work?” she asks as she assesses her work. Bucky kisses his teeth.

“I mean I prefer vigilante.” This makes her snort, and with her state of dress he practically relishes in how “unladylike” it is. Lifting her head, Bucky can’t help himself — reaching out to tuck some strands of hair behind her ear that fell out of place, aware of how close she was to him now. “We’ll put a pin in it.” She holds his stare for a few moments longer and he selfishly takes it in — the hand pressed into his outstretched leg so she doesn’t lean into him too much, the gold of her eyes. When she retracts, he swears that she’s branded his thigh with her handprint; he’s not mad about it.

“But I’m right, aren’t I? You’re…” she trails off, like saying the word will summon Sheriff Harding in a flash of holy light. He figures that explaining their unique relationship with law enforcement is a conversation for when his head is no longer swimming. His horse swats at him with his tail as if he’s trying to keep him awake, and he nods a little.

“That bother you? Bandit in your barn?”

“No. Just… surprised is all,” she looks away, wiping her hands with the rag — which is how he realizes that it’s his blood on her pretty fingers. Part of him wants to press further, just to see if she’s lying about it, but he ultimately decides against it. For now, he adds internally. “I’m not gonna have a bunch of your guys on my doorstep treating it like a hostage situation, am I?”

Bucky laughs, half-surprised by the look she gives him. It’s something between irritated and concerned, like it’s more of a convenience than anything else. She’s thrusting the small flask into his chest as she asks it.

“No, probably just two annoyed friends of mine. And they might apologize for me,” Bucky explains as he undoes the cap. He half expects the burn of alcohol when he raises it to his lips, but it’s just water on his grateful tongue. He licks his lips to gather what tries to escape. “Sorry for scaring your uh…”

“Maid?”

“Yeah. She seems nice.”

“Good at keeping secrets, too,” she adds flippantly. She takes his shirt in her hands. “I can… clean this. Get you a blanket. Gets cold back here at night you just… can’t come in the house.” She’s rubbing the nape of her neck and he nods, nonplussed at the boundary there. He smiles, running his hand over the dressings once, then twice.

“I’m getting the five star treatment, huh?” She rises, rolling her eyes a little as she takes the whiskey bottle and the dirtied rags.

“Better than most,” she affirms. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

III.

Willie and Buck found him in the middle of the night. She was in her nightgown when she led the two of them to the back, to the barn where he’d wrapped himself in the blanket, knocked out cold. The vision of her when he brushed past was another he was adding to the gallery in his brain just titled Vivian. Bucky couldn’t really ride on his own; still a little loopy, his face pressed against Buck’s back while Willie led his horse beside her own.

“That the angel you were talking about, John?” Buck asked, gruffly.

“Mhm. Pretty little thing, don't you think?. Beat me in a race, too.”

The anecdote was met with silence from both of them, and if he wasn’t tired, he’d be more hard pressed to figure out the reason why.

Afternoons on Sunday are always the busiest — and the Church in their town is the closest of the bunch. Bucky hasn’t attended in years, and he didn’t this morning either, but he’s here anyway with Curt, waiting for Josie to get out. Sunday errands, her brother was a protective type and considering he patched up most of their wounds without questioning where they got them — the least they could do was accompany his sister to run errands.

And Josie’s sweeter than candy, so it’s not like Bucky minds much.

“How’s your side?” Curt asks curiously, bumping his arm. Bucky shrugs.

“A little sore. That’s about it.” Curt chuckles at that.

“Alright tough guy,” Bucky grins a little at the sarcasm. “When we gonna meet this angel, huh? Or is she a secret or something?” Bucky doesn’t answer for a moment. Truthfully, he hadn’t made the ride out to see her since, and that was a few weeks ago. He’d wanted to, but he’d been healing and there was a feeling in his gut that sending a letter would be a bad idea. So he shrugs once more, scanning the flood of people exiting the church in search of Josie.

“Well you think I’m making it up, so who’s to say?”

“Don’t tell me I hurt your feelings, sweetheart,” Curt teases, and Bucky’s about to counter with a remark of his own when his breath catches in his throat — lips parted, staring only a few feet away. Fuck.

He recognizes her immediately, talking with somebody, or listening, more like. The man next to her is doing the talking, and she’s holding onto his arm — not pressed into it, but definitely holding onto it. And it’s damn near impossible to miss the ring on her finger, chunky and attention-grabbing in the afternoon light. The older woman they’re talking to takes her hand to look over it, running her thumb along the back and the man next to her preens, talking so fast Bucky doesn’t even attempt to read his lips.

“Bucky. Bucky?” Curt snaps his fingers in front of his face and he jumps a little at the sound, whipping his head to look down at him. “You alright?”

He looks back up at Vivian, and for the briefest moment, he swears he’s caught her gaze before she looks away immediately — a full turn of her head like she’s looking at the other people around and not just trying to avoid him. There’s a want there to cross the threshold and speak to her — not out of any desire to embarrass her. More like see if he could get her the hell out of there. The stiffness in her posture is so plain to see that it’s impossible to ignore.

He’s also far too aware of who he is in comparison to who she probably is, which is to say — if a nobody from nowhere came up to her, it’d probably raise a few eyebrows. He looks back at Curt, who’s staring at him expectantly.

“I’ll tell you later,” he mumbles. Curt nods, and Bucky tries not to stare at her for too long.

Even if he so desperately wants to.

[renif]

bucky in a cowboy au again because i genuinely love the concept.

[buckrecs]

Do you have any western or outlaw fics

Western / Outlaw AU

masterlist | req masterlist

treacherous by @scrumptious-delusion

you’re asking yourself why he keeps coming back, he’s asking himself why you keep letting him in. it’s a treacherous slope but neither of you can turn back now.

Bayou Bonding by @bucknastybabe

The boy who carried his father’s blue, blue eyes toothily smiled at you. He sat by the fire in your father’s manor, dressed in fine clothes. You named him James; after his father.

Love Me With Trouble by @slyyywriting

I just need to see my baby again/ She took my hand there from where it began/ Said she would love me with trouble I was in.

Burned by @moonlight-prose

Bucky Barnes was a man who you’d been infatuated with since he entered your home and decided to stay. He had lit the match, and now it was his turn to burn he way through you. Until there was nothing left.

Impressions on the Inside of your Thigh by @jen-with-a-pen

Head Ranch Hand James "Bucky" Barnes has had a very, very long day. Only way to remedy it is to make you squeal.

[thatmexisaurusrex]

sixteen carriages driving away

Hey, people! This is for the @sambuckylibrary’s TFATWS Anniversary Event 2024 for the prompt “Period Piece”. It's also based on the song "16 Carriages" by Beyoncé and is sort of this western train heist? I hope y'all enjoy the fic! 🥰

sixteen carriages driving away

| Pairing: SamBucky | Rated: M | WC: 3.2K |

Summary: Ex-gunslinger and acrobat Sam Wilson comes home to his ranch to find his love taken from their home. He sets out to pull a train heist to steal Bucky Barnes back.

Excerpt:

The Thunderbolt was a Pullman. The kind of train where you slept. A sleek, comfortable sort that that was quick, but didn’t give motion sickness to those on board. Filled with the finest dining, the comfiest cushions, and wealth galore. There was no luxury left off this hotel on wheels. Sam had studied this train inside and out beforehand. He knew every single carriage on this train like the back of his hand. And Sam was going to get back what was stolen. He was going to bring Bucky back home.

READ THE REST ON AO3!

