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[libbymouse]

Creamy or Crunchy

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.

Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.

You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.

It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.

He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.

Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.

Still, you didn’t argue.

Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.

There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.

You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.

So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.

No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.

Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.

You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.

And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.

He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.

The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.

Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.

A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.

It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.

Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.

You grab a basket and move forward.

He follows without a word.

You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.

You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.

Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.

Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.

He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.

It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.

His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.

“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.

You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.

“What?” you ask softly.

His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.

“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”

He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.

For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.

Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”

Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.

You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.

Bucky watches.

He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.

His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.

He simply observes.

You step over to the plums.

Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

But you feel him.

The attention he gives you.

His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.

You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.

You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.

But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.

“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.

Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.

“S’ fine.”

But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.

So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.

Bucky doesn’t look away this time.

And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.

The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.

You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.

Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.

His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.

It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.

He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.

You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.

He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.

It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.

That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.

You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.

He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.

You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.

“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.

But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.

Something warm fills your chest.

You missed him, while you were gone.

He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.

You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.

You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.

He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.

It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.

He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.

You remember how he was when you left.

Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.

He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.

And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.

Maybe that’s why he came with you.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.

Maybe he missed you, too.

He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.

You can’t have that.

Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.

“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”

Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”

You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”

Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.

“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.

“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”

Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.

You glance up at him, arching your brow.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”

“Uh-huh.”

He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”

You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”

Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”

“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.

You plan on keeping him that way.

You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.

“Creamy or crunchy?”

Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”

You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”

There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

“You serious?”

“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”

Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.

“You’re wrong.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”

You snort.

Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.

You watch him.

The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.

Because you want more.

More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.

So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”

Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”

You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.

You wait, patiently.

Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”

You gin. “Yeah?”

He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.

You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.

“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”

Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.

His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But there is no bite to it.

And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.

You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.

You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.

You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.

Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.

A soft thud.

Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.

Chocolate-covered almonds.

The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.

The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.

The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.

Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

“Because you like them.”

Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.

Just a fact.

Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.

The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.

You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“How do you know that?”

The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.

Something about the fact that he’s been watching.

That he’s noticed.

That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.

His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.

He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.

“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.

You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.

Or if he just really is that observant.

That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.

So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.

“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”

Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.

“Don’t.”

“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”

- Walter Anderson

[libbymouse]

Weakness

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡

Masterlist

You love sparring with Bucky.

Maybe because you love the man.

But there is so much more to that, honestly.

You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.

Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.

Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.

Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.

Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.

Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.

But Bucky.

Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.

He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.

And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.

You live for that laugh.

Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.

And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.

So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.

Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.

You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.

Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.

But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.

He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.

But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.

And then, about five months ago, something clicked.

Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.

A glaring one, in fact.

One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.

It’s you.

You are his weakness.

Bucky is a creature of routines.

The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.

You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.

You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.

Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.

He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.

Except when it comes to you.

You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.

And then there are the small things.

The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.

Little things. Automatic things.

And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.

Bucky is strategic on missions.

He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.

Until you are in danger.

Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.

Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.

Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.

You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.

And he does. Every time.

Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.

Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.

Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.

After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.

You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.

But you can’t fool Bucky.

He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.

And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.

And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.

It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.

Bucky does not share.

He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.

But he does with you.

When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.

He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.

Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.

Not to anyone.

But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.

You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.

With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.

He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.

He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.

It happened again. And then again.

After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.

Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.

One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.

He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.

You took him in your arms and then you took him in.

First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.

He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.

You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.

And you know what this might mean.

You certainly know what it means to you.

The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.

But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.

But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.

So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.

Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.

But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.

Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.

But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.

And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.

Because for him, you would wait forever.

****

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.

And you know why it is there.

Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.

You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.

He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.

You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.

Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.

You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.

Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.

He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.

You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.

“That all you got?”

“Come find out.”

He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.

It’s definitely not all you got.

He is not expecting you to cheat.

Not that you call it cheating anyway.

You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.

After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.

Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.

Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.

His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.

“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.

He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.

“Lemme see-”

He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.

You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.

Silence.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.

You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.

The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.

The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.

Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.

You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”

Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.

He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”

“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”

He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Can’t believe I was worried.”

“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.

Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

****

You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.

Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.

The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.

It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.

You feel terrible.

And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.

Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.

So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.

Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.

You ignore his gaze.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.

He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”

You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”

He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”

He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.

“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”

You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.

You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.

He sidesteps, but you strike again.

And immediately regret it.

Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.

It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.

It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.

But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.

“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.

His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.

You grit your teeth, saying nothing.

He thinks you’re faking.

Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.

Because it’s getting harder to hide.

It’s getting harder to see.

Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.

And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.

“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.

It doesn’t seem like it.

Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.

And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.

White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.

But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.

You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.

The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.

“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.

“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.

But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.

You whimper, flinching.

And Bucky freezes.

“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.

The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.

You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.

He curses under his breath.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”

He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.

“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.

You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.

“How did that happen? Who did this?”

You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.

His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.

He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”

“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”

“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”

There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.

Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.

****

It took weeks for you to properly heal.

But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.

There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.

But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.

And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.

He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.

Then his eyes find yours.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.

You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.

Bucky’s jaw ticks.

There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.

You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.

He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.

Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.

He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.

You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”

His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.

He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.

You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.

His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.

Studying.

Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.

You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.

Bucky tests you, pushes you.

And you give as good as you get.

Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.

And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.

It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.

You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.

Shit.

You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?

But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.

Not hesitating. Not wary.

Rushing. Fast and frantic.

He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.

And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.

You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.

But there is none of that.

Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.

“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”

His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.

You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.

“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”

That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.

But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.

“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.

“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.

“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.

You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.

“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”

That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.

“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.

His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.

“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”

“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”

You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.

Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.

“Alright, come on.”

You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.

“Bucky-”

“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.”

****

A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.

But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.

The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?

The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.

By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.

Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.

But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.

And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.

Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.

“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.

“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Bite me, Barnes.”

The moment you move, he matches it.

His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.

The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.

You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.

His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.

And you do.

Blow for blow, counter for counter.

You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.

The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.

Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.

“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.

“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.

You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.

Fuck, you missed this.

But then, he shifts.

And something changes.

It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.

Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.

You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?

His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.

It’s not soft.

Not hesitant.

Not careful.

It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.

You didn’t see it coming.

By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.

His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.

Smirking. So damn smug.

Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.

Because what else could it be than him?

“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?

“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.

And then he ducks down again.

He kisses you once more.

Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

And you don’t fight it.

Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.

“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”

- butterflies rising

[libbymouse]

Right Here, Waiting

Roommate!Bucky Barnes x Curvy!Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re pining after your insanely attractive roommate, but are convinced he doesn’t feel the same way.

Prompts: Roommate AU for @avengers-assemble-bingo’s 108th Birthday Celebration & you can’t lose something you never had for @elixirfromthestars’s cinema writing challenge 🎥

Warnings: strictly 18+, talk of sex, TRIGGER WARNING internal monologue references reader having issues with weight & eating, sucking in her stomach, VERY insecure reader, angst in the form of belief of unrequited love, jealousy, idiots in love

Word count: 3.6k

A/N: as the winner of this very close poll, here is a little roommate AU with our beloved Bucky 🩵 banners by @vase-of-lilies

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library

“You’re telling me you share an apartment with a man who looks like that and you haven’t fucked him?” Natasha stares after your roommate as he heads to the bar to grab the drink he promised to purchase you for losing a bet the weekend before.

“Men and women can just be friends you know.”

“If my roommate looked like yours, I’d be jumping his bones every chance I got.”

He’s way out of my league, and as much as I might want him, he doesn’t think of me like that, is the rather depressing thought that has been replayed on loop in your mind since the devilishly attractive yet sweet as an angel Bucky Barnes moved in with you.

But instead of voicing aloud your insecurity, you simply hum in agreement. It’s easier than trying to explain your one sided crush that’s only ever going to end in heartache.

“Well if you’re not interested, do you mind if I go for it? Pretty sure he’d be the best sex of my life.” Your heart drops through your stomach like an anvil. The thought of Bucky being intimate with anyone, let alone your best friend, is enough to send you into a spiral.

Nat’s much more the type he’d go for anyway, beautiful, skinny, quick witted. Everything you’re not. She’s always the one who gets attention from guys at places like this, whereas you’re the ‘approachable one’ who gets asked if Nat’s single.

No one’s ever interested in you, especially not when you’re sitting next to your much hotter, thinner best friend.

“C’mon, there’s lots of guys here you could take home. You really have to make things awkward by sleeping with my roommate?” You try to sound as calm and collected as possible, but the lump in your throat betrays you.

Nat gives you a knowing look, seeing straight through your weak facade. She is your best friend after all, and knows you better than practically anyone in the world. “Of course I wouldn't, darling - I’m just trying to get you to admit you like him.”

There’s something almost worse about Nat knowing you’re crushing on Bucky - she can be so incessant, honing in on something and making it her mission to see it come to fruition, even if it’s to a bitter end. Which is exactly how your one sided crush will play out if she tries pushing you together.

You have an understanding which she hasn’t grasped yet that Bucky would never be attracted to you like that, and you’d rather spare your poor heart from his rejection and find a way to be content with friendship than risk hearing you’re too big, too unattractive, too much not his type for anything to happen.

“Can we just drop it. We’re roommates, nothing more.” But you know Nat’s incapable of letting something go once she’s got her claws sunk into it. You mostly love her for it, but in this one instance, it’s a right pain in the ass.

“You know if you give it a chance, you might find he likes you too. He’s got a smitten little smile for you.”

This is what you’re afraid of. Hope.

