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danysdaughter · 3 days ago

Text

Red Is The Color Of Want

pairing | civil!war!bucky x widow!reader & winter!soldier x widow!reader

word count | 4.8k words

summary | in a crumbling safehouse far from the fights you both escaped, you—a former black widow—unravel the man beneath the metal as the winter soldier comes undone in your arms. but when a page of trigger words drags bucky back into the shadows of who he used to be, the only thing more dangerous than his programming… is how much he needs you.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, oral (f!receiving), fingering, rough sex, desperate sex, emotional hurt/comfort, dubious consent (due to Winter Soldier programming), ptsd and trauma responses, emotional angst, mutual longing, slow burn that explodes, comfort after breakdown

a/n | YALLL, this is not the a sequel to Сетка, this is a complete different widow!reader, Сетка Pt 2 is still on its way, anyway this is based on this request

taglist | ALSOOO I've created a tag list for this, so if you wanna be tagged whenever I release a new bucky fic, just fill your username to this taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Romania, Bucharest — 2016

The café was falling apart in the charming way only Eastern European buildings could get away with. A crooked sign hung above the door like it was waiting to fall. Inside, it smelled like cheap coffee and something burnt a few days ago.

You were sitting by the window, hunched over a chipped porcelain cup, one foot tucked under you. The table rocked slightly every time you leaned on it. You’d already emptied two packets of sugar into the bitter brew, and now you were on your fourth.

Across from you, he watched with that quiet intensity of his—chin in hand, blue eyes barely blinking, like every movement you made held the key to unlocking some part of him. He said nothing until the fifth sugar packet disappeared into your cup.

“Going for diabetes or just hoping to dissolve the pain?”

You didn't even look up as you stirred. “Why stop at diabetes? If I keep going, maybe I’ll reach enlightenment.”

His lip twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. The most you ever got from him on a good day.

“Doesn’t matter how much you sweeten it,” he said finally, nodding toward your cup. “Still tastes like shit.”

You leaned back, cradling the mug in both hands like it was precious. “Good. So it matches you.”

He blinked, and you almost regretted the jab—until you saw the way the corner of his mouth lifted, barely, like a secret between you.

“Dark and bitter,” he murmured. “Just like me.”

You took a sip. It was terrible. Burnt and sour with an aftertaste like regret. You looked him straight in the eyes.

“Speak for yourself. I’m fucking delightful.”

You were slouched back now, one leg kicked over the other, sipping your sugar-soaked coffee like it was actually palatable. Outside, the gray streets of Bucharest moved on—slow, indifferent, same as always.

Bucky’s eyes drifted down from your face to the red leather jacket slung over your shoulders. It was too bright, too clean for a place like this. Too loud for someone like you.

“That’s a lot of jacket for someone trying to stay low,” he muttered, eyeing it like it offended him.

You scoffed, as you smoothed your hand over the sleeve. “I love this jacket. You have no taste.”

He huffed a breath. “I’ve got taste. That just ain’t it.”

You gasped, setting your cup down with a clink. “Excuse me. This jacket is iconic.”

His brow lifted. “It’s loud. You look like a traffic light.”

“I look fabulous,” you corrected, smoothing a hand down the sleeve. “And this is the first thing I ever bought for myself, okay?”

He blinked at that. “That?”

“Да,” you said, chin up. “You don’t like it?” [Yes]

“I didn’t say that,” he mumbled, but the twitch in his lips gave him away.

You narrowed your eyes. “You did not not say it.”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, the old wood creaking beneath him. “You still look ridiculous.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the grin tugging at your mouth. “That is rich, coming from man who wears the same three Henleys on rotation.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “They’re comfortable.”

“And this is freedom,” you said simply. “The point is… I’ve never had control over my own life before. I want to do things now. Stupid things. Selfish things. Bright red jacket things. And I think you should want that too.”

That shut him up for a beat.

