Bucky’s Bklyn Doll

A/N: at this point I guess grumpy lonely old man!bucky being obsessed with reader has become my trademark 😭 jokes aside, this was posted a while ago and tbh, it’s one of those stories that I had trouble finishing because... well, yk... 🥵 sorry for any typo and for the “unpolished” smut but I’m really tired and studying for my uni exams. hope you’ll enjoy it 💋

The small neighborhood sits just far enough from the main road to be quiet at all hours, with rows of modest houses and well-kept lawns. Unfortunately, this also means that it’s the type of place where people wave too much and chat for way too long.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t wave, nor does he chat. He tolerates.

He’s in his late forties and time has etched itself into him in ways that make him seem older at first glance: deep lines permanently drawn between his brows, too many grey hairs in his stubble, and a heaviness in his posture that comes from countless years of keeping the world at arm’s length. He is tall, broad in a way that makes doorframes feel narrow and sidewalks feel smaller when he walks down them. His body is solid, built by labor rather than vanity, with thick arms, powerful shoulders, and rough hands scattered in scars and used to grease. There is also a softness at his middle now, a slight curve beneath worn flannels and old t-shirts, the quiet evidence of comfort.

This only makes him more noticeable.

He is attractive and single, the combination of his size, his silence, and that perpetual scowl working in his favor far more than he likes to admit. There is something about a man who doesn’t chase attention that makes people want to offer it freely. Yet the lingering looks at the grocery store are rudely ignored, just like the awkward attempts at conversation at the garage he owns. The notes shamelessly slipped under his windshield wiper promptly end up in the first trashcan he sees—invitations and phone numbers he never glances at twice.

He had done the whole thing once already: the commitment, the shared space, the careful navigation of someone else’s expectations. It had not suited him then, and it certainly doesn’t suit him now. Whatever desire he had for that kind of life had burned out years ago.

His marriage had not even lasted that long. Too many arguments that circled the same problems, too many sharp words that lingered longer than they should have. His ex-wife cared too much about how things looked; he never cared enough. In the end, there was nothing left to fix that didn’t require one of them becoming someone else.

See, Bucky likes his mornings quiet and his evenings untouched by obligation. He enjoys eating alone, fixing things by himself, existing without explanation. Loneliness is just something other people have projected onto him while he built a life where no one asks questions and no one expects answers. Bucky likes it this way, it has become obvious to anyone who lives within a three-house radius of him.

As a matter of fact, the neighborhood knows him as the burly, intimidating man at the end of the street. The one who never smiles, never stops for coffee, never shows up at barbecues or block parties. If he feels gracious enough, he would reply with either a grunt or a curt nod. Kids are warned to not bother him and adults learned quickly that small talk died on his doorstep.

He calls the cops when the rich couple on his left throws backyard parties that stretch past ten. Not because he’s trying to be petty, he simply doesn’t understand why anyone needs music that loud or laughter that forced. He always waits for the patrol car’s lights to flash briefly across his living room wall, jaw set and arms crossed, before going back to his book the second the noise dies down.

He files complaints when someone’s dog won’t stop barking. He once told a door-to-door salesman to fuck off his property without even opening the door. When Murray Hall, the self-proclaimed leader of the street, came knocking to convince Bucky to hang seasonal decorations and was completely ignored, he taped a passive-aggressive, handwritten note to his mailbox about “participation” and “neighborly effort.”

Bucky took it down, folded it once, and dropped it straight into the trash without removing his blue eyes from the older man staring him down across the street.

He has never decorated after that, out of spite. The house stays dark every year, a silent protest no one dares to challenge directly.

His neighbors also learn to not park in front of his driveway, and to not ask him for favors unless it’s an emergency. They don’t expect pleasantries or smiles anymore, because Bucky exists like a locked door—solid, immovable, uninterested in what’s on the other side.

And it works. Until your arrival.

The moving truck is still there when he gets home from work that afternoon, its engine idling too loud since this morning. He stares from his porch as boxes are unloaded, one after the other, boots still on and shoulders tight from a long day under hoods and engines. He frowns, already planning how long he’ll give them before complaining about the noise.

Then you step into view.

You’re carrying a box that looks too heavy for you, arms wrapped around it awkwardly, and someone—a friend, maybe—reaches out to help. You laugh, shake your head and stubbornly keep going. It’s an easy sound, unforced, and it carries down the street like it already belongs there.

Bucky’s frown deepens.

You’re younger than most people who can afford a house in this part of the town, and pretty in a way that feels unfair—soft, bright, lively. You’re wearing worn jeans and a loose shirt, and you look… happy, comfortable.

The neighbors are immediately captivated by your charming presence.

Mrs. Collins from the corner house is already hovering, offering help, smiling too wide. The rich couple—fresh off their last noise complaint—wave enthusiastically from their driveway. Linda Whitman—the same woman who never misses a chance to peer through her curtains—shows up with lemonade to cool off, and right on her heels is Mark Donnelly, still convinced Bucky doesn’t sort his recycling “correctly.” 

He just observes, and that’s when you notice him.

Your gaze lifts absently and finds him standing stiff on his doorstep, arms crossed over his chest and expression carved into permanent disapproval. For a split second, something akin to surprise flickers across your face, but then you smile. Not the polite kind people give out of obligation. A real one.

You lift your hand and wave.

“Hi!” You call warmly.

Bucky doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. He just stares at you for a beat too long, then turns and goes inside, shutting the door with more force than necessary.

From behind the safety of his walls, he tells himself you’re just another neighbor, another disruption… another reason the street won’t be as quiet as it used to be.

Bucky starts to realize there is no such thing as mere coincidence in this fucking town.

The first run-in with you happens at the mailbox. He’s just gotten home, tired from the long day at work and as he flips through bills, footsteps echo behind him. He rolls his eyes.

“Oh, hi!”

Your voice again, familiar already, and that alone annoys him. He glances over his shoulder briefly, enough to see you standing a few feet away, clutching your own stack of mail and smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like he didn’t completely ignore you the first time you tried to introduce yourself.

He grunts in response. Not unfriendly, just… noise.

“I’m your new neighbor.” You continue anyway, as if that wasn’t painfully obvious, and you point at the house right beside his. Then, you tell him your name but he just nods imperceptibly.

You hesitate, clearly waiting for something else, his name maybe, a comment about the neighborhood… anything.

However, you are brutally plunged into an awkward silence.

“Okay.” You draw softly, but recover quickly. “Well, nice to meet you.”

You wait another second yet his gaze doesn’t move from the pile of envelopes in his large hands. When Bucky finally turns to walk away, he can feel your eyes burning through his back, curious rather than offended.

That somehow makes it worse.

The next few times, he tells himself it’s just bad timing.

He’s leaving for work when you’re coming out of your house, keys in hand, sunlight catching prettily in your hair. Of course, you pause when you see him, smiling like it’s reflexive.

“Morning.”

He hums, adjusts his jacket, and walks to his truck without breaking stride. 

Two days later, he’s unloading groceries when you’re struggling with a bag that splits at the bottom of your driveway. Peaches roll everywhere, bright and ridiculous against the gray concrete.

“Shit.” You mutter, crouching to gather them. The movement causes your skirt to ride up your thighs without you noticing, fabric bunching dangerously high as you balance on the balls of your feet.

Bucky looks away too late, his heart giving a series of uncomfortable, fast thuds in his chest. Swallowing thickly, his jaw tightens as he forces the fleeting image of your soft asscheeks snuggled in a pair of pastel green panties out of his mind. 

He hesitates long enough to be annoyed at himself for it. By the time he unconsciously steps forward, you’ve already scooped most of them up. He grabs the last one anyway and hands it to you without a word.

“Thank you.” You gasp, smiling too brightly to someone that did the bare minimum of human decency.

Bucky nods once and leaves before you can say anything else, the violent blush still sitting high on his cheeks has him feeling utterly humiliated.

You don’t stop greeting him after that.

At the gas station, of all places, you spot him across the lot and lift your hand in a small wave. He pretends not to see it. Later, he realizes he knows exactly what your car looks like now, right down to the faint scratch along the rear bumper.

On trash day it’s like you’re waiting by the window for him to walk out, because you’re always there. Sometimes you’re early, sometimes late, but you never fail to find a reason to linger: adjusting the lid, brushing dirt off your hands, commenting about how warm it is these days.

“Hey.” You greet him softly one evening.

He doesn’t answer.

“You don’t talk much.” You add eventually, not accusatory. 

He stiffens, only to drag his bin to the curb harder than necessary.

“Sorry,” you rush out. “I didn’t mean—”

He’s already walking away.

That interaction bothers him more than it should.

The next time you meet there, it’s early morning, the air still crisp, and Bucky’s barely awake to deal with existence. He’s dragging his bin to the curb when he sees you already there, kneeling beside yours and struggling with a torn bag that’s almost spilling onto the pavement.

He stops without meaning to.

You look up when you hear his heavy footsteps, relief lighting up your face at once.

“Oh! Good morning—sorry, I think this thing hates me.” You chuckle quietly, embarrassed, still fighting to close it.

He observes you for a second too long, letting his eyes calmly trace the wrinkle between your furrowed eyebrows, before falling on your bottom lip trapped between your teeth.

With a tired sigh, Bucky steps forward. He grabs the bag, ties it off in one quick motion, and lifts it like it weighs nothing.

Your eyes widen. “Thank you! I really appreciated that.”

Bucky shrugs, already turning away.

“Have a nice day!” You call after him.

He doesn’t answer, but this time, he doesn’t feel as justified about it.

By the end of the second week, everyone is talking about you. It doesn’t take long before your name is pronounced with affection and pride, with the same tone people use when they feel incredibly fond of someone.

Mrs. Reeves can’t stop gushing about you often helping her carry groceries inside, and the rich couple brags—loudly—about you offering to water their plants while they were away on their umpteenth cruise. Murray mentions you bake delicious lemon bars, while Mrs. Johnson praised your kind nature after you volunteered to help clean up at the end of the last neighborhood meeting.

Bucky is forced to hear it all: at the local store, at the garage, over the fence when he’s trying to enjoy a quiet evening in his backyard... and he grits his teeth every damn time.

“She’s exactly what this neighborhood needed.” 

Bucky’s nostrils flare.

How can you make time for everyone, always seem present, listening, patient? How can you never complain about the noise, the interruptions, the way these leeches just take, take and take? You are so open, so willing to be involved, and God—your lips are constantly twisted into this bright, welcoming smile. How the fuck are you always so jolly? So damn... real.

And worst of all, you treat him like everyone else. Still polite, still warm. You beam at him like he hasn’t ignored you a dozen times over.

Irritation bubbles sharply in his chest every time his mind lingers too much on that thought.

Bucky is used to being judged and ignored, he knows how to live with it, how to justify it. But this quiet, persistent generosity doesn’t fit anywhere he has known until now.

On one of the rare summer dusks when the street is unusually still, Bucky is in his driveway, hood of his truck open, sleeves rolled up and forearms smeared with grease. He’s been chasing the same problem for an hour, the wrinkle between his brows deepening as his frustration grows. 

He doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching, already huffing in annoyance.

“Hi.” 

His hands freeze.

You’re standing at the edge of his property, far enough to be respectful, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You look unsure for once, like you’re bracing yourself for rejection but trying anyway.

Bucky straightens slowly, wiping his hands on the rag he keeps on his shoulder. His eyes flick to you, then back to the engine.

“What do you want?” He asks flatly.

You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.

“I just...” You hesitate, then let out a small breath. “I wanted to ask if I did something wrong.”

That gets his attention.

He looks at you then, really looks at you. Your expression is genuinely distressed, your eyebrows pulled together slightly like this has been bothering you for a while.

“You don’t like me,” you continue softly. “And that’s fine, you don’t have to. I just—” You sigh, dejected. “I’d like to know if there is a reason, since... you know, we are neighbors, and I want to apologize if I’ve ever done or said something to offend you.”

His jaw tightens.

“You didn’t do anything.” He mutters reluctantly.

You tilt your head, studying him. “Then why won’t you talk to me?”

The silence stretches. A car passes at the far end of the street; somewhere, a lawn sprinkler clicks on. He can feel the weight of your patience like a boulder pressing on his chest.

“Everyone says you like to be left alone,” you go on carefully. “I respect that, I really do. But I thought maybe saying hello wasn’t crossing a line.”

“It was.” He replies sternly, too quickly to be considered a mere slip-up.

You blink, clearly taken aback. A hint of hurt flickers across your face before you school it away very efficiently, as if you are used to regulating your emotions in situations that require neutrality.

You nod once. “Okay.”

Your eyes drop to the ground.

“Well, I’m sorry.” Your answer is no louder than a mumble. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

That word makes his stomach churn, but before his brain can elaborate anything useful, Bucky is watching you walk away with his jaw clenched.

That night, as he lies in bed, he stares at the ceiling longer than usual.

The sound of your voice replays in his head without his consent. The way you didn’t push, didn’t accuse, didn’t demand anything from him. You just wanted clarity, already apologizing without even knowing what you did wrong.

Bucky tells himself he did the right thing. This is how he keeps his peace intact. But why, for the first time since you moved in, the quiet doesn’t feel as satisfying as it used to?

It’s later than Bucky’s usual bedtime, the house dark except for the warm lamp on his nightstand. He’s standing in his bedroom, tugging his shirt over his head, muscles sore and heavy after indulging too much at the bar with his friends. The air is still, window and curtains half-open to let in what little breeze this summer decided to grant them this year.

That’s when a light flicks on across the street.

He freezes mid-motion, shirt clenched in his fist.

At first, it doesn’t register as anything more than irritation; Bucky glances toward the window, already scowling. His face falls the moment he realizes that’s your bedroom. The angle is wrong in a way that makes his stomach drop: same height, same alignment. It allows him a clear, unobstructed view straight into the room across from his.

Straight into your world.

You’re lounging on your bed with your laptop on your lap, the lamp beside you casting a golden glow over the framed photos on the walls and a light blanket he recognizes from the day you moved in.

Bucky definitely believes his optometrist was just trying to squeeze more money out of him when he told him he needed glasses, because from here, he can clearly see your nipples poke through the thin fabric of your camisole.

An old, unfamiliar heat stirs low in his belly. He doesn’t remember ever seeing shorts that minuscule.

He shouldn’t be watching.

The thought makes Bucky turn away at once, like he’s been burned, heart thudding harder than it has any right to. He drops the shirt onto the chair and drags a hand down his face.

Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.

When he risks another glance, just to make sure the angle isn’t worse than he thought, you’re holding your phone, laughing quietly at something on the screen. Your houses are too distant for the sound to reach him, but it’s not hard to pretend. He’s heard it before anyway—that soft, high melody that never fails to carry a note of genuineness.  

Forcing himself to step back, Bucky pulls his own curtains shut with more force than necessary. The room feels suddenly too small, too warm.

He goes to bed furious with himself, ignoring the sweat gathering on his forehead and the uncomfortable tightening of his boxers.

The following night, Bucky is more careful. He changes in the bathroom, keeps the lights low, tells himself he won’t look.

He looks anyway.

Your window is lit once again and you’re stretched out on the bed, laptop open by your side this time. You look utterly absorbed in whatever it’s playing on the screen, completely unaware of the grumpy creep spying you from his window.

His body leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.

It’s almost… fascinating, being able to witness the quiet intimacy of someone alone in their own space.

And you are even more beautiful lying there, unguarded and completely relaxed.

The thought comes uninvited and unwelcome.

Bucky swallows as his eyes narrow like he can intimidate the word into leaving his mind. There is no need to make a big deal out of this, he just happens to be here and without much urgency to sleep, that’s all.

He doesn’t move until your movie ends and your light goes out.

Some nights your blinds are already drawn, golden light filtering through the slats. Disappointment makes him frown in disgruntlement, keeping him from falling asleep right away. Those are the same nights he spends wondering if you are getting ready for bed or if you have already fallen asleep with another movie on, the sleeves of your camisole delicately slipping down your shoulders and exposing the swell of your breasts for his gaze to feast upon.

