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starksweasley · 25 days ago

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death of the dishtowel

pairing: clark kent x reader

summary: clark insists he’s fine. you insist he’s bleeding through your favorite dishtowel. one of you is right. (spoiler: it’s not him.)

wc: 1.6k+

You’re mid-pace when you see your boyfriend. He trudges in like a guilty child, wincing as he takes in the tight lines of your appalled face. You quickly note he’s covered in blood. You exhale aggressively through your nose. Of course, he’s covered in blood.

“You promised you’d call me the second anything got sketchy!” You exclaim, tossing your phone onto the couch as Clark haphazardly kicks his boots off. He beelines for the kitchen where he quickly downs a glass of water. And then another. When he plods back into the living room, he has your green dishtowel (the one with little cartoon tomatoes all over it) held to his side.

“I told you if you ghosted me during another mission, I’d—” Your words cut off. Your breath does too.

“Clark.” His name tumbles out of your mouth like a wound.

Clark pauses in the doorway, cape singed at the edges, hair windblown, one eyebrow raised like he’s expecting more lecturing and bracing for it. He is not, however, braced for your sudden change in tone.

“I’m fine,” he says immediately, raising his free hand up in surrender as if you’re pointing a weapon at him.

“Sure,” you deadpan. “You’re totally fine. That’s why you’re bleeding through a dishtowel. My favorite dishtowel, I might add.”

His suit is now half undone, the fabric around his ribs peeled back in a makeshift bandage that’s already soaked through. Crimson bleeds into blue, spreads through the green cotton in slow, lazy spirals.

You cross the room fast, bare feet slapping against cool tile, chest tight.

“Let me see it, honey,” you demand gently.

Clark had been trying to uphold a brave face, not wanting to worry you any more than he already had. But the second you touch his arm with your eyes so soft he might have cried, he melts into your touch. He groans as your fingers gingerly touch the gash.

“It’s just a graze, barely even hurts.” He’s clearly hoping you’ll drop it if he sounds casual enough. Both of you are well aware you won’t, though. He tries to shift away, but you’re already probing with shaky fingers.

“Clark.”

He finally sighs, long-suffering, like you’re the difficult one here, and lowers his arms.

The heat of him hits you first. He always runs warm after flight—body buzzing faintly with residual energy, skin radiating fire and violence. You peel the towel back slowly, cautious not to tug at dried blood or catch the jagged edge of scorched fabric.

The gash is deeper than he let on. Not life-threatening, no. But fresh and raw and ugly, jagged with debris. Blood’s still pooling, shallow and slow, but steady enough to sting your gut with worry.

You suck in a breath.

“Jesus, Clark.”

He shrugs. “It looks worse than it is.”

You would have believed that if he wasn’t now hunched into your body in pain.

“It looks like a horror movie.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

You shoot him a flat look, then turn and start pulling open drawers.

The kitchen’s half-lit, soft under golden overheads. Your fingers rattle through a mess of bandages, ointments, alcohol wipes. Third drawer, left side—your unspoken trauma cabinet. Stocked for exactly this kind of thing.

“Sit on the counter.”

“I don’t need—”

“Sit. On the counter.”

He hesitates. You don’t blink. He sighs again. Then obeys.

The counter creaks beneath Clark’s weight as he hops up. The movement flexes his abdomen, muscles shifting under bruised skin. There’s soot smudged down his collarbone, crusted ash near the corner of his jaw. His curls are still damp with sweat and wind, matted against his forehead in loose, dark strands.

You grab the first aid kit and return to him. He’s sitting there shirtless, legs spread slightly, shoulders too broad for the narrow counter space. His cape droops off one side like a slumped curtain. He watches you quietly as you snap on gloves.

And god, if this weren’t such a disaster of a night—if he weren’t bleeding through your dishtowel and looking at you like that—you’d be shamelessly climbing into his lap. He’s all bare skin and ridiculous muscle and tousled hair, and the way he’s sitting there, calm and wide-eyed, like he has no idea what he looks like…it’s unfair. Your face is warm before you even start touching him.

“You know,” you say as you unpack gauze and disinfectant, “for someone who can catch bullets, you get banged up a lot.”

He smiles, wry and crooked. “You should see the other guy.”

“I’m more worried about seeing you like this every week.”

His smile fades a little.

You don’t mean to make it heavier. But your touch is careful as you clean the wound, dabbing gently with saline. Every swipe lifts fresh streaks of red. He barely reacts, save for the occasional breath caught in his throat.

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” he murmurs softly.

“I know.”

You press gauze against the wound. He doesn’t move, just looks at you.

There’s a pulse jumping in his neck. His eyes trace your movements, patient but tracking, like he’s trying to memorize your hand placement. His hands rest beside his thighs, one brushing against your hip now and then. You know the way he tenses his fingers means he’s resisting the urge to touch your face.

“But I want to,” you add, glancing up.

His teeth dig into the inside of his cheek.

“I hate that you come home looking like this,” you admit. “But if you’re gonna bleed through my linens, I’d rather be the one wrapping you up.”

He huffs a small laugh through his nose. “Sorry about the towel.”

“That was the cutest one.”

He grins. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

You lean in, inspecting your work. “You will.”

His eyes drop to your face, watching the set of your mouth as you press down more tape. Watching the way your hands skim just shy of his skin before they return to work.

“You’re good at this,” he remarks, voice low.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Still.”

You roll your eyes, but your thumb brushes his cheek gently, wiping a smudge of dirt from under his eye. You feel the slightest lean into your touch.

“You gonna let me patch the rest of you up?”

“Only if you kiss me first.”

You raise a brow. “Bribing your medic?”

He shrugs, grin mischievous. “It’s been a long day.”

You lean in. “Yeah,” you murmur against his mouth, “it has.”

You kiss him once, soft and unhurried, letting your lips linger just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin and the way his breath stutters slightly against your mouth. His hand flexes on your hip. He doesn’t chase you when you pull back (just watches you like you hung the stars) or stop beaming when you flick his forehead.

“Ow,” he complains.

“You’re lucky that didn’t hit your other wound.”

“You’re so mean to me,” he says, pouting as you rummage through the kit again.

“And yet here you are. Bleeding in my kitchen.”

He watches you fondly as you finish patching him up, and you pretend your hands aren’t still shaking a little with the relief of having him home, alive, and mostly in one piece.

You press down the last edge of gauze and exhale slowly, your fingers hovering over his skin even after the job is done. For a second, you just take him in.

Clark’s quiet now, watching you with steady eyes so blue you could fall right into them and forget the world ever burned. His lip is split at the corner, a smudge of dried blood stubborn near his temple. And still, he’s so stupidly beautiful you could scream. Shirtless, flushed, cape half-fallen behind him, warm and still and yours.

Your hands drift up to his face before you even realize you’re moving. You cup his jaw with both palms, thumbs brushing lightly over the apples of his cheeks. His stubble scrapes against your skin addictingly. You can feel the tension in his jaw beginning to ease as he gives into your touch.

You can’t speak. You can’t do anything but surge forward and push your lips against his.

And then again.

And again.

He’s smiling by the third one, a little dazed, lips curving against yours as you kiss him silly—slow, fluttering kisses over the corners of his mouth, the bridge of his nose, the bruised edge of his cheekbone. Like you’re trying to make up for every second he was out there and you weren’t with him. Like you could hold him here with your mouth alone.

“I missed you,” you finally whisper between kisses, the words slipping out before you can swallow them down.

He breathes out a shaky laugh against your cheek. “I was gone two hours, baby.”

“I know.” You kiss the dip of his clavicle, press your forehead to his. “That’s two hours too long.”

His arms come around you instinctively, drawing you into his lap like he needs the weight of you. Your knees rest on either side of his thighs now, and you don’t care that your jeans are getting stained by whatever mud and blood’s still on him. All you can think about is getting closer than skin allows. You want to memorize the shape of him beneath your hands, the heat of him under your palms, the way he holds you like he doesn’t know where he ends and you begin. You want to swallow him whole just to keep him safe.

You pull away from him with a heavy breath. Your boyfriend frowns instantly at the loss of contact, swollen lips parted like he’s about to protest.

“And tomorrow, we’re going to Williams Sonoma so you can buy me a new dishtowel.”

His gaze never leaves your mouth.

“I’ll buy you eight.”

And then he kisses you again.

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starksweasley · 26 days ago

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clark kent masterlist

free fall

you and clark get into a fight, and then the city explodes.

death of the dishtowel

clark insists he’s fine. you insist he’s bleeding through your favorite dishtowel. one of you is right. (spoiler: it’s not him.)

the "strongest" man in the world

you told clark not to watch marley & me, but of course the man didn't listen.

#masterlist #clark kent x reader #clark kent fanfiction

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starksweasley · 26 days ago

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free fall

pairing: clark kent x reader

summary: you and clark get into a fight, and then the city explodes.

wc: 2.5k+

The slam of the door is deafening. Not because of the sound, but because of what it means. You don’t even flinch. Just march across the room, jaw set, fists clenched so tight your nails dig crescent moons into your palms. You don’t want to see his face right now. Not when you know it’ll be full of that infuriatingly particular mix of fury and worry that he’s so good at disguising as concern.

“You could’ve died,” Clark mutters quietly.

You exhale through your nose, sharp and hot. “We’re doing this already?”

“You walked into a weapons drop, alone,” he bites out, voice rising like a slow tide. “You had no protection, no plan, and no backup.”

“I had my plan,” you snap, spinning to face him. “It just didn’t involve checking in with my overbearing alien bodyguard first.”

He flinches. Just slightly. But it’s enough.

“Don’t,” he warns. His voice is so low you’re surprised your ears process the decibel.

Your laugh is dry. “What? You don’t like being talked down to? Imagine how I felt when you showed up halfway through and practically ripped the comm out of my ear in front of everyone like I’m some stupid kid who can’t tie her own shoes.”

“You were going to get killed.”

“I was doing my job.” Your voice cracks, but you don’t let it stop you. “I was doing what I’m good at. What you know I’m good at. But you don’t care about that, do you? You just care that I didn’t stay in the safe little box you always want me in. I can’t spend my whole life waiting for you, Clark!”

His gaze is calm as he stares at you but you don’t miss the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. “That’s not true. Don’t twist this.”

“Oh, I’m twisting things?” you spit. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, it sure as hell sounds like you think I’m too weak to be trusted with anything real.”

“I didn’t say that,” he growls, stepping closer.

“You didn’t have to,” you exclaim. “You don’t ever have to. You swoop in, rip the roof off, throw some trucks across the parking lot, and suddenly it’s your operation. Your city. Your rules.”

“I was trying to protect you!”

“And I never asked you to!”

That stops him. His face falters for half a second, and he blinks like you just struck him with your ring-clad hand.

“I didn’t ask for a superhero boyfriend,” you thunder on, voice shaking now, unable to stop yourself. “I asked for you. And maybe I was an idiot for thinking I could have both.”

His chest rises and falls fast, and his voice comes out quiet and hard. “Don’t do that. Don’t stand there and act like I’m some stranger in a cape. You know me.”

“Do I?” you whisper. “Because lately, it feels like all I see is Superman. Not Clark. Not the man I fell in love with. Just the guy who shows up after the explosions and tells me I should’ve waited for him.”

He’s silent for too long. His mouth opens, then closes. And when he speaks again, his voice is soft. Broken, almost.

“I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

It takes everything in you not to smooth your hands over his chest and soothe that ache in his tone that twists your stomach into knots, but your throat is tight and you take a step back. Your eyes begin to burn and you look down, unwilling to let him see.

“That’s not love, Clark. That’s fear.”

His brow furrows. “No, it’s not—it’s—”

“Yes, it is. You want to love someone who stays behind. Who stays safe. Who doesn’t scare you.”

“Of course you scare me!” he retorts, arms flailing. “Because you’re the one thing in this world I can’t live without. And I can’t make sure you’re okay. Not all the time. I don’t—I don't know how to live with that.”

You open your mouth to answer. To hurl something sharp and hurtful back at him because you’re angry and exhausted and you don’t know what else to do, but you don’t get the chance.

Because everything shakes.