You didn’t push it. Just looked down at your drink, tracing the rim of the cup with your finger. When you glanced up again, his expression had softened—those sad eyes of his lit with something quieter. Warmer.

“I think your jacket’s cool,” he said, voice low.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

You grinned again, slower this time. “I get you matching one.”

His face immediately scrunched. “I’m good, thanks.”

You leaned back smugly. “I get you one anyway.”

He shook his head, but there was no bite to it. Just the faintest quirk of a smile he didn’t bother hiding this time.

────────────────────────

His Apartment

The apartment was barely a place. The walls were cracked in some places and water-stained in others. The furniture was sparse—just a torn couch, a table that wobbled if you leaned on it wrong, and a mattress on the floor in the next room. But it was safe. Or safe enough.

The stereo in the corner played something modern and vaguely electronic. It fuzzed in and out, like even it didn’t want to be here. You lay sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown over your eyes, foot tapping out of rhythm to the beat.

Bucky sat nearby in a folding chair, arms resting on his knees, watching you like he didn’t quite understand how someone like you ended up in his space.

How you, with your loud voice, bright jacket, and endless sarcasm, had carved yourself into the quiet corners of his life.

He hadn’t gotten used to the music you liked—shrill, repetitive, too fast. He’d told you as much. “It’s noise,” he’d said.

“I am noise,” you’d replied with a grin. “Get used to it.”

And somehow, he had.

Around you, the silence didn’t ache the way it used to. You filled it, even when you weren’t speaking. It was your presence—commanding and unbothered, like you were meant to be anywhere you sat.

He didn’t know how it happened. One day he’d just found you, or maybe you'd found him. In an alley in Warsaw, bleeding from a gunshot wound, muttering in Russian as you crouched beside him and said, “I’m not saving you because I care, I’m saving you because you owe me now.”

You’d been by his side ever since.

He reached into the drawer of the flimsy side table, pulled out the small, black notebook, and held it out to you wordlessly.

You shifted, eyeing it with some suspicion before sitting up just enough to take it from him.

“What’s this?” you asked, flipping it open.

“Things I remember,” he said, voice rough. “Bits. Fragments. I write them down before I forget again.”

You flipped through it slowly, eyes scanning a list of names, dates, odd phrases.

“‘Red sock in a white wash’? This a code?”

“Laundry accident. Brooklyn, 1936.”

You snorted, and he swore you smiled just a little softer than usual.

“‘Train smell. Winter. Steve’s mittens.’ That one sounds like the setup to a bad poem.”

“Smelled like coal and metal. He used to take his gloves off to share with me.” His voice drifted a bit, like the memory was speaking through him more than he was choosing to share.

You leaned your head back against the couch again, notebook open on your stomach. “You are sentimental old man,” you muttered.

He looked at you like you were sunlight through a window—something warm he never quite thought he deserved.

“And you're loud,” he said quietly. “Even when you’re not talking. I can’t hear the silence when you’re around.”

You cracked one eye open and smirked. “Good. It’s an annoying silence. Brooding and sad. Very you.”

He huffed a laugh, eyes still on you.

You flipped to another page, still lounging back on his couch, one leg dangling off the side. The paper was creased and worn, filled with a list in neat Cyrillic script. Your eyes narrowed.

“What’s this?” you asked, tapping the page lightly with your finger.

Bucky glanced over absently from the table where he’d been cleaning a disassembled pistol. “What?”

You didn’t wait. The words slid easily off your tongue, your Russian fluent and unthinking.

“Желание, Ржавый, Семнадцать, Рассвет—”

[Desire, Rusty, Seventeen, Dawn]

His head snapped up, the rag in his hand falling to the floor with a soft thud.

“Stop.”

You didn’t hear him—too caught up in your mockery, still thinking this was another relic from his past you could tease him about. Your voice took on a theatrical lilt as you continued.

“Печь, Девять, Добросердечный, Возвращение, Один—”

[Oven, Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One]

“Stop.”