When he does catch you, you’re on your bed, similar to the very first time he saw you, laptop placed in your lap or off to the side. Each time, you also check your phone with a small grin, too often to be a coincidence. 

Who is making you smile this much at that hour of the night?

Days go by with Bucky sticking to the same nightly routine, until he eventually comes to the uncomfortable realization that he could watch you for hours and never tire of it. He learns your small habits without meaning to, like the way you pace your room while on the phone, stopping at the window every so often as if you’ve forgotten something; or the way you stretch your arms over your head when you stand up, slow and uncaring of who might see you from the window that you always leave open. 

When you’re thinking hard, you chew on your bottom lip without realizing it, gaze drifting into nothingness. Sometimes you sit on the edge of your bed for a moment in the morning, shoulders slumping as if the day is slowly assembling itself around you.

When you laugh, you always tilt your head back just slightly, eyes closing as though you don’t want to miss the feeling.

Background noise is your best companion: a TV show you’ve already seen, music playing low from your phone, a YouTube video from your favorite gossip channels that help you empty your mind... anything to fill the silence while you move through your space. You never wander barefoot, nudging things back into place with your slippers. And when you finally settle, you curl in on yourself, drawing your knees up, hand tucked beneath your chin. It’s a posture of comfort, one you only take when you think no one’s watching.

It’s summer, and that means you dress for it, much to his poor heart.

You are constantly wearing clothes that cling dangerously tight to your luscious body: lewd shorts, soft tanks, fitted t-shirts that show how your beautiful curves leisurely bounce whenever you move. The way you’re always warm, always shedding layers, tugging fabric down absentmindedly or pushing it back up makes his head spin.

You like cold drinks during these warm nights, condensation beading down the glass as you carry it back to bed. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, or lying on your stomach with your feet kicking lazily in the air, you keep scrolling on your phone almost absently. When you’re tired, you turn off the light right away, rolling onto your side and leaving the glass on your nightstand—something to busy yourself with first thing in the morning.

Bucky hates how much he notices, how these seemingly stupid details carve themselves into his mind against his will. They feel earned, even though they aren’t.

Tonight, you are definitely not home.

Bucky furrows his brow, eyes flying to the clock on his kitchen wall again as if he didn’t check it merely two minutes ago. It’s past midnight, and your house has been dark since the moment you got out this morning for work. He tries not to let it bother him, because you are a grown woman with a career and it’s a Friday night. Maybe you are still at work, doing something that he hasn’t quite put a finger on yet, or maybe out with friends at a dingy bar downtown.

This doesn’t stop him from perking up like a dog at his owner’s arrival the moment he finally sees your car park in your driveway, his frown immediately deepening as a pair of headlights promptly follows close behind.

You’re not alone. 

Damn this neighborhood and its poor lighting. It’s almost impossible to discern your figure, much less one of someone he doesn’t know. It’s only when he reaches his bedroom after spending ten long minutes behind the curtains in his kitchen in complete darkness, trying to catch sight of you, that Bucky finally registers the mysterious companion’s face.

It’s a man, unrecognizable, only his arms visible as you’re half-naked on your bed, your bra tight against your breasts but your legs bare and parted. Your hand is curled in the man’s hair as his head works under your eager guidance.

Bucky watches you toss your head back and giggle, features crumpled in bliss. 

He rubs his eyes, certain the late hour must be playing tricks on him. Because there is no way his lovely, apparently innocent neighbor is getting her pussy eaten out with her window wide open.

The faint moans from your room inevitably filter into his ears, the shadow of the curtains and his dark room keeping him hidden as his blue eyes hungrily devour the sight. 

Still, an itch burns deep in his chest—an ugly, vengeful beast trying to claw its way out.

Your whimpers and breathy giggles haunt him long after your room has gone dark.

The worst part is that Bucky doesn’t stop there. Maybe he has become a masochist in his old age? Because he truly doesn’t know how to explain how he finds himself so enraptured by you, yet he can’t stop watching as each weekend a new man finds his way into your bed. At this rate, he’d need to make a dentist appointment just to make sure his jaw is still working. It feels permanently clenched these days, every muscle locked tight from the effort of keeping himself under control.

In theory, there isn’t anything wrong with what he’s doing, right? You leave your window open even while getting railed, you keep the lights on, you moan loud enough to attract his attention. And that makes him eventually cave, stroking his cock and coming all over his sweatpants when you’re riding your date of the week, your beautiful breasts bouncing with you as you chase your coveted orgasm.

The worst is that Bucky likes to pretend—in some deeply disturbed part of his mind—that you know he’s there, that you want him to hear. It’s not rare for him to wish your eyes would lock on his cock while you kneel on your bed to allow stranger after stranger to take you from behind.

What a miserable, old man. It’s so pathetic that at his age he’s been reduced to a lonely pervert spying his pretty neighbor while she fucks other men. It’s humiliating enough that he yearns to be in their place.

As much as Bucky enjoys the little shows you put on every weekend, though, the fact that you keep going on dates with random assholes is unbearable. He barely knows you yet he wants to punch in the face every single one of those bastards. Just hard enough to make their smug grin disappear, at least.

That intrusive thought, barreling towards the forefront of his mind before he even realizes it, leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue. It’s unreasonable, he knows that. You’ve been living in this town for almost two months now and you’ve never exchanged a single word since the day he basically implied you make him uncomfortable with your little hello’s and good mornings’.

But these boys don’t know that you like to curl one leg up beneath you when you sit at your desk, squirming in the chair with a cute little frown until you’re balanced just right. They don’t see the way you pause every night before bed to straighten the trinkets on your nightstand, fingers lingering for a second too long on the framed picture placed there before you turn off the lamp.

They don’t know that when you get home from work you drop your bag by the door and go straight to your couch, stretching out flat on your back to stare at the ceiling. No phone, no music, no TV. Just breathing, like you need those fifteen quiet minutes to reset before the world can touch you again.

Bucky knows because these are the moments no one else stays long enough to notice. That realization sits heavy in his chest, equal parts guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness. 

And yet here he is, three months of unfamiliar men pulling up in cars he doesn’t recognize, of you stepping out onto your porch in the evenings dressed just a little differently than usual—shorter hems, softer fabrics, perfume he can’t smell but somehow knows is there. Of watching you laugh with them, lean in close, disappear inside your house while his stays dark and silent.

The possessiveness settles into him like an old injury: dull most days, sharp when he least expects it. He starts resenting how these assholes get to touch you in the most intimate of ways, how they look at you only to disappear before the sun has fully raised over the horizon. As if they have the right to use you and then run away like fucking thieves.

The first time he talks to you after his fiasco it’s late afternoon, the sky colored with shades of pink and orange, and cicadas buzzing loud enough to make his head ache.

Your lawn mower coughs and dies for the third time in a row. Bucky notices because he’s already outside, wiping sweat from his neck, pretending to not see you wrestle with the big device. You’re wearing shorts that keep riding up your thighs and a fitted top, skin warm and gleaming with what he assumes it’s coconut sunscreen.

Every failed pull of the cord makes your frustration more visible.

“C’mon.” You mutter, releasing a sharp exhale.

Bucky sighs, sharp and annoyed—at the mower, at himself, at the way his eyes have been fixed on your ass for too long.

He cuts his own engine and gets closer.

“That mower’s flooded.” He comments offhandedly.

You startle, turning abruptly to face him. You didn’t hear him approach, that’s obvious in the way your hand flies to your chest.

“Sorry,” you mumble quickly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know you were—”

“Pulling it like that won’t help.” He adds, softer this time, like he realizes how harsh he had sounded the first time.

You step back immediately, giving him room without being asked. 

You sigh. “I don’t really know much about engines.”

He crouches beside the device. “Most people don’t.”

There’s a pause in which you frown at his back, your lips pressed in a thin line. 

“You don’t have to—” You start.

“I can fix it,” he interrupts, then winces slightly, clearing his throat. “If you want.”

You study him for a moment with a crease between your brows, like you’re trying to understand if he’s either onto some cruel joke, or if he’s going to make you pay real money for it.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.” Your bashful tone lands wrong in his chest.

“It’s fine.” He mutters.

Bucky works in silence, fingers confident, movements fast but professional. You watch from a safe distance to not suffocate him, arms folded loosely across your chest, your weight shifting from one foot to the other. He’s acutely aware of your uncertainty, of the way the last sun rays gently caress the naked curve of your shoulders, and your teeth worry over your glossy bottom lip.

When he’s done, he stands and nods toward the handle. “Try it now.”

You pull once, and the engine starts immediately, without stuttering.

Your face lights up. “Thank you so much.”

He shrugs, suddenly very aware of how close you are. Too close.

Or maybe not close enough.

“Um,” you say, then smile sheepishly. “This is kind of embarrassing, but… I don’t actually know your name.”

His body stills completely.

“I mean,” you fret. “Everyone just calls you Barnes, and I didn’t want to assume—”

“James.” The word comes out before he can stop himself.

You blink, both your eyebrows raised in surprise. “James.”

He nods once, sharply. His ears burn at the way his name rolls softly on your tongue.

“Most people call me Bucky, though. My friends.”

Your smile turns into something less polite and more personal.

“Alright. Well, it’s nice to finally know.”

There’s another pause, a brief moment in which you simply look up at him with the same pretty eyes he has imagined full of tears as his cock sits heavy in your throat.

“You can call me whatever you want,” he adds quickly. “James or Bucky. Doesn’t matter.”

Your smile grows and the unfamiliar warmth of a blush starts spreading across his cheeks. His eyes jump away first.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.

After that, it becomes a pattern: you need help? Bucky pops out of nowhere ready to resolve your current predicament.

Like the day your car won’t start. Your hood is popped open as you pace your driveway while on the phone with a mechanic, the guy from the night before leaning against the car door looking useless as he waits for his uber, because the bastard doesn’t own a car.

And neither a wallet since you had to pay the entire check by yourself at a rooftop restaurant that he chose because he apparently knew the owner.

Bucky observes from his kitchen window, jaw tight and arms crossed against his chest. He doesn’t like the way the guy talks over you, especially as you fold your arms, shrinking back slightly.

Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.

“Move.” He grunts.

The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.

“Bucky, hi. What—”

“I’ll take care of it.” He mutters simply.

He fixes it in less than ten minutes, and the guy claps him on the shoulder like they’re longtime buddies. Bucky shrugs him off and stares him down like a rabid dog until the other man clears his throat, awkwardly kissing your cheek before stuttering about his uber waiting for him at the end of the street.

Your eyes don’t stray away from your neighbor.

“I really appreciated it.” You quip. “You keep saving me.”

He lightly shakes his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “I’m just good at fixing things.”

Sometimes it’s a loose nail on your porch steps. Sometimes a shelf that won’t stay level. Then it becomes a heavy package you can’t lift on your own, and too many shopping bags that you shouldn’t carry by yourself. Bucky always shows up like it’s coincidence, as if he wasn’t stalking you from his window five minutes earlier.

He never talks much, just grunts, nods, and mumbled greetings. But you don’t complain; not when you get to have a free front-row seat for his bulging arms as the fabric of his t-shirts fights for its life.

There are moments when you start doubting your own sanity. You swear you catch him looking at you. Not openly, or boldly like some of the guys who hit on you during your girls night at the local bar. Just quick glances that carry an unusual amount of intensity. Well, it shouldn’t come as shocking since your neighbor is indeed intense.

Whenever your eyes meet, however, he promptly looks away, cheeks turning a light pink shade and shoulders tense like he’s been caught doing something illegal.

You notice, but still, you keep your distance. You don’t hover, you just thank him, smile, and step back when he’s done. You don’t invite him to stay longer, nor do you push conversation. And Bucky realizes too late that this distance? He deserved it from the very beginning.

Bucky heaves a sigh of relief when he notices you are already tucked in bed tonight, covers pulled up to your waist and phone in your hand. The lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, golden glow that smooths your features. Even from this distance, he can see the sleepy droop of your eyes, and the way you stifle a yawn with the back of your hand before blinking at the screen.

He was out with Steve, Sam and Natasha for a rare night of beers and meaningless chat, the low hum of the local crowded bar wrapping around them like a familiar blanket. He listened more than talked, like always, nodded at the right moments and let the conversation wash over him.

Still, his knee didn’t stop bouncing under the booth.

Steve noticed first, ever the observant, and reached over at one point to press his palm on Bucky’s thigh to stop the frantic movement, his eyebrows lifting in a silent question.

He stilled for exactly ten seconds.

Natasha watched him over the rim of her glass, amused. “You got somewhere to be, Barnes?”

He grunted. “No.”

It’s a blatant lie, and they all knew it.

The truth was, the clock felt too loud tonight. Every minute stretched, every laugh from the table next to them grated on his ears. He checked his phone more than he should have, though there’s nothing on it—no messages, no missed calls. Just time ticking forward, daring him to miss it.

Because if he stayed out too long, he might not see you before going to bed.

Bucky finally made his excuses and left earlier than planned, ignoring Sam’s pointed remark, “You sure you’re okay, Barnes?” and Natasha’s knowing smirk.

The drive home was fast, his knuckles turning white at the tight hold he kept on the steering wheel.

It’s been a week. Seven days since he’s seen you with anyone. And the fear—that sharp, ugly thing moving in his chest—hasn’t still gone away. It’s just been waiting.

The moment he turned onto his street, his eyes went straight to your driveway.

Empty, except for your car.

Relief hit him so hard his chest hurt for a whole minute.

Still, he didn’t trust it. He knew better than to rely on that alone. One of the first guys hadn’t even had a car and had the nerve to force you to drive him home the morning after, like he had any right to ask such a thing. The memory made Bucky’s hands close into two fists, disgust curling hot in his gut. You shouldn’t have to play chauffeur for idiots who don’t know how to behave in front of a goddess like you.

He parked, cut the engine, and didn’t linger. Inside, he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the couch, kicked his boots off without lining them up like he usually does, and took the stairs two at a time. His heart was beating faster than it should have for a man who claims he cares about himself alone.

Your light is on, and there you are.

No one else in your room, just you—alone, safe, winding down.

Bucky exhales, the sound slow and heavy, as if it waited all day trapped in his lungs. His shoulders loosen, and the tight knot in his ribcage eases just a little. He can tell that you are probably going to fall asleep in the next ten minutes, so he decides to look for the sweats and the old t-shirt he uses as pajamas in the meantime.

He’s in his boxers with his broad, hairy torso fully on display, when he commits the grave mistake of glancing out his window, a meaningless check that ends up punching the air out of his lungs.

The covers have been thrown back and your phone now lies forgotten on the mattress by your side because your hands are too busy fondling your breast through that stupidly thin camisole. Your panties are snuggled between the folds of your pussy, the fabric tight and wet. Your eyes soon squeeze close as your index fingers quickly flick over your nipples, making you flinch at every electrifying jolt of pleasure.

He’s seen you have sex plenty of times, but never succumb to your own insatiable need enough to play with yourself.

You pull your nipples harshly, your back arching up to follow your cruel fingers, before you start playing with them through the fabric of your top. As his boxers grow tighter and his breath labored, he wonders if you are pretending it’s someone else’s toying with your turgid peaks.

Bucky lets out a shaky exhale, his hands limp at his sides clenching into two perfect fists that turn his knuckles white. He could take care of your breasts: kiss the soft flesh until you are begging him to make the ache go away, and then spend the rest of the night worshipping your nipples with his mouth and the light scrape of his teeth. He could suckle on those pretty nubs and then flick them with his warm tongue until you gush in your panties, your tits numb and your pussy clenching around nothing.

What prompted this? Were you watching something on your phone and craved the same release you looked for after every date? Or were you sexting with the guy lucky enough to earn your attention these days?

Your chest heaves as both your hands trace their way down your sides, before hooking into the hem of your panties and throwing the fabric somewhere on the floor.

