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ldr-sl0t · 9 days ago

Note

Hey it’s me again i did a request for winter soldier Bucky i don’t know if you saw it but i forgot to add if he can only speak Russian when he is triggered and of course we understand and Nat too and she laughs every time when she hear him something filthy from the Winter Soldier when he is triggered and following us and us it shocks us because we are enemies.

Here the request i did if you didn’t saw it

Hey me again! Well i can't thank you enough for "about time"! Because you gave life to my idea and it's written really how i wanted it. It's perfect i keep reading it again and again! Thank you

So here my new request if you can & So again like the other he don't like us like we always banter always! But we are really a good pair on missions we complete each other skills. But outside missions we are ennemies and the others (if it can be after civil war and all are alive) are tired of us. But one day Bucky is triggered and when we get to the compound everyone is on alert because The Winter soldier is awake but shockingly The Soldat do not harm anyone and is searching for us so when he sees us he become over protective and don't let anyone touch us(like he literally throw Steve all the way through the room) but he follow us everywhere and he is touch STARVED like really he need to touch us always skin to skin but as the days passes his hands and lips becomes bold and really needy but we let him because we know that for 80 years "touch" was only pain and torture. And well we sleep with him and he is "Mine! Only mine not his his metal hand on our throat talking about Bucky.

Next morning the Soldat is not in the bed with us and when we ask Friday she tell us that Bucky returned to normal and don't at us like really not even banter it's like we don't exist. So it hurt but weeks passes and we try to move on but the night as we are going on date and Bucky heard it well boom Winter Soldier again but it's just for the night and won't let us out and the next morning Bucky is in bed with us and well happy ending

i have the whole thing but not the end

hope u enjoy it!!!! warning i had to translate a lot of the russian bc i do not speak it so i apologize in advance haha c/w: discussion of consent (reader and the soldier have sex and she panics about buckys feelings), breeding, rough sex, oral, possessive behavior, and piv sex teehee

You knew he was in the briefing room the second the door slid open. Not by sight—he was behind you. You felt him. The shift in the air. That charged stillness he always brought with him, like a lightning storm waiting for an excuse.

“Someone’s late,” Bucky muttered, just loud enough for the words to slide between your shoulder blades.

You didn’t turn. Just kept your boots propped on the edge of the table, flicking your pen against your notepad with a rhythm you knew got under his skin.

“I’d apologize,” you said, dry, “but I heard you spent the last twenty minutes scowling at the vending machine like it owed you something. Not exactly productive.”

His footsteps slowed as he circled the table. Like a shark. Like he had time.

“I was watching the security feed,” he said, dropping into the chair across from you. “You tripped twice coming off the jet.”

You gave him a flat look. “You zoomed in?”

He smirked. “Frame by frame.”

Natasha groaned from two seats down. “God, just kiss already.”

“Or kill each other,” Sam muttered.

You didn’t break eye contact with Bucky. He didn’t blink either.

Tony walked in sipping his coffee, glanced between you two, and sighed. “Jesus. What is this, ‘Who Can Out-Repress Their Emotions: Death Match Edition’?”

You smiled sweetly. “Round three’s coming up. He started it.”

“I finished it,” Bucky said, glancing at your pen. “You’re about three clicks away from losing a finger.”

You clicked it again. Slowly. Deliberately. “Make me.”

He leaned back, folding his arms over that infuriatingly broad chest, eyes narrowing like he was already calculating the best way to ruin your day.

God, he was infuriating.

Too calm. Too composed. Always watching. Like he couldn’t stand the idea of not being in control. Like even in a debrief, he was tracking exits, pressure points, the way your voice pitched when you were bored.

But the moment the mission started, everything shifted. Two hours later, you were clearing a corridor together in a collapsed HYDRA facility—dust in the air, comms patchy, power flickering. He was ahead of you, blade drawn, steps silent. You covered him from behind, rifle raised, pulse steady.

No words exchanged.

He ducked. You fired over his shoulder. He pointed left. You took the right. Your movements carved space around each other like choreography. Breath for breath. Step for step.

At one point, he held up a fist—halt.

You stopped instantly.

He turned, nodded once, and the two of you slipped around the corner like shadow and flame.

Later, on the exfil rooftop, when the sniper’s scope caught the glint of your rifle, you shouted “left!” without thinking—and he was already there, shielding you, metal arm catching the round mid-spin.

You didn’t thank him.

He didn’t wait for it.

When the Quinjet touched down hours later, you sat across from each other on opposite benches. His lip was bleeding. Your shoulder was bruised. Neither of you said a word. But he kept glancing at your knee, the one that had taken a bad hit on the drop. And when the jet hit turbulence, he braced it with his boot like it was nothing.

Just instinct.

Just habit.

Back at the tower, you passed each other in the hallway outside the med bay.

He nodded.

You didn’t.

But you felt your pulse stutter anyway.

The sparring mat was slick with sweat and ego.

You’d been at it for twenty minutes—longer than most of your sessions with anyone else on the team. Long enough that Clint and Sam had abandoned their workouts to watch from the sidelines, bets exchanged in whispers. Long enough that Natasha had stopped correcting your form and started sipping her water with amused disinterest.

Long enough that no one was pretending it wasn’t personal anymore.

Bucky’s shirt was already off, tucked into the waistband of his sweats like he didn’t even register it. His chest glistened under the overhead lights, marred with old scars and fresh bruises. You were down to a tank top, slick with heat, fists taped, chest heaving.

“Your right hook’s still lazy,” he said, circling you. “You drop your elbow every time.”

You bared your teeth. “Funny. Still landed it.”

He smirked. “Only because I let you.”

You struck first.

He caught your wrist mid-air, twisted, and swept your leg out from under you so fast your vision blurred. But you didn’t go down—you caught his shoulder as you fell and dragged him with you, knees locking around his waist.

He landed with a grunt, and the sound—it went through you like lightning.

The mat shuddered under the weight of both of you. You were on your back, thighs around his hips, your forearm braced across his throat. He was grinning.

Goddamn grinning.

“Gonna choke me out, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low.

“Don’t tempt me,” you muttered. “I’ve thought about it.”

“I bet you have.”

His hand found your wrist—not to push it away. Just to hold it. His other hand slid down your arm, slow. Deliberate.

He didn’t push off you. Didn’t try to flip you or wriggle free.

He just stayed there. Caged between your legs. That glint in his eye—the one he always wore on missions when he was about to do something reckless—settled squarely on you.

You swallowed. “This is getting weird.”

“Only weird if you’re losing,” he said.

“I’m not losing.”

“Sure.” His voice dipped. “Just letting me straddle you for fun, then?”

You moved.

So did he.

You flipped him, fast and furious, knees pinning his arms down at his sides. Now you were on top, breath ragged, hair clinging to your temple. Your hips pressed into his stomach, your hands braced on his chest.

He looked up at you, blinking slow.

Your pulse thundered. “I hate you,” you snapped.

He grinned wider. “No, you don’t.”

You didn’t answer. Because your fingers were still curled in the fabric of his waistband, and you weren’t getting off him. Because he hadn’t stopped you. Because you both knew it.

No one said anything but the silence was thick. Loaded.

You climbed off him after a beat too long. Walked off the mat without looking back. Ignored Sam’s low whistle and Clint’s muttered, “Pay up.”

Bucky stood a second later. His voice followed you to the lockers. “Same time tomorrow?”

You didn’t turn. Just tossed back, “If you can walk straight by then.”

You swore you heard him laugh.

The worst part? You were already smiling too.

Still, nothing ever crossed the line.

Until the day it all shattered.

You were halfway back to the Quinjet, boots pounding over scorched earth after a Hydra clean-up op, when the sound hit—a voice. Ragged, slurred Russian from a dying agent’s lips. You didn’t catch the words.

But Bucky did.

He stopped cold. His body went rigid. His eyes—those usually stormy, human eyes—turned glassy and black. Empty. Not confused. Not afraid. Gone.

You turned toward him. “Buck?”

Nothing.

Then he moved.

Sudden. Mechanical. Perfectly lethal. He dropped the satchel he’d been carrying and cocked his head in that inhuman way you’d only seen on old footage. Your stomach twisted. Every inch of your skin lit up with dread.

“Shit,” you breathed.

The others reacted fast. Sam radioed in for med evac. Steve’s voice was already barking through the comms, steady and sharp.

“Code Red. Repeat, Code Red. We have a trigger. Secure Barnes—non-lethal protocol.”

You didn’t move.

You just stared at him.

You knew what this was. You’d read the files. You’d seen what the Winter Soldier could do when his leash snapped.

But instead of running from him—you ran to the jet.

Because somehow, somewhere deep in your gut, you knew.

He’d come looking for you.

And you were right.

By the time the Quinjet hit the compound’s tarmac, red lights were already flashing through the halls. Friday’s voice blared overhead in that flat, clinical calm that made your skin crawl.

“Alert: The Winter Soldier is active. Secure all corridors. Code Gray. Repeat—Code Gray.”

The compound turned into a hive of chaos. Guards locked down wings. Staff cleared the halls. Stark tech went into motion, locking down everything from the weapons vaults to the cafeteria.

Everyone was on edge.

Everyone knew what was loose inside. But no one—not even Steve—could have predicted what would happen next.

Not who he would come for. Not how he would look at you.

The Soldat didn’t lash out.

He didn’t strike, snarl, or vanish into the shadows like a ghost out of legend.

No—he walked. Deliberate. Controlled. Silent but thunderous, each step echoing down the steel-plated corridors of the compound like the ticking of a bomb with no countdown. He was barefoot. Someone must’ve tried to strip him down to reset, to evaluate, but it didn’t matter. He moved like it was all part of the plan. Unhurried. Terrifyingly precise. His expression was blank—hollow—but his eyes burned with a purpose so sharp it cut through every room he entered.

He wasn’t searching blindly. He knew exactly what he was looking for.

He was looking for you.

The halls had cleared fast. Friday rerouted traffic and sealed bulkheads. The others were scrambling—Tony prepping countermeasures, Sam and Natasha trying to coordinate sedatives without getting close. But none of it mattered.

Because he wasn’t hunting.

He was tracking.

You stood frozen outside the med bay, a tablet still gripped in your hand. The screen dimmed as your fingers went slack.

Then you heard it—the metallic clink of a vibranium hand grazing the wall as he turned the corner.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Eyes pitch black. Shoulders squared. Chest rising in slow, even breaths. His hair clung to his temples like a wet curtain, and there was dried blood along his jaw—not his.

He stopped when he saw you. Not a flinch. Not a flicker.

Still as death itself.

Then, slowly, mechanically, his head tilted. A perfect, unnatural angle. A machine reading a new set of variables.

His nostrils flared.

God, he was scenting you.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Something primal in your spine told you not to run.

He took a step.

Then another.

The sound of his boots—bare feet?—against the floor was barely audible over the static in your ears. Your heart beat against your ribs like it was trying to break free. You could feel it in your throat, your fingertips, behind your eyes. The world shrank down to a pinprick of space between you and the Soldier.

“Bucky?” Steve asked as he appeared beside you, heart in his voice.

Too late.

The Soldat lunged—not at you.

At Steve.

He moved with the speed of a whipcrack. One hand snapped forward and grabbed Steve by the collar of his tac vest, and with a guttural snarl that didn’t belong to any version of Bucky Barnes you’d ever known, he threw him—sent Captain America flying like a crash-test dummy.

The impact shook the corridor. Steve hit the wall hard, his shield clattering to the floor with a metallic scream. He didn’t move.