But you were already at the last word.

“Товарный вагон.” [Freight Car.]

The silence after was suffocating.

You looked up, still grinning—ready to make another snarky remark.

But he was staring at you.

Not in that usual, quietly fascinated way. Not the soft, storm-swept gaze that always felt like it saw more than you were willing to show.

No, this stare was hollow. Still. Too still.

The warmth was gone.

“Bucky?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, posture rigid, jaw locked, eyes fixed on you like he was trying to calculate something. Or waiting for something.

Your pulse quickened.

You sat up fully, the notebook slipping from your hands and falling to the floor with a soft flutter.

“Bucky, what—” Your voice faltered.

You stood slowly, movements careful, like approaching a wild animal. His breathing was steady, mechanical. His hands were relaxed at his sides, but there was something wrong in the way they hung—too precise. Like they belonged to someone else.

You took a hesitant step toward him.

“What’s wrong with you?” you asked quietly, tilting your head.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even twitch.

His silence pressed in on you, heavier than the broken ceiling above, thicker than the smoke that sometimes drifted through the window from the street.

Then it hit you.

The page.

The words.

Your stomach dropped.

“Bucky…” You whispered his name like a lifeline, like saying it softer might bring him back.

Still nothing.

Just those empty, soldat's eyes staring through you.

You swallowed hard. “Come on. Say something.”

But he didn’t.

Your mouth became dry.

You took a step back, eyes locked on his. They didn’t follow your movement—not in the human way, not in his way. They tracked you like a target. The realization settled cold in your gut.

You licked your lips, heart hammering in your chest.

“Солдат…” you said softly, reluctantly. A test. A plea. [Soldat]

His posture shifted instantly, his chin lifting just slightly, shoulders drawn tight.

“Готов подчиняться,” he replied without hesitation, voice flat. Hollow. Obedient.

[Ready to comply.]

The breath left your lungs.

Shit.

No no no.

This couldn’t be happening.

You felt your stomach twist violently, and the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Блядь…” you muttered, horrified, under your breath. “Чёрт, трахни меня—” [Oh, Fuck me]

“Понял.” [Understood.]

Your eyes snapped up, wide, just as he moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

Before you could take another breath, his hand was at the back of your neck, the other on your waist, and then his mouth was on yours—rough, forceful, devouring. There was no hesitation, no question. Just action.

His lips crushed into yours like a command being executed.

And the worst part? Your body didn’t pull away.

It froze.

Caught in shock, in the wrongness, in the heat of it.

You barely registered the wall against your back before you felt his hands—strong, unrelenting—gripping your thighs. The torn leather of the couch creaked beneath you as he lifted you like you weighed nothing, pressing your body flush against his without pause, without question.

Your breath hitched.

“Bucky—no—” you gasped, palms against his chest. It was solid, unmoving. “Wait—this isn’t—”

But he wasn’t listening.

His lips moved from yours to your jaw, to your throat. Rough, possessive. He kissed like he was claiming you, like he’d waited too long and now he was making up for lost time. His mouth found the soft skin beneath your ear, sucked hard enough to bruise.

A broken sound slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

You hated that part of yourself—the one that’d thought about this. That had looked at him too long, too often, wondered what his hands would feel like wrapped around your hips. What his mouth would taste like.

But this wasn’t him.

Not really.

“Soldat,” you tried again, voice cracking, fingers curling weakly into the fabric of his shirt. “Stop—”

But even as you spoke, his grip didn’t falter. His hands roamed with precision, with purpose. Like he knew exactly what you needed before you did.

And somewhere inside those glacier-blue eyes was something burning.

Not cold. Not mechanical.

Hunger.

Longing.

Bucky had wanted this. Wanted you. Maybe not like this. Maybe not so brutally, so suddenly. But it had been there—in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching, in the weight of his silences, in how he never pulled away when your shoulders brushed.