He wishes he could be there with you, letting his big, experienced hands work your curves. He wishes he could take the same panties you just discarded and bring them home with him, your unique scent still clinging onto the delicate fabric. Bucky would risk it all and bring them to the garage just to lock himself into the restroom whenever he misses you and jerk himself off with them wrapped around his cock. He would suck on the gusset and let your taste on his tongue and your scent on his stubble tease him throughout his shift, just to keep his half-hard cock in a taunting limbo of pain and bliss until he can come home and finally slide back into your wet warmth.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters, gasping as he palms his painful erection.

A low groan claws out of his throat as his hand meets wet fabric, precum steadily leaking from the tip and knees embarrassingly buckling.

Bucky watches in awe as you lift the hem of your camisole up until your collarbones, your eyelids fluttering shut in relief as your hands can finally feel your tits without barriers. He must look so pathetic as he strains his ears in hope to catch one of your sweet mewls.

Your fingers glisten after you touch your aching pussy. Your mouth forms a perfect circle when you play with your folds, biting your bottom lip as you inevitably end up stroking your throbbing clit.

Bucky can’t help it anymore as he shoves his boxers mid-thigh, allowing his fingers to wrap around his imposing length. His teeth draw blood from his bottom lip as he tries to muffle a loud groan when he falls into the rhythm of lazily strokes.

When your digits finally plunge inside, Bucky shivers with you. Fire burns in his belly wild and uncontrollable as he imagines splitting you open himself and watching you swallow up his long fingers. His eyes momentarily close at the thought of your folds under his tongue and the softness of your skin under his calloused hands.

When his eyelids flutter open again, you are sitting up. His teeth grind as his dark eyes follow the length of your gorgeous body. Then, you turn around, back to the window... and kneel.

His eyes trail the curve of your ass in awe, before a strangled moan almost makes him choke when you bend over, finally giving a clear view of your soaking folds from behind.

His breath hitches, lips parting when your knees spread until there is nothing else to hide. Bucky is one thread of self-control away from running to your door and begging you to let him kiss and lick your pretty pussy the way it deserves. He would nurse on your clit and guide your hips to grind on his face until you suffocate him with your thighs. His cock twitches at the sole thought of playing with you so good you end up squirting all over his face.

He would pay to live between your thighs and for you to use his body whenever, wherever and however you want.

His eyes eagerly follow the movement of your fingers as they are lightly dragged through your wet folds, his tongue lazily licking his lips as he notices your slick lewdly clinging to your skin. From this position, he can clearly see your thighs tensing as you dip your fingers back inside, your other hand snapping back up to grab one of your tits. Your fingers cruelly tug and flick your hard nipple, causing you to squirm at the double stimulation.

Bucky wonders if you would trash around just as much with his cock stretching you out. If your hips would fidget so cutely from how restless and cock-drunk you are; if you would like for his rough hands to press you into the mattress, forcing you to stay put and just take it.

His hand instantly matches your pace as you start to enthusiastically finger yourself, precum sticking to his palm as he uses it to make the glide smoother. It feels so good he wants to close his eyes and savor it. But he can’t, not when you alternate strong thrusts with harsh slap to your clit, almost to the point of pain, whining and gasping as you work yourself up.

Bucky licks his lips again, panting like a dog at the thought of having you on his bed for him to lick you everywhere. You’d be so fucking wet for him as he pounds into you, deep and hard just like he knows you need to be fucked. His ears would be blessed with your little, breathy whines and your nails would dig into his skin as he roughly throws your legs over his shoulders, leaving him to bear the visible marks of your wild love-making.

They would burn every time water hits them, a living reminder of your tight pussy.

Suddenly, you are squirming harder, and Bucky imagines your features go slack. Or maybe your eyes are rolling back as your lips part around a filthy moan muffled by those fucking sheets. He senses the pressure in his abdomen threatening to burst at the thought of how good you must feel right now, utterly lost in the throbbing of your pussy and the cruel thrusts of your own fingers. So engrossed that you couldn’t care less about exposing your bare, wet core to your open window, disregarding the fact that anyone walking by could accidentally look up and see your little debauched show.

Did you do that on purpose? Are you so desperate that you hope someone might see you and touch themself to you playing with your sweet pussy?

Bucky growls out a curse.

He can tell you are close by the way your hips keep jerking helplessly to meet your ruthless fingers.

When you finally come, it’s completely different from the previous times with your dates: your torso heaves dangerously fast and your body shudders and shakes as the electrifying climax claims you entirely. You end up gushing all over the sheets, crying out as your squirt sprays all over your hand, the inner skin of your thighs, the bed... It’s a complete mess and Bucky wants to punch a hole through the wall.

With a trembling breath, the pressure snaps for him as well. He comes with a deep groan, thighs shaking as hot spurts of cum coat his hand—some even land on the wall by the window. He doesn’t stop stroking yet, not when you are still kneeling on your bed, face pressed against the mattress as your fingers lazily tease your wet folds, your poor hole helplessly clenching around nothing.

When he can think clearly again, Bucky notices his sight is a little foggy. The intense release leaves his head spinning, and one of his hands has to shoot forward to balance himself against the windowsill. Yet he refuses to move from his favorite place until you sluggishly straighten up on your shaky arms. His breath hitches again at the weak, content smile on your face as you suck your fingers clean.

Tonight, he reflects with his eyes still hungrily staring at your naked breasts, his need for you has been sated. But Bucky knows this will never be enough.

That Sunday morning you hear on the news that it’s going to rain all day. The sun is out when you check on your flowers by the porch, still, you choose to not water them for now, glancing every few minutes toward the horizon where dark clouds have been slowly swallowing the bright blue sky.

By lunch, the air feels thick and humid against your skin, the familiar chirps of the birds going strangely quiet.

You are rinsing a plate in the sink when the first crack of thunder rolls across the neighborhood. It’s not close enough to be alarming, but you pause anyway.

A second rumble follows several minutes later.

Then a third.

And rain starts shortly after.

At first the sound of the fat drops tapping against the windows is kind of relaxing. You expected it to pass within twenty minutes, just like any other summer storm. Except the wind starts picking up, causing the trees behind your house to sway dangerously strong. Thunders grow louder and closer, and by the time you wander into the living room to look outside, rain is battering sideways against the glass violently enough to blur the entire street.

The power goes out merely five minutes after. One second the living room is faintly illuminated by the warm glow of your rose gold lamp and the flickering light of the television, the next everything vanishes beneath a blanket of darkness.

You have just finished lighting a candle when a deafening crack echoes somewhere outside, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. The noise is so sudden and so loud that it tears a startled gasp from your throat before you can stop it, leaving you motionless in the middle of your living room with your pulse racing.

It’s the sharp sound of a knock that makes you flinch all over again.

For a brief, embarrassing moment you simply stare at the entryway, your imagination unhelpfully supplying every possible horror movie scenario before common sense finally reasserts itself. Nobody is wandering around suburban neighborhoods during a thunderstorm unless they have a very good reason.

The second knock comes almost immediately afterward, so you finally cross the room to open the door.

The sight of your grumpy neighbor is unexpectedly reassuring, even if he is the last person you expected to find standing on your porch.

Even if Bucky Barnes has slowly become a more regular presence in your life than either of you would probably admit, there is an abysmal difference between him helping when a problem presents itself, and him showing up at your front door in the middle of a downpour.

Rain has dampened the shoulders of his dark t-shirt and left small droplets clinging to his long hair, but he looks otherwise unaffected by the weather. His gaze lands on your face and remains there for a second longer than necessary, his expression carefully neutral despite the obvious scrutiny.

“Are you alright?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. “Hi, Bucky.”

His mouth tightens slightly, and instead of returning the greeting, he asks again. “Are you alright?”

There is a note of urgency in his voice that immediately makes you straighten.

“Yeah,” you reply, clearing your throat to get rid of that hint of surprise. “Yes, I’m alright.”

His eyes briefly scan your face as though he’s verifying the answer for himself.

“Did the branch hit the house?” The question comes so quickly it almost overlaps your response.

“What?”

“The one that fell in your backyard.”

Your eyes widen. “What the hell?”

A small frown appears between his brows. “Didn’t you hear the noise? A tree branch came down a few seconds after the power went out.”

“Oh.”

That’s what that noise was.

“Did it hit anything?”

Your eyes land back on his solemn expression. “I don’t think so...?”

One of his eyebrows lifts. “You don’t think so?”

Despite yourself, a smile tugs at your lips. “Well, I haven’t exactly gone outside to conduct a thorough inspection. The weather’s been making that a tad difficult.”

For a moment he simply observes you in silence, before giving a short nod. The movement is subtle, but it carries an unmistakable sense of relief, and for reasons you can’t quite explain, that realization warms your chest.

Before you can ask if he needs anything else, a particularly violent crack of thunder splits the air. The sound is so loud it seems to shake the entire street, rattling the windows hard enough to make you flinch.

Bucky’s blue eyes instinctively drop to your shoulders, registering your reaction.

“My electricity’s still on.” He blurts out, the words almost sound as though they’ve escaped by accident.

You blink. “Okay?”

His gaze flicks briefly on your lips before returning to your eyes.

“If you want,” he starts, oddly careful. “You could come over until they fix it.”

Behind him, lightning illuminates the grey sky in a flash of white. You watch him shift awkwardly where he stands, and it occurs to you that he looks strangely tense, though not in the irritated way you’ve grown accustomed to over the past months.

If anything, he seems uncomfortable.

It’s such an unfamiliar look on the mean, old Scrooge of the neighborhood that it takes your brain a moment to fully accept it. In all the months you’ve known Bucky, you’ve seen him annoyed, impatient, guarded, even awkward on occasion... but you’ve never seen him hesitant.

The uncertainty beneath all that careful composure is unexpectedly endearing.

For the first time since you’ve moved in this small town, Bucky doesn’t look like a man trying to keep everyone at arm’s length.

He looks like a man hoping you won’t say no.

Bucky disappears into the kitchen with a muttered comment about making coffee, some of the tension that had accompanied the walk through the storm finally beginning to ease from your shoulders. The sound of running water drifts from the other room as you wander farther into the living room.

You have spent weeks wondering what his house looked like on the inside.

The answer, it turns out, is exactly what you should have expected.

Nothing about the room feels designed to impress anyone. There are no decorative pieces chosen because they match a color palette, no trendy furniture purchased from a catalog, no signs that he has ever stood in a home goods store and wondered whether a particular lamp would tie the room together. Everything appears to have been selected because it serves a purpose.

The couch is large and comfortable, upholstered in a dark fabric that would probably survive a natural disaster. The coffee table is solid wood, bearing enough small imperfections to suggest it was built by hand rather than purchased. A folded blanket rests neatly over one arm of the couch, and even from several feet away you can tell it has been folded the exact same way a hundred times before.

The room is clean but there are signs of life everywhere you look, none of them accidental, though. A mug sits on a side table beside an armchair. A motorcycle magazine has been left on the corner of the coffee table. A set of keys rests inside a ceramic bowl near the front door.

Every object appears to have a place, and every place appears to have been carefully chosen.

Your attention eventually settles on the bookshelf occupying most of the wall where the TV is located.

“Well,” you murmur to yourself, moving closer. “This feels promising.”

The shelves are packed tightly enough that some books have been stacked horizontally on top of others. Most of the collection is exactly what you would expect from someone like Bucky: history books dominate the upper shelves, many of them thick enough to qualify as blunt-force weapons; there are biographies, military histories, books about espionage, intelligence operations, and wars that lasted years. Lower shelves contain books about engineering, restoration projects, woodworking, mechanics, and enough technical manuals to make you wonder whether he has ever encountered a machine he wasn’t determined to dismantle.

The psychology section catches you by surprise.

At first you notice one or two titles.

Then five turn to ten.

Soon you’re standing in front of an entire shelf dedicated to trauma, memory, relationships, attachment theory, behavioral science, and enough books about human interaction to make you laugh quietly under your breath.

Your eyes continue scanning titles with a subtle admiration for the older man, until a pink cover makes you stop.

“No.” A grin immediately spreads across your face, because wedged between two thick books about obsessions sits a romance novel.

You pull it from the shelf and examine the cover, where a broad-shouldered man glares possessively while holding a woman against his chest.

“Oh, Bucky.”

You cover your giggle with your hand, sliding the book back into place only to discover other romance novels not too far away.

The revelation is so unexpected and so delightfully embarrassing that your hopes for this rainy afternoon have been restored.

You reach for one of them, intending to inspect the cover more closely, and that’s when something slips free from behind it.

The object hits the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.

Your smile falters, prompting you to briefly glance over your shoulder, but Bucky seems to be too busy to notice the noise.

Crouching down, you quickly reach for what seems to be a black journal that has inevitably fallen open.

You only glance at the page because you’re trying to close it, until your limbs freeze, because that’s your name written inside.

The handwriting is unmistakably Bucky’s—or well, it must be. Unless there is some roommate hidden somewhere who only comes out at night.

The page begins with a date, followed by a paragraph... about you.

You read the first few lines without fully understanding what you’re looking at, shaking your head in astonishment as your eyes go back to the beginning.

She spent most of the afternoon in her backyard in a red bikini pretending to read. I don’t think she made it through more than ten pages before she fell asleep. The book slid off her lap eventually and startled her awake. She looked around immediately afterward to make sure nobody had seen it happen. Looks adorable when her eyes widen in surprise.

As you turn the pages, confusion gives way to a sharp realization.

Every entry is about you.

Every. Single. Day.

Some are short, others span several pages, yet each one is carefully dated, documenting something from your life.

She came home later than usual tonight and sat in her car for eleven minutes before going inside. I don’t like to see her exhausted. Whatever happened at work must have been bad because she didn’t even stop to check the mail as usual.

As usual?

How many times has your neighbor watched you to take on your little unconscious habit?

Your eyes move lower.

I almost walked over and punched that asshole in his teeth. Didn’t. She probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

The entries continue. Page after page after page.

The yellow sweater again. I still think it’s her favorite. Is yellow her favorite color?

She talks to her flowers when she thinks nobody is listening.

Murray spent twenty minutes talking to her today. I couldn’t hear the conversation and I hated that more than I should have.

You swallow thickly, your breath hitching at what comes next.

Another date tonight. He arrived late and she apologized to him for being too early. I still don’t understand why she lets people walk all over her.

Your eyes momentarily look away with a sigh. 

It’s been weeks from your last date, and though it’s not that long, it still feels strange, noticeable in a way you don’t quite know how to explain.

You haven’t heard back from anyone. Not the guy from the wine bar who made you laugh until your cheeks hurt, not the one who talked about books like they were old friends. A few polite follow-up texts went unanswered, a couple never even shown as read. One morning, you realized that someone had blocked your number altogether.

You know dating is messy, and chemistry isn’t guaranteed. Honestly, you never truly clicked with most of them. There was always something missing—an ease that never quite settled, a spark that fizzled before it could catch.

Still, it stings. Because they appeared charming, funny, attentive. They looked at you like they wanted to stay, like the night spent together between your sheets meant something more than a couple of pleasantries the day after, at best. And then they were gone by morning, disappearing completely from your life. You still had fun, sure, but it left you wondering if you’d imagined the connection at all. Until you’d started to wonder if the problem was you.

You swallow, shaking your head lightly as you go back to the next page.

She came home smiling, but it wasn’t real. I know the difference.

You gasp at the next paragraphs.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I did it. I went over to that asshole and told him to not come back. He ran away. Filthy coward.

I threatened two other guys. I know she would probably hate me for this, but they never wait for her to wake up, and my girl deserves better.

His girl?

The farther you read, the more obvious it becomes that these aren’t mere records of an unstable, bored neighbor.

She bought a new sundress. Nothing too different from the others, but this one is a shade lighter of blue. Like the one covered in small daisies (the same one who hugs her prefect cleavage tightly). Nobody else would notice the difference. I did.

I heard the sound of her laugh from my room yesterday night. I never slept so well.

This morning I caught a whiff of her hair as she greeted me before going to work. Did she change shampoo?

