#cannot look at bucky without laughing

[whyamisolatetotheparty]

deadass this is the only way i can imagine Bucky Barnes becoming a congressman because wtf

some nosy reporter bugging Bucky while he pumps gas or something: what are you gonna do now with your life post tfatws?

Bucky: *sarcastically and offhand* idk, havent decided, maybe politics

three days later

Bucky: Sam you dont understand the paper and the channel four guy said i was running and why would he lie?

Sam: be so for real- why would it be truthful? you're reading the local gossip column. and the channel four guy likes to promote conspiracies when he's reporting traffic slow downs.

Bucky: okay maybe you're onto something

three additional days later

sam: why is the channel four guy still going on about you becoming a congressman

bucky:

sam: why are you in a suit?

bucky:

sam: for fucks sake

[hellfirebarnes]

A Touch Of You

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!thunderbolts!reader

Contains: Angst, touch-starved Bucky, fluff, slow-burn, platonic Bob-reader, your hair is described to be long enough to braid and it's also descibed as silk once

Sum: Physical affection and touch comes easy for you, and it's making Bucky wish for the ability to be more like you

10k+ words (I went overboard with this shit)

I have a serious obsession with slow-burns and platonic Bobxreader being clingy besties, sue me.

(I cannot find who created the divider, if you know please tag them so they get credit)

NOT PROOFREAD

Enjoy :)

The Thunderbolts Tower was rarely quiet.

Not because of the chaos; although Alexei belting out 80s Russian rock in the kitchen or Yelena wrestling John over breakfast cereal certainly didn't help - but because it was full of life. People laughing, living, healing. A kind of noise Bucky didn't mind.

He sat in his usual chair on the far end of the room, worn leather, tucked into the shadows like a spectator watching a play where everyone else knew their lines.

And there you were again. Center stage. Sunshine incarnate.

You were cross-legged on the couch, giggling so hard your nose scrunched and your eyes nearly disappeared in the crinkles of happiness. Bob was beside you and you were leaning up against him without a second thought; arms wrapped loosely around one of his, your cheek resting on his bicep.

Bucky watched. He always watched.

It wasn't creepy, he told himself. Not in a leering way. It was just... fascination. You moved through the world like the rules didn't apply to you. You touched people like they were meant to be touched - casually, kindly freely. No tension or hesitation. No fear.

You tousled John's hair like he was your annoying little brother, clung to Ava's arm when you were bored, made faces at Alexei during movie nights, and once kissed Yelena on the cheek for winning at Uno. You were always smiling, always glowing, always warm.

But never him. Not out of avoidance. No, you were never unkind to Bucky. You greeted him with the same energy as everyone else, your laugh just as sincere, your banter just as quick. But it always stopped just short of a touch. A hand wave instead of a hug, a wink instead of a squeeze to the shoulder.

And now, as he sat in his quiet corner, watching Bob shift a little so you could get even more comfortable against his side, something hollow twisted behind Bucky's ribs.

It wasn't jealousy. Not really. Bob was a friend, a soft-spoken powerhouse who loved puzzles and kittens. And it wasn't like Bucky wanted you to lean on him like that. Except...maybe he did.

What he wanted- no, what he missed, was that kind of affection without expectation. Touch that wasn't calculated or careful. No mission, no seduction, no pity. Just... closeness.

He blinked. You were laughing again, eyes shining, and Bob had just placed a hand on your head in that absent-minded, affectionate way people pet their dog without even realizing it. And you leaned into it. Let it happen like touch was a language you spoke fluently and everyone else just stuttered through.

Bucky hadn't been touched like that in... He didn't know. He really didn't.

The realization hit like a whisper, cruel in its softness. It wasn't that you hadn't touched him like that. It was that no one had, not in a long, long time. He could still remember how it felt, though. A hand through his hair, a lazy cuddle on a rainy afternoon. Arms slung around his shoulders, not for protection, but for comfort.  But now people touched him like he was either a weapon or a wound.

He shifted in his seat, the leather creaking softly. Ava glanced over at the sound but didn't say anything. She was on the floor, legs stretched out, balancing a tablet on her knees. Your laughter trailed off slowly, and you looked up just in time to catch his eyes across the room.

You smiled. He didn't. Not because he didn't want to, but because he wasn't sure how. You had a thousand-watt smile, the kind that could make flowers grow in winter. His was more... dusty. Like an old light switch that hadn't been flipped in years.

But you didn't flinch, didn't falter. You just gave him that same warm look you gave everyone else. Like he belonged in this room, in this team, in this strange, patchwork little family. And then you turned back to Bob, reaching for a blanket and tossing it over both your legs. Cozy and casual, like touch was no more complicated than breathing.

God, he wanted that. Not even you, not like that. He just wanted someone to lean against him like that. Wanted to be touched without flinching. Wanted to relax against another body without wondering if it would be the last time he ever did.

Later, when most of the team had filtered out, Bucky was still sitting there. Alone in his corner. You passed by with a yawn, blanket still draped over your shoulders.

''You should sleep,' you murmured as you walked past. ''Or at least stop brooding. You'll get forehead wrinkles.''

He didn't answer. Just raised an eyebrow in response.

You paused at that, eyes flickering to his. Something unreadable danced across your face for a second. Concern, maybe? Or understanding? But then, with the gentlest flick of your fingers, you reached out with just a brush of knuckles on his vibranium arm, Barely there. Like asking a question without saying a word.

''Goodnight, Bucky.''

And just like that, you were gone. He stared at the spot where your hand had been, no more than a ghost of contact, and felt something tight and quiet unfurl inside him.

Bucky was a student of war. Tactics. Movement. Survival. But lately, he'd started studying something entirely different: affection.

More specifically - how people touched you.

It started small. A passing observation. The way Ava brushed your arm when she walked by, Yelena leaned into you on the couch like it was second nature, how Alexei let you play with the ends of his beard while he grumbled but never pulled away.

But mostly it was Bob. Always Bob. It was effortless how you two fit together. How you moved around him like you were in your own orbit. How his hand would rest lightly on your shoulder during conversations, how you'd slide under his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. He gave you piggyback rides in the hall, and you played with his fingers absentmindedly while reading on the couch. You were close in a way that made Bucky ache.

Because he wanted that. And he didn't know how to ask. So, he watched. He watched the patterns, the rhythm, the openings.

He noticed that Bob always smiled first, open and unguarded, and you responded like it was an invitation. He noticed the pauses too, the way you always gave people the space to say no, the flick of your eyes that asked ''is this okay?'' before leaning in.

Bucky started mentally rehearsing those small things. Little touches. A guiding hand to the lower back, a light graze on the wrist when handing you a mug. Not big things, not all at once. Just something.

But he couldn't do it. He'd get close. He'd raise his hand, and then his brain would flood with every warning it had ever learned. Not you. Not yet. Not like this. You'll mess it up. You don't know how. So he'd shove his hands back in his pockets and let the moment pass. Because you deserved better than someone who needed to rehearse basic closeness like a goddamn speech.

So he watched some more.

You first noticed being watched when Bob teased you at dinner. Something about the way Bucky looked up from his plate. Not irritated, not amused, just watchful. Your elbow had been pressed into Bob's side as you leaned over his tablet, your laughter easy and loud. And when you leaned back again, a flash of something flickered in Bucky's eyes. A breath too long, a blink too slow.

He looked like someone trying to memorize the moment. Just... what it looked like. What it felt like, to see it.

You weren't oblivious. You just didn't push. Didn't ask. Bucky wasn't the kind of man you cornered with feelings he hadn't invited yet. He operated like a tide - pulling away before he let anything close.

So you waited. And you watched, just like he did.

The mission was rough. Nothing catastrophic, just... messy.

Bucky took the brunt of it, as he usually did. No complaints, no calls for backup, just relentless movement until the job was done. You admired him for it. Always had. But you also hated it - how he treated his body like it was still someone else's to throw into war zones.

He slipped away afterward, as expected. No one really noticed. John was patching up his arm with Ava's help, Alexei was bragging about his kill count, and Yelena was already raiding the fridge. But you noticed. So, you gave it a few minutes, just enough time for him to think he'd gotten away with, before you padded into the lounge, barefoot and quiet.

And there he was. Facing away from you, shirt off, arms raised as he tried to stretch the tension from his back and shoulders. You could see it - all of it. The stiffness, the tightness, the way his body moved like an old machine that hadn't been oiled in years. He didn't hear you right away.

You stood in the doorway for a second longer than you meant to. Not staring, not quite. Just... seeing. The way he rolled his shoulder with a grimace, the muscles twitching under scarred skin, the metal arm glinting in the low light like something out of mythology. He was strong, yes, but he looked so tired.

''Bucky.''

He turned a little too fast, like he thought you'd caught him doing something shameful. You saw the flicker in his expression - the mask dropping into place. That same unreadable look he wore like armor. You didn't comment on it.

''You okay?'' you asked softly, stepping further in.

He gave a grunt that wasn't quite a yes.

You tilted your head, arms crossed loosely over your chest. ''You look like you lost a wrestling match with a garbage truck.''

''I won,'' he said, deadpan.

Your lips twitched. ''Barely.''

He huffed. Maybe a laugh, maybe just air. You moved a little closer, enough to notice the fine sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. The tension in his shoulders was visible, like tight ropes drawn too hard.

''Sit,'' you said.

He blinked at you. ''What?''

''Sit,'' you repeated, nudging the back of the couch with your foot. ''I'm giving you a shoulder massage.''

He hesitated. A long beat of silence passed. You could practically hear the war happening in his mind. The part that didn't trust comfort, the part that didn't know how to accept it.

''I'm not gonna charge you for it,'' you teased gently. ''And it's not a trap. I'm just not a monster and I hate seeing you look like you've been folded in half and left in the sun to dry.''

That got the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. And he sat. Stiffly, cautiously. Like the couch might bite him.

You stepped behind him, already rubbing your hands together for warmth. But you didn't start right away, gave him that last window to change his mind. He didn't move. Just exhaled slowly, like he'd decided to let the tide roll in. Your hands touched his shoulders and God. You felt the jolt before he even reacted. Like the contact itself was something he hadn't expected to feel. Not like that. Not innocent. Not kind.

You didn't speak. Just worked quietly. Gently. Your fingers kneading into muscle and scar tissue, slow and careful, no agenda, no teasing. Just... touch.

Bucky's jaw clenched. His eyes were closed now, head tilted ever so slightly forward. You could still feel the effort it took him to stay still, to not flinch. Like every cell in his body was trying to not run away.

But you kept going. You worked over one knot at a time. One shoulder. Then the other. Your thumbs dug into the curve of his traps and you felt the smallest, tiniest exhale escaped his lips. Relief, or surrender, or maybe both.

''You don't have to be made of steel all the time,'' you whispered. Still not pushing. Just offering.

His voice, when it came, was rough. ''It's not about being steel. It's just...hard.''

''I know.''

He shifted slightly, just enough to lean a little more into your hands, and it felt like trust. It felt like an entire chapter unwritten. And you didn't need him to explain it. You already understood. And even though he hadn't said a word, it was all there.

You pressed your palm flat against his shoulder blades, heat seeping into him. ''You're allowed to want this, you know,'' you murmured. ''To be held. Even without reason.''

He didn't answer. But his hands unclenched in his lap. And that was enough.

Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. When you finally stepped away, you did it slowly. Gave him space to rise again, if he needed to. But he didn't move. Just sat there, like the couch had claimed him.

You didn't ask if he was okay. Didn't need to.

''Get some sleep,'' you said gently.

He nodded. Still quiet.

You turned to leave, but just before you crossed the threshold, his voice caught you.

''Thank you.''

And when you looked back, his eyes met yours; unguarded. Just for a second. The door cracking open and the warmth finally starting to seep in.

Movie night was always a disaster. Loud, chaotic, half the team arguing about genre and popcorn flavors, and Bucky stuck in the corner, pretending to mind the noise when secretly he didn't. Not at all.

Tonight was no different. You were already curled up on the couch, head in Bob's lap, your legs stretched across Yelena's. Ava was on the floor beside you, leaning back against the couch. Alexei was dramatically recounting the story of the time you once braided his beard into a Viking pattern, and Bucky had to bite back a smile when you proudly confirmed it, already digging through a box of hair ties and clips.

And that was how it started. First, Alexei. You pulled him in front of you, knees to your chest, and with your tongue poking out in concentration, you began weaving his beard with surprising speed. He looked like a grumpy Norse god by the time you were done.

Then Bob. ''Ohhh it's your turn, you big beautiful labradoodle,'' you sang, tugging him down by the hand.

He didn't protest. Just sat cross-legged in front of you with the dopey smile of someone being completely adored. You started working small braids into his hair, murmuring nonsense as your fingers moved expertly, occasionally swatting his shoulder when he moved too much.

Bucky watched from his usual spot. Quiet, still, fascinated. You weren't just touching, you were focusing. You were being deliberate. This wasn't just casual affection - this was attention. Care. The kind that said: I want to do something just for you.  He wanted that. Badly. Desperately. Not even for what it would lead to, but just for that. To be someone you focused on. Someone you chose, even just for five minutes, to pour softness into.

You finished with a flourish, tied off the last braid in Bob's hair, sat back with a pleased grin, and then - without fanfare - you pointed across the room. Right at him.

''Your turn, Barnes.''

The room went dead silent. All eyes turned to him.

You didn't flinch. Your smile didn't even waver. You just tilted your head and gave him that same sunlit warmth you always carried, like it had never once occurred to you that he'd say no.

Bucky blinked. What. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He gestured vaguely to himself like he didn't understand the language you were speaking.

''You've got hair,'' you said, as if it was obvious. ''You've got a good head for braids. Longish, soft, a little tragic. I can work with that.''

''Tragic?'' he muttered before he could stop himself.

''Emotionally,'' you replied, already patting the floor in front of you. ''Now come on, don't make me beg. I'm on a roll.''

Bucky hesitated again. Not because he didn't want it But because the moment was so fragile. So bizarrely, heartbreakingly normal. Like if he moved wrong, it would shatter and you'd realize what you were asking. For him, not just some teammate, not just a body in the room, and you'd take it back.

But you didn't. You just kept smiling. So slowly, he stood up. Crossed the room, sat down, back straight and stiff as a board.

''Relax,'' you whispered behind him. ''I won't break you.''

You ran your fingers through his hair once, and he nearly forgot how to breathe. It wasn't just the sensation. It was the care, the softness, the quiet focus. You smoothed his hair gently, like it was worth something. Like he was worth something. And then your fingers started moving. Slow, practiced, weaving warmth into every inch of him.

The room around him faded. It was just your touch. Your hum under your breath, the warmth of your knees and either side of his back, the way you occasionally brushed a thumb over his scalp to settle a strand.

You didn't tease, you didn't rush, you just touched.

And Bucky sat perfectly still, his eyes closed, letting the door inside him creak open just a little more.

He wasn't in love with you. But in that moment, with your hands in his hair and his heart so soft it almost hurt, he thought: maybe I could be.

Bucky wasn't a man who touched first. He could take a punch without blinking, disarm a bomb with minutes to spare, and walk into a firefight like it was a coffee run. But reaching out to you? Terrifying.

Especially now that you'd touched him. Really touched him. Not on a battlefield, not in passing. But on purpose. With care.

You'd braided his hair like he was something worth decorating, worth sitting with, worth smiling at. And for the first time in years, he hadn't wanted to move. Hadn't wanted to retreat. He'd just wanted... more.

He thought about that moment for days. The warmth of your fingers, the way your voice softened near his ear, the lack of expectation. You hadn't asked for anything. You hadn't tried to pull him out of himself. You'd just sat with him, and for Bucky, that was almost more intimate than anything else.

So now he watched you even closer. Not just to learn - though, yes, he was still studying you like he might someday earn a master's in ''How To Be Near You Without Dying'', but because now... he was looking for openings. Tiny ones. Like the way you greeted Bob with a forehead bump and a grin, or how you'd slip your fingers into Yelena's sleeve when she was anxious. You didn't cling to people. You anchored them, And God, did Bucky want to be anchored.

So he tried. Tiny experiments. He started holding the door for you. At first, it was mechanical, just something to do, but you'd always smile and touch his shoulder on the way past. Every time. Like a thank you, like a secret handshake.

Next, he started handing you things. If you were sitting and someone tossed you a water bottle or remote or snack, Bucky would intercept it. And instead of just tossing it to you, he'd hand it. Palms brushing a second too long. Once, your fingers lingered. Just a beat. It nearly leveled him.

He started sitting on the couch instead of in his corner. Not next to you, not yet, but closer. Close enough to hear your breathing change when you laughed. Close enough to hand you the blanket when you curled up.

But what really broke him, what cracked something clean open, was when you fell asleep on Bob's chest again.

Movie night, a lazy rom-com. You'd started upright and within fifteen minutes had curled up under Bob's arm, your cheek pressed against his chest like you belonged there.

And Bucky? He didn't even feel jealous. He just felt cold. Not bitter or angry. Just... cold. Because now he knew what that felt like; your hands in his hair, your voice at his back, and he was starving for more.

He decided to try after the next mission.

Something low-risk. A simple retrieval, in and and out. You were paired with him this, which was rare, and he tried not to let it mean anything, but it felt like the universe had handed him a cheat code.

The mission went fine. A couple of close calls. You handled yourself like usual - confident, lethal, laughing through it all. And he admired the hell out of you for it. On the way back to the jet, you reached out instinctively and grabbed his wrist to yank him behind cover.

That one moment. That touch. He felt it in his teeth.

Once back in the tower, you peeled off first, stretching and yawning, calling goodnight over your shoulder with a lazy smile.

Bucky stood there in the hallway, still half-armored, heart thundering. Try now.

He walked to the kitchen and found the snack you always reached for after missions - those weird, spicy chips you claimed tasted like ''victory and regret''. You never bought them for yourself, said they were a ''reward food'', but you always lit up when someone remembered. So he took a bag. Bribery. Weak, but a start. Then he walked to your room.

He stood outside the door for at least a full minute. What am I doing? What if she's asleep? What if I look insane? But he made himself knock. Softly.

''...Come in!''

He stepped in like he was walking into a temple.

You were on the floor, stretching, dressed in soft shorts and an oversized hoodie he tried not to notice was Bob's. You grinned when you saw him.

''Well, hey Barnes. What's up?''

He held up the chip bag like it was evidence. You blinked, then beamed.

''Holy crap, you got the good ones!''

He nodded. ''Figured you earned it.''

You sat back, crossing your legs, tearing the bag open with a happy hum. ''You wanna stay?''

His brain short-circuited. ''If- yeah. If that's okay.''

''Duh,'' you said, patting the carpet next to you. ''I don't offer this floor to just anyone.''

So he sat, and you shared and talked. Then finally, he decided: now.

You were laughing at something he said. Your hand was on the floor beside you, his was a few inches away. Just do it. He slowly, carefully, let the side of his hand brush yours. And then... rested it there. Just barely touching.

You didn't look down, didn't call it out. But you did move your pinky until it hooked his. And Bucky forgot how to exist. You didn't say anything about it. Just kept talking, like nothing had changed. But your fingers stayed. Light, soft, reassuring.

And Bucky sat there beside you, pinky to pinky, the contact small enough to be missed by anyone else, but monumental to him. Because he'd finally done it. He'd reached out, and you'd reached back.

Bucky had a plan. Sort of. He'd been replaying that pinky-touch moment for days now. The smallness of it. The deliberate sweetness. How you didn't tease him or pull away. You just let it happen, and he didn't have to explain why it meant so much.

Now, he wanted to try something more. Not huge. Just... bolder. A tiny step forward. He wanted to initiate something. Not because it meant love or romance, but because his body was beginning to crave it. Crave that soft connection. Crave you, in the most innocent, desperately human way. He wanted to know what it felt like to hold you, even for a second.

So he planned for it. Not out loud, not with words, but with a thousand little hypotheticals in his head.

After a mission, maybe. Or in the hallway when you weren't looking. You'd be laughing, or tired, or just there, and he'd go for it - a simple hug. Arms around you. Quick, no pressure. But every time the moment came? He choked.

He was so close tonight.

Mission done. Exhausting but not dangerous. Everyone was filtering into the tower one by one, and you were the last to come in; suit half-zipped, hair stuck to your cheek, laughing at something John said before he peeled off down the hall.

And there you were. Worn out, but happy. Still glowing like you always did. You turned to him, smile softening, and said, ''You did good today, Barnes.''

That's all it took. The moment presented itself like a gift. Do it. Just reach out. He took a breath, stepped forward, his hands hovered awkwardly at his sides. Just a hug. Just a hug. But his body locked. What if she pulls away? What if it's weird? What if it ruins everything? His hands jerked back down.

Too late. You saw. Your eyes flickered to his. Quick and quiet. Understanding dawned across your face like a sunrise. You didn't make it a thing. Didn't joke or ask or tilt your head like are you okay? You just took a small step forward and opened your arms.

''C'mere, tough guy,'' you said.

You stepped in and wrapped your arms around him. A real hug. Chest to chest, face to shoulder. Warm, present, soft.

Bucky stopped breathing. He didn't move. Didn't know how to move. His hands hovered behind your back, unsure, trembling slightly like they'd forgotten what to do. And then you gave the smallest squeeze. Gentle. Safe. That did it, his arms came around you. Slow, careful. And then... all at once. They locked behind you, strong and tight and desperate, like he'd finally given up the fight and was clinging on for dear life.

He didn't mean to hold you so hard. He didn't mean to breathe you in like that. But he couldn't stop. Because your body was real. Warm, solid. And you weren't backing away, you weren't treating him like glass. You were just... holding him.

You shifted slightly to lean into the hug more, and he swore he could feel your smile against his neck. ''See?'' you murmured. ''Easy.''

He could've laughed at that. It wasn't easy, not for him. It was terrifying, dizzying, earth-shaking. But it was also the first time in years that someone had wrapped him up like this without blood or death or adrenaline. No life-or-death panic. Just arms, just warmth. And for the first time, he let himself sink into it. His heart was pounding - slamming, really, and he was sure you could feel it. He didn't care.

You didn't let go until he did. And when he finally eased back - slowly, reluctantly, like his arms had been superglued in place - your eyes met his, steady and bright. No teasing, no awkward silence.

Just, ''Anytime, Bucky.'' And a little smile. The kind that wrapped around his ribs and pulled tight.

He nodded. Couldn't speak even if he tried to. Could barely breathe. And as you turned and padded away down the hall, humming softly under your breath, Bucky stood alone in the hallway like he'd just come back from war. Except this time, someone had brought him home.

Bucky didn't sleep after that hug. He laid in bed, eyes wide in the dark, heart still thundering against his ribs like it hadn't gotten the memo that the moment was over.

You had held him. No flinching or pulling back, you let him cling like he needed it. Because he did, and you made it feel like it was okay. Like it was normal. You never said another word about it. And Bucky walked around the tower for the next few days like someone had filled his veins with warm honey and static electricity.

But with every inch you have him - every smile, every brush of a hand, every shoulder lean or passing touch - Bucky found himself wanting to give something back. He wanted you to know what that hug meant to him. Not in words. He wasn't there yet. And not in touch, his body still rebelled at the idea of starting something again. So instead, he watched again. Carefully, obsessively. And started to notice things about you. Little things.

You hummed when you were nervous, you always pulled your sleeves over your hands when you were cold even though you owned about sixteen hoodies, you liked your tea with honey instead of sugar, and you made up nicknames for everyone. He still wasn't sure if ''Ice Cream Soldier'' was supposed to be a compliment.

But most of all? You loved weird little things. Knickknacks, trinkets, gimmicks - stuff that made everyone else roll their eyes. You kept a plastic dinosaur on your nightstand, and you used pens with flitter ink. And you once got into a thirty-minute debate with Alexei about whether a wind-up chicken toy should be considered ''practical combat gear''. Somehow, you won that debate.

So Bucky made a decision. He couldn't hug you back. Not yet. But he could give you something.

A little mission in Eastern Europe. A side errand in Dubai. A stakeout with nothing to do but sit and watch. And right there, buried in a dusty antique shop next to a faded deck of Soviet playing cards and a pair of rusted brass knuckles, he found it.

A tiny, worn metal figurine. A cat. Its tail curled into a spiral, its ear too big, one eye slightly chipped. It looked hand-forged. Utterly ridiculous and useless. Perfect.

He bought it without hesitation. No one saw, no one knew. He brought it home and sat with it for an hour in his room. Just turning it over in his hands, wondering if this was stupid. If it made him look childish. If you'd even like it.

But then he remembered the way you looked when someone gave you something with no strings attached. He remembered your smile. And that settled it.

He didn't give it to you directly. He couldn't. So, he waited until the next movie night. Same couch, same usual crew. Everyone loud and sprawled and tangled up in a pile of popcorn and dumb banter.

You were curled up in your usual spot with Bob, your legs across his lap, a bowl balanced on your knees, laughing so hard you snorted. And Bucky sat one cushion away. Close enough to hear your laughter, far enough to not panic.

You got up halfway through to refill drinks, and Bucky slipped the little metal cat into the space you'd just left. Just where you'd see it. Not wrapped, not labeled... just there. And when you came back, you saw it immediately. You blinked. Picked it up. Held it up in the light with the kind of gentle curiosity that made Bucky want to crawl under the couch.

''Hey,'' you said aloud, holding it up, ''who left this little guy?''

Bob shrugged, Ava didn't even look, and John made some joke about it being cursed. Yelena grabbed it from your hand and examined it.

''It's ugly. I like it.''

You laughed and took it back, fingers closing around it protectively. ''Well, whoever left it - it's mine now.'' And then you smiled. That kind of soft, knowing smile, and your eyes flicked to Bucky. Just a second. Just long enough.

He didn't say a word. Didn't have to. You tucked the cat into your hoodie pocked and curled up again. And Bucky let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

The next morning, you passe him in the hallway. No one else was around. You didn't stop him. Just walked by, slow and casual, and bumped your shoulder into his with a quiet, ''Thanks, Barnes.'' And kept walking like it was no big deal.

But he stood there in the hallway for a full minute, stunned stupid by how good that felt Not the thanks. The shoulder bump. Small, warm, and his.

From then on, it became a thing. You never asked for more, but Bucky... he started giving it anyway.

A protein bar slid across the table on mornings you looked too tired to grab one yourself, a spare set of hand warmers in your tac vest before cold missions, and a weird sticker he peeled off a vending machine that said ''KICK BUTT, GLITTER GIRL'' that he knew you'd absolutely slap on your laptop.

All of it anonymous, none of it subtle. And every time, your eyes would flick toward him with that soft little grin. You'd touch his arm when you passed, or lean your head briefly against his shoulder, or bump hips when no one was looking.

And Bucky... he thrived on it. Still unsure, still hesitant. But opening, inch by precious inch.

The team didn't mention it aloud. Not once. Not to him, not to you. But they noticed. They noticed that Bucky stopped bracing when someone walked behind him on the couch. That he started answering more questions with actual words instead of shrugs. That he let you rest your head on his shoulder once and didn't move a muscle the whole time.

They noticed how he watched you when you weren't looking. With that quiet awe of someone who's been in the dark so long that the sunlight still hurts, even as it heals.

And on a quiet afternoon when rain still misted against the windows everyone was off doing their own thing - Bob reading a fantasy novel upside down on the couch, Alexei asleep with a magazine over his face, and the rest scattered through the tower. You sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, twirling the end of your braid between your fingers, frowning.

''It's coming undone,'' you muttered.

Bucky was seated on the end of the couch with a cup of tea he didn't remember making, and glanced over. ''Want help?''

