foreverrandomwritings

[foreverrandomwritings]

good news i'm the most fuckable person at this vehicular manslaughter

[foreverrandomwritings]

Lewis Pullman photographed by Storm Santos

[foreverrandomwritings]

Currently sitting and waiting at the airport to pickup some family. So I had to of course do something to fill my time. I’d definitely say reading this was the right choice. Though the people in the other cars might think I’m a loon from how much I was giggling and covering my face in astonishment of how amazing this was😂

Wanna Buy You A Drink

(Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: It's been five months since Bob's seen his wife, and aside from Natasha he had yet to mention her to his team. He calls it privacy, she jokes it's internalised possessiveness. But tonight, with Penny's help at the Hard Deck, more than one person is in for a surprise. After all, who doesn't love a good innuendo?

A/N- Hi y'all! No TWs I think, a good few innuendos and one joke about making babies but nothing actually happens. I've been trying to finish this one for a while and am very happy with how it turned out! P.S incase y'all didn't know the Thunderbirds are the US Air Force's professional flight team that does really amazing tricks and skills and the Blue Angels are the ones for the US Navy! Both groups are so amazing to see in person and I just wanted to make a little Navy Vs. Air Force rivalry joke about them!😊 Enjoy❤️

WC- 3.8k

Main Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He didn't know you were coming.... or so soon at least.

The last time you had spoken to your husband was a few days ago while trying to find a flight to San Diego for next month. The two of you had texted of course, and you had even gotten a few awkwardly taken selfies of the man with the sunset behind him. Neither you nor your husband enjoyed having your photo taken, so seeing him take time to step out of his usual comfort zone was always touching. Besides, you would never tell him (nor would he tell you), but there was a growing album in your phone of sneakily taken photos, though blanket holes or around house walls when the other wasn't looking. These little albums you each had "hidden" helped the burden of the distance seem less harsh, especially in the times when Bob's job kept him farther way than usual.

Despite the top secret mission he had been sent on being completed, your husband was still assigned to say in the city for an undetermined amount of time. Evidently the higher ups decided they liked how well the crew had flown and wanted to keep them together. Tired of being alone and wanting to have a little fun in the Sunny City, you decided to make an early appearance. Luckily, you had already managed to find a job in the city that was just a different branch of where you worked before. They were also kind enough to give you a two weeks leave of your own to make the move and see your husband. Your husband knew you would to join at some point, only he thought you wouldn't be getting in until late next month. So he would be very surprised in a few hours when he found you at one of the navy's top aviator hangouts that night.

It was a bar called the Hard Deck. You remembered your husband mentioning it a few times through your communications, as where him and his fellow officers liked to go after a long day. A quick google search rendered a fruitful find, and ten minutes after getting your rental car, you were on your way. It barely 5:30 by the time your reached the bar, Aviators and Civilians alike had just begun to pour through the bar doors. But by 6:00 you were sure the place would be packed. So you quickly searched for a seat, always rubbing your right thumb over your left wrist to calm your nerves. 

In the centre of the building, a beautiful older beautiful woman moved around the main bar serving drinks with ease. 'Penny' you though to yourself, remembering Bob mentioning her a few times when the bar came up. Apparently in addition to running the bar she also had close connections to the the Top Gun program herself, namely with a certain Captain who helped lead the last Mission. You smiled to yourself as you saw the sign by the bar serving a warning to those who would disrespect women or the navy. Maybe this woman could help you with your fun. When it became your turn to order you smiled at Penny...

"Hi! I was actually hoping I could send a drink to someone else if that would be alright?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bob was tired. There was no particular reason why he was tired today, he just was. Training had gone smoothly and Hangman hadn't been too much of an pain either. All and All, today had actually been one of the least stressful days since he first arrived nearly five months ago. But for some reason Bob just felt off today, he chalked it up to having not spoken to you in a few days. Speaking to you always made him feel better, even when it was only for a few minutes. And having not seen you in person for five months made him long for something from you even more.

But these last few days had been busy, and then earlier today he had tried calling, but it hadn't gone through. This didn't worry him too much as he knew you occasionally turned your phone off during days when you really needed to focus on work. Though it was unusual for you to be working so late, seeing as your time zone was a few hours ahead of his and he called at 4:30 his time. Since the call didn't go though he decide that the "secret" photo album he had of you would have to suffice for now. Neither of you liked having your photo taken, but quick images taken half under the counter and while one slept always made the other smile.

He had been so busy looking at photos he almost didn't notice the group's nightly arrival to the Hard Deck until Phoenix nudged him. Giving him that half secret smile showing she knew what he was looking at. While the rest of the group (and even Maverick to a degree) thought Bob was incapable of talking to a woman without stuttering, Tasha knew otherwise. Bob hadn't even tried to hide it when she had asked why he seemed so fond of rubbing his right thumb over his sleeved left wrist night the group met. She had done it in private, of course, and only wondered if it was a nervous habit of her new WSO. And it was a habit....only not Bob's.

It was something you had always done even before you got married, a comforting repetitive habit that both you and your husband shared. But it also held a deeper meaning as it held the symbol your love. 

When the two of you first decided to get married a few years ago you hadn't gotten rings, or at least ones you'd wear on a daily basis. Both your jobs often required plenty of hands on work, and you had both been worried about losing the rings during the day. So instead, a cheaper pair of matching rings was bought and a new tradition was made. Each of you carried the other's ring in your wallet. That way, even when far apart you could have a piece of the other with you. And when the two of you met up face to face again you'd once more exchange rings. 

But even that wasn't all.

 The pair of you had wanted something more so you had decided to get matching tattoos. They were small and identical and despite almost breaking Bob's hand holding it while getting yours (from fear of needles) the small design was now one of your greatest comforts. On the inside of each of y'all's left wrist were two small stick figures holding hands on a paper airplane. At first glance it may have seems silly to any stranger passing by. But to you and Bob it was everything. 

Bob had been the one to draw stick "You" and you had drawn stick "Bob" with his little glasses. You had also drawn the paper airplane as stickmen were the extent of Bob's artistic skills. Besides, the paper plane you believed would be funny at the time. A memorial of how you two had first met in high school, when your paper plane had accidentally collided with his face instead of your friend's desk during class one day. You hadn't even known he wanted to be a pilot until months later, but when you did learn he was quick to comment how one day he'd be more than happy to take you up in a plane, as long as your weren't the one flying it again (he didn't think his face could take it). Years later you still found it funny and Bob would sometimes catch you laughing to yourself tracing the black lines on his wrist while lying in bed. A moment of peace before you two would have been parted again. Bob didn't regret what he did for a job, and neither did you, but that didn't stop you two from wishing to be together more. 

Again Tasha nudged him, breaking Bob out of his reverie before the pair headed into the crowded bar. It was just after 6:15 and already packed. Bob knew he'd rather head home and try calling you again, but he had also promised Fanboy one more pool rematch, since Hangman had busted into their last one. Luckily, even though the bar itself was crowded, the pool tables were open.

A few minutes into the game, Hangman and Coyote went to order a round of drinks and came back talking. Apparently there was some "Gorgeous Doll" (Jake's words) sitting at the bar and the pair of aviators were arguing over who'd get the chance to "woo" her first. 

Bob wasn't paying too much attention to their conversation or very interested in finding out more about this mystery woman. As far was he was concerned not even Dolly Parton could top your beauty and Bob would openly admit that he'd had a minor(ish) crush on the country singer since he was a kid. It had even become a running joke between your families, the battle for Bob's heart between you and Dolly. 

When he'd gotten his wisdom teeth out at 17, his mother told him someone had come to see him. Poor Bob about cried upon realising it was you instead of Mrs. Parton, his "Angel Voiced Beloved". Oh how you wish his brother still had that video tape, but unfortunately it had "mysteriously vanished" after Bob had overheard his sisters mention trying to get it for the wedding video. But more fortunately, the drugs wore off and soo enough he'd come back to his senses, and since that one night you'd been the only one for him. And luckily for him, he'd been the only one for you. 

So even if he was slightly curious to see which of his friends would attempt their flirtations, or which ones would fail, for now he didn't put too much thought into it. The quicker he won the game the quicker he could try calling you again. 

Soon enough Hangman was called back over to the bar to retrieve the group's drinks and they once again settled in to continue the game. Bob was once again winning, and Javy sat aside beginning to wish he hadn't placed such a bet tonight while Tasha and Callie were already making plans in their heads for what to do with their prize money. The only ball Bob had left to hit was the eight ball, and thanks to a lucky slip on Fanboy's part, it was a shot as perfect as it was easy. 

Javy cursed under his breath while Tasha and Callie high-fived, and Rooster cheered raising his glass up almost dumping his drink on Jake's head. Fanboy hung his head in defeat while Bob just grinned. Bob wasn't a bragging man but he still did like to win...a lot. The Squad may have thought of Bob as the quiet and passive WSO, but they had yet to see how competitive he could be when challenged. They had seen plenty of dog fights in the sky, but nothing compared to the vicious chaos between the Floyd family when it came to the annual gingerbread house competition. Under that sweet smile and those large glasses hid an overly excited man-child basking in his victory. Ok... so maybe it had been a good idea to come tonight. Bob couldn't wait to call his wife and tell her about his achievement. After all she was the one who taught him to play.

A few minutes later the group of aviators had settled down again and a new game started. This time Rooster was up against Maverick himself, which always proved to be a good show, full of sneaky cheating and playful jibes. Bob was sitting by Callie and Tasha taking his share of the winnings. It was only 6:30 now and he knew his night owl of a wife wouldn't be asleep for a few more hours so he decided to watch a few more games between his friends before calling a cab home. 

Hangman and Coyote were still debating over whose turn it was to talk to the new woman at the bar. Evidently, they'd noticed her reoccurring glances towards the squad during the first game and were sure she was interested in one of them two. And to drive their beliefs further, the glances had been accompanied by a playful smirk "directed" to the two men who'd placed themselves behind an oblivious Bob as them game went on. 

It was a few minutes later Penny walk up to the Aviators carrying a drink in her hand and smirk on her face. 

"Someone sent over a drink for one you lot," she said, at once turning the entire groups' attention towards her. After all who didn't like a free drink? Usually the drinks in question were for sent for Tasha or Callie, the only two women in the whole squad, but occasionally one of the other aviators would be the recipient. No one would forget the time Ruben got a drink from a 60 something year old women in a sparkly dress. And it appeared this would be one of those times. 

With a smirk on her face she turned, setting the colorful drink down saying,

"Lieutenant Bob Floyd someone wants you to have sex on the beach."

Aside from quite humming of ice machine and the clatter of Maverick's pool stick it seemed as if all the sound has been sucked out of the Hard Deck. As if Penny's words has been some wicked spell freezing, all the group's inhabitants where stood still. A little ways away from the group, a woman sat with a growing grin on her face as she watched everything unfold. Just as Bob opened his mouth, his face now a red as his wife's lipstick, Penny delivered the final 'blow'. 

"It's double strong too, so I'd say someone really wants you to have it."

Bob looked like a fish. A really cute six foot tall fish with military issued glasses but still a fish. His eyes were wide and his mouth kept opening slightly before closing as if the words in his head were fully composed of silent letters. If one were to look into Bob's head and read his mind they'd be able read the flurry of responses and polite refusals streaming through his brain. It wasn't the first time he'd been sent a drink, but that never stopped him from going speechless when it happened. Now Bob was a married man. A very happily married man, but he still had an awful habit of getting flustered anytime showed interest in him. It was something that Y/N took special pleasure in, and there were times they went out with friends when she'd pretend she didn't know him just so she could relentlessly flirt and turn him red. To be fair he'd also done it to her a few times, but she had a habit of taking any flirting he did as a challenge. And then, while their friends fake gagged and smirked behind their backs, the night would be filled with flirty winks and innuendos until someone gave in and "agreed" to take the other to "their place".....wait a mi....

"I hope you don't mind I took the liberty of getting you a refreshment. Thought you might have deserved it after that wonderful win." 

Bob was grinning like an idiot before he even finished turning his head to the approaching voice. He didn't get out of his seat though as his head fell back to the ceiling with a hand over his face as the last of the embarrassment left him. Turning his head back to the women he smiled again as he began to laugh. He turned his body more towards her and noticed the dress she was wearing. Damn he loved that dress. It was the one she wore when they had gotten engaged. Looking at her lips she appeared to have the same lipstick on too.

"I hate you."

Words said without malice, quite the oppose actually, brought another laugh to Y/N's lips as after months apart she finally got to stand in-front of her husband. Eyes never leaving her husband's, she places a hand over her heart and gave a dramatic gasp.

"Well that is the most heartbreaking news I've ever heard darling. You see I was so impressed with your skills earlier, I was ALL set to propose. See I even got you a ring," and with that Y/N pulled her left hand back from her chest and revealed Bob's ring which had been sitting in her wallet for months now. Well, aside from almost every day when she'd fidget with it in her hands while on the phone with him or just because she missed him. And a little farther up from her palm was a small tattoo of two tiny stick people holding hands on a paper plane. In the back ground, Phoenix let out a small sound of joy of her own as she finally understood what was happening. Quickly she leaned over and explained to Callie, who also started to laugh. The rest of the aviators still stood in shock, not sure what was going on. They only knew that for some reason Bob "Blushes at the word boobies" Floyd was getting the attention of one very pretty women, apparently because he could play pool. 

Bob only stared at her hand for a moment longer before he finally stood from his chair and wrapped the woman in front of him in his arms. Spinning her around once before kissing her cheek he pulled back.

"Well, I guess I'll have to rethink my words then ma'am. In fact, I think I got a ring right here that may fit your style," he replied grinning as he pulled Y/N's ring out of his own pocket and wallet with a practiced ease done many times before. "You'll have to forgive me for not kneeling to do it now, I'll get my ass chewed out if I dirty this uniform," he joked looking down to the woman in his arms smiling back.

"It may not be typical or proper, but I certainly wouldn't want anything to happen to that lovely ass of yours....so I guess I'll accept," Y/N joked back, drawing out a few words for added affect, not really caring about the propriety of it just ecstatic to be with her other half again.

"PROPER?! I haven't seen you in five months and the first think you do is send someone to tell me you really want me to have sex on the beach. How's that's proper for ya! Not even a hello first," Bob laughed. As surprised as he was initially, he really did miss this little game of y'all's. It brought out a cheekier side of him his friends usually didn't see.

"Alrighty then," stepping back and picking up the drink in question with a smirk, Y/N raised it to her husband's eyesight, "Hello, Lieutenant Bob Floyd would you like to have sex on the beach?"

"Well I just don't know if that's something I can answer in public Mrs Floyd," he replied cheekily, still starting at his wife.

"MRS.FLOYD"

That was the collective statement from the remaining aviators as the couple was finally brought out of their own little world. Turing to face the company Bob stood with his arm around Y/N's waist proudly like a child at Christmas.

"Yeah, Mrs. Floyd. Been that way since I became the luckiest man on earth."

"And since I became the luckiest women. But all ah y'all are welcome to call me Y/N. Or you know... Mrs. Baby on Board. Though I guess we haven't gotten to that part yet, but, it has been five months after all."

Tasha followed, closely by Callie, was the first to approach as Rooster's pool stick fell to the table and Maverick started wacking a sputtering Jake on the back, after the latter choked on his drink with the final sentence. 

"Hi, I'm Natasha and this is Callie, callsigns Phoenix and Halo. I'm your husband's ..."

Before Natasha could even finish she was wrapped in a hug by Y/N.

"Ohh I know you!! Bobbie talks about you all the time! You're Black Widow! It's so nice to meet you!!"

"Black Widow," someone asked from the side, while Bob began to chuckle under his breath.

"Ohh right, sorry. I have a hard time with remembering names, so I like to make up helpful nicknames with Bob to remind me of who is who. Like Natasha is Black Widow because of Natasha Romanoff; and Callie is Catwoman because of Callico Cats; and there's also a Rocket Raccoon for whoever's Bradley; and I have a Peter Pan beca...."

"Yep I think they get it darling. No need to divulge all our secrets." Bob interrupted nervously, not quite wanting his team to know all his secrets yet. He'd also NEVER tell them that when you first learned about his job you'd compared him to the Thunderbirds. I mean the audacity of it all! Everyone knew the Blue Angles were superior! Those were some fighting words Bob assured you at the time. Callie and Tasha burst into grins, liking this more and more, while Y/N looked back a her husband with a fake look of innocence in her eyes. Meanwhile Penny, still with the group, wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes as Maverick gaped and Rooster got into a debate with Mickey if he was hotter than Bradley Cooper. Soon the laughter died down and Maverick stepped forward sticking out his hand.

"Well it sounds like you seem very good at giving callsigns of your own. Maybe we'll have to put you in charge of naming the new recruits Y/N. My callsign's Maverick but I'm guessing you know me as Peter Pan."

"Pleasure to meet you Maverick. I might just have to take you up in that offer. Heard a lot about you too. All of you in fact. I'm sorry for interrupting your game earlier, I've been waiting to do that for a long time. Your friend Penny was a brilliant help too." Y/N smiled and shook his hand. He had a welcoming smile that reminded her of her own father. She also sent a smile towards Penny who returned it with her own and took a step closer to Maverick. 

"No problem at all, it always nice to see couple's meeting again. I must admit the drink was a nice touch. Never seen an idea that creative yet." 

Stepping back towards her husband who put his waist around her once again, "Why thank you captain, I do suppose it's nice someone appreciates a good innuendo." Bob gave a small groan, but smiled as he buried his head into his wife's shoulder whispering how he did appreciate it and would show her how much later. Out of the corner of her eye Y/N caught a few more aviators still staring, though they seemed much less confused, now slowly settling in to of their quiet friend being married. "Though I believe there's a few more introduction left as well," She mentioned as she stepped towards the remaining group and shot a mischievous grin towards her husband, asking him a question without words.

"Oh just do it, they're gonna know eventually I guess," Bob laughed and looked at his wife with an equally mischievous look, finally taking a sip of his drink. After all, she'd probably let the names slip one day. This was going to be great. Hearing her next words, Jake choked on his drink again.

"Alrighty then. Which one of y'all boys is Statefarm?"

[foreverrandomwritings]

A little bit late of me and I apologize but thank you so much for the rec✨🖤🥹

Robert 'Bob' Floyd Fic Recs

06/12/2025

⭒ 𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒚𝒅 𝒇𝒊𝒄 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒔 𝒊𝒊 by @ruerecs

⭒ Shy Reader x B. Floyd by @0mg-bird

At the Navy bar your friends drag you to, you come across an aviator who isn’t like the rest of them.

⭒ Switch up by @littleenglishfangirl

⭒ I Will End You by @itwillbethescarletwitch

Fem!Mitchell!Reader

⭒ naval admin reader by @moon-fics

⭒ That’s my wife by @writesick-lover

⭒ Hangman’s Sister by @cap-winter-barnes

Y/N is Hangman's little sister - everyone on the Dagger Squad knows she's dating Bob, except for her big brother.

⭒ Sunscreen by @siempre-bucky

Bob burns. Your daughter gets very paranoid when he forgets his sunscreen one morning and insists on bringing it to him.

⭒ Hair by @/siempre-bucky

Bob feels disappointed when he can’t do elaborate hairstyles on his daughter so you let him practice on you.

⭒ "B feeling shy in swimwear and A hyping them up" by @/siempre-bucky

You know Bob’s reserved, his favorite yellow shirt was his comfort source at the beach, but you just want to see his beautiful body underneath it. So naturally, you pin him to the side of the Jeep and tell him he’s hot.

⭒ He Didn’t Have to Be by @imjess-themess

You’re afraid Bob is going to run the other way when your daughter accidentally calls him dad.

⭒ The Five Stages of Falling In Love by @/imjess-themess

Y/N’s falling in love, even though she really didn’t want to. She’s going through the five stages of grief upon realizing it.

⭒ Being his girlfriend  by @nobody7102

⭒ Bad day  by @/nobody7102

⭒ It’s okay  by @/nobody7102

⭒ Polaroids by @the-shedevil-writes

Bob keeps your relationship private, but he doesn’t try to hide the dozens of Polaroids of you all over his locker and truck. He has a daily routine of taping his favorite Polaroid of you to his jet’s console, but when it goes missing, things get chaotic. Luckily, you’re there to make everything better.

⭒ Concussion by @38livesalone-has3cats

⭒ secret wife by @writingdumpster

When you go to pick up Bob at the base the dagger squad finds out that Bob’s been keeping a wife from them.

⭒ bob’s shirt by @/writingdumpster

When you wear Bob’s shirt to The Hard Deck, your secret relationship is found out. Reader’s callsign is Fox.

