#shield!reader

[marvelstoriesepic]

Small gesture, Big meaning

Pairing: Tfatws!Bucky x Shield!Reader

Summary: Sam and you prepare something for Bucky’s birthday with the little you can scrape together.

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Sam roasting a poor muffin; Bucky being in his feels; bickering; subtle mentions of Bucky’s past

Author’s Note: Another little birthday fic because I felt like it. You might notice I'm extremely motivated to write lately. Let’s hope it stays that way. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

“You’re putting too much faith in that sad little muffin.”

Sam is leaning against the rickety kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching with open amusement as you carefully place a candle in the center of the slightly misshapen muffin. It’s a little lumpy, a little too golden brown in some places, and has a slightly deflated top, but considering that you made it in a barely functioning oven with only the ingredients that are offered here, it looks pretty decent.

Supplies are scarce in this safe house, and baking has never been your strong suit. After all, as an agent of Shield, you don’t really have time for domestic stuff like that.

“It’s not about the muffin,” you shoot back, a little defensive. You are even a little proud of this thing, but you won’t admit that to Sam. “It’s about the thought,” you claim, adjusting the small happy birthday banner you both scrawled on torn notebook paper.

Sam hums, his smile not leaving. “Oh, the thought is loud and clear. Happy birthday, Bucky. Here’s a barely edible clump of regret.”

You narrow your eyes at his mocking tone. “Oh come on, at least I tried. You just stood there judging my culinary struggles.”

“I think you managed just fine.” His smile is so toothy. His voice so sarcastic.

Your eyes fall back to the muffin with a roll of your eyes. Sure, it looks a little rustic, but there is something satisfying about it. The last time you baked something isn’t even a memory in your mind anymore.

Your usual diet consists of protein bars and whatever passes for coffee in whatever part of the world you’re holed up in. But you made this. For Bucky.

And for something that isn’t a tactical maneuver, a recon plan, or a mission briefing, that feels like a win.

“It’s not bad.”

Sam snorts.

You throw him a glare.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there.

This isn’t just about Bucky’s birthday - it’s about reminding him that he’s seen, that someone gives a damn. That after all the decades of war, loss, and suffering, there is still something worth celebrating. Even if it’s just with Sam and you.

Sam clears his throat, shifting his weight. “He’s gonna act all grumpy about it.”

You take in a breath. “Yeah, I know. But deep down, he’ll like it.”

Sam softens.

You smile and light the candle.

The safe house you are in right now is tucked in some half-forgotten corner of Eastern Europe - somewhere off the grid but not completely abandoned.

The walls are cracked, the wood is old and worn, the air thick with dust, and the supplies minimal at best. It’s one of those places that’s good for disappearing, for catching a breath, and talking about strategy.

You three have been here for two days now.

There are only a few cans of food, stale crackers, instant coffee that tastes burned. The stove barely works just like the oven, the fridge hums as if it’s dying, and the water pressure in the tiny, rust-stained bathroom is a joke. But it’s shelter, and honestly even quite cozy, and that’s enough.

The situation with Karli and the flag smashers is getting tense. You are trying to track her movements, trying to predict her next move after the GRC camp attack in Latvia.

Bucky left a few hours ago, going after a lead - an arms deal happening at a dockside warehouse a few miles out. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s something, maybe another piece of the super soldier serum still floating around in the wrong hands.

You didn’t want him to go alone and tried to make a case for joining him, but Bucky just gave you that look. The one that said he isn’t going to risk anyone else. The one that said he is used to doing things on his own, whether he likes it or not. And with Sam needing to check in with some of his own contacts, that left you here, holding things down.

So you let him go, but still checked your comms every now and then, waiting for the static to break with his voice.

He should be back soon.

Bucky has not said a thing about it being his birthday.

Not today, not yesterday, not in any of the days leading up to it.

Not that this surprised you. You expected it, honestly.

To him, a birthday does not seem to be a marker of another year lived, but rather just another date on a calendar that is too far ahead of him. Another reminder of all the years he wasn’t really there. Not as himself.

He was his usual brooding self. Still and watchful, sitting on the couch in the corner, hands clasped loosely, tapping his metal fingers against his knee in that absent way he does when his thoughts take him somewhere else.

The only real indication that he even knew his birthday was approaching was the way he got quieter. Bucky is never particularly loud to begin with. But there was a shift, a deepening of whatever burden he carried around.

You caught him staring out the window yesterday, waiting for the sky to darken, for the day to pass by unnoticed, slipping through the cracks like so many others before.

So you didn’t bring it up. Neither did Sam.

You just started planning.

Because if Bucky wasn’t going to acknowledge it, you would.

Maybe not with something big, because he wouldn’t want that, but something. Something only for you. Only for the people closest to him currently. A reminder, even if he didn’t ask for one.

Because birthdays might not matter to Bucky.

But Bucky matters to you.

The door swings open with a push that is firm but not rushed, the kind of movement that says he’s been through a thousand doors just like it, in places just like this, and expects nothing on the other side but the same four walls he left behind.

You straighten. So does Sam.

A gust of cold air follows him in, causing the candle in the muffin to flicker slightly.

Bucky steps inside, his boots scuffing against the worn floorboards, the leather of his jacket creaking faintly as he shifts, pushing the door shut behind him.

You don’t think you’re even breathing as you watch him roll his shoulders like he’s shaking off the weight of the night - like if he just moves right, he can shrug off the things he doesn’t want to carry.

“It was nothing,” he says, his voice rough, sandpapered. He is already pulling off his gloves, shoving them into his pocket. “Just a few guys moving crates. Looked like standard weapons, no serum, no Flag Smasher insignias. Could’ve been anyone.”

His tone is gruff, dismissive. Almost a little bored.

“Didn’t stick around long,” he continues, metal fingers curling at his sides. “They spotted me. One guy ran, but the rest didn’t put up much of a-”

And then he looks up.

And stops.

His shoulders tense mid-shift, his mouth still half open from words that don’t make it out. His eyes tell the whole story.

They dart from you to Sam to the muffin in your hands, the candle still burning, wax beginning to pool unevenly at the base. Then to the tiny, hand-scrawled banner you quickly shoved into Sam’s fingers to hold up.

Bucky doesn’t move.

For a long second, he just stares. Not in the way he does when he’s sizing up a threat, when he’s tracking movement in a crowded room, when he’s calculating distance and angles and exits. This is different.

His expression isn’t blank, but it’s unreadable in a way that makes you shift from one foot to the other. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with what he is seeing.

“Happy birthday, Bucky.”

The words come out light, but there is something heavy in them, and you feel that your voice is a little hesitant.

Gripping the muffin a little tighter, you suddenly feel self-conscious about how small this gesture is, how little you were able to put together. It felt like enough before. Like something meaningful. But his silence is making you uneasy.

“Happy birthday, man,” Sam echoes, voice sincere.

Bucky blinks several times, needing to catch up. His features, softened in surprise, start to pull back together, a slow crease forming between his brows. His jaw tightens, lips are still parted slightly before he presses them together, as if cutting off whatever response had almost slipped out.

His eyes continue sweeping around, from the muffin, up to you, to Sam, to the imperfect banner. Something swims beneath the blue of his eyes.

“What is this?” His voice is hoarse, like the words catch somewhere on their way out.

Like he doesn’t already know. Like he can’t believe it.

He shifts his weight, arms hanging stiffly at his sides, metal fingers flexing just slightly, one of those little tells you picked up during your time working together.

He is off balance, caught without an escape route, with no blueprints for this kind of thing. A man who has walked through fire and war and every shade of hell, and yet, somehow, this little gesture, is what catches him completely off guard.

There is something vulnerable in the way he looks at you both, something unguarded in the way his throat works around nothing, as if searching for a response but keeps coming up empty.

Because this is not something he can punch his way through or bury beneath sarcasm and brooding.

It’s just a candle and a muffin and a banner and two people standing in front of him, remembering what day it is.

And maybe that’s what gets him the most.

Bucky doesn’t look away.

He has always been one to simply stare at things, but this is getting intense.

As if the whole concept of this - of being given something without having to earn it through blood or survival - is too distant to reach for.

“Damn, man,” Sam drawls, arms crossing over his chest again. “Are you getting so old now that you forgot what a birthday is?”

You don’t know if you want to punch the man beside you in the gut with every ounce of strength you’ve got or grab his stupid face and kiss him like the world is ending. Maybe both. Probably both.

Because the bastard knows exactly what he is doing. Knows how to crack open a moment before it can become too heavy, how to make things easier for Bucky without making a big deal out of it.

And it kind of seems to work.

Bucky’s expression changes in the way his brows furrow deeper. His mouth twitches - almost a frown, almost a smile, almost something in between. Then he exhales sharply, breath hitching before rushing past his lips a little unevenly. It’s a scoff, but it’s weak, like he can’t quite summon the energy to be properly annoyed.

His eyes fall to Sam, sharp but lacking real bite. “Shut up.”

But there is no edge.

No venom. Like if he weren’t so caught off guard, if he had a little more time to settle into this strange, unfamiliar warmth creeping into the edges of the room, he might have actually had something to fire back.

He shakes his head slightly, as if trying to dismiss the moment before it can sink in too deep, before it can reach whatever part of him has spent too long convincing itself that things like that aren’t for him.

His gaze drops again to the candle. The wax drips lower, the flame wavers.

Then his eyes sweep over the lettering of the banner in Sam’s hand, reading your handwriting carefully, over and over and over again.

You offer a warm smile and hold out the muffin toward him, tilting it slightly in invitation. The candle’s flame flickers with the movement.

“You gotta blow out the candle, Bucky.”

He glances at you then, one brow arching in that familiar, dry skepticism, like he is debating whether or not to argue the point. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t argue, only exhales another breath that is just a little shaky.

He steps toward you, slowly, as if closing the space between you and the candle is something to be made precisely, something to be considered.

Up close, the cut of his jaw is a little tighter, the blue of his eyes shadowed but not distant. His hands flex at his sides. Maybe a part of him still expects this to be something else, something with a catch, something not meant for him.

But you keep smiling, keep waiting, Sam keeps watching and after the briefest hesitation, Bucky leans in, breath ghosting warm against the tiny flame, and blows it out.

It snuffs with a quiet puff of smoke, curling into nothing.

Sam claps his hands together once, a low, easy sound that fills the space. “There you go, old man.”

You smile, a little brighter now, something in your chest disentangling at the sight of Bucky standing there, watching the smoke, looking slightly lost, but no longer frozen.

“Did you make a wish?” you ask lightly.

Bucky huffs out a breath. It might be a laugh but it is a little unsteady.

“Sure, doll.”

There is something in the way he says it. Something softer than usual, something a little worn at the edges but genuine.

As though, just maybe, he did not even have to make a wish. Because it already came true.

The candle’s tiny smoke disappears, leaving behind only the muffin - a little too brown, a little too lopsided, but warm in your hands.

Bucky stares at it, his expression unreadable in that way only he can manage, like he is feeling something too big to let show.

Sam sighs dramatically, eyes also trained on whatever you created there.

“Man,” he mutters, shaking his head, “it looked sad before, but with the candle out it looks even sadder. Like a single, abandoned biscuit in the middle of a war zone.”

You gasp, scandalized, turning to him. “Excuse me? This is a perfectly respectable muffin.”

Sam gives you a look, then gestures vaguely toward it. “That thing looks like it’s been through some things - like it’s seen battle, lost some good men, and barely made it home.”

You clutch the muffin closer to your chest. “I will not stand here and let you disrespect my baking skills in such a way.”

“What baking skills, huh?” Sam fires back, smirking. “You found a pre-mixed bag of something that might’ve been flour and might’ve been plaster, mixed it with a prayer, and threw it in the oven. I'm just saying, if that thing had legs, it would’ve walked away out of self-preservation.”

You open your mouth, ready to retort with the sharpest, most brutal comeback you can think of, but Bucky beats you to it.

“It looks nice.”

His voice is quiet but firm, stopping your bickering.

Sam and you both turn to look at him.

Bucky hasn’t taken his eyes off the muffin. His hands are still loose at his sides, his stance still slightly hesitant. But his expression is softened.

You don’t bother to hide your triumph as you turn back to Sam. “See? Barnes thinks it looks nice.”

Sam rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath about low standards and winter soldier pity points, but you don’t care.

Because Bucky - who didn’t mention his birthday, who never expects anything from anyone, who looks so lost in thought standing there in the poorly lighted safe house - thinks it looks nice.

And that’s more than enough.

You watch Bucky’s brow furrow slightly into something weighty, as if realizing only now, that you actually made this yourself.

His eyes shift to the uneven edges of the banner Sam is holding, to the way the lettering wobbles just slightly, as though you had to redo it a few times before settling on something half-decent.

Then his eyes move back to the muffin that has been made by hand - your hand - mixed together with the scraps you could find in the barebones safe house, baked in a temperamental oven that probably isn’t even meant for cooking anymore.

For him.

You made all this just for him.

His throat moves as he swallows hard, his lips parting slightly as if wanting to voice out something, but nothing comes up. His chest rises and falls, slower than before, as if he is trying to steady himself.

His jaw tightens just a fraction, but it doesn’t harden. It softens again slowly, and when he finally looks back up, there is something there you don’t think you have ever seen before.

A sheen over his eyes, so faint it might go unnoticed if you weren’t looking right back at him. If you weren’t watching him take this in, piece by piece, trying to figure out what to do with it.

He looks so touched.

So utterly affected by your gesture.

He spent so many of his birthdays forgotten, as someone wielded by metal and orders, to now come back to his temporary home, to his temporary family, who remembered long enough to plan a little something for him.

You don’t need to say anything.

You just glance at Sam, and he glances at you. He nods subtly, giving you a meaningful smile.

Because this matters.

Bucky releases a breath from deep within. It comes out slow, an attempt at trying to get his overwhelming emotions out, but it doesn’t seem to have worked that well.

His gaze drops for just a second, as though he needs to compose himself, before he looks back at you with something so gentle and exposed in his expression that it nearly makes you squeeze the fragile muffin in your hand to death.

This isn’t much. Just a tiny celebration in some run-down house out in nowhere.

But to him, it seems to be everything.

“After seeking to understand, it’s not the size of the action that counts. It’s the relevancy and impact of our action that makes the difference.”

- Heather R Younger

[daylighted]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤSHIELD ! READER.

meet indy . . . properly, because for the entirety of her life, she's been a pretty prop to the only supe capable of handling her, and nothing else. frederick vought was a cruel man, but he was intelligent beyond measure, and with soldier boy out of commission, it was the perfect time for the iconic shield of soldier boy's to be recycled & reused . . . until an even more outlandish idea came into the doctor's mind. a little compound v and a lot of determination ended up with a shield robbed of its durability & an indestructible girl — just in time to put soldier boy back in his place.

WOMAN OF STEEL !! the name indy comes from the word indestructible, the one factor that ben asked for in a shield constructed for him. man could tear and bleed, even if it did not debilitate him. this was a trait also was translated in the scientific creation of indy; the girl created from the shield was impossible to break, or to mar.