[bucknastysbabe]

Heyo the Bucky rdr western au has much more plot than expected. I have an old one that didn’t get much traction from Ao3 so wanted to post and see if y’all liked it! So something to tide over :)

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Derogatory language towards a woman, outlaws duh, light description of puking, rough handling, bickering bitches, sex pollen (or potion in this case), strip poker, cunnilingus, Bucky’s huge dick, dirty talk, rough pnv!sex, cream pie, pregnancy, open ending, love at first intercourse, ambiguous ending

Bayou Bonding

The boy who carried his father’s blue, blue eyes toothily smiled at you. He sat by the fire in your father’s manor, dressed in fine clothes. You named him James; after his father. He stared at the fire with a contemplative look on his face before asking, “How did you meet Daddy?” You blanched, Bucky was a sore topic around your home. A blight on one of Saint Denis’ finest families. You told the boy a watered down version of the truth, but your mind wandered back to the day.

1879, Saint Denis, LE

“Unhand me! You— you cowpoke!,” you hollered.

A gloved hand slapped over your mouth, the other wrangling you close to his body. The burly cowboy hissed, “Shut it! Howling ain’t gonna do you a damn thing.” You thrashed more, stomping a heeled foot into his foot. He grunted in pain, slinging you into the ground. Ragged ropes cut into your skin as the outlaw hogtied you. He shoved a dirty kerchief in your mouth, and hauled you up over his shoulder.

Another man, a lean blonde snickered, “Feisty one eh Buck?” The surly man cursed, “Too Fuckin’ feisty. Uppity little bitch.” You yowled behind your gag, trying to knee him in the back. The two men cautiously carried you down a back alley. Two horses waited in the murky gloom. ‘Buck’ and his smirking compatriot had plucked you from the Mayor’s party, for what you assumed was ransom. As sheriff, your daddy didn’t mix with the right people all the time.

Buck flipped you onto the back of his huge black horse, you crying out at the rough handling. The pair hopped on their horses, and off you went into the night. The movement of the galloping horse was making you sick. From what you could see they were taking you North into the swampy wasteland of Bayou Nwa. You managed to spit your gag out, but before you could speak, a rush of your dinner decided to make its appearance.

“For fuck’s sake! Tell me why Stark sent me to do this shit?,” the darker man spat. The other man laughed again, chuckling airily as you watched his bow bounced across his back. Buck rumbled, “Quit yer’ laughing Clint or she’s going on the back of ole’ Hawkeye.” Clint shut up and kept riding on.

You really wishes you could’ve taken off your corset, but one doesn’t prepare for kidnapping on horseback by dirty cowboys. The stink of the swamp started to envelop your nose as they closed into the darkness. Buck lit a lamp, you could watch it’s shadow away across the muddy ground. The pair stopped at a dilapidated dock, illuminated only by the sparse moonlight and the lamp. A dingy waited in the pitch water. Your vision swam as Buck hauled you to the boat, gently lowering you down to not disturb the boat.

You complained, “Atleast cut my feet, I’m not stupid enough to go jump in a damn gator infested swamp!”

Clint shrugged and pulled out a knife, cutting the rope after he sat down. Buck protested, “No you damn fool, what happens when we get out of the boat? Dumbass.” You rolled your eyes and muttered, “Like I’m going to either run away from heavily armed criminals.” The big man grumbled under his breath as he stepped down into the dingy. You dusted yourself off, taking a breath as you adjusted your corset. You wrinkled your nose at the smell of horse on your crinoline dress.

Buck began rowing, blue eyes scanning the misty swamp. Clint leaned back, staring up at the stars. He offhandedly asked, “So. You know your daddy is crooked? Don’t even start Barnes!” Bucky called Clint a dumbass, again. You replied, “I had a feeling. Not my business, I’m just here to look pretty and get engaged if it wasn’t for you dirty cowboys.”

“Not cowboys.”

“Outlaws,” you said in an exaggerated accent.

You crossed your arms and huffed, “Great. I really hope you two know your way around the Bayou. Then we’re all dead. Anyways how long is this ‘holding me for ransom’ to last. The entirety of the Saint Denis Police will be looking for me. Your gang must be on some hard times.”

“Shut it!,” Bucky barked.

Clint stage whispered, “We have a map. Headed to a safe house. And until he pays up, killing you has no purpose.”

You nodded solemnly, listening to the sounds of the bayou. This place had always intrigued and scared you. Your grand-mère told you stories of ghosts, pirates, the night folk and such. Although there were much more real, scary things than stories happening to you now. Clint said you weren’t in harms way but Bucky’s cold eyes frightened you.

The boat pulled up onto an old stilted house. There was a dim red lamp in the window. Bucky paddled the dingy flush to the dock, mooring with some rope. Clint stepped out first, extending a hand to you. You thanked him as the wiry blonde helped you up. Bucky trudged out last, pushing you into the shack. “Go on”, he growled.

Clint carefully slithered back into the weathered dingy. He cheerily announced, “Have fun in the swamp shack you two. Pleasure to meet you miss, Bucky doesn’t bite,” he paused, “Atleast I don’t think he does. Anyways I have to get back to the gang, see you around when the ransom is paid.”

You spluttered, “Why can’t he go? I don’t want to be stuck with this brute!”

Bucky glared at you, hands balling into fists.

Clint cackled, “Rule’s rules miss. I’d love to entertain you another time. Have a good night.”

You stomped into the shack, petulantly sitting on a weathered chair. You complained, “It smells like gator shit in here.” Bucky ignored you in favor of closing the small curtains. You watched him move. For a big man, he carried himself lightly. Maybe if he took a bath and had a trim, he’d even be attractive. Blue eyes turned on you.

You held your ground and deadpanned, “I meant it. You’re greasy and smell like horse.”

He collapsed into an ancient armchair, pulling out some gun oil. Bucky remarked, “You’re just a ray of sunshine aren’t you? Just shut up and lemme’ clean my gun. Yer’ daddy will pick you up soon and you can go back to your bubble.”

He dissembled the pistol efficiently, carefully cleaning each part. You watched him quietly, holding your tongue for everyone’s sanity. You really wanted to take off your corset, the tightness was driving you insane. You held off until your head felt light. With a weak voice you asked, “Bucky. Mister Outlaw.” Sleepy eyes turned to you, his brow quirking up in question.

“I need to take my corset off.”

“Well take it off.”

You whinged, “I need help for that you dullard! Just loosen the laces and I have the rest.” He remained stubbornly silent so you simply began to remove the outer layers of your extravagant outfit. Then you walked over to the ass and turned around. He mumbled, “Spoiled rotten. Fine, you want a plate of cheese and grapes with this madam?” Thick fingers started to loosen the corset, you taking a deep breath of air. You unlatched the front of it, now clad in your pantaloons and blouse. You breathed, “Thank you, and yes that would be delightful sir.”

Bucky gazed at your body as you were turned around, reluctantly appreciating the view. He threw his coat at you and chided, “Cover up.” With a disgusted look you put it on. The smell of leather and herbs was nice, but the stink of horse still lingered. Very warm coat too. You gawked at the filthy mattress in the corner of the shack. It was covered in stains and had a ragged blanket strewn across it. Grabbing your extensive overwear, you managed to cover the mattress and make a pillow out of your bustle pad.

“Hm. Maybe some brains under there. I know they don’t let you city girls learn much.”

You snapped, “I’ll have you know!” You stopped when you realized Bucky had made a very solid point. With a frown you crawled onto your emerald green crinoline pallet. Cuddling into the jacket you let a few tears slip. You hoped you’d be home soon and out of this mess. Your eyes began to droop as you listened to Bucky cleaning his weapons and the crackle of the small fire he started. You said a rosary in your head and drifted asleep.

You awoke to the darkness. Rain pattered against the tin roof. Bucky sat cross legged, reading a book. You prayed to the lord for sleeping safely. As you stretched and sat up he gruffly mumbled, “Mornin’.” You shot back, “Did you not sleep? Stare at me all night instead? I thought your type would take advantage of a helpless lady.” His brows furrowing made you cringe at your lack of forethought.

“Our gang might be criminals but we’re not deviants. You’d like that though, wouldn’t ya? Big scary cowboy rippin’ yer’ bodice,” Bucky smugly replied.

