Bucky’s Bklyn Doll

Drabble #1 - Documented condition Rating: Teen

"You put me on your medical forms?" Sam scowled.

"Documented condition." Bucky shrugged

"I will destroy you."

"Symptom four: risk of death."

"I will end you—"

"Fascinating. Keep going."

"Steve!"

Steve looked up from his coffee. He'd been on this couch for eight minutes. He'd aged considerably.

"Bucky. Remove Sam from your allergy list."

"Medical records are confidential."

"I'll show you confidential—" Sam started.

"That doesn't mean anything," Steve said.

"It means something to me—"

"Barnes, I swear to God—"

"Symptom five," Bucky said serenely.

Steve put his coffee down. Stood up. Walked out.

They didn't notice for four minutes.

Drabble #2 - Faker Rating: General Audiences

Bucky faked a cat allergy for years. “Cats make my eyes swell shut.” Convenient. Effective. 

It started with Bucky piggybacking you during a rainstorm. He’d ducked into the alleyway behind your shared apartment. There was a tiny meow, then thunder.

“I hear something!” 

On cue, a tiny meow.

You slid off Bucky, crouching down. Between two trash bins was a rain soaked white kitten.

“Bucky!”

“I’m allergic,” he lied.

“That’s what Benadryl’s for. Just for tonight.”

That night the kitten was asleep on Bucky. Months later, the kitten, now Alpine, lived her best life,, spoiled rotten.

Conveniently, the allergy vanished.

Drabble #3 – Side Effects May Include Rating: General Audiences

At first, Sam thinks Bucky is allergic to your perfume.

A reasonable theory; every time you pass him in the hall, Bucky’s ears go red, his breathing catches, and he finds urgent reasons to leave.

Then Sam blames your lotion.

Then the plants on your desk.

“Serum does weird things,” he says, genuinely worried.

“Yes,” Natasha drawls. “Super soldiers have allergies too.”

Bucky glares. “I’m not allergic.”

You glance up from your mission report. “To what?”

Bucky opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Natasha smiles.

Sam, finally understanding, is delighted.

“Oh,” he grins. “It’s chronic.”

Bucky has to leave the room.

Drabble #4 – Cheap Soap Rating: Teen

Vicious cursing followed Bucky out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips.

“Cheap soap,” he grumbled. “Feels like I rolled in poison ivy.”

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, taking in his damp skin and the trail of water slipping down his stomach and you forgot yourself for a second.

“You’re naked,” you blurted out, not thinking.

Bucky frowned. “I’m itchy.”

That pulled your eyes higher. Angry red blotches spread across his skin, made worse by where his fingers scratched.

“Shit,” you breathed, already moving. “I’ll see if I’ve got chamomile or something. Stop touching it.”

Drabble #5 - Plan B Rating: General Audiences

“Think of a new plan,” Bucky said, “I’m allergic.”

Sam was eavesdropping; he shouldn’t have jumped in. “Allergic? Do supersoldiers even have allergies?”

“I got the shitty Hydra serum,” Bucky explained. “Just my luck.”

Steve’s face was planted solidly on the table. “You’re not allergic,” he mumbled into the wood.

“Uhh…” Sam wondered what he had wandered into.

“Then explain the tightness in my chest whenever this dumb punk jumps out of a plane, no parachute.”

“You’ve done that, Barnes.”

“He’s what?” Steve’s head shot up, eyes wild.

“Looks like allergies are catching,” Bucky said evenly. “New plan?”

“New plan.”

Drabble #6 - Pickle Juice Rating: General Audiences

“What kind of pickles come on the burger?” Bucky looked up at the waiter.

“Uh, standard? Dill.”

“No pickles, then,” Bucky stated. “I’m allergic to dill.”

“Oh,” Kevin responded, “I’ll be sure to tell the kitchen.”

You fixed Bucky with a look.

“What?” Bucky asked once Kevin left.

“You’re not allergic to anything, super soldier.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but his ears turned pink. “If I say I’m allergic, they actually leave it off.”

You raised one eyebrow.

“I just… I hate them. Unless I’m particular, they throw them on anyway, then the whole burger’s contaminated with dill pickle flavor.”

Drabble #7 – Like a Liar Rating: General Audiences

Bucky crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed as he looked down. A pair of eyes stared back at him, daring him to blink. He wasn’t about to lose that battle. 

“I can’t take you home,” he said, watching the small creature tilt her head. “I’m allergic to cats.”

Yes, Bucky Barnes told a cat, who couldn’t verbally communicate, that he was allergic to her. 

Like a liar. 

He sighed when the feline brushed his leg with a purr. “I have to ask my girlfriend, who is also allergic to cats.”

Another lie.

And you’d love a new pet, right?

Right.

AH-CHOO. *sniff* Well, that about covers it for today! We hope you enjoyed the seven drabbles--now it's time to vote!

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Too many people. Too much noise. The air too warm for layers, but he wore them anyway — hood up, gloves on, jacket zipped — because it was easier to feel overheated than exposed.

He kept his head down as he moved through the crowd on West 47th, letting the noise of traffic drown out the chatter in his own skull. Morning rush hour meant no one looked too closely. Perfect.

Or it should have been.

He spotted you only in passing at first — standing near the edge of the sidewalk, angled toward a shop window, holding a small hand mirror. You were brushing your fingers along your cheekbone, touching up lipstick maybe. Hair catching the morning light, coffee in the other hand. The kind of ordinary picture he was used to glancing past.

Only, as he stepped closer, you turned. Quick — almost too quick.

And then the coffee hit.

It was hot, sharp against his jacket sleeve before he even registered you stumbling back. The paper cup dropped from your fingers, liquid soaking in fast, blooming across the front of your white blouse.

“Shit—” The word came out before anything else, his hands coming up uselessly, hovering between your shoulders and your arm like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you. “I’m— I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”

You glanced down at the spreading stain, jaw tightening like you were holding something in. “I— I have a meeting,” you muttered, like you were talking to yourself more than to him. “Of course this happens now…”

Bucky winced. “Here—” He was already shrugging out of his jacket, the air hitting his sleeves like a reminder he’d regret this later. “Take this. Just to cover it up until you can—”

You shook your head immediately, taking a step back. “No. It’s fine. Accidents happen. Don’t worry about it.”

“Let me at least buy you another coffee,” he said quickly, still holding the jacket out like maybe you just hadn’t heard him. “And a shirt or something—there’s a shop right around—”

“I’m fine,” you cut in again, softer this time, almost apologetic, like you didn’t want to make him feel bad but also really needed to get away. Your voice had that rushed edge to it, but not frantic. “Seriously. I just need to go.”

Bucky glanced at your blouse again, the dark coffee already drying in jagged edges. He could practically hear Sam in his head telling him to stop letting people walk off with problems he’d caused. “I really don’t mind—”

“It’s fine,” you repeated, stepping sideways into the flow of the crowd. “Water under the bridge. Totally fine.”

You gave him one more faint smile — not dismissive, but final. Then you turned and slipped into the moving stream of pedestrians, your pace quick, almost purposeful.

He hesitated, jacket still in his hand.

For a second, he thought about following — just enough to press the jacket into your hands whether you wanted it or not. But the crowd had already swallowed you up. And it wasn’t like he could shout after you without drawing attention.

Still, he stood there for another beat, scanning the faces ahead as if you might turn back.

You didn’t.

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One Month Later Second Meeting

Bucky wasn’t really paying attention to much of anything when he pushed his cart down the produce aisle. Just the quiet hum of the refrigeration units and the low music overhead, some ’80s pop song playing like it was trying too hard to cheer people up.

He stopped at the fruits section, scanning the shelves for plums. He didn’t even know when they’d become a habit — something about the taste, the simplicity of them, the fact it helped him remember things.

That’s when he saw a woman.

Standing by the stacked baskets of peaches and plums, head tilted as you inspected one like you were weighing the worth of it. The aisle was empty except for you, which meant there was no mistaking it.

It was you.

The woman from the street. The one he’d dumped a cup of coffee on last month.

Most people would’ve turned around right there. Pretended they needed something from the other end of the store, avoided the potential awkwardness.

But for reasons he couldn’t explain — maybe guilt, maybe curiosity — Bucky kept walking forward.

“Plums,” he said when he reached you, his voice coming out rougher than he meant.

You glanced up, brows pulling together in a faint, confused crease. “Sorry?”

Bucky cleared his throat, tried for a faint smirk that probably looked nothing like one. “They’re good this time of year.”

It sounded stupid the second it left his mouth.

Your confusion didn’t fade.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Uh— I’m… the guy who spilled coffee all over you. Downtown. About a month ago.”

For a beat, you just stared at him like you were searching your memory. Then your expression shifted — the small widening of your eyes, the slight downturn of your lips in recognition. “Oh… right,” you said slowly, almost hesitant.

“Yeah,” he muttered, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous this was. “That was me.”

“Hi,” you said, the word soft, polite.

“Hey.”

It hung there between you for a second, both of you standing in front of the plums like neither quite knew what to do next.

Bucky cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Listen, about that coffee—”

You were still holding the plum in your hand, looking at him like you weren’t sure if he was about to apologize or confess to some bigger crime.

“I, uh…” His mouth twisted like the words physically hurt to get out. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been paying more attention. I just—”

He trailed off, realizing he was rambling to someone who probably hadn’t thought twice about it since.

You hadn’t said anything, just stood there, watching him with that polite, unreadable expression.

Bucky let out a quiet sigh, trying again. “I’m James,” he said finally, sticking to something simple.

Your mouth curved into the faintest smile, like you were both amused and maybe a little charmed by how bad he was at this. You told him your name, and it sat warm in his mind the second you said it.

“Right.” He nodded, a little too fast, and then… nothing. Just the hum of the cooler and the faint sound of some kid whining two aisles over. You both stood there, staring in this weird not-uncomfortable but definitely awkward silence.

Yet you didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. Not in the way most people in the city were — always glancing at their phones, shifting toward the exit. You stood there, weight relaxed, like you were giving him the space to figure out whatever the hell this was.

“Hey,” he said after a beat, surprising even himself. “Do you… wanna grab a cup of coffee? You know, for the one I spilled on you.”

Your brows lifted just slightly, your smile curling into something softer, almost confused, like you couldn’t quite tell if he was serious. “It’s ten p.m. on a Tuesday.”

“Decaf, then,” he said, not missing a beat.

The corner of your mouth twitched like you were trying not to laugh. “You don't look like you drink decaf.”

“Not usually,” he admitted, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “But I figured… you know. Fair’s fair.”

It came out gruffer than he intended, like an apology and an invitation wrapped into one. He could feel that familiar, awkward heat creeping into the back of his neck, but he kept his gaze on you, waiting.

You tilted your head, letting the silence stretch just enough to make it look like you were actually weighing the offer. Your eyes dropped briefly to the plums in your hand, then back to him, like maybe this was a coin toss in your mind.

Bucky stayed still, watching you — and maybe that was why it felt like a bigger deal when you finally let out a small, almost reluctant breath and said, “Okay, James.”

You said his name slowly, like you were trying it on for size. No flicker of recognition, no double take, no oh-you’re-that-guy-from-the-news. Just James.

And that… did something to him. Most people knew who he was now, or at least thought they did. You didn’t seem to care — or maybe you didn’t know — and somehow, that made your answer feel more genuine.

Bucky’s mouth pulled into the faintest smile, one corner higher than the other. “Alright then.”

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He ended up picking a small café a few blocks from the grocery store. One of those places with low lighting, scratched wooden tables, and the faint smell of burnt espresso that clung to the walls. It was quiet enough for conversation, but not so empty that it felt like an interrogation.

They got their coffees — his black, yours decaf — and a couple of glazed donuts because it felt like the kind of thing you were supposed to get with coffee. You took a seat by the window, the city lights outside casting a warm reflection across your face.

You were the one to break the silence. Leaning back in your chair, coffee cupped loosely in your hands, you asked, “So, James… what’s your deal?”

He blinked. “My deal?”

You nodded, casual, like you weren’t digging for anything too deep. “Yeah. You just… I dunno. Seem like you’ve got a story.”

That threw him a little. Most people either knew the story or thought they did. You didn’t seem to. And maybe that was why he stumbled over his answer. “Uh… nothing special. I keep to myself. Do my thing.”

You arched a brow, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “That’s vague as hell.”

“It’s the truth,” he said, shifting in his seat.

You just smiled knowingly, like you could see through him, but didn’t press. Instead, you glanced at the donut on your plate, tore off a piece, and popped it into your mouth. You chewed, swallowed, then said flatly, “These donuts are terrible.”

Bucky’s head jerked slightly at the bluntness, and before he could help it, a huff escaped him. It was quiet but real — the kind that crept up unexpectedly. “Guess I’ve had better,” he admitted.

“I work in a bakery,” you said simply, sipping your coffee. “So I have the authority to say that.”

“Maybe I’ll have to come by,” he said without thinking. “Try some of your desserts.”

You looked at him, eyes glinting, head tilting just a fraction. “Is that some kind of innuendo?”

“What? No—” He almost choked on his coffee, sputtering a little. “No, I was being serious. Actual bakery stuff.”

You bit back a laugh, but the way your lips twitched gave you away. “Relax, James. I’m just messing with you.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Yeah, I’m starting to figure that out.”

It was strange, how easy it was to talk to you. Bucky wasn’t great at… this. Conversations usually felt like work — too much effort to keep up, too many pauses he didn’t know how to fill. But with you, he didn’t notice the time passing.

You’d sip your coffee, tilt your head, say something that made him laugh without meaning to, and it all just… happened.

And you smiled a lot. Not the fake kind either. The real ones that crinkled the corners of your eyes, that made him wonder what you looked like when you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe.

He caught himself staring more than once, and when he realized how long they’d been sitting there, the barista was already hovering. “Sorry, guys. We’re closing up.” Her tone was polite, but it was still the gentle shove toward the door.

Outside, the air was cool, city sounds echoing off the buildings. You both stood there for a second, neither really sure what came next.

You were the one to break it. “Well, thanks for the coffee,” you said softly, giving him that same easy smile, “I’ll see you around, James.”

You turned slightly, like you were about to go — and maybe that’s what made him do it.

“Wait—” He shifted his weight, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean… we should… uh…” He frowned, trying again. “Go out. Sometime. You and me.”

It came out more like an order than a question, and his jaw tensed like he was annoyed at himself for it.

You looked at him, eyebrows lifting just a little, like you were amused but not in a mean way. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. “Guess I’m not good at either.”

“Guess not,” you said — and then, without missing a beat, “Alright. When and where?”

That made him freeze for half a second, eyes narrowing like he had to replay your words in his head. “Uh—”

You just stood there, patient, still smiling like you had all the time in the world.

“Tomorrow,” he blurted. “Uh… that diner on 8th. Six o’clock?”

“Okay,” you said easily, like you hadn’t just completely hijacked the momentum of the conversation.

And just like that, you turned, walking away into the night — leaving him standing there with the ridiculous thought that he already wanted to see you again.

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The Next Day First Date

Bucky didn’t remember agreeing to the date so much as the fact that it had just… happened. You’d looked at him with that easy smile and said, “When and where?” — like it was nothing. And somehow, without thinking, he’d said tomorrow and six o’clock.

Now it was tomorrow. Six hours away. And he was pacing his apartment like a caged animal.

It had been decades since his last real date — and if he didn’t count that mess with that waitress last month (which he didn’t), then this was his first since 1942.

Leah had been kind. Pretty. She’d said yes when he asked her out, and for a moment he thought maybe he could do this, maybe he could be… normal. Then she’d mentioned Yori’s son, and the bottom had dropped out. That wasn’t a date. That was guilt with beer.

This though? This felt like something else. And maybe that was the problem.

Because you were just… a pretty girl. That should’ve made this easier. But it didn’t. You had a way of looking at him that knocked him off balance, like you could see right through him without making him feel exposed. You laughed easily. You spoke without hesitation. You weren’t awkward — hell, you probably didn’t even know what awkward felt like.

Meanwhile, he felt like a guy trying to speak a language he hadn’t practiced in eighty years.

He stopped pacing long enough to glance at the jacket draped over the back of his chair. Too formal? Too casual? In the forties, you wore a suit and tie. In 2024, people wore jeans to weddings. The idea of showing up underdressed made his stomach tighten — but overdressed felt just as bad.

He sat, bounced his knee. Stood up again. Every time he thought about the way you’d smiled at him, that slow curve of your mouth, he felt something coil in his chest. It wasn’t nerves exactly — more like… anticipation.

Not that he’d admit that. To himself or anyone else.

By the time the clock ticked past five, he’d changed shirts twice, Googled “first date small talk” (and immediately slammed the laptop shut), and muttered a few possible openers under his breath. None of them sounded right.

Catching himself in the mirror, he tugged at his collar and smoothed his hair back. He looked… fine. Not good, not bad. Just fine.

He told himself it was just dinner. Just a date. Just you. But that didn’t explain why his chest was tight, or why his palms felt damp.

You were just a pretty girl. And he was just a guy trying to keep up.

At least, that’s what he thought as he grabbed his keys and stepped out into the warm May evening.

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Bucky had been sitting in the booth for five minutes already — too early to be casual, but late enough that he hoped it didn’t look like he’d been waiting all day.

The place wasn’t fancy, but it was clean, warm, with a faint hum of conversation that made it feel… safe. Neutral ground. He’d picked it for that reason.

The flowers sat in front of him, wrapped in brown paper — not a big bouquet, just enough to look thoughtful without overdoing it.

At least, that’s what he hoped.

He’d stood in the florist shop for ten whole minutes debating whether flowers were still something you did in 2024, or if they’d come across as… desperate.

Maybe he was desperate.

His gloved hands tapped against the table as his eyes flicked to the door every time it opened. He ran through a hundred worst-case scenarios in his head — the conversation dying after two minutes, you looking bored, him saying something that made you leave.

And underneath it all, that other thought.

The one that never quite left him.

You didn’t know who he was. Not really.

You didn’t know you were about to have dinner with someone who’d been a murderer, a weapon, a name whispered in fear for decades. You didn’t know the blood on his hands.

A part of him felt relief at that — maybe you’d just see him as a guy named James, nothing more. But the guilt hit just as fast. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t get the choice to decide if you wanted to sit across from someone like him.

His knee bounced under the table. His hand curled around the flowers again, like the rough paper could ground him.

The door opened. And everything went quiet.

You stepped in like you weren’t even aware the whole world could tilt toward you without trying. Black dress, simple but clean lines, fitting you just enough to make his chest tighten. His first thought was that he’d underdressed. His second thought was that he couldn’t look away.

Your eyes found him in the corner, and that small, slow smile broke across your face.

It wasn’t wide or showy. Just… soft. The kind of smile that made the noise in his head fade, made his shoulders lose a fraction of their tension.

For the first time all day, he wasn’t thinking about what he was going to say, or if he’d mess this up. He just knew you were walking toward him.

And that, somehow, felt like enough.

You slid into the booth across from him, the faint scent of your perfume slipping into the air between you. Up close, that black dress looked even better — understated, but it clung just enough in the right places to make his throat tighten.

His hand went to the bouquet almost on instinct, pushing it toward you like he was afraid if he didn’t do it immediately, he’d chicken out.

“Uh… these are for you,” he said, voice low, awkward, almost apologetic. “Figured it… y’know. Might be a nice thing.”

You blinked down at them, and he had no idea if you were surprised, amused, or trying to decide if you even liked flowers. That hesitation stretched for a beat too long, and his stomach tightened. Maybe this was too much. Maybe—

Then you looked up at him, smiling in that slow, deliberate way again. “Not many guys bring flowers anymore,” you said, taking the bouquet. “Guess I’ll have to forgive you for being old-fashioned.”

Something about the way you said it made him huff out a laugh — but he still shifted in his seat, the tips of his ears warming.

“Old habits,” he muttered, full on knowing you wouldn't catch the double meaning.

You brushed your fingers over the petals like you were committing the flowers to memory before setting them gently beside you on the seat. “They’re beautiful,” you added, and for a second, he felt like maybe he hadn’t already messed this up.

When the waiter came to take your orders, you didn’t look at the menu for long. Confident, decisive — nothing like him, who kept second-guessing whether the steak here was even good.

As soon as the waiter left, you leaned in just slightly, elbows resting on the table. “So, James… was this place your first choice? Or did you have, like, a list of approved restaurants for a random Wednesday night?”

He smirked — or at least tried to. “I’m not that bad.”

“You seem like the type who thinks about these things,” you teased.

If you only knew, he thought.

You twirled the straw in your water glass, glancing at him over the rim. “So… you said last time you just keep to yourself. Do your thing.”

He nodded, keeping his posture casual even though he could feel every muscle in his shoulders locked tight. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

You leaned in just a little, chin resting on your palm. “Okay, but… what’s your thing? Like, what’s the long-term goals?”

Bucky blinked. “The what?”

Your lips curved and you tilted your head, almost amused. “Your goals… long-term.”

It was such a simple question, but his mind went blank. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, trying to come up with something that sounded halfway decent. “I dunno. I, uh… haven’t really thought about it.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. “So you’re just floating through life, huh?”

He frowned, but there was no edge to it. “Guess so.”

“Not the worst thing,” you said, sitting back and taking a sip of your drink. “Some people like the drift.”

He studied you for a moment. You didn’t ask it like you were judging him, or trying to dig too deep. It was just… curiosity. Pure, easy curiosity. And yet somehow it made him feel like you could see right through him.

“What about you?” he asked, deflecting.

You shrugged. “Work. Pay my bills. Try not to lose my mind in the process. I’ve got smaller goals — learn how to make a croissant that doesn’t deflate, try every cocktail on the menu at O’Malley’s, maybe get a dog one day.”

A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it. “That’s your big plan? Pastries, alcohol, and a dog?”

“Pretty solid life, if you ask me.”

He shook his head, smiling to himself. He’d expected this to be awkward, expected to feel the way he always did around new people — like he was under a microscope, like every move was being analyzed. But with you… it was just talking.

The waiter came back with your plates, setting a steaming plate of pasta in front of you and a medium-rare steak in front of him. You thanked the waiter without breaking eye contact with Bucky, like you didn’t want the conversation to slip away.

“So no dreams of retiring on a beach? No cabin in the woods?” you asked as you picked up your fork.

He thought about it for a beat. “Cabin sounds nice.”

“There you go.” You pointed your fork at him. “Long-term goal: cabin. Look at you making progress.”

Bucky huffed a laugh and shook his head, but inside, he was already picturing it — and, to his own surprise, you were in that picture too.

The conversation didn’t slow down after that. It wasn’t forced, either — just one topic folding into the next, your questions pulling him along, your little comments sparking thoughts he didn’t even realize he had.

Every time you smiled, his chest felt like it loosened a little. Every time you laughed, it felt like something in him woke up just to listen.

And before he knew it, the plates were cleared, the check was paid, and you were both standing at the door, the cool night air rushing in.

“You, uh…” He scratched at the back of his neck. “You headed home?”

You gave him that small, easy smile that made him feel ten years younger. “Yeah.”

“Can I… walk you?” He tried to sound casual, but it came out tentative, like he wasn’t sure if it was overstepping.

You tilted your head in that way you did when you were thinking, then nodded. “Sure.”

Something about that word — the way it rolled off your tongue, unhurried and warm — made his pulse skip. He held the door for you, falling into step at your side as you stepped onto the quiet street.

The city was winding down, streetlights casting halos on the pavement. Your heels clicked softly against the sidewalk while his boots fell into a slower rhythm to match yours.

For a while, you didn’t speak, and that was fine with him. He found himself just… watching you out of the corner of his eye. The way the breeze tugged at your hair. The way you tucked your hands into your coat pockets but kept your shoulders loose, like you weren’t afraid of anything.

“You live far?” he asked finally.

“Couple blocks,” you said. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make you walk across the city.”

He smiled at that, but didn’t say anything else, afraid he might break whatever this was — this quiet, this ease.

When you finally stopped in front of a brownstone, you turned to him, your eyes catching in the streetlight. “This is me.”

Bucky nodded, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “Right. Uh… thank you for asking me to walk you.”

That earned him a soft laugh. “Pretty sure it was your idea, James.”

He blinked, thrown for a second, then nodded again, sheepish. “Yeah… yeah, right.”

And then… nothing. His mind blanked. If this had been back in the ’30s, the polite thing would’ve been to kiss your cheek, tip his hat, say goodnight like a gentleman. But it wasn’t the ’30s anymore. People had boundaries. And he had no idea if crossing that invisible line would ruin everything.

Still, the urge was there — humming beneath his ribs, pooling low in his chest. You looked so damn pretty in that black dress, the flowers he’d given you cradled in your hands. He could smell your perfume, faint and warm, and it was killing him not to close the distance.

You caught it. The way his eyes lingered, the faint crease between his brows. That tiny flicker of indecision.

Your teeth caught your bottom lip like you were thinking about it and that was when you stepped forward — deliberate, slow, your heels clicking against the pavement.

You didn’t just close the gap — you took control of it. One hand lifted, your fingers curling lightly along the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing over the scruff on his cheek. His breath caught instantly, eyes locking on yours, the flicker of surprise almost boyish in his expression.

And then you leaned in.

The kiss was soft but unflinching, holding him there for a few long, head-spinning seconds. His brain stalled completely — no wariness, no hesitation now, just you, the faint press of your body, the taste of your lipstick, the warmth of your palm against his face.

By the time you pulled back, his lips were still parted like he hadn’t realized it was over.

“Thank you for the date,” you murmured, giving him that small, sweet smile again, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Goodnight, James.”

And just like that, you stepped past him and slipped into the building, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk — still feeling the ghost of your touch on his cheek, still trying to remember how to breathe.

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Three Days Later Second Date

You didn’t expect him to ask you on another date so soon.

But here you were — only three days after your first date, and Bucky Barnes was already inviting you out again. Saturday evening. A picnic date in Central Park, of all things.

Not some busy lawn where people tossed frisbees or jogged past, but one of those quiet corners where the trees closed in enough to give you privacy, the sound of the city tucked far behind the green.

It was… old-fashioned. Which made sense, given who he was.

You sat across from him on a checkered blanket, a wicker basket between you — the whole thing looked like it had been pulled straight out of some black-and-white film. He’d even brought sandwiches wrapped in brown paper, a couple of glass bottles of soda, and what you were willing to bet were store-bought cookies.

And like before, you kept the conversation going. Asking him about the park, about what kind of food he liked, about what he did when he wasn’t… well, whatever it was he actually did now. He’d answer, but never with much detail — pausing often, like he was trying to figure out the right words, like he was still deciding how much of himself to give away.

That was fine. You didn’t need him to hand over his life story.

You already knew that.

It wasn’t hard to smile, nod, and throw in the right laugh at the right time. You leaned into his pauses, let the silences hang just long enough to make him want to fill them. He’d shift a little when you tilted your head at him, his eyes flicking to your mouth like he wasn’t sure if he should be looking there.

If he thought you didn’t notice, he was wrong.

And all throughout the date, between bites of sandwich and sips of soda, you couldn’t help but wonder when he’d actually confess who he really was.

You’d already known from the moment he bumped into you — hell, from before that. But you wanted to hear him say it.

So, you decided to give him a little push.

You let your gaze drift away from him mid-conversation, scanning the trees, the open green beyond.

Slowly, your brows drew together, the faintest frown pulling at your lips. You didn’t speak at first — just kept glancing around, your expression tightening like you were trying to puzzle something out.

Finally, you said it. Soft. Almost embarrassed. “James… people are starting to stare. I don’t… I don’t know why.”

The shift in him was immediate. His shoulders, relaxed a moment ago, pulled tight. His jaw clenched. His eyes darted past you, scanning the edges of the park.

You tilted your head at him, feigning confusion. “It’s fine,” you added quickly, like you were trying to brush it off, “I just… thought maybe I had something on my face or—”

“No.” His voice was quiet, but it had that weight to it, the one that made people shut up and listen. “It’s not you.”

You blinked at him, all innocence. “Then what—?”

“Maybe I should walk you home,” he cut in, already beginning to gather up the blanket and basket. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You kept your face neutral — maybe just a little uncertain — but inside, you could feel the hook sinking deeper.

“Okay,” you murmured, and let him help you up, his hand firm but careful at your elbow.

It was sweet, how gentle he was. It was even sweeter knowing you’d planned this moment from the start.

The walk back was quiet at first. The city sounds filled the gaps between you — the low hum of traffic, a siren somewhere blocks away, the occasional rush of wind that made you hold your skirt down.

You noticed he kept glancing at you like he was trying to time something, trying to figure out the right moment.

Finally, a few blocks from your place, he let out a sigh. “So… my name isn’t just James.”

You looked at him, brows raised, a faint smile tugging your lips. “Okay…?”

“It’s James Barnes,” he said, watching your face for any flicker of recognition.

You tilted your head slightly, the smile still there. “Barnes. Got it.” Like you were just making a mental note, nothing more.

Bucky let out a slow breath, then shook his head faintly. “No. James Buchanan Barnes.”

The name landed like a weight between you. You stopped walking without meaning to, staring at him as the pieces “clicked” together.

“Oh.” Your voice was soft, your eyes a little wider now. You brought a hand up, half-covering your mouth. “Oh my god—wait. I’m… I’m an idiot.”

He frowned immediately. “What? No—”

“I knew I recognized you from somewhere,” you rushed out, shaking your head at yourself. “And here I’ve just been—God, I’m so—”

“Hey,” he cut in, his tone sharper now, trying to pull you out of it. “Don’t do that. Don’t—don’t make it a thing about you being stupid.”

