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real-jane · 27 days ago

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🥰🥰🥰 so glad you liked it!!!

the lengths i'd go to

[detective!bucky barnes x reader]

summary: detective barnes and his partner are the star team at precinct 75. one threat could tear it all apart.

warnings: idiots in love. mention of canon level violence/wounds. author stretches her knowledge of law and order to the limits.

a/n: thank you to @missraion for the prompt idea: "I love them but don’t see those a lot, a detective!au with bucky who’s secretely in love with his partner? plenty of banter and longing looks and they’ve got each other’s back kinda vibe, y’know"

enjoy!

John Walker lays dead at her feet, and that’s the beginning and the end of Bucky’s relief when he arrives on the scene.

The block is crawling with officers and agents evacuating the residents of the apartment building adjoining the alley in which Walker’s body lies, and the lights flashing against brick create dancing spots behind his eyelids every time he blinks. Bucky watches his partner as the paramedics wrap her shoulder. She winces. He inhales too hard and chokes on cigarette smoke, forcing Sam to pause mid-sentence to clap him on the back.

“--she sustained three shots, two were blocked by her vest. The third is lodged in her shoulder but it’s not serious. Small caliber like the rest, it was a through-and-through.”

Bucky grunts, glancing at the notebook Sam holds out, but his words are mangled. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her shake hands with the medic and make her way towards them. Without greeting her, he holds out his hand. She takes the half-burnt cigarette from him, and inhales deeply.

“How’d you take him down?” he asks.

“Slit his throat.” Smoke escapes from between her lips at her admission. Her eyelids are heavy, and she’s clearly upright by the grace of adrenaline alone. “Can I bribe you to give me a lift to the hospital?”

“What’s that ambulance for, huh?” Sam asks.

She rolls her eyes. “You payin’?

Bucky inclines his head toward his black unmarked cruiser and looks to Sam. “Can you spare me?”

Sam nods. “Go. I’ll bring you up to speed tomorrow.”

He outpaces her by enough distance that he has the air conditioning blasting at arctic levels by the time she slides into the divot she’s worn into the seat after five years of partnership. The remains of Bucky’s cigarette get flicked from between her fingers out the window as he pulls away from the crime scene.

“You slit his throat,” Bucky murmurs without realizing he’s speaking out loud. His mind swirls as he dodges through the thick afternoon traffic.

She snorts. “Sheer dumb luck.” He can feel her gaze on the side of his face but Bucky can’t bring himself to look at her. “He garotted himself on my cufflink.”

“Jesus.”

“You took your time.”

Bucky tightens his fingers on the steering wheel. “Contrary to what you might think, I can’t teleport, and my partner didn’t tell me she was pursuing a lead on our case.”

“Karli should’ve been alone!” she huffs. “We had no reason to believe he’d be there. It was supposed to be a quick conversation to clarify her interview from last week.”

It’s been like this, lately–the instant, fiery arguments the moment they’re alone in the car. Amongst their compatriots, they’re both professional, but every time he turns around, she does something else to push his buttons… to the point where Bucky’s hackles rise the second he smells her perfume every morning. He’s preemptively angry with her for her inevitable recklessness, her flippancy, her impulsive choices which steal his sanity. This feels particularly cutting, now that her normally pristine button-up is soaked through the shoulder with her ruddy blood.

“Kid–you didn’t even tell me that much,” Bucky growls. “What the hell were you doing? If I hadn’t forced you to share your damn location with me on your phone when we first got partnered, who knows how things would’ve gone down today! I called for backup from the Jersey Turnpike! It’s bad form, and it’s your own fault you got shot. You’re lucky I’m not makin’ you walk to the hospital.”

“Jesus–I fucked up! Is that what you want to hear?”

“Explain why you walked into that apartment with your vest on if you thought it was gonna be as simple as talkin’ to Morgenthau.”

She sighs. “I always wear it when I’m going in alone.”

“Bullshit.”

“Shit, Barnes! You don’t fucking know how often I wear my vest or why, okay? How would you know if I was wearing it? You’ve never seen me in the field without my jacket.”

“I cut your fucking shirt off the first time you were shot on duty! I know your body. Like it or not. And lying to me about it is definitely not gonna make me less pissed off!”

“You’re being an asshole right now.”

“You’re damned right.” He screeches into the parking lot of the hospital and pulls up under the ER overhang. “Get out of my fucking car.”

“I hate you.”

“Real mature, detective.”

Bucky stares straight ahead as she gets out of the car, but he can’t help but flinch when she slams the door shut. Only then does he turn his head… she’s watching him. He forces himself to keep her gaze, unblinking. Her brows furrow in a combination of pain and fury, surely mirroring his own scowling expression. Slowly, she raises her hand and raps her knuckles on the door. Against his better judgment, Bucky depresses the button to roll down the passenger window.

“What?” he seethes.

“One thing.”

He raises an eyebrow and waits for her to go on. She leans down so she can see him better, and shakes her head.

“Are you pissed that I didn’t tell you? Or are you mad you couldn’t kill him yourself?” She shrugs, and pats the window frame. Her lips press into a thin line as she straightens. “Because you sure as hell don’t seem to give a shit that I survived.” Then, she’s gone, striding towards the hospital like she didn’t take a slug to the shoulder less than an hour prior.

Bucky can’t do anything but stare after her, because for the last few hours, he has done nothing but drive like hell to reach her, and pray to a god he doesn’t even believe in that she comes out of the encounter unscathed. Please God, don’t let her die. Let me get to her. This is not her fucking time. The moment the APB went out alerting all personnel that Walker had been spotted, Bucky bargained with dead gods that his partner wasn’t dumb enough to try to find him by herself–especially once her location pinged to the very neighborhood Walker typically haunted. The fact that she had merely been struck once by a bullet from the gun which was responsible for seven deaths around Brooklyn was a miracle. Not enough to make Bucky a religious man, but enough to remind him that his partner was no more answerable to him than she was dear. They were investigative partners in an unmarked cruiser during the day, and then Bucky went home alone at night, to a cat who fancied herself some kind of deity.

Realizing how he felt about his partner of five years had been the worst day of his adult life, prior to this one, when the abject terror of losing said woman felt not only possible, but inevitable. Which case would it be? What kind of bullet?

Bucky rips open the glove compartment for a fix, but his faithful box of smokes is empty. Damn her. It was her turn to buy, and instead, she went and confronted the most notorious criminal they’d ever dealt with… alone. He throws the empty box against the windshield and let an angry scream loose.

–

He stares at the locator app well into the evening to make sure her little blue dot hasn’t budged from the hospital. It doesn’t. When he wakes up again to his blaring alarm, there is one change to her location: he can’t see it anymore. This user has not shared their location with you.

–

“You look like shit.”

“You’re no looker yourself, Wilson.” Bucky rucks up his sleeves and rubs his face. He didn’t shave away yesterday’s scruff so his chin is prickly. When he glances at the preternaturally handsome sergeant, he grimaces. “Nevermind. Fuckin’ walking GQ cover model.”

Sam snorts. “I feel the affection, Barnes, thank you.” He slaps a folder down on Bucky’s desk and crosses his arms. “You ever read a file that made your skin crawl? Because that is gonna give you permanent goose bumps.”

Bucky frowns. “What is this?”

“That is what your partner found in Karli Morgenthau’s apartment yesterday.”

Bucky stares at the nondescript folder for a second. “This is why she was there?”

“Just open it.”

He does. His chair clatters to the ground as he stands in shock, leaning over the photograph–clearly taken through a window from a long distance–of his mother, Winnie Barnes, standing in her kitchen with his little sister Rebecca. The next photo is of his father watering his beloved herb garden, and then there’s one of Bucky, sitting beside his best friend Steve at the hole-in-the-wall dive they frequent every Saturday night. There’s codes to his building notated beside extensive details about his schedule, his family and their corresponding addresses…

“She had good reason for not telling you what she was doing,” Sam murmurs. Then, he holds out a sheet of paper, printed with a text conversation between Sam and her. One line is highlighted.

don’t care if he’s pissed. w wants b dead. k says hes going for winnie tonight.

Bucky tosses the paper down and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus.”

“I knew she was going in alone, Buck.” Sam leans against his desk and crosses his arms. “The second she sent that text, I dispatched two cars to watch your parents’ house. They’re safe.”

“Steve?”

“Still in Alaska with Nat.”

“Thank god. Fuck.” Bucky dares to look at Sam, then. “Should’ve told me.”

“We didn’t know the extent of his plans. The only reason she even thought to visit Karli is because her boyfriend Lemar blabbed to one of our informants at Howlers that The Cowardly Killer wanted to go after bigger fish, like good ole’ Detective Barnes of the 75th precinct.”

“...Oh. That’s why you sent me out of town.”

“Yes. And this morning… Lemar Hoskins was apprehended trying to flee on a 5 am flight to Bermuda, with his girlfriend in tow, and the exact gun we’ve been looking for to connect the other murders.” Sam perches on the corner of Bucky’s desk as he slumps back into his desk chair in shock. “It’s over, man.”

The case they pursued for months, it’s just… over. Simple as that.

Bucky doesn’t remember walking out of the station, only that he isn’t in any condition to drive, so he comes to consciousness again clutching a pole on the subway. He doesn’t need to think about where he’s going because it’s ingrained in his muscles. The skies open up for a much-needed midsummer shower almost as soon as he emerges from the underground, but he doesn’t care.

He’s soaking when her door swings open. She stares at him in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, reasonably.

Bucky steps forward until they’re toe-to-toe, and eases the door handle from her grip. He shuts the thing with a soft kick behind himself, never taking his eyes off of hers. Where to even begin?

She’s in her police-issued sweats; he has an identical pair back home, but he’s certain he doesn’t look quite so… lovely, in them. She looks down in embarrassment, or something like it. He springs forward to catch her chin, tipping her head up so he can search her eyes for the end of the right thread. The dark circles beneath them do the trick.

“You okay?” he rasps.

“Didn’t sleep. My shoulder is killing me, and I keep feeling his blood seeping through my fingers. I, uh…” she clears her throat and steps out of his grasp. “Tried to keep him from bleeding out, actually. But Karli was just screaming and I was so shocked. One minute I have him on the ground in a headlock, and then–yeah. Try closing your eyes and not seeing that all night long.”

“You revoked your location.”

“You still found me, so I don’t know what good it did. I was pissed. I’m pissed, still. If I didn’t go in there, I might’ve been speaking to your corpse right about now.”

“After yesterday, I thought you might enjoy that.”

“Only if I’m the one to kill you, Barnes.” She smiles. Just one corner of her soft lips turns up, but it’s enough to say I forgive you. But he hasn’t earned it, yet. She does that. Forgives him too easily, for his moods and temper… for forcing protocol when it’s not necessary, for kicking her out of his car at the entrance to the Emergency Room instead of walking her inside to make sure she is alright. She has every right to be angry.

But he doesn’t.

Her phone alarm sounds, so she hastily turns it off. “It’s time for me to take my pain stuff, you mind?”

“Go on.”

“You want a beer?”

“You have beer?” he chuckles, knowing full well that she prefers to drink a hearty glass of red wine or straight-up bourbon.

“That’s the only thing in my fridge right now,” she admits. “It’s still there from game night last month.”

“I’ll have one. But I’ll get it, you take your happy pills.”

She disappears into her bedroom and Bucky finds the beer he brought to her house the last time they were on good terms… What went wrong? He cracks open the can and takes a sip of the citrusy brew. It goes down easy, but he holds the cold aluminum against his cheek. He’s flushed, he’s still wet–Bucky fishes her hand towel from its home draped over the oven handle, and rubs the thing over his hair aggressively. She clears her throat. Bucky wheels around.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

She takes in his rumpled hair, which sticks out with the same tumult inside that very head, and she covers a laugh behind her fingers. Gently, she tugs the towel out of his hands, and dabs at his temple, where a drop of water streaks downward. Her fingers calm the fury of his hair as best as they can.

“Should you be standing?” he asks gently.

“No,” she laughs. “But you know me.”

“I do.”

“Stubborn.”

“Dangerously so.” He raises both brows to dare her to challenge the observation, but she nods.

“Especially when my partner is in danger.”

“Yeah… Sam showed me the file.”

She looks away. “Buck, that was just confirmation of what I’ve known for weeks.”

“What–?”

“Four, approximately. I have been racing against time to keep you from being his next victim.”

