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captainsimagines · 2 years

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the warmth of the future || two

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

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

Based on the Song: ‘Willow’ by Taylor Swift

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

Word Count: 8,890+

Author’s Note: Sorry? Lol

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What—”

“Besides, Wanda going after Steve? Ew.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, hold up—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Noted."

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Appointment? Where?” you ask.

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

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

Sam shakes his head. “Idiot.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Chaotic, huh?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

“You’re kidding.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s see.

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

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

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

“Fuck, I think he does.”

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

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

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

You have the same question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clint’s basically my brother.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But.”

“Stop talking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rams won in 2000.”

“Completely different numbers, stupid.”

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

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

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

“Then why are you bullying Bucky for it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ha, ha.”

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

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

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

“Something worthy?” Steve replies.

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

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

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

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

“You came!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The one and only,” Bucky shyly responds.

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

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

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

A lot from jealousy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clint shoots kissy faces at you. “Jealous?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You slut.”

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

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

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

“Yup!”

“Like…You two were really dedicated.”

You laugh, “Well, duh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did I do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

“But nothing.”

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

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

“I'm the only one who touches you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tap my thigh if you really need it.”

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

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

“Just like—fuck—I love you.”

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

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

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

You try to shake your head, bobbing instead.

“No? Where do you want me to come?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just two times.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bumblebee?”

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

“Are you home?”

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

“It burned down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. He said it burned down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TAGLIST: [on masterlist]

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

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captainsimagines · 2 years

Text

the warmth of the future || three

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

Based on the Song: ‘Willow’ by Taylor Swift

Warnings: strong language; angst; money talk; mention of dead parents; age difference; accidental voyeurism; unprotected sex

Word Count: 7,130+

Author’s Note: The finale! We’ve come to yet another end for these characters! Love them with all my heart, and I’m so happy (as always) to share them with you. xxMoni

The firefighters had the fire controlled within thirty minutes of the faulty switch striking a flame. Or rather, they controlled the remaining flames. Apparently the fire started around one in the morning when the fundraiser was still going strong and most of the townspeople were either at the bar or asleep. Someone finally called 911 around twenty minutes later, but by then the fire had consumed every item in the store. And since plant life burns with villainous purpose, the walls didn’t stand much of a chance.

All that remained now was the black outline of the structure, chipped and broken wood sticking in all directions. The couches were charred, as was the register and back office. Clint and Steve carried the burnt safe out into the street so they could load it into Pietro’s truck. Your dad already volunteered to store it in the garage.

It was heartbreaking to see so many flowers burned. Some lifeless, some gone. Bucky had run back home to bring you a heavier jacket and some shoes as he knew you would want to help your friends salvage what they could. Once he saw that you were bundled up and no longer at risk for frostbite, he got to work.

Hours of cleaning, sweeping, calling contractors and customers.

Customers.

Pietro had released a garbled, angry yell when Wanda mentioned the Christmas Eve and Christmas orders. He rubbed at his temples, then his chest, muttering something along the lines of, We needed that money.

Wanda and Pietro are somewhat paralyzed—Clint at least tried to sprinkle in some jokes here and there—and it’s killing you.

The holidays were always festive. Nothing bad was supposed to happen during the holidays. Because when they do, they’re never the same.

“All the money we raised last night for the roof—I’ll put it toward the store.” You were now all seated at the barstools and booths in Kate’s bar as she made that drastic declaration. She passed Sam a plate of fried eggs and bacon that she had cooked upstairs twenty minutes before, ignoring the way everyone immediately rejected her idea.

“Kate, you spent all that time organizing that event. You earned the money,” you say, stealing a piece of bacon yourself. The shock from the morning finally wore off long enough for you to put some food into your stomach. Bucky adjusts you on his lap as he adds, “You have a business too, Kate. You need to keep it up and running.”

Kate rolls her eyes. “That bucket is holding up just fine.” She points at the bucket near the tiny stage, nearly filled with water.

Wanda sighs, rubbing the tension from her shoulder as her other hand nestles a mug of coffee to her chest. “They’re right, Kate. Besides, I’ve been too lenient on our annual inspections. We were supposed to have a check-up two months ago. I kept pushing it back.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Pietro orders. “I use the same calendar as you do.”

At that moment, everyone shares a collective sigh. This was bad. Very bad. That shop was Wanda and Pietro’s only source of income. Clint’s, too. It was their parent’s memory.

“What are we going to do?” Wanda whimpers, resting her forehead against Sam’s shoulder. Everyone else shares a look, a look that conveys no answers and no ideas.