The buoyant feeling in your chest which swells as you picture what dating Bucky might actually be like. How soft his lips would be against yours, how he’d mumble sweet devotions against your skin before tasting every inch of you, how in a room packed to the brim like the bar you’re in now, his eyes search for yours and everyone else in the periphery fades into nonexistence because you are the focal point of his entire world.

But it’s that blind belief which will tear your heart to tatters. Hope will be your cause of death in the end. The expectation of a happy outcome despite all available evidence which will be your ultimate downfall.

“Don’t be ridiculous, look at him, there’s no way he’d ever be interested in me.” But yet, despite how much you tell yourself you’re destined for heartbreak, you can’t quite snuff out that last ember of hope deep in your chest when Bucky turns around with your drink in his hand and smiles reflexively as his eyes set on you all the way across the room.

“I hate it when you put yourself down like that.” There’s a glint in Nat’s eye like she wants to say more, but she notices Bucky returning from the bar and the words die in the back of her throat.

“Here you go, Sunrise.” His nickname for you ignites a flame in both your cheeks, and you’re forced to look down at the table in attempts to hide your reaction. He started calling you that within the first week of moving in, realising your love for staying up to read all night, until the sun came up the following day.

You try not to read into it too much that you are the only person you know of that Bucky has a nickname for. He’s just being friendly. A nice roommate.

“That’s the last time I bet you anything to do with food. Clearly you can eat and drink me under the table any day.” You know he’s just teasing about your bet, who could eat more spicy Indian food without needing to take a drink to subdue the burning heat on your tongue, but any comment related to the amount of food you eat or your weight always hits a little too close to home.

“Thanks Bucky.” Taking your drink from him, your fingers brush, sending goosebumps shivering down your arm, and his dazzling blue eyes regard you with what your hopeful heart believes is warm adoration. “At least you’re not being a sore loser this time round.”

“Excuse you, I’ve never been a sore loser. You just like to bend the rules to suit yourself.” He retorts before taking a sip of his beer, and you find it impossible to look away from how his perfectly plump lips cover the opening and his Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a sip.

You are so far gone for him.

“Sore loser.” You call in a sing-song voice that makes him chuckle in that way you can feel down to your bones. “Don’t blame me just because you can’t handle the heat, Barnes.”

His finger traces a light trail down your bare forearm which lights your skin on fire. You’re not even sure Bucky’s aware he’s doing it, it seems so casually intimate, such a soft touch as his eyes bore into yours, but it sends your brain into a meltdown.

“Oh Sunrise, you don’t know the kind of heat I can bring if I really tried.”

His face is so close to yours you can smell the beer on his breath and see how he wets his lips with a swipe of his tongue. He’s got these freckles scattered along his high cheekbones which reach the tips of his ears, that you want to place delicate kisses to, learn the constellations of pigmentation over his body so you could point them out blindfolded.

And those fucking eyes, they’re impossible not to fall in love with. Those saxe eyes which hold so much wonder and tenderness, which seems to pool in the slightly darker flecks at the centre. You really would be perfectly content if those eyes were the last you ever see, being lured underneath the waves of blue to your doom, but like a siren's victim, you’d dive in with a smile on your face.

There’s a cough from your left which breaks the trance Bucky’s eyes have you in. You would never admit it aloud, but you’d forgotten, just for a brief moment, that your best friend was at the table with you.

Nat’s looking at you with a bold grin and you know before she even opens her mouth that she’s about to say something cheeky and probably completely against your wishes to keep your yearning devotion a secret.

“I’m gonna go up to the bar and see if I can flirt my way to scoring a shot.” She announces as she stands, a shameless look passing between you and Bucky. “Some of us don’t have sex personified living in the next room we can flirt with to buy us free alcohol. You kids have fun continuing whatever that was. Just make sure to use protection.”

Nat walks off without another word, but after her quip, you find you can’t look Bucky quite in the eye.

You’re positive in this moment he’ll laugh at the insinuation that anything remotely romantic or sexual exists between you two and you brace yourself for the puncture to your heart.

But instead, he just looks at you with those big blue eyes and smiles warmly, as if Nat had simply commented about needing to use the restroom to excuse her absence.

“Sex personified, huh? Is that what you two were whispering about behind my back before?” You might just burst into flames if you actually admit that to him, but the cocky smirk he shoots you suggests he is already fully aware how much sex appeal he has.

It feels like your heart is beating in your throat as you answer and you pray he can’t hear the difference in your voice.

“No, not that it’s any of your business, but don’t act like you don’t know how gorgeous you are Barnes.”

There’s a sparkle in his eye as he smiles and scrunches his nose in that way which makes your tummy somersault. You could be fooled into thinking you were back in your apartment alone with him, the only girl within a hundred miles with the way his pupils grow wide and fixate solely on you in this bar crowded with people much more alluring than yourself.

You shake your head, almost imperceptibly, trying to rid your mind of sanguine thoughts that are just setting you up to be greatly disappointed.

You can’t get your hopes up.

There’s a dartboard which becomes available beside your table and you stand with your drink. “C’mon, last weekend you told me you’d show me how to play this ridiculous game and I’m holding you to that.”

It’s not that you don’t already understand the principle of darts, but when Bucky promises to spend more time with you, you’re not about to turn him down.

There’s this gleam in his eye you can’t quite place as he stands and follows you to the dark corner of the bar. You want to believe it’s something of endearment at calling him ‘gorgeous’, a fondness he reserves only for you, but you try reminding yourself that’s the kind of false hope you’ve been desperately shoveling out of your chest and you have to be stronger to not allow such optimistic concepts to penetrate through your defences.

Bucky quickly goes through the rules you were vaguely familiar with already, then shows you how it’s done by throwing two darts into the single twenty score area and then hitting a bullseye. He looks proud of himself too, and it brings a smile to your face just how cute he looks. Is he trying so hard to impress you?

Pushing that thought from your mind, you step up to take your aim. Your first throw goes very astray, not even hitting the dartboard at all, but instead sticking into the wood panelling about a foot below it.

You feel horrified that you’ve just embarrassed yourself, not only in front of Bucky, but the entire bar. Looking around with a sheepish grimace, you find fortunately no one is paying any attention to you, and when your eyes land on Bucky, you can’t help but both burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter that lasts so long you’re cheeks start to hurt.

“It takes a special kind of talent to miss by that much Sunrise.” He snickers, but his eyes still softly gaze at you even as he teases.

“Shut up, it’s my first attempt.” You playfully rib back.

“C’mere, let me show you.” He stands at your back, so close you can smell his aftershave, a spicy cinnamon that reminds you of home, as his touch ghosts along your arms.

He fiddles with your fingers, delicately directing them where he wants them on the dart. You’re pliant to his every command, conforming to the stance he wants you in, you even tilt your head up when he uses two fingers under your chin to carefully guide your eye line to where he wants it.

Holding the small projectile in line with your eyes, you’re extremely aware that Bucky’s examining you, gazing at your profile, the curve of your nose, the undulations of your lips. You feel exposed, like he’s critiquing you, but when the outcome of that is him beaming a besotted smile in your direction, you feel like you must have done something right.

You let the dart fly, barely able to concentrate on where it’s going, too caught up in how close Bucky is, how his hand rests on your waist like he was made to hold you, how his broad chest behind you is as solid as a wall, yet would be the perfect place to rest your head as you fell to sleep every night.

It punctures into the board this time, scoring a measly four points, but it’s sufficient for Bucky to wrap his arms around your middle, rest his head on your shoulder and give you a squeeze as he lowers his husky voice in your ear. “There you go, great job Sunrise.”

You try not to think about how large your stomach is as he holds you, sucking in slightly, instead trying to savour the feeling of being in his arms. If he recognises how fast your heart is now beating against his chest, he doesn’t mention it.

The two of you continue to play your game, forgetting all about the hearty atmosphere of the bar, just enjoying each other's company, and your atrocious attempt at beating Bucky in a game he’s had far too much experience with.

You suspect he downplays his skill - you hope to spend more time alone with you, but more than likely just so you don’t feel completely embarrassed by your endeavours.

Once he’s beaten you for a second time, you find a free table to set yourselves, before you go up to the bar to order a second round. You can’t seem to shake the smile off your face as you give the bartender your order. A sense of light optimism builds in your chest, Bucky’s just given up his night to spend with you as you make a fool of yourself playing darts.

He could be out with anyone, giving them all his attention. But instead he’s with you. Eyes softening and an enchanting smile spreading on his features as if he’s already precisely where he wants to be.

You turn to look back at Bucky to find the one thing in the world that could dampen your high spirits.

He’s sitting at the table where you just left him, chatting up one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.

It’s as if someone’s poured a bucket of ice cold water over you. This devastating, borderline nauseating, chasm cleaving your chest in two is exactly why hope is the most dangerous feeling to cultivate unchecked.

She’s absolutely stunning, with shoulder length blonde hair, a glittery, low plunging top that brings out the radiance in her light eyes and accentuates her fit figure. She’s everything you’re not, everything Bucky deserves, and everything that makes you so acutely aware of how much physical space you take up in the world.

How someone as beautiful as Bucky could never be attracted to the likes of you when women like her walk on this earth.

It feels like there’s a cyclone wreaking havoc in your stomach as you watch their interaction. It looks sort of casual, at least given how far they are seated apart in such a noisy room, but there’s an axe carving your heart into splinters at the mere thought of what flirty chat is bouncing between them, the smile curving on his lips, and you find yourself needing to turn away.

You know you can’t lose what was never yours in the first place, but then why does it feel like your soul is disintegrating and being sucked out of your body through a hole in your sternum?