You bit your lip, looking away, embarrassed. “I just… I feel like I should’ve known—”

“I liked that you didn’t,” he said, and there was an odd softness to it. “I kind of liked you not knowing who I was. It was… nice. Normal.”

You looked back at him then, letting your gaze linger, like his words had just made you see him differently.

“Normal’s good,” you said softly.

You took a couple more steps, the sound of your shoes clicking against the pavement, before glancing over at him. “So… why do things have to change?”

That stopped him in his tracks. He looked down at you — really looked — eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something underneath your words.

“You’re really okay with that?” he asked finally, voice low. “Going out with… someone like me?”

Your brow furrowed, your lips pressing into a faint, almost thoughtful purse.

“Are you?” you countered gently.

He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Are you okay with it?” you repeated, tilting your head a little. “Because… it seems like you’re the one who’s more hesitant about this than I am.”

He exhaled sharply, his gaze sliding away like the weight of his own history was tugging it down.

“I mean,” you continued, your voice even, not pushing but not backing away either, “I get it. Because of… yeah.” You let the word trail off, letting the unsaid things hang in the air — the things you knew he thought about himself every day.

His jaw tightened, and for a moment you swore you could almost hear the gears in his head turning. He looked back at you, his blue eyes clouded but intent.

“Yeah,” he murmured finally. “Because of… yeah.”

You studied him for a second, watching the way his jaw shifted like he was still carrying the weight of that confession.

“So…” you tilted your head, voice easy but deliberate, “what do you want me to call you? James… or Bucky?”

He didn’t answer right away. His brows drew together, really thinking about it, like the question was heavier than you meant it to be.

Finally, he exhaled, gaze settling back on you. “James,” he said quietly. “I… I like being James with you. I’m trying to get used to being Bucky Barnes again, but…” he hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching almost sheepishly, “James feels… easier. Lighter. With you.”

A slow smile spread across your face, soft but deliberate. Without breaking eye contact, you slipped your arm through his, your hand looping into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.

Leaning in just enough for your lips to brush against his cheek, you murmured, “Good ’cause I like being with James.”

It was quick, simple — but you felt the way his stride faltered for just a fraction of a second, his breath catching like he didn’t know what to do with the way those words landed.

────────────────────────

One Week Later Third Date

The first date was to hook him.

The second was to soften him — to show him you were safe, someone he could trust without even realizing it. Someone who’d never push too hard, never pry… but who’d listen to every word like it mattered. You knew exactly what that would do to a man like James Barnes.

And the third? The third was to turn trust into something else entirely.

The kind of connection you couldn’t just walk away from without feeling the absence like a phantom limb.

You’d kept the night light — a small jazz club tucked in the quieter part of the city, a little whiskey, easy conversation, nothing too loud or overstimulating. You let him set the pace, let him laugh more than you talked, let him think he was the one leading.

By the time you were back at your building, he was looking at you like you were gravity itself — and you didn’t let him look for too long before you moved in.

You barely had the key out before his hand was on your hip, the other bracing against the doorframe, his breath warm against your mouth. The kiss hit fast — a low, almost desperate press of lips that made you smile into it. You could taste the whiskey on his tongue, feel the tension in the way his body pressed into yours.

Your back hit the cool metal of the door, and you let out the kind of quiet sound that made his fingers flex against your side. His mouth dragged from yours to your jaw, his stubble catching on your skin as you tilted your head, giving him space, giving him permission.

His metal hand skimmed down your waist, and you could feel the restraint in him — the way he wanted more but was holding back, trying not to push too far too fast.

You, on the other hand, had no such reservations. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you. You caught his mouth again, deeper this time, teeth catching his lower lip before your tongue traced against his. He made a low sound in his throat, one you filed away instantly — a tell, a weakness you could pull from later.

Then, suddenly, he broke the kiss — just enough to breathe, just enough to murmur against your mouth, “We should… probably slow this down.”

You blinked up at him, lips still parted, feeling his breath ghost over them. “Yeah… yeah,” you said, though your fingers were still hooked in his shirt like you had no plans to actually let go.

There was a beat — that awkward, suspended moment where neither of you knew what to do with all that tension — and then, completely straight-faced, you asked, “So… you got any hobbies?”

The question caught him off guard so hard you could see it in his face. His brow furrowed, mouth opening like he wasn't sure if you were joking. “Uh…” He blinked a few times, like he was flipping through a mental list that was embarrassingly short. “I like to… read?”

You nodded, like you were genuinely considering this while still catching your breath. “What have you read?”

There was a stumble in his answer, his gaze flicking briefly away as though embarrassed. “Uh… The Hobbit.”

You pulled back half an inch, your brows lifting. “The Hobbit? You read The Hobbit?”

He shifted his weight, defensive but sheepish at the same time. “…Yeah?”

And without missing a beat, you grinned and said, “That’s kinda hot.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up, almost disbelieving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, your voice low enough to make him swallow.

And then you were both leaning in at the same time, the kiss reigniting instantly, just as heated as before — maybe more. His hand slid up your side, the other finding the back of your neck, and you could taste the faint trace of a smile against your mouth before it turned hungry again.

You didn’t break the kiss when you pulled him through the building’s front door, not even when you started walking him backwards toward the stairs. His hand stayed locked at your hip, your mouth moving against his in hot, deliberate bursts between breaths.

The elevator ride was a blur of glances and unspoken tension — his chest rising and falling, your lips still tingling from where his teeth had grazed them. You could feel the battle in him, that rigid line between wanting and restraint.

By the time you reached your apartment, you had no trouble coaxing him inside. You guided him straight to the couch, giving him a gentle push until he sat, his legs spread slightly, hands resting awkwardly on his knees like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

You took care of that.

Climbing into his lap felt natural — slow, unthreatening, like you were still playing. You straddled him, your knees pressing into the cushions on either side, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Bucky’s eyes darted to yours, and then down to your mouth. You could see it again — that hesitation, the restraint. So you leaned in, brushing your lips over his once, twice, before deepening the kiss just enough to coax him into leaning forward, his hands finally settling on your hips.

You were just getting lost in him again, the warmth of his mouth, the press of his hands, when Bucky pulled back suddenly. His breathing was uneven, his forehead resting briefly against yours before he leaned back enough to meet your eyes.

“I, uh—” He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I haven’t… done this. Not since… 1942.”

You blinked, tilting your head, the corner of your mouth tugging upward. “You mean—”

He gave a small, almost sheepish nod, his cheeks heating.

A slow grin spread across your face. “So… this’ll be like your first time again?”

“Don’t say it like that,” he muttered, but the flush in his face deepened.

You bit back a laugh, leaning forward to kiss him again — softer this time, deliberate — your hand coming up to cup the side of his face. When you pulled back just enough to whisper, your tone was almost teasing. “Don’t worry… I’ll be gentle.”

His jaw flexed, his blue eyes flicking away for a moment before coming back to yours. “I’m just… worried I won’t last.”

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “That’s fine,” you murmured, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “We have the whole night.”

And before he could answer, you kissed him again — slow, coaxing, until you felt him melt back into it.

You rolled your hips against him, slow at first, then harder, letting the friction build until you could feel the hard line of him beneath you.

“Fuck—” he groaned, low and almost pained, his head tipping back for a second before you dragged his mouth back to yours.

His metal hand slid up your back, cold even through your dress, the contrast making you shiver as his flesh hand gripped your ass, pulling you against him in a way that made you gasp. You rocked on him harder, and the sound he made — somewhere between a groan and a curse — went straight to your core.

“Jesus, doll…” he muttered against your mouth, his voice wrecked, his hips twitching upward involuntarily to meet your movements.

You grinned against his lips, rolling your hips just right, grinding down until he was cursing under his breath. “You like that, James?”

His response was a rough, desperate kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting you like he couldn’t get enough.

The rhythm between you grew messier, hotter — all friction and panting and little sounds that filled the quiet apartment. Your dress had ridden up around your hips, and his grip had turned bruising, like he was fighting not to lose control completely.

Your lips broke from his just long enough to whisper against his ear, “Take a breath, James.”

His grip loosened a fraction, and you leaned back, still straddling him, your hands sliding to the straps of your dress. His eyes followed every movement like he couldn’t look away.

You let the straps fall slowly down your shoulders, holding his gaze the whole time before sliding the dress up and over your head, then tossing it aside.

The way he looked at you — hungry, reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed — made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect. You reached behind you, unhooked your bra, and let it fall.

Bucky’s breath caught, his jaw flexing like he was holding something back. His gaze raked over you, lingering in places that made your skin feel like it was burning, but he didn’t reach out — almost like he thought touching would break the spell.

You smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to his mouth before murmuring, “Your turn.”

He hesitated, and you knew why. You could feel the tension in him, the way his body stiffened when your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt.

“You can,” you said softly, but with an edge of certainty that left no room for doubt. “I want to see you, James.”

For a moment, he looked like he might refuse. Then, almost reluctantly, he grabbed the back of his collar and pulled the shirt over his head.

You didn’t let your gaze flick away from the scars that marred his skin, or the gleam of metal that caught the low light of your apartment. You let your eyes take in every detail, slow and deliberate, until his breath started to quicken under your stare.

“God, you’re beautiful,” you said, and meant it in a way that made him swallow hard.

You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. You let your lips travel to the edge of his jaw, down to his collarbone, over a scar that looked like it had been there for decades. Your fingers traced the seam where flesh met vibranium, and you kissed it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He shuddered beneath you, and you felt some of the tightness in his body begin to melt.

“See?” you murmured against his skin. “Nothing here I can’t handle.”

His hands found your hips again, steadier now, and when you kissed him this time, he kissed you back without hesitation, pulling you closer, letting you feel every inch of him.

Your fingers slid into his hair, keeping him close, and you could feel the last traces of tension bleeding out of him. That guarded, wary edge he carried like armor was slipping — and you were the one peeling it away.

When your lips left his neck, his mouth moved lower without you even asking. His head dipped, and his lips brushed over the swell of your breast. You let out a low sound, arching into him, and that was all it took — he wrapped an arm around your waist and took your nipple into his mouth like he’d been starving for it.

“James—” your voice cracked, your nails digging into his shoulder.

He groaned against your skin, the vibration shooting straight through you, and you swore you could feel him getting harder beneath you. His tongue circled, teasing, before he sucked hard enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand came up, fingers rolling and squeezing your other nipple until you were practically squirming in his lap.

“Fuck—” you gasped, heat pooling low in your belly, “—you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips slick, eyes dark with something feral.

You didn’t even try to play it cool. “I need you,” you said, the words spilling out rough and desperate. “I need you in me right now or I’m gonna fucking die.”

For a split second, he froze — like the full force of your want for him had short-circuited his brain. Then his jaw set, and his hands gripped your hips tighter, almost bruising.

“…You sure?” he asked, voice low and gravelly, like it physically hurt him to wait for your answer.

“James,” you whispered, leaning in until your lips brushed his, “if you don’t fuck me right now—” you bit his lower lip, hard enough to make him groan, “—you’re gonna regret it.”

That was it. Whatever was left of his guard shattered. And you didn’t wait for permission — you didn’t need it. Not when you could feel him, hard and heavy against you, straining against the denim.

Your hands moved between you, fumbling for the button of his jeans before dragging the zipper down in one smooth, determined motion. Bucky’s breath stuttered, his hips jerking involuntarily when your fingers slipped inside, brushing over him through the thin cotton of his boxers.

“Fuck—” he hissed, his metal hand gripping the couch cushion like he was afraid to touch you too hard.

You looked him right in the eye, daring him to stop you, and then you shoved his jeans down just far enough to free him. His cock sprang out, thick and flushed, and you wrapped your hand around him, stroking once just to feel the way he twitched in your palm.

His head fell back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. “Baby—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, shifting just enough to hook your fingers into your panties and drag them aside. “I can’t wait.”

Before he could even process it, you lined him up and sank down in one slow, deliberate motion.

Bucky’s entire body jolted beneath you. His hands flew to your hips like he was going to push you away — but instead, his fingers dug in, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes were wide, mouth parted, chest heaving.

“Holy—fuck—” The word came out broken, almost like a whimper, and that alone made you clench around him.

You leaned forward, your breasts brushing his chest, your lips grazing his ear. “Told you I’d be gentle,” you whispered, rocking your hips just enough to make him groan again. “But right now? I’m gonna make you lose your mind.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you started to move — slow at first, letting him feel every inch of you clench around him, before you shifted your weight and began to ride him in earnest.

Bucky’s head dropped back against the couch, a ragged moan tearing from his throat. His flesh hand slid up your thigh, gripping hard, while his metal hand stayed fixed at your hip like he was terrified you’d pull away.

You set the pace — hard, fast, bouncing on him until his thighs flexed beneath you, until his hips started to jerk upward in time with yours.

The moment he began thrusting into you, the sound that left him was almost pained — years of restraint breaking all at once. “Ohhh, fuck—baby—”

You leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath hot as you whispered, “That’s it, James… just like that… give it to me.”

He groaned again, a shiver running through him at the sound of his name on your lips.

“You feel so good inside me,” you breathed, grinding down between bounces so he could feel how wet you were for him. “God, you’re so deep—”

His hips snapped up harder, faster, chasing that rhythm. You rewarded him by dragging your lips along the line of his jaw, sucking at his neck until you knew you’d leave marks there — marks he’d have to think about later, maybe even hide.

“Fuck, I’m—” His voice broke, his metal hand clutching you tighter, forcing you down onto him as he drove up into you with desperate, uneven thrusts.

You kissed his ear, biting lightly before murmuring, “Don’t hold back, baby… I want it all.”

That did it — his eyes screwed shut, a choked noise spilling out as he slammed up into you like he was trying to get even deeper, every thrust shaking through both of you.

“Shit—” he hissed, forehead pressing to your collarbone like he needed the contact to ground himself. But it didn’t last.

With a sudden growl, Bucky shifted beneath you, his hands gripping your waist like you weighed nothing. Before you could react, he twisted the two of you, rolling you onto your back without ever slipping out of you.

Your gasp turned into a moan when he settled above you, caging you in with his broad shoulders, bracing himself with his metal arm against the couch. His flesh hand slid under your thigh, pushing your leg higher, deeper, until the angle made you see stars.

Then he started moving — really moving — and the couch creaked in protest under the pace. Deep, filthy thrusts that had you gasping his name, every snap of his hips forcing you further into the cushions.

“Jesus, James—” you panted, nails digging into his back.

He groaned against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. “Can’t—stop—” he managed between thrusts, like he was talking to himself as much as to you.

Your head tilted back, mouth falling open as you pulled him down for a desperate kiss, swallowing the sounds he made. You felt the tension in him, the way each movement was turning rougher, more unrestrained.

“That’s it,” you murmured against his lips, pulling his metal hand from the couch and pressing it to your throat — not enough to choke, just enough for him to feel how hard your pulse was racing. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”

He groaned like the words burned through him, his hips slamming into you harder, faster. His eyes locked on yours, glassy and wild, and you knew right then he was gone — lost completely in you.

Your hands clung to him, nails dragging down the scars of his back as his pace grew erratic — that telltale stumble of rhythm that told you he was teetering right on the edge.

His forehead pressed against yours, breath ragged, eyes squeezing shut like he was fighting it, trying to hold on.

“Don’t—” he started, but you cut him off, voice low and sweet against his ear.

“James… I want you to finish in me.”

He froze for a fraction of a second, hips buried deep inside you, his entire body trembling. “You— you don’t—”

“I want it,” you whispered again, cupping his jaw so he had to look at you. “I want you. All of you. Don’t hold back from me.”

Whatever control he’d been clinging to shattered.

A deep, guttural sound ripped from his chest as he slammed into you harder, desperate, chasing the inevitable. His metal hand drifted to your thigh, holding you open for him, while his flesh hand fisted the couch cushion beside your head like he was trying to keep himself from completely falling apart.

Your own release crept up fast — too fast — his thrusts hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking around his waist.

“James—” you gasped, pulling his mouth to yours, kissing him deep as you clenched tight around him.

The sound he made against your mouth was half a groan, half your name, and then he broke. His hips stuttered, buried as deep as they could go as he spilled into you, the heat of it pushing you right over the edge with him.

You cried out into his mouth, your nails sinking into his shoulders, your entire body arching into his as the two of you came together — messy, unrestrained, yours.

When it was over, he collapsed against you, chest heaving, his face tucked into the crook of your neck like he couldn’t bear to let you go. You could feel the rapid thud of his heart, the way his breath still came hard and uneven.

Your fingers threaded lazily through his hair, still a little damp with sweat, your other hand tracing soft circles along the line of his spine. His weight was heavy on you, solid, grounding — and you didn’t push him to move.

“Hey…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, like you were afraid to disturb whatever fragile peace had settled over him. “You alright?”

There was a long pause. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against yours, the subtle shift of his breath against your collarbone.

And then, without lifting his head from where it was tucked into the warm crook of your neck, he spoke — low, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

“I’m more than alright,” he said. “I’m… perfect.”

The word sounded foreign on his tongue, like it had been years — decades — since he’d felt it.

You smiled, not the teasing kind you’d given him earlier, but something softer. Your hand cupped the back of his head, holding him there like you were keeping the world away from him for just a little longer.

“That’s good,” you whispered. “That’s just how I want you.”

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a hum, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel how reluctant he was to let the moment pass, how badly he needed this — to be held, to be wanted without condition.

You didn’t press for words. You didn’t need them. Every small shift of his body against yours, every quiet breath into your skin, told you what you needed to know.

And somewhere in the quiet hum of the moment, you felt it — the shift.

The wall he kept between himself and the world? You’d just stepped inside it.

────────────────────────

Three Months Later

The quinjet hummed around them, the steady vibration of the engines filling the space. Sam sat across from Bucky, leaning back with that look on his face — the one that meant he was bored enough to start prying into someone else’s business.

“So,” Sam started casually, “you gonna tell me about her, or do I have to drag it outta you?”

Bucky didn’t even look up from checking the mag on his sidearm. “About who?”

Sam gave him a flat look. “Don’t play dumb with me, man. The mystery girl you’ve been seein’. The one that’s got you walking around like you’re… I dunno, not completely miserable.”

Bucky clicked the mag back in place and set the gun down. “You’re imagining things.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Oh, am I? Because last time I called you, you sounded—” He put on an exaggerated, low imitation of Bucky’s voice — “‘busy.’”

Bucky’s lips twitched, but he stayed silent.

“C’mon,” Sam pressed. “What’s she like? What’s her name?”

Bucky stared at the floor for a long moment, jaw tight. “None of your business, Sam.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Translation: you really like her and you’re afraid I’ll scare her off.”

Bucky shot him a look. “No.” A pause. “…Maybe.”

That got Sam grinning. “Uh-huh. So what’s she like?”

Bucky hesitated. He could’ve brushed it off. He could’ve just said “normal” and left it at that. But Sam was his friend. His only friend, really. “She’s… different,” he admitted reluctantly. “Smart. Funny. Knows how to make me shut up without even trying.”

Sam chuckled. “Sounds like a saint.”

Bucky looked away, fingers flexing against his knee. “…I really like her.” The words felt heavier than he expected. “Like… more than I should.”

Sam tilted his head. “Yeah? That’s good, right?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Sam leaned forward a little. “You know her well?”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean—where’s she from? Family? Friends? What’s she do, besides makin’ you act all—” Sam gestured vaguely at him—“less grumpy?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Why are you asking me this?”

Sam held up a hand. “I’m just sayin’, Buck… after everything you’ve been through, maybe make sure you know who you’re lettin’ in.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “I do know.”

“Do you?” Sam’s tone wasn’t accusing, but it was steady. “Look, I’m not tryin’ to mess with you. I want you happy, man. I just don’t wanna see you blindsided.”

Bucky sat back, arms crossed, irritation creeping in. “…You done?”

Sam gave a small shrug. “Yeah. I’m done.”

But Bucky could still feel the words sticking in the back of his mind, even as the quinjet kept on toward their mission.

────────────────────────

Five months.

If someone had told Bucky Barnes back in Wakanda that he’d be here now — in a steady relationship, with someone who actually wanted him around — he’d have laughed in their face.

And yet… here you were.

Perfect. Too perfect.

You were all the things he didn’t think he could ever have — kind without being condescending, patient without pitying him, sweet in ways that didn’t feel fake. You listened when he talked. You didn’t push when he didn’t. You gave him space when he needed it, and held him close when he didn’t know he needed that, too.

And God, you were genuine. Or at least, you seemed to be.

That was the problem.

Bucky had lived long enough to know that perfect didn’t really exist. Not for him. And that little voice in the back of his head — the one that kept him alive through decades of torture and conditioning — kept whispering that nothing this good could be real.

At first, it was just little thoughts. Harmless. Easy to shove aside. But lately it was growing. Festering. Like a splinter buried too deep to pull out.

He’d watch you laughing at something stupid on TV, hair falling in your face as you leaned against him, and his chest would tighten — not from love, though he did love the moment — but from the sharp, nagging fear that there was something he wasn’t seeing.

He told himself it was paranoia. That Sam’s questions months ago had just gotten under his skin. That you’d given him no reason not to trust you.

Still…

He now noticed when you’d change the subject after certain questions. He noticed when you’d smile just a bit too easily in moments that should’ve felt vulnerable.

He noticed because he couldn’t not notice. It was wired into him to see the things other people didn’t.

And the worst part?

The more that doubt grew, the more he hated himself for having it. Because if he lost you over nothing — over his issues — Bucky knew he’d never forgive himself.

────────────────────────

It was supposed to be an easy night. Movie, takeout, you curled up against him — the kind of thing he’d learned to look forward to.

But his head wouldn’t shut up.

You were leaning into his side, hand absently tracing the seam of his Henley, your attention on the movie — and Bucky could feel himself pulling away. Not physically, but somewhere deeper.

He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t just enjoy the damn moment.

Still, the words came out before he could stop them. “So… what was it like growing up in Chicago?”

You glanced at him, a little surprised at the question, but answered. Simple, vague. He pressed again, asking about your family, your friends, places you used to hang out.

After the third or fourth question, your brows knit together. “Why are you asking me all this?”

Bucky tried to keep his voice even. “I just realized I don’t know that much about you.”

You tilted your head, confused. “You know plenty.”

He shook his head slightly, the frustration prickling under his skin. “No, I don’t. You know everything about me — hell, the world knows everything about me — but I…” he trailed off, jaw tightening. “I know next to nothing about you.”

Your eyes narrowed a little, your nose scrunching the way it did when something rubbed you the wrong way. “The whole world doesn’t know everything about you, James. But sure, they know more about you than most. That’s not my fault.”

You shifted, pulling away from his arm and standing up, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. “Why are you acting like this?”

And that was it. The dam broke.

“Because I don’t know if I can trust something that feels this… perfect,” he snapped before he could rein it in. “Every time I ask something real, you dodge it. Every time I try to get to know you — really know you — you smile and change the subject. And maybe that works for other people, but not for me. Not after everything I’ve been through.”

You just stared at him, your expression unreadable.

Bucky raked a hand through his hair, his voice low but hard now. “If we’re gonna be together, I need to know you’re not hiding something from me. I can’t— I won’t— go through another situation where I don’t see it coming until it’s too late.”

You didn’t answer him at first.

You just stared down at the blanket bunched on the couch, jaw tight, like you were holding something in.

Bucky’s chest was already tight, heart thudding harder than he wanted it to. He waited.

And then, finally, you spoke. Your voice was quiet. Flat at first. “It was true when I said I didn’t have family in Chicago.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed. He stayed still, watching you.

You took a breath, still not looking at him. “My mom died when I was six. Home invasion.”

He blinked, the words hitting him sharper than he expected.

You swallowed, your voice dipping even lower. “Thing is… I didn’t even know she was dead at the time.”

Bucky’s stomach knotted.

“I remember brushing her hair that morning. Talking to her. Asking why she was still sleeping in the afternoon.” You let out the smallest, bitter laugh. “I fell asleep on her chest that night. The next day too.”

A shaky breath escaped you as you reached up and wiped a stray tear with the back of your hand.

“It wasn’t until the police came… three days later… because the neighbors noticed the window was broken…” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your lips together for a second before finishing. “…Three days. I spent three days with her body, thinking she was just… asleep.”

Bucky’s hands curled into fists against his knees, the weight of your words sitting like lead in his gut. He felt sick. Guilty. Ashamed for even pushing.

Finally, you lifted your head — slowly. Your eyes were glassy, rimmed red. You met his gaze, and your voice was barely above a whisper.

“Do you feel better now?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Do you feel closer to me now?” you asked, your lips pursed, like you were holding yourself together by a thread.

And all he could do was stare at you, feeling that ache in his chest grow heavier, every ounce of irritation he’d felt earlier dissolving into raw shame.

You stared at him for a long, long second. His face, his expression, his guilt — all of it. And then you scoffed. Soft, sharp, bitter.

Your gaze dropped, breaking away from him like it hurt to look. “You know what…” You shook your head, your voice low but cutting. “I think I’m gonna go home.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “What?”

“I just—” You exhaled hard through your nose, the sound almost like a laugh but with no humor in it. “I don’t wanna be here right now.”

Something in his chest lurched. It was like you’d just reached in and yanked him out of whatever fog he’d been sitting in. His whole body went tense.

“Wait, no—” He shot up from the couch so fast the blanket slid off his lap and onto the floor. “Sweetheart, please… don’t—”

You were already stepping toward the door, grabbing your bag from where it hung on the chair.

“Just—listen, okay? I didn’t mean—” He was moving around the coffee table to get to you, words tumbling over themselves, his voice rushed, almost frantic. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve pushed, I— I’m an idiot, I don’t think sometimes—”

You didn’t slow down, didn’t look at him.

“Please,” he said again, softer now but still desperate, his metal hand twitching at his side like he didn’t know if he could touch you without making it worse. “Don’t walk out like this. Not like this.”

Your fingers wrapped around the doorknob—only for it not to turn. You froze, looking up. Bucky’s metal hand was braced flat against the door, holding it shut. His knuckles were tight around the edges of the plates, his arm locked like he was physically anchoring you there.

“Please,” he said, his voice low, strained. “Don’t go.”

You didn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed fixed forward, shoulders tight. “Let go of the door, James.”

He didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” he rushed out, voice breaking at the edges. “I didn’t mean it like that. Please don’t leave like this.”

Your head tilted slightly, your breath sharp through your nose. Then, slowly, you turned to face him.

“I can understand,” you said quietly, “where all your doubt and mistrust comes from. God knows you’ve had enough reasons to feel that way.”

His eyes flickered, guilt written in every line of his face.

“But what you said to me tonight—” You shook your head. “It wasn’t fair.”

“Baby, I—”

“No.” You cut him off, your voice soft but final. “Maybe we’ve been spending too much time together. Maybe… we should take a little time apart.”

His chest rose and fell hard, panic tightening every word. “No. No, I don’t want that. We can— we can fix this. I just—”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” you said, stepping back from him and the door. “When I feel better.”

The look in his eyes nearly stopped you—but you turned away before it could.

You opened the door and stepped into the hall, leaving him standing there, still holding the doorframe like he needed the support, the silence in his apartment pressing in around him until it was deafening.

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The next morning, sunlight bled through your blinds in soft, dusty lines, warming the sheets around you. You stayed in bed longer than usual, lazily tracing your fingers over the fabric, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside.

Your phone was on the nightstand, face down. You knew it would already be buzzing.

This was part of your next move. And, maybe, just a little bit of punishment for going off script.

Your past was your past — jagged, bloody edges smoothed down by time, but still yours. Messy, ugly, yes — but more than twenty years behind you. He had no right to dig it up like that. No right to look at you like you were some puzzle he needed to solve to make you safe.

And last night, when you’d told him, I’ll call you tomorrow, you already knew you wouldn’t.

Almost like clockwork, it started.

The first text came before nine.

Morning. I’m sorry about last night.

Then another, a few minutes later.

Can we talk? Please?

By noon, there were six more, all variations of I didn’t mean it, please call me, I just need to see you.

By mid-afternoon, the messages tripled. The tone shifted — still apologetic, but heavier now, more desperate.

And then the calls began.

The first time his name lit up your screen, you let it ring until it died out. The second time, you silenced it before the first ring finished. The third, you just let it buzz in your hand, your thumb hovering over accept, knowing you wouldn’t press it.

You read every message. You didn’t respond to a single one.

By early evening, you could almost see him — pacing his apartment, jaw tight, thumb running over the edge of his phone like it was a trigger. Telling himself to stop. Telling himself to give you space. Failing miserably.

That gnawing, hollow feeling would be sinking in now. The weight in his chest. The restlessness in his hands. The way he’d keep thinking of the sound of your voice, the feel of your touch, the way your smile hooked him without effort.

The withdrawal was starting to take hold. And the best part? You didn’t need to lift a finger. He’d come to you.

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You had given him four days. Four, maybe five, before the silence became unbearable and he caved. Before he came knocking at your door like a stray, looking for warmth, for you.

But he surprised you. He lasted a week. Seven whole days without seeing you. Without hearing your voice. Without touching you.

When the knock came, it was almost quiet enough to miss. Three soft raps against the wood, tentative, like even his hand was unsure whether it should be there. You paused in your kitchen, head tilting slightly toward the sound, the smallest flicker of a smile tugging at your lips before you schooled it away.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Which meant there was only one person who could be standing on the other side of that door.

