Adamantium 𖤓, Vibranium ⏾⋆.˚, Latveria ↑

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[winteryn]

THE CASE OF A GRUMPY PEEPING TOM older neighbor!bucky barnes x female!reader [15.3k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: bucky barnes has spent years cultivating a life of isolation. he keeps to himself, avoids attachment, and prefers the predictability of routine. then you move in next door and he tries to dismiss you as a temporary inconvenience. everything shifts the moment he notices your bedroom sits directly opposite his. or, bucky is a pervert and you aren’t really that far behind. — ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon; set in summer; she/her pronouns for reader; age gap I guess (he is stated to be in his late 40s; I imagined reader to be in her early 30s but it’s only mentioned that she is younger than him); kind of one-sided enemies to lovers; reader is mentioned to have hair; reader wears skirts, dresses & lingerie; mechanic!bucky; grumpy!bucky; loner!bucky; size difference (bucky is taller + beefy); they’re both perverts; possessiveness & jealousy; obsession; stalker-ish behavior; smut; voyeurism; exhibitionism; reader dates and fucks a lot in the beginning; big dick bucky organization (🙂‍↕️); sexual fantasies; dirty talk; masturbation (f & m); fingering; oral (f receiving); squirting; brief spanking; sexual acts in “public”; pussy spanking; pussy pronouns; slight degradation; a few uses of slut & he calls himself old multiple times; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; creampie.

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

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

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

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

This only makes him more noticeable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it works. Until your arrival.

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

Then you step into view.

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

Bucky’s frown deepens.

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

The neighbors are immediately captivated by your charming presence.

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

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

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

You lift your hand and wave.

“Hi!” You call warmly.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, hi!”

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

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

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

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

However, you are brutally plunged into an awkward silence.

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

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

That somehow makes it worse.

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

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

“Morning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t stop greeting him after that.

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

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

“Hey.” You greet him softly one evening.

He doesn’t answer.

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

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

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

He’s already walking away.

That interaction bothers him more than it should.

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

He stops without meaning to.

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky shrugs, already turning away.

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s exactly what this neighborhood needed.” 

Bucky’s nostrils flare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi.” 

His hands freeze.

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

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

“What do you want?” He asks flatly.

You don’t flinch, and that surprises him.

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

That gets his attention.

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

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

His jaw tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod once. “Okay.”

Your eyes drop to the ground.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Straight into your world.

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

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

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

He shouldn’t be watching.

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

Jesus Christ, Barnes. Get a grip.

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

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

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

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

He looks anyway.

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

His body leans sideways against the wall without realizing it.

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

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

The thought comes uninvited and unwelcome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight, you are definitely not home.

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

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

You’re not alone. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cuts his own engine and gets closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t have to—” You start.

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

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

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

“It’s fine.” He mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe not close enough.

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

His body stills completely.

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

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

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

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

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

Your smile turns into something less polite and more personal.

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Bucky.” You answer gently.

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

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

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

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

Bucky is there before he fully registers the decision.

“Move.” He grunts.

The guy steps aside, startled. You look stunned.

“Bucky, hi. What—”

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

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

Your eyes don’t stray away from your neighbor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stilled for exactly ten seconds.

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

He grunted. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Empty, except for your car.

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

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

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

Your light is on, and there you are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky growls out a curse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A second rumble follows several minutes later.

Then a third.

And rain starts shortly after.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“The one that fell in your backyard.”

Your eyes widen. “What the hell?”

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

“Oh.”

That’s what that noise was.

“Did it hit anything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Okay?”

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

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

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

If anything, he seems uncomfortable.

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

The uncertainty beneath all that careful composure is unexpectedly endearing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The psychology section catches you by surprise.

At first you notice one or two titles.

Then five turn to ten.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Bucky.”

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

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

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

The object hits the hardwood floor with a heavy thud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every entry is about you.

Every. Single. Day.

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

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

As usual?

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

Your eyes move lower.

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

The entries continue. Page after page after page.

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes momentarily look away with a sigh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gasp at the next paragraphs.

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

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

His girl?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I should stop looking for her every night.

The handwriting grows slightly messier beneath that sentence.

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

I should stop. But I don’t want to.

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

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

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

“James.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

His expression tightens. “No.”

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

His jaw tightens. “It’s not—”

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

He swallows thickly.

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

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

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

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

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

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

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

“I just wanted to help you.”

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

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

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

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

You scoff. “From what? Dating?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

“And yet.” You mock ironically.

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

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

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

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

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

“Trying what?” Your jaw clenches.

“To stay away from you.”

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

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

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

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

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

God, he wants you so bad.

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

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

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

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

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

His sanity.

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

Because you need this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better stay quiet then.” 

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

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

“There we go, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

“Answer me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Need more.”

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

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

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

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

He promised he would let you touch it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky simply chortles, cooing at your shaky breathing.

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

“You can take it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Finally mine.”

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

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

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

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

🏷️ general bucky taglist: @itzzkayla @randomfanpage @astraea-and-her-novels @heavenlypjm @spinsteringintoamillionpieces @pandasslol @wildflowersandvibranium @scribblesandquotes @beans-and-toast @singulartoast @gentlelimerence @secretxion14wells @maplesyrizzup @phantom-wolf-girl @norucking @punkh3arted @r4isins @doctorbitchcrxft @butterfly-lover @secretdream2 @sambuckystony @cowboylikeh @jasontoddswhitestreak @shrupshrooms @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @ninauh @metal-armed-muse @mehmeh331 @iloveshawnieboi @namjoohnie @onyx8514 @nash-dara @tt-bby @midnightmondaykiss @mikonawa @oomexluvsseb @floraslcve @erina00 @clover1004 @eatingyourboyfriend @starfire-irl @phoenix-in-writing @shyshyraven-writes @thegirlfatherr @jamesbbcrnes @yapeez @jynx-the-dynx @verss88 @yustlove13 @love4lando @wiltedfae @oomexluvsseb

[biglychee]

Eyes On You

$ log - the extraction goes south, but bucky barnes doesn’t seem to care as long as he has a perfect view of you on stage! $ warn --sfw --suggestive --fem!reader --enamoured!bucky --pole-dancing-on-the-mission --youre-testing-steves-patience $ wc -w 1.5k $ cd masterlist $ echo “omg i js can’t stop writing cutie-awkward!bucky with a stupid curious crush on you” > authors-note.txt $ vi patching-up (companion piece)

The mission brief was simple: observe, blend in, and extract intel. Steve had delivered the order with the specific, calm authority of a man who believed implicitly in his team. It was a standard infiltration — get in, get the data, get out before the target realised the security was compromised.

He had not accounted for you.

"I’m just saying," you’d said earlier that evening, tilting your head toward the elevated stage in the corner of the club, where a chrome pole caught the light like a beacon, "it would be a natural cover. Nobody actually looks at the dancer. They look past them. I’ll be invisible in plain sight."

Steve had looked at the stage. Then he looked at you, his brow furrowed in mounting concern. Then he had looked at Bucky, who had the good sense to study the ceiling of the van with intense, scholarly interest, his metal arm resting heavy on his knee.

"You are not," Steve said, very evenly, "going up there as a disguised go-go dancer."

"Why not? I took pole dancing classes a few weeks ago for the core workout. I want to see if I still have the rhythm."

Steve froze, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to find the words to explain the absurdity of the situation. "Pole dancing workout classes? Try it out in your own time, not the mission —"

"— I want to recreate that scene from Sin City," you interrupted, grinning, entirely too pleased with yourself. "Ooh, I hope they give me a prop. I want a whip."

Steve looked like he was contemplating immediate retirement. He pressed two fingers to his temple, closing his eyes tightly and taking a slow, shaky breath to regain his composure. He was the Captain; he was the leader; he was currently losing the battle of wits against his own team. He looked like a man trying to solve a complex equation while someone threw glitter at him.

Bucky sat in the corner of the van, hands resting on his thighs. He didn't speak, but his fingers drummed a steady, rhythmic beat against his pant legs. He watched the bickering with a faint, unreadable expression.

He didn’t know what Sin City was — it sounded like some post-war film he’d missed out on, something loud and sharp — but he noted the title away in his mind. If you were talking about it fondly, it was worth remembering later. He kept his gaze fixed on you, silent and watchful, just waiting for the green light to move.

"Fine," Steve finally bit out, his voice strained. "Keep your earpiece in. And for heaven's sake, keep your eyes on the VIP booth."

The music inside the club had teeth. It was low, heavy, and rhythmic, the bass moving through the floorboards and up into Bucky’s boots. He stood at the edge of the crowd with a drink he wasn't touching, trying his best to look like someone who belonged in a place where people actually enjoyed themselves.

He knew he didn't belong here. The lighting was garish — pulsing reds and deep, synthetic blues — and the noise was chaotic. The crowd moved in a fluid, loose language he’d only half-learned since coming back from the dead — elbows brushing, nobody clocking the exits, bodies swaying in a way that made him itch.

Bucky, however, was still clocking every exit, every shadow, and every shift in the air pressure. He was a creature of habit, and his habit was survival.

But then the stage lights shifted, and the air in the room seemed to pull toward the center.

He hadn’t meant to look. He tried to keep his gaze on the VIP booth where their target was currently sweating through a silk shirt, but his eyes betrayed him.

You didn't just walk onto the stage; you claimed it with each step. You caught the pole with one hand, a seamless transition into a slow, deliberate spin that sent your hair fanning out like a dark halo. You were moving like the music was a language you spoke fluently.

You twisted, climbing the chrome with fluid, disciplined strength, your muscles bunching and releasing beneath your skin. At the peak, you arched your back, hooking a leg around the pole before dropping into a controlled, breath-taking slide that had the entire room holding its breath.

You were twirling, rotating with a centrifugal grace that made the physics of the pole look effortless. You were putting on a show for the room — confident, a little showy, completely in control of what you were offering — and Bucky stood there feeling something loosen in his chest that he hadn't noticed was tight.

He knew this. Not this exactly — not the chrome pole or the particular cut of your outfit — but the shape of the moment.

Before the war, Brooklyn had its dancers.

There had been a girl at the Ritz who could hold a room still just by walking across it, and he and Steve used to sit in the back, nursing watered-down beers, watching the flappers move and feeling like kings just for being allowed in the room. Burlesque theatres downtown, where the performers were deliberate and bright, and the audience understood they were watching a craft.

You were doing exactly that.

It wasn't the way he sometimes felt around people now: that low-level hum of threat assessment that ran underneath every interaction. It wasn't the other thing, either — not the heat or the sudden spike of want that usually came with club settings — but something older and quieter.

It felt less like Bucky Barnes, the asset, the ex-assassin who was still learning how to exist in a room without cataloguing the exits, and more like James. Just James. Twenty-two years old, leaning against a wall with a drink in his hand, watching a girl who knew exactly how powerful she was.

He hadn't felt like James in a long time.

The weight of the mission — the extraction, the intel, the target in the VIP booth — felt miles away. He watched the way the light caught your skin, the way you threw your head back, the way you seemed to thrive in the centre of the chaos. You were magnetic.

Bucky felt a flicker of something almost possessive, a sharp, sudden desire to clear the room, to walk up there and pull you off the stage just so you’d stop looking at everyone else.

He didn't, of course. He just stood there, mesmerised.

You caught his eye while mid-spin, flashing him a grin that was bright and smug. Bucky’s mouth did something involuntary at the corners. He looked away, embarrassed by his own reaction, then immediately looked back. The mission was entirely off his radar and had been for approximately four minutes.

In the corner near the bar, Steve had both hands pressed over his face.

His earpiece was on. He could hear, faintly, the thumping bass of the club. He could not hear any mission-relevant information because neither of his operatives was doing anything mission-relevant.

He’d paired them together because Bucky had made a friend. His first real one since coming back. Steve had been quietly, carefully glad about it — the way you talked to Bucky like he was just a person, the way Bucky had started showing up to things he used to avoid, hovering near doorways less and sitting down more.

He had thought: This is good. They work well together. I'll put them on the next op.

He had not thought: And then she’ll do this, and he’ll make that face.

Steve took his hands off his face and looked at the stage. Then he looked at Bucky, who was standing at the edge of the crowd, stock-still and completely obvious, watching you with the focused, reverent attention of someone trying to memorise a masterpiece.

The contrast between Bucky’s usual guarded stance and his current, unguarded softness was so stark it made Steve’s chest ache.

He put his hands back over his face.

They were not getting any intel tonight. He already knew this. He was going to write a debrief that said 'situation assessed, no actionable intelligence gathered.'

Sam was going to read it and ask questions Steve didn't want to answer. Nat was going to smile at him from across the room in that way she had, and Bucky was going to be fine. Actually, a little more than fine.

Steve exhaled, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. He flagged the bartender down and ordered something that wasn't water.

He could tolerate one night of uselessness. He supposed, watching Bucky finally take a sip of his drink while refusing to take his eyes off you, that the mission had been a success in every way that mattered. The intel could wait for another night.

Right now, seeing the tension drain out of Bucky’s frame, seeing him look less like a weapon and more like a man, was worth the failure of the extraction.

He leaned against the bar, nursing his drink, and let himself watch, too. If Bucky was going to be distracted, Steve figured he might as well enjoy the show.

You turn up to pole-dance core workouts, but not his scheduled training schemes?!

$ tag @twentytomidnight @froggibus

$ cd masterlist

[aquaticmercy]

HEAR ME OUT!

Greek Myth AU | Demigod! Bucky Barnes x Nymph! Reader where Bucky has a forge near the woods where you live.

TW battle trauma, magical prosthetic metal arm, food, theft, grumpy x sunshine, son of Hephaestus! Bucky

Bucky Barnes hasn't gone to battle since he encountered the Hydra.

He still remembers the marsh and the screaming and the sound of teeth closing around bone. He remembers how the monster dragged him down into the mud by the arm and the whole world went white with pain. The poets say he fought bravely, that he stood his ground, that the son of Hephaestus didn’t break, even beneath the jaws of a beast older than most kings.

Bucky knows better.

There was nothing noble about it. There was blood in his mouth, poison in his veins and hands clawing uselessly at the wet earth underneath. And then there was pain, and then there was nothing.

When he opened his eyes, his father was standing over him in the red light of a fire.

Hephaestus made him a new arm.

What else could the god of the forge do to repay his son for running his errands? Console him? Talk to him? Say son, I’m proud of you and I’m sorry this happened? Ha!

No, gods aren't really known for their stellar parenting. Instead, his father built something out of it.

It was state of the art, if such a mortal phrase could be used for something made by divine hands. It was made of bronze  and celestial iron, gold-threaded mechanisms beneath the plating, joints so fluid they moved like water. His father carved protective spells into the inner frame and fitted it to him so perfectly that Bucky could still feel heat, pressure, texture, weight of everything.

It didn't feel so different from the arm he had lost, and that made it worse. 

Because men saw it and thought it was a miracle. Kings saw it and thought it was weapon. Heroes saw it and thought it was an advantage. They stared at the shining metal and forgot there had ever been flesh beneath it. They forgot a monster had taken something from him before his father gave anything back.

So Bucky stopped going to war.

He let other men chase glory while he stayed in Lemnos.

His father gave him the forge there, the greatest forge on the island, built deep into black volcanic stone where the heat rose from the earth itself. The whole place breathed fire. The walls glowed at night.

Or, at least, everyone said it did.

The son of Hephaestus in a forge, the man with the metal arm making metal things. Very poetic. People loved when suffering became useful.

And Bucky was useful. That much, no one could deny.

He made swords for kings who wanted their enemies to slain before sunset. He made armour for heroes who spoke of destiny as though destiny had ever once done the washing up after a war. He made arrowheads for hunters, axes for warlords, helmets for princes, daggers for queens who pretended they had no use for daggers at all.

His work was legendary. A blade from Barnes’ forge did not dull. A shield from Barnes’ forge did not crack. Chainmail from Barnes’ hands could turn aside a spear thrust, a lion’s claw, sometimes even a god’s temper.

Men came to him asking for things that could cut, pierce, crush, defend, maim, conquer, survive. 

And Bucky gave it to them.

Because that was what all his hands were good for.

At least, that was what he believed.

And then you come in.

You are a wood nymph, Bucky realises, because no ordinary girl walks into a forge with leaves in her hair and moss on the hem of her dress. You look too kind for all the heat and smoke here, too green and alive for a room full of fresh weapon. 

For a second, Bucky forgets to be rude.Then he remembers.

“Forge is closed,” he says.

You blink at the swords on the wall, the armour hanging from hooks, the coals burning bright enough to turn the whole room gold. “Oh,” you say with a frown. “I just… I heard you fix things.”

Bucky froze.

Nobody… has ever said it like that before.

They say he makes weapons. They say he forges armour. They don’t say fix, like his work made people happy.

You open your palm and show him a broken anklet, thin gold, little leaves dangling from the chain. “It caught on a root.”

“A root,” Bucky repeats.

“A rude one,” you say, as if you have a personal vendetta against the tree. You probably do. 

He should send you away. He has a sword half-finished for a king and a shield waiting for Ares demigod. He doesn’t mend pretty little things for pretty nymphs with sunlight in their eyes.

But you’re looking at him like he can help.

So Bucky sighs, reaches for the anklet, and mutters, “Fine.”

Your smile blooms so quickly he has to look down.

It is the first time anyone has asked his hands to make something that wasn’t meant to hurt.

He pretends that doesn’t matter.

But the. you keep coming back.

At first, Bucky assumes it is coincidence. Wood nymphs probably break things all the time. You live in forests. Forests have branches, rocks, rude little animals with grabby mouths. So when you return three mornings later with a bent hairpin, he only grunts and takes it from your hand.

“Another root?” he asks.

“A bird,” you say.

Bucky huffs despite himself and fixes it in less than five minutes.

Then you come back with a clasp from your dress. Then a little bronze bell. Then a ring made of twisted copper that you swear belongs to a dryad friend, though Bucky notices it fits your finger perfectly when he gives it back.

You don’t have gold or silver, and Bucky knows that, so he insisted you don’t pay him. You said nonesense! And only ever pay him in flowers.

He’ll never admit it but it’s… sweet.

You gave him small white blossoms, bluebells, white thyme, and tiny yellow things you say grow near the river. Sometimes you bring fruit wrapped in leaves, because apparently you’ve decided he forgets to eat and apparently you’re right.

The first time, Bucky says, “This isn’t payment.”

You look genuinely worried. “Do you not like them?”

“No, I—” He stops, because saying I like them feels impossible and saying I like you feels too vulnerable. He looks down at the flowers in your hands, too bright for his forge, and mutters, “They’ll die in here.”

You smile. “Then I’ll bring more.”

And you do.

Soon there are flowers everywhere, tucked into old jars, hanging upside down from the rafters where the heat dries them beautifully. One little daisy sits in a crack on his workbench for three days before he realises he’s been carefully moving around it.

He tells himself he is only being polite.

Except he starts saving pretty scraps of gold and copper and stone because maybe you’ll bring him another broken little thing and maybe he can make it better than it was before.

You ask him to fix a chain, and he adds tiny leaves to it.

You ask him to mend a pin, and he shapes the end into a flower.

You ask him if he can make a clasp stronger, and he makes it so beautiful you stare at it with no thoughts for a full second.

Bucky looks away every time.

He’s not making pretty things because he thinks you’re pretty. That would be ridiculous. He makes swords for kings and armour for heroes. He doesn’t sit in his forge at night thinking about what different shades of gold would look like against your skin.

Ugh. Fine. He does.

One day, Bucky realises you have not come by in too long.

The forge feels too quiet without the little chime of your anklet, without you leaning over his workbench and asking if something hopelessly broken can still be fixed.

So he goes looking, until he realizes he doesn’t actually know where you live.

He asks a fisherman near the cliffs says he saw a wood nymph by the olive groves that morning. He asks an old woman carrying figs and says she thinks you keep to the trees by the river when you are upset, though she doesn’t explain how she knows that and Bucky doesn’t ask. A shepherd points him farther inland.

By the time Bucky finds you, he is already in a temper, but not at you. At the world, mostly. At whatever has kept you away. At himself for caring enough to come all this way.

Then he sees you, sitting by the riverbank with your knees drawn up, your face turned away, shoulders hunched so small The whole grove is green and dappled with afternoon light, lovely in the way nymph places always are.

You are crying.

Oh.

He clears his throat.

You look up, startled, and then your eyebrows softened when you see him. You are relieved.

“Bucky,” you say, and your voice wobbles.

He hates whoever caused that.

He comes closer. “What happened?”

You wipe at your face with the heel of your hand and laugh a little, embarrassed. “It’s silly.”

He waits.

You glance down at the grass. “I made a flower crown this morning.”

Bucky says nothing.

“I know,” you say quickly. “It sounds ridiculous.”

“It doesn’t.”

You look at him then, something in Bucky’s chest goes tight.

“I spent all morning on it,” you murmur. “I made it from river jasmine and clover and the little blue flowers that grow by the reeds. It was very pretty.”

He can imagine it.

You make a face that is halfway between misery and indignation. “A local river god stole it.”

Bucky blinks.

“He said it was the prettiest thing he’d seen in a long time,” you continue, clearly offended all over again, “and then he just… he just took it. Put it on his own head and disappeared back into the water.”

For a moment, Bucky can only stare.

That little river bastard.

Bucky knows a little of what that’s like. He has spent his whole life making beautiful things only for someone else to walk away with them. At least, though, he’s beautifully compensated for it. 

“Come to my forge in three days,” he says.

When he gets back to his forge, three men are waiting with commissions. And enough money to last him many months.

Bucky looks at all of them and says, “No.”

Then he shuts himself inside the forge and begins to make the most intricate thing he has ever made.

He bent gold into branches and shaped silver into tiny blossoms. He embeds blue stones like river flowers, set like dew. Each leaf was made by hand, each petal delicate beneath his metal fingers.

He has made a flower crown that will not wilt.

The, you come to his forge.

Bucky hears the anklet first, that soft little chime he has grown helplessly fond of. He pretends to be busy, pretends he has not spent three days thinking of you.

Then you step inside, and the forge feels warmer for reasons that have nothing to do with fire.

You have flowers in your hair again. Little white ones this time, tucked messily behind your ears, already wilting from the heat. 

Bucky unwraps the crown after you say hi.

And it’s clear it’s not a crown for a queen. It’s not meant for a throne. It’s simply little piece of your grove, shaped by fire.

For a moment, you only stare.

Then your hands come up to your mouth. “Oh, Bucky,” you whisper.

“If the river god tries to take this away,” His chest goes tight. “Tell him a son of Hephaestus will come for him.”

You look at him like that is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you.

Maybe, from him, it is.

You take it so carefully it makes his heart ache, setting it on your head with delicate fingers. Firelight catches in every petal, every leaf, every little stone, and Bucky forgets all the clever, gruff things he might have said to survive the sight of you.

You look like spring wandered into his forge and decided to stay.

You touch the edge of the crown, shy all at once. “Does it look pretty on me?”

Bucky’s answer comes without a filter. “Everything’s pretty on you.”

Oh, Bucky. 

So you rise onto your toes and kiss him.

Bucky freezes because he’s not expecting it, startled still as stone, both hands hovering uselessly in the smoky air. But you are warm and gentle and careful with him, and when you start to pull away, he finally wakes up and chases another kiss.

His human hand finds your waist, his metal one touches your cheek. 

He kisses you softer, deeper, like he is learning how to love again for the first time since the Hydra nearly killed him. 

When you part, you look away shyly and rest your forehead against his chest. Bucky tries to ignore the patch of green growing by your feet magically, your emotions are bursting from the ground, but he can’t help but smile anyway. 

The crown glimmers in your hair.

Bucky finally looks down at his hands, one flesh and one bronze, and thinks of every weapon he has ever made. All those years, he believed that that was all his hands were good for.  

But you’re standing in his arms, wearing metal spring on your head, and for the first time in his life, he thinks maybe that was never true.

Maybe his hands can make beautiful things, too.

Maybe they were meant to hold you. 

(You come back in a few days with a freshly made flower crown, of course. When it dries, he casts it in iron 🫶)

-

[caeruleusbarnes]

Sleepy Confessions

pairing: avenger!bucky x avenger!reader

summary: When Bucky had trouble falling asleep, he sought you out for some company and comfort. What he didn’t expect was that between fatigue and vulnerability, feelings had a way of coming through.

word count: 4.1k

warnings: Very brief mentions of Bucky’s past and nightmares, Not exactly smutty but it’s hinted at, Other than that just a whole lot of fluff and comfort

author’s note: Honestly kinda nervous, this is my first tumblr post ever! I edited this a few days ago but couldn’t really bring myself to proofread it because my own writing always cringes me out, so I’m sorry for any mistakes! I’m planning on posting a small sequel sometime next week and really hope that you enjoy this part, comments and feedback would be highly appreciated!

I do not give my consent for my work to be posted on other platforms or used for AI in any context.

Bucky Barnes wasn't unfamiliar with sleepless hours and restless nights.

As a matter of fact, they were a common companion by now. 

Not one he necessarily liked, but he couldn't exactly do anything about it. He just pushed through the restless nights filled with nothing else but tossing and turning and the occasional slumber which never really held on long because nightmares and memories didn't give him any peace to actually rest.

Getting three hours of sleep wasn't unusual for him, but Bucky highly prided himself in being able to function well, despite whatever fatigue and exhaustion that little of sleep usually brought.

He was a super soldier, after all. Surely, it would need a little more than that to knock him off his feet, right?

Wrong.

During the last two weeks, Bucky had gotten even less sleep than he normally did. He was constantly on edge, his memories not giving him a break for even a second, reminders of what his life used to be seering through his brain like lighting.

It was exhausting, sure, but he figured he'd tough it out, that it was just a phase that would fade again eventually.

What he didn't expect was just how much it would really get to him, both physically and mentally. His body ached with the need to sleep, muscles so heavy it took him a great amount of strength to even get up in the morning. 

It didn't help that everything around him felt too intense and dull all at once. His headache hadn't left him once during the last fourteen days and neither had the haze that was clouding his brain, the one that made it difficult to even think properly.

Bucky was used to hiding his issues, though. He'd survived worse than this, for fucks sake. A little sleep deprevation wasn't what was going to break him. He wouldn't let that happen. He couldn't let it happen. He didn't want to tell the others about it, either. The last thing he needed was anybody fussing over him like he and his sob story were something that needed pity.

But he was so, so tired.

And that tiredness made him desperate, which was exactly why he was currently standing in front of your room, still contemplating if he should knock or if you'd think that he was pathetic for letting a little lack of sleep get to him so much.

He should just pull himself together.

You wouldn't say that, of course. He knew that better than anyone, but that knowledge unfortunately didn't stop him from overthinking this.

A part of him, the one that got him through seventy years of torture and pain, was currently screaming at him to keep his distance, to not allow any vulnerablity.

Vulnerability meant weakness, and that always led to punishment.

That's how it used to be, at least.

But this wasn't Hydra and you weren't anything like his old handlers. In fact, you were one of the nicest people he knew. You got along with everyone, constantly filling his days with your bad jokes and stupidly beautiful smiles.

Your laugh was even worse. The sound was like music to his ears, making him feel lightheaded in a way that had nothing to do with his sleep deprivation and everything to do with you.

It was his fucking favorite sound in the world, just like you were his favorite person.

He couldn't tell you that, of course.

The two of you were friends.

And even though his feelings for you had stopped just being friendly a very long time ago, that was a fact he had to remind himself of every day. You didn't see him as any more than what the two of you were, which was very close, but still painfully platonic friends.

You had told him, though- multiple times- that whenever he needed something, you would be there. No matter how big or small, you had promised him that he could always come to you.

And right now, all he really needed was one of your hugs that never failed to make the world around him go quiet, giving his mind the kind of break it barely got anymore.

It would solve all his problems, he was sure of it.

He knew that you were still awake. With his kind of hearing, he could clearly make out the sound of your favorite show still running on the TV.

Taking one last deep breath to hype himself up, he carefully raised his hand and scraped his knuckles against the door, loud enough for you to hear, but still gentle, so he would hopefully not startle you.

For a moment he was sure that you probably didn't hear him, but then he could make out the quiet rustle of sheets and bare feet lightly padding against the floor.

The door opened and there you were, your hair a mess, a sleepy expression on your face and clothed in an old tshirt and red flannel pants.

God, you were beautiful.

"Buck?" A small crease formed between your eyebrows as you took him in and he winced, realising that he probably looked awful. His short hair was standing off in messy strands and his eyes were red rimmed and puffy from exhaustion. The dark bags under his eyes probably didn't help, either. 

Bucky knew that you'd noticed that something was off, of course. 

All week, you had watched him with those observant eyes of yours, checking in on him whenever you could. 

You didn't push, though. You just let him approach you at his own pace, which he appreciated.

"What are you doing here? Is everything okay?" He hated how concerned you sounded. He didn't want to be the reason for your distress, not ever. Actually, he'd rather get shot than make you upset, but thinking about it, that might be a little contradictory.

"Everything's okay, don't worry. Just… couldn't sleep."

Admitting that he didn't come here because of something serious but solemnly because he couldn't sleep felt even pathetic out loud than it did in his head, if that was even possible.

"I can leave again, though. I know it's late and I really don't want to bother you-"

"Hey, no. None of that. You're always welcome here Buck, you know that," You interruped him gently, keeping him from backtracking before he could even properly start. He wanted to protest again, of course, wanted to apologize for coming to you with his issues this late, but you quickly ushered him inside, like you knew exactly what was going on inside him and scared that if you let him stand in the hallway for a moment longer, he'd bolt again.

Which wasn't too far off the truth, if he was being honest.

When Bucky stepped into the room, he felt the effect it had on him immediately. The smell alone was enough to soothe him, something sweet and flowery and so you his shoulders lost some of their tension immediately.

His skin tingled where you placed your hand on his arm and he was painfully aware of how close you were standing to him right now, looking up at him with the most breathtaking eyes he had ever seen.

They were bothering him right now though, because you still looked so goddamn worried. You didn't need to worry. He was fine, now that he was with you.

"I'm okay," He tried to reassure you, but he wasn't sure how convincing it sounded. "Really."

"Mhmm." The hum was noncomittal at best, your thumb rubbing soft circles over the soft fabric of his shirt.

"Please don't get me wrong, Buck, I don't mind you being here. I really don't. But it's also not common for you to show up at my door at-" You quickly glanced at the clock behind him. "One in the morning. What's actually going on?"

He hated that you were right. This wasn't normal, no matter how much he wanted it to be.

And he wanted it so, so badly.

He wanted to be in your space without having a reason to be there. He wanted your attention more than anythig else in the world and, most importantly, he wanted you.

But he couldn't say any of that, so he just shrugged, swallowing thickly. "I can't sleep. Like, at all. Haven't been able to in a couple of days."

It was more than just that and you both knew it, but he was grateful that you didn't call him out on it. "I just didn't want to be alone today, that's all."

The admission hung between you and Bucky had to suppress the urge to physically backtrack. He barely let himself be this vulnerable, too scared of what the consequences might be.

Somehow, you still always managed to reassure him that he never had to be scared with you.

"Oh, Buck." If anybody else would've said it, he most definitely would've taken it for pity. The only thing he could hear in your voice was raw and honest concern as you pulled him down, right into your arms.

He took his chance immediately, of course. Bucky couldn't help how pathetically touch starved he was when it got to you. Wrapping his arms around you as well, he couldn‘t help the hitch in his breath, his physical reaction mirroring just how crazy you were driving him right now, hugging him like that.

"Shh, it's okay. I got you," You reassured him softly as you cradled the back of his head, your hand soothingly moving up and down his back. The sensations running through his body were almost too much for him to handle, every single nerve in his body hyperaware of how close you were to him.

He didn't know how long the two of you stayed like that- time always did that whenever he was with you.

Wether it was seconds, minutes, a lifetime, he wouldn't know.

Didn't care, either.

He would be content to just be with you for however long you'd have him.

A lifetime did sound pretty damn good, though.

Only when you pulled back did he come back to reality again.

You brought just enough distance between the two of you to be able to look at his face-not that you would even be able to step back completely. Bucky'd hands were fisted tightly in the fabric of your sweater and you were pretty sure that he didn't even notice he was holding onto you so tightly.

When your eyes found his, your heart squeezed uncomfortably in your chest again. You had barely ever seen him this vulnerable; The lines on his face seemed to be carved more deeply than they usually were, but somehow, it didn't make him look older.

Quite the opposite, actually.

It was such a raw kind of exhaustion, it almost looked boyish on him.

