#tony arguing with ghost

[pandagirl45]

Tony: *staring at a horrifying ghost like entity* move!

Entity: *hisses*

Tony: god damn it!!! You have a corner! *points to the corner with a futon and computer* please, I need coffee

Steve and them: *growing concern at tony yelling at the counter and coffee machine*

Bucky: *blinks seeing the entity look at him only to catch tony attention*...

Tony: tell Glenda to get the fuck out the way bucky! Please I am dying!

Everyone: *stares at bucky now* ????!!!

Bucky: 0-0 move glenda

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #14

It all started with a ghost. A very loud, very neon, very annoying ghost that thought it was a great idea to haunt Stark Tower. Danny Fenton—part-time student, full-time accidental hero, and perpetually exhausted teen—was just trying to track the damn thing through the Manhattan skyline when his portal malfunctioned (again), exploded in his face (again), and slingshotted him across the sky, straight through a window that turned out to be reinforced vibranium glass.

It should’ve stopped him. It didn’t.

Cue the alarms. Cue the dozens of defense drones locking onto his energy signature. Cue a 19-year-old Danny dangling upside down in the penthouse, surrounded by billion-dollar murder bots, trying to explain to a very confused AI that he was not, in fact, an alien invader.

But before FRIDAY could blast him into oblivion, a small voice piped up from behind a couch. “Are you a fairy?”

Danny blinked. Dangling upside down. Singed suit. Ectoplasm dripping from his hair. “Uh. Sure.”

The voice belonged to a tiny, curly-haired gremlin wearing a tutu, light-up sneakers, and what looked like Tony Stark’s old Iron Man helmet—three sizes too big and twice as chaotic. This was Morgan Stark. Age: five. Chaos level: eldritch god. She approached him like a cat approaches a new toy: equal parts curiosity and threat assessment.

“Can you do sparkles?” she asked.

Danny shot a tiny beam of ecto-energy at the ceiling light, which exploded into fireworks.

Morgan gasped. “OH MY GOD, YOU ARE A FAIRY.”

And that was how Danny Fenton became Morgan Stark’s official babysitter.

It wasn’t like he volunteered. Or got paid. Or even agreed. Tony Stark had been out of the country—something about a diplomatic mess in Wakanda and a golf game with T’Challa. Pepper had begged Steve Rogers to watch Morgan, but Steve’s idea of babysitting was forcing a child to recite the Constitution. So Pepper, desperate and very, very sleep-deprived, walked into her penthouse to find a teenage boy hovering in midair while her daughter screamed “FAIRY GODBRO” at him and decided, “Yeah. Sure. This’ll do.”

“Can you keep her alive?” Pepper asked, not even blinking at the glowing green eyes.

Danny shrugged. “Uh. I guess?”

“You get dental.”

Danny had no idea what that meant but was too scared to argue.

By Day Three, he was in hell. Not the Ghost Zone. Not some apocalyptic alternate timeline. Actual hell. Or what felt like it. Morgan had no concept of mortality. She once duct-taped kitchen knives to her arms and yelled “I’M WOLVERINE NOW.” Another time, she tried to feed their Roomba peanut butter and sobbed when it wouldn’t eat.

Danny tried to keep up. He really did.

Unfortunately, he was also being hunted by an interdimensional ghost warlord named Balthazar the Undying who decided Stark Tower was a great place to stage his declaration of conquest. So in between coloring pages and singing “Let It Go” for the 57th time (because Morgan said if he didn’t, she’d tell everyone he “pees ectoplasm”), Danny was banishing ancient horrors to the Shadow Realm.

“Why does the air taste like sadness?” Morgan asked one morning, sipping chocolate milk while a spectral hand clawed its way out of the floor behind her.

Danny shot it with a laser without looking. “That’s just the trauma, kid.”

She nodded like that made sense.

By Day Five, things got weirder.

Bruce Banner came over to “assess the babysitter.” What he found was a 19-year-old ghost hybrid making chicken nuggets with one hand while performing an exorcism on a sentient blender with the other. Bruce blinked. “You’re multitasking.”

Danny, dead-eyed and covered in slime: “You’re not my real dad.”

Bruce left after Morgan bit him.

Then Peter Parker dropped by. He took one look at Danny—haggard, twitching, wearing a tiara—and whispered, “Oh my god, he is a hot mess.”

“Shut up,” Danny snapped, using his foot to hold down a haunted Roomba. “Help me tie up the possessed dolls.”

Peter did not help. He just filmed everything for TikTok. The video went viral under the title “Me when I leave a random ghost fairy babysitter with Tony Stark’s child and come back to find him summoning the underworld during snack time.”

Nick Fury saw the video and sent a S.W.O.R.D. strike team to investigate.

Morgan beat them with a plastic lightsaber.

On Day Seven, Danny woke up to find Morgan riding a flying toaster around the living room like it was a dragon.

“WHERE DID YOU GET THAT?”

“I summoned it,” she said proudly.

“HOW.”

“I made a deal with your ghost friends.”

Danny’s left eye twitched so hard he saw the Ghost Zone.

Pepper walked in on him mid-breakdown. “You’ve been great with her,” she said, sipping her coffee. “We haven’t seen her this happy since… well, ever.”

Danny, clinging to the ceiling like a feral raccoon, wheezed, “I think she opened a portal to the Necroplane. There’s a demon named Craig living in the fridge.”

Pepper patted his arm. “All babysitters say that.”

Craig opened the fridge and waved. “Sup.”

By Week Two, Danny had stopped pretending to be normal. He phased through walls, levitated toys, vaporized anything that smelled like danger, and occasionally screamed “I’M TOO YOUNG TO BE HAVING A MID-LIFE CRISIS” into the void.

Tony finally came home. He blinked at the scene: Danny napping upside down like a bat while Morgan built a nuclear reactor out of old toaster parts and a Roomba named Kevin.

“Who the hell is that?” Tony asked.

Morgan didn’t even look up. “My fairy godbrother. He banished an evil frog ghost and helped me build an orbital laser.”

Tony stared. “Huh. Alright.”

And just like that, Danny Fenton became part of the Avengers.

He didn’t sign anything. He didn’t train. He didn’t even get a uniform. But every time something exploded or a portal opened or some ancient deity said “BEHOLD MY TRUE FORM,” Danny just floated into the air, cracked his back like an old man, and said, “Not in front of the child, you drama bitch.”

Morgan, from her juice box throne: “YEET HIM INTO THE VOID, DANNY.”

And he did.

It only got worse when the other Avengers got involved.

Natasha tried to teach Morgan how to do spy stuff. Morgan used the techniques to sneak into Tony’s wine cellar and replace the labels with glitter glue and threats.

Thor visited once. Morgan asked if she could ride his hammer. He said no. She cried. The hammer floated toward her on its own. Danny had to wrestle it away.

Clint brought over a bow and arrow set. Morgan hit Peter in the ass with a suction cup dart. Danny laughed so hard he choked on ectoplasm.

Wanda stared at Danny for a full ten minutes before whispering, “You’re not from this plane.”

Danny, deadpan: “Neither is your eyeliner.”

They became friends.

One night, Danny woke up to find Morgan drawing summoning circles on the walls in glitter glue.

“Whatcha doing, champ?”

“Trying to summon a unicorn for Auntie Yelena.”

Danny blinked. “Go back to bed.”

She glared. “You don’t support women in STEM.”

By Month One, SHIELD had officially labeled Danny as a “Class 7 Unexplainable Being with Babysitting Potential.” He had a badge. He had clearance. He had no idea what was happening anymore.

All he knew was that if Morgan Stark said “Danny, I wanna adopt a ghost puppy,” then by God, he was going to march into the Ghost Zone and wrestle a spectral hellhound into a leash.

And he did.

Its name is Toast.

Danny Fenton—ghost boy, half-dead teenager, babysitter of the year—accidentally became the most powerful figure in the universe. Not because of his powers. Not because of his knowledge. Not even because of his tragic backstory.

But because Morgan Stark liked him. And if you hurt Morgan Stark, you would be introduced to Craig, the fridge demon, and Kevin, the haunted Roomba, and Toast, the ghost puppy, and then, finally, the very angry, very tired, very over-it Danny Phantom who could—and would—yeet you into another dimension for interrupting nap time.

The Avengers knew better than to interfere.

Even Thanos came back to life once, took one look at Danny and Morgan, and said, “No thanks.”

He snapped himself back out of existence.

Danny didn’t even flinch.

Morgan dabbed.

And somewhere, in the vast multiverse of chaos and consequence, Tony Stark looked at his daughter, his haunted apartment, his glowing ghost babysitter eating fruit snacks while levitating a possessed microwave, and muttered to himself—

“Yeah. That tracks.”

[tinyshyteacup]

Tw: cussing, angst, choking, bruises

Part 2

Words of Command - Part 3

The lights in Stark Tower dim on a gentle cycle—cool and golden like a fading sunset. You rub your eyes as the hallway stretches quiet and long before you, socks sliding soft over polished floors.

It’s late.

And you're exhausted.

You offer a tired goodnight to Steve, who nods with a warm smile from the common room couch, book half-forgotten in his lap.

Behind you… Bucky follows.

Silently. Footsteps so soft for a man made of steel and shadows.

You glance back at him. “You don’t have to follow me now,” you murmur, voice laced with sleep.

He tilts his head.

“Protection” he says simply.

Not a question.

A statement.

You bite your lip and nod—too tired to argue, too soft-hearted to tell him no. Still, anxiety coils in your gut.

You grab your Stark Phone and speed-dial Tony.

He answers after three rings, voice groggy and annoyed. “If this is about him eating toothpaste, I swear to God—”

“Tony,” you whisper. “He’s following me. Into my room.”

Pause.

“...Okay, that’s less funny. Still not my problem. Give him a blanket or something.”

“I don’t think he knows what blankets are, let alone boundaries,” you say, glancing at the man shadowing your every move like a silent sentinel.

“Yeah, well—RoboCop's not getting his own room until you've got him fully housetrained—Congrats, Thumbelina. You’re now the proud owner of a six-foot trauma-soaked heat-seeking murder puppy. Mazel tov.”

You sigh.

He hangs up.

You push open your bedroom door and slip inside, flicking on the lamp with a soft click.

The light spills across the room in a warm wash—cream walls, soft bedding, a shelf of books you haven’t had time to finish. It’s a safe space. Your space.

The Soldier follows.

And pauses.

Like an animal entering unfamiliar territory.

You move to the dresser, trying not to act weird. “I’m just getting ready for bed. You can—um… you can sit? Over there?”

He stands by the door. Watching.

Every mirror, every shadow, every flicker of movement, he tracks it all. Head snapping slightly, expression unreadable.

And then JARVIS speaks.

“Good evening, Miss. Shall I dim the—”

CLANG.

You whip around just in time to see him move—smooth and deadly, like a switch flipped inside his skull.

Arm raised, metal hand snapping toward a wall panel like he’s going to actually rip JARVIS straight out of the drywall.

“Shit—No!” you squeak, rushing forward.

He throws a glance over his shoulder—tense, locked in—but the moment his eyes meet yours, the storm stalls. His breathing is shallow. Pupils blown wide. JARVIS had startled him.

“Room compromised,” he says, clipped.

You place a hand on his arm—his flesh arm—and slowly ease him back.

“That’s just JARVIS. He’s… he’s like a ghost that lives in the walls, okay?”

He blinks. “...Ghost?”

You smile nervously. “He won’t hurt anyone.”

Slowly… so slowly… he lowers his arm.

But his eyes never stop moving.

You set your clothes down for the morning and glance over to find him standing in the corner, half-shadowed, metal hand flexing subtly at his side. Not speaking. Not relaxing.

Just watching.

“Do you… do you want to sleep?” you offer gently. “I could make a spot—on the wee couch, or…”

He doesn’t answer. But when you climb into bed, turn off the lamp, and settle under your blanket, you hear the smallest creak of the floor.

He moves.

He sits in the corner.

Back against the wall.

Facing the door.

Soldier on guard.

Watching.

Protecting.

Sometime in the night, you wake to a strange stillness.

The room is dark, but you can feel his presence.

Eyes heavy with sleep, you lift your head and see him still there—knees drawn up, eyes open.

He hasn’t moved.

Not once.

You whisper, “You can rest, too, you know…”

He says nothing.

But for the first time, his head tilts.

The soft hum of Stark Tower fills the silence like a heartbeat in a hollow chest. The skyline glows faint behind your blackout curtains, and somewhere distant, JARVIS murmurs about internal diagnostics.

But inside your room, there’s stillness.

You’ve long since drifted off to sleep, curled beneath layers of blankets, your breathing steady and quiet.

Across the room, seated in the corner where he’s kept watch for hours, Bucky or 'Soldat' is also asleep.

Or… trying.

His back is pressed against the wall, legs drawn in tight, arms rigid across his lap. He hadn’t meant to sleep. Hadn’t wanted to.

A whimper broke the silence. Bucky's head thrashed from side to side, his long hair flicking across his face with the movement. His metal fingers twitched and clenched.

But the moment his eyes had closed, the nightmare came.

His breath hitches.

It starts in his chest like a tremor, then takes hold—harder, faster. Metal fingers twitch. His jaw tightens. In the dark, his eyes move behind closed lids.

Russian words tumbled from his lips as his movements grew more agitated. Sweat beaded on his forehead as whatever nightmare has him in its grip tightened its hold.

Restraints.

Cold.

Hands.

Falling.

Needles.

The chair.

Pain.

The voice.

Pain.

That voice.

Pain.

"missiya" mission.

He jerks upright with a sudden violent inhale, like he’s surfacing from deep underwater. For a heartbeat, he’s not in Stark Tower.

He’s not in your bedroom.

He’s back in Siberia.

You jolt awake instantly—some part of your brain registering the shift in energy before your eyes even open.

But it’s too late.

The weight of a body is over you, the cold wrap of vibranium fingers tight around your throat.

He’s straddled you before his eyes even fully focus, breath ragged and guttural like a wolf mid-attack. There’s no recognition in his face—just movement.

You can’t breathe.

Your hands claw instinctively at his wrist—not to hurt him, just to get air.

Your voice comes out as a whisper, a desperate plea.

“Soldat—!”

The grip loosens instantly.

His eyes go wide.

Recognition blooms like a bomb going off in his chest.

He scrambles backward, nearly falling off the bed as his breath hitches and catches.

You swear for a second he looks at you like he’s seen a ghost.

“Handler,” he breathes, voice hollow.

A beat.

Then—

"Awaiting instructions, doll."

Ok—that's new—what the fuc—

The endearment slipped out, seemingly without his awareness.

Wait.

His voice.

You freeze.

The accent—it’s... lessened.

Still there, still faint, but there’s a tremor of something else beneath it. Something almost American. Like muscle memory from a past self is bleeding back in.

You massaged your throat, watching him warily. "What did you just call me?" you managed, your voice raspy.

You look at him—he’s curled into himself now, pressed against the far edge of your bed like he wants to disappear into the wall.

“Cryostasis?” he mutters.

A tremor starting in his flesh hand.

You frowned, confused by the unfamiliar term. "Cryostasis? What's that?" you asked cautiously.

His eyes darted to your face, then away, as though even acknowledging the question might be a violation of protocol.

"Cold comes. Then nothing." His odd new accent stumbled over the clinical description.

You whisper, “It’s okay.”

His head shakes—once, hard. “No.”

“That is not going to happen,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer.

You reach for him—not fast, not aggressive. Just enough to brush your fingers against his sleeve. You’re shaking. So is he.

“I shouldn’t have woken you like that,” you whisper.

His eyes flash to yours.

“You shouldn’t come near me.”

He says it like a warning. Like he’s dangerous. A loaded weapon without a safety.

The morning light leaks into Stark Tower through sleek glass panels, catching dust motes in golden slants. The smell of coffee and toast drifts from the communal kitchen as the Avengers mill around in various states of half-awake bickering.

Tony is already three steps ahead, tapping away at a holographic interface while bemoaning someone using his milk.

You step inside, shoulders pulled in, your oversized hoodie swallowing your frame. Your neck is artfully concealed—layers of makeup, your hair tucked to one side, collar tugged high. You don’t want them to see.

Behind you, Bucky moves like a shadow—soundless but ever-present. His eyes never leave you. He doesn’t acknowledge the others.

“Jesus,” Clint mutters under his breath, low enough that only Natasha hears. “He’s still glued to her.”

Natasha doesn’t respond. Her eyes are locked on Bucky. Calculating.

Steve is seated at the far end of the room, newspaper in one hand, coffee in the other—but when you walk in, his eyes lift over the rim of the mug. They soften. Then narrow.

Then shift to the Soldier.

Something is off.

Tony glances up from his projections.

“Morning, Thumbelina,” he greets, in that usual teasing voice he uses when pretending not to care too much. Then his gaze flicks to you again—and he stills.

You’re not quite fast enough with your coffee mug.

His eyes catch the edge of discoloration peeking beneath your concealer—faint, but unmistakable. A handprint, forming from throat to jaw. Not quite healed. Not quite hidden.

His expression drops.

“What the hell is that?”

You freeze mid-sip.

The room goes quiet.

Tony’s voice cuts the air like a blade. “That better not be what I think it is.”

Your throat closes. “Tony—”

“I knew it. I knew the 'silent Soviet scarecrow' routine was just a breath away from having a full-on Hulk-themed episode!”

Bucky reacts instantly.

The tension in his shoulders coils tight like a sprung trap. His jaw clenches, head snapping toward Stark like a weapon finding a target.

One step forward—fast. Direct.

“Back down.”

His voice is low, cold. His accent is faded but not gone—words flatter, more clipped. American ghosts clinging to Russian steel.

Steve’s head tilts.

Tony lifts his hands, mockingly. “Oh, look at that! RoboRambo speaks. Did they teach you that in murder school or is that the accent of a guy trying to remember who he used to be?”

Bucky’s fist tightens. Metal groaning.

Your hand shoots out, placing it on his chest.

“Doll,” he says instantly, like the word grounds him.

"Stand Down ... Please"

He nods.

But his attention doesn’t leave you.