You sucked in a breath and found the Soldier right in front of you.

You could smell him now. Smoke. Sweat. Dried copper. Beneath it, the clean cotton of his T-shirt, clinging to his chest like it had been pulled from storage and never worn until now. His skin glistened under the flickering hallway lights. And his breath—ragged, shallow—fanned across your cheek as he loomed.

You braced.

Prepared for pain. For pressure. For the voice to bark a command you didn’t understand.

But instead he reached. His metal hand moved slowly, almost reverently, to your wrist. And when he touched you—just brushed the inside of your arm with the backs of his fingers—it was as though he flinched from you, not the other way around. As if the heat of your skin seared him.

Then those fingers curled.

Soft. Careful.

Desperate.

And the moment you didn’t pull away, his whole body shifted. His jaw unclenched. His brow furrowed like he was confused, like something hurt but he didn’t know where. His grip didn’t tighten—it trembled.

Then came his voice. Ragged. Gravel-deep. Thick with rust and ash and need as he said your name.

You weren’t sure what you expected.

Not that.

Not the way his voice cracked through the space between you like a blade dragging through velvet. Not the way your name—or maybe it was just a sound that felt like it—tumbled from his mouth like a prayer laced in barbed wire.

He whispered it again.

Your name.

But not the way Bucky said it.

This was deeper. Thicker. Ruined by years of disuse and blood. It came out bent, almost reverent. And under it—Russian. A string of words you half-recognized from old briefings, tangled in guttural consonants and harsh vowels.

“Моя…” he rasped. Mine.

You swallowed hard.

Behind you, a groan echoed. Steve—alive, stirring—but the moment you turned your head toward him, the Soldier reacted.

Fast.

The grip on your wrist tightened, just enough to warn. Then the vibranium arm wrapped around your waist, yanking you flush against a chest that felt carved from stone. You gasped, and that was all it took for him to bury his face in your neck like a dog scenting home.

He growled. A low, deep vibration in his throat that wasn’t angry. No—this was something else.

Possessive. Instinctual. Animal.

“Он не может прикасаться к тебе,” he muttered, each syllable hot against your skin. “Никто не может.”

He can’t touch you. No one can.

Your knees nearly gave out.

“Soldat…” you said gently, your fingers hovering near his arm, not daring to push or pull. “You know me?”

He didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, he reached for your hand and placed it over his chest—flesh, not metal. The thrum of his heart was wild beneath your palm. His eyes were closed, brows drawn in something like pain. Like just having you there was the only thing keeping the seams of his mind from tearing open.

He pressed your hand tighter. Lips grazed your ear. “Ты за меня,” he murmured. You’re mine.

You should’ve pulled away.

You didn’t.

Not when his nose skimmed your jaw. Not when his hands—both of them—slid around your waist like he was trying to mold your body into his. Not when Tony’s voice barked orders through the comms and Natasha hissed “Stand down, don’t provoke him” from somewhere down the hall.

Because he was calm.

With you.

Only with you.

You turned your head slightly, voice trembling. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip eased—not much, just enough to exhale. His forehead dropped to yours. That metal arm trembled against your back, splayed out wide like he was anchoring himself to you, not holding you in place.

“Stay,” he breathed, barely above a whisper.

And you did.

You didn’t move when the others approached. You didn’t flinch when Natasha called out your name cautiously, gun drawn low at her side. You didn’t even blink when Steve coughed blood into his hand and muttered, “Damn… he’s never thrown me like that before.”

You just stood there.

In his arms.

Letting him touch you like the world might end if he didn’t.

The first day was manageable.

Mostly because no one tried to take you from him.

After Steve regained consciousness and confirmed nothing was broken—just bruised pride and a dented rib—he gave you a look. Not an order. Not concern, even. Just a soft flicker of understanding.

If anyone could recognize the signs of a lost man clinging to a lifeline, it was Steve.

The others weren’t as calm.

Tony threw up at least four privacy alerts when the Soldat followed you into the showers outside med bay. Stark tech pinged off the motion sensors like it was Christmas. You had to stand there, soaked in steam and dripping shampoo, while a very large, very naked Russian shadow waited just outside the glass with a knife in his hand. He didn’t peek. Didn’t push. He just stood there—shoulders tense, like he was bracing for war.

He didn’t sleep. Not the first night. Not really.

You let him sit on the edge of your bed, shirtless and wide-eyed, staring at the dark like it might eat him. Every hour or so, he would lean down and brush his fingers over your skin—your neck, your hip, the soft inside of your arm—as if checking to make sure you were still there.

By the second day, the entire compound was on edge because he never left your side.

Literally. Ever.

You woke up with his leg thrown over your hips. Ate breakfast with his hand gripping your thigh under the table. Tried to go to the gym and nearly caused a diplomatic incident when Sam made the mistake of offering you a water bottle.

You saw it in Sam’s eyes the moment he realized.

Too late.

The Soldat moved faster than any of them could react.

He was on Sam like a thunderclap—barely touched him, just shoved him back hard enough to crack a mirror on the wall behind the treadmill, but it was enough. Sam’s head bounced off the floor. He blinked up at the ceiling like he’d been tackled by a damn grizzly bear.

“Soldat!” you barked, voice sharp. “Нет.”

No.

That made him stop.

Instantly.

He looked at you like a scolded dog, chest heaving, eyes too wide.

Then—just to make sure the message stuck—you crossed the floor, took the water from Sam’s hand, and placed it deliberately in your own.

His shoulders relaxed.

The next morning, the team tried a new approach.

It didn’t work.

“Okay,” Tony muttered, clapping his hands like he was directing a very tense off-Broadway disaster. “Let’s try something low-stakes. Cappuccino delivery. No sudden movements. No bodily contact. Just a beverage. Clint, you’re up.”

Clint raised an eyebrow from behind his oversized mug. “Why me?”

“Because you have the least threatening aura,” Natasha said dryly. “You’re like… a golden retriever with PTSD.”

He grunted. “Charming.”

You were sitting in the lounge, legs folded under you, reading. Or trying to. It was hard to concentrate with six-foot-two of Soviet-built tension draped over your side like a weighted blanket with a pulse. The Soldat had his head on your shoulder, arm slung across your waist, fingers idly tracing the hem of your shirt like it had personally wronged him.

Clint approached with caution.

“I come in peace,” he joked, voice soft. “Just thought you might want your usual. Cream, two sugars, no foam—”

The cup didn’t even make it halfway to you.

A low growl vibrated against your ribs before you even registered movement. The Soldat’s hand shot out, not for Clint, but for the cup itself. He snatched it from Clint’s hand and snarled something dark and rapid in Russian.

Clint blinked. “Okay… you’re welcome?”

The Soldier turned, and—with startling gentleness—offered the coffee to you.

Held it to your lips.

Watched you drink it.

Only once you took a sip and nodded your thanks did he settle again, tucking his face into your neck like a magnet finding its pole.

Clint backed away slowly, mouthing what the actual fuck to Natasha, who looked like she was two seconds from laughing herself into a hernia.

You sighed.

“Stop laughing,” you muttered. “It’s not funny.”

Natasha sipped her tea, deadpan. “He just growled ‘I will gut you like the pig you are’ over a latte. It’s a little funny.”

You shot her a look. “You translated that?”

“I did,” she smirked. “Also, he called you zolotse.”

Your stomach twisted.

Golden one.

Jesus.

By the third day, he still hadn’t let go of you.

Not really.

He slept with his body wrapped around yours like armor. Stood behind you in the kitchen, hands on your hips, jaw hovering just above your shoulder. Shadowed every step like you were being hunted. And maybe, in some cracked corner of his mind, you were.

Only this time, he was the weapon. And the shield.

“Ostavat’sya ryadom,” he muttered one morning, fingers ghosting under the hem of your shirt as you reached for coffee. “Ne ukhodi.”

Stay close. Don’t go.

His breath hit the back of your neck. Not hot. Not cold. Just… present.

You didn’t answer.

Your hand found his over your stomach and held it there, a silent promise. He let out a low hum, barely audible, and dipped his head enough for his lips to brush your spine. Barely-there contact. More prayer than kiss.

Later, you sat on the couch beside him, legs pulled up under you. You were pretending to read. He was pretending not to watch your throat move when you swallowed.

His fingers crept over the cushion inch by inch. Slow, methodical, until they reached your wrist. He didn’t take it—he cradled it. Held it like it was a live wire and he wanted to burn. Then he laid your palm flat over his heart and whispered, “Tebe nado znat’. Ty moya.”

You need to know. You’re mine.

You didn’t flinch.

You should’ve flinched.

But instead, your thumb moved on its own—dragged softly over the line of his collarbone. Just once. Testing. Curious.

His mouth parted. His eyes fluttered closed like he was savoring it. When you shifted, adjusting your seat, your knee brushed his thigh.

He growled.

Low. Quiet. Like a warning from somewhere deep and ancient. His metal hand found your waist, tightening. Then loosening again, fast—like he regretted the strength, like he couldn’t trust himself not to crush what he craved.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said quietly, switching to Russian. “Ya zdes’, Soldat.”

I’m here.

His eyes snapped open. Not wide. Not startled. Something else. Reverence. The slow, dangerous curl of something not quite Bucky and not quite beast, either. Something that understood the words you hadn’t been saying out loud.

That you liked it.

Liked him.

Because you did.

You liked the way he breathed easier when your skin touched his. The way he sought your throat—not to silence, but to anchor. You liked the roughness in his voice, the way he said your name like it hurt.

And you liked how he didn’t ask.

Because no one ever asked him, either.

That night, curled together in your bed again, he brushed your hair aside and pressed a kiss to the corner of your jaw.

“Ty ne dumaesh’, chto eto greshno, da?”

You don’t think this is a sin, do you?

You turned your head toward him slowly. “What?”

He blinked. Swallowed. Hesitated. Then, so softly you almost missed it, “Chuvstvovat’ eto. Zhelat’ tebya.”

To feel this. To want you.

Your chest ached.

You turned fully into him, laid your palm against his cheek.

“No,” you whispered. “It’s not.”

He leaned into the touch like it was sunlight. Then pulled you tight—tighter than ever—and didn’t let go for the rest of the night.

It started with the collarbone.

The next night, he found you on the couch, knees drawn to your chest, hair still damp from the shower. You’d fallen asleep like that once—head against the armrest, blanket slipping off your shoulders. This time, you weren’t asleep. But you didn’t move when you felt him kneel behind you, his body heat blooming against your back like a second skin.

The hand on your hip was steady.

But the mouth at your neck was shaking.

He breathed in deep, like he was trying to memorize you. Then his lips brushed your collarbone. Once. Again. A third time, slower.

When he didn’t pull back, you whispered, “Soldat…”

He groaned—God, that sound—low and raw and wrecked. His hand slid beneath your sweatshirt, tracing the curve of your waist, his knuckles brushing the underside of your ribs.

“Vsyo vo mne tyanetsya k tebe.”

Everything in me reaches for you.

You turned to face him.

His eyes burned.

You’d seen fire before—explosions, battlefield rage, even Bucky’s anger when it bubbled over—but this wasn’t that. This was something ancient. Elemental. A man forged in a lab, bloodied by decades of chains, and now kneeling in front of you like a sinner asking permission to worship.

You gave it to him.

He kissed your knee first.

Then your thigh.

His hands slid down your calves, then up again, calloused fingertips mapping muscle and bone like he needed to memorize the topography of your body in case you vanished. His eyes never left yours.

And then he whispered, “Moi grekh. Moy ogon’. Moy.”