You remained silent, picking at your nails anxiously. The brunette licked his full bottom lip and closed his book with a soft thwip.

He stood up and handed you an open can of beans. You stared at the outlaw incredulously, eyes flicking back and forth from the gross looking food. You primly spoke, “Hate to ruin the moment but do you have an apple or crackers? I’m not eating that.”

He huffed a laugh and rifled through a satchel before tossing you an apple. Bucky busied himself with the beans, eating like it was his last meal. You stared in horror at the scene as you ate your apple. Bucky rolled his eyes as he inhaled the last scoop. You scoffed, “I need to get out of this smelly swamp shack or I’m going to feed myself to the the gators.” Bucky smirked at you, an amused look in his eyes.

“No can do, just gonna’ have to hop out of your bejeweled carriage Princess,” he chuckled.

You threw your hat at the smarmy cowpoke, which he easily caught with a surprised grin. You had to suppress your thoughts on his endearingly crooked grin. You spat, “Oh piss off, I’m not damn Cinderella! I just happen to have manners and morals !” Bucky snorted, “Not using your manners curssin’ at me and throwin’ hats in your skivvies!” You groaned in frustration, taking a particularly vicious bite of your apple.

Bucky busied himself back with his book, leaving you to boredom. So you shucked off the heavy jacket in the hot shack and rummaged around the place. Bucky raised a brow but ignored you. You found a loose floorboard and pried it open. Some strange marking in chalk lined the bottom of the space. Multiple glass jars and dried herbs littered the hidey-hole. You picked up some sort of carved charm, setting it back down carefully. A small bag of coins jingled as you inspected the sack.

It looked like some old hoodoo or voodoo practitioner lived here. You hoped it was the more spiritually benevolent voodoo. Bucky stomped over to you and bellowed, “What in fucks name are you doing?” You yelped and threw the coins at Bucky. After a breath you replied, “I got bored! Found this stuff, some swampfolk left some voodoo trinkets. The man’s face paled as fear entered his blood.

Bucky scolded, “Why would you go mess around with that cursed shit! That’s bad luck— already have enough of that!” He kicked a chair and hollered, “God dammit woman!” You cowered at his outburst, squeaking out, “Voodoo isn’t bad! Hoodoo is, that’s what the Night Folk practice. My grand-mère told me about this, these are probably just luck charms and health elixirs. Relax, you’re scaring me!”

His handsome face fell, wiping a hand over his forehead. He amended, “My bad— I don’t mess around with shit like that. You’d know better than me, now just put that stuff away. C’mon princess, we’ll play cards. I got a deck in my satchel.” While Bucky spoke, you stuffed the remaining trinkets in your underclothes. He held out a hand to help you up, you daintily taking the rough grip.

“You got any drinks?,” you drawled. You were cooking up a plan, something to give you the upper hand. Bucky turned around with a bottle of fancy rum. You awed, “Aged pirate rum, living above your means huh? Rob that off a poor citizen of Lemoyne?” The brunette growled, “You gonna drink it or what?” You waved a hand and seized the bottle. You called over your shoulder as you found some old cups, “Get the game ready, I like rummy. My brother taught me how to play when he got out of the war.”

“Got out?”

“Legs blown off.”

“Damn. Sorry ‘bout that.”

You pulled out the two vials of mystery liquid, reading the labels. They were written in creole. You only knew Parisian French so you had to guess. One said companionship and the other was something along the lines of rest. So you shrugged and poured a bit of both into his cup. You finished off the companionship one in your drink. You didn’t want the outlaw to pick up on the herbal scent.

Bucky questioned, “What’s taking you so long?” You lord smoothly, “Found some dried mint for a little flavor, a lady needs some spice.” He scoffed and crossed his arms. You smirked to yourself as you tucked the empty vials away. You brought the drinks over and handed Bucky his. As expected he sniffed the rum, but didn’t make a fuss as he took a sip. You sat down and teased, “Get ready to get your hide tanned, cowpoke.”

So you drank, and played, and drank some more. You’d beaten Bucky two times before he slammed his hand down on the table and barked, “A’right! Let’s see your hand in poker, Princess!” He grinned wildly, blue eyes sparkling. He looked handsome when he smiled, dimples popping with endearingly crooked teeth. You were trying to take it slow but you felt the effects of the alcohol. Your face was flushed and you felt loose and erratic. Bucky was also wide open, talking much more than you’d ever expected him to.

You teased, “Let’s make this fun, Mister Barnes. How about strip poker? Never seen a cowboy naked.”

He balked at your forwardness, pink lips agape in surprise. Nervousness bolted through your body before Bucky tumbled forward with guffaws. He howled in laughter, “Hah! Miss high falutin’ wants to play strip poker! Aight then, let’s play!” His flush ran down his tanned neck and up to his ears. So the game began, and you felt on top of the world.

Soon you were short of pantaloons and Bucky sat only in his pants, broad chest on display. He was quite drunk now, slurring and flirting shamelessly. You’d slowed down some but vitality thrummed through your veins. Bucky’s lusty stares were starting to make your core ache. You hadn’t felt this aroused since that visiting French Aristocrat fucked you silly a year ago.

He smirked as he dealt his hand, a straight flush. You were beat. The man leaned back, thick thighs spreading invitingly. Bucky crooned, “Get that top off princess, uh-uh no backing out you started this.” You shot back, “Fine fine, lucky day for you cowpoke. High class lady showing you her bosom.” You shucked your top off and gestured at your naked body. Bucky’s eyes visibly darkened with lust and before he spoke you cut him off, “Nah. We aren’t done yet. I want another round.”

As the last round went maddeningly on, your arousal was beginning to spike. You couldn’t pay attention as your skin felt on fire. Your cunt had soaked your thighs and the wooden chair. Your nipples, hips, and nethers throbbed and swelled up. All you could think about was getting a cock in you. Bucky fared no better, his chest was flushed with stiffened nipples. You saw his hand rubbing needily between his legs. Sweat beaded on his temples and the man looked like he was going to jump your bones.

You slurred in a rare moment of clarity, “I thin’ I drugged us.”

Bucky snarled, shoving the table aside. He stalked over to you and dropped to his knees. Worn hands gripped your thighs as he rasped, “S’that why you smell so good n’ my cocks fixin’ to pop? Dumb little rich bitch.” You mewled, rutting your hips toward his swollen lips. He groaned at the sight of your swollen folds. The brunette muttered, “To hell with it.” He dug his face between your thighs, licking a broad stripe up your slick center.

One palm held your hip as the other skated up to your swollen nipples. He plucked and tweaked at the sensitive bud. You wailed in pleasure, bucking into his mouth. His stubbly cheeks rubbed you raw in the right way. Bucky was direct with his cunnilingus, attacking your clit mercifully. He’d dip down and slurp around your leaking cunt before going back to your bud.

You yanked a fistful of his dark hair, wrapping your legs around his meaty shoulders. He moaned into your sex, “G’fuckin girl.” You babbled uselessly, writhing in pleasure. Whatever you had put in the concoction was some sort of sex potion. You’d never felt all of your nerve endings alight like this. Your lower belly was beginning to contract as Bucky suckled on your clit while he stroked your inner walls. You were so out of it you weren’t sure when he’d slipping them in. But tears were welling up as he abused that sensitive, sensitive spot.

You keened, “Heavens above! Fuck ah ah mmh!”

He grinned against your pussy and nipped down on your clit, sending you reeling. You clamped down on his shoulders, folding on top of his body as you shook with the intense spasms. You bit your lip to keep from screeching like a banshee. You held onto Bucky’s head and panted, “Need— more— fuck need your cock Bucky please not enough.”

He shakily got up, detangling you from his body. You whined at the loss, him shushing you. Bucky cooed, “Hol’ on sweetheart lemme get ya somewhere more comfortable. M’ gonna fill you right up.” You moaned in agreement, latching into his strong arms as he hauled you to the makeshift crinoline pallet. He rubbed your back, hissing, “Need that pretty pussy baby, bet it’s Fuckin’ snug. M’ fucking raring to go, gonna wreck you. Never gonna look at a city boy again.”