WORDS LIKE BULLETS !! indy has been under the legend's careful & watchful eye since the death of frederick vought, not trusted to be let loose as one of vought international's esteemed superheroes, or amongst the civilians themselves. it is not confirmed, but theorized by the legend himself, that indy's "unrivaled cruelty" and "lack of compassion" are not her fault, but instead soldier boy's, for fostering an aggressive environment that effected more than just the people surrounding him, including his titanium shield.

BATTERED & BEATEN !! it is no secret that the shield, in soldier boy's possession and care, endured abuse like nothing else. deflecting bullets, and superhuman fists, and abilities that transcended anything human beings should be capable of. a lot of indy's brash aggression stems from the defense mechanism triggered in life-or-death situations; capable of handling the hurt but not immune to the human instinct to flinch away from hurt after everything she'd been through.

LEGEND IN THE MAKING !! how indy was created is something that isn't known. the main scientist handling her fruition has long been dead, and the scientists who assisted in it are, if not sworn to secrecy, too old to recall the experiments and testing that went on in the original vought laboratories. though, there are some clear indicators in how it effected indy, in the way she flinches at the mention of doctors and testing.

A LIFE WITHOUT LOVE !! there's no surprise in the fact that indy and ben would clash. indy went through hell in soldier boy's care, and then some more in the creation of her human identity. it was thought and expected that the two would get along considering that, back in the day, ben went nowhere without her on his arm, but the trauma rooted itself deep into both of them, and knowing nothing else, the two end up in arms more often than not.

THE GIRL IS A GUN !! it is already a lot for the boys to handle on their own: one of the world's first supes, and the human personified version of that supe's shield, now under their supervision and care while they work to dismantle vought. it is only amplified and made worse by utter dismay evoked between indy and ben whenever they are in the same room together. the only thing that they can do is hope that vought gets caught in the destruction the two make together, because there is no telling if their relationship will sour or sweeten with time.

—ㅤㅤㅤBROKEN PIECES !! ㅤ ๋࣭ ㅤ ⭑ ㅤ ⋆ ㅤ ⭒ ㅤ ˚ ㅤ ｡ ㅤ ⋆

. . . or, the chronological timeline of shield!reader. find the full shield, including shards, in all of its glory here ㅤ — ㅤdiscuss shield!reader nation here !! taglist for indy coming soon.

shield!reader interactive version coming soon, only found on c.ai.

01. BITTER REUNIONS 02. ULTIMATE REVENGE 03. LIVE & LET DIE

—ㅤㅤㅤSHARDS OF TITANIUM !! ㅤ ๋࣭ ㅤ ⭑ ㅤ ⋆ ㅤ ⭒ ㅤ ˚ ㅤ ｡ ㅤ ⋆

. . . or, the pinnacles of thoughts and headcanons about shield!reader. join the discussion in the link above !!

ㅤㅤㅤ⛨ TBD.

notes. baby!reader's impact has gone global. everyone say thank you baby for all of the incredible things inspired by her & thank u dahlia for making this post bc it actually about killed me trying to find funsie words for all of these things ok. anyways biggest shoutout to @theosaurous for planting this idea in my mind i hope u love the flower it will grow into.

again layout inspired by my pookie twin @deansbeer <3 !!! bc as hard as it is every time it EATS every time.

tags. @titsout4jackles @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @eepwtf @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @jensenacklesballsack @abox-of-rocks @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @misatxox @angelblqde @bombarda-babe @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @voidsuites @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @hyacinnths @blushpinkdoll @mccartneyqp @svbnra + all other soldier boy lovers if u want added / taken off pls lmk !

[http-shield]

bucky. on. his. knees.

i need y'all to sit and think about that with me for a quick second okay. This man, in FULL tactical mission gear (weapons still strapped to his thighs and slung across his back), kneeling before you with his head buried between your thighs in the middle of the quinjet, his patience had been growing thin for days as the training mission wore on and on and on, his need for you however had only built and built until his blood simmered with unchecked heat, his skin slick with sweat as desire boiled over in a mess of huffed breaths and muffled moans as he came to the thought of you over and over again. Its not as if you hadn't noticed his lingering touches, the longing glances, his not so subtle hints at just how much he was going to ruin you as soon as you went home but days four and five and six begin to roll around, the tether holding Bucky's sanity snapped.

"Up. Now." Bucky's gruff voice commands as you feel his fingers tap the outside of your clothed thigh.

You lift your head, gaze still locked on the red dots of your team mates in the screen before you, and question him with a soft hum. Steve’s dot blinked as he crossed paths with Nat, her accurate aim lighting up his tactical vest with a hit.

“Come on. Get Up” he instructs again, a little firmer this time, fingers digging into your thigh.

“What- Buck, what is it?” You finally glance at your partner who is looking suspiciously flustered. “You okay?”

“Just get up and take your pants off.”

“James-“ you begin to chastise him but are cut off as your chair spins around, Bucky kneeling before you as his hands begin to work open the buttons at your waist.

“Please sweetheart, i’m going crazy. Just lemme eat-.”

“Bucky, there are cameras.” despite your protests you are lifting your hips to allow Bucky to slip your trousers down your thighs.

“I’ll wipe the data.” his reply is gruff as he pulls you to the edge of the seat, your thighs slung over his shoulders as his hot breath fans over you. “i’ll be quick, please.” he doesn’t finish his sentence before diving in, his tongue flat against your aching pussy.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been thinking about Bucky and the thousand and one ways you wanted to fuck him once getting home but there hasn’t been a moment alone to take care of yourself and so your tension built and built until a single look had you gushing and aching.

“You’re sitting on my face when we get home.” Bucky mumbles, words muffled as he licks and sucks. “Need you to suffocate me.”

[lowrisemiller]

ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ-ꜱᴛᴀʀᴠᴇᴅ

bucky barnes x fem! shield agent!reader

first time writing for bucky <333

safe house, during a storm. after a long mission, you’re stuck sharing a room with bucky. you’ve always assumed he keeps his distance because of his past. but when the storm knocks out the power and you curl up on the couch, cold and shivering, he finally opens up — and his hands, calloused and careful, don’t stop at comfort.

masterlist | 3k words | soft!dom Bucky, praise kink, reader receives oral (f), unprotected PIV(she on da pill), morning sex, deep emotional intimacy, touch starvation themes,, reader is referred to as “sweetheart” and “baby”, slow and loving sex, post-orgasm cuddling, mentions of past loneliness, body worship, Bucky is obsessed and down bad, vulnerable!Bucky, safehouse setting, canon-typical trauma referenced, no use of y/n

The rain hasn’t let up in hours.

It batters against the tin roof like it’s trying to get in — thunder rumbling over the hills like a warning. You’re curled on the couch in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a worn S.H.I.E.L.D. hoodie, one knee pulled tight to your chest, a book in your lap you’ve read the same page of five times. The fire’s dwindled to glowing coals.

And Bucky’s sitting across the room like a statue.

He hasn’t said much since you both got in hours ago —wet, bruised, exhausted from the mission. Just stripped off his tac gear and sat down on the edge of the bed, mechanical hand flexing like it couldn’t settle. He’s been like that ever since you joined his team —polite, helpful, quietly protective. But always… distant.

Like if he got too close, he’d ruin something.

Another crash of thunder shakes the cabin. You flinch without meaning to, hand clutching the blanket tighter.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Come here,” he says, voice low but solid.

You blink up at him.

“What?”

“You’re cold,” he murmurs. “Don’t argue, I can tell. C’mere.”

You hesitate. He looks so serious, dark hair still damp from the rain, black T-shirt hugging the hard lines of his chest. His expression is guarded, but his eyes are warm — warmer than you’ve ever seen them.

You cross the room slowly. He shifts, leaning back against the headboard, lifting the blanket beside him in invitation. Something tight coils in your chest. You’ve slept in the same room before — hotel rooms, bunkers, quinjet corners — but never like this.

You sit beside him. He wraps the blanket around your shoulders, pulls you in.

And suddenly you’re tucked under Bucky Barnes’ arm, your head resting against the soft fabric of his shirt, the sound of his steady breathing in your ear.

Your body relaxes before your mind can catch up. He’s warm. Unbelievably warm. And strong. You feel it in every inch of him —the way his arm curls protectively around your back, the subtle press of muscle as you lean into him.

“You okay?” he asks after a while.

You nod, barely. “Yeah. Just… long week.”

His chuckle is barely audible. “Understatement of the century.”

For a moment, it’s just the storm and the soft rhythm of your breathing. Then he speaks again — so quietly it barely registers.

“I hate seeing you scared.”

You look up. His jaw is tight, his gaze focused on the firelight.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he says gently. “It’s okay.”

You swallow. There’s something aching in his tone —something raw.

“You don’t talk this much,” you say softly.

“I know.” He turns his head, meets your eyes. “Doesn’t mean I don’t think it.”

Your breath catches. His eyes are ocean-deep, stormy like the night outside, but warm — so warm.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks.

You nod.

“I think about touching you all the time.”

Your heart stops.

He keeps going, voice steady but trembling at the edges.

“Not just sex. Not even that, really. I think about… brushing your hair out of your face. Holding your hand. Pulling you onto my lap just because I can. I think about waking up next to you.”

He swallows hard.

“But I don’t. Because I don’t want to scare you. And because I don’t know if you’d want that. Want me.”

The rain seems to hush for a moment, like the world is listening.

You reach up slowly, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed like he’s afraid to believe it’s real.

“I’ve been waiting for you to touch me,” you whisper. “I thought you wouldn’t want to.”

His eyes snap open —like you just lit a fuse.

“Don’t move,” he says hoarsely.

You stay still.

His hand —warm, broad, careful —comes up to cup your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, then your lip. His other hand, the metal one, rests on your thigh with featherlight pressure, like he’s scared you’ll flinch.

You don’t.

You lean in.

And he kisses you.

It’s gentle at first —lips soft and reverent against yours, like he’s still scared he’ll wake up. But then you press closer, fingers tangling in his shirt, and he deepens it —groaning into your mouth, tongue brushing yours, hunger bleeding into every movement.

You shift into his lap, straddling him instinctively, and Bucky grabs your hips like he’s grounding himself —like if he lets go, he’ll wake up alone again.

His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing, and the look he gives you is hungry —like you’re the first warm thing he’s touched in years.

“You’re driving me insane,” he growls. “You know that, right?”

You rock against him gently, and his jaw goes tight.

“You can touch me,” you whisper, hands in his hair. “Anywhere. However you want.”

He huffs a breath like he’s trying to keep from losing it.

“Fuck, sweetheart…”

His metal hand grips your thigh, spreading you wider over him. His other hand slides under your hoodie and up your back, warm and solid, tugging the fabric over your head and tossing it aside.

When he sees you —bare, flushed, breathing hard —he curses under his breath and cups your chest with both hands, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they stiffen. You gasp, grinding against the hard line of him beneath his sweatpants.

“Lay back for me,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

You do —breathless, already aching —lying back on the bed as he kneels between your legs.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your flannel pants.

“Every inch of you.”

He drags them down, slow and deliberate, along with your panties —eyes never leaving yours as he exposes you. When you’re naked and spread out under him, he runs his hands up your thighs, parting them wider with firm, reverent pressure.

Then his mouth is on you again.

Warm, slow, worshipful.

He kisses your inner thigh, then the crease of your hip, teasing you until you’re trembling, trying to press yourself against his mouth. But he pins your hips with his metal arm and groans, low and broken, like the taste of you has him spiraling.

He laps at you slowly, teasing your clit with the flat of his tongue before sucking softly. You moan—high and sharp —and tangle your fingers in his hair. His tongue circles, flicks, licks deeper until you’re whimpering, thighs trembling.

“You’re so wet for me,” he breathes, voice muffled against your cunt. “So perfect, so good…”

You try to respond, but your hips buck when he slips one thick finger inside you, curling it just right.

“Oh—fuck, Bucky—”

“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Let me hear you.”

He adds a second finger, fucking you slowly with a perfect rhythm as he sucks your clit again. The pressure builds like a wave — deep and hot and inevitable.

“I—I’m gonna—”

“Do it, sweetheart. Come for me.”

You fall apart on his mouth, writhing, gasping, your hands pulling hard at his hair. He doesn’t stop — licking you through it, holding you firm until your body finally slumps back against the mattress.

He looks up at you, lips slick, eyes glazed with want.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You reach for him, dazed. “Need you inside me.”

That’s all it takes.

He strips fast — sweatpants gone, briefs gone — and your eyes go wide at the size of him, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip.

“Condom,” he mutters, reaching for his bag—

“No,” you whisper. “I’m on the pill. I want to feel you.”

His eyes darken. “You sure?”

You nod, pulling him in. “Please.”

He lines himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds, and groans like he’s barely holding it together.

Then he pushes in —slow, stretching you inch by inch, until he bottoms out and you’re both gasping.

“Jesus Christ,” he pants. “You’re so tight. So fuckin’ perfect.”

He stills, letting you adjust, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, your jaw. “You okay, baby?”

You nod. “Move.”

And when he does —slow and deep at first, then faster, rougher —it’s like the world narrows to just the two of you. His hands grip your hips, his mouth never leaves your skin, and every thrust drives you higher.

He murmurs praise like a prayer—

“So good for me.”

“You feel like heaven.”

“I could stay inside you forever.”

When he feels you tighten around him again, he fucks you through your second orgasm — hard and deep — before groaning into your neck and coming inside you with a shudder that rocks his whole body.

He doesn’t pull out. Not yet.

Just stays there, buried deep, breathing against your collarbone.

“I’ve never—” he murmurs. “Never had this. Not like this.”

You stroke his back, warm and damp with sweat.

“You have it now.”

He kisses you then —soft and slow, like a promise.

And this time, it’s not about hunger.

It’s about home.

The fire’s burned down to embers.

Outside, the rain has stopped. All that’s left is the gentle patter of water dripping from the eaves and the faint glow of early morning light peeking through the curtains.

You’re warm —so warm —tucked beneath the threadbare sheets, wrapped in Bucky’s arms.

His body is solid heat against your back, chest rising and falling steady with sleep. One hand is splayed across your belly, the other curled under your neck, holding you close like he still doesn’t quite believe you’re real.

You shift slightly, and his breath catches. The hand on your stomach tightens, thumb brushing your skin like a reflex.

“Did I wake you?” you whisper, voice soft.

“Mmm,” he hums sleepily, lips brushing your shoulder. “Been awake. Just didn’t wanna move. S’too good.”

You smile, turning in his arms to face him. He’s a mess of tousled hair and morning stubble, blue eyes heavy-lidded and soft.

“Hi,” you murmur.

“Hi.” He leans in, noses at your cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

“You never have to ask.”

The kiss is slow —tender and lazy, mouths fitting together like they’ve always known how. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, and you melt into him like you’ve been waiting all your life to be held like this.

When you shift again, your bare thighs brush his —and you feel it.

He’s hard. Already. Pressed warm and thick against your stomach.

You pull back to look at him.

His cheeks are pink. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be sorry.” You reach down, wrap your hand gently around him. His hips twitch.

“I want you again,” you whisper. “Just like this.”

He swallows hard, eyes locked on yours. “You sure?”

You nod. “Slow n soft.”

His jaw clenches, just a little. Then he exhales and kisses you again —sweeter this time, deeper, like a slow ache.