And even though that part of him, the one that didn't hold onto his guard as much as he usually did was something you wanted to hold onto forever, thre was also nothing more that you wanted to do than make that horrible heaviness his eyes held vanish again.

Preferably right in this goddamn second.

How about you stay here tonight, hm?" You tried to make it sound like a question more than an offer, wanting him to have the choice to decline even though all you really wanted to do was keep him here until he was feeling better again.

You didn't want him to feel preassured or trapped with you- never that. Selfishly, you wanted him to stay anyway.

"Not too sure I'll be able to sleep."

And there it was.

This wasn't unusual for Bucky. Wether it developed because of Hydra or even before the war you didn't know, but he always did this thing were he didn't take people up on their offers because he was too scared of not living up to their expectations.

What he didn't seem to understand was that you didn't have any expectations. 

You just wanted him, no matter what that might include, or, in this case, didn't include.

You'd never sleep again if it was to keep him company.

"We don't have to." You slowly raised your hand, giving him more than enough time to pull away if he wanted to, before you gently ran your fingers through his hair, a touch he immediately leaned into.

"We can just listen to music, watch a movie, whatever you want. If you fall asleep, you fall asleep. If you don't, we'll just have a good time anyway. No preassure, alright?"

Bucky was having a hard time registering what you were saying with your nails scratching his scalp like that, but he nodded anyway. "Alright."

He had to actively stop himself from letting out a sound of protest when you removed your hand from his hair, immediately missing the feeling of it but also not willing to show you just how much you were getting to him.

When you guided him over to the bed and the two of you sat down together, backs resting against the headboard, Bucky was mindful of keeping at least a little distance between the two of you.

If it was up to him, you'd be wrapped up in his arms by now, but his ma raised him better than that. He was still a gentleman, after all. The least he could do was be respectful, especially with how kind you were being to him.

"So, what do you think. Music or a movie?" Bucky would've been fully content with you just keeping to watch your show whilst he kept you company, but he had a feeling that you wouldn‘t take that for an answer.

"A movie sounds good, if that's okay." 

You smiled at his response, because you'd fully expected him to hit you with an "I don't care, you decide." or "Whatever works best for you. I'm not picky.", so the actual choice, even if he still phrased it like he was asking for permission, was definitely progress.

"Yeah, of course. Anything in particular you wanna watch?"

You were only met with a shrug. "Whatever works best for you. I ain't picky."

Well, that much about progress.

You couldn't help but chuckle at the predictability of the statement, which was just a tad too cute for you to actually be irritated by the cryptic response. "Alright then, my choice it is."

It didn't take you long to find exactly what you were looking for.

It was a black and white movie from the 50s- not old enough for Bucky to know it, but just enough for it to feel familiar.

And again, his predictable reaction was almost too cute for you to handle.

His shoulders relaxed more and more with every minute passing, chest rising and falling evenly as his eyes were glued the the screen. You were glad that he seemed to enjoy it, that he was comfortable enough in your presence to actually allow himself to be captured by it.

Before you could think better of it, because you barely ever possessed the ability to think around Bucky at all, you slowly wrapped your arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer until his head was resting against your shoulder. He went willingly and you raised your hand again, going back to running your fingers through the short strands just like you had done a few minutes ago.

A deep exhale followed almost immediately and you hat to bite your inner cheek to keep yourself from laughing. There was no way that James Buchanan Barnes, ex Winter Soldier and Seargent, was that responsive to something as simple as touch. "Comfy?"

"With you? Always." Your heart stumbled a little in your chest, feelings flaring up that you refused to acknowledge right now. Instead, you pressed a gentle kiss against his soft hair, the gesture alone saying more than any words ever could.

You were so, so fucked.

"Glad to hear that, Buck."

You didn't know if it was the intimacy of the situation, but something felt different between you and Bucky. It wasn't what you were feeling, exactly. No, this was how you always felt around Bucky. There was nothing new about the affection that went way beyond friendship alone.

Right now, it just felt like you were accepting it instead of pushing it away all the time. There was no careful distance anymore, no akward attempts to keep the line of being friends carefully drawn.

There was no dramatic love confession, either. Just a man who carried way too much weight on his shoulders and you, the one person he trusted enough to help him with it.

Not Sam or Steve. Not even Nat, who might understand better how he was feeling right now.

You.

It didn’t catch you off guard because it was big or life changing, but because you didn't expect it to feel this… natural.

It felt like something finally shifted into place, somewhere it had always belonged.

Like the intimacy and closeness you were experiencing right now were how things had always been supposed to be.

About halfway through the movie, most of Bucky's weight was resting against you, his head lying fully on your chest.

His breathing had turned slow and shallow too, and you could see his eyelids drop every few seconds before he forced them open again.

"Go to sleep Bucky. You're tired."

"Don't wanna."

Even though thick with sleep, his voice was still laced with stubborness. It made you chuckle a little, because he was very obviously on the brink of passing out. 

"Any reason for that?"

For a long moment, the only answer you got was a grunt, so you figured he must've actually fallen asleep.

"Don't want this to end."

And there he went, catching you off guard once again.

"Nothing's ending, Buck. I'm not going anywhere."

Now he tilted his head a little, angling it so he could properly meet your eyes. "Still, it'd be different when I wake up."

He wasn't sure what exactly possesed him to actually say this, but he couldn't help himself. Maybe it was proximity between the two of you, because usually, these would be things he'd take to his grave.

"We'd be back to pretending again, sweetheart. And Im not sure if I could handle that. I don't want to pretend anymore. I don't wanna act like I don't feel this way about you, because I do. So much it actually hurts sometimes." Bucky's eyes didn't leave yours for a second and he figured that if he already started, he might as well go all in now. "I don't want this to end. As a matter of fact, I'd never sleep again if it meant that I'd get to keep you like this forever. And I think the sleep deprevation is really getting to me right now because I would never actually say it like this, but I'm tired. And not only the sleepy kind of tired, but tired of pretending like my feelings aren't real. Like this is what friends just do- because it isn't, is it?

Your heart was racing so quickly behind your ribcage now, you could hear it pounding in your ears. There was no way this was actually happening right now.

He was right. This wasn't what friends did and you couldn't be more relieved that you apparently weren't the only one feeling like this.

"And call me crazy, but I feel like this hasn't been friendly for a very long time now."

Bucky's words were slightly slurred because of how tired he was, his accent thicker than what you were used to.

"This ain't up fo me to decide though, darlin'. The only thing I can tell you is that I know what I want and it's sure as hell not being your friend. I wanna be yours, the only question is if you want that, too."

For a five very long seconds, neither of you said anything.

Bucky was just about to pull back, to put some distance between you because he realised that this might've been the entirely wrong situation to confess feelings like that. He was sure that he must've said too much, because that was about the biggest hard launch he could've gone for.

That much about wanting to be gentle.

What Bucky didn't understand was that you weren't not saying anything because you didn't want him like that, but because you were so overwhelmed with your emotions, talking seemed impossible right now.

So instead of giving him the rejection he was already bracing for, you did the best thing you could think of and reached for his face, carefully cradling his cheek as you leaned down just close enough to push your lips against his.

It was barely even a kiss, but Bucky still felt like his whole universe rearranged itself and now circled around that moment alone. Fuck the sun and any other planet that might be important for the solar system to work. Why the hell would he need that if he had you?

"Does that answer your question?"

You still hadn't pulled back and your lips were moving against his with every word you spoke, which was driving him absolutely insane.

He was the one to lean in now, more than ready to give you a proper kiss instead of responding.

This one wasn't soft or careful like the first one had been. No, this kiss was desperate and hungry and everything the fog in his brain allowed him to feel right now. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers curling in his hair tightly, causing heat to coil low in his stomach.

Just as he was about to pull you on top of him, very eager to keep going despite nearly falling asleep a few minutes ago, you pulled back again.

This time, he couldn't help the embarrasingly desperate sound that escaped his mouth.

He could feel heat creeping up his neck, but you only smiled.

"As much as I want to," You murmured and pressed a soft kiss against his forehead, one he greedily leaned into, fucking on seeming needy now, because he was.

And he was also pretty sure that you‘d noticed too by now.

"You need rest, my love. You're running on fumes."

He was feeling dizzy again, butt he was almost completely sure that it was because of the petname now, not because of the exhaustion.

Damnit, what the hell were you doing with him?"

"This isn't a dream, right? This is real? I'm not going crazy, am I?"

Again, he might sound pathetic, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted this so badly, he couldn‘t even stand the thought of not having you, especially now that he got a taste and knew exactly it could look like.

"Not a dream," You confirmed, smile widening as you pressed another kiss to his face. "This is very real, I promise."

"You sure?"

"Very sure, Buck." 

He still wanted to pull you down on top of him and kiss you senseless until neither of you could breathe anymore, but you were being reasonable. He did need sleep, wether he wanted to admit it or not.

He decided to do the next best thing and still pulled you into his arms, just without the kissing part. Bucky embraced you tightly, almost like he still didn't believe that any of this was actually happening. 

If he was being honest, he didn't. Maybe he had died from all the goddamn exhaustion and somehow ended up in heaven. Even though he wasn't sure how that would be more realistic than this happening in real life, it seemed to be the most reasonable conclusion to come to.

Your head was resting on his chest just like his had when you were watching the movie, arms loosely wrapped around his torso.

He let himself enjoy the view just a moment longer, eyes on your beautiful face as you smiled up at him.

In that moment, Bucky came to the conclusion of exactly three things.

First, you were the most breathtaking sight he had ever laid his eyes on in his whole life.

Second, he would go through every single second of his 109 years of living if it meant that this was where he would end up.

And third, it might actually not hurt to close his eyes for a bit.

For the first time since way before the war, Bucky Barnes managed to sleep through the whole night without nightmares, pain or gunfire interrupting his sleep.

And it was all because of you.

[miraclediviner]

ᯓ★ Thinking about Priest! Bucky ...

Bucky Barnes! who never planned on being a preacher. After school, he moved to the big city, working dead-end jobs to make ends meet. This put him at odds with his father, who expected him to take his place at the helm of the church. After years of slumming, he finally feels a strong pull back home to the sleepy town where he was once raised. His mother calls, telling him that Father Barnes had fallen deathly ill, and Bucky would have to move back home to take his place. For the first time in a long time, he thinks that maybe divine intervention is involved.

Priest! Bucky who can't communicate with God. A man who never truly believed stands at the foot of the cross and cannot hear the chimes of angels. Cannot feel the soft pads of Mary's fingers on his cheeks as he preaches. Only the smooth sounds of weeping children and wailing women caress his ears as he speaks to them with vigorous conviction. He speaks of himself as the shepherd, guiding each lamb safely out of the hands of evil. Only a man standing on his own two feet, guided by the principles of himself, could save a flock such as his own.

Priest! Bucky who tries to do right by his congregation. He never steals from his flock, choosing to take collections and put the money back into the church. He believes in the people who come to him for grace and forgiveness. He only speaks of what he knows to be true, never mentioning being willed by god. He keeps the congregation's secrets, never treating them with disgust or judgment. He rights the wrongs that are necessary to address, always confronting those who choose to walk in the Lord's light but act in the devil's faith.

Priest! Bucky who won't take a wife. He sees himself as a conduit of truth, only to walk in the path directed by the Most High, himself. A wife would never understand what it takes to be the true leader of a flock like his.

Priest! Bucky who sins just as anyone else does. He drinks himself to sleep and he smokes himself awake. He takes flattery as it comes and contention as it goes. He knows that all shall be well in the end. If the lord died for our sins, then what would be the point of abstaining from them?

Priest! Bucky who looks down upon his congregation on a breezy summer day, to find an unfamiliar face mingling among the daft-hearted people he had come to serve. A young woman sat two rows away from the podium, as prim and sweet as a little lamb should be. You pique his interest, nervous hands and wandering eyes alike. You were looking for a purpose, and he had the power to grant you that place.

Priest! Bucky who lingers around you, watching how you integrate yourself within the flock. Listening to the whispers of your name on the lips of others, ears sharp as they speak about your dedication to Christ. How you've given up all worldly needs to serve in the Lord's likeness. How willing were you to do the right thing if the Lord called you to do so?

Priest! Bucky who touches himself thinking about you, hands hidden underneath the thick oak desk in his office as he pulls himself from his slacks. You're just so beautiful, so graceful. How would your delicate hands wrap around him as he read hymns to you? Would you be willing to serve him as you did your Lord? Those pretty pink petals wrapped around him softly as you try your hardest to reach the base. He cums, the cream leaking from him, slicking his hand and coating his robes.

Priest! Bucky who makes an effort to speak to you. Whether it's assigning you tasks or asking you about church-related activity, he's always itching to speak to you.

"Would you like to walk the collection plate this Sunday? I'm sure everyone would be happy to see your involvement in the service."

"I hear that the women are holding a bake sale to raise money for Sunday school. Are you planning on participating? Had a chance to taste that pie you brought in for the potluck last week, and I think you'd do well."

"John told me that his wife is hosting dinner for the congregation tonight. I think everyone would love to see you there."

"How'd you enjoy the service today? I saw that you seemed intrigued by my understanding of Peter 4:8. If you'd like to discuss, I am always of service to you."

"I hope to see you in the confessional sometime soon. Forgiveness and understanding are the only paths to salvation."

Priest! Bucky who sits next to you in the confession booth, only a thin slat-filled window between you. He listens to you speak about your estranged parents, how hard life has been lately after moving away from home on your own. He sits silently, taking in every fear and worry you're willing to disclose until you finish with a deep sigh.

"A woman of your strength shall be bathed in the Lord's light. He is proud of your resilience. It seems to me that he has given you the gift of humility and grace. Blessings like these, even when they exist as small as a mustard seed, deserve to be held with care."

Priest! Bucky who parades you around like his golden calf. The flock notices how quickly he has taken to you, whispering about the prospects of marriage and a possible new chapter for the church of St. Gerald. He brings you into his office after service ends every Sunday for bible study, widening your understanding of the scripture in ways you never thought possible.

Priest! Bucky who is curious about you, asks about your hopes for the future. Do you want a family? What are your career plans, if you have them? After a long talk, you feel comfortable enough to speak about your virginity. You tell him that you were waiting for marriage, telling him that the lord will tell you when the right man comes along.

"Virgins are the bringers of change. The lord shall bless you for your diligence," he replies.

Priest! Bucky whose hands wander. His strong palms are planted against your waist as he moves past you. Nimble fingers pulling the stray hairs off your cheeks as you stand before him. The backside of his hand brushes against your chest. All of this must be an accident! No woman of your standing should feel impelled to lust, especially after a man such as Father Barnes.

Priest! Bucky who pulls you into his office after Sunday school, urges you to sit with him as he has something important to discuss. Once seated, he speaks to you about a dream he had the night before, recounting the moment that God came to him. He describes a conversation in which the lord tells him the flock shall soon graze upon greener pastures. A stream of excitement surges through you at the prospect of collective salvation.

He pauses, icy eyes scanning your soft frame before he continues,

" There is a caveat. The only way we can bring salvation to our people is through birth. Bringing a child before him would open the floodgates for blessings and abundance for the entire congregation." You sit stunned, "God asks for a miracle of the greatest proportion?" He nods slowly, reaching to grasp your hands. "He has picked you. You shall be the mother of our child. Are you willing to take on this task that God has bestowed upon us little lamb?"

Priest! Bucky whose rosary bounces in between your eyes as he slides into you slow and steady, the stretch of his cock bringing you to tears. He leans down, pressing your back against the large oak desk of his office to kiss your tears away, telling you

"Pain is necessary to bring change sweet girl. Soon enough, pleasure shall come."

Priest! Bucky who slides his fingers into your mouth, collecting spit off of your tongue. You moan around him as he matches the rhythm between hand and body.

Priest! Bucky who begs you to be good for him. He fucks you slowly, your legs limp around his shoulders as he grinds into you after he's cum twice. You've been under him for hours, but his spirit has not wavered.

"He commands me to continue," he moans, "The only way it will take is if we continue- please, God please, let me continue."

Priest! Bucky who lies you against his chest, his breathing lulling you to sleep as he talks to you about your new role among the flock. How bearing his seed will make you the most important person among the congregation, a new saint among men.

Mecca’s Notes ⭑.ᐟ WOOOHOOOOO YOU MADE ITTTT! Want to give a big shoutout to @phoenix-in-writing for beta reading and lending inspiration for these headcannons with her fic Full Of Grace! go read it if you haven’t!! Finally out of the writing slump so hopefully more things to come soon :}}

Mecca’s Maestro’s ⭑.ᐟ

GENERAL TAGLIST- @sunday-bug @gremlin-girly @wherewinterblooms @wint3rbarnes @bucksbby @stanmarvelous @barnes-babydoll @galactict3a @sunshine-daydreams0809 @hyunjinvoid @winter-soldier-vibes @dolcesaints @ladymiseryy

SEB TAGLIST- @buckytakethewheel @overwintering-soldier

BUCKY TAGLIST- @buckybarnes82

miraclediviner 25 all rights reserved

[sunday-bug]

Human Nature

Pairing: Ranger!Bucky x New Ranger!Reader

Content: alternate universe (Bucky doesn't have a vibranium left arm or super soldier serum), age gap (he is about 15 years older than the reader), skinny dipping, drinking/drunkenness, teasing, flirting, grumpy/sunshine trope, reader is described as being smaller than Bucky, suggestive comments, kissing, fade to black

Word Count: 8k

Synopsis: Just when Ranger Barnes thought he was done mentoring rookies, he’s stuck with you: the eternally optimistic newbie with a knack for baked goods and novelty hiking socks. You’re looking forward to a memorable first season in the park, and you’re determined not to let the grumpy, albeit handsome veteran ruin it for you.

Author's Note: I'm excited to share my contribution to Bucky's Dreamhouse collab with the awesome @stantastic-association. Many thanks to @miraclediviner for making this collaboration possible. You are ever the organizer and we all appreciate your hard work. Thank you to @buckybarnes82 for the beta read. ILY. I know nothing about being a park ranger. Don’t come after me. These are strictly ✨ vibes ✨

My Masterlist | Bucky’s Dreamhouse Masterlist

Read on AO3

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - May 15

I was promised no more rookies. No more having to mentor these bright-eyed newbies anymore. HR begged me to take on just one more this summer, so I caved. I meet the kid on Monday. I'd better get hazard pay.

Items of note: Southwest Trail full of stacked rock markers. Disassembled and returned to correct environment. Damn tourists.

After working your ass off earning your degree in conservation and ecology, you’re ready to put your skills to the test and hit the ground running at Buchanan National Park. Instead, you’re stuck in a summer-long training program with the world’s grumpiest man. And you forgot to pack your lunch. You usually have such great luck. Maybe you’ve reached your limit. All those late nights studying, early mornings running across campus to make your lab class, and countless “environmentally friendly” takeout coffee cups have culminated in this. Yes, the park offers stunning views and you don’t have to sit beneath fluorescent lights in a depressing cubicle all day, but your “mentor” leaves much to be desired. Ranger Barnes is the epitome of bitter coffee, furrowed brows, and snarky comments. Can too much fresh air make a person a cynic? You hope not. How can someone who spends all day every day out in the sunshine under blue skies have such a sour attitude? Was he born frowning? Is his face stuck that way? It’s beyond you. He’s worse than a bear in search of his first meal after a long hibernation. It’s only week two. How are you supposed to put up with this for nearly two months?

"Don't forget your logbook, Rookie," he grumbles as he shoves a protein bar and a few clementines in his pack. You watch him zip the bag with ease and set it on a nearby counter.

"Sure thing, Vet," you grumble back. Your nicknames are not at all contentious or uttered with malice. Not at all. Ha. "What's on the agenda today? Ooooh, are we going to yell at tourists for not following park rules? Maybe we’ll get to pick up X-rated litter at the campsites? Or–oh!–you'll even show me the firewatch station? The weather is going to be perfect today, you know."

"We'll see, kid," he mumbles, lacing up his hiking boots with a grunt.

You roll your eyes, tired of his incessant attitude and the unnecessary nickname. Kid. Blech. You're twenty-three, not a child. And if you had to guess, he's at least ten years older than you, maybe more, but still not old enough to call you a kid. You say your name in response, willing him to call you by it instead of the irritating moniker. He nods, but doesn’t apologize.

James "Bucky" Barnes has been a park ranger for nearly sixteen years, and he has the scars and stories to prove it. Newbies tend to romanticize the gig, and his personal mission is to beat the optimism out quickly and quietly—preferably over a Thermos of hot coffee on a cliff side. But you, optimistic little you, were having none of it. Like a wild stallion he just can’t break, you show up everyday with that damned smile plastered across your face, always always armed with some baked goods you've whipped up the night before and a random nature anecdote in the chamber. Today’s is about how direct sunlight on the skin can decrease cortisol levels in the body.

"I made banana bread," you say, pulling the wrapped loaf out of your backpack. “I forgot my lunch, so I’m stealing a piece for our break.”

Bucky smirks knowingly. Like clockwork. "Great. Bears are gonna love you today," he replies.

You scoff. "Don't pretend you don't eat up every last crumb at the end of your shift. I watched you lick the plate clean when I brought that blueberry cheesecake last week." It was amazing. You’d used blueberries from your home garden. They were perfectly round and juicy.

"I was hungry. We hiked all over the damn park that day!" He retorts with a huff.

Such a huffy, grumbly human. "You're probably just getting old," you reply with a shrug and a smirk. "Tiring out faster than you did in your prime. When do you qualify for Medicare again? You must be getting close.”

“Ha-ha,” Bucky faux laughs and grimaces, silently wincing at the idea of you thinking he's past his prime. He turns away from you toward the mirror above the utilitarian sink. The ranger's cabin near the entrance of the park serves as a break room/locker storage/First Aid area with an emergency eye wash station. His reflection shows a few shining grays highlighting his temples and chin. You're not wrong about him being older, but he doesn’t agree with being past his prime. In fact, he feels like he’s just cresting that hill. And he’s definitely not eligible for fucking Medicare anytime soon.

Teasing your pissy mentor has quickly become a highlight of your day, and you giggle under your breath as he inspects himself in the mirror with an appraising look. You change from your slip-on Birks to one of your favorite pairs of hiking socks: sky blue with jump-roping avocados. Bucky turns back toward you and subtly rolls his eyes at your ridiculous socks before throwing on his backpack.

“Do you ever have any fun? Or do you get your kicks from sucking it out of whatever room you happen to be in?" You ask as you pull on your boots with an oomph.

“Hmm,” he watches you and pretends to mull it over, scratching his fingers through the stubble on his chin. "The second one. Fun-sucking."

You send a tight-lipped frown his way as you lace up your boots and rearrange a few things in your pack. You always feel like a kid on the first day of school when you put it on–two thumbs through the loops as you smile enthusiastically at the beautiful day outside. You’re ready for whatever magic the park decides to show you today. 

Bucky glances at the banana bread on the communal counter and back at your pack. "You're not going to bring more than a piece with you? Won’t you get hungry?"

"Did you not point out earlier that I'd be eaten alive by the rabid bears that inhabit the park if I take that out of the wrapping?"

He shakes his head. "Dramatic much?"

You click your tongue and smile. "Only because I know it gets under your skin, old man."

He makes a mental note to pack some extra food with his lunch tomorrow in case you forget again. Rolling his shoulders with a big sigh, he declares, "You're gonna kill me before I retire."

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - May 29

The Rookie is going to kill me. This job is going to break her heart. She's too optimistic, too impressionable. I need to have a serious talk about burnout and managing expectations.

Items of note: Picked up litter left by an unsanctioned campsite. At least they used protection. Insane banana bread. Buy better sun protection-do I look old?

An official summer kick-off party with the other rangers is not Bucky’s definition of fun, but you, little ball of incessant sunshine, assured him that it would be a great time, stating that it’s important for elderly people to get out of their homes and interact with others. It keeps the mind sharp and the hips groovin’. He’d rolled his eyes at that, but you peeped his mouth turned up slightly at the corner–a crack in his invisible shield.

“You never come to these things,” Alex, a fellow ranger, pokes at Bucky as you two sit on a wooden picnic bench under some string lights. The bar hosting the event is rustic with a touch of mountain-town charm that’s hard to pin down.

“Yeah, well, this one convinced me with her feminine trickery,” he huffs, scratching at the sweaty label on his bottle of Coors.

You laugh and roll your eyes. “The feminine trickery was the homemade tiramisu I brought on Thursday,” you inform Alex swiftly. “He has a sweet tooth. I simply played to his weakness. And now, Bucky, you get to relax and recharge to the sounds of cicadas and John Denver. Don’t forget to thank me!”

“Not happenin’,” he grunts as he takes a drink of beer. 

Alex laughs and offers his drink up in cheers. You clink yours against it. “No, seriously,” he starts, “I haven’t seen Barnes at one of these work parties in… damn, have I ever seen you at one? So, whatever you’re doing, keep it up, new girl!” He waves you both off with a salute as he heads inside to the bar.

“See, I told you that people want you here,” you say, shifting your attention back to Bucky. “They look up to you, Vet.”

“It’s not that I think people don’t want me here,” he starts. “I guess I’m just more of a solo guy.”

“That’s called a loner, Bucky,” you say with a friendly wink. “Alone time is important. I don’t want you to think I’m knocking solitude, but being around people can be nice too.”

He nods like he agrees and notices your nearly empty glass. “What are you drinking?” 

You look from him to your empty glass and back again. “A Sea Breeze.”

“Sea breeze?” He repeats for confirmation with a furrowed brow. “Now what the hell is that?”

You laugh at his antics and list the juicy ingredients in the cocktail. He stands up and motions for you to hand him your empty glass. “Here. I got your next fruity little drink, Rookie.”

“Okay,” you smile, giving him the glass. “But only if you get one too. Don’t be a fruity little drink hater, Bucky.”

He swishes around the remnants of the drink and brings it to his nose. “It smells like sugar.”

“Tastes even better,” you quip. 

He narrows his eyes at you and notices where your tinted Chapstick has transferred to the glass. He lifts the same spot to his lips and takes a sip of the watered down drink. Your stomach heats at the intimate gesture. Or maybe it’s the alcohol. 

“It’s sweet,” he says. “I’ll get one for myself if you take a shot of tequila with me.”

Your eyes widen in shock. “Bucky Barnes, resident loner and fun sucker, wants to do shots? Has Hell frozen over?”

“I don’t want to do shots,” he corrects with a raised brow. “I want to do one shot with the Rookie. You in?”

“I’m in.”

Bucky isn’t sure when one shot turned into three, but now the fireflies are starting to look a bit angelic, like little glowing halos floating around the purple night sky. “Hell did freeze over,” he chuckles. “There’s tiny angels everywhere.”

You smirk and laugh. “Bucky, are you drunk?”

“Mmm…” he thinks it over, looking at you with a slightly glazed expression. “Just a little buzzed. Don’t you have socks with fireflies on them?” He asks, looking under the picnic table. You snap your legs together.

“I’m wearing a dress, Bucky! Eyes up here.”

His face turns an even deeper shade of red. “I’m sorry. I was looking for your cute socks.”

“I’m wearing sandals, Ranger. No cute socks tonight.” You say the last part with a pointed look. Bucky never says things like that. He’s always extremely professional, albeit grumpy as fuck. Get a few drinks in the guy and all of a sudden he turns to pudding.

“I wasn’t trying to look up your dress,” he reiterates, clearly embarrassed. 

“I know!” You assure him. “We’re colleagues.”

“Right,” he mutters, looking out at the slowly emptying parking lot.

Before you can dig more into whatever that exchange was, some more coworkers, Natalie and Anton, skip over with handfuls of tiny glasses… full of some type of clear liquid.

“A round on us!” Natalie practically shouts. She’s tipsy and adorable. Anton holds out a glass for you and Bucky. 

“To say thank you for helping us with the Junior Ranger camping fiasco last week,” Anton adds, looking fairly sober. Ah, the Junior Ranger camping fiasco. Who knew that flushing a tampon was going to wreak havoc on the entire education cabin? What began as an instructional lecture about what to do if you encounter a bear turned into how to properly dispose of feminine products. Preteens.

You hold a hand up to the offered shot. “That’s so sweet, but I’m feeling good after a couple glasses of water. I can’t.”

“More for me!” Natalie says, downing your shot. 

Bucky takes his, clinking it against Anton’s, and downs it. He hisses at the heat of the alcohol and mutters a thank you. 

“See you guys at CPR training next month!” Anton shouts over his shoulder as they stagger back into the bar.

“CRP training… I forgot about that…” Bucky mutters, sitting down heavily on his side of the picnic table. He’s clearly drunk. You glance over at his truck and frown. You’re going to have to get him an Uber. 

“Bucky? Are you okay with an Uber? I can reserve one for you. You can’t drive,” you say, reaching across the table to get his attention. He sways a bit and smiles.

“You can’t drive,” he chuckles. 

“I’m fine to drive. I switched to water after we took a shot together,” you tell him as you pull up the rideshare app on your phone. “Eighty nine dollars? For economy? Christ…” You look up at him, but his eyes are already on you. He’s smiling and a small giggle-like sound erupts from his chest.

“Keys are in my pocket, Rookie,” he slurs. “Come get them.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Bucky. We can take my car. Just don’t throw up in it or you’re paying to get it detailed! We can pick up your truck in the morning.”

“Mmkay,” he agrees easily. “Whatever ya say, cutie patoots.”

“Good lord. Can you walk?” You ask with a grimace. You’re not sure you can support his weight back to your vehicle. He’s much broader and taller than you.

“I can walk,” he utters. “C’mon.”

You offer him a friendly arm, and he loops through yours. “Are you okay?”

“Mhmm.”

He manages to walk fairly steadily back to your Subaru. You help him fold his large body into the passenger seat and buckle him in. Alex walks up as you shut the car door. You offer him a weak smile. “Gotta get this one back to his place. Any idea where he lives?”

“Not a clue. He’s so private,” Alex says. “You sure you’re okay to drive and get him home?”

You tsk. “Yeah, we’ll be fine. Drive safe.”

“You too.”

You get into the car and buckle up before turning to ask Bucky for his address, but he’s out cold.

“Damn it, Barnes!” You yell, but he doesn’t even stir. To your place it is.

The drive is quick and quiet since your driving companion is currently passed out with his mouth slightly ajar. You pull into your parking spot and thank God that you live on the first floor because you have no idea how you’d get this larger than life man up a flight of stairs. 

“Bucky?” You ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt. No answer. You shake his arm. “Bucky?” You yell. “Ranger Barnes!” Louder this time.

“Huh?” He rouses, eyes slowly opening and taking in his surroundings. He looks around the unfamiliar car interior and then slowly turns to you. “Oh, hi sunshine.”

“Feeling more like an annoyed rain cloud right now,” you offer. “You’re going to sleep on my couch, okay?” 

“Couch. Yeah.”

“Let’s go, old man.”

The state of your apartment is a work in progress to put it mildly. Half open boxes are strewn about. You moved here at the start of the summer, right after graduation, but you’d started at the park at the same time. Days have been long, so it’s been hard to keep momentum and your energy levels up to get fully unpacked. 

“You’re messy,” Bucky says, looking around the place on unsteady legs. 

“You are the bigger mess right now,” you snarl. “There’s the couch.”

He plops onto it quickly while you grab him a clean blanket and pillow. He has one arm thrown over the back of the couch when you get back, just staring at your ceiling. You hand him the bed linens and stand back, crossing your arms. 

“I’ll take you back to your truck in the morning,” you say.

“Mmkay,” he agrees with a sleepy voice as he pulls the blanket up to his chin.

“Night, Bucky.”

“Night angel lightning bug.”

You sigh and head to your bedroom. What a night.

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - June 8

She hasn't exiled me for her having to drive my drunk ass home after the work party. I'm such a dumbass. And I can't get the vanilla smell of the blanket she threw at me out of my nose. So warm. So her. God damn it.

Items of note: Soil samples today. Google what's in a Sea Breeze besides shame and regret.

The forecast is predicting a high in the mid-nineties today, so you packed your swimsuit in the hopes of taking a dip in the crystal clear lake you spotted a couple weeks ago. It’s secluded, clean, and deep enough to actually enjoy a swim in the cool water.

Bucky is in a better mood than usual today, and has honestly been more friendly overall since the night you let him couch surf. He was awkward as hell the next morning–all apologies and fancy takeout coffee. You assured him it was fine, and definitely didn’t bring up all the pet names he called you when he was out of his right mind. Maybe you remind him of an old flame, but you know it didn’t mean anything. It’s best to just keep trucking until you’re done with this summer training and finally, blissfully on your own. But today, you blame his good mood on your famous fruit salad. You brought it one day last week and it was devoured by lunchtime. You made a huge bowl for everyone again, but this time you made a separate, smaller one for Bucky without the kiwi. You noticed him picking the tiny green chunks out last time.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he says as he forks another mouthful of the fruit into his mouth. Some juice dribbles down his lip and he licks it up. “I can just eat around them.”

