#soelstress

[navybrat817]

Send this to ten other bloggers that you think are wonderful. Keep the game going; make someone smile! ♡

Sending you all the love and thanks back! ❤️ Sending love to @undutchable11 @holacia3 @yenzys-lucky-charm @krirebr @when-all-the-world-is-asleep @thezombieprostitute @foxgloveprincess @chase-your-dreams-away @bigtreefest @writing-for-marvel @stellar-solar-flare @thereoncewasagirlnamedjane @buck-star @holylulusworld @whatever-lmaoo @targaryenvampireslayer @sashaisready @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @mumbles411 @harpers-ramblings @fckmebarnes @vunblr @perdidosbucky-yyo @wifeofbarnes @vintagebuckybarnes and more! ❤️

[veltana]

🌹

for every "🌹" received in my inbox i'll post one random sentence of a random WIP i'm currently writing

Here you go 💞 thanks for playing!

"How did I ever get this lucky,” Ari muses, kissing down the column of your throat.

“I'm the lucky one,” you whisper.

[bigtreefest]

Send this to ten other bloggers that you think are wonderful. Keep the game going; make someone smile! ♡

Thank you, friend!!🥺😭🥰🫶🏼

[avengers-assemble-bingo]

Badget under the cut! Thank you for participating!

Like Any Other Day

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader

Summary: Bucky is not keen on celebrating but what happens when you don't seem to know what day it is?

Warnings: nothing but fluff... apologies for any cavities!

Word count: 2.3k

Square filled for @avengers-assemble-bingo “Bucky Barnes Birthday bingo event": Square 4: 'Happy Birthday'

Card - 4B011

A/N - Hello lovelies! My first entry for the above bingo event. Wishing our favourite Super Soldier Sergeant a very Happy Birthday! He deserves all the love and fluff and more!

The divider is from the amazing @buck-star - Thank you Sydney! 🥰

The pic is sourced from Google

Do not Steal, Copy or Plagiarize any part of my work

Bucky pushed on trying to imagine his run as an escape but it wasn’t working. There was no escaping it. Everywhere he looked he was reminded - on television, the internet, newspapers and now even his own goddamn phone was flashing and vibrating with alerts. March 10th. His birthday. As he pushed into his final stride he tried to banish the negativity from his mind as he did not want you to pick up on his mood.

It wasn’t that Bucky hated his birthday but rather he did not like celebrating it. Truthfully the last birthday he had really celebrated was in 1944 with Steve and the Howling Commandos. Obviously Hydra might have had a sick sense of humour and hosted their own celebration by sending the Winter Soldier out to share the revelry but Bucky chose not to dwell too much on that.

When asked he had told Shuri, Ayo and Sam the same thing- that he did not want a celebration because in his mind there was nothing to celebrate. Yes he had been pardoned for his crimes and deep down Bucky knew that he had not done things willingly as the Winter Soldier. But little stabs of guilt still lingered when he faced reminders of those actions.

Shaking his head Bucky opened the door to your apartment and heard you moving around in the kitchen. His heart sank slightly. He had gotten in from a mission in the early hours and you had been asleep so he had hoped to find you still in bed after his run so he could cuddle you. Instead he crossed to you and wound his arms around your waist as his face pressed into the crook of your neck. He held you tight for a few minutes until his grip loosened and you turned in the circle of his arms. 

“Mornin’ Buck.” You smiled at him. When he saw you open your mouth to speak he braced himself for the inevitable.

“How was your run? Hope you’re not sore from the mission.”

He blinked, caught out by your words. He mumbled some platitude which seemed to satisfy you as you poured out a coffee for him. Brows furrowed, his heart sank further when he saw you were dressed to go out. 

“Going somewhere toots?”

“The planetarium.”

“Oh. I didn’t realise you were working today.”

“Nah I’m not. The new space show opens later today and staff get the chance to check it out before general admittance and we can bring someone.” You glanced up at him with a small smile. “I was offered last night or this morning, but you weren’t back and I wanted to wait for you as I know you love space. You came home late so I didn’t get a chance to ask. If you have plans, I understand.”

Bucky’s heart melted when you said about waiting for him because you wanted to share the experience with him. He answered without hesitation. “My only plan is to spend the day with my best girl. Just lemme get showered and changed. It’s a nice day, we could take the bike and then maybe go for a drive after?”

You beamed. “I’d love nothing more, Buck.” Your smile held as he rushed out of the room before falling slightly and you took a deep breath for courage. He seemed happy about this, you just hoped the rest of the day would go as smooth.

Bucky collected his bike from the little lock up unit where your building stored their vehicles and pulled up in front of your apartment where you stood waiting. As he pulled the helmets from his saddlebag, you took a moment to look at him. His blue eyes gleamed with excitement and his face was lit up instead of being in his usual ‘resting murder face’ as Sam called it. Nerves eased slightly you took the offered helmet before tugging it on and blushing as Bucky dutifully adjusted the fit and straps before helping you mount the bike and slipping on his own helmet. Checking the road he then carefully pulled away with a soft rumble. You loved spending any time with Bucky but he was really in his element when he drove his bike. He steered with confidence and navigated through New York traffic with laughable ease but always made you feel secure whether he took tight turns or zoomed down the highway. Safety was never a question with him. 

Soon you found yourself in front of the Planetarium where new advertisements were already boasting about the newest show. Bucky parked the bike and helped you to dismount before stashing the helmets away. Having discarded his gloves he excitedly linked his fingers through yours and tugged you toward the entrance. Your manager stood waiting to unlock the door and greeted you with a smile. You mouthed a quick thank you to which she winked in response when Bucky took a moment to look around. She handed you each a leaflet and gestured for you to enter. After watching the new show Bucky was thrilled and eagerly asked to explore the Museum of Natural History with you to which you happily obliged. 

Afterwards you hopped back on his motorcycle and took a leisurely drive to Beacon. By the time you arrived both your stomachs were protesting so you found a quiet little cafe and watched the world go by as you ate. You spent a few hours walking around the town exploring and sampling the local fares and taking a few as souvenirs while taking pictures of the scenic city. A few of the sellers kindly pointed you in the direction of Long Dock Park for the chance to witness a beautiful sunset. You snapped a few pictures of the scenery, the bike and Bucky all under the view of the slowly setting sun unaware that Bucky had snapped one of you. As the sun began to sink below the horizon Bucky tugged you into his embrace and you tilted your head. His thick brown hair was fluffy and wayward from riding with a helmet, his face flushed from the cool breeze that chilled the sunny day but from the small crinkles around his eyes he looked happy. Bucky dipped his head and kissed you softly before his nose nuzzled against yours. “Thanks for today doll. It’s been a great day.” He grinned at you, his blue eyes sparkling with warmth and love. You smiled and hugged him before pulling away when you heard his stomach growl. He blushed. “Wanna grab some dinner?”

You swallowed, hoping he wouldn’t hear your heartbeat race. “Actually, I had somewhere in mind. But if you wanna eat now-“

“And spoil my girl's wishes? Not on your life. Let’s go.” Bucky packed up the saddlebags and you discretely stepped away to make a call before allowing Bucky to help you mount the bike behind him. He set your phone in the holder between the handlebars which stated directions but didn’t disclose the location. As he drove, Bucky took a few moments to relish this snapshot with you - your legs bracketed against his denim clad thighs, your arms wrapped around his burly chest and your warm body pressed tightly against him as the bike roared beneath you. Once the directions had ended Bucky pulled up and glanced over his shoulder at you in confusion before helping you dismount and storing both your helmets. His throat bobbed when he saw an unfamiliar sign in a very familiar location before his cerulean eyes rested on you.

”You’re always talking about how you used to come here back in the day. I thought you might want a little visit down memory lane, maybe share some more stories?” Bucky’s heart thumped at the way you bit your lip nervously. You’d done nothing for him today but want to share experiences with him, he thought it was only natural you’d want to try to hear some of his as well. The pair of you walked into the diner and a young man called for you to take a seat wherever. Bucky led you to a corner booth and tugged you in beside him, eyes darting around before his mouth ticked up. 

“Is it kinda the same? Or really different?”

“I dunno. It’s kinda like those ‘spot the difference’ puzzles you’re always doing.” Bucky then began pointing out some of the original features and describing how the diner looked in his younger days. When the same young man who greeted you came walking up with two plates and set them down, Bucky cut off his story with a small frown. “Sorry pal, we haven’t-” His words died when something else caught his attention. Something he hadn’t smelled for eight decades. “What is that?” He whispered.

You gulped, fingers crossed so hard you thought they might break. “Meatloaf. It’s-”

“Missus Miller’s recipe.” Bucky stared at the dish on the table, a flashback to the dish he and Steve enjoyed when they were kids and up until he was deployed.. “They stopped making this after the war. How-”

“My Grandma always insisted this family recipe be learnt in case Steve Rogers or Bucky Barnes ever came back to our diner.” The young man smiled at the awestruck look on Bucky’s face. “Plus your girl here called to say how you were craving the old meatloaf and asked if we’d mind whipping some up.” He introduced himself as the owner's youngest grandson and began to tell Bucky about his family, about what happened to them and the neighbourhood families during and after the war. You and Bucky both listened while you ate. The meatloaf had a slightly odd taste, different to what you knew as modern day meatloaf but for you the real pleasure was from watching Bucky. Though a hint of melancholy played at his features as he heard tales of those no longer around, he was happy to be in a familiar place hearing what had happened to the folks he left behind and tasting a dish that was his very definition of home. 

After the plates had been cleared Bucky shook the young man's hand gratefully and asked him to pass on his regards. You also shook his hand, hoping the verbal thanks were enough to convey your gratitude for his help. You were both waved off when the subject of payment came up but managed to sneak a big tip each into the jar before sneaking out the door. Once outside he spun you around in delight. 

“Babydoll, that was amazing! Took me back to Ma and Missus Rogers trying to make it but they never could.” He smiled with a faraway look before focusing back on you. “You’re amazing doll. Thank you.” Bucky drove back to your apartment and told you to head up without him while he parked his bike back in the lock up nearby rather than on the street. Once the bike was secure Bucky walked towards your apartment and saw Sam was calling his phone before reluctantly answering in the hope he wasn’t calling with a mission. “Hey man.”

“Hey tin man. Received your annual software update yet?” 

“Ha ha. You’re hilarious, Wilson.”

“Wow, I was hoping your mood would have recalibrated after all the trouble your girl went to today.”

“Hey! I was actually- wait, what trouble?” There was no response from Sam so Bucky pressed him again. “Sam, what trouble?”

Sam sighed heavily. “For your birthday man. She wanted to surprise you without you knowing it was for your birthday.”

Bucky’s brain ground to a halt. Without registering he ended the call and rushed upstairs to find you in the kitchen.

It almost felt like the scene he walked into this morning but now you stood at the counter pouring him a bourbon. His mind whirled. When you hadn’t wished him a happy birthday he had wondered if you had forgotten or if you even knew but he had not wanted to make you feel bad or make it seem like he wanted attention. Instead, Bucky had spent the day happily with you and he had almost forgotten the annoyance he felt at the start of the day. But hearing that you had wanted to do all these things for him without realising why… Sam would have joked about the cyborg failing to compute. 

When you heard Bucky come in you turned with a big smile on your face which melted quickly. Bucky looked the complete opposite of how you had seen him minutes ago with confusion and tension now radiating off him. 

“You knew?”

To have Bucky ask, you were now terrified about the consequences of your actions. 

“Bucky, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I just- ” Your words were cut off as Bucky swept you into a crushing hug, his chest heaving. You froze for a moment before carefully hugging him back. Bucky pulled back, his blue eyes shining.

“Why’d you do this, doll?”

“I know you hate celebrating your birthday, so at first I just wanted to give you a great day without any pressure.” You bit your lip. “But I can’t just pretend it’s like any other day, Bucky. Even though it’s your birthday I feel like I got the greatest gift of all; the joy of knowing you, the privilege of loving you.” You ducked your head. “But I’m sorry for being selfish, for ignoring your feelings.”

His fingers urged you to meet his boyish grin, splitting his face with joy. “You weren’t selfish doll. Today is the best day I’ve had in decades and it’s all because of you.” He pressed soft kisses all over your forehead, nose and cheeks. “Say it baby, please?”

You shared a tender kiss filled with love, devotion and apology before stroking his cheeks and feeling his heartbeat against your chest. “Happy birthday, Bucky.”

[thenameswinterfics]

So, since I received the same ask from two different people, I'll merge them in one post.

Thank you so much @soelstress and @azriona for the asks! Based on this post.

So, this kind of brainrot started because I am myself a lover of LOTR and The Hobbit, but most importantly it was born because of a line Bucky says in the second episode of "The Falcon and The Winter Soldier":

You can see how this guy was the ultimate nerd for Tolkien and The Hobbit because in the US the first edition was published a year later, in 1938 (if I remember correctly). So imagine how hard would have been for him to find the UK edition and read it a year before the US release. What a nerd he was.

But returning to the fic, I decided to set it in the TFATWS timeline. The fic begins with Bucky entering a small Brooklyn bookshop for a book signing of a special edition of The Hobbit, featuring illustrations of pivotal scenes from different chapters. Here meets the reader, who's the illustrator of this special edition.

The rest would be them knowing each other better and have a nerdy date watching LOTR and The Hobbit films together every night (in this fic Bucky hasn't seen the films yet).

It's nothing so spectacular, it will be a fluffy mess and me satisfying my fantasies of Bucky being a Tolkien fanboy.

