Nap Time With You

Marvel you better not fuck this up AGAIN

ah fuck who am I kidding the Russo brothers are in charge they're gonna fuck this up again and i'm gonna be down bad crying at the cinema--

@lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @holdmytesseract @alexakeyloveloki @smolvenger @five-miles-over @ladyofthestayingpower @maple-seed @gigglingtiggerv2 @thedistractedagglomeration @lulubelle814 @joyful-enchantress @give-me-a-moose @loopsisloops @tallseaweed @simplyholl @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 ++

Haiii

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DISODxvCJkE/?igsh=MWR6MnhjMDVybzYzcQ==

You recently described Bee and Bucky having 'matching grins'. And then I saw this reel and thought, "I'm sure Bee picked up A LOT of Bucky's mannerisms"

This can totally be them in the future with teenage Bee.

Bee and Bucky: *do the same thing*

Malyshka: 😐

Sam and Steve: 👁️👄👁️

A wild Frankie appears: "SO COOL" 🤩🤩

Bee is a mini Bucky 🥹 she's been watching and studying her Papa since she was old enough to crawl around his office. She copies him all the time.

Sometimes he'll be on the phone, one hand in his pocket as he paces back and forth behind his desk. Bee will grab her little pink phone, put her hand in the pocket of her bear suit and walk beside him. Whatever he says, she parrots.

Bucky loves when she does things like that.

She has so many of her parents mannerisms and its adorable to see the sweet toddler mimick them. It's easy to see how much they influence her, how loved she is and how much she loves them and wants to be just like them.

It's been a long time since I posted a Loki sketch so here we go 🥹

relinquish the crown: as long as i've known you pt1

Series Masterlist See my full list of works here!

Placement: Season 1, Episode 16; immediately after 'under one condition pt2'

Summary: Loki makes his affections for you known, and you tell your friends of the turn of events with regards to your impending betrothal

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Word Count: 4.1k

Warning/s: themes of incest (he's adopted but still); Odin; very possibly inaccurate depiction of royal pre-wedding traditions [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: a good chunk of this is 'traditions old and new' (Prologue, Part 2) in Loki's POV; honestly at this point everyone's stressed out

There was no amount of preparation that could have readied Loki for the look upon your face as your perception of him was forcibly shattered and fundamentally changed with three simple words. He couldn't have possibly braced himself enough for the sight of you looking him up and down with growing abhorrence, all while shaking your head and mumbling No to yourself over and over.

"Yes," he said, now only a mere few steps before you. He figured now was as good a time as any to come clean on how long he'd harbored affection for you. "I've loved you for as long as I've known you."

Your bottom lip trembled, your brows scrunching together; another migraine had sunk its hooks into your head. "You've known who I was since the day we met," you said in a weak exhale.

"Yes, I remember, darling." His heart hurt seeing how your body physically rejected the endearment now, the sharp shake of your head as if you were throwing the word away. Or perhaps the last few moments so you could once more cling to denial. "You bested me," he kept on, taking another step toward you. Despite the dull ache he felt, he couldn't keep himself from smiling as he recalled the day in question. "And when I gazed upon your face, I knew. I was meant to be yours. And you mine."

You looked visibly pained recoiling away from him when he cupped your face. He could only imagine how overwhelming it must have felt having your every memory with him simultaneously torn down and repainted with the knowledge that all this time, every embrace, every kiss…had an underlying layer of lust. Of a more lecherous type of love.

"All those times…" you said in a frenzied murmur, your bottom lip quivering as your throat visibly tensed. As if your body were physically refusing to form the words. Your forehead tensed as well, and it was all the god could do not to reach over and offer you some semblance of comfort.

He was the last person you would take it from. And he had to come to terms with the achingly real possibility that it would be that way for the rest of your lives.

"All those times you said you loved me…you did not mean it as family loved family," you continued, your accusatory tone and guarded eyes piercing through him. "You--"

"I meant it as a man loves a woman," he said simply, surrendering to the new reality that now his affections were out for all to see, all to know. The rumors that the palace staff and the citizens of Asgard and beyond alike whispered amongst themselves would be confirmed at the announcement of your betrothal once you accepted the offer.

If you accepted his offer.

You could still reject it and tell him and your father to suffer the fate of the battle, and he wouldn't even dare hold it against you.

It should not have pained him as much as it did to see your features contort into one of rage, your skin reddening from the indignation bubbling to the surface. And yet it did, worsening when you chose to look past him after what he'd just confessed and chose to address Odin instead.

"The people will look at this union and see it for what it is. Sinful." You bared your teeth as you concluded, "Shameful."

"This was tradition for generations upon generations," the elder god attempted to reason with you. "Ages before even I was born, Y/N."

There was such barely restrained wrath in your face, in how you held your posture, that it gave all the gods in the room with you pause. Loki knew you were capable of violence; he'd certainly seen it enough times despite having known you for the shortest amount of time among everyone else in the room. Though never did he consider until right at this moment that you were capable of directing that violence towards any of them.

"There have been new generations since you rose to power!" you fumed. Your nostrils flared as the words spilled from your lips. There was a vein in the center of your head that pulsed furiously, and anyone who knew you well enough could see that you were suffering from what was undoubtedly one of the most vicious migraines to accost you.

If you had a weapon on you, you would have probably struck at the nearest unfortunate soul. In which case it would have been the very man that was the cause of your current troubles. And he would have more than understood if you were suddenly to decide that he deserved to be at the receiving end of your dagger.

That however, did not mean that the knowledge hurt any less, as memories crossed Loki's mind of the first days you knew each other. Particularly that first morning when you'd placed yourself in the line of fire to thwart an assassination attempt. What have I done to wrong the Norns so much that my relationship with the woman I am fated to has devolved so awfully? he thought to himself.

"They were not exposed to this depravity," you continued on. "They will see this union as something so base, so morally corrupt. They will look at the offspring of this union and think them bastards."

Was it wrong that there was the tiniest bit of hope blooming in the god's heart that your mind went to your future and your children with him? Most definitely. And yet he couldn't help himself -- the vision of a little girl with your long dark hair, scrunching her nose the way you once did, freely shifting between her Aesir and Jotun forms as she wished as she frolicked in his mother's gardens -- taking root in his mind, and making his heart ache as it sunk in how desperately he wanted that.

"And give them enough time and I assure you that they will look at me and think me a whore," you concluded, your chest heaving as you visibly fought against your current migraine. You made a motion as if to step toward him, your instinct to seek comfort from him making you even more irate as you fought against the urge. "What happens if I refuse?"

You refuse me, and you would be stuck with that shameful prince of Alfheim. He would take you away and you would never see Asgard again, he wanted to tell you. Instead, he chose to let you come to whichever conclusion you would find for yourself.

"What do you think happens, my love?" The endearment slipped out so easily, so naturally, it almost felt wrong for him to even attempt to take it back.

Tears welled in your eyes, and the god could almost hear the words that you willed to stifle in the back of your mouth. Demanding that he not call you such an abhorrent term. Screaming how dare he even think of calling you such in present company.

And yet instead of those words that would surely press even more daggers into his heart, you chose to answer your own question. "If I refuse then the terms of your relinquishment are unmet. If I refuse…the duel commences." The fat tears at the corners of your eyes finally rolled down your face, and once more Loki had to fight the urge to wipe them away. To pull you into his arms and tell you it was alright to just let your devastation out. To take it out on him, even, if you needed.

But all he could do was stand and watch.

"It does," Thor spoke, confirming your fear that these were your only options. A marriage that you viewed as immoral, or death. His…and in a way because of that spiteful child of an elven prince, yours. "Daughter, I am terribly--"

"You've given me an impossible choice," you cut him off, looking each of them in the eye. "All of you." You crossed your arms around yourself, as if trying to hold yourself back from completely lashing out and letting temper run amok. "Either I lose a part of my family…or I lose my life. My future. Signed away to avoid the bloodshed of new tradition."

If only it were that selfish, he wanted to tell you. I wish it were that simple, little Princess.

"Please don't view it so bleakly, darling."

"Well how else do you suggest I see it?" you seethed at the dark haired prince, your eyes widening in disgust as another realization planted itself in your mind. "Is this why you insisted that I never call you Uncle?"

Well, there's no longer any reason to hide it from her, Loki thought to himself. "In part," he answered you, your nostrils flaring at his admission. "Try to see it less pessimistically, I implore you."

He took a step closer to you, his hands raised with open palms, trying to show you he meant you no  harm. He was the last person in all the realms that would ever wish to inflict upon you any pain.

When you didn't flinch away from him, he continued. "You wouldn't lose your life. You wouldn't have nothing. You would have a husband who adores you. Who loves you with his entire heart." He tried to hold your gaze, praying to the Norns that you would hear the meaning behind his words when he asked, "Wouldn't you agree that you could do a lot worse than being wed to a man who loves you as I do?"

Is this not a better alternative than being shackled to that heathen from Alfheim?

A hint of understanding finally dawned in your features, clearly envisioning the long-term consequences of your refusal. The duel and the subsequent death, all in the name of determining an heir for the Allfather. The wedding and your inevitable departure from your home. The devastation and the misery.

Now it was up to you if those consequences were worth the refusal.

The next few moments seemed to drag on for hours. Days, even. As they all awaited your answer with baited breath.

And then finally you spoke, your words barely audible. "I accept your terms." Your words trembled as you fought back a sob, and you looked up at Loki with a cold, deceptive calm. "I accept your surrender. Only because I love my father. And I do not wish to see him live out his days haunted by the memory of losing you by his own hand."

Where there should have been an aching sorrow in his heart upon hearing your reasoning, there was only relief. She's accepted. She will be safe.

He couldn't help himself from taking your hands in his, hoping to steady their shaking. "I know it will take time but you will be able to find a way to love me, too."

Perhaps it was simply the hopeless optimism in his heart, holding on to the shred of possibility that the vision his mother had shown him months before of a blissfully married life to you, that pushed him to utter those words. Perhaps he still had faith in the knowledge that you two were fated for one another, and somehow your heart would find your way to him.

Even with your next words, he desperately clung to that faith by a thread. The very thread that tied your souls together.

"That's the tragedy of this all, I already loved you," you told him, wrenching your hands out of his hold with a sneer. "Just not in the depraved way that you do. But any affection I may have held towards you dies today." You averted your gaze from his and looked around the god to face your father. "You get to keep your brother. At the cost of your daughter."

With those words, you stormed out of the war room, your heavy footfalls echoing across the palace halls even long after you'd gone.

Hot tears continued to stream down your face and blur your vision as you navigated the palace halls, aimlessly taking turn after turn, trying to put as much distance between you and the war room as physically possible. As if you could escape the crushing weight of your new reality.

You had agreed to a marriage. You were betrothed.

To Loki.

There was a sharp pain at the back of your head, pounding away harder and harder with each step you took that brought you farther away from that wretched room. Worsening when you would pause even for a moment to process what you had just done.

It filled you with a cold dread knowing that you had verbally written off your family with that one meeting, and a burning rage immediately after knowing that they had essentially forced your hand. Surely not a single one of them thought you would take on this betrothal with open arms and a warm and welcoming disposition?

"Y/N?"

You turned your head to find your friends at the other end of the hall. It seemed your aimless wandering led you to the robe laundering facilities, to the remaining familiar faces that didn't make your heart hurt when you looked upon them. Halley and Narda hastened their steps, making their way to you with concern coloring their features once they saw the tear streaks and your red-rimmed eyes.

"My friend, what's wrong?" Narda asked, each of them taking one of your hands as you walked down the hall together.

"My dear friends, I am to be married," you said simply. There was nary a shred of excitement in your tone. You may as well have told them that you were to be executed within the hour.