After talking logistics and finishing breakfast, everyone begins filing out to get back to work. Sam, Steve, Bucky, and your dad decided they would stay behind, driving anything that wasn’t too badly burned back to the house. Kate offered to bring everyone water and lunch. Clint, Wanda, and Pietro hopped into Pietro’s truck immediately, their list full and priorities straight. Most of their day would be spent out of town, away from the wreckage. You figure that’s convenient—they probably don’t want to stare at what they lost.

Bucky meets you at the bar entrance, kissing your cheek briefly before following Steve.

“Bucky?” He turns, hands in his pockets. “I didn’t get you a present yet.”

His mouth twitches, and something beautiful gleams in his eyes. “You got the money for it, though. Don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna make sure their flower orders get out one way or another, aren’t you?”

The fact that he knows you so well has you believing in the concept of soulmates. “Yeah.”

He smiles, at you and at nothing. “You’ve already given me your heart. I would be honored if you used it for this.”

Then he turns, chuckling softly to himself. Rubbing at his chest—rubbing at something in his coat pocket.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but when I agreed to a holiday vacay in a town that resembled the set of Gilmore Girls, I didn’t expect to get the ‘Oh, no! Our beloved inn burned down and now I’m unemployed’ storyline.”

Peter’s admission, no matter how inappropriate, evokes a short burst of laughter from your chest. Peter Parker had that ability—make the best out of the worst.

The two of you were driving to the next town over, aiming to cross out the biggest item on the list: find a flower shop that would fulfill the orders. It made a good impression on the customers and could make them donate loads of cash to rebuilding the shop. It was worth it to try.

“I only meant to introduce you to my family and attend the Christmas party. Trust me, this wasn’t planned.”

“You think throwing the party is still a good idea? What if they don’t want to celebrate during a time like this?”

You pull into the parking lot, parking in front of a gothic-style flower shop whose display sign read, Flowers For The Living. “Probably no party. And I think Wanda and Pietro realize they’re getting help whether they like it or not, so they’ll be okay.”

Peter hums, and gets out of the car with you. The shop is smaller, with vintage furniture and flowers ranging from all colors, especially the darker shades. It was a nice contrast to the stereotype that all flower shops had to be these lively, colorful places. There are no holiday decorations, either.

“Hello?” you call out, running your finger along the leaves of black roses.

A tall woman enters from the back office, dusting her pants of lint. She chews the final bites of her food as she answers, “Yes, yes! I’m here, I’m here.”

Peter blinks, his mouth forming a tiny ‘O’ as he takes her in. Quite obviously, you might add.

“Uh, I’m MJ. Who are you?”

When you realize Peter’s mouth isn’t actually going to be forming words anytime soon, you let out the whole spiel. How the only flower shop in your town burned down, how orders needed to start shipping today, how the owners are family and this was the least you could do for them. The woman, MJ, listens. And all the while a small smile creeps onto her face, noticing that your explanation is turning into rambling.

“So, yeah. We’d be honored to buy some flowers from you.”

MJ tilts her head up, biting her bottom lip. “You’re going to buy my flowers and market them as your own?”

Fuck. Okay, backtrack.

But it’s Peter who snaps out of whatever trance he was in, coming up with, “Actually, with your permission, we were hoping that we could attach small notes to every order. Custom-made. Your stamp, your name, and a message from us thanking you for saving the day. It would show that Wanda and Pietro still cared enough to get the orders in and sent out, and you’d get free publicity.”

That right there. That’s why he’s the best assistant.

MJ smirks, fingering the massive bouquet beside the register. She makes a show of thinking about her answer, ignoring the fumbling of your thumbs and Peter’s giant grin.

“When I first set up this shop,” she starts, walking around the register. You don’t miss the way Peter studies her further. You're tempted to hit him upside the head. “I knew jackshit about business. All I knew was that I wanted to have an alternative flower shop where people could buy one-of-a-kind bouquets. Do you have any idea what my first act as a new business owner was?”

Both you and Peter shake your head.

“I bought more inventory before even making a sale.”

Ooof.

“It was Wanda Maximoff who ventured to this part of town, looking for advice on how to darken certain flowers. Where to order them, how to arrange them. I had been open for a week and was already in debt. I gave her all my tips, and she came in the next day with her hair in a scarf, a broom, and a whole itinerary.”

“She did?”

MJ nods, smiling to herself as she remembers the memory. “Wouldn’t take no as an answer. Said her father hammered the rules of business into her head by age twelve and that she would do the same for me. I don’t speak to my parents and I have no siblings, so…”

MJ pauses, then pulls out her notebook, turning to a blank page. “This is the first I’m hearing about the fire.” Sorrow flashes across her features. “So I’ll help her get back on two feet if it’s the last thing I do. Give me the order information. I’ve got a big job ahead of me.”