My sin. My fire. Mine.

Your breath hitched.

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to your stomach, both hands gripping your hips like you’d drift away if he didn’t hold tight. His mouth moved against your skin, warm and insistent.

You didn’t understand every word—his accent thick, the consonants swallowed—but you knew the shape of them. The shape of him. And it scared you, how much you wanted to be devoured by it.

“You don’t have to ask,” you murmured.

His head lifted.

Brows furrowed. Mouth parted. A beat passed—then his hands slid higher, under your shirt, palms against your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts but not taking.

Waiting.

Testing.

When you arched toward him—barely—he exhaled like you’d just saved him.

Then his lips moved again.

Up your sternum. The center of your throat. The underside of your jaw.

“Tebe nravitsya eto,” he growled.

You like this.

You nodded.

He laughed—short, quiet, almost disbelieving. Then he pulled you off the couch like you weighed nothing, sat you in his lap, straddling his thighs. Your hands braced on his shoulders, his mouth dragging over the column of your throat again and again.

Then lower.

“Kazhdyi vzdokh, kazhdaya myshcha—oni vse tvoyi,” he murmured against your skin.

Every breath, every muscle—they’re all yours.

Your hands tightened in his hair.

His metal hand slid up your spine, under your shirt, not cold at all—just heavy, grounding. He tilted your head back with the barest pressure of two fingers under your chin, and kissed your throat like he meant to brand it.

And then, softly, darkly, into the hollow beneath your ear, “Ty sozdan dlya togo, chtoby ya tebya slomal.”

You were made for me to break.

Your breath caught.

But you didn’t pull away.

You pressed your mouth to his temple, lips trembling, and whispered right back, “Then break me.”

His whole body went still.

Then he surged up and kissed you—not gently, not sweet. Devouring. His hands locked around your thighs, dragging you tighter into his lap, hips shifting like he couldn’t help it, like his body didn’t know the difference between worship and hunger anymore.

You gasped, and he swallowed it whole.

Mine, the kiss said.

Yours, your hands replied.

And when he groaned your name like it was the only word he still remembered how to say in English—

You let him.

You weren’t sure who moved first.

Maybe it was you—fingers curling into his shirt, hips rocking forward in that breathless, thoughtless way that said yes without needing words. Or maybe it was him—grabbing your ass in both hands like he meant to leave permanent fingerprints and grinding you down against the thick, solid line of him through his sweats.

But once it started, there was no stopping it.

You moaned into his mouth and he growled, deep and low, like it clawed up from the pit of his stomach. His teeth scraped your bottom lip—not enough to hurt, just enough to make your spine arch—and then his mouth was at your throat again, worshipping, biting, breathing filth into your skin in a language that sounded like fire.

“Ty mozhesh’ krichat’. Nikto ne pridet.”

You can scream. No one will come.

You should have shivered. And you did—but not from fear.

He lifted you like you weighed nothing, twisting your body so your back hit the cushions. He knelt over you, breathing ragged, sweat clinging to his collarbone. His hair had fallen into his face, strands sticking to his cheek as his eyes devoured you, possessive and ravenous and starved.

You reached for him, but he caught your wrists—held them above your head, pinned with one hand.

The flesh one.

“Soldat,” you gasped, trying to find something solid in the whirlwind of heat and want and the ache that had been building for weeks.

He leaned in. Pressed his body flush to yours. Ground his hips hard enough to make your eyes slam shut.

Then he said it.

“Mine.”

One word. Not a whisper. Not a plea.

A claim.

Your eyes opened—just in time to see the flicker of something darker, wilder, take root in his expression. His metal hand snaked up, wrapping around your throat, squeezing lightly. Not enough to hurt. But enough to mark his claim.

“Tol’ko moya. Ne ego.”

Only mine. Not his.

Your breath caught. “Bucky?”

His mouth twisted, just slightly. Not angry—jealous. Possessive. “On smotrit na tebya, no on ne znaet, kak ty zvuchish’ kogda ty lomaesh’sya.”

He looks at you, but he doesn’t know how you sound when you break.

The words hit like a punch.

Your thighs clenched. His hips rolled.

And then he kissed you again—harder, filthier, tongue sweeping deep as he shoved your shirt up, teeth dragging over every new inch of skin like he wanted to memorize the taste of every heartbeat. His mouth wrapped around your nipple, sucking so sharply you cried out, back arching clean off the couch.

He smiled against your skin. Not sweet.

Triumphant.

“Da, krasivaya,” he rasped. “Takaya goryachaya dlya menya.”

Yes, beautiful. So hot for me.

He let go of your wrists just long enough to yank your shorts down your legs, dragging them past your ankles and flinging them somewhere over the back of the couch. You barely registered it before he was between your thighs, spreading you open like he had every right.

And then—his mouth.

Oh, fuck—his mouth.

He didn’t tease.

Didn’t ask.

He took.

Tongue hot and sure and relentless, like he meant to ruin you from the inside out. Your hands flew to his hair, fingers twisting tight, and he moaned against you—fuck, he liked that. Liked the feel of you breaking apart on his tongue, squirming and gasping and grinding against his mouth like nothing else existed.

And when you came—loud, shaking, his name in Russian and English and maybe something wordless—he didn’t stop.

He groaned like a man dying and dragged his tongue up your stomach, chest, throat. Pressed two thick fingers inside you and kissed you while you were still pulsing around them.

“Ya uslyshal tebya,” he whispered.

I heard you.

You barely had time to recover before he was shoving his sweats down, cock flushed and thick and angry, already leaking at the tip. He didn’t give you time to brace.

He just grabbed your hips and slid in. All the way.

You cried out, head falling back, walls stretching around him as he groaned something guttural and filthy that sounded like thank you and fuck yes and mine mine mine.

He didn’t move at first.

Just held you there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking like this meant something.

Then, slowly, he started to thrust. Deep. Deliberate. Claiming. And with every snap of his hips, every growled curse against your throat, he whispered it again:

“Moya.”

Mine.

“Ne ego.”

Not his.

“Nikogda ne budesh’ ego.”

You’ll never be his.

And when you shattered again—his metal hand wrapped around your throat, your legs locked around his waist—he kissed your pulse and whispered “vsegda,” like a promise.

Forever.

You woke up cold.

The room was quiet—too quiet. No rough breath at your ear. No calloused hands at your waist. No heavy weight pinning you down like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

Just silence.

And space.

Your hand reached out on instinct, palm sweeping the couch cushion where his body had been hours before. Still warm. Barely.

But empty.

Your throat felt tight.

You sat up slowly, body sore in places that made your breath catch. The ache between your thighs was deep—sated and swollen and unmistakably real. Marks bloomed across your neck and chest like bruised petals. His fingerprints. His mouth.

The memory came back in flashes.

His voice, low and raw: Mine. Not his.

The burn of his thrusts, the taste of him on your tongue, the way his eyes had locked on yours like he could see into places no one else ever touched.

And now—

Nothing.

The blanket had been draped over you carefully. Like an afterthought. Like a thank-you. Or a goodbye.

You tried not to panic.

Maybe he was in the kitchen.

Maybe he needed air.

Maybe—

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” your voice cracked.

“Yes, Agent?”

“Where is he?”

A pause. Just long enough to twist the knife.

“Sergeant Barnes returned to his quarters at 03:17. Medical scans confirm the Winter Soldier protocol has fully deactivated. He is currently logged into the gym.”

Returned. Logged in.

Bucky.

Not the Soldier.

Not the man who’d touched you like a starving animal and whispered forever into your throat.

Just Bucky.

And he was pretending like it didn’t happen.

Your fingers curled around the edge of the blanket. Tight. Tighter. Like maybe you could crush the memory of it between your palms.

He left.

No note. No message. No explanation. Just gone.

Like you were something he used. Something the Soldier needed—not Bucky. Not the man you’d argued with in debriefings and sparred with until bruises bloomed like declarations across your ribs.

Your mouth was dry. Your stomach twisted.

You dressed in silence.

Moved through the compound like a ghost. Past Wanda and Vision in the hallway. Past Tony muttering about broken training bots. No one looked at you twice.

Except Natasha.

She caught your arm just before you reached the elevator.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low. Her eyes flicked to your throat. “That a hickey or a war wound?”

You didn’t answer. Just looked away and the silence told her everything.

Her mouth twitched. Not a smirk. Not a laugh. Something closer to pity. “He remembers,” she said after a beat.

You blinked. “What?”

“Don’t let him lie to you,” she added, stepping back. “Even when he’s pretending not to speak the language… he remembers.”

The elevator doors slid open. You stepped inside. Alone.

And as the doors closed, the ache behind your ribs bloomed wide and sharp.

Because if he remembered—

And still left—

Then this wasn’t about the Soldier at all.

It was about you.

And the truth was simple. He didn’t want you.

The letter wasn’t planned. It just… happened.

You’d meant to sit down and breathe. Maybe go over a mission brief. Maybe sharpen your knives. Something tactile. Something that didn’t feel like him.

But the pen found your hand before you could think better of it.

You didn’t even use your laptop.

You wrote.

Paper. Ink. No spellcheck. No backspace. No armor.

I don’t know how to start this. I’ve written and torn up three versions already, and this one probably won’t be any better. But I need to say something—because silence is starting to feel worse than whatever the truth might be. I know it wasn’t you that night. Not exactly. But it wasn’t just the Soldier, either. I felt you in it—in the way he held me, in the way he looked at me. In the way he knew me. I can’t stop thinking about it. And I don’t regret it. That’s what terrifies me. I wanted it. I let it happen. I said yes—again and again—because I’ve wanted you for so long I don’t remember when it started. But now I can’t stop thinking… what if you didn’t? What if I took something from you you wouldn’t have given? What if that night was just a trigger response, and I was the one thing he fixated on to feel safe? What if I crossed a line? I never wanted that. I swear I didn’t. Maybe I should’ve stopped it. Maybe I should’ve said something, pushed you away, waited for you to come back instead of letting myself fall into him like he was the only version of you I could finally touch. But he touched me like he knew every part of me. And I let him. Because I wanted it to be real. Because I wanted you. And maybe that’s the most selfish part of all. So if you don’t remember… If it was all the Soldier, and you’ve been avoiding me because I crossed a boundary—just tell me. Or don’t. I won’t bother you again. But please—if you do remember… If any part of you wanted it… even just for a second… Please just look at me. Just once. Because the worst part isn’t the silence. It’s not knowing if I hurt you. Or if I imagined all of it.

You never got a response.

Not a glance. Not a knock. Not a note slipped under your door in return.

Just silence.

Weeks of it.

You saw him in passing—at briefings, in the gym, at meals when the team didn’t have the energy to pretend nothing was fractured—but he never looked your way. Never spoke. Not even the usual clipped sarcasm or narrowed-eyed banter. It was like you were invisible.

Like it hadn’t happened at all.

So eventually, you did what people do when they’re drowning.

You stopped waiting for rescue.

You clawed your way toward the surface and told yourself to breathe, even if it hurt like hell.

“—it’s just drinks,” you said, tone light. Too light.

Steve raised a brow, slumping onto the bench beside you in the training room. “You? Going on a date?”

“Why does everyone sound so surprised?” you snorted, sipping from your water bottle. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not married to my job. Or my rage.”

He smiled, small and knowing. “Who is he?”

“Mutual friend of Sharon’s,” you said with a shrug. “Nice. Smart. Normal.” Then, quieter, you added, “I could use some normal.”

You meant it.

You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you. Didn’t feel the weight in the air change.

But Steve did. His jaw tensed.