The floor ripples beneath your feet. A massive rumble splits the air like the earth is groaning. You both freeze.

Then comes the blast. A thunderous, bone-rattling sound from blocks away, light flashing through the apartment window like a silent scream.

Clark turns instinctively, eyes already glowing faintly with panic and focus. He’s halfway to the window before you the words tumble through your lips.

“Don’t you dare leave right now.”

He stops in his tracks.

You’re standing there, arms crossed tightly over your chest, shoulders trembling. You know you’re being irrational. You know he has a duty to fulfill and you would never usually stand between him and his job. But your heartbeat is pounding in your ears and the edges of your vision blur with frustration and adrenaline.

“Don’t you leave in the middle of this,” you say, each word weighted. “Don’t fly away from this like it doesn’t matter.”

He turns, slowly, and his face—god, his face.

You’ve seen him wear pain before. Seen it when he lost people, seen it when the world turned to ash in his hands. But this time it’s different because you know you’re the reason he looks like that.

His brows are drawn tight, a deep crease forming between them. His mouth is slightly open, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. His eyes are so full of agony you wish your ego would melt away just so you could apologize and kiss his face until they light up again.

He doesn’t want to leave. Of course he doesn't. You can see it in every inch of him.

“Please,” you plead, even though you know it’s futile.

“I don’t want to,” he whispers. “You have to believe me—I don’t want to. I want to stay and fix this. I want to take it all back.”

Your breath catches.

“But I can’t.” Clark’s voice shakes. “People are in danger. If I don’t go, they die.”

You stay silent, blinking fast and shaking your head. He steps forward, just enough to cup your cheek in one hand. His palm is warm, trembling.

“I swear to you,” he says, eyes locked on yours, desperate, “I’ll come back. I’ll come home.”

You close your eyes.

By the time you open them again, he’s gone. Your heart lurches so violently you actually stumble back a step.

The space he just vacated is still vibrating with the gust of his departure, curtains whipping like they’re trying to follow him, like they know how badly you want to. You move on instinct, half numb and half breathless, dragging your feet toward the window.

Your apartment’s on the thirty-second floor. It gives you a perfect view of the city—and of the nightmare unfolding within it.

A fireball licks at the sky just a few blocks down, the explosion now a thick pillar of smoke and ash curling into the air like a monster’s shadow. Windows are shattered. Rubble covers the streets. People are running, screaming—some limping, some carrying others, some not moving at all. A gaping wound has torn itself into the heart of the city.

Your hand flies to your mouth in shock.

And there he is.

A blue-and-red blur streaks through the sky like a bullet of mercy, and your chest caves in at the sight of him. Superman. Clark. Your Clark.

He’s scooping people from rooftops, using his heat vision to weld a collapsing structure into temporary stability, shielding a group of civilians with his own body as an ambulance drives through the chaos. He looks like a god.

But you know that face. You know the pinch in his brow, the tremble in his jaw when he’s scared out of his mind but has to act like he isn’t. You can feel it in your bones: he’s holding on by a thread.

And you’re still up here.

You’re moving before you’ve fully processed it. You throw on the first shoes you find, tear open the stairwell door, and sprint downward two steps at a time. No time for the elevator. No time for hesitation.

By the time you burst into the street, the world is smoke and screams.

You don’t know where to start.

There’s a woman with a deep gash in her leg leaning against a crumpled bus. You rush to her, toss her arm over your shoulder, and guide her over broken glass toward a triage area forming near a still-standing corner store. You grab bandages from a supply crate and press them to bleeding skin. You haul debris off a man’s chest with a stranger whose name you never ask. You press a hand to a child’s hair as she sobs in your lap. You hand out water bottles. Every time you look up, you search for blue and red. And every time, there he is—lifting, flying, catching, saving.

And then you spot him. A boy. Eight years old, maybe. Trapped halfway up a twisted steel staircase, the only way up to him a makeshift scaffold of what used to be part of a fire escape. The steel beam leading up to him is bent and definitely unstable. Your feet are sprinting towards him before your brain even has a chance to catch up.

You climb fast, heart in your throat. The beam groans wearily beneath you as you inch out, crawling on hands and knees.

The boy is whimpering, clutching a stuffed bear to his chest. “I can’t move,” he sobs. “I’m stuck—”

“You’re okay,” you breathe, trying to sound soothing despite the fact that the metal beneath your palms just shifted. “Hey, look at me. What’s your name?”

“J-Jordan.”

“Okay, Jordan. I’m gonna get you down, alright, sweetie? We’re gonna do this together. Hold my shoulders and don’t let go.”

You lift him up, slide him carefully behind you, and begin to scoot backward, inch by inch.

The beam wobbles.

Shit.

You shove the kid toward the edge, where someone’s waiting to catch him. “Take him!” you yell, and they do, pulling him off just in time.

But you’re not so lucky.

The beam snaps, and suddenly you’re falling. A scream violently rips out of your throat as the world turns sideways and the wind rushes past your ears. You flail. Panic claws at your chest, your limbs, your lungs.

And then—

Arms.

Strong, unshakable arms wrap around you like a vice mid-air, halting your fall with an aggressive jolt. You crash into something solid. No, someone. You know that chest. That heat. That scent of ozone and something impossibly Clark.

He sets you down in the middle of the street gently—almost too gently for how hard your body’s shaking. But when your legs stumble, he’s already gripping your waist, steadying you, holding on like he might lose you again if he doesn’t.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice is frantic. Rough. He’s running his big hands over your arms, down your ribs, checking for breaks or blood or anything that might explain why you just fell from the goddamn sky.

“I couldn’t just sit there,” you rasp.

He freezes. Hands still on your waist. His eyes are so wild and so blue you feel like you’re drowning on dry land.

And then he kisses you.

It’s sudden. Desperate. Messy.

His lips crash into yours like an aftershock, all teeth and heat and breathless fear. His hands frame your face now, thumbs trembling where they press against your jaw.

“Please,” he gasps against your mouth like a man starved. “Please just don’t get hurt. I can’t—I need you to be okay. Okay?”

You nod, not trusting yourself to sleep. Clark hesitates for one more beat, eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to memorize the moment, then disappears back into the chaos with a gust of wind and a rush of air.

You exhale, chest heaving, and then jump right back in.

You help the EMTs. You tear cloth into bandages. You cradle heads, squeeze hands, speak softly to people bleeding and terrified. You give them what you can.

When the smoke finally begins to clear, you lean against a battered light pole, wiping sweat and grime from your face.

You feel him before you see him. The gust of wind. The heat at your back. The familiar crackle of power in the air. You turn.

Clark is already landing in front of you.

He says nothing. Just wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you tight against him. Then he shoots into the sky with you in his arms.

He doesn’t speak again until you’re back in the apartment.

He sets you down like you’re made of something clear and breakable, but you don’t even make it more than two steps. He’s already reaching for you, already sinking onto the couch and pulling you into his lap, holding you so tightly against his chest you can feel the unsteady rhythm of his heart under your palm.

Your knees fall on either side of his thighs. His arms wrap around your back, slipping under your shirt, one hand weaving up into your hair.

He kisses you again. But this one is slow. Careful. Mouth moving against yours like a prayer. Like an apology. Like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into your skin through his lips. You swear you feel him sigh into you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers when he finally pulls away.

You’re out of focus as you blink up at him.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Clark murmurs. “I was scared. I got scared and I didn’t know how to handle it. And I took it out on you.”

“Clark…”

“I was wrong to be upset at you for being you. For being brave. For trying to help people.” He rests his forehead against yours. Your lips curve into half a smile when his curls brush your skin. “Do you have any idea how proud I am of you? Watching you out there—I didn’t know my heart could break and swell at the same time.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry too. For what I said. I was angry, and it came out ugly. I know you were just trying to protect me.”

His hand moves down to your cheek. “Next time, I’ll try protecting you without treating you like something to hide away.”

Your smile grows gentler. “And I’ll try to remember that loving you means sometimes watching you fly away.”

Clark kisses your forehead. It tingles where his lips meet your skin. “You are the bravest person I know.”

“And you,” you murmur, curling deeper into his chest, “are the softest tank I’ve ever met.”

He huffs a laugh against your hair and your butterflies erupt in your gut at the sound. His arms tighten around you and you feel like you can barely breathe, but you don’t fight his hold. You stay like that, curled together on the couch in the dim light of a quiet apartment.

Outside, the city is still flashing with sirens and scattered lights. But you don’t look.

You stay where you are. With him.

#clark kent #clark kent x reader #clark kent imagine #clark kent fic #clark kent angst #clark kent x reader angst #clark kent fluff #clark kent x reader fluff #david corenswet #superman #superman x reader #superman imagine #superman fic #dcu #metropolis #clark kent fanfiction #fanfiction #x reader

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starksweasley · 1 month ago

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tucked in

pairing: percy jackson x reader

summary: you’re just trying to finish inspection rounds without losing your mind, but percy jackson has to go and be asleep and soft and ridiculously cute about it. and now you’re tucking him in? gods, you’re never living this down.

wc: 1.5k+

You’re already annoyed before you even reach the Poseidon cabin.

Your inspection sheet is wilting slightly in your sweaty grip, the ink smudged from your thumb. The sun is high and cruel today, hanging over Camp Half-Blood like it’s got a personal vendetta. Your shirt clings damply to your back, and your shoes are coated in a thin film of dust from marching between cabins all afternoon. You’ve done twelve inspections already, and you’ve had to argue with at least eight campers about what counts as "clean." One of them actually tried to convince you that throwing a blanket over a pile of weapons made it decorative.

So, yeah. You’re not in the mood.

You drag your feet up the short set of steps to Cabin Three, muttering under your breath as you flip your clipboard to the right page. Of course Poseidon's cabin is last. Of course.

You knock once. Sharp. Clear.

Nothing.

You frown, tilt your head slightly, and knock again, louder this time. “Inspection,” you call, voice clipped.

Still nothing.

You lean in slightly, squinting at the door. “Percy,” you add, tapping the heel of your palm against the frame, “I swear, if you’re pretending not to be here so you can avoid cleaning again, I’m going to dock you so hard you’ll wish you lived in the Hermes cabin.”

Still no answer. Not even a grunt.

You huff exaggeratedly, hand tightening around your pen. “I’m coming in. If you’re naked or half-dressed or whatever, it’s your own fault,” you warn, already twisting the handle.

The door creaks open slowly, hinges groaning, and you step inside with every intention of telling Percy Jackson exactly what you think of his lazy, irresponsible, impossible self.

But then—you stop.

The air inside is still and dim, and the musty scent of ocean salt and boy sweat lingers in the room like it's soaked into the walls. It’s cooler in here than outside, shaded by thick stone walls and sea breeze charmwork. And there, in the center of the room, sprawled across a half-made bed with one leg dangling off the mattress and the other crooked awkwardly beneath him, is Percy.

Asleep.

Your mouth parts slightly, irritation forgotten for a second as you just... stare.

He looks like he collapsed the moment he walked in. His armor’s still strapped across his chest, albeit a little askew, like he barely had the energy to fasten it. His shoes are still on, untied and slightly caked with dried mud. His fingers are curled loosely into the blanket, and his hair—gods, his hair—is a dark mess of salt-swept curls, sticking up in every direction like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times before giving up.

And his face...you think he looks so soft like this. The sunlight spills across his skin in slow, honeyed ribbons, catching in his hair and turning it the color of sand at golden hour. His lashes fan out against his cheeks, delicate and still, and his lips are parted just barely, caught somewhere between a dream and waking. Even his jaw, usually tight with some impossible sense of responsibility or sharpened by a grin that dares the world to challenge him, is relaxed now. Unclenched. Peaceful. Like this is the version of him no one else gets to see.

You blink, still frozen in the doorway. Against your better judgment, something in your chest tugs. You exhale quietly through your nose, eyes dragging slowly around the rest of the room. It’s a mess (predictably). Socks poking out from under the bed, a towel draped over the desk chair, half a granola bar squashed onto the floor next to a pair of damp swim trunks. There's a trident doodled into the wooden headboard—badly, you might add. Someone left a shield propped against the nightstand like they got halfway through organizing and gave up.