“Mhm, yes please, need it need it Bucky!”

Bucky ungracefully tossed you on the cot and covered yourself with that sculpted body. He snatched your lips into a quick kiss, before shoving down his jeans to reveal his cock. It was almost purple from the amount of blood flushing the organ. You whimpered and spread your legs. Bucky growled, “Yeah— spread em’ like a good slut. Gonna wreck you.” He seated himself between your plush thighs and sheathed in a quick motion.

Your mouth opened to scream but he shoved a coarse palm over your lips. You felt complete, Bucky’s girthy cock filling you to the brim. You were so wet he met little to no resistance. Without warning the brunette started up a brutal pace, fucking into you in abandon. Slick clapping noises echoed around in the light of the late afternoon. His powerful hips and thighs pistoned into your sloppy core. You sobbed at the intensity, crying Bucky’s name like a prayer.

He gasped into you neck, panting about your perfect cunt. He slid his big hands under your knees, pressing you into a ball. The new angle

had the outlaw’s blunt tip ramming into your sweet spot. You scrabbled at his back, biting and sucking at his muscular shoulders like a feral animal. Bucky let out a pained moan,

“Fucking heavenly— good little slut. Yer’ ole’ daddy gonna be wondering why you can’t walk.”

You cried harder, wondering how the man was holding it together as he drilled you into next week. A second orgasm was approaching at a breakneck pace and threw your head back in ecstasy. Bucky laved his skilled tongue up the column of your throat, gripping your thighs. You yelled, “Oh ah— ah ah Buck m’gonna come again fuck!”

“Come on n’ take it darlin’, it’s all yours,” he spit through clenched teeth. The cowboy’s pace didn’t slow any as you reached your peak. Your legs spasmed and shook as you sobbed at the overstimulation. Petting your sides, Bucky cooed, “Easy girl, I ain’t done with you yet.” You whimpered, “S’ too much please no, I can’t!”

“Yeah you can sweet thing, gonna wear you out and fill you up like the needy slut ya’ are.”

You whined pitifully, wrapping yourself around his broad scarred back. You panted into his scruffy cheek, begging for more or less you weren’t entirely sure. But Bucky kept up. The man had flipped you around like a rag doll and pushed you through two peaks before he came with a shuddering moan and shout of your name. Bucky rolled off of you with a sigh, breathing like a racehorse. He gasped, “Whatever..the fuck..you put in m’drink..a miracle.”

You were too worn out and dazed to speak so you gave a sleepy “mhmmm.” The outlaw rolled to his side, slinging an arm around your soft waist. He rubbed at your slick skin, a strangely soft look on his face. You snuggled into his body and drifted off again.

“Awe what the fuck?! Get dressed the sheriff is coming you horn dog!,” A voice voice rattled in the shack. A darker man threw Bucky’s clothes at him, grumbling about Barnes and his wandering dick. You bolted upright and slung on your clothes. Bucky was pulling up his ranch pants, cussing at the other man ‘Sam’.

“Ease off Sam— it’ll be fine!”

Sam shouted back, “Not when she looks like she’s been mauled by a leech! Idiot!”

The two bickered until you cleared your throat, loudly. You said, “If you two will stop fighting, this corset needs lacing. Then I can put on my dress with a high neck, therefore you don’t see the markings.” Sam harrumphed, “Fine. Turn around I used to lace up Sarah all the time”. Bucky pushed Sam aside and did the deed instead.

He rumbled, “You okay?”

You nodded as you turned to look at Barnes. You whispered, “More than good. If you find your way back to Saint Denis, I live in the big peach house by the Cemetery.” Bucky replied, “Will do.” He squeezed the nape of your neck before buttoning up your dress. You attempted to fix your mussed hair in a cracked half mirror but gave up with a grunt. You pecked Bucky on the cheek, Sam groaned in frustration from the doorway.

And so your father picked you back up. It was a happy reunion, and things went back to normal in Saint Denis. Until you missed your monthly cycle. Your fathers face haunted your dreams when the doctor declared you pregnant. He hissed in the carriage, “You got knocked up by that dirty criminal didn’t ya? Rapist piece of shit. I’m contacting higher ups.” You protested before your father realized, and he turned ice cold. Things in Saint Denis weren’t normal after that. You weren’t kicked out fortunately, and the boy was to be raised as a sad circumstance of your kidnapping.

Bucky didn’t come by, but he left a letter once. Saying he was changing his ways and got some land out in Canada. Your mother burned it up in the fire. You wrote a letter back, telling him to come get you and little James when everything was settled.

“Mama? So you ran with a gang before I was born?”

You blinked and snapped out of reverie. With a sad smile you cooed, “Yes James. We were free and wild! But I had to leave to take care of you. Your father will be back one day. Then we’ll be a family.” The boy grinned and cheered, “Maybe he’ll teach me how to ride a horse!”

In the night, Bucky stared at the luxurious cabin. He proudly smiled at his hard work. Only had a trip to Saint Denis to make

[yesiamthatwierd]

I get so confused when I read about people being cautious of bikes. Like i consume a lot of western media and everywhere I see people being cautious of bikers and scared of bikes.

Where i live, we first learn to ride a bike/scooter. I mean that is the most basic thing, you need to know how to. EVERYONE is an expert. Like it goes from bicycle to a two wheeler (and if you're well off) to then a car. I mean I've know how to drive one since I was 13 (but legally 18 ofc) 😭.

I'm so surprised when I read fanfics, books or watch some sitcom or movie where they portray bikes and bikers as dangerous. Like whaaaa??? How????

[steakrogers]

so here's the thing , i am in love with web-slinger

[chickenfics]

Scars

Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Fem!reader - Western AU

Summary: Running from a past that haunts you and a future that is unsure, the last thing you wanted was to take up with a stranger. Strangers, you'd learned, are almost always more trouble than they're worth. But when dangers from the life you're trying to leave behind get too close for comfort, drastic times call for drastic measures, and the stranger you'd once feared becomes the only person you can trust -- and perhaps the only person you'd call your friend. Now you both just have to make it out alive...

Word Count: 6.7k

Content warning: brief mention of animal abuse, wound care

Also on Ao3

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Chapter 9 FINAL

It was a grey evening. The sun had already begun to set, disappearing behind the barn with its peeling red paint and its holes in the roof. A few skinny, wild horses were wheeling about in the dirt pasture attached to the structure. They’d been running back and forth for the last hour. You wondered if they’d ever stop, or if they’d just keep running until their hearts stopped. the corral, your father was chasing after a young colt, snapping a leather whip at the animal’s haunches. Mickey was hanging onto the wooden posts, young trees you and him had cut down last spring. He was watching your father. You were in the garden picking green beans. Your mother had been dead for two years. 

You were eight. Mickey would be turning thirteen that winter. It had been a whole year since your father had gone a single day without getting drunk. Mickey had axed a hole into the wall at the back of your shared closet for the nights that your father found taking his anger out on the young, untamed horses was inadequate. 

“I’ll always look after you, ya hear?” Mickey had said when he’d shown you the hiding place. “You just listen to what I say and we’ll be alright. I swear it.”

From your place in the garden, you tossed the last of the green beans into your basket and watched your father straighten up. The colt slowed to a stop, breathing shallowly, a sheen of sweat soaking its dark coat. It could have been an impressive animal if it wasn’t malnourished, with cuts on its flanks. It could have been an impressive animal if it wasn’t so wild -- if anyone else was training it. In reality, it would be lucky if the colt didn’t kill anybody. Or get killed. 