You took your time crossing the room, letting your bare feet make soft thuds against the hardwood, your expression carefully shifting into something neutral. Concerned, maybe. Curious. Certainly not expectant.

The lock clicked, and you opened the door slowly. And there he was.

God, he looked miserable. Pale, like the color had been drained out of him. Dark, heavy bags carved into the skin beneath his eyes, shadowing them, making the blue seem even more raw. His hair was a little disheveled, his jaw unshaven, like he’d been too busy — or too restless — to care.

For a moment, he just stood there, his broad shoulders rising and falling as if the walk to your place had been exhausting. His eyes moved over you like he was memorizing you all over again, as though a week apart had been months.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft — hoarse, like he’d been swallowing too many words before they could escape.

“Can I come in… please?”

The “please” was quiet, almost fragile, carrying the weight of the days you’d kept yourself from him. The kind of please that made you want to pull him inside and fix every inch of him.

But you didn’t move right away. You let the moment stretch — just long enough for him to shift uneasily on his feet, his hand tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder, his gaze darting from your eyes to the floor and back.

You pursed your lips, your hand still resting lightly on the edge of the door, like you were actually considering telling him no.

Your eyes held his for a long moment. He didn’t look away. He looked like a man ready to take whatever you decided to give him — even if that meant shutting the door in his face.

You let the pause drag just long enough for his shoulders to sink, for his jaw to tighten in that quiet, bracing way that told you he was preparing for rejection.

Then you shifted. Your head tilted slightly, and your lips softened into the faintest, unreadable smile. Without a word, you stepped back, swinging the door open wider.

He moved past you immediately, the tension in his frame palpable — like stepping over your threshold was the first deep breath he’d taken in a week. You caught the faint scent of his cologne as he brushed past, that worn, familiar mix of cedar and soap and something faintly metallic.

He stopped just inside your living room, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. He didn’t sit. Didn’t touch anything. Just stood there, taking you in like he wasn’t sure where to start.

You closed the door quietly behind him, leaning against it for a second, letting him feel your eyes on his back.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice soft but even.

He turned halfway toward you, his mouth opening like he wanted to say no, but what came out instead was, “I… couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Your brows rose slightly, but you didn’t move closer. You stayed where you were, making him bridge the space.

And of course, he did. Slowly, he crossed the room toward you — every step careful, like he was afraid to spook you. His gaze searched your face, looking for some sign, some opening.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice low and thick. “For what I said. For… all of it. I just—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I messed up. I know I did.”

You let your silence hang in the air between you, your expression unreadable, forcing him to keep going.

“I just… I don’t wanna lose you,” he admitted, and that raw edge in his voice almost made you smile. Almost.

You didn’t answer right away.

You just stood there, your arms loosely crossed, studying him like you were trying to decide if the man in front of you was worth the trouble. Your silence stretched long enough that he shifted his weight, his shoulders tensing like he was bracing for you to tell him to leave.

“You really hurt me, James,” you said at last, your voice quiet but heavy. No anger. Just disappointment. You watched the way his jaw tightened at the sound of his name, the way his eyes dropped for half a second before finding yours again.

“I know,” he said immediately, almost desperately. “And I hate myself for it. I was—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “—stupid. I was scared, and I… I let it get in my head.”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze run over him — the pale face, the dark circles under his eyes, the slight slump in his frame. “And what happens next time you get scared?” you asked softly. “Do I get accused again?”

He flinched. It was subtle, but you caught it.

“I’m not gonna make that mistake again,” he said, his voice firm in that way that meant he was trying to convince himself as much as you. “I swear, sweetheart, I’ll do better. I just… I need you to give me that chance.”

You let your lips press together in a thin line, then slowly exhaled, glancing toward the floor like you were weighing his words. “I don’t know, James,” you murmured. “I don’t know if I can trust that yet.”

The panic that flickered in his eyes was quick, but it was there. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Please. Just—don’t shut me out. I can’t…” He stopped himself, swallowing whatever words were about to come out, but the meaning was clear.

You let the silence hang between you again, long enough for him to start fidgeting with his gloves. Then, finally, you gave a small sigh, softening your expression just enough.

“Alright,” you said quietly, as though you’d just made a reluctant decision. “One more chance.”

His relief was almost palpable — his shoulders loosening, his exhale shaky.

You gave him a faint, almost weary smile, then stepped aside toward the couch, letting him follow you deeper into your space. He trailed after you like a man starved, grateful just to be let close again — exactly where you wanted him.

Then, with a slow exhale, you stepped toward him. He straightened a little as you closed the space between you, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

“James,” you said quietly, your eyes locked on his, “you hurt me.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

You studied him for a beat longer… then finally lifted your hand to his jaw, your thumb brushing over the rough edge of his stubble. He leaned into your touch like it was the first bit of warmth he’d felt in days.

And then you kissed him.

Not forgiving, not yet — but slow and deep enough to make his knees go weak. You felt the way his breath caught against your lips, how his hands finally came up to your waist, pulling you in like he was afraid you’d vanish again.

He melted into you, completely. His shoulders dropped, his tension bleeding out as his mouth moved against yours with quiet desperation. It wasn’t just a kiss to him — it was an anchor, proof you were still here.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips, “Please don't make me regret this.”

“I won’t,” he breathed, already leaning back in for more.

This time, the kiss turned hungrier. You tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head, your fingers splaying over the warm muscle of his chest. His breath hitched when you pressed your body against his, and when you guided him backward toward your bedroom, he didn’t resist for a second.

By the time you pushed him down onto your bed and straddled his lap, his hands were everywhere — his flesh hand gripping your thigh, his metal one sliding up your spine like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you closer or never let you go again.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured against your mouth, the words almost a groan.

You smiled faintly, brushing your lips along his jaw. “Show me,” you whispered.

And he did — with a kiss that turned into something far rougher, far more desperate. The kind of sex that blurred the lines between apology and need, that left him gasping your name like a prayer.

By the time it was over, he was sprawled against you, damp with sweat, his face buried in your neck, muttering quiet promises you knew he’d keep — because now, after this, he’d be even more afraid to lose you.

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Six Months Later May 2025

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the rich red fabric over your hips, letting your gaze linger on your reflection. The dress clung perfectly — a slow curve from shoulder to waist, from waist to the flare just above your ankles. Your lipstick matched it exactly, and you’d taken extra care with your makeup, the soft glow on your skin catching the warm light of the room.

You tilted your head slightly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, checking the angle again. Every detail was deliberate. Every choice calculated.

You didn’t hear him at first — not until the familiar weight of his hands slid around your waist from behind, his chest fitting flush to your back like it had always belonged there.

“Mm,” Bucky’s voice was low, already warm with something heavier than words. His head dipped, the scrape of faint stubble brushing against your neck as his lips found the spot just below your ear. He kissed once, slow, then again — lingering, like he needed the taste of you before anything else tonight.

You felt his breath as he murmured, “We could skip dinner.” Another kiss. “Stay in instead.”

The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the heat of him pressed against you, his nose grazing along your jaw as if he was memorizing it. His hands splayed wider over your stomach, pulling you closer, and you caught his reflection in the mirror — eyes half-lidded, locked entirely on you.

“It’s our anniversary,” you reminded softly, though your voice didn’t carry much protest.

“Exactly,” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin again. “I want you to myself tonight.”

You turned slowly in his arms, the soft fabric of your dress brushing against his shirt as you faced him. His hands didn’t leave your waist, thumbs stroking absent circles over the curve of your hips.

You smiled, slow and knowing, letting your hands slide up from his shoulders, fingers curling into the hair at the back of his head. You felt the way his breath deepened under your touch, his body leaning into you like it was instinct.

“Dinner first,” you murmured, your tone soft but edged with promise. Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp, just enough to make him shiver. “And then…” You tilted your head, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth without giving him the kiss he was angling for, “…you can have me for as long as you want.”

His eyes darkened immediately, the muscles in his jaw flexing as if he was weighing whether to argue. His hands slid lower on your waist, pulling you that fraction of an inch closer until your bodies were flush, the heat of him pressing through your dress.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered, his voice a low rasp. His mouth found your neck again, one slow, hot kiss just under your ear.

“That’s the idea,” you teased, still stroking the back of his head, guiding him without force, letting him think he was the one choosing to stop.

For a moment, he just breathed you in, his lips lingering against your skin like he was storing it away for later. Then, with a quiet groan, he finally leaned back enough to look at you — frustration and hunger warring in his eyes.

“You’d better eat fast,” he warned, but his grip didn’t loosen, his thumbs still brushing over your hips like he needed the contact to keep steady.

────────────────────────

The restaurant glowed in warm, golden light, the kind that softened everything it touched — the gleam of the silverware, the deep reds of the wine in your glass, the way James’ eyes caught the low light like they were lit from within.

A year.

It felt strange, thinking back to that first coffee after the grocery store — how awkward he’d been, how carefully you’d drawn him out. Every step, every move since then, deliberate on your part. And yet, sitting across from him now, you knew it wasn’t all calculation.

You’d worked for this. Planned for it. But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being just strategy.

Because you did love him. You just needed him to love you more.

Your lips curved softly as you looked at him, letting your gaze linger in a way that you knew would make his pulse skip. He was watching you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing, his elbows resting loosely on the table, wine glass untouched in front of him.

It was still startling sometimes — the intensity in his eyes when he looked at you. Like he was memorizing you, every time. Like he was afraid if he blinked, you’d be gone.

“You’re quiet,” you said, your voice light, teasing just enough.

“Just… taking you in,” he replied, and there was no hesitation, no attempt to disguise it.

You tilted your head, letting a slow smile bloom across your face. “After a year, you’d think you’d have me memorized by now.”

“I do,” he said without missing a beat. “But I still like looking.”

The corner of your mouth lifted, a warmth settling in your chest that you didn’t have to fake. You reached across the table, your fingers brushing over his hand, the contact grounding him. You could feel the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders eased as soon as you touched him.

The waiter came and went, dropping off plates you barely noticed. The whole time, his attention never strayed from you. It was the kind of focus you’d nurtured, protected — and now, it was yours entirely.

And as you sipped your wine, your thumb idly stroking over the back of his hand, you thought about how far you’d brought him from that guarded, skeptical man you’d met.

He’d come to love you exactly as much as you’d wanted. Now you just had to make sure he never stopped.

And now… now you just needed to secure it.

Preferably with the ring you’d seen carefully hidden in his drawer — the one where he kept his dog tags and those other small, weathered pieces of his life he couldn’t let go of. You’d found it weeks ago, tucked inside a worn leather pouch. Platinum band, simple but heavy. Not new. Not flashy. The kind of thing James would choose for forever.

You hadn’t let on that you knew. You’d just been waiting for the moment.

So when he ordered the soufflé for you—“her favorite,” he told the waiter—you sat up straighter, gaze fixed on the dessert menu as though you weren’t paying attention, feigning complete ignorance.

By the time the warm, delicate dish was set in front of you, you’d already pictured it. The glint of the band as your fork broke the surface. His hand reaching across the table, his voice low and a little nervous. The quiet satisfaction of knowing you’d planned every step to this moment.

You took your first bite, light and airy, the sweet steam curling up toward your face. Your heart was steady—your smile soft, practiced—as your fork dipped again, searching.

And then… nothing. Just chocolate. Just a normal soufflé.

You blinked once, twice, forcing your expression to stay exactly the same. You made yourself hum softly in appreciation, licking a smear of chocolate from your spoon as though you hadn’t expected anything else.

James was smiling at you, leaning back in his chair with that relaxed warmth you’d learned to draw out of him. Completely unaware of the tiny shift in your chest, the cool note under the sugar on your tongue.

“Good?” he asked.

You smiled, perfect and easy. “Perfect.”

And you let the conversation move on, your face never betraying the faint, careful recalibration already happening in the back of your mind.

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You weren’t even a full step into the apartment before he was on you — hands gripping, mouth crashing into yours like he’d been holding himself back all through dinner and was done pretending now.

His lips were hot, desperate, devouring yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. You felt your back hit the wall, the cool plaster stark against the heat of his body pressed flush to yours. His metal hand braced beside your head, caging you in, while his flesh hand roamed — down your waist, over your hip, gripping hard like he needed to feel every curve at once.

You gasped into his mouth when his thigh pushed between yours, the friction already enough to send sparks straight through your core. He swallowed the sound greedily, his tongue sliding against yours, his kiss rough and claiming.

“God, this dress…” he growled against your lips, his fingers dragging the hem up your thigh without hesitation. “Been thinkin’ about gettin’ you out of it all night.”

You arched into him, grinding against the thigh wedged between yours, your hands threading into his hair and tugging hard enough to make him groan. He bit your bottom lip in return, one hand cupping your ass and pulling you harder into him until you could feel exactly how hard he was through his pants.

“Bucky—” you breathed, but it came out more like a moan when his mouth trailed hot, wet kisses down your jaw to your neck. His teeth scraped over your pulse before his tongue soothed the sting, his breath coming rough and fast against your skin.

Your dress was bunched high now, his fingers already finding the edge of your panties, dragging along the lace just to feel you shiver.

“Tell me you want me,” he rasped against your throat, his voice low and filthy, more command than request. “Say it.”

“I want you,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. “I want you now.”

That was all it took. His mouth crashed back to yours, kissing you hard as his hand slipped under the lace, fingers teasing you until your knees nearly buckled.

When you broke the kiss suddenly, your palms pressing against his chest to push him back just enough to catch his confused, darkened stare.

“Wait here,” you breathed, lips still swollen from his mouth. “I have a surprise for you.”

His brows knit, suspicion and curiosity mixing in his expression. “What kind of surprise?”

You just smirked, stepping out of his reach and smoothing your dress back down over your hips as you started toward the bedroom.

“Hey—” he started, pushing off the wall to follow you, but you turned, holding up a hand.

“Nope,” you said firmly, your tone light but edged with finality. “You can’t come in.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite the heat still written all over his face. “Why not?”

“Because,” you said simply, already stepping inside, “it’ll ruin the surprise.”

And before he could take another step, you closed the door and turned the lock with a decisive click.

On the other side, you heard him let out a low, frustrated groan, the sound deep in his chest. “You’re killin’ me, baby,” he muttered through the wood.

You just smiled to yourself, leaning back against the door for a second before moving toward the closet, already planning exactly how you’d make him wait — and exactly how you’d reward him for it.

So you took your time with the zipper, letting the red dress pool at your feet before stepping out of it and draping it neatly over the chair. The silk lingerie you’d chosen for tonight was new — deep black, sheer in just the right places, the lace framing your curves in a way you knew would undo him the second he saw you.

You ran your palms slowly over your hips, adjusting the straps, smoothing the garter into place. The mirror caught the way the fabric clung to your skin, the way your hair fell loose over your shoulders. You looked like a secret — one meant to be unwrapped slowly, savored, and remembered.

And all the while, you let him wait outside the door, pacing, restless, already half-gone with anticipation.

If Bucky was too scared to take the next step — to slide that ring from his drawer onto your finger — then you’d take the step for both of you.

Marriage was fine. Marriage was symbolic. But it wasn’t permanent. What would keep you and James together forever was obvious.

A baby.

Your reflection smiled back at you, slow and knowing. You’d stopped taking your birth control a week ago, carefully tracking your cycle. Tonight fell just before ovulation — the point when your body was primed, when the odds were stacked in your favor.

You adjusted the bra’s clasp and smoothed your hands down your stomach, picturing his expression when you stepped out there. The way he’d grip you, lose himself in you, be far too lost to think about anything but the moment.

And afterward… well. By then, the future would already be in motion.

You reached for the door, letting the anticipation hang for just another heartbeat before unlocking it. The lock clicked, and you turned the handle slowly, letting the door creak open just enough for the light from the bedroom to spill into the hall.

Bucky was right there. He’d been pacing — you could tell by the restless way his weight shifted from one foot to the other, the faint flex of his jaw.

And then his eyes landed on you.

The change was instant.

Every ounce of tension in him coiled tighter, his pupils blowing wide, his gaze dragging over every inch of you with sharp, hungry precision. You saw the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking like he was holding himself back by the thinnest thread.

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered, almost under his breath — not reverent, not even surprised, but like the sight of you had just punched the air out of his lungs.

You leaned lightly against the doorframe, letting the strap of your bra slide just enough against your shoulder to make his eyes follow the movement. “You like?” you asked, voice slow, sultry.

His answer wasn’t words.

In two steps, he was on you, his hands already at your waist, pulling you into him hard enough that your back hit the doorframe. His mouth crashed onto yours, hot and rough, teeth catching your lower lip before his tongue swept in, claiming you with an almost desperate urgency.

You felt the hard line of him through his pants, pressed firmly against your stomach, and the way his hands roamed like he couldn’t decide what part of you to touch first. His metal hand gripped your ass with possessive force, while his flesh one dragged up your side, fingers brushing the edge of your bra, curling like he was about to tear it off.

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe against your mouth, his voice ragged, almost animal. “You’re fuckin’ killin’ me.”

Then his lips were back on you, trailing down your jaw to your throat, biting just enough to make you gasp before sucking hard enough to mark you. You could feel his restraint fraying — every touch growing rougher, more urgent, the kind of need that burned through thought entirely.

The door to the bedroom was still open behind you, and he was already walking you backward through it without breaking from your mouth.

You barely had time to register the way his arms shifted before he bent, gripping you under your thighs.

“Bucky—!” you gasped, the sudden lift catching you off guard, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

He carried you like you weighed nothing, his mouth never slowing — moving from your neck to your collarbone, kissing, biting, sucking with the kind of hunger that had your back arching into him.

You laughed breathlessly, the sound breaking into a moan when his head dipped lower, his mouth closing over your nipple through the thin lace. His teeth caught the peak, his tongue flicking against it, the heat of his mouth soaking through the fabric until it was damp.

“Fuck—James—” you panted, gripping at his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp.

He growled low against you, the sound vibrating into your skin, and then you were being dropped onto the bed — not carelessly, but with the controlled force of someone who needed you exactly where he wanted you.

You bounced once against the mattress, the lingerie strap sliding further down your shoulder, before he was over you, caging you in with his arms. His hair had fallen loose from where you’d been gripping it, his breath rough and fast, eyes fixed on you like prey he was about to devour.

He didn’t wait for permission.

His hands were already roaming, pulling at straps, pushing lace aside, his mouth finding every inch of newly exposed skin like he’d been starved for it. The kiss he dragged back to your mouth was hot, messy, almost uncoordinated in its urgency, and you felt his hips pressing hard into yours, grinding as though the friction alone might undo him.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night,” he rasped against your lips, his voice almost shaking from how badly he wanted it.

His mouth left yours suddenly, his breathing heavy, eyes blown wide and fixed low like he’d just made a decision he couldn’t come back from.

“Lay back,” he growled, already moving down your body.

You barely had time to register it before his hands hooked behind your knees, spreading them wide. The cool drag of his metal fingers along your inner thighs made you shiver, while his flesh hand gripped firmly, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

Then he was kneeling between your legs, lowering himself until his broad shoulders pressed against your thighs. He dragged you closer in one rough pull, your ass right to the edge of the bed, before hiking your legs up and over his shoulders.

The lace of your panties didn’t last long — he pushed them aside with a flick of his thumb, the air hitting you for a second before his mouth was on you.

You gasped sharply, your fingers fisting in the sheets as his tongue slid through your folds, slow at first, then firmer, more deliberate. He groaned low when he tasted you, the vibration making your hips twitch.

“Fuck, baby…” he muttered against you, already diving back in like a man starved, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth with filthy precision.

Your back arched, a breathless moan spilling out as your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again — and the sound went straight through you. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, keeping you his.

Every movement was hungry, urgent, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. He alternated between deep, slow licks and fast, sharp flicks of his tongue, never giving you a chance to settle, keeping you right at that dangerous edge.

“James—” you gasped, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you from between your legs, his mouth glistening, eyes dark and wild. “Not stoppin’ ‘til you fall apart for me.”

And then his mouth was back on you, more relentless than before, his need to taste you completely taking over.

He didn’t let up — not even a little.

Every stroke of his tongue was purposeful, calculated in that chaotic, desperate way only Bucky could manage — half control, half raw instinct. His flesh hand gripped your thigh hard, fingers digging in, while his metal hand pressed flat against your hip, holding you down when you tried to buck up into him.

The room was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out, the low hum of his groans vibrating against your most sensitive spot. You could feel every flick, every pull of his mouth, like it was designed to unravel you completely.

“Fuck, James—” Your voice was breaking now, your grip in his hair tightening until your knuckles ached.

He only groaned in response, the sound deep and rough, like the taste of you was driving him half mad. His tongue changed pace — slow circles, then sudden, precise flicks — keeping you from finding any kind of rhythm, keeping you teetering.

Your breathing quickened, legs twitching against his shoulders, your thighs trying to close on instinct, but his hands were unyielding. He knew exactly where you were, exactly how close.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against you, his lips brushing your soaked skin before sucking your clit back into his mouth. “Come for me.”

That command — the sheer gravel of his voice — tipped you over.

It hit you hard, your body arching off the bed, a sharp cry leaving your lips as the orgasm rolled through you. Your thighs clenched around his head, your fingers pulling hard at his hair as you rode the waves, every nerve ending singing with him between your legs.

But Bucky didn’t stop. He kept working you through it, licking and sucking until you were trembling, breathless, your hips twitching at the overstimulation. Only when you whimpered his name in that needy, almost pleading tone did he finally lift his head.

His mouth was glistening, his lips red and swollen, his eyes so dark they were nearly black.

“Not done with you yet,” he rasped, crawling up your body without breaking eye contact.

You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on yours — hot, messy, and deep — and you tasted yourself on his tongue. His hands were already pushing your knees wider, lining himself up without ceremony, his cock heavy and hard against your entrance.

“Gonna fuck you with your taste still on my mouth,” he growled into the kiss, and then he was sliding into you, deep and slow at first, groaning low as your walls clenched around him.

The stretch had you gasping, still sensitive from his mouth, your nails raking down his back as he pressed all the way in, his hips flush to yours.

“Fuck… you feel perfect,” he panted, his forehead dropping to yours for a moment — before pulling back and thrusting into you again, harder this time, setting a pace that told you he was about to fuck you until neither of you could breathe.

The first few thrusts were deep and heavy, knocking the air from your lungs, the kind that made your body jolt and your nails sink deeper into his skin. Bucky’s breath was already ragged, his mouth hovering over yours, stealing your gasps with every push.

Then something in him snapped.

His pace shifted — no more measured control, just raw, driving force. He fucked into you like his body was working on instinct alone, hips slamming into yours hard enough to make the bed creak beneath you. The sounds between you were filthy — wet, sharp, every thrust punctuated by the slap of skin and the low, guttural groans tearing from his chest.

“James—” you moaned, your voice cracking as his cock hit that perfect spot over and over, each thrust deeper than the last.

“Can’t… fuckin’ stop,” he ground out, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you’d be marked in the morning. His metal hand slid up to hold your thigh high, opening you up even wider so he could drive into you with everything he had.

Your back arched, breasts brushing against his chest, and he ducked his head to mouth at your throat — biting, sucking, marking you like he needed the world to see who you belonged to. Every movement screamed possession, his body claiming yours in the most primal way.

The way he was fucking you — it was the definition of breeding, even if he didn’t know it. Every thrust was deep, purposeful, like he was trying to get as far inside you as possible, to make sure you’d feel him long after he was gone.

And you let him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between you. “Don’t stop,” you gasped in his ear, your voice low and urgent. “I want it all, James. Every drop.”

That broke what little restraint he had left.

He growled — an actual, raw sound from deep in his chest — and slammed into you faster, harder, the bed frame thudding against the wall in rhythm with his thrusts. His head was buried in your neck, his breath hot and frantic, his hips driving like he was chasing something buried deep inside you.

You could feel him getting closer — the tension in his thighs, the way his thrusts grew rougher, more erratic. His teeth scraped your skin as he gasped, “Fuck—gonna—”

“Yes,” you cut in, your nails dragging down his back. “Inside me. I want it inside me.”

That was it.

With a guttural curse, his hips slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you. The heat flooded you in thick pulses, and he stayed there, grinding into you through it, his breath breaking, every muscle locked as if his body refused to pull away.

You tightened your legs around him, keeping him there, your hand stroking through his hair while you whispered soft, breathless praise into his ear — feeding the moment, cementing it.

By the time his weight finally slumped over you, his cock still buried deep, you could feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest.

And you knew. If this worked—if tonight went exactly as you’d planned—he'd be yours forever.

────────────────────────

One Month Later

It had been exactly a month since that night. The night you’d set everything into motion.

Now you sat on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on your knees, staring down at the small plastic stick in your hands. Two pink lines. Clear as day.

The satisfaction that curled low in your stomach was warm, steady — not giddy, not frantic. This was what you’d planned for. What you’d worked toward. You let yourself sit in it for a moment longer, letting that small, satisfied smile pull at your lips.

Now came the real work — finding the perfect way to tell him.

And James? He was right where you’d left him. Sitting on the couch, watching some old movie, waiting for you without any idea how much his life was about to change.

You rose slowly, placing the test gently on the edge of the sink for a moment as you composed yourself. The smile softened, the corners of your mouth pulling down just slightly. You practiced the look in the mirror — worried, almost sad, like you weren’t sure what to think.

Perfect.

When you finally opened the bathroom door, you moved slowly, your bare feet making soft sounds on the floor. Bucky glanced over from the couch immediately — and the moment his eyes caught your face, you saw it. His posture changed, that quiet alertness switching on like a flicker of electricity.

“What’s wrong, baby?” His voice was low, careful, already tinged with concern.

You stopped just a few feet from the couch, chewing your lip like you didn’t quite know how to start. Then, without a word, you held the test out toward him.

He frowned slightly, reaching for it — and then froze when he saw.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His eyes stayed on the little stick in his hand, his brows furrowing like the two pink lines were in a language he couldn’t quite read.

Then it hit him.

His gaze flicked up to you — wide, uncertain — then back to the test again. His fingers tightened slightly around it, his jaw working like he was trying to form words and finding none.

“I… I thought…” he finally managed, his voice rough, unsteady. “I thought we were keeping it safe.”

You blinked at him, letting your eyes go wide, your bottom lip trembling just enough. “We were,” you said quietly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself. “I mean… I thought we were.”

His hand went through his hair, dragging hard, the motion jerky and restless. “I—” He stopped, his breath catching. “I just… I don’t understand. This wasn’t—”

He cut himself off again, and you let the silence stretch, watching him wrestle with the storm behind his eyes. His chest rose and fell faster, his grip on the test loosening until it rested in his palm like it was fragile.

You stepped closer, your arms wrapping lightly around yourself, shoulders curling inward as though you were smaller somehow. “James…” Your voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. “What are we gonna do?”

His head lifted at that, his eyes searching your face — and finding what you wanted him to see. The uncertainty. The fear. The quiet plea for him to take control, to protect you.

“I—” He swallowed hard, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know yet. I just… I need to think. But we’ll figure it out. We’ll… we’ll figure it out.”

He reached for you then, pulling you down onto the couch beside him, his arm curling protectively around you even as his mind clearly spun. You let yourself lean into him, your cheek against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

Inside, you were calm. Because he’d just said we’ll figure it out. That was all you needed to hear.

────────────────────────

Two Months Later

The morning light spilled across your bedroom, soft and golden, catching on the band of platinum wrapped snug around your left hand.

You turned it slowly, admiring the way it glittered in the mirror. Simple. Heavy. Perfect.

Your eyes shifted lower, to the faint swell beneath your tank — the tiniest curve of your belly, only just beginning to show. Three months.

You ran your palm over it absently, your reflection looking back at you with a knowing smile.

It had been a month since James proposed. You could still see the scene perfectly when you closed your eyes.

He’d cooked for you that night — your favorite meal. You remembered the smell of garlic and herbs filling the air, the low hum of old music coming from the speaker, the way he kept glancing over at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

At the time, you’d thought he was just a little more fidgety than usual. Later, you’d realize he’d been working up the nerve.

After dinner, he’d reached into his pocket—slow, careful—and set a small box on the table between you.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he’d said, voice just shy of steady, blue eyes fixed on yours.

You’d blinked, keeping your tone careful, hesitant. “James… are you sure this isn’t just because of…?” You’d glanced down toward your stomach without finishing the sentence.

His face had shifted instantly, that stubborn line setting into his jaw. “No,” he’d said firmly. “This isn’t about obligation. I love you. I don’t want to be with anyone else. And I’m in this for the long game, sweetheart. Always have been.”

You’d let the silence linger just long enough for him to reach across the table, his hand covering yours, his thumb brushing your ring finger like it already belonged there.

“Say yes,” he’d murmured. “Please.”

And, of course, you had.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, the ring catching the light and the small curve of your belly just beneath it, you couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that spread across your face.

Everything was falling right into place.

────────────────────────

Eleven Months Later July 2026

The door shut behind him with a dull click, the sound of the lock sliding into place almost drowned out by the faint hum of music drifting from the kitchen. Something warm and rich was in the air — garlic, maybe rosemary — and for the first time all day, Bucky felt his shoulders start to loosen.

He let out a slow breath, setting his briefcase down and dropping his keys onto the entryway table. They landed with a soft clink against the wood, right beside the silver picture frame that had been there since the move.

His gaze found it immediately, like it always did.