Not for one second.

Steve stands slowly. Not threatening. Just observing.

“You hear that?” he says quietly to the room, gaze on Stark but words aimed at Bucky. “His voice. It’s… changing.”

“Changing into what?” Tony mutters, pacing slightly now. “The warm tones of someone who nearly crushed her windpipe in her sleep?”

Bucky flinches. It’s subtle—but it’s there.

“Tony, please,” you whisper. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“Oh, no, I forgot—brainwashing, programming, whatever. But forgive me if I don’t want my employees being used as a therapy animal for the man who can snap necks like breadsticks!”

Bucky stares blankly.

None of the names or faces mean anything to him.

But the tension rising in you—that registers.

He steps protectively between you and Tony.

“Neutralize the threat,” he says coldly.

“No, no—” Your hands are shaking. “Don’t do that. There’s no threat. Tony’s just… being Tony.”

“Irritating?” Clint offers, trying to diffuse the moment. “Yeah, he’s great at that.”

Steve crosses the room slowly.

“Bucky,” he tries.

The Soldier’s gaze doesn’t flicker. His expression doesn’t change.

There’s no flicker of recognition in those eyes. Only patience. Obedience. A mind made of shattered glass slowly piecing itself back together.

You guide him gently to the table. He lets you. When you move, he follows. When you speak, he listens.

But when others speak?

He blinks. No comprehension.

“Why doesn’t he know us?” Natasha asks softly. Her words are for Steve.

“I don’t know,” Steve murmurs. “But the accent fading… that’s gotta be memory. It means someone’s still in there.”

Tony crosses his arms, looking you dead in the eye. “You need to be honest with us. If you’re in danger—”

“I’m not.”

“You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t,” you say. Your voice is small. “And he stopped the second he realized.”

“And then went right back to calling you ‘Handler,’” Tony snaps.

[brnesblogposts]

yes, no, maybe?

pairing bucky barnes x reader

warnings: angst!!! maybe fluff.. you’ll find out if i’m feeling evil today. tony stark is your dad. reader is in her 20s :)

word count: 1.2k

The heart is what keeps us alive, it pumps blood through our veins and supposedly tells us what we want. Sometimes the heart breaks, sometimes that is enough to bring us to our knees pleading with the powers above to make it stop hurting.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Wait a minute.. Y/n do you have a crush on Bucky?”

“Ummmm” She looks sheepishly at her dad as he asks, blush creeping up her neck and face. Why must this topic of come up while she was with all the avengers.. Bucky himself not included as he was out for a ride on his bike.

“Y/n..” Natasha is giving her a weird look somewhere between disbelief and pity.

“I don’t have a crush on Bucky.” She reassures them all with a sheepish look; A collective sigh of relief is released by all of the avengers.

“I’m in love with him” She says just loud enough for everyone to hear while still avoiding making eye contact with anyone. There’s a collective gasp this time, their faces ranging from unreadable to disconcerted.

“That’s not okay or appropriate” Bruce states matter-of-factly and her face falls at his words.

“He’s too old for you, he’s riddled with trauma and has seen one hundred and eight years pass by” Tony counters, she knew her dad of all people would never approve which is why she was gonna bottle her feelings for Bucky up and pine for him for the rest of her life even if it felt like it was slowly killing her.

“I know but-” She tries to argue back but is cut off by Steve.

“Your dad is right. Not only has Bucky been through hell on Earth and back, but he’s way too old for you, the age gap is like eighty years, that’s not right.” He’s sympathetic in his words but they still rip a hole in her chest.

“I know all of that- Technically he’s over one hundred years old but physically he’s no older than his mid thirties and I know that’s still an age difference of course.. I don’t care though, I love him, I really do.” She hopes they’ll begin to understand that her feelings for him are real and aren’t going away any time soon.

“Honey..” Clint puts a comforting hand on her shoulder, trying to get her to see their point of view, to see how she’s so blinded by love that she’s not thinking logically.

“Can we not do this,” she all but pleads and is met with sorrowful looks.

“You need to get over him, it’s never gonna happen.” She feels her shoulders drop at her dad's curt response, like he didn’t care for how hurtful his words were. She barely meets his eyes as her own start to fill with tears.

“Excuse me.” Her voice cracks as she flees the vicinity, leaving the compound and making her way down to the stream by the woods, a place she went to when she needed solace.

──── ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧ ────

“What’s going on?” Bucky's voice breaks everyone from their reverie as they stare at the door you just walked out of.

“Bucky” Steve says while looking dazed by his best friend’s sudden unheard entrance. The group stares at Bucky with awkward expressions, not knowing what to say.

“You guys say I have the staring problem?” He retorts with a chuckle that quickly dies down when their expressions don’t change to ones of laughter or even a slight smile, which only furthers his worry.

“Okay someone tell me what the hell is going on, you all look like you’ve seen a ghost or something” He looks each of them in the eye.

“It’s Y/n…” Natasha says, and Bucky’s face turns to one of concern.

“Wh- What? I- Is she okay??” Panic started to rise within him before Steve put a hand on his friends shoulder.

“She’s not in danger or anything, she’s okay.” He reassures the fretful man, “It’s an… Emotional thing…” He says aloofly.

“Emotional? What- What do you mean? Did someone upset her?” His protective instincts rose to the surface at the thought of someone hurting his Doll. Before he could act on his rash emotions Clint spoke up.

“Bucky-” He grabs the super soldiers attention “She- She confessed that she’s in love with you.” Clint was gentle with his tone knowing how fickle this situation was.

Bucky looked at the archer with slightly widened eyes and his lips parted slightly at the shock of his words.

“What?” He asked in disbelief, is this some sort of practical joke? If it is, it’s not funny at all.

“Y/N is in love with you, we tried telling her it’s impractical, that it’s not appropriate but she wouldn’t listen to us” Bruce chimed in.

Bucky remained still, mind whirring as he tried to process this information.

“Y/n? Me? She loves me??” He’s flabbergasted as the Avengers nod in confirmation.

“She’s not taking the news that it’s never gonna happen well” Steve gives his friend a pitiful smile.

Bucky knows it’s not right, he’s old and broken and you’re young and so full of light and positivity, even if his heart guiltily yearns for it, he won’t allow it to happen. He won’t allow himself to dim your light.

“Okay,” Bucky coughs “where did she go? I want to talk to her.” Hearing how upset you were by the other guys rejection on behalf of Bucky has only made him feel guilty, he should be the one to comfort you and talk it out, and he intends to do just that.

──── ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧ ────

He hears the water running through the stream and the bristle of the leaves as the wind sways the trees, he understands why you come here when your mind is archaic, there's a serenity in the peace.

You're sat at the rivers edge, knees up to your chest, watching the moving water completely unaware of Bucky's looming presence until he sits down beside you.

Without even looking at him you just know it's Bucky watching you, assessing. "You can understand that the last person I want to talk about this with is you, I'm embarrassed enough as it is." You curl up into yourself more.

"There's nothing to be embarrassed about" Bucky reassures softly.

"Everyone, including you now knows about my pathetic little feelings, if I had just kept it to myself then everything would be fine and I wouldn't of made our friendship awkward." You ramble, still not looking his way.

"First of all, there's nothing pathetic about your feelings, nobody can control those. Secondly, you haven't ruined anything as far as I'm concerned. Can we at least talk about it?" Bucky bumps your arm with his.

At your silence he tries again.

"Can I talk?" He sees you consider for a moment.

"I can't stop you" You mutter and Bucky feels like he's getting somewhere.

"I know you feel embarrassed, there's no need to be though. Crushes happen, we can't control who our heart falls for. I'm a broken man Y/n, my past eats me alive most nights. I'm old and withered, you though, you're young and full of so much life and love to give. I'm no man for you. If circumstances were different I'd be the luckiest man in the world to have you as my girl. But you understand why we can't be together in this universe don't you?"

You nod. Finally looking up at Bucky to see him already looking back at yo and your tear stained cheeks. His features soften and he brings his hands up to wipe your tears away and proceeds to move up closer to you, wrapping his arms around your waist as you rest your head on his chest, tears still falling.

"I'm sorry that I fell in love with you."

"I'm sorry I can't love you like you want me to."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

a/n i started this over a year ago and went into a writing slump before i got to finish it but now i kind of hate it but i finished it and am posting it anyway.

taglist- @readingwaypastmybedtime @ktgsoul @armystay89 @mostlymarvelgirl

let me know if you wanna be on my bucky tag list

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Stark Contrast 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, lies, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online friend isn’t who he claims to be.

Characters: Tony Stark

Sister series to Captain’s Orders

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You close yourself in a stall and nearly scream. What the heck? This can't be real. Tony Stark. Eddie. One and the same. It's impossible. 

Think about it. Last night, you texted, then right there, you saw him on screen, check his phone. Coincidence. But then, how did he know your username? He's really good with tech, right? You could easily dox yourself. But then, what about Eddie? Why would he pretend to be some engineer. He is an engineer... 

It's adding up. But it can't. You can't have been talking to Tony Stark for the last year. That's impossible. Not you! 

Alright. You are not going to be his joke. You're going to go out there and tell him you know exactly what he's doing. He's making fun of you and it's not funny at all. Should he, some rich dude, probably the richest dude, have better hobbies? 

You push the stall door and grunt. It's pull. Right. You open it and slip through. 

You hurry to the door and slip in an errant puddle of water. Yeah, it's not your turn to deal with that. Don't stop, don't lose your nerve.  

Who are you to tell off Tony Stark? A billionaire? An avenger? Oof, the more you think about it, the closer you get, the worse an idea this all seems. The more scrambled the words in your head grow. 

You look down the aisles, retracing your steps to where you left him. He's not there. Yet, you hear him. His familiar, quite notable voice, carries in the dead store. Ugh, how did you not realise sooner? Now, you hear it. 

You storm down the soap dish aisle and see him standing casually as he talks to Julie. She doesn't look impressed. You come closer, slowing as his words grow clearer. 

"Yeah, she's quitting." He declares. 

You stop short and do a double take. He's not talking about you. 

"What?" Julie hisses. 

"Yeah, the job sucks. Shit pay," he puts one finger up, his other hand in his pants pocket, "uniform does nothing for that ass, and you're kind of a bitch, Julia." 

"Julie," she snarls and her eyes dart over to you. 

You gulp and sputter. Tony glances at you over his shoulder and smirks. 

"What's going on?" You squeak. 

"Well, sweetheart, I was just sharing the good news that you're moving on to greener pastures." He taunts and turns back to your manager. He tilts his head defiantly. "Not like you'll be hurting. Place is a ghost town." 

You blink as your mouth hangs open. Oh gosh, just when you thought things couldn't get worse. 

"No, I-- I'm not. I don't know him. I don't know what he's talking about--" you argue. 

Julie curls her lip. 

"Ech, you," she points at you, "get out of my store. Now." 

You flinch and look between her and Tony. He steps closer and brings his hand to your lower back. He pushes Julie's hand down. 

"Listen, Julianna, don't point at my girl like that," he warns. 

"Excuse me? This is still my store," she blusters. "I don't care who you are." 

"Uh huh," he clucks and drags his hand along your lower back as he stands straight. He reaches under his jacket and takes out his phone. "Hey, hun," he says as he dials out and puts the phone to his ear, "do me a favour, what's the store number?" 

She scoffs, "go to hell." 

"Fine, whatever," he snickers then leans into the phone, "Hey, Happy, do me a favour, look up the big box store..." he rambles on your city and the location. "Yeah, uh huh. Buy it. No, no, don't ask. Just do it. Thanks." 

He hangs up. You frown and push your shoulders up. This can't be real. 

"We'll wait for the paperwork and all that messy stuff to go through, Jenny," Tony slides his phone away. "But when it does, you're fired. Hell, I might come back just to see you hand in your keys." 

He snorts and swoops his arm around you. You wince as he ushers you forward. You're too dumbfounded to react. What is he doing? What did he do? 

You get outside before you snap back to earth. You plant your feet and try to pull away. He faces you but keep a hold of your arm. 

"So, how about some shwarma--" 

"What did you do? I need this job! I'm-- I'll lose my apartment! Oh, gosh." 

"Relax, that's not going to happen--" 

"I don't-- I-- but--" 

"It's not going to happen, babe," he brings his hand up to frame your face and steps closer, "because you're not gonna be living in that apartment. Say goodbye to this shit heap. You're moving on. Big leagues. New York. I got a nice big condo. A whole tower--" 

"Oh my god," you wriggle free of his grasp and spin away. "Oh, I'm gonna barf. This isn't real. It's not-- Tony-- Eddie. You," you face him again. "Look, this little game, it's not fun for me. You just ruined my life." 

"I bought the damn place. You want a job, I'll put you top of the pay roll--" 

"No, it's-- er--- jeez." 

“Good, because you’re not going to have time,” he goes to grab you and you dodge away from him. 

“Why? Why are you doing this? What are you doing?” You stay just out of reach. 

He smirks, “sweetheart, do you know how many women dream of this? Of me? A handsome billionaire sweeping you away from your boring life.” 

“Other women. Go find them.” 

He laughs. “You’re funny. It’s what I like about you.” 

“Please. Save us both the trouble and just go so I can beg my manager for my livelihood back--” 

You go to step past him and he catches your upper arm. He moves you back and tuts. He’s not smiling anymore. 

“You don’t get it. I’m Tony Stark. I don’t ask for what I want.” He squeezes until you whimper. “So let’s get going. Jet’s waiting.” 

“Jet-- but--” 

“What? Anything you leave behind, I’ll buy a new one, a better one. Now, come on.” He nudges you around and quickly hooks his arm around you. You stagger but he has you scampering. “I’m an important man and you’re about to be a real important woman.” 

“You--you can’t--” 

“I can. I am.” He says coolly as he walks you away from the store. “I flew all the way out here, I told your manager to kick rocks, and now I’m going home with what I came for.” He curls his fingers around your side as a shiny car chirps ahead of you. “Oh, and we both know how you are, sweetheart. You’re not going to stop me.” 

“But-- I--” 

“Private jet’s waiting. I went to all this trouble--” 

“My stuff! My apartment!” You twist out of his grasp. “Wait, wait, wait. This isn’t-- this is a joke.” 

“I’m a funny guy but I have a better sense of humour than that,” he says as he extends his arms. “I’m all yours, baby.” 

You gape at him, “I don’t-- I don’t want... that.” 

“Don’t want me? Don’t want an upgrade?” He scoffs and comes closer, grabbing your hand. “Let me tell ya something. You wouldn’t be so bitter if you weren’t so insecure.” 

“I’m not--” 

“Look, baby, it’s not a bad thing. I’m trying to build you up here. Alright? You hung up on me because you feel powerless, well, I’m gonna give you that power. Money, clothes, diamonds--” 

“Ed-- Tony—I--” you stammer. He’s right. You are helpless. 

“I mean, think about it. Who’s going to stop me?” He grins. “Not you.” 

Your eyes round and you grimace. He laughs again. It irks you. 

“You got no job, soon enough, you’ll be out of that shitty apartment too.” 

“That’s not--” You blink. “Why?” 

“Why? Do I really have to answer that?” 

You stare at him. 

He raises your hand and puts it on his shoulder as he yanks you closer, hooking his other arm around you. You lean away from him as you brace his shoulder. He nuzzles your cheek. 

“I came to take what’s mine,” he growls. “I put too much time into you, sweetheart. Tony Stark doesn’t walk away empty handed.” 

“I’m not... I’m not a thing,” you whisper and look him in the face. 

“No, you’re much more than that,” he assures you as he brings his hand to your chin. “So, let’s get a hop on it.” He drops his hand down your back and taps your ass. “I’m gonna take you back to New York, get you all dolled up, wine ya, dine ya, you know the rest.” 

Your lashes flutter. You’re dizzy. This can’t be real. You keep telling yourself that but here you are. No escape. 

“Alright,” he turns and keeps his arm across your back and checks his watch. “That pilot hates me so better not piss him off. I’ve been in enough crashes.” 

Enough? It’s probably the least concerning thing he’s said. No, it’s just another brick in the wall he built right at your back. 

🔴

You’re so rigid your bones hurt. You grip the arms of the leather chair and stare, wide-eyed, choked into silence. The situation is suffocating enough but it’s that other fear that has you paralysed. 

The thrum of the jet engine has you shaking. You’re still on the ground but not for long. You’re not ready to take off, let alone to go with this man. 

“Have some scotch,” Tony nudges your shoulder from beside you. “It’ll help.” 

You don’t react. You need to get up and leave. He can’t just spirit you away like this. It doesn’t matter if he is Iron Man. Well, you should go but you can’t move. 

“Sweetheart,” he touches your hand. “This your first time?” 

You whimper. 

He snickers and spreads his hand over yours. He peels your grip from the armrest and lifts it. Your trembling intensifies as your chest tightens. You can only think of gravity and its deadly consequences. 

“Here,” he wraps your fingers around the cup of scotch, “drink.” 

You can’t resist him as he guides the brim to your lips. He tilts your hand in his and you swallow before you can gag on the strong liquor. You drain half the glass before he pulls your hand back. You stick out your tongue in disgust. 

“Uck!” You grimace. 

“You’ll get used to the expensive stuff,” he chortles and sits back, emptying the rest. “Is this your only first or should I be gentle tonight--” 

“Stop, please,” your voice quavers. 

“You do know who I am, right? This thing falls apart, I got my suit. I’ll get us where we need to go,” he puts the glass down and sits back. “Besides, it’s safety checked and it’s Stark manufactured. That means it’s not going to go down. I will though, just in case you’re wondering.” 

You look at him and he winks. You look forward and shudder. He grabs your hand and you try to rip it away. He’s too strong. He kisses your knuckles. 

The intercom beeps. The pilot comes on, the one he said hates him, and announces that they’re ready to take off. You close your eyes and push yourself into the seat.  

The plane begins to move. Your breath clogs in your chest. You force it out only as your head begins to pulse. 

Tony pets your hand, “ah, baby, don’t worry. Ton’s here.” 