There is something painfully intimate about the way Bucky writes about you, as though every insignificant moment has been carefully preserved and revisited later. He notices things your friends probably don’t register until you are the one telling them. Things you don’t notice about yourself but that completely make sense.

This notebook is not a simple log. It reads like devotion twisted into something unhealthy.

Your fingers tighten around the cover as you turn another page.

I should stop looking for her every night.

The handwriting grows slightly messier beneath that sentence.

I should stop wondering who she’s with when she doesn’t come home until late. I should stop thinking about her when I’m trying to work. I should stop imagining conversations that never will happen. I should stop watching her when she comes out of the shower.

I should stop. But I don’t want to.

By the time you hear footsteps approaching from the kitchen, your pulse is hammering hard enough to echo in your throat.

When you lift your head, you find Bucky standing in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee.

The moment his eyes land on the notebook, every trace of color drains from his face.

“James.”

This mountain of a man actually flinches, his eyes wide on the object in your hands. His jaw tightens when he notices your expression—furious, eyes blazing.

“What is this?” Your voice comes out far quieter than you intended. Still, your hands snap the journal close with a sharp thud.

That seems to unsettle him more than if you had shouted.

Bucky carefully sets the mugs down on the nearest surface before dragging a hand over his jaw.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.” He replies tiredly.

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s what you have to say right now? Seriously?”

His expression tightens. “No.”

“You’ve been literally documenting my entire life like I’m some kind of lab project.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not—”

“Don’t,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t start minimizing it.”

He swallows thickly.

“You…” Your voice shakes. “You’ve been watching me like this the entire time? Every day?”

“I didn’t—” Bucky starts, then stops again, as if he can’t find a version of that sentence that could help him. “I wasn’t—”

“You weren’t what?” You laugh, caustic and humorless. “Do you have any idea of how I feel right now? It’s fucking insane to find out that the same man who ignored me for months and barely acknowledged I existed, has written pages upon pages describing my fucking perfume and confessing to threaten the people I bring home.”

His gaze drops again as he steps back half a pace, visibly restraining himself. You can see it in the way his hands flex, the way his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths.

“Do you do this with everyone?” You press, words coming faster now, sharper. “Is this some kind of fucked up hobby of yours? Being a shitty neighbor until you decide to start… what, cataloguing people?”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You are so fucking confusing.” You continue, voice rising. “One minute you won’t even look at me, and the next you’re mowing my lawn, carrying my groceries like it’s your job—”

“I just wanted to help you.”

“—and for fuck’s sake, you were threatening my dates!” You shriek. “What do you want from me, Bucky?”

The room is plunged into an uncomfortable silence, the only noise being the gentle pitter-patter of the rain from the opened window in the kitchen.

Bucky takes that moment to let his eyes wander over you. Your chest is heaving with distress, your eyes shining slightly… and still, you look fucking gorgeous, wearing one of your stupidly short sundresses that leave everything and nothing to the imagination. His gaze flicks away like the sight burned his pupils, then comes back on your face, darker.

“I just want you safe.” He states roughly, like it costs to say it out loud.

You scoff. “From what? Dating?”

“From them.” He growls, frustration finally cracking through the composed, grouchy facade. “From men who don’t deserve you.”

You blink astonished. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“They take what you give them and then run away,” he shoots back. “They leave before morning like you’re something they’re ashamed of. Like you’re disposable.” His voice lowers, growling with conviction.

You look momentarily taken aback by the abrupt change in his behavior, yet you refuse to back down.

“That still doesn’t make it right for you to meddle in my personal life.”

“I know,” he stresses, stepping closer despite himself. “But watching you give your time so easily to guys who don’t even have the decency to say goodbye before disappearing like fucking criminals—who can’t see how lucky they are for you to spare them even one second of your attention… sweetheart, it drives me fucking insane.”

You can feel a certain wetness spread across your panties at his growl, but your brows furrow in irritation. “You don’t even know them.”

“I know enough.” Bucky answers fiercely. “I know none of them are good enough for you.”

Silence slams down between you, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.

“I didn’t ask for... whatever you are doing.” You whisper eventually.

“I know.”

“Then stop deciding things for me!” You bark. “Stop acting like you know me when you never even bothered to introduce yourself in the first place!”

Bucky steps closer again. Now you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell oil and soap and something unmistakably him. Your anger is still there, hot and bright, but there’s something far too dangerous curling underneath it.

His eyes drop to your mouth, and his nostrils flare.

“Every time you bring home someone,” he starts quietly. “I tell myself it’s none of my business. Every damn time.”

“And yet.” You mock ironically.

“And yet,” he admits through gritted teeth. “I lose my fucking mind.”

Your heart stutters. “You don’t get to be jealous.” Swallowing, you try to steady yourself, though your voice wavers toward the end.

“You don’t get to act like this when you’ve never given me anything back.”

His hand lifts, hesitating before your wrist, then drops again at his side like it’s taking all his restraint to not touch you.

“I’m trying,” he hisses. “I swear to God, I am.”

“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.

“To stay away from you.”

You take a step forward, chest nearly brushing his. “Then why are you still standing here making excuses?” You provoke, slightly tilting your head.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Bucky’s brain is screaming at him to step back, to put space between you, to remember every reason this is a bad idea—your anger, his obsession, the line he’s already crossed a dozen times without touching you once.

But all he can think about is the way your eyes are bright with fury and something almost playful, daring, that makes heat coil low in his gut. He’s spent months watching you from a distance, telling himself proximity is dangerous, and now you’re right here, beautiful and fierce, challenging him.

His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to close the last thread of distance between you. His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails leaving behind crescent shapes like that would be enough to hold himself back. His ears are ringing, completely drowning out reason, his heart pounding with the knowledge that one wrong move will ruin everything—or change it beyond repair.

God, he wants you so bad.

He wants to grab, to pull, to prove that this isn’t just mere jealousy or some twisted sense of protection. That it’s been you, all along, settling into his bones without his permission.

He dips his head just enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth, his hands reaching for you like it’s instinct, like gravity has finally won. One hand cups your jaw, coarse and warm, his thumb lovingly stroking your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is rough, and that’s when you really notice how close he is to losing control. 

His chest rises too fast, too deep, just like yours; his fingers sport a faint tremble that reflects weeks of barely contained desire—it’s so intense that you can feel him everywhere without him completely touching you. The weight of his attention has a sudden warmth creeping up your neck, his blue eyes flicking to your mouth like this is the most beautiful mistake he’s about to make.

Bucky’s been fighting this longer than you have, and every step he’s taken toward you these last months has cost him something precious.

His sanity.

And instead of frightening you, it makes your breath hitch.

Because you need this.

You want the man who’s been watching from the sidelines, holding himself back, burning quiet holes into the space between you. You want the restraint to snap, be the thing he finally stops denying himself.

Your hands are aching to touch him, to guide his palms everywhere and see what happens when he finally understands that you’ve been craving him just as much. Yet you stay exactly where you are, refusing to give him the out he’s begging for.

The journal is long forgotten on the ground by the time hunger flashes across his eyes, and Bucky finally makes you his.

The kiss is exactly what you imagined before falling asleep every night: pent-up and desperate and full of everything he’s been swallowing down for months. His mouth claims yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, more teeth and tongue than lips. You moan quietly at the feeling of his hands moving frantically and certain—one still gripping your jaw while the other fists the fabric at your waist like he needs to anchor himself. 

It’s rough, urgent... too much and still not enough.

You gasp against his lips, the sound swallowed at once when he deepens the kiss. Delicately tilting your head back, he looms over you as his arm tightens around your torso with a low groan. 

Your hands come up without thinking, clutching his shirt as you kiss him back just as hard, just as recklessly, anger and longing blurring together until there’s nothing but your mouths moving against each other and the frenzied pull of your clothes.

Bucky breaks away just enough to press his forehead to yours, breathing heavily while his hand cups your cheek like he needs to make sure you’re real.

“Shit.” He mutters, wrecked. His lips are on yours again, slower this time but no less intense, as though he’s trying to memorize the shape with bruising urgency.

His hands wander everywhere they shouldn’t like he can’t decide what to hold onto first, a low sound out tearing out of his chest when he squeezes the flesh of your ass.

“You know how hard it was watching that?” He speaks against your lips.

You blink dumbly and he laughs once, short and bitter, like the sound hurt him. His grip tightens. 

“You have no idea, do you? I had to stay put and watch them have you. Watch you smile at them, touch them...” His jaw flexes. “Do things I could only live in my wildest dreams.”

You press a hand to his chest, firmly. “Bucky.”

For a moment, he looks like he might shut down completely. His shoulders tense, eyes flicking away before forcing themselves back to yours when that rare pink blush appears high on his cheeks. 

“I started that journal because I thought it could keep me sane.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to watch you at first. It just… happened one night. And then I couldn’t stop.” His voice drops, raw and shaky. “Every night. I knew your routines, when you were alone... when you weren’t.”

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and you gulp before peering up at him through your eyelashes. “I know.” You admit softly.

“I apologize for how you had to find out but not for doing it—” He stills, eyes widening slightly. “What did you just say?”

“I hoped you would.” Your voice is steady, even as your pulse races. “Every time I took them home, I wondered if you were there.”

Bucky surges forward before he realizes it, kissing you roughly as his arms squeeze your waist, pressing you firmly against his chest. Beneath your hands, he feels warm and strong in the most reassuring way. His body carries the strength of someone who has spent a lifetime working with his arms, thick muscle hidden beneath a layer of softness that only makes him feel impossibly solid.

“What was that little act you put up here just now, huh sweetheart?” He pants against your mouth. “All this time I’ve been beating myself up over it.” His lips move on your neck, making you gasp. 

“An old, dirty creep jerking off to his pretty younger neighbor fucking other guys, imagining I was the one driving my cock into her sweet pussy.” You shiver as his palm spreads over your asscheek again, squeezing until it leaves a light sting behind. 

“But you are just as filthy as me, baby.” 

Your heart is desperately trying to get out of your chest, excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your belly at his rougher treatment. 

His other hand grips your jaw sternly to force you to meet his eyes. “Am I right?”

Your fury is now reduced to a distant, fading hum. You don’t stop him when his hand ends up under the short hem of your dress, encouraging you to spread your legs a little. 

“Bucky.” You moan as the tips of his fingers tease your inner thigh. “S—Someone might see.” You protest weakly.

He briefly glances around, noticing the sun is finally out again and you are both standing in the middle of his living room, right before the window overlooking the main street and the sliding ones leading to his backyard, directly attached to the rich couple’s house. 

“Better stay quiet then.” 

And his fingers slide in your panties to play with your folds, his other hand still fondling your ass. 

Your back arches when he circles your clit with slow yet firm pressure. 

“There we go, sweetheart.”

You tilt your hips into his hand in a silent plea for more, and Bucky obliges with a low snicker. 

“How were they?” He mumbles against your collarbone, surprisingly put together as he lowers your panties until they fall, pooling at your ankles. “Did they know how to touch you? Did they make you feel this good?”

You shake your head, eyes squeezing shut as two fingers spread you open without warning. His other palm comes down on your ass, heavy and unforgiving, making you whimper.

“Answer me.” 

“Not—not like you.” You admit, head falling forward with a gasp as his thumb works over your throbbing nub, rubbing it with a steady rhythm. “Oh my God.” 

“Good girl, right answer.” He growls out, attacking the slope of your neck with kisses and bites. “That’s why you put on a show for me every weekend. Those bastards weren’t satisfying you, so you needed your grumpy ol’ neighbor to touch you in front of the whole neighborhood.”

Your fingers dig into his forearms as you feel your climax approaching, raw and electric.

“Don’t be so full of yourself.” You manage, voice shaking and face still hidden against his shoulder.

“Hm, I’ve indeed a thing full just for you, doll.” He smirks, his unoccupied fingers curling around your wrist to yank it on his jeans-cladded crotch, the heat of his cock pressing insistently against your palm. Your eyes go wide at the imposing shape.

Your fingers twitch, squeezing his bulge as his tip leaks under the fabric, eliciting a low noise out of his throat that surprises you. 

“What? Cat got your tongue now?” His hot whisper tickles your ear. “That’s right, feel it sweetheart. That’s all for you, look what you do to me.” He grits out.

His fingers pressing rough and insistent on your sweet spot make you whine, a high-pitched sound that he immediately silences with his lips. 

“Quiet. The kitchen window is open, and that asshole Murray could come out any minute.” He murmurs against your mouth. “Unless you want him to see you like this.”

You can’t elaborate a logical answer, even if you want to scream that no, you only want Bucky’s attention, though the possibility of being caught with him fingering you right in the middle of his living room only makes you clench harder around his digits. The bastard has the nerve to grin at that, curling inside you in perfect tandem with the dizzying friction of his thumb on your clit.

“C’mon, doll.” He pushes, panting as your fingers keep toying with his erection. “Come prettily around my fingers and I’ll let you touch it.”

Your thighs tremble under his relentless pace. “I—fuck!” You moan, tossing your head back as your orgasm finally hits you, your eyes squeezed shut and your hips desperately following his hands as Bucky keeps thrusting into you, until you slump forward exhausted, forehead colliding with his firm pec.

“This is what you wanted?” Bucky murmurs on the top of your head, voice cocky as his fingers slide out gently, leaving you empty but tingling.

He barely puts effort into hiding his smug smile, leisurely looking out of the window for any nosy pair of eyes while he adjusts your dress with such nonchalance. As if he didn’t just make you come on a random Sunday afternoon.

You shake your head, and when you glance back up at him, Bucky’s breath hitches at the sight of your bitten-raw lips and hazy eyes. 

“Need more.”

He makes sure to keep your jaw in place as he thrusts his tongue in your mouth, just like he promised he would do with your pussy. A whimper escapes your throat at the depraved action before Bucky pulls back to study your features, a string of saliva connecting your shiny lips.

“Stay put.” He commands, gently guiding you back until you are bending over the windowsill. 

His muscled arm comes over you and opens the window, leaving your torso exposed to the driveway. 

“Such a messy girl.” He mutters to himself. It sends little shivers down your spine, your face hot as he parts your folds with his thumbs. 

He promised he would let you touch it. 

“Don’t whine. I have to make sure she’s ready for it, sweetheart. How else is my fat cock gonna fit in this tight little pussy?” 

You nod dumbly, biting your bottom lip when the gentle breeze caresses your face, a brutal reminder of your debauched position. You can’t believe you’re really here, bent over his open window for anyone to see. It’d be pretty obvious to anyone walking by what’s going on, since you are literally in Bucky Barnes’ house—the same person who would prefer listening to a chainsaw go off all night rather than say hi to a fellow human being—and your lips keep parting around shameless moans.

It could take anything to make your neighbors across the street look out of their window and see you.

“Bet our dear neighbors would die of heart attack if they could see you crying for a grumpy, old man’s dick.” He taunts, spreading your legs apart as he kneels behind you, softly kissing the inside of your thighs. “Such an adorable angel, so innocent and polite... who likes getting her pussy pounded by mean, cranky Barnes for everyone to hear.” 

His fingers spread through your folds, exposing your core to the humid air to take a tentative lick. “I knew you’d taste fucking delicious.”

“Careful, old man.” You pant shakily, eager to see him lose control. “At your age you can’t go that hard. Heart attacks, herniated disks, cramps... anything can—Bucky!”

Two of his fingers slide inside your hole at once, leaving you gasping and holding onto the windowsill for dear life as your legs tremble embarrassingly hard.

“Ah.” He chuckles, feeling your body gradually melt under his hands. “You just need to have something inside you to shut the fuck up, right sweet girl?”

You nod whimpering, resting your cheek on your crossed arms. It’s incredible how well he knows where to touch, when to tease, what to say to turn your brain into pure mush.

His hands are relentless on your poor body, kneading the flesh of your thighs as your hips literally hump his face. 

“She’s so pretty.” Bucky pants, thumb circling your clit while he watches your slick soil your inner thigh. “Look at your puffy clit, babygirl, throbbing for my attention.”