Bucky’s single, the two of you aren’t even remotely dating, you are purely roommates. You just so happened to have a spare room available at the same time he broke up with his ex and needed somewhere to sleep. You were a convenient solution to the awkward situation he found himself in.

And you’ve never been anything more.

He has every right to flirt, fuck and date whomever he pleases. Which decidedly isn’t you.

You search out Nat who’s over by the other side of the room, your extremities almost feeling numb as you walk past so many groups of friends and handsy partners, knowing that the one person who consumes your entire world simply views you as just someone whom he shares a bathroom with and occasionally bets wagers of buying a round of drinks.

She’s flirting with some handsome, tall stranger who appears to have bought her a couple drinks. You don’t want to ruin her night either, but you know she’d be irate if you disappeared without telling her.

All you want is the comfort of your bed, snuggled underneath a mountain of blankets where you can escape into a world where Bucky isn’t flirting with someone who is both much prettier and much thinner than you.

Should you even go home if Bucky brings her back to the apartment where you’d be subjected to listening to the entire affair?

Probably not, but at this point you just need to get out of here, as far away as possible from the scene which is causing your throat to constrict and tears to sting behind your eyes.

You touch Nat on the upper arm to pull her attention. “Imma head home.”

Her line of sight specifically redirects to the table you were seated with Bucky at, to find the source of your crushing heartbreak.

“Alright, then I’m coming with you.”

“No, please stay, have fun, I’m fine it’s just getting a little loud in here.” You lie through your teeth, but after pretending all night you're not about to start admitting your feelings now. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The look Nat gives you is a clear indication she doesn’t believe your fib, but you simply turn away from her piercing eyes and stalk towards the door, trying to avoid bumping into the crowd of people in your path.

What you don’t realise as you make your hasty exit, head down to avoid watching Bucky flirt with the beautiful blonde, is that he watches with an aching heart as you take every step without so much as saying goodbye - because he notices everything about you, in every scenario, hoping for any fraction of your attention in return.

He swiftly grabs his jacket to chase after you, muttering a quick apology to his coworker he really doesn’t mean. He sees enough of her Monday to Friday for her to consume his weekends as well, especially when it's taking time away which could instead be spent with you.

“Sunrise, wait up!” You hear a very familiar deep voice call from behind you just as you’re about to put on your headphones. You’d know that voice anywhere, even if he hadn’t used your nickname.

“Bucky? What’re you doing?”

“You think I’m gonna let you walk home alone this late at night?” He says with such an ease, as if it were the only possible outcome given the situation. Like he didn’t have a drop dead gorgeous woman in the bar waiting to take him home and do downright pornographic things to him.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your fun. It’s only a couple blocks, I can walk it myself.” You can’t find it in you to feel guilty about pulling him away from the woman inside, especially not when he looks so content having followed you out into the cold night air.

“Firstly, you're daft if you think I’m letting you walk that far by yourself. I’d be worried about you the whole time.” He tilts his head to the side and it reminds you of a sweet puppy gazing at their owner with fondness, willing to pursue them anywhere. “Secondly, you’re not ruining anything. It’s no fun without you there anyway.”

Warmth blooms in your chest that even though it’s just as roommates, you’re the one Bucky’s returning to the apartment with. He’s not going home with Nat, or any other stunning girl he could pull with a single flirty glance. Instead it’s you who he drapes his jacket around when he notices you shivering and slows his large strides to allow you to keep up as you walk casually back home. Taking your time to extend your conversation and absorb the scent of his coat as you pull it tighter around yourself.

Dammit, there’s that incessant hope again.

You really are too enamoured with him for your own good. Even if it wasn’t tonight, you're just setting yourself up for a more agonising downfall in the end.

Follow @ems-library for fic notifications

[libbymouse]

Howdy! Hello! Thanks for answer my last request so quickly! It was amazing and your writing is wonderful to read!

I had another request if you are interested? Another Thranduil x Reader, except in this one Reader can’t feel pain? Like not a situation where they have a high pain tolerance but they have a medical condition that makes it impossible for them to feel pain!

And who will protect you?

Sorry for the mistakes, I'm very tired.

You were used to curious stares.

Humans, elves, dwarves-anyone who recognized your secret gazed at you with apprehension, doubt, or even disgust. You felt no pain. Not at all. Since birth. It was not a gift, not a blessing, but rather a curse. Deprived of your natural self-preservation mechanism, you have been on the brink of life and death many times.

Thranduil learned of this by accident.

The battle was fierce. Arrows bursting, screams, the smell of blood. You fought alongside the elves of Licholesia, twirling among your enemies, not noticing the blades cutting through your skin. Only when the battle was over, when everyone held their breath in the deafening silence, did Thranduil notice you - bloody, with wounds that should have rolled you off your feet.

- Why are you standing there? - His voice was cold, but wariness lurked in his eyes.

You shrugged.

- It's not fatal.

His gaze slid to the deep cut on your side. The blood flowed in an even, dark line, and only the absence of a grimace of pain proved your words. He didn't believe it at first, but when you looked up at him with a calm, even indifferent gaze, something in his face changed.

Thranduil was an elf who saw everything, felt everything. He felt the rustle of leaves as they fell from the trees. He felt the warmth of the fire, even if he didn't touch it. His world was made of sensations, and you... you were devoid of them.

He couldn't understand that.

- So you don't feel pain. - He'd said it once, watching you bandage a fresh wound on your arm.

You nodded.

- How do you know you're not feeling well?

You hesitated.

- By the blood," you answered simply.

Thranduil stared at you for a long time, too long, as if trying to figure out something impossible.

- It means you could be hurt, but you wouldn't know it.

You nodded again.

- 'It makes you vulnerable.

- It makes me strong,' you parried.

He grinned.

- No. It makes you a mortal who doesn't realize the limits of her body.

You didn't answer, but a strange emotion flared inside. You'd never thought of yourself the way he said.

Thranduil was watching you. You saw it out of the corner of your eye, felt his presence in the shadows of the trees, in the remoteness of the palace corridors. He asked questions no one had ever asked before.

- Are you afraid of death?

- No.

- But if you can't feel pain, then you can't tell when it's time to stop.

- That's right.

- It scares me.

You looked up at him sharply. The king, whose mask of unwavering confidence never fell, was admitting fear?

He stepped closer, slowly, as if he feared breaking the thin line that separated you.

- I don't want you to die.

You smiled.

- 'No one does.

He frowned.

- I want you to live.

Those words penetrated your heart. No one had ever said it to you like that before, with such feeling. People have wondered, feared, but not cared. No one tried to protect you from yourself.

One day he reached out and touched your palm.

- Can you feel it?

You shook your head.

- But you realize I'm there for you?

- Yes.

He squeezed your hand tighter.

- Then you can feel, just differently.

You didn't know what to say.

With him by your side, you began to realize something different. You didn't feel pain, but you felt the warmth of his hands. You didn't feel hurt, but you felt his eyes on you. And for the first time in your life, you wanted to feel pain to see if it was real.

But the pain didn't come.

Only something else came, the feeling that you didn't have to be with him.

didn't have to be the one

he didn't feel. Because he felt for both of them.

You expected it.

Thranduil didn't say anything out loud, but you knew it would happen. When the King of Licholesia made a decision, no one could change his mind. No one, except perhaps time itself.

- You will not go into battle.

His voice was calm, but steel lurked in that calmness.

You froze, clutching the bandaged blade in your hand.

- I have fought before.

- And you won't again.

You gritted your teeth.

- Thranduil, this is not your war.

- This is not your war. - He stepped closer, and you could see the anger glittering in the depths of his eyes, cold and icy as a winter night. - You go into battle without realizing your limits. You could bleed out and not notice.

You clenched your fists.

- I know my limits!

- Lie. - He raised his hand as if about to touch your face, but stopped at the last moment. - You don't even know where your body ends.

You didn't answer.

He took another step forward, and you felt the tension in the room become as palpable as a bell.

- I forbid you.

Silence.

You stared at him, incredulous, irritated, but deep down.... you were afraid.

- You have no right.

- Yes, I do. - His voice was firm. - I am your king.

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to claw at him, make him realize he couldn't decide for you.

But he'd already made up his mind.

You unclenched your fists.

- Is it because you're afraid?

He didn't answer right away. But when he did, there was something different in his words.

- Yes.

You felt the ground slipping away from under your feet.

- If you felt pain, you'd know when to stop. - His voice got quieter, deeper. - And now I have to do it for you.

You turned away.

- You don't understand.

- I do. - Thranduil leaned down to look into your eyes. - You're used to living on the edge. But now you have something to lose.

You didn't know what to say.

You could have thrown yourself into battle, gone against his will, proved something, but... в

this time it was different.

Thranduil wasn't just forbidding.

He was protecting you.

You felt the tension in the air become almost palpable.

Thranduil stood across from you, his gaze piercing you, but not with anger, but with something much deeper. Anxiety. Fear. Something he probably never allowed himself to show.

You wanted to say something, but he didn't give you time.

Warm palms rested on your cheeks, and before you could blink, his lips touched yours.

The kiss was deep, but not desperate. It was firm, but not demanding. It was... protective.

Like he was trying to convey to you through that touch everything he couldn't put into words.

When he pulled away, his forehead remained pressed against yours. He was breathing heavily, as if he had to fight for this moment.

- I know you want to protect people," his voice was quiet, but it was so strong that you felt as if the words were imprinted in the air. - But who will protect you?

You didn't have time to answer.