It’s not helping. It’s just a reminder that this isn’t what you want. That no matter what you say or do, or how you feel, that you have no choice in this. He knows that. He doesn’t mean it. He’s not trying to comfort you. He knows exactly the point he’s making. 

He’s going to do whatever the hell he wants, and you’ll do the exact same. Just like this flight, you’re along for the ride. 

[sharkwidow]

Red Mist Code | Natasha Romanoff

ᯓ★Summary: Sometimes what you need most isn’t answers, but a refuge.

ᯓ★Content warning:Trauma, anxiety, references to HYDRA.

ᯓ★Word count: 1,099

It was a quiet afternoon at the Avengers Tower—or at least it seemed that way. Inside the meeting room, the murmurs of the heroes’ debate rose like echoes, resonating with the weight of decisions that would change the world forever. The Civil War had reached its peak. The Superhuman Registration Act would change everything.

The debate was intense, every word thrown like an arrow, and in the middle of it all, Natasha Romanoff sat in silence, observing. It was hard to see a solution when the conflict was so deeply rooted in the emotions of everyone present. Tony and Steve were clashing again, as always, each defending what they believed was right. But Natasha… she just wanted to stop them from destroying what they had fought so hard to build.

Then suddenly, the vibrating sound of her phone pulled her out of her thoughts. It was a brief buzz, but it had the power to disconnect her from everything happening around her. The notification on the screen was clear: “Red Mist Code – Personal Level.”

Only she knew what that meant. This wasn’t a regular security protocol. That code had only been used once before, years ago, when rescuing a lost girl from a HYDRA base had become her most important mission. A mission that marked her in ways few people ever knew.

She didn’t hesitate. Without looking back, she stood quickly, ignoring the curious looks directed her way.

“I have to go,” she said, without offering any explanations. “It’s urgent.”

No one argued. They knew that when Natasha Romanoff said it was urgent, there was no time to waste.

—

You found yourself alone, like always. The room was silent—too silent. The heavy air wrapped around you like an invisible layer. You were crouched down, your hands pressed tightly to your chest, breathing with difficulty, as if the air itself was slipping away. You couldn’t think clearly. Your mind had gone foggy, and the memories of that place… that base… returned to you like shadows, like ghosts that never leave.

Your body trembled. You couldn’t stop remembering what they did to you, what happened, everything you lived through there, everything you had to endure. How do you escape that? How do you forget that you were a HYDRA experiment, just a number, a weapon in their hands?

Fear took hold of you once again, rushing through every corner of your being. You felt like you were back in that nightmare.

You heard the door open, but you didn’t look up. The sound of soft footsteps echoed in the room, and then a familiar voice broke the stillness.

“Look at me—look at me,” Natasha said, with a firmness that made you lift your head, though your eyes wouldn’t fully obey. You knew she was there, you could feel it, but you couldn’t find a way to stop feeling trapped. Her gaze, her presence—always so calm, so powerful. But you couldn’t find calm.

Your eyes met hers, and for a second, you felt like the world wasn’t falling apart as much as you thought. You were still there—with her. But the panic was still pounding in your chest.

“I’m not there…” you mumbled, your voice cracking, but the images kept flooding in—the shadows chasing you, the screams, the voices in your ears. Your mind tried to block it all, but the fear flooded in like a raging river.

Natasha came closer, her hands gently but firmly taking your face. She was the only one who knew how to quiet the chaos inside you.

“No. You’re not,” she said, her tone warm, almost maternal, even though all you wanted was for everything to stop. She looked at you deeply, as if she could see beyond the storm surrounding you. Her fingers brushed your skin, like she could anchor you to this moment, to this reality just by touching you.

“You’re in your room, at the Tower. You’re safe.”

Your breathing began to slow—just a little—but you felt the weight of Natasha’s words wrap around your mind. You were safe. Not in that base. Not under HYDRA’s control. Here and now, there was something keeping you grounded. Something in her.

“I can’t…” you whispered, tears forming, trembling. The panic was still there, but you clung to Natasha’s words like a lifeline.

“I know. But I’ve got you. And you’re not going to lose control. I’m here, do you hear me? You’re not going to lose it. Not while I’m with you.”

Finally, you managed to take a breath. It took effort, but you did it. The storm inside you began to calm, slowly, even though you knew the battle wasn’t over. The fear was still there, lurking—but for the first time, you didn’t feel like you were going to fall. Because Natasha was there. And that meant you weren’t alone.

“Are you going to stay?” you asked in a whisper, your voice still shaking.

She smiled gently, wiping your tears away with her fingers, brushing your cheek.

“I’m going to stay as long as you need me. No matter what’s happening outside. Right now, you are the only thing that matters.”

Finally, you clung to her, seeking her warmth, her presence—that refuge you needed so badly. In her arms, you felt safer. You knew that even if the world was about to explode, she would be your anchor. And that was enough.

[fanfictiongirlie]

Marvel: Unplanned Chapter One

Masterlist

Parings: Bucky Barnes x Reader (First person written though)

Description:

"It says...it says it's positive doll" His voice matching mine in a quiet shaky whisper.

"Fuck... I'm pregnant?"

"Yeah doll, you're pregnant"

"Fuck" I whisper.

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Warnings: Smut, Name calling, Two fools arguing, somewhat public smut

Chapter Words: 2,727

(I have the urge for every Marvel fanfic I write to have a seperate timeline where nothing bad happens, and everyone is happy)

Bucky stood in the kitchen shirtless, I swore quietly to myself as I stopped at the doorway, it was 2am, I hadn't expected anyone to be awake, but of course, he was. I had been an Avenger for a little while, my skills with in hand to hand combat matched Nat's, I was also very skilled in using a rifle. And being Nat's best friend, she got me a place on the Avengers, whilst also getting Tony to let me live at the compound. Which was a nice change, I lived in England my whole life, so being in a new country was scary, but Nat made it less scary for me. I got along with everyone, except Bucky. It had been near a year, and we hated each other... Which sucked, because he was so hot, I hated myself for thinking that... 

I sighed and walked fully into the kitchen, he turned around facing me. 

"What do you want?" He asks, his voice low and annoyed. 

"Nothing from you" I mumble walking to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. His eyes were still on me. 

"Then what are you doing up?" He asks, his eyes rolling. 

"None of your business" I mutter. I should of just left, gone back to my room, but arguing with him, it was additive. He steps closer to me, still an arms length away from me, but close enough that I could smell his cologne. 

"It's my business if you're prowling around this place at the dead of night" He answers, his arms crossed over his chest, I rolled my eyes, I knew he liked arguing with me too, that's why our arguing was usually over stupid things. 

"Says you" I snapped "You're doing the same thing" 

I watch as Bucky raises an eyebrow, I put my bottle of water down on the kitchen counter and step closer to him, challenging him.

"I live here doll, I can do what I want" 

"So do I!" I yell.

"Watch how you're talking to me doll" He scoffs, his eyes narrowing at me. 

"Why should I" I answer stepping closer to him, I crossed my arms copying his stance, our arms brushed against one anothers. Bucky tilts his head, he moved closer, his arms pressing against mine. 

"Because I don't have the patience for you right now" He says, his voice a low rumble, almost a growl. 

"You think I have a patience for your bullshit?" I snap back. I watch as a ghost of a smile flickers on his face as he lets out a quiet scoff. 

"You're the one who started this! Be careful who you pick a fight with doll"

"Me?" I hissed "I didn't fucking start this, god you're always so ready to yell at me"

Bucky clenches his jaw, his nostrils flare, he looked extremely pissed off at me now. Good.

"You're always on my case! You just won't shut up, will you? Just have to make a comment about anything I say" He towers over me, making him look more intimidating, but so fucking sexy. 

"Fuck" I say laughing slightly "I think you're enjoying arguing with me, you know, so fucking annoying" I hiss, trying not to eye his muscles. Bucky let out a laugh, that arrogant smirk coming back. 

"You're the annoying one, always sticking your nose in my business, and trying to get on my last nerve" His gaze travels down my body as he spoke. "God you're pissing me off"

"You're pissing me off!" I snap. 

He steps forward, pushing against my body, I sneer as my back hits the kitchen counter. 

"Oh yeah? You've got a lot of guts for a girl who's half a feet shorter than me" He laughs, his body pressed against mine as he looks down to me. 

"Doesn't matter, I can still fucking pin you" I snap, I could pin him, and I have done. 

"Oh yeah sweetheart? I doubt it" He answers with a huff. 

"What you gonna do Bucky? You've got me pinned, gonna hit me?" I taunt him, he usually walks away when I taunt him, daring him to snap, he never does. I watch as he leans down slightly, his breath hot on my face. 

"Don't tempt me doll" He says low and deep. 

"Fucking do it" I dared, my voice barely above a whisper. 

He leans his face closer to mine, his eyes darkened with lust and anger "You really want me to? You really wanna know what I'll do?"

"Fucking nothing I bet" 

"You think I won't? You think I can't put your smart mouth in place?"

"No I don't think you will, Stevie isn't here to stop you, so come on Barnes, what's gonna be?" I laugh slightly, my voice deep as I spoke. I watched as Bucky's eyes darkened even more at the mention of his best friend, Steve was always breaking up our fights, not this time... 

"You think Steve's the only thing holding me back from arguing with you?" He asks. 

"Yeah I do, you always do as you're told when he's around" I smirk. 

Bucky huffs through his nose "Always doing as told? Doll, you're really pissing me off, you think you know me?" He lowers his voice into a growl, almost a whisper as he looks right into my eyes. "You think I don't have a mind of my own?"

"I don't know, do you?" I snapped, my eyes not looking from his, I hated his eyes, his perfect, Ice blue, lovely eyes... Ugh, I shook the thoughts from my head. 

"You're really playing with fire here doll...You better watch your smartass mouth, before I shut you up myself" 

"Fucking do it then" I snapped. He stares at me for a few seconds, a mixture of anger, lust and annoyance in his eyes. And then suddenly his lips slam onto mine, his body crushing me against the counter, the kiss was rough and hard, almost dominating. 

Shocked I don't move for a second, before I close my eyes and kiss back. Bucky's hands grip onto my hips, holding me hard, his tongue licking into my mouth, exploring me, a low moan escapees his throat as he deepens the kiss, his body pressing against mine, his hips moving pathetically against mine. 

I kiss back harshly, my hands moving to his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin. I hear him groan, his hands move from my hips to my thighs, he picks me up with ease, sitting me down on the counter, he steps closer standing in between my thighs, his hard length pressing against my leg, his flesh hand moves up to my throat holding me as he moves his lips away from mine. 

"Doll, you know just how to piss me off, don't you?" He growls, his hand holding my throat tightly. 

"Says you, you fucking piss me off" 

His eyes darken at my words, his hips moved, pressing his hard length into me, his hand tightens around my throat, I gasped a little for air, but it felt good. 

"You know, I could just take what I want from you, just shut you up right here, right now" He growls, looking over my features. 

"Fucking do it, take me" I whisper. 

He growls again, I wanted to make a comment about him being an animal, but I decided against it. He moves both hands down to my hips holding me hard, he moved forward nipping at my neck. "You want me to take you, huh?"

"Fucking yes, before I change my mind" I gasp, taking in a large breath now his hand was away from my throat. A low moan escapes his throat and he kisses my neck frantically, sucking rough marks into my skin. 

"You think you can change your mind doll? You challenged me, and I'm gonna make sure you don't forget who's in charge here" He speaks in between bites. 

"If you don't kiss me in the next 5 seconds, I'll leave, maybe ask Stevie to make me feel good" I teased, my voice dark and low, I knew that would piss him off. 

He stops kissing my neck and looks at me, his eyes full of jealousy "You wouldn't dare" Then he slams his lips against mine again, his tongue pushing past my lips exploring my mouth. I moved my hips against his, being on the kitchen counter perfectly lining me up with his hips. I spread my legs and wrap them around him, pulling him closer to me. 

Bucky lets out a stifled moan, his lips leaving mine and running down my neck. 

"God, you don't know what you do to me" He says, nibbling at my neck, his hips grinding against me, through my thing pyjama bottoms. 

"Yeah I do, I can feel how pathetically hard you are against me" I smirked, my head rolling back as his lips touching my collarbone. 

He growls taking my throat in his metal hand, he moved my head so I looked at him. 

"Pathetically? I'll give you pathetic" He growls, his flesh hand snakes from my hip and to the waistband of my pyjamas, tugging on them, he stops for a second, his eyes on mine, silently asking for permission. I nod, my cheeks flushing. He moves his hand away from my throat, and move them to pull my pyjama bottoms down, he threw them somewhere, his eyes were still on me whilst his fingers brushed over my inner thigh, his fingers were rough, calloused leaving tingles as he traced my skin. 

Now naked from the waist down, I shivered at the cold air, I moved forward capturing his lips again, Bucky moans softly against my lips, his fingers moved to my clit, slowly circling his fingers a few times, before he took two fingers and slid them down, parting my lips and dipping down to my hole. 

"Fuck, yes" I whispered against his lips, he swallowed my moan, his tongue licking mine, he spread my wetness over my pussy, his two fingers entering me slowly. I moaned breathlessly enjoying the warmth of his flesh fingers, a small part of me thinking about his metal fingers, and how they would feel inside of me. 

"You're all hot and bothered for me, aren't you doll?" 

"Watch it, I'll happily walk away" I hiss, lying through my teeth of course, but he didn't need to know that. His metal hand moved holding my jaw within in his fingers. 

"And I'll drag you right back here doll, you're not going anywhere" 

"Fuck me, dickhead" I sneered, his fingers fucking into me, spreading me open, I needed him. His fingers still fucked into me, whilst his metal hand moved from my jaw to his jeans, undoing them, I reached forward and undid them for him, reaching my arms to push them down, his cock sprung from his boxers as I pushed them down. 

I gasped slightly at the sight of his cock, it was beautiful, it annoyed me how beautiful, cocks weren't supposed to be pretty, but here he was. I muttered a fuck under my breath. 

"Careful how you speak to me, I could bend you over this counter and make you shut your mouth real fast" He says, leaning forward, his hot breath on my ear as he speaks. 

"Yeah?" I whisper "Do it? Please?"

Bucky bites my ear, his voice lowering to a deep rumble "Say please again" 

"Please?" I say, gritting my teeth. He grips my thigh with his metal hand, his fingers slowing inside of me. 

"Such a good girl, asking so nicely" He laughs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He takes his fingers out of my pussy, I whine at the emptiness, he then grabs my hips pulling me off the kitchen counter, he turns me around and bends me over the counter, he lets out a low growl and pushes his cock inside of me, I moan loudly, my head moving down to rest on the counter. 

Once fully inside of me, his flesh hand moves to my throat, holding me tight. "You like being bent over? You like having me in control?" He taunts me, his hand tightening around my throat, his hips moved backwards, nearly taking his cock out of me, before slamming himself back into me. 

"Fuck" I groan, my breaths ragged as I struggle to breath, the force of his hand holding my throat making the feeling of him fucking me even better. 

I lift up slightly, so my back was flushed against his chest, my moans quiet as he slams his hips into my arse. Anyone could walk in, my eyes dart to the open doorway. Sure it was early morning and in theory everyone was asleep. 

"Anyone could walk in doll" He speaks as he fucks me "They could walk in, see you, see me taking you like the perfect slut you are" He whispers, his lips against my ear, I nod slightly, unable to talk anymore, his metal fingers circle my clit pushing me to my edge, I come hard my legs shaking under his body. 

"Jesus doll, you've got no idea what you do to me, do you?" He asks, moaning loudly in my ear. 

"Yeah? Harder" I whimper, my voice strained. 

"You want more, doll?" He growls in my ear, his hips move faster, fucking me harder, his thick cock stretching my tight pussy. I was grateful for his hand around my throat, I'd be screaming the compound down otherwise. Bucky lets out a low moan of pleasure, his hand clenching around my throat. 

"You like that doll? Like being taken by me?" He asks, his lips moving against my ear, his teeth scraping the shell of my ear, his thrusts into me became sloppy, he fucks harder into me, whines coming from his lips as he finished hard, spilling completely into me. 

"Fuck" I mutter as I feel him pull out of me, stepping away. 

He lets out a long breath, I turn around to see him pulling his jeans up, he looked up to me, his eyes dark with a hint of possessiveness. 

"You good?"

"Yeah...fuck, that was good, I still dislike you however" I smirk, my legs feeling weak. He lets out a snort, a smirk on his lips. 

"Oh doll, don't act like that, you loved that I gave it to you" He smirks, I shake my head, I grabbed my pyjama bottoms, pulling them on. I walk past him, my shoulder knocking into him. He grabs my arm, stopping me in my tracks, spinning me around to face him. 

"Where do you think you're going doll?"

"To bed, that alright with you Barnes?" I ask, more harshly than I should of. 

"Alone?" He smirks. I roll my eyes, I wanted him to come with me, I found myself wanting to sleep next to him, he wouldn't...Would he?

"Not going soft on me, are you?" I asked, smirking. He smiles and presses his body to mine again. 

"It's not going soft, it's called being a gentleman"

"You've never once been a gentleman to me before" I say, my eyes looking over his face. 

"True, but I can be, when I want to be" He smiles, letting out an amused huff, running his hand down my arm, his fingers trailing over my skin. 

"Fine, sleep in my bed with me?" I say, trying not to sound pathetic, like I was begging. A look of surprise and smugness came over his face.

"Is that an invitation?" He smirks. 

"Jesus, take it or don't, I don't care" I say shaking him off and walking out of the room, he follows me. "Fuck, you're annoying"

He chuckles, watching me open the door to my bedroom "Says the one who's inviting me into her bed doll" He smirks. 

"Fine, invitation revoked" I say, stepping into my room, I watched as laughed following me. 

"Oh no doll, You can't invite me and then take it back" He grins, shutting my bedroom door. 

"Whatever" I say as I walk to my bed and crawl in. I watched as he follows me, crawling into my bed, he lays on top of the duvet, looking unsure on what to do. I smile softly and shut my eyes, ready for sleep to take me. 