And now all that want had been uncaged.

The Soldat was moving like he’d been given orders.

But the man you knew—he was still in there.

You could feel it in the way his fingers trembled for just a second at your waist.

His breath was harsh against your skin, uneven—like he hadn’t drawn a real one in years until now. Like you were the first breath of air after a long, dark silence.

His hands moved fast. Too fast.

Fabric tore.

The sound of your top splitting down the middle echoed like a gunshot in the small room, the cotton giving way in his fists like it was paper. You gasped, chest exposed to the cool air, to his burning stare.

“Wait—Bucky—” you started, but your voice was swallowed beneath the weight of his body pushing you back onto the couch.

He didn’t say a word. Just hovered over you, braced on his elbows, eyes devouring every inch of bare skin like it was the only thing that existed. His pupils were blown wide, mouth parted like he was starving.

And maybe he was.

Maybe the Soldat was hunger without outlet. Maybe Bucky had been starving too—silently, patiently.

And now?

Now that leash had snapped.

His mouth was on your collarbone, open and hot, teeth dragging roughly. He kissed you like he didn’t care if it left marks—like he wanted it to.

One hand slid beneath your thigh, lifting it over his hip. The movement ground his body closer to yours, and you choked on a breath, caught off guard by how right it felt—how wrong it should’ve felt.

“Soldat—” you tried again, but this time your voice was barely a whisper, barely a protest.

His body was shaking, barely controlled. Like if he let go of even one thread, he’d tear through everything between you. Like he wasn’t following an order now—he was answering a need.

Your need.

His need.

He lowered himself further, breath hot against your breast as he dragged his mouth across your skin, reverent and brutal all at once.

And all you could do was clutch at his shoulders, your mind screaming that this wasn’t him—

But your body? Your body didn’t care.

And so you didn’t resist.

Not really.

Maybe it was the way his hands gripped your hips—tight, trembling like restraint was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Maybe it was the way his breath caught when your nails dug into his shirt, clutching him like a lifeline even as he pushed you deeper into the cushions.

Maybe it was that part of you that wanted to be taken.

By him. The man. The weapon. Both.

His weight settled over you, all muscle and heat and presence, like he needed to feel every inch of you against him to believe you were real. His hips rutted against yours, rough, desperate, like he was trying to bury himself in your very existence.

“Скажи мне нет,” he rasped against your throat, voice fraying at the edges. [Tell me no]

But you didn’t.

Your legs wrapped around him tighter, drawing him in, anchoring him.

He groaned—a real sound, a human sound—and it rattled through his chest as he ground down harder, clutching at your body like it was the only thing keeping him from shattering.

You let him. You let him take you.

Because you’d seen the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. You’d heard the longing buried beneath his silence. This wasn’t just the programming.

It was him.

It was all of him.

And when his mouth crashed down onto yours again—rougher this time, teeth catching your lip—you moaned into it, fingers twisting in his shirt, holding on as he moved with a desperate rhythm, like he didn’t just want you—

Like he needed you to keep from disappearing.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his hands were on his own shirt, fists bunching in the fabric. One violent pull, and it was gone—ripped at the seams, flung aside without a second thought.

And then it was skin.

Hot, scarred, solid.

His chest pressed against yours, the rough drag of his skin over yours sending a shiver down your spine. You arched into him instinctively, needing the contact just as much as he did.

He growled—low and broken, more animal than man—as his hand found your bra and shredded it in one sharp tug. The snap of elastic was lost in the haze as his mouth dropped immediately to your chest, lips latching around one nipple, tongue circling with fervent, uncoordinated hunger.

“Ебать—” you gasped, head tilting back as your nails raked down his back, leaving angry trails in their wake. [Fuck]

He groaned against your breast, the sound vibrating through you. His hands were everywhere—one gripping your waist like a lifeline, the other palming your other breast, thumb swiping over the peak with desperate precision.