They stopped abruptly in their tracks, their eyes wide and fearful as they shook their heads at one another. "Princess, you agreed to Prince Damien's--?"

"Norns no," you blurted out, answering Halley's question. "I'll gauge my own eyes out with my training daggers before I allow that heathen of a prince to marry me."

"Then who…?"

You motioned toward one of the stone benches, the three of you seating yourselves with you between the two ladies before answering Narda. "There was this abolished incestuous tradition within my family line, one that Odin rid us of when he'd chosen to go down the path that would lead to his marriage to my grandmother Frigga. In its place…a duel would commence in the event of more than one legitimate heir to Asgard's throne. It seemed that my hand in marriage was requested as a term of Loki's succumbence."

"You are to marry the god of mischief?" Halley squeaked, a pit forming in your stomach when you saw an eagerness in their faces. "Ohh, Y/N this is wonderful news, the prince adores you--"

"Hang on." You withdrew your hands from their grasp, your brows knitting together as another migraine came about. "You two knew about his lechery?"

"Well I wouldn't say we knew," Narda explained. "More like we'd surmised. Much as the prince is the god of lies, there was one truth that he couldn't hide away from any one of us to save his life. His love for you. We tried to rationalize that perhaps the tenderness we would see in his eyes was a familial sort of love--"

"But it was clear to just about anyone that he looked at you the way Narda looks at Fandral…and vice versa," Halley concluded. "He looks at you like a man in love, my friend."

Your face fell at their words. Were you simply so oblivious to what apparently anyone with eyes and a functioning mind could see? Had you truly subconsciously overlooked every gesture and every endearment that Loki sent your way in the name of blissful ignorance?

"B-But never you mind all that, Y/N," Narda spoke again, placing her hands on your shoulders and calling your attention back to them before you lost yourself in your mind. They'd surely known you long enough to see your tells before it became too arduous a task and they would need reinforcements. The most reliable of which was now called your betrothed. "We must strive to look at the brighter side of the situation. You need not marry that loathsome prince of Alfheim anymore, and you need no longer leave the realm after your wedding!"

"And much as this is not what you had envisioned as far as your married life goes," Halley chimed in. "We could still perhaps partake in some wedding traditions…particularly one where your bridal party gets to throw you a couple of celebrations before the ceremony?"

Much as you still struggled to come to terms with the betrothal, your friends had rather valid arguments. And Halley's suggestion began to lighten your mood even by the slightest. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

The silence in the war room was deafening, none of the men inside daring to break it after your understandably emotional exit. Odin seemed to be mouthing words to himself, surely planning away his next steps now that there was no longer any need for the horrendous duel that would have resulted in the end of Loki's life.

Meanwhile Thor held his head in his hands, the only sound filling the room being his deep breaths as he tried to calm himself. Impulsive as the elder god was in his youth, it seemed he didn't wish to say or do anything as rash as you had moments earlier.

"I sincerely hope you realize the gravity of what you've done," the god of thunder spoke, his eyes filled with a mixture of anguish and restraint. "This surrender of yours may have irreparably damaged my daughters relationship with not just you, but all of us."

There was the faintest voice in the back of his mind contemplating taking it all back, the god's heart splintering as the words you'd spewed his and Thor's way replayed over and over. That would be what the coming years, centuries even, married to you would look like. Perhaps even worse as your hatred would fester over time.

If he rescinded his surrender now perhaps he could still salvage what dregs of love and respect you had for him, and he could spend what time he had before the duel finding another way for you to escape Prince Damien's clutches. A way that didn't require you to be shackled to your father's brother, in a gilded cage of forced matrimony.

But he knew well and good that this was the only way to secure your safety. To ensure that you wouldn't have to live out the rest of your days in a loveless marriage that reduced you to barely anything more than an incubator for the elven prince's heirs. Even worse if that wretched prince decided to share you with his trusted comrades and his swine of a father as soon as you were given the dishonor of being called his wife.

Meanwhile the worst that could happen whilst you were Loki's wife had most likely already happened. His love would be unreturned, and the most he could hope for was a lick of civility. He would not coerce you into loving him, and for the most part he would make his best effort to refrain from showing you his affection so as to not add to your discomfort.

All that truly mattered was that he had successfully thwarted Damien's loathsome plans to turn you into little more than a piece of meat to be picked apart by such animals.

His getting to live and escape the bloodshed of the duel for the throne was simply an added recompense.

"Considering what the alternative would have been like for her, Brother, I will happily take her scornful demeanor for the rest of my days," he answered, sincerity pouring out of every word. "She may despise me for as long as I live for taking her choice in marriage away from her, and be appalled by knowing of my affections towards her, but at least she will be here. Safe in the realm she calls home. Surrounded by those that love her most. Better this than all of Asgard losing her…and ultimately her losing any sense of self if Prince Damien has his way."

"The royal court of Alfheim will not take kindly to the news that a unification with our realm by marriage to Princess Y/N is no longer an option," Odin finally spoke aloud. "Namely their crown prince."

"That adolescent in a grown oaf's body is simply ambitious and suffers from delusions of grandeur," Thor said with a dismissive sneer. "And I do agree with you, Brother. To a point. But Father is also right. There will be an effort of resistance on their part, even likely demanding a form of reparation for their time spent gone to waste."

"Perhaps he could challenge me to a duel, then," Loki responded bitterly, a rueful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And I could do all the Realms a favor by ridding them of this pathetic disrespectful excuse of a prince with my bare hands."

"Let us hope it does not come to that, my sons." Odin stood from the table, beginning to circle the room as he spoke of his plans for the immediate future. "We have now entered a time for celebration. There is to be a royal wedding. The likes that may satisfy the proponents of our old and our new traditions alike."

A chill ran down Loki's spine at his father's words, already knowing the course that this conversation would take. Tradition decreed that when a royal was betrothed, there were to be a series of affairs they were to partake in, mainly so the citizens of their Realm could grow accustomed to the new relationship and accept the new dynamics at play.

He always thought of it as being paraded around akin to a child going around their classroom to show the other students their shiny new toy. And now at the center of that attention would be himself…and you.

"You are to engage in a public courtship," the Allfather addressed him. "Get the denizens of the streets of Asgard accustomed to the idea that they will now see you and Y/N in a different light. That you two will now belong to one another and as such, any slight to one of you will be an affront to the other. We can decide what events this courtship will consist of at a later day. For now, we focus on the announcement of your betrothal."

Cognizance seemed to dawn upon Thor's features, his accusatory gaze pinning his brother where he sat. "He has been courting her, Father. All this time. We'd all simply been unaware."

Loki fought back the urge to protest or deny the claim. He wanted more than anything to say that Thor was simply jumping to conclusions now, that he was farcically wrong, as he often was. But as the seconds passed, and he looked back on his interactions with you, he knew that denying it would be nothing but a bold faced lie.

The gifts he would bring back for you upon his return from every assignment Odin or Frigga would send him off to, the time you two would spend together despite having no formal reason to, the gestures he made towards you from the way he would hold you to his side when you passed a crowded street or how he kissed your knuckles when your time together for the day had reached its conclusion. There had always been a layer of intimacy that anyone watching would have seen from leagues away.

You two had been unwittingly engaging in a public courtship since the day you met.

"I assure you, Brother, that had never been my intention," was all he could muster.

"Then these next moons shall come quite naturally to you then, Loki," Odin told him. "And now public courtship is precisely your intention. It is one thing for Y/N to have accepted the terms of your surrender, and ultimately this marriage, but it shall be another thing entirely for the rest of Asgard to accept it. Now, your first act as her betrothed is to find her and inform her of what shall be required of both of you prior to the royal wedding taking place."

"Try not to tell her while she is in the presence of her weapons," Thor quipped. "The last thing we need is for her to be locked in the dungeons for committing avunculicide."

A/N: Pretty sure Thor hated how his brain cells rubbed together and figured it out at the end back there 🫠 But anyways holy hell goddamn I can't believe we're finally here…Season 1 is coming to a close and I can finally get started on planning out Season 2…and writing a whole bunch of other projects alongside it 🤪

Lemme just say right now…the plans I have so far for Season 2? Especially towards the end of it? Chaos (insert baby yoda with the flames here)

I had to split the S1 finale into two parts because honestly it was too long and there was too much going on even for me for a single chapter. The final episode of Season 1 will go up on Friday. 😳

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @lokidokieokie @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @goddessofwonderland @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @dryyoursaltyoceantears @herdetectivetheorist @alexakeyloveloki @lulubelle814 @jaidenhawke @km-ffluv

one look and they'll know

See my full list of works here!

Summary: You go to work on the set of Thor Ragnarok one day and you're greeted with the sight of one Tom Hiddleston on his knees and your coworkers whispering about how he perfected his posture.

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Warning/s: implied smut (there's like 2 paragraphs that talks about it), mentions of BDSM terms, talks about throat grabbing, cussing, and a potentially Domme!Reader that doesn't know her power [if i missed anything let me know!]

Working as a set designer on a movie set meant that every day could either be agonizingly monotonous, or no two days would ever be the same. There was this one TV episode you worked on where majority of the project took place in an interrogation room, so there was next to nothing for you to do besides making sure that continuity errors were minimized or even completely avoided.

This project…was not agonizingly monotonous. By some stroke of luck, you'd landed a gig as a set designer for Thor: Ragnarok, and now you were working on sets that would be walked on by the likes of Chris Hemsworth, Anthony Hopkins, and--fucking Christ on a crutch--Tom Hiddleston.

When you decided to leave your day job of weekly software patches and bug fixes and the ever droning minutiae of daily updates that really gave you nothing except migraines and a bad habit of stress-eating for a chance at a career in the entertainment industry, did you ever think it would lead you here? Absolutely not. Truthfully, you were content with the interrogation rooms, but this? This was a pipe dream.

"Ah. Morning, Y/N," you heard the moment you stepped on set from Taika, currently dressed in a skin-tight spandex gray CGI suit with a giant Korg head harnessed atop his shoulders. "We sourced enough sugar glass bottles for Tessa to throw in Tom's general direction today, yeah?" 

"Well I got five dozen so…we should be good," you shot back with a chuckle. You knew full well what the cast and crew got up to when sugar glass was involved. Mostly smashing it on each other's heads and making some great takes for the blooper reel.

"Awesome. I'll see you there." With a wave you started walking toward your fellow set designers, currently glancing and giggling at one of the Sakaar sets.

"Alright, what's got your panties wet this time?" you called out to your coworkers. 

Bryan, a lanky guy slightly taller than you motioned toward the set. "Look at Hiddlebum." 

"I'd really rather not, you know that I trip on air the second I even glance in his direction," you shot back. "I can't keep my dignity around that man, let alone my sanity. Don't tell me to look at him." 

"He's not gonna look back," Denise, a curvy redhead and one of your closer friends on set, commented in a sing song tone. "Trust me, boss, you're gonna wanna look." 

With a huff, you glanced toward the set and you could wear that your heart turned to solid lead and then jumped out of your chest and straight to the ground. Lord have mercy, you were not ready for the image of Tom in his dark blue-green leather getup, wrapped in gold chains, on his fucking knees, back perfectly straight, and head tilted down to the floor.

The sound that came out of your mouth did not sound ladylike. Hell, it didn't even sound human. 

"Do you think he's--?" Denise started.

"Ohh he definitely is, I mean look at that posture! You don't get there from looking up one picture, you get there from practice and meticulous correction. This man's a sub."

"Sorry, a what?" You were now officially, thoroughly, confused.

"Submissive," Bryan explained to you. "It's a whole thing that needs a 6-hour crash course and a 40+ slide Powerpoint presentation, but for your immediate knowledge, madam, it means he likes being ordered around in the bedroom." 