You sigh. Still staring. Still not moving. And maybe you're just tired. Or maybe there’s something about the way his fingers twitch in his sleep that makes him look smaller. Younger. Human.

You shake your head once and force your eyes back to your clipboard. “Lucky you’re cute when you sleep,” you mutter under your breath, lips tugging in a reluctant smile. You circle off a surprisingly generous score and glance back at him. Still out cold.

You should leave.

But instead, you step closer. Your movements are instinctive. Careful.

Percy looks like he might fall off the bed at any second, one leg half-hanging. You bite your lip, crouch beside him, and gently finish untying his shoes. The laces come undone easily, and you slip each one off slowly.

He doesn’t stir.

You glance at his legs, still draped haphazardly. You reach for his ankle first, then his knee, easing his legs the rest of the way onto the mattress with a care that surprises even you.

Then you move to the armor, leaning in close, holding your breath as your fingers ghost over the leather straps. You unbuckle the chest plate slowly, working each clasp with practiced hands, the metal cool against your fingertips. The buckle near his shoulder is tangled in his shirt, and you have to lean closer, exhaling softly as you pry it free.

You set the armor carefully on the chair.

Then, finally, you reach for the blanket at the edge of the bed, shaking it out to clear off a few crumbs (gross), and drape it over him. Tuck it in lightly at his side.

And that’s when he twitches.

At first, it’s just the furrow of his brow. Then a scrunch of his nose, a jerk of his fingers. His lips press together like he’s trying to speak through sleep, and then suddenly, he violently jerks upright with a gasp, eyes wide and startled.

You yelp and stumble backward, crashing into the chair behind you with a loud thunk.

“What the—” His voice is rough with sleep and confusion. He looks around wildly, dazed. “What are you—why are you in my cabin?”

You lift your hands like he’s just accused you of theft. “Inspection!” you shoot back, as if that explains everything. “I knocked, you didn’t answer! I thought you were ignoring me again!”

He squints at you, still clearly half-asleep, his shoulders rising and falling with slow, confused breaths. His hair is even worse now, sticking up in every direction, and the blanket is twisted around his torso.

“You—” he blinks. “You undressed me?”

“Oh my gods,” you groan, rubbing your hands over your face. “I took your armor off, Jackson. You looked like you were going to fall off the bed and crack your head open. I was being nice. Which, by the way, is a mistake I won’t be repeating.”

You turn sharply toward the door, the heat of embarrassment prickling at your ears. “Whatever. I’ll mark you down for being messy. Happy?”

But before your hand can reach the knob, his voice stops you again.

“Wait.”

You turn your head. He’s sitting upright now, feet flat on the floor, blanket around his shoulders like a cape. He looks like a child in the aftermath of a nightmare.

“I just…” He exhales. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

You frown, footsteps halting. “Bad dreams?”

He nods, once. Small. “Yeah. For a while now.”

Something in you softens. Just a little. “I get them, too,” you say after a moment. “Sometimes they stick to your ribs for days.”

He glances up at you, searching. “How do you make them stop?”

You shrug. “I don’t know if you can. But it helps to think about something that makes you feel calm. Happy. I picture myself eating strawberries on the beach. Sounds stupid, I know, but it works.”

He gives a short, breathy laugh. “That doesn’t sound stupid.”

You don’t say anything. Just nod.

You’re halfway out the door when he says your name again. This time, quieter. More hesitant.

“Could you maybe stay?”

You pause, blinking. “Stay?”

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Just for a bit. It might help me sleep. You’re… I dunno. You’re calm.”

You stare at him. You’re pretty sure your brain short-circuits for a second.

But then you’re walking back toward him before you can think better of it, easing yourself onto the bed with cautious grace. “Not the whole night,” you say, “just for a bit.”

He scoots over wordlessly, and you sit beside him, the blanket rustling under your weight. His shoulder brushes yours when he turns onto his side, curling slightly to face you. His eyes are soft now, ocean-deep and quiet. There’s a kind of rawness there that steals the breath from your lungs.

“What?” you whisper, self-conscious.

He shakes his head slowly. “Nothing,” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I just feel calm.”

And for once, you don’t have a snarky reply. You just sit there, letting the silence settle around you like sea foam. And when his eyes flutter shut, lashes casting long shadows over his cheeks, you find yourself watching him all over again with something dangerously close to fondness.

You stay. Longer than you mean to.

And when you finally leave, your inspection sheet still smells faintly of saltwater.

#percy jackson #percy jackson imagine #percy jackson x reader #percy jackson x yn #camp half blood #rick riordan #logan lerman #demigods #percy jackson and the olympians #percy jackson x you #percy jackson fanfiction #percy jackson fluff #walker scobell #book percy jackson #poseidon #fluff #cabin three

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starksweasley · 2 months ago

Text

Milestones

Summary : Bucky feels guilty for missing three months of his baby’s life while on a mission.

Pairing : Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!reader (she/her), You have a baby named Jamie.

Warnings/tags : little bit of angst, Hurt/Comfort, domestic!Bucky, Baby Jamie, Tower fic! Lots and lots and lots of fluff!!!!

Word count : 5.4k

Note : This could be read as a sequel to Elevator, Baby! Or on its own as a one shot. Enjoy!

You stood at the base of the jet ramp, your heart in your throat and Jamie in your arms, bundled in a little blue jacket with bear ears on the hood. Bucky had been holding it together all morning—packing, checking gear, getting briefed—but the second he turned around and saw the two of you standing there, it all fell apart.

His eyebrows relaxed, lips parting just slightly as he took you in—your tired eyes, your little smile, the way Jamie was chewing on his tiny mitten.

“C'mere,” Bucky said, voice already threatening to break.

He pulled you both into his arms in one sweeping motion, pressing you against his chest, his metal hand cradling the back of Jamie’s head. He kissed your forehead, then Jamie’s cheek, then your lips, then Jamie’s nose—over and over, like he was trying to memorise the feeling.

This mission was unavoidable.

A Hydra remnant had resurfaced— and the team decided on a stealth op, one man in, one man out. No comms except for daily status checks. It had to be someone with experience, someone who knew Hydra, someone who could disappear without a trace and still come home.

It had to be Bucky.

But it killed him to go.

“I love you,” he whispered into your hair. “So much. You take care of Mama, alright?” he said quietly to Jamie, who blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

You tried to smile, even as your eyes blurred. “We’ll be right here, Buck.”

Bucky kissed your lips again and lingered there, forehead to forehead afterward. “You’re my whole world,” he said quietly. Then he pulled back, crouched to Jamie’s level, and pressed a hundred tiny kisses to his son’s chubby cheeks.

“Love you, Jamie,” he cooed. “I’m so proud of you already,” he whispered, his voice cracking just a little. “Don’t grow up too fast while I’m gone, okay?”

Jamie laughed, squeezing his father’s vibranium fingers with his mittened hands.

Bucky kissed him one more time. Then you.

Then he stepped away— like if he turned around too quickly, he wouldn't want to go.

—

You and Bucky had a cosy little house in the suburbs just outside the city on a quiet street with a fenced-in backyard and a nursery Bucky had painted himself in. It was your dream place to raise Jamie. But when Bucky got called in for the mission, he insisted that you and the baby stay in the Watchtower while he was gone.

“It’s safer,” he had said with his hand on your back. “Security’s tighter. You’ll have people around if anything happens. Please, honey,” he had puzzled into your neck, placing gentle kisses there, “It’ll help me sleep at night.”

You couldn’t argue. With Yelena and John both on recovery, Bob always nearby, and even with Ava and Alexei in and out on missions, you wouldn’t be alone. There was always someone to lend a hand, and the reinforced security systems at the Tower made your alarm system look like a toy. So, for Bucky’s peace of mind—and maybe yours, too—you agreed.

But you were only supposed to be here for four weeks.

That’s what Bucky said—“Just a month, sweets. They won’t even know I was there.” He had smiled when he said it, trying to hide how hard it was to leave you. “It'll go so fast.”

It didn’t.

The days passed like honey, slow and sticky. Jamie was teething, waking every couple of hours with red cheeks and a heartbreaking whimper. Every time you soothed him back to sleep, you whispered stories about his daddy—how brave he was, how much he loved him, how every mission he ever went on was just so he could protect you both.

The New Avengers had your back. Bob made you meals, even when you weren’t hungry. John insisted on installing baby gates. Yelena would hold Jamie when your arms got tired. Alexei insisted he remembered how to swaddle (he didn’t), and Ava had access to the baby monitor— because realistically, if there was an emergency, she would get there the fastest by phasing through walls.

And every night, at exactly 2200 hours, the comms come to life with a single message from the field.

“Alive.”

That was all you got. Nothing more. You weren’t allowed to respond, couldn’t ask if he was warm, if he’d eaten, if he missed you—though you knew the answer.

Then, at the 30-day mark, a second message came.

“Need more time. One month.”

You had to sit down. Your heart beat so loud and quick it muffled the silence that followed.

John placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’re doing great,” he said. “And he’s gonna be okay.”

But you didn’t feel great, though.

—

Around week six, it happened.

You’d just finished changing Jamie into his footie pajamas—the yellow ones with little moons and stars—and were placing him on the playmat in the middle of the living room when he surprised you. He’d been trying for days, wobbling like a baby penguin with a mission, always toppling sideways or collapsing onto his belly with a frustrated huff.

But this time… he did it.

With a determined little grunt and a proud scrunch of his brow, Jamie pushed himself upright—his pudgy hands planted firmly on the mat, his legs bent in just the right way—and he sat…. unassisted.

You froze, blinking in disbelief for a full second before the joy hit you like a wave.

“You sat up on your own, Jamie!” you squealed, your voice high and overwhelmed with pride. You rushed forward, scooping him into your arms and covering his chubby cheeks with rapid-fire kisses. “You’re so clever!”

Jamie laughed a delighted giggle that made your heart explode—and you clapped for him like he’d just graduated from college. You kissed him again and again, whispering praises, brushing his hair back, watching how his eyes lit up from your joy.

But then you looked up— just for a second.

Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the doorway, half-expecting to see Bucky there leaning against the frame. You could practically picture it—the way he’d whisper "Atta boy..."

But the doorway was empty.

Oh, right. He wasn’t here.

Still, you held Jamie close to your chest, rocking him gently as his small hands gripped your shirt. “Daddy would’ve loved that,” you whispered into his hair, kissing the top of his head. “He would’ve clapped louder than me.”

—

It was around week seven when it happened— a quiet afternoon in the nursery, rain pattering against the Watchtower’s windows, and you were in the other room folding laundry while Yelena played with Jamie on the floor. You heard her voice, delighted. “Wait—wait, wait! bozhe moy—he’s doing it!”

You dropped the stack of baby onesies and rushed in just in time to see Jamie, your seven-month-old bundle of determination, wiggling forward on his hands and knees, his little face scrunched in focus as he crawled for the first time— straight toward his favourite stacking rings.

Yelena already had her phone out, camera rolling, grinning like a proud aunt. “Look at this strong little soldier,” she said, laughing. “He has places to be!”

You dropped to your knees beside them, your hand over your mouth as laughter and tears bubbled up all at once. “Oh my God. Oh my God, Jamie,” you whispered, scooping him into your arms as he squealed, triumphant. “You did it, baby. You did it!”

Later that night, after Jamie had drifted off in his crib, you sat in the Watchtower kitchen surrounded by avengers and half-drunk mugs. You played the video again (complete with Yelena’s commentary, Jamie’s babbling giggles, the sound of his tiny palms slapping the play mat) as everyone gathered around—Ava and Bob peering over your shoulder, John and Alexei leaning against the fridge.

“He did this today?” Ava said, visibly impressed.

You nodded. “He just… took off.”

“Bucky would lose his mind,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. “He’s been waiting for this.” You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, glanced toward the nursery monitor on the table.

“He’s growing up so fast,” you said softly. “Too fast.”

And though no one said it aloud, you could feel it in the way Ava gently touched your shoulder, in the way Yelena squeezed your hand, in the way even John stayed silent for once— Bucky was missing moments he would never get back.

—

Around week eight, the daily message finally came through on the Tower comms, blinking with the same buzz it always did. You dropped what you were doing and hurried over, hoping that today would be the day he said he was on his way home.