Thank you again for the ask, beautiful ladies! 💜

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part four]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, nudity, female masturbation, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, safe word/motion use, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, major arguments, sparring, training, mentions of alcohol, reader is lowkey depressed, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 10k

A/N: it's ready early! thank you everyone for the support. um i'll keep it brief but this is a pretty rough, angsty one. please trust and bear with me. it will get better. thank you for putting up with my silly ideas. also a big thank you to @soelstress and @buckybarnesfic for reading this over for me and giving feedback while i was pulling my hair out a bit! as always, sorry for any typos!

main masterlist | series masterlist

In the split second it took for you to twist around, an arm half-heartedly lifting to cover your chest, Steve’s complexion had lurched from deathly white to a deep, mortified crimson. One hand clamped desperately over his eyes, as if that could undo what he'd already seen. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, floundering for something to say, before he choked out a strangled “Sorry!” and spun around so violently he almost took the doorframe with him.

The silence that followed was somehow worse. Beneath your hands, Bucky turned to stone, all his warmth leeched away, as if he'd been sculpted into a gargoyle mid-breath. You remained straddling his lap, dress tangled around your waist, nipples peaked against the air. 

“Well,” You muttered dryly, glancing down at him. “That’ll give him something to think about during his little jogs around the compound.”

Bucky didn’t laugh. 

His eyes were wide, glassy. He jerked his head towards the door, then back to you, panic flickering across his features. “How much did he—What do I—”

His hands left you completely, raking his hands down his face, as if he could claw the moment out of existence. You caught it then, the way his shoulders started to shake, breath stuttering in his chest, fingers balling into a fist as he pressed his knuckles against his forehead. You reached for him gently, two fingers grazing his wrist, the start of a soft coaxing, just enough to try and ease his hands away from his face. But he caught your wrist mid-motion.

You went still, dread curling behind your ribs.

His grip was trembling, the cool metal of his vibranium fingers tightening around your skin. Wordlessly, he motioned, three firm squeezes in quick succession.

Stop. 

You were already sliding off his lap, kneeling in the tangle of half-kicked sheets and discarded pillows next to him in a futile attempt to give him more space, but it was already too late.

“Bucky?” You breathed, and he visibly flinched. You were unsure where the panic had pulled him, nor what thoughts drowned him, but you knew you couldn’t let him stay lost. “Bucky, talk to me.”

“I can’t, I can’t—” He gasped, voice thin like every breath was a fight. 

“Bucky.” You interrupted him firmly. “I need you to breathe.”

The super soldier ignored your instructions, crumpling in on himself as you hovered, unsure if touching him would make it better or worse. His breaths were coming fast, too fast. You could hear how each intake rattled in his chest, lungs not fully expanding as his body was quickly switching into a fight-or-flight mode. 

“He’s going to be upset.” Bucky managed to choke out, his voice breaking.

“Why would he be upset?” You pushed, keeping your voice steady and calm. “He’s your friend.”

“I don’t know, I just…” His voice was rising, near frantic. He was tugging at his hair now, stuck in a panicked spiral of his own making. 

“You’re panicking. You’ve had a shock,” you said quickly. “That’s all it is. Just breathe, okay? In and out, like we always do. We’ve done this before, remember?”

His chest heaved, a desperate sound clawing up his throat.

"I can't... I—”

"Just breathe," you repeated quickly. You needed to make yourself small, unthreatening. You dropped off the side of the bed, kneeling on the floor in front of him. "Bucky, look at me."

His eyes were wild. You reached out, gently, just brushing his kneecaps with your fingertips. "Let's rationalise this for a second, okay? You’re safe. Nothing bad happened."

He shook his head in short, jerky movements, like he couldn't even hear you over the roaring panic inside his skull.

"He's gonna hate me," he gasped, chest spasming. "I—fuck—he's gonna be disgusted—"

"Hey, hey, stop," you said firmly, voice low and steady, even as your heart hammered in your own chest. You pressed your palm lightly against his thigh. "Steve is not disgusted. Embarrassed? Sure. Mortified? Definitely. But not at you, Bucky."

"I—he—" He couldn’t even get the words out anymore. His hands tore away from his hair to clutch at the sheets twisted around him. 

You frowned, your mind racing as you tried to decide your next move. The shift had happened so fast. Alarm prickled at the back of your neck. You needed him to come back to you, to breathe, to move, to thaw out before he became solid ice.

You leaned closer, gently but firmly capturing his wrists in your hands. Your fingers curled around the tense line of his forearms. His skin was clammy under your touch, his pulse erratic just beneath the surface. You drew his arms down, guiding them from where they hovered and settling them across his lap. 

"You’re not in trouble," you repeated, slowly and carefully. "Nothing bad is happening. Steve just walked in at the wrong time. That’s all."

He made a broken sound in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut. His vibranium hand was twitching uncontrollably against your grip.

"You’re okay," you whispered. "Look around. We're still here. No one's yelling. No one's mad."

He shook his head again, tiny tremors wracking his whole body.

"You're not back there," you added quietly, knowing exactly where his mind wanted to go. "You're Bucky Barnes. You’re safe. You’re home."

The words seemed to reach some small part of him. His breathing was still ragged, but he cracked his eyes open, glassy and rimmed red.

"There he is," you murmured, giving his wrists a soft squeeze. "Hi. Still with me?"

He nodded shakily.

"Good," you praised, shifting your grip to run a hand slowly up his arm, grounding him. "Breathe with me, Buck. In through your nose... hold it... out through your mouth. Easy. Like we always do."

You exaggerated the breath yourself, making it big and obvious, hoping he'd mimic you. You tried not to let your mind flicker to how ridiculous the situation was, you half-naked, the remnants of arousal now a cold, wet patch in your underwear as you guided a super soldier through his panic attack. Was he in over his head? Were you in over your head? He had used the safe motion. Had you pushed him too far this time—? 

No. No, you had to remind yourself. It was all fine, all controlled and okay until Steve walked in. He was the unpredictable element. Each time you and Bucky had lessons, he was handing you a piece of himself, handing you all of his trust. He was vulnerable in these moments, entirely raw and exposed. And you hadn’t even taken a second to ensure the damn door was locked, too caught up in the moment, the thrill. Why had you done that? Why were you allowing yourself to be so easily swept away?

It took a few tries, several messy, half-choked inhalations, but finally, finally, he caught the rhythm. You sat there with him, counting out soft beats under your breath, refusing to let your thoughts drag you under.

When the worst of the tremors had faded, you eased back just a little. Bucky shook his head slightly, another ragged breath escaping him, but this time there was something like life in it. His hands were still shaking, but he wasn’t clawing at himself anymore.

"You're okay," you soothed. "We’re okay."

"I’m sorry," he croaked.

"You don’t have anything to be sorry for," you replied simply. "It’s not your fault. Steve should’ve knocked. If anything, I should be charging him rent for getting a free show."

That dragged a real, if frail, smile out of him.

You grinned back, pushing his sweaty hair off his forehead gently.

“Listen to me,” you leaned in closer. “Let me talk to him. I’ll get Steve to come back. We’ll clear it up, face it head-on. It’s only going to make it worse if we pretend it didn’t happen.”

His blue eyes met yours, unsure. The colour looked almost unnatural, too bright against the bloodshot whites. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Bucky,” you replied, voice firm with conviction. “You think I’d ever do something to hurt you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t speak, but you saw the tiny shift, his fists uncoiling, his breathing slowing, no longer tearing through him like it might rip him apart. You stood, tugging your crumpled dress back up to cover your chest again, hooking the thin straps over your shoulders.

Bucky stared down at his hands, gears in his vibranium arm whirring slightly, still sat among the dishevelled sheets. You knew he was overthinking, already surrendering to worry in those brief seconds. Against your better judgment, you reached out, cradling his head in your palm as you forced him to look up at you, shell-shocked and miserable. 

“I’ll be back," you promised. He blinked up at you, throat bobbing with a hard swallow, and you had to trust he believed you. You pressed a feather-light kiss to his temple, fingers dragging across his jaw as you pulled away. You could’ve sworn he tilted his head to follow you, chasing your touch as you marched towards the door. “And hey, atleast next time we’ll remember to lock the fucking door.”

You weren't sure if he replied or if he even heard you. Some part of you, the jaded, self-destructive thing that had learned it was safer to be alone, whispered that maybe there wouldn’t be a next time. And that perhaps it was for the better. You’d survived so far, tearing down anyone who got too close, keeping parts of you locked away in solitude for your protection…You crushed that thought before it could bloom any further and slipped barefoot into the hallway. Steve hadn’t made it far, and you caught him halfway to the elevators. 

"Steve! Steve, can we just talk?"

He didn't even turn around, just threw a hand up over his shoulder. "I don't think I want to know what I just walked in on—"

"Listen," you snapped, stepping sharply into his path before he could retreat any further down the hallway. He tried to sidestep you, but you mirrored him without hesitation, cutting him off cleanly. He shifted again, impatient, but you were faster, darting to block him completely. You planted yourself firmly in front of him and crossed your arms, chin lifted in a challenge. You were sure you looked a right state, hair messy, lips swollen, and the remnants of your makeup smudged. "He’s freaking out in there, okay? He thinks you’re mad at him. Please just come back and reassure him it’s fine—"

“Is it fine?” Steve cut in, slicing clean through your rambling. The edge in his voice made you falter, your brows knitting together in confusion. 

Was he… angry? 

Steve Rogers was ever the serious figure in the compound, tightly wound, controlled, the kind of man who dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’. But you’d never heard his voice drop in such a way before—low and tight, his jaw clenched and his posture stiff, as if he was stewing on something unspoken. 

“What?” You managed to stumble out.

Steve looked you up and down, unimpressed. His arms crossed over his own chest in a mirror of you, biceps bulging against the fabric of his sleeves. “What you’re doing. Is it really fine?”

You hesitated, thrown completely off-balance. This wasn’t anywhere on the radar of reactions you’d prepared for. You’d expected embarrassment, maybe a flustered apology, half-hearted but well-meaning. Perhaps even a flash of happiness, pride that Bucky was finally confident enough, safe enough, to take a step forward in his life. You’d braced for fist bumps, for some awkward bro code moment, whatever the hell men did. What you hadn’t prepared for—what hadn’t even occurred to you while you were coaxing Bucky through his panic—was that Steve’s anger wasn’t aimed at Bucky. It was aimed squarely at you.

Steve watched you expectantly, and all that tumbled out of your mouth was a bewildered, “I don’t understand?”

“Listen, I don’t think there is a polite way to put this…” Steve said, voice low, tight with restraint. His weight shifted forward like he was gearing up for a fight he didn’t want but felt he had to have. You braced yourself instinctively, steeling yourself with a deadly calm, ready for an outburst, accusation, or insult. But to your surprise, when he spoke again, it wasn’t anger that flooded out. 

It was fear. 

Fear that you had no problem deducing came from a desire to protect Bucky, not just from H.Y.D.R.A., any other foe or the world as a whole, but to protect him from you. 

“He’s vulnerable. If this goes south, it could break him.”

“You don’t think I know that?” you shot back, sharper than you intended.

Steve’s eyes flickered with surprise, but from the way he was gritting his teeth, it didn’t take a genius to tell he disapproved. He took a slow breath, like he was trying to hold back everything he wanted to say but couldn’t.

“Just—” His voice cracked slightly. He ran a hand down his face, visibly struggling. “I need you to understand. Ever since we got him back, I see pieces of him. Fragments of the man I used to know.” 

He paused as he motioned vaguely into the air, as if he was trying to stop the floodgate of words spilling from his lips.

“And it kills me, it kills me every day, knowing we’ll never get all of him back. That parts of my best friend are just… lost forever. I don't know what H.Y.D.R.A. took from him—hell, maybe none of us ever will—but what I do know is that he’s hanging on by threads. Whatever you’re doing with him is a bad idea.”

He swallowed thickly, his eyes flashing with something dangerously close to desperation. “It won’t just hurt him. It'll undo him. And I can't…I won’t let that happen. I won’t let you play with his emotions like that. I don’t want you damaging him any further than he already is—-”

Any sympathy you felt for Steve quickly drained as you felt heat rising up your neck, and before you could stop yourself, you snarled, “I’m not damaging him—”

You knew this look. 

The thinly veiled judgment behind it. 

It had followed you like a shadow from the moment you were freed from Dreykov’s clutches. You weren’t oblivious to the way people glanced at you when they thought you weren’t looking, the way prejudice soured even their best intentions. You were not naïve. You were not feeble enough to stand there and be quietly condemned.

“Are you sure?” Steve cut back, ignorant of the frustration now festering in your gut. “He’s not ready for whatever you’re pushing onto him—”

You pinched the bridge of your nose as you struggled to hold onto your temper, but it was slipping through your fingers fast. You could see it in the stubborn line of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes.

“I’m not pushing anything onto him!”

You took a hard step forward. The movement made Steve tense, like he half-expected you to swing at him, but you didn’t. You just stood your ground, daring him to keep going, daring him to say something worse.

“I think this attitude is part of the problem, Rogers," you bit out. "How is he supposed to overcome anything, experience anything if you baby him? If you cut him off before he has the chance to grow? I’m not hurting him, I’m just helping him.”

Steve opened his mouth like he had a retort ready, but whatever words he had dried up halfway to his tongue. His hands, balled into fists at his sides, finally sagged open in helplessness. His whole stance wilted slightly, shoulders bowing under the weight of doubt.

“I don’t know...” he muttered, the words dragged from him reluctantly, like they tasted sour in his mouth.

You didn’t give him a chance to wallow. The anger was already riding too hot in your blood, crackling in your chest.

“He consents. Every time. I check with him every time.” You hissed. “Because I know how important that is to him, because it’s important to me too, but that’s a topic none of you will ever address, is it?”