"So what? Like strip? Slowly? Walk over to me, come to momma type shit?” 

"I'm shocked how quickly you got the vibe, boss," Denise quipped. "Bry, what if she's a domme?"

"A what??" you nearly shrieked. "You think I'm the one who says 'strip slowly and sit down like a good boy and don't move a muscle while I ride you'?" You took a breath to calm yourself. "You're fucking insane, the lot of you."

"Again, you got the vibes, boss. The more you joke about it the more I'm convinced that it's in your DNA."

You let out a frustrated exhale. "Alright you two knuckleheads, look at me." Your voice dropped half an octave and became fuller as you said the last bit, using a tone you hadn't taken out ever since you resigned from the testosterone-laden world of software development. 

"Yes, goddess?" Your blood froze over as you heard the soft spoken words. There was no way it was…No. 

Right?

You looked at Bryan and Denise, both with matching expressions of wide-eyed scandalous amusement on their faces, as they shifted their gaze back and forth between you and Tom. Slowly you moved your gaze back to the set, your breath catching in your throat in an ugly inhuman sound as you saw the steel-blue eyes that haunted your filthiest, wettest, most vivid fantasies…staring straight at you. 

"I-I-I uhm…" you stammered, your voice returning to your normal tone, losing your footing despite being completely stationary. "I was talking to these knuckleheads, s-sorry Tom." You took a steadying breath. "As you were." You mentally smacked yourself as your 'programmer BossLady' voice came out again, your eyes widening in complete shock as he wordlessly followed your instructions and resumed to look down at the floor. 

"Confirmed," Bryan stage whispered to you and Denise. "He's a sub, and we've been silently submitting to Y/N all this time. I mean…Madam." You groaned at his words. 

"You two," you hissed at them. "Let me fucking tell you, I am the farthest thing from a madam. Or a goddess or whatever it was that he called me." You inwardly shuddered at the memory, although if you were being honest it wasn't from shock or disgust. It was from arousal. "My life is unbelievably, annoyingly, dreadfully…vanilla."

Denise giggled. "But you know the jargon? Uh huh. Sure, boss."

You rolled your eyes at her. "Bitch please, I read Fifty Shades. The smut. The toe-curling filth found in the wonder that is Kindle Unlimited. The fanfiction written about that fine-ass man on his knees over there," you whispered the last part in a hiss. "But I digress. The point is that my brain may be filthy, and it may be filled with very vivid fantasies of that very same man on his knees right now, but real life Y/N? Yeah. No."

"Maybe no man ever rose to the challenge," Bryan teased. "You think Hiddlebum would?" 

"That's not a direction my brain ever wants to go unless I'm already in bed, in my birthday suit, legs spread, with a toy in my hand," you shot back without missing a beat. "As for no man ever rising to the challenge?" You leaned in close to their ears. "I can't even get a guy to go down on me because every guy I ever dated or even just fucked said they never do it with anyone because it tastes weird. And don't get me started on the ones that practically bolt out of my hotel room naked when I ask them to put a hand on my throat."

"Maybe you're just talking to the wrong boys, Y/N." You turned around to see that Chris had joined your conversation with a smug look on his face. "You have to start talking to men. Perhaps then your luck will turn."

"Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to eavesdrop on conversations that don't have shit to do with you, Hemsy?" you shot back with an amused smile. You couldn't ever really be mad at the guy who resembled a walking talking 6'4 teddy bear. It was physically impossible. "Good morning."

"Good morning, indeed," he chuckled, turning his attention to the Sakaaran set. "Beautiful posture there, Tom! Absolutely exquisite," he hollered, causing the British man to let out several chuckles.

"Ehehehehe, sod off, Chris." He looked up from his position, most likely intending to glare at Chris, but instead his eyes met yours, and you felt this inexplicable pull towards him. No. Wait. Back up a bit. You felt as if there was this inexplicable force pulling him towards you. You tilted your head the slightest bit, as if questioning him and his tethering gaze, your eyes once again widening in total shock as he responded with turning his head towards the floor in a bow once again.

"Erm…what the fuck was that?" Chris asked, poking your shoulder repeatedly. "It's like you broke him, tiny terror." 

"Me?? Broke him??" you hissed as you turned around to glare at the towering Australian. "I'm the one who's fifty shades of fucking confused here!" 

"You may be, but I've never seen him fold for a woman like that in the entire time I've known him. With a tilt of your head, no less. No wonder your people call you 'madam'. Maybe I should call you that--"

"Don't even fucking think about it, Hemsworth." Your tone from earlier had returned, the one you tried to keep locked away since you gave your resignation letter to your final day job two years ago. A tone you'd once been confused as to why it could cause all those bravado-filled middle-aged men to fold and actually listen to you, well now you had an inkling. 

The tone was domineering. It allowed no room for counter-arguments; perhaps you were right about the words that you were uttering, but also perhaps you weren't, but your tone didn't demand their subservience, it just took. And while it worked in conference rooms and face offs with no less than senior management of the client companies you'd dealt with, never once did you think to use it in the bedroom.

You never realized it was an option.

"Where's Taika?" you asked after taking a few deep breaths to recenter your brain. This was gonna be one of those days, the type that you'd never forget even when you were an octogenarian and you'd  have trouble remembering if you've even eaten for the day. "I have to tell him we can't have the scene set up like this." 

"Why not, lil mayhem?" You turned and once again saw the ridiculous gray CGI spandex that Taika was decked out in, but thankfully now without the gigantic Korg head so at least you were no longer confused where you should be staring. 

"Because people are gonna take one look at him and they're gonna know," you explained, pointing towards the set at the kneeling Loki. 

The director looked at you, clearly confused. "Know what?" 

"Ohh this will be delicious," Denise all but moaned. "Watch this," she told Taika as she turned back to you. "Tell him to straighten his back." 

"This feels like I'm exploiting him somehow, you do it." 

"He's not gonna listen to me, I don't have the voice," she teased back, and then sighed. "The sooner you convince Taika, the sooner we can fix the scene." 

"Ugh, fine. Taika? Look at Tom." You took another breath, finding that voice once again in no time. "Straighten your back." Once again, your breath caught in your throat with a hideous sound as you watched him wordlessly follow your instructions. "That's what I mean," you addressed Taika once more. "People take one look at that scene, see his posture and--"

"Apologies, goddess." 

It felt like your spine had been replaced with pure ice as you watched Taika's jaw go slack, heard Chris choking on air in the background, and your two fellow set designers and friends start giggling once more as soon as the soft-spoken words were uttered from the mouth of one Thomas William Hiddleston.

"What did you call me??" 

"Ohh I think we know what he called you. Goddess," Taika taunted. "Right then, we need to get this man off his knees," he said, turning to the crew and giving them instructions to reset the scene.

"So what? We're gonna have him stand now?" one of the assistant producers sneered. "Way to take us out of the moment, Y/L/N. Fucking buzzkill," she muttered.

"I'm not telling you to make him stand, I'm just telling you to get him off his knees," you countered. "It's not my fault that your comprehension's lacking." 

The assistant started to make a motion towards you as if you bitch slap you, but the director stood in her way. "Don't even think about it. That's a one way ticket to Tom's shit list if you lay a hand on her," he threatened, and you watched as the AP looked over to the corner of the set with wide eyes. When you followed her gaze, your eyes widened as well at the sight of Tom with a borderline murderous look in his eyes. 

"Don't," he said simply. The AP backed off, muttering something about favoritism that you couldn't quite catch. 

"Alright then, lil mayhem, this is your idea. Run the show." You stared at Taika with incredulity. "You're the one who wants him off his knees? You get him off his knees. Call the shots."

You scrambled for ideas. "A chair?"

"Sorry, madam, we got nothing in props that could even look like it belongs in Sakaar. And I already know what you're gonna say, the Sakaaran standards are literally on the floor but still. A proper looking dining table chair will not fit the vibe." 

You glared at Bryan. "Then get me a cement block, a wooden platform. A fucking concrete slab. Anything, just get this man off his knees." You turned back to face Taika. "Legally, who can I yell at here without an HR violation?"

"Just those two." He pointed at your set designers. "You are their superior after all." 

You turned back to the dawdling set designers, staring at the scene laid out before them with amused looks on their faces. "Find me something." They kept staring. "NOW!!" They ran off to props like headless chickens, making both Chris and Taika break out in chuckles.

"Remind me to never get on your bad side, tiny terror," the giant Australian told you before proceeding to pat you on the head like a ferocious and yet annoyingly fluffy guard dog. "Hey Tom you can get off your knees now, you kinky little shit!" he hollered, chuckling. After a few moments he started again. "Ah, shit, Y/N be a dear? Seems he won't listen to anyone but you when he's like this." 

You groaned. "For fuck's sake," you murmured before taking another deep breath, slipping into your natural voice once more. "Stand up." The next moments felt like a sucker punch to your entire system as he once again followed your instructions, afterward stealing a glance at your direction with the softest look in his eyes and a sweet smile that left you completely breathless.

What was he up to? Why was he acting like this?

Fifteen minutes later, Bryan and Denise came rushing back in with a platform box painted a distressed teal setting it down on the ground near the now standing Tom.

The next 13 hours of the day were comparatively less eventful than the start of your day. Rearranging sets, reviewing shots for possible continuity errors that you were sure Twitter would crucify you all for if they caught wind of it, and the occasional bitchy stare down with that PA from earlier this morning who tried to smack you for daring to mock her comprehension skills.

"Let's call it for the day, everybody!" Taika hollered from his director chair, now thankfully wearing more normal clothes and not that spandex CGI suit. "I'll see you in twelve hours. Get some sleep, don't go out drinking because if you come to set tomorrow hung over I will have your head." Everyone murmured their assent as they moved about, wrapping up their tasks for the day, and he turned to you. "Lil mayhem, try to get some tonight. I'm saying this as a friend. You're wound up." 

"Honestly, T, it's just the whole 'she's a domme' thing from earlier. Really threw me in for a loop. I should be fine after some sleep," you reassured him, making sure to pick up a copy of tomorrow's call sheet to do some prep work before you eventually succumb to the sweet lonely embrace of solitary slumber in your hotel room. "Go, T. I can lock up tonight. FaceTime your kids, tell them you love them, read them a bedtime story. I'm sure they miss their dad." 

He took a few moments before giving you an exaggerated sigh and tossing you the keys. "You drive a hard bargain, Y/L/N." He walked over to you, ruffling your hair. "You're the best." 

"I know I know. Go. I'll do a quick sweep, make sure nobody gets locked in here for the night and we get here with someone banging on the door screaming 'let me out let me out'." You grabbed the clipboard containing a checklist of the areas you were to double check on before locking up and proceeded to glance over each area of the set. 

Just as you were wrapping up your check of the cast trailers, a voice in the relative darkness startled you. "Miss Y/L/N." You straightened your posture and started fumbling in your pocket for something, anything to defend yourself with. Then you remembered the keys, so you quickly started threading each key in between your fingers, when you felt two large hands gently grasp your shoulders. "Shh shh, it's alright. It's just me. You're safe."

You let out the heaving breath you were holding, recognizing the voice immediately. "Tom," you breathed out, the fear leaving your body, but the tension remaining. "Fucking hell I was about to stab you." You felt your spine go frigid as you felt him pressing tender kisses to the top of your head as his hand traveled down your arm to deftly remove the keys from between your fingers. 

"I didn't mean to startle you," he whispered into your hair, his hand once again traveling up your arm and resumed its place on your shoulder. "I simply wanted to ensure you were safe. I didn't see you come out of the studio." He moved his head to press a kiss to your temple. "I apologize, goddess."

There was that name again, stealing all the breath from your lungs and making you question so much about you. About him. But mostly it made you question…"Why do you keep calling me that?" 