You, in your wedding dress, smiling down at the tiny bundle in your arms — your daughter, barely two months old, swaddled in ivory silk to match you. She was sleeping in the picture, her face soft and serene, her little fists tucked against her chest.

And there he was beside you, in the fancy tux he’d married you in, looking straight ahead at the camera. But even in the photo, it was obvious — his eyes weren’t on the lens.

They were on you. Like they always were.

The tiredness in his bones eased just a little as he stood there, taking it in for a few seconds longer before he made himself move, the smell of dinner pulling him down the hall toward the kitchen.

From the doorway, he could see you — hair pulled back, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose over your frame, swaying your hips gently to the rhythm of whatever old song was playing as you stirred something on the stove.

You didn’t even hear him come in—not until his arms slid around your waist from behind, the heat of his body pressing into your back. You startled just slightly, then relaxed immediately into the familiar weight of him.

“Something smells good,” Bucky murmured against your neck, his voice low and rough from the day.

A smile tugged at your lips as you tilted your head, giving him room when his mouth brushed your skin in a slow, lingering kiss. You turned in his arms, hands resting on his chest as you leaned up to give him a proper kiss — warm, unhurried, the kind that felt like a homecoming all on its own.

“I’m making beef stew and roasted vegetables,” you said when you pulled back, watching the faint flicker of relief cross his features. “Your favorite. Should be ready in a few minutes.”

His shoulders seemed to ease instantly, the tension melting from him as his thumb traced the edge of your hip.

“So you can go get undressed,” you added with a little smile, “and greet a special someone.”

That got the faintest, tired laugh out of him. “Yeah?”

You nodded toward the living room, where the faint sound of a baby’s cooing could just be heard over the music. “She’s been waiting for you.”

His face softened instantly, his lips curving into the kind of smile that was only for her—and for you. Without another word, he kissed your forehead and slipped out of the kitchen, already tugging at his tie as he headed toward the sound.

Bucky rounded the corner into the living room, the exhaustion of his day already fading as his eyes landed on the little playmat spread out across the floor.

There she was.

Shelly — four months old, dressed in a soft pink onesie, kicking her legs and swatting at the dangling toys above her with all the chaotic energy of someone discovering the world one grab at a time.

“Hey… Seashell,” he said softly, and the moment she heard his voice, her head turned toward him like it was instinct. Her little face lit up, her mouth curling into that wide, gummy smile that made his chest ache in the best way.

“Oh, there’s my princess. My pretty girl,” he murmured as he crouched down beside her, his voice low and warm just for her.

Her legs kicked faster, arms flailing as if she could launch herself into him by sheer willpower.

“You waitin’ for me, huh?” he asked, leaning in to press a kiss to one chubby cheek, then the other, then back again, his scruff making her squeal and squirm in delight.

She answered him with a long string of babbles — high and excited, her tiny hands reaching for his face like she had something very important to tell him.

“Oh yeah? You talkin’ to me, Shell?” he grinned, catching one of her hands gently in his and pretending to listen with the gravity of a serious conversation. “Uh-huh. No kidding. That so?”

Her blue eyes — his blue eyes — locked on him, bright and full of life, while every other feature was you. And he loved that. Loved that she was the perfect blend of both of you, but in all the ways that mattered, she was entirely her own little person.

“You’ve been keepin’ your ma company while I’ve been gone?” he asked, pressing another kiss to her cheek just because he couldn’t help himself. “Good girl.”

She rewarded him with another loud squeal, her tiny fingers curling around his thumb like she never wanted to let go.

From the kitchen doorway, you watched them for a moment — Bucky still crouched on the playmat, talking to Shelly like she was giving him a detailed report, his big hands so gentle as he scooped her up and pressed her close.

By the time you set the table, she was tucked in her highchair, the soft click of the tray locking into place as Bucky adjusted it. She babbled happily, smacking her palms against the surface while he set a small bowl of mashed sweet potato in front of her.

“Alright, Seashell,” he murmured, scooping up a little on the tiny spoon. “Open wide.”

She did, but halfway through the bite, her blue eyes flicked toward you. When she saw you setting down the stew, her legs started kicking again, and she let out a happy squeal.

Bucky grinned, glancing over his shoulder at you. “See? She’s a mama’s girl,” he teased.

“Only because I feed her the good stuff,” you shot back, sliding into your seat.

Dinner was easy. Domestic. Bucky took a bite of his stew, then scooped up another spoonful for Shelly, making exaggerated faces until she giggled and leaned forward to take it. He kept his left hand on the table, fingers brushing yours every so often as if he couldn’t stop reaching for you.

You caught him stealing glances between bites — that same soft, almost disbelieving look like he still couldn’t believe this was his life. His wife. His daughter. The warmth of this apartment.

Shelly babbled between spoonfuls, her little voice filling the air with nonsense words that Bucky responded to like she was telling the best story he’d ever heard.

“Oh yeah? You don’t say,” he told her seriously before looking at you. “She’s tellin’ me all about her day.”

“Sounds like she’s got a lot to say,” you said, smiling.

“She gets it from you,” he teased, but the way his eyes lingered on you for a second longer told you exactly where his heart was.

It was easy. Simple. Exactly the picture you’d worked for — and now, it was your reality.

You watched him from across the table, the way his big hands looked almost comically careful as he held that tiny spoon, coaxing Shelly into another bite. He talked to her the whole time, his voice low and soft, filled with a patience that seemed endless when it came to her.

“Good girl,” he murmured when she swallowed, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek before scooping up the next spoonful. She giggled, kicking her little feet, babbling something that made him grin like she just told the best joke in the world.

And your heart… God, your heart felt so full you almost didn't know what to do with it.

Every step. Every careful choice. Every word, every moment, every move you made — it was all for this.

James Buchanan Barnes, sitting at your table in your home, feeding your daughter with that kind of quiet devotion that didn't need to be spoken to be felt. Completely, entirely yours.

And Shelly… your perfect little girl, with his eyes and your smile, the living proof of everything you worked for.

You didn't feel smug. You didn't feel victorious. Not right now. What you felt is love. Pure, unfiltered, bone-deep love for the man across from you and the baby between you.

And as you watched them together, Shelly reaching for him with those tiny hands while he laughed and kissed her again, you felt it — a burst of true happiness so strong it stole your breath for a second.

Your husband. Your daughter. Your family.

Exactly as you planned. Exactly where they belong.

Forever yours.

a/n — I had to cut a bunch of gaslighting scenes, as well as reader's backstory scene. and a fluff scene where bucky talks about the wedding and baby ☹️. and I still had a whole thunderbolts arc, and more manipulation where she includes Shelly in it, sigh.

General Bucky Barnes Masterlist:

@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @Onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @Ashpeace888 @Bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @LuminousVenomVagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @Excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @Millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @Lilac13 @Fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @Ozwriterchick @miaspaperplanes @EspressoPatronum454 @melsunshine @slutforsr @thousandsplendidsunss @c-grace56 @barnesonly @theoraekenslover

The same cold silk of it wrapping around you. The same easy release as your legs fuse and your tail unfurls in one long shimmer beneath the dark water. The same pull of depth and current and pressure settling your body back into its truest shape.

But you are not the same creature who left. You know it almost immediately. The swim home is slower this time. Not because you’re tired. Because your thoughts keep drifting to the sea glass at your throat, the ghost of his fingers laced through yours…

Or on the quiet, careful way Bucky had looked at you when you said you loved the gift, like he hadn’t quite known what to do with being allowed to matter. You touch the pendant once as you cut through the dark.

It taps lightly against your skin with each stroke.

A little piece of shore worn smooth enough to belong to you now.

Home comes into view in layers.

First the slope of familiar rock. Then the long curtains of kelp moving slow and stately in the current. Then the blue bioluminescent glow that clings to the caves and coral shelves, turning the reef into a dream of light and shadow. You should feel yourself slot back into place the second you see it.

Instead, what hits first is awareness.

Of your own face.

Of your scent.

Of the fact that Nerina is absolutely going to smell land, tea, Bucky, and trouble on you from three currents away.

And sure enough, you have barely crossed into the outer reef before a shape peels off from behind a column of stone and slams neatly into your path.

Nerina, with her arms folded and expression bright with menace.

“Well?” she asks.

You blink at her, trying for innocence.

It doesn’t work.

Her gaze drops to your throat instantly. The sea glass pendant catches the glow. Nerina goes still.

Then very, very slowly, she looks back up at you.

“Oh, you are doomed.”

You clutch the pendant reflexively. “That is such an unhelpful thing to say.”

She surges forward with a delighted screech, grabbing both your arms. “He gave you a trinket.”

“It’s not a trinket.”

“He gave you shore-worn sea glass on a cord. That is a courtship-level trinket.”

You try to pull away with dignity. “You’re inventing rules.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Nerina drags you bodily through the water toward the main cavern. “Sereia! Talin! She came back wearing his feelings!”

You gasp. “That is not what this is!”

From deeper in the reef, Sereia’s laughter spills out before you even see her.

Talin appears a second later with the expression of a male who has known peace and is watching it leave his body in real time.

Nerina presents you like evidence before a tribunal.

“He put a thing on her.”

You choke. “Why would you phrase it like that?”

Sereia takes one look at the pendant and presses both hands over her mouth. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Nerina corrects gleefully.

Talin glances from the pendant to your face. His eyes narrow.

“You stayed longer.”

“Yes. He asked, I said yes. I wanted to. It was just dinner.”

Sereia brightens. “Dinner.”

“With candles,” Nerina guesses immediately.

You freeze.

All three of them stare.

Nerina clutches Talin’s arm so hard he grimaces. “Candles.”

“It was one candle,” you say, which is somehow worse.

Sereia drifts closer, eyes wide and warm. “He planned it.”

You don’t answer, because the second you do your smile is going to happen again and then you’ll never hear the end of it. Unfortunately, your silence is deafening.

Nerina squints at you. “Oh, you liked it liked it.”

Talin rubs a hand over his face. “Can we all calm down.”

“No,” Nerina and Sereia say together.

You try for dignity, but it is hard to maintain while being gently herded into the center cavern by two females vibrating with gossip and one male radiating the weary air of a guardian who knows exactly how this story ends.

Word spreads fast.

By the time you reach the glowing heart of the reef, half your pod is already looking up, pretending not to look up, or very openly looking up with the kind of pointed casualness that means they’ve absolutely heard something.

You are offered food.

A resting ledge.

A blanket of woven kelp fiber you do not need.

Three different older pod-mothers peer at you over their shells and immediately notice the pendant.

One of them clicks her tongue approvingly.

You consider swimming into a trench and staying there forever.

Instead, you sit.

Which is brave.

Or stupid.

Probably both.

Sereia settles on one side of you, Nerina on the other, like guards at the world’s most humiliating hearing. Talin stations himself slightly behind, arms folded.

For a moment, the pod just watches you.

Then Sereia says gently, “How was he tonight?”

And damn it, that question gets past your defenses faster than teasing.

You look down at the pendant in your hand.

“At first?” you say slowly. “He nearly died because I came out of the water without clothes.”

The cavern erupts.

Nerina folds cleanly in half laughing.

Sereia chokes on seawater.

Even Talin’s head drops as though he’s fighting a smile and losing.

“He threw clothes at me,” you continue, because if you’re suffering, everyone else is coming with you. “Then he had to explain why humans are weird about nakedness.”

Nerina wipes at her eyes. “What did he say?”

“That it’s about privacy and modesty.”

Sereia puts a hand to her chest, wheezing softly with laughter. “And what did you say?”

“That it’s just bodies.”

The older pod-mother with the shells actually nods as if this is the most sensible statement uttered all night.

Talin mutters, “For once, I’m with her.”

Nerina points at you. “And what did he do?”

You pause because now it gets interesting.

The truth is he tried so hard to be good that it made something warm and dangerous spread through you all over again.

Your mouth softens before you can stop it.

“He looked like he was fighting a cecaelia.”

That does it.

The entire cavern loses it again..

Laughter rings off the stone. A younger merman actually thumps the ledge in delight. Sereia hides her face in your shoulder. Nerina makes the most obnoxiously triumphant sound you have ever heard.

Talin closes his eyes like he no longer wishes to be corporeal.

When the noise finally dies down a little, Sereia studies you more closely.

“Were you safe?”

The shift in tone gentles everything.

You nod immediately.

“Yes.”

“Wanted?”

A softer question.

One that reaches deeper.

You swallow.

“Yes.”

Nerina’s expression turns unexpectedly tender. “Respected?”

That one you answer without hesitation.

“Yes.”

The mood in the cavern changes after that.

Not lighter, exactly.

Deeper.

There’s still teasing, yes, because your pod would rather implode than pass up good romantic drama. But beneath it runs approval. Relief. The understanding that this isn’t simply infatuation for the sake of novelty. This human doesn’t make you smaller. Doesn’t treat you like a curiosity. Doesn’t demand or grab or cage.

He makes room for you. That matters to merfolk more than almost anything.

Talin kneels beside your ledge then, big and solid and serious as ever.

“And you?” he asks quietly. “How are you when you’re with him?”

The question catches you off guard.

You open your mouth with some quick, easy answer ready.

Nothing comes out.

Because suddenly you know the truth of it, and it is not small.

You are different with Bucky.

You are… softer in places you thought had long ago gone to reef stone. Sharper in others. More curious. More aware. More alive in your own skin, even when he’s the one making you conscious of it. He doesn’t pull you away from yourself.

He seems to hand more of you back.

You look down at your hands, then up.

“I think,” you say slowly, “I feel… seen.”

Silence settles through the cavern.

No one laughs now.

Nerina reaches over and squeezes your shoulder once, hard and affectionate.

Sereia smiles, sad and knowing and warm.

Talin’s face shifts—some hard protective line in him easing, just enough.

“That,” he says, “is not nothing.”

You nod.

No. It isn’t.

Later, after the pod breaks apart into smaller knots of conversation, you drift off toward the outer gardens alone.

The reef here is quieter. The bioluminescence softer. Little darting fish weave through coral branches that glow blue-white at their tips. It’s beautiful in the same way it has always been beautiful.

Tonight you notice change everywhere: how the current moves differently after a storm, how new things settle into old places…

How even home is not static. Not fixed. It shifts. Adapts. Makes room.

You curl up on a smooth shelf of stone with your tail tucked close and your fingers resting over the sea glass at your throat.

A shadow passes overhead.

Sereia.

She lowers herself onto the stone beside you and leans shoulder to shoulder.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

Then she says, “You know you don’t have to choose yet.”

You turn your head. She keeps looking out at the dark water.

“Between them,” she says. “Between worlds. Between the part of you that belongs to the sea and the part reaching toward shore.”

Your throat tightens.

That is the fear beneath the sweetness, isn’t it?

That this pull toward Bucky means giving something up. That love, if that’s what this becomes, might ask for a sacrifice. That every story of land and sea ends with one half of the heart translated into a language the other half cannot survive.

“I know,” you say softly.

Sereia finally looks at you.

“You are allowed to let this be what it is before you decide what it costs.”

You let that settle.

It feels wise.

“Was that your gentle older-sister speech?” you ask.

She smiles. “A little.”

“It was very effective.”

You rest your head on her shoulder for a moment, and she kisses your hair once before rising and leaving you to your thoughts. The reef grows quieter around you as the night deepens.

Far, far off, beyond the dark layers of water and distance and shoreline, you can just make out the faint pulse of the lighthouse.

One turn.

Then dark.

Then another.

You wonder what Bucky is doing.

If he’s pacing.

If he’s touching the spot by his mouth where you kissed him.

If he’s looking at the empty second plate and wondering when you’ll be back.

The thought wraps around your heart with equal parts ache and warmth.

At last you push off the ledge and slip deeper into the reef, toward your sleeping hollow.

This time when your people greet you as you settle in, it feels less like being pulled in two and more like being held from both sides.

By the sea.

By your pod.

By the strange, impossible beginning waiting up on shore.

And when you finally close your eyes, one thing becomes clear in the drifting quiet before sleep takes you:

Coming home does not cure your longing.

The third night, you don’t even pretend.

You don’t linger.

You don’t pace the reef or let Nerina make bets about how long it’ll take you to crack.

You just go.

—

The lighthouse finds you faster this time. Or maybe you find it faster. Either way, when you surface, he’s already there.

Bucky stands on the rocks like he never left, hands braced on the railing, gaze locked on the water with that same too-intense focus that gives him away every single time. He notices the second your head breaks the surface.

There’s that flicker again—relief, sharp and immediate, before he smooths it out into something more controlled.

“You’re early,” he says.

You haul yourself up onto the rocks, water streaming off you, already reaching for the neatly folded clothes waiting where he left them.

“You’re predictable,” you shoot back.

He huffs. “That so?”

“You were out here.”

“I live here.”

“You were waiting out here.”

“I was checking the—”

You look at him, brow arched.

He stops.

“…weather,” he finishes anyway.

You grin, delighted. “Liar.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no bite in it. Not tonight.

You pull on the clothes quickly this time, faster, more practiced, though you still feel his attention hovering carefully at the edges, like he’s trying to be respectful and failing just a little.

“Done,” you announce.

Bucky turns back.

And yeah, there it is again. That look. That moment where he forgets to hide it.

You in his world wearing things he picked and standing like you belong there.

It hits him every time.

You clap your hands once, bright with sudden energy.

“I have a request.”

Bucky’s brows lift immediately. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It’s not dangerous.”

“That’s exactly what dangerous requests say.”

“I want to go to the lights.”

He blinks.

“…the what?”

You point past him, toward the glow of the boardwalk. Neon flickering against the night, music drifting faintly across the wind, distant shouts and laughter carried over the water.

“There,” you say. “The loud place. With the spinning things.”

Bucky turns, following your gesture.

Realization dawns, followed by disbelief.

“You mean the carnival.”

“Yes.”

“You want to go to the carnival.”

“Yes.”

“With me.”

You beam. “Obviously.”

He stares at you for a long moment like he’s recalculating his entire existence.

“…you don’t even know what’s there.”

“I know it looks fun.”

“It’s loud.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“It’s crowded.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“It’s—” He cuts himself off, exhaling. “It’s a lot.”

You step closer, tilting your head up at him.

“I want to see your world,” you say simply.

And there it is.

That quiet, honest thing you keep doing that makes it impossible for him to say no.

Bucky looks at you.

Really looks.

Then drags a hand down his face.

“…you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You grin. “So I’ve been told.”

He mutters something under his breath and jerks his head toward town.

“Stay close.”

—

The carnival is overwhelming in the best possible way. The second you step onto the boardwalk, your senses explode.

Lights everywhere. Bright, flashing, spinning, pulsing in colors that don’t exist underwater. Music blaring from different directions, overlapping in chaotic, exhilarating layers. The smell of sugar and oil and salt and something sharp and fried that you can’t even name.

And people.

So many people.

You stop dead and Bucky immediately notices. His hand finds your wrist without thinking. Grounding.

“You okay?”

Your eyes are wide, tracking everything at once. “There’s so much happening.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

You look up at him and smile. “I love it.”

Something in his expression softens instantly.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Absolutely.”

He nods once, like that settles something for him, and keeps his hand loosely around your wrist as he guides you forward through the crowd.

You let him. Not because you need it.

But because you like it.

—

The first ride stops you cold.

It’s massive, looping, with wood mixed with metal. People strapped into seats, shrieking as they’re lifted high into the air and dropped again. You stare at it like it’s a living creature.

“What is that.”

Bucky follows your gaze.

“The Cyclone.”

“…why would anyone do that on purpose?”

He glances down at you, amused. “Adrenaline.”

“That looks like death.”

“Some people like that.”

You consider the screaming humans.

“…land people are deeply strange.”

He snorts. “Not wrong.”

You tug on his sleeve. “Can we try it?”

He freezes. “You want to get on that.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you just said it looks like death.”

“I want to experience your death machine.”

Bucky stares at you, then at the ride, and then back at you.

“…absolutely not.”

You gasp. “You deny me culture.”

“I am saving your life.”

You cross your arms. “Coward.”

He leans down slightly, voice low in your ear. “You were overwhelmed by socks two days ago. I am not putting you on a roller coaster.”

The timbre in his voice makes you feel warm. “Fair enough.”

He smirks and the warm feeling deepens.

You narrow your eyes. “I still think you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Then prove it.”

“I don’t need to prove anything.”

You grin. “You’re scared.”

“I’m not—I’ve been on it many times.”

“Then prove it.”

He exhales sharply, already losing the argument, and mutters, “We’re not doing that one.”

You accept victory.

—

Bucky leads you to a game booth.

Bright colors. Stuffed animals hanging everywhere. A man barking challenges at passersby.

You stare. “What is this?”

“A scam.”

You perk up. “I love it.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “Of course you do.”

The booth operator grins at him. “C’mon, man, win your girl a prize.”

Bucky goes still.

Your girl.

The words hang there for half a second.

Then Bucky clears his throat, too quickly. “Yeah. Sure.”

He hands over cash.

You watch, fascinated, as he picks up the small balls and weighs them in his hand.

“What do you do?”

“Knock down the bottles.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“That seems easy.”

He gives you a look.

Then throws.

The first ball hits—crack—and two bottles go down.

Second throw—clean.

Third—perfect.

All bottles topple.

You gasp.

“That was impressive.”

Bucky shrugs, but there’s a flicker of pride there. “Used to be good at this.”

The booth operator rolls his eyes but hands over a prize anyway.

Bucky turns to you, holding out a stuffed animal—a small white plush with big eyes and soft fur.

You take it carefully.

“What is this creature?”

“A bunny.”

“It’s adorable.”

“It’s yours.”

You clutch it to your chest immediately. “I love it.”

His gaze softens again, watching you like that reaction alone was worth the whole thing.

“You say that about everything.”

“Everything you give me, yes.”

He looks away for a second, jaw tightening just slightly like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that kind of honesty.

You hug the bunny tighter.

“I will name him.”

“Oh yeah?” He glances at it. “What are you gonna name it?”

You consider deeply. Then, with absolute confidence, you beam.

“Alpine.”

—

Then comes the food.

You stop in front of a stand where something golden and chaotic is being handed to customers.

“What is that.”

Bucky follows your stare. “That is funnel cake.”

“I want it.”

“Of course you do.”

He buys one and hands it to you.

You take a bite and immediately your entire face changes. Eyes wide. Soul leaving your body.

“This is magic.”

He laughs, full and real, watching you like this is the best part of his night.

Sugar dusts your fingers. You don’t care. You take another bite, then another, completely gone.

“This is better than the cake,” you declare.

“That’s a bold statement.”

“I stand by it.”

You hold it out to him.

“Try.”

“I’ve had funnel cake.”

“Try mine.”

He hesitates and then leans in, taking a bite.

The moment is small.

But the way you both pause—too close, sharing the same piece, breath catching just slightly—

It’s not nothing.

You both notice.

You pull back first, smiling like you didn’t just feel that spark. He swallows, clears his throat, and looks anywhere but your mouth.

“Good?” you ask innocently.

“Yeah,” he says, a little rough. “Good.”

—

By the time you leave, you’re carrying your stuffed bunny, sugar on your fingers, and a hundred new impressions you don’t even have words for yet.

The walk back is quieter, slower. You’re closer to him and before you know it, his hand is clasping yours.

When the lighthouse comes back into view, you look at him.

“That was… amazing! Thank you for showing me.”

Bucky’s gaze holds yours. “I’m glad.”

When you reach the rocks, neither of you moves right away.

The ocean waits.

The lighthouse glows.

Something between you has shifted again.

It’s bigger, warmer. And it is a little harder to pretend isn’t heading somewhere very real. By the end of the week, the lighthouse doesn’t feel like a hiding place anymore.

It feels like his. And, dangerously, a little like yours too.

Not all at once. Not in some dramatic rush. It happens the way tides do—inch by inch, quiet until suddenly the whole shoreline has changed.

You fall into a rhythm with Bucky.

A ridiculous, impossible, deeply intimate rhythm.

—

You come back the night after the carnival still carrying Alpine the bunny, and Bucky gives the stuffed animal one long look before muttering, “That thing’s gonna live here now, huh?”

You clutch Alpine to your chest. “He has seniority now.”

Bucky deadpans, “Over me?”

“Yes.”

“That tracks.”

You spend the night on the lighthouse steps because the weather is clear and the wind is warm enough to make staying outside worth it. He tells you what each distant light is—boats, buildings, signs, homes. You tell him which stars you use when the current shifts deep enough to confuse even your best sense of direction.

At one point, a gull lands nearby and stares at you both like it pays rent.

You narrow your eyes at it. “Is that one judging me?”

Bucky glances over. “Probably.”

“Rude.”

“You did tell me not to brood at gulls.”

You look at him. “Are you brooding with gulls now?”

His mouth twitches. That becomes a thing after that.

Every night, you ask if he’s brooding with the gulls.

Every night, Bucky acts deeply inconvenienced by how much he secretly enjoys it.

The following evening Bucky makes the mistake of teaching you how laundry works.

Specifically, he shows you how to use the old washer hookup in the lower utility room because you asked what happened to clothes once they got “too people-smelling and too sea-smelling at the same time.”

You treat this like a sacred rite.

For about six minutes.

Then you start asking questions: why are there different soaps? Why does everything need sorting. Why are towels apparently a separate category. Why do humans have a machine to wash fabrics but still insist on doing so many dishes by hand.

Bucky tries. He really does.

He gives calm, practical answers right up until you hold up one of his shirts, bury your face in it, and say, “This still smells like you. I think the machine failed.”

Bucky blinks.

You lower the shirt just enough to see his eyes.

“…what?” he says.

You blink innocently. “What? The machine failed. It smells like you. I like it.”

He stares for a long second, then mutters, “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

That night he was quieter than usual.

When you catch him later folding that same shirt with way too much focus, you hide your smile in your tea.

—

On another evening, you find his books.

You’re sprawled across his bed in one of his sweaters, barefoot, dry-haired, flipping through a battered novel while he tries—and fails—not to stare like this image has knocked his soul slightly loose from his body.

“You read these?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

“Humans make up a lot of stories.”

He leans in the doorway with his arms folded. “So do merfolk.”

“Yes, but ours tend to be more educational and less obsessed with emotional repression.”

That gets him.

One sharp laugh.

You grin and pat the bed beside you. “Come explain this one.”

He eyes the invitation like it’s a trap but eventually he sits carefully, leaving space. You immediately close most of it by leaning against his shoulder and holding up the book. He goes still for half a second, then lets out a breath and relaxes into it. You spend an hour like that.

Him reading passages aloud in that low, rough voice of his. You asking constant questions. Sometimes about the plot. Mostly about why human men in fiction are apparently allergic to emotional honesty.

At one point you look up and realize he has stopped reading.

“Why’d you stop?”

His eyes are on you.

Your mouth.

Your face tipped up close to his shoulder.

And his answer comes out low. “Lost my place.”

You absolutely do not recover normally from that.

Later that week, you go into town again, this time during a quieter stretch, and Bucky lets you explore more slowly.

You learn how diners work.

This matters because you discover pancakes.

And pancakes, as it turns out, hit you like a religious conversion.

You sit in a cracked red vinyl booth by the window at some tiny all-night place while Bucky watches you take your first bite and nearly dissolve.

“You all have this and still behave like that?” you ask, scandalized.

“Like what?”

“Like people with stress.”

He snorts into his coffee.

The waitress calls you sweetheart and tops off Bucky’s mug without asking. She looks between the two of you with that same knowing human expression you still don’t totally understand but are beginning to suspect means I see what’s going on here before you idiots do.

You ask Bucky later.

He says, “She thinks we’re together.”

You stop walking. He stops too. The night air goes very still around you.

“And are we?” you ask lightly.

Bucky’s voice is careful.

“I think we’re…” He exhales. “Something.”

You step closer to him.

“Something good?”

His eyes hold yours. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Something good.”

That’s the first night you kiss him properly. The kiss is soft from the start. No urgency. No desperation.

His lips move against yours slowly, carefully, like he’s savoring something precious. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingertips disappearing into your hair. You feel him smile when you sigh against his mouth.

The kiss deepens for a heartbeat, then eases again. Neither of you wanting to be the first to pull away. When you finally separate, it’s only by inches.

Bucky keeps his eyes closed for a moment as if he’s collecting himself. The kiss affected him as much as it affected you. Then he opens his eyes— those impossibly blue eyes. His thumb brushes across your cheek.

Afterward he presses his forehead to yours and says, rough and dazed, “You really are gonna ruin me.” You smile against his mouth.

“Probably.”

—

Days pass. The weather turns.

You arrive in rain, laughing because the sea and sky feel wild and electric and alive. Bucky, meanwhile, takes one look at you climbing up the rocks drenched and shining and says, “Nope,” in the tone of a man already losing a battle.

He towels your hair dry upstairs while grumbling the whole time.

You sit between his knees on a chair by the stove, grinning into the warmth, while he rubs your hair with surprising gentleness.

“You fuss,” you say.

“I’m drying your hair.”

“You fuss while doing it.”

“I’m efficient.”

“You’re fussy-efficient.”

He flicks the towel lightly over your head in retaliation.

You laugh, then lean back just enough that your shoulder rests against his leg.

He stills briefly then keeps going.

That night, the storm knocks the power in town weird for a while, and the lighthouse feels even more isolated than usual. You end up wrapped in blankets on the floor with Alpine between you, eating toast with butter and jam and listening to the rain hammer the glass.

You tell him about your pod.

Not everything.

But enough that they stop being abstract.