Wanda had never mentioned MJ, but she did talk about this town and the businesses in it. She often brought home food from family-run restaurants, antiques for her apartment—she just never mentioned making another friend.

Peter snaps his fingers multiple times, cheering as he says, “You got sticky tabs and highlighters?”

MJ lights up. “In the back! Hold on, hold on!”

As she skips back to the office to retrieve more supplies, you turn to Peter. “Match made in Heaven.”

Peter scoffs, shoving your shoulder with his. A blush creeps from the base of his neck to his cheeks. “Everybody likes office supplies. If you don’t, there’s something wrong with you.”

“Ah.”

You set the teasing aside for the next two hours, working with MJ on getting the orders fulfilled and loading them up in delivery trucks. By the end, you’ve made a new friend. And you bet Peter Parker will be tagging along on your family vacations every holiday season from now on.

“This is just shit luck, man.”

Everyone mumbles their agreement to Sam’s comment. They’re currently cleaning glass shards, rolling the shredded curtains, and piling picture frames.

“How long do you think it’ll take to rebuild?” Sam continues, broom in one hand and dustpan in the other.

Bucky sends him a half-hearted glare, wiping his face free of soot. “Considering it just burned down this morning, I’m gonna say a ton of time.”

“Five months, tops.”

Bucky’s eyes widen at your dad’s declaration. “You’re optimistic.”

Your dad shrugs, sweeping his designated corner. He carefully creates a pile of glass. “Those kids have some otherworldly determination. You remember how they picked up the mantle after their parents died?”

“We helped…” Steve grimaces.

“Nah, they ran that shop like their parents were watching. They did most of it.”

“Think they can do it again?” Sam pushes, curious. He bends down to sweep your dad’s glass pile.

“I know they can do it again. But the emotional toll might just hit harder than last.”

Steve clears his throat, raising his hand like a kid in the classroom. “Hey…Is the party tonight…”

“Cancelled? Most likely,” your dad answers.

Bucky sighs, “Always looked forward to your little shindigs.”

Then Steve says something that makes Bucky think he’s truly gone mad. “Hey…Why don’t we still have it?”

Your dad half-cackles, half-snorts. “Oh, for obvious reasons, Steven! God, you’re even more dense than Bumblebee claimed.” And even as he says it, it’s with love etched into each word.

Steve grumbles, “No, idiot! I mean—Why don’t we bring the decorations here? Make this into something…To tell those kids that we’re going to help them. And that we should celebrate the fact that we know they’ll be okay.”

To throw a party on the gravesite of their parent’s business…Steve was both dense and confident, Bucky concludes. “Think they’ll go for it?”

“Won’t know unless we try, right?”

Maybe it was a good idea. On a day as gloomy as this one, perhaps a little cheer is what was needed. And who knows? Having it in the center of town could bring a crowd desperate to donate.

“Gonna go drive all we’ve got in the truck back to the house,” your dad announces. “Meet me there in a few hours for the decorations, alright?” Everyone agrees, seemingly excited for the prospect of such a wild idea.

Bucky throws aside some random wood the same moment he catches sight of the one person he really doesn’t want to converse with. “Woah…What are you doing here?”

Quill strolls past the crumbling doorway, hands in his pockets and wearing an expression of shame. “I apologize for last night. I honestly didn’t know, and I thought there was something still between us. Like…some holiday fairytale.”

Bucky cringes, but gives him the benefit of the doubt. His jealousy is still burning in his stomach, but he squashes it long enough to give Quill a proper verbal response. “Okay?”

“I came to offer my assistance. And my men.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m already drawing up plans.” And with that, Bucky realizes his jealousy was misplaced. Because even though the thought of another man touching you without his permission gets him heated, he realizes that this was not the situation he thought it was. Quill is not Rumlow. Quill did not force you to do anything, nor has he attempted to contact you afterward. He owes you another apology, sure, but Bucky’s thankful Quill had the gall to apologize at all. “Clint’s an old friend. I don’t hang out much with people anymore. But seeing all of you makes me want to have a social life again.”

And Bucky has to admit, his heart breaks a little. Breaks even more when he understands exactly what Quill means.

Bucky grabs the nearest broom leaning against the wall, holding it out to Quill. “Here…You can help us with that bit over there.”

Quill takes it, gives Bucky a quick and respectful nod, and gets to work. Even with extra hands, the shop wasn’t going to magically rebuild itself in a few weeks. Wanda and Pietro needed income by the end of January or else they risked dipping into their savings. Which, that’s the point of savings, but they didn’t have much. At least, that’s what Pietro mumbled this morning.

So Bucky puts down his broom and tears off his gloves, heading for the crumbling door and to the street.