The green beans would need to be preserved. This time two years ago, your mother had undertaken this task. She’d shown you how to do it -- let you put an apron over your dress, step up onto a little wooden stool so you could reach the table, and help her put the beans into jars. But that had been a long time ago, and now the food preparation for winter was up to you. Across the yard, your father was waving Mickey into the corral. He handed over the whip, passing it to Mickey’s small hand, and your brother looked down at it with wonder and a gleam of excitement. When he looked back up at your father, there was pride in his eyes. 

The horses kept on running. 

________________________________________________________________

“--might have to find--”

“Hey, guys? I think she’s awake.”

The voices bled into the ringing in your ears, catching a conversation in the middle, barely registering the fragmented pieces. You could hear shuffling and the sounds of unfamiliar voices. When your eyes peeled open for the first time, you were immediately alarmed by the darkness of the room. And the fact that you were in a room at all. 

You tried to sit up, but something heavy landed in the center of your chest and held you down. You couldn’t get control of your limbs well enough to put up a fight and, after a moment of struggle, you let your weight sink into the bed. At least, you thought it was a bed. It was soft, and there was a blanket over your body. Your body which, you realized after a moment, really fucking hurt. You groaned, scrunching your face as a wave of nausea overtook you. 

“Hey, it’s okay, take it easy…”

You blinked open your eyes, struggling to focus your vision. You were so tired, but that voice… 

“Bucky?”

“Yep, right here.”

“Where… what happened, I…” your throat was too dry and the effort it took to speak had you coughing. You felt the bed dip next to you-- heard the sounds of someone shifting closer. 

“Hey, come on, everybody,” a new voice said. “We’ll just… Holler if you need us.”

“Clint’s right. We’ll give you two a minute.”

Your eyes had fallen shut again, both out of your exhaustion and because you were too afraid to look up and see whoever was in the room with you. Or, had been, as you listened to heavy footfalls making their way out until the room fell silent and suddenly felt very cold. When a hand gently grasped your arm, you shivered but managed to open your eyes once more.  

And there was Bucky, looking down at you like you were the only thing in the whole damn world. You let out a shakey breath, lips parting wordlessly before trying to smile up at him because you wanted him to know you were okay, but you knew if you tried to say the words he’d see that you weren’t. You’d killed your brother. You’d shot him in the head, and something had obviously happened to you because you felt like shit. So, really, you weren’t okay. Your eyes felt hot with tears that suddenly warped your vision, and then they were curling down your temple and soaking into the pillow beneath your head. 

Bucky sighed, making a noise of sympathy before reaching forward and cupping your face with his hand. 

“Shh, please don’t cry. It’s okay.”

“It’s over,” you croaked, your voice laced with misery. “All of it--” Bucky leaned over you, pressing his palm closer.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he brushed his thumb under your eye, voice catching. “It’s okay. God,” he breathed, laughing unsteadily. “You had me so fucking worried, you know that? I thought you said no dying.”

You laughed and it hurt your stomach. Bucky winced along with you. 

“I said you weren’t allowed to die. Didn’t say anything about me,” you replied, exhaustion pressing against the backs of your eyelids. You turned your head, letting the weight of it fall into Bucky’s palm. “I’m so tired.”

“Yeah,” he grinned, but his eyes were shining with anxiety. “Getting stabbed’ll do that, doll.”

Fuck. That’s right. Somewhere during all of it, Mickey had gotten lucky. He’d always gotten lucky, almost every day of his life -- and even when he hadn’t, he’d always found a way to twist anything to serve him. 

But now he was dead. You took a deep, shuddering breath, squeezing your eyes shut as tight as you could because maybe that would make all of it go away. If you could just make it go away…

“Don’t think too hard, baby girl,” Bucky murmured, reading the look on your face. “Just… save it for later. Can you do that?” his thumb wiped a tear from beneath your eye. 

You nodded. Bucky went on stroking your cheek, his hand cold against your skin, fingers brushing behind your ear with a comforting firmness. 

“Buck?”

“Yeah, doll,” he shifted, probably surprised that you were still awake. Hell, you were, too, but there was too much running around inside your head to sleep just yet. 

“How did I get here?”

Bucky shifted again, and somehow you could tell that he was suddenly uncomfortable. You forced your eyes open a crack. 

“I sort of… carried you. On Alpine. Don’t worry about Goldie, he’s here too,” he smirked, and you let out a sigh. 

“What a good girl,” you whispered, grateful that Alpine was even half the horse that she was and had been able to carry you both.

“Oh, I see how it is. Alpine’s a good girl -- forget Bucky, right? Bucky never saves the day, it’s always somebody else,” he scoffed, then smirked. You made sure he saw you roll your eyes before you closed them again. 

Then you lifted your hand, fingers shaking as you reached out. It took Bucky a moment to realize what you were doing, but then he leaned forward and you felt your fingers brush his cheek. He ducked his head, allowing you to slide your hand around to the back of his neck. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, hoping that he understood how much you meant it -- wishing that you had the capacity to tell him in a way that was more worthy. 

His thumb brushed over your cheek, tugging gently under your eye. You looked up at him. 

“You’re welcome,” he said, perhaps with the same intentions. 

You nodded, smiling as best you could as you felt yourself begin to slip away, back into a world of sleep and dreams and healing. There was still so much you wanted to ask -- still so much that was unclear in your mind -- but you were only awake enough for one last thing, and you knew what you wanted it to be. 

“Buck,” you pulled your hand away from his neck and reached down, seeking him out. You heard the rustle of fabric and then felt a warmth overtop of you as he leaned closer. “Don’t leave,” you pleaded, fingers tightening weakly around a handful of his shirt. 

“I won’t. I promise,” he replied, voice soft in your ear. 

________________________________________________________________

You’d been asleep for four days. You learned this when you woke up for the second time, several hours later. You and Bucky had arrived at the safe house the day after you’d been stabbed, in the middle of the night, during a snowstorm. His friends had nearly shot him before realizing who it was. That’s when they saw you. 

Bucky had been too exhausted to explain, and had only been able to beg them for help before almost collapsing on the way inside. But he’d managed to stay conscious, somehow, and had watched as his friends examined your wound. The man whose name you’d heard earlier, Clint, had stitched you up with the help of a woman Bucky called Wanda. The others had helped get you warm and comfortable and had given Bucky something to eat. 

He’d refused to leave your side. In the four days that you were unconscious, he stayed near enough to hear you shift, or, when you’d been fighting the worst of your fever, mumble in pain. He told you that he had just started to get worried the day before you finally woke. You knew it was a lie, and you couldn’t help but feel guilty that he’d spent all this time fearing for your life. 

“I still can’t believe you made that trip in a day,” you said. You were propped up with your back against the wall and a mug of water in your hands. Bucky was sitting in a chair that he’d slid across the room -- the one, you realized, that he’d likely slept in while you were recovering. 

“You can say that again,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “We got lucky. In a lot of ways, we got lucky.”

You turned the mug in your hands, taking a half-hearted sip. Your stomach hurt like hell, but according to Bucky, the wound didn’t look nearly as angry as it had the day before. You’d just have to take his word for it. 

“Tell me again, what happened,” you asked. 

He’d already gone through the events leading up to your injury once, and you remembered most of it, but it was taking so long for any of it to feel real. If you didn’t have a stab wound to show for it, you weren’t sure you could have convinced yourself that it had happened at all. Hearing Bucky’s side of the story helped because, even if you couldn’t trust yourself, you could trust him. You weren’t sure when that had become true, but it was. 

“I went over to check the house. As soon as I got inside, that other man, Red, started shooting at me. I got his gun away from him, heard you yellin’, then shot him. He was dead -- I’m sure of it,” he added, looking purposefully at you. “And then I found you outside all bloody, with Mickey, who was also dead.”

That part, your own memory could fill in. The thought of Bucky fighting Red alone sent your stomach churning, but Bucky was here in front of you, safe -- and Red was dead. They all were, the entire group, except for the Twins, who didn’t care enough to come searching for you, anyway. You nodded slowly, fiddling with the cup in your hands. 