You shrug. “It’s no trouble. Plus, maybe I only made you your own bowl to sweet talk you into finally showing me the firewatch tower. It’s called an ulterior motive, or you know… feminine trickery.”

He laughs genuinely before rolling his eyes and spearing a strawberry. “I know what an ulterior motive is. And I stand by the trickery sentiment.”

“So… firewatch tower?” You ask with pleading eyes. You can’t place why, but you’ve been drawn to the tower since your first shift. It has an otherworldly, slightly spooky aura to it, like anything could happen up there. Maybe you are just excited by heights.

“Maybe,” he replies. “If you behave.”

“Maybe?! I made a special bowl of fruit salad sans kiwi for you, Mr. Picky. Show me the tower!”

He laughs and washes his bowl in the sink before filling up two stainless steel bottles with ice water and putting them in his pack. 

“Are you super thirsty today or something?” You ask, nodding toward his backpack. “Ooh, did you meet a milf at the bar and drink one too many Sea Breezes?”

“A milf? Jesus, no,” he says with a frown. “It’s going to be really hot today so we need to stay hydrated. I can carry more weight in my pack than you.”

Oh. He packed you an extra water bottle. How… thoughtful. He’s usually all survival of the fittest. “Well, thanks, but I can handle an extra bottle. You don’t have to–”

He tightens the straps of his pack and stands up straight, looking you in the eye while he cuts you off. “I had a former rookie pass out from heat stroke on a trail a few summers back. I don’t want that to happen again, especially…” he trails off before clearing his throat. “Anyway, let’s get going. We’re in C sect today and the Gator is in the shop for repairs, so we have a long trek on foot.”

“Okay, let me lace up my boots,” you say, quickly plopping down on the wooden bench. 

Bucky notes your socks today: bananas wearing fedoras and carrying briefcases. “Where do you even find those?” He nods toward your feet–one sock on, one foot still bare. His eyes flit from the bright orange polish on your toes to your concentrated face. The tip of your tongue pokes out between your front teeth as you pull the other sock on. 

“My cute socks?” You ask, wondering if he remembers calling them that.

“Sure, I guess.”

You laugh and nod, not sure if he’s playing it off or really doesn’t remember. “My brother gets me a pair for my birthday and Christmas every year. We like to get each other silly, but useful things.”

Bucky smiles. “So what do you get him?”

You pull on your boots and start lacing up. “He’s a lawyer so he has to wear ties and fancy clothes to work. I get him vintage cuff links, bow-ties, pocket squares… that kind of thing. I like to find them at thrift shops, estate sales, you know. The crazier the pattern or style, the better. It must run in our genes to like loud accessories. I once found a pair of cuff links that were tiny bottles of Yoohoo. He loves those."

Bucky chuckles. “How thoughtful. That’s a nice tradition.”

You finish tying your boots.

“C’mon, Rook. Let’s get going.”

After a few hours and miles in, you have to admit that Bucky was right–you are beyond thankful for that extra icy cold water bottle he packed this morning. It’s toasty outside, but thankfully nearly time for lunch. You’ve already finished your first bottle of water, and your throat thanks you as you drink from the second. You sit down on a bench under a covered shelter spot with a few picnic benches, relishing the shade as you check your watch.

Bucky sees you check the time. “We can break early and eat in the shade,” he says, starting to unzip his backpack more. There’s a line of sweat staining his shirt where the pack was sitting against his spine.

“Oh, thank goodness. I’m roasting,” you say. You sigh and look around, realizing exactly where you are. “Actually, I’m going to eat lunch in a bit. I want to walk down to that lake and take my break there if that’s okay.”

“Lac nu?” He asks with a smirk as he takes the lid off his lunch.

You tilt your head, confused. “Is that the name of the lake?” You suppose you hadn’t noticed a sign the last time you were in the area.

Bucky nods slowly, crunching into a carrot.

“Okay, well, I’m going to Lack New or whatever it’s called for my break. I’ll be back in an hour,” you say as you saunter off. He gets so weirdly quiet sometimes. He’s hard to read.

“Watch out for snakes,” he says loudly before he laughs under his breath. He watches you walk away as he bites into another carrot and his tongue. “Damn it!”

Bucky finishes his lunch quickly and picks up some nearby litter before checking his watch–still forty-five minutes before lunch is over. He always ate too fast from working up an appetite logging miles in the park. He fans himself with his logbook and undoes the top button of his brown uniform shirt.

“Ah, fuck it,” he grunts as he slings his pack over one shoulder and follows your path down to the small lake. He normally doesn’t swim in the park because he doesn’t want to interact with dumb tourists, but he doubts anyone will be down there but you. Even though you’re way more chipper than a normal human, you know how to appreciate the park’s beauty without ruining the ecosystem or leaving your mark behind.

The sunlight streams through the surface of the water into the lake below, painting sparkles across the rocky bottom as you swim beneath the clear veneer. The water is lukewarm and doing a magnificent job of cooling you off. You turn and start to float on your back, closing your eyes to the sun for several moments. When you move upright to start another lap, you let out a squeal at Bucky standing on the grassy lake shore.

He holds his hands up in defense with a small smirk. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You laugh out a sigh in relief that it’s just him. “It’s fine. Just glad I’m not getting axe murdered!” You say as you tread water, letting your head bob above the water. He looks from you to your discarded uniform shoved into your unzipped pack and back again.

“How’s the water?” He asks as he drops his backpack on the grass next to yours. 

“It’s perfect, actually,” you smile, readjusting the strap of your swimsuit. “Are you coming in?”

His eyes follow your hand across your shoulder back down under the water. “Would you mind? I don’t have swim trunks, though, so maybe I’ll just put my feet in.”

“Oh, get in here. A little skinny dip never hurt anyone,” you tease with a laugh.

“Uh, okay. You’d better turn around unless you want a show.”

You spin around in the water and make a dramatic show of covering your eyes even though you’re facing the other direction. “Just social distance from me, old man.”

He huffs as he undresses quickly, tossing his clothing in a heap at his feet before wading into the lake. It is perfect. When he’s certain his manhood is hidden beneath the water he calls out to you. “Okay, I’m in. Just don’t look down.” 

“Wait, are you seriously naked? I was just joking about skinny dipping!” You shout. 

“Well, I seriously don’t have swim trunks, so…”

“Oh,” you say and swallow before spinning around and putting a bit more distance between your two bodies. You decide to trek forward with the conversation and ignore the elephant (Or was it more like a mouse? Stop, brain. Why are you thinking about it?) in the lake. “The water’s nice, huh?”

“Mhmm,” he hums in agreement. His hand comes up above his eyes to shade the sun from his vision as he looks at you. “You know it’s called Lac nu, right? Not Lack New.” He says the former with a French accent and the latter with a slightly offensive American South one.

“What are you talking about?” You ask, perplexed.

“This lake,” he starts, waving a pointer finger around the area. “It’s called Lac nu. It translates to Naked Lake.” He says the last part with a breathy laugh and flicks some water at you.

You snort and roll your eyes. “I guess I’m breaking the rules then?”

“I won’t tell,” he says with a playful wink.

“I think there’s probably a spot in the employee handbook about this,” you joke.

“Skinny dipping?” He asks.

“No, winking at me when you’re naked,” you say with a giggle.

He chuckles and dips lower into the water before dipping his head under to wet his hair. When he resurfaces, your eyes trace the beads of water racing down his neck.

“You’re in a good mood today,” you say, swimming in a circle around him, always keeping your eyes above the water. “What’s the occasion?”

Bucky lets out a sarcastic “ha-ha” and blows water droplets from his lips before dipping back under the water. You watch his eyes open under the surface and drop your jaw as he resurfaces. 

“Did you just… sneak a peek?” You ask, pretending to be scandalized. You hold your arms around your body, covering your chest. “Did you just check out your controversially younger coworker? Your mentee?” 

He splashes you with yet another eye roll. “First of all, I’m the naked one here. So if anyone should feel exposed, it’s me. Second of all, you’re not controversially younger than me. How old do you think I am, anyway?”

You rub your chin, pretending to think before mocking him. “First of all, Barnes, you’re not denying the checking out your coworker accusation. Second of all, I’m not guessing your age.” You huff, feeling like you’ve won.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says matter of factly. “I’m thirty-eight for the record.”

You size him up–the smattering of grays you’re met with day after day, the broad shoulders and beefy arms built by years in the park, the crow’s feet around his blue eyes when he flashes you a rare smile. “Yeah, I suppose thirty-eight checks out.”

“Now who’s doing the checking out?” He asks cheekily as he swims further into the lake. His back is to you now.

You notice the constellation of freckles across his tanned shoulders and the muscles there. The sun’s rays hit the water just so, shining through the lake. You follow the trail of light with your gaze under the surface, down the hard lines of his back to his…

That’s not a butt. That’s a–oh.

“Eyes up here, Rookie.”

You snap your eyes up to to his and your cheeks immediately heat in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to–I-I wasn’t trying to…” Words escape you. 

He laughs and runs a hand through his wet hair. “Come on. Let’s get dressed and get back to work. I’ll go first so you can get dressed in private. Keep an eye out for water snakes, would ya?” 

You gasp at the naughty joke and watch him get out of the water, his back to you. He climbs the small incline gracefully. You only notice your bottom lip between your teeth as he ducks behind a nearby bush to dry off and get dressed. You let go of the flesh and clear your throat, willing your body to calm down before you exit the lake. Why do you feel all tingly? Surely a brain eating amoeba has made its way into your ear canal and started its work. It’s definitely not your grumpy, graying, somewhat pessimistic coworker. Right?

“All clear,” he says with a wink as he trots up the hill fully dressed and out of sight. Your stomach flutters again. Oh no.

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - June 30

Lac nu is a hidden gem of the park, and I'm thankful for it today. It was nearly 90 degrees and served as a cool-off during our lunch break. Fuck, this logbook is turning into evidence. Must burn to ash when it's filled.

Items of note: Orange toes and swimsuit. Wet hair. Nature is beautiful, but she's stunning.

CPR training–not an aphrodisiac, just a standard practice, great knowledge to have in case of emergencies, absolutely not a turn-on. Ugh… until it’s his turn to do chest compressions.

You have definitely never listened to those breathy, suggestive audios of dudes doing push-ups to failure on Quinn. Not the ones where they’re practically moaning “baby girl” through your headphones while you get a little sweaty folding laundry. And you’re absolutely NOT thinking of how Bucky sounds like he’s doing those devious push-ups right now. He’s trying to save Hector’s life for crying out loud! Hector is the CPR dummy that you are slightly, weirdly jealous of right now. A lock of hair falls out of place across Bucky’s forehead as he keeps pressing on Hector’s chest. His arms–God, have they always been so veiny and muscular–are tensed from the compressions, and his face is flushed from the exertion. Your mind wanders to what other activities make the Ranger flush and you feel a blush creep up your neck. He’s like… old. What is wrong with you?

You hear your name and are pulled from your sexy trance. “Huh?” 

“You’re up,” the instructor says.

Bucky takes his place next to you and nudges your shoulder. “Go! He’s literally dying.”

You huff and kneel down next to the dummy. 

“To the rhythm of Stayin’ Alive by The Bee Gees,” the instructor says, nodding for you to begin. You start the compressions and count, growing tired by the end. No wonder Bucky was huffing and breathing a little more… well, just more than you’re used to when he was doing this. Why did his breathing sound hot? Are you ovulating? You mentally count back to your last period and shake your head. No, definitely not ovulating anymore. That must mean you actually think he’s hot. Your mind isn’t clouded by some cavewoman needs. These are your true, luteal phase thoughts. Oh no. You save Hector from the brink of death and take your place back by Bucky as a few other colleagues revive the dummy.

“Good work,” Bucky says with a wink. “You got a little tired at the end, huh?”

“I guess so.”

“You sounded a little breathy,” he adds to which you look up at him with irritation.

“So did you!"

“Did I?” He asks.

“Yes, you were all huh huh ugh heeehuhhhh ugh huh.” You imitate his breathing.

He smirks, holding back a laugh. “Do you want to run that by me again?”

“Oh, hush!” You say. The instructor glances up at the two of you. Damn, if looks could kill.

“Your face is red,” Bucky whispers, leaning down a bit to get his mouth closer to your ear.

“Yeah, well, I just did chest compressions. Besides, you’re sweaty.”

“I’m not sweaty,” he says.

“You’re… there’s a sheen,” you say, pointing to his face and circling the air around his head.

“A sheen?” He smirks.

“Yes, Bucky, a sheen.”

“Now it’s more pink than red,” he says, nodding at your face. “Now it’s the same color as it was when you saw that water snake in the lake.”

“Bucky!” You gasp. “I didn’t see anything.

“Mmm, I think you did. You blushed like you did.”

“Let it go, Barnes.”

“Oh, I’m never forgetting that, sunshine. Ever.”

You huff and cross your arms as the instructor stands and claps his hands together. “Okay, let’s move on to First Aid.”

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - July 6

Hector is enemy number one. Why can't I stop thinking about her flushed face and the way she was breathing? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Items of note: So much July 4th garbage around the campsites. Disposed of properly and citations issued as needed. Be respectful, people.

“Guess where we’re going today?” Bucky asks with a genuine smile as you both start out on the main trail.

“Well, I’ve given up on the firewatch tower, so… maybe to clean up some campgrounds?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “You’ve given up too easily.”

Your eyes widen and you gasp. “You’re taking me?!”

“I’m taking you. It’s a long walk, so I’m glad you packed some extra trail mix.”

“Bucky!” You exclaim, jumping on the dirt trail. “I’m so excited! Thank you!” You hug him and he carefully wraps one arm around your waist to return the sentiment. 

“You-you’re welcome, Rookie.”

You can hear something in his voice and break away, realizing that it’s kind of inappropriate to hug your coworker.

“Sorry,” you mutter, looping your thumbs through your backpack straps for something to focus on that’s not his muscle-y back. 

“It’s fine,” he assures you. “You smell like oranges.”

You laugh. “I made orange juice this morning.”

“What? With real oranges?” 

“Of course!” You say. “It’s way better that way.”

“You really are a ray of sunshine.”

“Thanks. You’re kind of a storm cloud, but we need some rain, so…”

He laughs and nods. “That’s actually why I figured now’s the perfect time to show you the tower. We’re technically in a drought at this point, so forest fires are more likely. It’s important that you know what to look for if you ever have to cover the tower. Usually they have special rangers for it, but if someone is out and you get called up, you have to know your shit.”

“Sounds good.”

You start your trek to the tower with a smile on your face, his spicy deodorant in your nose, and butterflies in your stomach. 

When you’re about a quarter mile from the tower, the clouds start quickly rolling in.

“Did you check the weather today?” You ask Bucky, biting your lip nervously. You didn’t pack umbrellas or any rain gear. 

“I-uh, it must have slipped my mind.” It’s your fault it slipped his mind. He was watching you pull on your ridiculous hiking socks-golfballs with moustaches and tees wearing high heels-and forgot to check the damn app.

The last four hundred yards to the tower are a mad, rain-soaked dash.

By the time you reach cover you’re both drenched, chilled, and your feet are covered in blisters from the rainwater squelching in your hiking boots. You didn’t expect to see the tower for the first time looking like a wet noodle while Bucky somehow looks like a wet Adonis. Unfair.

You carefully climb the slick stairs to the top and both heave a sigh of relief when you’re safely under the roof. Finally.

The clouds outside darken and the wind picks up, making the branches of the trees dance in a frantic rhythm. You watch from one of the many windows. It’s not just rain. It’s a full-on thunderstorm. 

“Well, I don’t think you’re going to spot any rogue wildfires now,” Bucky says with a click of his tongue. He sits on a small cot in the corner and pulls his log book out of his pack. 

“This is kind of beautiful, though,” you muse, watching the way the rain is coming down in sheets of silver. 

“Nature is, yeah,” he says quietly and he uncaps his pen with his teeth and chews on the cap thoughtfully before the pen meets the page. 

“What are you always writing in there?” You ask, nodding toward the weathered book. 

“Observations.”

“I don’t write in mine enough then. You’re always jotting stuff down. Can I read it? Get an idea of what I should be documenting?” You walk toward him and he snaps the book shut. “No. It’s… you know… a Ranger’s logbook is personal.” 

“C’mon,” you laugh. “How personal can soil samples be?” 

“Extremely!” 

“Fine, grumpy,” you say, too soaked and cold to fight him on it. “How long do you think this will last?”

He glances out the window with a shrug. “No clue. You cold?” 

You nod, and he looks under the cot. He grunts as he pulls a heavy trunk upright and clicks open the latches. There’s an array of first aid supplies, tarps, blankets, a couple National Park Service sweatshirts in an ugly shade of moss green. He hands one to you. “You should take your top off.”

“Sorry?” You gasp.

“No!” He stammers, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I mean you should take your wet shirt off before you put the dry sweatshirt on or else you’ll stay cold. I’m not looking.”

He turns around and looks out the opposite window with his arms crossed. By the time you’ve shed your shirt and cozied up in the dry, ugly sweatshirt he asks “You decent?” 

“Yeah,” you say. He turns around too. At least you’re wearing matching ugly sweatshirts. In this fashion crime together.

“So, we’re kind of stuck up here for a bit, aren’t we?” You ask.

“Looks like it.”

"Okay, we could just play a game to pass the time, or volley questions back and forth to get to know each other better," you suggest. You feel like you only know the surface of this man, and you wonder if he’d let you crack him open a bit like the sky outside.

“Sure,” Bucky rifles through the drawers of the decrepit desk near the cot, searching for a pack of cards. Nothing. He slams the last drawer, and it's punctuated by a flash of lightning outside.

"Is it actually safe to be up here when there's lightning?" You ask, peering out the window at the raging storm.

He shrugs. "It's better than being on the ground of a literal forest. With trees."

You roll your eyes. "Fine. Questions it is. I'll go first. What's your favorite color?"

Bucky sits on the cot in the corner and leans his head against the wall. He shrugs. "I don't really have one."

"You don't - okay, nevermind. What's your favorite dessert?" You try again, leaning on the desk across the small room.

His lips quirk into a smile. "Don't get a big head about it, but that cheesecake you made."

"Aww, you love my goodies," you tease as his eyes widen and he snorts out a laugh. "Sorry, that sounded-"

"My turn," he says, cutting you off. "What's your favorite part of the park so far? I know you haven't seen everything, but…?"

You consider his question and look around at the tall trees, some at eye-level in the tall tower. There's a lot of things you like about the park - the way it's misty in the morning sometimes after a night rain, when the frogs in the pond by the Ranger cabin will quiet themselves if it gets too loud with human noise, how the light filters through the trees when the sun isn't directly overhead, when Bucky always asks if you have your logbook (even though you only use it for doodles of flora and noting down how often he sighs when he's particularly grumpy, and the way he's watching you right now). Whoops. You hope you don’t have to turn it in at the end of training.

"My favorite part of the park?" You repeat the question, eyes wide at your internal realization. "Having you as my mentor has been nice."

His eyes flit to yours, brow furrowed. "That doesn't count, plus I'm not that great. You don't have to say that-"

"I'm not saying anything I don't mean," you retort. A flash of lightning lights up the sky with a crack of thunder following not long after. It's not letting up, and you silently wonder how long you'll be taking refuge here. "But if you want me to pick something in nature, I guess I'd say just how big some of the tree roots are. Some of them are thicker than two people put together. It's incredible. You're kind of like a tree root, you know."

He scoffs. "Well, you keep bringing in sugary desserts and goodies."

You laugh and roll your eyes. "No! That's not what I mean. I'm not saying you're thick," you say with a giggle. He is terribly, deliciously thick, but in the best way. "I'm saying you remind me of the roots of a tree - stable, grounded, only searching for the good soil, one with the Earth. Strong. All that jazz."

“All that jazz,” he hums and nods his head, eyes moving to the storm outside. You peep a blush on his cheeks. "Like roots, okay."

"What would I be?" You ask, nudging his foot with yours. "And don't say anything about the muskrats."

He chuckles and assesses you before swallowing. He knows what he wants to say, but isn't sure if it's too much. He knows he got too flirty… too inappropriate at the lake the other day, and he needs to reel it in, but damn. He doesn't want to regret not saying how he feels.

"Okay, I have an answer," he says, voice a bit deeper than it was seconds ago. "Do you know how the sun hits the water at a certain angle and makes it shimmer? But with colors, like…" he searches for the right word, but you fill it in for him.

"Like a rainbow prism?" You offer.

"Yes, exactly like… a prism. Every color kind of dances across the surface. That's what you would be," he answers, running a hand through his beard like he's stressed.

Your chest heats at his answer. It almost sounds romantic if you didn't know better. "Why'd you pick that?" You ask eagerly. You swallow, trying to push down any expectations.

He clears his throat and decides to just go for it. "Because you came blazing into this park and into… my life… in color. Your whole persona is just like a rainbow I guess - your weird socks, your smile, your jokes, your orange toes, just you. You bring life into this place. Into my life, too. I wasn’t looking forward to one last mentee, but you… I’m just glad it was you.”

You close your mouth. It had fallen open during Bucky's short but effective declaration. "I-I'm not sure what to say," you start. "Which is a first for me."

He laughs and shrugs. "You don't have to say anything. You're done with training after this shift anyway."

"I'm done with training?" You repeat, blinking at him. "But I thought I had the rest of the week with you.

"No," he says, shaking his head. He pulls a crinkled and folded paper out of his shorts pocket. "I graduated you this morning. I guess I just wanted one more shift with you." He looks at his watch. "And the shift just officially ended, so you're a full-fledged Ranger now, sunshine."

"So you're not my supervisor anymore?" You clarify, pushing off the desk you're leaning on and taking a step toward him. Another crack of thunder intensifies the already heady air of the tower.

"Correct," he says, standing up. "Are you… happy about that?"

"Ecstatic, in fact," you say, taking another tentative step. He meets you in the middle and you breathe the same humid air for what feels like a full minute. His chest is heaving in symphony with yours. Eyes bounce from each other to your lips to his eyes and back again like a mating ritual.

"Why?" He breathes across your skin. His breath is minty and smells slightly of honeydew. "Because now you can do this?" He mutters as his lips brush against yours. You inhale sharply at the contact and your heart picks up its pace. The rain outside starts coming down in heavier sheets, soaking the deck surrounding the tower.

"Yeah," you answer weakly. All sense of reality has been turned on its head as his tongue slips easily into your mouth. Kissing Bucky is like dipping your toe into Lac nu, like picking the first ripe strawberry of the season off the vine, like sinking into fresh bedsheets dried on the line after a long day. It feels right. So right. It’s warm and light and perfect. He breaks away first and you can feel his smile.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since you called me an old man that first week,” he admits.

“You called me an angel lightning bug,” you mutter with a smile.

He looks at you with a quizzical brow. “Those Sea Breezes got to my head, didn’t they?”

“They did.”

“Well, you know what they say… drunk words are sober thoughts.”

“You should kiss me again,” you whisper. “You taste like honeydew.”

His hands find the nape of your neck and his fingers comb through your damp hair as he pulls your mouth toward his. “You taste like mine.”

Ranger J. Barnes Logbook - July 15

Maybe I'll give her this logbook when I marry her annoying, perfect, sunshine and rainbows ass. Why the hell does the firewatch tower have a condom stash?

Items of note: Replenish the firewatch tower's condom stash.

[biglychee]

(Don't) Shoot Your Shot v3

$ log - bucky barnes has a lot of feelings with no idea how to say them. you have a lot of anxiety and absolutely no idea what he means! $ warn --sfw --gn!reader --soft!bucky --fluff $ wc -w 1.7k $ cd masterlist $ echo "manager said it's wfh day tm!!!1!111!11" > authors-note.txt $ vi dont-shoot-your-shot.txt (v1) dont-shoot-your-shot-v2.txt

Steve is gone before you finish turning around. You don't see him leave. One moment he's there and the next there is just an empty gym and the distant sound of someone who has decided this is not his problem anymore.

You turn back around. Bucky is standing next to the punching bag.

He'd been glaring — you'd clocked that much in your peripheral vision, the familiar weight of it, incident number thirty-something.

But the moment your eyes land on him something happens to his face that you don't have a category for yet. It goes through several things very quickly: the glare, then something that isn't the glare, then nothing. Then a very deliberate attempt at a neutral expression that doesn't quite land because he's already reaching out to punch the bag next to him with the energy of a man doing a completely normal thing he'd planned to do all along.

The punch is too light. He knows it's too light. He does another one, also too light.

You watch this for a moment.

Okay. You work with the Avengers. You have stood in rooms with people who could level buildings. You have completed extractions in active combat zones. You have done things that required considerably more nerve than walking across a gym floor and asking one man what your problem is. You can do this. You are doing this. You're going.

You go.

Across the gym, Bucky is having a separate but related crisis.

Say it, he thinks. Sam said say it. Sam said just say it, James, stop making it weird, it cannot possibly get weirder than it already is, so just — 

He watches you stand up straighter, watches you set your jaw the way you do when you've made a decision. He watches you start walking toward him, and every single prepared sentence he's spent four days constructing evaporates completely.

He straightens up, putting his shoulders back. He breathes out once through his nose.

Say it.

You stop in front of him. He's looking at you. You're looking somewhere around his collarbone because his face has always been the problem, the weight of it, and you can't look at it directly right now.

"I've been meaning to ask you something," you start.

"I need to tell you something," he says at the same time.

You both stop. He gestures, slightly, with one hand. You first. You shake your head. You first. He nods once, like accepting a mission parameter. Then there is a brief silence in which he appears to be locating something inside himself that doesn't come easily.

"I think about you," he says. "A lot. More than — " he pauses, seems to decide that more than is a road he doesn't know how to finish, and reroutes. "You're the first thing I think about in the morning. Most mornings."

You stare at him. Your brain does a fast, wrong translation.

"I'm sorry," you say.

Something moves across his face. "What."

"I'm sorry," you repeat, to his collarbone, "for whatever I did. I've been going over it and I can't figure out what, but clearly something — "

"That's not — " he stops, and tries again. "I wasn't saying that as a bad thing."

"Right," you say, in the tone of someone who absolutely does not believe that.

He looks at the ceiling for a moment and then looks back at you. Bucky plants his feet straight.

"When you're in a room," he says, slowly, carefully, like he's translating from a language he's still learning, "it's quieter. In my head. It's been loud for a long time and when you're around it — stops. That's not something that happens to me."

You are quiet for a moment.

"Is it the mug?" you say.

Bucky blinks. "What."

"I used your mug. The grey one. I washed it but maybe I put it back wrong or — "

"This isn't about a mug," he says, with great patience.

"The obstacle course?"

"No."

"I beat your time."

"I know."

"By four seconds, I know that probably — "

"I don't care about the obstacle course," he says. "I've never thought about the obstacle course. Please." He exhales, trying to find the thread again, somewhere. He does, and pulls on it. "I gave you my rifle," he says.

You go very still.

"I've never given anyone my rifle," he continues. "I want you to know that. I need you to know that, actually, because I think — " he stops, rebuilds. "I gave it to you because I wanted to. Because I trust you with things that matter to me."

The silence stretches long enough to be uncomfortable.

"Did I scratch it?" you say quietly.

"What — " he closes his eyes for just a second, before opening them. "No. You didn't scratch it. It's fine. You were — your shots were incredible, that's the — " he stops again.

Bucky's three sentences away from where he wants to be and he can't seem to close the distance. He looks at you. You're looking at the floor, tracing the edge of a panel with your eyes, and he's looking at the ceiling again, at the flickering light in the far corner that no one has fixed.

There are approximately four feet between you that feel considerably larger than that. He tries one more time.

"I like you," he says. Just that, flat and direct and stripped of all the scaffolding because the scaffolding isn't working. "I like you and I don't — I'm not good at this. I know I'm not good at this. But I needed you to know that the way I've been — it was never — it was always — " he stops and looks at you. "It was never a bad thing, what I feel. It's not a bad thing."

Something small and white walks into the gym. You both look down.

Alpine surveys the situation with the expression of a creature who has found two people being unnecessarily complicated about something very simple.

Swalks in a slow deliberate figure of eight between your legs, purring at a volume that seems unreasonable for her size. Something in your face does the thing it does when you're not performing anything.

"Oh," you say softly. "Hi. Hello, who are you?"

Alpine headbutts your hand with considerable force. You make a small sound. You are now entirely focused on the cat, which means you are no longer focused on your own hands, your own shoes, the specific floor panel you've been staring at.

So, you’re certainly not focused on Bucky, which is the only reason you miss what happens to his face when he watches you with her.

He crouches down.

"Hey, baby," he says, to Alpine, in a voice about forty percent softer than anything you've heard from him, and Alpine abandons you immediately to climb onto his knee. He lets her. He runs his hand down her back and she presses into it.

He exhales, quietly, and then — because he's down here, because it's a different angle, because he's spent weeks looking at you from across rooms and corridors and ridgelines but not like this, not close and low and quiet — he glances up.

The thought arrives before he can stop it. He'd looked at you from many angles. Across briefing tables, through scope lenses, from the other end of long corridors. But this one — you close, and soft, and unguarded, not knowing he's looking — this one was different. This one he thinks he'll carry for a while.

You reach down to pet Alpine. He catches your wrist.

Not hard — barely anything, just his fingers closing gently around it. You go still, and he turns your hand over slowly, pressing his lips to your palm. Quiet and certain. The way he does everything when he's actually sure of it.

You look at him.

He's already looking at you. That same look, the one that's been there for weeks in the corners of rooms and the edges of missions. Except now there's nothing between you and it. And there’s no misconception or misunderstanding. It’s just his face, open in a way you've never seen it, and the understanding of what you've been seeing this whole time settling into place all at once.

"I like you too, Buck," you murmur. Your eyes move over his face like you're still learning it, this version of it, the one he's been keeping underneath everything else. "I was scared I'd disappointed you. That's — that's why I couldn't look at you. I thought you were angry and I couldn't figure out what I'd done and I just kept — " you stop, almost laughing a little. "I kept waiting for it to get worse."

Something in his expression shifts — not pain exactly, but close to it, the specific kind that comes from understanding something too late.

"No," he says, quietly. "Never that."

Alpine climbs off his knee and sits between you both with the air of someone who has successfully managed a very difficult negotiation and would like to be acknowledged for it.

In the doorway, Sam stops walking, with Steve, two steps behind him, stopping also.

They stand there for a moment, looking at the scene across the gym — Bucky on one knee, your hand in his, Alpine between you, the particular quality of the quiet from this distance —

"Is he — " Steve starts.

"No," Sam says immediately.

"Sam, he's on one knee — "

"He's petting the cat, Steve — "

"He was petting the cat, now he's holding her hand — "

"That's not a proposal, that's a — "

"You told him to go talk to them and now he's on one knee holding their hand, Sam — "

"I told him to confess," Sam says, with great emphasis, "I did not tell him to propose, those are two entirely separate conversations that I very clearly delineated — "

Steve turns to look at him with an expression of profound betrayal. "You said you had it handled."

"I did have it handled. Look at them, Steve. It's handled."

Steve looks. The gym is very quiet from here. Bucky is saying something low that they can't hear, and you're laughing — actually laughing, the real one, not the polite one — and Alpine is sitting between you both like she planned the entire thing.

Something in Steve's face settles.

"...okay," he says, after a moment.

"Thank you."

"You're still an idiot."

"Absolutely," Sam agrees, and neither of them moves toward the exit yet, standing there a little longer in the doorway, not wanting to be the thing that breaks it.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @froggibus

$ vi dont-shoot-your-shot.txt (v1) dont-shoot-your-shot-v2.txt

$ cd masterlist

[biglychee]

Patching Up

$ log - bucky barnes has been lurking in tower doorways for three weeks trying to figure out how to talk to people. you come back from a mission hurt. he stops thinking about it and helps! $ warn --sfw --gn!reader --avengers!reader --soft!bucky --awkward!bucky --steve-and-sam-are-proud-parents $ wc -w 2.6k $ cd masterlist $ echo “account's js going to be quiet during the day bc im busy interning, but posts will be scheduled still, maybs” > authors-note.txt

The debrief runs long enough that by the time you get back to your floor, the common room has thinned out. You can hear the TV distantly — someone left it on, low volume, a laugh track going off for no one. You've got your kit on the bathroom counter and your shirt off. You're already regretting not asking someone to do this before they all dispersed.