“Buck, where you going?” Sam calls out.

“You said it yourself: Those kids are gonna need all the help they can get! And I have a favor to cash in!”

It’s clean. Well, less messy than this morning. Half the town came out to offer some assistance, bringing food and water to everyone working overtime. Clint, Pietro, and Wanda were off being responsible—insurance, their tax guy, going through the documents stored in the safe. Luckily those weren’t too harmed.

You figure helping with the clean up would be too emotional for them. You saw how Pietro was—his face hadn’t fallen that way since he witnessed what Brock Rumlow was planning to do to you two Christmases ago.

“Everything go good at the flower shop?” Your dad’s voice rocks you from your thoughts. You’re currently sitting on the charred front steps, knees tucked high enough that your chin rests on them.

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure my assistant pulled a date, too.”

He laughs, releasing a low grunt as he sits beside you. “Oh, everyone’s falling in love nowadays.”

You allow the silence to fester between you for a while longer. It seems like your dad expects it because he pretends to study the storefronts directly within eyesight, waiting for you to drop the bomb. The bomb he should have dropped months ago when he made up his mind. “When were you going to tell me that you’re going to propose to Monica?”

He dips his head, sighing heavily. A spot of shame tainting his features. “Who told you?”

“Does it matter? You didn’t tell me.”

It’s only been you and your dad since you could remember. Sure, Sam and Bruce were there, raising you like you were their own. Because you were, by some definition. One of their best friends had a child at fifteen, who was then abandoned and left to raise that child alone. They stepped up, as did Steve whenever he visited, and you couldn’t be more thankful.

But even with such a crowd, it was only you two. Sharing inside jokes, downloading the same video games on your phone so you could play together, taking bike rides and trying new foods in the town over. Him not telling you this major milestone hurts.

“Bumblebee…I didn’t mention it for a reason.”

Turning to him, it’s impossible to shield the pain in your eyes. “Did you think I wouldn’t approve? Because I do, a million times yes.”

“I wasn’t doubting that. It just—just wasn’t the right time to bring it up.”

The way he says the right time—he’s hiding something and you know it.

“Then when? The day you proposed?”

Your dad chuckles. “I’m going to propose sometime in the new year. Obviously not at this moment considering I don’t want to steal the spotlight.” He motions to the scene before him, his dark joke landing strong enough that a laugh bursts from your chest. You shake your head, a gesture of half-assed chastising.

“I wanted to tell you in person.”

It makes some sense. But you can’t help the feeling that he’s hiding something big. So you play it off. “Marriage. Wow.”

“Not a fan?” your dad asks, his smile growing.

Marriage. The next milestone that so many people your age conquer. People from high school have been getting married and having children since you were in your early twenties. Sometimes you feel like you’re a little late. But it was never a priority or something with a ticking clock. If it happened, it happened.

“I’ve never really thought of it. Well, I have…but it’s never been a priority.”

“Tell me, Bumblebee—Would you marry James?”

Goddamnit, you would. You would, you would, you would. No other man you’ve dated has ever elicited those feelings. To ponder a life with them. A lifelong commitment. “Would you like me marrying your friend?”

“This isn’t about me. It hasn’t been about me in a long time. So answer the question: Would you marry him?”

“The scary thing is that I think I would.”

“Saying all that, and there’s still a part of you that wants to seek my approval of such a union?” The way he says union makes his statement sound sarcastic.

“Don’t make it into a joke. I care about what you think, Dad.”

His mouth twitches into a small grin, slight wrinkles stretching across his left cheek. “Your only job in this life is to love someone without conditions. Whether it be yourself, a friend, blood, or a partner.”

“Your approval is a condition?”

“My approval is a bonus. But even then, I see how he looks at you. It’s how I used to look at your mother. How I now look at Monica.”

You snort, “My mother isn’t the best example.”

Looking up at the sky, your dad considers his next words carefully. “No but, the love was real. Just because it wasn’t the right person doesn’t mean that my feelings were invalid. We love a lot of people in our lifetime. When you find that you’re capable of it, it’s really easy to recognize it in others.”

“Like Kate and Pietro?” You click your tongue, raising one eyebrow at your dad.

Your dad laughs, rubbing at his chin. “I have seen that boy’s eyes since high school. You won’t believe the amount of talks I’ve had with him.”

“You knew?”

“He didn’t know until earlier this year. Sam made a comment and Pietro had some, out of body realization.”

Did all the adults know? You guess that Wanda didn’t, or maybe she considered it to be mundane or anything but romantic. Boys were attracted to girls all the time—didn’t mean their feelings came from a place of respect and admiration.

“I really do miss a lot by living in New York, huh?”