⭒ Wanna Buy You A Drink by @anonymooseforever007

It's been five months since Bob's seen his wife, and aside from Natasha he had yet to mention her to his team. He calls it privacy, she jokes it's internalised  possessiveness. But tonight, with Penny's help at the Hard Deck, more than one person is in for a surprise. After all, who doesn't love a good innuendo?

⭒ He’s All That by @withahappyrefrain

Bob has always been shy, which has gotten in the way of meeting folks. So, his friends decide to give him an impromptu makeover.

⭒ The 5 Times You Flirted With Bob + The 1 Time He Picked Up on It by @/withahappyrefrain

You’ve fallen for your friend and have decided to drop some hints that you’re flirting. Unfortunately, Bob doesn’t realize that immediately

⭒ Unorthodox (Pt. 1) by @specialbrewbutterbeer

⭒ Unorthodox (PART II)  by @/specialbrewbutterbeer

⭒ Waiting for Someone by a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all

⭒ Hands by @foreverrandomwritings

The 5 times Bob sees you looking at his hands and the 1 time he says something.

⭒ 𝐖𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐩𝐬 by @roosterbruiser

AdmiralsDaughter!Reader where the dagger squad finds out he's dating/engaged/married

⭒ The Wingman  by @roosterforme

Bob never did this sort of thing. Talking to girls and flirting and romance. It’s not that he didn’t want to, he just didn’t really know how. But you were different in all the right ways, and you made him feel confident enough to try.

⭒ A Friendly Push by @skvatnavle

⭒ My Love, Forever by @robertcallsignbobfloyd

Bob doesn't want the whole squadron to know he's married, but needs his biggest support system with him in North Island.

⭒ All Fun & Games by @purelyfiction

Returning to San Diego was just another assignment for you. Another step in the career path, full steam ahead, until you come to an obstacle in the road. Usually, you’d navigate around it, keep on going, but this is no normal obstacle. It might be enough to reroute you completely.

⭒ Bob x hangmans sister, by @ahockeywrites

⭒ Being Married To and Having a Baby With Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd Headcanons: by @fanboygarcia

⭒ Robby by @dearestdaffodils

Bob likes to keep his personal life and work life separate.

⭒ Only Exception by @kinzis-writing

Y/N Mitchell swore to herself that she would never allow herself to date or get involved with anyone from any branch of the military. After worrying about her father, the past few years, she knew that she never wanted to experience that worry for a significant other. After her father gets ordered back to California, she may just meet the one that ruins all her plans.

⭒ It’s Always Been You by @midnightdevotion

⭒ My Boys by @writergirl35

You and Bob have welcomed a son into the world. Your son just turned 11 months and Bob can’t decide who he loves more, his son, or the woman who brought him into the world.

⭒ Dancing with you by @applebutter-and-cinnamon

A dance with Bob leaves you infatuated and slightly surprised that a man like him actually exists.

⭒ Welcome home  by @joaquinwhorres

Bob comes home to you and reflects on your relationship.

⭒ Just Bob by @fandomwriterkailyn

⭒ the captain’s daughter by @callsignhoney

an unlikely candidate has you breaking your dad (and brother’s) “no pilots” policy

⭒ Need to Know  by @bussyslayer333

an accidental call to your boyfriend on girls night leaves everyone shocked at a revelation they never thought they would have; bob fucks.

⭒ Make It Proper by @Rassvetsky

“He blinked at you, before his smile got a bit wider. You could see the reflection of the setting sun in the blues of his eyes, a twinkle of excitement— the gratitude of being understood maybe, or it’s just that he’s glad to have you around.”

[foreverrandomwritings]

nobody has been there for me like the ‘x reader’ tag has been there for me

[foreverrandomwritings]

Guys please I need HELP

Yesterday I found a blog that had a masterlist of fics and it was something like “Reader with different powers each one in a different universe” and I’m almost sure that it was in a Marvel universe. The first fic is about a shapeshifter and she usually doesn’t stay in her real form.

But I lost it an now I can’t find it😭😭😭😭😭

If you know please let me know!!!!!!

[foreverrandomwritings]

Guys please I need HELP

Yesterday I found a blog that had a masterlist of fics and it was something like “Reader with different powers each one in a different universe” and I’m almost sure that it was in a Marvel universe. The first fic is about a shapeshifter and she usually doesn’t stay in her real form.

But I lost it an now I can’t find it😭😭😭😭😭

If you know please let me know!!!!!!

[foreverrandomwritings]

version of spn where dean is openly bisexual the entire time and definitely fucks a priest during a job and sam is does his judgmental little "dude" and dean is like "i already went to hell once man,, what's the worst that could happen" and everytime there's a new bad guy or apocalypse sam is like "this is bc you fucked a priest" and eventually he says it in front of Cas who does his little squint and head tilt and just

"You what?"

[foreverrandomwritings]

que lo malo sea bueno e impuro lo bendecío

Summary: obiwanxsith!reader /Your constant encounters with Obi-wan soon turn into something else. Who will be the first to cross the line? ♡ Inspired in Rosalia's El Mal Querer ♡ Warnings: mentions of depression, mentions of physical punishment and violence overall. Some flirting and fluff. This is basically an enemies to lovers with angst Word count: 5.8 k Read on AO3Writer's note: Apparently I am unable to write smut, this started as a smutty one-liners challenge and ended up being the angstiest piece I’ve written for this man. Sorry :/ whenever I mention loose hair this is what i have in mind (my dream hair tbh)

Your lightsaber crashed against his, bathing the room in a purple hue. A thin layer of sweat covered your forehead, and your lower lip trembled between your teeth.

He was stronger and bigger than you—there was no denying it. That was why you were ready to bend backwards once his wrestling made you lose your guard. You rolled onto your back until you were standing again, gaining a few steps from him.

“You are a lot more flexible than I thought,” Obi-Wan said with a smirk.

You grinned back. “So you have thought about it?”

Your teasing tone was enough to make him lose focus, so you launched at him. Your blow was stopped by his left hand.

He scoffed a laugh. “Often, I must say.” His lightsaber rolled on his wrist and charged toward your arm.

You deflected. “While you were playing with your lightsaber?” You twirled and charged again. Your smirk illuminated red.

“Actually,” he defended with a teasing grin, “while I was training with Anakin.”

You pouted. “Oww, don’t tease me like that.”

You pushed him away with a flick of your wrist, but he pulled you back to him.

Taking a step forward, you pressed the hilt of your lightsaber against his chest, looking up at him with a wicked grin. All it would have taken was to press a button, and he would have been gone.

Then, he was the one to push you away, but with his bare hands on your biceps.

The contact sent both of you flying to opposite sides of the room.

“What the Force?” you mumbled while getting up.

“The Force itself, I believe,” Obi-Wan responded from the floor.

The next thing you heard, after the buzzing in your ears faded, was the humming of a ship nearby.

“They won’t give you the same courtesy as I did,” he said in between panting.

You allowed yourself to look at him for a second; he was unarmed, clearly hurt and in pain. You could have killed him, ended it right then and there, but the closer you got to him, the stronger the Force pulled you away.

“We’ll continue this later, Master Kenobi,” you said. You walked back to your ship and left the scene before his backup arrived.

***

You walked down the busy streets of Coruscant, still trying to get used to the buzz of the city. Your eyes were wide with wonder at the shops, the passersby, and the technology. Your right arm was almost numb from carrying a tote bag filled with groceries while you carelessly looked around the bazaar. People came and went, none of them paying any attention to a girl eating ice cream as she walked. None of your Sith attire was on you; instead, a sage green dress fell off your shoulders and trailed down to your ankles, paired with simple sandals. Your hair lay loose down your back.

You tried not to think too much about what your master would say if he saw you. “Unworthy of the Sith” was the first thing that crossed your mind as your tongue flicked out to catch the thick drops of pink cream falling off the cone in your hands. You scoffed at the mental image.

It had been weeks since you last saw Obi-Wan, yet your arms still carried bruises from where his fingers had gripped your skin.

The heat of the crowded place was enough to confirm that the sudden chill down your back didn’t come from the weather, but from a threat—though you heard it before you saw it.

“I never thought much about a Sith’s diet, but I definitely wouldn’t have guessed it was based on that,” he murmured, his beard brushing your shoulder as his warm tone wrapped around your senses.

When he stepped back, you turned to him, already missing his closeness. “Maker forbids a girl treats herself after making a Jedi bite the dust.”

Obi-Wan laughed. “You running away from a fight is making me bite the dust?”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Well, I wasn’t the one calling for backup desperately,” you said, then moved to make a full display of your tongue against the ice cream.

You caught a faint blush on his cheeks before he turned away with a scoff. “We can do a rematch anytime.”

You shrugged, eyeing the thick robes on his shoulders. You pointed at them with your chin. “Do you want to take it off, or should I do it for you?”

That drew a teasing smile from him. “Come on, you have to work for it.”

“Oh? How so?” you asked, resuming your walk. Surprisingly, Obi-Wan matched your pace almost naturally.

“Bring out your saber, and I’ll take off my cloak to fight you.”

You groaned. “It’s my day off, Kenobi. Let me wander.”

“You actually have days off?” he asked in a mixture of squeaking and whining. “Now that’s appealing.”

You glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow. “A bit offensive, if a day off is what you find appealing about the dark side.”

The blush returned to his cheeks. “I will neither admit nor deny anything in that sentence.”

You hummed, stopping in front of him. “Are you going to arrest me?”

He looked at you with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “On your day off? Now that would be uncivilized.” Obi-Wan winked before turning on his heel and walking away.

If your master knew about this...

***

You had become a light sleeper, ironically, ever since turning to the Dark Side. Anxiety and fear had heightened your senses in an almost annoying way—so much so that any noise or movement startled you awake.

You turned to your side, trying to ignore it, but the sensation of another body next to you sent a jolt through your chest. Instinctively, you called your lightsaber to your hand and ignited it right next to the intruder.

Positioning it near his face, you heard him groan. As your eyes blinked against the glow, adjusting to the light, you saw him squeeze his own shut. But nothing had prepared you for the face that slowly came into focus.

It was Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Lying in your bed, grunting and pushing your wrist away so the light wouldn’t bother his sleep.

“Go back to sleep,” he mumbled.

“What the kriff are you doing here?” Your saber stayed close—still ignited, though no longer threatening his face.

The sound he made was closer to a growl as he turned his back on you, rolling to the other side. “I’m not.”

You pressed a hand to his torso. He was real. He was here. “You are here.”

“It’s a—” a yawn cut him off, “Force bond. If you ignore it, it will dissipate.”

You stayed frozen, trying to make sense of what he’d just said.

“Turn that thing off, Maker,” he muttered, dragging a pillow over his head.

You shut off the saber and returned to your original position, but sleep didn’t come—not with one of the most important Jedi in the galaxy lying right next to you.

***

The next time you crossed paths it was in the Outer Rim. You were protecting a group of Separatists, and the next thing you knew was a flash of blue light slashing its way in.

You groaned the moment he came into view.

After slaying the protective droids, he halted a few steps from you, his chest heaving with rapid breaths.

“Nice to see you again,” he said, igniting his saber once more.

“I must confess I prefer the latest version I was privileged enough to witness,” you replied.

He rolled his eyes at your remark.

“Alright, no teasing,” you added, your own eyes rolling. “Let it go, Kenobi. These people are within their right to choose their planet’s destiny.”

“I’m afraid I must take some of them to Coruscant,” he said, stepping forward, though his guard remained down. “You should come too.”

With a grin, you lifted your guard, a red hue illuminating your eyes. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Obi-Wan. I can’t let you take any of them.”

Your lightsaber crashed against his, buying the Separatists time to escape. He did not dodge, nor step back. Instead, he leaned in closer to the sabers, and almost like a mumble—or a prayer—he whispered your name.

Your brows furrowed as you felt his signature brush against yours.

“Oh, don’t you dare,” you warned, then charged toward him again.

He stopped your attack swiftly. “They’re wanted. Not for politics, but for abuse.” He waited for your reaction, the purple hue of your combined lightsabers casting light across your tense expression. “I must take them back to face their trial.”

“Abuse?” you pressed, moving against him again.

His wrist circled before he raised his guard. The clash of sabers set his jaw tight. “They committed severe crimes against children.”

You held his gaze for a few seconds, then your Force signature brushed against his, searching for the truth.

He let you in.

And you saw it all—signed affidavits, children’s testimony, the Jedi Council's ruling.

You shut off your saber and stepped back. “Punch me or something, at least.”

“Uh?” he asked, caught off guard.

“I’ll need an excuse for why I passed out.”

He took a step closer. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You huffed. “Aren’t you famous for slaying Sith Lords?”

His eyes locked onto yours—firm, steady, unwavering—and with every passing second, he seemed to inch closer to the truth buried beneath your presence.

“You’re no Sith,” he said quietly.

Now you rolled your eyes. “Kriffing hell.”

You ignited your lightsaber again and charged him.

He dodged and turned, each of your strikes met only with precise, measured defense.

“Attack me, Kenobi,” you demanded through gritted teeth. “Hurt me.”

He looked at you with doubt in his eyes, his lips pressed into a thin line as he came to a decision.

Then he lifted one hand and sent you flying across the room.

The last thing you saw before passing out were his guilt-creased eyebrows.

***

You felt him nudging at you later through the bond. You scoffed to yourself— Of course Obi-Wan Kenobi would knock on an open Force bond.

“How are you?” His voice was just as vivid as it had been earlier.

You glanced up to see him sitting in some sort of ship, but you continued working on your arm.

“Been better,” you muttered, your right hand quickly wrapping a bandage around your left wrist.

“Why are you bleeding? I didn’t—”

“You didn’t,” you interrupted, “but I was taught a lesson by my master.”

“Oh.”

You heard the breath coming in and out of his nose as you removed your cloak.

“I am sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be. You did the right thing. As expected.” Your brow lifted, even though your eyes remained downcast.

“Why did it matter to you?”

You scoffed sarcastically, your gaze cutting through him. “Do not insult my intelligence—or your own—by pretending not to know why you even brought it up.” You turned away, removing your shirt to tend to the wound on your stomach.

He murmured your name.

“WHAT?” you snapped, turning to him with a scowl.

“Your back is…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence for you to know he was staring at the lightsaber scars that laced your skin.

You stood in front of a mirror, dressed only in a sports bra and pants, using your own lightsaber to cauterize an open wound on your ribs. You hissed from the sting just as he called your name again—louder this time.

“Come here,” he ordered.

Without the energy to defy him, you stepped closer. “What?” you asked, now standing between his parted knees.

You watched as Obi-Wan pulled a piece of paper from a rubber rectangle and pressed it gently to your wound.

“You shouldn’t be this harmed,” he murmured, still patching you up. And though you didn’t know him well enough to name the emotion he was projecting, you guessed it was anger.

“You might be the only Force user I’ve faced who hasn’t marked me,” you teased.

Obi-Wan scoffed. “If I were to mark you,” he said, his voice dark and warm, “I’d give you a hickey.”

Your blood ran cold. “Do you say that to every sith in distress?”

He laughed softly, his warm breath fanning across your sternum. “Only to the pretty ones.”

“Oh, lucky me,” you quipped, wiggling your eyebrows at him.

He pushed at your waist, turning you around so your back faced him, then healed another five wounds. His hands, however, lingered on your skin a little too long.

You stood silently, facing away from him, a line of water threatening to fall from your eyes at the realization that this was the most care anyone had shown you in years.

“You could kill me right now,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“If I’d planned to do so, I wouldn’t have wasted six perfectly good bacta patches.”

His hands guided you to turn and face him again. His fingers moved over your skin with surprising ease, almost instinctively.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, and you thought the conversation was over. But before severing the bond, he tugged lightly at the invisible leash that linked you together.

“You don’t belong with them.”

You gave him a cynical smile. “I belong in a religious cult that can grant me protection—and since the Jedi casted me out, this is the next best thing.”

You didn’t wait for another word. You raised your defenses until his face vanished from your quarters.

***

“I haven’t seen you out there in a while,” Obi-Wan’s voice sounded somewhere in the room.

Due to the punishment you had endured, you no longer had the strength to keep your mental walls up.

You didn’t answer, choosing instead to remain lying on the bed, eyes half closed.

“Hey,” his voice echoed, closer now. “Are you alright?”

His kind eyes searched your features, looking for an answer.

“You’re starving.”

He disappeared from your line of vision for a few minutes, then returned with a handful of pills and some food packets, which he tossed onto your bed.

Patiently, he sat beside you and fed you until color returned to your face.

With weary eyes, you looked up at him, his hands cradling your jaw.

“Thank you,” you muttered, as articulate as you could manage.

“It’s no ice cream, but…” he scoffed, though he didn’t sound amused. “Why are you like this?”

“It’s part of the penance.”

With his thumb, he stroked your cheek gently. “What for?”

Your eyes lifted to his, unable to speak the truth.

“Because you let me go?” he pressed, his hold on you tightening.

“Please,” you begged, though you didn’t know for what—for the punishment to stop, or for your life to end; for him to stop being so gentle and kind, or for him to rescue you. You didn’t know why you were begging, but you were, as tears slid down your cheeks, his thumbs catching each one.

“Come to the Temple. Please.” His voice was a soft caress to your weak body.

Still, you shook your head. “I can’t.”

“You can. I’ll make sure you get a fair trial. This is wrong. No Jedi prison can be worse than this.” His thoughts seemed disorganized, or perhaps it was the pounding in your head that made them seem that way.

Your eyes closed again as he guided your head to his chest, fully embracing you.

Tears kept falling as you thought of this bittersweet comfort the Force had given you. The safety of his arms could very well be the reason you would be killed—if anyone ever found out. Either by his own hand, his masters’, or your own.

But you nuzzled into his grip nonetheless. If you were going to die anyway, you might as well savor the smell of his skin.

***

The room was illuminated purple, though where the light came from, you had no idea. Your saber had cut a man’s throat, and he dropped dead on the floor. Your hand flicked once more, dropping the gates for the victims to escape. Sweat rolled down your forehead from the effort. They started running the second the gates opened, using every limb to get out and climb into your ship. “There is room for everyone,” you assured them. A child looked up at you and screamed in terror. “I saved you,” you tried to reassure him, but your voice came out rough. Your body leaned toward him, and he flinched, taking a step back. He was screaming, and your head was spinning. “I saved you!” you repeated, harsher. “You are a monster,” the kid spoke, but the voice that came out of him belonged to someone else. It was the voice of an older man—one you had heard before. A woman took the child into her arms, lifting him up. “You do not belong here.” You finally recognized the voice. “Master?” The hold on your lightsaber felt clamsy. Your fingers were sweating against the metal as you rolled it in your hand. It grew warmer and warmer until the heat from the crystal started to melt the hilt. It burned your palm, so you dropped it to the ground instinctively. Your master’s voice echoed in the room, calling your name, as your blue lightsaber sank in blood. “You do not belong here.” The room was in complete darkness now; all the light was gone. You were left without one of your senses as you tried to find your lightsaber. You knelt, your hands moving over the floor, searching for it—but it was gone. “I saved them,” your hands moved frantically through the blood puddle, now inches deep. “I saved them!” you repeated, louder each time. The liquid climbed up your limbs. “I saved them, I saved them.” Your name was being called, over and over again, until your eyes opened. A sigh left your lips when you spotted Obi-Wan’s creased brows and light blue eyes on you. His hands were gripping your biceps, lifting your torso off the bed. “Shit,” you muttered. “It was a nightmare,” he said softly. He is not here, you told yourself, trying to calm the guilt that his warm presence stirred in you. “No, it wasn’t.” You pushed yourself to sit, and his hands dropped from your arms. “It was a memory—sort of.” He looked at you in silence. You could almost see the thoughts running in and out of his head. “Come to the Temple with me,” he offered softly. At the smirk on your lips, he quickly added, “There is good in you, I can feel it.” “If your goal is to make me feel better, maybe you could use that mouth for more than just talking nonsense,” you muttered, scoffing. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he smiled. “May I?” he asked, a hand near your jaw. You nodded in silence. As his hands cupped your jaw, his eyes closed, brows furrowed. He swam through your mind with expertise.

You showed him that night—how you showed no mercy to the slavists. You showed him the Local Jedi Temple where you grew up and your master looking down on you. You let him feel your master’s arrogance, his rejection of you. “You don’t belong here,” he had gritted out. He had pulled the robes off your shoulders, making you fall to your knees. “The Hutts will kill me for spoiling their ship,” you had begged, your eyes weary. “Master, please.” “Your lightsaber,” he had said, extending a hand toward you. “Master,” you had cried out, “please.” He had slapped your cheek and demanded the weapon again. Facing the ground, you unclasped it from your belt and handed it to him. “You are no Jedi,” your master muttered.