The problem with cuts on your back is geometry. Simple, stupid geometry.

You manage the lower ones fine. The upper left (the one that actually needs a stitch or two) is the problem. You can feel it pulling when you reach, and you keep having to re-angle the mirror. So annoying — the gauze keeps slipping since you're contorting your arm in a direction it wasn't designed to go.

This is fine, you think, pressing the cloth to it at the wrong angle. This is completely fine and very normal and you are a trained operative.

The gauze slips again.

You don't hear him in the doorway. You just — become aware of him. It’s similar to the way you become aware of a change in air pressure, and when you clock the reflection in the mirror your first instinct is to go for the knife on the counter before your brain catches up: 

Barnes. It's Barnes.

He's leaning in the frame, arms crossed, watching you with the particular expression he seems to wear as a default. Not unfriendly, exactly, just very still. It’s like he's turned most of himself down to a frequency you can't quite tune into.

You'd noticed him around the tower; it’s hard not to. He had this way of hovering near the edges of rooms — near enough to be present, far enough to have an exit, watching conversations like he was studying for a test on how to be a person again.

You'd clocked him lingering near the kitchen while Sam told a story, near the TV while Nat and Clint argued about something. Or near the window during debrief like a curious, brooding version of Thor.

You'd wanted to say something to him about a dozen times and each time you'd talked yourself out of it because you genuinely could not figure out what the opening line was. Hey, you seem lonely felt presumptuous. Good job not being a sleeper agent felt worse.

So you'd just decided not to..

And apparently he'd been doing the same math, which had resulted in him standing in your bathroom doorway at eleven at night watching you fail at first aid.

"Hey," you say, because something has to be said.

He nods, and you turn back to the mirror. "I've got it."

You don't have it. The gauze slips again, proof positive, and you watch his reflection push off the doorframe and cross the room and then his hand — the left one, the metal one, cool even through the cloth — covers yours and just takes it. Bucky wasn’t rough with it nor hesitant, just with the quiet certainty of someone who has decided a thing and is doing it.

You go still. "What are you doing?"

"Helping."

He says it like it's the most obvious thing — like you'd asked him what two plus two was. He's already repositioning, tilting the light, assessing. The efficiency of it catches you off guard, the way he moves through like a checklist: clean, irrigate, and assess depth. You can feel him deciding about the stitch before he says anything.

"This needs two," he says.

"I know."

"You were going to do it yourself."

"I was going to, yes."

He makes a sound, something not quite a laugh — something shorter, quieter. But it's there.

Bucky works without narrating it, which you appreciate. Some people talk through medical stuff to be reassuring and it always has the opposite effect. He just does it, and so the stitches are neat. Tighter than you'd have managed at this angle, if you'd managed at all.

You're watching his reflection without meaning to. He's focused — entirely, completely focused, the same way you'd clocked him watching the sparring sessions from the mezzanine last week. It’s like the thing in front of him is the only thing that exists.

"You had good angles tonight," he says.

You blink. "Sorry?"

"On the entry. The building." He ties off the stitch, reaches for the gauze. "Most people come in high. You came in low and right, cut off the exit before they registered you were there."

You process that for a second.

"You were watching."

"Everyone was watching. You were the interesting part."

It's delivered completely flatly; just a fact he's reporting.

"...thanks," you say.

He tapes the gauze down, smooth and precise, with no wasted movement. "The one by the stairwell. Your second engagement. You knew he was going to draw left."

"He was guarding his right side the whole time. Led with it."

Barnes nods like you've confirmed something. "He'd been hit there before, old injury. You read it in about four seconds."

"Three," you say, and then feel slightly stupid.

The corner of his mouth moves. Not a smile, exactly, but the shape of one. "Three," he allows.

He steps back, checking his work with the same assessing look. You pull your shirt back on and turn around, leaning against the counter. He's already moving to wash his hands, unhurried.

"I've been trying to figure out how to talk to you for like three weeks," you say.

He looks at you in the mirror.

"You're very — " you gesture vaguely, " — a lot to approach. You've got a whole thing going on. Very brooding-corner-of-the-room energy."

He's quiet for a moment, drying his hands. "I didn't know what to say."

"Yeah, me neither."

"So I didn't say anything."

"Same."

He turns off the tap and sets the towel down. Bucky looks at you with that low, even look, and you get the sense he's filing something away — cataloguing this. Perhaps in the  way he catalogued your entry angle and the guard's weak side and the two stitches. Just simply noting it.

"Your form on the last guy," he says. "The big one by the door."

"What about it?"

"It was reckless."

You stare at him.

"You had three cleaner options."

"I had him."

"You had him that time." He crosses his arms. "Different footing, you're on the floor."

You open your mouth, close it. "Are you critiquing me right now? You just stitched me up and now you're critiquing me?"

"The two things aren't unrelated."

You look at him, and he just stares back. Somewhere down the hall the laugh track goes off again, tinny and distant.

"Okay," you say. "Fine. What were the three cleaner options?"

And he tells you. Quiet and precise, standing in your bathroom at eleven-fifteen at night, talking about leverage and sightlines and weight distribution like he's narrating a documentary only he can see.

You find yourself arguing back. Though, not defensively, just because you have a different read. He seems like the kind of person who wants you to push back, actually, who comes alive slightly when you do, the stillness shifting into something more alert.

The laugh track goes off again and you both ignore it.

You're still leaning against the counter. He hasn't moved toward the door yet. There's something in the quality of the silence that doesn't feel like an ending, so you don't treat it like one.

"Can I ask you something?"

He looks at you.

"The — " you gesture vaguely in the direction of the rest of the tower, " — social stuff. Is it hard? Like, actually hard, or is that a stupid question?"

A pause. He seems to be deciding something.

"It's loud," he says finally.

"The tower?"

"Rooms. When everyone's — " he stops, and tries again. "When people already know how to talk to each other. There's a frequency. I can't find it."

He says it the way he said three — like a correction. It’s as if he's been carrying the precise language for it and hasn't had anywhere to put it. "I stand there and I know what a normal response would look like but by the time I've worked out how to enter it the moment's already gone."

Letting the conversation sit, you stay silent.

"Steve tries," he adds. "He's — he tries very hard. So does Sam. It's worse when people try."

"Because then you know they're watching to see if it works."

He looks at you; something shifts slightly. "Yeah."

"I noticed you," you say. "Around, for weeks. I kept almost saying something."

"Why didn't you?"

"Couldn't really figure out the opening line. You've got a very — " you make the same vague gesture from before, " — don't approach energy."

"Hm." He considers this without apparent offense. "What changed?"

"You walked into my bathroom and took the gauze out of my hand."

The shape-of-a-smile thing happens again. Brief and almost involuntary.

"I didn't think about it," he says. "I just — did it."

"Yeah." You pause. "That's usually how it works, actually. The thinking is the problem."

He's quiet for a moment. Then, like he's noting something: "You patch yourself up alone."

"I had it."

"You didn't."

"I almost had it."

He tips his head slightly, but not agreeing. "You came back from a mission with a laceration that needed two stitches and you didn't ask anyone."

"I didn't want to bother anyone."

He looks at you with an expression that is very flat and very pointed and somehow manages to make you feel slightly called out without him saying a single word.

"That's different," you say.

"Is it?"

"I'm not — " you stop and start again. "That's just not wanting to be annoying. That's not the same thing as not being able to read a room."

"You were alone in a bathroom at midnight with a needle."

"Barnes."

"I'm just noting it."

"You're critiquing me again."

"The two things," he says, deadpan, "aren't unrelated."

You stare at him, and he does the same. The laugh track plays. You both continue to ignore it.

"Okay," you say. "Fine. We're both bad at it."

He considers this for a moment, like he's checking it for accuracy. Then, quietly: "Yeah."

It's not a big admission, as he doesn't really make it one. But you get the sense it's the kind of thing he doesn't say out loud very often — the small ordinary version of the truth, without the armor around it.

He's still here, you think, and that's the thing. He walked in and he stayed and he answered. He's still here, which for Bucky at this particular point in his grand life is probably the whole sentence.

"We should spar sometime," you say. "You could show me. The three options."

He goes quiet.

Though not the closed-off quiet from before — something different. Smaller, like a door opening somewhere very far inside, in a room that hadn't been unlocked in a long time. Something that, if you knew him better, if you'd known him before — back when he had a whole laugh and an easy grin and twenty-five cents in his pocket for the Coney Island ferris wheel — you might have recognised it as the very beginning of giddy.

He doesn't let it reach his face, but it's there.

"Yeah," he says. A pause. "That sounds good."

It's four words, but it shouldn't land the way it does.

He leaves, and you're standing in your bathroom, alone again. The laugh track plays one more time.

Huh, you think. Okay then.

He finds Steve and Sam in the kitchen at half past midnight. They're doing nothing in particular.

Sam has a bowl of cereal he's clearly eating out of boredom, Steve has a book open that he hasn't looked at in a while. They both clock Bucky in the doorway and do the thing they always do, which is very carefully not make it a big deal that he's there.

"Hey," Sam says. "You eat yet?"

Bucky doesn't answer that. He comes into the kitchen and stops a few feet from the counter — hands at his sides, shoulders back, the posture of a man delivering a report to people with the appropriate clearance level — and says: "I talked to Y/N tonight."

Steve closes his book.

"Yeah?" Sam says, neutral, cereal spoon frozen.

"They came back from the mission with a laceration on their upper back. I assisted with the stitching." A pause. "Then we talked about the mission. Their tactical instincts are good. They read injury patterns. They noticed I'd been — " a very brief stop, " — around. They said I had brooding-corner-of-the-room energy."

Sam's mouth twitches. "They’re not wrong."

"We talked about the social stuff. I told them about the frequency thing." He says it plainly, no preamble, the way he'd report a weather condition. "They didn't make it weird."

Steve's expression does something complicated and tender that he is trying very hard to keep off his face and completely failing at.

"They patch themself up alone," Bucky continues, with the faint air of someone filing a complaint. "They came back with a two-stitch laceration and didn't ask anyone. Y/N said they didn't want to bother people."

"That does sound like them," Sam says carefully.

"It's the same thing. What I do. They just don't see it that way." He pauses. "I told them the two things weren't unrelated."

Sam sets his spoon down very slowly.

"We're sparring next week," Bucky says. "So I can demonstrate the three alternative approaches they should have taken in the final engagement. Their form on the last target was reckless."

Silence.

Steve is gripping his book, but his jaw is doing something. His eyes are doing something considerably worse. He has the look of a man watching a sunrise he'd been told might never come and trying very hard not to ruin it by crying about it in a kitchen at midnight.

"That's — " his voice comes out slightly higher than intended. He clears his throat. "That's really good, Buck."

"They’re good," Bucky says, with a faint defensive edge that no one asked for. "Technically. Their entry angles are efficient. And they process fast. They even asked me a question and then actually waited for the answer."

"Mmhm," Sam says, nodding. Neutral and completely fine. Absolutely not affected by any of this.

"I'm just saying. As context."

"Useful context," Sam says. "Very useful."

Bucky looks between them, and they look back. Sam with a careful, nonchalant stillance. Steve with the barely-contained energy of a man who is sitting, technically, but only just.

"What?" Bucky says.

"Nothing," Steve says immediately.

"Nothing at all," Sam agrees.

A beat.

"I'm going to bed," Bucky announces.

"Good night," Sam says smoothly.

"Night," Steve manages.

Bucky leaves; his footsteps go down the hall, then a door closes.

Steve and Sam look at each other.

"He made a friend," Steve says, at a volume that is too loud for midnight.

"Steve — "

"Sam. He made a friend."

"I know, I was there — "

"They waited for the answer — "

"Steve — "

"They just waited — "

"I will pour this milk directly onto you," Sam says. "Look at me. I mean it."

Steve presses both hands over his face. His shoulders are shaking. It takes Sam a second to clock that it isn't distress — it's laughter, the silent kind. The one that gets away from you when you've been holding something careful for a very long time and something small and good finally tips it over.

Sam looks at the ceiling, picking up his spoon and takes a bite of cereal.

"...they sound good," he says, after a moment. Quietly. "The frequency thing. That they just — let it sit."

"They’re going to be so good for him," Steve says, into his hands.

"We don't know that yet."

"Sam."

Sam takes another bite and looks at the ceiling again. "...yeah," he says. "Probably."

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

$ cd masterlist

[winteryn]

FRAGMENTS OF A LONELY TIDE (1) dockworker!bucky barnes x mermaid!reader [8k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: a grumpy dockworker reluctantly rescues you—a stranded, wounded mermaid—with every intention of sending you back to the sea once you’ve healed. until the idea of losing you becomes something he can no longer bear. — ⟢ CHAPTER WARNINGS: 18+ story MDNI; bucky’s in his 40s; grumpy!bucky (starts off rude and cold); mention of divorce; mention of deceased family members; reader is mentioned to have hair; descriptions of injuries & blood.

A/N: even if my exam went well (🥳) these nights my anxiety is through the roof, meaning I’m doing anything except sleeping lol. so I decided to be productive and finish this. I guess it’s also an alternative to gods, gore, & groping—I know many people don’t like monsterfucking. btw I’m so excited I’m actually shaking as I’m writing this 🥹 these two are already my favorite!! fun fact: I had h2o: just add water ambient instrumentals on repeat while writing this 😭 hope you’ll enjoy 🌊 next part | series masterlist

Northwick sits at the edge of a stretch of coastline so remote that most maps barely seem interested in acknowledging its existence.

There is a road leading to it—a narrow ribbon of asphalt that winds its way through miles upon miles of dense pine forest and jagged cliffs, before finally surrendering to the sea. But the journey is long enough that very few people ever find themselves here by accident. Nobody even passes through on their way somewhere else, because the road ends here, at a cluster of weather-beaten buildings pressed between water and rocks. It feels like nature has been slowly reclaiming the town for years.

Most of the time, the sea and the sky blend into a single sheet of dull grey.

Drizzle visits often enough that the residents rarely bother carrying umbrellas anymore, choosing instead to endure the weather with the sort of weary resignation that comes from decades of losing the same battle over and over again. 

The wind is worse. It never seems to stop entirely, always carrying with it the scent of salt, seaweed, and old wood. It comes shrieking off the water at all hours, rattling shutters and slamming loose signs against walls.

The sea itself is no friendlier. Dark, cold, and perpetually restless, it spends its days throwing itself against the cliffs with a violence that makes outsiders wonder why anyone had chosen to build a town there in the first place.

The truth is that nobody living here remembers a different life.

Certainly not James Bucky Barnes.

He has spent every single year of his existence within sight of that sea. He was born in the small hospital overlooking the harbor, attended the local school, worked the docks since he was old enough to lift a crate without embarrassing himself, and eventually inherited the modest house that had belonged to his grandparents before him.

His entire life can be traced through these streets: every corner carries a memory, every building has a story attached to it—although most of them aren’t particularly interesting.

His parents are gone now. His grandparents too. An assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins disappeared over the years until the Barnes family, which was one of the memorable families in town, had gradually been reduced to a single man living alone at the end of a quiet street.

He has a sister, but after a long series of arguments that neither of them seemed willing to lose, she eventually left for New York and they simply stopped trying to bridge the distance.

There was a period of time, many years ago, when he imagined things might turn out differently. 

He married young enough to believe that marriage itself would somehow change him and introduce a desire for things he had never wanted before. Instead, it had simply highlighted the differences that had always existed between himself and his wife.

She wanted cities, opportunities, children, experiences and possibilities that stretched beyond the horizon.

Bucky looked around at the life he already possessed and failed to understand what was missing.

The divorce was not dramatic. There was nothing to hate, no one to blame, only the slow realization that they were standing on opposite sides of a road that kept fracturing each passing year. 

When she finally left, loading her belongings into a rented truck before driving away from Northwick without a second glance, Bucky watched her disappear around the bend at the end of the road and accepted, with surprising clarity, that he would probably never see her again.

He was right.

More than fifteen years have passed since then.

No letters. No phone calls. No messages.

For all he knows she might have built the exact life she had always dreamed about.

The thought doesn’t bother him, and not because he is heartless; he has simply made peace with the fact that some people are meant for larger lives than his.

And Bucky chose this life.

He chose the quiet predictability of his routine.

Every morning begins with the same shrill of the same alarm clock, and every night ends at the same hour in the same bed. 

Some people would call the repetition depressing, lonely... Bucky calls it peaceful.

Bucky reaches the harbor when engines start coughing to life and the first ropes are being dragged across wet wood.

He adjusts his gloves as he walks, fingers closing briefly in a fist around the worn fabric before releasing again, more out of habit than anything. His boots strike the planks in a steady rhythm that never changes, no matter how many years pass.

“Well,” a raspy voice calls from his left, tinted with exaggerated surprise. “If it isn’t the ghost of punctuality himself being five minutes late.”

Bucky doesn’t slow down, but exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that barely registers as acknowledgment.

Pietro appears beside him a moment later anyway, just like every morning, matching his pace with the effortless ease of someone who has never once respected personal space in his life. He has been working the docks for a few years now—one of the youngest of the group—and possesses the deeply unfortunate personality trait of wanting to talk to other people.

Specifically people who wish to be left alone.

“I was beginning to think you’d finally retired.” He continues, glancing at Bucky with a grin that suggests this is already the most interesting thing that would happen all day. 

The older man lifts a crate without breaking stride, shifting it onto his shoulder as though it weighs nothing, then sets it down exactly where it needs to go.

“I’m forty-five.”

Pietro hums thoughtfully, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Exactly.”

Bucky throws him a glance and the blond young man does nothing to hide his smugness.

Workers move between warehouses carrying clipboards and coffee cups as forklifts rumble across the rain-darkened planks. There isn’t a particularly pleasant smell—a mix of diesel fumes and fish—but after nearly three decades of working here, he barely notices it anymore.

As a matter of fact, the harbor itself has changed very little since Bucky was a child. New boats occasionally arrive. Old boats occasionally disappear. Businesses open, fail, and reopen beneath different names. Yet somehow the place always remains fundamentally the same, preserved beneath layers of salt and stubbornness.

A few meters ahead, Sam and Drax are arguing over a misprinted shipping label, their voices rising just enough to cut through the wind. The moment Drax notices Bucky walking by, he immediately straightens, catching Sam’s attention with a light tap to his chest.

“Morning, Barnes.” He grins.

Bucky gives a single nod without looking at them properly, already scanning the area for whatever needs fixing or lifting before anyone else can complain about it.

The gesture, minimal as it is, detonates something entirely disproportionate in the group behind him.

There is a beat of silence, the kind that always comes just before trouble.

“Did he just—”

“Oh shit.”

“He acknowledged us.”

“Barton, write this down. We need witnesses.”

“Already got three.”

“You think he’s feeling alright?”

“I don’t know. Somebody check his temperature.”

Bucky closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, half a dozen colleagues are watching him with varying degrees of amusement.

Pietro walks right into his line of sight, turning to stare at him with open disbelief.

“Barnes,” he starts slowly, as if addressing a skittish animal. “Was that... social interaction?”

Bucky shoots him a flat look.

“Have you never seen a nod?”

The dock erupts at once. Brock, who is standing near the edge of the dock, drops a coil of rope in theatrical shock.

“He talks!”

“He’s evolving.” Clint crosses his arms to his chest, nodding sagely. 

Pietro clutches his chest dramatically, staggering back a step.

“I can’t believe I lived to see this day.” He sniffles, wiping away a fake tear.

Bucky resumes walking, expression unchanged, though his grip on the next crate tightens slightly as he lifts it.

“Don’t start, Maximoff.” He mutters.

But Pietro jogs ahead of him now, walking backward just to keep eye contact, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“Seriously, you feeling okay, Barnes? You need water? A nap? Emotional support?”

“I’m fine.” He sighs.

“That’s the most words I’ve heard out of you in a week. I was starting to think you’d forgotten how language works.”

Bucky stops to set the crate down harder than necessary, the impact echoing loudly through the wood beneath it, before staring blankly at the younger man.

Pietro raises both hands in surrender, though his grin never falters.

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you alone.”

But he doesn’t actually leave. He just sort of… shifts his weight.

Bucky exhales through his nose and decides to ignore him completely, moving to the side where a length of rope has been left half-coiled from earlier work. He starts redoing it properly, hands working in tight, repetitive motions that give him something solid to focus on.

“So...” The younger man draws out. “How’s your love life?”

Bucky considers walking directly into the sea.

See, the problem with living somewhere this small is that people become comfortable... far too comfortable. After decades of seeing the same faces every day, the boundaries that exist in normal society begin to erode, and privacy becomes communal property as everyone feels entitled to everyone else’s business.

Especially his.

“Dead.”

That answer, as always, triggers a round of snickers among his colleagues.

Pietro claps him on the shoulder. “You’re so funny, man.”

Bucky follows the movement of his hand with frightening calm, causing Pietro to immediately snatch it back, before he clears his throat awkwardly.

“I wasn’t being funny.” Bucky retorts as he picks up the rope, the movement sharper this time as his patience thins in a way that’s entirely visible to anyone who knows him well enough.

Unfortunately, his colleagues couldn’t give two fucks about it.

“You know,” the younger man quips, leaning casually against a stack of supplies as if he has completely forgotten why he is here in the first place. “My aunt’s still single.”

Bucky stops mid-step. Slowly, he turns his head, just enough to stare at him right in the eye.

“No.”

“Hey, c’mon now, you didn’t even ask her name!”

“I don’t need to.” He resumes walking.

Pietro is already at his heels. “She’s nice.”

He rolls his eyes to the sky. “I don’t care.”

“She makes excellent soup.”

“I can cook.”

He once again jogs ahead to face Bucky. “She’s rich.” He lifts his eyebrows knowingly.

“I’m leaving.” Bucky announces deadpan.

“What—” Pietro’s eyes widen. “You just got here!”

“I can still leave.” Bucky shrugs nonchalantly.

The threat carries absolutely no weight, everyone knows it. Including Bucky, yet a chorus of protests promptly rises.

“You can’t quit.”

“We need you to scare the seagulls away.”

“Who’s gonna stop Maximoff from talking our ears off?”

“Hey!”

He shakes his head.

Some days he wonders if he’s the only serious person in town. Probably not, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to prove.

“Tell you what,” Pietro continues, clearly encouraged by his own stupidity. “If you won’t date my aunt, what about Ms. Hargrove?”

Bucky looks mildly horrified.

“No, no, hear him out.” Drax promptly intervenes, approaching the two of them.

“She’s only seventy-two!” Pietro continues.

“Seventy-four.” Brock corrects as he passes by.

“Still young at heart.”

“She’s been asking about you for years, Barnes.” Clint snickers, a cup of coffee already in hand.

“Everybody’s been asking about him for years.” Sam adds with a poorly concealed grin.

That, unfortunately, is true.

People ask constantly, because Bucky has become something of a local mystery. A man who lives alone on the top of a cliff, works alone, spends his evenings alone. Who has not been seen on a date in over two decades...

“She bakes.” Drax starts counting on his fingers.

“Oh, God.” Bucky mutters, tipping his head back tiredly.

“Excellent pies.” The other man continues solemnly. “She owns a house. She has all her teeth—”

“Most of them.” Sam interjects.

“Most of her teeth,” Drax agrees. “She grows her own vegetables. She volunteers at the church. She has strong opinions about parking regulations.”

“And she killed a raccoon with a shovel once.” Pietro adds with his stupid big grin.

Drax lights up. “See? She’s strong, a protector.”

“Leave him alone.” A new cocky voice appears.

Oh, great. Mr. Congeniality #2 has finally graced them with his presence.

“I bet he’s secretly married with some pretty businesswoman.”

“Shut up Storm, Barnes’ a ladies’ man.”

“Maybe he’s a spy.” Drax suddenly gasps, and he and Clint point at each other, clearly agreeing. “That’s why he always disappears after work! He might be working for the KGB.”

Johnny cringes. “The KGB hasn’t existed for thirty years, you idiot.”

Sam snorts. “Also, a spy who spends every day lifting crates and yelling at the weather? Really?”

“You don’t know if that’s a cover and he just pretends to work.”

“I know for sure he doesn’t pretend since you lazy asses are too busy gossiping like old ladies instead of doing your job like Barnes.” A deep voice interjects firmly and the group springs into action at once.

Sam bends down to inspect a crate as Pietro grabs a random clipboard from a nearby table, him and Johnny furrowing their brows at it with the intense concentration of someone attempting to decipher ancient scripture. Clint picks up a perfectly coiled length of rope and begins rearranging it for no apparent reason, while Drax plants both hands on a pallet jack and starts pushing it confidently in a direction that serves absolutely no purpose.

Fury shakes his head from the door of his office shack, choosing to ignore their quiet sniggers.

This is why, more than anything else, Bucky prefers the sea.

The sea minds its own damn business.

The longer Bucky works at the harbor, the more the routine stops feeling like something he follows and more like something that follows him instead.

It’s present in the way he ties his boots each morning, always in the same order, the laces pulled tight with a consistency he never consciously thinks about anymore. In the way he checks the weather without really needing to. In the route he takes to go grocery shopping, because some paths avoid certain corners and certain people who like to talk too much and ask questions that linger longer than he likes.

He thinks of these choices as efficiency. Or, if he is being honest in a way he rarely allows himself to be, as a way to preserve his peace.

Quiet people are often misunderstood. Others assume silence means absence, sadness, but Bucky has never felt better. He simply prefers to keep things where they belong: work stays at the harbor, the rest of his life within his house.

Memory, on the other hand, stays locked away in compartments he doesn’t open unless absolutely necessary.

Even grief has been assigned its proper space.

His parents belong to a drawer he doesn’t open often. His failed marriage to one he avoids entirely.

Eventually, even absence weaves itself into his routine.

And so Bucky goes to work every morning and comes home at the same time every evening. He fixes things that are broken and ignores those that are not worth fixing. He reads whenever he feels like it, though there is rarely anything new that piques his interest. He eats without much thought and sleeps enough to recover from exhaustion.

It’s not a life that demands attention, that’s precisely why it suits him.

His colleagues, though, treat it like something flexible that could be interrupted for conversation, for laughter, for questions that have no real purpose other than the enjoyment of seeing him grumble.

Bucky tolerates it all, but there are limits. They are not clearly defined, but simply translate into an internal threshold he recognizes immediately when it’s crossed.

A delay in starting the day. A change in the order of tasks. A request that requires him to be somewhere other than where he intended to be.

These are the kind of things that irritate him more than he ever expresses, because they are unnecessary.

And the world, in his opinion, is already full of many unnecessary things.

On that particular Thursday morning, nothing suggests it would be any different from the thousands that have come before it, because disturbances don’t announce themselves.

They don’t arrive with warnings or changes in weather that could be meaningfully interpreted as signs. They don’t break the rhythm of the town or alter the predictable movement of the harbor. If anything, they present themselves as almost insultingly ordinary, as though the world took care to disguise them beneath the same grey sky and the same restless water so that they wouldn’t be noticed until it’s already too late to ignore them.

Bucky wakes before the town has properly decided to exist for the day. He drinks his coffee in silence, standing by the window of his kitchen while the sky outside slowly shifts to a dull white. Watching the harbor lights flicker off one by one as the workers begin to arrive gives him a strange sense of tranquility.

He drives the same route through the narrow streets, passing the same abandoned buildings that have yet to be fully repaired.

At the docks, crates still need moving, boats still need unloading, and machines still need maintenance that nobody ever seems particularly grateful for until they stop working entirely. Pietro still talks too much, appearing beside him at inconvenient moments with questions that are more invitations to participate in conversations Bucky has no intention of joining. The others still laugh at his lack of participation, and he answers in the same way: briefly, reluctantly. Only when necessary.

When the end of the shift finally starts approaching, the harbor gradually empties around him as engines fall silent one by one. Warehouse doors roll shut at last and workers drift toward parking lots and side streets in loose groups, already discussing dinner plans, family obligations, and whatever local gossip has managed to survive the day.

Bucky avoids all three, which is how he finds himself at the far end of the outer dock, finishing one last inspection before heading home.

The outer moorings are more exposed to the weather than the rest, and by evening the wind has picked up enough to sting against his face whenever he turns toward the open sea. That’s why this is the kind of task nobody particularly enjoys.

Still, the lines need checking.

A damaged mooring left unattended can become a costly problem overnight, and Bucky has always preferred spending an extra ten minutes solving an issue now rather than dealing with the consequences later.

This section of the dock is also quieter, far enough from the warehouses that most voices blur together beneath the constant rush of the waves, and that gives him some sort of reprieve from his colleagues’ ability to turn any moment of silence into a forced conversation. It’s one of the few places where he can work without someone deciding that his apparent lack of enthusiasm is an invitation to fix it.

Bucky tightens the last line, testing the tension with a practiced pull before slowly standing back to his full height. The movement draws a familiar sting through his thighs, one he barely notices anymore.

Almost done.

A few more minutes and he can go back to his silent house and worn books.

His gaze drifts absently toward the water as he reaches for the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, and his entire body stills.

At first he sees only a shape, a disruption in the surface several yards beyond the dock, where the harbor opens toward deeper sea. Something moves beneath the waves, slow enough that it might be debris caught in the current or a trick of fading light reflecting on the water.

He watches it for a moment, but eventually lowers his eyes back to the clipboard and continues writing.

It’s only when the shape surfaces again, closer this time, and holds its position in a way that no floating object should have been capable of, that the rhythm of his day finally stutters.

The shape rises and falls with the movement of the water, appearing and disappearing between swells. But it doesn’t tumble the way driftwood would have, nor bobs with the lightness of abandoned equipment. 

Bucky cautiously rests one hand against the railing and continues staring with a deep wrinkle between his brows despite himself.

The shape drifts closer.

A swell lifts it.

For a brief moment, something iridescent emerges before disappearing again.

His eyes narrow.

Then, a human arm.

The realization doesn’t alarm him immediately. The possibility of people ending up in the water presents itself before anything more unusual could. A fisherman might have fallen overboard, or the current has carried a body farther than expected.

Neither explanation is pleasant, but both are infinitely reasonable.

Another wave rolls through the harbor, and it stirs the figure more harshly.

Strands of hair spread across the water. A shoulder becomes visible, then the outline of a head. The closer it drifts, the more certain Bucky becomes that he’s looking at a person, and although the sight should have inspired urgency, there is something oddly unsettling about the way the body moves—some small inconsistency his mind can’t quite identify but refuses to ignore.

It’s only when the water shifts again that Bucky swears he feels his heart stop for a moment.

The lower half of the body should have surfaced with the rest. Instead, the same iridescent thing flashes again beneath the water.

For a moment he thinks it might be a trick of the light—the evenings are dark here, and the sea tends to distort everything with its uneven inconsistency. He has spent enough years staring at moving water to know how easily the eye could be fooled. Yet when the figure rises again, there is enough distance behind him from the rest of the harbor and enough light across the liquid surface for Bucky to be confronted with an unjustifiable fact.

Because the upper half of the figure is human.

The lower half is not.

A tail emerges only briefly before slipping under water once more, but the glimpse still allows him to recognize scales that catch what remains of the afternoon light. He sees the shape of it and understands that whatever is floating toward the dock doesn’t belong to any category of living thing he has ever encountered.

“Hey, Barnes—”

The sound breaks through the unnatural quiet so abruptly that Bucky turns far more sharply than he intends to, the movement quick enough to make Sam take a step back.

“Whoa man,” he flinches, lifting his hands. “You okay?”

Under normal circumstances, Bucky would have answered immediately—perhaps with a grunt—and both of them would have gone on with their evenings without giving the exchange another thought. Instead, he finds himself standing there in silence, too aware of Sam’s growing confusion.

Of the fact that something half human and half fish is floating right behind him.

Now, Bucky has spent his entire life in Northwick. He understands how information moves through places like this, how a single unusual detail could travel from one end of the town to the other before sunset and somehow become common knowledge by breakfast. People talk. Most of the time it amounts to nothing more than harmless chats about neighbors, relatives, weather forecasts that end up being wrong, and private arguments that are treated like celebrity gossip.

Something like this, however, would not remain gossip for very long.

It would take one person looking in the right direction.

One person deciding to tell somebody else.

One person making a phone call.

The thought settles like a boulder in his stomach as he imagines the chain reaction unfolding beyond anyone’s ability to control it.