His hand traveled up to lightly grasp your chin, urging you to turn your head and look up at him. "Because that's what I call you," he answered simply, bringing his face much closer to yours. Once he was close enough that you could feel his breath on your lips, he whispered, "When I dream of you." 

Instead of saying anything, you opted to bring your hand up to the back of his neck, threading your fingers through his short dark blond curls and gently pulling him down towards you, touching your lips to his briefly in a tentative, fleeting kiss. This led to him quickly turning you to face him, lifting you by the backs of your thighs, and backing you into the side of the nearest trailer. 

When he had you securely trapped between him and the trailer, he brought his hand up to cup your face, while the other roamed from your thigh and up the side of your body. Your breath hitched in your throat as you felt his thumb lightly graze the side of your breast. 

Just as he was about to lean in to kiss you, you breathed out, "Wait." He stopped immediately, his eyes quickly becoming apologetic. "I-I don't know…" you stammered, trying to find your words, but quickly realizing that the most honest words you had at the moment were, "I don't know how to be what you want. I don't know anything--" 

A smile of relief began to spread across his face. "It's alright." He pressed a quick kiss to your lips, as if to reassure you. "I simply want you, Y/N. As you are." A soft kiss to your cheek, then your jaw. "I want to make you happy." A kiss to the skin below your ear, before placing his hand lightly around your throat, sending a thrill throughout your entire body, and then whispering, "I want to satisfy you." 

"And what do you get out of this?" you breathed out. "Seems to me I'm the only one benefiting from this, that's not right." 

"Me? That's easy," he murmured against your skin as he rolled his hips into yours, causing you to let out an obscene moan that echoed through the dark empty halls of the studio. "I get you." 

This was an unusual morning. Unusual in the sense that this time, you were not woken up by the scandalous sound of your alarm, rather you'd awoken in this blissful, sated state. Your mind raced through the memories from last night, how you'd practically raced to your hotel room hand in hand with Tom after you'd locked up in the studio. 

The almost reverent way he stripped you of your clothing, pausing to press kisses to every new area of skin exposed to him, how he already had you a writhing mess before he even took off your panties. How he brought you and pushed you well past the point of complete ecstasy with his fingers and his mouth multiple times before he even made love to you.

Repeatedly.

You bit your lip as the memories came at you in vivid detail, pushing yourself off of your bed to get ready for the day ahead. Before you could even begin to inch yourself out of the bed, an arm tightened around your waist, pulling your naked body against a broad, toned, equally naked form. 

A smile found its way to your face with no effort at all as you placed your hand over the arm wrapped around you, your fingertips tracing the length of the forearm, causing him to stir and press his body even closer to yours. A hybrid between a giggle and a moan escaped your lips as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his hum of satisfaction vibrating throughout your body. 

He moved his kisses across your shoulder, pausing for a good few moments on the juncture of your shoulder and your neck before moving up to your ear and whispering in the most delicious sleep-laden voice, "Good morning, goddess." 

A/N: Please don't crucify me for the non-smutty implied smut, I am babie. But the idea refused to leave my head so I had to write it.

This insanity was based off of this post because I'm gonna be honest, my brain went places when I saw those pictures. AND THE GIF

Here's a bonus gif for those who read until the end:

Taglist: @lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @imalovernotahater @mygfloki @lucylaufeyson3 @thomase1 @springdandelixn @fictive-sl0th @mochie85 @laliceee @xorpsbane @gigglingtigger @silverfire475 @cabingrlandrandomcrap @vickie5446 @salempoe @lokixryss @sinsandguilt @lokidbadguy @alexakeyloveloki @glitterylokislut @arch-venus25 @freefrommars @littlemortals @cakesandtom @girl-of-multi-fandoms @mischief2sarawr @thedistractedagglomeration @five-miles-over @goblingirlsarah @peaches1958 @huntress-artemiss @lilibet261 @iobsessoverfictionalmen @holymultiplefandomsbatman @lovingchoices14 @avoliax @devilsadvocactus @purplegrrl27 @lokiprompts @sititran @imherefortomhiddleston @ladyjames78 @stupidthoughtsinwriting

miss possessive - congressman bucky barnes

okay not my best work, i swear i have like nine drafts i've come up with in a week, none of them good enough to post.

this is inspired by miss possessive by tate mcrae even though i completely lost sight of the song really quickly

~~~

you really had no right to be so jealous.

you watched him from across the floor, sipping on your flute of champagne. you'd grabbed it off of one of those waiters' trays as they were walking about the room.

it tasted like shit. you didn't like the taste of wine, and it wasn't even enough to get you drunk.

you knew this kind of event was difficult for him to sit through, but hey, he made his choice going into politics.

you watched as he made his rounds, speaking to various donors and attempting to charm them. you watched as all their wives fawned over your-

no.

you watched as all their wives fawned over him, bringing him in for a hug instead of a handshake. of course they were interested; he was the best looking man here. yes, he was the oldest man in the room, but appeared to be the youngest and was, regardless, easily the most attractive. and all the thirty-some wives of the cranky old rich white men wanted him.

it pissed you off. not that you had the right to be pissed, but. oh well. you're just a girl.

after two flutes of champagne, you watch as one of the donors receives a phone call, leaving his wife with Bucky. ever the gentleman, he would never leave a woman all by herself in a room full of sharks who might try to snatch her up. 

Bucky was very much a different man than he was in the forties, of course. doesn't mean he lost the ability to attract every woman in the room.

you can't stand idly by as she puts his hands all over him, and he can't take his eyes off of her. no, of course he would never go for a married woman. what he did know, though, was that if he pissed her off, her husband wouldn't donate to his campaign.

you roll your eyes and decide it's time for some hard liquor.

you hide in the corner of the room, drinking your much stronger beverage as fast as possible. no, getting drunk at a professional event isn't the best idea, but what do you care. you're not the star of the show.

he is.

he's the brilliant ex-POW who's turned his entire life around in a whole new century. he's the gorgeous soldier who not only survived, but is also electing to do something meaningful with his life. 

he's the star tonight.

he's the star of every thought you have of your future, but that can't possibly come to surface now. it's not the time or place. 

watching him entertain this woman truly boils your blood, but at least you have some actual alcohol in your system now. you no longer feel the need to justify why her hands on his pristine suit makes you want to grab her by the diamonds around her neck and yank her off of him. you can justify your desire to grab him by the tie to pull him away from her and yell at him for not focusing on what's important. 

you bite your tongue. you knew it was all a ploy.

doesn't mean you had to like it. 

~~~

while you stand at the bar waiting for your second beverage of the evening, a man comes up next to you, and the bartender takes his drink order. 

you give him a small, awkward smile as you briefly make eye contact. you're kind of shocked: he's definitely the only man in this room who appears to be younger than 60, Bucky excluded.

you almost startle when he speaks up, introducing himself. Michael, he says his name is.

you turn to actually face him this time. roughly 40, plenty taller than you, and brown hair sprinkled with some greys in there. your perfect type. you quietly tell yourself you're done drinking–no way you're gonna fuck this up. if you weren't so mad about Bucky's new admirer, you might be a tad less inclined to speak to him, but… 

you step closer as you give him a real smile and introduce yourself.

"so, correct me if I'm wrong, but something tells me you're here alone tonight," he begins, indicating to your left hand. no ring. 

you laugh a little. 

"you would be correct," you tell him. "I could say the same about you."

he smiles back at you. it's so beautiful you forget all about your boss and the woman he's now got on his arm as he continues to walk around–

well. you almost forget. good enough.

"you would also be correct."

you explain why you're here, you work for one of the candidates. although, you don't tell him who, exactly. he explains why he's here, one of the patrons. you have to pry the information out of him, but you appreciate it: he's trying to talk to you without flashing his money in your face. it's noble, you think.

you eventually learn he's interested in actually getting to know the candidates' campaigns, not just what they think they can offer him in return for his money.

"you know, I would be happy to learn more about your boss' campaign. from one of the people who probably understands it best," he tells you. you're slightly taken aback for a moment, not aware this was a business interaction. you never even told him who your boss was, so it was confusing, to say the least.

you felt stupid for thinking he was actually interested, for thinking that he was flirting with you.

"oh, of course-" you begin to tell him, but he interjects, "after I take you out, perhaps?"

your smile perks back up subconsciously. so you didn't have it wrong.

"I would love that," you tell him, carefully taking the lapels of his jacket into your hands. you feel his hands come to your waist, and it's like a jolt of energy runs up your spine.

you look closer and almost flip your shit as you see his eyes up close. they're Bucky's eyes. he's not Bucky, sadly, but. 

you're fucked.

"maybe dinner can happen... another time?" you offer, hoping he gets the hint. you realize you probably look like a whore throwing yourself at him like this.

he chuckles. "I've got a room upstairs, if you'd like to come have drinks instead of dinner."

hell yes. you're gonna score tonight, even if it's not with the man you dream about with your hands between your legs every night-

"I would," you say, and bite your tongue. "I just... have to stick around until this thing is over. yeah?"

he nods and steps back. "I suppose I should also do what I came here for," he chuckles. "I'll come find you later?"

you smile and you feel your face go pink. "sounds good."

you can't help the fact that your gaze reverts immediately back to your boss the second the man walks off. Bucky hasn't spared you a single glance all evening, but the second you look back at him this time, you're suddenly staring into his beautiful eyes. 

he holds eye contact with you for what feels like an eternity. his expression is muted, no real emotion showing. maybe... curiosity?

of course he's not going to look mad, or upset, or jealous. you have to stop thinking he'd ever look at you with anything other than pure professionalism.

because he's everything. and you're just a kid, lost in the world, desperately in love with your boss, and everything is fucking falling apart around you.