There was no rhythm to him. No practiced seduction. Just need.

Raw and overwhelming and real.

Every kiss, every scrape of teeth, every press of his body screamed a single truth: he didn't want to just fuck you—he wanted to feel you. Carving the memory of you into his skin, into his blood, like he didn’t trust the world not to take you away too.

You clung to him harder.

Not because you were afraid he’d hurt you.

But because, in that moment, you were terrified he’d stop.

You didn’t notice the shift at first—just the sudden absence of weight, the cold hit of air against your skin.

Then your eyes opened.

He was between your legs.

Kneeling, eyes burning, chest heaving. His fingers worked fast at the waistband of your pants, yanking them down along with your underwear in one swift, impatient motion. Your legs twitched involuntarily as the fabric slid past your ankles, discarded without care.

He stared at you like he was starving.

“Боже, посмотри на тебя,” he muttered under his breath, reverent and ragged. [God, look at you.]

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you open, dragging you to the edge of the couch like he owned the space between your legs.

You opened your mouth to say something—his name, a protest, a prayer—but the words died as his head dipped low.

“Моя...моя вдова,” he breathed, just before his mouth touched you. [My widow.]

And then—

Heat. Tongue. Pressure.

You gasped, hand flying to the back of the couch for balance as his mouth found you, tongue moving like he’d been trained for this too—like even in this, he wanted to master it.

He groaned against you, low and helpless, like your taste ruined him.

“Так хорошо...” he mumbled, voice muffled, worshipful. [So good…]

Your fingers buried in his hair instinctively, hips jerking against his mouth.

There was no finesse. No teasing. Just hunger.

And he was drowning in you.

His tongue was relentless—broad strokes, then sharp flicks, lips sealing around you with a precision that shouldn’t have been possible from someone this desperate. But he was intent, focused like a man on a mission, like your body was the only thing grounding him in reality.

Your thighs clenched around his head, back arching off the couch, and still he didn’t stop—if anything, he held you tighter, dragging you impossibly closer to his mouth, like he needed more of you, like you were slipping away and he couldn’t bear it.

You gasped his name—not Soldat, not a command—just Bucky, soft and raw.

And maybe he heard it.

Or maybe he just needed more.

He pulled back just enough to murmur something, the words lost under his breath, hoarse and reverent—“Я хочу внутри, я хочу чувствовать тебя, мне нужно чувствовать тебя...” [I want inside, I want to feel you, I need to feel you…]

Then you felt the cool press of metal.

Your breath caught.

His metal hand, fingers thick and gleaming in the low light, slid slowly between your thighs. He spread you with one, then pushed a finger in—slow at first, but with no hesitation. The contrast was electric: heat and steel, your body slick and pulsing around him.

Then another finger.

You whimpered, nails scraping across his bare shoulders as he curled them just right, just so, his mouth returning to your clit like he couldn’t stand being away from it.

The stretch, the weight of him inside you, was almost too much—but your body sang with it. Welcomed it.

“Ты сделана для меня…” he whispered against you. [You were made for me.]

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

All you could do was hold on as he devoured you—mouth and metal working in brutal rhythm, dragging you higher, deeper, closer to a place you couldn’t come back from.

Your moan cracked in your throat—raw, strangled—as he thrust his fingers deeper, curling them just right, just perfect, while his mouth locked onto you with maddening precision. The heat in your belly coiled tight, then tighter, your body trembling beneath him, straining toward the edge with every wet, ruthless stroke of his tongue.

And then—

You shattered.

Everything broke.

You cried out, head thrown back against the cushions, legs shaking violently as you came hard against his mouth, his hand, his name barely a whisper in your lips—“Bucky—”

He didn’t stop.

Not until you were gasping, twitching, until your hands gripped his hair and pushed gently, weakly, needing space, needing air.

He pulled back—just barely—and looked up at you.

Hair a mess, face slick with your release, eyes blown wide with hunger.