You’d woken up an hour or so ago to find Bucky, true to his word, still with you. He’d been sitting on the floor, slumped over onto your bed, his hand curled loosely around your wrist where it sat on your chest. Once you were conscious enough, and once he’d gotten you some water, he explained everything to you -- what had happened with him and Red, his race with death to get to the safe house before you bled out, and then the last few days, which you’d slept through. 

You were feeling it. Not just the memories -- the weight of what you’d done still hanging heavy over your head, still unprocessed because you were simply too tired to even think about it -- but also the complications that generally come with being stabbed in the gut. Everything hurt, and your head felt fuzzy, and you hadn’t eaten in long enough that you weren’t sure you’d actually be able to stand. Which was starting to become a concern, because. 

“Bucky…”

“Yeah,” he cautiously replied, eyes widening at the slightly alarmed tone of your voice. 

“I really need to piss.”

“Oh,” he said, almost a breath of relief. “Right. Uhm…”

“I don’t know how to… get up,” you admitted. What you actually meant was that you weren’t sure if you could.

Nodding, Bucky took the cup from your hands and set it on a nearby table. Pushing his chair to the other end of the room, he turned back around and looked down at you. Then he held out his hands. You scooted forward on the bed, very slowly, and reached out to take them. 

“Tell me if I’m--” he grunted as he pulled you to his chest. “--Goin’ too fast. Don’t want to--” with your hands braced against his shoulders, you shifted your weight onto your feet, letting him help you stand. 

“--Hurt you,” he finished, his voice dropping to a whisper as he searched your eyes, almost distracted, like he’d just thought of something. 

You grit your teeth, hand coming up to prod at the bandage wrapped around your middle. Someone had put your shirt back on while you’d been unconscious. For some reason, you hadn’t thought about that until just now. 

“Talk to me, doll.”

“I’m alright,” you said. “Just hurts.”

“I know,” he murmured, hand shifting across your back, where it was bracing you. 

“Don’t let go because I will fall over.”

“I’m not lettin’ go,” he said with a smirk, leaning towards you a bit. You could feel him breathing, could feel his presence as he folded over you. It was like the rest of the world had just disappeared, with him so close like this. 

It was almost like a hug. You felt tears start to well in your eyes. You’d done more crying in the past few days than you had since you were a child. You wiped them away with the back of your hand, but before Bucky could say anything you reached forward, sliding your arms around his neck and pulling him against you. With all of your weight leaned against him, Bucky’s hands at your ribs held you up. 

“Woah there, are you…” 

He didn’t finish, just slowly, carefully wrapped his arms around you. Neither of you said a word. At some point, Bucky had started to rub your back -- hesitantly, at first, like he was afraid of hurting you. You squeezed tighter, willing to use every bit of strength to do so because you knew he’d keep you standing even when you couldn’t stand on your own. He must have known because his arms tightened around you, pulling you against him, holding you close.

You stayed like that for a while, your head on his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him -- what had become so familiar, and something that made every part of you relax into the idea that you were safe. A person had never made you feel safe like he did. You took a deep breath, leaning back just enough to look up at him. Tilting his head, Bucky pulled an arm around and brushed the last tears off your face with his thumb. 

Very slowly, he helped you over to the pot that they kept in the room for you, seeing as you couldn’t yet make it all the way outside to use the outhouse. With his hand around your waist and yours hooked over his shoulder, you hobbled your way across the room -- a short distance, but one that already had you feeling exhausted. 

“We need to get some food in you,” Bucky mumbled under his breath as he guided your hand to the wall so you could shift your weight onto that. He waited until you were steady before slowly backing away. 

One step at a time, you thought, but it was taking all of your effort to keep breathing for you to manage saying it out loud. So, instead of thanking him for the help, you laid your hand on Bucky’s shoulder, squeezing it softly before stepping around the corner. Bucky, his back to the wall, left you to it -- but he didn’t go far, and as soon as you reappeared again, he straightened up expectantly and reached for your hand. 

“I’m so tired,” you said, voice a bit strangled despite trying to laugh it off. 

“I can tell, sweetheart,” Bucky replied, forehead creasing as he guided you to his side, wrapped an arm around your shoulders. 

You made it halfway before you couldn’t go any further. Grabbing the front of his shit, you sunk against him, your eyes falling shut. 

“I can’t--” you grit out, annoyed with your own body because you were stronger than this. You had to be stronger than this, because if you weren’t, then how could you expect to survive? 

“I gotcha,” Bucky whispered, stooping down to hook your legs under his arm. Mindful of your wound, he lifted you up and carried you the last remaining feet. 

Once you were settled onto the bed again, he waited until you’d caught your breath. Then, after a bit of reassurance, he left you long enough to get food. That was when you realized you were in a basement. When he came back down the stairs with a tray in his hands, he was accompanied by a rosy blush. 

“What?” you asked, amused. Your head was propped back against the wall, and your energy was slowly starting to return. 

“Everyone’s, uh… eager to meet you,” he said, setting the tray on the bedside table. You felt your smile waver a little. 

These people had helped you, but they were still strangers -- and you were not accustomed to meeting new people. It had never gone well, in the past, and it was something you’d decided to try avoiding altogether. But… Bucky had once been a stranger, hadn’t he? And now… 

And then there was the looming reality that the plan had been for you to carry on without him. If you hadn’t been stabbed, who was to say that you wouldn’t be several days’ ride away from here? Away from Bucky. But you didn’t want that, and the realization scared you because what if that was what he was expecting? And why shouldn’t it be, when that was the plan you’d made at the beginning -- the very same plan that had driven you forward and determined your travels?

“I told them they aren’t allowed down here until you’re ready,” Bucky said in response to your worried look. You shook your head, coming back to yourself and realizing that he was looking down at you with sheepish concern. “They can be a little… much, so no pressure.”

“No, I--” you glanced down at your lap. “I mean… I’m very grateful to them. And if they’re friends of yours,” you trailed off for a moment. “If you like them, then I’m sure I’ll like them, too”

He looked somewhere over your shoulder, eyes pensive with things that you couldn’t quite see behind those ocean blues. But then he was kneeling down and passing you a bowl of soup. He had a bowl for himself and hovered by uncertainly before you gestured for him to sit down next to you. Side-by-side, things started to feel like they’d used to. It was hard to imagine that ‘used to’ had only been a few days ago. So much had changed already…

It made you understand just how much you didn’t want things to change between you and Bucky. You wanted to keep traveling with him, keep going, keep sleeping under the stars and riding through the day. And now that you didn’t have Mickey coming after you, it could be a good life. You could take your time with it and sleep at night knowing that you were safe. Even out in the wilderness, you were safe, because it was over. 

The bad part of your story was over, but you didn’t want the part that involved Bucky to be over, too. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Bucky’s voice filled the silent room. You glanced up to find him watching you, his hair hanging half over his face. “Your soup is getting cold,” he smirked. 

In a tiny act of rebellion, you swallowed a spoonful. He’d been right -- it was cold. How long had you been in your thoughts?

“Tell me,” he shifted, crossing one leg beneath him. “What’s on your mind, doll?”

You didn’t know where to even begin. Didn’t know how you could tell him the truth without risking rejection. You didn’t know how to say the things you so desperately needed to. 

“I just… I was thinking about our plan,” you swallowed. “We never really talked about what happens after this.”

Bucky looked at you a moment longer before his expression grew distant. He nodded. 

“I mean, to be fair, I wasn’t sure we’d actually make it this far anyway,” you added, feeling like you needed to say something so he couldn’t see right into your heart. 

“Yeah,” he replied, glancing away. 

There was silence -- a long silence, and you felt your mind growing hazier. It was like an essential piece of you have been carved out when Mickey took that knife to your stomach. You wondered how long it would take you to feel whole again. To feel like you could keep on standing upright by your own will. 

“I… don’t want you to go,” Bucky said, voice hitching into something like a guilty admission. You looked over at him and, reluctantly, he met your eye. 