at least you've got a rich, hot, older man ready to fuck you tonight.

~~~

you kept to your word to yourself and didn't drink for the rest of the night, although you continued hovering at the bar for the semblance of safety it provided.

you continued staring at Bucky for the next two hours. the clingy woman's husband had, in fact, returned and took her away from Bucky. clearly, she was pissed, but tried to hide it. you had to bite back a smirk.

he didn't look back at you once for the rest of the evening.

eventually, the crowd dies down. you realize that now, you have to explain to your boss that you won't be riding back to the office with him, effectively telling him your exact plans for the rest of the night. embarrassing!

you're almost ready to bite the bullet and bid Bucky a good night, scanning the room for him, when you hear a voice from behind you. 

"we still on for drinks?"

you plaster a smile on your face as you turn around to the man standing behind you.

"absolutely," you say, taking his hands. "lead the way."

you begin to follow the man, telling yourself to try and remember to shoot your boss a text to 'not worry about you' before getting your clothes torn off by this man who's currently whisking you away.

you get into the elevator with him, what's his name, you think? oh, Michael, and yank him in hard, crashing your mouths together, putting all of your energy into how badly you need this.

you're startled by the sound of a clanging of metal, ripping your mouth away from the man's and turning to face the noise.

well, apparently, you were too eager and stupid enough to not wait for the elevator doors to entirely shut, because you see now that the noise was a result of Bucky's vibranium arm grabbing the elevator door. he pushes it open and steps inside, eyes piercing daggers through you the whole time.

you stand there, appalled. the man gently pulls away from you, reaching out a hand to attempt to shake Bucky's hand.

"Mr. Barnes, it's a pleasure," he begins. "my apologies for this... less than ideal meeting."

Bucky doesn't even look at the man, eyeing you up and down, taking in your smudged lipstick and the way your dress is slightly out of place.

the man attempts once more to interject. "Mr. Barnes, please, don't worry about her. why don't us men go back downstairs and have a real discussion? I'd love to hear more about your campaign."

wait. why do his words sound like they're throwing you under the bus, almost?

Bucky notices it, too, you realize. he tilts his head in the man's direction before actually averting his gaze to look at him.

"and leave the lady all by herself?" he asks.

"don't worry about that. she's... inconsequential. if you and I can just go back downstairs and–"

"what did you just say?" Bucky asks. you swear he doesn't look like your boss anymore, but someone... else.

the man is taken aback by Bucky's demeanor. his mouth gapes like an idiot.

"you do know this is my assistant, right?" Bucky asks him. the man's face goes pale as the pieces slot together in his head.

"Mr. Barnes, my apologies, truly," he says.

you just stand there feeling more stupid than ever. inconsequential? wow, okay. you almost don't even care that he's dismissing your entire existence, but you can't stand the fact that he's doing it in front of Bucky. you care more about what Bucky thinks of you than literally anyone else, and now? now he's going to see you as a fucking slut who isn't even good enough for a man to commit to for one night.

god, you're pathetic.

"shouldn't you be apologizing to her?" Bucky grits.

the elevator doors open to the man's floor, and he mumbles a sorry under his breath as he runs out.

great. not only do you look pathetic in front of your boss, but you're not getting fucked tonight, either. just great.

the doors shut behind Bucky, who has now returned his gaze to you. you wonder if he's going to press the button to go back to the lobby.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Mr. Barnes," you say, swallowing your embarrassment as you stand up straight and adjust your dress.

he just stares at you.

"what?" you ask.

"are you okay?" he asks, and he looks genuinely concerned.

you know he cares about you, you're his assistant, after all. but that's it.

"fine," you assure him, and begin to reach behind him to press the button to take you back down to the lobby.

he gently grabs your wrist before you can.

you look at him, confused. you know your face says it all.

"Mr.–" you begin.

"Bucky," he corrects.

"can I press the button, Mr. Barnes?"

he still hasn't let go of your wrist. you feel stupid for enjoying the feel of his metal hand against your skin, for getting to feel a part of him that's real.

"you know, you clearly picked out the worst of the men here tonight," he observes.

you roll your eyes and pull your wrist away from him before you do something stupid.

"are you kidding? this place was riddled with capitalist billionaires and politicians. like you," you say, smirking.

he chuckles a little.

you can't help yourself, though. can't let it go unsaid.

"clearly you had some interested parties of your own tonight."

he rolls his eyes and finally turns away from you, pressing the button for the lobby. you let out a quiet sigh of relief. being in this elevator any longer, with him? that would just about kill you.

"you noticed that, huh?" he asks.

"who didn't?" you mumble. but of course, he's not just a politician, he's an enhanced, so he hears it.

"look, I knew she was married, I was never going to-" he begins to explain, but you cut him off.

"oh, I don't care what she does in her own fucked-up marriage."

oh my god. what did you just say? did you just admit to the fact that the only reason you did care was because she was fawning over Bucky?

fuck.

the elevator doors open, and you rush out.

you can hear the smirk on his face as he trails after you.

"so, you were really going to sleep with that guy, huh?" he teases.

you stop in your tracks. most everyone has left by now, leaving only you and Bucky in the room aside from the clean-up crew. you turn back to face him.

"can we just go?"

he nods and calls for the car to come around.

~~~

twenty minutes, you remind yourself.

in twenty minutes, you'll have made it back to the office, and you can go get in your own car and take yourself back to your own place and you won't have to be sitting thigh to thigh with your boss in the back of a limo that would totally be hot to fuck in-

he clears his throat, and you turn your head to face him.

"what that guy said..." he begins. you roll your eyes in anger at the reminder. you didn't even care he said it, you just wish he hadn't said it in front of Bucky.

you wave your hand as though waving off the thought, and waving off Bucky's concern. but it doesn't quite work like that.

"you're not inconsequential."

he says it with such a conviction you feel it deep in your bones, in the very core of your being. he sounds so authentic that it almost hurts.

a million thoughts swirl in your head. you could say i know, you could get defensive, you could say thanks, Bucky...

a better one pops in your head.

"how did you know where I was? you didn't see me all evening."

the limo stops moving. the driver rolls down the divider to grumble something about traffic at this hour? before rolling it back up again.

great. now it's going to take even longer to get home to your vibrator.

Bucky sees the interruption as a way to drop the matter. you press it.

"Mr. Barnes?"

"god, would you stop calling me that?"

you see him turn away from you to look out the window, biting his lip and rubbing his forehead. you've now frustrated him, and he's mad at you. this is good. it's easier for you to deal with him being angry at you than him being nice to you.

you know he just wants you to call him Bucky, but you're a smartass.

"yeah, okay, sorry. Sergeant Barnes," you mumble, smirking to yourself.

he about flips his shit. why is he getting so worked up?

"seriously?" he asks, turning back to you. his eyes are blown back, in anger, probably. not lust, like you wish they were. because you're just a stupid kid, and he's just your boss with a lifetime of trauma. you could never understand him the way you wanted to.

"what?" you say, biting your lip as you smile, continuing to tease him.

you swear that for a second, he glances down to your lips.

SHIT!

in that embarrassing moment, you realize your lipstick is still smudged across your face from the moment in the elevator. your heart rate shoots up as you bury your head in your chest, bringing your hand to wipe away the mess of your face, before turning to face the opposite way from him.

you are, well and truly, stuck in traffic. some concert, or sports game, or whatever...

which means you're stuck, pressed up against your boss, in the back of this tiny limo right now, for only god knows how much longer.

you're pulling your phone out of your clutch when he says your name.

you want to lean into the feeling, how smooth it is. how crisp his voice is, how pretty it sounds saying your name, as though he's genuinely paying you any attention whatsoever.

"you're not inconsequential."

it flares your anger, all of it coming up from your gut and into your throat, as you respond.

"god, would you forget it already?" you snap.

shit, shit, shit. you fucked up. you just snapped at your boss, of all people. you try to backtrack, throw out a million comments of "sorry," but that's it, you're getting fired.

you finally look back at him, and he's actually looking at you. like, it feels like he's staring into your soul, seeing all the pieces of you that you're trying to keep hidden from him.

the car begins moving again.

~~~

he watches you, trying to figure you out, as always.

he can't think of a better word for it than the fact that you genuinely amuse him.

he sees the look in your eyes, the way you're desperately trying to cover up the shame you feel over what happened in the elevator. he's trying to be gentle about it, trying to assure you that what the man said was utter bullshit, but you keep shutting him down.

god, and you look so...

no. you're, like, 80-plus years younger than him (he rubs his temples every time he remembers his age) and employed by him. any interest on his part would be purely inappropriate, a gross misuse of his position of power.

and god, his fucking age, man. he shouldn't even be around anymore-

anyways.

you look at him with those fucking doe eyes, going back and forth between anger, and shame, and something else he can't quite pinpoint.

this is probably the worst part of what happened. you're always so unapologetically yourself, but he can tell this man has gotten under your skin.

even if it's not his job to comfort you, he doesn't want you to feel like that. because who you are is perfect. 

~~~

one minute, you're staring into his eyes, trying to read the look on his face. 

the next, you're bracing yourself as the car spins out of control, feeling hit after hit of various cars all crashing into you sequentially.

you don't register it until after it's all over. the way he's wrapped himself around you as though to protect you. his flesh arm cradles your head to his chest and his vibranium hand wraps itself around the back of your neck.

you take a few deep breaths and begin to pull away from him, looking up to his face as you do. his eyes widen in shock as he looks at you. what? what is it?