Like gratitude.

The sheets fall away as he shifts over you, pushing your legs apart with his hips. He slides his metal hand beneath your thigh, lifting it gently as he rolls his body over yours.

He’s big —broad and warm and so careful —and you feel yourself open for him all over again.

“I didn’t hurt you last night, did I?” he murmurs, brushing your hair back.

“No,” you whisper. “You made me feel so good and safe.”

He groans softly, like that this alone is enough to undo him. Then he reaches between you, guides himself to your entrance, and sinks in slow.

The stretch makes you sigh —familiar now, but no less intense. He presses deeper until your bodies are flush, his cock buried inside you, and stays there for a moment, unmoving.

His forehead rests against yours.

“I could stay like this forever,” he breathes. “You feel so good. So warm. So perfect.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist.

“Then stay.”

He moves slowly, rolling his hips in deep, rhythmic strokes —not chasing release, just feeling you. Making love like he has nowhere else to be, like your body is the only place he’s ever felt peace.

The way he looks at you —like you hung the stars —has your whole chest aching.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “Can’t believe I get to touch you like this.”

You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his shoulder. “Touch me more.”

And he does. Big hands exploring your body all over again —your waist, your breasts, your thighs. He never stops moving inside you, never pulls all the way out. Every thrust is slow and deep and intimate, like he wants to leave a piece of himself inside you.

When you start to tremble beneath him, he cups your face with both hands.

“Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You come with a soft cry, clinging to him as your body shudders. He follows moments later, gasping your name, cock pulsing inside you as he buries himself one last time and spills deep.

You stay tangled together afterward — skin flushed, breath slowing, heartbeats syncing.

“I think I’m addicted to you,” he murmurs against your neck.

“Good thing we’re stuck here another day.”

He chuckles, pulling you tight against him. “Don’t tempt me.”

But his voice is soft. Sweet. Like he wants to be tempted. Like he already is.

divider by @cursed-carmine 🏷️ @zevrra

[zephyrchama]

It was a lovely afternoon, and you were enjoying a lovely chat with the crown prince of the Devildom. Diavolo was glad to have a break from work, as well as an excuse not to return to it.

That is, until Barbatos appeared. The butler asked his charge to please return to the urgent matters on his desk. Break time was over.

Diavolo frowned. He did not want to work anymore. He had been diligently fulfilling his duties for a week now with no complaints. He peered at the desk, with its mountain of paperwork. He peered at Barbatos, whose smile thinly masked a threatening disposition. He peered at you, a sad and helpless expression on his face.

"We're going to have to leave our conversation here. I am so sorry," Diavolo lamented. He approached you with outstretched arms.

Thinking of a hug, you met him with equally outstretched arms. "It's okay, you can message me la-"

Anything you were about to say disappeared from your mind as Diavolo picked you up. There was resolution in his eyes. There was no going back now. In haste, he threw you at Barbatos.

The butler's cool facade broke as he scrambled to catch you in a graceful hold, cautious to minimize any damage to your body. Though, you felt his bony fingers dig into your sides as Barbatos gripped you tightly. He was furious.

Diavolo was already out the door and down the hall, looking for somewhere he could hide for at least another five minutes before returning to work. Though it was regrettable he could not spend any more time with you, this was a necessary action to distract Barbatos.

He would never forget your noble sacrifice.

[purifiedclitoris69]

Statements

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Shield agent!reader

Summary: Assumptions are made about the relationship you have with Natasha, so you took it upon yourself to make a statement :)

Your relationship with Natasha is built on years of trust, mutual respect, and an unspoken understanding that comes from living in the shadows of espionage. You met when she first joined SHIELD, and while she was still finding her footing within the organization, you were already established as a specialist sniper—someone who worked alone, took the impossible shots, and disappeared before anyone even knew you were there.

At first, your relationship was purely professional. You recognized each other as dangerous and highly capable, but there was always a quiet pull between you. Over time, through shared missions, late-night debriefs, and the rare moments of quiet in a world full of chaos, that pull became something more. It wasn’t dramatic or rushed—it was a slow burn, a natural evolution of two people who understood each other better than most and yearned to show one another a genuine love.

Now, after almost 3 years together, your bond is unshakable. While the Avengers see you around the compound, they don’t truly know the depth of what you and Natasha have. They assume your relationship is casual, just a convenience in a life full of uncertainty. But in reality, Natasha loves you fiercely, and you love her just as much. You’re her safe place, the person she trusts with the parts of herself she doesn’t show anyone else. When the world feels too heavy, she turns to you—not for protection, because she doesn’t need it, but for the rare comfort of knowing she’s not alone.

You don’t need grand gestures or constant declarations. Your love is in the quiet moments—the way she always finds her way to you after a mission, the way you instinctively reach for her hand under the table, the way she relaxes against you when no one is watching. To the outside world, you might just be another agent who occasionally lingers at the compound. But to Natasha, you’re home.

—————————-———

Wanda was the first to recognize the depth of your relationship.

It was early—early enough that most of the team was still asleep or barely functioning. The compound was quiet, save for the soft hum of the coffee machine in the kitchen. You stood by the counter, leaning against it, eyes still heavy with sleep as you waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

Natasha, still in her sleep shorts and one of your old SHIELD t-shirts, wandered in with a yawn, her hair slightly tousled from sleep. She didn’t say anything as she approached—you felt her presence before you saw her. Without hesitation, she walked straight into your space, wrapping her arms around your waist and burying her face into your chest.

"Mm. Too early," she mumbled against you.

You huffed a quiet laugh, your hand instinctively coming up to rub slow, soothing circles on her back. "You say that every morning, but you’re always up before me."

She hummed but didn’t respond, just tightening her grip around you as if she could steal some of your warmth. You didn’t mind. In fact, moments like this were your favorite—the ones where she let her guard down, where she wasn’t the Black Widow or an Avenger, just Natasha, just yours.

Neither of you noticed Wanda standing by the doorway, frozen mid-step. She had come in for coffee but stopped in her tracks at the sight of Natasha—fierce, guarded Natasha—melted completely against you.

Wanda had always assumed your relationship was casual. Everyone had. You weren’t around often, and Natasha never entertained deep conversations about her personal life. But standing there, watching the way she clung to you, the way your hand moved over her back with the kind of practiced ease that spoke of years of familiarity, Wanda realized they had all been wrong.

This wasn’t casual. This was love—deep, unwavering, and so achingly real.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but eventually, Natasha stirred, tilting her head up to look at you. "Coffee ready?"

"Almost," you murmured, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. The gesture was so gentle, so natural, that Wanda almost felt like she was intruding.

Before Natasha could move away, you leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead. "Go sit. I’ll bring you a cup."

Natasha didn’t argue, just gave you a sleepy, content smile before releasing you and making her way to the kitchen table.

Wanda finally decided to make her presence known, clearing her throat as she stepped fully into the kitchen. "Morning," she greeted, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips as she grabbed a mug and you unpromptedly filled it for her greeting her with a kind smile and filling Nat’s next, starting another pot for anyone else who might want it.

Natasha, already seated, just raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Wanda glanced between the two of you, then just shook her head, her smirk widening. "Nothing. Just... you two are cute," she blew on her coffee.

Natasha rolled her eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. Meanwhile, you simply handed Natasha her coffee before grabbing your own along with d the morning crossword, completely unfazed.

Wanda took a sip of her drink, still smiling to herself. Maybe the rest of the team had been blind to it, but now she knew the truth—Natasha Romanoff was hopelessly, completely in love.

—————————-———

The next person was Steve. You had gone on another lengthy mission; it had kept you away for weeks longer than either of you liked. You had kept in touch when you could, brief calls and cryptic messages, but it wasn’t the same. And now, finally, you were back.

Steve wasn’t looking for either of you when he entered the common room. He had just been passing through, planning to grab something from the kitchen before heading to the gym. But as soon as he stepped in, he stopped in his tracks.

The lights were dim, the soft crackle of the old record player filling the space. An oldie—something slow, something familiar. And in the center of the room, barely swaying to the rhythm, was you and Natasha.

She was pressed against you, arms loosely wrapped around your shoulders, her fingers idly playing with the hairs at the back of your neck. Your hands rested on her waist, holding her close as if you needed to feel her warmth to believe this moment had finally come after weeks of waiting.

Neither of you spoke. There was no need. The way Natasha clung to you, the way you held her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered, it said everything.

Steve had never seen her like this. Sure, he had seen her care about people, had seen her protect and fight for those she loved. But this? This was different. This was Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, completely at peace. Safe. Home.

He felt like he was intruding on something sacred, so he took a quiet step back, turning to leave—only to nearly bump into Bucky.

“what’s with the face?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow at the look on Steve’s face.

Steve exhaled, shaking his head with a slight chuckle. “Nothing, just—” He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at Bucky. “You and Sam better stop checking Nat out so much.”

Bucky scoffed. “What? We don’t—”

Steve gave him a knowing look.

Bucky shifted. “Alright, maybe Sam does. I just—y’know, appreciate a good—”

Steve cut him off. “Don’t.”

Bucky smirked. “Okay, but why the sudden warning?”

Steve shook his head again, that small smile still lingering. “Because they’re in love. Like, really in love.”

Bucky frowned. “I mean, yeah, I figured they were serious, but—”

“No,” Steve interrupted. “Not just serious. Not just together. In love.”

Bucky studied him for a second, something unreadable passing over his expression before he nodded. “Alright,” he said simply.

Steve gave him a final glance before clapping him on the shoulder and walking off, leaving Bucky standing there, a little quieter than usual.

Because if what Steve was saying was true, then it wasn’t just Natasha they had underestimated. It was you.

—————————-———

The true statement was made in the compound gym.

The gym was alive with movement—punching bags swinging, the clatter of weights, and the rhythmic sound of fists meeting training dummies. You had just finished some shooting drills when you decided to swing by, knowing exactly where Natasha would be.

Sure enough, there she was, moving like a force of nature. Every strike was precise, every kick sharp. She was a sight to behold—dangerous, powerful, and effortlessly graceful.

Apparently, you weren’t the only one who thought so.

You noticed Sam and Bucky standing off to the side, arms crossed, observing her with a little too much focus. Eyes tracked her every movement, and while you weren’t necessarily the jealous type, and were well aware how gorgeous Natasha is; people couldn't help but be enamoured by her, however weren’t about to let this slide.

You strolled up beside them, tilting your head. "Enjoying the view?"

Bucky, to his credit, immediately raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, don’t look at me. I was admiring the technique, alright?" He nodded toward Natasha. "She’s one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen."

You eyed him for a second before nodding, accepting the explanation. Bucky was a lot of things, but he wasn’t dumb enough to cross that line.

Sam, however—

"Look, I’m just saying," Sam started, his eyes still trailing Natasha as she wiped sweat off her forehead. "It’s not my fault she moves like that. That’s a distraction."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Sam glanced at you, then seemed to realize way too late that he had just said that to the one person who could make him regret it. "Uh—"

"You know what?" You rolled your shoulders, tossing your towel aside. "I feel like I haven’t sparred in a while. What do you say, Wilson? A little one-on-one?"

Sam hesitated, looking between you and Bucky, who just took a step back, clearly enjoying the fact that he wasn’t involved.

"You sure you wanna do this?" Sam asked, crossing his arms. "I mean, no offense, but I’ve got wings, I’ve fought aliens—"

"You’re standing here watching my girlfriend train. I just want to see how you train too." you cut in, smirking.

The room went silent for half a beat before Bucky let out a low chuckle. "Oh, this is gonna be good."

Clint grinned, nudging Wanda. "Five bucks says Sam regrets this immediately."

Natasha, who had been too focused on training to notice the exchange earlier, finally turned toward the group, eyebrow raised. "What’s going on?"

Wanda smirked. "Your sniper just challenged Sam to a sparring match because he got caught staring at you."

Natasha let out a small laugh, tossing a towel over her shoulder as she walked closer. "Oh, I have to see this."

Sam exhaled, shaking his head. "Y’all are ridiculous. But fine. Let’s do this."

You stepped onto the mat, rolling your shoulders as Sam joined you. He gave a cocky smirk. "You sure you wanna do this? I am pretty fast, you know."

You just smirked back. "We’ll see."

Steve, ever the responsible one, clapped his hands. "Alright, keep it clean."

The second Steve gave the go-ahead, you moved—fast.

Sam barely had time to react before you were already in his space, effortlessly dodging his first strike. You didn’t just block—you controlled. Every punch he threw was sidestepped. Every kick, redirected. You weren’t just fighting Sam. You were toying with him.

The smirk on his face started fading as frustration crept in. "Damn," he muttered, throwing another punch. You caught his wrist, twisting him off-balance before sweeping his legs out from under him.

Sam hit the mat with a grunt.

From the sidelines, Bucky let out a whistle. "That looked like it hurt."

Clint was grinning beside Nat.

Wanda shook her head in amusement. "He walked right into that one."

Sam groaned but pushed himself back up. "Alright, alright—lucky shot."

You didn’t respond. You just motioned for him to try again.

This time, he put more effort into his attacks, but it didn’t make a difference. Every move he made, you were already three steps ahead. You parried, countered, redirected—all with ease.

After a few more humiliating takedowns, Sam finally dropped to the mat, breathing hard, lying flat on his back. "Damn. Alright. Message received."

You crouched down beside him, grinning. "Good. Maybe next time, you’ll keep your eyes to yourself playboy"

Sam exhaled, closing his eyes. "Noted."

You stood up, offering him a hand. He took it, groaning as he got to his feet. "You really don’t like people looking at her, huh?"

You shrugged, "I know she can handle herself, I just felt like making a statement today," you smiled stepping off the mat and walking to Nat

"Possessive looks good on you," Natasha said with her signature smirk

Without a second thought, you grabbed her by the waist and kissed her—really kissed her—right in front of everyone. It was slow, deep, and left no room for doubt. Natasha, normally composed, melted into you, gripping your bicep to steady herself.

When you pulled back, she was a little breathless, a rare blush dusting her cheeks.

You smirked. "See you at dinner, love."

And with that, you walked off, leaving Natasha still catching her breath.

Clint let out a low whistle. "Damn."

Wanda smirked. "That was a statement,” Natasha throwing a towel at her, mumbling out a whatever and heading to the lockers

Bucky clapped Sam on the shoulder. "So, you still gonna stare?"

Sam rolled his eyes taking a tired seat on the bench "I hate you all."

[eggcromancer]

(in tears) the year is still new....

Hi hi hello dca fandom! I just wanna say thank you for being the most amazing community! i can't believe i made so many new friends and drew in so many fun magmas last year, everyone here is so nice,, and cool, and talented,,, y'all are genuinely the highlight of my 2024 🥹🫶💖

May your 2025 be filled with joy and whimsy (and silly jesters)!!

[ramp-it-up]

Captain. My Captain.

Mood

Summary: Steve has a kink. And you have the key.

Word count: 3.3 K

Pairing: Early CATWS era Captain Steve Rogers x SHEILD Reader

A/N: This is a fic related to Call Me Captain When I... and comes right after Mood. It is also for @avengers-assemble-bingo. #KinkyBingo. This fulfills the square: Sir/Daddy Kink This is also part of @yenzys-lucky-charm Cranky, Grabby, Stabby, Oh My Challenge. Prompt: “just the tip I promise" *holds me down and fucks me full of cum.*” I'm deep in love with Steve and Libby. Please reblog, comment, and like!