Bucky can’t speak, he’s so shocked. She points to the refrigerator, where a magnet holds up a nondescript envelope. He sets his beer down and plucks the thing from beneath the tiny photo of The Big Apple. Inside the envelope, printed in aggressive scrawl on yellow legal paper, is a note. It reads:

The White Wolf of Brooklyn can’t find me. What makes you think YOU can little girl? When I put him down like a dog, you’ll be sorry. Your precious detective. Maybe I’ll take him through your eastern window the next time he’s here. You’re nothing. He’s big game.

“I found that taped to my front door the morning after game night,” she murmurs. “I’ve been trying so hard to outpace him, while keeping you safe. I should’ve told you but I knew he had eyes on me enough to have observed us–”

“You’ve been picking fights,” he realizes.

She bites her lip. “To keep you safe.”

“It’s had me real fucked up, kid.” Bucky rubs his chin. “I got whiplash from you yankin’ me around.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I figured that if you knew, you would’ve tried to goad Walker into a confrontation and by then?” She shrugs. “He could’ve picked off everyone you love.”

Bucky glares at her. “What about you, huh?” He tosses the letter onto the counter and pins her to the wall, arms on either side of her shoulders. She winces and he cups her cheek in apology, without even thinking. As she freezes under his touch, Bucky swallows hard… and mirrors the gesture with his other hand, so he cradles her face in his hands.

“What the fuck would you expect me to do if he took you?” he whispers.

“He’d only do that to hurt you, and if we weren’t getting along, then… I wasn’t going to be used against you.”

“No–goddammit, he could’ve killed you today. How do you think I would’ve gone on with my life? Huh?” He thumbs her cheeks with a gentleness that opposes the angry desperation in his voice.

Her eyes search his sadly. “It’s a risk we take in our line of work, Buck.”

“Not needlessly. Doll–shit, on a good day? I can sense where you are at a scene without even looking at ya. We’re the dream team. When we’re solid, we’re untouchable. How many times have you feared for your life in the five damn years we’ve been partners?”

“I dunno. One?”

He shakes her gently. “Exactly. Exactly!”

“If you were in my shoes, what would you have done? I’ve spent every day of the last four weeks paranoid about you getting fed up with my attitude and showing up here to confront me, only for John Walker to make good on his promise. It was better for me to risk our partnership than your life.”

He levels his eyes with hers and huffs. “This partnership is my life.”

Her jaw opens and shuts. Her eyes flick to his lips. “You don’t mean that.”

“Like hell I don’t.”

Bucky is acutely aware that she’s nursing a gunshot wound, but he nevertheless captures her gasp of surprise between his lips and kisses her. It may be abrupt, but it isn’t hasty. He’s thought about this so many times that it feels like coming home. He is too worried about her injury to devour her the way he wants to, so he presses his lips to the corners of her mouth.

“If you’re not alive, I’ve got nothing,” he says fiercely. “That’s it.”

She groans. “Buck–”

“No. You should’ve told me what you knew.”

“You saved me, in the end.” She touches his jaw. “You turned me on to french cuffs in the first place.”

He wrinkles his nose. “You’re shitting me.”

“Seriously. I was wearing the cuff links you gave me for Christmas–”

“Secret Santa,” he corrects her with a soft, mischievous smile.

“Fine. The cuff links from my Secret Santa shaped like daggers were my saving grace. Even when he doesn’t know it, he has my back.”

Bucky shuts his eyes in relief, resting his forehead against hers. “I missed you.”

“I’ve cried in the bathroom three times this week, just from the hurt on your face. I’m so sorry.”

“Shhh. It’s over.” He pulls her against his chest gently. “You should be laying down, huh?”

“I’m in so much pain,” she whimpers.

Bucky sighs. “Doll–”

“Don’t start. It was important we have this conversation. But now that we have–can you be extremely kind and help me get comfortable?”

“What do you need?”

“I’d kill for a cigarette.”

“Fat chance,” he chuckles. “Besides, it’s your turn to buy our pack.”

“We should quit.”

“Not today.”

Twenty minutes later, she is propped on her bed in an elaborate pillow lounge, which enables her to recline as comfortably as one can when one’s been shot in the shoulder. He’s packed bags of ice around her bandages, ordered from the pizza shop down the street… but she’s asleep before it comes. Bucky doesn’t press her about reinstating his location privileges. Doesn’t really need to, considering that he posts up in the wingback chair beside her bed.

At some point, they’ll have to talk more about why it feels so good to kiss, because Bucky’s not about to sacrifice that great privilege. And there is the question of what to tell the chief, and when, but she’ll be on desk duty while she heals, anyway. For now… she’s safe, and she snores, and both of those facts are enough to ease his heart.

Part 2

–

thank you for reading! :)

bucky taglist: @peterhollandkait @nahthanks @dracris33 @honeywithemoney @dracosluvbot

my masterlist - my bucky barnes masterlist

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real-jane · 27 days ago

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Thank you!! 🥰

what i wouldn't do

[detective!bucky barnes x reader]

summary: it's been a week since she was shot. They're desperate for each other.

warnings: idiots in love. smut, bi-bucky rep if you squint.

a/n: part 2! sequel to the lengths i'd go to

enjoy!

“Detective Dollface?”

The courier’s call fills the precinct, clear as a bell, and for her part, Detective Dollface slumps forward in mortification… even as she raises her good hand to indicate where she sits. The bicycle delivery guy drops a shopping bag containing two takeout boxes on her desk, and hands her a sweating cup the size of her head, containing just enough soda to drown in if the embarrassment becomes too much. She nods at the man, who waits expectantly. He doesn’t leave until she hands him the only cash she has on her–a twenty dollar bill Bucky gave her that morning, so she could pick up some smokes.

Serves him right, she thinks. Embarrass the shit outta me? No fix.

Except she is dying for a cigarette, and he did send her favorite food… and it’s not like the whole precinct didn’t catch on real quick to them being partners with a capital P, so why let their amused snickers get to her? She holds her middle finger in the air as a ‘get fucked’ to anyone within the general radius, and digs into the meal.

‘I’m going to murder you,’ she texts him, between disintegrating one-handed bites of taco.

It takes almost no time at all to receive his reply:

DICKHEAD: knife between the eyes or smothering me in my sleep?

‘Something painful and embarrassing.’

DICKHEAD: i love you too babydoll. take your pain pills.

‘I’m fine.’

DICKHEAD: youre stabby

‘You like it.’

DICKHEAD: yes i do

‘I can feed myself, you know.’

DICKHEAD: its 2 pm and you havent eaten since i force fed you a muffin this morning

‘You don’t know that.’

DICKHEAD: I have eyes everywhere

‘Coffee is all I need.’

DICKHEAD: you have anxiety

‘Do you wanna come over tonight?’

DICKHEAD: you missing me?

‘Planning on smothering you in your sleep.’

DICKHEAD: be there at seven

She smiles against her will, staring down at her screen as those three little dots pop up beside his name and disappear again several times, before he settles on a simple heart emoji. He’s told her that he loves her at least fifteen times a day since he came over in a rainstorm to make sure she was alright. She never would’ve pegged him for a simp, but then again… she’s made the mistake of underestimating him before. He is obsessed with her, to a fault. He went home four nights that week and spent each one on the phone with her, telling her how much he wished he hadn’t. She pretends to be annoyed, but deep down, she is thrilled to be obsessed over–especially by someone who she knows has very few people he holds dear, by design.

To be counted among them is to be special in a way which can’t be measured out in heart emojis or takeout boxes.

She wants to do something for him which will surprise him, something even better than ordering a taco delivery or realizing after five years that the person you call ‘partner’ has become the very textbook definition of the term. Rendering Bucky speechless is difficult. The White Wolf of Brooklyn is too controlled for that. But to see his expression soften into quiet awe would surely be something.

With the swiftness of a bicycle courier absconding with a $20 tip, she dials the one person who knows Bucky better than she does.

“Becs. Hi. I need a favor.”

Bucky shows up promptly at 6:55 pm, wearing his police-issue sweats and a smile which rivals a smitten teenager. It’s a simple surprise, but it’s absolutely worth it to see the look on his face when he walks into her apartment, using his key… to discover takeout from his favorite Chinese restaurant sprawled across the length of the counter, and a bottle of scotch nearly impossible to find unless you have a hookup–like a sister with a golden retriever bartender for an ex. Bucky guesses right away that his sister was involved in the procurement of said treat. He’s giddy at the thought of Y/n and Becca in cahoots, especially on his behalf.

He happily digs into the veritable feast, while trading Y/n for bites of her orange chicken, and trying to kiss her every time it looks like she left sauce behind on her bottom lip (and she suspects he makes up several such instances just for the excuse to do so again).

But there’s something not quite extraordinary enough about the surprise. She isn’t satisfied. He’s excited, but he’s not boggled. No bafflement to be found. In fact, she is the one who is caught off-guard when he pulls a bag of bath salts out from under the sink, and some kind of oil which is sure to drive her to the limit of sanity while she’s still under strict orders to keep her shoulder stabilized.

Speaking of which… she can’t help the whine which escapes as he helps free her of the sling she’s worn all day. Bucky makes an involuntary noise of his own, some sort of grunt from the deep, and begins to shuck his own clothes. He won’t listen to one protestation when he unclothes her, too. Bucky’s evening surprises quickly become eclipsed by his own concern for her.

He sits back against the tile, cradling her between his legs amongst a host of pillowy bubbles. She shivers from the disparity between the warm water and the ice on her shoulder (which he retrieved from her freezer ‘Buck-ass naked’ as she deemed him), gripping Bucky’s arm until her muscles finally relax around her wound. He smells like his cologne and a bit of sweat, and the leather conditioner they use to preserve the cruiser seats. Not like she wants to wash that away… but they have been apart all day, and what better way to be skin-to-skin when she can’t jump him yet?

He kisses her neck, just below her ear; she hums.

“I love you,” she breathes. “But I’m so annoyed with you.”

Bucky chuckles warmly. “Mmm. Do ya?”

“You’re a dick, but I do.”

“Glad I can be my true self with you,” he says. “What’s on your mind?”

She sighs. “We can’t be partners if we’re together.”

“Yeah.” He noses her cheek when she lays her head back against his shoulder.

“I’m starting to wonder if I only do this to be close to you, Buck. The thought of riding shotgun with anyone else has me feeling like Tom Hanks’ dumb dog sidekick. I’m taking so long to heal. By the time I get cleared to go back out in the field, you’ll have some other partnership and that’ll be the end.”

“Babydoll,” he soothes. “It’s been a week, barely. It takes a while to heal a gunshot. You’re not Wolverine.”

“…who?”

“Hugh Jackman with the claws and sideburns.”

“Oh. Would you still be into me if I was?”

“If you’re still you, but also somehow Hugh Jackman? Yes. Without a doubt.”

“You contain multitudes.”

“Would you rather pretend like we don’t wanna jump each other in the hot, not West Side Story way?”

“Be cool, boy.”

He shakes with silent laughter. “If I have to go back to pretending like you don’t turn me on when you call in an APB, I might commit an atrocity.”

“Socks with sandals?”

“At the very least.”

“Do you ever think about how things would’ve been different? If you didn’t get in the wrong cruiser.”

It was how they got paired.

A call went out, all available officers responded in kind. Bucky wound up peeling out of the station parking lot with a fresh faced rookie as a copilot. But it was that instant magic, where they just clicked without even knowing each other’s names. It wasn’t until she pressed the suspect belly-first over the hood of their cruiser that Bucky held out his hand to introduce himself.

Bucky tosses the baggie which used to contain ice onto the rug just outside the bath.

“I was meant to meet you. And keep you safe, and fed. And when you can jab me square in the chest with this healed arm, I’ll know it’s safe to make you feel good in other ways. And if I can’t fuck you as my partner on the force, then I guess I’ll have to keep more boxers in your intimates drawer and spend my nights making it up to you.”

She chokes back a whine of arousal. “…you probably could now. If you were really careful.”

“No ma’am.”

She scoffs. “You really mean that.”

“I still win, whether or not we get to work together. Or fuck.”

“I find it hard to believe that you’re so sanguine about that particular activity being limited.”

“I didn’t say that,” he chuckles, shifting to deemphasize her effect on him… as if she hasn’t already clocked how his muscles react to their proximity. “You’ve had my balls in an iron vice for years."

“Poor baby.”

His laughter warms her cheek. “We gotta get out. It’s time for your meds.”

She snuggles closer to him as best as she can, making sure their legs are good and intertwined. “How’d you like sharing a car with Barton?”