Steve stared at you, breathing heavily through his nose, his chest rising and falling like a man trying desperately to hold onto his last thread of composure as you continued your rant. “We never go past his comfort zone. I never pressure him. I never trick him. I respect him. Why would you even think that?”

His mouth contorted into a scowl before he finally answered, “because I don’t know you.”

You recoiled a fraction, brow lifting in disbelief. You could’ve sworn there was a flicker of recognition in his gaze, like he was watching something familiar but hadn’t quite put the pieces together yet. You stared back at him, heat flushing your face, and when you finally found your voice, it came out quieter, but no less biting.

“No, you don’t,” you spat, the words ripping from your throat. “I know I never put the effort in, but you can’t say you ever tried either.”

The hallway fell into a suffocating silence. The kind that rang in your ears. The kind where neither of you wanted to be the first to speak, where the air between you burned with the things you couldn’t unsay now. Steve’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, his eyes flashing with a storm of emotions he clearly didn’t trust himself to voice. He finally just looked away, the tension radiating off him like static.

It would have been so easy to leave it like that, to turn your back and let Steve stew in his distrust. But that wouldn’t help Bucky. And he was the only thing that mattered right now.

So you spoke up, catching the thinnest, fraying thread of truce before it would fade entirely.

“Look, I don’t care what you think of me," you tried to calm your voice, keeping your tone neutral despite the fire licking up your spine. "I don’t care if you even like me to be honest, but what I do care about is that if you say you’re his friend, if you say it’s your job to look after him, then I need you to go back there and reassure him before he spirals.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. A rare, raw show of uncertainty from Captain America himself, usually so sure of himself and his actions. “You’re... you’re probably right.”

Before he could hesitate, before he could get cold feet, you reached out and grabbed his arm. His muscles went tense under your grip, but you didn’t let that deter you. You pointed a finger at him, close enough that he had no choice but to meet your glare head-on.

“Don’t treat me like the villain because I care.”

Steve gave one stiff nod, but he said nothing. You stared at him a second longer, making sure it stuck, before you finally released him with a shove of your hand.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and stalked back down the hall. You didn’t look back to see if Steve was following.

You didn’t need to.

His footsteps, reluctant but steady, fell into place behind you.

The silence prickled along your skin as you navigated quickly back to Bucky’s apartment. His anxious face plagued your mind, the way his breathing had turned shallow and scared, like a caged animal. 

The door to Bucky’s apartment was still ajar, just a crack, like he'd been too afraid to close it. Or maybe he hadn’t even noticed it was open at all.

You pushed gently at the handle and stepped inside.

Bucky was still sitting on the edge of the mattress, hunched forward, elbows digging into his knees, hair half-clinging to the sweat still damp on his temples. His shirt was still wrinkled from earlier, his vibranium hand flexing unconsciously, twitching in small stutters as though trying to grasp at something he couldn’t hold.

His eyes lifted the moment he heard the door creak, wild, wide with nerves, and then they landed on Steve.

“Hey Buck…” Steve started, voice soft.

“Steve, I can explain—“ Bucky’s words spilt out in a tangle of panic, but Steve raised a hand, halting him.

“It’s alright,” Steve said quickly, the kind of quick that begged not to make it worse. His eyes scanned the room like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. “I’m not mad. I just… didn’t expect it.”

He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, giving a weak, crooked sort of smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “So, uhh… how long has this been happening?”

“Since the gala,” Bucky muttered.

“The gala?” Steve echoed, blinking. “You two really hit it off then, huh?”

You resisted the urge to groan. There was a pause, awkward and brittle.

“So are you like dating or—”

“No—” You and Bucky answered in perfect, rapid unison.

Maybe too fast.

The silence that followed was deafening. Steve raised both brows, then glanced between the two of you slowly, clearly re-evaluating everything. Bucky shifted uncomfortably, rubbing at his jaw while you picked hard at the raw skin around your nails. 

“Alright,” Steve said after a moment, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m not judging. I’m just trying to understand. It’s a whole new century, Buck. I guess we gotta adapt to the times.”

He was trying, that much was clear. His voice gentle, his posture no longer combative, though the tension in his shoulders hadn’t quite let up. It was the kind of compromise only a man like Steve Rogers could offer—discomfort wrapped in compassion.

You opened your mouth, the words slow to form on your tongue. “We’ve just been… I’ve just been…”

You hesitated. Your eyes flicked to Bucky, trying to read him, trying to decide whether he wanted this out in the open, whether he’d say anything at all. But his body locked up like it expected pain, arms folded, metal fingers curled tight. His expression was a mix of shame and fear.

He looked like a man staring down a loaded barrel.

“We’ve just been fooling around,” he cut in, voice flat and even. “Nothing serious.”

Nothing serious.

You tried not to flinch, tried not to let the words sting like salt in an open wound, nor assess why you felt that way. You didn’t understand why it hurt so much, considering you had repeated those same words to Natasha not long ago. He wasn’t lying. What he said was true, even if he carefully sidestepped the messy reality of the lessons. That was a whole other rabbit hole Bucky clearly wasn’t ready to admit to Steve. Maybe not even to himself.

Still, you forced yourself to nod along, pretending the hollow feeling in your chest wasn’t there. Pretending you hadn’t gotten a little too attached to this— to the lessons, to the quiet understanding, to the broken man sitting right in front of you.

Steve’s gaze shifted between the two of you, his mouth tightening. He didn’t press, but the flicker in his eyes said enough. He noticed something, but he just wasn’t brave enough to acknowledge it.

“Alright, I believe you,” Steve said carefully. “You told anyone about this?”

“Just you,” Bucky muttered, still refusing to meet his friend's eye.

You shifted your weight, the guilt gnawing at you sharp and immediate. You forced a breath through your nose, nails digging into the tender skin around your thumb. Neither super soldier seemed to notice the way your jaw tightened, or how the metallic taste of iron bloomed across your tongue from how hard you bit down.

You couldn’t keep lying. Not now. Not after everything you had just preached about trust and care, not if you wanted Bucky to keep believing in you. You had to tell him. In the spirit of being truthful, you would tell him. You had to own up to the fact that you had foolishly confided in Natasha, that you had allowed her to get under your skin, left yourself vulnerable in a way that could very well undo everything you had built together.

The word caught your throat on its way out.

“Well...” you interrupted, voice soft, bracing yourself.

Both men turned to you, and you already regretted your decision. Steve straightened subtly, his arms crossing over his chest as he glanced between you and Bucky with wary eyes, as if already preparing himself to referee whatever was about to happen. But it was Bucky’s reaction that truly cut, his whole body going rigid where he sat, muscles locking beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. His brow furrowed, deep lines creasing his forehead as he stared at you with a mixture of confusion and something rawer, something alarmingly close to hurt.

“You told someone?” he questioned, voice tight.

“No, it’s just... Nat,” you admitted, the words spilling too fast, too desperate to soften the blow.

Bucky's face twisted. “You told Natasha?”

“No! She, uh, kinda pieced it together?” You fumbled over your words, blindly and furiously picking at your nails.

“What?” 

“Look, you’re not exactly subtle,” you rushed to explain, feeling Steve shift awkwardly at your side as the conversation nosedived. “I was going to talk to you about it first, but then she cornered me, and I didn’t know what to say—”

“When?” Bucky cut in, voice rising. “When were you going to talk to me about it?”

“I don’t know!” you burst out, exasperated with yourself more than him. “I was trying to figure out how to bring it up—”

“You lied to me.”

“No, I was just—” you tried, stepping forward instinctively, but the look he gave you rooted you to the spot.

“I asked you if you had said anything to Natasha or Yelena,” Bucky interrupted, voice low and wounded, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “And you said no.”

“It just didn’t feel like the right time—” you mumbled weakly,

Bucky rolled his eyes, a sharp, bitter sound escaping him. He looked past you, to Steve, as if hoping for some escape.

“So Natasha knows,” he muttered darkly. “And then we can assume Yelena probably knows as well—”

“Nat wouldn’t say anything—”

Bucky’s laugh was hollow, almost humourless. “Do you know that? For sure?”

“Why are you so worried—”

“Because I don’t want people to know!” he snapped, voice cutting sharper than you thought he could bear to be with you. “Are you not embarrassed?”

You recoiled in shock.

Steve exhaled a breath that came out sounding suspiciously like a curse, entirely unexpected and out of character for the golden super soldier.

“Why would I be embarrassed?” you asked, voice steady despite the way your chest ached.

Bucky opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His eyes darted away, landing on the sheets crumpled around him like they held some escape, some answer. His whole posture shrank inward, collapsing in on himself.

You didn’t let it go. You couldn’t.

“Why would I be embarrassed?” you repeated, louder this time, forcing the question into the space between you.

Bucky still wouldn’t look at you. His shoulders hunched, head bowed. Scolded dog—but for once, you didn’t find it cute. 

“Are you embarrassed by me, Bucky?” you asked directly. 

“No,” Bucky said immediately, shaking his head. “No. That’s not what I meant—”

“It sure sounded like it,” you scoffed. 

The silence that settled over the room was uncomfortable enough to make Steve squirm, the blond opened his mouth to try to smooth over the situation. You stopped him before his tongue could even form a syllable, holding up one finger as you stared across at Bucky. He blinked up at you with an expression cut somewhere between guilt and horror as he realised there was no coming back from what he had just implied. The insult had hit, the damage done, and all that was left was a chasm between you. 

“I should go,” you said at last, voice clipped.

“Now, hold on—” Steve interrupted, stepping forward slightly. 

“No, it’s fine," you cut him off, shaking your head. "You two should talk alone anyway."

Bucky's head jerked up slightly at your words, expression stricken. He didn’t move from where he sat, just watched silently as you crossed the room with stiff, deliberate motions. He didn’t stop you as you gathered your bra from the floor, nor when you collected your coat and shoes from where they had been haphazardly tossed.

At the door, you paused, squaring your shoulders before gesturing vaguely between them with a small, almost pitying smile. Your eyes locked onto Bucky’s, not angry, not scolding, just exhausted.

“Remember, in and out. Use your words. Talk to him, sort it out.” you reminded him, voice gentle but unwavering. “You’re on your own now.”

“Wait—” Bucky reached out instinctively, voice cracking under the strain, but it was too late.

You snapped the door shut behind you, cutting off whatever apology or excuse he might have tried to offer.

—

You’re on your own now.

The words had echoed through your mind like a curse, looping over and over.

They whispered back every time your phone lit up. They rang louder when Natasha tried to corner you with soft girl-talk after long missions or training sessions. They surged again whenever Steve hovered too close after briefings, or loomed beside the coffee machine like he was waiting for the perfect opportunity to get you alone.

You’re on your own now.

You were beginning to think those words weren’t for Bucky but for yourself.

It was your mess—a slow-burning wreck of your own making. Bucky had reached out in the aftermath, trying to bridge the silence with texts asking to talk, explain, and understand. You’d read them, every one, then locked your phone and buried it like that would bury the damage too. You were too exhausted. Too goddamn ashamed of how much you’d let him in.

You’d broken your own rules and now, predictably, you were bleeding for it.

Two weeks later, you were doing better, or at least performing the illusion well enough that no one dared question it. You’d buried yourself in work with single-minded fervour. What started as six-hour recon missions inside Karpin’s club had stretched to eight, then twelve. You hadn’t missed a shift or turned in a report that wasn’t pristine, timestamped, and drowning in intel. You were producing results so efficiently that it bordered on obsessive. Another compromise, another calculated smile, another night letting your soul rot beneath the thump of bass and leering stares in the club’s smoke-slicked VIP rooms. Progress came steep and you were the currency.

The black dress you wore clung like regret, stitched tight across your thighs and chest, sweat seeping through the synthetic fabric. Glitter clung to your skin like a rash, and your heels had carved angry grooves into the backs of your feet. The thick eye makeup you’d smeared on hours ago had begun to crumble in the corners, leaving your reflection a cracked porcelain doll in the glass door you passed. But none of that mattered. You just wanted to make it to your apartment, scrape yourself clean, and pretend, if only for a few hours, that you hadn’t given up everything just to feel nothing.

You slapped the final handwritten debrief into the data analyst’s hands, your signature barely legible. 

Another mission done, but you had the sinking feeling your day was far from over, mainly because Steve was standing by the elevators with a little too much casual ease. The kind that wasn’t casual at all. He’d been lingering since you arrived to complete your debrief protocol, hovering just close enough to be noticed, but not close enough to call it out. Hands shoved in his pockets, one foot angled toward the hallway like he was trying to look like he had somewhere else to be, even though he didn’t. He was waiting, watching, hoping to intercept.

You knew better than to take the elevator. Not just because it was a coffin on cables, but because he would follow. You could already picture it, his voice low in some lame attempt not to spook you, trying to reason with you, explain himself, maybe even apologise. You didn’t want it. You didn’t want any of it. Not his concern, not his guilt, not whatever sense of responsibility he’d suddenly found like loose change in his pocket. He’d said his piece two weeks ago—said you weren’t good for Bucky. So what was this? Regret? Or worse, another excuse to tear into you?

You ducked your head, ignoring the burning ache in your heels, and made a sharp turn toward the stairwell.

“Hey,” came Natasha’s voice, too light, too amused.

You didn’t stop walking. What was this? Some kind of coordinated attack? 

“Trouble in paradise?” she added, like this was a game. Like any of this was remotely fucking funny.

“Jesus, give it a break.”

“Not when you keep moping around like you’ve had your heart broken—”

“My heart isn’t broken—” you snapped without turning, pace only quickening.