But the screen displayed:

“Need more time.”

That was it.

No follow-up and no time estimate.

You stood there in the dimmed hallway light, heart sinking into your stomach. You pressed a hand to the monitor screen like it might somehow pass through, like it might reach him— like it might let him know how much you needed him now.

You hadn’t realised just how much hope you’d pinned on hearing something different today.

After you got Jamie down for the night, you sat in the rocking chair by the window in the nursery. You clutched one of his worn t-shirts to your chest—washed too many times but still faintly smelling like him—and glanced at the small framed photo on your nightstand.

It was a candid shot of Bucky holding Jamie the day after he was born. His metal hand was cradling Jamie’s head so delicately, his human hand around his little body.

You looked at it every night— and lately, you’d started talking to it.

“I swear, Buck, he’s got your attitude,” you murmured with a smile. “Fights nap time like he’s trying to break out of a prison transport. He’s teething now, too—two little teeth on the bottom. He bit my shoulder today and then laughed.”

You laughed to yourself, but it was tired. “And he crawled up two stairs today. Alexei nearly had a heart attack. I’m fine. Totally fine. Totally not freaking out.”

You rested your head against the back of the chair, tears burning your eyes as you looked over at the crib.

Jamie was sound asleep, arms spread, a tiny fist curled around the edge of his blanket. You got up and tiptoed over.

“Wanna say goodnight to Daddy, sweetheart?”

As part of your nightly routine, you’d started showing Jamie a few photos of Bucky—his favorite was the one of Bucky grinning with sunglasses on and Jamie strapped to his chest in a carrier.. You’d hold it up and say, “That’s your daddy. He loves you so much.”

Then you’d pull up the recording Bucky had made weeks before the mission of him reading Jamie’s favourite bedtime story— Goodnight Moon. It had been his idea, something he insisted on recording “just in case.”

As his voice filled the room—“Goodnight comb and goodnight brush…”—Jamie stirred, but only to sigh and snuggle deeper into the mattress, soothed by the sound of the man he hadn’t seen in more than three months.

—

By the time week twelve rolled around, the days had started to blur into each other. You weren’t sure if it was Tuesday or Saturday, or if you’d eaten lunch or just forgotten again. Your life was just Jamie’s routine and the single nightly message from Bucky.

“Alive.”

That was all he was allowed to say. It wasn’t much, but it was everything to you.

But then came the night the comms didn’t crackle at all.

You’d finished Jamie’s bedtime routine—bath, bottle, story—and sat in the control room with the monitor nearby, watching the clock tick past the usual transmission window. You waited one minute. Then ten. Then twenty.

Just as your chest began to tighten, Ava appeared in the doorway, still in half of her mission gear.

“Delay in transmission,” she reassured. “There’s been some disruption on the line. It doesn’t mean anything bad. Happens sometimes.”

You nodded, even though your stomach had already sunk halfway through the floor. “Thanks.”

But sleep didn’t come that night. You tried to lie down, tried to close your eyes, but your body was on high alert.

So instead, you padded barefoot to the nursery and lifted Jamie from his crib. He stirred in your arms, but didn’t fully wake— just tucked his head against your shoulder the way BUcky often did when you cuddled, tiny fingers curling into your sleeve like he knew you needed him as much as he needed you.

You curled up in the rocking chair with him, forehead pressed against the fuzz of his hair.

“Daddy’s okay,” you whispered, rocking slowly,“He’s coming home soon. Any day now, sweetheart. He promised.”

—

One night, while you rocked Jamie through the tail end of another teething fuss, the Tower’s main comm crackled to life.

You weren’t expecting much— maybe the usual “Alive”, maybe nothing at all. But then you saw it.

“On my way back. ETA: 2 hours.”

You stared at the words for a second, blinking once they sank in.

Oh.

Oh. Oh my God.

Your heart started racing, hands trembling around Jamie’s warm little body. You pressed a kiss to his hair, eyes filling with tears. “He’s coming home, baby,” you whispered to him.

Two hours later, almost to the minute, the Watchtower’s hangar doors hissed open with a mechanical sigh. The team had decided to give you privacy, so you were the only one there.

Still, your lungs had forgotten how to work the second you saw him.

Bucky.

He stood at the top of the ramp, his tactical gear scraped and worn, smeared with dust and bloodHis hair was tied back, a little longer than when he’d left. His face was gaunt with fatigue—like he’d lived a lifetime in the past three months—but none of that mattered.

Because his eyes were on you.

And then he ran.

You barely had time to react before he barreled into you, boots slamming against the floor, arms wrapping around you in a grip so tight it stole the breath from your lungs. His body collided with yours and you stumbled back a step, arms coming up around his shoulders like muscle memory.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—” he whispered into your neck, his voice cracking. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, your hair—frantic and tender.

You curled your fingers into the rough fabric of his jacket, fisting the front of it. He smelled like dirt and ash, but beneath it, he still smelled like home. You closed your eyes and breathed him in like oxygen.

“I made sure Jamie was napping,” you murmured, “Wanted to have you all to myself first.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. He cupped your face in both hands, gently brushing your cheekbones with his thumbs, as if you were something precious and fragile.

“You did?” he chuckled playfully.

You nodded, eyes wet.

“Sweetheart…” His breath hitched. “God, I missed you. So much.”

You pressed your lips to his in a kiss— and there was no rush, no frantic edge— just pure love, poured from the cracks in your heart into hisYou melted into him, every part of you screaming finally.

“I don’t care what Val says,” he whispered against your lips. “No more long missions. I don’t care if I have to clean the Tower bathrooms with a toothbrush— the longest I’ll ever go without you is a weekend. That’s it.”

You smiled through your tears, resting your forehead against his.

—

Later, once the team greeted him for a debrief and he got checked up in the medical bay, Bucky walked through the corridor to the nursery, your hand in his. You stopped just outside the door, letting him step in first.

The glow of the nightlight spilled across the room like moonlight, Jamie was fast asleep in his crib, one tiny hand curled near his cheek.

Bucky stood in the doorway.

For a long time, he didn’t speak. He just stared, glassy-eyed.

“He’s so big…” Bucky whispered, voice breaking. His metal hand tightened around yours just slightly. “I mean, I knew he would grow—but…”

“He did,” you said, wrapping your arms around his waist. “He grew up so much.”

Bucky leaned down, resting his chin atop your head, eyes never leaving his son.

“I missed him,” Bucky murmured. “I missed everything. His face… He’s changed.”

You nodded, pressing your cheek against his jacket. “He looks more like you now.”

Bucky gave a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, still watching Jamie’s chest rise and fall. “I wanna hold him so bad,” Bucky said. “But I should shower. Get the dirt off me before I touch either of my babies.”

“He’ll be up in the morning. He’s become a morning person, like his dad,” you whispered, “But I don’t mind the dirt.”

Bucky finally turned, pulling you into his arms again, a bit more relaxed now. “Don’t you, now?” he chuckled, dropping a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw.

You grinned, fingers curling into his jacket as he leaned in closer.

“I missed this,” he said, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “Missed you in our bed. Missed the sounds you make. Missed waking up with you. Missed touching you—loving you.”

Your breath caught as his hands traced your sides. “Bucky—” you whispered, heart racing.

“Let me love my girl,” he said, eyes burning into yours. “Let me come home to you properly.”

You nodded.

He took your hand in his, and with one last glance toward the crib before closing the door as he led you to your shared tower bedroom.

—

The hum of the baby monitor filled the bedroom — until it didn’t. You heard a faint rustle, the scrunch of fabric, and a sleepy little sigh followed by the unmistakable pat-pat of tiny hands against the crib mattress.

You stirred beneath the blanket, blinking awake. “He’s up,” you whispered, barely a breath.

But Bucky, excited to finally see his son, was already halfway across the room.

You sat up as he disappeared into the hallway as you followed behind watching him pause outside the nursery door.

He reached for the handle and then he opened the door.

The morning light spilled across the floor, filtering in through the curtains, and there—right where you'd left him—was Jamie. Blinking drowsily, legs kicking beneath, his cheeks still warm.

“Hey, buddy,” he said gently, crouching down beside the crib. His voice was rough, quiet—like reverence wrapped in gravel. “There’s my boy.”

Jamie blinked once before a high-pitched squeal erupted from his little body, his whole face scrunching into a gummy, delighted grin. He kicked hard, flailing his arms like he might fly right out of the crib.

Bucky let out a laugh that sounded half a choke, half a sob. “You remember me, huh?” he whispered, almost amazed.

He scooped Jamie up with both arms, holding him against his chest like he was made of spun sugar.

You leaned against the doorframe, a smile tugging at your lips. “Of course he did.”

Bucky pressed a kiss to Jamie’s hair and shut his eyes. “God, he’s heavier,” he said.

Jamie babbled something unintelligible, tugging at Bucky’s collar like he had a lot to catch up on and no words to say it.

The three of you curled up on the couch not long after—Jamie nestled in Bucky’s lap, clutching his bottle with sleepy fingers while Bucky held him close, murmuring nonsense. Jamie giggled, tugged gently at his hair, and babbled like they were resuming a conversation that had never ended.

You sat beside them, then you pulled out your phone.

“Here,” you said, shifting closer until your thigh brushed his. “You missed a few things. I saved everything.”

Bucky glanced at the screen as you pulled up the first video.

It was Jamie crawling. Wobbly and determined, launching himself forward from the rug to the couch as you cheered and Yelena laughed in the background.

Bucky’s breath caught. “Look at him go,” he whispered, brushing Jamie’s hair back. He kissed his son’s temple.

You smiled and swiped to the next.

This one was Jamie sitting up all by himself, beaming proudly, clearly so proud of himself.

Bucky’s smile was gentler this time.

Clip after clip, moment after moment—Jamie waving at Bob for the first time, babbling nonsense as Alexei tried to teach him the Russian word for “banana” — These were three months worth of milestones, one after another.

You were too busy watching the screen to see the way Bucky’s teeth clenched, the way his metal hand flexed against his thigh.

“And here,” you said, “this was last week. He figured out how to hold the bottle himself.”

You tapped the video: Jamie lying on a blanket, gripping his little bottle with both hands, gurgling contentedly between sips. It was three days ago.

“That’s… that’s great,” he whispered, barely audible.

You turned your head to look at him, resting your hand on his thigh. “You okay?”

He met your eyes with a sad smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m good, sweetheart. Just… taking it all in.”

You nodded, comforted by the answer, and turned back to the next video..

You didn’t see the way his eyes lingered on the screen long afterwards, the way his hands tightened around Jamie’s.

He kissed Jamie’s cheek again.

Because while you saw memories, Bucky only saw his absence from an entire chapter of his son’s life that he could never get back. And even as Jamie cooed against him, Bucky couldn’t help but think—

I should’ve been there.

—

That night, sometime past 2 a.m., the baby monitor crackled to life—a fizz of static followed by the most heartbreaking cry.

You stirred beneath the covers, still half-asleep, but before you could even lift your head, Bucky was already sitting up, one hand brushing your thigh.

“I got this, honey,” he reassured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Go back to sleep.”

You gave a groggy hum of thank you and rolled over, already sinking back into the mattress.

Bucky moved down the hallway and into the nursery, easing the door open.

Jamie was wriggling in his crib, face red and scrunched, little fists clenched tight as he let out another frustrated cry— the particular pitch that could only mean one thing.

“Hey, hey, alright, buddy,” Bucky soothed, already reaching in. “You mad about the diaper again? I get it. Nobody likes soggy pants.”

He changed him on the table— hesitant at first, but it came back to him like muscle memory. Tape, wipe, fresh diaper, blanket with the faded cartoon stars— he one Jamie always settled best in.

“There we go,” Bucky whispered, swaddling him up with care. “Better?”

Jamie hiccupped, then let out a sleepy little sigh. His eyes drooped.

But neither Jamie nor Bucky headed straight back to bed— it was as if they were both awake and in this together now..

So, he drifted into the Watchtower’s common room, where the city lights bled in through the windows and walked around the kitchen tower. He reached and pointed to the fridge, most likely for a bottle.