“...Are you ignoring me?”

“I’m comfortable. Don’t you want me to be comfy, Barnes?” She nuzzles the nearest available pec.

“It was fine,” Bucky sighs. “He thinks I should reach out to the 84th and transfer. Then we can both keep our positions. What do you think about that?”

“There is no solution in which we get to stay partners, huh.”

“Not unless you wanna pretend like you haven’t seen me without pants on.”

She shivers, because she can feel the way his cock twitches at the base of her spine in acknowledgment of how much he wants her. “Buck–”

“Babydoll.” He tucks his nose into the crook of her neck until she squirms.

“You either gotta get out, or you gotta touch me.” She cannot ignore the prickle of arousal which has infiltrated her senses any longer.

“What’re you gonna do, masterbate while I put the leftovers in the fridge?” he whispers.

“Yes.”

Bucky stays her good hand as it creeps down her stomach and she swears she hears his heart begin to race. In his grip, her veins jump at the wrist. “Doll–the water’s cold.” He says it like an oath of devotion to her. Like he’s trying to talk himself out of it, and not her. “I’m–you’ll pop your stitches,” he groans. “God. I am not a strong man. Please don’t ask me to do this.” His hand flattens hers against the swell of her soft belly. Even so, his tongue finds the pulse point behind her jaw.

There’s that awe she wanted to hear from him. Bafflement.

“Don’t,” she breathes. “Just hold me while I do. Keep me steady.”

“Okay. Okay. God–”

“You’re an atheist.” She pries her fingers free from his grip, forcing his hand to retreat towards her hip. His nails are closely-trimmed, and still she feels the blunt bite of his fingertips into her skin as he holds on for dear life.

“I worship you, doll.” Bucky can’t help but roll his hips into her ass and they both groan.

A zing of pain through her shoulder is not enough to deter her from finding her swollen clit, even as she nestles her ass cheeks back against his lap. She almost doesn’t want to touch that little bundle of nerves and bring herself relief. This wanting, this desire for him–it has been her constant so long that it feels like comfort. The awareness of his skin and what it might feel like against hers–when she’s wet, and wanting him… it’s real, and more heady than any single tryst she’s experienced prior to now. Even knowing that she could hurt herself–it makes it feel special. I’ll touch myself with your oversight, because you’ll keep me from the worst of it… because if I don’t, it will end us both. It really might. Not giving in to some shared bliss. What would they put on her tombstone?

He narrates her pleasure in subtle catches of his breath, watching her middle finger float the nerves of her clit in soft circles. His vision is distorted through a soapy iridescent film, but his imagination is wild–it must be, the way he huffs to see her elbow straighten and wrist bend. To test the addition of one finger into her heat–

“Reach into the drawer by your head,” she breathes. “Fucking water is making me squeaky clean, can’t stay slick–lube, Bucky, the gray bottle.” Y/n giggles when he yanks open said drawer after a moment of stunned silence. He cradles said bottle in one hand, and he won’t relinquish it when she wiggles her fingers.

“I–I’ll do it.”

“I thought I was too injured–”

“I won’t hurt you. I couldn’t–” he flicks open the cap of the bottle– “and I’ll just touch you. Just like you wanted.”

He’s right. It’s what she wants. Those fingers, which she’s watched wrap around a steering wheel until his knuckles strain. Touching her, working her to an orgasm she’s been waiting on for five years. So she takes the bottle from him, and turns his palm upwards, so she can squirt a dollop of the silicone lubricant into his hand. She scoops the clear gel and presses their fingertips together.

“The water won’t wash this away without soap,” she explains. When he doesn’t reply, she turns her head so she can make eye contact. She shivers at the look on his face–determined, and delirious. His lips worry the corner of her mouth as she brings his fingers to her folds.

“Orgasms are good for pain,” he mutters.

Bucky has a reputation around the station. Nobody has ever looked her in the eye and said “I know what Barnes’ fingers feel like,” but plenty of women giggle a little too much in his presence. Try as she might, Y/n can’t muster one tiny giggle when the pad of his calloused middle finger slips over her clit. He nips at her good shoulder, choking back the joy of finally feeling her. For her part, Y/n can’t breathe. Not when he’s testing the limits of her pain, while simultaneously teasing her inner folds.

“Are you gonna put it in, or what?” she gasps. Bucky gives her mound a soft tap, making water ripple around her hips.

“Your sexy talk needs some rehearsal,” he says. “This isn’t an assignment, I’m here because I wanna be, so I will take–” kiss, kiss behind her jaw– “as long as I goddamn want. Might drain this bottle just working you up to my fingers, doll.”

“Better not… it’s fucking expensive.”

“If we don’t drop into a lower tax bracket because of all the lube we’re buying, we’re not doing it enough.”

“You’re not doing it at all, you’re–oh, I hate you,” she moans, ready to weep at the feeling of his finger dipping into her heat slowly.

“Sure you do.” Bucky braces her closer to his chest with his free arm, doing his level best to keep her from arching into his touch and yet doing his best to send her over the edge anyway.

“Hate you so much.”

“How much?” He coaxes her until she can take a second finger and then proves it to her, despite the huff of worry when she feels him doing so.

“So much that I forget how much–Bucky, god.” Her knees shake as she approaches release.

“Tell me you love me.”

“Make me.”

He lets the heel of his hand rock over her clit to take that challenge on. “How about now?”

She ventures a glance up at him, which is a mistake–his pupils are blown wide, and he’s watching every subtle shift on her face as if he could sustain himself on her expressions alone. “You do this with all the girls?” Her words come out clipped.

“You want me to give you my history while I’m fingering you?”

“Five. I’ve had five partners. Two one night stands. Haven’t had sex in so long that I’m surprised I remember how to do it.”

“I’m gonna hurt your feelings,” He warns. Bucky slows down his ministrations, and Y/n feels panic begin to rise in her chest. “This ain’t when we should be talking about it.”

“You didn’t sleep with someone this week–”

“No! No, I’m not a piece of shit,” he sighs. He struggles with himself just long enough that the water being cold comes back into their awareness, and they both shiver. Bucky kisses her temple and pulls his fingers from her. Y/n grabs his wrist.

“What?”

He looks at her like he wants to cry. “On your birthday, alright? I went home with a chick from the bar.”

She blinks. “...you took a girl home from my birthday thing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Steve met me after.”

“Oh. At Stan’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. And… you met a girl there, and you took her home.”

“No–I went to hers. It didn’t go so good, but… it was recent, and I–I definitely did it to stop thinkin’ about you.”

“Didn’t go good how?”

“I fucking hate this conversation–”

“Buck.”

“I panicked, okay? I freaked out. Couldn’t stop sweating, didn’t want to look at her. Wanted to get sick when she kissed me. So I left before things got too hot and heavy.”

“Did she at least suck your dick?” Y/n asks softly. The smile at her lips makes Bucky flush crimson. He doesn’t say anything, but he nods once. “Thanks for telling me, dickhead. Would ya please, please, please get back to fucking me with your fingers so good, my stitches pop?”

“That was good, baby, very sexy.” Bucky cups her cheek. “I know I have you now, but I didn’t for a long time. I did lots of stupid shit to try to be okay with it. Even if it doesn’t bother you? I hate that I did it, alright? Just let me feel like a fool about it.”

“Hey. I love you. Yeah? If that was gonna change my mind, I wouldn’t be worthy of you.”

“...you really want an orgasm, don't ya?”

“Desperately,” she giggles.

“You get romantic when you’re horny.”

“Is that so?”

“Remember that New Year’s Eve we were stuck on patrol and you let me kiss you at midnight, and then you told me I was ‘a nice guy’ and ‘you like working with me’?”

“God,” she laughs. “I was trying to get you to kiss me again!”

“What?? It absolutely killed my boner. No guy likes to be called ‘nice’, not ones raised in Brooklyn anyway.”

“But you are, baby,” she says, nipping his chin.

“What is nice, anyway? Tell me I’m really strong or something.”

“That does it for you?”

“How did we get here–doll, let me get you out of the bath, okay? We’ll revisit this another time.”

“James, either you finger me in this bath or on my bed. Only ‘nice’ guys walk away from a horny woman without making her come.”

“I ain’t a nice guy, as you know–” Bucky scrambles out of the bath and then lifts Y/n out, too. He manages to wrap her in a towel and baby her shoulder, all the way to her room, leaving a trail of drips in his wake. He lays her down on the covers gently, but she winces as she lays back on her pillows. Bucky freezes.

“What was that?” he murmurs.

She shakes her head frantically. “I’m horny, as established–”

“That was your bad face. Doll–” He squares his hands on his hips, erection and fervor be damned.

“Bucky. I got shot. I’m never completely pain-free!”

“All I want is to touch you, you know that. But–sweets, I don’t think tonight is the night.”

She frowns. “I hate when you’re logical.” The small smile which pulls at her lips has him smirking back at her.

“I’ll lend you my sweats and we’ll watch a movie, huh? Almost as good as an orgasm.”

“What will you wear?”

Y/n does a second round of icing her incredibly sore shoulder sitting next to Bucky on the sofa, surrounded in the comforting scent of his cologne in his sweats… while he recites every word of ‘The Princess Bride’, wearing only a pair of clean boxers (printed with penguins, inexplicably) and one of her zip-ups straining around his biceps. It’s just as intimate as sex, she thinks. Maybe moreso. He’s not thinking about performing, or making her feel good, he’s just reciting all of the romantic hero’s lines into her temple and occasionally feeding her popcorn, in between sips of whiskey.

He is a nice guy, even though he hates the word. It’s part of his niceness–that designation being too amorphous, too static. Bucky is a man of action, and when it comes to her… he defaults to kindness and honesty. He’s silly and emotional and far too concerned about ‘protocol’, but that’s about as nice as a guy can get.

Bucky jumps up to fetch her pain pills before she can even ask.

thank you for reading! :)

bucky barnes tag list: @peterhollandkait @honeywithemoney @nahthanks @dracris33 @dracosluvbot @searchf0rtheskyline @goldylions @eloiseishere

my masterlist - my bucky barnes masterlist

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real-jane · 1 month ago

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hi, sorry, I just wanted to ask, and this is prolly going to sound super dumb, are authors chill with people commenting on their old fanfics and stuff?

just want to make sure that I'm not inadvertently being annoying

I believe I speak for most authors when I say they’ll never be annoyed by any positive comments from their readers

authors, reblog if you love receiving new comments on your old works

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real-jane · 1 month ago

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Glennon Doyle, Untamed

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real-jane · 1 month ago

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alina starkov ▪ we do our best. we try. and usually, it makes no difference at all.

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real-jane · 1 month ago

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🥰🥰🥰🥰

Do you have any recommendations for more Bucky fics? I love your style so I figure you’d know good ones. A lot of people write him as a dark dom Daddy and while it’s not wrong it’s just not how I imagine him. Thanks in advance. After resisting for 10+ years Thunderbolts has deposited me on the simp wagon.

hihi

tysmm! i haven't actucally had the chance to watch thunderbolts*. i'm living that poor student life so I'll probably wait until it's out on streaming and leech off someones disney+ lol. but you already knowww i'm gonna be writing for those guys.

anyway i used to have a crazy line up of recs but they're on another account that i don't have access to rahh. i haven't really been reading bucky fics recently (shock horror). instead I'll just tag below some people i've been recommended / i know are writing some fun stuff! you'll have to go digging through their masterlists to find what you want exactly, but these guys all have fun aus, or non dark/dom!bucky content. i haven't read all of these but word of mouth says they're amazing writers <3 a few of these guys are my moots too. hi guys

@marvelstoriesepic / by beloved i do need to gush about her a second. so many amazing oneshots/drabbles. she has an awesome series too. she also has a fic rec account that has a fuck ton of recs you could also check out / @vunblr / @ellemj / @aquaticmercy / @mrsbuckybarnes1917 / @mandoalorian / @mrs-elsie-barnes / @daydreamgoddess14 / @kinanabinks / @navybrat817 / @elixirfromthestars / @azriona (ao3) / @bcksbarnes / @mercurial-chuckles / @fawniswriting / @the-voice-beckons-below / @writing-for-marvel

if any of my followers have my recs drop em in the comments/reblogs! thanks <3

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real-jane · 2 months ago

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How Sebastian Stan Survived Communism and Became Hollywood’s Most Daring Shape-Shifter

So you need somebody who can play the Winter Soldier, Trump, and Tommy Lee? We’ve got the guy.