You blinked. Then your eyes lit up, slow and warm. ''Yeah. Will you braid it for me?''

Silence. Utter, world-shattering silence. Bob looked up from his book like he'd just heard a hun go off and Bucky froze mid-sip.

Your tone had been casual, like asking someone to hand you the remote. But Bucky felt his spine lock up like a snapped wire, his pulse suddenly very loud in his ears. His brain full-on short-circuited.

You tilted your head back to look at him, smiling. ''You don't have to if you don't want to-''

''No- I mean-yeah-no, I'll-sure,'' he stammered. ''I can try.''

You turned back around, still grinning like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Bucky set his tea down, his hand was already sweating. What the hell did he just agree to.

The moment your back was to him, Bucky realized how close you were. Your bare shoulders peeked out from the loose neckline of your oversized shirt, and the soft scent of your shampoo drifted up to him like a punch to the senses. He reached toward your hair, paused, and immediately pulled his hands back.

''I-uh-I don't know how to braid,'' he said, voice strangled.

''That's okay,'' you said easily, not turning around. ''Just do your best.''

That was not helpful.

Bob, mercifully, looked up from his book again and took pity. ''Hang on, Sergeant,'' he said, reaching for his phone. ''We're gonna get you through this.''

Bucky shot him a look.

Bob raised both eyebrows. ''You wanna bail now or impress the girl with your incredibly subpar braiding skills?''

''I'm not trying to impress-'' Bucky began, but Bob had already opened Youtube.

''There are hundreds of tutorials on this. Oh! Here's one: ''How to braid your girlfriend's hair without making her leave you for someone who owns a comb''. Seems fitting.''

''I hate you.''

''You love me.''

The video started playing - hosted by a chipper woman with perfectly braided hair and way too much optimism, and Bob propped the phone against his knee, narrating helpfully.

''Okay, part it into three sections. Three, Barnes. Not two. You're not tying shoelaces here.''

Bucky narrowed his eyes. ''I know what three is, Bob.''

''Do you, though? Because you're holding two and looking confused.''

''Shut up.''

You were definitely holding back laughter now, your shoulders trembled with it. He finally managed to divide your hair into three semi-even pieces.

''Now cross the right over the middle,'' Bob instructed. ''Wait. Your right. No, her right. Shit- that's the same right. Okay... look, follow the lady in the video.''

Bucky glared at the screen. The woman made it look so easy, the braid just formed like magic. Meanwhile, his hands felt like they were wearing boxing gloves. He tried once. Fumbled. You laughed under your breath.

''Sorry,'' he muttered, fingers clumsy against the silk of your hair.

''No, don't apologize,'' you said, voice light and warm. ''This is the most fun I've had all week.''

He tried again. And this time, the strands twisted more like a loose knot than a braid.

Bob squinted. ''That's... something.''

You snorted. ''It's fine. Just keep going.''

And somehow, despite the odds, the braid started to form. Wobbly and uneven. Your hair curled under his fingers like it belonged there. And Buckt didn't realize he'd started smiling. When he tied the braid off with a small elastic you handed him, you reached back and touched it, beaming.

''It's perfect,'' you said, even though it absolutely wasn't.

Bucky looked away, ears pink. ''Glad I could help,'' he said, voice a little hoarse.

You leaned back slightly, head resting against his shin now, looking up at him with bright, grateful eyes. And Bucky carefully, shyly, reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Not because it needed fixing. Just because he wanted to touch you again. And this time? He didn't panic.

Bob watched the whole thing from behind his book and just smiled. Didn't say a word. Didn't need to.

Gala nights were always chaos wrapped in satin. Everyone was too dressed up, the champagne was too expensive, and the music was more noise than melody. Somewhere between government posturing and forced socializing, it was easy to forget the mission was just to show up and look like you weren't going to level the place.

You, of course, were having the time of your life. Your gown, shimmering and slinky, dangerously backless, drew eyes across the room. But you didn't give them a second glance. You were too busy spinning in circles on the dance floor with Alexei, barefoot now, laughing so hard you nearly tripped over the hem of your dress.

''Is that-? Oh god, is that the cha-cha?'' Valentina muttered from the sidelines, looking scandalized. ''Tell me that's not the cha-cha. In front of the senators.''

''Mm,'' Ava hummed beside her. ''Technically, I think it's the drunk uncle version of the cha-cha. But yes.''

Valentina groaned, lifting her wine glass as if to drink away the embarrassment. ''She's going to give me a migraine.''

''She's not the one doing the shoulder shimmy,'' John said dryly, nodding toward Alexei.

And sure enough - there he was, twice your size and grinning like a man who had never known shame, twirling you dramatically and nearly taking out a waiter's tray in the process.

You didn't care. You threw your arms up, laughed like it was the only thing that mattered, and kept dancing.

Ava turned slightly, her gaze catching on the tall figure lingering near the edge of the ballroom. ''Barnes,'' she said, low enough that only he could hear. ''You gonna sit there forever?''

Bucky didn't look at her. He was too busy watching you. His tie felt too tight, his palm was clammy, and his heart was beating like he was in combat. He hadn't been able to look away from you all night. Your laugh, your touch, the way your eyes sparkled under the chandeliers like you belonged there more than anyone else in the room.

You'd already danced with Bob, who kept spinning you like he'd just watched Dirty Dancing. Then John, then Alexei. You flowed from one person to the next like it was nothing, like joy was just something that spilled out of you onto anyone willing to catch it.

And Bucky wanted to catch it. He almost stood. Almost let himself go to you like Ava was silently urging. But then the music changed. Soft strings. A slow waltz. Couples began to pair off, the lights dimmed slightly, warm gold flickering over crystal and silk. And Bucky panicked. Too intimate, too close. He sat back down, jaw tight.

Missed my chance, he thought bitterly. Typical. But then you were there.

Your voice gentle, like the music itself. ''Dance with me?''

His head jerked up. You were smiling. Hand out, hair a little wild from all your earlier chaos, eyes impossibly soft.

He blinked. ''Me?''

You tilted your head. ''Unless you know another hundred-year-old war criminal with a metal arm in this room?'' That started a laugh out of him, sharp and short. You stepped closer. ''Come on. One dance. I won't even try to spin you. Promise.''

His brain screamed run. But his heart? His heart stood.

Eyes drifted toward you and Bucky as you walked to the dance floor. He didn't look at them. He was too busy not tripping over his own thoughts.

You took his hands in yours and guided them to your waist with a warmth that had no edges. No agenda. Just you, radiant and calm, like you had all the time in the world to teach him what safety felt like.

''Just sway,'' you murmured. ''That''s all you have to do.''

So he did. You led, really. Kept the rhythm soft, let him find his footing. And Bucky was panicking. Because you were right there. So close. Too close.

Your cheek was nearly against his collarbone, your perfume was like summer and sugar and sunlight. Your hands were draped around his neck. And he was certain you could feel his heart pounding.

''Bucky?'' you whispered, barely audible. He grunted in acknowledgment, throat too tight for words. You looked up at him, the corner of your mouth tugging up. ''You're doing great.''

His breath stuttered. I'm not. Because it was too much. The warmth, the softness, the utter lack of fear in you. You danced with him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn't spent years pushing people away. Like he hadn't built an entire life around silence and distance.

You didn't ask to be let in. You just walked through the door. And Bucky had no idea what to do with that. He kept waiting for the tension to snap. For someone to step in. For you to pull away. But you didn't.

The song ended slowly, fading into something else. And Bucky felt the loss of it like a pulled stitch.

You stepped back just slightly and smiled up at him. ''Thank you,'' you said, voice as soft as velvet. Then you leaned in and kissed his cheek. A brief press of the lips, barely a breath long.

But it dropped like a bomb in his chest. Your smile didn't fade. You just slipped away, walking off with Yelena toward some obviously doomed scheme involving the catering table and the rooftop.

And Bucky stood there. Absolutely still. A hand on his cheek like the world had just tilted sideways. He barely noticed Ava join him a minute later, champagne glass in hand.

She didn't speak at first, just stopped and looked where you'd gone. Then it came, ''So.'' She glanced at him. ''You okay?''

''No.''

Her mouth twitched. ''Realized it, didn't you.''

Bucky didn't answer. Didn't need to. Because holy fucking shit, he did. He didn't just want affection. He didn't just want safety. He wanted you.

He didn't sleep the night after the gala. He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, fully clothes, jaw locked and heart loud, your kiss still pressed to his cheek like a brand. Because it had just been a thank you, right? Just a soft, casual thing. You did that with everyone.

You kissed Ava on the head when she gave you the last slice of pizza, you curled into Bob's side during movie nights like it was your assigned seat, you ruffled John's hair when he was being a sarcastic little shit, and you let Alexei carry you around like a sack of potatoes whenever he pleased. You gave affection like it cost nothing. And maybe it didn't. But to Bucky it cost everything. And now he wanted more. God help him, he wanted you.

It got worse the next day. You were still you - sunlight in human form, skipping around the tower in mismatched socks, humming a tune no one recognized.

You found Bucky in the kitchen, your hair a little damp from a shower, eyes sleepy. ''Hi, soldier,'' you said, bumping your shoulder gently into his arm. ''How are your feet after that dance? Did I bruise you?''

He blinked at you. Then blinked again. Because you were wearing his shirt. Not like, his shirt - but the same Henley brand he wore all the time, one of those oversized soft cotton ones in a color that made his brain hiccup. And he couldn't breathe.

''I-fine,'' he croaked. ''You didn't. I mean. It was fine.''

You beamed. ''Good. Then you can dance some more with me next time.''

He nodded dumbly.

You reached for the cereal box above him, your arm brushing across his chest. He flinched, but not away, from surprise. From the way even the most accidental contact with you lit him up from the inside. You poured a bowl, hummed again, and wandered off like you hadn't just leveled his entire nervous system with a smile.

Later he sat on the couch while you tangled yourself into a pile with Bob and Yelena. Legs over laps, arms slung around shoulders. Bob played with your fingers absentmindedly while Yelena used your stomach as a pillow. You were laughing at something stupid Bob said, glowing with ease, and Bucky watched.

Not like a creep. Just like a man trying not to fall apart. Because every time you touched someone else, something in his twisted. Not jealousy, not quite, just a raw aching hunger.

You're not mine to touch, he reminded himself. You weren't. But God, he wanted to be yours.

And the team noticed. Not loudly. Not with teasing. But they saw.

Yelena caught him watching you over the edge of his book. She didn't say anything, just raised an eyebrow when he looked away too fast and pretended to care about page 62. Bob lingered in the kitchen one morning and passed Bucky a mug of coffee with a quiet, ''You know, she really likes it when people play with her hair without asking first.'' Bucky nearly broke the mug. Alexei gave him a firm, understanding nod once when he caught him staring at you. Didn't say a word just nodded like a man who'd once been there and survived it. And Ava? She said it best.

''Don't rush him,'' she told John one afternoon when the he scoffed at Bucky choosing to sit beside you instead of his usual armchair.

''I'm not rushing him,'' John snapped, adjusting his sunglasses. ''I'm just saying - either kiss her or don't, Barnes. This isn't high school.''

Ava, who had been watching you patiently teach Alexei how to play Go Fish, shook her head. ''She doesn't know,'' she said softly.

John scoffed again. ''She's not blind. She kisses that man on the cheek like it's a Hallmark movie.''

''She kisses everyone. But she's patient with him. Slower. Gentler. More careful. And I don't think she even realizes it.''

John looked unconvinced. ''She's affectionate with everyone.''

''Yes,'' Ava said. ''But she waits for Bucky. She reads him. She's been loving him in a language he can understand.

That shut John up for a full three seconds. ''...Disgusting,'' he muttered. ''You should write poetry or something.''

Ava only smiled.

It was a rooftop night. Cool breeze, blankets, and pizza boxes spread out across mismatched furniture like a half-hearted picnic.

You were leaning over Bob's arm, laughing too hard at something Ava said, and Bucky was trying very hard not to be annihilated by it. You wore shorts and an old hoodie that definitely wasn't yours, hair pulled up with strands curling at your temples. Your bare legs were tangled over Bob's your hand casually resting on his chest while you picked a fight with Alexei about movie trivia.

No one else thought twice about it. They were used to you - your sunshine, your warmth, the way you radiated affection like a second skin. It was just you, untamed and fearless. But Bucky? You were shattering him. Every time you laughed at Bob's stupid joke, every time you reached over to adjust John's hoodie string, or brushed Yelena's hair behind her ear. Every time your eyes sparkled and your hand stayed just a second longer than strictly necessary... it burned.

And it wasn't jealousy. It was a need. Please look at me like that. Please lean your weight against me. Please laugh into my chest. Please, please, choose me, without even realizing it.

The ache was getting harder to hide. He'd tried. God, he'd tried. He still sat closer to you now. Still let you rest your head on his shoulder sometimes. Still awkwardly and terribly braided your hair when you asked. But there were limits he didn't know how to cross. Like now.

When you leaned over Bob and mock-whispered something into his ear, giggling when he gasped and dramatically clutched his heart, pretending to faint. It was nothing. A joke. But Bucky felt it like a sucker punch to the ribs. And you didn't even notice.

''You okay?'' Ava murmyred from beside him.

He didn't look at her. ''Fine.''

She didn't push. She never did. Just handed him a beer and let the silence fill in what he couldn't say.

I'm not okay. I want to be the one she teases like that. I want her hand on my chest. Her eyes on me like I'm the reason she's smiling. I want-

He swallowed he cracked the beer open.

When the wind picked up and everyone started packing up, you wandered over to him. Hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, cheeks rosy from the cold. ''Hey, soldier,'' you said softly.

He looked at you, and God help him - he melted. You gave him that smile. The one that made his lungs forget what to do. The one that used to feel like sunshine but now felt like the slow pull of a tide trying to drown him.

''You looked a little quiet tonight,'' you said, gentle, concerned. ''Everything okay?''

He nodded too quickly. ''Yeah. Just tired.''

Your hand reached up, brushing a leaf from his shoulder. He froze. ''Okay. Well, if you need to not be okay sometime, you know I'm here, right?''

Do you know what you're doing to me? He wanted to ask. Wanted to grab your hand and keep it. Just hold on to something warm for once. But instead, he just nodded. And watched you walk away.

The rooftop cleared, but he stayed behind. Alone, now. Just him and the wind and the echo of your laugh in his ears. And for the first time, the truth didn't whisper. It roared.

I don't just want touch. I don't just want softness. I want her.

In and out. Secure the intel. Light resistance. It was supposed to be simple. It wasn't. And when the explosion went off - too close, too sudden - it was your name that ripped out of Bucky's throat. He didn't see the flash. Just felt the shockwave. And then you were gone from his side.

You weren't dead. You weren't even seriously hurt. Just thrown, bruised, scraped up where you'd hit the wall, comm crackling as you cursed and coughed and told them you were fine.

But Bucky wasn't. He couldn't breathe. His fingers wouldn't stop trembling on the trigger of his rifle. He kept his body moving, eyes scanning, instincts in full soldier mode. But his heart was gone, back there, with you.

He didn't remember finishing the mission. Didn't remember getting on the jet. Didn't remember sitting beside you in the medbay while a nurse patched you up, your voice stubborn and playful as always. What he remembered was the sound of the blast. And the way his entire world collapsed for a second.

He didn't talk on the ride back. You kept glancing at him, frown between your brows, but he didn't look at you. Couldn't He just sat with his hands clenched between his knees, eyes blank, jaw locked like he was holding back a scream. The others noticed, but they knew better than to push.

You knocked on his door that night. Three soft raps. No answer, but you opened it anyway.

Bucky was sitting on the floor beside his bed, back against the wall, breathing hard. Still in his gear. Dog tags clenched in one hand, shaking. He looked up... and shattered.

''You shouldn't be in here,'' he rasped.

You stepped in anyway, gently closing the door behind you.

He shook his head, almost violently. His breath hitched and he pressed his palm to his chest, like he could physically hold something in. ''I thought you were gone.''

You paused. And then moved closer, sinking to your knees in front of him. ''I wasn't.''

''I thought you were.'' His voice cracked. ''I saw that explosion and I thought-I thought-'' He couldn't finish. Just closed his eyes, chest heaving. And then he reached. Arms out. Not confident or practiced, but desperate. Like he couldn't stand another second not touching you.

You moved into the hug without hesitation, and he broke. He held you like a drowning man. Like you were oxygen and he hadn't breathed in weeks. His arms crushed you to him, face buried in your shoulder, fingers twisting into your hoodie like they were terrified you'd slip away again. It wasn't soft, or gentle. It was fierce. A hug with everything he couldn't say.

''I'm here,'' you whispered, hand smoothing up his spine. ''I'm okay.''

His voice was low and hoarse, almost childlike. ''I can't lose you.''

You froze, just for a second. Then melted against him, curling into his lap like you belonged there. You didn't speak. Didn't need to. Because you felt it, now. The weight in his arms, the panic, the relief, the need. You'd hugged Bucky before, but he had never held you like this. And something changed inside you. Because suddenly all the times he'd flinched away, all the walls he kept up - it all made sense. He was afraid of it. Afraid of needing it. Afraid of losing it.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. ''I'm not going anywhere,'' you said softly.

And his eyes- God, his eyes. Like he wanted so badly to believe you, but didn't know how. You cupped his cheek and pressed your forehead to his.

You didn't say anything else. Didn't have to. Because the next day, Bucky sat a little closer on the couch. He lingered when you leaned into him. And when you rested your head on his shoulder? He leaned back.

And you started giving him more. More of your touch, more of your time, more of you. And the others noticed.

It was a quiet change. Not a thunderclap, not a confession, just... little shifts. Like how you still curled against Bob during movie nights, but now your feet somehow always ended up in Bucky's lap. Or how you'd still lean into Yelena's side, tug on John's sleeve, braid Ava's hair while teasing Alexei - but Bucky was the one whose hand you reached for when you needed comfort.

And Bucky... God, Bucky was changing. Subtle things. To anyone else, probably invisible. But not to the team. He never flinched now. Not when you brushed your knee against his, not when you tossed a blanket over both of your legs. Not when your head dropped to his shoulder and stayed there through an entire episode of Jeopardy.

He even initiated things, once or twice. A hand on your back, a squeeze to your arm. The kind of touch that was casual from anyone else, but from Bucky Barnes? It was a goddamn declaration.

Ava watched the way Bucky's eyes always found you first. Not just when you entered a room, but when you laughed, when you moved, when you fell quiet. She saw it like a pulse - how in tune he was with you now. Like he was always listening for your heartbeat.

Alexei didn't understand it in so many words, but he stopped teasing Bucky about being grumpy. Just gave him a single, hearty slap on the back one afternoon and said, ''You are less haunted now. Good. Keep petting her hair, it seems to be working.''

Bob never said a damn thing. He just started sitting a little farther away during movie night, with a small, knowing smile.

John was the only one brave enough to ask: ''So... is this a thing now?'' and got and simultaneous death glare from Yelena and you that promptly shut him up for a week.

And Bucky felt it all. Not just your hands, not just the way your affection lingered now - longer hugs, softer looks, quiet touches that felt like they meant something. No. He felt the way you chose him. You still loved everyone. That hadn't changed. You were still sunshine, still chaos, still a tangle of hugs and shoulder squeezes and kisses on the cheeks and tangled limbs. But when it came to him? You were gentler. Like you were holding something sacred. And it made his heart ache in the most beautiful, terrifying way.

You never talked about it. But one night, when everyone else had wandered off, you padded up to Bucky's room and knocked twice. When he opened the door, you were already stepping in, hoodie sleeves over your hands, bare feet quiet on the floor. You didn't say anything. You just curled up next to him on the bed, on top of the blanket, side pressed to his - cheek on his shoulder. And Bucky wrapped his arm around without hesitation. Like he'd been waiting. And maybe he had. Because something had shifted. You weren't just affection now, or just comfort. You were something that scared the hell out of him. Something he wanted.

You and Bucky were in the common room long after everyone had gone to sleep, arguing about which of you could win in a game of ''sneak tag'' - a stupid version of hide-and-seek Alexei had invented with suspiciously complex rules and the very real possibility of someone getting a concussion.

You were giddy with exhaustion, barefoot and wrapped in a blanket like a cape. Bucky was stretched out on the rug, shirt untucked, hair messy, smiling that quiet way he didn't even realize he was doing now.

''You forget I used to rob people,'' you'd said, gesturing dramatically with a Snickers bar. ''I'm a ghost in socks. A phantom.''

''You tripped over a chair yesterday.''

''That chair moved, Barnes.''

He chuckled, and you decided then and there that the sound was your new favorite thing.

Somehow, between laughter and whispered trash talk, the game actually began. You set the timer. Ten minutes to sneak from one end of the tower to the other, tagging your opponent before they reached the kitchen. Simple.

Except Bucky was fast. And quiet. And probably cheating.

You darted through darkened corridors, ducked behind furniture, and nearly screamed when he appeared out of nowhere beside the elevator. He didn't tag you, just grinned - wild and sharp and boyish - and ran. You chased him like a storm. By the time you skidded into the kitchen and cornered him, breathless and flushed, your laughter was nearly silent. So was his. You had him trapped against the counter, both of you panting, noses inches apart in the dark. He was smiling. But his eyes were wide. Almost awed.

''You lost,'' you whispered.

''I let you win.''

''Liar.''

He didn't argue.

You were both still catching your breath when you looked at him. Really looked at him. The way the moonlight hit his face, the way his hair stuck to his forehead, the way his chest rose and fell like he'd just run through something much more dangerous than a hallway. And it hit you. How much you wanted him. Not affection, not comfort. Him.

And before your brain could catch up to your body - you kissed him. Soft. Barely more than a breath. Your lips pressed to his like a secret. Like a question you didn't mean to ask. And for one perfect second - he kissed you back. Then he blinked, and he was gone.  

No words. No anger. Just... retreat. Like he couldn't breathe. Like he had to escape before he shattered completely. And you were left in the quiet dark, your fingertips and lips still tingling from where you'd touched him.

You didn't sleep that night.

You knocked on his door at 7:04 a.m. No blanket, no jokes, just you.

The door opened slowly, and there he was. Hair wet from a shower, hoodie pulled on inside out, eyes tired - but calmer.

''I'm sorry,'' you said, voice small. He stared at you. ''I didn't mean to do that. I mean- I did, but I didn't think, and you panicked, and I get, I just-''

''Don't apologize.''

Your mouth snapped shut. Bucky stepped back, letting you in.

''I wasn't mad,'' he said softly. ''Just... scared.''

You nodded, stepping inside. ''I know.''

''I didn't want to run.''

''I know.''

''I've just never wanted something this much and not known how to have it.''

You looked up at him, something tender folding open in your chest. And Bucky didn't think this time. He just moved. Closed the distance, tilted his head, and kissed you. Not soft. Not unsure. But with all the weight of what he'd been trying to hold in. Days, weeks, months of trying to bury a feeling that refused to die.

You melted into it, hands finding the collar of his hoodie, lips curving into the kiss even as his hand cupped the back of your neck like he was still afraid you'd slip away. But you didn't. You stayed.

And when you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, foreheads pressed together in the quiet...

He whispered, ''You didn't steal that kiss.''

You smiled. ''Did I not?''

''No,'' he murmured. ''I gave it to you.''

And just like that... Bucky Barnes stopped running.

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

[marvelavengerspovs1]

Double Trouble

Pairing: Stucky x F!reader

Warnings: MDNI (SMUT 18+), dom!Bucky, soft dom!Steve, sub!reader, dry humping, spitting, masturbation, double penetration, degradation kink/name calling (slut to reader), praise kink, threesome, I think that’s it but lmk if I missed something

Length: 1.5k

Summary: Bucky will only allow you to let go if you have been good.

A/N: Thank you so much for the support on my last Stucky post!

MDNI! 18+ ONLY! I cannot control what you consume so you have been warned!

I do not give consent for my work to be translated, copied, or sold!

You never imagined your life would turn out this way. You never imagined that you would be an Avenger, that you would have some sick ass powers, or that you would be in a relationship. The best part is that you didn’t have to stick to just one man, you had two very handsome super soldiers to keep your bed warm at night.

You gasp as you feel Steve bite the small area where your neck and shoulder meet. He quickly licks over it and places a small kiss to relieve the pain.

“Steve…” You moan out his name.

Steve silences you with a kiss on your lips. You lean into him, pushing Steve to sit on the edge of the bed. Once he sits down, you straddle his lap. You push your pulsing core onto his hard and clothed cock.

Steve hisses, pushing you down by your hips and lifting his. “There you go Honey, you’re being such a good girl.”

You moan at his words. “Please Stevie, I need more!” You whine.

“Don’t listen to her Steve, she has a whole lot more begging to do.” Bucky chimes in from his spot on the bed.

Bucky lays on his typical side of the bed, the left. He has his left arm propped behind him, his shirt off, a pair of gray sweatpants on, and his right hand in his boxers. His long hair is pulled back into a bun and his beard is long from not shaving in weeks.

You turn your head to look at Bucky. You can see the small movements his hand is making. He’s jerking himself off but he doesn’t want to come just yet.

“Please Bucky, Stevie said I was being a good girl!” You beg.

Bucky tilts his head to the side as Steve continues to kiss your neck. “You haven’t proven anything yet, Doll,” Bucky smirks at you.

You continue to grind down on Steve’s dick, chasing your orgasm. You weren’t close by any means, but any movement would bring it closer.

“Doll, you look pathetic trying to get off on Stevie.” Bucky laughs at you.

You moan at his words and feel Steve get harder. You lift your arms and Steve lifts your shirt off. He continues to lift his hips to meet yours as he rips off your bra and looks at your breasts. Steve licks his lips before putting his mouth onto one of your tits. He lightly grazes your nipple with his teeth before licking it and then gently sucking. You moan and arch your back, pushing your breast further into Steve’s mouth.

“Please Stevie, please make me feel good!” You moan, sounding breathless.

“Be a good girl and I’ll let Stevie make you feel good,” Bucky tells you.

You look at him and see that he’s moving his hand faster, a sign that you were being a good girl. You continue to roll your hips onto Steve, allowing him to be the one in control. Steve switches breasts, making sure to give it the same treatment.

You feel the familiar knot in your stomach. You know you can’t let loose without Bucky’s approval or without Steve feeling equally as good.

“Stevie…. Bucky… I’m about to-!” You can’t let the words out, too focused on moaning.

Steve releases your breast from his mouth and turns to Bucky. “Should we let her?”

“Hmmm…. Do you think she’s been a good enough girl?” Bucky asks as he watches your hips move more erratically, trying to find some relief.

Steve lets out a moan as you rub him in the right spot. “Mmh… She’s been an angel Buck. Maybe after I’m done with her you can try her out.”

You moan at the sensation. The boys talking to each other like you weren’t there made you feel something. As well as his hard cock hitting your cunt in the most delicious way.

“Ok, you can let her come.” Bucky finally agrees, moving his hand at the same speed you’re thrusting your hips.

“Yes! Thank you, Bucky! Thank you!” You moan in excitement as Steve goes back to kissing your neck, this time massaging your tits with his hands.

The room is filled with your impatient moans, Steve’s heavy breathing, and Bucky jerking himself off. You start to feel your orgasm coming, the familiar pull exciting you.

“Stevie, I'm so close! Yes right there! Keep going! Yes!” You moan.

Finally, you snap. You feel your orgasm course through you, your toes curling with pleasure, and the most filthy moan escaping your lips. Steve and Bucky follow behind you, feeling the relief you feel.

“Come here Doll,” Bucky motions for you to come to him.