“You hungry, too, huh?” he asked. He quickly warmed up the bottle before slipping it gently into Jamie’s hands.

And Jamie… gripped it. He adjusted it and found the rubber nipple on his own like it was second nature.

Bucky didn’t help anymore, he didn’t have to. Jamie had it handled.

Tears pricked his eyes as he sank into the couch.

“You’re so good at that now,” he whispered, voice cracking as he brushed a hand over Jamie’s brown curls. “You don’t even need me to help.”

Jamie drank peacefully, his little hand patting absently at Bucky’s chest.

“I should’ve been here for that,” Bucky continued. “Should’ve helped you figure it out. And now I come back, and you’ve already moved past it.”

He looked away, wiping at his face, “What kind of dad misses that?”

“Someone who is trying,” came a gravelly voice behind him.

Bucky twisted to look behind him.

Alexei stood in the doorway, travel-worn, duffel bag still slung over his shoulder, just coming home from a mission. He smelled like pavement and engine grease, and he was careful not to get too close to little Jamie.

“Hey there, malen’kiy medvezhonok,” he greeted Jamie. Then, with a smirk, he said, “And bol’shoy medved,” he added, nodding to Bucky with dry amusement— his long-standing nickname for Bucky’s bear-like devotion to fatherhood.

Jamie made a sleepy gurgle and blinked up at him, unimpressed.

Bucky sighed. “He figured out the bottle on his own.”

Alexei nodded, stepping inside and collapsing into the nearby armchair with a grunt. “Babies do that.” he said, dropping his bag, “But I think my girls skipped it and went straight for knives.”

Bucky huffed a chuckle, but it faded quickly.

“Be honest with me, Alexei.”

Alexei raised a brow. “Always.”

“Am I a failure of a father?”

Alexei blinked, frowning like Bucky had asked whether water was optional for survival.

“What? No.”

“I missed him crawling, sitting up. All the big firsts. I keep telling her I’m fine, that I’m proud, but I’m already behind and he’s not even one. How do I even begin to catch up?”

Alexei sat on an armchair. Then he leaned back, stretching his legs with a groan. “You want truth?”

Bucky nodded.

“You are not failure. You are a man who had to leave but came back.” He gestured vaguely. “That alone makes you better than ninety-nine percent of men I’ve known—including my own father. It makes you better than me for most of Natasha and Yelena’s lives.”

Bucky frowned. “But—”

“Listen to me.” Alexei held up a hand, interrupting him. “I used to think I could fix everything with fists. I thought if I hit enough bad guys, it made me good by default. But then.... I stay— and Yelena likes me better now. We need to keep coming back, even when you feel like you don’t deserve it.”

He paused, then added, “John —he is not perfect. He missed much of his child’s early life. Now he gets weekend and playground visits. But he shows up. He tries. Do you think he is bad father?”

“No,” Bucky admitted, remembering when John’s kid got a tour of the tower, giggly and happy, “Not anymore.”

“Exactly,” Alexei said, “And John left for a year. You? You are holding your son and feeling bad about a bottle.”

Bucky looked down. Jamie was dozing now, the bottle half-full, his hand curled in the fabric of his shirt.

“You think he’ll forgive me?” Bucky asked.

Alexei snorted. “He is baby. He will forgive you before breakfast.”

That drew a real laugh from Bucky. He buried his nose in Jamie’s hair and closed his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said.

Alexei stood with a stretch. “I go find food. Or shower. Or both. In whatever order I hit first.” He gave Jamie a parting glance. “Good baby. Sleeps better than little Yelena.”

And with that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Bucky and Jamie alone again.

—

The light of morning spilled across the Watchtower’s windows. The city below hummed—cars drifting like whispers on distant roads, the sound of turbines blending into birdsong. Inside, the common room was warm and quiet.

You sat curled on the long couch, a travel bag at your feet and Jamie balanced in your lap, his tiny body still warm from sleep. He wore his little bear-print onesie, his cheeks smudged pink, fingers lazily wrapped around the last bit of his morning bottle. He blinked sleepily up at you, eyelashes fluttering like they were too heavy.

It was your last morning at the Tower, Bucky had just finished debriefing everyone he needed to and doing all the official paperwork. You’d be back often, of course—visits, Bucky’s (hopefully shorter) missions, and dinners with the team—but today, you were finally going home. Back to your own kitchen, your backyard, to your birdfeeder. Back to your quiet street and your swing and the scent of fresh coffee in your own kitchen. Back to your bed that no longer felt too big, because Bucky was coming with you.

He’d slipped out earlier, promising to pack up your things while you focused on Jamie. “Let me do something useful, sweets,” he’d said, pressing a kiss to your temple. He was still carrying this guilt in small ways— over-packing the diaper bag, refolding clothes you’d already folded, checking three times that Jamie had socks on.

And you let him.

Because this was how he stitched himself back into your life.

Jamie finished the bottle and gave a small, sleepy grunt. Then he kicked around, accidentally knocking your empty breakfast plate from the coffee table.

CLACK!

It clattered to the ground with an echo that felt so much louder than it should have been.

Jamie flinched.

His whole body jolted as his eyes went wide, mouth pulling down hard. And then— like a dam cracking open— the cries began— the kind that came with a startled fear only babies felt, when they didn’t understand the world enough to explain it.

“Oh, baby—no, no, it’s okay,” you whispered, immediately rocking him. “Just a sound, it’s alright. Just a noise. Mama’s got you—shhh…”

But he was inconsolable. His tiny fists curled tight against your collarbone, whole face turning red as he wailed.

That was the moment the door slid open.

Bucky stepped into the room, a suitcase in one hand and a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, brow furrowed from some conversation he’d just had with John on the comms. “Hey, I found the monitor and that book you always—oh—”

He froze, watching you frantically try to calm little Jamie down

“What happened?” he asked quickly, dropping the bag before you could answer.

“He scared himself,” you explained. “He knocked the plate off the table and made a loud noise.”

You didn’t need to explain more. He was already reaching.

“Come here,” Bucky said, his voice a particular tenderness he reserved only for you and Jamie. “Come to Daddy. Daddy’s got you now.”

You passed Jamie over, and Bucky drew him in tight— one hand cradling the back of Jamie’s head, the other rubbing soothing circles across his little spine. His voice dropped to a hush. “Shhh… It’s alright now. Just a dumb plate, huh? Didn’t mean to scare you. We’ll kick its ass later, huh?” he said, and you playfully slapped his shoulder for saying a bad word. “Plates are overrated anyway.”

Jamie’s cries had quieted into little hiccups, no longer frantic. He clung to Bucky’s shirt, burrowed in under his chin like.

And then it came in his small, raspy voice “...Dada.”

Bucky stopped moving. You blinked.

And then, slowly, Bucky pulled back just enough to look at Jamie’s face. “What… What did you say?” he whispered in disbelief.

Jamie blinked up at him as a chubby hand reached up and curled into Bucky’s beard.

“Dada,” he said again, clearer now.

Bucky’s knees almost buckled.

His mouth opened, but no words came out at first.

“Is this—has he...?” he asked, barely turning his head toward you.

You were already nodding, tears burning in your own eyes. “It is,” you whispered, kissing Jamie’s forehead. “That’s his first word.”

Bucky let out a stunned laugh, his voice cracking. “That’s me. That’s me, Jamie. I’m your Dada.”

He kissed the top of Jamie’s head over and over again, before kissing you— gentle and sweet.

Jamie giggled at the sight of his parents showing affection to each other, delighted with himself, babbling nonsense now and again, but punctuating it with another firm, proud “Dada.”

You smiled, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder.

All those nights you’d shown Jamie picture after picture of his father—telling him over and over, “That’s your Daddy. He’s coming home.” All those times you’d held your breath hoping Jamie wouldn’t forget him… It had all paid off.

Bucky kissed your forehead without even looking, still half in shock, like he couldn’t believe this little boy—this squishy miracle—was his. And yours.

And that his very first word had been Dada.

Jamie wiggled and tucked his head beneath Bucky’s chin, pressing close with a little hum of contentment. “Dada,” Jamie said again, sleepily this time.

Bucky leaned down and whispered, “That’s me, buddy.”

—end.

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starksweasley · 3 months ago

Text

I know if I'm haunting you, you must be haunting me

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starksweasley · 3 months ago

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hello love! i know you probably a dumpster load of requests so i apologize for taking your time. but i just had a thought.; james potter is totally the kind of guy to tell his girlfriend he's taken when drunk. like that man is to loyal for his own good. even when his own gf is trying to bring to home, he's just like "no. i've got a girlfriend that I love DEARLY. leave me alone" and when she keeps trying he'd call for sirius for backup😭. don't feel guilty if you don't do this!! i just wanted to share my thought, with or without you writing it! have an AMAZING day or night, and keep being YOU!! you inspire many people whether you believe that or not, it stays true!!!

Thanks sweetheart, love you!

cw: alcohol

modern au

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 844 words

You find your boyfriend in a corner booth, hanging onto Sirius’ arm and waxing poetic about their school days.

“They never figured out how we always avoided Minnie whenever she wanted to find us,” he snickers, eyes glimmering. “We were soooo slippery.”

“I think she knew everything,” says Remus, taking a sip of his drink. You notice there’s not one in front of James; it must have been confiscated. “She just liked us—some of us, that is—” He hides a smirk behind his glass. “—well enough to let us get away with it all.” He spots you and, with a nod, turns his attention to Sirius to give you and James space.

James humphs noncommittally, confused as to why Remus no longer seems to be entertaining him.

You come up on his other side, touching his muscled shoulder lightly. “Hey.”

James turns swiftly, clearing not having noticed you walking over. You’re expecting a smile and a hug and expectant, puckered lips—his usual greeting for you—but instead his eyes narrow behind his glasses, brows twitching together almost imperceptibly.

“Hello,” he says, somewhat stiffly.

You feel your lips curve into a bemused sort of smile. “Hi, handsome. Ready to go home?”

He guffaws. Actually guffaws, like you’ve just suggested he go jump in the Thames. “I think not,” he says. “I have a girlfriend.”

A tiny laugh startles out of you. “Yeah, I’m aware. You alright?”

Now he gives you a smile. Or his best attempt at one, but James has always been a terrible actor, and the false grin manifests as a grimace. “M’good, thanks.”

He starts to turn back towards his friends, but you pull on his sleeve.

“C’mon, Jamie,” you urge. “It’s time to go, yeah?” James turns around, looking truly scandalized now. You give his arm a tug. “Let’s go home.”

“No,” he insists, firmer than you knew could be managed with a slur. “I told you, I have a girlfriend. She’s waiting at my home, ‘nd I love her very much. Leave me alone.”

“James,” you laugh. “Honey, it’s me.”

“Pads.” He turns around, wrapping his arm around Sirius’ shoulders like he needs to hold onto something lest you try and haul him away. “Pads, this woman is trying to take me home. Tell ‘er I have a girlfriend.”

Your mouth drops open. “James!”

Sirius turns slowly, raking his gaze over you. He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Get lost, babe. This one’s taken.”

Then he jolts and cuts a glare towards Remus, who sips from his drink innocently. “Be nice,” he reminds his boyfriend, foot moving back under his own chair.

Sirius sighs, rolling his eyes. “Prongs,” he says with great reluctance, “this is your girlfriend.”

Even drunk, James knows enough to be suspicious of his friend when he’s in a mischief-making mood. He squints at Sirius. “My girlfriend s’at home,” he reasons.

“Your girlfriend is here,” Sirius says evenly, and you can’t blame James for his skepticism; if you weren’t fully aware that you are here, you wouldn’t trust Sirius’ deadpan stare either.

“I texted her, James,” Remus says helpfully. “She’s here because I told her where we were.”

Your boyfriend’s lips part, and he turns to you with something between joy and heartache—but the shock of both—written all over his face. “Sweetheart,” he cries, “it’s you!”

“Yeah,” you laugh, letting him tug you forward by the hips into an awkward hug. You set a consoling hand on top of his head. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

“My sweetheart,” he mumbles into your stomach. “I didn’t know it was you, angel. Of course I’ll go home with you.”

“Glad to hear it.” You pat his back, heat rising to your cheeks at the display.