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. All mistakes my own. Smut! This Steve curses, and he is also grumpy. Steve is weak for you but a bit of a control freak. Dominate Steve, Semi-public sex act, fingering, lots of dirty talk and verbal edging, literal edging, orgasm denial, Captain and Sir kink, size kink, praise oral (m receiving), raw p in v, creampie, aftercare, soft Steve after he cums. 😜

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

--------

It started at the briefing.

Steve sat at the head of the table, full Captain mode. The stealth suit fit him like a second skin and you’d had to will your eyes forward more than once. His jaw was set, his focus sharp. Everyone else, Sam and a few others, listened while he laid out the plan to hunt the organization behind the ambush on your training op.

The bastards who hit you were already “neutralized,” though you had yet to learn what Steve meant by that. This mission was about the ones who’d sent them. 

The ones who thought they could touch you.

It was the first time you’d worked directly with him in the field.

You were paying attention. To the plan. To him. To the way his fingers curled tight around the table’s edge. The sharp crease between his brows. The way he looked at everyone else like their Captain, and looked at you like a man who’d memorized the sound you made when you broke.

Steve’s reactions to you had always been inconvenient, but they were especially volatile now, on a mission, in uniform, with your professionalism at risk. Hundreds of people called him Captain and Sir every day, but when you said them, it short-circuited something primal inside him.

You weren’t supposed to be under his command outside of the bedroom. But this time, you were. And he was doing everything in his power to keep his shit together.

That meant no time alone. No slipping. No touching. No relief. He even insisted that you get yourself off every night to counter the maddening effects of no contact between you, but you defied him.

“Respectfully, Sir, I don’t want to.”

He’d nearly broken then, but understood. Nothing felt better than you two together. He’d decided the same. Two weeks of self-control would be hell. But he’d endured worse.

You weren’t so sure you would last.

When he asked the room, “Any questions before we move?” his gaze locked on you, unflinching.

You tilted your head innocently.

“No, Sir.”

His breath hitched. Just enough that you noticed.

Sam started talking, but you didn’t hear a word. You were too busy watching Steve’s knuckles strain, his jaw tick, and the storm brewing behind his ice-blue eyes.

He was daring you to say it again.

You straightened, hands folded neatly, waiting for him to look away.

He didn’t.

After the briefing, you didn’t even make it three steps down the hall before his hand circled your arm, pulling you into the breakroom. Not rough, but firm enough that your heart stuttered.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked up at him, all wide-eyed sweetness.

“What was what?”

“You know damn well.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Sir.” You leaned in, breath warm against his ear. 

“Didn’t mean to distract you, Captain.”

The growl that rumbled from his chest was the sound of a man fraying at the seams.

“Keep talking like that and I’ll bend you over the nearest tactical table.”

Your pulse fluttered. “Is that a threat or a promise, Sir?”

His hand drifted, barely brushing the curve of your ass and it was subtle, calculated, and electric enough to buckle your knees.

“You’re walking the line, Lieutenant.”

You lowered your gaze, fighting for control you didn’t want. 

“Apologies…”

He nodded, sharp and curt. Turned to go and you watched America’s Ass. You waited just long enough, then let the last word fall like a stone in water.

“…Captain.”

He froze. Just for a second. Shook his head and walked away.

But it didn’t end there.

On the jet, the tension only sharpened. You sat across from him, knees brushing, the hum of the engines a thin veil over the silence between you. The rest of the team prepped and chatted, oblivious.

Steve didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched you watch him. Your eyes dropped to his lap, tracing the outline of his cock beneath the suit. You licked your lips deliberately, remembering the weight and stretch of him.

You leaned forward, passing him a file, fingers brushing his on purpose.

“Here you go, Sir.”

Your voice was husky and he knew you were wet, and probably desperate for any contact with him. So he didn’t take the file from you.

Didn’t move.

Just stared at you, like he was one slip away from throwing you over his knee in front of God, country, and S.H.I.E.L.D.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart,” he muttered, his voice dark and tight.

You smiled, all sugar. “Yes, Sir.”

Steve’s jaw flexed as he turned to Sam, locking the need away with brutal discipline. You swallowed, steadying yourself. The mission came first.

It always did.

The mission’s success only sharpened the edge. By the time the gala rolled around, neither of you had cooled off, not even close. You’d basically begged him before the event. Your hands tangled in his shirt, your lips bruising his, your body pressed tight against his in the darkened corner of your quarters.

“Please,” you whispered. “Just the tip.”

Steve laughed against your mouth, but he’d pulled back, steady even with his pulse racing wild beneath your fingers. His hands cupped your face, thumbs sweeping over your swollen lips.

“We both know that just the tip would end up with me holding you down and fucking you full of cum, Libby.”

Your eyes rolled. “Please…”

Your wanton moan had him a hair’s breath from giving in. But you both still had a job to do.

“I want to take my time with you.” His voice was all gravel, thick with promise. “You’ll get all of me. But not now. Not like this.”

So you dressed for the gala, the ache between your thighs a constant reminder that Captain Rogers was still calling the shots. And you let him think he’d won right up until the Senator asked that question.

The man had the nerve to sidle up to you, drink in hand, charm dripping off him like oil, and ask what it was like to serve under Captain Rogers.

You didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh, I always follow orders,” you said, slow and sweet. “Isn’t that right, Sir?”

You saw it, the way Steve’s glass froze halfway to his lips, the flicker of fire in his eyes, the sharp clench of his jaw as he forced down a cough to cover the sound of his own restraint breaking.

Five minutes later, he excused himself. You followed.

The hallway was empty. His hand caught your wrist the second you were close enough, pulling you flush against him, pressing your back to the wall. You were so wet.

“Are you trying to fucking kill me?”

You blinked up at him, lashes fluttering. 

“Whatever do you mean, Sir?”

His breath ghosted your lips. 

“You think it’s funny? Teasing me like that. In front of him.”

You smiled angelically. 

“I think it’s hot. Watching you try to keep control when all you want to do is take me apart.”

His hands tightened against the wall.

“You know what happens when I lose control, Libby.”

You smirked. “I’m counting on it.”

His hand slid down your arm, fingers curling tight around your wrist as he dragged you into the nearest supply closet. The door clicked shut, the air was charged, and you could barely breathe.

“You wanted this,” he growled pinning you back against the shelves. His hands roamed, hiking your dress higher and higher until his fingers brushed bare skin. 

“You’ve been begging for it since the damn briefing.”

Your breath hitched, but your voice stayed steady. 

“Still am.”

The second the word Captain left your mouth, his control shattered and he was on you.

His hand covered your mouth to muffle the sounds, the other sliding between your thighs, fingers slipping deep, parting your folds roughly, desperate to feel you. He swallowed every broken noise you couldn’t hold back, his mouth finding your neck, your shoulder, your breast. His teeth grazing, his tongue soothing, and his lips branding you.

“You don’t even realize what you do to me,” he whispered against your skin, voice cracking open at the edges.

You moaned, helpless against the waves of pleasure.

His fingers pumped harder, faster. His control slipping with every stroke. His fingers worked you harder, faster, until your legs trembled and your world seemed to bend around you.

Then, right before you came, he stopped.

“You wanna play games, Sweetheart?” His voice was velvet-wrapped steel. “You better be ready for the consequences.”

When he pulled back, he held you steady, smoothing your dress back down with those same hands that had almost wrecked you. His lips ghosted over your temple, while what he did still vibrated through both of you.

“You okay?” 

You swallowed. You couldn’t even be mad at him because you knew how much you’d teased him.

“Yeah, I….you. That was…” your voice trailed off. “...Are you?”

His smirk was pure sin. “Nope.”

You laughed, breathless and wrecked. 

“You know it would help if you didn’t look so damn smug.”

“Oh, Sweetheart, you haven’t seen smug yet. Wait until I give you at least three orgasms.” 

“You’re impossible.” 

“So you keep telling me.”

—----

The second the gala ended, you’d expected him to break. To drag you into the nearest car, or corner you in some dark hallway before the flashbulbs had even cooled.

But no.

Steve kept his distance.  

All night, you’d felt his eyes track you across the room, the heat of it searing through the silk of your dress, the weight of his control stretched so tight it was a wonder he hadn’t snapped.

But he never touched you again. Never slipped. Not once.

He even sent you home in a separate car. Your heart couldn’t take it, but you knew there was more to come. And it was long past midnight when the knock came. You opened your door, heart already pounding, and there he stood.

His shirt sleeves were rolled, the tie hanging loose around his neck, his jacket nowhere to be seen. His restraint had finally cracked, written all over his face. But his voice stayed low, even.

“Pack your bag,” he said. “Now.”

You didn’t ask where. You didn’t need to. You just obeyed.

Ten minutes later, you were in his car, the city lights blurring past the windows, your thighs pressed tightly together. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at you, hands flexing on the wheel like he was holding himself together by the thinnest thread.

By the time the car stopped,  a quiet, private safehouse on the edge of the city, your skin was flushed, your pulse wild.

The door had barely shut behind you when you felt it.

His hands.

One gripping your jaw, tilting your face up, the other on your waist.

“You think you can tease me like that,” he murmured, voice like gravel, “and I’ll just sit back and let it slide?”

Your breath hitched. “I wasn’t teasing, Sir.”

His eyes darkened, and the corner of his mouth lifted. not a smile, more like a warning.

“You don’t get to play innocent. Not after two weeks of ‘Yes, Sir’ and that sweet little tilt of your head. You’ve been testing me since the briefing.” 

His thumb brushed your bottom lip.

“And you knew exactly what you were doing.”

You felt the heat pool low in your belly, your legs weak beneath the weight of his words, the sharpness of his stare.

“On your knees.”

The order sent a shiver through you and you dropped without hesitation, hands resting on your thighs, head tilted back to look at him, waiting.

Wanting.

He watched you for a long, heavy moment, jaw tight, chest rising slowly.

“Look at you,” he muttered, shaking his head, more to himself than to you. 

“So damn pretty when you’re obedient.”

When he undid his belt, his fly, and freed his cock, you swallowed hard. The size of him, the sheer weight and length, was always a shock to your system no matter how many times you’d seen him.

You glanced up through your lashes, the shape of a question lingering in your throat.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. 

“You’ve been begging for this with every word you’ve said for the last two weeks. Work for it.”

You wrapped your hand around him, feeling the heat, the heft, the impossible stretch of him. Your lips parted, and when you took him in, his breath hissed through his teeth, one hand threading to your scalp.

“Good girl,” he murmured, thumb stroking your cheek, the barest encouragement as you started to bob on his cock, lips stretched wide and drool pooling at the corners of your mouth.

“Look at you. Captain’s perfect little mouth.”

You worked him slow at first, savoring the low growl of his approval, the way his hips flexed, controlled even now. But when you hollowed your cheeks and looked up at him, wide-eyed, his control cracked.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His hand tightened on your head, hips pressing forward until you took him deeper, until tears dropped from your eyes. But you didn’t pull back. You wanted this, you wanted to watch him fall apart.

When he finally eased out of your mouth, his thumb wiped your lips, tracing the slick curve.

“Up,” he ordered softly, and you obeyed, rising to your feet. His hands were on you the second you stood, spinning you, pressing you against the nearest wall, his large body caging you in completely.

“You like making me lose control, don’t you?” he rasped against your ear, his hard length grinding against your ass through the thin fabric of your panties. 

“You like knowing no one else gets to see me like this.”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes, Sir.”

His hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding you soaked and ready.

“Of course you do. You’ve been dripping for me all damn night.” 

His mouth brushed the shell of your ear, voice dark and ragged. 

“And I’ve been thinking about bending you over every flat surface I could find. About splitting you open on my cock until you forget your own name.”

You whimpered, grinding back against him, desperate.

“You wanted me to break, sweetheart?” 

His hand gripped your hip, his other one sliding between your legs again, fingers skating through your slick. 

“You’ve got me. But you’re going to pay for every second you spent torturing me.”

He didn’t take you to bed. Not yet.

Instead, he lifted you, like you weighed nothing at all,  and carried you to the couch, settling you onto his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

You did, your gaze locking with his as he guided you down onto him, slowly, filling you inch by impossible inch until you were gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck, Sweetheart,” he groaned, holding you still once you’d taken all of him. 

“You feel so fucking tight. So goddamn perfect around me.”

You clung to him, barely able to breathe, stretched to the limit. It hurt so good.

“You wanted your Captain,” he whispered against your lips. “Now you’ve got him.”

And then he moved with slow, deliberate thrusts that pushed you to the edge of madness, his mouth capturing every moan, every broken plea you couldn’t hold back. And you knew, right then, there’d be no walking straight tomorrow.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

—---

You lost track of how many times he made you cum. His mouth, his hands, the punishing rhythm of his hips. Every part of him wrecked you with single-minded precision.

But it wasn’t until long after your voice was hoarse from moaning his name, long after your body trembled from overstimulation, that Steve softened.

He shifted beneath you, easing out of your body with care, murmuring something low and tender against your skin. You couldn’t make out the words because your brain was a fog of pleasure and endorphins. But the gentle tone was enough to settle you.

Strong arms gathered you close, one hand cradling the back of your head as he carried you to the bed like you were precious. You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the salt of his skin, the faintest scent of sweat and his cologne.

He laid you down carefully and climbed in beside you. His big hands smoothed over your hips, your thighs, his thumbs catching on the marks he’d left behind.

You didn’t mind them. You liked that you’d wear the shape of him tomorrow. On your skin. Between your legs. In the slight limp no one would question, but he would know.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You nodded, still dazed, sated and warm. “Yes, Sir.”

A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest as he pulled the blanket up over both of you.  

“Didn’t mean to go so hard,” he murmured, brushing your curls back from your forehead. 

“Just… you get under my skin, Libby. Make me forget how to think.”

“You didn’t forget how to think,” you whispered, tracing the curve of his bicep, the hard line of his chest. “You planned that.”

His answering grin pressed against your shoulder. 

“Maybe a little.”

There was a beat of silence. Then he asked, “And you knew what you were doing at the gala.”

You smirked against his throat. 

“You liked it.”

Steve groaned and pulled you tighter. 

“Liked it too much. Nearly lost it when you said Sir like that in front of the Senator.”

You laughed softly. 

“You like it when I say it in private more?”

His hand slid to the base of your spine. His grip was warm. 

“I like it when you say it when you're wrecked. When you’re trying not to come and you whisper it like a prayer. That’s when it ruins me.”

The silence that followed was full of heat, but not urgency. The hunger had been sated. What remained was the closeness. The wanting still there, but quiet now. Like embers under ash.

You moved and winced, the soreness sparking up.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“It’s just that you’re huge,” the words tumbled out unfiltered.

Steve stilled. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you said quickly. “No. Not even close. Just… I’m still adjusting. In my soul.”

He laughed then, head falling back, the sound full and rich and happy. It shook the bed, and you smiled against his chest, eyes fluttering closed.

His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up so he could look at you. 

“Who knew you were this much of a brat?”