You obey him, leaving Steve to ride out his orgasm. You crawl to Bucky and let him help you straddle his lap. One thing about these super soldier men, they can go all night.

“Are you going to be a good girl again and let me claim the sweet pussy?” Bucky asks, cupping your cunt.

You push yourself down harder, wanting him to take you. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Good girl.” Bucky lifts you and walks over to Steve who already has his boxers off. “Stevie, why don’t you help our girl?”

Bucky sets you down and makes you stand between Steve’s legs. Both men help you out of your jeans and underwear before Bucky makes you widen your stance, placing your hands on his chest. Then you feel it. Steve’s long and thick finger is stretching your hole. Slowly but surely he stretches you out, adding one finger after the other until you are prepped for his cock.

“She’s ready Buck,” Steve says from behind you. You turn to Bucky and see that he is naked now.

Bucky helps Steve get his thick cock in you, making sure that the two of you are comfortable. You moan as his throbbing tip is at your entrance, feeling how good Steve is stretching you. Bucky then pushes you back onto Steve before settling above you, thrusting into your pussy without any warning. You let out a loud yelp that is followed by a moan.

Both men slowly pull out until only their tips are inside of you. They thrust back in, their hips flushed against yours. They repeat their movements, changing their speeds. Bucky would go fast while Steve would go deliciously slow, and vice versa. You moan pornographically, their movements being everything you want.

“Look at her Stevie, she’s a slut!”

“Makes me wonder why we fuck her and not each other, we don’t do around acting like a porn star, right Buck?”

“Mhm, that’s right Stevie!” Bucky wraps his left arm around your neck and gives it a light squeeze.

“Yes! Please! Treat me like a slut!” You moan.

Bucky leaves his hand around your throat but doesn’t squeeze. He gently moves your neck to the side before leaning down to kiss Steve. Bucky forces his tongue down Steve’s throat and he hums in approval. You moan at the sight. The super soldiers thrusting into you, treating you like a toy, but being into each other.

Bucky gently squeezes your throat once more. “You like that slut? Do you like us treating you like you’re not even here? You like that we’re fucking you because no one else will ever be allowed to touch you?”

You nod your head quickly, your breaths coming faster. You start to feel your orgasm coming again. Hearing Bucky degrade you and the slapping of your skin against both men brings you closer to the edge.

“We’re going to fill her Stevie. We’re going to make sure that the slut knows she belongs to us and only us.”

They both start to go in sync, almost as if they practiced it. Like they knew you would be a goner. 

“Yes, Bucky! Yes Stevie! Yes! Yes! YES!” You start to moan louder and louder. “Please, I'm so close! Let me come! Please!”

 Steve starts to kiss your neck again, biting hard. You moan and Bucky silences you, his tongue pushing past your lips. You lean further into Bucky, tasting Steve on his lips. Bucky kisses you like he’s starving and you’re his next meal. Bucky leans back and grabs your chin with his left hand. He tilts your head back and makes your mouth stay open. He then spits into your mouth, ordering Steve to do the same. Both men spit in your mouth multiple times before Bucky forces you to close your jaw.

“Swallow and I’ll let you come.” You gladly drink their spit.

Bucky nods at Steve and her reaches between your bodies until he gets to your clit. He plays with your clit, making sure that you can only feel pleasure. You feel the pressure in the pit of your stomach build up. Your toes start to curl with anticipation. You can tell that both men are close as well, their thrusts turning sloppy.

“I’m going to come! You moan out.

Bucky and Steve thrust three more times before you unravel. You yell their names as you feel your orgasm wash over you. Both men stay in you and thrust until they come. Bucky and Steve come at the same time, Steve holding the back of Bucky’s neck to pull him for a kiss. They kiss until every last drop of their come is in you.

“You are a good girl.” Bucky praises you.

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xiii)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, forests, sabotaging

A/N: lmao so initially this was actually supposed to be released on Halloween last year bc it was the 13th chapter. but of course, The Horrors. so have a Halloween themed chapter in the middle of fucking April. good day to you all.

Previous part || Series masterlist

Bucky doesn’t do Halloween.

To be fair, Bucky doesn’t do most organised festive celebrations. 

But Halloween specifically, is not for him. 

He barely has energy to exist in real life, and now he has to do it with a costume? Like a little circus clown boy begging for claps?

No.

So even though the team has mostly done the most with what they can, and dressed up to celebrate the spirits of the holiday, he has chosen to stick to his usual.  

He begins to feel the guilt twirling around his stomach when he finally makes his way to the event ground. 

The whole Halloween fair felt like fall in a bottle. Rows of vendor stalls lined the main walkway, overpriced cider and hot chocolate competing for everyone’s attention. The air was thick with the scent of kettle corn, fried dough, and bonfire smoke, and at the very center of the fairground, a massive pumpkin display loomed. IT was carefully arranged, family-friendly, and absolutely begging to be destroyed. 

There were costumes everywhere. Kids sprinting between hay bales in bandages and plastic fangs, groups of teenagers posing for selfies in group outfits, couples holding hands.

It was nice. It might even begin to thaw his cold, solid heart. 

The groans and bullying that follows when he pulls up half an hour late is warranted but he holds his ground. 

Hands balled into fists, chest pushed out and sturdy, he takes his usual place next to you, bracing for impact. 

“You’re a bore,” you say without skipping a beat. “You’re like fun-antidote. Where is your costume?”

“I’m wearing a costume,” he says simply. “I’m A Guy.”

“Your costume cannot be guy. I knew this shit would happen. I had a costume delivered to you one month ago, where is it?”

“If you think I’m dressing like that Dr Seuss piece of shit, you’re deranged.” Bucky casts a look at you. 

He opened the package, saw the red stripes and closed it right back up.

“There’s no way you showed up with nothing,” Nat scoffs.

“Clint wore a full Pikachu onesie,” Wanda offers, joining the group with a powdered sugar moustache.

“That’s because Clint has no shame.” 

“I heard that,” Clint calls from somewhere. God knows where.

“You were supposed to,” Bucky fires back. 

Nat raises an eyebrow. “C’mon Buck. Not even a little face paint?”

“Do I look like a man who owns face paint,” he says dryly, glaring when he suddenly notices a little detail. “Why’s everyone looking at me? This one’s not wearing a costume either.”

He juts a thumb towards you. You narrow your eyes.

“I’m literally wearing one right now,” you say, gesturing to yourself. 

“You’re wearing a black t-shirt and combat boots,” he argues. “That’s clothes. It’s not a costume.”

“It’s a good costume,” Sam pipes up. “I get it.” 

You beam at him. “Thanks.”

Bucky glances at you, then at Sam, then back at you again.

Nat, leaning back against the table, exhales a short laugh. “Really nailed the details.”

“Right?” You glance down at your fit. 

She nods. “Very accurate.”

Bucky stares for a few more seconds, coming up short.  

Finally, he grumbles, “Whatever. Where’s the video shoot?”

“You guys are shooting a video here?” Wanda asks, tearing off a piece of funnel cake and popping it into her mouth.

“Yeah, I thought it’d be fun to go through the corn maze. Local legends say it’s haunted by the spirit of teenagers who got lost in there years ago and never returned.” You shrug. “I’m gonna attach a GoPro onto Bucky’s head and set him free in there.”

“You make me sound like a rat.”

“You’re the handsomest rat I’ve ever seen, baby. If I were a piece of cheese, would you want me?”

“Stop.”

“You’re really just gonna go in there together, huh?” Sam pipes up casually. 

Bucky looks at him weirdly, but Sam has the deeply self-satisfied smirk of a man about to be a menace.

You don’t even hesitate. “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Corn mazes have a history, you know? Just saying. ”

“A history,” you repeat. 

Nat, ever helpful, leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “Classic teenage makeout spot.”

Bucky’s eye twitches.

“I wouldn’t know, I spent my teenage years blowing up buildings,” you reply. 

Wanda hums. “That’s what they all say.”

“Literally who says this.”

“You’re not missing out. It’s cold and itchy and the whole place smells like hay,” Steve chimes in, doing his best to aid the situation. 

Sam nods solemnly. “Yeah, but next thing you know, you’re lost with no cell service, standing real close, saying shit like ‘oh no, my flashlight batteries died, guess we have to huddle for warmth–””

Bucky groans. “It’s a fucking corn maze, not the catacombs. There’s no getting lost and huddling for warmth.”

Clint, appearing just in time to make this worse, tilts his head innocently. “Oh, you guys doing the Lover’s Lane?”

Bucky gestures aggressively at the fair map. “It says Field of Screams.”

“Sure can be a field of screams if this night goes well,” you add unhelpfully. 

Bucky turns to Steve, clearly expecting him to be the voice of reason.

Steve, unfortunately, is already hiding a smile behind his drink.

Bucky’s jaw clenches.

“Assholes,” he mutters.

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “Have fun in the murder corn.”

Somewhere in the distance, the haunted house’s chainsaw gag goes off, followed by delighted screaming.

Bucky adjusts the camera strapped to his head like a miner’s torch. “I thought you were going as the tennis ball from that threesome movie.”

“Costume didn’t deliver in time. So I found something better.”

“What are you supposed to be?” 

You ignore him, but there’s an amused expression on your face. “I know you think that because you’ve gotten to this point, you’ve gotten away with not having a costume. Unfortunately for you, I have come prepared.”

Before he can react, you shove a piece of fabric into his hands.

He holds it up, balled into his fist. “Is this–”

“The cape from the laughing gas group, yes.” You nod. 

“I thought I got rid of this thing, where the hell did you get it from?” He lets it unravel in all its unironed, crinkly wonder. 

“I would never let you get rid of a piece of art like this. Now look, you’ve got a solid costume.”

“I don’t need a costume.”

“Well, now you have one. Put it on.”

“No.”

“Put it on.”

“No.”

Five minutes later, he has a shitty full-length cape on as you stand at the entrance to a haunted corn maze.

The wind picks up just enough to make his cape move ominously. He elects to ignore it. 

You adjust the camera on your head, tilting it toward him.

“Well, well, well,” you narrate,. “If it isn’t the dark lord himself.”

“I hope the ghosts take you first.”

“That’s what I love about you, Buck. Always looking out for me.”

Bucky shakes his head, pulling the cape tighter around his shoulders when the wind threatens to blow it away.

The archway is wrapped in dim string lights, flickering unsteadily.

Beyond it, the corn stands tall and unmoving, the entrance swallowing the path ahead in a thick, oppressive darkness.

“Alright, you ready?” you turn to him.

He sighs. “Always.”

________

The night is alive.

The festival’s noise carries even through the thick walls of corn, muffled laughter and distant screams bleeding through the cracks, the occasional blast of music from a game booth still loud enough to reach you guys.

Teenagers run ahead, scaring their friends before the actors even get the chance.

Bucky walks beside you, hands tucked into the pocket of his cargo pants.

A breeze kicks up, rustling through the maze.

From somewhere to your right, a group of college kids run screaming out of one of the side paths, shoving each other as they trip over their own feet.

Bucky watches them, expression completely unimpressed. “They paid twenty bucks to get chased through corn by a guy in a mask.”

“We also have done that,” you remind him. 

You walk for a while in no particular direction, just following the winding, trampled-down paths. Nothing creepy has happened yet.

“I had a place like this growing up,” Bucky mutters, stepping over a stray piece of corn husk.

You glance at him. “A haunted maze?”

“A fair. Smaller than this, but same kind of deal. Seasonal. My parents used to take us before it got too cold.”

You hum. “What’d they have?”

“The usual,” Bucky says. “Rides, caramel apples, bad magic acts. There was a fortune teller I was scared of when I was a kid.”

“You were scared of a fortune teller?”

“She was fuckin’ aggressive for a woman whose entire job was pretending to read palms. I didn’t even want to do it. My parents paid ‘cause Becca begged, and then she got too scared to go near her. I got thrown in so it didn’t up being a waste of a few bucks.”

“Becca betrayed you.”

“Sold me out immediately.”

You laugh. There’s a faint smile on his face as he walks through the godforsaken corn. 

“I had a fair once,” you say.  “It wasn’t real. But they called it a festival.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“There was a little town outside the facility,” you say, stepping over a raised tree root. “Once a year, they’d set up these tests. The whole thing was so weird. Gave us candy. Let us play games. Just to see if we could blend in.”

“HYDRA did something similar.”

You snort. “You guys ever do the winter carnival, or was that unique to usl?”

Bucky groans. “Always fucking Winter Wonderland or Halloweentown.”

You laugh, kicking at a loose pile of hay. “I used to steal candy.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Without getting caught?”

“They probably knew,” you admit. “But they never stopped me. Maybe that was the test.”

Bucky hums, before saying gruffly. “Maybe it was just a win.”

You hold his gaze for a second. The careless upturn of his lip is enough to make you forget what nonsense you were about to say.

You wonder how much footage you’d have to edit out if it was just staring at his dumb, pretty face in silence.

A breeze shuffles the corn.

The distant scream of another maze runner echoes through the night.

It’s enough to snap you out of whatever the hell this is. 

The festival noise is still going strong, bleeding into the maze, distant music mixing with the hum of people.

You reach a split in the path. A fork in the maze, with two equally stupid-looking trails leading deeper into the field.

Bucky stops, tilting his head slightly, scanning both directions.

You, on the other hand, just pick a side based on what the vibes emanating from them were. 

“This way,” you say, already stepping toward the left.

Bucky does not move. “That’s the wrong way.”

“Excuse me?”

Bucky gestures down the right path. “That’s the way out.”

You fold your arms. “How do you know?”

“Because I do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

You tilt your head. “Did you fucking map out the way to the exit?”

“No,” Bucky lies.

“That defeats the whole point of a maze.” 

“It’s called situational awareness.”

“It’s called being a control freak,” you correct.

Bucky exhales sharply. 

You gesture down the path you picked. “So what happens if I go this way?”

“You get lost.”

“Or.”

“No.”

“Or–”

“I’m not going the wrong way.”

“Fine. It appears that we have reached an impasse.” You pause, considering for a second. “I fear that our journey together ends here. Catch you on the flipside, partner.”

Bucky watches as you take a slow, exaggerated step backward down the left path.

“Are you seriously splitting us up?” he asks dryly. 

“It is not I who refuses to tread the path of integrity.” 

Bucky glares.

You take another step, arms crossed over your chest, combat boots pressed into the dirt.

He’s about to give in and follow your stupidass plan, when it suddenly clicks for him. Honestly, once he gets it, he’s embarrassed at how long it took. 

“Is your fuckin’ costume s’pposed to be me?” Bucky’s jaw drops open slightly. 

A grin breaks across your face and it’s enough of an answer for him.

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” He takes a long, hard look at your ridiculous outfit. “What is wrong with you?”

“I think I did great,” you say, pulling at the hem of your black t-shirt. “I even made sure the shade was right.”

“You think you’re hilarious.”

“I do, yeah. Now let’s get a move on.” You clap your hands. “This maze ain’t gonna solve itself.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you dressed like that.”

“Afraid people are gonna think we’re the same person?”

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. You do the same.

“Stop.”

“I’m just existing, man.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Now who said that?” You narrow your eyes. “I’m dressed like the hottest person I know besides myself, you should take it as a compliment” 

Bucky mumbles something under his breath, taking a step towards the path on the right. 

“I see you’ve made your choice. The wrong one, but I respect it.” You salute.  “See you on the other side, Barnes.”

And just like that, you disappear down the path.

Bucky stands there for a few seconds in silence.

Then, grudgingly, he starts walking again, taking his route. The correct route.

The festival noise is still there, still steady.

Bucky isn’t worried.

Because, first of all, it’s a corn maze.

Second of all, he’s already sure he knows the way out. 

The first few minutes alone, he doesn’t think about it much.

He walks, eyes scanning the paths, the layout, the movement of people up ahead. 

Unfortunately with the way his brain is hardwired, It doesn’t take him long to see the pattern.

The jump scares are timed.

The actors cycle between three or four spots.

The lighting is only dim enough to be “spooky,” but there are clear emergency lanterns posted at every exit route.

All things considered, it’s shockingly easy to navigate, so he wonders what’s so haunted about it in the first place. 

By the time he reaches the third scare actor, he’s already figured out that they’re all positioned in the exact same intervals.

A few minutes later, the familiar mechanical rev of a chainsaw sounds through the corn again. 

Bucky sighs, already exhausted.

The actor jumps out from the corn, mask on, chainsaw lifted dramatically.

Bucky stares.

The actor stares back.

There’s a long, painful pause.

Bucky slips past him and keeps walking.

_______ 

“How much fuckin’ corn is there?” he mumbles by the time he hits the next split in the path.

He hasn’t heard from you in a while, which doesn’t make sese because he should have run into you at some point. He would never admit it out loud but he would rather your incessant chattering than silence.

Seemingly ten minutes into his neverending trek, he pulls out his phone to track his way back to Steve using the damn Find My Phone bullshit

No signal.

He exhales sharply. Taps the screen a few more times, holds it above his head and even rotates it a few times. 

Still nothing.

It’s annoying, sure. But beyond that, something about it feels vaguely unsettling.

 The maze wasn’t that far away from the fair. 

It wasn’t like he’d wandered into the woods. 

He should have cell service. 

He grumbles, putting his phone back into his pocket, continuing on. 

_________

The paths aren’t endless.

The entire attraction is contained within the fairgrounds, wedged between the parking lot and the hayride station, which means if he just keeps moving in a straight line, he should hit the outer edge eventually.

Or at the very least, run into a staff member making sure no dumbass teenagers try to cut through the corn and ruin the layout.

And yet he’s been walking for a while now.

No exits are showing up.

Which is annoying. Because he’s usually good at this kind of thing.

If he can navigate a city he barely recognizes, evade people trying to kill him, track movement through urban terrain with nothing but a loose trail, then he should be able to walk out of a goddamn festival attraction.

But the paths just keep twisting, folding back into each other. 

The maze stretches longer than it should.

EVen though he’d figured it out, Bucky doesn’t immediately notice it.

He’s too focused on just moving forward. Getting to the end.

But after another few turns, another five minutes of silence, it finally registers.

There hasn’t been a single scare in a while.

The last was what, ten minutes ago?

Before that, they had been stationed at every few turns, jumping out at whatever happened to wander through.

Bucky stops.

The corn doesn’t rustle the way it usually does. 

It stands tall and eerily frozen. 

Bucky tilts his head slightly and listens.

But the fairground is further away than it should be.

There’s still wind.

It's still chilly.

Like it’s been pushed back a little further with every turn he’s taken.

Which doesn’t make sense.

Bucky exhales, shaking it off, shaking it loose, refusing to acknowledge the stupid, creeping frustration in his chest.

This is fine.

He keeps moving because at some point, it has to end.

The sky is still clear.

The night is dark.

He rounds the next turn--

Agonizing minutes later, Bucky knows he should have found an exit by now.

Even if he somehow took the longest possible route, even if he completely lost track of where he was going, he should have hit the fairground again by sheer accident.

And finally, he sees something different.

A scarecrow.

Lying in the middle of the path.

It's an old, rotting, weatherworn thing that doesn’t belong in a festival attraction.

The wood is splintering at the edges. The burlap sack tied around its head is molded and sun-bleached. The hat it’s wearing is barely holding together.

And its arms, long and stiff and thin, aren’t stretched out the way scarecrows usually are, instead pressed tight against its sides.

Bucky stares at it.

A long, slow moment passes.

“What the fuck’s your deal?” he asks. 

It does not answer. Obviously. 

He stares for a few more seconds, raising his leg to step beside it and move on–

Something touches him.

His entire body locks up for half a second, reflex screaming at him to step back, to turn, to fight.

It’s barely anything.

A whisper of sensation, a brief, feather-light press against the metal of his wrist.

Not a grab. Not a push. Just contact.

And then there’s a giggle.

Soft, small sound that feels like it’s been yanked straight out of another life. 

It takes a secodn to register that his pulse is hammering now.

Because it’s been months of this. Of coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t just imagining it.

Not from cold, clamping fear.

Something else. 

The giggle sounds again, a few feet away this time.

She’d been following him. Watching him. Waiting for a chance to get him alone and-- God, what?

What was she going to do?

His head snaps towards the sound, trying to zero in on it outside of the rustling of stems. 

When it floats by again, it’s further away. 

His feet move before his mind registers it. 

Soft peals of laughter, the same when he’d let her draw all over his sketchbooks, when he’d douse her in water from the hose, when his dad would throw her under his arm and carry her around. 

It doesn’t matter.

He rounds the corner fast, boots skidding slightly on the packed dirt.

The air is colder now than ten minutes ago, stinging his skin. Or maybe that’s just in his head.

The laughter leads him around another corner, and the weight in his chest grows more desparate.

Because if she’s there, he can tell her everything he’s been thinking of for months now.

That he’s sorry, that he’d do whatever it takes to get her to rest–

He opens his mouth to call out her name– 

He bounds down the path, heart hammering and eyes wide.

His feet skid to a halt, boots grinding into the ground when he almost collides straight into something.

Someone.

But no.

Face tucked behind a Jason Vorhees mask, fake machete resting on a shoulder.

Not her. 

“Woah,” it says, “the hell are you running from?”

Bucky stops immediately, breathless.

It doesn’t take even a second to register the voice.

In the same short second, it is gone.

The giggle. The touch on the inside of his wrist. 

It’s all gone.

And in its place, it’s you.

You’re standing like you’ve been waiting for him, mask lopsided, fake machete swinging lazily in one hand, like you just wandered in from a completely different reality. 

Fuck. He’d been sure. So sure.

But then it’s you, pulling the mask up till it rides up your forehead. 

“Look who finally showed up,” you say brightly, grinning like you haven’t been wandering the maze in abandoned slasher cosplay for god knows how long.

“I’ve been trying to find an exit for, like, half an hour. Got so bored I was about to float up and look for you from the sky.”

He doesn’t say anything, heart in his mouth.

He doesn’t smile.

He probably doesn’t even blink, head turning as he scans the area for any sign.

You cock your head at him. “...You good?”

“Yeah,” he says too fast. “Fine.”

She wasn’t here. 

You give him a look. One you’ve used before. 

He forces his hands to stay loose at his sides. Tries not to look like he’s still coming down from something. Tries not to think about the soft giggle he’d heard minutes ago, or how badly he’d wanted to find the source.

“You been in here the whole time?” he asks finally.

You nod. “Yeah. I got bored. The actors vanished a while ago. I found the mask and figured, why not.” You hold up the machete. “Also this. Very high-quality prop. Very stabby.”

He raises an eyebrow. Barely.

“I was gonna jump-scare someone, but no one’s been around.” You pause. “Except you, apparently.”

He's not entirely sure he's in the same plane of existence as you.

His gaze flicks over you again, with your mask, weapon, loose smile. Still completely unaware that he just nearly walked out of the last twenty years chasing a memory, only to find you instead.

He swallows. Pushes the feeling back down.

“Thought you said you were gonna levitate out.”

“I was!” You grin. “But then you showed up. How was your night? 

He doesn’t answer right away.

Finally he just exhales for the first time in what seems like years.

“It was fine.”

But the longer you look at him, the less sure you seem.

You study his face, squinting. “You look like you saw something.”

“Didn’t.”

You chew on that for a second, eyes still on him, before saying, “You’ve been weird, you know.”

Bucky tilts his head slightly.

“Like, not just tonight. After some of these shoots. Not all of them. Just… some.”

Bucky says nothing. He knew it wouldn't be too long before you brought this up.

You go on anyway. “At first I thought it was just your usual ‘why am I involved in this bullshit’ thing, but it’s not that. Not every time. Some of these places are different. You come back quiet.”

You shift the machete from one hand to the other. It feels stupid, suddenly.

“I haven’t said anything,” you add. “Because I figured if you didn’t want to be here, you’d say something. But you haven’t and if this kind of stuff screws with your head in some way, we can pick other places. Or we can stop the show altogether. We don’t have to keep doing this if it’s messing with you.”

You look back at him now. Direct. Steady.

Bucky doesn’t flinch.

It would be easy to lie. Easier than explaining.

So he clears his throat, looks down the path where the maze bends gently left. “Good to know.”

Something soft on his cheek tugs his face back.

He looks back at you, a small crease between his eyebrows.

You hold his face in place softly, but the look on your face is firm. "We don't have to continue the show. I'm being serious. It's not worth it if you--"

Bucky watches you trail off, but your hands don't let go of his face.

"I know," he says, voice a bit quieter, more tired.

Your gaze is intense, but he holds it. His throat constricts a bit when he swallows.

“Well. I was headed for apple dunking before this turned into a weird spiral. You coming?”

He knows you notice it.

Still, you don’t press. Just give him a small smile, search his face one last time before letting go.

“Yeah,” he says, letting out a deep exhale when you turn away from him.

“Good. I need a witness when I inevitably fight a twelve-year-old over a Fuji.”

“I will not take your side,” he manages to get out, following behind closely.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, casting a look over your shoulder. “But you’ll reap the rewards when I win.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something in return, but shuts up when you slip your hand into his, interlacing your fingers and giving it a short squeeze. 

His heart, poor fucking thing, probably won’t be able to handle another episode of racing tonight. 

“Come on,” you say, swinging it back and forth. “You can buy me some cider.”

Bucky says something snappy, sighs a little and tightens his grip on your hand. 

It takes a while before you finally see the fair.

You push a few stalks aside and sigh like you’ve just crossed a battlefield.

The fairground lights bleed brighter through the corn, the ambient noise getting louder with each step. 

Bucky's kept his grip on your hand, but slipped it into the pocket of his jacket because the night only gets colder.

“I can’t believe I almost had to fly over this stupid maze just to find you,” you say. “What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?”

He shrugs. “Would’ve found a way out.”

“Oh?” you say, eyebrows lifting. “With what? Your ancient Boy Scout compass? Prayer? I was prepared to carry you out, you know.”

He snorts.

“Little rescue mission. One arm around your waist.”

He stops walking. “No.”

You blink innocently. “No?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I can fly. Kind of.”

“I would rather die in the corn than be carried out like a wet cat.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Hasn’t Steve ever gotten a ride from Tony? I don’t hear him complaining about sitting on his teammate’s back.”

“Like he’s on a fucking horse?” Bucky says, scandalized. “No?”

“You’re emotionally allergic to help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I know,” you say, turning to grin at him again. “But I’m gonna offer it anyway. Just to annoy you.”

The stupid Jason mask is still swinging at your collar, machete tucked like a trophy at your hip. Bucky rolls his eyes but can't help a smile from slipping out.

“Anyway,” you say casually, “I’m just saying, if I hadn’t found you, you’d still be in there. They’d name the field after you eventually.”

He doesn’t respond to that, but you catch him shaking his head.

You swing the machete against your leg like a toy. “Would the team have come looking for you if I hadn’t?”

Bucky glances at you. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” you repeat. “Cool. So like… couple of days?”

He shrugs. “Give or take.”

You nod sagely. “Okay. So if it takes you a few days to get rescued, I’m looking at what, two weeks? After someone trips over my skeleton by accident?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says, “That’s not how it works with us.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Us?”

He gestures vaguely. “The team.”

You scoff. “I literally had an entire PR team trying to erase me from the internet not too long ago.”

Bucky studies you with a sharp look for a few moments. You keep swinging the machete back and forth, one arm locked in place inside his jacket pocket.

“Do you think it was a coincidence,” he says finally, “that the week your article dropped, everyone just happened to go batshit insane?”

You blink at him. “What.”

“C’mon,” he says. “Steve makes a huge donation. Nat starts a fight on live TV. Clint breaks into a goddamn bank vault. Your story got the least coverage out of all of them.”