"fuck, we gotta get you to a hospital." 

~~~

part 2 out by friday 3/28/25!

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tagged: @clavedelune

Small Circles

Summary : Bucky Barnes is still getting used to modern dating… and hates that you have to work with your exes.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x vigilante!reader (she/her)  / ex!various MCU anti-heroes/vigilantes x ex!reader

Warnings/tags : jealous!Bucky. Bi!Reader Hurt/comfort. Injury, references to violence, sex references. Reader used to be an anti-hero, and also used to date a lot of anti heroes. Angst/Fluff!!!!

Word count : 7.7k

Note : Retroactive jealousy is very common, and I definitely struggled with it when I first started dating my partner. I don’t really see it solved healthily in fiction, so I thought I’d write about it. I just finished moving in, so I will resume my series writing soon! And please, if you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky Barnes didn’t talk about his exes.

For one, they were from a time when women wore red lipstick like armour and wrote love letters to the men who might not make it back home. Two, in the 1940s, talking about past relationships was basically the equivalent to hanging your dirty laundry out in the street— and not just because most of them ended with him shipping out to war. Sex and feelings simply didn’t belong in polite company.

But here he was, in the 21st century, trying to navigate dating after missing eight decades of social evolution— trying to keep up with you. 

And god, he hadn’t stood a chance from the moment you first met.

You were the first person he met post-pardon that didn’t look at him like the sum of his past. Sam introduced you at a bar in D.C.—nothing fancy, just three tired veterans nursing drinks and pretending the world wasn’t still spinning out of control.

“She’s an old friend,” Sam said. “Used to serve with me in the air force. Then she went off grid and disappeared to be an antihero—”

“Vigilante,” you corrected, scoffing.

“Whatever,” Sam rolled his eyes, “But she’s retired now.”

“You’re prettier than the photos.” You gave Bucky a once-over. “Grumpier, too.”

He blinked, thrown off by how casual you were, and before he could respond, you leaned in and asked, “You always look like someone stole your puppy, or is that just for special occasions?”

Sam just laughed and walked off to grab another round, leaving Bucky staring at the woman who didn’t flinch when he said “Winter Soldier” like it was some contagious disease.

Instead, you talked and talked through the night. At one point, he was talking about his brainwashing, and you just leaned your elbow on the bar, eyes on his metal hand, and said, “I’ve done worse.”

It was the first time someone didn’t try to talk him out of his guilt. You didn’t say he was “more than his past.” 

You didn’t try to fix him. 

You just looked at him and recognised the survivor with blood under his nails and scars that never faded.

That night, he walked you home. It was supposed to be a formality, but you talked the whole way, about the desert missions you and Sam survived, about the ops you ran without orders, about why you quit the military, and the blurry line between heroes and people who did what had to be done.

“Why’d you retire?” he asked at your door.

“After the Blip, I helped the Avengers out. Did some good. Got tired of seeing my hands stained red, even when it was for the right reasons.” You shrugged.  “Figured if I couldn’t die, I might as well live. Got a nice place. Set up offshore accounts. Now I make pancakes and talk to my plants.”

He smiled. 

“What about you, Barnes?” You asked, leaning against the doorframe. “You ever get tired of the life?”

Fuck, he hadn’t flirted in decades. He wasn't even sure if he still knew how anymore. 

But with you, it was easy. It was awkward at first, sure, but you laughed every time he stumbled, and you never once made him feel like he was too broken to try.

He brought you flowers a week later. 

Tulips. 

He had said he read somewhere that they meant forgiveness. You didn’t ask who he was forgiving.

“I’m not afraid of your past,” you told him one night, sitting on the floor of your living room after Sam convinced him to take you out on a date. “Not when I’ve got one that would make priests faint.”

He looked at you then, and the walls he’d spent so many years building fell all at once, because you weren’t someone he had to hide from. 

You weren’t afraid of the blood on his hands, because you’d seen it on your own.

So you became a couple. 

Three years later, he still couldn’t believe how easily you loved him.

You were loud where he was quiet, open here he was closed— a perfect balance. 

You called his name like it wasn’t borrowed from another lifetime. And for the first time, he wasn’t just surviving— he was healing. 

He was planning a future. 

With you.

And then… Sam had to drag you back into the field.

That’s when everything started to unravel.

See, Sam had said it would be one mission.

"Just a quick assist," he told you, sliding a file across the table while Bucky sat beside you, arms crossed and already suspicious. "No big commitment. We just need someone who knows how to hit hard and get out clean. I know what you’re capable of,” Sam leaned back and crossed his arms, “And this has your style written all over it.”

“This isn’t just a mission,” You raised an eyebrow, flipping through the folder and studying the requirements. “This is a clusterfuck.”

“That’s why we need you,” Sam fogged. “Come on, for old times’ sake.”

You said yes. 

Later that night, Bucky looked at you like Sam had handed you a grenade. “You’re retired.”

You smiled sadly. “It’s just one job, Buck.”

And at the time, you meant it. 

You really did. 

You had an house together, the pancakes and the plants. 

You had Bucky. 

You had a life.

But then you got out there again—suited up, boots in the dirt, heart pounding like it used to—and it was like a switch was flipped in you.

Adrenaline was one hell of a drug.

You weren’t craving chaos or the violence. Not anymore. 

Unlike your antihero days, you didn’t kill this time. You’d made that choice before stepping onto the field. You weren’t going to be the person who solved problems with blood anymore.

But the mission lit something inside you all the same.

Perhaps it was control. Perhaps it was purpose. Or clarity. 

The world didn’t make much sense most of the time, but in the field, you knew exactly who you were.

So when you came back home after that mission—Bucky could already see it in your eyes.

“You’re going back,” he said flatly, watching you drop your gear in the hallway.

You shrugged, breathless, hair stuck to your forehead. “I mean… yeah. I missed it. But I’m not that person anymore, Buck. No killing. Just in and out. Recon only. You know the drill.”

Bucky didn’t answer. 

Because part of him was proud. You’d stepped back into that world on your terms.

But another part of him… was afraid of who you were behind the mask.

—

The first sign was Matt Murdock.

It was your and Bucky’s first mission together since you’d unretired. Sam had assigned a simple intel grab in Hell’s Kitchen. You needed a legal inside man, someone who knew the network by heart, and Sam had said, “You still got a contact in New York, right?”

That’s how you and Bucky ended up across the table from Matt in his firm, the three of you tucked into a room that smelled like paper and secrets.

From the moment you walked in, there was chemistry— it wasn’t active, nor was it inappropriate, but it was present. 

Bucky could see it in the way Matt tilted his head to the sound of your laugh, how your posture relaxed like muscle memory. It was subtle, but it was there.

“You told him,” he said with a small smile. He could hear it in Bucky’s heartbeat. “About my… other job.”

You glanced at Bucky, who was stiff beside you. “Yeah,” you said. 

Matt hummed. That told him more than it should. “You must be serious about him, then.”

You just nodded, infuriatingly calm and confident. “I am.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust himself to, especially because Matt’s voice was too casual when he added, “We used to be a thing, her and I.”

It wasn’t a dig. It wasn’t even smug. But it was there. As far as Bucky was concerned, it was a punchline with no joke attached.

You shrugged as the meeting wrapped, grabbing your jacket. 

“His job and crime fighting? No time for me,” you whispered an explanation on your way out. 

But it was the way you said it— the lack of apology. It was the way you weren’t surprised your old flame was part of the mission. 

“You never told me he was your ex,” Bucky mumbled under his breath. 

“We never had to meet any of my exes in retirement,” you shrugged.

That night, Bucky lay awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling while your body curled toward his. 

But all he could think about was Matt fucking Murdock—Daredevil. Lawyer by day, masked vigilante by night. Another man who had kissed you, fought beside you, known you in a world Bucky still wasn’t sure he fully belonged in.

What the hell.

This was the first time you’d fought side by side. The first time he saw how natural you were when the mask slipped back on. And suddenly, Bucky was wondering if he was the only one still trying to catch up.

—

The conversation about Yelena came over coffee. 

It was one of those late mornings, with sunlight spilling through the window of your kitchen, his metal fingers on your knee. You were sitting close, like always, thighs touching under the table, his hoodie drowning your body in a sense of safety. 

Bucky was scrolling through contacts Sam had floated for upcoming intel work, casually tossing out names. “Yelena Belova might be a good person to reach out to for our next mission. She’s low-profile, knows how to stay off the radar.”

He didn’t even look up when he said it, but you froze, coffee cup hovering in the air, just long enough for him to notice.

“Well… yeah. I haven’t seen her since…”

His head tilted slightly. “Since what?”

He tried to keep his voice neutral. But it came out just a little too sharp, like it scraped on the way out.

You hesitated, a little sheepish. “Since Paris. There was a caper. Messy one. We got out clean, but… one thing led to another.”

Oh.

He knew you were bi, so that wasn’t a surprise. But he never expected that knowledge to ever come with knowing names, too. 

Another sip of coffee wouldn’t fix the knot in Bucky’s stomach, but he took one anyway. It gave him something to do besides look at you—at the woman he’d fallen in love with, who kissed him in the dark and said “I love you” every night.

He nodded pretending it was fine. Pretending it didn’t sting.

But it did. Because it was another name from the same small, bloodstained circle of vigilantes and morally gray heroes. 

He didn’t realise how many people you’d still work with were the same people you’d trusted with your body before you ever handed Bucky your heart.

You were experienced. Not in a shameful way, but you'd lived. You’d fought and fucked and fled and loved in all the places Bucky had never dared go. And now you were here—his—but he couldn’t stop that stupid thought in the back of his head:

Where do I even fit in the story?

You reached for his hand, your thumb brushing the metal knuckles like it was second nature. You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple, voice soft.

“She didn’t mean anything long-term,” you reassured him.

He wanted to believe that settled it. He wanted to lean into you, like he always did, but he froze—just for a moment. It was a childish, stupid insecurity rearing up where your warmth used to melt it down.

And Bucky hated that, even now, three years deep in love with you, he still sometimes felt like the last one to the party.

—

Then came London, and of course, Moon Knight.

It was supposed to be a clean extraction—intel swap, quick in and out. You and Bucky were working in sync like you'd done this a few times now. 

There were no hiccups, until he showed up.

You spotted him across the plaza first— casual clothes that you knew could turn into a divine suit any second, and a woman at his side. You froze instinctively, and Bucky felt it immediately.

The guy was weird in that charming, cryptic way, like he might shake your hand or break your nose, depending on what time of day it was. And you smiled at him. 

“London is always full of surprises,” you said as the man approached. You turned your attention to the two people now standing before you.

“Who am I talking to?” you asked, casual on the surface, but your eyes scanned him like they used to.

“Relax, it’s Marc.” The man gave a small, tired smile. “This is Layla.”

“Layla,” you repeated. “Nice to meet you.”

“We’re married,” Marc added.

“Good for you!” You beamed genuinely. “Seriously, never thought I’d see the day. This is my boyfriend. Bucky— Marc and I used to… date. A lifetime ago.”

Bucky gave a tight nod, hands in his pockets. “Of course you did,” he muttered under his breath.

Marc caught it. So did you. You shot Bucky a really? look, but Layla just laughed, clearly unfazed. She greeted you like she’d known about you already, because you were clearly another name Marc had mentioned.

“So… does he still talk to Khonshu in the bathroom?” you asked Layla with a crooked grin.

“All the time,” Layla said dryly. “Once, I came in to see the bathtub trashed. He said it was because of Khonshu. At least Tawaret isn’t that demanding.”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably. 

“Yeah, we weren’t all superheroes with government contracts,” Marc added, trying to joke, but there. “Some of us were just bleeding in alleyways hoping the gods were paying attention.”

Bucky wasn’t sure if that was a dig. He also wasn’t sure how to respond. Was there a polite way to talk to your girlfriend’s ex who serves a moon god and still too-casual wife who served the goddess of fertility?

You tried to smooth it over, looping your arm through Bucky’s. But he was still stuck on the fact that you had dated this man—this strange, fractured vigilante with too many voices and a ring on his finger now. You’d been part of his chaos once, too.

And that he hated that Layla was okay with it, hated that Layla was secure— because fuck, if it didn’t make him feel bad. That’s who he should be. 

He shouldn’t be bothered by any of this. But he couldn't help it, he was.

Bucky couldn’t help but feel like he was the only one trying to learn how to stand still while everyone else had already danced through the fire and survived.

He was old-fashioned. He didn’t know how to joke about weird missions with exes or that time you almost died in a tomb under the Nile.

You, on the other hand, just kept moving forward. 

And Bucky loved you—but in that moment, he felt like the odd one out in a room he hadn’t realised he was still learning to walk through.

—

Then Nebula arrived on earth, as she always did every couple of years. It was a routine visit.

She talked to Sam for a while to exchange intel, but after that… the lines between work and play got blurred.

Sam had dragged you and Bucky to a rooftop bar, insisting that even people with kill counts needed to let loose. Nebula was tagging along. She wasn’t the nightlife type, but she was making an effort to try Earth customs.