James turns his head, still gripping you tightly so the side of his face is pressed to your front. “You texted her for me?” he asks Remus, maudlin.

“Well, I texted her because I didn’t feel like walking in the opposite direction of our flat to carry you home,” Remus says, then shrugs. “But for you too, sure.”

“Thank you, Moony,” James croons.

Remus turns to hide a smile, and you take James’ head in your hands, angling his face back up towards you. “Hi, handsome,” you try again. “Ready to go home?”

He bobs his head happily, clambering out of his seat and whistling rowdily when you slip an arm around his waist to help support him. You wonder if the heat from your face could be harvested to power a hospital or something. You wave goodbye to his friends as James calls over your shoulder how much he’ll miss them until he sees them tomorrow.

“M’so excited to go home, baby.” He leans into your side as you maneuver the both of you out the door of the pub. “I’ve been dying to get home to you. You should’a heard, earlier, I was talking to this other girl ‘nd I told her, ‘I’m just dying to get home to my girlfriend’.”

“Yeah, I remember,” you say. “That was me.”

“Oh, right!”

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starksweasley · 3 months ago

Note

Congrats on 1k love!!! Im so happy for you, you deserve all the love 🩶

Could i request a ravenclaw!reader who's a little volatile (i suppose like dark acadameia) that the slytherins have kind of adopted (because shes volatile not violent and they think its cute). But shes been in a relationship with Remus on the down low and they realise at a halloween party?

I imagine Remus as an angel while reader is a devil and the slytherins were already concerned by the costume but then they notice you and Remus and just loose their marbles. Barty's having a meltdown, evans im shock and Sirius is cackling because Regulus is trying to stand tall but Remus is so much bigger than him its just impossible.

Anyway, tysm for your wonderful self and feel free to twist this however fits you, love!!

Hi lovely, thank you so much! I'm assuming you meant this to be for the Fade Into You part of the celebration since it's a specific reader, and also I don't know the Slytherin boys very well so I feel like my characterization could be wayyyyy off but I hope this is alright!

join the party

Remus Lupin x Ravenclaw!reader ♡ 930 words

You’re dancing with your friends when your drink is plucked suddenly from your hand.

“Hey!” You spin around to find the thief, and then your tone changes completely. “Hey, Remus, you came!” You crash into him, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. Remus hugs you back the best he’s able, a drink in each hand. “And you wore your costume!” You grin as you pull away, resting a hand on either side of his face to admire how soft and sweet he looks in seraphim white. “Is that glitter on your cheeks?”

Said cheeks grow warm under your hands. “That’s Sirius’ touch.”

“You look very pretty.” He grins, and you stand on tiptoe to whisper sweetly in his ear, “Now give me back my drink, pretty boy.”

Remus’ smile doesn’t waver, but he becomes a tad more serious about the eyes. “How many have you had?”

“Oh, don’t be such a drag, Lupin,” Barty pipes up, coming up behind you to sling an arm around your shoulder. “She’s fine, and not that it’s any business of yours, but we won’t let anything happen to her.”

“She just seems like maybe she’s had enough,” Remus replies, and his tone is far from unkind, but there’s an edge of admonishment to it that has Barty bristling noticeably. He turns back to you, voice softening. “What do you say, lovely, want to go sit down for a little while?”

You look at Barty, who raises an eyebrow at you. Behind him, Reggie stands with his arms crossed, looking bored with the whole thing.

“I won’t be gone long,” you say in apology, and Barty scoffs disgustedly, but releases you.

“Fine, go play with your costume buddy,” he says. “We’ll be here when you get sick of him.”

You take Remus’ hand in one of yours, flipping Barty off with the other.

“Are we really going to sit down?” you whisper hopefully, and Remus chuckles.

“Yeah, we are. Sorry, sweetheart, but you’re not exactly walking in a straight line right now.”

You grin, tugging at his hand playfully. “That’s just ‘cause I’m a rebel. The boys would never let me hang out with them if I walked the straight and narrow.”

“That so?” Remus hums, pulling you down onto a couch beside him. “Have I mentioned how nice you look yet? You really do.”

“I’m not supposed to look nice.” You roll your eyes, shuffling closer to him. “I’m a devil, Rem. I’m supposed to look hot and salacious.”

Remus graces you with a smile, brushing a piece of hair from in front of your eye. “You do look hot, but you look nice too. I don’t think you can help that one, dovey.”

“Yeah?” You bat your eyelashes, moving into his lap. Remus’ eyebrow quirks up slightly, cheeks glittering with the movement, but he doesn’t stop you. “Is it just that I radiate sweetness?” You kiss his jaw. “And patience?” Remus’ cheek is faintly pink where you press your lips. “Innocence, certainly,” you tease, breath hot on his ear, “but what else?”

“Dove,” he whispers, “I think your friends are watching.”

“Hm?” You look up, and sure enough, Regulus, Barty, and Evan are standing just a few feet away by the punch bowl, expressions ranging from bewilderment to abject horror. “Oh. Oops.”

“I—I can’t,” Barty sputters. “I can’t be seeing this. Are you plastered? Get off him.”

You don’t, but Remus does it for you, standing and setting you on your feet as Regulus stalks forward. He stops with his arms crossed in front of the two of you.

“Is this who you’ve been ditching us for lately?” he asks you.

You start to reply, but Barty talks over you. “No.” He shakes his head. “No, there’s no way. There’s no way.”

Others have started migrating toward you to watch the show, among them Remus’ friends. Normally you wouldn't care, but Remus is beginning to squirm, so you try to calm things down for his benefit.

“You guys are overreacting,” you say, as peaceably as you’re capable of. “As if it really matters what house my boyfriend is in.”

“Boyfriend?” Barty despairs, and you should have known better than to think anything could quell his dramatics once they’ve begun. “God, as if the costumes weren’t bad enough, you have to throw lovey-dovey terms like boyfriend around.”

A peal of laughter sounds from somewhere nearby, and you look around to find Sirius, eyes already wet with mirth as he watches his younger brother. “Reggie,” he manages between giggles, “are you trying to look taller than him?”

Reg raises an unimpressed brow, and anyone who didn’t know him well might not notice the flicker of embarrassment in his gaze. “Don’t be stupid,” he says, but his posture is better than you’ve ever seen it, his neck elongated in an attempt to look Remus in the eyes without having to tilt his head.

“Reg.” Sirius swipes under his eyes. “You may be taller than me, but you’re never gonna get all the way up there.”

“Alright,” you say decisively, taking Remus’ hand and proceeding to push past Regulus’ stiff form. You shoot Evan a half-apologetic look as you go by, still standing frozen like he’s been stupefied, and Barty follows your movement with eyes blown wide. “Just for that, we’re going back to you guys’ dorm, Black. And we’re going to fuck, loudly, all night.” You shoot your most winning smile in his direction, even as Remus’ face takes on a fiery hue beneath the white glitter. “I wouldn’t recommend coming home. Goodnight!”

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starksweasley · 3 months ago

Text

not so secret

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky were planning to keep the engagement quiet (for like, five minutes), but none of the thunderbolts believe in knocking.

wc: 1.9k+

Bucky woke before the city did. Which was saying something, considering the Avengers Tower usually never slept. But for once, it was quiet. In fact, it was almost suspiciously quiet, and he found himself blinking into soft sunlight instead of being jolted awake by fire alarms, Bob’s screaming, or Walker bench-pressing in the hallway.

You were still pressed against him, warm and soft and exactly where he wanted you. Your hand was splayed over his chest, resting right over where his heart beat steady and unbothered beneath his skin. And nestled on that hand, catching the morning light like it was born to, was the diamond ring.

His diamond ring.

Bucky just stared for a moment, letting his brain play catch-up.

You’d said yes.

The same you who tucked herself into his side each night without fail. The same you who stole his hoodies and slept with your ice-cold feet wedged between his calves like you owned the space. The same you who laughed at his grumpiest grumbles and brushed his hair and told him he was good, even when he didn’t believe it. Especially when he didn’t believe it.

And now you were wearing his ring like it had always belonged there.

He had the gall to smile. A real one. A crooked little thing that crinkled at the corner of his eyes and pulled warmth from somewhere deep in his chest. He reached up to push a wayward strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Good morning, Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured, voice low and still scratchy with sleep. “Kinda.”

You made a faint noise in response, something halfway between a groan and a chuckle, and blinked up at him.

“That’s not how names work, baby,” you rasped, stretching like a cat against him.

He whined dramatically and buried his face in your neck like the coward he absolutely was. “Shut up, fiancée.”

Your laugh puffed warm against his hair, and Bucky felt you smile even before he heard it. The kind of smile that settled into your whole body, that made you shift closer like you could crawl into his chest and stay there forever.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you mumbled. “Even after last night’s disaster.”

He peeked up, face scrunched up. “It wasn’t a disaster.”

“You dropped the ring.”

“I dropped my phone. And then the ring. But that was because you gasped. You made that sound like something exploded.”

“I thought the table was on fire.”

“It wasn’t. Just… lightly smoking.”

“And then you read your speech off your Notes app.”

“It was formatted.”

You giggled, sickeningly in love and thoroughly unimpressed. “You had bullet points.”

Bucky grunted and flopped back onto the pillow, hand dragging down his face. “Romance is dead.”

“You set the kitchen on fire with scented candles. You brought romance back and then killed it again. Very poetic.”

Still, your hand found his under the blankets, fingers curling into his palm like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which, for the record, it was.

The quiet stretched between you again, not awkward, not empty—just full. Like your bodies had gone still but your hearts were still talking.

And then—BANG!

The door slammed open with such force, Bucky genuinely thought it had come off the hinges.

“Okay so who short-circuited the kitchen this time?!” Bob’s voice rang out, frantic, toaster in hand, wild-eyed. “Walker’s eyebrows are HALF GONE—OH MY GOD.”

It took Bucky exactly one second to react.

“HEY!” he barked, grabbing the comforter like his life depended on it and yanking it up to cover you so fast it might’ve broken the sound barrier. You squealed under the sheets as the motion sent the actual toaster flying out of Bob’s hands and clattering to the floor like an offended robot.

“Buck—” you gasped, breathless with laughter. “You are so dramatic—”

“I will kill him,” Bucky muttered, already halfway up in bed, hair a mess and eyes full murder. His arm reached around your front, desperately grasping the edges of the blanket to make sure it didn’t slip down your chest.

Bob, still planted at the foot of the bed like a poorly programmed Roomba, blinked. Then blinked again. And then he saw it.

Your hand, peeking from beneath the duvet. The ring. His eyes locked on it like a sniper scope.

“Wait. Is that—are you—IS THAT A RING?!”

There was a beat. One, long, painful second where the information processed behind his eyes.

And then— “BUCKY’S ENGAGED!! HE DID IT! HE LOCKED IT DOWN!” Bob shrieked, honest-to-God shrieked, and then turned and sprinted out the door, toaster smoke still trailing behind him like a tail.

You groaned and dropped your head into Bucky’s shoulder, laughing so hard you wheezed. Bucky just stared at the door, eyes wide.

“He’s telling everyone, isn’t he.”

“Yup,” you gasped.

“I liked it better when it was our secret.”

“Mmhm. But admit it, you kinda like the chaos.”

A long pause.

“I hate how well you know me.”

And there it was two minutes later: absolute chaos.

Bucky had barely finished muttering a threat to murder Bob “in his goddamn sleep” when the sound of rapid footsteps, multiple footsteps, thundered down the hallway like a pack of wild horses. You barely had time to register the incoming stampede before the bedroom door slammed open again, and this time it didn’t stop at just one uninvited idiot. No, this time the entire squad came charging in like it was a scheduled morning briefing and not your private just-got-engaged-still-in-bed moment.

Yelena entered first, unapologetic and smug as ever. Her face was slick with a green clay mask, blonde hair piled in a messy bun, and fuzzy pink bunny slippers smacking against the hardwood with aggression. She looked like a Pinterest board threw up on her and she was proud of it.

Ava didn’t bother with the door. You shrieked as she just phased in directly onto the end of the bed, landing cross-legged with the grace of someone who did not fear death or your privacy. “Morning,” she said flatly, already regretting being awake.