“Я не могу больше ждать,” he whispered, voice ruined. [I can’t wait anymore.]

Then he was moving.

Fast.

Rising up, his fingers leaving you with a wet sound that made your hips buck involuntarily. He fumbled with his jeans—his hands weren’t shaking, but you were. He shoved them down, not even bothering to take them off completely—just far enough to free himself, and then he was on you again.

Hard thighs between yours.

Heavy, hot, bare against your soaked skin.

You felt the press of him—thick and already pulsing—at your entrance.

He hovered for a breathless second.

“Я должен быть в тебе,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours. [I need to be inside you.]

And then he pushed in—deep, with a groan so guttural it punched through your chest and made you moan again, your nails clawing into his shoulders, into the scars and the skin that was all his, all real.

He filled you in one slow, brutal thrust.

And he didn’t move.

Not right away.

Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, shaking with the effort to hold back, to not come from the sheer feel of you wrapped around him.

You breathed his name again, softer this time. And he looked down at you like he’d been lost for years and just now found his way home.

His hips snapped forward again, dragging a rough moan from your throat as he filled you to the hilt, then pulled back only to slam into you harder, deeper. Over and over—no rhythm, no finesse—just a brutal grind of body on body, like he needed to feel every inch, every pulse, every contraction of your body around him.

Your thighs locked around his waist instinctively, heels digging into the small of his back, holding him there, in you, as if you could stop the world from spinning with just that grip.

His mouth was at your shoulder, his breath ragged and hot as he snarled half-broken curses against your skin—words you didn’t need to understand to feel. They bled need. They bled ownership.

“Твоя... моя... так туго... так тепло...”

[Yours. Mine. So tight. So warm…]

He rutted into you like an animal, like something had come loose inside him and now there was no going back. The couch creaked beneath you, the frame groaning under the force of his thrusts. The slap of skin echoed off the walls—loud, wet, constant.

You clawed at his back, nails digging in deep, dragging over muscle and scar tissue. He hissed but didn’t stop—only fucked you harder, faster, sweat dripping from his brow, jaw clenched like he was trying not to fall apart right there inside you.

You were moaning—raw, helpless, your head thrown back as he pounded into you, each thrust sending fire up your spine. Your hands gripped him like he’d vanish if you let go.

And beneath all of it—his breath, your cries, the obscene sounds of your bodies crashing together—was that undeniable truth:

You didn’t want him to stop.

His thrusts grew more erratic—less controlled, more desperate.

He was fucking you like a man coming undone, like if he stopped, even for a breath, he’d fall apart completely. Every snap of his hips was rougher than the last, the slap of skin on skin filling the air, raw and unrelenting. Your body rocked beneath him, pinned under the full weight of him, legs wrapped tight around his waist as he drove deeper, harder.

“Чёрт, не могу—” he gasped into your neck. [Fuck, I can't—]

You could feel it—the way he was trembling now, not just from the force, but from everything else. From what he was feeling. From what he didn’t know how to process.

And still, he thrust.

Over and over, burying himself so deep it felt like you’d never be empty of him again. Like he needed to put something inside you just to prove he was still real, still alive, still human.

“Ты… ты заставляешь меня чувствовать,” he choked out, voice breaking.

[You… you make me feel.]

You held him tighter, nails raking across his back, hips rolling up to meet him every time, matching him, grounding him, even as you felt his rhythm falling apart.

His breath hitched—once, twice—then turned into a sob.

A real, broken sound torn from somewhere deep inside.

He pressed his forehead to yours, still thrusting, still moving, but now he was shaking. Eyes clenched shut, jaw tight with everything he couldn't say.

“I can’t—” he whispered, in English this time. “I can’t—you—”

But he didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

Not until he’d buried himself in you one more time—so deep, so hard—and everything inside him shattered.

He came with a strangled, guttural cry, hips jerking violently, arms locking around you like if he let go you’d disappear.