Nerina and her sharp mouth.

Sereia and her quiet wisdom.

Talin pretending he doesn’t care while caring more than anyone.

Bucky listens with his elbows on his knees, looking into the stove flame.

When you finish, he says, almost to himself, “Sounds nice. Having people like that.”

You look at him and then move closer until your shoulder touches his.

“You could,” you say softly. “Again.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer.

But later, when you fall half-asleep against him and wake just enough to realize he’s tucked the blanket more securely around you, you think maybe he heard you after all.

Ten months.

It had been ten long, grueling months since Bucky last got a taste of you.

After taking your virginity, he paid for your groceries—as promised, because he believed himself to be a gentleman—and messaged you a few days later, inviting you to film another video with him.

You were his loyal fan.

You were there for every single one of his videos.

Hell, your own username was dedicated to him.

So when you left him on read for ten months without leaving a single trace behind, he grew furious. He tried making excuses for you—perhaps you were too busy? Or maybe you went on vacation? He tried circling back to your social media, which was how he had first found you, but you had privated all your accounts and deactivated your TikTok.

Naturally, pessimistic thoughts began to fill his mind.

Was he too rough when he took you? Did he freak you out by finding you at the grocery store? Worse, had he scared you away for good?

Bucky knew where you lived. It would’ve been easy to just show up at your front door and demand answers—but he couldn’t do that. Not with the threat of a restraining order looming in the back of his mind.

Ten months. He couldn’t believe he had let you stray away from him for that long.

There was so much you could’ve done during that time. You could’ve moved, had sex with other men, or even found a relationship.

You went from being his loyal fan to a ghost.

Bucky knelt on his mattress, holding up a clear silicone toy that looked tiny compared to his hands. He squeezed a generous amount of lube into his palm and spread it carefully along his half-hard cock, making sure none of it dripped onto the sheets.

His camcorder was propped against a pillow, angled perfectly to capture him from the waist down. With his bare abs and thighs fully in frame, he settled back on his heels, gripped the toy firmly, and guided it toward his cock.

A rough groan escaped him as he teased the sensitive tip against the entrance. The lubricant made every movement slick and audible, the wet sounds filling the otherwise quiet room.

“Fuck. Been waiting for this all day.”

His eyes fluttered shut as he slowly worked the toy against his shaft. He continued at an unhurried pace, his grip tightening as he lost himself in the sensation.

“Good girl,” he muttered without thinking.

The words slipped out on instinct, a praise that always led back to you. As the room filled with the sounds of his grunts and movements, his thoughts drifted to the memory of you. They always did. He pictured your soft lips wrapped around his dick, the way he had your face pressed into the pillow as he took you from behind—the moments that had replayed endlessly in his mind over the past months.

At some point, imagination alone had stopped being enough.

Whenever he wanted to relive it, he would pull up the private video he recorded of the two of you, letting it play in the background while he lost himself in the pleasure of his toy.

“God,” he groaned, your name slipping from his lips in a breathless rasp.

He made a mental note to cut the part where he whispered your name like a prayer before uploading the video to the site.

“Shit—fuck. I miss that tight little pussy.”

With a loud groan and both hands holding the toy tight, he drove his hips deep into the toy until it made an unmistakable tearing sound. Too lost in the haze of his own desire, he didn’t even realize he tore through yet another toy to the memory of you.

Seed filled the silicone, marking every cloudy surface with his thick cum.

Once he caught his breath, he let the toy fall from his grip and pushed it aside.

From there, the rest of the evening followed the same familiar routine.

He would take a shower, get dressed, make himself something for dinner, then spend the rest of the evening at his computer. He would spend his time editing the footage, preparing it for upload to the same porn site he had been posting on for years.

Except this time, there was no excitement after hitting the ‘post’ button, because you wouldn’t even be there to watch them.

After the video went live, he waited for the likes and comments to start pouring in, holding onto the faint hope that your username might appear among them.

As usual, it never did.

Surprisingly, though, that wasn’t what disappointed him this time.

Every time he jerked off with the intention to post a new video—your video was always in the background. It got to the point where people started to leave comments asking who the mysterious girl was. Who those sultry, seductive moans belonged to.

He would even get comments asking if he’d be willing to record another video of the two of you together and post it online.

Every time he read those comments, he would scoff, laughing to himself.

I would like to know the same thing.

After posting his latest video, his comment section had been flooding with the same demands for weeks.

wankingandspanking: hell yeah man! love the new video. but who’s the babe in the video you’re watching??

StraightJorkinIt: U breaking ur toy was so hot, but what’s even hotter is the girl moaning in the back. xx

Bwasexual: The toys are getting a little old, don’t you think?? Bring a real woman in. especially the one in the vid you’re jerking to ;)

Each comment was a direct insult to Bucky’s pride.

He was one of the platform’s top creators—yet now, his community was entirely consumed by you.

He had spent the last ten months trying to get you out of his head, trying to just use your video as a quick jerk off aid and move on. But how could he when his own fans wouldn’t let him forget?

How could he, when he couldn’t even cum to anything else anymore? His memory was flooded of the way his cock had disappeared in and out of your tight pussy while he had you bent over from behind. By the recollection of your cute, virgin mouth stuffed full of cock—his cock—for the first time ever.

How could he possibly forget how sweet your tight little body was, like it was made for him?

Bucky’s frustration was peaking. At the very least, he was making money off of this.

Just as he was about to shut down his computer and call it a night, a new notification popped up.

He clicked it, and what he saw made the air in his lungs vanish completely.

Pleasure_Ring: Love the video!

Bucky blinked.

Was he seeing this right?

He rubbed his eyes, but lo and behold, your comment was still there. He double—and triple—checked the username, ensuring every single letter matched and that it wasn’t some random copycat trying to impersonate you.

But no, it was you.

When he clicked your profile, the interface loaded your old message thread. He saw the green indicator showing you were currently online, sitting right above his last unanswered message asking you to film with him again.

He couldn’t believe it.

You were real. You were still here, ten months later, watching him.

Bucky didn’t realize he was holding his breath as his fingers hovered over the keyboard. He wanted to spam you with messages—to demand where the hell you’ve been, to beg for your phone number so he would never lose track of you again.

No, he couldn’t risk ruining this moment. He had to stay rational and seize this chance before you slipped through his fingers again.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I saw the comment you left.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Where have you been?

A minute passed. Then another. He propped both elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his hands, his foot tapping impatiently as he waited.

Three minutes went by. Your little icon was still green—you were still online.

Then, his heart leaped.

Pleasure_Ring is typing…

Pleasure_Ring: Why? Did you miss me?

Bucky’s brow twitched. Your messages from ten months ago had been sweet, alluring, and almost innocent. If you had been texting him consistently, he might’ve read this as a flirtatious little comment to make his dick hard.

But right now, he just felt pissed off.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Quit playing around. Of course I missed you. Where did you go?

There were so many things he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t risk scaring you away just yet. His heart raced as he watched the screen.

Pleasure_Ring is typing…

Your bubble kept appearing and disappearing. You would type, then silence. You would type again, then nothing.

Bucky felt like he was going insane. He was just about ready to send another message himself, until one finally popped up under your name.

Pleasure_Ring: I think it’s best that we talk in person.

Pleasure_Ring: Can we exchange numbers?

And of course, Bucky gave you his number without a second thought.

You sat alone at the coffee shop Bucky had agreed to meet you at, fiddling with your mug and glancing anxiously out the window.

The meetup was set for noon, and the closer the clock ticked to the hour, the more your mind began to spiral.

It had been ten months since he last saw you. Ten months since he had you bent over your own bed, your face pressed into the pillows, ravaging you like an animal.

You were growing anxious. What if he had lost interest? What if he took one good look at you and realized you were nothing like the woman he had been infatuated with all this time?

The bell above the door chimed. You glanced up, and your breath caught in your throat.

Bucky was right there. He looked just as handsome as the day you met him. His presence seemed to take up the entire space of the coffee shop, just as it had when he first approached you at the grocery store.

His eyes swept across the room. The moment they landed on yours, your thighs instinctively clenched together. He was wearing that same cold, stern expression he had when he first told you to strip for him.

Naturally, it did things to you.

He marched over to your table, dragged the chair back, and dropped into the seat directly across from you. He didn’t bother with a polite smile, and his gaze didn’t warm up at all.

Was he angry? Was this a nuisance to him—taking time out of his busy day just to see a girl he slept with ten months ago?

“Bucky,” you breathed, forcing a polite smile. “How are you—”

“Where have you been?”

You blinked. You were about to stammer out a quick excuse, but he breezed on past.

“Ten months without a single word from you.” He leaned closer across the table. “Where have you been?”

Despite his harsh tone, he was anxiously bracing himself for your answer. He expected you to say you had lost interest, or that you found a boyfriend to practice your new... sexual experiences on. You hadn’t even given an explanation yet, and he was already fuming with jealousy.

You looked down at your coffee mug, avoiding his gaze. Looking him directly in the eye right now was simply too much to handle.

“I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch,” you mumbled. “Ever since… that night, I’ve been… uh—how do I even say this?” You chuckled awkwardly, scratching lightly at your cheek. “I guess I’ve been feeling a little ashamed of myself.”

Bucky watched your shoulders slump as your hands fidgeted nervously in your lap.

“Ashamed?”

“Ever since we slept together, I’ve felt insecure about not being able to... keep up with you.” You winced. “I mean, you’re obviously experienced—I had a great time, and everything—but it made me realize that, at my age, when everyone else seems to be out there having fun and figuring things out, I’m nowhere near as experienced as they are.”

Your voice dropped lower as you glanced around the room.

It wasn’t exactly the kind of conversation suited for a small, intimate coffee shop.

Bucky frowned, crossing his arms. Your explanation wasn’t giving him the reassurance he had hoped for.

“So you were embarrassed about sleeping with me?”

Your eyes widened.

“No! It’s not like that.” You shook your head. “I had an incredible time with you. You gave me an experience I’ll never forget. I mean...” You leaned forward, lowering your voice to a conspicuous whisper. “You were the one who took my virginity, after all.”

That, at least, managed to draw the hint of a smile from him.

“It’s just...” you hesitated. “I’m ready to start dating, and in the current dating scene, sex matters, you know?”

There it was.

The sentence Bucky had been dreading.

While he had spent the last ten months thinking about you—worrying about you, searching for some way to reconnect, replaying the video you’d filmed together and jerking off to it, moaning your name—you had spent those same months looking forward to a future with someone else.

“So...” You hesitated. “After reading all those comments on your videos, the ones talking about how good I sound, and remembering the offer you made ten months ago to film another one...” Your gaze dropped briefly. “If that offer still stands, maybe you could teach me?”

“Teach you?” Bucky repeated, the words leaving him almost like a scoff.

Just as innocent as the day he first met you, you nodded shyly.

“Teach me how to be better at sex.”

An awkward silence took the space between the two of you.

You were preparing yourself for rejection. For Bucky to push back his chair, walk away, and decide this conversation had been a mistake. After this, you wouldn’t be surprised if he even blocked your number and your profile, cutting off the last connection between you.

Instead, he studied you for a very long moment.

“You know,” he said slowly, his gaze finding yours, “the comments have been asking us to film a video together, right?”

The look he gave you was difficult to read—careful, calculating, and almost suspicious.

“I know,” you said bashfully.

“If you want me to teach you,” he said, leaning forward as his voice dropped soft and intimate, “then we’re going to do the same thing we did before, but I want this done at my house instead. I’ll record.”

He paused, studying your reaction.

“And this time, I’m posting it online.”

You sat there frozen.

It wasn’t exactly the compromise you expected, but you couldn’t say you were entirely surprised. After disappearing from his life for months, after leaving things unresolved between you, part of you knew he would want something in return.

Bucky leaned in closer, his hand finding yours on the table. His fingers curled around yours, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

“You’ve read the comments,” he said. “You might be insecure about your experience, but my viewers love you. They’re curious. They want to know who the woman behind that voice is.”

Heat rushed to your face. The confidence in his words only made your pulse quicken, and the slow sweep of his thumb across your knuckles wasn’t helping at all.

“I’ll teach you everything you want to know,” he continued. “I’ll take care of you. You know I will.”

For a moment, his confidence faltered and his eyes looked pleading, revealing something almost hopeful beneath it.

“What do you say, doll?”

Your heart had been pounding ever since Bucky sat down across from you at the coffee shop. It hadn’t slowed once—not during the conversation, not during the drive over, and certainly not now as you stood behind him while he unlocked his apartment door.

Bucky stepped aside, holding the door open for you. After a moment's hesitation, you stepped inside.

The studio apartment was dimly lit. The blinds were drawn, leaving only the warm glow of a lamp to light the room. In one corner sat a computer setup—his workstation where he recorded and edited his videos.

Your breath caught at what was displaying on the monitor.

Your chat history.

His studio was the definition of a man cave. What caught your attention, however, were the sex toys scattered throughout the apartment without a hint of shame.

Some of the toys were immediately recognizable from his videos. Having been a longtime viewer, you had seen them often enough to identify them at a glance.

Bucky tossed his keys onto a nearby surface and motioned for you to follow him toward the bed. As you approached, your gaze landed on something unfamiliar at his bedside table.

“What’s this?” You pointed to a toy shaped like the lower half of a woman’s body. Unlike the others, you didn’t remember ever seeing this one in any of his videos.

Bucky glanced at it. “Oh, that?” He came to stand beside you. “Custom made. I use it off-camera.” His tone was casual, almost dismissive. “Had it modeled after you.”

You were suddenly grateful for the low lighting, because that meant he couldn’t see the stunned expression that immediately crossed your face.

Modeled after you?

Your eyes drifted back to the toy, taking in the details—the shape of the hips, the skin tone, it was an unmistakable similarity. What shook you up, though, was the tear in the toy around her upper abdomen, a sign that Bucky’s cock tore right through the silicone.

The sounds of his belt buckle being undone drew your attention back to him.

“Had it set to the maximum tightness,” he explained gruffly, setting the belt down on his chair and reaching for the familiar camcorder he used before. “Still not nearly as tight as you felt—but it made do during those ten months you were gone.”

A moment later, he lifted the camera and pointed it in your direction, the red light flickering to let you know it was on.

“Go ahead,” he prompted, watching you. “Undress.”

You bit your lip as you stood in front of him, feeling far more self-conscious than you expected.

For some reason, the atmosphere felt infinitely more tense than it had the first time you undressed for him.

Bucky seemed to notice your hesitation immediately. He lowered the camera slightly.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don't know about this, Bucky.” You fiddled with your fingers, unable to meet his gaze. Instead, you focused on your bare feet against the floor. “What if I'm not good at this?”

A slow, patient sigh escaped him.

Without a word, he set the camera on the bedside table. It remained angled in a way that still captured your body, but his attention had shifted entirely to you. His hands found the hem of your shirt and lifted it up, letting his fingers tickle your lower belly.

“Are you feeling shy, doll?” he murmured softly.

The question was quiet enough so that the camera wouldn’t pick it up. It wasn’t meant for an audience. It was just for you.

“Look at me,” he commanded gently. “You’ve got a perfect, tight body. There are a lot of people that would kill to be in my position, and you’re scared to show it off?”

He lifted your shirt up until it exposed the lace of your bra. His large hand cupped over your breast, giving it a squeeze that made you gasp softly.

Bucky grinned. “Ah, there she is.”

While his left hand fondled your tits, his other hand crept up to your chin, tilting your head so you were forced to look at him. His eyes wandered down to your lips—exposed, plump, and vulnerable.

“When you get a boyfriend—you’ll have to learn how to kiss,” Bucky murmured. “Do you know how?”

The question felt almost condescending. He should already know the answer. You were still inexperienced, still clueless, but despite it all, you couldn’t help the ache that began to form between your legs from the way he talked to you.

Your voice came out soft and trembling, but to Bucky, it sounded like music to his ears.

“… Teach me?”

A low growl vibrated from his lips as he closed the distance in one, smooth motion. His lips collided with yours—hungry and consuming—letting his tongue delve past your lips and into the wet warmth of your mouth.

He held your face tight, forcing you to take every inch of his tongue and every surface of his lips. It was hot, messy, and wet. During every second of his ravishing, his hands continued to explore your body, groping you through your bottoms. He held you so close, you could already feel him throbbing against your leg.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your lips, pulling away slightly to catch his breath. “Still taste so good. So sweet, just for me.”

He stepped away, breathing just as hard as his dick felt.

With the warm lamp glowing next to him, it outlined the sheer size of his dick throbbing in his pants. You watched it pulse, a little wet spot forming near the tip, before his large hand came down with deep, circular rubs to soothe the ache.

“Bucky…” You gasped softly.

His other hand snatched the camera off the bedside table, nearly knocking down the picture frames. With a shaky hand, he lifted the camera up to you again.

“Strip.” He commanded, rougher this time. “Strip. Now.”

Your heart raced. His patience was fraying, and without upsetting him further, you began to undress. You abandoned your top, your pants, all until you were left standing in nothing but your panties and bra.

Bucky groaned at the sight, his palm working faster over his clothed erection.

“God, look at that,” he zoomed in on the wet spot collecting at the front of your panties. “You’re fucking soaking for me, doll. And all I did was kiss you.”

Shame flooded your face. As you unhooked your bra and worked for your panties next, Bucky’s voice pulled you to a stop.

“No,” his hand shot out, catching your wrist. “Keep those on. I want to see the mess you’ll make after having my dick in your mouth.”

With his grip tightening around your wrist, he ushered you to the ground until your knees made contact with the floor. He tugged his pants down with force, and his cock sprang out heavy—slapping you in the cheek and making you wince.

He was big and hard. Seeing him up close like this, with his hand around his shaft and his tip rubbing against your cheek, you weren’t sure how you took him the first time.

“Do you remember the first time you sucked my cock? When you tried fitting it all in on your first try?” he rasped a chuckle, slapping his cock against your face and smearing his pre-cum over your wet lips. “Your mouth was so small—you could hardly fit anything past the tip.”

You flicked your tongue out, giving his cock a shy kitten lick just to tease him.

“Oh, fuck,” he shuddered. “You slut. You want it in your mouth again? Wanna try again for me?”

He pointed the camera closer to your face, his other hand tangling in the back of your hair, nodding you closer to his shaft.

“Come on. Open up. Show me what you remember.”

You licked the pre-cum that was beading at the tip. It tasted just like it did the first time—salty and thick. Bucky groaned, his hand tightening in your hair, pushing you forward for more.

You opened your mouth, letting your lips wrap around the swollen head. His cock was warm and hot, already twitching in your mouth and he wasn’t even halfway. Encouraged by the camera and his breathy grunts, you sunk your head deeper.

Bucky felt like he could cum right there. Your mouth was still so tight and inexperienced. He was half tempted to pin you against the side of the bed and face fuck you until his balls were dry—but he forced himself to hold back.

“God. Is this—fuck—the best you can do, really?”

He brought his camera down, the lens pointing right where his tip disappeared in and out of your plump lips, making sure to pick up every wet squelch that left your mouth.

“You can do better than that,” he hissed, pushing his cock deeper into your throat. “I know it hurts, baby. Just remember what I said the first time. Stretch those lips, relax your jaw, breathe in and out of your nose.”

You fluttered your lashes as you looked up at him. Your eyes were sheen with tears that threatened to spill out from the ache of your mouth being stretched open. He rocked his hips forward, making you gag and choke.

“Oh, christ,” he grunted, his cock twitching as your throat tightened around him. “You guys listening to that? She’s gagging for me.”

He was talking to his potential viewers. Your eyes widened with embarrassment as an instinctive moan left your lips and vibrated around his cock.

“Mph!”

“Fuck, she’s sloppy—drooling all over my floor, but her mouth is so tight. Could cum just from this,” he started drawing his hips back and forth, forcing himself deeper.

He angled the camera closer to your face, capturing your pleading eyes and stretched mouth.

“Does it taste good, sweetheart?” he asked, despite knowing your inability to answer. “Come on, show that pretty face off for the camera.”

With your mouth stuffed full of his cock, all you could do was nod in desperation.

“Damn, what a good girl. The fans are going to love this,” he let out a shaky laugh.

His hand kept your head still, and without warning, he pushed his hips even deeper into your mouth. He pushed until your jaw ached from the stretch and your nose made contact with the dark, musky curls sitting on his pelvis.

Bucky tossed his head back, letting out a deep, pleasurable moan.

“Ohh, shit.”

You gagged and choked, your hands finding his bare thighs as you attempted to push your head away for a quick breath. His cock was sitting heavy on your tongue, and drool began to shamelessly drip down your chin and onto your thighs.

Despite your mouth being overworked, you were getting wetter by the second.

“Shh… shh. I know, baby. Just stay right there.” Bucky cooed, his blue eyes hazy with lust. “Just let it sit in your mouth. Breathe in and out through your nose. That’s it.”

You did as instructed, keeping your mouth stuffed full of cock like a good girl. But every time you breathed in, all you could smell was him. His musky, masculine scent only made your head spin with desire even more.

Another deep groan tore from his chest before he gripped your hair tight, pulling you away from his cock with a wet pop. Saliva mixed with his pre-cum drew from your lips like a silver string as you coughed for air.

“Fuuck,” he groaned, fucking his hand for a few pumps as he watched you struggle.

Bucky’s cock was angry, pulsing and throbbing with a mind of its own. His cock was sheen with your saliva, and he was dripping out so much pre-cum, he looked just about ready to cum right then and there.

“Goddamnit. Ten months later, and your mouth is still good enough to make me almost fucking cum,” he hissed angrily. He bent down, catching your stray tear with his thumb. “Don’t cry, pretty girl. You wanted me to teach you, didn’t you?”

He spoke so gently in a way that might’ve fooled his viewers, but every word that left his lips felt hauntingly patronizing.

You nodded with a sniffle. “Y—yes…”

Bucky smiled, his eyes softening as he took in your utterly debauched state.

He knew he was being a little mean, but he couldn’t help it. It’s what you deserved after ghosting him for ten months.

“That’s a good girl. My girl.” He nodded to his bed, standing up. “Go.”

Swallowing hard, you pushed yourself up—your mind dizzying and your legs feeling like jello from standing up too fast. You crossed over his crisp, white sheets—the mattress dipping under each crawl.

You didn’t know what position he wanted you in, so you played it safe and laid flat on your back.

Bucky’s expression was completely unreadable. His eyes were dark, his breathing labored, but his cock was still stiff, angry, and unsatisfied.

He adjusted the camera, zooming in on the cute bow on your panties.

“Spread your legs. Show everyone how wet you are after getting a taste of my cock.”

Biting your lip and turning your head from shame, you slowly spread your legs. With your thighs wide and your damp panties on full display, Bucky’s gaze somehow felt even heavier and more tense.

He growled, a deep rumbling sound of satisfaction. He stepped closer, meeting you at the bed. Every dip and creak from his moving weight made your heart race. His camera lens was focused solely on your panties, highlighting the growing wet patch on your crotch.

“Mm,” he hummed, his fingers dragging up and down your underwear, letting the fabric cling against your slick folds just underneath. “So wet. Could smell you from here, baby.”

You felt your body growing weaker by the second.

You wanted to beg him to fuck you—to take you just as he had the first time. But with the camera pointed steady in his hands, you knew he was trying to drag this out for as long as possible.

“Bucky,” you panted, eyes pleading. “I can’t take it anymore. I need your cock—”

“Aw, you’re begging?” Bucky huffed a laugh. “Ten months without a single word, and now you’re in my bed, demanding for my cock. That’s real cute, doll.”

Bucky brought the camera up to your face, and instinctively, you shied away from it. Despite your agreement to film, the lens pointing directly at you made you burn with an embarrassment you didn’t feel the first time.

Maybe because, in the back of your mind, you knew he’d be posting this one online—meaning you’ll be watched by thousands of people.

Sensing your hesitation, he lowered the camera with a slight frown, brows furrowing.

“Do you want to stop, doll?”

Stop?

Your heart clenched, eyes widening as you faced him.

“Stop?” you repeated softly, making sure you heard him right.

The softness in his eyes made your body feel warm. Bucky lowered his camera completely and angled it in a way that wouldn’t capture you in this vulnerable state. He was serious. He would stop for you if you changed your mind, despite your initial agreement to this as the compromise.

“If you don’t want me to upload this, I won’t.” He reassured. “I’ll keep this video for myself—just like the first one.”

His hand found your hip, his thumb tracing soft and gentle circles with a tenderness that only encouraged you to give yourself to him completely.

“I promise,” he added.

“No. I… I want to do this,” you searched his eyes, trying to soothe your nerves. “I can do it, Bucky. Please teach me.”

It was hard to ignore the way his cock hung heavy between his legs—twitching at your admission. The corners of his lips tugged up in a satisfied, smug smile.

“That’s my good girl.”

While one hand repositioned the camera back to you again, the other found the waistband of your panties, giving it a gentle tug downwards. With the fabric slipping slipping down your thighs and past your ankles, you hissed at the cool air greeting your wet cunt.

“Christ. You soaked the fabric right through, doll.” He held the garment up, the lamp highlighting every glistening wet spot as he made sure to capture your essence on camera.

He leaned over you with a grunt, setting your panties down on the side table. Your eyes followed his movement, and you sucked in a breath at seeing the toy he modeled right after you—resting there with a loose hole and an obvious tear in the abdomen.

It was haunting, almost like a warning for what you’re about to take.

Bucky nestled himself in the space between your legs, letting his length rest heavy on your stomach. His tip tickled your belly button, grinning proudly at the size comparison of his cock to your body.

“Did you fuck anyone else after me?” he rasped as he rocked his hips back and forth, grounding his cock against your belly.

You shook your head, face blistering from the sensation.

“No, Bucky. There was no one else…”

A satisfied groan tore from his lips. He grabbed himself at the base, guiding the tip toward your entrance.

“Is that so?” he mumbled. “Let’s see if you’re telling the truth.”

With a slow forward push of his hips, his tip fought against the tightness of your entrance. He sucked in a breath as he slipped in deeper, and your walls immediately clenched around the intrusion. You were so tight—Bucky had to grit his teeth to keep his composure.

Whimpering, you held onto his shoulders for support as he stretched you from just the tip. “Fu—fuck..”

“Fuck, baby. Still so goddamn tight. Just breathe in and out,” he gasped, his voice thickening in a way that made it sound like he was trying to calm himself down. “In and out while I sink into you deeper. That’s it. Good girl…”

Your back arched off the bed as he filled you. Your legs were stiff around him, your lips whimpering and mewling with every inch he was forcing your tight body to take. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stretched your pussy out with just half his cock.

“Have you been keeping up with my videos?” He asked.

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You were too stuffed—too concentrated on trying to get your body to accommodate the sheer size of him.

“I—I haven’t—” you answered truthfully.

He clicked his tongue in disapproval, pointing the camcorder to where the top half of his cock disappeared in and out of your tight cunt.

“The videos would’ve scared you,” he pushed his cock a little deeper, making you cry out. “Kept breaking my toys. All my damn fleshlights are torn right through. Had to keep ordering new ones, but fuck, they didn’t feel nearly as good as your tight, virgin pussy did.”

The broken sex doll that laid on his bedside table was certainly a testament to that.

Bucky’s hand found balance near the side of your head, his muscles and veins popping from holding his weight while the other hand was too occupied filming every inch of his cock delving deeper in your pussy.

“How does it feel, baby? Still as big as you remembered?”

“Still big, Bucky,” you winced when he angled his pelvis, his cock twitching in time with every clench your pussy gave him. “I’m trying to take it all—to big the good girl that you remembered—”

He tossed his head back with a groan. He tried his best to control himself—he really did. But the longer he stayed inside your warmth, the more his mind started to fray.

“Fuck—so cute. Such a good girl,” he groaned, sheathing himself completely inside until his dark curls were greeted with your wet folds. “Oh my god.”

Bucky stilled inside you, basking in your warmth. Your body felt like a wet, tight hug wrapping around his cock. This was the sensation he sought after the day you left. The very feeling he’d been looking for in the useless sex toys he was constantly ordering.

Now that you were finally here—pinned beneath him and his camera—he was afraid that if he moved, he would cum right there on the spot.

“Bucky?” your voice was soft, breaking into a gentle moan. “Are you okay?”

His eyes fluttered down to look at you, and his breath caught.

Your hair was fanned out so beautifully against his white sheets. Your body was laid bare and perfect for him. You asked the question in such a soft and innocent tone—it did nothing to dull the ache in his balls and did everything to make his heart heavier.

He should be asking you the question, with you lying there stretched out with more than you can take, but alas.

“You’re asking if I’m okay?” he huffed a raspy laugh, shifting his hips to deliver a deep and hard thrust inside you. “No, I’m not okay. I want to fuck you right through the mattress. Want to split you open and make you cry on my cock. But I can’t—I have to control myself and teach you how to take me again.”

The red light of the camcorder flickered in the dark room as he began rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of you—capturing every moment of him claiming you a second time.

The bed started to creak, accompanied with his grunts and your soft moans of pleasure.

Bucky’s breathing was heavy, every deep, punishing roll of his hips making your eyes roll back.

The tip of his cock was kissing your cervix so sweetly, you felt your body giving out. He was right—your pussy was acting like a vice, wrapping impossibly tight around his thick shaft, refusing to let him go.

The camera shook in his hand as he aimed it directly at your hips. He had failed to capture the moment he pumped you full of his cum last time, and he was going to make damn sure he got it right tonight.