The harbor would fill with annoying strangers first, because people have always been drawn toward things they don’t understand, particularly when there is a possibility of witnessing something extraordinary with their own eyes. Then would come the reporters, eager to turn a forgotten coastal town into a headline. Scientists would inevitably follow, along with researchers, government agencies, and every other institution that believes to have the right to dissect, catalogue, study, explain, and ultimately claim the unknown.

The town would become famous, either as a tourist destination overrun with Airbnbs and souvenir shops selling mermaid-shaped keychains and t-shirts with the town’s name printed across the chest, or as a heavily restricted government zone surrounded by fences and security checkpoints.

For years, one of the things Bucky has appreciated most about living here is the simple fact that nobody cares about it. 

People drive past it. Forget it exists. The isolation that others complain about has always suited him perfectly because it allows him to live at his own pace, untouched by the constant noise of the outside world. Bucky has no desire to watch that disappear because of whatever thing happened to be floating toward shore today.

Nor does he particularly enjoy imagining what role he might end up playing in the disaster.

The man who found it.

The man who saw it first.

The man everyone would inevitably want to speak to.

Questions, interviews, strangers knocking on his door, people expecting him to repeat the story over and over again to squeeze the news until the very last dollar.

The more he thinks about it, the more his anger grows.

All because of a creature he would have been perfectly content going his entire life without seeing.

Sam is still watching him, and the concern in his expression has deepened, gradually replacing whatever casual curiosity had prompted the question in the first place.

“Bucky?”

Only then does Bucky realize how long he has been standing there, silent. The pause has stretched far beyond what’s normal, long enough that another few seconds might encourage Sam to get closer and see for himself what has captured his attention.

That can’t happen.

Not now.

Perhaps not ever.

“Yes.”

The answer is devoid of any emotion yet delivered with enough certainty that someone else might have accepted it without question.

Sam knows him too well for that.

For a long moment he studies Bucky’s face with the skepticism of a man who has already reached the conclusion that something is wrong but has not yet decided whether it’s worth arguing about. The wind moves between them, tugging at jackets and carrying the distant sound of waves against the rocks beyond the harbor, while behind Bucky the figure continues drifting steadily through the dark water.

Eventually, Sam exhales and gives a small nod.

“Alright,” he hums. “Pietro wanted me to ask if you’re coming to Joe’s for a beer.”

“No, I’m beat.”

Sam stares at his friend for a little longer, before nodding slowly. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

But he doesn’t make any move to leave.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He doesn’t sound particularly convinced as he frowns. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

He shrugs, his eyes flicking briefly toward the open sea out of sheer habit before meeting Bucky’s gaze.

“Well, don’t stay out here all night.” He sighs.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

Sam nods again, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

“See you tomorrow, Barnes.”

Bucky grunts in response, waiting until the sound of his footsteps has disappeared completely before allowing himself to look back at his new problem.

The first indication that Bucky has made a catastrophic mistake arrives approximately halfway between the maintenance ramp and his truck.

Up until that point, the plan seemed bothersome but achievable. Certainly not smart, but achievable.

You, the creature—because he still refuses to think of you as anything else—were fully unconscious as the current eventually carried you near enough for him to step off the ramp and into the freezing water. From there, he decided that he would check whether you were alive, get you out of the water, and then figure out the rest somewhere private.

Instead, the moment his hand finally closed around your wrist, the entire evening began deteriorating at an alarming pace.

The first problem was that you were barely alive. The pulse beneath his fingertips was weak, but still there.

The second problem revealed itself only after he managed to drag you close enough to properly examine you, and that forced Bucky to immediately abandon several much simpler solutions, because his nose instantly caught the revolting smell of seaweed mixed with iron.

The blood was difficult to see at first in the dark, diluted by water, but red streaks had spread around you as the waves shifted, eventually staining his palms and clothes once he reached underneath your shoulders to keep your face above the surface.

Bucky adjusted his grip and promptly regretted it when the movement caused the weight of your tail to shift again.

“Jesus Christ.”

If there was one thing he had learned during the last twenty minutes, it was that mermaids are significantly heavier than they look.

His attention then settled on the scratches scattered across your arms and shoulders—thin deep lines that looked as though a ferocious beast with big claws had taken an interest in you with all the intention of turning you into its next meal. More marked your sides as others disappeared around your back.

The damage to your tail, however, was horrifying.

Even now Bucky finds himself grimacing whenever his eyes drop to the big bloody stains on the beach towel wrapped around it.

Several scales were torn away completely and parts of the fin looked shredded. Deep gouges crossed sections of muscle that probably made swimming impossible, as the amount of blood surrounding the wounds suggested that whatever had happened to you was quite recent.

The sight alone was enough agonizing to make Bucky wince.

And because the injury somehow made the entire situation feel more real.

Unfortunately, the third problem proved considerably more immediate: transportation.

Bucky stops briefly beside a stack of lobster traps to adjust his hold before continuing toward the parking lot.

You remain entirely unhelpful throughout the process.

“Could’ve at least woken up.” He grunts. “You don’t have to hold a conversation. Just enough to explain why your mauled tail is so damn heavy.”

The closest thing to a response he receives is your head rolling slightly against his shoulder.

His jaw clenches.

“Yeah, that’s about what I expected.”

The walk should not have been difficult, his truck is visible from the dock, a distance he crosses almost daily without effort. Tonight, however, every step seems determined to prove some previously unknown law of physics regarding large aquatic women.

The tail keeps shifting, the fin catching against his legs.

Twice he nearly lost his grip entirely.

The second occasion could have been particularly catastrophic because it occurs directly beside a puddle deep enough to soak both of you. The sudden jolt nearly sends you slipping from his arms and onto the hard concrete.

Bucky lurches forward instinctively.

“Absolutely not.” He tightens his hold.

“No.” He grits out, his chest heaving quickly under the exertion. “We’re not doing that.”

He stops for a second, enough to properly recover his balance.

“If I drop you in a fucking parking lot after dragging you out of the damn sea, I swear on my mother’s grave I’m leaving this town.”

By the time he finally reaches the truck, his lungs are burning.

The vehicle sits alone beneath one of the lampposts, exactly where he left it that morning, completely unaware that its owner has apparently spent the evening acquiring a mermaid.

Bucky stares at it for a long moment, before he looks at you.

Then back at the truck, before his eyes fall on the tail.

A deep sigh escapes him.

“Stupid dock.”

He shifts your weight.

“Stupid town.”

He takes a step forward.

“Stupid Sam.”

A particularly awkward portion of your tail nearly slides out of his grasp.

“Stupid fish-lady.”

The nickname feels unfair, but he uses it anyway. Because blaming himself would have required accepting that every terrible consequence currently happening is the direct result of a decision he had made entirely on his own.

The irritation only grows as Bucky awkwardly maneuvers you on the passenger side, already wondering how exactly he intends to explain the blood covering his clothes if anybody happens to drive past before he gets out of there.

That concern alone is enough to make him move faster.

Carrying an unconscious, half-naked woman through the harbor after dark would already guarantee several months of gossip.

Carrying an unconscious, half-naked woman covered in blood would almost certainly result in the police becoming involved.

And carrying an unconscious, half-naked mermaid covered in blood...

Bucky doesn’t even bother finishing the thought.

Some things are too large to contemplate while lifting.

The passenger seat offers the illusion of structure. It’s familiar, comfortable... None of which matter the moment he realizes that your lower half doesn’t, in fact, respect the concept of seating.

The tail doesn’t fold, nor moves in any cooperative manner. It simply exists—heavy and entirely indifferent to the existence of upholstery.

Bucky stands before the passenger seat for a moment longer than necessary, breathing hard with one hand braced on the truck door while the other supports your shoulders. He stares at the seat with quiet resentment.

“Of fucking course.” He grits out under his breath.

Carefully, he tries once again to lower you into the seat anyway, because he has already wasted too much time trying to not drop you on his way back to the truck. The moment your weight shifts fully into the cabin, the tail slides sideways with alarming inevitability, dragging across the door frame before settling awkwardly along the floorboard, resulting in the fin to bend unnaturally.

Bucky pauses to look at it for a long moment, arms open as if ready to catch you, before he lets out a slow sigh.

“This is fine.” He murmurs, in the same tone of someone who is trying to convince himself as well.

The engine starts with its usual reluctant groan and for a few seconds there is a brief, deceptive sense that the worst part has just begun.

The road away from the docks is, as always, in a state of neglect that could only be described as communal acceptance of decay. Potholes interrupt the asphalt at irregular intervals, forcing the truck into sudden dips that make the suspension complain loudly, while uneven patches send vibrations through the chassis that consequentially reach the passenger seat.

And you.

The first jolt is mild, barely noticeable. The second makes your upper body shift forward enough for Bucky’s arm to shoot out instinctively, bracing across your chest to push you back against the seat.

“Yeah,” he exclaims flatly, eyes going back and forth between you and the road. “That’s right. Stay there.”

Another pothole hits immediately after, harsher this time, and the truck lurches hard enough that your entire weight shifts again.

Bucky’s hand moves without thought, catching your arm firmly before you can tilt any further.

“I don’t know who the hell is in charge of this town,” he states far more loudly than before, steering one-handed as the road curves unexpectedly. “But I would very much like five minutes alone with them and a shovel.”

The truck bounces again and your tail scrapes against the floorboard with a dull, dragging sound that makes his jaw clench.

“We have time and money to build a fucking dock extension nobody asked for, but fixing the only road anyone actually uses is apparently optional.”

The silence that follows is, as always, entirely unhelpful. It makes the entire situation worse—at least if you had been awake, he could have been annoyed at you directly.

Instead Bucky is forced to distribute his frustration evenly across the universe.

The truck continues forward, tires thudding rhythmically over uneven pavement, while the landscape outside the windows shifts from industrial structures to the quieter edges of town. Streetlights pass in slow intervals, casting brief white flashes across the interior of the truck that make you look almost unreal, as though you were the beloved, ethereal character out of a forgotten fairytale rather than a half-dying creature tossed around by the cruel sea.

Bucky keeps one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally bracing you when the road demands it, each movement growing more automatic the longer the drive continues.

Eventually, the houses grow farther apart and the roads slightly less cratered, until the familiar shape of his street comes into view.

Only then does he notice the faint sting in his muscles, how tightly his shoulders have been locked.

Bucky parks into his driveway with more precision than usual, worried that any sudden turn might somehow jerk your body one final fatal time. When the truck finally comes to a full stop, he allows himself to exhale properly.

For a long moment, he just sits there with the faint noise of the engine ticking as it cools, and his hands still on the wheel.

Then, slowly, he turns his head.

You are still unconscious. Still inconveniently alive. Your tail occupies roughly eighty percent of his passenger seat in a way that suggests you have no intention of becoming easier to deal with at any point in the near future. Saltwater has already begun to dry in uneven patches across the upholstery and Bucky already knows he is going to regret the smell for a very long time.

With a tired sigh, he tips his head back against the headrest, letting his eyelids flutter shut.

Even for him—broad-shouldered and built for hauling anything the harbor demands—this is a new kind of effort. It settles deep into his muscles in a way that ordinary work never does, accumulating in his forearms and shoulders and along the length of his back with a dull, persistent ache that sharpens every time he shifts in his seat.

Crates have handles, machinery can be pushed, and even the heaviest loads usually possess the decency to distribute their weight evenly. But between the painful wounds and the sheer mass of that ridiculous tail, carrying you feels more like wrestling with gravity itself. 

Now that the adrenaline has worn off, a knot throbs beneath his left shoulder blade. His lower back protests when he breathes too deeply, and his hands faintly burn from how tightly he had been holding on.

Bucky drags a hand down his face, and as he sits in the dark in the middle of his quiet driveway, he’s forced to acknowledge the next dreadful step: getting you inside.

That night, locking the front door comes with a heavy weight on his chest.

He can no longer pretend this is temporary. The ocean is not going to reclaim you overnight, nor the harbor is going to quietly undo his fate.

Officially you are, for the foreseeable future, his responsibility.

The bathroom is the only place that makes even a limited amount of sense, because as far as Bucky is concerned fish need water to survive.

He carries you in carefully, adjusting his grip more than once with low, strained groans, and by the time he finally manages to lower you into the tub, he is already panting in a way that has nothing to do with physical strain alone. The tub itself is barely large enough, your body forced into a curled position that makes the entire thing feel wrong from every possible angle.

With a long sigh, he can finally focus on the injuries.

Every time he peels back maimed scales or moves a section of the tail enough to inspect the wounds, he finds himself pausing for a fraction too long, hissing quietly as he registers just how extensive the damage actually is.

The scratches along your arms and torso are deep enough that he cleans them with antiseptic without hesitation, muttering under his breath the entire time.

“What the fuck did you do?” He shakes his head, though there is no indication you could hear him. 

The gauze comes next, wrapped carefully around injuries that would have required a hospital if you had been human. He works methodically, hands steady out of habit more than comfort, leaning closer than he would have liked in order to keep the bandaging tight enough to stay in place without cutting off circulation.

The tail is another story.

Nothing about it behaves like something that could be treated in a conventional medical way. Bucky does what he can, though, gently wiping the blood, applying antiseptic where it makes sense, and then carefully positioning the injured section so that it remains mostly above the waterline while the rest of you is gradually submerged. 

It’s an awkward compromise, the kind that makes him repeatedly adjust the placement of towels and folded fabric until he is reasonably satisfied that nothing is actively getting worse.

Bucky stands over the edge of the tub for a long moment, one hand braced on the tiles to support his aching body as much as he can while he watches absently the water fill around you. At least something in your posture finally eases a little.

“That’ll have to do.” He mutters, finally breathing properly once he steps into the hallway.

Over the next three days, the house stops feeling his in any meaningful sense.

The bathtub remains occupied at all times, which means that basic routines have to be adjusted in ways he finds increasingly irritating. At one point, after nearly knocking over a bottle of soap while trying to maneuver around the bathroom, he stares at you for a long moment.

“This is ridiculous.”

You don’t respond, which he has already established as your primary method of communication.

On the third day, he drives into town and returns with a large tub that requires significant rearranging of his living room to accommodate. The old furniture is pushed aside with minimal ceremony, the new container placed near the center of the space like some kind of absurd contemporary art installation he refuses to acknowledge as emotionally significant in any way.

“I’m not doing this for you,” he grunts while dragging it slightly to the left. “I’m doing this because I need a place to shower without stepping over a fucking unconscious fish.”

When he finally deems the position satisfying, he stops right before the tub and stares at you.

“You’re not even supposed to exist.”

By the fifth day, Bucky has acquired a new kind of routine, because now every part of the day revolves around returning home.

He checks on you before leaving for the dock. At first, the visits are practical and necessary: he needs to make sure the water is clean, that the bandages have not come loose during the night, that whatever infection he has been quietly expecting has not finally decided to appear.

The tail still unsettles him every time: some mornings he rounds the corner carrying a mug of coffee and stops at the sight of the scales beneath the surface before remembering that there is, in fact, a mermaid occupying his living room.

The realization is somehow never less strange.

He checks on you again when he comes back for lunch. He tells himself it’s because no sensible person would leave an unconscious stranger unattended for twelve hours yet this conveniently ignores the fact that he has never once come home for lunch before, though. It happens on the third day of this new arrangement for the first time ever, not even realizing what he’s doing until he’s pulling into his driveway instead of sitting with the others eating his sandwich.

The second time, he pretends it’s intentional. Until he gives up trying to justify it altogether.

The moment he returns in the evening, before taking off his boots—before even putting away his keys—Bucky walks to the tub.

His groceries sit forgotten by the front door more than once. One evening he tracks muddy footprints across half the house because he catches sight of the injured part of your tail on the brink of falling into the water, so he ends up jogging straight past the mat. Another time he leaves the television running in the background for nearly an hour before realizing he has spent the entire time sitting beside the tub staring blankly at the water instead of watching the stupid show Sam insisted he would like.

At some point during the night, he inevitably finds himself getting up for no reason he can adequately explain, walking across the house in silence and standing beside the tub just to confirm that you are still breathing.

Sometimes he remains there longer than necessary, enough to notice that the house sounds eerily different at night. The old pipes creak, the wind howls against the windows, water shifts softly whenever you move in your sleep... and he catches himself waiting for that sound.

He hates himself.

It’s fucking humiliating and he’s fully aware of that.

And then there is the staring.

Bucky would like to claim that it only happens while he’s changing the bandages, while his hands are occupied with gauze and antiseptic and his mind with the careful reminder of making sure nothing has worsened overnight, because that would somehow justify it.

Yet there are moments when he lingers there long after cleaning your wounds, sitting beside the tub with his hands resting loosely on his knees, his attention no longer anchored to anything in particular, as though he has simply forgotten to stand up and leave. Only after several seconds does he realize that his eyes have settled on your slack face and stayed there without permission.

The problem is not simply that you are beautiful, though even that thought irritates him in a way he doesn’t fully care to examine, because it’s too simple and therefore too easy to dismiss. The problem is that everything about you feels impossible in a way that doesn’t sit comfortably within the ordinary structure of his life.

Although silence was forced upon you, your magnetic presence still creates an unsettling contrast with the quiet, predictable weight of his house. At the end of the day, you are something borrowed from a place that doesn’t follow the same rules as the rest of the world.

More than once, while standing in the middle of tasks that require his full attention, he finds himself wondering what color your eyes are, and not as a question he intends to answer, but as something that simply appears in the background of his thoughts and refuses to leave when he tries to push it away.

It leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue, because it’s unnecessary and Bucky doesn’t have time for unnecessary things. It implies a level of attention he has no intention of giving, even though it returns again and again in the quietest moments, as persistent as the sound of the tide against the harbor walls.

At work, he is more silent than usual even by his own standards, which is something Pietro comments on more than once with the kind of exaggerated concern that suggests he is both amused and genuinely uncertain whether something is wrong. Even the few words he normally allows himself seem to cost more effort than they should, part of his attention already drifting back toward the house without him fully noticing it.

There are moments when he finds himself standing still, eyes fixed on the open stretch of sea beyond the harbor where the water darkens with depth and distance. His thoughts lose their usual shape and linger instead on the parts of the world that have never been accounted for in humans’ understanding of it.

It’s not simply the sea as he knew it, with the predictable rhythms of tide and current and the weathered ships moving in and out of the harbor, but something broader and less defined. Your existence is indeed the confirmation that most of it remains unseen, untouched, and entirely outside of anything he has ever had reason to consider.

Bucky wonders, without meaning to, how many things move beneath that surface without ever breaking it, how many shapes exist in the deep water that have no connection to anything on land, and whether the world has always been fuller than it looks from the edge of a dock.

The thought is not particularly welcome, because it doesn’t fit into anything that Bucky normally considers useful.

Another ten days pass and you still haven’t awakened, but your breathing has stabilized and that has to mean something. Right?

That morning, when he steps closer to the tub, Bucky is already reaching for the edge before his brain fully registers what his eyes are seeing.

The bandages on your tail are still in place, though slightly shifted from movement he had not witnessed. The injuries beneath them look marginally less severe than before—still far from healed, but no longer actively worsening.

He frowns slightly as he leans in, adjusting the gauze diligently and checking the open wounds with the same clinical focus of the last couple of days.

“Still looks like hell,” he mutters. “But at least you’re stable.”

He straightens slowly with a sigh, unconsciously letting his gaze trace the length of your body until they reach your face.

And there, he meets your eyes.

Your open eyes.

Bucky freezes mid-motion, both his hands still hovering over your tail. His lips part pathetically at the ethereal sight, but before he can comprehend what’s happening, you scream right in his face.

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

🏷️ general bucky taglist: @itzzkayla @randomfanpage @astraea-and-her-novels @heavenlypjm @spinsteringintoamillionpieces @pandasslol @wildflowersandvibranium @scribblesandquotes @beans-and-toast @singulartoast @gentlelimerence @secretxion14wells @maplesyrizzup @phantom-wolf-girl @norucking @punkh3arted @r4isins @doctorbitchcrxft @butterfly-lover @secretdream2 @sambuckystony @cowboylikeh @jasontoddswhitestreak @shrupshrooms @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @ninauh @metal-armed-muse @mehmeh331 @iloveshawnieboi @namjoohnie @onyx8514 @nash-dara @tt-bby @midnightmondaykiss @mikonawa @oomexluvsseb @floraslcve @erina00 @clover1004 @eatingyourboyfriend @starfire-irl @phoenix-in-writing @shyshyraven-writes @thegirlfatherr @jamesbbcrnes @yapeez @jynx-the-dynx

⚓️ series taglist: @windsweptarmadillo @larissamoon12

[winteryn]

FRAGMENTS OF A LONELY TIDE [masterlist] dockworker!bucky barnes x mermaid!reader

— ⟢ SUMMARY: a grumpy dockworker reluctantly rescues you—a stranded, wounded mermaid—with every intention of sending you back to the sea once you’ve healed. until the idea of losing you becomes something he can no longer bear. — ⟢ GENERAL WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; bucky’s in his 40s; grumpy!bucky (starts off rude and cold); protective!bucky; sunshine!reader; injuries & blood; angst; loneliness; temporary feelings denial; mutual pining; heavy yearning; domestic fluff; smut. each part has its own specific warnings.

A/N: this was originally supposed to be a one-shot part of a collection inspired by that picture of seb up there, but the plot got a little out of hand. and honestly? I don’t feel like cutting scenes just to fit tumblr’s ridiculous 1000-block limit. so here we are! hope you’ll enjoy 🌊 the art of devotion masterlist

⤷ PARTS ༄.° PART 1 ༄.° PART 2 ༄.° PART 3

important notes: this series will have its own dedicated taglist! that being said, I’ll also be tagging my general bucky barnes taglist, so if you’d like to be notified about all of my bucky-related fics rather than just this series, that option is available too. if you are interested, please read this post here first!

[buckysgirlll]

001. the night where it all started

mob!bucky x sunshine!reader

apart of opposites attract

WC: 1.3k

bucky barnes masterlist ༻ navi

you let out a small shiver, when you step out of your work building.

tightening your jacket more around you, you start to make your long walk home.

sometimes you wish you had a car, so you don't have to do that much walking, but on the other hand, you're glad that you walk a lot since it helps your brain relax after a long day at work.

plus there's nothing better than reconnecting with nature.

just as you're a couple blocks away from your apartment you hear a whine. you stop in your tracks, wondering what that small, weak sound was.

another whine, similar to the first one has you looking down a dark alley.

you bite your lip nervously, knowing that you, a young woman shouldn’t go down an alley at this time of night but you can’t help the way your heart clenches at hearing those sounds.

you close your eyes, wondering if this will be the worst idea you’ve ever done and you might get abducted but before you can psych yourself out of it you hear another whine, louder than the last. it sounds like a… puppy.

damn it, if it's a puppy then you definitely can’t bring yourself to stand here and do nothing. especially with how it's so cold outside and it's raining. the poor puppy, is probably scared or even worse, injured.

you'll never forgive yourself if you walk past this alley, thinking that this whole thing was a trap for you or another person, but instead there was in fact a puppy sitting there, waiting for someone to come and help them.

you huff, throwing your hands in the air. you must look ridiculous to all the cars going by but you know what, what's the worse that could happen? i mean you could end up abducted or... dead but at least you died with the intention of helping a helpless animal.

you take a deep breath, wrapping your coat tighter around you, and then start walking down the alley to see if you can find whatever is sounding so hurt.

little do you know, something or someone has been watching you this whole time.

bucky sighs, running a hand down his face. today has been a long day and all he wants to do is get home, maybe call one of his regular women that will drop anything just to please him and go to sleep.

the soft sound of the rain hitting the roof of the car calms him as he looks out the window. his eyes squint when he catches a glimpse of a woman standing at the opening of an alley far up ahead.

he can’t exactly see her face until he gets closer but when he does, he sees that she’s utterly stunning.

probably the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his entire life. even with her face slightly wet by the rain.

“stop the car.”

“sir?” the driver asks, looking back and seeing that bucky near enough has his head pushed up against the window.

bucky gives his driver a glance, raising his eyebrow slowly.

“yes sir.” the driver says, practically folding without bucky even having to repeat himself.

the driver quickly parks at the other side of the street to which you’re on. giving bucky a perfect view of you.

you snuggled up in your coat, standing smack in the middle of the side walk, with your eyes closed and face titled towards the dark, cloudy sky. it’s like you’re talking to yourself in your head.

what on earth are you doing?

and why is he so entranced by you that he asked his driver to suddenly park on the side of the road, when he’s meant to be on his way home after a long night of handling business?

he narrows his eyes at you, watching the way the cold air trickles out of your mouth when you huff and throw your arms in the air, and the way your mouth moves softly like you’re trying to talk yourself into doing something.

“um sir, are we waiting for someone or—”

“shh.” bucky snaps, seeing you take a deep breath, wrap your coat tighter around your body, and walk into the random, pitch black alley.

what the fuck? bucky says in his head. what is genuinely wrong with this strange but beautiful woman. without thinking, bucky opens the car door and steps out.

“sir—”

“just wait here till i get back.” bucky grunts, fixing his cuff links before slamming the car door and following you.

he doesn’t know who you are, or why you’re deciding to walk into an alley by yourself at near enough ten in the evening. but he sure is about to find out.

bucky watches you carefully.

keeping a safe distance behind you so you don't notice that there's someone in this alley with you.

he wants to know what you're doing, but for the life of him he can't figure it out.

all he's seen you do is walk slowly, your hand pressed against the rough brick wall, to help you lead your way through the dark alley. he's seen you trip over your heels a couple times, and he's also had to stop himself from lunging out to catch you.

he doesn't know why he has this sudden urge to not only follow you but to make sure that you don't get yourself hurt.

he doesn't even know you... yet.

his thoughts are interrupted when he hears a small yap. it's so small that if he wouldn't of had enhanced hearing he probably wouldn’t of heard it.

“where are you hiding?” you coo.

bucky’s brows furrow in confusion as he keeps his slow stride behind you, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his slacks.

is this the reason why you decided to walk down here?

because you heard the noise of an animal?

do you not know how easy it is for attractive women like you to get ambushed in situations like this.

bucky shakes his head in disbelief.

because if you so easily caught his eye, imagine how many eyes you’ve caught from men that walk past you on the street daily.

too bad that that’s not going to happen anymore.

you’re his. no one else is having you.

bucky’s possessive thoughts get interrupted yet again when you let out a yelp, jumping back.

bucky can’t help himself but step a bit closer to see what scared his girl and if he needs to intervene.

his concerns cease to a stop when you suddenly kneel down and stand up cradling a small, dirty and damp puppy.

you don’t think you could’ve ever forgiven yourself if you ended up stepping onto that puppy, even though it would’ve been accidentally.

you didn’t think that it would’ve ran across your heels, and because you’re basically covered in darkness, you never even saw it coming.

you thought it was just a rat or something.

it was only when you kneeled down that you was able to catch a glimpse of its big brown eyes and its wet nose, and then you knew you found it.

and you’re so happy you did.

“oh look at you, you’re filthy.” you whisper to the small puppy in your arms.

“how can someone be so cruel to just leave you here.” tears start to cloud your vision, at the thought of someone dumping this poor, helpless animal in an alley to die.

you don’t get how some people can be so mean.

you shrug your coat off, wrapping the material around the puppy’s small frame. not even caring about the harsh chill that comes to your arms.

you stand up with it bundled in your arms and start to make your walk back through the alley.

you keep your head down, even once you’ve emerged from the narrow alley. your eyes focused on the precious bundle in your arms and not even noticing the figure that is walking straight towards you.

you gasp when you bump into someone’s chest, and you gasp again when you feel the warmth of a palm settling on your arm to stop you from toppling over.

“oh i’m so sorry.” you apologise, sidestepping the tall man and not even giving him a second glance.

your priority is getting home and calling the nearest vet immediately.

taglist: @oinswiftie @apenny4thots

you wanna be one of the first to read my bucky fanfics? why don’t you ask to join my taglist :)

[buckysgirlll]

001. the night where it all started

mob!bucky x sunshine!reader

apart of opposites attract

WC: 1.3k

bucky barnes masterlist ༻ navi

you let out a small shiver, when you step out of your work building.

tightening your jacket more around you, you start to make your long walk home.

sometimes you wish you had a car, so you don't have to do that much walking, but on the other hand, you're glad that you walk a lot since it helps your brain relax after a long day at work.

plus there's nothing better than reconnecting with nature.

just as you're a couple blocks away from your apartment you hear a whine. you stop in your tracks, wondering what that small, weak sound was.

another whine, similar to the first one has you looking down a dark alley.

you bite your lip nervously, knowing that you, a young woman shouldn’t go down an alley at this time of night but you can’t help the way your heart clenches at hearing those sounds.

you close your eyes, wondering if this will be the worst idea you’ve ever done and you might get abducted but before you can psych yourself out of it you hear another whine, louder than the last. it sounds like a… puppy.

damn it, if it's a puppy then you definitely can’t bring yourself to stand here and do nothing. especially with how it's so cold outside and it's raining. the poor puppy, is probably scared or even worse, injured.

you'll never forgive yourself if you walk past this alley, thinking that this whole thing was a trap for you or another person, but instead there was in fact a puppy sitting there, waiting for someone to come and help them.

you huff, throwing your hands in the air. you must look ridiculous to all the cars going by but you know what, what's the worse that could happen? i mean you could end up abducted or... dead but at least you died with the intention of helping a helpless animal.

you take a deep breath, wrapping your coat tighter around you, and then start walking down the alley to see if you can find whatever is sounding so hurt.

little do you know, something or someone has been watching you this whole time.

bucky sighs, running a hand down his face. today has been a long day and all he wants to do is get home, maybe call one of his regular women that will drop anything just to please him and go to sleep.

the soft sound of the rain hitting the roof of the car calms him as he looks out the window. his eyes squint when he catches a glimpse of a woman standing at the opening of an alley far up ahead.

he can’t exactly see her face until he gets closer but when he does, he sees that she’s utterly stunning.

probably the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his entire life. even with her face slightly wet by the rain.

“stop the car.”

“sir?” the driver asks, looking back and seeing that bucky near enough has his head pushed up against the window.

bucky gives his driver a glance, raising his eyebrow slowly.

“yes sir.” the driver says, practically folding without bucky even having to repeat himself.

the driver quickly parks at the other side of the street to which you’re on. giving bucky a perfect view of you.

you snuggled up in your coat, standing smack in the middle of the side walk, with your eyes closed and face titled towards the dark, cloudy sky. it’s like you’re talking to yourself in your head.

what on earth are you doing?

and why is he so entranced by you that he asked his driver to suddenly park on the side of the road, when he’s meant to be on his way home after a long night of handling business?

he narrows his eyes at you, watching the way the cold air trickles out of your mouth when you huff and throw your arms in the air, and the way your mouth moves softly like you’re trying to talk yourself into doing something.

“um sir, are we waiting for someone or—”

“shh.” bucky snaps, seeing you take a deep breath, wrap your coat tighter around your body, and walk into the random, pitch black alley.

what the fuck? bucky says in his head. what is genuinely wrong with this strange but beautiful woman. without thinking, bucky opens the car door and steps out.

“sir—”

“just wait here till i get back.” bucky grunts, fixing his cuff links before slamming the car door and following you.

he doesn’t know who you are, or why you’re deciding to walk into an alley by yourself at near enough ten in the evening. but he sure is about to find out.

bucky watches you carefully.

keeping a safe distance behind you so you don't notice that there's someone in this alley with you.

he wants to know what you're doing, but for the life of him he can't figure it out.

all he's seen you do is walk slowly, your hand pressed against the rough brick wall, to help you lead your way through the dark alley. he's seen you trip over your heels a couple times, and he's also had to stop himself from lunging out to catch you.

he doesn't know why he has this sudden urge to not only follow you but to make sure that you don't get yourself hurt.

he doesn't even know you... yet.

his thoughts are interrupted when he hears a small yap. it's so small that if he wouldn't of had enhanced hearing he probably wouldn’t of heard it.

“where are you hiding?” you coo.

bucky’s brows furrow in confusion as he keeps his slow stride behind you, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his slacks.

is this the reason why you decided to walk down here?

because you heard the noise of an animal?

do you not know how easy it is for attractive women like you to get ambushed in situations like this.

bucky shakes his head in disbelief.

because if you so easily caught his eye, imagine how many eyes you’ve caught from men that walk past you on the street daily.

too bad that that’s not going to happen anymore.

you’re his. no one else is having you.

bucky’s possessive thoughts get interrupted yet again when you let out a yelp, jumping back.

bucky can’t help himself but step a bit closer to see what scared his girl and if he needs to intervene.

his concerns cease to a stop when you suddenly kneel down and stand up cradling a small, dirty and damp puppy.

you don’t think you could’ve ever forgiven yourself if you ended up stepping onto that puppy, even though it would’ve been accidentally.

you didn’t think that it would’ve ran across your heels, and because you’re basically covered in darkness, you never even saw it coming.

you thought it was just a rat or something.

it was only when you kneeled down that you was able to catch a glimpse of its big brown eyes and its wet nose, and then you knew you found it.

and you’re so happy you did.