He stared hesitantly at you, a pale sort of worry covering his face like snow as his gaze ran across your face, down your neck, anywhere but your eyes. You lifted your hand and, after a moment of hesitation that wasn’t more than a tremble, laid your palm against his jaw. In that second you made a decision. Long ago, you’d understood deep in your bones that you had to leave, to get away from your brother and all of his cruelty. Now, you understood that you wanted to stay. 

“I won’t,” you whispered, eyes falling to his chest. You felt Bucky take a breath both through the raising of your fingertips and the brush of air against your cheek. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you replied, more sure about this than anything ever before. “I want to go where you go.”

Bucky sighed, finally allowing himself to smile. He shifted his leg across the bed, letting his knee bump softly against yours. 

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered. His eyes were big and hopeful and like nothing you’d ever seen before. “Can I kiss you?”

You closed your eyes and smiled. And then you lifted your other hand, cupping his face between both of them now, and you kissed him. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d kissed anybody, but you were sure it had never been like this. The gentleness of him sent a shock buzzing into your very core, where the softest parts of your heart were, and it lit you up like a fire roaring in the night. 

You brushed your thumbs across his cheekbones, tucking your fingers into his hair, and you kissed him slowly. And then, when you both pulled away, eyes filled with a foggy kind of contentment, you turned and laid your head on his shoulder. Eventually, Bucky’s cheek rested on the top of your head. 

“I’m glad the universe gave me you.”

He looked down, tilting his head at your hushed admission. 

“You’ve got it all mixed up, doll,” he replied.  “I’m the lucky one.”

One day you’d convince him otherwise. And now you had all the time in the world. 

________________________________________________________________

“Well, I’ll be. She lives,” a man greeted, smiling kindly at you. 

From your conversations with Bucky, you already knew who he was. Sam Wilson, an ex-soldier and an old friend of Steve’s -- which, in turn, had resulted in an unlikely and, according to Bucky, very reluctant friendship between the two of them. 

Steve and Bucky had known each other since they were children. Bucky had grown up practically living under Ms. Rogers’ roof, helping out where he could in exchange for his board even though the woman had always insisted he didn’t need to. But Bucky liked making himself useful, and it had given him something to do -- something to convince himself that he belonged there. He’d told you all of this, and you felt brave enough to ask the question that had been nagging at your mind ever since he’d started talking. 

“Was this before your arm?”

Bucky looked like he’d been preparing himself to answer a question like that but still wasn’t ready to. Eventually he nodded, glancing away into the darkness that the corners of the basement provided. 

“This was before a lot of things,” he whispered. You didn’t ask anything else. 

Their group had been separated. It sounded like they had been separated a lot in the past, but this time it was bigger, more significant. You also got the sense that Bucky felt it was his fault. But, though they’d been separated, this time they’d made a plan; everyone was supposed to meet at the old cottage where they’d regroup and figure things out from there. And everyone had made it except for one Scott Lang, who they’d heard had been arrested for something completely unrelated to whatever had gone down with Anthony Stark. They hadn’t been sure that Bucky was even alive until he’d rode into camp like the Grim Reaper, but now that he’d made it, they were ready to move on. 

Sam seemed like a kind man. He had mischief in his eyes, but they were lacking in any kind of malice, and abundant in warmth. This warmth seemed to radiate from his very being, and you got an overwhelming sense of his character when, after greeting you with a joke, he immediately asked if you were doing alright. He offered you his hand and you took it with a half-hearted answer of, “As best as I can be, I suppose.”

He seemed to like that and smiled over at Bucky, whose face was passive in a way that was unfamiliar to you. It wasn’t bad, more… careful, and it made you think that perhaps something important was happening and he was holding his breath until he’d determined that it had gone well. 

Steve Rogers was the next to notice you’d joined the land of the living, and he hopped up from the fire they’d built up to roast a deer, jogging over to meet you. Steve was also an ex-soldier who’d served with Bucky when they were both young.

“I didn’t know you were a soldier,” you’d said, glancing up at him. You could see a faint blush turn his cheeks pink even in the dim light. 

“Well, like you said,” he shrugged. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” 

He offered you a hesitant smile, which you returned. 

Steve and Bucky had served together, and then something had happened and they’d been separated for the first time -- one of many. Bucky grazed past the details, and you had enough sense to let him. You could tell, though, that however bad the past had treated them, Bucky and Steve cared for each other. You could see it in Bucky’s eyes when he looked at the man. 

“It’s good to see you up,” Steve said, shaking your hand. “You had us worried there for a little while. Bucky especially.”

“Alright,” Bucky muttered. It felt like you were seeing who he’d been when he was younger; different from the man you’d come to know, and yet, familiar in so many ways. 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” you offered. Steve waved the thanks away. 

“Please, any friend of Bucky’s is a friend of ours. Are you hungry?” You raised your eyebrows. “I think supper’s almost ready. Clint!” he called, turning and heading over to the man standing by the fire. 

Clint Barton, Bucky had told you, was the most average out of all of them. He’d had a wife and three children, and a little ranch on the plains. He’d been a happy, law-abiding citizen once, long ago. Then his family had died. The others didn’t know the full story, but Clint had made it clear that he had nothing left when he’d joined up with them. And, now that everything was over, he’d decided to stay a little while longer. 

Next to him stood Wanda Maximoff. Like Clint, she was newer to the group, and the youngest. Apparently, she had special abilities that no one quite knew the extent of. All they knew for sure was that she was good at keeping the horses calm and could make medicine for any sort of ailment, from any material at hand. She was also a strong fighter to have in a pinch, according to Bucky. 

“She’s the one who dressed your wound,” he had told you. “She knows her stuff.”

Even from a distance, she looked sad, like a part of her was always carrying something heavy. But when Clint turned around to say something to her, she smiled and shook her head. You got a sense that everyone here was wounded. Every one of them had gone through things that had left them different from who they’d been. Not lesser, but changed, and altered version of the children they’d come into the world as. 

And you thought about yourself -- about how different you were from the child who had once naively believed that everything was good and kind. You thought about all the different ways you’d learned that to be untrue -- and then you thought about all the ways you were discovering that maybe there was some truth to it yet, something hidden that you hadn’t been able to see until now. Maybe there was still hope for the child you’d left behind. Maybe she and her belief in goodness and kindness had just been following at a distance. 

Maybe now, when you were done running -- when there was nothing left to run from -- maybe now she would catch up. Perhaps the children belonging to all of you weren’t far behind, making their way towards every one of you, grown in ways that left you wanting for healing. As you looked around at these new strangers -- people you now knew because of a man who had once been just as strange to you as any of them -- a feeling of hope rose up in your chest that maybe peace was possible for all of you. 

________________________________________________________________

You looked out across the yard, into the forest illuminated by the rising sun. Bucky sat with his back to you, his head resting back against your chest. You ran your hands softly through his hair -- had been for the past several minutes -- enjoying the stillness of the morning. It would be the last for a long while. 

It had been three weeks since you’d woken up in the basement of a strange house, to the sound of strange voices. It had been three weeks since you’d promised Bucky you weren’t going to leave. It had been three weeks since he’d kissed you. In those three weeks, you had healed, and you had rested, and you had met the strangers that Bucky called his friends. You had learned, gradually, to call them your friends, too. Or, if not your friends, then at least acquaintances. At least not threats. 

Wanda was sweet. You’d never met a woman like her before. She seemed to sense the fear in you -- the learned hesitation, the way every part of you expected quick movements to hurt and a turned back to result in a betrayal. And she was gentle with you. The first time she helped you replace your bandages, she was gentle with you in a way no one had ever bothered to be. Her smile was kind, and her eyes were honest. You liked her very much. 