“Not a single drop going to waste,” he panted, his hips rutting uncontrollably against yours. “Gonna pump you full—God. Should fill up your womb so you’ll never leave me again.”

Your heart started to race as his words danced in your mind. Surely, this was just make-believe dirty talk. A performance he put on for the camera to secure a good payout from his loyal subscribers, right?

But as his body moved even more erratically, the bed groaning under every hard, bruising thrust, you began to fear otherwise.

“Fuck—this little slut thought she could use my cock to practice for other men,” he laughed, the sound deep and condescending. “Said she wanted to learn how to take dick for her future boyfriend. What a fucking joke.”

Your face burned with humiliation. You couldn’t believe Bucky was airing out your private confessions to his viewers like this.

“Oh my god! Bucky, please don’t say that—”

But your protests were useless. Your pussy was already spasming, clenching around him in a tight, weeping mess at every degrading taunt that left his lips.

“Ah, fuck. My sweet girl is milking me so hard—she doesn’t want to let go.” He chuckled, watching the wet friction of your hips through the camera screen. “You want to cum for me?”

You nodded, letting out a pathetic whimper.

Bucky leaned over you, shoving the camera close to your face. “Come on, baby. You’re on camera. I need you to speak up so everyone else can hear you.”

Pleasure was coursing through your body in ways that a simple vibrator could never match. Ten months without Bucky—and without touching anyone else—had left you chasing a high you couldn’t replicate. It was never like this.

You nodded frantically, losing all control over your own autonomy as tears of pleasure blurred your vision.

“Yes, Bucky! Please—please, please, I want to cum!”

Your cries were loud enough to peak the camera’s built-in microphone. Your walls clamped down around his cock, pulsing and fluttering as your back arched off the mattress with a loud moan, letting the climax rip straight through your core and down to very tip of your toes.

Bucky groaned, his entire body going stiff as your pussy milked him ruthlessly. Fuck. He missed this. He missed the tightness of your cunt. He couldn’t find this sensation anywhere else.

“Christ. Look at that,” he growled into the camera, his hand shaking as he kept the lens focused on where you squeezed around him. “She’s squeezing me so tight—it nearly hurts. Fuck, I’m gonna cum too.”

His balls slapped against your pussy with every hard thrust. He was chasing his release—his face twisted into a mask of pleasure as he felt his balls tighten and his cock twitch. You were already past your high, but Bucky forced you to ride it out for him.

“Shit, the idea of her having sex with someone else...” he snarled to the camera, his voice breaking as he slammed deep into your pulsing heat. “...of someone else’s cock buried deep in what’s supposed to be mine. I’m gonna fucking lose it.”

You cried out his name, your nails digging into his back as he used your body ruthlessly, just like one of his sex toys.

“Fuck, fuck—shit—fuck!”

A litany of curses spilled from his lips as his cock buried all the way to the hilt.

He shuddered violently, pinning your hips flat against the mattress as his orgasm tore through him, flooding every surface of your womb with thick, warm seed. He held himself deep, marking you from the inside out, leaving his cum to fill you completely until it was dripping onto the sheets.

Bucky brought the camera down with a shaky hand, capturing the way your puffy slit was pulsing around his cock, and the way his cum trickled out of you.

“There we go,” he breathed, satisfied. “Captured every second of it, baby.”

Ensuring that you kept your end of the bargain, Bucky uploaded the video to his profile.

Before hitting post, he texted you multiple times to make absolutely sure you were comfortable with your face and username being shown.

When you finally agreed, you never expected the video to blow up overnight. You knew Bucky was a popular content creator, but perhaps the sight of a woman’s body—your body—in the thumbnail stood out against his usual solo content.

Today, you sat at your desk, pulling up his profile out of habit, just like the ritual you used to have ten months ago. Your mouse hovered over the video, and you hesitated before clicking.

Two million views.

A wave of nerves hit you—the thought of being perceived by two million strangers while completely bare and vulnerable was overwhelming. Yet, for some reason, the idea of it excited you more than a girl like you should admit.

You finally clicked the link. The video started with you stripping for him, then dropping to your knees, and just minutes later, you were sprawled out bare on the mattress while he pumped you full of his cum.

You were already soaking through your underwear just watching it, your thighs rubbing together shamelessly from the memory of being filled by Bucky. The way his breathy moans sounded so much more enthusiastic than they ever did in his solo videos filled you with absolute pride.

You made him feel that good.

And apparently, you made his entire comment section feel good, too.

Daddywants2play: hooooooooolyy fuck. she’s so hot. my balls are so heavy just from watching her tits bounce. u lucky dog

Bwasexual: Omg!!! Do you guys need a third?

pegm3please: God so fucking hot. Is she going to upload anytime soon?? Just gave her a follow.

Your brow rose at the last comment.

Gave her a follow?

Instinctively, your mouse hovered to the top right of the screen where the notification bell was displayed.

It showed over 99+ alerts. You were used to seeing two at the absolute maximum—a like from Bucky on one of your comments, and his reply.

Bracing yourself, you clicked it, and a wall of notifications flooded the screen with dozens of different usernames following you. Your follower count had gone from exactly one—Bucky’s account—to well over a thousand in just a single night.

You couldn’t believe it.

People loved watching you.

They loved you enough that, despite you having zero videos posted, no profile picture, and an entirely blank description, they were hitting follow anyway—eagerly expecting to see more. You mentally patted yourself on the back for having the foresight to remove the links to your personal social media accounts beforehand.

A warm flush traced your face. The crazy part was, it wasn’t from embarrassment at all.

It was pure excitement.

Without thinking, you snatched your phone off the desk and dialed a familiar number. It only rang twice before a deep, sleepy voice answered on the other end.

“Hey, doll,” Bucky rasped. “Everything okay?”

“I just saw the video,” you said, the words tumbling out fast. You couldn’t contain your excitement. “I woke up to a little over a thousand followers—and there are so many comments!”

He paused on the line. You could hear the rustle of sheets as he sat up.

“… And are you okay with that? Do you want me to take it down?”

You bit your lip. You couldn’t believe what you were going to say next. “I’m more than okay with it. But… um…”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. He pulled the phone away from his face for a split second to make sure you were still on the line.

“Sweetheart, what is it?”

A breathy sigh left your lips. “I… I want to become a content creator, too. Will you teach me?”

And just like that, the air left Bucky’s lungs completely.

Everything he could possibly want—and more—was finally being served to him on a silver platter.

This meant more videos, more collaborations, and endless opportunities to have you completely to himself.

“Yes,” he swiped at his camcorder and car keys. “I’m coming over. Be ready for me.”

hopping off the bed turn my swag on. happy almost one year anniversary to pornstar bucky and the first bwa collab. once again, thank you to my dear friend @unificsation for the premise. thank you to @barnesonly for the cyber sex bucky edit she made inspired by this fic that i goon to nightly. thank you to @blowingbarnes and @buckybunni for being pornstar bucky's number one fan (i never forgot) thank you to @houseofhyde for giving me the inspiration to write this after sum silly joke. and thank you for all the love and support for part one. i would like to dedicate this oscar to you guys /j

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

You were completely mesmerized by the video playing on the screen. The image of a large and strong muscular figure rutted his hips up into the silicone, slick with his precum and lube—the poor toy looking like it was on the verge of tearing apart in his large hands. 

After stumbling across the account Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917, you were immediately hooked. 

He never showed his face, but you didn’t need to know what he looked like to be entranced. His grunts and moans were engraved in your mind like a song you knew by heart. You were enthralled by the sight of his broad, sweat-slicked back, every movement etched into your memory. The sheer length and size of him held you captive, hypnotized. You had memorized the rhythm of his patterns right before he came, you knew it like the back of your hand. 

His moans would rise slightly higher in pitch. His breathing would get heavier. He’d curse and grunt out, “fuck, fuck.” or “shit, fuck.” 

And then it happens. 

With one final thrust, he filled his toys to the brim with his cum, always thick and a creamy pearlescent white. 

You had one hand tucked in your panties, rubbing at your clit as you came just in time with him. You tossed your head back against the pillow, panting and sweating from the aftermath of your self-lovemaking. 

You withdrew your hand, catching your breath as the aftershocks of your orgasm faded. Moving lazily, you wiped your fingers clean before reaching for your phone. Just as always, you began typing out a comment—first in line the moment his new video drops. 

Pleasure_Ring: Great video as always! It made me feel really really good! I can’t wait to see the next!! 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Thanks, baby. I’m glad you enjoyed it. That one was for you.

A minute passed by and another notification popped up on the bottom right of your screen, but this time, it was a direct message.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: I just read your comment. You’re always so supportive. I wish you were here. I’d be fucking you instead of this flimsy toy. 

Your face flushed after reading his message. He was always so quick to respond, and although he was pretty responsive to other commenters too, you couldn’t help but feel like his replies to you were always a bit more personal than the rest. 

Pleasure_Ring: I really wish I was there too! But I admit, I’m a little scared just thinking about it haha. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing… 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Scared? How come? 

Pleasure_Ring: I’m a virgin. I’ve never had sex before. 

Most people would find it pathetic to be flirting through a porn site. Even more would say it’s worse to be tangled in a para-social attachment to one of the biggest stars online.

And sure, maybe they're right. You were hooked on the mysterious man with the ridiculous username. But this was your ritual, your private indulgence, the part of yourself you never let anyone else see. Besides, you knew it would never be more than flirtatious comments flashing across a screen. 

Men like him always had plenty of women waiting in their inbox.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: A virgin, huh? That’s cute. What’s a sweet little thing like you doing watching videos like mine?

Pleasure_Ring: Because yours are the only ones that actually satisfy me. Any woman would be lucky to spend even one night with you.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart… I don’t think you could handle a night with me.

Your heart thumps faster in your chest at his response. As much as you wished you could stay up and keep chatting, reality always kicked in. You had responsibilities, so conversations with him were usually cut off after midnight. 

Pleasure_Ring: I don’t think I could either… but I’d still like to try for you.

Pleasure_Ring: It’s getting late, and I’ve got a shift in a few hours. Have a great night, Bucky. And thank you for another wonderful video. <3

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: So soon, doll? I was just starting to enjoy our little chat.

You stared at the screen, tempted to type something back to keep the conversation going. Glancing at the clock, you let out a reluctant sigh. 

You logged off before you could second-guess yourself, because you knew that if you responded, you’d be up for hours. 

And when Bucky refreshed the page, impatiently waiting for a response, your username was already gray and your status was offline. 

Bucky laid back in his chair, finishing the last line of the description before hitting upload. He has never been great with captions—or usernames, for that matter… but lately, his descriptions weren’t just filler text to satisfy his fans. They were subtle messages, written only for you.

Need my pleasure ring to come help me out instead. Getting tired of using my hands and toys. Enjoy.

Once everything looked right, he clicked post. Same ritual, same time. Every three days.

The moment his upload went live, he sat up straight in his chair. The glow of the monitor lit his dark room, his eyes glued to the screen. Eleven minutes—that’s how long the video ran. By his calculations, you should already be online and commenting in twelve. 

Two minutes in, he refreshed. Another two more minutes, he refreshed again. Over and over, because he knew. He knew you’d be the first one there in his comment section without fail. 

You always were.

At this point, it’s been well past eleven minutes with zero notifications. In Bucky’s eyes, this was more than enough time for you to receive the notification, watch the video, and send a comment or a message like you usually do. 

So why the hell weren’t you doing it? 

He dedicated this video to you, goddammit. Actually—he dedicated all of his videos to you. But this one especially was planned, recorded, performed with you in mind. And yet, your account still showed offline.

He pumped himself for the first half of the video—his face nuzzled into the softness of his pillow. His groans and grunts were muffled as he fisted himself, his leaking tip grazing against the smooth fabric of his bed sheet, leaving a wet stain every time he grounded and bucked his hips. 

Then about halfway through, he reached for the clear silicone toy. He positioned the camera against the headboard, sitting up straight as he started fucking himself with the toy—the clear silicone squelching and spreading wider as he rutted into it like an animal. 

“Fuck, yes baby,” he groaned in the video. “S’fucking good, taking all this cock in your tight little virgin pussy.” He said. 

And God was that line especially meant for you. 

It was a damn good video—he was so fucking proud of himself. Which only made it harder for Bucky to understand why your account still showed offline.

With an annoyed sigh, he propped his elbow on the desk, chin resting in his palm, and refreshed one more time for good measure. When nothing changed, he clicked on your profile and began to lurk.

For all the attention you gave him, your account was practically a ghost. No videos. No profile picture. No caption. No name. You were only following one account—his. And you had one follower, too… also him.

Bucky never followed anyone else. 

He scrolled down a bit, and his eyes widened at what he saw on the screen. 

Your account was linked to your social media profiles—your Instagram and TikTok.

In order to create an account, you had to attach a phone number or email address. During sign-up, there was also the option to link your social media—tied to that same phone number or email—a small popup buried among the usual flood of terms, agreements, and permission requests that appeared in sequence.

So either you let it slip past you, your finger tapping carelessly just to get it out of the way.

Or… you wanted him to find you.

The cursor hovered over the link. Bucky sucked in a breath, clicking on your Instagram. When the screen finally loaded, his eyes immediately widened and his heart skipped a beat. Your profile was public. Your name was right at the top, and there you were in your profile picture—smiling, front and center.

Aside from his secret porn account, Bucky didn’t do social media. He couldn’t be bothered figuring out how it works, but he knew enough to recognize that Instagram was all about pictures and videos. And that was exactly what he needed.

Finally, he could see you.

His number one fan. His pleasure ring. 

He scrolled down, coming across a mix of photos. Selfies, your eyes bright and innocent with a sheepish smile. Food. Didn’t care. Landmarks. Didn't care. Pictures of family and friends—he only looked for you. 

There were beach shots, carefree and playful, your body posted in a skimpy bikini glowing in the sunlight. 

His breath caught in his throat. His pants grew tighter. He shifted in his seat, trying to adjust the growing pressure between his legs. He leaned closer as he looked through every picture, careful not to accidentally leave a like in his wake. 

“Damn, baby,” he muttered, staring at your pictures, unable to tear his eyes away. 

He scrolled down, saving every single image that displayed your face and your body—each one feeling like a treasure.

All the pictures of you were seemingly innocent. Even in your bikini shots, you weren’t trying to show off. You didn’t jut your hips out or pose provocatively. Your pictures weren’t screaming for attention. 

It was cute. 

But it just made him want more. Need more. He would’ve loved to see you bend over just a little bit. Maybe even press your arms together to accentuate your cleavage.

God. He would’ve loved to see that. 

His dick throbbed in his pants as he scrolled further down your Instagram. More selfies of you just meant more photos in his special folder. With one hand rubbing himself steadily and the other on the mouse, he hovered over your TikTok link next. 

Once your page loaded, he felt his heart drop in his stomach. 

There were only two videos, both of them being with your friends. It was some stupid trend you were doing—Bucky never understood the whole appeal of trends—but you were dancing to them, and his heart skipped a beat in his chest as he watched, captivated. 

Your dancing was… pretty bad to say the least. Actually, it was awful. 

But Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away because he got a full view of your body. Every movement of your body, even the clumsy dance steps, had him entranced. The rhythm was completely off, but it didn’t matter. It was the way you moved, the curve of your body in each frame. 

His cock was completely hard, poking and straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. He was palming himself for so long, his warm hand rubbing up and down against his throbbing clothed shaft—he didn’t even realize the precum leaking through his pants until his fingers grazed against it. 

“Shit,” he grunted. 

There was something about watching you—his once mysterious, loyal viewer and commenter—right here, in his monitor. Dancing. Your body on display, completely unaware, yet captivating in every move.

He grabbed the hem of his sweatpants and brought it down to his thighs, freeing his cock from the suffocating fabric. His hand encircled around his shaft, his grip tightening just slightly as he began pumping himself. He dragged his thumb over the wetness of his tip, smearing it over the head. 

Bucky let out a low groan, his breathing growing heavy as he fucked his hand to the sight of you. With the other hand, he kept switching through your photos, moving faster as his cock throbbed helplessly in his grip. 

He grunted and groaned, staring at his monitor with half-lidded eyes as he stroked himself. He stopped at another picture of you, a top down selfie with a low cut blouse. Your eyes—wide and innocent, batting up at the camera, the curve of your breast straining against the shirt. 

A low moan rumbled from his chest at the sight. His hands moved faster and eagerly against his cock, precum leaking down from the tip to his shaft as he pumped and worked his throbbing dick. 

“Fuck, baby. I want to cum all over that pretty face,” he breathed. “Gonna paint your face and tits with my seed—shit.” 

Everything was overwhelming his senses right now. Your pure and clueless eyes, the way your lips—soft and plump—curved up into a smile. 

Everything about you screamed ‘innocent.’ 

And the best part of it all, was that you were a fucking virgin. A helpless, clueless, little virgin. Perfectly ripe for the picking.

His cock throbbed hot and heavy in his hand, each pulse bringing him closer. He could hardly believe it—your social media, left wide open, public and linked straight to your account. Like an invitation. 

Like you wanted him to see.

His fist worked faster, the slick sounds of his own hand echoing in the dark room. He was right there, teetering at the edge, when another one of your videos caught his eye. A casual clip, nothing special—just you laughing with your friends, the camera panning across a storefront in the background.

His heart lurched in his chest. He knew that place.

He blinked hard, his other hand flying to the mouse as he replayed the clip, pausing on the sign. His pulse roared in his ears. That store was only a few streets away. Which meant…

You were here. In his town.

“Fuck—” 

The word ripped out of him as his body jerked. His cock erupted in his fist, hot streams spilling over his knuckles and thigh as he shook, riding the wave of release harder than he had in years. Harder than he had in any of his videos. The excitement, the discovery, the sudden nearness of you—it all came crashing into him, tearing his orgasm from the very pit of his stomach.

He slumped back against his chair, chest heaving, eyes still glued to the frozen frame of your smiling face. 

You weren’t just his number one fan anymore. Fuck, you were real. You were so close, and now, he knew exactly where to find you. 

He was still catching his breath when he switched tabs, his cock softening in his hand as he scrolled deeper through your pictures. Every shot held him captive. Was this how you felt when you watched his videos—entranced, unable to look away?

A few minutes had gone by when he heard a ping! sound from his other tab. He switched over, and there you were. Your account, blank as ever, no profile picture, no name, but now a message glowing at the bottom of the screen.

Pleasure_Ring: Loved your new video! It was amazing as always. I can’t believe your toy isn’t broken yet!

He felt his heart stutter in his chest. A needy grin curled at the corner of his lips. You were late to his video, but that’s okay. He had your videos and pictures to keep him at bay for now. His fingers darted across the keyboard, replying almost too quickly. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Glad you liked it, doll. Took you longer than usual to show up tonight.

His fingers hovered over the keys, debating if he wanted to send this next message or not.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Had me wondering if you forgot about me. 

You took longer than usual to respond, and even though he was coming down from his post-release haze, his heart was still pounding anxiously in his chest.

Pleasure_Ring is typing… 

Pleasure_Ring: I know! I’m sorry. I got distracted cooking dinner. 

Pleasure_Ring: But I could never forget about you, Bucky. 

His grip on the mouse tightened, and he felt his cock twitching again. God, he loved when you said—typed—his name. But the longer he stared at your words, the more restless he felt. He needed more. 

He needed you.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Dinner, huh? You had me worried there for a second. You’re usually the first one here. Couldn’t stand the thought of you forgetting me.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You know… I don’t even know your name. What should I call you, sweetheart?

He already knew it, of course. 

He could say it out loud, taste it on his tongue right now if he wanted. But he wanted you to give it to him. To hand it over willingly. 

He saw you typing, then stopping. Typing again, then stopping. The little dots taunted him, making his jaw clench. He hated this. He hated playing the waiting game—especially now that he knew you were just a few minutes away, living in the same town as him.

Pleasure_Ring: Do I really need to tell you my name? I kinda like being your little secret. <3

Pleasure_Ring: Besides… I think you like calling me doll, don’t you?

Bucky’s brow twitched in mild frustration, his cock throbbing in his lap again as his eyes traced your text over and over. You were a teasing little minx—taunting him, torturing him. He knew you were obsessed with him just as much as he was with you, so why the hell were you playing so damn hard to get?

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. Don’t be like that. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You touch yourself to my videos every night, and yet you can’t even share your name? Don’t make me beg for it. 

He dragged in a sharp breath as he waited for your reply, his hand lazily stroking his half-hard cock while he leaned back in his chair, tension swimming through every vein.

Pleasure_Ring: You’re so silly, Bucky. 

Pleasure_Ring: Why ruin the mystery? I kind of like it this way… just you and me, no names needed. <3 

His cock was rock-hard again, straining for a second round. He wrapped his fist around it as he split his screen in two—one tab open to a photo of you smiling sweetly, the other to your chat box on the site. His strokes were slow, shudders slipping past his lips as he teased the sensitive flesh. Every pulse in his palm matched the flick of his gaze between your face and your words.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: You won’t give me your name, but I bet you’d spread your legs wide and let me fuck you like the needy little slut you really are.

He was playing a dangerous game with that message. It was too direct, maybe even a little mean. He might even risk scaring you away. 

But with your picture staring back at him, soft and innocent, how the hell was he supposed to hold back? 

Pleasure_Ring is typing… 

Pleasure_Ring: I would do anything you’d want me to if you were here. 

His heart stopped. His cock throbbed violently as the words sank in, repeating it in his mind like a prayer. A sweet little virgin like you, so naive, so unknowing, willing to let a man like him do anything to you?

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Oh, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have said that. 

He couldn’t hold back anymore. He stroked himself faster, pressure coiling hot at the base as he pumped his length with desperate need. Groans tore from his chest, hips jerking up into his fist as pleasure overtook him.

In his mind, it wasn’t just his hand—it was you. You on his bed, camera capturing every angle as you wrapped those innocent lips around his cock. You moaning, trembling, surrendering that precious virginity to a filthy porn star like him.

Pleasure_Ring: Maybe. But I really would do anything you’d ask me to.

And fuck, you lived in the same town as him. You actually lived in the same town as him. 

It would be so easy to find you. To claim you. To stuff your tight, untouched little holes full of him until you were stretched and dripping, used just like one of his toys.

The thought alone was enough to make him come a second time. With his head tilted back, a low growl-like moan escaped his throat. His hips stuttered wildly as his release tore through him in sharp waves of pleasure, hot seed spilling over his fist until his hand was a sticky, soiled mess.

He slumped back in his chair, breath ragged as he wiped himself clean with hurried, clumsy hands. His fingertips grazed the keyboard, already halfway through typing his next message. 

He couldn’t let the moment die, he didn’t want to lose you just yet. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing… 

But then your text bubble popped up first.

Pleasure_Ring: It’s late, so I’ll be going to sleep now. I’m sorry our conversation got cut short. But thank you again for your video! I’m already looking forward to the next one! <3 Nighty night, Bucky!

And just like that, your status flickered gray. Offline. Gone.

His hand froze over the keys.

What? 

That’s it? 

You showed up online extremely late, give him a few teasing words that leave him aching, and just… log off? 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Come on, baby. You can’t leave like that. Aren’t you having fun? 

He knew you were offline, yet he sent the message anyway—clinging to the hope that maybe your status would flicker green and you’d answer him right away, being his number one fan and all. 

A minute passed. Then another. And another.

He sat there, staring at the empty chat box, his foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floor. When it finally sank in that you weren’t coming back, he closed the porn tab with a long and disappointing sigh. Dozens of comments waited for him on his latest video, begging for his attention—but he didn’t care. He couldn’t be bothered.

All he wanted was you. 

Your picture still glowed on his other monitor, your smile taunting him. He pulled his pants back on, leaning forward as his mind spun. You were so close—he could feel it. And with your account still open, still public, still inviting, he knew he wouldn’t stop.

He would find you.

And once he did, you would be his.

It had been three days since you last commented on his videos. Three days without your little messages, without your sweet words that fueled him through the long and lonely nights. 

Bucky was restless. 

He kept checking your account, refreshing the page, waiting for that familiar username that was dedicated to him to pop up in his notifications list again. But instead, you were busy elsewhere. 

Your Instagram was suddenly so active. Story after story, pictures of food, photos of crowded streets, little story clips of you laughing with friends. They were all innocent things, but to him, they were breadcrumbs. 

He looked closely at the background in your stories, taking screenshots and zooming in on shop signs and store logos. Most of these were ones he recognized. He compared timestamps, piecing together your routine slowly.

Each update you shared felt like you were inviting him in, pulling him closer without even realizing. 

And no—he wouldn’t call himself a stalker. Sure, he scrolled through all your socials, jerked off to your pictures, learned your full name, the area you lived in, who you spent time with. 

But that wasn’t stalking.

That was devotion. 

He was your number one fan. Just like you were his.

Your cart wobbled against the tiled floor as you turned into the produce aisle. Today was your weekly grocery restock. The store was busy, noisy, and packed with people trying to weave in and out of each other’s way. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket and snapped a quick picture of the cotton candy grapes piled high in their cartons. 

They were your favorite, and this was the only grocery store near your area that carried them. 

Try these! They taste just like cotton candy! 

You added the caption and posted it to your story, sliding your phone back into your bag before moving on. A few minutes later, as you rounded the corner towards checkout, someone brushed past your shoulder.

You glanced up, and a man stood there, tall and broad-shouldered. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice low, achingly familiar. “Didn’t see you there.” 

You smiled politely, brushing it off. “No worries.” 

You went back to your cart, but for some reason, your gaze lingered on him for just a second longer. There was something… familiar about the way he carried himself, about the way his words came out and how he looked.

You shook the thought off and pushed the cart forward, but you didn’t get very far when he stepped behind you, resting a gentle yet heavy hand on your shoulder. 

You glanced over and paused. The same man was staring at you, his eyes locked on yours with a look like that feels unsettling. You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. 

“Uh… can I help you?”

His jaw tightened, his grip on your shoulder pressing just a little harder.

“...Pleasure ring?” 

Those words rang back in your ears like a loud bell. Your eyes went wide and you felt like your heart dropped in your stomach. Your gaze darted quickly around the aisle, checking to make sure no one else was close enough to hear. 

“I—I’m sorry? What did you just say?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” 

The longer you stare at this man, the realization hits you all at once. The thickness of his neck. The breadth of his shoulders. The sheer size of him, impossible to mistake. You’ve seen this frame before—night after night, on a glowing screen.

You leaned in slightly, whisper-yelling, “You’re Lord of The Rings nineteen-seventeen? You’re Bucky?” 

The ridiculous username felt even more absurd now that it left your lips.

He didn’t even look around or even seemed to care about his alter ego being mentioned outloud. All he cared about right now was having you, right in front of him. 

“...You haven’t been watching my videos,” Bucky said instead. His thumb brushed once across your shoulder, subtle but possessive. “Are you okay?”

The words should have sounded caring, but instead they struck you like an accusation. Your pulse quickened, panic rising up your throat. 

He was watching you that closely? 

He noticed? 

How did he even find you here? 

“I—uh—yeah, I’ve just been… busy,” you muttered. 

You knew you should step back and pull away from his touch. This man was stalking you. Yet, your body betrayed you. The deep rasp of his voice sent a warm sensation trickling down your spine, curling in the pit of your stomach. 

Creeped out or not, your body remembered him. It remembered his moans, his growls, the way he spoke dirty to the camera like he was speaking only to you. 

“I’ve missed you in my comments,” he continued, his hand moving from your shoulder to the ends of your hair, twirling it with his fingers. “I’ve missed our cute little chats… haven’t you?” 

You sucked in a breath. 

The loud chatter of customers and grocery carts dimmed into the background noise. You should pull away, God you should pull away—but your body swayed just slightly towards him instead. 

“Y-yeah,” your voice was soft and shaky. “I… I do too.” 

The moment the words left your mouth, your stomach curled with dread. Yet, your body didn’t match your fear. Your chest was rising and falling faster, your thighs pressing together instinctively. You hated the way a tiny spark of excitement flickered inside you when he stepped closer. 

Bucky’s mouth curled into a faint smirk, like he knows your own body is betraying you. He gave your strand of hair a gentle, teasing tug before letting it fall. 

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his eyes tracing every curve on your face, studying you, taking you in. 

You pressed your lips together, you stared back at him, captivated. He never showed his face in his videos—only his body, hands, and voice. You had always wondered what the man behind the camera looked like, and now here he was, inches away. He was unbelievably handsome. His gaze was intense. His voice was magnetic. You couldn’t look away, even if you tried.

“Are you nervous?” 

You blinked at him. “What?” 

A small chuckle escaped his lips, his hand lifted up to your cheek, cupping it softly and making your skin tingle. 

“You teased me in your texts,” he reminded you, his voice deep. “Told me you’d let me do anything to you if I was with you.” His thumb brushed your cheek softly, almost soothing. 

“How true does that still ring?” 

Your eyes darted nervously around the aisle. A few people passed by with carts, sparing you both brief, casual glances. To them, it probably looked like nothing more than a man grocery shopping with his girlfriend, caressing her cheek tenderly.

But you knew better.

“I…” your lip trembled nervously. “I-It’s still true…” 

His mouth curved into a slow, smug smile, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on you—how easily your knees wanted to give beneath you. 

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “My number one fan.”

You felt your stomach tighten. Every inch of your skin felt hot under his gaze. This was dangerous—you knew it. You were untouched, inexperienced, but the way he looked at you, the way his voice reached your ears, only made the ache between your legs grow heavier.