You frown slightly. “I thought that was just Avengers being Avengers.”

Bucky shrugs. “Nobody told anyone to do anything. They just did it loudly so you’d know whose side they were on.”

You fall silent for a moment. “Huh.”

He doesn’t push.

You don’t ask again, but you shuffle closer. He tries his level best to stay cool, and mostly succeeds.

The second you step out of the cornfield, it's like walking into a trap.

Scattered around the festival’s edge, half-lurking by the caramel apple stand and the booth selling “Blood Smoothies”, are most of the team, waiting.

Nat is nursing a cup of hot chocolate like it's vodka and watching everything with the faint smirk of someone who knew how this would end before it started.

Sam spots you first. His grin spreads instantly. 

“Generally when people disappear for a while, they show up with less clothes than before,” he calls. 

You glance at your mask and machete and Bucky tugs off the stupid cape. 

“Just in time for the main event. I was about to start placing bets.”

“On what,” Bucky mutters, already tired of this conversation.

“Whether we were getting a call from you,” Sam replies, “or the morgue.”

You shrug. “Por qué no los dos?”

Wanda drifts in with a caramel apple in one hand and a too-knowing smile at your hand in his. 

Bucky’s expression shutters instantly, mouthing. “Don’t.”

She shakes her head lightly, not saying anything. 

You’re still smiling, focused on the conversation at hand, “He got lost. I heroically rescued him. It was a very emotional journey.”

“I wasn’t lost.”

Steve finally wanders over, coffee in hand, squinting at Bucky like he's trying to decipher something.

“You good?” he asks, handing him a slice of pumpkin pie.

Bucky nods. “Fine.”

Steve looks between the two of you. Then at the mask. Then at the machete. “You two gonna go find other hauntings or are y’all done for the evening?”

“I’m going apple dunking,” you say brightly. “I’m about to ruin some middle schoolers.”

“Emotionally or physically?” Clint asks.

“Whichever’s funnier.” You shrug, nudging Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m gonna destroy some third grader and dedicate the win to you.”

"I don't know you."

You give him a bright grin, and wiggle your hand out of his to follow behind Clint.

Bucky doesn't like the sudden lack of warmth, but he finds respite in pie Steve has handed to him.

Bucky’s always liked the noise of fairs.

Not because he actually enjoys them and the overstimulation it brings, but because he can disappear into the background. Everyone's loud. Everyone's distracted. No one looks at the guy who stands still.

So that’s what he does now.

Leans against a picnic table, a second slice of pie in his hands that he hasn’t even looked at, while Steve stands beside him with a cup of something steaming and unremarkable.

It’s easy, the quiet between them. Familiar.

Which is probably why Bucky says it out loud before he thinks about it too hard.

“Do you remember PBJ?”

Steve squints. “The sandwich?”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “No. The nickname.”

Steve takes a slow sip, then looks at him again.

“Oh,” he says, softer now. “Right. What I called you and Becca."

"D'you remember why?" Bucky doesn't meet his eye.

"Wasn't it 'cause she couldn’t spell your name properly when she was little? Wrote ‘Jam’ everywhere. Used to drive you insane.”

“She got very smug about it,” Bucky mutters.

Steve laughs. “Only ‘cause you kept calling her ‘Peanut’.”

Bucky nods, tight smile on his lips.

“I’d forgotten about that,” Steve says. “God, Peanut Becca and Jam. You were so serious about it, too."

Bucky notes quietly, “She wrote ‘PBJ’ on everything. Lunchboxes. Schoolbooks. Hell, birthday cards.”

"I remember."

Steve elbows him gently. “Why’d you ask?”

They stand there a while longer.

The lights flicker in the distance.  

And there it is. That soft pang in his chest, sharp and sad and warm all at once.

Bucky hesitates. Opens his mouth to say something else–

“Gentlemen!”

You’re striding toward them with far too much confidence, holding a large, offensively purple stuffed bat in both hands like it’s a gift from a distant god.

“I bring tribute.”

You shove the bat into Bucky’s hands, grinning. “For being so brave in the cornfield. And for looking like you were about five seconds away from emotionally unloading on pie.”

The bat’s wings sparkle. Its eyes are mildly unhinged.

Bucky looks at it to you. “What is this.”

“A cherished new member of the team. And a gift to you.”

Steve’s face does something complicated behind his cup.

And for a second, Bucky just stares at the stupid plush thing in his hands, and tries to ignore the way his throat tightens.

Bucky huffs. “Thanks. It’s horrifying.”

“I know,” you say, bright as anything. “Try not to fall in love with me over it.”

He has the sick, annoying, grating feeling that it's a warning that's come too late, probably.

But he doesn’t say that.

Because you steal the rest of his pie.

And the ugly bat now rests on his bed.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

Next part

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC I FULLY EXPLODED WHEN I SAW IT

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

[eccentricallygothic]

When I want to read dark fics, your writing just hits. One of my guilty pleasures recently has been dark!winter soldier stuff and I was hoping you could write one.

If you can, can you make it where Bucky is still the Winter Soldier and finds himself completely enamored with the reader. He stalks her briefly and decides he has to have her. So where it gets dark is mean, brooding soldier kidnaps reader and makes her his housewife. (I’d like to think that some of Bucky’s 40ness is still there along with some good old fashion 50s idealization where he basically molds her into being his perfect little housewife.)

He can still be with hydra or not but this thought has been buzzing around in my head recently and I personally am not good at writing dark fics.

Um, hell yes I can! Also, not me having almost exactly the same idea (it was in my drafts and I totally merged it with yours). Sorry for being late uni kicks my butt hard TT. Also, please note that this is a headcanon kind of situation type deal but apparently there's a limit to how many bullets you can put per post so that's why it looks the way it does! Hope you like it still. Unedited ❤️

Warning(s): Dubcon (just to be safe), stalking, kidnapping, housewife kink, stockholm syndrome, spanking, misogyny, domestic discipline, breeding kink (dash), age gap (I mean, man is over a century old). Contains mature content. Browse at your own discretion. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! 

You are absolutely shit faced as you stumble out the backdoor of the club with two of your girlfriends tangled around each arm. 

You are all giggling, stumbling and slurring out curses, trying to shush each other as you trudge your forms to your apartment complex that is close by because driving is obviously out of question now. 

Were it not for your overly intoxicated state, you would have totally noticed the dark silhouette that stills in the dark alley facing the backdoor. 

The man masked in the darkness tilts his head to the side as he tries to read your party, having gotten caught off guard by the sudden bursting open of the door. 

One of your friends stagger in his direction and he moves back, his labored breaths warm in his mask, watching the girl as she retches her guts out.

Silence follows the wheezes and gags of the girl.

Then there is a sound– a melody in the air.

Soldat feels something stir within himself.

Something his masters did their best to suppress. 

Not that they would be doing any more of that. 

They needed to be alive to do something like that ever again.

His eyebrows furrow as he scans your group for the source of the sound; you. 

You are laughing.

At your friend that is throwing up.

Hands clutching your hurting sides, eyes scrunched, head thrown back, flushed and sweaty face vibrant under the bright moonlight as your hair frames it in the most perfect way possible. 

A shaky breath escapes the man covered in tears and blood of his captors and oppressors.  

His eyes scan your form. 

Beautiful. 

His metal hand clenches into a fist and he makes his resolve almost instantly;

Mine.

Soldat cannot recall much of his past except for a few things like his name.

But he knows that it has been a long, long time. 

And it's time to go home.

But a home is not walls and concrete. 

It is the people that live in it. 

His head is a mess as he scales a wall and follows you to your building, skipping from roof to roof effortlessly with a careful eye on your form.

James had finally broken free against hydra yesterday morning while they were experimenting something more brutal. 

And during the following hours, all various leaders that made the organization what it was were dead.

For what is a structure without its pillars?

He had plundered them single handedly. 

And now he was a slave no more.

James would live, and he would take.

Just as had been taken from him.

You woke up the next morning, sprawled across your bed.

As you winced and sat up, you could swear you had knocked out on the couch last night. 

But since you couldn't teleport, it was probably just a gap in your memory.

Right?

The second sign was the painkillers and water next to you on the bedside table.

The third was the window of your room that was open wide.

But you shook your head as you were behind on your schedule for the day and got on with your busy university student life. 

You should have taken notice of the signs. 

How things would always somehow work out when you were struggling with some sort of a problem. 

Regardless of whatever type of an issue it was. 

Your friends joked about it as Divine Providence. 

And Divine it was, you lived to learn. 

When it happened, it wasn't after a dramatic chase or anything. 

You had simply woken up in a room you had never seen before, tucked in the bed like it had been yours for ages.

What even happened? 

You had finished an assignment before heading to bed for an early class the next morning. 

But now you were timidly surveying the room, more and more panic filling you by the passing second. 

The house is beautiful and bright outside the dark room you had woken up in, big glass windows facing tall trees and various other type of greenery outside. 

A loud gasp escaped you when you were somewhere in the middle of the living room.

You turned around to find a huge and by that you mean, giant man standing a few steps away from you.

You could swear he wasn't there a minute ago.

But now he is towering over you, head tilted to the side as if interacting with something from an outer planet, eyes scanning your form slowly. 

As if he's savouring the sight of you in a…

Your blood runs cold as you look down to realize that you are dressed in a white sundress with yellow and red flowers printed on it.

Your eyes widen in horror.

Because you had been wearing your PJs last night–

Or, rather, the last time you were awake.

Before you can say anything, he extends a hand towards you invitingly, nodding sideways to what seems to be the kitchen. 

Something in his hand glints in the sunlight coming from the windows.

It is when your panicked vision realizes that the hand and the whole arm is made up of metal, your body backs away.

With your mouth agape, you demand shakily.

"Who the hell are you?" 

He sighs. 

"What the hell is this place? Why am I here? What the fuck is going on?!"

The man's features scrunch in disapproval. 

Your choice of words is much unappreciated.

"Good little wives don't ask questions." 

In his angry, fried and entitled delusional mind you are as much in love with him as he is.

Otherwise, why would you just accept all the favours he did for you during all these months he was building a perfect home for the both of you and your future children?

He takes a step in your direction and you leap back.

After a short game of cat and mouse, you are trapped against the glass window.

He is too close. 

There is a heavy looking vase on the table next to you.

The shock on his face is evident.

He hadn't expected you, his wife, such a small and innocent girl to disrespect her husband like this. 

You whimper in horror when he doesn't budge against the decoration piece exploding against his brow bone.

James' eyes narrow as he leans in, a thick stream of blood running down the hurt side of his face.

"Bad girl" and you take off without a second thought.

Thankfully, the door is straight ahead and surprisingly unlocked.

You run without looking back. 

The man is not chasing you like you expected. 

But you don't want to stick around and find out why. 

Though the reason is soon revealed when you race through the little garden and out of the fence door. 

You are looking behind you and at the house so it is not until you are a good distance away from it do you turn your head to look ahead. 

Icy horror pierces its way down your spine.

Sand and palm trees dominate your vision as far as you can see where you are and your right side.

A devastatingly vast ocean washes the shore you are running on from the left side.

That doesn't stop you until your body gives up after a few minutes. 

You ran into the jungle for some cover.

Sobs and tears burst out of you as you collapse on a blanket of leaves.

Your body is weak and confused. 

Many hours pass.

You wander and starve.

You hide and shake.

You tip toe and give up.

There are wild animals all around you.

You can hear them.

It's terrifying. 

So terrifying that when you hear the stranger's voice some time after dusk, you are almost glad.

Are you done? His bright blue eyes that you can make out even in the dim light ask you silently. 

"How'd you even find me?" You were sure you had run a good couple miles.

He refuses to respond until you place your shaking hand in his awaiting metal one. 

"I can smell you" his accent is almost foreign as he pulls you up, frowning at your hurt bare feet. 

It took you hours to get to where you were but it only takes James a few minutes to get you back home. 

"Before I clean you up, I need to punish you." You are baffled. "Good wives don't run away from their husbands." 

He doesn't listen to any of your protests and reason that day or ever.

"Little girls don't know what is right for them. Only their husbands can decide that." 

He thoroughly washes you that night after giving you the worst spanking, paying no mind to your begging and crying.

You are sniffling as you sit on the bathroom counter wrapped up in a towel an hour later, your sore ass buzzing under you.

Your captor is kneeling in front of you as he tends to your hurt feet. 

He tells you your rules as he does so.

"First, you are to always obey me no matter what. Second, your body belongs to me as I am your husband, so you should not try to deny me of it because it will never end well for you. Third, you will respect me or you will live to learn to do so. Four, you will do your chores like a good wife and fulfill your wifely responsibilities. Five, you are to always accept your punishments and thank me for disciplining you after I am through with you, should you choose to break a rule or misbehave. Six, you will not indulge in any activity that can potentially corrupt your little mind. Seven, you will speak with respect and never out of turn. Eight, you are to always greet me when you wake up or if I have been gone a while. Nine, you can try to run. I will never stop you. But when you return home after failing, you will take your punishment obediently. Ten, you must never touch yourself. You are mine and mine alone." 

Since the spanking is still fresh on your skin you panic a little and fear forgetting them.

But you find them pasted on the fridge the following morning because he knew you were too dumb to remember them.

A few days pass before you explode about not being his wife and call him crazy.

"You weren't saying that when I did you all those favours." 

Horror dawns upon you as you realize that it was him all along.

You don't give up easily, though.

You try to run more times than you can keep count.

Every direction, every plan and every map you make proves to be useless.

Because the last time you do so, you realize that you are on a fucking island.

And since there is a dock near the house with the pantry never running low on groceries, James has a means of transport hidden somewhere is no mystery. 

But you don't know when he does it. 

So far you haven't been able to figure out a pattern. 

Either he was right about you being dumb or your captor was really good at staying one step ahead of you.

Anyways, you have no choice but to return to him crushed and sobbing as always.

He is reading something when you collapse between his legs; ready to accept your punishment as you have learnt that hiding and denying only makes it worse. 

James isn't so bad if you follow his rules. 

He is just a kidnapper and a misogynist with dangerous reflexes. 

His face is smug as he puts the book away. You have noticed that he is not as stiff and troubled as he used to be when you first woke up here months ago at this point. 

"How was it, doll?" He loves to hear you talk about it as he bruises your ass. "Any luck?" 

Today, though, something different happens.

You don't know if it's resignation and surrender finally settling in or if you have actually started to like this life.

How James gives you a nod of approval and pats your head rewardingly whenever you follow all your rules without any trouble.

The way he lets you stay up past your bed time (yes you have one because good wives are healthy for their husbands) to read a book or watch a movie.

If you were extra good and talked to him (though he was a man of a few words) and helped him out with a little farming thing he had going on in the backyard/patio, he would even let you sleep in the following morning. 

No stress or pulling yourself through classes and tight budgets.

Just being what he considered good and then whatever you would mention briefly would be in the house within the next few days.

When he is done punishing you, you thank him and apologize according to routine. But then you hug him.

You tell yourself it is due to the sad reality that your torment is your comfort.

Has to be.

You have no choice.

And then something unexpected happens in the course of the next few days. 

While trying to make the best out of this situation, you start to notice the little things, quirks and rituals, habits and mannerisms of this man. 

How he doesn't say anything if he doesn't like a certain ingredient or condiment in something you cooked but pushes it aside to use as compost later.

The way he holds you extra tight some times when he mutters a foreign language in his sleep. 

How he stares at the scary metal arm after a long day while waiting for you to finish up dinner.

Or the way he struggles to hold himself back whenever you are in a close proximity to him because you cried once he crept his hand up your ass in a sexual way. 

You don't get him sometimes.

His morals are as mysterious as him. 

Because he kidnapped you and forced you to be his wife in a '40's way, strips you to spank and humiliate you during punishments, then bathes and comforts you in his own way of silently holding you against his chest in his arms until you calm down.

Your tears don't effect him. 

But then he refuses to touch you sexually after the one time he tried.

It takes you a while to make the most peace that you can with James, but it happens eventually because you don't have a choice.  

The loneliness starts to drive you mad otherwise.

You are helping him with his farming one day when you collapse.

James isn't happy to find out that you haven't had any of your daily water intake for the day. 

After he is sure you are hydrated, it is punishment time because caring for yourself is also a rule you are supposed to never break.

Your ass is red and seething by the time he's done. Everything is pretty much routine except that you don't sit up to apologize and maybe hug him like usual.

Not even when he pats your ass to signal that he's done.

"H- Hubby?" You sniffle as you use the endearment.

It had been a proud discovery of yours.

James always gave in a little whenever you used it.

"Yes, little mouse?" You bite your lips as your thighs tremble.

Fuck.

"Y- You say we are husband and wife…"

"What about it?"

You bite your lip as you push your ass out and towards him, letting your legs part.

"Then why don't we act like it?" James is good at concealing his emotions and showing restraint.

But he can't help the way his cock hardens at the sight your pretty red thighs reveal to him.

Your perfect pussy is glistening with your creamy arousal, the entrance of your vagina blinking to indicate its need to be filled.

Fuck. 

Though James starts off small and slow with his fingers rubbing your cunt, the night ends with him balls deep into your pussy with his length rearranging your organs.

Whatever was left of you to own for him, he does so after that night.

You cannot go on for long without having some sort of physical proximity to him.

The sex is wild and it's amazing with his stamina. 

It is also instrumental in bringing you two closer than ever. 

James opens up to you slowly, but only when you ask about it.

You had done so in the past as well. 

But since it's genuine curiosity now, he feels comfortable telling you all about it.

It is a lot for you to take in and you almost don't believe him until he shows you some of his belongings from his time.

Things drift on as smoothly for a while as the waves outside your house.

And then comes the ultimate test. 

Which decides the course of your future with him.

He is still asleep one morning when you wake up.

It isn't a usual occurrence. 

But you had introduced him to comics lately and he had been obsessed with them despite claiming that they were too childish and unrealistic. 

While he had a metal arm himself…

You adjust the quilt before getting ready for the day and heading out to make breakfast. 

It is when you realize in panic that there aren't any apples left even though James had asked you to make a grocery list (that started when he started trusting you more) and you had assured him that you had enough apples for a while.

"I am gonna get the hairbrush today, I swear to God!" You mutter to yourself as you rush through the house like a headless chicken. 

Thankfully, your garden had an apple tree so you could save yourself from a breakfast spanking at the very least.

But something standing next to the dock catches your attention before you can the apples you try to budge free from their branches.

A motorboat. 

Before you can decide what you think of it, you are standing next to it on the dock.

It has fuel and a map. The key is in the ignition.

You narrow your eyes and feel your head splitting. 

A lot goes through your mind.

Flashbacks play before your eyes.

It is almost a full circle moment. 

And then you are standing in front of James who is seated on a stool next to the kitchen counter you use for dining. 

His head is lowered as he sips on his coffee and stabs at the breakfast you prepared with a fork.

"Hubby?" Your captor freezes before he slowly looks up at you. 

The blue of his eyes is troubled. He is in disbelief. As though he wasn't expecting you to be standing here.

"There is a boat outside. Do you think someone could be–" 

"You didn't leave." His voice is heavy. 

"What kind of a wife leaves her home?"

You two just stare at each other for a while. 

No words exchanged.

Then, for the first time ever, James gets up and hurriedly closes the distance between you two, enveloping you in his arms before pushing you against the wall behind you.

"I felt so angry and wronged that I thought I could take anything because I deserved it after everything that happened to me but… I love you too much, mouse."

He has never spoken this earnestly before.

"I just realized that I do too."

James kisses you passionately before you wrap yourself around him and close your eyes blissfully. 

He tightens his own arms around you gladly.

He would have hated to end up back on square one with you had you chosen to try and escape. 

The boat would have blown up a small fuse that would have been loud enough for his enhanced hearing if someone– you, were to turn the keys in the ignition.

Yes, he wasn't expecting you to be back but only too soon.

It was a test and you passed. 

As always, James stuck to his ways and rewarded you for being such a good wife. 

By giving you a ring, a new wardrobe and a baby that was the first of many to come.

.

What do you think hAH-

[undyingdecay]

helloooo, this is my very first time requesting anything on tumblr, but your writing is just too good to pass up the opportunity.

i cannot, for the love of all mankind, get dark!bucky barnes out of my brain. it’s like an itch that can’t be scratched, no matter how hard i try. and i’m talking about some straight up dark shit that would potentially make me look fucking insane if i said it out loud.

(non-con) WHO SAID THAT? 👀

(tw: very heavy non-con, translation: khoroshaya devochka — good girl)

ok everyone sit down and listen, so ideally — and this is so bad it’s good — i’m thinking very freshly post-hydra!bucky. the kind of fresh where he still moves like a fucking predator without realizing it. where his hair’s still got that dry, greasy texture because he hasn’t figured out conditioner and tony’s too much of a prick to explain it to him. where his eyes are still vacant half the time, like there’s a stel trap wrapped around his head, but then — then there’s moments. quick flashes. like his gaze catches on your neck a second too long when you tilt your head or his jaw ticks when you laugh a little too loud in the kitchen because sam’s being a dick. little cracks in the armor.

and here’s the kicker, steve asked you to look after him. not like he was a rabid dog. no. steve wouldn’t call him that. steve would never say it like that. it was more in that… do-it-for-me tone, that boyish all-american pleading like he’s just shy of getting down on one knee. it wasn’t fair. you were good at saying no. you were good at keeping boundaries. but when he asked, when those big stupid hands were scrubbing sweat off his neck post-run and his biceps were gleaming under the LED lab lights?

you agreed. because you’re an idiot.

and bucky, bucky didn’t talk to you.

not much, anyway. he barely talked to anyone, truth be told, and you weren't about to make him. you’d still check in. you’d talk at him, mostly. about dumb shit — what kind of cereal was on sale, how tony’s AI fridge locked you out for putting a can of off-brand soda in it, how nat had somehow learned to crochet and was currently making sweaters for the knives she kept under her mattress. normal stuff. and maybe you wondered if he was listening but only sometimes.

you kinda forgot who he was, to be honest. like, yeah, there were moments you remembered — like the time you were standing in front of the fridge, reaching for the leftover pasta you’d been thinking about all day, and he just… picked you up. didn’t say a word. just lifted your entire body out of the way like you weighed nothing. set you down a foot to the left. opened the fridge. pulled out a bottle of water. left. no ‘excuse me’. no ‘move’. just manhandled you like a fucking doll and dipped.

but then came the night. and you swear on your life you didn’t hear him come in. you didn’t. you always did before. you could hear the way his boots dragged a little or the click of metal fingers against the wall. not this time. one second you were half asleep, the next you were on your back, bedsheets twisted around your ankles and something cold and heavy pressing your wrist down into the mattress.

you knew it was him. even in the dark, even before you opened your mouth, you knew.

“bucky—?”

his hand was in your hair, not pulling but holding, fingers twisted so deep into the roots it made your eyes sting. the words didn’t register. he was speaking, low and harsh in your ear, and you couldn’t understand a word of it but you knew it was russian because natasha would curse under her breath in that same jagged way when she was pissed off.

he was grinding against you. fully clothed. all rough denim and stiff tactical gear, and you could feel the press of him through it. the sick, hot friction of fabric on fabric like it was enough for him. like he didn’t even care about getting his cock out, just needed to rut against something warm and soft and unwilling. his breathing was so fucking loud, low grunts slipping out every time his hips jerked forward.

you were pleading. of course you were. because what else do you do when a supersoldier’s on top of you with a metal hand around your throat? you were asking him to stop, babbling out whatever you could think of — please, bucky, you don’t wanna do this, you don’t wanna hurt me, please, please— but it barely mattered. didn’t even look like it registered.

and some part of you — some deep, shriveled, awful instinct — told you to stay still. like maybe if you didn’t move, didn’t scream, didn’t make it worse, he’d finish faster. like maybe this was the least you owed him. not as a person, but as a thing. a thing that had been torn up and stitched back together wrong. like maybe this was how you repaid the debt you never owed in the first place.

and it made you sick to your stomach.

he muttered something sharp in russian again, voice rough like gravel and whiskey, and his hand moved from your hair to your neck. not squeezing — not yet — just pressing down enough to make your throat work harder.

“stupid things,” you caught, because that was in english. “never listen.”

and then quieter — almost tender, which made it worse — “zhenshchiny ne mogut plakat', yesli oni mokryye naskvoz'.”

you didn’t even understand what the fuck that meant at first. not until later. not until you found natasha at the gym and repeated it in a shaky whisper and watched her face twist, real ugly and mean.

and she told you. told you what it meant.

'women can't cry if they are soaking wet'

and you’ve never slept right since.

you should’ve known better to.

the first time it happened, you thought maybe it would be the only time. some awful, one-time, trauma-fueled mistake. a sick, violent need in him that would burn out and leave you in peace. you even tried to tell yourself he didn’t know what he was doing — the way he’d snarled in russian, the cold clamp of vibranium fingers around your throat, the sharp rut of his hips into yours like an animal. the way he kept you pinned under him, fully clothed, grinding himself into your cunt through your shorts until your body betrayed you, slick gathering no matter how much your mind screamed. you thought maybe, maybe it would end there.

it didn’t.

he stayed after. lay there beside you in your own bed, that metal hand still curled around your wrist, eyes wide open and unblinking in the dark. watching. like a predator deciding whether to finish the kill or let the wound fester. he didn’t speak. didn’t explain. didn’t leave.

the next night, you thought about locking the door. stood there with your hand on the knob, heart pounding in your throat. and then you let it go, because what was the fucking point? a lock wouldn’t stop him. nothing would. not when the winter soldier still lived in his bones, moving his hands before his brain caught up. and sure enough, sometime past midnight, boots heavy on the floor, the oppressive presence of him filling the room — and this time, there was no hesitation.

he undid his tactical pants just enough, the harsh rasp of the zipper making your stomach twist. there was no slow approach, no pretense. his hand knotted in your hair, wrenching your head back, and then your face was in the pillow, his grip like a steel trap around your neck.

“stop—” you tried, and that was the last word you managed.

he spit on your cunt first. a thick, cruel thing, then smeared it with his fingers, muttering something in russian that you didn’t need natasha to translate. the intent was clear enough. then he shoved himself inside you, one brutal thrust, tearing you open like he owned the place. no prep. no care. the stretch was merciless, thick and unrelenting, your breath ripped from you as your whole body jolted forward.

and the worst part? you felt yourself get wet.

it wasn’t want. it wasn’t arousal. it was your body’s betrayal. terror slicking your skin, nerves on fire, every cell screaming and still — still the ache built between your thighs, heat blooming where it shouldn’t. he noticed. of course he did. leaned down, breath hot and ragged against your ear.

“khoroshaya devochka,” he rasped, rough and pleased. “knew you’d stop fighting.”

he fucked you like he didn’t need to be gentle, like your body was just a place to bury himself. every thrust brutal, grinding your hips into the mattress. teeth in your shoulder hard enough to bruise, to break skin. and every time you made a sound — a sob, a plea, a ragged whisper of his name — you felt him twitch inside you. like it turned him on more.

by the time he came, it wasn’t soft. a sharp snap of his hips, a guttural snarl in your ear, his teeth sinking into the muscle of your shoulder as thick, hot ropes spilled inside you. his hand never eased up on your neck. he kept you pinned there, limp and wrecked beneath him.

and then — he didn’t leave.

he rolled you onto your back, head resting on your stomach like it was some sort of goddamn prize, one hand lazily stroking your thigh while his cum leaked from you in slow, hot pulses. he stayed until dawn, and you lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, praying for death or daylight, whichever came first.

when the sun finally broke through, you got up, made coffee. looked at yourself in the mirror. bite marks and bruises trailing your neck, fingerprints mapped across your skin like a claim. you didn’t tell anyone. not steve. not nat. not sam. what would you even say? that their broken weapon was breaking you?

he came back again the next night.

and the next.

each time worse than the last. new ways to bend you, to mark you, to drag desperate, shamed pleasure from a body that didn’t know how to stop responding. every night his cock inside you, his voice in your ear, muttering in that dead, cold russian.

you stopped begging. stopped trying to fight.

because deep down, you knew he’d decided you were his.

and stupid things never learn.