And even as his body trembled and spilled into you, his face was buried in your shoulder, hot tears slipping silently onto your skin.

Because he was feeling. And it hurt.

But he was with you.

His breathing was still ragged. His body still trembling.

But slowly—slowly—the rhythm of the moment faded. The rush of adrenaline, of heat and friction and need, drained from his limbs like a dying storm.

And the silence that followed?

It was deafening.

He froze.

Still buried deep inside you, still wrapped in your warmth, your scent, your body—but everything about him changed in an instant.

His arms, once tight around you, loosened.

His breath caught. Not from exertion.

From realization.

“No,” he rasped. The word cracked, sharp and breathless, like he didn’t believe he’d said it aloud. “No, no—fuck—”

He started to pull back. Away from you. Out of you. Like his body had committed some crime his mind was only just registering.

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—” His voice shattered as he tried to extract himself from your grip, shaking his head like it would rewind the clock. “I hurt you—I—I used you—I didn’t want—”

You grabbed his face before he could escape.

“Нет,” you whispered, firm. [No.]

He froze again, caught in your hands, his eyes wild and wet and full of something you’d never seen in him before.

Fear.

Disgust.

Shame.

“Look at me,” you said, voice low. “Посмотри на меня, Джеймс.” [Look at me, James]

He did. Barely.

“I let you in,” you whispered. “I wanted you.”

“But I—I wasn’t—me,” he stammered, throat thick. “I was him.”

“You were you, too,” you murmured. “And I knew it was you. Even if you didn’t.”

His face crumpled, the last of his defenses giving way as he collapsed against you, burying his head in your neck, his body still shaking—not from pleasure now, but from the weight of the world crashing down on him all at once.

Your fingers slid into his hair as he clung to you.

You murmured soft in his ear—like prayer, like song.

“Тише… всё хорошо… я с тобой… ты безопасный…”

[Easy… it’s alright… I’m with you… you’re safe.]

He didn’t answer.

Just held on tighter. And you let him.

Because you weren’t going anywhere.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #james buchanan barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut #the winter solider x reader #winter soldier x reader #the winter solider fanfiction

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popp1n · 1 month ago

Text

GHOSTING THE GOVERNMENT

|masterpost| ao3

Chap 1: A Not-so-Ghostly Getaway.

Pt 1

The diplomas, still crisp and smelling faintly of the school auditorium's mothball-esque stale air, lay forgotten in the storage pocket of the back seat. Outside, the oppressive silence of Amity Park clung to the humid night like a shroud. Under the sliver of a waning moon, three figures moved with struggling efficiency, their hushed whispers swallowed by the darkness, only interrupted by the thump and tumble of packing a small car's trunk full to the brim.

Sam wrestled a lumpy duffel bag into the cramped trunk of Jazz’s beat-up Corolla, its faded paint a familar reflection to the scuffed and chipped state of Amity Park's buildings and roads. Tucker carefully slid a disassembled and altered shortwave radio beneath a pile of old blankets, his knuckles pale as he adhered it to the floor with heavy-duty tape. In the driver's seat, Jazz checked the rearview mirror for the tenth time, her gaze flicking nervously towards the omnipresent, unblinking lenses mounted on nearly every lamppost, but most importantly those fastened to her childhood home.

This morning, Danny and his friends walked across that stage, officially free in the eyes of the State. Tonight, they were taking that freedom for themselves, one clandestine mile and issue at a time.

Sam finally managed to cram their luggage into place and successfully close the trunk without unnecessary noise. She slid into the backseat beside Tucker, who was checking the camera feeds again.

"The loop is still set, and I have my program ready to intercept feeds as we drive," Tucker sighed, lowering his computer screen and minimizing the glow, "All that's left is for Danny to finish and we can get out of here."

It was at that moment that they could hear keys jangling near the FentonWorks's front door. Danny made himself present and quickly hurried over to the open passenger side door.