Walker swaggered in shirtless, the faint scent of burnt hair trailing behind him. His right eyebrow was missing, and his protein shake was dripping down the side of the cup like it, too, was having a rough morning. “What’s all this fuss?” he asked, clearly having no idea and still deeply eager to insert himself into it.

Alexei was last—if you didn’t count Bob, who had re-entered like a returning sitcom character. The Red Guardian stomped in still fully suited up like he’d been waiting for an excuse to wear the damn thing again. He was chewing a bagel with zero urgency and looked utterly delighted.

You didn’t even have time to react before Yelena pointed accusingly.

“I KNEW IT,” she crowed, face mask cracking with the sheer force of her grin. “I knew you two were disgustingly in love. Pay up, Ava.”

Ava, without breaking eye contact or moving a muscle, reached into her hoodie pocket and tossed a crumpled ten-dollar bill at Yelena’s feet like she was making an offering to the chaos gods. “This is stupid,” she deadpanned. “I wanted drama. Not a rom-com with a six-zero war criminal lead.”

Bucky made a strangled sound, equal parts offended and deeply betrayed.

Walker squinted at you both, then at the bed, then at your left hand, and finally let out a low whistle. “So how long were you gonna hide it, huh?” he asked, tipping his protein shake toward the ring like it was a toast. “You think we wouldn’t notice the rock the size of a mini frisbee?”

You groaned softly (for the umpteenth time) from beneath the blanket and elbowed Bucky in the ribs. “I need your sweatshirt.”

With a muttered curse and some careful one-armed maneuvering, he reached blindly toward the edge of the bed where his hoodie had landed the night before. It took him a full fifteen seconds to find it while still holding the blanket up with a white-knuckled grip like a man defending a fort. You snatched the hoodie the second it was within reach and, under the comforter, managed to shove it over your head in a tangled, slightly humiliating flurry of limbs and curses.

You sat up, dragged your fingers through your hair, and tried to salvage at least one ounce of dignity as you held up your left hand.

“Yeah,” you finally said, voice hoarse but good-natured. “He asked last night.”

A beat.

“After nearly setting the kitchen on fire with candles.”

Yelena turned to Bucky with a smirk like a knife. “You cooked? No wonder she said yes. She probably thought she was gonna die.”

“False,” Bucky muttered, burying his burning face into your shoulder like he could disappear into his your hoodie. “Everything was under control.”

“You burned pasta, Buck,” you said, gently patting his thigh.

He groaned louder.

That was when Walker, always the menace, decided to start playing “Single Ladies” off his phone at full volume.

Yelena immediately joined in, throwing her clay-covered hands into the air and doing a half-committed version of the dance. Bob screamed and jumped in beside her like it was Broadway. Alexei started filming with his tablet and narrating like it was a National Geographic special: “And here, we see the modern American bachelor ritual in full display…”

Ava, still seated at the foot of the bed, stared into the middle distance and muttered, “This is hell.” But she was smiling a little despite herself.

You glanced at Bucky, who was still clinging to you like he might actually combust if he let go, and whispered through your laughter, “Wish we kept it a secret?”

His only response was a long, suffering moan muffled into your neck.

But even with the entire team screaming Beyoncé lyrics ten feet away, you could feel it in the way he held you.

The answer was no. He wouldn’t trade this chaos for the world. Not if it meant getting to love you out loud. But Bucky had his limits, especially when said chaos was standing three feet from your half-naked form and singing (moreso squawking) at full volume.

“Out,” Bucky commanded flatly.

No one moved.

“I’m serious. Out. Now. Before I start naming weaknesses.”

That got them scrambling. Walker tripped over Yelena’s bunny slipper. Ava phased directly through Bob, who screamed. Alexei took his sweet time: bagel first, dignity second. But within thirty seconds, the room was empty.

Silence.

Bucky exhaled, long and slow, then let the blanket fall from his death grip.

You flopped back onto the bed with a thud, eyes wide and disbelieving, one arm tossed dramatically over your face. “That did not just happen.”

Bucky collapsed right on top of you and stuck his nose into the curve of your left collarbone. “It did. And I want to move.”

“To where?”

“Somewhere quiet. Unmapped. No cell signal.”

You laughed and ran your hands through his dark hair. His hand came up to find yours, fingers lacing gently together. “So… guess everyone knows now.”

“Good.”

Then he leaned up and kissed you. Slow, certain, and smiling against your mouth.

When he pulled back, he smirked. “Think it’s too early to elope?”

You raised a brow. “You trying to skip the party?”

His grin widened. “Just trying to skip Bob’s speech.

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starksweasley · 3 months ago

Text

those were your rules

Sirius Black x fwb!reader who wants more [966 words]

CW: fem!reader, reader tries to call it off with Sirius when she realizes she wants more, some slight angst for a minute, inspired by this great fic that came across my feed based off of a scene from Gilmore Girls

“Okay, one more time?” Sirius asks again, the heels of his palms pressing into his eyes that you’re sure have him seeing a kaleidoscope of colours.

You think you might’ve been tempted to laugh, were it not for the lump in your throat; were it not for the words he’s asking you to repeat again that took you nearly three weeks to build the courage up to say at all to begin with.

“I…I need this to stop.” You manage, mouth dry as you stare at the heather grey t-shirt he’s wearing instead of his face.

“This,” he starts, hands falling to his hips as he tries and fails to make eye contact with you, “being…”

“You and me.”

“Right,” he agrees slowly, “you and me being…”

You let out a breath and look to your left, chewing on your lip as you try to find a delicate way of saying “the sex, Sirius.”

“But why?” He finally manages, letting his weight fall back into the back of the sofa in a half-seated, half-standing position. You really picked a horrid place to have this conversation; you asked to come over, and Sirius - none the wiser - was likely excited for a romp, but then you were taking your shoes off to be polite but not allowing him to take your jacket, slapping him with the “I can’t do this anymore” before you were even five whole steps into his flat.

“It’s…I don’t know, Sirius. It’s not enough for me.”

“I’m not enough for you.” He parrots in monotone; not a question.

“No, Sirius, that’s not what I’m saying.” You moan. “But, just, this arrangement - it isn’t enough for me anymore. I want more.”

“You want more. More, what?”

“Sirius, come on.” You groan, finally looking at him in exhaustion and hoping he can hear the desperation in your tone. “Are you really going to make me say it out loud?”

“I just don’t understand what’s changed!” He pleads, standing again and holding his hands out helplessly.

“I have!” You shout back, immediately feeling guilty because this wasn’t meant to be a fight, and this was probably exactly why he insisted on this kind of arrangement with you.

“I have,” you try again, softer this time, “I just…I want more. I want a boyfriend. And I can’t have that if…”

“If you’re sleeping with me.” He surmises, earning him a nod as you go back to studying the soft grey of his shirt. “But…we agreed, yeah? We agreed that that’s all we’d be.”

“I know.” You admit. “I know, and I’m sorry, I just…” Your shoulders raise helplessly, causing him to sigh.

“Was it…something I did?” He asks carefully, joining you in looking to the left of the room instead of at each other.

“No, Sirius. And I don’t hold anything against you.” You insist delicately. “I’m not asking you for anything you’re not able to give me, either. That’s why I’m-”

“-leaving.” He finishes for you. The word apparently sour in his mouth, the aftertaste leaving his lips puckered somewhere between disgust and hurt.

“This was just temporary, yeah?” You try, nudging your socked toe against a scuff in the hardwood floor beneath you. “This was never meant to be forever; not exclusive, no commitment.”

He turns to look at you at that, face pained as if you hadn’t just repeated his own rules verbatim.

“Those were your rules.” You remind him gently.

“But you want more.” He offers, again, not a question.

“I’m sorry, Sirius.” Is all you can think to say.

You try not to shrink under his gaze, your own eyes flitting between his - that look suspiciously red rimmed - and his t-shirt; apparently the thin fabric covering his heart safer territory than his eyes as they search your face for, what, you aren’t sure.

“Alright.” He says simply, apparently having come to some decision.

“Alright?” You ask carefully, watching him as he stands and shakes out his hands, rolling his shoulders as if stepping away from a fist fight.

“Alright,” he repeats, “you want a boyfriend? I’ll be your boyfriend.”

“Wha- wait, Sirius-”

“What? That’s what you said, right? You want more?” He’s gaining on you as he asks, and this time you do shrink under his gaze; feeling about two feet tall as he makes it to you, his chest centimetres from your own. “I’ll give you more, then.”

“You- no, I…that’s-”

“You want a boyfriend, I’ll be your boyfriend.” He says again, softer as he slips his fingers into the belt loops of your jeans; not touching you, exactly, but enough to make him feel like an anchor for your fluttering heart.

“I don’t want you to be something you don’t want to be. I don’t want to force you.”

“You’re not forcing me.” He says, grey eyes mapping out points of your face. “I said this wouldn’t be exclusive but…it sort of already was for me. Might as well just call it what it is, then.”

You shake your head, not in disagreement, but in disbelief. “You said you don’t do relationships.”

His eyes narrow slightly as if wanting to wince, but they stay open in favour of watching the way you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.

“No, I don’t.” He admits, and the little flicker of hope in your chest is almost snuffed at his admission. “But I’ve never really wanted to do a relationship before. But I want you.”

“You want me?”

He must notice the tentative, hopeful smile on your lips, because a matching one grows on his own before his eyes flicker up to yours. “I want you.”

“But…I want a boyfriend?”

His smile softens but doesn’t shrink as he lowers his forehead to yours. “Then I guess I have myself a girlfriend, don’t I?”

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starksweasley · 3 months ago

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Hi again Elle!!! I saw your prompts post, and as usually with me, I picked two, so you could pick whichever works best for you 😂

“which one of you idiots is warming their icy little feet on me?! you need to get that checked!” -for poly marauders- I can hear Sirius screeching this

Then this “yes the both of you look adorable, but can i please have my clothes back now?” For poly Moonwater- stealing moony’s clothes for life

-all my love, 🥟 xx

thanks my little dumpling!

poly!marauders x reader who love cuddling, much to Sirius' chagrin [383 words]

CW: reader's gender not specified, Sirius' theatrics, fluff

“Cuddling is supposed to be cute.” Sirius grumbled into his pillow. “This is not cute.”

“Oh, come on, Pads,” James teased as he pulled Sirius roughly into his chest and spooned him from behind, “this is cute!”

“This is not cute.” Sirius argued, though allowed himself to be pulled into his boyfriend. “How is this cute?”

“Come now.” Remus chided with a smile - you couldn’t see it, but you could certainly feel where it was pressed against your shoulder. “You love us.”

“I do love you.” Sirius agreed quickly. “I don’t love your boney little elbows in my gut or how my arm falls asleep under Y/N’s beautiful yet heavy head, and fuck Jamie you run hot!”

“He’s keeping you warm!” You offered, smiling at Sirius coyishly from where you were tucked into Remus’ side.

“He’s giving me third degree burns.” Sirius muttered as he wrestled his way out of James’ arm towards the middle of the bed. “Okay! Okay… yes. Nobody move.” He declared; holding his hands out as his eyes darted around the space (the space being a queen sized bed) as if confirming that it was, indeed, okay.

“What’s happening?” James whispered, craning his neck to look over Sirius’ shoulder which caused the long-haired boy to scowl at him.

“Stop moving.” He hissed. “What’s happening is cuddling just got cute.”

“But…” You started, sharing a confused look with James and then Remus behind you. “We’re…not cuddling?”

“Exactly.” Sirius sighed with a happy smile, snuggling into his pillow.

“Well… what the hells?” James whinged as he looked at you and Remus longingly.

“James feels left out, Sirius.” You chided teasingly, earning you a theatrical groan as Sirius threw himself onto his back.

“Fine. Fine. Since I clearly cannot sleep without three perfect little freaks attached at my hip-”

But he hadn’t even finished his muttering by the time the three of you perfect little freaks attached yourselves at his hip.

“But I swear to gods,” Sirius started solemnly, completely at odds with the way he lovingly pulled you into his chest,” if I feel even one elbow in my ribs I will- oi! Which one of you idiots are warming their icy little feet on me!?”

He was answered by a fit of giggles.