His hands slid down your back, enclosing you in an embrace. They weren't hard or overbearing. They were strong, secure, like he was trying to keep you safe from the world.

- Except for me," he whispered. - I'm your only defense...

You froze, feeling him press you into him, as if that weren't enough, as if he was afraid you'd disappear into thin air if he loosened his grip.

- I'm afraid... - he breathed out this confession into your hair, so quietly that if you hadn't been so close, you might not have heard it at all. - I don't want to admit it, but I'm afraid I'm going to lose you.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

You're used to fear, but not like this.

You're used to being afraid for others, but not for yourself.

And now, in his arms, you realized - for the first time, someone was afraid for you.

Not because you were weak.

But because you were important to him.

You hugged him back, pulling him closer.

- Then let me stay close.

He

didn't respond with words. He just squeezed you tighter.

[libbymouse]

Hello dear. How are you? I really like Thranduil articles. I wanted to send a request for Thranduil. If you don't want to write, you can ignore it. Yandere/dark Thranduil and female fairy reader. If you don't want to write about yandere and dark. Protectionist or possessive Thranduil and female fairy reader.

Who said I'll let you go?

Sorry for the mistakes ,The page is crashing, so I can't monitor everything.

In those distant times, the forest breathed differently.

The forest was more than just the home of the elves-it was a living thing, ancient, immense, permeated with the breath of the stars and the voices of the rivers. Its roots stretched deeper than mortal shovels could pierce them, and its crowns stretched to the sky, seeming higher than the wildest dreams. The leaves trembled at the slightest whisper of wind, and the shadows playing between the trunks told stories no one remembered.

Here, among the ancient trees, she lived.

A fairy created by the night itself.

She was older than the forest, older than those who called themselves its lords. Born in the mists of dawn, she floated through the centuries, never touching the ground, never leaving a trace. Her hair, woven of moonlight, flowed down her shoulders in thin waterfalls, and her eyes, two reflections of the sky itself, seemed endless.

She was free.

She existed outside of time.

But one day a child caught her attention.

That night, when the stars burned especially bright, she saw him for the first time.

He stood among the trees - small, fragile against the majestic trunks, but not lost.

His silver hair fell over his forehead, and his eyes - large, clear - stared into the darkness as if he were searching for something he didn't know.

He was too young. For mortals, an eternity; for elves, only the beginning of a journey. Five hundred years meant little to them, but he already carried something special. There was a seriousness in him that is rarely seen in children, and a focus that belongs only to those who know the value of solitude.

The fairy slipped between the trees, going unnoticed.

She saw many elves. Their youth was like a flash of light, bright, serene, laughing, playing, dancing among the branches. But this boy was different.

He did not play.

He wasn't laughing.

He just stood there, looking out into the night.

The fairy felt something new stirring inside.

Curiosity.

She didn't immediately dare to speak.

She stared at him for a long time, studying him, memorizing every feature, as if afraid that if she blinked, he would disappear, become just an image in her memory.

And then, almost inaudible, her voice spilled out into the night like a breeze:

- Are you alone?

She saw the boy flinch.

He froze, tensed, but did not run, did not recoil. His body betrayed caution, but there was no fear in his eyes. He wasn't afraid of the forest, the darkness, the shadows, and now he wasn't afraid of her either.

Slowly, he turned around.

Their gazes met.

Eyes shining in the darkness met her own gaze, full of the endless reflections of the night sky.

- I am the forest," her voice was as light as the ringing of dewdrops. - I am the wind. I am the night.

He frowned.

- You speak in riddles.

She laughed, her laughter spilling into the air with a melody that didn't exist in this world.

- It is my nature.

The boy looked at her with intense scrutiny.

He didn't step back, but he didn't step forward either. He just stood there, studying her as one studies a rare bird or an unusual flower.

Finally, he spoke:

- I am Thranduil.

The fairy looked at him for a long, long moment.

- I know," her voice sounded soft, almost caressing.

- You know? - His eyes flashed with distrust.

She took another step forward, letting the light of the moon slip over her skin.

- I've been watching you.

At that moment, the wind stopped.

The world around them slowed, as if listening to their words.

Thranduil did not avert his gaze.

- Why?

She smiled.

- Because you were alone.

They met in the forest.

And the forest has been their world ever since.

- Who are you?" his voice was clear, almost too mature for such a small body.

The fairy smiled.

The fairy did not tell him her name, but Thranduil knew she was always somewhere near. She belonged to no nation, was not an elf, was not a spirit, but her presence was woven into the very air of Licholesia.

At night, he would leave the palace and step onto the path that led deep into the forest. Where the trees were taller than the towers of kings and the moonlight scattered silver dust on the leaves.

And she was waiting for him.

Always.

- You've come again," she laughed as he made his way through the thicket, shaking off his cloak angrily.

- Of course I have! - Thranduil frowned, but then smiled.

She appeared suddenly, appearing as only the wind can - unexpected, light, elusive.

Sometimes she sat on a branch, swinging her leg in the air.

Sometimes she jumped down from a tree right in front of him, scaring him so that he flinched and then chased her through the dark thicket.

Sometimes she just stood there, letting the light of the moon hug her figure.

She was always different, always new, and Thranduil could not predict what she would be like the next time he saw her.

They played.

Thranduil did not know what it meant to be an ordinary child. In the palace he had been taught to be an heir, not a boy, taught to stand up straight, to speak properly, to restrain his emotions.

But around her, he forgot.

She ran barefoot through the meadows, twirling under the light of the stars, taking to the air when the wind was strong enough.

- Catch me, elf! - she shouted, her voice sounding more sonorous than the streams in the mountains.

He ran after her.

Hurried, stumbled, fell, but got up again.

He was fast.

But she was the wind.

She was always one step ahead, and as soon as he reached out his hand, she was already slipping away.

- It's not fair! - he shouted one day, breathing hard.

She laughed, spinning in the air.

- You're just too slow, little elf!

- I'm not little!

He ran up, trying to grab her, but she dodged again.

- Little one!

- You're only a couple centuries older than me!

The fairy grinned.

- You don't realize how much older I am, little one.

He frowned irritably, but there was no anger in his eyes.

She was always teasing him.

But he always came back.

They'd talked.

Not the way he talked to the elves.

Not the way he'd been taught.

He could talk to her about anything.

About the stars he thought shone for him alone.

About the fear of the future that was to be his destiny.

About dreams in which he saw distant lands where there were no borders and no thrones.

- Do you want to be king? - She asked him once, looking up at him from beneath lowered lashes.

Thranduil shrugged his shoulders.

- I don't.

- But you will be.

He looked up at her.

- 'Then I'd like to travel.

- Where to?

- Anywhere you want to go.

She smiled.

- You haven't even seen the world, have you?

- But you have seen it.

The fairy nodded.

- I've seen a lot of things.

Thranduil pressed his lips together.

- Tell me.

She looked at him for a long moment, then began to speak.

About lands that no one knew.

Of rivers where water flowed like molten silver metal.

About mountains that rose above the clouds, about people who walked on sand dunes, about cities where music played in the streets, about places where the night never ended.

He listened to her, holding his breath.

Then he asked:

- Will you show me this?

She smiled sadly.

- Someday.

And Thranduil believed it.

The night was as it always was.

The forest breathed evenly, unhurriedly, like a living thing. The stars trembled in the heights, twitching in time with the wind. The trees bowed their crowns, their shadows lying in thin ribbons on the ground. Everything was as it always was. Everything was as it should have been.

Only she wasn't.

Thranduil stood in the midst of the night forest, listening.

Silence was not uncommon in the forest. Sometimes it was dense, covering everything like a light blanket, letting the earth rest. But this was a different kind of silence. Deaf. Alien.

Something akin to worry appeared in his chest, but he pushed it away immediately.

She could have lingered.

She could have been playing with the wind.

She could have watched him from afar, just teasing him.

Yes, that was her favorite game-she always came unexpectedly, always kept him waiting, always broke the boundaries he tried to draw between her world and his.

But this time it was different.

Thranduil took a step forward. Then another. His light boots made almost no sound as he walked on the soft moss. He passed the tall thickets, pushed the branches apart, but behind them there was only... nothing.

No slight rustle, no shimmering laughter, no bright eyes in the darkness.

He went farther, deeper, to where the night seemed thicker than usual.

The trees stretched upward, their trunks knotted like the wiry arms of old men. They knew more than he did, saw farther than he did, remembered what had been forgotten. He touched them with his palms, feeling the rough bark, hoping that at least one of them would tell him where she was.

But the forest was silent.

The ground was silent.

Nature itself seemed to stand still, refusing to answer.

Thranduil did not remember how much time had passed.

His steps became faster, his movements sharper. Now he was not just walking. He was searching.

The glade where they had danced under the stars. Empty.

The tree where she liked to sit. Empty.

The place where he had once fallen asleep beside her, tired from a long run. Empty.

Every corner of the forest, every familiar path. Everything was the same as before.

Except for her.

Thranduil stopped.

Somewhere in the distance, a night bird cried out. The thin sound echoed through the trees, and in that instant he realized she was gone.

She was gone.

Without a trace.

No word.

No goodbye.

The wind passed between the trees, as if whispering something, but he could no longer make out the words.

How long he stood like that, staring into the darkness, he didn't know.

The night went on as if nothing had happened.

Like he hadn't lost something important.

Like he didn't feel like screaming.

But he didn't scream.

He just put his head down.

And for the first time in his life, he realized what emptiness meant.

The centuries flew by like an autumn wind tearing the golden leaves.

Thranduil lived.