And before you could ask what was wrong—

The bottle was ripped from your hand.

You froze.

Slowly, you turned.

He stood over you like a thundercloud—barefoot, shirtless, eyes black.

Not dark. Not angry.

Gone.

The Winter Soldier looked down at you like you’d just broken something sacred. And then, without a word, he dropped the bottle to the floor. It clattered, rolled, and stilled at Steve’s boot.

“Ukhodite,” he growled, low and flat.

Leave.

Steve didn’t argue. He just stood—slow and careful—and backed out the door without another word.

“Bucky?” You stared up at him, pulse climbing.

His hand shot out. Not to strike.

To claim.

A fist in your shirt, yanking you upright and into him, your chest crashing against his. His other hand slid around the back of your neck, metal fingers curling tight. Not painful—possessive.

You sucked in a breath. “It was just a drink.”

“Nyet.”

No.

The word punched through the air like a bullet. He was breathing hard now, jaw clenched, eyes locked on your mouth like he was daring it to say the name of another man.

“Nikto ne budet kasat’sya tebya.”

No one will touch you.

Your heart skipped.

“Bucky, I didn’t mean to—”

He slammed you back against the wall.

Hard.

Not cruel. Desperate.

The hand at your neck tightened—not choking. Just holding. Anchoring.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t push him away.

His lips crashed into yours like a snarl—wet and bruising, teeth scraping, tongue unforgiving. He kissed you like he was erasing the idea of someone else. The idea that you could belong to anyone but him.

And you kissed him back.

Because you’d waited weeks for this—for something. Anger, desire, pain—anything was better than being invisible.

He pulled back just enough to speak.

“Moya.”

Mine.

You swallowed. “You didn’t read the letter.”

His brow furrowed. Then he reached into his waistband and pulled out a slip of paper—worn, folded.

Your handwriting.

Your letter.

He’d been carrying it the whole time.

Your breath hitched. “I thought—” you started.

But he silenced you with a rough press of his mouth to your cheek, his throat, your lips again. The kind of kiss that said stop talking. The kind that said you’re not going anywhere.

And you weren’t.

Because when he growled “Poslednyaya noch’. Ty moya,”

Last night. You’re mine.

—you understood. You wouldn’t be alone again. Not tonight.

You didn’t get a chance to answer. Not that he was waiting for one.

His grip shifted—hands sliding to your thighs, then lifting you like it was nothing, like you weighed less than air. Your legs wrapped around him instinctively as your back hit the hallway wall, a gasp caught in your throat.

“Ty ne idesh’ na etu yebanuyu svidaniyu,” he snarled against your mouth.

You’re not going on that fucking date.

You whimpered as his teeth scraped your jaw. “Wasn’t going to.”

“Lzhets.”

Liar.

He slammed his hips forward, grinding into you through your jeans, hard and mean and perfect. The friction made your head fall back, nails clawing at his shoulders as he kissed down your throat like he hated every inch of skin that wasn’t already marked by him.

“Tell me,” he growled, voice shredded. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You shivered. “I am. I’ve been—!”

He growled, low and wrecked, and turned away from the wall. Carried you down the corridor like a man possessed. You didn’t ask where he was taking you. You already knew.

His room.

Not yours. Not the couch.

His.

The door slammed shut behind him with a kick.

You were dropped onto the bed a second later, breath punched from your lungs as he tore his shirt off—wild, brutal—and you saw it again. The scars. The history carved into his chest like a map of pain. And the look in his eyes—blacker than pitch, hungrier than before.

Like he’d spent every sleepless night since that couch moment starving for you.

You barely sat up before he was on you—mouth on your neck, then lower, hands fumbling with your clothes like they were a problem to solve.

“Razdevaysya. Seychas.”

Undress. Now.

You didn’t hesitate. Clothes hit the floor fast. Shirt, bra, jeans—gone. Your skin was flushed, breathing uneven, but he didn’t pause. Didn’t blink. Just stood there watching you like you were the last goddamn thing on earth he was allowed to want.

Then he dropped to his knees.

You gasped as his metal hand spread your thighs wide, cool fingers pressing into your skin, grounding you. His mouth hovered just inches from where you needed him most. Close enough to feel the heat of his breath.

“Vot gde tebe nuzhno byt’,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Zdes’. Podo mnoy. Vsegda.”

This is where you belong. Here. Beneath me. Always.

Then his tongue was on you—slow, deliberate. A single, devastating stroke that made your hips jump.

“Takaya chistaya,” he breathed. “Takaya sladkaya.”

So pure. So sweet.

You cried out, one hand tangling in his hair as the other clutched the sheets. He didn’t rush. Didn’t devour like before. No—this was slow destruction.

He licked you with intention, like he had something to prove. Like he wanted to burn every other man from your memory with just his mouth.

And he was winning.

Your thighs trembled. Your back arched. You gasped his name—Bucky, Soldat, God, please—and still, he kept you right there, on the edge, until your vision went white and your body shook.

But he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

He crawled up your body—slick mouth kissing your stomach, your ribs, your throat—until you were pinned beneath him. Your legs spread, your chest heaving, your mouth parted.

And his cock—hard and flushed and already leaking—pressed against your slick folds without pushing in.

“Beg me,” he rasped, lips at your ear.

You whimpered.

“Beg menya voyt’ v tebya.”

Beg me to get inside you.

Your nails dug into his back. “Please,” you gasped. “I need it—I need you.”

He grunted—satisfied—and slammed in with a single, brutal thrust. You cried out, back bowing as he filled you, stretched you, ruined you all over again. But this time, he didn’t fuck like the Soldier. He fucked like the man who’d read your letter a hundred times. Like the man who couldn’t bear to look at you because wanting you scared him more than death.

And he held your hand while he did it. Laced his fingers with yours and held on.

“Ty ne moya igrushka,” he whispered raggedly. “Ty moya zhizn’. Moya krov’. Moya bol’.”

You’re not my toy. You’re my life. My blood. My pain.

You were already coming again, trembling under him, breathless and soaked and wrecked, when he buried his face in your neck and growled— “Mine. Not his. Never his.”

Your whole body locked up, pleasure ripping through you like lightning, and still he moved, grinding through your orgasm until he shattered with a broken curse, hips stuttering, burying himself so deep you swore he touched something permanent.

He didn’t pull out. Didn’t move. Just collapsed against you, breathing hard, arms locked tight around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.

He didn’t speak again and neither did you. You just held him as he finally came down, sweat cooling between your bodies, your hand stroking his hair.

This was the truth.

Not silence.

Not avoidance.

This.

You woke up to warm skin and steady breath.

A chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, slow and even. An arm—flesh, not metal—curled tight around your waist. Fingers tangled in your hair like he hadn’t let go all night.

No cold sweat. No empty bed. No echoing silence.

Just Bucky.

Not the Soldier.

You didn’t move at first. Didn’t want to.

Because something about the way he held you—anchored you—felt more intimate than anything he’d done the night before. Like he wasn’t guarding you. Like he wasn’t claiming you. Like he just needed you.

His thumb stroked lazily over your hipbone. A small, unconscious gesture. So normal. So human. You let out a slow breath and pressed your lips to the center of his chest. Just a light kiss, nothing more.

He stirred.

And for a second, your heart stopped.

Because you were bracing for it—the shift. The pull-away. The panic. The coldness you’d lived with for weeks.

But then his hand tightened on your back and he whispered, voice hoarse and sleep-warm, “…you stayed.”

You blinked up at him.

His eyes were open. Blue again. Not black. Not empty. Just Bucky.

And he was looking at you.

Really looking.

You nodded. “So did you.”

A pause.

Then—so soft it broke something in your chest, he confessed, “I read your letter.”

Your lips parted. “You had it with you—”

“Everywhere,” he said, cutting you off. “I kept it in my pocket. Every day. I just… couldn’t face you.”

You swallowed hard. “Why?”

“Because I remembered,” he whispered. “All of it.”

Your chest clenched. “And you didn’t want it?”

“No,” he said quickly, voice rough. “No, I did. God, I did. That’s what scared me.”

His fingers drifted to your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “I’ve never wanted something like that. Not just the sex—the you. The us. I thought if I pushed it away, it’d die.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Bad news, Barnes. It didn’t.”

His smile was crooked. Small. But real. He leaned in and kissed you—gentle this time. Reverent. Like thanks. Like sorry. Like mine without the growl.

When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“I’m here,” he said.

And this time, he didn’t leave.

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ldr-sl0t · 12 days ago

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ᴄᴏʙʀᴀ ᴋᴀɪ ᴅᴀᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ (ᴄᴏʙʀᴀ ᴋᴀɪ ʙᴏʏꜱ)

ᴍɪɢᴜᴇʟ ᴅɪᴀᴢ:

->You two are in the same dojos no matter what. When he was in Cobra Kai, you were too. When he switched dojos, you did too.

->You two started dating during season 3.

->He fell first (after the FIRST Sam break up) but you fell harder. ->If you do karate, you two would train together. He doesn't like training with you because he's so scared that he'll hurt you.

->He was so awkward when it came to PDA. He didn't wanna weird you out. He would always ask you if it was okay to hug you or kiss you. Even asked if he could hold your hand.

->You're parents love him soo muchhhh. When he comes over, he'll help out with housework and is overall a gentleman.

->Jealousy levels: 8/10. OH HE IS A JEALOUS MAN. If he thinks that you are getting too comfortable with a guy (or girl), he'll go insane. He wouldn't admit it but his whole mood would change from happy to angry

-> If you speak another language, he'll try to learn it!!

-> His love language is acts of service and physical touch fs (He would gift you smth but bros broke asf) ʀᴏʙʙʏ ᴋᴇᴇɴᴇ:

->You two started dating when he broke up with Sam.

->He doesn't encourage you to do karate because of what happened to him and Miguel but he'll teach you the basics so you can defend yourself.

->He can't cook at all but he'll try to. (yk that one meme where a little girl is standing outside smiling as her house is burning... That's Robby)

->BIG PDA MAN!! Hands around your waist at all times, forehead kisses, and long hugs are a must!! (I want him broo)

->Oh his jealousy levels are high high... 9.5/10 Like it's not like you can't talk to other people but if you two are getting too comfortable with each other.. (el es toxicooo pero lo amamos<3)

->ROBBY DEF TEACHES YOU HOW TO SKATE!! But even allat training, you still can't do an ollie 💀💀💀.

->You visited him during his juvenile times BUT he lowk was a bitch and didn't want to see you because he needed "space"...

->yall made up dw

ᴇʟɪ ᴍᴏꜱᴏɪᴡɪᴢ:

-> This one is for you @yippeeyoppee (you'll get ur kon fanfic when I finish it)

->Moon didn't understand him but you did. You've been there for him before he even became "Hawk", when he was just "the kid with the weird lip"

-> When he was still a nerd: You would always tell him that his lip looks badass (it does idk why ppl hatin) and comfort him when people try to bully him.

->He liked you for a long time but just didn't know how to express it because he thought that YOU THOUGHT HE WAS LAMEEE

-> we all know that Eli is still secretly a nerd... He would definitely make nerdy references from time to time.

->He got a tattoo of your favorite thing on his wrist so he can be reminded of you when he's feeling down.

->Karate is a big no. He's not going to stop you from doing karate but he really doesn't want you to do karate. He's too scared to see you get hurt like Miguel did.

->Jealousy levels are 100/10...Hands around your waist while talking to someone he doesn't know that well. Begging you to leave and stop talking to Robby (when they were beefing). He would probably talk to other girls to get you jealous in order to get you to stop talking to other guys (TOXICOO)

->His love language is physical touch, words of affirmation, and acts of service.