“How ‘bout we go back to your place,” he leaned in slightly, voice getting lower and dangerous, “and you do your grocery shopping later?” 

Your heart felt like it could burst out of your chest. You glanced down at your cart, the cotton candy grapes you’d been so excited to buy, and then back up at him. The way he held you, the way his eyes burned into yours, the very offer you’ve been secretly dreaming of despite your nerves…

It made the idea of staying here feel like hell. 

“Okay,” you breathed out. “Yeah, let’s… let’s go back to my place.” 

A small, approved hum escaped his lips. He pulled his hand away from your cheek and trailed his hand down to your bare arm, down to your hands—interlocking his fingers with yours. 

“Lead the way, princess.” 

This was wrong. So dangerously, undeniably wrong. But you had spent countless nights dreaming about this man, the pornstar with the ridiculous username, and now he was right here, holding your hand.

He led you out of the store with a smile on his face, already looking proud to have you by his side even though you guys just met. 

“I can’t wait to see your place, princess,” he murmured smoothly, stopping just outside the sliding doors. His gaze dropped down to you, quiet and expectant, waiting for you to take the lead.

“There are so many things I want to do to you.”

By the time you reached your front door, your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might break free from your chest. 

Your hands trembled so badly you could barely fit the key into the lock. Bucky stood behind you, his presence comforting yet demanding as he waited for you to open the door. 

The door finally opened, and you felt an insane wave of embarrassment as soon as he stepped inside. Your apartment wasn’t exactly ready for company. You had shoes littered near the door, laundry draped over the arm of the couch, your desk drowning in clutter.

He looked around and let out a low and amused hum. 

This was a terrible idea, inviting a stranger into your home. You’ve never done this before. But he’s not technically that much of a stranger if you two have been talking online for months now… right? 

“Show me your bedroom, sweetheart,” he said, his tone gentle but leaving no room for disobedience.

When he sensed your hesitation, his chin tilted subtly toward the hallway, like he already knew exactly where your bedroom was. That smug smile never left his lips.

“Go on.” 

You swallowed hard and turned toward the hallway, each step feeling heavy and anxious. You were nervous, extremely nervous. But the excitement of having a man in your home, this man you’d been secretly attracted to for months, sent a shiver of arousal down your spine.

You led him down the hallway, his footsteps heavy behind you. Pausing at your door, you glanced back over your shoulder. His smile widened, eyes glinting.

“You gettin’ shy, doll?” 

Your cheeks burned, and with a shaky exhale you pushed the door open.

Embarrassment hit instantly. The bed was undone, white sheets tangled in a mess, with clothes scattered lazily across the mattress. He stood in the doorway, his silence madly deafening while you stood there nervously with your hands clasped behind your back, waiting for him to say something.

Finally, he stepped forward, the corner of his mouth curving upward.

“I like your room, princess,” he said smoothly. He stepped up to the edge of your bed, his fingers dragging lightly across the wrinkles in your blanket.

“Is there where you watch my videos?” he asked. “Do you touch yourself right here, in this bed?” 

“I—I… do sometimes,” you confessed. You pointed your finger toward the desktop in the corner of the room. “Sometimes I watch… on my laptop.” 

His head turned to follow your finger, a smile tugging at his lips. He strode toward the desk, fingers grazing over the surface.

“Yeah? This is where you chat with me?” his fingertips trailed slowly across the top, pausing over the chair. “You sit here, spread those pretty legs on this chair, and put your fingers in that tiny little pussy of yours?”

You fiddled with your fingers, too flustered to meet his gaze. “Y-yes…”

He came back to you, steps steady and eyes locked on your face. When he reached you, he took one of your hands, gently prying it from the other, holding it in his much larger one. His palm stroked against yours, tender in contrast to his words. Then he lifted your hand slowly, pressing  a soft kiss to your knuckles, his eyes half-lidded and dark.

“How did you find me?” you asked softly. 

He exhaled, rubbing soft circles against your skin. “You stopped commenting on my videos. You stopped chatting with me. And I know it was only a few days…” his voice went softer, “…but doll, I missed you.”

Your heart fluttered wildly in your chest, your face hot and warm. The ache between your thighs pulsed with every word he spoke.

“I missed you so damn much. Couldn’t stop thinking about you…” he continued, pressing another kiss to your hand, then brushing your knuckles along the slight stubble of his jaw. “I couldn’t help it. I started looking through your account.”

You sucked in a breath, looking up at him as he continued.

“Your account was blank. No name. No picture. Nothing.” His voice dropped lower. “But your social media was linked, all public and left wide open.” His smile deepened, almost smug as he leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours. 

“You wanted me to see them, didn’t you?”

His voice was so raspy and so hungry, it made your whole body shiver. You couldn’t trust your voice, especially not when you were so afraid it would crack and betray how timid, how inexperienced you really were. 

“I-I… didn’t know—”

“Oh, but you did,” he cut you off, one hand still intertwined with yours, the other cupping your cheek. “You wanted me to find you. I bet you hoped I’d click, hoped I’d follow the trail…” 

He spoke so confidently and so sure of himself—but the truth was something else entirely. You didn’t realize that your social media was tied to your account and you didn’t bother to check. You had only made that account to interact with Bucky’s videos only. 

You should have been afraid. The way he tracked you down, the way he admitted to stalking your socials—it should have terrified you.

But it didn’t.

It only made your body burn with excitement, your core clenching with a hunger that only he can satisfy. 

“You teasing little slut,” he murmured, his voice growing rough. “But you’re not a slut, are you? You’re a virgin—isn’t that right?” 

You nodded. “I-I am…” 

“And you’d still do anything for me? Anything at all?”

You paused for a moment. You knew exactly what he meant. He hadn’t followed you home for small talk. 

Your body screamed yes, aching for him, but your mind shook with hesitation. You've seen his videos. You knew how rough he could be. How brutal his thrusts looked, how the silicone toys bent and threatened to snap beneath his strength. The way his grip tightened until his muscles flexed and strained—it was terrifying, yet intoxicating. 

Could you really take him? You weren’t sure. 

But God, you wanted to try.

So you nodded.

An approved and low growl escaped his lips. He leaned closer, pausing right before your lips. 

“There are so many fucking things I want to do to you, princess,” he rasped. “First, I’m going to kiss you—then I’ll teach you how to really please a man. And after that…” his mouth curved into a wicked smile, “I’ll show you how a man properly pleases his woman. You understand?”

“O-okay.” 

His lips pressed against yours. 

It started off soft, patient, exploratory—until his hunger took over. The kiss deepened, his mouth grew reckless, his tongue desperate. His hands roamed greedily, gripping your waist, pulling you closer. He broke away only to tug at your clothes, then immediately slammed his lips back against yours like he couldn’t resist you. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned into your mouth. “You taste exactly like I imagined—maybe even better. Shit.” 

Bucky was getting harder by the second, but truthfully, he’d been aching since the moment he laid eyes on you in the store. But now, with you trembling in his arms, he finally had you. 

He caught your hand in his, guiding it down until your palm pressed against the thick bulge straining against his jeans, you shuddered at the contact. Your fingers started moving without you thinking, rubbing against him in small, and timid strokes.

He let out a low chuckle. “Look at you, baby. You want it so bad, don’t you?” 

Your breath hitched, and you could only nod, meek and shy. 

He moved your hand along his clothed length, forcing you to feel every ridge of him. His lip caught between his teeth as he let out a hiss of pleasure. He was so hard for you—so desperate—that he started to feel himself leaking just from the friction of your trembling palm.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunted, ripping your hand away from his crotch. 

You blinked up at him, startled and confused.

He reached in the back of his jean pocket, pulling out a small camcorder. His breathing was heavy, and his eyes were dark. 

“Baby,” he rasped, voice needy. “I want to record this. I want to see you undress for me… capture every second of it.” His fingers trembled as he flipped the device open, eyes half-lidded, fixated on you like a starving man.

“Bucky…”

“What do you say, baby?” he pressed, taking a slow step forward.

You bit your bottom lip, nerves tying your stomach in knots. You weren’t ready for this—not at all. But the thought of being behind Bucky’s lens, of being admired and captured the same way you had admired him through his videos, made your skin warm with anticipation. 

He grabbed your hand gently. “I won’t upload it,” he promised. “This one’s just for me—to keep, to look back on. Think you can give me that, doll?”

His words were soft yet strained with a lust and desire that he was desperately trying to hold back. The ache between your legs pulsed harder with every word, and deep down, you already knew you couldn’t say no.

“…Okay,” you whispered. “I want to be put on display for you, Bucky. I want to be yours.”

A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. “That’s my girl.”

He nodded toward the bed. “Stay there, at the edge. Watch me.”

You stood frozen, captivated, as he began to strip down. Shirt, jeans, everything—gone in moments, until his bare and large body stretched against your sheets and rested against the headboard. With one hand, he steadied the camcorder, and with the other, he reached for himself slowly.

“Take your clothes off,” he ordered, the red recording light blinking as the camera pointed straight at you. “I want every second of this. Give me a show, baby.”

Heat climbed your chest and neck as you began lifting your shirt, pulling it over your head. You glanced at him—and your knees nearly buckled. He was already stroking himself, precum glistening at the flushed tip, his chest heaving with each desperate pump.

“Good girl.” 

You pushed your pants down, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your bra and panties. Your hands fidgeted nervously at your sides—not knowing what to do with them next.

“D-do you… want me to keep going?”

A dark chuckle slipped from his lips, almost mocking. “Oh, baby. You’re fucking adorable, you know that?” his hand pumped slow and hard, his cock twitching under his touch. “Yes. Keep going. Take it all off, nice and slow for me…”

Your fingers trembled as they hooked around the strap of your bra, sliding it off your shoulders before unclasping it. The straps fell loose, and you let it slip from your hands. The cool air rushed against your bare chest, making your nipples pebble instantly. 

“Panties, baby,” he murmured, voice rough. “Get rid of ‘em.”

Slowly, you eased them down your legs, stepping out of them until you stood completely bare before him. Your arms instinctively folded in front of you, trying to hide yourself.

Bucky’s mouth curved into a smug grin. “Don’t you dare hide from me. You’re too pretty to cover up.”

Your arms dropped hesitantly at your sides, and his grin only widened.

“Good girl,” he rasped. He shifted against the headboard, spreading his legs wider, the thick length of his cock pulsing as his fist pumped it. “Now crawl to me, princess.”

“C-crawl..?” 

His eyes darkened, his hand tightening around himself. “That’s right. On your hands and knees. Crawl over here like the sweet little virgin you are.”

Your breath caught, and for a second you thought you wouldn’t be able to move at all. But his hungry stare made your body obey before your mind could catch up. You climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly, and lowered yourself onto your hands and knees. 

Slowly, you crawled toward him, the soft sheets brushing against your bare skin, your heart beating fast in your chest. 

Bucky let out a low and approving growl, the camcorder following your every move. 

“That’s it, baby… fuck—” he groaned. “You look so perfect like this. Like you were made to kneel for me.” 

You swallowed hard as you approached him, staring at his cock—thick and hard, flushed at the tip. Your lips parted as you let out a soft gasp—the sheer size of him made your throat go dry. 

“Have you ever had a dick in your mouth, baby?” he asked. 

You can only shake your head no. 

He let go of himself, his free hand sliding into your hair, guiding you closer to his lap. “Open that pretty mouth for me, doll,” he coaxed. “I want to be the first man you taste.” 

How could something that big possibly fit in your mouth? His grip kept you steady, urging you forward. 

“There you go,” he smirked, watching your nervous little breaths. “God, you’re trembling. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll teach you exactly how to do it. All you gotta do is listen to me.”

“Stick out that tongue—yeah, just like that. Such a good girl.” His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth before pressing down on your lower lip, opening you wider. “Mm, look at you. Never done this before, huh?”

You shook your head, embarrassed, but he only chuckled.

“Of course not. My innocent little fan, saving herself for me,” he guided you closer until the blunt tip of his cock brushed your tongue, smearing precum across it. The taste was strange, salty and thick, and you whimpered softly at the unfamiliar sensation.

His laugh was low and condescending, but not cruel. “That’s it, baby. Don’t pout so cutely like that… only makes it harder for me to hold back.”

He stroked your hair, petting you like you were some pet while his hips gave a subtle roll forward, testing you. 

“Just wrap those lips around me nice and slow. I want to see that sweet virgin mouth stuffed full of cock for the first time.”

Your lips closed timidly around him, sealing over the tip as your tongue flicked against it, tasting more of that salty, musky flavor. Your jaw ached instantly, but the way he groaned, deep and guttural, made you shiver with pride.

“There you go,” he praised, fingers tightening in your hair. “God, look at you. My perfect little virgin, already learning how to please me.”

You tried to sink further, taking more of him in, but the sheer thickness made your throat tighten. You gagged softly, tears threatening to well in your eyes, and pulled back with a desperate little gasp.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, thumb brushing your damp cheek. “That was good, baby. So fucking good. Just relax your jaw, take it slow. You’ve got such a tiny mouth—I didn’t expect you to take all of me your first try.”

His hand guided you down again, inch by inch, your lips stretching around him as drool began to slick your chin. He hissed through his teeth, head falling back against the headboard.

“That’s it… fuck, that’s it. God, you don’t even know how sweet you look right now, doll. Choking on my cock like you were made for it.”

You felt his cock pulse on your tongue, thick veins throbbing against the roof of your mouth. 

“Fuck—baby—” he growled, his breathing ragged as his cock twitched violently. “Gonna—shit—gonna cum down your throat—”

Suddenly, his hand yanked you back, pulling your mouth off him with a wet pop. You gasped, spit stringing between your lips and his swollen tip, confused and dazed.

“W-what…?”

“Not yet,” he panted, his hand flying to his cock and holding it still, trying to calm himself down. 

His chest heaved, his eyes glazed and hungry as he stared at your flushed, ruined face. “Not wasting my first load on your mouth, princess. I’ve been waiting too long for you.”

“Bucky…” 

He leaned forward, thumb smearing your spit across your swollen lips. “No… I’m gonna be the first man to cum inside this virgin cunt.”

He adjusted the camera in his hands, sitting up straighter. “Lay down,” he ordered, nodding toward the mattress. “Face down, ass up.”

His words were so filthy and vulgar—it made your face burn—but still, you obeyed. Lowering yourself onto shaky arms, you crawled forward and eased your chest against the mattress. Your cheek pressed into the sheets as you raised your ass for him, baring yourself under his gaze.

The arch felt awkward, your back straining from holding the position. But the low, hungry sound that escaped from his chest sent a shiver of pride racing through you. You pushed yourself even higher, desperate to please him.

“Look at you. My shy little virgin, already posing like a whore for me,” the sound of the camcorder’s little beep made your body tense—he was recording this, capturing you in such a vulnerable position.

The mattress dipped as he shuffled closer, his large palm running over the curve of your ass. You gasped, burying your face into the sheets in embarrassment.

“You’re trembling,” he noted, squeezing the soft flesh in his hand. “You nervous, baby?”

You nodded weakly, voice muffled against the pillow. “Y-Yeah…”

“Mmm, but you’re already being so sweet for me,” he rasped, his thumb gently pressing against your wet, slit folds. “Your pretty little cunt is weeping just for me, sweetheart.” 

You let out a soft gasp, the camcorder beeped again as he adjusted it to get a better view. His grin widened with hunger. 

“Don’t worry, doll. I’ll take care of you. Gonna stretch this virgin pussy nice and slow… and make you put on the sweetest show for my camera.”

He teased your pussy, thumb rubbing over your entrance and his finger rubbing against your clit. You were already so wet—embarrassingly so.

“God, baby… you’re dripping,” he groaned, the camcorder beeping softly as he angled it lower. “All this for me?”

You whimpered into the sheets, trembling as he shifted his hand and pressed a finger, testing your tightness before slowly sinking inside. 

You gasped louder, your whole body jolting forward against the mattress even though it was just his finger. “B-Bucky!” 

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning close. “Just my finger. Gotta test this tight little pussy before I give you more.”

He moved slowly, letting you adjust to his finger as you writhed against the sheets, your walls already fluttering helplessly around him. He slowly eased another finger inside, drawing out a desperate moan from you. 

“So tight,” he groaned so low, almost like he was talking to himself. “So fucking tight—baby. Can’t wait to put my cock inside you…” 

When he finally slipped his finger free, you sagged against the bed in relief—but then you felt him shifting behind you. The camcorder beeped again, and the feel of his heavy, thick cock pressed against your entrance—hot and throbbing.

You suddenly remembered how his toys would stretch helplessly around his thickness—literally on the verge of tearing. Your eyes widened. You weren’t sure if you could take him fully. 

“B-Bucky…” your stomach started twisting with nerves. “You’re too big… I don’t think I can—” 

“You can, baby,” he interrupted softly, steadying himself with a hand at your hip. He leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

He pushed forward before you could say anything. The thick tip pushed past your virgin walls. You cried out at the burn, your hands gripping the sheets.

“I know, I know,” he soothed, though his voice shook with restraint. “I’m sorry, doll. I’m so big, I know—but you’re doing so fucking good for me.” 

The stretch hurt, but it also made a strange heat bloom low in your belly.

He kissed the back of your shoulder, keeping himself still while you trembled beneath him. “Breathe for me, princess. Let me in nice and slow… I promise—it’s gonna feel so good.”

Your fingers clawed at the sheets as you let out a high, broken moan.

“Shhh, that’s it, baby,” Bucky rasped, his voice thick with both lust and control. “My sweet little virgin… finally getting split open by a real cock.”

You shook your head against the mattress, gasping. “B-Bucky—it’s too big, I can’t—I can’t take it—”

He hushed you softly, his hand sliding from your hip to rub comforting circles against your trembling waist. 

“Yes you can, doll. You’re made for this—you’ve been watching my videos every night. Studying me. Practicing with your pretty little fingers and wishing it was me, isn’t that right?” His cock inched deeper, slow but relentless, his breath hitching at the unbearable tightness of you.

“That’s my girl,” he encouraged, pressing kisses along your bare shoulder. “Doing so good for me. Ruinin’ this sweet little virgin pussy nice and slow…” 

A sharp moan escaped you as he sank another inch inside, your body trembling around him.

“God… you’re squeezing me so fucking tight,” he groaned, teeth grazing your shoulder as he adjusted the camera with one hand, angling it to capture the stretch of his cock sliding in and out of you. The red light blinked, recording every second of your first time.

“Such a sweet little thing,” he moaned, condescending but tender. “Crying on my cock like you don’t love it—but listen to yourself, baby. You’re moaning like a slut already!”

Another desperate cry left your lips, and he groaned low in his throat. You adjusted your hips slightly, moving your back a bit to try and get comfortable. The slight movement made his hard cock pulse and throb inside you uncontrollably—the sensation unbearable. 

“Oh, fuck—” he cursed, his breath catching. “Fuck. If you keep moving like that, doll… shit, I’m not gonna last.”

You shuffled your hips back, desperate for more, for him, even though the stretch burned.

“B-Bucky…” you gasped, your voice breaking into a moan. “You’re so big… too big… f-feels so good…”

That praise alone made him groan, his head dropping to your shoulder as his cock twitched inside your tight heat. His hand squeezed your waist, trying to stay in control, trying to savor it, but every little shuffle of your hips threatened to undo him completely.

“Fuck, doll,” he grunted. “You keep saying that—calling me big while you wiggle on my cock so cutely… I’m gonna lose it.”

You moaned again, arching your back to push into him, the words tumbling out between gasps. “Want you, Bucky… wanna take you all… please, you’re so big, fill me up, please…”

That was it.

A sharp growl ripped from his chest as he tossed the camcorder aside, the device landing forgotten on the sheets somewhere. Both his hands clamped down hard on your hips, holding you in place.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he gritted out, voice laced with hunger. “You asked for it.”

With one rough, needy thrust, he drove himself all the way inside, stuffing you full until his hips were flush against your ass. The sudden fullness made you cry out, your walls clamping down on him so tight it pulled another curse from his lips.

“Jesus Christ—this tight little virgin pussy’s gonna kill me,” he gasped, his fingers digging into your hips possessively. “You feel that, doll? That’s me—every fucking inch of me—buried inside you.”

Your cry broke into a helpless moan as he bottomed out, the stretch almost unbearable, but your body clung to him desperately. The way your cunt spasmed around his cock made Bucky curse low and vicious.

“Fuck—look at you,” he growled against your ear, pulling back only to slam in again, harder. “Taking me so deep, squeezing the life outta me. My sweet little virgin, getting ruined on my cock.”

“Bucky—ah—s’too much—” you whimpered, though your hips still rocked back to meet him.

His laugh was dark, breathless. “Too much, huh? Then why’s this greedy little pussy dripping all over me? You’re lovin’ it, doll. You’re lovin’ how I’m stretchin’ you out.” 

Your moans grew louder, more desperate, every inch of you unraveling under his relentless pace. He held your hips so hard you knew he’d leave bruises, pounding into you like he wanted to brand himself inside your body.

“Good girl—fuck, you’re my good girl,” his hips moving rougher and sloppier. “Fuck. So much better than the videos, huh?” 

“Oh my god,” you cursed, your face pushed up against the pillow. “I… can’t—gonna… gonna cum—” your walls fluttered and clenched down on him so tightly as you let your release take over you. 

“Jesus—fuck, sweetheart—” he snarled, hips snapping erratically as he buried himself to the hilt. “Fuck, fuck! Shit… fuck.” His cock pulsed deep inside you, and with a final shuddering thrust he spilled into you, filling you full with hot, warm and thick seed. 

The room was filled with the sound of your ragged moans and his guttural curses, both of you trembling through the aftershocks.

Bucky slumped forward, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his lips brushing the side of your damp and sweaty neck. “That’s it… that’s my girl. Took me so good.”

You were still trembling, your body sensitive and aching, when Bucky finally eased himself out of you with a slow, careful pull. You whined softly at the loss, burying your face into the sheets.

“Easy, doll,” he hushed, his voice husky but gentle. His big hands smoothed over your hips, down your thighs, rubbing away the tension he’d left behind. “You did so good for me. I’m so proud of you.”

You turned your head slightly, catching his smug little grin as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your damp temple.

“Messy bed, messy girl,” he teased lowly, though his tone held nothing but warmth. He brushed your hair back from your flushed face and tucked it gently behind your ear. “Knew you were my number one fan for a reason.”

Despite your exhaustion, a shy laugh escaped you, your chest fluttering at his words. 

“You’re… so full of yourself,” you mumbled weakly. “H-how did I do…?” 

“You did so fucking good, sweetheart. Shit, I remember when I was a virgin too, baby,” he chuckled, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “I was a whimpering, sensitive mess. But fuck, I had so much fun ruining you.” 

Your face flushed hot, nuzzling your nose in his chest out of embarrassment. 

He laughed softly, holding you tighter. “Get some rest, princess. We’ll go back for your groceries later.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh again, small and breathless, before your eyes fluttered shut, comforted by his large hands on your waist and the warmth of his body wrapped around yours.

Days passed, and Bucky kept his promise. The video never showed up online. 

He went back to posting his weekly content, but this time, there was something different. In one of his recent uploads, a faint audio clip played in the background as he stroked himself for the camera.

Your moans.

His grunts.

He never showed the footage on screen, but the audio was enough. Enough for you to recognize yourself, enough to leave you trembling in your chair, your fingers buried between your thighs. The thought of him getting off to your body, your sounds, over and over—it made you fall apart embarrassingly fast.

You slumped back in your chair now, thighs trembling, breath uneven as you dragged your hand away from your thighs. For a moment you just sat there, dazed, staring at the frozen video frame on your laptop.

Then a notification blinked in the corner of the screen. 

You clicked it.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Hey, doll. 

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917 is typing…

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: Can’t stop watching that little video we made. But I dropped the camera right before I got to stuff your pussy full of my cum.

Lord_Of_The_Rings_1917: How about we try filming another one? 

The same cold silk of it wrapping around you. The same easy release as your legs fuse and your tail unfurls in one long shimmer beneath the dark water. The same pull of depth and current and pressure settling your body back into its truest shape.

But you are not the same creature who left. You know it almost immediately. The swim home is slower this time. Not because you’re tired. Because your thoughts keep drifting to the sea glass at your throat, the ghost of his fingers laced through yours…

Or on the quiet, careful way Bucky had looked at you when you said you loved the gift, like he hadn’t quite known what to do with being allowed to matter. You touch the pendant once as you cut through the dark.

It taps lightly against your skin with each stroke.

A little piece of shore worn smooth enough to belong to you now.

Home comes into view in layers.

First the slope of familiar rock. Then the long curtains of kelp moving slow and stately in the current. Then the blue bioluminescent glow that clings to the caves and coral shelves, turning the reef into a dream of light and shadow. You should feel yourself slot back into place the second you see it.

Instead, what hits first is awareness.

Of your own face.

Of your scent.

Of the fact that Nerina is absolutely going to smell land, tea, Bucky, and trouble on you from three currents away.

And sure enough, you have barely crossed into the outer reef before a shape peels off from behind a column of stone and slams neatly into your path.

Nerina, with her arms folded and expression bright with menace.

“Well?” she asks.

You blink at her, trying for innocence.

It doesn’t work.

Her gaze drops to your throat instantly. The sea glass pendant catches the glow. Nerina goes still.

Then very, very slowly, she looks back up at you.

“Oh, you are doomed.”

You clutch the pendant reflexively. “That is such an unhelpful thing to say.”

She surges forward with a delighted screech, grabbing both your arms. “He gave you a trinket.”

“It’s not a trinket.”

“He gave you shore-worn sea glass on a cord. That is a courtship-level trinket.”

You try to pull away with dignity. “You’re inventing rules.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Nerina drags you bodily through the water toward the main cavern. “Sereia! Talin! She came back wearing his feelings!”

You gasp. “That is not what this is!”

From deeper in the reef, Sereia’s laughter spills out before you even see her.

Talin appears a second later with the expression of a male who has known peace and is watching it leave his body in real time.

Nerina presents you like evidence before a tribunal.

“He put a thing on her.”

You choke. “Why would you phrase it like that?”

Sereia takes one look at the pendant and presses both hands over her mouth. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Nerina corrects gleefully.

Talin glances from the pendant to your face. His eyes narrow.

“You stayed longer.”

“Yes. He asked, I said yes. I wanted to. It was just dinner.”

Sereia brightens. “Dinner.”

“With candles,” Nerina guesses immediately.

You freeze.

All three of them stare.

Nerina clutches Talin’s arm so hard he grimaces. “Candles.”

“It was one candle,” you say, which is somehow worse.

Sereia drifts closer, eyes wide and warm. “He planned it.”

You don’t answer, because the second you do your smile is going to happen again and then you’ll never hear the end of it. Unfortunately, your silence is deafening.

Nerina squints at you. “Oh, you liked it liked it.”

Talin rubs a hand over his face. “Can we all calm down.”

“No,” Nerina and Sereia say together.

You try for dignity, but it is hard to maintain while being gently herded into the center cavern by two females vibrating with gossip and one male radiating the weary air of a guardian who knows exactly how this story ends.

Word spreads fast.

By the time you reach the glowing heart of the reef, half your pod is already looking up, pretending not to look up, or very openly looking up with the kind of pointed casualness that means they’ve absolutely heard something.

You are offered food.

A resting ledge.

A blanket of woven kelp fiber you do not need.

Three different older pod-mothers peer at you over their shells and immediately notice the pendant.

One of them clicks her tongue approvingly.

You consider swimming into a trench and staying there forever.

Instead, you sit.

Which is brave.

Or stupid.

Probably both.

Sereia settles on one side of you, Nerina on the other, like guards at the world’s most humiliating hearing. Talin stations himself slightly behind, arms folded.

For a moment, the pod just watches you.

Then Sereia says gently, “How was he tonight?”

And damn it, that question gets past your defenses faster than teasing.

You look down at the pendant in your hand.

“At first?” you say slowly. “He nearly died because I came out of the water without clothes.”

The cavern erupts.

Nerina folds cleanly in half laughing.

Sereia chokes on seawater.

Even Talin’s head drops as though he’s fighting a smile and losing.

“He threw clothes at me,” you continue, because if you’re suffering, everyone else is coming with you. “Then he had to explain why humans are weird about nakedness.”

Nerina wipes at her eyes. “What did he say?”

“That it’s about privacy and modesty.”

Sereia puts a hand to her chest, wheezing softly with laughter. “And what did you say?”

“That it’s just bodies.”

The older pod-mother with the shells actually nods as if this is the most sensible statement uttered all night.

Talin mutters, “For once, I’m with her.”

Nerina points at you. “And what did he do?”

You pause because now it gets interesting.

The truth is he tried so hard to be good that it made something warm and dangerous spread through you all over again.

Your mouth softens before you can stop it.

“He looked like he was fighting a cecaelia.”

That does it.

The entire cavern loses it again..

Laughter rings off the stone. A younger merman actually thumps the ledge in delight. Sereia hides her face in your shoulder. Nerina makes the most obnoxiously triumphant sound you have ever heard.

Talin closes his eyes like he no longer wishes to be corporeal.

When the noise finally dies down a little, Sereia studies you more closely.

“Were you safe?”

The shift in tone gentles everything.

You nod immediately.

“Yes.”

“Wanted?”

A softer question.

One that reaches deeper.

You swallow.

“Yes.”

Nerina’s expression turns unexpectedly tender. “Respected?”

That one you answer without hesitation.

“Yes.”