He throws an arm around your shoulders, tugging you close to his side. Lightly shaking you as he declares, “You’re not allowed to feel guilty about working at your dream job.”

“It’s not that. I just miss you guys all the time.”

“Then visit more often.”

Scoffing, you rest your head on his shoulder. “Being a working girl is tedious.”

“Even I would go crazy with just James and Steven for company.”

You giggle. New York wasn’t all it was jacked up to be, but it was a pleasant place to live. Were you in love with New York before meeting Bucky? Did it hold the same influence over you? Sometimes places aren’t really called home until you have a reason to name it so. It’s the people who make a place, and Bucky is your home.

“They tell you we’re going to bring the decorations over here?”

You blink at him. Bring the decorations over? Over here? In this area of ash and debris? “In what capacity?”

Your dad brings a finger to his lips, miming for you to be quiet. He stands, holding out his hand to help you up. “Stall the three flower nerds. I’ll call you when it’s all ready.”

He starts jogging down the street, completely ignoring your question. You yell out after him, “Is Bucky going to help you?”

“Stall the flower nerds!”

You look around the street, perplexed. Huh?

To be honest, it didn’t take much to stall the flower nerds. It took a while to locate them around town, anyway. They hadn’t passed by the house or noticed that everyone was driving decorations back and forth. The mini Christmas trees, the lights, the Hanukkah decorations, the food. Many nearby businesses donated tables and chairs, some even offering to keep their doors open tonight so that guests may use the restroom.

It was now a party of not just your friends, neighbors, and family—but of the entire town. A town that came together on Christmas Eve.

“I really don’t feel like seeing the area right now,” Pietro moaned, sitting in the passenger seat as Clint drove his truck.

“I know, but Bucky asked me if we could pick him up there.”

“He’s got one arm, but two legs,” Clint mutters, earning a smack on the shoulder from the backseat.

“Just drive,” you softly order, anticipation simmering in your chest. The town felt empty as you drove through it, as if they all went to sleep. Wanda even commented on it.

When the final turn came about, and your heart was burning a nauseating hole in your mouth, you just prayed these three didn’t outright scream with fury. That the spot in which all their hard work had been was being desecrated—

“What in the—” Clint curses, leaning forward in the driver’s seat to get a better look. Parking across the street, he’s out of the car immediately. Pietro and Wanda follow, hesitant at first.

“Surprise?” you try, cringing at how stupid you sound.

“Is this why you were acting so weird?” Clint asks, eyes wide in what you hope is wonder.

And wonder would be correct. In the last few hours, your friends have managed to turn an area that was burnt to a crisp in the early hours of this morning into something revolutionary. You figure they got the fire department’s permission to add some of these decorations…because oh my god.

Displayed like a grand patio, its deck carried about a dozen tables, each filled with food, flowers, drinks, and mini Christmas trees. Your dad seems to have brought out the Menorah as well, lighting all the candles even if the last candle was still missing. Chairs were spread about, some of the older townspeople seated and comfortable. Music played from two tiny speakers, crackling at a mediocre frequency, but still strong enough to make out the song. It’s then that you recognize the two boys setting them up and tinkering with them—taller than you remember, and looking more like Sarah each day.

Lights are strung in the same zig-zag formation as the ones on the street, flickering red and green and gold. All those damn paper snowflakes rest on the tables, probably mocking Clint since they aren’t currently hanging from a ceiling. Yet it’s the person on the ladder, tightening one of the green bulbs that surprises you. Quill, who looks across the crowd and over at you, smiling shyly as he raises one hand in polite greeting.

“It wasn’t my idea,” you clarify, walking over to the entrance that the guys have simply torn down. The door’s archway is gone—the shop officially starts from scratch. “The orders were sent out, by the way.”

Wanda snaps her head toward you. Then she sees MJ in the crowd, and her shoulders drop.

Steve breaks through the crowd, his flannel shirt still a little dirty from a hard day’s work. Sam and Bucky tilt their heads at him, obviously surprised by his forwardness. The surprise hits you too as Steve strolls forward to none other than Wanda herself.

“I, uh—” Steve blushes, running a hand down the back of his neck. “I thought that a little Christmas cheer might help. I know you’re Jewish and all, but Hanukkah has passed and it seemed…nice.”

You and Clint stare at the two, silent but communicating with your eyes.

He’s flirting.

I can fuckin’ see that. Why is he flirtin’?

He’s blushing.

I can fuckin’ see that! Why is he blushin’?

“You are red.” Wanda’s observation only makes Steve turn even more scarlet.

“I’m a very pale person.”