You gave him a sleepy, satisfied smile.

“Only for you, Captain. My Captain.”

His expression softened completely. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and for a second, there was something deeper than heat in the space between you.

Something like devotion.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he said softly, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “Every time. Before, during, after. I love you Libby.”

You leaned into the touch. 

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know, Steve. I love you too.”

And with that, he kissed you, slow and lingering, nothing like the bruising hunger from earlier. This was patient. Tender. The kind of kiss that promised more.

Not just in bed, but in the quiet spaces between missions and chaos. In the in-between moments where your heartbeat slowed and the world finally held still.

Eventually, you drifted off, curled against him, your leg thrown over his thigh, his hand resting on the curve of your hip.

And even in sleep, you felt it, his presence wrapped around you like a shield. Steady. Unshakable. Yours.

Captain. Sir. Steve.

All of him.

——

Read Payback

[om-nom-snom]

For the morning routine headcanons, could I request Grusha? And whoever else you wanna add? Two of my f/os are in the other post you already have.

[Morning Routines]

Grusha x Reader, Raihan x Reader, N x Reader

Part 1 here

Grusha <3

Grusha is honestly pretty normal when it comes to his mornings

He likes to stick to a set routine, but he doesn't freak out if he sleeps in or needs to shuffle things around

Wakes up at 7am every morning and tumbles out of bed in a giant hoodie with a rattatas nest for hair

Boils the jug for his coffee and feeds his Cetitan, trying stay quiet enough that he doesn't wake you

Once you do wakes up, Grusha is drinking his coffee on the couch and has already prepared a hot drink for you too

He might already be on his second coffee but you don't need to know that

You're more than welcome to snuggle up with him on the couch, enjoying your drink as whatever sport he's watching plays in the background

When it's time to start getting ready for the day he'll be very appreciative of help taming his bed hair

Sit him down on the ground in front of you while you're on the couch so you're comfy while brushing it

"You can put a braid in if you really want... But only a small one."

You'll be there a while, but he's already worked that into the morning schedule

Other than that, he really doesn't take long to get ready and after a few good bye kisses Grusha will be out the door

Raihan <3

Raihan basically sleeps on top of you

There's no need for a weighted blanket when your boyfriend is basically a living one

You'd best be prepared to be stuck in bed for a while too, because if it's not gym challenge season there's no way he's waking up before 11am

And once he does wake up he needs at least an hour minimum to doomscroll on his rotom phone in bed

He does it while still lying on top of you, naturally

If you desperately need help to get him out of bed, flygon can be convinced to help

The dragon pokemon is happy to get all up in Raihans business and help roll him off you

Once Raihan finally makes it out of bed, he wanders into the kitchen wearing only what he sleeps in

Aka his briefs

He'll ask if you like the view while he cooks you guys brunch

"Feel free to take a photo, babe, it'll last longer."

Raihan's happy to take the mornings with you nice and slow while he can

And that includes plenty of pictures of you two and more than one 'outfit of the day' post

N <3

We have a total insomniac over here

N falls asleep very late at night and wakes up very early in the morning, but he'll stay in bed the whole time you're sleeping

On the morning he wakes before the sun comes up and knows he won't be able to fall asleep again he'll grab a book

With a soft bedside lamp on, zoroark half on his lap, and you by his side he's more than happy to read the morning away

He's the type of softy to brush hair away from your face as you sleep

Should you wake up early with him, then he'll open up the curtains in your room so you can both watch the sunrise from bed

Pulls you into his chest and wraps both of your shoulders in another blanket too

As usual, N's zoroark joins in with any cuddling going on and is a very welcome heat source in winter

He's in no rush to get out of bed, but once you're up for the day so is he

N always starts off his morning with breakfast, but I feel like he's a cold breakfast person

He'll cook for you though if he knows you like a hot breakfast

If you're not a breakfast person he'll also low-key guilt you into eating something for your own good

"Eating is a non negotiable, love. Now, do you want me to make you some toast?"

He's so sweet and domestic-

[marvelwitchergilmore]

His Reason

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> You and Bucky are seemingly a recipe for disaster. But after a mission goes awry, things begin to change.

Disclaimer: Kinda enemies-to-lovers, fluff, angst, Bucky helps clean your wounds, Bucky on his knees for you. Descriptions/mentions of blood and death. Happy ending. Not Proof Read.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t they know putting us together is a recipe for disaster?”

Bucky shrugged and threw another pack into the ket. “Apparently, they don’t care. They need people to take the mission and the only two people trained well enough and available are…us.”

You stared at him in disbelief. It wasn’t like it was some massive secret you were both keeping. It was just simple. You and Bucky didn’t work well together. You never had done. Probably because you never got along away from work, either. 

You and Sam, Sam and Bucky, Bucky and Steve, Steve and you. You all got along just fine. But you and Bucky? No. Like you said, it was a recipe for disaster. 

“Pack your stuff. We’re leaving in five.”

You didn’t exactly have much time to grumble. The mission needed to be done. A mission that qualified under both of your job titles. 

Maybe you should have taken Sam up on his offer to take a break. 

The jet ride was silent between both of you the entire way there. You prepared and unprepared the medical kits three times over. You packed, unpacked and repacked your overnight bag. You knew what was in it already, even though you knew you’d never used it. Everything was still fresh. 

“Would you quit doing that?”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“If I hear another zip, I’m gonna zip you in one of them.” Bucky grumbled as he flicked a button on the control panel. 

You rolled your eyes and sighed. You ignored his threat and continued what you were doing. You already knew the mission brief like the back of your hand. You had done for years. 

After the third long zip, Bucky placed the jet on autopilot for the rest of the way. He didn’t exactly make his movements subtle as he threw himself from the pilot chair and made his way over to you. 

Taking the bag from you, he zipped it closed and threw it onto the ground. It landed with a thud. 

“Stop.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“I’m just being cautious.”

Bucky just tilted his head. “There’s being cautious, then there’s being this.”

Leaning your hands against the table in front of you, you looked up at him. “And what is so wrong with this?”

“Nothing. When a normal person is doing it.” Bucky just leaned down and picked up the bag before turning to put it back in its original place, where you’d found it. 

“I am a normal person.”

Bucky chuckled as he stuffed it back into place. “Oh, sweetheart. You are far from normal.” Turning around to you, the flirty edge to his voice was gone and replaced with his usual demeanour towards you; bluntness. “We both are.”

You watched as he walked away and back to the front of the jet. You cussed at yourself for checking out his ass as he did so. But you followed him anyway, sitting in the second seat, right beside him. 

“Get your seatbelt on. We should be landing soon.”

You grumbled but followed his instructions anyway. Part of you might have nearly killed him once, and maybe it still did – just under different circumstances. But safety first. 

The mission ran as smoothly as it would be trying to have a bull ballet dance through a china shop. But you both got out of there alive. 

Barely.

Bucky watched as you stood in front of the mirror on the jet. It was set up just between the array of weapons. Your tactical vest was long gone, however the holster around your thigh still remained. Whilst Bucky had been forced to take on Kate Bishop's advice at adding a little colour into his uniform – the furthest he went was dark blue. 

You remained in black. Black t-shirt, black tactical trousers, boots. With the addition of red blood seeping from your wound. 

You had to peel your t-shirt from your wound. There was just a little too much blood for your liking. It didn’t help that your adrenaline was starting to slow down, leaving you with a wave of shakes to deal with. They were mostly focused on your legs which wasn’t helping your case in trying to stand and look in the mirror. 

“C’mere.” 

You turned for a split second, realising Bucky was walking to you. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Give it.”

“No.”

“Y/n.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

Bucky stood a little taller. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

“Because I don’t need it. I’m fine.”

“Y/n, you’re bleeding out. Literally.”

You ignored him. “I’m dealing with it.”

Bucky watched as you hissed and closed your eyes, looking away from the wound you were trying to clean. His voice fell softer and he held his hand out. “Just let me help.”

Bucky tried to ignore the feeling he got in his chest when you finally opened your eyes and looked at him. He could see the colour of your eyes so clearly, as well as the pain you’d probably mask once you’d both touched ground back at the compound. 

Finally, you let that barricade down. Just long enough to accept his help. 

Handing the cloth over to him, he gently moved you until you were leaning against the weapons table top. You needed to stand in order for him to clean it properly. 

Then he dropped onto one knee. 

You hissed, “Take it easy. Please.”

“I’m trying.”

He carefully dabbed at the wound, before reaching behind you for the medical box. “I want you to go to Cho when we get back.”

“I-”

“Don’t you dare say you’ll be fine. You’re going.” Bucky looked away from your gaze and back at your wound. “We both are. Besides,” Bucky’s hand held you firmly on the back of your thigh. “You’ve not stopped shaking.”

“That’s normal.”

“Maybe,” Bucky shrugged. “But you’re still going.”

Any other time, you would have fought him on it more. But you didn’t have the energy to. 

Once he’d covered up your wound, he looked around your body before his blue gaze locked onto your eyes. “Anywhere else?”

“I don’t know.” You answered truthfully. Your body was too sore and too tired to move. The adrenaline was slowly wearing off and sleep was in desperate need to take over. 

Bucky’s fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt. He’d seen you get hit multiple times, so it was probably a safe bet you did have other wounds that needed tending to. 

“Can I?”

For the first time in your life, you didn’t fight him on it. You didn’t even speak. Just helped him but gave up halfway through. 

He stood, helping you remove your shirt. He made a mental list; a little of bruises, blood stains but only a few were your own, and one slice right across your collarbone. 

“I’m gonna need to clean that before you get an infection.”

You tried your hardest to ignore how intimate it felt having Bucky lower the strap of your sports bra in order to get a clearer look at your wound. 

His gaze locked onto yours but unlike the usual bluntness, there was a softness there. “This is gonna hurt, but it should only last a few seconds.”

You didn’t break eye contact as you nodded. But you closed your eyes when the stinging began. You leaned into Bucky’s arm, your own fingers wrapping around his arm. “I’m sorry.”

It was the first time you’d heard those words sound genuine coming out of Bucky’s mouth. 

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Once more, he cleaned your wound in silence. But once he was done, he took a look at your t-shirt. You couldn’t put that back on. Even if it was black, the weight of it alone would be too much for your body to carry after the day you’d both had. 

It was blood soaked. 

Bucky walked away for a moment before zipping something open and returning. “Lift your arms.”

You did so, feeling a soft cotton t-shirt float over your body. As you looked down at it on your body, you felt Bucky’s hand push your fallen hair from your face and you looked up at him. 

“Whose is this?”

“Mine,” he told you. “Tired?”

You nodded. “Exhausted.”

“Do you trust me?” 

You shrugged. “I’ve got a loaded pistol strapped to my thigh, if I don’t.”

It was a rare moment that followed. Bucky smiled. Just for a flash, just an instant. A breathy, genuine smile. His fingers were still in your hair. 

“Understood.” Then he took your hand. “Come with me.”

With your hand still in his, you stood beside him as he pulled out one of the benches on the jet and it folded out into a bed. It wasn’t a comfortable and homely bed or anything. But it was somewhere you’d be able to sleep. 

“We won’t be back for a few hours. You should get some sleep.”

You nodded. Bucky just helped you onto the bed before covering you up with one of the Shield assigned blankets. With one final brush of his hand on top of your head, he turned away. 

“Bucky?”

He turned back. 

“Thank you.”

Again, he smiled. Just a little. A ghost of his previous one. “Get some sleep.”

You don’t remember closing your eyes. You just remember waking up warm. Beside you, Bucky was lying on his back, an arm under his head as well as the pillow. His breathing was even and you were holding onto his other arm that had somehow made it around your back and waist. 

Meanwhile, your other hand lay just over his heart. 

You could feel his heartbeat. Steady. Calm. 

Another time, you would have probably hit him in the chest to wake him up. You would have crawled away from the bed and gone to check how far away home was. You would have never thought about waking up beside him, ever again. 

But something was different. 

Seeing his smile. Feeling his heartbeat. 

Something was different. 

So, you didn’t wake him. Instead, you leaned closer into him and smiled as you felt his arm and his hand tighten their grip around you for a moment before relaxing once more. And you fell back to sleep. 

The next time you woke up, you were in your own bed. 

Alone. 

And it hurt. 

As you sat up, you found yourself in different clothes. Less sore, more bandaged. But one thing was still the same. 

You were in Bucky’s t-shirt. 

Slowly moving, you pulled yourself from your bed and looked out of your window. It was still morning. Forgetting your slippers, you made your way out of your room and down the hall into the kitchen. 

Everyone was out. 

All except one. 

“Morning.”

You looked over and saw Bucky. Grey sweats and a henley. 

“Morning,” you replied. “How did I-”

“You were fast asleep by the time we landed so I took you straight to Cho. Your wound had opened up and I didn’t want you bleeding out.” Bucky explained. “Your levels were too high so she sedated you. Once everything was okay, Cho thought it might be better for you to wake up in your own bed rather than a hospital one.”

“So you…”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. I carried you to bed.”

You looked around, a little confused. If another version of you walked through the door, they’d be asking where your holster went and if Bucky had taken proper care of it. But instead you simply said, “Thank you.”

“We only landed back yesterday morning so you’ve not missed much. Want something to eat?”

“Uh, I don’t-”

Bucky stood. “I’ll make you something to eat. Sit down. Want some coffee?”

“Please.”

Bucky had a coffee cup in front of you a few seconds later. Then he started whipping up breakfast. 

“Are you okay?”

Bucky looked over his shoulder at you. “I didn’t get hit if that’s what you’re asking.”

You nodded. 

“Cho gave me the all clear.”

You nodded, sipping your coffee. “Good.”

For the next three days, you couldn’t shake the disappointment you felt each time you woke up alone. Rather than beside Bucky. 

You hated it. 

You used to hate him. 

Strongly dislike. 

You and Bucky never got along. You were more likely to fight him than you were to want to…wake up beside him. Then, one day, you stopped fighting him. And he stopped fighting you. 

It was the weirdest thing. 

And you enjoyed it. 

Which you hated. 

“What’s going on with you and Bucky?” You heard Kate ask you as you emptied your clip. 

Locking the safety on your gun before you threw it down, you tore the headphones from your ears and sighed. 

“I don’t know.”

“You like each other now?”

“Apparently.”

“When did that happen?”

The target came flying at you. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You tore the paper from the poster and stuck a new one up. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

The target went flying back and you loaded another clip before emptying it onto the paper. Kate stood beside you as the paper came flying back. 

“We’re gonna need pizza.”

Thirty minutes later, you were sitting in her apartment with two pizzas on the coffee table. 

“And he was just there?”

You nodded. “He was just lay there, asleep, looking far too fucking handsome for me to hate his guts. And when he touched me…”

Kate tried her best to hide her smile. “You liked it?”

You just flopped back into the sofa cushions. “I didn’t want him to let me go.”

Kate stopped trying to hide her smile. “This is amazing.”

“It’s terrible.”

“It’s a recipe for love!”

You shook your head. “It’s a recipe for disaster.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Kate sat back. “Okay. If this is just because you two nearly killed each other in your previous lives, then that is complete bull. That is in the past. And, it’s not like this is the first time you’ve thought he’s handsome.”