You squirm a little at his quiet, filthy words, heat already rising violently on your cheeks.

“Perfect pussy,” he breathes out, giving your nub another little lick. “Perfect ass. Perfect tits.” He squeezes your butt. “You’re perfect everywhere, doll.”

A quiet moan falls from your lips as Bucky leaves soft kisses along your core, his salt-and-pepper stubble scratching slightly at your sensitive folds, but the sensation only makes your hole clench desperately around his motionless fingers.

Finally, his mouth closes around your nub, suckling on it gently.

“She’s all sticky and messy because she loves when I play with her, right baby?”

You nod even if he can’t see you, sniffling but still trying to hide your face against your arms resting on the windowsill. It’s only then that your eyes snap open at the sudden loss, hearing Bucky standing up with a little, pained groan. 

He fumbles with the button of his jeans, crudely leaving them and his boxers hanging mid-thigh. His cock stands hard and heavy against his belly, the tip flushed and leaking. Relief washes over him as he strokes it a few times, while his other hand parts one of your asscheeks to expose your core. It would be so easy for him to come all over your ass and your pretty dress, to mark your skin with his cum. He could literally empty his balls over and over again by simply watching you like this: bent over his open window, shameless and needy.

“Did they fuck you raw?” He rasps out, the storm inside him instantly calming down as you eagerly shake your head.

“Good girl.” Your eyes roll back at the praise, shivering when the fat head glides through your swollen folds. “‘M gonna ruin you for anyone else, pretty girl.”

The tip catches on your hole, and your body instantly goes rigid.

“Big.” You gasp out with your eyes squeezed shut. 

Bucky simply chortles, cooing at your shaky breathing.

His hands soothe your hips, trailing up and down your sides absently as his eyes stay locked on your entrance perfectly stretching around his girth.

“You can take it.”

Bucky’s breath hitches as he forces himself to nudge his length gradually in, letting you savor every vein dragging along your sensitive walls, and allowing your body to adjust to the burning stretch. Your toes curl in bliss when you decide to focus on the sensation of being stuffed full, quietly taking a deep breath as his cock twitches softly inside you.

“Look how well you accepted me.” He grunts, a layer of presumption in his words as he draws back gently, fingers gripping the bunched up fabric at your waist to push back inside, his tip now bullying directly your sweet spot. 

You clench around him with a little whimper, relieved that Bucky uses his hands to keep you pinned on the windowsill as he gradually builds a steady rhythm with his hips. He fills you so wonderfully, burying his cock deep enough to make your vision blur. 

However, the sharp sound of your hand smacking against your mouth to stop the squeaks and moans from spilling out is a severe reminder of the unusual silent afternoon.

“It’d be enough for our neighbors to take a peek outside of their window, and they’d catch you like this, whimpering around a fat cock like the little slut that you are.”

You gasp, flinching when his fingers start working over your clit, firmly but not too fast—just how you like it.

“Some of them could be watching right now.” He taunts you in your ear, his other hand harshly squeezing your breast, before yanking the front of your dress down as if the fabric just offended him and his whole family. 

Your pussy makes a squelching, humiliating sound as more slick gushes out at his teases, promptly met by his mocking laugh. “Yeah? You like that? I knew my sweet girl likes to be watched.”

You nod again, drooling at the way his abraded fingers tug and flick your nipples, the stimulation so different from your smooth hands. Bucky’s palms are weathered and callused from his job—he’s always been a little gruff, so there’s nothing gentle about the way he cups your tits while thrusting into your pussy.

It’s primal and fast, overwhelming enough that you sob, loud and breathless and so, so close.

“Feeling good, hm?” His voice drops to a low rasp, chest heaving as fast as yours, even if he keeps up his arrogant facade. “My pretty dirty slut who likes to show everyone how good I make her feel. Jus’ need a thick cock inside her and she’s gushing like a little fountain.” He snickers.

Your entire body locks in at his dirty words, spine arching and hips rolling back, frantic and needy and utterly soaked. You’re pretty sure the mix of soppy sounds of his cock fucking you, and the slapping of your flesh meeting resonates loud and clear across his front lawn.

“Yes yes yes!” You mumble deliriously into your arms. “Right there, Bucky.”

He groans against your neck, sucking and nibbling the sensitive skin.

“Gonna come, oh God, please please don’t stop.” You whimper.

“Fucking hell.” He chokes at a particular hard thrust that makes you tighten. “Sweetheart, if you keep clenching like that I’ll make you leak for days—”

“Please!” You blabber louder, completely forgetting about the fact that you’re getting fucked raw for anyone to see. 

Your eyes roll into oblivion as your climax washes over you, violent and endless. You shatter with a cry of his name, body trembling as each wave of bliss has your hips desperately twitch in his hold.

“That’s it,” he draws out. “That’s it, she’s tightening so good around me. Now it’s my turn, gonna fill you up so good you’re gonna feel me for days.” His fingers are insistent on your clit, making sure to prolong your climax.

“You’ve been so fucking good for me. Keeping your curtains open so I could empty my balls to the sight of these pretty tits…” He keeps rambling, panting against your cheek.

“She’s all full now, hm?” He grits through clenched teeth as you nod eagerly. “But I wanna see her drool, my dumb baby too full of me to keep it inside.”

“Bucky…” You mumble lightheaded. “Gonna come again.”

“Yeah?” His smile is depraved. “Creaming my cock once wasn’t enough? Need to mark what’s yours, babygirl?”

“Yes!” You wail out, falling over the edge for a third time. Your eyes cross as you sob out a string of breathy whines, still clenching, still gushing around him.

This particular orgasm is so powerful that your head starts spinning.

“I’m coming too, baby. Shit—” He groans, loud and broken. His cock throbs, spurting rope after rope of warm cum, his fingers digging into the skin of your waist painfully as he keeps thrusting into your warmth until he is flinching out of sensitivity.

You are grateful for his possessive hold on your body since your legs seem to be too weak to fully support you. Meanwhile, Bucky is still trying to catch his breath against your nape, careful to not put all his weight on you, even if his muscles are starting to hurt because of the strain.

Maybe you were right…. maybe he really did get a cramp.

When Bucky slides out, you let out a pitiful whimper at the loss, pulling a chuckle full of mirth out of him as he carefully helps you in an upright position. Who knows how long you’ve been bent over, too lost in his touch, his words, his cock, to acknowledge your sore joints.

A sharp sting prickles, indeed, your lower back, yet you couldn’t be more satisfied—another reminder of how thoroughly you just got fucked.

“Took me so well, sweetheart.” He mutters, turning you around and letting you collapse against him despite his own exhaustion.

He hums into the soft kiss on your forehead, before his fingers gently cup your chin to press a peck on your lips. Sighing content, his eyes close, allowing his lips to gently ghost over your temple.

“Finally mine.”

The months of stolen glances and burning, unspoken desire have finally paid off. Now it’s just you, Bucky, and no stupid dating app in between.

Still... sometimes you sit right in front of your window, legs spread and eyes fixed on him while your boyfriend sits in his own chair as he strokes his cock to your fingers fucking your pussy. Occasionally, it’s some hefty dildo, or a small vibrator pressed against your clit that is powerful enough to make your eyes roll back.

And although this little game of yours never fails to end with Bucky almost ramming your front door to get to you, his pants shamelessly unbuttoned as he crosses his driveway... Well, it’s not nearly as satisfying as doing it together.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🩶 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

The farther you swim from shore, the more quiet your mind gets.

The land falls away in layers— the pulse of carnival lights fading behind you, the rumble of the boardwalk swallowed by distance, the lighthouse beam shrinking to a pale turning eye against the dark. The water, growing more cold the further you swim, streams over your skin, smooth and familiar, and your tail cuts the current with easy strength.

Home should feel simple, but it doesn’t.

The man in the lighthouse is now a thread tied to shore. You hate how much that matters already. And secretly, you love it a little too.

Naturally, the ocean decides this is the perfect moment to become deeply annoying. You feel them before you see them: the shift in current, the faint pressure wave of bodies moving fast through the water. There’s a pulse of familiarity and your whole body goes alert. That’s when you see them: three shadows arrowing toward you through the dark.

You barely have time to twist before the first one slams into you in a whirl of bubbles and furious relief. You spin, laughing and coughing seawater as arms lock around your shoulders hard enough to bruise. There’s a flash of dark hair, pale scales, furious eyes.

Nerina.

She shoves back just far enough to look you over, hands gripping your face, your shoulders, your arms like she’s checking you for missing pieces.

“You absolute menace,” she signs first, too fast and angry for grace, then clicks and trills aloud in the old underwater cadence your kind uses when emotion outruns silence. “Do you have any idea—”

She cuts herself off with a sound halfway between a hiss and a sob and hauls you back into another fierce embrace. You wrap your arms around her automatically, laughing despite the guilt curling hot in your belly. Behind her, two more shapes coast up hard and stop in a spray of disturbed sand and moonlit silt. Talin, broad-shouldered and gold-scaled, usually steady as reef stone and currently looking like he might throttle you himself. And Sereia, all silver fins and storm-gray eyes, one hand pressed to her chest in visible relief.

Your entire pod has been worried sick.

“Well,” you sign weakly when Nerina finally pulls back enough to glare at you properly, “this seems dramatic.”

Three sets of eyes narrow at once.

You wince.

Talin swims closer with the severe calm of someone one bad answer away from homicide.

“You vanished in a storm,” he signs, every motion clipped and precise. “There was blood in the water. We found broken stone. No trail. No body. No song. Nothing.”

Sereia reaches you next and cups the back of your neck with trembling fingers, her expression soft with relief and furious underneath it.

“We thought the trawlers got you,” she says aloud, voice carrying low through the water. “Or hunters.”

Nerina cuts in, “Or that you were concussed and sank somewhere stupid because you are a menace.”

You’re immediately defensive. “I was not somewhere stupid,” you scoff hoping they’d buy it. You pause and they all stare at you, eyes narrowed.

Well, shit.

You wring your hands. “I was um, temporarily adjacent to somewhere stupid.”

Talin’s gaze sharpens and his hand catches your chin and turns your face toward the faint remaining bruise at your temple, the scrape along your shoulder.

“You were hurt.”

“I’m fine now.”

“That is not the same statement.”

“Semantics.”

Nerina groans and tips her head back like she’s petitioning the sea itself for patience.

Sereia’s eyes move over you more carefully then. Her brows knit.

“What happened?”

You look toward shore without meaning to. The lighthouse is barely visible from here.

All three of them notice. Nerina goes absolutely still. Slowly, so slowly, she turns and looks in the same direction. Then back at you. Her expression says it before her hands do. Then her hands say it anyway, sharp and incredulous.

You immediately become even more defensive, which is always a strong sign you’ve made excellent life choices.

“What?”

Talin’s eyes narrow. “What is on shore?”

“Nothing.”

Sereia actually laughs once, disbelieving at your all too quick response. “That was the face of a liar.”

You fold your arms. “I washed up. Someone found me. I healed. The end.”

Nerina stares at you with the grim patience of a sister who knows exactly how full of it you are.

“Someone?”

You look away.

Talin repeats, “Someone.”

Apparently dignity is still unavailable to you in every ecosystem, because warmth creeps up your neck. Nerina sees it and gasps so hard she nearly inhales half the Atlantic.

“Oh, no,” she says, horrified and delighted in equal measure. “Someone.”

“It is not a thing.”

Sereia’s eyes go wide. “It’s already a thing.”

“It is not.”

Talin signs very slowly, “Did you get rescued by a human?”

You hate how impossible it is to answer that casually.

“If we really want to be technical, a human male.”

Nerina makes a sound like she’s been handed the greatest gossip of her life.

“Technically.”

“He found me after the storm.”

“You were unconscious,” Sereia says, putting it together. “He could have taken you.”

“He didn’t. He wouldn’t,” you added after a beat. Something deep in you knows that already.

Talin watches your face too closely. “You trust him.”

You lift your chin. “Enough.”

Nerina circles you once, examining you like an artifact recovered from a shipwreck.

“And this human who found you and did not sell you to collectors or drag half the landfolk back with nets and knives…” Her expression turns sly. “Is he handsome?”

You gape at her. “That is not the relevant concern.”

“So he is handsome.”

Sereia covers her mouth, eyes bright now. “That’s a yes.”

You throw up both hands. “Oh my god.”

Talin rubs a hand over his face like he regrets ever loving any of you.

Nerina is merciless. “Is that why you smell like him?”

The water goes dead silent. You stop moving. Sereia blinks. Then leans closer and inhales very delicately near your shoulder and her eyes widen. “Oh. You do.”

You would like the sea to open up and eat you.

Talin’s head snaps up. “She smells like a human?”

“It’s his coat,” you say instantly. “And maybe his house.” Three faces completely blank stare at you. You hear yourself and close your eyes for a second. “And maybe tea. And groceries.”

Nerina’s grin turns positively feral. “Tea?”

“You all are making this unbearable.”

Sereia, traitor that she is, starts laughing softly into her hand. Talin looks less amused and more thoughtful now. Protective in an older, sharper way.

“He lives alone?”

“Yes.”

“Near the shore?”

“Yes.”

“He knows what you are?”

You pause, but then nod.

You can feel Talin’s anger reverberate off of his form. “Merfolk do not reveal ourselves lightly. Not to sailors, not to fishers, not to curious children peering over docks. Stories keep us alive because stories are easy for humans to doubt. Proof is another matter. And you have given a human proof!”

Talin sees the anguish and guilt in your face. His own gentles the tiniest fraction.

“Did he look at you like prey?”

“No.”

“Like a prize?”

“No.”

Sereia asks quietly, “Like a weapon?”

“No.”

Nerina’s expression softens then, teasing falling away for the first time. “How did he look at you then?”

You think of Bucky in the storm. Bucky with a mug of tea pushed quietly across a table. Bucky staring at you in the surf like you were impossible and real all at once. Bucky holding your hand like promises were dangerous things.

“Like he understood being something the world would rather use than love.”

No one speaks for a moment after that.

The current slips gently around the four of you, carrying moonlight in shards across the sandy bottom.

Sereia’s face goes tender and sad all at once. Talin exhales slowly through his nose. Nerina, for once, doesn’t joke.

“Well,” she says quietly, “that’s a problem.”

You squint. “Why?”

“Because,” she says, as if explaining basic reef behavior to a hatchling, “those are always the dangerous ones.”

“Dangerous how?”

She gives you a look.

“Dangerous because he’s handsome and you’ll care.”

You hate that she’s right. You already care.

Talin motions toward deeper water. “Come back with us tonight.”

That pulls your focus hard. Back to the pod. To home. To the caverns beneath the drop-off where bioluminescent anemones bloom blue against the stone. To the old songs. The sleeping currents. The comfort of familiar bodies moving in the same tide.

Your chest tightens.

“I promised him that I’d return tomorrow night.”

Nerina closes her eyes and Talin’s irritability flares again. “And there it is.”

Sereia outright smiles now, small and helpless. “You promised him? You barely know him!”

You chew on your bottom lip. “I know.”

“He is human.”

“Yes.”

“He lives on land.”

“Yes, Talin, I noticed the land around the lighthouse.”

His mouth presses thin. “Landfolk are not temporary inconveniences. They pull. They take. They anchor.”

Something in his words catches against something tender in you because that is exactly what this feels like. A pull. The start of an anchor dropped in unfamiliar water.

But then you think of the way Bucky had asked You promise? as if the question cost him something.

Your answer comes out quieter than you meant. “So do pods.”

Talin goes still, seeing the point and not liking it.

Sereia touches his arm gently before turning back to you.

“Come home tonight,” she says. “Just tonight. Let us see you safe. Then tomorrow, if you still want…” She tips her head toward shore. “Go.”

Nerina brightens wickedly. “And tell us absolutely everything first.”

You groan. “I’d rather get hit by another storm.”

“You say that now,” she replies, already looping an arm through yours and towing you toward deeper water, “but wait till we get to the part where he pines.”

“He does not pine.”