“oh look at you, you’re filthy.” you whisper to the small puppy in your arms.

“how can someone be so cruel to just leave you here.” tears start to cloud your vision, at the thought of someone dumping this poor, helpless animal in an alley to die.

you don’t get how some people can be so mean.

you shrug your coat off, wrapping the material around the puppy’s small frame. not even caring about the harsh chill that comes to your arms.

you stand up with it bundled in your arms and start to make your walk back through the alley.

you keep your head down, even once you’ve emerged from the narrow alley. your eyes focused on the precious bundle in your arms and not even noticing the figure that is walking straight towards you.

you gasp when you bump into someone’s chest, and you gasp again when you feel the warmth of a palm settling on your arm to stop you from toppling over.

“oh i’m so sorry.” you apologise, sidestepping the tall man and not even giving him a second glance.

your priority is getting home and calling the nearest vet immediately.

taglist: @oinswiftie @apenny4thots

you wanna be one of the first to read my bucky fanfics? why don’t you ask to join my taglist :)

[biglychee]

Dear SHIELD Report Diary

$ log - bucky barnes has been filing debrief reports on your shared missions since day one. thorough ones. he thinks he’d been private; instead you've been receiving every single one! $ warn --sfw --fluff --cutie-jealous!bucky --bucky-has-a-crush $ wc -w 2.1k $ cd masterlist $ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger

The SHIELD debrief portal had a lot of options Bucky didn't care about.

CC, BCC, Priority flag. Read receipts, etc. He'd clicked through all of them once when Fury made the whole team migrate to the new system. He'd retained exactly what he needed: Subject line. Body. Attach file. Send.

BCC he'd figured out on his own. Blind carbon copy, so his copy. B for Bucky, obviously, the logic was airtight — you hit BCC, put your own address in, and you got a private duplicate that nobody else could see or trace. His personal record, similar to a filing cabinet that lived in his email.

What the portal's onboarding documentation would have explained, had he read it, was that BCC worked the other way. You put other addresses in BCC. Addresses you wanted to receive the email invisibly, without the main recipient knowing.

What the portal's backend had also done, automatically and without asking anyone, was flag your email address to receive copies of any SHIELD documentation in which your name appeared more than four times.

Bucky's reports averaged twelve.

He didn't know any of this. He hit send, opened his own BCC copy, read it over once with a quiet satisfaction of reviewing something he was privately proud of, and closed his laptop.

The first one arrived on a Tuesday.

You were in the common room with your phone, half-watching something on the TV and not really tracking it, when the notification came through. SHIELD internal. Debrief document, your name in the subject line, sender ID: AGT-J.B.BARNES-2245.

You read it once, then you read it again.

Asset demonstrated exceptional situational awareness during the extraction sequence. Threat neutralisation was efficient and tactically sound. Of additional note: asset's decision to reroute through the east corridor rather than the designated path resulted in the successful retrieval of secondary intelligence that would otherwise have been lost. This was not a lucky call. This was good instinct. Recommend continued field partnership.

This was not a lucky call. This was good instinct. You put your phone face-down on your knee, then picked it up to read it again.

Nobody had ever put that in writing before.

You were smiling before you'd fully registered. It was the kind you had to press your lips together to keep reasonable, and you looked up at the TV without seeing it and thought, huh.

Across the room, Bucky watched your face do something he didn't have a word for and felt a pull in his chest he chose not to examine.

You were on your phone a lot. He'd noticed. But, he wasn't keeping track or anything. So, he looked back at his coffee.

The second report went out three weeks later, after the Rotterdam job.

Bucky wrote it the same night, still in the post-mission quiet when everything felt slower and more honest. You'd been good in Rotterdam. Better than good. You'd held a position under pressure that most people would have abandoned and you'd done it without being asked.

You hadn't mentioned it in the debrief at all, just moved on like it was nothing, and it was very much not nothing.

He wrote the report, and he did so carefully. He added a line he took out, then put back in, then reworded three times:

Asset shows consistent pattern of underreporting her own contributions in verbal debrief settings. For accuracy of record, this document reflects observed field performance rather than asset's own account, which trends toward omission.

He looked at that for a while. Then he hit send, BCC'd himself, and closed the laptop.

You got it during breakfast.

Sam watched you pick up your phone mid-bite, watched your expression shift into something soft and private and a little delighted. He watched you put the phone screen-down with the careful precision of someone protecting something.

"Good news?" Sam said.

"Mm." You picked your fork back up. "Just — yeah. Good news."

Sam looked at you. He then looked across the kitchen at Bucky, who was reading the newspaper with the focus of totally not listening into the conversation.

Sam looked back at you, but he said nothing. He was mentally storing all these signs.

Bucky noticed you were doing it more.

The phone thing and the quiet smile. The way you'd look up from whatever you were reading with this expression like something had settled right in you. Then you'd put it away carefully, like you were folding something you wanted to keep.

He'd assumed it was texts. Someone's texts. Someone who made you look like that on a random Thursday morning over coffee, and he sat with that for approximately forty-five seconds before deciding he didn't want to think about it anymore.

He opened his laptop that evening and pulled up the debrief for the Lisbon job. Standard stuff, you know, like routine retrieval. 

Except you'd done this thing mid-mission where you'd talked down a civilian who was about to make everyone's life significantly harder, just calm and steady and completely unbothered. It had taken maybe ninety seconds and saved the whole operation two hours minimum. Nobody had commented on it. It was the kind of thing that disappeared into the noise.

He started typing.

He wrote the standard sections firstL objectives, timeline, outcome. Then he got to the additional notes field, which SHIELD technically used for anomalies and escalations, and which Bucky had been using for other things.

Asset's interpersonal management under pressure warrants specific notation. The civilian stabilisation in the market was executed without backup, without prior briefing, and without any apparent increase in the asset's stress response. It is the opinion of this agent that this represents a skill set that is both rare and consistently undervalued.

He was adding a final line — something about recommended commendation, which he'd never put in a report before, and which he also chose not to examine — when the chair next to him scraped back and Steve sat down.

Bucky tilted the laptop slightly away, reflex.

"Working late?" Steve said.

"Report."

"Which one?"

"Lisbon."

Steve glanced at the screen anyway, as he had no sense of boundaries that Bucky hadn't explicitly built a wall around. He read exactly enough to go very still in the way that meant he was trying not to have a reaction.

"That's very thorough," Steve said.

"I'm a thorough person."

"You recommended a commendation."

"They earned it."

Steve opened his mouth, and Bucky closed the laptop.

"The report," Bucky said, "is classified."

"It's an internal debrief document —"

"Goodnight, Steve."

Steve stood up. He walked out of the room at a completely normal pace.

Steve found Sam in the gym the next morning. He looked up from the bench press, while Steve held out his phone. Sam read the screenshot — received at 11:43pm, the text reading just you need to see this with no other context — and set the bar back in the rack.

They looked at each other.

"Do they know?" Sam said.

"They don’t know."

"Does he know?"

Steve's expression answered that. Sam picked the bar back up. "We're not telling either of them."

"Absolutely not."

"This is the most entertaining thing that's happened in six months."

"I know."

"Your best friend is writing this person love letters and filing them with SHIELD."

"I know, Sam."

You'd started saving them.

Not in a folder or anything organised. Just — you hadn't deleted them. You'd read the Lisbon one four times. On the fourth read you'd hit the consistently undervalued line and had to put your phone in your pocket and go do something with your hands for a while.

Someone on the team was writing these. Had to be. The mission details were too specific, the access too internal. Someone who'd been in Rotterdam, in Lisbon, on the extraction job in February.

You were running the list in your head while you made coffee, not really tracking the room, when you said out loud: "Do you think it could be an analyst? Like someone in the documentation department who just — sees the same names a lot and —"

"No," said Bucky, from the table.

You turned around. He was eating cereal and looking at his phone. He didn't look up.

"I mean, it's possible though, right?" you said. "They review everything. They'd have context."

"Analysts don't do field commendations. That's agent-level sign-off." He turned his phone over. "Whoever it is has been in the field with you."

You stared at him. Nonchalantly, he ate his cereal.

"That," you said slowly, "is actually really helpful, thank you."

"It's a logical deduction."

You turned back to the coffee maker. You were smiling again. You could feel it.

Behind you, Bucky looked at the back of your head with the expression of a man who had just realised he might have a problem.

The fourth report was the one that got away from him.

It was after the Geneva job, which had gone sideways in three different directions and then come back together.

It was entirely because of a call you'd made that Bucky was still thinking about four days later. It wasn't even a dramatic call. That was the thing. It was quiet and fast and so precisely right that he'd had trouble focusing for the rest of the op.

He sat down to write the report and he wrote the standard sections and then he got to additional notes and he just — kept going.

He wrote about the Geneva call. He wrote about Rotterdam again, because he'd been thinking about it. He wrote:

This agent has now worked alongside asset in eleven field operations. Pattern of observation across this period leads to the following assessment: asset is the kind of person who makes every operation better by being in it. This is the conclusion of eleven data points and one agent who has been paying attention.

Then, because Geneva had also produced something worth noting — genuinely, this part was professional — he added:

Of additional commendation: asset developed a partner communication system mid-mission, Geneva operation. Implemented in under thirty seconds, zero errors. Examples: "wrong floor" for abort, "you owe me coffee" for stand down. Effective. Recommend standard adoption. For the record, the coffee was never collected.

He read that back. He sent it before he could think about it differently. BCC: himself. B For Bucky. Private and safe.

You got it during movie night.

You felt your phone buzz, glanced at it, saw the sender ID, and made a decision in real time to read it right now that you would later question.

Asset is the kind of person who makes every operation better by being in it.

You made a very small sound that you hoped nobody heard. Sam definitely heard it.

This is the conclusion of eleven data points and one agent who has been paying attention.

You were smiling so hard your face hurt and you were staring at your phone like it had personally done something kind to you. You were going to need a moment, you were going to need just a —

You kept reading.

"Wrong floor" for abort. "You owe me coffee" for stand down.

You stopped smiling. You read that back.

Those were yours. The system you'd built in a Geneva stairwell in thirty seconds because you'd looked at Bucky and done the math on how the next hour was going to go.

You'd whispered the whole thing to him while checking the corridor and he'd said got it and that had been that. You hadn't written it down. You hadn't told debrief. Nor, had you mentioned it to anyone because it had felt like — it had just felt like a thing between the two of you.

For the record, the coffee was never collected.

He'd put that in a SHIELD report. You looked up.

Bucky was looking at the TV with his arms crossed, jaw slightly set. The specific stillness of someone who had decided in advance that they were going to look at the TV and they were going to keep looking  no matter what.

You looked at him for a long moment, realisation configuring in your head. He didn't look back. You looked down at your phone, then back up at Bucky.

Sam looked at Steve, who just looked at the ceiling, avoiding any stray gazes. Nobody said a word.

You locked your phone, very carefully, and put it face-down on your knee. On screen, something exploded.

The room stayed very quiet.

# fic inspo

$ cd masterlist

[pellucid-constellations]

Pairing: College!Bucky x Reader

Word count: 710

Warnings: ummm pining bucky, friends to pining, frat!bucky

a/n: Hi! I haven't been able to write for some time, so I'm having a drabble spree over the next week or so, writing based on prompts from this list. If you send me a category, I'll pick a prompt!!

This fic was based on this prompt in the Forbidden Love category: "You're the one person I promised myself I would never cross that line with."

____________________________________________

It was sudden, like the split decision to take an exit off the freeway and change your dinner plans. Bucky felt his life shift—just a fraction. Enough to be noticeable, but not enough to throw him off his axis. Maybe it had always been there, maybe it hadn't. But, either way, things felt different. He felt different, sitting in the horridly lit Denny's at two in the morning, his university-branded crewneck dipping off your shoulder as you inhaled a plate of fries.

"God, these are terrible," you moaned, drenching another floppy stick in ranch. "Why did we come here?"

"You begged me to," Bucky threw back, shifting in the booth uncomfortably.

"Tell me no next time."

"That hasn't gone over well, historically."

You snorted and then turned back to your fries.

You had always been a constant in Bucky's life—first in middle school, then high school, and now entering your last year in college. Inseparable was a common term used to describe your relationship, but there was something that separated you, and it had been a more... recent development.

Bucky had joined a frat. A very popular frat. You had not liked the frat, but you put up with it. But then Bucky started sleeping with women, and you put up with that far less, because Bucky started sleeping with... a lot of women. So, it was fair. You kept your distance, made your own friends, and you made time to see each other when you could.

Bucky coveted those times, even if he wouldn't admit to it. Even if each quick dinner, each passing coffee in the dining hall, began to feel like he was falling off a cliff. A very sudden, very steep cliff.

The women were not a distraction at first. He was supposed to have sex with women. That's what guys like him did in college. But, recently, for the past few weeks, they were a distraction. A distraction from you. He couldn't stop thinking about you, and that wasn't the plan.

"Why are you staring off into space like a freak?" you laughed, tossing a fry at his face. It smacked between his eyes.

"I'm not," he argued. "What, a guy can't think anymore? That illegal?"

You puffed out a laugh. "What could you possibly be thinking about?" You shoved the plate away and rested your face in your hands. "The next girl you'll waste the time of? Maybe you're worried that you left one in your bed and now she's going through your underwear drawer."

"Ha. Ha," Bucky mocked. "No, smart ass. I was thinking about what to get you for your birthday, but now, since I'm not allowed to think, I think I'll just forget."

"Not my birthday!" you gasped, hands coming down on the table. "You said you were going to take me to Disneyland."

"I was kidding about that. You actually want to go to Disneyland?"

"Not anymore. Not after you've dangled it in front of my nose like this."

Bucky let out another sarcastic laugh, sliding out of the booth after tossing a few bills on the table. He shrugged his jacket on and held out an expectant hand that you stared at dubiously before taking with a roll of your eyes.

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky droned. "Let's get out of here before your hysterics get us kicked out."

He helped you into your own jacket, lingered with his nose by your temple and greedily took time he wasn't allowed, and then pushed a rough kiss to the side of your head because that was a normal thing to do. He was being normal. His feelings were normal.

You tugged him into the parking lot and blabbed on about Disneyland and terrible fries and looked at him like you always did, and he looked at you like you were holding his entire life in your hands. You didn't seem to notice the difference.

Bucky kept it to himself and pretended he wasn't crossing a line.

A line he swore to himself in that moment—as you flipped on the cabin light in his car and rifled through his glovebox looking for a pack of gum you were adamant you lost in there a month ago—he would never cross with you. He couldn't.

[winteryn]

GODS, GORE & GROPING cosmic entity!bucky barnes x human!reader [15.2k]

— ⟢ SUMMARY: your habit of talking to yourself inadvertently catches the attention of something ancient lurking in the shadows. — ⟢ WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; non-canon; dark themes (I swear there is also comedy); it/its pronouns for bucky (the character is inspired by cthulhu); mention of gore, violence & death threats; angst; one (1) brief description of a nightmare; discussions about stress & anxiety; psychological horror elements; bickering (their dynamic is loosely inspired by eddie and venom in the movies); dark!bucky; overprotective!bucky; obsession; jealousy; possessive behavior; social exclusion; emotional dependency; unhealthy attachment; stalker-ish behavior; boundary violation; mourning; self-doubt; emotional withdrawal; denial as a coping mechanism; smut; mention of sex toys; monsterfucking; tentacle sex; pussy inspection; nipple play; restraints & gags; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; sort of mind break; creampie. 

A/N: so, this is my ticket to hell. I posted this back in october as part of my halloween series trick or tease, which I will continue here. anyway, I wanted to give this one-shot an actual plot, so there have been some important changes since it was pretty much pwp before. disclaimer: this story contains monsterfucking, so please avoid sending weird inbox/comments (yes, it already happened). if you follow me, know that this is a recurring theme, as a matter of fact I already have two stories about orc!bucky. it's very simple: if you don't like it, don't read it. hope you'll enjoy 🖤 trick or tease masterlist

You love your apartment in a way that would probably sound ridiculous if you ever tried to explain it, because it’s not particularly beautiful, nor does it sit in some idealized neighborhood where everything feels arranged for aesthetic approval.

The building is old, long past charming. The pipes occasionally groan through the walls as though protesting against their own existence, and the floors remember every step, even when you try your best to be quiet. The kitchen is too small to ever feel fully practical, the bathroom is always slightly colder than the rest of the apartment no matter the season, and the elevator has broken down often enough that you have stopped trusting it entirely.

Objectively, there are better places to live.

And yet every evening, after a day spent among crowded sidewalks, half-finished conversations, and obligations that somehow leave you far more exhausted than they should, the knot in your stomach begins to loosen the moment the front door closes behind you.

Nobody interrupts you here. Nobody watches you with critical eyes. Nobody tries to dictate the way you exist. It’s just you.

Which is probably why you develop the habit of talking to yourself once you step inside.

It’s not something you ever decided to do, it simply followed you from earlier versions of your life. At first it was practical, a way of sorting out stress and untangling thoughts that felt too messy to leave trapped in your head, but over time it became part of who you are.

“Stark scheduled five meetings today.” You drop your keys on the counter. “New record.”

You kick off your shoes, already moving towards the fridge for some water.

“I swear he finds some sick pleasure in wasting everyone’s time.”

You never expect a response, of course, but carry on with the small rituals of the evening while the walls quietly absorb your voice.

Ultimately, you stop keeping tabs of how often it happens, because you talk while cooking, cleaning, and taking showers. You comment out loud while scrolling through your phone and revisit past conversations while folding laundry. Even when sitting on the couch at the end of a long day, you debate whether you’re too tired to start anything meaningful or too restless to do nothing at all, as if the pillows could answer back.

Still, there are moments—usually late at night—when the absence of another human being becomes harder to ignore. A small ache settles in your chest at the realization that entire days can pass without anyone else seeing them. Your thoughts, your victories, the countless insignificant moments that make up a life... all of them exist only inside your own memory.

The feeling never stays for long though: somewhere along the way, you just learned how to be content with your own company.

Most of your friends live hours away now, scattered across different cities and different lives, and trying to keep those connections alive feels mortifying when it becomes clear you’re not worth the effort.

Making new ones has never been any easier. Too many people seem worn down by disappointment, and retreating into themselves feels safer than risking another let-down. The rest treat every relationship like a negotiation, weighing what can be gained from it before deciding how much of themselves they are willing to offer.

So you fall back into your routine, and the apartment remains your favorite place, where you spend most of your time.

However, the feeling is not one-sided, because somewhere within the walls and foundations, something has begun, very slowly, to consider you a constant.

It has occupied the building for longer than any human memory can account for.

Long before you arrived. Long before the current structure of rooms and hallways. Not trapped within it, or bound in any conventional sense, but present like a memory inside a familiar object, woven through walls and doorframes and the quiet space between moments.

For centuries, humans were irrelevant.

They came and went, briefly altering the surface of things without ever touching what lay beneath. The Entity never thought of them as individuals, but as noise. Temporary disturbance that always faded back into silence.

Until you.

At first, you are nothing exceptional. Just another tenant. A fragile arrangement of blood and flesh moving through a structure that has already forgotten most of what it has held. You unpack and settle into your routines.

And then you start talking.

Constantly.

As though silence is something you have to keep at bay to stay sane.

And that’s what catches its attention. At first, it assumes you are speaking to someone outside its perception, but there is no other presence, no other voice.

Only you.

So it begins to assume the words are meant for the space itself, for the apartment as a whole—for the being that chose its shadows as a place to rest.

The conclusion is obvious.

You are talking to it.

The Entity initially listens passively. Your voice is just another sound among many, no more important than the groan of old pipes or the distant hum of traffic beyond the windows.

But as you keep talking, your voice stops blending into the background.

It learns your rhythms before it understands why they matter: the time you come home; the way your footsteps change depending on fatigue; the subtle differences between your frustrated sighs and your tired one. The melody of your happiness and the miserable sound of your sorrow.

The details gather one by one without purpose.

And somewhere along the way, it stops thinking of you as transient.

The first changes are small. A temperature fluctuation in your room settles earlier in the evening than it used to. A recurring fault in the elevator that keeps waking you up in the middle of the night doesn’t return. A light that hesitated before turning on now responds immediately.

None of it is noticeable enough to make you suspicious. Until the reason behind these adjustments changes drastically.

In its memory, humans have always approached beings like it through extremes.

They arrive trembling with desperation that melts into obsession, or rigid with fear that collapses into obedience. Their speech grows cautious, as though a single wrong word might invite disaster. Even when they pretend otherwise, there is always an ugly tilt beneath their requests: ambition, hunger, greed.

But you only fill rooms with thoughts that have nowhere else to go.

You complain about a man named Tony scheduling meetings throughout the day as though he has personal authority over the calendar. You debate dinner choices—usually pizza or sushi—because the outcome might alter your mood for the rest of the night. You spend an entire evening trying to figure out why a couple from your hometown broke up after everyone swore they’d end up married.

And throughout your little monologues, your voice never once bends toward reverence. It never tightens into fear.

And that becomes difficult to grasp.

Over time, those small routines become expected. And expectation creates its own kind of absence.

The first few times you leave for longer than usual, the apartment feels incomplete. Not empty, exactly, but quieter. The space remains the same, yet something about it feels wrong without you.

The conclusion it reaches is simple: if you are choosing to spend more time elsewhere, then the apartment must be failing you in some way. From that point on, every imperfection becomes unacceptable, and small inconsistencies are often corrected before they even have the chance to become problems at all.

Since you are completely unaware that something has started arranging the world around you, the changes continue without question.

You keep talking the way you always do, filling the apartment with things that would seem insignificant to anyone else, but not to the creature listening. You never thank it. Never ask for anything specific, or demand more. You simply exist inside a space that now quietly takes care of itself according to your comfort.

The simplicity of that still confuses it. The Entity has been worshipped before, feared, sought out for power... But no one has ever treated it like part of their daily life. Like an equal.

Your voice is familiar and reliable as you become its Polaris, the fixed point by which the rest of the world is measured.

The Entity has never concerned itself with anything beyond its own existence, most things are allowed to fade.

Anything connected to you is not.

When you come back that evening, something is different. 

You move through your usual routine after stepping inside, loosening your shoulders and mumbling softly under your breath. Yet there is something unfamiliar that clings to the edges of your presence. It doesn’t belong to the apartment, and because of that, it draws its curiosity at once. 

Humans carry traces of the outside world with them all the time: scents, particles, remnants of places and people. Most disappear quickly enough to be forgotten.

But this one doesn’t leave. It stays attached to you in a way that makes it hard to dismiss, fixed on a specific point of contact. Still, you hang up your coat, set down your bag, and slip off your heels with a relieved sigh. There is no hesitation in your movements.

Something outside its space touched you and was allowed to settle. And it doesn’t seem to bother you at all.

That unpleasant realization manifests like the first thunder announcing an imminent storm.

The air changes, pressure building ominously through the room enough to alter the flow of oxygen.

You notice it a few seconds later, your breathing feeling slightly more restricted, your chest tightening in a way that is easy to misread as fatigue from the day. You pause, one hand briefly touching your chest as if checking whether something inside your body isn’t working properly.

Frowning in confusion, you glance around the apartment before sprinting to the window to push it open, letting the crisp night air spill inside.

The suffocating feeling eases a little, but the Entity’s rage doesn’t.

The air turns clammy enough to make your skin prickle. Out of the corner of your eye, the shadows along the edges of the room grow longer, creeping farther than they should. The impression vanishes as soon as your head makes a sharp turn toward the wall, leaving you with a kind of discomfort that will haunt your sleep for the rest of the night.

You were still its when you left this space, but something else got close enough to interfere with that.

Whatever that presence was, it shouldn’t have been near you at all.

The changes start revealing themselves later, in moments that seem insignificant at the time.

You take a shower every morning—it automatically folds into your routine without much attention, the same way you sit on the edge of the bed with a towel around your body and half-awake eyes, letting the day assemble itself around you in slow pieces.

You turn on the tap and let the water warm up while you brush your teeth and check your phone. Sometimes you even have time to tidy up your room a little.

But one day you find yourself rinsing your face while the mirror is already beginning to fog. You dismiss it as temporary luck and keep going through the same motions the next day.

And still, it keeps happening.

A few days later, you’re standing in your bedroom half-dressed and with an unexpected ten extra minutes before work, trying and failing to understand where they came from.

Other weird things follow, like the bedroom door no longer sticking when it’s too humid. Then, the kitchen cabinet that always needed an extra push starts closing smoothly, and the draft from the living room window stops bothering you entirely.

There is an accumulation of small inconsistencies that leaves you with the subtle impression that the apartment and your recollection of it are no longer perfectly aligned, to the point that you start wondering if the problem is you.

Maybe you’re becoming forgetful, distracted... The thought never settles into genuine panic, but it lingers just long enough to leave a sour taste behind.

A quiet Friday night finds you stretched on the couch with the television murmuring in the background, when an email from Tony lands in your inbox. It marks yet another round of revisions of your presentation despite the fact that this is already the fourth time you have edited it.

For a moment you simply stare deadpan at the screen, the frustration that has been building all week finally manifesting with a sharp exhale.

“For fuck’s sake, Tony.”

“I could ensure he never troubles you again.”

The voice comes so quickly after your words that your brain just accepts it without question. Then, your limbs still at once at the realization. Slowly, you lift your head and look around the apartment.

The television still works. The kitchen is empty. The hallway is exactly where it should be.

You frown at it for another moment before forcing yourself to exhale.

Stress.

You imagined it.

Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to the show.

“Well?”

This time you sit up abruptly, confusion sharpening into alarm. 

“What the fuck?” You mumble, because whatever fragile explanation you were building in your head collapses at once.

You nearly trip over your own feet as you scramble to stand, your heart hammering against your ribs while your gaze darts frantically around the open space.

“Is someone here?”

There is a pause before the voice answers—calm, almost unaffected by your agitation.

“I am not visible at the moment.”

Your breath catches slightly.

“What does that even mean?”

“I am in the shadows,” it continues. “I am everywhere.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, but it comes out strangled.

“Yeah, okay.” You mutter. “Sure.”

You quickly check the hallway and then turn back again, trying to locate any possible source that could explain the voice seemingly coming from the inside of the apartment. When you can’t find anything out of the ordinary, your body instantly angles towards the couch, one of your arms already stretched out to get your phone and call someone.

Police. Your neighbor. Anyone...

But your fingers barely brush the object before it slides out of reach.

You freeze.

“No.” You whisper, because now your brain is splitting between panic and denial.

You glance at the device like it has personally betrayed you.

“This is insane,” you say, unconsciously backing up, your chest heaving dangerously fast. “This is fucking insane.”

“He can be removed.” The voice states with confidence.

You shake your head sharply.

“What does that even mean? And what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?”

“I have been here for a long time.”

“What?” Your stomach tightens as you take another step back, shaking your head again like that will be enough to reset reality.

“Get the fuck out or I’m calling the police.” You threaten more firmly this time, even if the trembling in your voice refuses to fade.

The air shifts at once, suffocating in its heaviness.

“Do not dare to call me an intruder.”

Until now, despite everything, some stubborn part of your brain had been trying to force this situation into a shape that made sense—a prank, a squatter, even a neighbor with far too much free time.

Something explainable.

Human.

“I have always been here.”

The words settle like a boulder on your chest.

A chill crawls down your spine.

Nothing around you changes: the walls are still standing, the lights are still on, and the floor is not splitting open beneath your feet. Yet your attention is obsessing over every neglected corner. On the narrow seam where two walls meet. On the vent above the kitchen doorway. On the faint cracks hidden beneath layers of paint.

Places you have never paid attention to before.

Places that now feel claimed.

You have lived here for years, slept, eaten, cried... Spent entire weekends doing absolutely nothing. And the thought that something might have been present through all of it sends a fresh wave of nausea through your body.

That’s enough for you to notice the change in your breathing. Each raise of your chest feels slightly shallower than the last, your lungs stinging as they instinctively prepare for a danger your eyes cannot see.

“Reality parts for me. I have drifted through the birth of galaxies, swallowed storms of time, watched empires swell and rot. Your world? An insignificant speck in the vastness of the universe. Your species? Flimsier than smoke. You puny humans only know how to crawl from the mud to devour each other over shallow trinkets and territory.”

You swallow thickly, flinching hard as your back brushes against the wall close to the front door.

You don’t even remember moving.

“Okay,” you mumble, your voice still uneven. “Someone’s a little too full of themself.”

A thunderous roar crashes through your skull, pain exploding behind your eyes so suddenly that your vision blurs around the edges.

A sharp gasp tears from your throat as you double over, your body folding in on itself before you can stop it. Your hands fly to your head, fingers digging into the skin of your temples as your eyes squeeze shut against the pounding agony.

“I only speak the truth. I am eternal, and your defiance is inconvenient. Remember, human: if I wish to, I could bend you into nothingness before your heart finishes its next beat.”

The temperature of the room drops below zero. Biting cold wraps around you so viciously that it feels as though warmth has been erased from existence.

A violent shiver runs through you, and your arms promptly wrap around your torso in a futile attempt to make yourself smaller, safer, somehow less exposed to its wrath.

The threat itself should sound ridiculous, the sort of thing a comic book villain would say before getting punched through a building. Yet what’s frightening is the certainty burning beneath its voice.

An uncomfortable, deafening silence settles over the room, before the voice comes back quieter—almost timid.

“I have frightened you.” It sighs wearily. “Your fear is bitter. Forgive me. I often forget how small your hearts are, how fragile your existence can be.”

The cold begins to retreat, slowly loosening its grip on your body until you can feel your fingers again. The pressure squeezing your throat eases with it, and you quickly draw in a breath, gasping as if you have been forced under water.

You don’t answer. Instead your eyes close briefly, and inside your head you keep repeating that this is only a dream.

It has to be.

Dreams can be terrifying.

Dreams can feel real.

Dreams can make absolutely no sense whatsoever.

“I apologize. I am not used to... converse with humans.”

The explanation is absurd. Completely ridiculous. Sure, people do that too. They make themselves louder and hostile, more intimidating. They show their teeth because they are afraid to get bitten first.

But it’s difficult to be terrified of something while simultaneously understanding it.

“I would not harm another being, unless strictly necessary. Like Tony.”

There is a beat of silence after that, the kind that feels like waiting for a clarification.

Your eyelids slowly flutter open.

“Tony?” Your brows furrow in confusion.

“Yes.”

Your stomach drops. “I—Tony is my boss.”

“I am aware.”

That answer does absolutely nothing to make you feel better. Still, a weak, tired chuckle falls from your lips, the sound still sitting on the edge of disbelief.

“Well,” your voice wavers. “Next time you want to show off, try to be a little less... intense.”

There is a pause that lasts just long enough to feel like the conversation might actually end there.

“I will…” It rumbles. “Little star.”

You blink.

For a moment you genuinely wonder whether you heard it correctly. Of all the things it could have said, that had not even crossed your mind as a possibility.

“What?” You ask uncertainly.

“You are smaller than me,” it starts calmly. “And you shine the brightest when surrounded by darkness.”

The words hit you like a punch in the stomach, because that name feels like it was always meant for you—like this weird creature has spent some unknowable amount of time observing the universe until it reached the conclusion that you deserved your own little place inside it.

“And so you just… decided to call me that?” You say slowly, staring blankly at the wall.

“Yes.”

The answer arrives with complete confidence.

Your eyes scan the space again: the walls are still up, the furniture remains exactly where you left it, the front door is only a few feet away if you decide to make a run for it. However, now they all sit beside the crushing knowledge that you have never been truly alone in what you considered your safe haven.

And yet, despite the trembling in your hands and the excruciating headache, the apartment has never felt this warm.

After that night, the voice doesn’t appear on a schedule you can trace, and it doesn’t behave like something that interrupts your life so much as something that exists alongside you, its presence filling the apartment as naturally as sunlight through an open window.

Eventually you resign yourself to the fact that if this is real, then it has always been real. The Entity has existed beyond the edges of your perception all along, tucked into the shadows while you moved through your life unaware.

You are not discovering something new. You are simply learning how to share your home with a creature whose ego is, unfortunately, backed by evidence.