So, there you were, nursing a coke, while Bucky was ordering himself another drink. 

He was watching you across the room, laughing at something Sam had said when Nebula slid in next to you.

She said no greetings. No small talk. Just a hand on your thigh and a blunt, “Are we doing this again?”

Bucky could hear that, thanks to his enhanced hearing.

You choked slightly on your drink, startled but not shocked. You swatted her hand off gently, not unkind, but firm.

“I have a boyfriend now,” you said with a smile. You tipped your head toward Bucky’s direction. “Long-term.”

She blinked, entirely unaffected. “What’s that like?”

Bucky was across the room, eyes fixed on you. His knuckles were white around his glass.

Later, when you were alone again, Bucky asked, “You…  and her?”

You curled up beside him on the couch, his vibranium arm slung heavy over your shoulders. You kissed his jaw once, then the corner of his mouth. “It was during the Blip, when she went to Earth a lot more,” you said casually, “Long-distance didn’t work. It… happened a couple times. Nothing serious.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

Nothing serious.

The words sat in his gut like a stone.

That was what got him. Not that it happened. Not that you’d been with someone else. He knew—internally, logically—that he wasn’t your first. But that phrase stuck like a splinter under his skin.

Nothing serious.

You said it so easily. That sharing a bed, even briefly, didn’t matter as long as it wasn’t long-term.

But Bucky came from a different world. One where people didn’t talk about past lovers. Where something like a hand on a thigh meant you were hers.

And now here he was—three years in, in love with a woman who kissed him like he hung the moon and yet casually mentioned flings with alien assassins.

He didn’t say anything that night, but pulled you in closer and let you fall asleep on his chest.

But he stayed awake long after, staring at the ceiling.

You were his peace. 

But when it came to your past, he felt like a stranger in your house. 

—

That month after, you came home flushed with mission energy, shedding your jacket before the door had even shut.

“She’s still as annoying as ever,” you said, grinning. “Yelena. She hasn’t changed. Made me climb five flights of a condemned building instead of going around because it was ‘more fun.’ See, this is why it would have never worked out between us.”

You were buzzing— adrenaline and nostalgia glowing in you. Bucky didn’t match your energy.

He stood in the kitchen silently as he rinsed a mug. You didn’t notice at first. Or maybe you did, but you didn’t think anything of it until he set the mug down so hard, it cracked down the middle.

“You ever gonna tell me how many of these people you’ve actually slept with?”

You froze mid-step. “What?”

He turned, tense as a live wire. “Every time we go out in the field, you’ve got history with someone. Is there anyone we’ve worked with who hasn’t had a piece of you?”

Whoa. Where did this come from? 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He didn’t back down. “I’m serious. Daredevil. Moon Knight. Nebula. Yelena. I can’t take two steps into a mission without watching someone look at you like they already know how you sound in bed.”

You blinked, stunned. “Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” he snapped. “I’m—”

“You are,” you cut in. “And possessive, apparently.”

He didn’t deny it. “I just— I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t eat at me. I walk into a room with you and wonder who the hell knows you better than I do.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling. “You never told me this bothered you.”

“Well, I didn’t know half this shit until the last few months!” he barked. “Because you’re so damn casual about it. ‘Oh yeah, we hooked up a few times,’ like it’s a joke—like it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Because it didn’t, Bucky!” you shouted back. “Because none of them were you. None of them lasted. You’re the only one I gave three years of my life to, and you’re standing here acting like I cheated on you with my past.”

He didn’t respond. 

And something inside you broke a little.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” you said, smaller now. “Erase it? Lie? Pretend I lived like a nun until you came along?”

“I want to not feel like I’m sharing you with half the damn underground,” he looked down, teeth grinding.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Then maybe you should’ve picked someone from your own century.”

That landed like a slap. 

You shook your head. “We’ve got an early mission tomorrow. Get some rest.”

Without waiting for another word, you grabbed a pillow from the couch and walked down the hall.

You slept in the second bedroom that night.

You didn’t cry. But god, it hurt.

And Bucky sat awake in the kitchen for hours, guilt and resentment twisted in his chest like barbed wire, because he knew none of what he said was fair. 

But the feelings he felt were still real. And they were starting to rot.

—

In the morning, you two were so quiet still that every small sound felt amplified: the click of your knife sliding into your boot, the zip of your jacket, the dull thud of your holster being strapped across your chest.

Your movements were efficient, muscle memory from years of knowing how to armour up always kicking in.

Across the room, Bucky stood still, with his gear slung half-forgotten over his metal arm. His eyes were rimmed with red, dark bruises blooming underneath from a night without sleep, but he had a job to do, so he was awake anyway. 

“Y’know…” He finally said. “You didn’t have to sleep in the other room.”

You fastened the last strap on your thigh holster and glanced at him. “Didn’t feel like pretending we were okay.”

You saw it—the slight flinch in his muscles, the way he looked down like the floor might offer a better answer than anything in his own damn head.

“You think I don’t know we’re not okay?” he said, quieter this time. “You think I didn’t lay awake wishing I could take it back?”

“Then why’d you say it?” you snapped, finally turning to face him. 

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed it immediately. He had no excuses.

“You didn’t ask. You never asked.” You shook your head, biting down the lump in your throat. “You just… threw it in my face like it was supposed to shame me. Like I was a toy being passed around!”

He stepped forward, desperate now. “I wasn’t trying to shame you, I— I was pissed, okay? I was stupid. I saw the way Matt looked at you, and then Nebula, and—Christ—Marc—”

“They were my exes, Bucky!” You raised your voice, “what do you want me to do? Never speak to them again? I would have no help in this line of work!”

“Doesn’t matter!” he snapped, frustration boiling over. “BecauseI feel like I’m just the guy keeping your seat warm.”

You stared at him, throat tight. “That’s what you think I’m doing? Killing time?”

“No,” he said, gentler now. “No. I know you love me. I know.” His voice cracked. “But I come from a time where no one talks about this kind of stuff. Where men didn’t have to wonder how many people their girl used to patch up in back alleys and kiss between fights.”

“Well guess what, Bucky,” you said, voice trembling. “I didn’t get the luxury of going to swing bars and holding hands on Coney Island. I got blood and war and figuring out how to survive without falling apart. I didn’t know I was going to make it past 25. And then you came along. You—you, James—you made me realise some things last. And now you're throwing it in my face because what? You didn’t like the guest list to my past?”

He looked like you’d shot him.

But there wasn’t time to let the silence fester again—your comms buzzed with an urgent ping from Sam.

The mission. 

You turned toward the door.

“Let’s just get through today,” you said, voice brittle. “We’ll figure the rest out after.”

You walked out first.

And this time, Bucky followed—not because he knew what to say, but because even after everything, he couldn’t stand not being by your side.

—

The op was supposed to be easy.

But nothing was easy when you were angry.

You and Bucky moved like soldiers, but not like partners—not like you usually did. 

You were out of sync, one heartbeat off, one glance too short. One command left unsaid because your pride wouldn’t let either of you speak first.

That got you ambushed.

Suddenly, you were ducking behind crumbling concrete, the walls of the building already groaning as a blast from beneath shook the foundations.

Gunfire rained down the stairwell.

Bucky shielded you without thinking, metal arm flashing as he tore through two men, fast and efficient—but not fast enough.

A stray bullet lodged  itself in you.

You screamed.

“Goddammit!” you hissed, hand pressing to your shoulder as blood spread fast. “Fucking—shit!”

Bucky was already beside you, crouched low, blue eyes wide and terrified. “You’re hit.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

You leaned against the wall, blood soaking through your suit too fast, pooling in your glove as you applied pressure. Your vision blurred, but you forced yourself to stay upright. 

“We have to move,” you growled, pushing off the wall. “Extraction’s too far, comms are jammed.”

“Then tell me where to take you,” Bucky said, already moving to sling your arm over his shoulder. “You’re losing blood.”

You paused, teeth clenched so hard your jaw hurt. You did know someone in the vicinity. “You’re gonna hate this.”

“Tell me anyway.”

You guided him three blocks through the back alleys of the city, stumbling past broken windows, flickering lights, and blood left behind like breadcrumbs. You turned down a shadowed stairwell, and at the end of the corridor was a steel door. 

You raised your good hand and knocked: four slow, two fast.

A secret code. 

Bucky stiffened beside you. “You have a safehouse down here?”

“Not mine…” you mumbled under your breath. 

The door swung open, and there he was.

Frank Castle.

Bucky had heard about him— The Punisher.

He looked at you. Then at Bucky.

Then at your shoulder. “You’re bleeding.”

“I know,” you muttered through gritted teeth. “Let me in.”

Frank stepped aside immediately, grabbing you by the waist like it was second nature. Bucky’s hand was still on you. Neither man let go.

“Nice to see you, too,” Frank said with a worried frown.

Bucky followed, staring at Frank like he was a ghost come to life—except this ghost had callouses, bruises, and knew your name too well.

“You’ve got him on speed dial?” Bucky bit out.

You sank down on the battered couch as Frank pulled out a med kit and started cutting through your gear. “I said you’d hate it.”

Frank smirked without looking up. “Still dramatic, huh?”

“She’s bleeding,” Bucky growled, stepping in. “Maybe shut the fuck up and do something useful.”

“Relax, soldier.” Frank didn’t blink. “I’ve patched her up worse.”

Bucky's jaw twitched. "Worse?"

You groaned. “Please. Not now.”

But it was already too late— you could smell the testosterone and unfinished history. 

Frank’s hands were on you. Bucky’s heart was in his throat. He saw the way Frank looked at you— like he knew what your skin felt like already. 

“You two…” Bucky started, then stopped. His voice was dangerously low. “You fucked, didn’t you?”

Frank looked up. “We didn’t bake cookies.”

Bucky surged forward. “I swear to God—”

“Both of you!” you barked. “Enough!”

Frank didn’t flinch. He just scoffed under his breath and turned back to your shoulder, grabbing a syringe from the med kit and tearing open a pack of gauze with his teeth. 

“Didn’t realize you were dating the Winter Soldier,” Frank muttered, injecting the numbing agent into the skin around your wound. “Last time I saw you, you were with that blonde Widow chick. Got a thing for Russians now, pretty girl?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a second. Pain, exhaustion, and frustration welled up inside. “Shut the fuck up, Frank.”

“I’m not Russian,” Bucky snapped before he could stop himself.

Frank glanced over his shoulder. “That’s not what I heard.”

Bucky stepped closer, chest heaving. “You want to test what I’ve got in common with the Red Room, Castle?”

“Easy,” Frank shook his head, “just sayin’. She always did have a type.”

That almost did it.

Bucky’s fists curled at his sides. His breath came faster. He saw red— and for a split second, he was ten seconds away from tearing Frank’s smug face off. 

But then… he heard your soft whimper. It was a hiss of pain. Your head tipped  back against the couch, eyes fluttering as the blood loss started to catch up. 

And suddenly, Bucky remembered why he was here. What really mattered.

You.

He was at your side in an instant, kneeling by the couch as Frank packed the wound and started stitching. You were grunting, your fingers twitching for something to hold.

Bucky took your hand.

You gripped him like he was the only thing tethering you to this world.

Frank worked without saying much after that. The tension between him and Bucky didn’t fade—it settled like a landmine they both agreed not to step on. For now.

“Got anything for the pain?” Bucky asked, looking toward the dingy kitchen.

Frank jerked his chin. “Cabinet over the fridge. Bottles labeled in red are painkillers. Other colors are mine.”

Bucky found what he needed. Got the pills into you with a cracked water bottle. He sat by your side while you slowly went limp under the weight of the drugs.

You passed out with your head in his hands. He brushed the hair from your face with a touch so gentle it made Frank’s heart ache.

—

An hour later, Bucky stood at the tiny sink in Frank’s dimly lit bathroom, water running red as he scrubbed blood from his hands. 

The cracked mirror above the sink showed him a version of himself he didn’t like: wild eyes, tired lines on his forehead, and blood smeared up to his wrists.

This was your blood.

He gritted his teeth, pressing his palms harder under the water like he could scrub away his sins, like he could rewind time just by cleaning fast enough.

You got shot because we weren’t focused. He thought to himself. Because I couldn’t shut my mouth. Because I couldn’t let go of the past. Because I just had to pick a fight.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

You had every right to have a past. You told him, over and over, that you chose him.

But it hadn’t been enough in the moment. 

And now…

Now you were unconscious on Frank Castle’s couch with stitches in your shoulder, and he was standing in a stranger’s bathroom washing away the evidence of his own failure.

He slammed the faucet off and leaned heavily on the sink, breathing hard. For a moment, he just stared at himself. The blood was gone, but the shame still clung to him like a second skin.

“Get a grip,” he said to his reflection.

He grabbed a towel and dried his hands.

Behind him, the door creaked open. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was Frank.

“You done crying in there, Barnes?”

Bucky met his own bloodshot eyes in the mirror and took a deep breath. When he stepped back out, Frank was already cracking open two beers— one slid across the counter toward him like a peace offering.