(ive officially lost it)

[holylulusworld]

How to cure a grump (9)

Summary: You’re losing your job on Christmas.

Pairing: CEO/Boss!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: grumpy Bucky, mistaken identity, kinda fake dating trope, fluff, mentions of being cruel to animals (no description), idiots in love, smut, unprotected sex, slow sex, possessive Bucky, a lil angst

How to cure a grump (8)

How to cure a grump masterlist

He moans into your mouth, tongue swiping over yours. Bucky doesn’t care that you’re his ex-employee or that you hate his guts. Your former boss is lost in the taste of your lips and feeling your body press against his.

“That douchebag cannot have you back,” he grunts between kisses. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

You want to tell Bucky that he doesn’t deserve you either after firing you before Christmas, but his lips promise something better than a kiss. “What are you going to do about it?” You breathe against his lips. “Mr. Barnes.”

“What I have to do,” he replies. Bucky brushes his lips over yours before turning the soft touch into a sensual kiss.

His hands trail up and down your sides as if he were trying to memorize every inch of your body. You sigh against him, your fingers still tangling in his usually neatly styled hair.

Bucky carries you toward the bed, but you shake your head. The kitten is still on the bed, and you don’t want to accidentally hurt the poor creature.

“My room,” you whisper against his lips. “The kitten.”

He hums against your lips. “Yeah, I’m thinking about your kitty too.” You’d chuckle at his awful joke, but you’re busy pushing your tongue into his mouth.

Bucky turns around, walking toward the still-open door. You're still kissing each other, even while he walks inside the room and closes the door with his foot.

He gently lays you down on the bed, his body covering yours. Bucky eagerly trails soft kisses along your jaw and down the column of your neck. You moan softly and arch into him as he finds the sweet spot just below your ear.

Bucky mouths his way down to your chest and presses a soft kiss to the valley of your breasts. His lips find their way to your covered breasts, and he bites you through the thin fabric of your nightgown.

“Fuck,” you exclaim, your nails raking down his back as he tugs at the fabric with his teeth. Bucky is taking his sweet time, nipping at your neck to draw the sweetest noise from you. “Bucky.”

“Say my name,” he bites your neck, earning a scream of pleasured pain from you. “Yeah, scream it, baby doll.”

He tugs at your nightgown, ready to rip it off your body. Bucky chuckles when you angrily glare at him. “This was expensive,” you grunt, wiggling underneath him. “Don’t you dare ruin it!”

Your nightgown ends up on the ground, just like the only piece of clothing he was wearing, his boxer briefs.

It’s been a while since you have been with a man and made out like horny teens. You alternatively giggle and moan. Bucky loves to mark you up. He kisses your neck, nipping and biting your soft skin.

Bucky settles between your legs, moaning deeply as he pushes into your slick cunt. Slowly, he sinks into you.

You gasp, your hands pawing at his back when he’s finally fully sheathed. Bucky holds himself back, taking his time to look you in the eyes. He captures your lips in a soft kiss, moaning deeply.

He rolls his hips, slow and deliberate at first. You try to match his movement, slow and sensual, without a hurry.

“Baby doll.” He buries his face in your neck, hot breath fanning over your skin. You don’t mind when he soon begins to move faster. His hips snapping against yours in a steady rhythm. You’re both desperate to find release, moving in sync to push each other over the edge.

Your moans and Bucky’s grunts fill the room, and you fear your mom will hear your coupling. “Not so loud.” He laughs when you cover his mouth to keep him from moaning too loud. “My mom’s bedroom is next to my room.”

Bucky bites your finger, grinning as you remove your hand from his mouth. “Bastard.” You shout the moment your orgasm hits you. It doesn’t take Bucky long to follow suit, spilling into you.

“I still hate you,” you pant, as Bucky rests his head on your chest.

“I know, doll,” he murmurs against your sweat-slicked skin. “Even though your cunt loves me.”

“Arrogant prick.” He’s still buried inside of you, but this doesn’t keep you from slapping the back of his head.

“I love you too,” he kisses your neck. “But I’m still keeping the kitten…”

“Steve, you have to listen to me.” Bucky is pacing the guestroom, frantically running his fingers through his hair. “Last night…I…”

He stops in his tracks and tries to find the right words. “I crossed a line and… I don’t know if there will be consequences.”

Bucky closes his eyes and inhales sharply. “Steve, you don’t understand. What if…it was a mistake?”

“A mistake?” You sniff. “Good thing I was about to tell you the same.” You slam the door shut behind you.

“Y/N?” Bucky gasps. He didn’t hear you enter the guestroom. “FUCK STEVE! She got it all wrong… I… I wasn’t sure if it was okay to tell her that I love her after having sex with her…”

Part 10

[randomshyperson]

Hello fav writer 🤭 saw the game so here my request!!

Wanda + touch + number 2 ! Pretty please ♡♡

Hope you're okay if not I send you a lot of love :)

Wanda Maximoff x Reader - Drabbles

prompt: calloused hands in soft hands | words: 1183 | warnings: brief mentions of self-harming and violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms, winter soldier reader, takes place around civil war, fluff, kinda friends to lovers (unspecified).

A/N-> I wrote most of those on my phone, so I’m sorry if there are typos.

challenge masterlist | general masterlist

-&-

Nine hundred and ninety-eight.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine.

One thousand.

Start again.

One.

Two.

A drop of blood felt at your feet. The pain makes you flinch but you push again.

Three.

The bag makes a noise.

Four.

There's another crack and then the sand is mixing up with your blood.

You stop, panting. The destroyed bag is pushed off the holder so you can carry it away with the other ruined ones. 

The gym is empty because they only have two clients. Super soldiers from the 40s who got frozen in time and struggled to trust anything, even gyms, from the new century. But unlike you, Steve Rogers is getting better at training in public. He even goes running with some of the other veterans, you heard he even made a friend there.

You're not Steve. You never were. He was the good Rogers, you, well, let's just say Hydra didn't need to say much to charm you into the quickest way to find your brother again. A couple of lies later, and you found yourself in chains, losing the memories of your brother that were the reason why you accepted their bargain in the first place. Before you could protest, years were wasted as the Winter Soldier. 

Well, that's past now. Yet, you destroyed another pushing bag while remembering your past.

There isn't much to do when you ruin them all - you are left for some push-ups before Steve calls again. He's insistent on your presence in the tower tonight, someone's birthday whatever. You're not the party type. You cannot be his Bucky.

What's left of the bags are discarded in the community trash, and you make sure to lock the place as the old Mrs.Johnson - the son, not the father, as that man died before you got unfrozen by Hydra a fourth time - asked you to. 

But just as you're about to lock the old administration room, someone comes in.

Wanda is dressed in casual attire and they always make her look so not Avenger that it never fails to bring a smile to your face. She corresponds immediately, and you're not sure what good you've done in your life to deserve such sweetness but you're not complaining.

“Hey, you.” You greet her, keys in the lock but eyes on her. She repeats your words and you notice how shy she looks with her little anxious jump and hands safe in her pockets. “I thought you would be at the party tonight.”

She shrugs, a smile playing on her lips.

“I ran away.” She tells with a complicity you two have shared from the second you first met. Maybe being Hydra volunteers does bring people together. “I know you work out here so I thought… I don't know…”

She struggles to justify her presence but that just makes you smile.

“That watching me sweat was funnier? You're a flirt, Maximoff.” You tease her, enjoying the pink of her cheeks that she tries to hide with a chuckle. 

She mutters “very funny” but you don't push your teasing further as you lock the door and tug the keys away. Grabbing your old army jacket from the coat stand by the entrance, you hold the door open for Wanda to go out again.

“Let's grab something to eat. And you're paying Avenger.”

She laughs, retorting that technically you're an Avenger too and you're sure not contradicting a pretty girl today.

The place you two go for is a local diner. It is not full but it's not empty, at least not enough to go unnoticed. Especially with a Winter Soldier physic or the face of everybody's favorite little witch. So when you and Wanda manage to get to one of the last tables without anyone bothering for an autograph, you're sure she used her powers for that.

“You're getting better at this.” You tell her proudly which surprises her. While the Avengers often tell her to control her Hydra impulses such as manipulation of will, you don't seem to mind about the moral issues of it. You're just glad she's getting more confident in her own abilities, instead of blatantly embarrassing her for something opportunely useful like her team does. She smiles shyly in appreciation and you busy yourself with the menu.

But the second your bruised fingers are noticed, Wanda's mood changes. 

The waitress who is coming to the table suddenly has the will to turn back to the kitchen.

You watch as she moves the menu away from you to reach for your hands.

The softest fingers of the earth trace the lines of your calloused, over-abused hands. Every scar is touched before she looks up.

“Why would you hurt yourself like that?” 

You sign, not pulling away from her touch but struggling to stare into her eyes.

“Not all of it was me.” You try to joke, but the weak chuckle that escapes you turns into a nervous laugh as she doesn't smile. “ I did fight for one hundred years, you know?”

She shakes her head, the eyes scanning your face then looks down where your fingers are dancing together. 

“Steve said you were frozen for most of it.” She recalls with a strange hurt in her voice that makes you swallow hard. “And you're also a shooter. That wasn't that much of fighting back in the day.”

You smirk, one of your hands enveloping hers. Touch to touch warms your skin so tenderly that you barely feel the autumn cold coming from the windows.

“If I didn't know you, I would say you care about me.”

Wanda frowns and looks up, a serious look on her face.

“You do know me.” she says. “And you know I care.”

You're not surprised but you're speechless. You don't know how to do this. Whatever is between you and this charming woman.

So you just try your best to do what Steve always says you should: be honest.

Wanda watches as you sigh, hands still on the table, playing with hers.

It takes a moment, but finally, you add:

“The pain anchors me.” You start, risking taking a glance at her worried frown. “It just makes me feel I'm here instead of frozen again. It helps.”

It's her turn to sigh. When her hands move away you're worried you shared too much. You swallow, ready to push down your emotions when Wanda shifts in the bend to slide closer to you.

You tense, like a frightened animal but she doesn't make any sudden moves. Her actions are slow, the lift of her hand to your cheek, the tender smile before she leans in. 

For a whole moment, the world does freeze. But unlike any of the other times, you feel warmer than ever.

She pulls away just enough for you to look at her eyes again, nose to nose.

“Would this anchor you enough?”

You smile at her, your hands finding hers again on her lap. One of them, you lift to your mouth level just to kiss her soft skin.

“I wouldn't be able to be anywhere else, witchy.” 

[kayhi808]

First Crush 16 - Happy Halloween

I know this is late but technically it's still Halloween in Hawaii. I hope everyone has fun tonight! 🥰

"Honey, you're going to need to stay still."

Abby is squirmy in the make up chair, "But N'asha, I soooo 'cited!" Raising her little fists up in the air, ready for Halloween to begin.

Stepping back with her hands on her hip, "Well, if you stuck to being a Widow, we don't have to do this part."

Sitting still as can be, "No tank you. I needs to be Diwctor Fuwy! I stay still." Natasha continues to glue down the skull cap to Abby's head.

You enter the room with Abby's utility belt stocked with snacks and her trench coat. "Ok I think...." You stop in your tracks to stare at your daughter. The cap has made her completely bald looking. You're still undecided on how to feel about her costume of choice. Once Abby sets her mind to something it's hard to convince her otherwise. You had drawn in her goatee earlier, so she was just about done. She's still wearing the Widow suit underneath the trench.

"Mama, lookit! I no more hairs!" Abby cackles as Natasha sets her down.

She skips over to you, "Yes, I can see that." You strap on her utility belt. "While we're out, you only eat the snacks in here. You cannot touch the candy you collect, ok? I'll need to check it first."

"Okies, Mama!"

You help her on with her trenchcoat and runs over to the mirror & she squeals. " Do you like it?"

She jumps up and down, "I loves it so much!" She runs over to hug Natasha "Tank you!"

"Have fun tonight," she places the final touch of the eye patch on. "Listen to your Mama."

******

Chloe, Mia and their mothers were going to meet up at the Tower before hitting the nearby neighborhoods with the girls. You dressed yourself up as a hobbit. Brown capris & vest with a white poet shirt, a green hooded cape and a walking stick. It was the same costume as last year. You had always thought the stick could double as a weapon if need be. Bucky scoffed at your idea. He said him and Sam would be joining you for protection. He refused to have you and Abby out and about on a crazy night like Halloween unprotected.

You let Abby make her entrance and you watched the looks on Bucky and Sam's faces. Speechless. Horrified. Abby did her little sashay around the room, stopping in front of Bucky, jumping up and down with her hands clasped. "Do yous loves it?!" She plays with the trench to make the bottom swish.

Bucky's mouth is open & closing like a fish out of water. He turns to Sam, "Don't look at me. She asked you."

"Wow! Abigail. Wow!" Bucky's eyes meet yours and you give him a smirk.

"This whole...look? It's going to be embedded in my brain FOREVER," Sam nods at Abby.

Abby claps her hands, "Tank you!!"

The horror hasn't left Bucky's eyes as you laugh, "We better head downstairs."

While on the elevator ride down, both Bucky and Sam try touching Abby's bald skull cap without her knowing. "Stop," you hiss at them.

The elevators open to the lobby and when the little girls see each other they all squeal and scream, running to hug each other. They are so cute! Chloe is dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz and Mia is Ren from Star Wars. The 3 girls gush over the sparkly shoes, Mia's mini light saber and of course Abby's bald head. Quick introductions are made amongst the adults. Bucky had met their husbands at the father/daughter dance at the daycare so they were a little familiar with each other. And Sam is so personable, he makes everyone feel at ease.

They were about to head out when the glass door slide open and Nick Fury and Maria Hill walk in. All 3 little girls gasp. Eyes wide and mouths shaped as little "o". Just like the time before, very intimidating and frightening, trench coat flowing behind him, cutting a striking figure across the lobby.

Abby runs across the lobby, followed by her 2 best friends. "Diwector Fuwy!!" She hugs his leg, "Happy Hanoween!"

He frowns down at her, 'Who the hell are you supposed to be?!"

Chloe is afraid of his tone and Mia hold her hand. The parents quickly follow.

Abby covers her mouth and giggles. "I'm you!!" She does a little turn making sure her trench swishes out. She slides her hand in his. "You wikes it?"

"Just say you like it," Bucky says with a little growl in his voice.

You try to distract & gather everyone to head out.

Abby looks at her friends, "Him's my fwend. He's so smart and braves. Him's the big boss to my Mama, Bucky, Captain America, Black Widow, Fawcon, Iron Man, Green Man, Lightning Man, Arrow Man....all dem Avengers. He protects the whole world and even space!" Fury doesn't look as angry & gives her little hand a squeeze. "And keeps us safe." Poking her eyepatch, "So no one steals our eyeballs, right?" His frown is back in full force and her drops her hand. He takes out his money clip and drops some money into the girls bags. "Get the hell out of my lobby. Go get some ice cream or something."

Again the girls gasp and a chorus of "Tank you, Diwector Fuwy! Happy Hanoween!" They all giggle and wave like the mini fan club that they are now.

"Ok, let's get started." You all start heading out and you turn to Bucky, "I thought Steve would join us tonight."

Abby pipes up, "Uncle Steve is on important dates. He cannot."

Bucky narrows his eyes at Abby, "How do you know he's on an important date?"

Abby shrugs before running off to join her friends, "Him tells me tings."

@waywardhunter95 @rebeccapineapple @ordelixx @onceithough @thezombieprostitute @ilovetaquitosmmmm @julvrs @unaxv @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @winterslove1917 @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @mrsnikstan @hisredheadedgoddess28 @itsteambarnes @otterlycanadian @purplecolordeer @samsgirl93 @buckitostan @littleredwolf @mcucatlady @silas-aeiou @hzdhrtss @florie1 @thecubanator2 @enchantedbarnes @selella @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @cjand10 @pancake-05 @ozwriterchick @crazyunsexycool @baw1066 @nommingonfood @jvanilly

[notafunkiller]

we found wonderland

Summary: You have a choice to make: you either set yourself free or continue to play the game.

Pairing: (fake) boyfriend’s brother!Bucky Barnes x female reader

Warnings: 18+, age gap (r is 26, Bucky is 39), teasing, dirty talk, unprotected séx (but she is on the pill), pet names, daddy kínk, language, implied aftercare, no mention of y/n

Word Count: 2.4K

story masterlist

Bucky Barnes masterlist

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this mini-series! Thank you for reading!

Please, do not repost or translate without my permission!

You had decided you should wait for a week before making your relationship public, using that time to try to convince your parents to change their mind while Bucky plays pretend with his. It’s not an ideal situation, but he understands, keeping the truth to himself.

What he can’t keep to himself is his hands. Not that you can… but as soon as he comes home, he’s all over you, not even caring you are in the living room sometimes.

Acting like you’re just friendly is very hard for you. You want to touch and kiss him like crazy. Having sex with him changed the game, and now you try your hardest to find a way out of this deal so you can be in this relationship completely.

You laugh at the way he pouts. “You’re really adorable for an old man.”

“Is it so crazy I want us together?”

You melt, leaning in to kiss his chin. “That’s not crazy, baby, but isn’t that a little fast?”

“We’ve been living together for months now. What’s the difference?”

You wish you could find the right words to explain it. It’s quite scary and exciting, but it feels strange. “We’ve been together for a couple of days. Maybe we don’t…”

“Are you thinking of a break up already?”

You jump immediately. “No! Maybe we don’t have things figured out enough yet. And by we I mean me. I won’t have a job anymore if my parents don’t change their minds. I won’t have a real home. I won’t have anything but you. And I love every moment I spend with you, but I want something of my own, and I definitely don’t want to feel like a burden even if you don’t make me feel like that. My life is a mess.”

“And I want to help. I am not trying to control you or suggest something you don’t want, but we are friends, too, not just a couple. I am here for you. You can stay with me as a friend if not as a boyfriend. I want you safe.”

You say nothing, only staring at him for a while. You don’t even know what to say because the mix of emotions you feel is confusing.

“You know what I want?”

“What?”

“I want to fuck you right now.” You don’t try to hide your neediness as you place your hands on his shorts. “Can I, baby? Can I ride you?”

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me before I turn forty. Is this your plan? Do you want me gone?” He’s already raising his ass so he can help you take off his shorts quicker.

“I want you with me always. Want you inside me so badly.”

He groans at your tone. “Then go for it, baby, take whatever you want. It’s all yours. I’m all yours.”

You smile eagerly seeing his hard cock, and lift his T-shirt. You cannot stand anything between your bodies right now. You just need to feel him. “God, we should go to the bedroom, but I can’t wait.”

You take off your underwear, unable to wait any longer. As if someone is holding a knife to your throat, and if you don’t get Bucky inside you in the next seconds, you’re gonna die.

“Anyone can walk in,” he says as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. He probably even enjoys it. “Can you imagine their faces?”

You snort, bringing his dick to your entrance without hesitation after spreading your legs further apart. “No, but I can imagine yours when you come.”

“You don’t need to imagine. You’re gonna see it up close if you hurry up.”

Neither of you even realize you’re not using a condom for the first time until it’s too late and you’re already sliding down.

Your grasp on his shoulders is so forceful, you’re sure it will leave a mark, as you moan his name.

“James…” You desperately look at him, wanting to see if he feels the same. “We’re not using anything.”

“I c-can feel that.”

“God damn it, James,” you sound like you’re scolding him, but in reality you are just overwhelmed.

“What did I… fucking hell, I am totally not getting to turn forty. I will die tonight.”

You ask with your eyes closed. “Do you want me to get a condom?”

“No, I want to die.” He groans, already in a different space. “Unless you want to… I am clean and you are, of course, and I can pull out, but like it’s not… I can go grab a condom right now.”

You immediately shake your head, placing your hand on his chest. He’s not gonna do that. He has to make you come.

“You are not going anywhere, you get out of me and I’ll die!”

“So you’re ovulating?” He asks casually, with a playful grin spread across his face.

You chuckle, hitting him in the shoulder. 

“Yes, I am, and you gotta take care of me.”

Bucky groans, grabbing your ass, unable to keep his hands off you. You’re so hot and warm. “You’re really, really wet, princess.”

“Ihm.” You slide down further, almost taking all of his cock. “Look how deep I took you now.” You moan proudly, feeeling so stretched like this. “Look at this, daddy.”

And when he lets his eyes drop to your entrance, he has no idea how he doesn’t com right then. The sight is incredible.

“Baby…”

“I’m your baby, daddy.” You quickly take off your T-shirt at the same time you move your hips. As soon as he’s naked, you grab your breasts, holding them together with a smirk. You know that is going to affect him, and it makes you feel powerful.

“Oh God,” he groans as you bring your breasts closer to his mouth.

“Come on, daddy, go ahead.”

It’s all he needs to hear before he takes your right nipple into his mouth and the left one between his fingers. Riding him like this is a little difficult, but it’s not impossible. You love getting your breasts played with, and he loves doing it.

There is also something really hot and thrilling about the possibility of getting caught. You have no idea why and how, but you’re going to enjoy this as much as you can.

“You feel so good like this, nothing between us. Nothing between your come and me,” you moan, not even thinking about what you say.

“You can’t say that and expect me to be strong.”

That makes you laugh. “I’m on the pill, though, you don’t have to be strong.”

“Fucking hell, you’re gonna drive me crazy.” He starts to thrust his hips back so he can meet you halfway. Riding him feels so, so good. You got him deeper, and the lack of a condom makes you properly feel his thickness.

“You feel so… Fuck, your cock is filling me just the way I need it.” You grab his shoulders so you can move faster. “You’re such a good daddy, let-letting me use you right here, where everyone could see us.”

“You love using daddy’s cock.” He looks so drunk, in so much pleasure. “Such a naughty girl.”

“I’m your naughty girl, James.”

“All mine.” His hands on your hips help you move faster indeed, and you’re already so close you can barely keep your eyes open.

“F-faster.”

Bucky stops thrusting his hips back, and you groan. You need more.

“If you want it faster, keep your eyes on me, pretty girl.”

“I c-can’t-” As much as you want to fight this, your eyes instinctively close again. “Ss-so close.”

He can hear your desperation and without hesitating, he brings his hand into your hair and pulls unexpectedly hard. That’s enough for you to come loud. So loud you can hear yourself as you let the pleasure consume every bit of you.

But Bucky doesn’t stop moving his hips, making your orgasm last longer. He’s saying things, probably dirty things, in your ear, but you can’t understand anything. Your ears are still ringing.

And just like that, Bucky comes too, with his right hand still wrapped around your hair while the left one is digging into the skin of your hip.

“Fuck, I’m coming inside you, baby, can you feel it? Can you feel me filling your pussy, baby?”

“Ihm,” you can barely whisper, too overwhelmed by everything.

“Whose come?”

“Y-yours.”

“Good girl.” He groans as soon as he finishes coming, wrapping his arms around your waist and hugging you. “This feels like heaven.”

“I don’t think I can go back to wearing a condom now. I mean if you want to…”

“Are you sure? We can still use one just to make sure we are safer.”

You peck him. “We can still use it, don’t worry, I get it. Looking out for me and stuff.”

He lets out a deep breath, thankful you understand what he means.

“Of course I am looking out for you, that’s my job.”

“Job? You are my daddy, not my mom or dad.”

“I am your partner and your friend. I will always look out for you.”

A sudden urge to fuck him again takes over your body, but before you can do it, your phone starts ringing.

Bucky gives you the phone without moving, and when you both see it’s his brother, you groan.

“Hi, William.” You try to sound as normal as possible, but your voice is so raspy it’s impossible.

“Hey, gonna be home in a few minutes. Are you okay? Is Bucky home yet?”

“Ihm, he came.” You wink at James. “All good here. See you.”

You don’t wait for him to answer before you’re hanging up.

“You came too.”

You giggle immediately. It’s hard not to be around Bucky; he is goofy at the right time. “We need to clean up, though, he’s close.”

“Alright.”

*

Your parents didn’t want to listen to you at all. You didn’t have the chance to talk at the party since they’re avoiding you at all costs, and you had to go outside not to cry in front of everyone. You don’t just feel alone and treated like shit, you feel humiliated.

You’re lucky Bucky went to pick up William because his car broke down halfway here, so he didn’t actually witness your breakdown. You know he’d have done something about it. Something you should.

At this point, what do you really have?

“Hey, are you well? Why are you outside, it’s freezing?”

Bucky’s voice makes you jump as he’s suddenly by your side, rubbing your arms. William is right behind him.

“Baby, why are you outside?”

You see Bucky rolling his eyes, and you sigh.

“I wanted some fresh air, William.” You turn toward Bucky before taking a step back. You don’t want him to think you reject his touch. You really need his hug, but it’s not about what you need. “We should go inside.”

He nods, and all three of you make your way close to the improvised stage in the main room.

It’s crazy how many people actually came; it almost feels suffocating.

Your parents have been talking for a while, you assume, because people were animated. You wonder what they promised them.

“And since we’re all here now, I have something to announce,” Bucky’s dad takes the microphone all of a sudden, and William sighs. You want to ask him what is going on since he looks nervous, but you don’t have time to. “I want to invite my son, William, on the stage with us.”

And then he calls your name.

You look at both of your parents, trying to understand why you’d be needed there, and Bucky is just as confused as you are. Everyone starts clapping, and you find yourself dragged on the stage before you can protest.

“Tonight marks a very special moment for us both: professionally and personally.” You freeze, looking at Bucky instantly, but he’s also shocked, shaking his head. “A partnership that will last for a long time, hopefully, passed to a real-life partnership that has developed over the last months.”

William smiles proudly when his dad pats him on the back, and you want to throw up right then.

You turn your head to your parents, who display the fakest smiles you’ve ever seen. They don’t care about what you want. About what you need. Either way, you’re alone, and you cannot continue to play their game. You can’t!

And before anyone can stop you, you’re basically running down the stairs, straight toward Bucky. You quickly wrap your hand around his neck and force him to lean in so you can properly kiss him. You sense his surprise, but you don’t stop, using the opportunity to shamelessly kiss him in front of the whole company, including your parents. He’s yours, and everyone should know it.

He cups your face when you break off the kiss to breathe, and you smile.

You finally did it! You’re free.

You don’t need to turn around to know how upset your families must be. Everyone around you is either gasping or whispering around. You know they’ll be talking about this for a solid week at least, but you’re not gonna be there to hear. You won’t explain anything to them, and they can consider you a cheater who fucked the other brother all they want. It is not your mess to fix. You just want to leave.

“Let’s get out of here,” you whisper, taking his hand. All you want is to eat something and suck him off. “I need to pack my stuff.”

“Are you sure?” He asks concerned as you start to walk toward the exit. Neither of you turns when William calls your names.

“I have never been more sure in my entire life.”

He says nothing as you reach his car, lifting the hand he’s been holding closer to his lips so he can brush a tender kiss against the back of it.

You’re going to be okay.