Chapter Two

(I do not consent my works to be posted anywhere else, by anyone other than myself)

Taglist:

@quinquinquincy

[auroralwriting]

illicit affairs chapter four

pairing: biker!bucky barnes x stark!reader

summary: bucky takes you home where he learns more about you and the stark syndicates

warnings: violence, language, small age gap (6~ years), angst, arguing, drinking, overall crime and gang stuff, sort of enemies to lovers

a/n: it's probably been more than six months since i last left off. thank you all for the support with this series. thank you to thunderbolts* for reminding me why i love bucky so much. we are so back.

: ̗̀➛ series masterlist | masterlist

"Bucky, do you think you could take Stark home for me?"

Bucky had frozen at Steve's words. Take her home? To Tony Stark's place? That was out of the question; absolutely no. The look on Steve's face, however, was a sign that Bucky wasn't going to get let off the hook for this one.

You had also frozen at Steve's words. Bucky Barnes taking you home? He had yet to once send you any sort of look that said, hey, you're alright. Plus, your history with him still wasn't the greatest. In some way, he was responsible for your parents untimely death. That much was a fact. You just didn't know how.

"Sure," Bucky hesitantly replied, still not looking at you, but giving a short nod to Steve.

Steve gave a tight smile, clapping Bucky on the shoulder before turning back to the group. You watched his broad frame, leaving you alone with the very person you’d rather avoid. Bucky still hadn’t looked at you, his jaw set and shoulders tense, as if bracing for impact.

“Ready?” he muttered, already moving toward the door. His metal arm swung slightly at his side, the vibranium catching the soft glow of the hallway lights. You'd always wondered about that arm. Story was he lost it in a fight, but for that sort of damage, there was no way it was a simple gang fight.

You hesitated for a heartbeat, the ghost of a dozen unsaid words lingering on your tongue. Then you followed, clutching your bag a little tighter, as if it could shield you from the strained silence that now filled the space between you.

The cool night air hit your face as you stepped out of The Grove, the neon lights of the city casting sharp shadows against the wet pavement. Bucky’s bike was parked a few feet away, its sleek black frame gleaming under the streetlights. He pulled a helmet from the back and held it out to you, still avoiding direct eye contact. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line as he waited for you to take it.

You hesitated for a second before grabbing it, the metal still warm from the ride over. You were acutely aware of how close you had to stand to him, the warmth of his body radiating through the cool night air. You slid the helmet on, catching a faint whiff of leather and gunpowder, a sharp scent.

“Get on,” he muttered, voice gruff, already swinging his leg over the bike. You felt your stomach flip as you climbed on behind him, the seat slightly higher than you expected, pushing you closer to him. You had to wrap your arms around his torso to steady yourself, fingers brushing against the cool metal of his arm. He tensed for a moment, then relaxed, a deep, steady breath escaping his lips.

"Tony's place?"

The engine roared to life beneath you, vibrating through your chest, making your heart race. "No, mine," you replied, giving him your personal address.

Bucky kicked off the stand and pulled out onto the street, the world around you becoming a blur of lights and sound as he weaved through traffic with ease. You tightened your grip instinctively, pressing yourself closer to his broad back, feeling the solid muscle beneath his leather jacket.

The ride was both too long and too short. The city lights flashed by, neon reflections dancing across the glass skyscrapers as you sped through the streets. You caught glimpses of Bucky’s profile in the side mirrors. Sharp jaw, eyes focused, lips pressed into that same unreadable line.

When he finally pulled up in front of your building, the sudden silence as he cut the engine felt deafening. You swung your leg over the bike, helmet still clutched in your hand as you tried to steady your breathing. Bucky climbed off as well, stretching his metal arm with a faint creak, the dark vibranium catching the dull glow of the streetlight.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice sounding strange to your own ears. “For the ride.” He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something, then just gave a curt nod, his jaw working like he was biting back words.

“Get inside safe,” he said, his voice softer than you expected. Then he turned, swung his leg back over the bike, and took off down the street, the roar of the engine echoing against the brick walls.

You stood there for a moment, heart still pounding, the warmth of his body lingering like a ghost against your chest. You watched his taillights disappear around the corner, a strange, unfamiliar ache settling in your chest as you turned and headed into your building.

You closed the door to your apartment, the faint hum of the city seeping through the thin walls, mixing with the rapid thud of your heartbeat. Your fingers still tingled where they’d brushed against Bucky’s, the cool, unsettling touch of his metal hand lingering in your memory.

Dropping your bag on the couch, you exhaled a shaky breath, rubbing at your arms like you could somehow wipe away the strange, electric tension that clung to your skin. Bucky Barnes had never been more than a dark shadow in the corners of your life--a whispered name in stories of war, a half-remembered figure from late-night intel meetings, a ghost that haunted your family’s past.

And now, he was the man who had just dropped you off at your front door, his steady, silent presence still echoing in the empty apartment.

You sank onto the couch, pulling your knees to your chest, trying to shake the feeling that you’d just crossed some unspoken line. What had Steve been thinking, making Bucky take you home? What was his angle? Steve never did anything without a reason. You’d heard of how he would plan and strategize, his mind always three steps ahead, playing some invisible chess game that everyone else was just stumbling through.

That's what made him better than Tony. Tony didn't strategize, he acted. Steve was careful and thoughtful.

You glanced at your phone, the screen lighting up with a series of new messages from Clint:

Clint: You good?

Clint: Been a few hours. Vision and I got worried.

Clint: Bruce asked about you, too.

You typed back your reply curiously. Had Tony asked about you at all? About your hand he had broken? About where you were? Even if it wasn't a good answer, you still wanted--no, needed to know. Your loyalty was flimsy. A valuable, fragile thing, and right now, Tony was slowly breaking it.

You: what about tony?

Clint: Hasn't asked. Sorry, Stark.

You: i'm fine. at home. thanks for checking in.

Before you could send another text, there was a knock at your door. You froze, the hair on the back of your neck standing up. There was no way it could've been Tony, and Clint would’ve just texted first. That only left one other possibility.

You stood slowly, your bare feet whispering against the cool hardwood as you crossed the room. You hesitated for a moment, hand on the door handle, before swinging it open.

Bucky stood there, his jaw clenched, eyes hard but uncertain. He’d taken off his jacket, leaving him in a dark, fitted t-shirt that clung to the curves of muscle you hadn’t allowed yourself to notice before. His metal arm caught the hallway light, the faint grooves of the vibranium reflecting a dull, ghostly glow.

“Forgot to get back the helmet,” he said, his voice low, gravelly, like the rumble of his bike. He leaned against the doorframe, his broad shoulders filling the small space, blocking out the light behind him.

You blinked up at him, your brain scrambling to catch up with the sudden turn of events. Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, standing in your doorway, checking on you. You felt your heart stutter, a strange warmth spreading through your chest that you quickly crushed down.

“Oh, yeah,” you managed, your voice a touch too breathless. You forced a small, tight smile. “Here. Sorry, I forgot."

"I did, too," Bucky nodded, his fingers grazing yours as he took back the big helmet from your hands. He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes flicking over your face, like he was trying to read something in the curve of your lips, the set of your jaw. For a moment, you thought he might say something else, but then he just straightened, his jaw tightening as he took a step back.

Before he could completely walk away, you opened your mouth, taking in a deep breath. "The arm--" you hesitated, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them. "How did it happen?"

"What do you think?" Bucky vaguely replied, his voice holding no malice, but instead curiosity. Like he genuinely wanted to know your response.

Shrugging lightly, you hesitated with your reply. "I heard it was from a fight. Never heard of a fight getting that bad before."

"It was no fight," Bucky nodded. "I don't lose, let alone that badly." He lingered on that last sentence for a moment before continuing. "Bike accident. Some idiot with a pick-up decided to run the light. Crushed my bones flat like a pancake. One of the SHIELD guys made it for me."

You nodded. "I'm sorry."

"It's not like you did it," Bucky replied. "How's it you're still with Stark?" A brutal question, but one you expected after your own personal question.

"He's my brother. I don't know anything else," you answered honestly.

Bucky’s eyes softened for just a moment, a flicker of something almost like understanding passing over his features. He shifted his weight, the fingers of his metal hand flexing subtly, a small, instinctive motion that caught your attention. You wondered how often he thought about it. The loss, the replacement, the price he’d paid for a life he didn’t choose.

“Family’s a tricky thing,” he murmured, his eyes flicking down the hallway, as if suddenly aware of how exposed the two of you were, standing in your doorway, suspended in this strange, fragile truce. “Sometimes it feels like you’re stuck with them, no matter what.”

You found yourself nodding, a bitter, knowing smile pulling at your lips. “Yeah, I get that. Tony… he’s not easy, but he’s all I’ve got.”

Bucky’s gaze snapped back to yours, his jaw tightening again, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes. He opened his mouth, like he might say something--maybe even something important--but then he seemed to catch himself, his face smoothing back into that familiar, impassive mask.

“Get some sleep, Stark,” he said, his tone carefully neutral, as if he’d suddenly remembered the wall he was supposed to be keeping between you. “Long day.”

With that, he turned on his heel, his broad shoulders cutting through the dim hallway light as he disappeared around the corner, his boots thudding against the worn linoleum.

You closed the door slowly, pressing your back against the cool wood as you tried to process the strange, unexpectedly human conversation you’d just had with Bucky Barnes. For a moment, you’d glimpsed something behind that cold, stoic exterior – a hint of the man he might’ve been, or maybe still could be, if the world hadn’t twisted him into something else.

As you wandered back to your couch, you caught sight of your phone still lighting up with Clint’s messages:

Clint: Don't show up for meeting tomorrow.

Clint: Tony knows you called off Quill n the boys.

You dropped your phone next to you on the couch. Of course Tony found out. The Guardians had no loyalty. For the right price, of course they'd tell him, and it wasn't like Tony didn't have the right kind of money they'd want.

However, your mind was still replaying the way Bucky had looked at you, the way his fingers had brushed yours when he took the helmet, the strange, guarded softness in his voice when he’d said your name.

Maybe Steve had been right – maybe you didn’t know the whole story. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to Bucky Barnes than the cold, unfeeling ghost you’d always imagined.

But that didn’t change the fact that he was still, in some small, twisted way, tied to the loss of your parents. And that, no matter how human he seemed in the quiet of a dimly lit hallway, was something you weren’t sure you could ever truly forgive.

[wow-thisismylifeiguess]

meeting ghost-maker pt 1

Dick

Dick hates Ghost-Maker. He hates him immediately, and it’s the first time he’s been struck w such a sudden hatred for someone, not since Tony Zucco. He knows he’s bad from the beginning, can sense it in his bones. So, for the love of all that is fucking good in the world, why does Bruce not hate him too?

“Robin-“

“Absolutely not.”

Ghost-Maker smirks. He’s taken his mask off, but that damned bandana is still over the top half of his face, leaving nothing but his mouth exposed. Dick wants to punch him, break his teeth. He would if it weren’t for the fact that Bruce is holding him back by his cape.

“We need his help.”

“No we don’t! B! We don’t work with criminals.”

Bruce sighs. Ghost-Maker’s smirk only grows, till he’s showing his teeth. Why the fuck does this man have fangs? Is he even human? Why is Bruce so chummy w a non human criminal!?

“Cute kid you got there, Bats.”

Bruce glares at Ghost-Maker.

“You’re not helping, Ghost,” Bruce argues, and Ghost-Maker shrugs.

“I never said I would.”

“We don’t need your stupid help, you-“

“Language.”

“I didn’t even say anything yet! Hey! Stop laughing at me!”

Dick tries to wiggle out of Bruce’s grip, but the man moves to secure him a bit better, wrapping his arm around Dick’s waist. Dick tries to bite him but Bruce doesn’t even react. Stupid fucking armour and stupid fucking pain tolerance. Dick hates Bruce (he doesn’t). Dick hates Ghost-Maker (he does).

“I’ll deal w him on my own, Robin. You don’t have to work with him, okay? Take a few days off, you deserve it.”

“Batman!”

“You heard him, kid. Batman’s all mine for the next few nights.”

Jason Tim Red Hood Damian Epilogue

[simpforbbarnes]

Dust and Destiny pt. 3

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader

Summary : Bucky Barnes and you used to be lovers , madly in love . But you lost him in the blip and lost him again after the blip because he need to “find himself”.

Warning : no , maybe a little cursing

Words : 2.8k

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Again ,i am really sorry . English is not my first language, so there will be many grammatical and spelling errors :(

______________________________________

The ghost of the past

You did leave, for your own good.

That’s what you told yourself. That’s what your dad told you when he stood in front of you two years ago, arms crossed like he was trying to be firm, like this was just another logical decision, another equation to solve. But you had seen the crack in his voice, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to hold on but knew he had to let go.

“You need to go,” he had said. “You’re not okay, and I can’t watch you self-destruct.”

You had wanted to argue. To tell him that leaving wouldn’t fix anything. That nothing would. But you had been too exhausted, too broken to fight anymore. So you left. You packed a bag, walked out of the compound, and kept walking.

And now, after two years of pretending you were fine, you were back.The compound doors slide open, the familiar hum of FRIDAY greeting you like a ghost from your past.

“Welcome home, Miss Stark.”

Home.

You step inside, and for a second, everything feels the same. The glass walls, the sleek furniture, the faint hum of technology in the background. But there’s something different. The air feels heavier, like time has stretched in ways you don’t quite understand.

Your boots echo against the floor as you make your way inside, taking it all in—the things that have changed, the things that have stayed exactly the same. A noise pulls your attention to the side.

Sam is standing near the kitchen, a cup of coffee halfway to his mouth. His eyes widen, and for a second, he just stares.

“Well, damn,” he finally says, setting the mug down. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence.”

You huff out a breath, shaking your head. “Didn’t know I needed an invitation.”

Footsteps echo from the hallway.

“Holy shit,” Clint mutters, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “She lives.” Asshole.

And then..

“About time,” your dad says. Tony’s voice is the same as always, teasing, dry, but there’s something else underneath it. Something softer. Relief, maybe. Guilt, definitely.

You meet his gaze, and for a second, the world narrows to just that. You don’t know what to say, don’t know if you should be angry at him or grateful.

Before you can figure it out, something shifts.

A presence.

A weight in the air so familiar it makes your breath catch.

You feel him before you see him.

And when you finally turn…

Bucky Barnes.

You don’t even register the others anymore. The sound of Sam’s mug clicking against the counter. The sharp inhale Clint takes as he watches the way you freeze. Even Tony seems to tense slightly, like he knew this part was coming but didn’t know how it would play out.

Your vision tunnels. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. Because the last time you saw him, his hair was longer, his metal arm was silver, and he was telling you he needed time.

Now, his hair is short. His metal arm is black, sleek, unmistakably Wakandan.

You can’t breathe. You are not wrong now.

Bucky is an Avenger.

Two years ago, he walked away, telling you he had to figure things out. That he wasn’t ready. Now he’s here. With them. With your team. With your family.

Your heart pound like hell, but you force yourself to keep your face unreadable. You won’t let him see it. Won’t let him see the way it guts you from the inside out.

Your lips part, but no words come out.Neither of you move. Neither of you speak.

The silence is unbearable, stretching between you like an open wound, raw and festering.

Then-

“Stark. You’re back.”

Stark? No doll , no sweetheart , no love , no princess. They are all gone. Just a formal last name.

His voice is quiet, rough, like it physically pains him to say it. You inhale slowly. Steady. Controlled. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

His fists clench at his sides. He looks like he wants to say something else, like there are a thousand words stuck behind his teeth, burning to be let out.

But he doesn’t say anything. And that makes you furious.

Because of course he’s the same. Of course he still just stands there, making you bear the weight of it all alone. Making you carry the silence, you carry the pain, you pretend like it doesn’t fucking hurt.

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head, turning away. “Nope. Not doing this right now.”

But as soon as you take a step, his voice stops you in your tracks.

“Wait.”

It’s barely a whisper, but it cuts through you like a blade.

Your hands curl into fists. You don’t turn around. You can’t. Because if you look at him, if you really look at him, you’re afraid of what might happen. Afraid of the anger. The heartbreak. The way it’ll all come crashing down at once.

So instead, you swallow everything and keep walking and behind you, Bucky just watches you go.

…

Your old room looks almost the same.

Almost.

The bed is still there, the same black comforter draped over it, the same soft pillows, like some part of the past was waiting for you to come back. Your desk is still against the far wall, but there’s new dust on the surface, untouched for years. The window is cracked open, letting in the faintest breeze, carrying with it the ghost of a life you left behind.

But there are things that don’t belong.

The extra shelves stacked with some of Tony’s junk,random bits of tech, a few unfinished projects, things that look hastily shoved there, like he thought he had all the time in the world to clean up before you returned.

Except he didn’t expect you to return at all, did he?

You drop your bag onto the floor, exhaling sharply, rubbing your temples. Your mind is a mess. A storm that won’t settle.

Bucky. Bucky is an Avenger now.

He’s here. He’s been here. For who knows how long.

And no one thought to tell you.

Your stomach twists. The longer you stand in the room, the more it feels like the walls are closing in, like the air is getting thinner, like you might actually fucking scream.

Then…

A knock at the door.

Not a polite one. A cautious one. Like the person on the other side already knows what’s coming.It swings open before you can tell them to fuck off.

Tony.

Of course. He leans against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

You don’t hesitate.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me anything?!”

Your voice cuts through the air, raw, sharp, years of frustration packed into every syllable.

Tony doesn’t flinch. But his jaw tightens. “You just got here. You wanna try again without the screaming?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Dad,” you snap, throwing your arms up. “Should I lower my voice while I ask why the fuck you didn’t think to mention that Bucky Barnes is living in this goddamn compound?”

Tony sighs, stepping fully into the room, rubbing his temple. “Language, kid”

“Im not Steve , for fuck sake !” , unbelievable.

“And No. No. Dont you dare to ‘kid’ me now to get your way out of this.” Your heart is pounding. “I was gone for two years. I left because you said I needed to heal. Because you said I needed to move on.” You let out a harsh laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “And the second I come back? The second I step foot in this place again? The first person I see is him? As an Avengers? AND NO ONE IN THIS COMPOUND CARE TO TEXT ME OR CALL ME?!”