ᴅᴇᴍᴇᴛʀɪ ᴀʟᴇxᴏᴘᴏᴜʟᴏꜱ:

(ima go crazy on this one)

->You're his first girlfriend (maybe first time 😝)

->Rambles about his nerd shit to you every time

-> Gives you cringy ass nicknames fsfs

->Not a big fan of physical touch. Favors quality time more.

->You bought him one Marvel comic once and he went crazy! Like non-stop "thank you"s and "I love you"s

->Super open on you getting into karate. Thinks that you guys can train together like superheroes

-> Bought matching costumes/cosplays for Halloween.

->Jealousy levels 6/10: He easily gets jealous but calms down because he doesn't want to be so controlling. He doesn't want you to feel like you can't be friends with guys.

-> When it does come to PDA- like Miguel, he asks before he touches you (that sounded weird I'm sorry). His palms get really sweaty every time he holds your hand but you don't care.

->You used to have a big crush on Hawk before liking Demetri but when Demetri got his arm broken, you quickly realized how much of a jerk Hawk was. With a lot of quality time with Demetri, you slowly fell for him.

a/n: Flare (@miguelnation) suggested that I should write a !baristia Demetri x Reader.... it's in the works (trust) Also I'm debating if I should like yk write a kinktober fanfic but ill make a poll for that 😭

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ldr-sl0t · 17 days ago

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Vampire kisser but no vampires to kiss </3

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ldr-sl0t · 1 month ago

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ldr-sl0t · 1 month ago

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husband.

@buckyblogs

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ldr-sl0t · 1 month ago

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ldr-sl0t · 2 months ago

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Can you make a 5th part of p links

HOW MANY DO YOU GUYS WANT!!! sos.. okay here

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

⋆ ˚°✩ ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ... ╰┈➤ 𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚙 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 (𝚙𝚝. 𝟻) 𖤐.ᐟ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: must be signed into twitter to view these links ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ !!

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 & Part 4

✰ bucky giving you a reward after a mission and worshipping you.

✰ sucking bucky's fingers when he's busy doing work but still wants to pay you attention.

✰ teasing subby!bucky by riding him after a rough mission.

✰ morning sex with thunderbolts*!bucky before he goes to the watchtower

✰ bucky using his metal arm on you after he saw you staring at it for a bit too long.

✰ size kink with bucky

✰ 1940s!bucky sucking on your tits when he's feeling needy and subby.

✰ bucky just needs to eat you out as a stress reliever sometimes.

✰ bucky loves to hold your hair when you're giving him head.

✰ sometimes bucky is gentle, sometimes.

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ldr-sl0t · 2 months ago

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The Winter Soldier

CREDIT: @mrsbarnes32557038 on tiktok, she created it, just thought I would extend it and share with you guys!

c.ai link: https://share.character.ai/Wv9R/io3d3suy

Summary: You wake up and your boyfriend, Bucky, isn't in bed. You get up to find him and sleepily stumble upon the Winter Soldier.

Word count: 806

You woke up shivering, hearing a loud commotion down the hall. You reach for your blanket but realize it has been kicked down to the end of the bed. You roll over to face your boyfriend, Bucky, only to realize he isn't there.

You groaned and reached for your phone to look at the time. 6:12 am. It was a Wednesday, meaning you and Bucky didn't have training until 9 am, and he never left you in bed alone in the mornings, no matter how long before you he woke up.

You glanced at the door, seeing it was closed. If it was open, it meant Bucky was probably just up to go to the bathroom or get a drink or something, and would be back shortly. Because it was closed, you decided to get up to see what was going on.

You pulled yourself out of bed, grabbing the blanket and pulling it around your shoulders as you walked to the door, still shivering.

You padded down the hallway toward the common room, where you noticed Bucky standing off to the side, Tony, Steve, and Nat on the opposite end of the room from you guys.

What you didn't know was that Bucky had woken up from an extra bad nightmare and ran into Tony when he got up, who accidentally triggered him to be in Winter Soldier mode. It had only happened a few times before, and the others knew how to handle the situation. No sudden movements, don't get near him or touch him, and continue to talk to him until he snaps out of it. However, it had never happened with someone as close to him as you present.

You walked up just a few feet away from Bucky, rubbing your eyes. "What's goin' on Bucky?" you asked, cut off by a big yawn, "you okay?"

Tony, Steve, and Nat watched nervously, unsure how to intervene without triggering the Winter Soldier.

You took a couple steps closer to Bucky, rubbing your eyes, not noticing his demeanor yet. "Why's everybody so loud? I'm tryin'a sleep. Buck?"

You continue to approach Bucky with the others watching in horror, knowing what happens when Bucky is approached in this state. They want to step in to help, but don't want to make things worse with several people approaching the Winter Soldier.

You look up sleepily, confused why he's not answering you, and you're within arm's length now. You were grumpy because you were sleepy and cold, and Bucky had left you alone for no good reason, or so you thought.

You continued forward, finally wrapping your arms around Bucky and nuzzling into his chest. "Bucky? Why weren't you in bed? I'm cold now," you grumbled.

The other three tensed, waiting for the worst. They slowly creep up, planning to help if he attacks. But he doesn't.

Instead, Bucky pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you and petting your hair.

"Моя сонная снежинка. (My sleepy snowflake.)”

The moment you hear him speak Russian, you realize just who you're hugging.

You tense up, trying to remember what the others said to do in this situation, only to realize you already broken basically the only rules. Don't approach him and don't touch him.

You slowly look up, trying not to show the fear on your face.

You glace over at the others, who have moved closer now but look just as scared as you feel. You slowly look up at Bucky who is still stroking your hair and looking down at you.

"Uhhh, why don't we ... go back to bed," you said, not sure what else to do. You slowly step away from him and his arms go back down to his sides, eyes still on you. You slowly reach out and take his hand.

"C'mon," you said as you start walking back down the hall. He doesn't say anything, but follows you. You glance back over your shoulder at everyone else, but they aren't following you. Instead, they seem frozen in place, not sure what will happen.

When you reach your room, you lead him over to the bed, trying to figure out what to do next. You let go of his hand and face him, then slowly lift your hands to his shoulders, guiding him to sit on the bed.

He sits down, eyes never leaving you. You take the blanket from around your shoulders and set it back at the end of the bed.

"Lay down," you said, and he did as he was told. You took the blanket from the end of the bed and laid it over him, tucking it under his neck. "Now you can go back to sleep."

He stared at you for a moment longer, then whispered something before closing his eyes.

"спокойной ночи, моя принцесса (goodnight my princess)."

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ldr-sl0t · 2 months ago

Text

your void | bucky barnes x ex-blackwidow!reader

content warning: allusions to su*c*de, allegories to depression, death, blood, malnourishment, child abuse (don't read if this is sensitive material, take care of yourself <3) SPOILERS TO THUNDERBOLTS*

Includes: Heavy angst (I mean HEAVY), hurt/comfort, established relationship, bittersweet ending

words in bold are in russian

credit to @saradika-graphics for divider

It snuck up on you, that feeling you shoved deep down for so many years. It was cold, all consuming, and emptying—a feeling you were well accustomed to and learned to shove into the deepest concaves of your mind.

You felt it before you saw it, and when you did see it, you thought your eyes were playing tricks on you. It was the embodiment of all your nightmares and grievances, slowly reaching out like black ink soaking up the room in a void. Your void.

Your first instinct was to run, avoid it, hide from it.

But some part of you knew it was futile. That this darkness you somehow knew so well, would not stop until it ate up every single aspect of you.

So you grabbed your phone and dialed a number—Bucky’s number. You watched the darkness spread through the apartment you and Bucky shared, inching back into the next room as you listened to the ringing of his absence.

You hoped at the very least you’d hear his voice through voicemail. But you didn’t. Your phone went black and clattered to the ground as you splashed into nothing more but a shadow on the floor.

You awoke to your own reflection, but not the one you’ve come to know. It was devoid of the light you worked so hard on getting.

You remembered these mirrors. They surrounded you at every angle in the shape of a large cold room—a ballet studio. Bright fluorescent lights buzzed incessantly, all but the one hovering above you. You lingered in the dark alone.

“Hold it! You mustn’t falter even for a second.”

Instincts surged through your body as you whipped around, seeing two new figures in the room. You were so much younger with so much fear painted in your eyes. Your body shook and tears began to fall down your cheeks, terrified to drop from your position in fear of meeting the sharp edge of your instructor's blade. It was positioned right under your thigh, barely even grazing your skin.

“Your emotions are pathetic.”

You were only six.

“Your body is pathetic.”

You were malnourished.

“You are the weakest in your class, you will not survive long.”

You endured 24 more years in the Red Room.

A force possessed you, pushing your feet closer to the memory you’ve succeeded in evading for so long. You watched as your instructor lifted the blade at an angle, slashing and grazing your skin.

Younger-you might not have moved but you did. In a moment of impulse, you pushed between yourself and your instructor, shoving them away wordlessly with tears in your eyes.

In the seemingly endless numbers of times you’ve relived this dream, it never happened like this. It almost offered you a sense of justice.

Almost.

In just a blink, your instructor stood in front of you, charging now at you with their blade. You tried to fight but it was fruitless. Before you realized it, you were being shoved through the glass of the mirror and into cold, wet water.

You were drowning.

Some part of you wanted to.

How easy it would be to just let your body go limp, give into the darkness and just give up.

But it wasn’t that easy.

It was never that easy.

A force pushed you out of the water, shoving you into the memory of your surroundings. It was the woods you grew up in. The tiniest ounce of freedom restricted by the threat of death or any worse punishment.

You were on the shore of a lake whose image you yearned to forget.

A whistle blew, echoing through the forest and ringing forever in your ears. From the other end, you can see more figures, gathering around the two who just jumped in. The top of their class—you and Anya Petrov, a girl you’ve come to know well.

You began to run as you watched the two swim in competition to the other, chasing after a flag planted in the center.

“No!” Your voice was loud and raw, but no one turned to you. Everyone watched as the two neared closer, you clearly in the lead.

You didn’t know what you’d accomplish by running, but you never stopped until you saw yourself grab that flag and hold it high in the sky.

You knew what came next.

So you ran.

Into the freezing forest, ignoring the cold you’ve become accustomed to. But no matter how far you ran, you couldn’t escape the gun shot that deafened everything.

When you turned around, you saw younger-you, watching as Anya’s body floated limp in the water, surrounded by the scarlet hues of your success.

You were frozen to the place you stood, unable to move, barely able to breathe. You could only crumple to the ground as your knees gave in below you.

Maybe if you stayed still and gave up, it would all go away. You’d be at peace in the pain and learn to grow numb to it again. Maybe if you forgot the world, the world would forget you.

But it didn’t want to forget you. Not this world at least. The world crafted by your void.

The darkness of the shadows grew darker, larger. Like talons, it reached out for you, slowly but surely. At first you didn’t fight it, but when it grabbed you so harshly and began to drag you across the snow, you clawed for anything in your reach.

You should’ve learned by now that fighting the darkness didn’t do anything. Running from the darkness wouldn’t do anything. You were alone. You were never going to win. Maybe you never will.

No matter how hard you fought it, it still dragged you down into the hole at the trunk of a tree. Dragging you into another forgotten remnant of the past. One shoved down so deep, you barely recognized it at first glance.

It was a simple room.

No tests. No lakes. No mirrors. No knives. Just you and a box of files. A very large box of files.