“Look. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t realise things were so serious between you and Barnes. Let’s just talk about it—”

You stopped at the stairwell door, hand on the bar. Your spine went rigid, and you turned slowly, fixing her with a scathing look that could've flayed skin. She faltered under the heat of it.

“Oh, fuck off, Nat.”

Her smirk dropped. And just like that, you shoved the door open and disappeared into the stairwell.

Two weeks of silence, two weeks of pretending, two weeks of giving everything you had to missions because it was easier than sitting still. Easier than thinking about how much you’d given away and how little you had left.

You should’ve talked to him. Should’ve answered. Should’ve tried.

But you hadn’t. You hadn’t had the strength, or maybe just hadn’t wanted to be vulnerable one second longer than necessary. Because once you were vulnerable, once you opened that door, you couldn't un-feel what was felt. You couldn’t un-know the way he looked at you. 

You hit the fifth landing when it happened, and your heel caught.

A sickening skritch, and your ankle jolted back, yanked by the spike of your stupid, overpriced, Stark donated shoe catching in one of the grid holes in the grated metal step. You cursed, gripping the railing, yanking once, twice—harder.

It wouldn’t budge.

A breath shuddered out of you. Your hands trembled as you crouched down, fingers scrabbling to free it. The heel was wedged deep in the hole, warped just enough that it wouldn’t twist loose. You gritted your teeth, tugging again. Nothing.

The pressure inside you, simmering, festering, unspoken for days, snapped like a wire. You stood abruptly and kicked your other shoe off with a grunt, the heel clattering against the wall with a hollow thud. Then you grabbed the stuck one with both hands, tore it loose, and flung it with everything you had.

The shoe hit the concrete wall with a loud crack, then fell limp to the landing.

You let out a dry, broken sound—half laugh, half sob—and dropped to sit on the step, barefoot, legs shaking. No tears came, but the pressure behind your eyes stung. You pressed the heels of your palms hard into your face, breathing ragged through clenched teeth.

You’re on your own now.

—

The shower hadn’t helped.

You’d stood under the stream far too long, letting the water scald down your shoulders and rinse away the tension, the sweat, the last remnants of Karpin’s perfumed hell. Now, dressed in an old t-shirt and soft shorts, you stood at the foot of your bed. The sheets were untouched, cool and smoothed from disuse, undisturbed like a hotel room no one had ever checked into. You blinked at them like they might blink back.

You hadn’t been sleeping well. Not for weeks. Then again, sleep had never come easily. Most nights, you crashed on the couch, half-dressed, half-conscious, the TV humming in the background. There was something final about beds, something about the unspoken history soaked into the mattress and pillows. 

With a small, habitual sigh, you pulled back the covers and slid beneath them, curling slightly onto your side, picking absently at the skin around your thumbnail. You winced when your nail caught a sore patch, your skin already raw and torn, but didn’t stop until the sting sharpened.

You reached for your phone, trying to distract your nervous hands. The light burned your eyes, too bright in the dark room, but you navigated by muscle memory. Messages. His name. Your thumb hovered, heart slowing as the thread opened.

The last ones sat like ghosts, pale and greyed, still waiting for a reply.

Just talk to me.

Please?

I’m sorry.

I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it like that.

Can we please talk?

You stared at them, lips parting slightly. That sick little ache twisted low in your ribs. You scrolled past, skimming quickly until the tone shifted, until the anger and desperation faded into something older. 

Are you still awake?

Come over?

Can’t sleep.

Still can’t sleep.

I made tea. It’s too strong. You’ll hate it. Come fix it?

You could almost hear his voice, tired, soft, and just a little grumpy, the way it got when it was too late and he didn’t want to be alone but didn’t know how to say it.

You scrolled further, reading the back-and-forth, the playful jabs, the dry jokes, the quiet check-ins he always offered at the end of your missions, even when he already knew the details. You closed your eyes and saw it clearly, his apartment cast in low, amber light, the muted hum of the fridge, the TV murmuring. His arm would hang lazily over the back of the couch, like he wasn’t obviously waiting for you. 

You could picture how his lips would twitch into a grin when you finally walked through the door. The quiet press of his hand against the small of your back as he led you past the threshold. How he had grown more confident with each night, how he laughed now, full and unguarded, at the sarcasm that used to make him flinch. How he looked when he was unravelled beneath you, breathless, red-cheeked, eyes blown wide.

You didn’t know when your hand had slipped beneath the sheets.

But now it was there, curled between your thighs, brushing past the waistband of your shorts as memory and longing swelled in your chest like a bruise. His voice in your ear, the way he would shiver when you whispered to him. The little whines he tried to swallow down.

Your fingers found slick heat, and your breath hitched as you brushed against your clit, circling slowly, gently. You kept your eyes closed. It was easier that way. Easier to summon the image of him pressing kisses to your sternum, the chill of his vibranium palm cupping your breast, thumb skimming over your nipple. You could almost feel it.

A soft moan escaped your throat as your fingers dipped lower, working in a rhythm that was steady but hollow, a poor mimicry of what you really wanted. Still, you chased it—chased him—through every flicker of heat and memory.

You ground the heel of your palm against your clit and gasped into the pillow, hips twitching upward. 

“Bucky—”

His name slipped from your lips, barely a breath.

And everything stopped.

You froze. Fingers stilled. You sat up sharply, yanking your hand away like it burned, chest rising and falling beneath the old cotton of your shirt. You would’ve thrown your own damn traitorous hand across the room if it wasn’t attached to your wrist.

You stared into the dark, lips parted, throat tight, wondering how the hell you’d ended up here, half undone in an empty bed, chasing a ghost who hadn’t spoken to you in weeks.

—

You stepped into the gym, the doors swinging shut behind you with a dull thud. The air greeted you like a punch to the lungs, rubber mats, dried sweat, and stale air conditioning. Your routine had become muscle memory by this point. Drop the bag by the bench. Roll your shoulders. Stretch until your bones stop screaming. Pretend everything is fine.

Except it wasn’t.

You blinked against the harsh fluorescents, scanning the space. No flash of red hair. No high blonde ponytail bobbing by the punching bags. No snide commentary lobbed across the sparring ring. Just quiet. Not peace, it was never peaceful, but that suffocating kind of silence that settled just before the ground gave out.

And then it did in the shape of Steve Rogers.

“They got pulled last night,” he said, emerging from the weight racks where he and Sam had been mid-stretch. “Mission came in late. Left before sunrise.”

You nodded once, jaw tight, masking the drop in your stomach. Of course they did. Of course, they left. Probably Nat punishing you for being a bitch to her by the stairwell.

Steve offered a vague, practised smile, too quick, too knowing. “But don’t worry. We’re subbing in.”

Your gaze flicked to Sam, who gave you a friendly wave. Then to Bucky, who was hunched over, lacing up his boots with a quiet intensity that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else. His eyes caught yours for only a second, just enough for you to register the damage. He looked as wrecked as you felt. Pale, bruised beneath the eyes, mouth tight. He hadn’t slept properly in days. Favouring his right side again, you could see the subtle strain as he stood up, rolling his shoulders in faux nonchalance. 

You hesitated. “You’re... stepping in?”

Steve shrugged. “We usually run around this time anyway. Figured we’d help cover.”

You glanced back toward the exit. The door was still there. Still functional. Escape was still an option, and you were a pretty good liar when you wanted to be. But selfishness was a slippery thing, and you didn’t move.

So you nodded, slow and controlled. “Right. Okay.”

You dropped down into a lunge, one knee kissing the mat, the other bent clean above your ankle. You held it steady, focusing on your breathing as your muscles slowly stretched awake. 

Steve crossed his arms over his chest, using that easy posture he adopted when he wanted to appear relaxed. It only made you suspicious.

“What do you three usually run on Mondays?”

You shifted into a hamstring stretch, straightening your front leg and folding over it with practised ease. “Sparring,” you said, voice calm despite the tightness in your shoulders. “Nat’s idea. She says it sets the tone for the rest of the week.”

Steve gave a small smile. “Great. You’ll go with Bucky.”

You stilled mid-fold, hands hovering above your shin. The mat felt suddenly unstable beneath you.

Lifting your gaze slowly, you tried not to flinch visibly. “Is that… necessary?”

Steve tilted his head. “Why? Is there a problem?”

Sam raised a brow but said nothing, sensing the tension but clearly not sure what to make of it. You sat back on your heels, drawing your arms overhead in a stretch you didn’t need, using movement to mask your hesitation.

“No,” you said evenly, rising to your feet. “No problem.”

Across the room, Bucky had stilled, his jaw locked tight, a muscle ticking as he shot Steve a single, withering glance. He didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. The reluctance in his movements said enough as he pushed up from the bench, slow and stiff, like gravity was suddenly working against him.

This wasn’t training. This was theatre. A stage set under fluorescent lights and recycled air. And Steve? Still over by the weights with Sam, pretending to be engaged in some idle conversation? Their voices were hushed, but their eyes flicked over too often, too deliberately? This had been arranged, choreographed behind your back like some well-meaning intervention. You wondered who else knew, who had caught wind. Had Sam pieced it together? Had Yelena? Was this their way of ‘helping’?

Bucky stepped into place across from you, feet shoulder-width apart, arms loose at his sides. He shifted, rolling his shoulders in a slow motion. The right still caught slightly. He still hadn’t gone to physio, that was clear. Stubborn as ever. Just one more thing for you to worry over.

“Ready?” he asked at last. His voice was dry, flat. 

You swallowed the knot in your throat and gave a curt nod. “Yeah.”

The first few rounds were predictable. You struck low, swept a leg, and knocked him off balance. He grunted, hit the mat, and bounced back up without a word. Then it was your turn. He twisted past your arm, hooked your leg behind his, and took you down in one smooth motion. You landed hard, breath puffing out of your lungs in a curse.

The fourth time you clashed, your forearms locked, both of you panting, he finally spoke.

“You always fight this sloppy when you're pissed off?” he muttered.

You bared your teeth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He pushed off with a sharp motion, shoving you back with more force than necessary. You staggered but caught yourself.

“You said we were done,” Bucky said, jaw clenched, circling you again. “Figured that meant you wouldn’t be sneaking glances at me every five seconds.”

A guttural laugh left your lips as you stepped in, aimed low and fast, but he blocked you easily. “I’m sorry, are you embarrassed, Barnes? Must be so embarrassing for you to have someone like me near you—”

“Don’t say that,” he snapped.

You hesitated just a second too long, and he used it, sweeping in, gripping your arm, twisting you toward the floor. But instead of letting the momentum carry, you pivoted mid-fall and slammed your elbow into his side, dragging him down with you. You both hit the mat in a tangle, limbs locked, breath heavy. Your chest pressed to his. His fingers curled tightly around your wrist. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm.

You shoved off him roughly and stood, pacing back toward the centre, sweat prickling down your spine, adrenaline and something uglier twisting in your gut.

“You really wanna do this?” you said, voice hoarse.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flashing. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Your blood roared. 

Steve called out from the other side of the gym, something about keeping it light.

But it was too late.

You charged again.

No more feints. No more dancing around it. You drove into him with a fury you hadn’t realised had been coiled so tightly in your chest. Bucky blocked, returned, shoved—your bodies collided again and again, a flurry of jabs, kicks, twists, and takedowns. Your knuckles ached from where they connected with his forearms, your legs trembled from exertion. Neither of you held back anymore. This was the type of sparring that Nat was desperate to get out of you, messy, dirty plays that she praised.

He got a hit in against your ribs. You grunted and retaliated with a kick that swept his leg, sending him crashing to the mat. He growled, rolled, pulled you down with him, and suddenly you were grappling, arms locking, muscles burning.

Then he flipped you.

You hit the mat hard. Your breath left you in an abrupt wheeze.

His weight came down over you, solid, full-body pressure, his knee between your thighs to brace, his forearm across your collarbone pinning your shoulder. His hand gripped your wrist, and your other hand was caught somewhere beneath your own hip. The mat pressed into your spine. His face loomed above yours, his jaw clenched tight, and his breath fast and uneven.

You struggled.

At first, it was instinctual. A jerk of the hips. A twist of the arm. Trying to buck him off like you always had before. The sparring was routine, muscle memory, a thing you’d done with a dozen people a hundred times. But Bucky was heavier than you remembered. Stronger. His grip was too tight, his weight too much. Maybe you’d never quite realised how gentle he had been with you before, how soft and malleable he made himself when both of you were in bed.

Something primal and old stirred in the pit of your stomach. 

Your limbs started to go rigid. Your throat tightened. You blinked, but the edges of your vision were already going dark, tunnelling inward, compressing the world into a narrow box with no air. His weight pressed down on your hips, his knee solid between your thighs, your shoulders pinned in place. You couldn’t breathe. You tried sharp, gasping inhales, but it wasn’t working. The more you pulled in, the more the air seemed to thin.

Your body twitched beneath him, useless, trapped, every muscle locking up. You felt yourself whimper, but it barely escaped your throat. You bit down hard on your lip to stop it from turning into something worse.

You tried to scream, to yell his name—Bucky, stop, stop—but no words came out. Just pressure and panic and the unbearable rush of tears behind your eyes. They brimmed but didn’t fall. You refused to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

He didn’t move. Didn’t notice. He thought it was part of the fight. He thought you were still in it.

You tried to suck in a breath and choked on it.

You lifted your hand, every motion sluggish and jerky, and tapped three times on his forearm. 

Bucky froze.

His entire body went still like someone had hit a kill switch. The pressure lifted instantly as he pushed himself off, retreating back on his knees. His face was alarmed, eyes wide and scanning.