Tony exhales through his nose, lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s complicated.”

“Bullshit.”

“Alright, fine. Maybe not that complicated.” He crosses his arms. “It happened gradually. He started coming around more, helping out, training with the others. And then one day he worked here now.”

Your head is spinning. “And you never thought—oh, I don’t know, maybe I should mention this to my daughter at some point?”

Tony tilts his head. “And when exactly was I supposed to do that, sweetheart? During one of your ‘I need to be alone’ radio silences? Maybe when you ignored my calls for months?”

Your throat tightens. You hate that he has a point.

But that doesn’t make this hurt any less.

“I deserved to know,” you say, quieter this time.

Tony sighs again, softer now. “Yeah. You did.”

The weight in your chest grows heavier. “I thought I was coming back to my team,” you murmur. “To my family. But it’s not the same, is it?”

Tony watches you for a long moment, then steps forward, resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Things change,” he says gently. “People change. Even the ones we thought never would.”

You swallow hard.

You hate how much it hurts.

Two years ago, Bucky told you he needed time. He told you he had to figure himself out.

And now, standing here, hearing that he’s been here this whole time. that he didn’t just figure himself out, but found a home here? Found a team?

Found a place where he belonged?It feels like a knife to the gut.

Because he used to belong with you.

You inhale sharply, gripping your arms tighter. “I used to be his home,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out. Your throat feels tight, your chest unbearably heavy. “And he used to be mine.”

Tony doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you with that sharp, knowing look that you’ve never been able to hide from.

Then, finally, he exhales, nodding toward the door.

“You think it was easy for him? You think he just waltzed in here and everything was peachy? Nah. He fought it. He fought us. Didn’t think he deserved to be here. Didn’t think he belonged. Sound familiar?”

Your breath catches.Because it does.It sounds exactly like you.

His voice softens. “he did need a home. And whether you like it or not… this became his.”

A lump forms in your throat.

Because it’s not just that he found a home here.

It’s that he doesn’t need you to be his home anymore.

You blink rapidly, pushing down the emotions clawing at your throat.

Tony nods, as if he understands, then steps back toward the door. “Take the night. Sleep. Scream into a pillow. Whatever helps. We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

He turns to leave—

Then pauses.

Looks back.

And with a knowing smirk, he adds, “Oh, and kid? You’re gonna have to talk to him eventually.”

Then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the ghosts of the past.

….

The meeting room hums with quiet conversation, the usual pre-meetingchatter filling the space. Steve is flipping through a folder, Wanda and Pietro are murmuring to each other, and Nat is leaned back in her chair, boot propped on the table, twirling a knife between her fingers.

It’s routine. Normal. Until you step through the door.Silence falls like a hammer.

Steve’s head snaps up first. His eyes widen, mouth slightly parting, like he’s questioning if you’re actually real.

Then Bruce, who literally freezes mid-sentence, his brows furrowing in disbelief.

Pietro, leaning against the wall, lets out a low whistle. “Well, shit. Holy shit”

Wanda’s eyes flicker with something between relief and shock. “You’re back,” she murmurs, like she’s afraid saying it too loud will make you disappear.

Nat, ever composed, is the last to react. But even she can’t hide the glint of surprise in her sharp gaze. She sets the knife down with a soft clink, tilting her head. “Did hell freeze over, or did Stark finally drag your ass back?”

You smirk, but there’s no real bite to it. “Tony didn’t drag me anywhere.”

Steve finally finds his voice. “We” He stops himself, exhales sharply, then tries again. “We didn’t think we’d see you again.”

Bruce nods, still looking at you like you’re some kind of mirage. “Yeah, I mean… two years is a long time.”

Two years.

Two years away from them. From the life you thought you’d left behind.

From the memories of him.

You force yourself to stay neutral, shrugging like it doesn’t matter. “Yeah, well. Turns out, I’m not great at the whole finding inner peace thing. And pretty sure god make me back here because you guys really hide something realllll big from me huh?”

Silence . They know what you meant.

‘Bucky-kinda-be-an-avengers-now’ matter.

Wanda breaks the silent, her expression softening. “It’s really good to see you.”

You feel something in your chest loosen, just a little.

Nat eyes you for a long moment before nodding approvingly. “Well, whatever brought you back, I hope you’re staying this time.”

You don’t answer.

Not because you don’t want to. But because the door opens again—

And he walks in.

The moment Bucky walks in, the air shifts. It’s subtle, just a flicker of tension, a slight pause in movement. but you feel it.

You feel him. And yet, you don’t look. You don’t let yourself.

Instead, you straighten in your chair, keeping your expression effortlessly neutral. Unbothered. Like this is just another day, just another meeting, and the man who once held your entire world in his hands hasn’t just walked in like he owns the damn place.

Bucky stops for half a second. It’s brief, barely noticeable, but you catch it,how his steps falter, how his shoulders tense. Then he moves again, slipping into a seat across from you.

You keep your gaze on the screen in front of you, casually flipping through the mission briefing. Like nothing happened. Like nothing ever happened.

Steve, ever the peacemaker, clears his throat. “Alright, now that we’re all here…” He glances at you, then at Bucky, and oh, you can tell he’s debating whether to say something.

You don’t give him the chance.

“So what’s the situation?” you ask, flipping another page on the screen. “Tony said it was urgent.”

Bucky exhales quietly, just a breath, just a fraction of hesitation,before shifting in his seat. You can feel his stare, feel the weight of it pressing against you, but you refuse to meet it.

Nat notices. Of course she does. Her sharp eyes flick between you and Bucky before she smirks slightly, like she’s already seeing straight through your act.

You ignore her.

Wanda is watching, too, less smug, more concerned. but she doesn’t say anything. Neither does Steve, though the way he keeps glancing between you and Bucky makes it very clear he has a lot of thoughts.

But no one pushes it. So you keep up the act. Keep pretending.

Keep pretending you don’t feel Bucky’s eyes on you. Keep pretending you’re not aware of every breath he takes. Keep pretending your heart isn’t shattering all over again.

Bucky’s staring. You can feel it.

Even though your eyes are fixed on the mission briefing, even though you’re forcing yourself to stay neutral, your body betrays you. Your heartbeat stumbles in your chest, your fingers tighten around the tablet, your breathing slows,because your body remembers.

Remembers him.

Remembers what it felt like to be held by him, to belong to him. Remembers the way he used to look at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

But that was before.

Before he left. Before two years turned you both into strangers again.

So you pretend.Pretend nothing happened. Pretend that he’s just another teammate. Pretend you don’t care that he’s here.

“Alright,” Steve says, clearing his throat, trying to break the tension. “We’ve got intel that a weapons deal is going down in Madripoor. Stark’s sources say it could be connected to some remnants of HYDRA.”

Steve explained all the details of the mission without missing anything. The rooms is silent , just Steve’s charismatic and leadership voices filled the room.

“Alright,” Steve says. “Pair up. Nat, you’re with me. Wanda, Pietro, you’re together. Bruce, you’re running comms. Sam , as usual”

Then he turns to you. “You’re with Bucky.”

Silence. Your body locks up.

Across the table, Bucky’s jaw tightens slightly,but his face stays neutral. He doesn’t react.

I swear if murdering people is not a crime , i already killed this Captain America with bare hands.

You force yourself to breathe. Keep your posture loose, your face unreadable. “Fine by me.” Bucky doesn’t say anything. Just gives a short, clipped nod.

And that’s it.

No argument. No tension-filled stare-down. No acknowledgment of anything. You pretend that sitting next to him doesn’t feel like sitting beside a ghost. You pretend you don’t notice the way his hands flex against the table, like he’s holding something back. You pretend everything is fine.

Because if the past doesn’t exist….

It can’t hurt you.

Taglist : (lmk if you wanna be apart of my taglist ♡) @sebbymybaby21 @learisa

[hotvintagepoll]

Peter Lorre (The Maltese Falcon, Arsenic and Old Lace, Casablanca)—to me he DEFINES scrungle hes the first person i think of every time the term comes up! i want to fold him up like a paper accordion and put him in my pocket. guy that spawned a million voice artists and impersonators. they made a ghost version of him for halloween cereal staple boo berry. bewitched by his nervous mania and tooth gap <3 (for the purposes of propaganda im linking a photo from his extremely short appearance in muscle beach party bc ive been obsessed w it for years and i couldnt find any video for it :/ anyway imagine youre frankie avalon spending the whole movie battling a bodybuilder faction thats taking over your beach and your girl and then you find out this fucking guy is their mastermind mystery leader and hes stronger than all the bodybuilders combined. like Huh. What.)

Tony Randall (Lover Come Back, Pillow Talk)—he's SO TIRED he's three-wheeling ALL THE TIME on rock and doris's shenanigans and he is always SMALL. PATHETIC. INHERENTLY FILLED WITH ENNUI. i feel like all these 60s comedies are very Straight Laced and Heterosexual and yet somehow tony randall is always there having the worst day ever.

This is round 1 of the contest. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. If you're confused on what a scrungle is, or any of the rules of the contest, click here.

[additional submitted propaganda + scrungly videos under the cut]

Peter Lorre

he's pretty much the archetype of the scrungly little guy. the blueprint. the example by which all other scrungly little guys are judged

The perfect sniveling character actor, “scrungly” is the first word that comes to mind when I think of him.

The entire point of his iconic role in Casablanca (apart from introducing the central plot mcguffin) was to be LITTLE and SCRUNGLY to make Bogie look even cooler. And Maggot in Corpse Bride - the littlest scrungliest guy in that film - was a parody of him.

I think Arsenic and Old Lace is his quintessential "scrungly" performance. He's so put-upon and tired...all he wants is sleep and some schnapps! I love the way his shoulders fall slowly when he thinks he's caught (he looks like a sad puppy!), only to gleefully sprint out the door when he realizes how dumb those police officers are.

Between his big eyes, wheezy laugh, short stature, and expressive faces, Peter Lorre achieved icon status as the scrungliest, littlest guy in Hollywood. His scrungly little guy energy was often contrasted with the more typical masculinity of the leading man, but whether this contrast was meant to make him seem especially sinister, comedic, or pathetic, it always left an unforgettable impression!

I'm sure somebody else has already submitted him (if not then ???) but he's a cute kind of scrungly little guy. He's got a distinctive nasal voice with an accent that is instantly recognizable and often imitated. His later horror movies are so much fun, especially when he's playing off of Vincent Price. He's so good at being unhinged, creepy, or manic, but also pathetic and sympathetic.

Classic scrungly hollywood golden age little guy who was friends with Humphrey Bogart and still played some of the wettest most sniveling characters ever committed to celluloid (complimentary) there is a deep despair and darkness in many of his characters that enhances his scrungly

To be clear, I am one of those people who will argue that Lorre is one of the most underrated film actors, but the POINT is that he's also just a scrungly delight. A delightfully pocket-sized man. Somehow endearing even when he is being actively amoral (see esp. Casablanca. "I found myself much more reasonable!") The faces he makes while doing the Russian cossack dance with a butter knife between his teeth in Silk Stockings make me laugh just thinking about them.

Wikipedia described his typical characters as "timidly devious", lots of weird little villains and evil sidekicks that are pretty horrifying but still manage to be sort of pathetic and the very definition of "poor little meow meow". His look and voice and mannerisms are so iconic they're still imitated

Cartoons for the next century have and will continue to include Peter Lorre-esque characters when needed to up the scrunge factor (see Bugs Bunny and so many more).

[editor's note on below link: I'm not actually sure how many of these characters are directly influenced by Peter Lorre, so take with a grain of salt. tw for suicide.]

The poster boy for Scrungly. Everyone who wants to draw a scrungly guy draws Peter Lorre. Gomez Addams of The Addams Family was based on him

Tony Randall

"you had everything going for you! poverty!! squalor!!!!" "girls again!!! what's this obSESSion you have with giRLS???"

[mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes]

I have an idea for a bucky x reader fic:

reader is one of the agents from SHIELD (also adopted by Tony, meets pepper on the weekends, family type shit) that went on the run after saving Steve and Bucky.

During their flight to wakanda, reader patches Bucky up and takes care of him basically. However, this is pretty hazy to bucky because the fight was too traumatizing for him.

moreover, in tfatws, reader comes back to help sam and meets bucky again--she already is attracted to him. but in tfatws both of them get closer and realize they have feelings for each other, but bucky needs more time to heal so the reader waits for him,

in thunderbolts, basically bucky kind of abandons reader to become a congressman, to save the world and become a better man. he basically ghosts her, distances himself and nver contacts her again.

but during a fight, bucky and other thunderbolts are completely beaten up and they need someplace to crash and its like oh shit for bucky cuz guess who's house is the nearest? its kind of like the scene in catws where steve and nat go to sam's house but this time the reader is pissed at bucky, wont talk to him and only takes them in cuz yelena is bleeding and all of them need patching up. and all of the thunerbolts basically have to watch bucky and reader argue like an old married couple while taking care of them.

and he just says that he wanted to become a man worthy of the reader and she just stops and goes up to him and kisses him (like the one in friends when rachel kisses ross after watching the tape of their prom) and she reassures him that he was always worthy of her and they make up.

tag me if you write this

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #22

Nick Fury hadn’t known peace in years. Aliens, HYDRA, interdimensional rifts, Tony Stark’s emotional instability—he thought he’d seen it all. That was until a small, gremlin-like twelve-year-old girl phased through the wall of the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier, exploded three vending machines with a casual flick of her wrist, and declared with unshakeable confidence, “You guys owe me a snack for saving the multiverse.”

Her name was Danielle Phantom—Dani, with an “i”—and she was, allegedly, a clone of a ghost-human hybrid from another dimension. She was twelve, made entirely out of spite and ectoplasm, and Nick Fury made the catastrophic mistake of not immediately tossing her into a containment chamber.

Not that it would’ve helped. The last time they tried, she melted the titanium walls by burping.

“She’s not a threat,” Banner had insisted.

“She’s twelve!” Steve argued.

“She called me a rotting rotisserie chicken and set my cape on fire,” Thor grumbled, looking genuinely unsettled.

“She’s perfect,” Tony said. “Can I adopt her?”

“NO,” Fury barked. “She’s mine.”

And that’s how Dani Phantom became Nick Fury’s personal chaos goblin.

It started with the incident in Belarus. Fury had sent her to shadow a low-risk intel extraction mission—get in, get out, observe. She got bored. Two hours later, she returned with the mission completed, three HYDRA bases blown up, and a new trench coat she’d stolen off an agent twice her size. She looked proud. She also had a churro.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Fury asked.

“Multiversal Costco. Long story.”

She ate it while hovering upside down.

Dani didn’t walk. She floated. She didn’t knock. She phased through walls, floors, and sometimes people, which she claimed was “great for making dudes pee themselves.” She kept trying to haunt Clint Barton’s hearing aids (“for funsies”), called Natasha “Murder Barbie,” and threatened to sell Peter to the Tooth Fairy for “a good price.”

“I don’t even have ghost teeth!” Peter shrieked.

“Exactly. You’re rare,” Dani replied ominously.

She made the mistake of touching Loki once. Just once. She’d been told not to.

“Don’t touch the Asgardian,” Fury had said.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because he’s the God of Mischief.”

“Oh. Cool.”

She poked him.

Loki screamed. She screamed louder. Everyone screamed. For some reason, there were snakes involved by the end of it.

Now, every time Loki sees Dani, he immediately teleports to another continent. “She’s worse than Odin,” he whispers, eyes wide and glassy.

Fury had to admit: Dani got results. She was an absolute menace—a glowing, cackling, miniature poltergeist in ripped jeans and combat boots—but she could sniff out a Kree spy from fifty yards away, beat an Ultron drone with a piece of rebar, and disable alien tech by licking it. (He didn’t approve of that one, but she claimed it was “a ghost thing.”)

“Why do you keep her?” Hill asked him one day, as Dani was in the background convincing a rookie agent that she was a resurrected Soviet weapon.

Fury sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Because the little gremlin saved my life.”

That part was true. He’d been cornered by a Skrull impersonating Agent Coulson, and before he could blink, Dani had flown through the ceiling screaming, “NOT MY BALD DAD, YOU SLIMEY LIZARD BASTARD!” She obliterated the Skrull with a ghost ray and threw Fury over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“You weigh like a thousand pounds!” she’d grunted, struggling to fly him out of danger.

“Put me down!”

“No! You’re grounded and dying on my watch is against the rules!”

It was, somehow, the most competent rescue Fury had ever experienced.

From then on, Dani followed him everywhere. She sat in on briefings, chewing bubblegum obnoxiously loud. She hacked into S.H.I.E.L.D. files just to draw little ghost doodles on top of agent profiles. She replaced the AI’s voice with her own. Every time the intercom came on, it was her:

“Attention all agents, remember to hydrate or I will personally possess you and make you chug milk.”

She terrorized the Avengers with zero remorse. Steve got glitter-bombed. Clint was stalked by a floating sandwich. Banner’s lab notes were mysteriously replaced with eldritch doodles and “Dani was here” scribbled in the margins. Tony found all his Iron Man suits programmed to play “Ghostbusters” every time they powered on.

“I SWEAR TO GOD, IF I HEAR THAT SONG ONE MORE TIME—”

“Who ya gonna call?” Dani whispered from inside the vents.

Tony screamed.

But in her own completely deranged way, she was loyal. Deadly. Protective.

When some alien parasite tried to mind-control Fury, Dani showed up mid-briefing, opened her mouth, and screamed—a full-on ghost wail that shattered the windows and disintegrated the creature instantly.

Silence.

Everyone stared.

Dani wiped her mouth and grinned. “Oops. Was that loud?”

Fury was on the floor, bleeding from the ears. “You think?”

Later, she brought him noise-canceling earmuffs with skull stickers. “For next time.”

Fury eventually stopped questioning it. He’d wake up and find her floating three inches above his bed.

“Sleep check,” she’d say.

“I am very awake now.”

“Good.”

She haunted meetings, stole alien artifacts to make jewelry, and referred to Maria Hill exclusively as “General Mom.” She threatened to possess Tony’s coffee machine and did it. It only made decaf for three months. He cried.