Sebastian Stan, who can currently be seen in Marvel’s Thunderbolts*, photographed in February in Palmdale, California. Jacket by Prada; vintage T-shirt from Stock Vintage.PHOTOGRAPH BY NORMAN JEAN ROY, STYLED BY EDWARD BOWLEG III.

The sun is going down fast, and Sebastian Stan is trying to get inside a locked Romanian church. This windblown Monday in late February would have been his late father’s 70th birthday, and before the day is gone, he is determined to light a candle and say a prayer in the old man’s memory at a place that had meaning for them both. Stan was born and raised in Romania, where faith and superstition became rooted together for him. “Whenever I’m in a church, I have to go like this three times,” he says, making the sign of the cross with his right hand. “I have to do it. And I have to do it three times before I get on a plane.”

Just before we arrived at this Southern California church in pursuit of the sacred, Stan was indulging the profane. Is there another way to describe an encounter with a remote-controlled talking penis? The actor is based in New York, so when he visits LA, as he’s doing now to attend the Academy Awards, he has a full to-do list. Today, that includes a visit to the makeup studio Autonomous FX, which won an Emmy for transforming Stan and Lily James into Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson for the Hulu series Pam & Tommy. The whole day is a microcosm of what has established Stan as one of the more daring and endearing actors working today. He thinks deeply but has a wild side too.

We’ll get back to the robo-penis later.

Jacket by Dior Men; belt by Artemas Quibble; vintage T-shirt from Stock Vintage; vintage pants from Front General Store.PHOTOGRAPH BY NORMAN JEAN ROY, STYLED BY EDWARD BOWLEG III.

It’s getting late, and Stan has to hurry through rush-hour traffic to get right with God for his father’s birthday. The Biserica Ortodoxă Română Sfânta Treime (or Holy Trinity Romanian Orthodox Church) that he wants to visit to light the tribute to his father is meaningful to the Romanian immigrants who founded it, but it’s no soaring cathedral. It’s tiny, a single-story white stucco structure with a squat steeple that’s hidden behind much taller trees. Across the street is the headquarters of the Bilt-Well Roofing company, which is a comparatively much bigger operation.

Stan left Romania more than three decades ago, but it’s still a core part of him. So is the uncertainty of growing up in a place where the government dominated and demoralized its own citizens—which makes him especially attuned to authoritarianism in his adopted country of the United States. His old accent is gone, of course. Few who have seen him onscreen as the Winter Soldier in a decade and a half of Marvel movies—including the upcoming outcast team-up adventure Thunderbolts*—could find a trace of it. Stan’s character of Bucky Barnes is as all-American as his closest friend, Captain America. The character was a Brooklyn native, but Stan took on a neighboring Queens inflection for another famous (or infamous) performance, playing young Donald Trump in the scathing true-life drama The Apprentice. The role earned him both a best-actor Oscar nomination this year and the enduring rage of a vengeful, unchecked president.

Suit by Emporio Armani; shirt by Giorgio Armani; necklace and watch by Cartier. PHOTOGRAPH BY NORMAN JEAN ROY, STYLED BY EDWARD BOWLEG III.

New faces and new voices were exactly what drew Stan to acting in high school. He moved to the US in the 1990s, and—as an immigrant kid still struggling to adapt to the language and culture—it was a lot more fun to be Bum Number Two in a production of Little Shop of Horrors than it was to be himself. “I just remember how fun it was to try to change everything,” he says. Being onstage turned a shy kid into a scene-stealing extrovert—and he was good at it. His mother sent him to summer theater camp not far from their new home just outside New York City, and by the end of high school, he was being cast as the lead in Cyrano de Bergerac. He was a good-looking kid, but he still loved hiding his face beneath Cyrano’s oversized nose. “You’re dressing up, you’re putting on fake beards, you’re walking differently, you’re changing,” he tells me. “You take big swings. You take bigger swings than you do when you’re a young actor coming to LA to go on pilot season auditions and they try to cast you as yourself—and you’re only allowed to play yourself.”

“SEBASTIAN HAS ALWAYS BEEN REALLY FEARLESS,” SAYS CHRIS EVANS. “YOU CAN SEE THAT IN HIS CHOICES. HE TAKES BIG SWINGS.”

Stan prefers to push himself to the background. He is not an oversharer. He’ll talk about characters or stunts or the meaning he sees in a particular movie or TV show, but while fans know every detail about the lives of other performers they adore, Stan has built a following while keeping the specifics of his own life somewhat obscure. The pilgrimage to light a candle for his dad is something he would ordinarily have done by himself. But Stan agreed to share something of himself for this story, in defiance of the actorly part of his personality that wishes when you looked at him, you’d see someone else.

He pulls on the handle of Holy Trinity’s main doorway. It doesn’t budge. “Doesn’t look very open,” he says. He’s not ready to give up. He walks around the church’s property and finds an older man sweeping up outside the congregation’s neighboring all-purpose hall.

Stan opens his arms and addresses him with a traditional Romanian greeting of respect: “Sărut mâna…”

I kiss your hand.

Coat by Miu Miu; belt by Artemas Quibble; necklace and watch by Cartier; vintage pants by Carhartt from Front General Store.PHOTOGRAPH BY NORMAN JEAN ROY, STYLED BY EDWARD BOWLEG III.

A week later, Stan is wearing a Prada tuxedo. It’s the night of the Academy Awards at the Vanity Fair Oscar Party, and instead of trying to win over a skeptical church janitor, he’s trying to reassure his fellow actors and filmmakers that he is just fine, despite losing best actor to Adrien Brody earlier in the evening. (The VF Oscar Party is off-the-record, but Stan gave us permission to set the scene.) Most well-wishers now come to him with condolences, but he didn’t expect to win, and in some ways he may have avoided a bigger headache.

Trump has made political retribution a hallmark of his new term in the White House, and he was enraged by the sheer fact of The Apprentice’s existence. The movie, written by veteran journalist and Vanity Fair special correspondent Gabriel Sherman, depicts Trump in the 1970s as a needy wannabe mogul, eager to escape the shadow of his powerful father and being taught by Roy Cohn (Jeremy Strong) that underhanded tactics are a shortcut to success. When the movie was released last October, a month before the election, the once and future president unloaded on it via Truth Social, calling it “a cheap, defamatory, and politically disgusting hatchet job,” and adding: “So sad that HUMAN SCUM, like the people involved in this hopefully unsuccessful enterprise, are allowed to say and do whatever they want.”

It’s unlikely that Trump had actually seen the movie at that point, but Stan has little doubt that he’s watched it since. “I would put money down he’s seen it 100 fucking times, of course, because he’s a narcissist,” Stan told me the previous week. “And I bet you there’s certain things he likes about it.” Such as? “How he looked,” Stan replies with a smile.

Pants by Brunello Cucinelli; vintage T-shirt and boots from Stock Vintage. PHOTOGRAPH BY NORMAN JEAN ROY, STYLED BY EDWARD BOWLEG III.

He is too modest to say it directly, but he’s more handsome than Trump ever was, even with the prosthetic makeup that thickened the actor’s neck and dental devices called plumpers that pooched out his lips and jowls. Autonomous FX did those makeup effects too, allowing him to look more like the disco-era version of Trump. Capturing him physically, while also surfacing the scared and desperate young man beneath that exterior, is what earned Stan his Oscar nomination. “He loses his humanity. I guess that’s essentially what happens,” Stan said of the movie. “As an actor, all you’re trying to do is just look at these very human things and identify with them.”

That doesn’t mean he wants Trump to put him at the top of his enemies list. Before the Academy Awards, Stan said he was trying not to worry about potential retribution and didn’t think it would happen, unless…“I don’t know, maybe if I win the Oscar, which is like 0.0000 percent.”

“HE’S WILLING TO PLAY UNLIKABLE CHARACTERS,” SAYS JESSICA CHASTAIN. “HE’S NOT HAPPY TO JUST BE A CONVENTIONAL MOVIE STAR.”

So yes, he’s feeling fine at the party. He took with him other honors from the backslapping season, like when Jane Fonda name-dropped him while accepting a lifetime achievement award at the Screen Actors Guild Awards. “While you may hate the behavior of your character, you have to understand and empathize with the traumatized person you’re playing. Thinking of Sebastian Stan in The Apprentice,” she said.

Stan said her shout-out was “maybe better than winning an Oscar.” “I wasn’t at the SAG Awards,” he continued. “I wasn’t nominated. I didn’t go. But somebody told me to turn on the TV because Jane Fonda mentioned my name. I would never have thought in my life that she would know who I am.”

Jacket by Prada; vintage T-shirt and boots from Stock Vintage; pants by Prada; belt by Artemas Quibble; necklace and watch by Cartier. PHOTOGRAPH BY NORMAN JEAN ROY, STYLED BY EDWARD BOWLEG III.

Then there was the actual trophy he won, a Golden Globe for best actor in a musical or comedy, bestowed on him not for The Apprentice but for A Different Man, in which he plays a man with a disfiguring genetic condition who undergoes a radical medical procedure to look more “normal.” The back-to-back recognition caught the attention of Hollywood’s power brokers, including Marvel Studios president Kevin Feige, who has been working with him for nearly 15 years now. “To see him winning a Golden Globe for one movie and then being nominated for an Academy Award for another movie in the same year is pretty darn impressive,” Feige says.

The Golden Globe win stirred unexpected emotions in Stan. “You never really think that you’re going to be up there,” he’s told me. “I realized from that Golden Globe moment that when it happens, it’s massive. You can’t help but reflect on everything and everyone that contributed to you getting there.”

One of them is Annabelle Wallis, Stan’s partner of several years. The couple had kept their relationship private before the Globes, when she accompanied him and got an “I love you” callout from him on the stage. Wallis joined Stan at the Oscars as well, wearing a forget-me-not blue Grecian-style gown, and he introduces her happily to me at the Oscar party. (She has heard all about our adventure trying to get into the Romanian church.) Wallis is an actor herself, best known for The Tudors and Peaky Blinders, but their relationship is not something either of them discusses. “I feel like it’s really difficult nowadays to be able to have any privacy whatsoever,” he said. “It’s the one part of my life that I try to keep somewhat for myself, even though it sort of ends up being out there.”

Stan gets that protective streak from another person who helped him get where he is—his mother, Georgeta Orlovschi, who also accompanied him to the Oscars. She raised him for many years as a single mom after she split from his father when Stan was young. “They were both very strong individuals with very strong personalities,” he says. “Neither wanted to be justified by the other. I think they both had a rebellious spirit.”

Hat by Nick Fouquet; necklace by Cartier.PHOTOGRAPH BY NORMAN JEAN ROY, STYLED BY EDWARD BOWLEG III.

His father later disappeared completely, going into exile in the States. Constantin Stan was a cargo-ship worker who helped fellow countrymen evade government persecution that pervaded Romania in the decades after World War II. “He was a bit of a hero in my town,” Stan says. “My parents were part of the youth that were standing up to Communism. My father was helping people escape the country illegally, to the point where he was a wanted man. And he himself had to flee.”

Stan grew up not really knowing the man everyone else knew by the nickname “Tino,” apart from occasional telephone calls. But if his dad could vanish, it seemed plausible that his mother might too. Then one day she did.

Stan was about eight years old when his mother fled Romania to set up a new life for them abroad. Throughout his childhood, government mismanagement and corruption had led to food scarcity, fuel shortages, and electricity blackouts. The eventual revolution culminated in the downfall and execution of dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu in 1989. “I watched him get shot on television,” Stan says. “I remember that.”

The aftermath wasn’t necessarily better. “It was chaos,” Stan says, noting “how many orphaned kids were in Bucharest after the revolution because everybody didn’t have money. Nobody knew how to live. They’d been so suppressed.” He spent a year with his grandparents before joining his mother in Austria. “She came and got me when she finally had a job and established herself enough there in Vienna,” he says.

Sweater by Loro Piana; pants by Schott NYC; necklace and watch by Cartier; vintage tank top from Stock Vintage.PHOTOGRAPH BY NORMAN JEAN ROY, STYLED BY EDWARD BOWLEG III.

The anxiety he felt about losing her continued even after they were reunited. “She was working. She was playing piano at night when she could, and then she was teaching piano all day long. So at 9 or 10 years old, I was taking the trolley to school myself. I was taking the subway back myself,” Stan recalls. “Then I was coming home and I was alone, and I would have to make myself food and I’d do my homework and I’d wait for her to come home. That was a lot of alone time for a kid in a foreign country.”