You remembered this moment, the moment you wanted to forget the most. It was recent, only 2017. You were free now because of Yelena Belova. You could do whatever you want—breathe air, find a home, live a life that is your own.

But instead you were in your small newly acquired apartment with so many files. Files with your name on them.

Each one of them held at least a quarter dozen people. Women and men alike, no matter what age, they all had ‘Terminated’ written over their information in big red letters.

You tried to count how many were in the box. How many lives and how much blood was on your hands. But it was too much.

You lost count.

You watched over your own shoulder, numb as the pages flew by. You knew what was coming next, who was coming next.

The pages stopped on a woman. She was young and beautiful. A scientist and clearly very brilliant in her field. You watched as recognition sparked in your eyes.

The woman's eyes, her smile, even the crinkle in her nose. It mirrored yours perfectly. Like a reflection that only showed your sins.

You couldn’t bear to sit and wait for your reaction as the horror sank in. You left your side and found a door. Closing the door so gently, you let yourself slide down the door and onto the ground as the echoes of your sobs rattled the walls.

“No more,” you begged, plugging your ears. “Make it stop, please make it stop.”

The darkness never stops. It only fades.

You don’t know when it happened or how, but when you opened your eyes again, you were on the floor of you and Bucky’s apartment.

Your phone was ringing. With shaking hands, you reached for it.

“Hello?” Your voice felt like it should have been sore and raw, but it wasn’t.

“What the hell is going on?”

You had never been so thankful to hear the sound of Sam’s voice.

“I leave you and Bucky alone for one minute and suddenly there’s a black ink spreading across the whole city and something about The New Avengers.”

“...what are you talking about?”

“It’s all over the news.”

You hear Sam’s voice continue on through the phone, but it’s all static to you as you flip the TV back on, finding a news channel where Bucky stood next to Yelena and a few others you couldn’t focus enough on to recognize. You hadn’t even realized that Sam was calling your name.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

You heard him pause, taking a deep breath. “Are you okay?” His voice lost his aggression and demand, heavy in vulnerable worry.

You hated it. “I have to go.”

You don’t know how long you sat there, //watching// staring at the television. You were lost in your own mind and spiraling thoughts. You only felt afraid and numb and afraid of anything that came to interrupt the numbness.

Your fear ate at you, driving you to reach for your gun when you heard the jiggle of your door not—your gun that you no longer carried.

When the door finally burst open, it was like the white light at the end of a neverending, blackened tunnel. Bucky.

He spoke no words, only engulfing you in an embrace so tight. His left arm wrapped around your waist, the other finding solace in cradling your head so carefully.

“Thank god,” he uttered into your forehead, as he kissed it, grounding himself into you. “I didn’t know wh–I couldn’t tell.” He let out a final breath. “Thank god you're safe.”

You wished you could melt into his embrace like you always did. You wanted to as he held you so close, your hand finding his chest and feeling his steady heartbeat. But you couldn’t. Your body tensed uncontrollably. Just as it did so many years before. Something you had to unlearn with him. Something you relearned so easily.

You wanted to cry.

But no tears fell.

You could only let yourself be embraced by him and comfort him.

“Are you okay,” he asked eventually.

The two of you were in bed now, side by side on the edge after he explained the surreal events that unfolded in so few hours.

You smiled softly, your hand finding the turn of his jaw and cupping it. You prayed he couldn’t feel the way your fingers quivered. “As long as you’re here, I’m okay.”

You brought your lips to his, kissing him tenderly in hopes he didn’t see the lie streaking across your face.

You awoke, not with a startled gasp, but with silent tears in your eyes and the echoing screams of all the innocents haunting your dreams.

The feeling snuck up on you again. The cold, dark, hopelessness you faced today. But no dark void reached out of the shadows for you. It was only the void your mind created to punish and isolate you. It was working.

With a ragged sigh, you slipped past Bucky’s embrace, ashamed that you were selfish enough to leave him on a night he could finally find sleep in a bed instead of the floor.

You wanted nothing more than to climb into that bed with him, forget all of your worries and let them fade into his embrace. But the darkness didn’t work like that. Not to you.

It would only infect him.

You couldn’t do that. Not when he’s come so far.

So you excused the room and let yourself haunt the halls and stalk into the kitchen.

Your movements were numbing and monotonous. Like a routine. Open the cabinet. Grab a glass. Close the cabinet. Get water.

You don’t even remember doing these actions, only the empty taste of water on your lips.

You were content with staying in the room, letting the silence be just silence around you. But the silence grew loud. It screamed at you, called your name. Layering voices on top of another. The voice of your instructor, the voice of Anya, your mother, glass shattering.

You didn’t even realize you dropped your cup until the glass came splashing up at your legs. No matter how careful you were with the shards, it was useless. You only kept cutting yourself as you reached for the next and failed.

“Doll, stop it, stop it.”

You didn’t even realize you had woken him up. You didn’t want him to see you like this, a never ending flow of tears running down your cheeks as you now cried so openly. You had been vulnerable with Bucky before, but not like this. You let him in a little at a time, never all at once.

“I was doing so well. I sto-I stopped thinking about it, everything I’ve done. Every they–”

Your breathing became uncontrollable now, your voice scratched up and raw.

“I thought I was done James,” you finally released with a sob. “Why can’t I be done?”

All of the pain, the hurting, the anguish. It all came out in that moment with nowhere else to go. You shoved it down so much that it could only ever explode, taking you with it.

You expected the worst from Bucky. For him to grab you by the forearms and tell you to suck it up and push it back in. For him to leave you in your own shattered glass and close the door behind him. You didn’t expect him to take you in his arms.

His hold was different now. Gone was his tight, impossible squeeze. It was replaced with this, a hold so gentle yet firm. It was a hold that said he understood.

“There’s no such thing as done.” His words were slow, a mere whisper as he pieced them together meticulously. “You have to carry it. Forever. You can’t get rid of it, no matter how hard you try. No matter how deep you bury it. Your mind will always know what you try to hide.”

You felt the wet tears he shed falling onto you. You felt the dampness of his shirt as you clutched it, afraid he’d disappear. You felt it all as the two of you cried together.

“But…you don’t have to carry it alone. You never have to carry it alone. It may be your past, but it is not your burden to bear. But you need to open up. Let me in. ” Once more, your hand found his chest, sitting right over his heart as you felt the rhythm of his heart, reminding you not only that he was alive, but that he was here with you. You weren’t alone. Not anymore.

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ldr-sl0t · 2 months ago

Text

The 3 F (Fall, Filth, Fury)

summary: Sebastian is about to kill someone (lewis).

note: I DON'T KNOW WHO DO I LOVE MORE, BOB OR BUCKY.

They’d lined you all up on these unnecessarily tall director chairs, so your legs dangled awkwardly like kids waiting for their turn at the dentist.

You were squished—strategically, apparently—between Sebastian Stan, who smelled like expensive cologne and poor decision-making, and Lewis Pullman, who’d already whispered three mildly inappropriate jokes in your ear before the mic check even finished.

Florence Pugh was on the far end, next to Hannah, David, and Wyatt, who were all hyped up on caffeine and chaos. The movie wasn’t even out yet, and this interview was already off the rails.

“You comfy?” Lewis asked you, sotto voce.

“Not even a little,” you whispered back.

Sebastian shot a look between you, eyebrows raised like really? we’re whispering now?. His arm casually draped over the back of your chair—possessively, though he’d deny it.

“Okay, welcome!” the host chirped, flipping a cue card with theatrical flair. “We are here with the cast of The New Avengers, which drops later this year—and I have to say, you all seem dangerously close.”

Wyatt smiled, eyes dancing. “We’ve trauma-bonded.”

Florence leaned in with her signature grin. “Well, we were blowing up cities and insulting each other for over a year straight, so yeah. It was a blast.”

The first few questions were the usual fluff—how you trained, who pulled the most pranks (Florence, obviously), and how many times David cried during stunts (three and a half). Laughter rolled through the cast like a wave, everyone teasing, roasting, and occasionally pausing to sip water that no one needed but everyone held like a prop.

“So,” the interviewer began, already grinning like he knew the chaos was coming, “you all had some wild chemistry on set. Who, though, was the funniest person during filming?”

No hesitation. You looked dead at the host and said, “Lewis. heands down!”

Sebastian’s neck turned so fast you actually heard it crack. His face twisted into that wide-eyed “excuse me?” expression, lips slightly parted like you'd just declared your love for the IRS.

Lewis, meanwhile, slapped a hand to his chest in mock swoon. “Stop. You’ll make me blush.”

“She didn’t say you were cute,” Sebastian muttered under his breath. “She just said you were... kinda funny.”

“Painfully funny,” you clarified, your grin already wide.

You adjusted the mic in your hand and pointed toward Lewis. “Okay. So. Rooftop fight scene. Wind machine’s cranked so high I could’ve parasailed with one wrong step. I’m trying to look badass—y’know, fierce, focused, deadly—”

“Hot,” Sebastian added. Instantly. Like it slipped out.

Your mouth twitched. “Anyway. I go to step into this fight sequence, trip over a thick cable hidden under some fake rubble, and just—go airborne.”

“Like a graceful porn star mid-pirouette,” Lewis jumped in.

You snorted hard.

“No control,” he went on, eyes wide with mock reverence, “just flailing. Arms out like she’s about to accept Jesus—or dick—whichever came first.”

Florence howled, clutching her mic. David slid down in his seat, red-faced. Hannah was silently sobbing into a tissue.

Sebastian, meanwhile, blinked. Once. Twice. Lips pressed so tight they were practically white.

“And the sound—” Lewis clapped once. “—was like this wet, confused grunt. Just: ‘HUHHHnn-nff’—you know that sound when someone’s trying to be sexy but also might be vomiting?”

“She’s on the ground,” you chimed in, laughing so hard your mascara was threatening mutiny, “and Lewis crouches next to me and goes, in this dead serious voice—”

Lewis mimicked his own voice, low and documentary-deep. "My God… she falls not with grace, but with the energy of a woman who just got railed in a stairwell and forgot where the floor was.’”

You were gasping now, folded forward in your chair, hitting your thigh with your palm. “She goes down like a Shakespearean tragedy meets softcore porn. Arms flailing, hair in slow-mo, legs split like a yoga ad sponsored by OnlyFans.”

The studio exploded. Florence actually fell off her chair. David wheezed so hard Wyatt tried to do chest compressions with a water bottle. Hannah turned her chair away like she could no longer face God.

Sebastian? Not laughing.

You were crying now, wiping your eyes, trying to catch your breath. “You called me a slutty swan!”

“You were! I’ve never seen a fall and gotten horny and concerned at the same time!”

Even the host was struggling to keep composure. “Okay! I can’t breathe—”

Sebs smile was there, but it was tight. His nostrils flared. His jaw did that subtle, dangerous twitch. His leg bounced. His arm shifted behind your chair again, just a little closer.

“Oh, yeah,” he said slowly. “No, that’s cool. You should do stand-up. Maybe far away. Like, Europe.”

“You know,” he said, tilting his head at Lewis with an expression that screamed friendly, but also maybe murdery, “when I said I liked improv on set, I didn’t realize it included erotic wildlife commentary.”

Lewis shrugged, totally unbothered. “Hey, I narrate what I see.”

The tension crackled like static. The audience felt it. Florence whispered, “Oh my god. He’s gonna throw a chair.”

You lifted your hand toward Lewis for a high-five, both of you grinning like idiots—but the moment your hand raised—

SCREECH.

Sebastian reached back and yanked your chair. Just a few inches. Just enough to throw off your alignment and have you miss Lewis’s palm completely.