Tags:

@charmedbysarge @identity2212 @vicmc624  @cjand10  @mayusenpai666  @abitofblues @doveromanoff @buckyb-stan @igotmajordaddyissues

[st4rdustblogs]

Bucky at the Baraat 🪔🪕

TFATWS!Bucky Barnes x South Asian!Reader

While spending some time with Sam’s family, he met you through Sam’s sister and soon you became friends. One day as a joke you suggested that he should come to your cousin’s wedding and just laughed it off but to your surprise he took it as an actual invitation…

🏷️ Fluff, Lighthearted, Slow but no burn, Funny, Friends to Lovers, Bollywood cliches, Confused, Flustered and Jealous Bucky, Bucky in a Kurta, Reader in a saree and Lehnga, Bucky doesn’t know how to text, Sunshine Reader, Marriage minded mothers, First Kiss. Bollywood classics mentioned <3

12k words

Ps: Just a tiny bit of y/n character description, she’s veeery much inspired by Geet from Jab We Met and Anjali from Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gum. Energetic, constantly giggling and grinning in contrast to Bucky.

Author: hii everyone!! i had this silly idea to write a fic based on Bucky and South Asian reader for like the LONGEST time and i cannot stop thinking about it and came to the conclusion that i wont be able to rest until i write it. This is my first ever fic that I am writing seriously since 11 y/o me wrote on Wattpad so forgive me if my writing has any writing icks😿. Please feel free to leave suggestions and feedbacks!!

I took a tiny bit of inspiration from Ms.Marvel and made y/n’s hometown New Jersey! If I get any location info wrong that’s because I am not from the U.S 🦅 hehe.

I want this fic to be enjoyed by all my south asian girlies so I’ll just be little vague and mix hindi, urdu and bangla (at the end of the day we do share alot in common 😽). AND ENJOYYY.

You took a long swig from your bottle before breaking the silence. "I'm heading to New Jersey tonight." The words hung in the air between you all.

It had become an unspoken ritual - every week without fail, you'd all meet at the dock. No agendas, no missions. Just drinks, stories, and the easy comfort of each other's company.

"What?!" Sarah and Sam blurted out together, both sitting up suddenly. Beside you, Bucky went still, his metal hand pausing mid-reach for his drink as he turned to look at you.

The news hit him like a punch to the gut. He'd come to crave your company more than he'd ever admit, to others or even himself. Half the time he "dropped by" Sarah's place, it was just to see you. If you weren't there, he'd casually ask about your whereabouts, then make some excuse to leave early.

Bucky thought he was being slick. Sam and Sarah, however, were deeply insulted by how bad his acting was. Every glance, every awkward question about your schedule, it was painfully obvious how he felt about you. The only saving grace was your complete obliviousness to it all.

You groaned in frustration. "I told you guys this last week! My cousin's wedding is in seven days - I have to be there early to help with all the ceremonies." Crossing your arms, you added, "And I literally invited both of you, but apparently you're too busy."

The guilty looks returned instantly. Sarah apologized (again) about her kids' school schedule, while Sam rubbed his neck awkwardly - these days, being Captain America meant his calendar was packed months in advance.

Bucky finally set his drink down with a soft clink and turned to face you fully, brow furrowed. “Wait—if the wedding’s not for a week, why leave now?” The confusion in his voice matched his expression, genuine, almost comically serious, like this was a tactical oversight.

You locked eyes with him, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Bucky's gaze darted between Sarah and Sam - both poorly hiding their amusement behind their drinks.

"What?" he demanded, shoulders tensing. "Did I say something wrong?" That familiar prickling sensation crept up his neck, the one that screamed he was missing some obvious social cue again.

A slow, knowing smile spread across your face as you took in Bucky's bewildered expression. "You've clearly never been to a South Asian wedding before, have you?" you teased, shaking your head with amused exasperation.

The way his eyes widened slightly - like a soldier realizing he'd just stepped into uncharted territory - told you everything. Poor Barnes. He thought he understood chaos from his years of combat, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

“Why don’t you come and see for yourself?” you challenged, rising to your feet with a playful smirk. “Then you’ll understand.”

Bucky remained frozen in his seat, the gears visibly turning behind those steel-blue eyes. His fingers absently tapped against his knee, once, twice, as if calculating the risks of walking into completely unfamiliar territory.

You crossed to Sarah and pulled her into a warm embrace. "We'll miss you so much," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion as she gave your shoulder that signature Wilson-family squeeze.

Sam caught you next with a smirk that didn't quite hide his fondness. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he teased, pulling you in for a quick hug.

Then there was Bucky.

You offered him a small, hesitant wave, fingers curling slightly midair. He remained statue still except for the slightest lift of his metal hand in response, his eyes tracking you until you disappeared from view.

Bucky didn’t move. He just watched you walk away, eyes tracing the way the sunset painted your hair in gold and amber, the way your ankle length skirt swayed with each step. The soft chime of your anklets kept time with the waves, a rhythm he could’ve listened to forever.

Then you turned the corner, and just like that, the dock felt too quiet. Your laughter still echoed in his ears, that bright sound whenever he’d managed to say something halfway clever. And your smile, that last little wave, it was plastered in his mind.

"Hello? Earth to Sergeant Barnes?" Sam's voice finally shattered whatever trance you'd put him under.

"Christ, man," Sam huffed, crossing his arms. "At this point I'm gonna need a magic disclaimer. What's the deal? Wanda sneak a hex on you or something?" He shot Bucky a knowing look. “Cause you keep zoning out every damn time she's near you.”

Bucky's jaw tensed. “Shut up, Sam. She’s just good company.”

Sam slowly turned to Sarah, eyebrows climbing his forehead in that you-hearing-this-bullshit? look he'd perfected over years of dealing with the stubborn super-soldier.

Sarah just sipped her drink, she was mentally taking notes for future blackmail material.

That night when Bucky went home, he decided to text you.

Bucky: Are you at the airport?

Sent at 1:53

Bucky set his phone down on the nightstand with a little too much force, the click of it against the wood louder than intended. He yanked his shirt over his head, the fabric catching briefly on his dog tags before he tossed it aside.

With every passing minute, the knot in his stomach tightened.

Was that text too much?

He’d only known her for what, a few months? Casual friends didn’t check in like that. They didn’t notice how someone took their coffee or remember offhand stories about their childhood.

The Winter Soldier could calculate a sniper shot in high wind, but this? This had no clear variables.

Seen at 2:00

Ding!

You: Yup just boarded the plane!

Sent at 2:01

Bucky: Have a safe flight.

Sent at 2:01

Seen at 2:01

Ding!

You:Thanks for checking up on me 🩷

You: Going to miss you :)

Sent at 2:01

Bucky’s phone almost fell on his leg.

‘I am going to miss you’

‘🩷’

‘:)’

‘I am going to miss you.’

‘I am going to miss you.’

‘I am going to miss you.’

‘🩷’

Bucky sat frozen on the edge of his bed, pants halfway up, staring at his glowing screen like it might bite him.

Texting was a minefield. Every message he sent came out sounding like a damn mission report, dry, clipped, painfully literal. Hell, he’d once wished Sam a happy birthday with all the enthusiasm of a grocery list: “Happy birthday Sam.” No emoji. No exclamation point. Just stark black text.

Bucky: You’re welcome.

Sent at 2:10

Seen at 2:10

You were freaking out.

Between wedding chaos, your family’s collective volume set to "stadium concert," and that low-grade plane terror (thanks, Air Disasters marathon), your nerves were already fried. And now? You’d sent a heart emoji like some lovesick teenager right before takeoff.

"What the hell was I thinking?" You dragged your hands down your face muttering to yourself. His reply, if you could even call it that, was so painfully Bucky it made you want to yank the emergency exit and bail at 30,000 feet.

He won’t even notice I’m gone.

Bucky: :)

Sent at 2:11

A grin split your face before you could stop it—wide, unstoppable, the kind that made your cheeks ache. God, he was adorable. You tapped his message twice, heart fluttering, then switched your phone to airplane mode and sank back into your seat. But that ridiculous smile? It clung to your lips like it had every intention of staying.

Bucky stared at the tiny heart that had popped up under his painfully deliberated :) an emoji that had required a full sixty-second internal debate.

This was the same man who’d charged Thanos head-on. Who’d survived Hydra, wars, and Sam’s shitty road trip playlists. Yet here he was, sweating over two punctuation marks like some middle schooler passing a note.

Messaging you was his final confirmation of what he had to do now. He switched to Sam and started typing. But then he stopped. ‘Bad idea,’ He thought to himself. Sam was immediately going to start teasing him. Instead he chose to message Sarah.

Bucky: Did Y/N give you the location of where the wedding is going to be?

The Uber hadn’t even fully stopped when your family swarmed it, little cousins bouncing, aunties waving, and your Ma already in happy tears. “My beti is finally here!” she called, as if you’d crossed oceans instead of state lines.

You barely had time to laugh before she crushed you in a hug. “Ma, I live four hours away,” you teased, thumbing her tears away. “Tears of joy, pagli,” she sniffed. Then the rest of the family pulled you into a chaos of embraces, and just like that, the flight’s exhaustion melted away.

By the time Anika, the bride, rescued you, you’d been force-fed a year’s worth of mishti, Rosogolla, Gulab Jamun, Rasmalai, and enough Pani Puri to drown in. “You’re a literal lifesaver,” you gasped, collapsing onto the guest bed. “Five more minutes and I’d have died. Wedding over before it started.”

She snorted, tugging you up into a hug. “Drama queen,” she laughed, but you spun her around, hands clasped. “I can’t believe you’re getting married, kutti!”

After changing into the mekhla Ma had left for you, soft cotton with delicate florals, you flopped onto the bed. And of course, your traitorous brain immediately thought of Bucky.

Must be because he was the last person I texted, you reasoned, thumbing open your messages. The second you saw his reply, that ridiculous grin was back.

What the hell is wrong with me?

You blamed the wedding high—the giddiness bleeding into everything else. Yeah. That had to be it. With a huff, you tossed your phone aside and willed yourself into a nap.

The first day of wedding prep was surprisingly manageable—just selecting flowers and some light shopping. You wore the navy salwar kameez Ma had picked, though you barely had time to admire it between haggling aunties and vendor chaos.

Then your phone buzzed.

Bucky.

Your stomach flipped. You two talked, sure, but calling? Out of nowhere? The ringing filled your ears as you hesitated, fingers hovering until the screen went dark.

"Beti! Come try this lehenga!" Ma's voice cut through your panic. Right. Priorities. You shoved your phone away, future you's problem now.

“Anika, I swear to god—,” You made a desperate grab for your phone, but she danced back effortlessly, holding it just out of reach. Of course your perpetually perfect cousin would have the reflexes of a damn Olympian.

"Relax!" She grinned, already snapping pictures. "Gotta capture your best angles for that mysterious Bucky~" Her eyebrows did a ridiculous wiggle. "You boyfriend calls you out of nowhere? Oh, this is definitely a development."

Your brain caught up a second too late. "Amar Bondhu—!" you hissed, finally wresting your phone back, face burning. "Just a friend, understand? Normal, platonic, zero-romance-having friend!" You jammed it into the depths of your purse like that might erase Anika’s smirk.

"Uh-huh." She flicked your forehead. "And I’m the Prime Minister. I have known you long enough to know that’s bullshit."

You gave her a glare, “Whatever, and also keep it down with the ‘boyfriend’ thing, your chachi will freak out if she catches even a whiff of it.”

You smoothened your now ruined hair from all the back and forth. Anika just looped an arm through yours, dragging you toward the next shop. "Come on, let’s find you a saree pretty enough to make your ‘friend’ forget how to speak."

Her cackle echoed through the entire market.

The entire day became Anika’s personal rom-com audition:

“Think your bondhu will like this color on you?” She held up a saree with exaggerated flair.

“Or maybe—” She snatched a dupatta, fluttering it dramatically. “He’d prefer getting tangled in this with you, srk and kajol style? hmmm?”

You swatted at her as she brandished a laddu. “Will your piyaara dost let you feed him sweets, or—”

“OOOH!” Her gasp echoed through the store. Before you could react, she emerged from a rack, wheezing with laughter, holding up what could only be described as two lace petals and a prayer. “Your friend will die for this!”

“MADAR CHO— ANIKA, YOU—!” You lunged for her, but she danced away, cackling as you fled to the safety of the aunties, your face hotter than the chai stall outside.

By the time the endless shopping spree wrapped up, your feet ached and your patience had been thoroughly tested by the question—“So, when’s your turn?”—from every auntie within a ten-mile radius. But years of practice had honed your evasion skills to near-superhero levels.

After a hasty dinner and obligatory family chatter, you finally escaped to your room. A quick shower later, you face-planted onto the bed, limbs splayed like a starfish. Bliss.

Bucky invaded your thoughts again—unwanted, unbidden, like he had some VIP pass to your brain.

Should I call him back?

But if it was urgent, wouldn’t he have texted? And why you, specifically? The mental gymnastics were exhausting. Back in Louisiana, this wasn’t a problem. Seeing him weekly, sometimes daily, kept whatever this was at bay. But now? Now your traitorous mind kept circling back like a moth to a flame.

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

You did what you did best: shoved the entire mess into a mental lockbox labeled “Later.” Not healthy, but effective.

Bucky touched down in New Jersey at 3 PM with no plan, no hotel, and exactly one reference point: Edison. You’d once described it as “the place where you’ll spot a hundred saree shops before a single Starbucks.”Colorful. Vibrant. The exact opposite of every sterile American strip mall he’d ever seen.

The Uber ride gave him too much time to think. Why was he here again? Right. Friend. Invitation. Totally normal reasons.

He thumbed your contact, stared at it for three full stoplights, then hit call.

Ring… Ring…

Nothing.

“Cool,”* he muttered, shoving his phone away. “Real cool.”

Stepping out into the streets was like walking onto a movie set. Garlands of marigolds draped over shop fronts, the sizzle of samosas in oil, the chaos of a dozen conversations in languages he didn’t know. For a second, he thought it was a festival—until he remembered your stories. “This is just Tuesday for us.”

A cluster of aunties slowed as they passed him, whispers darting like minnows. He caught the words “chhokra” and “haath”—the latter paired with a glance at his metal arm. Your warning echoed in his head: “Aunties gossip like it’s an Olympic sport.” He yanked his sleeve down.

The Airbnb was cheap, its listing photo featuring a bedspread so floral it hurt his eyes. “Cozy stay!” the caption promised.

He booked it.

The wedding’s not till next week. I’ll figure this out tomorrow.

Once he settled in his room he took his phone out and saw one unopened message from you which was sent a few minutes ago while he was checking in to his stay.

You: Sorry! Didn’t mean to miss your call. What’s up?

Bucky didn’t want to tell you just yet that he was here because he quite literally booked the flight to where you were right after you took off. He was worried you would put two and two together and think he’s weirdo for following you here so fast or just simply not telling you that he was accepting your ‘not quite an invite’ invitation. He wanted to play it cool.

Bucky: Nothing important. Just checking up. What have you been up to?

Good. Super casual, he praised himself for how simple the text was but just enough to speak to you for a little bit.

He went to the bathroom to change out of his airport clothes and clean up after the long cramped flight.

Ding!

Y/N has sent you a picture.

[pictures of all the new dresses]

You: Just shopping for the bride.

Sent at 5:00

Ding!

Y/N has sent a picture.

You: What about you?

Sent at 5:03

Steam filled the room as Bucky stepped out of the shower, towel around his waist. He checked his phone—4 missed texts from you. His therapist would laugh; his contact list was drier than week-old bread.

Speaking of, his therapist called right then. "James Buchanan Barnes. We had an agreement."

"Something came up," he lied. Truth was, no one would believe he'd travel for a wedding. Hell, "a raccoon stole my arm in space" sounded more credible.

She sighed. "Just tell me you're not fighting. I know it’s a huge part of your life but,” she paused, “Talking to you outside our sessions is not part of my profession however I truly want you to overcome your past and I believe you can James."

"I'm not in a figjt" He coldly replied. For once, it was true. He was here for you—and that realization unsettled him more than any battle. Suddenly being reminded by her made him remember that feeling that he gets hit with every now and then, the feeling of uncertainty. What did his future hold after years of just being a weapon? Going from one war to another?

Once that call was over, he was left with that bitter feeling again, his eyes once again fell on the texts that came from you. He sighed, trying to go back to that sense of relief that he felt when he thought of you, the only thing that ever managed to distract him from his past, and finally opened the message.

Fuck.

His hand clenched around his phone as his eyes landed on the last picture you sent. If he didn’t unclench his hand fast enough, the phone might just break into pieces in his hand.

The photo hit him like a punch: you with a hibiscus tucked behind your ear, soft gloss on your lips, kajal darkening your gaze. He snapped his phone shut, pressing his right palm to his burning face. It was useless.

Hitching up his towel, he stalked to the bathroom to grab his drying metal arm, pressing the cool vibranium to his cheeks. No luck.

He had plans to go out on a walk and explore the area but after this, what he could only describe as a heart attack, he had to just cool off and catch some rest. Plus he wasn’t that comfortable yet to be recognised or have his metal arm pointed out.

He went on his phone one more time.

✓⃝ Photo saved to your gallery.

Sending a picture of yourself and then asking how he was only to be left on seen. Crashing out was an understatement to describe how you were feeling.

Getting a good sleep that night was important because the next day was Mehendi. But unlucky you, you’ll loose more sleep than a marriage minded mama who’s worried about her daughter possibly becoming a spinster the moment she reaches her 20s.

It was the morning of the Mehendi ceremony. You woke to the sun beaming through your curtains thanks to your lovely Aunt Moni, your Ma’s closest friend since she moved to the US, who came to wake you up. Well that was part of the reason.

Since you had arrived she had tried to have a moment with you but you kept on getting dragged away by either your Ma or one of your MANY cousins.

“Good morning Aunt-ji,” You lazily stretched out your arms before immediately falling back on your bed. “Beti come on it’s Mehendi Day! Speaking of which, did you ever endup learning how to do it? You always moaned about being bad at it when all of your other cousins would be able to do it since they were kids,” She reminded you.

Ah yes, first thing in the morning being reminded how you were bad at something. “I was too busy with work. Didn’t have the time,” You shrugged, stretching your arm out over to the bed side able, searching for your phone. Finally getting a hold of it you received a message from Sarah.

A simple “ ;) ” nothing else.

Your aunt was rambling about something, all you could hear was, “My son this. My son that.”

“Huh?” You abruptly cut off your aunt with your reaction to Sarah’s text.

“Areh! My son! Saad! You guys used to inseparable-” Once again you cut her off, “Oh no auntie-ji I wasn’t replying to you- I- I actually have to use the bathroom!” With that you jumped off the bed and ran inside the bathroom.

You opened Sarah’s message and replied.

You: ????

Seen at 10:45

Minutes ticked by. Seen. No reply.

You shoved your phone aside—no time to dwell. The ceremony would start soon, and between your own preparations and the two-hour makeup marathon for your aunts and little cousins, every second counted.

The theme: pink and orange, a sunset brought to life. Peering through the window, your breath caught. The garden had transformed, marigolds in fiery hues, drapes like liquid silk in orange, yellow, and blush pink. Kids darted between chairs while harried teens played reluctant shepherds, keeping them from storming the bridal stage.

For once, your family was harmonious, no grudges dredged up from a decade ago. The air buzzed with joy so palpable it made your chest ache.

Your own outfit was understated elegance: an orange cropped blouse with gold-threaded sleeves, paired with a flowing skirt that caught the light with every step. Beautiful, but designed to fade into the background, where all attention should be: on the radiant bride.

Bucky checked Sarah’s directions one last time, 43 minutes away. He’d opted for his usual all-black ensemble, but swapped the leather jacket for a tailored suit. It’s a wedding, he reasoned, adjusting his cuffs. Even if the main event wasn’t until next week, your family would be there. He never cared for first impressions but this was your family, for the first time impressions mattered to him.

The mirror reflected a version of himself he rarely saw: sharp lines, polished shoes, no visible weapons. For once, he wasn’t dressed for an undercover mission—it was just for you. And the wedding of course.

Bucky scrutinized his reflection for the tenth time—jaw freshly shaved, hair ruthlessly tamed. Not a single strand out of place. Nothing could go wrong.

This was new: putting real effort into an event that wasn’t a mission. He’d even rehearsed conversation starters from therapy, muttering to his mirror like a madman until even he cringed at the performance.

With one last adjustment of his suit jacket, he slid into the Uber. The car pulled away, carrying him toward the wedding venue, ready to see you and look forward to what you meant by south asian weddings being different.

Bucky’s heart hammered against his ribs as he approached the venue. His hands felt alien at his sides, too stiff for casual swinging, too awkward to pocket. Those rehearsed conversation starters now seemed like something he could use. He was acting so different than his usual self he was starting to wonder if this was a bad idea.

The moment the building came into view, a riot of colors against his monochrome suit, he nearly turned on his heel. He was dressed like he was about attend a amidst this celebration.

He knocked with his right hand. A boy in vibrant traditional attire answered. He finally felt confident again knowing other than being really good at fighting, he was really good with talking to kids thanks to Sam’s nephews. He crouched down to say hello but the moment the kid took one look at him, he bolted like Bucky had growled in Wakandan.

Then they came: first one auntie, then three, then a dozen, a wall of curious faces.

“Hello, officer,” a man finally said, peering past him as if expecting backup. “Noise complaint?”

Bucky’s metal fingers twitched around the sweet box that he had bought as a souvenir. “What?” So much for first impressions.

“DIDI!! Y/N DIDI!! SOMEONE IS AT THE DOOR!! THE POLICE IS AT THE DOOR!!” Chotu came running to your room in the middle of you doing one of your little cousin’s make-up.

You nearly ruined your eyeliner jerking upright. “Police?!” What could they possibly want? A noise complaint? Fireworks? Your mind raced as you abandoned your makeup, snatching up your dupatta and draping it hastily over your shoulders.

You bolted downstairs, dodging low-hanging marigold garlands and sidestepping the banister wrapped in orange silk. As the second oldest, chaos like this was your responsibility, which meant weaving through the crowd of aunties now clustered at the door.

“Move, move—” You wriggled past, praying your hair wouldn’t snag on someone’s bangles or the embroidered shawl draped over the coat rack.

“Uncle-ji could you please give me some space.”

“Y/n-beti please speak to him.”

“Yes I will, just a little space. Auntie-ji let me just go through here.”

“Beti why is that man here? Did something happen?”

“I don’t know auntie I need to speak to him first. Let me just move right past you-”

“Didi he has a weird hand!”

“Uhhh what?”

After what should’ve taken you less than a few seconds to reach the door ended up taking you way longer due to being bombarded with questions that you obviously did not have the answer to yet. You finally made it to the front, standing behind your Chachu who was covering practically the entire door.

“Chachu let me speak to him just move.”

“Areh Y/N beti dekho na, what does he want from us?”

You patted your uncle’s shoulder, nudging him aside with a calm “Officer, we don’t want any trouble—.”

Then your brain short-circuited.

Bucky.

Here.

ln a suit.

At your cousin’s wedding.

“BUCKY?!” The name burst out of you, half shriek, half laugh, as you nearly launched your poor uncle into the hedges with how fast you surged forward.

Bucky exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders finally easing as his eyes landed on you, the one person he’d crossed state lines to see. After all the uncertainty, the second-guessing of whether he should come or not… there you were. It was all worth it.

The second Bucky saw you framed in the doorway, in traditional South Asian attire, his brain short-circuited.

It felt like time had actually stopped. Just like in those absurd, cheesy bollywood romances you’d subjected him to. A perfectly timed gust of wind caught your hair, sending it cascading in slow motion. Flower petals swirled around you (or maybe that was just decor blown loose, but he’d swear it was magic).

The sunlight caught every detail: the shimmer of your skirt, the delicate dupatta draped over your chest, the golden glow of your skin. The familiar chime of your anklets harmonized with the new melody of your golden bangles.

And then there was the waist.

Fuck. He should look away. He definitely shouldn’t be staring. But Bucky Barnes, supersoldier, former assassin, professional brooder, was utterly, stupidly spellbound.

If he wasn’t told who’s wedding he was about to attend, he would assume you were the bride.

You came running toward him, unable to hide your joy. The moment your arms wrapped around his neck, his free non metal hand, settled at your waist, pulling you flush against him.

It was your first real hug, and the intensity of it left you both breathless. He ducked his head into the curve of your shoulder, breathing in the floral scent of your perfume mixed with the faint sweetness of mehendi from the ceremony. His thumb brushed the bare skin just above your lehenga’s waistband, a quiet, possessive stroke that sent shivers down your spine.

“Nice to see you again too, Y/N.” His chuckle vibrated against you.

Three seconds. That’s how long the hug lasted, three seconds that stretched like a lifetime before your brain screeched to a halt.

You. Hugging a man. In broad daylight. With your entire family watching.

Bucky’s gaze flicked over your shoulder, and you felt him go rigid. The blood drained from his face like he’d just spotted Thanos in the buffet line. Every auntie, uncle, and cousin stood frozen in a scene of pure horror, eyes wide, mouths agape, some even clutching their pearls. And oh god, was that your grandmother reaching for her slipper?

You sprang apart like you’d been electrocuted. “W-what are you doing here?” you stammered, voice two octaves too high. “I mean—when did you—why—” The questions tumbled out, but your almost ear to ear grin ruined any attempt at playing it cool.

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it. The Winter Soldier, veteran of a hundred battles, had been felled by the most terrifying force in the universe: desi aunty judgment.

"I'll explain everything," Bucky muttered, throwing another nervous glance past you, "but your family's staring holes through my skull, and I've survived less terrifying war zones." His chuckle was half-genuine, half-panic.

"Oh shit—right. Okay. Follow me." You steered him inside, already mentally drafting excuses for why you, a respectable single woman, were caught in such an intimate embrace with a gora stranger they'd mistaken for cops.

“Everybody! Shanti shanti! SHANTI PLEASE!”You clapped your hands, fighting the grin threatening to split your face. “This is James Barnes. My friend. From Louisiana. You remember Sarah Wilson? Tall? Came to Ashfaq's wedding?”

A ripple of "Ooooh!" moved through the crowd, though half the aunties were still too busy dissecting the hug to care about your backstory. You could already see the gossip tsunami forming in their eyes. Tonight's interrogation would be brutal.

Auntie Moni, also known among you and family, the self-appointed family news anchor, leaned in with a smirk. “Is he your friend or…?” Her tone dripped with implication, voicing the question plastered across every face in the room.

“He is my friend, Auntie-ji,” you said through gritted teeth, smile so sweet it could rot teeth. “Anika said I could invite people, and he was free. So—,” You leveled a glare at the crowd, silently murdering their who-is-this-foreigner? stares. “—Everyone play nice! Bucky’s never been to a mehendi or a shaadi before.”

You snatched the sweet boxes from his grip, the crinkle of the paper drowning out the whispers already spreading like wildfire.

“Don't let them intimidate you,” you whispered as the crowd parted. “They're friendly. Sometimes... too friendly.”

Bucky barely had time to process your warning before the uncles descended.

“Ao ao, James beta!” One by one, they pulled him into bear hugs instead of handshakes, thumping his back like he was a long-lost cousin. “Y/N's friends are our friends!”

You bit your lip to hide a grin as he disappeared under a wave of enthusiastic uncles, his metal arm safely tucked in his pocket. Thank god your family's Marvel knowledge began and ended with Mr. Iron Stark Sir-ji and the big green one. As long as the teens didn't spot it, he might survive Day One without the Winter Soldier interrogation.

Bucky had not been properly warned.