Sam was charming. He was funny in a selfless way, like he understood the darkness in the world and was trying to fight it. He was noble. He asked you often how you were, and let you dodge his concern and his desire to help without offense. He was steadfast; always consistent, always smiling. It put you at ease in a way you hadn’t thought possible. In a similar way, Steve tended to watch over you. He watched over everybody -- always observing with a heroic sort of conviction. If you’d thought Bucky was protective, Steve had shown you he was not the only one. 

Clint was quiet and often kept to himself. He was sarcastic, a bit rough around the edges, but you had no trouble believing his story. Even with the loss of his family, Clint, at his core, was a father. You could see it in the way he treated Wanda. You could feel it in the way he looked after you in subtle, hidden ways; how he always made sure you ate your fill, how he left supplies by your bedside -- things he’d heard you mention you needed -- how he watched you from a distance even though he pretended not to. 

All of them, every one, was a surprise. A group to you had always been a prison -- never had it been a family. But Bucky’s group… they were a family, and they’d welcomed you without hesitation. They’d helped you, and they were kind to you, and it made you feel like maybe this was what life was supposed to be. Maybe this is what it could have been all along. Should have been. 

You took a deep breath, filling your lungs with the cold air of the forest. A mist hung low in the trees, the cloudy wisps beginning to fade as the sun warmed the surface of the Earth. You tangled your fingers in Bucky’s hair, smoothing the strands back from his temple. 

“Sure you want to do this?” you asked. 

He waited a soft, steady moment. A moment that he poured into the dirt like an offering. 

“Yeah,” he replied. “Just… I don’t know. Just feels right.”

“Okay,” you nodded. “That’s all I need to know.”

You ran your fingers through his hair one final time. He leaned, tilting his head back into the touch, dropping the last of his weight onto you, lifting his face towards the sky. You drew a finger along his scalp, pushing a lock of hair back toward his temple. Under the gray sky, you thought you saw the faintest of smiles work its way into the corner of his mouth. 

The first cut you made hesitantly. 

“Careful with that blade, woman,” he murmured with a smirk. 

“Brave of you to ‘woman’ me when I’ve got a knife this close to that pretty face of yours,” you replied. Bucky laughed, and you could almost imagine the way the crow’s feet would dance in the corners of his eyes. 

He caught your wrist, pressed a kiss to your lifeline. Felt your heartbeat as you felt his lips. Ignored the knife in your hand. 

“Hey,” you protested, pointing it away from him. “Careful with that blade, man.”

And you felt his smile against your wrist. And he let you go. 

You took another lock of hair, slicing through it, dropping it to the ground for the birds to make their nests with. 

“Think I’ll look much different?” he asked. 

“Only one way to find out,” you replied. A bit more hair fell to the earth. 

It didn't take long. You fixed up the back, trying to make it neat, then you stepped around to stand in front of him, ducking back a little as you evened everything up. It was different, but you were learning that sometimes different was necessary, and if you were lucky, it was even good.

“I’ll take it’s not too bad, then," Bucky said. 

You met his eyes. 

“No,” you said. “Not bad at all.” You brushed some hair off of his shoulders, then handed over an old, jagged piece of mirror you’d found in the basement. 

He held it up, tilting his head this way and that. 

“Huh."

“Yeah?”  

“Yeah,” he said, setting the shard of mirror down in its bed of hair. 

“Hey guys!” Clint called from across the yard, where the others were finishing packing up their things and the horses were waiting. Horse and Alpine were standing side by side, flicking their tails at one another, keeping away the few flies that still remained from the warmer weather. “You ready to go?”

You held out your hand. Bucky took it and rose to his feet. 

“Well,” he said looking down at you now. He ran a hand through his short hair, ruffling it. “You ready?”

You took a deep breath. The cabin was dark through the windows. It had gone back to looking like it hadn’t been touched in ages, and if anyone were to stubble upon it now, they’d never be able to tell that you’d nearly bled to death in its basement. They’d never know that Bucky had sat in that chair by the cot, a hand on your arm and a chest full of a hope that had nearly killed him but had maybe saved you. No one would ever be able to tell that a group of outcasts had made this place their home for long enough to find each other. Long enough to heal. 

You’d leave a piece of you here. A part of your past wouldn’t be coming any further than this cabin and, before you left, you’d look it in the face and tell it that this was as far as you needed it to come. It was time to rest now. It was time for you to move on to something different. Something new. Hopefully, if you were lucky, something good, too. 

“Yeah,” you finally replied, leaning into Bucky’s side, slotting your shoulder against his. “I’m ready.”

“You know,” he said as you made for the horses. “I think I like the new look. It’s refreshing.”

“‘Refreshing?’” you raised an eyebrow. Bucky smirked. “I like it, too.”

It was time for something different than had once been. From the edge of the woods, Steve waved. Wanda smiled at you, and Sam made a joke about haircuts. You shared a passing look with Bucky as you both joined the others, mounting your horses, seeing a reflection of just how far you’d come in those blue eyes of his. Could you remember a time when those eyes had belonged to a stranger? Sure. 

But that was a story for the past.

________________________________________________________________

Taglist:  @desert-fern, @arcanebabe, @neko-land88

[tllgrrl]

Out West by @btwxsixesandsevens

Sarah Wilson/James “Bucky” Barnes, with Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson

Summary: Begins as a dream, then in Chapter 2 the actual story, back then, 1880s California.

Fictional town. Fictional past.

Everything turned just a little...

* * * * * * * * * *

[artficlly]

a dish served cold [masterlist - completed]

Marvel Western AU

outlaw!bucky x reader

after the murder of your pa, you go on a journey to find justice. fate brings you to crimson junction for a reason, and that reason is bucky barnes. 

Warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, kidnapping, murder/death, attempted sa, vomiting, violence, death, blood, injuries, choking, guns, alcohol, smoking, swearing, creepy men, period typical attitudes, bounty hunters, outlaw bucky, protective bucky, bucky has issues, mention of robbery & crimes, mention of police (law), mention of flooding & drought, vague mention of animal death, betrayal, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything - will be updated with each chapter

main masterlist

CHAPTERS - THIS SERIES IS COMPLETE

chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven

[nix-sacrificium]

Save a horse, Ride a cowboy

Uhh, brainrot took over again, had to get this outa my system. This time, it's almost a western thing but sluttier

Might shade/render or whatever but we'll seeee

[latibvles]

it may be a 3am thought but I’ll still throw it under the cut because im polite like that

western au bucky giving viv the head of her LIFE is always going to be famous. to me. like he does it in every universe but there’s something about the forbidden nature of it in western au……….. the hiked up skirts her hand over her own mouth the devilish smile………. it’s what she deserves he’s just happy to be there* (*between her legs)

[smutconnoisseur]

Legendary Outlaw

Pairing ⊵ Dark!Beta!Sheriff!Bucky Barnes x Outlaw!Alpha!Steve Rogers

Warnings ⊵ No Archive Warnings Apply

Rating ⊵ E

Word Count ⊵ 1.4k

Tags ⊵ AU: Wild West, Non- traditional ABO dynamics, Consensual non-consent, extreme Dubious consent, Alpha!Steve, Beta!Bucky, Knotting, Kinks, Bondage, Sexual roleplay, Power imbalance, inappropriate use of lassos, Come as lube, basically just filthy smut.

Summary ⊵ Steve is an outlaw, a good one, but an outlaw all the same. When he catches wind of a mating run in the area for Alphas to find a match, he risks more than his livelihood to participate.

What he doesn’t know is that across the valley, one crooked sheriff is counting on his attendance.

Square + Prompt Fills ⊵

Ⓞ⓶ + Hogtie | All Caps Bingo | Card # AC 1094 | All Caps Bingo Masterlist | @allcapsbingo

Ⓝ⓸ + Kink: Blindfolds | Stucky Bingo | Card # R40101 | Stucky Bingo Masterlist | @stuckybingo

Author's Note ⊵ Nothing too sinister, contrary to the theme.

Moodboard is my own | Ao3 Link | Masterlist | AO3