He studied, he fought, he ruled. He was a king, he was a son, he was a husband. He lived through wars and lulls, saw great kingdoms fall and new ones rise.

But one day, on some endless day, he realized he couldn't remember the last time he had laughed.

When he had last waited for night to fall so he could escape into the forest.

When he had last run, not knowing where.

Life twisted into strict lines, cold, hard, unchanging.

Father.

War.

Wife.

Death.

And war again.

Time passed like water, seeping through his fingers, leaving only traces on his skin that no one could see, but which he felt more and more clearly every year.

One day he stood among the ruins.

Among the ashes, among the dead bodies, among the smell of blood that lingered in his lungs.

He didn't know how much time had passed. Maybe a day. Maybe a century.

But suddenly a wind hit his face, and there was something familiar about that wind.

A familiar taste.

A familiar cold.

A familiar whisper.

He froze, listening.

Silence.

But not the silence he was used to.

It was a different silence.

The silence in which her laughter had once dissolved.

And for the first time in years, his memory receded back.

To those nights when the moonlight drew patterns on her skin.

To the days when he'd run after her before he could catch up.

To the moments when he believed she would always be there for him.

He closed his eyes.

And in that instant, the world around him disappeared.

There was no war.

There was no throne.

There was no pain.

There was only the forest.

The forest where her voice

voice.

The forest where he was once just a boy.

The forest where he had lost his first and perhaps only love.

He was alone.

Alone for all eternity.

And now he remembered.

- Well, hello, little prince....

The voice broke the silence, but it was quieter than a whisper of wind. It was light, melodious, stretching like a silver thread, weaving past and present together in an instant.

Thranduil flinched.

Not immediately. His body froze at first, as if his mind refused to recognize that he had indeed heard the voice. That it was not an echo, not an illusion, not one of those distant dreams that haunted him on the deepest, loneliest nights.

But his heart gave him away. It struck too hard, too sharply, tore at his rib cage like a captive beast that had been chained for a long time.

He slowly, almost painfully slowly, lifted his head.

She was there.

Standing there, illuminated by the soft light of the moon, stars tangled in her hair, the night sky reflected in her eyes. The same features, the same subtle curve of her lips, the same strange mixture of mockery and understanding in the corners of her eyes.

Exactly the same.

And yet different at the same time.

A fairy.

Alive.

Real.

Close by.

The air became too thick, too pressing. Thranduil felt his lungs refusing to breathe, his body refusing to move, his mind refusing to believe.

This could not be.

It wasn't supposed to be.

He buried her in his memory.

He'd shut her away in corners of his mind he hadn't looked into in centuries, afraid to find only emptiness there.

He convinced himself that she never existed.

That she was just a childhood plaything, an imaginary spirit of the forest, a ghost of his own heart that had vanished when he became an adult.

But now she stood before him.

What if he was alone again, in a forest full of the shadows of the past?

What if, when he blinked, all he saw was emptiness?

The silence between them was filled with something intangible, ancient, soaked with unspoken words, unspoken confessions.

The fairy took a step forward.

Light, weightless, like the white stags that were rarely shown even to Elven kings.

Thranduil shuddered, not averting his gaze.

If this is a dream...

May it last forever.

If it is an illusion...

Let it swallow him whole.

He could not retreat.

Not now.

Not again.

Her eyes sparkled, picking up the moonlight, and that's when he realized -

She was here.

Real.

In the beginning, it was like old times. They talked night after night, sitting in the shade of the trees or by the fireplace, remembering the past and sharing the present. Thranduil watched her, catching every emotion, every gesture, as if he could not believe she was here, that she would not disappear again. The fairy smiled, told stories, asked about his life. He answered - carefully, unhurriedly, but each time he felt fear rising in him.

He was afraid.

At first it was a subtle fear, hidden beneath the excitement of her return. He was afraid she would leave again. But then the feeling strengthened, grew, and soon tension accompanied every conversation they had. He began to catch her gaze to make sure she was still here. He began to count the hours she spent away from him.

Days passed, and Thranduil realized that her presence was not enough for him. He longed for more.

He did so cautiously at first. The fairy could overlook how the guards became more attentive to her movements, how the doors to the far halls closed at night, how her walks became shorter.

Then he began slowly but surely to adjust things so that she would stay close to him.

- 'You're tired,' he said, taking her hand gently. - Get some rest. You shouldn't go out into the woods alone. It's dangerous out there.

He wasn't lying. But the danger was not in the forest. The danger was in himself.

Thranduil tried to convince himself that he was doing it for her. That he was just protecting her as he should. That he could not lose her again.

But the longer she stayed in his castle, the more he was drawn to her.

Every time she laughed, something painful flared in him.

Every time she got up to leave, something in him screamed.

Once, when the fairy was about to go out into the garden, he stopped her at the door.

- Stay," he said quietly.

She looked up at him with a look of slight surprise.

- I won't go far.

- Stay," he repeated, squeezing her wrist a little harder than he should have.

Her smile faded.

He saw something flash in her eyes. A question? Distrust?

The fairy tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn't let her.

Then she laughed.

- Had the little prince grown up to be possessive?

Her voice was light, mocking, but Thranduil did not answer. He just stared at her.

His silence was unsettling, lingering like a swamp.

The fairy frowned.

- Thranduil...

- You're not leaving.

She tensed, but did not pull away.

- You don't mean that...

- I won't let you disappear again.

His voice was quiet, almost caressing, but there was something in it.

dangerous.

The fairy took a step back.

He wouldn't let her go.

[libbymouse]

Tolerate It | Thranduil

▹ Pairing: Thranduil x Human!Reader

▹ Genre: Angst

▹ Words: ~2k

▹ Summary: A political alliance makes you the new wife of the elven king Thranduil, trapping you in a gilded cage of elven craft.

▹ Notes: I couldn't get this idea out of my head.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The banquet hall of Eryn Galen was buzzing with high energy. 

The lights were bright, the drinks flowing. Each guest was too deep in their cups as the band played jaunty tunes that kept spirits high. You sat at the end of the table, to the direct right of Thranduil, Legolas seated directly across from you to the king's left. 

Everything was beautiful, similar to what you imagined heaven may look like. The celebration had been highly anticipated, the steward meticulously planning for months to ensure the night would be perfect. 

Each guest had dressed to the nines, and you had been no exception. Silks that flowed like a languid river, braids woven throughout your hair, and glittering jewels that rivaled the stars in the sky. You’d felt quite pretty after your handmaidens finished, taking in your appearance with rapt attention. 

Yet as the king - your husband - met with you, he barely paid you more than a glance. Not a single compliment or acknowledgment slipped from his lips, just the stiff offering of his arm and a cold demeanor you’d never been able to break through.

Not even the bitterness of the red wine you drank could ease the pain festering inside you. You glanced at Thranduil, his attention on his steward whispering something in his ear. Regal and commanding, you’d thought marriage to the elven king would be something out of a fairytale. Yet your story became twisted, and instead of a happy ending, you were trapped in a doomed marriage. It was like a wall separated you from him; you’d tirelessly beat against it with a hammer; Thranduil was on the other end, reinforcing the stone. 

You glanced down at your dress, the pale green fabric, Thranduil’s favorite shade. Even still, you were desperate for his validation and approval, like a child tugging at their father’s sleeves. A stray hair fell in front of your face, and you pushed it behind your ear, hands ghosting over your rounded ears. Maybe if you’d been an elf and not a human, he might view you as an equal and not a consolation prize. 

One hand below the table closed into a tight fist while you downed the rest of your wine in one gulp. 

Legolas met your eye from across the table with an almost apologetic grin. You returned it with a tight smile you tried to make pleasant. Legolas knew all too well the neglect his father could inflict, so he often preferred the forests over the palace. There was an understanding that made your pain more bearable. 

The handmaidens you brought from home and your stepson, who was older than your eldest living relatives, were all that kept you from falling into true despair. 

Like clockwork, a servant filled your chalice, and you gladly drank. This wine was sweeter and less sharp than the red you were expecting. Once again, you looked towards Thranduil, no longer speaking with his steward but quietly watching the party play out. You reached out, delicately placing your hand over his, only for his to push it away, not bothering to pay you a glance. 

The blatant rejection stung, always taking up too much space and time. Would Thranduil even notice if you’d stolen away into the night? If you pulled the dagger your marriage embedded in you, breaking free and leaving this miserable life behind. What might it be like to shed the weight of Thranduil’s cold disposition and an overly suspicious, judgmental, elvish kingdom? You’d be free and weightless for the first time in years. 

Yet, just as soon as the fantasies came, they fizzled out with the weight of reality. You had no money of your own, no survival skills, and nowhere to go. If you returned home, your father would ship you back to Thranduil. The dark forests and the creatures that lurked within would kill you. There was nowhere to go. No freedom to be found. 

You didn’t bother hiding the frown on your lips; no one in the room paid you much mind. They looked through you as if you were a phantom that clung to the residence of its former life. How was it possible to be in such a crowded room and yet still be so alone?

"How much longer do you believe this will go on for?"

At some point, Legolas had moved from across the table and was now seated to your left, watching the crowded room with thinly veiled discomfort.

" I hope for not much longer. I've never been amendable to crowds so large as this one."

Legolas laughed, the noise swallowed by the noise of the room. "And yet you are queen; should you not be used to such raucous parties?"

You tilted your glass towards him, a slight quirk on your lips.

"I could say the same about you, prince."

He nodded in silent agreement, quickly drinking from his glass, which you noticed was filled with water and not wine.