And somehow, Dani ended up as the unofficial child mascot of S.H.I.E.L.D.

She was terrifying.

She was beloved.

She bit Deadpool once. He cried.

And yet, when Fury got taken by a rogue faction of former S.W.O.R.D. agents trying to expose classified data, the first person to show up wasn’t Steve, or Natasha, or even Carol.

It was Dani.

She burst in mid-interrogation, glowing, floating, and furious. Her eyes blazed green. Her ponytail whipped behind her like a comet trail. She didn’t say anything.

She just started throwing people.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN KIDNAP MY DAD?!” she screamed, hurling a desk at someone’s face. “I live in his walls! I KNOW THINGS!”

“You’re not even related to me!” Fury yelled as she fried a guy with ectoplasmic lightning.

“I TOOK A BLOOD TEST ONLINE AND IT SAID I’M 78% NICK FURY, 22% CHICKEN NUGGET!”

“You WHAT?!”

She ghost-punched the lead agent into the ceiling, caught Fury by the collar, and flew him out of the crumbling compound as everything exploded behind them.

When they landed, she wiped the soot from his coat, then hugged him hard.

He stood there stiffly before awkwardly patting her head.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I’m not your—”

“Too late. I already wrote it in my diary.”

Later, at S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, Dani threw her feet up on the command table and declared, “This whole place is my haunted house now.”

Nobody argued.

The AI was programmed to greet her.

The agents stepped aside when she passed.

She had a personal couch that she’d painted green and black, and a glowing “NO NERDS” sign that Tony kept trying to steal.

Every so often, she disappeared into the multiverse. “Gotta stretch the legs,” she’d say, then come back two hours later with three infinity stones, a new jacket, and a baby goat.

Fury didn’t ask.

He learned not to ask.

But when the next alien invasion hit—when half of Manhattan lit up with something eldritch and writhing and very not-from-Earth—it wasn’t Thor who responded first.

It was Dani.

Hovering above Times Square, cracking her knuckles, eyes glowing like nuclear fallout.

“Alright, weird space tentacle thing,” she said. “You just messed with the wrong twelve-year-old.”

And from the helicarrier, sipping his bitter coffee, Nick Fury watched the ghost girl he never asked for absolutely wreck an interdimensional horror, cackling like a goblin while civilians cheered.

He sighed.

“God help us all.”

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @jozzieblood @buckysteveloki-me @dragonoftheshadows @plaidconvers @kateawolf13 @keira-kaz2y5 @frog-fans-unite @doilooklikeagiveafrack @verynormalsstuff @nynxtea @iminyourceiling @seventeen-x @mgchaser @y0urgirl @lovely-seb @laughterafter @mysuperlaserpissnumber1fan @irasciblemogwai @svtbpbts @vivalas-vega @chonkybonky @bmyva1entine @6urmom @gullableh @homiesexual-or-homosexual @aoi-targaryen @bitter-semi-sweet @soflegacy @kath-666 @hiireadstuff @nyxthedeity @highhopes1008 @sineminuse @hxsxxk-180294 @wordacadabra @hawkinsavclub1983 @buckingforbuckybarnes @purplefluffycows @raikan624 @avengemepercy @killerwendigo @winterjaysoldier @magnoliamoogle @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @huang-the-geek @joewhs @witchywannabe3263 @iyskgd @ironenemycollective @bumblebeebutter @sizzlingstarlightsky @buckybarnesslutshop @starstruck-cowgirl @angelicdarkn3ss @confused-simp-jpg @hufflepuffsforjoy @nicolebarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @escapismurmom @paige0103 @dollface-xoxo @read-just-cant-stop @sycamoregirl444 @raikan624 @iwritememesnotprophecies @imissbenswolo-blog @lcolumbia1988 @paintmekala @knowingnothingnoel @captain-shannon-becker @jainaeatsstars @mm4t @houseofthechaos @chachkid @escapefromrealitylol

----------------------------------------------------------

Tw: cussing, Hydra, medical descriptions, torture, angst, descriptions of disturbing side effects, death.

Part 2

Touch that Takes - Part 1

The lab door crashes open so violently it startles Tony, who’s mid-adjustment on a gauntlet.

Bucky storms in, hair slightly disheveled, boots heavy.

“She’s gone.”

Tony blinks. “Who?”

Bucky’s eyes flare. “Doll ... She’s gone.”

Tony straightens, mouth flattening into a grim line. “Define ‘gone,’ RoboCop. Walked out for air? Hiding in a cupboard?”

“No.” Bucky shakes his head. “She’s went to take the trash out, didnt come back.”

Tony immediately tosses the gauntlet aside and turns to the screen.

“JARVIS?”

"Last recorded location was Sublevel B. Her biometrics went offline two minutes later."

Bucky’s entire body locks up. His jaw tightens, and something primal flickers across his face.

Tony’s fingers fly over the console. “We need cameras. Every hallway. Start tracing from the basement.”

“I should’ve stayed with her,” Bucky growls.

He’s already pacing, breathing shallow.

His right hand flexes at his side, the metal arm twitching with contained violence.

But the fear—real fear—is in his eyes.

Tony pulls up grainy footage: you, stepping into the hallway with a trash bag.

Then… nothing.

The camera feed dies.

“Son of a bitch they knew how to loop footage,” Tony mutters.

Bucky leans forward, bracing both arms on the console, face set like stone. “If they hurt her…”

“We’ll get her back,” Tony assures. “JARVIS is scanning every known frequency. They won’t get far.”

But Bucky doesn’t respond. His mind is already racing.

Your voice.

The way you’d squeezed his hand earlier.

The warmth still ghosting across his lips from when he’d kissed your knuckles.

“I shouldn’t have let her go alone,”

Tony looks at him. For all his sass and sarcasm, he understands loss. He softens his tone.

“She’s stronger than she looks, we'll find her”

Bucky stares at the frozen frame on the screen—your form captured just as you stepped into the shadows.

“Yeah,” he says, voice hoarse.

“But she’s my Doll.” He whispers.

-----------------------------------------

Within fifteen minutes, the entire tower is in motion. Quinjet is fueled, and Nat, Sam, and Steve are reviewing contacts.

But Bucky?

He’s already halfway to the garage.

Tony catches him just in time. “Whoa, Tinman—where the hell are you going—your not cleared for field work?”

Bucky's metal hand grips the steering wheel of a tactical vehicle so hand it whines under his hand.

“Do you really want to stop me right now ?”

Tony doesn’t argue.

“You call me the second you find something,” Tony orders, slapping the hood. “And bring our girl home.”

-----------------------------------------

At first it's a blur of needles and pain.

Every morning begins the same way, the door to your cell slides open, and four guards enter. They no longer bother with restraints—your body is too weak from the serum treatments to fight back.

Dr. Lindstrom watches from behind her tablet as they drag you to the chair. The first time, you fought—thrashing, screaming Bucky's name until your throat was raw.

Now you can barely lift your head.

"Baseline vitals stabilizing," she notes clinically, as a technician fastens the metal halo around your skull.

"437 exhibiting increased tolerance to pain stimuli."

The chair hums to life, electricity coursing through your skull, shredding thoughts into fragments.

Your body arches.

Muscles seizing.

Someone shoves a rubber guard between your teeth.

"Memory suppression at thirty-seven percent," someone calls out.

-----------------------------------------

Stark Tower’s walls are too quiet for what’s happening.

JARVIS overlays a glowing holographic map of the building and the 100-mile radius beyond it. Your blinking signal, previously always tethered to the kitchen, common room, or the suite you share with Bucky… is gone.

Tony’s pacing, wild-eyed and rumpled. “How the hell does someone vanish into thin air with JARVIS monitoring every corner? Did she teleport? Phase through a wall? I mean—come on.”

“Tony.” Steve’s voice is low, steady. “Focus.”

Bucky leans against the far wall, shadowed, arms crossed tightly. His shoulders are stiff, the metal arm flexing in tiny, unconscious motions.

He’s not listening to Tony’s theories.

He’s watching the elevators.

Like you might walk back in.

“She wouldn’t leave,” he says quietly.

Steve glances at him. “No, she wouldn’t.”

“She didn’t choose this. Someone took her.”

Through the white-hot agony, you still cling to fragmented images—Bucky's eyes, the soft press of his lips against your knuckles, the sound of Sam Cooke playing in the kitchen.

Each day, these memories grow fainter.

After the chair comes the serum—burning through your veins like acid, rewriting your cells. Your screams echo through the facility.

"Subject's cellular structure beginning to modify," Dr. Lindstrom announces.

"Metabolic rate increased by two hundred percent."

The hunger is constant now—a gnawing, desperate ache that no amount of the tasteless nutrient paste they feed you can satisfy.

At night, you lie awake in your cell, shivering not from cold but from the serum reshaping you from within.

Sometimes, when the pain subsides briefly, you whisper his name like a prayer.

"Bucky will come. Bucky will find me."

Collins visits sometimes, watching you through the glass. His smile grows wider as your voice grows weaker.

You've stopped asking when they'll let you go.

You've stopped begging for water when the serum burns through your system.

You've stopped screaming when they strap you to the chair.

The hunger has become something else—a presence, sentient and demanding.

"Interesting," Dr. Lindstrom murmurs during one of her examinations.

She's shining a light into your eyes, observing how your pupils dilate. "Subject's irises showing first signs of pigment deterioration."

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of her glasses—your eyes darker, veins visible beneath pallid skin.

Somewhere in New York, Nat flicks through the tablet, watching the surveillance footage from that night.

She pauses.

Rewinds.

Squints.

Clint crouches in the dirt, looking for anything new.

“She was smart, Nat. But sweet. Too sweet.” His voice is tight.

“She probably never saw it coming,” Nat says quietly.

There’s a silence between them that feels heavier than the mist rolling through the streets.

“She’s the kind of person you want to protect,” Clint mutters. “Not use as bait.”

Nat clicks the tablet off. “We’ll find her. But when we do—whoever took her is going to wish it was Barnes that got to them first, not me.”

The chair sessions are longer now. Each time, fewer memories remain. But occasionally, flashes break through—Tony's sarcastic laugh as he slides a coffee across the kitchen bench to you, calling you "Thumbelina" despite your protests.

Steve's patience as you both taught Bucky how to shave again.

Bucky's forehead on yours.

These memories surface like bubbles in thick oil—brief, fragile, gone almost as soon as they appear.

During physical tests, they've noticed something new.

When one of the technicians grabbed your arm too roughly, black tendrils—like ink in water—seeped from your fingertips and wrapped around his wrist.

He collapsed, convulsing.

Dr. Lindstrom was ecstatic, you where horrified.

"First manifestation of bio-energetic absorption!" she announced, furiously taking notes. "Earlier than predicted."

They bring you rats after that.

Starve you for days, then throw them into your cell.

The first time, you recoiled in horror when the black tendrils emerged instinctively from your hands, wrapping around the creature.

You sobbed as you felt its life force flowing into you—warm, satisfying, terrifying.

"I don't want this," you whispered, trying to pull the tendrils back.

But they moved with a will of their own, hungry and insistent.

That night, you refused to feed on the second rat they brought.

By morning, patches had appeared on your skin—small areas of tissue beginning to die.

By afternoon, the pain was excruciating.

"Fascinating," Dr. Lindstrom noted, examining the necrotic tissue on your arm.

"The absorption ability appears to be directly tied to 437's immunity. Without regular feeding, 437's own cells begin to deteriorate."

"Please," you begged alone in your cell "I don't want to hurt anything."

"You don't have a choice anymore," she replied, her voice coldly clinical over the mic into your cell. "Feed or your body will consume itself."

By the fifth rat, you no longer hesitate.

Thor slams a hand onto the holo-console. “This Midgardian tower was supposed to be safe!”

Bruce barely glances up from the screen.

He’s gone still and clinical—retreating into logic after months of searching.

“There was a power fluctuation at 2:13am in the east lower wing.” He zooms in. “Small. Almost unnoticeable. The night she disappeared.”

Thor’s fingers twitch at his side. “She is not combat-trained. A child in height. She speaks softly. She brings me the good food.”

Bruce sighs through his nose. “Exactly the kind of person an infiltrator wouldn’t see as a threat. Or… would want to use as leverage.”

They both look at the screen.

“She brought me banana bread once,” Bruce whispers.

Thor’s hand tightens into a fist.

"437 is progressing well," Collins tells Lindstrom, watching you through the observation window. You're huddled in the corner of your cell, knees drawn to your chest, eyes tracking their movements.

"Her absorption abilities are developing faster than anticipated," Lindstrom agrees.

"But her mind is still resisting full conversion."

"I need results, Doctor," Collins presses, tapping his finger against the glass. "The higher-ups are getting impatient."

"These things take time," Lindstrom counters. "She's still holding onto fragments of her former life. The memory wipes are less effective than they were with the Winter Soldier."

"Then increase the voltage."

"We could lose cognitive function entirely. She'd be useless."

You've stopped remmebering your name. Now you're just "437" or sometimes "Subject."

The chair sessions have become more aggressive.

Sometimes you wake up with no memory of the previous day, just an emptiness where thoughts should be.

But the hunger—the hunger is always there.

They've moved on from rats to larger animals. Each time the tendrils emerge, they're stronger, more eager—stretching further from your hands, quicker to find their target.

You've learned that you don't need to touch your victims directly.

The black tendrils can bridge gaps, seek warmth like predators hunting prey.

The process is slower than Lindstrom expected—nearly an hour to drain a large animal completely.

She logs this data meticulously, adjusting formulas, recalibrating treatments.

"Why does it take so long?" Collins demands after one feeding session.

"Energy transfer isn't instantaneous," Lindstrom explains.

"Think of it as a slow transfusion rather than an electrical discharge. The longer the connection, the more complete the transfer."

What neither of them mentions is how you weep silently during each feeding.

How you try to sooth the animals as your body betrays you, the black tendrils extending despite your resistance.

How the patches of necrotic flesh appear on your arms, your chest, your back when you try to fight the hunger.

After each feeding, your strength returns briefly.

Colors seem sharper.

Sounds clearer.

For a few precious hours, the fog in your mind lifts slightly, and you remember fragments—Tony teaching you to fix the coffee machine after you'd broken it for the third time, Steve's steady hand on your shoulder after a rough day with the blue eyed man.

Eyes watching you across the kitchen.

Then the hunger returns, worse than before, and the cycle begins again.

Sunrise casts a warm, light across the tower.

Steve leans beside Bucky on the ledge. His expression is drawn, his fingers white-knuckled on the rail.

“She really meant something to you.”

Bucky hangs his head. “She’s just ... good.”

Steve’s brows pinch. “You sure that’s all she is?”

Bucky’s lips part—like he wants to argue. But the word never comes.

He looks out over the city. “She called me kind. Said I could be more than what they made me. Nobody’s had said that before her.”

Steve nods slowly. “Because they didn’t see you.”

Bucky glances down at his flesh hand, it had felt so empty since you'd gone.

“She did.”

Steve rests a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll find her.”

The final phase of serum treatments ends with a session so brutal you're certain it will kill you.

Your screams have long since given way to guttural, animal sounds as your body convulses on the medical table.

Black tendrils erupt and pulse uncontrollably from your hands, your arms, seeking something—anything—to feed on.

"Remarkable," Dr. Lindstrom observes from behind a protective barrier. "Full integration at the cellular level."

When the pain finally subsides, something fundamental has changed. The hunger is no longer separate from you—it is you.

Your first coherent thought is not of escape or of the man with the blue eyes. It's of feeding.

They bring you a prisoner—a failed Hydra agent who tried to escape. When he's shoved into your cell, you don't see a human being.

You see sustenance.

The tendrils flow from your hands like living shadows, wrapping around his throat, his chest, his face.

He struggles, then stills as you drain him dry.

It takes less than three minutes.

For the first time in months, you feel satiated.

"Perfect," Collins says, watching through the glass.

They don't teach you to fight with weapons or fists.

They teach you to hunt.

Your instructors maintain their distance, using shock batons to direct you, to punish or reward.

They've learned the hard way that getting too close is dangerous.

You move differently now—lower to the ground, fluid, predatory. The trainers praise this instinct, encourage it.

Sometimes you find yourself on all fours, scuttling across the training room floor, black tendrils trailing behind you like a shadow.

Speech comes less frequently. Words seem unnecessary, cumbersome.

The chair sessions continue, but with a new purpose. Now they're not erasing—they're building.

Creating someone new from the hollow shell they've made of you.

"You are Leech," they tell you, over and over, as electricity courses through your brain. "You feed. You serve Hydra. You have always been Leech."

And slowly, you begin to believe them.

The light in your room is softer than the rest of the tower. Pastel curtains. Your reading chair, your knit throw blanket. A mug still rests on the side table—lukewarm, half-finished tea with honey.

Bucky steps inside like it’s a sacred place and a sanctuary all at once.

He doesn’t touch anything at first. Just breathes in the air like maybe your scent will help him remember something more.

Something useful.

But it just makes his throat tighten.

Finally, he sits on the floor beside your bed, head resting back against the side, metal fingers tracing a groove in the floor.

“You kept tea in the third drawer,” he whispers. “I got you more Doll, I dont want you to miss anything when you come home.”

He closes his eyes.

“I was supposed to protect you, Doll.”

When he opened them again he saw the compact mirror, resting on your side table, his flesh fingers traced it like it might break.

"I'll find you Doll, I'll bring you home"

His voice cracks.

Not the Winter Soldier.

Not Sergeant Barnes.

Just Bucky.

The isolation chamber is dark and cold, designed to heighten Leech's senses before a mission. She hangs from the ceiling in the corner, suspended by the black tendrils which occasionally ripple across her skin.

Dr. Lindstrom observes through specialized goggles, making notes on her tablet. "Subject has fully integrated the Leech persona," she reports to Collins. "Speech patterns reduced to primitive third-person references. Locomotion primarily quadrupedal when not in hunting stance."

Collins nods, pleased. "And the absorption capacity?"

"Beyond our projections. She can drain a healthy adult male in under two minutes. The energy sustains her for approximately seventy-four hours before hunger response initiates."