Strangely, that realization no longer feels like you’re losing your sanity. Every appearance still sends a jolt through you though, even when you start anticipating it. The jolts finally become sighs, the sighs fade into pauses... And then, somehow, they turn into full conversations.

“Allow me to intervene.”

The words emerge from nowhere and everywhere at once, threading through the sound of running water.

Your reaction is calmer than it would have been a month ago.

Pausing with a glass still slippery beneath layers of soap, you glance at the counter.

A deep exhale escapes your nose. “That’s not what I meant when I said Pierce should stop being an asshole.”

The silence that follows feels thoughtful.

“He deserves it.”

The certainty in its tone immediately tells you that this conversation is going to leave you with a migraine.

You slowly set the glass aside and reach for another.

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He repeatedly enters the apartments without warning despite causing distress to their occupants. He ignores maintenance requests. He raises the rent while refusing to fix anything. He is unpleasant.” It growls at last.

You stare at the sink deadpan, because the worst part is that none of those observations are technically wrong.

“You still don’t get to decide what happens to my landlord.”

“You have developed a habit of assuming the worst about me, little star.” The response almost sounds offended.

“Last week you wanted to fold the mail carrier into another dimension because he bent one of my packages.”

“He damaged your property.”

“He dropped it because he nearly tripped carrying three other boxes.” You remark tiredly.

“Then he accepted more than he was capable of transporting!” It snaps.

Your eyes close, and for a moment you simply stand there with your hands submerged in warm water, wondering whether anyone else in human history has ever had to explain proportional responses to a cosmic entity living inside their apartment walls.

“You can’t solve everything with violence.”

“At least my ways are effective.”

The tone is so childish that something dangerously close to a laugh threatens to escape you. You barely suppress it, unwilling to give the Entity the satisfaction.

The last thing you want is to encourage it.

“You’re missing the point.” You sigh.

“And your landlord is disruptive.” It retorts, returning to the original topic with persistence. “I remove disruption.”

A month ago, that statement would have sent ice flooding through your veins, now it makes you tired. Concerned, certainly; still mildly horrified. But mostly tired.

You noticed pretty quickly that the creature inhabiting the darkness has apparently divided existence into two simple categories: things that bring you comfort, and things that do not.

And whenever something falls into the second category, it immediately begins offering solutions.

Usually terrible ones.

You still can’t fully comprehend what it is and what it wants from you, yet you don’t reject it anymore, choosing instead to adjust yourself around it the same way people learn to coexist with eccentric roommates, noisy plumbing, or old neighbors with weird habits. But speaking more carefully than you used to has become necessary. Not because you are afraid of being overheard—you passed that stage weeks ago—but because the Entity is always listening, hungrily waiting for the slightest excuse to make itself useful.

The first time you muttered that a coworker was making you want to disappear, it was so concerned that it spent thirty minutes trying to understand whether your desire to “cease existing” was literal. Then you made the mistake of joking about your neighbor’s barking dog, and it calmly informed you that silence could be arranged...

Spending hours explaining hyperbole to a being older than galaxies had not gone particularly well, so now you think twice before speaking. You also avoid idle threats and clarify complains before they can be interpreted as instructions.

In addition to not knowing how human language works, it becomes clear that the Entity also doesn’t understand the concept of privacy. Or perhaps it understands it perfectly well and simply sees no reason to respect it.

You are still trying to determine which possibility is worse.

Thursday has been peaceful so far. Tony hasn’t started any new scandal that requires damage control, and Pierce hasn’t called asking for more money to deal with the umpteenth gas leak.

Yet by the time you finally make it home, exhaustion sits heavily in your muscles—the kind that accumulates steadily over hours spent hunched over a desk, attending meetings that should not exist and dealing with your boss’ particular talent for creating problems out of nothing.

The apartment is quiet when you step inside.

After abandoning your heels somewhere near the entrance, you drag yourself to the bedroom with the same determination of someone whose social battery has been completely annihilated. All you want is to change into something comfortable, eat whatever requires the least amount of effort to prepare, and spend the rest of the evening watching some trashy reality show.

The peaceful silence follows you as you set your bag on the floor and begin pulling your blouse over your head.

“This level of exhaustion is unacceptable.”

A startled yelp escapes your lips as you jerk backwards, immediately yanking the blouse back down.

For one humiliating moment, you are left standing in the middle of the room, tangled in fabric.

“Jesus Christ.” Your hand presses against your sternum.

The apartment remains perfectly calm.

“You scared me.”

“I did not intend to.”

“Yeah, I know.” You let out a weary sigh. “You never intend to.”

Finally pulling the blouse off, you throw it toward the laundry basket with significantly more force than necessary.

The Entity says nothing for what feels like forever, so your eyes narrow at a random corner.

“Were you just... watching me?”

The question leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and the silence that follows stretches long enough to make you squirm uncomfortably.

“You returned home forty-three minutes later than usual. You removed your shoes after entering, yet consumed no food despite having done so at the same time during the last three days. And your shoulders have remained incredibly tense since you arrived.”

You promptly let them relax, suddenly self-conscious of your posture.

“That wasn’t my question.”

“It was.” The creature sounds genuinely puzzled. “You asked whether I was observing you.”

Technically, that’s a logical answer, but it doesn’t make having a pair of monstrous eyes tracking your every movement with unwavering attention any less unsettling.

“You really keep track of all that?” You eventually ask, almost shyly.

“My attention is always upon you.”

The response arrives with such simple certainty that it makes the next words die on your tongue, leaving you frozen in the middle of your bedroom.

This thing has existed for an amount of time you cannot begin to comprehend. It notices things. It remembers things. It pays attention in a way that humans generally do not. And the reminder sends a strange heat crawling beneath your skin.

Suddenly, you are being hit with a feeling of disquiet at being so exposed.

“He should not be allowed to exhaust you like this.”

“No.” It falls from your lips before the conversation can continue.

“No?”

“No. Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.”

“You cannot know what I am thinking.”

“Oh yeah? So it has nothing to do with taking care of Tony?” You mock its gravelly voice.

Another pause.

“You know me so well.” It sounds almost pleased.

Sinking onto the edge of the bed, you rub a hand over your face.

“Please, stop trying to find a reason to kill my boss.”

“I was not offering to kill him.”

Relief immediately floods your chest.

“Oh.” You tilt your head, positively surprised.

Maybe all those evenings spent teaching the Entity how to behave more like a human and less like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are finally paying off.

“I would only harm him.”

Your face falls instantly.

“God, can you just stop talking?”

“It is significantly better.”

“No.”

“It is objectively better.”

You let out a long groan, covering your face with both hands.

“Why do you always bring him up?”

“I was simply stating an observation.”

You scoff, removing your jewelry with far more energy than the action itself requires. “You always make observations right before suggesting violence.”

“I do not always suggest violence.”

The statement is delivered with enough dignity that you almost believe it.

“You suggested throwing an officer into the ocean because he gave me a ticket.”

“He was incorrect.”

Your eyes close in irritation. “You suggested relocating my upstairs neighbor because she vacuumed once at six in the morning.”

“Sunday is the only day you are permitted to sleep in.”

“You spent three days trying to convince me my internet provider is a hostile entity.” Your voice gradually rises, and the apartment slips into complete silence.

“Little star,” the Entity starts slowly. “The service they provide is unacceptable.”

You curse the day you decided to explain how technology and the internet work to this relentless, stubborn creature.

“That’s not the point.” You say through clenched teeth.

The room grows quiet again and you know it is genuinely attempting to understand something that refuses to fit within its understanding of reality.

When it speaks again, the question sounds sincere.

“Why is Tony different?”

You let your head fall back with a sigh.

As much as its insistence and anger management issues drive you insane, you always need to remind yourself it is truly interested in how your mind works.

“He isn’t different,” the words are no louder than a murmur, your body sagging slightly as irritation drains away. “People are just allowed to be annoying. That’s part of the human experience.”

You can practically feel the disagreement radiating off the walls.

“That seems inefficient.” It frets.

A chuckle escapes you before you can stop it, still low but entirely genuine.

“Maybe it is.” You shrug.

“You dedicate a surprising degree of creativity to insulting him.”

“Because he frustrates me.”

“He makes you unhappy.”

“Hm, sometimes.” You nod.

“He increases your stress.”

“Yes.”

“You dread interacting with him.”

You hesitate for a second. “Well, only when he sends me to drag angry women out of his penthouse at nine in the morning.”

“Then I fail to understand why removing the problem is unacceptable.”

There it is—the same impossible logic it always returns to.

Everything else stops mattering the moment it involves you, so when something upsets you, it should be immediately addressed. The conclusion is predictable by now: anything causing you discomfort simply shouldn’t be allowed to continue existing. That’s the entire structure of its reasoning, there is no room for improvement or compromise.

For a few seconds neither of you speaks.

Then, very carefully, as though explaining something to a particularly intelligent but catastrophically misguided dog, “Harming my boss won’t fix my anxiety. And you really need to stop with the whole splitting people into categories based on whether they annoy me or not.”

The silence lingers, but you have learned enough about the creature by now to recognize when it is really considering your words.

“There are additional categories?”

This time you cannot help it—you burst out laughing, the sound brightening the room, loud and alive.

“Yes, you silly creature.” You breathe out, still smiling. “There are additional categories.”

Somewhere within the walls, the Entity appears to spend the rest of the night reevaluating its understanding of interpersonal conflict. You are not entirely sure the lesson will stick. Still, it feels like progress.

When your eyes snap open, the frantic pounding of your heartbeat is the only thing you can hear. You find yourself disoriented, small but stubborn fragments of the nightmare still clinging to you.

There was a corridor that seemed to stretch forever, doors opening one after another into empty darkness, and the overwhelming certainty that something was following just out of sight. The details fade almost immediately, but the fear lingers heavy in your chest.

“You are not alone.”

The rumbling voice cuts through the eerie silence out of nowhere, nearly making you jump out of your skin.

Your body goes completely still as for one awful second, fantasy and reality blur together. Then, fear shifts into exasperation so quickly it makes you faintly nauseous.

“It was a dream.” You whisper to yourself, pressing a hand over your eyes.

“Yes.” The answer comes immediately.

You let out a long breath, instinctively reaching for the lamp on your nightstand. Light has always helped after bad dreams. It gives your eyes something solid to land on so you can breathe a little easier; something ordinary enough to remind you that whatever was haunting you belonged to the deepest pits of your unconsciousness.

Before your fingers can touch the switch though, the temperature in the room drops slightly and the lamp clicks on by itself. You stare at it blankly, before glancing up at the ceiling.

“Have you been in my bedroom this whole time?” 

When the answer arrives, it carries a note of confusion.

“I am always with you.”

You instinctively pull the sheets closer around yourself.

“Hm, not really comforting.”

“I simply illuminated the room.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.” The words come out feebly, as though they were meant just for you.

The pensive silence that follows suggests it is trying to work out what you meant anyway. Eventually, it steers the conversation towards something it deems far more important than your discomfort at its incessant hovering.

“You were in distress.”

A chill crawls across your skin despite the warmth of the blankets.

“It was just a dream.” You dismiss as your eyes drop to your quilt.

“You have experienced similar dreams repeatedly.”

“What do you mean repeatedly?” You instantly look up.

“You have experienced seven variations of the same fear pattern within the last month.”

You frown at the wall in front of you.

“You remember them all?”

“Of course.”

You are not entirely sure what unsettles you more: the fact that the Entity has somehow found its way into your dreams, or the fact that it has categorized them so analytically.

“It was a nightmare.” You swallow eventually.

“Yes.”

“But you don’t have to do anything about it.”

“I disagree.”

Of course it does.

You rub your eyes in exhaustion. “Everyone has nightmares once in a while.”

“You are not everyone. I do not care about everyone.” The word is thrown out in disgust. “And you were terrified, that’s enough for me to intervene.”

Your head falls back against the headrest with a dull noise. “It wasn’t real.”

“It still scared you.” It insists.

The simple logic behind its reasoning is incredibly annoying, because there is no easy way to argue with it. The distinction between reality and dreams seems irrelevant to a higher entity—fear is still fear.

“What was chasing you?”

You immediately regret answering any questions at all, hoping that lying on your side will implicitly communicate the conversation is over.

“Nothing.”

“What was behind the door?”

“Nothing.”

“Your heartbeat was dangerously fast when you remembered.”

You pull the blanket higher and settle deeper into the mattress, ready to ignore it.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

The response is so quick your eyelids flutter open again.

The Entity releases a sigh. “You return home exhausted. You experience distress during sleep, and it lingers long after you wake up. I do not understand why you insist these things are insignificant.”

The sincerity behind its words makes it unexpectedly difficult to swallow.

You know it’s not asking out of mere curiosity, or to eventually use your own fears against you for some hidden purpose. It genuinely cares about you, but not in any way that gives you space from it. Its attention doesn’t arrive and withdraw; it persists, clinging to you with a kind of obsessive inevitability. It feels less like being observed and more like being suffocated—a desperate grip around your throat that won’t loosen even when you need oxygen.

That attention has begun to register as pressure inside your nervous system, a second current running beneath your own reactions. As though it is already anticipating where you will move, what you will feel, what will unsettle you... and meeting you halfway.

Under the apparent reverence lies something far more obstinate: a deep, unwavering hunger to possess you. It craves to reach past what you can recognize as yourself, following you beneath language, control, and into the parts of you where emotion arises before it becomes yours to name—until even the boundary between what you truly feel and what you want to show is blurred.

“Because not everything needs to be fixed.” You ultimately sigh.

“Why?”

Your eyes close in resignation at the question that the Entity keeps asking since manifesting itself to you. It sounds so plain and obvious until you try to look for an answer that actually makes sense, devoid of useless excuses.

“Because sometimes people are just tired, and that can cause bad dreams. It’s called stress and it’s normal.”

The quiet that follows stretches long enough that you hope the conversation has finally reached an end.

“What was behind the door?”

You let out a groan. “Jesus Christ.”

“Little star—”

“Goodnight.” You exclaim loudly enough to cut directly across whatever question was coming next.

Several seconds pass and your body gradually melts against the mattress, your chest finally deflating with a relieved sigh.

“Goodnight.”

A pause follows.

“I am always here. You may inform me if the dream returns.”

You bury your face deeper into the pillow.

“I won’t.” It comes out muffled.

“I would still like to know.”

You gesture blindly toward the ceiling.

“Goodnight.”

The lamp switches itself off.

Several days pass after the nightmare conversation without incident, which should probably be reassuring. Instead, it leaves you vaguely suspicious, because you have already learned that silence doesn’t necessarily mean absence. More often than not, it simply means the Entity has decided to not comment on whatever it is currently observing.

You are cooking dinner when it manifests. Or well, attempting to cook dinner, which is definitely not the same thing. The recipe is open on your phone, and the ingredients are technically correct. Whether the final result will be edible remains to be seen.

The water has finally begun to boil and you are standing in front of the stove trying to remember whether the smoked salmon goes in before or after the tomato sauce, when the familiar baritone drifts through the kitchen as if commenting on the weather.

“You should not consume that.” It throws off-handedly.

You stop stirring altogether, your eyes still fixed on the sauce before slowly turning to the empty kitchen.

“What?”

“The nutritional value is poor.”

You can only blink. Being criticized by an ancient being for your dinner choices... Not everyone gets to put that on their résumé.

“You don’t even eat.”

“Correct.”

“Then how do you know what’s good for me?” You squint accusingly.

“I have observed your species.”

The spoon returns to the pan and you continue stirring, determined to not encourage it. Unfortunately, that strategy stopped working after the third day.

“You consume insufficient vegetables.”

A sigh escapes you. “Stop.”

“It is the truth.”

“We’re not having this discussion now.”

“You purchased zucchini and carrots three days ago and have yet to consume them.”

Your wrist stills. Scarily slowly, you lower the utensil onto the spoon rest, and look at the wall with challenge burning hot in your eyes.

“You know what’s concerning about that sentence?” You cross your arms to your chest.

“The fact that you know when I bought them.”

“You not consuming the vegetables.” It speaks over you.

“Oh my God,” you snap as you sharply turn toward the empty kitchen. “Are you my roommate and nutritionist now?”

Silence follows, and you hope it has finally run out of opinions.

“Roommate is… acceptable classification.”

You freeze at its reply, because it suddenly dawns on you the mistake you just made. You decide to play it cool though, and turn back to the pan to resume stirring, your movements now a little more sluggish than before.

“That wasn’t an invitation, by the way.” You clear your throat awkwardly after a while.

No response comes. At least, not verbally. The flame beneath the pan flares a little higher before settling again, not enough to affect the cooking but just enough to feel deliberate.

You frown at it, annoyed at the fact that this Lord of the Darkness-wannabe officially considers itself a member of the household now, and you are the only one to blame for that.

“You should also sleep more.”

Your shoulders slump in defeat.

The conversation had been going so well.

“I sleep plenty.” You argue.

“You averaged five hours and forty-one minutes over the last seven days.”

The spoon nearly slips from your hand.

“Can you stop tracking my sleeping habits?” Your voice drips with indignation. 

“You are tired.” It retorts at once. “Tired humans make poorer dietary decisions.”

“Who isn’t in this day and age?”

“Well, you are more tired than most people.” It barks back, agitated.

You are beginning to suspect that the Entity’s only hobby is monitoring your wellbeing with a level of dedication that borders on the absurd—and absolutely no sense of when to mind its own business.

Maybe you should introduce it to birdwatching next.

It becomes obvious that it also reacts to the people surrounding you. Not in anything you could immediately point to as proof, but small inconveniences cluster around certain names, voices, intrusions that are not physically present in the apartment and yet somehow seem to have been catalogued all the same.

At first you tell yourself it must be a series of coincidences.

A delayed train to go back home for Thanksgiving, forcing you to text your family that you won’t make it. A rooftop bar reservation that gets cancelled just as you’re getting ready to leave—the kind of place you were going to with old friends who insisted it was “important to catch up properly.” Plans with people you actually like quietly unraveling at the edges, and conversations turning into vague reschedules that never settle into anything concrete, leaving your evenings empty at home.

The pattern becomes harder to ignore.

You finally connect the dots thanks to Steve.

You’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks, nothing serious yet, though that feels less and less accurate when your evenings keep turning into phone calls that stretch far longer than either of you originally intended.

It’s late in the afternoon and you are talking to him while tidying the living room, the conversation drifting effortlessly as you gradually stop dusting and end up leaning against the couch, your cheeks hurting from how much you have been smiling.

Dating comes easy with someone as sweet and kind as Steve. You always feel a little lighter after spending time with him.

Perhaps that’s why he becomes an obstacle to remove.

“... and then she told me I should apologize to her cat.”

You chuckle. “What? Why?”

“Apparently me stating I have a dog offended him.”

After your laugh fades, your mouth parts to answer with a story of your own about disastrous first dates, when the call abruptly ends.

It doesn’t crackle, it simply cuts off. One moment Steve is speaking, the next there is silence.

You check the screen with astonishment written all over your face, and sure enough there is only your wallpaper staring back at you.

Your stomach twists with a familiar, uncomfortable feeling.

Slowly, you lower the phone, and that’s when it registers that the apartment has been quiet for a while.

Too quiet.

“That puny boy is annoying.”

Your brow lifts skeptically. Steve Rogers is many things, but “puny boy” is definitely not the first word that comes to mind when talking about him. The man has shoulders that deserve their own zip code.

You huff out a weary breath. “What did you do this time?”

“I ended the interaction.”

The answer is tinted with poorly concealed smugness, not a single attempt to hide what it has done—and it’s that stupid brashness wrapped in the arrogant conviction of always being right, that makes fury flare in your chest.

Your grip tightens around your phone.

“I noticed.” You smile caustically. “Care are to explain why?”

“The call had continued long beyond necessity.”

The scoff leaves your mouth before you can stop it. “Since when do you decide what is necessary in my relationships?”

“The puny human was occupying your attention.”

“We were having a conversation.” You state tartly.

“You have many conversations.”

“So what?”

“They occur too frequently.”

You blink at the wall, utterly flabbergasted by its impudence.

“Are you kidding me?” You chuckle drily, no traces of humor in it. “You were jealous of Steve and—and your solution was to violate my privacy and go through my fucking phone?”

Your arms rise in a gesture of helpless disbelief, only to drop again by your sides a second later. “What are you? Six?”

“He occupies a disproportionate amount of your time.”

“I like him.” You fire back.

“He is temporary.”

The answer comes out as a roar that makes you flinch instantly. Anger evaporates, leaving behind a cold, hollow feeling beneath your ribs.

“He is temporary.” The Entity repeats calmly this time, as if the statement has already been settled rather than offered for discussion. “You have known him for weeks.”

There is a brief pause before it continues—still unhurried, still confident in its presumption.

“I have known you longer.”

The words are final in a way that doesn’t invite contradiction.

The dreadful realization that this fragile boundary between you had been crumbling day after day without you noticing makes it impossible to keep your voice steady.

“You don’t get to decide who matters to me.”

The apartment shifts—not physically, or visibly—but it feels like the air has suddenly reoriented toward the sound of your voice.

“I do not decide who matters to you.” 

A pause follows, strategic.

“I only decide what enters my domain.”

The apartment is not a place it inhabits, but a condition that defines what can be present within it. And for the first time, the implication is not about Steve at all, or any of the other people the Entity has quietly pushed to the edges of your life.

It’s about you.

“This apartment is not your domain.” You swallow, forcing the trembling out of your words.

“It contains you.”

Your stomach churns so harshly you feel like vomiting at how completely unremarkable the Entity seems to find its reasoning.

There is something profoundly unsettling about its inability to separate you from the spaces you occupy, the people you interact with, or the things that demand your attention. Everything collapses into the same category, tied together by the simple fact that it exists in relation to you, and therefore falls under the quiet assumption that it has the right to interfere.

And judging by the calm confidence in its voice, it’s a belief that has been festering in the background for a very long time, undisturbed. As though the boundary between what it assumes and what you are has never been particularly solid to begin with.

Your grip on the phone hardens until your fingers ache against its hard edges.

“You can’t sabotage every relationship I have.” 

“That assumes they were ever stable to begin with.”

There was never anything meaningful enough to protect in the first place, only shifting connections that held for a while or failed on their own terms. And yet your life has been reshaped so nothing ever keeps you away for long, every little detail arranged so the roots of its sick devotion can sink deeper and deeper into your existence until eventually you’ll stop leaving.

You are living your days bounded by a mere, temporary concession of freedom, because the Entity has already gathered what serves its purpose.

The rest is nothing but a speck of dust meant to aimlessly wander across the vastness of the universe.

It’s a system that you reject but now find yourself placed inside regardless. The center of it all.

It’s the day you meet with Wanda that you really understand how deep the Entity’s visceral attachment to you goes.

Your friend comes over on a Saturday afternoon after several weeks of failed attempts to meet up. The visit is long overdue, and you spend most of it moving between rooms while talking about work, mutual friends’ life updates, and whatever gossip has accumulated since the last time you saw each other.

For the first hour everything feels normal enough that you almost forget about the presence woven through the concrete. You are halfway through making coffee when the conversation stops abruptly. At first you assume Wanda is checking her phone, but the silence feels unnatural.

When you step out of the kitchen, you find her standing near the entrance with an expression you cannot immediately identify.

She is confused, almost distracted—the way people look when they walk into a room with purpose only to forget why.

“Wanda?”

She blinks as if woken up by a dream, instantly meeting your worried gaze.

“Hm?”

You frown. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” The answer comes a little too quickly as she nods frantically.

Her gaze then drifts upward again, lingering on the ceiling for a moment before returning to you.

She titters as she lightly shakes her head. “This is going to sound stupid.”

An unpleasant sensation tugs at your chest.

“What is?” You ask thinly.

Wanda’s lips open and close once, as if something is holding her back.

“Do you ever feel like someone’s… watching you?”

For a second your heart forgets how to beat, but you eventually manage a strangled laugh.

“No?” The word sounds more like a question than an answer.

“It’s not bad,” she clarifies apprehensively. “I don’t know how to explain it. It just feels like…” She trails off, shrugging at last. “Like there’s someone else here.”

You stare at her and Wanda stares back for a quiet, uncomfortable minute, before her eyes briefly land on the cups waiting on the table, and everything is forgotten.

But your friend’s laugh is less loud, shorter. Her attention keeps wandering, and more than once you catch her glancing at empty corners as though she expects something to be standing there.

She leaves nearly an hour earlier than planned.

The excuse she gives you sounds legitimate. The timing does not.

You stand on the threshold long after she disappears down the hallway before slowly closing the door, your forehead briefly resting on the wooden surface as you let out a tired sigh.

“You dislike her.”

You roll your eyes, straightening up. “You’re slipping. Wanda is one of my closest friends.” 

“Your interactions are infrequent.”

“We’ve known each other for eight years,” you reply promptly, a faint edge to your voice now. “We don’t need to talk every day for our friendship to be real.”

The Entity’s voice is pensive. “She occupies little of your time.”

“Again, that’s not how friendship works.” You huff, busying yourself with the dirty cups on the table.

“Proximity is important.” 

You let out a short, disbelieving breath.

“Friendship isn’t defined by how often someone is physically or temporally close to me.”

“Yours is an inconsistent system, then.” It concludes and you let the cups fall into the sink with a loud clank.

“What exactly is your criteria for liking people?” This time the question is not tinted with accusation so much as worn down into something closer to fatigue. You turn around, this time directly staring at the wall.

Arguing definitions with something that doesn’t operate like a human being is starting to feel pointless.

The answer takes longer this time.

“Not believing in the arrogant presumption that they could take you away from me. The delusion that something so small, so transient, could ever lay claim to what is mine is preposterous.” It states at last.

In some distant, irrational corner of your mind, the words feel familiar enough to not shock you anymore. But the clinical insolence, and how strongly it believes it has the right to make such a claim, is revolting.

It simply exists in it the way breath exists in you, natural and unquestioned.

You exhale sharply, jaw tightening as your teeth press hard enough to ache.

“And what makes you think you have any claim over me at all?” The words come out strained, held together by effort rather than control.

The silence that follows presses into your skin like the walls have leaned in a fraction closer.

The answer has always been in front of you, it’s only a matter of when you will surrender to it.

Some tv series you picked up days ago and barely remember choosing plays at low volume on the television. The voices rising and falling should be comforting, but their rhythm isn’t quite landing anywhere inside you. You still keep your gaze on the scene out of habit, hoping that alone might eventually turn into genuine engagement.

You have been repeating that to yourself for almost two hours.

You shift on the couch once, then again almost immediately after. Your shoulders settle, then lift. Your back presses into the cushions and then pulls away, searching for a version of contact that actually feels like it belongs to you.

Everything is technically fine—the room is warm, the couch is comfortable, the apartment quiet except for the show—but your skin feels strangely hot, too aware of itself, like it can’t stop registering the absence of something your brain refuses to name directly.

You cross your arms loosely, then uncross them again just to feel something brush against your hardened nipples under your camisole. The strong urge to have something hard and definite pressed against your body instead of this drifting tension that never fully resolves, is driving you mad.

Your thighs press together without much thought—a slow, instinctive squeeze that makes your breath hitch when you remember you haven’t worn anything underneath in hopes of getting some sort of stimulation against your clit.

It ends up being a useless attempt to soothe the arousal, because it only sharpens the need to take care of the ache in your core.

You let your leg bounce once against the couch cushion, then still it, then start again a moment later.

The Entity has altered your life completely. Privacy is no longer a clean boundary, but something porous that breathes back. It has turned upside-down the way you exist inside your own space, despite your earlier belief that you could simply ignore it and carry on as usual.

Some nights the fire licking at your insides becomes too unbearable, but a part of you keeps pulling back at the last second—the sole idea of being fully exposed to its monstrous eyes while having a dildo plunging in and out of your pussy makes your guts contort with shame.

Your mental health is on the line, because it leaves you suspended in this strange, unnerving state—restless, alert, never fully grounded in anything else.

So your body keeps searching for relief in innocent motions.

You shift again, sinking deeper into the couch, then slide slightly forward. One arm presses into your side and your breath catches once, shallow and unexpected.

The television continues without caring whether you’re following it or not. A scene changes. A line of dialogue lands but leaves no imprint.

After a while, you stop trying.

Your attention slips away from the screen entirely as your hand instinctively reaches for your phone on the coffee table. The cushions dip as you shift your weight again, abandoning any effort at sitting properly.

You lie down, hoping to find a little comfort in a less rigid position. One leg lifts and settles over the back of the couch while the other bends a little, enough to plant your foot securely on the soft cushions.

Instagram feeds you fragments of other people’s lives: house tours, obnoxious laughter, delicious recipes, cleaning reels, captions you don’t read all the way through. Your thumb moves automatically, pulling you further down the stream.

It seems to work, finally granting you some sort of reprieve, until a sharp gasp claws out of your throat.

The room sinks into darkness as the TV screen goes black, but the shock is soon replaced by a thrill of fear as something brushes your ankle. It’s a slick, cold contact that makes you flinch violently. When you look down, your vision catches on movement that doesn’t belong in the geometry of the room, emerging from beneath the couch as if the floor itself has opened to grant it access.

Your limbs stay frozen as oxygen gets stuck in your throat. Your eyes lock on the tentacle, wide and unblinking, because looking away means potentially giving it the chance to attack you.

Your voice is shaking with worry when you decide to ask for help.

“Please tell me this your doing.”

The Entity answers immediately, the sound not arriving from any clear direction.

“Yes, that is mine. You do not need to worry.”

Your shoulders relax at once.

“What the hell happened to you?” You frown, because your brain reaches for the closest thing it can tolerate. “Did you turn into the kraken all of a sudden?”

The subtle recoil from the tentacle somehow reads as disdain.

“That insignificant squid with delusions of grandeur?” It growls, voice dripping with contempt. “Don’t lump me with that drooling, crude imitation ever again.”

Despite the shock still lingering, you snicker at the pure pique in its words.

You hum, shaking your head slightly. “My bad, Squidward.”

With a loud squeal, you find yourself dragged down until you’re fully lying on your back again, this time both of your thighs bent and spread open by two tentacles tightly wrapped around your ankles that keep you still and exposed.

“Quiet.”

Your heartbeat rings loudly in your ears. “Not my fault you decided to go all octopus on me.” You choke out, a mix of excitement and anticipation swirling wildly in your lower belly.

“That is because I know you enjoy it.”

Oh, you knew that tentacle-shaped dildo in the back of your closet would come back to bite you in the ass some day.

“Okay!” You loudly draw the word out, already feeling a familiar heat crawl up your neck. “Care to explain what exactly is going on?”

“You are not stable.”

Your left eyebrow lifts in perplexity at the ceiling. “Excuse me?”

“I feel your restlessness.” It hums. “It gets stronger day after day. Something is bothering you.”

You frown. “So?”

“I know what it is that makes you fidget like a little, frightened bunny.” Your eyes widen. “And I can help you.”

That earns it a short, disbelieving chortle.

“Jesus Christ,” you drag a hand over your face. “Okay, I—I can’t believe I’m really going to say it.” You mutter to yourself.

“Whatever, okay. Let’s see what you got, big guy, since you apparently have all the answers—oh.”

Two other tentacles peek out from under the couch, thicker than the ones wrapped around your ankles. You can’t really tell their color—perhaps a shade close to dark teal, bordering on black—the only source of light being the moon shining through the open curtains and the weak glow of the city lights in the distance.

Surely, being spread open by your filthiest fantasy is not helping you keep a clear head. 

The two curious appendages stop by your stomach to kiss the soft skin with gentle caresses through the flimsy fabric of your camisole. Your breath catches in your throat when the tips teasingly graze your turgid nubs, but before a pathetic plea can fall from your lips, they wrap around your wrists to slowly guide both arms over your head.

Their hold is firm but not brutish as they keep them anchored against the cushion.

“What—” The word fades into a soft gasp as two thinner tentacles slide up your legs before trailing under the hem of your camisole.

“You constantly squeeze your thighs. I am simply helping you soothe the ache.”

Your eyes roll back at the simple yet suggestive explanation, your mouth forming a perfect circle as each one of the appendages finally takes hold of your breasts, their tips flicking your erected nipples with slow, sensual motions.

“You are… delightful to touch.”

“Thanks?” You frown in mild confusion, already panting from the playful touches against your tits.

“And beautiful.” It contemplates almost absently. “For a puny human, you have a stunning body.”

“You sure know how to woo a girl.” You answer drily, huffing out a strained chuckle. 

“I apologize. I am not quite acquainted with this.”

“This as in… ?” 

“Sex.”

Your eyes widen, before a sly smirk brightens your features. “Are you saying that me—a lowly, puny human—is going to take the big, mean kraken’s virginity?”