The Corolla’s suspension groaned as Danny shoved a final ratty backpack crammed with scavenged ghost tech and blueprints onto the back seat, causing Sam to give a small indignant squawk at it landing in her lap before shoving it into place between her and Tucker. He slid into the passenger seat, closed the door, and buckled in a series of swift movements. Danny, ever the pragmatist, double-checked the rearview mirror, while Jazz gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white.

“Okay, everyone set?” Jazz’s voice was a low murmur, barely audible above the thrum of the engine.

Tucker huffed an affirmative, his gaze flicking to the other small, palm-sized device he’d carefully placed on the dashboard. It pulsed with a faint, stolen green light. “Just need to power that baby up once we’re a few miles out.”

Jazz reached over and squeezed Danny's arm. “Danny, are you sure about this? Leaving everything…” Her voice trailed off, the unspoken fear hanging heavy in the air.

“Positive,” Danny said, meeting her gaze. “Staying means… well, you know.” He glanced at Tucker, who offered a tight nod of agreement.

“So, portal us out of here then, speed demon,” Jazz said, a nervous edge to her usual teasing tone. “Last I checked, you could blink us to Gotham City before they even noticed we were gone.”

Danny sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. “That’s the thing. I can’t.”

Jazz tilted her head to him, eyes on the road and confusion etched on her face. “What do you mean, you can’t?” She asked, her brow furrowed. “Are you… are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Danny insisted. “Physically, anyway. But remember those ‘rural-urban wellness initiatives’ the government rolled out last year? The ones that supposedly monitored for earth quakes and groundwater?”

Jazz's eyes widened. “You think…?”

Tucker nodded grimly. “They weren’t just mapping out tremors and underground streams. They were mapping ectoplasm fluctuations...at least the sensors in town are. Every portal, even natural ones, creates a ripple. A pretty significant one, apparently.” He pointed towards the stolen and modified device on the dash. “This little beauty confirms it. They’ve got localized sensors all over Amity Park, calibrated specifically to detect any paranormal distortions. If Danny tried to portal us out now, it’ll be like setting off a silent alarm directly to GIW headquarters.”

A heavy silence descended upon the car. Jazz’s shoulders slumped slightly. “So, all those times they ‘randomly’ stopped by the house for ‘routine checks’ after you seemed a little… restless…”

Danny’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. They knew something. They’ve been watching. Waiting.” He sighed, "They probably wrote it off so far as interference from the lab portal and whatnot, but that isn't a foolproof defense."

Sam leaned forward in her seat. “This is the only way. Old-fashioned, on the ground, under the radar. Once we’re far enough out, past that massive ghost shield they're building, then maybe… maybe Danny can risk it. But not here. Not now.”

The weight of their words settled in the small car, replacing their initial surge of post-graduation hope with a stark dose of reality. It was a harsh reminder that their lives were nowhere close to normal. This was not a regular carpool to their shared college pick; although, it was no less emotional than the standard fair.

Tucker was excited for opportunities with the biggest technology conglomerate in the world. He and Danny managed to score scholarships along with paid internships with their practical demonstrations. Sam was interested in the gothic architecture and ecology courses that their destination had to offer. Danny was intrigued by the rumored curses around the city. Jazz was looking forward to finishing her psychology degree and potentially working in Arkham.

But home is home, no matter how strained it has become in recent years.

Emotions were complicated, and many a tear were shed by the teens as they pulled out of the neighborhood and headed towards city limits. Jazz offered each of them a blanket and bid them to rest.

Next>

#dc x dp #dcxdp #dp x dc #dpxdc #gotham #danny phantom #danny fenton #fanfic #fanfiction #they are trading one surveillance state for another but at least the new one isnt out to get them specifically #guys in white #the Lazarus pit below gotham is going to be a key detail #dont tell me if its canon or not cause plot points will start melting in my head #soon to be on ao3 #ghosting the government

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