You just glared at Kate. The memory of coming across some old Shield photographs and spotting a very handsome 40s soldier flashed across your mind, Kate’s voice echoing that the guy you said you’d marry if you were back in the 40s was actually Bucky. 

“And it’s not like you’ve not checked him out before.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Kate just tilted her head. “Well, you’re not exactly subtle.”

“Kate.”

“Relax. The others don’t know. But I know you. So I know. I think you should talk to him.”

You sat up. “Absolutely not.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Didn’t you just hear me? Me and Bucky…we’re a recipe for a disaster. It can only end in tragedy. If I talk to him about this…” 

You didn’t even want to think about what would come after that. Eternal regret, shame, fear, humiliation. 

Kate took your hand. “Hey. You don’t have to do anything now. But if you do have feelings for him, you’re gonna have to deal with them eventually.”

You sighed. “I know. I know.”

A year later, you still hadn’t dealt with them. At first you thought maybe it was some kind of ‘soldier, nurse’ thing. Like how soldiers fell in love with their nurses because they’d helped them get back to normal health. 

But then the statutes of limitations ran out. And it only got worse. He was in your head all the damn time. Everytime you fell asleep, his memory was there. His voice was the first thing you heard in the morning. And when movie nights took place and Kate somehow worked it so the only available seat for you was beside Bucky, you were asleep almost instantly. 

Once his arm was behind you on the sofa and he moved you to lean against him, his excuse being to get you to stop wriggling, your entire body relaxed. 

“Comfortable?”

“Yes.”

You could hear the smile on his face, “Good.”

Halfway through the movie, his arm would drop from the back of the sofa to being around you, his fingers dancing up and down your arm absentmindedly. 

When you were asleep, and the movie had ended, Bucky wordlessly pulled the blanket he’d covered you with, away. Then he picked you up and carried you to bed. 

His presence being the last thing you felt before sinking into your bed wasn’t helping your feelings any. 

But it didn’t matter. 

Because almost eighteen months on from that day when you’d woken up laying beside him, he got hurt. 

A mission had gone sideways. Too far sideways. Like, drop off the edge of the world sideways. And Bucky was in trouble. You’d put a call into Shuri. They had everything waiting to help him once the jet landed. 

You stayed by his bedside for three days whilst he healed. 

“Has she slept at all?” Steve asked Shuri as they stood outside of the medical room. 

“A little, but not enough to be considered okay.” Shuri said. “She loves him, doesn’t she?”

Steve took a moment before nodding. “Secret is, he loves her, too. But their history…”

“I know the White Wolf’s history. I know little of her though.”

Steve took in a breath and walked away with Shuri as he explained. “They’ve met before. Years before I found him. The Winter Soldier programme had been a part of her training. A ghost she could barely remember. But then, after she joined Shield-”

“Agent Barton?”

Steve chuckled. “He kinda has a reputation for picking up agents from the other side. But, yeah. After she joined Shield, they met again. Hand to hand combat. They both walked away bleeding. Once Bucky was himself again, with their history and personalities they never really clicked. Until about a year and a half ago when I watched Bucky be in the same position as Y/n today.”

“He didn’t leave her side?”

Steve shook his head. “Not until he was ordered to by Doctor Cho. But even then, he watched out for her overnight. Has barely left her side since.”

Shuri nodded. “I’ll try and get her to sleep.”

Steve nodded. “Thank you.”

A few hours later, Shuri walked inside. You had the times Bucky was due for a check up memorised. 

“Is everything okay?”

“With Bucky, yes. He’s gonna be just fine. I’m here about you. Come with me.”

You looked back at Bucky. You were still holding his hand. 

“He’ll be okay. He’s sleeping. Come on.”

Reluctantly, you followed Shuri. She took you to a bathroom where you could get a warm shower before she showed you the clothes Steve had brought with him. Your clothes, which also happened to include the t-shirt Bucky had placed on you. Freshly washed and still warm. 

“Once you’re dressed, sleep. He would want to make sure you’re okay, too.”

You nodded, understanding what she was saying. 

After your shower, it wasn’t long before you fell asleep. But you weren’t asleep for very long. As the moon had settled itself high with the stars, you walked yourself back to Bucky’s medical room. 

Where you found the Queen sat by his side. 

You bowed. “Your Majesty.”

“It is alright. Come in. Close the door.”

You did so before slowly walking to the other side of his bed and sitting down. 

“He’s okay,” the Queen smiled. “That t-shirt?”

You looked down and smiled, clutching the hem. “Yeah, it’s..it’s his.”

“You care for him.”

You shrugged. “He’s my friend.”

“You love him.”

You faltered. “I-”

The Queen chuckled. “It’ll be our secret. Though, if you wish for it to remain that way, I suggest you get better at hiding your feelings.”

You chuckled a little. “Yeah.”

“But you don’t want to?”

You grimaced. “I…it’s not like I don’t…I don’t know anymore. All I know is one day I went from him being the last person I wanted to be around, to suddenly being…the only one.”

The Queen just smiled at you, but you didn’t fully notice because your gaze was focused on Bucky. Fast asleep, mending and looking far too handsome whilst doing it. 

“If you want my advice, tell him. Life is far too short to waste time. Look at him. Sergeant Barnes might be a soldier out of time, but he's not immortal. And neither are you. My advice is just do it.”

Kate would be fainting with excitement knowing the Queen of Wakanda was giving you the same advice she had given you. 

Taking one final look at Bucky, the Queen excused herself. But not before stopping by the door to say, “History is in the past. You’d both make a lovely couple. Welcome back, White Wolf.”

You nearly gave yourself whiplash. Bucky was awake. He gave a tired smile to the Queen before looking at you. 

“Hey, sweetheart,”

You stood up and sat beside him on the bed, hugging him. A soft chuckle came from his chest. “Take it easy. I might start thinking you missed me.”

You leaned back. “You almost died, Bucky.”

“But you saved me.”

“Shuri saved me.”

Bucky smiled. “And who called her? You saved me, sweetheart.”

“I should go and find-”

Bucky held onto your hand. A motion you hadn’t been used to since, for the last three days, you’d been holding his hand as he lay still. “Don’t. Just…stay here. Someone will come soon. I just…” Bucky finally breathed. “I just want to be with you for a while.”

“You really scared me.”

Bucky nodded. “I know.”

“Don’t ever do that again.”

Bucky chuckled. “You have my word.”

A few moments of silence settled over you both as you looked at each other. 

“I’m really glad you’re okay.”

Bucky slowly lifted his hand until he was cupping your cheek. “Lucky for me, I had someone to get back to.”

A smile broke out on your face after a moment. Bucky was alive. Better yet, he’d come back for you. 

“Considering I almost lost my life, please tell me I don’t have to wait any longer to kiss you. I know we didn’t get the most normal start but-”

You cut him off with a searing kiss. You could feel his hand at the back of your head, holding you closer. 

“Aren’t you the one always saying we’re far from normal?” You asked, breathless as the kiss broke apart for a moment. 

“Being normal is overrated.”

Bucky kissed you again like you were his lifeline. His reason for breathing. And, in a way, you were. He’d had feelings for you for a long time. And, although the list of important reasons had been shortening over the last couple of years, there was one reason that remained. 

You. 

You were his reason to come back. 

You always would be. 

[buckets-and-trees]

I think game designer Bucky and game tester Reader should not only test the games, but also the new gaming chair Bucky's got... 😏

Eva, my dear, you dropped this idea my way 13 months ago, and it took a while for my muse to finally figure out how to serve this up, but I'm finally here to deliver.

Permissions

Characters/Pairings: Game Designer!Bucky x Female!Reader Word Count: 2.4k Summary: Situationship. Yes. There was something happening between you and Bucky. His acquisition of a new gaming chair seemed like the perfect reason to invite you over to his place for the first time... PART OF A SERIES BUT THEORETICALLY COULD BE READ AS A STAND-ALONE

Content/Concept Warnings: gamer AU; explicit smut (vaginal fingering, oral - female receiving, a little biting, orgasm denial); beefy Bucky who is kinda cocky, kinda soft, but a definitely a menace

Notes: The WEEK TWO offering for @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer 2025! Serving up the "Did I give you permission?" dialogue prompt and orgasm denial.

previous part: Test Play | Series List

Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You showed up to Bucky Barnes’ place for the very first time with a pack of energy drinks and a bag of sour gummy strawberries, both ridiculously nervous and yet somewhat calm. He opened the door in an impossibly tight t-shirt and sweats that are slung low on his hips. He stared at the gummies for a moment with a kind of offended reverence, then at you, and wordlessly stepped aside to let you in.

It was nearing the end of summer, but the inside of his apartment was cold enough to keep produce fresh. You wound your hoodie tighter around your waist, a reflexive urge to retain heat and maybe, if you were being honest, set up an opportunity for him to put his hands on you later. 

“I got the chair set up in the living room,” Bucky said, gesturing vaguely, though his face radiated a kind of single-minded pride. 

The new chair was the excuse to invite you over in this new thing developing between you two. 

You looked around to see the gaming setup: two monitors, a stack of unopened peripherals, a rug with a hexagonal pattern that looks both overpriced and necessary, and the new chair glowering in the middle of it all. You whistle, low and sincere.

“Did you assemble it yourself?” you asked, dropping your bag by the arm of the couch.

Bucky nodded. “Instructions were ass. Had to use a torque wrench and also, for some reason, a knitting needle.”

“I can’t believe you ordered this,” you said, standing in the middle of his exceedingly tidy living room and gazing at the monstrous, throne-like rig now squatting in the corner by the window. “Isn’t this just for, like, competitive streamers?”

He shrugged, a little sheepish despite the way his arms bulged against the sleeves of his t-shirt. “I had a coupon code.”

You snorted. “A coupon code? I know how much these cost.”

He didn’t answer, only grinned.

You looked back at the chair. “Honestly, this is a throne, Barnes. Am I supposed to kneel, or do you want me to sit on your lap?”

He barked a laugh, but his face also flushed a bright red, which made you squirm and bight back a giggle. “Right to the quick and dirty with you then, huh?” he huffed. 

You sidled up to the rig and ran a hand over the buttery armrest. "It's just… intimidating. A little intimidating, is all." But the look you gave him was anything but cowed: challenge, flirt, and a wink. “But you know I like a bit of that.”

He stepped closer, and you could feel the tension between you, coiled and humming. A summer ago you’d have fizzed and fizzled away, but he’d made it clear he was interested in you. With the new context, the heat between you was alive and kinetic. You turned the chair a quarter turn and dropped into it with a small bounce, swinging your legs up and crossing them, spinning slowly to face him as he prowled closer with your offerings.

He took an energy drink from the pack, cracked the tab, and took a slow, deliberate pull, eyes never leaving yours. When he handed it to you, his thumb lingered on your fingers a half-second longer than absolutely necessary, and you both noticed. 

Heat. That, and the chill, was all you could feel—like your body was ice and your blood was infused with caffeine, and you weren’t sure you cared which sensation would win the day. You took the drink from him and matched his stare, then took a deep, throaty gulp, neat as a dare. He watched your throat bob, and you watched his eyes darken in the process.

"Want to do a test run?" he said, voice a little hoarse.

You gestured at the rig, then at your own dumb self. "Am I being beta tested or testing your set up?"

"You're the only one I want touching the hardware," he said. He moved behind the chair to tweak the lumbar support, and his hands bracketed you for a moment, near enough that you could smell the clean musk of his deodorant and something sharp, synthetic, like ozone. You tried not to shiver.

You hovered the mouse in digital menus for a while, glancing up at him as he fiddled with the monitor tilt to angle it to your height. 

When his hand brushed your shoulder, you bit the inside of your cheek, stubborn about maintaining composure. He was so very close. It was almost cartoonish, how much he dwarfed the chair—how much space he seemed to take up, even as he hovered behind you. 

You toggled the settings up and down, but your focus was split—one half on the clicks, the other half on the lazy, weighted way his fingers traced the edge of the desk before finally, gently, pressing a gummy into your palm. You snorted a laugh, accepted the offering, and chewed it slowly, the sour sugar kindling microexplosions on your tongue. 

“You always this pushy?” you asked, through the bits of candy. 

He spun the chair a half-turn, and you swung with it; suddenly you were between his knees, his hands still on the chair, knuckles whitening, body close enough you could see how uneven his breathing had gotten. He was on the edge of something, but you couldn’t tell if it was restraint or anticipation or just the general frazzle of having you here, in his space.

“I’m not pushy,” he said, voice dropping a register. “I just know what I want.”  

“Which is?”  

“You,” he said, and it landed, heavy and real, like a gauntlet thrown onto the desk.  

You watched the line of his jaw, the quiver in his throat, the way his knee bounced faintly as he tried not to betray himself further. It was easy to be arch, easy to be glib, but this feeling—this weird, hovering intimacy—made you want to be honest, or at least a little less armored.  

“I want you, too,” you said.  

He exhaled. Some fractional tension left his body, but the rest of him stayed coiled, ready, a held breath of a man. 

"Show me," you said, soft but certain, and Bucky moved like something in him had snapped. He dropped to his knees, the chair pinched between his spread thighs, and his big hands slid up your calves, thumbs pressing in circles through the fabric of your leggings. He looked at you with an intensity that bordered on worship and then he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your leggings and peeled them down to your ankles. 

The chill of the apartment hit you, but then so did the searing heat of his breath through the cotton of your underwear, and then the wet, rough press of his tongue as he mouthed you over the thin fabric. You squirmed, powerless not to, as he mouthed you again, harder this time, and then with a quick, almost ruthless rip, he had your underwear balled in his fist and your cunt bare, already dripping for him. He groaned, low and husky, the vibration shivering through your pelvis as he licked a stripe from the base of you all the way up, then circled your clit with the flat of his tongue until you gasped. 

You tipped your head back and let the ceiling blur in your vision, the whole apartment a fog around the too-real focus of his mouth on you. The chair creaked under your grip as he sucked your clit between his lips, slow and thorough, each movement measured to draw out as much sound from you as possible. He buried his face deeper, nosed along your folds, tongue fucking into you with a sweetness matched only by the wanton sloppiness of it—like eating you was an assignment, a pleasure, a calling. 

"Bucky," you choked out, and your hands found his hair, the soft pull just making him moan. He tipped his face up, mouth gleaming, eyes black with want, and leaned in again, licking you open before plunging his tongue deep into you and groaning like a man starved. The vibrato of it dragged a startled yelp from your throat that dissolved into shivering laughter, pleasure ricocheting up and down your spine. 

You bucked your hips against him, not out of strategy, but because something in you wanted him impossible-close. He was ready for it—one of his hands shifted up, palm flattening against your belly, holding you exactly where he wanted you. He licked you again, long and thorough, then flicked his tongue over your clit until your thighs shook and your eyes blurred. 

You let out a noise you’ve never made, high and ragged, and you barely registered when he pressed two fingers inside. He curled them up, pressed them right against where you needed, and pumped in lazy, devastating rhythm and you thought you might actually come apart on this very expensive chair, melt into the synthetic mesh and memory foam and leave a mark that would never quite come out.

You tried to be mindful of the world beyond the two of you, but the rest of the apartment faded into static, overwritten by the wet drag of his tongue and the rhythmic pressure of his fingers as he worked you closer and closer to the edge.