Obi-Wan gasped, and the next thing you knew, his skin was off you and he was looking at you in concern. “You saved them,” he whispered, as if confessing a crime. You only nodded once. “I thought so too.” “Is that why you left?” “I didn’t leave,” you gritted your teeth. “They kicked me out.” “No, your master did—not the Order. You can appeal. Come to the Council,” he said with such urgency that you almost felt sorry for him. “Obi-Wan, it’s too late for me,” you said with tenderness. “They’ll kill me if you take me. Your guys, my guys, or the slave owner organization I massacred. I’ll die either way.” His brows furrowed. “No.” His head shook side to side frantically. “The Order can protect you.” Your head leaned to your shoulder. You couldn’t help but empathize. “Only a soul as pure as yours could think that, Obi-Wan.”

***

Your hand toyed with the glass of sparkling drink in front of you. Standing next to a high table, you pretended to be just another girl at the club, while in reality, you were making sure an exchange of smuggled substances went smoothly. This wasn’t your favorite type of mission, but it also wasn’t the worst. No one would need to get hurt if everyone stuck to their business. That was, until you felt a certain Jedi walk into the club. Dreading how your night had just gotten a whole lot more complicated, you downed all your wine in one sip before standing up and joining him at the bar.

“If I’d known you’d be here, I would’ve worn something more suitable.” There was a smirk on Obi-Wan’s lips as his eyes scanned you up and down. “That skirt couldn’t be useful in a sword fight,” he said, guiding a glass to his quivering lips. “Oh, but it could be for other things,” you teased, taking a step closer to him. “Especially when I don’t bring my lightsaber.” You gestured to the bartender to fetch you another drink. “But why talk about my clothing when we could talk about yours?” You hit his chest lightly with the back of your hand. “It was—uh—Anakin’s idea,” he muttered, his cheeks tinting pink as he gestured to his black leather jacket. 

“Why are you here?” he asked, pushing the question out of himself and making you smirk. “Why are you here?” you asked, your words laced with suspicion. He scoffed. “To have fun.” “That would explain the outfit,” you murmured into your drink. “Pardon me?” “Well, I don’t think the Jedi robes are very popular with the ladies,” you scoffed, “or lads.” “Actually,” he began before clearing his throat, “they’re very popular with the ladies and the lads.” “The appeal of the forbidden, of course,” you said with a smirk, leaning in a little closer. “You would know about that.” “Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, taking a sip of his drink—though his pink cheeks remained. “Well, I didn’t mean me, but thank you.”

As he looked away, you noticed the tips of his ears had turned red. “Why are you here?” he pressed. You groaned. “It wouldn’t be very smart to tell you, would it? But let’s just say—for the same reason as you.” “Without your lightsaber?” “So you are here for a fight.” He rolled his eyes. “You think I’d change my clothes and come to a bar just to hang ?” You made a show of looking him up and down, biting your lower lip as you did so. Then you inched closer. “You could be stalking me,” you whispered, your breath close enough to reach his face. “And I bet you’d like that,” he said with a smirk.

You could feel, through the Force, that the dealer had entered the club and was heading toward your client. You decided to push the act, leaning your face against Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Perhaps I would,” you said, gazing up at him through your lashes, your tongue briefly wetting your lips. “Tell me, Obi-Wan Kenobi… how would you like this night to end?” He sighed. “With you—and the smuggler you’re looking out for—in handcuffs.” “Would you really get that kinky on our first date?” you teased, making him scoff. “Shut up,” he said, but the glint in his eye betrayed his amusement.

One of your hands climbed slowly up his chest, coming to rest on his shoulder. “Is that what you really want? For me to be imprisoned for the rest of my life?” His hand came to rest on your waist. “I’ve told you before—I want you to come to the Temple with me.” “You offer me death by Jedi sword,” you whispered into his ear, your voice hoarser than you’d ever allowed it to be near him. His fingers tightened against your skin. “I wouldn’t allow that.”

You closed your eyes, focusing on shutting him out of your mind while you scanned your client. The exchange was a success—your contact was already leaving the club. You exhaled slowly. You lifted your head from his shoulder, but his hand didn’t leave your waist. “Come with me,” you said. “Where?” “To my place.” “Why would I?” He took a sip of his drink. “It could be a trap.” You cooed, “You are so virgin it’s almost cute.” “I am not a virgin,” he said, his hand rounding your waist and pushing you gently against the bar. His eyes locked onto yours, noses nearly touching. “It’s okay if you are. Nothing to be ashamed of,” you said, rising onto your toes in a playful attempt to provoke him. “You are a monk, after all.” “I am not,” he scoffed, “a monk.”

Buzzing with excitement, you bit your lower lip to control yourself. With his thumb, he freed it. “Don’t do that.”

The gesture shocked you. Your core pooled with desire, your eyes fixated on his lips. Your head spun with need as you weighed your chances of pulling his face down to crash against yours. Your bodies were so close you could hardly understand how it had come to this. His cologne filled your lungs, suffocating you in the best and worst way.

He maintained that piercing eye contact until you placed your hand against his chest and gently pushed. The simple touch was enough for him to release you. “My apologies. I didn’t realize we were so—” “I did,” you blurted, then added, “But it’s fine.” Your chest heaved as your breath came out ragged. You were moving before you could think. “I should go. The sale is finished anyway.” He grabbed your elbow, stopping you in your tracks. “The sale?” His eyebrows rose.

You looked up at him. A wave of honesty threatened to break through— I need to eat, I’ve been living on the streets since I let you go, you idiot! —but nothing came out. Instead, you said, “Well, I am a Sith, aren’t I?”

And with that, you walked out of the bar and into the dark streets of the capital.

***

You had called to him through the Bond, asking him to meet you outside the city. You knew it was reckless—he had no reason to come, and you were putting both of you at risk. But he had to know.

You had barely gathered the strength to get there, certain you were close to death. A lightsaber burn scorched your neck. Your lip and eyebrow were split. One of your eyes was swollen shut.

You had betrayed the Order. Faced your master. And in response to your accusations, he had nearly killed you.

“Obi-Wan,” you whispered from beneath your robe in the dark alley, your voice cracking with pain.

His eyes raked over your injuries. “You need a bacta tank. Now.”

“No—no, wait. I have to tell you something.” Desperation clung to every word.

He knelt beside you. “What happened?”

“Lord Sidious—he—” You gasped. “It doesn’t matter. Obi-Wan, you need to help Anakin.”

“Anakin?”

“He’s been—” your voice broke. “He’s been groomed by the Sith since he arrived on Coruscant.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes sharpened. You were speaking to General Kenobi now. “ Don’t you think I would have noticed ?”

You shook your head, frantic. “Don’t you wonder why he’s so volatile? He’s been under Sidious’s influence from the start. Obi-Wan, you have to save him.”

He scoffed. “And you would be the one to warn me? Don’t make me laugh, darling.” He pulled out a set of cuffs and snapped them onto your wrists.

They were Force blockers, you realized. A numbing white pain traveled through your body at the loss of sensitivity to the Force, layered over the pain that already seared through your broken ribs and hip. You could barely move.

“Obi-Wan, don’t take me there. They’ll kill me.” Tears slid down your cheeks.

“You’ll be a prisoner. You’ll get a fair trial and be judged according to the Code.” He hauled you to your feet.

You cried out in agony.

“You have to believe me. Who do you think did this to me—and why? I faced him!”

“Make sure to tell that to the Council,” he muttered, guiding your stumbling steps.

“Obi-Wan, don’t do this.” You collapsed to your knees, sobbing. “Kill me yourself instead. I beg you. Give me that dignity.”

He stopped and turned. His lips pressed into a flat line, and his piercing blue stare cut through you. It was a look he had never given you before. Cold.

“You knew the rules when you left the Order. And still, you became a Sith. You’re an enemy of the Republic—and you’ll be treated as such.”

The disregard in his voice broke something inside you, making your shattered bones feel like the least of your concerns.

“Only a Sith deals in absolutes,” you snapped, your voice raw. “What’s the difference, then?” You dragged yourself to your feet despite the agony. “The Jedi will kill me for not being one of them. So will the Sith. They’re just opposing sides of the same credit. The only difference is that now you hold the power.”

He said nothing. But then, without a word, he freed your wrists.

“You have to believe me. Anakin is in danger—and so is the entire galaxy.”

He smirked. “Well, you’re in danger. And you’re not under Jedi protection. I’d suggest you take precautions.”

Obi-Wan turned and walked away, leaving you alone… to run.

***

You had followed him for weeks—maybe more. Just watching, waiting, trying to find the perfect moment. With each rotation, your heart sank further as you came to the horrible conclusion that this was not the same man you had known all those years ago.

But as time passed, your task grew more and more urgent, until one afternoon, you decided to approach him.

“General,” you murmured into his ear, the breathing system of your mask disguising your voice.

He flinched. But quickly, his shoulders squared into the posture of a soldier.

“I’m going to need you to come with me.”

You escorted him out of the tent, your hand guiding him by the shoulder.

From behind, you saw how gray his hair had turned—the perfect beard that used to be neatly trimmed now grew untamed across his face.

He offered no resistance as you brought him aboard your ship.

“What do you want with me?” he asked hoarsely, his hand rising instinctively to his hip.

“No need to get melancholic. I can and will shoot you on the spot, General.” You tilted your head. “You’re the most wanted man in the galaxy. The Empire offers a big reward for you—dead or alive. So give me one good reason not to turn you in.” Your voice flickered with thrill.

His brows lifted, and a slight scoff escaped his lips. “Oh, how very nice of you.”

A wave of hope exhilarated you—to find scraps of his humor still alive.

You shrugged as best as your armor allowed. “Just a girl trying to restore the galaxy’s faith in humanity.”

A flicker of anger crossed his otherwise calm eyes. “What’s your problem?”

“If I get paid—absolutely none,” you scoffed. “I’ll be a very rich lady.”

“That goes against the principles of Mandalore,” he said solemnly.

“Never been,” you replied as you circled in closer. “Aren’t you going to plead your case? This can’t be the Republic’s great Negotiator.”

He sighed.

“Come on, this isn’t the General Kenobi I know.”

That caught his attention. His blue irises lifted to yours—and even those looked different.

“You knew me?”

“Very well,” you said, sitting on a bunk to remove your armor. “A long time ago.”

You felt his signature brushing against yours through the Force. You pushed it away with a jolt. “ Hey , that’s not nice!”

“As opposed to arresting me?” He took a step forward.

“I did no such thing!” You stood abruptly, torso still armored, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I merely escorted you to my ship. It worries me deeply that you didn’t even try to fight!”

He scoffed. “I’m retired.”

Taking advantage of your helmet’s technology, you studied his face closely: he did look tired. The smile lines around his eyes had become dark bags. You could almost touch the weight of his burdens on his shoulders. The bright blue eyes that once thrilled and invited now brimmed with shame and grief.

“Just take me to them. Turn me in,” he murmured.

With one last click, you removed your helmet, your hair falling free across your shoulders. “In your retirement? Now that would be uncivilized.”

He sighed at the sight of you, and for a fleeting moment, you saw him again—the man you had known.

He said your name like a question—or a prayer.

You walked toward him, placing your hands gently on his chest, looking up at him with kind eyes.

“Where have you been? I—I haven’t felt our bond in years,” he said, his hands sliding to your waist.

“Some Nightsisters helped me hide for a while. Then I needed to eat… and became this .” You shrugged.

“You were right.”

Every word came out painfully.

Your brows creased in sympathy. “I am so sorry.”

With a deep breath, his head dropped to your shoulder. Your fingers moved gently through his gray locks.

“Are you really going to turn me in?” he mumbled against your shirt.

You laughed softly. “I think I owe you a pardon or two. So… no.”

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as he leaned back to look into your eyes. A playful smirk curled his lips.

“So you’re going to break the law? Help a fugitive of the Empire?”

You looked up at him, a smile playing on your lips. “Well… I am a Sith, aren’t I?”

And finally, he closed the distance between your bodies, pressing his lips to yours.

[foreverrandomwritings]

john walker x reader

I’ve been thinking thoughts about john walker again… what is happening to me

Themes: smut, switch!john walker, explicit language, praise kink, 

a/n: also i love this stupid scene below sm omg-

I have a feeling he would be down for anything. He wouldn’t mind leading, taking control, or being the dominant one in the bedroom:

“Come here, baby.” He’d called out, manspreading on the couch, patting his thigh for you to come get comfortable on. “Come give me a kiss.” 

And how could you resist that face? That voice? That sleepy, tired look in his pretty eyes. The messy blond hair, the rough beard to match. So you’d go over to him, get on his lap like his good girl. And he’d tell you how pretty you are. 

“Such a pretty girl for me…” he’d whisper into your ear, his beard brushing against your skin, while he slides another finger inside you. “All mine, huh? This is all mine.” He’d get you to moan louder and louder with his gentle, deliberate, slow strokes. “My angel… all mine.” 

John would also be the type of man to just take whatever he wants. He’d be demanding for sure, always seeking you out. Always touching you. Always reminding you how much you mean to him. Always reaching for you, always needing your warmth whether it’s late at night or early in the morning. 

Sleeping next to him would be such bliss because he’d just be so handsy. You’d wake up with his hand down your shorts, or up your shirt, grabbing you and cupping you possessively. Reminding you even in his sleep that you were his. Or you’d wake up feeling soft kisses all over your neck. 

“I want you so bad, kitten. Spread those legs for me.” 

Or he’d straight up refuse to let go of you once he starts. “Just one more, baby.” He’d gasp into your ear, pounding into you even after you were done coming for him. Multiple times. 

“I need some more, angel, give it to me…” 

But I guess, he also wouldn’t mind you taking control, and you telling him what to do:

Maybe he’d be extra sensitive after returning from a mission. He’d be tired, and quiet, and soooo needy because he’d missed your touch for days. He doesn’t even know how he survived not touching you. And now, he was starving and couldn’t even ask for what he wanted. He’d just sulk and give you puppy eyes until you figured it out. 

“Is this what you want, huh?” You’d grab his hand and shove it in between your legs. You’d catch the surprised yet vulnerable look in his blue eyes. He’d be needy. Moments away from begging. “You need it? Hmm?” 

“Yes…” He’d whisper, quietly, like he didn’t want himself to hear it. 

“Yeah?” You’d lean in to whisper in his ear. “What do you need, huh? To fuck me? You want to fill me up? Mark me as yours?” 

“Fuck,” He’d swear, his voice shaky. “Please, please just let me touch you.” His voice cracking in desperation. 

You’d mess with him then. A game of push and pull, giving him what he wanted but not entirely. Maybe you’d tease him for as long as you could until he was limp in bed, mumbling nonsense, his eyes shut and his breathing heavy… 

“Please, please, please,” He’d chant. “Baby…” 

“What?” You’d taunt. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” 

Or maybe John would be the type to follow instructions with no problem:

You’d find him while he’s with the others, leaning down to whisper in his ear, “You got ten minutes, Walker?” 

And he’d know. He’d just know… he’d know that for those ten torturous minutes in the walk-in utility closet, he’d be nothing but a gasping, whimpering, pleading mess. With his cock in your mouth, your tongue teasing him, and his hands obediently behind his back, wrists trapped between him and the wall behind him. His blond hair a mess with how roughly you ran your fingers through it earlier, kissing him until he was breathless. 

And he’d stand there and take it too. Playing by your rules, coming only when and if you’d let him. He’d moan so pretty for you. His voice strained and quiet, breathy moans that drove you insane. 

He’d react so well to praises too. 

Smiling to himself each time he’d make you come.

“You okay, baby? Can I make you come again?” 

Or feeling all happy and proud each time he’d fuck you to sleep. 

But mostly, your praises would make him weak during sex

“Yes,” You’d gasp, squirming under him as he fucks you nice and deep. “You feel so good, my handsome man…” 

“Baby,” He’d plead, tensing up at the praise and looking down at you with a pleading look in his eyes. “Please, I can’t hold it much–,” 

“Yes you can,” You’d argue, caressing his face. “Just a little longer, and then you can come, I promise, okay?” 

He’d groan and go back to fucking you, riding that edge for as long as he can before making a mess all over you. His cum all over your thighs and abdomen. “Fuck, baby…” He’d whisper, shoving his face into your neck, his body clinging to yours, “I’m sorry I made a mess.” 

He'd probably kiss his way down your body again, seeking your taste, wanting his mouth in between your legs, wanting to make you come again, not even bothering about the mess he just made.

"I want more, baby... just some more, please."

—

a/n: help me. I did not choose to come to this town– this is [looks around] this is not even my town i’m just visiting i promise [sobs] call bucky and tell him to pick me up pls

[foreverrandomwritings]

You Caught Me

Character: Bucky Barnes

Requested: No

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: You're Valentina's assistant, and somehow, you manage to fall in love with a certain Congressman.

A.N: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THUNDERBOLTS TO BE SEMI SPOILED!!!!!!!!! I have seen Thunderbolts* on Thursday (amazing btw) and have been craving Thunderbolts!Bucky. Also reader is like 25.

Again THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS ARE IN THIS FIC

3...2..1...

You worked your whole life to get here. Straight A’s, a top-tier college, a string of impressive jobs that made your parents brag to their friends.

But that wasn’t the point. You didn’t do all of that just to climb a ladder. You wanted to help people. To actually do good. To give the voiceless a voice, to step in where others wouldn’t. You wanted to make the world better, even if it was just piece by piece.

That’s what led you to OXE. And eventually, to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Or, more accurately, to being her assistant. Though calling it that feels like selling it short.

You’ve been working with her for a few years now. From the very beginning, she seemed to like you. Said you reminded her of herself. You’re still not sure if that was a compliment or a warning.

Valentina can be cold. She’s sharp, calculated, sarcastic to the point of painful. Some of her decisions don’t exactly land on the moral high ground. But she took you in, brought you closer, taught you how to survive in a world most people don't even know exists. And you’ve done things others your age only dream about. You were actually making a difference.

But now everything’s falling apart.

She’s under investigation. Impeachment is on the table. And you’re left trying to put out fires.

You’d been tense the entire hearing. And not the kind of tension that goes away with a few deep breaths. This was chest-tightening, eye-twitching, every-decision-matters tension.

Your job was on the line. Everything you’d worked for — or convinced yourself was worth it — was balancing on Valentina’s ability to lie with a smile.

She was performing. You were managing the fallout.

Your eyes kept drifting — trying to find some kind of anchor. And that’s when you caught a pair of them.

Blue. Cold but curious. Watching.

Congressman Bucky Barnes.

You met his stare, held it a second longer than you should’ve, then forced yourself to look away. Whatever that was — whatever he was trying to read — you didn’t have time to entertain it.

Then Valentina dropped the line you’d been dreading: “By all means, dig as deep as you like. I promise—there’s nothing to find.”

You knew that tone. It meant you had twenty minutes to erase every breadcrumb.

By the time the hearing adjourned, you were already outside, typing fast, juggling secure files and decoy trails on your tablet. You barely noticed the footsteps until—

“Y/N?”

You looked up, and there he was. Again.

That same cool stare, now paired with a too-casual smile.

“Congressman Barnes,” you said smoothly, tucking the tablet under your arm. “Nice to officially meet you. I’ve heard...great things.”

“I doubt it. Also, please just Bucky,” he said, offering a hand. “Unless you want to start talking tax policy — then I’ll put the tie back on.”

You cracked a smile and shook his hand. Firm. Warm. Too steady.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing back toward the hearing room. “I mean, what happened in there was... honestly? Kind of worrying. Extremely worrying. Kind of concerning if you ask me...in like a worrying way.”

You tilted your head. “You mean ‘concerning,’ or ‘I’m building a case against your boss’ worrying?”

He blinked. Didn’t expect you to hit back that fast.

You smiled politely. “No need to dance around it. I’m sure you’ve got a folder somewhere with Valentina's name on it.”

His grin crooked slightly. “Maybe. It’s a very organized folder. Color-coded tabs.”

“She always did love being underestimated,” you said with a shrug. “O.X.E. has nothing to hide, of course.”

He didn’t argue, but the look he gave you said he wasn’t buying it.

There was a beat of silence, and then he glanced over your shoulder — where Valentina was watching the two of you, pretending she wasn’t.

“She always stare like that?” he asked casually.

“Only when she thinks someone’s wasting my time.”

“And am I?”

“Depends on why you’re really here.”

He smiled. “Okay, fine. I’m new to D.C. First term, still finding my way. Thought maybe... you could give me a tour. Show me the non-corrupt parts.”

You laughed softly. “That’s a short list.”

“Still. Monuments, museums, a little fresh air — maybe a conversation?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Right. A conversation. Just two people talking. No ulterior motives, no recording devices, no traps.”

He held up his hands. “I left the wire at home.”