The mood in the cavern changes after that.

Not lighter, exactly.

Deeper.

There’s still teasing, yes, because your pod would rather implode than pass up good romantic drama. But beneath it runs approval. Relief. The understanding that this isn’t simply infatuation for the sake of novelty. This human doesn’t make you smaller. Doesn’t treat you like a curiosity. Doesn’t demand or grab or cage.

He makes room for you. That matters to merfolk more than almost anything.

Talin kneels beside your ledge then, big and solid and serious as ever.

“And you?” he asks quietly. “How are you when you’re with him?”

The question catches you off guard.

You open your mouth with some quick, easy answer ready.

Nothing comes out.

Because suddenly you know the truth of it, and it is not small.

You are different with Bucky.

You are… softer in places you thought had long ago gone to reef stone. Sharper in others. More curious. More aware. More alive in your own skin, even when he’s the one making you conscious of it. He doesn’t pull you away from yourself.

He seems to hand more of you back.

You look down at your hands, then up.

“I think,” you say slowly, “I feel… seen.”

Silence settles through the cavern.

No one laughs now.

Nerina reaches over and squeezes your shoulder once, hard and affectionate.

Sereia smiles, sad and knowing and warm.

Talin’s face shifts—some hard protective line in him easing, just enough.

“That,” he says, “is not nothing.”

You nod.

No. It isn’t.

Later, after the pod breaks apart into smaller knots of conversation, you drift off toward the outer gardens alone.

The reef here is quieter. The bioluminescence softer. Little darting fish weave through coral branches that glow blue-white at their tips. It’s beautiful in the same way it has always been beautiful.

Tonight you notice change everywhere: how the current moves differently after a storm, how new things settle into old places…

How even home is not static. Not fixed. It shifts. Adapts. Makes room.

You curl up on a smooth shelf of stone with your tail tucked close and your fingers resting over the sea glass at your throat.

A shadow passes overhead.

Sereia.

She lowers herself onto the stone beside you and leans shoulder to shoulder.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

Then she says, “You know you don’t have to choose yet.”

You turn your head. She keeps looking out at the dark water.

“Between them,” she says. “Between worlds. Between the part of you that belongs to the sea and the part reaching toward shore.”

Your throat tightens.

That is the fear beneath the sweetness, isn’t it?

That this pull toward Bucky means giving something up. That love, if that’s what this becomes, might ask for a sacrifice. That every story of land and sea ends with one half of the heart translated into a language the other half cannot survive.

“I know,” you say softly.

Sereia finally looks at you.

“You are allowed to let this be what it is before you decide what it costs.”

You let that settle.

It feels wise.

“Was that your gentle older-sister speech?” you ask.

She smiles. “A little.”

“It was very effective.”

You rest your head on her shoulder for a moment, and she kisses your hair once before rising and leaving you to your thoughts. The reef grows quieter around you as the night deepens.

Far, far off, beyond the dark layers of water and distance and shoreline, you can just make out the faint pulse of the lighthouse.

One turn.

Then dark.

Then another.

You wonder what Bucky is doing.

If he’s pacing.

If he’s touching the spot by his mouth where you kissed him.

If he’s looking at the empty second plate and wondering when you’ll be back.

The thought wraps around your heart with equal parts ache and warmth.

At last you push off the ledge and slip deeper into the reef, toward your sleeping hollow.

This time when your people greet you as you settle in, it feels less like being pulled in two and more like being held from both sides.

By the sea.

By your pod.

By the strange, impossible beginning waiting up on shore.

And when you finally close your eyes, one thing becomes clear in the drifting quiet before sleep takes you:

Coming home does not cure your longing.

The third night, you don’t even pretend.

You don’t linger.

You don’t pace the reef or let Nerina make bets about how long it’ll take you to crack.

You just go.

—

The lighthouse finds you faster this time. Or maybe you find it faster. Either way, when you surface, he’s already there.

Bucky stands on the rocks like he never left, hands braced on the railing, gaze locked on the water with that same too-intense focus that gives him away every single time. He notices the second your head breaks the surface.

There’s that flicker again—relief, sharp and immediate, before he smooths it out into something more controlled.

“You’re early,” he says.

You haul yourself up onto the rocks, water streaming off you, already reaching for the neatly folded clothes waiting where he left them.

“You’re predictable,” you shoot back.

He huffs. “That so?”

“You were out here.”

“I live here.”

“You were waiting out here.”

“I was checking the—”

You look at him, brow arched.

He stops.

“…weather,” he finishes anyway.

You grin, delighted. “Liar.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no bite in it. Not tonight.

You pull on the clothes quickly this time, faster, more practiced, though you still feel his attention hovering carefully at the edges, like he’s trying to be respectful and failing just a little.

“Done,” you announce.

Bucky turns back.

And yeah, there it is again. That look. That moment where he forgets to hide it.

You in his world wearing things he picked and standing like you belong there.

It hits him every time.

You clap your hands once, bright with sudden energy.

“I have a request.”

Bucky’s brows lift immediately. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It’s not dangerous.”

“That’s exactly what dangerous requests say.”

“I want to go to the lights.”

He blinks.

“…the what?”

You point past him, toward the glow of the boardwalk. Neon flickering against the night, music drifting faintly across the wind, distant shouts and laughter carried over the water.

“There,” you say. “The loud place. With the spinning things.”

Bucky turns, following your gesture.

Realization dawns, followed by disbelief.

“You mean the carnival.”

“Yes.”

“You want to go to the carnival.”

“Yes.”

“With me.”

You beam. “Obviously.”

He stares at you for a long moment like he’s recalculating his entire existence.

“…you don’t even know what’s there.”

“I know it looks fun.”

“It’s loud.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“It’s crowded.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“It’s—” He cuts himself off, exhaling. “It’s a lot.”

You step closer, tilting your head up at him.

“I want to see your world,” you say simply.

And there it is.

That quiet, honest thing you keep doing that makes it impossible for him to say no.

Bucky looks at you.

Really looks.

Then drags a hand down his face.

“…you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You grin. “So I’ve been told.”

He mutters something under his breath and jerks his head toward town.

“Stay close.”

—

The carnival is overwhelming in the best possible way. The second you step onto the boardwalk, your senses explode.

Lights everywhere. Bright, flashing, spinning, pulsing in colors that don’t exist underwater. Music blaring from different directions, overlapping in chaotic, exhilarating layers. The smell of sugar and oil and salt and something sharp and fried that you can’t even name.

And people.

So many people.

You stop dead and Bucky immediately notices. His hand finds your wrist without thinking. Grounding.

“You okay?”

Your eyes are wide, tracking everything at once. “There’s so much happening.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

You look up at him and smile. “I love it.”

Something in his expression softens instantly.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Absolutely.”

He nods once, like that settles something for him, and keeps his hand loosely around your wrist as he guides you forward through the crowd.

You let him. Not because you need it.

But because you like it.

—

The first ride stops you cold.

It’s massive, looping, with wood mixed with metal. People strapped into seats, shrieking as they’re lifted high into the air and dropped again. You stare at it like it’s a living creature.

“What is that.”

Bucky follows your gaze.

“The Cyclone.”

“…why would anyone do that on purpose?”

He glances down at you, amused. “Adrenaline.”

“That looks like death.”

“Some people like that.”

You consider the screaming humans.

“…land people are deeply strange.”

He snorts. “Not wrong.”

You tug on his sleeve. “Can we try it?”

He freezes. “You want to get on that.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you just said it looks like death.”

“I want to experience your death machine.”

Bucky stares at you, then at the ride, and then back at you.

“…absolutely not.”

You gasp. “You deny me culture.”

“I am saving your life.”

You cross your arms. “Coward.”

He leans down slightly, voice low in your ear. “You were overwhelmed by socks two days ago. I am not putting you on a roller coaster.”

The timbre in his voice makes you feel warm. “Fair enough.”

He smirks and the warm feeling deepens.

You narrow your eyes. “I still think you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Then prove it.”

“I don’t need to prove anything.”

You grin. “You’re scared.”

“I’m not—I’ve been on it many times.”

“Then prove it.”

He exhales sharply, already losing the argument, and mutters, “We’re not doing that one.”

You accept victory.

—

Bucky leads you to a game booth.

Bright colors. Stuffed animals hanging everywhere. A man barking challenges at passersby.

You stare. “What is this?”

“A scam.”

You perk up. “I love it.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “Of course you do.”

The booth operator grins at him. “C’mon, man, win your girl a prize.”

Bucky goes still.

Your girl.

The words hang there for half a second.

Then Bucky clears his throat, too quickly. “Yeah. Sure.”

He hands over cash.

You watch, fascinated, as he picks up the small balls and weighs them in his hand.

“What do you do?”

“Knock down the bottles.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“That seems easy.”

He gives you a look.

Then throws.

The first ball hits—crack—and two bottles go down.

Second throw—clean.

Third—perfect.

All bottles topple.

You gasp.

“That was impressive.”

Bucky shrugs, but there’s a flicker of pride there. “Used to be good at this.”

The booth operator rolls his eyes but hands over a prize anyway.

Bucky turns to you, holding out a stuffed animal—a small white plush with big eyes and soft fur.

You take it carefully.

“What is this creature?”

“A bunny.”

“It’s adorable.”

“It’s yours.”

You clutch it to your chest immediately. “I love it.”

His gaze softens again, watching you like that reaction alone was worth the whole thing.

“You say that about everything.”

“Everything you give me, yes.”

He looks away for a second, jaw tightening just slightly like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that kind of honesty.

You hug the bunny tighter.

“I will name him.”

“Oh yeah?” He glances at it. “What are you gonna name it?”

You consider deeply. Then, with absolute confidence, you beam.

“Alpine.”

—

Then comes the food.

You stop in front of a stand where something golden and chaotic is being handed to customers.

“What is that.”

Bucky follows your stare. “That is funnel cake.”

“I want it.”

“Of course you do.”

He buys one and hands it to you.

You take a bite and immediately your entire face changes. Eyes wide. Soul leaving your body.

“This is magic.”

He laughs, full and real, watching you like this is the best part of his night.

Sugar dusts your fingers. You don’t care. You take another bite, then another, completely gone.

“This is better than the cake,” you declare.

“That’s a bold statement.”

“I stand by it.”

You hold it out to him.

“Try.”

“I’ve had funnel cake.”

“Try mine.”

He hesitates and then leans in, taking a bite.

The moment is small.

But the way you both pause—too close, sharing the same piece, breath catching just slightly—

It’s not nothing.

You both notice.

You pull back first, smiling like you didn’t just feel that spark. He swallows, clears his throat, and looks anywhere but your mouth.

“Good?” you ask innocently.

“Yeah,” he says, a little rough. “Good.”

—

By the time you leave, you’re carrying your stuffed bunny, sugar on your fingers, and a hundred new impressions you don’t even have words for yet.

The walk back is quieter, slower. You’re closer to him and before you know it, his hand is clasping yours.

When the lighthouse comes back into view, you look at him.

“That was… amazing! Thank you for showing me.”

Bucky’s gaze holds yours. “I’m glad.”

When you reach the rocks, neither of you moves right away.

The ocean waits.

The lighthouse glows.

Something between you has shifted again.

It’s bigger, warmer. And it is a little harder to pretend isn’t heading somewhere very real. By the end of the week, the lighthouse doesn’t feel like a hiding place anymore.

It feels like his. And, dangerously, a little like yours too.

Not all at once. Not in some dramatic rush. It happens the way tides do—inch by inch, quiet until suddenly the whole shoreline has changed.

You fall into a rhythm with Bucky.

A ridiculous, impossible, deeply intimate rhythm.

—

You come back the night after the carnival still carrying Alpine the bunny, and Bucky gives the stuffed animal one long look before muttering, “That thing’s gonna live here now, huh?”

You clutch Alpine to your chest. “He has seniority now.”

Bucky deadpans, “Over me?”

“Yes.”

“That tracks.”

You spend the night on the lighthouse steps because the weather is clear and the wind is warm enough to make staying outside worth it. He tells you what each distant light is—boats, buildings, signs, homes. You tell him which stars you use when the current shifts deep enough to confuse even your best sense of direction.

At one point, a gull lands nearby and stares at you both like it pays rent.

You narrow your eyes at it. “Is that one judging me?”

Bucky glances over. “Probably.”

“Rude.”

“You did tell me not to brood at gulls.”

You look at him. “Are you brooding with gulls now?”

His mouth twitches. That becomes a thing after that.

Every night, you ask if he’s brooding with the gulls.

Every night, Bucky acts deeply inconvenienced by how much he secretly enjoys it.

The following evening Bucky makes the mistake of teaching you how laundry works.

Specifically, he shows you how to use the old washer hookup in the lower utility room because you asked what happened to clothes once they got “too people-smelling and too sea-smelling at the same time.”

You treat this like a sacred rite.

For about six minutes.

Then you start asking questions: why are there different soaps? Why does everything need sorting. Why are towels apparently a separate category. Why do humans have a machine to wash fabrics but still insist on doing so many dishes by hand.

Bucky tries. He really does.

He gives calm, practical answers right up until you hold up one of his shirts, bury your face in it, and say, “This still smells like you. I think the machine failed.”

Bucky blinks.

You lower the shirt just enough to see his eyes.

“…what?” he says.

You blink innocently. “What? The machine failed. It smells like you. I like it.”

He stares for a long second, then mutters, “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

That night he was quieter than usual.

When you catch him later folding that same shirt with way too much focus, you hide your smile in your tea.

—

On another evening, you find his books.

You’re sprawled across his bed in one of his sweaters, barefoot, dry-haired, flipping through a battered novel while he tries—and fails—not to stare like this image has knocked his soul slightly loose from his body.

“You read these?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

“Humans make up a lot of stories.”

He leans in the doorway with his arms folded. “So do merfolk.”

“Yes, but ours tend to be more educational and less obsessed with emotional repression.”

That gets him.

One sharp laugh.

You grin and pat the bed beside you. “Come explain this one.”

He eyes the invitation like it’s a trap but eventually he sits carefully, leaving space. You immediately close most of it by leaning against his shoulder and holding up the book. He goes still for half a second, then lets out a breath and relaxes into it. You spend an hour like that.

Him reading passages aloud in that low, rough voice of his. You asking constant questions. Sometimes about the plot. Mostly about why human men in fiction are apparently allergic to emotional honesty.

At one point you look up and realize he has stopped reading.

“Why’d you stop?”

His eyes are on you.

Your mouth.

Your face tipped up close to his shoulder.

And his answer comes out low. “Lost my place.”

You absolutely do not recover normally from that.

Later that week, you go into town again, this time during a quieter stretch, and Bucky lets you explore more slowly.

You learn how diners work.

This matters because you discover pancakes.

And pancakes, as it turns out, hit you like a religious conversion.

You sit in a cracked red vinyl booth by the window at some tiny all-night place while Bucky watches you take your first bite and nearly dissolve.

“You all have this and still behave like that?” you ask, scandalized.

“Like what?”

“Like people with stress.”

He snorts into his coffee.

The waitress calls you sweetheart and tops off Bucky’s mug without asking. She looks between the two of you with that same knowing human expression you still don’t totally understand but are beginning to suspect means I see what’s going on here before you idiots do.

You ask Bucky later.

He says, “She thinks we’re together.”

You stop walking. He stops too. The night air goes very still around you.

“And are we?” you ask lightly.

Bucky’s voice is careful.

“I think we’re…” He exhales. “Something.”

You step closer to him.

“Something good?”

His eyes hold yours. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Something good.”

That’s the first night you kiss him properly. The kiss is soft from the start. No urgency. No desperation.

His lips move against yours slowly, carefully, like he’s savoring something precious. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingertips disappearing into your hair. You feel him smile when you sigh against his mouth.

The kiss deepens for a heartbeat, then eases again. Neither of you wanting to be the first to pull away. When you finally separate, it’s only by inches.

Bucky keeps his eyes closed for a moment as if he’s collecting himself. The kiss affected him as much as it affected you. Then he opens his eyes— those impossibly blue eyes. His thumb brushes across your cheek.

Afterward he presses his forehead to yours and says, rough and dazed, “You really are gonna ruin me.” You smile against his mouth.

“Probably.”

—

Days pass. The weather turns.

You arrive in rain, laughing because the sea and sky feel wild and electric and alive. Bucky, meanwhile, takes one look at you climbing up the rocks drenched and shining and says, “Nope,” in the tone of a man already losing a battle.

He towels your hair dry upstairs while grumbling the whole time.

You sit between his knees on a chair by the stove, grinning into the warmth, while he rubs your hair with surprising gentleness.

“You fuss,” you say.

“I’m drying your hair.”

“You fuss while doing it.”

“I’m efficient.”

“You’re fussy-efficient.”

He flicks the towel lightly over your head in retaliation.

You laugh, then lean back just enough that your shoulder rests against his leg.

He stills briefly then keeps going.

That night, the storm knocks the power in town weird for a while, and the lighthouse feels even more isolated than usual. You end up wrapped in blankets on the floor with Alpine between you, eating toast with butter and jam and listening to the rain hammer the glass.

You tell him about your pod.

Not everything.

But enough that they stop being abstract.

Nerina and her sharp mouth.

Sereia and her quiet wisdom.

Talin pretending he doesn’t care while caring more than anyone.

Bucky listens with his elbows on his knees, looking into the stove flame.

When you finish, he says, almost to himself, “Sounds nice. Having people like that.”

You look at him and then move closer until your shoulder touches his.

“You could,” you say softly. “Again.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer.

But later, when you fall half-asleep against him and wake just enough to realize he’s tucked the blanket more securely around you, you think maybe he heard you after all.

BUCKY BARNES

× RESIDUAL NERVES ¦ Bucky meets that new member everyone keeps talking about and praising... and is the moment his eyes land on her when he remembers those words his mom used to tell him. | here | 811 words

× I ALMOST DO ¦ Bucky loves his best friend. Can't see his life without her. Truth is, he's too scared to share certain feelings until it's too late. | here | 1.3 k words [ Part 1 ]

× HALFWAY ¦ He would wait for her to heal, to get better. That's what love does and after all, he's been in love with her for a long time, he could wait all his life, if she wants him as well. | here | 1.3 k words [ Part 2]

× SUITS ¦ She loves his best friend in suits and with his new congressman side job, it's harder to hide her thoughts. It's such a good thing Bucky is an idiot who's too blind and just thinks it's friendly banter. | here | 1.1 k words

× NOT ENOUGH RIGHT NOW ¦ Bucky has been dating his lovely girlfriend for five months already and even then, he's still too scared to touch her the way he wants because, what if he hurts her? | here | 973 words

× RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP ¦ Such a cliché moment. They both say it's way to release the stress after missions but then it was almost every night. Both trying too hide their feelings for a long time until it's hard. | here | 890 words

× I JUST WANT YOU ¦ There's nothing more that Bucky Barnes loves after making love to his girlfriend... except after care. He loves how soft, secured and loved he feels with her. He always gotta let her know. | here | 1.1 k words

× GOT THE WHOLE BLOCK LOOKING LIKE YOU ¦ Bucky Barnes never thought he would have normalcy in his life after Hydra. Then, he never thought he would fall in love. And now, he wants everything with her, including many kids. It's just he's shy to share his thoughts. | here | 1.5 k words

× RISK ¦ Bucky Barnes thinks his neighbor it's the prettiest woman he has ever seen, always a pleasure talking with her and because of that, they gotta stop talking. The last thing he wants is her getting hurt because of him. | here | 983 words

× GIGGLING INSIDE ¦ There's something everyone knows. Bucky Barnes can't stand her. It's not that he's rude but she's the only teammate he doesn't like interacting with. No one knows Bucky is a mess because of her. Always giggling inside like a teenage girl. | here | 1.8 k words

× ENDLESS FEBRUARY ¦ Bucky Barnes is finally having some peace in his life. He has a lovely girlfriend, share their world together... so why is that dreadful day from February 1945 still coming around to torment his mind? | here | 1.9 k words

× A LOT OF WORK ¦ He wasn't looking for her but somehow, Alpine was that match Bucky needed in his life (besides his girlfriend) to feel complete. | here | 1.4 k words

× EXCLUSIVE ¦ He can't imagine himself with anyone that isn't his girlfriend. Seems imposible. Bucky Barnes is just deeply in love with her. | here | 1.3 k words

× HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY, HONEY ¦ A soft day with a very in love Bucky Barnes. He wants to give it all the cliché things to his girlfriend. | here | 857 words

× SIDELINES ¦ Bucky rarely gets injured during missions until that day. He thought the injury was the worst thing ever until he founds out who's gonna be his replacement, "taking care" of his best girl. | here | 2.2 k words

× SAFE ¦ A simple question with his therapist makes Bucky Barnes realize who is his safe place. | here | 1.7 k words

× AS SLOW AS YOU NEED ¦ Despite all of the trauma, Bucky Barnes decides to see the good in things... especially with you. Not caring if you're a bit grumpy. | here | 3.6 k words

× WHEN YOU CALL AGAIN ¦ Friends don't kiss. Friends don't miss each other the whole day. Friends don't stay at 2 am talking. Friends don't make love... so why Bucky Barnes insisted on calling her that? | here | 860 words

× FORTY-SEVEN SECONDS ¦ Mission was supposed to be simple. She was going inside the building. Bucky was gonna be protecting her from another one. Bucky felt something was wrong. He should've know better. | here | 2 k words

× AND THE WORLD HAS SOMEHOW SHIFTED ¦ Days used to be gray for Bucky Barnes... until he sees the light in her. Now she's here shining in the starlight and it's like the sky is new and it's warm and real and bright. | here | 1.6 k words

× YOUR EYES WHISPERED, "HAVE WE MET?" ¦ Why is Bucky Barnes constantly dreaming about a woman? Were those scenarios real? Was that truly his past? Why is he feeling like something is missing in his life? | here | 1.7 k words

× RUN AWAY ¦ +18 ¦ Even in moments of happiness, Hydra finds a way to get inside Bucky's head. After an intense, vulnerable moment, some old fears resurface, making him question if he’s done something wrong. | here | 3.1 k words

× HOME ¦ In a half-unpacked apartment filled with boxes, stray knives, and swing music, Bucky and his girlfriend share a pizza on the floor, some kisses and discover that home isn't about the furniture. Between old habits, new beginnings, and a dance neither expected, they're figuring it out—one reluctant twirl at a time. | here | 1.7 k words

× MARCH 10TH ¦ No nightmare. No trigger. That's when it was obvious that Hydra didn't just steal Bucky's past. They tried to steal his birthday too. But this year? The clock hits midnight in her arms instead. | here | 3.5 k words

× MORE THAN WORDS ¦ She thought they were just cleaning out his apartment. Old photos, dusty boxes, memories Bucky never quite sorted through. Then she found a small wooden box and dozens of letters, all in his handwriting, all with your name on top. He never meant for you to read them. Too embarrassing. Too honest. But now? His apartment isn't the only thing getting thoroughly unpacked. | here | 2.6 k words

× HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MY LOVE ¦ Bucky Barnes doesn't do big speeches. He does quiet mornings, stolen afternoons, and handwritten proof that she's the best thing that's happened to him since he got his life back. Best birthday ever? Yeah. Definitely. | here | 2.2 k words

× I'M JUST TOO SOFT FOR ALL OF IT ¦ The world is loud. Missions, expectations, voices telling Bucky Barnes he should be more, do better, get fixed already. So he goes to the one place where the noise stops. A home that smells like her. A kitchen with a humming stove. Someone who doesn't ask what's wrong, just offers a mug and a choice: talk about it, or pretend the world doesn't exist for a while. | here | 2.9 k words

× WARM IT UP ¦ +18 ¦ The problem with being a man out of time wasn't the tech or the history. It was the quiet. And Bucky had been drowning in it. Seventy-four years without being touched. Then a cookout, a porch swing, and a woman who owns the calmest eyes he has ever seen asked the right question and changed everything. | here | 3.6 k words

× ACTUALLY ROMANTIC ¦ +18 ¦ Three days in a mission that ran long, a shoulder that won't quit aching, and the kind of exhaustion that sleep alone can't fix. He comes home late and finds her still awake, still waiting, still wearing that sleep shirt he loves. What he needs isn't rest. Not yet. It's her. Slow, quiet, the kind of desperate that doesn't need words. Her. Only her. He always needs her. | here | 5 k words

× SELFISH ¦ She went back to 1943 for a mission. Forty minutes. In and out. Simple. Except she saw him... young, whole, before the train, before Hydra, before everything. He looked at her like she was a miracle. And she walked away. Leaving him. Because saving that Bucky would mean losing hers. Now she's home, drowning in guilt, confessing the worst thing she's ever done. | here | 3.7 k words

× HOLD ON TO THE MEMORIES, THEY WILL HOLD ON TO YOU... AND I WILL HOLD ON TO YOU ¦ Bucky Barnes remembers too much about the Hydra days but no one warned him about which things he could forget. And new nightmares are there because he forgets things that happens with her and they're slipping through his fingers. He doesn't want to forget her. | here | 4.2 k words

× 'S TOO MUCH ¦ +18 ¦ There's a small detail between The Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes. The first one was quiet and stealth was injected in his veins. The second one didn't know how vocal he could be until he had his girlfriend exploring him and his sounds are delicious as hell. | here | 329 words

× ONES AND ZEROS (AND YOU) ¦ +18 ¦ Bucky Barnes can't stand his phone, the way it makes him feel like a man left behind by time. But his girlfriend is patient. She always have been. So he learns. Just a little. Just enough. One night, alone, he figures out something small. Something stupid, probably. Just a picture. Just her face. Turns out, the hardest thing to learn isn't technology. It's letting someone see how much you love them. | here | 7.3 k words

× HONEY ¦ Bucky Barnes in a suit should be illegal. His girlfriend knows this. She also knows they don't want kids but every time he comes home wesring those suits, tailored perfection, her hormones are out of control. Bucky notices. He's got enhanced senses, way too much love for her and he's about to discover that traitorous biology is a two-way street. It's maybe in their cards anymore? | here | 3.8 k words

× AM I ALLOWED TO CRY? ¦ Late-night texts and stolen clothes have led her lying alone in the dark in her apartment, Bucky's stolen sweatshirt wrapped around her, wondering if wanting him is dangerous. When he shows up at her door looking like a winter sky before snow, she realizes the hardest mission might be admitting that the word mine feels less like a brand and more like coming home. | here | 4.6 k words

× SOMETHING OTHER THAN FINE ¦ Bucky doesn't cry. Not during the war, not during seventy years of Hydra, not even in Wakanda when all the pain was behind him. The part of him that knew how broke a long time ago, or so he thought. When he shows up at his neighbor's door on an ordinary Tuesday, falling apart, she don't ask questions. She just hold him. And for the first time in decades, the tears come and he let's himself go. | here | 9.6 k words

× SHOULD HAVE KISSED YOU ¦ Bucky is nineteen and hopelessly in love with his best friend. He has a hundred chances to kiss her, a thousand moments on fire escapes and in rainstorms but the fear of losing her keeps his mouth shut and his heart aching. Then war tears him away, and years slip through his fingers like smoke. When he finally comes home, it's too late and her last letter holds four words that change everything: I should have kissed YOU. | here | 7.8 k words

× LIKE I'M WORTH SOMETHING ¦ +18 ¦ Bucky walks through the door with a buzz cut and no warning, bracing for his girlfriend's disappointment, already spiraling into self-doubt. But the silence isn't rejection. It's her being shocked, her brain short-circuiting. And what a way to show how much she loves it. | here | 5.5 k words

× INAPPROPRIATE THOUGHTS ¦ The gala was supposed to be about donors and diplomacy but the moment Bucky walked in, black suit, black silk shirt with two buttons undone, his girlfriend was gone. And he knows it, the smirk says it all. Now she's dragging him into the garden, mascara ruined, because some statements don't need words. They need hands. And maybe a dark corner. | here | 9.4 k words

× SOFT ¦ Four days of surveillance, shared walls, and no touching in a mexican safehouse that is practically a shoebox can undone even as strong as Bucky. Watching you through a sniper lens for too long makes him drop to his knees like you're something sacred. And he's yours. Completely, devastatingly yours. | here | 2.2 k words

× DOWN BAD ¦ +18 ¦ The movie ended. The popcorn spilled. And suddenly you were on your knees between Bucky Barnes's thighs, looking up at him through your lashes like you had all the time in the world. Only whimpers, broken prayers, tear-streaked confessions of how embarrassingly down bad he is for you was the only sound. | here | 5.1 k words

CLARK KENT

× YOU'RE OKAY. I'VE GOT YOU. ¦ Clark Kent is in love with her. So much sometimes it scares him there might be a time he hurts her. It's always such a good thing she's always there to show him her love. | here | 1.1 k words

× HEARTBEAT ¦ Clark has faced world-enders and gods. But tonight, a villain weaponized his deepest fear. Now he's shaking in your living room, needing to feel your heartbeat. You don't ask questions, just hold him, strip away the Kryptonian armor, and remind him that he's allowed to fall apart. Because even Superman needs someone to bring him home. And you're right here. Always. | here | 6.9 k words

× MISSING YOU ¦ +18 ¦ Four days. Clark has survived villains, disasters, and a cat in a tree. But coming home to an empty apartment? That's his breaking point. He really tried everything but nothing works. Tonight, he breaks while naked on the couch, your tank top pressed to his face, he falls apart like a pathetic and horny man, whispering your name like a prayer. | here | 2.8 k words