Nerina and Sereia say, in perfect unison, “He pines.”

Even Talin mutters, “He pines.”

You whirl around in the water. “You have not even met him!”

Nerina grins over her shoulder. “I don’t need to. You smell like tea and feelings.”

That is such a vicious sentence you nearly splash her on principle.

Instead you let them pull you along, deeper and farther, away from shore and the turning eye of the lighthouse.

The reef opens beneath you gradually, familiar contours rising from the dark. Columns of stone. Forests of swaying kelp. Shoals of silver fish flashing like thrown coins. Then at last the sheltered hollow of your pod’s home, lit by the soft bloom of living blue light clinging to the cavern walls.

Relief hits you so suddenly it almost buckles you.

Home.

Other shapes emerge from the glow—more of your people, smaller groups clustered near the coral shelves, heads lifting as you return. Surprise ripples outward, followed immediately by a wave of joy so strong you feel it in the water.

You’re greeted all at once. Hands at your face. Your shoulders. Your hair. Questions thrown from every direction.

You laugh, overwhelmed and a little weepy in spite of yourself, and let them crowd close because this, too, is love. Loud and nosy and impossible to contain.

Eventually, blessedly, you get dragged into the center cavern and sat down on a smooth ledge while everyone settles enough to listen.

Nerina perches beside you with the expression of someone front row at the best performance of her life.

Talin folds his arms nearby, trying for stern and achieving only mildly doomed.

Sereia leans in, chin in hand. “So,” she says.

The whole pod goes very quiet.

You bury your face in your hands for one second, then lift it and sigh.

“I got caught in the storm,” you begin slowly.

Nerina points at you. “Start after that. We know the storm. We want the good stuff, the human male.” Groans and laughter ripple through the cavern.

You glare but no one is intimidated.

Begrudgingly (but also secretly delighted), you tell them. Not everything though.

Not the way his hand felt around yours. Not the soft place in his voice when he asked if you’d come back. Not how close he was when he brushed your hair from your face, or the way your body had gone warm all over when he laughed.

Those things are yours to keep for now.

You tell them about the lighthouse, the rescue, the tea, the human store full of leg coverings and scarves. You tell them about the cake that changed your understanding of land forever.

At “he took you shopping,” half the cavern erupts.

At “he bought me a scarf,” Nerina clutches Sereia’s arm like she’s about to pass out.

At “I kissed the corner of his mouth and left him standing there,” even Talin has to look away to hide the flush on his face.

By the time you finish, the pod is buzzing.

“He’s courting you,” someone says from the back.

“He is not.”

“He bought textiles,” another counters.

“That means nothing!”

Nerina leans into your shoulder, smug. “It means everything.”

Talin finally cuts through the noise. “Enough!”

His voice is sharp and the cavern settles. He looks at you, serious now.

“If, and that’s a big if, you go back, be careful.”

The warmth of teasing drains, leaving room for the real thing beneath it: concern.

“He may be good,” Talin says, “and still bring danger with him.”

You nod. “I know.”

“Humans are rarely alone, even when they think they are.”

“I know.”

“He will change you.”

That one hits differently.

You hold Talin’s gaze for a long moment.

Then answer with the only truth you have.

“I think he already has.”

No one laughs after that.

Sereia reaches over and squeezes your hand. Nerina rests her head briefly against your shoulder, softer than usual.

Talin exhales, worry and reluctant acceptance mingling in the movement.

“All right.”

And just like that, permission settles over the cavern—not enthusiastic, not unguarded, but real.

You are not cast out for your curiosity. Not shamed for your softness.

It’s the opposite - watched, loved, worried over. You are allowed the dignity of your own tide. Later, after the pod begins to disperse and the cavern quiets, you slip away to the outer ledge alone.

From here, on a clear night, you can just barely make out the distant sweep of the lighthouse beam.

One turn.

Then dark.

Then another.

You rest your chin on your folded arms and stare toward shore.

Tomorrow night.

You picture Bucky there already in your mind. Brooding at gulls and pretending he’s not waiting. Maybe touching the spot near his mouth where you kissed him. That thought alone makes you smile into the dark water. Behind you, Nerina’s voice drifts lazily from the cave entrance.

“You have the face again.”

You don’t turn. “What face?”

“The one that says you’re doomed.”

You laugh under your breath.

“Probably,” you respond. “Definitely.”

As the beam turns once more across the black horizon, all you feel is the pull. And this time, you don’t swim away from it.

—

The next night, the pull is worse.

It starts before you even leave the reef. It’s an itch under your skin, a restless current in your bones that has nothing to do with tide or temperature and everything to do with a certain stubborn human who absolutely, definitely is not waiting for you.

You linger longer than you should. Pretend you’re not counting time by the sweep of a distant beam. Pretend Nerina isn’t watching you with the kind of grin that should be illegal.

“You’re vibrating,” she informs you.

“I am not vibrating.”

“You are. It’s embarrassing.”

You shove her lightly and then, because staying is starting to feel like holding your breath, you dive.

—

The lighthouse finds you like it always does now. A steady pulse of light through dark water. You surface farther out this time, just to watch.

There he is: Bucky on the rocks. His hands are braced on the railing, shoulders tight, staring out at the water like if he looks long enough you might just appear out of it.

You are beyond delighted. Oh, he is absolutely waiting.

You slip under again and come in quiet, circling closer beneath the surface before rising right at the edge of the rocks. The water parts around you with a soft rush.

Bucky hears it instantly. He turns and freezes. You don’t even stop to think about the next thing you do. You don’t have to think about it in the water. There’s no hesitation, no awkwardness. Your body is your body. The ocean has never asked you to hide it.

So you just step forward.

Water streaming down your skin. Hair slicked back. Nothing between you and the night air but moonlight and confidence.

And Bucky, well…

Bucky absolutely short-circuits.

His eyes go wide and his face flushes.

Then immediately, he snaps them up to your face like the rest of you has become a classified document he is not authorized to access.

“Jesus!” he chokes, dragging a hand down his face and turning halfway away. “You…you’re…”

You blink at him.

“…wet?”

Bucky audibly groans at that word. His head jerks back toward you, scandalized. “Naked.”

You glance down at yourself.

“Yes?” You’re genuinely puzzled.

Bucky makes a strangled noise.

“Hang on,” He spins, grabs something off the rock beside him, and launches it at you. You catch it on instinct.

It’s a bundle of clothes. Your clothes. They had been on the rock purposely waiting. You look from them to him, then back again, slowly.

“You planned ahead.”

He refuses to look at you. Absolutely refuses. He’s staring very intently at a random spot somewhere over your shoulder like it personally offended him.

“You said you were coming back,” he mutters. “Figured you’d need— just— put those on.”

You don’t move.

He risks a glance.

Big mistake.

Because you’re still just standing there, dripping, holding the clothes, head tilted like this is the most confusing puzzle of your life.

“What?” he demands.

You gesture vaguely at yourself. “Why are you acting like I’m on fire?”

“I’m not,” he protests weakly.

“You threw fabric at me like I was about to explode.”

“Because you’re naked!”

“Yes,” you say again, patiently. “We’ve established that.”

Bucky closes his eyes like he’s one step from launching himself into the ocean just to reset his brain.

“It’s… it’s not…” He exhales sharply. “You can’t just stand there like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like that.” He waves his arm in your direction.

You look down again, checking.

Still you.

Still extremely normal, as far as you’re concerned.

You look back up, baffled. “It’s just a body.”

Bucky actually laughs once, short, disbelieving, a little wrecked. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“So what’s the problem?”

He gestures helplessly, not looking directly at you. “The problem is— people don’t just— we don’t—” He breaks off, frustrated. “There are rules.”

Your brows knit. “About bodies?”

“Yes.”

“That seems inefficient.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “It’s about privacy.”

You perk up slightly. “Define.”

Bucky blinks.

Of all the things he expected tonight, apparently being asked to define privacy for a sea creature was not on the list.

“It means…” He searches for words, visibly struggling. “It means not everything is for everyone to see all the time.”

“But why?”

“Because” He stops. Starts again. “Because it’s personal.”

You consider that.

“Is my shoulder personal?”

“No.”

“My arm?”

“No.”

You gesture lower, curious now. “This part?”

Bucky makes another sound, like his soul just left his body.

“Yes,” he says hoarsely. “Very.”

You frown. “Why?”

“Because it just is.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“That’s the reason I’ve got.”

You study him. The tension in his shoulders. The way he’s angled slightly away but still tracking you with peripheral vision like he physically can’t not be aware of you. The faint flush climbing up the back of his neck.

Something clicks. Slowly, your mouth curves.

“Oh,” you say.

Bucky goes still.

“Oh,” you repeat, softer now. “It’s not just rules.”

He narrows his eyes. “What does that mean?”

You take one step closer. He notices.

Of course he notices. His entire body tightens.

“You’re reacting,” you say lightly. “Not just explaining.”

“I’m explaining while reacting,” he shoots back.

“Mm.” You tilt your head. “You’re uncomfortable.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re standing two feet away from me naked.”

You hum, considering that.

Then, because you are a menace and Nerina raised you poorly, you say:

“You liked it.”

Bucky’s head snaps toward you so fast it’s honestly impressive.

“What?”

“You noticed.”

“I noticed because I have eyes!”

“But you didn’t hate it.”

His jaw works. You can see the exact moment he realizes there is no good answer to this.

You smile sweetly. “Humans are complicated.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what’s happening here.”

You glance down at the clothes again, then back at him.

“So this is about modesty?”

“Partly.”

“And privacy.”

“Yeah.”

“And whatever this is.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you.

Bucky goes very quiet at that. The air shifts.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “That too.”

You nod once, thoughtful. Then, slowly, deliberately, you step back a pace to give him space.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll follow your land rules.”

His shoulders loosen, just a fraction. “Thank you.”

You start pulling on the clothes. Bucky turns away immediately, staring out at the ocean like it personally betrayed him.

But you can see it in the way his shoulders stay tight and in the way he shifts his weight like he’s fighting the urge to look.

And you definitely see it in the way his breathing is just a little off.

You pull the shirt over your head and step into the pants. “You can look now.”

Bucky exhales like he’s been holding his breath for an hour and finally turns back.

His gaze lingers.

Because you’re wearing his choices: the soft sweater and pants, fitted just enough to show off your shape.

“That’s better,” he says, but it comes out gruffer than he meant.

You cross your arms, pleased. “I’m respectable now.”

He huffs. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you said.”

“It’s not—” He stops, shakes his head. “You’re impossible.”

You smirk. “You came prepared for me.”

He glances at the folded extra layer still sitting on the rock. “I told you. Figured you’d need it.”

You step closer, slower this time, more intentional.

“And if I hadn’t worn it?”

Bucky’s eyes drop to yours, then quickly to your lips, and then back to your eyes.

His blue eyes, usually bright, are dark.

“I would’ve survived,” he says.

You arch a brow.

“Barely,” he adds and that does something warm and bright and a little dangerous to your chest.

You beam. “Good to know.”

For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky jerks his head toward the lighthouse.

“C’mon,” he says, voice rough again. You follow him inside, brushing past just close enough that your shoulder grazes his arm.

He goes very still at the contact then keeps walking.

But you see it. The way he exhales. The way his hand flexes once at his side like it’s remembering what it felt like to hold yours. And suddenly you understand something new about humans.

It’s not just modesty.

Not just privacy.

It’s that bodies, for them, are loaded and charged. Full of meaning and want and restraint and all the things they don’t say out loud.

You glance at Bucky’s back as he climbs the stairs ahead of you.

Your smile turns just a little softer.

The decision has already been made: you are definitely coming back again tomorrow.

—

By the time you make it back up the stairs, something feels different. Bucky’s moving with purpose.

“You’re up to something. Plotting,” you say, stepping into the lantern room and brushing damp hair over your shoulder.

Bucky, who is absolutely in the middle of doing something at the table, pauses.

Very slowly, he looks up at you. “I’m not plotting.”

You squint. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not—“

“You have a face,” you interject.

“I always have a face.”

“This is a different face.”

He exhales through his nose, which is not a denial.

You grin, delighted. “Oh my god, you made a plan.”

Bucky drags a hand over the back of his neck, already regretting everything. “It’s not a plan.”

“It’s a plan.”

“It’s a thing.”

“That’s worse.”

He gives you a look. “Do you want the thing or not?”

You perk up instantly. “Yes.”

“Then stop interrogating me.”

“Never.”

But you do, mostly, because curiosity has officially taken over your entire personality.

Bucky gestures toward the table.

“Sit.”

You blink.

“Is this a trap?”

“It’s dinner,” Bucky replies.

You glance at the table, then at him, and then back at the table again. You walk over slowly, because suddenly your chest feels tight in a way you’re not prepared for. It’s not just dinner. He’s set it with two plates. The little stove is still warm, the scent of something rich and buttery in the air. The scarf he bought you is draped over the back of your chair like it belongs there. There’s even—God help him—a candle stub wedged into a chipped holder, already lit.

You look at him. Bucky looks anywhere but you.

“You made a table,” you say.

“It’s a table,” he mutters.

“You made it a thing.”

“I made food.”

You arch a brow. He closes his eyes briefly like he’s considering jumping out the window.

You hum, pleased. “You planned this.”

“Yeah.” Bucky says it so quietly but it lands heavier than everything else.

He made an effort for you, so you sit. Bucky moves around the table, setting down the last dish. It’s fish again but cooked differently this time, seared crisp with herbs and lemon, paired with roasted vegetables and bread. You watch him the whole time.

“You learned new methods,” you say.

He shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve cooked before. Figured I’d try something different.”

“For me.”

He doesn’t answer that, but he doesn’t have to.

You pick up your fork, but you don’t eat right away. Instead, you look at him.

“Why?”

Bucky stills. The bite he was going to take is frozen. He places the fork down.

“I don’t…” He exhales, and then starts again. “I don’t get a lot of chances to do things right.”

Your chest tightens.

“And this,” he adds, quieter, “felt like something I didn’t want to mess up.”

You swallow and look down at your plate because suddenly your eyes are doing something suspicious.

“Okay,” you say lightly, because if you don’t lighten it you might combust. “Well. No pressure.”

He huffs, grateful for the out. “Yeah, thanks.”

You take a bite and pause.

Bucky tenses immediately. “Bad?”

You him again. “This is very good.”

Relief flashes across his face so fast it’s almost gone before you can fully catch it.

You take another bite. “You’re very skilled for a lighthouse goblin.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“No.”

Dinner unfolds slowly after that. The two of you talk about nothing. About everything.

You tell him more about the ocean: not secrets, not things that would put your kind at risk, but the easy things. You tell him how the currents feel like roads once you know them and the glow of deep water at night and the quiet music of whales miles away.

He listens, really listens as if every word matters.

And when he talks, it’s less guarded than before.

Little things slip out. Not the heavy parts. But enough that you know him better.

He likes old books, but hates large crowds. He used to not mind it, but now he prefers solitude.

He tells you how he knows every inch of the shoreline like it’s mapped into his bones.

He mentions how he hasn’t had dinner with someone like this in a long time. You don’t ask how long because you can feel it.

After, you clear the table together, which mostly means you try to help and he keeps subtly redirecting you away from anything involving breakable objects or sharp edges.

“I can do things,” you protest.

“I’ve seen you try to stand in socks.”

“That was sabotage.”

“That was gravity.”

You bump his shoulder with yours. He doesn’t move away this time.

Small win.

The candle burns low. The room dims. The steady sweep of the lighthouse continues above you, painting slow arcs of light across the walls.

At some point, you end up by the window again. The ocean stretches out below, dark and endless and waiting. Bucky joins you a second later.

You lean your hip lightly against his arm and smile to yourself.

“So this was your plan?” you ask softly. “Feed me?”

He glances down at you. “Part one.”

You turn your head. “There’s more?”

Bucky reaches into his pocket and pulls something out. Your breath catches before you even see it properly.

It’s small and simple box. He opens it for you and you let out a small gasp.