"Side effects?"

Lindstrom hesitates. "Dependency is total. Without regular feeding, withdrawal symptoms begin within ninety-six hours. Tremors, hallucinations, eventually cellular degradation."

"Perfect," Collins says.

The lights in the isolation chamber flicker on. Leech hisses, covering her sensitive eyes.

Leech knows the pain that follows disobedience.

"Your training is complete," Collins says. "You have your first mission."

Leech tilts her head, curious. Missions mean feeding. Missions mean fresh prey.

Leech's tongue darts out, wetting cracked lips. "Leech... feed?"

"Prepare her for transport," Collins orders.

In the chamber, Leech drops silently to the floor, landing in a crouch.

Her movements are no longer human—fluid, predatory, patient.

The black tendrils around her hands pulse with anticipation.

Leech doesn't remember the kitchen anymore, or the music, or the gentle press of lips against her knuckles.

Leech doesn't remember her name.

Leech only knows hunger.

Leech only knows the hunt.

[amethystarachnid]

Snowed In  – You and your chosen character are stuck in a cozy cabin together as a blizzard hits. Perfect for slow-burn romance or confessions by the fireplace!

WITH TONY AND FEM READER????? THIS IS SO HIM 😻

A BLIZZARD FOR TWO

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 6k

ᯓ★ Summary: You and Tony are preparing the mountain cabin for the team's arrival since you all will celebrate Christmas together but when a blizzard hits and the heating system stops working you are left with nothing to do but cuddle up hoping to warm each other up.

ᯓ★ TW(s): snow blizzard

ᯓ★ with this my first MARVEL Holiday season on this blog officially starts!! Hope you'll like it! <3

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The faint hum of Tony's voice breaks the quiet of the cabin as he rummages through a box of decorations. "Tell me, Y/N, how did I get roped into this festive horror show again? Oh, that’s right—you batted your eyes and said please. My one weakness."

You roll your eyes, trying to untangle the knot of Christmas lights in your lap. "Because someone thought having a team Christmas would be 'good for morale.' Your words, Stark, not mine."

"Yes, but I pictured a swanky tower party with catered food, not being snowed in on a mountain like the setup for a bad Hallmark movie." He pulls out a garish reindeer ornament and holds it up, mock horror etched on his face. "Please tell me this doesn’t go on the tree."

You snatch it from his hand, laughing despite yourself. "It’s tradition! You’re not putting it back in the box. And don’t knock Hallmark movies—they have charm."

"Charm. Right. That’s what we’re calling terrible plots and questionable acting now." Tony smirks, but there’s warmth in his tone. You’re used to his quips by now; they’re practically his love language.

The two of you have been in this cabin for two days, preparing it for the Avengers to arrive for Christmas. It’s nestled high in the mountains, the perfect snowy escape—or so Tony had declared when he offered it up for the festivities. Secretly, you’d been excited at the prospect of spending some quiet time with him.

Now, though, the snowstorm raging outside the frosted windows is threatening to upend everything.

You glance at the window, concern creeping into your voice. "The forecast said light snow. This isn’t light snow."

Tony glances up from his task, his brow furrowing. "I’ll check the weather system." He strides to a sleek tablet propped on the counter, his confident air slipping into one of mild annoyance as he swipes at the screen. "Great. It’s official—we’re in a blizzard. Power grid’s holding, but the roads? Not so much. Guess we’re not getting a visit from the Ghosts of Christmas Avengers anytime soon."

"How bad is it?"

"Put it this way, unless one of them suddenly develops teleportation powers, we’re on our own for a while." He pauses, turning to you with a raised brow. "Hope you’re not sick of me yet, because we might be playing snowed-in buddy comedy for the foreseeable future."

You sigh, though you’re secretly thrilled to have more time with him. "Could be worse. At least we have power and food. And… each other?"

Tony smirks, walking over to you with his hands in his pockets. "Was that a declaration of friendship, Y/N? Be still, my heart. Someone fetch the smelling salts."

"Don’t push it." You throw a tangle of lights at him, which he dodges with ease, grinning like a kid.

The hours pass in a cozy haze. You string up lights, bicker over where the tree should go, and argue about how to best arrange the stockings on the mantle. When you complain about the uneven hooks, Tony disappears into the workshop he’s rigged in the cabin’s basement and reemerges an hour later with custom-engineered ones.

"Ta-da. Now no one has to suffer the tragedy of crooked stockings."

"You’re insufferable," you say, but your smile betrays you.

Later, as the storm howls outside, the two of you settle on the couch with mugs of hot chocolate. The fire crackles in the hearth, bathing the room in a warm glow. Tony sits closer than he needs to, his shoulder brushing yours.

"Hey, Y/N," he says after a moment, his voice quieter now. "This isn’t the worst way to spend Christmas, you know. Being stuck here. With you."

Your heart does a little flip, and you laugh nervously to cover it. "Is that your way of saying you’re having fun?"

"Don’t ruin it. I’m trying to be heartfelt here." He nudges you, a teasing smile on his lips, but there’s something genuine in his eyes.

You hold his gaze for a beat longer than you mean to, and for a moment, the blizzard outside feels like it’s miles away.

You’re woken up by the cold. Not the cozy, crackling-fire type of cold you’ve come to associate with this mountain retreat, but the teeth-chattering, toes-numbing kind of chill that has you pulling your blanket tighter around you, to no avail.

The fire in the living room must’ve gone out. You glance at the clock on the bedside table, its faint glow illuminating the late hour. A shiver runs down your spine as you sit up, and your breath puffs visibly in the icy air.

This can’t be right.

You throw on a thick sweater over your pajamas and venture into the hallway, the wood floors frigid beneath your socks. Tony’s door is closed, but you can hear him stirring inside. The sound of a door creaking open confirms your suspicions—he’s awake, too.

“Don’t tell me,” his voice grumbles from the shadowy doorway, “you’re freezing your ass off, too.”

“No, I woke up because I missed your charming personality,” you deadpan, hugging yourself for warmth.

Tony steps into the hallway, looking far too alert for someone who’s just woken up. His sweatpants and hoodie combo is decidedly less polished than his usual suits, but somehow, the sight of him like this—a little disheveled, a little more human—makes your heart do a somersault.

He raises an eyebrow at your shivering form. “You look like a popsicle.”

“You’re one to talk. Your nose is red.”

“Touché.”

The two of you head to the thermostat in the living room. Tony fiddles with it for a few minutes, muttering under his breath about shoddy wiring and questionable designs. Finally, he steps back with a sigh, rubbing his hands together.

“Bad news,” he says, his tone as flat as his next quip. “The heating system is toast. And unless you know how to jury-rig a thermal reactor in the middle of the night, we’re stuck like this until morning.”

You groan, rubbing your arms. “Can’t you fix it now?”

He gives you an incredulous look. “I could, but it would involve tearing apart half the basement with tools I don’t have. Also, I’m not exactly thrilled about freezing to death in the process. I’ll handle it first thing tomorrow, promise.”

“Great,” you mutter, already dreading the long night ahead. “Guess I’ll just wear every piece of clothing I packed and hope for the best.”

Tony smirks, but there’s a flicker of concern in his eyes. “Or,” he says, dragging out the word, “you could come sleep in my room. You know, for the sake of body heat and survival. I’ll even keep the innuendos to a minimum. Scout’s honor.”

Your heart skips a beat, though you’re quick to mask it with a skeptical look. “That’s your grand solution? Sharing a bed?”

He shrugs, his casual tone doing little to hide the faint awkwardness behind his suggestion. “Hey, I didn’t say it wouldn’t be weird. But it beats waking up as human icicles. Besides, I’m a gentleman.”

The idea of sharing a bed with Tony Stark—the man who drives you up the wall and makes your heart race in equal measure—feels both mortifying and strangely comforting. After a moment of hesitation, you sigh.

“Fine,” you say, trying to sound nonchalant. “But if you hog the blankets, I’m kicking you out.”

He grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Deal.”

You don’t know why you thought it would be easier.

The bed in Tony’s room is plenty big, but it might as well be a shoebox for how self-conscious you feel. The two of you lie stiffly on opposite sides, a careful expanse of space between you.

“I can feel the awkwardness radiating off you,” Tony says after a few minutes, his voice low and teasing.

You turn your head to glare at him, though the dark hides most of your expression. “I’m not awkward. I’m cold. And trying to sleep.”

“Right. Because you’re the picture of relaxation right now.”

“Tony.”

He chuckles softly, and the sound sends an unexpected warmth through your chest. “Alright, alright. I’ll shut up. Sweet dreams, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Tony.”

At some point during the night, the distance between you disappears.

When you wake up, the first thing you notice is warmth—a stark contrast to the freezing air that had plagued the cabin earlier. The second thing you notice is that the warmth is coming from Tony.

Your breath catches as you realize his arm is draped across your waist, his body pressed against your side. And then there’s his face, nestled comfortably against your chest, his soft, even breaths tickling your skin through your sweater.

For a moment, you’re too stunned to move.

You’d expected this to be awkward, sure, but you’d figured you’d be the one clinging to him in your sleep, not the other way around. Yet here he is, looking almost serene in his slumber, his usual sharp edges softened by the quiet vulnerability of sleep.

You’re torn between amusement and something far more dangerous—a deep, fluttering ache in your chest.

As carefully as you can, you shift slightly, trying to get a better look at his face without waking him. His features are relaxed, his lips slightly parted, and you realize with a pang that he looks younger like this.

“Morning,” comes his groggy voice, startling you out of your thoughts.

Your eyes snap to his, which are barely open but sparkling with something teasing. He doesn’t move, though, his head still resting against you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Tony,” you say, your voice hushed. “What are you doing?”

“Sleeping,” he mumbles, his tone sleep-roughened and shamelessly smug. “You make a surprisingly good pillow, by the way.”

Heat rushes to your face, but you’re too flustered to push him away. “You’re the one who—”

“Cuddled up to you in my sleep?” He finally lifts his head, though his arm stays firmly around your waist. “Can you blame me? You’re warm. And soft.”

“Tony!”

He chuckles, sitting up slightly and running a hand through his hair. “Relax, Y/N. No need to get all flustered. I’m just stating facts.”

Your glare has no real heat to it, especially when he flashes you that disarming grin of his. “You could’ve just stayed on your side of the bed.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You groan, flopping back against the pillow. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here we are.” He stretches lazily, looking far too pleased with himself. “Tell you what—since I was the offending party, I’ll make breakfast. Pancakes sound good?”

“You’re bribing me with pancakes?”

“Is it working?”

You sigh, unable to fight the smile tugging at your lips. “Fine. But they’d better be good.”

“Please. Have you met me?”

As Tony slides out of bed and heads for the kitchen, you can’t help but feel that, despite the cold, being stuck here with him might not be so bad after all.

The day begins innocently enough.

Tony, true to his word, makes breakfast. You’re surprised he even knows how to cook pancakes, let alone make them taste this good. He doesn’t hesitate to point this out repeatedly.

“See? Stark doesn’t just do genius billionaire playboy philanthropist. I also do chef extraordinaire,” he says, flipping a golden pancake onto a plate with a dramatic flourish.

You snort, reaching for the syrup. “Congratulations, Tony. You’ve mastered the art of boxed pancake mix.”

He winks, sliding into the chair across from you. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

It’s easy, the banter. Comfortable, even. But under the surface, there’s an unmistakable tension that wasn’t there before.

You’re hyper-aware of every movement, every glance. The way Tony’s hand brushes yours when he passes you a fork sends a jolt up your arm. The casual way he leans back in his chair, his hoodie riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin at his hip, has your cheeks heating before you can stop yourself.

And then there’s the way he looks at you.

You catch him watching you a second too long when you’re licking syrup off your fork. His gaze lingers, his expression unreadable but undeniably intense, and it sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold.

“Something on my face?” you ask, trying to sound breezy.

“Just admiring the view,” he replies, so smoothly it feels like a challenge.

The tension only builds as the day goes on.

The blizzard outside continues its relentless assault on the cabin, trapping you in a snow-globe world of swirling white. The two of you decide to tackle the Christmas decorations to pass the time, but the close proximity and the shared task only seem to make things worse.

“Hold that steady,” you say, stretching to hook the garland onto a nail above the fireplace.

Tony stands behind you, one hand braced on the ladder you’re perched on, the other holding the trailing end of the garland. He’s close—too close. You can feel the heat of his body against your legs, his steadying grip firm but gentle.

“If I hold it any steadier, I’ll be up there with you,” he quips, but his voice is lower than usual, rough around the edges.

You glance down at him, your breath catching when you find him looking up at you. His gaze flickers over your face, your lips, and for a moment, the world seems to hold its breath.

“You’re staring again,” you say softly, trying to mask the tremor in your voice.

He doesn’t look away. “Maybe I like what I see.”

The words hang between you, heavy and electric.

You clear your throat, breaking the spell. “Help me down?”

Tony steps back just enough to give you space, his hands reaching for your waist as you climb off the ladder. The contact is brief but searing, his fingers warm and sure against your sides.

“Safe and sound,” he murmurs, his lips quirking into a small, almost teasing smile. But there’s something deeper in his eyes—something unspoken and magnetic that leaves you reeling.

Later, you find yourself in the kitchen, attempting to bake cookies while Tony works on fixing the heating system in the basement. The storm hasn’t let up, but you’ve managed to distract yourself with the comforting rhythm of measuring and mixing.

That is, until Tony walks in, covered in a fine layer of grease and looking far too good for someone who’s just crawled out from under a broken furnace.

“Good news,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag. “The heating should be up and running in about an hour. You’re welcome.”

“Thanks, Stark,” you reply, focusing on the dough in front of you. It’s safer than looking at him, with his tousled hair and smug grin.

He leans against the counter, watching you with that same unreadable expression he’s been wearing all day. “So, what are we making?”

“Cookies. If you’re nice, I’ll let you have one.”

He smirks, stepping closer—too close. His hand brushes yours as he reaches for a stray chocolate chip, and the simple touch sends your pulse racing.

“I’m always nice,” he says, popping the chip into his mouth.

You scoff, turning to glare at him, only to realize just how close he is. Close enough that you can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. Close enough that if you leaned in just a fraction—

The thought sends your heart into overdrive, and you step back hastily, almost knocking over the bowl of dough in the process.

“Careful, Y/N,” he says, his voice low and teasing. “Wouldn’t want to make a mess.”

“I’m fine,” you reply, a little too quickly.

His grin widens, like he knows exactly what effect he’s having on you.

By the time evening rolls around, the tension has reached a boiling point.

The two of you sit by the fire, which is now roaring cheerfully thanks to Tony’s earlier handiwork. The heat is a welcome reprieve from the chill, but it does little to ease the restless energy between you.

Tony lounges on the couch, his arm draped over the backrest, his legs stretched out in a way that’s both casual and entirely too appealing. You sit on the opposite end, clutching a mug of hot chocolate like it’s a lifeline.

“So,” he says, breaking the comfortable silence. “Did today live up to your Christmas expectations?”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “You mean the part where the heating broke, or the part where we almost froze to death?”

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich. “Come on, admit it. You had fun.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. “Maybe a little.”

The smile he gives you in return is softer this time, almost disarming. He shifts slightly, turning to face you more fully.

“Can I ask you something, Y/N?”

His tone is different now—serious, but not heavy.

“Sure,” you say, your heart pounding for reasons you don’t fully understand.

He hesitates for a moment, as if weighing his words. “Do you ever wonder… what this would be like? Us, I mean. If we weren’t—”

“Complicated?” you finish for him, your voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze locks with yours, and the intensity in his eyes makes it hard to breathe. “Yeah. Complicated.”

The air between you crackles with something unspoken, something that’s been simmering all day—or maybe longer.

Your pulse quickens, and for a fleeting moment, you think he might close the distance between you. But then he leans back, breaking the moment with a small, self-deprecating laugh.

“Never mind,” he says, his voice lighter now. “Forget I said anything.”

But you can’t forget. And judging by the way he looks at you—like he’s trying not to let himself hope—you don’t think he can, either.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of half-hearted conversation and stolen glances, the unspoken tension between you lingering like the warmth of the fire. You can’t help but wonder how much longer you can keep pretending you don’t feel it, too.

The fire crackles softly, its glow painting the room in shades of gold and amber. The storm outside is still raging, but in the warmth of the cabin, the rest of the world feels miles away.

You’re sitting on the floor in front of the hearth, a blanket draped over your legs and a mug of tea cooling in your hands. Tony sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours whenever he shifts. It’s a quiet moment, comfortable and calm, but your mind is anything but.

You can’t stop replaying his words from earlier, the way his voice had softened, the way his gaze had lingered.

“Do you ever wonder what this would be like?”

The question has been burning in the back of your mind all day, and you can’t let it go. Not when every glance, every touch, seems to hint at something unspoken between you.

You glance at him, taking in the way the firelight dances across his features. His usual sharpness is softened by the flickering glow, and the sight tugs at something deep inside you.

Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out.

“Tony.”

He looks at you, his brow quirking in that familiar way. “What’s up, Y/N? You’ve got that look.”

You set your mug down, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “Earlier… when you asked me about ‘us.’ What did you mean by that?”

Tony freezes, his easy smile faltering for just a moment before he schools his expression into something more neutral. He leans back slightly, resting his arm on the hearth’s edge, and you can tell he’s stalling.

“Ah, so we’re revisiting that, huh?” he says, his tone light but not quite as casual as he wants it to be. “I was hoping we could just let that one slide into the ‘awkward but forgettable’ category.”

“Tony.” You give him a look, one that says you’re not letting him off the hook.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, fine. You want the truth? I was trying to ask if… if you’ve ever thought about what it’d be like if things between us weren’t so, you know—”

“Complicated,” you finish for him, your voice softer this time.

He nods, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Yeah. Complicated.”

You wait, giving him the space to continue.

“It’s just…” He hesitates, his hand gesturing vaguely as he searches for the right words. “We’re friends, and that’s great. I mean, you’re one of the best people I’ve ever had in my life, and I’m not exactly drowning in great people. But sometimes I wonder if maybe…”

He trails off, his voice fading into the quiet crackle of the fire. When he finally looks at you again, there’s something raw in his eyes, something unguarded that makes your heart ache.