Pietro—who has decided he doesn’t care if Wanda and Steve flirt—walks toward Kate, who’s dressed as a waiter rather than a guest. Black tie attire, and her combat boots to pull it all together.

“You have a hand in this?” Pietro playfully interrogates, scanning her up and down. It’s the first time Kate’s never worn a dress for a party, and by the look on Pietro’s face, he’s loving it all the same.

She shrugs, like this was all casual. “Who do you think donated all the alcohol?”

Pietro smirks, then runs a slow hand through his white hair. “I’m still going to help fix your roof.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.” Kate goes to step toward him, for a hug no doubt, but he holds out a hand to stop her. Kate looks wounded in that second, before Pietro crouches, onto one knee, to tie her shoe.

Kate blinks, and the world makes sense.

“Merry Christmas!” Clint exclaims, practically sprinting into the crowd. He jumps into the arms of your dad, who somehow anticipated his weight, and screams it over and over again.

The stress of not knowing how they would react disintegrates to dust, releasing its tension from your ribs and shoulders. This isn’t a solution, nor is it the first step, but it is progress. Self-defined progress for the long road ahead.

“Now…I promised my mother, myself, and God that I would never do this again!” Clint proclaims, gassing himself up as he stands between Sam and Steve, ready to flip. He steadies his hands on the chair in front of him, kicks his legs up, and allows the two veterans to hold them high. Then Kate guides the pump to his mouth, and Clint proceeds to accomplish the most insanely coordinated keg stand in the history of keg stands.

He lasts a total of twenty seconds. When Kate announces that she’s next, you decide it’s time to mingle with other people. Peter speaks with MJ at the drinks table, while Quill chats up that girl from yesterday. Carol, was it? She was twisting the ends of her hair, obviously enjoying Quill's flirting. The hair twirling was encouragement.

Heading over to grab a water bottle, a rare face drops into your peripheral. Tall and handsome, perhaps one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. He grabs the attention of dozens, his elegant face vibrant as his mouth spreads into a smile. He greets everyone who flocked to him with the same grace, with the same delight. A man who hasn’t been seen in this town for a long time.

“Is that the one and only T’Challa?” Monica’s voice booms over the music. You turn to her to see she’s already dragging your dad through the crowd. It clicks through you—the picture in Kate’s bar, the one where Bucky looks like a twenty-year old twink.

Your dad beams, accepting T’Challa's handshake. “This is even rarer than my daughter and James visiting.”

T’Challa laughs, scanning the room as if in search of the man mentioned. Instead, he finds you as you timidly walk over, giving him a good-natured wave in exchange.

“I heard what happened. Plus, my mother still lives here and it was about time I jumped on a plane instead,” T’Challa admits, giving you a slight nod in greeting.

“Have you been in town since this morning?” your dad asks.

“Actually, Barnes called me.”

“He what?” T’Challa nearly laughs again from your shocked expression.

“Did you know that I asked him to be my patient when I came up with the prototype for his arm?”

“Well, no. But it makes sense.”

He finally finds Bucky in the crowd, watching as he jokes around with Steve and Pietro. His eyes never leave him as he confesses, “I gave him his arm without cost. He was my guinea pig, my selfish science experiment when I was in my late twenties. He let me work on him, tear him apart and put him back together, as a favor to me. I owe him for believing in me and my brain.”

“You…owe him?”

He nods. Then, as casual as ever, says, “I’m here to throw my millions of dollars into rebuilding the flower shop.”

Everyone near pauses, the surprise emitting around the room. Even Clint, recovering from his kegs-capades, saddles up beside you. Elbow stabbing your side, being annoying as ever.

“I…don’t think it’ll take a million dollars.”

Clint scoffs, “Shit! I’ll take the million! Don’t listen to her!”

T’Challa chuckles, “Good to see you again, Clint.”

“I’m a pleasure, I know. What’s this about a million?”

“Clint—” Your elbow stabs him this time.

“Monica.” T’Challa turns to her, bowing a little. Clint laughs to himself, like he expected the dismissal. “I’m so glad to see you again. Is your mother doing well?”

“Attached to your mother’s hip as usual,” Monica responds, rolling her eyes at the mental image it causes.

“I’ll see about staying longer this time. My sister can handle everything back in California.” Then, more shyly, he asks, “And how is your friend?”

“Oh, the nurse I work with? Your mother’s nurse?” T’Challa clears his throat awkwardly as Monica continues. “Nakia’s fine. She’s actually around here somewhere—”

T’Challa starts, speechless and stuttering. Both you and Clint look on, the concept of holiday romanticism growing more real by the second. But neither of you say a word, happy to be spectators to yet another love story in the making.

Bystanders. Readers. Onlookers.

When you turn to find Bucky, he’s gone.