A thin cord with a tiny piece of smoothed blue-green sea glass threaded onto it, worn soft by time and tide.

“That’s from the shore,” you say. “You found this?”

“Yeah.”

“For me?”

He nods once, like it’s no big deal. As if he didn’t go out of his way to look for something that belonged to your world so he could give it back to you in a different form.

You take it carefully and turn it between your fingers. It glows faintly in the lamplight, familiar and strange all at once.

“Oh Bucky.”

He shifts, suddenly unsure. “It’s stupid, I just— I figured you might—”

“It’s not stupid.”

Your voice comes out softer than anything you’ve said all night.

You look up at him, your eyes misty.

He’s watching you in that quiet, intent way again. Like your reaction matters more than anything.

You slip the cord over your head. The sea glass settles against your collarbone.

Right over your heart.

You smile and touch it carefully. “I love it.”

And there it is again-that flicker. That small, stunned softness he can’t quite hide when something lands right.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” you grin.

Warmth settles between you.

You reach out without thinking and take his hand, lacing your fingers through his. He inhales sharply but doesn’t pull away. After a beat, he gently squeezes.

“Is there more?” you prompt gently.

He huffs a quiet breath, like he’s bracing himself. Then he turns slightly toward you.

“Well…” he says, voice low, “I was hoping you’d stay a little longer tonight.”

Your heart does something dramatic and inconvenient. “I’d have to go back before dawn,” you say.

“I know.”

“But,” you squeeze his hand lightly. “I can stay a little longer.”

Something in him eases. Not visibly, maybe not to anyone else. But you feel it in the way his fingers shift in yours. The way his shoulders drop just a fraction.

“Okay,” he says.

The two of you stand there together at the window. Hands linked. The ocean calling softly below.

And for once, neither of you rushes the moment. If anything, you both lean into it.

Let it stretch and build. Let it become something that doesn’t need to be named yet.

And when you finally do leave later—because you will, because you have to—there will be another promise sitting quietly between you.

Unspoken this time, but just as real. You’ll be back. And the next time, Bucky Barnes might not stop himself.

you’re half-dressed and cradling your daughter against your chest. one of your hand cups her perfect little head while the other strokes her back in a steady rhythm.

her soft, wet suckling fills the quiet, punctuated now and then by that tiny sigh she makes when she pauses for air.

you’re tired now. but in that floaty, dazed way that’s oddly peaceful, like your body knows you’ve just made a whole human and is demanding your stillness.

the robe you’re wearing parts a little, when you shift on the bed, exposing the warm skin to the night air. one breast is out, full heavy and leaking, the other still tucked away. your belly is softer than before. your thighs, too. and yet you’ve never felt more powerful than in this moment: feeding someone that grew inside you.

something moves in your peripheral vision, and you don’t have to take another look to know that it’s your husband.

the wedding band glints at his finger, as he stares at you. again. and he’s not being very subtle about it.

he’s leaning in the doorway like he’s forgotten how to move. like someone pressed pause on his brain and he’s just stuck there.

you don’t look at him for a while. you just let him watch. it’s become a quiet game between you lately. he studies you, drinks you in like he thinks you’ll vanish. and you pretend not to notice until the weight of his hunger becomes impossible to ignore.

you clear your throat softly, but your eyes remain on your daughter. “you’re staring again.”

“i know.” there’s no apology in it. it’s just the truth, like it’s just a fact. his gaze slides down your body and drags its way back up, lingering far too long on the breast not currently occupied, albeit it being covered. “i can’t help it.”

you finally glance at him.

he looks like a man with his hands tied. like he’s trying to be respectful, like he’s trying to wait until you give him permission.

but there’s just something wild just beneath his stillness.

you tilt your head, just a little. “what is it, baby?”

you let your eyes drag down his body now. there’s the evidence of barely-there outline of his cock already thickening beneath the fabric of his pants. your eyes find his face again, he’s red in the cheeks, breathing real slow he’s trying to will himself not to get hard watching you feed your child.

you feel the wicked little grin tug at your lips before you can stop it.

“do you want a taste?”

you ask it so damn lightly. like you’re offering him a sip of your latte.

his mouth actually opens a little. but nothing comes out other than air. his arms uncross and his hands hover at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them anymore.

“what?” his voice is croaky, like he’s forgotten how to speak entirely, and english sounds more like an inconvenience rather than a language he’s fluent in.

“you’ve been staring for twenty minutes like you want to get on your knees and suck it.”

bucky makes a noise in his throat that’s somewhere between a gasp and a groan. his eyes drop again, then snap back up, like he’s afraid he’ll come just from looking too long.

“you’re—you’re not serious.”

“oh, but i am.”

you shift your daughter slightly, stroking her tiny back as she continues to suck lazily in her sleep-heavy rhythm. “you’ve been walking around this house like a kicked puppy for a month. you’re hard every time i take my robe off. flustered every time i bend over. and don’t think i didn’ notice how long you stood outside the door last night just listening to me pump.”

his lips part again. nothing. just breath, yet again.

“fuck.” he finally manages to drag one word out of his throat.

“you want to taste what your daughter gets, don’t you? you want mommy to feed you, too.” you say the latter like it’s a statement, not a question.

you don’t know what came over you when you uttered that word, what spurred you to actually say it. but the way he reacts tells you he’s into it.

in fact, he’s very much into it because he whimpers. actually whimpers.

“say it. say what you want, baby.” your voice is barely a whisper, excited to see what might come out of his mouth. because not everyday does a six foot super soldier look like the ground has been ripped away from him.

his eyes flutter close like he’s in pain. “i want—fuck. i want to suck your tits, mommy.”

you smile like you’ve won something. hearing him call you that is a different type of arousal, one that you hadn’t felt before, but now embraced it fully. he’s exactly where you want him.

“good boy,” the two words leave you way too easily.

your husband moves without thinking. crawls onto the bed like he doesn’t remember how his knees work. when he’s finally kneeling beside you, his hands hover again, like he’s uncertain.

you’re still feeding your daughter. she’s still latched, little sucks slower now, fading more towards sleep.

bucky, on the other hand, is breathing hard.

“you want to wait until she’s done? or do you want the other one now?” you ask sweetly, like you’re not short-circuiting your husband in real time.

his eyes flick down to your boobs, and then back to you, then down again, as though he’s weighing his options. “now.”

you reach up and tug the robe down off your other shoulder, letting the soft fabric fall completely. you’re bare from the waist up now.

you bring your hand to the full breast he’s been staring at and squeeze just slightly. a thin stream of milk beads at the tip.

a moan rips out of him. and you haven’t even touched him, nor has he touched you. yet.

“open,” your voice is way too soft for an order.

his lips part instantly, like he’s waited enough.

you guide his mouth to your nipple, and he latches as though he’s the one who’s starving. his hands go to your waist, gripping you tight like you might float away. the groan he lets out when he tastes the first trickle of milk is obscene.

there’s no hesitation in the way he suckles, it’s just him, his mouth, his tongue and soft suction.

“good boy,” you whisper again. “drink.”

you stroke his hair, like you’re petting something loyal. you can feel the tension leaking out of him with every suck. and the unmistakable strain of his cock against his sweats now that he makes no effort to hide it.

“that’s it,” you coo. “you missed mommy, didn’t you?”

he nods against your skin, mouth never leaving your breast.

“you’ve been so patient and sweet. helping me every day. putting our daughter down. kissing me goodnight and walking away with your cock hard, haven’t you?”

he pulls off for half a second with a gasp, mouth still wet and swollen with saliva and milk. “i tried to be good.”

you smile and guide him back to your nipple.

“you were. that’s why i’m letting you drink.”

his groan vibrates against your skin and your whole body spikes with heat. you’re soaked between your legs now, your thighs clenching every time he pulls more milk from you.

there’s precum leaking through his pants that you can clearly see now.

your daughter unlatches with a little sigh, drunk on milk and sleep, and you shift carefully to lay her in the bassinet beside the bed.

bucky doesn’t stop sucking. he just follows you, stays latched, hands on your hips like he thinks you’ll take it away if he lets go.

you chuckle breathlessly and run your fingers through his hair. “you’re really needy, huh?”

he just nods.

“you wanna make mommy come first?”

he looks up at you, with stark black eyes and lips impossibly pink.

“please.” he pops off your breast to utter the word and goes right back to it, like that’s where he belongs.

you stroke his hair again, watching his eyes flutter. his tongue moves slower as he sucks you, almost softer now, more worship than hunger. his grip on your hips is tight, like you’re his anchor.

“god, you’re a mess. look at you.” your voice is thick with both affection and arousal.

another groan slips past him as he pulls back slightly, tongue dragging along your nipple as he breathes out. your breast is wet with milk and spit, your nipple flushed and shiny and swollen. he looks up at you like he’s drowning in it.

“i c—can’t think when you say it like that,” he stammers, “you say it and my brain just… shuts off.”

you grin down at him. “good. i don’t need you thinking right now. i just need your mouth.”

you lean back against the headboard, spreading your legs slowly, watching the way his eyes drop and his jaw tightens at the sight of your bare cunt.

you’re soaked. well, no surprise there. you’ve been aching since the second he looked at you like that. since you saw his cock twitch behind the fabric of those old sweatpants.

“you still remember what i like?” you spread yourself for him with two fingers. “it’s been a while.”

bucky exhales like he’s about to cry. “i remember everything, mommy.”

the word, even uttered for the hundredth time today, brings a new wave of arousal between your thighs. “then show me.”

there’s no hesitation inn his movements as he crawls between your legs and settles there.

the first touch of his mouth is soft. his lips part and he exhales hot against your folds before dragging his tongue up in a wet line that makes you moan and buck your hips upwards.

“ohhh, fuck—yes, just like that, baby.”

he groans in response as he licks deeper, the tip of his tongue pressing just enough to tease before flicking against your clit.

he’s slower than he used to be. maybe careful is the word. like he knows your body’s changed and he’s not here to rush it. he’s here to worship every inch of you.

he spreads you with his thumbs and sucks your clit into his mouth slowly, and your hand flies to his hair.

“there’s my good boy—ahh—keep going.”

he moans again, hips rocking down into the mattress like he can’t help it, like he’s trying to grind through the fabric just to relieve some of the pressure.

his tongue slides down to your entrance to tease and circle, and then goes right back up to your clit.

“fuck, bucky, don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

he mumbles something into your pussy and it takes you a second to realize he said, “won’t stop, mommy.”

you tug his hair harder. “say it again.”

he obeys you in an instant as he looks up with half lidded eyes, “i won’t stop, mommy.”

your cunt clenches around nothing, and you laugh. maybe it’s a little mean what comes out of you next.

“you’re so fucked out and you haven’t even had your cock touched yet.”

he whines. genuinely whines. he actually rocks his hips down again like he’s going to lose it just from licking you. you decide to test that theory.

“you gonna come in your pants like a good little mommy’s boy?”

he lets out a strangled sound and sucks harder, tongue swirling over your clit until your whole body arches off the bed.

“jesus— yes, baby, right there, don’t stop—”

he’s locked in now, moaning into you and grinding down. very desperate and obedient of him.

you just ride his mouth like you own it. because you do. every inch of him. every twitch of his tongue and clench of his jaw belongs to you.

your orgasm hits like a wave. sudden and earth shattering after the abstinence.

you cry out and pull his face into your cunt, grinding down, letting him drink every last second of it from your body.

a moan tears off him like he’s the one coming.

when it finally passes, you loosen your grip on his hair and stroke his scalp gently. breathing hard, he pulls back slowly. his entire face is wrecked.

“did you…?” you raise your eyebrows in question.

he swallows. “i—almost.”

you glance down and see the wet patch on the front of his pants. cupping his face, you lift his jaw up, “you want to come, sweet boy?”

without waiting for his answer, you push his back towards the headboard. he leans back, sweats still on, cock still straining hard against it, like it aches.

“pull down your sweats, baby,” you order him and he obeys without wasting a second. there’s no thoughts behind his eyes, only desperation.

when his pants are discarded to the floor, you gaze over him. his cock stands proud, a little bent towards his abdomen, smearing precum.

the tip is flushed, a delicious shade of pink, begging to be tasted. but you have other plans for him.

you slide up higher to where he is, bracketing his thighs with yours.

he watches the whole thing like he’s watching the moon rise. his hands come up automatically, gripping your hips, trying to hold you steady.

your swollen, aching cunt is hovering over his dick. when you cannot support your body so much, you feel yourself sitting over him, more like, right over his dick.

a hiss leaves his lips as your pussy makes contact with his cock. but he makes no effort to move you, only supporting you by your hips.

“mommy, please i need to be inside you,” his voice is a wreck when it does come out.

you thoroughly ignore his request, as you drag your cunt over his cock once. he whimpers like it actually hurt him, and your hand flies to his cheek.

“are you okay, baby?”

“no—aah, fuck, mommy, i’m gonna cum if you keep—keep doing that.”

you trail your fingers up his abdomen, smearing a bit of cum as you go. his abs clench under your touch. you’re not even trying to be cruel, but the effect is devastating.

the flesh arm leaves your hip to find your tit, and he brings it to his mouth. even wrecked, he needs to be drinking.

you lean forward a bit, making it easy for him to nurse. carding your fingers through his hair, you pull him towards you, and he comes to you without hesitation.

he squirms a little under your touch, and you pull back to see his lips glistening.

“what is it, baby boy?”

“ah—fuck, mommy, it hurts! please— please do somethin’,” his voice is hoarse, and you grind down on him, maybe just to torture him a little more, thus pulling a whimper out of him.

he buries his face in your neck and mumbles, “please, mommy.”

you think he might cry if you keep this up.

“aw, you’re so needy, baby,” you coo and run your hands through his hair. a whine leaves him as he nuzzles closer to you.

you sit back up slowly, watching the way his eyes track your every movement. you reach for his cock and wrap your hands around the base, gently, so gently, that touch equals torture.

he lets out a soft, broken sound in the back of his throat.

“you’re so full, baby,” you marvel at your husband.

you stroke him slowly, barely moving your wrist. the pressure is feather-light, more tease than anything. the tip of his cock is angry-red, veins flushed up along the shaft, pulsing under your hand.

his hips twitch, like he’s trying not to fuck into your fist.

“i’ll come if you do that, mommy, aaah, please.”

“i thought you wanted to cum, sweetie.” your eyes flick up to his face. he’s flushed from the neck to his ears. his head tips back into the headboard, so much so you think it might hurt, but then you remember he’s a super soldier and that he can probably take it.

“i do—i do, i just— i wan’ to cum in you, mommy.”

“you poor thing,” you stroke him slow and steady now, your palm gliding over the slick head with every pass. “did i let it build too long? should i have let you cum sooner?”

“please please let me inside you—nnngh—please mommy.” he’s trembling now. his whole body is reacting, like you’ve bypassed his brain and gone straight to the part of him that just feels.

deciding that you’ve tortured him quite enough, you lift yourself from his thighs and let your cunt hover right over his cock.

his hands grip your hips, in an attempt to push you down, but you hold yourself together as you slide his cock up and down your pussy until it catches your entrance, earning another groan from him.

a broken sigh emerges from him when you finally lower yourself fully on his cock, and you’re seated snug on his lap.

his head slumps towards your body as you start slowly grinding on top of him.

greediness engulfs him as he takes one of your nipples in his mouth, his tongue working circles over it until his lips wrap around it fully, followed by which there’s a soft suckle.

the dual assault on your body is too much, especially since this is the first time you’ve welcomed him inside you after delivering your babygirl.

like he’s read your mind, his metal arm grips your hip tighter, while his flesh arm snakes down between your legs to find your swollen clit.

the sensation of him rubbing slow circles on your aching nub is almost too much, and you feel yourself slipping away, falling into another mind blowing orgasm.

all while, he hasn’t taken his mouth off you, drinking languidly. you feel his cock twitch inside you, and your walls clamp down on him, both of you reaching the sweet release at the same time.

the milk let down increases when his latch doesn’t waver, but only strengthens as he spills hot cum inside you.

breathing grows heavy on both sides, until you cannot do anything. not even move. wrapped up in one another, like there’s no possibility of space between you.

he lifts his face from you, and that’s when you catch sight of him. utterly gone. milk and spit and the remnants of your cum adorn his face, lips flushed pink, and irises completely eclipsing his pupils.

you lean down and kiss him, tongue slipping into his mouth with lazy ease.