You smirked, but you didn’t let it reach your eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying,” he said. “Just... improvising.”

You leaned in just enough for him to know you were done playing. “You’re fishing, Congressman. I’m just not the one you’ll catch.”

He opened his mouth — maybe to protest, maybe to flirt again — but you stepped back as Valentina waved you over.

“You're a very good-looking man,” you added, softer now. “And I appreciate the effort. But whatever you’re hoping to dig up from me? You won’t get it over coffee and small talk.”

A beat passed between you.

Then you gave him one last smirk, turned, and walked back toward Valentina — leaving him standing there, watching.

And even though you didn’t look back, you knew those blue eyes hadn’t moved.

*******

You had three things on your mind.

Shut down headquarters.

Erase every trace of Project Sentry.

Clean up Valentina’s reputation before the whole thing implodes.

And somehow, you're doing all of that in a dress and heels at a fundraiser.

“Honestly, Y/N, you have such an amazing brain,” Valentina says, her smile more calculated than warm. “Putting this fundraiser together? Brilliant move. This has to sway at least some of the votes.”

“Thanks,” you reply, quickly scrolling through your tablet. “I’ve categorized the guest list: influencers, allies, and the undecideds. Left off the hard no’s. No point wasting time. I just sent the files to you.”

“Perfect. Do I need you for anything else?”

“No, you should be good. I’ll stay close though. Just in case.”

“Smart. Stay where I can see you. And hear you. Actually, just don’t go far,” she says, already turning to work the room. “Time to network.”

As soon as she walks away, you exhale, realizing you hadn’t even noticed you were holding your breath.

This job is not for the weak. Especially not under someone like her.

You glance around the room, taking in the glittering lights, expensive suits, and fake smiles. Your eyes find Valentina again, instinctively keeping track of her. Then they drift to the large Avengers logo on display at the front of the gala.

You were still a kid the first time you saw the Avengers on screen. They were larger than life. Heroes. They saved people. They made things right.

Now? You’ve seen the world fall apart more times than you can count. And more often than not, no one shows up to fix it.

That’s why you’ve stuck by Valentina. Why you’ve been willing to blur the lines. The world still needs saving. People still need heroes.

They just don’t always look the way you imagined.

“You know,” a voice says beside you, calm but unmistakably familiar, “this whole gala is impressive. The Avengers memorabilia is a nice touch.”

You turn and see him. Congressman Bucky Barnes, standing just a few feet away, his gaze locked on the towering Avengers "A" on display like it still meant something.

“Valentina thought it would help raise awareness,” you reply, keeping your tone neutral, polite. “Tie the past to the present. Nostalgia works.”

You’re careful with your words. You know why he’s here, what game he’s playing. And more importantly, you know where your loyalty lies.

He glances at you now, the full weight of those ice-blue eyes meeting yours. “Awareness for what, exactly?”

You offer a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “The mission has always been simple. Help the people. The world’s been falling apart, and heroes… they’ve disappeared. People need someone to believe in again.”

He nods slowly, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. “Again, call me Bucky. Also, that was good. Very rehearsed. Very polished. Bet Valentina was proud of that one.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m just here for the hors d'oeuvres,” he says, voice smooth, but you catch the edge underneath it.

You take a step closer. “Look, Congressman Barnes. I know your history. And we both know what happens when evil comes and no one is there to stop it. OXE is trying to prevent that. Everything we do is for the people. Valentina’s impeachment? It won’t go anywhere.”

Even as you say it, there's a flicker of doubt. Small, but there.

He studies you for a moment before pulling a card from inside his jacket and holding it out.

“What’s this?” you ask, accepting it cautiously.

“My direct line. In case you remember something useful.”

You blink at him, caught slightly off guard by how calm he is. How sure.

You move closer, slow and deliberate, then reach up and tuck the card neatly into his chest pocket. “I don’t know what you think you’re implying, but I don’t appreciate it."

The two of you lock eyes, silence stretching between you. Not hostile, exactly. But charged. Neither of you blinks.

Then your phone buzzes.

You glance at your phone. Valentina. Of course.

You slip it back into your pocket and look up at him one more time.

“I have to go,” you say, steady. “Enjoy the rest of the gala, Bucky.”

Your smile is polite, but your eyes stay sharp. You turn and walk off without waiting for a response, the sound of your heels swallowed by the noise of the event.

Behind you, he watches you disappear into the crowd, quiet and thoughtful. Then, without a word, he finds himself slipping the card into your bag later in the night. Not for pressure. Not even for leverage.

Just in case.

And whether you used the card or not—that was your choice. Bucky just hoped he’d planted the seed.

Later that night, you sat beside Valentina in the back of a sleek black car, the city lights flickering across her face as she debriefed the night with a grin.

“I think that went incredibly well,” she said, proud and pleased with herself. “Honestly, I’m so proud of us. Oh—hand me my tablet. I gave it to you earlier when Gary started sniffing around asking too many questions.”

Your fingers found something thin. Smooth edges. Not the tablet.

The card.

Bucky’s card.

Your stomach tightened, just for a second.

He’d slipped it in without you noticing. Of course he had.

You stared at it between your fingers. You should’ve tossed it the second you felt it. Should’ve never looked at it again. But something kept your hand still.

“Y/N?” Valentina’s voice cuts in, sharp and expectant. “Tablet. Me. Now.”

You snap out of it, quickly pushing the card deeper into your bag before pulling out the tablet and handing it over.

She doesn’t notice. She’s already scrolling.

You tried to focus on the night’s success, the way people clapped when Valentina spoke, the headlines you knew would be glowing by morning. But that card was still in your bag. And the worst part? You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About the look in his eyes.

About the weight of what he said.

Maybe—just maybe—he really did get in your head. And maybe that seed he planted was already starting to grow.

*********

You’d made a mistake. A big one.

And you knew it.

Your heart raced as you paced the cramped hallway, mind spiraling. You'd believed you were making a difference—helping Valentina clean up her reputation felt like part of that. She said she needed you. That this was how things got done. So you listened.

Then she told you to burn the loose ends. Literally burn them.

Human beings.

And still, you followed orders. You rationalized. You looked the other way.

But the plan didn’t go as expected. They didn’t go quietly.

They were fighting back.

And Valentina didn’t like that.

Now a SWAT team is going to finish the job.

You couldn't let them die. You knew their names. Their stories. You didn’t believe they deserved this—not like this. Maybe it was too late to save them all, but maybe you could help save others.

Maybe there was still a chance.

So you did the only thing you could think of.

You dug into your bag, searching through the chaos until your fingers found it. That damn card.

You stared at it for a beat. Then you called.

It rang once. Then again. And then he picked up.

“This is Y/N,” you said before he could get a word in, your voice low, rushed, almost breathless. “I’ve, uh... been thinking. Remember that tour you wanted? You were right. Since you’re new to D.C., I figured—why not? Let’s hit the monuments. Maybe a museum. Or... I don’t know. Just talk. Just you and me.”

There was a beat of silence.

“A chat?” Bucky’s voice came through, teasingly. You started biting your nails, heart pounding. “Yeah. I’m down for a chat. When and where?”

Before you could answer, Valentina’s voice sliced through the hallway outside.

“I swear to god, Y/N, do I have to spell it out for you? You're coming with us. Get your ass in the car. Who else is going to make my coffee right? I swear, you Gen Zers make me want to throw myself off this damn building.”

You went silent, your jaw clenched. Bucky didn’t say anything either, but you knew he heard it.

Everything inside you was pulling in different directions. Guilt. Fear. Fury. Shame.

You swallowed hard.

“Look…” you whispered, voice shaking a little. “I’m sorry about the last few times. You were right. You were always right. I was so stupid. She doesn’t care about the world. She just wants the glory.”

You were rambling now. You always did when your anxiety started creeping up your throat.

“Whoa, hey—slow down, sweetheart,” he said gently. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just tell me what I need to know.”

But before you could speak again, Valentina shouted your name, louder this time.

You turned slightly, lowered your voice again.

“Do you have an iPhone?”

“No. Samsung.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course. “Do you know how to track a phone?”

“I mean, yeah. But I don’t really do that anymore.”

“Well... start doing it again.”

You paused, then added quietly, “I have to go. Track my location. You'll get your answer.”

Then you hung up.

You let out a long breath, pushed the card deep back into your bag, and ran toward Valentina’s voice.

Hoping Bucky understood.

**********

You were pacing again. Nerves buzzing. Mind racing. You were worried about the others. They escaped when Bob distracted them. Then they couldn't find them. But something told you Bucky had gotten to them first. You could feel it in your gut.

He pulled through. Of course he did.

But now… there was a new problem.

Bob.

The new guy. The unstable one.

He wasn’t like the others. Something about him was off from the start. Too volatile. Too quick to react. And now he had powers — real powers — thanks to Valentina.

She said he was the future. Said he was the key.

But all you saw was a ticking bomb with a name tag.

He didn’t need power or exposure. He needed help. And if no one stepped in soon, he was going to destroy everything — maybe even himself.

You ducked into a quiet hallway, slipped into an empty supply closet, and dialed Bucky’s number with shaking hands.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Y/N,” he said, breathless like he’d been mid-action. “We’re good. I got them. Everyone’s safe. I’m keeping them under wraps as witnesses, so we’re covered. You did the right thing calling me. Thank you.”

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall.

“No,” you said softly. “Bucky, there’s more. A lot more.”

There was a pause.

“Talk to me.”

“She did it,” you whispered. “She actually made one. A super soldier. His name’s Bob.”

“Bob?” he repeated, half in disbelief, half already bracing for what was coming next.

You could hear background chatter on his end — voices muttering “Yeah, Bob,”

“Yes. Bob the super soldier. He’s... not stable, Bucky. He’s got powers, strength, speed — but his head isn’t right. He’s spiraling, and Valentina’s using him like he’s a tool.

You were rambling now, the anxiety bubbling up in your chest.

“She’s restarting the entire program, and this guy — he’s the prototype. And if she gets away with this, there will be more. Stronger. You have to stop it before it turns into something we can’t come back from.”

There was silence on the line. Then you heard him moving, footsteps pacing across concrete.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m coming. I’ll handle it.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” his voice softened, “are you okay?”

“I... I don’t know,” you admitted, voice cracking just slightly. “Everything I worked for is going to be for nothing. I'm freaking out.”

“You don’t have to carry this alone, you know.”

“I can't tell my friends or family.” you said, quieter now. “I already feel guilty and shameful enough. They would just make me feel worse.”

Another pause. Then softer, “Y/N... I meant what I said. You did the right thing. And I’m proud of you. Really.”

You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “Thanks. That means more than you probably realize.”

“I realize it,” he said. And it was quiet, but it hit you harder than it should’ve.

You hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. “Are they okay? The others?”

“They’re safe. A little roughed up, but they’re going to be fine.”

“Good. That’s good,” you said, exhaling. “I should go. I’ll keep feeding you updates when I can. Just… get here fast, alright?”

“Okay,” He finally whispered. “I’ll see you soon.”

You hung up and slipped the phone back into your pocket before walking out the door. You immediately froze when your boss stared at you with raised eyebrows.

“Well,” she said coolly, “out of everyone, I never thought you would be the one second-guessing your work.”

You didn’t flinch. Not this time. “Giving Bob those powers? It’s reckless. And you know it.”

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head like you were some disappointing intern instead of her right hand. “I’m not going to argue with you, kid. I like you. I really do. You’ve done exceptional work—with me. For us. That’s why I’m giving you a little time to get your head on straight.”

Your jaw clenched. You said nothing.

“But,” she added, stepping a little closer, lowering her voice, “don’t let Barnes cloud that beautiful brain of yours. He’s a distraction. A loud, inconvenient one. And he’s getting in the way.”

You met her gaze evenly, letting the silence stretch.

Then, without a word, you grabbed your purse and walked past her—heels clicking, spine straight.

You needed to find Bucky.

*********

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet the New Avengers."

After countless photos and a barrage of questions, you kept your smile steady, doing your job one last time.

“Thank you all for coming,” you said with calm finality. “Photos and questions will stop here. I’ll be in touch about the next press briefing soon. Seriously—thank you again.”

You gave a polite nod as Valentina waved beside you, her signature smirk in place.

As the crowd began to disperse, you turned your attention to the Thunderbolts. With a gentle but firm push, you guided them out of view, away from the cameras. And then—without thinking—you grabbed Bucky and pulled him into a hug.

You couldn’t stop yourself.

You’d been searching for him. Panicking. Lost. The last image you had was of him stepping into the Void. The moment his silhouette became just that—a shadow—you screamed his name. And then… nothing.

You thought you’d lost him.

But now, here he was. Alive. Solid. Real. And all the emotions you’d buried came rushing back.

You knew there was something between you—something electric, something raw and waiting. It had barely started, but it already meant something. And for a bit, you'd been mourning the future that never got a chance to begin.

Now, you didn’t have to mourn anymore.

The moment stretched. Everyone around you went quiet. You barely registered your boss muttering an uneasy, “Oh dear.”

Bucky froze, stiff in your arms. He glanced around, uncertain. John gave him a look before mimicking hugging someone. Alexei flashed a thumbs-up. The girls? They just smirked.

“I saw you,” you whispered, pulling back just slightly. “I saw you walk into the Void. You became a shadow. I—I was trying to find you, and then you pulled that crap. What the hell, Barnes?”

He opened his mouth, but you beat him to it—stepping back before he could even return the embrace.

“I’m okay,” he said gently. “I swear, I’m fine.” He just wanted you back into his arms.

“You still scared the hell out of me,” you said, your voice breaking just a little. “I thought you were gone for good.”

Bucky's expression softened. “I’m not going anywhere. You still owe me that tour, remember?”

You laughed—half out of relief, half because it suddenly felt so easy to breathe again. You stepped closer, pulled him into a kiss, and he kissed you back without hesitation. Sparks. Heat. Home.

When you finally pulled away, smiling, you whispered, “Looks like you caught me.”

He grinned. “Looks like I have.”

Then you kissed again.

A loud groan broke the moment. “I feel like I’m gonna barf,” Val muttered.

“Shut up, Val,” the entire team replied in unison.

[foreverrandomwritings]

who did this to you? 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x abused!reader

warnings: mentions of abuse, domestic violence (not committed by bucky!) mentions of trauma, themes of fear and recovery (please read the warnings)

summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again.

word count: 5.3k (i went a little overboard)

author's note: i have been wanting to write this for quite a while, and i'm glad i did. enjoy my loves, your feedback and thoughts are always appreciated!

It started small.

A shift in the way you smiled—no longer bright and easy, but tight-lipped and fleeting, like you were trying to convince yourself it still came naturally. A hesitation in your laughter, once the sweetest sound in the Watchtower’s echoing corridors, now muffled, forced, or absent altogether.

The others chalked it up to stress. Missions have been tense lately. The team didn’t exactly operate in peacetime.

But Bucky…Bucky saw more.

You were the team’s secretary. The one constant in a whirlwind of chaos. Efficient, organised, always one step ahead of everyone else. You had memorised every operative’s dietary needs before the kitchen staff had.

You knew how to read between lines of mission reports, handle fallouts with the media, and you were the only person Yelena trusted to refill her coffee exactly right. Your desk, tucked near the central hub, was where people came to decompress, vent, even smile.

You made things work. You made the team work.

You were the light that steadied them all.

But lately… that light had gone out.

Bucky noticed first. He always did. Watching people wasn’t just habit—it was an instinct. A soldier’s reflex, sharpened by a lifetime of reading danger in the twitch of a hand or the flicker of a glance.

He noticed how your shoulders curled inward like you were trying to disappear into yourself, or how your arms folded across your stomach, elbows tucked in tight as if they were armour.

You flinched when anyone passed too closely behind your chair. You stopped walking through the halls with your usual spring—started hugging the walls, choosing longer routes that avoided high-traffic zones.

When Yelena clapped a hand to your shoulder in greeting, a simple, affectionate gesture—your entire body jolted like you’d been hit. Not just startled. 

Terrified.

The room had gone quiet at that moment. Even Alexei paused, a half-eaten sandwich frozen in his hand. Ava had gone still beside the mission board, her eyes narrowing slightly.

You recovered too quickly. Smiled too fast. “Sorry, nerves,” you’d said, brushing it off, grabbing the nearest file and practically sprinting from the room. But Bucky had already seen too much.

And then the bruises.

They started subtly. Shadows beneath the cuff of your blouse that could be passed off as bad sleep, maybe a knock against a desk corner.

You were clumsy sometimes—everyone knew that. A walking hurricane in heels, Yelena liked to tease. You once tripped over your own shoelaces in front of Val, and no one had let you live it down for a week.

But these weren’t accidents.

There was a splotch of purple just visible beneath your collarbone, dark and irregular. Faint, yellowing fingerprints on your wrist that looked like they were trying to fade, but kept stubbornly coming back.

A raw, angry mark that peeked out from your hairline one morning, like someone had gripped your jaw too hard—someone tall enough, big enough to loom over you, strong enough to leave a handprint in their wake.

Bucky saw that one when you bent down to pick up a report you’d dropped. Your blouse’s collar dipped slightly, just enough to reveal a line of bruising that trailed from your neck toward your shoulder like a hand had wrapped around you and squeezed.

His hand clenched into a fist on instinct.

He didn’t say anything right away. He knew better. But he watched. Quietly, intensely. Not just because he cared, but because something inside him roared with the need to protect you, something deep and territorial and dangerous.

The same thing that made him stare holes into the security cameras when you left the compound for lunch, or that made him scan every incoming message with a new, sharpened edge.

He began checking your schedule.

Not overtly. Just… looking. Noting when you left the compound. Who signed you out. When you came back, and what your face looked like afterward.

You used to return from errands with little smiles and tiny stories—“The deli guy gave me an extra pickle today,” or “Some lady on the street said I had pretty earrings.” But lately, you came back quieter. Shoulders tighter. And you always avoided his eyes.

One afternoon, he asked you if you were okay.

You smiled—again, that damn smile. So polite, so practiced. 

“Yeah. Just tired. Thanks for asking Bucky”

But being tired didn’t leave marks on someone’s throat.

And when you walked away, Bucky watched you disappear down the hallway and felt something cold curl in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

He knew pain. He’d lived it. Breathed it. Worn it like a second skin. But there was something worse about watching you endure it.

Something far more dangerous.

And whoever had hurt you?

They’d just reminded him exactly what he was willing to protect.

Still, Bucky didn’t act rashly. He waited. Watched. Gathered more than just bruises and broken glances. He needed to be sure—of what you were dealing with, of who was doing this to you, of how to approach without sending you further into yourself.

The wrong move could make you shut down entirely. He knew trauma didn’t unravel with questions—it needed patience. 

Stillness. Safety.

So he waited until the Watchtower cleared out for the evening.

The others had trickled out one by one—Yelena dragging Alexei into a sparring match he didn’t ask for, Ava and John disappearing into the training room, Val locked in her office for a late-night debrief.

The corridors fell quiet, fluorescent lights humming low overhead. Bucky lingered near your office, watching the shadows stretch along the floor, the door slightly ajar with the warm glow of your desk lamp spilling out into the hall.

You were still there. Of course you were.

You always stay late now.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into your office once the others had gone.

You didn’t jump—but he saw the way your shoulders stiffened. How your fingers paused on the keyboard, curling slightly as if preparing for something.

Your eyes stayed locked on the screen for a moment too long, and when you did glance up, they were wide and glassy with that familiar, haunted look.

The one he recognised too well.

The one he used to see in the mirror.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice stayed quiet, gentle—like coaxing a wounded animal out of hiding. He stood just inside the door, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, posture non-threatening but steady. He wouldn’t crowd you. He wouldn’t touch you. But the one thing he wouldn’t do is walk away.

You swallowed, throat tight, and gave a small nod.

“Sure.”

But the word was fragile. Like it had been stitched together with effort.

He crossed the room slowly, pulling the door shut behind him—not all the way, just enough to give the illusion of privacy without making you feel trapped. Then he moved to the chair across from your desk and sat, leaving space between you. Letting you decide what came next.

You glanced back at your screen, like you were searching for a reason to stay distracted. Like if you just kept typing, none of this would be real. But your hands didn’t move.

He waited a beat, then spoke, low and careful. “I’ve been noticing some things.”

You didn’t answer.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he added. “I just… I’m worried about you doll”

Your shoulders tensed again. That flinch. That tell. He saw it before you could mask it. And when your arms folded across your stomach, hiding your bruised wrist, he knew.

You were protecting yourself from more than just a conversation.

“I know something’s going on,” he said. “And I don’t need the details if you’re not ready. But I need you to know that… you don’t have to do this alone.”

Still, silence. But your eyes were starting to shine, tears gathering at the corners as you stared down at your keyboard like it held all the answers.