He learned independence, but it scarred him too. “I remember waiting for her to get home and worrying: What if she doesn’t come home? I can see how that’s worked against me in certain ways and how it’s totally benefited me in other ways. You have a lot of time with your imagination when you’re a kid like that alone. So I feel I’m very good at using my imagination to believe certain things, which helps me in a way. But then there are times where I’m feeling a degree of uncertainty and lack of control over my life that can be paralyzing.”

“MY PARENTS WERE PART OF THE YOUTH STANDING UP TO COMMUNISM,” HE SAYS OF HIS ROMANIAN CHILDHOOD. “MY FATHER WAS HELPING PEOPLE ESCAPE THE COUNTRY ILLEGALLY—TO THE POINT HE HIMSELF HAD TO FLEE.”

Stan was around 12 when his mother began dating a man named Anthony Fruhauf, who was the headmaster of a small private high school in central New York. When they got married, Stan’s mother made plans to move with her son once again, this time to the United States. “He was really kind. My stepdad was a real influence in a good way,” Stan says. “In those early years in America, speaking English with him at home I think probably led to how I lost my accent.” He was all right seeing it go. He wanted to belong.

All this surfaced when Stan was onstage accepting his Golden Globe. “This is for my mom who left Romania in search of a better life, and for my stepfather, Tony, who took on a single mom and a grown-up kid,” he said, hoisting his award as his voice broke. Pointing heavenward, he added: “Thank you for being a real man.”

Coat by Bottega Veneta; belt by Artemas Quibble; necklace and watch by Cartier; vintage T-shirt from Stock Vintage; vintage pants from Front General Store. PHOTOGRAPH BY NORMAN JEAN ROY, STYLED BY EDWARD BOWLEG III.

Despite craving stability, Stan learned the value of taking chances, which has earned him a daredevil reputation among his actor friends. “Sebastian has always been really fearless,” says Chris Evans, who first appeared opposite Stan in 2011’s Captain America: The First Avenger and costarred with him repeatedly as the Marvel Cinematic Universe expanded. “You can see that in his choices. He takes big swings. When that Trump movie was kicking around, I remember thinking, I wonder who is going to take this job? It’s just got so many strings attached to it. And I was so unsurprised when I heard it was Sebastian.”

The devil on Stan’s shoulder urging him forward was Jessica Chastain, who became a close friend after they worked together on 2015’s The Martian and later the 2022 spy thriller The 355. “When we were on set for The 355, that’s when he first told me he had had the offer to play Donald Trump. A thing about Sebastian that people might not realize is he’s very, very thoughtful, almost to a point where he overthinks things. It could cause a little bit of stress. He was like, ‘Well, what do you think? What would you do?’ I said, ‘Do it.’ I was like, ‘What do you have to lose? Take a risk.’ As long as it doesn’t cause you physical danger, if something scares you—do it.”

Chastain saw Stan do that very thing in 2017’s I, Tonya, in which he played Tonya Harding’s then husband, who hatched the scheme to sabotage her rival, Nancy Kerrigan. “When so many people are trying to make you this conventional movie star, it’s a risk to do something that isn’t that,” Chastain says. “He’s willing to play unlikable characters. I find that executives have trouble with characters that may be complex and have dark sides to them. He really embraces that. He’s not happy to just be a conventional movie star.”

Coat by Loewe. PHOTOGRAPH BY NORMAN JEAN ROY, STYLED BY EDWARD BOWLEG III.

Marvel Studios was looking for a dark side when they were casting the role of Bucky Barnes in the first Captain America movie in 2010. Stan was a relative unknown, though he’d had a recurring role on Gossip Girl as a pathological liar of a rich kid. “You could see that he has so much inside him and so much behind his eyes. I’ll never forget that,” Feige says. “I said to Stephen Broussard, who was one of the producers on Captain America, ‘He’s going to be a good Bucky, but he’s going to be a great Winter Soldier.’ ”

Bucky evolves into that villainous alter ego in subsequent MCU stories, going from fearless soldier to shell-shocked prisoner of war and, eventually, mind-controlled assassin who struggles to break his programming and redeem himself. Getting the part was beyond game-changing for the actor. “I was actually struggling with work,” Stan says. “I had just gotten off the phone with my business manager, who told me I was saved by $65,000 that came in residuals from Hot Tub Time Machine.” He’d played the smarmy bully in that comedy a year before. Now it was his salvation.

Since then, the Winter Soldier has become one of the most beloved and relatable characters in the MCU, even though his story is far from the traditional everyman narrative. Bucky resonates because he’s damaged goods—the patron saint of fuckups struggling to do right. The arc culminates in his new lead role in Thunderbolts*, with Bucky leading a team of former troublemakers and outcasts. Feige says that, without Stan, the character’s strange journey wouldn’t have been the emotional gut punch it is.

After lunch, Stan goes to his appointment at Autonomous FX. The headquarters is tucked near an ice warehouse and a scrapyard in an industrial neighborhood of Van Nuys. Stan is trying on a pair of fake teeth that slip over his perfect pearly whites. The goal is to give him a more regular-guy look for Fjord, the movie he’s shooting in Norway with filmmaker Cristian Mungiu, a fellow native of Romania.

There’s a story behind these teeth—dating back to before Stan got braces as an adult. “When I got Invisalign, I was so obsessed with them,” he says. “The more you wear them, the faster they work. So I actually wore them at the fucking Captain America: The Winter Soldier premiere. I have them in and I’m smiling with them and people can tell. I was self-conscious because my teeth were always a little….” He splays his fingers into crooked angles.

The prosthetic teeth are modeled on Stan’s own before he fixed them. Stan has another blast from his past waiting for him too. After the fitting, Jason Collins, the founder and lead creative force behind Autonomous FX, takes Stan through the workshops, where sculptors are making limbs, bodies, and demonic babies. On the shelves, busts of other actors like Christian Bale and Annette Bening, used for previous projects, stare down with vacant eyes.

Collins and his company essentially provide the level-up version of the fake beards and noses that Stan first loved about acting in high school—except occasionally X-rated. As part of this nostalgia trip, Collins brings out a plastic tub with the remains of the robotic erection from Pam & Tommy. The latex has dried out and decayed away. This penis “character” was voiced by Jason Mantzoukas and had strong opinions about the Mötley Crüe drummer’s romance with the Baywatch star. It was a risky creative choice by the showrunners but added levity to the series and was inspired by Lee’s own autobiography, in which he banters philosophically with his sex organ.

The makeup team and the actor forged a bond along the way. “It really becomes a partnership,” Collins says. “We stare at him for weeks and months at a time. So we know the physical structure. We know what the span of his legs is and all that other stuff.”

“You get to know the actor very well,” says Stan. Their earliest meeting involved figuring out how to fit a prosthetic over his actual privates and snake cables for the controls down his backside. “When I first came here, they made a replica to work on. So they had to cast this,” Stan says, gesturing to his crotch. “I remember you’re like, ’All right buddy, well, I guess it’s good to meet you.’”

Jacket by Bottega Veneta; vintage T-shirt and boots from Stock Vintage; belt by Artemas Quibble; necklace and watch by Cartier. PHOTOGRAPH BY NORMAN JEAN ROY, STYLED BY EDWARD BOWLEG III.

After the makeup shop, Stan heads for the last stop of the day, the Orthodox church. After a persuasive conversation in Romanian, the custodian agrees to unlock the chapel for him. “Vezi ca pana,” Stan says. You’ll see it’s only for a moment.

As the doors swing open, the faces of saints stare down at us from rows of miniature shrines, not unlike the busts of the famous actors in the prosthetics lab. Both places represent things Stan believes in—the ability to transform into something new and a yearning to connect with something beyond yourself.

Stan doesn’t claim to be especially religious, but the Holy Trinity chapel takes him back to that fearful time living under Communist dictatorship, when he put his faith in higher powers and prayed for the best. “We would go to church a lot when I was little,” he says. “It’s still tied into certain things for me, because I felt such a degree of powerlessness over decisions being made early on.”

STAN IS NOT AN OVERSHARER. BUT HE AGREED TO SHARE SOMETHING OF HIMSELF HERE, IN DEFIANCE OF THE ACTORLY PART OF HIM THAT WISHES WHEN YOU LOOKED AT HIM, YOU’D SEE SOMEONE ELSE.

Stan and the man he wants to commemorate with a candle were estranged for years. He and his father finally reconnected when Stan was around 18 and began visiting Los Angeles for auditions. The New York kid would save money by staying with his father, who had settled in the San Fernando Valley (not far from the makeup shop, actually) and worked, once again, in shipping. The periodic visits brought them closer, and the relationship stayed tight until his dad died unexpectedly from COVID on a trip back to Romania in 2021.

Stan sometimes thinks his father’s story might make a good movie. In Romania, Tino was legendary for sneaking contraband Western goods like blue jeans and bananas into the country while smuggling dissidents out aboard the same vessels. “He worked hard and he loved America and he believed in being free,” Stan says. “I have always made the argument that immigrants to some extent are more patriotic than even the people that are born here because they don’t take things for granted. At least that’s what I saw in my father.”

The janitor guides us to the back of the church, where there’s a small side room with a votive stand arrayed with unlit candles.

“Can you give me one second? I’ll be right back,” Stan says.

He disappears into the shadowy alcove and strikes a light.

Later, driving away from the chapel, Stan tries to explain why he felt so compelled to go there. “I think it’s just the acknowledgment of how fragile we all are. Sometimes you go somewhere where it’s really not about you. It’s a moment to let go. Turn off for a while,” he says. “You don’t have to be anything in there. You don’t have to think any which way.”

Jacket by Balenciaga; belt by Artemas Quibble; vintage T-shirt from Stock Vintage; vintage pants by Carhartt from Front General Store. Throughout: hair products by Rōz; grooming products by Tom Ford Beauty.PHOTOGRAPH BY NORMAN JEAN ROY, STYLED BY EDWARD BOWLEG III.

He says something similar via text two weeks later, when he’s in Norway, starting work on his new role in Fjord—with his new teeth that resemble his old teeth.

“The feeling is always the same. Like it’s the first time,” Stan writes. “It’s always a mix of fear and hope. It’s losing yourself. It’s a free fall. Every time.”

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real-jane · 2 months ago

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THE LORD OF THE RINGS: THE TWO TOWERS 2002, dir. Peter Jackson

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real-jane · 2 months ago

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real-jane · 2 months ago

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a whole bunch of gazan mutual aid projects and nonprofits. if the decision of which individual fundraiser to give to feels too daunting, or if you just want to help as many people as possible in one go, these are great initiatives to support.

care for gaza - focuses on providing food and essential supplies. donate here or here.

connecting humanity - securing internet access via donations of virtual sim cards (esims). if you can't afford a whole plan yourself, crips for esims is a communal pool that will use your donation to purchase and maintain esims

gaza soup kitchen - provides food, medical care, and classes for children. also has a gofundme

glia gaza medical support initiative - provides medical care through field clinics and tents at hospitals. donations can also be sent through their website.

ele elna elak - provides clean water, food, clothing, and shelter. they also have a gofundme

life for gaza - raising money for the gaza municipality to repair water and waste management infrastructure

taawon - partners with local civil organizations to provide food, water, medical care, shelter, and basic supplies

the sameer project - running various initiatives providing tents, medical care, and necessities. they have their own encampment project focused on sheltering families with children, sick and disabled members, or members in need of perinatal care

islamic relief worldwide's gaza emergency appeal - provides food, water, hygiene kits, medical supplies, and psychological support

baitulmaal - provides a variety of necessities, including food, water, shelter, and medical supplies

gaza mutual aid fund - distributes food, hygiene products, water, and other essential supplies, including financial support. run by @/el-shab-hussein's amazing friend Mona. updates can be found on her instagram.

hygiene kits for gaza - provides hygiene supplies including menstrual products, wipes, and toothbrushes/toothpaste

anera - provides a variety of necessities, including food, water, hygiene supplies, medicine, blankets and mattresses, and psychological care

palestine children's relief fund - provides supplies and support with a focus on children. also has an initiative for lebanon

dahnoun mutual aid - provides water, food, tents, baby supplies, financial support, and other necessities. updates can be found through their instagram

certainly this is not an exhaustive list, so please feel free to add on other projects or organizations that i didn't include. and as always, please take the time to donate if you can and share. it truly makes all the difference.