You sat up slowly, not looking at him, not looking at anything. Your hands were flat against the mat, supporting your shaking frame. Your lungs worked overtime, trying to stabilise, trying to ground yourself. Your face flushed hot, not just from exertion but also from shame.

“Hey…” Bucky reached a hand toward you, but you cowered before he could touch you.

You forced yourself to your feet, knees stiff, stars swimming across your vision. 

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just knelt there on the mat, his eyes locked on you, searching your face like he was trying to read between the lines, like the truth might be scrawled somewhere in the way your mouth trembled or how you blindly picked at your nails.

His expression had dropped into something taut and drawn, like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. His brain catching up with what the tap meant—what it truly meant.

“Shit,” he breathed.“I didn’t know. I—I didn’t see it.”

He looked like he might be sick. Like he wanted to reach for you but knew he couldn’t. Knew he shouldn’t. His weight shifted, knee lifting like he was going to get up, close the space between you, but you took half a step back before he could. That was enough. He stayed where he was.

You hated how badly you wanted to fall into him.

Your whole body screamed for it, for safety, for the press of arms you trusted around you, for the warmth of him. For the feeling of a steady heart under your cheek, a voice in your ear telling you you were okay, you were here, it was over.

But you didn’t move. You locked your arms around your middle instead. Drew in a breath so deep it scraped your ribs raw and shoved everything down.

Still, your eyes lingered on him for a beat too long. On his worry. His guilt. His panic. He had remembered. He had known what the signal meant, even after all this time, hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned it and hadn’t made you explain.

And that—that meant something.

Slowly, with herculean effort, you rolled your shoulders back and let your face go blank as Steve and Sam approached. 

“What are you two doing?” Steve asked, brows drawn together. He didn’t sound accusatory, just cautious, like he was testing the temperature of a room already on fire. “I told you to spar, not kill each other—”

“I—” Bucky started, lifting his hands slightly, almost in surrender. His voice was steady, but there was a slight tremor beneath it. You heard it. He was trying to smooth it over, or maybe like the words had just slipped from that place inside him that wasn’t guarded. He ignored Steve, eyes firmly locked onto you. “You alright, doll?” 

He said it with such casualness. Casualness that indicated he didn't realise what had just slipped past his lips. It was instinct, probably. 

Still, it hit you like a slap.

You didn’t even get the chance to level him with a look of ‘well-you’ve-gone-and-done-it-now’ before Sam’s head whipped around, armed with an expression somewhere between bewilderment and horror.

“What did you just call her?” 

Bucky said nothing. His lips pressed into a thin line, and you swore you saw the slightest tinge of red creep up his neck. Steve exhaled through his nose, loud and irritated, dragging a hand down his face like he was already regretting whatever scheme he had been plotting. Whatever it had been, it was clear to you that Sam hadn’t been brought up to speed. 

“I’m fine,” you said, too quickly. 

You didn’t look at anyone, just grabbed your bag from the bench and turned, heading for the locker room without a word.

Behind you, silence lingered on the mat.

—

Tony’s penthouse glittered like a scene from a luxury magazine shoot, all sleek lighting, glass walls, and a sky full of stars pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Music thumped low and rich through the space, some jazzy, remixed classic that Tony swore gave the night ‘class’. Outside, New York burned electric, skyscrapers blinking like a million eyes. Inside, the air reeked of expensive cologne, champagne, and politics.

You stood by the bar, posture poised, gown clinging perfectly in all the ways it was meant to. The colour was deep and dark, with a silky fabric cascading down your body like liquid shadow, explicitly chosen to flatter, distract, and hide. Your hair was swept into a neat updo, not a strand out of place. Lipstick matched the shade of your nails, the polish partly to distract from the skin you had picked raw. Sleek, practised, controlled. You looked the part.

God, you hated looking the part.

But the board had insisted. Visibility. Cohesion. Unity. The Avengers, Agents, Consultants, Freelance, everybody needed to be seen tonight, in public, together, smiling. To show the sponsors, the donors, the shareholders or whoever the fuck had power that everything was fine. That the world was still being held together by its favourite, dysfunctional little family.

You sipped your drink and nodded when someone from marketing passed by and forced a tight-lipped smile when a UN delegate’s assistant asked for a photo—laughed, genuinely for a moment, when Yelena shoved a canapé into Kate’s mouth mid-sentence and nearly made her choke.

Thor had clearly been overindulging in full Asgardian regalia and a black bowtie hanging comically loose around his thick neck. He was halfway through recounting an epic battle tale to a group of mortified interns, sloshing golden liquid onto the white rug as he gestured too grandly, his booming laugh echoing off the glass.

You laughed with him. Or, rather, around him.

You weren’t drunk, hadn’t dared allow it. The buzz you wore tonight came from anxiety. You had perfected the art of looking like you were fine. Fine in heels. Fine in silence. Fine in a room full of people where the one person you couldn't stop thinking about was also pretending he was fine.

You were on your millionth fake laugh when Steve stepped up beside you.

“I come in peace,” he said quickly, hands raised, like he expected you to throw a punch.

You shot him a flat look and started to turn away. “Whatever it is, Rogers, I’m not in the mood—”

“Hey—” he cut in gently, lowering his voice. “Nat was looking for you. Said she wanted to talk. Something important. She’s out on the balcony.”

That made you pause.

You glanced at him, reading his expression, trying to discern if there was more to it. But Steve had always been a terrible liar. This wasn’t his idea. There was definitely something sketchy about it…but you’d bite.

“…Fine,” you muttered, setting your glass on the bar. “Thanks.”

You peeled yourself from the crowd's edge, careful not to make eye contact with anyone too important or drunk. The floor beneath you pulsed faintly with the bass of the music, the champagne-fueled laughter, the click of heels and the hum of fake conversation. 

Out of habit, your eyes scanned the room for him. You didn’t even mean to. It was muscle memory by now. A flicker of dark hair. Broad shoulders. The kind of presence that stood out, even when he was trying not to. But you didn’t see him.

Maybe he left. Perhaps he found a corner to vanish into, away from all this noise.

You dodged a passing executive with a knowing smile and a polite excuse, dipped past a photographer angling for candids, and spun gracefully on your heel to avoid getting cornered by a senator’s wife with a diamond necklace and a mile-long list of questions.

Finally, you reached the balcony doors and slipped through them.

The cool air of the balcony kissed your bare shoulders the moment the sliding door clicked shut behind you. You exhaled. Finally, quiet.

Except—

He was there.

Leaning on the glass railing, gazing out over the city, hands braced as if the skyline could offer answers.

He didn’t turn at first. Just stood there, tall and tense, framed by the hum of the city lights below. His suit fit too well, with sharp lines and immaculate tailoring, the black lapels catching faint glints of light. The tie was knotted tight against his throat like a collar, strangling something feral just beneath the surface, like dressing up a wild, wounded animal and calling it tame.

You knew how much he hated this, the attention, the stiffness, the shallow, gleaming pretence. He hated how the suits itched, how they never accommodated his arm, and how they made him feel on display. Something was jarring about seeing him like this. Clean-shaven, hair slicked back and perfectly parted. Like someone had tried to iron out all the edges and polish him into something smooth and forgettable, it didn’t work. It never did.

And then you saw it—the glove. Smooth black leather over his left hand. Hiding it.

Shame. Fear. Judgment. You knew what that glove meant, what it had always meant. Just another mask he was forced to hide behind, or maybe a mask he forced himself to hide behind. And even now, he felt ashamed among people who called him a hero, who toasted him with champagne and wanted him in photos. And maybe he was right to feel wary, not to get too comfortable around the puppeteers who pulled all the strings.

It broke your heart.

Your heels clicked softly across the balcony tile as you approached. Bucky turned at the sound, startled.

His eyes locked on yours.

You stopped a few paces away, your breath catching for just a second. His gaze darted to the door, then back to you.

“Let me guess,” you said dryly, arms folding over your chest, “Nat came to you and told you Steve was looking for you on the balcony?”

Bucky blinked. “How did you—?”

“Because Steve just came to me,” you said, arching a brow, “and told me Nat was looking for me on the balcony.”

He swore softly under his breath and looked away, exhaling like he’d been sucker-punched. The wind tugged at his jacket, and his hand ghosted near the balcony rail.

“I think we’ve been set up.” You hummed.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quickly, already stepping back. “I can go—”

“No, it’s okay.” You cut him off. “We should talk.”

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

[sunday-bug]

The Celibacy Challenge

Pairing: New Avenger!Bucky x New Avenger!Female!Reader

Word Count: 3k

18+ Minors DNI (NSFW)

Synopsis: You decide you want to try a celibacy challenge with your boyfriend, Bucky. Who caves first? The New Avengers place their bets.

A/N: Is this based off a challenge that I failed with my husband? Hehe. Also, shoutout to my girls for betting against me - @soelstress @buckybarnes82 @buckybarnesfic / yes, it was ME, you were right.

“Why though? I just don’t get it, honey,” Bucky sighs, shaking his head.

“It’s supposed to be a challenge, baby! It’ll be fun.” You’d just gotten through a poor explanation of a sex experiment you wanted to try with Bucky, and he was less than enthused.

You show him the article you have pulled up on your laptop - 30 Day Abstinence Challenge: A Battle of Wills - and smile. “It’s meant to be hard… no pun intended. And at the end when we can finally have at it, it’s apparently explosive.”

Bucky furrows his brow, clearly unimpressed with the idea, and lowers his voice, his expression growing more serious. “Is it not explosive enough for you?” He blushes, looking around the empty common room before he continues more quietly, “Because It is for me.” 

“Oh stop, it’s amazing, baby. You’re amazing. That’s not what I’m saying. Just try it with me? It’ll be good for us! And there’s this optional part that people add where they do yoga together at night. It’s supposed to help you relax and loosen your muscles.” You look up at him with a hopeful gaze, nearly begging.

He rolls his eyes. “I know how to help you relax and loosen you up already. We don’t need a sun salutation for that.” 

You cock your eyebrow at him. “Didn’t know you were a yoga man, Buck.” 

“I’ve dabbled… it was a long time ago - anyway, if you really want to try this, then I’ll do it with you.” 

“Yay!” You squeal. “Let’s start fresh tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? So are you saying… ?” Bucky winks at you.

“Yes, Sarge. Take me to bed.”

DAY ONE

Bucky walks into the kitchen the next morning to you and Yelena at the breakfast bar nursing two coffees. 

“So, yeah, it’s supposed to help you feel centered and then at the end, it’s apparently incredible.”

Bucky stops short and looks at you, “Really? You’re telling everyone about it?”

You shrug and smile, “I mean, yeah? Why not? It’s not like they don’t know we have sex, Buck. We’ve been dating for a while now.”

“Yeah, and we hear you sometimes. It will be nice to have silence for a month,” Yelena quips, sipping her coffee and eyeing Bucky.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair and preparing his own cup. “Fine.”

By the end of the day, everyone in the Watchtower knows about you and Bucky’s little challenge. John gave Bucky a nod and flexed his bicep as Bucky walked into the gym that afternoon - a silent show of support. Bucky sighed and popped his headphones in. As he’s doing squats, a large body appears behind him and waves in the mirror. Bucky grunts and hangs up the bar, taking out an earphone. 

“What do you want?” He asks gruffly.

“Winter Soldier… I hear it’s going to be dry month for you! No snow in forecast,” Alexei jokes, his face turning red from holding back laughter.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bucky groans, returning to his workout.

“You can do it. You are strong - resilient. You survive Hydra. You can survive no lovemaking for month, eh?” Alexei elbows Bucky in the ribs.

Bucky glares daggers at Alexei and he finally takes a hint, walking off.

Meanwhile, you are working out on the opposite end of the gym, chatting through your jog.

“You’ll do great,” Ava says, running on the treadmill next to you. “It’ll go by fast. Plus, if we get called to a mission, it’s not like you’ll have time anyway.”

“You’re right. Honestly, though, I just love the thought of making him squirm,” you tease.

“You would,” she laughs. “You guys are cute together.”

DAY TWO

After dinner you walk into the living room to find everyone crouched down around the coffee table. Bucky had gone out to get more snacks for your movie night. As soon as you walk into the room everyone stiffens and Bob swallows as his eyes dart back and forth between the coffee table and you.

“What’s going on, you guys?” You ask suspiciously, walking quickly to the table to find any evidence. John puts a small notebook with writing you can’t make out in his back pocket and Yelena scrapes some coins into her hand. “Oh, hi girl,” she says, an attempt at nonchalance. “What movie should we watch tonight?” 

You narrow your eyes at them all - your teammates, your friends - and cross your arms. “Bob, what’s going on?” 

“Uh,” he stammers, looking around at everyone. “We were, uh, just… uh, making a list of movies we haven’t seen yet.” 

“Really?” You ask, putting your hand out and looking at John. “Give me the notebook.” John stands up quickly and backs away. 

“No,” he scoffs, backing into a wall. “It’s just a list of movies. I swear.” 

You see Alexei’s body shaking with laughter out of the corner of your eye and turn toward him. “What’s so funny?” 

“I cannot say,” he chuckles, running a hand through his beard. 

“Alexei Shostakov, tell me now,” you demand, walking over to him. Bucky walks in at that moment, two grocery bags of snacks in hand and assesses the room. 

“Is everything ok?” He asks, putting the bags down on the kitchen island.

“No!” You whine. “They are up to something!” You gesture to the team. 

“You mean the bets?” Bucky asks casually as he starts to unpack the bags.

Your skin heats and you crane your neck to look at him. “What bets?”

“The bets on our challenge,” he explains, and Yelena and Ava groan. John throws the tiny notebook on the coffee table. “What the hell, Bucky? She wasn’t supposed to know!” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Doesn’t matter anyway. She’s gonna lose.” 