“You’ve been flinching at every touch,” he went on, his voice nearly breaking. “You don’t smile anymore. You avoid everyone like they’re gonna hurt you. And those bruises—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked as the word came out, sharp and desperate.

Bucky’s breath caught. But he didn’t move. “Okay,” he said immediately. “I won’t push. I swear.”

The silence that followed was thick—trembling between confession and collapse.

And then your lip quivered. You shook your head once. “I didn’t mean for anyone to notice,” you whispered, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him. 

“I thought I could handle it.”

Bucky leaned forward, slowly, carefully. “You shouldn’t have to handle it.”

Your chin trembled. “I didn’t want to be a burden. Everyone’s got their shit. Missions. Scars. Who wants to hear about the secretary who made the mistake of falling for the wrong guy?”

His jaw clenched so tightly he thought he might crack a molar. “Who did this to you?”

You didn’t answer.

But your silence was answer enough.

His tone darkened, low and steady like steel cooled in ice. “Tell me who put their hands on you.”

You shook your head again, fast this time, panic blooming across your features. “Bucky—don’t. Please. It’ll just make it worse.”

He stood up, jaw rigid, fists clenched at his sides. The chair scraped quietly behind him, but he didn’t move toward you. Didn’t crowd. Just stood there, vibrating with barely contained rage.

But it wasn’t at you.

“I would never let anyone hurt you again,” he said, his voice rough now, fighting to stay gentle. “But you have to let me help.”

Your eyes met his cerulean irises then. And something inside you cracked.

Because he didn’t look at you with pity.

He looked at you like you mattered. Like your pain mattered. Like he saw you—really saw you—and it didn’t make him walk away.

And something about the way he said it, like a lifeline broke you.

You told him everything.

From the first time it happened, when your ex shoved you against a wall during an argument over a text message. To the second time, when he slapped you so hard your lip split open. The cycle became normal. You had started covering up bruises like second nature, lying to your friends, flinching at shadows.

Two nights ago, he’d come home drunk, angry. He dragged you by your hair into the bedroom, wrapped a hand too tight around your neck, and left purple thumbprints beneath your jaw.

You had to call in sick the next day. Told Val it was the flu. She didn’t question it.

Tears streamed silently down your cheeks, but Bucky never looked away. His face was tight with rage, his jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth. His metal hand had curled into a fist again, knuckles whitening where they met synthetic plating.

“I'm gonna kill him,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“No,” you croaked, your hand reaching to grip his wrist. “Just… just get me out of there.”

“You don’t have to ask,” he said.

He helped you out of the office, holding your arm with such care, like you might shatter if he used too much strength. He led you to his motorcycle, the matte black vehicle parked beside the Watchtower’s bay doors.

You hesitated. “I don’t—”

He handed you his helmet and said, “You’re safe with me.”

And you believed him.

The wind was sharp against your face, your arms clinging around his waist as he drove through the dusky streets toward your apartment. Your heart thundered the entire ride—not from fear of falling, but from the feeling of escape.

At your place, you let Bucky in and stood frozen in the doorway. Your keys shaking in your hands.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

You walked numbly toward your bedroom and began pulling a small duffel from the closet. Bucky followed, surveying the apartment with quiet calculation.

The broken picture frame on the floor. The hole punched in the hallway drywall. The cracked phone screen beside your bed.

You gathered clothes, toiletries, your journal, a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. Bucky packed in silence, folding your shirts neatly, rolling your socks with care.

When you turned to get your toothbrush, your hands were trembling too badly to hold it.

“I can’t…” you whispered, finally falling apart.

Bucky was there in an instant, arms wrapping around you, pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest.

“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re not going back there. I won’t let you.”

You sobbed into his shoulder, your body wracked with grief and relief all at once. For the first time in years, you believed it. 

You were leaving.

Bucky had decided to take you to his apartment, given how late it was—and how you didn’t want the rest of the team knowing about any of this. You couldn’t bear their questions or the way they might look at you differently if they knew the truth. What you needed right now wasn’t a spotlight—it was safety.

And Bucky, somehow, had understood that without you ever having to say a word.

Tucked away in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, it felt like a sanctuary: minimalistic but lived-in, with dark wood furniture, shelves lined with old books, framed black-and-white photos, a few of them being Steve's, and soft lighting that bathed the space in warm, golden hues.

There were blankets folded over the back of his couch, plants that looked surprisingly healthy, and a record player in the corner with a small stack of vinyls beside it. The scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—warm, masculine, grounding.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Bucky said gently, “and the guest room’s yours for as long as you want it.”

You nodded, wiping your face with your sleeve.

He handed you a folded pile of clothes—one of his blue Henley shirts and a pair of grey boxer briefs that would sit loosely on your frame.

“You can sleep in these,” he said. “I’ll set up fresh towels, and if you need anything—anything—you come get me.”

You changed in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The bruises on your neck looked even more vibrant in the soft light. You touched them lightly, then pulled Bucky’s shirt over your head. It was warm from his hands, and it smelled like cedar and something unmistakably him.

You sank into the bed that night with clean sheets, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cool night air. Bucky’s home felt quiet in a way yours never had. Not silent from tension—but peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes with safety.

You curled into the soft mattress, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, and for the first time in two years, you slept without fear.

Safe. Protected. Free.

You woke up with a gasp.

The remnants of the nightmare clung to you like cobwebs—suffocating and sticky. Flashes of fists in the dark. That voice slithering in your ear, venomous and cruel. The oppressive weight on your chest, the cold dread of being trapped with no way out.

Your heart thundered, breath tearing in and out of your lungs like you were still running, still being chased. Your skin was damp with sweat, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you pushed the covers away and bolted upright in bed.

The room swam around you—familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Dimly lit by the glow of a streetlamp outside, walls painted in shadow. The silence rang too loud.

You couldn’t stay.

Before you even registered the movement, your bare feet found the cool hardwood floor, each step down the hallway echoing softly. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

Bucky’s door was cracked open.

He was awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, his metal hand cradling the back of his neck like it ached. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all. The soft light from the city cast silver lines across the sharp angles of his face, tracing the tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow.

Your voice trembled, more breath than sound. “I had a nightmare.”

His head snapped up immediately, eyes locking onto yours. The shift was instant—soldier to protector. In two strides, he was in front of you.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”

His hands came to your shoulders—not forceful, just present. Anchoring. His touch was warm and steady, and it sent a tremor through you that wasn’t from fear this time, but release. Like your body finally allowed itself to feel how shaken you were.

Your lip quivered. “Can I stay?”

He nodded before you even finished the question. “Always.”

You didn’t hesitate. The bed welcomed you like a long-lost memory—soft sheets, a comforting dip in the mattress, the faint scent of his soap clinging to the pillow.

You curled into the center of it, small and tentative, feeling like a ghost of yourself. Like you might disappear if the shadows swallowed you up again.

Bucky moved with care. He didn’t rush. He pulled the blanket up over your trembling frame, tucking it gently around your shoulders. Then he slid into the bed behind you, close but not suffocating, the heat of him already beginning to thaw something frozen inside you.

His arm hovered behind you for a moment. He didn’t assume. Didn’t take. Just waited.

When you shifted ever so slightly—just enough for your back to press lightly against his chest, his arm came around you. A quiet, protective barrier. His metal fingers splayed carefully against your stomach, grounding you in the here and now.

You exhaled a shaky breath, your eyes slipping shut for the first time all night. The tension in your body began to unwind, thread by thread. His scent, clean and faintly earthy filled your nose, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat against your spine and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

And then he whispered it, his voice barely brushing your ear, soft and sure and steady.

“I’ve got you.”

The words sank into your skin like warmth, like truth. No promises he couldn’t keep. No hollow reassurances. Just a vow, solid and unspoken, in the way he held you like you were something worth protecting.

You blinked slowly, a tear slipping free and soaking silently into the pillow.

For the first time in as long as you could remember, you believed it.

You were safe.

Not because the nightmares were gone—but because Bucky was here when they came.

The morning sun filtered gently through the blinds of Bucky’s apartment, casting warm strips of gold across the hardwood floors.

For the first time in over a year, you hadn’t woken up with your heart pounding in fear. No yelling, no slamming doors. Just the subtle hum of city life beyond the window, and the distant sizzle of bacon in a skillet.

You padded out of the bedroom in Bucky’s oversized shirt and boxers, clutching the sleeves around your palms. The faint scent of him lingered in the fabric—cedar-wood, leather, and something warm, like late summer.

Bucky stood by the stove, his hair damp from a quick shower, grey T-shirt clinging to the breadth of his shoulders. When he heard your footsteps, he turned slightly and gave you a soft smile.

“Hey, sweetheart” he murmured, voice low and scratchy from sleep. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You nodded, grateful, eyes stinging. It was in the little things—the way he slid a cup of coffee toward you without asking how you liked it, because he already remembered. 

Later that day, the team found out.

Yelena had noticed first. She cornered Bucky in the Watchtower’s armoury after morning briefings. “What’s going on with (y/n)?” she demanded, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “She barely said five words. She jumped when Alexei dropped his water bottle. I know bruises when I see them.”

Bucky hesitated, jaw tightening. But when Yelena added, softer this time, “I care about her too,” he gave her the truth.

Word spread in a ripple. Quiet, but powerful. By the end of the day, the team was different.

It started with your phone. You were sorting through mission reports in the comms room when it buzzed beside you, and you flinched hard enough to drop a pen because without looking, you already knew who it was. Him.

John, usually, cocky caught the look on your face and immediately picked the phone up himself.

“Give me your passcode,” he said steadily.

You hesitated. “Why?”

“Because if this asshole’s still texting you, I’m blocking him. And if he’s tracking you, we’re disabling it right now.”

You blinked at him, lip trembling. John just held your gaze, patient. Protective.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Ten minutes later, your ex was blocked. His number, email—gone. John handed the phone back like it weighed nothing, but you knew it had been a thousand-pound chain.

Bob, quiet and sweet, began programming something on the side—a digital firewall. One you didn't even ask for, but he gave it to you anyway.

“If he tries anything online, you’ll be notified. But he won’t get through. I made sure of it.”

You could’ve cried.

Ava began walking with you more often. No words. Just always there—on your way to the labs, when you stopped by the kitchen, even when you headed out to grab lunch across the street.

“I know what it’s like,” she said one day while the two of you sat on a park bench eating sandwiches. “To feel hunted.”

You looked at her, stunned. Her face was unreadable, but her hand brushed yours for a moment, just enough to remind you that you weren’t alone.

Then there was Alexei. Loud, boisterous, intimidating. He walked into the common area one afternoon with three grocery bags in hand and plopped them dramatically onto the table.

“You like those little orange cracker fish?” he boomed showing you the goldfish crackers he had gotten. “I bought five bags. And some juice. Juice is important.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I don’t—”

“Shush little one,” he said, winking. “You part of us. Thunderbolts always feed Thunderbolts.”

Your laugh broke out before you could stop it. It felt foreign. Strange. 

But real.

Alexei beamed like he’d won a medal.

Slowly but surely, the team wrapped you in something new. Something stronger than fear. Stronger than pain.

When you needed to go to the mall for more clothes—things that weren’t tainted with memories—Yelena and Bob went with you.

Yelena stuck close to your side, pretending to be indifferent but always scanning the crowd. Bob carried all the bags with a goofy grin. He even helped pick out a new hoodie. It was soft and warm and maroon.

“You should feel safe in your skin,” Yelena said simply, handing you a matching beanie. “Even if you’re still growing into it.”

Back at the Watchtower, life began to feel... lighter.

You started laughing again. At Alexei's terrible jokes, at Yelena’s savage sarcasm, at Bob’s quiet mutterings when tech didn’t work. Even John, in all his arrogance, could make you smile.

There was a movie night every Friday now and Bucky always sat next to you, sometimes with a pillow between you both to give space, other times with his shoulder a solid warmth at your side. You’d found yourself leaning into him more. Not because you had to. But because it felt right.

And he never pushed. Never demanded. Just let you exist next to him. Sometimes he’d hand you a blanket without saying a word. Sometimes he’d offer half his popcorn. Sometimes, his fingers would brush yours, warm and careful, and linger just a second longer than necessary.

You slept more. Ate more. Laughed more.

One day, Ava caught you humming in the hallway, arms full of supplies. She stopped in her tracks.

“What?” you asked.

“You’re glowing,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “I—I am?”

She gave a rare, small smile. “Like someone who remembers what sunlight feels like.”

One night, after Yelena dropped you off, you returned to the apartment Bucky always insisted was open to you. You let yourself in with the spare key. It was late, and he was half-asleep on the couch with a book in his lap. He stirred when you closed the door.

“You okay sweetheart?” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” you said.

He nodded, eyes drifting shut again.

You sat beside him, curling your legs up, and rested your head against his shoulder.

He didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just reached for the blanket draped over the armrest and pulled it gently over you both.

It was the safest you’d ever felt.

It had started out as a good night.

One of those rare moments where the city lights felt warm rather than harsh, where laughter didn’t feel like something you had to fake.

The team had dragged you out—gently, persistently, lovingly.

“C’mon,” Yelena had said, slinging her arm over your shoulder. “Burgers, milkshakes, greasy fries. We deserve it. You deserve it.”

You hesitated. It had been a while since you went to any public diner. Too many memories. Too many shadows. Too much risk of seeing him.

But tonight? You nodded. Just once. Just enough.

The diner was loud with neon buzz and the clatter of plates, the kind of classic joint with red booths and checkered floors. Bucky slid into the booth beside you while Yelena and John sat across. Bob and Ava took the seats at the edge, Alexei immediately requesting the biggest burger they had.

Jokes flew easily. John was ranting about ketchup crimes. Yelena argued that mayonnaise was the superior condiment. Bob kept trying to order fries but the waitress only seemed to hear Alexei’s booming voice.

You were laughing. Honest, soft laughter that made your chest ache.

Then the door jingled. And just like that, the warmth bled from the room. Laughter dimmed. The sizzle of the grill and clatter of dishes became distant, muffled by the sudden roar of blood in your ears.

Bucky stilled beside you.

Your ex stood in the doorway, flanked by two men you didn’t recognise—thick-necked, sneering types with clenched fists and hooded eyes. But it was him you saw. Him, with that awful smirk, like nothing had changed.

Like he still owned the air you breathed.

Bucky noticed the way your body tensed, your fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Hey—”

Your ex’s eyes landed on you, and he stepped forward, raising his voice.

“Well, look who it is. Didn’t think you’d crawl this far downtown. Guess word spreads when you’re spreading your legs for every man in New York now, huh?”

The sound of the booth creaking was the only warning before Bucky stood.

Yelena’s fork clattered onto her plate.

John was on his feet in seconds, positioning himself directly between you and your ex.

“Take that back,” Bucky growled.

Your ex only sneered, moving closer. “What, you gonna fight me in front of your new playgroup? Cute. Didn’t think the Winter Soldier was into charity cases.”

You flinched.

Bucky didn’t.

“I know what you did to her,” Bucky said, low and lethal.

Your ex chuckled, but there was unease in his posture now. “What? You mean the bruises? Bitch liked it rough. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Yelena stood up behind John, her face carved in steel. “The next time you touch her,” she said flatly, “will be the last time you have hands.”

Your ex stepped forward as if to challenge, but John didn’t move an inch. “Try it,” he warned. “Give me a reason.”

You saw it—the twitch in your ex’s jaw, the way he coiled his fist. He swung at Bucky.

But Bucky didn’t just dodge. He caught the punch mid-air.

With his metal hand.

The crunch of bone was audible and a gasp ran through the diner.

Before anyone could react, Bucky gripped your ex by the front of his jacket, lifting him clean off the floor. The metal arm locked around his throat with frightening precision. The air stilled. Your ex's feet dangled.

“If you ever look at her again,” Bucky snarled, voice sharp and shaking with rage, “if you so much as breathe in her goddamn direction—I will rip your spine out and hang it from the Watchtower gates.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was full of restrained fury. Of violence barely held back. His eyes had darkened, steel-gray and burning.

Your ex gurgled, his hands clawing at Bucky’s grip.

“Do you understand me?”

A choked nod.

Bucky dropped him like trash.

Alexei stepped forward then, looming over the two henchmen. “You want to try luck?” he asked them casually. “I haven’t punch anything in weeks.”

The men looked at each other, then down at your ex, now coughing on the floor. They backed away.

“You’re not worth it,” one muttered, and the other practically dragged your ex toward the exit.

Your heart was thundering. Your breath short.

Bob slipped into the seat beside you. Ava stood near the door, eyes scanning the street for any lingering threat.

Bucky turned to you, jaw tight, shoulders still trembling with adrenaline. But when he looked at you, his expression softened immediately.

He crouched in front of you, hands open. “You okay?”

You nodded shakily, tears welling.

Yelena handed you a napkin. “He’s gone,” she said quietly. “He’s never coming near you again.”

John was still standing like a human shield, arms crossed.

And Bucky... Bucky cupped your cheek with his hand. It was warm, comforting, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped.

“He doesn’t get to touch you. Not now. Not ever again.”

You leaned into him, trembling.

“I was so scared,” you whispered, barely audible.

Bucky pressed his forehead to yours. “I know, sweetheart. But it’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, even in the shattered remains of what should have been a peaceful night, you were wrapped in a shield stronger than steel.

You had them.

You had him.

You were safe.

You didn’t speak on the way home.

No one made you.

Bucky drove, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against your thigh—anchoring, grounding. The rest of the team took a second vehicle, giving you space. After what happened, you needed it.

You stared out the window, watching the neon blur into streaks of yellow and red, feeling like you were floating somewhere outside yourself. Somewhere between fear and relief.

The silence between you and Bucky wasn’t heavy—it was steady. Like the calm after a storm. Like quiet waves still curling back from the shore.

When he parked outside the compound, he turned to you slowly.

“Do you want to be alone?”

You shook your head.

He didn’t ask again. Just took your hand gently, led you through the compound, through the hallways, up the stairs. When you reached your room, he hesitated at the door.

“Can I stay?”

You nodded.

Inside, the room felt untouched by the chaos of earlier. Soft lamplight, a rumpled blanket on your bed. Familiar, safe.

You kicked your shoes off and sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in your lap. Bucky crouched in front of you again, like at the diner, his hands resting on your knees.

“You’re not weak for being scared,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Your throat tightened. You nodded.

“But he’s never going to get to you again. I won’t let him. None of us will.”

You looked at him. The way his eyes held yours, soft but strong. The way his presence wrapped around you like armor. The way his touch was always careful, like you were something breakable but worth protecting.

And then you whispered, “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Bucky leaned forward. Pressed his forehead gently to yours.

“You don’t have to. Not right away. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll fight it together.”

You closed your eyes.

And when he climbed into bed beside you, when his arms wrapped around you and pulled you against the steady thump of his heart, you believed him.

Not because the fear was gone.

But because for the first time in so long, you weren’t carrying it alone.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. Whispered something you didn’t catch—but it didn’t matter.

It sounded like safety.

It felt like home.

a/n: this fic is one i hold close, because i have experienced abuse/dv in my previous relationship, and i had no idea how to leave, and writing this helped, a lot. i do hope that every person that is trapped in this cycle will find their bucky—someone who makes them feel safe and loved. i am grateful i found mine. if you're a victim or know someone who is struggling, please don't be afraid to seek for help. i promise it does get better once you leave. (google dv helpline, your country's hotline should appear)

[foreverrandomwritings]

Rule Breaker

Summary: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader -> Your dad, Tony Stark, has one rule. Don't leave the house after midnight. So what happens when Bucky Barnes finds you breaking that rule?

Disclaimer: Fluff, some angst, but mostly fluff, reader is in mid-twenties, kinda ignoring the end of CW, brief mention of periods, Bucky gets nightmares and reader helps, falling asleep on the sofa together, a bike ride with Bucky, falling in love, happy/open ended. Not fully proof read.

With having Tony Stark as your, technical, dad – there had only ever been one rule in the house. 

No leaving the house after midnight. 

And he made you swear to it as a kid, and on your eighteenth birthday. That, no matter where you were in the world; with him or without him. You wouldn’t leave the house after midnight. 

“There’s a lot of terrible people out there, and I don’t want you getting hurt.” 

That, after a lot of sarcastic jokes and ramblings, is what he would tell you. That he didn’t want you getting hurt. Of course, you tried your best not to break it. 

And you didn’t. 

Until one night after your college roommate pounded their fist on the door and told you they needed to rush their friend to the emergency room. And the night when you, technically, were out after midnight. But could that really be considered staying out when you were still at the library you’d walked into at ten in the morning and hadn’t left all day?

And until the nights Bucky caught you sneaking out. 