“Maybe what?” you prompt, barely above a whisper.

He laughs softly, though there’s no humor in it. “Maybe I want more. But that’s crazy, right? Because you’re you, and I’m me, and I don’t want to screw this up.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you’re not sure if your heart is pounding from his words or the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“Tony…” you begin, but he cuts you off with a self-deprecating smile.

“Forget it. I’m rambling. You don’t have to—”

Before he can finish, you lean in and kiss him.

It’s sudden, impulsive, and entirely out of character for you, but you can’t stop yourself. Not when his words are still echoing in your ears, not when the thought of him doubting how much you care makes your chest ache.

For a split second, he freezes, his breath catching against your lips. And then he’s kissing you back, his hand coming up to cup your cheek as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

The world around you fades away—the fire, the storm, everything. All that exists is the press of his lips against yours, the warmth of his hand on your skin, the way he leans into you like he’s afraid you might disappear.

When you finally pull back, both of you are breathing hard, your foreheads resting against each other. His eyes search yours, his expression a mix of wonder and disbelief.

“Wow,” he murmurs, his voice soft but filled with awe. “So, uh… not crazy, then?”

You laugh, your hand brushing against his where it rests on your cheek. “Not crazy. Not even a little.”

A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face, and for the first time all day, the tension between you melts away, replaced by something deeper, something undeniable.

“Well,” he says, his tone shifting back to that familiar, teasing lilt, “if I’d known that’s what it would take to shut me up, I would’ve started rambling sooner.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t push your luck, Stark.”

“Too late,” he replies, his grin widening.

And as the fire crackles beside you and the storm rages on outside, you realize you’ve never felt warmer in your life.

Night settles over the cabin with a heavy quiet, the kind that amplifies the faint creaks of the wooden beams and the low howl of the wind outside. The fire in the hearth has burned down to embers, but it doesn’t matter much; the heating system is working again—or so Tony assures you.

You stand in the hallway, awkwardly lingering by your bedroom door while Tony scratches the back of his neck, his usual confidence somewhat muted. It’s strange to think how much has changed in a single day.

“We’re really doing this, huh?” he says, his tone teasing but his eyes searching yours.

You smile softly. “Yeah. We are.”

A small, crooked grin tugs at his lips, and for a moment, you think he’s about to say something else. But then he steps back, gesturing toward his room.

“Alright, then. Goodnight, Y/N,” he says, his voice lighter now, though there’s a flicker of hesitation beneath it.

“Goodnight, Tony,” you reply, your heart squeezing as you watch him retreat down the hall.

Half an hour later, you’re shivering again.

The blankets piled on your bed offer little relief against the creeping chill seeping into the cabin. You groan, pulling the covers tighter around you, but it’s no use.

How is this possible? you think. The heating system was fine earlier. Tony said it was fine.

As if summoned by your thoughts, a soft knock sounds at your door.

“Y/N?” Tony’s voice comes through, low and hesitant.

You sit up, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders. “Come in.”

The door creaks open, and Tony steps inside, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants. His hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been lying down, but there’s an odd mix of sheepishness and mischief in his expression that immediately puts you on alert.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, though you already have a sinking suspicion.

He clears his throat, leaning casually against the doorframe. “So, uh… funny story. The heating system’s on the fritz again.”

You stare at him, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Yup. Totally busted. Must’ve been a loose wire or, uh, something technical,” he says, waving a hand vaguely.

You narrow your eyes. “Something technical, huh?”

His gaze shifts, landing on anything in the room that isn’t you. “Yeah. Technical stuff. Very complicated. I’d explain it, but you’d probably get bored.”

You don’t respond right away, letting the silence stretch just long enough for him to start fidgeting. And that’s when it happens—his carefully crafted nonchalance slips.

“I mean, it’s not like I turned it off or anything,” he says quickly, then freezes, his eyes widening as if he can’t believe the words that just came out of his mouth.

You blink, processing his slip. “Wait. You turned it off?”

“No,” he says immediately, his voice rising a pitch. Then, realizing how unconvincing that sounds, he sighs and drags a hand down his face. “Okay, fine. Yes. I turned it off. But I had a good reason!”

You cross your arms, the blanket slipping slightly from your shoulders. “This should be good. Let’s hear it.”

He hesitates, his usual quick wit seemingly failing him for once. “I just… Look, it’s freezing, okay? And I thought maybe—”

“You thought maybe you’d use the cold as an excuse to come sleep with me?” you finish for him, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.

Tony’s cheeks flush, and he looks away, muttering, “It sounds worse when you say it like that.”

Despite the chill in the air, warmth blooms in your chest at the thought of him going to such ridiculous lengths just to be close to you.

“You know,” you say, stepping closer, “you didn’t need an excuse.”

His head snaps back to you, his expression shifting from embarrassed to surprised. “I didn’t?”

You shake your head, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “No, Tony. You could’ve just said you didn’t want to sleep alone.”

His mouth opens, then closes, and for once, he seems genuinely at a loss for words.

“Come on,” you say, taking his hand and pulling him toward the bed. “If you’re going to sneak your way into my room, at least do it properly.”

He lets out a laugh—half-relieved, half-something else—and follows you without protest.

As soon as the two of you settle under the covers, the warmth is immediate and all-encompassing. It’s not just the shared body heat; it’s the presence of him beside you, the sense of safety and comfort that comes with it.

Tony lies on his back at first, staring up at the ceiling like he’s trying to play it cool. But it doesn’t last long.

Within moments, he shifts closer, his arm brushing yours. Then he turns onto his side, facing you, his expression unusually soft.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost uncertain.

You nod, your heart fluttering. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

His lips curve into a small smile, and before you can say anything else, he moves again—settling himself with his head resting on your chest.

The action is so uncharacteristic, so unexpectedly vulnerable, that you’re momentarily stunned. But then he lets out a contented sigh, his breath warm against your sweater, and you realize how natural it feels.

“Comfy?” you ask, your voice tinged with amusement.

“Very,” he murmurs, his eyes already half-closed.

You chuckle softly, threading your fingers through his hair on instinct. His reaction is immediate; he leans into your touch, a quiet hum of approval escaping him.

“Not bad,” he says, his voice muffled against you. “You’ve got a real talent for this, Y/N.”

“For what? Letting you use me as a pillow?”

“Exactly. A-plus performance. Five stars. Would recommend.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. As ridiculous as he is, there’s something incredibly endearing about seeing him like this—unguarded, content, and completely at ease.

Minutes pass, the firelight casting soft shadows across the room. Your hand continues its slow, gentle movements through his hair, and you feel him relax further, his breathing evening out.

“Hey, Y/N?” he murmurs, his voice drowsy but sincere.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

He tilts his head slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. “For letting me in. For this.”

Your chest tightens, and you brush a strand of hair from his forehead. “Anytime, Tony.”

He smiles, the kind of smile that feels like it’s just for you, and you realize in that moment that you’ve never been more certain about anything in your life.

As his eyes drift shut and his breathing slows, you press a soft kiss to the top of his head, letting the warmth of the fire and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull you to sleep.

Morning arrives quietly. The faint light of dawn filters through the curtains, soft and golden, painting the room in gentle hues. The cabin is silent save for the occasional creak of wood adjusting to the temperature. It’s a peace you don’t often experience, and for a moment, you let yourself bask in it.

Then you become acutely aware of the weight pressing against you.

Tony’s face is buried against your chest, his arms wrapped securely around your waist, his body molded to yours like he’s been glued there. He’s still asleep, his breathing deep and even, but every now and then, he nuzzles closer, a contented sigh escaping him.

You’re torn between laughing at how clingy he is and feeling ridiculously fond of the man currently using you as his personal pillow.

With a small smile, you reach for your phone on the nightstand, careful not to disturb him too much. The screen lights up, and you blink against the brightness as you read the messages that came in during the night.

The blizzard is over.

The team is on their way, currently en route on a Quinjet and expected to arrive in a few hours. Relief washes over you; as much as you’ve enjoyed this unexpected time alone with Tony, you know everyone will be eager to celebrate Christmas together.

You glance down at him, his dark lashes resting against his cheek, his lips slightly parted. He looks peaceful, younger almost, like the weight of the world isn’t constantly pressing down on him.

“Tony,” you say softly, brushing a hand over his shoulder. “Wake up.”

He groans in response, burrowing further into you.

“Come on,” you coax, trying to suppress your amusement. “The others are on their way. We should get up and make sure the cabin’s ready for them.”

“Don’t care,” he mumbles, his voice muffled against your chest.

You laugh, nudging him gently. “Tony, come on. You’ll care when Steve gets here and starts giving you his disappointed dad look because we’re not ready.”

He shifts slightly, cracking one eye open to peer at you. “Let him look. I’m busy.”

“Busy?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Busy doing this.”

As if to prove his point, he tightens his hold on you and nuzzles his face even deeper against your chest, his breath warm against your skin. His arms are firm around your waist, and despite the fact that you’re trying to wake him up, there’s a traitorous part of you that doesn’t want him to let go.

“Tony,” you say, your voice firmer this time, though it’s hard to sound authoritative when he’s acting so endearing.

“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the fabric of your shirt as he speaks. “I’m comfortable. You’re comfortable. No reason to ruin a good thing.”

You roll your eyes, though the fond smile on your face betrays you. “The team is literally flying here right now. They’ll be here in a few hours.”

“Plenty of time,” he counters, his voice still heavy with sleep.

“Tony,” you say again, but before you can finish, he tilts his head up slightly, meeting your gaze with a lopsided grin.

“What?” he asks innocently, though the mischievous glint in his eyes tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, though there’s no real heat in your words.

“And yet, here you are, cuddling me anyway,” he quips, looking far too pleased with himself.

Before you can come up with a retort, he leans back down, resting his head against your chest again. His voice is quieter now, almost shy as he adds, “I don’t wanna get up yet.”

Your heart softens at his admission, and you find yourself relenting.

“Fine,” you say, running a hand through his hair. “But only for a few more minutes. Then we really need to get moving.”

He hums in response, his eyes slipping shut once more as he leans into your touch. You feel his breathing even out again, and for a moment, you let yourself relax, enjoying the quiet intimacy of the moment.

When you finally manage to coax Tony out of bed, it’s a slow, reluctant process.

He clings to you the entire time, draping an arm over your shoulder as you sit up, resting his chin on your head while you stretch. Even when you stand, he follows you, keeping one hand on your waist as though afraid you’ll suddenly disappear.

“Are you always this clingy in the morning?” you tease, glancing at him over your shoulder.

He grins, unrepentant. “Only when I’ve got something worth clinging to.”

You roll your eyes, though your cheeks flush at the compliment. “Come on, Romeo. We’ve got work to do.”

He groans but doesn’t let go as you make your way to the kitchen. You try to shoo him off, insisting you can handle things just fine on your own, but he refuses to budge, staying close as you start preparing breakfast.

“Tony,” you say, exasperated but laughing, “I need both hands to crack these eggs.”

“You’ve got two hands,” he replies, leaning against the counter with a smug smirk. “Mine are free. Put me to work.”

You shake your head, handing him a whisk. “Fine. You can whisk. But don’t make a mess.”

He salutes you dramatically. “Yes, ma’am.”

By the time the Quinjet lands outside, the cabin is spotless, breakfast is ready, and you’ve managed to coax Tony into releasing you—though not without a fair amount of grumbling on his part.

The team files in, shaking off snow and shedding coats as they greet you warmly.

Steve glances between you and Tony, his brows furrowing slightly. “Everything okay here? You guys managed alright during the storm?”

You exchange a glance with Tony, his expression betraying nothing but smug satisfaction.

“Oh, we managed,” you say, biting back a smile.

Steve eyes you both suspiciously, but before he can press further, Natasha strides in, sniffing the air.

“Did you guys actually cook breakfast?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Tony whisked,” you say, and he preens like it’s the highest praise he’s ever received.

“I whisked,” he repeats proudly.

Natasha snorts, muttering something under her breath about miracles, and the conversation shifts as the team settles in.

Throughout the morning, Tony stays close—always within arm’s reach, always finding some excuse to brush against you or nudge your shoulder. It’s subtle enough that no one seems to notice, but you’re keenly aware of it, and the warmth it brings stays with you long after the blizzard is nothing more than a memory.

It’s going to be a very merry Christmas indeed.

stop guys I love Christmas so much

[queenofviolenceandnerds]

Eye of the Hurricane - 1

Bob Reynolds X black fem reader

A/N - reader is Wakandan. Her family had names, but you choose how they look. Reader is Ayo’s sister. Reader is described to wear a bonnet/scarf on missions

Warnings - mature language, violence, blood, drowning, illness? Does that need a warning? Mentions of abuse, suicide, and overdosing.

The hum of the outreach center faded as the vibranium doors slid shut behind you. Another day of mediating disputes, guiding young minds, and reminding the world that Wakanda was not simply a beacon—but a boundary.

You hadn’t even unwrapped the shawl from your shoulders when you saw the familiar black SUV idling at the curb.

Bucky Barnes was leaning against the hood, arms folded, eyes half-hidden beneath his tousled hair. His vibranium arm gleamed faintly in the sun, a gift your country had made for him. Your sister Ayo still called him White Wolf, but you had other names in mind.

“You’re late,” you said as you approached.

“I’m early,” Bucky replied. “You’re just always on time.”

You slid into the passenger seat without another word. The car moved forward with a low growl of the engine, and the silence stretched comfortably for a while—until Bucky broke it.

“They’re a mess.”

“I know. I read their file.”

He sighed. “Alright. Quick run-down. You ready?”

You nodded, fingers tapping the edge of the console.

“Yelena works better alone. She’s brilliant, lethal, and talks to her Guinea Pig more than any of us. I respect it.”

“Guinea Pig?”

“Don’t ask. Anyways, Alexei—Red Guardian—he’s… enthusiastic. Tries to force bonding exercises. Made us do trust falls last week.”

You blinked. “Did you catch him?”

“I didn’t participate.”

“Mm.”

“John Walker—”

“Ayo told me about him. Called him an ass.”

“Yeah. He thinks he’s in charge. Looks at himself in the mirror like he’s the second coming of Steve Rogers. Ava hates him.”

“Don’t blame her.”

He gave you a look. “Ava’s trying. But she doesn’t work with anyone she doesn’t respect. And she doesn’t respect anyone.”

You hum, before asking about the one he forgot to mention. “And Robert?”

Bucky’s hands tightened on the wheel. The car shifted lanes.

“Bob’s… scared. Doesn’t say much. Doesn’t do much. He’s powerful—beyond what anyone understands. He flat out refuses to do any training because he’s scared he’s gonna hurt someone. Very timid and jumpy.”

You looked out the window, watching the landscape shift from city streets to a more remote, secure perimeter. Towering steel and glass rose ahead—the new Avengers facility.

“So,” you said, “a loner, a failed Captain America, a hyperactive Soviet, a bitter ghost, and a god in self-exile. And you want me to turn them into a team?”

He gave you a sideways glance. “You made me better, didn’t you?”

You scoffed. “You needed a bath and boundaries. That wasn’t hard.”

He actually laughed.

But as the car approached the gates, your smile faded, replaced by something steadier. Quieter.

“They’re not going to like me,” you murmured.

“Nope,” Bucky agreed. “But they’ll listen to you. Eventually.”

“No they won’t.”

“No, they won’t.” He sighed.

•••

The elevator was silent save for the soft hum as it climbed. You leaned casually against the wall, watching the numbers tick upward.

“This place is impressive,” you murmured, eyes scanning the sleek paneling. “Shuri would be losing her mind right now. She’d probably try to scan everything before declaring it inefficient.”

Bucky chuckled beside you.

“She’d challenge Tony to a tech duel if he were still alive,” you added.

“She’d win,” he replied.

You gave him a sly look. “Obviously.”

The elevator dinged.

And then chaos.

The doors slid open into a modern, open-concept living room—and total pandemonium.

Yelena stood with her arms folded, eyebrows drawn, her accent sharp and slicing as she argued with John Walker, who was pointing with that infuriating confidence only men like him could muster. Ava was on the other side, jaw clenched, eyes blazing, practically vibrating with suppressed rage.

“I don’t take orders from you,” Ava snapped.

“You’re on a team, not a solo mission anymore—” John barked.

“You’re not the damn leader,” Yelena cut in, throwing a hand between them. “You’re just loud. There’s a difference.��

Off to the side, Alexei watched the spectacle with a bowl of Wheaties in one hand and a bemused expression.

“We must work together,” he announced through a mouthful of cereal. “Like family. Like Avengers! You know, they do the trust falls!”

You stepped out of the elevator without flinching.

“Should I come back in five minutes?” you asked dryly.

All heads turned.

The room went very still—except for the sound of Alexei crunching loudly.

“Who’s that?” John asked, still scowling.

“Someone smarter than you,” Yelena muttered.

You ignored both of them. Your eyes swept the room once, cataloging body language, friction, and power dynamics like instinct.

Then you saw him.

In the kitchen, away from the shouting, Bob Reynolds stood alone.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t move. Just kept his hands braced on the counter like he needed it to anchor him.

You let your eyes linger for a beat.

Then looked away.

“Alright,” you said, clapping your hands once. “I see this is going to be even more fun than I thought.”

“Who are you, exactly?” John snapped.

“Your new therapist,” you said with a flat smile. “Y/N L/N. From the Wakandan Outreach Center in New York. And apparently, your only chance at functioning as something vaguely resembling a team.”

“Now,” you said, turning toward Bob briefly before facing the others again, “someone tell me which one of you started the fire in the training room.”

A beat of silence.

Then Alexei raised his spoon.

“I said we should not use the flamethrowers indoors… but no one listens to Red Guardian.”

This is going to be fun.

A/N. I know it’s kinda short but I’ll be writing more once school lets out Friday

@bee-unknown @dc-marvel-fics @zerocyphero7 @starsoflace @charlothee @lourdesssssssssssssss @blackrigel @xplot-buni