“You need to get that checked!”

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starksweasley · 3 months ago

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I can’t find many fics with this…but would you maybe be willing to right poly marauders x werewolf reader?

Not in like a super angsty way. Maybe just like the morning after the full moon and Sirius and James are teasing reader and Remus because “you guys are like puppies chasing after bunnies.” Or maybe like prep for the moon and wow all the chocolate is gone it’s barely been a day.

I love this! thanks for the request, I hope I did it justice <3

poly!marauders x werewolf!reader post full-moon [836 words]

CW: fem!reader, post-moon care, werewolves being giant goofy baby dogs, James being doting, sirius being soft af [my kryptonite], Remus being stupid in love

His eyes - though obviously clear and clean of any blood, sweat, or debris - feel like they are crusted over. His chest feels like it’s being weighed down by a herd of erumpants. And his mouth tastes like acid and iron.

But the first thing from his mouth is the sound of your name as it rips through the sandpaper that's coating his throat, blindly feeling around on the bed whilst refusing to open his eyes.

“Easy, Rem.” James whispers, and Remus can feel gentle fingers card through his hair. “She’s okay.”

“Where is she?” Remus croaks, still blindly searching for you even though it has become clear Remus won’t find you there.

“She’s right here, Moons.” He hears Sirius murmur, further from him than James is, which makes him too far away.

Remus finally wrenches his eyes open and turns his head on his pillow, his neck cracking audibly as he finally spots the bed you’re situated in.

If Remus didn’t know better, he’d think it rather looked like Sirius was the one in the hospital wing; laying back on the bed, his head propped up comfortably on the stack of pillows meant for you whilst you were situated between his legs, your cheek smooshed up against his chest that rose and fell in time with his breathing.

But Remus does know better.

“What’re you doing in her bed?” Remus grumbles, but the inflection is more a result of his current state and less to do with any real ire. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit how sweet a picture it painted; Sirius’ onyx hair fanned out against the white of the pillow cases, the sun warming a few strands ever so slightly causing them to appear a chocolatey brown as your breathing continued in perfect rhythm. You seem so content, so secure, so loved that even whilst unconscious, you lean into them with your full trust.

“Same thing Jamie’s doing in yours.” Sirius responds breezily around a yawn, and Remus looks up to notice that James is actually perched on the head of his bed looking down at him - like he hung, well, the moon - massaging at his scalp that Remus swore saw any residual tension seeping from his body with every stroke of James’ careful fingers.

“She okay?” Remus asks then, letting his eyes fall closed as Sirius lets out a indignant scoff.

“‘Course she is, we’re not new here.” He sneers playfully at Remus, pulling you closer to him by the shoulders when you shift in your sleep and brushes his hand up and down your back in broad strokes; Remus is sure it feels heavenly.

“We’re fine too, by the way.” James teases as he leans down to press a kiss to Remus’ forehead. “Not like we were the ones doing all the hard work last night or anything.”

“Hard work.” Remus snorts. “I’m sorry; did your bones bend and break, and did your skin stretch and snap twice?”

“No…” James admits, though it’s Sirius who continues the banter.

“We were just in charge of chasing two giant, hyperactive puppies through the forest all night.”

“We’re not puppies.”

“Yes you are.” Sirius laughs, though Remus can tell - for Sirius’ part - he’s working very hard to dim his brightness in an attempt to keep you sound and not wake you. It makes Remus’ heart swell. “Dolly’s afraid of her own sodding shadow and yelped at every snapping twig, requiring plenty of reassurance, and Moony spent about twenty minutes chasing his own tail before he fell head first into a tree when he got dizzy.”

“That’s not true, is it?” Remus whispers to James who quickly offers him an apologetic smile.

“‘Fraid so, Moons. The two of you also had what I swore was a howling contest last night, too.”

“Oh my gods.” Sirius laughs as he recalls the memory. “Moony’s voice actually cracked like a teenage boy going through puberty, and Dolly’s voice was completely hoarse by the time we convinced the two of you to knock it off.”

“She’s not going to be able to speak more than a whisper for the next foreseeable future.” James adds, looking equal parts fond, exasperated, and sympathetic for you as they watch you push your face into Sirius’ chest.

“We’ll make her tea.” Sirius declares, his own voice but a whisper as he holds you close, eyes far away as if he’s focusing especially hard on keeping you comfortable and sleeping soundly.

“With lots of honey.” Remus agrees quietly, smile growing when Sirius’ eyes meet his and crinkle in the corners.

“Pandora told me she has a recipe for lavender tea; could be nice to try after a moon, hm?” James offers.

“You’d probably like that too, hey Moons? Lavender tea.” Sirius asks.

And Remus couldn’t deny that he would probably like just about anything so long as he was able to enjoy it with the three of you; pre- and post-moons, recovering in the hospital wing, watching paint dry, steeping tea…whatever.

“Yeah, Pads.” He admits. “I think I would.”

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starksweasley · 3 months ago

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MY HEART!!! I've melted into a puddle reading this

hiya elle!!!

could i request a first-time dad sirius fic of siri introducing his baby to the other marauders?? 🩷🩷

so. stinkin'. cute.

dad!Sirius Black x mom!reader who are introducing their first child to the Marauders

You felt as though you were experiencing the world through glasses that weren’t your exact prescription, riding out the last of the adrenaline coursing through your veins after the past 24 hours. You were floating in this liminal space between discomfort and euphoria, pain and joy, worry and love.

You thought perhaps though the love was beginning to win out.

You were sitting in your hospital bed as you watched Sirius gently bounce the tiny bundle he was holding up to his face.

“Isn’t her nose just perfect, sweets?” He asked you (for quite possibly the 13th time in the four hours your daughter has been earth side) without moving his gaze from said nose.

“So perfect.” You agreed readily, smiling softly at the picture and hoping that this image in your memory didn’t fade as you became more lucid.

There was a gentle knock before a mop of wild hair and a pair of spectacles shoved its head in through the door to your room.

James gasped quietly yet no less dramatically as he looked between you and Sirius.

“Can we come in?” He whispered, adorning quite possibly one of the biggest smiles you’d even seen on him (which was really saying something, considering he has been notoriously sunny since the day you met him), before Lily shoved her head in just below his.

“I promise we’ll behave.” She added.

Sirius chuckled and nodded his head in invitation. “You were never the one we were worried about, Red.”

In a way that only happened throughout the history of humanity at the precise moment family members or loved ones entered the room of a newborn and their parents; Lily, James, and Peter all tiptoed in, for some reason even hunching low as if their lack of height would somehow make them any quieter.

James gasped again as he and Lily peered over Sirius’ shoulder to get a glimpse of the newborn in his hands; all three friends sharing identical beaming grins. “She’s beautiful, Sirius.” Lily whispered in awe.

“Bloody perfect, is what she is.” James agreed, leaning around Sirius to look at you. “Way to go, mum. Brilliant job you’ve done.”

“Thank you, Jamie.” You replied, turning a little shy as Sirius turned his lovesick gaze to you, which was very embarrassing considering he literally just watched you push his fucking child out of your crotch.

“What’s her name?” Peter asked, standing in front of Sirius like an eager kid waiting for their turn to pick a toy from the treasure box.

“This is Aurora Jubilee.” Sirius said proudly, turning his daughter slightly so that Pete could get a look.

“Bloody perfect.” James reiterated when you heard a quiet commotion outside your hospital room.

“I said I was sorry, Reg. The baby can’t tell time yet, she won’t know you’re late!”

You then heard something that sounded an awful lot like someone being whacked with a bouquet of flowers.

“Idiot.” Regulus hissed. “I’m trying to make a good impression; just because you don’t worry whether or not Harry finds his uncle to be untimely doesn’t mean I want to set the same precedent for my niece. Tu as tellement de chance tu es une bonne baise.”

The door pushed open slightly further as Remus and Regulus quietly stepped in, furious blushes adorning their faces when they realised that you all had paused in order to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“How nice of you to finally join us, little brother. Your niece has been asking for you.” Sirius deadpanned.

Regulus scoffed and Remus grimaced as Regulus came rushing over to your side and pressed a kiss to your hair. “How are you doing, mama?” He asked, pulling back to consider your form as Remus pressed his own kiss to your head.

“I’m good, uncle Reggie, thank you.” You smiled at him.

“Good.” He said with a curt nod. “I worry, leaving you in the care of my brother - you deserve better.”

“Sod off.” Sirius muttered, causing Lily to gently swat at his back.

“Watch your mouth, Sirius. There are little ears now.”

“Yeah, watch your fucking mouth, Sirius.” Remus volleyed.

“Christ, our kids are doomed.” Lily complained as she moved to sit on the end of your bed.

“Okay, I can’t take it anymore; let me hold her.” James demanded, making grabby hands to Sirius.

“Okay but Prongs, I swear to god if you fumble this like you fum-”

“I didn’t fumble that pass! You threw it too hard!” James quickly negated with a petulant whine.

Moving in slow motion, Sirius relinquished his hold on his new favourite person into James’ capable and seasoned dad hands before moving to perch himself beside you on your bed.

“‘Lo, Aurora. I’m uncle Prongs; your favourite. I’m going to buy you so many stuffies, your dad and mum will need to buy a second place just to have somewhere to put them all. And Haz is going to be the best big cousin you could ever ask for; he’s already trying to convince me to buy you a bike so you guys can ride together. And-”

“Okay.” Lily interrupted. “My turn.”

James harrumphed but acquiesced and passed her over to his wife.

“She has her mummy’s nose.” Lily cooed, causing Sirius to gently pull you into his side and pressing his nose into your hair.

“That’s what I’ve been saying.” He said, causing you to snort.

“No. You just kept saying it was perfect.” You argued.

“Exactly.”

“Let’s just hope you have your mummy’s smarts, too.” Lily concluded, passing Aurora to Pete.

“Oi!”

“Hi, ‘Ro.” Peter said, smiling down at the infant as she started to stir slightly. “No, no. Please don’t wake up. Oh god, oh god, James take her - take her! I’m not ready for this!”

“Oh hand her ‘ere.” Remus mumbled, moving to take the tiny bundle from his mate. “Wormy smells, doesn’t he, little love?” He cooed at the baby who, much to Peter’s chagrin, stopped fussing immediately.

“Oh you and I are going to get into so much trouble, darlin’. I’m going to teach you so many swear words, and I’ll help you prank your dad any time you want - you just give me a ring and I’ll be there.”

Any contention between Remus and Regulus from their arrival melted quickly as Regulus leaned into Remus’ side to gaze at the newest Black family member.

“You wanna hold her, love?” Remus asked him quietly, causing Regulus to shake his head quickly.

“I don’t want to hurt her.”

Sirius scoffed. “Please, we let Peter hold her.”

“Sod off!”

“What if I drop her?” Regulus continued.

“Just don’t drop her. God, you’re a weird bloke.” Sirius muttered under his breath, though Regulus seemed to catch it as he levelled his brother with a glare.

His face softened considerably as Remus shifted his hold in order to transfer Aurora into Regulus’ careful arms.

He spent a few moments just looking down at his new niece, a silent conversation seeming to pass between them as Remus reached around him to stroke the downy soft skin on the side of her face.

“Okay, I’ve only known Aurora for three minutes; but if anything ever happened to her, I would kill everyone in this room and then myself.” He said simply.

Peter let out a nervous laugh before he realised Regulus was quite serious.

“Good.” Sirius said with a nod. “That’s why we picked you to be her godfather.”

Regulus’ head whipped up at that as he seemed to strengthen his hold on the baby in his arms.

“You what?”

“If anything ever happened to us, we know you’d do everything in your power to give her a good life - the best life.” You explained.

“I- but…really?”

“Yeah.” Sirius said emphatically. “Besides, you inherited all of mother and father’s dirty money anyway, might as well use it to spoil our girl.”

Though there were clearly tears forming in Regulus’ eyes, he turned his attention back to his goddaughter with a derisive scoff.

“I was planning on doing that anyway, Sirius. Je suis vraiment désolé de te dire ça, Aurora, mais ton père est un idiot.”

Remus snorted. “Already teaching her important life lessons.”

“Get bent, Moony.” Sirius sneered.

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