You’d left your room like usual, a little after one in the morning. Everyone, including the super soldiers, were snug in their beds fast asleep. With your jacket in one hand, and your shoes in the other, you padded your way as quickly and as quietly as you could down the hall. 

You paused before every door and waited ten seconds before making it past their door in two jumps. Natasha had taught you ballet as a teenager, which came in handy for moments like that. 

Eventually, you made it into the kitchen. 

Nobody was awake. 

You grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, stuffed it into your bag and swiftly made your way down to the garage. 

Nobody was awake and you were four minutes away from leaving. 

Until you heard a voice. 

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You spun around so fast, you almost gave yourself whiplash. “Bucky,” you sounded shocked. 

He just stared you down. 

“I was just…going out.”

“After midnight?” Bucky questioned. 

You nodded. “Yep, supply run.”

“Supply run? What supplies do you need? Because Natasha did the shopping this week and I know she got pads and tampons because she made me go and get them.” Bucky told you. “And any other supplies are stocked in the medical wing. So, I’ll ask again; where do you think you’re going?”

He stared you down again, and this time you sighed. 

“Okay, I’ll tell you. But you have to promise you won’t tell my dad.”

Bucky just waited. 

“I’m going to the beach.”

“On my stolen bike?”

You shrugged a little, “Well, technically, it’s not stolen. Just temporarily borrowed.”

“Without my knowledge?”

You confirmed his statement slowly, “Without…your knowledge. Look, please, please don’t be mad or tell my dad. I just…I need to get out of here and- what- what are you doing?”

Bucky rounded you, placing your bag into the storage holder before planting himself on the bike. 

“What does it look like? I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t-”

Bucky looked at you. “Unless you’d like for Tony to find out you’ve been breaking his one rule for three weeks straight, I’m coming with you.”

You sighed, “Fine.”

“Hop on,” he told you before he added, “Hold on tight.”

You did so as he kicked the stand away and started to rev the engine as quietly as he could. Thirty seconds later, you were outside on the road. After ten minutes, you were away from the city and headed towards the coast line. 

“How did you…” You were shocked and surprised that Bucky knew where you wanted to go. Either he was a mind reader, or he wanted to go, too. 

“You cleaned the bike but not your boots. There was sand around my bike.” 

Or just incredibly observant. 

As Bucky lifted himself from the bike, he watched you jog over to a food stand not too far from where he parked. The owner of the truck smiled down at you. 

“The usual?”

You nodded. “Double it. I’ve got a guest.”

“You got it, kid. Be right with you.”

You smiled at the owner. “Thanks.”

Five minutes later, you walked back with a paper bag in your hand. Then you threw Bucky a smile. “Come on, I don’t wanna miss it.”

He followed behind you, up the small sand hill before he looked around to find you already halfway up the sand dune to his right. He was quick to follow. 

You eventually sat down one sand dune over. With no sun to heat it, the sand was cold beneath him as he sat down, but you didn’t seem to care. Your gaze looked out over the dark sky that was just starting to grow a few shades lighter than when you’d first left the compound. 

After a few minutes of quiet breathing, you took a take-away box out of the bag and handed it to him, before opening up your own. 

“They’re the best fries in the whole world. I have been to almost every major city in the world and none of them beat this.”

Bucky watched you for a moment before he popped open his box. The heat was the first thing to hit his face, then the smell. Freshly cooked fries, with the skin, and some kind of peppery kick. 

Bucky kept your silence for a while as the sky began turning brighter. But with one question still bugging him, he felt the need to ask. 

“Why do you do it?”

“Why do I do what?” You asked. 

“Sneak out. Break his rule. From what I know, you’re a smart person. Why break his one rule?”

You were truthful when you answered Bucky’s question. There was no reason to lie to him. Maybe you didn’t talk a lot, but you were still friends. He was the one who stayed up with you when everyone else went to bed. You were the one to stay with him when he went to the gym during the day, after a nightmare. You were the one who stayed so he wouldn’t be alone. He was the one who stayed so you wouldn’t be alone. 

“I needed some time to myself without everyone’s questions,” you told him. “About my future, my plans, grad school projects, Shield initiatives, Avengers panels. Everything. I also haven’t been sleeping that much and…I’m already awake, might as well see something beautiful.”

Bucky eventually turned his eyes from you to the rising sun in the distance. But then he looked back at you, watching the rays slowly but surely light up your face. The slightly different colours in your hair glowing in lighter and darker shades. 

Then he saw your eyes. 

A golden hue dusted over your iris, and for the first time, he saw you clearly. He’d seen you for a while. The way you talked, the way you walked, the way you carried yourself despite the ego centric maniacs you had to deal with almost every day. 

But sitting on cold sand, his lap heated from a take-away container box and the sun slowly warming his own face, he saw you. 

He saw the kindness in your eyes, like he always did. But he also saw the tiredness. The need for freedom. The need for a break, even if just for a couple of hours. He saw the colour of your eyes and realised that he no longer had a word for them. Just that stating the colour wasn’t enough. 

Bucky saw how, in the fresh light of day, you were simply…you. 

You weren’t Tony Stark’s daughter, or a part-time Shield agent. Hell, you weren’t even a grad-student at that moment. You were…you. 

“What?” You asked, hiding your smile by popping another couple of fries into your mouth. “You’re looking at me funny.”

Bucky managed to recover himself and shook his head with a slight smile. “Nothing. Just…next time you wanna come out here, tell me and I’ll come with you.”

You felt a small eruption of excitement in your belly at his comment. You’d been sneaking out for so long in order to get away from everyone, you’d forgotten how nice it was to actually have company every once in a while. 

“Okay, but I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Bucky smiled. “I hope so.”

And thankfully for Bucky, you did. 

Slowly but surely, it became your go-to thing with him. Even on the weeks where he had a mission, if you weren’t at home, he knew where he could find you. And you’d save him a box of fries each time. 

As the weeks led on into months, you and Bucky started to grow closer. And you began to sleep more. 

It had started when, like you would do on the beach, you laid your head on his shoulder during a movie night and fell almost immediately to sleep. You woke up in your own bed in the morning, but you’d missed your alarm. 

With that happening more often, Bucky started falling asleep next to you, too. And, as much as Tony would groan about it, Pepper would just shove him lightly on the back to keep him walking. 

“Leave them be, they’re not harming anyone.”

“They’re sleeping together, Pep. She’s my kid.”

Pepper nodded. “Who is in her mid-twenties and already has two PhD’s to her name. Leave them be.”

 Tony agreed, but he still didn’t like it. And the parent inside of him hated it even more so when he woke up in the morning to find out he was the first one awake. Meaning, when he walked back into the living area, he found you asleep on Bucky’s chest, both of you laid under a blanket on the sofa. 

But despite all the feelings…he did take a picture. 

Bucky was Steve’s friend. And Tony trusted Steve. So, in a very, very roundabout way, he trusted Bucky, too. 

But you were still his kid. 

Then, after a few months, you stopped sleeping. 

A heavy snow had settled over the country so the beach was off limits, as were the roads. So, sitting in front of the fire in the silence of the compound whilst looking out to the never ending forest was starting to become the next best thing. 

However, it was in this silence you started to hear noises. Faint cries, rough movements of bed sheets and then Friday’s voice quietly talking through your phone. 

“It seems Mr Barnes is having a nightmare.”

You were on your feet immediately, rushing down the hallway, your footsteps muffled by your thermal socks. His door opened with a soft click and that was where you saw him. 

Tangled in his bedsheets, his muscles tensing, his breathing uneven, and a stream of quiet Russian words falling from his lips. 

You hurried forward and sat on the edge of the bed, calling his name. For a moment, his voice became almost silent, but then the words started again. So, you touched his arm. And then his other. 

Keeping his name on your lips like a prayer, you shook him awake. At first, he woke up with a start. Disoriented and confused at his surroundings. Then his hearing focused on your voice like you were asking him to. 

“You’re safe. Just keep focusing on my voice. Your heart is moving too fast, Bucky. I need you to calm down.” You nodded as his hand reached out and held your arm, his head low. “That’s it, just…keep breathing. In and out. Deep, slow breaths.”

As his breathing evened out, he swallowed thickly. You reached for the glass of water on the side of his bed and handed it to him. He downed most of it before handing you back the glass with a shaky hand. 

The hand you held steady as you put the glass back on his bedside table. 

“Did I…did I wake you?”

You’d never heard Bucky’s voice so…scared. So small and tired. 

You shook your head. “No. I was already awake. I thought I heard something then Friday told me. Just keep breathing.”

“Will you stay?” 

He asked before he could stop himself, but at that moment, he was too terrified to be alone. You nodded. 

“For as long as you need me.”

It took a few minutes before he had the strength to move, but once he finally did, you turned him onto his side. Carefully, you slotted your legs into the arch of his, wrapped your arm over his ribcage and pressed your forehead against his back. 

His hand held onto yours just over his heart as he fell asleep. And you did, too – by counting the steading beats of his heart as you stayed with him. 

By the time either of you woke up, you were practically lying exactly on top of him, buried under the duvet covers with him. 

Even long after you knew he was awake, you both stayed still. Too worried to move, too scared to let go and face reality outside his bedroom door. You were Tony Stark’s daughter, and barely two years ago, Bucky had been the subject of a world wide manhunt. 

“How are you feeling?” You asked after a while. 

He felt himself swallow his nerves, but his voice still came out quiet and a little shaky. “Better. Thank…thank you for staying.”

You moved a little in order to look up at him. “You don’t have to thank me for staying, but you’re welcome.”

In the short moment Bucky looked down to face you, his brain seemed to forget why you had stayed, why you had even come  into his room at all. As if…you were meant to be beside him. As if you were always meant to stay right beside him. 

And as you felt his hand flex over your arm, you let yourself think the same too. 

But only for a moment. 

Because the wave of regret came crashing over him and he turned to look at his ceiling. 

“You’re not him anymore, Buck.”

With his other hand, he pinched the bridge of his nose to try and stop the tears and calm the fear building in his chest. 

“I still have nightmares. That means I remember. And that…it’s still in there.”

You shook your head and reached up to turn his head to look at you. “Hey, hey. Look at me.”

When you knew he was focusing on you and not the voices inside his head, you spoke. “I…I know I don’t know what it’s like…to go through what you did. I wasn’t there to see it, or live it. But I know you. I see you, Bucky. You are kind, and protective and god only knows the lengths you’d go to in order to help someone. The Winter Soldier…that was conditioning. That was forceful and brutal.”

If you could look deeper into his eyes, you did. 

“But that isn’t you, Bucky. It never was. It was Hydra. All that guilt, all that blame you’re putting on yourself. That belongs to them, not you.”

A tear slipped from Bucky’s eyes, but you wiped it away as it hit his cheek. 

“You’re a good person, James. I see you, I trust you and I love you. And those last two things…I don’t feel those things for just anybody.”

A small laugh left Bucky and you smiled, watching a little bit of weight leave his shoulders. You felt his hand clasp over yours before he turned his head and kissed your palm, twice and your wrist once. 

Then you leaned up and hugged him. Your legs tangled with his as he buried his face into the crook of your neck and he held on just a little tighter. 

[foreverrandomwritings]

Hanging by a Thread

Summary : Bucky accidentally faces his greatest fear for you. So you had to make it even.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!!! Cursing, heights, reader is mentioned to be scared of spiders. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 3.8k 

Note : Just a cute little thing I whipped up in a day! Disclaimer: I do not know anything about rock climbing lol. Enjoy!

How the fuck did I end up clinging to a vertical rock face? Bucky thought to himself, looking down twenty feet below him.

Actually, he knew exactly why.

He was stupidly in love with you.

See, when the new Avengers relocated to the Watchtower after the whole New-York-Void incident, Bucky Barnes thought it would be... fine.

Not good or bad. He’d survived war zones, World War Two jail cells, and brainwashing facilities. He could handle modern roommates.

What he didn’t expect was you.

To be fair, Bucky thought you were pretty when he handcuffed you, along with the others, in the Utah desert, but the moment he walked into the tower gym to you cracking a joke while twirling a bo staff like you'd been born with it, Bucky was done for. 

It wasn’t just physical—though that alone had nearly made him walk into a doorframe more than once— you were good to him.

Bucky had worked with a lot of people over the decades. Most of them kept their distance… but you didn’t.

You teased him and challenged him in sparring. You brought him coffee when you knew he’d had a rough mission. You laughed at his dry sarcasm and offered to fix the squeak in his bedroom door and scolded Ava after she scared the hell out of him by appearing at the shooting range.

You were, in short, driving him absolutely insane.

And the others noticed.

Yelena, bless her blunt Russian heart, never let up.

“You look like a puppy every time she smiles at you,” she said one morning while Bucky was filling his coffee mug, trying to pretend he wasn’t staring across the room at you doing chin-ups in a tank top. “Just ask her out.”

“He won’t.” Ava joined in, walking past with a mischievous smile. “He likes the tension. It’s his new favourite form of self-torture.”

“Maybe he wants her to ask him out,” Yelena theorised.

“I’m right here,” Bucky mumbled, ears pink.

But you, though, were completely oblivious.

Whenever he stayed a little longer after missions, or when your shoulder brushed his in the kitchen, or when you offered to patch him up—you didn’t seem to notice his internal screaming.

“Thanks for watching my six, Buck,” you’d say during trips back from recon, grinning like his entire nervous system didn’t light up brighter than New York during New Years eve when you smiled at him like that. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

He was screwed. Fully and thoroughly screwed.

Still, you genuinely seemed to enjoy being around him. After all, you were the only person who could pull him out of his quiet funks. The only one who didn’t treat him like glass after a night riddled with nightmares.

You'd sit next to him during movie nights without asking and spar with him like you meant it. 

He kept waiting for someone to tell you how he felt. But Yelena and Ava just kept chuckling at him, teasing and watching his awkward pining spiral in slow-motion into a catastrophe.

So when you came bouncing into the common room one morning, announcing “I booked it!” he knew he was screwed

Everyone turned to you.

You looked so happy Bucky forgot how to hold his mug properly.

“Booked what?” Yelena asked suspiciously, already sensing danger.

“The climb!” you said, practically vibrating with excitement. “Outdoor, real cliffside, no fake plastic holds, I mentioned it last week, remember? It's two hours north, trail access only. I got us a permit and gear. I figured since we’re between missions, we could use a little team bonding!”

John raised an eyebrow. “You mean like… harnesses and crap?”

“Yes, John,” you said sweetly. “You know, nature.”

Yelena and Ava nodded, while Bob and Alexei gave you a look of approval.

Bucky was staring at you like you were a sunrise he wasn’t prepared for.

He thought to himself don’t say yes, don’t say yes, you idiot, but then you turned to him with that smile and his brain short-circuited.

“You in, Buck?” you asked, nudging him on the shoulder.

He should’ve said no. He could’ve said he had a mission, because really, heights, especially cliff heights, weren’t his thing. He should’ve said he’d meet you all after.

But you were brimming with excitement, and he hated the thought of you climbing some damn rocks without him there to make sure you were okay.

So he said, “I’m in.”

Yelena, from behind her coffee, raised her eyebrows.

Ava coughed a very fake, “Simp.”

He ignored them. He didn’t even care.

Because you had just looked at him like he’d made your day.

And all he had to do was ignore the panic curling at the edges of his mind.

Easy, right?

—

That day, Bucky was hoping it would rain and everything had to be cancelled. But no— of course the sun was high over the trees, as the team stood at the base of a massive rock face with harnesses on, ropes secured, and chalked hands ready. You bounced on your feet like a kid in a candy store.

“This place,” you said, gesturing to the rocky expanse above, “God. My friends and I used to come here every summer before—y’know, before everything turned to shit. This place has a lot of good memories.”

Great, Bucky’s stomach flipped.

“We used to camp here, eat junk food, climb until our arms gave out, then race down to the lake and jump in,” you laughed, “Honestly, some of the best days of my life were on that cliff.”

Bucky looked down at his hands.

You’d brought him here.

You wanted to share this with him. Well, him and the team.

He really couldn’t back out, right? This place meant something to you, and he wasn’t about to ruin that.

Yelena tugged on her gloves next to him. “You better keep up, Barnes,” she said. 

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered.

“You sure?” Ava called from ahead, already ten feet up and mocking John’s technique. “Because John here is about to cry.”

“I’m not—” John started, red-faced as his foot slipped slightly.

Alexei, climbing up already, shouted down, “This is nothing compared to scaling the Kremlin in winter while being shot at! And I didn’t even have fancy suit back then!”

“Alexei,” you called up calmly, “your carabiner’s backwards.”

“I live dangerously!”

Bob had, predictably, avoided climbing altogether by clipping his carabiner to Yelena’s and letting her drag him up like a puppy in a harness.

“You can fly,” she huffed, hauling him along.

“I’m choosing not to,” Bob said.

Happy thoughts, Bucky thought to himself, think happy thoughts. 

—

You were already climbing, muscles working like you were part of the earth. Bucky tried to follow—but every handhold felt like ice— every inch up brought the memories crashing down.

The wind.

The train. 

Steve calling out his name.

The fall.

He gritted his teeth, trying to focus. One foot in front of the other, he thought to himself. I can do this. I was the Winter Soldier. I’ve survived worse. This is just a rock.

Then he looked down— just a quick glance.

Big mistake.

Fuckfuckfuck, His stomach turned. It’s so high up.

And then—

He puked into a bush about twenty feet below.

No one seemed to notice. Thank god.

Until you did.

—

You were the first to reach the top, smiling from ear to ear as you pulled yourself over and unhooked from the safety line. It felt good to be here again. It felt even better to share it with new friends. 

You turned around, looking back down the face to see where the others were.

Yelena and Bob (still clipped together, still ridiculous) were making slow, but steady progress. Alexei was shouting something patriotic to a confused hawk overhead.

John and Ava were locked in a petty race, bickering as usual.

But Bucky—he wasn’t moving.

At first, you thought he was just taking it easy. But something about his posture set off alarm bells— his metal hand flexed like it was trying not to snap the cliff clean in half. You squinted.

Was he—?

Wait. Did he just puke into a bush growing from one of the cracks of the rocks?

Without thinking, you reached for your harness and snapped into the line you set. You rappelled down, feet bouncing lightly off the cliff, eyes locked on Bucky.

He didn’t even notice you until you came level with him until you were right there.

“Hey,” you said softly, reaching out to the rock beside him. “What’s going on?”

Bucky jerked slightly, startled. “I’m fine.”

You gave him a look. “You do not look fine.”

“I’m pacing myself.”

“Mhm,” you said, squinting at the edges of his mouth, still stained with stomach acid. “Is ‘pacing’ what we call mid-climb barfing now?”

He closed his eyes for a second and sighed. “Can we pretend you didn’t see that?”

“Bucky,” You leaned on the rock next to him, “You really okay?”

He hesitated.

“I’m not good with cliffs,” he said finally, voice rough. “I… fell off one once.”

Your face fell like a switch had flipped.

Right. The infamous alps incident.

“Oh shit,” you whispered. “Bucky. Shit.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky took a deep breath.

“It’s not,” you said quickly, voice soft, steady. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugged, eyes fixed ahead. “You were excited. I didn’t want to ruin it. And I wanted to spend today with you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Even though this is, like, your worst nightmare?”

He looked over, finally meeting your eyes. “Something like that.”

You inhaled slowly. Then reached out and gently touched his shoulder—right where flesh met metal.

“Okay. Hey. I got you, alright?”

“I’m—”

“Don’t argue, Barnes. Just listen to me for once.”

That got a small huff from him.

He wasn’t just afraid. He was trying so damn hard not to be.

And he’d done it for you.

“I’m so dumb,” you said softly. “I’m really sorry.”

He finally looked at you— and even scared out of his mind, he smiled.

“You’re not dumb,” he said. “Just… kind of… kind of….” he trailed off, not knowing what to say next as the wind howled in his ears, “Fuck, I don’t know. I can't think.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “It’s nothing.”

“Fine,” you said firmly. “But I’m climbing with you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m not leaving you alone on this rock.” He huffed a laugh that almost turned into a gasp, and you saw how hard he was still trying to hold it together.

So you stayed close.

“Okay, good. Right foot on that ledge,” you encouraged, “There you go. Don’t look down.”

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“I saw your eyes dip.”

“They didn’t dip.”

“They definitely did.”

You smiled at him, and he caught it—just for a second—and almost forgot to breathe.

“Hey,” you said quietly, “I’ve got you.”

He looked at you like you’d just anchored the whole world.

And when you finally got to the top, and he flopped back to the ground, panting, sun on his face, and—

He thought maybe cliffs weren’t so bad, not if you were at the top waiting for him.

“I feel like a dick,” you said as you laid beside him, ignoring Alexei munching loudly on his sandwich.