Your heart skips a furious beat and you march over to him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You demand. 

“Our challenge. You’re going to cave first,” he explains calmly, handing you an Oreo.

“We place bets,” Alexei says, walking over to grab a bag of Twizzlers. “We all agree that you cave first. You lose.”

“Are you kidding me?!” You shout, looking at everyone. “Glad to know you all think so highly of me. I’m going to win just to spite you all.” The team laughs, knowing you aren’t truly upset. 

You turn toward Bucky and stand on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “Prepare for the worst 30 days of your life.” Bucky chuckles, but you notice the hair on his forearm stand on end.

“I look forward to winning,” he quips back, his lips brushing your ear.

DAY THREE

Tonight you and Bucky head to the gym to do your new nightly yoga routine. You changed into shorts and a sports bra - your red set that he loves - and set your mats up. He saunters in, gym shorts slung dangerously low on his hips and no shirt. 

“Ready to get all stretched out?” He asks, dimming the lights. 

You scoff at his suggestive comment and settle onto your mat. “Yep,” you answer quickly, still annoyed about the bets.

“Good, I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he mutters, sitting on the mat across from you. “Take it away, sweetheart.”

You lead, talking about each position and how to breathe through them. You glance over at Bucky during downward facing dog and see him checking out your ass in your yoga shorts. 

“Next up is called the happy baby pose,” you say, lying on your back. “You bring your legs up and grab your feet with your hands, like this.” You demonstrate, spreading your legs and grabbing your feet. Bucky’s throat bobs as he watches you model the pose and then he clears his throat.

“I know what you’re doing. You’re not slick,” he groans. “I’m not falling for your tricks.”

“You’re right. It’s not like you haven’t seen me in this position before. Many times,” you say with a wink. Bucky grabs his feet and follows your lead, stretching into the pose. His eyes find their way to you again.

“Enjoying the view?” You ask, looking over at him. 

“Fuck yeah I am,” he growls before shutting his eyes. “But I’m winning this damn thing.”

You groan and sit up. “Fine.”

Bucky chuckles and you finish your last few poses before rolling up your mats. There’s a light sheen of sweat covering his back and you lick your lips. Fuck - look away.

DAY FOUR

Bed sharing was not without its difficulties. Cuddling was second nature at this point in your relationship, and many times the spooning and soft snuggles led to more. But not this month. You were not going to break first. Bucky pulled you into his chest, still half asleep, and nuzzled into your neck as morning light filtered into your shared bedroom. His breath on your skin sent an immediate jolt of pleasure between your legs and you knew you were in the Danger Zone. 

“Time to get up!” You announce more loudly than normal, squirming out of his arms. You turn to look at him, and damn if he wasn’t a God among men. “Fuck,” you whisper, knowing this was going to be a lot harder than you thought. But it would all be worth it. Right?

You walk down to breakfast and see Yelena and John sitting at the table, while Bob is in the kitchen cutting up some fruit. 

“Morning,” they all three say in unison, and John stealthily removes his tiny notebook from his pocket. You see the movement from the corner of your eye and glare at him. “Really, John?” 

“Well?” Yelena asks, waiting for details. 

“Jesus, guys. Nothing happened,” you say, reaching into the pantry for a box of Cheerios. “Sorry to disappoint. We’re still holding strong.”

DAY FIVE

“You’re doing a hell of a job rearranging furniture,” Bucky quips from the office off of the living room. 

“I’m trying a new arrangement - the feng shui is off in here,” you mutter, pushing the couch a few inches to the left. “Everyone else will like it, too. Don’t worry,” you say. 

“Oh, I’m not worried, doll - I’m just watching,” he leans back in his desk chair and winks. “Maybe it’s not the feng shui that’s off. Maybe you’re just missing something.”

Just a wink - just that little smirk sends heat flooding to your core. Fucking Bucky. Well, you wish you were. But here you are, arranging furniture just to feel something. 

“Try moving the coffee table a little to the right,” he quips, fully watching you now, his legs spread in his chair, his arousal obvious. You want to pounce on him. 

“Stop teasing me, you prick,” you whine, turning your back to him. 

“Stop teasing me in those fucking leggings, then,” he says gruffly, walking out to you, eyes dark.

He looks feral. Like a wild animal - a hungry wild animal. A hungry, horny wild animal. Jesus. Your thighs clench together as he stands behind you, barely touching you. “You need some help with this?” 

“Yes,” you admit. “Thank you. And stop breathing so close to me.”

He smiles and walks to the other side of the coffee table, helping you lift it with ease. “Where to?” 

You groan under the weight of the table and nod your head to the right, “Just this way.” You let out a sigh as you both set down the table and Bucky’s lips twitch into a smirk. “I’ve been missing that sound.”

“What sound?” You ask, confused. Bucky walks to you and gets in your personal space without laying a hand on you. 

“All your little sighs, your groans and moans, your fucking whimpers, you saying my name… Hell, you not being able to say anything because your mouth is full. I need to hear it.” He tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. His dark blue eyes are stormy and full of want.

“Are you breaking first, then?” You tease, leaning up to softly kiss his lips.

“Never,” he whispers into your mouth before breaking away. He chuckles and adjusts himself before walking back to the office, leaving you there aching and full of need. Asshole.

DAY SIX

You walk to the garage to find Bucky working on his bike - tight black t-shirt, rag slung over his shoulder, and the smell of sweat and grease in the air. Nope. Nope nope nope. You turn back around, knowing you won’t be able to take this view without jumping on him. 

“Where you off to, baby?” He asks before you get back to the door, wiping his hands on the rag. 

“I was just looking for… a paintbrush. It’s not here,” you say, hand on the doorknob, eager to escape this honey trap.

“Could you bring me some water please? It’s getting hot out here,” he asks sweetly, and you now notice the sweat dripping down his temples and neck, pooling into the hollow of his throat.

“Uh huh,” you squeak out, rushing back into the compound to get you both some water. Your throat felt so dry all of a sudden - so thirsty. You steel yourself before walking back into the garage, and when you open the door you find your precious, evil man standing over his motorcycle, wiping his sweaty face clean with his t-shirt. His abs and biceps glisten in the sun shining through the open garage door. 

“Thank you,” he says gruffly, reaching for the water bottle. He takes the cap off slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and takes a long drink, humming quietly as the cool water goes down his throat. 

“You’re welcome baby,” you say, sitting down on an overturned bucket, feeling your knees getting weaker with each passing second.

“Would you hand me that wrench?” He asks, gesturing to the workbench covered in tools. You move your hand to what you think he’s asking for and he shakes his head. “The one to the left. There ya go. Good girl.” You pick up the wrench and promptly drop it on the floor at his praise.

“You okay?” He asks with a smirk. This motherfucker.

“Honestly?” You ask, about to combust.

“Honestly,” he encourages you with a wink.

“I need you to bend me over and make me forget my name,” you admit confidently.

He laughs and bites his lip. “You caving?” 

“I’m caving,” you say with a shrug. “I need you.”

“Get your ass upstairs, then. I’ll be up in a second,” he growls.

“But I can’t lose! Everyone was betting that I’d cave first!” You whine, standing up and kicking the bucket like a child.

“Then we’ll tell them I caved first,” he says quietly, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You’d do that?” You ask in amazement, ready to let him have you however he wanted.

“I just want to hear you sigh my name into my neck, baby. I could give a shit about some bets… Now, get upstairs. Take off that pretty dress. Lay on the bed. I’ll be there in five.”

You fly back inside and run upstairs to your bedroom, the ache building between your legs. You strip off your dress and get under the covers to wait for Bucky.

Bucky walks inside the compound calmly and washes the grease and grime from his hands. His dick is already hard, and frankly, he’s a bit pissed at the days that went to waste when he could have been buried inside you. He makes his way to your room and passes John.

“You look like a man on a mission,” John jokes, taking in Bucky’s focused saunter and dark eyes.

“I am,” he mutters, walking past John to your bedroom.

He walks through the door and closes it abruptly behind him.

“I’m sorry. This challenge was a dumb idea,” you admit, pulling the covers up to your chin. “I need you. I miss you.”

“It was a strange idea, love. I’ll agree, but the yoga has been nice. I love seeing you in all those positions,” he whispers, getting on the bed with you and pinning your wrists above your head.

“You’re not going to go easy on me, are you?” You ask, biting your lip and trembling. 

“Not even a little bit,” he growls.

–

After you both thoroughly and completely fail the challenge (twice to be exact), you head downstairs for dinner with the team. John already has his notebook on the dining table propped open with a pen. You try your best not to make eye contact with anyone. 

“You guys do anything fun this afternoon?” Yelena asks, raising a brow.

“Just watched a TV show together,” you answer almost too quickly. 

“What show?” Bob asks genuinely.

“Golden Girls,” Bucky says at the exact moment you say “The West Wing”. You clear your throat and correct yourself, “Golden Girls”, just as Bucky says “The West Wing”.

“We watched both,” you say with a nervous laugh, putting some green beans on your plate.

Yelena walks over to get a plate and looks at Bucky. “James, your shirt is on inside out.”

John snorts from the dining table and you look at him warily, then to Bucky. 

“Oh, yeah, it is,” Bucky looks down and shrugs, filling his plate and walking to the table. “What’s so funny, Walker?” 

“You guys obviously caved. We just need to know who,” Ava says quietly, rolling her eyes.

Bucky scoffs. “It was me. She’s just too cute. Couldn’t help myself,” he says as he plants a kiss on your head. “Everyone happy?” 

Bob’s eyes light up from the end of the table and he shouts excitedly, “I was right!” 

Your eyes flit up to meet him. “You believed in me, Bob? That’s so nice actually.”

“Of course I did. Barnes never shuts the hell up about you. I knew he’d cave first. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you to-”

“That’s enough,” Bucky interjects. “I caved first. Let’s move on and enjoy dinner.” He looks at you slyly and winks before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “I’ll always take the blame for you, sweetheart. But you’re going to pay me back later with your mouth.”

Your thighs constrict and you gasp quietly. Poor Bob. Awful at placing bets, but he’d never have to know.

[drabblesandsnippets]

Oh gosh, thank you! 😭🩶

A Future Waiting to Bloom

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Summary: (2.2k) TW: Early miscarriage. An unexpected pregnancy leads to you and Bucky dreaming of a future that never comes to be.

A/N: I know miscarriage is a sensitive topic, but I’ve always written to help me process things in my life and I thought I would share, just in case anyone else needs a story like this. As always, please take care of yourself 🩶

Warnings: TW: Early miscarriage/’chemical pregnancy’. Established relationship. Soft and sweet Bucky. (Brief, vague references to Bucky’s foray into politics.) Fluff. Angst (with a hopeful ending). Mention of menstrual cycle, pregnancy symptoms, pregnancy tests, baby clothes, cramps, spotting.

The cold air whips around Bucky the moment he steps outside, remnants of winter still lingering in the air. Just another reason to add to his growing list of why he shouldn’t go. As if you’re incapable of staying warm without him. 

He certainly is.

With a resigned growl of frustration, he shoves his bag into the backseat of the car and closes the door with a slam, hard enough to make the hinges groan in protest. 

Yep, he’s handling this spectacularly.

Within seconds, he’s back inside the warmth of your shared residence for one more hug. One more kiss. One more moment of holding you close in order to ground himself in your comforting scent.

Then he’ll be able to make it out the door for his flight. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he buries his face in your hair, mumbling another plea for just a few more seconds. Minutes. Hours, if you’ll let him.

Your gentle reminder that it’s only for a couple days does nothing to deter him, Bucky refusing to loosen his tight embrace, even as you laugh softly against his chest, his strong arms keeping you from leaving him. As if that’s even a possibility. 

You’re struggling just as much as he is - tears guaranteed the second he’s driving away - but you refuse to give him yet another excuse to cling to. 

While separation is never easy, nothing compares to how proud you are of the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with. And you’ll be damned if you let him talk himself out of taking this next step, not with how important this is to him.

“It’s just politics,” you state matter-of-factly, giving Bucky a playful smile as your fingers soothe the tension from his neck. “Piece of cake. Nothing you can’t handle.” 

At his raised eyebrows, you double down, telling him, “Can’t be any worse than Sam’s birthday party.” A twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips and you add, “Four hours of karaoke, remember?”

“Don’t remind me,” he huffs, closing the distance once again to nuzzle your neck. “I still have nightmares.” 

This time his laughter mixes with yours and he smiles against your jaw, soon kissing a path towards your inviting mouth, desperate for one more taste of you. 

And when his soft murmur of appreciation ghosts over your lips, thanking you for loving him the way he needs, he doesn’t miss the way you cling to him. The way your heart syncs with his. 

The way you feel like home. 

It’s more than he ever thought he’d have - more than he deserves - and it’s exactly what finally kicks his ass into gear, giving him the strength to actually leave. 

With one more lingering hug and deep kiss that steals your breath away, he’s professing his love for you, hammering home how lucky he is to have you.

You hold the tears at bay, even as you return the sentiment, shouting one last ‘I love you’ from the porch, your arms wrapped around you to stave off the sudden burst of cold.

Only once his car disappears from view do you finally give in to the emotions, the urge to cry intensified by your impending period. 

You only give yourself a few seconds of cathartic release before you’re pulling yourself together, determined to make the most of the next couple of days instead of calling in sick to work and moping around the house. No matter how tempting that plan seems.

------

By afternoon, you’re rethinking everything, your eyes drooping the longer you stare at your computer screen, trying to juggle several tasks instead of taking a nap.

The only thing keeping you even remotely conscious is Bucky’s constant updates, his texts ranging from ‘Plane landed. Miss you.’ to ‘There’s a mirror in the shower. Can we get one?’