“Are the festivities too much for you?”

Entering the store next door, a rustic cafe, you spot Bucky leaning against the diner and counting his breaths. He blinks one eye open at your question, smiling a little as you cautiously make your way to him. It was your way of non-verbally asking if he wanted you here at all, or truly needed some time to himself.

“The day was a lot.” He loosens a breath that’s both a groan and sigh, then rolls his neck to crack it. “To be honest, I’m surprised my back is still holding out.”

You chuckle lightly. "T'Challa?"

"Ah. So he did come."

Pausing halfway toward him, the red light from outside shining upon the left side of your face, the original question still stands.

“Just let me hold you.” Well, you can certainly give him that.

His words hang in the air as you allow it, melting in his embrace. He’s tired, but he walks you to the wall, providing that extra leverage. Something about the hug turns vibrant, innocence deteriorating quickly as Bucky’s hands begin to wander. As your hands trace up his chest, his neck, his cheeks. Those beautiful, high cheeks that retain the most gorgeous pink. That pink he turns when his blood decides to also travel elsewhere. That pink he turns when he decides his time would be better spent worshiping you.

His emotions get the better of him. Multiplying. He whimpers as he digs his face into the crook of your neck, fisting your velvet dress. Noises that mean he’s desperate. Noises that mean he needs you.

Not wants.

Needs.

“I—” you choke, a rush of air leaving your lungs as your back meets the wall. He hoists you up, holding your thighs the second you wrap them around his waist. Your high heels knock against each other. Bundling the dress to your waist, Bucky dips his flesh fingers into your heated center.

The heat from this moment and the chill from outside amplifies the pleasure building in your abdomen. The knowledge that anyone could interrupt does so as well. You internally thank Bucky for choosing to fuck you against the wall—that way you won’t be defiling someone’s table.

Bucky draws tight circles against your clit, breathing heavily into your neck. Pushing his body against yours, holding you to him. He leaves your neck, only to rest his forehead against yours, your lips barely touching. Intimate.

“Are you sure?” you drag out, the pressure in your chest increasing.

Bucky nods, mumbling a yes as soft as you’ve ever heard it. He sets you down so he can unzip his pants while you remove your underwear and your heels. Until you’re back in his arms, legs around him, guiding him into you.

You both release a collective sigh of relief, clutching onto each other in a frenzied display of emotion. Your hands in his hair, his lips on your neck, his cock buried deep inside you. It’s not fast and it’s not quick. Instead, it’s slow and deep, stirring your heartstrings and dragging out short whimpers from your chest.

Half of you wants to get this over with as quickly as possible in fear that someone will walk in. The other half wants to experience this forever, bask in the glow of Bucky’s warm embrace. Why he felt the need to be with you right now, you don’t know. But whatever it was, you’re thankful for it.

To feel wanted—that’s a blessing.

“I’m—close,” you push out, gritted teeth making it hard to do so. This angle isn’t the best, but Bucky’s fingers circling your clit adds the necessary pressure. “Bucky.”

“You can come, Doll,” he groans, hiking his hips a little more forceful now. Moaning, you discover that all you can do is listen to him.

You’re on the verge of toppling over that sweet edge, to witnessing those wonderful black dots across your vision, when the door opens and Peter Quill walks through. Stunted, probably here to use the bathroom, staring wide-eyed. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice.

With your eyes locked on Quill’s and him completely paralyzed a few feet away, you come around Bucky’s cock. Eyebrows furrowed, mouth dropped open, silky legs pulling Bucky’s body tighter against you. You fist a handful of Bucky’s hair at the back of his head, grinding your hips down to help him reach his end.

Quill blinks, his eyes scanning from the top of your head to your curling toes. Nothing in his stare gives off jealousy or anger. Instead, his mouth twitches upward and his neck reddens. He gives you a small salute, walking back to the party like he didn’t witness a thing.

Bucky thrusts a few more times, the generosity of his fingers not enough to throw you into a second orgasm, but still pleasurable nonetheless. You hold him, playing with his hair, and smiling to yourself about what just happened.

The party is still in full swing when you and Bucky decide to take a walk around the block. The snow had stopped falling around mid-day, so the streets weren’t difficult to navigate. The sounds of the party carried on as you two walked, flowing like magic through the street.

“Will this be our tradition then? Visiting every holiday season?” you ask, swinging your conjoined hands back and forth.

Bucky squeezes you. “Families create traditions, don’t they?”

“Am I your family?”

Bucky’s insides turn into heavenly mush. He doesn’t know the exact moment that he considered you more important than himself, but he knows that he considers you to be more important than anything else. Family meant a connection. Not blood—your family can be anybody you choose. He would describe your relationship as an ethereal connection, one molded by sensations he didn’t even know existed.