“You’re not,” he said, after a beat of silence. “You didn’t know.”

You gave him a crooked smile. “Still. I’m making it up to you.”

He turned his head slightly. “How?”

You chuckled. “You’ll see.”

—

Two days after the cliff climb, you led—no, dragged— Bucky by the wrist to the zoo.

He had no idea what to expect, until you turned the corner, and looked up at the sign like it was a gallows.

Arachnid Exhibit.

He blinked. “Wait.”

You said nothing.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he looked at you, stunned.

You still stayed silent.

“You’re scared of spiders,” he pointed out.

Your teeth clenched. “Correct.”

“You hate them.”

“Obviously.”

“And we’re walking into the spider house?”

“...Yes.”

“Why,” His voice lowered in concern. “Are you doing this?”

You glanced at him, trying to smile, but your voice was shaky at the edges. “Because you faced your fear for me,” you took a deep breath. “So now I’m facing mine.”

He stared right into your eyes.

The same eyes that had glinted with joy at the cliffside— the ones that green worried when he was frozen mid-panic halfway up that wall of rock— were now doing their best not to show how you were descending into pure, sweaty, eight-legged hell.

Bucky opened his mouth to protest, but then you reached for his hand.

And even though you were clearly terrified, your fingers curled into his with no hesitation.

Bucky's brain short-circuited.

You were holding his hand voluntarily. Clinging to it, actually.

“Let me do this,” you insisted, and fuck, he could never say no to you.

So he nodded, and you both passed through the double doors and into the dimly lit exhibit, and the temperature dropped just enough to make your skin prickle. The air smelled like moss and mulch, like humid jungle air trapped under glass.

You were already pressed close to him, eyes darting around like you expected an ambush.

The place was quiet—only a few other visitors—and lined with glass enclosures filled with webs, branches, and heat lamps. Small signs read things like Chilean Rose Hair and Golden Orb Weaver and Brazilian Wandering Spider: Highly Venomous.

You stiffened. “Why is it wandering? What does that mean? Where’s it wandering to?”

“Probably not out of the glass,” Bucky said with a chuckle.

You scowled at him. “You don’t know that.”

He smiled again, gently. “I promise.”

Your grip on Bucky’s hand became vise-like.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

“No I’m not,” you insisted. Your voice cracked. “Shut up.”

“We can leave,” He squeezed your hand a little. “Right now. Just say the word.”

“No.” You inhaled a sharp breath of oxygen. “You climbed a goddamn cliff for me. I can look at some spiders.”

Bucky looked down at you. Your face was pale, your lips set in a stubborn line, but your eyes were wide with unmistakable terror.

You were trying so hard to be brave, it was breaking his heart.

And yet—god help him—it was also the cutest damn thing he’d ever seen.

He hadn’t been this flustered since the first time you smiled at him during training and punched him in the ribs so hard he saw stars.

You were pressed into his side, your shoulder snug against his arm, your breaths quick and shaky, and you were trusting him to keep you safe from spiders the size of a tennis ball.

Then you froze.

Right in front of the biggest enclosure yet.

Warm light pulsed softly across a faux jungle floor. Inside, crouched on a mossy rock, was the largest, fuzziest tarantula Bucky had ever seen.

It was the size of a dinner plate, stalking as its legs twitched slowly.

It blinked—at you.

Your breath hitched, eyes going wide. 

“Bucky!” You launched forward and buried your face into his chest with a whimper, arms locking around his ribs like a koala gripping a tree for dear life.

“It’s staring at me,” you whispered, your voice muffled by his hoodie.

Bucky didn’t even try to laugh.

He smiled, though, as his vibranium hand came up to rest between your shoulder blades, soothing. The other cradled your head instinctively, fingers brushing your hair.

He ducked his chin, his lips grazing your temple.

“Hey,” he reassured, “It’s okay. I’m here.”

And he meant it with every fiber of his being.

Because maybe it was just a tarantula in a glass box to the rest of the world—but to him— it was the moment you trusted him enough to hide in his arms. 

—

You staggered out of the Arachnid exhibit like a soldier limping off the battlefield, half-shaky, half-wired from adrenaline, with sweat sticking to your back and palms feeling like glue. 

Bucky was right beside you, hovering close, his hand brushing your lower back now and then like he wasn’t sure if you needed space or to be held up by the elbow. Honestly, both were correct.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, quiet—like you were a bomb he didn’t want to jostle too hard.

“I think I aged ten years in there.”

“You were great."

You groaned and shook your head. “I was cowering in your shirt.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, smiling a little. “It was cute.”

You looked up with a shy smile.

But he was already steering you away from the doors—past a group of giggling kids, past a sign for a butterfly exhibit (which would honestly have been a better time), and straight into the shaded little gift shop next to the spider building.

“I don’t need spider merch,” you groaned, “I need ice cream. Or a lobotomy.”

But Bucky had already wandered in.

So you reluctantly followed.

Inside, the store was air-conditioned and quiet, full of shelves lined with plushies, little resin spider paperweights, books with titles like The Eight-Legged Architects, and extremely cursed socks. The walls were painted dark forest green with cartoon spiders cheerily grinning from their corners.

Then you turned and saw Bucky standing near a rotating rack of stuffed animals, holding something in his hands.

A spider.

Not a real one, of course— a plushie.

It was round, soft, and adorable— black with tiny purple feet and button eyes. Its little smile was stitched into its face like it was permanently thrilled to be alive. It looked like something a toddler might bring to bed to keep them safe.

He turned it over in his hands, like he was inspecting it for quality control, then looked up at you.

“I’m buying this for you,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Something to hold next time you’re scared.”

You blinked again.

The plush was ridiculous. It didn’t even have a name, or a tag with facts. It was just a dumb, smiling, harmless thing— unlike the mortal enemies that lived behind the glass in the exhibit.

“Besides,” Bucky added, voice a little gentler now, “It’d be nice to replace a scary memory with a good one. Y’know, like you did with the cliff.”

Oh. 

Did you really do that?

You reached for the plushie carefully. When he passed it to you, your fingers brushed his.

“It’s… kinda cute,” you admitted, squeezing it gently.

Bucky noticed the tremble still in your shoulders.

“You’re okay, right?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“You’re still kinda pale.”

You nodded, tight-lipped.

“I’m proud of you, though.”

That made you look up. He said it like it mattered. 

You stared at him for a second. His eyes—so earnest, so gentle—did something to your stomach. You felt yourself teetering on the edge of a cliff.

Before you could second-guess it, you reached out, grabbed his left wrist—his human hand—and gently brought it to rest against your chest, right over your heart.

Bucky’s breath hitched. “Oh—oh, wow. That’s—”

You made his palm press flat against you as your heartbeat pounded through your ribs.

“Shit,” he murmured, eyes wide. “You’re still freaking out. It’s… it’s still going.”

You didn’t break eye contact.

“That’s not because of the spiders,” you took a deep breath. 

Bucky’s brows furrowed. “…It’s not?”

You shook your head. “It’s you.”

Bucky froze for a second.

And then, he blinked. “Wait, what?”

You smiled, just a little. “I have a crush on you, you idiot.”

Bucky short-circuited, as if you had just punched the thoughts right out of his brain. “…What?

Your fingers were still gently curled around his wrist— his hand was still on your chest.

“You okay?” you asked, amused.

“Am I—are you joking?” he blurted. “You’re not—this isn’t some weird fever-dream side effect from spider fear, is it?” he asked, dead serious.

You reached up with your other hand and tapped the fuzzy tarantula plushie against his chest, snorting. “I faced my worst nightmare and the only thing I could think about was you. What does that tell you?”

“I don’t know,” he said, shuffling his feet. “You’re not—”

“Bucky,” you cut off.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not joking.”

His breath left him in a whoosh, like he had let the air out of a balloon. His eyes were so wide, his face so lost and amazed and unguarded, it almost made you break down.

“I thought—I’ve had a crush on you since… forever,” he said, voice cracking.

“Yeah,” you looked down sheepishly. “Yelena and Ava tried to tell me. I’m just dumb.”

His hand slid up from your chest to your jawline. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, your temple.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” he whispered.

“You were always brooding or bleeding.”

His chuckles, tilting his head.

“Can I…?”

You nodded before he could finish the sentence.

And then he kissed you.

It was gentle. Not a fireworks kind of kiss—but the kind that made your entire body sigh with relief. 

His lips were soft and warm and fuck— You were still shaking—but now, it was for an entirely different reason.

When he finally pulled back, it was gentle— like he didn’t want to go too far, didn’t want to break the perfect moment that had just happened. His forehead came to rest against yours, and you both just breathed for a moment—like the world outside this tiny shop didn’t exist.

Bucky looked dazed—like he’d just stepped out of a dream and wasn’t entirely convinced he was awake yet.

You didn’t trust your voice. So instead, you simply reached down, lifted the plushie from where it had been squashed between you, and turned it to face him. “I think I’m gonna call it Francis.”

“…Francis?” he echoed, blinking like the name alone had startled him back to reality.

You nodded with exaggerated solemnity, lips twitching at the corners. “Yeah. He looks like a Francis.”

A small, startled laugh escaped Bucky. He rubbed the back of his neck, fiddling with Francis' little fluffy legs as he glanced toward the front of the store where the counter still sat empty with a sign saying Cashier will return shortly.

“…I still need to pay for Francis,” he said.

You held up Francis like an offering. “Or you could just run,” you joked, “Make a break for it. No one would ever suspect the guy with the metal arm.”

Bucky gave you an amused look. “No girlfriend of mine is walking out of a store with stolen goods.”

Your heart did something that might’ve been illegal in several states. “Girlfriend, huh?”

“What?” For a second, Bucky froze. “Too soon?”

“I dunno.” You tilted your head, pretending to consider it, even as your cheeks burned. “I think I need to discuss it with Francis.”

Lifting the plushie to your face, you looked deep into his stitched eyes. “Francis,” you whispered. “Is it too soon?”

You answered in a high, suspiciously small voice: “He should take you out to dinner first.”

You turned back to Bucky, completely straight-faced. “Francis says you need to take me out to dinner first.”

Bucky exhaled a laugh, relieved and completely enchanted by your antics. “Dinner tonight it is.”

You nodded, lowering Francis to your chest like a seal of approval. “Francis has spoken.”

And Bucky—excited to make new memories to replace old ones with you—could only smile.

-end.

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@elfypineapple @barnesonly @kaixvdenny @sweetmoonlove0214 @roxyym

[foreverrandomwritings]

Y/N: Please try not to kill each other while I'm gone.

Bucky: We won't, doll.

John: We're not children.

*Y/N leaves*

John: Eat shit.

Bucky: Fuck you.

[foreverrandomwritings]

Filed Under: Inappropriate

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Scheduler!reader

Summary: You’ve worked hard to keep things professional—his schedule tight, your distance tighter. But when the scent of Congressman Barnes’ cologne lingers too long, it cracks your restraint wide open. You know better than to touch. But he hears everything.

Warnings: 18+ (mdni!), explicit sexual content, p in v, consensual workplace power dynamics, sensory kink, scent-based arousal, referencing hyper-sexuality, audio surveillance (non-malicious), oral (f receiving + m receiving), breast play, desk sex, possessive undertones

Word count: 4,720

You hated being in his office longer than five seconds. Not because Congressman Barnes was difficult—he was polite, measured, always thanking you after meetings. Not because he was cold—though his steel-blue eyes had a way of sliding over you like he was analyzing your pulse rate. No, you hated it because every time you stepped within range of him, something primal and traitorous stirred low in your belly.

It was the damn cologne.

Parfums de Marly Layton. You’d once caught a glimpse of the deep navy bottle on the edge of his hotel bathroom sink while reviewing his itinerary, and you cursed yourself for ever learning the name. Now, you knew exactly what it was each time it hit you: that heady swirl of green apple and vanilla spice, warm cardamom softened by the heat of his skin, all wrapped in something darker—amber, maybe. Something that clung to the cotton of his shirts and refused to leave even after he did.

You never asked about it. You wouldn’t dare. But every time you leaned over his desk to drop off his briefing binder or hover by the door to confirm his next flight to D.C., that scent latched onto you like it had hands.

And he didn’t know. Of course he didn’t.

You were just his scheduler. The woman in black slacks and button-downs who kept his life running in military-level precision. You booked his appearances, called in favors with lobbyists’ assistants, negotiated down overbooked town halls, and sometimes—God help you—had to step inside his hotel room to lay out the next day’s itinerary when he was too buried in calls to read his own calendar.

Those were the worst. When he’d answer the door in a fitted T-shirt, damp hair curling at his nape, Layton now mingling with sweat and steam, and you’d have to act like your knees weren’t about to buckle. You’d linger by the desk, pretending to triple-check the flight number. He’d pace behind you, reading notes off his phone, totally unaware you were trying not to moan like some harlequin heroine because of the way his scent swirled in the air-conditioned quiet.

You knew your place. And you played it well.

But God, if he ever caught on—if he ever looked at you the way you sometimes caught yourself looking at him—this whole operation would go to hell.

──

Your morning began, as it usually did, in his suite.

A quiet knock. A barely audible “Come in.” Then the ritual began.

You stood by the small conference table in his living area, tablet in hand, while Congressman James Buchanan Barnes moved with military-grade precision behind you. He never rushed. Never wasted a single second. His routine was something sacred—ironed shirt, gold cufflinks, navy suit freshly pressed and waiting on the valet hook by the door. You glanced at the clock. Right on time.

Then came the part that always undid you.

Three spritzes.

You didn’t have to look to know the bottle—Parfums de Marly Layton. He passed by you on his way to the mirror, the scent trailing him like a shadow: apple-spice and something almost resinous beneath. One spray around the base of his neck. Two on the insides of his wrists, which he then tapped against his collarbone in fluid, practiced motions.

Everything about Bucky was deliberate. Disciplined. Controlled.

You hated that it turned you on.

The ten minutes you spent inside that room felt like a test. You spoke as little as possible, eyes fixed on the screen while your body vibrated with restraint. The scent of his cologne—warmed by his skin and the faint trace of post-shower steam—curled through the suite, wrapping around you like velvet shackles. Your thighs pressed together more tightly the longer you stood still.

You reminded yourself—again—that this was your decision. You were maintaining abstinence. You’d been attending therapy. Learning to manage what had once consumed you. Learning how not to chase every high your body demanded. You hadn’t slipped in over six months.

But today…

Today something broke.

──

You shouldn’t be doing this.

You repeated that over and over again in your head, even as your thighs pressed together, even as you turned toward his chair—the one still warm from where he’d last sat—and let your body sink into it. The scent of him was stronger here. Thick in the upholstery, clinging to the wool of his blazer draped over the back. You exhaled shakily, nostrils flaring as Layton wrapped around you, pushed into every breath like it knew exactly what it was doing to you.

Your body throbbed with need, the ache long suppressed now boiling over. Your self-constraint screamed at you to leave. To remember your progress. To walk away.

But then your hand slid between your thighs.

And it was already over.

You felt the heat there—wet and pulsing—before you even touched yourself. Just the press of your palm over your panties made you gasp, the friction igniting a tremor that rolled through your whole body. The skirt you’d worn today—a rare choice—suddenly felt like a divine mistake. Or maybe it was fate. No slacks to fight with. No belt to undo. Just a soft fabric bunched around your hips as you slipped your fingers down the front of your underwear and found the desperate pulse of your clit.

“Fuck—” you hissed, biting down on your lip. One finger circled slowly, teasing and taunting, while the other hand gripped the armrest of his chair. Your head lolled back, the sharp scent of Layton clinging to your hair, your skin, sinking deeper with every ragged breath.

You didn’t realize how loud your breathing had gotten. The moans that had broken free weren’t whispers—they were real. Hungry. Shamefully sweet. And they drifted into the room like incense, thick and lingering.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t possibly know—was that your voice wasn’t just trapped in the still air of Bucky’s office.

It was in his ear.

──

Bucky stood behind the curtain of the press hall, one hand on the mic clipped to his tie, the other curled into a tight fist behind his back. He was half-listening to the event organizer briefing him when something flickered in his earpiece. Static. Then—

“F-Fuck—Bucky…”

His name.

Moaned.

Soft and strangled and real.

His spine straightened like he’d been struck.

The voice was unmistakable. Yours.

The sound came again, clearer this time, riding a breathy whimper. His brow furrowed, sharp gaze shifting toward the assistant speaking in front of him—but he wasn’t hearing a word she said anymore.

He tapped the mic, subtly. The connection flickered. He recognized the signal.

It was from his office. From the hidden mic—one of several—planted into the base of his desk lamp. A holdover from another life. Not politics, but fieldwork. Survival. The kind of instinct that gets carved into your bones when you’ve spent years as a ghost, a weapon, an Avenger—an assassin. Even now, walking corridors of Capitol Hill instead of war zones, Bucky Barnes never truly relaxed. The security team had given him the green light to keep those recordings in place, citing precautionary measures. But really, they were for him. A way to feel safe, to control the perimeter, to know what was coming before it came.

But what he was hearing now had nothing to do with politics.

Your moans filtered through the line again, closer this time. As if you were leaning over the desk. As if your mouth was right beside the mic.

And suddenly he was hard. Painfully so.

The assistant cleared her throat. “Congressman? They’re ready for you.”

He blinked, nodded slowly, forcing a polite smile. But his mind was miles away.

Still in that room.

With you.

Bucky didn’t remember half of what was said onstage.

He answered questions. Shook hands. Smiled for the cameras. But his mind was nowhere near the press hall. It was still up in his office—haunted by the sound of you panting his name in gasping, breathless fragments.

He lasted exactly twenty-two minutes.

When the moderator thanked him for his presence, Bucky slipped away with the practiced grace of someone who knew how to disappear without making it a scene. He brushed off staff with a tight-lipped smile and a dismissive wave. “I’m taking a break. I need a few minutes,” he said. “Thinking about my mom. It’s her birthday today.”

A lie. One he hated using. But it worked.

No one followed.

No one asked questions.

And he made sure—damn sure—his guards knew to stay posted far from the east wing of the building. His office sat in the corner of a quiet conference suite, tucked behind a frosted glass door that bore his name and seal. No scheduled meetings for the rest of the afternoon. No assistants buzzing in. No unexpected interns to stumble through.

Just you.

Still in there.

Still moaning like you didn’t know your voice was crawling into his earpiece like the world’s most dangerous prayer.

He locked the door behind him the moment he stepped inside.

The click echoed through the room like a gunshot.

Bucky leaned back against the wood, hand still at the latch, jaw tight and eyes closed as your voice spilled through the earpiece—raw, needy, filthy in a way that peeled his self-control back layer by layer.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

You were still in his chair.

One leg slung over the armrest, the other foot planted on the floor for leverage. Skirt pushed up, blouse half-open, hair mussed and falling out of its usual neat tie. Your fingers were buried between your thighs, moving in tight, desperate circles. His name fell from your lips in gasps, more broken each time. Whimpering. Pleading. Ruined.

He exhaled harshly through his nose, blood roaring in his ears.

“Christ,” he muttered.

What the fuck were you thinking?

He should’ve been furious. Should’ve been offended. Professional boundaries, and all that. But instead, something primal settled in his gut. A slow, molten heat that spread into his chest and pulled tight behind his zipper. Not just lust. Not just arousal. Possession.

You had no idea how close you were to being caught.

To being taken.

You didn’t even check the door.

Didn’t think about cameras or recordings or someone else walking in before him. You just trusted you’d be alone. Trusted that you were safe in his space. And instead of hating you for it, instead of calling it foolish—

Bucky felt proud.

Protective.

Turned on beyond belief.

Bucky stepped forward quietly, his boots making no sound against the polished floor.

You were close.

He could tell.

Your moans had gone breathless—rushed, rising in pitch. Each gasp of his name now came through the earpiece like a desperate confession. Faster. Wetter. Louder. He could see the way your hand moved beneath the hem of your skirt, the way your hips rolled against your own touch. That tension in your thighs. That flutter in your lashes. Your head thrown back like the chair was your altar and you were about to come in his fucking name.

He exhaled—slowly. Quietly.

You were so absorbed in your pleasure, so lost in that hazy world you’d escaped to, that you didn’t even hear the subtle swish of the door behind his desk opening. You hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t just in your head anymore—he was in the room. Close enough now to smell everything.

And God, he did.

He could smell the sweat on your skin, the arousal soaking through your underwear, the lingering trails of your perfume—the one you always wore on days you wore your hair up like that. Professional days, you called them. If only you knew how that messy bun was driving him wild now, the loose strands stuck to your damp neck, the little whimpers you didn’t even know you were letting out.

You made it so easy.

Too easy.