With your mental state already under siege by your hormones, you spend the rest of the day fighting off tears and aching for his touch. And berating yourself for acting like a military wife whose husband just got shipped off to war. 

The surge of pride you feel for him brings more tears to your eyes and you throw yourself into bed, a ridiculous sob erupting when his scent suddenly overwhelms you.

Bucky’s a few hours away, carving out a new path for himself. A new way to help the same world that tried to cast him aside.

Because that’s who he is - who he’s always been - and god, how you wish you could be there. To be a fly on the wall to witness his passion to make things better, to bring light to the things others try to keep in the dark.

Within seconds, you’re clutching his pillow to your chest, trying to remind yourself that it won’t always be this hard, that you won’t always be this emotional.

Hell, by the time Bucky gets home, your period will have started and this whole thing can be a funny anecdote to share over wine and much-needed snuggling.

------

The city is wide awake by the time you roll out of bed the next morning, blaming your lack of energy on the hours spent tossing and turning. And the few sporadic late-night conversations with Bucky when things felt too lonely.

Problem is, while he might not need much sleep, you’re barely functioning, hovering over your laptop for half an hour before deciding to call it and use one of your sick days. It doesn’t feel like a lie, your body desperate for more rest, the occasional twinge of a cramp encouraging you to take it easy.

The brilliant idea of tricking your body into submission comes in the form of superstition - take a pregnancy test and your period will show up just to spite you. It’s worked every time before.

But, with every new text from Bucky, you’re starting to entertain the idea of a quick nap, followed by a short flight to DC in order to surprise him at his hotel.

The only thing stopping you is the dread of getting your period while you're dealing with airport security or, worse, getting stuck in traffic. 

And then your whole world tilts.

Disappointment blooms briefly when it still doesn’t make an appearance during what always feels like the longest three minutes of waiting for the results.

It leaves you frustrated, yet innocently hopeful that it’ll show up within the next couple of hours. 

Doubt overwhelms any other emotion for several minutes, your shaky hands fumbling with another pregnancy test, already assuring yourself that the last was faulty.

This new one will confirm your suspicions, the mantra repeating right up until the faint second line joins the first just like before. 

Your first inhale brings life into the hope building in your gut. On the exhale, you’re laughing, all of your symptoms becoming glaringly obvious. You should have known.

This time when the ground shifts beneath you, your knees nearly give out. Your lungs cease to work. Your heart pounds in your ears. A terrifyingly beautiful future plays out behind your eyes.

This is actually happening.

You need to tell Bucky.

Of all the million thoughts racing through your head, that one remains the loudest and it’s hard to ignore the guilt gnawing at you for doing this without him.

It doesn’t feel fair that you get to live in this reality without him, but it’d be equally unjust to irrevocably change his life with a phone call.

So you wait. You pace. You agonize over every little detail. From how to tell Bucky, to what life will look like a year from now. Five years. Twenty.

Eventually, the tendrils of hope start to take hold, steadying you even as your worry and anxiety whisper of danger.

Neither of you are prepared, your shared moments of vulnerability echoing in your mind, the mirrored palpable fear of bringing a child into this world overriding the dreams neither of you dared voice.

Now you get to. 

Now you get to prove to Bucky that he was made for this. That whatever doubt you harbored wasn’t a reflection of him. If anything, knowing how amazing of a father he’ll be is one of the things keeping you from swirling into a panic attack.

------

Your plan starts small.

A gift bag with the pregnancy tests.

Then, a tiny motorcycle jacket resembling his that you just couldn't resist. You’re already imagining Bucky holding his helmet up to complete the outfit, a goofy smile plastered across his face as you snap a picture.

A couple hours before he walks in the door, you’re adding the last minute addition, butterflies swarming in your belly as you imagine his reaction to the onesie hiding inside, the words “My daddy is my hero!” etched across the front.

It builds slowly. Surprised recognition at the tests. A glance at you for assurance that this is really happening before he’s diving back in. A ghost of a smile that communicates more than he’s capable of verbalizing right now.

At the first touch of the faux leather against his skin, Bucky’s willing his heart to slow enough to allow himself to stay right here with you, to let himself believe in a future he thought was closed off to him. To imagine himself in a role he no longer gave credence to. 

The onesie completely breaks him open. 

Hero. Daddy. Two titles that you swear he can proudly hold. A monster who used to-.

Your soft utterance of his name catches him before he can fall into the familiar well of guilt, bringing him back to the fragile edge he teeters during moments like this.

“This isn’t something you have to earn, baby,” you whisper, reaching out to trace your fingers over the words, purposefully drawing Bucky’s attention back to the statement that’s trying to unravel him. “You just get to be.”

Just like that, you piece him back together. Like you always do. His jagged edges never once managing to scar you in the process. 

“You’re allowed to be excited,” you promise, your own glassy eyes meeting his, full of unshed tears. “Even if you’re scared… ‘cause, honestly, I’m terrified, but I-.”

“I want this too,” he finishes with you, a tentative smile finally taking hold, one hand gripping the onesie, the other pulling you closer. “I’m already thinking of baby names. Is that crazy?”

You laugh, meeting him in a teary kiss before confessing, “I’ve been picturing having to send them off on their first day of school, so…”

“You think I’m letting them outta my sight?” Bucky grins with a shake of his head. “Homeschool all the way, sweetheart. At least ‘til they’re 18.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You have plenty of time to figure it out.

------

For 52 glorious hours, you get to exist in a world full of possibilities. A world where Bucky begins to believe that his luck didn’t just end with you. That, despite everything, he’s allowed to have more. To want more.

His already attentive nature somehow multiplies, eager to wait on you hand and foot, insisting on a nap whenever a yawn overtakes you.

Several times you find yourself curled up on the couch with your head in his lap, his vibranium hand stroking lazy circles along your back, while scrolling with his other, researching everything from pregnancy symptoms to baby gear. And trying to figure out what the big deal is with gender reveals.

Bucky’s halfway through memorizing swaddling techniques when the first cramp hits, a flicker of worry etching itself along your brow. 

For a while, you manage to convince each other it’s totally normal. Common, even. Everyone says so. Even the doctor as you schedule an appointment anyway. 

When the spotting starts, Bucky still clings to hope, refusing to believe the universe would dangle this just to rip it away before it could ever really begin. Fuck the statistics.

But, deep down, you already know.

There was always a part of you that knew you tempted fate by taking that test. If you had waited, let nature take its course, you probably would have never known. You would have spared you both this heartache.

When the guilt starts to drown you, Bucky quiets your needless apologies, holding you together as sobs wrack your body.

As easy as it would be to blame himself - his past, his karma, hell, maybe his genes - he chooses a different path instead. One he’s not used to taking, but you’ve done a damn good job of lighting the way for him.

“I’m glad we knew,” he assures you, his gentle hands cradling your wet cheeks, encouraging you to stay right here with him. “Even if it wasn’t meant to be, I wouldn’t change anything about this, do you hear me?”

And that’s more than enough.

At your teary nod, one of his own slips past his lashes, but his smile never wavers. “You’ve given me the greatest gift, sweetheart,” he whispers, closing the distance to rest his forehead against yours, grounding you with him.

“You showed me that I’m allowed to hope. Freely. Without guilt. Like maybe I get to want things again.” 

The healing will take time. The world won’t look as bright for a while. The baby clothes will start to gather dust on the dresser. But it’s all perfectly okay. 

Because you're together, and you already have everything you need to begin writing the next chapter.

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[mercurial-chuckles]

Tantalizing Tuesday Thought!

♡ Weeklong Thingamajig ♡

Indulge Away!

****

"Just give in, doll," Bucky snickered.

"Ughh...fuck off, Bucky," you grumbled, putting all your strength in kneading the dough. He moved behind you, his tall form dwarfing yours. His metal arm rested on the counter beside you, while his right arm slid to your front, fingers sneaking underneath your t-shirt, caressing the skin there.

"You can't distract me. That's against the rules," you shouted, elbowing him.

"What rules?" he teased, pressing a loud kiss to your ear.

"Ow.... stop annoying me," you yelled, wiggling away from his grip.

While you were covered in flour and wearing an apron, Bucky's black t-shirt and joggers were somehow spotless despite his kneading dough without any apron.

"Show off," you muttered. Bucky was really getting good at this whole baking hobby he picked up, and the super strength did help when working on that dough. You were proud of him, but you'd never admit when you were in the middle of a competition, of course.

He leaned against the counter beside you, watching with a smirk that promised nothing but trouble. Arms crossed, muscles flexing casually, he observed you with that familiar, mischievous glint in his eyes. You narrowed your gaze at him, not about to let him distract you.

"Just so you both know, I'm not going to judge your little baking contest," Steve quipped.

"Oh, didn't see you there, Captain," you teased. He was sprawled on the couch a few feet away, sketchbook in hand, too absorbed to pay much mind to you and Bucky's bread-baking showdown.

Finally putting away his book, Steve strolled over to you.

"Lemme help," he said, kissing you gently. You eagerly nodded in response.

A little help would be good. You couldn't obviously take help from Bucky, but Steve was fair game.

"That's against the rules," Bucky pointed out.

"What rules?" you asked innocently, a smirk tugging at your lips.

"Such a brat," Bucky grumbled, smacking your ass before walking to the living room and dramatically flopping down on the couch.

Both Bucky's and your bread turned out great, but Steve refused to declare a winner. Instead, he presented you both with a gift; sketches he had been working on earlier, capturing you and Bucky in the kitchen, bickering as you baked. Damn, it was the best prize you could ask for, besides spending time together on this relaxing Tuesday, of course. You'd get it framed tomorrow and hang it alongside his other sketches on the wall.

****

Oh, well... I've been binging on GBBO. AGAIN!

♡ Weeklong Thingamajig ♡

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[buckyys-babydoll]

Protect my heart

Pairing: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Don’s Daughter!Reader

Summary: Protection. His job. Bucky has a duty to uphold for the daughter of his best friend. But he often finds himself exceeding the baseline expectations of his job because of you.

Warnings: fluff, Dad’s best friend, mention of mafia, protection, sweetness,

Wordcount: 1.219 Words

Authors Note: Beta’d by @soelstress and @thevillainswhore. Mollie, thanks for the help and your encouragement, too! Written for Mafia Bingo [The don’s daughter] by @darkficsyouneveraskedfor. Divider made by me.

Blue eyes. Ocean blue — deep and stormy. They watch you, every day. Every hour. Every minute.

You’re not even sure if he keeps an eye on you when you sleep, or if he allows himself some sleep too. He should.

But no matter if he’s had a long night with you at one of your dads clubs and gets up early the next morning, or if you call it an early night and he finally manages to rest for himself. He always looks good. Always.

Brown locks fall often into his face, curling just underneath his piercing eyes. Soft stubble covering his cheeks, trimmed like he spends at least an hour in the bathroom every morning. You longed to push them back behind his ear, if only to touch him for a little while.

He’s always just a few feet away. Never distracted. Never busy with anything but keeping a close eye on you. It’s his job. And he does it like his life depends on it.

And maybe it does. Because you’re not just someone. Not when your father is the Don of the biggest mob in the country.

So, you have Bucky to follow you. To protect you.

James Buchanan Barnes, but has a preference of being called Bucky, is your dads best friend. They have known one another for years. Decades.

And you were afraid that now you had grown an attachment towards him; one that border lined on the cusp of danger.

“Buck?” You hum as you turn your head toward the man who’s protecting you day by day.

He’s standing with his hands crossed above his belt next to you. His eyes scan the surroundings, but stay mostly on you. Bucky’s suit is neat, dark blue and highlights the light of his bright eyes.

He nods, acknowledging that you talked to him. But he doesn’t say anything. Barely does. Somehow you both still understand one another.

You’re the one who talks. He’s the one who listens. Has to. Or maybe he does it because he wants to. Because most of the time he really looks interested in the one-sided conversation. It shouldn’t give you butterflies, but it does.

“Croissants or sandwiches?” You ask, pouting at the baked goods of your favorite bakery.

He raises an eyebrow at you. His plump lips twitch slightly at the corners as he looks at you instead of the food. Then he shrugs. “Whatever you like.”

You groan, crossing your arms in front of your chest. There it is, he thinks to himself as he smirks at you. Slightly. Almost not even visible. But you catch it, of course you do. Always do.

“Don’t gimme that attitude now, princess,” he hums, shaking his head slightly. Before Bucky gets the chance to do anything further, a man in a suit walks closer.

Bucky’s callused hand immediately shoots to the gun that’s tucked in the back of his pants. His shoulders tense and he takes a step closer to you until your side is tightly pressed against his stomach. His other hand reaches out, grasping you by the shoulder and pulling you flush against him. He does that. All the time when there’s the possibility of danger.

Bucky would wrap himself around you like a soft blanket in a rain of bullets. He wouldn’t hesitate. He would jump in front of you to catch them all, only to make sure you will never get hurt. Never with him around.

The man smiles softly at you, but his eyes widen as he notices Bucky behind you. His glistering metal hand on your shoulder causes the other guy to sweat and take a step back.

Poor guy. He just wanted to buy some baked goods. And now? He’s walking backwards, slowly, his hands lifting just as slow. He’s no danger. Never was.

But for Bucky? Everything could be a risk. Protect at all costs. Danger or not. Protect.

As the guy walks away, shaking and mumbling under his breath, he’s wiping his sweat off his forehead.

The moment he’s out of your view, Bucky relaxes. He lets go of your shoulder and takes a step backwards. His hands gripping the front of the belt as he watches you like nothing happened. Nothings ever gonna happen as long as he’s around.