“Am I yours?”

“We’ve been over this.”

“No, I mean…Will you have me?”

You stop walking, and Bucky accidentally tugs at your arm. It doesn’t hurt, but it does shake you from the shock.

This sounds a lot like a—

You meet his eyes, silver already gleaming in his. Your heart threatens to leap from your chest, too joyful from the mere sight of him. His tall build, his longer hair, his beautiful pink lips.

It’s the very simple fact that you would allow Bucky Barnes to take your hand, guide you through war, and seal your fate. If there was anyone in the world you wanted to be stranded in the middle of the ocean with, fighting the currents with, it would be him. Any person you wanted to climb down balconies with, co-own a bar with, share New York with, it would be him. Any person you wanted to climb trees with, celebrate every holiday with, catch the train for, it would be him. It would always be him.

You know it the moment he bends down to one knee. The moment he pulls a velvet box from his jacket pocket. The moment it’s lifted, revealing a gorgeous emerald ring. The moment his breath hitches and he looks up at you, his blue eyes meeting yours. Blue eyes that are soft and tender.

Then he whispers your full name softly, the sound like marvelous honey, and asks, “Will you marry me?”

This was the grand secret he and everyone else was hiding from you, wasn’t it? The reason your dad wasn’t going to steal Bucky’s thunder by proposing to Monica tonight. Because Bucky Barnes asked for permission, made sure your most annoying friends knew, and waited until he was back in your hometown, his hometown, to buy a ring and propose.

And the stranger yesterday was correct: you know everything the moment a man is on their knees for you. Whatever plans you had before this, they’re all wrecked for the better. Whatever paths that were carved out, new ones have just been made for you. All worries, all questions, have been squashed and answered. The warmth of the future has never felt more inviting.

Bucky Barnes is the man you want to leave the Christmas lights up until January with. The man you want to share a bed with, share breakfast with, share a life with. This man is yours, and you are his.

“Yes.” You mean for it to come out louder, but it’s barely above a whisper. Like your voice is shocked silent. “Yes.”

Bucky expels a quick breath. “Yes?”

With a quick nod, you smile wide. “Yes!"

Bucky bursts up, capturing your lips with his. Overdramatic and true. “Yes,” he repeats against your mouth. “Yes, yes, yes!”

A laugh erupts from your chest, but Bucky just keeps trying to kiss you silent. Or not silent, but attempting to swallow the sound, as if it fuels his soul.

“I love you,” he promises.

Here, in the glistening winter night with flowers barely sprouting from the sidewalk and the town voices in the background, you’ve never felt so happy.

“You make me so happy, Bucky Barnes.”

His smile damn near breaks your heart. Resting his forehead on yours, he vows, “Tell me if that ever changes, Doll. I only ever want to make your heart beat for mine. I only ever want my heart to ache for you. Love of my life, introduce me as yours.”

You giggle, “Poetic, Barnes.”

He smiles again, happy to see his words landing. “Only around you.”

And isn’t that what love is? Spouting random poetic verses because you just can’t help it? Finally meeting the person who prompts you to do so. They don’t have to be pure Shakespeare—the emotion behind the poems is enough.

So you vow to make your life with Bucky Barnes a poem, where each new verse is more beautiful than the last, original and sincere. Endless, and true.

“Let me see, let me see, let me see!” Kate shouts, jumping up and down, practically shaking the windows of the living room. Everyone’s crowded in your dad’s house for Christmas morning, even Sarah and the boys, Monica, and Peggy. No one tells Kate to calm down, nor do they ask what she’s so excited about.

They saw the ring. They grabbed your hand. They’ve all been screaming just as loud as her.

You didn’t show anyone last night. After Bucky proposed, you had simply gone home and made love again. So the proposal was just yours and his, a secret to keep for a few hours. You basked in the glow, in the knowledge no other human being had. Sure, everyone knew he was going to do it, but they didn’t know if he was going to go through with it.

And when you walked down the stairs, realizing that Steve had not come into your room last night and no one had pulled Bucky out, you know that they all expected.

So you show Kate the ring again, holding your hand out as she tugs you across the living room, modeling you to everyone. Everyone gives their congratulations; everyone looks so damn happy.

Presents are exchanged—you still managed to buy that book for Bucky—plans are discussed, and food is eaten. You look around the room, at your full house, and cannot contain your glee. Turning slightly, you let the tear slip, hoping nobody noticed.

But Bucky does. With a gentle swipe across your cheek, he reinforces your love for him. Shows his love for you. Fortifies it. Simple, and yet not at all.

TAGLIST: [on masterlist]

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

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