“Don’t drink on missions,” Bucky said, even though alcohol didn’t give him anything to work with. 

“We’re not on a mission anymore.” Frank shrugged.  “You’re in my house. She’s breathing. “Take the fuckin’ beer.”

Bucky hesitated, but still sat down.

He cracked it open and drank in silence.

Frank leaned back, arms crossed, smiling like he’d already written this whole scene in his head.

“So,” Frank said. “How’s that working out for you?”

Bucky shot him a sideways glare. “You mean her?”

Frank raised an eyebrow. “No, I meant your bloodstained fashion choices. Yeah, I mean her.”

Bucky drank again. “Fine.”

“That right?” Frank said, not buying it for a second. “Cuz she showed up bleeding out on my doorstep and you looked two seconds from throwing me through a wall.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “You didn’t exactly help.”

Frank’s grin widened. “What, calling you soldier? That’s what you are, ain’t it?”

Bucky didn’t answer. 

Both of them drank.

The air between them stayed hot, but not explosive. 

Frank looked toward the back room, where you were still out cold. The lines of his mouth softened slightly, the smirk dying in the corner of his mouth.

“She still talk in her sleep?”

Bucky glanced at him. “Sometimes.”

“Used to scare the shit out of me. She’d mumble names. Codes. Orders. She’d say something about Wilson or about how Riley’s in danger. Good ol’ air force PTSD,” Frank nodded, “One time she said my name and thrashed so hard I thought she was gonna kill me in her sleep.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

“She doesn’t talk.. about you,” Bucky said finally. His voice was low, eyes locked on the floor. “I didn’t even know you two…”

Frank shook his head. “Didn’t bake cookies,” he echoed.

“Yeah. Got it.”

They let another beat of silence fester.

“You loved her?” Bucky asked, even though he didn’t really want to know the answer.

“I did,” Frank took a sip, but didn’t look at him. “Still do. Not the same way, though.”

Bucky’s hand tightened around the bottle. “What the hell does that mean?”

Frank finally looked at him. No sarcasm now, just tired honesty.

“I don’t know if she told you about my… past. But after all that happened to me, I didn’t think I was capable of it again. I was half dead. Barely human. And then she showed up and saw through all the bullshit. And she stayed.”

Bucky was listening. Processing.

“She taught me how to feel again. Real shit. Not just rage. Not just grief.” Frank rubbed the back of his neck, like the memory itched. “She used to tell me I wasn’t broken, just dented. I believed her.”

“So what happened?”

Frank leaned back, eyes on the cracked ceiling.

“She fed my flame and I fed her violence. I knew if she kept me around, she’d forget what peace felt like. So I ended it.”

That made Bucky’s stomach twist. He hated how much of that felt familiar. 

Frank glanced toward the couch where you were still curled in sleep, bandages soaked but holding. “She deserves better than that.”

“She deserves someone who doesn’t get jealous of her past,” Bucky muttered.

“You and me both,” Frank chuckled under his breath. “I used to hate that I shared an ex with Red,” Frank admitted. Bucky could just assume he was talking about Daredevil. “But it’s a small world. Small circle. Vigilantes fuck around. You think we go home to nice houses and clean sheets?”

Bucky said nothing. Because now, you did. 

“How long you two been together?” Frank asked, casual.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Just watched the light shift across the floor as the old ceiling fan spun overhead. Then, finally, “Three years.”

Frank’s eyebrows lifted. “Three?”

He let out a low whistle and took a sip. “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s like… eight decades in vigilante time.”

Bucky didn’t smile, but nodded once.

“Congratulations,” Frank tilted his beer toward him in a mock toast. “Longest relationship I ever seen her in. Not that I was taking notes or anything, but…” He grinned. “I knew all the flings. None of ‘em made it past a year. Most of them burned out around month ten.”

Bucky shifted, fist clenched, but not as harsh as before. “I’ve met a few of them. Or… worked with ‘em.”

Frank chuckled. “Bet that’s fun.”

“Not really.”

Frank scoffed. “Y’know,” he said, “you don’t gotta worry about me. Or any of the rest of us.”

Bucky looked at him sideways. “Yeah?”

Frank nodded toward the living room, where you were sleeping under a threadbare blanket, one leg hanging off the side of the couch.

“She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t love you. Still a bit of a dick when she’s mad, but who isn’t? She chose you. That woman’s got trust issues deeper than the fuckin’ ocean, but she lets you near her when she’s bleeding?” He shook his head. “That’s something, man.”

Bucky’s hand curled loosely around the bottle. “Doesn’t stop the way it feels sometimes. Like I’m… following ghosts.”

Frank leaned against the counter, arms folded, studying him. “You’re not a ghost to her.”

“Feels like I am.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

That hit a little deeper than Bucky expected. He looked away.

“You’re not me,” Frank said finally. “And that’s a good thing.”

Bucky blinked. Looked up.

Frank gestured between them. “You know what I gave her? Rage. Like I said, we fed each other’s worst instincts.” He took a breath. “You give her something I couldn’t: Peace.”

Bucky scoffed, a bitter little noise. “Peace? You should see the way we’ve been acting lately?”

Frank shrugged. “Fights happen. Especially with her.” He smirked. “But she came here because she trusted you to carry her when she couldn’t stand. That’s what counts.”

Bucky  took a sip of the beer, but didn’t really taste it. He still felt the heat of the moment in his chest.

Frank tilted his bottle toward him again. “You love her?”

“More than anything.”

“Then hold on to that.” Frank’s voice was sincere. “Cause’ if two broken people can get their shit together and still choose each other every damn day, that’s more than most people get.”

They sat in silence for a while, before eventually, Frank raised his bottle one more time. “To the girl who survived all of us.”

Bucky hesitated—then tapped his bottle gently against Frank’s.

“To the girl who made us feel human again,” he said.

They drank.

In the back of the room, you shifted in your sleep, muttered something under your breath, then went still again.

Frank leaned back. “Think she’s gonna be pissed when she finds out we bonded?”

Bucky found himself a smile— just a little. “Probably.”

—

The pain was dull when you woke up—  more like a memory than a wound, pulsing behind your bones in sync with your heartbeat. Your shoulder throbbed under tight bandages.

You cracked your eyes open, vision swimming in the dim light. The ceiling was warped and water-stained, familiar in the worst way, lit only by the flicker of a busted lamp somewhere in the room. The air smelled like old cigarette smoke, sweat, and gun oil.

You remembered where you were. Frank Castle’s safehouse.

You felt a body pressing against your side. 

Bucky.

He was crouched beside the couch, looking like he’d been glued to your side for hours— maybe longer. His hair was a mess, flattened in places from where he’d run his hands through it on repeat. 

“Hey,” he greeted, rough around the edges but laced with so much affection it you felt it more than you felt the wound. He leaned in and kissed your forehead, “You okay?”

Your lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. You tilted your head just enough to brush your mouth against his in return, your voice barely above a whisper. “Mmhmm.”

Behind you, someone cleared their throat.

You glanced past Bucky, and there was Frank— arms crossed, watching the two of you with a look that wasn’t quite judgment and wasn’t quite amusement either. 

It looked like... approval.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, but shifted closer to you anyways. His hand brushed your hair back with the softest care, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“We gotta go, yeah, doll?” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You winced as you shifted upright, his hand already sliding under your good arm. You leaned into him without hesitation. 

“Yeah,” you exhaled, trying to shake the fog from your head. “Just... give me a sec.”

You rested your forehead against his shoulder for a moment, letting the world settle, then pushed yourself upright again. 

“Thanks, Frank,” you managed, voice rough but sincere. “For the whole... keeping me alive thing.”

His mouth curved upward at the corner. “Anytime, pretty girl.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Bucky’s voice cut through the room— “Don’t call her that.”

But.. there was a hint of playfulness in his voice.

Frank’s brow ticked up, amised. “Relax, soldier. It’s a nickname, not a ring.”

“She’s not yours to nickname.”

You let out a low groan, rubbing your hand over your face. “Jesus Christ. I almost died and you two are busy measuring dicks?”

Frank huffed a small laugh. “Still got that attitude, I see.”

Bucky glanced down at you, brushing your knuckles lightly with his thumb. “Good. Means you’re still alive.”

Frank pushed off the doorway, “She’ll outlive both of us at this rate.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, his hand never leaving yours. “That’s the plan.”

You leaned against him, blinking up at the two men, brow furrowing as the realisation finally hit. 

These weren’t snide remarks. This was… banter. 

They weren’t trying to kill each other.

“What the hell…” you mumbled. “You two friends now?”

Bucky looked down at you, shrugging. “Had a long night.”

Frank smirked from across the room, raising an eyebrow. “And a few beers.”

You stared between them, utterly baffled. “The fuck did I miss?”

—

The drive back was a quiet haze of streetlights. You slumped in the passenger seat, curled toward the window, your shoulder still aching beneath layers of gauze. 

When he pulled up to your shared home, Bucky came around to your side before you could even try to open the door. He lifted you again like you weighed nothing and carried you into the apartment without saying a word.

He laid you gently on the couch, brushing the hair from your face as you settled back into the cushions. His fingers lingered on your cheek, “I’ll get your painkillers,” he said.

You let your eyes follow him as he crossed to the kitchen, retrieved a glass of water, and returned with a small pill in his palm.

“Small dose,” he warned, crouching beside you again. “We’re spacing them out.”

You took it, swallowed, then leaned your head back and sighed. You tilted your head toward him.

“So… you and Frank buddies now?”

Bucky snorted softly, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“But you talked.”

“Yeah,” He confirmed. “We talked.”

You raised a brow, mildly impressed. “And you didn’t smash each other’s face in?”

Bucky chuckled. “Came close.”

You let a beat of silence pass between you. 

Then you finally said, “I’m sorry.”

His eyes flicked back to you. 

“I should’ve seen how uncomfortable you were,” you admitted. “I… I just didn't think the exes would be a sore spot.”

“I’m sorry, too.” He reached up, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “I let all that shit build up. That’s not on you.”

“Still… I could’ve talked to you about all of it before I got back into the field.” You swallowed. “I… I just didn’t want you to see me differently.”

“I do see you differently,” he said quietly.

Your stomach twisted.

“But not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Your past… is just that. Frank helped me see that.”

You blinked fast, trying not to cry. “But it keeps finding me.”

“I know,” he said. 

You gave him a sad smile and a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere, Bucky. You’re my now. You’re my future. You're it.”

His breath caught, and he looked at you like you’d just pulled him out of the deepest part of the ocean.

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and soft and sweet. It was the kind of kiss that tasted like forgiveness, because he was still learning what it meant to be loved out loud by someone so unfiltered, by someone with nothing to hide.

You stayed pressed againsthim for a long time, your hand in his hair, his forehead against yours.

Eventually, he pulled back and smiled faintly. 

He stood, walking toward the kitchen. “I’m making you hot chocolate.”

You blinked after him. “Are you serious?”

“You want marshmallows?”

“Obviously.”

He got up, and from the kitchen, you could hear Bucky moving around — the clink of the saucepan on the stove, the rustle of a cocoa tin being opened, the faint hiss of milk heating as he stirred. 

You sank deeper into the couch, letting the ache in your shoulder fade into the background.

Your eyes drifted half-shut, but then you heard it.

A ding from beside you on the couch.

You blinked, turning your head slightly, and there it was — Bucky’s phone lighting up on the cushion, his name glowing on the lock screen along with the preview of a new text.

Frank Castle.

Of course it was Frank.

Curiosity got the better of you, and your eyes skimmed the message: "If you wanna give your pretty girl a break and need someone who doesn’t pull his punches on a mission, give me a call, Barnes. And I’ll be there."

You smiled — part fond, part exasperated — and the warmth in your chest didn’t dim.

Before you could say anything, Bucky’s voice floated over from the kitchen, teasing, “You looking at my phone, doll?”

You glanced toward him, two mugs cradled in his hands as he walked towards you.

“Didn’t know you and Frank exchanged numbers,” You lifted your brows. “He says he’s offering his services.”

Bucky lowered himself onto the couch beside you, placing the mug carefully into your hand.

Bucky let out a quiet snort, shaking his head as he picked up the phone and read it for himself. His thumb hovered over the reply button, but he didn’t type anything right away.

“At least,” he muttered under his breath, “he’s now calling you my pretty girl.”

You leaned your head toward him, letting it rest against his shoulder.

“Damn right I am,” you mumbled fondly.

Damn right you are. 

–end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23

Why can I see Malyshka and Bee having closet ROOMS instead of regular closets bc Bucky buys so much

Bee's closet is so big that Mr. Tato has his own section for all his costumes.

And she can walk around her mama's closet every day and still find new items. (Bee also likes to go "shopping" in there).

Malyshka started with a massive walk in closet but Bucky quickly upgraded it when he realized they're wasn't going to be enough for room for everything he wanted to buy her. He hadn't even proposed at that point. But he knew what her life was going to be like with him and he planned accordingly.

Now she has an entire room dedicated to her outfits. It has multiple full length mirrors, a display case for her jewelry, a gorgeous built in floor to ceiling showcase for her shoes, rotating racks for her clothes.

It's luxurious and extravagant and Bucky wouldn't let her have anything less.