Your hand swiped air. You blinked, thrown off balance, and turned to him. “Did you just move my chair?!”

He smiled, the kind of smile that looked soft on the outside and feral underneath.

“Didn’t want you overextending. That’s how you fall.”

Wyatt leaned forward, grinning. “Oh, he’s done."

Lewis held up both hands. “I respect boundaries. I narrate from a distance.”

Sebastian threw him a look that was 80% sarcasm and 20% actual physical threat. “Maybe narrate your own death next time.”

The host, now fully a hostage to the chaos, cleared his throat. “And on that note—we’ll be right back after this break. Hopefully with the same number of living cast members.”

As the lights dimmed for commercial, Sebastian leaned close, lips brushing your ear, his voice low and lethal with flirtation.

“I’m funnier. I’m filthier. And if you ever fall again—I’ll be the one narrating it from inside you.”

You sucked in a breath. Your hand twitched on the mic. Your brain blue-screened.

Lewis blinked. “Hey, uh… did she just stop breathing?”

Florence fanned you dramatically. “We lost her.”

Sebastian just leaned back, smug as hell, leg bouncing like he didn’t just ruin your soul on national television.

Now this...was no joke anymore.

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ldr-sl0t · 2 months ago

Text

Even the silence screams

summary: He couln't allow himself to feel something after everything he's done. It was like a punishment, but you coming around, made it even worst.

Note: nothing to say except the usual, I LOVE THIS MAN GOD DAMN. xoxo

Ever since Bucky Barnes stepped foot into Stark Tower, he felt like walking ice.

He didn’t speak to anyone but Steve, and even then, his voice was quiet, subdued, heavy with a weight no one could see but everyone could feel. His eyes carried shadows, and his presence seemed to suck the warmth out of every room he entered.

The rest of the Avengers tried to be friendly… at first. But Bucky’s coldness was a wall too high to climb. Tony didn’t help, of course. And Natasha just observed him in silence, as if she understood something none of you did.

You, though, decided to try something different.

It started with coffee. You’d see him some mornings, lingering at the edge of the kitchen like he was waiting for it to clear out. So you left a second mug beside yours and didn’t say anything.

Three days in, he took it.

“You always drink it black?” you asked, casual, not looking at him directly as you stirred sugar into your own.

He seemed caught off guard that you were speaking. His voice was low, cautious. “Yeah.”

You nodded, offering the faintest smile. “Strong choice. Bit intense, though.”

A pause. Then, with a hint of dry humor: “Fits the mood.”

You glanced over. Was that—did he almost smile?

From then on, mornings became a thing. Not every day, but enough. He didn’t always speak, but he stayed. Sat nearby. Drank the coffee you made.

It was the smallest crack in the ice, but it was something.

One morning, you found him sitting alone in the lounge, staring at the TV but not really watching it. You sat beside him without saying anything. Minutes passed. Then you felt his gaze on you. You looked over. He looked away.

But the next day, when you sat down, there was a second coffee already waiting on the table.

It was a small gesture. One that made you smile all day.

From then on, things started to take shape.

He’d invite you to go running with him and Steve. Sometimes you joined, sometimes you didn’t. But when you did, he always ran at your pace. Never said anything about it. He just did it. —“Don’t want you getting left behind,” he muttered once. That was the first day he spoke to you without you initiating.

Weeks passed. Then months. And somehow, it became a routine.

You and Bucky had breakfast together. You and Bucky watched movies together. He listened to your stories. You listened to his — though his were harder to tell. He didn’t always talk, but when he did, with you, it was like the rest of the world disappeared.

The shift was subtle, but it was there. The way he’d scowl when you laughed too long at one of Clint’s dumb jokes. Or how his posture changed when you were around other guys on the team—shoulders stiff, jaw set, eyes hard.

It all came to a head one evening during movie night.

You were sitting on the floor with Peter, both of you laughing over something dumb and animated—some inside joke, some meme he’d shown you. Bucky was behind you on the couch, watching.

Or rather, staring.

When you looked back at him, his expression was unreadable. But he didn’t say a word.

Later that night, as you were cleaning up in the kitchen, you felt him walk in. He hovered by the door, arms crossed.

“You and Peter,” he said, voice low. “You close?”

You looked over your shoulder, caught the tension in his stance. “We joke around. He’s like… a kid brother.”

He nodded slowly. Still not looking at you.

“Why?”

He hesitated. Then, after a beat: “Didn’t like the way he touched you.”

You blinked. “Touched me?”

“Your waist. Earlier.”

You leaned against the counter, folding your arms. “Are you jealous, Barnes?”

His eyes finally met yours. Tension flickered across his face. “Maybe.”

You weren’t expecting the honesty.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, just like that, he turned and walked out—leaving your heart beating too fast.

After that night, something shifted.

The kitchen felt emptier in the mornings. His coffee mug sat untouched where you always left it—like a placeholder for someone who didn’t plan on coming back. You sat at the counter longer than usual, hoping he’d walk in late. He never did.

Days passed, each one a quiet confirmation that he was pulling away.

He started disappearing from shared spaces. Left the room if you walked in, kept his head down during briefings, drifted through conversations without ever meeting your gaze. If it hurt, he didn’t show it. If he missed you, he buried it.

You tried to play it cool, texting once, then again. You okay? Did I do something? Talk to me.

Nothing. No read receipts. No response.

Eventually, you gave in and cornered Steve in the gym, catching him between sets, frustration laced into every word.

“He’s shutting me out. I didn’t do anything, Steve.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then let out a breath and shook his head slowly.

“It’s not you,” he said. “It’s him.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“He thinks he’s protecting you.”

You stared. “From what? Me?”

“From him,” Steve said gently. “From how much he cares.”

The words didn’t make sense until much later. But they stayed with you, settled heavy in your chest—until the weight of it pushed you into action.

You found him in the sparring room that night, alone with the bag. No music. No lights except for the dim overheads. The rhythmic thud of fists landing echoed in the still air, steady and relentless. He was soaked through, breathing hard, lost in whatever he was trying to outrun.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, letting the silence sit.

When it became clear he had no intention of acknowledging you, your voice broke the stillness.

“Are we really doing this?”

The hits didn’t stop.

“I mean, fine,” you continued, stepping further into the room. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Just keep pretending like the last few months didn’t happen.”

His pace faltered, then picked up again—harder, sharper.

You stopped a few feet away. “Is this your thing now? Run before anyone gets too close?”

Finally, the bag stilled. He stood still with both hands resting against the leather, his back rising and falling in uneven breaths. For a moment, you thought he might walk away again.

Then, quietly: “I told myself it wasn’t real.”

You blinked. “What?”

“This,” he said, turning toward you, eyes unreadable in the low light. “Us. Whatever we were becoming. I kept telling myself it wasn’t real because if it was... it’d be too much.”

Your voice softened. “Too much for who?”

His hands flexed at his sides, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “For me. For you. You shouldn’t have to deal with everything that comes with me.”

“You think I don’t know what I’m dealing with?” you asked, stepping closer. “You think I just stumbled into this by accident? I chose to be close to you.”

His eyes finally met yours, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “If I let this happen—if I let myself have this—and something goes wrong…”

“You’ll survive,” you said gently. “And so will I.”

He shook his head. “You don’t get it.”

“I do,” you said, and now you were right in front of him.

"I’m falling in love with you. And I can’t handle feeling something for someone who deserves so much better. I’m not good, Y/N. Not for you.”

Your heart stopped. For a second, you couldn’t breathe.

Then, without thinking, you stepped forward. “Who the hell are you to decide what I deserve?”

He blinked, thrown off.

“I… I didn’t—”

“I’m in love with you too, you idiot.”

Silence fell.

The only sound was the swinging of a punching bag and the rapid pounding of both your hearts.

Then he moved.

One step. Then another. He raised a trembling hand, hesitant, like he was scared to touch you. You took it gently, guiding it to your cheek. He swallowed hard, eyes wide.

And then he kissed you.

His lips were clumsy at first, unsure. But you leaned in, slow and warm, molding yourself to him. His hands gripped your waist, desperate and grounding. Your fingers tangled in his shirt. It was like all the tension, all the months of longing and fear, exploded into that moment.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless, you rested your forehead against his.

“Don’t you ever ignore me again,” you whispered, voice shaking.

He smiled. Small. Honest. “Never again.”

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ldr-sl0t · 2 months ago

Text

thunderbolts has awoken the 2016-2021 tumblr marvel fan in me that would stay up late reading fics about living in the avengers tower with everyone and falling in love with bucky barnes.

not ashamed to admit that i’m back and am about to scour tumblrs marvel tags in hopes i can experience that happiness again.

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ldr-sl0t · 2 months ago

Note

heyy could u maybe do stiles or like a teenwolf character reacting to catcalling / another guy hitting on you??

ᯓ✦ F! Reader, Jealous & clingy stiles, fluff/crack, the reader's skin color is not mentioned ♡

The second the catcall hit the air, you felt the shift. Stiles immediately tensed beside you, his body going rigid as his jaw tightened. You could tell by the way his eyes darted to the guy that he was already weighing his options,, whether to confront the guy, ignore it, or somehow make the awkward situation go away.

As the guy’s eyes lingered on your legs, Stiles’ hand shot out, quickly wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his side so tightly it almost hurt. His body was almost like a shield now, blocking any possible advances from that guy. He let out a short, frustrated exhale, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear.

"Okay," Stiles muttered, the words coming out faster than usual, his voice tight with frustration, "but tell me why... us guys, we don't have a bro code, huh? Like boys boy? Where’s the... respect? You’re taken! By me!" He laughed, but it wasn’t his usual easygoing laugh? it was forced, a bit panicked. His grip on your waist tightened even more, and the fake smile he gave the guy was practically painful.

You could tell that Stiles was far from calm, despite his words. The way his hands trembled slightly as they ran down your arm, trying to pull you closer, made it obvious. His anxiety was bubbling under the surface, but he was doing his best to keep it together, to avoid escalating things.

As you walked away, Stiles kept his arm protectively around you, his steps just a little too quick, as if he was rushing you away from that guy.

"Yeah, yeah, she’s...she’s my girlfriend," Stiles continued, voice still tight. He cleared his throat, trying to sound confident but failing just a bit. "Very beautiful, right?" He glanced at you, offering a forced smile one that barely hid the frustration behind it. You could tell he was frustrated, but you knew it wasn’t just about the guy it was about how powerless he felt in that moment.

You could sense the tension in his body, his rigid posture, the way his breath came out in short bursts. He wasn't just angry at the guy he was angry with himself for not being able to stand up for you in the way he wanted. It was like his protective instincts were at war with his anxiousness, and it left him feeling out of control.

When you finally made it to his place, the moment the door shut behind you, Stiles was a different person. The fake smile had long since vanished, and now there was just a soft vulnerability to him. His hands were still shaking slightly, and he kept glancing at you, his usual witty banter replaced by a deep, genuine sincerity.

"I just... I didn’t want him to touch you. I would’ve... I would’ve done something if it came to that, I swear," Stiles said, his voice low but firm, but there was still that undercurrent of tension in his tone. "But I... I don’t know. I just wanted to protect you. You mean everything to me, and the thought of anyone, anyone treating you like that... I couldn’t stand it."

He walked over to you slowly, and, as if his anxiousness had completely melted away, he cupped your face in his hands, eyes softening. "You’re my world, you know that? You’re perfect... don’t ever forget that."