While you hated having an unwanted shadow following you when Bucky first got the job, you appreciate it now. As long as he’s there you know you’re safe. But not only that, Bucky’s also really funny… sometimes.

There’s very few times he cracks a joke. Mostly when you’re alone together. It’s the only time he allows himself to stop being so guarded. So protective.

“So, croissants or sandwiches?” You ask once more, causing another small smile to tug on his lips. “Or something else?”

“Whatever you want,” he repeats again.

“Bucky,” you whine, almost stomping your feet. This man. This man. Sometimes he makes you go crazy.

Handsome idiot.

“What do you want?” You grumble, watching a waitress walking toward you.

“You don’t need to always buy food for me. First off all, I own money myself. And I’m here to protect you, not to have dinner with you, sweetheart,” he says, his tone rough and almost cold. Almost.

There’s always a hint of softness when he talks to you. In public less, but it’s still there. For you. Only for you.

You roll your eyes. The attitude again.

Secretly, he loves it. Obviously, he huffs at your display of defiance.

You won’t let him off the hook that easily. You never do. Taking care of him like he’s more than just the guy who’s your shadow. More than just your bodyguard.

“But you need to be strong to protect me,” you say, smiling so damn sweet at him. You greet the waitress as she waits for you order, telling her what you would like before you turn to Bucky to wait for him to tell her, too. “And maybe… I like having lunch with you.”

And breakfast. And dinner. And a midnight snack after a party. He knows, because you always ask him to eat with you.

“Fine,” he huffs, his voice holding a rough edge but you know deep down he’s melting for you. “A sandwich, please. And one of these bread rolls with chocolate.”

You grin. He hates those. Too much sugar. Way too sweet for him.

Bucky’s the guy that drinks his coffee black. His whiskey neat.

But he would be damned if he didn’t pick up on your habit of always having something sweet after a meal.

“Happy?” He asks and you nod with a wide grin. His eyes light up, slightly showing the joy he feels. Bottled up inside, deep down. But for you, always visible.

He’s an open book for you. Voluntarily. He could hide his emotions, but he doesn’t. He wants you to know. Wants to see that smile on your face when he’s feeling joyful. A smile that could light up a whole town. A smile that lights up his whole universe.

Then he’s taking the baked goods the waitress offers and thanks her before leading you toward a table in the corner. He can watch everything from there, but not everyone can immediately see you.

Privacy. Safety. And your favorite: lunch with Bucky.

Comment and Reblog to share some love!

Written with the prompt: "You don't need to always buy food for me." "But you need to be strong to protect me." by @creativepromptsforwriting.

@armystay89 @rogersbarber

[navybrat817]

Hiya Navy!

Not sure if I’ve missed the boat for the imaginary fic game.

If I have, please ignore and apologies 😅

If not… Nick Fowler and All there is 🙏

Hey, Soels! Hope you like it.

You took another sip of your drink and ignored the pounding on the door. Nick never appreciated when you iced him out and he’d no doubt break in if you didn’t open up soon, taking what he believed still belonged to him. The worst part about it is you’d fight, but he’d get what he wanted. And you’d remember after that at the end of the day, all there was between you was the illusion of a promise.

The kind of promise that left your heart in pieces when he’d inevitably leave again, get lost in his job, and come back as the shell of the man you once loved.

Love and thanks! ❤️

Five lines of an imaginary fic.

[biteofcherry]

I'm really glad you liked it 🥰 I'm sure Lee will show you sweet heaven you're never allowed to leave 😏

Hi Eva!

For the NYE babe lottery can I please request Sheriff Bodecker?

I’m a fan of manifesting positive thoughts for the new year… but I can settle for horny thoughts… pending what babe appears 😂🙈

Thank you!

✨✨✨

"Um, your regular is here." Stella nudged you, her voice tinted with pity.

Your gaze instantly fell on the thick man who walked in and aimed for his usual spot at the bar.

People in town preferred believing Sheriff Bodecker was a caring man of law, who wanted the best for the citizens. Some knew very well that there was darkness trailing behind him and that his stern approach could unfold into cruelty.

Lee visited the diner you worked at regularly for years, as did many locals. However, the past three months or so, he made it obvious he wouldn't appreciate if any waitress other than you served him.

His attention was a claim that made you feel dirty, even though he never touched you inappropriately.

He didn't need that, his gaze alone left no doubt what kind of thoughts about you he had.

Mustering that soft smile, you moved along the countertop to where he sat.

"Hello, Sheriff." You greeted him.

"Call me Lee, sugar," he reminded you.

"Maybe when you're after hours. When you're in uniform, you're the sheriff." You winked at him, saving yourself with playful reply.

Lee chuckled at that, nodding in agreement. He ordered his usual and a slice of fresh pie.

He made small talk with the locals sitting next to him, but every few moments he'd beckon you over for a refill of his coffee and to ask you something. About your mother's health, about your brother's service in the Army, about the book you were reading at the moment.

You replied politely, with that smile he loved, but still tried to limit the information you gave him. Because it always meant he had something to ask about in the future and keep getting closer to you.

As always, he left a generous tip before leaving the diner. With his absence, your chest filled with lightness again.

It stayed with you til the end of your shift. Though physically tired, you were in a good mood, ready to get back home, take a bath and return to your book.

Your steps faltered, however, when you spotted a car on the parking lot and Lee Bodecker leaning against it.

"As you can see, I'm out of the uniform." He grinned, turning around to show off his civilian clothes.

He opened the passenger's side door and gave you an expectant look.

"Hop in, sugar. And call me Lee."

[veltana]

Since Eva beat me to my first choice (no regrets cos I’m loving the answer)…

May we know the Secret? 😁

The secret is a secret child🫣 Bucky runs into you when you're out with friends and asks you out. You don't think it's going to go anywhere so you don't say anything but you fall head over heels in love with Bucky and he with you. He ofc notice there is something you're hiding from him and after an incident you tell him, and you think he's going to reject you but he says he would love to meet your daughter and you fall even more in love with Bucky when you see how good he is with her 😍 it's more on the fluffy side than the smutty side!

[kitkatpadywaks]

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Key: 🔥Smut - 💢Angst - ❤️Fluff - 💀Dark Themes - 💕Slow Burn - ❤️‍🩹Hurt/Comfort - ✔️Complete(Series) - ❌Incomplete(Series)

Last Updated: 10th December 2024

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🔥pretty fixation, wicked temptation by @wife-of-all-dilfs - (bellamy blake x reader)

💢🔥Unravel Me by @thoughtsofedin - (Diego Hargreeves x Hargreeves!Reader)

💀❤️If I Can't Have You by @watchstarscollide - (Homelander x Reader)

💀❤️‍🩹🔥Guilty Pleasure by @blindmagdalena - (Homelander x plus size f!reader)

🔥💀how hungry i always am by @citrusai (Homelander x afab!character)

💀🔥Vicarious by @plutoswritingplanet (Homelander x plus-sized!reader)

💢❤️colourblind by @come-on-darling-honey (paul lahote x reader)

❤️🔥the way feat. luke alvez by @mcondance

Treacherous Waters by @joaquinwhorres (Leonard McCoy x Reader)

🔥Sweet Southern Peach by @rustanddusted

Oblivious by @toboldlygohome (Leonard McCoy x Reader)

❤️smile by @specialagentlokitty (Patrick Jane x reader)

treat you right by @specialagentlokitty (Patrick Jane x reader)

💀🔥Honey and the Hatchet by @cambria-writes (Patrick Jane x Original Female Character)

🔥Redemption by @the-horned-witch (Patrick Jane x Named!Reader)

🔥The Rock N' Roll Got Harder and Softer by @dilf-docs (eddie brock x younger fem!reader)

🔥keep a secret by @val-made-a-mistake

🔥monster tongue by @star-crossed-sluts (eddie brock x reader x venom)

🔥Chocolate and Cream by @angel-of-the-moons (Eddie x Venom x Curvy!Fem!Reader)

🔥riding dexter in his iconic killer fit by @hisbuni (fem reader)

🔥good girl by @willieverseetheland (Dexter Morgan x reader)

A New Moon by @happy74827 [Dexter Morgan x Female!Reader]

🔥i think i'm 'bout to explode, i can taste the tension like a cloud of smoke in the air by @dexteri0us (dexter morgan x f!reader)

💀You are who you eat by @minawritesfanfic

[veltana]

I had such a blast writing for Jefferson. I had like a million ideas 😂 Thank you for sending it in ❤️

Thank you for being a part of my Creation Celebration! You chose: Jefferson and fluff! I hope you like it! ❤️

Your feet hurt so bad, naked as they were. Sticks, small stones, and needles from the trees around making every step you took on the forest floor feel agonizing. Sometimes a stray branch would snag on your dress and almost make you fall but it didn’t make you stop running. You couldn’t stop. This was what you got for trusting your creep of a boyfriend. Well, ex-boyfriend now.

The night was closing in and it was getting darker. Even if there had been a full moon in the sky, the thick canopy above you wouldn’t make any light pass through it. You just hoped you made it to a town or onto a road before you ran head-first into a tree.

You suddenly saw something at the corner of your eye and it made you stop. There was a house nestled in among all the thick trees. The lights shone with warmth and you took a cautious step towards it. Clenching your fists you hesitated. The odds that this home belonged to the people you were running from were slim so you took the chance.

Jogging up to the house, you knocked on the door and waited for what felt like an eternity for someone to answer. And when they did, you found yourself at a loss for words.

The man holding open the door raised one of his eyebrows and then leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. He looked a little odd but not in a dangerous way, more like he came from another time or place. A scarf around his neck was tucked into a vest, not something you’d often seen around. The shirt he wore underneath were embroidered on the sleeves and it was tucked into a pair of dark leather pants. Despite that, it didn’t take away from the fact that he was very handsome, with stunning blue eyes.

 “You look like a bunny that’s run away from a wolf,” his tone was light and slightly amused. 

“Do you want to borrow a phone?” 

With a shake of your head, you gathered yourself and said, “I don’t have anyone I could call. But you don’t happen to have a pair of shoes I could borrow?”

That’s when he noticed your feet and pursed his lips, “Why don’t you come inside, bunny? You look like you could use a meal and something to drink.”

Going inside a stranger's home was against everything you’d ever been thought growing up, but as you were it didn’t feel like you had much of a choice. Or at least the choice would be yours this time. 

There was also something about the man in front of you that made you feel safe, weird as it was.

As you stepped in through the door you introduced yourself. He made a slight bow, gesturing with his hand as if he was removing a hat from his head, and said “Jefferson is my name.” You had no idea what to answer with that so you just nodded. Then he straightened and tapped his finger to his chin, “I see now that you might require a bath and a change of clothes. Do you want that before or after dinner?”

“I just want to borrow a pair of shoes really, so I can make it to the nearest town.”

“Bunny,” Jefferson smiled. “If you just humor me and eat some food, then I can drive you to town.” “Really?” “Absolutely.”

“Then I would like to take you up on the offer of a bath and clothes,” It seemed to delight him, but then his brows drew together and he said, “I just want to warn you, my daughter took all of her clothes when she left for college so you’ll have to make do with something from my closet.” “I’m sure it will be fine,” you answered.

Just as you did there came a pounding on the door behind you and you jumped, meeting Jefferson’s curious look with one of horror. You thought you were much farther ahead but apparently, they’d caught up.

Without a word, Jefferson opened a door at the side. It turned out to be a closet filled with similar but somehow also different-looking hats. Quickly, you went inside and just as he pushed the door shut, you saw him pull out a very large and sharp-looking scissor from somewhere.

Whatever was said between the ones at the door and Jefferson didn’t last long. Soon he was pulling the door open with a soft smile. “Come on bunny, the big bad wolves are gone.”

“Thank you,” you said sincerely. You’d probably never be able to repay him.

“Don’t worry about it! Now, let's get you clean and fed!”

With a flourish, he left down the hallway and you hurried to keep up.

He looked a little odd but not in a dangerous way, more like he came from another time or place. A scarf around his neck was tucked into a vest, not something you’d often seen around. The shirt he wore underneath were embroidered on the sleeves and it was tucked into a pair of dark leather pants. Despite that, it didn’t take away from the fact that he was very handsome, with stunning blue eyes.

Ok I LOVE Jefferson pieces and this description is just… *mwah* odd but not dangerous… no just a lil bit mad poor bub but I love him for it… and those eyes 🥹

As you stepped in through the door you introduced yourself. He made a slight bow, gesturing with his hand as if he was removing a hat from his head, and said “Jefferson is my name.”

Not my heart trembling or body threatening to swoon over THAT introduction 🫠

Soon he was pulling the door open with a soft smile. “Come on bunny, the big bad wolves are gone.

A gentleman and a gentle man… Lord have mercy 🙏

Cate! Thank you times infinity for this beautiful piece! I adore it so much!

[thenameswinter99]

PINTEREST BLIND DATE

Rules: pinterest is setting you up on a blind date, search the following and post the results: fictional character, date, gift, outfit, dessert, love quote

I found this in my dash and I absolutely had to do it.

Love how Pinterest knows me well and immediately gave me Bucky lol

No pressure tag (if you want to): @sylasthegrim @zaldritzosrose @legitalicat @buck-star @whitedarkmoonflower @aneurins-barnard @lord-aldhelm @sergeantbarnessdoll @navybrat817 @sunday-bug @lives-in-midgard @soelstress @whitedarkmoonflower @aneurins-barnard @lord-aldhelm @kingslionheart @paula-in-dreamland @ms-oswald @st-eve-barnes @holy3cake @gemini-mama @alexagirlie and whoever sees this and wants to join!