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real-jane · 2 months ago

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Go Girls Go! | First Dyke March in Washington DC, 1993

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real-jane · 2 months ago

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Thank you so much 🥰

an olive branch

[steve rogers x reader]

summary: you’ve reached your breaking point at work and steve wants to help you find a solution. but first… pizza.

words: 2.1k

warnings: none. established relationship, no use of y/n.

a/n: thanks to @mumbles411 for this idea! Here’s the original ask: ‘There's always the old 'comforting someone after a bad day' thing. Especially if they already hate their job. I've been there and would have loved Steve or Bucky to be there for picking me up.’ enjoy! 🥰

—

You’re almost an hour late getting home, and Steve paces the living room with his phone in hand, talking himself out of calling you again. You answered the first time–hi baby, I’m so sorry, I missed my train–and then your call dropped. Likely, you were on the platform and reception was never good down there, but that isn’t much comfort to him considering you sounded so frantic.

When your key slots into the lock, Steve beats you to the punch and rips open the door. You practically fall into his arms.

“Mmm,” you groan, burying yourself in his chest. “Never been so happy to see you.”

“Bad day?” He draws circles on your lower back.

“Awful. I feel like a broken record, and nobody is listening.” Your sniffle is unmistakable. “How do I keep doing this every day? It’s going to break me.”

“Hmm. Take your shoes off, dove. You hungry?”

“Oh god,” you sigh. Steve steadies you as you toe off your shoes.

“You forgot to eat, huh.”

“Didn’t have time! Three people called out sick, even Pietro was taking orders. I think I could eat a whole pizza by myself.”

“Your wish is my command.” He eases your bag from your shoulder, takes your coat, and then pats your butt in the direction of the bedroom. “Get cozy, okay?” Steve chuckles as you shuffle away to do as he says, disappearing into the comfy space to find the pajamas he had laid out on the bed after doing laundry.

“How was your day, baby?” you call.

“Boring,” he replies, typing your favorite pizza order into the delivery app. “Missed you. Did laundry. Not much going on (as far as potential fieldwork) so I caught up on some paperwork.” He’s been home for longer stretches, lately, which he has enjoyed immensely, especially because he can do the frankly outrageous amount of paperwork SHIELD sends over from the comfort of your sofa, while letting daytime tv drown the street sounds outside.

“You do a lot of paperwork for being America’s Ass.”

Steve laughs. “Excuse me, this ass belongs to you.”

“Lucky me.” You lean against the doorway. When Steve glances at you, your eyes are shining with unspent tears. He confirms the food order and tosses his phone onto the sofa. He takes his time meeting you at the threshold, but he can’t help brushing his thumbs over your cheeks.

“What’s got you so sad?”

“Steve–will you be brutally honest with me?” your voice breaks, and you curl your fingers into the front of his t-shirt.

“I don’t know about ‘brutal,’ dove, but I’ll give it my best shot.”

“Am I being unreasonable? I feel like the girl who cried wolf. All my coworkers seem to agree with me, but I’m the only person willing to say something–it makes me feel like I’m overreacting, but I can’t get strung along anymore.”

“You’re in the right,” he soothes. “Do you wanna sit on the sofa? You’ve been upright all day.”

“I don’t know if my knees bend.”

“I can help.” Steve loops an arm behind your knees and lifts you. You pretend to be aghast that he would do such a thing, but you kiss his cheek. He sits down, keeping both arms wrapped around your waist. “Let me ask you a question. Yeah?”

You snuggle against his chest and nod. “Shoot.”

“What’s the worst that can happen if you quit?”

“Well… Can’t afford my half of rent, for one thing–”

“Money aside.”

“I can’t not think about money. When you grow up without it, it’s everything.”

Steve nods. He does know a thing or two about that. “Okay. You’re right. You have concerns about paying your bills, it’s a legitimate worry. What else?”

“Who’s gonna speak up if I’m not there?”

“Dove, somebody is gonna have to find their voice. It can’t be up to you to save the place.”

“...says Captain America,” you snort.

“I have a team. It’s not my sole responsibility, and I couldn’t do it if I didn’t surround myself with people who put in equal effort. Right? I’m hard to kill, but I don’t fly. I’m bad with computers, never shot an arrow in my life, and when I get angry, I just get flushed.” You giggle at that. “But you’re carrying the worries of every person you work with. It’s unsustainable. You said it yourself–it’s too much.”

“I know,” you sigh. “But we’ve all gotten so close dealing with this bullshit.”

“Are you worried they won’t talk to you if you leave?”

“I guess I am.”

“Don’t think that’s likely; for one thing, Wanda would kill you if you didn’t go to the farmer’s market with her on Tuesdays.”

You smile. “True.”

“And we can still go there for drinks anytime you want. But not pizza–”

“Because it’s not ‘real New York pie’, yeah yeah,” you parrot the phrase he’s said to you a million times. “Where did you order from, by the way?”

“Sweetheart,” he scoffs, “the only place in the city.”

You snort. “You’re such a snob.”

“What’s the worst that will happen if you stay?”

“I’ll have a mental breakdown. I was… researching outpatient programs the other night when you found me out here super late.”

Steve kisses your forehead like he might soothe all the pain from your mind. “Oh, dove. You can’t live like this.”

“I don’t know how to leave! I have to find something else first, or it doesn’t make sense–and do you know how hard it is to find a job in this fucking economy?” You swipe your hands under your eyes furiously.

“Or–no, listen.” He kisses you, leveling his eyes with yours. You nod, but tears stream down your face. “Or… you put in your two weeks. We take a month to get you rested up. Go to a Yankees game or two. And then you can choose something which isn’t gonna drain the life out of you.”

“I don’t have enough saved up.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got you covered.”

“No, Steven–”

He tips your chin up. “Stop. I’m not keeping score, here. You’re my girl, this is what people do when they have a life together.”

You hug him so tight. “You’re sure.”

He wraps you in his arms. “Yes. And… if you realize what would make you the most happy is to sit on the balcony and paint neon cityscapes, while drinking Celestial Seasonings tea out of business, then I support you.”

“Nooo–I’m not gonna sit around while you have to do the work to pay for our life!”

“You contribute in other ways. I’d kill every plant in this place if it weren’t for you.”

“What would America say if they knew you fell for a plant lady?”

“I am asked about you in every interview, and have been since you came to the Smithsonian opening with me. I think America’s in love with you, too.”

“Awe,” you grin, pressing your fingers into his scalp with a loving scritch. “I don’t think I can make a decision tonight.”

“Perfectly reasonable. No rush. You want a bath?”

You appear genuinely conflicted for choice. “But… pizza.”

“Bath-pizza?”

You narrow your eyes. “I can’t decide if you’re brilliant or not.”

“One way to find out.” He kisses your temple. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“I’m so sorry it’s been bad for this long. It’s terrible, and you don’t deserve it.”

You bite your lip. “Thank you, baby.”

“Why are you thanking me, huh? I’m right.” When he grins, you kiss him in annoyance. He loves when you do that, like you can’t let him get another word out so you seal his mouth with yours. What a punishment.

He carries you into the washroom and sets you on the counter, promptly handing you a sheet mask from your basket, and holding up two different bags of scented bath salts for you to pick between. You point, and he nods approvingly. He starts the bath water, and the buzzer sounds.

“Dinner!” You sprint for the button, but he’s faster; Steve catches your hips and slides between you and the front door.

“Get your butt in the bathtub, ma’am. Or I won’t hand-feed you pepperonis like a princess.”

“I missed the part where that was on offer,” you cackle. “But if I go get it, I’ll be able to eat all the olives off the top by the time I get back, so you won’t be disgusted by my taste in toppings.”

“You don’t know what I ordered. Maybe I got Canadian bacon.”

“I think that’s considered treason.”

“Get!” He spins you around and presses the button beside the door for the intercom. “Hi, if you wait inside I’ll bring you some cash.”

“Cool, thanks man!” The delivery driver is in for a great surprise.

Steve kisses the curve of your neck. “If you’re not up to your eyeballs in bubbles when I get back, I’m gonna eat all your olives myself.”

“Big talk from someone allergic to them.”

“Don’t push me.” He nips your earlobe, making you yelp.

“Fine! Be nice to me! See if I care.” You stick your tongue out at him, and leap away when he attempts to pinch your ass in retaliation. He can’t help the full-hearted laugh when you peek at him around the doorway innocently. “Just checking!” you coo.

–

If anyone knew Captain America sat on his washroom floor, feeding his girlfriend a pizza he is most definitely allergic to, they’d probably believe it. Steve is nothing if not predictable, but he doesn’t mind being known for something he takes great pride in. A lot of what he does is duty, but bringing a smile to your face and easing your burden is something which brings him inordinate joy. You make all that pressure go away. With you, he is just a native New Yorker with strong opinions about crust style, who kills plants with almost impressive frequency and overtips delivery drivers by hundreds of dollars. So–not ordinary, but he doesn’t have to pretend on days he is down, if he wakes up next to your sweet face. But when you are hurting, he hurts by proxy.

That night, he makes sure you have all the pizza you want (pepperoni by pepperoni, being very careful to avoid the olives and washing his hands thoroughly), while you slowly turn into a prune. Once you are tucked into bed and softly snoring, he eats his own pie sitting on the floor in the hallway outside your shared bedroom, and he ponders something he hasn’t thought about in a long time:

What if he retires?

Sometimes when you wake up and can't fall back asleep, he rubs your back and tells you hypotheticals about a little cottage in the woods with a big garden, where you wouldn’t have to do anything but figure out how many carrots to use for dinner and get good at knitting. It always puts you right to sleep with a smile. Why does it have to be a pipe dream?

When he crawls into bed beside you, and your eyes open a bit, he kisses your brow.

“Hi,” you murmur against his chest.

“Hello. You okay?”

“Mmm.” You loop your arm under his so you can pull him even closer. Steve slips his legs between yours. “You’re very comforting.”

“Yeah?” He smiles against your hair.

“Yep. Never make me question lovin’ me.”

“Sleep, sweetheart. ‘M not going anywhere.”

You smash your cheek into his skin and you’re quiet for a minute. He almost misses your little declaration. “Gonna quit.”

“When?”

“T’morrow.”

“I’ll pick you up from work on the bike. Go out in style?”

You lift your head up enough to give him a blissful, sleepy smile. “Yes please.”

He presses his lips over yours gently. “I’ll be there.”

“Come in uniform?”

“You really want them to feel bad,” he chuckles.

“Nah. I just like lookin’ at ya in spandex.”

“You can have that anytime.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Sure. If you want.”

You return his gentle kiss. “Love you.”

“I love you, too, dove.”

Now, he has to find a cottage for the sweetest woman he’s ever known. Because you only make decisions like this when you’ve weighed all your options, and he wants to give you a more attractive alternative than another dead end job. Something to keep the sunshine in your cheeks, where you don’t spend a portion of your life worrying about him coming home safe.

Sam’s ready for the shield. You’re ready to quit your job. It’s time for Steve to make the call about his future, too… where he can put you in a bubble bath every night, and maybe join you, just because. The best possible life for his dove.

–

thanks for reading!

my masterlist - my marvel masterlist

#comment reblog #steve rogers

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real-jane · 3 months ago

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This is the best reaction ever 😂😂

drifting (5)

[cw!bucky barnes x female!reader]

summary: bucky saves the life of a woman when she’s buried in an avalanche. faced with the possibility that his cover might be blown, bucky must keep the woman alive, and try to keep her from finding out who he is… or what he’s done.

how long can he hide?

warnings: angst, my dudes. some truth comes to light, and it's going to change it all for both of them.

word count: 2.5k+

a/n: what even is a posting schedule? my life is so hectic that my brain needs this story to cope, so... here's two updates, in two days. this will answer many of the questions y'all have been asking, but... far from all of them. enjoy!

series masterlist

***

For the next few days, things are business as usual—a new normal, in which Bucky doesn’t stay up all night. It helps that his companion has an uncanny ability of putting him to sleep by reading from one of four available books. It doesn’t take long for her to figure out that he hates The Great Gatsby, because he huffs through the first five pages. But Walden does the trick. ‘When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts, and earned my living by the labor of my hands only…’ and Bucky is out. It’s only the preface even. She wonders later on if he’s ever heard the whole of a story, or if that’s the way he gets them: just the first few lines, and then the tale is over. Hmm. No plot, no resolution, just the promise of an adventure without the satisfaction of setting out.