You smiled at his words, but before you could respond, Stiles let out a dramatic sigh, as if all the tension from earlier had just hit him at once.

"Ah, shit, that stressed me out," he muttered, his voice almost a groan of relief. Then, in a blink, he was pulling you towards him, pressing his lips against yours in a quick, sweet kiss, before he started showering your face with more kisses, his lips trailing over your cheeks, your forehead, and even your nose.

Before you could catch your breath, Stiles had pushed you back gently onto the bed, his body collapsing on top of yours. He grinned down at you, his eyes twinkling with that mischievous energy you loved.

"Stiles..." you started, a teasing note in your voice. "I might as well just be the man in this relationship, huh?"

His eyes went wide, his playful grin faltering for a second as he shot up on his elbows, looking absolutely horrified. "WHAT? NO!" he exclaimed, his voice higher than usual. "I swear, next time, I’ll kick their asses! Like, for real! I’ll do it!"

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest as you gave him a skeptical look. "Sure you will.."

He is so fun to write lol but I will always hate my writing sadly 😞 | Tagging: @l1ttleclouds @juliasmesmerized @nugget-soup @sou1xq @rocksaltandmountainash ♡

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ldr-sl0t · 2 months ago

Text

𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐀 [��𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐓]

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

summary: when coach tells people the room requirements and the 'no sexual perversions perpetrated' rule by the so-called 'little deviants', it only makes the couple want to break that rule even more.

stiles stilinski x fem!reader (no smut sorry babies)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You were nestled into your boyfriend's neck, the soft flannel material brushing against your cheek and the scent you knew all too well, all of the senses could have made your eyes flutter back closed. You felt a small nudge on your shoulder, groaning and shrugging off the contact, you decided to ignore Stiles’ silent request for you to lift your head up.

It wasn’t until you felt his warm touch brush the hair that had fallen in front of your face away and the palm of his hand stroke your cheekbone, you pulled away from his contact and looked up at him.

His brown eyes looked into your own and he smiled softly at you. He couldn’t help but think you were the most beautiful person he’s ever laid his eyes on. He couldn’t believe he was going out with someone like you. You were beautiful in and out, hence his gut-wrenching crush he’s had on you since the 3rd grade. After long years of pining and certain dreams, he couldn’t thank the supernatural world for existing more as he finally got a chance with you; and boy, did he take it.

At the beginning of your relationship, Scott thought Stiles was joking when he said he kissed you, and you actually kissed him back. He just laughed, patted him on the shoulder and moved on with the subject.

“No, Scott! I’m not kidding.” Stiles said, almost offended. But then he sobered his thoughts and kind of understood Scott because it had taken him 3 hours after your kiss to finally process that he had grown the balls to do that, and apparently you liked it too.

Scott paused momentarily, “Neither am I Stiles, we need to focus on--” Stiles sighed dramatically and flailed his arms around in desperation. Scott paused mid-sentence, tilted his head and waited for his best friend to continue.

“Scott, I kissed her. Like, I actually kissed her!” Stiles smiled widely. Scott remained unconvinced, blinking slowly and scrunched his brows. “You know, when you put your lips on someone else's--”

“Yes, Stiles! I know what kissing is!” The werewolf exasperated, he shook his head. “I just don’t believe it was with her. Y/N? Head cheerleader, popular, smart, way out of your league Y/N?”

“You better believe it, Scotty.” Stiles patted his hand rhythmically on Scott’s back as he began to walk away, intending to walk to his beautiful girlfriend's house.

Scott grabbed onto Stiles’ flannel and yanked him back for more details, “You mean ‘I’ve had a crush on her since 3rd grade, I wish she would look my way and we would get married and have kids’ Y/N?” Scott grew a proud smile the more he said, knowing how down bad his best friend was for this girl.

Stiles nodded frantically and adjusted his flannel, “And she actually kissed you back?” Scott questioned. “Scott, I think 3rd grade me died a little bit when she held my hand, let alone kiss me back.” Stiles jokes.

The two boys looked at each other before high fiving and doing their ‘bro-hug’. Scott congratulated the boy, not hiding his pure excitement for his friend; borderline jumping for joy. The boys gushed over the new relationship for a few more minutes before Stiles snapped out of it and ran out the room, shouting behind him saying he had to get back to his girlfriend who was waiting for him. Scott doing a subtle fist pump as Stiles turned his back.

“Wake up, baby,” He whispered, not wanting to disturb you too much as you wiped the grogginess and sleep off your face. You looked at your surroundings, “We here?”

Stiles looked out the window of the bus, eye twitching at the surroundings. “Not quite…”

The motel looked uncomfortable, old and just overall, definitely violating hundreds of safety codes. The poor attempt at the neon lights brightened up the place in the darkness outside, but did little to make the atmosphere any more homely. But he knew it would be fine for one night, as long as you were by his side the entire night.

Everyone began piling out of the bus, a couple of your friends passing you and giving you two a wink as they noticed the state you and your boyfriend were in; cuddled up close, hands intertwined and Stiles admiring you as if you had hung the stars in the sky. Even in this messed up supernatural world, Stiles found beauty in the horror; and that was you.

Stiles helped you off the bus, his hands never leaving you. He slung an arm around your waist as you stepped onto the concrete and became aware of your surroundings.

It was clear you had the same initial thoughts as Stiles as he read your body language. He rubbed his thumb on the skin between your top and the jeans that hugged your figure, leaning in and kissing the top of your forehead.

As you walked towards your friends and addressed Lydia’s discomfort at the Motel, Stiles had sneaked behind you and hugged you from behind. He rested his head on top of yours and you leaned back into his chest; his arms were locked around your front and you rested your hands on top of his, sighing into the contact.

It felt like you were in a dream, you never wanted to leave this comfortability with Stiles, he was the best boyfriend you could ever ask for.

The Coach’s whistle broke you out of your bliss, snapping your attention to him as he turned away from the Motel and faced the angsty teenagers.

“Listen up. The meet’s been pushed till tomorrow.” You groaned quietly and nestled backwards into Stiles’ chest, he smiled at you. “This is the closest Motel with the most vacancies and least amount of good judgement when it comes to accepting a bunch of degenerates such as yourselves.”

You would protest Coach’s point, but he was completely correct, actually. Who the hell would want 20 odd, hormonal teenagers who definitely have questionable things packed in their bags to stay in your Motel?

“Now, you’ll be pairing up. Choose wisely.”

You and Stiles look at each other, untangling yourself from his hold and intertwining your hands. You pulled him over to the Coach, not seeing Scott raise his brows at Stiles’ smirking face at the idea of spending a night with you in your own room, no parental interruptions, no supernatural; just a boyfriend and girlfriend in each other's company.

Coach noticed the two of you approaching like a couple on their honeymoon and felt the need to clarify something.

“And I’ll have no sexual perversions perpetrated by you little deviants, got that? Keep your dirty little hands to your dirty little selves!” He shouted, looking directly at you. “Especially you, Stilinski and Y/L/N!”

You two dropped your hands expectantly, reluctantly taking a key for different rooms. The boy sighed at you and leaned in to kiss you before you departed over to Lydia and Alisson.

The sound of the Coach’s whistle made you two jump apart before your lips touched. “What did I just say!” Stiles went to protest, “I don’t wanna hear it! Get out of here!”

Stiles groaned and turned away to room with Scott, you loitered back for a moment, just in time to hear the Coach say, “How he managed to get you to go out with him… I’ll never know.” You chuckled to yourself and roomed with your friends.

It had been an hour since you got to your room and settled in, kicking back and chatting to the girls for a while until they decided to shower and get themselves ready for bed. You had begun to set up until you got a message from Stiles.

Stiles: come to my room please i miss you

You smiled at his message, missing him too. And typed out a response.

You: i can’t the girls will see i’ve gone somewhere :((((

Stiles: you’ll be back before they’ve noticed you’re gone i promise

Stiles: baby?

Stiles was typing out more questions, and thinking of other ways to convince you to come over as Scott had left the room to explore the Motel more.

He was confused by your silence until he heard a knock at the door. He stood up, expecting it to be Scott but was braced by your beautiful face as he swung the door open.

He smiled, looking you up and down before tugging you into the room. He kicked the door behind him as he twisted your bodies so your back was facing the room.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders and you messed with the hair at the nape of his neck, drinking in his appearance and licking your lips. “I missed you, baby.” He groaned in the sexiest voice you think you’ve ever heard in your entire life. “I missed you, too.” You chuckled before connecting your lips.

He leaned into your body as his lips pressed into yours, subtly sneaking his tongue into your mouth. His hands snuck around to your back and held your body against his own, feeling every crevice and worshipping them. His hands explored your back, itching closer as he murmured for you to jump into him.

You obliged and wrapped your legs around his waist, he caught you by planting his hands on your ass. He smiled into his kiss and found himself growing more desperate for you as each second passed.

Your hands tangled in his hair and tugged at it as he walked the pair of you to the rickety bed situated in the middle of the room. He gently placed you on the bed and leaned on top of you, finding himself comfortable in between your legs.

The kiss grew more erratic as it went on, hotter and hands wandering. Stiles slipped his hands underneath your top and began to lift it over your head.

You stopped him suddenly and he pulled back, his face coated in your lipgloss and his hair a mess; God, he looked good.

“What? Did I do something wrong?” He panicked. You smiled and placed your hands on his face. “No, baby. Just don’t want Scott to walk in on us.” You confessed.

Stiles shook his head, “He won’t be back for ages…” He whispered and leaned back in to kiss your neck, sucking at your sweet spots that made your back arch. You sighed as his tongue worked wonders.

Stiles noticed you weren’t fully convinced and jumped off the bed, leaving you stranded. You were confused momentarily until he snatched something out of the bedside drawer, and opened the room door, hooking it on the handle and turning back to you.

“Just to be sure.” He winked and situated himself back between your legs and lifted your shirt over your head this time.

The room became hotter with each second, steam practically coating the walls; as the room door held up a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign with pride.

Your stay with Stiles was much more prolonged than you had intended, your clothes now back on your body a little misshapen but the thought that was there.

You skipped back to your Motel room and quietly pushed open the door at this late hour, knowing Lydia and Alisson were probably curled up in bed at this time.

Kicking off your shoes, you snuck into the room and breathed a sigh of relief that the girls hadn’t had their suspicions about your disappearance, obviously feeling content enough to go to sleep with no nerves.

You turned on the bedside lamp to see where you were going and jumped at the sight of Lydia and Alisson wide awake and leaning on the headboard of their shared bed, staring right at you with raised eyebrows and a subtle smirk.

Alisson tilted her head, “So, where were you?” She questioned.

You stuttered for a moment, trying to come up with a convincing lie. “I was just… at the vending machine. Stupid things sucked up my money.” You fake chuckled.

Lydia hummed, “Yeah, it took you 3 hours…” You could practically feel a bead of sweat dripping down your forehead, “Yeah, I had a lot of trouble with it… Anyway, I’m heading to bed-”

“I didn’t know vending machines give you hickeys.” Alisson said, making you freeze and pale.

You opened your mouth but no words came out, “And it has nothing to do with the fact that Scott tried to get back to his room but the sound of moaning probably stopped him from going into the hot box.” Lydia smirked.

You quite literally had no words, “Shit.” You murmured.

Alisson giggled at you, "You realise Coach is gonna kill you two, especially Stiles." You groaned loudly.

The two girls chuckled at you and invited you into their huddle, only insisting you showered first. You laughed along with them and jumped into them, “At least someone had fun on this God awful trip.” Lydia smiled at you before you whacked her with the pillow you were previously leaning on.

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