He’d imagined a quiet evening with you, maybe some polite small talk with relatives. Instead, he’d been passed around like a party platter, first to the uncles, who grilled him on everything from his hometown ("Brooklyn? Oh, like Tony Stark!") to his career ("I, uh... work in security?"), his answers growing increasingly strained as they debated political conflicts he’d literally fought in.

Then the aunties claimed him.

“So, James,” one purred, patting the seat beside her. “Our Y/N is such a good girl, no? Very talented, very kind...”

Bucky’s eyes darted to you across the room, silently pleading for rescue as another auntie leaned in: z”Tell us, beta, what are your intentions?”

You just smirked into your drink.

“How come you did not come with your wife beta?”

“He’s quite tall and handsome, isn’t he bhabi? Perfect for my Nikki.”

“Beta did you come here with your wife?”

“Where do you work?”

“How close are you with our y/n?”

“Why don’t you meet my daughter?”

“Very strong biceps, what’s your work out?”

“You have strong grip, you have to visit my garage. You’ll get Mr Roshan certified discount!”

“Are you married?”

“Try this gulab jamun.

“Pani-puri!”

“Laddu!”

Bucky hadn't caught a single break since arriving. That brief moment hugging you had been his only respite before being thrown into what felt like an endless interrogation.

Yet somewhere between the third uncle's political rant and the fifth aunty's marriage pitch, the tension in his shoulders eased.

It was overwhelming. Loud. Nothing like his quiet Brooklyn apartment or even the Avengers compound. But the way they included him - no hesitation, no suspicion - made the chaos feel... warm. Even if he'd barely gotten two uninterrupted minutes with you.

Also, he wasn’t sure why everyone were calling him ‘Beta’ when you clearly introduced him as ‘James.’

From your spot in the kitchen, arranging sweets for the arriving guests, you had a perfect view of Bucky’s suffering. The man who’d faced down alien armies was now pleading with a circle of aunties, palms raised in surrender. “I can’t really—I’m full—”

Your eyes met across the room. His expression was pure desperation, eyebrows hiking toward his hairline, mouthing help me with the same panic you’d worn yesterday to Anika.

You tapped your chin, lips quirking. Should I? ...Nah.

But when Auntie Meena started listing her third eligible niece, you took pity. Swiping two gulab jamuns off the tray, you sauntered over, his knight in shining lehenga.

“Bucky, come with me,” you announced, cutting through the crowd. “Let me show you to your room. You waved off the aunties' protests. “Gosh, let the gora pakora breathe! You're treating him like he's the bride, has anyone even complimented Anika yet?!”

With some strategic shooing, you finally pried him free. The uncles dispersed, grumbling about kids these days, while Bucky clutched his stomach like a man mortally wounded.

“I'm so full I might die,” he groaned, suppressing burps.

“100 desi aunties vs. one super soldier?” You grinned, leading him down the hall. “The aunties always win.”Bucky's face fell when you warned him this was just Day One. “You can't be serious,” he said, voice pitching slightly.

You stopped at a guest room, dangled the key, and flashed your most devious smile. “Dead serious. And this is your new home for the week.”

Bucky peered inside, baffled by the mansion-sized proportions. “But I booked an Airbnb—”

“If my relatives catch on to the fact that I let one of their now most beloved guests live in an Airbnb, I will be kicked out of this family. They do not play about hospitality Bucky. Plus if they figure out you’re the Bucky who’s friends with Captain America, I’m as good as dead to them for letting you stay anywhere but here,” You crossed your arms over your chest, stepping inside the room, “Plus,” you smiled at him, “My room is right down this hall, so I’ll only be a few steps away to save you.”

“Just down the hall,” He plucked the keys from your fingers, his grin all mischief. “Guess I’m taking this room, then.”

“Just down the hall,” you echoed, matching his tone.

The exchange sent a stupid flutter through your chest. You’d heard stories about pre-serum Bucky, the Brooklyn charmer who could sweet-talk anyone, but this? This was the first glimpse of that man peeking through.

Not that you had time to dwell. Between a bride waiting for mehendi and Bucky’s I’m-attending-a-funeral suit situation, your crisis-management skills were needed elsewhere.

Thankfully, Anika was trapped in mehendi-artist purgatory, too swarmed by professionals to notice Bucky’s arrival or torment you. Small mercies.

“Don’t move,” you ordered Bucky, already power-walking out, your dupatta abandoned on his floor without a second thought.

You returned clutching a garment box, which you dumped on the bed with a thump. “Okay, let’s address the elephant in the room,” you said, gesturing at his all-black ensemble. “You look like you’re here to arrest the bride. This?” You flicked his tie. “Is a crime.”

Bucky’s offended “Hey—“ He was cut short as you unveiled the kurta: saffron-orange with ruby-red embroidery.

"I can’t wear that," he protested, eyeing the fabric, recognising the design from when he was being swarmed by all the men of the house and seeing them wear this. “It’s not— I don’t—”

“Too bad!” You shoved it into his chest. “You’ll look good, trust me.”

It took him very little convincing to say yes to wearing it. He struggled to say no to you. He was trying his hardest not to turn into a total softie when he finally agreed to wear it, seeing you excitedly clapping your hands.

“I also have to also mention… you look different,” Bucky said, voice oddly strained.

The entire time you’d been talking, his gaze kept snagging on the way your lehenga caught the light, the exposed waist, your dupatta-less top making his brain go in the gutter. He wanted to say something, needed to, but his brain had short-circuited the moment you’d walked in.

“Different like… in a good way?” You did a slow twirl, giving him a full view.

Bucky’s throat clicked. “Y-yes,” he managed, the word rough like he’d choked on it.

You bit your cheek to hide the grin threatening to split your face. “Thanks, Bucky. I’ll leave you to change. Let me know when you’re done.”

Escaping was self-preservation. The air between you had turned thick, charged, a time bomb ticking toward something neither of you dared name.

Outside his door, you fidgeted with your bangles, imagining how the kurta would look on him: vibrant against his skin, a shock of color after years of blacks and blues. The darkest you’d ever seen him was that blood-red shirt in the Siberia footage, fingers around Stark’s neck.

You shook the memory away. That Bucky felt like a stranger now.

“Beti? Anika’s looking for you!” Uncle Roshan appeared, shooing you down the hall.

“But my friend—“

“Nehi nehi beti, now! You cannot keep the bride waiting!”

You shot one last glance at Bucky’s door. What’s taking him so long?

Anika’s excitement was contagious. “Kamini where have you been! I have been looking for you everywhere,” she let out out a sigh of relief finally seeing you. “Dekho dekho! I even told them hide his initials in the designs,” she pointed out the hidden message. You watched her as she showed you all the details.

You were happy for Anika, truly. But as you watched her excitement, a quiet ache bloomed in your chest. She’d found her person. Someone who’d cherish every part of her, inside and out.

You’d always shrugged off marriage talk, but now? Now you wondered.

Who’d search for you in a crowded room?

Who’d make your heart skip just by smiling?

Who’d be yours to love, and yours to miss?

The questions lingered, feeling bittersweet.

You placed a soft kiss on her cheek, trying not tear to up from the joy you felt for her, “He’s the luckiest man alive.”

While you were sharing this sweet moment, you felt a tap on your shoulder. The two of you turned around and it was none other than Bucky.

Both you and Anika gaped. You clapped a hand over your mouth; Anika didn’t even need an introduction. Your stunned silence and flushed cheeks were answer enough, plus, she’d devoured enough Avengers tabloids to recognize Bucky Barnes.

She elbowed you forward, that same I-know-something-you-don’t smirk from yesterday’s shopping spree plastered across her face.

“Hey,” Bucky mumbled, fiddling with his kurta’s collar. “Did I wear this right? And- uh— you must be the bride. Bucky Barnes.” He extended his hand like a diplomat at a summit.

You were too busy short-circuiting to speak.

“Oh-hooo!” Anika crowed, practically vibrating with glee as her eyes darted between you two. “So you’re the famous Bucky!” She pushed you with her hip like a thumka making you bump into him with lethal precision. “Bride duties call! Have fun!”

Bucky blinked after her, then down at you who was now standing flush against his side. “Is she always like that?”

“Don’t mind her,” you lied, voice pitching higher. “She’s probably high on henna fumes.”

His outfit, though? Damn. The orange and red made his eyes bluer, the fabric skimming his shoulders just right. “You look… great,”you managed. “Thank goodness it fit. That was my last backup plan if you’d refused the kurta.”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck with his left metal hand, the kurta’s fabric rustling softly under the motion. “Thanks. It’s actually... comfortable. Way better than leather. I can breathe in this.” Then he produced your dupatta with his right hand, like a magician revealing a trick. “You forgot this.”

“Oh—“ You hadn’t even noticed it was gone. As you reached for it, his hand retreated, unfolding the fabric with surprising precision. “Here,” he murmured, “let me.”

His left hand brushed your shoulders, the cool vibranium a contrast against your sun-warmed skin, as he draped one end over your right shoulder. Then he stepped closer, so near you could see the way his metal arm tensed slightly with careful restraint, and settled the other side with deliberate care.

When your eyes met, you quickly looked away, cheeks burning. The shift from your usual boldness to this flustered silence made his lips quirk.

He couldn’t resist. As his right hand trailed down your arm, he relished the shiver it drew from you.

Then he noticed it: your hair tangled in your jhumka. Gently, he tucked the strand behind your ear with his flesh hand, his thumb lingering just a second too long. The image flashed in his mind, you in that photo yesterday, a hibiscus where his fingers now grazed.

For a heartbeat, the wedding chaos faded. There was just this: his breath on your cheek, your pulse fluttering under his touch, and the unspoken something thickening the air, his metal arm hovering near your waist, close enough to feel its hum but not quite daring to pull you in.

You finally looked up at him, and your breath caught.

That smirk wasn’t his usual I’m-teasing-you grin. This was something darker. Smoother. The kind of look that made your pulse thrum in your throat.

Pre-serum Bucky. The one who’d charmed half of Brooklyn without breaking a sweat.

He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “I think you look better without the scarf.” His breath was warm, his voice low enough to curl your toes. Then he pulled back, leaving you standing there in a daze as he walked away like he hadn’t just ruined you by saying those words with very obvious meaning behind it.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your skin still buzzing where his breath had touched.

What the hell was that?

This wasn’t just flirting. This was precision. He knew exactly what he was doing, and worse, he knew exactly what it did to you.

The wedding festivities were winding down, but your mind was still stuck in that moment with Bucky, the way his metal fingers had traced your skin, the heat of his whisper against your ear.

What made it worse? How he’d somehow, in just hours, become the star of the event. Somehow going from “suspicious gora” to “honorary beta.” The uncles clapped him on the back, the aunties fed him extra gulab jamuns, and now he had your older cousin hanging on his every word.

Yet despite the crowd around him, his eyes kept finding you.

You sat with the other girls, trying to focus on the mehendi artist painting your palms, but every few minutes, your gaze would flick up. And there he was, already watching you over the rim of his chai cup. His kurta sleeves rolled up, and carelessly unbuttoned at the collar, exposing that damn dip in his throat you couldn’t stop staring at.

If you’d known he’d look like this in traditional wear, you’d have burned the kurta and saved yourself the torture or just keep the view for your eyes only.

Then the cushion beside you dipped.

“They still make you sit through mehendi even though you hate it?”

Auntie Moni’s son, your childhood friend, her perfect candidate, smiled at you. You hadn’t seen him in years.

Across the room, Bucky’s cup hit the table with a clink. His smile had vanished.

“Long time no see y/n,” he sounded exhausted, like he was clearly forced to come here. “Did auntie-“ “Yup yup Ma sent me here,” he finished off your sentence. “I need to get her off my back so pretend like we are having a good chat, plus we do have some catching up to do anyways,” he got comfortable next to you.

Bucky had been savoring it. The way your gaze kept darting to him, how you’d blush every time he caught you staring. But the moment that guy sat beside you, that little game ended.

The guy wasn’t just another relative. The way your shoulder pressed against his, how you laughed into his ear, too close. Bucky forced himself to nod at whatever your cousin was saying, but his attention was laser-locked on your hand resting on that stranger’s arm.

Then you stopped looking at him.

You were too busy smacking the guy’s shoulder, gasping between giggles, letting him fix your hair like he had any right—

The ceramic cup in Bucky’s hand split clean down the middle. He wasn’t possessive. Not usually. But seeing someone else get that close to you? Watching them share the playful, effortless intimacy he’d been craving all day?

His jaw clenched.

Too much touching.

The day had finally wound down. After twenty minutes of farewells at the doorstep and endless “aap bhi aana!" and cheek kisses, you could finally breathe. The mehendi on your hands was still drying, rendering you useless for cleanup (not that you minded).

Anika had been glued to her phone with her fiancé for the last hour. If you didn’t vanish now, she’d corner you to gush about their “baby, you’re my jaan” nonsense and then pivot straight to grilling you about Bucky.

Speaking of… Where was Bucky? You hadn’t seen or properly spoke to him since the mehendi artist started on your palms.

You padded upstairs, the halls quiet except for distant murmurs from the garden. Your anklets chimed softly against the hardwood, the only music now that the speakers were off. Outside his door, you knocked gently, just in case he was resting.

No answer.

You tried again, louder.

“Bucky? Are you in there?”

Silence.

“Was he serious about going back to his airbnb?” You fumbled with your phone, the henna making even unlocking it a battle—

A hand seized your wrist, yanking you inside so fast your dupatta caught on the doorknob.

"WHAT THE F—"

Bucky’s palm clamped over your mouth. “Shh, shh—sorry,” he whispered, releasing his palm from you like you’d burned him.

“I thought you weren’t here!”

“I was. I just…” His eyes darted to your hennaed hands, then away.

“Just what? Hiding from my aunt—”

“Nothing.”

The word hung between you, thick with everything he wasn’t saying.

You tilted your head, eyebrow arching. For a split second, your pulse had leapt, it was just Bucky, not some creep, but now his silence was setting off alarms.

“What’s wrong? You’re being weird.”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, arms crossed like he was barricading himself.

“Did my relatives say something to you?” Your stomach knotted. Had someone recognized him? Mentioned his arm? Dug up the Winter Soldier?

“What? No.” He exhaled sharply, shoulders dropping. “I don’t… I don’t know why I did this. It’s stupid. You can leave.”

Half-truth. The jealousy had been a live wire in his chest since he’d watched you with that stranger with his hands in your hair, helping you to get hair unstuck from your jhumkas like he did, making you laugh. He’d ignored your knocks to avoid this exact moment, but of course, he’d caved.

Your heart sank. After today, after the kurta, the whispered comment, the way he’d looked at you… you thought this was going somewhere.

And now he was telling you to go.

“I don’t want to leave. Something’s obviously wrong, it’s written all over your face, Bucky.” You stood your ground, planting your feet. No way you were leaving without answers.

Bucky gritted his teeth. If he asked about that guy, it’d come out all wrong. “Did you have fun today?” he forced out instead.

“Yes…?” You huffed, exasperated. “Bucky, cut to the chase. What’s this about?” Getting annoyed at him for dodging your question, trying to change the subject.

He took a step forward. Then another. His expression was new, frustration and guilt warring in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.

You instinctively stepped back until the cool wood of the door pressed into your bare shoulders. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes searching his face for clues. This version of Bucky, raw, unraveling, was one you didn’t recognize.

“Bucky, what are you—.”

“I don’t know what to do,” His voice was a rough whisper, breath unsteady. “This is selfish, but… when I saw you with—“

The air between you turned electric. Not fear but surprise pulsed through you as Bucky closed the last inch of space, his chest nearly brushing yours with each ragged breath. You’d never been this close before. Close enough to count the flecks of gray in his blue eyes, now darkened with something mournful. Close enough to feel his gaze drop to your lips, once, twice, making your stomach swoop.

You reached for him on instinct, but the still drying mehendi stopped you.

“I’m sorry. You should go.” Bucky turned away, already mentally shoving clothes into his duffel. “I didn’t mean to—.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” You squared your shoulders, voice steady. “I said I don’t want to.”

He froze. Swallowed hard. The way you held your ground, chin lifted, eyes defiant, sent a current through him.

You both knew. The tension, the want, the words neither could voice.

And in that suspended moment, the doorframe at your back was the only thing keeping you upright.

Your dupatta clung precariously to your shoulders, your hands hovering awkwardly to avoid smudging the mehendi. The way your hair had come slightly undone, curls escaping their pins, only seemed to pull Bucky closer, his gaze tracing every disheveled inch of you.

He sighed, hands settling on his hips before stepping into your space again. “You look… stunning,” he murmured, his palms sliding around your bare waist.

You shivered at the contrast, the cool smoothness of his vibranium fingers against one side, the rough warmth of his right hand on the other. “Careful,” you warned, grinning up at him. “Don’t let me stain your kurta. It’s the only one I have, and you look too good in it.”

Bucky tilted his head, that damn smirk playing at his lips. “Would it be so bad if I had to take it off?”

You fake-pondered, biting your lip to hide the laugh bubbling up, and failed spectacularly. Your giggles set him off too, his head tipping back with a rare, full-bodied laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. The scarf on your neck now barely clinging on to you, your hands slightly lifted up hovering over your sides, trying not to get any of the mehendi on you. The slight messiness of your hair making you even more desirable in his eyes.

“Seriously, we have to get you more kurtas. I’m going out with Saad tomorrow, you should come,” you offered, blinking innocently as Bucky’s fingers stilled mid-air, a strand of your hair caught between his fingertips.

“Sounds good,” he said slowly. “But who’s Saad?”

“Oh, just a childhood friend.” You waved your hennaed hand for emphasis. “The one I was talking to during mehendi?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard you could hear it.

The realization hit you like a firecracker. Your eyes widened, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to trap the grin threatening to split your face. No. Way. He’s jealous.

“Oh-hooo…” You leaned in, delight dripping from your voice. “Sergeant James Bucky-ji, don’t tell me this—”you gestured at his tense shoulders, “—is because of Saad?”

His nostrils flared. You bit your cheek so hard it ached, your smile now a full-blown problem.

“Bucky…ji…?” He repeated slowly, brow furrowed at the unfamiliar honorific. For a split second, he almost smiled, until he caught your way-too-pleased expression and realized you had caught on to the fact of how jealous he was. “Whatever,” he muttered, rolling his eyes with exaggerated indifference.

“Hayee, sooo sassy~~” You fanned yourself dramatically, loving every second of his pouting.

Then you struck. You wanted to see how far you could tease him until he snapped. “You know Saad’s the most eligible bachelor in our community, right? Pretty sure our parents have our wedding playlist ready.” Not entirely a lie, if you weren’t oceans away, the aunties would’ve had you married off by now. Never mind Saad’s secret non traditional girlfriend his mother would literally faint over.

Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened imperceptibly. He was trying to play it cool, but the way his jaw worked as you gushed, lips curled in that infuriating grin of yours betrayed him.

He couldn’t even retaliate. These were your people. So he just… simmered. Silently. Like a kettle left on too long.

The more you rambled, the more Bucky's mind spiraled into vivid nightmares: You in red bridal lehenga. Saad grinning at the mandap. Himself stuck making polite conversation with your aunties while dying inside.

His grip turned vice-like when you chirped:

“I mean, there was a time I thought he was the one, until I found out his celebrity crush was Black Widow. Like yes, obviously she's stunning, but we look nothing al—“

“Shut up.” His palm clamped over your mouth, his exhale warm against your temple. Up close, he could see every fleck of gold in your irises, the way your eyelashes fluttered as you tried, and failed, to suppress your grin beneath his hand. “You're insane,” he murmured, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek.

You nodded enthusiastically, your signature loud energy practically vibrating against him. It was the same relentless sunshine that had first broke his icy exterior months ago.

When he finally dropped his hand, it lingered at your hip, fingers flexing uncertainly. His gaze dropped to your lips again, just for a heartbeat, before he looked away. The move he wanted to make burned on his tongue, but he swallowed it down.

Bucky held you there, suspended in the moment, his thumbs tracing idle circles on your hips. Sam was right, he thought to himself, you had to be some kind of witch. The way his pulse jumped when you smiled, he hadn’t felt that since the ‘40s, back when jazz still played on every Brooklyn corner.

"Bucky-ji?"

“Hm?” His voice came out softly, lost in his thoughts as he admired your features.

“You’re holding me really tight, ji.”

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. “I like it when you call me that.”

“Call you what?” You blinked up at him, all faux innocence, doe eyed.

“Bucky-ji.” The way he said it, low, deliberate, made your stomach flip. “I like it.”

“Accha~” You teased, relishing how his breath hitched.

“Mhmm.” The one word he’d learned to recognize instantly.

“Okay, Bucky-ji~” You drew it out, watching his pupils blow wide.

Yup. Definitely a witch. That nickname was pure sorcery. Your grin was infectious, your laughter like sunlight, and here he was, a century-old super soldier turned to mush over two syllables.

Bucky was utterly, stupidly powerless.

Bucky’s restraint was unraveling by the second, his jaw clenched tight enough to hurt. You’d reduced him to this, a live wire of want, torn between propriety and the ache to claim your lips.

“Gosh Bucky,” you huffed, your hennaed hands hovering uselessly between you, “if my hands weren’t occupied, I’d have dragged you down by that stupid kurta collar and kissed you hours ago.”

Something in him snapped.

One moment, he was staring at the furious pout on your lips, the next, his metal hand cradled the back of your neck, his right thumb brushing the apple of your cheek as he closed the distance. The first press of his mouth against yours was tentative, testing, until your breathy sigh against his lips shattered whatever remained of his control.

He’d dreamed about this too often, the way your body arched into his, the soft noise you made when his tongue traced the seam of your lips. His hands roamed restlessly: one tangling in the hair at your nape, the other sliding down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him until not even air could separate you.

The kiss deepened, slow and intoxicating. Your shared breaths grew ragged, the slick sound of lips parting and meeting again loud in the quiet room. Bucky’s teeth grazed your lower lip, drawing a whimper from you that went straight to his—

“Wait.” He broke away just enough to growl the word, his pupils blown black. The dupatta had been taunting him all night, all that delicate fabric hiding the dip of your collarbones, the slope of your shoulders (and everything else). He gathered it in one fist and tossed it across the room. “Always in my damn way.”

Your gasp at his boldness morphed into a laugh, understanding exactly what he meant by it. “You’re such a—

His mouth crashed back onto yours before you could finish, swallowing your protest. His vibranium fingers traced the newly exposed skin of your neck, mapping the flutter of your pulse as if memorizing it. Every touch lingered, his thumb stroking your jaw, his palm skimming your ribs, the way his pinky hooked under the hem of your choli, teasing.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were kiss-swollen, his kurta wrinkled from your grasping hands. The room smelled like your perfume and his self-control lay in tatters at your feet.

“Pervert,” you finally managed, voice wrecked, though the way your eyes dropped to his lips betrayed you.

He let out a dry laugh, his breath warm against your skin. “Like I said before,” he murmured, “I like you better without it.” Before you could protest, he closed the distance between you again, stealing another kiss. The gesture was so effortlessly charming that you felt heat rush to your cheeks,like some flustered schoolgirl, utterly disarmed by him.

“I’m so glad you came here, Bucky,” you mumbled against his lips, your words lazy and thick with affection. Your arms wound around his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. Thankfully, mehendi was dry enough, no longer clinging or in the way.

He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Bucky?” he echoed, feigning offense. “Come on, you know I like it better your way.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “Gosh, fine. Such a baby.” With an exaggerated sigh, you drew out the name in that sweet, lilting way he adored: “Bucky-jiii~~”

That definitely was a spell. No one could convince Bucky otherwise.

Theeee end….??? Or maybe ✨🪕Intermission🪔✨ OooOooOoooooOoo picture abhi baki hae mere dost (?)

AAAAAAHHH I can’t believe I actually finished writing this. I reread it like a million times so if there’s any mistakes amake maf kore dao bhai💔. Mujhe maf kardo. This is fully a self indulgent piece. I was literally writing and giggling away, picturing every scene play out like a movie. I am COMPLETELY down to write a part 2 for this if anyone is interested😽.

I didn’t know where to add the ‘jewellery getting stuck on the kurta’ bit and idk if u can tell i SUUUCK at writing intimacy scenes🥸 like i have the idea but idk how to perfect it… YET!

Hell idek if anyone is going to read this but if you do then leave a note! Share your thoughts!! I might write more (hopefully with improved writing🤓☝️) — তারা/Taara⭐️

[misssparklingpaws]

Shadow in the Flame

Chapter 7: Dictator Mode, Swifties, and Stark Secrets

The morning after the mission, Aria was technically supposed to be resting.

And by “resting,” she apparently meant limping through the training deck in a compression wrap, barking orders like a tiny, beautiful drill sergeant forged from sarcasm and espresso shots.

“Yelena. You tripped over your own ego on that spin kick. Again.”

“I was improvising,” Yelena grunted, flipping to her feet.

“No. You were flailing like a raccoon in a wind tunnel.”

Robert, trailing behind Aria like a nervous intern with a medkit, whispered to Bucky, “She’s got a bullet wound and she’s still terrifying.”

Bucky just sipped his coffee. “That’s how you know she’s a Stark.”

“Red Guardian, your stance is so wide I could drive a Quinjet through it.”

Alexei looked personally offended. “This is my power stance.”

“No that’s your ‘I’ve had too much tequila stance.”

Without missing a beat, Aria clapped her hands once. “Okay, team. Listen up.”

Everyone paused. Even Ava tilted their head.

Aria crossed her arms. “This Friday night, Morgan Stark is spending the night at the Tower.”

Collective blinking.

“I expect and I cannot stress this enough, your absolute best behavior. No inappropriate jokes. No sexual innuendos. No swearing. No terrifying stories, no weapons left out, and absolutely no weird team rituals. I don’t care if it’s tradition. You will all be PG-rated Disney Channel rejects.”

Yelena raised a brow. “You’re treating her like a royalty.”

“I’m treating her like my baby sister,” Aria said plainly. “She gets to be a child for as long as I can protect that.”

That silenced the room.

Then she added casually “And we’re leaving the next morning for the Eras Tour weekend in Vegas.”

Silence.

Alexei slowly turned to Yelena. “What’s... Eras Tour?”

Aria continued like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “Taylor Swift. Full set. VIP afterparty. It’s our thing.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “You! you’re a Swiftie?!”

“She’s one of the best lyricists of our time. Her visuals are immaculate. Her precision is unmatched. And frankly, I respect the way she reinvents herself without apologizing for outgrowing people especially men” Aria said her gaze a dead glare. “And she’s a friend.”

Robert blinked so hard it looked like it hurt.

Yelena made a sound between a laugh and a choke. “I thought you only listened to men crying and angels screaming in Latin.”

“I do. But I also scream The Archer while cleaning my guns.”

Red Guardian looked confused. “This… Eras… is like an American opera?”

“Sure,” Aria said flatly. “If the opera had glitter cannons and 75,000 people sobbing to a breakup song in matching cowboy boots.”

Yelena looked like she needed to reboot. “You called me a Disney squirrel with knives and yet… you dance to 22?”

“Yes.”

---

Later that week.

The elevator dinged and out walked Morgan Stark, eight years old, glitter sneakers flashing, dragging a sparkly pink overnight bag with the confident stride of a tiny CEO.

“Hi!” she grinned. “I’m Morgan. Aria’s tiny boss.”

Red Guardian leaned down. “So young. So much Stark already.”

Morgan blinked up at him. “Are you the one who broke her favorite coffee mug?”

Alexei froze. “I, how did you?”

“I have her trackers,” Morgan smiled sweetly, then pointed at Robert. “And you’re the one in love with her.”