"Fuck—Bucky, I'm—" you managed, andhe stopped. Abrupt, like a door slamming behind you in a dark hallway. He pulled back, hands braced on your knees, eyes hot and unsparing as he caught your wild, desperate stare. You were right there, flailing in the slipstream, and the sudden absence of him was so sharp, so mean, you made a wordless, strangled noise. 

He licked his lips. “Did I give you permission?” he said, which was a new configuration of Bucky Barnes, and a terrifyingly effective one at that. 

You panted, air thick in your throat, and managed a shaky, “That’s not fair.” 

He smirked—wolfish and soft all at once. “Never said it would be.” 

You gaped, mind sputtering, a strangled whine caught in your chest. He arched an eyebrow, his grip tightening just barely, just enough to be felt as a promise.

“I—” you started, but there was no good answer in you, not with the way he was still kneeling at your feet, thighs splayed, cock straining beneath the thin cotton of his sweats, tongue glistening with evidence of your complete undoing. 

You gripped the arms of the throne, knuckles white and trembling, and glared at him. “You’re a goddamn bastard,” you managed, but it sounded more like a plea than an accusation, and he grinned as if you’d handed him the highest compliment.

“Say it again,” he murmured, rising just enough to flatten his palms against your thighs and push them wider, stretching you open under his gaze. “Say it like you mean it.” 

“You. Are. A. Bastard.” The words came out in staccato, punctuated by the slow push of his fingers, finding your pulse point inside and curling up. You moaned, the sound guttural. He moved with impossible control, his face soft with worship even as his hands worked precision chaos between your legs, returning you to the edge and holding you there.

You flattened a palm to his scalp, not because you needed leverage but because you needed to anchor yourself, stake some symbolic claim on this moment so you didn’t simply burst into flames and cinders. The heat between your thighs was a different kind of fire, stoked with each lazy, wicked pass of his tongue, the way he sighed into you, the way he watched your every twitch and quiver like it all belonged to him. 

You said it again, softer this time, nearly a gasp. “Bastard.” 

He smiled against you, the curve of his mouth obscene and perfect, then he pressed inward and set a brutal, indulgent rhythm with his tongue and fingers both. He wanted you to break, and you wanted to let him. The chair rocked under you with your gathering tremors, and he pressed your hips down, not letting you back away from the rush of sensation. You whimpered, then pleaded, but Bucky kept you right there, eyes fixed on your face as you. 

“Please.” You heard yourself say it. Nothing else. No elaboration, just the honest edges of the word. 

Bucky slowed, then stopped, withdrawing his fingers with deliberate, excruciating slowness. The ache in your cunt was so intense it bordered on grief. You reached for him blindly, but he caught your wrist, holding it in the air between you, his thumb pressed just enough to be present at your pulse. 

"You don't get to finish yet," he said, voice low and purposefully cruel. "You hate when a game is too easy. You’ve said so yourself." 

Your breath stuttered, a high, keening sound escaping your chest. You blinked at him, not sure if you wanted to cry or hit him or both. “But… this isn’t a game though.”

“No,” he affirmed, his tone more serious, recognizing you checking in with him in the moment. “It’s absolutely not a game.”

Your heart warmed and relaxed, and you both smiled at each other. 

But then a moment later Bucky was back in it. He rose up, looming over you with the intensity of a thunderhead, and a thrill ran through you. He hooked his thumb under your jaw, tilting your face up to his. “Open your mouth,” he said. 

You did, breathless, trusting. He leaned in and pressed two gummy strawberries to your tongue, sour sugar dusting your lips, and then he followed with his own mouth, tongue licking up the flavor before it could dissolve. You tasted yourself, the candy, his breath—clean and a little wild. When he bit your lip, gentle but hungry, you made a noise you didn’t recognize as your own. 

“Barnes,” you hissed, gummy half-melted and sticking to your cheek. “Are you trying to kill me?” 

He drew back just enough to see your smile. “Not kill. Ruin. There’s a difference.” 

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[softlymaximoff]

Head canons of Agent Romanoff and new SHIELD recruit, Agent Y/N. Part 2

18+ ONLY MEN & MINORS DNI (blank blogs will be blocked you do not have my permission to republish my work onto any platform.

Oliver (the polydactyl cat) has a nasty habit of stealing Natasha’s Nerf Darts, to the point where at the end of each passing week, Nat tallies off how many he’s stolen and gives you that amount of jumping jacks. You’ve never caught on and she’s not gonna tell you until you come clean about housing a stray, yes she saw you rescue it out of a crushed milk carton when he was an angsty teen cat.

Truly hilarious to watch you gentle parent the most bratty and mouthy cat. The day you turned up for training with a sour face and a full sleeve workout shirt, she mentally giggled to herself. But you had a heart of gold and the love of an angel’s warmth so she wasn’t surprised you wrangled with that thing. Impressed almost.

Catnip. Natasha loves feeding Oliver his happy herbs and the cat turns into a complete menace, the zoomies, the race car purrs, the parkour, everything. A sight to see when she hold the gremlin in arms reach and his tail is partaking in a helicopter blade audition with his purrs rumbling through his chest.

You thought it was just orange cat behaviour, the internet feeding you all sorts of lies (somewhat cause orange cats are feral). Nights when he’d return from the edges of the building (you also had a suspicion he was doing recall but who knows) he’d be all hyper and vocal, more than usual.

On rainy days in the compound, most SHIELD recruits would hang out in their common area, a game of ping pong here and there, pool, darts, Nerf Wars around the lounge, anything to have some sort of team bonding experience. You simply read old English or History books in your room or on undercover terrace on the roof, Ollie lounging out with you, working up a bakery with his paws.

Natasha knew, she watched, she learned. She understood.

One afternoon, the stray refused to go anywhere with you, hissing and whinging on his bed of crushed cardboard boxes, (yes you actually had a small cat tree tucked away in the corner but no, Oliver liked his cardboard, old habits never die you concluded). You flipped the stray off, his paw swatting the air in defiance and you retreated up to the rooftop to clear your head.

You had an intel mission within a few days and you were to go with Wanda just out of town. You were stressing, hard. Who would take care of Oliver? What happens if he got out of the compound? What would happen if things went south and you didn’t come back? All these thought were becoming messy and panicky hindering your reflexes when the rooftop door swung open.

A strangled curse made you jump and spin around, coming face to face with your evil child. Behind him was Natasha with a much less impressed expression, “The little fucker climbed into my room and jumped me like his tree. Wouldn’t stop yapping and chirping. I think he’s broken”

Your face, red as ever, turned into a harsh glare towards Oliver. “What is with you today. Some days I think you take me too much for granted little dude” you sighed as the spy shoved the cat into your arms, not missing the way the animal burrowed its head in the crook of your neck. “Traitor” she whispered, a little accent dripping into her tone.

She gave you a smirk and left the rooftop before you could defend yourself with the feline.

When the day came for your intel mission, his cardboard box empty save for a small note tucked away under the top sheet, “He came in to mine this morning. Leave him with me, he’ll be okay. We have enough milk and ham, don’t worry. If he eats it all I’ll teach him how to hunt mice, maybe even scare Clint in the vents x N.R”

You shook your head in amusement and slight offence at the traitorous cat but packed your bags anyway. Wanda came through mid morning, smiling brightly and introducing herself. You greeted her with a nervous wave and introduced yourself, not missing her eyes when they darted over to the cardboard boxes and left over kibble next to the set up.

“Do I even wanna know?” She teased at your flushed cheeks and you shook your head, once again, being caught red handed about owning an animal in the compound. “C’mon Clint’s waiting downstairs, he’d gonna drop us off. I’m sure your little friend is in safe hands. And besides, it’s not often you hear a Russian curse out a cat. The walls are thin, honey, very” the witch chuckled as she helped you pick your bags up.

Safe to say, when you passed the main rooms in the compound on your way to the front entrance, a faint string of Russian curses could be heard followed by “Stop chewing on my Nerf Darts you little-!” Yes. The walls were extremely thin.

[daylighted]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤshield ! reader ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤpart two !!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤULTIMATE REVENGE.

summary memories are reawakened with the arrival of soldier boy into your life again, but his presence is not the only new thing slipping its way through the cracksㅤㅤㅤwarnings feminine rage, light discussions of trauma, violence against men HAHAHA, me trying to mimic butcher's accent ( embarrassing edition )ㅤㅤㅤword count 2.1k

ㅤㅤㅤ"ARE YOU SERIOUSLY ANGRY WITH ME?" it was a ridiculous question to be asked, considering all that happened, but you'd let him talk. how deep of a hole could one man dig himself into?

you don’t dignify him with any answer. of course you were angry. it had been festering since you were created, switched between homes like a rejected foster child that no one really wanted, but got stuck with. it was bad enough knowing that the entirety of your long existence would be spent being a pest to the ones stuck with you; they did not need to find ways to torment you.

you shove the closet door open with your shoulder, having waited in the closet until soldier boy vanished. he didn’t deserve any of your attention, and didn’t deserve any indication that you knew him. that was another irritant to your fury.

“i told you to stay in your space.” it’s the only defense that the legend has, so he milks it, stresses the points of it as if that can deter your frustrations. “i told you that this is the risk i was keeping you from, dammit—”

the legend doesn’t have to get it, and so he never will. still, you can’t help but feel the need to try. “you knew it was a risk,” you say it slower, as if that will make it click in his rotten head, “and you did not tell me. you knew that soldier boy was alive, and could come back, and kept it.”

“look at how you’re reacting!” his hand shoots up toward you, hovering in the expansive closet’s entrance. “you decked him. you crushed his nutsack—”

“not. enough.”

“plenty enough, indy.” your name is always a weapon in men’s mouths. no one ever looked at you and thought you were something worth whispering or promising. you were a gun, your words the bullets, the safety always off. and nobody wanted a girl in a constant state of misfire. “i get what you’re going through, and what is going on inside of your head—”

“you do not.”

his lips thin in his frustration. “are you going to let me finish a single fuckin’ sentence today, indy, or are we going to argue around each other because you don’t listen?”

your jaw clenches tightly, teeth grinding together. “you do not get anything that is in my head. you are just an old man minus a leg.”

“you are old too,” he shoots back at you, wagging his finger in your face. you shove his hand away with a scoff. “just because little miss indestructible doesn’t physically age doesn’t mean she hasn’t been here as long as i have. so you should know better than to act like an insolent child.”

it’s so easy for a man to flip the script on you and blame you. you were not asked for permission before you were created. you were not ever treated kindly in the tests you endured after it. you were shaped and molded into something as strong as you’d been as a manmade shield, and then punished for what evolved from that.

“i would know better if i was not locked away.”

somehow, his thin lips press together tighter. you’ve got him. you always get him on that point, and still, the legend doesn’t ever listen to you. it was so useless to have a voice when it did nothing for you.

the bell to his door rings, and your head snaps in that direction. you can see the front door now, from where you stand — considering the fact you’d broken down the hinges to that side of the penthouse, and soldier boy had dismantled your door.

multiple shadows stand on the other side. you see their outlines, big and broad, through the glass walls surrounding the doorway. your eyes narrow. “soldier boy has brought guests.”

“i hardly doubt he will come back.” the legend steps around you, back into the living room, with a glance over his shoulder. “i’d highly suggest sitting this one out.”

“you cannot keep me away anymore today.” you stalk after him, following him again through the broken mess of doors scattered around his living space. “the door is ruined. you have to let me see.”

“i don't have to do a thing.”

he never listens to you. you’ve been stuck with him for forty years and he does not listen. he’s the cruelest sort of captor, controlling everything of your life down to the rooms you’re allowed to take up space in.

you shove past the legend, grabbing the doorknob before he can, tugging the locked, heavy door open with an agitated growl. “go away. you are not wanted here.”

the man in the center on the other side raises his eyebrows. “sassy lass, ain’t ya?” he has an accent, just like you, except his is much more pronounced and nothing like how yours sounds. “i didn’t know the legend kept around girls that can beat him in a tongue lashin’.”

sickening how every single man you’d had the displeasure of meeting assumed you were one of the legend’s playthings. this was the consequence of his containment. you faced the scrutiny of his choices.

you dash forward, grabbing the gun he had poorly concealed at his hip. you release the safety and step back before any of his crew can process the barrel of the pistol pressed against the center of his chest. “mind your mouth.”

his hands raise in mock surrender. “alright, love. i don’t think we should be playing with things we don’t know how to—”

you’d known how to shoot a gun since you learned how to grip. you cock a bullet into the chamber and point it backwards, pulling the trigger at the two feet distance between the legend’s cane and your own feet.

the tall, lankier man in the back of the group shudders out an, “oh my god.” the one next to their assumed leader grimaces at the ringing echo of the bullet. behind you, the legend is seething, hissed curses falling out of his spluttering mouth.

you press the warm barrel to the man’s chest again. “tell me i am too stupid to work a gun again.”

the corner of his mouth tilts higher. “my apologies, lass,” he says, raising his eyes from your face to behind you. “might i speak to the man of the hour?”

“he has nothing worthy to say,” you say, finally dropping the hand holding the gun to your side, “not unless you like idiocracy and long-winded tall tales.”

the man shrugs. "i'm afraid that's all this lot has got to offer, anyways, yeah?"

you don't give the gun back. you untuck your shirt from your pants and stuff it in the waistband, offering a smile to the group of men waiting outside. "i can tell," you hum, turning on your heel, walking back the way you came from.

the basketball game is still on, but it's wrapping up — as far as you can tell, anyways, through the giant black hole in the center of the screen. you weren't in any sort of mood to get in another argument about the channel after what you'd gone through, so you drop down onto the couch again with only a huff of protest.

expectedly, the men follow afterwards. expectedly, the legend is apologizing on your behalf to men that don't deserve it, using words you'd never use. she's really sorry. no you weren't. she's always been crueler than the other of vought's creations. the familiar sentence, still stings all the same.

"she's a supe, then?" the lanky one asks, like you aren't even there. he catches your eye when you turn to glare holes into his temple, and his face flushes a little. "you're a supe?"

your face twists up. "i hate soup."

"oh." he nods a couple of times, clearing his throat in the process. "well. that answers... nothing."

the irritable, disgusted scowl becomes one more laced with anger. "i am not one of the heroes." the legend's reaction is proof enough to an unanswered question you had. that, no, before soldier boy's departure, he did not inform the hero of who you really were, and he was dancing around it now. you'll spare him from the science lesson. "i was created in laboratory. by the vought man." he's never been doctor frederick vought to you, because he never acted as a doctor, only an enforcer. "a someone out of something."

the lankier of the men blinks his surprise, somehow not deterred even with the look you gave him before. "created how?"

no one has ever addressed you in these conversations. usually legend apologizes for you, and they talk about you like you don't exist, and you are expected to stand down even when the order is not enforced. a long silence passes before you speak, unwilling to answer if he was not genuinely asking. but his eyes don't stray from you, and so you nod slowly in acceptance.

"you know of soldier boy?" his name is poison in your mouth, the only thing that has ever hurt you. "the great american hero with a shield?" there is no point of you explaining the world's first hero to these people. they probably know more about him than you ever would. "i am the shield."

the original man, the one with a smirk permanently plastered across his face, turns to you, then, abandoning whatever plans he'd come with. "bullshit."