“you’re okay, baby,” you whisper. “you did so good.”

he doesn’t even speak. something like a groan comes out of him and you nuzzle against his cheek, still smiling.

“i love you,” he whispers, looking down at your chest, eyes dragging over the shiny, slick skin of your breasts. “you’re still leaking. fuck. mommy, you look edible.”

edible isn’t a word you’d use to describe yourself, but whatever floats his boat. you roll your eyes at him, but your thighs clench.

“wanna suck it again,” he mutters, dragging his thumb across the side of your breast. “lick it up and swallow every drop. god, you taste so good—so warm—”

you press your hand flat against his stomach. “you’re literally trembling.”

“i know.” he laughs breathlessly. “my legs don’t work. my balls are empty. my brain is gone. i’m just a mouth now. just a mouth and a cock actually.”

you snort into his skin.

“god, you’re disgusting,” you whisper, but there’s no heat to it, you punctuate the sentence by placing wet kisses to his collarbone.

he turns his face toward you, brushing his nose against your temple. “i mean it. the second you said i could have a taste—fuck, something in me just broke.”

you could feel his cock slightly harden in you by the second, and he looks at you like he’s just realised that too. but he also knows you don’t have enough in your body to give him another orgasm.

you try to nuzzle close to him, try to grind down on him despite being wrung out, but he gently lifts you off him and you both silently hiss.

"can we just lie down?" to which you reply with a kiss to his lips. he takes that answer eagerly and curls into your side.

he's half on top of you now, one arm slung across your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. his face is pressed against your chest, lips brushing the swell of your breast.

the stillness doesn't last longer as he twitches every now and then, little aftershocks still rippling through him.

you think he’s drifting. until he shifts slightly and murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “can i…?”

you glance down. he’s looking at you with that dazed expression again. completely blissed out and somehow still wanting. he nuzzles your breast, dragging his mouth lazily over your skin, and repeats it, "mommy… can i just… can i nurse again?”

you smile and kiss the top of his head. “of course, baby.”

shifting slightly, you guide him to the soft weight of your breast, your nipple already stiffening at the feel of his breath. he’s gentle, so damn gentle it almost breaks something in you.

he opens his mouth slowly, presses his lips to you, and latches without a word.

you realise there's no hunger or desperation this time, like earlier when he was moaning and grinding and trying not to come.

this is something else. this is soft. and soothing. and soft.

his tongue drags lazy circles around your nipple. he sucks lightly, rhythmically and his cheek is pressed to the curve of your breast like it’s the only place he ever wants to live.

you wrap your arm around his head, fingers sinking into his hair, just to hold him closer.

you feel the letdown and the warm ache. the subtle sting that comes just before the release.

but you just watch him without a word.

he moans softly, the sound vibrating against your chest.

“tastes so good,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “so fucking warm. feels like you’re feeding me straight from your heart.”

quiet laughter ripples through you. “i might be.”

he sucks again, deeper now, lips sealed around your nipple, his tongue moving with slow precision like he never wants to stop. your other hand finds the back of his neck, rubbing gentle circles there, keeping him grounded. keeping him yours.

“i love this. i’d live here if you let me.”

you smile and tilt your head to kiss his forehead. “you already do.”

his hand slides over your belly, stroking the soft skin, fingers tracing the stretch of you, the weight you still carry.

“i love this body,” he whispers. “you made me everything in it. you feed me from it. you fucking break me with it.”

a slow exhale leaves you, and he just keeps nursing.

you can feel his cock— not hard, but not soft either —resting against your thigh. it twitches every now and then like it’s remembering earlier. like it’s responding just to the taste of you in his mouth.

he shifts a little, pulling your breast deeper into his mouth, moaning as he suckles like he’s trying to coax every last drop from you.

his tongue flicks gently, then presses firm. you can feel the tug low in your belly. your nipple aches, your core pulses, but you stay still and let him take what he wants.

let him keep drinking.

“am i gonna get addicted to this?” he mumbles around your skin.

“you already are, baby.”

“i don’t wanna stop.”

“you don’t have to.”

you look down again. he looks so peaceful. so full of want and contentment at the same time. he shifts his legs a little, then presses closer, curling into you like he’s trying to melt into your skin.

you whisper into his hair, “you want to switch sides, baby?”

he hums. “mmhm.”

you gently ease him off your breast. his lips make a soft, wet pop as he pulls away, and he actually whines. his tongue darts out to lick the corner of his mouth, already chasing the taste again.

you guide his head to the other side, lift your arm so he can tuck beneath it, and he latches just as eagerly as the first time. maybe even more.

this nipple’s still wet from earlier, still sensitive, and the moment his tongue touches it, you shiver.

he groans.

“god, mommy,” he mumbles. “still leaking.”

you run your fingers through his hair, stroke the curve of his jaw.

he keeps sucking. messy now. even drooling a little. he's moaning like it gets better the longer he stays latched. and it might.

you’re not sure where the pleasure ends and the intimacy begins anymore. it’s all blended together—this soft, sticky need that just keeps pulsing between you.

your thighs are slick again. you don't have to voice it out for him to know that.

he pulls off suddenly, just for a second, eyes dazed as he looks up at you. his lips are swollen, and you feel him shaking.

"i love you so much," it's a statement, that holds more love than it could ever express.

"i love you too, baby," you caress his hair and pull him closer to you.

a smile spreads on his lips and he kisses the side of your breast. then latches again, eyes fluttering shut. and drinks.

my masterlist .ᐟ

a/n2 | aight i’ve been summoned to hell. i’ll see myself out. i genuinely forgot that the baby existed, so if we can collectively imagine it’s in the next room fast asleep, that would be terrific! taglist | @devililithh @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @houseofhyde @umbreoni @bckyslover @kqtholins @54nboo @amoremarveloustime @barnesandashes @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @flockoff-featherface @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @grumpysunnybarnes @pinksplace @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @tw1sters @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 + to get added to the taglist .ᐟ

June 2026

by @navybrat817

📙 Drive You Home | comf | 12k | You’re Bucky’s favorite passenger. He knows your schedule by heart. The same day, time, and location. You’re kind. You talk to him like he’s more than just the man behind the wheel. You always tip well.

📙 Last Call | Bucky helps you out of the bar after a few drinks.

📙 Come Home | Bucky wants you to come home.

📙 it's all for you by @mwahforbucky | Your sweet neighbour harbours a crush on you and painfully watches you stay in a toxic relationship, he wishes he could be yours. He would treat you so well.

📙 eighteen hours. by @buckyseternaldoll | +18 | Weeks apart on separate missions leave you and Bucky Barnes aching, desperate, and one heartbeat away from unraveling. The reunion? Eighteen hours of pure, breathless release.

by @aquaticmercy

📙 Bucky Likes Your Tramp Stamp | he gets turned on when he finds out you have a tramp stamp

📙 Smug About It | Bucky Has a Praise Kink and You’re Smug About It

📙 Confessions by @mickimoo1409 | You and Bucky have been in an arranged marriage for a year and finally get the nerve to confess your feelings to each other. 

📙 Drowned in You by @bees-library3 | +18 | After a disaster of a press conference, Bucky copes by fucking you in the shower.

📙 Patch you up by @multiversefanfics | After a mission gone sideways, Bucky is patching you up and some things are said and maybe taken the wrong way.

📙 the final act by @w1nter-fairy | +18 | 10k | Loving Bucky Barnes was never supposed to happen. He was older, off-limits; but stolen nights turn into something neither of you can't ignore and when the truth comes out, it threatens to destroy everything. Because some acts aren't meant to last... and some loves refuses to end when the curtain falls.

by @sunday-bug

📙 Twisted in Bedsheets | +18

📙 Primary Source

📙 Town Gossip | Lee Bodecker x Reader

📙 Clapping Erasers (And Cheeks)

📙 sexting with bucky by @godmadeaterribleerror

📙 Private Affairs by @saiyanprincessswanie | +18 | Bucky and Reader have a secret relationship that they don’t want to share with anyone.

📙 Nutshell by @superbassbuck | 11k | You are Bucky’s most prized possession. Your mind, body, and soul were crafted by his own hands—he gave you life, and he could just as easily take it away. He never imagined he’d feel threatened by his own creation, until the day you began to have desires of your own.

by @societyfolklore

📙 Every Word | Lance Tucker x Reader

📙 Window Seat | Chris Beck x Reader

📙 Good Time | Lee Bodecker x Reader

📙 Give Me a Whirl | Lee Bodecker x Reader

📙 Caught Your Name | Max Burnett x Reader

📙 Premonition | Chase Collins x Female Reader

📙 Another Reason | Nick Fowler x Reader

📙 Stay the Night | Hal Carter x Reader

📙 Look At Me | +18

📙 Just Competitive | +18 | Sam’s new gf keeps waking you up

📙 Make Things Right | Steven Kemp x Reader

by @winteryn

📙 BUNNY GONE WILD | +18 | the winter soldier infiltrates a college halloween party to follow the pretty girl with bunny ears who collided into him on the sidewalk. 

📙 ROUGH HANDS, STRAWBERRY KISSES & OTHER SOFT THINGS | +18 | 26k | navigating your first relationship feels overwhelming at times—every touch, every question, every new feeling makes you wonder if you’re doing things right. thankfully, bucky loves you with enough patience and gentleness to turn every new experience into a reason to hold you a little closer. or, a collection of moments in which your boyfriend teaches you that love was never supposed to feel frightening—not when it’s held in careful hands like his.

📙 FRAGMENTS OF A LONELY TIDE | series | a grumpy dockworker reluctantly rescues you—a stranded, wounded mermaid—with every intention of sending you back to the sea once you’ve healed. until the idea of losing you becomes something he can no longer bear.

📙 Heiress in Hiding by @semper-nox | +18 | 20k | stucky x reader | Backstage, you were just the agency’s trusted makeup artist... until the calls got urgent, the secrets got heavier, and Steve and Bucky realized you weren’t only hiding stress… you were hiding a whole identity. When the truth finally comes out, they have to decide what’s real: your name, your power, or the feelings you’ve been trying so hard to protect.

by @phoenix-in-writing

📙 Get Lost In It | +18 | Andrew x Reader | On a night out, you meet a man who claims he was looking for you all along. But was he really though?

📙 Art History | An after hours meeting proves that you may need more than just a private lesson to bring your grades up.

📙 The Scam | Max Burnett x Reader | No one said the world of fraud was simple. It's even less so when your mentor doesn't allow you to fulfill your end of the deal.

📙 Pan Fried | Steve Kemp x reader | Maybe...grabbing a cast iron skillet wasn't the best idea...

📙 Wheel of Wonder | Somehow, your new boyfriend sweet talked you onto The Wonder Wheel at Coney Island despite you being afraid of heights.

📙 The Stork Club | Bucky lays eyes on the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, and is convinced he has a shot.

📙 Anonymous Contact | Anonymity is the name of the game. But what happens when he keeps coming back?

📙 Princess Treatment | Being the prized possession of one James Buchanan Barnes sure did come with a lot of perks.

📙 The Fixer | Sent to spy on The Asset in Romania, you bite off more than you can chew.

📙 Hold the Door

📙 Bedtime Story | Maybe that last shot was a bad idea.

📙 Old Money | Leo Reilly x Reader | A game of strip poker has it's stakes raised.

📙 run little bunny by @bucksangel | +18 | Being John Walker’s assistant is hard; he’s mean, disrespectful, misogynistic, the whole nine yards. On top of that, he hardly pays you fairly. So, when you’re fired for a mistake you’re sure wasn’t your fault, you’re at risk of being kicked out by your rude roommates. Luckily for you, James Barnes, a wildly successful CEO, has found his way into your life. And he’s going to take such good care of you.

📙 Bad timing by @imnotjustreadingg-volume-two | +18 | Bucky took something Sam gave him as a joke... turned out it wasn't a joke

by @gravelocked

📙 voice message | +18 | multiple x reader

📙 mean | +18 | multiple x reader

by @jamesbbcrnes

📙 SAVE ME A DANCE

📙 ROUGH DAY

📙 APOLOGISE

📙 HAUNTING PAST

📙 GONNA MAKE HER MINE

📙 I’LL BE SEEIN’ YOU

📙 YOU’RE THE ONE

📙 GIRL CRUSH

📙 BEDTIME

📙 GLITTERY CHAOS

by @azriona

📙 She's Singing | Why is Bucky's new teammate singing?!?!?

📙 Slow Dance | The music may change, but the dance doesn't. (And isn't that the way it should be?)

📙 Misdirection | You're dancing. Bucky's watching. Neither of you are paying attention.

📙 Right Place, Wrong Time | In 1972, the Asset broke free of his handlers. He was found in New York City three weeks later.

📙 The Jackknife | The shark has such teeth, dear. And there is work to be done.

by @sassandscribbles

📙 Memories worth a lifetime | a car ride, an old song, and memories worth lifetime.

📙 Wrong Place, Wrong time | Empty meeting rooms are not supposed to be used for fucking your boyfriend before a mission. But since when do you follow any rules?

📙 Mine | +18 | The winter soldier visits you late at night. And only wants one thing.

by @stardustrider

📙 Rules Are for Breaking

📙 Good time

📙 A Good Man by @apenny4thots | A night in has Bucky reflecting on time lost.

by @perdidosbucky-yyo

📙 Can't Promise | Professor Barnes tries to break up with you.

📙 SWEET TOOTH | Your sweet tooth will be your downfall

by @cueloki

📙 New neighbors

📙 The first move

📙 soft by @maerieee

📙 Brown Sugar and Gunmetal vol.3 by @vunblr | +18 | 11k | Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.

by @metal-armed-muse

📙 bucky barnes vs. one (1) annotated romance novel | +18 | Bucky finds your romance novel. Bucky reads the highlighted part. Bucky discovers you've both been silently wanting the same thing. Bucky proves he’s incapable of acting normal about this information.

📙 BAD HABITS | +18 | 12k | What’s so bad about Bucky Barnes? The fact that he watches you or calls you kid while he does it?

by @buckyalpine

📙 most soft shy little bunny ever | +18 | You know who'd talk you through it? Bucky. Bucky would talk you through it.

📙 cameras to HD quality | +18 | "So what you're saying is that footage would've recorded everything in the kitchen from morning to evening and the middle of the night...everything?"

📙 kiss cam by @barnesafterglow | fluff | when you and bucky go on a date, you end up on the kiss cam

📙 Double Blind by @wkemeup | Set up on what might be the worst blind date you’d ever been on, you find yourself captivated by the mysterious bartender instead 

📙 your man loves by @kittennextdoor | +18 | your man loves when you fuck him back

📙 loca by @late-to-the-party-81 | Nick Fowler x reader

📙 Starry summer by @w1nter-fairy | +18 | For months, Bucky has looked forward to one thing: seeing his favorite camgirl live. He never expected to find her poolside in a white bikini... or discover that she's been flirting with him all summer long.

📙 All You Get by @tw1sters | +18 | Nick Fowler x reader | Nick Fowler is not the man of your dreams, not with the way he refuses to love, but you can't help yourself anyway.

by @iamthatonefangirl

📙 fallout | +18

📙 valentine's day | +18

📙 whirlwind | +18

by @stanmarvelous

📙 Born to Sing

📙 Fooled

📙 Gonna Make Her Mine, All Mine

📙 stuck in bed by @aerisque | After spending the entire day curled up in ded with painful cramps, you do everything you can to keep Bucky from finding out

📙 I’ll Take the Sticks, I’ll Take the Stones by @singulartoast | You dislike the false glamour of politics, but your husband Bucky is there to shield and steer you through.

<part15 ...