He can’t cook—something else which comes to light. Well, he’s probably capable of putting things in a dish and heating them until edible, but he’s never been taught. He’s also never eaten macaroni and cheese, which makes the first lesson a two-pronged experience. She turns the tomato soup from a few nights prior into a sauce when the pasta proves a little too dry. They have no butter, and no milk, anyhow, but by god if it isn’t the most decent pasta he can remember having… maybe the only pasta he remembers eating in his life. And he doesn’t watch her to gauge how much is appropriate to eat. He eats until he is full. It does miraculous things for his nerves.

He’s calmer. He’s taken to wearing fewer layers (doesn’t help that she keeps stealing his coat), and he looks her in the eye more often. He just… lingers. When she’s telling him directions, he’s listening so closely that he’s able to repeat things back to her word for word. And he insists on washing clothing every few days in the sink, though he leaves her unmentionables to her and gets very red when she mentions them. But asking his consent to wear items of clothing he owns without her underclothes on (while they dry post-wash) feels like a simple courtesy.

It’s also a fun game, figuring out what makes his cheeks pinken. Turns out… almost anything will do it. She’s there for a week when something shifts.

And something new is born from his newfound willingness to be flustered: Bucky Barnes smiles.

She could cry when the corner of his mouth turns up at the sound of her impression of Gandalf.

That’s not what a wizard would sound like, he says.

Oh, really? I didn’t realize I was in the presence of a wizard expert.

I just know that isn’t how they sound.

You know a lot of wizards, then.

Gandalf is old–

What do old people sound like, James? They’re soft-spoken, kind–

He’s been through a lot, he probably has a scratchy voice.

…Like a smoker?

He does have a pipe.

Are you winning this argument right now? How did I forget about the pipe?

I told you.

You’re gonna have to take over. Clearly I’m not the expert, here.

I’m not reading to you.

It’s called ‘equality’--

You do it better.

Even though I don’t do it right!

I’d just stumble over the words…

Not if you practice. You have this book memorized–you move your mouth along with the words already!

You’re going to make me do it.

How does Gandalf sound, Jamie?

And that’s how she gets him to read. His face does this thing when he’s reading out loud; all the worry lines smooth out, and he takes his time on every sentence because he doesn’t trust his vision to match what comes out of his mouth. He does stumble, but she doesn’t make note of it. So one night, when she’s too bleary-eyed to do the honors, he takes over. Gandalf sounds a lot like Bucky Barnes with a chain-smoking problem. But he makes himself laugh, and it’s the tiniest breath of a thing, but it feels so miraculous.

It’s almost enough to make her forget that she’s on a mission. It certainly distracts her from the near constant nightmares. The moment her eyes shut, her whole world is cast in red light and she is awoken more than once by gently murmured Russian. He doesn’t mention it in the light of day, but she knows that more than once, she must have pressed her face to his chest and sobbed, because she does remember being comforted in the morning…. Even though he’s not there, in the strangely comfortable bed, when she wakes up.

There’s only one day she returns the favor, in the time that stretches on from I’ve only been here three days, to I can’t believe it’s been almost two weeks. He screams, and she’s out of bed before she realizes what she’s doing, stumbling for the door–and she pales, falling against the wall in disbelief. Not a bit of pain where there once was a fractured tibia. Her leg is healed. Like it never happened.

Glass breaks in the kitchen and she doesn’t let her shock stop her from going to him–

He’s standing at the sink, having put his bare fist through the glass window above. His knuckles are bleeding by the time she’s at his side. His gloves are nowhere to be found. The glinting titanium of his left hand should be enough to warn her off, the way he holds up his palm to stop her moving any closer, but she ducks beneath the outstretched arm and touches his cheek. He winces. He folds, just as easily. Into her arms, collapsing to his knees. He cries as she cradles him against her stomach, and he holds her so tight that she’s sure to bruise. He repeats himself (over and over in English because he can verbalize better than ever how he’s feeling)...

I’m sorry. They made me. I didn’t want to. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to do it.

What did you do? she asks gently, but he just turns his face into her stomach to muffle the answer. She coaxes him into the washroom, so he can sit while she observes how he’s hurt himself. He folds inward, clutching his elbows for purchase; he realizes that he’s not hiding his prosthesis from her, and curses–lowly, and in panic, but she covers the silvery hand with her own and shakes her head. She wipes away the dried blood from his knuckles, which have already healed from the slight lacerations caused by the window.

She pauses with his palm warming her own. He has healed almost instantly. Far faster than most people ever would, and she’s seen Steve Rogers with a bullet wound that closed in a day. But it took her leg only a matter of days to strengthen, and heal, too… fuck. She wipes at his skin until there isn’t a single trace of blood left. It deposits his blood under her fingernails, and gives the rag she chose a coppery scent, but at least he is clean. He clutches her fingers once she’s finished, and holds them against his chest so long that she can feel the way his heart races against the heel of her hand.

She kneels. In one desperate moment, this becomes the day of two monumental shifts in Bucky’s threshold because he hugs her. Not just bracketing his arms around her to keep her warm, but pulls her into his chest and cups the back of her head in his palm. He turns his lips against her hair. He says something that she doesn’t hear, or doesn’t want to understand.

Bucky follows her to bed. He lays down when she urges him to, and when she slips under the quilt beside him, he pulls her against his chest again. Neither of them dream for the remaining hours.

***

He doesn’t mean to watch her sleep, a few days after she comes to his aid. It’s just that he wakes up first, and she’s right there. He comes out of a dream to the waking world before him–a woman with soft hands and a softer voice, and her face is just as his brain conjured her except that she’s slack in her restfulness. The woman never has a face.

But.

Now she does. Bucky stares. She’s done something to him. It’s like she’s run a gentle finger over every crack in his façade and filled it with gold, or something just as precious. The thought is frightening. He dare not give voice to it. But by god, he’ll think about it as he watches her wiggle closer without even realizing what she’s doing, until she’s tucked up under his chin.

It only took a few weeks and he’s gone for her. He’d step out into that frozen landscape willingly barefoot for her, and it snuck up on him like a joke too cruel and a gift too precious to be real. It is like the familiarity comes from his bones. But she’s special. Isn’t she? A woman so kind, so open… readily inviting him to find his own comfort, as if he deserves such a thing–how did she even get here?

And why does it feel more like coming home than a new discovery?

He gives in to the urge to trace the curve of her cheek. Bucky is sure she would let him, were she conscious, because she’s just the kind of person who makes touch feel safe. He’s never reached for her first. He’s never done anything because he wanted to do it, until her. She sighs softly when the pad of his thumb grazes her cheek, leans into the touch. Bucky scoots closer, still. So their knees are touching.

What would it be like if he wasn’t alone anymore?

Imagine… if his home were a cabin with his name on the deed, and his surname over the door in burnished woodcut lettering, with cabinets full of dishes and a pantry bursting with non-perishables, and candles everywhere. With a woman for a companion, too. Who doesn’t look at him like she feels sorry for what he has done. What if it’s her?

Something pokes him in the side–not sharp, but still rigid. He glances down between them.

Pressed beneath her ribcage, and just peeking out from under the t-shirt he had decided a few days ago was hers, now… it’s a phone.

Bucky scrambles back from her, pulling his hands away like her skin shocked him.

She has a phone.

She’s had one all along.

He pants out a broken laugh because nothing is sacred. Not a single thing. Everything he cares for is a lie. Everything he makes for himself crumbles. But he so desperately wants her to explain herself, that he’s clutching her arms before he even realizes he’s doing it, and he’s shaking her awake–not enough to hurt her, but enough to make her snap to attention so he can demand–

“Who are you?” He holds the thin device between his fingers, just inches from her nose, and he is shaking. Even as his vision is split, dancing from either side of the phone to meet her searching, tear-filled irises… he aches. She grasps his wrist, and Bucky lets her. Because he wants her to tell him what is real.

“I am here to help you,” she says. Bucky swallows a sob–of grief or relief, he can’t say. But she doesn’t stop there. “Steve Rogers wants to protect you. He… he didn’t even intend for us to meet,” she whispers. “But the snow slide put a wrench in that.”

Tears skate so quickly down her cheeks that the phone drops out of Bucky’s fingers when he reaches to stop the salt-water from finding her chin. He holds her face so tightly in his grip that she winces.

“Why do I feel like I know you? Before now,” he growls.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. But I felt it before we ever met–I got sick when Steve showed me your picture. It was involuntary. I feel like I’ve known you before this, and I don’t know when, and it’s killing me–and god, Jamie… I didn’t want you to find out like this, but I’ve been so caught up in trying to understand.” She curls her fingers into his palms at her cheeks. Her knuckles turn white with the force. “I keep having nightmares. You’re there, but it isn’t you, or… it is, but you don’t seem to even know me.”

“That isn’t possible–”

“It is! I think… I think I have met you before,” she cries. She can’t keep her eyes open, and Bucky can’t continue watching her cry, no matter how panicked he is. He holds her to his chest. “I’m so tired of hiding it from you. I’m… Shield will be after me for helping you, Steve even warned me–”

“How could I know you?” he whispers against her hair. “Why do I know you–”

“There is only one possible way, but I don’t know. My memory is like Swiss cheese, even after my treatments–”

“How?”

She pushes back enough that she can look him in the eye. Her face is so aggrieved that Bucky presses his fingers to her lips for a moment, like she might need permission not to say it… no matter how much he wants to hear what she is theorizing.

“I know what they did to you,” she breathes. “Because they did it to me. It's why my leg isn't broken anymore, why we both feel this deja vu thing. If I’m right, you were there.”

Bucky can’t fathom any explanation–everything feels impossible, or false–or cheap, and exploitative of the abject grief she’s exuding. But he pulls her forward and presses his lips to her hairline. God. Whatever she says, no matter how much he wants to get out of this bed and run, he can’t. He has to know. He has to hold her.

“Tell me.”

“I was in the Red Room. I’m a Black Widow.”

Reality comes rushing in: Bucky has met her before. There’s a reason the woman in his dreams has her face. The last time they met, he must have killed her.

***

Chapter 6

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real-jane · 3 months ago

Text

drifting (3)

[cw!bucky barnes x female!reader]

how long can he hide?

warnings: nightmare, Russian c/o google translate, drinking

word count: 3k+

series masterlist

***

The start of the second night is harder. She elects to sleep in the bedroom, but only because she is absolutely certain that Bucky won’t even attempt restful sleep unless he can be horizontal on the couch–and he won’t take the bed, no matter how many times she gently insinuates that he should. So. She settles herself in the bedroom with her leg propped up on a pillow; the bedsheets are threadbare and scratchy. There’s no way that Bucky has ever tried to sleep on the surprisingly soft mattress. If he had, there’d be at least a hint of the soap he used, the one which lingered on the shirt and hoodie he loaned her–pine, and linen. The scent doesn’t fit him. But. It clings to him as he emerges from the bathroom, in a different change of clothes, with his damp hair hanging limply over his pinkened cheeks.

He won’t look at her directly, but he still helps move her things into the bedroom, and dithers at the threshold until she tells him that she’s alright. He insists that she tell him if she needs anything, that he’ll be on the couch if she does.

It isn’t midnight before she’s so chilled that she’s vibrating. The pain follows in kind.

The worst part about the pain is shivering. Lucidity is a cruel consequence, as such. Even under the quilt, with her coat pulled over her arms and draped over her torso, with Bucky’s fur hat jammed down over her ears… even then, the cold is determined to take root in her bones, and gnaw away at the break above her ankle. She can’t sleep. The shivering sends shooting pains up her spine. But she grits her teeth and bears it. Until it’s white-hot.

And pain (from forces well beyond the control of man) is making her manic.

“James?” she calls. It takes all of three seconds for him to appear in the doorway with eyes wide enough to convince her he hasn’t yet shut his eyes.

Her teeth chatter.

He winces.

“”M cold.” She barely manages to puff the words out.

“Mm.” He enters the bedroom, and he tugs at the curtains until they shut out the moonlight. It helps, but it isn’t enough. She shudders. The cry which rips through her chest seems to echo up the chimney.

The agony is like a shock, making her curl into the fetal position and wrench her foot from the perch meant to keep the break above her heart. Bucky reaches for the quilt, which slides off her knees in the process, but she groans–

“Not on my leg. It’s pressing down,” she gasps. She can’t make out his expression, only that his head bobs. Then, his arms are moving about his torso, and for a moment the only sound in the bedroom is his zipper. He’s tucking the lifeless sleeves beneath her heels, ensconcing her feet in his coat. Bucky reaches for the quilt and hovers over her.