Robert nearly dropped the plate he was holding. “I, I uh”

“Relax,” Morgan said kindly. “She likes you. She just pretends she doesn’t. That’s her whole thing. Sad angsty girl vibe like a lana del rey song.”

“MORGAN!”

Yelena leaned against the counter, cackling. “I love her.”

Aria, walking in behind Morgan, muttered “Play nice or I will ban dessert tonight.”

“Rude” Both Morgan and Yelena responded.

Over dinner, Morgan perched at the head of the table like royalty, eating spaghetti with the confidence of someone who owned the building.

Then she dropped the bomb.

“Did Aria tell you Taylor Swift sang at her quinceañera?”

Seven forks dropped.

“She did not,” Bucky said.

Morgan beamed. “It was a whole thing. Daddy rented a literal castle. Taylor sang six songs. Aria wore a giant sparkly pink dress. I wasn’t born yet, but there’s video of her and Captain America slow-dancing to Enchanted in a tiara.”

Yelena spun toward Aria. “YOU HAD TAYLOR SWIFT AT YOUR QUINCEAÑERA?!”

“Your dad made Steve Rogers your chambelán?” Bucky asked, eyes wide.

Aria sipped her wine. “She owed my dad a favor. And Cap volunteered. Said it reminded him of the old days.”

Robert’s entire brain broke. “Wait. Aria wore a… ball gown?”

Morgan nodded. “Baby pink. With sparkles and a crown, like a little Miss Mexican Universe. I watch the video every year.”

Yelena’s mouth hung open. “She owns knives made of vibranium. This makes no sense.”

Aria, deadpan: “Multitudes, Belova.”

Morgan pulled out a tablet. “Wanna see the footage?”

“YES,” the team chorused.

“Absolutely not,” Aria snapped. “You do, and I’ll crash every Thunderbolt mission for six months. With glitter bombs.”

Morgan grinned like the chaos goblin she was. “She really is my sister.”

---

The Tower’s living room had become a war zone of glitter glue, s'mores crumbs, and colored markers.

Robert sat cross legged on the floor, sleeves rolled up, carefully helping Morgan build what appeared to be the Tower out of marshmallows and toothpicks. He looked like a man preparing for a NASA engineering exam.

“Okay,” Robert mumbled, tongue poking out slightly. “Structural integrity’s good here, but the top might collapse unless we reinforce with pretzels.”

Morgan clapped. “See? You’re smarter than everyone thinks.”

He blinked. “Wait what does everyone think?”

Morgan just giggled.

Up on the loft, Aria leaned silently against the railing, half in shadow, watching them. Not coldly. Not critically.

Just quietly.

Like someone too stubborn to admit their heart was melting.

Bucky appeared beside her, sipping a drink and following her gaze.

“Cute” he said.

“It’s loud.”

“He’s good with her.”

“She’s good with everyone.”

“You’re smiling.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Muscle spasm, stressed induced.” Aria deadpanned.

Below, Morgan wiped chocolate off Robert’s cheek while he tried not to combust.

Then, with a CEO’s seriousness, she leaned in. “Okay. Question.”

Robert glanced up nervously. “Uh-oh.”

“Do you wanna be my brother or my brother-in-law?”

Robert made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a full system crash.

“I what uh what?!”

Morgan tilted her head. “You clearly like Aria. I like you. You didn’t cry when I shot you with the Nerf gun. You passed the test. So?”

Robert was turning red fast enough to violate some sort of physics law. “I, I mean if I had to choose I, uh ”

Aria sighed, lips twitching upward. “I’m going to kill her.”

“You’re soft,” Bucky said behind her.

“I am not.”

“You’re weirdly quiet.”

“I’m plotting.”

“You’re plotting to knit him a sweater.”

“If you don’t shut up, I’ll add you to tomorrow’s sparring schedule.”

Bucky smirked. “Already on it.”

“Morgan, time for bed!” Aria called down.

“Can Bob tuck me in?” Morgan asked sweetly, giving her best Puss in Boots eyes. “Pretty pleaseeee?”

“Um yeah, if your sister’s okay with that,” Robert stammered.

“Morgan, he’s not your babysitter. Robert’s tired too” Aria said, sighing.

“I don’t have a problem with that” Robert said, looking directly at Aria with a soft smile.

“YAY!” Morgan squealed, grabbing Robert’s hand. “Let’s go, Bob!”

“Daddy material,” Bucky fake-coughed.

“Shut up.”

---

Later That Night

Aria stood quietly outside Morgan’s room, arms crossed, listening to her little sister’s muffled giggles as Robert read a bedtime story, complete with ridiculous voices.

She didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t tease.

She just stood there. Watching the light spill from the half-closed door. Listening.

And when she finally turned away, her expression unreadable, Bucky leaning casually against the wall just raised an eyebrow.

“Admit it.”

Aria didn’t stop walking. “Admit what?”

“You’re falling in love.”

She paused for half a second.

“I’m going to crash a mission with glitter bombs just for you.”

Bucky grinned. “I’ll wear sparkles to match.”

[mjolnirswriststrap]

Just Another Notch

Bucky Barnes x Plus!Reader Masterlist

Summary: If Bucky thinks his charms will work on you, then you’re gonna put up one hell of a fight to prove him wrong. PART 4/? Part 5

An: Hey all, sorry I haven’t updated this baby in months. Gonna try and work on it more from now on. Hopefully it’ll be finished before the end of the year 🤞💜

Word Count: 1,278 (not proofread)

You never found him. After trekking through a path of destruction you realized, you didn’t know where exactly Bruce lives; better yet anywhere besides the lab he considers home. Once large foot prints and fallen trees ceased, so did your trail. You haven’t yet trained on tracking, so someone on foot could allude you indefinitely.

When you made it back to the compound, Friday announced “Stark will see you in his office, Ms. Y/L/N.”. You hadn’t even walked in the door, and already Bruce’s mess was piling up on your lap. As if you had control over a gamma radiated mutant.

Tony had another thing coming If he thinks you’ll pay damages. Your salary consisted of room and board, and a part time paycheck that you sent home to help your parents. Solid wood floors weren’t in your budget.

When you make it to Tony’s office it looks crowded. You can see Natasha, Steve and Bucky all standing around his desk, arms crossed with annoyed looks on their faces. This isn’t good, and it’s all your fault, you should’ve swallowed it, never mentioned it to Bruce.

You knock on the glass door, catching the attention of the the most attractive people you’ve ever seen. Their harsh gaze made you wish your X gene was invisibility. “You wanted to see me, Stark?” You pipe up, hoping the faster you get this over with, the easier it will be. You brave your face to the room, not putting your head down in shame. You won’t let this destroy you, you won’t let bullying ruin the workplace confidence you’d grown.

Tony rolls his eyes, “You know why you’re here, don’t play coy kid.”. Without hesitation You immediately start defending yourself, “I want to be the first one to apologize for the gym floor. I cannot excuse Bruce’s actions, they were not justified in any manor. Destruction of property over measly feelings, if not already, should be a fireable offense. I however have done nothing wrong. I played a part in telling Bruce about the situation, but I never could have foresaw this outcome.” Your chest is heaving when you finish. You’ve kept a neutral look on your face the entire time, meanwhile Tony’s face morphed into confusion, suprise, confusion again and then agreeance.

“Wow, the things I miss not living here.” He laughs, like it was some kind of joke. “I have no clue what you’re talking about, but I’d love for you to tell me the full story later.” You straighten your shoulders, what had you just done? Not only did you snitch on Bruce and yourself, but your pathetic plea was witnessed by three devils. Why are you here then?

You hadn’t done anything else wrong, you haven’t even been on a mission in forever. “Oh, my apologies then, I don’t know why I’m here.” You admit. Now you were unbearably nervous, you didn’t know what to expect. Tony opened a tab on his touch pad inlaid desk, pulling up the picture of an obviously foreign man. His menacing scowl only meant one thing, Hydra.

“Bruno Müller, age 37, served as a hitman for Hydra, much like yours truly.” He waves over to Bucky, giving him stank face. You nod your head, trying to take mental notes. “He was seen last night, on a yacht off the Florida Keys. Intel is saying, he’s hosting a party this weekend, and I want you to be in attendance.” Your head is spinning, you struggle to find the right words.

“What- I mean why me? You have many more capable agents at your disposal.” You’ve lost that workplace professionalism in place of confidence. You know you shouldn’t speak to your boss this way, but who does he think you are, Captain America?

“I would agree to disagree on that. Do not sell yourself short, your capabilities are more than qualified for this mission. But the truth is, no one knows you. You’re faceless.” You try to not let his last words hurt, but you suppose he’s right. It would be a simple plan, get in and get out, right? “What am I doing?” You ask, trying to fit the other three people into the plan somehow. “I need you to first, immerse yourself into this party, let everyone know you’re there. Talk with the women, flirt with the men, drink but don’t get drunk. If someone on this boat has a suspicion of you, it will take a minute for renforcements to arrive. Meaning, fighting off 30+ angry Hydra all by yourself.” He was blatant.

Your anxiety was starting to pick up. You’re not sure you can do it. The two super soldiers behind you instantly notice the shift in your mood. They see the hair on the back of your neck stand, and they can smell the sheen of sweat covering your body. Steve genuinely feels pity for you.

Tony continues, “Infiltrate his office, access his computer and download all of his files onto this bad boy right here.” He pulls a bracelet out of thin air. He gently unclasps it, revealing a usb drive hidden inside. “The second you plug it in, a virus will download onto his computer, corrupting the files, for any further use, and it will immediately download them, bypassing any need for passwords.”

Once he finished you had nothing to say. Well, you had plenty to say, but you couldn’t be sure that you wouldn’t embarrass yourself further. “So, why are they here?” You finally ask, daring to make eye contact with Steve. His eyes weren’t as harsh as you expected.

“Every secret agent needs an intel team, and a guy in their ear, these two are your intel team, and Barnes is your new conscious.” Great. Now instead of playing along with him, you’re forced to be in their presence. You let the heroes behind you groan in place. They must’ve already debriefed, they had no witty remarks or protests.

“When do I leave?” You ask, just wanting to get out of the room at this point. You need to let yourself process everything, before you overload and overstimulate. “Tonight.” You give him a curt nod and leave before your team could ask you any questions. There would be plenty of time for that on the flight there.

Your brain is racing. Maybe it’s the combination of everything happening so far today and it’s only 9am. Or it’s the straps on the sports bra absolutely obliterating your shoulders. You’re pacing down to the simulation room, the only place you can go to escape.

You’re manically talking to yourself when you swing the door open. “How the actual fuck does he expect me to do this alone?” You ask no one. Seeing the empty desk chair Bruce left in its exact spot was enough to send you crumbling to your feet. Pressing your back against the door, squeezing your knees as close to your chest as possible. Bruce isn’t even here to console you because you fucked that up too. You bang the back of your head on the door, “What the fuck is wrong with me?”.

You doubt you’d see Bruce before you left, which meant you wouldn’t see him till you returned, which is never promised, better yet scheduled. You needed answers, why did be react like that? Wrapping your head around it was impossible, unbeknownst to you, Bruce sat pressed against his front door, his head in his hands, wondering why he can’t control his anger. Wondering if he’d scared you away forever, you’d never seen him as hulk before, just Bruce. He knew you liked just Bruce, but now there’s no telling.

[last-herondale]

Almost Pt. 2

Bucky POV (W/ FemReader)

Angst, heartbreak, sadness

Tw: some mild curse words

AN: Hellooooo. I had an idea for a part two! Two fics in one week? Who do I think I am? 😳 anyway here is Bucky’s point of view on what happened after part one! Will link below! Maybe this will be a new series? Idk feeling ambitious 🤣

Part 1

Part 3

Enjoy 🤘🏼

It had been six weeks since Steve’s party. Six agonizing weeks of silence. Forty-two days of not hearing your voice. One thousand and eight hours of not seeing you smile at my stupid jokes. Sixty thousand, four hundred, and eighty minutes of not seeing the light dance in your eyes whenever you saw me enter the room. Three million, six hundred thousand twenty eight, and eight hundred seconds since I saw you walk away from me during that party after confessing your love for me.

You said you needed time. I respected that. I understood that.

After you bared your soul to me, I told you what I thought you needed to hear. That I wasn’t good enough for you. That you deserved better. It was difficult to stand there and see the light die from your eyes as I said these things. It was painful to see you cry, knowing that I had been the one to cause you that pain. But it was devastating for me to realize that despite how much I loved you, how much I cared for you, that the words I said were still true. Agonizingly so.

I expected that this type of honesty would destroy our friendship. Even though I still held out hope in my selfish mindset that we could continue on like we had in the past. Spending our free nights together, laughing, joking, having fun together, sharing memories, crying, hugging, everything we used to do…

But of course, those dreams had not come into fruition.

When you volunteered to be shipped out of the country for a mission the day after Steve’s party, I knew it was to get away from me. And despite my frustration and worry about you leaving on some dangerous mission without me in the state you were in, Steve assured me that you would be fine. He didn’t know the extent of what happened, but Steve being the inquisitive son of a bitch he is, he was able to connect some of the dots at least. Surprisingly he didn’t lecture or judge me. I was expecting to get an earful from him about how I treated you, led you on, and hurt your feelings, but in return I got nothing.

The mission was only supposed to last for two weeks, but as the days grew longer, the whole team was on edge when the two of you didn’t return. Steve kept communications with Tony, and he would pass along the messages to the rest of us. “They hit a snag. They are safe but they are bunking down for a bit.”

I felt like I was on pins and needles. I just needed to know you were safe, that you were okay. I must have looked worse for wear around the tower, because even Nat noticed and had a conversation with me in my room. It was a little strange. Having her back in my apartment, alone, her fiery gaze still as piercing as it was when we were together. But those feelings I held for her were gone. Something else lingered there, a fondness for the time we had, but nothing more.

I knew she was your best friend, so I assumed you told her everything about what happened at the party, but when she came into my apartment with a stern gaze on me, arms crossed and all, all she said was.

“I don’t know what happened the other night at Steve’s party, but you need to stop moping and get a grip.”

“I’m fine. Stay out of it,” I said with an icy tone.

Nat just rolled her eyes and jabbed a finger at me. “If you don’t feel anything for her, then stay away or get your shit together. She cares about you too much to walk away from you, Bucky.” Nat’s voice grew softer as she thought of you. “Whenever she comes back, and she will come back, she needs to heal. She cannot continue to be your emotional support puppet. It's draining her, James. Every time she returns from hanging out with you I see less and less of her return. She cannot continue to give you all of her heart when she is receiving none of it back.

“So for her sake, please, let her go.”

It was a hard thing to hear, but it was necessary. I stopped driving myself mad with when you would return. It was difficult, maddeningly so, but after another week I was able to distract myself enough with other things… other people. I did a few missions here and there, nothing that took me out of the country, but it filled some of the time I had to think about you.

I spent time with Nadia, the girl I had gone on a few dates with, the girl I had broken your heart over. Our relationship was purely physical. She was another distraction, someone to pass the time with. She didn’t seem to mind the distance I put between us. We weren’t exclusive by any means, and she was free to explore all of her options, but that was as far as that would go. Not that I could ever tell you this, even though I wanted to.

That was the shittiest part of it all. I missed you. Constantly. I missed talking with you about every single part of my day. I missed hearing about your day, or the silly little thoughts that swirled in your curious head. I missed spending my weekends with you, staying up until the sun rose, seeing you curled up in a ball on my couch, sleeping so peacefully. The ache in my chest never ceased, but I was able to drown away the thought of you for moments at a time.

And then you returned.

It was like a blow to the heart, seeing you standing in the kitchen, casually making yourself a bowl of cereal. Your skin seemed tanner than when you left. Clearly you had been somewhere where the sun kissed your skin for long periods of time. You looked beautiful, even just in your morning casual wear. You hadn’t noticed me yet. I was frozen in the entryway, trying to think of something intelligible to say to you, when Steve walked in through the other way. He too had not noticed me yet, his skin also sunkissed and a bit long.

I opened my mouth to speak, but before any sound could come out, I watched as my best friend slid his arms around your waist, turned you around in a swift and gentle motion, and kissed you. Ice filled my veins and it felt as if a rock had dropped in my stomach. I staggered backwards a bit, hiding myself more in the darkness of the archway as I saw the scene unfold.

Steve was kissing you. His hands were gentle around your waist, and although you were taken by surprise in the moment, you stood on your toes to be more on his level. You cupped his face and smiled. You were smiling. You looked…happy.

I slipped away back down the hallway and into my room before I could see more. The image of my best friend kissing the love of my life was burned into my mind. I sat on my bed in a disgruntled mess, fighting the strange waves of feelings that were swirling in my body.

You were finally back. You were safe. At that I was able to release the tension in my chest that I had been holding since you left. And then… Steve. What had changed during those six weeks you were gone? Was it serious? Did you love him? Did he love you? These questions paced back and forth inside of my brain until I was nearly dizzy.

It was the memory of Nat’s voice that stuck out amongst my own thoughts. “Let her go.”

You had been happy in that kitchen. Steve was a good man, too good to play with someone’s feelings if he didn’t truly feel something for them. Steve was good for you. That’s what I wanted, wasn’t it? The reason why I broke your heart in the first place? To set you free to find someone that would love you in all the ways I was incapable of doing. Why was I mad that you had done that? Why did I want to punch Steve for kissing you?

I clenched my fists as I sat on the bed. My body shook with so much emotion. In the torental storm that was my mind, I tried to focus on one memory. The only one that mattered. That night on the balcony. You had stood there, hair swirling in the breeze, more beautiful than the night sky. And you said it.

“I’m in love with you.”

The words calmed me. The memory of that night grounded me. Your tears. Your sadness. Your anger. I caused that. “I’m in love with you.” That is what you told me. And even though I wanted to scream it back, to shout it from the roof that I loved you too, instead I denied you. I threw it back in your face to save you from what I am. I hurt you, and this was my punishment. Seeing you pick up the pieces of that love that I shattered and give it to someone who would nurture that love.

I sat there thinking and thinking, until my head was pounding. I laid down on my bed, the image of you kissing someone else burning in my head.

“I’m in love with you too,” I muttered to myself.

Then, as tears began to silently fall down my face, I began to laugh.

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄: Hate Sex w/ Ex!Fratboy!Bucky Barnes (ft. sorority sister!reader

a/n: i cannot begin to tell you how fucking aware i am that this is late and i'm almost falling behind but ohmygoodness i've been literally exhausted for the past two days. i'm lowkey pissed about it because i was super excited to write for this day and actually writing for it felt like i was dragging my feet behind me.

masterlist | kinktober masterlist | AO3

Fuck James Buchanan Barnes.

He’s a piece of shit, an asshole, a womanizer, a player, a liar and a dirty fucking cheat, but goddamn it, why do you always find yourself here? 

You hated him – no – you do hate him! 

Even people that hate their exes like the fact that they catch their eye, that they can’t find it within themselves to look away from them, that in some way, some capacity, they will always want them, that they will always be theirs regardless of whoever they get with in the future. 

Bucky knew you’d come to the party at his frat, and you knew that you would go with every intention of fucking with him. To everyone else, you were just bitter exes - that needed to fuck out whatever was going on between the two of you - so when you showed up in a dress that fell just below your ass, your friends figured you were just trying to get laid; but no one knew that this was his favorite color on you, let alone his favorite dress.

You just so happened to pick it out, that’s all! Couldn’t a girl want to pamper herself nowadays?

You fake laughed at whatever the dude that had fallen right into your trap said, a manicured hand lifting up to slap him on his arm gently, making extra sure to graze the naked skin of his arm that was exposed by his muscle tee with your acrylics. You fluttered your eyelashes at him innocently, a faux sweet smile on your face. 

Subconsciously, you knew that you wanted Bucky to take you home, or to his room, or to wherever the fuck he wanted too – but you’d never admit that to yourself. You couldn’t. He couldn’t win this game of cat and mouse, not without a fight, and you just so happened to love playing dirty.

You could feel Bucky’s stare burning into your back. Your bodycon dress was completely strapless, leaving little to nothing to the imagination as your breasts threatened to spill out over the top. You weren’t a sorority slut by any means, one of your sister’s had that covered, but still, you were going to go home with somebody tonight.

Even if he was an idiot.

“That’s so funny, Aaron.” Aaron laughed nervously, cheeks blooming a deep red as he rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s uh- actually Eric.” Right. “Sorry.” You giggled, raising the neck of your beer as if it was some sort of explanation for the fact that you don’t really give a shit about what his name is and more about what’s in his pants.

Before you could speak, your eyes raised up to meet Bucky’s, who was standing across the pull, two ladies vying for his attention as he puffed on what looked like a blunt. It looked like he was in the same boat that you were; that he didn’t care about what they were saying, only you.

Biting your lip, you turned your gaze back to Aaron – Eric. 

You knew you’d have to up the ante in order to get him to move, because right now you know he thinks that you’re all bark no bite. You’ll show him.

“You know…” You made a finger walking motion up his arm, the tips of your nails now slightly digging into his skin. “How about we get out of here?” You fluttered your eyelashes up at him. “It’s too crowded… and loud.” Your hand finally rested on his upper bicep, giving it a soft squeeze. The poor man’s jaw was slightly dropped, as if he was a fish out of water. 

“Yeah, yeah, I-” He attempted to say, but when you raised your gaze again, Bucky was gone, and you had forced yourself to bite back a wolfish smile because you knew he was on the move somewhere.

“What’s goin’ on over here?” Bucky’s voice sounded as he approached the both of you from behind. Eric looked as if he had seen a ghost, but the poor boy had no idea that he was just a pawn in your game. 

“Oh- uh- nothin’ man, just talking.” You raised a brow at Eric’s shaky excuse. Internally, you rolled your eyes. What a pussy. 

“Really?” Bucky asked in amusement, not even bothering to hide the face splitting smirk that contorted his face. “Yep.” You responded, popping the ‘p’ as you took the blunt from him. You wrapped your mouth around it, your gaze almost challenging him as you sucked, pulling the smoke into your lungs. It burned but it was worth it to see the tick in his jaw and the slight twitch in his eye at the sight of your pursed lips.

“I think that I um- I’m just gonna go.” Eric squeaked awkwardly. All lustful intention slipped away from him as he grasped his hand and shook it. From the poor man’s wince you can tell that Bucky put a little bit too much force in his shake.

When the random guy slipped away you couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Real smooth.” You commented. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” 

“I’m talking about you trying to act like you weren’t trying to fuck me right in front of him.” The way you said it was as if it was the most casual thing on earth. “I almost forgot how possessive you get when you know someone else wants me.” You tilted your chin up to finally face him, and you caught yourself from almost stumbling over your words at the primal look on his face. 

You did it. You won this game fair - enough - and square.

“Too bad my pussy doesn’t belong to you anymore, isn’t it, James?”

“Shut the fuck up.” He growled, taking an intimidating step towards you. But you weren’t scared, if anything you were turned on. 

“Don’t get mad at me because I’m right, even though anger does look good on you.” 

You went to step away, but he was quick to snatch your wrist, “Were not done talkin’.” You made a noncommittal attempt to tug yourself free. “I am.” 

The tension between the two of you sizzled like oil on a pan, beckoning, calling for someone to do something, anything, to appease the burning desire that was coiling in Bucky and yours’ guts.

“If you’re not done then I guess we should find somewhere quiet to talk then.” 

He didn’t give you the chance to offer a rebuttal because he was already dragging you away from the prying eyes of party goers, his frat brothers and your sorority sisters. You already had an idea of where he was taking you, pushing the both of you through the sea of people that flooded the house, most of them drunk or high or a hammered off of a little bit of everything that was rotating throughout the home.

When he’d found his room, he was grateful that no one had decided to fuck in it, because that was what he was supposed to be doing.

He let your body be the thing that slammed the door shut with a loud bang!

He kissed you harshly, his left hand grasped your chin while the other hiked a full leg over his hip, grinding his erection onto your needy core.

“Fuck!” You gasped, your back arching off the wood as you broke the kiss. The friction of his jeans against your pulsing clit sent you staggering for balance, your inhibitions clouding your mind when you allowed your self-control to completely flee from within you.

“Bucky baby.” You whined. The man practically preened at the sound of his old nickname, his humping turning harder and calculated. He clearly had an end goal in mind. 

“What were you sayin’ about this pussy not bein’ mine no more?” He quipped. “I still mean it.” You gasped. He growled, but nonetheless, that didn’t deter him from shoving his face in the corner of your neck and biting down on the skin. Hard.

You yelped at the pain, but it shot down straight to your stimulated core. The bite only drew you closer to your embarrassingly fast approaching orgasm. It had been so long since you’d been touched by him, and God, you missed his hands, his voice, his touch, his smell, his cock.

“‘M close, Buck, ‘m so close.” You murmured, waving your fingers through his brunette hair and tugging on the strands. You felt a burning bitterness well-up in your gut when the tips of your fingers brushed against the hard plastic of the silver crown on top of his head. You sneakily took it off before throwing it somewhere in his room.

“No need to be jealous, honey.” He teased with a smirk on his face. “Shut— shut up!” Your rebuttal only came out as a whine. You could feel the cloth of your laced thong stick to your wet labia with every grind on his jeans – which also now sported a dark spot on his pants.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You swore as you came. “There you go. That’s it, good girl.” Small whimpers slipped out of you as he worked you into overstimulation. 

“God,” He groaned. “I’ve gotta fuck you.”

Guiding his face up to yours, you brushed your lips together, holding your intense eye contact with one another. “Then fuck me, Buck. I think you have a point to prove.” He leaned forward just a bit to nip at your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth. 

“Fuckin’ naughty.” Bucky grunted, forcing your leg down from his hip for a moment to snatch your panties down your legs. Your hands shot out to his belt buckle, slipping the leather out of it and unbuttoning his jeans. It was your turn to shove his pants down and grab his hard on, his hot cock pulsing in your hand.

The air in the back of his throat caught at the feeling of your stroking, “God– turn around.” You did as he said and felt his large, calloused hands pushing up your dress.

“Gonna make sure everyone at this fuckin’ party knows you’re mine.” He says lowly, pulling down his underwear to his mid-thigh and prodding his tip at your entrance. “Even if you fuckin’ hate me.” With that, he entered you, splitting you in half on his cock.

You cried out at the feeling, false nails scratching at the surface of his door in an attempt to keep yourself steady. “Feels so good, Buck. So, so, good.” You mewled, your hips pushing out on their own accord to try and take your own pleasure. “Always so fuckin’ greedy.” He chided. His hands grabbed at the fat of your ass, pulling out of you only to slam back in, sending you up the wall.

Your bodies moved in a familiar symphony that had been sung numerous times before, as they hadn’t forgotten one another, they were just simply waiting for the both of you to press play.

His dick repeatedly prodded at your g-spot, the friction sending you into overdrive as you moaned, and cried and begged. “God, I think ‘m gonna cum, Buck!” You exclaimed, walls repeatedly clenching down on him. “That’s right, doll. ‘Fuckin squeeze me.” He bellowed, his own thrusts growing sloppy as he neared his end.

Your noises raised in pitch before your arms gave out and you collapsed forward, instead opting to cross your arms and rest your head on your forearms.

“Gonna cum in this sweet pussy, sweetheart.” He said through gritted teeth, his thrusting growing sloppy and uncoordinated.

“Do it, fuck, I-” Your words died out, your body wracking with shivers as your second orgasm of the night overtook you. 

It wasn’t long before you felt his seed warm your insides, painting your womb white as your eyesight went white, and your pussy sucked him up for all he’s worth.

Your chests heaved.

“I still hate you.” You huffed.

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less.” He said through a smile.

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