"I get to run off to the forest. How do you deal with all of this?" The smile on your face fell as your eyes dimmed, a reminder of your current standing.

"No one pays me mind. A blessing, I suppose." You attempted to laugh it off, but you couldn't keep the somberness from your tone. You were trapped in a gilded cage, a prisoner in your own home.

"Then I suppose I'll need to take more respites in the castle."

"You don't need--"

"I insist; what kind of friend would I be if I didn't check on your wellbeing."

So warm and inviting, it made you wonder how Legolas could be the son of Thranduil; he must take after his mother. You wondered, if only for a moment, how different your life might be if you'd been married to Legolas instead of his father. He was the more age appropriate option and if he didn't love you he'd at least respect you. But those thoughts were pointless; you'd been married to Thranduil and not Legolas.

"I think I'm technically your stepmother."

"But you feel more like a friend."

You didn't bother to argue, placing down your wine chalice to take a cool water drink. It was refreshing, soothing the burn the wine had created.

"Then I am glad we are friends."

Before he could respond, a member of his guard called his name. The elf enthusiastically waved him over, yelling something in elvish too slurred for you to understand.

Legolas shook his head, refusing the call, but you placed a single hand on his shoulder.

"Go, enjoy the night. I'll be fine over here."

He tried to discern if you were being dishonest but found nothing but sincerity. Just because you were miserable didn't mean he should be. With a single nod, Legolas left the table to join the group forming in the corner of the room.

Left in the chaos with no one to speak with, you picked up the chalice with wine. At some point during your conversation, Thranduil wandered off, talking with some of the higher-ranking nobles.

Thickly, you swallowed, hiding your face as you slowly drank from your glass.

When would this torment end?

---

The night dragged on at an impossibly slow speed. Your sorrow brought time to a near halt. By the time the crowd began to thin and Thranduil had escorted you back to your shared chambers, you’d forgotten how many glasses of wine you consumed. You managed to keep your composure and pride, not letting you show how light and lethargic the alcohol made you. 

Now, you sat before your vanity, preparing for bed as did Thranduil. There were so many pins placed in your hair that you struggled to pull them out without ripping your hair. Your head throbbed, and your frustration was building; you just wanted sleep. A cold hand pushed yours away, tangling in your hair. With practiced and fluid movements, Thranduil began to take down your hair. He was quick and efficient, his hands in your hair almost soothing.

The action was oddly domestic, and it caused a pang of pain in your chest. If the gods had been fair enough to bless you with a husband who loved you, this would be a nightly occurrence, not a rare show of care. 

“There’s too many pins in your hair.” Always critical; nothing would ever be good enough. 

A beat of silence passed; did he even want you to speak?

“It was a special occasion; I wanted something different done to my hair.” 

Clink. He placed the last pin on the table and stepped away from you.

“It was a bit gauche.”

Expression tight, you stared at your reflection, focused on your dark hair that tangled too quickly and your nearly pallid complexion. Gauche and graceless, the elves would never view you as their own. 

“I thought it looked nice.” 

His answer was to silently turn his back to you, moving to the other end of the room. The silence was maddening. Your attention never moved from your reflection, lips downturned as your eyes hardened. Pain turned to rage, pity becoming an all-consuming fire that threatened to turn all in your wake to ash. 

“Why marry me?” Your tone was harsh, firmer than you could remember speaking.

Thranduil let out a sigh, seemingly annoyed at your mere presence. Normally, his disregard made you shrink, and maybe it was the wine, but it only made you straighten your back, meeting his eyes through his reflection in your mirror. 

“To seal an alliance with your kingdom, you know this.” He was always condescending; he was so much older and wiser. 

“I understand political marriages, but why marry me? You’ve managed political alliances without offering your hand in marriage; you even have a son to marry off. So why--” You slowly stood from your chair, turning to face him directly. “-marry me?”

“Would you have preferred to marry Legolas?” 

“I’d prefer you answer my question. So I’ll ask once more: why marry me?” You strode towards him, eyes narrowed.

“To ensure an alliance with your family.”

“That is it? For no reason other than that.”

Thranduil looked down at you, his lips tight.

“Did you hope to hear differently?” He tilted his head, eyes ice cold and bitter. “Ours was a marriage of convenience, not love.”

You clenched your jaw, swallowing thickly. All of it for nothing, a marriage he knew would never succeed. He may have been content with a loveless life after the passing of his wife, but he knowingly dragged you into it. To turn your life into a void--

You wanted to scream, to yell obscenities at him, to spit all the vile venom his careless behavior filled you with. But it would do no good. An emotional breakdown wouldn’t mend your rift; there was no foundation of respect to rebuild. It was just endless nothingness. Standing at the precipice, you would simply fall into a never-ending pit. 

“I see.”

A hint of shock made his eyes widen a fraction, expecting an outburst like the one you fantasized about. Humans weren’t known for patience, yet it wasn’t patience that kept you silent. It was dejection; you'd given up hope of anything better than what you had.

You dared not move, not even blink until Thranduil turned towards the door.

“I think I will ensure the keep is secured. Goodnight.” 

Head turned, yet your eyes remained where he once stood; you remained silent. The door opened and quietly shut behind his retreating form. Only then did you exhale the breath you’d been holding. 

The bed was plush under your body, and the comforter was like a cloud, yet you’d never felt more miserable. You turned your back to the side Thranduil would take when he returned to the chambers. Eyes shut, soothed by the darkness, you dreamed of something more.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Tags: @jmablurry | @lunatichaotiche | @aearonnin | @emiliessketches | @vibratingbones | @moony-artnstuff | @ranhanabi777 | @kenobiguacamole | @ceinelee | @thranduil | @samnblack | @abbiesthings | @Strangebananabatranch | @bitter--fruit | @keijibum | @lifestylesleep | @themerriweathermage | @im-a-muggleborn | @sweetheart-syndrome | @boyruins | @AwkwardBecomesYou | @delyeceamaitare

[libbymouse]

Happiness Will Come To You.

[libbymouse]

Listen to Your Instructors (Part 2)

Pairing: Bi!Loki x Bi!Bucky Barnes x Female, Inexperienced Reader

Kinks: MMF Threesome. NSFW 18+. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 3.1K

A/N: Thank you to my beta princess @whisperlullaby

The following day in training, you’re glad that the soreness wasn’t obvious from last night's activities. It only showed when you went to kick another trainee during sparring and you winced as they blocked you. You were sure no one caught it, but towards the end of the session Bucky called you over to one side while Loki supervised the rest of the recruits.

“Is there a problem, Sergeant?” you ask nervously. 

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Kick!” he holds his hands up and you react as trained and deliver with only a small wince. Bucky’s eyes narrow and he holds his hands up again, “Kick!”

You do as told with a small grunt of pain. Bucky’s stare is making you uneasy and you ask, “Is everything okay?”

“Why don’t we go into the athletic trainer’s room and let me take a look?” Bucky points to the open door. 

“Uh, sure, but I thought the trainer was out today.”

“I know what I’m doing, recruit.”

“Yes, sir,” you answer meekly and go through the door. 

“Lay face down on the table,” Bucky instructs. 

Butterflies erupt in your stomach as you comply with his instruction. You lick your lips as you tense with anticipation. When the warmth of his right hand presses gently into the small of your back you let out a small gasp. 

“Did that hurt?”

“No, sorry,” your mind is running wild wondering if Bucky was looking at you as a recruit or as a woman. A woman whose virginity he had taken the night before. A woman he had said he wanted more of. Or was that something all men said? 

“No need to apologize,” Bucky smirks above you as he slides both his hands to knead at your hips. “Any pain here?”

“N-no,” you whisper. God, if this is purely professional you might die. Your body is on fire and he’s barely touched you. 

“Speak up.”

“No,” you say louder. 

“Here?” his hands land on your calves and massage gently. 

“No,” you wonder why he skipped your thighs. Maybe this wasn’t a way to get you alone. 

“Here?” Bucky’s hands caress the backs of your thighs and you will yourself not to squirm under his touch. 

“No,” your voice trembles slightly at the intimate touch. He lingers a little longer than necessary or was that your imagination?

“Get on your hands and knees.”

You comply without a word. Your breath is ragged and you try desperately to get your heart to calm down. Bucky grabs your thighs and moves you so your knees are almost at the end of the table. 

“Good, straighten your left leg. Good, now your right. Any pain?”

“No, sir.”

Bucky moves to stand between your legs and places his hands on your hips again, “No pain in this area?”

“No.”

“How about here?” His thumbs trace the line between your leg and ass and then a little lower. 

You take a shuddering breath, “No, sir.”

“So, all the soreness must be stemming from here,” Bucky licks his lips as he traces two fingers along your covered slit. “Have you been doing any strenuous exercise lately?”

“Bucky!” you groan. 

“Shouldn’t that be Sergeant, recruit?” Bucky teases. 

“If it was I don’t think you’d be touching me like that,” you manage the small bit of sass. 

Bucky chuckles at your response, “That’s true, doll. Fuck, I’ve been hiding my hard-on remembering last night while watching you all morning.”

“You- you have?” you ask, you were soaked already yourself. Every time you had caught Bucky or Loki’s eye that morning, the pleasure of the night before had flooded back.

“Yes. Gotta get my mouth on you, doll,” Bucky says as he pulls your leggings down bringing a surprised gasp from you. His tongue is on you a second later. He licks a stripe from your clit to your cunt and then presses his tongue as deep as he can. He fucks you with his tongue, grabbing your hips to move you against him. 

“Bucky!” you gasp as pleasure ripples through you. “Is here- oh, fuck- a good idea?”