"you are bullshit." you don't need any of them to believe you. trying to convince others of what you knew to be true was pointless. you slump backwards against the couch again, your eyes zeroing in on the shattered television screen.

it's the lanky one that comes to sit next to you. the legend doesn't even sit as close to you as he does, and he'd lived with you for forty years. "vought does some crazy shit." his shoulders lift in a shrug, letting out a little hum. "doesn't seem so off base that they turn a shield into a girl."

"the shield is with him," you clarify, finding it hard to actually meet his eyes whenever he's watching you with more understanding than anyone had bothered to offer. he wears the same curiosity that you saw in soldier boy's, which simply wouldn't do. "it is just useless now."

"does he know?" the original man, his rugged voice giving way to its own sort of morbid curiosity. there are too many men around you, and not enough space for you to feel safe and secure.

you shake your head, shooting a pointed look at the legend, balking on the other side of the room. "he did not tell him."

"ben is not going to be doing anything with that shield to warrant knowing its truth—"

frustration pours out of every orifice of your body. "soldier boy is a ticking bomb." he has always been volatile. a man cannot change simply because the man was locked away for decades. from what you saw of him, there wasn't any ounce of growth from him at all.

"she's right." the man sitting beside you turns to look back at the legend, and for once, you feel seen. someone else sees the hypocrisy of the man you were stuck with and is not afraid to reflect it back at him. maybe the legend would listen this time, now that a man was telling all of his sins to the choir. "he's a ticking time bomb."

"don't start, hughie," the rugged brit says, his voice nothing more than a growl.

"no, she's right." he gives butcher a long, hard look before he shakes his head, glancing sidelong at legend. "you know what we're planning to do. you know that we're trying to use him for it. and you sent him into the world to die."

the confirmation makes your stomach feel leaden. you should not care at all about what that means. you shouldn't care that soldier boy could die. and you don't. it's just—

"and what do you want me to do about that now, huh?"

the room is quiet, the only sound being the distorted audio coming from the broken television. you know where this is going. you sense it in the way that the man that isn't hughie stares at you, piecing together everything that the options laid out for them offered.

hope was a bitter thing in your mouth. this could be your sole chance of freedom, finally getting to see a breath of the world you'd spent your entire life locked away from. it just came with the added downside of—

"hand over soldier boy's shield," the man finally says, his eyes never leaving yours, "promise with every inch of my wee heart we'll take good care of 'er."

notes. indy beat up all men ever era !!! billy butcher EAT UR HEART OUT. just a heads up that this !reader has a structured timeline vs baby & lore not <3 u can still send asks abt her if u wanna but in my head this lil lady is all plotted for ... i dont wanna say it in case i abandon it midway ... so just know there's a proper number of parts oKAYYY thank u 4 reading love u bye

tags. @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @eepwtf @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @jensenacklesballsack @abox-of-rocks @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @misatxox @angelblqde @bombarda-babe @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @voidsuites @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @hyacinnths @blushpinkdoll @mccartneyqp @svbnra @h8aaz @mahi-wayy

[http-shield]

"you need a seat? I’ll volunteer" -bucky barnes

more unhinged avenger!reader x bucky barnes honey is a replacement for y/n

"Can you move your seat up?" Bucky asks Sam as he closes the door behind him.

Sam sighs and turns back to look. "Why do you always sit behind me and then ask me to move it up? Move over!"

"I can't!" Bucky gestures over to you sitting on the other side of the backseat. "She's over there. What do you want me to do? Where do you want me to sit?"

"You can sit on my face."

The words tumble from you before you have the opportunity to stop them. You slap your hand over your mouth the second the last syllable leaves, your face heating to a thousand degrees as silence falls over the small car.

"I'm sorry, what?" Bucky demands and looks at you, shifting his entire body towards yours.

"You did not just say what I think you said." Sam throws his hands in the air in disbelief. "Say it again. What did you just say?"

You shake your head, unable to repeat the sentiment you had thought a million times out loud again.

"What...what do you mean by that?" Bucky stares at you, completely confused, but you are unable to meet his gaze. "How...what?" there is a desperation in his voice as he begins to ponder the answer to whatever situation you were thinking of.

"How would that even work?" Sam begins to twist his arms and body around as if acting out the positioning, the silence beginning to suffocate you as Sam continues trying figurations.

"You just get on top and-" You bury your face in your hands, cheeks burning hotter than the sun.

"On top of what?!" Bucky exclaims.

"Her face, man!" Sam yells, shoulders beginning to shake in laughter.

"But why would I be on top? Shouldn't she be sitting on my face?" Bucky clarifies, now looking at Sam as though he should have the answers.

"You want her to sit on your face? Are we confessing to things now?" Sam pins Bucky with a look, shaking his head as to garner some sense of direction the conversations is going in.

"Well," Bucky begins and shrugs his shoulders. "If one of us is gonna sit on the other's face, id rather it be her on mine."

"Oh my god, Bucky!" you groan, desperately trying to sink into the leather of the seat. "Can we stop talking about this, please."

"You brought it up!" he blurts out, attention now on you as you hide in your arms.

"It just came out!" you shriek, unable to stop the embarrassment flowing over you.

Suddenly, the car door opens, and Steve slides in, blissfully unware as to what just transpired.

"So what did i miss?" He asks, gunning the car to life.

"Nothing." You and Bucky answer in unison, a little too suspicious for Steve's liking.

The Captain looks in the mirror at you, then at Bucky, and back at you. A hum leaves him as he shifts gears.

"Bucky asked Honey sit on his face" Sam announces unprompted as Steve starts to reverse.

The car slams on the brakes before Bucky yells.

"She asked me!"

----

a/n: vvvvv dialogue heavy but this was fun! i hope y'all like unhinged reader hehehe ^^

[diz-eaze]

; yandere modern au aventurine thoughts

; soft yandere, half silly half serious, not proofread, he's a silly goober, simp aven?

modern au aventurine, who, during breaktime, overhears some of his work subordinates standing around the office's water dispenser gossiping as usual. it's a typical routine for the workers, but what makes him drop his cup of water is them giggling and cooing about an interaction you had with another co-worker. slapping each other on the shoulders, leaning in to whisper, smiling wide and bright as if they're getting paid to squeal over their co-workers' interactions... it grinds his gears, he'll admit. from what he could gather, the department is in disarray because a kdrama-worthy moment happened with you and a faceless accountant. something something catching your fall by wrapping his arms around your waist like some savior something something you thanking him. ok. whatever. he'll deal with that can of worms in the privacy of his room by tweaking out later. but what irks him even more is that he recognizes those gossiping workers as the same people who love to spread rumors and gossip about you possibly dating him, and he eats it up !! encourages the rumors, even !! so like woah... pause. rewind. what happened to his loyal fanbase of aven(y/n) shippers?? why are they switching sides? all for one interaction with a rando when you have a well-established friendship with him that's been known by the entire department for months now??? people these days truly aren't loyal anymore, wow :( and this isn't even funny at all to him. he can't even crack a smile. not even a haha. his day is ruined by these office workers shipping you with someone that isn't him. when he settles back into his desk, he has to take several deep breaths to reel himself in. it's not that deep, oh but it is !! very much so. he'll have to look into that guy's identity, good thing he's a department head :)))

modern au aventurine always has a ritual every time he sees you post on Instagram. if it's a silly photo, he puts his phone down to audibly laugh for a good minute, uncaring if you're not even there to witness it, before sending you a laughing emoji. just to drive the point across <3. should it be some scenic photo you took, he'll clap and cheer before replying to it with a compliment - it's a good conversation starter with you, too! he even notes down the places you've put in your story for future references, he can't have you going on a vacation with him to a place you've already been to, after all :((. and if it's a selfie or group photo that includes you... oh aeons, please have mercy on his soul. he'll close his phone before jumping on his bed in utmost joy, even doing 4 backflips before running around his penthouse several times like he has the zoomies. when he returns to his bedroom, he'll unlock his phone and finally heart your story :) of course, he adds in a long compliment to ensure you don't go by a day wherein you're not worshipped like the deity that you are. live laugh love your co-worker, everyone <3

modern au aventurine loves commissioning artists to draw you with him :)) who is he, if not a patron of the arts? he'd always tell the artists that you're his lover 😭, and his commissioned artworks often depict the two of you in domestic settings, such as living together, visiting other countries, or just being at work with each other. maybe even add in a few commissioned goon artworks <333 though, sometimes the commissions take too long, and that's okay ! but in his desperate times, he'll crack his knuckles, open up photoshop, and put in the work there. his editing skills are, erm, lacking, but he'll do anything to scratch the constant itch in his brain that always seem to yearn for you. so he photoshops your face and his onto stock images of couples :D maybe in the future, he'll lock in and take up one of those photoshop classes. though, by his estimations, you'll be officially his in like, 3 months <3 he prays to any aeon that you'll never see the commissions he put or the photoshopped images he created, however.

modern au aventurine is somehow always wherever you are outside of work. wow, you didn't tell him that you submitted a paid leave for your solo trip in paris !! :DD what a coincidence that he's also here for a solo trip, too !! why not just make it a duo trip since you're both here ? ☺️ but he literally knew all of this since he's your department head. you'll see him in the cafe near your apartment, at the park just down the IPC building's block, at the house next to your family home, at the daycare while you're picking up your niece. but he's so persuasive that he has you thinking it's a red string of fate tying you to him that explains the constant coincidences. like no, it's not a string given by fate he tied that shit himself 😭. he's just some obsessive freak who spends every free time he has on you :/.

modern au aventurine, who somewhere down the line, finally gets into an official relationship with you. the moment you leave his penthouse after making things official, he's whipping out his phone at great speed to change your contact name and contact picture into cheesy, lovey dovey ones. he sets his ringtone to your laugh (which he recorded during work), sets his wallpaper and lockscreen to selfies you've taken, and changes all his social media bios into having mentions of you in some way, shape, or form. he'll change his profile pictures soon too, after he's taken a shared selfie with you :).

[10ava01]

hiii!! Can i request a childhood bestfriends to lovers au with joaquin where he went off to the airforce and they lost contact a little then she is like helping out sam in some way (idk how 😭) and her and joaquin reunite again and thats where the love part starts

i have no idea if this makes any sense but 😍 if not ill re word it😭

Hi darling! Thank you for your request—omg, I totally see your vision! Let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy reading it! 😚🩷

"If you want a part 2 of this story, tell me!"

Materlist

Part 2

Falling back in

The very first time you laid your eyes on Joaquin Torres was when you were five years old. He had moved in with his parents next door. From the window in your room, you saw him unpack one box after another. You observed his every move—how he might be your age or maybe a little older, his curls falling into his eyes, his face lighting up as he looked around the neighborhood—and you just hoped that one day, you could become friends with that boy.

When he showed up the next day on your porch with a crooked smile and two popsicles—one already half-melted in his hands because of the Texas sun—you just stared at him in shock. Your wish had come true.

"Hello, I’m your new neighbor. Do you wanna play in the garden with me?" he asked so simply, without knowing that you were exploding inside.

Your shy behavior didn’t turn him away; it only made him more interested in you.

And for the longest time, everything about your friendship was that simple and easy.

You grew up together—bare feet on hot pavement, scraped knees, and whispered secrets under starry skies. Because of him, your childhood became more colorful. Every memory you had was with him. He was always there. Until he wasn’t.

You knew that all Joaquin ever wanted was to make a difference in the world. To become a hero. Only, he didn’t realize that he had been your hero your whole life. He had saved you in ways that were impossible for you to put into words. But he needed to be more than just one person’s hero. You had to accept that fact and let him go.

The day he left for the Air Force, your whole world shattered. You wanted him to become the person he had always dreamed of being, but practically signing up for death? You wanted to beg him to stay, to find a new purpose, to find a different dream—but the smile on his face told you that no matter what, no one, not even you, could change his mind. That’s why you stood at the edge of his driveway, watching him throw his bag into the back of his truck. You forced a smile, shoving down the ache in your chest. You did it for him. You would go to the ends of the earth if it meant he would be by your side. Only for him.

“Don’t forget about me when you get all important and stuff.”

Sure, there was no way he would think about forgetting you. To this day, you had both been glued to each other at the hip, and there could never be a time when you weren’t together. But the pit of feeling in your belly rose with every second. All you could do was push it away because even thinking about it sounded absurd. No one could truly take him away from you—not distance, not fame, not even time itself.

Joaquin laughed, nudging your shoulder. “Like I could.”

At his answer, he reassured your absurd thoughts. So you pushed everything aside as you said your goodbyes and made pinky promises to stay in contact no matter what.

But time had other plans.

The first few weeks, the calls calmed your heartbeat. He was alive, and his voice assured you of that—until they stopped.

The only communication you had with him was through letters, and even those stopped after a while. You wrote him, one after another, but there was no response.

Only radio silence.

And eventually, you forced yourself to move on. To move on from the only person who saw you, made you feel alive, and most importantly, stuck by your side no matter what.

-

The shy and awkward kid you once were should see you now—confident and outspoken. But working for the past five years as a SHIELD agent changed you. You learned so much, even about yourself, that there was no time to look back at your old self. And you were happy that way. You were good at your job, and you wouldn’t dare change anything about your current life.

That’s what you thought this morning—until you saw him on the battlefield. Anywhere else, but not in the middle of this.

The bullets had long stopped flying by now, which was good news and also meant that, after all, Sam Willson was useful rather than leaving you to handle everything. Even Sam’s good work couldn’t put you in a good mood. The tension in the aftermath of this mission was unraveling.

You didn’t notice him while helping clean up whatever mess was left behind. For a second, you tried to gaslight yourself into thinking that you had seen a ghost from your past. But his voice was all you needed to know that the ghost was very real.

“Well, damn. If it isn’t trouble herself.”

You freeze.

You had dreamed so often about finally hearing his voice again, but nothing had prepared you for your nightmares.

As you slowly turn—there he is.

Joaquin Torres. Your first love and heartbreak.

The boy you once knew everything about, but not anymore. His uniform is crisp, his stance more solid, and the sun catches the sharp edges of his face in a way that makes your heart stutter. All the feelings you thought you had left behind betray you at the sight of him standing in front of you.

It’s been years.

You’ve written so much in your journal, but now that he’s here—alive—you have no words. Every system inside you leaves you hanging. Because of him.

Joaquin grins, shifting his weight like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “You look good.”

You swallow, something thick forming in your throat. “So do you.”

There’s a beat of silence as you stare at each other. Everything feels heavy with all the things left unsaid.

Then he clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—uh—I meant to reach out.”

Your chest tightens. “Yeah?”

He nods, eyes flickering with something almost nervous. “I guess I thought… maybe you moved on. Didn’t need me around anymore.”

You had thought about every possible reason why he would disappear from your life without a word, but his answer leaves you stunned. Because you should be angry. You should call him out for disappearing.

But the truth is, deep down, you know that you need him. You always needed him.

And standing here now, with him looking at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear on him, you realize something.

No matter how much he hurt you, you will forgive him over and over again as long as you have him. As a lover, a friend, or even a stranger. As long as he is alive and in your life, you are whole again.