“Sit up,” he whispers. “Shouldn’t lay on your side. ‘S bad for your leg.”

She can barely lift her head, with her muscles locked up tight. It doesn’t stop him from inserting himself on the bed, behind her. He’s stiff, but he is so warm that she can’t help but let her eyes flutter shut to absorb every bit of that sacred feeling. For a split second, her muscles spasm from the sudden shift in temperature. Five long fingers clench her shoulder to steady her, but she’s lost in the relief of it.

She turns her cheek into the chest behind her head, unmoving because he’s caught his breath in panic, but god. Whatever the reason–super-serum or just blessed genetics–he is warm, she is too panicked to care how her desperate posture looks to the source of the warmth. He accidentally grazes her cheek, and even in her half-conscious state, she catches a faint gasp.

“Gotta get you warm, дерьмо.”

Shit. Why does the Russian expletive sound so comforting? Is it because she can hear it behind his ribs? Does he even realize that he’s said it?

He hisses when she slides into the crook of his arm; he has to lay his arm across her sternum to prop her securely, so she won’t tumble off the bed, given his awkward position, which means that her head is cradled against his chest.

“Yспокоиться,” he whispers. “Идти спать.”

The impassioned consonants make her chest ache. She wishes she could float off to sleep, just because he asked. Or tell him that he shouldn’t worry, that when the sun comes up it will be warm enough, again… or thank him for giving warmth when she needs it. But her lips have no connection to her brain, and all she can do is groan when her body is wracked with another shiver so painful that her fingernails turn against the flannel of his sleeve.

“Warm,” she murmurs into his arm.

With the formation of the R, and the retraction of the M, her lips push against his bicep. He slips his left arm around her waist and lifts her, just for a moment. When she is laid back again, something firm is pressed against her right side, the whole length of her body—his leg—while two strong arms hold her tight. She drifts under, into the inky darkness of cold exhaustion, with the faintest notion that Bucky Barnes is keeping her warm.

***

He’s at the base of the rock, in a hole too deep to reach. The mountain keeps rumbling–breaking–ready to cave in. She can’t reach him, but she’s straining. He’s beyond her fingertips, he’s gone suddenly in a blinding flash.

Eyes watch her through black glass… mirror. Two-way. But she doesn’t know he’s there, she can’t hear him, he’s not himself. Her eyes are coal and he breathes, but she’s gone.

She’s running behind him, but she’s gone.

He’s just around the corner. He’s got one hand on her shoulder. His thumb rubs a circle at her nape. ‘Я буду держать тебя в безопасности,’ he whispers. ‘Я не причиню тебе вреда.’ She melts into his touch, forehead against his neck… he holds her close. There’s never been a woman until her. Not for the likes of him, but she feels like she’s made for him. She’s important. His hand smooths over her stomach, that perfect soft place. It’s wet, and she’s sinking. She won’t look at him. She’s not breathing. She’s gone.

Проснись!

“I’m awake,” Bucky growls, ripped from sleep by fingers scrabbling at his jaw for purchase.

“You were shouting,” she says softly.

He leans his head away, tearing his face from her grasp. Bucky tries to focus on what he can feel at that moment, anything to ground him, because the room is starting to close in like the walls are meant to crush them. All he can feel–the only thing–is her. Shivering. He lays his head back on the wrought metal headboard.

Fuck.

There has never been a woman like that in his dreams before, or in his waking life either, not that he can remember, but Bucky could’ve sworn that she was real. And to wake up with the sensation of her blood still on his hands. Maybe there was someone, he thinks. Wouldn’t put it past Zola or his army of cretins to give him something so perfect and then rip it away. Crueller still to wake with a woman in his arms, and not because he is cradling her in tenderness. His fingers twitch. Thank god he can’t feel her skin on his. He closes his eyes. The press of her head on the center of his chest is… it’s calming. She’s still.

Y/n… that’s her name. Did the woman in his dream have one? No, no… she was just a faceless proxy for a partner who wasn’t his to lose. Is it possible to be heartbroken over a loss that never happened?

“You speak another language?”

He wills himself not to flinch, but he still curls his fingers into the fabric of his own shirt, covering her waist. What the hell could he have said in his sleep, in a language she didn’t understand? Unless… the only thing which comes to him almost as naturally as breathing is the language he answers to as a different man. And if–well, if that is the language his tongue found in the struggle of unconsciousness, then he is truly fucked. He’s heard those vowels out of the mouths of babes, beautiful and staccato, and the sounds formed in the throat deliberately. It was not a language for swooning or sighing, but… Bucky blinked and little flashes of his dream came through. He had whispered to her…

“I could get around in France,” she says gently, hiding her hands beneath the quilt which covers them both. “Honors French. And I took about two weeks of German to impress a guy in college.”

Bucky stares at the crown of her head. Her voice reverberates in his sternum.

“But that sounded like Russian. Such a beautiful language. I think it’s so underrated,” she says. “I don’t know what you said, but you must be so tired from staying up to watch over me.”

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he mumbles, rubbing his face. He wants to run outside and smoke one of those cigarettes he found on his search for pain medicine, but he is trapped and she is still shivering. He doesn’t want to tell her why he dreams in Russian, or that French and German are child’s play by comparison. He doesn’t want a conversation, he wants her to forget about it.

Blessedly, she doesn’t press further. “Do you know what time it is?”

Bucky squeezes the buttons on either side of his watch. The little clock face glows faintly blue for a moment. “Almost one.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

“Go to sleep,” he grumbles.

“You, uh–might sleep better laying down, I think I’m alright–”

“‘M fine.” Bucky closes his eyes, but he feels her hum.

“I insist. You’ve been so helpful, but you need rest, too.”

He can barely see her, but he can feel her trying to adjust while not wanting to elbow him. She does her best to scoot back, just a hair—Bucky sucks in sharply and she freezes. Bad enough that he’s itching about this dream, this spectral woman, she’s fully pressed against him, practically on top of him, and he hasn’t thought about that part of his memory locked so deep in his brain, but he feels his cock twitch against her. He could die right there.

“Can you let me up?” he asks quickly, hoping he doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels. She leans forward without questioning him, but it takes some effort to dislodge his leg from where it’s trapped between her body and the bed. Once he’s up, Bucky stumbles towards the door.

“James?”

He stops, but he doesn’t look at her. His shoulders are practically glued to his ears.

“I’ll make tea,” he says softly.

Bucky rarely registers her ‘okay’ before he’s filling the kettle in the kitchen, throwing the burner on high, and charging out into the night with a cigarette between his lips (after lighting it in the stove’s flame). He doubles over when he realizes he can’t step off the porch in his stocking feet, that his boots are still kicked under the bed from coming to her aid.

It isn’t until the filter is threatening to burn the tips of his fingers that Bucky realizes two things: he hasn’t taken one puff of the cigarette which he craved, and the woman he promised to bring a cup of tea to is standing in the front doorway of the cabin. She doesn’t say anything, but she extends a cup to him when he turns to look at her. Her face is placid, and she can’t hold her weight without using the makeshift branch-crutch, but she still waits patiently for him to take her offering. Bucky tosses the ashy cigarette butt into the snow, and receives the little mug. He stands, but she doesn’t immediately step back to allow him inside again. She’s too close, but he can’t make himself step back. She reaches inside her hoodie pocket and produces a new offering.

The whiskey bottle.

“My dad always said a little whiskey on my gums helped me sleep as a baby,” she whispers. “I know I’d probably sleep better with a little burning in my chest, and you did recommend it as a painkiller, so. If you’re game. Maybe it will solve three problems.” She raises an eyebrow. Bucky allows himself to really look at her, for a second.

The way her eyes crinkle in recognition of his robs him of any immediate response. He holds out his free hand for the bottle, but she holds it away from him. She hobbles backwards to give him space to come inside, but then she hops over to the couch and sits with a plop.

“You coming?” She catches him staring, again, but he can’t help it–she’s wearing his coat, which he had previously wrapped around her frigid feet, and the cabin is warm from the stove, and she’s lit the lantern in place of a fire; the ancient thing had sat at the back of the bedroom closet since Bucky found the cabin, and he never tried to make it run. But she found it, so here it is.

He shuts the front door, and slides over the lock. She points at his feet–she has tossed a piece of fabric there, which he recognizes as the shirt he loaned her. Bucky tucks it against the bottom of the door to stop the draft.

When he rounds the sofa for the chair, she clears her throat. “Mmm, nope. I’m still freezing, you’re not off the hook.” She pats the cusion beside her on the sofa. “But this way you can get up, again, if you need to.”

He couldn’t be more relieved that she doesn’t look at him then, because he’s sure he’s blushing. He sits with care not to spill his tea. She shifts so her thigh is pressed against his, and then takes a hearty swig from the whiskey bottle. She coughs, and winces.

“Fuck. I hate liquor.” She hands him the drink, and he mimics her action without even thinking about it. Only when he pulls it away from his lips does he realize that hers just touched the rim, too. Bucky takes another drink to drown the thought, and then pours some into his cup. She lays her head back on the couch cushions.

“I should thank you again for helping me,” she says. “Not exactly how I thought my first backpacking trip would go, I gotta say.”

Bucky shrugs.

“Do you live here all the time? Or just in winter?”

He shakes his head. “Just for now.”

“Hmm. You don’t seem like a city guy.”

“No.”

“Probably pretty liberating. Not to be on anyone else’s schedule, and… just sort of rely on yourself out here. No phone, no… I’m assuming you don’t do social media or anything.” She sips three times before handing him the bottle. Bucky snorts. He doesn’t know what she’s even asking, but that probably means the answer is no. He also doesn’t need any more of the liquor, especially considering that he still hasn’t touched his tea, but it’s something to do, so he sips.

“Used to being alone,” he says.

“I got that impression. I hope that’s not rude of me to say. But. People have a way of letting you down, and it’s hard to know who your true friends are. You ever have a real, true blue friend?”

“No.”

Bucky looks down the barrel of the bottleneck with one eye shut. There’s nothing in this bottle which will affect him in the slightest, but he matches her last drink anyhow, because he isn’t prepared for her to be so chatty at one in the morning… and he doesn’t want to talk about friends. Yes. He’s had a friend. But he can’t tell her about it–about the last time he saw that friend, and had his reality catalyzed for the first time in… seventy years? True blue meant that there was equity between parties, and all he could remember about his friendship was a flicker of a split-vision, which flashed between the image of a scrawny kid getting the shit kicked out of him in an alley, and the same kid grown up, heaving water from his lungs after Bucky pulled him from the river. He was nobody’s friend.

“No? Hmm.” She waits patiently for him to hand her the whiskey again. Bucky certainly feels much warmer than before, but it's everything to do with being under some amount of scrutiny. Her questions are an embarrassment to his fractured memory.

“I could be your friend,” she says, when the moment between words has gone on to the point of being unendurable, and Bucky’s head swivels to look at her in surprise. She’s not looking at him, however. She’s got the whiskey tucked between her thighs, while she thumbs through the book he leant her. He stays his hands from reaching for the possession, all the while loathe to watch someone else handle the book which has been a touchstone of his lucidity.

“I mean. You did loan me one of my favorite books,” she says. She smiles at him, then. “I’ve probably read this hundreds of times. You?”

Bucky nods once. She shakes her head, almost… in awe. She nudges his shoulder. “You’re a dark horse, you know?”

“...a what?”

“You’re not what I expected.”

He frowns. “Alright.”

“Not a bad thing. You seem so serious, but… I think you’re just more introspective. Like–you do more thinking than most people, you aren’t super emotional, outwardly.” She hands him The Hobbit, and takes another sip. Bucky deigns to respond to her observation by opening the book and sinking further into the cushions. “You’re Bilbo,” she says.

Bucky glances at her. She’s grinning at the thought. “Here I am, disrupting your life like a pack of dwarves–eating your food, drinking your whiskey… or whoever’s whiskey this is,” she laughs. She’s teetering in her seat, swaying even, but she seems perfectly content to not have Bucky respond at all.

She doesn’t ask anything more of him from that point on, and by the time his clock rounds two am, she’s asleep beside him. Bucky allows himself to settle just enough to actually start reading the book, from the beginning (not just staring at the words to convince her that his attention is diverted). By three, her head is on his shoulder, and he’s in Rivendell.

He lets himself look down at her when he’s sure she’s really asleep, and he thinks… you’re not what I expected, either.

***

Chapter 4

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