“Don’t give a fuck,” Bucky growls before going right back to what he was doing. 

The door suddenly opens, surprising both of you as Loki enters. You quickly jump down from the table and pull your leggings up. 

“I locked that,” Bucky says to you, as if defending himself.

“As if that could keep me out,” Loki laughs. “I knew what you were up to as soon as you called our little pet away. I just wish I was the one to do it. The other recruits are gone. Shall we take this somewhere a little less conspicuous?”

Bucky looks at you waiting for your answer. You look between him and Loki, “Uh, yeah. W-would you like to come to my room again? I, uh, I need a shower anyway.”

“Hmm, I think my room would be a better idea, pet. I have a nice big bed and a much larger shower than in the recruits’ quarters. Come,” Loki holds out a hand to you. 

You take Loki’s hand and turn back, “Bucky?”

Bucky smirks, “Don’t worry, doll. I’m not gonna let him have all the fun.”

The three of you make your way discreetly to Loki’s room. You survey it quickly. The room is much nicer than yours and has an opulence befitting the god. Loki follows your eyes to his very large bed and smirks, “You can test it out after our shower, pet.”

“It’ll definitely give us more room to move than mine did,” you laugh. 

“I thought we made it work pretty well, doll,” Bucky pulls your back against him. “You don’t regret it, do you?”

“Having my first time with two of the hottest men to ever walk the planet? Absolutely not,” you wink. 

“I’m a god,” Loki props your chin up with his long fingers and rubs his thumb over your bottom lip. 

Looking at him with doe eyes, you suck the tip of his thumb before replying, “That you are, my prince.”

Loki’s eyes smolder as he backs you into the bathroom, ripping your clothes off in the process. Bucky turns the shower on and undresses himself while watching you with a smirk. Loki has you naked and in a liplock while quickly discarding his own clothes. His cock is already at attention and Bucky can tell he’s planning on having first dibs tonight. As soon as the water is warm enough for you, Loki guides you into it and strokes your skin while watching the water cascade over your body. His hand wanders between your legs to find you thoroughly wet between Bucky’s earlier ministrations and the anticipation of what you knew these two would do to you. 

A wicked smile spreads across Loki’s face as he backs you to the shower wall and picks you up as if you weigh nothing. Despite his manhandling, he enters you slowly, cognizant that you may be sore. You let out a long moan as he presses in, enjoying each gentle motion he makes. 

“That’s it, pet. Let me hear you,” Loki encourages as his hips work faster. 

“Oh, fuck. It’s so good,” you whimper.

Bucky had sat back watching but seeing your face contorting in pleasure and Loki’s hips pulling such sweet sounds, he had maxed out his patience. Lubing his stiff cock, he steps into the shower and presses against Loki’s back. Bucky puts his lips against Loki’s ear, “You're hogging our little doll here, mischief. Guess I’ll just have to fuck you.” He nips Loki’s shoulder as he positions himself. 

“By all means, Sergeant. I don’t think our pet wil mind- Fuck!” Loki grunts as Bucky enters him. 

“You don’t mind, do you, doll?” Bucky grins as he steadily fucks Loki, pushing him into you with each thrust. 

“No, oh, fuck,” you whine. Your orgasm building with each motion. You were even more turned on realizing that the two men were lovers as well. There was no doubting the fact when it was obvious that Bucky knew Loki’s body well. He had reached around to flick at Loki’s nipples, pulling a moan from the god’s lips before moving to yours. He played with you both. His hands wander as his hips work. He kisses you over Loki’s shoulder, nips at Loki’s neck and encourages you to play with the god. 

“Clench around him. Let him feel you. He likes being the center of attention. Don’t ya, mischief?” Bucky teases.

“As much as you enjoy hiding in the shadows,” Loki sasses as he licks a stripe up your neck making you clench again. “Keep doing that, pet, and I won’t last long.”

“Are you talking to me or her?” Bucky smirks as he thrusts even deeper. 

“Ah! She’s pet, elskling,” Loki says with a smile for you. 

“Elskling?” Bucky chuckles. 

“A norse word,” Loki smirks over his shoulder. 

“Meaning?” You can’t help asking, drawing both their attention. 

“Darling,” Loki growls. 

“I’m sorry,” your eyes wide with fear that butting into their banter had caused annoyance. 

“No, pet,” Loki laughs lightly at your confusion, “Elskling means darling. And there is no need to apologize. I want to hear that beautiful voice.”

“I’m touched, mischief,” Bucky kisses Loki’s neck. “He can be sweet, can’t he, doll?” 

“Enough talk. Fuck us like you mean it,” Loki demands.

“Please,” you whimper. Your cunt is weeping and clenching around Loki, begging for more. 

Bucky pulls almost completely out and plunges back into Loki, causing him to buck into you even harder. Crying out, you hold on tighter while arching your back. Bucky grabs your head to pull you into a kiss as he thrusts. Loki presses against you tighter and sucks on the sensitive spot on your neck.

Bucky caresses and encourages you both to let go. “Come on, doll. Come all around Loki’s cock. He’s not gonna let go until you do and I’m not gonna until you both have. Don’t hold us up. We’ve been sporting hard-ons for you since we started with the recruits this morning. Hell, I don’t think mine’s gone down since you wrapped your sweet lips around it the first time.”

“I…I…fuck, I am,” you can barely get the words out as your body spasms.

“Good girl, good fucking girl,” Bucky groans as he makes quick, short strokes, knowing Loki must be close. “Your turn, mischief.”

“Please, my prince,” you whimper.

“Fuck, it’s good. This sweet cunt is squeezing me,” Loki moans as he loses himself inside you. 

Bucky grunts, biting down on Loki’s shoulder and staring into your eyes as he comes hard. You comb your fingers through his hair while watching him. You are still incredibly turned on and when Loki pulls out of you, you whimper at the loss. 

“Did we hurt you, pet?” Loki checks in. 

“No, not at all,” you reassure him. 

“Good,” Bucky says as he extricates himself from Loki. He pulls you into the spray of the shower and chuckles as he sees the marks on your back. “You can see the pattern of the tiles in your skin,” he says, ghosting his lips over your shoulder. 

“Worth it,” you smile at him. 

“Let’s get cleaned up,” Loki says as he takes up the soap.

You take turns covering each other in suds, washing hair, and touching as much as possible. It was thrilling, intimate, and all new for you. You kept reminding yourself that this was just a situationship. An opportunity to learn your body and the pleasure you could give and receive. With the way they treated you, you could find yourself having feelings you shouldn’t. You would let yourself care for them but you had to be careful. 

While these reminders had run through your head, your two lovers had rinsed the last of the suds from your bodies. Loki guides you out of the shower and a green glimmer shines over you both. You find yourself completely dry and smile at the display of magic. 

“That’s-” you begin but are cut off. 

“Really, mischief?” Bucky stands just behind you still thoroughly wet. 

“I thought you hated magic, Sergeant,” Loki smirks. 

Seeing an opportunity, you grab a towel and turn to Bucky, “Well, if Loki won’t help, I certainly can.” You begin drying his chest while looking at him with wide eyes. 

Bucky’s eyes slip past you for a quick, gloating look at Loki before returning to you, “Such a sweet, little doll. I definitely need a thorough toweling off-”

Bucky shimmers green and stands before you completely dry. Your lips twist and you bite down on your lip to keep from laughing out loud as a small feeling of triumph at having played the god overtook you. Bucky narrows his eyes as he looks over at Loki. 

“Well, that chore is done,” Loki says as he steps towards you, hand outstretched to pull you to him. Bucky was having none of it and swooped in to throw you over his shoulder.

“Oh! Bucky! What?” You cry as he strides to the door. 

“He’s had enough of your attention, doll. I’m feeling a little neglected,” Bucky teases as he takes a playful bite out of your hip. 

“Oh! Yes, sir. I apolog-IZE!” You squeal the last syllable as you're thrown on the bed. Looking up at him with wide eyes, you scoot yourself back and ask breathlessly, “How can I make it up to you?”

“You’re going to sit on my face while you suck my cock,” Bucky crawls towards you. 

“Uh…oh, y-yes, sir,” you stammer as any bravado you had previously gained deserted you. Your lack of experience rushed back into your mind making you incredibly nervous at the foreign request. “I’m not sure what, how, um…”

“You’ve scared her, elskling,” Loki’s voice trills.

“It’s okay, doll. Come here,” Bucky lays down and positions you to straddle his face but loses his own composure and dives in without thought. His tongue finds that sensitive nub immediately making you cry out and buck against his face. He clamps his arms around your thighs to hold you in place, losing himself completely in your taste. 

Loki sniggers as he steps closer, “See how desirable you are, pet? He’s already lost in you.” He wraps a hand around the back of your neck and watches as your face contorts in pleasure. “I’ll help you. Lean down,” Loki guides you forward. He strokes Bucky’s cock and holds it in position, “Now wrap those sweet lips around him. Can you do it, pet? Are you going to be able to suck him off while he’s pleasuring you? Or is it too much for you?”

“I can take it,” you whisper before taking Bucky in your mouth. You swirl your tongue around his head and try to ignore the pleasure that rolls through you. Deciding to concentrate on Bucky’s pleasure, you begin sucking him in earnest. 

“Such a brave girl. So, you think you can take it? You think you can make him come for you? Can you ignore all those dirty things he’s doing to you and make him come before you do? Tell me, pet.” Loki pulls you away for just a moment. 

“I can do it,” you say before redoubling your efforts. 

Loki snickers before whispering, “But can you do it with two of us pleasuring you?”