“Stop associating me with that unintelligent abomination!” The voice roars disgusted, a new tentacle lightly smacking your thigh. “I am a cosmic entity. And sex is a foreign concept to us: we do not reproduce, nor feel the need to pleasure ourselves.”

Your witty answer falls short when small, hard suction cups graze your clit through the light fabric of your shorts. The movement prompts you to thrust your hips up, and the tentacle responds in earnest, steadying itself to allow you to hump its surface as more tentacles slither up to rub your hips.

It exhales shakily. “I would like to see it.”

“Hm?” You moan quietly, too lost into the heavenly, throbbing sensation in your core to pay attention.

“This curious, warm spot.” The tentacle against your clit twitches. “Your hidden treasure. Its smell is celestial whenever you wake up sweaty and whimpering in the middle of the night, my little star. Did you know that? Did you know how hard it is to ignore your pretty, little cries?”

You whimper at the raw need in its voice. “You mean my pussy? I’m all yours, honey.”

It seems to appreciate your answer since the tentacles restraining your limbs immediately tighten their hold on you.

“Your clothes are in the way.”

“Let go of my wrists for a s—” The sound of fabric tearing leaves you gaping. 

When you glance down, you immediately catch two thick tentacles releasing the ruined fabric of your camisole. It now hangs pathetically by the short sleeves around your shoulders. The appendages already teasing your breasts can finally move across your naked chest, patiently yet freely. You can’t prevent the loud moan that claws out of your throat at the lewd sight of those two slimy limbs wrapped around your tits, prompting you to push your chest into their touch. 

You toss your head back when the suction cups finally attach themselves to your nubs, steadily sucking on it. It’s not entirely similar to a human mouth, not only because of the texture borders on rubbery, but also because of their colder temperature that feels surprisingly pleasant against your stiff nipples.

A string of wanton sounds falls from your parted lips as they alternate gentle strokes to playful, harsher tugs that leave you gasping for more.

“May I?” It strains out, two tentacles slightly pulling at the hem of your shorts.

“Please.” You moan.

With a mere tug, the sides of your bottoms rip into two perfect halves, and the fabric is abandoned under your ass. 

The tentacles holding your ankles finally spread your legs wider with an enthusiastic pull as every limit has finally been annihilated.

“Oh.”

You giggle at the amazed tilt in its voice. 

“I have never seen anything like this before.”

You jolt as the cold tips of two thin, smaller tentacles unexpectedly brush against your inner thighs, lazily sliding forward until they take hold of your folds, parting them delicately as if afraid you might break.

“Your pussy is very pretty” It hums. “It is glistening.”

“Thank you.” You breathe out, still squirming at the stinging sensation of the tentacles playing with your chest.

Silence engulfs the space as the Entity stills you completely, admiring the way your core shines beautifully with the mess you made with your slick. The tentacles still trace your folds leisurely, enjoying the smooth, wet texture.

At some point, they start toying with your hole, letting their tip slowly breach it only for the creature to marvel at how it flutters in response. Furthering its inspection, the tip of an appendage kisses your clit, using some of your slick to get your nub wet.

You gasp as it rubs your arousal through your folds with slight pressure, prompting the Entity to release a low, unconscious hum. It is more than satisfied with the sloppy sounds that bounce off the walls along with your hushed whimpers.

As the strokes of its tentacles turn more intense, the urge to feel it inside you becomes utterly oppressive. You don’t know if it is trying to tease you relentlessly, or perhaps if the curiosity it feels towards your body is genuine, wishing to take its time to study your reactions—from your cute sounds to the way you tense and squirm under its tender touches.

“Sublime.” It whispers. You squeak in response, writhing in its firm hold.

“Settle down, my little star.” It grumbles. “I am going to give you what you have been craving very soon.”

You nod eagerly, a cry erupting from your throat as the other appendage puts more pressure on your throbbing clit, the suction cup following the example of the two tentacles abusing your nipples by steadily tightening and releasing your nub.

Despite its weird, unique texture, it still feels like a mouth suckling on your clit.

“Must you move so much?”

“It feels—” You almost choke on your own saliva. “So good.” Your eyes squeeze close.

“Oh, my darling. You are such a vision.”

Your hips attempt to chase the stimulation, yet there are other appendages already emerging from different sides of the couch to carefully wrap around every exposed inch of your body, until you are forced to lie spread and still for the Entity to turn you into its personal fucktoy.

“Fuck.” You whisper, panting at the pure display of dominance.

The fact that you are fully restrained and exposed for this unknown, powerful creature to do as it pleases should terrify you—considering the sick obsession for you it flaunts so proudly.

Yet here you are, pliant and eager for it to finally lose control and possess you.

“That is indeed what I plan to do with you, lovely.”

“Oh, please.” Your teeth sink into your bottom lip to unsuccessfully stop a shameless whine.

“You are an impatient little thing.” It chuckles eventually.

You would love to wipe the smugness out of its voice, see its tentacles flinch in disdain at another one of your silly nicknames, but then a smaller appendage joins the one that has been gently working on your clit and the two focus on two different rhythms, alternating quick, flicking motions to slow, intense sucks.

“Oh God.” You squeak, letting your head fall limp to the side. 

“I could spend an eternity buried in your little treasure and still, it would not be enough.” The voice grunts. “Sing for me, my little star.”

All it takes is the suction cups on your nipples tugging at the sensitive flesh for you to come. Your climax is so intense that your mouth opens around a loud, raw moan, your vision momentarily fading out as your body attempts to arch into the wicked stimulation.

“Gorgeous.” It marvels. “I need more.”

Your eyes widen as your pussy is lavished with attention by several more tentacles tracing your folds, forcing you into that delicious state of perpetual pleasure.

With rapid and decisive movements, the Entity quickly drives you over the edge over and over again, leaving you flinching pathetically in its hold, your muscles tensing up so often that you feel a faint ache throbbing in your tendons.

The appendages on your breasts are still eager on your tender nipples, abusing them with their suckling motion and cruel flickers.

“Looking at you makes it difficult to believe anything else deserves attention, little star. I apologize but I will never tire of your sweet sounds. You are ravishing when you surrender to pleasure.” 

“I can’t—” You sob, finally being granted a moment to breathe as a thin tentacle slides up your neck to catch the tears threatening to spill, lovingly stroking your cheeks and your damp forehead as you sniffle. 

Your eyes briefly roll back as those two sneaky tentacles keep your clit wet and sensitive, electricity running through your veins as your hips hopelessly jerk against the Entity’s appendages trapping your lower half.

“Do you wish to stop, pretty thing?”

“No! No please.” You cry out, your eyes instantly snapping open. “Just—need you inside, please.” A mewl falls from your lips at the gentle pressure on your hole.

You briefly catch something moving in your peripheral vision, and when your head turns, your heart almost stops at the sight of a new, perfectly thick tentacle emerging solemnly from underneath the couch. Its bumps and ridges are far more numerous and prominent than the ones scattered across the others.

“I know you are fond of certain… sizes.”

You whine, before something crucial finally dawns on you.

“W—what’s your name?”

It seems taken aback. “My name…” It muses. “It is too difficult for humans to pronounce, little star.”

“What should I call you then?”

“For now,” you moan shamelessly at the sensation of being finally filled. “I want to hear you scream for me.”

The appendage works inside you, the ridges a pleasant addition as they stroke along your walls in a steady motion while it carefully feeds you of its length.

“More.” You whimper.

“Hm?”

“Give me more.” Crying out, your hips attempt to thrust up.

Huffing a chuckle, the Entity manifests a few smaller tentacles that carefully push inside you along the bigger one, each of them focusing on a new spot to rub. Your eyes cross in bliss at the incredible feeling of being so stretched. The fullness is almost absurd, to the point that you briefly wonder if your body is going to explode at some point, all burning and taut as you feel trapped in an endless orgasm.

The depravity of being restrained and pounded by a mess of eager tentacles right in the middle of your living room only makes you moan louder.

“You have to be quieter, little star. Someone might hear you.”

The urge to chortle and reply with something sarcastic is strong, but right now you can barely recognize your surroundings.

“There could be the entire building watching me from the window for all I know and I still wouldn’t give a fuck.” You breathe out.

A wail roughly makes its way out of your chest when the little suction cups tug at your nipples harshly, the length of the appendages curling around the flesh of your breasts to fondle and squeeze them together. 

The Entity lets out a growl so guttural it makes your bones shake. 

Your breath catches when something slimy brushes over your bottom lip—another tentacle, quite thick but not like the one thrusting inside you. 

“Open.”

You obey at once, parting your mouth as it doesn’t waste any time to slip inside. Its motions are less harsh compared to the Entity’s possessive tone, and that allows your lips to wrap around it and suck at your own pace.

“I warned you before I would harm other beings if necessary.” It starts, your body tingling as the hair on the back of your neck raises at its baritone echoing right into your ear. 

The large tentacle around your waist tightens, almost protectively. 

“I will rip the flesh and feast on the bowels of anyone who dares to touch you.” The Entity’s tentacles inside your pussy pick up their pace, furious and wild, eliciting a string of loud moans out of you that get promptly muffled by the appendage curiously exploring your tongue.

“I love watching pleasure consume you, my lovely, beautiful creature.” It grunts. “You are perfect. So soft, and wet and warm.” It blabbers, as delirious as you.

A low moan quietly resounds in the living room as it plunges in and out of your pussy while the other tentacles work in unison to send you over the edge, never stopping their unforgiving twists and sucking on your nipples and clit until you are thrown back into pure and utter ecstasy.

“You are coming, right? I can feel your pretty pussy clench around me.” The tentacle inside your hole gently whirls as it slides in and out.

“I am going to mark you so deep with my essence that every being, mortal and celestial, will know not to challenge my claim on you.”

The Entity gasps as the tentacles holding and fucking you suddenly tense up, trembling and pulsing. It roars, the sound so primal it travels deep into your bones till it reaches the tips of your nerves. 

The warm, viscous liquid filling you initially catches you by surprise. Then, you eagerly accept it as if you’ve been craving it for eons, doing your best to relax your throat to accommodate the spasming tentacle.

The one on your clit moves harder and faster, clearly determined to break you completely.

You keep shuddering in sensitivity, yet the tentacles avidly work one last time to make the unbearable tension in your lower belly snap.

You shriek around the slimy flesh stuffing your mouth, not even noticing the smaller appendage that comes up to stroke your cheek, as though to calm you down. The other tentacles cling onto you, tightening their hold in tenderness to keep you safe throughout the burning climax that shatters the only ounce of composure you had left. 

Only when your body ceases its severe shaking, leaving you pliant and drenched in sweat, the Entity eases its grasp. The skin of your cheeks is gently held as the tips of two more appendages wipe away the tears the moment the tentacles leave your pussy.

The others begin a soft kneading motion on the sore muscles of your legs as the ones previously attached to your clit curiously brush your puffy folds, marveling at its cum steadily running down your hole and inevitably dirtying your ruined shorts.

You barely have any energy left to notice the deep ache in your joints when the Entity guides your arms back by your sides and your legs on the couch. Still, you try to control your stuttering breath as those two sneaky appendages keep stimulating you in tender curiosity.

“Rest, little star.”

You lazily blink at the ceiling, startled that your eyes had been closed this whole time. 

Speechless, your ears and mouth both feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton wool. “Huh?”

“Rest, little star.” It purrs, still caressing your sides, adoration dripping from each reverent touch. 

“You are safe with me here.”

The next morning, you wake with a small smile already tugging at your lips and your body still pleasantly sore from the night before. The memories linger a little more before consciousness can interfere—the beautiful sense of fullness, the phantom ache of being held firmly in place without needing to understand the technicalities, the solid warmth curled around you in the aftermath.

It’s only when you open your eyes that you notice the unusual quiet.

You lie still for a moment longer than necessary with bated breath, because some part of you is already reaching for that familiar presence that always lingers somewhere at the edge of your awareness. But you can’t find it.

You sit up almost lethargically, expecting the feeling to return now that you’re properly awake. The apartment is exactly as it should be, unchanged in every single detail, and somehow that only makes the emptiness beneath your ribs harder to ignore.

Of course you assume it will return, so you start your morning, anticipating the Entity to pop out anytime as you eat breakfast.

But the coffee grows cold in your mug. The television drones quietly in the background. The sunlight shifts across the apartment as the hours go by... And still nothing.

Usually, its silences never feel truly empty. Even when it isn’t speaking, there is always the certainty that it is there with you.

This is different.

And that’s where everything begins to change.

The next day arrives with a kind of stubborn normality that feels almost insulting.

You wake again hopeful that the absence might have been temporary, something that would fix itself the way it should. But the same void is still there.

What unsettles you the most is not the loss itself but the way your thoughts keep skirting around it, never lingering for too long, as though looking at it directly might break you completely.

It hurts to acknowledge the small pauses between actions, the moments where you find yourself waiting for something to talk, and then realize, too late, that there is nothing to respond at all.

Each time it happens, it leaves behind a faint sting of embarrassment.

By the fourth day, the idea that something was there starts to feel like a version of events that only exists because you keep brooding over it, even when everything around you refuses to support it.

You keep turning moments inside out, trying to hold them in place, but they slip out of reach as soon as you look at them too closely.

It feels like a stab behind your ribs, because your memories of it are no longer anchored to anything that could confirm its existence.

There are moments when anger comes out of nowhere, sharp and ugly, usually when you catch yourself waiting again without meaning to. It feels ridiculous, humiliating even, reacting so strongly to something that simply left without a word.

That feeling turns quickly inward, because there is nothing else to blame that makes sense.

Only you.

After several days, its memory trails after you like a ghost—quiet enough to ignore for a while, but never far enough to forget.

You work, eat, sleep, and in between, there is always that quiet, painful feeling of something missing.

Gradually, you accept that it is not going to return. Not because you have figured some big mystery out, but because the waiting has sunk its poisonous teeth into you. It feeds on every quiet moment, contaminating every stray thought, gnawing steadily at your sanity, rotting the vulnerable parts of your life.

Day by day, it consumes you out from the inside, leaving behind a space shaped entirely by its hunger.

At the end of the second week, the silence has become ordinary in a way that almost convinces you it was always like this. The version of events where something had been present starts to feel increasingly difficult to defend, even in the privacy of your own mind.

It’s only later that reality bursts in a way you cannot ignore anymore.

You are standing there, knife in hand, your movements automatic as you work over the cutting board, when something inside you finally tears loose, so violent that even breathing results painful.

Your movements slow without permission, until they stop completely.

For a long, horrible moment your still body exists in a space that feels suddenly foreign. Your eyes stare blankly at the counter as your vision quickly blurs. You blink once, sharply, hoping that it would fix it, but it doesn’t. Only then something wet falls on your cheek.

You let out a short, disbelieving huff.

“Shit.” You swallow thickly, but the word comes out wrong—thin, strangled. “What the fuck is wrong with me.”

You press the heels of your hands briefly against your eyes as if that could physically push the tears back into place. If anything, it only makes it worse, the lump in your throat growing heavier with every second.

“This is pathetic.” You whimper, not sure whether the anger is aimed at yourself or at the situation.

Or at the fact that there is no situation at all.

Because there is nothing to justify this.

Nothing that should be making you cry in the middle of making dinner on a random Friday night.

You let out a sharp laugh, but it breaks halfway through.

“I’m actually losing it.” You sniffle.

Standing there with your breath uneven and your face still wet, your hands wipe your cheeks a little too roughly.

Your attention goes back to the cutting board, as if resuming the task might finally steady that precarious balance you’ve been clinging to for days, but your hands don’t immediately follow. They hover—uncertain, trembling.

And beneath all of it, there is still that absence—hollow and impossible to prove—pressing against the inside of your awareness, a dull ache lodged in your chest that no amount of distraction can soothe.

The next week is quieter.

You stop revisiting it. There is no point in chasing something that leaves only pain behind.

You’re not waiting anymore, not voluntarily at least. You still pause sometimes in doorways, still find yourself listening into empty rooms, but the expectation is gone. What’s left is only habit.

You eat because Tony still needs your help keeping the company running—there are too many things that would fall apart without you.

You clean because the mess won’t clean itself.

You move because stopping would mean having to untangle what comes next, and the sole thought of facing that is akin to stepping off the edge of a cliff you can’t see the bottom of.

At night, you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for hours—not really on purpose, sleep just evades you. When nothing happens, there’s no disappointment. Only a bland confirmation.

The absence stops being absence, it just becomes normality again.

Because remembering hurts more than letting go.

Three months pass and you have finally taken some of the vacation days that have been accumulating in your file for months.

Well, calling it a vacation feels generous considering most of it has been spent catching up on everything you never seem to have time for while working.

Medical checkups you kept postponing. A dentist appointment for a wisdom tooth you should have booked six months ago. And then there are the usual tedious tasks: laundry, groceries, cleaning...

By all accounts, it should feel productive.

Instead, you are left drained.

You move through your days checking items off lists and running errands across the city, returning home every evening with aching feet and the vague satisfaction of having accomplished something, only to discover the feeling never lasts particularly long.

The apartment is still your favorite place. At least, you think it is. Lately, it feels less like comfort and more like retreat.

There are moments when you catch yourself staring into nothing for no reason. Moments where a pit opens somewhere in your stomach before disappearing so quickly you almost convince yourself it never happened.

You have stopped trying to understand it, though. Whatever happened—or didn’t happen—refuses to become any clearer with time.

Maybe loneliness is capable of stranger things than people give it credit for.

Maybe your mind had built something elaborate to fill a void you didn’t even know was there.

Maybe that’s why the memories still feel like a knife buried deep in your chest.

By the final day of your leave, you have mostly made peace with what your life has become.

You spend the afternoon exactly as planned: sprawled across the couch, surrounded by junk food and no obligations in sight. For the first time in weeks, there is nothing demanding your attention.

When the doorbell rings, you’re halfway through a tub of ice cream and so absorbed in the new season of Abbott Elementary that it takes you a moment to realize the sound isn’t coming from the television.

You briefly assume it belongs to your phone, lost somewhere between the cushions, and decide to ignore it. You have every intention of enjoying the last few hours of freedom before returning to your personal circle of hell that is Tony’s company.

However, after exactly one minute, the shrill sound comes back, clear and unmistakable, and now you are pushing yourself upright with a groan—your back aches from lying there all day.

You cross the space without much urgency, immediately regretting all your life choices once you open the door in pajamas and find a handsome man standing on your doorstep.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a plain, dark t-shirt that perfectly hug his big, sturdy body.

He has the kind of face that would attract attention without ever seeking it. A man people notice instinctively and then spend the next several minutes pretending they haven’t, because there is something eerily intimidating about a face that looks carved by the gods themselves.

His eyes catch your attention next.

Blue. Startlingly so, almost unnaturally bright, the color so vivid and intense it looks like pigment suspended beneath glass. You decide they must be contacts, because that’s the safest explanation and your brain is gradually learning to settle into this pattern for the sake of your own sanity.

The moment he smiles, the effect is immediate.

It softens his sharp beauty, easy and unforced in a way that invites trust and warmth.

Such a shame that his presence is so staggering that you completely miss what really lies beneath the illusion—a crude imitation.

His body seems to always react a fraction later than intention: his shoulders shift a moment after his head turns and his posture corrects itself a beat too stiffly, as though alignment is a conscious reminder rather than an innate response.

When he steps forward, there is the faintest unevenness in his weight, one foot pressing down a little too carefully before the other follows. A subtle trembling persists in his legs even when standing still, his knees locking into place a second later than expected.

Even his hands don’t settle easily. When they fall to his sides, a few fingers twitch and bend on their own accord before returning back to a more natural state.

“Hello.”

There is something unfairly serene about his voice, just as smooth as silk.

“I’m James,” he continues. “I just moved in next door. Apartment 6B.”

The tension you hadn’t noticed you were holding loosens without permission, leaving your shoulders a fraction lighter and your breath a little less controlled than it had been a moment before.

Unfortunately, you realize a moment too late that you have been staring at his gorgeous face all along.

“Oh—sorry.” You let out a short, embarrassed chuckle as you shake your head. “I didn’t know Ms. Esposito moved.”

The man tilts his head slightly, as if considering the name.

“Ms. Esposito?” He repeats, lightly, the name seemingly not settling the way it should.

That small hesitation makes your brows knit faintly in confusion.

“Yeah,” you add, half-amused. “She lived here. Apartment 6B. I just thought—”

You decide to stop as his expression remains unchanged, waving your hand dismissively. “Never mind.”

Maybe they didn’t have the chance to meet each other.

His gaze remains exactly where it is, fixed on your face with the same intense attentiveness as before.

The silence stretches a second longer than it should, and you find yourself shifting slightly under it.

“Well,” you start with a small titter, eager to fill the gap before it becomes too awkward. “Nice to meet you, James.”

As you offer him your name, something shifts—a subtle spasm in his features, but it’s gone in the blink of an eye.

You accept his extended hand without hesitation. His grip is warm, firm without being excessive, but there is a curious deliberateness that suggests he is paying more attention to the contact than what is socially acceptable.

You are already preparing to let go when his grip abruptly tightens around your hand, enough that the bones in your fingers press together unpleasantly. The change catches you off guard. Your breath hitches as a sharp pulse of discomfort runs up your arm, and before you can stop yourself, your gaze drops to your joined hands, noticing how his knuckles have been turning an unhealthy shade of white, bordering on dark grey.

When you look back up in confusion, your stomach gives a small, sickening lurch.

James’ big smile is exactly the same, but it doesn’t respond anymore. It stays frozen in place with an odd consistency, as if it has been placed there and forgotten.

You don’t remember his eyes looking so... wide. His eyelids seem to draw farther and farther apart by imperceptible degrees, exposing a little more white with every passing second.

Your hand jerks in a reflexive attempt to pull away, but his grip doesn’t yield. It holds with the intransigent firmness of steel, his long fingers locked around yours as though they have forgotten how to let go.

And so you remain there, forced to watch as the features of this weird stranger soften until they slowly melt out of shape.

“Oh, I already know that, little star.”

END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🖤 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general bucky taglist: @itzzkayla @randomfanpage @astraea-and-her-novels @heavenlypjm @spinsteringintoamillionpieces @pandasslol @wildflowersandvibranium @scribblesandquotes @beans-and-toast @singulartoast @gentlelimerence @secretxion14wells @maplesyrizzup @phantom-wolf-girl @norucking @punkh3arted @r4isins @doctorbitchcrxft @butterfly-lover @secretdream2 @sambuckystony @cowboylikeh @jasontoddswhitestreak @shrupshrooms @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @ninauh @metal-armed-muse @mehmeh331 @iloveshawnieboi @namjoohnie @onyx8514 @nash-dara @tt-bby @midnightmondaykiss @mikonawa @oomexluvsseb @floraslcve @erina00 @clover1004 @eatingyourboyfriend @starfire-irl @phoenix-in-writing @shyshyraven-writes

[biglychee]

(Don't) Shoot Your Shot v2

$ log - a giddy, crushing bucky barnes spots you speaking with steve. he may or may not be jealous and gruelling from the sidelines! $ warn --sfw --fluff --jealous-glaring!bucky --steve-is-trying-to-be-a-good-friend --you-just-wanted-answers $ wc -w 1k $ cd masterlist $ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger $ vi dont-shoot-your-shot.txt (v1)

You find Steve in the gym, which in retrospect was a tactical error on your part. It just meant that you're both stuck there for the duration of this conversation and he's too polite to leave.

"I need to ask you something," you say, "and I need you to be honest with me."

Steve sets down his weights with careful energy; he already knows this is going to be a problem. "Okay," he says.

You tell him everything. The staring — eleven incidents, you specify, you have a document — the way it started at the coffee machine and then just never stopped, the elevator, the hallway, the stairs you've been taking specifically to avoid the elevator. Steve listens with his arms crossed and his face extremely neutral.

It’s either the face of someone who has no idea what you're talking about or the face of someone who has every idea and is managing it carefully. You can't tell which, so you keep going.

Then you get to the rifle.

Steve's expression doesn't change, exactly, but something behind his eyes does a very quick calculation. "He gave you his rifle," he says.

"Five minutes before a mission. Grip first. No explanation."

"And you took it."

"What was I supposed to do, Steve?"

"No, no — " he waves a hand, "that was the right call." He says decisively, as he is absolutely not going to elaborate on why. You let it go. You get to the shooting range.

"He asked me to go," you say, "and I went, and it was — actually fine, it was genuinely fine, I had a good time." You pause. "But he kept smiling."

"Smiling," Steve repeats.

"Every time he hit a target, which was every time. Just — " you make a vague gesture, " — this small, private smile, like he was really pleased with himself, and I couldn't tell if he was showing off or warning me or — " you stop. "Is this a competition thing? Did I accidentally start a competition?"

Steve opens his mouth, glances briefly over your shoulder, and closes it again. When he looks back at you his expression has been carefully reset to something warm and unhurried. It would’ve been more convincing if you hadn't just watched him do it in real time.

"It's not a competition thing," he says.

"Then what is the smile?"

Across the gym, Bucky has not moved in four minutes.

He'd come in for a workout, that had been the plan. The plan had been going fine until he'd seen you cross the floor toward Steve with the specific purposeful energy. Looks like you had something serious to say. So, now the plan is on hold indefinitely because you are talking to Steve, who’s listening with his head tilted and his full attention.

All the while, Bucky’s standing next to the punching bag he has not touched once with his arms crossed and an expression that Sam would later describe, generously, as a little intense.

He can’t exactly hear much from here, so he's not eavesdropping or anything. He just hasn't left yet. That's all.

He's simply still here, in this spot, not doing anything, watching Steve say something that makes you frown slightly and tilt your head. He’s feeling something in his chest that he doesn't have a clean name for but sits somewhere between that should be me you're talking to and Steve, you better not be saying anything.

Steve glances over at him, pensive. Bucky does not alter his expression. Steve looks away.

"Honestly," Steve says, with the measured tone of a man picking his words like he's crossing a frozen lake, "that's just— that's just how he looks sometimes. When he' — " another flicker over your shoulder, barely a second, just his eyes, and then back to you, and he looks for a moment like a man sending a very urgent telegram with his face, "— when he's comfortable. That's a comfortable expression for him."

"He looked like he was winning something."

"He— " Steve stops, exhales largely. "He was probably just having a good time."

"Steve."

"I genuinely believe that to be true," he says, and he does, technically, believe that to be true, which is why he's able to maintain eye contact while saying it.

He glances over your shoulder again, just for a fraction of a second, and whatever he sees there makes something in his jaw tighten. He looks back at you immediately. Smiles. It's a very good smile. He's been doing this a long time, you’re getting worried for Steve here.

"So the staring," you say. "Eleven incidents. That's just— comfort?"

"Bucky's had a— " Steve pauses, seems to reconsider the entire sentence, and rebuilds it from scratch. "He's still working on how he is around people. Around certain people especially." He nods slightly, just once, like he's making a point. You're not sure what the point is. "Sometimes that looks different than you'd expect."

"It looks like surveillance."

"It's not surveillance."

"How would you know?"

"Because I know him," Steve says, with a patience that is very slightly strained at the edges now, "and I'm telling you it's not surveillance." He glances over your shoulder for the third time and this time doesn't quite manage to get his expression back in order before he turns to you again. There it is — just for a second — something that looks almost like a man trying not to visibly panic.

You know that look. You've seen it on people right before they tell you something is directly behind you.

The gym feels very quiet all of a sudden.

"Steve," you say slowly.

"Mm," says Steve.

"He's right behind me, isn't he?"

Steve says nothing. His expression says everything. You do not turn around.

# fic inspo:

$ cd masterlist

[heldbybarnes]

bucky slowly realizing he can’t live without y/n? it creeps up on him so subtly he doesn’t even realize it, but suddenly his day doesn’t start until u walk into the room? or he can only concentrate once he knows ur safe? he doesn’t know when exactly u became his entire world and he’s a bit terrified of it bcuz of how easily he could lose u

There’s no lightning bolt, no cinematic swell of music, no single moment where Bucky Barnes wakes up and thinks, I can’t live without her.

It creeps in quietly. Patiently. Like dawn bleeding into the sky before you even realize the sun is up.

At first, it’s small things.

He notices that his coffee tastes better when you’re in the kitchen with him. Not because you add anything to it—he still drinks it black—but because you’re there, humming softly while you dig through the fridge, stealing sips from his mug when you think he’s not looking. He pretends not to see. Pretends not to wait for it.

But on mornings you sleep in? He finds himself standing at the counter longer than necessary, mug cooling in his metal hand, listening for your footsteps in the hall.

His day doesn’t feel like it’s started until you appear.

He tells himself it’s coincidence.

It isn’t.

He realizes it again during missions.

There was a time when Bucky could compartmentalize anything. He could put emotions in a locked box, shove it to the back of his mind, and focus solely on the objective. Clean. Efficient. Detached.

Now?

Now he checks his phone before every briefing.

Just to make sure you texted back.

Just to make sure you’re safe.

He doesn’t relax until he sees your name on the screen—some mundane message about groceries or a picture of the stray cat you’re trying to befriend. His shoulders loosen. His breathing evens out.

Only then can he concentrate.

Sam notices it before he does.

“You’re distracted,” Sam mutters one afternoon while they’re reviewing intel.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Bucky bristles automatically, jaw tightening. But when Sam raises a brow and glances pointedly at the phone in Bucky’s hand, Bucky feels something twist low in his gut.

He sets it down. Pushes it away.

He doesn’t pick it up again.

Not for fifteen whole minutes.

And then he checks it anyway.

It’s subtle at first, the way you become the axis his world turns on.

He starts timing his workouts so he’s home when you are. Starts grocery shopping for things you like without thinking about it. Starts leaving a light on if you’re coming back late because he doesn’t like the idea of you walking into a dark apartment.

He tells himself it’s just… consideration.

He doesn’t realize it’s devotion.

The first time it truly hits him is on a random Friday.

You’re late.

You said you’d be home by six.

It’s 6:17.

And Bucky is pacing.

He hates that he’s pacing.

His chest feels tight in a way he hasn’t felt in years—like something is pressing down on his ribs from the inside. He checks his phone. No new messages. He considers calling you, then stops himself. He doesn’t want to be overbearing.

You’re fine.

You’re fine.

You’re—

The lock clicks.

You walk in, shaking rain from your jacket, muttering about traffic and a flat tire and how your phone died halfway through the tow.

You barely get two steps inside before he’s in front of you.

“You okay?” His voice is rough, sharper than he means it to be. His hands hover at your shoulders like he’s afraid to grab you too tightly.

You blink at him. “Yeah? Buck, I’m fine.”

But he doesn’t breathe properly until he pulls you into his chest and feels the steady rhythm of your heart beneath his palm.

And that’s when it settles in.

The realization.

It’s quiet and terrifying and absolute.

His world doesn’t function right without you in it.

He doesn’t know when it happened.

He doesn’t know the exact moment you became the first thing he looks for in every room, the person his mind reaches for when things go wrong, the calm in the storm of his thoughts.

He just knows that somewhere along the way, you stopped being a part of his life and became the center of it.

And that scares the hell out of him.

Because Bucky Barnes knows loss.

He knows how easily things can be ripped away.

He knows what it’s like to wake up in a world where everything you love is gone.

The thought of that happening with you?

It makes him feel hollow.

He starts watching you differently after that; much more aware.

Of how you laugh when you’re half-asleep. Of how you chew your bottom lip when you’re thinking. Of the way your hand always finds his without looking.

He memorizes you.

Like if he learns every detail, he’ll somehow be able to keep you.

One night, you catch him staring.

“What?” you ask, smiling softly from where you’re curled against him on the couch.

He hesitates.

He doesn’t do vulnerable easily.

But this feels too big to swallow.

“I don’t remember when it happened,” he says quietly.

“When what happened?”

“When you became… everything.”

You go still.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, metal cool against your warm skin.

“My day doesn’t start until I see you,” he admits. “I can’t focus unless I know you’re safe. If you’re late, I feel like I can’t breathe.” His jaw tightens. “And that’s— that’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” you whisper.

“For me.” He swallows. “Because I know how easy it is to lose things. I know how fragile good things are. And you…” His voice falters just slightly. “You’re the best thing I’ve got.”

You reach up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

“Bucky,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” you agree softly. “But I can promise I’m here right now. And I choose you. Every day.”

The tightness in his chest eases, just a fraction.

He wraps his arms around you, holding you close like he’s grounding himself in something solid.

He may not know when you became his entire world.

He may never pinpoint the exact moment.

But he knows if loving you means being terrified of losing you, he’ll take that fear.