His jaw clenched as he watched you, throat dry with something that wasn’t just lust—it was fear. Fear of what could’ve happened if someone else had come up here. If a reporter had slipped in to snoop. If a staffer came to clean. If it hadn’t been him.

He was protective by nature. Obsessive by consequence. He didn’t trust easily, didn’t let people in, but you—

You were different.

You were the soft place in his otherwise brutal life.

And now, like a loaded gun left on the wrong table, you were vulnerable in the worst way imaginable.

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his side. He wanted to touch you. To pull your hand away and replace it with his mouth, his fingers, his everything. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Because even with all that hunger burning in his blood, the soldier in him still wanted to study. Still wanted to watch.

Your breathing picked up again. Your body began to tremble, pleasure peaking. He could see it—feel it—in every breath.

And then you whispered it. “Bucky—please—” like you needed him to save you from drowning in your own ecstasy.

That did it.

He couldn’t let you finish—not without knowing he was there.

So he cleared his throat. Just once.

A low, deliberate cough.

──

Your whole body jolted.

Eyes flew open.

You froze mid-motion, thighs snapping together as if you could undo the last ten minutes by sheer panic alone. Heart hammering. Lungs stuck in your chest. The shame—white-hot and paralyzing—poured down your spine like ice water.

Then you saw him.

Leaning against the wall, suit jacket still buttoned. Tie loosened just slightly at the collar. His expression unreadable—but his eyes? Burning. Steady. Watching you like a man who had seen everything.

Because he had.

He’d heard everything.

And he didn’t look away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

“You didn’t lock the door.”

His voice was low. Calm. But it carried—like a blade sliding from a sheath. Controlled. Dangerous. Precise.

Your whole body jerked upright in the chair, eyes wide, legs snapping closed so fast it made the chair squeak beneath you. You could barely breathe. Heart pounding, cheeks burning, hand yanking your skirt down in frantic, fumbling motions.

“I—I didn’t know anyone—God, I didn’t think—” you stammered, horrified. “I swear, I thought you’d be down there for hours—I didn’t mean—”

“Stop,” Bucky said gently.

Your mouth clamped shut.

He didn’t move toward you, yet. He stood just inside the office door, back against the wall, arms loose at his sides. But there was no mistaking the heat behind his eyes. That slow, burning intensity you’d only ever caught glimpses of in passing. Behind podiums. In briefings. When he leaned just a little too close with that cologne on and your legs would go weak for reasons you never wanted to admit.

“I’m not pressing charges,” he said. “You’re not losing your job.”

You blinked, speechless, heart still galloping like a terrified animal.

“But…” he continued, pushing off from the wall, walking toward you now with the same deliberate, panther-smooth grace that reminded you exactly who he used to be. Not just the golden boy congressman. Not just the tailored suit. But him. The assassin. The Avenger. The man who moved like a weapon and looked at you like he already knew what you tasted like when you came.

“You are in trouble,” he said, voice lowering with each step. “Just… not the kind you’re thinking of.”

Your lips parted. Breath caught.

Bucky stopped a few feet in front of you.

And that’s when you saw it.

The outline pressing hard against his slacks, thick and demanding, straining against the zipper like it was fighting to be free. Your throat went dry.

“Do you know what it’s been like?” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself. “Having to walk around with this—” he gestured to his head, his chest, his body “—with these senses. With you.”

Your brows knit in confusion, still trying to process the way he looked at you—like he’d already had this conversation with himself a hundred times and finally stopped trying to argue against it.

“I can hear your heartbeat spike when I walk by. Smell how wet you get when I lean too close.” His nostrils flared just slightly, steel blue eyes darkening. “You flinch like you hate me, but baby…” he chuckled, quiet and sharp, “your thighs say otherwise.”

Your apology died on your tongue.

Bucky took another step, now within arm’s reach.

“I know I shouldn’t have left that mic on,” he murmured. “Old habit. Leftover paranoia. I didn’t expect anything from it.”

His vibranium fingers flexed slowly at his side, gleaming under the low light of the office.

“But hearing you like that? Saying my name? Touching yourself in my chair? You’ve no idea what that did to me.”

He leaned down slightly, voice dropping to a rasp near your ear.

“Would’ve come up here sooner if I’d known you were hungry for me, sweetheart.”

Your whole body pulsed with heat.

And then, almost teasingly, he stepped back just enough for you to see his gaze drop to your lap—your thighs still trembling, your breathing still ragged.

“Now,” he said softly, eyes dragging back up to yours, “you’re going to help me.”

He glanced down at the ache visibly straining against the front of his pants.

“Fix the mess you started,” Bucky murmured again, voice low and rough.

You swallowed hard, eyes darting between his face and the bulge still straining beneath those expensive navy slacks. Your breath caught, your lips parted—but you didn’t move.

So Bucky did.

He reached out, warm hand cupping the back of your head, thumb brushing against your jaw—tender, but firm. Guiding. His vibranium fingers brushed your shoulder, trailing a cold path down your arm as he coaxed you out of the chair and down to your knees, right between his legs.

You looked up at him. The tie still loose at his collar. His jaw locked, blue eyes burning down at you like you were something sacred. Something he’d wanted for far too long.

“Atta girl,” he muttered, unfastening his belt slowly. “Show me what you’ve been dreaming about.”

You took him in hand, heard his sharp inhale. He was heavy, hot, twitching in your grip—already leaking from how long he’d been holding back. You kissed the head gently, teasing your tongue over the slit, and felt him shudder above you.

“Fuck, sweetheart…”

But something changed.

As soon as you tasted him—salty and masculine, laced with the lingering warmth of that cologne—you snapped. Your restraint, your therapy, your rules—shattered. Your hyper-sensitive body surged with heat and hunger. You gripped him tighter, sucked him deeper, harder, hungry for it—starved for the man who haunted every dark corner of your fantasies.

Bucky hissed. His hand flew to your bun—not to guide you, but to steady himself.

You were taking control.

And he was losing it.

“Shit—slow down, baby—” he grunted, legs bracing, muscles twitching. “Fuck—gonna—”

He didn’t finish the warning.

With a stifled groan and a muttered curse, he came fast and hard, head tipped back, hand fisting in your hair as his body jolted. You swallowed, breathless, the taste of him still on your tongue as he staggered slightly—off balance, caught completely off-guard by just how fast you’d undone him.

He looked down at you with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. Then he gave a breathless laugh—soft, almost reverent.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You’re trying to kill me?”

You licked your lips and looked up through your lashes. “You told me to fix it.”

Bucky’s pupils dilated.

He was far from done.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice hoarse with need. “Lay down. Table.”

You rose—hands trembling, heart pounding—and climbed onto the edge of his desk, pushing aside the neat stack of folders and your own open planner. You laid back, thighs parting as his hands found your waist. He looked like a man possessed, hungry and undone, all that political polish burned away.

He pushed up your blouse, exposing your bra, then unclasped it with practiced ease—lucky for him (and unlucky for you) that you’d chosen the kind that fastened in the front. Your breasts spilled free into his waiting hands, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t just imagined this a hundred times over.

He didn’t hesitate.

He leaned down, biting softly at the swell of your chest, leaving wet kisses and deep bruising marks as his vibranium fingers slid down—cool and deliberate—between your legs. You gasped at the contrast of metal and heat, moaning as they slid through your slick folds with expert precision.

You writhed. He growled.

Then, when you were panting and shaking again, he pulled back—stroking himself once, slowly—then slid his length between your breasts, pressing them together with his hands as you lifted your chin to tease your tongue against the head of his cock.

“Hold still for me,” he groaned. “Just like that.”

The heat in the room swelled—his cologne thick in the air, your arousal coating his fingers, his taste still lingering on your lips. He rocked into your chest slowly, hips rolling, your mouth chasing every pass like it was your last breath.

And for Bucky?

It might as well have been.

“Just like that,” Bucky groaned again, thrusting slowly between your breasts, your tongue flicking over his tip with every pass. His hands pressed them tighter, his jaw clenched like he was fighting himself—like he was trying to savor this, even as every nerve in his body screamed for release.

You watched him from below—eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from sucking him dry just moments ago. There was pride in your gaze now. Power. Your legs shifted, thighs rubbing together with desperate friction as you moaned softly, loving how undone he looked. This man—former assassin, super soldier, now walking the floors of Congress like he didn’t have blood on his hands—was losing himself for you.

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

He pulled back, eyes raking over your body like he wanted to mark every inch of it. “Turn over,” he said hoarsely. “Hands flat on the desk. Skirt up. Now.”

Your breath caught.

You obeyed.

The desk was cool under your palms as you turned, bent forward, and arched your back—cheeks exposed, thighs glistening. You heard the rustle of his slacks, the low hitch of his breath as he took you in. Then—metal and flesh—his hands gripped your hips, pulling you back against him.

“Fuck, doll,” he groaned, dragging his cock through your folds slowly, teasing. “You’re soaking. All this just from my scent, huh?”

You whimpered.

He leaned over you, the scent of his cologne wrapped in heat and sweat now, curling around your senses like a drug. His mouth found your neck—kissing, biting, panting against your skin.

“Do you know how many times I wanted to take you like this?” he whispered, teeth grazing your ear. “Every time you walked into my office, pretending you didn’t notice how hard I was. You think I didn’t know?”

Then—without warning—he slammed into you.

You gasped. Loud. Fingers splayed on the desk for support as he filled you in one hard, deliberate thrust.

Bucky groaned behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back—vibranium palm splayed flat between your shoulder blades to keep you down. Pinned. Controlled. Possessed.

“You like this,” he growled, voice thick with filth and hunger. “You like knowing I can’t fucking hold back with you.”

He rolled his hips again, deep and slow, and your whole body shuddered from the inside out.

And then he lost the last of his restraint.

The thrusts turned punishing—each one knocking the breath from your lungs as his fingers dug into your skin, anchoring you in place. He was relentless. The desk creaked beneath you. Your moans echoed off the walls. His name fell from your lips like prayer.

“Say it again,” he gritted. “Say my fucking name.”

“Bucky—oh God—Bucky—”

“That’s it, baby. That’s mine.”

You felt him everywhere—his cologne clinging to your skin, his heat against your back, the cold snap of vibranium fingers sliding back between your thighs to stroke you just right as he kept slamming into you.

And just as you were about to fall apart, just as your vision blurred and your moans turned breathless and broken—

He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulled you back against his chest, and growled into your ear:

“You’re coming with me.”

You didn’t stand a chance.

Not when he had your back arched, your hips bucking, your moans punched out of you with every ruthless thrust.

And definitely not when his mouth returned to your neck—nipping, dragging, claiming.

“Gotta warn you, sweetheart,” he panted, voice gone gravel-deep, sweat slicking his chest against your spine. “Cleanup’s gonna be hell.”

You gasped, eyes fluttering as he slid his vibranium fingers back between your legs, stroking where he knew you needed it—circling, pressing, dragging you up toward the edge again. Your thighs trembled. His cock dragged deep inside you, heavy and thick, already swelling again despite how hard he’d come earlier.

He was insatiable.

“You’re dripping down my thighs,” he groaned, cock twitching inside you. “Gonna soak this desk. The carpet.”

“I—I can’t,” you whimpered, dizzy from overstimulation, from the scent of him still curling through the room like a trap.

“Yes, you can,” he hissed, fucking into you harder. “C’mon, doll. One more. I need it.”

He wanted to feel it. Hear it. Your body breaking apart for him like it was made to.

And when your orgasm tore through you again—loud, shaking, guttural—he cursed and pulled out just in time to see the way your release shuddered down your thighs, messy and obscene and perfect.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, grabbing his cock and stroking it hard, fast, as he stared at the wreckage of you—your thighs spread, your mouth open, your body twitching from the aftershocks.

He didn’t last long.

One sharp exhale—your name on his lips—and he came again, painting your lower back and ass with hot, thick ropes of it. The kind of mess that would take more than tissues to fix.

Bucky stumbled back a step, chest heaving, hands braced on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath. A beat passed.

Then he chuckled, dark and low.

“I told you we’d need time for cleanup.”

You groaned, still face-down on the desk. “That’s… not my department, Congressman.”

Another breathless laugh. “Lucky for us, I’ve got some experience erasing evidence.”

He moved toward the far wall of his office, tapped a hidden panel under a shelf, and revealed a small screen linked to the CCTV system. A few taps, and he was deep into the security matrix—something no one but Bucky Barnes had access to.

His fingers hovered over the delete command… then paused.

A wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Or…” he murmured, glancing back at you, still sprawled across his desk, flushed and glistening. “I keep this one. File it under inappropriate.”

Your breath caught.

Then his voice softened—still low, still dark—but careful now. “Only if you’re okay with that.”

You looked at him, cheeks burning, chest still rising and falling in uneven gasps. And then you smiled—slow and shameless.

“Only if I get a copy too.”

He chuckled, full and rich, before locking the footage away behind a new encrypted file. His name. Today’s date.

And a folder labeled simply: INAPPROPRIATE

He turned back to you, still drinking in the sight—hickeys blooming across your chest like war paint, lips kiss-bitten and eyes half-lidded in the aftermath.

If anyone asked why the door had been locked for so long…

“I’ll tell ’em I needed a moment,” he muttered, tucking his shirt back in with a wry twist of his mouth. “Missing my mother. Or some bullshit like that.”

You snorted through the heat still burning on your skin. “You’re a menace.”

He stepped back toward you, buttoning his shirt halfway, not even bothering to fix the tie. “You have no idea.”

Then he leaned down, kissed the curve of your shoulder—warm, slow, almost reverent—and whispered:

“We’re not done, by the way.”

You blinked up at him, still trembling. “We’re not?”

“Nope.” He slid two vibranium fingers through your slick folds again, slow and deliberate, and smirked at your sharp gasp.

“I haven’t even had lunch.”

[foreverrandomwritings]

ENDGAME — send me a dialogue prompt from this list, this list, or this list, + a character from the list above for a blurb! HI can i get bucky x reader where reader is absolutely oblivious "please correct me if i've been reading this all wrong but..." but bucky has been trying ALL of his 1940s flirting methods and hes tweaking (i'm imagining his eye twitching) because hes been so obvious about it and she cant tell

hi angel!! thank u so so much for your request it was so much fun to write, hope u enjoy!

congressman!bucky x fem!reader, 1.3k words (reader is a little shy and a lot oblivious)

Apart from outright telling you, Bucky doesn’t know what else he can do to show you how much he likes you. He’s tried everything, from flowers on your desk to flirting with you over paperwork, to impromptu lunch with you during your break. He doesn’t mind waiting for you if that’s what you want, but he’s starting to think you actually haven’t realised how he feels about you, despite his many attempts.

You take his flirting like he’s joking (he’s not, he’s completely serious whenever he tells you you look pretty, or that you’re an incredible secretary and he wouldn’t have anyone else), and you don't flirt back, not on purpose, anyway. You’re not stupid, but you’re maybe a little unassuming. He guesses this is a result of you not being pursued much, or in the proper way. Which, of course, he thinks is absurd, when you’re that pretty.

“Hi, doll,” he says, looking up from his laptop. He gives you a once over, “You look nice today.”

You stand in the doorway of his office, looking lovely as ever with a stack of paperwork pressed to your chest. “Hello,” you say, smiling. “Thank you.”

Bucky likes your smile. He likes everything about you. He gestures to your paperwork with his head. “What’ve you got for me?”

“The documents you asked for, the ones you wanted printed?” You cross the room and place the stack on the corner of his desk. “Sorry I took so long, the printer was playing up.”

Bucky couldn’t care less about the printer. You look almost abnormally pretty today, in a cream coloured sweater and a brown skirt, your hair pinned up out of your face. He stares at you a bit too long before he remembers himself.

“That’s okay,” he says. Again, he could not care less about the printer when you’re in his office looking like that. “Thanks so much, doll.”

You smile at him and shrug one shoulder. “Just doing my job,” you say sweetly. “Was there anything else you wanted?”

Bucky can think of a lot of things he wants. You, being at the very top of the list. He decides on the spot that he’ll finally tell you so, tonight if he can. He taps a vibranium finger on the desk like he’s thinking.

“Hmm,” he hums, dragging it out as he pretends to think. He takes his time pretending before meeting your gaze, “Are you free tonight?”

You roll your eyes. “Bucky,” you say.

Bucky loves the way his name rolls off your tongue like that. He grins.

“What?” He asks, laughing a bit, “I’m serious, are you doing anything after work?”

You squint at him like you’re trying to figure out whether he’s joking or not. “No,” You say slowly. You fiddle with your bracelet. “Why?”

“I want to take you out,” Bucky says simply. “For dinner. Would you want to?”

You stare at him. “Are you joking?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No. I want to go somewhere nice with you and talk,” he explains.

Something close to panic crosses your features. “Are you firing me?” You ask.

“What?”

Bucky’s baffled. He has no idea why you think he’d be firing you. He’s just asked you on a date. You’re the best secretary he’s ever had (he’s only ever had one, but he imagines you’re the best out of all the ones he could’ve had). He very clearly likes you enough to keep you around for as long as he wants. Why you think he’d want to sack you is beyond him.

You get nervous then, embarrassed. You screw your hands in your sweater. “I— so you’re not firing me?”

Bucky feels suddenly so fond for you he almost stands up and kisses you. It burns in his chest like starlight, makes him feel nineteen again. It’s been a long, long time since he’s felt so young. It’s sort of electrifying.

“No,” he tells you, shaking his head. “Of course I’m not firing you, why would I do that? I just want to take you to dinner, doll.”

“Oh,” you say softly.

Bucky grins. You’re so cute. So oblivious. It drives him nuts for more reasons than one. “Is that a yes?” He asks you.

You rock on your feet and bite your lip. “Yeah, okay.”

“Perfect,” Bucky grins. “Do you like Vietnamese? I know a place.”

-

You’ve spent the majority of the day at work worrying about your dinner date with Bucky. You’re not sure if you should call it a date. You don’t know what to call it, actually.

You like Bucky. He’s kind, hard-working, handsome. He’s also intimidating and a bit scary sometimes. You know he doesn’t mean to be, but you’re flighty at the best of times, and he only makes it worse. He’s always saying and doing things that make your heart pump in a way you don’t quite understand.

You’re still a little scared he might fire you. Or tell you he’s replaced you. But so far, he’s only walked on the outside of the sidewalk, held the door for you, and refused to let you see how much anything on the menu costs.

All this only gets you thinking about all the other nice things he’s ever done for you, the pretty flowers that appeared on your desk last week, the time he gifted you a necklace because he, “thought it would look nice on you”. You’ve never thought about any of it for too long, not wanting to get your hopes up about what it all means.

“I’ve lost you,” Bucky says, sitting across from you. He’s taken off his jacket and slung it over the back of his chair. You can’t stop looking at his vibranium arm and the way it reflects the warm glow of the lights overhead.

You blink. “Sorry.”

Bucky smiles at you. “That’s okay. What’re you thinking about?”

You bite your lip. “Nothing,” you lie.

Your lie must show on your face (you’ve never been good at hiding anything, let alone from Bucky, who seems to have the uncanny ability to unravel you like a spool of thread), because Bucky gives you a knowing look.

“C’mon, doll, what is it?” He reaches across the table and takes your hand in his flesh one. He’s warm, but you’re warmer. He strokes the back of your hand with his thumb, “You can tell me anything, you know.”

You look at your joined hands on the table and feel a bit dizzy.

“Um,” you start lamely. You can’t look at him, so you stare at his shoulder instead. “Please correct me if I've been reading this all wrong, but… is this a date?”

Bucky goes silent and you wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing. Maybe the flowers and the necklace and everything else was merely a kind gesture between friends. Maybe this isn’t what you think it is, and you’ve gone and—

“Oh, honey,” Bucky says, saccharine sweet. “Are you kidding me? Of course this is a date. If you want it to be.”

You don’t know what to say. Of course you want it to be a date. You just never considered that Bucky would want that, too. You realise, suddenly, that you’ve been a bit foolish. You’ve no time to think about it because Bucky pushes his hand further up your arm to hold your forearm, leaning closer over the table.

“Do you want it to be?” He asks quietly. Gently, like he won’t be mad or offended if you say no.

You don’t want to say no, not at all. In what world would you? You nod your head, “Yes, I think so.”

Bucky grins so big it changes his whole face. “Okay,” he nods. “A date it is.”

He leans back in his chair but doesn’t let go of your hand. You feel so giddy you could burst, your chest fizzing with the feeling. Your fear it’ll spill out of you all at once.

Bucky looks equally as happy as you feel. “I’m glad you said so,” he says, and there’s a teasing edge to his tone that you’d hate if it wasn’t coming from him. “I’ve been wanting to take you on a date for ages, did you notice?”

You can’t say you did. At least you know now.