You can’t think of what he means. You have to concentrate on sucking Bucky’s cock. God, he was so thick and your tongue was loving the feel of his silky length, but he was eating you for all you were worth. Pleasure rolled through you and no amount of squirming was bringing any freedom or relief from the onslaught. You lost your concentration momentarily when you felt a second set of hands grasp your ass but got it back quickly when you realized it was Loki trying to distract you from your dictate. It was when his absolutely wicked tongue buried itself in your ass that you lost it entirely. You choke on Bucky’s cock and let out a sinful moan around it. Fuck, the god was trying to break you and he had found a tantilizing, new sensation to do it with. You had never imagined such a depraved act that could bring so much pleasure and certainly never experienced it. 

Your pussy begins to flutter, a sure sign that an orgasm was impending and you couldn’t let it happen. You tighten your muscles, willing yourself to concentrate on Bucky’s cock and ignore the mind-blowing act that the two were performing on you. Balancing yourself carefully, you reach a hand to cup Bucky’s balls, rolling them gently in your hand. You concentrate your efforts on bringing him as much pleasure as possible. You employ your lips, tongue, and even graze your teeth lightly to excite him. You know you’re getting somewhere when he lets out a groan against your clit. Gently, you maneuver a finger to massage his prostate and are rewarded by Bucky’s hips jerking. You repeat the motion in time with each slide down his cock and it doesn’t take many more strokes of your tongue before he growls against you. You feel the spurts down your throat and have to fight your gag reflex from the angle but manage to successfully swallow. 

Your concentration on Bucky’s cock is interrupted when a smack lands on your ass. 

“Good girl. Your turn,” Loki growls before resuming his duties. He and Bucky both work their tongues over you. You grip Bucky, grounding yourself as they take you higher. The pleasure that you had managed to push to the back of your mind came back to the forefront in full force. Your cunt ached with need and began fluttering almost immediately. When you came, you screamed. There was no way you could stop yourself. Your whole body spasmed and you writhed as wave after wave hit you. As soon as it began to recede, another wave would hit. It just kept going and as it crested once again, you gave a hoarse cry and blacked out. 

You came to a few seconds later but the two men were hovering over you with worried looks. Loki’s cool hand was caressing your forehead.

“Holy fuck,” you whispered, looking up at the two with a smile. “That, wow.” You blink a few times, take a deep breath, and manage to concentrate on them. You reach for Loki. “I believe it’s your turn, my prince.”

They both chuckle at your enthusiasm. 

“I think it’s time for a break, doll. You need some water and food,” Bucky says, kissing you on the cheek. 

“You more than proved yourself, pet. We know you can take it but it’s also our job to take good care of you. I’ll order some food,” Loki helps you sit up and hands you a bottle of water. 

“Pizza?” You ask hopefully. 

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Bucky agrees.

“Midgardians,” Loki says with a roll of his eyes.

Updates and taglist: Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction​​ and turn on notifications for updates. All series and new stories will be reblogged to it. You will only receive notifications when a new part or story is out! Nothing else will be blogged to the page. I can’t thank you enough for your support!

[libbymouse]

Habits and Kinks

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader     Word Count: 817

Warnings: Smut - NSFW 18+ Only!

Prompt:   Oct 25 - Thigh Riding

A/N: This is for HBC’s Kinktober! @the-ce-horniest-book-club / Divider by @whimsicalrogers​

The common room was crowded with the Avengers, their significant others, and close friends. You and Steve seemed to be the only ones without family or a date. You had made the rounds, met everyone, made nice, and now you just wanted to sit down with your drink to relax for a while. Unfortunately, every seat in the place was taken. As you looked over everyone, you noticed Steve sitting in the overstuffed chair. He has a habit of rubbing his legs when he’s uncomfortable. You could get lost watching his hands wandering over his thighs and wishing they were wandering over yours. 

You and he flirted a good bit, but neither had ever made a move. Seeing everyone with their dates made you reconsider your cowardice on that score. Your eyes flickered up from where his hands rubbed over his thighs to his eyes to find him watching you with a smirk. You smiled at him and made your way over. You surprise him by sitting in his lap. 

“Sorry, seems to be no other seats available.” You smirk. 

Keep reading

[libbymouse]

Can I straddle Henry Holmes’ wide hips under that tree and just have him take me right there in the open in the middle of a field...? Please. I’ll do anything -🐺

My hand slipped, and that’s not even the Sherlock that’s waiting for you today but I am a kind demon.

Warnings: Smut, exhibition and such! Cockwarming, Henry’s tree trunks.

At the park.

Sherlock was leaning against the thick tree bark, calmly reading a book. The air was fresh with grass, damp moss and that animalistic musk that was him, the civilised beast. It toyed with your senses, making you feel suddenly flushed as you sat right next to him.

Sucking in the air, you absentmindedly played with your locks. Crickets and forest critters chanted around with the bliss of noon while the essence of Sherlock threatened to claim you, reducing you to a wicked, wanting thing.

"You're nervous..." his baritone nearly took you by surprise, making you jump in your seat.

"Why don't you come here and sit on top of me?"

Your heart dropped to your gut. Sherlock was ever so stoic, whenever he pulled something as audacious as this it made your skin jitter.

"We're outside".

He gazed at you as you made an excuse, giving you an unyielding smirk and darted his tongue between his teeth. Moving like a big cat, Sherlock inched his lips to your ear and groaned, "sit on top of me and slip your undergarments aside, I want to feel your warm cunt around me."

As you shivered, his hand gripped your waist and hauled you to him. You stuttered, looking around with fright as Sherlock made you straddle his solid thighs.

"There's my good girl," he hummed, fumbling with his belt. The sharp sound of fabric tearing followed, and you made to cover your mouth with shame to muffle a gasp.

"Be quiet" he warned and grinned at you, pressing his lips as he lined his hard, hefty cock at your dripping entrance "don't want someone to hear what a dirty harlot you are, do you now?"

With one agonisingly slow stroke, he filled you completely, his meaty girth, pulsating hot into your squeezing cunt. A moan escaped you, involuntarily. Sherlock was too big, forcing you to take him all at once and then remaining still while your organs throbbed together angrily.

Giving a mischievous smirk, he picked the book up and began and read out loud, bottoming out inside you the entire while. One hand ran down your back, and every few second you felt the spasm of his shaft between your desperate walls.

"Now I want you to remain still," he whispered "and don't move. Like I said, I just want to feel you".

A sweet young couple and an old lady with a Schnauzer passed the pebbled path that was laid in front of you, giving the two of you glares. This lewd behaviour was enough to make them curl their nose with disapproval. If only they knew how deep he was inside you. 

*

More is coming 😈😈😈

[libbymouse]

Listen to Your Intructors

Pairing: Loki x Bucky Barnes x Female, Virgin Reader

Kinks: Multiple Partners, Light bondage, BDSM, Praise, Degradation. NSFW 18+. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 2850 (not beta read!)

For my lovely, darling friend, @fandomsaremylifeline​ I love you and I hope you enjoy!

Bucky and Loki are watching over the class of new recruits when they both pickup on a couple of them having a conversation nearby. 

“I was thinking about asking her out,” the male says. 

The female scoffs in derision, “You don’t want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“She’s still got her V card. Total prude.”

“At her age? Wow. Must be something wrong there,” he laughs. 

“Right?” She laughs as they walk off. 

A little while later, you had just finished your circuit and spotted the recruit that had been flirting with you a good bit, “Hey. How’d training go today?”

Keep reading

[libbymouse]

Winter’s Warmth (Bucky x Reader)

FANDOM: MARVEL MCU

  PAIRING: BUCKY BARNES X READER 

  WARNINGS: SMUT AND NO PLOT, SLIGHTLY SUBMISSIVE BUCKY? TOUCH STARVED BUCKY, DRY HUMPING  

 A/N - This isn’t even a prompt, it’s just a by product of my trashy brain. I’m not making a series out of this but there may be some more connected one-shots to make sure Bucky keeps getting some action. 

“You’re shivering.”

Bucky spoke into the silence, making you jump slightly. You were on alert, aware that the peaceful quiet could literally be blown to smithereens at any second if the Hydra base three miles away caught wind of your presence. So when his gravelly voice pierced the night, albeit softly, you were startled.

Keep reading

[libbymouse]

I’m so sorry, but this just looks like a rip from a rap video.

[libbymouse]

Her beauty is unmatched

[libbymouse]

ALPHA ARI ALPHA ARI ALPHA ARI ALPHA ARI ALPHA ARIIIIIIIII

Alpha Ari who always said he didn't need an omega, didn't want to be saddled with anyone, didn't want to be bothered. Until he saw you. And suddenly he has this dark, innate urge to claim you, make you his in every way possible

Alpha Ari who wants to leave his mark on your pretty little neck so everyone can see that you belong to him.

Alpha Ari who can't stop thinking about you, who knows you're too sweet, too innocent for him but he can't stop fucking his fist whenever he closes his eyes and pictures your pretty face. Can't stop him from wanting you.

Alpha Ari who knows he's so much bigger than you, who knows you're not going to be able to take him.

Alpha Ari who knows he's going to make it fit.

Alpha Ari who's going to watch you struggle to take every last inch until you feel like you're being split in two.

Alpha Ari who's going to make you come on his cock over and over and over until you're cockdrunk and delirious.

Alpha Ari who's going to build your dream home with his bare hands, who's going to protect and provide for you.

Alpha Ari give you whatever you need as long as you give him whatever he wants. You.

That Alpha Ari?